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katehuntington · 4 years

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Title: Ride With Me (part 23) Fandom: Supernatural Timeline: 2008 Pairing: Dean x Reader Word count: ±5200 words Summary series: Y/N is a talented horse rider who is on her way to become a professional. In order to convince her father that she deserves the loan needed to start her own farm, she goes to Arizona for six months, to intern at a ranch owned by Bobby and Ellen Singer. Her future is set out, but then she meets a handsome horseman, who goes by the name of Dean Winchester. A heartwarming series about a cowboy who falls for the girl, letting go of the past and the importance of family. Summary part 23: The Flagstaff Horsefair has turned out to be a huge success, but before they go home, an unexpected visitor changes everything. Warnings series: NSFW, 18+ only! Fluff, angst, eventually smut. Swearing, smoking, alcohol intoxication, alcohol abuse. Mutual pining, heartbreak. Crying, nightmares, childhood trauma. Description of animal abuse, domestic violence, mentions of addiction. Financial problems, stress, mental breakdown. Description of blood and injury, hospital scenes, character death, grief. Music: Dean’s ride: Time Has No Mercy - The Common Linnets Follow ‘Kate Huntington’s Ride With Me playlist’ on Spotify! Author’s note: Thank you @atc74, and @winchest09 for helping me. Also a special thanks to @jules-1999, who has offered me her knowledge about rodeo events like these, and @squirrelnotsam, who knows Arizona like the back of her hand.

Ride With Me Masterlist

The final day of the Flagstaff Horsefair 2008 is well on its way, the sun beating down on the market stalls and food trucks. Spectators mix with riders and trainers, some having drinks on the terras, others shopping at the tack and clothing stores. Giggling kids are chasing each other on the grass, the younger ones riding stick horses. Dean smiles at the children when they cross in front of him as he walks up towards the picture stand, slowing his step for a moment in order not to collide with the squealing youthful bunch.

By a van with ‘Equestrian Photo’ on the side, he pauses, then moves under the awning. The saleswoman gives out a printed photo to waiting clients on the side, wishing them a good day before she directs her attention to Dean. She greets him with a kind smile which the cowboy returns. Linda knows he doesn’t need help finding the images taken during this event, it’s not the first time the horse trainer has visited the photo stand over the years. Quite a few of the photos hanging on the walls in the Singer’s home and the cafeteria were made by Linda’s boss, the photographer who regularly works horse shows in the region. Ellen usually buys at least one when either he or Jo got on the podium. Dean isn’t interested in purchasing a photo of one of his own rides, though.

He looks up when the red-haired photographer stumbles into the van from the back entrance, one Nikon hanging from a sling, dangling on her hip, and another one on a monopod with a huge zoom lens attached to it resting against her shoulder. Her curls are wild and it’s clear she’s in a hurry, the next class about to start already. “Hi, Dean,” she greets, recognizing the familiar horseman instantly. “Hey.” He nods at her with a smile, his eyes flicking back to the screen. “How’s it going?” “Good. Busy,” she returns, taking out the battery of the cameras skillfully and swapping them for fully charged ones. “But busy is good these days, ain’t it? You had a few good runs, didn’t ya?” “Can’t complain,” he admits, grinning as he thinks about how successful this event has been so far. “Your student gave quite the performance last night,” the photographer smirks, handing Linda the memory card and taking back empty Sandisks to replace them with.

Dean looks up at her over the screen, noticing the mischief in her eyes. The way she just emphasized the word ‘student’ tells him that she knows exactly what’s up. He raises his eyebrows and chuckles, flustered. Looks like just about everyone in the business is up to speed at this point.

“Check out the ones at the bottom of the folder. You can thank me later,” the redhead advises, grabbing a chocolate bar and a bottle of water from the small fridge under the counter before she heads for the back door again. “Gotta run!”

Somewhat confused, Dean watches her head off to the main arena, before he redirects his attention to the display in front of him again. Stills of last night’s highlights pass by, allowing him to relive the amazing moments. The shots of the actual run are great, although he can imagine that Y/N and Meadow aren’t the most difficult pair to shoot. The Quarter mare is very photogenic with her copper coat and broad white blaze. She’s elegant, much like her rider, who has a fantastic seat, which shows, even on a still image.

Curious what the capturer of these images means, the cowboy goes down further, reaching a series of photos that show the seconds right after Y/N finished her freestyle, her arms wrapped around her horse’s neck, hugging her tight. He makes a mental note to pick that one.

There are more of her coming towards the entrance, waving at the crowd, but it’s the next couple of shots that has his jaw fall slack. The photographer must have sprinted to the other side of the tunnel before the horse and rider left the ring, because she managed to document the exact moment when he and his girlfriend embraced, Y/N still in the saddle, his arm around her, the emotional release evident. Jo is holding on to Meadow’s reins on the other side, smiling as she watches her friend and her cousin.

The next photo shows just the two of them, standing in the gateway facing the arena while waiting for the score, followed by a shot of him lifting her off the ground when the realization of the new PR settled in. The final picture has to be his favorite. It’s one of the kiss they shared. The composition of the portrait is astonishing, the spotlights on the showground illuminating the figures in the center, silhouettes against the vibrant arena. His heart grows, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He never thought he would be able to experience what he felt at that moment again, the great magnitude of pride, joy, and love. But this photo brings it all back, and he has to have it.

Still smiling at the warm feeling that has settled in his entire body, Dean scribbles down the file numbers on the order form and hands it to the blonde saleswoman, together with a fifty-dollar-bill. The wrangler bought six in total, one to frame and decorate the wall in the cafeteria, four for his girlfriend. The chosen photos are shots of horse and rider in a sliding stop, of the second right after finishing the test when Y/N threw her arms around Meadow’s neck, and of the precious embrace between him and his girl. He got a double print of the kiss they shared, one for her, one for him.

It’s a picture that he will cherish, come whatever. A picture he wants to be able to look at when he needs to, to remind himself of what he has got going for him. He knows challenging times are coming, with the ranch, with their relationship. Dean is well aware he’s approaching that inevitable turning point when he has to open up further than the lost boy with a dark past is comfortable with. But this photo, a moment forever frozen in time, will be the beacon he needs to find his way home.

Dean takes the envelope with the printed pictures from Linda and heads towards the ring. Jo is due to enter the arena in ten minutes and he wouldn’t want to miss it, for one, because she is going to bust his ass if he’s not there. It sometimes baffles him how his little cousin acts like she can’t stand being around him and yet searches for his approval so often.

He takes out the photo he wants to save for himself together with the one he will add to the cafeteria’s Wall of Fame, and slips them in the inner pocket of his denim jacket before he reaches the foot of the bleachers. With big strides, he conquers the steps, looking left and right in search of his friends once he has made it to the top. He spots Benny and Y/N on one of the higher rows when the farrier lifts his hat off his head and whistles. This barrel race is one of the highlights of the event and the arena is almost filled to full capacity, only a few seats left. Thankfully, his girlfriend saved him a spot.

His smile grows wider when he sees the cowgirl, and deep inside he’s excited to give her the present he just purchased. He can’t wait to witness her reaction. “I got you somethin’,” Dean announces. Intrigued, Y/N pulls her focus away from the competitor currently in the ring and looks at her boyfriend, awaiting. He offers her the envelope, placing his now empty hands on his knees, somewhat nervously. “What’s this?” she wonders, her curiosity peaked. “Open it,” the cowboy urges. She does, carefully folding back the seal flap and taking out the prints. When she turns them over, she lets out a stunned gasp, much to her boyfriend’s delight. “These are amazing!” she says, elated, going through the pictures of her and Meadow slowly.

The last two photos silence her, however, much like they did Dean when he first saw them on the screen. Moved, she takes in the portraits of the strong bond between her and the man that’s sitting next to her. After a few long seconds, she glances aside, meeting his warm eyes. This cowboy with a John Wayne reputation - as Jo so poetically put it - sure has his ways. He might not be very vocal when it comes to his feelings, but that’s alright, because he is able to communicate through different languages. A kiss, a dance, his trust, his support. And now these photos. It’s proof of his adoration for her, and it’s more valid than a signature.

She closes the small gap between them, moving under his hat, and grazes her soft lips over his. Ignoring his Southern friend, who lets out a low chuckle when he notices the lovebirds next to him, the head wrangler closes his eyes and kisses her back. His hand travels into her hair and holds her, making sure she doesn’t go anywhere. He can feel every connection; her featherlight fingertips on his stubble, her cute nose against his, her lashes dusting the freckles from his cheeks. Dean doesn’t need words, but neither does she.

When he slowly pulls away from her, he looks at her lovingly, forgetting time for a moment. It’s only when the commentator announces Jo’s name over the speakers, that they return their attention to the arena. The gate opens and his cousin and her horse Bullet shoot towards the first barrel, the animal doing his name justice. The three wranglers of the Gold Canyon ranch get on their feet, cheering on the blonde cowgirl, who goes through the course in record time. When she clocks a new PR, Y/N bounces on her feet, hugging Dean tight and letting out that laugh that he loves so much.

They don’t notice Benny’s gaze wandering off to the car park behind the bleaches. He has spotted a beige pickup pulling in. Like a hawk, the farrier follows the GMC truck. “We’re going over to Jo to celebrate. Are you coming?” The enthusiastic intern calls for Benny’s attention, and he turns his head to face his best pal’s girlfriend. “In a minute, darlin’,” he says, giving her a smile. “Gonna watch a few more runs.” “Alright, see you in a bit, brother,” Dean chuckles happily, before his girlfriend drags him towards the exit by his hand.

The Southerner watches them leave, then redirects his attention to the beat-up car on the field. A man gets out, his face shielded by a black cowboy hat. His posture seems familiar, he’s not even sure why. Benny narrows his eyes, but the figure is too far away to recognize. Then the frown evens out, his jaw falling slack. Suddenly, it clicks. “No fuckin’ way in hell…” he mumbles to himself.

But there ain’t no way, right? He can’t be here. Before Benny can decide otherwise, he bolts towards the steps to get down from the bleachers, hoping to not lose sight of the guy. He better make sure who just set foot on the showgrounds is exactly who he suspects he is, before he breaks the news to his best friend.

Dean swings the heavy saddle onto Aerosmith’s back, his last horse to compete at this tournament. After this run, all that’s left for him to do is coach Y/N and Joplin for their competition debut, and then they can all pack their gear and go home. Despite that he enjoys horse shows like these, he’s looking forward to his own room, his own bed. He’s looking forward to pulling up the driveway that leads to the place that is his home.

It has been a successful couple of days. With five horses sold and Joplin likely to add to that number, the Flagstaff Horsefair has proven to be very fruitful. Bobby made good money, and the ranch owner will be able to pay his crew, plus pay off some bills. Then there’s the business deal they landed with Fergus MacLeod. The cowboy might not like the Englishman in the slightest, but if they decide to take on Cain’s training, it will provide a much needed steady income. Dean isn’t delusional; he knows the ranch isn't out of the woods just yet, but it’s a start.

Humming and relaxed like he always is before competing, he tightens the cinch of the chestnut Quarter, petting him on the shoulder before he takes him out of the stable. “Good luck, cowboy.” The man who the words are meant for smiles, peeking into the stable next to him and noticing Y/N through the steel bars. She’s preparing Joplin, brushing her tail. Their starting time is only forty-five minutes after Dean’s, since both are competing in the same class. Sadly, she will not be able to see him ride. The mare next to his girlfriend pins her ears back and gives Aero a dirty look when the gelding comes too close for her liking. Both snigger at Joplin’s bitchy behavior.

“You’ll make it back in time to help me warm up, right?” she checks. “I’m kinda nervous, this being my first cutting competition and all.” “Yeah, of course,” he promises, shooting her a wink. “I’ll be there.”

Dean takes his horse outside, the Arizona sun welcoming him with bright light. A force of habit has him check his spurs and the tack before he positions himself on the left side of his horse in order to mount.

“Chief?” Looking over his shoulder, he sees Benny approaching. His strides are hasty, his jaw tensed. He checks if anyone is around before he halts and faces the head wrangler, who can read from the body language alone that something is off. “What is it?” he asks, his brows knitted together. The Southerner’s piercing blue eyes meet his gaze before he continues whispering. “I hate to do this now right before your run, brother, but--” “But what?” Dean urges when the farrier hesitates.

Benny draws in a deep breath and rubs his beard, needing a second to collect himself. He knows that what he is about to tell his best friend will have him shake on his foundations, but he needs to be prepared. He deserves to know who he might run into. The broad-shouldered ranch hand sighs, then delivers the unsettling message. “Your father is here.”

As if he just got struck by lightning, Dean stares at Benny, his eyes wide and mouth agape. The announcement rings in his ears, sounding more surreal every time the four words bounce off the walls inside his head. Reality hits him like a raging bull, however. His father is here. His father is here.

The head wrangler drops his gaze, his eyes flicking over little rocks and lumps of dirt by his feet. Speechless, he takes his hat off and wipes his forehead with his sleeve, realizing he’s sweating. His heart is hammering in his chest, so forceful that it hurts. Panic starts to win terrain, but he pushes it down and nods rigidly, acknowledging Benny’s words.

“Okay,” he returns after a few long seconds. “Thanks for telling me.” “If there’s anythin’--” Benny offers, but is interrupted by the man in front of him, who shoves his left foot into the stirrup and swiftly gets on his horse. “I’m good,” he assures, doing his best to come across as calm and collected.

Benny dips his chin, half accepting Dean’s choice to put this on hold for now. The rider has one last horse to compete, so the Southerner understands why he’s trying to keep his head in the game. He wishes he didn’t have to drop this bomb now, but there’s a chance his friend might run into John on these showgrounds. Benny might not know the entire story of what happened all those years ago, but he knows enough to recognize the impact the presence of Dean’s biological father will have. He watches quietly how the horseman pushes his legs into Aerosmith’s flanks and steers the horse towards the warmup arena without another word.

Suddenly nervous, Dean is highly aware of all the people who cross his path. He briefly studies them, even though recognizing the man who has been absent for over half of his life scares the hell out of him. Why the fuck is he here?

Dean isn’t just afraid of running into his old man; he’s angry. Angry about all the wrong choices that were made, angry about those memories rushing back to him. He stored them in a box and nailed the latch shut. He buried them, dug a hole deep enough to fit all those dark thoughts. He covered the surface with a thick layer of concrete, convinced that all those measures would be enough to lock away what he hoped to never feel again. Hopelessness, frustration, torment, aggression, guilt. But those emotions are now working their way through the cracks, like a weed that just won’t die, working up to the surface and showing its ugly head again.

But what has him exasperated the most, is the timing. Why now? His father hasn’t given a damn for fifteen years, fifteen fucking years, and now that Dean is finally getting to the point of allowing himself to be happy, he decides to show up? His fist clenches on the horn of the saddle, his nails digging into his palm. This isn’t fair!

His insides churn and twist even more when his mind snaps to Y/N. A sudden and heavy uneasiness settles in his chest, almost suffocating him. Shit, what if she runs into him? What if she learns the truth? Dean breathes out a shuddering breath, closing his eyes for a second while tipping his hat down. The panic that has his fingers shaky while he guides his horse into the warmup ring only grows with that thought. No no no, he thinks to himself. He can’t have his father ruin what is supposed to be his love story. He can’t lose this, he can’t lose her.

Preparing for his final ride goes anything but smoothly. The rider is so lost in thought that he accidentally cuts off another competitor and has to hit the brakes, apologizing to the cowgirl for the misstep. It’s a wake-up call, though; he really needs to focus and get his head straight. Aerosmith is one of the horses he and Bobby decided to hold on to a little longer, hoping the economy will be on its way to recovery somewhere next year so that they can make a better profit. Dean brought the younger stallion along to gain experience in the ring, yet he wants this ride to be solid, knowing a potential buyer could be watching.

But when he enters the arena, he can’t help but scan the crowd, suddenly aware that one of those pair of eyes is his father. He thinks of Y/N and how nervous she was last night, and suddenly it makes so much more sense what experiencing that kind of anxiety is like. The rider doesn’t even hear the announcement of his name over the amplifiers, he doesn’t hear Jo and Bobby shouting words of encouragement at him from the sideline. What he does hear is his rapidly beating heart, like a thundering echo of an oncoming storm.

He glances over his horse’s ears at the cattle in front of them. C’mon, Dean, this isn’t difficult. Separate a cow and let Aero do the work. Two and a half minutes and he will be out of the limelight. Who knows, maybe if they pack fast after Y/N’s ride, he won’t even run into his father.

The two herdholders that are in the ring to assist all contestants keep the group of young steers together. Unsettled, Dean swallows thickly and licks his dry lips, his eyes on the clock. When it starts ticking, he moves his hands forward and pushes Aerosmith towards the herd. The game is simple. In two and a half minutes, he has to separate two different heifers from the group and keep the selected cow in the middle of the arena, he and his Quarter the only boundary between the animal and his flock. He and Aero will be judged on degree of difficulty, confidence, and agility, but right now, all Dean is thinking about is surviving.

Deciding to not make it too complicated for his horse and himself, the horseman doesn’t pick a heifer too far into the herd on the first cut. Without disrupting the gathered bunch, the chestnut calmly makes his way through until Dean has decided on a cow, which he then carefully begins to push to the edge. When he has driven the brindle heifer out, Dean drops the reins and allows his Quarter to take the lead. Aerosmith locks on the lonely animal and crouches, skillfully keeping it in the center of the arena.

The crowd cheers, because the talented Quarter shows to be quick on his feet, darting from left and right and accelerating fast when his target tries to get around him. The cowboy keeps his balance, allowing his horse to move under him freely. After a few attempts to get past them, the cow yields and the rider signals Aero to back down. He blows out a breath. One down, one more to go.

The second cut goes according to plan as well. This time he does pick a heifer in the middle of the herd. The Quarterhorse tries not to disturb the rest of the cattle as he separates the one, but splitting the animals is not as clean as the first time. Once the cow is driven to the middle of the ring again, Aerosmith is back in his element and shows off his moves. Dean only has to sit back and let his partner under the saddle do the work, which he’s grateful for, because he feels like he wouldn’t be able to guide his horse in a simple circle if he had to.

The buzzer sounds; his two and a half minutes are up. Relieved, Dean exhales; at least he didn’t completely screw up their run. The young gelding really pulled through despite a nervous wreck of a rider on top of him, which just shows what a fantastic horse he is. “Thanks, bud,” Dean says softly, petting the chestnut on the shoulder.

The applause barely registers and it’s only when his eyes roam over the audience, that he notices the numbers on the board. 72.5 points; not bad. Normally, he would have been elated with a score like that, but now he just wants to get out of the ring as fast as possible, away from possible prying eyes. He feels like he’s being watched, well aware that his father is quite possibly amongst the people in the crowd. Call him a coward, but he needs to get out of here.

“Solid ride, Dean,” Bobby compliments when the rider comes through the gate, walking with him. When his nephew fails to respond, he looks up, narrowing eyes taking him in from under his baseball cap. “You okay, son?”

The troubled rider snaps his head at his uncle. Son. Bobby calls him that all the time and has done so ever since he took the lost boy under his wing all those years ago. Dean has grown accustomed to the title, even found comfort in it, glad to hear that word coming from his surrogate dad. But now the term confuses him. Suddenly, the man who has failed to step up to take care of his children and yet is his only living parent is here, and it is messing with his head in more ways than one. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he says, quickly averting his gaze and walking on.

Bobby lets him go, but Dean can sense the ranch owner watching him carefully. Unable to stop himself from scanning the people around the warm-up area, he briefly acknowledges the congratulations wishes from a few of his opponents with a nod and a ‘thanks’. Normally he’s up for a chat after a good run, but not now. He feels like he’s about to lose his mind, and he wants to be alone when it happens. He needs space, he needs air.

After a few minutes of hacking, Dean reaches the stables, grateful to find them mostly empty. With the last competition currently taking place in the arena, a lot of competitors already packed their trucks and trailers and left throughout the morning and afternoon. At the other end of the tent two people are tacking up, but they are far out of earshot.

In front of Aerosmith’s stable, the rider dismounts and leads the Quarter into his box, making quick work of removing the tack and rinsing the chestnut down. With the saddle on his hip and the bridle in hand, he steps into the storage room. “How did it go?”

Dean startles and almost drops the heavy load he was carrying, spinning around to find Y/N in the doorway. Somehow, it completely slipped his mind that she would still be here. The cowgirl is wearing her show outfit again, but traded her black blouse for a denim one this time. Long chaps hang down from her waist, strapped around her legs, her brass spurs barely showing. Her boots are shining and her hair is braided, her lucky hat only just allowing him to behold the playfulness in her eyes. She looks absolutely perfect.

Clueless and carefree, she waits for an answer, but her happy expression falls slightly when she notices his reaction. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” she chuckles, somewhat self-conscious. “What has you on your toes?” The cowboy blinks at her a few times before he kicks into gear again, storing away the saddle in one of the tack boxes. “Nothin’. Yeah, it uh - it went alright. 72.5 points,” he says, smiling at her faintly, quick to dodge her unraveling gaze.

Silence follows and he knows that she’s studying him, but Dean can’t even look at her, not sure how to deal with the worry that he knows is evident on her beautiful face. The second he gets lost in the vision of his girl, he will fall apart, and that’s something the unsettled wrangler can’t allow to happen. He can’t let her see it, she can’t know. So instead, he moves past her through the doorway to fill a feeding net with hay, desperately searching for a way to keep himself busy as he tries to get a hold of himself.

“Dean? Hey…” Her voice sounds so warm and kind, that he can’t ignore her any longer. When he has strung up the net, he turns to his girlfriend, wiping his sweaty hands on his jeans. Concerned eyes take him in when he looks up. “You’re shaking,” she notices, gently wrapping her delicate fingers around his forearms. “What’s going on? Did something happen?”

Before she finishes her sentence completely, he’s already shaking his head. It’s more denial than an actual answer, refusing to give in to all the contradicting feelings that are pulling the rug from under his boots. She knows him well enough to see that he’s a total mess right now. His mask is faltering and he’s breaking character, unable to deliver the standard ‘I’m fine’. Can he tell her about the disturbing message Benny delivered earlier? She will have more questions, questions he is nowhere near ready to answer. But then again, he can’t lie to her either, not anymore.

Dean takes a deep breath in order to collect himself and looks at her as heavy footfalls draw his attention. Expecting Benny, he glances over his shoulder, ready to request if his friend can grant them some privacy, when he catches a glimpse of the person standing in the alley between the stables. Every muscle in his body tenses, an invisible fist squeezing his throat shut. His heart - which has been beating unhealthily fast since the alarming news was delivered to him about an hour ago - now seems to come to a full stop for a few solid seconds.

They might be in Arizona, but Dean just froze to the ground, unable to move or speak. All he can do is stare at the man that is his own spitting image, only three decades older. The familiar stranger is wearing a smile on his lips, emotion swimming in weary eyes. After fifteen years of silence, John Winchester stands before his oldest child, a broken voice delivering the words Dean never wished to hear again, and yet missed so dearly.

“Hello, son.”

Well, shit... Enough with the fluff. Angst is here!

Also, did you spot my little Stan Lee moment? Does a certain red-haired photographer seem familiar? Yep, that’s me!

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to like or reblog my work, shoot me a message or buy me coffee (Link to Kofi in bio at the top of the page).

Read part twenty-four here

#Ride With Me #Dean x Reader #Dean x Y/N #Cowboy!Dean #Dean AU #Cowboy!Dean AU #cowboy!dean x reader #cowboy dean #cowboy dean au #Supernatural AU #Dean Winchester AU #Dean Winchester #Supernatural #Dean Winchester fanfiction #Supernatural fanfiction #SPN #SPN fanfiction #Kate Huntington

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hogwartsfirebolt · 4 years

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Hello there! I’m finally here with the third and last part of my favorite drarry fics I read in 2019!!! In the first part and in the second part I recommended 10 stories that made my year, and in this post I’m recommending 10 more that I absolutely adore. The banner art is by @spielzeugkaiser who was really kind and let me use this GORGEOUS piece, which you can (and totally should) reblog right here. Now, without further ado, here’s my,

FAVORITE FICS I READ IN 2019 PART THREE

1. The Company of The Rose - @lower-east-side - 31k - E - Six years after the war, Draco Malfoy has been restoring magical estates, while sidestepping his mother’s plots to marry him off and resolutely avoiding his issues. An advert in the Prophet takes him to a remote island, where a mysterious stranger has purchased an abandoned retreat. But the house has a few secrets of its own, and Draco will be forced to deal with not only his past, but the possibilities of the future.

We’re starting out this list with one of the last fics I read last year, and undoubtedly one of my absolute favorites. It’s gorgeous, sweet, breathtaking, a dozen other adjectives I can’t even think of. Stories that take place in beautiful, secluded places have a special place in my heart, and with a sure hand the author leads us through some of my favorite aspects of the trope: slow forming friendships, the feeling like they’re living in a world of their own as they get to know each other for who they really are, wonderful, delicious sexual tension keeping me breathless until the moment it snaps. The sex pollen element is also worked in a way I had never read before, with an exploration of what happens in the aftermath, addressing the issue of consent it creates. It’s just absolutely phenomenal, every single word of this.

2. I could be wrong, I could be ready - @harryromper - 57k - M - At first Harry wonders if they’ve managed to destroy his vaults and are trying to tell him in the most oblique way possible. But when he turns the page he realises they’ve found a vault. A vault in the name of Lily and James Potter.The parchment trembles a little in Harry’s hand. He takes another gulp of wine. Harry Potter left Britain after the war and didn’t look back. Ten years later, when Gringotts discovers a vault containing his parents’ belongings—including their badly spell-damaged wedding rings—he’s forced to face up to friends and family who’ve grown in ways he could never imagine, a wizarding London rebuilt beyond his expectations, and the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. And if that wasn’t enough, there’s the entirely unforeseen problem of Draco Malfoy. Featuring pureblood wizarding traditions, ancestral magic, open mic nights, marriage equality, a diner in Brooklyn, and the return of Fleamont Potter.

Explorations of Harry as a character and his post-war issues never fail to hook me right in, and this beautiful fic takes us with him on a journey where he changes so, so much, and at first he does it by running away, thinking everything will remain unchanged as long as he doesn’t acknowledge it, which, of course, isn’t the case. We see him having to face his past, reconnecting with his friends, finding and coming to terms with pieces of himself that he forgot about, or never knew existed in the first place, and it’s absolutely exquisite. The tremendous amount of character development, the regaining of trust in himself and others, the way we can witness a love story blooming slow and steady, and see Harry grow into a confident, wonderful man. God, I have feels for this one, for every detail, every character and setting and emotion. It’s absolutely fantastic.

3. What Real Thing? - @l0vegl0wsinthedark - 12k - E - They don’t cuddle, they don’t talk about their relationship (or lack thereof) and they certainly never fall asleep in each other’s arms.

This was my year of falling in love with l0ve’s fics. I had read some of her work before, but it was a few months ago that I found myself deep into her ao3 page, nearly weeping with the amount of emotion every single one of her stories stirs up within me. Picking just one was extremely difficult, but I finally chose this one, because the way she paints the relationship between Harry and Draco is masterful, their dynamic shifting and changing little by little, baby steps that become full-on sprints, single-minded and hesitant all at once, until we see them elbows deep into a feeling they don’t even know they’re experiencing, and it’s just brilliant, scorching hot, all-encompassing in a way that made me feel caught up in the whirlwind that is their relationship. If you haven’t yet read anything by l0ve, then I strongly, strongly recommend you start right about NOW. You won’t regret it.

4. Teeth - @amelior8or - 5k - E - Potter’s been practically begging for it, for months, constantly staring until the air crackles with the intensity of it. Draco always stares back, until all it takes is a brush, a spark, before they go up like flash paper. The crash into each other is inevitable. Draco’s heart has got teeth. And there is nothing he won’t do to keep up the fight with Harry fucking Potter.

I am absolutely, 1000% weak for werewolf stories, and in just 5k words this one managed to enchant and entrance me. It’s hot and fast-paced and intense in the way I love, with their relationship charged with emotion and intensity that transform bickering into passion in the blink of an eye. The moment I reached the end, I went back to the top of the page and reread it that very second, because I had to experience it all over again. Amazing characterization, banter to die for and explosive chemistry are all present in this gem. I kid you not, I’ve read it about six times at this point and just keep going back to that moment in the showers because THAT DIALOGUE IS JUST- wow.

5. Hush, darling - @magpiefngrl - 23k - E - Draco is in trouble. To get out of it he needs to seduce Harry Potter.

My god what a story this is. Absolutely unique, 23k words that felt like so, so much more because of everything they made me feel. There isn’t a single line of dialogue in this story that doesn’t feel purposeful, the characterizations constructed with such skill that every step the characters take rings true to their essence and gives us another clue to add to the puzzle that is Harry Potter, vulnerable man, powerful man, and Draco Malfoy, in all his darkness and his light. It also features some of the best sex scenes I have read, EVER. I could go on and on about this one, so let me just refer you to my long, individual rec for some more flailing.

6. The Pirate and the Prince - @nerdherderette - 49k - E - Draco can't believe that fate and circumstance have made him a stowaway on the Master of Death's ship. He doesn't know what's worse: the dread pirate's legendary vendetta against the aristocracy, or the fact that his captor is the most infuriating yet irrefutably fascinating man Draco has ever met.

YES!!!!! YES!!! The moment I saw the cover art for this fic on tumblr my entire being just screamed YES, and it was everything I could’ve hoped for and more. Listen, there is nothing I love more than fics where I get to see Harry as a powerful, ruggedly handsome man who’s not afraid of getting his hands dirty, and in here there’s some of that and MORE, because he’s a freaking PIRATE. And not only did I adore that aspect of it, but the writing pulled me right in, the setting so vibrant I could feel it in my bones, and I just genuinely enjoyed every second of reading this so, so much. There’s ships and adventure and fighting for what’s right, there’s lovely kisses, heated kisses, secret identities and parrot Hedwig. Just, all in all, a great freaking time.

7. Falling for a Golden Boy - @rockmarina - 44k - E - Merlin. Why couldn’t Draco have moved to a forgotten village in the Alps? He could have turned into a shepherd, learned to make his own damn cheese and given up his damn magic. But no, he’d had to come back to his Eighth year, hadn’t he? And this was his life now. Draping himself over Potter to hear words from him that he knew Potter wouldn’t ever mean.Great. The school year ahead of him looked simply great.“All I know is—when I’m with you, I…” Potter, the heathen, grunted when he read the rest of his line. “Do I really need to say this?”“What, scared of believing your own words, Scarhead?” Draco spat.“Boys,” O’Neill warned them.“All I—all I know is you’re the most amazing person with weak ankles that I've ever met, Meg.” Potter scowled. He was blushing again. “And when I’m with you, I feel less alone.”

My favorite eight year Drarry of all time, probably. I had never before experienced such a beautiful balance of the aftermath of the horrifying events of the war and how they impacted each character, and the light feeling of youthful fun. There are so, so many things to love in the 44k words that make up this masterpiece, so many details that warmed my heart and made me melt inside, so many moments that had me laughing or clutching my chest. In here, you’ll find quite a lot of Hercules references, wonderful teachers, drama club, healing, characters learning to trust, learning to love, learning to cope, beautiful friendships, hopeful romance. It is everything. I talked more about this fic in this individual rec, and I will absolutely talk MORE about it if given the chance. Everyone should read this.

8. Tease Crossed, Eyes Dotted With A Little Heart - @diligent-thunder - 18k - M - Draco's a curse-breaker, Harry's an Auror, and they're... something? Maybe? It depends. Harry definitely wants to get laid, Draco wants to follow procedure, and their work wives just want them to stop hiding from the truth.

I hope you’re not sick of my rambling yet because oooooh boy, THIS ONE. It’s funny, in the way that makes you cover your mouth because you’re about to burst out laughing on the bus, it’s hot, in that casual way that makes you clear your throat and shift your phone just a little, just so the screen can’t be seen by the person sitting beside you because like HELL are you going to stop reading now, it’s sweet, in the way that makes you smile so hard your cheeks hurt, and it’s so detailed and all around so, so much fun to read, in the way that grips you and doesn’t let you go, only to release you when it’s over so you can go and recommend it to your friends, IT’S. SO. GOOD. Real quick: auror + cursebreaker pairing, are-they-friends-with-benefits-or-more, guess-they’d-have-to-actually-TALK-to-know-that, teasing each other in public, getting trapped together for a bit there, powerful female characters, should you guys really be flirting right now? and MORE. Listen, just go read it now and thank me later.

9. That which hurts (and is desired) - @shealwaysreads - 19k - E - Draco was lying still, and pale, on a bed in a private room in St Mungo’s. The sheets were white, clean, enchanted against stains, vanishing the blood that kept spilling out of him. He hadn’t moved in two days. Not a twitch of his elegant fingers. Not a blink of his fierce eyes. Harry couldn’t even see the faint flutter of his pulse in his throat from where he stood at the foot of the bed, helpless, impotent, furious.

This fic is written so, so beautifully that it aches and leaves such an impression that, thinking back on it, every emotion hits me just as hard as it did when I was reading it. Everything Harry felt, I felt, every moment where he found himself just a little bit more in love with Draco, I was there, every moment of his frustration when Draco is hit with a curse nobody can decipher, I was there for it. With non-linear storytelling, it is evocative, a masterclass in narration, pacing, characterization and beautiful, lyrical writing. I nearly have no words for it. It features: auror partners that work together seamlessly, a dash of pining, a helping of very, very hot sex, and a love story that feels soft like a dream and thrilling like a race. This was the very last story I read in 2019, and I could not have ended the year on a better note. Definitely check this one out.

10. For Thine Is The Kingdom - @kedavranox - 66k - E - On a secret mission, Draco is Turned. With no memory of what happened, he learns that to save his missing Auror partner and regain what he’s lost, he must uncover the long-buried secrets of the vampire covens. To do that, Draco must open his mind and heart to what he has become, the new-found family that surrounds him, and the man who has remained steadfast at his side through it all.Harry spent five years avoiding the man he fell in love with, but when Draco needs his help, he cannot refuse. As they race against the clock to find Draco’s partner, Harry discovers that the bond they share is nothing to hide from, and that he'll never outrun the pace of his own heart.

And last but absolutely not least, there’s this freaking diamond of a story. I swear I want to squeal whenever I remember it. I’ll be brief: it is one of my absolute favorite fics of all time. In here, there’s vampires, unspeakables, a big investigation, wonderful side characters and information given in small little doses as we learn alongside the characters and piece together an entire picture. It’s dazzling, incredibly detailed in every way, with shades to each character and nuances to every interaction and bit of magic we get to see. I feel like anything I can say is not enough, I can never do this story justice. I have tried before, and written the gushiest individual fic rec of my LIFE but just- I honestly have no more words to express how much I think everyone needs to read this. Please, check that rec out, please, check this story out. There is absolutely nothing like it.

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And that wraps it for 2019! Thank you to all who take the time to check out my lists, and THANK YOU specially if you give these incredible stories a chance, because they deserve all the love in the world. Once again: All the way from here, behind a username and a few tumblr posts, I can honestly say that these 30 stories made my year. I hope they can make yours, too ❤️ If you ever want to discuss these (for tag concerns or plain flailing) (or any story really) my DM’s are always open!!!

#drarry #drarry fic #drarry fanfic #drarry fic recs #draco malfoy #harry potter #drarry fic rec #drarry rec list #2019rec #ficrec

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cateringisalie · 4 years

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FFVII Halloween Day 1

Written for the prompt ‘Frankenstein’

As long as Shinra occupied the mansion there had been rumours. Speculation over what was happening in there. Certain parts of the Nibelheim population were convinced they knew only too well the kinds of things. It was a secret base for escalating the conflict with Wutai – a notion Shinra strove to downplay at every turn despite the town’s relative proximity to the island nation. Others were convinced it was connected to some new energy project, a refinement of Mako power and a way to truly usher in the kind of theoretical future generally only seen on sci-fi TV shows over the last twenty years. For many this argument was the most persuasive given the first Mako reactor was located nearby and many inhabitants could remember its introduction and construction. Particularly the strange occasion something happened at the site and seemed to spook all those working there. A number of town denizens had been present but could not be persuaded to let any details slip – outside of they had been there at the time, and the root cause of the event centred around work on the foundations. Many of the town viewed this event in a far darker light. They pointed to an abrupt upsurge in night terrors among all sections of the population. Nibelheim was a town forever steeped in myths and traditions – notions Mako power was intended to sweep away. Instead the construction of the reactor only increased belief in archaic and long-ridiculed notions. And it was impossible to truly argue there was no basis. The newer generations would never realise, but those present around the time of construction noted a change to the town. A sense of constant surveillance. Of strange whisperings in the dead of night when alone. Of the mountain growing more inhospitable and difficult to cross than it ever had in the past. In short the Mako reactor ushered in a new era of out-moded belief much to the chagrin of those pushing for modernisation and who publicly dismissed all such superstitious talk as nonsense, but were privately all too familiar with the strange symptoms. Shinra’s occupation of the mansion should have been a further turning point, a further detachment from the legend-soaked past. Instead it became exacerbated. The decrepit mansion was capable of housing a great number of research staff, but few stayed within the walls at night, opting instead to make use of the town’s inn. Some members of the infantry were on permanent posting inside the building, and some of the researchers; notable Professors Gast and Hojo were rarely seen outside. The townsfolk were more familiar with the unexpectedly glamorous Doctor Crescent and her perpetual shadow Vincent. But wasn’t it odd, the whispers inevitably voiced. A single woman amongst all those men. And Vincent clearly hopelessly enamoured of her. What might have been an amusing match-maker notion was swept away as the town’s haunting became worse. Shinra had been in place for perhaps six months when the night-terrors abruptly intensified. Some reported lights on the mountain, figures struggling through the rain up and back down the mountain. Afterwards the dreams came so often. Strange disturbing dreams, all detail vanishing with the morning light, leaving nothing but a lingering discomfort and a sense of a song whose lyrics no contortions could voice. The six month mark also saw Doctor Crescent move permanently within the walls of the mansion. Inquiries to her status and health were brusquely dismissed by the guards. Vincent stayed closer to the mansion increasingly exhausted and harried. The dreams and sleeplessness worsened. A month later a distracted Vincent circled the town asking if anyone knew of Professor Gast’s whereabouts. He made the same futile checks for three weeks before rarely venturing outside of the mansion again. Nine months, the whole town awoke in the early hours of the morning and no one was able to sleep. For the next few months the sun did not shine on Nibelheim. Grey clouds hid away the sky, the town plunged into perpetual gloom. The dim light allowed the Mount Nibel monsters to draw closer to the town, to lurk in the deeper shadows in the outlying areas. Venturing out of doors was risky and the increased demand on the Mako reactor saw frequent breakdowns and numerous repair teams dispatched to put it right. Most expressed surprise at the presence of another Shinra team in the town and were barred from accessing the mansion. Many abandoned ancestral homes and their families. Nibelheim was increasingly outdated and left behind, but those who once clung to it as their only home made the conscious decision to escape it. To seek out the sun, to settlements not plagued with monsters. The bright lights of Junon and Midgar forever shone in the distance. A far cry from the town’s crumbling power grid and inexplicably tepid well water. Those who remained endured the hardships and the strange blight seemingly brought on by the presence of Shinra. Until the child. At first, nothing but a stray sound on the wind; the scream of a hungry baby. There were numerous young children in the town; the Strifes, Lockharts, Heartilly and Alexandros’ had all been blessed with children recently. But Undyne reported it sounded as if it came from within the walls of the mansion. What was a child doing in among the group of scientists? The rumours came fast. The notion Doctor Crescent might have become pregnant over the course of their project was no stretch – and some entertained speculation of Vincent being a decent match for her. But if Crescent had given birth, why was she hiding away. No doctor had been dispatched to the mansion, though perhaps the men of science knew enough to cope. But strange and cruel; to keep a child locked up away from the world. The parents must be overprotective or outright cruel. Attempts to ask after Doctor Crescent and a potential baby were rebuffed as all queries to the guards were; the rumours twisted further. Perhaps Crescent had not given birth. Perhaps she and Gast vanished together. Or she had a child – but not her own. Both rumours swirled around the notion of a child obtained from elsewhere. Fanciful stories of changelings drew shivers and uneasy feelings when discussed. Were the children of the Strifes, the Lockharts, the Heartillys and the Alexandros’ truly their children? Not simply some hideous exchange with the scientists. Were there twins amongst the births, one held by the families and the other given away? All four families angrily denied the accusations, the town doctor corroborating the single births. Tempers became frayed and short. And the rumours would not be quelled. Every town had tragedies, and still births and distressing catastrophes struck other families. How certain was anyone the tragedy was true, or perhaps the tragedy might have been reversed? Cruel rumours, increasingly setting one group of townsfolk against the other. Proof demanded of death, of not making some deal with Shinra. Still rumours and nothing more. Until the night the scream of a child split the air; the freakishly loud shriek emanating from the Shinra mansion. The same night the reactor failed, the phone lines failed. And yet light still shone I the Shinra mansion. A cry went up. Those who feared what lay within the mansion, who were concerned for the child no matter his origins, those who blamed Shinra for everything. The town rallied, flaming torches to see in the darkness encompassing the town. They swarmed to the mansion, snarling guards ordering them back, levelling guns against them. Some in the crowd responded with rocks; the guards fired. They had no hope after. The town swarmed them, trampling them and tearing their weapons from their hands. The mansion was stormed- And of the secrets discovered within, none are willing to relate. The entire structure was put to flame before the crowd marched to the top of Mount Nibel and set about destroying the inert reactor. Few would ever talk about the time Shinra came to town after, awkward questions from children resulted in them being hugged close and told to drop the subject. The ashes of the mansion were ground further down, new soil laid to cover the vast reach of the grounds. They planted flowers and trees, no trace of the mansion remaining. But the petals and buds of the plant life were inexplicably purple and silver-hued. And a young couple - Tidus and Yuna - continued to raise their son. There were occasional slips of the tongue when conversation touched on the family; of a tragic, difficult birth before. Of the parent’s sorrow prior to the fire. Of some who viewed their son with suspicion and something bordering on hostility. A perfectly normal boy. Maybe a little tall for his age, but for the most part unexceptional otherwise. The hair colour was unusual though genetics was such a strange thing was it not?

#ffviihalloween #final fantasy vii #ffvii #final fantasy #alternate universe #my ffvii fanfic

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thenexusofsouls · 4 years

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New Muse: Marina Nedivar

MARINA NEDIVAR/NEDIFAR a.k.a Marina Mills (alias), a.k.a. Ma Rina (online identity)

Type of Character & Fandom/Source Material: Canon-divergent character from the horror fantasy movie Friend Request (2016)

FC: Liesl Ahlers as Marina Nedivar

Race: Human

Age: 23

Sexual/Romantic Orientation: Asexual/Biromantic

Mother: Ada Nedifar

Occupation: Student… or nothing (homeless).

Potential Triggering Material in Threads: Triggering themes include: child harm, child sexual assault, rape, suicide, although I will not be writing them out in detail. They are present in Marina’s background and if anyone ever gains enough of her trust for her to speak about them, she will likely not go into a huge amount of detail. I will tag these triggers if I do mention them in threads. Triggering conditions include: trichotillomania (a compulsion to pull out hair… Marina pulls out her eyebrows, eyelashes, and hair on the top and back of her head); social anxiety, generalized anxiety disorder, PTSD, reactive attachment disorder (Marina assumes people will dislike/hate/reject her so she tests their patience to force what she feels is an inevitable result on her own terms to maintain control over the situation so she isn’t hurt by becoming attached to someone who then rejects her), internet addiction disorder, and obsessive personality disorder. If these get described in more detail than just a mention, I will tag them.

Negative Personality Traits: She holds grudges; she can become obsessed with people, objects, ideas, and even things like movies or books; she is easily hurt emotionally and tends to take things very personally; she can come across as strange, abrasive, blunt, or aggressive as a result of not being well socially adjusted at all

Positive Personality Traits: She can be very sweet when she wants to be and when she trusts someone; she’s very loyal; she’s incredibly creative and talented with art, both digital and hand-drawn; she has an innocent sort of quality to her when she gets genuinely happy about something or when she feels accepted by someone that is very endearing

Background: (This is a blend of canon and my own embellishments on the character and is her core verse. Other verses will be listed separately.)

Marina’s mother was a member of a cult living in a place called Moore’s Grove. It was a remote, rural, forested area with a large building in which the cult was housed. Someone burned the whole place down while Marina’s mother was pregnant. When her body was recovered, she was badly burned and had symbols carved into her belly. Doctors kept her mother alive in a vegetative state until Marina could be safely remove. She was alone in the womb for months. Despite never having seen her mother, Moore’s Grove (until she was a teenager), or many of the scenery, drawings, and other images from inside the cult’s location, Marina dreams about them as if she had been there to see them. What they intended to do with Marina and her mother after she was born is unclear, but the process appears to have resulted in Marina being born a witch. She is a black mirror witch, which basically means her powers lie in reflections, images, and in reflective surfaces that can be used as scrying mirrors. Classically this has been actual mirrors or pools of water, but Marina uses her turned-off laptop screen as her black mirror, and has been doing so since she was a young child.

She became a ward of the state and was sent to live at a school that doubled as an orphanage for many years as a child. Not knowing her parents and being a little odd personality-wise, Marina was very much alone and didn’t have friends. She was bullied by two boys who assaulted her on more than one occasion, but the teachers didn’t seem to care or believe her. Alone, sad, and angry, Marina turned to the internet, finding some solace in chat rooms and the shadier corners of the internet where darker imagery and themes abounded. This was the beginning of her obsession with fantasy, the occult, and scrying. By focusing her energy and desires while staring at her own reflection in her turned-off laptop screen, she was able to curse the two boys who had bullied her. They were stung repeatedly by wasps, so badly that their faces were unrecognizable. It was no accident. The wasps… are Marina’s protectors.

Various mythology exists about witches having familiars that either help or protect them. In Marina’s case, it’s true. Wasps are her protectors. They intimidate, chase, and even kill those she identifies as threats to her or whom she had decided to hate. Conversely, moths are her observers. They aren’t aggressive, but rather watch over ones she’s curious about, particularly those she likes. Once Marina realized she had these abilities, she began spreading her influence throughout the school, and many of the other children said she gave them nightmares.

This brings me to Marina’s other abilities… which involve her art. She draws by hand and animates her sketches on the computer. Some of them are whimsical new images, some are things she couldn’t possibly have seen from before she was born, and some are things yet to happen. If she is currently obsessing over someone, she has the ability to bring that person inside her art through dreams. They will dream about objects, animals, and locations from her drawings, and sometimes even see Marina herself. This ability can be innocuous or malicious, dependent on why she’s obsessing about the person in the first place.

It is very often in dreams and through this connection that the moth king, Talfryn, will make an appearance. Marina believes him to be a real being, attached to her but independent from her. In actuality, Talfryn is a magical construct, like a part of Marina’s magical abilities that has gained some amount of sentient in its own right. Talfryn appears a lot in Marina’s dreams, the dreams of others she’s drawing into her creations, and more rarely… in reality. If you see him, it is a sign that Marina is curious about you and essentially deciding whether or not to trust you. Talfryn is an observer, but also a judge. He is protective of Marina and makes it his business to assure that people she interacts with are not going to hurt her. 99% of the time, Talfryn appears about one foot tall, wearing a delightful little outfit and a crown upon his fuzzy moth head. Very rarely… he appears the size of a person, about six foot tall.

After Marina aged out of the school/orphanage she was living at, she was essentially on her own. That was really difficult for someone who had poor social skills, no job, and a very noticeable hair-plucking disorder. She took to wearing hoodies, even in summer, to hide as much of her disorder as she could. She was also able to attend college by applying for scholarships for disadvantaged students.

Her social media account (the one in the movie mimicked F.ace.book) is like her mental home. If one could have a room inside her brain and have it be decorated with her aesthetic, her art, and her ideas, that’s what her wall, feed, etc. looks like.

What Marina wants now is to make friends, be included and accepted, and be loved. But beware, if you cross her, she isn’t afraid to curse you…

Marvel Verse: MCU AU Marina is a mutant. That, and not the strange circumstances surrounding her birth, is the source of her powers. She is similar to Wanda Maximoff (comic version) with some of her powers in that she is able to alter natural probabilities to bring about unlikely outcomes. In short, when she curses someone by focusing her mental energy on doing so, she can increase the probability of their death in a chosen way. She can also very easily bring about good outcomes for people she likes as well. Her ability to bring her art and ideas to life (Talfryn) and to draw people into her dreams and nightmares are similar to Wanda’s abilities to alter reality and invoke nightmares in the minds of those she influences.

Potential Starter Ideas:

Really she can be met anywhere someone might sit with a laptop… on a park bench, in a cyber café, in a coffee shop or bookstore, inside a college classroom or on campus, on a bus, etc.

She could also be met while out walking, in a store, wherever.

Or your character could find her homeless on the street… sleeping, sitting, etc.

In the MCU AU, she could be noticed by another mutant, Avenger, or anyone else from the MCU, or she could be brought to live at the Avengers compound for observation. Perhaps she was noticed and it was thought that she needed counseling/training to help control her powers and her vindictive tendencies so that she doesn’t harm anyone in the future.

Fun facts: Marina loves insects and will collect them and take them outside if she finds them inside buildings… even pests like mosquitoes. She loves the combination of black and white so much that she only ever sketches in black ink on bleached paper. She has an interest in psychology and, since she is unafraid of the dead, she would love to become a forensic psychologist. Photography is also a love of hers, and taking pictures of nature and abandoned buildings often gives her ideas for her art.

#{ i am the caretaker of souls } ᵒᵒᶜ #muse: marina nedivar #{throws my trauma baby at you}

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bluesfortheredj · 5 years

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Guess Work.

Working with family could be a nightmare for some, but you’d got lucky when your Uncle had taken over from your dad as Detective Inspector at the Midsomer constabulary at Causton, and even though you loved your father dearly, it was a relief to have John and his more relaxed attitude here now. You had been the resident pathologist at the station for years and in the past year you’d started a relationship with your Uncle’s right hand man; DS Nelson. Months had gone by without even a hint of you two being romantically involved, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep quiet the deeper you fell in love with one another even though neither of you had said the word yet. Charlie was the main person who wanted to keep it quiet for fear of what your Uncle might think about you being an item, but you’d both resigned yourselves to the fact that he’d have to find out one day, especially with the romance blossoming quicker than you could have imagined.

Your fingers tap impatiently on your desk as you wait for the page to load so you could begin your report, but the software was being particularly slow today, and you let out a huff as you throw yourself against the back of your chair and pick your tea up. A familiar face soon arrives at the door and Charlie enters the room with a smile that still made your knees weak whenever you saw it; if anything could calm you down, it was him. He walks over to your desk and perches on your side of it to let his leg rest against yours, then reaches out for your hand as you place your cup down next to the computer and brings it up to his face to kiss the back of it.

“What have I done to deserve such a sweet greeting?” you ask with a tender smile.

“You’ve officially put up with me for six months. Congratulations!” he grins.

“How ever have I managed that?!” you joke.

“Might be something to do with my wit, charm, great body…” he winks.

“Or maybe it’s purely to do with your massive-”

“So this is where you’re hiding!” John’s voice sounds out behind Charlie.

“Heart,” you whisper as you slip your hand out of his.

“Hope he’s not bothering you too much,” John smirks as he enters your office.

“No more than usual,” you wink back.

“I’d like to invite you both over this weekend for Sarah’s birthday. It’s nothing big, just the five of us, six including Sykes of course. Some dinner, drinks, the usual,” John says.

“Sounds lovely,” you smile, “what time?”

“Saturday, say 3pm?”

“Great. I’ll pick you up on the way if you’d like, Charlie.”

“That’d be perfect,” Charlie nods, “thanks.”

“Brilliant. Right, well Nelson, we’re needed upstairs so if you could tear yourself away from (Y/N), we’d better get cracking,” John teases.

It wasn’t unusual for your Uncle to tease Charlie in your presence and it always made you laugh when a blush crept up his cheeks after a cheeky dig from John. You were both sure he didn’t have a clue what was going on and purely saw this as two of the youngest employees bonding thanks to the similar age range instead of anything else. Not that it would be the end of the world if he did find out, it just didn’t feel like something that needed sharing yet, and Nelson wasn’t looking forward to John inevitably telling his brother about the relationship.

“Charlie, would you like a lift home?” you ask, popping your head into his office space once the end of the day rolls around.

“Uhmm…” he looks to John for some kind of notion as to whether they were done or not, then when he receives a nod that he’s free to go he turns back to you with a smile, “yes please.”

“See you both tomorrow,” John says as you leave.

Charlie’s hand quickly slips into yours as you make your way out of the station and by the time you get the car you can’t keep your hands off of one another, only parting to get into the vehicle and joining together once again over the central console as you kiss passionately.

“I love you,” he breathes once you lean away with a smile.

You sit back in shock at him being the one to let the word slip out first, and you place a hand on his cheek gently before moving in close and brushing your nose against his.

“I love you too.”

“That’s a relief, oh my god my stopped for a minute there,” he chuckles.

“I think we’d better start planning an announcement soon…”

“I think so too,” he says with a worried expression.

Saturday soon comes around and the drive to John and Sarah’s was filled with excitement at the prospect of spending some time with your little cousin Betty, and you had a nice little bag of gifts for Sarah for her birthday. Charlie’s hand rests on your thigh for the entire journey, his thumb stroking over the fabric of your dress softly, and the comfort it filled you with made your heart swell with love.

“Ready?” you ask as you pull up outside the house.

“Ready,” he nods.

As soon as you’re both inside the house, you make a beeline for little Betty and Sarah hands her over willingly as lets out an exhausted breath along with a warm smile.

“You relax for the rest of your birthday,” you say as the little one snuggles into your shoulder, “I’ll look after this bundle of trouble.”

“Thank you so much,” she says, “and thank you for bringing Charlie!”

“You’re very welcome,” you grin as you begin to pat Betty’s back gently.

Sarah heads straight for Charlie and the bag of presents he holds along with the bottle of wine in his other hand, but his eyes can’t leave you for a second as you cuddle baby Betty, and he finds himself handing everything over to her without even meeting her eyes so he can walk straight towards you instead.

“Hello to you too, Charlie,” Sarah laughs.

“Charlie!” you giggle.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps, realising what he’s done, “Sarah, I can’t apologise enough! Hello and happy birthday!”

He backtracks and gives Sarah a kiss on both cheeks then resumes his position at your side, looking from Betty to you with absolute awe.

“I think you should help me in the kitchen, Charlie,” John suggests.

The two men walk into the kitchen while you three make your way into the second sitting room where there’s a small table with drinks on already and some snacks laid out in bowls. Betty stirs a little and wriggles into a comfier position nearer your neck as you adjust your hold and begin to bounce your body a little to comfort her.

“You’re so good with her,” Sarah grins, “and Charlie seems smitten as well.”

“Well she is the cutest baby there ever was…”

“I didn’t actually mean Betty,” she says with a knowing smirk.

You laugh nervously then turn your attention back to the small bundle on your chest with crimson cheeks.

“What do you think of our DS then (Y/N)? You two have gotten pretty close.”

“He’s lovely,” you nod, “a lovely person.”

“Quite handsome too, don’t you think?” she pushes.

“Don’t let John hear you say that,” you laugh.

“It’s nothing he hasn’t heard me say before,” she shrugs, “do you agree?”

“Sarah, this feels a little like an interrogation!”

“John wouldn’t mind, you know, and I’m sure your dad wouldn’t either. He’s a sensible young man who is obviously absolutely head over heels for you, and-”

“What are you ladies talking about?” John smiles as he and Charlie enter with plates of food.

“We’re just discussing love,” Sarah replies, “how some people who are so obviously meant for one another just can’t seem to see it.”

“Like who exactly?” John asks, completely confused by her answer.

“Could be anyone; friends, colleagues…”

You and Charlie share a quick glance and he sits opposite you next to John as you place your plate down next to you on the seat and eat with one hand as you keep a hold of Betty. Half way through your dinner Betty begins to cry and you take her out of the room as you bounce her carefully to calm her, then stand looking into the garden with her as you sway from side to side. Charlie soon follows you but doesn’t make his presence known as he stands quietly in the doorway, looking at you with the soppiest grin plastered across his face as he imagines what you’d be like when you both eventually have your own children one day. It’s a thought that he never expected to become so strong, but seeing you with Betty had ignited such an intense feeling inside him, he could barely hide it.

“What’s he doing?” John asks as him and Sarah watch him from the other room.

“He’s seeing his future,” Sarah whispers.

“That’s what I thought he was doing… Just needed you and your instinct to confirm it.”

“What?!” Sarah gasps quietly.

“I’ve had my suspicions about those two for a while. Subtlety isn’t Nelson’s strong point.”

“You think they’re together already?!”

“I know they’re together already. I am a DCI, don’t forget,” he winks.

Charlie walks towards you slowly, now out of sight of the two spies, and he places a hand on your back as he stands at your side with a glowing smile, making you look up at him with a questioning gaze.

“Are you alright?” you ask.

“I’m… I… This could be us one day. Me, you, a baby. What do you think?”

“Sounds perfect,” you whisper, trying not to cry.

“And what are you doing with my niece?” John asks loudly from the doorway, purposely trying to spook him.

“Planning our future,” Charlie replies with a proud smile and his arm still around your waist.

“Good,” John nods, “now who’s for dessert?”

Thank you @the-baby-bookworm for this request.

One where reader is a pathologist (and related to Barnaby (could be Tom Barnaby daughter maybe)) so he feels like they need to keep it secret since she’s related to his boss. But John finds out anyways

@lv7867 @lovemarvelousfics @fuckyou-imspiderman @aynsleywalker @timeandpixiedust @theborhapbois @captainxholmes @pink-lemo @chlobo6 @queenslandlover-93 @tenement-funstah

#Charlie Nelson #charlie nelson x reader #midsomer murders #midsomer murders fic #gwilym lee

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nocturne-inuyasha-ff · 5 years

Text

Nocturne - Reluctant Longing

Nocturne - Chapter Three: Reluctant Longing

Rated - M (for suggestive adult themes, references to some violence, and coarse language)

Disclaimer: I do not own Inuyasha.

Kagome had rushed home in time to avoid Inuyasha strolling through the doorway. She had folded the hankimono up and hidden it within one of her modern bags she knew Inuyasha never rummaged through. Quickly, she'd changed into her usual miko garb and had even enough time to brew tea before he arrived.

To anyone else, her guilt may have been obvious, but Inuyasha was again oblivious to her inner thoughts, only thinking that her silence indicated how angry she still felt. Inside, she shook with fear. Any moment now, he would smell the scent of another male on her and blow up. He would have every right to, she told herself. Instead, he seemed to take the blame from their fight the night before.

He approached her from behind while she was readying a cup. His arms wrapped around her and she let out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. Tears filled her eyes.

"Inuyasha, I'm-I'm sorry...about...about last night," she choked out.

"No, I'm sorry…" he whispered into the curve of her neck. "I should've been more…" he paused and searched for a word he'd heard her use before, "sensitive to your mood."

Any other day, Kagome would have retaliated to that statement.

'Her mood?!'

Because she was just so touchy these days. But instead, she let it go, her shame eating at her. She could not help but feel sad.

Here she was, dirty from a night with Inuyasha's elder brother, no less, and now in his arms as if nothing had happened. It crushed her soul to lie, but she knew that Inuyasha would never understand. She'd been enchanted. But why had she wanted it so badly? A part of herself knew she could have purged herself from the spell that had been cast on her. Why did she let it run its course?

Inuyasha was feeling very apologetic, and Kagome was feeling very guilty. When he began to plant light kisses down her neck, she moaned despite herself. He pulled her around, and their lips met with practiced ease. She wrapped her hands around his neck, twining her fingers through his hair. Despite herself, she wondered if Sesshomaru's locks felt as soft as his brothers or his lips as tender?

With some mental gumption, she was able to dismiss those thoughts and let Inuyasha's skilled hands work down her body, bringing her to life and back to the present. She buried the events from last night deep down and promised herself she would never bring it up again.

A couple of months passed with no incident. The crazy night where Kagome and Sesshomaru had met in the cave, deep in the forest had been put aside, and life went on as usual.

The days had turned from chilly to bitterly cold. Winter had arrived in full force, bringing wet snow and glacial, unforgiving ice. It was times like these where Kagome yearned for amenities from the future like space heaters or insulation. She had just come from a family that had fallen victim to smallpox. She had guessed what the illness was based on the sores seen all over the skin.

The lesions were mostly on the face and then spread down the appendages. But there was no way for her to tell for sure. It was a thankful thing that she'd brought some things back with her before the well had closed up, one being scores of books. Otherwise, she may have to rely on her own rudimentary knowledge of the illnesses and diseases which was entirely lacking since many of them had been eradicated in her time.

Still, since this particular disease was no longer around in the present, she was not vaccinated against it and had to take special precautions. Those special precautions being that she couldn't go near or touch those infected. Seclusion for the family was all she could do outside of leave instructions to make them comfortable. The sad fact of the matter was that these people had to recover on their own.

There was nothing she could do, and it ate at her. She found solace in that this was the only family to exhibit symptoms, and they were able to quarantine the family before it spread and killed. No other village in Sengoku Jidai could boast such knowledge.

She left the quarantined house and made her way back to Kaede's home. The older woman, who had mentored Kagome in healing, herbs, and other miko duties, did not get out much anymore. Kaede had developed arthritis in her joints, and it was increasingly painful for her to move about. She had a difficult time accepting her limited mobility, becoming somewhat cantankerous from being cooped up.

Kagome had brought some herbs from her own garden to brew in a tea that would soothe the inflammation that plagued the elderly woman. Her thoughts were somber as she approached Kaede's hut. She saw that Rin was just arriving as well. The young woman gave a friendly wave before disappearing inside.

Seeing Rin always made guilt blossom in the back of her mind. Rin had been Sesshomaru's ward before the well had closed six years ago and before Kagome's reappearance, he had deposited her here with Kaede to learn more about humans.

Every time that Kagome saw Rin, her heart fluttered with anticipation. Sesshomaru had come to pay Rin visits occasionally. Often to bring her gifts of some sort. Things he thought befitted a young human woman. Those visits were relatively short and uneventful. In fact, Sesshomaru was usually quiet, allowing Rin to do most of the talking. Still, he had not been to visit since before that night, and Kagome felt dread over the inevitable.

How long would it be before he came back? What would she do? How would she react? The thoughts raced through Kagome's mind, and she felt her breath hitch in her chest. Quite suddenly, she began to feel faint, her head started to spin, and her world faded to black.

"Kagome?!" a light, distorted voice called out. "Kagome, are you okay?!"

Kagome's eyes fluttered. Moisture from the condensation-soaked grass seeped through her clothes and helped to bring her back into consciousness. Rin leaned over her, concern warping her warm brown eyes.

"Are you okay?" Rin repeated.

Kagome pushed herself up and looked around.

"You fainted," Rin supplied. She held out her hand to Kagome and helped her up.

"Thank you. I-I'm not sure." Kagome brushed off her skirts despite them not being soiled. "I didn't eat breakfast today," she speculated.

Rin smiled and guided Kagome inside Kaede's house, one arm behind Kagome's back just in case there was another spell.

"It's well past lunch. You work yourself too hard, you know."

Kagome gave a half-smile. It was true that she had poured herself into her work. She needed something to pass the time and keep her from doing a tail-spin into her own guilt. Besides that, with Kaede out of commission and Rin an acolyte, her workload had doubled. The number of people who needed help and the influx of disease kept her on her toes.

"Thank you, Rin. I just need to sit, I think."

Once inside, Rin guided Kagome in front of the hearth. Kaede sat opposite, propped up against pillows and other items to keep her comfortable.

"Kagome, child, ye look pale," Kaede said.

"I'm fine. I just felt a little dizzy and lost my balance," Kagome explained.

Her head still swam, and she grabbed the sides of her head to keep the room from spinning. Out of the corner of her vision, she could see Rin moving about, and the motion was making her feel queasy. Kagome closed her eyes. The momentary pull of darkness was soothing.

Rin touched her shoulder. "Tea?"

She offered down a cup of some steaming herbal concoction. Kagome opened her eyes and took up the proffered cup.

"Thank you, Rin." She sipped on the tea, noting its bitterness but relishing the warmth that cut through her.

"Better?" Rin asked and sat down beside Kaede to watch Kagome.

She nodded and smiled. "Yes, much."

Finishing the cup, she felt much better. Her fainting spell had definitely been attributed to dehydration.

"Oh, before I forget, I brought some herbs for you Kaede. they can help with the pain." She pulled the herbs from a hidden pocket and passed it to Rin.

"Bless ye child," Kaede said. She looked at Rin. "Do ye mind, Rin?" she asked.

"Not at all," Rin said with a smile. She began to hum a tuneless song and set to prepping the tea.

Kagome watched as Rin picked up a tea kettle and steeped the dried herbs in hot water. She noted how Rin had grown into such a lovely young woman. She was still as chatty as ever, her time with Sesshomaru had not diminished her vocality. Again her thoughts drifted to him. Rin was a constant reminder.

"So, Rin...It has been a while since he's visited," Kagome said aloud. She broke under the pressure of her own curiosity.

Rin did not turn around, not thinking anything of the inquiry. "Yes. Lord Sesshomaru has been busy of late. He has had more frequent troubles with local warring states."

Kagome nodded with unfeigned interest. "Oh?"

"Jaken told me that some local lords were rallying and amassing near Lord Sesshomaru's lands. But he can handle that rabble no problem," Rin explained.

That explained why he had not visited in a while, Kagome consoled herself. Why did that make her feel better? This should not have made her feel anything at all. Yet her she sat, thinking about a man like some school girl. She shook the thoughts from her head.

Kagome spent another hour with Kaede and Rin, speaking about mundane things before she had to leave. Making some polite goodbyes, she exited the house. She had gotten several steps away before Rin ran out calling after her.

"Kagome, wait! I forgot to give you this." She held out her hand.

When Kagome gave her a confused look, she added, "For your pains."

"Oh, thank you," Kagome said. She took the cloth pouch from Rin.

"Sure, see you tomorrow!"

Kagome watcher her duck back inside the house, and she looked down at the pouch in her hands. She took steadying breaths and pocketed the bag before walking away. Her thoughts raced right along with her heart. She tried to match the speed of her pace with the adrenaline pumping through her.

She arrived at her house, and her head spun with something different than dizziness. The day was still young, so Inuyasha was not here. He actually was not due back for a while. He had left with Miroku to visit a neighboring village that was being plagued by a ghost. Kagome never knew how long they would be gone, the time spent away was highly dependent on unknown circumstances.

The home they shared was empty, and Kagome had some free time on her hands before she made her rounds through the village. She walked over to her bookshelf and pulled out a worn novel. Of the items she had brought back from the future, these tomes were something she did not want to part with. Inuyasha had not understood why she would want to keep such things, though she did catch him leafing through the pages from time to time.

The pages of her book were worn from use, creased, oiled from her fingers, and folded on themselves to mark specific places for future reference. The book she held now was on human anatomy and biology, markedly the female anatomy. She flipped to one such page on menstruation cycles. It was easier to understand how to treat ailments when one realized precisely why they occurred.

The dried herbs that Rin had given to Kagome were to help with monthly pains. She put a finger and began to hunt. Her finger guided her through the text. There was nothing. Nothing to be done now anyway. Snapping the book shut she stashed it away. It was time for her to return to reality.

Kagome made her rounds but was eventually called outside the village perimeter. A man had fallen and broken his leg while hunting. Usually, such an injury would be brought to her, but this case was severe enough to warrant her personal presence. A young man, a companion of the injured, had sought her out to bring her. His face was ashen when he had finally found her and urged her to make haste.

They arrived in short order, and Kagome found the man crying out in pain. His leg splayed out before him, and a bone protruded out at a sickening angle. No wonder his companion did not want to move him. She hurried to his side and knelt down.

"What is your name?" She asked while looking at the wound.

"Masa-Masahide," he grunted out through clenched teeth.

"Tell me, Masahide, what happened?" Though she was asking him questions, she really only did so to distract him while she put pressure on the wound. He cried out again, louder this time.

"Masahide, how did you come across such a wound?" She asked again. She had to stop the bleeding and splint the wound to move him. There was little she could do out here in the woods with few supplies. And even less she could do for such an injury to bring about a full recovery.

Kagome was able to splint the wound enough to where the young man did not scream out in pain when they made to move him. It took all of their strength to support the man's dead weight. He wasn't much help as he staggered between them, putting all of his weight on their shoulders with each step. Slowly but surely they made it back to the village. He was brought to his home, which he shared with a young wife.

Kagome felt tinged with pity for the young couple. Even though she had cleansed the wound to the best of her ability, the odds of him ever having use of his leg again were slim. Kagome left his wife instructions on how to care for his wound. She was thanked profusely before departing into the night.

It had grown late while she attended to the man. She sighed, resigned to the loss of the day. She had wanted to visit her friend Sango this evening, but she was sure the circumstances would be understood. She made her way back to her house on the outskirts of the village and stopped. No light shown from within meaning that Inuyasha had not returned.

Kagome quickly made something to eat before pulling out her futon. Stoking the flames from the hearth, she finished any lingering household chores and prepared to sleep and awake to another day.

The darkness folded in upon her, bringing with it the evening sounds of crickets and other fauna. The screech of an owl pierced the area near the wall and brought Kagome back into full consciousness. She sat up and looked around the room, trying to gauge the time. The bitter cold had set in through the walls and the doorway. The black night had found its way into her abode, marked by the fire that had been snuffed out. She let out a long breath through her nose and pushed aside the blankets that trapped in her body heat. Icy air met her exposed skin, sending a shiver through her as she tended to the fire.

Her head snapped up when she heard footsteps outside. She waited several moments, poised to attack. Defenseless was not a word that could be used to describe her. When the well had closed off, sealing her in her own time, she had sworn to never feel powerless again.

Kagome had taken up several extracurricular classes to assist in keeping her busy. She had not expected the well within her family's shrine to ever work again, but something told her the knowledge would become useful somewhere along the line.

As the seconds ticked by, nothing happened, and Kagome gave one last glance around the room before finishing with the hearth. The flames soared to life and settled back down to a steady roar. The heat from the flames was soothing as much as they were hypnotizing. Staring into the flames, she settled on the changing colors leaping from the logs. The Blues, greens, yellows, and oranges all melding together made her feel drowsy. Thankfully, the warmth had begun to fill the room, and she was able to climb back under her blankets and settle into sleep.

The sound of footsteps resounded through the small domicile. Kagome heard it in her dreams, but consciousness was just outside of her grasp. She felt as though she were wading through molasses when her eyes cracked open barely wide enough to take in some of the light from the middle of the room. There was another creak, and a flash of silver floated past her vision.

'Inuyasha?' she wondered.

Her head rose up a fraction, and once she'd confirmed that nothing was amiss, she returned back to her dreams.

She had fallen into a deep slumber, her breathing deep and relaxed when he had arrived. Why had he come here? He wasn't quite sure. He had come to the village to check in on Rin. She was as radiant as ever. Her time in the human town had done her well, and he was pleased that he had made the decision to deposit her here among her own kind. The life of a yokai was no place for a delicate mortal girl.

But why had he come here, to the outskirts of the village, to a place where his younger brother resided with his mortal woman? It surely was not to catch up with her. He had barely gotten over the derision he felt for the half breed and could barely palate time spent near humans aside from Rin. They were just inferior. Not worth his time and beneath him in every way. Yet, why was he outside listening to her gentle snores?

His lip lifted up into a sneer, and he made to leave. He must purge himself of such ridiculous thoughts. He had convinced himself that the magic of that night was all that had tethered him to the woman. Seeing her or scenting her plain human smell would drive all longing from him. First, he would have to admit to himself that he felt longing. He was above longing. Besides, he'd barely had any interaction with the woman. There was nothing to draw him to her outside of magic.

Something stopped him from leaving, planting him in place. He could hear his name muttered with a sleepy, muffled tone, "Sessho…"

So, she dreamed of him. The thought made him feel pleased until he caught himself and expelled the breath through his nose quickly. This would not do at all. The great Lord Sesshomaru could not - would not - be enthralled to a human woman. No, he had other, more pressing matters to attend to. Without a second glance behind him, he left before he had the opportunity to change his mind.

#chapter three #sesskag #Nocturne #dreams

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downspiral-dreamer · 4 years

Text

CHARACTER INTRODUCTION: Beck - Six Feet Under The Stars

I wasn’t going to put this up because it will inevitably have many spoilers from my novel, but on the one hand, I rarely finish any novel I start, and on the other hand, I highly doubt anyone is actually gonna want to read it, so I’m not really spoiling anyone here. And besides, Beck and specifically JUST Beck is basically the only character I have energy for right now I have energy for right now because apparently he’s a comfort character for me, so I figure it’d probably be a good idea to get an intro for him out there. I might try to work on the novel some more later, we’ll see.

TRIGGER WARNING: mentions of severe bigotry, su*cide, scars, and betrayal.

EDIT: this got way too long lmao but it was nice to kind of map out Beck’s life before the novel starts, so feel free to ignore this post if you don’t wanna read a short biography lmao, this was almost entirely more character development for me than anything.

~ * ~

full name: Leslie Bryant Faulkner nicknames: Beck (his chosen name after he lost all memories and identity), Les. age: He was 30 when he died, so unless he puts energy into changing his appearance, that’s the age he presents as. gender: Cis male. sexual orientation: Pansexual with a leaning toward men. hair: Long, it falls against his shoulders. In life he was a very light blond, and still is, though there are now silvery strands interwoven, as well as the faintest green tinge; effects that happen the longer you’re in the afterlife - it’s sort of their form of aging. eyes: Grey. Though they go a cloudy white when he’s expending high amounts of energy. build: Average weight, slightly shorter than average height. birth place: London, England, though his family moved to a small eastern town in North America when he was young. ethnicity: English, scottish, welsh, irish, danish, and romanian; as far as he is aware. He’s quite the mutt. scars/body markings: The most noticeable are the scars that form a ring around his neck from how he died. He has various other scars on his arms, legs, and face, some from his own volition but most from the hard life he led before he died. He has a few small tattoos, one of a cat’s silhouette and one of a crescent moon to match the sun tattoo his brother had. zodiac sign: Sagittarius. alignment: Chaotic neutral. positive traits/strengths and skills: Passionate, fun-loving, clever; he once had a love for journaling, can throw a mean punch, and beat almost anyone at a drinking contest. He once played the violin, and enjoyed it immensely. negative traits/flaws: Growing cynicism, an addictive personality, mischievous; has a habit of pushing people away then clinging to them then repeating the process.

~ * ~

Beck was born in the year of 1882, in London, England, to a poor family; unable to continue making a living there, his family moved to a small town on the eastern coast of North America with the hope that many had of finding a better life across the sea. Beck was nine years old when they moved. Life was fairly uneventful for a while; his father worked as a coal miner while his mother worked at home trying to teach Beck, as well as his older sister - and his baby brother, born a little less than a year after they moved to America.

He was a difficult child, constantly curious and mischievous to a fault; any waking moment he had was spent exploring the town and the surrounding fields, trying to befriend any living thing he came across. He found it hard to make friends, if only because he was unable to go to the school with the other children, his family unable to afford it. More often than not, Beck found himself on the receiving end of mockery; the many reasons included his family’s financial status, his love for books, and the care he had for small animals - after getting into numerous scuffles with other boys in town to keep them from hurting the local wildlife, or the stray cats, he grew a ‘reputation’ for being a pansy, a girl, and other more vicous names. Physical fights were common, despite how much his mother fretted over him.

So while he still loved to explore and get into mischief, as Beck grew older, he spent most of his time at home helping to take care of his younger brother, and taking care of a small runt of a black cat that he had saved from a dog. He had become attached to the cat immediately and his parents had reluctantly agreed to let him keep it, as long as he took full responsibility.

After reaching adulthood, Beck had to leave home and find lodging in the city; his father had been injured in the mines, and couldn’t work anymore, leaving himself and his elder sister the primary breadwinners. His brother was still young by then; only just turned ten, and couldn’t work properly, though he tried to help by catching fish in the river near the town.

Beck managed to snag a job working for a newspaper office, helping with the printing press and selling papers. Every penny he managed to make he tried to send back home, oftentimes sleeping underneath awnings or roof outcrops on the street instead of paying for lodging elsewhere, just to make sure his family managed to get by.

He would visit home on the holidays, and had a close relationship with his brother; while Beck would send letters back home when he lived in the city, he would oftentimes write a separate letter, specially for his brother.

After an altercation with one of the higher ups in the business he worked for - a drunken dispute caused over a disagreement on wages - Beck moved back home for a time, at the age of 26, taking a temporary job at the mines his father had once worked for. He hated the work, hated the feeling of being smothered deep inside the earth, but he couldn’t afford to be picky.

A cave in happened at the mines, and while Beck made it out alive, he was injured, and several of the miners had died. After extensive pleading from his parents and siblings, Beck left the mining business and once again moved back to the city.

From there, he mostly worked odd jobs, including but not limited to bartending, being a stable hand, and a chimney sweep. His brother was old enough now to work, so Beck was able to save more money than before, eventually getting a place of his own - a tiny flat in downtown, but a place of his own.

And then it all began to go downhill. But for Beck, it seemed to be uphill - while working across the street from a theatre, he began to see one person in particular quite often: a man around his age, called Thomas, a middle class citizen with a love for theatre. The two of them hit it off, often going for drinks at a nearby pub as Beck got off work right around the time the final show of the night ended.

(MOST OF THE TRIGGERING CONTENT TAKES PLACE BELOW, SO READ ON WITH CAUTION.)

They became close friends, but Beck soon realised a complication: he thought of Thomas as more than friends, he thought of him romantically. He had had these feelings before in his life, but kept them secret for the sake of his family’s pride, and for his own benefit - he had come to terms with the feelings long ago but still kept them to himself.

After spending months writing journal entries about Thomas as a way to vent his feelings, he finally made a fateful decision: on his own birthday, December 13th, he would make a move. It seemed to him that Thomas felt as close to him as he did, and after all, this was the city, was it not? Surely he wasn’t misreading the signs, that maybe Thomas was like him, maybe they could have some sort of future together, outside of drinking buddies.

So, the night of December 13th, after leaving the pub where he and Thomas had made a toast to his birthday, they went for a walk as they often did, lingering for a while on the bridge near the center of the city, over the river. Beck was a tangle of nerves and butterflies in his stomach, but noticed that Thomas was watching him… that was a sign, right?

Beck tried to say something, but couldn’t get much more than the other’s name and a bit of stammering out so he took a chance and leaned in to attempt pecking the other on the cheek.

And that was when all hell broke loose. Thomas reacted violently, with disgust, and attempted to throw a punch. Beck panicked and ran, not stopping until he had run a good distance, unable to make it all the way back to his flat. He collapsed near a stable in an attempt to catch his breath and stave off the only worsening panic attack.

Before long, he heard a commotion, and hoisted himself up and onto the roof of the stable for a better look, only to see that Thomas and a mob of other men were coming down the street in his direction.

What followed was a frenzied chase, ending with Beck throwing himself into his flat and barricading the door, feeling as though his heart would explode, from both pain and exertion. The men were soon outside, beating at his door, and he could hear Thomas’ voice amongst the din, shouting the same threats and fury that the others were, all the noise blending into a blur of God’s so-called rage and wishes for death.

It seemed that there would be no escaping this. There was only one other exit out of his home, besides the front door, and it was a window already nearly shattering as the mob tried to gain entry.

So in a haze of terror and sorrow and grief and wishing so hard that he was with his family, Beck made one last decision: he would not allow the men outside to have the satisfaction of killing him and patting themselves on the back for it, as if they had done anything close to God’s will.

At first, in his daze, Beck crouched in the corner, drinking all the liquor he could find in his cabinets at a breakneck pace, before finally realising that that would take too long. He had hoped that it would kick in faster, hoped that if he were to go, then he could go in a way that seemed less violent, but no.

He managed to drag a rope out from his storage closet, throwing it over one of the rafters above his table, and well, one can imagine what happened next. Thomas and the men finally broke down the door only to find that they would not get the blood they had been thirsting for, because it was too late.

Beck has spent his life in the afterlife ever since; time doesn’t exist there so he wasn’t sure how long it took before he realised that he could haunt earth, before he realised that he had special powers, before he found out that he was a category of ghost known as a poltergeist. The only trick was… he had no memories. He had no memory of who he was, of who his family was, of how he died or of any of the past life he had lived. Outside of the scars on his body giving hints as toward how he died, and the clothes he had died in, Beck had nothing except the nickname he eventually gave himself.

Then the rumours are spread of a boy who can see ghosts, can talk to them, where almost no other living person can. And, well, the curiosity got the better of him, and that’s where our story starts.

#oc: beck #wip: six feet under the stars #writeblr #writeblr community #new writeblr

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prettywordsyouleft · 5 years

Text

Out of Time

Summary: Kun wanted to give you the best life he could, but in the process forgot you needed him in the present more than what was to come.

Characters: Qian Kun x reader

Genre: angst / office worker au

Warnings: angsty as hell, break up

Word count: 1817

Another night of waiting up for him had gone to waste. Kun had made promises to come home right after work and you had stupidly believed him. His job was important, and getting a promotion was right around the corner. Initially, you had been understanding of this. But when he started coming home in the early hours of the morning reeking of alcohol and exclaiming how close he was to nailing this promotion after spending the night out with his seniors, you started to wonder what was so important about progressing in his career. Kun was already earning a good salary and worked enough hours. You hadn’t signed up to be an afterthought.

And that’s when the arguments began.

“Do you even care that I sit here and wait for you every night?!”

He groaned as he loosened his tie, shooting you an exhausted look. “Why are you like this, I’m doing this to set up our future!”

“What future? The one where you’re married to your job and I’m nothing but someone who you snuggle into when you come home too late and find me in bed? You’ve even been working in the weekends Kun, how are we meant to have a future when we don’t have a present?!”

“I have to work; it’s what keeps this place afloat! If it wasn’t for me being at work, how would we be able to afford what we have?!”

You gaped at him, your hard gaze faltering for a moment. “Are you saying I’m not doing enough by us financially?”

“Your job won’t bring in nearly as much as I can. I’m not saying you’re not doing enough, Y/N, I’m just stating a fact. I get paid more!”

“So you’re the breadwinner then, is that it? Since you work so hard and get paid more, your logic assumes I should sit here and be thankful for what I have?”

“It’s not like I treat you badly,” he offered, somewhat out of guilt for hurting you with his previous statement. “I’ve always loved you.”

“And I love you too, but I don’t love this divide at all.”

Kun could tell you were starting to show signs of defeat and came over to your side, rubbing your upper arms in his hands lightly. He lowered his head so he could catch your gaze and shot you a weak smile. “Just wait until I’ve gotten my promotion. Then I’ll be able to spend more time with who really matters to me. Which is you.”

“You promise?” He nodded and smiled again, kissing you softly before pulling you into his arms.

Each promise was merely a band-aid, the same outcome from the many arguments you would have, letting off steam only to placate each other with temporary fixes.

Kun’s promotion came and for a week you were optimistic. He had finished early more than once and he took you out on several dates, laughing and joking with you as you snuggled up at his side as much as you could. This was what you remembered your relationship to be, and the past year of tension seemed to ease. The man you loved was still in there and now that he had achieved his goal, he was attentive and affectionate.

You found yourself hoping that the future would be full of further adventures like this.

Once his role was established though, it became evident just how much extra work he had to complete. Kun was working longer hours, the times he once spent buttering up to his executives to get the role was now replaced with actually completing all that was expected of him.

You stopped waiting for him to come home, and soon you didn’t even bother making him dinner. You had forgotten the last time you shared a proper meal together.

Instead of fighting with him over his lack of dedication to your relationship, you found yourself uninterested in bringing it up. You didn’t want to hear his excuses anymore and you were tired of feeling like the only one willing to fight for what was left.

It was difficult because he was right, he hadn’t treated you badly. On the rare occasions when you were still awake and he came home, Kun would kiss you in greeting and ask you genuinely about your day. He was exhausted, but not completely evasive. Yet these moments were never enough, and over the next six months, they dwindled to you barely seeing him awake for more than twice a week.

Essentially, you became strangers who shared a bed together.

You hadn’t known how out of touch you were with your feelings until you joined some friends out on the town for the night, laughing and dancing so much that when you came home you slept properly for the first time in months. Soon, you were going out more often and your life became full of vibrancy again. You saw movies with your friends, and you went to new places too. The list of your favourite coffee shops soon grew from meeting up regularly, and you began to dream again.

You wanted more for yourself, and you slowly started to forget adding Kun into those projections. After all, he was busy working when you were out exploring your remaining years of youth.

It was when you went on a trip to the beach with your friends that you realised you had to change how you lived. Staring at the vast blue in front of you, you screamed out your fears, your insecurities. You cried for the love you had lost. You wailed for the time you had wasted. You yearned for self-worth to return.

When you came back to your apartment you had shared with Kun for the past three years, you looked around, trying to find memories that excited you. They were faint, barely recognisable, like your image in the mirror had become. You had grown, yet these walls had nothing to show for it.

There was nothing that could save you from the inevitable. You could remain here, enclosed and forgotten or you could break free and start anew. It hurt more than you expected it to as you packed what you needed, what little that gave you joy still.

And with a note left on the table, you stepped out of the front door, closing this chapter behind you.

When Kun arrived home that evening, the lights were off and the house was cold. He was used to this feeling now; you had stopped greeting him with a warm smile a long time ago. He missed it, yet he knew he needed to stop expecting things from you. It was enough that you had stayed by him all this time.

He went to the refrigerator, staring numbly at the lack of food options and grabbing a bottle of water instead. Dinner hours were always rushed and sometimes he even forgot to eat when at the office. The meals you prepared had stopped months ago. He knew you assumed he was eating well enough at work, and he was too apprehensive to ask you to start leaving him food again. It would be hard enough for you to have your meal for one, let alone cook for him and sadly put it away for him to eat when and if he was hungry once home.

Loosening off his tie, he headed into the bedroom, making his usual route through the darkened room over to the wardrobe, taking off his suit and slipping into his sweats, before heading back out of the room to the bathroom. You never stirred anymore at the sounds in the house when he came home from work, although he still tried to remain quiet. Once ready for bed, he moved back into the bedroom and slipped under the blankets. He closed his eyes, feeling the tension of the long day slowly unwind. And then he reached over for you, knowing that holding you through the night was the only thing that kept him going through the next day. It seemed foolish, he knew you wanted more. You deserved more too. But the goal he was saving towards was too important to him. You’d understand when he reached it, when he had the fanciest ring to place on your finger and a hefty deposit to buy your first home. It was worth the sacrifices he was making with you now.

But his hands came up empty, falling upon the cold space where your warmth normally laid. He glanced at the time on the alarm clock, knowing you had no place to be at two in the morning. You were always here, and he grew concerned, throwing back the blankets and shifting over to the light switch, illuminating the room and glancing around. He was alone.

As Kun moved through your apartment, he turned on every light he could, hoping they would guide him to you. But you were no where to be found. Dropping to sit in the chair at the table, he rested for a second before dread consumed him – had you been in an accident and no one had contacted him? He was about to go find his phone when his eyes caught something lying on the table, his shaking hands reaching out for the note you had left there.

He read the words but they made no sense to him. He read them more than he could remember and even when the first signs of morning infiltrated the large glass window he sat beside, he still couldn’t make sense of what they said.

Or, he didn’t want to believe in them.

This whole time his end goal had been you. Kun wanted to set up your life so you wouldn’t have to ever worry again.

He had been inattentive to the worries you had now, assuming he could make it all better in time. He had run out of time himself.

For the next two hours, he thought to find you, to rush out of the apartment and tell you he’d give it all up for you. That in some fantastical scenario, you would feel relief from this promise and fall back into his arms and live with him happily ever after.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had made you happy though.

And so he let you leave with a note. He went to work day in and out until he could no longer stand how hard he had worked with no end result.

Because you were missing from his world, and there was nothing he could do to bring you back.

_________________

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selenightwitch · 4 years

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Once again I am reminded of how powerful and how kind my deities are. Since the start of this year, I have been in an extremely transitory state of existence. Between taking a different approach to my academics, continuing my progress in therapy, and growing more in my religious and magical practices, everything has been in a state of flux. I wasn't unhappy, but I felt very restless and often confused. Suddenly the ways I had always approached life and thought about people and the world were shifting in a way I had never anticipated.

In February, I felt an overwhelming urge to follow Hera. She came right to me one day at school, and I remember being overwhelmed by the presence of a massive energy behind me. She spoke to me then, but I was still unsure of if I should devote myself to her. After all, I was already working with six other deities and juggling all of them in a respectful manner was difficult.

Everywhere I looked the next few days, I saw signs from her- huge lillies growing where I had never seen them, irises underneath my kitchen window, the spirit of a lioness suddenly following me- I knew she was calling to me for a reason. She told me she had been with me for a long time, but I had not yet been ready to accept my own strength and confidence needed to work with her until recently. Thus began my relationship with Hera, and I could not have been more thankful.

Hekate is always with me in some form or another, and the last five months have been no exception. I often found myself questioning my values and how I responded to other people. There was no longer that feeling of shame attached to every thing I said or did, and that in itself stirred my anxiety. Was I transforming into an arrogant and narcissistic individual because I no longer wanted to hate myself? Was I becoming less empathetic and less kind because I was no longer willing to always put other's needs before my own? The ways I had acted my entire life felt foreign to me. The injured parts of me I had slowly started to unearth in therapy were coming to the surface, and I was frightened that I was becoming the wrong person. But it was also during this time that Hekate finally presented me with a key, after five years of following her. She told me I was ready to unlock the potential of my soul and she would be there to guide me through it all. So much of my hedge work has been guided by the imagery of her strophalos, a symbol of Hekate's secrets, and a spinning circle of change. I had to be willing to take my key into the strophalos and move with it if I wanted to end up on the path I imagined. So I took her hand, and we went together.

Finally, I reached Beltane. Rebirth and transformation. I woke up that day feeling a renewed sense of vigor I had not been able to achieve for months, and a sense of newness as well. Creiddylad was there to lead the way into the bloom of my new self. Everything I had been struggling with was happening for a reason- after all, a flower cannot grow without an immense amount of work from its seed. I was able to connect with my fellow pagans and witches for several days, rekindle the flame with my partner, and look at myself with a new paradigm. I know there will still be struggles- that is inevitable. But I also know I've become a very different person than I was a year ago, and I do not have to be chained to my suffering any longer.

I did not mention all of my goddesses here, but truthfully they all have helped me reach this point with their gentle yet firm guidance. Brigid, with her healing powers and words of encouragement. Hathor, with her love and celebration of life. Bastet, with her resilience and her protection. Athena, with her wisdom and reminders of courage. I am so incredibly blessed to have them all in my life, and I know I can look at the future with a steady heart, mind, and soul.

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plentyofpetticoat · 4 years

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Homecoming

Sometimes it bothered Felicity that it took her 22 years to find “home.” When she looked around, at her apartment, her job, and her friends, she saw everything that she ever wanted as a child. The town provided for her in a way that her family of origin could not (and did not care to do). It was difficult to chase away the feelings of jealousy that overcame her when someone would rave to her about their parents of their hometown and what a fantastic experience it all was to have that love and security right from the start.

However, when Felicity looked around and saw all of the good that surrounded her, she could take a deep breath and release all of the envy and regret that poisoned her mind. She was lucky to have found all that she did at such an early age. She had an incredible mentor, friends who showered her with love, and a place to call her own. All things considered, that was all she needed to live a happy and fulfilling life. If she wanted to plant her roots in Echo Village and never budge an inch, she could very well do that. The only person who had a say in the matter was Felicity herself.

However, that did not mean that other voices could not sway her.

Out of all of the residents of Echo Village, Felicity was by far the closest with Clement. He was more than just her mentor and employer; he was her lighthouse amid uncertain waters. Though his love for her was not exactly identical to that of a father’s, it still filled a void in Felicity’s life that had been there for as long as she could remember.

And like any good paternal-figure, he always made sure to make Felicity’s birthdays a very special occasion. The first year that she had lived in Echo, Clement bought her a brand new laptop and then hired a band to play at a special dinner party. The year after, he presented her with a three-tier cake and a gift certificate for a boutique in the city.

And as Felicity approached her 24th birthday, she found herself tapping her toes in giddy anticipation. She was not in the business of lying to herself- it felt amazing to be dotted on, especially by someone so admirable. So when Clement simply asked her to stay late at the restaurant on the night of her birthday, Felicity’s curiosity was piqued.

Once all the customers had left and the chairs were flipped up onto polished dining tables, Clement invited her back into the kitchen, where he had set up a smaller table with wine and two big servings of strawberry shortcake. Felicity approached the table, smiled wide, and thanked Clement for the gesture. After a long day on her feet, a relaxing evening with dessert and wine was just what the birthday girl needed.

As they sat, Felicity happily partook in the cake while Clement twirled his fork with a pensive expression. It was not until Felicity asked him what was on his mind that he spoke up.

“Felicity, do you want to go to Paris?”

Felicity scrunched her nose at him as she smiled. “Of course I do! What girl doesn’t want to go to Paris?”

Clement laughed, “That was not rhetorical, dear, it was a real question.”

At first, all Felicity could do was blink at him, unsure if she understood what he was saying. The question was so out of the blue that she had not considered it with any weight. Thus, she had to wait for him to venture further into the conversation so that she could organize her feelings.

“You are passionate about food, yes? Well there’s no better place than Paris to embrace that.” Clement spoke with such certainty that it was clear he had thought long and hard about his words. “I want you to experience that while you are still young, but it is entirely up to you.”

Again, Felicity just blinked at him. However, this time, her head was rushing with thoughts. While the man who sat across from her had become her mentor and dear companion, he was still Clement Delcroix, world-renowned chef who found his start in the heart of Paris. His presence in such a small, quiet town was out of the ordinary. He could have easily remained in France, charging twice as much money for half as much food. But the quaint life coaxed him to stay in Echo Village, only returning to his home country a few times out of the year to visit family.

What were the odds that he would end up sitting at a table with a gawking college drop-out, whose link to the incredible chef was a passion project in the form of an online blog? Clement selected her as his second-in-command strictly based on her passion for good food. He had not even known her name at the time of their first meeting, addressing his initial correspondence to “Ella Versailles.” And yet, somehow, this was where they ended up. Some higher power had thought Felicity worthy of this incredible gift.

With her heart racing, Felicity asked, “You want to send me to Paris?”

“Not permanently, dear.” Clement shook his head. “I would never want to dismiss the best waitress I have ever had, but I think now is the perfect time for you to take a trip and explore more of the culinary world.”

“How long, then?” Felicity’s hands were trembling under the weight of this prospective journey.

“Well, let me begin by saying I have more than one reason for wanting to send you there.” Clement stifled a laugh that did not erase the sincerity in his eyes. “My sister had a baby some months ago, and because that emmerdeur she married travels for work, she has been very stressed. She wants to get back to work, but cannot because of the baby.”

For the first time since the beginning of their conversation, Felicity smiled, and she did so with a raised brow. “You’re hiring me out as an au pair?”

Clement laughed again. “I suppose that is one way to say it. My sister does not need full time care for the baby, just someone to look after her when she wants to get work done.”

“Where does she work?”

“Oh, on her farm.” Clement gave her a big smile. “She inherited the family home in Villiers-le-Bâcle, which is on a beautiful piece of farmland. Right now, she just keeps goats and chickens, but I know she wants to start her garden before the summer months. Having an extra pair of hands around the house would do wonders for her sanity. And you would be paid for your time, of course.”

Felicity nodded as Clement continued.

“The family home is gorgeous and the commune is a lovely place, but on your days off, you could explore the city. Oh, ma cherie, it is a sight to behold. No city on this earth compares.”

In the grandeur of Clement’s words, Felicity found her excitement. The man who had already given her more than any one person deserved was offering her the chance to fulfill a lifelong dream. With Clement’s blessing, she could immerse herself in a culture that she had only ever admired from afar. The obligations paled in comparison to the opportunities that awaited her in a food lover’s paradise.

Her passionate “yes!!” should have come without reservation, but she was hindered by the questions that spilled from her lips.

She asked, “What will happen here?”

Clement answered, “I will hire a new waitress for the time being, but your position will be waiting for you when you return.”

She asked, “How long will I be gone?”

Clement answered, “Annie and I thought that six months would be a good length of time, but you certainly can stay longer or come home sooner if you so choose.”

She asked, “Will it be a problem that I don’t speak French?”

Clement answered, “Not at all, dear. Most of the restaurateurs are well prepared for tourists. But if you would like, I could teach you some basic phrases before you leave.”

She asked, “Do you think I’d be good at taking care of a baby?”

Clement answered, “It will take some getting used to, but you are a quick learner. I would not have brought up this possibility if I did not have complete faith in you.”

I have complete faith in you.

It was that string of words that finally pushed Felicity to give him a certain and enthusiastic “yes.”

Clement had offered to throw her a going away party, but Felicity preferred to keep her “goodbye’s” low-key and intimate. In her mind, it would help with the inevitable home-sickness. If her last moments with her friends were calm and fulfilling, she could look back to them with ease.

Besides, she did not want her last in-person words with her friends to be muddled by wine. The tears would be hard enough to power through without the hindrance of alcohol.

It was no secret that she was going to miss her home and all of the things that had become her “normal” over the course of three years. She would miss baking cookies with Tina just as much as she would miss prying her heels off of her swollen feet at the end of a particularly arduous shift. She would miss Niko’s stories and fresh tomatoes from Rachel and waving wildly across the town square every time that she saw Rod. Paris was going to have food and fun and mystery, but it would never be Echo Village, this much she knew for certain.

So she hugged all of her friends tight, promising to return with gifts and stories in due time. They all expressed their excitement alongside their sadness for her forthcoming and extended absence. Felicity tried to battle her tears by reminding herself that this was temporary, and that she would come back to the same town and all the same people.

Clement escorted her to the airport, quizzing her on French phrases in between sentiments of love. He told her that he was proud of her for taking this leap and that his family would be indebted to her for her gracious help.

At the airport, Clement gave her one final hug.

“I’m just one call away if you need me, dear.”

“I know. Thank you.” She tightened her grasp around his shoulders and smiled. “Je t'adore.”

Her final goodbye was accented with tears, which fell even as she and Clement went their separate ways. This distance was not permanent, but that did not make the sadness any less real.

And yet, as the plane lifted off the ground and into the future, Felicity considered herself lucky that she had a home that she could miss so dearly.

Felicity could have picked out Annie in a crowd of thousands as Clement’s sister. She was similar to him in every way that a brother and sister could be similar, from physical appearance to mannerisms (though she was about a foot shorter and Felicity needed to crane her neck down to look at her). Her accent was on the thicker side, but that did not stop her from showering Felicity in words of adoration once they were both in the family home.

“Goodness! What a beauty!” She had reached up to pinch one of Felicity’s cheeks. “Are you sure you should be a waitress? You look like you could be a model!”

Felicity blushed as she waved a hand across her cheeks. “I’m very happy as a waitress.”

“Still, Clement has you hidden away in that tiny town. Such a shame. You will certainly turn heads here.”

And as Annie went to go prepare a pot of tea, Felicity sat nervously on the edge of a kitchen chair. Were she not frazzled after the long flight, she would have engaged Annie in a joyful conversation or offered to help with the tea. But this was uncharted territory for her. She was out of her element in an unfamiliar house, a stone’s throw away from a city that had fifty five thousand times the people than her home that was miles and miles and miles away.

Her face drained itself of color, and Annie noticed this as she placed two teacups with steaming water on the table.

“Are you okay?”

Felicity cleared her throat before she replied, “Yes. Sorry... I’m just nervous.”

Annie hummed quietly as she took the seat across from Felicity. “There is no need to be nervous- you will fit in well here. Clement says that you are a very determined young woman.”

As she wrapped her shaking hands around the teacup, Felicity smiled. “Did he now?”

Annie nodded in confirmation, but then expressed her desire to know more about her new household help. She asked questions about Felicity’s hobbies and interests and favorite foods (although she never touched the subject of family, which Felicity figured was Clement’s doing). It was an easy conversation, but it eventually turned to a place that made Felicity anxious again.

“Do you have a boyfriend back home?” Annie asked with a coy smile.

Felicity instinctively bit down on her lower lip, though she had no clue why the question incited such an immediate reaction. Her stomach felt like a pit as she choked out a, “No, ma’am. No boyfriend.”

“Aw, such a shame.” Annie offered Felicity an exaggerated pout. “A pretty girl like you should have a gentleman at home waiting for her.”

Felicity could feel the red threatening to take over her whole complexion, so she waved a hand with more fervor than intended. “Well the dating scene isn’t so active in our little village.”

“I suppose…” Annie looked down into her teacup. “You know, after all this time, Clement still brushes me off every time I ask him about marriage. He always talked about having a family, but at this point, he’s going to need to accept being a… er… beau-père.” She paused. “You know! He could marry a woman with a child.”

Felicity laughed and used the mention of children to ask about Annie’s baby, who had been in the next room over, fast asleep in a bassinet. This allowed Annie to segue the conversation into her own home life. She recounted her daily routines, some of which would become Felicity’s obligation in her new role. None of it seemed particularly daunting; besides changing diapers and feeding, it was all things that Felicity had done before. By and large, Annie was just in need of an extra pair of hands. Now, Felicity was not Clement’s personal assistant, but she was no stranger to the more menial tasks that could be pawned off to someone in her position.

So that’s just what she did. After a few quick lessons, she began settling into her new role. It was difficult at first- the only baby who she had ever been around for more than five minutes was her sister’s daughter. But Clementine (who was named for her Uncle Clement, who was named for his mother Clemence) loved her naps, which gave Felicity ample time in the beginning to update her loyal following on her new whereabouts.

Hello all!

I have some very exciting news and I just could not wait to share it with you guys!!

As some of you may know, I recently celebrated my 24th birthday. Much to my surprise, my dear friend has sent me to Paris! I will be staying here for the next six months and I am so excited to explore the city, see the sights, and (most importantly) eat so! much! food!!

I know that this is not what many of you follow me for, but I hope you’ll stay with me through this journey. I’m going to be stepping outside of my comfort zone and trying things that I have never tried before. If you are more interested in my local reviews, they will be back soon! As much as I’m looking forward to my time in Paris, I’m still eager to return home at the end of all of this.

As always, thank you for supporting what I do. I am so excited to share my Parisian journey with all of you.

Until next time!

À bientôt!

Ella Versailles

And exactly one week from that update, Felicity took her first short journey into the grandeur of Paris. She had to constantly remind herself to take things slow. After all, she had six months to see all of the things that she wanted to see. Even still, it was difficult not to run around the city like a kid in a candy store, eyes bright with wonder. She was in a sea of tourists, awe-struck, giddy, and overwhelmed.

Then came the food, from the breakfast nooks and teeny cafes to the street food carts and high end venues, the ones that presented her with some of the most intricate dishes she had ever seen. At first, it was difficult for her to not feel self-conscious in such establishments, especially considering the fact that she was eating alone. But when she looked around, she saw swaths of people who were so absorbed in their own lives and partners. No one would look twice at her, so long as she was quiet and following the dress code.

On occasion, Felicity would look up from her plate at the empty chair across from her and wish that she had a dining companion. Someone who could agonize over what to order… someone whose wine glass she could clink against her own. Making friends in a foreign country was proving to be a difficult task, especially considering the common language barrier. Annie was great company, but stayed firmly on her farm. And while Felicity kept in contact with her friends back home, it did not entirely make up for their lack of physical presence.

Her homesickness came to her in many different ways. It hit her when she read the morning newspaper and when she stopped to pet a particularly excitable dog on the street. Clement promised her that Echo Village would not be changing anytime soon, and that she would come back to something so familiar in due time. That was the saving grace that propelled Felicity through her difficult times…

… until a single email, three months into her journey, threw a wrench in her gears.

It came to her one evening as she was rolling her hair into curlers. She was used to the constant notifications from her phone, whether they were texts from Tina or notes from her publisher. However, this one was from an unfamiliar address, so Felicity opened it up with an edge of anxiety, a feeling that only increased as she read.

Hello Ms Versailles,

I hope that this finds you well and that you are enjoying your time in Paris.

I am contacting you on behalf of Ambulant Fille, a brand new travelling resource for women who are seeking unique travelling experiences that they cannot get anywhere else. Our team has been following your journey with Curls and Croissants and we absolutely love how passionate you are about good food! Because of this, we wanted to reach out to you to discuss a possible career opportunity with our company.

As soon as she finished reading through that first paragraph, Felicity felt like she could not breathe. The email went on for several more paragraphs. It outlined the structure, mission statement, and ultimate goals of the company. They exclusively hired women in hopes that it was the best way to reach and connect with their target audience. Then, they detailed just why they wanted “Ella” on their team. Just as Clement had done countless times, they applauded her passion. Their top criteria for their prospective “culinary correspondent” was just to simply love food. They wanted to trust this person and their opinions, as those would be broadcast to women across the world who were looking for the best Parisian experience as possible.

They concluded the email by essentially saying that the position was Felicity’s to lose, and that they were eagerly looking forward to her response.

Less than ten seconds after she read the final line, Felicity was on the phone with Clement. She frantically summarized the email to him, nearly forgetting to breathe between each sentence. She could hardly believe the words that were spilling out of her lips. It was surreal. It was strange. It did not make sense!!

Once Clement had the opportunity, he spoke to Felicity with a smile that she could hear. “That’s wonderful, dear! You have certainly earned this.”

“Well should I take it?” Felicity had to resist the urge to bite her nails down to stubs.

“Do you want to take it?”

“I don’t know!!” Felicity spoke into her fist. “I-I… haven’t thought about it yet.”

“Well,” Clement replied, “I suggest that you meet with them. Learn about the company. Ask a lot of questions. This is a big decision, so you should feel confident about your answer, one way or another.”

Felicity paused and pursed her lips. She had to give herself some time to process this new information, or else she would drive herself mad. The email did not give her the whole story, and she would benefit from an open conversation with the people who could quite possibly change her life. And as much as this prospect shook her to her core, she owed it to herself to give it a shot.

So Felicity wished Clement good night and took a sleeping pill, figuring that it was the only way that she would find any semblance of rest. And when she woke, she graciously replied to the email, stating that she would be more than happy to meet with the company.

They settled on a time the following week to meet at one of the cafe’s that “Ella” had given a raving review. There, Felicity sat across from two older women, both of whom spoke to her with reverence. This was not an interview, it was a job offer accented with fancy tea and pastries.

When they told Felicity that the job would require her to live in Paris, she had prematurely made up her mind to tell them “no.” There was no way that she could cast aside her roots in Echo Village just like that. She was not willing to leave Clement and Tina and Rod and so many others behind for a fancy new job… even if it had been her dream job for so many years.

Felicity could barely stomach her tea as she listened to the rest of their pitch, nervous about having to reject such an incredible offer.

However, her mood completely shifted when one of the women described what the position would ask of her.

“We would request that you live here for, say, four to six months. During that time, you will produce three to five reviews per week.”

The other woman continued, “We are looking to create a backlog of content that we will publish over time. Right now, our goal is to publish once per week. You would be responsible for two reviews for each issue, one for a high-end establishment and one that is more casual. There are over forty-four thousand restaurants here in the city, so you will never run out of places to try. And all of the food will be compensated, of course.”

Felicity’s jaw dropped. They went on to list other benefits and her stipend and all the while, she just stared. This did not feel real. How could this fortune have possibly fallen into her lap just like that? This was the sort of work that her colleagues and connections would dream about night after night. And there Felicity was, getting handed this opportunity on a silver platter.

Did she deserve it? Did it matter whether or not she deserved it? No. No it did not. All that mattered was Felicity’s answer, which she gave with a wide, excited smile.

“I would love to work with you!”

Felicity fulfilled her initial obligation and stayed three more months on Annie’s farm. And even as time ticked on, the turn of this journey did not feel real. It was nerve-wracking, having such a huge thing waiting for her on the other end of her first six months in Paris. She agonized over the quality of her writing and the impact of her words. Her reviews would be read by thousands of women, and Felicity felt wholly responsible for their culinary experience.

This was the first hurdle that she had to jump over in her new position. Every time that she sent a piece out for publishing, she wanted to beg for it back, just so that she could read it another five thousand times and make sure that it was as perfect as she could humanly manage. But this work that she was doing was so different than anything that she had ever experienced. Back home, her work was laidback and intimate. For the most part, she did everything on her own schedule and paid for her own meals. Curls and Croissants had never been particularly lucrative, and she was content with that. After all, she loved to write. The passion that she had for food also found its way onto her keyboard and motivated her to put out her best work.

It took three months for that passion to all but evaporate from Felicity’s life.

Writing on a schedule was stressful in a completely unique way. It was like she had an ever-present weight on her shoulders that would nag at her every single moment that she was away from her laptop.

Why aren’t you writing, Felicity? If you wait much longer, you’ll have to rush to meet the deadline. Then, your quality will drop and they won’t want you anymore.

Felicity didn’t want all of this time and effort to be in vain. She could not imagine the shame that would consume her if she were to give up halfway through. The last thing that she wanted to do was let anyone down, least of all Clement, who had put so much faith in her already. She had to see this through until the very end, no matter how bogged down or discouraged she got.

The following three months dragged on and on and on. Felicity spent so many stressful minutes staring blankly out of her tiny apartment window, missing the festivals and community and restful ways of Echo. Her contact with anyone other than Clement dropped off severely. If she was chatting on the phone, then she was not working, and if she was not working, she did not deserve to be there. All she could do was cross off the passing days on her calendar and beg the universe to hurry the hell up!!!

April approached slowly but surely. In the end, Felicity had produced over 120 reviews for the travelling company, keeping them stocked for quite some time. That was what gave Felicity peace as she all but sprinted out of her final meeting. Her luggage was already packed and her ride was already arranged. The sooner she got home, the better. She could hardly bear the sight of the Eiffel Tower anymore. By now, 364 days later, it was just an eyesore that reminded her of how far away from home she was.

But with every minute that passed on the plane ride, she felt her spirit lift. She was going home.

Felicity took the train in from the city to Echo- it was eight in the morning when she landed and she did not want to take Clement away from his meticulous daily preparations for too long.

She did not exactly look like the picture of grace. Her hair was wrangled into a bun, with her dark brown roots making an appearance (bleaching and dyeing her hair did not fit the criteria of a “necessary task”). Her sweater and leggings were wrinkled from her long journey, but she could not be bothered to change them. She was so, so tired. As soon as her feet hit the ground, all she wanted to do was sit with Clement and drink fifty cups of coffee.

Over the previous year, Felicity had forgotten what Echo smelled like in the spring. From her first steps in the town, she was embraced with a mixture of cut grass, newly blossomed marguerites, and freshly baked bread. Felicity made a beeline for the source of that last scent, her luggage bouncing behind her on the dirt roads.

She threw open the door to Chez Clement and shouted, “Bonjour!!!”

There was a clamoring from back in the kitchen before Clement rushed out to greet Felicity, immediately smothering her in a hug.

“Oh, thank heavens!! My angel is back!!” He planted a kiss on her cheek before holding her at arm’s length. “I’ve missed you so much!”

Felicity laughed away the tears that threatened to spill. “Is that so?”

“These other girls… they have no fire.” Clement shook his head with a frown. “Everyone has missed your passion. They will be thrilled to see you back.”

Felicity took a long breath and smiled at her boss. This one expression of gratitude did not completely fix her beaten down spirit, but it certainly felt good to hear those words.

Still, she had to take a step back and address him honestly.

“Is it alright if I wait a day or two? At least until I’m all settled back in?”

“Oh, of course, of course!” Clement nodded and then gestured for her to sit at one of the nearby tables. “Let me get you coffee.”

As she sat down with a huff, she thanked Clement. He read her mind (and would likely return with some form of pastry as well) and put her in the right mindset to face the rest of her day. She had given a heads up to her friends that today was the day that she was returning (Tina was given a more detailed heads up, as Felicity was going to be living with her for the time being after giving up her room at the inn), but she did not know best how to approach seeing all of them.

So Felicity took another deep breath and looked out the window. Something was stirring in her heart… something that she could not name. Was it nerves? Was it excitement?

…

Well, whatever it was, she hoped that it would fade and that she could return to the life that she had missed so dearly. That was all that she wanted.

#whew

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spirkpride · 6 years

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My Fave Spirk Fics

(!) = Smut

(*) = I love this fic and have gone back to re-read multiple times

(-) = Short fic

(|) = Long Fic

Listening Skills by Aelimir (-)

K/S. Spock has concluded that the Captain doesn't listen to him. Uhura, as the communications officer, disagrees. What is the real problem? AU set before "Into Darkness." Rating changed due to reviewer suggestion. :)

Thy Soul, Alight In The Dark by Aerlalaith (|)

When disgraced former Starfleet captain and current salvage runner James T. Kirk stumbles upon what appears to be an abandoned Vulcan research vessel on the edge of Federation Space, he thinks he’s finally found some luck. The state of the ship and the fate of her original crew however, turn what was supposed to have been a standard day’s work into something quite a bit stranger. As Kirk and his crew debate if they can—or should—wake a sleeping survivor, it soon becomes clear that the nightmare is just beginning.

In Another World by ashayamspirk (!)

Starfleet believed Jim Kirk was destined for command. Jim Kirk would prefer to leave his father's long Starfleet reputation behind him and dedicate himself to xeno-botany. Offered a position to work on hybrid plants on Vulcan, Jim is put into contact with a tutor, the blind xenolinguistics professor, Spock. It's only after meeting him that Jim realizes how he and Spock are connected, and why the Vulcan hates him so much.But then fate has other ideas, and long after Jim leaves earth for Vulcan, they're thrown into each other's paths once again.

Designated by ashayamspirk (!)

“I would like you to read over the contract and consider what you are agreeing to before you sign,” Spock says, and reaches for the PADD on the table.And because Jim is an absolute dipshit who thinks nothing through ever at all, he just shrugs and uses his fingers to scroll to the bottom, signs, and hits send. Amok Time AU

Vulcan Keeping and Other Problems by t_3po (*)

Where's the manual for raising nerdy young Vulcans chasing after local bad boys when you actually need it?

I Will Have This by ashayamspirk (!) (series has been discontinued, consider the first story in the series a one shot)

Just as she finished adding a small box of sweets to her items, she felt a tug on the sleeve of her robe. Turning, she had a smile prepared, and a praise on the tip of her tongue for whatever item her son had chosen. That turned into a sharp gasp when she realized that carefully ensconced in her son’s arms was not any item for sale in the shop, but a very human baby. “Mother, I will have this.”

Something Smart To To by kianspo (|) (!)

In which Jim finds himself fake-married to his first officer every other month. It's not his fault. Mostly. Dowries and Klingons are involved. Starfleet is decidedly not amused.

When You’re Making Other Plans by lah_mrh

Jim always thought the absence of a soulmark on his arm meant he didn't have a soulmate. When he and Spock team up to take down Nero, he discovers how wrong he was.

Somewhere to Begin by jouissant (|)

Everything's fine between Jim and Spock at the end of the first five year mission, or so Jim thinks. But then Spock up and leaves San Francisco without so much as a goodbye, and Jim's suddenly faced with the prospect of life without his first officer...unless he can go to New York and win Spock back.

Of Spocks and Socks by gentleau (-) (*)

The giving of gifts is a most illogical practice, Spock doesn’t know how to be in a human relationship, and no one ever talks to Jim about anything.

My Soul, Reflected, or Mirror Kirk Sucks at Wooing by Nicnac (-) (*)

Five times Kirk tried to win his soulmate over, and one time Spock succeeded without really trying.

Star Trek: T-Shirts, Jackets, and Kisses by IBegToDreamAndDiffer

Or, how Jim outed them to the crew, how Spock outed them to the Academy, and how they outed themselves to Earth at large.

Everything’s Alright by VicBaylies (-) (!)

Set sometime after Amok Time. Spock suffers a relapse of Pon Farr, and Kirk is there to help him out. Somewhat established relationship

Spaceships, Private Jets, and Minivans: How to Start a Global Incident in 5 Minutes Flat by Scientia_Fantasia (|)

One early summer morning in Riverside, Iowa, a spacecraft crash lands into the backyard of a highschooler by the name of James T. Kirk.Earth history is changed forever.

To Catch A Fish by Darksknight (!) (*)

Spock’s realized that while he treasures his deep friendship with Jim, he’s come to desire more. He sets out to tell Jim of his feelings, but finds the task... considerably more difficult than he'd first imagined it to be.

Plucked by cembular (!)

Spock loses his virginity to his captain and boyfriend. PWP

This is Bumbles by PurpleFluffyCat (!) (-) (*)

This porny, fluffy, slightly-cracky(!) fic was written for a Star Trek kink meme. The prompt suggested subverting the usual trope of Vulcans in pon farr as aggressive and uber-dominant, and read as follows:"Spock's in pon farr. Jim finds out and offers to help him out! Instead of being aggressive in pon farr, Spock is super loving, emotional and sweet. Bonus if it takes Jim off guard!"

In Any Language by Enterprisingly (!) (-)

A love story in 10 parts. Based on a tumblr post about relationship words that do not translate to English.

Aubade by jouissant (-) (*)

In which a child is born, and nobody is ever going to sleep ever again.

Sudden Insight by falsepremise (!) (|)

Jim experiences a sudden insight- he is in love with Spock. Fortunately, Spock Prime foresaw this eventuality and has ensured that Jim will have access to the knowledge that he needs to seduce his t'hy'la.

Another Way Jim and Spock Could Meet as Kids by Seasnake (-)

Your heart’s sudden but inevitable betrayal by WhatIfImaMermaid (-)

Every once in while, when he’s feeling the perfect combination of nostalgic and impish, he asks Spock about that night. Most times Spock just smiles that non-smile of his into the curve of Jim's neck, and says nothing.

Or:

They first meet in a bar. In San Francisco. After one of Jim’s epic brawls.

Blue Fields by WerewolvesAreReal (|) (*)

In his thirteenth year James Kirk ends up on Tarsus IV with his aunt and uncle. During the famine he takes refuge with a six year-old named Kevin Riley and a young half-Vulcan.

Missing Pieces by IchabodNasty (Effulgent) (*)

Spock is very young when he loses his leg, he feels like he is incomplete until he meets one James T. Kirk.

The Stars Seem Familiar by lallyloo (-) (*)

After a transporter incident, de-aged Spock Prime is left in the care of Jim Kirk. Nu Spock becomes illogically jealous of Spock Prime. De-aged fluff fic.

Bragging Rights by Ragdoll (Keshka) (!) (*) (|)

AU. Two and a half years into his time at Starfleet Academy, Cadet Jim Kirk meets Lieutenant-Commander Spock, and the sparks begin to fly.

Dynamic by coffee666

Jim is tired of the crew assuming he and Spock don't work well together just because they happen to disagree a lot. To prove them wrong, Jim convinces Spock they should start dating.

Playing up their romantic relationship in front of the crew for spite should be fun. The hard part is that they're both secretly crushing on each other.

Ardor by ThereBeWhalesHere (!)

AU where everything is the same, but when Vulcans find their soulmate they sense it through their pheromones. These pheromones are, well, incredibly insistent. Spock's pretty sure he's immune to them until he meets one James T. Kirk. Really this is just an excuse to write sexually-frustrated!Spock who's pretty much DTF from the get-go.

cast out fear by s0mmerspr0ssen (|) (*)

Kirk saves Vulcan from Nero at high cost to himself. It falls to Spock to pick up the pieces.

A Theoretical Novelty by FallacyFallacy (!) (|)

So, it turned out that Jim's skill at chess was the hottest thing Spock had ever experienced. He only wished he hadn't found that out in the middle of the rec room. Repeatedly. Written for Kink_Bingo for 'Humiliation (In Public)'.

Some Cupid by summerofspock (-) (!)

Tired of their childish fighting, McCoy sets out to set up Jim and Spock. Antics ensue. (i.e. that time i wrote Much Ado About Nothing using Kirk and Spock)

Devil’s Bargain by Rhaegal (RhaegalKS) (!)

Set after TMP. Spock’s impending pon farr makes him wary of agreeing to a second five-year mission, so Kirk agrees to lend a hand (so to speak) should the situation arise. What could possibly go wrong?

Written for the KiScon 2012 zine. Beta-read by jaylee_g with additional editing by arminaa.

That One Time When Jim and Spock Met Their Daughter From the Future by pristineungift

You know your day is going to be weird when some kid you’ve never seen before calls you ‘Papa.’

The level of human emotional and physical sexual satisfaction as determined by one’s partner; an examination of the accuracy of the tiered interpretation as applied to male, homosexual couples by Aerlalaith (-)

Or, in which Kirk and Spock have sex for science.

Searching for Everything by notboldly (!)

Spock never expected his youthful indiscretions to affect his future. Fortunately, Jim is too stubborn to let that happen.

Santa, Baby by rabidchild67

Spock is a department store Santa. Hilarity ensues.

Reasons We Should Date: A Logical Approach by iknewaman (*) (-)

Jim really wants to get across to Spock how well they are together, but he's not sure how to go about it.

Eventually he decides fuck it, the simplest way to get Spock to understand is to walk him through it, and he does so using the wonderful medium of digital presentations.

What We Don't Say (or The Epic Wedding of Jim and Spock) museaway (-)

The first time Jim proposes, they’re naked.

Bang a Gong by waketosleep (|) (!) (*)

The chronicles of the Sad Bastards Club (Enterprise Chapter).

It was just the two of us by sinking_m (-)

Again, everyone knows except for Jim

Measure of Happiness by writeonclara (|)

When Spock chose Starfleet over the Vulcan Science Academy, he had not anticipated cohabiting with the most illogical, irrational, emotional human he ever met.

On the flip side, Jim never asked for a Vulcan chaperone, especially one as snotty as Spock, son of Sarek.

A Starfleet Academy AU in which Spock adapts to human life, Jim learns very, very quickly never to play a prank on a Vulcan, and there are far too many people after Jim Kirk's life.

No-Win Scenario by CateAdams (!)

A split-second decision changes Jim’s life forever, as a desperate bid for survival results in a bond with Spock. As Jim tries to understand their new connection, he must contend with his own inner struggles. Surprising new enemies are revealed and unexpected threats emerge, and Jim must come to terms with the true significance of their bond before it is too late.

Through Chekov's Eyes by littlebirdtold (!)

In which Mr. Spock hates Chekov and terrorizes the crew, Captain Kirk has the best poker face on the ship, Chekov never means to eavesdrop, Uhura gets some curves, Kirk gets cock-blocked, Spock gets off, McCoy pulls rank, Spock pulls Kirk's pigtails, and love sucks.

Friends With Benefits For Idiots by yaoichan12 (|) (!)

Spock loves Jim but won't tell him. Jim loves Spock but won't tell him. They get to talking about friends with benefits and end up agreeing to start that type of relationship. Both think that's all they'll ever get to have with one another, so they keep their mouth shut about their feelings and just have sex.

Chess, and other Aphrodisiacs by obsidienne (!) (*) (|)

When Jim is brought up on charges of academic dishonesty, he decides to find out who his accuser is.

As You Wish by writeonclara (|) (*)

It's probably a phenomenally bad idea to let someone named Lucifer grant you seven wishes, but, well, why the hell not? Maybe then Jim can finally have that perfect command team from the other universe he so desperately wants.

Then again, wishing that Spock would loosen up a bit shouldn't land him in pre-Reform Vulcan.

Maybe he'll get it right next time.

Sure Thing by FagurFiskur (!) (-) (*)

Based on this prompt:

Because of his reputation (which initally came from nowhere) men have always assumed Kirk is a sure thing and have never tried to seduced Kirk... just used the old wham, bam thank you ma'am (or sir in this case)and have rarely bothed about his pleasure. (...)

(...)So suddenly Kirk finds himself being courted by Spock... at first Kirk thinks it is Spock trying to mess with his mind because Spock is still pissed about the 'cheating' incident but is soon disabused of that notion and he finds himself in his first loving, committed relationship in his life.

Echolocation by Darksknight (-)

Kirk and Spock don’t realize that they’ve bonded right away. The rest of the crew is a different story.

Eavesdropping by coffee666 (-) (!) (*)

Jim knows for a fact that Spock and Uhura and talking about him when they start whispering in Vulcan. He has no idea what they're saying, until he takes it upon himself to learn the language.

___

Spock gushes about his crush on Jim, having no idea that Jim can understand him

Subtext by noodleinabarrel (*)

Texting your Vulcan first officer in the middle of the night is never a good idea. Especially when you have an obsessive crush on said Vulcan.

The holidays are approaching and Jim is left entirely Spockless aboard the Enterprise when his First takes shore leave on New Vulcan. After some midnight pining, Jim sends a text he instantly regrets. That is, until Spock responds and willingly continues their textual communications to an inevitable conclusion.

Pyromania by sinestrated (-) (!)

Jim has been burning bridges since childhood. The Enterprise and Spock eventually change that.

Limits of Interpretation, or: So You Want to Date a Vulcan by druxykexy (*)

Kirk learns that, when it comes to the cultural habits of Vulcans, it's not a good idea to trust other people's research. Spock gets to see a different side of his captain (that may or may not exist). There's a reboot of the TOS episode "Shore Leave" somewhere in the middle of all this.

Note: The McCoy/Barrows relationship is fairly background, and is included due to its presence in the episode.

Armchair Psychology bigmamag (-)

McCoy forces Kirk and Spock to write an ongoing list of things they like about each other. Kirk doesn’t know if he’ll be able to make his weekly quota. At least, not at first.

Blind Date by Aelimir (-) (*)

McCoy convinces Jim to go on a blind date. Only, things don't go as planned.

Abrams-style, except for that fact that George lived.

Perception by Aelimir (-)

Everything happened like it did in 2009, except the Narada never attacked Vulcan. After several missions, Pike retires and Jim is appointed in his place. The downside? He's required to have Spock, that bastard who tried to get him kicked out of Starfleet, as his First Officer.

Jim soon learns that perception is everything, and not all is as it seems.

So Wise We Grow by Deastar (|) (*)

"Commander Spock, we have located your son," the Vulcan lady on the screen says, which would be great, except Jim can tell by the look on Spock's face that he's never heard of this kid before in his life. "If it is expedient, the child will be sent to join you on the Enterprise within the week."

Looking to the Stars (Like They've Got All the Answers) by shards_of_divinity (!) (|)

Jim and Spock's relationship is on the edge of something deeper than friendship. When their kidnapper's ship crashes to an uncharted and uninhabited planet, Jim and Spock have to fight to stay alive, and the strength of their uncertain relationship is tested when Spock enters Pon Farr...

we have not touched the stars by prouvairing (-) (*)

Sometimes they’ll also ask him why he hasn’t gone out and chased his soulbond yet.

Jim will point to the sky, and say, “The moon’s always there, babe. Don’t need to go chasin’ after her.”

It is January, year 2063. Humanity has quietly achieved interstellar travel, and Jim Kirk’s soulbond stretches into the stars.

These things tend to get messy by WhatIfImaMermaid (!) (-)

A lot, Jim tells himself. A lot of heartbreak.

Or:

It begins because aliens make them do it, and then it becomes one of those things.

#star trek #fic rec #spirk #k/s #spirk fanfiction #space husbands #space boyfriends

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kbstories · 5 years

Text

@danudaine commissioned me to write a blind!Arthur AU :3c all aboard the angst train, choo choo!

The Weight Of Us

Tags: Arthur/Charles, Canon Divergence, Angst, Near Death Experiences, Blindness, Aftermath of Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Recovery

Content warning: The thoughts/opinions expressed by Arthur about his (temporary) blindness are quite harsh, and don’t correspond with my own.

Set in Chapter 6-ish. Beware spoilers!

>>Read on AO3!

☕ Ko-fi ☕ (Commissions currently closed)

Once, in one of those quiet, few-and-far-inbetween moments when the fires are burning low and the last of the whiskey is gone, Arthur had wondered what would be the last thing he'd see.

A gun, perhaps, and whoever finally had enough of him pulling the trigger?

It's a hard concept to grasp, with a future as uncertain as his and a head full of dreams too precarious to think of too much. Death is coming, as sure as the sun shines and the birds sing – an inevitability written in the margins of his journal, more and more prominent each day.

Then came Blackwater, the Grizzlies, Colm on the plains, Guarma... and Arthur realized death, once it catches up with you, isn't a straight-forward business. It's a messy shot in the head, strong and unrelenting hands around your neck, a run-in with a boar or a sickness settling deep in your lungs, and it doesn't let go until the heart beats its last.

On the day Arthur hears the hiss of a burning fuse, turns to run, too slow, catches sight of a sharp smirk, too late, he thinks death has crossed his path for the final time.

A second, a fraction of a moment– Then Arthur's world lights on fire, the ice in Micah's eyes filling his vision until he knows no more.

Ears ringing, breaths stuttering in used and abused lungs. Arthur comes to utter chaos assaulting his senses and pain, absolute and all-encompassing, licking his skin with flaming tongues and leaving it scorched.

“Arthur!”

Distant, a faint echo of a shout. But Arthur can't respond, can barely find enough air to dispel some of the dizziness swirling within him; he blinks, blinks again, reaches along gravel and splintering wood towards that voice he'd recognize anywhere–

Arthur wheezes out, “Charles”, a weak groan compared to the booming of guns and rifles that doesn't stop, not for him–

Then Charles is there, comes into being by his side with strong hands and gentleness in his voice. “I'm here”, he says, and “Stay down”, and it's not like Arthur has much of a choice with his body heavy as stone, pulling him down and under...

All is dark around him, dark and muted and aching. Arthur drifts, loses track of time – searches for Charles's voice again and finds it, an eagle circling the skies, too far away to be certain.

“Stay with me, Arthur, please–”

There's words on his tongue, words and things he's kept away from Charles: how beautiful he looked, with the morning light gliding over his naked back like liquid gold; how Arthur's fingers had itched to draw him just like that, to trace every line and detail until his profile became as familiar as his voice.

In that void without shape or definition, Arthur thinks of the depths of Charles's eyes, warm and softening with a smile – moisture slides down Arthur's cheeks. I was afraid, he knows now, that you wouldn't love me back.

There's hands cupping his face, the tender touch of a forehead against his. Charles whispers, “I know”, sounding choked. “I love you too, Arthur. Hold on for me?”

Arthur manages a nod, light-headed with it all, and presses a kiss to his palm, the closest part of him he can reach.

“What the hell, Dutch?!”

It isn't the first time Arthur has woken up to those exact words out of John's mouth. Before, it used to be accompanied by Hosea's weary sigh and countered by Dutch's stubborn reassurances: a strategy that carried the four of them year after difficult year, one that worked, back when things were easier.

But Hosea's dead and gone, six feet under for months now, and Dutch... Dutch is Dutch, only what exactly that means, Arthur isn't sure of anymore.

Silence follows, a devastating totality. Sighing, Arthur sits up, ignoring the rustling of movement from across his cot to focus on the warning rumble of “Cool it, Marston” – Bill? – and a scoff that must come from John.

“Oh shut up, Williamson. What, we're all just gonna pretend this ain't happenin'?”

To his credit, John tries to keep it down. That rough-gravel-voice of his begs to be heard, however, much more so now that–

“Arthur's been blinded, for Christ's sake. Can't see a fucking thing and we're letting that rat stay – yeah, 'm talking 'bout you, Micah Bell, keep walkin'!”

A laugh, uniquely mocking. Micah. “Or what, tough guy?”

Arthur's thread of patience has snapped before he can properly get ahold of it. “Gonna start hopin' that explosion took my hearin' too”, he bites out, “if y'all intend t'keep yellin' like that.”

Around him the camp grinds to a standstill. There's no satisfaction to this either; Arthur doesn't need his sight to feel everyone's eyes are on him, a pack of wolves attracted by the wounded yelp of one of their own. And just like wolves they will soon move on and roam the wilds without him.

Ever the obstacle in their way. A small obstacle, to be sure, an ever-shrinking obstacle.

“Well, well–”

“You heard the man, Micah.”

Javier's calm timbre steps over whatever teeth-grinding thing the man wanted to say, the veiled threat behind his words like one of those knives of his, sharp and deadly – and something in Arthur eases, an entirely different set of doubts soothed by having it wielded for and not against him.

Everything's just so... fucked. Sitting there in ever-present darkness, Arthur is suddenly aware of so much of it: John fighting his fights, more than the scrawny spitfire kid Arthur met him as; the days and weeks it's been since he talked to Dutch, properly talked to him like they used to; and now, he can't even get up to take a piss without help.

Arthur wants to rubs at his eyes, those useless things now covered by bandages, itchy against the raw skin underneath. Susan's presence is enough to deter him, uncharacteristically quiet though she's been – the truth is Arthur can't take it, to hear the worried way she calls his name every time he forgets, for a brief moment.

“'s okay to take a break, Miss Grimshaw”, he mumbles then, sensing her close enough to hear. “Ain't gonna get up to nothin', you got my word.”

Her fond chuckle is unexpected, rare as it has become. “Somehow I don't quite believe that, Mr. Morgan”, light and teasing. Then there's a hand on his knee, stopping it from bouncing with tension.

“Besides, it ain't you who's causin' the trouble. Seems like some peace and quiet has become too much to afford 'round here.”

She huffs, dripping with disdain. It pulls a smile out of Arthur – he can picture the exact expression on her face perfectly.

“Guess so.”

Exhaling slowly, he leans back, resting his back against the wood of his wagon. Maybe not everything has changed.

Susan pats his knee and, after a while, the soft click click of her knitting needles can be heard.

Charles returns to Beaver Hollow in a whirlwind of hoofbeats.

Neck white with lather, Taima worries her bit endlessly, the metal working and working in her mouth even after he's dismounted. Charles's heart aches for her; she's always been sensitive to his moods and with the tension of the past few days, she's as restless as he feels.

Charles takes a moment to pat her damp shoulder, to push a few wayward strands of her mane back in place. “I'm sorry, girl”, he mutters quietly, making to take off her bridle. “Rest now, hmm?”

The crunch of gravel sounds behind him. Charles's hand is on his knife without conscious thought, shoulders squared to one rigid line.

Javier stops in his tracks, eyes flitting to the movement before meeting his gaze. “Easy.”

Charles doesn't relax and Javier doesn't seem particularly surprised by it. A hard man to read, him – yet he's open as a book right now, which begs the question why.

A glance to camp, Charles can't help it. Is–

Javier's expression softens. “Arthur's fine.” He sniffs, shakes his head. “As fine as he's gonna get, I suppose. Figured you'd wanna check up on him so I thought...”

A gesture towards Taima, without the usual flourish. Ah.

“Why do you care?”

The question is all hard edges, no minced words. The truth is Charles is tired, tired of watching those Arthur considers family turn their backs on him. It's why he barely leaves his side anymore, why he hurries back when there's no other choice but to.

There's something like remorse on Javier's face but what does it change now?

“I'm not heartless, Charles.”

A quiet admission of guilt, genuine. Charles shakes his head, turns, keeps his fingers gentle as he coaxes the bit out of Taima's mouth. Javier stays, though, and he must know Charles is considering leaving him there, to wait an eternity for that glimpse of redemption they all crave, deep down.

In the end, that haunting moment of what if wins, the incessant gnawing of worry at the back of his mind. The bridle's leather is slippery with sweat but Javier's fingers close around it with certainty.

Charles tells him, “Then act like it”, staring into the almost-black of Javier's gaze for a moment longer before he walks past him.

The walk through camp is a straight line, no distractions, no time to dwell on anything other than Arthur.

Today marks a week since the incident but it seems like eons to Charles, that explosion that changed everything haunting every step he takes. The hours that followed were a chaotic mess of soaked bandages and desperate pleading for Arthur to stay awake, don't leave me – it was when he regained consciousness a day later that the extent of the damage done to him became clear.

And Arthur... accepted it with a small nod of his head, smiled towards where he could hear Jack's upset cries.

Only Charles bore witness to his tears that night. There had been nothing he could've said or done to change any of it so he just held him, repeated the words that might've otherwise been lost to gunfire, and watched Arthur shatter apart in his arms.

None of them had slept much that night. Charles still doesn't, not really, can't escape the memory of Arthur's blood on his hands every time he closes his eyes.

It's that same helplessness that drives John's incessant pacing out of earshot of Arthur's wagon now, all frustrated anger with nowhere to put it; another day of Dutch holed away in his tent, Charles guesses, pausing just long enough to exchange a look with Abigail.

He's sleeping, she mouths and Charles nods, grateful.

The scene he steps into is peaceful: Tilly sits in the spot usually inhabited by Susan Grimshaw, idly flipping through a book, watching over Arthur who is indeed asleep, napping by the looks of it, back propped against his wagon and hat pulled down far enough to keep the light out.

An old habit rendered pointless, and the ache in Charles's chest grows.

“Hey”, he mumbles, smiles a little at the silent wave Tilly gives him. She motions for him to take her seat, collecting her things without a sound; her hand brushes Charles's arm on her way out, squeezing in a gesture of comfort, and that alone calms him more than he wants to admit.

Here, with Arthur safe and resting, Charles finally allows himself to breathe. They needed the supplies, badly – the skirmish that caused it all didn't just take Arthur's sight, but a decent chunk of their ammunition and medicinal inventory, too – and he had believed Arthur on the spot for who's to blame.

For the rest of his days, Charles will never forget the rattling of Arthur's lungs as he tried to draw enough breath to warn them. Needless to say, Micah has avoided the ground Charles walks on like the plague ever since.

Charles shakes his head, shooing away those thoughts that wait for a moment to strike like hungry vultures. There's no point in wasting energy on Micah when Arthur is right there, snoring away under his hat.

There's still room by the foot-end of the cot; it's not the first time Charles squeezes himself into it by Arthur's side, although the circumstances are something else entirely. Arthur's sleepy grumbling when he moves his legs into a more comfortable position is the same, though, and Charles hums, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over his knee.

“Charles...?”

“Yeah. Sleep, Arthur.”

Arthur's hand reaches out and Charles meets him in the middle, interlacing their fingers gently. Arthur asks, “Everything okay?”, worry starting to seep into the cracks of his sleep-roughened voice.

Always concerned for everyone but himself. Charles bends down to kiss his knuckles, letting him feel the smile on his lips. “Just missed you”, he tells him quietly, about to return the same question when he notices the slack-jawed surprise on Arthur's face.

“Arthur?”

A moment later and Arthur is clawing at the bandages over his eyes, knocking his hat down in the process. By the time Charles finally reacts, shielding the tender-red skin of Arthur's temples from his nails, they're dangling around his neck like a broken halo, tattered–

Heart thundering in his throat, Charles demands, “Talk to me”, trying to catch Arthur's eyes out of habit–

Eyes that flicker left to right and back again, widening gradually.

“Can you–?”

“Fuck, Charles”, Arthur laughs until he's wheezing, a few tears slipping out the corner of his eyes, “you're a damn sight for sore–”

“Don't you dare finish that sentence”, Charles growls and hugs him, the weight of the world lifted off his shoulders.

>>Read on AO3!

#red dead redemption #RDR2 #arthur morgan #charles smith #charthur #RDR fanfiction #oh jeez it's been a hot minute since arthur almost died in one of my fics #anyways enjoy the suffering(tm)#reblogs much appreciated <3 #my stuff #fanfiction #commission #RDR

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dratin-dragonadetinta96 · 6 years

Text

The war is our present (but I hope peace will be our future) - Chapter 2.

Pairing: MC x Penny Haywood. (more pairings will be added)

Words: 5865.

Chapters: Previous

Summary: 1997 and 1998, a convulsive years in the wizarding world… and for our gang. Follow the gang when they have to face the worst years and most difficult decisions in their lifes. The love, the friendships, the families, the loyalty, the belief… All will be tested.

Warnings: Metions of characther death.

Notes: Hi, people. You will realise that the narrator are going to change. Basically, all characters will have their own chapters, where they will explain their different points of view.

Basically the wedding will have 4 chapters, since its a very important event in the war (the beginning). Anothers events, like the hogwarts’s battle, will also have chapters with different points of view chapters. Besides, this fanfic will follow the canon.

If anyone wants to ask me about the character and their fate before the war (not after the war) because you are curious, you can! :D Im always happy to speak about this.

And thanks to my two incredibles betas @hey-jacob-its-me and @halfyishere for helping me (and my english that seems a roller coaster) so much. You’re the best! :D <3

SPOILERS: After the last event in the game, I will take “imperiused Ben theory” route.

Rowan

You are sitting outside the tent, away from the happy crowd that still dances, sings and drinks, with a half-empty butterbeer in your hand. You take one more sip. Maybe you should have chosen an alcoholic beverage, but you had never been a fan of those kinds of drinks.

Your crush on Bill was known by all your friends (except Bill, luckily). All, who cheered you up while you got over your crush. Nevertheless, it still hurt you in spite of the knowledge that you had never stood a chance, save for being his friend.

It's not as if you ever tried anything, you just gave up without a struggle. And now, that anything between the two of you is impossible, you regret not acting.

You can not stop wondering what would have happened if you had done something to show him your interest. Would you have changed the present? Or would destiny be imperturbable, regardless of your efforts to make the difference?

You feel torn between talking with someone about your feelings or staying here alone, lost in your thoughts. You do not want to spoil the party to anyone else.

You hear steps approaching you.

"Is this seat taken?" You gaze away from your bottle. The intruder is Tulip, who carries a tray full with bottles and two glasses.

"It isn't." You move away a bit to let her sit. She sits down carefully to avoid spilling the open bottles on the ground.

"Where did you get these?" Despite not being completely sure that you want to have company yet, your curiosity is bigger than your doubts.

"I borrowed them from the kitchen. There are a lot of bottles that are going to be served to us by the waiters there, so it isn’t stealing, if that's what you are thinking." she defends before you even accuse her.

"Besides, I doubt Bill will care if I take a couple of bottles."

You nod. It does not surprise you that Tulip had simply taken alcohol directly from the kitchen, rather than having to find a waiter to serve her.

"How are all our friends?" You ask her. A crude attempt to avoid the inevitable questions about your mood.

"Our three lovely couples are dancing and the rest is singing and drinking, particularly the latter. I even got to record Charlie while he was singing a Christmas carol right before he fell on his ass... Guess what will be your Christmas gift?. The muggle camera that you gave me, really, is a delight.” She says, referring to the device that, thanks to Penny and Ben, you had given to her on her last birthday, something, you have all come to regret one year later.

"Didn't Bill ask you to record his wedding?"

"I can do several things at same time as long as one of them is a joke, but let's not talk about the rest, let's talk about you. How are you?"

"I'm fine."

"Sure, I’m fine too, Am not I?" Sarcasm drips from her mouth. "You're so perfectly fine that you've decided to sit here , while all your friends are having fun. Please, insert a more convincing lie."

"Well, you're right, I'm not at my best moment; but Tulip, seriously, I don't want to talk about it right now."

"That is fine by me, we don't have to talk, just drink." You open your mouth to refuse. On any other day, you would have welcomed one of her attempts to find you an alcoholic beverage for you to love, but today, you do not even want to try. Seeing your intention, she raises her hand to let her continue her words. "I know you aren't here for one of my experiments, but give me a chance. I know you'll like it."

She takes the two glasses, leaving them in front of you. She seems dedicated to her new creation, mixing the contents of each of the bottles until she obtains a beautiful blue liquid. After mixing it one last time, she casts a freezing spell to cool the drinks.

"Take it, Rowan." She gives you one of the cups. You take it in your hands, still not being sure if you are ready to drink it, but you notice that Tulip has something else to say. "And I swear, if you don't want to drink it, I also brought butterbeers that you can drink. I won't think any less of you because of this.”

You rotate the glass, watching the reflection of the light in the liquid, and finally you decide it. The alcohol gives you an escape. Despite knowing about the depressant effect of alcohol, at least, you will stop thinking about Bill while you are talking to your friend.

You take one sip first. It does not matter how good Tulip's intentions are, you have taken enough of her experiments to know what could happen.

Surprisingly, you love it. It is sweet and soft, the opposite of Tulip's other attempts.

"It's good, really good." You say without being able to hide the delight in your voice.

"At some point, I had to learn that not everyone loves my taste." You drink another sip, savoring the drink more calmly to assure yourself that it is really good. "I thought you would prefer something that is softer than what I normally mix. Who would’ve guessed that being a bartender for six months would serve a purpose? "

"I'm surprised you’d drink something so sweet, it doesn't seem like your kind of drink."

"I'm not taking the same drink that you have." Tulip tell you since you look at her suspiciously, distrusting her. You had observed her while she was mixing the same bottles in both glasses. Even if the proportions were slightly different, they could not be two different drinks. "Taste it if you don't believe it." She offers you a sip from her drink.

You take a sip of her cup, quickly returning the glass and spitting the disgusting liquid. While you could still taste the sweet taste, it had been masked savagely by the bitterness of another substance.

"I told you. That's what you get for distrusting me."

"It’s impossible that they are the same drinks with different proportions."

"Believe it, although It's possible that I added one or two things while you weren't looking." She winks at you, taking another sip. You can not even look at the glass without remembering the sour taste in your mouth. You push her with your shoulder, an improvised revenge.

"After this funny lapsus, where Miss Khanna learned to trust my words more, it's time for a toast." Tulip raises her gleaming glass to the light of the tent. "For us, single women, and our freedom."

You lift your glass, repeating her words and taking another sip.

Time passes fast due to your small talk. Tulip seems interested in your travels, learning more about the magical history of different civilizations. Although, rather than your discoveries, she is attracted to the diverse and rich environments you visited during your travels. You would not be surprised if someday you tried to contact Tulip just to discover that she is in the depths of the Amazon or the Sahara desert.

The amount of alcohol you ingested was increased slowly with every passing minute. Your glass is continually filled by a diligent Tulip. You do not know if it is the alcohol or yourself, but you feel like you have enough courage to talk about Bill.

"Do you want to know something, Tulip? I don't know why I feel this way, despite time, I think about it from every angle. In a few weeks, I am going to travel to Asia and I won't see any of you, including him, for months. I knew nothing was going to happen, except a deep friendship, and that I should forget about my school-girl crush without future, however, it still hurts.”

"Because your opinion doesn't matter. You can think what you want, but your heart will do what it wants. Look at me. Let's be honest, I never thought I had a chance with Tonks while we were in the school. She never showed interest, but my heart didn't agree and seeing MC and Penny gave me hope. If MC, being the disaster that she is sometimes, got the girl. Why wouldn’t I? You already know the rest of the story. She rejected me, the whole school knew about that. Yet, you could see my behaviour before. Despite being convinced that nothing will ever happen and we can just be friends, it hurt me when I saw her with Lupin today." She takes another sip before continuing. "My heart is like my parents. They don't care about what I think, and will keep trying to ruin my life. Ah, Rowan, I didn't thank you before when you helped me while I felt like shit during the meeting with Tonks and Lupin.”

You tremble listening to the harsh words about her parents, the resentment was evident in each syllable. You know that Tulip and her parents have never agreed on Tulip’s life. Nothing, except a position in the Ministry of Magic, would have been good enough for them. You (and all your friends) believed they had reached an understanding, or at least Tulip had insinuated at some point, but the relationship must be so much more deteriorated than she made you believe. Only alcohol had loosed her tongue enough, for her true feelings to escape this way.

Tulip does not trust people easily and it makes it even more difficult for her to open up about her situation. Maybe you should consider talking to Tonks and MC about this, because, despite being in the same circle of friends, you and Tulip have never shared many moments. Maybe this was the first of a series of moments leading to a closer friendship. The way heartbreak and pain brought people closer is curious.

"You don't have to thank me, Tulip. We're friends, this is what friends do. Look at you, you're helping me now despite knowing you could be inside having fun.”

She keeps quiet, reflecting about your words until she realizes that taking care of your friends is normal. "Yes, this is what friends do."

"Another toast." You raise your glass again. The moon looks blue through the glass. "For us, who are single, but still have friendship ..."

"... that is better than any dildo." Tulip says, voice solemn a profound, unlike her usual voice. You can't help spitting the drink amidst the laugh that suddenly possessed you. It wasn't a particularly funny phrase, but alcohol always made you laugh.

"I was trying to make a serious toast."

"It was too solemn, this isn't a funeral. You looked like MC when she is talking about the power of friendship and love, who is going to save the world this way? I will answer you. Nobody"

"Our friendship solved the mystery of the cursed vaults, as all of us did something. So there have already been people that saved the day with ‘the power of friendship and love’" You defend your best friend. For once that MC had made a positive speech, you are not going to let Tulip drown out her words.

"Once. That won't happen again. ‘The power of love and friendship’ couldn't save anything, and less in these days. Nobody. Not the order of the phoenix, not the ministry of Magic, not even the boy who lived could win the war with that. We can only win if we fight.."

"I am not sure about that."

"If you are so sure, you wouldn't mind a little bet. 20 galleons. Well, will you?"

"I don't know how you think you're going to win it. Literally we can't know if someone will win that way in the distant future."

"Write in your will: I leave 20 galleons to Tulip as she is always right. I will settle for that." She shrugs, not noticing the numerous holes that her plan had.

"You could die sooner."

"There surely are bars in the afterlife. You will invite me. " You do not know how you should react to this strange conversation about deaths and bets. Talking to Tulip always ends in a strange bet any way.

"So… It is a ‘yes’?"

"Your bet doesn't have any basis. The possibility that you win is minuscule. Even if there is a afterlife, I will win the bet by mere statistics at some point. I can't understand why you would want to bet, when you know that you are more likely to lose."

"Because these are turbulent times. How long until the war escalates? Each day, the situation gets worse in the wizarding world. So if I lose, I will still win something. Because, let's be honest, I can't imagine You-Know-Who winning thanks to the power of love, happiness and bright rainbows. "

The conversation turned alarmingly strange, but now you know that Tulip cared deeply about the situation of the wizarding world. You regret thinking that Tulip was insensitive without interest in the imminent danger that waits in the shadows. You should have learned the lesson after the bust your “evil Ben” theory caused (“Imperiused Ben” is not the same as “evil Ben”, you understand it now), but you continue to repeat the same mistake again and again. One of your flaws has always been to classify people too quickly, hurting them in the process.

"Okay. I agree."

"Perfect." You shake hands to seal the deal. "This money will become a good party night.."

"... Or two books for my collection."

She open her mouth, to continue possibly the diatribe, but you do not hear anything of what she says, your attention focuses in the silver light that illuminated the tent. You recognize it. A patronus.

A powerful voice resonates.

“The ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming.”

You rise quickly, dropping several bottles accidentally. The hem of your dress gets wet because of the spilled liquid, but you do not care. Your friends, your goddaughter,... They are still inside.

You take a step, ready to enter, but you are stopped by Tulip.

"We need to get the hell out of here, Rowan!"

"But our friends..."

"What do you think they are going to do? They should have left as soon as they have heard the voice.”

You give the tent a last glance and nod. She had to be right. Everyone must have already disappeared and hidden in their homes, especially your best friend and Penny, who would never endanger their daughter. Tulip squeezes your arm and when you sense the characteristic feeling of the apparition, and let it transport you without resistance.

You end up in Tulip’s house or, at least, you think that is her house, because you have never been invited into her house in spite of all your years of friendship. Actually, It is more a room, rather than a house.

It is a room with a small kitchen, a bed, a sofa and a table, connected to another room that you imagine is the bathroom. You are surprised that she had not asked permission from the Ministry of Magic to use the extension charm on her house. Although the piles of boxes scattered around the room suggested that Tulip had moved to this place recently.

"You should drop the glass." Tulip comments, while she is rooting around in her boxes. "You could break it without realising it and cut yourself.”

You look at your hand where, indeed, your glass is still. The situation is unreal. Five minutes ago, you were sitting quietly drinking with your friend, ignorant of the danger that you are in now. And look at you now.

You lay it on the table, just seeing it makes you want to vomit, and this is not related to the alcohol that you consumed.

"We have to look for our friends." Every second that you spend, you are more anxious about the fate of your friends. You are sure that everyone is safe, a few Death Eaters could not overcome your friends, but you can not be calm until you see them face-to-face safe and sound.

"I know." She continue searching something, without looking at you.

"Tulip, we have to find them. Now.”

"I understood you the first time."

"So... why do you keep rooting around in your things? We're in a hurry, Tulip, we need to know if they're alive or ..." You shut up, you can not even pronounce that word. "They could be injured."

She turns her heads and looks at you for the first time since you are in her house, her eyes without a stroke of the camaraderie you shared a few minutes ago.

"And are you going to wear that? Those clothes? A homicidal maniac has just risen to power in this fucking country, and are you going to fight in an evening dress?" Pointing to your Indian dress, which was many things, but functional for a duel was not one of them. "I'm glad that you can run and jump wearing a long dress, but the rest of us can't, so let me find comfortable clothes."

You do not answer anything, you just sit in the rickety couch and wait, being a ball of anxiety.

A minute later, Tulip gives you a shirt, trousers and trainers.

"Take it, you can change clothes in the bathroom." Her words are sharp, but she gives you the clothes gently. Although she does not show it, Tulip is as scared as you.

You get into the bathroom, closing the door. You wipe your face, letting the water erase part of the makeup, and you let your hair out, dropping the beads and jewels in Tulip's sink. After the last turn of events, they have little importance.

You begin to recite the names of all the goblins who were involved in the rebellion of 1612 in alphabetical order. Arotg The Vicious, Atnuk, Bertrock Six-Fingers, Clutrus ...

The list is long, but you could feel how your nerves are calmed with each recited name until your anxiety disappears after you whisper the last word. The little trick of reciting lists of historical events had always given you good results to calm you, and it is a relief to know that it is still effective even in the darkest moments.

You are still scared (and alcohol is not doing you any favors). No list is going to eliminate that, but the nerves, that had not let you think straight, had vanished like smoke.

You change quickly and you look at yourself in the mirror. Tulip was right about the outfit. The “mirror” Rowan seems much more determined and ready to search and fight for her friends than the “wedding Rowan”.

Now, you are ready.

You come out of the bathroom. Tulip is already waiting for you, with a pile of objects that has been stacked on the table.

"I'm already here," you say, leaving your dress carefully on top of Tulip sofa. No matter how dangerous the war is, your grandmother would kill you if you mistreated the expensive dress she had given you this same year.

The remembrance of your grandmother makes you be grateful that all your family is in India visiting some relatives. If the situation gets worse, they can stay there and avoid the war.

"Perfect, now we only need the final details." She give you a series of protecting amulets and a body armor.

"What is this stuff?"

"They will protect us, I bought them in the Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Charlie introduced me to his twin brothers because they needed help with some joke items, so now I have a good discount in their store. They aren't infallible, but they can save us from some spells."

You put them on, while you talk about your next steps. You should go to the houses of your friends. First to the Haywood’s house, the most likely of all, and then to Barnaby's. There were no more places to hide when they had so little time, although you would also look for them in their parents' house. However, you doubt they would have gone to their parents house. Either because of the fear that they were also attacked or a their bad family relationship.

After you planned the route, you disappear from the Tulip’s tiny home.

You land in an alley, near the Haywood’s house, a two-storey house completely protected by spells. Although those protections won't be able to do too much due to the new power of the He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. They will break down the house’s defenses as easily as the Burrow’s.

The lights are off, but they may be hiding there, the absence of light being a way to avoid attracting unwanted attention.

"Tulip, hide your wand." You whisper even though the muggle street where the couple lived is apparently deserted. You could never know when someone is observing you.

"I doubt the Death Eaters will care too much about the secret. And knowing what is coming, it would be better if the Muggles knew the truth or they wouldn't be able to defend themselves in any way."

"But the decision of breaking the secret isn't ours. For now, the best thing is to say nothing. "

You ring the doorbell twice, but nobody opens the door. You wait in the small porch a few more minutes; with more hits to the door, more shouting and more bell ringing.

Nothing.

Desperate, you take your wand out of your pocket, ready to break the door down. You have to enter the house and see that no one is there for yourself. This is the most logical destination. They should be here. With every passing second, the thoughts about horrible possibilities that are in a corner of your mind grow.

"Rowan! Rowan! Stop!." Tulip hugs you, pushing you away from the door to avoid you making more noise. "The muggles could hear us and could see your wand."

"No. Didn't you say that muggles should know it? well, I'm helping them to discover it now.” You struggle against her grip, but it is useless. She is much stronger than you. “Tulip, release me, please, we can't lose time. We have to enter quickly to ensure that nobody is inside and the magic is the fastest way.”

"No, not until you calm down, Rowan. If they were here, we would know. Do you think they would just let us walk in? Never. And you know it. I need the Rowan who thinks about all variables, all possibilities. Not someone who is so deranged that could expose ourselves to muggles or Death Eaters. You have to take it easy, not for us, but for the rest. Acting in this way will only get us killed.”

You breathe deeply, trying to calm down. You thought that you would do better than this thanks to the list, but maybe even that could not do anything against the terror of not finding the people you care deeply about. It does not matter if it is the alcohol or your own insecurity. You have to become the logical Rowan, the one who could think in any situation without problems.

Tulip free you, as you. You grimace when you stretch your arms. Really Tulip is too strong.

"I'm sorry." She apologizes when she notes your face.

"No, it isn't your fault, you had to stop me before I screwed thing up.” I pat her back, a possibly forced attempt at camaraderie. Bonding with other people isn't your specialty.

After this awkward moment, you continue speaking “We have to go to Barnaby's house, it’s our only option. They might have decide to go there, because, even though Haywood’s house has more protections, Barnaby is the son of Death Eaters. They would never attack his house. "

Without a second thought, You apparate in front of the apartment block where Barnaby (and Ben) live.

You ring the bell several times and, and just like before, nobody answers. Tulip continues ringing the bell without response.

"It's impossible, they should be here. They can't be anywhere else” She mumbles.

You look up, observing a light in one of the windows of the building. You count the floors.

One

Two.

Three.

It is on the third floor, the same floor where Barnaby lives. It has to be them.

"Tulip, look up." You interrupt the litany of insults to the Death Eaters, to the doors, to the bells and, basically, everything that Tulip was murmuring. "It has to be his home. Nobody else would be awake at this time in this area."

"Then why don't they open the door? They should know that we are looking for them. If not answering has been Barnaby's idea, I can assure you that he will be joke target for the rest of the next year.”

"It's normal that they don’t trust who is ringing the bell. It isn't like they're expecting a visit, they could think we are hidden like them, not looking for them. And you know that Muggle children like to make jokes with the doorbells. We could be Muggles or worse.” Although the idea of a Death Eater knocking the door politely is surreal. Good manners are not the speciality of those brutes. A Death Eater would simply destroy the door and kill anyone who is in their way.

Tulip looks both ways to ensure that nobody is watching. Before this, she takes her wand out and whispers a fast ‘Alohomora’, opening the door with a snap.

You climb the stairs quickly. You can not wait for the elevator enough. Also, you hate that hellish Muggle machinery that causes you claustrophobic.

You can barely breathe when you reach the third floor. Physical exercise has never been your forte. You take a trembling step toward the door, but stop when you note that Tulip is aiming at the door with her wand.

You focus on the door in front of you. It is ajar.

You bite your lower lip, worried, and you take your wand out. It is impossible that the Death Eater have arrived before you. If they were going to break into someone's house this night, it would be the allies of Professor Dumbledore’s house; not a son of Death Eaters and friend of muggleborns’ house. It makes no sense. None of your friends, except Tonks and the Weasleys brothers, were related to the order. And you doubt that those friends are here, they must be fighting against Death Eater.

Tulip opens the door slowly, avoiding making noise. When she sees that it is all clear, she makes a sign for you following her.

You check the rooms one by one, your desperation is increasing with each empty room.

The wheels in your mind work at full speed, but you can not understand it yet. The door was open and the light was on, but everything is perfect, without signs of a struggle, and none of your friends are in sight.

What had happened exactly? You knew that Barnaby could be clueless, but Ben always locks the doors religiously, he would have never forget to close it. And the idea that a Death Eaters had come and your friends had given up without a fight is also absurd.

Suddenly, a slight moan can be heard. You stop and listen it, being hopeful, but still staying alert.

There is someone else in that house, in one of the rooms that you had not checked yet.

Friend or enemy? You do not know it yet, but soon you will discover it.

You follow the noise until you arrive to the guest room (or Ben’s room at this point). Tulip and you stand on the walls next to the door, ready to attack with a spell. Tulip looks at you and you nod, ready to enter. Tulip opens the door so brutally that the door bang on the wall with a loud crash (and possibly leaving a mark) and you turn on the light.

In one corner of the room, somebody was sitting on the floor with his head hidden between his arms.

Ben.

"Ben?" He does not seem to react to your words. You lower your wand immediately, running across the room and ducking in front of him.

Ben is hyperventilating. Despite this, he still seems to whisper something. His skin, that is even paler than usual, is covered by a thin film of sweat.

"Ben, please, answer me."

Ben continues without answering you, hiding in himself even more if it was possible. You bring your ear to him, trying to hear the words he whispers.

"It's my fault. It's my fault. It's my fault.” He repeats this in quick succession.

"Tulip, come here. I think something's wrong with Ben." You shout, hoping that Tulip had finished checking the rest of the rooms to know if there was someone else in the house. "He doesn't respond."

You had previously seen various of Ben’s attacks, but you have never see one that was so strong. And unfortunately no one that knows how to really calm Ben is here.

You will think about the reason of his behaviour later. Could one of your friends be ...? No. You can not fall apart when Ben is so bad. You refused to think about this.

But you know that if Ben is here, the rest should have been too.

Tulip approaches you and takes the opportunity to ask him again, gentle "Ben, what happened?”

For the first time he seems to react, opening and closing his hands, but repeating the same words.

"It's my fault."

"Ben, what's your fault?" You take his hand, hoping that it will help his focus. For a moment he stops his litany, taking a quick air puff due to his lack of air. "Please, come on. Answer me."

"Th... The-They" Every word is hard to pronounce, tearing them off the depth of his throat where the words are hidden as if they did not want to go outside and get real. “T-The..."

"They?" What do they do? You need more answers, but in his state you are concerned about rising his stress. You had never had to help Ben in one of his attacks, since there had always been someone who he trusted more than you. And now you deeply regret not having paid more attention when he was helped.

He lifts his head slightly. His cheeks are red. His eyes, bathed in tears. His gaze, unfocused, as if he really were not there, but in a place that is too far away for you to reach him.

"D-De... De-Dead. They're dead." His breathing accelerates again. "They’re dead. And it's my fault. I was too slow. I’d have been faster, faster. I was afraid. I hesitated. And now they’re dead and it's my fault. How can I look at everyone after this? It's my fault. My fault.”

"Ben, who's dead?" Tulip can not bear it any longer and shakes Ben. At any other time you would have stopped Tulip. You would have told her that it would only make the situation worse. But you are paralyzed, still thinking about the meaning of Ben's words. "Ben, answer me. Who are dead?" Tulip's voice broke into a sob.

MC.

Penny.

Leti.

Bill.

Barnaby.

Charlie.

Tonks.

You do not know where any of them are.

If they were injured, imprisoned or ...

If they were dead.

"It's my fault. It's my fault."

"Damn it, Ben! Answer me! Who-are-dead?” Tulip yells at the terrified Ben, pulling him and lifting him a few inches off the ground.

"He found her. She’d been separated from her mothers by the patronus. We were going to disappear, before they found us. I was scared. I hesitated. He said he’d appear with her after me. I had to wait here. But they never showed up. I waited. And I waited. But no matter how long I wait, they don't appear! They don't appear and it's my fault! It's my fault!” Ben seems more and more altered. A “he” and a “she”? Your suspicion grow with every passing second. But you refuse to believe it. They could not be...

"BEN! WHO?"

"BARNABY AND LETI! THEY ARE DEAD AND IT’S MY FAULT! "

Tulip releases Ben, backing up a few steps. Ben falls with a thud, returning to his previous position and litany.

You do not really pay attention to what happens around you. You collapse on the cold floor of the room.

Your goddaughter ...

You think about your goddaughter, the little shy girl with bright smile and ruddy cheeks. The little girl who was the niece of all your friends, even though you do not have a blood relationship. The little girl who you had promised to protect and who you had failed.

You know that Barnaby would have never surrendered without fight to protect her. You want to see some way out, a possible alternative that takes you out of this horrible reality. You are not capable.

You listen a fist bump against a wall. Tulip?

You do not even want to think that Tulip and you had escaped when the rest had stayed there to die. Because if Leti ... If Leti is dead, you do not doubt that your best friend will be dead too, with her being as she is, fiercely protective of her family. You had been with her during the search for her brother, you do not want to know what happens if she loses her daughter. Although you could intuit it in your heart. She would not stop. She would not stop until she takes revenge on who had taken her child from her. And people who do not hesitate to kill children, do not hesitate to kill the rest.

And Penny, you had seen what happened when she remembered the pain of losing someone, the fear of losing her daughter. What would she do if this became reality?

Neither of them was going to fight thinking about how they can survive. Not at that moment. They would only want to fight against those who had destroyed the little light in their lives.

And Tulip and you had escaped easily, thinking everyone could have done the same thing and there had not been problems. That all of you would be safe.

You hadn't thought that the patronus with the form of an animal could attract the attention of a child who adored the animals and how it would have make her run away from their mothers, collapsing all after that.

How could you look at those who had been left behind, in this life or in the afterlife? How could you explain that while you were reciting a list of names, your goddaughter… your friends were murdered?

For the first time in your life, you don't have a plan. There isn't a next step. There is nothing.

For the first time, you don't know what to do.

Well, I hope you like it, the next chapter will be the Barnaby’s point of view and what happened when the Death Eater appeared.

Tag: @theuniverseisalilbastard @returntoinocense (If anyone want to know when the next chapter is updated, say me and I will tag you.

Chao :)

#hogwarts mystery #hphm #Penny x Jacob's sibling #rowan khanna #penny haywood x mc #tulip karasu #ben copper #hphm fanfic #Harry Potter: Hogwarts Mystery #hogwarts mystery fanfic #Dratin fanfic

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sunflowerseedsandscience · 6 years

Text

Au Cafe Pequod, Chapter Nine and Epilogue

ORADOUR-SUR-GLANE, HAUTE-VIENNE, FRANCE LATE MAY, 1944

Under any other circumstances, Mulder would have found that spring, the months after his and Scully's secret marriage, to be a time of unabated bliss. The weather is fine, the countryside around him is beautiful, and he spends nearly every evening alone with a woman so perfect, Pygmalion himself could not have dreamed her into existence. With the first difficult months of her pregnancy behind her, Scully is entirely suffused in a healthy glow, her hair shining and her pale skin luminous. Her belly remains relatively flat, even as she is about to begin the fifth month, with what little roundness there is hidden easily by her voluminous work skirt and apron. It's a relief to both of them, as it has bought them some time to prepare for their next step. Scully has begun selling more of her extra butter and cream, rather than trading for goods, and has been slowly decreasing the size of her menu. She claims to her patrons that the food shortages are beginning to affect her at last, but in truth, she is hiding the money away. A bag sits packed in her bedroom wardrobe, ready to go at a moment's notice.

Before Scully's pregnancy has the chance to begin to show, she and Mulder are leaving.

Mulder has had Frohike pay a contact to forge French identification papers for him. With his perfect, unaccented French, he can easily pass for a native-born Frenchman. He has also paid for a new set of papers for Scully, under a different name, in case an arrest warrant is put out for her once she disappears. They have set a definite departure date- June fifteenth- but both are ready to leave immediately should the need arise.

They do not discuss their plans often, however, because Scully is completely destroyed by the idea of leaving her beloved cafe, not to mention her mother's farm, to be taken over by the Nazis. She and Mulder are both well aware that once they disappear, Oberst Spender will first ransack her home in search of evidence, and then, most likely, divide up the spoils amongst his men. She has packed what few priceless possessions can be carried easily- her parents' wedding photograph, pictures of herself and her siblings growing up, her father's love letters to her mother, her brothers' letters from sea- but still, many family heirlooms will be left behind. And no family heirloom is more precious to her than the Cafe Pequod.

Mulder wishes badly that they could chance telling someone in the village of their departure, some trusted friend who will take over the running of both the farm and the cafe, but he and Scully have agreed that it would be too risky. The only people who know all of their their plans- including their marriage and Scully's pregnancy- are Frohike, Langly, and Byers, who will meet them at a prearranged place on the night of June fifteenth. They are in daily contact now, with the time of departure so close, so that if Mulder and Scully need to change their plans, to move the date, their friends will be prepared.

Hauptmann Skinner is aware that Mulder and Scully will be leaving soon, but that's the extent of his knowledge. Mulder had debated telling him more, but Skinner himself had demurred, insisting that the less he knows, the better. Even without knowing about Scully's impending motherhood, Skinner has no trouble understanding why Mulder feels he must leave, and leave soon. The atmosphere around them- the sense of waiting, of foreboding, of flat-out dread- speaks for itself. There is only one topic of conversation in the camp these days.

Invasion.

They know it's coming. It is inevitable that, at some point, Allied forces will cross the English Channel and attack the German-held beaches of France. Mulder knows, from the rumors that abound- which Skinner has confirmed- that intelligence believes it will be very, very soon. And when it happens, their regiment will cease to be part of an occupying force and will instead become part of a defending army. The regiment will likely be sent west, to the new front, into what is sure to be a long and bloody battle. There is every possibility Mulder will not return. It's a possibility that would have been horrific enough to Scully a few months ago, but now, it's a chance they cannot afford to take. Mulder is adamant: he will be with Scully to see their child into the world.

With the Allied invasion so clearly on the horizon, activity within the Resistance has ramped up considerably. Scully is no longer seeing as many Allied pilots- they're being dropped well north of Oradour-Sur-Glane, in anticipation of the beaches being attacked, and the Resistance is trying to keep them in the area so they'll meet up with the invading forces- but with the German army's attention focused so intently on the west, more and more refugees are taking advantage of the smaller numbers of troops in the south and east, and are making their way to Spain and Switzerland. The non-military refugees, as a rule, are not often injured and as such do not typically pass through Scully's apartment, but her help is still necessary to organize their transport. She is in church often, passing messages to the priest, and when she is not there, she's out at her mother's farm, talking to the farm hands, or in her kitchen, baking endless pies. Mulder worries that she's overexerting herself, but he knows well enough how she'll react if he suggests that she slow down. He consoles himself with the knowledge that, in barely two weeks, they will be on their way to a place where all of this will no longer be Scully's responsibility.

The plan, at this point, is to move in the opposite direction of the fleeing refugees Scully is helping to hide, and to make their way north and west, towards the new front that will be opened any day now. They will slip behind the advancing Allied troops and travel to Calais, then try to find transportation across the channel to England, where they will meet up with Maggie Scully, if she is still there. If they are caught by Allied soldiers, they will identify themselves as Resistance, which should guarantee their safe passage. If they are caught by Germans, they will show their forged identification papers and claim to be a married couple on their way to fetch Mulder's elderly mother and escort her east, away from the coming conflict. It's not a foolproof plan, but it's the best they've been able to come up with.

--------

On the evening of June third, as the cafe is emptying out for the night, a dark-haired man in civilian clothing strides through the door and approaches Scully at the register. He's not someone Mulder has seen before, which is unusual in a town this small. By the look on Scully's face, she doesn't know him, either.

"I want to place an order for a pie," he says brusquely, and Scully nods, reaching for her ever-present notepad.

"What kind would you like?" she asks politely. If she's thrown off by the man's manner, she doesn't show it.

"Cherry," he says. "To feed three people." Scully writes this down.

"And when do you need it by?" she asks.

"By the thirteenth of June," says the man. Scully raises her eyebrows.

"That's quite a distance in the future," she remarks.

"Will that be a problem?" The man's tone is surprisingly cold, and Mulder tenses, ready to intervene if necessary.

"No, of course not," Scully replies. "Come back on the eleventh of June, and your order will be ready." The man nods and turns to go without another word. As he passes, he turns his head slightly and glowers at Mulder before sweeping out and into the night.

The hairs along the back of Mulder's neck are suddenly standing on end.

Frenchmen, certainly, have no cause to like Mulder, or any other German soldier. But most of them, particularly in this small town, are timid, unwilling to risk any sort of direct confrontation. And the glare this man has just thrown at Mulder clearly says that, had Mulder taken offense, the man would have been quite willing to fight back. Something about this does not feel right.

"Scully," he says later, with the cafe door closed and locked against the outside world, "I think we should move up our departure date." She looks up at him from where she's slicing up meat for tomorrow's sandwiches.

"Because of that man?" she asks. "The one who ordered the pie right before we closed?"

"There was something about him that spooked me," he says. "Call it gut instinct, but I don't think he's what he seems."

"He spooked you badly enough to want to leave early? Really?" She transfers the sliced meats to a large tray and carries them to the refrigerator, which Mulder opens for her. "It seems a little extreme to change everything on just a hunch." She closes the refrigerator and turns, leaning against it and looking up at Mulder skeptically.

"Just... trust me on this, okay, Scully?" he asks. "Please?" He reaches out and takes her hand, drawing her closer, and rests his other hand on the tiny bulge that is their child. It's barely noticeable under her skirt, but Mulder has spent hours running amazed hands over it while she's naked, and he knows it's there. "I just... I don't want to take any chances if we don't have to. There's too much at stake." She sighs and covers his hand with her own.

"I'll get word to Frohike," she says. "What should the new date be?"

"Let's make it the tenth," he suggests. "That way, we'll be a good distance away before he comes back for his order... or for whatever else he's after."

Mulder very rarely stays the entire night with Scully- it's dangerous to risk sleeping late and missing morning roll call- but tonight, he makes an exception. He doesn't think the dark-haired man will return, but he's not taking any chances, either. He sleeps poorly, waking at every tiny sound, and before the sun has risen, he is sitting on the edge of Scully's bed, lacing up his boots. He bends to kiss her, and she stirs sleepily. He lowers the duvet and presses a gentle kiss to her stomach, as well.

"It's not like she can feel that, you know," murmurs Scully without opening her eyes. Mulder grins.

"Doesn't matter," he says. "I can feel it." She gives him a sleepy smile and reaches up, pulling him down for a proper kiss. "And how do you know it's a girl, anyway?"

"I don't," she says. "I just have a feeling, that's all."

"Isn't there some way for you to tell?"

"There are a bunch of old wives' tales," she says, "but every last one of them is complete and utter nonsense." She opens her eyes, finally, looking up at him. "You're just going to have to be patient, I'm afraid." He bends to kiss her one more time.

"I'll be back this evening, all right?" he says. She nods and closes her eyes again, already drifting back to sleep. She will get up in another hour, he knows, and walk out to the farm to milk the cows, before going to the church to see the priest, who will get a message to Frohike. By the time he sees her this evening, with any luck, their date of departure will have officially changed to June tenth.

The encampment is still quiet when Mulder returns, shrouded in a pre-dawn fog. He has several hours before he'll be required to muster for roll call, and he decides to try and get a little more sleep to make up for his restless night. Creeping into his tent, he finds both of his tent mates snoring loudly, and he climbs into his cot, hoping they'll wake up, find him here, and assume he came in late. He dozes off at once.

When he wakes, hours later, the camp is full of noise and panicked energy. Mulder's tent mates are long-gone, and he realizes he's likely missed morning roll-call, though in this excitement, his absence may have gone unnoticed. He leaves his tent, deciding to find Hauptmann Skinner and make his excuses for oversleeping. The atmosphere in camp is positively frantic, and Mulder knows there is only one thing that can be causing it. Somewhere to the west, he is sure, the Allied invasion has begun.

Skinner is standing in front of his tent, looking for all the world as though he has been waiting for Mulder to show up. He says nothing, only beckons for Mulder to follow him into his tent. He lets the flap fall behind him as soon as they enter, and turns to face Mulder.

"Early this morning, in Normandy," says Skinner, before Mulder can even ask the question. "No word on how it's going yet, but...." He shrugs. "It's only a matter of time, really. If it doesn't work today, they'll regroup and try again. They can't win without opening up a western front and they know it." Mulder asks the only question that truly concerns him at this point.

"Are we moving out?" he asks, his heart in his throat.

"Not yet," says Skinner. "We're to remain here and deal with the local Resistance as best we can. They've been playing havoc with the rail lines, and command doesn't want the supply lines interrupted. The western coast is already heavily fortified, so unless the Allies progress much more quickly than expected, I estimate we have at least a month here before we're ordered to move on." He fixes Mulder with a pointed stare. "I'll understand, of course, if you feel you need to change your own plans, if you need to leave earlier." Mulder swallows.

"I think we'll be safe with our current timetable," says Mulder carefully. He knows Skinner doesn't want an exact date.

"That's good," says Skinner. "I don't want to know anything ahead of time... but tell me when the time comes, Mulder, and I'll do what I can to see that you get away clean. I can do that much for you."

"Thank you," says Mulder, touched. Skinner doesn't have to risk himself like this, but he's a good, decent man. "Sir..." says Mulder hesitantly, "why don't you come with us?" He feels certain that Scully will be all right with him extending this invitation without asking her first. Skinner has been a staunch ally to them, and it doesn't seem right to leave him behind. His offer clearly takes his captain by surprise.

"I appreciate that, Mulder," Skinner says, "but it would be wrong for me to leave now. Most of my men aren't here by choice. I can't abandon them to the likes of Spender. If we're in battle, he won't hesitate to sacrifice every last one of them no matter how impossible the situation... if I'm there, I may be able to surrender on their behalf and save their lives. I have to do what I can to protect them." For a moment, Mulder feels ashamed, but Skinner seems to sense this. "I'm not judging you for leaving, Mulder. I know it's what you have to do. You have other responsibilities now... I'm in a completely different position than you are. I don't have children." It takes a moment for his words to penetrate... but when they do, Mulder looks up in shock.

"Did Scully tell you?" he asks. He doesn't believe that she would have, not without letting Mulder know first, but....

"No, she didn't," says Skinner. "But I started paying attention the moment she told me she was planning on leaving, because I couldn't imagine anything else that would make her step back from the fight. And recently, she's starting to show." Mulder is suddenly terrified.

"Has anyone else noticed?" he asks. "Should we leave now?"

"Nobody else knows, Mulder," says Skinner. "I'm confident of that. I've only noticed because I've been watching, because I've been expecting to see it. If anyone else had, I promise you, it would be all over the camp by now. I don't think you need to take off immediately... but I would make it sooner, rather than later."

--------

Saturday, the tenth of June, is the longest, most stressful day of Mulder's entire life.

He wakes in the morning feeling as though he has not slept at all, which is closer to the truth than he'd like it to be on a day when he knows he'll need every last bit of energy he can muster. He had stayed late at Scully's the previous night, both of them assuaging their terror of what they are about to do in endless bouts of urgent lovemaking. Back in the camp, he had been too full of nervous energy to sleep properly, and now, with the day of departure finally upon him, his nerves are buzzing with fear and adrenaline. His duties are interminable, his meals are like sawdust in his mouth, and though he knows it's wise to go into tonight with a full stomach, he has difficulty eating anything at all.

In the early evening, Mulder catches sight of Hauptmann Skinner from across the mess tent and gives him a pointed look. His captain nods shortly, and Mulder follows him back to his tent at a distance.

"It's tonight," he informs Skinner quietly. "I'm going to the cafe now, like normal, and staying after Scully locks up. We'll meet our escort at midnight." Mulder has not packed anything; all necessities are in the bag in Scully's wardrobe, except for the forged identification papers, which are tucked into Mulder's uniform jacket. Mulder leaving camp with his rucksack would be tantamount to announcing his plans to the entire regiment.

"All right," says Skinner. He looks down, his hands in his pockets. "Do you... would you mind much if I came to the cafe with you, just for a bit?" he asks. "I'd very much like to have a cup of coffee with the two of you, after the cafe closes for the night. I don't want to impose, but...." He leaves the rest unsaid. After tonight, it's highly unlikely that Skinner will ever see Mulder or Scully again.

"We'd both like that very much," says Mulder. "Is there anything you need to do, or are you ready to leave now?"

"I'm ready," says Skinner. "Let's go."

The two men leave Skinner's tent and make their way through camp. Mulder thinks, with no small amount of joy, that this will be the last time he winds through these tents, the last time he tries to ignore the glares of men that he knows hate him, the last time he avoids meeting up with Jeffrey Spender and his sidekicks.

And speaking of Spender....

As they pass the farmhouse where Oberst Spender makes his headquarters, Mulder spies the man himself standing out front with his son, several officers, and two men in civilian clothing, whose backs are to Mulder and Skinner. As they draw level with the farmhouse, one of the men turns his head so that Mulder can see his face. Mulder freezes in place. His blood runs cold.

"What is it?" whispers Skinner, stopping and leaning close to Mulder.

"That man, talking to Spender," hisses Mulder. "He came into the cafe two weeks ago." He looks at Skinner, suddenly terrified. "He ordered a pie. Something felt off about him... he's the reason Scully and I changed our departure date, the reason we moved it up." Skinner's mouth narrows into a thin line.

"Mulder," he says, his voice low and tight, "I think you should go get Scully and leave. Now." He puts a hand on Mulder's arm. "I'll go with you to the cafe. Get her to go to the kitchen with you, leave from the back door, and hide out until it's time to meet your escort." He looks back up towards the farmhouse. "Something about this doesn't feel right." But at that moment, Oberst Spender catches sight of them. He strides over, flicking ash from his cigarette as he walks. Mulder turns his back to the farmhouse quickly, not wanting the dark-haired man to recognize him from the cafe.

"Hauptmann Skinner," says Spender. "You will need to assemble your company and proceed immediately to the center of town. We've received a report that a captured German officer from another regiment is being held hostage by the Resistance somewhere in the village, and I intend to find him, release him, and deal with the perpetrators." He casts a sidelong look at Mulder. "I have an excellent idea about where the officer is being held, and I'm sending my son and his men ahead of the main force to try and confirm my suspicions and bring him out before the traitors have a chance to move him." Mulder cannot breathe. He knows for sure that Scully is not holding anyone captive in the cafe... but he is equally certain that the cafe is exactly where Jeffrey Spender will be heading.

"Sir," he says, doing his best to keep his voice from shaking, "might I go with him?" Mulder is reasonably confident that, given the right circumstances, he could easily overpower the younger Spender and get Scully away. It's not the clean escape they were hoping for, but right now, it's looking like the best option. "I speak better French, and I believe I could be of assistance in questioning-"

"You will remain with your unit, Obersoldat Mueller," says Spender shortly. "I do not foresee that there will be a need for much... questioning." Mulder opens his mouth to argue, but Skinner takes his arm firmly and leads him away.

"You say anything, you're just going to get yourself locked up," hisses Skinner, as Mulder tries to fight him. "The best thing we can do is get into town. You may be able to steal her away in all the confusion."

"But you heard him," says Mulder. "They're going to kill her." Skinner shakes his head.

"He's saying that to rile you up and you know it," says Skinner. "They're not going to find any German officer being held hostage in her apartment, are they?"

"No," says Mulder.

"Which means they'll know they've got it wrong... so they will need to question her. I don't know where this imprisoned officer is being kept, or if he's even real- for all we know, this could be a diversion set up by the Resistance so that they can hit us somewhere vital- but I do know that until he's located, they will keep Scully alive."

When Mulder's company arrives in the town square, the scene that greets him fills him with dread. The square is full of frightened villagers, some in their nightclothes, many holding terrified, crying children, all clutching their identification papers. More are being rounded up- the entire town is being gathered together. Soldiers are blatantly looting every shop and home Mulder can see, smashing windows and throwing people's goods and belongings out into the streets. His stomach clenches painfully: there will be no going back from this. What is going on right now has a definite feel of finality about it, of all the stops being pulled out.

If Oradour-Sur-Glane still stands by morning, it will be a miracle.

Skinner calls the company to a halt, but makes no move to join in the melee. Throwing caution to the wind, Mulder breaks rank and runs to his captain's side. He can see by Skinner's expression that he has reached the same conclusion as Mulder: the town is about to be destroyed.

"We have to get to her," says Mulder. "She must be here somewhere." Skinner nods. He turns back to his men, raising his voice in a commanding shout.

"You men are to remain here, in formation," he orders firmly. "You will serve as backup should the companies already in action require it. Obsersoldat Mulder and myself will seek out the commanders and obtain further instruction." Without waiting for a response, Skinner turns and strides away, Mulder hurrying to keep up.

"Will they listen?" he asks Skinner.

"I have no idea," says Skinner. "I imagine the ones who want to join in, will... and the ones who don't will use my ordering them to stay put as an excuse to stay out of it. It's the best I can do right now." They are nearing the edge of the square. "I don't know if Spender and his goons will still be at the cafe, but I think we should start there," he says. "Keep your eye out in case they're already brought her out to the town square." Mulder nods agreement... but ten feet into the crowd, it's easier said than done. He and Skinner are quickly separated as the panicked townspeople press between them, and spotting one small woman amongst them seems nearly impossible. German officers are striding amongst them, checking identification papers. It takes far too long for Mulder to get to the other side of the square, and the high street on the other side is just as crowded and chaotic.

The lights at Cafe Pequod are all off, but the front door is standing open. Whether it's from patrons being dragged out to the square, or from Spender rushing in in search of Scully, Mulder doesn't know, but either way, he is terrified of what he'll find inside. There's no sign of Skinner yet, so he flies into the cafe without waiting, his pistol drawn and held ready.

The main room is completely empty- and completely demolished. The soldiers have already been through here, which means it's unlikely Scully is inside, but still, he has to check. He harbors a faint, but persistent hope that the commotion outside began before Spender's arrival, that perhaps Scully has had time to flee and is even now making her way to their meeting place. If her bag is gone from her wardrobe, he'll know that's what's happened... but he doesn't think it likely.

The kitchen is just as empty as the dining room, and Mulder only pauses long enough to be sure that she's not hiding anywhere before barreling upstairs to her apartment. It is also empty, though it doesn't appear to have been looted- yet. There is no sign of Scully anywhere... and his heart sinks when he throws open her wardrobe and sees her bag lying exactly where she had left it.

They have her.

Mulder grabs the bag, throwing it over his shoulder, and tears back downstairs. As he rounds the kitchen door and enters the dining room, he nearly smacks into Skinner, who is running towards the kitchen, in search of him.

"She's not here," pants Mulder, panic beginning to set in now.

"I know," says Skinner. "I got one of the other captains to talk to me- he says they saw Jeffrey Spender heading back towards camp with her just as all of this was kicking off." Mulder is aghast.

"Back at camp?" he moans. "I could have just hidden myself and stayed behind!"

"Well, we'll need to get back there now," says Skinner, "and we need to take the back route. We can't go back the way we came." Outside, there is a sudden cacophony of desperate screaming, coming from the square.

"What's going on?" asks Mulder.

"They're separating the men from the women and children," says Skinner grimly. Mulder freezes in horror.

"Skinner...."

"I know, Mulder," he growls. "But there is nothing we can do, do you hear me? Either you run out there, try to put a stop to things, and get shot, and Scully gets killed back up at camp, or we get her out of there and you flee and maybe someone will be left to tell the world what's happened here tonight." He grabs Mulder by the arm, rushing him out the back door. They pass very few soldiers on the side streets- most of them are in the square, almost the entire village having been emptied out by now, and those soldiers who are left are more intent on rounding up stragglers than on Skinner and Mulder. As they pass the street that leads to the church, the same place where Scully has passed on coded messages under the guise of attending mass and confession, the same place where, months before, he and Scully stood before the priest and promised to love only each other for the rest of their lives, Mulder sees a line of women and children being herded roughly through the church's front doors. For a moment, he is unable to go on, and he actually takes a step towards the church before Skinner grabs his arm.

"Mulder, come on!" he insists. "There is nothing you can do, do you hear me? We need to go!" Still, Mulder does not move, and Skinner finally steps between him and the sight of the children being forced into the church. "Mulder, Scully needs you! Let's go!" The sound of Scully's name brings Mulder back to himself, and he turns and continues on, doing his best to block out the sound of the frightened sobbing behind him. As he passes, he catches sight of Oberst Spender, standing off to the side, calmly smoking a cigarette, watching the proceedings with an expression of supreme detachment.

Mulder has always suspected that his father's friend was evil, but it is not until this moment that he realizes that he is beyond that. He is not even human.

The camp is empty when they arrive. Skinner wastes no time with checking tents; rather, he leads Mulder straight to the farmhouse headquarters. Glancing through a downstairs window into the sitting room, they can see Scully, her hands bound, kneeling near the center of the room. Jeffrey Spender stands before her, and behind her stand two of Spender's men, their guns drawn, as well as the dark-haired man from the cafe.

"Can we shoot them through the window?" whispers Mulder. Skinner shakes his head.

"We can bring down two quickly enough, but not all four... and if we miss, we can't stop them from shooting her from out here. We need to get inside." Mulder follows Skinner around the side of the house to the kitchen door. It mercifully does not squeak as they ease it open. Both men drop low and creep through the empty kitchen, towards the hallway to the sitting room. Mulder can hear Spender's smug voice as they draw nearer.

"Do you really expect us to believe you have no idea where the kidnapped officer is being held?" Spender is asking. "We know you've given aid to the Resistance. We know your mother has hidden criminals at her home. We've seen your 'friend' buying medicines and bringing them to you."

"I'm a doctor," Mulder hears Scully say, not a trace of fear in her voice. "I treat whomever is brought to me; I don't care what side they're on. That's what all of the medicines are for."

"You're a cafe owner, not a doctor," says Spender derisively.

"People can be more than one thing at once, you know," says Scully. "I'm a doctor and a cafe owner. Just like you're an idiot and an asshole." There is a crack of a hand meeting flesh, and Mulder hears Scully cry out in pain. At this, he cannot wait any longer, and trusting that Skinner will follow him, Mulder charges down the hall and into the sitting room. He fires off two rounds quickly, killing two of Spender's men. The third man, though, gets off a shot the instant before Skinner takes him down, and behind him, Mulder hears Skinner grunt in pain and surprise. He whirls to see his captain stumbling and falling, blood pouring from a wound on his leg. He lands on the floor behind a sofa, his gun slipping from his grasp and clattering across the floor, out of his reach.

Mulder's momentary distraction is all the time Spender needs. In a flash, he is behind Scully, hauling her to her feet, and when Mulder turns back, Spender is behind her, his pistol held to her head. Mulder is no marksman: he cannot guarantee that if he fires, he will hit Spender and not Scully... and in any case, Spender will pull the trigger the moment Mulder does. He is stuck.

"You have a long habit of falling in with the wrong crowd, Fox," sneers the younger man. "I keep hoping you'll grow out of it, but I'm starting to think you'll never learn."

"What the hell are you talking about, Spender?" demands Mulder. If he can keep Spender talking, he can buy time to figure out a way out of this mess.

"I'm talking about your choice of company," says Spender. "This lying French whore, for one. Your traitorous schoolmate from Berlin- what was his name? Rolf? That coward with his precious newspaper full of lies." Spender's lip curls. "And of course, your stupid sister." Mulder's blood boils. His hand begins to shake.

"Don't you dare say a word about my sister, you pathetic little rat," he growls. Spender laughs coldly.

"That's rich, you calling me a rat," he snarls. "You know, I hoped, for months, that you would wise up and turn your sister in before she got completely out of hand. That's what I would have done... but then, I understood that loyalty to country is more important than loyalty to family." He smirks. "So I turned her in for you."

For a moment, the rush of rage in Mulder's head is so great, he forgets where he is and what is going on. He forgets the conflict outside, the need to escape, even forgets that he is holding a gun. He has actually taken a step in Spender's direction before Spender presses the gun harder into Scully's temple. Her sharp intake of breath is all he needs to bring him back to himself again.

"Now, this is what we're going to do," says Spender. "You're going to drop your weapon and kick it over here. I'm going to tie you up, and we're going to wait here for my father to come back and deal with both of you. I imagine, if you beg nicely enough, he'll kill her quickly and you won't-"

BAM.

The gunshot takes all three of them by surprise, but none so much as Spender. The bullet hits him directly in the forehead and he collapses in a heap, Scully falling to the floor near him. She rolls to the side and leaps to her feet, her balance hampered slightly by her bound hands. She and Mulder turn in the direction of the shot.

Hauptmann Skinner is barely visible lying on his side behind the sofa, with only the top half of his head and the arm holding the gun protruding into the room. While Mulder had distracted Spender, he had crept, slowly, to his fallen gun and, unnoticed by everyone else in the room, had taken aim and fired.

He is, thankfully, a much better shot than Mulder.

"Mulder, cut my hands loose," says Scully, and Mulder hastens to obey. Scully runs to Skinner and rolls him on his back. She gently probes his thigh, locating the wound, reaching around the back. "It went through clean," she says. "I need something to bind it to stop the bleeding."

"Scully, there's no time," says Skinner. "You and Mulder need to leave now!"

"You have to come with us," says Mulder. Skinner shakes his head.

"I'll only slow you down," Skinner says. "You'll never get out of here in time if you're carrying me."

"But Sir...." Mulder swallows. "If you stay here, they'll know you helped us escape. Your life will be forfeit."

"I'll tell them I chased you up here and you shot me," says Skinner dismissively. "It's not like any of these four are going to contradict me."

"They may not believe you," argues Mulder.

"Mulder, GO," Skinner all but shouts. He is already removing his own belt, preparing to apply a tourniquet to his leg. "I'll be fine, I promise!" Mulder stands, Scully rising with him. He wants to say something, to thank Skinner for all he has done, for his support and protection, and he opens his mouth to do so... but now Skinner really is shouting. "Oh, for God's sweet sake! All the thanks in the world are going to be meaningless to me if you two don't get your asses out of here right now!" At last, Mulder nods.

"Take care of yourself, Walther," is all he can manage, and then he and Scully are gone into the night.

----------

They skirt the edge of the town, staying well out of sight... but it's not far enough away that they cannot hear the screaming. Near the square, Mulder can see a great gout of flames that he knows must be the church. Sporadic machine gun fire echoes from the same direction. In the distance, on the horizon, another enormous fire is pluming up towards the night sky. Scully clutches at his arm with a distraught moan.

"That's my mother's farm," she whispers, her voice broken. "Spender told me they were taking the men there, to the barns." They don't have much time, they need to keep moving, but Mulder cannot stop himself from putting his arms around Scully and holding her close. "The women and children were in the church, weren't they?" she asks, her voice muffled against his chest. He nods, and she squeezes him. There's no time to linger, though; at any moment, Oberst Spender could discover their escape. Mulder unshoulders the bag he took from Scully's wardrobe, and from within it, retrieves a set of men's clothing. He strips off his uniform pants and jacket and replaces them with the civilian clothing. Scully removes her blouse, stained with Jeffrey Spender's blood, and slips into a fresh one. They hide their discarded clothing under a pile of leaves and continue on their way.

The journey to the meeting place does not take long, in reality, but to Mulder, it seems to take ages. They say nothing, partly out of fear of getting caught by a patrol- though really, they don't expect anyone to be out here- and partly out of horror at the unspeakable smells and sounds that rend the night air. They meet no one until they arrive at their rendez-vous point, a mile north of town, but still well in sight of the fires. At the top of a small rise, under cover of a copse of trees, Frohike, Langly, and Byers are waiting for them. Frohike steps forward and embraces first Mulder, then Scully... but none of them speak. The grief and shock are too great. Together they turn and watch as the flames on the horizon expand, spreading away from the church, into the rest of the town.

Oradour-Sur-Glane is gone.

EPILOGUE

GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON, D. C. AUGUST 1946

The Cafe Pequod is almost always busy around lunchtime, and today is no exception. Mulder has had his hands full chopping meat and tomatoes for sandwiches, preparing coffee, and washing dishes. If things keep up the way they have been, there really will be no way they can get out of finally hiring a dishwasher. Luckily, with business being what it is, they can afford it.

The locals love the cafe's authentic French charm, the rich coffee, the hearty sandwiches and, of course, the delicious pies. All of these things explain business being brisk during rest of the day, but Mulder strongly suspects that the markedly larger noontime crowd has more to do with the number of businessmen who drop by on their lunch break, hoping to get a glimpse of the lovely young proprietress.

Scully has done the best she can to make the little restaurant look as much like home as possible. Prior to opening their doors, she has spent months sifting through thrift shops and estate sales, snapping up any and all furniture, crockery, cutlery, and decor that reminded her of the place she was forced to abandon. Before finally settling down here, they had traveled so far and stayed in so many strange places that anything that smacked of home, of stability, was a balm to their souls... even something as small as a set of plates that reminded them of the first slice of pie Scully ever served him.

After weeks making their slow, laborious way to the coast and bartering passage across the Channel, Mulder and Scully were faced with the daunting task of locating Maggie Scully. Mother and daughter had arranged ahead of time, should they ever have to flee, to meet in London, but still, it took nearly a month of combing shelters and information centers before they were finally reunited. By then, Scully's pregnancy was perfectly obvious... but in her overwhelming joy at being together again with her daughter, Maggie was all too happy to simply smile and nod at Scully's story of their being married before the baby had been conceived.

Mulder is relatively certain Maggie didn't believe a word of it.

After the war had ended and travel by sea was once again safe, they had booked passage to America, staying first with Scully's brother Bill in Boston, then with her brother Charlie in Norfolk, before finally finding, falling in love with, and purchasing the shuttered restaurant in Georgetown. Unlike its French counterpart, this cafe has two floors above it with an apartment on each. Maggie Scully lives on the top floor... but most days, she's kept plenty busy in the second floor apartment.

As Mulder clears stack of dirty dishes from an abandoned table and turns to carry them into the kitchen, he catches sight of a pair of bright blue eyes peering at him from behind the counter. He smiles in spite of himself, darts around the counter, and scoops the giggling little girl up into his arms.

"Did you sneak away from your grand-mere again?" he asks her, and she gives him a nod and a mischievous smile in response. Shaking his head, he carries the wiggling child into the kitchen, where Scully is assembling a tray of pastries to bring out to a customer. "We've had another jailbreak," he says, and she looks up, sighing.

"Again, Claire?" Claire responds with another giggle. "Maman is going to have to put a leash on her before long," Scully says, dusting her hands off on her apron. "You won't have as much time to be chasing her back upstairs come September." In just a few weeks, Scully will only be working in the cafe in the evenings and on Saturdays. During the day, her medical school classes will be keeping her plenty busy... and soon enough, she won't be working in the cafe at all. Mulder and Maggie have promised to keep the cafe running once Scully is practicing medicine, which was the only way she would agree to resume her studies.

In the evening, when the last cup of coffee has been drunk and the last customer has left, Scully goes out front to roll up the awning and lock the door. Mulder takes one last stack of dirty dishes back to the sink, then returns to close the front drapes. As he approaches the window, he sees Scully outside, leaning against the doorframe, looking up at the cafe's sign, visible to them now with the awning rolled back. Mulder steps out the door and stands with her, his arm around her shoulders. She leans into him and they both gaze up at the white wooden whale swinging above the front windows.

They had left a forwarding address every time they had moved on, but they had never really expected to receive any letters. Nearly everyone Scully had known perished that night in Oradour-Sur-Glane, and Mulder knows better than to expect to hear from his parents ever again. So when the large, flat package had shown up six months ago, it had taken them all by surprise. The postmark originated in France, and showed that it had arrived in London and had been forwarded to each of their subsequent addresses before arriving on their doorstep in Georgetown.

The contents of the package had been nothing short of a miracle, in more ways than one.

The sign was no longer white, the paint having bubbled and flaked off in the heat, but the wood itself was relatively undamaged. Mulder and Scully had sanded off the few burned patches, painted it white, and carefully stenciled on the sign's original inscription. There had been no letter accompanying the sign, but they both know exactly who sent it.

Somehow, whether by convincing Spender that he had been shot by Mulder, or by escaping all together, Walther Skinner survived.

A wooden sign and a surviving spy are, in the face of so much loss, relatively small victories, but with the nightmares of June the tenth still haunting them, Mulder and Scully are grateful for any victories at all.

"Ready to go in?" Mulder asks Scully now, pulling her out of her reverie. She smiles up at him and nods, then stretches up to kiss him. Together, they switch off the front light, shut the curtained door, and lock it behind them.

Cafe Pequod is closed for the night.

#Au Cafe Pequod #My Fic

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cabiba · 3 years

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It’s usually the smaller items that convey the biggest news. A few years ago Le Monde reported a study that found seven out of ten French people to be living in the region of France in which they were born. That finding surprised many people, including the reporter involved. After all, we think we live in a transitory world, yet a huge number of people still spend their entire lives close to home. Around 60% of British people live no more than 30 miles from where they resided as fourteen-year-olds. No matter which university you visit, you’ll always find a research group focusing on mobility in some form or other, usually migration. It’s very rare, however, to find a team of researchers looking at immobility, even though only 3% of the world’s population is made up of immigrants. In Western Europe and the United States, those born in another country account for around 15% of the population, on average, and although it would be wrong to dismiss the changes that migration brings, clearly most people in any given country are not migrants. This tendency to ignore the majority represents a blind spot that might almost be called a prejudice: mobility is good, immobility bad. It applies at the individual level as well as being an injunction aimed at large groups. The crossing of borders brings progress, since mixing keeps cultures alive. Who would deny that the urge to create and the exploration of boundaries go hand in hand? And yet the number of international marriages remains limited. Few people leave their homeland to go and work in a foreign country. Few Europeans have sufficient command of another language to use it to discuss profound differences of opinion. More importantly, a sense of lifelong responsibility towards others does not travel well across borders. Despite all the stories about the virtual world we inhabit, proximity continues to matter. Indeed, we rarely stop to think about it, but in everyday speech we use countless images that involve space: the political landscape, left and right, the opening up of a horizon, the path to the future, the centre ground. Terms like marketplace, battlefield, fault line and domain are more than merely specifications of place, and we sometimes describe grief as a journey, or troubled periods in our personal lives as an uphill struggle. Post-1989 claims about the “end of history” — the idea that liberal democracy would inevitably win more and more terrain – were accompanied by the notion of the “end of geography”, a sense that distances would evaporate in the global village. Neither proved well-founded; democracy no longer seems inevitably universal, and we all live in worlds that are in many respects still confined. Today it is no coincidence that the liberal paradigm is under pressure in the countries that most clearly embody it as a worldview: the United States and Britain. The British people’s decision to leave the European Union and the election of Donald Trump in that same year are often, and rightly, mentioned in the same breath. It’s precisely in countries that see themselves as the advance guard of globalisation that the call for protectionism is loudest, or at any rate louder than in continental Europe, which has always wanted to practise a more moderate form of liberalism. Populist parties have exposed social and cultural fault lines that we need to take seriously. Such movements are usually placed under the heading of “populism”, but “protectionism” would be a rather more accurate label. This causes considerable confusion, because protectionist parties are difficult to classify as either Left or Right. After all, the Rassemblement National and the FPÖ present themselves as defenders of the welfare state and oppose, for example, raising the pension age. A new fault line has therefore emerged on the political spectrum: internationalism versus protectionism. Not long after the European Parliamentary elections in 2014, I heard a former European commissioner at an international conference in Copenhagen say, “While 30% make the noise, 70% continue to make the laws.” In response I asked: how can we be so sure that the 30% will remain a minority? And would it not be a good idea to take those voters seriously? Have we not learnt that democracy must ensure minorities are represented? Doing away with internal borders without putting in place effective controls at the external border is one reason why the EU has struggled to contain populism. In a speech, the president of the European Union, Herman Van Rompuy, acknowledged this deficit: “Europe, the friend of freedom and space is seen as a threat to protection and place. We need to get the balance right. It is essential for the Union to be also on the protecting side.” The ongoing coronavirus pandemic has only sharpened the tension between the removal of borders and this need for protection. Indeed, although huge progress has been made since the Second World War in conquering infectious disease, globalisation has also created the preconditions for a rapidly spreading pandemic. In Epidemics and Society, medical historian Frank Snowden described the long history of diseases such as bubonic plague, cholera, malaria, polio and tuberculosis. All these forms of pestilence stretch back centuries, but he regards the third plague pandemic, which began in 1894 in Hong Kong, as the first truly global spread of infection. Within six years the disease reached five continents, mainly through major port cities. After decades of intense globalisation and urbanisation, our intrinsic vulnerability to infection has increased, despite better diagnosis and vaccines. “Epidemic diseases are an ineluctable part of the human condition,” Snowden writes: “and modernity, with its vast population, teeming cities, and rapid means of transport between them, guarantees that the infectious diseases that afflict one country have the potential to affect all.” As a traditional saying from the shipping industry goes, one leak is enough to capsize an ocean steamer if no bulkheads have been built in the hold. The unlimited mobility characteristic of our era has many unintended consequences: a local infection in China can translate into a worldwide outbreak in just a few months, killing millions and throwing many more out of work. These days we should be making a thorough study of chaos theory, which tells us that a butterfly flapping its wings in China can cause a hurricane in Texas. Sure enough, one damned bat from Wuhan brought the whole world to a standstill. Countries have become more and more economically interlinked. It is of course a great advantage not to have to produce everything yourself, but the outbreak of coronavirus also shows the drawbacks of such dependency. A reduction in supplies from India and China can lead to a shortage of pharmaceuticals: 80% of the drugs sold worldwide come from those two countries. Would we not do better to produce essential medicines ourselves? One immediate lesson from the coronavirus pandemic is that we need to take a critical look at global dependencies. It is not easy to navigate between a poorly understood cosmopolitanism and a new protectionism. Mobility can increase only if there are enough people who feel a bond with a place. In fluid circumstances everything dissolves — why would this not apply to freedom? The greatest challenge is to ensure that the mobility characteristic of our time can be reconciled with citizens’ rights. In this borderless world, markets and morality reinforce each other, since borders and regulations are obstacles to both commerce and human rights. Hence businesspeople and idealists speak the same borderless language, of tearing down walls but also of tearing up the social contract, too, since it also takes shape within borders. Italian novelist and cultural critic Alessandro Baricco nicely summed up this worldview when he said that, “Everything that has need of the steadfastness of immobility ultimately gets a twentieth-century stench and later a vaguely ominous sound as well.” Baricco’s conclusion was to “Boycott borders, tear down all walls, set up one open space in which everything must circulate. Demonize immobility.” We often hear people expressing concern about the borders of freedom. Here I want to lay the emphasis on the freedom of the border. We need to learn to deal with the tension between openness and protection, a tension that is part and parcel of any lively democracy. An open society cannot exist if there is no middle ground. For the average citizen, globalisation has a wide range of consequences: alongside interaction and prosperity, we see alienation and inequality. Pleas for open borders and pleas for closed borders are increasingly at odds, which does not bode well. If these fault lines become even more firmly fixed within our societies, and people feel forced to choose between two extremes, then it’s clear where most people will end up: on the side not of cosmopolitanism but of nationalism.

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