#so sorry for my quiet absence filled with just succession posting

[travelbystarlight]

...

#hello i am lost in the jedi sauce #jedi survivor that is #so sorry for my quiet absence filled with just succession posting #I swear I will be normal again once I finish this game #or feral either works really #ive mostly been staying off social media as to not spoil me lol #ok cool anyway love you all

[love-we-write]

Eccedentesiast

Character: RichyxMC (ambiguous platonic or romantic)  Genre: Hurt/Comfort? Friendship/Romance? Unbeta-ed mess is for certain Words: 4,188  Summary: Richy is used to being known to be able to bring a little bit of comical sunshine to everybody’s gloom. He’s just not used to letting anyone know that he’s burning behind that light. But then, you appeared in his life.  Potential T/W: mentions of panic attacks   A/N: Done in conjunction with the Duskwood Secret Santa event~! Dear @anatomical-myocardium, Merry Christmas to you~! Sorry this took so long to post, I swear my laptop crashes on me at the most inconvenient time sometimes. I hope I did this justice as a gift to you, and I hope you like it, just as I absolutely love your gift to me~! Have a safe and happy Christmas~!  ❤️ ❤️

And with a renewed vow to write anything and everything that I want to write without minding if it’s a game, or an anime, or an anime game, or Kpop, here we go~!  ❤️ ❤️

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Richy is most known by his friends and all the Duskwood residents for his carefree nature, and he is very much aware of this. 

With his small group of friends, he has been the joker of the group longer than memory can serve, always light-hearted with that small touch of dry humor to help liven up the mood. From their weekly battle of Doodle Friends to their catch up session at Aurora’s, all seven of them look to Richy to brighten their days with his quick-witted comebacks and his lame jokes that gets even Lily - ever the serious one - to chuckle.

At his job, his bright personality makes him one of the select few who could talk to Alfie without unnerving the boy, and from greeting old ladies who pass by his shop to chatting away with his customers while he repairs their cars, everyone does not have qualms to admit that Richy’s easy-going nature is his most admirable trait, a warm relaxing ray of sunshine that comes out and give others a bit of cheer on their gloomy days.

Richy knows that his ability to not take things too seriously gives comfort to his friends. 

Richy knows this, knows it in the way Jessy thanks him for being there for her when she is frustrated with how Dan is treating her affections, knows it in the way Thomas looks at him silently yet gratefully when he brought them to Aurora’s and filled them with a copious amount of beers and stupid jokes for a self-proclaimed “pity party” after Thomas’ fight with Hannah. 

He knows it during the wake of Hannah’s absence when Thomas is on the verge of breaking down, and when Jessy fought with Cleo over how to handle the investigation, Lilly had reached out to him in the middle of the night,  quiet words of “I feel like you’re the only one keeping this group together,” mumbled into the phone in between sniffles.

Richy knows he is most known for his easy-going personality, and he is used to it. 

He is also used to that horrible feeling of uselessness constantly haunting him in the deep dark solace of his mind. That sinking in his stomach, the heaviness settling in his core as he contemplates whether he has anything worthwhile at all anything good to offer to this world, the constant feeling that he doesn’t have anything at all. It is a dark void spanning the crevasse of his mind that comes up in his solitude, whispering that he is not good enough, that he does not deserve grief and his fear is only going to burden his loved ones.

Because who is he to voice out his sadness and anguish when everybody else has so much on their plate already? Who is he to want to cry at Jessy to look at him, just LOOK AT HIM WHO HAS BEEN THERE FOR YOU when she is heartbroken herself. What right does he have to voice out his grief, his guilt at being the first one to come to Hannah’s house but still unable to save her anyway? What right does he have to say these things, when he only had lost a friend while Thomas lost a girlfriend and Lilly a sister? 

What right does he have?

So, Richy does what he does best. He smiles. He jokes. And he hides. He stopped trying to figure out the line inside him where his smile ends and his fear starts. To him, they all bleed together.

Richy is used to being known to be able to bring a little bit of comical sunshine to everybody’s gloom. He’s just not used to letting anyone know that he’s burning behind the light.   

------------------------------------ 

 But then, you appeared in his life. You with your contagious kindness, you who are the one person who does not have any personal stakes with Hannah in this investigation but still decided to help out of the sheer good in your heart. 

Richy sometimes thought that you were highly naive when you said that them getting your number and bringing you in this group must have meant that there is something that you could do instead of just seeing it as it is; an ominous invitation from an unknown hacker. However, that thought of your naivete is blown out of the water when he witnessed your bright-eyed curiosity and your sharp perception. 

‘You like Jessy, don’t you?’ you had texted him out of the blue during one of your conversations when during the first few days after you appeared in their lives.

Richy swore he almost dropped his phone in his coffee when he read your text. No one has ever picked up on his one-sided affections towards Jessy, not even their group, not even Jessy herself who has been his close friend. 

He has always been wary of you when Thomas first invited you in. A stranger whose number was given to them by another stranger seemed to Richy like a well-timed disaster waiting to explode in their faces. Richy liked to think of himself as neutral when it comes to matters of your involvement; skeptical enough to not be desperate as Thomas but to the point of hostility that Lilly has shown. 

But with your eagle-eyed intuition, Richy realized he had to be extra careful with himself around you.

‘Uh, gotta go. Coffee’s about ready and I need that caffeine injection for my sanity, in case some more shit happens around here, haha,’ he had typed quickly, adding in several emojis in succession for some good measure. He puts the phone face down almost immediately, as if that would help distract him from your reply, and busies himself with work.

‘That’s okay. Coffee sounds like a great idea. The next time you want to subtly avoid having uncomfortable conversations about yourself, I have a list of ideas :D,’ was your reply to him when he checked his phone during his break. 

Mirth bubbles up in Richy, a feeling of familiarity and comfort fizzing up in him like downing cold soda on a hot summer day. Richy chuckles towards his phone, seeing as you really did provide him with a list of excuses to make to get out of conversation, each item sillier than the previous one.

Your entrance into his and the way Richy felt you seeing through to him feels like a breath of fresh air.

------------------------------------

‘Richy, hi.’ 

 Richy smiles, looking at his phone vibrated on the countertop as he is pouring his third cup of coffee for the day. Seems like the weekend is as good as any for him to gather his thoughts to himself, to compartmentalize his feelings away from the crowd, but the texts from you over the days is a welcome distraction. 

From asking him about Jennifer Manson, to asking him about the phone call he made on the day of Hannah’s disappearance, to random conversation about your favorite movies or music, messages from you have become something he looks forward to daily. He found himself slowly thinking more and more of you; whether you are okay, what you have been doing among other things

‘Now, what more information does my lady seek from me?’ he types quickly, anticipating as the three dots beside your name blinks back at him. 

‘Good sir, is it such a crime if I just want to inquire about your day? :(’

Richy would be lying if he said that his heart did not skip a few beats over those words.

‘Our previous conversations would indicate that you always would have things to ask me after you know about how my day went, so out you go. :D’

It feels nice to see you playing along with his jokes.

‘Cleo told me you fought with your dad?’

Ah.

Not information about Hannah’s disappearance then. Which, to him, is much much easier to divulge.

‘That girl is going to get into trouble one day over how much she’s eavesdropping.’

‘I know. But more importantly, are you okay?’

Are you okay? Wow, Richy thinks as he stares at his idle phone. A simple question, but look at how he is struggling to answer. So he quickly typed in.

‘I’m okay, don’t worry, haha. Listen, the cat outside my apartment is literally meowing my window panes down, I better go check up on it before it eats itself,’ Richy began typing his response, as if him staring down the digitized letters will give him some form of epiphany over what the best course of action is. 

Excuse #12 from that ridiculous list that you gave him from weeks ago. From feeding non-existent stray cats outside his house to a car needing their tires changed, it quickly became an inside understanding between the two of you that this is a signal that he does not want to talk about it. 

But, inside, he wants to talk about it. Wants to talk to you about how this fight is a series of continuous disagreements between him and his father over how to run the family’s garage. Wants to talk about how this garage is not what he envisioned doing in his adult year, that he has no interest whatsoever in running the family’s business. How he had wanted to be a photographer, but was forced to run the garage by his dad to continue the family business. 

And how each time his father berates him over the losses their garage suffered due to the new competing garage in town, he feels a slight vendetta to bring up that he is never interested in what happens in this garage but is only doing it for his father.

He has long perfected the art of hiding anything of him that isn’t polished and brightened, so when you picked it up immediately, he felt flustered. Flustered because he doesn’t know what to do when faced with the idea of someone perceptive as you catching his vulnerabilities that he is ashamed of. But, also flustered with the fact that he feels a small sense of comfort that someone took time to notice the small things about him, and that deep inside, he feels some small part of him wanting to reach back out.

For now, he just added a bunch of cheerful emojis for good measure and hits send.

He wants to talk about it. He wants to.

‘You know, I don’t expect you to exhaust that list so quickly. I would have thought it’d be good for at least 2-3 months.’ came your reply.

‘I worry about you, Richy.’

------------------------------------ 

And it is true, you are worried for him. It has been close to three weeks since you first got added into this strange group, and if truth be told, you would never have thought that you’d be as invested as you are now. You could not deny that Jessy and Richy were two of the friends you never thought that you would care for as much as you did. You know that Jake had warned you over the group, and you ARE a bit more wary of some more than others, but you did not expect your trust to go wholeheartedly to this small trio that you have formed with Jessy and Richy. 

Jessy is the sweetest girl you have ever met in the world, always kind. She has this effect around people that made them feel cared for, and you are thankful how she had welcomed you and helped you out when everyone else seems to think you are the kidnapper.She wears her heart on a sleeve, and she trusts easily, but she means well. And Richy…

Richy is an enigma. On surface level, it seems that he is a bright ray of sunshine, all lighthearted jokes and wit, a perfect comedic complement to Jessy’s more emotional tendencies, but you notice the things that made Richy much more complex than he lets on.

You see his calm and composed nature when he is the one to suggest the group to think more critically in the case of your appearance and Hannah’s disappearance, how he calmed everyone down and brought their spirits up. But you also see his aversion to talking about how he himself feels.

Even though he does not show it, you know the incident with Hannah affected him just as much as it had affected everybody else. You see the sprinkle of emotions he has shown, from Jessy who told you how quiet he had been on the day his garage was spray painted with the sign of the raven, to his deprecating jokes about himself when you asked about the phone call he had made to Hannah on the day of her disappearance. 

You see that sliver of fear, that glimpse of guilt over those short moments, but come any closer and you could miss it with how subtly and skillfully he averts to more cheerful topics.

But that’s the thing. You worry for him. Jessy goes to the both of you for comfort while Dan goes to Jessy. Lilly has her family, Cleo goes to Thomas and Thomas’s grief is acknowledged and heard by all of them.

But who listens to Richy? Who gives Richy their shoulder for him to grief? Who lift up his spirits the way he does to you? For now, all you can do is put your phone close to your ear, Richy’s number dialing in the background. 

‘I worry about you, Richy.’

‘It gets better, I promise you. You don’t have to be alone. I’m here for you,’ you added under your previous text. It goes unanswered and your calls only gets redirected to voicemail. So all you can do is hold your phone close to you, placing your lips on its receiver, only able to hope that it goes to him, that his cheeks or his forehead feels the warmth as a sign that you are here for him.

Miles away, in Duskwood, Richy only stares in his phone longingly, wanting to call you. 

‘I’m here for you.’ your text that had him feeling hopeful, comforted and flustered him all the same.

It has been a long time since someone sees through him so transparently, heck, the void in him has bled together with his façade so much that even he himself cannot see through the layers of sunshine to where his dark insecurities start. He has crafted so many walls, perfected so many smiles that it even fooled Jessy, the person most close to him here in Duskwood. Perhaps at some point, maybe he even fooled himself.

And yet, here you are. Effortlessly breaking through those walls like it’s paper, unblinded by the fake shine he puts on, and sees the darkness in him for what it is. He has to laugh at that as he leaned his forehead on his phone, somehow feeling a sense of comfort just in doing that. What have you done to him? 

Perhaps one day he can begin to talk about it.

------------------------------------ 

 That day came sooner that he thought it would be. That night in December, it snowed heavily in Duskwood. Angry snow fell down in a furious blizzard, gusts of wind wailing outside in anguish, doors and window panes shaking almost in fear. Sometimes, the wailing picks up speed and bangs on the window with a scream.

Inside, Richy is just as furious, just as anguished as the blizzard outside. The man without a face seems hell-bent in getting them to stop finding Hannah and to obtain your location. Richy would bend over backwards and go to hell twice before letting your location fall in its hands. And with the search not showing any signs of stopping, so did the threats to them.

Today, it took the threat to another level when it involved their families as well. Richy had woken up with a call from his father. He had expected the call to be his father picking up another fight with him, but the urgency in his father’s voice and the manic sobbing of his mother in the background struck a cold chord in him.

It turned out that his family house has been vandalized with the signs of the raven, only this time it is worse than the one did in the garage. The windows were splashed with red paint, with papers jammed in their mailbox full of threatening letters of ‘give me her’ and ‘Richy, you’re next’. It took him a good two hours to scrub the windows clean, and then another hour to comfort his mother that this is just a prank pulled by some reckless vandals, to clean up the papers from the mailbox and throw them in the trash.

But, deep inside he knows it. This is not a prank. This is a threat to him. To them.

Duskwood is a small town. People will talk and come tomorrow, his friends will find out. He needs time. He needs time to sort out his thoughts. Time to properly compartmentalize.

He needs time to sort out through his guilt of not being able to protect his family from being terrorized from the man without a face. There is the fury with the fact that it has been established that the man without a face is someone within their circle, given how much they know about your presence.

He needs time.

There is the fear that you, being the lynch pin to all that the man without a face wanted from them, will be burdened more. He needs time to sort through the fear that he could not protect you, and even though it is for the best interest of your safety that none of them knows where you are, you are still all alone having to pick up after these seven dysfunctional people and no one to protect you.

Then, there is the confusion, the stress, the angry sadness that this is a game that he has to continue to play with his friends. The betrayal that one of them, one of his close friends is responsible for this, that they could have the balls to laugh with him, smile with him and turn around and do this to him. 

He needs time to sort through this anger and he doesn’t have the courage to face them and continue playing this game tomorrow, not when all he wanted to do is lash out at each one of them and threaten them and ohgodheneedstimeheneedstime-- 

In the solace of his room in his family home, Richy feels his thoughts become as white as the blizzard of snow outside. He hears his breath quickens, a voiceless wail stuck in his throat and he feels the shivers in his spine like the doors trembling in front of the wind.

Heneedstimeohgodpleasegivehimabitoftime----

And like a lifeline, his phone besides him rang and vibrated and he clutched it to him like a lifeline. Like a miracle in December, he sees that it’s your name. Somewhere in his blank white thoughts, he hears a small chuckle and how impeccable your timing is.

He answers and your voice in his ears sounded like a buoy thrown to him that is flailing about.

“Richy, I had a bad feeling about something. Is everyone okay?” and Richy hears himself laugh at that, a horrible mixture of a broken laugh and a hiccup and a helpless wail, all mixed up to become a horrible wounded noise.

Over on your side of the phone, your heart picked up pace when you heard that choked laughter from Richy. It is horrible and it is scary and you would never want to hear it from anyone again, least of all not Richy. He is having a panic attack.

“Richy, are you okay?! Richy, listen to me. Breathe with me, sweetheart. Breathe in, breathe out,” deep inside you tried to stay calm because that is what he needs, but even you feel like being on the verge of tears listening to this man - who has cheered you up so much - break down in front of you.

After he seemed to have calmed down, you tried again.

“Richy, what’s wrong? Please talk to me. You deserve to not be alone in this Richy. I see you. I see you smiling to get everyone to smile. You listened to me and you lifted up my mood when Jessy was attacked, and when I received threats over Lilly’s video. Let me do the same to you, yeah? Tell me what’s wrong?”

And to Richy, who has clutched onto your voice like a lifeline, who wants to share everything with you, just burst like a dam. Everything that he has kept secret from his friends, the sadness behind his smile, everything that he has even kept from himself and just swept under the rug and pushed into a closet at the back of his mind. Everything burst right there in front of you, from his guilt to not being able to stop Hannah’s kidnapping and Jessy’s attack, to him feeling unworthy of being sad compared to others, to his fear when he saw the sign of the raven in his garage and now on his home, his fury at knowing one of his friends are doing this, to his fear for Jessy, his fear for you. 

He hated everything. He hated himself.

You told him that he is strong, that you admired him so much, but he needs to see that he deserves to be comforted just as much as he has comforted everyone else. 

In that snowstorm-clad night, the winds wept and wept, but beneath its howl, you can hear the intermittent wail of a broken man as Richy cried, and cried, and cried. 

As he lets out everything, the blank white fog of his mind begins to clear and gain color. It started from the reds of fury, to the blacks of fear and the blues of guilt, but then your voice came in, and slowly the pinks of comfort, the yellows of hope and the purples of peace began melting through. 

------------------------------------ 

[EPILOGUE]

Both you and Richy sat over the phone for over 3 hours just talking about nothing and everything after his outburst. 

He seems to have gained his color back, his cheerful self almost back as he cracked his lame stories about gangster seagulls eating his sandwich once in his travels. Richy feels like this time, his color - albeit still a little faded - is much more genuine than the blacks filtered from a rose-colored glass that he has shown before. Your laughter as you listen to his story and object to its credibility, slowly made those faded colors in his mind more vibrant.

“Thank you for listening to me, for um… taking care of me,” he begins a bit meekly after he finishes his story. He’s not so used to being listened to, not at this vulnerable a level and definitely he is not used to being taken care of.

“You did the same to me when Jessy was attacked. And you would have done the same for me again, I’m sure of it,” your voice sounded like a smile would, and God, would he give up everything to see that smile in person. He laughs to himself internally. How has this person made him so whipped for her in such a manner?

“I’m planning on going to Duskwood soon,” you had said out of the blue, bringing him back from his reverie.

“Absolutely not. In case you forgot my magnificent show of tears just now, the man without a face is threatening us to get to you. You coming here is the absolute worst thing to do,” Richy snorted, a mock indignant and wounded tone from him that made you chuckle.

“Well, how bad can it be? If we keep my arrival a secret from the rest of them, and spend the days, just you, me and Jessy, it wouldn’t hurt, would it? Someone needs to go there and give you a hug and take care of you,” you had replied back shortly, almost giving no thought to what you had said.

“Oh my, my lady, are you flirting with me?” Richy’s exaggerated gasp brought you back to reality, and his implication had your heart skipping beats.

“Well I mean… um…” you stuttered, and Richy swore your hesitance and stuttering made his heart soar just a little bit more in hope. But pursuing it is for another time.

“W-Well, someone needs to stop you from being such an eccedentesiast!” you had blurted out, extremely grateful that the distance makes it unable for him to see your bright red hot face.

His laughter after that sounds like the most genuine you have heard from him so far, and he might have said something along the lines of “nooo use small words, your idiot here doesn’t understand what that means,” but you couldn’t remember clearly. All you remembered was you thinking that you would give almost anything to protect that genuine tinkling laughter of his.

#duskwood #duskwood game #duskwood richy #duskwood mc

[cauliflowercounty]

Meet Me in the Middle Pt. I (Fred Weasley x fem!Reader)

House: Ilvermorny, your choice

Blood Status: You Choose

Warning: A swear :)

A/N: You’re from the US in this fic!

I/H = Ilvermorny house

-----

“Settle down, students!” Professor McGonagall calls out to the group of 7th years in front of her. She glares over at the twins and Lee who are busy sticking their noses up and imitating her. Once they notice her intense glare, they quiet down, trying to stifle their laughter, still giddy from the start of school energy and being reunited after a long summer apart. 

“This year,” McGonagall begins “we’re initiating a new program in partnership with Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in the United States.”

A chorus of murmurs floods through the group.

“For those interested, we are starting a pen friends program. Because of the success of last year in fostering international relationships with the Triwizard tournament, we thought it would be beneficial for both the student body here at Hogwarts and Ilvermorny’s to participate in this new program,” McGonagall explains to the group. All of the seventh years start to whisper to each other excitedly. Many of them comment on how this hadn’t been a possibility before or how they wonder what the wizarding world is like across the pond.

“You’ll receive one pen friend and if you sign up, I expect you to represent Hogwarts well, and remember this is a commitment. Don’t send the person one letter and then never again or there will be consequences,” McGonagall warns everyone. Despite her severe words, people grin with excitement. Fred Weasley thinks about it to himself as all his classmates clamor with excitement. He’d like to have a pen friend from the U.S., but he’s busy wondering if he’ll have the money to send them letters. He and George hadn’t actually sold many of their products yet and he only had just enough money to send letters to his parents back home and the occasional Honeydukes sweet or Zonko’s product. “Postage to the US must cost a lot since owls can’t go that far,” Fred thinks to himself. Maybe giving up the occasional Hogsmeade indulgence would be worth it.

“Cedric would have loved this,” one Hufflepuff near Fred murmurs and everyone falls silent, knowing what the Hufflepuff just said is absolutely true. Everyone in this year definitely felt Cedric’s absence in their year, but in this moment, the air felt heavy with guilt. McGonagall nods in agreement and sets out a paper for sign ups, adding postage will be paid for by Hogwarts and Ilvermorny. Hogwarts students will also write the first letter. Fred smiles in relief. He won’t have to spend all his savings.

“Oi, Freddie,” George nudges him.  “Are you going to sign up?”

Fred nods and rushes up to the paper that his classmates are crowding around. He takes out one of his quills and scratches his signature onto the parchment with a flourish. Returning to his best friends, Lee looks surprised. 

“I didn’t take you for a pen friend sort of guy, mate,” lee comments.

“What can I say, I’m spontaneous,” Fred replies, sure of himself this was the right choice. Leaving the room with George and Lee, Fred heads to his dorm room to start writing his first letter.

When he arrives in his room, he gets out a piece of parchment and sets up a small workspace on his desk.  Just as he sits down, he stops and starts fiddling with his quill. After a few seconds of hesitation, Fred decided to suck it up and start writing.

Hello,

I’m Fred Weasley. I apologise if this letter is a little awkward. It’s my first time ever writing to someone I don’t know at all. I’m in 7th year and I’m a Gryffindor, which values courage and bravery, if you don’t know.  

I have a twin brother. His name is George. We’re like the school pranksters. We currently are developing a line of sweets that make you sick so you can get out of class and other products that people would want like little objects that go off to cause a diversion, We’re also thinking about fireworks, but our main specialty is sweets. It all shows promise.

Georgie and I have never been academics, we’re more pranksters at heart if I’m honest. We’re quite good at charms and enchantments, though. I’m rubbish at potions, though. I hate to be boring, but what’s your favorite subject? I can’t think of anything other than that to ask you, but maybe in a future letter, we can talk about more interesting topics other than school.

Hope to hear from you,

Fred Weasley

Satisfied with his work, Fred folds his letter up and seals it tightly with a wax seal. The next day, he turns it in to McGonagall, who informs him it will be sent within the week. Walking away from McGonagall, Fred starts wondering who his pen friend is.

~

As the following Tuesday rolls around, an unfamiliar owl swoops into the 7th year Gryffindor boys dorms. Attached to its leg is a neatly closed, pristine envelope with “Fred Weasley” written in unfamiliar handwriting.  It hoots loudly at Fred, who scrambles off his bed, knocking a few prototype sweets onto the floor he was just working on with George. 

“Oi! Watch it, Fred!” George protests, but Fed’s already at the window, trying to pry the letter off the owl’s leg. As Fred gets a better look at the letter, he finds the front has been stamped with a MACUSA red stamp reading “INTERNATIONAL” complete with an eagle beside it. Excited, Fred rips open the letter and sits down on his bed, ignoring George who’s trying to get his attention back on the products. Once he’s comfortable, Fred opens up the letter and starts to read.

Hello, Fred Weasley.

I’m y/n. There’s no reason to be sorry that your letter is a bit awkward. Letters like this are out of my comfort zone as well. If it makes you feel any better, your letter felt perfectly natural.

I’m a 6th year in I/H. It’s honestly the best house of all of them. Thunderbird is for adventurers, Pukwudgie is for healers, Wampus is for warriors, and Horned Serpent is for scholars. Fun Fact: Ilvermorny was actually founded by a descendant of Salazar Slytherin and a No-Maj!  

You and your brother must be quite the dynamic duo. Starting a business is no easy feat, but it sounds amazingly interesting. I can’t believe you two were the first to think of sweets that make you sick to get out of class, but I’m glad you two got to the idea first. Please keep me posted on how your other products are coming along! They all sound amazing!

I also like charms and enchantments. My Charms teacher is really awesome. I honestly can’t decide what my favorite subject is. All of them have their ups and downs.

What’s it like at Hogwarts? I hear it’s a castle, but what’s the inside like?

- y/n y/l/n

George looks over at his brother and notices how widely he’s grinning. George notices the “international” stamp on the envelope and realizes what it is and now he’s no longer mad at Fred for knocking the prototypes on the floor as Fred scrambles to grab some parchment to write back.

~

A two and a half months later, you and Fred have exchanged many letters; you’ve exchanges so many you’ve both forgotten what round you’re on. A week ago, Fred sent along some of his products after you told him about the two Wampus bullies in your year, James and Martin, who enjoy tormenting you about your looks, smarts, and everything else under the sun. The package included a box of sparklers and then some sickness-inducing sweets. Alongside the box of charmed sweets, he also sent a box of real chocolates and a note.

The red box with the “W” has the charmed sweets in it! DO NOT EAT UNLESS YOU WANT TO BREAK OUT IN BOILS! The other box has some of my mom’s English toffee for you to try.

Giggling a little from his warning note, you wrote back and thanked him profusely for the gifts and promptly used the sickness sweets on both Wampus lugs, who ran off to the infirmary with large puss-filled growths protruding from their face in embarrassment.  When your dorm mates asked who the real chocolates were from, you feel your heartbeat in your chest as a light blush flushes over your cheeks, thinking of Fred.

Getting out of Potions, you take a walk outside to study as an owl swoops down. You take the letter, recognizing Fred’s handwriting.  

Y/n,

I’m glad the sweets worked. The two of them absolutely deserved it and now we know the boils can last for over 48 hours. That’s valuable information for Georgie and me.

Listen, I don’t want to overstep, but I was wondering if I could know what you look like? We’ve been mailing each other for such a long time and It’s been on my mind. I usually have a face I can put to a name. I’ve enclosed a picture of me in this letter and If you’re comfortable, I was wondering if you’d send one back? No pressure.

F.W.

P.S. The canary creams are a hit!

You look behind the letter and pull out the enclosed picture. You see a tall pale boy with flaming ginger hair. He’s smirking along with someone who looks exactly like him in the background messing with a familiar orange and purple Weasley box. In the picture, Fred has circled the twin in the foreground and labeled it “Fred” and the one in the background “my less handsome brother, George.” You let out a little chuckle. This is exactly what you expected from Fred.

~

A week and a half have passed since Fred sent the letter with the picture in it. With each passing day, Fred worries he’s driven you off with being too forward. He’s considering writing a letter to apologize and beg things can go back to the way it was. he misses writing to you and having to enchant the parchment so it looks scrambles so Umbridge doesn’t read his mail to you about the D.A. and then getting back mail you’ve charmed to look like doodles in a notebook. It was like your own code that you’d both have to undo to read.  

He missed hearing about ilvermorny and your classes. He longed for the day he could hear about the plan you’d set up with Fred’s help for revenge on James and Martin where you’d charm fireworks to go off and chase them around the Ilvermorny grounds until they admitted they were assholes.

George and Lee assured him that he had nothing to worry about, that you probably got busy with school work and will write back soon. Lee also suggested your letter might have gotten lost in the mail, but that thought only made Fred worry. Maybe you had sent a message long ago and you weren’t getting a response because he hadn’t gotten one yet, and maybe he shouldn’t send a letter now because it might pop up once he sends his own letter and he’ll look like an idiot. he can only hope a letter from you is on its way now.

As Fred begins to descend into another pit of worry the next day, an owl comes to land at his side. Fred grabs the letter with fervor, nearly knocking the poor owl off its feet in excitement. The owl hoots angrily in protest at Fred’s sudden movement and flies away after pouting and ruffling its feathers. He rips the envelope open, almost damaging the letter itself. Taking out his wand, he rushes to a bathroom so no member of the inquisitorial squad or Umbridge herself can see him take the charm off the paper that currently has a drawing of a sloth on it.

Dear Freddie,

I’m sorry for not getting back to you in the last week or so. I had a midterm and I didn’t want to let you down by only sending you a scrap of paper saying I had a test. I hope it went well.

Thanks for sharing that picture with me. You and your brother are very cute together. I didn’t expect your hair to be so bright, but then again, I’m not around many people with red hair. I’ve also sent you a picture of me. It was taken during Care of Magical Creatures. The niffler unit was my favorite. They’re like magical platypuses!

I hope it’s what you expected? I don’t know what to say (haha).

Wow! The Canary Creams are working finally? That’s awesome! Did feathers get everywhere? Who was the poor test subject?

I’m glad everything is working out, Freddie.  

- Y/n

Fred smiles down at the paper from within the stall. You’ve always been supportive of the business. You were almost as excited about it as he and George were. He looks down at the picture you’ve sent along with your letter and his heart skips a little bit. 

You’re smiling at the camera with a niffler in your arms. As the picture moves, you laugh as the niffler squirms and tries to reach for the shiny watch on your wrist. As he observes the picture more, he sees there’s a warm twinkling in your eye. you look so happy. Returning to his dorm room, Fred opens his trunk and tucks the photograph into the corner of his trunk next to some logo designs and a family picture with a pair of horns and a monocle drawn on Percy. He smiles. That’s where that picture will stay.

~

Time has passed, yet you and Fred have kept in touch. Fred’s now living above the shop in Diagon Alley with George after their grand escape from Hogwarts, which you supported him through one hundred percent despite never ever meeting.  

Throughout the months, you’ve both been mailing and you’ve helped him develop new products, acting as a remote filter and outside perspective for the twins, which you enjoyed the process of.  

All the while Fred has supported you through your last year at Ilvermorny since you’re a year younger than he is. Even though he didn’t finish school doesn’t mean he can’t support and help you at all.  

Through your letters, you’ve started calling him “your special Freddie,” making Fred’s heart swoop and swoon as he imagines what your voice sounds like saying it to him.  Time goes on and he’s falling, but Fred doesn’t resist it.  You’ve always been there for him and he knows he’ll be there for you through think and thin.  As he realizes he’s in love, he starts to worry that you won’t return his feelings, but even if you don’t he still wants you in his life.  You make him happy.  It’s as simple as that.

After getting up one morning, Fred heads down to the shop to do inventory downstairs. He notices that it’s darker outside today, even more so today than usual. Both he and Georgie have noticed things have been darkening lately with Voldemort and his followers running around Britain, but today is especially dark.  

Fred hears a knock at the door of the shop. The shop was closed today and most of the regulars knew that this wasn’t a time they’d be open. Cautiously, Fred draws his wand and approaches the door, careful to not step into view in case it wasn’t a welcomed guest. Fred peeks around the corner and notices it’s his father. Wand still drawn, he cautiously approaches the door.

“Which twin said ‘honestly woman, you call yourself our mother?’ at the station before my third year?” Fred asks through the glass at the man he thinks is his father, knowing his dad wants to abide by Ministry guidance about identification.

“Fred did,” Mr. Weasley answers but notices how Fred’s face sinks a bit at his response.  “You did. Sorry, Fred.”

Fred cautiously lets him in, not putting his wand away,

“Fred, Dumbledore is dead,” Mr. Weasley explains.  “Snape was the one who carried it out.”

“That tr-” Fred starts, but Mr. Weasley holds his hand up.

“I know, Fred. I just wanted to come by and tell you before you get it from the Prophet. I also wanted to tell you... We’re not safe anymore. The ministry has most likely been infiltrated or will be infiltrated in the next few days. Keep your guard up. With Dumbledore gone, this fight just got much more difficult,” Arthur explains, sighing deeply and rubbing his face.  “I trust you’ll tell George?”

Fred nods as his dad says goodbye and gives him a “see you soon” before apparating away. Fred locks the door and puts down the shutters with his wand. He rushes up the stairs and scribbles on a piece of parchment his last letter to you before the war, explaining what’s happening, that the mail is probably going to be tracked and opened, that things are getting dangerous. He insists that you shouldn’t write back even if it’s tempting and that he’ll write to you once the war is over.  Fred considers signing it “Love, Fred” because this might be the last time he ever writes to you, but doesn’t; he just writes:

See you on the other side of the war, y/n. Stay safe. 

Yours truly, Fred Weasley

-----

Read Part 2 Here!

#fred weasley x reader #fred weasley #fred weasley imagine #weasley twins #Harry Potter

[strawberriestyles]

Chapter 2

(Banner made by sweet sunshine @harry-nofookingway-styles​)

Harry X OFC (AU)

Sequel to Brutality: In which Melody and Harry must relearn how to navigate one another among a flurry of changes.

Read previous parts here.

Author’s note: Chapter 2, my loves! Please be patient while I try to get used to posting regularly it’s been a loooong time lmao. I’m also still working on the story and if things need to change in the coming chapter there might be a pause in my posting schedule while I work out the kinks. But in the meantime, I hope you all enjoy what I’ve written!! Please, for the love of GOD let me know what you think. Xx

Melody had barely stepped out of the stairwell on the fourth floor when Vanessa stopped her in her tracks.

“Nope, no,” she said from behind the desk, where she was checking over a patient’s charts. "He’s down on the ground floor. They were going to wait for you but you took too long, so they started without you.”

“Started what?” Melody asked with a heavy frown.

Vanessa glanced back up from her papers and paused, open-mouthed, as she took a good look at Melody’s face. It took her a moment to purse her lips, but when she did she looked away again, returning her eyes to the charts. “Ground floor, hallway past the cafeteria.”

Melody sighed and yanked open the door behind her, retreating into the stairwell and tromping back down to the lobby. She followed Vanessa’s instructions, past the cafeteria that she was so familiar with and down the next hallway that branched out toward the gardens. There were only a couple of doors here. The first was a restroom, and the second one stood open. There were more people inside than she had expected. And she wasn’t quite sure what she had been expecting, but it wasn’t this.

There were weights, resistance bands, machines scattered about the room. And Harry, in the center of it all, was standing. Well, not alone, but with less assistance than she’d seen him using in the past few weeks.

He was between two metal bars that ran horizontally and his hands gripped them so tightly that she could see his knuckles whitening as she approached. Aiden, the physical therapist, stood behind him. She heard him delivering words of encouragement as Harry dragged one foot forward and tried to settle some weight onto his leg.

“Look at you go,” Melody said with a big smile as she gripped onto the bar at his left.

Harry grunted, staring down at his slow feet. His hair was pulled back, the shorter pieces on the injured side of his head hung strangely forward, brushing his temple. She watched a bead of sweat run down his cheek and disappear beneath his chin. His teeth were clenched, she could tell just by the set of his jaw.

“He’s not very happy with me today,” Aiden muttered. He urged Harry forward and praised another weak step. “I think he’s fucking ace, though. He’s recovering quicker than almost any patient I’ve ever had.”

“And how many is that, Aiden?” Harry snapped. “Yeh’re, what, twenty-five? Can’ have had more than a few."

Melody tried not to laugh at his tone. It probably wasn’t nearly as amusing for Aiden, but it reminded her so much of how Harry liked to talk to Sean that she couldn’t hold back a quiet chuckle. Harry lifted his head to finally look at her and when he did he nearly lost his grip on the bars to each side of him. Aiden caught his body with a loud huff and tried to keep him upright.

“What the fuck happened to your face?” Harry spit out, his voice rising in pitch. He clutched tightly to the bars and tried to heave himself back onto his feet as he stared at Melody.

She pressed her fingers gingerly to the swollen lump on her cheekbone. She hadn’t wanted to come to the hospital today, but she couldn’t think of a valid excuse for her absence. She was at the hospital every day, and oftentimes, before he’d woken up, even slept in that terribly uncomfortable chair next to Harry’s bed. But she’d tried to cover up her forming bruise with makeup and had utterly failed.

She turned toward the gleaming window at the end of the room and sighed. “I’ll tell you about it some other time,” she muttered.

“Or,” Harry growled, leaning forward so that Aiden had to hold onto his waist, “yeh could tell me right fuckin’ now.”

Melody lowered her head. “I fell down the stairs, okay?”

“Bullshit, Mel.”

“I fucking tripped,” she snapped, turning toward him again. There was a heat behind her gaze that he had never seen before. It caught him off-guard. “Now, leave me alone. I’m here for you.”

Harry looked between her eyes, back to her cheek, to her tight jaw. He wobbled backward into Aiden’s chest. “Think ‘m done for today, mate.”

“Harry,” Melody sighed, even as Aiden helped him backward from between the bars to where a wheelchair awaited him. “Don’t cut your therapy short just—”

“Said ‘m done.”

Aiden remained a silent bystander throughout the interaction. He needed Harry to cooperate in order to help him at all. Melody knew that, and she knew that she had just ruined whatever small improvements might have been made today. She really wished she’d stayed home.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. To both of them.

Aiden gave her a helpless shrug of his shoulder. It wasn’t the first time Harry had given him trouble and he was sure it wouldn’t be the last. He’d been a lot easier to work with when he was unconscious.

Harry didn’t respond to her and she didn’t speak to him again as Aiden settled him into the chair. He passed Harry on to her and she rolled him out of the therapy room toward the elevators. She hit the button to go up with more pressure than was necessary and then they waited in silence for an elevator to arrive.

“Harry, listen—" she began.

“‘M not in the mood, Melody.”

There was a short bing as an elevator reached the ground and the steel doors slid open. A little girl slipped out around them, clutching her father’s hand, dragging him in the direction of the cafeteria. Melody licked her lips and wheeled Harry around, stepping backward to pull him inside. The doors shut in front of them and Melody could see his reflection clearly, split down one side of his face where the two doors met.

“I wasn’t trying—”

“Stop,” Harry snapped. And Melody thought that would be the end of it, but he kept talking. “D’yeh know how fuckin’ hard it is for me to not be able to stand on my own two feet? To not walk? To have people bringin’ me food and askin’ me if ‘m okay all the time like ‘m a kid? I’ve never had to rely on people like this in my entire life. And I’ve used my body to make a livin’ for years. I missed five goddamn months, with just you and Sean to fill me in on what happened. Tha’s the only thing I have and now you’re fuckin’ lying to me, too!”

Melody squeezed her eyes shut as his voice echoed between the close walls of the elevator. And then there was that bing as the doors opened onto the fourth floor hallway. She was frozen in place for only a moment. She locked eyes with Vanessa, who was behind the desk again. When she pushed Harry forward, the doors had already begun to close. They bounced back open as the two of them crossed the threshold.

“Can we get those nurses again?” Melody whispered to Vanessa, who gave her a nod in answer.

They traveled back to Harry’s room. Melody braked Harry’s chair beside his bed and then squatted down in front of him.

“I don’ want—”

“I got hit in the face, Harry.”

He paused, his mouth open, a divot set deeply between his brows. Melody’s fingers curled around the sides of his chair. She licked her lips and tried to hold his gaze.

“I’m sorry I lied to you. Okay? That’s all I’m telling you right now.”

“The hell it is. You—”

The sound of footsteps cut Harry off. He clamped his lips tightly shut as the usual nurses entered the room but kept his eyes trained on Melody, only lowering them when he was lifted into bed. And then they were left alone again.

“Who hit you?” Harry asked. He sounded so calm, but Melody knew that it was a sort of façade. And she was wary of relighting a fuse.

“Harry, I really don’t think you need to—”

“Was it Cooper?”

Melody was taken aback. She raised her eyebrows, her arms crossed tightly across her chest. She hadn’t seen Cooper in probably a month. And when she did see him, she’d taken to the habit of avoiding contact. It was sometimes hard to get around him, but for the most part she’d been successful.

“No, Harry,” she muttered. “No.”

His eyes darkened. “Cops?”

Melody shook her head. She tried even harder to avoid police.

“Okay so, what, yeh’re gonna make me keep guessin’?”

“Why don’t you just stop guessing?”

“Melody, someone hit you in the fuckin’ face and I’d like to know who—”

“And what the hell is going on here?”

The interruption of their conversations was beginning to seem a theme. Harry turned his head in agitation, Melody in relief.

“Oh, thank God,” she breathed. “Sean, you can tell him.”

“Tell him what?” Sean moved further into the room, unaware of what he’d walked into. He stopped at the foot of Harry’s bed and looked between the two of them.

“What?” Harry frowned. “Sean didn’ hit yeh.”

“No, he didn’t,” Melody agreed. She gave Sean a tight-lipped smile and he began to back away, swinging his hands in front of him as some sort of shield.

“No. No, I’m not doing this.”

“Doing what?” Harry pressed. His voice was gaining volume with his frustration. “If someone doesn’ tell me what the fuck is goin’ on, I swear I’ll lose my goddamn mind.”

There was a thick pause between them. Melody held her breath. Sean eventually spoke.

“She got it in a fight.”

“A fight?” Harry turned his confused eyes on the bruise painting her cheek. He was familiar with face hits. He got them all the time. But there were really no knuckle marks on her. If he didn’t know better, he could have believed that she had fallen. But Melody wasn’t clumsy. Not even when she had one too many mojitos. “What d’yeh mean? Who’re yeh fighting?”

“A match,” Sean amended. “She got it in a match.”

Melody could see Harry working to process this. She watched his eyes on her face, down her body, examining her newly built muscle. She watched his confused expression shift to one of understanding, and then to fury.

“Why is she fightin’ in matches, Sean?” he ground out.

“Why don’t you ask her?”

“Because it doesn’ seem like she has any interest in tellin’ me the truth.”

“Harry, that’s not fair.” Melody took a step toward him, gripping the back of her usual chair and shaking her head. “I just knew you’d be upset, so I—”

“Am fuckin’ upset, aren’ I?” He didn’t look at her when he spoke. His gaze was still fixed on Sean, who was staring at his shoes. Harry leaned slowly forward. “Are yeh fuckin’ training her?”

“Harry,” Sean said carefully, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his sweats and looking at the bed, where Harry’s feet were tucked beneath the sheets. “I wouldn’t be doing it if there wasn’t a reason. You know that.”

“Better be a damn good one, if—”

“For you,” Melody muttered, her fingers tightening around the back of the chair. “We needed money to keep you here, Harry. And we didn’t know for how long that might be.”

He drew in a deep breath. Sean and Melody both waited for him to respond. They had been worried about this conversation since he had woken up and it wasn’t going at all the way that they had planned. But Melody was hopeful that he’d be understanding.

“Get out.”

Melody’s lips parted. Sean looked at her, a heavy frown etched into his face.

“Harry,” Melody whispered.

“Get. Out.”

Melody sighed and let her hands fall away from the chair that she’d been holding onto. She began across the room and had just passed Sean when Harry spoke again.

“Both of yeh.”

“Listen, man—” Sean began. He cut himself off when Harry glared at him.

“We’ll be back in an hour,” Melody said, grabbing onto Sean’s arm to pull him with her.

“No.” Harry shook his head when they stopped. “Go home. Just go home.”

Melody rolled her eyes, but continued toward the exit. She stopped in the doorway when Sean had reached the hall and turned back. “You can be a real dick, you know that? I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She didn’t wait for a reply before following Sean down the corridor. He opened the door to the stairwell for her and they walked down the first flight with only the sound of their shoes squeaking against each step.

“It could’ve been worse, right?” Sean asked as they reached the third floor landing.

“In what way?” Melody let out a dry laugh. “He’s pissed.”

“Yeah, well, he usually is, isn’t he?”

“Lately? Yeah.”

They reached the ground floor and stepped out into the lobby. The sun was falling with the late afternoon. It glared through the glass windows at the front of the hospital and reflected off the polished floor tiles. Melody shielded her eyes against it.

“I’m hoping he’ll calm down when he can get back on his feet. And when he gets out of here, but...I—” Melody paused before the front doors, looking out on the busy street. “Did I make the right decision, Sean?”

Sean squeezed her elbow. “I wouldn’t have helped you if I thought you didn’t.” He pushed one of the glass doors open. “Training tomorrow. Eight A.M. Get some sleep, Melody.”

She watched him leave and start the walk back toward his apartment. Her fingertips dug into the corners of her eyes. She wished she could pretend that nothing had changed in the past few months. She wished she could return Harry to the brief time when things had begun to look up for him, when he’d finished selling guns, before Colton had shown up, when things between them were good. But she couldn’t. And that made the ache in her chest pulse like it did when he’d told her they were done.

But she needed sleep tonight. She hadn’t had a good rest for a while. It had begun to show in her training, in her matches. That was how she’d gotten her troublesome bruise, wasn’t it? Too many thoughts in her head, too little focus. So she left the hospital to catch a cab home and try to slow her whirring mind.

Chapter 3

#harry styles #harry styles writing #harry styles blurb #harry styles drabble #harry styles story #harry styles series #boxer!harry #boxer!au #harry styles au #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles ferocity

[swanslieutenant]

the art of summoning, part 1

My turn for posting a @csseptembersunshine story!  Thanks to @captainsjedi for organizing this event, and I hope you all enjoy this one. It’s set in Season 4, during the 6 weeks of peace, and is one I started a long time ago (maybe even years ago), and this event finally spurred me to finish it. This will be two parts; I’ll post the second one up once I finish getting it all together! 

Summary: Emma has yet to master the art of summoning, but if it can help Killian rescue the fairies from the Sorcerer's Hat, she's going to try to her best. Though, as typical in Storybrooke, things never seem to go to plan.

Rating and Warnings: Teen.

Read on AO3

On a cold, dim Tuesday, Emma gets out of her car down at Storybrooke’s docks, admiring the Storybrooke harbour in the warm afternoon light. Even from the street, the Jolly Roger is easily spotted, its tall mast towering over the rest of the fishing boats.

Emma makes her way closer, the take-out bag from Granny’s clenched tightly in her hand. As the deck comes into view, she can see the silhouetted figure of Killian, pacing back and forth.  Belle had called her at the station earlier, her voice full of concern. She and Killian had been working all morning on researching ways to save the fairies from the Sorcerer’s Hat, but like all the other days they’ve spent, it was unproductive and frustrating. Killian, in particular, had been angry today, and he’d stormed off from the library in a heated temper.  

Emma isn’t surprised; he’s been in a dark mood ever since they discovered it would be no easy task to save the fairies from the Sorcerer’s Hat. Each passing day with no success has blackened his mood further, and no matter how many times Emma tells him it’s not his fault, that Gold was controlling him, that he had no choice but to obey, it’s done nothing to alleviate his guilt or anger.  

She continues on towards the ship, watching her step carefully on the slippery decks. The sight of the ship still sometimes takes her aback, with its polished timbers and white sails bound tightly up by old iron rigging. The rest of Storybrooke is mundane, nothing of its true magical origins in its ordinary appearance of a small fishing village, but the Jolly Roger is a sign of its otherworldliness, a true pirate ship amongst the regular vessels.

Sometimes Emma thinks that it’s even weirder that it’s her boyfriend’s pirate ship.

When she finally reaches the ship, Killian has stopped his pacing, standing at the starboard side now, staring out to the horizon. His hook is resting on the polished wood of the rail, his hand curled into a fist at his side. His back is to Emma, but she can see from the tense set of his shoulders and his white knuckles that his brow is most likely furrowed, his eyes dark with the broody look Emma is far too familiar with these days.

“Hey,” she calls, and he turns around, hand automatically going to the sword at his belt from centuries of instinct. He relaxes when he sees its her, smiling even in his dark mood, and she steps down onto the deck, holding out the bag from Granny’s. “I brought lunch.”

Killian crosses the deck to greet her, pressing a kiss into her hair as he wraps an arm around her. Emma finds it hard not to grin as she hugs him back; her life is sure different than it was a year ago, she marvels, as she hugs her boyfriend back on his pirate ship in a town filled with fairy tale characters. If she could go back and tell her past self what she’d be doing now, she’d never in a thousand years have believed it.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” Killian says, releasing her to take the bag of takeout and opening it to peer inside. “Not that I’m complaining, love,” he amends quickly, when he notices Emma’s jokingly raised eyebrow. “How did you know I would be here?”

Emma pauses before answering, chewing on her lip. “Belle called me.”

His hand curls into a fist around the bag, paper crinkling loudly as his eyes darken, shuttering himself away ever so slightly.

“Ah.”

Emma steps closer, and says, trying to make her voice as firm as possible, “I know you feel awful about the fairies, Killian, but you can’t beat yourself up over the it all the time. This was Gold’s fault. Not yours.”

Killian shakes his head, a muscle in his jaw pulsing as he glances back out over the water, as if it has some consolation or answer for his anger.

“It was still by my hand,” he says, and his voice is nearly a growl. “If I had fought harder against the crocodile’s control or not provoked him in the first place, the fairies wouldn’t be trapped in a magical bloody hat with no hope of retrieval. So, I appreciate your effort, Swan, but it is my fault.”

Emma bites back a sigh. She’s argued this point with him for weeks now, and nothing will change his mind. Foregoing the argument for now as her stomach rumbles, she tugs on his arm, pulling him towards the stairs to his cabin below.

“Come on, let’s eat. Lunch is getting cold.”

They descend into his cabin, and Killian clears away the clutter on the central table for them to eat. Emma pointedly ignores the many handwritten notes and torn book pages about rescuing individuals from cursed items, and luckily lunch passes without any conversation about the fairies; Emma even manages to draw a few smiles and laughs from Killian.

He pours them each a glass of rum when they’re finished eating, and they move from the table to sit on his bed. Emma leans against his chest as she sips her drink, appreciating the quiet rocking of the ship against the waves, the call of the seagulls up above. Storybrooke has been quiet for weeks now, but it’s still unusual to just be able to have a normal lunch with Killian, to sit with him in peaceful silence, without the worry of a villain raining destruction upon the town.

Though it doesn’t last long; Emma’s phone buzzes then, disrupting the silence. Typical, she thinks, fishing her phone out of her pocket. Short-lived as always; peace and quiet is something she wonders if she’ll ever truly get.

The notification is a text from Regina, a simple Where are you? but Emma can hear her curt tone through the screen, and she groans. Regina has decided its time Emma learns more control over her magic. She had learned bits and pieces when Zelena, Elsa’s snow monsters, and Ingrid were terrorizing the town, but with this strange spell of peace and quiet, she actually has a chance to dedicate some time to the craft, instead of learning on the fly to combat an evil witch or conjured ice monster, and she was supposed to have a lesson starting about fifteen minutes ago.

“Duty calls?” asks Killian, and Emma sighs.

“No, but it’s Regina. We’re supposed to have one of our lessons today. I forgot.”

Emma disentangles herself from Killian, who rises from the bed himself to walk her off the ship. At the edge of his ship, he wraps his arms around her again, kissing her deeply, and for a moment Emma has a hard time rationalizing why she has to go see Regina at all right now.

It must show on her face, because Killian smirks at her.

“As much as I’d prefer you to stay here too, love, if you don’t show up at the vault, I have a suspicion that Her Majesty will be none too pleased, and I doubt the Jolly Roger will survive her fireballs of wrath. Though, for your sake, I hope she’ll be in a better mood today.”

“Doubtful,” Emma replies with a sigh. Regina is a challenge at the best of times, but ever since Robin left Storybrooke a few weeks ago with Marian, she’s been downright miserly, and most of her rage has been centered on Emma for being the one to bring Marian back in the first place.

Emma moves away from Killian, lest her mind change again, but before stepping off the ship, Emma pauses and turns around to face him again.

“We will get the fairies out of the hat, Killian. I promise.”

He nods, though his eyes grow distant again. “I hope so.”

He waves in departure as Emma hurries back to her car. She hasn’t mastered the poofing aspect of magic yet that Regina is so skilled at, and has to drive over to the cemetery instead. When she arrives at Regina’s vault, now more than twenty minutes late, the woman herself is waiting for her with a scowl and dark eyes barely flicking up over the book she’s reading.

“You’re late.”

“Sorry, I was with Killian, and I lost track of time –”

Regina snorts, rolling her eyes as she clamps the book shut. “Say no more, I should have known you were with the pirate.”

Emma glares at her, her temper flaring at the other woman’s sour tone. “I’d be on time if you taught me how to do that ‘poofing’ thing you’re always doing.”

“Teleportation,” Regina corrects sternly, “is a highly advanced skill. To be able to move yourself from one location to the other requires a basic understanding of summoning and conjuration first, and you, Ms. Swan, cannot even do that.”

“Then let’s do that. Teach me how to summon objects or whatever.”

Regina looks mildly annoyed, and she sighs dramatically. “I had planned something else for today, but perhaps learning something you are actually interested in for a change will be more productive than our usual lessons.” Emma rolls her eyes, but Regina doesn’t even notice. She rises to her feet, snapping the book she was reading shut, and continues, “I need to fetch another few books from my office. I’ll be right back.”

As if to spite her, she disappears in a cloud of purple smoke.

It soon becomes apparent that Regina is going to take her sweet time to get those books, so Emma decides to poke around the vault in her absence. She’s not supposed to, she knows, but this place has always both fascinated and repulsed her; she can feel the darkness emanating from the shelves and boxes, as if a shadow lurks in between each book and object, whispering and calling out to her.

And try as she might to ignore the items around her, an item on one of the shelves near the door catches her eye. At first glance, Emma thinks it may be a music box, small and made of smooth black wood, with delicately carved hearts raised against the smooth wooden surface and closed shut with a heart shaped clasp. Emma knows better than to touch anything in this cursed vault, but a strange sense has come over her at the sight of the strange little box, and she finds herself unable and unwilling to stop herself. She moves closer and opens the small box, the clasp cold in her fingers.

It’s not a music box; inside, resting on a dark purple bed of velvet, is a pulsating violet crystal, about the size of her fist. It seems to glow brighter the longer she looks at it, and Emma reaches out to touch it, wondering what it is and what it could do –

“Don’t touch that!”

She jumps back at Regina’s voice, and Regina stalks over to her, shaking her head.

“You’re like a misbehaving child,” she mutters, picking up the box and casting a derisive look at Emma. “Disobeying rules just for the fun of it.”

Emma glares at her, but her eyes trace the box as Regina crosses the vault with it, holding it at arm’s length. The crystal is glowing darker at Regina's touch, a dark tendril of smoke beginning to circle within it.

“What is that thing?” she asks, too curious to stop herself.

“It was my mother’s,” Regina replies shortly, placing the small box on a nearby ledge, closing the lid over the pulsating crystal. The air to the room changes instantly, a heaviness Emma hadn’t noticed evaporating, and she shakes her head to clear her thoughts. Now when she looks at the box, her admiration and curiosity has faded into suspicion.

“I don’t know what it does,” Regina continues, answering Emma’s unasked question. “But probably nothing good, knowing her.”

Emma silently agrees, and she runs her hand up her arm to dispel the chill.  

“Alright, let’s get on with this then.”

Regina returned with three books from her office, and as Emma browses through one of them, she begins this lesson with a lecture about how this summoning magic stuff works. Or rather, the art of summoning, as she calls it.

Emma doesn’t understand half of what she’s saying, but she gets the gist – calling things towards you requires you to visualize both the object’s current location and where you want it to go at the same time, with equal intensity of each location. You have to consider the weight and size of the object you want to transport, the distance you want it to travel, the properties of the object itself, like whether it’s a solid or liquid or even another person, otherwise it could all go wrong.  

That last point about transporting people makes her wonder if they could use something like this to free the fairies. Would it possible that she could she call them towards herself, free of the hat’s reach? Though perhaps not –the hat absorbs magic. Maybe that wouldn’t work as it would only absorb that magic? She’ll have to tell Belle and Killian, see what they think. It might be a new lead, and even that might be enough to break Killian out of this funk –

Regina lets out an exasperated sigh, dropping her hands heavily onto the raised table between them, and Emma jumps in surprise.

“What? What’s wrong?”

Regina rolls her eyes, unamused. “You. You’re not even listening.”

And though she’d just been thinking about the fairies, and her cheeks start to burn, Emma shakes her head firmly.

“No, I was! This is – this is just hard to understand.” At Regina’s continued unimpressed expression, Emma sighs. “Well, okay, I was thinking … do you think … could we use something like this summoning stuff to save the fairies from the Sorcerer’s Hat?”

Instead of answering her question, Regina sighs angrily and lets out a scathing scoff. “No wonder you’re distracted. You’re supposed to be learning magic, not daydreaming about the pirate!”

“I’m not daydreaming,” Emma snaps, her temper flaring at Regina’s tone. “I’m concerned for him, Regina. He’s really upset over the fairies still being trapped in that hat, and if this is something that could help –”

“Well, he did put them there.”

Her blunt tone, her absolute lack of tact and empathy; Emma’s anger at Regina’s miserable attitude for the past couple of weeks finally bubbles over, and she shouts, “Gold had his heart, Regina! They are at the mercy of whoever controls them! You of all people should know exactly what it’s like to not have control over yourself when someone else is literally holding your heart in their hands!” 

And at that, while it’s not often that Emma gets a glimpse of the Evil Queen, there she is, glaring back at Emma with a cold ferocity. But Regina’s indignance only makes Emma’s annoyance and anger heighten; she could care less at this point how Regina feels about being called out for her past actions (after all, she deserves it, at the very least), and she glares at the other woman furiously.

“This is a waste of time,” Regina spits out, beginning to gather up the books she’d laid out, her voice as cold as ice. “Magic is tied to emotion, and if you can’t get yours under control, then we aren’t going to get anywhere. Come back when you’re ready.” 

Emma puts her hand down firmly on the last book, and shakes her head, taking a deep breath to steady herself. “No. I want to learn how to summon the objects.” I want to be able to help Killian and the fairies.

She doesn’t say the last bit, but Regina seems to hear it all the same, and she sighs sourly. “Fine, let’s give it a go. But if you can’t get this right, we’re done for today.” Emma nods curtly, and Regina moves to lean back against the far wall, picking up and holding an unlit candle in her hand. “Summon this candle, if you can.”

Emma takes a deep breath. Though her mind is swimming with anger, she tries to do all she’s supposed to – visualizes the candle in front of her, evaluates its weight and size, sees it coming to land in front of her on the table, but Regina’s right. She’s never been very good at controlling her magic when her emotions are haywire, and perhaps it’s a mix of concern for Killian and annoyance at Regina, but it all seems to go wrong.

Instead of the candle appearing in front of her like she’s trying to do, a strong wind picks up in the vault, blowing around loose papers and flickering the lit torches on the wall.

“What are you doing?” Regina demands. “I said summon a candle to yourself, not start a windstorm!”

“I didn’t mean to!” Emma closes her eyes, willing the wind to re-settle, trying to settle herself enough to get control back, but it’s no use. “I’m trying to stop it!”

“Then stop it!”

But it’s too late. The whipping wind only picks up in tempo the harder Emma tries to stop it. She tries to ignore it, tries to focus on stopping it, but when Regina yells out in alarm, Emma opens her eyes again, just in time to see the small box she’d been scolded about earlier falling to the floor from its place on the shelf.

The lid pops open as it falls, and when the box hits the ground, the elaborate purple crystal tumbles out and smashes into a thousand pieces. Instantly, a thin plume of amethyst smoke rises from each individual piece of crystal, each column colluding together to form an ever-growing cloud. Emma watches in horror as the cloud, filling with sparks of lightning, crackles as it gets bigger and bigger, twisting from the wind she’d inadvertently created to create a pulsating, dark tornado that fills the entire crypt.

Regina shrieks in alarm again, and Emma scrambles back, but there’s nowhere to hide from the tornado and she nearly gags as the cloud overcomes her. It’s bitter and cold, like drawing in a deep breath on an icy day, mixed with a harsh acrid tang that burns through her senses and makes her want to be sick. Emma has spent enough time around magic the last year or so and she recognizes what it is with a horrifying lurch of her stomach – dark magic.

She can’t see Regina anymore, the smoke having totally filled the crypt now, and she shouts for her to get to the door. Her voice is swallowed by the roaring wind, her throat burning as she inhales more of the toxic cloud, and she attempts to escape the vault herself, wading through the cloud as best she can. But she hardly gets three steps before her vision goes entirely black, the cloud overtaking her, her mind starting to fade into a lull of blackness as the smoke twists around her, howling and screaming as loud as a train’s whistle.

Then Emma sees nothing but darkness.

xxxx

As quickly as she fell into the darkness, Emma jolts awake with a start, eyes burning from the remnants of the poisonous cloud. Her heart is racing a million miles a minute, her body pulsing with adrenaline, her eyes roving over her surroundings. She’s somehow ended up flat on her back, staring up at rough wooden ceiling. For a wild moment, she thinks that nothing happened. Perhaps the spell or curse or whatever it was just had to burn itself out.

But then she realizes – Regina’s vault is made of stone, not wood.

Emma sits up quickly, her head swimming as she takes in her surroundings. She’s no longer in the vault, but instead in a cramped bedroom, old wooden walls all around her. She’s now sitting on the single, lumpy bed beside a window, through which bright light filters through a thin cotton curtain. There’s a rickety chair beside the door, and a small table is beside the bed, with a half-burnt candle and a handful of gold coins splattered around it.

Yep, definitely not in Regina’s vault anymore. There’s only one answer to waking up in a place that looks like it could’ve been a set for the Lord of the Rings or some other high fantasy movie – she’s back in the Enchanted Forest.

Emma groans.

Seriously?

After cursing Cora and her dark spells to hell and back, Emma gets down to business and sets about trying to figure out what’s gone on here. She rises and pockets the gold coins from the table, before opening the small door and venturing out of her room. It opens into a narrow corridor, with a large room with drifting laughter and noise at the other end which turns out to be a tavern. It’s crowded, and no one looks familiar at all, until Emma spots the woman cleaning several glasses behind the bar.

“Granny!”

Granny glances over to Emma, and nods at her in greeting, leaning on the bar and looking her up and down. “Ah, you’re up! You looked half-dead when you arrived here last night; wasn’t sure if you’d wake up again.”

Emma strides over to the bar, delighted that she’s found a familiar face so early. Things are already going much better than the other times she’s been back in the Enchanted Forest, where it was either a refugee camp with Mulan and Aurora or in the depths of the past with Hook.

“Granny, I am so glad to see you! I’m sorry about this whole mess, I must’ve unleashed a spell to send us all back here. I’m gonna find us a way back to Storybrooke as quick as I can, so –”

“Huh? What are you on about?”

Emma’s voice trails off. Granny is staring at her, confused and suspicious, and as quickly as her joy hit her at the sight of Granny, Emma’s heart now sinks.

“I – don’t you remember Storybrooke?”

“Remember what?” Granny quizzes, setting her cloth down at the counter and peering at Emma with narrowed eyes. “And did you say something about a spell?”

Of course, it couldn’t be this easy.

“No,” Emma says hurriedly, not sure if Granny would care or not about her magic, but not wanting to risk it with the dark look she’s just been given. “No, I misspoke. I, uh –”

Emma’s voice catches in her throat then as she catches sight of a WANTED poster hanging behind the bar. A crude drawing of her own face stares back at her, a caption proclaiming: Emma, daughter of Snow White. WANTED, dead or alive on Queen Regina’s authority.

Great, just great.

“You alright there, girl?” Granny questions, and Emma shakes herself, forcing herself to smile pleasantly.

“Yes. I’m fine. I just – never mind. I’ll just be – how much do I owe you for the night?”

While Granny moves away to calculate the bill, her eyes still narrowed in suspicion, Emma grits her teeth to calm the growing sense of panic. She’s only met Granny so far, but Emma knows curses cast by the Mills women; memory charms are their standard. If Granny doesn’t know who she is, Emma doubts anyone else will remember her either.

But, Emma reasons, she’s been in this situation before: thrown into the Enchanted Forest where no one knows her and she managed to find her way out of it. Two times, in fact. This one should be absolutely no different.

Except both of those times, she wasn’t alone. Both of those times she, in one way or another, had Killian. So maybe she can find him here too.

Granny returns with the bill, and Emma balks at the cost. She only has a handful of gold coins, but the night she doesn’t remember costs her nearly half of them. Granny is still watching her closely, so Emma thanks her for the room and hurries out of the tavern.

Thankfully, whatever this curse has done, it at least had the grace to drop her in a seaside city so her search for Killian isn’t going to be as challenging, or so she hopes.

The inn is directly across from a bustling harbour, full of large sailing ships like the Jolly Roger and a scattering of fishing vessels. There’s no obvious sign of the Jolly Roger in the harbour, and the old man serving as harbourmaster gives her a strange look as she asks, probably questioning her sanity for wanting to know where a pirate such as Captain Hook is. He’s unhelpful at first, and it’s only when Emma presses two of her remaining gold coins into his palm that he confirms that there was a pirate by that name who sometimes visited the town, but that he hadn’t been there for over a year and it was unlikely he’d back anytime soon.

Disheartened, Emma settles onto a bench near the docks to gather her thoughts. If Killian isn’t around, well that’s not the end of the world. She could perhaps seek information out about Mary Margaret, David, and Henry. The poster mentioned Snow White and Prince Charming, so surely they would be here too somewhere. And this is Cora’s curse; Emma bets that this is somehow designed to give Regina some sort of victorious moment, and no victory to Regina would be complete without Henry at her side.

“Hey!”

Emma looks up, startled from her thoughts. A fisherman is staring at her from across the dock, his eyes narrowed as if trying to place her face from where he’s seen it before, and Emma curses just as the realization hits the man.

“It’s her – it’s the princess!”

She jumps to her feet and starts running, back into the depths of the town as the fisherman stirs up more people’s notice. She has no idea where she’s going, but she just knows she needs to avoid the heavy footfalls that are beginning to track her.

“This way!”

“I swear it, it’s Snow’s daughter!”

“Get the guards! The Queen wants her!”

Emma ducks in and out of alleyways as she comes across them, taking a page out of her old bail bonds targets from years ago now. But she’s usually the one chasing the runaway, and in an unfamiliar town as this, Emma turns onto a dead-end street, with no way out but the way she came.

 “There she is!”

Adrenaline pulsing through her veins, Emma considers her options. She won’t be able to fight her way free from this one, not with the number of people now approaching her. But Emma, unlike her bail bonds targets of old, has an advantage. They couldn’t use magic to escape from a dead end street, but maybe she can.

Though she’s never attempted the poofing magic before and hearing Regina’s voice in her ear proclaiming it to be advanced magic, there’s no time to try it like being chased by money-hungry locals who may take the wanted, dead or alive, part a bit too seriously. 

Ignoring that the last time she tried to do something like this, she accidently set off a curse that erased memories and banished her to the Enchanted Forest, Emma takes a deep breath, pushing out the sounds of the approaching townsfolk. Teleporting should be the opposite of what she was trying to do with the candle, right? She should be able to send herself somewhere else, instead of bringing something to her.

And she knows exactly where she wants to go.

Emma squeezes her eyes shut, imagining every aspect of Killian she can imagine. His blue eyes, his tousled hair, his leather jacket, his ever-present flask of rum, the tattoo on his arm, the warmth of his smile, the feel of his touch, the taste of his kiss.

The approaching footfalls and shouts vanish, replaced instantly with the creaking of wooden beams, crashing waves, chattering seagulls. Emma’s eyes fly open and instead of the dead end alley, she is standing on the oak timbers of the Jolly Roger, sparkling blue sea all around, an even bluer sky overhead visible through the riggings and between the soaring sails.

She did it – she did it!

Her exuberance quickly fades as she takes in the scene around her. The Jolly Roger had been bustling with people hard at work, but now everyone is staring at her, shocked and bewildered. Several of them draw weapons, suspicion and fright clouding their eyes, stalking towards her with swords pointed directly at her.

“What the hell are you doing on my ship?”

Emma whirls around. Standing before her, dressed in his full pirate regalia with the heavy leather jacket and red vest, is Killian. His sword is drawn like most of his crew, pointed at her, but that’s not the most upsetting thing about this situation – he’s staring at her with no recognition in his eyes.  

Emma’s heart sinks. She should have expected this – like Granny, Killian doesn’t recognize her either. Though this time, while it had been disappointing Granny didn’t know her, to see Killian stare at her like he has never seen her before in his life … well, it hurts more than she ever thought it would.

“I – I, uh –”

“Who are you?” he demands, stepping forwards. His sword is now nearly touching her, close enough to make her take an automatic step back. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m – I’m Emma,” she says, deciding on the spur of the moment to go with the truth, watching him carefully for any sign of recognition. “I – I was looking for help.”

His eyes narrow, but he does lower his sword, tilting his head to look closer at her.

“Help?” he repeats, and then a slow, reassuring smile appears on his features. Emma, used to this side of him, relaxes automatically, but that was her first mistake – Killian Jones may wear a reassuring smile in an expression of sincerity to her, but to Captain Hook, when he doesn’t know her and only knows that she’s appeared out of thin air on his ship, it’s only a false assurance meant to set her at ease.

He moves so fast, Emma’s not even sure how he manages to do it. One moment, she’s standing in the middle of the deck, pirates all around, the next both her arms are held firmly behind her back with the curve of Killian’s hook, her entire body contorted as he twists her to press a sharp dagger her throat.

Seriously?

Emma is distinctly reminded of the time she did this to him – back when she first met him, when he was working for Cora and lying to them about his true identity. She’d been the one pressing the dagger against his throat, questioning his appearance in the camp in impossible circumstances, disbelieving his true intentions.

She supposes this must be the universe’s version of karma.

“Well, dear Emma,” Killian says softly, though his voice is the opposite of a caress. “Unfortunately, you’ve come to the wrong person for help.” He pushes her away, hard enough that she stumbles right into the grip of two crewmembers, and he commands, voice cold, “Take her to the brig.”

“No, wait!” Emma shouts, but Killian is already turning away, returning to the helm of the ship. “Please, I need your help!”

He doesn’t turn around again, and the crew laugh and guffaw at her as the two who have a grip on her arms pull her down into the depths of the ship. Though Emma struggles against them, their grips are bruising, and she can’t get free of them. They haul her into an area of the Jolly Roger that she hasn’t been in before, and half-throw her into the cell, locking the barred door firmly behind her. They disappear quickly back to up to the deck with final terrified looks sent her way, leaving her alone in the damp, dimly lit cell.

Emma lets out a deep sigh, dropping to the floor and leaning her head against the rough wooden walls of the cell. Killian has no idea who she is, clearly mistrusts her, and now she’s been thrown into the brig of his ship while out in the middle of the ocean – how the hell is she supposed to get out of this one?

#captain swan #ouat #cs ff #two shot #this i started a long time ago #but finally finished it! #woot for me #fic: the art of summoning

[artemisegeria]

The Picture of the Mind Revives Again (2/?)

Title: The Picture of the Mind Revives Again (2/?)

Rating: T

Word count: 2025

Warnings: None

Summary: Sequel to “A Formula, A Phrase Remains.” Title is from “Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey” by William Wordsworth.

Vision has gone missing after Shuri, Bruce, and Helen revived him. Now they must tell Wanda what they did without her knowledge.

 Wanda was furious.

She was sitting in the cockpit of the Quinjet with Carol. She was forcefully reminded of the first time she’d flown with Carol to Wakanda. Except that time, she was still at the beginning of her grieving process and she didn’t know Carol at all. Now Wanda could not speak to her because Carol was one of her best friends and she had hidden this from her. They had sat in silence for a few hours.

Carol finally made an attempt to speak to her. “I understand why you’re giving me the silent treatment, but we all meant well.”

“I would think you would understand how little good intentions mean in a case like this.” Wanda knew this wasn’t the same as Carol’s situation with the Kree, but her hurt and confusion made her want to lash out.

“Look, Wanda, I’m sorry, but they practically begged me to stay quiet about this. It made sense to me when they explained what they were trying to do. They had good reason to believe something might go wrong.”

“Maybe I could have helped if they had told me.” She could have at least been there to ease Vision’s confusion. Maybe seeing her first thing would have helped him.

“Maybe, but we can’t go back in time.” Wanda and Carol both winced at Carol’s accidental wording. That had been a bone of contention before Steve returned the Stones to their proper places. Why couldn’t they just go back in time to fix everything? It had taken hours to convince those that had not lived through the five years between the Snaps that such a solution was not possible. “I’ll get you there as soon as possible.” Wanda nodded and fell silent.

Shuri, Bruce, and Helen met them when they landed. Some of Wanda’s anger had faded, but she could feel it simmering just beneath the surface. Still, they had worked for over a year to bring back the love of her life. That deserved some consideration.

Carol left them to return to her post in New York. Wanda thanked her for flying her there. She needed some time to get over her sense of betrayal, but perhaps she had overreacted a bit. Carol gave them a final jaunty wave and lifted off.

***

Wanda stood in the middle of Shuri’s lab. Their search had still not revealed any trace of Vision. The cameras recording the process of his revival showed him standing up and leaning against a wall before fading outside. Wanda ached to see the clear distress and confusion on his face, but it did not explain why he just left. Unless he thought the battle in Wakanda was still ongoing. But a search of the forest outside the city had not unearthed any clues either. Even if he was confused, he should soon realize that things had changed.

“How long has he been missing?”

“As long as it took you to get here.” Hours. That means he had been gone for hours. What if something was wrong with the solution that Shuri developed? What if he was injured and in pain?

“Please go over what happened one more time.” Wanda needed to understand everything.

Shuri answered, “We started the upload of his consciousness once his body was fully repaired. The scan showed that it had several hours left before the process was complete, so we felt that it was safe to leave him when we were called away for a time. When we returned, he was gone. The Dora who was stationed outside the lab did not hear anything when he woke up.”

“I know what ‘lost’ means, thank you,” Wanda snapped. “What I mean is how is that possible? You told me that you buried him. You said you had tried everything you could and failed. You said Stark’s notes had not provided the answers.”

“I lied. I am sorry, Wanda, but we were not sure that we would succeed. Bruce, Helen, and I agreed that this was the best way to proceed, but it was my idea at first. Do not blame them.”

“Fine. Just go on, please.” She had far more important things to worry about right now.

“When we returned, the scan from the Cradle indicated that his brain was operational, but he was nowhere to be found. We have been searching for him since that point.”

“How far could he have gone? He is a little recognizable.” Wanda tried to control her anger and panic. She should be thanking Shuri for doing what she had come to believe was impossible. Instead, all she could see was Vision scared and confused somewhere in Wakanda.

“We do not know. None of the palace guards saw him, and we have not heard of any sightings in the city. We have sent people outside to the battlefield and the forest as well.”

Wanda ran her hands through her hair, heedless of how she was messing it up. “I don’t understand why he hasn’t tried reaching out to someone.” Her, why he didn’t contact her.

“I do not know, but we will continue searching, Wanda. We won’t stop until we have him back and can determine what he needs.”

“I’m going to the forest to take another look.” She thought it would be the most likely place Vision would go if he were trying to help with the battle that he must think was still ongoing. No one tried to stop her. Wanda passed into the denser part of the forest. After some minutes of calling for Vision, hoping against hope that he would just descend in front of her, she was overcome by all the emotions she had gone through during the last few hours. From shock to hope to rage to joy to confusion. She let herself sob for a time, but then she moved on.

She explored the forest for several hours longer before giving up. She was wrung out and exhausted. When she made her way back to Shuri’s lab, she noted that everyone was struggling to stay awake while they pored over models and security footage. Wanda’s heart softened and her anger did not re-emerge. They were working themselves to death for Vision’s sake. She finally suggested that they all go to bed and get a fresh start in the morning.

Okoye led her to a guest bedroom. Wanda collapsed without even bothering to undress, only peeling off her boots.

***

When they recongregated in the lab the next day, Okoye reported that some of the Dora Milaje had taken shifts exploring throughout the night, but they had not been successful. There was no trace of him. Neither had Shuri’s search of the security footage revealed anything.

Wanda could not imagine how Vision could disappear so utterly or why he wouldn’t have tried to contact her by now unless something was terribly wrong. By lunchtime, they still had not come up with a good solution. Wanda left the others after swallowing down a few quick bites.

She explored the palace as she had not been able to do the first time she was here. She thought that Vision would love the artwork and the architecture. Thinking of him renewed her determination to find him. As Wanda was pacing the halls, trying to think of where to search for Vision next, her phone buzzed with a new text alert. Oddly enough, it did not show a sending number. It only said, “Check your email, please.”

Wanda frowned. She had an official Avengers email account, as everyone else on the team did, but she hardly ever looked at it. The messages she received there ranged from fan mail to questionable requests to death threats that were automatically flagged by the renewed SHIELD to gauge their seriousness. This sounded like a potential scheme to get by the account’s safeguards, polite wording or no. But something told her to follow the instructions regardless.

When she pulled up her email, the first message she saw also had no subject line and no sender. She opened it. She almost expected to have to explain why she opened such a message without showing it to the IT people first, but nothing happened. Somewhat relieved, she scrolled down and began to read.

My dearest Wanda,

I apologize that my abrupt departure from Princess Shuri’s lab caused you distress. I am well. I was not thinking very clearly when I returned to consciousness. My only thought was to rejoin the battle, only to find that the last battle ended over a year ago, and the one I was trying to rejoin over six years ago.

There was so much information to absorb about the last six years. I hid in the forest on the outskirts of the city and scanned what I could from the internet. I am still adjusting to the absence of the Mind Stone, though Shuri’s replacement seems to have restored most of my powerset.

I feel that I must be on my own for a time. I worried that if I spoke to you again, I would not be able to leave you. Please forgive me for my selfishness. I was never able to truly become myself during the first three years of my life. I was so focused on the team and keeping you safe, which I do not regret for a moment, that I forgot to think of what I truly wanted from the life that I was granted. I feel that now is the time to do so.

I have seen your pictures throughout my time alone. It fills me with more joy than I can express that you have built such a strong life for yourself and rejoined the team. I hope that you will welcome me back to become part of it again after I have completed my journey.

If you wish to contact me, you may reply to this message at any time. It will reach me. If you need me for any reason, I will be there.

All my love,

Vision

Wanda sank back against the wall for a moment. She almost thought it was someone’s idea of a sick joke, but it sounded so like him. And it was all of a piece with Shuri’s explanation of what happened immediately before Vision was found missing.

She let the tears stream down her face as she read the message several more times. Part of her wanted to be selfish and beg him to come back immediately. But when she thought about it a little longer, she realized that she could not deny him this chance. It was exactly what she had wished for when she was saying goodbye. Moreover, Wanda’s own time on the run, though undertaken under the worst circumstances, had granted her more strength than any other period in her life, aside from the previous year. She had learned greater control and confidence that endured to this day.

Taking a deep breath, Wanda started to compose her reply.

Vizh,

You’ve got to be more careful how you word your letters. I need you always.

But I understand why you have to do this. Take as long as long as you need, and I’ll wait for you.

Let me know if you have any questions.

Wanda paused at this point. Her message was a paltry sample of what she really wanted to tell Vision, but she thought if she started writing out all her thoughts, she would never stop. The lines of communication were at least open. They could contact each other if need be.

She considered how to sign off. She wanted to tell him that she loved him, but it didn’t feel right to do so by email. They needed to have a real conversation. He needed to hear her voice to believe that she wasn’t simply returning the sentiment because he had said it first.

She settled on:

I’m so happy you’re back.

Wanda

It wasn’t enough, but there would be time to say more later. She rose to go find Shuri and T’challa and get them to call off the search.

  A/N: In the next chapter, Vision does some more exploring.

A word of warning, this was the last of the chapters that I’ve had partially or mostly written for a while. So the next chapter will definitely take longer than my last few updates, but hopefully sooner than two months.

#fanfiction #fix-it #endgame fix-it #wanda maximoff #vision' #scarlet vision #wanda x vision

[fanatical-san]

Omg 6, 22 or 24 for Drarry - I can’t decide which one as I think they’d all be amazing, so I’ll leave it up to you! :)

I have spent a day writing these, so I apologise if the quality’s really low. Fasting doesn’t really help, either XD

I answered 24 here for another person here, so you can go read it (AO3 version here). I answered six for you as a separate post here (and there’s also an AO3 version). And finally, here’s twenty two (which is also available on AO3): “Sorry.You’re the first person I’ve spoken to in ten years.” I’ve called the piece ‘Herbal Tea’. Yep, it’s one of those.

And yes, I answered them all, because I couldn’t help myself. A massive shoutout to @skarhead and @jostaart, though, because I trawled through their brilliant blogs for inspiration, and these three drarry fics are the result. Whilst they’re based on the prompt, not particular artwork, @skarhead and @jostaart was crucial for bringing my ideas to life! And um, I got a little carried away with this one, so some of it’s under a cut. I hope you enjoy it, and that it’s not completely boring. Here goes:

The November air is chilly, although the temperature isn’treally anything new to Harry, living in Britain. There’s something distinctlydifferent about it to October, though, and he takes a moment to pause andbreathe it in. He’s been doing that more and more; taking a moment to pause. Heneeds it nowadays, especially; ever since declining the position of Head Aurorand resigning completely, the press has been swarming around him insistently,which is a feat considering how much they regularly pester him about thecontinued absence of any romantic relationship. Hermione does her best to keepthem away, but it’s his problem to deal with, and deal with it he does.

Self-care is something he’s been neglecting for years now,trying to stay above everyone else’sstandards rather than his own. He should’ve been able to move on from the war,but his Mind Healer tells him that by throwing himself into the path of theDark Arts for a living, he’s been forcing himself to hang on to those toxicmemories. Well, not anymore, and he feels no obligation to explain it to anyoneapart from his friends and family, who wholeheartedly agree with him. At leasthe’s done that right.

Harry is rudely yanked out of his thoughts by someonerunning into him, full force. The weight of the person topples him over, andHarry is ready to give them a piece of his mind, before he looks up at a facethat, whilst having matured since he saw it last, is still shockingly familiar.

“…Malfoy?!” Ifthere was one person that would not have been found in Muggle Manchester, ofall places, it would be Draco Malfoy. Not only because Malfoy Manor was inWiltshire, and not even because he was in a Muggle area rather than a wizardingarea, but because Malfoy hadn’t been seenfor years. Most people assumed that he’d either remained reclusive within hisown house, or that he’d moved. Some hoped that he’d been dealt with, Harrybeing the polar opposite; he’d tried to find Malfoy multiple times, and forvarious reasons, with no success. He’d stopped himself from searching MalfoyManor, because it would’ve looked obsessive, and Ron and Hermione were alreadyworried for him.

And now, here he is, on top of Harry, looking terrified. Heclutches Harry’s jacket, and blurts:

“Potter, I know you hate me, but I will pay you whatever youwant to just get me out of here.” Hisvoice is rough and hoarse, and he seems more surprised than Harry is at hearingthose words. Harry wants to ask more, but at that moment, he hears the firstyell.

Malfoy’s crystal grey eyes look desperately into Harry’s,and something in him compels him to wrap one arm around the platinum blonde andDisapparate – straight to his house, which is under the Fidelius Charm. There’sno turning back now; Malfoy knows the location of his home.

Speaking of Malfoy, the man is passed out on his sofa. Hishair is expertly ruffled, and falls in waves around his angular face. He’slean; too lean, as if he hasn’t been eating well. Whilst he wears designerclothes (Muggle, strangely enough), it’s apparent that he’s been wearing themfor too long.

As dishevelled as he is, Malfoy still manages to look…angelic, almost, which is unsettling,because Malfoy is not an angel in any way. He decides to leave him for now,although questions are buzzing about his mind. Harry knows from experience thatit’s never a good idea to dwell on such thoughts, or to bombard a person withquestions after they’ve passed out.

Harry instead decides to make some hot drinks. Luna showedhim a wonderful recipe for various herbal teas that work different calmingeffects into a person, so Harry begins brewing a certain tea that has specialsoothing properties. Harry loses himself in the rhythm of stirring and addingingredients, to the extent that he doesn’t notice Malfoy until the blonde isstanding next to him. He says nothing, choosing to let Malfoy speak when he’scomfortable to.

It’s a surreal situation; standing in a cosy kitchen, thepeaceful aroma of herbal tea filling the air, with Malfoy by his side. It’s notunwelcome, though; Harry finds that he doesn’t mind the company. Malfoy clearshis throat.

“You may possibly have the most uncomfortable couch I’ve ever crashed on, Potter.” His voice isweak, but his tone strong, and Harry is briefly reminded of a darker time, andthe words, ‘I can’t be sure’. Hepushes it from his mind, and addresses Malfoy.

“Nice to see you haven’t changed, Malfoy.” He says itquietly, but Malfoy freezes at the words for a second, before replying.

“Sorry. You’re the first person I’ve spoken to in tenyears.” Harry drops the spoon, startled; he’s not expecting to hear that at all. Malfoy deftly catches thespoon, though, and takes over brewing. “That’s quite an advanced magical tearecipe you’re making, Potter,” he says absentmindedly. “Consider me impressed.”

Harry still hasn’t quite absorbed the information, and heknows it’s a bad idea to ask, but he does it nonetheless.

“Malfoy…what do you mean, first person you’ve spoken to inten years?” Harry speaks slowly and hesitantly, not sure how Malfoy is going toreact. The blonde simply scoffs.

“Potter, I’m not an injured kitten. You don’t need to usethat tone with me.”

“Sorry.”

“You’re still doing it.”

“Sorry?” Harry doesn’t want to overstep his boundaries; heneeds to avoid Malfoy closing off. The kitchen is quiet for a minute or so, thesilence broken only by the soft swish of the tea being stirred.

“Thanks, though,”Malfoy says after a while, his voice softer than before. “for helping me getout of there. But I don’t want you to treat me like a trauma victim.”

Harry doesn’t know if it’s right to respond, so he doesn’t,but gets two mugs out of the cupboard. Malfoy pours the drinks, appearingrelaxed, but Harry doesn’t believe that he’s just suddenly alright.

“Yeah, okay. But I’m not going to tell anyone anything youtell me. What you say here stays here, I swear. So, try to trust me, even ifit’s only for now. Please.” Malfoy sighs.

“Do you have a better place to talk?”

*

Snowflakes fall lightly, and lights twinkle in the distanceas he and Malfoy sip their hot drinks out on the balcony.

The balcony is one of the perks of Harry’s home, one hewasn’t quite expecting. It’s spacious, and with a few waterproof charms,warming charms, as well as a few select beanbags, it’s become one of hisfavourite spots in the house.

“And I just stopped trying. There were so many people afterme. I would stay over at Blaise’s, or Pansy’s, or Greg’s, never sayinganything, but they were probably the only reason I survived. It was never safeenough, though; I had to keep moving constantly.”

“The DMLE got rid of all the members, though; we trackedthem all down. It was a major investigation at the time.” Malfoy laughsbitterly.

“The Aurors got rid of the main body. They had hired peopleto carry out their dirty work for them. As you know, some of the leaders werein too high a position to have each target killed personally. The people afterme were some of those employees, still intent on revenge.” Harry groans,frustrated.

“This is a whole other issue. How many were there?” Malfoy’slooking out over the other buildings, and something about the sight draws Harryto him.

“About thirty-five,” he says. Harry can’t believe thatMalfoy was able to survive that many trained killers after him especially. He’sabout to reply, when Malfoy continues. “I don’t blame them. I can’t beforgiven.”

“Malfoy-”

“Draco. Call meDraco. We aren’t kids anymore.”

“Draco,” Harry corrects himself, turning to face himproperly. “the people hunting down ex Death Eaters are the ones in the wrong.It’s the kind of behaviour that started a war in the first place. And I forgaveyou years ago; you are most definitelycapable of being forgiven, but you have to forgive yourself first. No-one else can do that for you.”

Draco chuckles.

“When did you become so sappy, Potter?” Harry rolls hiseyes. Of course Draco isn’t going to take it seriously. These are words comingfrom him after all.

“If I get to call you Draco, you get to call me Harry.”Draco shoots him a pointed look.

“Fine then, Harry;where is this all coming from? Younger you probably would’ve told me that Iabsolutely can’t be forgiven and thatI’m being pathetic. What changed?”

“I grew up,” Harry answers seriously.

“You mean you grew older.You’re still really freaking short,” Draco teases.

“Shut up,” Harrygrumbles in response, but he’s smiling.

*

“Are you sure about this?” Draco asks sceptically, surveyingthe room. It’s well furnished, with an ensuite and all. A king-sized bed stands proudly in the centre, with lusciousred curtains surrounding the four-poster bed.

“Draco, Narcissa wantsyou to stay with me. I’m not going to say no to her. And besides, now that youaren’t as bigoted, you’re actually a decent person.” Draco sighs in defeat,answering back nonetheless.

“Since when were youso chummy with my mother?” heretorts. But Draco full well knows that this is the safest place for him. Hismother was brave enough to approach the Saviourof the Wizarding World, of all people, and who’s Draco to say no to somerefuge?

Plus, Harry himself is a bonus. Gone is the scrawny,righteous kid that Draco always despised. He’s not actually grown that muchtaller, but it suits him. Years of Auror work have served him well, buildingsome muscle and defining his jawline, and Draco has found himself staring moretimes than he’s comfortable with.

“Are you really going to throw a fuss about this?” Harry asks with an eyebrowraised, and Draco smiles sweetly.

“Of course not, oh Saviour.” Harry punches him in the armlightly.

“I’ve told you not to call me that, Ferret.”

“Whatever you say, GoldenBoy.”

“Prat.”

“Scarhead.”

“Are you two really bickering at this age?” Narcissa says, appearing from the stairs. “Anyonewould’ve thought you two were still schoolboys. Now,” she says, addressingDraco, “are you all settled in?”

“Yes, Mother,” Draco replies, earning a look from Harry.Narcissa doesn’t seem to notice this when she turns to him.

“Please tell me if he causes any sort of trouble. I know howpicky he can be.” Draco splutters.

“Mother!” Narcissa only smiles knowingly at her son,sweeping him into a hug.

“You know I love you, Draco. Stay safe for me, darling.”Draco hugs her back for a long moment, flooded by how much he’s missed her. Shepulls back and looks at him. “You’re safe; Harry Potter is looking after you.”

And aren’t those just the words that he never imagined hewould hear?

*

The first time Harry wakes up next to Draco is over a monthlater, on Christmas Day. Well, wake upis relative term. It’s much more accurate to say that he’s forced awake by aparticularly grouchy Draco yelling in his ear. He opens his eyes blearily tofind that he’s lying on Draco’s chest, arms wrapped out around him. Harry turnsa bright red and scrambles back, embarrassed and confused.

“Draco? What are you doing in my bed?” Draco’s cheeks becomea matching shade of red.

“You forgot to put up those Silencing Charms last night.” Oh shit. “You were screaming, and I cameto wake you up, but you, uh…you seemed to want me to stay. So I did.”

If the ground could just open up and swallow him, that wouldbe wonderful.

“Yeah, um…sorry about that.” Draco rolls his eyes.

“Don’t fucking apologise, Harry; it was my own decision.”Harry tries to respond, but ends up yawning, making Draco smile a little.

“What time is it, anyway?” Harry asks, rubbing his eyes inan attempt to feel more awake. It doesn’t work.

“Six a.m.,” Draco replies smoothly.

“What?! Why the hell would you wake me up so early,Draco?” Harry complains, but Draco simply leaves the room. Harry follows him,demanding an explanation. They end up in the living room together, where Dracopoints to a present under the tree that Harry is certain wasn’t there before.It’s addressed to him. Harry hesitantly picks it up.

“I don’t know if you’re waiting for next Christmas,” Dracodrawls, “but I’d recommend you open it.” Harry doesn’t say anything, butcarefully pulls the ribbon off, and not-so-delicately gets rid of the wrappingpaper. Inside is a perfectly sculpted crystal snow globe, with two miniaturefigures inside it, sitting on a balcony and sipping drinks. Harry stares at it,transfixed.

“Here,” Draco says, gently twisting a key on the side of theglobe. Soft music begins to play, and the figures rotate slowly.

“Draco,” Harry breathes. “It’s…it’s gorgeous. You didn’t have to…”

“I thought it would look good on the mantelpiece,” heresponds simply, placing it there himself. He turns back to Harry, trying togauge Harry’s next move. “Well…Merry Christm-oof!” Harry tackles him to the ground in a bearhug, and they staylike that, until Harry pulls back slightly.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m frankly still knackered.Wanna get some more sleep?” Draco grins at him in a way that makes Harry’sheart clench ever-so-slightly.

He doesn’t know whatit is exactly, but Harry does knowthat this is the beginning of something great.

As they go back to bed, comfortable in each other’s embrace,snowflakes begin to fall softly outside, just like on the very first day thatthe universe threw Harry and Draco back together.

Yes, it was fricking long. Hope you liked it, though! Have a lovely day

#drarry #harry potter #draco malfoy #drarry fluff #sharing a bed #living together #hurt/comfort #narcissa malfoy #fic requests #jay writes fics

[bskarsgardfilth]

All of You, All to Myself. | Bill Skarsgård

Requested by anonymous: Could u do an one-shot/imagine in which the reader and bill had been hooking up for a while but then bill says they need to stop (probably because he starts developing feelings for her). However the problem is that after they stop hooking up, the reader starts to notice that she actually liked him more than she had realized and the “hooking up” wasn’t as meaningless as she had thought it was.

description: when feelings get lost in translation, only to end up colliding 

warnings: angst, mentions of sex/light smut

note: thank you for requesting! sorry it took so long to post, i hope you like it! shoutout to @billieskars for proofreading this and being the wind beneath my wings

Don’t catch feelings.

That’s what you had both told yourselves when this whole thing started. It was easier that way - not having anything tying you down to one another - feelings get you hurt and this thing between the two of you was meant to be an escape. 

For months the two of you had played this game of tag. Lights off, clothing stripped, skin hot and voices strained. It was something fun for both of you; a way to decompress after a tough day, an exciting fling that always got your blood pumping and your cheeks flushing red. It never occurred to you that the fun might just come to a stop.

 And you certainly never stopped to think about just how much you would miss it when it did.

“I don’t think we should do this anymore,” he said. He was seated at the edge of the mattress, slipping his shoes back on. You sat up in bed, gathering the sheets around your bare body, trying to understand if you heard him correctly.

“What?” you asked, your brow furrowed in confusion.

“I just think it’s time for us to put an end to this. It can’t go on forever, right?” he said, quickly grabbing his shirt off the floor and slipping it back on over his head. His demeanor was cold, eyes deliberately avoiding yours as he spoke.

“Uh, no, I guess not. Where is this coming from?” You asked him, feeling a bit dejected and suddenly very exposed. “Did I do something wrong?” 

Logically, you knew you had no right to be upset with him for this. He wasn’t yours to claim - he had made no promises to you, nor you to him - but having him blurt it out like that as you sat there in front of him, undressed with the evidence of the intimacy you two just shared still pooled under your thighs, felt a lot like a slap to the face. 

He grabbed his phone off of your nightstand and checked his messages before stuffing it in the front pocket of his jeans, and for a moment you wondered to yourself if he had another girl waiting on him somewhere. 

“What? No, no. I just think maybe we’ve been doing this for a bit too long. It would probably be better if we stopped. I’ll let myself out, ok?” He said, and hurriedly ducked out of your room, making a beeline towards the front door of your apartment.

His head was spinning when he got outside and the cool evening air was a welcome reprieve against his skin that was burning hot, emotions swimming wildly in his chest. He felt like an asshole for the way he had just rushed out on you, leaving you there naked and stunned. He knew it wasn’t right, but he could feel the walls closing in on him and he needed to get away.

The whole night felt like a blur to him, from the first drop of alcohol hitting his tongue to the feeling of your nails raking down his back. He’d blame it on the numerous drinks he had; his intoxication masquerading as emotions that were stirring deep within his heart. Getting lost under sheets with you wasn’t anything new, an old and practiced routine that he had memorized by now, much like he’d memorized the dips and curves of your body. Lately, however, he found himself stuck in his head, trying to decipher thoughts and emotions that hadn’t ever been there before, and he didn’t like the uncertainty of it all. He needed a good night’s sleep and a clear head so he could think things through. 

You would try to brush off his brash decision, reminding yourself that he didn’t owe you anything, but you couldn’t shake the unsettled feeling that was resting in the pit of your stomach. It stayed there for days after the encounter - and then a week, two weeks. Pretty soon it turned into a waiting game, wondering when the face of your phone would light up with his name flashing across the screen. The days felt agonizingly long and the nights even longer. You never truly realized just how much time you spent with him, until the absence of his hand in yours - the absence of it being an option - left you with a wanting feeling that you couldn’t ignore.

So you found yourself doing something you hadn’t done in a very long time. Night after night you would grab a little black dress from a hanger in your closet, slip it on over your head along with a pair of heels on your feet, and make your way to some bar or club in the downtown area where you lived; trying to numb that unsettled feeling with the burn of alcohol hitting the back of your throat. 

A new routine. 

A new escape.

It wasn’t until you were pushed up against a brick wall, distant thumping of bass echoing in your ears as you fumbled with the buckle of some strangers belt, that it dawned on you - you were only doing this because you were trying to fill a space that he created when he left. Only, you had shoved the thought to the back of your mind just as quickly as it had occurred to you, choosing to ignore it rather than face it head on. Besides, what you were doing wasn’t any different from what you had been doing all those nights with Bill - you were just doing it with someone else now.

So you pretended not to notice when his name formed at the tip of your tongue, panting and shaking on top of another body belonging to another nameless face you brought home somewhere along the line in your quest to fill this new void. You waved it off when you woke up in the middle of the night, hands stretching out to search the empty sheets for a warm body beside you. 

This routine continued until eventually you found your fingers drunk dialing him at 2 in the morning, quickly hitting ‘end call’ in rapid succession as the sudden realization of what you were doing sobered you up with a sharp jolt of panic. You would snap back to the room before you, the sounds of muffled laughter filling your ears as the man you were seated next to in a booth came back into focus. He would toss an arm around your shoulder, pulling you into his side and dipping his head down to press a kiss to your neck, the scratchiness of his stubble making you recoil. 

It was after that moment that you found yourself suddenly feeling sick to your stomach, deciding you couldn’t bear another drunken night spent under the body of another strange man. You were starting to realize that no matter how hard you tried, no one would be able to take Bill’s place. So you went home to take a hot shower; as though if you could just get the water to the right temperature, make it just hot enough, it would melt away all the attempts you made at filling that empty space over the past couple of weeks. Melt away the growing feeling of regret.

Staring at the shampoo bottle sitting in it’s little alcove in the shower wall, you wondered to yourself if he would have picked up your call had you let it go through. Wondered what you would have said to him if you heard his voice on the other end of the line. Would you have asked him to come get you? Would he have done it? You thought about his soft skin, noting how different it felt from that of the stranger you almost went home with tonight. You thought about how well he knew your body; how his every touch could light your skin on fire; how delicately he handled you, even when the two of you got caught up in something rough; how he looked at you as if you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever laid eyes on; how you lost him; how he was never really yours to begin with.

After you got out, you curled up on the sofa, pulling the long sleeves of your oversized hoodie down over your hands, bare legs tucked underneath you. You found yourself lost in thought over the moment you had first met Bill. The two of you had been drawn to each other like magnets, an unstoppable force, and you recalled feeling as if the universe had always been trying to bring you two together. You couldn’t stay away from each other, the want and the need always simmering just below the surface, hinted at by way of flirty looks and sly smirks. You had joked with him about the girls back home, asking him how they compared to you, confident that your touch got him hotter than any Scandinavian girl ever could. You remembered him pulling you close against his body and whispering something Swedish in your ear. When you asked him what it meant he just smirked, “wouldn’t you like to know.” 

You thought about the conversation you had with him - the one where you both agreed that you weren’t looking to jump into anything too serious - you were both just looking for a good time. You remembered how you agreed that you could both handle keeping things casual. 

How could you have been so naive?

The more you thought about it the more it became clear to you. All of those nights tangled up in each other in between the sheets, skin hot and tinted in sweat, lips exploring every inch of each others bodies; it wasn’t just another meaningless hook up. It was there and it always had been, in the gentle touches and the quiet moments after. You thought about that last night you spent together before he cut things off, how he held your face in his hands and looked deeply into your eyes just before his sudden departure. Something about the way he looked at you had sent butterflies fluttering throughout your stomach. 

How had you not noticed it sooner?

Suddenly a loud and rapid knocking sounded at the door, ripping you away from your thoughts and causing you to jump slightly. You peeled yourself off of the couch and padded over to the front door, leaving the safety chain in tact and peeking through to see who was demanding your attention at an absurd hour.

You felt the air rush out of your lungs when you saw who was standing on the other side. “Bill?” you questioned, swiftly closing the door and undoing the chain so you could open it all the way. The moment you swung the door back open he pushed his way in and past you, turning around in a huff, hand running through his hair in nervous habit.

“I’m sorry, I had to see you,” he said, staring down at you with an intense look on his face. He paused for a moment, eyes raking down your body, taking in your bare legs and lack of pants. “I just... I need you,” he said as he advanced on you, pushing the front door closed and trapping you against it with his body in the same motion, just as his lips came crashing down on yours with a burning need.

Your immediate instinct was to kiss him back, but you found your hands pushing on his chest to break the kiss. “What the fuck?!” you exclaimed, stunned by his actions. Your eyes searched his face for a moment and before your brain could even process the thought, your lips eagerly came crashing back down against his own, a wild fire raging inside of you. 

Within the matter of a few seconds you were both caught up in a hot rush of passion, hands grabbing at each other’s bodies, lips and tongue searching for skin, both of you fighting for dominance in the small entry way of your apartment. You pushed him backwards and up against the wall, sending a picture frame tumbling downward in the process.

This back and forth continued as the two of you moved deeper into your apartment, shedding clothes with every stumble backwards; his shoes being kicked aside with a loud thump as they hit the hardwood, belt clanging to the ground in the same fashion as he lifted your hoodie up over your head. When you made it to the stairs he hoisted you up, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist and lips latching onto the soft skin below his ear as he carried you up, making way to your bedroom. 

He threw you back onto the bed, quickly shedding his jeans and ripping his shirt off over his head before bearing down on top of you. Your breath hitched in your throat as his mouth came down to your breast, hot and wet as he swirled his tongue around the hardening bud of your nipple. Your hands found themselves tangled in his hair as you arched your back off of the mattress, his every touch feeling like electricity against your skin, desperate to feel him inside of you.

He placed hasty, open-mouthed kisses all over your body before finally dipping his hands under the waistband of your panties, swiftly removing them and discarding them somewhere on the bedroom floor. Your head was swimming in ecstasy while your body was pumped with adrenaline, the mix of the two resulting in a feeling somewhat similar to being buzzed, high on arousal and need. You were panting, chest rapidly rising and falling with every breath as he worked his fingers in and around your core. A small, needy whine escaped your throat as your own hands grabbed and tugged at his erection, eliciting a sharp gasp from him. 

The last time you were in this bed with him, he had left and taken some small part of you with him - a part that you hadn’t even realized you had dedicated to him. Having him back here, soft moans leaving his lips as he hummed against your skin, felt so natural.

Your eyes rolled into the back of your head when he finally entered you and you savored the feeling as his length stretched you, filling up every empty space you’d been left with since the last time he was inside of you. You were surprised when tears welled in your eyes, overcome with emotion at finally being connected with him again, and you could feel an overwhelming sense of need stirring within you - need for him, for his body, for his love. His face was determined, sweat beading on his forehead and deep, breathy moans pouring out of his mouth as he fucked into you. You were both pawing at each other as if you were fighting to close the space between your bodies, desperate and lascivious cries of passion filling the air around you.

When you reached your peak you swore you were seeing stars, fireworks of pleasure firing off at every nerve-ending in your body. And when he reached his own, jerking hard against your hips and filling you with his warmth, you reached a hand up to lovingly caress his cheek. He collapsed against your chest, engulfing your body with his own and you stayed like that for a while, both of you coming down from your high as you lazily ran your fingers through his dampened hair. 

When he finally lifted himself off of you and settled in on the side of the bed, he reached out and wrapped his arms around your waist to pull you flush against his chest, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. “I want you,” he mumbled against your skin.

“You just had me,” you softly giggled, placing a hand over his arm, idly massaging your thumb over his skin.

“No, I mean I want you, all of you,” he breathed. “...all to myself.”

You struggled against his arms, trying to get him to loosen his grip so you could roll over and face him. He looked flushed, rosy cheeks and a pink nose, hooded eyes intently looking into your own. 

“You mean, you don’t want things to be casual anymore? You and me... together?” you asked carefully, wanting to make sure you understood exactly what he meant.

“You and me, together,” he echoed. “I want to stay until morning, make you breakfast every day when you wake up. I want to come home to you after a long day and sit on the couch with you, watching movies until we can’t keep our eyes open anymore. I want to be there to take care of you when you’re sick, making you soup and telling you that you still look beautiful, even though I know you’ll fight me on it because you’re so stubborn,” he laughed. “I want lay down with you in bed at night and just hold you until you fall asleep. I just want to spend every day with you. I’ve wanted that for quite some time, if I’m being honest. I don’t know why I didn’t just say it sooner. I don’t know why I cut things off. I shouldn’t have done that, it was a mistake, but we agreed to keep things casual and I guess I was just afraid that you wouldn’t want me the same way and I’d end up losing you completely,” he said. You laid there, heartbeat racing faster with each word he said, relief washing over you as you realized he felt the same way you did all along. “...which was stupid because by doing that I just wound up alone and miserable anyway. These past few weeks have been awful. I tried to pick up the phone and call you so many times, but I didn’t know how to tell you what I was feeling. But I’m not afraid to say it anymore... because you’re worth the risk of getting hurt,” you could see the nervousness appear on his face as he finished his little speech, worrying what your response would be. 

You sat there stunned, silently trying to process everything that he had just said to you. After a moment of silence that stretched on for a bit too long, Bill sat up in the bed, clearing his throat and brushing a hand through his hair. His eyes searched your face for any clue as to what you were thinking. “I’m sorry, I said too much. I- maybe I shouldn’t have come here tonight. I can leave, if that’s what you want,” the words spilled out of his mouth nervously, snapping you out of your daze.

Just as he started to lift himself off of the bed, you brought a hand up to his face, halting his movement. His worried expression softened at your touch, and he settled back into the mattress, waiting for you to say something. You lifted your free hand to his other cheek and took a moment, quietly gazing into his eyes before leaning in and placing a gentle kiss on his plush lips. “I would love nothing more than to lay down with you every night, and wake up in your arms every morning,” you whispered. His eyes lit up with happiness and he pulled you into his body, engulfing you in a passionate kiss, brimming with emotion.

You laid back down, settling into the soft sheets, his arms wrapped protectively around you. You thought back once more to feeling as though the universe meant for the two of you to be together, and smiled to yourself as you drifted off to sleep, knowing he would still be there with you in the morning.

#bill skarsgard #bill skarsgard imagine #bill skarsgård imagine #bill skarsgard x reader #bill skarsgård x reader #my writing #this is an emotional rollercoaster ride? #idk what happened here tbh

[weshallc]

Mother and Child Doing Well. Chapter One revisit. You Have a Son.

My beta has told me the word I was looking for was TIME-LINE. This is where chapter one would fit in the Time-Line. Re-posting for no particular reason other than to confuse everyone.

(Every Phyllis needs a Barbara, oh god that’s depressing, I will shut up)

He was drowning in a sea of blue, bright shimmering azure, but he wasn't afraid. He wasn't fighting even though his breath seemed to escape him. He was on a road clouded in mist surrounded by golden fields, soft honey coloured sheaves blowing softly against his face. Abruptly it was all gone, replaced by the most beautiful smile he had ever seen. Now only that smile filled his consciousness, bright, so inviting across the most perfect rosy red lips...

"Doctor, Doc 'scuse me, Doc there seems to be some movement."

Peter Noakes' soft spoken voice cut through the hazy dreamlike images in his mind. Dr Turner jumped, causing the hard unforgiving chair to clatter. It took a few seconds for Patrick to remember where he was.

PC Noakes stood over him, his anxious face appealing to the doctor. A surgeon in theatre scrubs was coming towards them. Patrick jumped to his feet, straightened his clothing and re-introduced himself to the obstetrician.

Peter stood just out of ear shot, as if somehow hearing the news from Dr Turner, would make it more likely to be good news. The green clad medic departed and Patrick walked towards the visibly trembling policeman.

They had managed to stop the hemorrhaging and repair the damage. It would take time for her to heal, but they couldn't see there being any permanent consequences. His wife had lost a lot of blood, but that could be replaced. Peter started to roll up his sleeve, Patrick held onto his arm and reassured him that it wasn't necessary, the London's blood bank had adequate supplies.

Peter wiped his mouth with his hand,"And...the baby?"

"You have a son, Peter," the doctor's tone had been grave up until then. He had tried to explain Camilla's condition as clearly as he possibly could to her worried husband. The GP's face lightened and his dull tired green eyes sparkled, "He needed a little help initially, but he is now holding his own. He is a fighter Peter, like his mother."

Patrick was fortunately still holding the new father's arm, as the constable failed to stop the relief from engulfing him. He leaned towards the doctor, who was now helping him stay on his feet.

"Can I see him, Doc?" His voice breaking.

Patrick didn't need to answer, a midwife appeared on cue and took the new father's arm from the doctor and led him like a child to the neonatal ward.

Patrick returned to his rickety chair and reached for his cigarettes and lighter. Only to realize, it was now a cigarette and lighter. Had he and PC Noakes really smoked a whole packet of Henley's, while sat waiting in the London Hospital maternity corridor. He put the single fag back into his pocket with the lighter. As much as he craved it, he knew Peter's need was greater.

A young nurse burst through the maternity ward doors and smiled at him. He had known her since she was a girl. He had delivered her brother and her niece. He remembered her mother proudly telling him, that their Betty had been accepted into nursing school.

"Your wife is on the ward phone, Dr Turner." She beamed, a glint in her eye. Nurse Ezard knew very well he was widowed, he gave her a sideways glance.

"This way Dr Turner," she insisted.

Once beside her, she hissed at him, "If Matron finds out, you are receiving personal communications through the ward telephone, she will not only have your guts for garters, but mine also."

Thankfully the ward was now being manned by the night shift. Nurse Ezard was on her own, while her colleague had gone to fetch another unit of blood from the blood bank fridge, ready for Mrs Noakes, but the seemingly omnipresent Matron could appear at any time. Her rounds were never regular or predictable. Dr Turner waffled through a confused apology, as Betty ushered him towards the nurses station and awaiting telephone receiver. She moved back towards the door to keep watch for the omnipotent Matron Axume.

"Hello," Patrick spoke into the receiver.

The voice on the other end was so quiet, he pressed the earpiece closer to him.

"Patrick, it's Shelagh."

The doctor relaxed and smiled, he sat on the corner of the nurses desk and let her talk.

"I know I shouldn't have rung, but I was so worried, it's been so long." She was talking very quickly."I didn't want to...disturb Nonnatus, I thought you might have some news by now?"

"She is in Recovery Shelagh, all is well. She is being transfused but the surgery appears to have been successful."

"and..and.." He anticipated her next question.

"A boy! A healthy baby boy, PC Noakes is with him now."

The phone went silent, he could hear her breathing.

Eventually," That really is excellent news."

"Do you want to contact Nonnatus? They will be as anxious as you."

Silence again, just the sound of her breath.

"Would you mind doing that Patrick, I would have to explain and..."

Patrick rubbed his forehead, pushing his fatigued hair out of his eyes and kicked himself inwardly. What a ridiculous thing to ask her, he really was tired. He reassured her, he would take care of it and no, she wasn't being silly, he was.

He changed the subject as swiftly as he could.

"Are you feeling any better? Did you finish your chips?"

Silence, deep breath in, quick exhale out, sound of her tongue been licked around her teeth. She is feeling better, he thought.

"I am absolutely fine Patrick. Timothy ate the rest of the supper, what we were able to salvage."

Nurse Ezard hadn't any desire whatsoever to clean the sluice with a toothbrush, but she couldn't help being distracted from her watch for her foreboding foe. There was something about, when the old doctor smiled like that, she couldn't help but find distracting.

"Is Timothy in bed?"

"Y..yes, of course," came the reply. Another smile broke out across his weary face.

"Nurse Mannion, I hope you are not setting a precedent, by telling fibs on day one." Patrick glanced at the ward clock, it was still Friday, just.

Shelagh started talking quickly, he was exhausted and had to listen intently to catch everything she was saying as her accent thickened.

She pleaded her case to him.

The boy had been through an extraordinary day, he was over excited and although she had tried to protect him from the reason of his father's absence. He had worked it out. He had probably sensed the change in her mood, she was sorry.

The bright child had discerned that Akela was responsible for the leaking of joy from the day. She had made a bed up for the pair of them on the settee and they had watched television and read until Timothy fell off to sleep.

Patrick let her ramble, just enjoying the sound of the voice he had missed so badly over the last three months. He wondered if this was actually the longest sentence he had ever heard her say to him. Eventually he had some pity and reassured her, that he wasn't cross, he completely understood.

He added that not under any circumstance must she try and carry Tim to bed, but to leave him there and she in turn should take the child's bed.

A forced cough came from the ward doors, Nurse Ezard's eyes were wide and she was looking at him with a bemused expression. She raised her eyebrows and nodded.

Patrick quickly explained to Shelagh that he had to hang up, but he would be home soon. He suddenly realized how hungry he was and wondered if she was too. She sounded better, more coherent, more herself. Hopefully they had scraped something together from his beleaguered kitchen cupboards, to supplement the doomed fish supper. Timothy had been given money for a pie while Shelagh and he were at Nonnatus. Which seemed like days ago, but was only this afternoon.

He said he was sorry and hung up, after she had said she understood. Patrick again glanced at the clock, this was the second telephone conversation in just over 12 hours with the person he had feared he would never speak to again. That was until that morning.

Dr Turner pulled his MG up outside the old convent for the second time that day. Peter thanked him profusely for the umpteenth time that hour, for the care of his beloved wife and his precious unborn son. He went on to express his heartfelt appreciation for the doctor's support during the long wait, in what would have been a friendless hospital corridor. Patrick reassured him there wasn't any need to replace the spent cigarettes and wished him goodnight or was it good morning.

Peter headed up the never ending Nonnatus steps, more sprightly than Patrick had anticipated. Just eight hours ago he had sat in the same car, parked in the same spot. Watching someone else walk up those stairs, not quite as enthusiastically.

#al's fic #turnadette #peter noakes #call the midwife fanfic #time-line re-cap