#the way that they had to strike such a careful balance of hiring the right va | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mithrilwren · 3 years

Text

I really, really wanted to contribute something to Essek Week, but unfortunately with two essays and a novel chapter due by Monday, I didn’t have the time or mental energy to write anything new. Cue me remembering that I’d actually started working on an Essek-centric shadowgast Pirate!AU last summer, that never saw the light of day! Though I did a whole bunch of research for it, summer ended before I could get farther than the first couple chapters. Still, I’m very fond of the premise, and I’d like to finish it one day. I can’t guarantee I will (life’s too busy to commit myself to another Big Fic Project atm) but in the meantime, here’s a little taste in the form of the first chapter.

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

For @essek-week Day 7: AU

Courts of Silk (Chapter 1)

Essek startled from his trance to the crackle of blistering thunder overhead.

Mind bled of all drowsiness in an instant, he unfolded his legs and slid off the berth, drifting to the center of the room and tilting his ear towards the boards above.

A storm… but the skies were meant to be clear for days, and he trusted Avus to know it. Could the weather have turned so–

Boom.

Essek’s eyebrows flew up as the deck visibly lurched below his feet.

Not thunder.

Cannon fire.

More sounds now, hurried ones – an erratic tempo of feet pounding through the corridor outside his little room, the floorboards creaking dully under the weight of the crew scrambling over the deck above. He flinched as a louder noise pierced through the commotion: the rattling of a heavy fist falling against the door of his cabin, hard enough to shake the wooden frame.

“We’ve been boarded!” Zel’ra’s guttural shout startled him out of his confused stupor, and he flew to the door and flung it open. The quartermaster stood outside, her snarling jaw dripping with whitish battle foam, the kind that bugbears of Rosohna so seldom have occasion to sport within city walls. “Come on, magic boy, time for you to earn your– Shit!”

Then she was gone, and Essek was left staring dumbly at the empty corridor, as Zel’ra raced back the way she came. A moment later, there was a yelp, and the grisly crack of metal hitting bone. Then there was no sound at all, save the rocking of the ocean’s pulse against the hull, and the thump of confident, unfamiliar footsteps, coming closer and closer to his open door.

He had only a few moments to make his decision. The fight might still be going on above deck, but if intruders had already made it below, there was little hope of a favorable outcome for the crew of the Barren Bow. He hadn’t thought the Empire would be brazen enough to attack a diplomatic ship in open waters, but there were soldiers of all ilks on the open sea, and no government to hold them to account so far from land. He would not put it past a Dwendalian crew to sight a Dynasty flag on the horizon and decide to take the matter of revenge in their own hands. If so, there was no telling what treatment they might expect at the hands of their attackers. Rage was rarely tamed by abstract rules of engagement, and he doubted anyone would care to ask what the nature of their mission was, once the killing began.

But perhaps…

Quickly, Essek drew aside his sleeve and materialized the leather–bound contents of his wristpocket into his hands. His spellbook lay beside precious components in their embroidered fold, and there, at the bottom of the pile: the folio. He whispered a quiet word and the paper folded apart, revealing its damning – and perhaps, in the right hands, lifesaving – contents.

The letters.

If the tides were so unfavorable that he could not fight, perhaps that might be enough to–

He vanished the whole affair back into the ether as two shadows fell across the door.

From the darkness of the hallway, two figures stepped over the threshold. In front was a young woman: human, with swarthy skin made darker still by the weathering burn of long days at sea. Her hands were tucked beneath bare arms and her hip turned out to an unconcerned jaunt, adorned by a sash of deep blue. Behind her, and looming so tall that she had to hunch to fit through the frame of the door, was a giant of a woman. Taller even than Zel’ra, her bare shoulders glistening with rippling muscles and sweat, pale as moonlight – or as the steely glint of the broadsword at her back. The younger woman swept him over with piercing eyes, her confident grin not quite masking the focused gaze beneath. Though she bore no weapons, Essek could feel the stain of threat in every taut sinew of her body. He held still, waiting to see who would make the first move.

Her eyes finally paused, centered on the floor beneath his feet, and her grin dropped into something more like a startled ‘oh’. Too late, he realized his mistake – that his levitation, as natural and instinctive as standing on his own two feet, had just given him away.

“Mage!” she sputtered, and her hand was gripping his arm and twisting it behind his back before he even realized she’d moved. Essek dropped the levitation spell, hoping to get enough leverage from the sudden height difference to slip out of her grasp, but before he could so much as shuffle to the left, the taller woman was at his right, clutching his other arm with a grip strong enough to break bone.

“Shit,” the first woman spat as she stepped back, allowing the second to take both of his arms into custody. “Who the fuck did we just board?”

Essek kept silent, staring at her, searching for any sign of weakness and finding less than nothing. If he had just had his hands free for a moment longer… but that didn’t matter now. There weren’t many spells without a somatic component at his disposal, and cantrips wouldn’t save his neck, should the giantess move quicker to snap it than he could speak.

Without a means of immediate escape, he looked next for any way to identify his captors. They were human, but their loose, subdued dress – for the younger woman, a vest of blue cotton, the other, a braided grey tunic, and frayed ribbons in both their hair – was nothing like the silver and crimson finery of the Righteous Brand.

If not from the Empire, who were these people? Hired thugs? Mercenaries?

“Are there more of you skulking down here?”

He didn’t ask the woman to clarify, though he wasn’t sure exactly what she was asking. More drow? Yes, but he was not about to reveal the nature of the delegation travelling under his protection to her. More mages? No. As always, he had convinced the Bright Queen that his effort alone would be sufficient. For the first time in a very long time, he wished he’d been a little more conservative in estimating his own skills. Given the current situation, someone else’s power at his back might actually be welcome, rather than distracting.

Her burning gaze made it clear that he had to say something, and soon, but for once, the right words did not come. The truth did not matter: he knew that any unfavorable answer would be taken as a lie.

Still, Essek would not panic. The only way to regain control of the situation was by carefully gathering information, finding something that he could use to shift the balance of power at a more advantageous moment. That was his particular specialty.

“I do not know,” he answered coolly. “For I do not know who is above and below deck at all hours of the day. I can only speak for myself.”

“Beau! Fjor– fuck– Captain Tusktooth wants you on deck!” A new voice, its timbre high and grating, like glass against cold iron, echoed from around the corner. The woman – Beau, he filed away – turned her head and shouted back out the door.

“Just a second, we’ve got one more!” Then, “Tell him to get Caleb over here, we’ve got a goddamn mage to deal with!”

The giantess at his back leaned down, so close that her dreaded locks nestled amidst the silver chains that hung from tip to base of his pointed ear. “You aren’t going to give us any trouble, are you?” she murmured, and despite every ounce of training he’d undergone for exactly this sort of intimidation, he still couldn’t help the way he shivered at her dark tone. There was a deep quality to her voice that sung of violence, for violence’s sake, and though he wasn’t yet truly afraid, he had no wish to provoke her.

“How could I?” Essek gently flexed his arms in her grasp: not enough to challenge, but enough to reassure her of his helplessness.

Her lips curled back, and… yes. There was a little fear gathering there, in the back of his throat. A good kind of fear – the prudent kind. It would keep him alert, and focused, and ready to strike back when the moment was right.

When she started pushing him forward, he followed her lead willingly, and the two of them shadowed Beau into the corridor and up the steps that led back above deck. Essek winced as the bright noonday sun slipped into view, already anticipating the stinging burn that was sure to follow. He’d managed to avoid the deck for most of the voyage, much to the chagrin of the Assarian crew. He was not born into a body made for manning rigging, and certainly not under an unrepentant sky determined to scorch his face and hands and neck and leave him itching and miserable for days without relief. His better use was below deck, planning for the engagement ahead, and his hours of fresh air better taken in the evening, when the gentler light of the moons was merely a prickle beneath his skin, rather than a flame.

Everywhere he looked, he saw mismatched bodies. Though Essek hadn’t met the entire complement of the Barren Bow’s crew, he had to assume most of the scattered orcs, goblins, and bugbears belonged to their side. Most of the ones on their feet were being held in the shallow recess at the centre of the deck, where great cannons might have been lodged on a more modern ship. A handful of unremarkable humans, each equipped with a rapier – or, in one man’s case, a salt-encrusted retort – stood above them, keeping watch. Amidst all that humanity stood a wild–eyed goblin in a blaring yellow dress, hefting a crossbow composed of whirring gears and levers of an intricate make that rivaled Waccoh’s own craftsmanship. She was currently in the process of shouting threats down across the heads of his cowed compatriots. Some were clutching broken arms or wiping blood from contusions and burnt welts. Lying at the center of the group was an unconscious Zel’ra, the goose egg at the back of her skull already angry and red.

Finally, he spied the remainder of the drow contingent clustered by the ship’s rail. Diplomats, all of them, bound for a parley at sea and not trained for conflict beyond what it took to hold a dagger right-way up. He was the only one among them battle-tested, and even then, his means leaned more towards subterfuge than outright combat. Theoretically, the Assarian crew was meant to be their main line of defence in case of attack. Clearly they had not proven up to the task.

Essek would be filing a very unfavorable report with their commanders upon his return, if any of them survived the day.

“Captain!” Beau shouted, and a tall half-orc stepped away from the railing, his wide-brimmed hat only partially disguising the many scars that littered his face.

“Weather’s turning,” he said, casting his eyes towards the – as far as Essek could tell – clear horizon. Those same yellow eyes flickered up, above Essek’s head, and for a moment seemed to narrow before turning back to Beau. “You finished clearing the hold yet?”

“Didn’t make it that far.” Beau jerked her head, and Essek was thrust into the sunlight all at once. The glare was blinding, and apparently not just to him. The giantess’s hands jerked around his arms, like they wanted to fly up and shield her eyes as well. That was all the opportunity he needed.

With one quick motion, he jerked his arms from her grasp and drew his hands together, tracing familiar glyphs out of nothing but muscle memory as his mouth uttered an incantation, and the world exploded around him. The giantess was flung back against the doorframe, wood splintering beneath her weight, and both Beau and the half-orc slammed into the deck and began to hurtle towards the side of the boat. Forcing his eyes to stay focused amidst the chaos and the harsh light, Essek caught the glitter of a cutlass skittering along the boards as he took stock of his position on the newly reborn battlefield.

Nearly all of the boarders were in a concentrated area in front of him, and the rest of the Assarian crew were protected by the lip of the recess in the deck. The terrain could not be more advantageous. Essek allowed himself a small smirk as he raised his hand and prepared a vacuum blast that would level the whole of the upper deck, and deliver them all to safety in one swift stroke.

How arrogant, that this petty group of mercenaries thought they could capture–

“Counterspell.”

The magic sizzled and died in his hand, and Essek whirled, searching for whoever had spoken behind him. Thugs he could handle, but it was always best to deal with a mage first, when they could do such infuriating things as what had just occurred. But once he turned, he found himself facing an empty doorway, and an empty deck above that. No trace of whoever had cast the counterspell.

The giantess was gone as well.

He heard the click before he could parse what cold and heavy thing was tugging on his wrist, but he was horribly aware of what was happening by the time his other wrist was wrenched behind his back and small hands clasped the second iron band shut. A stomach-churning wave of exhaustion passed through him from scalp to toe, and he staggered, only barely holding on to consciousness. Head lolling towards the floor, he saw two soft-soled boots landing lightly on the deck in front of him.

With great effort, he managed to drag his head up from his chest, and found himself staring into blue eyes and dusty freckles, lips pressed into a thin line, all framed by tangles of copper-red hair.

“Good work, Nott,” the man said. His accent was one Essek had only heard once before, though through the mire of exhaustion he could not remember where.

Behind Essek, the half-orc groaned and pushed himself up off the deck. “Next time you have a brilliant plan for subduing the prisoner, maybe let’s try not putting us all in the line of fire, hm?”

The man ignored the sarcasm, still looking all too carefully at Essek.

“Are you finished?” he murmured, and though his body was lithe, his soft voice sung of as much violence as the giantess’s darker growl.

With a sigh, Essek let his shoulders drop. He could still feel the pulses of magic coursing through the iron bands around his wrists. Even if he got his arms free again, the cuffs would not be easily slipped, or broken. These people, whoever they were, came equipped to handle wizards like himself. Was that what they were, then? Assassins in disguise? Privateers? The blunt instrument of some government or another?

Not that it made much difference now. Whoever they were, he was at their mercy.

“Spin him around.”

Essek felt himself being maneuvered away from the man’s incisive gaze. Through bleary eyes he caught the looks of frustrated disbelief from the four drow delegates, lamenting their crushed hope in silent, huddled unity. He was meant to be their protection. Now that Essek was taken, what else could save them? Not one of them was brave enough to attempt it themselves. A shiver of disgust ran through Essek, as heady as the self-recrimination it concealed at having allowed himself to be captured so easily.

The half-orc strode up to Essek, the sword in his hand now replaced, though Essek hadn’t seen the man move to retrieve it. It was a silver cutlass, fine enough to cleave a person clean through and leave one half still propped up on the other. Too rich a prize by far for a simple mercenary – he must have come by it dishonestly, or been given it as boon or bribe. Neither prospect boded well.

The hand that gripped the sword told an equally foreboding story, for only the thumb was composed of green flesh. The rest of the fingers were severed at the third knuckle, and replaced by metal imitations fixed to the wrist by a harness of leather cords. Still, he held the hilt with all the confidence of a trained fighter, and the surety of his grasp left Essek little doubt as to its effectiveness, mechanical augmentation or no.

“My name,” said the half-orc, “is Captain Tusktooth.” A hint of bright teeth flashed from below the wide brim of the hat. “And this ship is mine now. Its cargo, mine too.”

The answer about the identity of his captors, at last, became clear, for what little good it did him.

Pirates.

“By whose authority?” Essek shot a harsh look at the foolish dignitary who had chosen this moment to find their courage, but Tusktooth only grinned harder.

“By my own.” Behind Essek’s back, Nott and Beau slipped back through the splintered doorframe and down into the depths of the ship once more. “Now, my crew is going to finish taking a look through your cargo. I trust that your captain has been honest about the contents of your hold. Are there any other surprises I should be warning my people of? Anybody else looking to make trouble?”

Would that there were. “You will find little of value to take. We travelled light.” He spoke the truth, having no more useful lie at his disposal. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, and another wave of exhaustion teased at the edges of his mind. He fought it with all the strength he had – which was growing less and less by the minute.

“So your captain told me. But that wasn’t my question.” Tusktooth’s voice grew as keen as the blade in his hand as he lifted it and placed the edge to the shallow of Essek’s throat. “Are there others like you aboard?”

He did not flinch. Torment and torture were old friends: his own cherished instruments. He did not fear what this man would do to him, any more than he feared death itself. At least, that is what he told his errant heart, as sweat began to bead at the nape of his neck.

“No.”

Tusktooth stared him down for a minute longer, and Essek held his gaze as best he could with the sun still searing his eyes. But at last, the sword withdrew, and Essek’s breath came a little easier. “Then let’s call this an exercise in… mutual trust.” He smiled once more, and Essek returned the expression with a vague twitch of lips.

The tense exchange was followed by ten excruciating minutes of silence, during which Essek did his best not to fidget in his heavy robes, even when his exposed skin grew so heated he felt liable to burst into flames. As they waited, the redheaded man pulled Tusktooth aside for a private conversation, and Essek sweated, and watched, and tried to formulate a plan.

The pirates would find nothing of value to steal. The Barren Bow had provisions for the voyage, but anything else aboard was the purview of the Assarian crew, who had planned to head back towards the shores of Igrathad as soon as the parley concluded. There were no scheduled stops for trade, and thus, no trade goods in their hold. There weren’t even guns to offer. Essek would never dare to admit it aloud, but the Dynasty lagged sorely behind the rest of Wildemount in outfitting its fleet with the relatively new technology of cannonry, at least of the type that lacked a magical component. Firearms had only entered the sphere of weaponmaking some thirty years prior, and with Xhorhas primarily landlocked, the navy hadn’t been high on the priority list for refurbishment.

His best hope was that some of the crew had hidden stashes of coin in their quarters. Otherwise, there would be nothing for the pirates to take, and without anything to satisfy them, well… he did not want to be in manacles when that news was delivered to a man who’d already put a sword to his throat.

If only to convince himself he was not totally beaten yet, Essek watched Tusktooth and the redhead carefully, seeing what he could glean from body language alone. Their conversation was hushed but tense, and every few moments the redhead would turn his eyes towards the drow delegation, and then to Essek himself. He made sure to drop his own eyes before they could meet again, not wanting to spark another confrontation by appearing insolent. As for the pirate captain… there was confidence, yes, but the unwavering edge of confidence seemed to drop away from his shoulders as he spoke to the other man. His arms moved more wildly; his words were more rapid, and at a higher pitch. Perhaps his earlier confidence was not so unshakeable as it at first appeared.

At last, Beau and the goblin re-emerged from the staircase. “We got shit all,” Beau said, tossing down a half-empty sack by Essek’s feet. He winced as a few bruised tubers rolled out across the warped deck.

“...Shit.” Tusktooth ran a hand over his mouth. “Shit. Nothing?”

“Nott and I checked every inch of that hold, the crew quarters, everything. No money, no timber, no – fuck, I don’t know – fine silks or–”

“No cannons,” Nott added mournfully. “No black powder.”

“We went through all this for nothing?”

“Maybe someone’s holding out on us,” Nott said, brandishing her crossbow. “I could make ‘em talk for you, Captain. Make them squeal–”

“Oh–kay, Nott,” Tusktooth said, “let’s take it down a notch.” But despite his placating tone, his look was thoughtful. Again, he turned to Essek. “You never never did say what you all were doing out here, so far from home. You don’t look like a sailor to me.”

“Yes, friend,” said the redhead, stepping up to Essek from Tusktooth’s other side, alarmingly calm, and placing altogether too much emphasis on the second word to be trusted, “what is it you do here?” Essek took a half-step back, not liking the feeling of being pressed in from all angles, and walked himself straight into the chest of the giantess.

Nowhere to hide. And with his hands bound behind his back, no way to levitate up to a level where he didn’t feel every inch of height his captors had over him. Which, at his firmly average height for a drow, was many.

Focus, Thelyss. Focus.

“Why should I answer your questions,” he sneered, “when you have not done me the same courtesy? Who are you, to board a vessel commissioned lawfully by the Bright Queen herself?” It was a dangerous ploy, but a considered one – a hastily calculated risk. If the pirates could not be convinced there was nothing of value to be found, they might decide to punish the crew for concealing their rightful prize, and when even a beating couldn’t drive his compatriots to forfeit non-existent gold, the pirates might well scuttle the ship and leave them all to drown at sea. He doubted simple brigands would care much for the particulars of a diplomatic mission if there was no treasure involved, so there was little harm in broaching a subject that might be far more dangerous to discuss with more educated captors.

But apparently, some aspect of Essek’s logic had failed him again, because the redhead immediately shot a wide-eyed look at Tusktooth, before looking back to Essek. “The Bright Queen?”

Essek gave a little bow. His head swam as he dipped back up – the handcuffs, no doubt, though it could just as easily be the beginnings of heatstroke – and he had to swallow twice to find the fortitude to speak without slurring. “Essek Thelyss, Shadowhand of the Kryn Dynasty and ambassador of the realm.” The last part was an… embellishment, and if he chanced a glance over at the true ambassadors, he imagined there would be many offended looks. But thankfully, all attention was solely focused on him. “I assure you, you won’t find the prize you’re looking for on a diplomatic vessel, gentleman. Your friends have already given you proof – we carry nothing beyond our own provision. Unless you have a particular taste for the delicacies of Xhorhasian fashion, I’m afraid we have little to offer you.”

Nott snarled, but the redhead put up a hand. “Captain,” he said slowly, looking at Tusktooth. “Might I… make a suggestion?”

“You may.”

“It’s not something I’d usually propose, but times being what they are…” Tusktooth nodded grimly.

“We haven’t got many options left.”

“Precisely. I believe that our friend Mr. Thelyss here has lied to us.” He could laugh for the irony of it all; this was the most truthful Essek had been in years. “There is indeed something very valuable aboard this ship.” His blue eyes pierced through Essek, and it was only his determination to keep the – now violently pitching – contents of his stomach where they belonged, that stopped him from speaking up in his own defense.

“And that is...?”

“Himself.”

#critical role #essek thelyss #shadowgast #essek week #my writing #also since plank king essek is a... thing??? now #the timing seems appropriate lol #this fic is not that but it is still (eventual) pirate!Essek #and who doesn't love that

161 notes · View notes

plant-flwrs · 4 years

Note

Can I request a ilvermorny transfer x one of the twins? I think it'll be cool if she wore roller skates to school (charmed by yours truly) since it's the 90s and she's cool but super sweet and caring - maybe when they invite her over to the burrow for the summer or their birthday she can give them a pair? Thanks ily!!!

roller skates // fred weasley

masterlist!

a/n: ok i always feel bad when my fics take so long to set up and theres barely any like actual romance and i am trying to work on it. i think its hard for me to go into a fic where a relationship is already established, so i like writing them coming together and the immersion of it. but i hate reading fics where it takes forever to get to the good parts so just know that i will be trying to work on that flaw in my writing! thanks so much for reading! (i made the reader from florida just because my mind blanked on any other places that don’t have snow lol, but it’s not really relevant in any other situations so ignore it if u please) also just realizing all of my summaries sound scary and ominous also just realizing how i say way too much in these author notes im so sorry bye

summary: The American transfer student draws attention to herself with her accent, but Fred is drawn to something else about her.

(10.4k hehe sorry :D)

-----

Looking around at the students bustling past you, the only word you could think of was “proper”.

Looking down at your muggle clothes, loose and mismatched, your hair resting naturally, the only word you could think to describe yourself with was “improper”.

A boy with a permanent scowl and striking blond hair glanced your way, and the taller adults behind him followed his eye line. The three of them looked you up and down and their mouths all distorted into nasty grimaces. You felt your father’s comforting hand clasp over your shoulder, trying to help you remember everything he had said to you before arriving at King Cross Station.

“They aren’t that different from us,” he repeated, and you could tell he was doubting himself as he glanced at the uptight children and their matching parents.

He guided you forwards, and you pushed your large cart in front of you, navigating through the crowd. It started to separate around you, and even more odd glances were thrown your way. You supposed you should have felt a little insecure- you looked quite out of place- but the feeling could not overwhelm the excitement you felt. You had read all about Hogwarts, its history, its architecture, and you even picked up a few books about muggle London.

You were stood in your father's embrace, about to board. Your things were stored away, and you heard the train roaring louder and louder. You glanced around, the fathers in their dress shirts and ties, mothers in long skirts and blouses. Their children wore sweaters and jeans, or suit jackets and dress pants.

Something caught your eyes, though; a few feet away there was a large family, mingling in embraces. They all had flaming red hair, and their clothes looked like yours. In fact, your clothes resembled the oldest woman’s clothes, mismatched and colorful. Her eyes watered, and she smoothed down the hair on a fidgeting boy.

“Ronald, hold still!” she shouted at him, and he reluctantly allowed his mother to soothe his red hair down into a part on the side.

Once the woman had moved onto another child, Ronald roughed his hair back to the mess it was before. The woman now clutched a smaller boy, who looked like he was Ronald’s age, by the shoulders. She moved a hand to soothe his unruly hair off his forehead. Your eyes widened when you saw the lightning bolt on his forehead.

The books you had bought about the English Wizarding World did not neglect to mention the boy who lived. Elbowing your father, you both cast glances at the family. Your father nodded his head, looking impressed at the sight of Harry Potter.

“Thanks again Mrs. Weasley,” Harry said, and it sounded like he had said it millions of times before.

Mrs. Weasley waved off the two boys, who went to gather a girl with large bushy hair.

“Come on ‘Mione! We’ve got to get a good compartment,” Ronald said impatiently, tugging the girl's arm onto the train.

Mrs. Weasley was left with four other children. One of them looked like all the other proper British people you had seen at the station, a permanent sneer on his face. He shook his head stiffly at his mother and shook his father’s hand. You thought it was quite odd, and two identical boys standing with the family couldn’t contain their laughter.

“Yes,” one of them started, doubling over in a bow, “good day, mother,” he said pompously, imitating his brother.

“May you have a wonderful few months,” the other started, moving to shake his father’s hand as his brother had moments ago, “I’ll be looking for your owl,” he said, sounding incredibly posh.

The younger girl, with the same fiery hair, began to giggle, earning a scowl from the eldest brother as he boarded the train.

The girl pulled her mother in for a hug, and then her father, and waved to them fervently as she followed after her brother.

“You boys, stay out of trouble!” Mrs. Weasley said to the remaining twins, waving a finger at them.

“We always do, mum,” one said, and it was obvious by his tone that they didn’t often stay out of trouble.

They waved to their parents at the same time, stepping onto the train with a certain enthusiasm.

You averted your gaze, looking anywhere but at the family you had been staring at. You looked up at your father, hugging him one last time. When you pulled back, you heard his name being called.

“Mr. Y/n?” the voice called out, approaching the two of you.

It was Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and Mr. Weasley already had his hand stuck out to your father.

“I’m Arthur Weasley, I’ve been the one to hire you at the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office at the Ministry. This is my wife, Molly. Funny to meet you here,” he said politely, looking at you and your father in a nicer way than any other wizard had during your time at the station. His eyes didn’t wander down to your brightly colored shoes, or your patterned pants, and he didn’t even cast a second glance at your oversized, offensively colored sweater. You beamed at him.

“Oh! Yes, it’s great to meet you,” your father said, shaking his hand. He squeezed your shoulder, jostling you a bit, “This is my daughter, Y/n.”

“Oh, would you hear that accent, Arthur!” Molly gasped, smiling as if she was astonished. Your father chuckled at her reaction. You supposed it would happen to you a lot at Hogwarts.

They both smiled at you, and Arthur offered you his hand to shake. You held your hand out, but the sleeve of your sweater swallowed the limb. You shook the extra clothing away, and Molly chuckled. Finally shaking his hand, you held it out to Molly. She bypassed your hand and began to roll up the sleeves of your sweater.

“Thank you,” you said, and she nodded, accomplished, at you.

“Better get her going,” your father said, and the Weasleys nodded at you.

“Have a good term, dear,” Molly said to you, patting your shoulders the way she had done to Harry.

“Thank you,” you repeated, moving past them and heading onto the train.

You waved one last time at your father, and the door closed behind you.

You wandered down the isles, looking for an empty place to sit. You pretended to look like you knew where you were going, hoping fewer people would stare at you if you did. Your plan didn’t work, and you caught the eyes of almost everyone you passed.

You had made it to the end of the train, and your eyes peered into the last cabin. It was empty except for a girl and a boy. They seemed friendly enough, so you slid open the door.

“Mind if I sit with you guys?” you asked, and the boy looked at you quizzically when he heard your voice.

“Not at all,” the girl said.

She had strikingly blonde hair and gray eyes that poured deeply into you. She had a faint smile on her lips, and her head was cocked to the side.

“I’m Luna Lovegood,” she said, and her voice was light and airy, “This is Neville Longbottom.”

The boy shifted in his seat, casting a shy glance at you. He raised a shaky hand and gave you a curt wave.

You smiled widely at the two of them, glad you seemed to have picked the right place to sit.

The train ride went fast enough. Luna asked you all sorts of questions about America, and you asked her all sorts of questions about England. When Neville warmed up to you, he asked some questions about Ilvermorny. They asked what house you had been in there, and you told him you were a Thunderbird, the soul of the witch.

“Where do you reckon she’ll be sorted into here?” Neville asked Luna. You leaned forwards, curious for the answer.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, peering into a magazine she had balanced into her lap, “but if I’m lucky, it’ll be Ravenclaw.”

“Which one is Ravenclaw?” you asked, trying to remember what you had read.

“The wise and witty,” Luna said, moving her robes to show the crest on it. It was blue with a bird over it.

“A raven, clever,” you said, looking closer at Neville’s red-trimmed robes.

“You’d think,” he said, “but it’s an eagle. I’m a Gryffindor, we’re meant to be brave but,” he trailed off, and Luna placed a comforting hand on his arm.

“Oh, stop it, Neville,” she said gently, her gaze back onto you, “there's Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin.”

You nodded, recalling what little you read.

“My dad said he figured I would be a Hufflepuff. The Ministry told him he was a Ravenclaw, he had to do the silly sorting hat and everything,” you said, and Neville smiled at you.

“Hufflepuff? They’re quite nice, I suppose,” he said, sounding disappointed that you weren’t in Gryffindor or Ravenclaw.

“Well, we won’t know for sure,” Luna said, closing her magazine, “until-” but the train’s brakes began to screech.

Her smiled widened, and you looked down at your robes you had changed into. Maybe now people would be less inclined to stare, you thought.

You were right, but only briefly. Once you had gotten to the Great Hall, you were shuffled in with the first years. Your face burned a slight red the whole time, your larger and older stature standing out amongst the sea of younger students. Your name was called, and you heard a faint whooping coming from the table of red.

You glanced at it, seeing Neville lowering a cheering fist from the air. He looked around nervously, and you saw one of the Weasley twins glancing at his quizzically. You smiled at Neville’s support and sat in the stool.

An old and tattered hat was lowered onto your head, and suddenly it began speaking in your ear.

“Hm, very interesting. You’re not from here, that’s obvious,” it spoke quickly, echoing in your skull, “but I think the choice is simple. I’d say,”

Suddenly the voice left your skull and boomed into the room, for everyone to hear.

“Hufflepuff!”

Cheers from a table full of yellow sounded off, some raising from their seats and clapping for you. You beamed, moving off the stool and skipping cheerfully towards the table. You walked down the aisle between the red and yellow, and Neville’s hand stuck out at you.

“Congratulations!” he said excitedly, holding his hand up for a high five.

You hit his hand, and he waved you off.

A girl with a yellow tie and dark hair waved you over. She inched over, giving you room to sit with her.

“I’m Sarah, happy to have you in Hufflepuff!” she beamed, and you didn’t think you would ever get used to the British accents.

“It’s nice to meet you,” you watched her eyes widen at the sound of your voice, “I’m Y/n.”

“You’re American! You must have come from that American school, what’s it called, Ilmorny?” she asked, ducking her head and whispering as the sorting continued.

“Ilvemorny,” you corrected her, still smiling.

Sarah asked you a lot of the same questions Neville and Luna had asked, but you didn’t mind answering them. She had even offered to give you a tour of the school tomorrow, with the promise that you would choose the bed next to her’s in the dorm.

Sarah had lived up to her promise. You walked with your head permanently tilted upwards, admiring the greatness of the castle. Sarah ate with you at every meal and even insisted on walking you to your classes until you knew the way on your own. She had been so nice to you, and when Luna told you about the upcoming Hogsmeade trip, you knew you had to ask her to go with you.

The two of you walked through the snow, wrapped up in matching yellow and black scarves. She had linked her arm with yours and pulled along to all her favorite shops.

The two of you ducked into The Three Broomsticks, sick of the ice sticking to your face.

You saw a red scarf and a blue scarf sitting at a table, and when you saw the flow of blonde hair peeking from the blue one, you knew who it was. You pulled Sarah over to Luna and Neville, and Neville told you to pull up two chairs. You introduced Sarah to Luna and Neville.

“We’re just waiting for Harry, Ron, and Hermione to meet us,” Neville said, smiling cheerfully.

“Oh, should we go?” you asked, offering to free up your chair.

“No, no, stay,” Luna urged you, pulling your arm back down, “I’ll introduce you.”

This was how you were going to meet Harry Potter, you thought, huddled up at a small table, drinking a foamy beverage that left a little white mustache on your upper lip.

Harry was just like every other kid, and he was with the people you had seen at the station that day.

“What did you say your last name was?” Ron asked, leaning over the table so you could hear him.

“Y/l/n,” you said.

“Does your dad work for the Ministry?” he asked, and you nodded, “Our dads work together!” he said, elbowing Harry.

“Her dad is the bloke my dad was raving about all summer, the guy from America,” Ron said to Harry, and Harry nodded at you.

“What a coincidence,” you said, dipping your head to take another sip of the drink Sarah had ordered you.

You all fell into a natural conversation, and Hermione asked to switch seats with Sarah at one point. Sarah had no protests, filing easily into the seat next to Harry, glancing at him dreamily.

“Will you tell me about America? I’ve been to other parts of Europe for holidays, but never America. What’s it like? How different are the wizards?" Hermione sounded off questions like she had them rehearsed, but you were happy to answer them.

You and she were in a fit of laughter after she had told you about her parents’ reaction to her letter. Your eyes were shut, brimming with tears, as Hermione recounted her mother’s jumping up and down.

You were so involved with your conversation with Hermione, you hadn’t noticed Ron’s brothers come into the restaurant.

“Hello, Ickle Ronniekins,” one of them teased, messing a hand through Ron’s overgrown hair, “when are you gettin’ a hair cut?”

“Mum’s gonna cut it all off the second you get home,” the other said, pulling a chair in between Luna and Ron. The other pulled a chair in between Harry and Sarah, and you didn’t miss Sarah’s annoyed sigh at the interruption.

You and Hermione were recovering from your laughter, clutching your stomachs and breathing heavily.

“What’s so funny ladies?” one of them said, shoving Ron aside so he could rest his elbows on the table.

“Just telling Y/n about how my parents reacted to my letter from Hogwarts,” Hermione sighed, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye.

“You’re the famous Y/n?”

“The American?”

Ron elbowed each of his brothers in their sides, frowning at them.

“That’s me,” you answered cheerfully, smiling at them, “Are you Ron’s brothers?”

“More like,” one of them started.

“Best friends,” the other finished.

“He really would be nowhere if it weren’t for us,” they said at the same time.

A smile slid across your face; it was easy to smile around your new friends, you found.

Hogwarts was better than you could have ever hoped. You wrote to your father nearly every week, recounting the amazing things you had done with Sarah, Luna, Neville, Harry, Hermione, and Ron. The seven of you were becoming inseparable.

Luna’s blue tie dangled over your face as you lay on her lap, she was trying this odd head charm she had read about in the Quibbler. Your head rested in between her legs, back on the ground. Her skinny fingers were pressed to your temple, and they hesitantly pressed into your skin.

“Is that right?” she asked, consulting the cartoon pictures that moved on the Quibbler laying next to her.

“I don’t reckon, it doesn’t feel like anything’s happening,” you said, sitting up and rubbing where Luna’s fingers had been.

“Neville,” Luna said, motioning him over. His face grew white as she pulled him into him, moving to where you had been. Luna’s fingers pressed against Neville’s head, and his eyes fluttered closed. Luna began to hum to herself, and Neville smiled.

You crawled over to sit by Ron under the tree. Sarah was talking to Harry, her eyes dazed over as he gently brushed off a leaf that had fallen on her shoulder. Hermione was near, her head resting on her bag, laying on her back with his legs crossed. She was deep into a muggle book you recognized, and you couldn’t blame her for not wanting to put it down.

“Hi, Ron,” you snapped him out of his thoughts, ending his obvious staring at Hermione, “enjoying the weather?”

“Yeah, it’s just about my favorite time of year,” he said, twisting a blade of grass in his fingers.

The snow had melted, winter break had ended. Ron was able to shed his mother's heavy knitted sweaters and wear some of his more comfortable shirts.

“I quite liked the winter,” you said, your head leaning against the tree, “it was my first time seeing snow.”

“Are you serious? Why didn’t you tell us that?” Ron asked, seeming bewildered.

“Don’t know,” you shrugged, smiling at him.

“Hermione! Oi, Hermione! Y/n had never seen snow before she came here,” Ron said, calling out to Hermione.

“I know, she’s from Florida,” Hermione said, uninterested, head still buried in her book.

“Florida? Why didn’t I know that?” Ron asked, feeling out of the loop.

“Don’t know,” you repeated, shrugging again.

“Because you don’t ask, Ron,” Hermione said, sounding unpleased with Ron’s loud volume.

You stifled a laugh, but Ron looked at you, feeling guilty.

“Hermione’s right, I guess,” Ron said, casting a sad glance at you.

“It’s alight, Ron, I won’t hold it against you,” you reassured, and Ron perked up a little.

“Tell me one thing no one else here knows about you,” Ron said urgently. To this, Hermione closed her book and lay it on her chest, interested in what you were going to say.

You thought about it. You didn’t have anything to hide from your friends, but you felt yourself blanking on even the littlest fact about yourself. You tried to think of any special abilities you had, besides being a wizard, or any life events that were significant. The only thing you thought of was the hesitance you had when packing your trunk for school, debating on whether or not to bring your roller skates with you. Ilvermorny had allowed them, and you skated to nearly all your classes. The school's cold granite floors were just begging to be skated across, you had thought, and it was ten times faster than walking.

You thought about your skates, you missed them more than you thought you would. The white boots with slick, black wheels and rainbow laces were one of your most prized possessions. You wondered now, again, if you would have gotten in trouble for bringing your roller skates to school.

“Oh, alright, I’ve thought of something,” you began, and Hermione sat up a little, resting on her elbows.

“I really like to roller skate,” you said proudly.

“Roller skate?” Hermione and Ron repeated at the same time. Ron sounded confused, but Hermione sounded entertained.

“Yeah.”

“Like from the 80′s?” Hermione asked, still sounding entertained.

“They’re making a comeback,” you defended.

“What’s roller skate?” Ron asked, looking between you and Hermione.

“It’s like shoes with wheels on them,” Hermione said, used to having to explain muggle inventions her friend, “You tie them up and you skate around.”

“What do you do that for? Do they go really fast?” Ron asked.

“They can,” you said, “but it’s really just for fun. I used to take them with me to Ilvermorny and go to my classes on them, but I didn't know if Hogwarts allowed them.”

“Why wouldn’t they?” Ron asked, “Are they dangerous?”

“They're not dangerous, I suppose you could fall on them, but it’s not as bad as that Quidditch game you guys play,” you explained, “I just didn’t know if Hogwarts allowed those kinds of muggle things.”

Ron and Hermione nodded, and Hermione looked to be in deep thought.

“I’m sure they would,” she said, returning back to her book.

“What do you reckon they’re doing down there?” Fred asked, looming over George’s shoulder as he held the Marauder’s Map in his hands.

“Do you think Ron’s finally gonna get a girlfriend?” George teased, looking at you and Ron sitting together under the tree.

Fred sneered at his brother. Ever since he had told George he thought you were cute, it seemed George wanted to push his buttons any way he could. He would make jokes about you and Ron flirting, and for some reason it made his blood boil. He hadn’t even spoken to you on more instances than he could count on a hand, but he was enticed by you.

Your eyes were always moving, and they were always wide with excitement. He thought you were beautiful, you were always wearing your muggle clothes when you didn’t have to wear your uniform. You dressed kind of like his mum, he realized one day, but in a cooler way. That’s the word, cool, he thought you were cool. You fit in easily with Ron’s friends, you could talk about anything, and you were always so sweet.

“Where are they going now?” George wondered out loud, watching the names on the map begin to move.

You got up and dusted off your pants, feeling the baggy jean material under your fingers. You helped Ron up, offering him a hand and pulling him off the ground. You, Ron, and Hermione trailed after Harry and Sarah, who trailed after Neville and Luna. You had all been feeling a bit warm outside, so you decided to go to the Gryffindor common room for the rest of the afternoon. You and Sarah were always excited to go to the Gryffindor common room, feeling it was a nice change from yours in the basement.

Fred’s eyes watched as you, Ron, and Hermione walked together towards the Gryffindor common room. He suddenly felt nervous, even though he was up in his dorm with George. He stood, and looked at himself in the mirror. He pulled down at the bottom of his shirt, tugging uncomfortably at the way it clung to his arms. He hadn’t been dressed to impress, and he usually didn’t, but at the sight of your name getting closer to his on the map, he ignored George’s torments and changed into nicer pants and a more flattering shirt.

Harry stepped passed Neville, who had forgotten the password, and held open the portrait for everyone as they stepped through. You, Sarah, Luna, and Hermione occupied the biggest couch in front of the fire, and Neville and Ron took the armchairs on either side of you. Harry sat on the floor in between Ron’s chair and where Sarah had sunk into the corner of the couch.

Sarah beamed at you, taking notice of the small action, and you wiggled your eyebrows back at her. She blushed and leaned over the side of the couch, resting her chin in her hand and starting a conversation with Harry.

Hermione pulled her book from her bag again, reading the pages eagerly. You and Luna sat shoulder to shoulder as Luna began to tell you about her plans for the summer.

“I think I’ll try to learn French,” she said, toying with some sunglasses she pulled from her pocket.

“You’re going to learn French?” you repeated, a smile pulling up your lips.

“I think so, might also help my dad with his plums,” Luna said, turning to you as she slipped on the sunglasses. They overcame her face, entirely oversized and wonderful. They were bright green and had purple lenses that were reflective. You could see your wide and amused smile in them.

“Your father grows plums?” you inquired, always enjoying conversation with Luna.

“Yes, they’re Dirigible Plums.”

“What are those?”

Luna pulled her hair back and showed you a pair of earrings she wore. They looked like little orange balloons, but leaves hung from them.

“Oh, those are very pretty, Luna,” you said, admiring them.

“My dad says they make you wiser,” she explained, “so he grows them in his garden.”

“And you wear them as earrings,” you said, smiling at her.

“Yes,” she nodded and gave you a crooked grin.

“What are your plans for the summer?” Luna asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. My father will be working, so I’ll probably be home all day,” you said, feeling a little lonely already, “I’ll have my roller skates though.”

Luna looked at you, confused, but you were more talking to Ron anyways, who you noticed was listening to your conversation.

“You should come to the Burrow this summer! Everyone does, even for just for a week,” Ron said, standing and moving over to sit on the coffee table in front of you.

“That sounds cool, I’d love to,” you said, grinning at Ron.

You looked around you and felt so lucky, lucky to have found such kind and accepting people at your new school.

Pacing upstairs, Fred smoothed down his hair before ruffling it again and then smoothing it. He knew you were downstairs, and he knew he wanted to talk to you, but you just made him so nervous. He never gets nervous.

George sat with his elbows on his knees, eyebrows raised, watching his brother obviously losing his mind.

“Just go down and talk to her,” he said, a little afraid his brother might explode, “you’re gonna wear a hole in the ground.”

Fred stopped where he stood, near the door. He sighed heavily and nodded.

“Yeah,” he said, swallowing hard, “I’ll just go talk to her.”

Fred recalled the day he had formally met you at the Three Broomsticks. He was smooth, able to mask the way your curious gaze had made his stomach flutter. He couldn’t very well go down there and make a fool of himself, could he?

“Oi Fred!” he heard Lee call from where he stood near Harry, which was also near you, “Come over here a minute.”

Fred sauntered over, forcing himself not to stare at you.

Hermione had put down her book, and Luna had left to go to her own common room to do some homework. You and Hermione sat cross-legged facing each other, playing a muggle card game.

“Yeah?” he asked, stuffing his hands in his pockets and leaning against the banister of the fireplace.

Harry and Lee sat at two wooden chairs near the fireplace, only a few feet away from the couch you were on. This angle allowed him to watch you as your head threw back in laughter as Hermione scowled at her losing the game. His eyes easily flickered back to Lee, who pulled him into the conversation he and Harry were having about Quidditch.

Ginny walked through the portrait hole, returning from some Quidditch training she had been doing. Ginny was taking Quidditch very seriously this year and had taken to exercising on the pitch with Angelina every weekend.

“Ginny!” Ron called out to her, putting down the newspaper he was reading. He waved her over with a hurried hand.

“What?” she said, plopping down on the empty space next to Hermione, “What game are you guys playing?”

You looked up from the deck of cards you had begun to shuffle as Hermione told her.

“Ginny,” Ron said again, pulling his sister’s attention back to him.

“Hm?” she said, and it was very obvious she was tired from her day's activities.

“Have you asked anyone over for the summer yet?” Ron asked, and his eyes flicked to you, “I just invited Y/n, so I don’t want it getting too crowded.”

Ginny looked over to you, her gaze becoming analytical. You raised a hand to wave and cast her a kind smile, and she returned it.

“I don’t have anything planned, it should be fine,” Ginny turned away from Ron and back towards you and Hermione, “When are you lot coming? At the same time?”

You looked towards Hermione, not knowing the answer.

“Oh, I didn’t have any specific ideas yet, Ron’s just asked me. Still have to write to my dad,” you said, and Hermione nodded.

“Yeah, I’m sure it’ll be the usual time for me, though,” Hermione said, and Ginny smiled.

“What’s the usual time?” you asked, beginning to deal the cards to you and Hermione.

“A few weeks before school starts, Mrs. Weasley takes us all to Diagon Alley for our school things,” Hermione said, speaking fondly of the memory.

“Should I ask my dad to come then, when Hermione does?” you looked towards Ron, “Unless I should come at a different time,” you said, not trying to intrude.

“That would be perfect! Harry comes ‘round that time too, so we’ll all see each other,” Ron said.

He looked over at Harry, and upon seeing his brother, he called Fred over the way he had done to Ginny.

“Fred, have you invited anyone home for summer yet?”

Fred’s gaze immediately went to you, and he found you looking at him too.

“Yeah,” he said, pushing himself off the wall and over to Ron.

“Who?” Ron said, curious because his brothers usually didn’t have people over to the Burrow during holidays.

“George,” he said, smirking.

“Git,” Ron mumbled under his breath.

“Why do you ask, Ickle Ronniekins?”

“I just wanted to make sure it wouldn’t get too crowded when Hermione, Harry, and Y/n come ‘round,” Ron said, squirming as Fred forced himself into Ron’s seat that was only big enough for one of them.

Fred’s cool demeanor dropped for a moment, his eyes widening. He quickly recovered, wrapping an arm around Ron.

“How considerate of you,” he said, giving his brother an unwanted side hug.

Ron got up from his seat, leaving Fred to sit by himself. He watched you with unblinking eyes as you listened to Ginny talk about her time with Angelina on the pitch.

Looking down at your packed to the brim suitcase, you glance to the corner of your room. Your pristine roller skates sat there, one on their side. They looked sad and forgotten, but you knew that wasn’t true. Ever since you had gotten home from Hogwarts, you had taken to skating around ‘muggle’ London. You had also just gotten used to saying ‘muggle’.

Your father left early and got home late, and part of you was jealous that he got to see a Weasley every day and you didn’t. To ease your envy, you took to your skates.

You weren’t sure if you should pack them with you for Ron’s house. You were leaving when your father got home for work, the two of you setting off just before dark. You shoved a sweater deeper into your bag, making room for the skates.

Your father was to eat dinner with the Weasleys, sleep on the couch, and set off with Mr. Weasley for work in the morning. No point in two trips, they figured.

You were traveling by Flu powder, and your father went first. He heaved your bag into the fireplace with him and erupted in green flames. You carried a backpack on your shoulder, filled with little things that couldn’t fit in your suitcase.

Fred was more nervous and excited than he had ever felt in his whole life. He was determined to chat you up this summer, at least do something to make sure you knew he existed. He had been pacing in he and George’s shared room, but George pulled him down to the kitchen and made him drink some tea, hoping to calm him down.

You twisted your fingers, looking nervously into the fireplace. You were extremely excited to spend the remaining weeks of your summer with the Weasleys, but a small part of you was scared. You were nervous that Ron’s parents wouldn’t like you as much as they did at the train station. You were nervous that Ron, and his siblings, would get sick of having you around. You were nervous that you would become a burden.

You had been writing with Hermione, and she ensured you of how kind the Weasleys were. She told you that you had nothing to worry about, and you felt a little relieved.

You had visited Sarah a couple of times during the summer. She lived fairly close, close enough for you to take muggle transportation. Her family was welcoming and all had wide eyes at your accent. Thinking of their kindness, you felt confident enough to finally step into the fireplace.

Green flames surrounded you, and within seconds, you were stood in a different fireplace. It was a little shorter, and you were glad you had hunched over a little. Mr. Weasley and your father were shaking hands off to the side, over by a large couch. Mrs. Weasley was looking into the fireplace and waving you out. Ron was trudging your suitcase upstairs already, and Hermione and Ginny stood by Mrs. Weasley smiling widely. You noticed Fred and George sat at a large wooden table near the kitchen both drinking some tea and eating.

You took a step from the fireplace, making sure to wipe off any ash that may have stained your clothes, and allowed Mrs. Weasley to pull you into a hug.

“Oh, so good to see you again, dear!” she said, rocking you back and forth in the suffocating hug.

You didn’t care if you couldn’t breathe, you decided at that moment that Molly Weasley gave the absolute best hugs. She released you, patting your shoulders and running a loving hand through your hair, tucking it behind your ear. You beamed at her, and she smiled back at you.

When she moved away, Hermione quickly replaced her. Hermione’s arms pulled you close, wrapping around your backpack.

“I missed you!” she said, smiling at you.

“I missed you too!” you said, nearly ‘awing’ at everyone’s kindness.

Ginny hugged you too, and when you stepped away, Ron had come back downstairs. You hugged him, and then Harry, and finally you were left to be able to breathe your own air.

The house around you was adorable. It was better than you could have ever imagined. Magic was everywhere, and everything just felt like home.

“You’ll be staying with me and Ginny,” Hermione said to you from her spot next to you at the table.

“Perfect,” you replied, the same awestruck smile plastered on your face since you had arrived.

Fred looked at you from across the table. He felt like his dinner was moving in his stomach, and his hands were sweating. He’d nearly dropped his fork three times. He breathed deep, and when the conversation lulled, he took his chance.

“How has your summer been, Y/n?” he asked, and you looked up from your plate to him.

He nearly died, your happy eyes looking at him.

“Great!” you said, wiping your hands on your napkin in your lap, “I’m glad to finally be here.”

He smiled back at you, and it took him a moment to realize he’d been staring for a little too long, and that you had asked him a question.

“My summer? Oh, my summer’s been good too,” he replied, nodding.

You looked to George, who was next to him and raised your eyebrows, inviting his answer.

“It’s been good,” he said casually, and then an evil grin spread across his face, “but I think Fred’s just about worn my ear off talking about you.”

Fred coughed, choking on his mashed potatoes. His face went red, and he looked at his twin with an anger George had never seen before. Fred quickly looked back at you, as if to gauge your reaction. Your head was tilted down, but a shy smile was on your face and a blush crept on your cheeks.

Fred’s anger subsided at the sight of it, but when George kicked him from under the table, he was reminded.

“What is wrong with you?” Fred asked, nearly yelling at his brother in the privacy of their own room.

“I gave you a push,” George answered, not looking up from the Zonko’s catalog in his hands.

Fred simmered, coming to the realization that George was right. He fell onto his bed, thinking back to the pink on your cheeks and the bashful curl of your lips.

He didn’t know how he was meant to sleep, painfully aware of the fact that you were asleep just a room away.

“Did you hear what George said to Y/n at dinner?” Hermione asked, pulling Ginny into the argument you were having once she got out of the shower.

Ginny shook her head, removing the towel from her hair, “No, what’d he say?”

You rolled your eyes at Hermione as she divulged into every little detail of what George had said.

“And Fred could not stop staring!” she finished, and you let out an exaggerated breath.

“He was not staring!”

“Yes, he was,” Ginny said cheekily, sitting down on her bed.

“Ginny!” you said, giving up hope of having her on your side.

“He totally fancies you,” Hermione said.

Your face twisted for two reasons: the word ‘fancies’, and the fact that she thought Fred Weasley might fancy you.

“He does not!”

Ginny sat on her bed, listening to you and Hermione go back and forth. She knew Fred fancied you, he had since they had been at school. She saw his longing looks, the way he looked at you first after he told a joke, and the pure admiration he had in his eyes any time he looked at you. It especially convinced her when Fred had been talking about you all summer. She came to a decision.

“He does,” she said, watching Hermione’s face change into the proud one she wore when she answered a question right in class. Your mouth hung open.

“What?” Hermione’s gaze turned towards you, and she smiled widely. You liked to think it was her infectious smile that made your mouth turn up, and not the idea of Fred liking you.

“He has been talking about you all summer, I’m surprised Ron didn’t tell you earlier,” Ginny said, bringing the towel to her hair again to catch some dripping water.

“He probably hasn’t even noticed,” Hermione said, the tone of annoyance dripping off her tongue.

Ginny flashed her a sympathetic look, but Hermione ignored it, continuing.

“Do you like him?” she pried, and the whole room felt like it was frozen.

They both looked at you expectantly, waiting for your answer.

You didn’t know. Fred was handsome, and funny, and clever, but you hardly knew him. You knew he was mischievous, and that he tormented Ron, but other than that you might as well have been strangers. You could not deny, however, that he was attractive.

“I don’t know,” you said, honestly.

“You don’t know?” Ginny repeated, confused.

“Yeah, I mean, I barely know him,” you answered, the obvious energy in the room shifting to something of deep thought.

“Do you fancy him, though?” Hermione asked, her eyebrows raised.

“I think he’s cute, yeah, but how can he fancy me? We’ve barely spoken to each other. Are you sure Ginny?” you asked again, still doubtful.

“I’m sure he’s noticed the little things more than you think he would, Fred can be pretty considerate when he wants to be,” Ginny said, and you breathed out loudly. You flopped on your back, the mound of blankets around you and Hermione soothing your landing.

“See? I wouldn’t know that!” you said.

You knew it was a little silly, to focus on something like this. You had an older, attractive, popular boy head over heels for you, but you were harping on the fact that you didn’t know whether or not he was considerate.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Hermione said harshly, “I mean it’s not like you’re forced to marry him. You go on dates with people to get to know them, after all.”

You were nearly offended by Hermione’s tone, but you figured she was just getting irritated on the subject of crushes.

“I know, ‘Mione, I’m just confused by it,” you reassured her.

“Well, test the waters tomorrow,” Ginny said suggestively, wiggling her eyebrows.

You cringed away from her, and swells of giggles were coming from Ginny’s room nearly all night.

The three of you slept late into the morning. The Burrow’s eventful noises were nothing compared to the sounds of muggle London, so you slept peacefully. It wasn’t until something began tapping on Ginny’s window, did the three of you wake up.

“What the-?” Ginny started but soon fell silent at the sound of a loud crashing noise. Shards of glass scattered around the room and Hermione was lucky that she had rolled away from the window in her sleep. You put your hand up, flinching at the noise, and when you dropped it, the warm summer air flooded into the room.

A small golden snitch was soaring around the room, averting every swipe of Ginny’s hands, and ducking behind her dresser.

Ginny slipped on some shoes, and carefully navigated through the glass. She leaned cautiously out of the window, and that's when the screaming started.

“Harry! Are you mental?! What on Earth-” her screams divulged into threats and insults, and you looked over her shoulder, watching Harry hover many feet away on his broom, his face looking quite guilty.

You found your shoes and moved over to the window. You then realized that Fred and George were hovering closer to Ginny’s window, silencing the snickers and amazed faces they wore. At the sight of Fred, your eyes widened, and his eyes met yours. He smiled kindly at you, and before you knew what you were doing, you ducked behind the window, crouching by Ginny’s feet.

You heard George’s laughter, and Ginny’s ramblings stilled.

“What are you doing on the floor?” she asked you, lowering herself to crouch with you.

“I don’t know,” you answered, whispering. Your cheeks were red and your eyes were wide. Ginny’s threatening look turned into a smile.

She began to giggle, and soon enough, Fred and George hovered just above the window, peering into Ginny’s room.

“What are you girls doing down there?” George asked, resting a hand on the part of the windowsill with no glass on it, peering into the room.

Ginny looked at you, her smile wide. You looked around and began to pick up large shards of glass.

“Cleaning up the glass,” you said casually, although you could still feel the distinct burn of blush on your cheeks.

You could only safely pick up two large shards of glass without cutting your hands, so you raised yourself from the ground, meeting Fred and George’s eyes. Ginny followed you, crossing her arms and smirking.

The boys wore their practice robes, their names and numbers on the backs. They both had discarded goggles hanging from their necks, and their hair was wild. You looked between the both of them, swallowing thickly.

“Could you keep it down?” Ginny finally said, trying to ease the situation, “We’re trying to sleep.”

George removed a hand from his broom and glanced at his watch, “It’s nearly 12 in the afternoon,” he said sarcastically.

“Really? Well, we need our beauty sleep,” Ginny said, and you noticed she nearly reached out to close the window.

George rolled his eyes and zipped away on his broom, leaving Fred.

“I’m gonna go get a broom, clean this up,” Ginny said, huffing as she navigated her way back through the glass on the floor.

You and Fred were left there, staring at anything but each other. Fred moved slightly up and down on his broom as he hovered. He finally cleared his throat and looked at you.

“Sleep well?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

You nodded and smiled, rocking back and forth on your feet, “You?”

He nodded too and looked away quickly.

“Oh, I think George, is calling me,” he said, and it was obvious George was not calling him. He flew away on his broom, and you closed your eyes, letting out a restrained breath.

You groaned and threw yourself on Ginny’s bed. Hermione rolled over, a large and entertained grin on her face. You covered your face with a pillow and ignored Ginny and Hermione’s imitations of the incident while they swept up the glass.

Mrs. Weasley was furious to see Ginny’s window. She had come in later in the day, a basket full of laundry on her hip.

“Hello girls,” she said pleasantly, “Do you have- what the bloody hell is that?”

Ginny’s eyes widened at the sound of her mother’s deep and serious tone.

“Mum! It wasn’t us,” Ginny leaped from her bed and ran to her dresser, she quickly caught the snitch from where it had been hiding behind her dresser, “It came through the window this morning when the boys were playing.”

Mrs. Weasley looked at you and Hermione, and you both nodded your heads furiously. She huffed out a breath and pinched the bridge of her nose with her fingers.

Finally looking up, she set the laundry down and stood in Ginny’s doorway.

“BOYS!” she shouted, and you heard the sudden halting of George and Fred’s laughter, and Harry and Ron’s footsteps upstairs silenced.

The sound of four hesitant feet walking to Ginny’s room was the last thing you heard before Mrs. Weasley’s screams burst your eardrums.

The Burrow was crowded now that the boys had been banned from leaving the house. They had only briefly been allowed out of the house to de-gnome the garden, but Mrs. Weasley stood at the door, making sure they had absolutely no fun.

Your suitcase lay open in Ginny’s room, the three of you dressed and having absolutely no ideas as to what to do. You had all already ran through your spending money going to Diagon Alley on your first days there, and without the boys offering some entertainment, the three of you were idle.

Ginny paced, looking through her own things with interest. She twisted her broom in her hands, offering the idea of Quidditch, but Hermione wasn’t interested. Ginny was scanning her room, and her eyes fell on your bag. A pair of white shoes with wheels on them lay tucked away in the bag. She walked over to them and pulled them out hesitantly.

“What the bloody hell are those?” George said from the doorway.

The three of you girls turned, looking to the door. The four boys crowded in the hall, all peering into the room with interest. It seemed they were bored too.

“Are those the roll skates?” Ron asked, mispronouncing the word and shoving past George and taking the roller skate from Ginny.

“Yeah,” you said, your eyes flicking up over the top of your magazine.

The rest of the boys filed into the tiny room, nearly all of them shoulder to shoulder. Hermione rose from her spot next to you, picking up the other one from your bag.

“I remember seeing commercials for these things when I was a kid,” Hermione said, spinning the wheel in her hand.

“Commercials? What are you on about?” Ron said, and Harry caught your baffled look and smiled.

“What are they?” Fred asked, taking Hermione’s seat next to you on Ginny’s bed.

You lowered your magazine and looked at him, only to find him already looking at you. He gave you a crooked smile and nodded in greeting. You successfully fought a blush and smiled back at him.

“They’re roller skates. They’re like shoes with wheels,” you explained, taking the skate from Ron.

You rolled up your jeans a little and slipped on the skate. Fred watched your delicate fingers lacing up the shoe, noticing the way your hair fell into your face as you looked down at them.

Hermione handed you the other one, and you did the same to the other foot. You stood easily from the bed and nearly lost your balance. It was lucky that Fred’s strong shoulder was there for your hand to clasp onto, or else your feet would have slipped from under you.

You looked down at your hand still on Fred’s shoulder, even though you were standing fine. He slipped your hand off but kept it in his hand. You then became aware that you were just holding hands at this point. He stood with you and turned to face you. He pulled your other hand into his, and pushed you away from him, smiling widely as you rolled easily on the hardwood floors.

Everyone knew then that they had found their entertainment for the day.

The sound of joyful laughter flooded your ears as Fred pulled you around the limited space in Ginny’s room. Your hands fit together perfectly, and he walked backward as he pulled you, keeping his smiling eyes on you the whole time. Soon he was pulling you into the hallway, and everyone trailed after. You felt Ginny’s small hands pushing your back, and you began to gain speed. Fred hadn’t caught up, and you were coming closer and closer to him. You looked down but didn’t want to put your toes down to brake, in fear of scuffing up the floor. So, you let yourself fall into Fred’s arms.

The two of you stayed upright, but his long arms were wrapped around your waist. Your hands fell to his chest, and his chin pressed against his neck as he looked down at you. His hair fell into his eyes, and yours fell gracefully in its natural place. You smiled, and he smiled, and soon you erupted into giggles at the silence behind you. George catcalled, and you stuffed your giggles into Fred’s chest, tucking your head under his chin. You felt him take a sharp inhale, and his arms became a little tighter around you.

When Mr. Weasley got home, he was accosted by his children.

“Dad!” They said in unison, all waiting for him by the door.

He jumped at the sight of them all, then began taking off his coat.

“Look at these!” Ginny said, pointing to your feet.

You did a little spin, careful not to make any marks on the floor. Fred watched you spin elegantly, your arms coming out a little like a ballerina.

“Remarkable!” Mr. Wealsey cried, moving to look at them.

Questions came from his mouth faster then you could answer them, and you slid the wheels against the floor under the table while you ate dinner.

“We had an idea, Dad,” Fred said, looking at you proudly.

“Yeah, think you’ll like it,” George added, glancing at you with a smirk and then looking back at his dad.

“We need you to conjure some sort of track outside,” Ron finished, talking with his mouth full.

“A track! That’s brilliant!” Mr. Weasley exclaimed, missing the worried look from his wife.

“It was Y/n’s idea, she’s brilliant,” Fred said, looking across the table at you.

You giggled as George made a gagging noise.

“With what? Stone?” Mrs. Weasley inquired, placing a hand on her hip.

“Oh no, they’re usually made of wood or asphalt,” you explained, “they have a whole building of them in the muggle world. People rent the skates and pay to skate on a big rink.”

Mr. Weasley's eyes widened with excitement, and Mrs. Weasley’s worry tamed.

“Let’s do it tonight.”

The eight of you walked to a clearing on the side of the house. It was where the boys usually played Quidditch, but it hadn’t been in use for days. Mrs. Weasley hadn’t stopped the boys from helping with the track, and you were grateful.

“Hold it higher, Ron!” Mr. Weasley called out, and Ron raised his father's wand with a bright orb of light coming from it.

The track was nearly done. It was huge, a large hoop secured to the ground. There was an enchanted orb of light in the center of the circle, and it illuminated the entire rink.

Your friends watched you blaze around the track, your hair whipping around behind your face, the sides of your cardigan flapping in the wind. You heard loud cheers when you successfully began skating backward.

The rest of your trip to The Burrow was spent out there. The boys were lifted from their punishments, and the rink became the one place you all went to when you woke up, and the last place you were before bed. Soon enough, though, your father appeared in the fireplace with your school trunk by his side. He quickly took back the bag you had been keeping at the Weasley's, and you went through your trunk one last time, making sure you had everything.

This year, walking through the train station, you were still stared at. But you didn’t care because an entire family surrounding you, and they all looked like you.

Your father gave you a lasting embrace before Fred followed you onto the train. He had waited for you, watching as you hugged your dad. He waved to your father, and his hand grazed your lower back as he walked behind you. The two of you found the compartment that had to be the most crowded of the lot.

Lee, Luna, Neville, Harry, Hermione, Ron, Sarah, George, and now you and Fred, packed into a compartment, the entire room filled with busy conversation the entire ride.

It was weird to be in the Hufflepuff common room, your bedroom devoid of Ginny’s huffs as she rolled over to get comfortable, or Hermione’s anxious mumbles she said in her sleep. You pulled your blankets off of you, your legs feeling sore from the constant skating you had been doing for weeks.

Speaking of, you had made the decision to bring your skates to Hogwarts. You slipped them on, tightening the rainbow laces. You pointed your wand at the wheels and cast a silencing charm, so the turn of the wheels would be silent.

You carefully climbed the stairs from the Hufflepuff basement and looked both ways before you skated towards your destination.

Fred had been sitting under his covers, looking over the map as he usually did before he snuck to the kitchens. Out of habit, he looked at the Hufflepuff common room for your familiar name. He was shocked to see you across the castle, in a long-abandoned classroom. He suddenly lost his appetite and slid into some slippers.

He rested his forearm in the crook of the door, leaning against it. He watched you illuminated by the candles lit on the wall. You easily glided between the desks, twisting and turning, spinning, and navigating between them. His eyes followed you, your body moving naturally. He watched the sway of your hips as your wait transferred from foot to foot, the skates rolling against the smooth stone. You moved to the open space in the room, skating backward, your back to him. You turned just a few feet in front of him, and when you saw Fred, your surprise ran through your body. Your feet faltered and you bumped into a desk, making a loud crash.

He jumped from his spot in the doorway, closing the door behind him. He moved to you in two long strides, crouching to reach you on the floor.

“Are you alright?”

“You scared the shit out of me, Fred!” you said, smiling up at him.

“Couldn’t help it, I had to come see you,” he said smoothly, bringing the map from his back pocket.

“What? How did you know I was here?”

He unfolded a piece of paper and held it out to you. You took it in your hands and realized what it was. Before you could look at it for long, Fred took it back, a worried expression on his face.

“Filch is coming, he must have heard the noise,” Fred folded the map and put it back in his pocket.

Suddenly, his hands were on your waist, and he was guiding you to your feet. He looked around the room and saw the door to the supply closet.

With a wave of his wand, the flames of the candles were extinguished and he was pulling your gliding figure to the closet. The door closed just in time, and Filch burst in. You and Fred were pressed together, his hands still on your waist. You opened your mouth to ask him about the map, and one of his hands covered your mouth. He felt your soft lips, and his eyes locked onto yours. You heard Filch’s heavy feet stomping around the room and the screech of the desk against the floor.

Your mind was occupied by the lack of space between you, your back pressed to the door, and Fred’s warm hand on your face. He looked deeply at you, and his face was inches from yours.

You thought back to the day Ginny told you about how Fred felt, and you realized that you no longer had any hesitations about Fred. Standing this close to him, his leg slid between yours, his chest against yours, you felt what he felt. You fancied Fred.

Fred felt your lips curl into a smile beneath his hand. It was dark, so he couldn’t see your face, but he wished more than anything that he could. He heard the door close, and Filch was gone, but neither of you moved. Fred’s hand retracted from your mouth, moving to your neck. His fingers slipped under your hair, and his thumb rested in your jaw.

“Why did you come here?” you whispered.

“I like to watch you skate,” he answered, his voice devoid of any laughter.

“You’ve watched me skate for weeks,” you said quickly, inching your face closer to his, craning your neck to look up at him.

“I like to watch you,” he said without thinking, “I like you.”

You closed the space between you two. His lips were slow, and so were yours. You arched your back against the door, anything to get closer to him. His face was warm, and yours was cold. His lips pressed hard against yours, and the kiss held everything he had felt since he talked to you in the Three Broomsticks. It was all the nights he had ranted to George about you, all the times he had mentioned what little time it was until you’d finally be at The Burrow, all the times he looked at the map just to see your name, all the times his stomach had flipped just at the thought of you.

You pulled away, breathless, and he lowered his head to rest on your shoulder. His breathing was heavy, and your eyes had fluttered closed. He reached for his wand and said “Lumos,” just so he could see your pretty face and swollen lips.

He walked you back to the basement, and you shared another slow kiss. He had almost followed you down the stairs, watching you leave with your skates hanging from around your neck.

The next morning in the courtyard, Ginny was the first to notice.

“What happened?” she said, skeptical of your dazed face and the constant flush you had from just being near Fred.

He sat a few feet away in his own world, avoiding George and Lee’s conversation about the upcoming Hogsmeade trip.

You smiled at Ginny, and she furrowed her brows at you. You were about to tell her, but Ron fell with a thud onto the ground next to you.

“It’s been three bloody weeks and Snape’s already assigned 100 pages of reading,” Ron groaned, pulling a heavy textbook from under his arm. Hermione and Harry trailed behind him, sitting with much more grace than Ron had.

Hermione also noticed your at peace look and looked at you analytically.

You were finally able to tell them in the hall, during an extended period between classes.

“He kissed me last night,” you said with a blush.

“I told you!”

“Finally!”

You hushed them, a bashful smile coming to your lips. Fred passed the three of you, his eyes locked on yours as he walked. Over his shoulder, he sent you a flirty wink. You felt weak at the knees and was glad that you were leaning against a wall.

“Maybe he’ll ask you to Hogsmeade,” Hermione said, tugging you off the wall and in the opposite way Fred was walking. You looked over your shoulder to see him walking backward, watching you walk away.

“Knowing Fred, he’ll probably pull some elaborate prank or get fireworks to spell your name out,” Ginny said, watching you look at her brother.

Fred did something like that, the two of you in the courtyard, laying in the grass. He had pulled you from dinner just after you were dismissed, and he led you to the courtyard. You both stared at the sky, and he looked at you. You met his gaze and then he pointed at the sky.

In huge, shining, red words read “Y/n, Hogsmeade this weekend?”.

You smiled at him and nodded. His hand snaked to cup your cheek still laying down. He pulled you towards him, and you moved to look down at him, propped up on your elbow. His lips met yours, and the sound of more bursting fireworks flooded the air around you.

It was nearly Christmas now. You and Fred have been dating for a few weeks, and he invited you back to the Burrow for the holidays.

You accepted, and you trudged your heavy bag into the fireplace. It was filled with gifts for the Weasley’s, and you were feeling quite confident about it.

Ron, Harry, and Hermione stayed at school for the holidays, leaving you, George, Fred, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley sat in front of a fire on Christmas eve.

You had called your father on your flip phone he had given you as an early Christmas present. He was coming over tomorrow for Christmas morning, and you felt incredibly content.

Coming back to the couch, tucking your phone into your pocket, you slipped back under Fred’s arm, curling into his side. Mr. Wealsey had already had a go at the device, and he just watched amazed at it fitting into your pocket so easily.

The next morning you were woken up by the sound of your father’s booming voice downstairs. You sat up, stretching, and looked over to Ginny’s bed. It was empty, the covers were thrown aside. You slipped on a large cardigan, pulling it around your cold arms and going downstairs.

You were met with what felt like a dream. All the Weasley’s sat around the table, eating a huge Christmas breakfast and drinking tea. They each wore matching sweaters with their initials on them, and your father was standing with Mr. Weasley by the couch.

“Happy Christmas!” they all beamed at you.

Ginny tugged you over to the couch, sitting on one side of you while Fred sat on the other. Your father stood behind you on the couch, and a pile of presents were stacked in the room. You had brought your presents for the Weasley’s down last night, and you saw them on the ground.

Wrapping paper was everywhere, and the sound of happiness flooded the room. It finally came time for everyone to open what you had gotten them, and Fred went first. He tore away the red paper and held the plain box in his hands. He shook it, holding it up to his ear and smiling at you.

“Careful!” you told him, and he tore away the tape holding the box shut.

Inside, a brand new pair of garnet roller skates. He gasped, his large hands holding a skate up.

“Oh, my-” Mrs. Weasley said, already thinking of the awful thing he and George could do with those.

“It’s amazing!” he exclaimed, wrapping his arms around you.

You returned the hug, and whispered in his ear, “Merry Christmas, Fred.”

Soon, all the Weasley’s were holding different colored skates, even Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.

#fred weasley #fred #weasley #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley request #fred weasley fic #fred weasley fanfiction #fanfiction #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter #hogwarts #hufflepuff #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley x y/n #fred weasley x you

710 notes · View notes

starshine583 · 3 years

Note

could you do A for the soul mate thing with felinette?

(Sorry it took me so long to reply! I’m still trying to keep up with my schedule for the “New Girl on the Block” fic, but rest assured that I’m totally writing all of the requests for this when I can! The next one I’m going to be working on is V for Daminette. I hope you enjoy the snippet and thank you for the ask!!)

If someone had the choice between technical immortality and certain death, it should be safe to assume that that person would accept the former. Technical immortal was the only logical option, after all. No one wanted to die. And yet, people chose death everyday. In fact, they were obsessed with it, because certain death guaranteed one thing that immortality couldn’t: a soulmate.

When a person turns eighteen, their aging process freezes due to some strange magic that scientists still can’t explain. From then on, that person will remain eighteen until they find their soulmate, specifically until they touch their soulmate directly with bare skin. Once their soulmate is found, they will begin aging as usual, as if they’d never become temporarily immortal in the first place. Some people speculate that this gives the two soulmates a chance to grow old together.

Felix, personally, believed that it gave him a chance to harbor an unlimited life span free of charge. Who needs a soulmate when you can explore all of the things in the world that are normally hindered by the aging process? There were too many things that he wanted to accomplish for him to worry about something as fickle as love or relationships.

One of those things happened to be building up the fashion empire that he had inherited.

It was hard to gain the respect that he deserved at first considering his physical appearance made him seem like a child, but once people found out that he was in his late twenties, it made things much easier. Now, three years has passed since his accepting the role of acting CEO, and the company’s success rate has been steadily rising until their profits were through the roof. He’s quite proud of it, if he’s being honest.

Felix straightened the papers on his desk and set them to the side, catching the glimpse of his golden wrist watch as he did so. The little hand pointed towards one in the morning, telling him that he’d spent another late night at the office. He didn’t mind, though. These were the things that needed to be done for his company to excel.

However, he also needed sleep for the company to excel, and this seemed like a good stopping point if ever he saw one, so Felix stood from his rolling chair to begin gathering his things to leave.

“Hey, Sir, are you up there?” A voice crackled across the intercom. Felix paused his preparations to smile at it. It was the unmistakable voice of Marinette Dupain-Cheng, his personal secretary for the last two years (and his close friend for the last year and a half). They always happened to work late on the same nights, didn’t they?

He pressed the glowing red button on the intercom. “You know I am. What do you need?”

“I’m working on another piece for a fashion show. I want your input.”

Felix chuckled. How many of her pieces had he given his input on now?

“I’ll be down there in a second.”

“You’re the best!”

Felix set his stuff back on the desk and moved towards the door to his office. He hesitated briefly when he spotted his black, leather gloves on the edge of his desk- he made a point to wear them constantly, along with a number of other pieces of clothing, so he could avoid direct skin contact with others. No sense in taking any chances -but decided to leave them alone for once. Marinette should be the only other person in the office, anyway. It wouldn’t make a difference.

He took an elevator down to the second floor, where most of his top designers worked, and walked over to the desk that had its lamp turned on. He’d know which desk was hers either way- could probably find it in his sleep at this point -but it was a nice give away.

Marinette was crouched on the floor when he got there, stabbing a needle into some material that was draped across a mannequin. Her eyes were narrowed with concentration, and her tongue was poking out of her lips as it always did when she was working hard. Felix held back a snort at the endearing sight and glanced around her desk while he waited for her to notice his presence.

When she first joined his company, she was a budding fashion designer, someone who had been gaining a bit of fame for working with Gabriel Agreste, Jagged Stone, Aubrey Bourgeois, and many other note-worthy people. Apparently, she thought it was time to build a business of her own, and therefore, applied for the job as his personal secretary in an effort to gain experience on how a business should be run before actually starting anything.

The notion admittedly impressed Felix. People rarely thought to find personal experience in running a business before actually starting one. They normally just took a class and hoped that it paid off. Someone with that kind of rational thinking was someone he knew he wanted in his company, though, so he agreed to hire her, even if she would still be working independently on personal commissions.

Now that two years had passed, she would probably be leaving any minute now to become her own boss. It might be in a week, or in a few months, perhaps even a year, but he found himself dreading it no matter how long she continued to work for him. He’d grown quite accustomed to having her in his life, be it getting lunch together or going over the morning schedule or giving each other advice on their work. The quiet moments they shared made work life a little more enjoyable and made those rare nights of loneliness from refusing a soulmate a little more tolerable too.

“Oh, Felix!”

Felix’s eyes dragged back down to Marinette, who was staring up at him with wide eyes.

“When did you get down here?”

A small smile crossed his lips. “You know how it used to be one in the morning?”

Marinette tisked, picking up on his light-hearted tone. “Oh, whatever. If you don’t want to get stuck waiting then tell me when you get here. Now, come look at this and tell me what you think.”

She stood up and moved away from the mannequin, then gestured for Felix to step closer, which he gladly obliged to do. The outfit hanging on the mannequin was a dress that appeared to have several layers and a few frills. It seemed to be made out of silk on the inside, and on the inside was another material that had an antique, flower pattern. The way the materials were sown together, though, and the things she must have added to the flower pattern, didn’t give off the impression of it being old or outdated. It was a mix between old and new that created a unique combination.

“I think it looks fine.” He said after studying it.

Marinette groaned. “Fine doesn’t help me, Felix. What does it strike you as? Stunning? Charming? Old-Fashioned? I know you have more descriptive terms than ‘fine’ in that word bank brain of yours.”

Felix laughed. “Work bank brain?”

“You know what I mean.”

He does.

“Alright, Alright.” He knelt down next to the outfit again. “Might I inquire about your purpose for this garment?”

“See, there are fancy words you use all the time.” She remarked teasingly, even though she often used the same words herself. “I’m trying to create a modern Victorian type of style for my next show.”

Felix hummed. “Can I see the sketches?”

“Oh, yeah, they’re right over here.”

The pair moved back to Marinette’s desk, and she sat down in her rolling chair to slide a paper towards him. Felix leaned towards Marinette, placing his palms on the desk for balance.

“So, if you look at- oh!” Marinette had just started explaining her original thoughts for the design, when their hands brushed against each other. She drew her hand back immediately, surprise reflecting in her bluebell eyes.

“You’re not wearing any gloves.”

“Ah.” Felix drew his hands back as well. “No, I’m not. I figured they were a waste of time tonight, since it’s only us here.”

“Oh..” Marinette said. “I don’t think I’ve ever touched your bare skin before.. N-not that I’m keeping track or anything! Wow, that sounded so weird-”

Felix, being used to her ramblings by now, only chuckled. “It’s alright. I don’t think we’ve ever touched like that either.”

In fact, he knew they hadn’t, because he does keep track of who he does and doesn’t touch with his bare skin. So far, he’s managed to maintain a low count of five or so, but he supposed adding one more to the list didn’t hurt.

“Anyway, I like the way it looks. The colors combine nicely, and I can certainly see where you’re coming from with the modern, yet old-fashioned design. I’m sure people will enjoy them, especially for costume parties.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Marinette smiled. “Thanks for your help.”

“Of course. I’m actually on my way out the door, but don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything else.”

“You know I won’t.”

Felix laughed and pushed himself off of the desk to begin making his way back to the elevator. “Make sure you leave soon too.”

“Yeah, yeah, I will.. Eventually.”

Felix threw her a playful glare over his shoulder. “I’m not kidding, Dupain-Cheng. If I see bags under those eyes tomorrow, you’re going to be fired until you get a proper night’s sleep.”

“Thank goodness for make-up then.” She joked back.

Felix rolled his eyes and bid her farewell as he entered the elevator, and her soft call of “Goodnight, Boss” managed to reach him right before the doors slid closed.

The next morning began as any other morning. Felix woke up to his blaring alarm clock, forced himself out of bed, and started the brew for his morning coffee. He then dragged himself over to the bathroom to get ready for the day, starting with his hair.

The mirror provided a picture of his sluggish figure as he combed his platinum blond locks to the side. His hair didn’t seem to care to cooperate that morning though, because his cowlick was refusing to lay aside as they were told. No matter how many times he combed over it, the chaotic locks refused to budge.

Felix huffed and leaned closer to the mirror, but before he could continue furiously coming his hair, something caught his attention.

At the front of his bangs, dangling loosely to the side of his face, was a single, grey hair.

Felix frowned, moving even closer to the mirror to get a better. It was definitely a grey hair, but why on earth would he have one? People at the age of eighteen didn’t get grey hairs, and he’d never gotten one before. The only reason he could possibly get a grey hair out of the blue like this was if-

Felix froze, his eyes blowing wide. No.. no, it couldn’t be. There’s no way he found his soulmate. It was impossible. The aging process only started when he touched them directly, skin to skin, and he’d been horribly precise not to do so with anyone under any circumstances.

Well.. anyone except..

A knock came from the front door.

Although his mind was racing for answers, Felix pulled himself together enough to throw on a robe and go answer the door.

Imagine his surprise when he found none other than Marinette standing right outside.

She looked up at him, her figure tense, and a certain anxiety painted her features. He wanted to ask what she was doing there, or why she hadn’t called to tell him that she was coming, but all he could do was stare. Perhaps it was because a part of him already knew why she’d come to visit him. She was the only person he’s touched directly in the last year, the only person who could have caused his hair to change.

Slowly, Marinette held up a strand of her hair. It was hard to make out, being a single strand, but Felix didn’t need to see it know it was grey too.

They stared at each other, both floored by the discovery, but then Felix almost had to laugh. Because of course it was her. Of course the person who he had come to know and adore and yearn to be around daily would be his soulmate. He should have known that soulmates would find each other eventually, whether they had “Soulmate Magic” to guide them or not.

Before he could say anything, Marinette let out a grieved sigh and buried her face in her hands.

“Oh, Felix, I.. I’m so sorry!”

For a moment, Felix stalled, and worry started to set in. She’s sorry? Why would she be sorry?

“What do you mean?”

Marinette looked up from her hands. “I know you didn’t want to find your soulmate and start aging. I should have noticed your ungloved and been more careful, but I just wasn’t thinking, and-”

Felix blinked as she continued rambling. This girl was apologizing to him because she accidentally found out that they were soulmates. She wasn’t thinking about how much she’d wanted to find her soulmate- because he knew that she did -or that she would have gone without a soulmate for the rest of her life had she not made the discovery. No, she was thinking about him and what he had wanted, just as she always did.

“Marinette.” He said, taking her by the shoulders. “Marinette, stop.”

The ravenette paused, glancing up at him with her beautiful, concerned eyes, and he felt himself smile.

“If anyone had to be stuck as my soulmate.. I can’t express how delighted I am that it’s you.”

A wonderful blush tinted her cheeks. “R-Really? But I thought- what about being immortal?”

Felix chuckled, and he reached out to cup her cheek. “Immortality’s a small price to pay to have you.. if you’ll have me too, that is.”

Marinette exhaled, looking completely baffled, but that didn’t stop her from grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him into a kiss.

“Yes.” She breathed, a shining smile coming to her features. “Yes, of course I’ll have you.”

Felix couldn’t help grinning as well, and as he pressed another kiss to her lips, he wondered how it could have taken him so long to realize what the soulmate magic was really all about. It wasn’t a choice between immortality or death, but rather a choice between immortality and life. All of the things he’d been searching for- fame, fortune, glory -and the experiences he’d been chasing meant nothing without Marinette by his side. She was the one who made him feel truly alive, and he never wanted to live without her again.

(Send me a letter and I’ll write a thing!)

#asks #Felinette #Soulmate AUs

161 notes · View notes

mostlysignssomeportents · 3 years

Text

How unions de-risk work

Yesterday, I published an essay about how monopolies beget monopolies: when deregulation kicked off a wave of pharma mergers, the new pharma oligopoly gained the power to raise prices on hospitals.

https://pluralistic.net/2021/03/16/wage-theft/#excessive-buyer-power

The hospitals weren't able to form a cartel to insist on better prices: the US antitrust law created by Ronald Reagan's court sorcerer Robert Bork is incredibly tolerant of monopolist price-rigging, but violently opposed to cartels that price-rig.

Rather than forming a cartel, the hospitals gobbled each other up to create monopolies. If the CEOs of six hospitals insist on better drug prices, it's illegal. If the presidents of six hospitals (all owned by the same monopolist) do the same thing, it's fine.

Big Hospital wasn't merely better positioned to demand better drug prices from Big Pharma, they were also able to charge more to the fragmented, decentralized health insurance industry.

Predictably, this kicked off a wave of mergers that produced Big Insurance, a monopolized world that gives most Americans between zero and two insurers who'll take their business.

Freed from the risk of losing customers and bulked up to meet hospital monopolies on even footings, insurance companies could both insist on lower payouts to hospitals and *higher* premiums from patients. And at last we had some sort of equilibrium.

Pharma companies could charge more for drugs, but not too much more. Hospitals could lower the standard of care, raise prices, and squeeze workers' wages and working conditions. Insurance companies could cut payments to hospitals, raise prices and hike co-pays.

Everyone got what they wanted, except for two groups that can't form monopolies that push back against this monopoly-dominated industry:

* Patients, and

* Workers

Historically, the "monopolist" safeguarding patients' interests was the state: democratically elected lawmakers who relied on voters for re-election. The massive increase in corporate campaign finance was attended by steady erosion of political loyalty to the public interest.

And so the public lost its champion, and prices went up and quality went down and redress was whittled away to performative apologies after crises of too great a magnitude to be ignored, accompanied by fines that were mere fractions of the profits from corruption.

Meanwhile, workers' champions were their unions: solidarity organizations that corrected the negotiating imbalance between employers and employees by presenting a united front.

That unity extended beyond the gates of a single employer. Picket-line crossing was a grave sin, so if your hotel's maids went out on strike, the Teamsters wouldn't deliver your groceries and the taxi cabs wouldn't pick up at your entrance.

And related trades were able to bargain together: in Hollywood, the writers and actors and tradespeople would start each contract season by visiting the weakest studio as a body and demand the best deal, then require parity from other studios in turn.

Since the Reagan years, union power has been drained off. For example, the way Hollywood unions negotiate has been flipped on its head. Now, the *studios* visit the weakest union as a body and demand the most labor concessions, then take those to the other unions in turn.

It's been generations since union power was a given, and we haven't just lost our power, we've lost our imaginations - the sense of what is possible, what we are owed, how the system could work. We've learned to take precarity and low wages as a given.

That's why Reina Sultan's "8 People Describe How Unions Changed Their Lives" for Vice is so important: not because it is heartwarming (though it is) but because it is ripe with possibility, the recovered wisdom of a fallen civilization.

https://www.vice.com/en/article/bvxqvm/why-unions-are-good-first-hand-accounts-of-how-unions-change-lives

These eight workers describe how joining a union turned precarity into certainty. How the hotels they worked for had to promise to hire them back after the pandemic lifted. How they were promised ten hours of uninterrupted sleep between shifts.

How their employers had to accommodate their disabilities. How they were guaranteed health insurance that covered their whole families. How they were protected from being arbitrarily fired, and guaranteed severance pay when they were laid off.

These guarantees have a common theme: they de-risk being a worker and make it riskier to be an employer. Much of our day-to-day life is a series of negotiations over who should bear the risk that things will turn out bad.

Think of all the corporate bailouts, how these are "socialism for shareholders, capitalism for workers." When the fed bails out banks and employers but not mortgage holders and workers, they move risk off the finance-sector's balance sheet and stick it on our balance sheet.

When you run a business, you assume risks. Maybe you have a slow Saturday and end up paying workers to hang around with nothing to do. If you can book a worker's Sat, but unilaterally send them home two hours into their shift because it's slow, you shift your risk onto them.

The worker has to be available for you, but you don't have to use that availability. Likewise disability accommodations: when you hire and train a worker, you face the risk that they will become disabled, permanently or temporarily, on or off the job.

When that happens, you might have to pay to change the physical environment so they can do their job, or give them disability pay. If you can just fire them, you shift the risk onto the worker, and off your own books.

Every benefit described by workers in Way's article is risk being shifted from workers back onto employers. The right not to be summarily fired means workers aren't at risk from vindictive, bad bosses. It also means employers may struggle to shed "low-performing" workers.

It's a good reminder of the "struggle" in "class struggle." These risks are, by their nature, zero-sum. To decrease the risk of being stuck with a bad employee, you have to *increase* the risk of an employee being targeted by a bad manager. There's no win-win here.

Sure, employers will say that they share the workers' interest in rooting out bad managers, but there is an inescapable contradiction between reserving the right to fire anyone, for any reason, and making sure workers aren't unjustly fired.

The same goes for every benefit articulated by union members. If you're an electrician who wants to be able to get home, sleep and go back to work without being interrupted for ten straight hours, you push risk onto your employer.

Meanwhile, if you *don't* have that right, your employer gets to shove risk onto you. For example, they could underinvest in upgrades and preventative maintenance, knowing that when things break down, they can summon you to get them working again, without paying any overtime.

The project of worker solidarity comes down to this foundational question: who should bear which risks? Would you rather have bad bosses firing people over personal vendettas, or co-workers who are hard to fire even though they're not great at their jobs?

We don't need to pretend that moving risk onto employers' side of the ledger always produces better outcomes. It doesn't. Workers can be jerks, too. But an individual bad boss has the power to do enormous harm to their entire workforce over a long term.

Think of all the people maimed, killed and sickened in Amazon's warehouses because of one individual's willingness and ability to shift risk off his balance sheet and onto theirs.

It's true that an especially toxic unionized worker could make life miserable for many, many other workers - but that's still a better outcome than an especially toxic CEO, not least because unions give workers the power to address bad workers even when management won't.

Is it possible for things to be overbalanced, for too much risk to be shifted off of worker's balance sheets and onto employers' side of the ledger? Sure, theoretically. But that is a situation so far removed from workplace reality today that it's practically a fairy-tale.

And if we're really worried about too much risk landing on employers, then we can go back to the peoples' source of power: democratic governance. Unions represent a power-bloc that can (but don't always) hold politicians to account.

It's hard to imagine any political path to checking corporate power that doesn't include organized groups of workers *and* organized groups of citizens, working for political change.

If health insurance, disability accommodations, retirement pay, parental leave and other sources of workplace risk are moved onto the public's balance sheet, they cease to be things that workers or employers need to argue about. They're just a given.

Think of it this way: bosses and workers don't fight over who will pay to pave the roads to the business. They don't fight over who will fight fires, or allocate RF frequency for the office wireless network. These risks are moved to the public ledger, where they belong.

This kind of political change is also hard to imagine, after 40 years of Reaganomics. But unionization makes it more achievable, because another word for "risk" is "profit." Shifting risk from workers onto bosses shifts money from bosses to workers.

Monopolized employers extract monopoly rents from their customers and gouge monopoly concessions from their workers. This isn't just extra money to send to shareholders - it's also extra money to spend in the political realm, blocking reforms that benefit everyone.

That's how we get wage stagnation and ghouls like Manchin and Sinema tanking the $15 minimum wage. The money extracted from workers was sent to these politicians so they would vote to make it possible to keep extracting money from workers.

Unionization - workplace justice - doesn't win the war for political justice. But it *does* cut the enemy's supply lines, deprive them of the ammo they're using to fight us.

Image: still from "Union Maids" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=74gvcvXlgnM

70 notes · View notes

phasmwrites · 4 years

Text

keeping it professional | bakugou x f!reader

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x Female!Reader

Warnings: Smut (18+), Brief Quirkplay, Dirty Talk, Bakugou’s Bad at Feelings

Author’s Note: I received a request from a lovely anon asking for friends with benefits Bakugou catching feelings for the reader! I’m always super nervous posting smut cause I hope it came out good also the slight plot ok I hope you like it bye <3 I also left it open for a part 2 if people want it lmk pls | part two here

Word Count: 1.7K

Early mornings in the hero agency you worked for typically consisted of casual conversations by the espresso machine before heading over to the gym for some training. On this morning in particular, you were getting your workout done in a rather unconventional manner.

With the back of your knees curled over muscular shoulders and your back pressed against the conference room table, you couldn’t stop the loud moan that erupted from your throat.

“Are you trying to get us caught, dumbass?!” Bakugou Katsuki, your arrogant partner in crime fighting, narrowed his eyes but refused to slow down his brutal pace as he continued to fuck you into the wooden surface.

It had started about four months after you accepted his offer to work for his agency, Bakugou wanting to build up his reputation by taking in powerful heroes onto his payroll. You were one of those heroes, only two years younger than him but you were nearly catching up in the rankings.

You couldn’t remember how the two of you actually started sleeping with each other, but you did remember the boring speech he had given you about not catching feelings or else he would promptly fire you.

A rather harsh thrust from the ash blonde had your tank top riding up even further on your body, the material gathering and sticking to the sheen of sweat that accumulated underneath your breasts. He bottomed out inside of you with a grunt, your eyes rolling back at the pleasurable sensation and your lips once again parting to release a moan.

Your eyes quickly darted back up to Bakugou when you felt a rough hand overlap itself over your mouth, your noises quickly muffled by his palm. His other hand began to emit a dull glow before lashing out a hard explosive smack on the side of your ass.

The sting from him using his quirk on you mixed with the pleasurable sensation of the head of his cock hitting your g-spot had you seeing stars as your orgasm unexpectedly washed over you. Your back arched slightly off of the table as you cried out against his palm.

“Yeah…” Bakugou smirked wickedly at the sight of you so debauched underneath him, his hand pressing down even harder against your mouth. He looked absolutely sinful as sweat gathered over the expanse of his chest, strands of his ash blonde locks sticking to his forehead, “You like that? You like when I fucking-” You received another spank to your behind, this time without the use of his quirk, “-show you who your pussy belongs to?”

In a moment of defiance after recovering from your mind-blowing orgasm, you reached one of your arms up and yanked his palm off your lower facial region, letting out a brief gasp for air before shoving three of his fingers inside of your wet cavern. Bakugou watched with blown-out pupils the way your lips closed around his digits, sucking harshly as you swallow around them. Your own eyes pierced his own and you still managed to somewhat grin back, sending a silent message to him that you had him perfectly wrapped around your pinky finger as well..

On the other hand, it took every ounce of resistance inside of Bakugou’s body for him not to cum inside of you from the way you looked so perfect with your bruised lips around his fingers and your hypocritical doe-eyes piercing right into his gaze. His heart squeezed inside of his chest and he knew it wasn’t just from overexerting himself. Shaking his head, he snapped himself back into reality.

“Oh, you like having my fingers in your mouth? How about I give you something fucking better to suck on, brat.” Bakugou suddenly pulled his cock out of your heat and his fingers out of your mouth, drops of your cum dripping out of you and onto the floor. He allowed your legs to drop and hang over the edge of the table, his own pushing himself up and onto the table with you.

Crawling up your body, Bakugou’s knees planted themselves on each side of your body as he towered over you. His cock was glistening in your fluids, a few drops landing on your lips and chin as he began to position himself above you.

You parted your lips, reaching one hand up to grab a handful of his ass as you shoved him halfway down your throat in one fell swoop. Bakugou nearly lost his balance on his elbows, seething through his teeth before crying out at how tight your throat felt when constricted around him.

Pulling back, you let the head of his cock smear pre-cum on your lips as you spoke, “Who needs to be quiet now, hm?”

Before the man above you could sneer out another quick-lipped retort, you dug your nails into the flesh of his ass and shoved him as far as you could down your throat. The tip of your nose just barely reached his pubic bone, Bakugou practically howling above you from the sensation.

It didn’t take much longer for ropes of thick cum to slide down your throat, with the way you were eagerly deepthroating him and swallowing against the head of his cock Bakugou couldn’t take it anymore. He released himself with a low, gravely moan before you removed his softening cock from your mouth.

“We’re definitely late for training.” You teased, rolling yourself off of the conference table so you could slide your panties and workout legging back on. Bakugou, despite feeling lethargic, quickly threw on his black t-shirt and sweats while attempting to slow down his racing heart.

The two of you shared a comfortable silence for a few moments before you turned and saw your coworker fully clothed now slouched against one of the leather office chairs in the room. His chest was rising rather heavily, his face flushed a deep pink across his cheeks.

Thankfully you carried your water bottle with you as a precaution, so you stepped over to him and brought the bottle up to his lips. He was too tired to move, allowing you to gently tilt his head so you could pour the water into his mouth at a slow pace.

Bakugou looked over at you, the tender expression on your face as you took care of him causing his flush to only deepen. He fucked up, he did the one thing he wasn’t supposed to do...he caught feelings for you.

In the months that the two of you had known each other, in both a professional and intimate manner, Bakugou couldn’t stop himself from adoring everything about you. You were strong and powerful, never holding back during sparring matches with him. That was when he first truly noticed you and your beautiful, cocky grin you sported when you had him pinned underneath you in victory.

It was also that day he realized just how attractive you were; he had left work early after your sparring match because he could not for the life of him get rid of the raging erection he had at the memory of you towering over him.

Bakugou thought he could handle just fucking you for sport, with no feelings attached, but he realized the error of his ways as you brought one of your hands up to run your fingers through his locks after setting the now empty water bottle down behind you.

“Why are you treating me like I’m your fucking boyfriend?” As a defense mechanism, Bakugou snapped at you for your gentle behavior and shoved your hand away from his damp hair, no matter how good it felt.

You let out a small laugh, “No feelings, I swear. Keep it professional, I know. I was just trying to keep you from passing out and missing patrols today.” He should just say it, Bakugou wanted desperately to admit to you that he had fallen for you, but for once in his life he was truly afraid of rejection.

“I don’t need your fucking help!” You rolled your eyes at his outburst, watching the people around you flinch from the sudden loud noise as the two of you entered the training room.

One of the newest heroes hired under Bakugou’s agency, Pyro Strike, immediately rushed over to you before you could get a chance to even see who else was working today. You had to admit, he was pretty attractive but it was difficult for you to even think about other men when you just had Bakugou’s cock in your mouth only moments prior.

“Hey Y/N!” He cheered before taking a long swig of his water bottle, “How are ya?”

Bakugou regretted hiring the newbie the moment his prying eyes wandered over your body after meeting you for the first time. He knew the thoughts that were running through the young pro-hero’s head, it was probably similar to his.

“I wanted to ask you something.” This caught both you and Bakugou’s attention, the ash blonde feigning ignorance as he eavesdropped on the conversation from afar.

You had a feeling where the conversation was heading, but you were in fact a bit curious, “Go ahead!”

“I wanted to know if you had a date to the Hero Gala coming up this weekend?” He nervously began to look down at his shoes, “If not...I was wondering if you would let me accompany you…”

Your mind first trailed to Bakugou, but you knew that your relationship with him was nothing more than physical. That’s all it could ever be between the two of you and you had accepted that, at least you believed you did.

“Yeah, sure. I’d love for you to be my date.” You smiled, laying one of your hands on his shoulders before squeezing gently. As you finally reached the other heroes to discuss work-related topics, Bakugou was pouting in the corner with his arms crossed heavily over his chest.

He wasn’t going to let some rookie sweep you off of your feet, he was just going to have to show you at the gala who you should be with.

#bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #i hope this is somewhat decent kdjgd #phasm.writings

1K notes · View notes

vampirexartist · 2 years

Text

KELLAN NOX, MALE, HE/HIM, PANSEXUAL, 160 is a EX HUMAN VAMPIRE in Hollywood. Some say that they resemble BEN BARNES. This one is known to be INTELLIGENT but can be SLY. They work as THE CO-OWNER OF BLACK DAHLIA TATTOO. They have TAKEN their Oath with the Society. We hope that you’re prepared to do what you need to for fame.

Kellan grew up in a upper class family in Oxford, England.

His parents were aristocrats that heavily despised the rise of the Labor government as England turned from the rule of the monarchy to establishing a working government

Growing up Kellan was left much to his own devices. His parents hired nannies and servants to look after him, and he never lacked for anything. Though as he grew, he was quite eager to gain their pride and approval

Until he was thirty, he lived a fairly human, and for his time, normal life. While he was a talented artist, a painter, he put his own ambitions aside to appease his father. Studying Law and becoming an accomplished Lawyer got him a long way. Marrying at 19 to a respectable, high society girl and having two children ensured his parents could not fault him in the least.

In his thirty first year, his son died in whats since been referred to as the Great Blizzard, a huge storm that hit Britain’s south coast and caused 14 ships to sink, taking over 200 lives. Kellan was angry, grieving, and the emotional turmoil had him slacking off at work and drinking heavily. It also made him stray from his wife, intrigued by a beautiful woman he met at one of the bars in town, striking up an affair with her that lasted for almost six months.

He had no idea that his newfound love was a vampire, nor that she felt strongly enough for him to decide to turn him without his knowledge. Of course he was furious at her, after the initial weeks of adjusting to being a vampire. Yet he was suddenly introduced to a new world, and he needed her support and care.

For almost three years, Kellan was able to balance being a vampire and still keep his human life. His love was greatly angered by his unwillingness to let his wife and daughter go, insisting that he was a danger to them and that it would not end well.

And it did not. One evening, his wife accidentally cut her elbow and underarm preparing dinner, and Kellan was overwhelmed with bloodlust. He drained her dry, and his daughter watched as he did so. After that he had no choice but to flee with his lover, as the police put a warrant out for his arrest.

Since then Kellan has lived the vampiric life to the fullest. Drinking whenever he wants, fucking like there is no tomorrow and pursuing his passions within art. He’s sold his paintings all over Europe, followed the trends and done street art and tattoo work. He’s also helped other artists by showing and selling their art.

Almost ten years after his wife’s death, Kellan’s daughter reappeared in his life. She had been searching for her father, realizing that something was not right after the initial shock of watching her mother die had worn off. Incredibly happy to see her alive and well, and tired of the lies he’d previously felt forced to tell, Kellan revealed everything to her. Ending with the offer to turn her if that was something she’d want, now or later.

In the end his daughter also choose immortality and they spent a great deal of time together. They still do and avidly stay in touch over the years. When they are together, Kellan makes sure to be on his best behavior, hiding his filth and depravity from her because he can’t stand the thought of his little girl thinking less of him as a father.

When Kellan decided to settle in Hollywood and was offered a contract with the Charbonneau’s, he signed it knowing being in the Society would be mutually beneficial for both parties. He didn’t ask for anything for himself. But rather for protection for his daughter. Unlike the common man, Kellan has a great fortune accumulated from the founds his parents gave him when he married, and the work he’s done over the decades. He wants for nothing, and because of it he can seem rather snobbish and arrogant at times. In his mind, most of the world is beneath him and there are no rules for someone like him.

He now co-owns the Black Dahlia Tattoo Studio with the lovely Fianna Riva, often using his role and other connections to find artists looking for more than just recognition, but also fame.

#hollywoodundead.bio #( about kellan. )#( I got nothin' left to lose or use or do my bad habits lead to you ; kellan )

5 notes · View notes

bloodyblade · 4 years

Text

Tremble For My Beloved [1]

Pairing: Thorin x Fem!Reader Summary: AU in which the daughter of a nobleman was running for her life after an orc attack, and after being welcomed under Gandalf's wings, joins the quest to reconquer Erebor. Sort of. Warnings: Mentions of violence and gore, a tiny bit sad. Word Count: 2.353 words.

[Ao3]

Chapter One.

The earth beneath your feet was shaking and trembling, or perhaps it was your legs that were too spent from running in a desperate and unprepared sprint. Entering a crumbling house, you hide behind a wall, standing on a crouch to be able to take a peek on the outside from the window. Holding the machete tightly to your chest, your eyes sweeped the hiding place you chose looking for possible exits.

Sweat was running down your face, lingering at the eyebrows and making their way down. Your heart was beating as strong and fast as a drum, you could feel it in your chest, throat and the sound in your ears. Harsh breaths were coming out silently as you could manage. You were trembling. Exhausted, scared and hurt. Dirt was accumulating under your fingernails along with specs of blood that also tainted the green dress you wore, shoes and thighs, finer than many could ever wish for, had its beauty and delicacy ruined. You looked ruined.

Your hair, that before was put in an intricate updo, was now almost completely loose and caked with sweat and blood that wasn’t yours. Askell, who you grew up having him as your shadow, died for you. He was your protector, always have been. A knight dedicated to you, before you could even walk and always accompanied you through your most important feats -learning how to walk, riding a horse for the first time and then falling epically on your ass, watching you from afar on your every name day. God, it was his blood on your hair, face, chest, dress. The blow was so hard on his head that he fell over you, who were behind him just like he demanded you should be. You scrambled back but part of his body landed on you, knocking you to the ground with him before you could push his body off, Askell’s heavy armour making everything even more difficult. Just as the enemy turned around, you finally managed to get free and balance your protector’s weapon by your side. It was pointy and shone under the candle lights, as if it had never been used before. Because it hasn’t, Askell never needed to. No one in your father’s state ever needed too.

But looking up and coming face to face to this… creature’s face, your blood ran cold. It was pale and ugly, uglier than any story could ever make up. So you got up at your fastest pace and with as much strength you could gather, took the knight’s weapon and ran. Ran until your lungs were on fire and felt like your deep, uneven breaths weren’t enough to keep your body going. Everything passed in a blur, as if your body alone knew what it was doing and so you dodge the fights and screaming and crying people, successfully making your way out of your forever home and the whole manor and what else it consisted of. As you slowed down, you ventured into a small city, knowing you must have ran a lot, for the city your caregivers always spoke of was certainly a few miles away.

And that’s how you found yourself where you are now. You didn’t look back in fear of what you could see and in fear of your enemies, which was most definitely a stupid decision but you couldn’t go back now. You knew your father had enemies, but never thought anyone would be so cruel to try and murder not just your family line but other nobles that were present at the feast your father was giving. Did someone hire them? Did your father somehow get on these creature’s bad side and leave them seeking revenge? How would dad even get in their way?

Don’t think about it. Those things didn’t matter, not anymore at least. Askell was dead, your father was most certainly dead right now and your mother died the moment you took your first breath. You heard how people would whisper that when you came out of your mother’s womb, you stole her breath and ultimately caused her death, and that it was a sign of a curse they were certain you carried: anyone to ever love you would most likely face an awful and painful death. So far, they weren’t wrong. Perhaps you were cursed.

You stayed alert for a while, besides the sounds of your now normalizing breaths, all you could hear were the sounds of nature that surrounded the place. Overgrown grass surrounded the house, allowing for all kinds of bugs to make home there. She could see the flickering soft light of the fireflies, hear the cicadas and buzz of wings that flew past your face, way too close for your liking. And you started to lose track of time, your legs growing tired from carrying your weight in the same position for too long. Slipping slowly towards the ground, you let yourself rest for a moment, closing your eyes and puffing a shaky breath past your lips. You were so tired. It felt like a fever dream, the people chatting and laughing and eating and mingling around. The sound of your father’s boisterous laughter ringing loud and accompanied by many others. A song played on the background softly, a few people fluttering on the ground with grace and kids running around, being chased and chatiest by their caretakers. Braids more intricate than others, some showing off and proudly stating their status, either as rich as piss or happily married, courting. Beads as beautiful and delicate than many could ever wish for. Gosh, you did wish to have one on her hair at some point in life. But now all that seemed so… shallow and unimportant.

How could such futile happiness become a bloodbath so quickly? Thankfully you didn’t see any children hurt and held ignorant hope that they managed to flee to somewhere safe. Gosh, you could hardly believe that, on her way there, she slashed one of the monsters, the hard blade buried itself on his shoulder as he screamed in rage and pain, blood trickling down it’s bare chest and after tugging once, twice to get it out of him, it’s blood rushed out like a horror story would detail, making him stumble and set its eyes on you form, but before he could do anything, you hit it with the machete hard on the knee, making him fall on his face. Although the goal was to kill it with a hard strike to his chest, the weight of the weapon didn’t allow you to do so. But this creature was the same that killed Askell, so you felt a hint of satisfaction to cause it enough damage to somehow avenge him.

But it’s not like you didn’t get hurt at all, you were no fighter, even if Askell did try to give you self defense classes with a smaller sword. Main word being try. You could manage, but doubted you could handle yourself in battle, but he assured you that you would never need to go into battle as long as you had him. Your hairline was definitely sore and the skin open, allowing a little blood to pool around and dirty your face worse than it already was. On your run, you tripped and fell on your hands and knees, getting your palms scrapped and pulsing with pain from the fall and having to carry a heavy weapon your unprepared hands were unused to.

And you waited for something, anything. But nothing came. Were they waiting for you to leave the place or go back to the manor? It was better to stay here until morning, wasn’t it? Probably, yes. So, with your knees to your chest, you put your head between them, allowing your body to relax a little and feeling yourself going a tiny bit slack, your machete close by your side.

If it weren’t from the footsteps on the house terrain, you would’ve fallen asleep for your eyes were heavy and mind fatigued. Standing up slowly and carefully, trying to step as lightly as elves would, you picked up your weapon and walked towards the front door. Whoever was outside, their steps were light, but not light enough that you couldn’t hear them. You could also notice how confidently they were walking, so it couldn’t be children either, and by the sounds of it, they were alone.

Your head was pounding and your hands were shaking again, you were reaching the peak of exhaustion. You held your breath as three knocks sounded one after the other on the door. After not giving any kind of response, the door opened slowly and creaked loudly and a tall, slim robbed figure stood at the door, against the moonlight only their silhouette can be seen.Holding the weapon in front of you with both hands, you took a fighting instance, or what you thought could be described as it.

“Reveal yourself.” You demanded with a slight tremble and agitation to your voice, only to have the figure step forward with a chuckle. It was a man, with a long staff and grey robes that reached the ground and covered the length of his body. And he was old, a long beard adorning his face. A pointed blue hat complemented his appearance, making him look like… like he wanted to seem like a wizard.

“Ah, I figured you would be here, Y/N daughter of Sindel, son of Serill.” The senile man began, walking closer so you make out his features. His beard was as long as she initially made out, and as white as his long hair, just like the scarf he wore. His bushy eyebrows framed his eyes, wrinkled due to the warm smile he was trying to convey.

“Who are you and how do you know my name? How do you know my father?” You asked, keeping yourself unmoving where you stood. He sighed deeply but didn’t let his lips turn any other way.

“I’m Gandalf, the grey.” He brought his unoccupied hand to his chest, introducing himself kindly, before letting it fall along with a sorrowful expression on his face. “I’m deeply sorry for your loss, but I vowed your father to take care of you should… the unexpected turn of events happened before time was right.” He motioned for you to lower your hands, and you did it hesitantly. If he wanted, he could’ve hit you that staff he was holding, but he probably needed aid to keep standing. He looked very old. “In fact, you’re not safe at all while you’re here, come.” He motioned for you to follow him as he turned around but you didn’t move an inch. How did he know your father and did this man owe him anything? Did you even know your father at all? He looked back at you, taking carefully your fear struck features and ratted clothes and understood. Of course he knew there was a slight possibility you didn’t know anything at all about who your father truly was but more importantly, who you truly were and just how important you are.

“How do you know you’re not one of them?” You finally voiced your main concern at the moment, Gandalf cocked his head to the side. “My… My family was murdered. How do I know you’re just trying to lure me out here so they can finish what they began?” You took another step back, waiting for an answer. He didn’t look exactly threatening but you couldn’t afford to trust anyone, not right now.

“Would that answer your question?” He asked as he handed you the object that was in his possession. Where did he get this? It was a dagger. Your mother’s dagger. One of the belongings she left for you, passed from mother to daughter in your family’s lineage. The design on the hilt was intricate and beautiful. It was rather dusty and had a few marks of use, but you were sure it would’ve been from her. Your father often told you how skilled she was, but never allowed you to use it. It was merely something decorative laying proudly on your nightstand. Until you lost it. You cried for days and dared not to tell your father, he would most likely be furious. Askell told you once how your parents knew your mother could possibly not survive after birth and how she separated and dedicated something for you, her first and only child. Your dad did ask you once about it, he probably already knew by them, but you decided to pretend everything was where it was supposed to be. Which was wherever you wanted it. That earned you a pointed and warning glare for him but you only smiled sweetly back then. Now you had a slight idea where it went.

And it could be a copy, a very good one, for there were several skilled blacksmiths your father knew about. If it weren’t for one detail, you would not have believed him: two designs on the blade. The vessels of the sun and moon. Your mother has always been so devoted to Mahal. Your eyes glazed over, but you didn’t allow yourself to cry. Straightening yourself, you looked at the man that was waiting patiently for you to analyze what was yours by right. You looked at him with determination and a chuckle left his lips as he smiled again.

“Come, let’s get you somewhere safe for the time being.” He beckoned you closer again and this time you obeyed.

“Where are you taking me?” You questioned as you looked around warily, searching silently with a calculated gaze for any threats. Night time was never kind for those endangered and that’s exactly what you were. You could trust him, maybe. But you didn’t know if you could protect yourself and the old man as well. What’s with the pointy hat anyway?

“Well, my dear,” he began, waiting for you to fall into step besides him “You most definitely are in desperate need of a shower.”

#bb writes #thorin x reader #thorin x you #the hobbit imagine #thorin oakenshield x reader

47 notes · View notes

livvywrites · 3 years

Photo

[ ID: the image depicts a knights helm with a pointed face looking to the right. it’s been edited to look like an oil painting, and overlaid with a pale grey-green color. over the image is written ‘a conspicuous lack of dragons’ in a script front, and beneath that, ‘livvy moore’ in a serif font. /end ID. ]

i posted an excerpt of this with the placeholder title “the perils of taking quests from little old ladies who live in the woods.” i’m still rather fond of that title, but it’s a little too long xD

this was written mostly as an exercise to kind of... shake the mental cobwebs off, after seeing a post about accessibility + princesses in towers. i really liked how it came out, so i decided to polish it up and post it :D i meant to have it up sooner, but... life :p

you can also read this on my website :)

a conspicuous lack of dragons

The tower is exactly as the old woman described. White brick, with a deep purple roof, standing on a mountain at the edge of a prosperous kingdom. Only a few windows adorn the top of the tower. The rest is bare, and unadorned. You are… a little relieved. The old woman had said that this tower belonged to a dragon. You weren’t particularly looking forward to fighting it—and though you’re sure you still might have to, at least you have time for a little more reconnaissance.

Save for the base, where there is a plain wooden door.

You… cannot say you were expecting that. You swing off of your mare, and stow your more important belongings with her, keeping with you only your sword, shield, and medicine kit. You examine the door carefully, and find that—at least from this side—it is as plain as it appears.

You open the door, and step inside.

The base of the tower is rather bare. There are a few crates and boxes, covered in a layer of dust and cobwebs. There is a conspicuous lack of traps. You frown, step further in, and wait for the door to slam behind you.

It does not.

Suspicions piqued, you start up the twisting and winding ramp (not stairs!) that lead to the top. You draw your sword as you do, ready to strike if anything—or anyone—pops out at you.

Nothing does.

There are still no traps; no guards; and no hints of magic. The most arduous thing about it is the trip to the top. Another plain, wooden door is there; though it has been painted a pale lilac. There is a small peephole near the top.

You see no strange mechanisms. No glowing runes. No door knockers with faces, ready to entice you into a battle of riddles.

Your frown only deepens. You push the door open, fully expecting to be greeted by the most heinous monster you’ve ever faced.

Instead, you find a young woman. You can only presume that this is the princess. She is seated on a plush couch, reading a rather thick book. She looks up at the creak of the door, and gives you a brief once over.

One brow raised, she asks, “Well? What are you doing here?”

“I’m… here to rescue you?” you say, but it comes out as more of a question. You feel dumb. Also numb. Off-balance. You aren’t sure what’s going on at all. Nothing here is what you expected it to be, and you’re not sure how to take that at all.

“Oh,” the princess says. She looks disinterested again. “Mm. Thank you, but no thank you. I am perfectly content where I am.”

“I… but…” You stop. You’re not really sure where you were going with that.

The princess sighs. She marks her place, and lays the book on a side table. She gestures to one of the chairs. “Let me guess,” she says. “A lovely little old lady hired you. Very sweet, greets everyone with a plate of cookies. She shuffles more than walks and leans on a cane. Very harmless. Very unassuming. She told you a sob story about a poor princess, shut in a tower for… Oh, I can’t imagine what she used this time. Someone was jealous? They were afraid I would be stolen away? I’ve been cursed?”

“Um.” You’ve taken a seat now. “A dragon had taken you and hid you here, to hold you for ransom.”

The princess rolls her eyes. “Ah. We’re stereotyping dragons, now. Lovely.” She rearranges the blanket on her legs. “The truth, then. I am a princess, she did not lie to you about that. However, I am not in this tower because of dragons, curses, jealousy, beauty, or whatever reasons she can dream up. This tower was, in fact, my idea.”

“Why?” you blurt.

The princess smiles. There’s something a little secretive about it, like she’s letting you in on something. “You see,” she says, “I was born a little different from the rest of the world. Not much, mind, but enough to make it hard for me to function in your world. I’ve got a touch of power in me. I can, of course, cast spells. But that is not why I am here. I am here because I also have a touch of the Sight. And that… well. It makes me a little… sensitive.” She drums her fingers on the arm of the sofa. “It is hard to explain, because I can do so many different little tricks, but I will try. Since you came all this way.

“The main one, I think, is being able to sense emotions. This one is not something I can turn off. Being in a crowded room is… overwhelming. I can feel what everyone else is feeling, and they are hardly ever feeling the same things. It is enough to drown my own emotions out, and it is—I am sure you can imagine—unpleasant.

“I can also sense surface thoughts, sometimes. When they are very loud, or when I care to turn an ear to them. When I was younger, I could not control this, and… thus, crowds of people were, once again, very uncomfortable.

“And, of course, I can predict things. With an object—clear or mirrored, preferably—I can see things going on in other places. It takes focus, and practice, and it helps if I’ve been there or have a clear idea of what I am looking for, but it is possible. I can catch glimpses of things that will happen, or could happen.

“I can also see the future of an object, if I touch it. Or look into its past, see where it’s been. This was another thing I could not control as a young one, and made things very, very unpleasant.

“There are other things, too, but these are the three that made me seek solace here. I get visitors. I leave sometimes. But, yes. My being here is very much a choice. I thank you, again, for your concern. But it is not warranted.”

“I…” You bite your lip, and shake your head. “I do not understand why I was sent here, then. If you are not in danger.”

“Ah. Well.” The princess smiles wryly. “The old woman who sent you here is not an old woman at all. That is the disguise she dons, when she sends people to me. I believe because it makes her seem more trustworthy… or perhaps because she thinks its funny. I don’t know.” She shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. She sent you here, the same way she did the others, because she wants to use you to get past my wards.” She turns her gaze from you, and looks at the door you came in. “Isn’t that right, Muriel?”

In the doorway stands a woman who is nothing like the little old lady who plied you with cookies and a sob story about a kidnapped princess. She has long golden hair that shines in the window light. She walks with a finely carved staff; a glowing orb at the top. When she gets close, however, you can see her eyes. And those—those are the eyes of the old lady. Warm brown with a touch of humor. She sits in the empty seat.

“You turned the last three away at the door,” Muriel says. “I was beginning to think that you were angry with me.”

The princess hums. “I don’t know why you bother with the pretext,” she says. “You could just have them deliver a letter.”

“I could. But then however would I test their virtue?”

“Virtue?” you ask, before you can stop yourself. You are still so terribly confused. You lost the plot somewhere around when you opened that first door—and you don’t think you’d ever quite caught back up.

Muriel looks at you, as if she was surprised that you were still there. “Well, yes, darling,” she says. “First to see if you were willing to face a dragon to rescue a princess you’d never even met. And then to see if you could get through the doors. They don’t let you in unless you’re pure of intention.”

That doesn’t really clear anything up.

“But why?”

“I presume to keep the princess safe.”

“That’s not what our good knight is asking, and you know it,” the princess chides.

Muriel grins. “Because I’ve need of you, good knight. We’ll get to that. For now…” She looks back the princess. “What do you think, dear? You know I trust your judgment more than anyone else’s.”

“Speak more plainly, Muriel,” the princess says. “I’ve no idea which scheme you’re speaking about now. I can’t possibly keep track of them all.”

Muriel huffs. “The knight, dear.”

The princess gives you another once over. “Depends,” she says. “What is it you’re needing?”

“The gryphon, I think.”

The princess seems to consider that, then sniffs. “No. You’d be better off asking one of the other three.”

You feel indignant.

“I would send this one for the unicorn.”

Less indignant. But only just.

“Oh, truly?” Muriel looks at you again, and there is a new appreciation in her eyes. “Well. You know best, on the subject of unicorns, I suppose.”

“It isn’t that I don’t appreciate the flattery, because I do. However, I really must ask you to drop the pretense. You didn’t come all of this way to ask me that. Speak true, Muriel.”

“Perhaps I just wanted to see you.” Muriel’s tone and expression goes coy, almost coquettish.

A ghost of a smile appears on the princess’s mouth. “If you wish to engage me in courtship, Muriel, there are far less roundabout ways to go about it. Which, mind, I would appreciate far more than the games.”

Muriel flushes, almost imperceptibly. “Ah. Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

The princess inclines her head, and in a gentler tone says, “Your affections would be welcome.”

“Truly?”

“I would not lie to you, dear,” the princess says. “However, once again, I must ask you to speak the truth. Why have you come?”

Muriel sighs. “Your perceptiveness grates, you know?”

“So you have said.”

“Fine. I have come to steal you away again.”

“Ah. Where to?” The princess looks remarkably calm at that comment, though your hackles have raised. Wherever Muriel wishes to go, you do not think the princess should have any part of it. You have a feeling, though, that if you said anything, the princess would—kindly—tell you to mind your own business.

“The Wilds,” Muriel says.

This means nothing to you, but the princess nods.

“Of course,” she murmurs to herself. “Right, well. When do you wish to leave?”

“Once I’ve gotten this one packed off,” Muriel says. She gestures to you.

“Do I get a say?” you ask. Demand.

“Well of course, dear,” Muriel says. “You’ll either take the mission I give you or… go off to do whatever you do when you’re not taking quests from strange women. Either way.”

You huff, but nod.

“Very well,” the princess says. “I am agreeable.”

“Excellent.” Muriel sends her a quick flash of a smile. The glimpse you catch is soft and subtle. The princess’s own lips quirk in response… and then suddenly, both their eyes are on you again.

Muriel is looking at you like she’s a cat and you’re… something small and skittering. You don’t know if she’s going to pounce, or if she just wishes to watch, but either way—you’re more than a little unnerved.

The princess, on the other hand, looks kind and a little amused. “Any questions?” she prompts.

“Why did she—you—need my help to get in the tower? If you two are friends, I mean.”

“Because Muriel practices dark magic,” the princess says plainly.

You start; sitting up right as if a rod has just been plunged through your spine.

The princess laughs. “That does not mean that she is evil. Your knightly virtue is still intact. Dark magic is simply a tool, like any other, and Muriel wields it well.”

“But…”

The princess reaches out, and lays a hand on yours. You can feel the weight of it through your gauntlet, though not much else. “Muriel is something of a trickster, it is true. She lies. Sometimes for a good reason, and sometimes simply for her own amusement. She does not mean any harm when she does it… and so, she will never quite be sorry for it. It is her way. But let this be a lesson to you. If you work with her—or, truly, anyone else—do your research before blindly following what they tell you.” She pats your hand, and withdraws. “Now. Muriel will explain what she wants you to do, if you let her, while I get ready.”

She stands, folds the blanket she had been using, and takes her book off to another room. You are left alone with Muriel, and you eye her warily.

Muriel does not seem to mind your distrust. If anything, it seems to amuse her more. “So,” she says. “Unicorns.”

“I won’t kill one,” you say, immediately.

Muriel laughs. “Nor would I ask that of you,” she says. “I do not wish for you to kill one. Nor maim one, capture one, or any other nasty thing your mind has conjured up.” She reaches into a satchel, and pulls out a small vial. Inside is a beautiful, shimmering liquid. “You are familiar with Eaton’s River, yes?”

You nod. You’d been, once.

“Mm. If you follow the river north, to its source, you’ll come to the mountains. More specifically, to the forest at the base of those mountains. Keep going, and you’ll reach a waterfall—and, of course, a lake. The lake has a dock… and likely, a rowboat. Do not take the rowboat, though you may be tempted. Instead, pour the contents of this vial into the lake.

“When that is done, make camp by the lake. You may drink from it, but do not bathe in it. Go further down the river for that—past the ring of trees surrounding the area. You shouldn’t have to stay for long. No more than three days. Eventually, you will see a unicorn. Do not worry about missing it. Its presence will wake you up.

“Do nothing to it, unless it does something to you, first. If it speaks to you, those words are yours alone. If it lays its head in your lap, that moment is yours to keep. When it leaves, you are free to go as well.

“However, there are things I wish you to keep an eye out for. First, a white deer. Stag or doe, it matters not. Only that is pure white. Do not kill it, but if you see it, I wish to know about it when both you and I have returned.

“Second, the unicorn itself. I wish to know the color of its horn; whether or not it has any markings; and if it is alone or not.

“Lastly, the water. Tell me if there is anything built on the mound in the middle; if there is anything strange about the boat beyond the urge to get in it; whether anything happens when you pour the water in; and most importantly… whether or not you see anyone or anything inside the water during your time there. Even if you believe it is a hallucination.

“Am I clear?”

You blink, but nod.

“Excellent.” She pulls out a piece of paper, and she hands that to you as well. “These are the instructions I have just stated. Now. Tell me, knight. Will you do this?”

“Why?” you ask.

“A vested interest in magical ecology,” Muriel says primly.

The princess emerges, a bag slung over her shoulder. She approaches you both. Whatever she sees on your face has her smiling. “You’ve gone and confused the poor thing, Muriel. Are you allergic to explaining yourself?”

“Yes,” Muriel says. “You can’t see it, but my arms have broken out into terrible hives.”

The princess snorts, and looks at you. “The unicorn needs to be checked on. They’re quite rare, you know, and it’s good to make sure they’re still healthy. I imagine Muriel also wishes to know if it has made any friends, or reproduced.”

Muriel inclined her head.

“The lake has its own creatures within. They’re not friendly, so do not engage with them. They’ll drown you. The potion she’s given you is… highly magical. In this case, it does many things. It will… the closest I can think of is ‘get them drunk.’ They will still overpower you if you get in the water, but they won’t actively pursue you.

“It is also power enough to attract the unicorn, to ensure that you get a look at it. And, it has the added bonus of cleaning the water out a bit.” The princess shrugged. “An ingenious little vial.”

“And the deer?” you ask.

“Attracted to the presence of the unicorn,” the princess says. “Or perhaps caused by the unicorn’s own magic—I’ve never been quite sure. Either way, it means that the land there is responding to the presence of the unicorn. It’s a good thing. A very good thing.”

Muriel said you had a choice in this, but… the way they spoke, it sounded like you already decided to go. Which… you will, of course, because while this is not the quest you had envisioned for yourself, it still sounds important, and befitting of your training. They way they assume is a bit grating, but… Whatever. Your instructor had once told you that, of those who give you quests, magical folk rank just behind nobility in how grating they could be.

“Right then,” Muriel says, at your nod. “Time for the lot of us to be off. We’ve got things to do.”

You stand. “I still don’t quite understand who the two of you are,” you admit. There is more going on here than you understand—context that you’re lacking.

“We’re a Seer and a Witch,” Muriel says, as if this makes things plain. “A trickster and a truth-seer. A commoner and a princess.”

“We are what we are,” the princess says, laying a hand on Muriel’s arm. “And what we are works very well together. That is all that matters.”

“But… I mean… what do you do?”

“What needs doing,” the princess says. “Whether that is relocating unicorns, closing portals to the abyss, or removing curses.” She shrugs. “Don’t worry about it too much. Either it will become clearer to you one day… or it will not.”

“Then you mean to see me again?”

“Well, that depends on you, doesn’t it?” Muriel asks. “Whether you decide to work with me again.”

You suppose that’s true. You give a nod, and this time it is Muriel who smiles at you.

“Off we go, then,” she says.

The three of you exit the tower, and part ways at the door. You retrieve your things where you left them, and look on towards the horizon. It’s a long way from here to the river.

You shoulder your pack, and start walking.

#writeblr #writers of tumblr #writelr #fantasy fiction #my writing #a conspicuous lack of dragons #short fiction

24 notes · View notes

litrally · 4 years

Text

Be Enough

Summary: Damian knew he wanted to live up to the legacy he was given--he just had no idea hearing that he'd failed to do it would hurt so damn much.

Damian’s foot whirled out to the side, his heel connecting with the thug’s temple and making him drop like a rock. He ducked under another’s flying fist, jerking his head up to strike the man under his chin, throwing him off balance before slamming his fist into the side of the man’s head.

Damian’s body was aching, and though he would never admit it, his strikes had grown the slightest bit sloppy over the course of the fight. There were about 20 bodies dropped on the floor around him, but there were still another 10 men circling him, looking for an opening to with which to take him down. Damian vaguely noted the small puddle of blood that had pooled beneath his feet--actually, it probably had to do with the dull ache that was spreading across his lower back that made it a little hard to breathe each time his torso moved.

His comm crackled to life in his ear. “Robin,” Grayson’s voice came through as Damian ducked under another fist flying towards him. “I’ve located Crane, but he’s dispersed the toxin throughout the building. I’m going to start locating it.” Dick paused for a moment. “Unless you need backup.”

Damian rolled his eyes, despite having to fight to keep the breaths that were now coming out in gasps as even as possible. “I’m fine, Batman. I don’t need your assistance.”

There was a long gap before Grayson responded. “Are you--”

“Get the toxin out,” Damian snapped. “There are lives at risk and I don’t need your backup to take out a few thugs-for-hire.”

Damian could hear Dick’s tired sigh through the comms. “Alright. I’m on the roof of the building. I’ll work my way down towards you. Try not to die before I get there. Batman out.”

Damian took a deep breath, dropping low to sweep out the legs of the man in in front of him, trying his best to ignore the pain that took over his shoulder the second he was forced to put any weight on it. Inhale. Thug number seven hit the ground. Exhale. Only three left. He could do this. If only to avoid the humiliation that would undoubtedly prevail if he needed Grayson’s help.

Grayson had done enough for him. Training Damian and letting him work under him as Robin, even though Batman was his birthright, Damian grumbled to himself. But still. Grayson had taken him in and dismissed the incompetent fool that was the last Robin despite having no reason to do so, and Damian found himself working towards every expectation Grayson set. He preened at his praise, a reaction his mother would have killed him for, but Damian realized how much he enjoyed those encouragements; a hand squeezing his shoulder in approval or a grin and a nod when he finally mastered the move he had been working on for weeks--he had grown soft under Grayson’s guidance, yes, but Damian wasn’t entirely sure he disliked it.

Damian’s mind wandered enough about being torn between wanting more of the affection he had grown accustomed to with Grayson and screaming at himself for the weakness that he didn’t notice one of the men sneaking up behind him. He struck the temple of the one in front of him and watched him drop like a stone, but he barely held in the grimace when the last one came up behind him and struck him in the back, directly atop the bleeding wound he already had there. Damian whipped around and took the man down in two moves, but he stumbled as he did so. The world tilted dangerously, and a sort of black fuzziness overtook his vision as he struggled to right himself. Some subconscious part of him noted a faint hissing in one of the corners of the room, but Damian couldn’t do more than tap his comm before the world went black.

Dick was disarming the fourth gas canister when he heard Damian’s comm activate. According to Crane’s confession before Dick knocked him out and left him handcuffed to a flagpole on the roof, there were five canisters throughout the building that had to be taken out before the gas had the chance to overtake the vents. Dick’s hand crept up to his own comm, holding it down as he tried to understand the situation on Damian’s end. “Robin?”

Silence met him at the question. “Robin, are you in need of assistance?”

Something in Dick’s chest jumped at the lack of response, his jog as he approached Damian’s floor broke into a sprint.

Dick gaped at the scene that greeted him. Approximately 30 men scattered throughout the room, all of which covered in varying degrees of injuries but none of them, he noted with no small amount of relief and a little bit of pride, lethal. But his mood immediately faded as he noted the crimson-clad form slumped in the corner of the room.

“Robin?” he asked somewhat hesitantly, before noticing the slight green tinge that had taken over the air surrounding him. “Shit,” Dick murmured under his breath, noticing the vent a few feet from Damian that was releasing the dense smoke that was probably the last of the fear gas he had been unable to locate. Dick shoved a rebreather between his teeth and pried open the vent cover as fast as he could. As far as he could see, all of the thugs were still too far away to be affected, but Damian...Damian would probably be spending the night in the med bay of the cave.

As Dick worked, Damian’s quiet whimpers began to take over the heavy silence of the room. He didn’t seem to be moving much, likely due to the growing puddle of blood that Dick was trying to ignore for the moment, because if he thought about it too long he’d scoop Damian up and run him the cave as fast as he could, fear gas be damned. But Dick kept his composure, clipping the last wire on the canister to ensure no more of the gas would be released and tapped a few buttons on his gauntlet to redirect the building’s airflow outward.

Dick made his way over to Damian and gently pressed his fingers to his throat to check his vitals. He was still whimpering and his finger’s had began twitching as well, the only reason he likely wasn’t full out thrashing being that his body no longer had the energy for it.

Dick’s finger’s went to his ear. “Agent A, I need you to prep the medbay. Robin’s been gassed, and I can’t tell if it’s a new strain or one of the ones we have an antidote on hand for.”

“Understood,” Alfred’s voice came through. “Do I need to prepare any supplies for you?”

“No,” Dick replied, carrying Damian to the batmobile parked just outside the building. “I’m fine. I’m leaving with Robin now. ETA about 25 minutes.”

“Alright. I shall have everything ready for you when you arrive.” Alfred said.

Dick kept glancing over at Damian as they drove home, every twitch and mumble pulling his attention from the road. But Damian was remarkably...calm for someone on fear gas. It should have been reassuring, but something about it made Dick’s insides twist painfully.

Alfred was already jogging over before the car came to a full stop in the cave. Dick lifted Damian with an arm under his knees and the other behind his shoulders, careful to avoid jostling the long slice that ran laterally across his lower back. Alfred started an IV as Dick laid him down.

“I’m putting in the antitoxin for the latest strain we have on file,” Alfred said, slowly pressing down on the plunger inserted into the IV tube. “But he seems to be having some sort of delayed reaction to it, so I am not confident it will work.”

Dick pulled his cowl down, running a hand through his hair as Alfred began to dress the number of wounds covering Damian’s body. God, he looked so...small. So young. What the hell was Dick doing taking him out into the field and leaving him in a room with thirty men?

Alfred glanced back at him, seeming to take note of the anxiety in Dick’s stance. “Go take a shower, Master Dick. Master Damian is stable for now, and I’ll let you know if anything changes.”

Dick opened his mouth to object, but a look from Alfred had him turning on his heel and tossing the cape from his shoulders onto the chair in front of the batcomputer.

By the time he came out, Alfred was packing up the medical supplies and Damian was tucked firmly beneath the blankets kept in the medbay, looking borderline peaceful. Dick pulled up a chair and settled near Damian’s head.

“I’ll go upstairs to go prepare for tomorrow’s activities. You’ll be staying here, I assume?” Alfred asked.

Dick nodded, too tired to respond verbally. Alfred squeezed his shoulder gently as he passed by. “Let me know if you need anything,” he murmured. Dick nodded again, then leaned his head back against the chair, keeping his eyes on Damian. He made it almost an hour before falling asleep.

Damian shot up in his bed, his head sweeping frantically around the room to try and take in as many details as possible. Grayson was seated in front of him, and Damian tried to bring himself to his feet, but he found something pinning him down, like he was tied to the gurney. He didn’t like it--it made him feel caged. Boxed in. Too vulnerable.

Grayson stood and strode towards him, something about his gait making Damian far more nervous than it had any right to. Grayson’s stance and demeanor always reminded Damian of a cat--dangerous when it needed to be, yes, but light and gentle. But this...this Grayson reminded him of a wolf.

“What the hell were you thinking with that fight?” Grayson hissed, leaning forward in a way that had Damian unconsciously scrabbling backwards towards the edge of his bed.

“I--” Damian began, but Dick cut him off. “How the hell have you managed to stay alive this far? Why did Talia even bother dealing with you? You clearly didn’t inherit of her skills,” he scoffed, shaking his head and rolling his eyes towards the ceiling.

Some part of Damian flinched at that, but he rallied, even if the words came out in a whimper to his own ears. “My father was--”

“Your father,” Dick said, turning away from him with a humourless laugh. “Don’t even get me started on your father.” Dick turned back towards him, holding Damian’s gaze and spitting the words like venom. “Your father would be so disappointed in the way you turned out. You’re a pathetic excuse for Robin, and you’re not worthy of the cape you wear across your back. You are not worthy,” Dick repeated, “of anything.”

Damian began pulling at the invisible bonds tying him to the bed, every single word striking him like a knife to the chest. “You’re wrong,” he said, fighting to keep his words stable and yet still hearing a slight wobble to them as they spilled form his lips. “You’re wrong. You--You said--”

“I don’t give a damn what you think I said,” Grayson hissed, bringing his his face close to Damian’s in a lethal whisper. “I hate you.”

Damian wasn’t sure when the tears started spilling from his face. The words had struck something in him, something far deeper than what he had thought he was capable of feeling.

“You...” Damian’s voice came out small, even to his own ears. “You don’t mean that?” The phrase should have been definitive. Strong, Yet it came out as a question. God, Grayson was his partner. Damian should have known his true feelings like his own.

“I hate you,” Grayson repeated, his teeth grinding together in absolute loathing. “I hate you so. Damn. Much.”

Damian’s quiet tears of shock had changed into full out sobs. “Nonono wait, please,” he gasped in between whimpers. “I’ll--I’ll do better. I swear. Please, just, please don’t say that. Please don’t mean it.”

Grayson’s gaze remained fixed on him. His lip curled in distaste, and he only looked more disgusted with Damian’s pleading. “You’re a pathetic excuse for a Wayne or an Al Ghul. It was mistake taking you in. You’ll never be good enough to be my Robin, and you’ll never be worthy of anything your father left you.”

Damian’s vision blurred, no longer taking in anything around him. His world was fury and shame and exhaustion, but most of all, utter disappointment in the fact that he knew that everything from Grayson’s mouth was true. So he lost it completely. He sobbed and shook and screamed and begged Grayson to take him back. To let him prove himself as someone worthy of everything he had been given.

But Grayson’s face was like stone: utterly immoveable and ruthless. So Damian just went on pleading.

Dick jerked awake to the sound of the heart rate monitor spiking. Then he noted the alternated sobs and whimpers coming from the previously silent body asleep beside him. He pushed himself to his feet immediately checking over IV lines and oxygen masks before realizing, shit, the fear gas must have kicked in.

He touched Damian’s shoulder gently, trying his best to pull him out of whatever nightmare scenario that had him sobbing out in his sleep, trying to ignore then painful twist in his chest every time he heard some variation of “Grayson, please, I’m sorry!”

It took almost an hour of shaking Damian’s shoulders and yelling his name before his eyes flew open. Dick glanced at the clock and did the quick calculation in his head. The toxin should be more or less out of Damian’s system by now, but the haunted look in his eyes seemed to say differently.

“Grayson,” Damian began, his voice hoarse and raw from the events of the night. His eyes were red and puffy, and tear tracks ran all over his face. “I--how long was I unconscious?”

Dick looked at him cautiously. “A few hours. Actually, I think the sun will be up soon.” Dick fell silent, watching Damian try and slow his breathing again before continuing. “Are you alright?”

Damian stiffened, and Dick started frantically running through everything he’d said and done since picking Damian up that might have elicited that reaction.

“I’m fine,” he replied, though the utter exhaustion in his tone seemed to convey otherwise.

Dick turned away for a moment (and could have sworn Damian almost deflated at the action) but returned almost immediately, holding out a water bottle.

Damian reached out to take it, and if Dick didn’t know any better, he could have sworn his hands were shaking he slightest bit. Dick settled himself on the bed near Damian’s legs, crossing his arms and watching silently as Damian sipped slowly at his water. As he twisted the lid back onto the bottle, Damian opened his mouth to speak again, his eyes never wavering from some invisible speck on the floor.

“Do...do you hate me?” Damian asked, his voice wavering the slightest bit and Dick could have sworn something in his chest cracked at the question.

“No, of course not, Damian,” he murmured, trying and failing to ignore the way every muscle in Damian’s body relaxed at the response.

“I know I’m not an easy person to take care of,” Damian began, still refusing to make eye contact with Dick. “And I know I don’t live up to the legacy that father left behind. And I know I’m probably not good enough for it, but--”

Dick cut him off by wrapping his arms around Damian’s shoulders and tugging him against him. Damian’s breaths began coming out in harsh gasps and he was crying again before he could really register what had happened.

Dick shut his eyes and began rubbing soothing circles around his back, letting Damian ride out the emotional effects of the fear gas for as long as he needed to. After a few minutes, Dick started talking again.

“Your father,” he said, “left me some really big shoes to fill. And honestly, I’d be lying to you if I said that you weren’t one of the most difficult parts of that.” Dick felt Damian tensing up against him at that again. “But,” he continued, “You’re one of the best parts of it too.”

“I was terrified to be Batman,” he admitted, his voice sounding more vulnerable than Damian had ever heard it in the weeks they’d worked together. “But somehow...somehow having you with me, to train and to work with, made it a little better. Damian, you gave me something real to work for, something I could look at and watch grow when every single thing Bruce did seemed too big for me to handle. And that is why,” he continued, his voice shaking the slightest bit, “you are an amazing Robin.”

“I’m not saying you’re perfect,” he added with a soft laugh, “but your dad would have been so proud of you. Like I am. So no, I don’t hate you.”

Damian was crying in his arms again, but these tears seemed different than the ones from before. Dick stroked his hair and held him close, even when his shoulder became damp from Damian’s tears, and didn’t move from there until Damian pulled away just enough to look him in the eye.

“Thank you, Grayson. For all of it.”

#ngl im kinda proud of this one #dick grayson #damian wayne #dick & damian #dc #bruce wayne #batman #robin #fanfic #prompt #writing #batfam #bat family #alfred pennyworth #dc comics #my writing

104 notes · View notes

daughterofluthien · 4 years

Text

Fictober - Day 4

Prompt number: 4. “that didn’t stop you before” Fandom: Teen Wolf Rating: T Characters/Relationships: Alan Deaton & Scott McCall Word Count: 1563 Warnings/Tags: grief, angst with a happy ending A/N: Deaton character study, pre-series through 1x11 Formality.

Sometimes, the worst part about the world shattering is that everything remains the same.

Deaton learns about the fire on the local news, and by that time, the only thing left is smoldering ruins. The newscaster labels it a tragic accident, but given the way tensions had been building between the hunters and the Hales over the past two years, he knows that’s extremely unlikely.

The news reports say that search and rescue teams have pulled multiple bodies out of the house, but no further information is given. He calls both Talia and Laura multiple times, but there’s no response, so he opens the clinic at nine in the morning like he always does, in case someone shows up needing help.

He doesn’t really think anyone will, however, because the Argents know about him. He’s been threatened by Gerard’s thugs in the past, and he expects the clinic is being watched. His help might just end up getting even more people killed.

So instead, he waits.

And nothing happens.

The day after the fire, the Sheriff brings in a search and rescue dog to be treated for minor smoke inhalation. Deaton asks a few pointed questions under the guise of curiosity and casual conversation.

He learns that a single survivor was pulled from the house, but his burns were so severe that paramedics were shocked that he was even still alive. Most of the bodies had been identified, but three of the Hale children were still unaccounted for.

He doesn’t plan to ask the next question. He asks it anyway. “The bodies that you found-- I understand if this is part of an ongoing investigation and therefore privileged information, but I have to ask. Was Talia Hale…?”

“Yeah, she was. Did you know her?”

Deaton nods. He isn’t surprised, but he needed the confirmation. “I did. She was a dear friend.” ______________

The Argents pack up and move within a month.

He makes a few inquiries and learns that Laura and Derek fled across the country and moved to New York. He keeps an eye on them from afar as best he can, and assumes that she will get in touch with him if she needs anything.

He doesn’t hear from her.

Years pass, and Beacon Hills is quiet. Nothing out of the ordinary, no mysterious deaths. Nothing that would indicate that a few short years before, the town had been the epicenter of a years-long cold war between supernaturals and hunters.

A war that had ignited in an instant, and once it burned hot was over nearly as soon as it started.

He was supposed to keep the balance.

He had failed.

He failed, and the world didn’t end, because the natural world always comes back to its own equilibrium. It found its own balance, and it wasn’t the one he wanted, but his opinion and interference were neither requested nor needed.

In his failure, he became fundamentally unnecessary. ___________________

He builds a life for himself outside the supernatural. He focuses on his clinic, which sees a fair amount of business, as it’s the only veterinary practice in town.

It’s not really something that someone focused on keeping the balance would do, he thinks. After all, death is natural, and healing is outside interference in the natural order. Each animal saved is a small upset to the equilibrium into which all things inevitably fall.

Each one feels like a small victory.

As the practice grows, and the amount of work starts to become unwieldy for a single individual, he hires an assistant. At 16, Scott McCall is young for a veterinary assistant, and Deaton mainly hires him to assist with clerical work and to help care for the animals. But the teenager is sharp and eager to learn, and soon Deaton starts to teach him about the business and assign him other, more complicated tasks.

He finds he enjoys teaching, and Scott is an excellent student.

If their conversations stray to topics that allow him to dispense a little wisdom and advice-- Well, that was once a very important part of his life. Some old habits are harder to break than others. ____________________

Months pass, and he learns that Scott is not just intelligent and hard-working, but he is remarkable for a second reason: he cares. The teenager cares deeply about every single animal that passes through the doors of the clinic, and he wants to help them because it’s the right thing to do.

Working alongside Scott, Deaton starts to remember that healing is its own reward. Any petty revenge enacted on the universe with each animal saved is just a side benefit. ___________________

Unfortunately, balance cannot last forever. Six years after the fire, events start to cascade again, just as quickly as they did last time.

A deer with the symbol for revenge carved into its side is left in a place where it would be easily found, and Laura contacts him for the first time since the fire.

He tells her he wishes he could help, but he doesn’t know anything more about it than she does. It’s the truth, but there are other truths as well, and he realizes he is afraid to get involved. Afraid to make things worse in a misguided attempt to keep the balance.

She thanks him for his time, and leaves the clinic.

That evening, when Scott shows up for work, Deaton tells him they should make sure that the gate at reception stays closed. He tells him that it looks more professional that way, and he thinks Scott buys the excuse.

A couple days later, the Argents move back into town.

A couple days after that, he wakes up to a news report stating that the partial body of a young woman was found in the woods.

That afternoon, at around the time Scott is scheduled to show up for work, the front door to the clinic opens, but no-one immediately comes into the back. He walks to the front, expecting a client, but instead finds Scott hesitating at the gate.

He opens it, watching Scott carefully, but his heart sinks. If this is the natural equilibrium, it strikes him as distinctly unfair.

For the first time in six years, he starts to think what exactly he can do about it.

He leaves the gate open. ______________________

At first, all he can offer is advice and a sympathetic ear. He keeps an eye on Scott from afar, just as he still does with Derek, but part of him dreads what he assumes will be the inevitable day when Scott stops showing up for work.

He doesn’t know whether it will be because Scott’s dead, or because he’s joined the Alpha.

But the full moons come and go, and while Scott misses a few shifts here and there, he keeps coming back. He stays in contact.

One night, while they’re closing up the clinic and talking about Scott’s plans to enroll in a pre-veterinary program after graduation, Deaton asks Scott why he wants to be a vet.

Scott shrugs and shakes his head. “Well, for one, I just really like animals. But also…” He trails off, thinking. “It’s like, we see so many animals that need help, right? They’re sick, or injured. Or they need protected. And we can help them. And I guess I just feel like, if nobody else is going to do it... Then maybe I need to.”

He’s not just talking about veterinary medicine any more, and Deaton smiles. But he doesn’t forget the conversation. __________________________

A few nights later, a group of hunters led by Kate Argent attacks the Hale house.

Deaton doesn’t hear about it on the news the next morning, because this time, he’s there. He can’t stop them from taking Derek, but he watches as Scott escapes and runs into the woods, weakened by the poison coursing through his veins.

He catches up when Scott collapses, barely able to breathe, a smoking bullet wound in his side.

He doesn’t know what this is going to do to the balance, but if he’s completely honest with himself, he no longer cares. Scott is injured and desperately needs protecting, and for the first time in a long time, Deaton knows exactly what it is he needs to do.

He picks Scott up. Carries him to his car.

“You’re going to be all right.” ________________________

Six years ago, the world shattered, but it didn’t end.

For the longest time, he thought it was unfair that the world kept spinning without taking the time to put itself back together. It took him years to realize that he needed to put himself back together first.

After rescuing Scott and confronting the new Alpha, he knew it wouldn’t be long before word began to spread that his retirement was over. So he isn’t surprised when Marin pays him a visit.

He might not approve of her current affiliations, but it’s good to see her.

“After all these years,” she asks, “why now?”

He shrugs. “They needed my help.”

She fixes him with a look, and if they were still children he can’t help but think she would’ve rolled her eyes. “People always need help, Alan. That didn’t stop you before.”

He concedes the point with a nod, and gives her a small smile. “Maybe I just found something to believe in.”

#fictober20 #teen wolf #alan deaton #scott mccall #okay so like #i really really like the concept for this one #not fully sure if the execution lives up to it #my fic

28 notes · View notes

arazialotis · 4 years

Text

Every Time You Leave, I Hit Rock Bottom

A/N: Written in celebration for Angelina! @atc74 A while ago she celebrated 4,000 followers and 4 years on tumblr! Can you believe it?! Congratulations girl!! If you aren’t following her, do it now! You won’t be disappointed. For the duet challenge, I chose Rock Bottom (Hailee Steinfeld & DNCE) for inspiration. Give it a listen to get in the mood and let me know how I did.

Word Count: 2050

Summary: Scenes from the up and downs of Dean and Y/N’s relationship as they struggle to balance his life as a hunter.

Warnings: arguing, swearing, a hint of smut, implied cheating

****

***November 5***

“Do you love me?” You cooed in the aftermath of a passionate heat.

He chuckled, as if your question was absurd. He swam through the tangle of sheets to kiss your lips. “Of course I do.”

Though you doubted his faithfulness, he had sworn it to you. He laid his head against your chest. His hand found yours. The ring he had given you months earlier twirled gently as his fingers danced over it.

“I’m gonna miss you.” You admitted stroking your fingers through his hair.

You felt him hum in delight.

“I always miss you.”

*** November 30***

White flecks fell outside the window, joining a hefty covering on the ground. The snow muffled the sounds of the night, making the world seem at peace. Your arms held you tight, waiting for him to finish shoveling the drive. The flyer clenched in your fist crinkled as you contemplated the best way to bring it up with Dean.

He came in, a burling heap of wool and snow, his cheeks red from the blistering cold. You hustled back to the kitchen, pretending not to have lingered. The hot toddies you prepared were still steaming. You whisked in a drizzle of honey.

Dean made his way over to you, brushing snowflakes out of his hair. Your heart warmed seeing a boyish look to him.

“What?” He matched your smile.

“Nothing.” You smirked and pushed his mug closer to him. You pressed your own to your lips. “You’re cute.”

“You’re cute.” He repeated, gently kissing your forehead before taking the hot drink. He set his drink back down, the flyer on the counter catching his eye. “What’s this?”

You took another sip, concealing the flush to your cheeks. “Hmm.”

His eyes darted back and forth, scanning the paper. “It looks like Dan’s Auto is hiring.”

“Oh.” You set your mug down, moving closer to him, wrapping your arm around his waist, pretending to read with him though you already knew the words. “You’d be good at something like that.”

If he knew what you were doing, he didn’t hint at it. “Yeah, I guess.” He rubbed the back of his neck, setting the flyer back down and went back to the tea.

“It wouldn’t hurt to get more information.” You nudged.

He smiled and leaned into you. “Right now, I just want to get warm.” He nipped at your neck.

You chuckled, as heat and desire spread through you. You let the conversation end for now.

*** December 12 ***

Dean stumbled into the bedroom late at night. He’d been gone a week and a half. At first you thought he was drunk, but when your eyes adjusted to the dark, panic rose up into your chest. You scrambled out of bed and followed him into the bathroom.

“You’re hurt.” Your eyes went wide with fear.

He balled up his flannel and threw it in the sink, the water turning red with blood. Three long slashes ran from his shoulder down his arm. “It's fine.” “We need to get you to a hospital.” You stammered.

Before you could run for the keys he caught your wrist, stopping you. “With what insurance?” “God. I don’t know, we’ll figure it out later.” You pulled your arm away from his grip.

“It’s fine.” He assured, sitting down on the edge of the bath.

You closed your eyes and took a few deep breaths. “Okay.” Somehow you managed to force the panic down. “Okay.” You repeated, going for the medicine cabinet, looking for gauze, alcohol, anything that could help.

*** December 19 ***

“You’re not going back out!” You stomped your foot on the ground like a toddler who had no chance at winning an argument.

He shook his head and chuckled as if to contain his anger. “Your arm was nearly ripped off a week ago!” You continued, attempting to make him see logic. “You're in no condition to hunt.”

He threw his duffel bag over his shoulder. “I’ve had worse Y/N. Anyways, it's recovering just fine.”

Fine. You hated that word. It was if he used it to cover up any indifference growing in your relationship. You went to strike him, only to prove him wrong. His hand caught you before you could. “Are you fucking serious?” He accused you, disdain seething out of his eyes. He pushed you aside and went for the door.

The worry balled up, forming a pit in your stomach. Staying with you until he returned.

*** January 3 ***

“Don’t give me that look Y/N.” Dean could feel your scorn through the dark bedroom, dimly lit by the full moon’s beam.

“What look?” You huffed. You had woken to rustling and the spot next to you cold. He was planning to leave you. Again. You had stayed silent, watching him pack, waiting for him to realize you were awake.

“Y/N.” He groaned. “Don’t do this, not now.”

“I’m not doing anything Dean.” You argued back.

He sighed, knowing he wouldn’t be able to reason with you with anger. Releasing his own, he gently crawled onto the bed, creeping towards you. You flipped over, avoiding his gaze and pulled the blankets into a shield around you.

His breath was on the back of your neck. He spoke in a whisper. “You’re resenting me.” He kissed the back of your head. “You’re pouting.” Another kiss. He paused hearing a whimper. “And now you are crying.” He laid down and pulled you tight against his chest, a tear sliding down his own cheek.

When you finally found courage to speak, your voice shook. “I don’t want you to leave.”

“Babe… you know I have to.”

You turned around to meet him. “No, you don’t.”

His thumb wiped away a trailing tear against your skin. “Who else is going to do it?”

“... Sam.” “He’s across the country. ‘Sides, it’s only a state over. I’ll be a week, tops.” He kissed your forehead before getting up to finish packing.

You didn’t turn to watch him leave. You only stared at the empty pillow next to yours. He left the door cracked open. It wasn’t until you heard the front door shut and the rumble of his car coming to life when the anger surfaced again.

Gently grabbing for his pillow, wrapping your arms around it and burying your face in his scent, you whispered,“Fuck you.”

*** Valentine’s ***

Traditionally, the holiday hadn’t meant much to you. A way to push over priced Hallmark cards with clashing colors. But Dean was home, and so recently he hadn’t been. You fussed around the kitchen in a little black dress, concealing something skimpy and lacy underneath. Filet mignon sizzled against hot cast iron and a cherry pie bubbled in the oven. Dean shuffled behind you. You turned around hoping to be met with a kiss. Instead you saw that dreaded duffel bag.

“No.” Your heart sank. “Not today.”

He gave you that look. The look that said, this is what you sign up for.

“Can it at least be after dinner?” You pleaded.

He sighed, running his hand through his hair, contemplating it for a second. “The longer I wait, the more someone could get hurt.”

You’re hurting me, you thought to yourself. It was selfish though. You closed your eyes and hung your head in defeat.

He strided closer to you, planted a kiss onto your forehead and pulled you close to him.

“We’ll celebrate when I get home. K?”

You nodded into his chest.

*** February 25 ***

“You just got home. And you’re already leaving again!” You fumed.

“What choice do I have!?” Dean clenched his jaw, attempting to control his temper.

The nearest object to you was his phone. You picked it up and threw it at him. He easily caught it, avoiding any blow you intended. “Call someone else to take it. Don’t go. Take that job at the shop. Those are your choices Dean!”

“This is my job Y/N! This is the only life I know. I can’t sit around here, with a white picket fence, knowing people are out there are dying on my watch.”

“Then take me with you!” You pleaded. “I can’t keep watching you leave, not knowing if you’ll come back or not.” Tears threatened to spill out.

“Like hell!” He firmly protested. “I won’t put you in harm’s way.”

You rolled your eyes. “God, I wish you realized how hypocritical you sound right now. Can’t you realize that's how I feel every single time.”

“I can take care of myself.” He thumped against his chest. “I always have. And I don’t need your whiny, nagging ass causing extra stress on a hunt.”

A feral scream escaped from your throat. You slid off the ring he had given to you months earlier and chucked it across the room at him. He didn’t bother to catch it. “Fuck off Dean. You might as well not bother coming home.”

“Maybe I won’t then!” He grabbed his bag, slamming the door shut with a bang.

*** March 4 ***

“I’m so sorry baby.” Dean’s gasped. His mouth buried into the crook of your neck. Your fingers ran down his bare torso as he rocked into you. “I’ll never leave you again.”

You moaned as your bodies clashed against each other, moving together, beads of sweat outlining each muscle. He groaned, his kisses growing more hungry and desperate as he neared a climax. A whimper escaped your lips and sent him over the edge. He buried his face into your shoulder, panting for air.

With a final grunt, he was satisfied, leaving you empty and craving for more. He rolled over on his back catching his breath.

“God. I needed that.” He ran his fingers through his hair before getting up for a water break.

You turned over to your side, pulling up a sheet to cover yourself. ‘Don’t make promises you can’t keep.’

*** April 10 ***

To be fair, he did stay longer than usual. But the itch got to him. One he couldn’t help but scratch. You knew it was coming. He became more antsy. Pacing around, working on mundane house projects, spending more time outside. Honestly, it was making you anxious.

You began searching for cold cases in the area, drawing out farther until something seemed to fit. Over dinner, you handed him the phone to look over the articles. He kept his expression as blank as he could.

“What do you think?” You prompted.

He set the phone down and searched your eyes, treading lightly. “Could be a case.” He went back pushing food around his plate but not eating.

You dabbed your mouth with a napkin, and then cleared your plate, washing it in the sink. “Maybe…” You sighed. “Maybe, you should look into it.”

He came up behind you, turning off the water, and wrapping his arms around you. You both stood there for several minutes, your heartbeats matching in rhythm.

His whisper barely broke the silence. “Are you sure?”

You only nodded.

He gently kissed the side of your temple. “Love you.” He slipped away.

“Love you too.” *** May 8 ***

“Who the fuck was that Dean?!”

“Nobody!” He yelled back into his cell. “Like Hell!” A scoff made it through your seething anger.

“It was just the TV, Y/N.” He calmed his voice, to try and reason with you. “Bullshit!” Your blood began to boil. “She was right fucking next to you!”

“Stop being so fucking paranoid. You’re my one and only.” You heard the rustling of sheets.

You made your way through the dark hall to the medicine cabinet, looking for something to cool a rising migraine. “Then prove it.” “What?” He stuttered.

“Prove it! Give me a face-time tour of your hotel room.” You popped the bottle and swallowed a few pills.

His voice lowered to a rigid growl. “I don’t have to prove anything to you. If you love me, you’ll trust me.”

You slammed your phone shut and threw it across the room.

*** May 11 ***

Dean entered the home, ready for a fight. He slammed the door on the way in and tossed his key’s onto the kitchen counter.

“Why haven’t you been taking my calls?” He called out, waiting a few moments before going to look for you. “Y/N?” His voice echoed through the empty house. “What the hell?” He muttered to himself.

He paced down the hallway, calling your name again. Upon entering the bedroom, it became abundantly clear. He ripped open the closet door, and stood back. Only his items remained.

***

Tags:

Forever Lovelies: @nanie5 @sea040561 @crushing83 @mogaruke@deanwinchesterforpromqueen @ginamsmith @jotink78 @blushingokoye@sup3r-pott3r-lock3d @dancingalone21 @li-ssu @highonpastries @daddy-kink-confirmed @weewooweewoo1212 @carryonmyswansong @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester @atc74 @superapplepie @coolness22 @cassieraider@winchesternco @adaliamalfoy @spnbaby-67 @iwriteaboutdean @cigsandpie @curedean @monkeymcpoopoo @adoptdontshoppets @maddiepants @thisismysecrethappyplace @onceuponathreetwoone

DeanxReader Tags: @akshi8278 @mywillfulwinchester @dainty-hibiscus @boxywrites @its-not-a-tulpa @mrsbatesmotel53 @tacklesackles@creepykatftw @aubreystilinski @iamabeautifulperson18 @jerkbitchidjitassbutt@gloriousartisanfancreator

#angelina’s duets reboot challenge #dean winchester #supernatural #spn #spnfandom #spn fanfiction #dean x you #dean x reader #dean x y/n

116 notes · View notes

grinchwrapsupreme · 4 years

Text

I was sucked back into Torchwood content last night so obviously I had some thoughts about Ianto, so here’s a list of my Unsolicited Thoughts About Ianto as someone who has only heard like 2 of the audio dramas and never finished any of the books:

In the very first episode when Gwen writes a note to herself about Torchwood with everything she can remember that night to be important she includes every member of the team by name and station except Ianto. She either didn’t think he was important enough to include or he was so unmemorable that she had forgotten him already

Ianto saw this. When he deleted the note he saw the whole thing and would have seen that his name was not included, and I cannot imagine the stabbing ambivalence of pain and relief that must have caused him to know his plan to be unremarkable was working so effectively that he was literally “not important enough” to be included on Gwen’s Comprehensive Torchwood Note

Looking at the scene where the whole team is sitting around a table eating pizza Ianto is the only one wearing a suit. Obviously this is armour for him, but it also gives off huge “this is my first real job and I haven’t been here long enough to stop caring” vibes, something he might have actively been going for. Not only that, but at this point in the show Ianto still looks painfully young, the suit doesn’t help that one bit, but it might have been a bid to make himself seem older and more professional, which relates to

Ianto probably lied about his age. We know Ianto is capable of changing records, we’ve seen him do it, and I’ve seen a post that calculated the timeline to show that Ianto was recruited to Torchwood 1 when he was only 18 or 19, meaning he probably didn’t go to uni like his records say he did. Being too young would have been a major strike against Jack hiring him and the obvious thing to do, in his eyes, would be to age himself up to make it seem like he was more capable and experienced than he was. Truth is, Ianto lied so much about so many things to so many people, it’s impossible to define most things about his past and I think his youth would have been something he would be eager to get rid of

All of these bids to make himself seem more professional and capable definitely stem from his fear he wouldn’t get the job, but they also stem from his shame at his working-class background. He lied about what his father did to make him more impressive. If he lied about going to school too it might have been because at 18 he simply wasn’t able to afford it, or he didn’t get the grades for it, which wouldn’t be a surprise given his problems at home and, being from a lower class family, he might not have gone to a good school in the first place. Bad grades would be easy to scrub from his records, and making them average would be a great bit of camouflage because anyone can see he’s smart enough to do well beyond average, but above average gets you noticed

Ianto and Rhys come from the same background of working-class Welsh families. It’s been a while since I watched the show, but I seem to recall Ianto not particularly liking Rhys before CoE. Rhys is more than just a reminder that he will never have a relationship outside of work, he’s also a reminder of the life Ianto worked so hard to get away from and the family he works so hard to distance himself from

When Gwen walks in and gets a job she makes friends with Tosh and Owen almost immediately, something Ianto hasn’t done. Even if you’re distancing yourself intentionally, watching someone even newer than you be accepted more quickly and enthusiastically is a painful experience. Oh sure, they’re work friends, but only barely and it’s nowhere near the same thing as real friendship. He already knows he’s unremarkable, he knows he’s visibly younger and less experienced, he knows being known will get him fired at best. Even when he’s offered friendship he pushes it away, only really relaxing during that one pizza lunch because if he didn’t that would have been just as noteworthy as getting too close

He’s constantly trying to balance this facade of being average and forgettable with this need to be skilled and smart and everything that will prevent them from wondering if he’s really too green to be doing this with a greenness that will prevent them from wondering about his past. A three-way balance that’s working to keep him in just the right place while also battling his disdain for his roots. Ianto knows who he needs to be, but actually being that requires so much effort and energy and monitoring that by the time Cyberwoman comes around he’s exhausted. You can see it in his face and his posture, he’s been holding on for so long that a breaking point was inevitable

Cyberwoman is probably the first time any of them have seen the facade break, because at the first crack all that stress and exhaustion cause it to fall apart completely. Suddenly we see the Ianto he’s been trying not to be, the one who is young and reckless and desperate, who is smart enough to put together a machine to keep Lisa alive, but angry and devoted enough to point a gun at all of his coworkers. He loses all his refinement and becomes a real person with real feelings and real reactions and none of them have ever seen this before because they never really thought of him as a real person before, just the teaboy who was always trying to act older than he was, and yet

Jack probably knew most of this. He probably knew Ianto was lying, that his records were changed, that he was hiding himself. The only mistake Jack made was underestimating just how far the rabbit hole went

#long post #this is so much longer than I intended I'm so sorry #my original plan was like 6 short points not 10 paragraphs #torchwood #ianto jones #i really need to listen to the audio dramas but i do'nt want to drop money on that right now #god i need to listen to broken #if anyone's got a transcript hmu #jack harkness #Toshiko Sato #Owen Harper #Gwen Cooper #Rhys Williams #cyberwoman

40 notes · View notes

shereadsandwritesformelanin · 4 years

Text

The Baker And Her Actor: part Vii [Needy]

Paring: Chris Evans x Black! Fem reader

Summary: You meet Chris while making a house delivery for the Evans. He can’t get you off his mind and to be honest neither can you.

Wanings: profanity and sexual content, but overall fluff

Notes: I hope you guys enjoy! If you have any request be sure to send them my way! P.s thank you so much for all the support, I’m growing so fast I’m trying to keep up and pump out as much as I can! 😭🤩 Love and appreciate you all!

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

[listen to the songs for this chapter/part!]

We get to see more of what our bby boy thinks this chapter!!

T/W: if you struggle with anxiety like me and Chris here is a hotline that actually works, it helps to talk to someone not go through it alone! :)

It had been five days since Chris had been gone for the Avengers Endgame press tour. It took a little adjusting for you to get use to his abscene, you’d never had a boyfriend who would be gone for more than nine hours for work. So it was definitely difficult for you.

Luckily Chris suggested you stay at his place with Haneli and watch dodger so you wouldn’t feel so far away from him.

You decided to call your boyfriend considering you hadn’t talked to him since yesterday afternoon mostly his fault because he hadn’t been responding.

Maybe he was just really slammed.

You pick up your phone dailing his number anxious with it ring that passes. “Hey, Goodmorning baby.” You greet through the phone

“Goodmorning.” Chris’s voice was usually hoarse in the morning but this was different almost bored and distant.

“Everything going okay, you’ve been kind of distant with me lately. Wasn’t sure if press was going okay.” You ask trying to discover what the problem dealt was.

“Yeah everything is fine, sorry I’ve just been jet lagged.” Chris explains.

It all made sense, of course he was tired and not just ignoring you for shits and giggles.

“I understand. Dodger is doing amazing you should see him with his sister.” You say switching the tone of the conversation.

“Bet he is.” Chris chuckles somberly.

“Maybe you should get more rest.” You suggests

“Yeah, I think I will. Call me tonight.” Chris speaks

“You can call me.’ You sass. “Catch up later, I miss you.”

“I miss you too.” Chris admits befor hanging up.

Truthfully Chris did really miss you. He missed your smile, your lips, your warmth and optimizium, which he could use right now.

These tours weren’t the highlight of his job as captain America. Same questions different interviews it was truly draining. He could tell you were trying but he just wasn’t in the mood and he didn’t want to take it out on you.

Chris’s Point Of View:

I walk off the set of yet another dull interview heading toward my dressing room to be picked up for my next bland interview with Jimmy Fallon.

I feel a light tap on my shoulder turning my head to face the direction the sensation had occurred from.

Scarlett.

“So you gonna tell me why you’ve been all sour faced today?” She teases eyebrow cocked waiting for my response.

“Just tired that’s all.”

“Just tired that’s all.’ She mimics “Cut the bullshit Evans I know you and I know when somethings bothering you.”

“It’s just.’ I sigh sucking in a deep breath “I’ve been seeing this woman and she’s amazing no complaints but it’s just she’s being a little clingy right now and my anxieties getting to me bad Scarlett.” I admit forehead resting in my fingertips

Scarlett places her hand on my back rubbing it sympathetically. “How is she being clingy?” She asks

I reach into my pocket pulling out my cellphone showing her the various missed calls from you and unanswered text messages.

“So your ignoring her?” Scarlett coments.

“Not ignoring I’m just exhausted and need a break.” I confess

“A break from her, or this.” She says motioning to all the cameras and lights that stood behind us.

She was right, I need to differentiate and fast.

“ I don’t know.” Was all I could muster up to say before walking away to my car that was outside.

God don’t do anything stupid Chris.

I walk into my hotel room kicking off my shoes and striking into a white tee and my boxers. I head towards the master bedroom slipping in between the sheets before dialing your number to facetime.

“Hey babe.” You say a huge smile plastered on your face. “Look whose here.” Panning to dodger who was on the bed napping as usual.

I can’t help but let a smirk surface on my face. I loved their relationship dodger was just so comfortable he might even love you more than he did his old man.

“Hey bubba!” I say watching dodger immediately perk up and get excited.

“He misses you, so do I.” Y/n states

“I miss you too.” I respond

“Do you.” She whispers almost so low I couldn’t hear her.

“What?” I question in disbelief that you thought that.

“Nothing, I shouldn’t have said that.” You retract

“No maybe you should have if that’s how you’re feeling.” I say practically scrolling you now.

The both of you always talked about never hiding your feelings from each other, always been expressive so things didn’t blow over.

“Chris, I only say this because you’ve been distant I mean I called you how many times this week and how many times did you answer!” Y/n went on.

“I’m busy y/n what did you expect.” I reasoned

“Yeah but you have time to tweet pictures of dodger and your cast. To big time for your girlfriend though.” Y/n snarled

That’s it.

“You know what i get this is difficult for you but it’s difficult for me too! Don’t you think I miss you? Because I do, I really fucking do!’ I thundered.

“Why are you yelling at me?” Y/n quips

“Don’t try and make me bad guy. All I’m saying is I do miss you, but I don’t I just don’t need someone who’s going to be clingy and consumed in my life.” I snap, immediately regretting the words that fell from my mouth.

The phone call went silent. Almost like the two of you were processing what Chris had just said.

“You don’t need someone who cares about you, right. Well enjoy finding someone who doesn’t give a shit about the real you and only wants you because you’re Chris Fucking Evans, Goodbye!” She roars

“Y/n!” I shout but it’s too late you already hung up.

“Damn it!” I shout chucking my phone across the room.

I was boiling. I wasn’t mad at you I hated myself for alllowing my anxiety to control me and say something so stupid like that.

I really fucked up.

Y/n’s Point Of View:

You slam my phone down on the night stand, slipping deeper into the covers bundling yourself and your tears up into the comforters.

You let all the tears of anger, fustration, and confusion soak the pillows. Your head stung with every word you replayed in your head.

Chris had never shouted at you, hell he hadn’t even raised his voice at you before. So him going completely psycho not only scared you but broke you.

One thing you know was that you didn’t want to be here any more and you didn’t want to be alone.

“Can I come over?” You sniffle into the phone.

“Yeah of course.”

You leash up the dogs slipping on your shoes and grabbing your bags heading out the door.

What am I doing.

You walk up to door and you didn’t even have to knock before the door came swinging open.

Deacon standing behind it.

“Hey.” you whisper voice sore from the yelling and crying you had just participated in. “Hope you don’t mind I brought extra guest.

“No I don’t mind at all.” Deacon speaks shooting you a small smile taking your bags.

Deacon wraps a warm blanket around you, making his way back to stove removing the kettle of boiling water.

“Wanna talk about it?” He asks pouring you a cup of tea

You sigh. “I just, I don’t understand what I did wrong. I mean was I too clingy or was I being a good girlfriend?”

All though it pained Deacon to see you with him, he was glad you were happy for the most part. But this, this made his blood boil.

From the moment you hired him Deacon had always been protective of you, so he definitely wanted to punch Chris straight in the mouth right about now.

“I don’t think you were being clingy, I think if he is gonna have a wonderful girlfriend like you he should know how to balance you and work.” Deacon speaks taking a sip of the tea he’d just prepared

You nod at his statement but instantly shoot back to that day.

That day you found Chris awake at 3 in the morning. Sitting on the kitchen floor, face dull of emotion. The day you had to cradle him and help sooth him. The day he told you he suffers from anxiety.

You knew that’s what was eating him up.

“I don’t want to be to harsh, he has a lot on his plate.” You speak making an excuse for him.

“Y/n.’ Deacon says taking your hand in his. “No matter what he’s going through he shouldn’t treat anyone like that, especially you.” He places his hand on your chin lifting it upwards kissing your temple.

“Goodnight.” His voice rings

“Goodnight.”

Deacon aburptly stops in his tracks turning back toward you. “Hey y/n, just make sure this is what you really want. It’s only going to get more real from here.”

You draw in a deep sigh palming yourself in the face.

Was he right?

It had been a solid fourty eight hours since you’ve spoken to Chris, mostly your fault because he’s definitely been reaching out. With every call you hit and send to voicemail, You’re just not ready.

“Everything good girl?” Kiara asks slipping next to you behind the counter.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You lie

“Okay, well I’m gonna go to the back and check on the chocolate chip cookies.” She says unconvinced that you were actually fine.

Same way you were faking to convince yourself if you are actually fine.

Nope you weren’t.

Snap out of it y/n you’ve got work.

“Next costumer—.” You stammer Chris now standing in front of you giving you those deep ocean eyes hidden underneath his infamous Boston baseball cap.

“I’ll take an original house donut with a side of conversation with my girlfriend please.” Chris speaks attempting to lighten the mood.

You walk over bagging his donut giving it a harsh squeeze before shoving it into the packaging. “Unfortunately we’re out of a side of conversation with your girlfriend.” You sass practically chucking the donut at Chris.

“Not that I was your girlfriend anymore anyways.” you mutter ringing him up.

“What?”

“What?’ Don’t remember what you said to me?” You scrowl

Chris did remember in fact he thought about it every minute. He thought about what he could have said and done better, it drove his anxiety through the roof having you upset with him.

“I’m sorry.”

You scoff. “Yeah.”

“Were you upset?” Chris asks head hung low, you could tell he was really apologetic.

You sigh. “Yes, very.’ You admit “To the point were I went to the last place I thought I’d ever be.”

Chris crosses his arms unsure of what you meant and where this place was. “Where would this place be?”

“Deacons house.” You whisper ashamed to have said that.

“So we have a fight and you run to another mans house?” Chris shouts

He was right. You shouldn’t have gone over there knowing deacons feelings for you and having respect for Chris. Yet and still your pride had gotten in the way and you wouldn’t admit you were wrong, it was his fault we were in this fight anyway.

Right?

“So I ask you about your day and car about you and you shut me out?” You reply getting even louder than he previously was.

You could tell he was holding back, having restraint with his tounge.

At this point the remanding costumers in the bakery were starting to get quiet listening in on the action. Low whispers began as Chris’s cover had been blown.

“I should go, not sure why I even came.” He spat storming out.

Watching him leave sent a familiar pang to your heart almost as strong as the night of your intial fight.

Your eyes swell with tears.

I need a break.

“Kiara!” You croak

She peers out from the back with a sympathetic look on her face, you assumed she’d been listening and heard everything. “It’s okay go I’ve got this.”

You nod thanking her before running off and breaking down, again.

The plan was when Chris got back you would return dodger. That never happened because you two were both very stubborn, but it was his dog so the least you could was return dodger.

“Come on bubba, lets go see daddy.” You say leashing dodger up packing him in your car

Gosh saying that didn’t even feel right.

The drive over to Chris’s you thought about the altercation.

You thought about what you said, what he said. And if it was really that big of a fight to hold a grudge.

Maybe you were a bit to harsh on him, maybe.

You pull into his drive way. Taking dodger out of the car, he gave you a spare key but it didn’t feel right to use it considering your current situation.

You ring the doorbell. Bringing back so many memories of when the two of you first laid eyes on one another.

There he was handsome as ever. You melted whenever you looked into those eyes.

Don’t be weak.

You sigh. “I thought I would bring dodger since you haven’t swung by.” You explain avoiding eye contact

The tension was thick.

“Thank you. I appreciate it.” He speaks dryly

“Well I’ll get out of your hair.” You state turning on your heels walking toward your car.

You hear him sigh banging his fist against the door frame, stopping you in your tracks. “Y/n. I don’t want to fight.’ He breaths. “I’m sorry, I fucked up and it was never my intention to treat you like that. You don’t deserve that.”

You were stuck. You didn’t know what to say, so you didn’t.

You walk over to him cupping his face pulling him in crashing your lips onto his.

He’s a lucky man because typically you wouldn’t have done this, it usually would have ended the moment any man raised there voice above a whisper at you.

Your lips moved in a familiar sync. Chris brings you through the door frame shutting the door behind the two of you. He picks you up carrying you to the kitchen table never loosing hold of your lips.

“I’m.”

“Sorry.” You mutter through the messy kiss

“I know.” Chris says lifting your shirt off

“Let’s not fight.” You plead hands running through his hair.

He shoots you a small smile before returning his lips to yours.

“I love you.” Chris says pushing into your slick flods.

“I know.” You moan.

He stops causing you to sigh. You knew what he wanted.

Here I go.

“I love you too dummy.” You tease

“Mmhm.” Chris hums thrusting into you.

The two of you made sweet love all night, forgiving each other through each position. Ending the night with a long shower.

How did you go from not knowing who Chris Evans was to laying in his arms?

A/n: Whewwww this took some time to right. I wanted to make sure they made up because per the man of the hour (Chris says he doesn’t like to go to bed angry with a girlfriend) and whats a better way to make up?

Looks like the two are in love, so what’s next? 😏

ASK TO JOIN TAGLIST! ‼️

REBLOG AND SHARE IF YOU CARE‼️

Let me know your thoughts?

Til next time...

Check out more of my writings here→ Masterlist

Tag List:

@toniilaney @angelicl-y @bugheadfanatic @champagnesugamama @thatoneperson5000

#chris evans #chris evans angst #chris evans fandom #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans x black ofc #chris evans imagine #chris evans x poc!reader #chris evans x black reader #chris evans x y/n #chris evans x woc

34 notes · View notes