#the most he does is nudge their perception of things or explain his own

[worstloki]

the way people will say Mobius was morally fine to torture Loki because it was his job with the TVA.................................so what if i tell you New York was Loki's job for Thanos? now what?

#where do we go from here fellow individual #where do we go #where do we go when people decide Mobius is a pillar of moral righteousness who is innately good and sympathetic towards Loki #while Loki deserves to be punished and shown the light by the guy who low-modality muses over whether Loki 'can change' #when people decide this #as if Loki wasn't ever different #before or after this point in time #as if he was completely self motivated during the attack too #because he really just put so much effort into that endeavor didn't he #as if Mobius wasn't explicitly self-motivated through the show and he showed regret or understanding that his actions were ever wrong #the Loki show #i am SO confused at people deciding Loki has no moral ground over anyone because even in the show he doesn't force his opinion on others #the most he does is nudge their perception of things or explain his own #like #y'all notice that people decide Thor has more morals than Loki when it's pretty clear Loki's under pressure was doing his Thor rendition #people deciding Valkyrie has moral ground to judge Loki on or that Odin ever did #et tu Mobius? #lets talk about how Stephen Strange only sacrificed the stone when he knew that was their only shot at 'winning' #while everyone else doing so did not have that certainty #Steve 'we don't trade lives' Rogers #Natasha 'set a hospital on fire' Romanoff #Wanda 'knowingly torturing thousands for my Dreamhouse AU' Maximoff #do people not remember the entire start-to-mid section of what redemption arcs are? since you've got to have something to redeem on? #why does morality and how much of a villain they are and whether they can change only come up when the topic is Loki #specifically a character that had a bad year and worked on their redemption in the main canon timeline after anyway #like ?????????????? #i am so confused #mobius saying 'maybe he wants to mix it up a little is that possible?' 'that's not how i see it' and 'you can be anything' isn't that great #ESPECIALLY considering WE'VE seen moments where he wasn't going death death kill murder evil laugh all over the place

[red-doll-face]

Here is a request for slashers if they're open. My brain does a thing where I am affectionate w a person but if I get nudged away (even if it's just to readjust the position), it goes "oh no. They don't want u to touch them. Do not touch ever again or they will get mad at u. U disgust them." Even tho touch is my love language & it hurts, I just won't touch. If confronted, I will get confused & panicky cuz "u didn't want me to touch? Im respecting ur wishes? Did I miss something?" Its a mess.

Requests are indeed open, I’m sorry I take foreverrr to do these but i hope u enjoy! I don’t know what to call this tho. For simplicity’s sake I’m calling this nervous reader lmao, idk what else to call these.

Slashers x gn nervous Reader

Jason Voorhees:

Jason can very much relate to the feeling. When he first meets you, he’s sure that you’re frightened. He restrains from being too close to avoid coming off as overbearing, doesn't want to touch you because if you flinch he’ll be so hurt. He just assumes he disgusts you. Based on the reaction all of his other victims have when they see him, he’s sure you’ll probably be the same.

Once Jason is sure that you don't feel that way, he’s a cuddle monster. He wants to be close all of the time, holding hands, letting you sit in his lap, you name it. He’s so starved and quickly decides that touch is his love language too. He’s not even sure how he’s lived this long without it.

The only time I can see Jason maybe gently sort of setting you down elsewhere and walking off is when he senses strangers on the property of what once was Crystal Lake. He’s out the door before he can even see your hurt expression, Which is worse because this might lead you to jump to conclusions.

If you distance yourself from Jason, he immediately is thrown off. He can’t directly ask you if he’s done something wrong and when he tries to initiate affection with you and you don’t reciprocate whole heartedly, he’s at a loss.

He’ll get on one knee while you sulk on the couch and give you a silent plea to tell him what's wrong. You can panic and try and avoid it but he is certain there's something going on and he wants so badly to know what he’s done to put you off. You tell him and he immediately is shaking his head no, he could never be mad at you, never be disgusted with you. You’re the most breathtaking person he’s ever had the pleasure of holding, the first, most likely.

Jason nods because he understands how you feel. In the future, he’s persistent about how you feel when he untangles himself from you, making sure you’re ok.

Michael Myers:

In the later stages of your relationship, Michael is insatiable when it comes to being in contact with you. For a long time, towards the start of your relationship, he didn’t like it. It felt weird. All of the touch he's experienced prior was so clinical and sterile that he doesn’t quite know how good touch is supposed to feel. He’s so touch starved that he’s almost positive he doesn't even need it.

Slowly, he builds a tolerance for it, much like one does with alcohol, constantly checking his boundaries and letting him control the situation and he’s all for movie night, huddled up on the couch, or waking up with his head on your chest. His own personal pillow.

There are, however, moments when his need to make someone tremble with fear and then blodgeon them to death with a can opener from their own kitchen becomes too strong, so he tries to keep away from you. In the past, he might have used you to satisfy similar desires of a sexual nature and may have really hurt you but he knows that it’s not always enjoyable to you.

Then, you stop touching him. Much like Jason, he starts to think you’ve become sick of him. Sick of his coldness, his muteness, his withdrawn demeanor. Maybe you’ve moved on and he tries to tell himself he doesn’t care but he doesn't think he can see himself touching anyone but you now.

It gets to the point where he comes home one day and you look heavily troubled, expressions he’s seen on your face before, only in the event that something terrible has happened. You ask to speak to him and he obliges.

You explain that you don’t think this relationship is working, that you’re pretty sure he’s disgusted with you and how difficult this event is because you didn't even want to talk about it but it's been hurting you for too long.

His response is to stand up very slowly, pick you up and lay down with you over him, simply laying there. Hopefully, knowing you’re the one person he would ever allow to participate in this intimacy is enough to show you that you mean more than you think you do to him.

RZ Michael Myers:

This Michael is more perceptive to your touch than his counterpart, your touch sends little shivers down his spine and as soon as he gets pretty used to it, he’s eager for more. This also takes some time but significantly less. He’s enamored with the idea of returning to a somewhat normal life. Your affection grounds him in that fantasy as much as being a murderer might take him out of it.

As he establishes a relationship with you, he may even be the one to start touching you instead of the other way around. He’s read books and always wondered what it might feel like to have someone genuinely touch him without fear in their eyes. Without malice.

An unsuccessful ‘day at work’ might have Michael feeling a little het up though. He can be moody and more rageful. Neither you nor his hobbies can calm him. He seems colder than usual in these states and can come off as very standoffish.

So when you try and touch him and he shrugs your hand off his shoulder, he can’t or isn't in the state of mind to address your frown and worried look. Michael, instead stomps off somewhere to be alone for a while; maybe take his anger out on something else. Some unsuspecting soul or maybe even a poor animal in the wrong place at the wrong time.

After he’s calmed down some, he returns and almost forgot about that sad little gleam in your eye before he left. Michael remembers when he sees you blankly staring at the TV, pointedly avoiding his gaze even as you utter a weak welcome home. It’s not very welcoming. He sits stiffly beside you, watching you from the corner of his eye. You’re closed off from him and he doesn't like it at all.

Migrating towards you slowly, he eases you into a familiar hug, his big bear hugs that are a little tight but inviting all the same. His huge torso and long arms seem to swallow you in his warmth. You hardly reciprocate. You look a little surprised. Though he never addresses it verbally, (which is probably better for you) Michael offers a single glance that communicates everything he needs to say. Don't ever think that again.

Thomas B. Hewitt:

Thomas’ self esteem issues and self image are not good. He honestly doesn’t like to imagine what he looks like to other people unless it can be as a threatening man you don’t fuck with. Meeting you, he realizes that it’s good to protect his family but he’d rather you not see him as someone only capable of harm. Tries his best to get the point across that while Hoyt may be adamant that horrible things happen to you, he’s not going to let them.

Thomas has received affection but always a familial affection. A pat on the back from Monty, proud claps to his shoulders from uncle Charlie, and hugs and kisses from his dear Mother. Nothing so foreign as a strangers touch over his arm or a soft embrace.

Unfortunately, Thomas can get reactive when you attempt to touch him without his mask on. He’s absolutely settled on the false reality that you’ll see his face and immediately decide that you never want to touch him again. Interacting with you with his bare face? That's a no for Thomas.

He puts on his mask that covers the scarred skin over his face and you look dejected. He was preparing for you to pressure him but instead finds himself trying to find out why you won’t touch him now. It’s not his face, is it? You respond with your reasoning. Thomas is so confused. How could you think that you disgust him? That he doesn’t want you to touch him?

He’s quicker than the others and immediately sweeps you up into his arms and holds you as close as humanly possible. Feeling disgusting and like some sort of burden is a feeling he’s so familiar with and if he can take it away from you, he will.

Will aggressively initiate touch with you for the next week or so just to solidify the fact that he cares about you and won't reject you just as you didn’t reject him.

Bubba Sawyer:

Bubba is a great cuddle buddy and partner. Hugs are his favorite and he hugs his brother all the time, lifting both Nubbins and Chop Top into the air for some brotherly love. If you’re smaller than them he’s all about picking you up and perhaps a little rough housing with you. He’s careful though or at least there are attempts made to be careful

Bubba, though he could easily spend the whole day doing nothing and everything with you, has work. Chores, butchering. Cooking, and tending livestock. Plenty to do at the sawyer house and he does most of it. Suffice to say there are times when you want to lather attention all over him yet he has to go back to work.

So caught up in work that he doesn't get what's going on til way later, when you’ve had time to stew in your emotions, firmly telling yourself that Bubba is annoyed by you probably. He’s baffled and confused at your silence, your crossed arms. The little furrow in your brow. He can already tell there’s something upsetting you.

Honestly, Bubba is so affectionate I can’t see him being the kind of person even capable of alluding to the fact he might be disgusted by you. How, if all he wants to do is love you? You may bring it up as a joke that you thought he didn’t like you and he almost seems offended. Not like you?

Bubba can squash any feelings you may have about that and then some. He will not let you drown in insecurities, not on his watch. This man will do everything in his power to make you feel beautiful because you really are.

I’m sorry these are super long but thanks for requesting!

#slasher x reader #michael myers #michael myers x reader #halloween #rz halloween movie #rz michael myers #rz michael myers x reader #jason voorhees #jason voorhees x reader #friday the 13th #thomas brown hewitt x reader #thomas brown hewitt #thomas hewitt #bubba sawyer x reader #bubba sawyer #leatherface x reader #texas chainsaw massacre #slashers

[wanderingwomanwondering]

Thoughts on The Buddie Talk from 502

Other folks have looked at this conversation, but I wanted to get on my bullshit about it too. LOL.

So imho this whole conversation is about love and heart, specifically Eddie’s but with Buck’s heart added in. Line by line analysis and commentary. Let the BS begin. Here we go…

Buck: Hey are you sleeping, or just pretending?

Day and night/light and dark are strong themes throughout the episode. @benka79 did a meta on this theme. I think that by extension, awake vs asleep is meaningful in this scene. In matters of the heart, Eddie is trying to sleep or turn a blind eye, doing what he thinks is best for Chris rather than himself. This is exactly what Carla warned him against. But he knows. He knows that Carla is right but he’s ignoring her and trying to ignore Buck. He’s only pretending to be in the dark about his heart and his desires, at least to a degree.

Eddie: I was actually trying to until you interrupted.

Enter Buck, shaking shit up. Interrupting Eddie’s well-intentioned lie. Eddie knows there’s more than meets the eye and Buck is forcing him to open his eyes, wake up and see what’s really going on and reckon with himself and his true desires.

Buck: I’m exhausted. Uh, how are you feeling?

This line has been rattling around in my brain for what feels like a thousand years. Buck is NOT asleep, he’s not able to turn a blind eye. And being the only one willing to look directly at matters of the heart is wearing him out. Dude’s exhausted! He SEES that something is up with Eddie’s heart and he wants Eddie to tell him all about it.

Eddie: Hot. I’m sweating out of places I didn’t know I could.

During the blackout, AC isn’t working so everyone is sweating. Buck even has a thin layer of sweat in the scene. Sweating from the heat is normal and completely reasonable, but is that what’s being invoked here? We know that sweating is also a symptom of health issues (panic and heart problems not the least among them, and definitely symbolically relevant here). Eddie looks like he’s sweating for normal reasons but in the next line Buck questions that.

Buck: No uh like a cold sweat though, right? Uh, any chest pains?

Again, Buck is wide awake. He KNOWS something is wrong with Eddie’s heart/feelings and that Eddie is hiding it from him. He jumps to cold sweats, the kind that are most connected to health problems and are not about the actual temperature in the room. Then follows up with asking about chest pains. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Buck is paralleled with the cardiologist. She’s about Eddie’s literal heart but Eddie’s figurative heart is in Buck’s hands and Buck’s hands only. And my dude is assertively assessing the situation.

Eddie: You don’t give up, do you? I’m fine, Buck.

Good ol’ Eddie, perfecting his avoidance and denial game. But he knows Buck. He does NOT ever give up and he especially doesn’t give up on the people he loves. Eddie recognized this and thanked Buck for it in 303. Buck didn’t give up on Christopher during the tsunami, or on Eddie in Eddie Begins or in Survivors. But that was about Chris and Eddie’s life. This scene in 502 is new in a way. Buck is refusing to give up on Eddie’s heart, his feelings. Now Buck is fighting for Eddie’s quality of life, for his happiness.

Buck: People who are fine don’t go and see cardiologists. You need to tell me if something is wrong.

Buck was so worried about Eddie in 501. Of course Eddie denied that anything was wrong but Buck isn’t stupid. In 501 he asked about the situation clearly and openly because he cares about Eddie and wants to help in any way he can, and Eddie pushed him away. So here in 502 he implicitly invokes the Will. He’s like fine if you won’t tell me as your friend who gives a shit about you, then tell me for Chris’s sake because thanks to the will, I actually fucking need to know if you’re going to drop dead.

Eddie: Alright, it was a panic attack, not a heart attack. A panic attack.

Eddie’s frustrated confession was solid gold. It laid my edges and raised my credit score. He knows that Buck’s persistence is harmless and comes from a genuine place of respect and care. Still, that doesn’t make it any less annoying for a man who’s trying to sleep, pretending his own heart isn’t breaking under the weight of his sense of duty to his son.

Buck: Since when do you panic?

My God, he knows him so well.

Eddie: That’s what I said. I don’t panic. Except I did.

Eddie accepting that this was absolutely a panic attack was huge. Before he had been pushing against the reality of it, but here in Buck’s loving care he could be honest with himself and with Buck that it was indeed panic.

Buck: Ok, well, what triggered it? I mean you did just get shot and almost killed by a sniper. I guess that could be considered an anxiety inducing-

Buck’s in full “cardiologist” mode. He’s paying forward all those years of therapy! What he’s doing here isn’t a replacement for my dude getting some real therapy but here’s Buck with his clipboard efficiently helping Eddie figure his emotional shit out. It’s perfection. It’s also good that he acknowledged the shooting. I think it’s super important that when Buck mentions it, he looks down and away from Eddie.

Buck, my dude, you are not over being covered in the blood of the love of your life. You can still feel his weight in your hands, muscle memory from lifting him above the spray of gasoline and bullets. Eddie may still be asleep on that front but, Buck, you are wide awake and exhausted by the heavy love you’re carrying.

Eddie: That wasn’t it. Ok, if I’m being honest with myself, I think it was Ana.

Oh this is fun. So you are capable of being real, you just choose not to be. Good to know.

Buck: Uh, I thought things were great with her.

Stop. Lying. You saw Eddie get squirrely when talking about the Christening. You saw Eddie get awkward af when A*a and Christopher came to the firehouse. You’ve seen these issues with your own eyeballs. Great? Really? Yeah, this just makes me think muh boy is oblivious and/or he really was expecting Eddie to come clean about issues related to the shooting, not his love life. This reiterates my point that Buck himself is not nearly done with processing the shooting.

Eddie: She’s been a godsend through all this - staying with Christopher - but I think that’s what’s causing the panic. Somehow it become a ready-made family and I don’t know if I’m ready for that.

This portion of the conversation has been analyzed to bits by many brilliant others. I don’t have anything to add. I’m like, look dude, you already have a family with Buck and Christopher. A*a’s effin’ up your happy healthy family flow. It’s ok, just turn her loose.

Buck: So what are you gonna do?

Buck’s wisdom grows every frickin’ day. He knows this isn’t sustainable for Eddie. He knows that the heart matters. He knows that feelings are real and help us navigate toward a happy life. Action is needed and he’s nudging Eddie in that direction.

Eddie: I think I’m just gonna stick it out. Ana’s been the first woman I’ve wanted to spend this much time with since Shannon.

Oh dear, Eddie’s overblown sense of duty to everyone but himself strikes again. He can…tolerate… A*a. How romantic!

Buck: Stick it out? That’s not the way you talk about someone you’re in love with.

Um, no. Buck calls shenanigans. He’s not A*a’s bestie but he doesn’t feel any desire whatsoever to have her condemned to a loveless relationship.

Eddie: My kid loves her!

Always putting Christopher first but not realizing that if he isn’t truly happy, Christopher will know because he’s perceptive af. Plus the two haven’t discussed A*a on screen so I’m not convinced Chris loves her as much as Eddie wants to believe.

Buck: Is that enough? Eddie I have been Ana. I know what it’s like to be in love with someone who is not all the way in. Deep down you know it and it hurts. It hurts worse than the truth, so if you don’t want to hurt Ana, you owe it to her to be honest.

Buck is doing A LOT of work here to help Eddie see that his plan of inaction is not good. He centers Eddie asking him if staying for Chris is enough. When that doesn’t work, he realizes that Eddie doesn’t care about his own heart enough to leave so he changes strategies and puts himself in A*a’s place to invoke some empathy for A*a from Eddie. It’s super…interesting that Eddie doesn’t care enough for A*a to come to this conclusion on his own!!

Eddie: You know it just feels like a lot man.

Why, my dude?? Explain. Could it be that A*a is serving a purpose beyond Chris? Could it be that staying with her helps you avoid, allows you to pretend and be oblivious to deeper truths within your battered but still beating heart? Does she obscure the Buck shaped hole in your ticker?

Buck: Well, go to sleep. You don’t need to decide right now. It’s not like we’re going home anytime soon.

Buck is disappointed, exhausted, and frustrated and it has my dude slinging shade like morning hash. He’s like fine turn a blind eye, ignore your heart it’s cool *all the sarcasm* Then we get the reference to home and the fact that the two of them are far from it at this point and we all know how important home is as a Buddie theme. I wrote a little about it here.

Bonus: Eddie closed his eyes after Buck walked away, the he OPENED them again. He fully saw what Buck was saying. He can’t avoid the truth of his heart for much longer.

Y’all this has GOT to be the season that one or both of these idiots realize their feelings. Excuse me while I end.

#911 fox #evan buckley #eddie diaz #buddie #christopher diaz #ana flores #GO HOME ALREADY #episode 502 #911 meta

[oakleaf--bearer]

@jonmartinweek day two - injury!

also on ao3

When dealing with matters of the heart, Jon was about the furthest from a natural that there could be. 

He was... rusty to say the least. Awkward was a generous way to put it. Completely and utterly useless was far more accurate. 

So when Georgie had laughed and asked when he and Martin had started dating, he had been understandably taken aback and politely asked her what she meant by that. ("Georgie, what the fuck?" had been his exact wording). She'd shrugged and patted his knee, telling him that he should probably talk to Martin as soon as he got back to the Institute. 

He stared down at the ring sat on the table, a frown creasing his forehead. It had been something of a whim purchase. He had bought it several years ago after reading about the concept online, and he'd just....not taken it off. Every time it left his hand, he'd itched to put it back on as soon as possible. 

And now, a blistering burn mark on his hand was stopping him from putting it back on. A small, mostly insignificant piece of his identity stripped back and taken away from him. 

A gentle knock at the door startled him out of his quiet contemplation. 

"Hello." Martin poked his head around the door. "Tea?"

"Thank you, Martin."

Martin smiled, and Jon remembered Georgie's assumption. Would he? It wasn't the most unimaginable thing in the world. Martin was friendly. Charming, comfortable, welcoming. But dating? Maybe... But Jon had done dating before. He'd explained what the ring in the table meant to enough people that he was tired. Tired of the assumptions, the questions, the idea that there was one person out there who would change his mind, all he needed was a good- 

Martin wasn't that person. When Jon ran through the mental 'relationship checklist', he could imagine so many different aspects with Martin. Holding hands, going on dates, even waking up next to each other, but that particular facet of a relationship was completely unimaginable. It wasn't that Martin was unattractive, simply that Jon just didn't see the attractiveness like that. 

"What's that?" Martin gestured to the ring. 

"Oh, uh, nothing." Jon covered it with his good hand. "Just a- nothing."

"Riiight." Martin placed the tea on his desk, in easy reach. "Keep your secrets then."

"Hmm." Jon hummed, still examining Martin's face. 

"Jon? You alright?" 

"Oh!" Jon realised he was staring and quickly looked away. "Sorry." 

"It's okay." Martin said with an audible smile that made Jon's heart do something ridiculous. 

"Martin..." Jon didn't really know what he was going to say. "Are you- I- Hmm." 

"Take your time."

"Have lunch with me. That is, if you want to, please don't feel like I'm pressuring you, you can say no if you-"

"Jon." Martin put a hand on his desk, gentle, a calming reminder of a calming man. "I'd love to." 

Jon stared at the hand. It was larger than his own. When he'd arrived back in the archives, trailing blood and exhaustion behind him, Martin had sat and re-wrapped the clumsy bandages he had put on it, patiently telling him off for not going to a doctor and getting it checked. Jon hadn't been able to look away from his hands then either, just gazing at them with sleepy eyes, his mind fixed on the image of Martin taking care of him. Carefully picking up the pieces he had left flung about the place and putting them back together, gently slotting them back into place.

Martin took him to a sandwich place around the corner from the institute. Jon stared at the menu, trying to decipher the swirling font. The letters swam slightly as he read them, the words jumbling together. 

“Jon?” Martin bumped their shoulders together lightly, bending down to Jon's height to compensate for the difference. “What are you going to order?”

 “I-  What do you recommend?” 

Martin smiled. “Hmm. How about the tuna and sweetcorn? It’s a classic, you know?”

“Sure.” 

Martin ordered for them and nudged Jon towards a table in the corner. Jon went willingly, content to listen to Martin chatter away about the wait times and the various bouts of  people-watching he had gotten up to in this cafe. Despite Jon’s lack of contributions, Martin seemed to be fine carrying the conversation on his own. A couple of people gave them odd glances, no doubt wondering what Martin, kind, gentle-looking Martin, was doing with a grumpy sack of exhaustion. Externally, they didn't match. They were diametrically opposed, two entities that shouldn't exist in the same space without causing some kind of epoch changing event. 

But the more Jon pondered it, the more he realised that he wanted to be here, sat opposite Martin, listening to him talk, letting him order his sandwiches and hold his hand-

Jon’s brain skipped a beat. 

Martin had placed his hand over Jon’s where it rested on the table and was staring at him, concern across his face. “Jon? You okay?”

‘I care about him’, Jon realised with a start. ‘This is my friend.’

Martin nudged his hand around so that he could properly take it in his own. The motion dislodged the ring that Jon still held clutched in his bandaged fingers. It clattered out, its black outline stark against the faded beige of the tabletop. 

“Oh, sorry.” Martin picked it up to hand it back to Jon. “You might want to be a bit more careful. You don't want to lose this.”

“What?” Jon stared down at Martin’s hand. It felt ridiculous to see Martin holding out his ring and for Jon to feel this weightless. The gentle curl of Martin’s fingers around the band set Jon’s mind whirling down avenues lined with graffiti reading ‘Just tell him’ and ‘Maybe it will go well’. 

Jon took a deep breath and took the plunge. 

“I’m sorry, Martin.”

Martin blinked. “R-right? What for?”

“All of it.” Jon reached out and covered Martin’s, still holding Jon’s ace ring up in front of them. “You were always- I’m glad you're here. With me.” He carefully took the ring and let go of Martin’s hand. It looked shockingly sad sitting in the palm of Jon’s bandaged hand. Another piece of who he was now associated with pain. An uncomfortably familiar reality that Jon was steadily becoming used to. 

Martin reached across the table and gave Jon’s hand a quick squeeze. Jon hissed at the jolt of pain lacing up his arm. 

“Oh god, Jon, I’m so sorry, I didnt- I didnt think, that was stupid of me-” Martin’s hands fluttered in the air around Jon’s. “God, that was awful of me, I’m really sorry-”

“It’s okay,” Jon said, grabbing at Martin with his uninjured hand. “It’s fine, it's already passed.” 

Martin gave him an apologetic smile, but didn’t argue. “That’s important to you, huh?”

“Hmm?”

“The ring. I’ve seen you wear it a lot. Does it mean something?”

“Oh.” Jon hadn't considered the possibility that Martin might be aware of the ring's existence. In his head, it existed in a bubble, separate from work and his colleagues. It made sense, he supposed, that Martin was able to see into that bubble, since its edges had been bumping against Jon’s perception of Martin for a little while now. “It, ah, its a- Its a sexuality thing.”

To Martin’s credit, he didn’t even blink at the idea that Jon might not be straight, just nodded and smiled encouragingly. “I thought so. Asexuality, right?” 

“Wha- Yes.” Jon had been gearing up to explain the intricacies of asexuality, not for Martin to already have that knowledge. 

“It came up when I was doing research trying to figure out my own sexuality.”

That caught Jon off guard. For some reason, throughout all of his deliberations trying to figure out where on Jon’s internal spectrum Martin sat, he had failed to consider the actual real life possibility of Martin’s queerness. “You’re-”

“Oh, I’m not ace.” Martin shook his head. “At least, I don't think so. Labels,” he chuckled. “Confusing stuff. I usually just go with gay and trans to sum me up.” 

A small, overlooked lightbulb in the back of Jon’s mind flickered to life as a couple of pieces of information fell into place with a quiet ‘oh!’

“I saw the ring but I didn't want to ask in case it was just a style thing. A lot of people don't know about this stuff and it's sometimes hard to tell, you know?”

“Right.”

“I guess the bandages stop you wearing it, right?” It was a non-sentence, a piece of idle observation that Martin was making. But it still stung. 

“It feels somewhat ridiculous to say but- I think I’m going to miss it. It’s just a ring, it's not my entire sexuality, I’ll still be ace without wearing it, but I’m still- It feels like I’m missing a piece of something that I was trying to hold onto, you know?”

Martin nodded. “I understand. Here-” he reached up and unclasped a thin chain that had been hanging around his neck. “You can borrow this. I’ll take these off for now.” He slipped off a couple of charms that had been hanging on it. Smiling, he held out the chain.

“You- You’re sure?”

“Yeah.” Martin wiggled the chain in the air between them slightly. “You can give it back when your hand is better.”

Wordlessly, Jon took the chain and looped the ring onto it. He lifted to try and fix the clasp around his neck, but he couldn't get the clasp open. Martin pushed his chair back, coming to stand behind Jon, taking the chain out of his hands and closing the clasp for Jon. 

“There.” Martin smoothed Jon’s collar down. “That looks nice!”

“Thank you.” Jon whispered, then louder, “Thank you, Martin. This- This means a lot.” 

Martin shrugged a little awkwardly, cheeks turning red. “No trouble. It means a lot to you, so, you know, you should be able to carry it with you.”

He smiled down at Jon, and once again Jon felt the small jolt of recognition, of comfort. The bubble in his mind fully merged with Martin, creating something new that, at least for a few more long, exhausting months, Jon didn't know to call love.

#tma #the magnus archives #my fics

[emerald-amidst-gold]

WIP Wednesday

Oh, boy! Oh, boy! Have I got a treat for every one this fine Wednesday! X3

Thank you @noire-pandora for the tag! <3

Cue the boys finally having a moment of blissful happiness! *wails*

---

Solas let his thumb ghost along an infant cheekbone, feeling the faintest grit of scales under it. “He reminds me of you.”, he said without really thinking, nostalgia and the tightening of fondness gripping his mind and heart as ivory plate shivered from his touch, but not one of pain.

I am not hurting him, tainting his scales black.

Fane chuckled from beside him. “Does he? I think I see the resemblance. The scales, I’m guessing?”, his dragon teased, uncommonly, but understandably in good spirits.

Solas hummed. “Mm,” He readjusted the cloak, smiling without reservation as the tiny dragon burrowed into it more, a sleepy whimper loosing from a sharp maw. “Not precisely. It is more his spirit--bright even in slumber, strong even when faced with adversity.”, he explained and couldn’t help but let out a quiet coo when another whimper escaped a slender form. “Shh, da’isenatha. You are safe.”

“Here,” Fane reached over, readjusting Solas’ hold a bit and fluffing up a bit of the fur lining to which the tiny dragon immediately sought it out. “..he wants warmth.”

Solas tilted his head, glancing up at Fane and smirking gently. “He is a snow dragon, is he not? Would heat not make him uncomfortable?”, he asked. He only asked due to how the other man practically whined when the fire in their quarters was just a tad too high.

Fane shook his head, eyes soft as they gazed upon his kin. “Not yet.”, he said, slowly taking his hands away when the ‘nest’ was deemed good. “Infant dragons seek warmth from their mothers for the first several weeks, but I think he’ll have to need a source of heat for much longer. His body can’t regulate properly. He’d die in the conditions our breed is supposed to thrive in.”

Solas felt his gaze go hooded when Fane gently ran a thumb along the crown of the dragonling’s head and his whole body felt like mush when a tiny purr rattled through the cloak and up his arms. It was followed by a soft squeak of satisfaction, almost looking as if the line of the infant’s mouth was smiling. It was such a beautiful, mortal sight that Solas didn’t know how much more he could take, but despite that, he pulled the dragon closer, offering him warmth as he desired.

He would grant any desire, any request if it brought a smile forward--on either dragon that he was blessed to know and to love.

Solas hummed, thinking. “Hm,” He shifted a bit, moving closer to Fane absently before settling and looked up into softened emerald and gold with a tentative smile. “Would a warming spell be unwise?”

When Fane only stared at him with a raised eyebrow and curious look, Solas felt the need to justify or rather, explain his request. He wasn’t trying to push magic as the only option, knowing the precarious thoughts on it, but if warmth was sought, warmth could be easily obtained.

Solas cleared his throat gently. “Most of the magic will be contained to my body, of course. The heat is the result of a delicate balance of core temperatures and the residual essence will be projected outwards.”, he explained, suddenly finding himself blushing as Fane’s gaze softened like butter and more or less saying, ‘Relax’. “Ah, in shorter terms, it is akin to a rune warming a basin of water.”

Fane chuckled. “I know what a warming spell is, my sky. You’ve done it for me countless times.”

Solas blinked, blushing more. “Ah, of course.”, he muttered, turning his face away and absently pulling the tiny bundle in his arms closer. What was going on with him? It was as if all thought processes had flown out the cave’s entrance, and had been carried away with the wind, lost to him.

“Solas,”, Fane called out to him, another chuckle lacing his baritone. When Solas didn’t answer the call with his eyes or voice, opting to pluck at a loose emerald thread, one of his dragon’s hands appeared upon his face, beseeching. “--look at me, my sky. Let me see what you’re feeling right now.”

Solas felt his lips draw tight, refusing to look up, but leaning into the blazing hearth that was Fane’s palm. He honestly couldn’t understand what was coming over him. Could it be the atmosphere--cool and soothing, ice and snow smelling fresh, smelling clean? Could it be the blend of emotions that permeated the air--stress ebbing away, gentle joy edging inwards? Could it be how Fane’s thumb began to stroke under one of his eyes--quietly praising, openly relaxing? He had no definitive answer, and for once, he did not care as a willowy body shimmied and huffed out a cool to the touch sigh, finding the perfect spot to resume their plunge into pleasant dreams. Did dragons dream, he wondered? Maybe he should ask, but not now. Now was the time to relish in silence, not soil it with noise beyond whispers and whimpers.

He wanted to cherish this sensation--this sensation of being alive, of being able to hope and imagine a brighter future than what the path depicted before him every day, every night, every hour. Pointed ears twitched as Solas heard Fane let out an airy laugh; the sound was exquisite and it made his body warm without the use of magic.

“I’ve never seen you act this way.”, Fane murmured, but his voice wasn’t displeased. It was more...in awe? Solas wasn’t sure, but he didn’t mind it as he gingerly began to stroke the tiny dragonling with the back of his hand--easily pulling bits of the Fade through to warm the leather. He knew he was acting...odd, but he couldn’t reign it in, couldn’t control the swath of gentle love and tranquility coursing through him.

Solas chuckled, fondness encasing him more as a serpentine head nuzzled against his warmed hand. “I have never felt this way.”, he said, breaking his vow of silence and his vow of not gazing up at his dragon.

The look on Fane’s face had the essence of love blooming into full blown adoration as Solas took it in. Emerald and gold were no longer two, but one--mimicking the most intense waters of the Fade since they appeared to gently glow. Their depths screamed, ‘I love you. I love you. Let me see. Let me see.’, and Solas felt his lungs tighten and his mouth go dry. He, too, wished to see, to see his dragon bask in life, and though it was subtle, Solas knew that that was what Fane was doing every time he caught jewelled orbs flicking downwards to check on their slumbering hope. A tenderly stroking hand was still prevalent upon Solas’ face and he couldn’t help but turn his head a bit to lay a light kiss against it, drawing an all encompassing gaze back his way and also pulling a voice just as sweet as the one in ebbing orbs.

“You’re happy.”, Fane whispered, a soft smile upon his features to match his glittering eyes. “I adore seeing you this way. It’s beautiful--you’re beautiful.”

Solas sucked in a quiet, but shuddering breath before letting it out slowly. “That is--” He clamped his mouth shut as Fane’s face appeared but mere inches from his own, earnestness all over it, as well as the desire to make him see.

“You are beautiful, my sky.”, Fane reasserted, stabilizing arms coming around to carefully embrace him, but mindful of who was between them. “If only you could see yourself right now, through my eyes, and soon, through his,” Solas followed the flicker of gold as it indicated downwards, his heart melting anew as the tiny dragon fidgeted as if it were dreaming. “..you’d understand completely.

Solas leaned into the arms encasing him, eyes going hooded as Fane began to nudge and nuzzle at his cheek and jaw. He felt so warm, so calm, so solid. The tiny dragonling was in his arms, heart perceptible as it beat against his arms, breaths calm and deep as slumber stretched on. His dragon was around him, shielding, holding, and drawing him closer to his form to where Solas could feel a strong, strong heart thumping in time with his own. It reminded him of when he and Fane used to sit along the forest floors just outside of Arlathan, blissfully at ease despite the loom of shadows. His dragon had welcomed him into a ‘hoard’ of one back then, and he was being welcomed again in a hoard of two.

He was being accepted by a being who never should have accepted him due to what and who he was, but actually came to love him, to take a form that had once been reviled and thought of as no better than an insect’s just to...be with him. Just as the little one in his arms, oddly warm despite an opposite affinity, seemed to accept him as well, allowing Solas to hold him, to..to care for him. How is it that he felt more kinship with the two proud creatures before him, one small, one dual in form, than he did with any elves or mages? He cared for his people, almost to a fault, but now, it felt as if his...heart was growing, reaching for more, thinking beyond to a world where...coexistence could truly happen this time.

How is it that he felt so alive when even things such as touching a page of a book or holding a brush felt numb?

“You are beautiful, ma’isenatha.”, Solas whispered, unable to keep the tremble from his voice as emotion began to overwhelm him and the sensation of Fane inching closer and closer as if to bridge the miniscule gap between had his heart yearning. “I am merely--”

Fane blinked once slowly, stilling the words that wished to flow. “A person.”, he whispered, a hand coming up to cup his cheek once more and a forehead coming to greet Solas’ own. “A person that’s made mistakes, made errors, but a person that’s loved, that’s cried, that’s cared.” A light kiss fluttered against his cheek, heat rising as surely as a whimper did from his chest.

“Cared so much as to warp the intention. I know what I have done, my dragon, and no matter the justifications, I committed an act unforgivable. To my people and to yours. If I am a person, I am but a shadow of one.”, Solas argued, gently turning his head down to witness pure white with only a splash of obsidian, but even that was pure to his eyes at this moment. He took a bit of the cloak in hand, swiping the edge under a closed eye gingerly and nearly wept when a pleased hum left the beautiful creature nestled in his arms. A question unearthed from that display of wonderful expression. “Would it...be wrong to name one of your kin?”

A pregnant pause, one that had Solas nearly backtracking, mentally smacking himself for being so foolish, but all the dread, all the self-loathing vanished like a barrier as Fane’s lips appeared against his own, warm, tender, and ever depicting of the man the other truly was; devoted. He froze up a bit, gingerly giving the tiny dragonling a squeeze, but no fuss was made, no whimper of discomfort sounded. Solas slowly began to relax, warmth filling him, eyes falling shut, and tilting his head slightly to slot his lips more flush with Fane’s own. The kiss was slow and sadly, fleeting, Fane letting out a quiet hum before pulling away with a hooded gaze and a truly bedazzling smile that made the lower lids of his eyes pull upwards.

Solas blinked, stunned and face warm despite the chill. “...Ma’isenatha.”, he whispered with a tone akin to reverence before unabashedly leaning into the wall before him and nudging against a beautiful jawline. He rested his head against Fane’s shoulder soon after, relishing its stabilizing demeanor, basking in how a hearty heart thumped and thumped and thumped with the drums of life against his side, linking with his own, while a tiny one fluttered against one of his forearms.

What had he done? What had he done to deserve this..?

Fane wasted no time in embracing him, bringing his arms up and giving him a tentative squeeze. Solas chuckled at that obvious display of carefulness, gaze going hooded as he stared up at a being who had defied so much as the little one in his arms did. Tenacity was indeed indicative to dragons.

“Did I break you?”, Fane asked, voice as soft as an echo of thunder, distant, but oh-so near.

Solas scoffed softly, smirking a bit. “Mm, perhaps a bit.”, he said, shifting his head back and forth against the leather of his dragon’s coat. Such a thing would make him bristle with discomfort any other time, but right now everything felt soft and truly perfect. It felt real. “Though, I know it was but your answer to my question.”

Fane chuckled. “Indeed it was.”, he said, glittering orbs of two tones rolling downwards to the slumbering dragonling. “I had a name in mind after I was sure he wouldn’t...die.”

Solas blinked before smiling a bit. “Is that so?”, he asked, smiling more when Fane nodded and his ivory visage flushed a light pink. “Then, the honor is yours, vhenan. Let the world know another dragon yet lives.”

Beauty was everywhere as those words fell from Solas’ lips. In the sharp lines of a devotion borne jaw, in the contours of cheeks and their related bones, in the curves of a smiling, a full blown smiling mouth, in bottom eyelids as they pulled upwards and the top shaded a heavily hue. In this moment, Fane appeared every bit of the beautiful person that he was--dual, but wholly one. Just as the curled up dragonling in his arms was. What had Solas done to deserve not one, but two, wonderful beacons; one, Devotion; one, Hope? He truly, truly did not know, but he wished for those two lights, those two lives, to shine forevermore.

They would endure, even if he did not. But perhaps, Solas would endeavor to push onward right beside, as a new set of sparkling tones--emerald and gold--gazed up at him sleepily, double lids flickering as the tiny dragon blinked away dreams and haze, and another set gazed down, wide-eyed and loudly joyful as those pools finally allowed themselves to fill with tears.

“Yune.”, Fane voiced the name with a shuddering, airy, but deeply joyful laugh. Tears began to roll down his pale cheeks, the delicate drip, drip, drip resounding off the stone ground, but Solas felt no guilt from them, no pain. For they were of happy make, of hope. “His name is Yune.”

Solas nodded, smile of happiness stretching his face to impossible heights, but he didn’t mind it. To bask in life was to share in its tender joy. And this time, he would allow it to permeate his mind and soul without shame, without guilt. For there was hope where there was otherwise not. A tiny questioning ‘chrp’ had Solas blinking gently, newborn orbs staring up at him curiously instead of looking down like the ones brimming with tears.

Those eyes, Solas offered a singular finger to the tiny dragon and felt tears prick at his own eyes as emerald and gold blazed with excitement and already, love. We will keep them colored, little one. Da’isenatha. A term that will be more commonplace. I promise.

“Welcome to the world, Yune.”, Solas whispered, feeling Fane come down to rest his forehead against the side of his eyes. The man was sniffling and quietly sobbing, and it had Solas letting out a shuddering sigh, leaning into the gesture eagerly as Yune--such a beautiful name--let out a squeak of acknowledgement and acceptance.  

Hope. What a beautiful light in the shadows--in this world he had wrought.

----

A bit lengthy, but I COULDN’T DECIDE! *screeches and curls up on the ground like the very dragon I created* 

Tagging (bask in the HOPE): @oxygenforthewicked @varric-tethras-editor @little-lightning-lavellan @dreadfutures @the-dreadful-canine @aymayzing @dungeons-and-dragon-age @drag-on-age @cartadwarfwithaheartofgold @hoochieblues @whataboutbugs and anyone else who’d like to BASK with their own creations! (no pressure, as always! <3)

#wip wednesday #first i was consumed with halamshiral and now THIS #yune the best little dragon to ever grace thedas :3 #fane is the most dangerous dragon to ever grace thedas *is SLAPPED* #ngl the beginning of this snippet starts off with a solas analysis X'D #literally it's just solas being solas PFFFT #WE PUT THE DRAGON BACK IN DRAGON AGE >:D #my writing #oc: fane lavellan #solas #solavellan #dragon age

[pepethehobbit]

A Second Chance

Based on this gifset by @azozzoni .The dialogue between Jens and Lucas at the start is completely taken from the gifset. (Thank you for inspiring me to write this and for allowing me to post this! I hope you like it!)

Also on ao3.

“So now you finally know what it's like to be stood up. About time someone is making you check your ego,” Robbe says cheekily. It's accompanied with a gentle push of Jens' shoulder, probably in an attempt to lighten Jens' mood.

It's not working.

Jens simply scoffs and looks back down to his text messages with Lucas. His last one still unanswered even though he send it on Friday, three days ago now. He is staring at it maybe in hopes of Lucas finally texting back. All it does though is stare back at him, mocking him for his hope.  

You could've at least send a text.

But Lucas didn't. There has been nothing but radio silence on Lucas' end for the whole weekend. The whole weekend Jens fought with the urge to send another one, wanting to ask him why he didn't just say no, why he agreed to a date when Jens had finally collected his courage to ask him out, after weeks of what Jens thought was mutual flirting. Not only that but Lucas' confirmation came with an excited nod of his head and an elated smile, that made his ocean eyes shine with anticipation.

He was so excited when Lucas has actually said yes, so happy that he didn't read the signs wrong, that the little dance around each other and all those stolen glances meant something, that Lucas was actually interested in him. Jens feels so stupid. Whatever feelings made him say yes must've vanished in the meantime or, as Jens has not allowed himself to really think about, must've simply never existed.

The first half an hour he was a little worried but still chill, Jens doesn't have the best track record with punctuality either. At the forty five minute mark he started to worry a little more and had send the first text, asking him if he was okay, if something happened. When he didn't get an answer to that after another hour Jens had finally accepted that Lucas simply wouldn't come, that he has been stood up. Which is when he send that last text.

He called Robbe instead, who immediately picked up with worry in his voice, knowing that Jens was supposed to be on a date with the boy who his best friend couldn't stop talking about in the last few weeks. They had a good old fashioned sleep over and even with Sander there, it was exactly what Jens needed to not wallow in self pity. He really, really liked Lucas. When he first saw him enter the classroom, introduced by the teacher as a new student from Utrecht, he felt this inexplicable pull and this inability to take his eyes off him. His pulse quickened when those eyes were set on him and a tiny, surprised smile pulled at the corner of Lucas' mouth.

The rational side of Jens can't make sense of it, especially when his brain supplies with him with enough memories of Lucas that made him so sure that there was something between them. The blush on the other boy's cheek when Jens had reached out to tuck that one curl behind his ear, claiming that he had something in his hair. The way Lucas' hand would brush against his one too many times to be a coincidence. The compliments that Lucas would accept freely and give back with a smile that made Jens want to kiss it off. That one time he almost did.

He is too lost in his thoughts to notice someone approach until he hears Robbe's voice next to him: “Look who's coming this way. The boy who broke Jens' hea-” Jens quickly slaps Robbe's arm to stop him from finishing that sentence. There is no way that Lucas needs to know how hurt he was by him.

Jens has a hard time trying to figure out what Lucas' expression could mean. He looks apprehensive, as if not sure what to do or say now that he is actually in front of Jens. What he settles on only infuriates Jens a little bit more. If only because the answer to the question is most definitely yes, despite how much Jens tried to forget about Lucas over the weekend.

“Hey, you miss me?”

Jens doesn't give him anything, tries to keep his reaction to a minimum. He raises his drink to his mouth and takes a sip, letting Lucas cook in the uncomfortable tension between them.

“I'm sorry I didn't come the other day. I can explain.”

At this point, Jens' disappointment, anger and wounded pride prevent him from actually wanting to know the explanation. He also doesn't want Lucas to think he still cares. It would be nice if he could convince himself of that as well.

“No need. I get it,” Jens says, voice cold and final. The pained look on Lucas' face momentarily makes him want to take his words back. But the memory of waiting for him in the skate park for nearly two hours makes him stick to his decision.

Lucas holds his gaze for a few more seconds, looking defeated and sad and Jens nearly breaks. But then he simply turns around and walks away. Jens watches his retreating form with a thoughtful expression, still fighting between the feeling of having done the right thing and the regret for not letting Lucas explain.

Robbe's “Maybe you should hear him out” is not really helping him sort through his confused feelings. “Shut up, Robbe,” Jens replies more irritated than he meant to.

“Jens, he looked really–”

“No, Robbe. Just drop it. I don't wanna talk about it anymore. Are we going to skate or what?”

His best friend eyes him with a concerned expression, probably considering if it is a good idea to push right now. He must decide against it because he simply shrugs his shoulders, sets down his board and skates off, looking over his shoulder to check if Jens is joining him. Jens tries to shake off his confusing feelings and follows his best friend.

* * *

It's only in the evening when Robbe has already gone off to his date with Sander that he sees the messages. He wishes his best friend would still be here, so he could advice him what to make of it.

Jens, I'm really sorry.

Please give me another chance.

I swear I can explain, something happened but I don't want to tell you over text.

He sounds sincere enough, but what could've happened that he can't just explain over text? Admitting that he simply doesn't feel like that about Jens would probably be easier to text. Cowardly, but easier. So maybe it's not that? Maybe he is saying the truth and something did really happen. But again, he couldn't even write one single text message for the whole duration of the weekend to explain or even apologize?

Either way, the regret of not letting Lucas explain has won over the certainty of having made the right choice since the skate park. If Lucas is as sincere as his message seems to be he deserves a chance to explain and after some consideration Jens is willing to give him one. He just hopes Lucas doesn't break his heart a second time.

Tomorrow after school?

The answer comes immediately, even though Jens has responded nearly five hours after Lucas' initial message.

Thank you, Jens! I hope you can forgive me.

Part of him hopes the same thing and an even smaller part, not ready to be acknowledged or questioned, tells him that he already did.  

* * *

It was nerve wrecking seeing Lucas at school the next day. They only have one class together so at least that made it easier to avoid him until the end of school today. But during that one hour Jens was so distracted by the presence of the other boy just two tables ahead of him that he has a hard time even recalling the topic they were talking about. It didn't help at all that Lucas has turned around to Jens every few minutes, catching him stare at him every time. Lucas had send him a shy smile the third time it happened and Jens was too weak to look away until the teacher called on him and he was at a loss of words. He tried his best to ignore Lucas the rest of the lesson after that.

When the last bell of the day rings, Jens reluctantly gets up from his seat next to Robbe, who sends him an encouraging smile and says: “It's the right choice Jens. Everybody fucks up sometime. He seems honest, I don't think he would have stoop you up if he didn't have a very good reason. I've seen the way he looks at you. There is no way that he didn't want to go on that date with you.”

It does little to actually settle his nerves but it does give him hope. Robbe has always been way too perceptive for his own good and he trusts his best friend's intuition more than his own right now. “Thanks, Robbe,” Jens replies, his voice stronger than he expected considering his nerves. He doesn't even know why he is that nervous. All he has to do is listen to Lucas' explanation and decide if he wants to forgive him.

Robbe nudges his elbow into his side and nods towards the school gate, where Lucas is already standing, looking over at them, fidgeting with the sleeves of his pink jumper which stick out under his jean jacket. He seems even more nervous and that actually helps Jens to calm down a little bit. At least he is not in the position where he has to explain himself. He simply has to listen.

Jens turns to Robbe, says his goodbyes and makes his way over to Lucas, his pulse quickening with every step he gets closer to him. Once he reaches him he doesn't know how to start this conversation but he also thinks that maybe this isn't his responsibility right now. He looks at Lucas expectantly, raises his eyebrows, silently asking him to begin.

“Can we not talk here? We could go to the little park around the corner?” Lucas asks timidly, still fidgeting with his hands, avoiding Jens' gaze. Jens would actually rather not, would like to know sooner rather than later, but he guesses somewhere more private would be more comfortable for both of them. “Sure, lead the way.”

The walk there is unsurprisingly very silent. What is surprising though, is that it's not entirely uncomfortable or awkward. Jens did not realize just how much he missed just being in Lucas' proximity. He was in general a very chill person but, as every ordinary person, still had thoughts and  anxieties haunting him. When he had spend time with Lucas though, his mind was completely quiet. With Lucas everything had felt so easy and uncomplicated and sure. Well, until now. Even though the silence is not uncomfortable, it isn't exactly comforting either, making Jens' thoughts race with possibilities of what Lucas is about to explain to him.

Lucas is leading them to a swing set and sits down on one of the seats, swaying back and forth with his feet on the ground. He looks up at Jens and motions him to sit down next to him on the other swing. Jens does, wanting to turn towards Lucas but choosing against it, thinking maybe it would make it easier for him to tell him, if he doesn't feel like Jens is watching him, maybe choosing the swing set for this exact reason.

“My mom is ill. She has bipolar disorder.”

Whatever Jens was expecting, it definitely wasn't this. Before Sander and Moyo and Robbe, he may have reacted differently, but he learned through them and has at least an idea what this actually means. Lucas has never mentioned his mom before, Jens notices now, not once in the four weeks they know each other now. He only knows that he moved here with his father and he figured if Lucas would want to talk about his mother he would someday tell him. A vague idea is developing in his head about how this relates to their situation now and he feels a sense of regret for how he reacted when Lucas first came to explain. But it's clear to see that the last thing Lucas needs right now is to make it about Jens.

“Okay. And how is she now?”

Lucas turns to him, seeming surprised at that reaction. “Do you know what that means?”

“Yeah, Moyo's mom is bipolar, Sander too. I thought he already told you?” Lucas turns away from Jens again, seeming confused and caught off guard at the revelation. Jens gives him a minute to adjust this to the picture of Sander he is sure Lucas already had in his mind. Out of all the brothers Sander was probably the one closest to him (excluding Jens). “No, he didn't,” Lucas simply states, seeming a bit lost now.

“So, how is your mom?” Jens asks, trying to get the conversation to what is was originally about. Lucas looks up with a calculating gaze as if to try and figure out what to make of Jens' reaction.

“She had a manic episode on Friday. She called me and from the sound of her voice alone I could already tell that she was manic. But what she said made me freak out even more. She said that she misses me, that she doesn't have a car right now but that she could simply walk to Antwerp, that she only called to let me know that she was on her way. I…, I managed to avert her from that idea, promising her that I would make my way over there right now. By the time I arrived she was mostly out of it, but… but then the depression has already hit. Harder than I have ever seen with her before. I tried to take care of her as much as I could but I just … I just couldn't do it alone and I had to call the hospital where she had already stayed once. They came to pick her up on Sunday which is when I went back to Antwerp. I just left her there all alone.”

Lucas' voice sounds thick and heavy with emotions and when Jens looks up, his eyes are filled with  tears, not yet ready to fall. A heavy feeling overcomes Jens, seeing Lucas so sad and overwhelmed with guilt. He wants to reach out, comfort him in any way but he is not sure if Lucas needs that right now. Instead, he tries to recall a conversation he had with Moyo once.

“Lucas, it's not your responsibility to take care of your mother. You did the best you could do in a situation you shouldn't even be put in. I'm sure your mom knows that and wouldn't want you to beat yourself up about something that isn't even your fault. You could not have prevented your mom from getting an episode.”

“It is my fault though, Jens. Don't you understand? She had a manic episode because of me, because she missed me and because I haven't been there to take care of her when she needs me. I –”

The tears have started to roll down Lucas' face. Jens reaches across the distance to take Lucas' hand in his, making him stop mid-sentence, eyes shining with vulnerability.

“Luc. Stop.” Jens tries to make his voice soft and understanding, but firm enough that his words will get through to Lucas. “She is not your job. She is your mom. You shouldn't have to be there just in case she has an episode. It's her illness, not yours. Whatever triggered her episode, it wasn't your fault. You shouldn't be her caretaker.”

Lucas meets his gaze, looking conflicted and looks down again at where Jens rests his hand on his. Jens is about to take his hand away, interpreting this look as discomfort but then Lucas is slowly turning his hand around so they lay palm to palm and gently intertwines their fingers. He shudders at the cold feeling of Lucas' simple silver ring on his skin and his heart starts beating faster but he simply squeezes Lucas' hand softly and sends him a reassuring smile.

“That's what Kes is always saying,” Lucas admits quietly and with his free hand he brushes away the fallen tears on his cheek. Jens smiles at that, who knew Lucas could be this stubborn.

“And we are both very right. This is too much for any teenager to handle.” This wins Jens a soft scoff but there is also a small smile tugging at Lucas' lips so he counts that as a victory.

“How do you know so much about this?”

Jens thinks about how much he wants to say because it doesn't really portray him from his best side but Lucas has been so honest with him and it's the least he could be in return. “Well, I don't know if you know this, but last year Robbe's mom got admitted into a mental health facility. It was pretty bad, I think even worse for Robbe. He had to stay over at my place a lot of times, even before that happened and even though we spend a lot of time together, I didn't really…, well I didn't really notice how much Robbe was suffering. And then the shit with Sander happened and I realized what a shitty friend I have been the last year or so. And then when Moyo told us that his mom is also bipolar I was so shocked that I didn't even know that about one of my best friends. I tried my best to make up for that, tried to show my support, googled a lot and asked Moyo if I could ask him some questions. He basically told me what I told you.”

Lucas' prolonged silence is making him a bit anxious and when he is finally meeting his gaze he looks at him with an expression Jens is not sure how to interpret. But then Lucas smiles fondly, squeezes his hand and says: “You are an amazing friend, Jens.”

Jens has to duck his head to hide the small smile, pleased that Lucas still sees him like this. He has never been good at accepting genuine compliments, ones that are about his personality instead of his appearance. Mostly because he is probably still struggling with the guilt of not being there for his best friend and the whole mess with Jana. “Thanks,” he mumbles softly.

Lucas doesn't respond and the silence stretches on for a few peaceful minutes. They swing gently back and force on the swing, both of them seeming to have no intention of letting go of the other's hand.

“I'm sorry for how I reacted when you came to talk to me yesterday. I should've let you explain. I was…, well, I guess my pride was quite hurt that you stood me up,” Jens admits after a while with a small deprecating laugh and looks over at Lucas even though he is worried about the reaction.

“Jens, you have no idea how much I wanted to go on that date with you. I was over the moon when you asked me. Believe me, the last thing I wanted was to ghost you, I'm the one who is supposed to apologize here,” Lucas says disbelieving, as if Jens doubting Lucas' feelings for him was the most stupidest thing he heard today.

It makes Jens smile uncontrollably, unable to hide it away from Lucas fast enough. He gets up from the swing to stand in front of Lucas, takes his other hand in his as well and pulls at his arms, motioning Lucas to stand up. Lucas looks up at him smiling but with questioning eyes. Jens simply pulls again and doesn't step back when Lucas enters his space. Their faces are close and Jens is tempted to close the distance when his eyes track the motion of Lucas's lips falling open slightly. But then he tears his eyes away from Lucas's lips and moves on to his eyes. They are still a bit wet from the tears and it makes his blue eyes sparkle like sunlight on a clear mountain lake.

“So, about that date. Wanna have a second chance at that tomorrow?” He can see Lucas trace the movement of his lips with his eyes and it makes Jens' pulse quicken. When Lucas finally meets his gaze again he looks hypnotized and a little breathless he asks: “Sorry, what did you say?” It makes Jens laugh, happiness overflowing with how obviously Lucas is distracted by him. He is scared that Lucas is hurt by the laugh he couldn't stop from bubbling out of him but he just looks up at him with a smile that is so beautiful it makes Jens' heart skip a beat. He lets go of one of Lucas' hand to brush a stray curl away from his face and it has the desired effect of the lovely blush spreading over Lucas' cheeks.

“Do you want to go on a date with me tomorrow?” Jens repeats and lets his hand fall to back of Lucas' neck, gently caressing him with his thumb. The smile he gets in return is almost as blinding as the very first time he asked Lucas that question. It makes Jens feel giddy with anticipation.

“Yes. I absolutely want to go on a date with you tomorrow,” Lucas answers and even though Jens was pretty confident that the answer would be yes, the actual confirmation makes him even giddier. This time it's his eyes that can't leave Lucas' lips and he finds himself closing the distance as if pulled in by an irresistible force. Jens' nose brushes against Lucas' and he feels his eyes fluttering shut when he feels a warm gush of breath across his lips. The moment their lips finally touch Jens lets out a quiet satisfied sigh and he barely has time to feel embarrassed about it, because Lucas simply puts his arms around Jens' shoulders and pulls him even closer. The movement of his lips against Jens' is soft yet urgent, careful yet demanding and Jens melts into his arms. He buries his hand in Lucas' hair and gives it an experimental little pull. The reaction he gets nearly makes Jens forget that they are still in public. And even though the playground is empty he gives Lucas a few lingering pecks before he takes a step back, ignoring the quiet sound of protest from the other boy, moving the hand from Lucas' hair to gently stroke his cheekbone.

He can barely take his eyes of Lucas' kiss swollen lips but he knows that he should go now, otherwise he won't have the strength to let go of Lucas. “I should go,” he whispers quietly into the little space between their mouths. It looks like Lucas wants to protest but then he purely gives him a last gentle kiss, nothing more than a soft press of lips and steps out of Jens hold. “I'll see you tomorrow then?”

Jens smiles and nods, takes a step back as well, their hands still holding on to each other not wanting to let go. With each step back he feels their palms sliding together, then their fingers and lastly their thumbs before Jens pulls back for good, making him trip a little bit on his last step back. He sends Lucas a giddy smile, not feeling even slightly embarrassed and Lucas lets out a small huff of laughter, shaking his head slightly before he turns his back on Jens and walks in the direction they came from. Jens watches Lucas' retreating back for a few more seconds before he makes his way home as well. Somehow, he can't stop smiling for the rest of the day.

#vds #van der stoffels #Jens stoffels #lucas van der heijden #my writing #a huge thank you again for azozzoni for inspiring this #I guess trigger warning? #Lucas briefly explains his mom's manic episode and blames himself

[dessarious]

Misconceptions, Miscommunication, and Misinformation Pt88

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By the time Selina exited the bathroom in her street clothes Chloe had tucked Mari in, sent Damian a ‘thanks for the heads up asshole’ text, fed the Kwami, notified Luka and the Kwami that they’d be dealing with any issues for the next few days, and was currently calmly filing her nails waiting for the front desk to send up the room key. She didn’t look up as the woman walked back in the room but could feel her eyes on her.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot. I shouldn’t have just shown up in costume without making sure you were aware I was coming and I shouldn’t have made assumptions about who you were outside of being a hero. Apparently Bruce left out a few things when he explained the situation to me. And he most likely didn’t mention to the boys that I could be showing up early.” Chloe glanced up at the woman and saw real sincerity. She looked at Marinette’s sleeping form and could practically hear the girl’s voice in her head telling her to be nice.

“It’s fine. I’m used to it.” And she was. Everyone expected her to be someone else. Her parents expected the perfect daughter. Her class expected a first class bitch. The public only saw a spoiled little rich girl. She’d always played to people’s expectations rather than herself to the point that if you asked Chloe wouldn’t be able to tell you who she was. Marinette was changing all that, but she still didn’t have a clue who she was under all the bluster and snobbery. “It’s not your fault either and Mari would kick my ass if I were less than civil. We can start over tomorrow when tensions aren’t so high and we’re all rested.”

“That… sounds like a good idea.” Chloe watched as the woman frowned thoughtfully at Marinette. “She’s very observant.” Chloe let out an amused snort.

“You have no idea. It’s worse when she’s awake because you know she sees more than everyone else but she keeps it to herself. It’s maddening wondering what she saw that you didn’t.” It had absolutely nothing to do with her being Ladybug either. Marinette had seen and heard more than everyone else for as long as Chloe could remember. Honestly it might have been the look of pity the girl gave her the first time her parents didn’t show up for something that started Chloe on her vendetta when they were little. Everyone else believed her when she said her parents were too busy to attend some tiny school assembly. Somehow, Marinette knew she was lying. Every time Marinette looked at her after that she’d felt like she was under a microscope.

“I live with ‘the world’s greatest detective’ so I’m used to that feeling. Granted Tim’s worse in that regard but Bruce is so uncommunicative you know he’s got things in his head you’ll never be able to pry out.” Chloe gave a non committal hum. She hadn’t been that impressed with the man during their encounter, but he had been squaring off against Mari so both that comparison and the fact she was in protection mode may very well have colored her perception. Okay, it definitely colored her perception.

“That will help. Plus Mari’s gotten a lot better at hiding it when she figures things out. That comment about why Damian doesn’t like you would never have come out, she just would have started subtly nudging the pair of you into some form of tolerance without you noticing. She probably still will actually.” Definitely with Damian. His obvious intolerance of someone so important to his father was bound to make her do it even if Selina was the most obnoxious person alive. Mari couldn’t help herself. If she thought it was broken, she fixed it, and Damian had become her pet project.

“I’m not that easy to manipulate.” Chloe could only smirk at the woman.

“I assure it won’t matter. With no planning she got Bruce to agree to leave Damian in Paris. Trust me, when she decides something needs to change, it does. I’m a prime example of that.” That was probably not the best way to say that. Mari had a tendency to push people towards what would make them happy. With Chloe it had changed over the years and she hadn’t even realized what was happening. Mari was the one who got her to think about running for class representative originally. At the time her father was in the middle of a reelection campaign and she’d wanted to be just like him. Mari was also indirectly responsible for her push to get Adrien out of homeschooling. All it had taken was a few well placed comments. It was honestly scary how easily she could manipulate people. And it was amazing that she actively tried to only help people when she could do so much damage.

“I’ll keep that in mind. Honestly if she can get Damian in anyway on board with my relationship with his father it would be a tremendous relief. I know we’ve had a… fairly rocky relationship for a long time, but we’re both finally at the point where we can accept each other for who we are. But if Damian is completely set against it, I don’t think Bruce will risk alienating him to stay with me. It hurts knowing that, but I understand. Especially given all they’ve gone through. Bruce won’t risk losing a child that way.” Chloe could help but frown at that. She couldn’t imagine either one of her parents denying themselves something just to keep her from leaving. She was actually pretty sure her mother would auction her off to the highest bidder for an exclusive on the next hottest thing in fashion. Her father would sell his own soul to stay in office so she didn’t imagine he’d flinch at tossing her out if she became a liability.

“He sounds like a decent man.” Bruce Wayne’s public image was terrible but she knew better than most how deceptive that could be. Selina was giving her a concerned look. Crap, her thoughts must have shown on her face. She really was tired if she was having trouble keeping a neutral expression.

“He is, no matter how hard he tries to pretend otherwise. He wouldn’t have given me so many chances if he weren’t.” She glanced at Mari. “I have a feeling you’ll understand what I mean.” Chloe just nodded. Mari had given her chance after chance, as both herself and Ladybug. If she hadn’t who knows where she’d be right now. “People like that are rare, but they also don’t stick with lost causes. If you or I were a hopeless case they wouldn’t have put the effort in.”

“She’s right you know.” Tikki flew over from the bed to land on Chloe’s shoulder. “There was always a hero in you. You just needed to know it was okay to be that person instead of who you were raised to be.” That got an even more concerned look from Selina.

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#maribat #bffmaridami #marinette dupen chang #chloe bourgeois #Selina Kyle

[smp-live]

Man in the (Shattered) Mirror Ch. 6

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Quackity trekked through the forest of redwoods, brushing a branch out of the way. It bounced back and smacked him in the face.

“Fuck,” he cursed with an irritated scowl, rubbing at the sore spot on his forehead. At least it didn’t cut.

He kept walking, pushing past more annoying redwoods and oak trees. The dead leaves on the ground barely crunched, soggy in the wet winter air. It was an abnormally warm day, not cold enough for his breath to fog despite it being January.

Honestly, he’d rather not be here at all. He’d always preferred the organization and structure of cities, their cobblestone streets perfectly laid out and wooden houses providing shelter from the wind. But over time, he’d gotten used to making his way through the woods; he’d been forced to, after all. Especially this specific overgrown path.

Quackity pushed past one last branch and into a familiar clearing, no longer tramped down with constant footsteps, but grassy and lush. The door on the cliffside was broken and falling off its hinges, clumps of moss glued to it for camouflage falling off. Clearly nobody had been here in a long time.

He slowly nudged the door, just enough to slip by. It was apparently too much movement for the rusty hinges, though, for it crashed into the underbrush with a loud clatter of branches. Quackity winced at the sound. Even standing here, just at the entrance to Pogtopia, it felt wrong to be loud. To disturb things. Like ransacking a graveyard.

He should really turn around, but he needed cobble for his newest project, and Pogtopia had some, last he remembered. If nobody had taken it. And he’d really rather scavenge it than go mining for days.

Or, at least, he had rather, he thought, eyeing the dark tunnel spiraling down into Pogtopia proper.

“Come on, Q, you’re being a bitch,” he muttered to himself with a laugh, lighting a torch that sent shadows dancing on the walls. His quiet footsteps echoed in the stairwell, amplifying them tenfold, and the air seemed to somehow grow perceptibly colder in the five seconds it had been. “Jesus fucking Christ, this is creepy.”

He made his way down, down the rickety paths hanging high above the ground below, amongst long-extinguished hanging lanterns. The air was stale and scentless, each of his steps sending up a little poof of dust and dirt that quickly settled back down.

Before too long, he’d made it to the storage room, lined floor-to-ceiling with chests. They’d been mostly empty or full of useless shit, but hey. Who knew what he might find. He knelt down and started rummaging through the nearest one.

A rock clattered to his left.

Quackity whirled around, raising his torch high, heart pounding in his chest. A rat’s tail disappeared behind a chest.

“See? It’s nothing,” he told himself with a chuckle. “Just a rat. Nobody’s here, obv-“

Something - someone - grabbed him from behind, and he screamed. In his surprise, his torch dropped out of his hand, plunging the room into darkness. Quackity wriggled and thrashed against the grip and, somehow, his arm managed to catch his captor in the nose. They cursed but held on tight, and eventually managed to slap a hand over his mouth. A familiar, gloved hand.

Oh God oh fuck oh shit he was fucked-

“Quackity? What. The fuck. Are you doing here – you Manburgian,” one Wilbur Soot hissed into his ear, then moved his hand away to wrap his elbow around Quackity’s throat, instead.

“Wilbur?” he asked with a nervous laugh. What the fuck – Wilbur was dead. He’d seen the body with his own two eyes. “What-“ He cut himself off as Wilbur squeezed tighter.

“I’ll ask one more time – what are you doing here?”

Quackity swallowed. “I- I was just coming to get supplies-“

“And how,” Wilbur snarled, “exactly, do you know about this place? Was it Tubbo? The Blade?”

“No, no, what?” Now Quackity was even more confused. “You brought me here yourself.”

“I would do no such thing. Not to Schlatt’s Vice President. I’m not fucking stupid, Quackity.”

Quackity squeezed his eyes shut. He hadn’t been referred in relation to Schlatt in… a while. “Okay, okay. Obviously, we’re not on the same page here. So why don’t you let me go and we can have a nice, civil discussion about what’s happening.” Wilbur hesitated, and he added, “I promise I won’t try anything. On my honour.”

And that must have been good enough for Wilbur, for he pulled back with an “…alright.” Quackity heard some shuffling, the click of a lighter, and then he was blinking furiously against the light as Wilbur relit his torch.

He looked like he always had, dark eyes dancing in the firelight with messy hair. A blood-stained shirt under his dirty, patched-up trenchcoat where he was dropping his lighter back into his pocket. He looked up, his eyes caught on Quackity’s left cheek and he frowned.

“What happened to your eye?”

Quackity instinctively reached up to where he was staring, touching the rough-scarred skin under his eye. “A fight,” he said, unwilling to say exactly what had happened. That fucking pig.

“Mm hm.” Wilbur raised an eyebrow but didn’t question him further. “You still haven’t answered my first question.”

“Do you really not remember?”

“Quackity,” he warned.

“Wilbur,” Quackity mocked back. Wilbur sighed, and waved his hand in exasperation.

“Just-“

Quackity rolled his eyes. “Why are you so difficult all the time?” Wilbur scowled and moved towards him, so he took a defensive step back and raised his hands. “Okay, okay! After the Festival, Tommy found me alone in the woods, so he took me here? With you?” He wisely left out the whole thing with the button; not thinking that Wilbur would appreciate it much. But he still frowned.

“The Festival?”

“…Yeah? The Manburg Festival? October 16th? Tubbo got executed? Damn, whatever fuckin’… higher power, or whatever, brought you back must’ve really fucked with your memory.”

But Wilbur didn’t seem amused by the joke. He stared blankly ahead, shallow breaths barely noticeable with the flickering lighting. His gaze flickered to Quackity. “What do you mean, October 16th?”

“What?”

“It’s September 29th,” he said, complete honesty in his eyes, and oh, shit.

“Oh, fuck, okay,” Quackity said, “uh, that is not the date. It’s January.”

Wilbur’s face darkened. “You’re fucking with me. You’re a spy sent by Schlatt and you’re trying to convince me that I’ve lost it-“ he started pacing, one hand tugging at his hair while the other held the torch “-but it won’t work because I’m fine! I’m not-“

“Wilbur!” Quackity exclaimed, because holy fuck, he had to snap him out of this spiral. “I killed Schlatt.”

He froze. “What?”

“I killed him, the day after the Festival. Shot him. Took a life. He’s fully dead now, okay? You can trust me.” Quackity spoke calmly, like he was soothing a horse. It apparently worked, because Wilbur just closed his eyes. Clenched and unclenched his fist. Took a deep breath, and when he spoke again his voice was smooth.

“Okay. This is fine. You,“ he gestured at Quackity, “are on our side, now, apparently, because future me trusted you. Okay.”

Quackity slowly peeled away from the wall. “We good now?”

“I still don’t fuckin’ trust you,” he said lowly, “but yes.”

“Okay, good,” Quackity said, relief flooding through him, and he grabbed his torch from Wilbur’s hand and his bag from the ground. “C’mon. Let’s go. It’s creepy here.” Wilbur paused.

“I’m… not allowed to go to L’Manberg,” he said hesitantly, and Quackity’s blood froze. Right. Wilbur didn’t know what had happened, that it was gone, and he didn’t particularly want to explain right now. Instead, he just said,

“Your exile’s over. I’ve just decided.”

Wilbur snorted, but set off behind him. “Nice quip. How long d’it take you to come up with that one? All conversation?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

An unintentional grin spread across Quackity’s face as he cautiously led Wilbur up the rickety bridges too narrow to fit side-by-side on. Prime, he’d missed this banter, like they’d had during the election. After the Festival, the ex-President… hadn’t exactly been up to it, most nights.

Someone emerged from the stairwell right in front of him.

Quackity reeled back, nearly losing his balance and sending scree clattering down the ravine until a hand on his shoulder steadied him. Except that didn’t calm his pounding heart, because right there, frozen in just as much shock, was another Wilbur.

A different one, with tired, dead eyes that quickly grew fiery, dancing in the light of both their torches. He was dressed in the same trenchcoat as the Wilbur standing slightly behind him, only torn and caked in ash and soot. And his shirt…

A large gash ran through the no-longer-white cotton, drenched in barely dried blood. The tear was large enough to see Wilbur’s chest and the scar, pale pink and freshly-healed, from his stomach to halfway up his chest. Quackity felt sick. It was identical to Ghostbur’s, only no longer open and oozing blue, (and was that seared into his memory, ever since he’d first seen it.)

“Well,” the Wilbur in front of him said, thoughtfully, carefully, “this was unexpected.” The one next to him took a small step back.

“What the fuck,” Quackity said, holding his ground. Wilbur ahead of him laughed.

“Quackity, oh, Big Q, hey,” he said, sickeningly sweet, “long time no see, I guess, huh? For you, at least.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Hm. You’ll figure it out,” his eyes gleamed. “You’re a smart one, aren’t you? You always knew how to come out on top.”

“I don’t-“

“Oh, don’t bullshit me, Big Q,” he growled. “You know what I’m talking about.” And he took a step forward. Quackity backed up, bumped into something warm. Then other-Wilbur was shoving past him, shoulders drawn high and face smoldering.

“Stay away from him,” he all-but-growled.

Bad Wilbur, villain Wilbur, button room Wilbur laughed again, high-pitched and empty, and it echoed familiarly through the ravine. “What? Trying to protect your crush?”

“I don’t have a fucking crush on Big Q.”

“Sure, sure,” he dismissed, waving a hand. “Call him whatever you want. You’re protecting him from yourself, anyways. Kinda pointless if you ask me.”

“And what the fuck does that mean? I fuckin’ hate him, but I’m not gonna hurt him.”

He snorted. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that. Keep telling yourself you’re not gonna hurt them all. Because it’s a fuckin’ lie.”

“What?”

“Oh, Wil,” he said softly, gently, as if he was trying to help. “You’ll learn. You’ll fucking learn. We’re not a good person.”

And he pushed past the two on the narrow ledge, nearly sending them careening over the edge. “Stay away from me,” he called out, “or you know what happens.”

They watched his light bob down for a moment, then Quackity grabbed his arm and started pulling him up the stairs. They were not sticking around, thank you very much.

Wilbur followed along, apparently shellshocked. Except he’d have to differentiate them, now, right? This was good Wilbur, the one before he’d snapped, before the Festival and the button room – because apparently they had to differentiate like that. Because villain Wilbur was here too. What the fuck.

“That was…” Wilbur looked vaguely sick, just like Quackity felt, and he stumbled on a step before quickly catching himself, “me. Alright. Okay.”

Quackity just nodded. Pushed down the bile and anxiety in his throat. “Yup. Now c’mon. I want answers.”

-

“Tubbo! Holy fuck!”

Tubbo stood at the call from his best friend, up from his kneeling position in the snow. Work on the new settlement he’d dubbed Snowchester was going well, refugees from L’Manburg working alongside newcomers to erect several dozen houses, at this point, and the foundations for many others. They’d already set up docks for trade, and Tubbo himself had just been working on laying the fence of a llama farm – the animals did well in the cold, after all, and they couldn’t exactly grow many crops up here.

That wasn’t the only issue. They weren’t an officially recognized country, (yet,) which… had it’s benefits, yes, but they couldn’t really form any trade treaties. Nor alliances. Nor have any protection from anybody seeking to harm them.

So yeah. He kinda wanted to be recognized. But for now, until they had a better defense system, it was better to lay low. Stay under the radar, until they could protect themselves.

He was working on that last bit.

Tubbo dusted snow off his pants with frost-nipped hands. Tommy was running up to him, cheeks dusted red from the chill, and there was Ranboo, walking at a much more reasonable pace behind him.

“You’ll never fuckin’ guess what happened, Tubzo, oh Prime,” Tommy rambled, nearly knocking him over and grabbing onto his arms to steady himself. Tubbo fought off the urge to push him away. He clearly needed it, judging by how he looked nervous, and panicked – and was that a tinge of relief or joy?

Immediately, Tubbo’s blood chilled, and his mind started racing to the thousand contingency plans he’d been implementing. “What?” he asked, careful to keep his voice steady, as he’d learned in Schlatt’s cabinet.

“You… might want to sit down for this,” Ranboo said, walking up to them, and Tubbo frowned. Oh, Prime, it was bad news then. Tommy’s hands suddenly burned on him and he pulled roughly away.

“I’m not fucking weak,” he snapped, and they both stepped back nervously.

Ranboo raised his hands defensively. “I’m not saying you are?” The swell of rage in his chest simmered down.

“Sorry,” Tubbo mumbled. “I know. Just tell me. Who died?” Tommy laughed at that, high-pitched and borderline hysterical.

“No uh, the opposite actually.”

“What?”

“Remember when uh- when Ghostbur – on Doomsday – he came up to us?” Tommy rambled – he had a tendency to do that when he was nervous, or there was bad news. Tubbo nodded. “Yeah, uh, he wanted to be resurrected, right? And we said yes, and he did research, then you two went on a road trip to look for a totem and left me behind – thanks for that, by the way, it was fuckin’ boring around here-“

“I thought you wanted to stay behind?” Ranboo interjected.

“Shut the fuck up, Boob Boy, I never fuckin’-“

“Tommy,” Tubbo warned, getting impatient. He could dance around the topic for hours, if there was bad news, and they couldn’t afford that.

“Right, right, well, uh, the resurrection was today, and,” he looked Tubbo straight in the eyes, “it worked. Wilbur’s back.”

Tubbo took a step back in shock. “What?”

“Yeah, he’s back, and he’s not our Wilbur, Tubbo, it’s right-before-he-died Wilbur, and he said he’d do it again-“

Tubbo didn’t hear any more of what he was saying as static swelled in his ears. No. No. Not again. It can’t happen again, I- I can’t-

He abruptly took off, towards a small room only he could know the location of, barely conscious of the way his boots dragged in the snow. I can’t let it happen again. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tommy lunge towards him, faintly heard him call out, “Tubbo?” Ranboo held him back, muttered,

“Leave him. He gets like this sometimes.”

Tubbo kept going. Down the main street, onto a barely-there path that led to a small doorway hidden on the rocky side of a hill. He punched in the code to the keypad – the code only he knew, for now. It was too risky telling anyone else. Then he entered, quickly climbed down the ladder.

The bunker was cluttered, sheets of paper with calculations scribbled upon them scattered willy-nilly. The walls were covered in tools and bits of sheet metal, and tables with failed prototypes sat scattered around, glinting in the dim artificial lights.

He’d planned on taking his time with this project, using it only as a last-ditch resort. Maybe against Dream, if he came for them again. But they’d reached that point. He was desperate.

With Wilbur back and bad as ever, Snowchester would be the first target on his list. Another settlement, fresh and newborn, led by the second coming of J. Schlatt? They stood no chance.

He couldn’t fail his people again.

Tubbo pulled on a pair of welding gloves. No time for thoughts. He had work to do.

#Dream SMP #Wilbur Soot #Quackity #Tubbo #Dream SMP Fic #Wilbur Soot DSMP #Yoo it's been a while huh? #Sorry 'bout that #Lotta stuff came up and this chapter sucked to write #Enderwrites

[thelastspeecher]

if you're taking halloween prompts, maybe Stan and the gucks dealing with the headless horseman coming to the guck farm?

I tapped into my Irish folklore knowledge and did my best to make a kinda spooky story.  Hopefully, I pulled it off moderately successfully!

(Oh, also, this ficlet takes place immediately following the last ficlet I posted, of Stangie going trick-or-treating.)

——————————————————————————————

              Stan parked his car outside the McGucket farmhouse. He grinned at Angie.

              “Damn, we got a huge haul,” he said.  Holding the buckets filled with candy, Angie grinned back.

              “We sure did!”

              “Time to go eat so much we make ourselves sick.”

              “Yeah!  Wait, what?”

              “I’m jokin’, Angie, don’t worry.”  Stan turned the car off and took his bucket from Angie. “C’mon.”  The two got out of the car.  Stan heard rustling.  In his peripheral vision, he could see movement.  He tossed the bucket back into the car and rushed over to stand protectively in front of Angie.  A figure emerged from the bushes.

              “What in the-” Angie started.

              “Back away, Angie,” Stan hissed.  He and Angie backed away slowly.  The figure followed, only to split away from them just as they reached the porch.  Stan watched as the figure headed for a horse tied to one of the porch rails.  Angie suddenly gripped Stan’s arms tight enough that he had to bite back a yelp of pain.

              “Stan!” Angie whispered, terrified.  “That feller don’t have no head!”

              “Yer seein’ things,” Stan said back.  He looked more closely.  His blood ran cold.  Angie was right.  The figure looked exactly like a man, but a man missing his head.  The front door opened behind them.

              “Kids, inside!”  Pa McGucket roughly dragged Stan and Angie in, then closed the door and locked it.  “Sally, the salt.”

              “On it, dear.”  Ma McGucket gently nudged Stan and Angie away from the door.  She laid a line of salt across the threshold. “I can check the other points of entry.”

              “Thank you, sweetheart,” Pa McGucket said.  Ma McGucket left.  Pa McGucket looked Stan and Angie over, relief on his face.  “I’m so glad yer safe.”

              “Uh, yeah, we- we are,” Angie squeaked.

              “What’s the deal with No-Head McGee out there?” Stan asked, jutting his thumb in the direction of said headless man.  Pa McGucket sighed.

              “He’s one of the Fair Folk,” he answered. Angie’s eyes widened.  Stan frowned.

              “The what?”

              “Oh, that’s right.  You wouldn’t know much ‘bout the Fair Folk, would ya?” Pa McGucket mumbled to himself.  “Well, come on into the livin’ room.  We’ll have a chat.”  Stan and Angie followed Pa McGucket into the living room.  Pa McGucket sat in his favorite armchair, while Stan and Angie sat on the couch.

              “All right, explain,” Stan said.  Pa McGucket raised an eyebrow at him.  “…Please.”

              “The Fair Folk have been called many things. They can be found in just ‘bout every place in the world, so’s each culture had their own name fer ‘em.  The one yer prob’ly most familiar with would be ‘fairy’.”

              “Fairy?  That ghost-looking thing was not a fairy,” Stan interjected.  Pa McGucket sighed.

              “The real Fair Folk are a far cry from the pop’lar representation of a lil lady in a sparkly dress and wings.  ‘Course, my fam’ly never called ‘em that.  We called ‘em the Fair Folk, or, on occasion, used the name they gave themselves, the aes sidhe, or just the sidhe fer short.”

              “She?” Stan said, testing out the word.  Pa McGucket nodded.  “That doesn’t sound English.”

              “It ain’t.  It’s Irish.  That’s where my fam’ly came from.”

              “I kinda figured.”

              “I had a feelin’ ya had figured that out on yer own,” Pa McGucket said, a twinkle in his eye.  “Yer quite the clever fella.”  He cleared his throat.  “As I was sayin’, the Fair Folk ain’t the fairy you’d see in a cartoon.  They’re mysterious, magical folk who manipulate perceptions of the world, an ability referred to as glamour.  They live in the hills of the old country, in a world that runs parallel to ours.  If ya wish to visit ‘em, ya need to go ‘sideways’.  At least, according to tradition.”

              “Uh…okay,” Stan said after a moment.  Angie leaned forward.

              “Pa?”

              “Yes, Junebug?”

              “Is the feller outside Seelie or Unseelie?” she asked.  Pa McGucket smiled.

              “I’m so glad to hear that yer pa’s old stories stuck in yer brilliant lil mind.”

              “Pa!” Angie whined.  Pa McGucket chuckled.

              “The Headless Horseman ain’t aligned with either Court.”  Pa McGucket turned to Stan.  “Broadly speakin’, the Fair Folk tend to belong to either the Seelie Court or the Unseelie Court.  ‘Course, there are those, like the feller outside, who opt out of the system.”

              “Let me guess,” Stan said slowly.  “Seelie is good and Unseelie is bad?”  Pa McGucket leaned back in his chair.

              “Not quite.  It ain’t wise to use such human terminology to refer to bein’s what are so far from human.  Their minds don’t work like ours, so their morals don’t, neither.  The Seelie Court is the kinder of the two, yes.  They won’t attack unless ya offend.”

              “That’s nice of them,” Stan muttered.

              “Eh.  The Fair Folk have very specific etiquette to follow, and it’s very easy to accidentally offend.  So even if yer in the presence of a Seelie, yer not out of the woods.  The Unseelie Court, they thrive on pain and suffering and chaos.”

              “So, stay away from Unseelie.”

              “Stay away from all Fair Folk,” Angie said firmly. Pa McGucket nodded.  “Some are kinder than others, but they…”  Angie scratched her cheek.  “They ain’t human.  They don’t think like we do, they don’t understand us, we don’t understand ‘em. Seelie are better, yes, but ya never want to be in the company of the Folk unless yer in complete control of the sit’ation.”

              “Exactly,” Pa McGucket said.  “There are Fair Folk on our property that we have communicated with before, and each time, we determine when and where, and protect ourselves against their glamour.”

              “Wait, what?” Angie asked.  “Pa, you’ve seen the Fair Folk before?”

              “Of course, dearie.  Grandmama and Grandpapa set up our current arrangement with ‘em back when they settled here.  And the Headless Horseman tends to drop by on Samhain.”

              “There are so many new words,” Stan groaned, putting his head in his hands.  “I feel like I’m in school.”

              “I’ve never seen him ‘fore,” Angie said, ignoring Stan.

              “You’ve never been up late enough to see him ‘fore,” Pa McGucket said.

              “The Fair Folk never go sideways to our world unless they have a reason.”

              “Sweetie, they don’t need a reason on Samhain.  It’s as much their celebration as it is ours.”

              “Fine, I’ll bite,” Stan said.  He lifted his head.  “What is Saw-win?”

              “Samhain is an ancient Irish festival to signal the end of harvest and comin’ of winter.  Tradition holds that it is when boundaries between worlds are the thinnest.” Pa McGucket shrugged.  “Don’t know how true that is, but it’s what they say. And it’s when the Headless Horseman shows up, so.”  Pa McGucket looked in the direction of the front door.  “I’m glad that this Headless Horseman appears to be dif’rent to the kind Grandmama and Grandpapa told stories ‘bout.”

              “How so?”

              “He’s never killed anyone by sayin’ their name, fer one thing,” Pa McGucket said dryly.  Stan’s mouth went dry.

              “How long does he stay before leavin’?” Angie asked. Pa McGucket shrugged.

              “Depends.  It could be a while though, you should start gettin’ ready fer bed.  It’s late.”

              “I don’t think I can sleep knowin’ he’s out there,” Angie said softly.  Stan nodded in agreement.

              “I’m not easily scared, but that guy doesn’t have a head.”

              “Don’t worry, he can’t get in here.  Not with the precautions we’ve got: holy water, blessed iron, salt, the whole nine yards.”  Stan and Angie stared at him silently.  “I can go check if he���s gone, though.”  Pa McGucket got up from his chair and headed for the front door. After a few moments, he called back to them.  “Yep. He’s gone.  Come see fer yourselves if you’d like.”  Stan and Angie headed for the door as well, Angie lagging slightly behind Stan.

              When they got to the front door, Pa McGucket had it wide open.  He stood on the porch, surveying the yard with his hands on his hips.

              “See?  No Folk here,” Pa McGucket said cheerfully.  Stan stared.  No one was there.  In fact, he was beginning to doubt he’d seen the Headless Horseman in the first place.

              “They usually leave behind a sign of some sort,” Angie said, brushing past him.  She made a beeline for where the Horseman’s horse had been tied to.  She crouched down, inspecting the soil.  Her eyes widened.  “Stan, come here.”  Reluctantly, Stan joined her.  His blood ran cold, just as it had when he first saw the Horseman.

              In the otherwise undisturbed dirt, there was a set of fresh hoofprints.

#this was fun to write! I don't try to write spooky very often lol #and TECHNICALLY I'm still posting it on Halloween! it's just...v close #Stanley McGucket AU #Stanley Pines #Angie McGucket #Pa McGucket #my writing #my stuff #ficlet #ask #nour386

[echoes-of-the-clockwork]

Book Three: Pestilence (Ignis x Reader) Chapter Seventeen

"Yes, we're finally here!" Prompto cheered as Cid docked the boat in Altissia's harbor. Once the vessel came to a complete halt, the group disembarked and headed toward the city.

Noctis was leading his companions but was stopped when the man guarding the entrance to Altissia called out to him. "Sir! What is the purpose of your visit?"

Noctis rubbed the back of his neck, trying to think of an excuse without giving away who he truly was. "Purpose? Uh..." He looked toward his friends and Cid before deciding to entrust the situation to Pestilence. "(Y/n), a little help."

The ivory-haired girl stepped past Noctis and leaned over the counter, whispering in the man's ear. The boys exchanged glances when they wondered what she could possibly be whispering to the stranger.

Then, a smile blossomed on the gatekeeper's face as the girl pulled away. "Sorry for the inconvenience, Ma'am. I hope you have a wonderful time." He opened the gate, allowing everyone through. They waved farewell to Cid as they entered Altissia.

Gladio asked the one question that was on his and the other boys' minds. "What'd you tell him?"

(Y/n) spun around and faced the boys with a grin. "Oh, just a harmless lie."

She went to turn her back and walk further into the city, but the shield grabbed her shoulder and pulled her to a stop. He was itching to know the whole truth. "Oh, no. You're not getting away that easily. Tell us what you told him."

"Your curiosity will not let this rest?" She folded her arms across her chest, tapping her finger against her upper arm.

Gladio smirked. "Nope."

"A shame, really," she sighed. "Because my lips are sealed. Your curiosity shall never be quelled."

"What?" Prompto gasped. "I want to know!"

"As I said, my lips are sealed."

Noctis, Prompto, and Gladio groaned in disbelief while Ignis was amused at their reactions. He wanted to know just as much as the others, but he remained silent as he continued to watch (Y/n) torture the others with silence.

<-----------<<<<<

After exploring a small portion of Altissia and eating a proper meal, Gladio suggested searching for the man Cid mentioned on the boat. "You wanna check Weskham's place out?"

"Yeah. "Let's all go to Maagho!"" Prompto responded cheerfully.

"Perhaps we'll even make it in time for tea," Ignis comments.

"Oh," (Y/n) gasped excitedly. "I hope we do. Altissia has quite a selection of flavorful teas. That is one thing I do remember from my first trip here."

"So, Iggy likes coffee and (Y/n) likes tea. What a match," Prompto snorts with laughter.

"Match made in heaven," Gladio snickered, eyeing the couple. "When's the date?"

Pestilence stopped and faced him with a hand on her hip. "Date?"

The shield stared down at the shorter girl. "Heard you and Iggy talkin' about it on the boat."

"Eavesdropping," Ignis corrects the brute.

"So you were listening," (Y/n) sighed. "Regardless if you overheard or eavesdropped, our private affairs are only for our ears."

Gladio looked over at the advisor, nudging him in the side with his elbow. "Think you can handle the lady?"

The tactician adjusted his glasses with a faint sigh, choosing to remain silent. The Horseman glowered weakly at the tattooed man. "What kind of question is that?"

"You're Iggy's first girlfriend."

The snowy-haired girl sighed in disbelief, looking away from Gladio. "Are you insisting Ignis doesn't know how to treat me to a proper date?"

"Far from it. He knows how to handle the ladies, but I don't think he realizes his true potential."

Pestilence placed a hand against the side of her head, heaving another sigh. "What company we keep..."

"Indeed..." Ignis added with his own exasperated sigh.

Gladio didn't hear their mumbling and gestures to an empty awaiting gondola. "Better make this quick so the lovebirds can go on a date."

"Then we better start looking now," Noctis said after a prolonged silence.

<-----------<<<<<

After a lengthy, peaceful gondola ride, the group successfully located Maagho. They stepped off the gondola and entered the bar, immediately being spotted and greeted by the man behind the counter. "Welcome to Accordo, lads and lass. Cid mentioned you'd be dropping in. Weskham Armaugh, as you've gathered." His eyes traveled over to Noctis and smirked lightly. "My word, you've grown, little prince."

Noctis hums in confusion, the man behind the bar ringing no bells in his head. Weskham chuckled at seeing the boy's confused expression. "Ah, but of course-you were only a babe at the time."

The five head over to the bar. (Y/n) sat down directly in front of Weskham, offering the man a gentle smile. "May I ask for your finest cup of tea?"

The man bowed his head slightly. "Right away, M'lady." Weskham disappeared for a couple minutes before reappearing with a hot cup of tea. "Here you are. It's on the house."

She thanked him, blew on the tea, and took a small sip. When she tasted a hint of cinnamon and vanilla, she smiled in delight. "What an exquisite, delectable taste."

Prompto guffawed at her comment. "You sound like Iggy."

"It's a blend I made myself," Weskham proclaims. "I only provide the best for one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse."

(Y/n) took another sip before setting the porcelain cup onto the matching plate. "I must have a tag with my name and status on it somewhere."

The man shook his head with an amused smirk. "Not at all. Cid gladly informed me of who you were. It's an honor to meet you, Pestilence. The Four Horsemen is one of my favorite stories to tell."

The Horseman looked up from her cup of tea. "I pray such a tale does not frighten away your customers."

"You'd be surprised how many of my customers enjoy the tale as much as myself." He looked toward the others, who sat in the chairs beside Pestilence. "So, this is your maiden visit. Enjoying it so far? You doubtless have many questions, so ask away."

Noctis' eyes narrowed in suspicion. "This country is a part of the empire, isn't it?"

"Morosely, yes..." (Y/n) muttered from in between Noctis and Ignis, her comment going unnoticed by all.

Weskham chuckles at his cautionary question. "You're wary, I understand. But there's no need to jump at every shadow. Just be aware that the terms of our independence grant the empire free reign to come and go as they please."

"We'll bear that in mind," Ignis replied.

"It's admittedly a one-sided arrangement," Weskham confesses. "Most everything we do requires Niflheim's permission, and they wouldn't knowingly permit the Oracle to appear before the public. How our government spun that is quite a mystery. Is there anything else?"

Noctis decided to ask about Lady Lunafreya first. "You really think Luna will make an address?"

Weskham nodded, resting his hands on the countertop. "If every recent radio broadcast is to be trusted, absolutely."

"Where is Lady Lunafreya?" Ignis inquired.

"In the city somewhere, but no one has caught so much as a glimpse of her. The media has been conspicuous in its silence on the matter, which speaks volumes of government intervention. That'd certainly explain the rumors of disgruntled imperial officers leaving the city."

"How suspicious," (Y/n) comments before taking another sip of her tea.

"I'll say..." Noctis muttered in agreement before asking his next question. "So you see lots of Niffs around here?"

"We do," the bar owner answered. "Sometimes even at my place. Theirs is a familiar presence, and the citizens don't think much of it. Though, the high commander did cause a stir when he showed up the other day."

"Ravus..." The soon-to-be king mumbled under his breath.

"Friend of yours?" (Y/n) asked.

"Far from it..."

"The elder brother of Lady Lunafreya," Ignis stated in a slightly hostile tone.

It didn't go unnoticed by the girl. "Not an admirer, I see."

"Hell no," Noctis scoffed.

Weskham continued once the others were silent. "So soon after they felled the Archaean in Lucis, his arrival fuels rumors that they will next come to Altissia. The empire's not content ruling all the land-they want the heavens as well."

"If one tastes the blood of sovereignty, such a thirst shall never be quenched 'til all is conquered," (Y/n) said. "King Aeshema knows such subjugation all too well."

"The daemon king?" The tactician questioned with a tone of bewilderment.

Pestilence nodded. "Yes. The reason why daemons wander Eos at night is to prevent an uprising. King Aeshema forged a contract with his subjects to keep them in check. If the daemons were to ever overthrow His Majesty, the netherworld would crumble and daemons would flock to Eos day and night."

"Couldn't he help us take down the empire? I mean, he's a powerful immortal, too," Prompto chimed in.

The Horseman shook her head with a small frown. "Unfortunately, no. If King Aeshema were to leave Hell, the daemons would run rampant. While they posses a certain level of intelligence, their thirst for control overthrows such perception. The only time the daemon king could possibly leave is when his subjects roam the land of the living, but even that is risky."

"Guess we're on our own then," Noctis sighed. He leant his arms on the countertop, asking his final question. "Is anything changed with Leviathan?"

"For now, it's business as usual at port, but word is the government will soon open the Altar of the Tidemother," Weskham explains.

"In preparation for the rite," Gladio added.

"Ah, but on the other hand, they're scrambling to stockpile emergency provisions. This begs the question: if they're anticipating that the Hydraean will wreak havoc, why would they allow the rite to proceed?"

"If knowing summoning and receiving Leviathan's power would aid in the downfall of the empire, many in governmental affairs would risk all," (Y/n) replied. "Even wrecking the city is a viable option."

"Yeah, but what about the people who live here?" Prompto asked.

"Even knowing the possible outcome of the rite, the government officials will protect their people at any costs."

"Indeed, we would," a person stated calmly. The group and Weskham turned their heads in order to see the owner of the voice.

The bar owner chortled lightly. "My dear Camelia, it's been a while."

Camelia's eyes trailed over to the four boys and girl. "I heard about your distinguished guests."

"Ah, you've an ear for gossip."

"Lady, gentlemen," Camelia rounded the bar, wishing to chat with them. "I won't waste your time nor the time of an immortal. My name is Camelia Claustra."

Ignis knew the woman's status all too well. "First secretary of the Accordo Protectorate."

The first secretary's gaze focused on Noctis. "You should know we have Lady Lunafreya in our care. And the empire demands we surrender her."

The raven-haired boy's eyes widen at the news. "What?"

"Yet I am loath to acquiesce unless we stand to profit. Hence I've come to discuss terms...with the King of Lucis. If you've a mind to talk, come to my estate." With those final words, Camelia left.

Weskham watched the elder woman walk away with a sigh. "She can be oblique at the best of times, but I assure you her heart is in the right place."

"Oh. Okay," the gunslinger muttered.

"At any rate, you must be weary from your journey. Might I suggest you seek your beds for now and ponder matters anew in the morning?"

Noctis nodded in agreement. "Yeah, think we'll do just that."

"Then, to the Leville." (Y/n) finished her tea and led the boys out of Maagho. While the city has changed since her last visit, she still was able to navigate the streets with ease and find the Leville without asking for directions. She stood in front of the hotel with her hands on her hips, the four boys lined up behind her. "Here we are, gentlemen."

"Guess the city hasn't changed much if you were able to find this place without asking for help," Noctis comments.

"There are an abundance of new buildings and businesses, but the street layout is nearly the same as it was a century ago," she explained. "The Leville is where Raiden and I spent our nights after we exhausted ourselves exploring the city. Also, it seems you've a guest, Noctis."

Noctis looked into the lobby and spotted a familiar figure. He entered the Leville as he eyed the woman. "Gentiana."

With sealed eyes, the messenger delivered her cryptic message. "Ahead lies a future uncertain, yet sure is the astral memory, wherein the King may walk." Before the boy could react, she vanished.

Noctis stared at the spot Gentiana once stood as the others stood behind him. Prompto was the first to break the silence. "Well, that was...sudden."

"I expect no less from a divine being," (Y/n) stated.

Noctis turned around to face the girl. "You know Gentiana?"

"She has visited the Inner Sanctum countless of times. We'd chat for hours over tea," Pestilence smiles. "Her wisdom is vast and I find joy in conversing with her."

"I never can understand what she says," Prompto confesses under his breath.

"No need to linger on the subject," (Y/n) said, deciding to change the subject once she heard a small growl from the blonde's stomach. "You four must be famished. Shall we search for an eatery?"

"Definitely," Noctis agreed in a heartbeat. "I'm starving."

"But shouldn't we go and talk to Camelia first?" The gunslinger questioned.

"Yeah, like we have any other option," Gladio stated.

Ignis, on the other hand, opposed visiting the first secretary so soon. "There's no telling how events will unfold. Let us prepare before making our way. I also suggest we find an eatery."

"Yeah, she can sit tight a while. My stomach can't," Noctis said, leaving the Leville lobby with the others in tow.

<-----------<<<<<

After a lengthy, peaceful meal, (Y/n) stood up from the table and wandered over to the edge of the nearby canal. She stared down at the glistening water, watching the sun bounce off the surface.

When she heard a group of scrambling footsteps, she turned around and saw Noctis, Prompto, and Gladio rushing off. She blinked owlishly as she watched them vanish into the streets of Altissia without her or Ignis. She crossed her arms as the advisor sauntered over to her. "My, they seem to be in a hurry."

"It appears so," Ignis sighed in exasperation.

The Horseman offered him an innocent smile, knowing what the three boys had in mind and decided to not waste the time they were graciously given. "Since those three scampered off, we've time for ourselves. Shall we explore?"

"Let's," Ignis simply replied.

The two departed from the eatery and began exploring what all Altissia had to offer.

#ffxv x reader #ffxv #final fantasy xv x reader #final fantasy xv #ignis x reader #ignis scientia #prompto argentum #gladiolus amicitia #Noctis Lucis Caelum

[ti-bae-rius]

Ty and Irene fic

Probs read GOTSM first. This is based on my own situation with my self-trained therapy cat as well as a lot of secondary research and talking to other therapy animal owners. Yeet. 

CW/TW for meltdowns/panic attacks (and a bit of involuntary injury as a result)

“Have you ever considered training Irene to do therapy?”

Ty looked across at where Anush was on the floor, tickling Irene’s stomach. The fur there was completely white in contrast to her grey and black coat. Ty clicked his teeth at her as she locked her claws around Anush’s arm, but he didn’t seem to mind. He just shook her free fondly.

“Therapy?” Ty asked, puzzled. Perhaps he’d heard wrong; he had been reading at the same time after all. “But she can’t speak.”

Anush laughed. “Not talking therapy – animal therapy.”

Ty’s stele rolled off the end of his bed as he readjusted, trying to get comfortable. Irene set about scrabbling under the bed and returned with the stele between her teeth, depositing it expectantly before Ty, who rewarded her with ear scratches.

“See? She’s already so smart,” Anush pointed out. “It would be easy to train her.”

“She is a very fast learner,” Ty considered, which was true. When she’d grown big and healthy enough, he’d started letting her out onto Dimmet Tarn, calling her name until she learnt to come back. Now, when he had classes, he let her out to explore and hunt with Livvy keeping an eye on her, and before dinner he’d call her back to him. She always came. In fact, recently, she’d begun waiting in the treeline for him, bounding out as soon as he shouted her and barrelling happily into his legs. Maybe Anush was right. He usually was.

Anush was a year older than Ty and one of the wisest people he’d ever met. People often tried to sell you on how great they were, Ty found, but not Anush. He’d told Ty all about being in the Cohort, about the fact he’d been in the group who tortured Kieran. Nevertheless, Ty liked him anyway. He was honest and loyal and showed Ty all the tips and tricks of the Scholomance – which professors to befriend and how, secret tunnels, special archival collections. Besides, when Livvy had gone to Devon and Ty was in the infirmary, Anush had looked after Irene and brought just the right Sherlock Holmes book from Ty’s shelf to cheer him up, points which Ty thought very important in a potential friend.

He rubbed the chain of the heron necklace he always wore across his lips. Livvy’s locket hung on his noticeboard, pinned in place. Now that Livvy was here with him, it didn’t seem right. When the locket was all he had left, it had rested permanently against his chest, but now he’d hung it up so she could share it. It was hers, after all. Instead, the heron pendant hung around his neck. He tried not to think too much about its original owner, all the way in Devon. It hurt too badly. However, the necklace was a handy and subtle fidget toy, so Ty wore it. And sure, maybe a bit for him, but that made his chest ache to dwell on. He had a new life, far away from Ty and all their history. Maybe it was time Ty stopped waiting for him to come back.

“So what do you think?”

Ty gave Anush a look and Irene made one of her growls of contentment, hopping up onto the bed beside Ty. He nodded, tickling Irene’s chin absently.

“It sounds good,” Ty agreed. “It’s a great idea. So, how does it work?”

 Anush knew a lot about therapy animals, but then Anush knew a lot about most things. As he’d told Ty, his father had been an occupational therapist before meeting Anush’s mother and ascending to be with her. He’d taught Anush parts of what he’d studied for so many years, and now Anush was teaching Ty by extrapolating his father’s knowledge. Lateral application of knowledge was something Ty found strangely attractive, particularly when the person doing it was as good-looking as Anush. But every time he felt himself feeling like that towards Anush, his heart would race and he’d remember what happened last time. He hadn’t cared about Ty. That was obvious. Moving to the other side of the world was a tacit message even Ty couldn’t misread.

Together, Ty and Anush had made a list of things Ty could use some help with, and ways Irene could assist. As it turned out, Ty had been right; she was a fast learner. Within a couple of months, Irene was well-trained to help her owner as and when, growing bigger day by day, and exploring further into the woods. Still, Ty worried.

“Do you think she’s small?”

Livvy, floating just above the snow, glanced across. Before, when she hovered just above the snow banks, she’d be taller than Ty. However, in the months since arriving at the Scholomance, her twin had hit one growth spurt after another and now stood just a little taller than her. Stubbornly, she lifted a couple of inches more off the ground to match his height.

“Irene?” Livvy asked, cocking her head. “I don’t know. How big are Carpathian lynxes meant to be?”

“I mean, she’s less than a year old – eight months probably. They’re not a big species but she does look little. I think she was a runt and being so ill when you found her has stunted her development,” Ty told her, watching the kitten play, stamping down snow with her big paws and shaking lingering flakes from her fur. Livvy supposed she did look kind of small, but Ty didn’t seem to love her any less for it. If anything, he seemed more protective of her, and more able to relate in some way. An outsider.

“I’m really glad you have her,” Livvy said and Ty glanced up at her quizzically, prompting her to explain further. “I can’t do some of the stuff for you that I used to, stuff that helped you. I’m glad Irene can lend a hand.”

“Or a paw,” Ty grinned, and Livvy smiled.

“Or that,” she agreed, and tried not to feel too sad that she was less helpful in her current state than a lynx was.

“I wouldn’t have her if you hadn’t found her,” Ty pointed out and Livvy felt her gaze soften. People sometimes said Ty wasn’t very perceptive to how others were feeling, but Livvy had always disagreed; he always knew just what to say to cheer her up. If she could, she’d have hugged him. Instead, she floated a little closer and returned the gesture when he gave her a smile warm enough to melt the snow beneath their feet.

 Ty had written to Julian asking if he could bring his pet home. They’d been hesitant until he explained – she lived in his room, she was no trouble and, besides, he didn’t have anyone to look after her until he got back. However, when he stepped through the portal home at the end of his first year, his family looked ill-prepared for Irene. Ty looked around at the others, staring silently, until Dru broke the silence with a burst of laughter.

“Brilliant!” she giggled, head thrown back. “Amazing! By the Angel, Julian thought it was a fish. I was betting on a lizard. No one guessed ‘tiny puma’ though did they?”

“She’s not a puma. She’s a Carpathian lynx,” Ty responded, looking almost offended. “Look at her. She doesn’t even look like a puma. Look at her ears!” Dru snorted.

Helen took a deep breath and smiled. “We’ll make it work. We’re just glad you’re home, Ty. How’s your first year been?”

Ty didn’t answer. It was strange being home in L.A., too warm and loud and crowded. He loved his family, but it was a lot all at once, and he felt distant and overwhelmed. A familiar feeling on his hand made him look down. Irene was licking his palm and nudging her head into his fingers. He forced his breath to even out and rubbed Irene’s ears between his thumb and forefinger, twiddling the tuft of black hair that tipped them, making her purr.

“I need to go and unpack,” Ty told his family. “I’ll come back down and talk after.”

He picked up his bags and set off upstairs, Irene trailing at his ankles. Julian leaned against the hearth he stood beside, smiling. It was good, after so long, to see Ty’s face again.

 Upstairs, Ty rested his back against his bedroom door and pressed a hand to his chest, feeling shaky. Just one wall away was Livvy’s room, the bed she’d never sleep in again. For fifteen years, Ty had spent half of his time in that room with Livvy. They sat in her bed and watched documentaries together, fell asleep sat up with the laptop balanced between them. She never set an alarm in the mornings because Ty knocked on her door to wake her. She shoved notes under his door before they got phones to organise secret twin meetings on the roof. Now, Livvy’s ghost lingered in her room and Ty felt her pain in his own heart. It felt like he could hear her crying from the next room, though he knew that wasn’t possible. His breath was coming in gasps.

Pressure on his legs made him glance down. Irene was in her hind legs, pawing at him, and he sat down in acquiescence. Ty raised a hand to his mouth, chewing nervously at his knuckles, but Irene batted at his hand with a paw, whining.

“Sorry, Irene,” Ty mumbled and pulled her into his lap, letting her warm body provide relaxing pressure. His chin slumped to his chest and she butted at his brow with hers, chirruping soothingly. He wrapped his arms around her, stroking his fingers through her soft fur, and his breath began to even out.

It was somewhat of a surprise when Ty opened his door to see who was knocking to find Tavvy there.

“Can I pet your cat?” Tavvy asked, smiling sweetly. One of his bottom front teeth had fallen out and his gappy smile only added to the illusion he was younger than he was. Ty nodded and clicked his teeth to beckon Irene, who was cleaning her paws on Ty’s bed. Tavvy held out a hand for Irene to sniff and stroked her head happily. “Hello kitty!” Tavvy said, and Ty’s heart twisted. It was too much like his name. He hurried to correct Tavvy.

“Her name is Irene.”

“Can we bring her downstairs to show the others?” Tavvy asked. Ty hesitated but nodded.

“Sure. She could do with being let outside for a while anyway.”

Tavvy whooped and set off downstairs, calling Irene after him. She stayed loyally by Ty’s feet until he patted her on the back, at which point she scampered off after Tavvy, Ty following a beat behind.

 Livvy lingered nearby as Ty sat with the others on the beach. He knew how separated she felt, unable to bridge the gap between them and her. She would have to live vicariously through her twin forever, and it was all his fault.

“Hey, Ty,” Julian said, sitting down beside him on the sand. “How are you doing?”

Pulled from his reverie, Ty nodded before realising it wasn’t a yes or no question. “I’m okay,” Ty smiled, unsure whether or not he sounded convincing. “How was your travel year with Emma?”

Julian’s face broke into a grin and gazed off to where Emma was dancing through the surf with Cristina. She and Kieran had accompanied Mark on his trip home to see Ty back from the Scholomance. Emma and Cristina clung to each other, laughing in the small, white-tipped waves that splashed at their ankles. For years, Emma had been afraid of the ocean, but she seemed perfectly at peace with it now. Perhaps time did heal, Ty considered hopefully. Or love.

His chest twinged.

He hardly took in the photos Jules was showing him on his phone from their travel year. Emma pretending to push over the leaning tower of Pisa, Julian at the Louvre looking at some beautiful art, the two of them kissing under the Grecian sunset.

“Hey, what’s that?”

Ty’s hand faltered where he rubbed the necklace chain between his fingers.

“Livvy’s locket,” Ty said quickly, but Julian had caught hold of the charm before Ty could shove it down the front of his shirt.

“A bird,” Julian said, ignoring Ty’s comment. “I never would’ve expected that. A bee perhaps. Or a lynx.” He grinned. Ty didn’t return the gesture.

“It was a gift,” he muttered, feeling increasingly hot and breathless. Ty studiously avoided all mention of him or things that might act as a reminder. When Livvy tried to talk about it, he put his headphones on. When Anush asked about his life before the Scholomance, he skimmed right over that month – a month; how had they only known each other a month? – and he knew Anush didn’t press because it was around the time Livvy died. Ty felt bad that wasn’t the reason why that time ached with an intensity that hollowed out his bones. When other Centurions talked about their girlfriends back home, when he saw people kissing in alcoves or passing coy notes accompanied by shy blushes in class, he pretended it didn’t exist. Because that should’ve been him – could’ve been him. Livvy had told Ty to write him a letter, but he couldn’t. Writing a letter, even a completely platonic apology letter, would still feel like a poor imitation of the letter he wanted to write.

“Oh, a gift?” Jules asked, and a teasing smirk crept across his mouth, curling his lips up in a grin. “Anyone special?”

Ty felt Livvy’s head whip round, could see Julian mouth that he was just kidding, but he could hear anything. No, that wasn’t true; it was just that the one thing he could hear was the one voice he wished to every day saying the thing Ty wished he could forget:

‘You only care what’s best for you.’

‘You raised Livvy for you, not for her or anyone else.’

‘You knew the damage it might do.’

‘You only thought of yourself.’

‘I wish I’d never known you.’

 He’d cried when Kit had said it, but he was sobbing now, his whole body shaking like a bowstring just loosed. His hands were in fists at his temples but shook so violently they dug into his brow and the corners of his eyes, making his vision blur. He was almost glad for it because every other sense was being bombarded. The sea salt smelt more like saline, stinging his nose and making it smell coppery and bloody. The cold air tasted sharp and choked him as he tried to draw in breaths, like swallowing sharp stones that scraped his throat raw on the way down. Julian was trying to touch something at the sweaty nape of Ty’s neck, but the sensation made him writhe away, groaning. He could hear faceless, blurry people approaching, saying his name and asking questions and by the Angel he couldn’t breathe he couldn’t breathe hecouldn’tbreathe.

A growl made its way through the cloud of voices and noises that flooded Ty’s brain. The sand shifted beneath him like someone had moved. Hunching over, head on his knees, was starting to make his body cramp, but that was so far down the list of frightening physical sensations he was experiencing right now it hardly registered.

Something hit his forehead, nudged against it insistently. He lifted his chin fractionally and something wedged under it, and his throat opened a little so the rocks in his throat didn’t feel quite so big or sharp. When a pressure on his chest pressed him to lie back, he didn’t fight it. He didn’t wriggle away when a weight settled on his chest, purring, and licking his hand where it rested over his racing heart. After a while, he stroked Irene’s fur with his free hand.

“I’m okay,” Ty rasped, voice tight and scratchy. His tongue felt fat and useless. With some effort, he willed his eyes to open, wincing at the sunlight. He covered his face with a hand and glanced around, spotting his family a few feet away, looking concerned.

“Ty?” Mark said, taking a step forward. Ty struggled up, dusting the sand from his hair. It felt matted and chalky. A chain dangled from Mark’s fingers and Irene batted at it curiously with a paw. Ty took the chain and squinted at the rusty-looking clasp.

“Is that blood?” Ty asked, and Mark nodded.

“Can I put an Iratze on your neck?” he asked. Ty put a hand to his nape and winced. “I think you were trying to take it off, but your hands were all numb and shaky. You just caught yourself a few times. Can I rune it?”

Ty held his hair aside so Mark could press the stele to his skin. He flinched a little but the pain subsided quickly.

“A heron?” Mark asked, looking at the charm. “Who gave you a heron necklace?”

“Oh…God…” Emma said, putting a hand over her mouth, and dawning realisation broke across Julian’s face at the same time. However, it was Tavvy who broke the moment, much to Ty’s relief.

“Irene is so smart.” He knelt down in the sand by Ty and she climbed into the younger boy’s lap, her big paws kneading inquisitively into the sand.

“She is,” Dru agreed. “Like a weird little genius puma.”

“Not a puma,” Ty retorted.

“I have to be honest, when you arrived with her I was a little apprehensive,” Helen admitted. “But she’s good for you. You’re good for each other.”

Irene clambered off Tavvy and ran down the beach towards the shore, making Ty look over to where Livvy was crouched in the waves, watching her family from a distance.

“What’s she seen?” Emma asked and Ty shrugged, smiling as Livvy bent to Irene, her phantom limbs patting the lynx regardless of their corporeality.

#irene #Ty Blackthorn #tiberius blackthorn #gotsm #ghosts of the shadow market #kitty #kit herondale #ty and kit #fic #fanfic #tda #the dark artifices #the wicked powers #twp #Livvy Blackthorn #ty and livvy #livvy and ty

[setaripendragon]

Trapped in the Amber - 1x03

Book 1 :: 01 - 02 - 03 Not a lot to say about this one, except that, on watching this episode for the first time, I was severely disappointed that Sam and Dean went to all that trouble to make those Homeland Security badges, and didn’t even think to use them to, oh, I don’t know, stop a plane from taking off? (Also, ngl, so mad that the continuity didn’t remember that they’d had Dean dealing with poltergeists before when they got to the episode Home.) Also, Moonfiends are completely made up by me, based on this one little bit of folklore I found about young women who look at a blue moon getting pregnant from it and giving birth to monsters. SPN lore is surprisingly limited for a show with hundreds of episodes, so I’m going to be tossing in more of my own lore to fill in the gaps in this story. (This being mostly self-indulgent nonsense, there’s going to be a lot of lore, a lot of ethical debates, and at least some linguistics.) And this chapter is dedicated to everyone who’s liked the last two parts, I absolutely wouldn’t have had the courage to continue posting this without you. Especially @spideypoolalways, and @lyratalus​ and @millieccino for those lovely comments <3

Allentown, Pennsylvania – Saturday 3rd December 2005

Meira makes Dean tell her about the poltergeist on their way to Pennsylvania. It’s a good story, and it’s also a reminder that John Winchester is a real person, her grandfather by blood. She knew about him, of course, but he was long dead by the time she came into the world, and honestly, she’d never given him much thought. Now, she’s suddenly aware that if it was her in her dad’s place, she wouldn’t be half so composed.

They don’t even stop to find a motel before heading to the airport where Jerry works. He greets Dean with no small amount of relief, and then shakes hands all around. “And this must be Sam, right?” He asks when he gets to Sam.

“That’s right.” Sam confirms. “And this is Meira.”

“Pleasure.” Jerry says, sincere but perfunctory, before leading them inside. He reminisces a little on the way to his office, and Meira listens in fascination, but once they get there, it’s right down to business. “Okay, listen to this.” He says. “It sounded like it was up your alley. Normally I wouldn’t have access to this. It’s the cockpit voice recorder for United Britannia flight 2485. It was one of ours.”

At first, it’s just a crackly recording of a may day signal, and then it fuzzes out to be replaced by a sound that makes Meira reach for her blade on pure instinct. Pain lances through her, and she flinches hard.

“Hey, are you okay?” Jerry asks.

Meira nods. “Took me by surprise, is all.” She says dismissively.

“Alright, well, it took off from here.” Jerry explains. “Crashed about 200 miles south. Now, they’re saying mechanical failure. Cabin depressurised somehow, nobody knows why. Over a hundred people on board, only seven got out alive.”

“Seven people survived?” Meira echoes in surprise.

Jerry’s eyebrows furrow. “That surprises you?” He asks carefully.

Meira shrugs with a grimace. “That sounded demonic to me. Sometimes spirits can affect radios and such, but it’s usually just static, psychic residue. That was way too loud to be residue. And demons aren’t known for leaving survivors.” It isn’t like she can tell them that she understands Hellspeech well enough. It isn’t like human languages, which she’s always been able to understand, but Crowley was one of the few creatures in existence that hadn’t thought she was an abomination. Or, he had, it’s just he didn’t have a problem with abominations, so he’d taught her how to understand his, heh, ‘native’ language.

Yeah, she definitely isn’t telling these two hunters, who aren’t yet her dad and uncle, that the King of Hell, or King of the Crossroads as he is now, taught her how to understand demons. Or that this one is fucking gloating on the radio of a plane it had just caused to crash.

Jerry pales. Sam and Dean both turn to stare at her, eyebrows raised. “Demonic?” Jerry asks, quiet and strained.

“I can’t be sure.” Meira lies. “But that would be my guess, yeah.”

“Well,” Sam says slowly, “we’re going to need passenger manifests, a list of survivors, and-”

“And any way we could take a look at the wreckage?” Dean interjects.

Jerry takes a breath to marshal himself, and Meira is actually impressed by how well he  “The other stuff is no problem, but the wreckage?” He shakes his head grimly. “The NTSB has it locked down in an evidence warehouse. No way I’ve got that kind of clearance.”

Dean nods slowly, and then shakes his head in dismissal. “No problem.”

Meira has to bite back a grin, and once they’ve gotten the lists of passengers and survivors from Jerry and they’re leaving, she nudges Dean with her elbow and asks, “No problem, huh?” Dean just grins back, smug and cocky, and, oh, yeah, this is going to be good.

A short drive and an endless wait later, which Meira fills with reading a paperback she picked up from a bookshop across the street, and Sam passes with pacing and frustration until Meira gives in and starts reading aloud in an over-dramatic fashion, Dean returns with brand new fake IDs for all of them. Sam, of course, immediately remembers his impatience, and huffs, “You’ve been in there forever!”

“You can’t rush perfection.” Dean retorts, flipping one of the cards over to Meira, who catches it between the pages of her book, then retrieves it eagerly.

“Homeland security?” Sam asks incredulously.

Meira whoops. “Oh, man. Yes.”

“See?” Dean says to Sam. “She knows an awesome idea when she hears one.”

“The doors this baby is going to open.” Meira agrees in delight. “The prank opportunities will be endless and glorious.”

Sam rounds on her, while Dean bursts out laughing. “Pranks?”

Meira blinks at him in feigned wide-eyed innocence. “Don’t tell me you’ve never wanted to scare the shit out of someone by threatening them with charges of treason or something.” She points out. She wishes Pabbi were here, or Jace. They’ve always been better at coming up with the truly hilarious pranks. Sam just shakes his head and gets back in the car. Meira and Dean share a grin, and then follow to discuss the case and plan their next move.

Which turns out to be interrogating the passenger in the psychiatric hospital. Meira keeps quiet and lets Dean and Sam do most of the talking, wishing she could see the state of the man’s soul. She doesn’t really need to, to know he’s disturbed by what he saw, but it would be nice to know how disturbed. Whether he’d prefer the illusion of normality, or if doubting his own perception is doing more harm than good. In her own, limited, twenty-five years of experience with human souls, she’s never seen anything so damaging as doubting their own perception, but in some cases, she has to admit that the lie does seem to help people hold it together through otherwise traumatic incidents.

“It’s okay.” Sam says, as Meira considers everything she can read from Max Jaffrey’s body language and comes to a decision. She’s pretty sure Sam and Dean are going to hate it, but they can suck it up and deal. “Just tell us what you thought you saw. Please.” Sam entreats, and it works.

Max sighs, and starts, haltingly, to talk. “There was… this- man.” He begins, stops, licks his lips nervously. “And… uh, he had these… eyes.” He gestures vaguely towards his own face.

“Black eyes?” Meira asks.

Max’s head jerks up and he stares at her with wide eyes, while Sam and Dean both turn to stare at her. “Y-yeah. How did you…?”

Meira takes a step forward from where she was loitering, and claims the last open seat, opposite Max. “You weren’t seeing things.” She tells him simply.

“Meira.” Dean growls.

“Man deserves to know he’s not crazy.” Meira replies without looking away from Max, who’s shaking his head.

“That can’t have been real.” He protests. “I saw him-”

“Saw him what?” Sam prompts gently, although the look Meira sees him direct at her out of the corner of her eye is hard.

Max’s next breath shakes. “He- he opened the emergency exit. But that’s- that’s impossible. I mean, I looked it up, there’s something like two tonnes of pressure on that door.” He insists, looking between the three of them, pleading for an explanation, any explanation, that makes sense.

“Do you really believe you were seeing things?” Meira asks him.

He stares at her, then swallows hard. It’s several long, long minutes before he finally answers. “No.” He says, so quiet Meira almost can’t hear him. “Some-something made the plane crash, right? And if it wasn’t- wasn’t what I saw, then… what was it?”

Meira smiles at him, gentle but proud. “It was exactly what you saw.”

“But how?” Max demands.

“The black eyes are a fairly good indicator that the man you saw was possessed by a demon.” Meira informs him, and Max’s eyes widen in belated fear. “Demons do possess far greater strength than your average human, so one could absolutely open the emergency exit while the plane was still in the air.”

“Oh.” Max says thickly. “Demons actually exist.”

“I’m afraid so.” Meira agrees wryly. When it seems Max is too busy processing that to have any immediate questions, she nods. “Do you have your phone with you?” She asks. Max shakes his head wordlessly. “Do you know your number off by heart?” She asks, not hopeful.

But, it turns out, there are some benefits to being stuck in 2005. People aren’t quite so used to their phones doing their thinking for them, and some of them do, still, memorise their own phone numbers. Max rattles his off without a problem, and Meira whips her own phone out to save it. Then she sends him a text. “There. Now, when you get out of here, if you have any questions, you can call me.” She explains.

Max nods. Then he shakes his head. “You’re not Homeland Security, are you?” He asks.

Meira grins at him. “Special branch.” She tells him, then raps her knuckles on the table, and stands. “Don’t worry, Mr Jaffrey, we’ll get the thing that did this.” She assures him, and a little of the fear in him melts away as he nods.

It isn’t until they’re out of the hospital that Sam rounds on her. Meira honestly wasn’t expecting it. “What the hell was that?” He demands. Meira stares at him incredulously. “Why did you tell him that? You scared him half to death!”

“Um, no.” Meira snaps, indignant at this false accusation. “I didn’t. The demon did.”

“And he was perfectly fine thinking he’d imagined the whole thing, so why did you-?!”

“Checking yourself into a psychiatric hospital is the exact opposite of fine!”

“He would have gotten over it! And then he could go home and carry on his normal life, but instead, you had to go and drop demons on him!”

“You have no guarantee that he would have gotten over it!”

“You have no guarantee how well he’ll handle demons, but that didn’t stop you!”

“Oh, so we should have just joined in on gaslighting him, then?”

“Whoa! Okay, time out!” Dad barks, physically inserting himself between Meira and Rob- No, it’s Sam, Sam who is not yet her uncle and Rob hasn’t been born yet. Meira blinks rapidly as she backs up a step, and then another. She didn’t realise how in each other’s face they were getting until Dad intervened. Dean. Until Dean intervened. She closes her eyes for a moment, trying not to feel too much like her family’s been ripped away from her all over again. “Okay, let’s all just chill.” Dean instructs firmly. “What’s done is done, Sam.”

“It shouldn’t have been.” Sam insists through gritted teeth. “People shouldn’t have to deal with all this unless they don’t have any other choice.”

“Hey, man, I agree with you, but there’s no helping it now.” Dean repeats. Sam scowls.

“He already had to deal with it. It nearly killed him.” Meira points out. “I’m not going to go around shouting it from the rooftops, okay. Not least of all because people would think I’m nuts, but… Do you know how hard it is, to have the whole world telling you that you’re the problem? That there’s something wrong with you, not something wrong out there? No one deserves that!”

Sam sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose, and it’s a gesture that’s going to carry through the rest of his life, all the way until he’s in his sixties and a father and an uncle exasperated with his oh so headstrong niece. But instead of patiently and logically ripping all of Meira’s dreams of chaos and glory to shreds, he just shakes his head and heads for the Impala without another word. It leaves Meira feeling strangely like she’s the one who just lost that argument. Or maybe lost something more important by winning it.

“You know, Sam ran away.” Dean says suddenly.

Meira startles, and is half an instant away from saying something really stupid, like ‘yeah, I know, Dad, you’ve told me this story about a dozen times’, but manages to stop herself just in time. “Oh?” She asks instead, her voice wobbling slightly.

Dean glances at her and grimaces faintly in apology. “Yeah. He wanted to get away from hunting, from the supernatural, be normal or whatever.” He shrugs as if to say the notion baffles him. It baffles Meira, too, but then, she never has been and never will be ‘normal’, and she’s never really felt like her life was missing anything. “Then the thing that killed our mom killed his girlfriend.”

“Ouch. I’m sorry.” Meira says, trying desperately to remember that this is supposed to be news to her, not ancient family history.

“Yeah, well, it makes it pretty hard for him to argue that you should’ve let that guy live in ignorant bliss. He tried that, and it came back to bite him, it could come back to bite this guy, too. But I think he wishes the world worked that way. It ought to. People shouldn’t have to be afraid of the monsters in the dark.”

“People shouldn’t have to be afraid of robbers, either, but we still lock our doors at night.” Meira replies softly. “If people knew, if it was common knowledge what was out there, yeah, maybe they’d be afraid, but maybe they’d line their doors and windows in salt, and get anti-possession tattoos, and then go right on living their normal lives.”

Dean huffs a laugh. “Yeah, maybe.” He doesn’t sound like he believes it, though. Meira can’t exactly blame him. There’s a reason the supernatural has stayed more or less hidden for the last several hundred years, and it’s because most people don’t want to believe it’s true, so they refuse to see it. “Still think it was kind of shitty to just drop demons on him and then leave.”

Meira pulls a face, hunching down against a lecture she knows probably isn’t coming. “I gave him my number. And once we’re done with this, I’ll probably call him if he doesn’t call me and give him the full lecture on demons and theology as it applies to reality.” Somewhere Dean and Sam can’t hear her to question her in depth knowledge of the workings of Hell.

“You hunted demons before?” Dean asks in surprise, finally starting towards the Impala as well.

The answer is yes. On a normal day, demons wouldn’t really be difficult for her. She is anathema to them, after all. “No.” Meira lies.

“Then how do you know enough to give the full lecture?” Dean asks, giving her a look as he opens the driver’s door. Meira doesn’t answer until they’re both in the car with a sulking Sam, and once they’re in, Dean doesn’t give her the opportunity. “You said you don’t really hunt, but you’re a freaking encyclopedia. Moonfiends?” He prompts.

Meira sighs, and resigns herself to cobbling bits and pieces of the truth into a coherent whole, because infinite angelic memory isn’t something she’s going to bring up. “Okay, that one is because my best friend is a moonfiend, so I got a first person account.” She defends. “But my aunt and uncle keep- kept a supernatural library, and I read a lot as a kid.”

“Huh.” Dean muses as they pull out onto the road. “Okay, I’m just gonna ask. You best friend is a moonfiend?” He sounds incredulous.

Meira pulls a face at him through the rear view mirror. “Azura.” She confirms defiantly.

“What exactly is a moonfiend?” Sam asks, turning to look at her, putting aside his irritation in favour of academic curiosity. Meira beams fondly at him, because this is why Sam has always been her favourite uncle. “I know you said they’re kind of like mothmen, but mothmen are a really specific type of vengeful nature spirit.”

“Well, no, they’re more like furies. They’re not spirits, they’re corporeal, but they’re born from… desecrated ground. Furies are born from human sins against humans, mothmen are born from human sins against nature.” Meira explains, leaning forward as she gets into explaining. “A moonfiend is actually more like a werewolf in metaphysical characteristics, but like mothmen in physical characteristics.”

“So, they’re subject to the phases of the moon?” Sam checks.

Meira nods. “A moonfiend is born when a virgin, and that’s not just a sexual virgin, but a magical and metaphysical virgin, too, stares too long at an unfiltered blue moon.”

Dean actually takes a moment away from watching the road to turn and stare at her. Sam gapes for several minutes, until he finally manages to ask. “Blue moons happen every three years. Why aren’t they everywhere?”

“Well, half the time the pregnancy kills the mother before the baby is viable. Or the mother kills the baby after she’s given birth because, well, it’s pretty obviously not human. All that on top of just how hard it is to count as a metaphysical virgin these days.” Meira points out. “Or what counts as unfiltered. I mean, glasses, smog, clouds, astral disturbances.”

“Astral disturbances?” Sam questions.

“Okay!” Dean says loudly, interrupting Meira before she can even start to explain. “I’m glad you two have made up, you nerds, but can we figure out our next step here? I don’t know about you guys, but I’ve never hunted demon before.” Meira has to sit back and let the weirdness of that statement wash over her. This is her Dad’s first ever demon hunt. Weird. “Are we even sure it is a demon?” He asks, glancing back at Meira and sounding like he wishes he could hope, but he doesn’t. “I mean, this doesn’t exactly seem like demon MO… does it?”

Meira grimaces. “It’s not tempting mortals to sin, sure, but… they like to spread pain and suffering, death and destruction. It’s like a hobby.” She chirps, all dark humour.

“And this one’s hobby is plane crashes?” Dean demands incredulously. “That seems a little… I don’t know, modern.” He mutters, and Meira snickers. “Jesus. Okay. Evolving with the times or not, it’s still gotta be possessing someone right?” Meira nods when Dean’s eyes flicker to her in the mirror. “Great, so it could be anyone right now. How the hell are we gonna find this thing?” He asks, and Meira’s heart leaps into her throat. It’s stupid, she knows that Dean’s never done this before, but he’s her dad and he sounds overwhelmed and that scares her.

“Dean?” Sam asks, obviously picking up on the same thing. “What…?”

Dean sighs. “I don’t know, man, this is kind of out of our league, don’t you think? Demon’s aren’t like the rest of the shit we hunt. Even wendigos, they still- there’s still rhyme and reason to what they do, you know? Demons, man…” He pauses and sighs, hands going white-knuckled on the wheel. “This is… this is big, Sam. I wish Dad was here.”

“Yeah.” Sam agrees quietly, staring intently out of the wind-shield. “Me too.”

Meira swallows and doesn’t say ‘me three’, even though she really wants to. She wants all of her dads. She wants her grace free so that she’s not quite so helpless without them. “Hey.” She says, and ploughs on even though her voice shakes a little. “We can do this. Okay, it might be an entire order of magnitude bigger than a vengeful spirit, but it’s the same basics, right? So, how do we find our monster once we’ve figured out what it is?”

“We figure out what it wants.” Sam says practically. “Because that’s how we’ll know where it’s going to be.” Then he shakes his head. “But if all it wants is to cause plane crashes… I mean, do you have any idea how many flights take off from even just one state every day? There’s no way we could find it.”

That is a good point. Meira grimaces. She’s still trying to figure out how the hell they can do anything about this when Dean slams a flat palm against the wheel, making both her and Sam jump. “Son of a bitch.” He swears sharply, in a tone of revelation. “The survivors.”

Meira blinks. “Dean?” Sam asks, in equal bewilderment.

“The message, on the voice recorder. The demon, it said-”

“‘No survivors.’” Sam echoes. “But there were, there were seven.”

“Yeah, and if this were a vengeful spirit…” Dean trails off pointedly.

“It’d want to finish the job.” Sam realises, nodding along. Then he dives on the bag at his feet to pull out the list of passengers and survivors.

“It was gloating.” Meira interjects, a touch amused. “Prematurely. It’s gotta be so pissed it failed to kill everyone on that flight. I mean, talk about embarrassing.” Dean snorts. “So, now we know what it wants. Now we’ve just gotta figure out where it’s going to be.”

“Do you think…” Sam begins, tapping a finger rapidly on the side of the sheet with the survivors on it. “I mean, if it was a spirit, I’d say for sure, but… Do you think it’ll want to stick to killing them in plane crashes? Because that would be a way to narrow down who it’s going after next.” He points out.

“Sounds like a lead to me.” Dean agrees, and Sam immediately pulls out his phone and starts scanning over the list, before dialling a number.

“I mean, demons basically are vengeful spirits, just ramped up to a thousand on a scale of one to ten.” Meira muses to Dean while Sam hangs up and tries another. “So, yeah, some patterns of behaviour probably do carry over, at least a little.”

“That is so not comforting.” Dean mutters.

“Hey, Jerry, it’s Sam.” Sam greets. “I was just trying to get in touch with the pilot. You said he was a friend, so I thought you might-” He trails off, and then snaps “Dean.” so urgently that Dean automatically takes his eyes off the road to look over at him on high alert. “The pilot’s going up in less than an hour.”

“Shit.” Dean swears, and floors the gas.

“Look, Jerry,” Sam is saying into the phone, “is there any way you can get in touch with him, convince him not to go up?” A pause. “Please try. We’re on our way.” He hangs up, jaw tight. “How soon can we get to the airfield in Nazareth?”

“Forty-five minutes.” Dean announces, then somehow makes the Impala go even faster. “Forty minutes.”

“Okay, so we need to figure out how to get rid of a demon in forty minutes.” Sam states.

“Exorcisms?” Dean suggests.

“Do you know any by heart?” Sam retorts.

“I do.” Meira offers. It’s not exactly hard when one’s fluent in the language of angels and can invoke the name of god in it. Pretty much anything becomes an exorcism then. ‘Go away’ could count as an exorcism, as long as you followed up with ‘in the name of the lord’ or something similar.  “Do we have any holy water?” She asks, not daring to hope.

“Uh, no.” Dean replies.

Meira winces, and amends her request. “Do we have water and a rosary?”

“Rosary is in the boot.” Dean tells her, while Sam retrieves a bottle of water from his bag. After about five minutes of bickering, Meira convinces him to pull over so that she can hop out and grab the rosary. Dean’s peeling out of the layby before she’s even got the door closed again, and then she screws the top off the bottled water, dumps the rosary inside, and sets about blessing it. She really, really hopes this works, and isn’t contingent on her grace being able to affect the world beyond her skin. She’s never officially been ordained or anything, but active grace or not, she’s still a fucking archangel.

“That should be holy water now.” Meira says once she’s done, handing the water back to Sam.

“Should?” Dean barks.

“I’ve never done this before, okay?” Meira shoots back, unable to keep a hint of defensive panic from her tone. “I have the qualifications for it, but I never thought I needed to check that it would work!” Dean pulls a face, but lets it go. Meira swallows down her fear. “You should- you should check on the others while we have the time.” She says to Sam, and he nods. He spends the drive going through the list of survivors and pretending to be a United Britannia Airlines survey. While he’s doing that, Meira calls Max, which turns into an impromptu explanation of how to identify demons.

By the time Meira’s off the phone, Sam’s gone through the rest of the survivors. “I still can’t get in touch with the flight attendant.” Sam states, hanging up the phone again.

“Given her job, I’d say that’s a bad sign.” Dean says dryly.

Sam snorts. “Yeah, no kidding. I’m going to call Jerry, see if he can tell me when she’s working next.” He explains, and then does just that. After a brief introduction, he gives Jerry the woman’s name, “Amanda Walker,” and waits a couple of minutes while Jerry does the research he can’t while he’s stuck on the highway. “Oh?” Sam says, an edge to his voice Meira really doesn’t like. “This evening? Look, Jerry-” A long pause. “No, I understand. Okay. Yeah, we’re on our way. Bye.”

“She’s working tonight?” Dean asks in dismay.

“Yeah. Flight leaves at eight. And there’s no way Jerry can ground the flight.” Sam adds in dismay.

Dean takes a bracing breath. “We’re just going to have to stop this son of a bitch before he can get that far.” He announces, and Meira tries to bolster her own confidence with his.

Nazareth, Pennsylvania – Saturday 3rd December 2005

By the time they get to the airfield, there are already two men walking across the tarmac to a small plane. “Shit.” Dean swears, and they all fling themselves out of the car.

“Mr Lambert!” Sam calls as they jog over. Security inevitably tries to stop them, but Dean flashes a badge at them, almost too fast for them to see more than that it looks sort of official, but it is enough to get them past. “Mr Lambert!” Sam calls again, and one of the two men nudges the other, and he turns.

“Yeah?” The second man says, so he must be Jerry’s friend, the pilot.

Meira looks at the other one, who’s watching them with a sort of sceptical hostility. She holds her hand out to him. “Agent Meira Geyad.” She greets, watching him closely, but there’s no reaction except a raised eyebrow as he takes her hand. Oh, hell. She starts to turn, but then a fist meets her face with enough force to send her sprawling.

“Shit!” Dean swears.

“Chuck!” The other man shouts in horror. “Wha-” He’s cut off by an awful crunching noise that makes Meira’s stomach turn over in guilt. It’s followed by a splash, and the hissing of corruption being melted away by a holy blessing. Holy water worked then, thank God, Meira thinks dizzily, finally healing enough to look up.

The demon grabs for Sam, getting him by the throat, and Dean yells his name in desperation. Meira starts to spit out the simplest exorcism she knows, but before she can get more than three words in, the demon has dropped Sam and kicked her in the ribs hard enough to wind her. Hard enough to break ribs, actually, but those heal quickly like her fractured cheekbone did. It takes a little longer to catch her breath, and by then, the demon has abandoned its meatsuit, streaming out of Chuck Lambert’s mouth and leaving him to collapse to the ground.

“Jesus.” Dean breathes. “Sam?”

“Fine.” Sam rasps.

“Meira?” Dean checks, dropping to his knees beside her. “You alright?” Meira groans, and takes the hand he offers her, letting him haul her up into a sitting position. “I’m guessing that wasn’t how an exorcism is supposed to go.”

“No, it realised what I was trying to do and left before I could send it back to hell.” Meira huffs, rubbing at her side just to check that her ribs are back where they’re supposed to be.

“Why’d it flinch at your name?” Dean asks curiously.

“Ge-Iad is one of the names of God.” Meira explains.

“Never heard that one before.” Dean says, eyebrows rising. “I thought you used Christ to test for demons.”

“The more often the name is used without faith, the less power it holds over the demonic.” Meira replies. “You can amp it up by using a language like Latin, which is both dead and stuffed full of religious ritual by now, but, you have any idea how many people say ‘Jesus Christ’ as an invective, without a thought as to why they swear that way?”

“And Ge-Iad, that’s, what? Never used?” Dean asks.

“Never without the proper reverence.” Meira corrects, and then tips her head. “Until today.” She adds with a pointed look, which earns her the best devil-may-care grin in her dad’s arsenal.

“Guys.” Sam calls, solemn. “Chuck’s dead.”

“Oh, that petty son of a bitch.” Meira grouses, flopping back down onto the tarmac.

“Uh-uh. Come on, up.” Dean instructs, getting to his feet and holding out his hand again. “We’ve still gotta stop this son of a bitch before he brings another plane down.” Meira whines, but takes his hand and lets him pull her to her feet.

“And we’ve got company.” Sam adds, as the airfield security descend on them.

Sam and Dean both look like deer in the headlights of a semi, so Meira takes charge. She orders security to inform the police of the incident, flashes her fake ID about, and then leaves with Sam and Dean on ‘important business’ before the police actually arrive. “Back to Allentown?” Dean checks, and Sam nods, already on the phone.

“I still can’t get in touch with the flight attendant.” Sam tells them several minutes later.

“We can’t let her get on that plane.” Dean insists.

Meira thinks about the fake IDs they’ve been using and has a really, really bad idea. She’s pretty sure Pabbi would approve. “I have an idea?” She offers. Sam turns to look at her, and she grimaces as she holds up her fake ID. “But… we’re going to need to look the part.”

Sam blinks once, and then his eyes widen. “Oh, no.” He says quickly. “No, there’s no way we can pull that off!”

“Why not?” Meira challenges.

“What?” Dean asks, glancing in the rear view mirror. “What’s the plan?”

“What’s TSA going to do if Homeland Security shows up and tells them there’s a terrorist on that plane?” Meira asks rhetorically.

Dean stares out the windshield for a long moment. “Okay. Monkey suits it is.” He says in a tone of resignation.

“And then what?!” Sam demands, a little hysterically, in Meira’s opinion. “We ground the plane, that’s great, and then we’re in the middle of an airport, surrounded by TSA, and we’re going to have to produce a terrorist for them!”

Meira shrugs. “Not necessarily. We just say we got a tip, or a suspicion that there might be, and when there isn’t, well, can’t be too careful in the pursuit of terrorists, right?” She points out. “We won’t even be lying if we tell them we have a suspicion that someone on board is planning to sabotage the flight. It’s true.”

“And how are we going to do an exorcism in the middle of all of this?” Sam demands.

“I’m not sure.” Meira huffs. “If it was just a case of getting the exorcism out, that would be one thing, but we have to make sure the demon sticks around for me to use it. Easiest way would be a devil’s trap, but it’d probably be a bad idea to go around scrawling pagan voodoo on the walls in front of TSA, huh?” She muses.

Dean snorts. “Okay, here’s the plan.” He says briskly. “Once we’ve got the plane grounded and all the passengers and staff isolated for interviewing or whatever, we’re going to insist on talking to everyone separately, and then whatever room they offer us, you two are going to keep everyone busy while I put a devil’s trap… on the ceiling, probably. Somewhere that’s not glaringly obvious, anyway.” He pauses, glancing back to make sure both Sam and Meira are on board. Meira nods enthusiastically, and Sam sighs in surrender. “Okay, so, what’s a devil’s trap look like?”

“Pentacle.” Meira answers easily. “You can make them more complicated, if you need to hold a stronger demon or a specific demon or you need to limit specific things within it, but… basic devil’s trap is just a pentagram in a circle.”

“Right, easy enough.” Dean agrees.

They stop to get suits at the first place they see. Dean looks hilariously uncomfortable, and Meira really wishes there was something she could say to help, but given that it’s a feeling that persists all the way through his life, she figures there’s not much anyone could say to make him feel better. “Should’ve got one with a waistcoat.” She says instead.

“Why the hell would I want extra layers of this bullshit?” Dean demands.

“Waistcoats are sexy as hell.” Meira informs him, smoothing down the front of her own.

Dean pauses and looks back at the shop with pained consideration. “Nope, no time.” Sam informs him. Dean makes a face at him, but doesn’t protest.

Allentown, Pennsylvania – Saturday 3rd December 2005

The plan goes off without a hitch. Meira knows that the most important part of pulling a prank like this is confidence, so she turns hers up to the max, channelling her pabbi and every archangel instinct she has, and TSA goes along with it. In fact, Meira is honestly a little shocked by how quickly everyone responds, until she remembers that, of course, it’s been four, not forty, years since the whole 9/11 thing. The flight gets grounded, TSA agents scurry about searching people and, helpfully, dragging them to and from the room they let the three of them conduct ‘interviews’ from. Meira is honestly having a ridiculous amount of fun, playing the scary Homeland Security agent looking for terrorists.

“You’re having fun.” Sam accuses under his breath, once they’re done with the passengers and about to get started on the staff.

Meira flashes him a wild, reckless grin. “I told you the prank opportunities were going to be glorious.” She murmurs back. Sam gives her an incredulous look, but doesn’t say more because the door is opening. Meira gives it a minute before she turns around, because if this is their demon, she doesn’t want to spook him before he’s sitting right on top of Dean’s devil’s trap, which he drew in magic marker on the bottom of the chair.

“I don’t see why this is-” The co-pilot cuts himself off when Meira and Sam turn around, his eyes flashing black as the demon loses control of itself for a brief moment in its shock. Or rage. Either one. “You again.” It hisses.

“Us again.” Dean says leaning back against the door.

The demon tries to lunge upwards, but the chair, conveniently bolted to the floor, doesn’t move, and the demon can’t leave it. It looks down, then back up again in outrage. “Who are you?” It demands, looking directly at Meira.

She smiles. “Zirdo zizop ol Ge-Iad, od lis ip darb ziri.” She informs it, and watches it recoil in horror with no little satisfaction.

“That’s not Latin.” Sam comments, looking at her in surprise.

“Nope.” Meira agrees cheerfully enough.

“You, though, you I know.” The demon adds, looking at Sam. He and Dean both go very still, staring intently. “I know what happened to your girlfriend, and if you let her do this, you’ll never find out why.” It taunts, a nasty smirk curling the host’s lips.

Sam stiffens. “Wait.” He says, and the demon grins.

“Sam.” Dean warns.

“What do you know about Jessica?” Sam demands.

“Let me go and I’ll tell you everything.” The demon promises.

Sam splashes holy water in its face, and it recoils with a yell, steaming. “Tell me, or I’ll-”

“Or you’ll what?” The demon spits, mocking. “What do you think you can do to me that’s worse than that?” It jerks its chin at Meira, who arches one eyebrow. “Let me go, or no deal.”

“Sam, we’re not letting this thing go.” Dean states. “It’s probably lying anyway.”

Sam’s free hand clenches into a fist. After a minute in which he doesn’t move, Meira gently pushes past him to stand in front of the demon. “Bols ma a’aiom, pa’aox il adohi ol Onsamir.” She instructs, and the demon hisses and thrashes, actually cracking the floor where the chair is bolted to it. Meira reaches out and puts a hand on the demon’s shoulder. It stills, tensing, staring at her with wide black eyes. “Niizo i etharzi, ammal, od yinay ma doal.” She says gently. “Oyi gohe Zire.”

Holy light suffuses the vessel, and the essence of the demon pours out of his mouth in the form black smoke even as it’s forced from this plane of existence, vanishing in midair.

Sam turns away and punches the wall. Dean watches him carefully, but when Sam just stands there, breathing hard, he goes to check the slumped co-pilot’s pulse. “He’s alive.” He reports. “So, do we need to carry on this farce, or can we just…?” He jerks his thumb at the door.

Meira takes a moment to hate the demon, because Sam’s mood is going to suck all the fun out of this. “I think we should finish. Let’s not give them a reason to get suspicious straight away, yeah?” She prompts, and Dean reluctantly nods, then shakes the co-pilot awake. He comes awake with a jolt, and immediately panics at the memory of the demon. “Calm down, you’re fine now.” Meira assures him.

“And if you want to stay fine, you’re going to act normal and not talk about this, or the nice TSA agents are going to arrest you for being a terrorist.” Dean adds, which doesn’t exactly help the guy’s fear, but it does redirect it nicely.

It’s a little tedious, going through the same rote questions with the rest of the staff, but there’s few enough left that Meira doesn’t mind. It’s worth it for the opportunity to bitch, in a restrained and professional manner, to the TSA agents about wild goose chases and bad information, and how she’s going to complain to her superiors about their lax fact-checking. The agents are so busy reminding her that ‘better safe than sorry’ and that it’s important work that they don’t even stop to wonder about a whole plane being delayed for what turned out to be nothing. Then the three of them are back in the Impala and driving away clean.

“We should have questioned the demon properly.” Sam says abruptly.

“Dude, Sam, seriously. It probably didn’t know jack shit.” Dean insists. “These things like to play with your mind, you can’t let it.”

“And even if it did know something, torturing information out of demons is hard, Sam. Not to mention ethically dubious given that the host suffers everything you do to the demon, too.” Meira points out, and Sam flinches, but his hard glare doesn’t waver. “Do you really think you can torture someone worse than Hell can, Sam? Someone innocent, just to find out what the demon riding their soul knows?”

Sam whips around to glare at her. “Yes.” He bites out, and then looks away, nausea twisting his expression. “No.” He capitulates. “I don’t-”

“Look, Sam. We will find this thing, alright? We will. And we don’t need to drag innocent people into it to do it. We’re better than that. Better than them.” Dean insists.

Meira smiles, bracing her elbows on the back of the front seats and lacing her fingers together to rest her chin on. “Damn straight.”

Marion, Indiana – Sunday 25th December 2005

It’s stupid, but it never occurred to Meira that Sam and Dean might not do Christmas. When she’d asked, a few days ago, Dean had just shrugged and said sure, they could do a present exchange this year, like that was optional. It’s only just sunk in, lying in the dark in a lonely motel room, that there just isn’t going to be Christmas this year.

No tree, no lights, no elaborate Santa traps, no cake for not-bro Jesus so entirely stuffed with candles that you could kill a wendigo with it, no trip to Scandinavia to have snowball fights in ancient pine forests, no stories of hunting pagan gods through the festivities. She’s alone, bound beneath her skin, with no possible way of finding out who did this to her, never mind what they did, or how to get home. She could pray to Pabbi, but he couldn’t answer, not without revealing himself to the Host, and she won’t do that to him, won’t force him to make that choice.

Midnight comes and goes, and the only way Meira knows is because she’s watching the shitty digital clock on the bedside table. She can’t feel the turn of the earth through the cosmos, can’t feel the ripples of time as billions and billions of humans make choices and change things. All she has is what’s trapped under her skin, and it’s nothing. Nothing compared to what she used to have. A family, and an entire universe to share with them.

Unable to bear it any longer, she rolls out of bed, gets dressed, and heads out. Once there, she goes to the vending machine and buys one of everything that looks like it has a cavity-inducing sugar-content, and carries it all over to the Impala. Then she hops up onto the hood, lies back, and starts in on her stash while watching the stars. “Hey, Granddad.” She says, out loud while opening up a pack of skittles, because who gives a fuck. “Looks like you’re the only family I’ve got for Christmas this year. Well, you and not-bro. How’s the garden, Josh? Sorry about no cake this year. It’d feel like… cheating, somehow, if I tried to get Sam and Dean to do it with me. Like I’m stealing something from their future, you know? Even if I bet Dean would get a kick out of it.”

She takes a deep breath, suddenly finding it hard not to cry. “You know, I always got why you fucked off, Granddad. Why you won’t interfere. I don’t think anyone else in my family really does. Except maybe Jace. He might’ve figured it out, but I bet he’s still stuck on the free will thing. That you won’t interfere because we’ve gotta do it ourselves, we’ve gotta make choices, and we can’t do that if the Father of all Father’s is looming over our shoulder. And that’s part of it, yeah, but it’s more than that, too, isn’t it?”

She has to sit up, because otherwise she’s going to choke on her own tears. Skittles spill across the hood of the Impala, and she doesn’t give a shit. “You won’t interfere because you love us. All of us, even the worst of us.” She says to the sky. “Even the actual devil. Even pond scum and slime mould and every last demon. Even me, even though I’m a blasphemy, an abomination, the devil reborn.” She pauses to gasp a few wet breaths. “I always knew, you know? You weren’t there, because you’re everywhere. But I don’t- Sorry, Granddad, but I don’t feel very loved, right now. I know you don’t like to- to interfere, but… but I could really use a miracle right about now, and I don’t know who else to turn to.”

She waits, but of course nothing happens. The stars don’t move, the world doesn’t shift. There isn’t even a change in the wind. Meira smiles bitterly, blinking tears onto her cheeks, and pulls her knees up to wrap an arm around them and bury her face in them. She gasps for air and lets it out in silent screams, with nothing left to pray for. Somewhere in the motel, a door opens and footsteps crunch across gravel.

“Meira?”

Meira’s head jerks up. Dean is standing there, looking sleep-rumpled and a little bleary, squinting at her in concern. Then his gaze drops to the mess of sweets scattered around her, and he snorts. He shoves them more towards the middle of the hood so that he can hop up to sit beside her, and snags a pack of M&Ms out of the pile for himself. “Can’t sleep?” He asks, and there’s a veneer of carelessness to it, like it’s an idle question and he didn’t just find her bawling her eyes out in the middle of the night, but he’s asking, and he’s there.

Thanks, Granddad. Meira thinks, as she tips over sideways to drop her head onto her dad’s shoulder. “I miss them.” She says quietly. “Never done Christmas without them before. Didn’t realise… how hard it’d hit me ‘til I got here, and suddenly it’s like I’m the last person on earth, it’s so lonely.”

There’s a long silence, but Meira doesn’t mind. She just watches the stars, and retrieves a skittle, and then starts in on the haribo. After a while, Dean shifts, but only enough to get his arm free so that he can put it around her shoulders. Meira shudders with another sob, and is so desperately glad when he doesn’t take that as a sign that he shouldn’t have done it.

“I felt the same, after Sam went to Stanford. Me and Dad were hunting separate, and Sam was gone. I knew I could just drive to Palo Alto, and he’d be there, but… That felt further than the moon, when he’d chosen to be there, instead of here.”

Meira nods a little against his shoulder, to let him know she’s listening, and she understands. “Pabbi used to dress up as Santa.” She says, sniffling and trying to put a little cheer into her voice. Pabbi didn’t so much as dress up as Santa as conjure one out of the ether for them, actually, but close enough. “And he’d have this huge sack of presents, right? But he’d only leave one. The rest, he’d say, we had to get for ourselves.”

Dean bursts out laughing. “He made you steal from Santa?” He asks, delighted.

“No, he made us hunt Santa.” Meira corrects, laughing a little herself. “Traps and tricks. A present would magically fall out of the sack every time we scored a ‘killing blow’.” Dean gasps out a startled curse, laughing too hard for anything else.

Once he’s calmed down a bit, he wipes at his eyes, still chuckling, and steals a few of her haribo. “Man, we never did anything that fun.” Dean bemoans, but not too seriously. “Most of the time Dad wasn’t even there for Christmas, tell you the truth, since monsters don’t stop just ‘cause it’s Christmas. One year Sammy gave me this, though.” He adds, lifting a hand to snag the cord around his neck and lift an amulet out from under his t-shirt. “Best Christmas present ever. Though, if you tell him that, I’ll put itching powder in your underwear.”

Meira catches it in the palm of her hand to draw it closer. It’s dark, but as she peers at it, she recognises it, despite never having seen the actual thing before in her life. Recognises it from her dad’s and qaada’s stories, and from some deeper well of knowledge that’s from the part of her that should have been nothing more than the Angel of Thursday, the remix, and instead ended up a little bit archangel.

And maybe it’s just lingering body-heat, but it feels warm in Meira’s palm. She grins, and lets it fall. “It’s pretty awesome.” She agrees. “And my lips are sealed, I swear.”

Love you too, Granddad.

#Supernatural #time travel #next generation #original character #Supernatural retelling #Dean Winchester #Sam Winchester #SPN 1x04 #Phantom Traveler #Meira Winchester #Trapped in the Amber #I'm so sad I didn't get to include Amanda in this #Enochian is THE WORST #seriously #on a scale of 0 to Tolkien #Dee is about -4 with how well constructed his conlang is #there's NO consistent grammar #there isn't even consistent spelling #'no i's in the angelic alphabet' Dee says #and promptly spells ever other word with an i #STILL I DID MY BEST #So have some translations #'I am a vessel of the lord and you will obey me' #'be not amongst us and return to your kingdom of hell' #'go in peace demon and do no harm' #'thus sayeth the lord' #Is Meira praying to Chuck when she prays to her granddad? #¯\_(ツ)_/¯ #Idk I like Prophet!Chuck and God!Chuck about the same tbh #I'm leaning towards Prophet!Chuck for this

[hellsparadiseessays]

Aza Brothers Week - Day 6

And today is a day dedicated to Tôma! Chôbe may have stolen my heart, but I can’t ignore his brother. After all, they go as a pair the Stardust Brothers, according to UG The Meme Lord and it would be a massive disservice to their personal to ignore Tôma, especially since he’s the one to provide us with the insight into their past and their life, through his own point of view. Initially posted ealier on Twitter (also here because Twitter decided to be fucky lol), you’ll find it here under the cut! Btw it’s spoilery up to the latest chapter, #71, so go catch up before reading.

1. Tôma’s perception of himself

At the beginning of the story, Tôma is both very admirative of Chôbe and fearing of falling behind and being incapable of following. It’s a sad, sad situation, because it means he can’t perceive himself as equal to Chôbe. He puts him on a pedestal instead. Considering Chôbe seems to have handled a lot to protect Tôma (who was younger, and thus didn’t know better and had a duty to follow as a little brother - Chôbe said it himself, if Tôma is lost, he can blindly rely on his big brother), and Tôma relied on him to take the lead, it has resulted in a young man willingly living in his brother’s shadow and feeling anxious about his own ability to keep up. However, it also fuels him to move forward, fully knowing that Chôbe wouldn’t abandon him. It’s a peculiar situation that shows how aware of everything Tôma is, both about the general situation he’s in and his own feelings. That is the sign of a smart person, in my opinion, even when said person needs a little nudge, a little help to step up...

2. Chôbe’s perception of Tôma

Especially when the brother he admires and fear not being able to follow views him like that: 

Chôbe’s own abandonment issues (as expressed here) aside, have you noticed how Tôma is depicted in his mind? In a relaxed, confident posture. Chôbe wants to protect and support his brother, but he also sees him in a very positive light, something Tôma doesn’t seem to be fully aware of. He knows Chôbe wouldn’t abandon him, however he doubts his own abilities much more than his brother does. 

3. Tôma is competent and Chôbe knows it

Despite Tôma’s personal doubts and fears, Chôbe readily trusts him with delicate matters (such as infiltrating the Asaemon) because he knows Tôma can do it. Tôma always seems as happy as a puppy to be praised by his brother, and I think he underestimate how proud of him Chôbe generally is.

4. Tôma is the wise one of the duo

Look at him, asking the reasonable questions. 

Look at him, explaining stuff for Chôbe because Chôbe was a bad student who didn’t listen at school.

Tôma is presented as skilled, educated (he even silently roasts Sagiri on her lack of skill in poetry, in the bonus pages of volume 4) and generally on the no non-sense side of things to balance his brother’s wilder temperament. A perfect example of Blue Oni to Chôbe’s Red Oni! haha it’s exactly like my Trick or Be Tricked essay, they’re the human version of Shuten-doji and his right handman lol

5. They poke fun at each other in their own way

Tôma casually roasts Chôbe on his apparent lack of gratefulness, because Chôbe is a rough bandit from the wild who may have a tendency to complain for the sake of complaining. 

Chôbe goes full Typical Big Brother because it’s oh so funny to make Tôma squeak by doing the weirdest nonsensical shit. People who have a sibling irl will know exactly that feeling - hell I had to death with that with my twin brother irl. Though Chôbe does seem to be quite the prankster on a day-to-day basis. Fitting with his Trickster Archetype profile too. 

6. Tôma’s development

wow much photoshop such skillz

Tôma arrived on the island while being an anxious young man, eager to keep up with his brother and easily freaked out. Yet we also saw Chôbe’s view of his brother, and it’s much more caring and positive than Tôma thinks - though this situation has probably been fueled by Chôbe’s handling of their sordid situation when they were children, telling Tôma to rely on him in case of doubt because he’s the older brother and thus knows better - causing Tôma to stay in his shadow from his own volition as a consequence. He even says so himself, his brother is special and difficult to follow. 

However, the situation shifted after the terrible fight against Gabimaru and the subsequent separation they experienced. Tôma saw his brother’s distress with his newfound abilities, and took it upon himself to be the one to save and protect. Stepping up like that is the one thing Chôbe was most happy to see when they reunited, and he openly expressed his pride to see Tôma finally consider himself as an equal to him. 

Having a twin brother myself, I really get that entire situation at a personal level. My own circumstances made me feel... Very inadequate throughout most of my life, and it’s difficult to shake that sort of shadow - especially with my brilliant twin brother who would always put me down. He expressed his joy at seeing me finally stand my ground and openly take control of my own life not so long ago and it was very surprising for me. That damn bully of a brother wanted me to show myself while being a dick about it all along. As you can see, my relationship with my brother is not like the Aza brothers’ at all, it’s in fact completely broken so seeing their relationship being so positive despite all the shit they went through is really touching. They care, they care a lot, because they have nothing else than each other. So, despite my own broken-beyond-repair relationship with my brother, I can really appreciate their dynamic and give my kudos to UG for that. He really nails it with these two. 

#jigokuraku #hell's paradise #chôbe #tôma #essay #maybe???? idk #my stuff #spoiler #I can't photoshop for shit jfc

[shesdangerace]

I learned from my pain

Happy belated Valentine’s Day! Tumblr hates us all and might make this super hard to post here SO. I’m going to post as much of it as I can, and if you like it, you can check it out on AO3 (also linked at the end). I now present to you, a very Andrew Minyard Valentine’s Day. -

He remembers the colour of the sky outside the window.

He remembers the tree branch swaying in front of the glass.

He remembers the breeze that day.

He remembers the hands, the quiet, the pleading.

AJ’s first Valentine’s Day.

Andrew’s eyes feel heavy.

Allison gave Renee roses today, a question written out in cursive with a kiss on the end. Matt was talking about his plans in the locker room. Nicky has been beside himself thinking of Erik coming to visit.

Andrew is leaning outside of his open mesh-free window trying not to think. Cigarette burning down in his hand.

Andrew never got asked. Andrew never got elaborate plans. Andrew never got giddy anticipation. At least, not his own.

And now, he doesn’t want those things. Can’t want them. Doesn’t see a point in them.

It always came at a price, is the thing. And it was never enough.

Love meant crying without making a sound so she wouldn’t know. Love meant bleeding so his twin wouldn’t have to. Love meant throwing away the chance of it. Love meant cut brakes.

That was the love he was taught anyway, when his ‘family’ told them they loved him as they crept into his room at night, asking Do you love me? Do you love me?

Andrew was taught that love was cruelty. Pain. Bloodshed. A blind eye. Vengeance. Sacrifice. Loss. Responsibility. More bloodshed. He never knew what love was meant to feel like.

And now all Andrew knows how to feel is nothing.

There’s a knock on the door frame, firm and assured.

“Hey. Time for practice.”

Neil, standing there like a memory of a different life. Auburn and dressed all in grey.

The cigarette falls slowly from Andrews’ hand, swaying back and forth by the light February wind until it touches the ground of the car park below like a distant feather.

-

The cheerleaders are here. They’re being loud and it’s unnecessary.

Andrew doesn’t know why the cheerleaders are here. Honestly, it doesn’t matter. It matters that they are and that they’re being loud.

She’s here too, of course. She’s also a cheerleader after all. Not quite so loud though.

That may be because while Andrew is not looking at her, he’s looking at Aaron, and Aaron is looking at her. He’s willing to bet she’s looking back.

Aaron looks happy. Wistful. Awed almost. Where did he learn that? How did he manage to learn how to feel like that?

Andrew doesn’t look at him.

He hits balls and waves his heavyweight stick around for hours, while Kevin yells and Neil cusses out the baby Foxes and Nicky laughs like a demented hyena and Aaron feels all over the court floor.

Andrew doesn’t look at him.

And then Katelyn comes wafting over, blonde ponytail bouncing and hands wringing and smile matching the quiet one on Aaron’s face. A smile Andrew has no clue how to replicate on his own. And then she asks him, and he grins at her and says yes, obviously, and then she kisses him on the cheek and giggles and her ponytail bounces away.

Andrew tilts his head away and doesn’t look at him.

He looks at Neil. He doesn’t really have a choice.

He’s standing right in front of Andrews line of sight, close but not close enough to touch Andrew, smirk almost as sharp as his eyes. Batting his eyelashes like an idiot, hands wringing and toe nudging against the floor.

“Be my Valentine sugar plum?”

That cocky smile, that exaggerated posture, that orange bandana, that mess of hair, that shock of bright blue, that stupid, stupid idiot.

“Fuck off.”

Neil just laughs, that huff of gentle sound, and Andrew looks at him and can’t seem to stop. And Neil can’t seem to either, looking right back, smile just strong enough to bring out the subtle dimple on his right cheek.

How did he learn that?

How did he learn to dimple like that from bruises? How did he learn to look at Andrew like that from a lifetime of running? How did he learn to laugh for Andrew after knives and cleavers and flames and irons?

Andrew just looks at him.

Neils’ hands on his Exy stick are strong and unwavering and deliberate. Careful. Reverent.

Andrew just looks at him.

---

It’s two days before Valentine’s Day.

They’re at the coffee stand. The three of them have classes in 15 minutes but no one cares. Neil stands beside him, staring as disinterestedly as Andrew.

It’s pink. It’s stupid. There’s large lettering in altering colours of red, green, and yellow. There’s three black silhouettes like bathroom door signs. A red cross. A green heart. A yellow question mark. A lot of pink. It’s a poster.

It’s a traffic light party.

“Neil please, come on, it’s literally perfect and you’re the only one who can convince him.”

Andrew thinks about the colour red.

“No.”

It’s so vicious and ugly, so glaring, a screaming no that Andrew has had painted on his hands and his lips and his skin for years now.

“Neeeeil come on!”

Andrew has been red for a long time.

“Nicky, you have a long-term partner. Why would you need to go to this?”

Neil sounds tired. Neil is right to be.

“But Neil, that’s the point. Not only do I get to declare myself as taken, I get to show off my hot German husband.”

Red is not as simple as a t-shirt or a badge. It’s sticky and it festers and it stains like dye and you don’t get to change your mind once it’s on you.

“You know you haven’t even asked him to marry you yet right?”

Green is an unrealistic colour. It’s bright where red is dark, joyous like red is angry. A garish neon sign declaring yes. Yes, I’m here and I’m alive and I’m okay and I fucking want this.

Andrew doesn’t think he could ever be green having been red.

“Fuck you, Neil. It’s understood, it’s an inevitability, and the world needs to know!”

Green can start pure and be muddled and abused until it’s ugly and brown enough to be red anyway.

“The world does know. You’ve been talking about him non-stop for days. It’s annoying.”

There’s a coffee cup in his hands. When did that get there? Latte, caramel and vanilla. Neil’s name is written on it.

“Okay, can we please get back to the point? Which is the party? And that we should go?”

The sun is out today, and there’s no breeze. The skies are clear and still. Neil is walking beside Andrew, staring at him under his lashes every now and then as Nicky pleads his case. He’s walking close enough to Andrew that Andrew could touch him if he asked.

He’s wearing yellow. It’s a logo, on his grey hoodie. The drawstrings are yellow. Bright, like the sun. Hopeful.

After a while, after Baltimore and Riko and several screaming panic attacks in department store changing rooms with Allison’s guilty voice over the phone, Neil started to touch colour. Gentle prods, careful explorations.

He has an emerald green shirt now. Long sleeves. He has several Fox-orange articles of clothing that he wears in the dorm, the house, or with Andrew around campus. He has accents of colours on his shirts or his hoodie or his hat in the winter.

He has no blue brighter than navy. He has no red either.

Today, he is quietly yellow. Sipping his black coffee with one sugar and studiously ignoring Nicky in favour of watching Andrew ignore Nicky.

When Andrew asks and Neil says yes, in an alcove five minutes late to class, his fingers wind their way into those sunshine yellow drawstrings. He swears it stains his fingertips just a little.

-

Nicky is singing. A little bit drunk, a lot off key. It’s pop music and it’s incessantly loud. He got a phone call half an hour before. He did not take it well.

Erik has to stay in Germany for another day. A despondent Nicky had explained to them, and Kevin, that this means he’ll be flying in on Valentine’s Day instead of tomorrow, and this means that he’ll miss most of their first Valentine’s Day together in forever and Kevin would you please pay attention?

“Fuck men, seriously, Ari is so right you know? She just fucking gets it like, she understands and you know what I mean right Neil? Back me up Neil.”

Neil is in no condition to be anyone’s back up. He’s wrapped up in the embrace of the beanbag chair next to Andrew’s and he’s exasperated and exhausted. Nightmares. Not Andrew’s this time. The yellow was a particularly bold a choice today. But Neil is smirking in amusement all the same.

“Thank you, more like no thank you sir- “

In the corner, Matt is trying to film discreetly. On the couch, Kevin is paying absolutely no attention, waiting for his phone to ring.

As Nicky dances to the same song over and over, and Kevin bolts out of the room to answer Thea’s call, and Matt fails at discretion, and Neil radiates sleepy warmth next to Andrew like a furnace, Nicky bleeds.

He’s haemorrhaging love, the good and the bad and the ugly need of it. With the clarity of experience and many Wednesday sessions Andrew can see it. He can see the dark edges of Nicky, the sadness underneath his exuberance, his pain. He sees Nicky’s own sharp memories poking out from beneath his grin.

When he looks back at Neil, he sees the same understanding in those perceptive blue eyes.

It’s not about some pointless day in February. It’s about months without him. It’s about not knowing love without pain before him. It’s about conditions and fear and confusion and self-loathing and conversion. It’s about finally getting to hold someone’s hand knowing that he’s safe.

“I’m just saying I’m a fucking catch and I don’t deserve this, and you know what?”

Nicky stops here, stares at Neil balefully, then at Andrew, then back to Neil, gesturing with his whole body for the peanut gallery to speak.

Neil sighs and gives in.

“What Nicky?”

“I’ll tell you what Neil! I’m so fucking ungrateful for this treatment! That’s what.”

He trips.

And then, from his pile of slumped limbs and tired bones, Neil laughs. A true sound, a warm rich low sound.

Something in Andrew stutters for a moment. And then Nicky is throwing himself at Neil.

Nicky with his explosive love. Neil gifting his affection in laughs and smiles where there used to be none. Kevin breaking his single-minded devotion at the drop of a hat when Thea calls. Matt texting all the videos to Dan no doubt. All of them, loving each other out loud.

Andrew closes his eyes.

Nicky haemorrhages for hours.

---

It’s the day before Valentine’s Day. They’re at the traffic light party.

Nicky is bright red in the face from dancing, bright red in the face from alcohol, bright red in his shirt. He’s smiling almost as wide as he was when Andrew loomed over him in the locker room and said they were going.

Neil is wearing a black and neon-orange hoodie because he lives to be contrary and confusing. Andrew is wearing black because so does he.

The music is loud enough that Andrew almost can’t hear his thoughts. Almost. But of course, Andrew could never be so lucky, nor could Neil be so merciful.

The lights of the club are passing over his face like real traffic lights, sharpening and softening his face and colouring his eyes different shades. They could almost be in the Maserati, driving a touch too fast, Neil looking out of the passenger window, lounging like he belongs, smiling softly at Andrew’s reflection under the cover of night.

But they’re not. Neil is standing there like a living, breathing fuck you, glaring down anyone who gets too close, staring blankly at those who mistake his orange for yellow and then laughing to himself when they scuttle away. He looks gloriously alive, and completely unreal.

They’ve lost Nicky.

Neil looks at Andrew, really looks at him. Face like a storm.

The music gets improbably louder. Bass heavy. Rumbling. Growling.

Neils eyes get impossibly darker, his face impossibly sharper, his presence impossibly brighter.

He raises his eyebrow at Andrew.

Are you red or yellow or green?

Andrew steps closer and hooks his fingers into Neil’s collar.

Neil takes him by the edge of his black denim jacket, turns away, and Andrew follows the glowing shape of him through the thick crowd of sweat and mistakes.

By the time they reach the wall in the corner Andrew’s vision is all traffic lights and neon and storms.

Neil leans his head back against the wall, the bass louder still. He smirks at Andrew, but his eyes betray him and it becomes a smile. Warm and mischievous and foolhardy. He tilts his chin up at Andrew.

“So does black mean you’re taken?”

Andrew doesn’t dignify this with a response, just breathes.

“Should I take that as a yes or a no?”

Aside from the sharp roll of his eyes, Andrew doesn’t respond to this either.

“Andrew. Yes or no?”

Neil isn’t joking anymore. His eyes are softer than they have any right to be in lighting this sharp and dangerous. He’s searching, he’s already accepted Andrew’s answer.

The growling, rumbling bass around them is eclipsed by Andrew’s own growling yes, Neil’s lips brushing his like a promise. Neil kisses him like he’s desperate, not for his own sake but for Andrew’s. Like he’s been waiting. Like he just wants Andrew to know that Neil is there. Like he just wants Andrew. Whatever that means at any given time.

Right now Andrew doesn’t know what it means.

Neil tastes like midnight. And that makes no sense and it’s fucking stupid.

The lights are still flashing but the bass is different when Neil leans his head back against the wall. For some reason Andrew follows, can’t seem not to, rests his forehead against Neil’s. He doesn’t say anything for a minute, and neither does Andrew.

And then.

“Andrew, can I hold your hand?”

It’s a wonder Andrew hears him over the sound of this stupid party. Andrew says yes because honestly, he’s mildly curious to know what happens next.

Neil’s hand is warm. Firm. Scarred and unafraid and gentle and soft and calloused and it holds Andrew’s so tenderly. Like a rose and not a thorn.

Andrew doesn’t understand it and doesn’t understand why he doesn’t understand it because it shouldn’t be complicated. He doesn’t understand how Neil can look at him and feel. Because he so clearly does and Andrew can’t seem to hide from it.

Are you red or yellow or green or –

“Fuck, there you guys are! Come dance with me!”

And Nicky grabs Neil’s hand and pulls and Neil, as sharp and observant and devoted to his Foxes as he is, would never say no.

---

Andrew wakes up slowly and way too late in the day, to see Neil still asleep. His face is half crushed into his pillow, eyebrows relaxed, hair skewed in every direction like hellfire. His mouth is soft in sleep, his cheeks flushed with warmth.

There’s something so different about Neil when he sleeps.

When he’s awake, Neil is all winter stillness, observant and contrary and dramatic. Ferocious and disinterested and loyal. Loose and honest when Andrew kisses him. Defiantly, viscerally alive.

When he sleeps he is just as still, but unguarded and vulnerable. Almost awake almost always. Soft and quiet, warm like a summer morning.

The February sun is streaming in through the dorm room window, and the sky is clear and crystal blue.

Nicky is beside himself with excitement outside the dorm room somewhere. Eriks’ flight lands that afternoon.

Because it’s Valentine’s Day.

It’s also a Saturday and that’s much more meaningful to Andrew. It means he’s not missing anything Kevin can annoy him for.

Eventually, Neil’s eyes open, and he sniffles at Andrew like a kitten.

It’s so rare to see Neil so taken with sleep. Andrew doesn’t often see this, Neil all strung out on the feeling of being only half awake, soft and malleable like taffy.

Andrew sighs and asks quietly:

“No nightmares?”

And Neil smiles, and that dimple is back on his right cheek. Such a rare sight indeed in February. And to have seen it twice already is almost hard to believe.

“No nightmares.”

Andrew nods.

Neil edges closer, just the tiniest bit. He’s almost nose to nose with Andrew, and Andrew is almost there. He’s on the precipice of something.

One of the worst things about being Andrew Minyard is that apathy makes feeling almost painful and hard to ignore. Andrew has no choice; he can’t lie and he can’t hide and he can’t run and for some god forsaken reason he doesn’t particularly feel the need to.

He gives, and lets himself feel the warmth of Neil. He whispers his name in the scarce air between them, and kisses him. Soft. Unyielding. Bee would be so proud if he would ever tell her.

Neil whispers right back. Kisses right back. Runs his fingertips between Andrew’s on the sheets without touching them. Andrew nods his answer and he feels Neil all around him like the winter sun. Sharp and painful and bright and vital.

Neil is awake, and so is Andrew.

---

At sunset, everything in the Maserati is cast in purple and blue and pink. Neil is lounging like he belongs, smiling at Andrew’s reflection in the glass of the passenger seat window. He looks dreamlike, like he’s feeling that feeling Andrew can’t name.

He turns to Andrew and asks. Andrew says yes and then Neil is holding his hand. He grins at Andrew and for fucks sake. How can he look at Andrew with that much feeling? Who was it that taught him how to feel it at all?

The sounds of the road echo in Andrews ears, the sounds of Nicky’s happy crying from a couple hours earlier in Erik’s arms, Neil’s laugh, his cutting remarks, his questions. Neil’s lips brush Andrew’s hands like a prayer and it’s possible somehow.

Somehow, despite all reasoning and logical experience, it’s possible that Andrew is capable of more than nothing.

When he tells Neil this, laying in the grass off the highway in the last rays of purple light, the look in his eyes and the depth of his kiss are evidence enough.

ao3

#andrew minyard #Neil josten #andreil #nicky hemmick #nickyxerik #aftg #all for the game #tfc #the foxhole court #Valentine's Day #fic #my fic #angst #mentions of past abuse #hurt/comfort #club scene #Valentine's fluff

[piratekingimogen]

you don’t belong here (pirate king!imogen au, pt 3)

word count: 1794

“By the time I was allowed to see him, he had gone still, his skin colorless,” Gregor said. His voice was stiff with grief. “It was too late, I thought. She had killed him. I had begged and pleaded and bargained for so long, all in vain. His thoughtlessness had cost him his life, and Carthya its beloved king.”

“And then he saw me breathe,” I muttered.

“And then I saw him breathe,” Gregor said. I groaned quietly. Under the table, Amarinda’s hand found mine, and she squeezed my fingers.

“They’ve all heard this before,” I whispered.

“Shh,” she murmured. I slouched in my seat, my gaze wandering around the council room as Gregor’s voice faded to a drone in my ears. Based on the glazed looks of the gathered regents, I wasn’t the only one tired of hearing the epic tale of Jaron’s massive failure and Gregor’s heroic rescue. Gregor was not a very inventive storyteller.

Fortunately for him, that wasn’t a requirement for stewardship. And unfortunately for me, since he was appointed steward four years ago, the convening and adjourning of council meetings were up to him. Which meant I could be here listening to him for quite some time.

Imogen hadn’t poisoned me. The bitter drink was only a sleeping draft, to keep me from figuring out her ruse until it was too late. She made a deal with Gregor to secure a literal king’s ransom from Carthya’s coffers. In exchange, we were given safe passage back to Carthya. It turned out quite neatly for the two of them: she had enough gold to satisfy even the most vengeful pirates, and he had rule of Carthya. There was no hesitation from the regents when they voted: I wasn’t fit to be king. I probably would have voted the same way in their place.

The creak of the door brought me back to the present. Nura, the newest captain of the guard, entered quietly. Gregor paused, his story, arching an eyebrow. He’d had trouble finding a suitable successor to his old position, and his irritation at this interruption didn’t bode well for Nura’s continuing employment. “Captain?”

“My lord, I need a word with you.”

“A council meeting is in progress.”

“I understand, my lord,” she said steadily. “The matter is urgent.”

He ran his fingers through his graying hair. The meeting is adjourned. The meeting is adjourned, I chanted in my head. “Very well. The meeting is adjourned.”

“Finally,” I mumbled, earning another squeeze from Amarinda. I remembered to offer her my elbow before we emerged into the cool air of the palace corridor. Behind us, Nura and Gregor spoke in low voices.

“To your chambers?” I asked.

“The library,” she corrected, nudging me in the right direction. We didn’t speak as we walked down the halls. I couldn’t ignore the long stretches of newly blank walls. Amarinda had taken charge of raising money for my ransom so it wouldn’t have to be taxed from Carthya’s poor. Tapestries and paintings from my childhood, as familiar as my parents’ faces, disappeared into the houses of nobles across the continent.

Tobias was waiting for us on a sunlit couch in the library. I caught a glimpse of botanical sketches before he closed his book, straightening to attention. “How was the council meeting?”

“Terrible,” I said, dropping onto the couch beside him. He jumped up and motioned for Amarinda to take his spot, dragging over a stool for himself.

“Gregor went into his pirate king monologue again,” Amarinda explained. Tobias made a sympathetic face.

“I don’t know why he has to whip it out over and over,” I said, leaning back. “It’s been four years! We all know what happened!”

Amarinda exchanged a look with Tobias. “That’s a good question. Why don’t you like to hear the story?”

“Because it makes me look stupid, for one thing,” I said. “And I don’t need any help with that. And the way he tells it makes it sound like he single-handedly beat Imogen away from my bleeding body. He offered her a massive bribe. That’s all.”

“How might that affect the regents’ perception of him?”

I pulled a knobby pillow into my lap and frowned at it. Amarinda was doing this more and more recently: trying to coax me towards political awareness with a trail of leading questions. It was helpful, like her reminders to behave at council meetings. It was also just a little condescending. “Well, it makes him look smarter and more capable. It reminds them of why they put him in charge.”

“And how does that help him? Why might he feel the need to reinforce his authority?” she asked. I racked my brains. “Can you think of any upcoming events…?”

I sat up, sending the throw pillow tumbling to the ground. “My coming of age!”

“That’s my thought,” Amarinda said, using her toe to pull the pillow back into arm’s reach and tucking it behind my back.

“What does he think he’s going to accomplish? Stop me from turning eighteen?”

Tobias lifted a finger. “Actually, the regents could vote to postpone your coronation if they feel that you still aren’t ready. Amarinda, if I could reach past you...” She leaned aside to let him retrieve one of the books stacked on a table beside the couch. Flipping it open, he pulled a sheet of notes from between the pages. “Reassuming the throne when you come of age was expected, but the deadline was mostly arbitrary. There’s nothing that says the regents couldn’t keep a steward until you were twenty-one, or even longer.”

“Why wouldn’t anyone tell me that sooner?” I demanded.

“It’s a long shot,” Amarinda said. “The regents are warming to you, and you’re popular with the people-- especially since you started your public audiences to hear grievances and mediate disagreements. It’s a kingly thing to do.”

“Well, I’m glad someone appreciates it,” I said flatly. “Gregor says it’s a waste of time and a security threat to boot, letting so many people into the palace every fortnight.”

“Might Gregor have his own reasons to discourage you?” she asked delicately.

“I get it, I get it,” I said, lifting my hands. “I need to be more suspicious of people’s motives. I don’t want to stop holding the audiences. I’m just--” I sighed. “I’m nervous, I guess.” I remembered clearly being thirteen years old and knowing I could do anything. I didn’t know when this doubt had seeped into me, only that it had grown worse lately. I wanted to ascend the throne and carry on my family’s legacy, but some nights I couldn’t sleep for the fear that I would ruin it all. Coming of age. The coronation. The wedding.

Amarinda took my hand, offering a soft smile. “It’s alright to be nervous, Jaron. But we’ll get through this together. You know I’m on your side.”

“I know,” I said. After a moment’s hesitation, I lifted our intertwined hands to my lips and pressed a kiss to her skin. We were getting good at this: cultivating the warmth we would need to make marriage pleasant. I was determined to be a good husband to her. It was the least I could do to repay her for the endless patience and wisdom she had shared with me.

“I need to go,” Tobias said, startling me. I’d almost forgotten he was there. “To, uh, tell Mott you’re done with the council meeting. He had something to tell you.” By the end of the sentence he sounded almost convinced, but Amarinda grabbed his sleeve and I threw out a leg to block his exit.

“No, no, stay here,” I said, laughing. “We won’t do anything else embarrassing, I promise.” His ears were pink; this was a frequent reaction when Amarinda and I displayed affection in front of him. “Mott will find us soon enough.”

As if on cue, Mott appeared in the doorway. “There you are, Jaron,” he said. “And Amarinda, what a pleasure.”

“I assume the ‘what a pleasure’ part applies to both of us,” I said, grinning. He raised his eyebrows but didn’t contradict me. “Tobias said you had news?”

“I was talking to Nura,” he said, joining us in the patch of evening sunlight streaming through one of the library windows. “Sharp as a tack, that one. She’s been suspicious of covert activities in the city since she was appointed captain of the guard.”

“She interrupted the council meeting today,” Amarinda said. “But we didn’t hear what she had to say.”

“No, I didn’t think so. Gregor hasn’t acted on her concerns, that I know of, and she seemed wary to share them even with me. But I suspect that there’ll be more disruptions as your coronation approaches.”

“Cheerful thought,” I said. “Is that all?” Mott’s mouth clamped shut. I was immediately suspicious. “There is. Does Nura know who’s causing trouble?”

He looked relieved. “No, not that she shared with me.”

“But there is something else,” I said, tilting my head.

“It’s nothing,” Tobias said quickly.

“Oh, so you know it!” I said, rounding on him. “That makes this easier. Is it about one of my regents?” I inspected his expression. He glanced nervously at Amarinda. “No… the coronation? The wedding? Hmm. Avenia? Ooh. Vargan? Trouble on the border-- no. The coast? Pirates? Are they raiding Carthya again? Or is it-- you’ve heard news of Imogen.” His eyes flickered wider and I knew I’d guessed it. “Come on, Mott. You don’t have to act like I’m going to shatter if you say Imogen’s name.”

“I guess we’re just going to pretend the screaming fits never happened,” Mott said drily.

I wrinkled my nose. “That was twice. And also a long time ago. Also, do you realize that when I’m king you’re going to have to be respectful occasionally? I’ll settle for once or twice a month.”

“Duly noted,” Mott said.

“So what did you hear about Imogen?” I asked.

Mott sighed. “I received reports that she was involved in a raid in Gelyn.”

“That’s good news,” Amarinda said. “Isn’t it? She’s far away now.”

“Yeah,” I said. She was alive, and wealthy, and very far away. Good for her. “Great news.”

“And chances are she won’t be anywhere near here in time for the coronation, so that’s one less thing to worry about,” Tobias said. I didn’t care what Imogen was up to. I had let go of our unfinished business long ago. Laid it to rest, sunk it in the sea, buried it beneath years of life without her. My nails dug into my palms.

“Excellent! Thanks for the update, Mott,” I said, forcing a smile. “Now, Tobias was just telling me something interesting about the rules of Gregor’s stewardship.”

taglist: @ascendancejaron, @phrenic-a

#you don't belong here #pirate king imogen #the ascendance series #imogen #jaron eckbert artolius iii #two updates in two days!!! #my inspiration is either 100% or 0% with no in between #jennifer nielsen #also i love these kids #which helps #playing with a new format #bc while i like doing read mores to keep from eating up ppls dashboards #ppl seem more likely to read and comment when they don't have to click through to read the whole thing #and comments are my favorite :D

[obsidianarchives]

To All The Wizards: The Battle

“Maybe nobody’s coming,” Ginny said squeezing her arms around herself as she looked around the deserted seventh floor landing. After Hermione had gone to the dorms to get her, she and Ron explained to Ginny Harry’s request. “I can’t believe you just let Harry run off. You’re not even concerned about where he’s gone?” 

Pointedly ignoring Ginny’s inquiry into Harry’s whereabouts Hermione said, “Well then it’ll just be us.”

She looked down at the warm Galleon in her hand, the same one they had used to communicate as Dumbledore’s Army the previous year. The numbers etched into the gold surface to signify the minted date had now shifted to read “7th fl.”

“We’ll give them a few more minutes,” Ron said with a grin. “Here, before they get here. You first.” He thrust the bottle of shimmering potion, the Felix Felicis, to Hermione.

“No, let Ginny.” She clutched her coin, a sense of dread blooming inside of her. She wasn’t sure if she could stomach the potion.

Ginny eyed the vial in his hand, her lips pursed even more severely, looking not unlike her mother. “He really ought to have taken it for himself.”

“He’s with Dumbledore,” Ron said, echoing Harry’s sentiments from only a half hour ago.

“That’s exactly what concerns me,” she said as she tipped the potion back. Blinking a few times, she smiled and licked her lips. “That was wonderful!”

She passed the bottle to Hermione and even smiled at her. Not one to waste time, Hermione tipped the contents back into her mouth. A deep metallic flavor coated her tongue with a pleasant coolness. As she swallowed, she felt a warmth spread from her throat through the rest of her body, fortifying her.

“Oh,” she said in pleasant surprise.

Ron took it and threw it back to take the final swig. He started and then beamed. “Blimey, this feels great. Just like at the match.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “You didn’t actually take it for the match, Ron.”

“But I thought I had. Same thing isn’t it?”

“Let’s hope not. It made you insufferable,” she said with a grumble as she peered down the corridor.

Their eyes met, the realization that this was the first time either of them had mentioned the match that was the catalyst of their fight this year. Hermione expected to feel old irritation or anger, but found that oddly, she felt nothing. Instead, she chuckled and shook her head.

“I don’t think I will be, I feel too good,” he said, returning her smile.

Ginny looked between the two of them wearily. “Well I don’t. We need to go. Soon.”

“Felix nudges you where you need to be to accomplish your ends. That’s what makes it Liquid Luck,” Hermione explained, but as she said it she realized she felt it too, the tug of an impending deadline. What deadline was looming over them, she couldn’t say.

Before she could voice her concerns she heard footsteps approaching in two directions. Hermione pointed her wand at the steps coming from the eastern corridor as Ginny pointed hers to landing below.

“Luna!” Ginny said with a grin, lowering her wand.

At the same time Neville stepped out from the shadows of the other corridor, hands raised. “I got the message. What’s up?”

Ron pulled out the Marauder’s Map from his back pocket, still folded open to their current location just a few passageways from the Room of Requirement. In brief, he explained Harry’s suspicions and what they had been tasked to do.

“We don’t have much time. Malfoy isn’t appearing on this map, which means he must be in the Room of Requirement.”

He looked up at them, eyebrows raised, waiting for any questions. Hermione nervously checked her watch, paying no mind to the guilt that threatened to take over her anxiousness as she eyed the gold bracelet on her wrist. She didn’t thinks she should be required to seek Dean out specifically, but still the thought nagged at her.

“Alright then. Snape is in his office in the dungeons, so we’ll need to split up. Ginny, Neville, and I will watch the Room of Requirement. Luna and Hermione, you’ll go down and keep watch on Snape.”

“I’m going to the dungeons,” Ginny said, taking Hermione by surprise. Did Ginny realize that if she went to the dungeons she would be going with her?

“No, I need to keep an eye on you,” Ron said. Normally, Hermione might defend Ginny, but they did not have time for an argument.

Ginny faced him squarely, her neck growing pink. “Hermione said Felix will nudge you where you need to be. I need to be in the dungeon!”

“Maybe we should wait for others,” Luna interjected, looking serenely between them all, seemingly unaware of the conflict.

This deflated Ginny. “I don’t think anyone else is coming, Luna. Erm, I don’t think most people keep their coins on them like they used to,” she said kindly.

Neville’s face was screwed up in thought. He glanced back towards the corridor he had emerged from. “Maybe I can wake up Dean. And I dunno where Seamus went off to but I bet he’d be for helping out, too.”

“I guess we could wake Lavender and Parvati, too.” Ginny nodded encouragingly at Neville.

“We don’t have time,” Hermione said, looking at them all in exasperation. They quickly quieted. It was like she could physically feel the time slipping away from them. “For all we know nothing is going to happen tonight, but if it does we need to be in position. Ginny will come with me and you lot will go watch Malfoy.”

Luna and Neville nodded resolutely, pulling their wands out, ready to depart. Ron looked like he was going to protest, glaring at Ginny, but Neville tugged at his arm towards the western corridor.

“Meet back here before dawn,” Hermione instructed as they walked away. “And don’t forget the signal if you run into trouble! I showed Ron the charm!”

As they walked away she heard Neville placating Ron, who he was now frog marching towards the corridor, “She’ll be fine. She’s a better dueler than you anyway.”

Tucking her own coin back into her pocket she turned to face the stairs. There was no trepidation as she peered through the darkness at the landing below, only a vague voice that she wasn’t sure was her own saying, “Hurry.”

“Shall we go?” Ginny asked, looking at her with a guarded expression.

Hermione looked down at the wands in their hands, and gripped hers tighter.

“Let’s go.”

—

The corridors leading down to the dungeons were eerily quiet. Nonsense, Hermione told herself, it’s in your head. They’re just normally quiet. So many times she had patrolled the corridors at night, often alone, and she had never felt unsettled. Yet, despite the lingering metallic taste of the Felix Felicis on the back of her tongue that seemed to radiate warmth throughout her body, she couldn’t shake the feeling that they were running late to an important appointment. Whether this unease was in spite of or informed by the Felix, she wasn’t sure.

The silence was growing increasingly louder, almost humming in her ears as they descended the castle staircases. She glanced at Ginny, who had volunteered to accompany her. They hadn’t been properly by themselves since the summer, but this fact didn’t seem to phase Ginny at all. In fact, she seemed almost calm. Perhaps the Felix Felicis had worked more properly on her.

After a moment of nothing but their own echoing foot falls to accompany them, Ginny spoke up. “So why didn’t you invite the others? I think Dean might have liked to join.”

There it was. The very thing that had been nagging her since she called the D.A. Unconsciously, with her free hand, Hermione palmed the coin in her pocket. 

“He went to bed early, I imagine he’s asleep,” Hermione said, more curtly than she meant. She didn’t like how Ginny’s eyebrows flew up as if to say, “Oh, interesting.”

“You both just seemed inseparable, so I was surprised he wasn’t joining us.” Her tone was airy and detached but Hermione didn’t miss the slight purse of her lips or the edge to the statement.

She bit her lip, frustrated at how perceptive Ginny was. The real truth was she didn’t know why she didn’t want Dean here. Of course, there was the slight embarrassment at the thought of trying to explain this hair-brained scheme of Harry’s, especially after the disaster of the Department of Mysteries last year. She shivered at the memory. 

“We aren’t inseparable. We only needed a couple of people, and it should be people who were OK with breaking the rules. Not just a lot of Gryffindors who like the adventure.”

“Dean’s not like that,” Ginny said with a snort.

Hermione felt an intense heat fill in her and grit her teeth to hold back her retort. The familiarity that Ginny spoke with dug at her. They had been broken up for months. What right did she have to say what Dean was and was not like?

They were now descending the steps into the labyrinth of the dungeons. It was colder down here and always felt a bit damp no matter the time of year or weather outside. This did little to quell Hermione’s irritation but she was pleased when Ginny said no more.

Was this how things were always going to be from now on—short snide remarks between the two of them? At this point, Hermione had no idea how to confront the issue. Her mother had taught her to always walk away from conflict when dealing with school bullies. But this was her friend, or she had been at one point. Yes, Dean was her ex-boyfriend, but she had chosen Harry.

“You don’t think Dean will be angry?” Ginny said, now in a lowered voice, so as not to alert anyone of their approach.

Hermione felt something snap in her. “Is that what you want? You’ve been upset about Dean and I dating for months.”

“That’s not true,” Ginny said, but Hermione could tell there was no sincerity behind it.

“Sure,” she said in a huff, stopping midstep. “I’ve just imagined your glares and snide remarks here and there, like after Slughorn’s Christmas Party or after Harry cursed Malfoy!”

They were facing each other and Hermione’s fists were balled up at her sides, months of growing frustration mingled with an intense anxiety that had nothing to do with Ginny or Dean. 

“That’s not what this is about,” Ginny said dismissively, resuming their pace down the dank corridor.

The sconces lining the walls were adorned with cobwebs thick with dust and water dripped from the low ceiling. Hermione still felt uneasy, but now it was accompanied with a draw forward, the urge to continue on.

“Well what is this about then?” she asked irritably, falling in step with Ginny.

“You should have asked Dean to come.” Before Hermione could interject that Dean wasn’t any of her concern, Ginny continued. “You don’t understand, none of you three do. You all are so impossible to penetrate—‘The Golden Trio’ and all that rubbish.

“I spent years on the outside looking in, wishing I were you, really.” She glanced at Hermione, actually looking a little embarrassed. “I’m Harry’s girlfriend and you both still haven’t told me where he’s gone with Dumbledore.”

Hermione bit her lip, steeling herself as they approached Snape’s office door. She pressed her conflicting thoughts down, trying to solve the larger problem at hand. They couldn’t just stand right outside his office, could they? A light prickle spread over the back of her neck and she turned. There was a small alcove where she assumed an old statue must have once sat. She motioned Ginny into it and they stood facing each other, uncomfortably wedged in the small space.

Would Dean be angry with her? Of course he will be, she answered herself miserably. It irked her that Ginny was right. But she couldn’t ask him to join them. If Harry was right, this wasn’t his fight. He had his family to worry about, and himself to keep safe. She didn’t think she could bear it if...besides there were other battles that needed fighting, not just Harry’s.

She shook her head, trying to clear her mind of her spiraling thoughts. Calm and steady, she reminded herself.

“You can shake your head and look conflicted all you like, but you know I’m right,” Ginny whispered to her knowingly.

Hermione glared at her, annoyed that she was still inserting herself into business which, as far as she was concerned, was in no way her own. 

She didn’t have time to come up with a clever retort. Quietly at first, but quickly growing louder was the faint echo of pattering feet. Hermione peered around the corner of their alcove. Squinting, she could make out a small figure approaching. Looking rather harried, and moving more swiftly than she knew he could, Flitwick was upon them.

If he noticed them he did not show it, moving directly to Snape’s office and throwing open the door without so much as a knock. Ginny and Hermione looked at each other in shock, animosity forgotten. They stepped out of their alcove and closer to the door, trying to better hear what was being said.

“—must come at once!” she heard Flitwick’s squeaky voice exclaim. It got more muffled as he moved further into the office “...Emergency!...Order...”

Suddenly, there was a loud bang and a thump, causing Hermione and Ginny to jump back in surprise. In the next moment, dark and looming, Snape glided out. He looked unsurprised to see them, his face impassive.

“Professor Flitwick has collapsed in shock,” his commanding voice reverberated off the walls. “Tend to him while I go get help.”

They gaped at him, but Hermione, ever respectful of his authority as their Professor, was already moving to the door as he had commanded. Without another word, he swept away down the corridor.

As she crossed the threshold of the office, she already knew they had made a mistake. The instinct came as keenly as the caution to hurry had come earlier. Her eyes fell on Professor Flitwick, slumped on the floor near Snape’s desk.

Ginny rushed past her and kneeled next to him to try and rouse him. Hermione’s eyes scanned the room, searching for what had fallen, or else some simmering potion that might have exploded to create such a loud bang. A sick realization opened like a pit in her stomach as she turned to Ginny. Ginny looked back to her, the same horror dawning on her own face.

Hermione’s hand shot into her pocket. The coin was there, hot to the touch—the signal. Taking her widened eyes as confirmation, Ginny said insistently, “We have to go now!”

“We can’t just leave him!” Hermione said, a bit more shrill than she intended.

“We had one job and we let Snape get away! Isn’t there anything you can do?”

“OK, well yes. Prop him up.” She pointed her wand to Flitwick’s chest as Ginny hoisted him into a sitting position against Snape’s desk. “Rennervate.”

They held their breath for a moment. The jinx had been a strong one. For a moment, Hermione worried that it might not be enough, or that he had been attacked with worse a jinx than she was familiar with. But finally, Flitwick stirred, his eyes opening lazily, mumbling incoherently.

“Bloody hell, he really didn’t hold back on him.”

“Professor, take your time getting up. You’re fine, but may be a little dazed. We have to go. If you can’t get up we’ll send somebody down for you,” Hermione said, kneeling down in front of him, trying to hold eye contact with his listless gaze.

“Come on,” Ginny said, tugging her up by her arm, and back out of the room. Ginny had always been much stronger than she looked.

—

They weren’t going to beat Snape to the others. But Hermione knew of a few secret passageways that she had used to get around third year. They wouldn’t be far behind, and could still arrive in time to help.

“I thought I knew most of the passageways. I bullied most of them out of Fred and George by my third year. Or so I thought,” Ginny said from behind her in a huff, sounding almost impressed.

Hermione didn’t respond, a vague sense of fear clouding her thoughts. As they emerged from one passageway into a sixth floor corridor, she thought she could hear screams. She felt a shiver of fear run through her, but it was fainter, not as potent as the fear she had felt in the Department of Mysteries. She could almost feel the Felix Felicis in her veins pumping, saying “press on, press on.”

They kept running, wands drawn, not knowing what to expect as the sounds of battle grew louder. Bangs and thuds reverberated along the walls. The staircase leading to the seventh floor was littered with debris. Errant spells were now whizzing overhead, illuminating the hall. A familiar flame-like purple curse whipped overhead, striking a nearby portrait and leaving scorch marks in the fleeing painted figures wake. Hermione froze, the memory of a searing pain lashing across her chest overtaking her. It was the Department of Mysteries all over again. Dolohov had been thrown in Azkaban, but he must have escaped. How many nights had she seen him so effortlessly flick his wand, unleashing that purple whip-like curse at her in her nightmares?

“Hermione. Hermione!” She looked down at the two hands gripping her shoulders and back up into Ginny’s eyes. “It’s going to be OK! Can’t you feel it?”

She felt cold sweat clinging to her skin and a sickness in her stomach at the memory of Dolohov’s smirk as she collapsed. She felt fear. She felt her heart hammering in her chest. Bang! But there it was, thumping in her veins, persistent through the noise, “press on, press on.” She took a deep breath.

“Right yes, let’s go.”

Ginny grabbed her free hand and pulled her up the stairs. Just before they reached the landing, Hermione ripped her hand from her grip and dove to the side; a large suit of armor had come flying down the staircase in an accompanying blast. Scrambling to her feet Hermione looked around.

“Ginny!” she yelled, climbing up the remaining stairs. She couldn’t find her anywhere.

The sight before her was chaos. There were Death Eaters all around, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. She felt disoriented, unable to tell friend from foe. There was rubble everywhere—wood from portrait frames that had been blasted apart, shards of glass, chunks of stone, and blood, too much blood.

A spell hit the stair railing next to her, blasting stone into the air, some of it cutting into her skin. She had to move. Darting into the fray she noticed Neville, Lupin, and Ron struggling with the Astronomy Tower door.

“Bloody Death Eaters!” she could hear Ron shout over the den of chaos.

A flash of red hair caught her eye. It was Ginny. She was in single combat with a frail looking Death Eater. He must have been one of the newly escaped from Azkaban. Running towards Ginny, she shot a Stunning Spell at him. Luckily, it landed.

Before she could reach Ginny, a raspy voice called from behind her, “Oi! I remember you!”

It was Dolohov. Without a word, Hermione whipped around, throwing an Impediment Jinx at him. Deftly, he blocked it. Unperturbed, she shot another jinx at him. And another. She intended to keep him on the defensive this time.

He was able to cast a few curses between her offenses but she dodged them easily. The fear that had almost overcome her earlier and had fueled her nightmares over the summer months was mysteriously absent. If anything, she felt anticipatory, expecting to see him casually flick his wand, unleashing the curse that had caught her before.

She was sweating from exertion. Others were battling, and she was vaguely aware of the stone walls crumbling around them, the ground slick with what she was unwilling to see.

“Flipendo!” she shouted, ducking under his ill-timed curse. He fell back and knocked his head against a large stone.

Wasting no time, she turned, looking for a new opponent. She saw Luna, dueling two full-grown Death Eaters. Anger fueled her forward. She threw a hex that hit one of them square in the back. He swayed for a moment before crumpling to the ground.

Suddenly, something solid collided into her, pushing her off her feet. The weight of her body hitting the ground knocked the wind out of her as a purple curse hissed past, stinging her right ear.

“Stupefy!” a voice yelled.

She gulped for air as she got up, looking around. Where Dolohov was once standing there was now a cloud of dust from where his body had collapsed with a heavy thud. Confused, she turned around. A rush ran through her when she spotted Dean, pointing his wand squarely at where Dolohov had been standing, after apparently rising and attempting to sneak up on her.

“Are you mad?!” Dean asked, dropping his wand arm and whipping around to face her. He was furious, his jaw clenched and eyes wide.

“I...you pushed me,“ she gasped, still trying to catch her breath, “Thank you.” She looked at him, full of sincerity, emotions enveloping her, taking over her senses. The battle faded away. He had come. He wasn’t safe. But he had come.

His face was hard, but she could see his eyes soften just a little. He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her roughly into him, gripping her tightly.

“You should have come and got me,” he said into her hair.

She said nothing. What could she say? He was right and wrong. A good girlfriend would have gone to him, but a good girlfriend also probably didn’t start off as a fake one. If Lupin was here, then the Order surely was. Dean shouldn’t be here. Nonetheless, she squeezed him back tighter.

A scream of rage brought them back to earth, but almost not in time. A Shield Charm appeared around them before the Body-Bind Curse could hit its mark.

“Inseparable. I told you.”

Hermione whirled around to see Ginny looking smug, just for a moment, before she turned serious again. “Tonks is down the corridor by herself three to one, she needs help. Dean, you go help Lupin, Neville, and Ron with the blocked door.”

Dean looked between them. Hermione realized how strange these instructions probably sounded. “What is a Tonks?” she could imagine him asking. And their Defense Against the Dark Arts professor from third year, who also happened to be a werewolf, was back. Seeing that this made sense to Hermione, Dean didn’t say anything. Instead he nodded curtly, gave Hermione’s arm a squeeze, and headed in the direction of the Astronomy Tower door, which Lupin was now trying to spell open with intricate wand movements.

The chaos came back into focus. There was a blond Death Eater, who seemed to be responsible for the majority of the curses, standing on a pile of rubble and shooting off Killing Curses and other sinister-looking hexes in every direction, not caring if he hit friend or foe.

There were bodies scattered along the floor that she had not noticed before. Desperately, she wanted to see who they were, to see if it was anyone she knew. But she pressed on, knowing that knowledge wouldn’t be helpful to her right now.

The shattering of a window rung through the hall and a shower of glass fell on top of them. From nearby there was a hoarse cry. Spells and curses were still flying all around, but they all just seemed to miss without Hermione even trying to dodge them. She had almost made it to where she imagined Tonks must be when an explosion went off. She turned towards the source of the noise. It was the Astronomy Door.

The door was still intact but Neville was now flying away from it, arcing overhead, and landing just a few yards away from Hermione with a sickening thud. Horror rooted Hermione to the spot. She waited. The curses flying around her seemed to fade away. She stood, waiting, muscles tensed. It was as if she couldn’t move until he did. Finally he stirred feebly, and she breathed a sigh of relief. He was alive.

Then a witch in dark robes, another nameless Death Eater, spotted him, a malicious grin on her face. She approached him, wand raised.

“NO!” Hermione yelled, levitating some nearby rubble and throwing it at the witch.

“I can kill you both. I have time,” the witch said in a bored voice.

Hermione threw more rubble at her, which the witch danced away from. She kept throwing, forcing her back, back away from Neville.

Then the floor trembled, the whole corridor shook. Dust began cascading down from the ceiling.

“ARGH!” someone cried out as the ceiling came crashing in on them.

Hermione threw herself in the direction of Neville, casting a Shield Charm over them both. She tensed up, bracing, feeling large stones and debris bouncing off of her shield.

“Thanks ‘Mione,” came a muffled voice next to her. Neville lifted his head up slightly, and she could see blood dripping down his head. “M’alright. Go check on the others.”

Relief clenched at her throat and tears stung in her eyes. She clutched her wand tightly, as if doing so would keep the tears at bay along with the debris. Nodding, she got up, and once the debris had ceased to fall, she removed the shield.

Dust was heavy in the air. She coughed and shielded her eyes, but could see nothing. She could hear others coughing and calling out to each other. She could hear running. Spells that were still issuing from the one untamable Death Eater in the north end of the corridor set the haze aglow.

She was beginning to make out figures. Above, half the ceiling remained. The half near the Astronomy Tower now laid in ruins on the ground.

“Hermione!” she heard someone call.

“Dean?” she called back.

A squat Death Eater ran by, shooting a hex straight for her. She blocked it, and sent a Stunning Spell back. He smiled at her, looking pleased to have found another opponent.

“Harry, what are you doing here?” Ginny’s voice asked in the haze.

Harry. More relief and more panic gripped her. There were calls for him to come back.

Another, more immediate, deeper voice called, “Come on. We can’t keep the Dark Lord waiting. We’ll have fun another day!”

The squat Death Eater shrugged at Hermione and ran off, but not without sending a few last poorly aimed hexes over his shoulder.

Hermione leaned over hacking, trying to rid herself of the dust now coating her lungs. As she sat back up, she was surprised to find that everything had quieted. There were murmurs, but no more shouting and no more bangs. In the absence of the noise, she also realized that she felt cold, the metallic taste in her mouth gone. No longer was there a pumping in her veins telling her to “press on, press on.”

The dust around her began to swirl and dissipate. She could now clearly see the multiple bodies strewn throughout the hall. Most appeared to be injured, but two were clearly unconscious, or worse. They were covered in dust and rubble, making it difficult to ascertain who they might be. At the far end, she thought one of them might have red hair. Frantically, she looked around, searching for her friends, needing to see that they were OK.

To her relief she saw Dean and Luna across the hall, working to clear the descending staircase that was now totally blocked with debris, the Death Eaters having tried to impede any followers. The two of them levitated a large piece of a stone column to the side, clearing an exit down to the lower levels.

After a moment she began to move towards him. As he nodded to Luna, indicating job well done, their eyes met. Immediately, he moved toward her, not looking away, until they were both running to each other.

They embraced, their lips meeting fiercely, not caring about the dust covering their faces or the sweat dotting their brows. They pulled apart and Dean cradled her face in his hands.

“You shouldn’t have come without me.”

“You shouldn’t have come at all,” she said in response.

He looked into her eyes, incredulous. “Not come? How could I not? The noise woke all of Gryffindor Tower up. Then the fourth year girls said they could see the Dark Mark reflected off the lake from their windows. When Parvati and Lavender said you weren’t in bed, I knew you were here.”

“This wasn’t your fight, Dean,” she said, placing her hand over his own on her cheek, trying to soften the harshness of her words.

One hand dropped away, and he looked at her, trying to ascertain if he was hearing her correctly. “This is a war Hermione. Every fight is our fight.”

“Just because it’s a war doesn’t mean you have to fight every battle.” From the crease in his brow she knew he was upset. “You could have gotten hurt. I couldn’t have borne that. Besides, I truly didn’t know this...” she trailed off, looking at the destruction around her.

His expression softened slightly. He moved his hand from her face to her hair, picking out little pieces of rubble and stone.

“Seamus tried to stop me,” he said with a laugh, “but he couldn’t so he followed.”

Across the way, Hermione saw Seamus helping Neville back to his feet.

“Ms. Granger!” Professor McGonagall called, approaching quickly, covered in debris, a small gash on her cheek.

Hermione jumped back from Dean, feeling ridiculous the moment she did. Professor McGonagall obviously had other things on her mind than the romantic habits of her students.

“There has been an incident with Mr. Weasley,” seeing the shock on her face, she then corrected, “Mr. Bill Weasley. He is alive but badly injured. I think it might be best if you accompany Mr. Ron Weasley down to the Hospital Wing.”

Hermione turned to see Ron, looking ghostly pale and in a daze, walking slowly towards the stairs, Ginny at his arm.

“Mr. Thomas, seeing as both our Gryffindor’s prefects are indisposed, will you and Ms. Patil meet me in the Headmaster’s Office? There are students that need herding back to bed and halls that need patrolling.”

Dean seemed surprised, but nodded. “I’ll go get Parvati now.”

“Very well,” Professor McGonagall said. Then, turning to Hermione, she said, “Poppy has already written to Arthur and Molly. Tell the others I will be joining everyone shortly.”

Hermione nodded, knowing the others meant the Order. Would Dumbledore be joining them as well?

Dean looked at her and shrugged. “I suppose as a prefect stand-in I should set a better example but—” and he leaned down to kiss her one again on the lips.

After they parted, Hermione walked over to Ron and Ginny, who were waiting by the stairs, apparently at McGonagall’s request.

“Is he going to be—”

“Alright?” Ginny said, finishing the thought. Her chin quivered but her voice was clear, “McGonagall said he wasn’t in immediate danger but...it was Fenrir.”

Hermione gasped.

“Ron saw him as McGonagall and Lupin were taking him down to the Hospital WIng. I guess he looked pretty bad.”

Staring ahead blankly, Ron nodded slowly. “Just a bit shaken up. M’fine.”

Hermione reached out and rubbed his arm in comfort. “Shall we go down then?”

“I’m going to find Harry,” Ginny said, taking both Ron and Hermione by surprise.

“Ginny you can’t. It may not be safe ye—“

“The Death Eaters fled.” Then with her chin set, eyes blazing, she said again, “I’m going to find Harry.”

Exhausted, they didn’t fight her. They agreed to meet in the hospital wing and went their separate ways. Ron and Hermione walked at a leisurely pace, both silently trying to process the shock of it all. Occasionally, they would remark on the surprising damage along the corridors as they descended, disturbed by the amount of damage the fleeing Death Eaters had inflicted.

The hospital wing itself was mostly empty. Lupin and Tonks stood near Bill’s bedside, as Madam Pomfrey poured a putrid green colored mixture into a bowl. Ron rushed over to them.

“How is he? Will he...is he...?” he asked.

“He’ll live,” Madam Pomfrey said, shooing him back as she began dipping a cloth rag into the mixture. “I can’t yet determine the full damage of his injuries, but he is in no immediate danger right now.”

Color flooded back into Ron’s face as he watched Madam Pomfrey dab at the wounds with the salve.

Hermione made her way over to Lupin and Tonks, hugging them both. She looked questioningly at the only other occupied bed in the ward. A body lay on it, fully covered.

“A Death Eater,” Lupin said.

“Chap by the name of Gibbons, I believe. Judging by the curse marks, I would say it was probably another Death Eater that dunnit to him,” Tonks said.

“So everyone else?” Hermione asked tentatively.

“Accounted for, that we could tell. Were there any more of your friends down there, Hermione?” Lupin asked. Hermione felt embarrassed. He didn’t sound disappointed, but the unsaid chastisement was there. For the second year in a row, they had led their friends into unnecessary danger.

“No, I don’t believe so. Everyone with us is fine.”

Lupin nodded solemnly, rubbing his chin as he stared down at Bill.

Seeing nothing left to do but wait, Hermione pulled up a chair next to the bed.

Where was Harry? How had the Death Eaters gotten in? Was anyone else hurt?

These questions rattled around in her brain as the clock hanging near Madam Pomfrey’s office ticked away. She could now feel the ache in her joints, and soreness in her muscles from where things had hit her and where she had fallen to avoid further injury.

Finally, the hospital wing doors swung open. They all seemed to hold their breath, waiting to see who it would be. It was Ginny and Harry. Harry looked dreadful, blood dripping down his face, his nose bruised.

Relieved, she stood up and ran to him, throwing her arms around him. He squeezed her back, rubbing her back. She was shaking from exhaustion but finally felt peace wash over her. Dean was fine. Ron was fine. Harry was fine. Everyone was OK.

“Are you alright Harry?” she heard Lupin ask.

“I’m fine. How’s Bill?” Hermione pulled away from Harry as he asked, allowing him a better view of the eldest Weasley.

She watched Harry’s face as he grimaced. His glasses were cracked, she realized. Her hand twitched, moving to repair them, but she stopped herself. They could be fixed later.

“Fenrir wasn’t transformed into a full wolf, couldn’t you just heal them with a charm?” Ron asked Madam Pomfrey.

Hermione, in all her exhaustion, couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Lupin beat her to the answer.

“Those are cursed wounds. He likely won’t be a full werewolf, but he may have some wolfish qualities,” Lupin explained.

“Dumbledore might know something that would work though,” Ron said hopefully, “Where is he? Bill fought those maniacs on his orders. He can’t just leave him in this state.”

Hermione wanted to reiterate that cursed wounds couldn’t be healed. They could be managed, but never completely eradicated. But again someone else spoke first.

“Ron,” said Ginny. “Dumbledore’s dead.”

A collective gasp rippled through the room. Hermione felt as if she had taken a step forward only to be met with air, and now she was falling. She searched Harry’s face for anything to convey that Ginny had misunderstood. Instead, he looked solemnly between her and Ron before turning back to the others.

“Snape killed him.”

The words settled onto her mind, resolute, like a fact from a textbook. Unlike the facts she accepted and catalogued in her mind, this one had power. A void opened up inside of her, threatening to consume her. She bit her lip, trying to hold it all in. Lupin let out a sob from the chair in which he had collapsed. It had all shifted, the very fabric of the Wizarding World as they knew it. She wondered if everyone felt it, too.

To Be Continued…

#Hogwarts #Hermione Granger #Dean Thomas #To All The Wizards