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stripper-patrick · 3 years

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Heaven 🇫🇷Florian Munteanu

Warnings: language, smut, nsfw

Song- Streets: Doja Cat

Tags: @rebellious-desires @mrsbanreswillseeyou @eclecticblkgirl @designerwriterchic @bvssmob

Relationship: Florian Munteanu x black plus sized reader

My alarm goes off and I happily get up getting ready for our trip to Paris. I go to the bathroom wetting my face with warm water seeing as cold water just makes me mad. I exfoliate my face and lips before moving on to brush my teeth and swish some mouthwash.

I hop in the shower scrubbing, shaving, and exfoliating my body with my warm vanilla sugar scented soap from bath and body works. I rinse off the soap and step out applying coconut oil to my damp body then applying the matching warm vanilla sugar lotion to lock in the moisture. I’m black we gotta stay hydrated and mind out business.

I put on some deodorant and face moisturizer grabbing a black bra and some burgundy rhinestone Brazilian panties. I grab the outfit laid on my nearby chair and my Nike air 270’s. I sit at my vanity doing a light makeup look and adding some Vaseline for that shine affect on my lips. I decide to tie up my long braids in a cute little bun and I see my phone buzz. I swipe right and answer Florian’s call “good morning” I smile

“Good morning” my breath physically catches in my throat at his deep raspy morning voice. “Are you ready?”

“Yes I am”

“Oh and be sure to have something nice we’re going to brunch with my family”

“Oh ok” I nod. I did pack some fancy outfits because it’s Paris who wouldn’t but I know China hasn’t met his family yet. “So do you fight tonight?”

“No tomorrow. And we’ll be staying with my parents at their house”

“We’re not staying in a hotel?”

“No” he chuckles

“Ok then”

....

I park my car on a vacant lot seeing a singular airplane and Florian sitting on the steps. I get out and my jaw is dropped to the core of the earth.

“Hey baby girl” he jogs over hugging me and I’m too in shock to even acknowledge the nickname. I pop the trunk and grab my suitcase before he takes it from me “I could’ve got it”

“For what I’m here. You look good”

“Thank you” I smile “so you own this plane?”

“Kinda me and my brother went half on it. You’ll get to meet him later” he winks. Flo takes my luggage to the flight attendants and holds my hand leading me into the spacious red leather interior of the plane.

“This is dope Flo” I say

“Thank you” we sit across from each other and the flight attendant brings us champagne in a glass.

I take a sip and I can taste how expensive it is.

“So how long will this flight be?”

“About 12 hours” I sigh as we take off.

“Well how do we pass time?” He cocks up his eyebrow Suggestively and I smile.

...

“Ok how old were you when you lost your virginity?” I ask looking over. We’ve now moved next to each other giggling from the champagne.

“15” he answers. We’re playing a game of truth or strip. It’s simple. If you don’t wanna answer your truth you have to strip. Better than truth or dare. He has taken off his socks, shirt and watch and I took off my biker shorts and socks.

“Oh” I nod “if you had to choose between me and Brad Pitt to have sex with who would it be”

“Can I choose both?” I laugh

“Nope”

“Ok I would choose you” I laugh “I don’t know Brad like that or how good he is”

“How do you know I’m good in bed?” he leans getting closer.

“Aside from the details China tells me I can tell you know how to use what you got”

“What do you mean?” He smiles.

“You know what I mean” I laugh. Deep down I want him to prove me right but that would be completely outta line.

“I need an example” all of a sudden I’m shy but not to shy to bite my tongue.

“Like your tongue you look like you know how to use it in the best way” He doesn’t say anything he just stares at me. I feel myself leaning in. He’s leaning too. Our lips attach and it was like a flame was set off in my body. I’m frozen but my lips are still moving in sync with his.

Flo’s large hand caresses thigh then bring them in my underwear rubbing slowly at my clit. I moan in his mouth and he speeds up. Out of instinct I try to close my thighs arching my back but he keeps a good grip. He slips a finger in and starts kissing my neck. I moan out but the flash of my best friends face crosses my mind and I place my hands on his shoulders and stop all movements.

“You’re with China” I say breathing heavily. He nods looking down and my clit is throbbing and so badly I want so much more but I know I’d feel the worse whether China found out or not.

“You’re right I’m sorry” he nods taking his hand out of my underwear. His fingertip is wet with my juices and I let out a puff of air holding my head in my hands. I grab my pants and we redress ourselves before sitting back down. I sigh closing my eyes getting comfortable. All I can think about is his head between my legs and him being dominant and absolutely man-handling me. I open my eyes again looking out the window at the dark night sky.

‘Something takes over me and I straddle Flo and grab his arms wrapping them around me. I grab his face kissing him and he grinds me against his hard on. He’s quick to pull off my underwear and shimmy down his pants just a little bit. The tip inserts through my walls and I-‘

“Y/N you should probably get some rest” I snap out of my thoughts and he’s just staring at me.

“Yea you’re right” he stands to grabbing two blankets from the closet. He hands me one and I give off a small smile and a thank you. I pull the heavy soft blanket over my body up to my chin before taking a deep breath that transitions me into a deep sleep.

...

I wake up just at sunrise to see Florian asleep. He looks peaceful when he’s asleep. I look out the window watching the beautiful sky. It’s painted a mix of pink purple and yellow in the cleanest way.

I smile and stand up stretching my legs and back. There’s a big window at the back of the plane and I walk back there folding my arms just looking.

I feel arms around my waist and Florian’s hand slides up my neck to my jaw bringing my lips to his. I can’t help but kiss back now. This is so wrong but it feels so right.

I turn my body taking in his embrace and his hands go down to my butt giving it a light squeeze. He stops kissing me and walks away back to his seat. I watch his eyes close and I go sitting next to him. I lay my head on his shoulder. He wraps his arm around me and I lay on his chest drifting to sleep once again.

...

We are just getting off the plane in the warm climate of France. Considering it’s spring there’s a slight chill in the air making me put on a light jacket. Flo grabs our bags taking it to the car and the driver gets out. He looks like Flo honestly. Not as tall but still over 6 feet, green hazel eyes, pretty smile. The have a resemblance towards each other. Florian gives him a big hug with a laugh “how’ve you been?” The guy asks

“I’ve been good. This is Y/N. Y/N this is my brother Daniel” he opens his arms and I give him a big hug.

“Nice to meet you” he smiles

“Nice to meet you too”

“How’s China” he glances at me smiling

“She’s great” he nods

“Good well let’s not waste any time let’s go” he nods. I get in the backseat and I see a woman in the front. “Hi I’m Amelia” she introduces. Perfect skin, long legs, gorgeous blonde hair. She’s a model.

“Hi I’m Y/N” she smiles sweetly and turns around. Florian sits next to me and his brother gets in the driver seat as we pull off in the beautiful city of Paris. Or as I like to call it, Heaven.

As we go through I’m glued to the window tapping Flo’s thigh every time I see something cool like mimes, flowers, and even puppies. I notice Flo’s hand on my thigh and I want to move it so badly for the sake of just feeling bad but I can’t. This feels so good.

We arrive at the house shortly after and it’s huge to say the least. I get out and Daniel opens the trunk. I go to grab my bag and Florian smacks my hand. My jaw drops with a laugh emitting from both of us while Daniel and his wife walk by.

“I’ll get it” he says. He picks up my suitcase and his as well rolling both of them into the house. I’m still enjoying the exterior. An older gentleman comes out looking at me. I walk up to him and a huge smile spreads across his face. “Are you English?” His thick accent much like Flo’s emits through his perfect teeth.

“Close. American. I’m Y/N, Florian’s friend”

“No girlfriend?” His thick accent doesn’t stop the curiosity but still love coming from him.

“No she’s at home” I smile. He extends his arms pulling me in for a hug. He smells like teakwood and a little bit of backwoods.

“We have dinner tonight. You like goat?”

“Never tried it” I laugh. He wraps his arm around my shoulder walking me into his house “your house is beautiful”

“Thank you. Me and my wife built it when Daniel was born” he explains “from the ground up and this is one house I will never get rid of”

“I’m just in love with it” an older woman appears with broad shoulders and a disgusted look on her face staring right into my soul.

“Who this?” She asks pointing to me. I hate when people wave their fingers in my face it makes me wanna fight. But for her sake I’ll chalk it up to a culture difference.

“Diana this is Y/N Florian’s friend” his father speaks “oh my apologies my name is Emilio”

“You think you’re good enough for my son?”

“Excuse me?”

“Ma stop” Florian scolds “what the hell is wrong with you”

“I apologize she can be a handful sometimes. Which is why we’re separated” Emilio says to me. I can’t help but giggle and he shows me around more with Flo behind us.

...

I get out the steamy shower and a knock comes at my door. I open it slightly seeing its Florian dressed in a Nike tracksuit. I’m only in a towel and I smile at him. “Hey you look good” I step aside allowing him in and he shuts the door sitting on the bed.

“Thanks” he answers “you look better. I think my mom will love that” he laughs

“Funny” I smile sarcastically laughing to myself

“Y/N I’m sorry but I just can’t help myself when I’m around you. Every time even when all of us like me you and China are together I want to make you mine and I know that’s your best friend-“ I cut him off with a kiss. That’s that wrenching feeling inside of me knowing I’m going to hurt my best friend is strong. But my feelings for him are stronger. What we have built is too strong for me to just walk away.

“Let’s just have fun this weekend and we’ll see where to go from there” I reassure him. Florian slides his hand up my thigh dangerously close to my bare pussy. Before he moves any higher I push his hand away “I have to get ready”

“Alright alright” he stands up “just meet me downstairs” he kisses my head and I shut the door behind him. I sigh shaking my head ridding myself of the thought that betrays myself and my best friend the most. I go in my suitcase grabbing the short casual t-shirt dress I brought. It accentuates my curves but still is simple.

I grab some sandals sliding those on and snapping the strap to my ankle. I take one last look in the mirror before opening the door to his mother standing right in front of me. “Hi?” I respond in more of a question like tone

“Are you going to Florians fight in 2 days?” She asks

“I am” she rolls her eyes muttering something under her breath. “What was that?” I call out daring her to say it again. People, especially older people, need to realize respect isn’t given it’s earned and if you put me in a position where I have every right to disrespect you, then that’s that.

“Take your ass back on the plane and go home. My son doesn’t need you” Just then I hear Florian yell and he comes up the stairs.

“Let’s go Y/N” he grabs my hand but I yank it away too heated in the moment to understand he means good.

“Nah she wanna sit here and keep disrespecting me. I’ve had enough. Me and him aren’t-“ Florian picks me up taking me downstairs where he sets me down on my feet. His hands are still clad at my waist as I fume.

“I’m tired of her talking to me like she’s lost her gotdamn mind”

“Just don’t let her get to you. I’ll talk to her later tonight. Please” he begs. I sigh and he pulls me in for a tight hug. I take a deep breath of his cologne gathering my thoughts. I let go and walk in front of him to the kitchen earning a swat to my behind. I shake my head and we approach the table full of others. They all stare at me including his mother sitting at the end. I sit down and Flo sits next to me. The maids bring out an appetizer and it’s an orange soup. I grab my spoon taking a sip and it’s delicious.

“This is called a zuppa toscana” Emilio says “something my mother used to make me and my brothers all the time” he smiles. The family engulfs themselves in chatty conversations and I continue sipping on my soup. Flashbacks of the plane and Florian rubbing my pussy keep hitting me creating a waterfall in my panties. I can already feel their soaked through. I stretch my hand on his thigh lightly resting it there. Florian glances at me before going back to his food. I move my hand on top of his crotch rubbing lightly making a firm grip. I feel his thigh twitch and his hazel turn into a dark brown. I keep rubbing him through his pants feeling him harden. I keep rubbing until the chef comes out of the kitchen.

“The food is taking some time but it will be out shortly” the chef announces smiling.

“Perfect Y/N come with me” Florian grabs my hand dragging me with him throughout the house.

He opens the big glass door and lets me out first. I look around seeing we’ve entered a beautiful garden. “This is gorgeous” he shuts the door and grabs my hand not saying a word. Florian leads me through it to a bench in front of some flowers. I bite my lip and he wraps his hand around my throat sealing any space between us with a kiss. His hands move to my butt giving it a nice squeeze. I gasp feeling his tongue slip in my mouth. I feel dizzy and hot. I’m not sure who’s air I’m breathing anymore. He lets go and I suck in a breath of air as Florian sits on the bench. He pulls my dress off tearing off the thin fabric of my lace thong. He sits me on his lap and I wrap my arms around his broad shoulders. I grind along his hard-on as he grips the back of my neck holding me in a powerful kiss. I lift my dress up pulling my underwear to the side while he unbuckles his pants. Florian lets out a big girthy dick and I watch as it pulsates and leaked with precum.

I grab ahold of it and glide myself onto him feeling his dick expand my walls gracefully. Once I’m fully on him Florian grabs my hips digging into them guiding me to ride him. This increases my pleasure somehow.

“I’ve waited for this for so long” he moans bucking my hips faster. I bounce my ass and my acrylics glide through his short hair. My breath is caught in my throat by how fast I’m going and how big he is. My hands move to his chest and I let out that first succulent moan. Florian rolls my hips faster attaching his lips to my neck heightening my pleasure. I claw at his chest hearing his deep voice rumble in my neck “I’ve wanted this tight pussy around my cock and in my mouth since I first met you”

My moans get louder hearing his vulgarity and my legs begin shaking from the pressure building in my center. Florian holds me down with one arm and his other hand snakes up to my mouth silencing my moans. Somehow this makes this rendezvous 10x hotter. He starts pounding me out from below and the only thing you can hear is skin slapping on skin and his low grunts and moans.

“Are you gonna cum on me?” I nod furiously trying to push away from his death grip. The pounding becoming too much “uh uh take this dick”

I have no choice but to sit there and take it. My entire body tensed and I begin my convulsions while gripping on the bottom of his shirt. He takes his hand off my mouth and I instantly move to his neck where loud moans are muffled in his shirt. “Fuck I’m gonna cum” I hop off to the best of my ability and get on my knees. I grab the base of his dick jerking it hard while sucking on the tip. Before I know it warm, bitterness is brought into my mouth while he grips the edge of the bench moaning. He’s gripping so hard that his knuckles are turning white.

“That’s my girl” I milk him dry and keep sucking until he’s begging me to stop. I come off his member with a pop and smile at him. Florian grabs my throat giving me a wet sloppy nasty kiss.

“You’re so nasty” he smiles “I love it”

I pull my dress down and discard my underwear in my bra. Florian fixes himself and I see the door open. It’s the chef.

“The food is ready. I was told you might be out here since it’s your favorite spot”

“Yes thank you. Just showing her the flowers” he extends his hand and I walk in front of him. The chef leaves the door open walking away and I giggle to myself thinking of what we just did. I’m gonna beat myself up later about it.

#smut #fluff #florian munteanu x reader #florian munteanu #big nasty #florian munteanu smut #series

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pyroclaststan · 3 years

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“Am I ever gonna get your name?” Ricardo asks, sunset lit like amber against his bronzed brown skin, reminiscent of a painting you’ve seen somewhere by someone who will never catch the colours vividly enough by comparison to what’s before you.

A hard swallow follows that thought—the movement most likely caught with your mask raised as it is. The perspiring rim of your beer sends beads of water that cut paths against the grime that has settled onto your lips and chin.

You are, as always, thinking too much.

Hearing and feeling and seeing too much. Like the burgundy blush across the cheeks of a man who’s only heat and fevers have come from a hard day’s heroics, port infections, and the lipsticks of tabloid flings.

You’re still doing it.

“I know: I ask too much, too often,” he continues in a softer tone, “but I’d really, really like to know. You’ve gotta be someone other than ‘Sidestep.’ Who’s under the mask?”

It’s almost an aside with the way his voice goes far too soft, as if the question were more of a prayer to some distant deity listening far too closely to the business of mortal men. He stumbles on, uncharacteristically hesitant enough for you to know he’s sincere: he’s trying his best to patient when he’s only ever been about being on the move. Charge changing pace?

He’s speaking like you do. Less stutter though.

You tilt the bottle upwards and let the bitter hops wash down panic that threatens to lodge itself in your throat and choke you. It seems that beneath the bile and nerves, it’s actually words holding themselves hostage in your mouth. A taste far more bitter than anything Ortega has ever brought you to drink.

But isn’t he right? You have to be someone at the end of it all. You have to be someone right now: no more mimicking and miming and piecemealing from the minds you pick like carrion to get through the day. You have to be you, whoever that’s going to be.

You swish once, then twice, letting the mouthful swirl around your brain as you fish for answers with your tongue. A swallow of decision.

It’s an unintentionally hard sigh that slips through your lips. You will regret this: not because of him, but because you will not live up to the humanity a name will give you. Or so you think.

You do think too much.

“Kingsley.” The word—the name—comes too easily and unbidden to your mouth and sits too heavily in the air.

That’s probably a foolish name, a suspicious name... definitely a name meaning little-to-nothing for someone self-made. Now that you’re actually thinking, it probably sounds as fake as your presence in his life, and your dread is palpable as he mouths it, tasting the authenticity of it. Perhaps setting it against the memories he has of you that he has yet to admit to having, or against some cover name he’d heard you called back when you were another rough soul on the streets.

“Kingsley,” he repeats with an air of breathlessness, of reverence, of relevance you’ve never thought yourself owed nor deserving of.

It’s a single word, your word—your name—yet it knocks the breath from you. Feels right, despite it all. And more so, it feels safe on his tongue, locked away behind his lips or the brilliant grin he shines your way, somehow eclipsing the blinding glow of the Los Diablos sun.

You stop thinking so much, probably still too much, but the thoughts aren’t threatening in the way they were earlier. The hum from Ortega’s mind, mods, and mouth is grounding in a way you hadn’t expected of the electric hero. Everything is duller yet more crisp in the same moment, buzzing almost. Not as tense as before.

Now is your focus on the cool glass in your hands, moistening your glove’s fabric and resting in your palm like relief.

Now is the almost musical tune to the way he whispers your name over and over under his breath as if trying to find the perfect tone to it, accompanied by the rhythm your dangling leg taps away at against the side of the roof.

You’ve never sat this still since your life started.

But now is filled with the static that builds in the air, his feelings reflecting in his mods that make his hands almost crackle with electricity—he didn’t protect his exposed palm ports from his wet bottle.

You’re not sure if the charge in the air is that alone, but you’ve no intention to even mention that.

A soft chuckle reverberates in his throat and despite any kind of telepathic connection due to the storm cloud of his mind, you could swear you almost feel it in your own, too. A curious thing from a mind you’ll never know; thoughts and jokes and ideas that pass by you whether you know it or not. Privacy, secrecy. Exciting, terrifying.

He glances your way as you take another sip, then turns a little more, striking a sort of pose as he bends his knee and leans his arm against it, resting his head against his hand. Nothing good will come from his buzz. The grin on his face has replaced his previous expression from wonder to down-right mischief.

“So,” he drawls along, sing-songy, “Will I ever get a last name too?”

“Good night, Ricardo Ortega,” you say with finality, but not without a tone of amusement. Also rubbing it in a little, you can’t resist being an ass in the face of his charms sometimes.

Charms? No no no, his attempts to be charming.

On that note, you finish the rest of your drink quicker than necessary, setting the bottle between the two of you just a little too hard. You stand, keeping a careful balance on at the roof’s ledge, unfurling your limbs to your full height with a stretch and shaking out the numbness and tingles from the way you ball yourself up.

“See you, uh… see you in the next fight.”

Ricardo looks up at you, almost gilded—certainly golden; you’ll never visit another museum again. After his presence, you know they’ll never do beauty any justice. None of those paintings or artefacts would alight the same flame in you as they used to: they don’t carry the same impact as an evening on a Los Diablo rooftop. You suppose that means something, but you’ve yet to figure it out. Or maybe you’re just ignoring it, equally likely.

Something’s changed you think.

Ortega is still there, still watching you with some expression you’ve avoided too much to know.

“Looking forward to it… Kingsley,” he tries out, smiling, satisfied. You could swear his face grew a little brighter.

And with that, you’re off, running and vaulting across the gaps of the buildings, moving freely up and down the heights of roofs and fire escapes and whatever else you can find purchase on. Free running in an attempt to outpace whatever it is that nips on your heels and churns in your stomach.

Kingsley. You let out a breathless chuckle, not entirely devoid of mirth but a little exasperated with how you gave in to him. Again. You’re stuck with that one now.

Ricardo sits there, staying behind, watching you go, wondering what kind of place you rest in when he’s not attached to your hip or settled against your back. He wonders what kind of people take care of you or watch your back in his absence. He hopes you don’t have to do it all alone.

He also knows you’d prefer it if you did, but it just sounds lonely. You feel lonely. Like you could use someone who won’t just let you push them away.

He won’t let go that easily, not when he sees how soft and how warm you can be underneath it all.

He thinks he’d like to meet the real you, underneath it all.

“Kingsley.”

The taste of your name sits so sweet against his lips that it clashes against the beer on his tongue: he couldn’t remember having purchased something so bitter. Something with so much bite.

Right. It had reminded him of you. He’d pick a different one next time.

With your absence the night feels like it’s getting colder, faster—like the drinks are going flat and the air tasting stale. Probably just the tiredness catching up to him: he sees a lot more action-packed days when his partner is cracking skulls alongside him. Partner. He’s got to admit, it’s nice to have someone outside the team watching his back—even a vigilante—when you’re Marshal. It’s not a paycheck, or a duty, it’s choice you made.

Just like you giving him your name. You could’ve said no: you’re never shy about doing so. It wasn’t a nickname, a shortened version, a riddle. Just you.

His cheeks and stomach are both a little warmer at that, and he stands up to shake it all off and get moving. The last hour had been more eventful than any fight they’d picked today. Sure, it wasn’t a whole lot of conversation, with Sidestep—Kingsley—it never was, but it had felt like more was said than ever before.

It feels like something has shifted.

Probably just the balance between the two of you, now that he’s finally receiving knowledge about you in return. Not that he’s minded giving more than you have: the best things take the most work, offer the most challenge. Except you’re not work.

He’s thinking too much—he does that, he’s told.

So he lets his mind wander. Tracing back to past moments, little confessions, brief gestures, and all the small things that mean more with Kingsley than anyone else on Earth.

“Too much,” he chuckles internally, but unwilling to stop.

Something’s shifting.

#The Mischief Scribbles #Fallen Hero: Rebirth #FH:R #FH: Rebirth #fanfic #MC: Kingsley Chrysanta #Ricardo Ortega #Chargestep #firstly: look! something soft instead of sad!!#secondly: I promise I’m still writing lol I’ve just gotta transfer everything from phone notes to tumblr and then clean it #Sidestep #pre-Rebirth #long post

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ravenwingdarkii · 3 years

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BNHA Ch 303 Coda Todoroki talks to Bakugo

(because we didn’t get the one sided bakugo and deku convo we were hoping for. Oops, it’s whump)

Moments after Best Jeanist and Hawks left Endeavor’s room, the atmosphere, well, it didn’t relax, this was the first time the (majority of) the Todoroki family was in one room together after all, but it settled into a heavy tension Shoto was accustomed to.

Then there came yelling and screaming that Todoroki was also, unfortunately accustomed to.

“DEKU YOU FUCKING BASTARD!!”

The yell jolted most of the Todoroki family slightly, but Shoto simply turned to look in the direction of the door. It seemed Bakugo was awake as well. He’d heard from Kirishima and the others that he was going to be fine, but hearing him screaming was another matter. He’d expected a few more hours before...this.

“WHY THE HELL AM I AWAKE WHEN YOU’RE STILL SLEEPING, HUH?!”

Then there was shouting from a host of their other classmates, and what sounded like a scuffle broke out. Shoto listened for the pop of explosions as he headed toward the door, but there weren’t any. By the time Shoto had entered the hallway, Bakugo had been dragged down the hallway, presumably back to his own room, tied up in Asui’s tongue.

So he was looking for Midoriya, then. Shoto closed his eyes as the image of Bakugo pushing Midoriya out of the way of Shigaraki’s tendrils pierced his mind. The confusing amalgamation of relief and pure terror-

He shook his head. He almost wanted to stop his classmates dragging Bakugo away. And if Bakugo could force his way in to see Midoriya, then Shoto could probably get in by following Bakugo’s wake of destruction. But it wasn’t as if he could stop or even get the attention of his classmates, short of using his quirk in the hallway.

He lowered his hand and watched blandly as Bakugo was dragged back to his room by a force of over-protective classmates as Bakugo continued to yell incoherently. Just as they rounded the corner, Bakugo managed to get a hand free and pointed straight at Shoto, yelling something he couldn’t make out over their classmate’s raised voices.

Shoto stood in the hallway for several moments, considering his options. The threshold back into his father’s room was seeming to be an unpassable barrier. He saw Natsuo watching him out of the corner of his eye. Endeavor was still collecting himself. His mother was inside, calm and placid as a frozen sea. His instincts still told him he couldn’t allow himself to leave them in the same room together. Just as he was gathering the strength he didn’t have to rejoin them, his sister leaned forward to give him the shoo-ing motion.

Bewildered, he watched her repeat the action again, more forcefully, before his feet were leading him down the hallway toward his room. The meaning was clear in a way only a school teacher could be- get out of here. He technically shouldn’t have been out of bed either. If the nursing staff weren’t so brutally overworked at the moment, getting caught might have actually been a concern.

He didn’t make it to his room, only because he found a window, and from that window he could make out the street, which, of course, was full of reporters. Reporters because of the message D--Touya had put on national TV. Possibly the biggest hero scandal of all time. He watched the figures move and shift for several long moments before continuing on, past his own room in a haze. He wondered how long it would take for them to abate, weeks, months, or if the shadow of his father’s doings would shadow him his whole life, as he’d once feared.

He couldn’t leave the hero wing, or even the secured floor, media and all. He knew he shouldn’t have even left his room. There were injured heroes on this very floor that would be very angry at his family. People who lost friends by his brother’s hand. His fist clenched, the bandages squeezing painfully across his burns. His head began to swim. Burns his brother- that Touya, who was alive-- who had burned himself alive, who had tried to burn him to- he was alive. And because Shoto had been born, he’d burned-

“Half and half? You fucking lived, too, huh?”

Shoto only became aware of his own harsh breathing when he heard Bakugo’s voice from the room he’d been trying to pass. He passed a rough hand across his eyes quickly, trying to clear the haziness and dizziness that had encroached. He took a few seconds to recollect himself before he backed up a step to be in view of the open door and peer in.

It was Bakugo’s room but the others who’d dragged him back into his room were gone now and he seemed to have cooled off marginally, though it easily could have been due to blood loss. He was at least sitting up in bed, and though most of his body was unscathed, Shoto knew the major damage was to his torso, after all, he’d been trying to keep his blood from soaking the battleground just two days ago. The blond boy had a breathing mask on his side table that he was clearly meant to be using, judging by the fact the machine was still on. But seeing as he didn’t seem to be following any medical orders, he didn’t know why this one would be different.

Shoto pointed to the machine questioningly anyway. Bakugo’s face scrunched up in a unique mix of outrage and confusion only he could achieve.

“What the hell are you doing, half-face?”

Shoto sighed inwardly and stepped into the doorway. In his quietest voice he managed. “You...sh-should-” he cut himself off when what felt like ash crept up into his throat.

“Eh?! What was that? I can’t fucking hear you?!”

Inwardly rolling his eyes, Shoto walked up to Bakugo’s beside and tapped insistently on the machine. He hadn’t intended on being the hospital police but here he was anyway.

“We-ar,” Shoto managed quietly. He hadn’t intended on speaking anymore but his throat closed up on him anyway leaving him trying to very calmly breathe out of his nose and wait for the pain in his throat to pass. He’d overdone it badly when talking to his father, but his voice was his least concern in that situation.

Bakugo was looking at him like he was trying not to yell some more and was piecing something together, because of course he was. He was scary smart.

Shoto rolled his eyes, which did wonders in releasing some of the tension building in his body, and took a seat before his shaky body could decide to take one for him. He’d powered through where he’d needed to though, so he didn’t have regrets there. But his adrenaline was spent and now he was sitting silently in Bakugo’s room like a wallflower as the other boy fumed.

“What’s wrong with your voice? Did your shitheel of a brother do something?”

Shoto just stared levelly at Bakugo, inclining his head slightly in agreement. Then, as an afterthought, pointed to the bandages on his neck.

Bakugo stared back for a few long seconds, which made Shoto suddenly feel self-conscious about how he looked like he’d just climbed out of a furnace, and it wasn’t too far from the truth.

“Don’t expect me to pull out any JSL knowledge or anything, Icyhot. It’s your own fault for coming and following me and the nerd into that shitstorm,” Bakugo grunted, finally turning away.

Shoto didn’t know much either, and his hands were damaged enough he couldn’t write well, so he certainly couldn’t sign clearly either. He wished he could, or that he hadn’t been so in shock to see his mom visiting that he’d remembered his phone. Suddenly the prospect of getting his phone, literally one room over, was too much to consider.

So he couldn’t say anything he wished he could back and instead tried to see if he could get some answers. He tapped the side table with a finger to draw Bakugo’s gaze again. The looking away wasn’t going to work right now. Shoto had a hundred questions floating around in his head, mostly about Midoriya, mostly ones Bakugo couldn’t answer. He sat there helplessly for a moment before he pointed at Bakugo and tilted his head.

“I’m fucking great, asshole. I’m pissed that worthless nerd isn’t up yet. The gall of that bastard, sleeping in like this.” Bakugo started getting up again and Shoto rose and held out a hand in front of him, which Bakugo pushed past to stand up.

Shoto sighed inwardly before scrubbing his face with a hand despite the discomfort it brought.

“Well as much as I enjoyed what must have been our worst conversation yet, I’ve got fucking places to be, namely shaking some consciousness back into Deku.” He glanced back slightly to look at Shoto. “Go fucking crash or something, you peppermint-haired mime bastard.”

Shoto shook his head, joining Bakugo in the hallway and pointing in the direction Midoriya’s room was in. He wanted along for the ride. It was probably going to be his only chance until Midoriya was well on his way to recovery. And he’d been in such bad shape…

“You’re following me, the hell?! This is a stealth mission, I need to get past Deku’s fucking goons. They’re like patrolling the hallways or something.” At Shoto pointing blandly to himself, Bakugo unprickled a bit. “They’ll let you by. Alright, fine. We’ll give it a shot.”

Badly injured, they were making progress, though admittedly slow progress down the hallways to the other side of the hero wing. Bakugo’s eyes glanced over to the name plate once they were walking down the hallway he’d been apprehended in.

“Enji Todoroki,” Bakugo ground out, “that’s the room you were leaving when I saw you.”

Shoto shrugged helplessly.

“Everyone fucking heard. I’ve been awake for an hour and even I’ve seen Dabi’s propaganda shit,” Bakugo started.

Shoto suddenly found the corner of the hallway to be the most interesting thing he could be looking at.

“The country, if not the world, is gonna be airing the Todoroki dirty laundry,” he continued.

Shoto thought about the news crew that hadn’t dispersed yet outside. Wouldn’t, probably, until they got pictures, a status update on him or his dad, or a statement. Books would be published about the event and the implications of the hero industry. The victims of Dabi would rightfully hate them. He leveled an exhausted stare at the other boy. Bakugo must have been too busy using walls as a handhold to glare back at him.

Another burning question pushed to the forefront of Shoto’s mind. Not a question, really, an acknowledgement he desperately wanted to address. He gestured to Bakugo’s torso.

Quietly, he wheezed, “Sa-aved Midori…” his voice cut off on its own and he had to stop walking for a moment to let a round of wheezing, wet coughs shudder through his body. That couldn’t have been good, but then again Bakugo had been coughing up blood half an hour ago, so it was the status quo.

“Oi, shut the hell up! Don’t even try with that shit, you sound like lungs were cooked!” He yelled, pointing at Shoto. Shoto gave him an impatient look, still holding his painful throat and blinking the tears out of his eyes. He hadn’t gone through that just to have his question ignored.

“Christ. Fine, yeah, I shoved him out of the way. I knew I could handle it better than shitty Deku and did you see him, anyway? He was out of his fucking mind. I did what I had to. I figured we were all gonna bite it anyway.” Bakugo said. “Clearly I missed some things in the fight though, because you weren’t this fucked when I went down.”

Shoto nodded. Yes, he’d missed a few things. Midoriya losing any semblance of sanity for one, Dabi for another.

“Ah! Bakugo, you shouldn’t be up! Allow--” Iida appeared from around the hallway, in Shoto had no choice to believe was in fact a patrol route. The class rep broke off when he noticed Shoto a few steps behind. The ice and fire user gave the other boy a small smile in greeting. “I- Hello, Todoroki. How are you--it’s to say-” Iida fumbled for words, arm knifing the air.

“Engine legs, shut the hell up and quit pussyfooting around! It’s fucking annoying to listen to you blab,” Bakugo ground out. “We’re going to see Deku.”

Iida ran up the Bakugo to put a hand on his shoulder, but Shoto walked over to meet him, putting a hand on his shoulder and shaking his head. Iida met his eyes, and the fight started to leave Iida. He quickly diverted his gaze, a droplet of sweat beading on his forehead. “Well, if Todoroki is going to keep an eye on you, I don’t see why I should refuse...but I must insist you two get back to bed as soon as you’re done!”

After that, Iida beat an even hastier retreat than usual. Shoto let out a sigh. Another of his friends, treating him differently now that they knew. How much would this shake Class 1-A to its core? Was it salvageable, or were they going to think of him as the boy with the not-dead villain brother from now on? He just wanted to find Touya and figure out the rest later.

“Oi, Icyhot. Get over here,” Bakugo called. While Shoto had been in thought, Bakugo had pulled ahead, and he looked pissed about waiting. “You’re my fucking get out of jail free card, since know one wants to say ‘no’ to the abused kid. You’re gonna follow me around while we’re here, got it?!”

Shoto leveled Bakugo an annoyed stare but followed anyway. It didn’t have the same hurt, coming from the class loudmouth, somehow. At least there was one person he could rely on not treating him differently.

Might become a series...

#bnha spoilers #bnha ch 303 #bnha 303 #mha 303 #todoroki shoto #todoroki shouto #bakugou katsuki #bakugo katsuki #whump #h/c #hospital arc #post paranormal liberation arc #todobaku #friendship #bromance #todobaku friendship #gen #no pairings #icyhot

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luulapants · 3 years

Note

the passcode thing is cool as shit. if youre still infodumping what is your FAVORITE thing about a language. or languages in general. talk for a long time about some nerd shit is what i'm saying

You want a long infodump of nerd shit?? HERE IT COMES

My absolute favorite area of study in linguistics is pidgin and creole languages and, in particular, this really weird theory around them being the secret to discovering the “root code of language.” To start, you need to know what a pidgins and creoles are and what the difference is:

The word “pidgin” is based on a transcription of how Chinese merchants pronounced the English word “business.” And that’s a pretty apt description! A pidgin is a sort of broken mashup of two or more languages that occurs when speakers of different languages, who don’t speak one another’s languages with much fluency, have to interact and figure out how to communicate with one another. Historically, this often happened during trade and commerce interactions.

Imagine you’re a French merchant arriving in Haiti and trying to sell gun powder to a local who speaks no French whatsoever and you don’t even know what language this dude speaks. And you’re pointing at your wares and shouting “Poudre pour les armes!!” which to him probably sounds like “Pood pore lay zahhm” and the local kinda squints at you and says “Poud zam?” and mimes shooting a gun. You’re sick of shouting and you think he gets what you’re saying, so you’re just like “Oui, sure, poud zam,” and now gunpowder is “poud zam.”

Generally, one language provides most of the vocabulary for a pidgin, whichever is most widely spoken or is spoken by those with the most prestige or power. That’s called 'lexification.' So, for instance, Haitian creole is 'French lexified.' The vocabulary will be colored by local accents, though, and depend on what sounds everyone knows how to make (if half the people don’t know how to trill their ‘R’s, that sound will be left out of a Spanish-based pidgin).

When it comes to grammar, though, pidgins are distinctly lacking. Communicating grammar by pointing and shouting just doesn’t work that well, and you can mostly get by without a lot of grammatical nuance in those contexts. “Me give gunpowder. You give one-two-three bag gold.” BOOM, commerce accomplished.

You really only need more comprehensive structures once the pidgin enters the private/personal sphere, and THIS is where creoles come in. A pidgin becomes a creole the moment it becomes someone’s mother tongue. The second a kid is raised speaking pidgin as a first language, it’s considered a creole. And the reason we make that distinction is where things get very interesting.

Unlike pidgins, creoles are grammatically complete. But it’s not like anyone sits down and says, "Okay, kids are learning this now, we have to figure out the grammar rules.” It’s actually the opposite. Children naturally fill in the grammatical gaps of a pidgin. Studies that compared adult pidgin speakers with their creole-speaking children found that the children had formed grammatical constructions... pretty much out of nowhere. They do it naturally. Instinctively.

Now, this makes sense if you’ve ever spoken with a child who is still learning their first language. Have you ever heard a kid say ‘mouses' instead of 'mice'? It’s because they’ve learned the grammar rule for how we pluralize things in English and simply over-applied it. Kids will take the barest hints and grains of grammar in a pidgin and apply them over an entire language. And if there’s nothing to go off of? They make it out of nothing.

One really fascinating thing about creoles is that a lot of them share similar features - even when they were made in very different places, based on very different languages. Since a lot of modern creoles were created during the colonial period, one theory was that those features come from common ‘substratum’ languages (languages that didn’t lexify the pidgin) that were spoken by the African slaves transported around the world. While this may have contributed to some language similarities, attempts to trace back the linguistic origins of the populations that created the original pidgins has generally disproved this theory. Another WILD theory was that all creoles were originally based on Portuguese. Don’t ask me how this makes sense. It doesn’t. But there were whole ass professional academics spewing that shit.

A more contemporary - and exciting! - theory is that these common features come from a “root code of language” buried in the human brain. Basically, that children can and will learn whatever grammatical constructions exist in the language they’re taught, but when there’s nothing for them to go off of, there is a very old basic language instinct that reverts them to our oldest, most basic grammar forms. One example is reduplication or the repeating of all or part of a word. Instead of using a suffix for pluralization (mouses), you just say the word twice (mouse-mouse). Instead of saying ‘really tall,’ you say ‘tall-tall.’ This does exist in some other languages but is particularly common in creoles.

Creoles are often seen as “simple” or “incomplete” languages. While they are simpler in some ways, native speakers are still able to convey complex ideas, which makes them more complicated in others. For instance, creoles tend to have a smaller vocabulary. However, to make up for this, they tend to be highly metaphorical in their constructions. In Tok Pisin, the creole of Papua New Guinea, most fibrous materials are called 'gras' (as in ‘grass’ - it’s English-lexified). But to distinguish between them, you have ‘gras bilong het’ (hair), ‘gras bilong sipsip’ (wool), ‘gras bilong solwara’ (seaweed).

Grammatically, creoles tend to have fewer verb tenses and tend not to have case markers. But it would be a mistake to say that all creole grammar is simple. To use Tok Pisin as an example again, that language has way more pronoun distinctions than most languages. Instead of just “we,” it has words for “you and me,” “me and another person [not you],” “me and two other people [not you],” “me and the two of you,” “me and all y’all,” and “me and all of them.” They have different forms of ‘you’ depending on if you’re talking about one, two, three, or more than three people - same with ‘he/she/them’! (And their pronouns are nongendered.)

Grammatical simplicity doesn’t equate to a lesser language, in any case. And it can tell us a lot about how languages develop over time. Creoles have fewer irregular constructions than older languages, which makes sense - irregular constructions are often vestiges of old words or grammar that no longer exist. A lot of grammatical complexity is just the result of things being added to a language or changing over time. If creoles are using a “new” root code sort of grammar, it makes sense that it wouldn’t be as “complex” - they haven’t had time to fuck it up yet!

So these are some of the many, many reasons I love creoles. I hope you enjoyed this infodump <3

Ask me about linguistics!

#creole #pidgin #language #linguistics #infodump

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cookiedoughmeagain · 3 years

Text

Haven fanfic

Inspired by a conversation in the Haven discord. Duke and Nathan get hit by an animal transformation Trouble. Cuteness ensues.

“Hey I think there’s a ….” Duke stopped on his way into Audrey and Nathan’s office, distracted by an odd ‘POPPP!!’ sound behind him. He turned around to where Stan had been, and found a small and slightly startled-looking pony in his place.

“An animal transformation Trouble, yeah,” Audrey finished his sentence without stopping to look up from the paperwork she was frantically rifling through. “We think Nathan might be …”

‘POPPP!!’

They both looked over to the other side of the room. Nathan had been standing behind his desk flicking through more paperwork and now he was … not.

“Nathan?” Audrey cried.

They ran round either side of Nathan’s desk to find his clothes in a pile on the floor. Something was moving frantically inside the fabric. Duke reached out carefully to pull a shirt out of the way and jumped back in surprise when a startled rabbit appeared from underneath it. The rabbit launched itself away from them in alarm, darting this way and that for a while in the small space available to it, before finally retreating to a corner where it continued shaking in apparent fear.

“Nathan?” Audrey asked gently.

“It must be him, right?” Duke replied. “But why’s he so …?” he finished the question with a little panicked mime.

As the rabbit looked this way and that, his whiskers caught on the wall and he jumped in alarm, cowering away from it as though bitten.

“He felt that,” Audrey realised. “This Trouble must have turned off his old one. He can feel again and everything must feel completely strange. I’d be freaking out too.”

“Detective, the Principal is on the phone for you,” Rafferty called through the increasing chorus of animal noises outside the office.

“Ah!” Audrey jumped up, startling Nathan further. “I have to take this, that’s who we were trying to get hold of. Just try to calm him down and Do Not let him go anywhere,” Audrey told Duke sternly.

“How am I supposed to …?” Duke asked in ineffective protest.

Audrey called out a “Thanks,” as she went and shut the door firmly behind her.

Duke turned back to the rabbit, to Nathan. “Hey, buddy. It’s gonna be fine. Audrey’s gonna fix it.” He held out a hand cautiously, trying to remember if he knew anything at all about rabbits and deciding that, no, no he did not. He watched Nathan shake for a moment, shivering as though cold or - more likely - completely overwhelmed by a flood of new sensations. He was a small rabbit, with a mix of white and light grey fur; evidently appearance did not follow through from human to animal. The only thing that looked remotely like Nathan were the bright blue eyes. Otherwise, he was soft and fluffy, with floppy ears that looked like they might get in the way if he were trying to do anything besides hide in a corner. His nose twitched and his eyes darted warily around him but for the most part it looked like he was trying to move as little as possible.

Duke moved his hand a bit closer, and thought perhaps the scared shaking was slowing slightly, and that maybe the twitching little rabbit nose directed itself towards Duke’s hand. “You smell something?” Duke wondered. “What do I smell like, huh? Engine oil? Kitchen grease?” He kept talking, soft and low, assuming that Nathan couldn’t understand him but knowing that tone of voice was important with dogs, so maybe it would help here too. He kept his voice calm, and his breathing calm, and then he reached out slowly to carefully run his hand over the rabbit’s ears and along his back in a gentle stroke.

Audrey spent longer on the phone with the Principal and talking to Rafferty than she expected, but by the time she returned to the office she thought she knew who the Troubled person was. She opened the door carefully, in case there was a frightened rabbit behind it, so was pleasantly surprised to find that both Duke and Nathan-the-rabbit were now on the sofa, Nathan on Duke’s lap. The shaking seemed to have slowed and the rabbit looked a lot calmer, Audrey thought. Duke had one hand resting against the rabbit’s side, the other making long slow strokes over his back. Audrey took a moment to watch, slightly calmed herself just by the sight of Duke’s careful fingers in the soft rabbit fur. His hands were almost as long as the rabbit was, she noted, and Nathan in bunny form really was rather adorable when you stopped to look. She shook herself out of it - this was a serious Trouble that had already put two people (and three currently-animals) in the hospital, she didn’t have time to enjoy the view.

“OK, I’m pretty sure this is the Troubled person,” she told Duke, brandishing a piece of paper with an address written on it. “I’m going to go speak to them now.”

Duke nodded and held a finger briefly to his lips before replying in a much calmer tone of voice than hers. “OK.”

“Is he … himself?” Audrey asked, quietly.

Duke looked down at the rabbit. “Pancakes are a terrible breakfast food,” he said.

The rabbit huffed through its nose and shook its head once, annoyed.

Audrey took that as a yes. “Nathan I am going to fix this. OK? I’m going to find the person with the Trouble now, and I am going to fix this, alright? You two just … stay there.”

It took her longer than she’d hoped, but a little while later Audrey made her way back through town, watching various different animals turn back into various different people, most of them apparently none the worse for the experience. She walked through the station and said hello to Stan, now back in his uniform and busy checking how many of HPD were currently animal-shaped, then she made her way on towards her office.

“OK we should be all good, people are turning back, it might just take a little while before … it gets … everyo...,” Audrey’s sentence faded as she closed her office door behind her. She had expected to find Duke still on the sofa with Nathan still on his lap. One or both of them possibly asleep, but probably still there. She hadn’t been gone that long.

But all that was on the sofa now was Duke’s shirt and a broken pile of necklaces. In the middle of the office sat a big cat - a panther maybe? Or no - a cougar, pale brown with darker fur around its eyes as though wearing the neatest eyeliner imaginable. It sat up as she came in, looking not-at-all surprised to see her and really quite pleased with itself.

“Duke?” Audrey asked, amazed.

Duke-the-cat turned around to look down at Nathan-the-rabbit next to him, who now hardly seemed to be shaking at all. Duke leant down towards the rabbit, stuck out his big cat tongue and licked the side of Nathan’s face with enough friendly force that the rabbit nearly toppled over.

“Nathan?” Audrey stepped forwards concerned at the effect such enthusiastic grooming might be having on the tiny rabbit. Nathan righted himself easily though, and looked at her with a little nod. Duke put a large paw on Nathan’s other side in a kind of hug, and Nathan leaned into the contact, not at all startled now.

“Well OK then!” Audrey replied with a laugh. “Good job boys!” She sat down on the sofa, tired from all the running around town. “I can’t believe all it took for you two to stop snarking at each other was to get turned into animals. Actual animals,” she repeated to herself, surprised. She probably shouldn’t be surprised by this town any more, but there was always something. They should be turning back into their human selves soon, she would just rest here for a little while. No one would mind if she closed her eyes for a moment, surely.

A moment later she felt more than heard the big cat move up to her, and opened her eyes in time to see it carrying the rabbit carefully, as though Duke were the mother cat and Nathan one of his kittens. Duke dropped Nathan gently on Audrey’s lap, where he hopped up a little closer to her and rested his head against her hand. Duke jumped up on the sofa next to her and curled up with his heavy cat head warm on her knee.

Audrey reached out to scratch both of them behind the ear, amused as both of them leant into her touch at the same time. “You’re both so soft,” she told them. “I could get used to this; fluffy bunny and big cat snuggles. We’ll just stay here until you turn back,” she decided.

Nathan bristled slightly at being called a bunny, but the way Audrey was stroking his head meant he was inclined to forgive her. Audrey leant back and closed her eyes, and after a moment heard what she suddenly realised must be the sound of a big cat purring.

It hadn’t been the best start to the day, but there could have been a lot worse ways for it to end.

#haven syfy #haven fanfic #haven maine #duke crocker #audrey parker #nathan wuornos #nathan the rabbit #duke the big cat

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adragonhoardingstories · 4 years

Text

Of Blood and Bonds - Chapter 4

@mystery-5-5 @synnesstra @thesunanditsangel

@abrx2002 @clumsy-owl-4178 @daminett4life @zalladane

@heaven428 @unmaskedagain

@dawnwave16 @kris-pines04 @emeraldpuffguide @hypnosharkrebeldreamer

@weird-pale-blonde-person

@ravennightingaleandavatempus

@persephonebutkore

@be-happy-every-day-please @blue-peach14 @annabellabrookes

@jaynintodd @st0rmy-w1th1n @bluerosette23 @ladysblackcat @18-fandoms-unite-08

@vixen-uchiha @novicevoice @jessigurl-design @tinyterror333

@rebecarojas07 @sparkle9510 @magicalfirebird

@mewwitch @shamefullove

@ravennightingaleandavatempus

@sassydepression @caffeinetheory

@reyna-avila-ramirez-alreanaldo

@krispydefendorpolice @mermaidofthelost @zalladane @drarryismylife101 @ladybug-182 @northernbluetongue @i-like-fairytail-and-stuff @iloontjeboontje @mjisntme

@dorkus-minimus @firesong323 @chocolatecatsthero @wargraymon0709 @bamagirlkrista

@moonlightstar64 @captain-lostkid @angelicbookfangirl @lunar-wolf-warrior @roseunivers999 @dur55 @emeraldpuffguide @evil-elf16 @crazylittlemunchkin @moonlightstar64 @semaalcocer-blog @skyel0ve

On that note, this book will contain swearing, mentions of rape and torture. I will try not be explicit but that's really relative. Read at your own risk. There will be warning before if I make a explicit scene so that you can skip it.

Anyways, I hope you enjoy and don't hunt me down for this.

___________________________________

"Colin this is Marinette, my sister, Marinette this is Colin." Damian introduced the redhead who seemed a bit bewildered but he recovered quickly.

"Pleased to meet you ma'am. I didn't know that Damian had another sibling."

"Well neither did he before yesterday." Marinette laughed good-naturedly. "So you're his best friend."

"Yep!" Damian didn't refute the statement.

"So Miss Marinette where are you from?"

"Just Marinette is fine Colin."

"Bu-"

"Miss makes me feel old, you don't want that now, do you?" The boy looked scandalised. "I'm only about two years older than Damian anyways so if you want to call me by a nickname, that's fine too."

The boy grinned shyly. "Okay Marinette."

Damian looked distinctly surprised. "Well done, he still calls the others Mr, they are going to be annoyed by this development."

"Oh Damian." Marinette turned on her heels and winked at them, eyes full of mischief. "This is nothing. I got Alfred to call me by just my first name?"

Now, both boys looked very impressed but still disbelieving. "I'll believe it when I see it." The redhead claimed. Marinette laughed but said nothing more on the matter.

"So where are you bringing me?"

"The Gotham's Botanical Garden. I think you'll enjoy it. However, I must warn you to stay clear of anything that may anger Poison Ivy. "

She took it in stride. "Of course, I'll ask before I do anything."

"It'll be so fun. People don't talk about it because of Ivy but the gardens are so beautiful." Colin started ranting and Marinette hid a smile at the fond expression on her little brother's face. If one didn't know what to be looking for, they would miss it but Marinette had become very very attuned to emotions, especially after she gained the Miraculous and became Guardian.

"-attract so many different kinds of butterflies."

"Huh." Marinette mused. "It'll be nice seeing some actual butterflies and not akumas for once."

"You mentioned akumas before too." Damian interrupted. "What are they?"

She seemed a little surprised. "Do you - do you really have no idea of what's going on in Paris?"

Both of the boys shook their head. Even Colin looked curious now.

"It's pretty surreal but, when I was twelve, this guy surfaced. He calls himself Hawkmoth. He sends out these magic butterflies called akumas to anyone who's experiencing any negative emotion to possess them. He makes a deal with the victims to give them powers for them to be able to take revenge upon whatever wrong happened to them and return he asks for the Miraculous of Ladybug and Chat Noir."

"Who?" Colin interrupted and Marinette blinked. She had sounded so...old, so burdened as she spoke - so different from the bubbly macaroon making girl that Damian had learnt to know.

"Right, context. After his first akuma, two heroes surfaced in Paris too. They're powered by the Miraculous too. Hawkmoth wants Ladybug's earrings and Chat Noir's ring. No one knows why exactly and well we're not interested to find out. More power in that madman's hands can only cause harm."

"You mean to say." Damian's voice was flat. "That there has been a sociopathic terrorist in Paris for five years and no one knows of it. Why didn't the mayor call for the Justice League?"

Marinette's face darkened. It almost made both if the boys shudder and take a step back.

"Oh but we did. More than once, more than ten times in fact. We only stopped whenthe Leaguers asked us to stop wasting their time with pranks."

"What?" Damian exploded. "They just disregarded all the damage that must have been caused, all the phone calls. They didn't even look into it."

Marinette placed a hand in his shoulder, urging her aura to seek his and calm him down. "The thing is one of Ladybug's powers is the Miraculous Cure. It fixes all the damage caused in the midst of battle."

"All the damage?" Even Damian didn't seem to believe it at that point.

"I know it seems too good to be true." She fished out her phone and tried to look for a video. "And we understood that but everyone in Paris is pissed that they didn't even bother come verify our so called claims. I mean for God's sake, they have aliens, shapeshifters, magicians and even guys who are themselves powered by magical jewelry if I'm not wrong."

Marinette huffed as she found a video. It was one of the first ones from the Ladyblog, when Alya was still a reliable reporter. She played the video. It was of The Mime and it showed how he cut the Eiffel Tower in two as well as the Miraculous Cure taking effect.

The boys especially Damian seemed horrified and Marinette felt a little of guilt for subjecting them to that.

But then Damian looked up at her and his lazarus green eyes of reminded her that he probably had seen worse.

"That's…" He didn't seemed to know what to say.

"Terrifying." Colin said. "Are they all really that strong?" Marinette winced, debating whether to tell them the truth of not.

Damian seemed to sense that. "You can tell us." He prompted and she sighed, reaching out to ruffle his hair.

"That's actually one of the tamer villians." She admitted. "The Mime appeared during the first year of Hawkmoth's reign of terror. One of the worst akumas back then that come to mind is Syren. She flooded the entirety of Paris, about three quarter of the population died and were brought back by the cure." She took another look at them and decided that she wasn't going to be the cause of their further trauma.

"Hey, this is it, right?" She promptly changed the subject, knowing very well that she hadn't been subtle at all. "Gotham Botanical Gardens." She beamed down at them.

"Wow, it's beautiful." She took a moment to appreciate the sight. "Hey you're right, there's a lot of butterflies. Can we go there first?" She was basically bouncing as she turned to look at her brother and his best friend.

Colin looked gleeful while Damian seemed just amused. "You act like a child." Her brother informed her. She stuck out her tongue at him. "And you speak like an old man but you don't see me complaining."

"Fair enough." He chuckled. "What are you waiting for? Let's go then."

He couldn't help the full-blown smile appearing on his face as both his sister and his best friend literally ran to the butterflies and started gushing together.

He started to make his way to them when someone appeared in front of him blocking his view. His usual scowl and glare were back on his face when he looked up. The boy seemed to recoil slightly at his look but it didn't deter him more that that.

"I don't know who you are." His tone clearly gave away that he felt like he was the one in power here. Damian cursed the time when he used to act like that. He had learnt that lesson the hard way - had learnt not to underestimate an enemy. "But you're gonna stay away from my princess. She doesn't need children like you around."

Damian took a second to analyze him. Blond Hair. Green eyes. He remembered reading those as Marinette's triggers during his research. He had to clench his fists to stop himself from reaching out to his weapons.

"She can decide that for himself." He said instead and went to walk around him but the boy grabbed his shoulder.

The next thing he knew he was standing behind his sister. "Adrien." She cut in smoothly. "I didn't expect to see you here, especially not without your bodyguard." Damian could see that she was tense, her back muscles were coiled as if she was ready for a fight.

"Princess." He was beaming. "I snuck out." He said almost proudly. "We need to talk."

"Gotham isn't Paris." Her words seemed more like a warning rather than the facts they were which the blond idiot obviously didn't catch on. "And I want nothing to do with you, haven't for three years. I owe you nothing. Give up."

That was a clear dismissal if Damian knew one. "Princess you need to listen to me-" He reached out to grab her hand but was cut off.

The younger boy had seen her lurking but she hadn't seemed a threat so he didn't know whether he was thankful or not that she had jumped in.

Ivy spoke "The girl asked you to go away." Thankful, he finally decided.

The boy looked a little nervous - so he did have some braincells. "Ma'am, respectfully, this does not concern you." Well not enough it seemed.

"Oh well, respectfully." Her plants towered behind them. "I don't give a damn. Stay away from them."

The plants grabbed him and threw him just outside the park boundaries. It seemed a little tame for the likes of Ivy but then again she always did go softer for children even if they were brats.

Damian watched as the boy scrambled back to his feet and glared in their direction before he stomped off.

"Damian." His sister was clearly fretting over him, he would never admit it but it felt good, he felt loved. "Are you alright? He didn't hurt you, did he?"

"I'm alright, I'm alright. I told you, I can take care of myself."

She smiled, soft and relieved. "I don't doubt it but promise me if you see either him or Lila from yesterday, you need go the other way."

"Why?" He frowned. He had a doubt on blondie but what about that Lila girl?

"And by Lila, do you mean the sausage haired girl?"

His sister cracked a grin at that thought she was still serious. "Yeah her."

"Why?" He repeated and she became grim at once. "Because he's sick in the head and she's a psychopath so please, promise me." She met his eyes and really, faced to that did Damian have any other choice but to accept?

She beamed at him as Colin approached them. "That was so cool. Are you okay Dames?" He turned to talk to his best friend and gave him a once over before nodding.

"Thank you for stepping in." He heard his sister and turned around. Ivy may be one of the villains-turned-anti-hero but it didn't mean that people didn't need to be wary around her. What was Marinette thinking?

"Boys like him need to be taught a lesson before it's too late." Damian's mind immediately went to Harley's and Joker's relationship.

"I don't think a lesson would do him any kind of good at this point but thank you."

It was very apparent that her words made Ivy re-evaluate her.

The woman gave a nod. "Don't mention it." She said nothing else but didn't move away.

Marinette smiled. "By the way, I love that flower in your hair. That's a lily right?"

"Yes." She said slowly but the spark in her eye showed that she was now interested. "You know flowers?"

"I have a garden of my own." Marinette revealed. "I tried growing some lilies but they're no where as beautiful as this one." Marinette fished for her phone again and started showing her images. The older woman didn't say anything but Damian could see that she was interested and she seemed almost pleased.

Deeming it safe for now, he slowly turned to Colin who was staring at the scene with amazement.

"Colin." His friend turned to him wide-eyed, "Your sister is amazing."

He couldn't help but feel smug at the words. "Obviously." He said but then lowered his voice. "Tell me, how did she get to me so fast when she was watching butterflies with you."

Colin sobered up at that. "She was talking to me when suddenly she just snapped her head up to look at you. I think that's when the boy came. She told me to stay there and started walking towards you. The thing is when the guy touched you, she was about half-way there, I didn't register but the next thing I knew she was standing between you and the blond." He shook his head. "There's something about her…it's not necessarily bad but she's just...different…special."

"I know what you mean." Damian agreed.

"-and then she spoke with Poison Ivy for one hour straight about plants and gardening. Ivy even gave us a personal tour of the botanical gardens."

"Seriously? She usually takes forever to warm up to someone especially if the other sirens aren't with her."

"Marinette seems to be the exception." The youngest Wayne said as he but into another macaroon. Once again, he had been ambushed on his return home - this time however, it was only his brothers and that had demanded he tell them all about her.

His felt his phone vibrate and knew it was the message he was awaiting. "She's busy during the day." He informed his brothers. "But she invited us for dinner."

His brothers looked at each other and grinned. Tommorow looked promising.

#maribat #platonic daminette #Marinette Dupain-Cheng #damian wayne #bruce wayne #dick grayson #jason todd #tim drake #torture #mentions of rape #bamf marinette #badass marinette #bruce tries to be a good dad but he doesn't always succeed #lila salt #adrien salt

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harringrovetrashrat · 4 years

Note

Hey I'm new at 'Asking' on tumblr but I'll give it ago, I was thing like, a harringrove soulmate au, (it can be what ever) but like they find out mid-flight at the Byers, like (the thing you choose) happened, and maybe even one of the kids see and is all like "omg are u guys SOULMATES?!?!?"

YES YES!!!

I’ve never done a soulmark fic before, so I truly hope you enjoy this!! I had fun writing it, either way, lol

(Quick note: Shirts v Skins in this is more Shirts v Tanks for privacy based around marks. Most things are made so you have privacy, but a lot of people are open with their marks anyway.)

The day that Steve found out that Nancy wasn’t his soulmate probably should have been a little sadder. Don’t get him wrong, Steve had been fucking heartbroken. Had felt like something was missing inside him. But it had made sense. Because there was always something that didn’t click between the two of them. Where Steve reached, Nancy pulled away. Where she went, he couldn’t follow.

He reminded himself it wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t her fault she didn’t love him, you can’t make yourself love another person, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

Also, he probably should have seen it coming when he got his mark. When the mark appeared on his ribs, a crown encircled by a wave.

He had no fucking idea what that meant. How it related to him and Nancy.

After the breakup, done in her front yard on her birthday in late August, when hers appeared and was a camera with an eye for a lens, he had hated looking at it. Hated the reality it presented, even if he was happy for Nancy and Jonathan. More jealous of what they had together. The mark was a constant reminder that he was the problem, so he stopped showering at school after practice. Changed and left as quickly as he could. Did the same at home, hoping, wishing that if he just didn’t look, it would go away. It never did. He never looked in the mirror without a shirt anymore.

Then Billy Hargrove arrived and Steve’s world was fucked.

He was everywhere, getting into Steve’s space, challenging him for the throne he didn’t even fucking want. Blue eyes, tanned skin, rough hands, and a tongue that refused to stay in his mouth. Steve didn’t like to admit that that tongue had featured a lot in his dreams. That he had imagined Billy pressing him against his bed, pressing him against fucking anything, and speaking in that low voice that hit Steve in his gut.

It wasn’t necessarily shocking, Steve had come to terms with kinda looking at boys too, but it’d never been like this. He’d never been so utterly consumed by the thought of another person. Not even with Nancy. Billy Hargrove was a temptation, but also not a possibility. He was a man’s man, a ladies man, and an all around asshole.

By the time he had joined the basketball team, Steve had developed the worst one sided crush he’d ever had in his life. And it didn’t even make sense. Sure, he’d noticed that Billy was smart, was attentive and observant, just like Jonathan. But he was also a massive tool.

Practice was normal enough, Billy and Tommy doing what they could to get a rise out of Steve, but he quickly brushed it off, making a beeline for his locker. He heard the clanking of a lock and turned to see Billy opening his locker. When he noticed that Steve wasn’t showering he turned his wolf-like grin on him, tongue peeking out between his teeth.

“What’s up, Harrington? Kings don’t sweat?” Steve ignored him, sighing. Billy smirked, smile going sly and… something Steve couldn’t place. “Got an embarrassing mark or something?” Steve rolled his eyes, blocking Billy’s view of the left side of his ribs as he pulled his shirt on.

“Just don’t want y’all tryin’ to look at my massive dick, Hargrove,” he replied. There was a pause, then Billy laughed, loud and bright. It sounded surprised and almost happy.

“That so, King?” Steve slammed his locker closed and shot Billy a dark look. He kept his eyes on Billy’s, not letting them wander over the expanse of his chest. Billy smirked, like he knew where Steve wanted to look, where he wasn’t going to look. Steve turned on his heel and left, ignoring the blood pumping in his ears.

Then everything kinda went to shit.

Or well, really, really went to shit.

He didn’t know why Billy had to always goad him, had to be such a prick all the time. Why he had to come here to find Max, on tonight of all nights. Why he had to smash a fucking plate over his head. And now here he was, being flipped over as Billy straddled him, much differently from his dreams, and got ready to beat the shit out of him. Steve looked up at him, hating that the light created a halo behind him, hating that he looked good, hating everything. Billy’s shirt was hiked up, Steve had tugged it free from his jeans as they grappled, and as he moved, it rose some more.

“Holy shit!” Dustin’s exclamation wasn’t new, mixing in with the cries of the other teens, but then he said something that made both boys pause. “Your mark!” Billy went rigid on top of him, slapping his hand over the side of his back hip as he turned and leveled Dustin with a glare.

“What?” He snarled, tugging his shirt down with one hand while he held Steve down with the other. “If you think pointing that shit out is gonna make me--”

“I’ve seen it,” he whispered, eyes widening. “Oh my god, that’s--” He let out a weird sound, making Billy let Steve go fully, narrowing his eyes. Steve took his chance, sitting up quickly, trying to shove Billy back, but he gripped Steve’s body with his legs, pulling him along. They rolled and Dustin let out another strange noise. “You guys! Stop!” Both older teens turned to look at him, confusion on their faces. He went forward, tugging at Billy’s shirt, trying to get a better look at his mark. Billy scrambled away, shoving Dustin’s hands.

“What the fuck!”

“You have the same mark,” Dustin breathed, eyes going wide. Billy stared at him, contemplating, before his eyes slowly widened. Steve furrowed his brow, not getting it.

“What?” Billy took a step away, looking ready to run, which was so different from only moments before that Steve was feeling weirder than he had about carrying a dead monster.

“Remember when you showed me your mark,” Dustin said, speaking fast, “I would recognize it fucking anywhere--”

“Max,” Billy snapped, breath coming in shorter, “We’re fucking leaving.”

“No,” she said, anger barely restrained. “Fuck you, Billy! We’re doing something important.” He grit his teeth, turning his back on Steve, looking right at her. Dustin looked between him and Steve, before his face hardened and he yanked up Billy’s shirt, mark on display.

Steve couldn’t fucking breathe.

“Fuck off, shithead!” Billy said, wrenching away from Dustin and shoving him back, though the push was weak. He turned back to Max, not once looking at Steve, who was still staring, mind wrapping itself around Billy having a crown. A crown with a wave circling it. Of Billy, the total womanizing douchebag, having his mark. “Maxine, Neil and Susan want you home, we’re leaving.”

“Wait,” Steve said. It was quiet, but it cut through the room. Billy tensed, not turning around. Steve wanted to ask, wanted to show Billy his mark, wanted to figure out what the fuck was happening, but they didn’t have time. Mike tensed up, already knowing what Steve was going to ask. “Guys, I think--”

“No!” Mike cried. “No, we’re not telling him!”

“He’s not gonna leave without Max,” Steve snapped, finally getting up. Billy had retreated slightly, still twitching with anger, but his curiosity was starting to win out. “And,” he sighed, “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but if we tell him, we’ll have another person to go with us and--” he let out another sigh, “We’ll do your plan. In the tunnels.” The preteens exchanged glances and huddled together. There was intense whispering, one ‘ew,’ and then they were turning back.

“Nothing about-- You know,” Lucas said, miming a nosebleed. Mike looked unhappy, arms crossed as he hunched over, but he didn’t say anything.

“Fine, fine.” Steve rolled his eyes.

“What in the fuck are any of you talking about?” Billy snapped.

“Are we not going to discuss that you guys have matching marks?” Dustin said, clearly unable to read the room. It was like all the air had been sucked out, like the eye of a storm.

“Dustin,” Steve said, voice restrained and even, “I seriously need you to drop it.”

“But--!”

“Drop. It.” Steve said through gritted teeth. Billy bristled and Steve’s eyes flickered over to him. He wasn’t looking back, just angrily staring at the floor. “Hargrove,” he said, and Billy still didn’t look at him. “This is gonna sound weird, and you aren’t gonna believe me, but--” He paused, not sure what to say. Then he remembered. “Follow me.” Billy looked at him then, eyes narrowed and wary, almost scared, and wasn’t that funny. Still, he followed, and while the kids moved to do the same, Steve glared them into submission. “You guys get the stuff ready, okay? You’ll just overwhelm him otherwise.” He couldn’t help it, he put his hand on Billy’s lower back, ushering him into the kitchen. Billy moved away, movements jerky. It felt like ice in Steve’s veins, but he could worry about his soulmate hating him later.

“So?” Billy snapped, licking his lips anxiously. “Show me.” Steve took a deep breath and pulled open the door of the fridge. The demodog spilled out, practically oozing onto the floor, and if it wasn’t the night it was, if hell wasn’t knocking on the door, Steve might have laughed at how bugeyed Billy went. “What the fuck?” He breathed, eyes darting between Steve and the monster. “What the fuck is that?”

“That,” Steve said, “Is a demodog. It’s a monster from a different dimension called the Upside Down. We gotta go kill and distract a horde of them so the chief can close the gate and kill their connection to the other side.” Billy stared at him, blinking. He pursed his lip, pointing a finger, before dropping both and looking at Steve like he’d grown a second head.

“What?”

“Essentially,” Steve said, glancing at the clock and noticing they needed to leave, “We gotta go distract and maybe kill a bunch of monsters or they’ll take over Hawkins. You in?” Billy stared at him, brow furrowed. Steve stared back, tired and ready to fight if he had to. Wondering about where that syringe went. Billy finally swallowed and looked away. His voice was low when he responded.

“You want me to come along?” He sounded almost shocked. “Even with--” He pursed his lips, going red. Like he hadn’t meant to bring it up, but also couldn’t stop thinking about it. Or maybe that was just Steve.

“Of course,” Steve said, scoffing a little. Billy frowned at him, looking defensive. Steve licked his lips, feeling bold. The night was already scary enough. “I’ve been crushing on you since you got here basically.” Billy’s eyebrows shot up and Steve looked at his shoes. There was demodog on them so he looked back up, but not at Billy. “Even though you were a total tool,” Billy scoffed, “You were smart and like, so much more than you let people believe.” Billy was silent and Steve chanced it, looking at him. Billy stared at him, face soft and open, at least more so than usual.

“Can I--” He licked his lips. “Can I see it?” Steve’s breath hitched and he swallowed, nodding. He untucked his shirt, hiking it up to show the left side of his ribs. Billy's thick hand splayed over it, thumb rubbing the mark. Steve shuddered, mouth parted slightly. His touch was electric, especially over the mark. Now that they knew, it made sense. King Steve, engulfed and protected by the rushing and wild wave that was Billy Hargrove. His breath hitched as he watched Billy stare, each rub of his thumb sending sparks through Steve. The mark looked right, now. Like it was meant to be there, bright against his pale, skin, marking him for the world to see as Billys Hargrove’s soulmate.

The thought of Billy belonging to him made him shudder again.

“If you guys are done being all sappy,” Mike Wheeler’s voice cut through the moment, shattering it like glass. “We could maybe, I dunno, go?” Steve pulled away, beet red, and Billy looked like he could strangle the kid. He had his lanky arms crossed, trying to look fierce, but Steve could see that he was scared. Worried about El. He sighed and gave Billy a loaded look, heading for the door.

“I’ll grab the axe from the shed, you kids pack up the car.” He looked at Billy. “Grab my bat will you?” Billy’s nostrils flared and he grinned, eyes alight.

“Sure thing, King.”

#harringrove #steve harrington #billy hargrove #soulmate #soulmarks #anon #ask #prompt #the party

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anathewierdo · 3 years

Text

Show, Don’t Tell

A Supernatural Fix-It fic.

Pairing: I tried to at least hint at Destiel. Also Sam x Eileen because I can and it’s been fifteen years since Jess died so sue me if I don’t want Sam paired off with a blurry wife.

Word count: 6560

Because one of the most important rules of storytelling is to show, not just tell.

So this is basically 15x20 but with family.

Better late than never, right? Sorry it took me so long to post this. I hope you guys like it :)

Like, reblog and comment if you want. I found this was very therapeutic for me. I hope it gives some comfort to y’all.

Dean reaches to the nightstand lazily, snoozing his alarm. Like the day before, and the day before that and the day before that, he stares at the ceiling for a moment.

It still feels so surreal.

He’s free.

He’s free. And so is Sammy. And so is everybody. They did it.

His chest still aches when he remembers everything they lost along the way.

With a small shake of his head and a plastered on smile, he sits up. A bark shakes the remaining sleepiness out of his system and he opens his arms in invitation. His smile grows genuine at the feel of Miracle. He balances them a bit, letting out a rough “good morning” at his canine friend.

He’s tasted victory before. In the form of Cas coming back from the Empty back when Jack first came to their lives. He tasted victory briefly every time he kept Sammy safe. He tasted victory in small amounts with friends and family and whenever a hunt was well done.

The victory that came from defeating Chuck was lacking, though.

He pushes that emptiness aside.

Everybody who could, had come back with the snap of Jack’s fingers. And that’s a whole lot better than none of them come back at all.

So he squishes Miracle once more. He can’t change anything anymore and that’s just how it is. At least he’s not alone.

He gets up, puts over his dead guy robe and whistles so Miracle will follow.

The smell of eggs and bacon is nice. The laughter that comes from the kitchen is even better.

Sam and Eileen are standing shoulder to shoulder in front of the stove. Eileen, like Dean, is still in her pajamas while wearing Sam’s robe. Sammy’s wearing a gray shirt and black sweatpants. He’s back from his morning run.

At the sound of Dean walking in, Sam turns around; Eileen follows suit at seeing Sam’s actions and waves hello at Dean.

Breakfast is a happy, relaxed affair. Dean can’t keep himself from smiling proudly at the two nerds across the table. They’d grown inseparable as soon as they’d found each other again.

He has dish duty and of course he smuggles Miracle all the scraps even after serving him his actual breakfast. After that, he gets dressed (totally cleans up his room… not) and hits the library. Miracles sits by his side as Dean pets him and scrolls through the net, jumping between job hunting and searching for actual hunts. He barely notices Sam sitting in front of him when a particular article catches his eye.

“Dean?”

“Huh?”

Sam gives him a questioning look. “Did you find anything?”

Dean looks back at the screen. For a moment, he wants to say no, forget about the article and move on looking for a job. But no, he’s still a hunter. The Big Bad may be gone, but the Winchester brothers’ job isn’t… Also, he may have seen another article from the same town with something interesting, and he could use a distraction.

“Yeah, I think I found something.”

Not even an hour later, they’re saying goodbye to Eileen and Miracle, promising to be back home in a few days time.

=================

Dean is positively giddy by the time they roll into town. He had to convince Sam to do this, arguing how they got time before they would crash the crime scene for clues and eventually, he finally got the okay (not that it would’ve made any difference). He parks Baby right before the pie festival and stares in awe as he gets out of the Impala.

Sam stands right beside him, taking in his reaction. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

“This is my destiny,” Dean proclaims, watching all these people walk around eating apple, cherry, coconut, pecan– oh god they have fried pie. Sin or not, distraction achieved. “It’s just so beautiful.”

“Are you crying?”

“No. Yo– You’re crying.”

Sam scoffs, chuckling. “Uh-huh.”

“I’m gonna get some pie.”

“Right,” Sam nods, amused.

It just feels so good to say it. He’s already walking towards the festival with a big smile on his face. “I’m gonna get me some damn pie.”

And with that, Dean tours. He forms in line to the pie truck, ordering one piece of each flavor, then goes around with this big white box asking for a piece of each pie in the festival.

He finds Sam again a few minutes later, sitting by himself on a bench and looking towards a family with longing. Dean doesn’t doubt it: he’s daydreaming about him and Eileen having that someday.

“Found ya,” Dean sits beside him, glaring daggers at a stranger who almost crashed into him and put his pie at risk. “What’s wrong?”

Sam straightens his jacket. “Nothing, I’m fine.”

“No, come on. You got that face–,” he motions with his free hand. “That, that’s Sad Sam Face.”

“I’m not Sad Sam,” he mocks. A couple of seconds go by with Dean still looking at him. Sam sighs. “I’m just– I’m just thinking about Cas, you know? Jack. I wish they could be here.”

Dean feels as if a bucket filled with freezing water had been dumped on him. The ache in his chest comes back with a full force and suddenly he wants to bail and beeline it to the bunker until he can hug Miracle again. For a moment; for a sweet, brief moment, he’d been distracted enough from the loss.

“Yeah,” he clears his throat. “ Yeah, no, I–I think about them too.”

“What happened?” Sam speaks again, carefully. “You said he saved you, yeah, but… what happened?”

“It’s like I told you and the kid, alright?” Dean snaps, then closes his eyes as he relives everything in a hurtful, awfully quick memory. “He summoned the Empty. The Empty got there and took him and Billie and by the time I realized what had happened they were– he was gone. I couldn’t stop him. I couldn’t say goodbye. I couldn’t do anything.”

Sam has the decency to not say anything.

“I told Claire the same thing,” he adds, once he’s calmed down enough. “If we don’t keep living, his sacrifice and Jack’s sacrifice won’t mean anything. Cas saved me, Jack brought everyone back, we saved the world.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I just miss them.”

“Yeah, we all do. I certainly do.”

He’s not in the mood to talk about it anymore. He doesn’t want to remember anymore how he just stood there, paralyzed with fear and shock as Cas sacrificed himself for him for the last time to go to the only place Dean can’t save him from. He’s gone.

So he stabs his damn pie and takes the first bite, pretending the deliciousness of the dessert is enough to distract him when a full piece gets shoved into his face. Dean licks his lips. Coconut pie.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a really long time,” Sam laughs.

Dean gives him a bitter smile. Deep down, he’s thankful for the sudden distraction.

=======================

They introduce themselves to the policewoman as agents Kripke and Singer from the FBI. The dad’s throat was torn and he’d been stabbed. The mother’s tongue had been ripped out and she was the only one left after the attack. The kids were taken.

The policewoman had looked at them curiously. “I didn’t know homeland security took home invasion cases.”

“Oh yeah, we’re full service,” Dean answers with a bitter smile.

As they talk more, Sam asks if the mother had been interrogated already, if she had seen something. The policewoman nods, taking out a piece of paper from the folder in her hands and showing Sam and Dean the drawing of a smiling skeleton.

“She drew this when asked if she saw the attackers,” she explains further.

Dean nods distractively. When the policewoman is called into the house, he turns to Sam.

“I recognize that face.”

“Yeah, me too. Just don’t know from where.”

They sweep around the house looking for clues and thank the people working the case for their time before asking for the coroner’s report. With the files in hand, they leave the scene and go just out of town so they can regroup.

They’re leaning against opposite sides of the hood of Baby. Dean’s going through dad’s journal while Sam goes through the file they were given and extending a map of the state.

“Found it!” Dean announces. “Dad came across these things in ‘86. He was working a string of kidnappings involving seven children along the 77. Mark these up: Akron, Canton, East Sparta,” he listed. “He didn’t find much, but one of the witnesses described this.”

He turned the journal around, showing Sam a more detailed copy of the face their witness had drawn.

“Alright, so Dad knew about this case–”

“Yeah but he didn’t find much. Guess he thought this was some major crime thing, not a monster.”

“So, the victims–”

“Kids were taken; the adults that weren’t drained had their–”

“Their tongues ripped out.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah… You know what this is? Mimes.”

Sam scoffs. “My money’s on vampires.”

Tongue in cheek, Dean nods, giving it a thought before his face lights up at a breakthrough. “Vamp–mimes! Son of a bitch, man.”

Sam knows this Dean. The Dean that gets silly when he’s down, the one that smiles and attempts to make him laugh so he won’t notice. Dean’s distracting himself; and Sam, just this once, is gonna let him. They both lost Castiel, but Dean’s the one who was closer to the angel. At least this time Dean’s not putting his life at risk.

“Okay, so if the pattern holds, then the next town they’re gonna hit is Canton.”

“And they’re gonna target a family that lives outside of town, isolated and with kids between the ages of five and ten,” Dean supplies.

“Alright,” Sam puts the cap back on his sharpie. “So, who in Canton fits that bill?”

===========================

The Maxwell’s from Canton fit the bill.

The brothers camped out near their house until nightfall and stayed hidden. The vampires would arrive soon. They had to. The Maxwell’s were the only ones who ticked off all the requirements of the pattern their dad had collected.

So when a white van pulled up to the main entrance of the house, Sam got his gun ready and Dean pulled his machete out of its case.

Three vampires came out of the van. Two vampires were beheaded not ten minutes later and the third one had been shot in the head with a bullet soaked in dead man’s blood.

They interrogate him, threaten to kill him slowly to get him to confess where’s his nest and if he’s being honest, Dean doesn’t care for a hot minute if the guy talks or not. He gets to decapitate another vamp and whether he’ll do it slowly or quickly doesn’t matter because he will find that fucking nest and he’s gonna bring those kids home so help him Jack.

The fact that he might have been itching for a hunt while at the same time wanting to stay cooped up in the bunker for the rest of his days is irrelevant.

Vamp-mime #3 ends up talking and, like he promised, Dean makes his demise quick. Sam makes an anonymous call to the Canton police department to report the bodies and they’re out of there, Dean drives as fast as he can through the highway and towards the location of the nest.

He guesses that if the three goons don’t make it back to the nest soon they’ll either flee or look for their missing members. Both options involve them leaving the nest, so neither option is good.

His conversation from earlier that day with Sam replays in his memory. Over and over he hears himself saying if we don’t move on, all that sacrifice will have been for nothing. He’s right. He’s right and he should move on. He should leave the past in the past and come to terms with the fact that whatever he wanted to say to Cas won’t ever happen because Cas can’t hear him anymore. He couldn’t say anything and now he’s stuck living in a present that is good but that is incomplete.

Dean’s come to that realization several times in the couple weeks since they defeated Chuck, yet his heart still breaks each and every time. There is so much he wanted to say to Cas and Jack.

‘You are family, Jack,’ is one of the many things he wants to clear up for the kid.

He drives and drives until Sam turns him to take a turn and they stop outside of a seemingly black, old-looking barn.

“You think this is the place?” Sam asks as they get out of Baby.

“Well, old and abandoned place in the middle of nowhere that looks like it came out of a bad horror movie…” Dean nods. “Yeah, I think this is it.”

“Great.”

They go to the trunk and it feels… ominous, somehow. On top of everything going on in his head, he’s now remembering his father and that vamp hunt he took them in ‘05. The hunting world changed for him that time, he had a feeling it was about to change again.

And because he feels like throwing shit at mimes, he takes the throwing stars, giving Sam a cheeky smile. He gets a shake of the head and bitch-face number 10 in response.

“No.”

“We’ve never used them, come on,” Dean pleads. “Just this once.”

“No way.”

“I never get to do anything fun,” he grumbles, scouring through the trunk. “Where’s the rest of the dead man’s blood bullets?”

Sam motions his gun, “we ran out. I have the last few.”

“Seriously?!”

Sam gives him an apologetic look. “I’ll shoot, you take a machete. And we take these sons of bitches down together, alright?”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean grumbles, pointing the machete at his brother. “But you’re in charge of making more when we get back home.”

“Fine.”

They go in. Dean with his machete, Sam with a gun in his hand and a machete in the other.

Suddenly, a milk run hunt is not so easy anymore. There are another four vampire mimes, all ready and waiting for them to make the first strike. Sam makes sure to get the kids out of there, telling them to run as fast and as far as they can, that him and his big brother will follow in a bit to help more.

The fight goes by quick. Sam shoots a vampire, but he loses his gun when another one gets too close and knocks the gun out of his hands. He swings the machete at the attacking vampire and beheads him with a clean cut.

Dean beheads another one, and together they take down a third one.

They exchange a confident look. Almost there.

Suddenly, another two vamps pop out from the back entrance of the barn. The Winchester brothers swing, but a hit at the back of his head leaves Sam unconscious momentarily, rendering Dean outmanned and, soon after, defenseless.

Sam wakes up to Dean pinned down by two vampires, the third one with a raised machete.

He doesn’t have time to think. He reaches out for his previously discarded machete and beheads her.

The action gives Dean enough time to stand his ground once more.

Each brother targets one of the remaining vampires. They’re bruised and battered and Sam’s a little dizzy, but he ain’t gonna let these vamps win.

So he fights, he stands his ground miraculously and eventually gains enough upper hand to behead his vamp. As the head falls to the ground, there’s a grunt and the sickening sound of flesh being torn apart.

What Sam expects to see is a vampire hurt, or even better, beheaded.

What he finds is his brother pinned against a wooden column; the vamp pushing him further against it.

“Dean!” He panics, tackles the vamp to the ground and fights the thing until he can behead it. Which he does with gusto.

Sam finally lets himself breathe as that last head hits the ground. Feels his wounds and the slight pain caused by the vampires but overall, he’s okay. Barely scratched, taking his standards in consideration.

“Sammy,” Dean calls softly.

Sam turns, giving his big brother a tired smile that fades instantly at seeing Dean still pressed against the wooden column, tense, with his face contorted in discomfort and pain.

He’s in front of him in a second. “What’s wrong?”

Dean tilts his head to the side, motioning behind him, “I don– I don’t think I’m going anywhere, Sammy.”

White hot panic begins to course through Sam’s veins as he reaches behind Dean and feels the blood dripping from his back and soaking his clothes. He takes his hand a little bit more up and to the side and suddenly he can feel the protuberance of a rebar sticking out the column… now buried in his brother’s back.

“No no no, we can fix this,” Sam begins to say frantically. “Lemme just get the first aid kit. I’ll take you out of here. We just gotta get you down. It’ll be okay. We’ll patch you up.”

He tries to push Dean away from the rebar, barely moving him but causing Dean to scream in pain and Sam can’t do anything but freeze.

“Fuck! No, Sammy. No nononononono don’t move me. That–,” Dean coughs. “It feels like this thing is holding me together right now.” Sam steps back, hands hanging at his sides and looking heartbreakingly mad at himself for not being able to get Dean out of this. Dean moves his head slightly, forcing Sam to look him in the eye. “I can feel myself fading, Sammy. I–I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’ll get the first aid kit,” Sam insists. “Let me call for help, let me–”

“Sam– Sam!,” Dean cuts him off. “Sta–Stay with me,” he pleads. “Stay with me, please.”

Dean sees his brother struggle for a moment before he nods faintly. “Okay, yeah.”

“Listen to me,” he begins. “You get out of here and you get those boys someplace safe, okay?”

“No,” Sam shakes his head, motioning between them. “We are going to get them someplace safe.”

“No, Sammy. I– There’s no time. Fuck– this thing– you move me and I’ll die, alright? Just,” Dean coughs again. This time, he decides to ignore Sam’s flinch as he tries to focus, to stay just long enough to say it all. “Just stay with me for now, please.”

“Stop! It’s gonna be okay, just–”

“Sammy I ain’t happy with this, but it’s happening. And we can’t stop it, alright?” He gives his little brother a pained smile. “At least I got to save people and hunt things one last time with my brother. Family business.”

“Dean, stop this.”

“No. There’s some things I wanna say, okay?” He pleads. “There’s some things you need to know.”

A white hot flash of pain courses through him and Dean groans, closing his eyes for a moment. He hears Sam sniffle.

“First,” he opens his eyes and flashes a cocky, loving smile. “We had one hell of a ride, man.”

“I will find a way,” Sam stutters, eyes frantic. “I’ll find a way. You’ll come back.”

“No no no no, no bringing me back, Sammy. That always ends bad and we’ve had enough of Big Bads, ya hear me?” Dean coughs. “No bringing me back. Promise me. Swear it.”

Sam opens his mouth to do just that just to placate his brother, but stops. There’s nothing grand, nothing good, nothing positive about this situation. It sucks. It utterly sucks because Dean is right here and he can’t help, he can’t take him off that rebar he can’t cure him he can’t call Cas–

“I’m so proud of you, Sammy,” Dean continues, promises ignored for now. “Come here,” he keeps coughing. “Remember when I came to get you from Stanford?”

Sam nods, stepping closer to Dean, who places a hand on his shoulder while mumbling ‘let me look at you’.

“I thought you were gonna tell me to get lost o–or–or get dead and– anyways. You– you turned out great, Sammy. I’m so proud of you.”

Dean’s difficulty to speak increases with every passing second and Sam grows frantic at the sheer reality of this. He’s watching his brother die and this time– with Jack saying he wouldn’t be a hands on God, with Cas gone, with the promise he hasn’t made yet…

He won’t be able to bring Dean back.

Sam’s eyes fill with tears and suddenly it feels like he’s forgetting how to breathe. He can feel himself shaking, frantically shaking his head as the first tears begin to fall.

“I can’t do this alone,” he pleads again.

Dean sounds so confident in his response. “Yes, you can.”

“Yeah, well I don’t want to.”

“You won’t have to,” Dean assures. “You have– You have D–D–Donna a-a-and Claire. Kaia. J-Jody. B-B-Bobby. Eileen. Garth. Our friends. Family. You’re not alone, Sam. I swear.” His voice grows softer the more he speaks. “I’ll be right here,” he pats Sam’s chest. “E-Every step of the way. I promise. We are not- not alone, Sam– Sammy. Not anymore. Not for a while now.”

Sam is biting his lip hard now, trying to breathe normally, trying with all his might to contain his sobs, to keep the tears at bay. Nothing works. The tears still roll down his cheeks. His breath is still raggedy and broken. His body can’t stop shaking and it only gets worse as he sees Dean begin to cry too.

“Tell me– Tell me you’re gonna be okay,” The oldest Winchester begs. “Tell me it’s gonna be okay, Sammy.”

The words pierce right through Sam’s soul. He doesn’t think he’s ever done anything quite as hard as looking at his dying brother in the eyes and forcing himself to speak in the most reassuring way possible.

“It’s gonna be okay, Dean,” his voice cracks and shakes and his face is fucking soaked but he pulls through. “I’m gonna be okay. It’s okay.”

Dean smiles. It’s a pained, wobbly and grateful smile. “I don’t wanna go, Sammy,” he confesses in a desperate whisper as another tear rolls down his face. “I don’t– tell them I said goodbye. That– that I– fuck.”

“It’s okay, Dean,” Sam repeats, more for himself than for his brother this time. Dean’s grip on his shoulder is wavering and so Sam decides to step in closer, hugs Dean as carefully as possible without moving him. “They know. It’s okay. You can go.”

Dean gives a shaky sigh and suddenly his face is resting against Sam’s shoulder.

“Bye, Sammy,” he whispers.

This time, Dean sighs calmly, slowly, as his hand falls from Sam’s shoulder and his body sags between his brother and the column.

He’s dead.

Whatever self control Sam had left is shattered as he shakily hugs Dean closer to him, burying his face against his now dead brother’s shoulder and sobbing uncontrollably, calling out to him, begging for any kind of miracle to appear and make Dean breathe again.

Nothing changes.

Not after thirty seconds. Not after a minute. Not after five minutes.

Still crying and with shaking fingers, Sam pulls his phone out and texts Eileen, sending her their location and asking her to please come help.

After another couple minutes, Sam takes Dean off the rebar and cries harder at the sound of his flesh tearing a little bit more against the metal as he’s freed from it..

It’s with a heavy heart that he realizes he can’t stay here. There are two boys hidden outside that need him.

He lays Dean down and promises to come back as soon as possible.

=============================

By the time Eileen arrives at the barn, Sam’s taken the boys home.

She finds him inside the old barn, sitting besides Dean’s body, crying, sobbing, shaking. It doesn’t take her long to put the pieces together and for her eyes to fill with tears. She slowly makes her way up to Sam, who startles at the feel of her hand on his back. He stops crying for a second, thinking they might be in danger again, but only cries harder at the sight of Eileen and drags her into his arms, hugging her as tight as he can, desperate for comfort.

“It’s okay, Sam,” she tries to assure him a couple times. It doesn’t work. And it doesn’t feel right to say something like that when her sort of brother-in-law is lying dead beside them. The more she’s there, the heavier the loss feels and soon enough she’s crying just as hard as Sam, aching in pain for the loss of Dean, but more so because of the pain Sam is feeling. Her assurances quickly morph into her trying to say ‘I’m here, Sam’.

Because that she is certain of. She’s not leaving Sam. She’s right here for him.

They get rid of the vamps’ bodies together, neither wanting to be alone for the time being. Once that’s done, they put Dean in the backseat of Baby and they drive home.

==========================

It takes less than a day for everybody to come for the funeral.

Sam and Eileen spend the rest of the night making phone calls to all of their friends and family. Jody, Donna and the girls are the first ones to show up. Claire is clinging to Kaia’s hand tightly as she tries to keep her sobbing under control.

Every time someone shows up, Sam can’t help but think back at something Dean said that time he was supposed to blow up Amara with the soul bomb.

‘I want a big funeral, you hear? I’m talking open bar, all you can eat kinda thing.’

By the time the sun begins to set, everyone is there. Sam finds himself thinking that Dean was right: he’s not alone, they do have a family. And their family is mourning his loss, their loss, with him, together.

Garth brought his family. Bobby and the hunters from Apocalypse World came. Charlie and Stevie came. Someone got a hold of Jesse and Cesar Cuevas and apparently they got on the first plane they could find all the way from Mexico. Even Rowena is summoned, and people are even more surprised when she shows up. Dean’s pyre is surrounded by everybody that ever loved him, everyone they considered family that still lives.

Miracle and Eileen are by Sam’s side when the pyre begins to burn.

They watch as the body of Dean Winchester burns, but they hold on tight to the fact that they’re not alone.

Ironically, the bunker is bursting with life after the funeral.

Everyone was invited to stay the night and said night is drunk away with stories, tears and memories of Dean. The mourn of his loss becomes a celebration of his life.

A couple of days later, after everyone is gone, Sam roams the bunker’s hallways. Eileen does everything she can, but it’s painfully obvious that staying here is not doing Sam any good. Too many memories, too many years, too many reminders of what’s gone.

They sit down, they talk, they cry in Dean’s room… and they come to the conclusion that it’s time.

They arrange things with Bobby and his hunters, giving them the bunker’s keys. They pack up everything they can take and with Miracle following right behind, they say goodbye to their home.

It hurts Sam more than he thought it would, but the bunker’s not being abandoned, it’s being opened for the hunter community to continue to fight the good fight. Except this time, he won’t be in the front lines.

They take Baby with them. Sam is driving, Eileen is sitting shotgun and Miracle is laying in the backseat. He takes Eileen’s hand in his. She signs ‘I love you’, Sam says it back.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Eileen says.

“I know,” Sam answers.

This time, he believes it.

============================

Dean wakes up (and this is a weird thing to say) standing. The sun is shining warm and beautiful on his face and he’s surrounded by a gorgeous mountain view.

There’s no immediate pain and after a full minute, nobody has come out to mock him and tear the fantasy down, so he assumes he’s not in hell.

Thank– No. Not Chuck. Thank Jack, he guesses.

There’s a building to his right and so he walks, curious. When he reaches the front, he’s surprised at the sight of Bobby, their Bobby, sitting on its porch, drinking a beer and smiling warmly at him.

“What memory is this?” He asks, taken aback. He looks up the building and his breath hitches. Harvelle’s. They’re at Harvelle’s.

Bobby chuckles, “it ain’t, ya idjit.”

“Yeah, it is,” he insists. “Last time I heard, you,” Dean points at Bobby. “were in heaven’s lock-up.”

“Was,” Bobby agrees, getting up. “Not anymore.”

“What happened?”

“That kid of yours happened,” he smiles. “He came in and– he fixed it. Everything. Heaven ain’t just your memories anymore. He– He tore down the walls,” Bobby explains softly, excitedly. “Everyone can go see everyone. See, a few miles from here,” he points over a mountain, “is Rufus’ cabin. He got it with Aretha. Your folks have their own place too, nearby.”

“So everyone–”

“You can see them, visit them,” Bobby clarifies. He opens his arms in invitation. “It’s good to see you, son.”

For the first time since he got here, Dean breaks into a big smile and steps into Bobby’s hug, holding on tightly. “Same goes to you, old man.”

“Shut up,” he jokingly scolds. Bobby pulls away from the hug and motions to the roadhouse’s entrance. “Come on in. There’s some people who’d like to see you.”

They step into the bar and Dean is once again taken aback not only because of the view, but because of all the joyful screaming that fills the air as soon as the door opens.

Everybody’s here.

Charlie, Ash, Jo, Ellen, even his mom… Dean’s smile widens even more at the sight of Kevin, who’s apparently not a condemned soul roaming the Earth anymore. Old friends, recent friends and family him and Sam lost along the way… even Frank is here.

Something is still missing tho, but Dean reminds himself bitterly that there’s nothing he can do about Cas, so he leaves it alone and basks in the sight of his friends.

He hugs everybody. He screams in joy and cries in joy and he’s just so damn happy at the sight of everybody.

“Jack did all this?!” Dean asks, once he’s gotten his happy tears under control.

“Not on his own,” Ellen answers. “Castiel helped.”

The world freezes for Dean.

“Cas… Cas is dead, Ellen,” the words feel awful to say, but they’re true. He saw it happen. “He- He’s gone.”

“No, idjit,” Bobby intervenes. “Cas helped Jack do this. This,” he motions around them. “Is the heaven we needed. Dean, it’s the heaven you deserve. And they did it.”

“What ‘bout Sam?” he asks, suddenly scared. “When he gets here, he’ll have this, right? He’ll see all of you?”

“He will,” Charlie speaks this time. “This is heaven now. Time works… differently, here. Sam won’t take long. So, what are you gonna do now, Dean?”

Dean nods, because what else can he do?

Cas is alive.

Cas probably knows he’s here.

“I gotta go,” he says. “I have an angel to talk to.”

He walks back to the roadhouse’s entrance, but stops before opening the door. Dean takes one more look at everyone, smiling. “I’ll be back, I promise.”

“Go find your angel, Romeo,” Charlie whoos loudly.

“Shut up, Charlie,” he calls back, stepping out of Harvelle’s.

As if heaven couldn’t be more perfect, Baby’s parked outside. Dean’s smile grows even more at the sight of her.

He gets inside, turns the keys and closes his eyes, savoring the sound of Baby’s roar. He turns the radio on and Carry On My Wayward Son begins to play.

He doesn’t know where exactly he’s driving, but he knows who he’s looking for. Assumes that heaven will guide him to Cas somehow.

Dean doesn’t know how time in heaven works, but he’s certain he lost track of it. After a while of driving, he stops at the side of the road upon looking at Miracle barking like crazy at the Impala, his tail wagging a mile an hour.

He continues to drive with Miracle riding shotgun until he arrives at his destination.

Castiel looks tense, nervous, but he’s still smiling as Dean gets out of Baby.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean can’t find words enough to express how much he’s missed him.

“You stupid, dumb son of a bitch,” he croaks, then brings Cas in for what must be the biggest hug of his existence. “You were gone too damn long.”

The ache, the pain, that emptiness he’d been feeling ever since Cas had been taken by the empty, disappears.

He doesn’t let Cas go.

=============================

Sam’s life is good.

Him and Eileen never get married. Not legally, at least. They’re it for each other, they know it, but Sam is legally dead and still wanted in some states, so they can’t get married in a traditional way.

Instead, they have a ceremony with their friends and family. Sam’s favorite picture from that day rests over the chimney, where he’s kissing Eileen’s cheek.

They name their first child Dean. Sam had been nervous to suggest it, but Eileen had taken one look after giving birth to their son and simply said, “hi, Dean”. Sam cried like a baby, murmuring sweet nothings into her hair while pressing his hand (that was signing ‘I love you’) to Eileen’s chest. He swore he’d be a better job than John ever did in raising his kids. He keeps that promise.

Dean grows, so does their family, so does the family business.

Their home is filled with pictures of their friends and family. Some of Sam with Jody and the girls, eating out or hanging out. Some were given to him, showing his brother Dean smiling and being and living with their family.

Dean Jr and his siblings hear endless stories of their super cool uncle from everybody their whole lives. They all wish they could meet Uncle Dean.

Time goes by, life goes on. Sam never gets used to the giant hole his brother’s absence leaves in his soul.

Him and Eileen grow old together. Of course they teach their kids sign language.The hunting world is somewhat still part of their lives. They used to take on small, very few cases, but little by little they just don’t anymore and one day Sam looks around as he’s doing some research to help a huntress in Minnesota and holy crap, he did get out after all.

Sometimes he visits Baby, even goes for a drive with his kids if he’s in the mood. But mostly he just sits and remembers a life besides his best friend, his brother. He prays he’s okay. He hopes he can hear him. He hopes Dean is proud.

Decades go by, his children grow and he loses a part of himself when Eileen dies. His condition gets worse and with time, he finds he can’t climb the stairs and one day he wakes up and he’s in a hospital bed in his living room. It’s insane.

He’s old now.

More time goes by and one day, it just happens. He feels it coming and damn, he got lucky his son Dean had come visit because he did not want to be alone for this.

He holds his son’s hand, tries to be reassuring and wonders if this is what Dean felt like all those years before at the barn.

“We’ll be okay, dad,” his kid tells him. “It’s okay.”

Sam smiles at the feel of his boy’s hand in the shape of the ‘I love you’ sign being pressed to his chest. He makes his own hand move to cover his boy’s.

Suddenly his grip fades, his smile fades, his eyes close. He draws his last breath.

Sam follows his reaper to whatever destination comes next.

===========================

Dean loves having Cas riding shotgun as they drive through heaven. Miracle is sitting in the backseat for most of the drive, sometimes trying to jump over to the front, much to Cas’ amusement and Dean’s panic.

They talked. They keep talking along the road but for the most part, unfinished business aside, Dean is pretty fucking happy. He got Cas back. He knows now Jack is perfectly fine. Cas even told him Jack sometimes drops by to visit. He can’t wait.

They drive and drive and drive and Dean won’t ever get tired of seeing Cas so happy.

They arrive at a bridge. Dean decides this is a good place to stop. He motions for Cas to follow, gets out and opens the backdoor for Miracle to jump out too.

“I just felt like taking in the view,” he explains.

Cas only nods and follows him to the edge. Dean wouldn’t be able to tell how long they stood there, leaning against the metal, taking in the view of the mountains and the river running below them.

Suddenly, there’s a change in the air.

Dean’s face breaks into a huge smile.

Heaven was perfect, but it just got even better.

He doesn’t need to turn around to know who it is.

“Heya, Sammy,” he croaks.

Now he turns, and yeah, his little brother is right there, all teary eyed and happy. Looking like not a day had gone by since the last time they saw each other.

“Dean,” Sam greets softly.

Dean gives a quick look to Cas, who is standing behind and petting Miracle as he smiles at their reunion. Dean looks back at his brother and he can’t contain himself anymore.

He hugs the crap out of Sammy.

Team Free Will is finally back together.

They get back into Baby after admiring the view for a little more and Dean tells Sam everything there is to know about heaven with Cas’ help.

They make plans to take him to Eileen, to visit everyone. To make their lives up here in heaven.

Dean has the biggest smile on his face as he looks in the rearview mirror and sees Cas smiling at him just as big in the backseat with Miracle. Sammy’s in his usual place: shotgun.

Heaven was perfect before, Dean thinks. But it’s finally complete now.

THE END

I hope you guys liked it... I know this was certainly therapeutic for me.

Take care of yourselves, keep fighting. And remember that no matter what we were given, family don’t end in blood.

I’m not tagging anyone because... just because. But I hope that y’all like this :)

#dean winchester #supernatural #Season 15 #15 x 20 #destiel #deancas #Sam Winchester #sam x eileen #15x20 fix it #dean winchester is happy #Supernatural Fan Fiction #dean #happy ending

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mirkwoodshewolf · 4 years

Text

Guardian of creatures; AU! Queen x oc female x reader Chap. 3

*Author’s note*

Wow just two days of writing and here we go with the next chapter. Now here you as the reader finally learn the truth about the owners of the BEWITCHED nightclub, as well as it’s star employees. More of a background will happen in later chapters but for now I hope this will do for you all enjoying this series.

Warnings: Objects coming alive, some swearing, graphic mythology.

Taglist:

@plethora-of-things

@waddles03

@psychosupernatural

@ixchel-9275

@simonedk

@kinole009x

@queen-paladin

@queensdivas

@jd-johndeacon-or-jackdaniels

@dancingcoolcat

@queendeakyy

@klausidiot

@geek-and-proud

____________________________________________________________

Chapter 3

Monsters are real!?

Hissing, deep roars, flashing lights, and something scaly. That was what was flashing through your mind like a film. You also remember hearing faint voices of Serafina and John talking to someone, but the last thing you could recall seeing was two eyes staring down at you.

The hypnotic, enticing yet warm yellow eyes staring down at you. You also remember feeling something smooth and scaly wrap around you before everything went black.

Finally you find the strength to open your eyes and you let out a loud, breathless gasp. The kind of gasp you make when you’ve been underwater for too long, the kind where you’re so desperate for air it didn’t matter whether a fly flew into your mouth or not.

The first thing you feel is a cool rag at the top of your head and you take in your surroundings. You’re in a large bedroom. The walls were a mix of purple and grey pattern wallpaper. One strip of the wall was a beautiful dark shade of purple, and the other was a grey with a floral design, then another strip of purple, and the pattern continued around the entire room.

The bed you were lying in was the softest thing you had ever felt. It was like sleeping on a cloud and the blankets were the softest of silk. Or was it Satin? Whatever it was, it was soft. Much better than any bedsheets you’ve ever slept on. After removing the damp cloth from your forehead you turn to see a beautifully hand-carved dresser.

Through the blackwood, you could see that engraved onto it were what appeared to be wolves. Wolves running alongside the entire dresser. You continued to look around to also see a large wooden wardrobe to your right and a small purple loveseat just at the foot of the bed.

Two Elegant candelabra lights were also on both sides of the room as well as one more right above you. Slowly you get out of the bed to feel the soft yet fuzzy texture of the carpet beneath your feet. The fuzzy points of it tickled your bare feet but one thing was screaming in your mind.

Where the hell were you?

Sneaking towards the door, you open it up to reveal a grand hallway. The wooden walls and low lighting gave it almost a haunting quality to it (and it didn’t help that it was still dark out).

Quietly as you could, you sneak down the hallway hoping to find a way out. As you walk, you can’t help but notice some of the pictures that hung along the walls.

In normal homes you’d see pictures of family members, paintings by famous artists or paintings of family members themselves. But this house—well one picture was of what appeared to be an evolution of some kind of human-serpent like creature.

Another picture was of the ocean but under the waters of the picture were terrifying creatures with sharp teeth, claws, webbed-like hands and tails like a fish. After what felt like forever of walking down this dimly lit hallway, you finally arrive at a grand staircase. A split staircase with one set of stairs (that you were in front of) and another set of stairs across from you joined together on a grand landing and then continuing downward to the main floor of the mansion.

The carpets were blood red and floral designed as well as some other intricate designed patterns that you had never seen before. You hold onto the railing as you quietly sneak down but of course the floor creaks beneath your foot.

You quickly take back your foot and quickly look around, your heart racing with anxiety. You then try your luck at a different part of the staircase and you thank God above that you didn’t hear a creak beneath your foot this time around. Cautiously you walk down the steps when you hear the strangest sound you had ever heard.

It sounded like a mixture of animals, it had the light cooing sound of a dove, but it had the deep resonance of an owl. You thought you also heard the purr of a cat mixed in there too. Slowly you turn your head around and you were frozen in fear to see the wooden shape of some sort of snake.

Half it’s body had lifted from the column that stood by the top of the staircase. It’s head tilted curiously at you as it’s wooden forked tongue occasionally came out. You and this wooden snake didn’t break eye contact with each other for even a split second, it’s unblinking eyes staring straight at you. You feared if you had blinked once, you’d be dead in an instant.

Suddenly all along it’s neck began to spike up into some sort of frizzled up wooden mane as it let out a demonic hiss/roar like sound. You yelp as you suddenly felt yourself falling backwards along the staircase.

The loud roar like hiss soon began to call up an alarm as the lights began to flicker on and off, the sound of an organ began playing but you saw no one was pounding on the keys and a few suits of armor started to come to life.

You let out a terrified scream as you scramble yourself up and tried to flee out the backway but you hear the sound of the locks clicking, telling you that it had locked itself up. Keeping you trapped inside. The suits of armor continue to come towards you so you now run to our left and you soon arrive at a very large den-like room.

Thinking fast, you shut the door and pull a chair towards it and lean it against the doorknob so that nothing could enter inside. As an extra measure, you ran towards a giant desk and hid underneath it trying to control your breathing.

“Oh my god, oh my god oh god oh god!” you whimper fearfully. Slowly you peek over the desk just to see if anything is trying to break down the door.

Unaware of a dark green tail that was slowly slithering towards you. Slowly feeling around your ankle you feel something cold wrap around your ankle. You look down and see a dark green snake tail wrapped around your leg. It then begins to tug at you hardly but you quickly grab onto the desk and try to hold on.

It’s a tug of war as you scream and beg for the tail to let you go. You kick at it with your free foot but it does little to deter the snake tail. Soon coming through a second door that you had no idea existed, John and Serafina are there.

Serafina grabs you while John shoots out a purple light from his hand down onto the snake tail which reals back and vanishes from sight. You scream up at Serafina as you try to escape from her grasp.

“(Y/n), sweetie it’s okay. It’s just us.” She tried to assure you. But you let out another terrified scream.

“Well that’s one way of saying thanks.” John said in a sarcastic tone.

“John behave!” she snapped at her husband. Wait, you then noticed that her low, southern accent wasn’t there. She sounded British. Was she faking the accent when you first met her? She turns back to you and says softly, “I know you’ve been through something traumatic but……”

“Traumatic!? TRAUMATIC!? You call that traumatic!?” you yell at her.

“It’s a lot to take in but please just let us……”

“What were those people!? Who are you!? Are you both gonna kill me?!”

“What no. No we’re not gonna kill you.”

“You guys are gonna kill me. You’re gonna chop me up into little pieces and serve me up in a pie!” you panicked.

“Sweetie no one’s gonna chop you up and bake you into a pie.” Serafina assured you.

“Then why did the house attack me!? Why am I here? Why—” suddenly your voice goes quiet. You can still feel yourself speaking but no voice is coming out of you. You panic once more and mime out a scream as you rake your hands through your hair.

“John Richard Deacon!” Serafina snarled. You stop screaming for a second to see John lower his hand as he said.

“Well how else were we gonna get them to stop overtalking you?”

“Uhh not with magic. And like civilized people with compassion and reassurance.” Magic? Did she really just say magic?

“Yeah like that was going so well just now.” John sassed as he crossed his arms over his chest.

“John I’m serious. Give them back their voice, and try to be empathetic about the situation. You were the exact same way when we were told of this.”

“That was a different story.”

“Not really.”

“Yes it was!”

“No it wasn’t.”

“Yes it was!” I tapped Serafina’s shoulder and she turned to me and sighed softly.

“Sorry love. We didn’t mean for things to go out the way they did but—we had to make sure the curse on you was fully gone. That’s why we brought you here. To our manor in Cold Spring.” Cold Spring?! You were in Cold Spring New York?!

You then feel a warmness coming back in your throat and that’s when John said to you.

“Try not to go screaming at the top of your lungs again. Otherwise your voice will be gone for a week.”

“John!” Serafina warned.

“Who are you guys?” you finally ask. The two young owners of the Jazz club looked at each other when John said.

“That’s—a long story.”

“At this point I don’t care. I want the truth!” you tell them.

“Come with us.” John said as he walked out of the room. Serafina held out her hand for you. Her red eyes giving you a sense of calmness and maternity. You give her your hand and she helps you stand up and walks you out of the study room.

You now stand before a grand library filled to the brim with books. Shelves so high you swear they touched the ceiling, you also notice that there is a giant globe at the center of the room, a few display tables with some pretty interesting and freaky stuff. Like one was a mummified hand or a golden statue of a cat.

As you walk through the library with curiosity that’s when Serafina asks you.

“What’s your knowledge of witches and wizards (Y/n)?”

“Not much. I mean I know about the Salem witch trials that happened a long time ago. But other than that……pointy black hats, broomsticks, and are said to be green skinned, old and ugly.” You say as you look at some of the books and items in the display cases.

“Well, I think they’re a little bit more than hats and broomsticks.” Serafina said as she sat down on one of the red velvet chairs.

“And they’re not ugly. That’s just a stereotypical characteristic.” John said as he came up and stood over Serafina’s chair.

“Well I don’t know. I’d classify your mother as one of the ugly bitches if I could.” Serafina teased.

“Can’t argue with that.” John chuckled.

“Wait.” You say as you turn to them. “Are you saying—you guys are witches?”

“The technical name for a male witch is a wizard. Or Warlock but that’s only reserved for the most powerful of wizards. But—yes. We are.” John replied.

“Does that frighten you?” Serafina asked.

“That depends. Are you both good or are you bad?”

“Well, it all depends on what you mean by ‘bad’. I’m nice but not that good.”

“You always degrade yourself love. You’re the best potions brewer I’ve ever met. You can name every single ingredient of every potion known to any wizard and witch. And you don’t even need a spell book. Not to mention your knowledge of magical creatures.” John said as he lowered his head towards Serafina’s and pressed against it lovingly.

“You’re one to talk Mr. Honor’s degree. You were the top wizard of our class in everything.” Serafina said as she gently poked John’s shoulder.

“A school? You mean to tell me there’s a school for wizard’s and witches?” you ask.

“Yes.” Serafina say breaking her eye contact with John to turn back to you. “There is only one school where wizards and witches go to become the best they can be—”

“But it was a long time ago when we went. I can barely recall it’s name.” John said as he turned his head away from Serafina.

There was a look in his eyes that read out—anger? Regret? You didn’t know but it you did know that it seemed John didn’t want to talk about it anymore. You see Serafina take John’s hand and stroke the back of it.

“Look, it’s been a long night for all of us. I think it’s best if we all go back to sleep, we’ll continue this discussion in the morning with the others.”

“You mean…….” Serafina placed her finger over her lips in a shushing motion.

“Come now dear, I’ll take you back to your room. John, you can go downstairs and apologize to you know who for the shock you gave.” She sat up from the chair and placed an arm around your shoulder to guide you out of the library.

“If I end up a ghost after talking to him, I’ll be coming for you first.” John told her.

“Please I know what you would do to me as a ghost.” Serafina called out back to him.

The two of you walk back up towards the room you were just at, every now and then you watched as Serafina ordered the suits of armor to go back into position, silence the piano, and shoo the wooden snake back against the column pillar.

“Do you and John always fight like that?”

“What married couple doesn’t? John and I can go at each other like dragons but through all our fights, we’ve never loved each other any less. Trust me when you’ve been with someone for over 1000 years you learn to compromise through your fights.”

“1000 years!?” you exclaim. “You’ve been married to John for a 1000 years?!”

“Technically we got married in 1465 so it’s only been 500 when we legally became husband and wife. However we were childhood sweethearts back in 1020. So we’ve just counted our relationship from when we first met.”

“So do witches and wizards age slower? Or are you guys immortal? Sorry if it sounds to personal. It’s just that you don’t look a day over 24.” She chuckled softly.

“Thank you dear. Well it goes both ways. You can form a spell to keep your immortal looks, but typically wizards and witches do age slower than muggles.”

“Muggles?”

“Oh that’s what we call humans back in England. Muggles, people who can’t do magic.” You nod.

Finally you arrive back to the bedroom and Serafina guides you back to the bed. As soon as you get into it, she tucks you in gently and adjusts your pillow.

“There we go. Comfy?” you nod. “As I said, we’ll explain everything in the morning. But for now rest is the most important thing you need right now. Goodnight (Y/n).”

“G’night.” You tell her. She then leaves the bedroom and with a snap of her fingers the lights go off and the door softly closes behind her.

Okay. So witches and wizards are real. The owners of the jazz club your boss wanted you to look into and expose are a witch and wizard. Just when you thought they only belong in storybooks, you find out witches exist and are real.

You could only imagine what else could exist in this world.

Morning came and you awoke to the smell of pancakes. You open your eyes and saw the sun’s rays coming through the windows in an elegant way, kinda like a hanging halo of light.

You get out of the bedroom and follow your nose till you stand before a grand kitchen. Inside you see the Blonde Siren sitting with Brian at a booth table. The blonde siren had basically every kind of breakfast meat there was on his plate. Bacon, sausages, ham, etc.

While Brian had some toast, two pancakes, and a tall glass of what looked like red wine. What really caught your attention though was the way the both of them were eating. Even a sip of the wine, Brian handled his breakfast with a high degree of grace and decorum (like those high aristocratic people), while the Blonde Siren was eating away at his food like a starving animal and—were those fangs in his mouth.

“Honestly Rog, must you eat like an animal?” asked Brian.

“Must you eat like you’ve got a pole shoved up your arse?” retorted Rog. Was that his real name? It sounded more like a nickname or something but what was it short for?

“Honestly I can’t see how you can devour animals like that. It’s quite sickening to watch at times.”

“You know what else is sickening? Listening to you complain while I’m trying to eat. Seriously Brian, you elves go on hunting parties, and yet you can’t stand the sight of me eating other animals? That’s very hypocritical of you.”

“I never once participated in a hunting party and you know it!” Brian exclaimed.

“I swear do you two ever stop arguing with each other. It’s like watching two children fight over a toy.” John said as he came through the back door entrance of the kitchen and headed back to the stove. He then turns his attention to you and says, “Ahh I see that my wife’s cooking has woken you up.”

When Brian and Rog look up, their eyes widened in shock as they look around trying to pretend their conversation didn’t happen.

“I was just…..I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Nonsense, come sit. Eat. Regain your strength, you need it. Also I would like to apologize for my behavior last night. I get a little testy when I’m woken up after a battle.”

“It’s okay John.”

“Now we have a selection for breakfast, do you prefer vegetarian or the regular breakfast selection?” you tell him what you prefer and he shows you the selection they have for your preferred breakfast.

After getting your breakfast made, you go towards the table where Brian and Rog sat and take a seat across from the two men. As you take the first bite of food Rog speaks up.

“How—much of that did you hear?” before you could answer that’s when John speaks up as he snapped his fingers and soon the plates began to clean themselves up.

“We told them Rog. Well the partial truth about what Serafina and I really are. So they know to an extent of what creatures really exist.”

“I see.” Brian said.

“Serafina said she wanted to talk about it with you guys as well. Are you guys wizards like John?”

“Thank Poseidon no. I don’t know what I’d do if I were one of those stuck up, pompous, egotistical……”

“Watch it stallion! You forget Serafina is a witch so insulting me means you’re insulting her.” John warned.

“Oh I would never put Serafina with the likes of you. She is something extra special.” Is he sure he’s not in love with Serafina. Cause the way he praises her is. You feel Brian touch your arm as he explains.

“Roger here comes from a Scandinavian race known as the Nokks.”

“Neck, Nokken, Nixy, Nix, there’s a shit ton of ways to spell our name.” Roger waved his hand nonchalantly. “Just depends on where you come from is where the pronunciations differ.”

“Anyways. His kind are nothing more than horny hound dogs that seduce women and lure children away with songs or beautiful music.” John sneered as he took a bite of a piece of toast that had cheese on it.

“I NEVER ONCE LURED A CHILD TO THEIR DEATH!! I could never stomach something like that.” Roger first snapped angrily before softly speaking with solemness.

“But you don’t deny the way you are with women.” Brian said more as a statement than a question.

“Is there anything wrong with that?” Roger asked as he turned to the curly haired man who held his wine glass in his hand with purpose (was that even possible?).

“You have always loved your beautiful women.”

“Beauty should always be praised and treasured, wouldn’t you agree Elf Lord?”

“Elf lord?” you ask. At that point Brian sighed heavily and set his glass down and said to Roger.

“Thank you for that.” Roger merely grinned cheekily at him. Brian then turns to you and pulls back some of his hair to reveal the pointed ears of an elf.

“Back during the middle ages, long before people started over populating the land with their cities and towns. Brian here was known as the High Elven lord of the West. Skilled fighter, wise ruler, protector of the forest, and Seer of the stars.”

“I…..I thought elves like you know—worked up at the North Pole and were……and don’t take this the wrong way Brian but uhh…..I honestly thought you’d be shorter.” At this point Roger began to laugh hysterically as Brian pinched the bridge of his nose groaning.

“I don’t know where humans got that idea that elves were supposed to be as short as dwarves and worked far up North were hardly anyone can survive.”

“Oh man! That is probably the funniest thing I have ever heard! How come you never told us that’s what humans perceive you as?” Roger said through his laughter.

“Because I knew you would react this way!” Brian shouted.

“Oh Trident’s spear. You are never gonna live this down mate.” Brian groaned as he dropped his head to the table.

“Now, now Roger don’t tease him like that.” Serafina’s voice soon spoke up. You look up and coming from the back entrance was Serafina.

She walks up to John and the two of them share a kiss with each other and you see as John wraps his arms around her. You also couldn’t help but notice that in Serafina’s eyes she seemed—sad.

“How you’re awake, how did you sleep (Y/n) dear?” she asks you.

“Better. And the breakfast is delicious.”

“Thank you. John always prepares the best meals.” She said as she looked up at her husband who looked down at her and gave her a kiss to the crown of her head.

“Flattery will get you anywhere my love.” She rested her head against his collarbone when Roger spoke up.

“As lovey dovey as this is, it still makes me sick to my stomach seeing you to act like that in front of me.”

“Which is why we do it.” John sassed at him with a glare.

“Darling, behave yourself.” As they continue to argue, your mind then transitioned back to last night when you met Jarod. When you saw all those creatures with fangs, and then that one man.

The man with the long, crazed black hair, the yellow piercing of his eyes, and the scales all over his body.

“(Y/n)?” Brian’s soft voice calls out to you. You snap out of his and he asks you, “What’s on your mind dear one?”

“I—I was just thinking about…….what happened last night. With Jarod.”

“It’s my fault. I should’ve fought back! He never would’ve touched you had I just not been afraid to reveal my powers.” Serafina snapped at herself.

“My love you were in the right mindset. We all agreed to never show our true selves before the eyes of humanity.” John said as he held her closer to him. Roger whose eyes showed pure sympathy at Serafina now turned to you and you saw them shift into anger as he explained to you.

“Last night you had the unfortunate pleasure of meeting one of the fae Princes, Jarod. Son of Queen Titania of the Faeries.”

“Fairies?”

“No not fairies, faeries. There’s a HUGE difference.”

“What is the difference? Aren’t they all the same?”

“Not in the slightest.” Brian now took over saying. “See, you humans think of fairies as tiny, miniature versions of yourselves. That fly about with pixie dust trailing behind them, and in some cases mending and taking care of the earth?” you nod. “Well there’s not like they are in your books.”

“They are dark, evil creatures. In touch with all things beyond morale and humane.” John then spoke up.

“Faes can take the form of humans, far past the human standards of beauty, and lure humans to be their pets of sorts. Draining your life force or forcing you to bare their children till you’re nothing but a withering whisp of your former self.” Serafina stated grimly.

“And all you have to do in order to form that contract with a fae, is tell them your name.” Roger finished.

Oh shit! That means…….you had told Jarod your name. Does that mean he’ll be coming back for you? Or send in more faes to kidnap you?

“It’s alright though (Y/n). They won’t be coming back for you though.” Brian assured you.

“How do you know that? I told Jarod my name, how could I be so stupid!? I’ve put you all in danger! I could get you all killed!”

“No, no, no, no, no darling no. You are not a danger to us because you’ve been freed of the contract.” Serafina said to you as she came up and cupped your face in her hands.

“What? But he said that I had to tell them my name. And I did…..”

“You did do that yes, but the way to free a human from a faes control is if the fae that knows your name dies, the contract is no longer valid. Jarod is dead sweetie, and Titania isn’t stupid to try and come back for you.” she strokes you cheek assuringly.

“Was it……was it that man with the long black hair that killed him?”

“You saw him?” asked Brian.

“It was fuzzy. But—I remember seeing a flash of scales, and—hypnotic eyes staring straight down at me. And his voice—it was…..soft and warm. Like honey. Yet……”

“Struck the earth like an earthquake.” They all said together. Okay that was creepy that they all said it together in a chorus-like monotone.

“Yeah. Who was he?” they all went quiet. Serafina walks away from you and stands before a window looking outside.

“He is an ancient creature that has been around since the beginning of time itself.” She started off.

“A great race of creature, the like of which no one had ever seen before. A creature that can see the past, and the future.” John spoke ominously.

“His race is said to have been Gods themselves. No other creature would dare challenge the likes of his kind. Except one.” Brian said. You notice his eyes briefly flicker towards John before turning back to you. “Now he is the last of his kind.”

“The last of a supreme race of mythical creatures. All fear yet respect him. For he is law of the world, seer of all, and shaman of life.” Said Roger as he fingered the table, tracing an infinity symbol.

“Freddie Mercury, the last of the Nagas.” They all finally chorused out once again.

You feel a sudden cold chill in the air as that name was said. A shiver ran up your spine and your heart almost stopped. Just hearing that name made something in you feel—afraid, but at the same time comforted.

“What’s a—a Naga?” it sounded so foreign to you and even through all your love of fantasy genres of books, not one book ever spoke of a Naga before.

“They are a hybrid like creature. The first ever to roam the earth. Their upper bodies are human, whether man or woman, but their lower half is full on snake. The biggest Naga ever said to exist was over 60ft long from his human head to her snake tail.”

“They are gifted with all things magic, and cannot be effected by other magical creatures. Which is why the faes let us go when Freddie came to save our arses.” Roger said as he took a bite out of his food.

“But make no mistake. Nagas are neither good nor bad. They stand on a neutral ground, only observing the world around them. But it’s always wise to never, ever anger a Naga. Less you end up their next meal.” Serafina said.

“God knows we’ve all nearly been on Fred’s menu at least once since meeting him.” John said.

“I haven’t.” Brian said.

“Don’t go bragging Elfling.” Roger snapped.

“I’m over 4000 years old Roger!”

“Yes and I have been around since the oceans and seas formed. Which makes me older than you!”

“Enough! Both of you!” John snapped. You sit there in silence for a moment before John asks you. “You alright poppet?”

“Yeah I just…….”

“It is a lot to take in over breakfast.” Brian said. “We don’t expect you to accept it all right away.”

“Will I ever see Freddie?” you ask them.

“He’ll see you when he wants to see you. But now isn’t the right time.” Serafina tells you as she picks up the empty plates from the table and uses her magic to clean them up.

“When I do see him, he won’t……eat me. Will he?” you choke out.

“So long as you don’t give a reason to.” Roger said as he stood up and headed out of the kitchen.

“And how am I supposed to do that?”

“We’ll tell you when the time comes. For now let’s just get you properly dressed. Brian, why don’t you take (Y/n) to your room and have a change of clothes ready for them.” Serafina said.

“Of course Serafina.” He stands up from the booth and comes over to you extending his hand. “Come with me dear one.” You look up at the Elf Lord and take his hand. He helps you out of the booth and escorts you up towards his room.

*3rd Person POV*

“I really hope we’re doing the right thing.” Serafina said softly as soon as the Elf Lord and human were out of range.

“It’s what has to be done my love.”

‘He’s right. I thought you of all people expected this Serafina?’ Freddie’s voice soon entered into their heads.

“That was before the faes came into play. Freddie must it be them?”

‘Yesssss. I have seen it with my own eyes. This is the human that will lead us to salvation. To our bright future.’

“It’s just……”

‘That’s why the next part of our plan will come to place; you and John will teach them everything you both know. Turn them into a magic wielder.’

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dimigex · 3 years

Text

Healing Hands, Chapter Seven

New chapter is up and I’m so excited to say it’s a start of the new arc!

You can find it on Fanfiction and Archive (linked for your convenience). But, here’s a snippet. The full chapter was over 8k words, so please find it on one of the other sites if you want to read the rest!

After nearly a month of careful inquiries, disappointing viewings, and unreasonable prices, Sakura found an apartment. The process had been about what she'd expected, though the selection left a lot to be desired. Sakura had wanted somewhere closer to the hospital than her parents house, but in a different building from Kazuko's. She'd formed an uneasy truce with the man over the past few weeks by ignoring what happened between them. There had been no more dinners or mixed-up, alcohol-fueled kisses in the dark, only professionalism.

Sakura found it easy to shift from budding friendship to simple coworkers, and Kazuko didn't question it. She was thankful for that much at least, because, regardless of their extracurricular problems, Sakura and Kazuko worked well together at the hospital. She didn't depend on him as much as she might have before things changed, but at least it wasn't awkward any longer.

The majority of Sakura's free time had been spent looking for an apartment, then getting her life in Konoha settled. She had taken Naruto out for ramen one night and was surprised to find that the boy had matured in the time they'd spent apart. He'd been busy with missions in an attempt to bolster his number of completed missions. Naruto needed to catch up if he wanted to be considered for Hokage in a few years when Kakashi retired. It was nice to know that his dream hadn't faded, especially when so many other things had changed.

Naruto and Sakura's conversation had turned to Sasuke at one point during dinner, but Naruto read the situation and dropped it after a couple of awkward questions. The night had gone better than Sakura thought it would, and they'd agreed to meet up every few weeks to stay in touch. Naruto spent a lot of time in and out of the village with missions these days, but he promised to make an effort to see Sakura, especially if it involved ramen. Some things would never change.

Smiling to herself, Sakura fussed over the pillows on the couch. They weren't the color that she would have chosen, but they complemented the rest of the room. Mebuki had picked them out on their latest shopping trip. Her mother's touch was obvious in each of the rooms, but Sakura hadn't resisted, even when she disagreed. Mebuki needed to feel like she still had a place in Sakura's life and the colors didn't bother her that much. Besides, she could "lose" the pillows later if she wanted to.

A knock on the door drew Sakura away from her contemplations. Taking a deep breath, she finished adjusting the cushions and went to answer. Sakura was both looking forward to having Ino over, and nervous about it at the same time. The girls had talked only a couple of times over the past few weeks, mostly commiserating about how hard being an adult was. Then, they'd laughed about being considered adults. Rebuilding her friendship with Ino felt natural, normal even.

When Sakura opened the door, Ino stepped into the tiny space and looked around with a telling curl on her lips. When her gaze came back to Sakura's face, however, the blond's smile was falsely bright. "It's cute."

Sakura groaned at the fake optimism and closed the door. "Is it bad?"

Ino didn't answer for a long moment, looking around the room with a calculating expression. Then, she nodded as if she'd reached some decision. "Are you allowed to paint?"

"I think so," Sakura answered, raising her shoulders in a shrug. "I'll have to check the lease."

True to her promise, Mebuki had helped Sakura decorate when she moved in two days ago. Candles, photographs, and trinkets filled the space in a way that Sakura never would have considered on her own. It almost felt like a home, or would soon enough. Only a few hours before Ino arrived, Mebuki had appeared with half a dozen bags in hand. The new throw pillows on the couch and the towels in the bathroom were a reminder of her mother's attention to detail.

It wasn't until Sakura moved her things into the larger space that she realized how few personal items she'd accumulated over the years. Thankfully, the apartment had basic furniture; Sakura didn't own any. A picture of her much younger self and the rest of Team Seven grinned at Sakura from a table beside the door. Half a dozen other snapshots surrounded it. Medical textbooks that Tsunade had gifted to her were tucked into a basket beside the couch. A bowl of bright fruit sat on the table.

"We can fix it," Ino declared, placing her bags beside the couch. After a moment, the blond turned to face Sakura, a devious grin sliding onto her lips. "So, who is he?"

Frowning, Sakura tried to follow the mental leap from talking about the apartment to whatever this was. "Who is who?"

Ino reached into one of the bags and pulled out a bottle of wine and matching glasses. As she walked toward the kitchen, she called over her shoulder. "It's not Sasuke again, is it? He wasn't good for you the first time, and he won't be any better the second."

Once Sakura finally caught up to Ino's reasoning, she rolled her eyes and followed her friend to the kitchen. "What makes you think there is even a him to begin with?"

Affecting a gasp, Ino covered her mouth and waggled her eyebrows in Sakura's direction. "Well then, who is she?"

Ino's question ended in a strangled gasp when Sakura smacked her with one of the questionably colored tea towels that Mebuki had selected. The girls dissolved in a fit of laughter that left them with red faces and aching sides. Still chuckling, Ino poured two glasses of wine, then followed Sakura back to the living room. As they settled on opposite sides of the creaky couch, Ino tipped her head to the side to study Sakura. "Seriously though, why the sudden urge to move out if it wasn't to get a little action? You said it's been months since you got some. How do you stand it?"

Sakura tried not to let herself flush at the memory of the almost dalliance with Kazuko as she shrugged. "There are more important things than sex. Besides, work keeps me busy."

"Riveting." Ino mimed a yawn, then her lips contorted into a wicked smile. "Speaking of work, I've heard that there's a good-looking, young doctor at the hospital these days. Would you happen to know anything about that?"

Sakura grinned, forcing the thoughts of Kazuko as far from her mind as possible. "I am pretty cute."

"Ha ha, very funny." Ino rolled her eyes then tossed a pillow at Sakura. "You know, I also heard that this handsome young medic had dinner with a certain pink haired kunoichi who you might also know."

Fighting down the blush that threatened to stain her cheeks, Sakura kept her expression neutral. She had already started to regret going to eat with Kazuko for fear of the rumors it could spawn. If she had to deal with it from Ino as well, Sakura wasn't sure that she'd make it. "Don't you have better things to do than gossip?"

The blond laughed. "I am Head of Intelligence in Konoha. It's pretty much my job to know everything."

"You don't have to be so good at it," Sakura grumbled, realizing that she'd been beaten before her mouth opened. Ino probably knew more about Kazuko than Sakura did. Though, maybe not, since he wasn't a shinobi. Accepting that Ino wouldn't leave it alone, Sakura settled on a version of the truth to feed the woman's curiosity. "We'd had a shitty day and were just decompressing."

"Together." Ino drew out the word with a suggestive flair, eyebrows waggling.

Huffing out an annoyed breath, Sakura nodded. "Yes, together, and that's all there is to it. He's a civilian."

Ino hummed under her breath, considering the words from multiple angles before speaking. "Does that mean you have to go on a certain number of dates before you can fuck him? I can never remember."

Laughter burst out of Sakura before she could stop it. "I don't think so, but it wasn't an issue. What about you? Who are you sleeping with these days?"

For the first time in a long time, the color on Ino's cheeks had nothing to do with makeup. Sakura's mouth fell open at the unexpected reaction. "Oh my god, who is it?"

"Nobody," Ino answered, draining the remainder of her wine in one long pull. "I think it's time for a refill. It's hardly a housewarming party without a little alcohol."

Narrowing her eyes at her best friend, Sakura held out her glass. Perhaps the drink would loosen Ino's tongue about whomever it was that made her blush like a little girl again. And if not, Sakura had sources too. Ino wasn't the only person who could dig up a little gossip.

----------BREAK-----------

Moving into her own apartment had given Sakura a modicum of freedom that she hadn't known she'd been missing. At least, in some respects. On the first night that Sakura worked, Mebuki had brought dinner by, and there had been enough leftovers to last several days. When those were finished, Sakura realized that she'd have to add a grocery trip and meal preparation to her routine, not to mention laundry. She hadn't recognized how much her mother still helped her until she had to do everything herself.

Even so, Sakura was thankful to have a place to call her own. She could have the occasional glass of wine without her mother's disapproving looks, sleep late on her days off, and have people over whenever she wanted. Not that Sakura had many opportunities for the latter. Apparently everyone else was busy doing adult things too.

Sakura hadn't found the time to take Naruto out for ramen a second time. Their schedules made it difficult, but she hadn't put as much effort into it as she should have. Sakura simply didn't have time to do everything that she wanted to do with all of her responsibilities. Not to mention, constantly being on alert for Anbu who might need her. Over the past week, she'd only treated one shinobi, a genin who'd gotten over enthusiastic with his shuriken training.

The situation with Kazuko had settled down, though Sakura hadn't talked to him about anything. They had gone their separate ways like adults, working together when necessary and separately when possible. She thought that time would eventually smooth it over. Now, if she could learn to control the blush that crept in whenever an unwanted memory sprung up in her mind.. Maybe Ino was right. Sakura just needed to get laid.

Not much chance of that, Sakura mused as she settled in bed after a long day. Her shift at the hospital hadn't been so bad, it was the running around after work that did her in. But, at least she had enough fresh vegetables to make food for the next several days. Contemplating which dishes she wanted to try her hand at first, Sakura drifted to sleep..

The onions were too large to be considered diced, and Sakura couldn't get her eyes to stop watering long enough to correct her mistake. She grumbled under her breath and continued to chop the pesky vegetables. A pan bubbled and hissed; steam rose in tantalizing waves that wafted the scent of meat and garlic across the room. Sakura nodded to herself, shoved the onions into a smaller bowl, and moved back to the stove.

Focused on the food, Sakura didn't hear the soft footfalls behind her until arms snaked around her middle. She squeaked and suppressed the urge to lash out with chakra. Soft kisses burned a trail along the shell of her ear as she swatted the hands. She tried to complain that she was too busy for the man's attention, but they both knew it was a lie.

When Sakura turned, the man's face was indistinct, a face that she could have seen hundreds of times during her day. She didn't have long to study his features before warm kisses made her forget everything else. Nimble fingers worked at the apron that Sakura had secured around her midsection; his hands drifted lower as the string came loose.

Beep, beep, beep. Sakura squeezed her eyes shut as the hands pulled her closer in a dizzying rush. The kisses along her neck were gaining heat, burning through her attention span. "Don't you need to get that," an unfamiliar voice husked by her ear. Beep, beep, beep. Sakura reached for the oven behind her, frowning at the numbers slowly ticking down. Beep, beep, beep.

The buzzing of Sakura's pager drew her from the warm confines of sleep. She blinked, trying to capture the remnants of her dream, but the urgency of the noise drove them from her mind. Sakura peered at the tiny digits indicating the time, then groaned. Why couldn't Anbu have emergencies during normal business hours?

Throwing off the blankets, Sakura climbed out of bed and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She stripped off the oversized t-shirt and reached for standard issue jonin blues. Sakura couldn't be bothered with the complicated snaps and buttons of her normal attire while half asleep. Tying off the pants, she grabbed a bag that held everything she'd need for an emergency consultation from beside the night stand and headed toward the door.

The streets of Konoha were eerily quiet in the deepest hours of the night, deserted except for the occasional flicker of unseen protectors at the corner of Sakura's vision. The fluorescent lights of the hospital glowed in the darkness, drawing Sakura like a moth. When she stepped through the doors, the same blanket of silence that cloaked the village enveloped the reception area.

Sakura turned away from the serenity, preparing for chaos. She'd barely reached the shinobi wing before Chiasa hurried toward her. Blood splattered the woman's scrubs as she indicated one of the rooms. "This way, Haruno-sensei."

Chiasa had already attached monitors to the patient while awaiting Sakura's arrival. The machines beeped an urgent rhythm that forced the last vestiges of sleep from Sakura's mind. Her eyes darted to the heart rate, lips pulling into a frown. The number was higher than Sakura wanted to see for someone as physically fit as an Anbu.

A flash of silver caught Sakura's eye; armor littered the floor. A chest plate tilted haphazardly against the leg of a chair. Metal arm guards and black compression gloves piled in a corner. Streaks of mud brown and dappled crimson looked like a macabre art display against the crispness of the bed's sheets.

Shaking her head to clear the image, Sakura moved closer to the bed. She noticed the man lying on it for the first time. Familiar brown hair stuck up in a dozen directions, pushed there by the faceplate and mask that lay beside his hand. Despite the chaos of the scene around them, Yamato's face looked markedly untouched by whatever injuries had brought him to the hospital.

The man's black compression shirt had been cut away, baring Yamato's chest to the light. Minor cuts and gashes decorated his arms and shoulders, each one in various states of healing. On his left side, a bloody bandage clung to the skin, mud and dirt covering it. The edges were too saturated to bond well; it had reopened at some point, allowing debris into the wound.

Sakura dropped her bag into a chair and dug out the tools she needed. One hand came up with a stethoscope that she draped around her neck, and the other held a pen light. Sakura thumbed open Yamato's eyes to check his pupil's reaction and was surprised to feel the burn of fever beneath her fingers. "Yamato? Can you hear me? Do you know where you are?"

When the man didn't answer, Sakura tucked the light into her pocket and turned to Chiasa. "What do we know? Do we have any information? Where is his team?"

Chiasa glanced down at the notes, though Sakura knew the woman hadn't forgotten any of the information from the intake. The nurse nodded to herself. "A member of his team brought him in while he was unconscious. The girl didn't stay around to check on his status."

Sakura frowned at that addition, wondering if friendships in the black ops meant so little and who the girl was. She didn't have time to answer that question now. Chiasa offered a shrug as if she could read Sakura's thoughts, then continued. "I was told that I don't have clearance for the details of the mission, so your guess is as good as mine on what happened."

A flash of fury burst in Sakura's chest at the words, but she forced it away. With a sharp dip of her head, she moved closer to Yamato and sighed. "I wish I had the time to be gentle."

Bracing her hands against Yamato's shoulders, Sakura pushed her chakra through his semi-conscious defenses. The man arched, a soft growl ripping free from his throat as she probed the injuries. As she'd expected, a dozen or more smaller wounds vied for her attention. They were minor compared to the one on Yamato's side. Another significant cut crossed his thigh, undoubtedly wrapped and hidden by the fabric of his pants, but that would need attention as well.

Ignoring the inconsequential details, Sakura focused on the most threatening injuries. Both the chest and leg were infected. She eased chakra into the wounds, lessening the body's strain to heal itself. A sluggish pulse of blood caught her attention; a tiny laceration on Yamato's liver. Sakura's forehead knit together in concentration as she pushed healing energy around the wound, forcing the body to speed its repair. She spent as much chakra as she dared, but the infection presented another problem.

Sakura lifted her hands away from Yamato's warm skin and wiped them down the front of her pants. It was only then that she realized that she hadn't bothered to don her lab coat, another detail that hardly mattered. She turned back to Chiasa. "Let's start with a broad spectrum antibiotic. Has he been coherent since they brought him in?"

Chiasa shook her head as she turned to the medicine cabinet to find the items needed to start an IV line. Sakura tapped her fingers against her thigh as she chewed her lower lip, mumbling to herself. "Where is your team? Why didn't they stay? And, what the hell happened?"

Grumbling under her breath, Sakura swiped her hair away from her neck in a messy ponytail as she considered the options. Trying to purge infection was trickier than poison; it was a body's response to stimuli instead of foreign invaders that she could isolate. It would be better to clean the wounds with traditional medicine and drain the infections, especially since Sakura wasn't sure what she was dealing with yet.

Sakura released her chakra when Chiasa appeared at her side, holding out the medicine. She nodded and made the notation in Yamato's chart. The page was empty except for Chiasa's intake notes. Sakura resisted the urge to throw the file against the wall as she checked the numbers. Yamato's blood pressure and heart rate were higher than she wanted them to be, especially after healing. Had she missed something?

Kneeling, Sakura picked up the discarded chest plate that she'd noticed earlier. A puncture in the side correlated with the injury to Yamato's chest. Whatever hit him had to have been moving at incredible speed to crumple the armor that way. Sakura placed the item on the chair, then collected the arm guards to join it. She reached for his mask, brushing her fingers over the green and red stripes on the cat's cheeks that had kept his features free of wounds. Sakura wondered if the animal had been assigned, or if Yamato had picked it himself.

After placing the mask with the rest of the armor, Sakura crossed the room to pull a blanket from the cabinet. Since the rest of Yamato's team hadn't stuck around long enough to see how he was doing, she had no idea what to do with it. The man had essentially been abandoned, and it infuriated Sakura. Was that the way that all Anbu treated each other? She couldn't imagine bringing Naruto or Sasuke to the hospital in this condition and leaving them there.

Sakura sighed, watching the efficient way that Chiasa worked. The nurse had already gotten an IV line started in Yamato's wrist and was buzzing around the machines connected to his body. Sakura glanced at his heart rate and blood pressure again, frowning. "I want vitals checked by hand every twenty minutes for the next three hours," she decided aloud.

"If there are no changes after that," Sakura glanced at her watch, startled to find the time so late already. "After that, I'll be back on shift and can reevaluate him myself."

Chiasa nodded, familiar with the expectations. "Do you want any blood work?"

"Yeah, let's get a cbc and blood culture to see what we're up against." Sakura paused, then nodded to herself. There was nothing else that she could accomplish tonight. "I'm going to try and catch a couple of hours of sleep in my office. Wake me if there are any changes."

Gathering her bag from beside the bed, Sakura slung it over her shoulder and walked from the room. The silence of the hallways made her uneasy. She was used to the hustle and bustle that predominated day shift, but more emergencies came through the doors at night. Sprains and stuffy noses were replaced with broken bones and heart attacks. Sakura didn't envy the men and women who worked while everyone else slept. She'd done more than her fair share of night shifts when training with Tsunade, mostly because the woman liked sleep more than she liked her student. Or, so Sakura thought.

A ratty couch tucked into one corner of Sakura's office, a new addition for these late night Anbu surprises. It was hardly long enough to stretch out on, even for someone of Sakura's height, but it worked in a pinch. The room was blissfully dark at least. Sakura tossed her bag onto the floor, then tried to get comfortable on the lumpy cushions. Seconds ticked by, then minutes. Despite the exhaustion nagging the back of her mind, Sakura's body refused to rest. Sighing, she moved back to the desk and flipped on the light.

A dozen charts waited for Sakura's attention, but she couldn't focus enough to deal with the tiny details that they required. Her mind refused to settle enough for sleep, but wouldn't let her work. Sakura had assumed that the worst missions, the ones that left shinobi broken and battered like Yamato, had become an exception now that the world was at peace. She berated herself for that naivety. The current political situation was tenuous at best, forced by fear or respect for Naruto and Sasuke. Anbu continued to put their lives on the line daily and would do so until something major changed

Sakura's frown deepened as she considered Yamato, still trying to reconcile the fact that he was Anbu. She had wondered why she saw so little of him after the war, but hadn't thought to comment on it. Sai had never mentioned the man in relation to Anbu either, but that wasn't surprising considering the security around them. Sai wasn't one to gossip, anyway. Sakura tapped her fingers against her forearm, then checked her watch, less than an hour had passed.

Giving up on the idea of sleep, Sakura pushed to her feet and left her office behind. The halls were still deserted and silent as she walked back to Yamato's room. Chiasa had gone, dimming the lights before she left to help her patient rest. Beside his bed, the alarm on the monitor flashed, but it had been silenced for being constantly out of normal parameters. Yamato's heart rate and blood pressure remained elevated.

The healing, push of fluids, antibiotics, and rest should have lowered the number by now. Sakura stepped closer and captured Yamato's wrist in her hands. Her fingers pressed against his pulse point, surprised to feel the rapid beat through the skin. She had wondered if the machine was getting a false reading somehow, but her physical count came up with the same number or close enough that it made no difference. Sakura laid his hand back on the bed and frowned. "Why aren't you stabilizing?"

As Sakura expected, Yamato didn't answer. Chiasa had cleared away the tatters of his uniform, then cleaned and wrapped the wounds. Yamato's armor remained beneath the blanket where Sakura had left it. The man looked different without the jonin uniform and usual head protector. She brushed her fingers over his forehead, feeling the warmth of fever. Yamato's temperature was up, but not high enough to force his body to shut down. "Did I miss something," Sakura wondered aloud, mentally cycling through the dozens of medical textbooks that she'd read over the years.

Lowering her hands to hover above Yamato's chest, Sakura eased her chakra into his body. The echo of the man's life force ruled out chakra exhaustion. Sakura had tended to Kakashi after battle enough times to know what that felt like. Yamato's chakra brimmed with energy and life.

Sakura quested deeper, reexamining the injuries and looking for something that she could have missed. It was exactly as she'd seen earlier, minus her healing. Huffing, she broke the connection between herself and Yamato. When Sakura opened her eyes, she was startled to find Chiasa at the end of the bed with a stethoscope in hand. The woman was coming back to get the next set of vitals. Sakura dipped her chin in greeting. "Have we gotten any results yet?"

"Not yet," Chiasa answered, pulling the file from the box at the end of the bed. "We should have part of it back in the next couple of hours, but the culture will take longer."

"Yeah," Sakura agreed, humming thoughtfully. Her eyes swept over Yamato again, then returned to his heart rate. "Draw a tox screen as well, and put a rush on the results."

If Chiasa was surprised by the unusual request, her face didn't reveal it. She nodded and made a notation in the chart. "Anything else, Haruno-sensei?"

Sakura shook her head, wondering if any of the tests would help her fit the pieces together into an image that made some kind of sense. She rested a hand on Yamato's bare shoulder. "We'll get to the bottom of this soon, I promise."

Don’t miss the rest of the chapter, linked above!

#dimi write #healing hands #YamaSaku #Tenzo/Sakura #Sakura Haruno #Tenzo #Yamato #SLOW Burn

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mx-milo · 3 years

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Parlez-vous or something like that

[千紬/ChikaTsumu]

It's the end of Chikatsumu Week. I don't play A3! often, I'm not active in the fandom, I barely even write fanfics. But the power of these two have compelled me, and since AO3 won't be giving me an account until the next week, so it'll be here first.

Summary: "Chikage has never spoken a word of French before in his life, but that didn't stop him from helping out Tsumugi for one of his tutees. Hilarity ensues."

~~~

Chikage was a reliable source for guidance and knowledge for the students of the Mankai Company. Although there were a myriad of adults who have their own areas of expertise, it usually ended up with either him or Tsumugi, especially when it came to linguistic subjects: Classical Japanese, English, and the rare foreign language elective.

His sessions with Tenma or Taichi were a welcome break from whatever he had been doing on his PC for the last god knows how many hours. At least he could perceive the output of his hardwork with the wide smiles of a teenager who just finally understood why verbs didn't always end with -ed.

That's not to say, it wasn't challenging. Not especially when a curveball was thrown in his way. "Chikage-san, I was wondering if you could help me. A student asked me if I knew some French, and I said I'd do my best." Chikage wasn't much of baseball anyway. He'd rather play cricket.

He looked up at Tsumugi, removing his glasses and polishing them again in the process. "French? Well, I did spend a few months there for as liasion for my company. I learned how to speak so I could negotiate well for my superiors." He noticed Tsumugi was looking at him intently. It wasn't new for him, since it was like he was being psycho-analyzed by the master tutor whenever he spoke. Most times, he felt it was harmless, Tsumugi wouldn't even want to know where to begin with his psyche and conscience, but now felt different. He was concerned, even a little bit, that he might just call his bluff.

He lied after all. He barely knows the language. He didn't lie about the the time he spent there, but he was obviously being vague about being liasion, the higher-ups at the Organization, and the meaning of "negotiation." He didn't have time to see the sights and speak their tongue.

But it was not a big deal. It's not like it's too different from the other Latin languages, right? It's like Spanish but some of the letters are different, and they barely pronounce any of them. 'I may be a liar, but I make up for it by improvising.' he thought to himself, as he waiting for Tsumugi to respond.

"Could I ask you to visit me by the balcony later? We might be in for a long night."

Chikage let out a small smile, and gave a small nod. "That's a date then."

"Thank you, Chikage-san."

Tsumugi left briefly, sounding pleased at the prospect of extra help. For his part, Chikage couldn't help but shake his head. 'What have I gotten myself into?' He knew he had to brush up on his French, even if it was from the bare minimum on a Wikipedia page.

He usually wouldn't stick his head out for something as small as this, but this was Tsumugi he was talking about. Somehow the psych major has outwitted him in a battle of the minds. Or was it of the hearts?

Sometime ago, Chikage started calling their late-night trial-and-error teaching sessions "dates", partly because he thought it was funny to compare something so mundane to something romantic, and partly to watch Tsumugi blush whenever he said it. There was some satisfying about the way his cheeks would barely tinge red at the utterance of anything romantic, only for him to totally ignore it after.

'You can't escape me Tsukioka-san. I have tricks up my sleeve too.' he thought to himself, as he ambled through the halls of the Mankai Dorm. It was almost midnight, so the usually boisterous building only emanated a soft hum of energy.

'Of course, it wasn't for the sake of mischief.'

"Chikage-san, let's begin?"

"My pleasure, Tsumugi."

'There's always a reason for mischief after all.'

The specific lesson Tsumugi's student had was the worst one they could possibly deal with: conjugation. All Romance languages had their three, five, seven different verb endings depending on whether you were eating your bread now, ordering someone to eat it on Monday, or to have thrown it in the trash three days ago.

'And let's not get started with pronunciation.'

Everytime Tsumugi encountered a new word, he would run it through Translate to hear how it would be pronounced, and then ask Chikage if he said it correctly. All he'd do is nod and repeat it best he can, then Tsumugi would again, and they'd just accept that was the best they could do.

"Par-lez vu? Wait. No. That isn't it."

"It's like 'par-ley vu'. Parlez-vous, or something like that."

"'Per-ley vu?'"

"I guess that's close enough for someone born in Japan."

Tsumugi snickered at his comment. Chikage could only look on and wonder what he was thinking. His head was tilted ever so slightly, his green locks swaying in the light midsummer night breeze, while his rounded glasses were slightly askew on his nose.

"You know, some of the best theater was written in French. It wouldn't hurt for me to learn in case Tsuzuru sets one of our plays in France."

Chikage looked down and sighed with a smile on his face. "Even when we're suffering with a foreign language, you're still a strong theater nerd, aren't you?"

Tsumugi, sitting inches away from him, lightly pushed Chikage's arm with his in jest. "You know theater nerd is a compliment, right?"

"Tsuzuru told me that once. But you're all the same, so hyperfocused and passionate."

"Well, you're one of us now, so I guess that applies to you too."

Chikage raise his hands in fake shock, exaggerating his movements. "Oh no, I've become what I feared the most. A nerd" he said in an almost mocking tone.

Tsumugi couldn't help but burst out in laughter as he tried stopping Chikage, who started spouting out Shakespeare, eerily like Arisugawa would. "Stop, stop, I get it already." At this point he already took his arm, since he started mimeing holding a skull like Hamlet.

"You're going for so much trouble for this. Why'd you take up your student's elective anyway?" Chikage wouldn't dare notice how Tsumugi's arm was linked on his.

Tsumugi shrugged. "I just thought it would help me brush up on a foreign language for a change. I knew I could rely on you anyway." It was at that moment he realized how close they've gotten.

That didn't stop him from unlinking their arms. That didn't stop Chikage from just gawking at the situation. That didn't stop Tsumugi from blushing at the thought of what was happening.

"Ah, Chikage-san, our arms are..."

"I can see that."

Immediately, Tsumugi pulled back his arm back to his side and turned ever so slightly away. Chikage stayed where he was, still dumbfounded at what just happened. They let the air of tension hang for a few more moments before Tsumugi turned back and suggested they finally try dealing with the two different ways to say "be."

"'Av-awa?' 'Atu-ra?' Why does French have to be so hard?"

"I mean Japanese changes their endings, but never this much. It doesn't have to be."

'This doesn't have to be hard.' Chikage thought to himself in affirmation, but clearly for a different think entirely.

Tsumugi woke up after something bright shone into his eyes. After yawning and rubbing his eyes, he took a look at his phone, confusing the volume buttons for the locks. 'What time is it already?'

On his screen was a picture of Zabi, himself, and his grandmother, and a clock happily informing Tsumugi it's already quarter to six in the morning. He was promptly sent into a panic. He looked out the glass-paned door to the balcony and saw that the sun was already peeking through the horizon, the source of the enlightenment that stirred Tsumugi.

He looked around him and saw that the corridors were still empty, a sight uncommon to him, seeing as he was probably the latest to rise of all the people he knew. To his right however, one person was already awake, looking at him intently, though still plastered onto the couch cushion.

"Good morning, Tsumugi."

"Chikage-san, you're up too."

"Well, I was always a light sleeper, and you started squirming around maybe five, ten minutes ago."

Chikage wasn't wearing his glasses; it was on the coffee table along with Tsumugi's laptop and Homare's draft of a book full of his poems. Tsumugi always commented that without his glasses, he looked much more severe and mischievous, but also 'maybe more exposed and solemn.' Chikage laughed at the fact the last time he said it but now it was undoubtedly true, especially since he just woke up after sleeping beside him through the night.

'I just woke up beside him after sleeping through the night.' Chikage thought to himself at that very moment. Rarely would he ever lose his guard so much as to randomly fall asleep, and on Tsumugi's shoulder, no less. Luckily, he didn't wake up to see Chikage in that position, which would have been much worse for the both of them.

They were still wearing yesterday's clothes, the air around them smelled like both of their perfumes, and their area was a mess of strewn papers and uncapped pens. Yet, for all the apparent chaos, both of them were at peace in the moment, seated side-by-side. At their most vulnerable, yes, but they found no reason to take advantage of it, rather relish in each other's company. All the while Tsumugi had a light blush on his face, and so did Chikage. It was probably the gentle cold of a summer's morning, if not the residual warmth from their sharing sleep together.

"I'm lucky you're not a vampire, Chikage-san."

"Why do you say that?"

"You could've drawn blood from me and made me one of your kind." Tsumugi languidly pointed to his neck. Apparently, he surmised where Chikage fell asleep.

"Well, I were a vampire, I'd only have to fear you, wouldn't I?"

"Yes Chikage-san, I'd spike your curry with all the garlic I could possibly muster." Tsumugi smiled as widely as he could through the laziness much to Chikage's dismay.

He instantly fell back on Tsumugi's shoulder, taking the blue-haired tutor with him, and toppling onto the other side of the decrepit sofa. "Well then, I hope you won't do that to my food while I'm asleep."

"How can I do that when you're still on me then?"

Chikage yawned as he slowly moved from his shoulder, to his chest, and ultimately resting on his lap. "I can never be too sure."

Tsumugi rested a hand on Chikage's head, toying playfully with the stray strands of his hair before neatly setting it to the back of his head.. "If that's the case, bonne nuit, Chikage-san."

He slid his hands under Chikage's head and raised it as high as he can, to the point where they were within his reach to plant a gentle kiss on his forehead. Chikage returned in kind taking Tsumugi's hand and touching his lips on its somewhat calloused yet also milky soft back.

"Bonne nuit, cherie."

Elsewhere in the Mankai Dorms, Tsumugi could hear music playing from one of the rooms.

"Vampires never have to complain of living a dull circumstance."

It being a rock ballad, it was probably from one of the younger actors, probably Masumi-kun. The easy melody matched the beat of his heart and soon the rise and fall of his breath as he slowly fell back asleep.

"And it would be fine, to spend my whole life with you together."

"Parlez-vous, or something like that."

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jawsandbones · 4 years

Text

The Evening Red - Chapter Eight

Rating: E

Summary: The blighted plague at your feet, and ghosts at your bedside. Those things that go bump in the night? They follow behind you. If only you had someone to protect you. A late-Victorian era re-imagining of Dragon Age Origins.

Pairing: Zevran x Female Warden

AO3 Link: Click Here

Chapter Eight: Chasing Footprints

It is as though stepping through to another world. The sounds of the city dull and fade, disappearing completely once the door closes behind her. She holds tight to her evening clutch, her footsteps softened by the carpet underneath her feet. The concierge is at his desk, speaking with a warm smile to a young couple. Two behind the main desk, one handing keys to an older gentlemen. Her eyes scan the room quickly, and she makes her way towards the lounge. He has both elbows on the armrest, his legs crossed. He is wholly absorbed on the newspaper, almost to the point where she can see him reading every word.

She steps beside him, leans against his chair, and tilts her head to read the paper. She takes the gloves from her hands, and holds them in one. With the other, she curls a strand of his hair around her finger. She’s immediately drawn towards the headline of the main article. Where is King Cailan? His absence is noted. The cause being published is not long away now. When it is, it will take the blight from some easily dismissed sickness and elevate it. There’s already a low thrum of anxiety. Cailan’s illness would shift it into panic. “They are still turning away Ms. Aequitar?” Zevran asks, taking her hand from his hair, pressing a light kiss to the back of it. He keeps his hand in hers, her hand against his cheek, leaning against it as he finishes reading.

“They’ve learned that turning her away only means she’ll come back. They’ve stopped telling her to leave, so she’s simply made herself at home,” Noya says. He chuckles under his breath, folds the paper, casts it onto the small table beside them. Another kiss, to her knuckles, and he moves to his feet. The shell of her ears are burning, cold still from the bite of winter. She can feel its kiss in her fingertips, her nose, and in the frost around the edges of her lungs. He’s dressed smartly, in one of his best suits. His hair dusts his shoulders, while the longer strands are pulled back from his face and knotted once at the back.

He puts a finger underneath her chin, his thumb against her lips, and slowly lets the two meet. “Good evening, Miss Mahariel,” he says in a low voice.

“Good evening, Mr. Arainai,” she says. A smile flickers on his lips at her reply.

“I see the snow has not yet let up,” he says, spying the still melting flakes on her long coat and gently brushing them away, before letting his hand fall back to his side.

“No doubt it will go all night,” she says as she slips her arm into his offered one, and so linked, he guides her to the dining area. Built near the Denerim railway station, the Grand Old Pearl is not a place she would have set foot inside if not for him. Her coat is practically swept from her shoulders, her gloves taken and folded, her hat neatly layered with it, all to be collected after their dinner.

She’s unable to keep herself from looking at the high arched ceiling. There’s beauty in the mad details, the carved steps which lead to intricately painted patterns. Knotted flowers at the top of long pillars, which run down to marble floors. Perfectly cut and placed, and as she walks behind the waiter, she avoids the cracks between the slabs without realizing it. Great mirrors hang between tall windows, reflect many of Denerim’s denizens at the tail end of their dinner. Her footsteps are muffled in the crowded room, lost in the slow roll of conversation, laughter and heavy utensils tapping at fine china.

Candles flicker at the middle of each table, encased in stenciled glass. A few hanging chandeliers, standing candelabras… such a soft, intimate glow as Zevran helps push in Noya’s chair for her. Perfectly polished silverware surrounds her plate, and she only half listens to him giving their order to the waiter. On impulse, she pushes at the base of the nearest fork. It tilts from the straight line of its brothers, filled with her little bit of chaos in all that order. “I was surprised at your suggestion to dine together here,” she says, her hand falling to her lap.

“Ah, yes,” Zevran says, “I do find human food rather foul, but some exceptions can be made for exceedingly special company.”

“I’m already here, Zevran. You don’t need to flatter me,” she says.

“But I enjoy flattering you. And you? Do you dislike being flattered?” The smile plays about her lips as she leans back in her chair, the simple earrings she wears bouncing against the edge of her jaw.

“No, I don’t dislike it,” she says. She turns to look at the rest of the guests, this pack of people. There are so many with gold about their necks, their fingers, lushly woven into their very gowns. Rouge massaged into their cheeks, a stain of color about their lips. Silk gloves underneath all the rings and bracelets, perching precariously at their upper arms. Zevran curiously turns his head in the same direction.

“Are we evaluating the other guests, my dear? Some of them are quite overdone. Stuffed chickens in finery. What they will do to snatch at the briefest bit of beauty.” He leans speaks in a low voice, mischief glinting in amber eyes as he looks back at her.

“Oh?”

“There is of course, the race,” he says in almost a hush, some secret to be kept between them and only them. Indulging, she leans forward as well, the corners of her lips upturned. “You must be at the head of a trend, or even better, create the trend itself. The lengths one will go to do so?” He shakes his head, entirely amused at whatever rush of memories flood through him.

“Tell me,” she says, letting her hand rest on the table, fingertips pressed against his elbow.

“There is, of course, their brief obsession with atropa belladonna,” he says. She tilts her head, the silent question, and he breaks into a smile. “Deadly nightshade. They would put a single drop into their eye, and it would feign sexual excitement. They believed it made them more seductive. They slowly blinded and poisoned themselves in order to win this race,” he says. “Taken differently? Some quite vivid hallucinations.”

“You sound as though you speak from experience.”

“Of course. I try everything at least once,” he says, giving her a small wink. While they are merely beginning their dinner, the others are finishing. As their food is wheeled in a small silver cart, tables are emptying. Zevran stands the moment the cart is by their table, reaching for the utensils the waiter holds.

“I will serve, if you do not mind,” he says.

“At your pleasure, serah,” the waiter says with a small bow, before leaving them to it.

“I am jealous of your company,” Zevran says as he begins to cut into the chicken, steam licking upwards once it’s split in two. “This also keeps them out of our business, hmm?” He fills her plate with food – maple glazed chicken breast, fresh green beans, filled baked potatoes… it almost seems endless. Things she would have never thought to make for herself, but has them served before her.

Zevran pops the cork from the bottle with a simple flick, and fills her wine glass. As he sits, he takes the flask from his inner jacket pocket, mimes a shushing motion at her as he fills his own glass. This wine is much darker, thicker, and far more fragrant for him than it is for her. He has filled his plate with some scraps of food, works at them with his fork and knife as they speak. “I have been meaning to ask you, and yet I have not found the perfect moment. I have resigned myself to the fact that there is no such thing, and so I will merely ask. You. A coroner. Why?” He asks, taking a sip from his glass. He savors the blood on his tongue, swallows deeply, and licks the evidence from his lips.

“Tamlen used to say it’s because I’m simply ghoulish,” she says, taking a bite of her own food.

“That is – your friend, yes? The one who is ill,” Zevran says, leaning back as he listens, his eyes never leaving her.

“Yes,” she says with a nod, her fork balanced delicately between her fingers, “but it’s more practical than he thinks. There are so many things about the body we don’t know, so many things we do wrong. We can find the answers in the unfortunate dead.”

“And this is healthy? To surround yourself with these dead?”

“Just as a blade needs a whetstone or a mind a book, so does life need death. It’s what makes it lively. Considering death, contemplating what it would be like to go to sleep and never wake up, centers me. It’s a gloomy thing for contemplation, but just as crops need manure, it’s fertilization for life. It helps guide me to myself,” she says.

“Some would think to find their guide, their self, in the Chantry.”

“It’s cheating, isn’t it?”

“The Chantry? Cheating?” Zevran smiles over his wine glass, firelight reflected in the warm amber of his eyes. There are only a few others left, in their corners the same as them, stealing every moment they can together. She settles her fork at the edge of her plate as she takes her own drink, clears her throat with it.

“I would like to be clear that I don’t begrudge someone finding their self in the Chantry. For me, I – we are flawed people trying to improve our flaws, but the Chantry tells us to simply believe in the Maker and your flaws are irrelevant. Then where is the motivation to be better? What about now? I do not know if it’s the Creators, the Maker or nothingness awaiting me, but I’ll do what I can with what I have.”

“So cutting open cold bodies and taking out their insides to study them help you to be a more complete person.”

“Essentially.”

“If you found that, one day, you were afflicted with eternal life. What would you then?”

“I don’t know Zevran, what do you do?” She asks, raising an eyebrow. He huffs, some, beaten, and they take a sip of their own respective drinks at the same time. She puts the glass down on the table, the swirling liquid contained within swaying slightly. Her fingertips tap at the bowl of it, settle at the base, turn it slightly. “Everyone searches for a meaning to life, forgetting that the answer is to simply be alive.”

“It is easy for mortals to say such a thing,” Zevran says, a sigh following quickly after his statement. The food on his plate has been cut and cut again, pushed around together, looking as though they’re leftovers of a well-deserved dinner. “But forgive me, I pushed us astray from our original topic. Did you know I know something of autopsies? My knowledge may be a few decades old, but…”

“When did you have experience with autopsies?” She asks, plunging her fork through the soft beans.

“It’s a rather gruesome story, my dear, it may stifle your appetite.”

“Zevran.”

“You are merciless! One day I shall find a topic that shocks you.”

“Doubtful.”

“You know a challenge only motivates me even further,” he says. The wide smile spreads across his face, and like this, Zevran can’t hide the fangs which have grown from the mere taste of blood. With the others so deeply invested in each other, their food, he shows no fear in showing himself. Unflinching, she smiles back.

“Now, my story. As you say, there are many mysteries with the body. The Orlesians are so proud of themselves, with their fancy tower and gilded halls, but when their science fails, they will always fall back onto the mysteries. One poor man had his wife die from tuberculosis. One after the other, his children began to fall ill after her. When only one was left, the man had lost his faith in the sciences. Superstition came knocking. A wandering merchant told him that his misfortunes were because one of his fallen family members were feeding on the rest. In short, the merchant told him a vampire was killing his family,” he speaks remarkably calmly, amicably.

“This was untrue, but he did not know this. He was simply a desperate man, searching for a solution. So, he implored this world-wandering merchant to divulge his secrets. How could he drive away this vampire and save his only son? A noble cause. A less noble outcome. The merchant told him that one of his dearly departed was now infested with a malevolent and violent spirit. It would climb out of its grave, and drain the life from him and his son. To purge this spirit, the body must be dug up. If it is not decayed and still possesses signs of life, then that is the vampire,” he wets his throat with a few long sips.

“So the man dug up the grave of his wife, and opened her coffin and found only bones. He dug up the grave of his oldest daughter, and found the same. Yet, with his youngest daughter, they found her skin was still colored pink, her organs intact, and decay had not yet reached out its finger and touched her. They exhumed the body, removed the heart, and burned it on a pyre. To cast away the unwelcome spirit for good, you see. The man thought his troubles were over. As if a miracle, his son began showing signs of recovery. Of course, this was a false hope. Tuberculosis took his son, and then came for him, all while being ostracized by his community for desecrating the graves of his family,” he says. The knot is firmly stitched between Noya’s brows, her lips downturned.

“What a sad story,” she says. “All of it doesn’t explain how you were involved, though.”

“Ah, I happened to be staying in the town. So I was involved through the community, not directly, rest assured. I did tell him that it would accomplish nothing and warned him not to disturb those resting. Alas.” He shrugs, moves his fork from side to side, a flayed piece of chicken moving with it.

“He only wanted to save his family,” she says.

“What a thing is life, and oh what we do to keep it,” he says, finally giving up and dropping the fork completely. They are alone now, the candles on other tables being extinguished one by one by a waiter.

“It’s strange. Before I knew of,” she lowers her voice, “witches and vampires, I thought myself a fairly logical person.” She clears her throat, allows herself to speak normally. “Now, however, knowing what I know and with Tamlen the way he is… I could see myself frantically reaching for a far-off and superstitious solution, just as he did. What part will you play then?”

“My hope is for a cure before we get to that part, hmm?”

“You would have liked him. He would be a good person to remember, and to carry with –”

“You speak as if we are already past this hope. We are not. A cure will be found and then we can have many an awkward introduction, yes?” He downs the last of what’s in his glass, then pours some of the wine into the glass. He swirls it, lets the wine find every last drop of blood. He downs it as though it’s a shot of vile alcohol, makes a horrible face afterwards, and a shudder passes through him. “Disgusting.” Spoken under his breath, more for him than for anyone else. He quickly shakes it off, smiles when he looks back at her.

“Now, I am dying to show you the room. In my tour of every hotel Denerim has to offer, this is by far the most comfortable. Also the most expensive, but that is,” he makes a dismissive waving motion with his hand. Then, he puts both palms against the table and stands, leaning over it to whisper to her, “The bed is quite something. Soft, yet firm, perfect for –”

“You’re incorrigible.” Her words slice through his, entirely amused.

“Ah, yes, but can you blame me?” He moves around the table, holds out his hand for her. She gratefully takes it, and the moment they’re walking away from their seats a waiter is already handing her back her things. They walk slowly in the great silence of the hotel. Hardly anyone seeking lodging so late at night, and the train isn’t due until first light. Strange city lights flicker against the snow covered windows in the hallway, while the pattern of the carpet twists and turns beneath their feet. Portraits and paintings cover the walls, poor imitations of greater works. They depict no place particularly real, no person of relevance. It has no past, no future, simply exists in this place. Just as they all are.

Zevran pulls the key from his pocket, opens the door and flicks the switch for the lights. They slowly hum to life, growing brighter until settling onto something of a warm quality. Zevran shrugs the jacket from his shoulders, throws it over the end of the bed. True to his word, it is fine. As he bends down before the fireplace, matches in hand, she lets her fingers run over the bedspread. One of the softest things she’s ever felt. She moves to a nearby dresser, opens one of the drawers and finds it empty. All the rest are the same, save for the small book in one of the nightstands. The Chant, of course. She circles the entirety of the room, makes her way over to him.

Zevran stands near the fireplace, his arms crossed, admiring his success. It burns with fierce intensity, spreads quickly over the stack of wood. Noya lets her hands move over his shoulders, down his back. She wraps an arm around his waist, the other walking fingertips to the nape of his neck. She pulls his hair away, presses her lips against his skin. He lets a hand rest over hers, with that one with palm pressed against his chest, and keeps her close. Her chest against his back, and she moves slowly, touch drifting over his Adam’s apple. A shiver runs down his spine as she moves her tongue over the shell of his ear, murmurs his name. He can feel her breath touch him, prickling and delicate.

“Now who is the incorrigible one?” He asks, the flush settling deep in his cheeks, biting his bottom lip as she begins to unbutton his vest.

“I’m just impatient,” she says. He chuckles, closes his eyes, and tips his head back. They sway together, his head leaning against hers, as she begins to undo the buttons of his shirt. One by one they give way under deft fingers. She slides her hand into the opening she’s created, touches skin against skin. There is a certain cold quality to him, but that’s swept away by the easy warmth of his personality. Her fingers tap down, curl against the soft wisps of blonde hair at his naval, and she’s only stopped by his hand around her wrist.

“Impatient indeed,” he says, opening his eyes and turning to face her.

“I know what I find pleasurable. What’s the point in delaying it?” She asks. He laughs fleetingly, and puts his hand at the nape of her neck. He draws her close, his other hand at the small of her back, keeping their bodies pressed against each other. He presses his forehead against hers before he speaks.

“There is pleasure in the delay, if done properly,” he tells her. Dutifully, she stands, as he begins to undress her. One by one, garments fall to the floor around her. Her shirts, her shift, her corset… all of her unmasked, naked. He stands back, to look at her, admire her. Down the center of her chest, from the goblet of her throat to her bellybutton, is an ornate and stylized tattoo of an arrow. The triangle head sits at her chest, rising and falling with each breath. Dalish, close to her heart.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs as he steps forward, hands light on her hips. “Beautiful,” he repeats, his touch drifting firmly upwards, rolling into a fist, his knuckles moving over the line of the arrow. He brushes away the stray strands of hair which fall from her up-do, and they fall over her shoulder. He cups a breast in her hand as she tilts her face away from his, and he peppers her neck in long, slow kisses. She can feel his tongue moving against her, the barest scrape of fanged teeth against skin. She closes her eyes as she drapes her arms over his shoulders, fidgeting fingers knotting in his shirt.

He rolls her breast in his hand, pinches her nipple between two careful fingers. His other hand presses at her back, between her shoulder blades, holding her steady. His eyes shine when he resurfaces, and his touch moves from her breast to the arrowhead. She opens her eyes, allows herself to be walked backwards until her thighs touch the bed. Even still he keeps that pressure until she falls upon it, propping herself up onto her elbows, the mattress sinking underneath her weight. His eyes leave hers, begin to roam her body. Wherever his eyes go, his hands are sure to follow.

Over her breasts, of course. A playful tease of her nipple before he goes. Steady touch at her ribs, over the curve of her, holding tightly at her hips. Back up again, the way he came, and down. He reaches, grabs, touches all that he can, all wrapped up in something needy. He deliberately avoids her thighs, her cunt. His shirt unbuttoned, it splits in the center, reveals dark olive skin, the darker swirl of tattoos he takes no care to hide. Something he cannot hide is his cock, straining painfully against the confines of his trousers.

He grabs hold of her legs, spreads them for him. Then he pulls her forward, until she’s at the very edge of the bed. He leans over her, and the path he blazed with his hands he now follows with his mouth. From collarbone to rib, kisses that cover the entirety of her vallaslin. He lingers at her breast, his tongue swirling around her nipple. He sucks at it, lets it fall free with a vulgar pop, only to kiss at it again, his hand massaging underneath. All of this, and yet not one touch at what she desperately wants him to. She locks her legs around his waist, angles to pull herself closer, begins to reach between them for the clasps of his trousers.

“Impatience, impatience indeed,” he says good-naturedly, followed by a brisk tsk tsk. He snatches her wanting hands before they can meet their goal. She watches him sink to his knees, and he cautiously lets go of her hands. She props herself back up onto her elbows, and assured she won’t try anything, Zevran smiles and leans his head against her thigh. She still has one leg loosely wrapped around him. The heel of the other is perched on the thin bed frame which holds the mattress.

“Lie back. Yes, all the way. Close your eyes, I – yes, I’m serious, now close them – dream of whatever you like, whoever you like, but know that I am the one doing this to you.” She follows his instruction. She lies back on the bed, her hands draped over closed eyes and waits. And waits. And waits. She can feel his nose moving at her thigh. His steady breathing against her skin. His hands move lightly up and down her leg, gooseflesh following quickly. It’s almost a relief when he kisses her at the absolute center of her inner thigh.

The bite is quick, not painless, but not without pleasure. A momentary cry as he sinks his fangs into tender flesh, but it’s erased by the following shudder that works its way through her body. Imagine anyone you like, he said, but how could she picture anyone but him? He heaves a long and satisfied sigh when he pulls away, but that’s a brief thing. He laps at the still leaking marks on her thigh, begins to kiss down closer to her cunt. The ache builds in her belly, the fierce knot which pulses through her, and she slips a hand down over her own body, moving to give herself relief.

“No cheating, my dear,” he says, catching her wrist, pulling up her hand. He buries his face against her palm, kisses at the middle of it, then sucks two fingers in his mouth. Then, he sits up slightly to let his own hand caress her face. “Return the favor.” Two fingers press at her lips. She does the same as him, tongue swirling around them. It barely needs to be done. When he touches those two fingers at her cunt, he finds it already dripping wet for him.

He moves his fingers through the folds of her, puts pressure on her clit from either side. Her leg trembles on the frame. The other he holds steady. He runs his tongue over the entire length of her, again and again. A maddeningly simple thing, and she grinds her hips against his mouth. He folds an arm down over her hips, keeps her still. As her hands begin to clench in the bedsheets, he finally presses a single finger inside of her. Barely. Teasing at her entrance, in and out, in and out again, as he sucks at her clit. His tongue flicks back and forth over the most sensitive part of her, until he suddenly dives, replaces his finger with his tongue. She gasps, her eyes snapping open.

“Zevran, you –” He eats as though he’s not seen a proper meal in a year and a day. His holding arm now moves, allowing her to move her hips freely, as he reaches up to pinch her nipple between his fingers. Her hands fist in the sheets, her only anchor in wild waves. He keeps a steady and unrelenting place. Her body moves underneath him, but never pulls away. Her back begins to arch, both her legs trembling. Her eyes squeeze close at the same time her mouth falls open, straining with the cry. On this dangerous cusp, he pulls away, stands. He tears furiously at the buttons of his trousers, pulling out his cock, and taking himself in hand.

His cock twitches almost angrily, thankful to be free, the head of him leaking with long held desire. Before she has a moment to breathe, to mourn the loss of his mouth, it’s replaced by his cock, sliding in swift and deep. He keeps a firm grasp on her hips as he buries himself up to the hilt in one movement. She gasps, groans, writhes and reaches for him. She barely touches at his shoulders, but still it pulls him forward, lost in the feeling of her. His eyes are closed, his hips moving in a steady rhythm, a bead of sweat at his temple. There’s a wistful knot between his brows, reaching desperately for a place they can only find together.

He’s broken out of the spell by her suddenly moving, his cock slipping from her dripping cunt. One foot planted against the floor, she turns, her knee on the edge of the bed, pulling a pillow from its place to underneath her. Never one to turn down an invitation, Zevran aligns the head of him with her entrance, letting loose a guttural moan as he moves inside of her once again. They fuck together – her, moving her hips back against his, while he lets her waves crash against him. Linked in one single purpose, all other things fall away.

He hunches over her, his thoughts swimming, trying to keep a balance and a rhythm. His eyes close as his hair falls free of its knot, tickles against her back. She has her eyes closed, the pillow bunched beneath her, an unworthy buoy. “Don’t stop,” she says, her head against the mattress, eyes opening as she looks behind her as best she can, at him. “Please don’t stop, I’m close, I’m close, I’m so…” Her words trail away, lost in the effort of breathing, while Zevran grits his teeth together. His fingertips bruise into her hips, and what a relief it is to feel her suddenly shudder, sigh, her cunt clenching around his cock.

They collapse together, breathlessly, Zevran simply letting himself fall beside her. She rolls over, his arm underneath her neck, and rests her hand on his chest. He’s struggling to get his breathing in check, while she simply allows herself to drown in what sensations remain. “Tell me about one of the interesting people you’ve met,” she mumbles, curling closer, her head in the crook of his neck.

“Right now?” Only one of his eyes opens to look at her, but with the way she is, he can’t tell if her eyes are open. He hears her chuckle, feels a small nod.

“Right now,” she says.

“Ah… let us see…” His every memory is in disarray. What thoughts float through his head, he cannot quite catch them. He was sure he had someone to start with, but shaken so, he can only conjure one. “I once knew a prince who was thought to be the most beautiful, most striking. It was said that there were none who could resist him, and that all who came to see him gave him everything he asked for and more.”

“Was this beautiful prince you?” she asks.

“No,” he laughs, “but you flatter me. Where was I? Ah, yes. So, his visitors would shower him in unimaginable wealth, although he never asked for this. He only ever asked for one thing.”

“Mhmm?”

“Their most terrible secret. They would always tell him, or so it was said. I went to see him when I heard the tales, as I could not resist. An attractive man swindling the secrets from the rich of the world? Say no more.” Noya chuckles into his chest. “There was barely a line to see him. I think others were too afraid. They do not want to give up their secrets, yes?”

“And were the stories true? Was he as beautiful as they said?”

“Even more so. I knew on sight that the one who sat before me was no ordinary man, but something far more obscure, although he did not look it. Now, I tell you the reason why they would give him such wealth. This prince could see the moment of one’s death. He could tell the others when, and the manner in which they would die. The riches were bribes, in a hope that he could delay their deaths. Unfortunately for them, he could not. Still, you cannot fault them for trying.”

“Did you give up your secret?”

“I did, and then he told me that my death had already come and gone. He could no longer see anything for me,” Zevran says, one arm wrapped around her to hold her, while the other moves over her knuckles as he speaks.

“How lovely,” she says, stifling the yawn against him.

“Lovely?”

“Mhmm. You have a blank slate. You’re not bound by any fate, or future. You’re free,” she says.

“I – I did not think of it this way before,” he says. “I had considered it the opposite. Trapped.”

“I need to get up and wash,” she says, “but I’d rather fall asleep here.” He looks at the creature in his arms. Her hair has been thoroughly disheveled, pulled from the delicate up-do. She breathes through her mouth, her eyes closed, completely at ease. She is – well, how many years had it been since he’d associated with someone for so long? How long had he stayed in one single place – Denerim has seen more of him recently than any other place.

“Wash, my dear. Then there is something I wish to show you, unless you are too tired.” Noya smiles, her eyes still half closed as she pushes herself up to look at Zevran.

“You’ve already ruined my sleep schedule quite thoroughly,” she tells him. He can’t help but laugh, puts a hand against her cheek.

“I suppose I have. You will be unintentionally living nocturnally soon,” he says. That one arm still around her, he slips the other underneath her legs. He lifts her with ease, walks to the washroom. He sits her on the counter, for now, takes the hotel robe from its hook and drapes it over her. He turns the taps, tests the temperature, then goes to stand near her. She leans against him, head against his shoulder, and allows herself to lazily rest as the bath fills.

They make quick work of it, no matter how much they both long to simply be in the water. He gets out first, wraps the towel around his waist and pulls the nearby stool closer. While she sits in the cooling water, fingers pressing at the small marks on her thigh, he gently brushes the knots from her long hair and helps her dry it. He winds it all into a single braid, curls it in place at the back of her head. They dress together, Zevran pulling his clothes from one of the many suitcases by the bed. He takes a parasol with them when they go.

They walk together, Zevran holding the parasol between them. Noya stretches out her hand, away from the edge of the parasol, watches as snow lands and melts on her glove. There is naught but silence now, lost in the muffled layer of snow, and their footprints are the first to wear a path. “I must confess, I have been to Denerim before. Many times, although I did not stay quite as long. It used to be, ahhh, one of my safe places. I have more now, in many different cities around the world,” he says as they walk to the royal quarter. Houses are more spaced out here, no need to cram workers together as if they were a pack of rats.

He stops outside of one rusted over gate, dead vines curling around each bar. He breaks the lock around the gate with a simple tug, and pushes open the gate. “I have not been here in ages. I have had it passing through – my family line?” He winks at her as they stroll up to the front. “From one Zevran Arainai to the next.” He stops in plain view of it. A large free-standing estate, dark, with the windows boarded. “It will need work, yes, and perhaps that is one reason I have been staying at hotels.”

“Still, it is a place your superiors and the crown do not know about. I am not without wealth. I have connections with smugglers as well. We are running out of time for Ms. Aequitar’s petitions, are we not? And I do want to meet your Tamlen,” Zevran says, and her gaze slowly shifts from the estate to him. “There is surely space for whatever materials you and the others need to make a cure for the blight.” She’s wordless in this. Speechless. Her arm slips from his as she stands in front of him. She puts a hand at the name of his neck and pulls him in close.

She holds him firm in the hug, so much so that he’s practically missing himself entirely with the parasol. Snow falls softly onto his back. “Zevran,” she says in a hoarse voice and somehow holds him tighter, “thank you.” She squeezes, and he smiles. He can practically feel her heavy heartbeat through their ribs, their clothes.

“You are very welcome,” he says. “There is space for everyone, if you wish them to stay. I know you still have some still forcefully relocated. I do not think the blighted would dare attack you here, and then, I will be with you.”

“Are you sure you’re alright with all of us staying here? With you? I know you have your reservations.”

“I do. Alas, I am a slave to your whims. From what I have seen, they are good people, and you vouch for them. That is enough,” he says.

“Zevran, I – ”

“I say it is enough and yet she continues to protest! I am terrified if not even this can satisfy you,” he says. “I would love to continue standing here, but the sun is beginning to rise.” Noya slowly loosens the hug to look over her shoulder, at the threads of light starting to weave across the sky.

“Then we should head back,” she says.

It’s almost the same as when they were walking in the other direction. Now, heading back into Denerim proper, the city has begun to wake. Theirs are no longer the only ones in the snow. It hits her, suddenly, as they cross the street. A particular feeling, as though snow had been dropped down her back, gooseflesh from head to toe. At least, this time, there’s someone with her. Zevran suddenly stiffens, looks down a certain alley. He at least attempts to be unbothered, with a simple, “may we head in that direction for a moment? There is something I am curious about,” and a smile, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

He drops the smile completely as they make their way down the alley, Zevran leading the way. He holds Noya’s hand tight in his. An abandoned place, they listen to the echo of laughter from distant open windows, chatter from the houses nearby. Breath fogs around her mouth, clouds around her head. The shadows shift with each step, mocking imitations of people upon the wall. It eventually leads into a courtyard, with a snow covered bench and a single dead tree at its center. In the wind, a piece of parchment flutters, tied to the tree with red string. She’s at his side as he takes it, and it’s easy to read the words written upon it.

It’s so good to see you again Zevran.

- T.

#zevran #warden #zevwarden #dragon age #zevran x warden #zevran x mahariel #zevran x f!warden #zevran x f!mahariel #f!zevwarden #f!warden #f!mahariel #dragon age origins #dao #writing #mine #the evening red

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fairyjeff · 4 years

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Wing Club || Lydia & Jeff

TIMING: Present, possibly before mimes? PARTIES: @inspirationdivine and @fairyjeff SUMMARY: Lydia and Jeff meet, and it defies all expectations.

It was safe to say that Lydia’s first impression of Jeff had been rather underwhelming. Their first conversation had been disappointing and frustration. This just went to show, though, that one couldn’t judge a book by its cover, or a painting by its varnish. He’d coped much better than she had with the beast in the woods. By their third conversation, Lydia had to admit she was not just impressed but intrigued by the gancanagh. In between the human in her head and Regan (as well as, if Lydia was completely honest, Deirdre recent strangeness), she could do with a drink and hopefully decent company. She sat at a booth in the bar, waiting for those tell tale chiming bells, and the fae who would come with it.

Jeff was uncertain of what to make of Lydia. Then again, he was uncertain about this whole Fae thing to begin with, and the whole Regan-fairy thing was going to give him an ulcer. Even as he went into the bar, searching for Lydia, he was still thinking about it. Deirdre was still mad - or at the very least grumpy - and he was still concerned that Regan was going to yank off her damn wings. Still, as he found lydia and that tingling bell feeling happened - which he could now identify as that feeling that Deirdre told her about. It was a nice feeling, he supposed, and now it made sense. “Lydia?” he said, raising a hand in greeting as he slid into his seat. “Nice to see you under better fuckin’ circumstances. How ya doing?”

“Jeff, lovely to meet you properly. Can I buy you a drink?” Seeing him in real light, Lydia could see the Gancanagh in him. Not the tongue nor the fingernails gave him away, but he was an incredibly beautiful man, although from their conversations online, his style of charisma might not be suited for her. But then, she was from a different generation. Indeed, she favoured humans who would describe themselves as old souls. “I’m doing quite alright. I won’t hide that I’m concerned about Regan and Deirdre but there’s only so much I can do about that. I’m looking forward to an evening of drinks and good company. How are you?”

“Only if you let me buy the second,” Jeff said easily. Lydia seemed somewhat easier to talk to than Deirdre, sometimes, but Jeff was pretty sure that was only because he had behaved himself thus far. He was trying not to use the ‘fairy’ term anymore, really. He succeeded mostly online, but that was just because he could edit things before he sent them. He still wasn’t sure what the big fucking deal was - if it looked like a fae, and felt like a fae, then it was a fucking fairy. Same thing. “There’s not much anyone can do until they sort their shit out,” Jeff agreed, sitting back in his seat, grinning at her. “I’m alright. Working long shifts, you know. Glad that stupid mime backed off from my window.”

“Sounds like a deal,” Lydia replied, slipping out of her seat to go get him a lager. It was times like this that being almost weightless on the ground gave her an advantage - her shoes didn’t stick to the alcohol soaked floors as she walked, and by the time she’d returned she was glad Jeff would be the next one facing the wall of people by the bar. “No. They’ll get there eventually, and all we can do is support them.” She smiled back. “Right. You’re a bartender, do I remember that right? I’m sure it’s plenty of work.” But then she leant forward, frowning. “What mime?”

He patiently waited for Lydia to return with the drinks before he took a hearty sip. “You’re right, I am a bartender,” Jeff nodded. “Eventual bar owner, fucking maybe if I play my cards right and open my own joint.” He shifted slightly in his seat. “What do you do? I don’t think you told me?” But his face darkened slightly at the question of the mime and he leaned forward too. “The goddamn mime that was pressing its face against my windows at night! I don’t know how it got to the second floor outside my bedroom but there it fucking was! For like two weeks straight. Scared the shit out of my poor Lettie - my dog, she’s a mastiff - and I damn near broke my hand punching my window out trying to get it. Stupid thing, those thing are outta fucking control. You hear they stabbed a guy? Poor bastard.”

“That’s lovely. I have no doubt you’ll get your own place soon enough,” Lydia replied, sipping at her martini. “My main work is art restoration and conservation. I take painting and return them to how the artist intended for them to be seen. Most fae of my species end up in the arts somehow.” As he leant forward, so did she, eyes widening slightly. “I did hear about the stabbing. Staring into your window… that’s horrifying, no wonder you tried to punch it. Thank god it stopped.”

“Oh, you fix paintings and save them and shit,” Jeff said, impressed immediately. “I’ve seen that - not in person, but on tv.” His mom liked watching those damn specials where they showed you how to do things. He usually fell asleep, but he had watched that one. Jeff also didn’t think he should mention that particular bit. “Oh, your - are you not… like Deirdre?” He asked. “Ah, wait, is that fucking rude? Sorry.” He apologized, before he shifted to pull his phone out of his back pocket. “And seriously, that thing was out of fucking control, and it wasn’t even me. Look at this -” He pulled up a photo of his very large dog, Lettie, curled up in his bed. “She has her own bed and she’s still camped out in mine. Damn thing scared her half to death.”

"Yes, exactly," Lydia agreed with a smile, proud of her work and unafraid to show it. "It is better viewed on the TV than in person. Much less repetitive that way." Her Martini was vanishing fast, Lydia thought as she had another drink from it, although that had little to do with the company. "No, that isn't rude at all. I'm a Leanan-Sidhe. Some people might call me a muse. Simply put, I inspire people to create art. And much like you, in turn, I feed on people." Lydia's voice had dropped low as she explained, leaning in very close so that he could hear. Once she was done explaining, she retreated slightly, so that it would look to onlookers only as if she had whispered a dirty secret or promise to him. She tilted her head as he pulled out his phone curiously. "She's beautiful," Lydia replied, tucking her hair behind her ears as she smiled softly. "Poor girl. I bet she keeps you busy."

Jeff was interested in Lydia, she hadn’t been like he had expected at all. She wasn’t trying to lecture him about how fae should or shouldn’t be, though somewhere deep down he was pretty sure he shouldn’t ask. It was probably easier that way - the not knowing. Jeff leaned in a little closer to listen. Leanan-Sidhe. Well, he couldn’t say he fucking heard of that before. That didn’t matter. She fed on people too? He looked at her, shocked, before glancing back at the dog on his phone. “Oh, yeah. She has some separation anxiety so I usually have a dog sitter come around when I work the fuckin’ really long shifts,” he said, absentmindedly, before taking another drink, before he noticed he had definitely finished all his.. He glanced at her Martini. “You want another?” he asked, looking at her. “And then can I… ask you a few questions?” He lowered his tone a little. Jeff wasn’t used to talking so quietly. “If that’s alright?”

“That’s real sweet. Hopefully she’ll grow out of that in time,” Lydia replied warmly, her gaze following the photo until he tucked it away, finishing her own drink as he emptied his. Half his size and determined to keep up, but then Lydia had much longer to build a tolerance, although she had no doubt that he’d outdrink her if it came to it. “Yes, I would. If you’d prefer, there’s a private room upstairs. We might be able to speak more freely there, and you can ask the questions you’d like.”

“She’s still really little, which I know is a little hilarious but…” Jeff shrugged slightly, grinning at her. He nodded, glancing up. “Yeah, that’d probably be good, I’m not the best at keeping my fuckin’ voice down,” he said apologetically, before sliding out of his seat. “Let me go get us refills and we can go.” Jeff knew how to face a wall of people at a bar by practice, and he, after dodging a pack of drunk Karen’s that wanted to latch onto him, quickly returned to Lydia’s side with a new martini and a beer. “Shall we?”

As Jeff picked up the drinks, Lydia pulled her fur coat back on and rearranged the contents of her purse so that she could find her makeup mirror, to check the state of her mascara. She turned just as Jeff returned with her martini, sitting up a little as bells rang inside her. “Thank you dear,” she took the martini, handed one of the waitstaff a crisp hundred dollar bill, and in return accepted a key to the “staff only area”. Upstairs was a quiet sitting room, with a bottle of whiskey set on a side table, with multiple couches for sitting on. “So, Jeffrey, what did you want to ask.”

Heading upstairs, he was surprised to see the “Staff Only” on the door. But if Lydia had a key and no one was coming to tackle them like he would have if someone pulled this shit at his bar, it was probably fine. He leaned against the armrest of one of the couches, looking at her as he drank his beer. “Jeffrey is what my mother calls me when I’m in trouble,” Jeff said, grinning. It was easier now that they were alone and he didn’t have to focus on lowering his voice. “You said you - you feed on people?” Jeff said, curiously. “What does that mean?”

Lydia sat in the opposite arm rest, smoothing down her skirt as she set down her martini, eyes all on him. “Jeff, then. I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied with an equally easy grin. She shifted her back just slightly as the glamour slid from her skin and eyes, but not yet from her wings - if only because sitting with her wings was a rather challenging endeavor. “Like how you eat body heat and happiness, I feed on the life in other people through touch. Usually through a kiss, although it can be via the chest.”

The glamour dropped and Jeff stared at her in surprise - if only because he hadn’t known she had been glamouring them to begin with. “I - oh,” he said. “Sorry. I don’t mean to fuckin’ stare, that’s rude -” He apologized, rubbing the back of his neck. He shifted though, wondering if that meant he was supposed to drop his own glamours. He didn’t, not just yet and listened to what she said. Feed on life… Hm. That sounded pretty fucking similar to what he did, though he didn’t do it through kissing. “Like me,” he said, pointing to himself. “How do you… manage it?” He asked carefully. “Do you have pheromones?”

“You’re fine.” With hair that looked like black pearl without the glamour, faintly luminescent skin and long pointed ears, Lydia did not look human without the glamour. She could not be mistaken for it, even without the wings. “No, not pheromones. I was raised to call it venom, but I believe the more technical term is a hormone. When I kiss someone, they become loyal to me, and find it painful to be apart from me. That lasts for a few days, or until I reject them.” Lydia took a heavy drink from her glass. “It isn’t affection or desire, but some people don’t know the difference.”

Jeff couldn’t help staring - it wasn’t that it was bad, no, it was just… different. He certainly didn’t look like that when he took his glamours off. His silver tongue and shadow and wings were all that he had to hide - the nail thing was carefully concealed by his expensive manicures. It was sort of a shame that Lydia had to hide that. “Venom,” he repeated, taking a long drink himself. He sat back, processing it. And then, finally, he asked, “Is it hard? To have relationships with people?”

She didn’t watch him as he considered it, letting her eyes slide around the room. It was so much to take in, especially for so young a fae. Or at least, so recently aware. When his next question came, it caught her by surprise. She looked back at him, her gaze soft. “Friendships? No. Romance? Of course. Because it’s a component of my saliva, it is impossible to truly fully control. I don’t kiss the people I like, which can be quite the deal breaker. Except for fae, of course.”

Jeff frowned. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. That had to be hard for her. She was so limited when it came to that department, just like he was. Except he didn’t get to have any other friends without wearing oven mitts either unless he learned to truly control himself. And really, he didn’t see how the hell he was going to do that when he’d been trying so hard for so long. “Well, I know the fucking feeling, at least.” He raised his glass slightly towards her, in solidarity, before he took a long drink.

“Don’t be. I’ve learned that people who can’t accept that, aren’t worth having in my life anyway,” Lydia replied softly, standing up so she could stand beside him. He was probably one of the tallest fae she knew, Lydia thought briefly as she looked up at him. “I’m sure you do, better than most fae. I know you’re also struggling with control, but that is something we can work on, if it would help.’

Jeff considered for a moment. That seemed true enough. People who couldn’t accept others for who they were weren't worth it. But Jeff was starting to realize that there were far too few people who were worth it. He looked down at her, considering. “I pheromones a friend when I was making dinner for her,” he said, a little glum. “I should have worn oven mitts. I just don’t understand how to … do it. I figured the glamour shit out early. But this…” He shrugged. “I need help.”

“I’m sorry, Jeff,” Lydia replied. “How did she respond after it had worn off? How long do they take to wear off?” She touched his arm reassuringly. “It is doable. I realise our situation isn’t the same, but it is comparable enough that I believe that I can help. There is nothing about your biology that should make you so glum.” She even had ready made humans for him to practice on, if the need came. “Not to mention that you have lovely hands and it would be a shame to cover them with oven mitts.”

He almost inched away when she touched his arm, but didn’t. Jeff reminded himself as he looked at her true face that she wouldn’t be affected by contact. “She’s still my friend and they wear off… It depends on how long the contact is with them, hers wore off after twenty minutes or so after I shoved her out.” Everything that Lyida was saying was a comfort to him, though, something he hadn’t had in a long time. Nothing she said had made his stomach twist in revulsion like it had when he talked about this stuff to Deirdre. He didn’t think that maybe one was being more honest than the other, because they were Fae. Fae couldn’t lie - at least, not without consequence. He looked down at his hands, and considered a moment, before gently patting her arm. “I’m glad I met you, Lydia.”

#para #para lydia #lydia #wing club #okay but this was so much fun i love immo and i love lydia #wickedswriting

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whitecrossgirl · 5 years

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The Sound of Silence

AN: So the basic premise for this is that instead of cutting off Jaime’s hand; instead Locke cuts out Jaime’s tongue, making him mute. Jaime still has both of his hands for the purposes of this story. It will be a two-parter as I really want to explore this AU. Also, special thanks to @sassbewitchedmyass for her awesome support as always.

Mute AU

At the beginning of their journey, she would have longed for Jaime to master the ability of keeping his mouth closed, but not like this. He had saved her from being attacked by Locke’s men, but the price he had paid for it was a severe one. They had mentally tormented him by making Jaime think that they would cut off his right hand. Instead, they had taken his tongue. The tongue that dripped with Lannister Lies as Locke had dubbed it before forcing Jaime to wear it until they reached Harrenhall and the Boltons.

In Harrenhall, the strange maester Qyburn managed to ensure that the remnants of his tongue would not choke him or bleed more than it had done. Although Jaime struggled to eat, he found that he was able to have softer foods or food that had been cut into tiny pieces. Despite being unable to speak a word; Jaime’s rage at having lost his tongue could be clearly be seen and Brienne found herself speaking for him whenever she could attempt to work out what he wished he could say. Aside from sharing a bath, they barely communicated beyond looks or basic signals until Jaime had rescued her from the Bear Pit and they walked out of Harrenhall; wounded, barely armed, still not friends but with a shift in their barely amicable relationship.

Brienne waited until they were several miles from Harrenhall before she decided to break the silence. She had questions that needed answered and although Jaime was unable to speak, she still wanted to try and communicate with him. When she had been a child in Tarth, one of the stable boys had been unable to speak after suffering a kick to the throat by a bucking horse. He managed to use facial expressions, actions and signs in order to communicate with other people. It was possible for her and Jaime to do the same.

“Why did you do that? Why did you come back?” Brienne asked as Jaime opened his mouth, closed it again. He seemed frustrated at the reminder that he couldn’t speak before he paused to think for a moment. After a few minutes, Jaime closed his eyes and rested his head on his joined hand before he pointed at Brienne.

“Sleeping, me,” Brienne interpreted before it made sense. “You had a dream about me?”

Jaime nodded and repeated the action.

I dreamed of you.

“I’m sorry,” Brienne said as Jaime looked at her puzzled. “It’s my fault that this happened to you. We could have fought them off together but I was reluctant to trust you. You almost died twice because of me.”

Jaime shook his head furiously and pointed to himself.

It was me.

He pointed to himself a second time and opened and held his wrists together as if chained.

I got us captured.

He pointed to himself a third time and made a motion as if to jump before pointing at her.

I jumped into the pit for you.

“You’re saying that you were the one speaking, you got us captured and you jumped into the pit yourself?” Brienne guessed and Jaime nodded. “Because of me.”

Jaime frowned and pointed to himself again.

Me.

“I’m not arguing with you, how about this: we both had a part in it and we’re equally to blame?” Brienne suggested and Jaime nodded before pointing to himself again. “How are you still irritating, without a tongue?”

For the first time since they got captured by Locke’s men, Jaime smiled cockily and shrugged his shoulders innocently.

I don’t know.

As the days passed, Brienne could see that having lost his tongue was beginning to irritate Jaime. Being unable to speak, to suggest directions, acknowledge something or eat or a place to sleep, even just saying what was on his mind; was frustrating and she knew that he wasn’t getting enough sleep. Brienne knew that he was having nightmares as the only sounds he could make, were horrific guttural yells that he only made when he was in the depths of a nightmare. Nightmares which only made the feeling of irritation run deeper as Jaime couldn’t explain the cause of his nightmares. Brienne had the feeling that they went beyond his mutilation but wasn’t sure how to ask.

As they walked along the edge of a river one day, Brienne decided to offer Jaime the idea that she had been giving some serious thought to over the past few nights. “When I was a child, there was a stable boy who couldn’t speak. He didn’t know his letters so instead he used actions, gestures and facial expressions to speak. You tried it before but we could do it properly,”

Jaime considered the idea and nodded. Aside from the most basic and universally understood gestures such as nodding, shrugging and thumbs up or down; he was limited in what he could communicate. Anything had to be better than nothing.

As the days turned to weeks and they travelled further and further south; Jaime and Brienne managed to develop a large number of signs, symbols and movements to refer to words, actions, places and people. To assist Jaime’s understanding and skill of performing several actions in a row; Brienne practised and predominantly used their new method of communication in place of speaking. As they built the silent language, they found that they were learning more about each other by not saying a word than they probably would have if Jaime had been able to speak.

Just as they came within the final fifteen miles of the capital. Jaime sat by the fire and looked at Brienne. He mimed crowning himself before slitting his throat.

Kingslayer.

“What is it?” Brienne asked and Jaime repeated the action. “King. Slit throat. Are you trying to say Kingslayer?”

Jaime nodded and scowled at her before he mimed crowning himself again.

The Mad King.

“Aerys,” Brienne summarised and Jaime picked up different items from the ground with one hand and repeated the scowl and crowning movement before tossing the items into the fire. Making a point to show each item on fire to Brienne before tossing it into the flames.

He burned anyone who disobeyed him.

“He burnt things, no, people. People he hated.” Brienne translated and Jaime nodded. He was unsure of how to explain on the certain day but Brienne filled in for him. “So on the day you killed him, what happened?”

Jaime thought for a moment before drawing a ‘T’ in mid air, pointed upwards and pointed to himself. Brienne watched him repeated the movement, T, up, Jaime. No that wasn’t it. T, big, Lannister. “Tywin Lannister, your father?” Brienne guessed and Jaime nodded.

“Your father arrived at the capital,” Brienne said; she knew that part of the story. Tywin had waited until the last moment to announce his declaration for Robert Baratheon. A clever move to allow him to reach the capital without being attacked by either side. It was only when the city gates were opened that Tywin unleashed his bannermen onto the city.

Jaime clasped his hands together before miming cutting off a head and holding it out as if presenting a gift. I begged the king, he ordered my father’s head.

“He wanted your head?” Brienne asked and Jaime gave her a thumbs down. Wrong. “Your father’s head.”

Jaime gave her a thumbs up, (correct), before picking up a large green leaf, pointing to it and to the fire. Brienne watched him do it and tried to understand what he meant. Leaf fire? No that was stupid. Green fire… “Wildfyre? The Mad King had Wildfyre?”

Jaime nodded morosely; once again pointing to the flames but then all around them.

Burn them all.

“He was going to burn the city,” Brienne realised and Jaime nodded once more and repeated the action. Burn them all. Brienne knew enough of the story to fill in the rest of the gaps. “So you killed the Pyromancer and then killed the King.”

Jaime sighed and repeated the gesture, this time making a speaking mouth sign with his left hand. Burn them all, he said. Burn them all.

“He said ‘burn them all’?” Brienne asked and Jaime nodded and made the hand speaking sign constantly for about a minute. “He didn’t stop?”

Jaime slumped his shoulders and mimed slitting his own throat. Brienne didn’t need a translation for what that meant. Brienne’s mind was racing with questions; questions that she knew, even with Jaime’s developed signing, he would be unable to answer. Even if he could still speak, they were question she knew that he would be unable to answer. She wanted to ask him why he had never spoken of it before; how had he handled being labelled with such cruel, untrue monikers such as Oathbreaker or Man Without Honour. Instead of asking the questions, Brienne instead put a hand on his arm. She wasn’t sure why after all this time, Jaime had trusted her to tell her his version of what happened but it said a lot more than either of them realised.

“I believe you Lannister.” Brienne said. Once again, Jaime shook his head but made a gesture that she hadn’t seen before. He held up the thumb and forefinger of his left hand before pointing to himself with his left hand, holding that pose. He did it twice more before Brienne realised what it was. The letter J and himself.

“Jaime,” Brienne said, repeating the action, the way he had.

Jaime smiled and repeated the action, pointing to himself twice and repeating it again.

Jaime. My name’s Jaime.

It took them a few more days to reach Kings Landing but in that time, they had built a whole series of actions and signs to use for communication; from their names being their first letter being drawn before pointing to the self and tilting their head either way to decide who would do something. As the spires of the Red Keep rose up in front of them; they wandered through the city, listening out for any sort of news, rumour or even gossip about the nobles but there was very little they could hear. Most of it was talk of the upcoming royal wedding between Joffrey and Lady Margaery Tyrell. As they reached the gates of the Red Keep, a pair of guards stopped them.

“Who are you?” One of them asked and Jaime rolled his eyes. He looked at Brienne and tilted his right.

You deal with this.

“Ser Jaime Lannister and Lady Brienne of Tarth,” Brienne answered as Jaime showed them his sword; the rubies and lion engraved into the hilt helped to confirm his identity. “We’re here to see Lord Tywin.”

“Right away,” the second guard said, wondering why Jaime wasn’t speaking. As they were let inside, Brienne saw the anxious expression on Jaime’s face and she looped her little finger around his, squeezing it tightly. One of the signs they had developed for when one of them had a nightmare. One that meant comfort, support and friendship.

I’m here with you.

Jaime smiled at her and touched his temple with three fingers.

I know.

#game of thrones #fic #brienne of tarth #Jaime Lannister #braime #jaime x brienne #mute au #part 1 of a 2parter

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