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maybe-itll-be-someday · 3 years

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After The Rain

For my beautifully bright friend, @sequinsmile-x.

Happy Birthday, sweet girl. I’d only ever be able to pull 2.5k words out of my math riddled brain for you.

Read on AO3

Aaron always did hate the rain.

The rain always meant that he would have no choice but to stay inside, a witness to the bottles of whiskey that his father would consume and his mother’s indifference to the situation. The rain meant that he’d have to stay home from the library, where he spent hours perusing through books and living in between worn out spines. Instead, he’d stay holed up in his room until his father’s booming voice beckoned him out, the rain aggravating his already delicate temper another notch.

It drizzled the day that they lowered his mother into the ground. Barely 25, his only suit hanging off his shoulders and circles under his eyes from nights he spent reading through cases and making his life more than his father’s ever was. He doesn’t cry as her casket gets lowered six feet beneath them, so the sky softly weeps on his behalf.

It rains the day that Haley leaves him. He comes home to their apartment, a light smattering of rain drops on their window as he takes in the empty space of their living room. Jack’s favorite toys are gone from the living room floor, where he spent hours stacking blocks and attempting to shove shapes into the wrong holes. The clothes she left in their closet were non-essentials - not anything they needed to live their everyday lives.

(It’s only fitting that he gets left behind too.)

It storms the day he makes the decision to send Emily off to Paris, his heart in his throat when he tells their superiors that the only way they could keep her safe is by letting everyone think that she was dead. Tears sting in his eyes and his fingers cramp from the intensity in which he’s holding the pen as he signs away to her new life, one that just recently slotted him in like a neat puzzle piece.

Thunder rumbles above them when he squeezes her hand, promising her that he would find Doyle and that he would bring her home. The skies crack open and the rain starts to fall when he gets to stamp his affection for her on her lips, sealing whispered promises he had no idea if he could keep.

So he takes the assignment in Pakistan, because when the sky splits open on a Wednesday night, he feels like he’s drowning.

At least it didn’t rain in the desert.

It rains on their third date, much to his dismay.

He should’ve checked the weather forecast before committing to taking her on a picnic in the park on a rare weekday off. He even goes to a boutique wine store in DC, asking for advice on what kind of wines would go best with which cheese because he wants to impress her. He wants the flavours to melt on her tongue to be the same sharp contrast of salty and sweet that lingered on his tongue when he tasted her. He buys her favorite wine, wrapped in a label that’s worn with time, because he wants to show

He just wants to tell her how he feels, but it’s way too soon. She’s only been back in the States for a few months, their romance rekindled in the past few weeks.

So instead, he tries to plan every moment of their date to the perfection she deserved.

If only he had checked the weather.

Emily had shown up at his door, white linen flowing down from thin straps and cinching around her waist, delicately draping right above her knees and his mouth going dry at the sight of her. She wrapped her fingers around his neck and kissed him in greeting, his own hands greedily grabbing the fabric under his hands and internally debated if they could forgo the picnic and instead eat the overpriced cheese he bought off of her skin.

But her eyes brightened when she saw the picnic basket he had prepared, running a finger and reading the labels of everything he bought in perfect intonation to their native languages.

“Where did you get all of this?” She had asked, cheeks dusted in a light pink at the realization that he had done this all for her.

“Maybe if you’re good, I’ll tell you.” He’s always been attuned to her movements - a careful eye thrown in her direction. It had started just as a precaution, his opinions on her joining the BAU still up for debate.

It had slowly and too easily transformed into something else completely. It was probably the reason why he had gone to four different delis in DC, tracking down cheese he couldn’t pronounce the names of and two bottles of wine that he thinks cost him more than all the wine he’s ever bought in his life.

He remembers the first time he caught it. Reading a report from over her shoulder, their relationship refining its rough edges as they slipped closer and closer together. He remembers the smell of her perfume, the soft scent of something floral in his nose as he read through her report.

“Good.” He had said, a soft hand on her shoulder in approval when her shoulders tightened ever so slightly. Not in annoyance, or in anger, but in a frustration that he thinks had to do with the way her hips shifted in her seat. He was just starting to learn about her, of the mole that was tucked on her collarbone, of the small rose tattoo on her ribs and the dove that flew across her hip bone.

He spent his time exploring which patches of skin produced which noises, which angle of his caused her to grip whichever part of him she was holding tighter, and which words caused his name to roll off of her tongue in a sweet cacophony of moans.

Her pupils darkened at his approval, his touch igniting something under her skin that when he said it later that night, wrapped in her silk sheets - the words good girl dropped in the middle of unintelligible mutters - she had arched into him and her thighs clamped down around his hips as she urged him to go deeper and faster, chasing her release by embedding him under her skin.

Another button he’s learned how to press and his delight grew as her pupils widened at his words.

“As long as I can hold you to that.” He wanted to tug her back into his bedroom, taking advantage of the fact that his apartment was kid-free for once but she just cackled and tugged on his hand, telling him to grab the picnic basket because she was starving .

They find a secluded area of Potomac park and he asks her to explain whatever it is he bought, because he really was only working off of the recommendations of the elderly Italian woman at the first deli who had written down all the cured meats and cheeses that he should buy when he mentioned it would be for his girlfriend.

Emily tells him which wine would go best with which cheese and he feeds her grapes and cherries that stained her lips in a soft pink, stealing soft kisses when he lingers close enough and enjoying the blush that spreads on her skin when his hand draws soft circles on the inside of her knee.

The dark, grey sky looms over them without warning, the clouds splitting open to let fat drops of rain land on the very expensive cheese that he thinks is an absurd amount for pressed curds of milk. Aaron starts to quickly pack their picnic, calculating the amount of time that it’s going to take to get to the car that they’ve parked on the other side of the road and wonders why the rain was determined to ruin what was going to be one of his favorite memories.

“Aaron.” She says, chuckling and running a hand down his back. “It’s only the rain.”

But she also notices the way his body has gone rigid, jaw set in a tight line as he continues to pack the food back into the basket. He flinches when a particularly fat raindrop hits the back of his neck and she frowns at his reaction.

But she doesn’t press, instead helping him pack away all of their food and letting him coral her under a nearby tree just as the rain pelts the ground in heavy, loud waves. The rain was torrential, their visibility limited to the first twenty feet in front of them and Aaron already knows that they won’t make it back to the car without getting soaked, if they could find it in the downpour.

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” He mutters, fists curled tightly and Emily pushes the wet curls across his forehead and brushes off his apology.

“It’s not like you can control the weather.”

“I should’ve checked--” He protests.

“It’s okay, I actually like the rain.” Her head cocks, appraising him with a careful eye and Aaron knows that he doesn’t have to tell her that he isn’t a big fan of the rain. She stares at him for a moment longer and as he is about to suggest they sprint back to the car, her hand slips into his and she tugs him out from under the shade of the tree and right into the downpour.

“Emily, what are you doing ?” He asks, his voice loud to try and compete with the rain that was battering the ground beneath them. Emily doesn’t respond, instead keeping a firm grip on his hand as the drops of water soaked her skin, causing the white fabric around her to cling to her skin.

“Dance with me.” She says, a gentle tug on his hand pulling him closer.

“There’s no music.” He says and she just laughs, his pedantics having the opposite effect on her as she steps closer to him, lifting the hand in hers as his arm loops instinctively around her waist. He’s about to protest again, because they really should be getting back to the car because the food is in a wooden basket under a tree, but she tips her lips on his and effectively stops his protests before they begin.

Her temple brushes against his cheek, and the taut pull of his muscles releasing slightly. She curls into him, her hand resting on the small of his back as his palm flattens across her shoulders, his thumb edging the outline of its blade. A shiver runs up her spine at the contact, the warmth of his fingers a sharp contrast to the rain that slid on their skin. She starts leading him in a gentle sway, their movements oddly on beat with the beating of the rain.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never danced in the rain, Hotchner.” He shrugs, a playful smile gracing his lips.

“I’m not in the habit of catching a cold or freezing in wet clothes.” Emily laughs, the soft lilt of it wrapping his heart in a warmth that causes those three words to curl dangerously at the end of his lips.

“The rain isn’t all bad.” She says, glancing up towards the dark sky as she lets the rain pound on her skin. “It brings the flowers. It cleans the air. It helps us savor the sunshine just a little bit more.”

Her fingers twine around a damp strand of his hair at the base of his neck, the scrape of her nails eliciting the release of the tension in his shoulders. He pulls her a little closer, taking the lead her in a soft shuffle

“The rain brings the rainbows.” She says, a soft smile curling at the edge of her lips, as if she was telling him a secret he wasn’t supposed to know about.

He didn’t think he’d ever find himself dancing in the rain. The torrential background of some of his more unpleasant memories is the same background that makes his chest want to split open to let all the light that was building inside of him out. To let the three words that curl dangerously at the edge of his lips to tumble out laced in a million promises and praises he wanted to give to her.

He didn’t think he’d find himself here, her soft figure pressed against his as the rain soaked their skin. He didn’t think he’d get to imprint his affection for her against her lips, tasting the sweet tartness of the cherries that stained her lips. He didn’t think he’d ever get to have her.

The words slip from his lips, his affection for her pouring from him with no warning or forethought. He just needs to tell her because he’s happy, and he doesn’t think he’d ever be this happy in the rain .

“I love you.” He says breathlessly, panic rising in him as she stiffens in his arms. “You don’t have to say it back. I just needed you to know.”

But she giggles, bright and brilliantly, and tugs his lips right onto hers and says that she loves him too.

If this was his rainbow, he’d happily let it storm for the rest of his life.

The next time it rains, he is the one to tug her into the park across the street. He takes her hand and leads her in a waltz he definitely doesn’t know, the cadence of her laugh sweet and light in the air. He sings Blackbird in her ear, low and whispered, because she’s always brought out a side of him that he thought he could keep buried under steel-reinforced walls.

He’d give every side of him to her, if she asked.

Maybe they’d make enough of these memories, of the rain soaking them to the bone but they would laugh and he’d make her hot chocolate after and he’d peel the heavy fabric of her dress off of her skin as she laughed and tell him to hurry up because Emily Prentiss was anything but patient.

Maybe they’d make enough memories to clean the stained ones that followed him whenever it rained.

Aaron always did hate the rain.

But with her, he hated it a little bit less.

#hotchniss #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #aaron x emily #ckbwrites

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theninjasheeep · 3 years

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Blood of Love

Pairing: Pieck Finger x Porco Galliard (Modern/Fantasy AU)

This is my entry for @pleasantanathema’s Through Ink and Quill | A Classics Collab. I decided to go for a character study of Porco and Pieck's relationship following my Pokkopiku week piece Sweet Pandemonium paired with some vampire lore from Dracula and Anne Rice's Vampire Chronicles.

The idea of vampire!Pokkopiku came from @sinnamon19’s over the top fan art.

You can also read it on AO3.

Summary: Since they are creatures of the night, their senses, as their feelings are heightened to lengths that can’t be explained by words. But since blood is their life sustenance, it is also their means of communication.

Warnings/tags: Pokopiku, Pokkopiku, Gallipieck, Porco Galliard/ Pieck Finger, Porco Galliard x Pieck Finger, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Character Turned Into Vampire, Vampire Bites, Vampire Turning, Blood Drinking, Mentions of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts, Blood Sharing.

Blood of Love

Waking up in darkness after spending most of his life shunning the sun when he wanted to sleep late was a welcome change for Porco. He could lie and pretend he was one of those humans-turned-vampires who wailed about the sun, its warmth and brightness and how much he missed it, but he didn't.

He didn't miss the impending sense of foreboding dread that clogged his senses or the tacit expectation that life should have some kind of meaning. It was a succession of routines: being born, growing up, reproducing and dying; waking up, going to work or school, coming home, going to sleep and starting again the next day. There was always an unsatisfied craving, a need to be satiated that gave rise to another....

If it weren't for that same life and the unexpected, he would still be stuck in the routine of a life that no longer felt like one. Not so long ago he was eager to die and escape the curse of boredom. However, now that he was undead, he felt more alive than ever.

He didn't miss living as a human.

He did not miss the wars that sent young men like him to fight in battles and advocate for ideals that were in no sense his own. Wars like the ones that took his brother away from him, wars that made mothers cry and lose their lives to grief, like his. He didn't miss being part of a greater good, he fancied being selfish, living only for himself and what he deemed worthy of living for, like Pieck.

Pieck who turned him, Pieck who gave him a reason to live in hope and love.

The stories that are told about vampires are rich and wide-ranging. The majority depict them as cold and devoid of emotion creatures who enjoy drinking blood and playing with their mortal victims without any consideration or pity, with no regard for their suffering.

Dracula is the one that, for Porco, is closest to the truth. Leaving out, naturally, his own inability to turn into mist, a bat or a wolf, and how terribly he has fared with the latter when he has encountered them on his nightly hunts with Pieck high in the mountains, puts him quite a distance from what is supposed to be the blueprint for all vampires.

It has been less than fifteen years since Pieck agreed to turn him and allow him to stay with her forever. Overall, he could even be considered a novice vampire, at least in comparison to the more than two hundred years his female partner has been crisscrossing the planet. However, it has been long enough to learn what is both necessary and appropriate, but what the books say is, amongst other things, preposterous and out of proportion.

Porco's hazel eyes, in the darkness of the room, shine like two torches as they scan the words in each book with unprecedented speed.

The library, nestled in Pieck's hideout in an abandoned town once called Liberio, is about the same size as the house itself. To the unsuspecting eye, the house is a dilapidated old manor from which thieves plundered the treasures long ago, leaving only the massive stone and iron columns. Underneath, however, is a hidden cellar and a sealed passageway that can only be opened with the supernatural strength of a creature like Pieck. Not even he, with his years beside her and the same superhuman strength, is able to open it without visible effort.

Once that initial obstacle is overcome, a long corridor rises up with small windows that let in just enough light to clue the nighttime inhabitants as to what time of day they are in. And behind that corridor is a scaled-down replica of the ruined house that exists above ground: three bedrooms, a kitchen - more out of habit than necessity - a living room and a huge bathroom with a bathtub built into the wall, in addition to the library, make up what could be considered Porco and Pieck's home sweet home.

Although it is ridiculous, Porco is not going to stop enjoying his reading and perusing every nook and cranny of the library while Pieck, with all her quirks, tries to do some vampire yoga in the room across on their home.

Stories about vampires always depict them as a kind of blood-drinking skeleton barely able to articulate words and unfit to walk freely in broad daylight, as the sun is their greatest enemy. The only thing they got right is that their skin burns and the acrid smell of ashes is the only thing that lingers in the air after they perish.

In other stories, they are portrayed as having no emotional capacity and could be easily mistaken for an angsty teenagers searching for their identity and place in the world, with little to no impulse control, driven by their whims, manipulating their way until they achieve their goal. In these tales, the depiction is so over-the-top ridiculous that it is almost comparable to handing a child a panic button.

What is undeniable is the enormous capacity of humans to envision and demonize what they do not know.

Superhuman strength and speed, mind reading and control, morphing into wolves, bats and mist? The books detail how versatile their powers are, how they are able to cloak themselves, thanks to their human appearance, and hide for long periods of time in large communities and lead a relatively normal life, without arousing suspicion.

Although there are also accounts that refer to them as ruthless, cruel and stone-cold beings, who toy with the humans they intend to use as food until they have had enough, and only then, kill them in the most violent and painful way possible.

At this, Porco rolls his eyes. In his experience, both he and Pieck are careful with the humans they feed on. They always look for ways not to cause them pain or fear, and above all, to avoid leaving behind scenes worthy of a gorey b-movie.

Perhaps the only time such a scene involved the two of them was when Pieck agreed to transform him into a vampire.

There was a moment where he couldn’t see or speak anything and everything went black for him. He started to listen to a heartbeat, two actually. One was his... the other...

“Pieck?” He asks. He can hear her voice somewhere in the distance, it sounds pained and far, far away.

Meanwhile, Pieck keeps pouring her blood on Porco’s mouth and is silently praying to whatever it is that created them and allowed them to be alive for him to survive this ordeal. She’s panicking now because he’s very pale, dead by now, but he’s not responding to her calling like he is supposed to.

“Porco, wake up!” She cries. “Open your eyes,” She pleads. “Come to me!”

Nothing happens and Pieck panics, falling in a circle of self loathing.

Giving up on him, she lets her head fall on his chest and at this point she’s just a mess of guilt and anguish. Her hair is on her face and his shirt is all bloody with his blood, her blood, her tears. She can’t move, the will to do anything has left her completely so she just lays there beside him on the floor crying.

He hasn’t read anything that depicts accurately how they are created. Probably humans think they just popped out of nowhere. However, vampires themselves have a myth: Ymir Fritz was the first human turned into a vampire, many call her the Founder. She was a slave but became Queen of Eldia when King Fritz was unable to defeat her in battle. He surrendered and married her and, in turn, she made him into a vampire and together they gave birth to their species.

Where are they now? No one knows, they are probably marble statues, since the longer a vampire lives, the whiter and rougher their skin becomes.

One book in particular catches his eye: its dark blue cover with gold sparkles featuring a nine-pointed star, the symbol of Ymir Fritz. However, after a brief glance, he discovers that it is a parody.

Porco snorts, he can't believe he's found a book in which vampires don't roast in the sun, but glow like a fairy in plain daylight without any repercussions for their lives. Pieck must have been really bored to get —and keep— something like that and deem it worthy of their huge underground library.

"Have you found anything interesting, Pokko?" Pieck's mellow voice reaches his ears from the bedroom. Her body doesn't make any sounds when she moves, but her soft breathing tells him that she's still trying to do vampire yoga, as if she needs to.

"Geez, Pieck!" Her taunting giggle is the only response he gets, and aware that she can also hear him from where she is, he retorts: "You scared the hell out of me." He grumbles in fake annoyance.

"Don’t worry, you won’t have a heart attack."

“Tch.”

But it is true, no matter how much she may sneak up behind him to scare him, his heart has long since stopped beating, and if he had remained a human, he would most likely have died many years ago. When Pieck came into his life one night, wounded and seeking shelter, he had lost the will to live. All that remained from the happy Porco who lived with his parents and brother was a mere shell that always reminded him of how much he resembled Marcel. And had he lived, despite his desire to die, he would have been almost forty years old by now.

Putting the books aside and getting up from the floor, Porco makes his way to the bathroom where there is a huge full-length mirror, which he and Pieck use in such creative ways when they make love at night.

A derisive smirk tugs at his lips as his reflection glances back at him through the mirror. There are stories that claim vampires don't see themselves in mirrors and that's the reason they avoid them. If only whoever wrote that knew the things the mirror in his bathroom has seen him do to Pieck.

Sometimes, when he is overcome by melancholy and Pieck's love and company fail to reach the deepest wounds in his heart, Porco wishes that particular myth were real. What would his life be if his brother were alive? What would Marcel's life be if the war hadn't extinguished the light in his eyes? The same deep green eyes that right now were scrutinizing his every feature in the mirror.

As the years have gone by, his skin has become paler and his eyes more golden. Pieck likes to say that he is slowly turning into a lion.

Speaking of Pieck...

A slender hand appears over his right shoulder in the mirror, and down his arm until it curls around his waist. Seconds later, the weight of Pieck's head resting on the space between his shoulder blades confirms that he is no longer alone in front of the mirror.

“Hey,” She greets, nuzzling against him tenderly, “what are you thinking?”

He clears his throat, embarrassed.

His left hand reaches up and intertwines his fingers with Pieck's over his chest, and looking behind him, his gaze meets hers.

“My brother.”

Pieck's embrace grows tighter and a line of kisses and scratches from her fangs on his neck make Porco forget, for a moment, how much he misses his family.

“I’m sorry.”

“You know they were long gone before I met you.”

“I know, it’s just...” She releases her hold on him, walking a few steps to stand in front of him in the mirror, her back against it. “I wish I could ease your pain, but I’d be lying if I say that I never think about my father, I miss him.”

Porco raises his hand to caress her cheeks. “You’re stuck with me forever, remember?”

She smiles softly, leaning against him and hugging him back. Porco buries his face on her neck and taking advantage of their embrace, sinks his teeth on her neck, making her moan in delight.

There’s another thing the books about them seem to ignore or purposefully miss: yes, they are creatures of the night and as their senses, their feelings are heightened to lengths that can’t be explained by words. But since blood is their life sustenance, it is also their means of communication. Drinking the blood of another vampire is a gesture so intimate and so rare, that when it’s done by partners, it’s more than just a confession of love and trust, it goes beyond lust and desire: a vampire can show what they feel through images to their partner when they share their blood, and since words are not his forte by any means, he’s always eager to show Pieck comfort and reciprocate everyday the comfort and peace she gave him.

Licking the tiny marks of his fags on her neck, he nuzzles against it, kissing her tenderly. Pieck, being smaller than him, has a harder time reciprocating his gesture, but she stands on her tiptoes and kisses him back, biting his lower lip and drinking his blood as well.

Emboldened by the gesture, he carries her and sits her in the sink, standing between her legs without breaking the kiss. At this, Pieck leverages herself on his shoulders and —finally— sinks her teeth on his neck, eliciting from him a low growl. He bites her back and through their blood they both convey to each other what their words and their hands, roaming over every inch of the other' s body, cannot: they are together until the end of time and the sadness that each one carries is shared by the other.

Together, they were safe.

#pokopiku fic #pokopiku #pokkopiku fic #pokkopiku #porco galliard/pieckfinger #porco galliard x pieck finger #gallipieck #vampire aesthetic #dark fantasy

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let-the-dream-begin · 4 years

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A Place to Belong Chapter 23: The Music Still Plays On

Chapter 22

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March, 1747

Claire stood in the old-barn-now-makeshift-clinic, spreading her herbs out all along the new wooden table that Ian and Fergus had cobbled together for Claire’s workspace. It was crude, but it would do, a sentiment Claire had found herself saying more often than not since she’d fallen through time.

Brianna was nestled in a little baby wrap, pressed tightly into Claire’s chest. In the weeks and months since Brianna’s baptism, the Lallybroch tenants had come by in larger and larger droves for healing of various sorts, and Claire was beyond thrilled to be applying her knowledge again. She’d wanted to do so much earlier, but Jenny had forbade Claire to partake in anything too strenuous, and then with the birth and Brianna’s seizure, it all just got away from her.

She’d told Ian to send word to the tenants that if there was a fever involved in what ailed them, to not travel, to remain in bed, and Claire would come see to them. Not only would it be safer for the patient, but she would not have anyone walking into the barn and bringing disease anywhere near her baby. Working in her little clinic with Brianna was a great comfort; feeling her constant, warm weight was something Claire would never tire of.

She perused the herbs spread out before her, then gathered several that she knew to bring down a fever and ease stomach pain and nausea. She’d be traveling to visit a sick child today; his father had come by this morning. The symptoms didn’t sound like anything worse than moderate food poisoning, but the herbs would help him feel better until his fever broke nonetheless. She also would like to check up on the rest of the family as well, because if one member of the family had it, everyone else was likely to have it as well, considering they all presumably ate the same food.

Claire was just packing up her box when she felt Brianna go stiff inside the wrap, and her heart dropped into her stomach. Claire scattered her gatherings and dropped to her knees, frantically working with trembling fingers to free Brianna’s seizing body from the wrap.

“Fergus!” Claire screamed. “Jenny! Ian!”

Somebody, anybody.

She had to keep Brianna on her side, had to keep her safe. Someone else had to brew the chamomile.

She quickly undressed Brianna down to her diaper, laying her on her side atop the wrap, surrounding her head with excess fabric.

“It’s alright, baby…you’ll be alright…”

She picked up her head to cry out for help again, when Fergus burst through the doors of the old barn. He didn’t even have to ask.

“Chamomile, Fergus.”

“Yes, Maman.” He scrambled to the table to create the familiar mixture, though the water was far from warm. “How long has it been?”

“It’s hard to tell but I’ve been trying to count…maybe thirty seconds?”

Fergus knelt beside Claire with the glass, and Claire began scooping the diluted herb into Brianna’s mouth again as she’d done nearly three months ago.

“It’s alright, darling, Mummy’s here…”

After what seemed like far too long, Brianna spit up onto the wrap and immediately began shrieking.

“There you go…” Claire exhaled shakily and scooped her up in an instant, pressing her into her chest. “There we go…it’s alright…”

Fergus made quick work about folding the wrap so the vomit wouldn't touch Claire or the baby, and then draped it over Brianna’s mostly-naked little body. Claire gratefully wrapped the folded fabric around her daughter, protecting her from the March chill that reached them inside the barn.

“Thank you…would you pick up her clothes?” Claire stood up and adjusted the fabric again, covering Brianna’s body the best she could before opening the barn doors and making her way back to the house, Fergus trailing close behind.

As soon as they crossed the threshold, Jenny was flitting down the hall upon hearing Brianna’s shrieking.

“What’s happened?”

“Another seizure. In the barn,” Claire explained.

“Christ,” Jenny uttered, crossing herself. “She alright?”

“I think so…”

“Get inside, come on.” Jenny pushed Claire into the parlor and helped her dress Brianna again. “Put this wi’ the washing, lad.” Jenny handed the soiled baby wrap to Fergus and he scampered off to do as he was told.

After several minutes of Brianna shrieking, and Claire bouncing her, cradling her, kissing her, she finally quieted and settled into a deep sleep in Claire’s arms. Only when she was asleep did Claire allow herself to break down and cry.

“It’s alright, sister. She’s alright…”

Claire nodded through her tears, sputtering and hiccuping. “I thought…I thought maybe it was…just the one…” she stammered.

“It’ll keep happening, then?”

“Most likely…yes.”

Claire had foolishly convinced herself that the first seizure had been a fluke, one of those things that happened to babies one time and just disappeared, something she’d look back on and say: “That was scary, wasn’t it?”

But now it finally occurred to her that this very well might be something her daughter would have to live with forever, something Claire would have to watch her suffer forever.

“Dinna fash, Claire,” Jenny soothed, rubbing her back. “She’s a braw lass, is she no’? She’s made it through the two already, with her ma’s help. Ye ken how to keep her safe when it happens. She’s in good hands.”

Claire nodded, forcing herself to swallow back more tears.

“She is alright?” Fergus reentered the room, approaching the sofa to sit beside Claire.

“She’s alright, darling.” Claire quickly wiped her eyes and smiled at him. “Just gave me another scare, is all.” Fergus nodded timidly, and Claire could tell what he was dying to ask.

“Do you want to hold her, Fergus?”

He nodded again, his eyes wide with concern.

“Alright, here you go.” Claire sniffled as she transferred Brianna’s sleepy weight into Fergus’s arms. Hands free, she furiously wiped her face clear of tears and other such fluids. Jenny tightened her arm around her, and Claire finally allowed herself to settle in Jenny’s embrace, resting her head on the shorter woman’s. The sound of little footsteps suddenly reached her ears, two sets to be exact. Maggie and wee Jamie appeared in front of the sofa. They’d likely heard Brianna’s shrieks and everyone’s fretting voices.

“Baby alright?” Maggie said in a frightened little voice, looking back and forth between everyone’s worried faces.

“Yes, darling, Brianna is alright,” Claire assured her, sitting up again.

“Is she sick, Auntie?” Jamie asked.

“Yes, a little bit.”

“Ye’ll heal her, won’t ye?” Jamie said.

Claire forced a tiny smile. She reached out to cup his little cheek. “Of course I will.”

“Told ye, Maggie,” Jamie said. “Auntie is the best healer in Scotland.”

Claire chuckled softly, then turned to the little girl. “Were you scared for the baby, Maggie?”

“Aye, Auntie.” Her little bottom lip stuck out.

“Dinna fash, mo chridhe,” Jenny said, stroking her hair. “Auntie Claire is just fine when it comes to healin’ bairns. Remember how she healed you?”

“Aye, Mam.”

“Then ye have nothing to fear,” Jenny said. “Alright? Off wi’ ye now, the bairn needs her rest.”

They disappeared again, Jamie tugging on Maggie’s hand. Claire watched as Fergus stroked one of Brianna’s little cheeks, rocking her gently.

Claire sighed. “Would you be able to bring some herbs to that sick boy, Jenny? I’ll write down exactly what is for what, what you should say and look for. I don’t think I should leave her just now.”

“No, ye shouldna,” Jenny agreed. “I’ll go, sister, just tell me what to do.”

Claire nodded. “I also think we need to discuss a plan for any future seizures. I can’t be the only one that knows what to do.”

“Aye, ye’re right.”

“Oui, Maman. I want to learn.”

——

May 12, 1747

Claire’s limbs already felt heavy as she slowly slipped into consciousness. She instinctively wound her arms tighter around the living, breathing baby sleeping beside her.

She’d be three years old.

For her first birthday, Claire had woken to Jamie winding his arms around her, kissing her head, and they’d wept silently in bed together for longer than she cared to remember.

For her second birthday, she’d just learned that Jamie was dead, and any loss other than his had completely left her mind. She hadn’t even realized that she’d missed it until it was April twelfth, a month before her third birthday.

Today, Claire awoke to her sister with identical hair.

Somehow, knowing she’d forgotten last year made her even more sick to her stomach to think of it. Very similarly to that first year, with Jamie, Claire stayed in bed with Brianna for longer than she cared to remember, holding her close, weeping.

Someday she’d be too old for Claire to be able to get away with this, she’d be frightened or upset to see her mother so broken. But for now, it was something that she’d never remember, and Claire could cling to her as tightly as she needed and cry as hard as she must.

She did not hold back.

Even as Brianna mewled and whined for milk, Claire continued to weep as she brought her to her breast.

I never got to feed her. Not even once.

The milk just sat in me…swelling me pointlessly, rotting inside me.

Today, every tug from her baby’s mouth was another tear in her heart.

When she finished, Claire bent her knees and laid Brianna against her thighs, watching her babble and wave her fists through her blurry vision.

Claire’s mind was suddenly invaded with images of a little girl who looked like Maggie, but had Brianna’s hair and Claire’s eyes, holding the little baby, her mouth hanging open in awe, saying:

“I love her, Mummy.”

Claire sobbed gutturally as the image became more and more clear, and she reverently stroked Brianna’s face, her head, her hair.

It wasn’t long before she couldn’t breathe.

There was a knock at the door, but Claire did not have the air or the strength to say anything. The door opened, and Claire could not move to see who it was. It wasn’t until the weight shifted in the bed, and thin, lanky arms were draped around her shoulders that she realized who it was.

Mon fils.

She leaned into him immediately, burying her face into his shoulder. He didn't say anything, he didn’t ask anything. He knew what today was, and he knew his mother’s grief.

It was Fergus that eventually got her out of bed that day, brushed her hair, helped her dress. The anniversary of Culloden, Claire hadn’t gotten out of bed at all. She’d had all her meals brought to her, and she’d subsequently vomited them all up. To think of an entire year having passed without Jamie was sickening, plain and simple.

But three years without the child she never even really had was overwhelming and unfathomable.

As Claire descended the stairs, holding Brianna close, the little baby began to feel more like a balm to her soul rather than the painful reminder she’d felt she was when she first awoke. She’d evidently missed breakfast, but Mrs. Crook was quick to heat some porridge for her. Fergus sat with her in the dining room in silence, holding Brianna so Claire could eat.

“It is a beautiful day, Maman,” Fergus said delicately. “Wee Maggie will want to work in the garden.”

Claire nodded silently.

“I think it will be good for you, no? To be with your plants, and your little faery.”

Claire allowed a tiny smile, nodding again. He was being so careful.

“I agree.”

Fergus smiled back and sighed, as if he’d been holding his breath.

“Shall I fetch a wrap for the bairn?”

“Come here first, love,” Claire beckoned softly, stretching her arms out to him. Fergus adjusted Brianna before crouching down to her, and she folded him into a loving embrace.

Claire sighed with a shudder, blinking away more tears as she pressed a fervent to the crown of his head. “I love you, Fergus. So much.”

“I love you, too, Maman.”

She released him, giving him a teary smile.

“Let us get you a wee wrap, little bairn,” Fergus crooned, his voice leaping up a whole octave as he bounced his way out of the dining room.

Claire’s heart swelled as she watched him go.

I would have wasted away long ago without him.

——

Brianna was squirming like a wee beast in her wrap. When she delivered perhaps the tenth blow to Claire’s breast, she sighed in defeat.

“Alright, you restless thing,” she chuckled and worked to remove Brianna from her constraint, approaching the blanket that Kitty was sitting on with Bran.

“How does playing with cousin Kitty sound, hm?” Claire held her wee torso, lowering her onto the blanket stomach down. “Wee!” She cooed as she plopped her down.

“Banna!” Kitty cried out, reaching for her.

“Gentle, Kitty!” Jenny warned.

“Gen’l, Banna,” Kitty repeated, gingerly patting the top of her red head.

Claire chuckled softly. “Good girl, Kitty. Gentle.”

Kitty flashed a cheesy, toothy grin up at Claire, patting Brianna’s head again.

Shaking her head, Claire returned to the garden, where Maggie was waiting patiently.

“See those weeds, Little Faery?” Claire pointed at the patch of peppermint. “Not the leaves, that’s the plant. Peppermint. For your tummy.”

Claire tickled the body part in question, and Maggie giggled.

“Can you pull the weeds for me, darling? Down to the root, remember?”

“Aye, Auntie!” She crouched down and took a little weed in her fist.

“If you aren’t sure what’s a weed and what’s a plant what will you do?”

“Ask Auntie Claire,” Maggie said dutifully, nodding her head curtly.

“Good girl.” Claire caressed her head before returning to her patch of thyme, picking the bits that looked ready. They worked silently for a moment, no sound to be heard but the rustling of plants, Maggie’s quiet humming, and Kitty’s little giggles.

“So,” Jenny said as nonchalantly as she could, not looking up from her turnips. “How’re ye today?”

Claire smiled weakly, also not looking up from her own work, but knowing that Jenny was stealing not-so-inconspicuous glances at her. She knew what day it was.

“I’m alright,” Claire said airily. “Out of bed, at least.”

“Aye, that’s braw,” Jenny said. “It does my heart good to see ye out and about. I ken it still hurts.”

Claire nodded silently.

“And it was easier wi’ Jamie, I ken that as well.”

Claire nodded, pursing her lips together.

“Wouldna blame ye if ye didna leave yer room today, but I’m glad ye did.”

Claire nodded again, not saying anything. For a moment, she thought she might burst into tears again. She appreciated Jenny’s concern for her, but she’d almost have preferred the silence. Just then, a beautiful sound rang in her ears. It was a shrieking giggle, but not Maggie’s, and not even Kitty’s.

Her head whipped up from her plants. She looked up to see Brianna, pushed up on her little hands, holding up her head, and simply shrieking at Bran. Kitty was flapping his ears as she liked to do, and Brianna was simply tickled by it. Kitty seemed quite aware of this, and she kept doing it over and over, giggling madly now herself.

Claire stood up to full height, completely entranced.

“Banna laf-in!” Kitty squealed. “Banna laf-in!”

Banna let out another glorious shriek, sending Kitty toppling over onto her back in a fit of giggles. Claire’s vision blurred and she bit her lip. Brianna had cooed and made little snuffing, laughing sounds before, but she’d never completely howled like this.

It was the most beautiful sound she’d ever heard.

“Sounds like we’re in trouble someday wi’ those two,” Jenny said wryly, though her eyes were soft.

Claire couldn’t stop herself from trudging out of the garden to join the little ones on the blanket.

“Do you like the dog, Brianna?” Claire scooped her into her lap, sitting her up. “Is the dog silly, Brianna?” Kitty took the cue to flap Bran’s ears again, and Brianna gave another shriek. Claire tossed her head back in laughter, rocking backward a bit. Brianna gave another shriek at the sensation of rocking back, and Claire wasted no time in continuing to rock back and forth like a human rocking chair, and before long she was holding Brianna above her head, bouncing her more and more just to hear more of that beautiful sound.

She stared up into that perfect little face, the glow from the sun behind a sheet of gray clouds creating a glowing halo in her auburn curls, her wide, blue eyes squeezed almost completely shut from the gummy smile she was sporting.

It was the closest she would ever get to Heaven before she joined Jamie.

I know you’re gone, love. You and our first born.

Claire lowered her baby into her lap again and tickled her wee tummy, eliciting more laughter.

But the music of your laughter plays on.

Kitty had stood up, and very abruptly threw her arms around Claire’s neck from behind, nearly choking her. Claire laughed out loud again and pressed Brianna’s cheek to her own as Kitty settled her chin on the crown of Claire’s head.

Does Faith laugh for you, Jamie? It is music to your ears, too?

——

June 29th, 1747

“Once upon a time, there was a brave, dashing warrior.”

Brianna was laying in the middle of the bed on her tummy, chewing on her teething ring. She’d woken up howling in pain in the middle of the night, something that was becoming more and more of a common occurrence as more little teeth invaded her sensitive wee mouth.

“He had hair like flames and eyes like deep water.”

Claire was leaning against the headboard with her legs crossed, holding Brianna’s little lamb, rubbing the tartan between her fingers.

“He called himself Laird Broch Tuarach, and he lived with his Lady.”

Brianna hummed to herself, kicking her little feet behind her as she gnawed on the ring.

“His Lady was the most important thing in the world to him. She was Queen, and he was King. Their own little kingdom.”

Brianna decided at that moment to roll over onto her back, dropping the ring in the process. Claire quickly retrieved it for her and placed it back in her mouth before she could start whining.

“The Laird had to go away, leave his Lady. And their little princess.”

Claire placed her hand on Brianna’s wee tummy, stroking gently in soothing circles.

“The little princess was born, and it was the happiest day of the Lady’s life.”

She leaned forward, dangling Lambert over Brianna’s eyes.

“Her father left behind a special gift before he had to go away. Special for his little girl.”

Brianna kept the teething ring firmly grasped in one hand, but reached up for the lamb with the other. Claire smiled warmly and lowered it onto her chest, and watched as she clung to it, rubbed it on her face, over her eyes.

“Fraser colors. So little Brianna would always remember that her father was an honorable, good man. So he would always, always be with her.”

Brianna cooed, rubbing the lamb over her cheek again before waving it around.

“Your father loves you so much, darling. So much more than I’ll ever be able to say.”

She scooped her into her arms, settling Lambert in Brianna’s tiny lap and making sure the teething ring was secure before she started to rock her to sleep. A scratchy record started playing in her head, something the soldiers often put on in the final years of the war to drunkenly sway to, something she found herself swaying to with Frank before they had to part for the last time before the war ended.

I don’t remember much about my own mother, but I do remember that she used to sing to me.

“We'll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when…but I know we'll meet again some sunny day…”

Brianna’s eyes began to loll shut as Claire rocked her gently.

“Keep smiling through, just like you always do, 'till the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away…”

If Claire closes her eyes, she is dancing again, there’s a record player just to her left, but it’s not Frank this time. Strong arms encircle her tightly, fingers clasped, her head on his broad chest, his heartbeat in her ears. He’s so, very warm, swaying her slowly.

“So will you please say hello to the folks that I know, tell them I won't be long…They’ll be happy to know that as you saw me go, I was singing this song…”

The teething ring slipped out of Brianna’s sleepy hand, but the little lamb remained firmly tucked under her arm, Fraser colors tickling her chin.

“We'll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when…but I know we'll meet again some sunny day…”

#outlander #outlander au #outlander fanfic #outlander fanfiction #claire fraser #claire beauchamp #jamie fraser #jenny murray #fergus fraser #ian murray #brianna randall #brianna fraser

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only-here-for-jatp · 4 years

Text

Build-a-Band pt 7 The End

Just me tying up loose ends

Featuring: WILLEX <3, the boys playing with their bears like they’re seven, Juke, hotdogs

As always you can read on Ao3 here

But also below! ~2300 words

The boys poofed back to the studio hearts as full as their arms full of stuffed bears.

Luke and Alex were both jittery with anxiety. Luke hadn’t seen Julie hug her bear, but he also hadn’t seen her not hug her bear and he was growing very concerned at the prospect of when or if she’d hear the lyrics he’d poured into the heart. He hadn’t meant to offer a confession, hadn’t meant to reveal his feelings so blatantly.

What if she didn’t like the song? What if she didn’t like him? What if she didn’t get it and he was stuck in this nightmare limbo waiting for her to realize as she kept hugging and hugging the bear that they lyrics were about her???

Yup he was a ball of anxiety, but at least he wasn’t alone.

Every now and again Alex would shift onto the balls of his feet and then back down. His mind zipping down very similar avenues to Luke. He’d impulsively made a bear for Willie but what if Willie thought it was dorky and lame? Was it weird for a not-dating person to give another a teddy bear? What if he heard the message and didn’t feel the same way?

I mean. Alex was pretty sure Willie liked him? But the more and more it went around in his head the less sure he was that he was interpreting Willie’s actions correctly. I mean they could just be friends?

Reggie quietly noted his friends’ anxiety and while he had no idea why it was happening; he knew a surefire way to cheer them up. Luckily, it was also one of the things he was best at, distraction.

He held up Sir Reginald II, a name he loved and adored since it meant Julie remembered his story about Sir Reginald I, and in his best teddy bear voice ( which mostly turned out to be a weird falsetto) said “Hello there!”

Both anxiety ridden boys eyed him warily and Reggie took this as permission to move Sir Reginald II verrrryyy close to Luke’s face. “Have you seen my friend Lukas? He’s late for band practice.” Luke’s eyes widened and glanced between Reggie and Sir Reginald II as Alex let out a snicker. “Wellllll? Have you seen him?”

Luke let out a sigh, knowing Reggie wasn’t going to let him out of this. He pulled Lukas up in front of his face and mimicking Reggie’s voice as best he could responded. “Sorry Reginald. I didn’t mean to run late.” At this point Alex was nearly doubled over with silent laughter. The sight of Reggie’s face all lit up though made Luke warm inside and suddenly he knew their next move. He raised an eyebrow at Alex who discovered too late what Luke was planning.

Luke bounded over, put Lukas right into Alex’s face and asked “Have you seen my friend Alexander? I’ve been looking all over for him.”

Alex slowly backed away “I’m not doing this.”

A quick exchange of glances brought Reggie on board with Luke’s plan and soon Reginald and Lukas were chasing Alex around the study asking and asking about Alexander their best friend. It wasn’t until Alex tripped, falling onto the bed where Alexander lay (tucked in no less) that he gave in. He pulled Alexander out and in the same falsetto his bandmates used called “Who disturbed my nap!”

The three boys grinned and thus they were off. They spent the rest of the day pretending with their new stuffies, reliving favorite moments of their life or pretending to play major stages around the world. They even took turns pretending to be Julie and reenacting some of their favorite moments with her.

In fact, the trio was having so much fun that Alex had forgotten about promising to meet Willie, who after waiting and growing concerned came looking for him. Willie stayed out of sight for as long as he could, watching the blonde-haired boy who he wanted to be around every second of every day laughed and joked with his brothers. Willie could feel the smile growing on his face at the sight of these three rock band boys kneeling on the ground miming arms and leg movements of stuffed bears while playing out scenes in funny voices.

However, his spying was up after Reginald and Lukas ganged up on Alexander (he’d long since figured out the names) in a hug pile and he burst into laughter.

All three boys heads whipped around suddenly very shy and sheepish at the thought that someone had been watching their antics over the last couple of hours. Alex turned nearly bright red, stammering out excuse after excuse for missing their plans and finding Willie here.

Willie turned to Alex with a soft smile. “Oh hotdog. You missed our plans AND y’all made bears for everyone except me and are having all this fun? My feelings are hurt.” He couldn’t resist the opportunity to tease Alex just a little. After all, he was incredibly adorable when flustered.

Luke and Reggie glanced at each other smiles growing wide as Alex grew even redder and began mumbling under his breath. In a move to both help and tease him, Luke and Reggie called out “Hey Alex, what is that you’re mumbling? Maybe you should say it louder.”

Willie tilted his head to the side in confusion as Alex took a deep breath and plucked up the courage to speak just a little louder. It was still barely audible, but Willie still caught it.

“I made you a bear”

Willie thought his heart was going to burst. He’d seen the bear-ified version of the band but as he glanced around the room he noticed a bear in a skater outfit off to the side. “You made me a bear?” Willie knew his voice was soft and he knew Alex liked him, but to include him in this little family of bears meant so much. He slowly moved toward the stuffie which had his signature tie dye and skateboard.

Alex began to ramble as Willie began a dedicated perusal of the bear. “I know it’s kind of lame, but I kept walking past it and it has two hearts sewn onto his chest and I don’t know something about its face reminded me of you and yeah it’s lame, you don’t have to keep it….”

Willie burst in. “No. I- I love it. Is it alright if he lives here though? I don’t want…”

“No, no, yeah totally.”

Willie’s head sprang up to look at Alex all of a sudden and a signature mischievous smirk filled his face. “Wait a second. You said there were two hearts sewn into the chest. Why would that remind you of me?”

Alex’s eyes widened as he shot looks to Reggie and Luke who had settled quite comfortably on the couch, bears in their laps to enjoy the show. They offered him an encouraging smile and a couple of nods. Alex gulped, took a deep breath and said as confidently as he could “It seemed kind of poetic. Since you.. uh… kind of… hold mine?” He hadn’t really managed for it to come out as a question, but he’d started to wince as if preparing for a negative reaction from Willie.

Instead, Willie wrapped himself around Alex in a fierce hug, never letting go of William. “You hold mine too Alex.”

Alex being too surprised, didn’t hug back right away, but with a squeaky “wait really??” he hugged on so tight that if either of them needed to breathe, they would probably be worrying about it. The two had started to jump around a little making happy noises while Reggie and Luke beamed.

The hug had barely broken apart when Julie joined them in the studio with a questioning look, but before anyone could say anything Alex burst out “I HAVE A BOYFRIEND!!” before shooting nervous glances at Willie “I mean, if you want.”

Willie chuckled, “Definitely”

Alex couldn’t stop smiling, but of course now was when he remembered “You should hug William. When I hugged Alexander I could hear the wish Reggie made for me and I uh, may have left you one too.”

Willie looked slightly confused, but sure enough when he squeezed William the Sk8 Bear tightly Alex’s voice whispered in his mind.

I wish for an eternity to hold your hand.

Willie seemed to melt a little, before he entwined his hands with Alex’s. “For eternity” he whispered just loud enough for Alex to hear. They both blushed, but everyone else mostly looked confused.

Luke was the first to speak up. “I also heard Reggie’s wish when I squeezed Lukas.”

Reggie looked entirely confused. “You could hear… my wishes? That’s awesome!!! But also, you couldn’t hear Julie’s?” Alex and Luke both shot a look at Reggie. “She made wishes on both your hearts also, but you didn’t hear hers?”

Julie’s face was growing slightly pale. She hadn’t realized they could hear those wishes. The thought of Luke hearing those lyrics was maybe making her panic a little, but maybe since he hadn’t heard them yet he wouldn’t. It helped her fear a little that there was some overwhelming curiosity about the wish Luke left for her.

Alex’s voice cut through her questioning. “You know, I only tried the one time.” Luke sounded an agreement before Reggie cut in.

“You know it’s kind of cool if you think about it, she ended up leaving a wish on all our bears. Maybe we should try together to hear it?” The boys nodded as Julie watched with concern.

Alex’s face changed first. A small gasp echoing out of him and his eyes pooling with tears as he rushed towards Julie to envelop her in a hug. She’d made him feel seen and valued and the reassurance that he had a special and unique existence to her was a security he hadn’t realized he needed.

Reggie hugged his bear two or three times just listening to the message she’d left him over and over again.

Sir Reginald II please take care of Reggie. Sometimes he doesn’t realize how important he is. He’s the glue that holds us all together and keeps us going when everything seems bleak. He is so loved and so valuable. Please remind him of that when everything seems hard.

Reggie glomped her next. Crying just a little at the words she left him which touched on his biggest and darkest insecurity. He could help but whisper his thanks and she pulled him tighter telling him that he was basically her brother. Reggie could no longer tell if he was laughing or sobbing everything was perfect.

Julie was having difficulty holding up the two emotional boys and she was filled with warmth at their love almost as much as she was filled with tension. She could barely see Luke which meant she couldn’t see his reaction.

Luke was having difficulty breathing and functioning. He didn’t need to breathe but now he couldn’t do it and he really felt like he needed to do it. He couldn’t-

He couldn’t believe it.

We say we're friends, we play pretend. You're more to me, we're everything Our voices rise and soar so high. We come to life when we're, In perfect harmony

She’d poured the same song, the same words, the same wish into his bear as he had into hers. Julie Molina loved him. He had absolute verifiable proof and he didn’t want to waste another second without her. Without her knowing that she was the most precious, wonderful, thing about his life. So he did the only reasonable thing he could.

He yanked his crying brothers off of the girl they also loved more than anything, but not as much as him and worked on gaining her attention. He smiled. She looked slightly terrified, but she didn’t have to be. She just need to hug Jules.

“Julie. Julie. Julie. Julie! You need to hug Jules. Right now. You need to hug her right now. RIGHT NOW.”

His boys looked pissed, but slowly they could tell by the rush and joyous mania radiating from their friend that this was Important and begrudgingly stood out of the way.

Julie looked at Luke with big eyes as he insistently shoved Jules at her. He seemed excited and thrilled and flushed and by god if he didn’t stop rushing her she was going to-

We say we're friends, we play pretend. You're more to me, we're everything Our voices rise and soar so high. We come to life when we're, In perfect harmony

The song filtered through her head as she hugged Jules and she felt her mouth drop as her eyes snapped to his. She watched his grin widen as he saw her figured it out. Her eyes met his and she was drowning. He was too far away and they both rushed into each other. They took another second to stare before wrapping each other in a tight hug.

Alex groaned a little, in a good-natured way, his hand once more linked with Willie’s. “Not that we’re not glad that you both finally got your lives together, but do either of you care to explain what exactly just happened?”

Slowly Luke and Julie moved out of hugging, but they still hovered around each other with their hands intertwined as they explained. They took turns explaining that somehow, someway, they’d left the same wish in each other’s bear. More than that, they were the same lyrics from the same love song they’d written without telling the other.

The shocked faces on all cause Luke and Julie to burst into laughter and soon all five of them were falling together into a hug. Julie carried one more surprise though in her back pocket. Slowly she pulled out three hotdog accessories for their new Build a Bears.

The boys looked at her with shock and horror as she grinned sheepishly at them.

“I couldn’t resist!”

They spent the afternoon playing with Jules, Lukas, Reginald, Alex and William. Then, when the time came for sleep, they couldn’t bear to leave each other so four ghosts, one human, and 5 teddy bear fell asleep in a pile of warmth and love.

#jatp #julie and the phantoms #jatp fanfic #Build a band

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keelywolfe · 5 years

Text

FIC: The Elephant in the Room ch.2 (baon)

Summary: Jeff has started working at the Embassy. He’s got a new job, a new car, and a new place to live. Now if only the rest of his life could fall into order, that’d be great. Any time now…any time at all…

Tags: Spicyhoney, Kustard, Established Relationships, Prejudice Against Monsters, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Past Suicidal Thoughts, Mental Health Issues, Friendship

Notes: Stretch quitting smoking? Going swell. Jeff quitting the bookstore? Super duper. Red is a creeper? Well, everyone knows that! Except Jeff, it seems, but hey, he can be taught!

Part of the ‘by any other name’ series.

~~*~~

Read it on AO3

Read it here!

~~*~~

There wasn’t much parking downtown at that time of day, the best spots taken by day workers and college students. Jeff was forced to park on the street a couple blocks from the bookstore. It wasn’t much further than they would have gone from the bus stop and Stretch didn’t offer any complaint.

He did hop out of the car the moment it was in park, before Jeff even had a chance to turn it off. Jeff only shrugged mentally and gathered up his keys and bag. At least he didn’t shortcut out, the sound of it could be painfully loud in an enclosed space.

When he got out, he saw that Stretch hadn’t run ahead. Instead, he was lingering on the sidewalk with a vape pen in hand, already exhaling a cloud of vapor. From his scrunched expression, it wasn’t as satisfying as a cigarette.

“Not so good, huh?” Jeff asked with amused sympathy.

Stretch grimaced. “it’s not the same. you’d think i’d like the tasty flavors and you’d be wrong. i wasn’t smoking ciggies because i so enjoy the tanginess of chemicals and tar.” He grinned then and nudged Jeff with a sharp elbow. “but it’s better for the baby, am i right?“

Jeff groaned, but he snickered helplessly, ”I said I was sorry.”

“oh, you did,” Stretch agreed. He started down the sidewalk and Jeff fell into step beside him, “but i’ve still got a little mileage left on that joke before i run it into the ground.”

From the way he was determinedly using the little vape, Jeff got the idea that the whole quitting thing might not be going so well. He didn’t put it away until they got to the store, tucking into his hoodie pocket as he held the door open for Jeff. The bell jangled above the door as they walked in and an unfamiliar face looked up at them from behind the counter. “Good after…noon.”

The faint hiccough in his speech was barely noticeable, as was the way his smile faltered. Stretch certainly didn’t seem to notice on his beeline directly to the recently acquired shelf.

“Hi,” Jeff said, just this side of too loud. The guy jerked and turned back to him. “Is Thomas in?”

Before he could gather himself enough for a reply, a full head of salt and pepper hair poked out from the office, followed by the rest of his former boss. “Jeffery, my boy! And Stretch, schön dich zu sehen! What brings you, you have a new order to place?”

“nah, i’m just here with the troublemaker today,” Stretch grinned and jerked his head in Jeff’s direction. “don’t worry, though, i’m working on a new list. you’ll be sherlock holmsing around for me in no time.”

“Ah, but I also have a new detective!” He stepped around the counter and gave the young man a firm clap on the shoulder. “This is Steven, it is his second day.”

“Hi, again,” Steven said obediently. It sounded friendly enough but Jeff didn’t miss the way he kept glancing away from Stretch, who nodded a greeting before going back to perusing the shelves.

Thomas didn’t notice, only came back around and transferred that firm grip to Jeff, leading him away like a lost sheep. “Come now, Jeffery, we can go over the last orders you were working on in my office.”

“Sure,“ Jeff murmured. But he left the door open and stood in a way he could watch the main room.

Every glance out made him worry a little more. Not about Stretch, he was only poking through the books, setting a few off to the side in a neat pile. He never even glanced at Steven, much less bothered him. But the guy was watching him like a mall security guard, not even pretending to be doing anything else.

There was something about that look, the visible discomfort in it, that had Jeff frowning mentally. Monsters had been aboveground for several years now, long enough that anyone who lived in Ebott should’ve bumped into one at least every few days around town. Considering how young this guy was, he should’ve been on campus a few times or in the local coffee shops. No one should be that freaked about seeing a Monster, no one with manners, anyway.

Especially seeing Stretch, who was easily one of the most recognizable, only below Asgore and the diplomat group when it came to fame. Plus, the skeleton Monsters tended to look more Human than some of the other species out there. They wore clothes and shoes, and when Stretch had his hood up, he could easily be mistaken for human from behind.

Besides, his sweatshirt had a dinosaur with Mickey Mouse ears on it and a speech bubble that said ‘wrong park’, for crying out loud. How was that remotely threatening?

Next to him, Thomas was two finger typing his way through the list of orders that Jeff had been working on, humming beneath his breath. “Thomas,” Jeff said, low. “Yes, my boy?” When Jeff nodded towards the front counter, Thomas stood and leaned over the desk to see. He frowned, his eyes narrowing, as they both watched Stretch walk over to another shelf of books. Steven moved as he did, unsubtly shifting over to the far side of the counter, his eyes never leaving Stretch as he backed away. “Bah,” Thomas muttered irritably. “That one, he’s not going to be staying.”

Jeff nodded. Definitely for the best. Even if someone unfairly thought Stretch was scary, he was hardly the only Monster who came in hankering for books. Moms brought in their kids all the time, elderly Monsters searched for books they remembered from the Underground. The cheery sticker on the front door inviting Monsters in would tell anybody that much, before they took a single step inside much less submitted a resume. Why the hell would someone who was so visibly uncomfortable around Monsters want to work someplace that was blatantly Monster-friendly?

Jeff didn’t really care for any of the reasons his brain was offering him and suddenly, he didn’t really want to leave Stretch out there alone with a guy who was eying him the same way he would a serial killer. “Would you mind if I came back this weekend to go over this?” Jeff asked softly.

“Not at all. Come, let’s go out together. I think maybe I should ring up Stretch’s purchases for him.” Thomas sighed and shook his head. “Such a shame, he had a good resume. A worse shame I will have to pay him for today.”

“Send him home at lunch,” Jeff said sourly, “save some money.”

“A very good idea.”

~~*~~

They were walking back to the car, both of them with bags in hand when Stretch finally asked him, “okay, what’s the matter?”

“Why do you think anything is the matter?” Jeff asked lightly. It wasn’t going to work, he knew that, and Stretch only tutted in exaggerated disappointment.

“because your smile fell so far its sitting on top of your shoes. so before you trip over it, what’s wrong?”

“That guy, the new guy. He seemed…” Jeff hesitated, trying to think of a way to phrase it that was better than, ‘he was a dick,’. “He seemed really Monster unfriendly.” “yeah. i noticed.” Stretch pulled out his vape and used it, exhaling a sweet-smelling cloud. It was a decent distraction but Jeff knew him too well now to miss the fleeting unhappiness that crossed his face before it was hidden beneath easy carelessness. “he didn’t say anything to me, but—“ “No, because he was too busy trying to blend into the furniture,” Jeff gritted out. He should’ve known Stretch noticed, he was weirdly observant like that. Maybe Monsters had to be when their HP was in the single digits. And to have to deal with that in one of his safe places had to be doubly upsetting. “Thomas already said he was getting rid of him, but seriously, what an asshole. He was acting like you were gonna rip his throat out with your teeth.” Stretch made a face, “nasty. i love the old monster movies but man, the creature from the black lagoon sure didn’t do us any publicity favors.” “Good movie, though.”

“yeah.” The faint melancholy that had settled over Stretch faded as he suddenly smirked. “wanna go watch it?”

“Hell, yes.”

The trip back home was a lot shorter when they didn’t have to depend on the bus, and soon enough they were settled on the sofa with snacks. But even the campy black and white classic couldn’t hold his attention, and Jeff found his thoughts picking irritably at the events of the day.

That Steven applied at Classic Books at all was rubbing him in all kinds of wrong ways. There was literally no chance anyone would miss that it was a Monster-friendly business, and even if Thomas was going to fire that prick, well…maybe he should let someone in Security know. Like Red, Jeff had a feeling this was definitely something he’d want to know about. Edge probably would too, but he and Stretch had enough to worry about lately.

Better to have it checked out first before starting any panics or holy wars or anything.

So after the movie, Jeff regretfully turned down an offer to head over to Grillby’s and instead drove down to the Embassy.

Instead of politely greeting the security guard and heading right to the elevator like he usually did, Jeff stopped and asked, “If I needed to talk to Red, where would I find him?”

The guard��s floppy ears perked high as he looked up from his sudoku book, eying Jeff warily. “You actually want to see Red?”

“Um. Yes?” Well, he had before that.

“Huh.” The guard looked at him a moment longer, doubtfully, then shook his head and picked up his pen again. “Just wander around. You don’t really find Red so much as he finds you.”

Well, that wasn’t at all ominous or terrifying. “Thank you.”

Even worse, it wasn’t really helpful. It was close to five and most of the staff was getting ready to go home for the day. The cafeteria was closed, the chairs already atop the tables, and none the departments seemed likely. It wasn’t like there were any signs pointing towards ‘creepy skeletons this way’ like a damn Target store.

Jeff was ready to surrender and almost convinced himself that he was overreacting. And yet, if he didn’t say anything and someone got hurt? Yeah, better to overreact and feel stupid, times a thousand.

An email, then? That’d be something, and Jeff made his way down to the PR sector where his office was. It was about a step above a closet, but he didn’t care, it was his, and he should be able to check the email listings from there.

The main office was already deserted, the lights dimmed. Jeff walked on to his door, trying not to feel like an intruder as he unlocked it and switched on the light. Only to nearly scream at the sight of Red sitting casually in his chair, his boots propped up on the desktop.

That grin of his was so similar to Edge’s and yet not at all, and neither was the way he ran his tongue over the jagged points. His eye lights glowing with crimson ferocity that gave lie to his tone as he said easily, “wellie, well, well, if it isn’t handy andy. heard you were looking for me. what can i do for you, sweets?”

Yeah…he was starting to think the guard had the right idea. Seemed like no sane person went looking for Red. Except now Jeff had him and so he got to deal with him.

Jeff wet his own lips nervously, wondering how the hell he was going to coax this genie back into the bottle. Somehow, he didn’t think flattery was the right option.

~~*~~

TBC

#spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #underfell papyrus #underswap papyrus #by any other name

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violetsmoak · 5 years

Text

Philtatos [7/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20101543/chapters/47630773

Blanket Disclaimer

Summary: During a patrol where Red Hood and Red Robin cross paths, Jason is infected with the blood of the Eros, the ancient God of Love, who informs them that they must track down his missing bow and arrows, or Jason will go slowly mad with an obsessive desire–for Tim. Though overwhelmed by the sudden attention being paid to him, Tim sets to work trying to solve the case, before Jason succumbs to madness. In the meantime, Jason discovers that there’s more than godlike powers at work here, as well as a legacy that reaches back through the sands of time.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

Beta Reader: None at the moment.

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: #fate #fatal flaw #oracle #reincarnation #secrets #undying love

First Chapter

Author's Note(s): Sorry for the delay guys. Between trying to find a place to live, and dealing with a family member with Alzheimers, the past day or so has kind of sucked. But I did finally get some time to myself to finish this chapter, so I hope you enjoy!

Much of the dialog and imagery of Jason’s flashback is based on actual lines from The Iliad and Madeline Miller's novel The Song of Achilles. If you're looking to cry, read the latter to the end.

________________________________________________________________

Tim stares at the screen of his tablet, reading the information but none of it registering. He’s been at this too long.

Crime scene photos from the GCPD’s system and coroners reports from half a dozen murder-suicides that took place throughout the city in the past week, each one more brutal than the last. One guy took a meat pounder to his girlfriend’s head; another a fire poker to his husband’s face.

I wish I could get out there and investigate the scenes myself.

He’s been effectively benched and it’s starting to give him cabin fever, even though he knows it’s important to stay with Jason right now.

Bruce took off to Amsterdam about an hour again; like Tim, he prefers to retrace crimes from their origin. It’s how they find clues the cops miss. Dick’s doing the same right now in Gotham, revisiting all the crime scenes with Duke by his side in case his retrocognition can help them any. He has no idea where Steph is tonight, but if Barbara’s radio silence is any indicator, they’re probably working something big together.

Jason’s been sitting beside him on the couch in the study, three separate books open on his lap and a notepad where he’s jotting down various comparisons of the information.

(Because “I’m not defacing a first edition version of Les Métamorphoses, especially not one with etchings by Picasso, Tim. It’s just not done.”)

The first hour he managed to keep absorbed in his task, but Tim’s noticed him stopping more often between annotations, rubbing at a spot on his neck or over the spot in his shoulder where he was shot.

Whenever he notices Tim looking, they both immediately look away and go back to work; but after another period of research—getting shorter and shorter after each pause—Jason’s back to twitching and looking guilty.

He’s going to have his neck rubbed raw in another hour.

Despite the fact the whole thing was Tim’s idea, it’s harder to remain unaffected about the need for physical contact than he thought. And Jason notices pretty fast that Tim isn’t as at ease with the ‘treatment’ plan as he’s been insinuating.

He thought Jason putting his arm around his shoulders earlier was mostly to bother Dick, whose attempts at protectiveness had just made the situation more awkward. But when Jason does it again later, unthinkingly draping himself around Tim’s shoulder, Tim can’t help going stiff as a board.

Jason pulls away immediately, as if he’s been burned. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s…fine.”

“Stop lying, obviously you’re not,” Jason answers, shifting to the other edge of the couch to put at least three feet between them. “You don’t have to force yourself to do this. I can get through it without you.”

Tim sets aside his tablet. “Because that worked out so well the first time you tried it.”

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t matter. I’m more than capable of figuring out how to get through this without using your skin as a security blanket.” He pauses. “That came out so much disturbing than I intended.”

“How was it ever not going to sound disturbing?” Tim wonders, and then sighs. “Look, I don’t mind. The longer you stay in a healthy headspace, the more time we have to find a cure.”

“Yeah, but if you’re so friggen uncomfortable with it—”

“I’m not!”

“Bullshit.”

“No, really, it’s fine. It’s my choice.”

“Yeah, say that without flinching and maybe I’ll believe you,” Jason mutters, shoulders slumping. “If you’re going to freeze up every time I go near your personal bubble, screw it. Like I don’t feel like enough of a creep…”

Tim can see how much he hates this, the fact that he’s making Tim uncomfortable—the fact that making Tim uncomfortable upsets him at all. He’s never cared before; it’s always been a kind of unofficial hobby.

But now that his brain and hormones are becoming compromised, it’s more important to him than ever not to cross boundaries. Or at least what he perceives as boundaries.

Tim bows his head.

He’s been managing his feelings about all this by remaining clinical, dividing him from the particulars of the situation the way he’s always done. It’s the sort of thing that works on hard cases, the kind involving little kids or serial murders. He forgot that it doesn’t work so well when dealing with people.

Communication, he remembers Steph chiding him during one argument. Honesty.

Nodding to himself, Tim forces himself to appear relaxed.

“It’s not like that. I just—I’ve never been really good at all the…” He waves his hand, searching for the words, “…physical intimacy stuff.”

Jason blinks, not having expected that. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Tim shifts. “I know it’s hard to tell when I’m next to Dick or Steph or someone who…”

“Who has personal space issues?”

“Yeah. But with them I’ve gotten used to it. But with you, you’ve never exactly…”

“Put hands on you except to lay you out flat on the floor?” Jason suggests, and then turns red. “I mean beating the crap out of you! Not the other thing that…! Fuck, he wasn’t kidding about the innuendo thing, was he?”

“Oh, I don’t know. If not for everything going on, I’m pretty sure you’d still be making jokes to make everyone uncomfortable,” Tim muses, his own ears warm at the accidental image Jason’s words provided.

Jason tilts his head to one side, and then nods. “Fair.”

They smirk at each other for a moment. Then something thoughtful passes across Jason’s face.

“What?”

“When you say physical intimacy,” Jason starts slowly, “d’you mean just occupying someone else’s personal space, or…?”

He trails off, and it takes a few seconds before Tim interprets the meaning. His cheeks may actually be on fire right now. “Uh…”

“You’re kidding.”

“Well, the first one’s always kind of an issue,” Tim mumbles, looking away, “so I don’t really—like I said, I’m not used to anyone wanting to get close to me, let alone actually trying it. Which always made everything kind of awkward.”

“And the second thing?”

“…that made it awkward, too.”

“So, you haven’t—? Like, not even with Blondie?”

There’s incredulity there, but no judgment, which is somewhat of a relief; he’s too used to other guys looking like he should have his man card revoked for not pouncing on a gorgeous girl like Steph.

As if anyone would ever get away with pouncing without getting a brick to the face.

But Jason seems genuinely curious, which makes Tim want to try to answer.

“No?” Tim winces at the uncertainty in the word and glances up to make sure there’s still no judgment on Jason’s face. “Not because—not because I didn’t—or she wasn’t—we fooled around, but never—she’d already done the whole unwanted pregnancy thing. We wanted to be careful and wait until we were both sure we wanted to. And then she died, then came back because she wasn’t really dead, and we broke up. But it was a long time ago, and then we never got another opportunity because—well, there was Bruce dying and not dying, and other people dying, and then losing Robin, and just…” He lets his words trail as he realizes he’s been babbling. “Sorry. Babbling.”

Jason makes a dismissive gesture. “Nah, it’s cute.”

There’s a moment where they both process his words, and then Jason’s rubbing at his neck and Tim’s coughing because he thinks he might have choked on his tongue.

“I’m going to…” Jason stands, starts rummaging through his pockets, and then jerks his head toward the balcony, “Smoke break.”

“Right,” Tim answers, carefully neutral.

Tim doesn’t complain about the smoking, even though he hates it. Jason’s under enough stress right now, if the nicotine helps calm him even a little a bit, Tim can put up with it for the short-term.

Not like he’s going to be around once we fix all this.

He lets Jason make his escape and for the first time since the conversation began, takes a full breath.

It’s just Eros’ blood. He doesn’t actually think that.

The truth doesn’t make his heart stop fluttering.

“Fuck,” he mutters, letting his face fall into his hand; he rubs at his face in frustration.

“Wallowing in your failure as usual, Drake?”

He jumps and then shoots a glare across the room at the pint-sized bane of his existence.

“Why aren’t you out terrorizing the streets of Gotham?”

“I’m here to ensure the present status quo endures and neither you nor Todd end up compromised,” Damian retorts. Then Tim blinks, the kid smirks at him. “I’m babysitting you two morons.”

“Well my life just hit another low…”

“I have also been doing research of my own to pass the time, since my talents are being ignored in favor of mundane surveillance tasks,” the boy continues. “I was intrigued at Todd’s apparent symptoms of xenoglossia and decided to peruse the security footage to see what might have precipitated it.”

“…And?”

“It wasn’t until you arrived that it started. He called you philtatos. It means ‘most beloved’.”

Tim tries not to choke. “How do you know that?”

“Anyone who has read the Iliad in the original Greek could tell you that,” Damian drawls.

“Well, excuse me, I had an education meant for this millennium.” Tim tries not to croak, running his hands through his hair in frustrations. The strands are stringy today and he tries to remember when he washed it last was; probably before Jason was brought to the manor.

“Odd that he’d call you that, though,” Damian continues. “He has that habit of assigning the most absurd monikers to anyone within a ten-foot radius. It’s not exactly the type of thing he would say. And to you of all people.”

Tim frowns, ignoring the insult. “You think it’s a symptom of the infection?”

“Perhaps. The term itself, or the tongue in question. In case you were curious, which I doubt since unless it involves a computer your interest becomes depressingly cursory, the language Todd was mumbling in while drooling on your shoulder was Archaia Makedonike.”

“English, brat.”

“Ancient Macedonian, you classless twit. The language itself was prevalent in the Hellenistic period before giving way to its superior successor, Koine, when it was brought by the military forces of Alexander the Great.”

“Conqueror of the known world at the time—why am I not surprised you’re so well-versed.”

“Tt. Of course I am. As a child, Mother brought me on a journey to follow in his footsteps along what was once his Empire.”

You’re still a child, Tim doesn’t say, because he just doesn’t have the energy for the inevitable resulting fight. “Sounds like quality family bonding time.”

“It was meant to show me all that could be achieved in a short lifetime,” Damian sniffs. “And what could be lost just as easily.”

“Because he died young?”

“Not only that, but because of his rather questionable decisions. Like pouring a considerable amount of his treasury into a funeral monument for one of his generals. He was so besotted with the man he died less than a year later. It’s disgraceful.”

“Right, because caring about someone is a bad thing.”

“It is possible to care without being ruled by one’s emotions.”

“Yeah, you’re such an excellent example of that,” Tim deadpans. At Damian’s glare, he makes a defensive gesture with his hand. “What do you want me to say? People do weird stuff for the people they care about.”

Damian narrows his eyes. “Evidently.”

He continues to watch Tim in a way he’s not entirely sure he likes. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“It sounds like you’ve got something to say.”

Jason chooses that moment to return, although he halts in the door when he notices the way Tim and Damian are glaring at one another. “Am I walking in on something here?”

“I was simply demonstrating Drake’s continued ignorance in several arenas,” Damian replies, and pushes past Jason. “I’ve wasted enough of my day pandering to your nonsense. Shout if you need help.” His gaze lingers on Jason with disgust. “Or possibly a firehose.”

“Was that demon-speak for ‘make good choices’?” Tim calls after him and noticing Jason’s bemused expression offers a half shrug. “He will do great things.”

“See, I knew all that getting on his case was just your way of showing you like him,” Jason teases and settles back on the couch. Much closer to Tim this time, body angled toward him; he can smell leather and the acrid smell of cigarettes.

He forces a grin, “Tell no one.”

“Lips are sealed,” Jason replies, abruptly stretching out and tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear.

The gesture would normally make Tim want to melt, to bend closer to Jason as well; at first it does, but the reason for it remains starkly in his mind, and instead his skin crawls.

The study suddenly seems too small, too close, magnified by Jason’s focus on him.

Need a distraction.

“There’s a lot of CCTV footage to go through,” he says, clearing his throat and standing quickly. He ambles over to the desk to grab Bruce’s laptop, holding up to Jason. “Feel like going through half?”

“Not particularly, but only because that’s the most boring job ever.”

“And reading scholarly articles dissecting the exact syntax of some ancient play isn’t?”

“Don’t act like if it was Klingon or something you wouldn’t have a field day.”

But Jason accepts the computer, putting his books and notes to one side. Tim exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

They sit in silence again for a while, one that’s somehow more tense than earlier. Tim’s stomach keeps leaping, waiting for the next time Jason needs to reach out to him, simultaneously craving and dreading it.

So it’s no surprise that he physically jolts when Jason suddenly announces, “I think I’ve got something.”

“What?” he asks quickly, hoping his reaction wasn’t that noticeable. He moves to peek over Jason’s shoulder, considering a timestamped video of an Upper East Side apartment. There’s a crowd gathered outside as paramedics load two covered stretchers into an ambulance.

“Right there.” Jason points at a grainy image in the upper left corner, almost obscured by the lighting. “See this woman?”

Tim studies the image of the woman in a leather jacket and skin-tight pants. “Yeah?”

“That’s Carrie Cutter.”

“Carrie…” Tim consults his mental rolodex. “Carrie Cutter as in Cupid?”

“Yep.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. I’m pretty familiar with anyone Roy might have had beef with down in his corner of the world. You know, just in case.”

Which is a smart thing to do, really, considering old enemies always have a tendency to return when they’re least expected.

And just…great. Because Carrie Cutter, along with being crazy to the point of earning honorary Arkham status, also happens to be a genetically enhanced special-ops soldier that knows how not to be found. If she’s got her hands on divine weapons somehow, it’s going to make apprehending her much more of a challenge.

Especially those weapons. If any of us get tagged with those, we’re done. I’ve been around when the Family gets turned against each other, and it’s never pretty.

The memory of Joker’s macabre dinner party still makes him gag reflexively.

Tim leans forward, balancing his weight on the desk with his palms, and studies the image again. “Could be a coincidence.”

“Has anything about all this felt coincidental to you?”

“Touché.” Tim shakes his head. “Damn. So, Cupid stole Cupid’s bow and arrows?”

What even is my life anymore?

“And the MO makes sense now, if you think about it,” Jason points out; he absently starts to rub the back of Tim’s hand with his thumb. Tim swallows and fights the conflicting urge to jerk his hand away or lean further into Jason’s space. “She has that whole crazed ‘if-I-can’t-be-happy-no-one-can’ thing going on. If she’s got Eros’ diviners, she could accomplish whatever she wants pretty easily.”

“Does she still have that obsession with Green Arrow?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me.”

“Maybe we should let Oliver know she’s heading his way.”

“Or not.”

“Jason!”

“No, seriously, hear me out, this isn’t me hating on Queen.”

“Sure…”

“Look at the pattern of robberies and deaths—if she’s headed out west, she’s taking the long way and at a slow stroll. There are tons of direct flights from Amsterdam to Star City. She could be there in like a day if that’s her goal, but she’s moving so slowly—based on the places she’s hit, and how long it takes her to get there, I’d say she’s driving.” He traces a line from Europe to the East Coast. “And possibly taking a boat. Not the Carnival way, either. I know people like to go incognito sometimes, but even that’s Bruce levels of paranoid.”

“And he once rode a goat truck across the border of Qurac…”

“Also, there are more direct routes from here to the West Coast.”

“So why come to Gotham at all,” Tim says, and steeples his fingers. “Either she’s taking her time for a reason, or she was never heading for Star City.”

“Then what does she want?”

“And how has she dropped so completely off the radar since she got here?”

Jason shrugs and leans back, stretching his arms and yawning; his arm brushes against Tim’s shoulder on its way down.

“When’s the last time you slept?” Tim asks quickly, wishing his voice didn’t sound like it was squeaking.

“Like sleep or power naps? Because I’ve had a lot of those.”

Tim rolls his eyes. “If you don’t get some rest we’ll have more to worry about than accidental innuendos. You should get some sleep.”

“The irony of you telling anyone that…”

“I’ve never had to fight off an Olympian bloodborne disease.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not exactly comfortable falling asleep right now. I keep seeing weird shit.”

“Like what?”

“I…can’t even remember. The whole thing just gives me a bad feeling.”

“You want to stay in my room?” This time it’s Jason who jumps and shoots Tim a panicked look. “Not like that! I just figured; it’s got all my stuff there. People sometimes take comfort in objects, and I just figured maybe being surrounded by my stuff would help. And I somehow don’t see you as the teddy bear type.”

Jason barks out a surprised laugh. “Hey, leave Paddington out of this!”

“You didn’t actually have a stuffed toy named Paddington!”

“Not just a stuffed toy, I’ll have you know, it was actually a Paddington Bear,” Jason retorts. “My mother used to read the stories to me, and she found him in a second-hand shop the Christmas before she…” Jason trails off, the levity in his face smoothing into careful blankness. “Anyway. I pretended like I was too old for stuff like that, but I was just happy she was lucid enough to even do Christmas that year.”

Tim can’t help the way his eyes soften at the story. He’s never heard Jason say anything about his life before Bruce, at least nothing personal.

Jason seems to notice the scrutiny, because he looks away. “Anyway. Not important. But we can try that whole…staying in your room thing. It would be nice to catch some Zs.”

They pack up their things and head down the hall to Tim’s room; all the while, Tim is trying to figure out what possessed him to suggest this. It’s true, comfort objects are a thing, but he could just as easily have brought a whole bunch of his stuff to Jason’s room for the same effect.

Except Jason doesn’t go near his room unless he’s unconscious and Bruce puts him there to recover.

He flicks on the light as Jason brushes past. “I haven’t been here in a while, so Alfred’s probably changed the sheets and everything. Good to go if you want to sleep.”

“And, uh…you’ll stay, right?”

“Yeah,” Tim replies softly. “At least until you fall asleep, then I have to take care of a few things. Alfred will probably nag me to eat and shower and changes clothes or something.”

And I need to make a trip home to have a conversation with my unwanted houseguest.

“Oh, the horror,” Jason says neutrally, though he starts rubbing at the back of his neck again, irritating the already red skin there.

Tim reaches over automatically and moves his hand away. A week ago, doing that would have probably gotten him punched; now Jason simply lets him, his body unconsciously leaning toward him.

“Listen, if you wake up and I’m not in here, don’t freak out. I’m probably in the kitchen being force-fed grits or something. And if I’m not, just call me and I’ll find you. We can even FaceTime while you wait.”

“Whatever,” Jason says, trying to sound nonchalant. He plops himself down on Tim’s bed, then frowns down at the bedsheet. “Holy shit this is soft.”

“It should be, it’s got a thread count of a thousand.”

“Spoiled ass rich boy,” Jason mutters, lying back on the bed. A surprised and pleased expression appears on his face. “Okay you know what? Forget obsessing over you, I want your bedroom set.”

This time it’s Tim who gives a surprised laugh.

⁂

“I will not be humiliated before my army.”

The lord marshal’s face resembles a misshapen beat, fury twisting his features; the skin beneath his nose is raw from the scented oils he’s been using to block the acrid scent of the funeral pyres. Jason has mostly become familiar with the odor by now—smoke and burning flesh and blood.

“What humiliation is there in appeasing the gods?” he counters and is surprised his voice remains so calm and measured; Tim is a reassuring presence at his back.

“Returning Chryses’ daughter is tantamount to the theft of my rightly taken trophy,” the king of men snarls. “Find me a replacement and I may consider it, but I will not be the only man among us without a prize.”

The quiet among the men is pointed, saturated with disagreement; even the obstinate man’s brother does not stand with him on the dais where kings and their liegemen have gathered. But Jason knows no one will step forward to say anything.

Only me, as usual.

“Son of Atreus, you know as well as anyone that we take our prizes from lawful combat. There’s ample opportunity to replace the girl, or even her worth in gold, three and four times over. All of us who stand here are kings and the vassals of kings, and we don’t owe you compensation when it was you who angered the gods in the first place.”

By taking the girl whose life I was trying to save just to screw me over, I would add.

A few of the men nod at his words; in the background, the moaning cries of the dying fill the air, a cacophony that has haunted the shore for ten days since the plague hit.

“Show your men that you’re as humble in nature as you are proficient in battle, and make amends.” He doubts the pig will notice the insult there. “End this plague before more die.”

Fury contracts the other man’s pupils to fine dots. “You will learn your place, boy. Just because divine blood runs through your veins and your mother raised you to believe you are special does not mean you might speak to me as an equal.” Jason bristles but is immediately cut off again. “Silence! I have no interest in whatever clever words your puppet master would have you speak.”

The blunt insult instead of flowery political doublespeak is surprising enough to still the words on his lips. He senses when Tim stiffens; they both know that last was directed at him.

“If I hear further suggestions that I give up my property without receiving something of like value in exchange, then I will sacrifice the man who suggests it, along with Chryses’ bitch daughter to appease the gods. Perhaps you might volunteer, Peliades,” the lord marshal concludes.

“I’m not afraid of speaking up when it’s needed,” Jason growls, “and we all know you can’t afford to sacrifice me.”

“Listen to the arrogance! It is the same you have displayed from the moment you arrived here. I believe it to be high time you face consequence for your heedless words.”

“Consequence,” Jason echoes, calm; Tim shifts closer, knowing that his outward composure is a sign of danger. The men around them shift as well, some of them whispering; more than one man’s fingers twitch toward their sword. “It’s you who should think of consequence.”

“Careful,” Tim cautions in his ear, breath hot across his neck as he comes to step beside him. He has to keep from rubbing at the area with his thumb.

“Is that a threat?” the king of men demands.

“An observation. How much longer do you think these men will last, without me to lead them into battle? How many times have I been the one who turned the tides of defeat to victory, while you remained in the back ranks?”

Now the whispering is louder, angrier; voices of dissent and outrage.

“I am High King!” the older lord roars. “Every man here knelt before me when we came to these shores or swore oaths to the gods to follow my command. Even your beloved Menoitiades whom you shield as if he is your wife.” Tim clenches his fists but carefully doesn’t meet Jason’s eyes; acknowledgement of one another now will only prove the argument. “You are the only one that always considered yourself above such things.”

Jason is furious. Green like the cold sea edges around his vision, and it would be so easy to leap across the three-foot gap and snap the bastard’s neck. He could do it before anyone else might react, and he’s fast enough to get away before anyone retaliates.

But Tim isn’t.

Tim who remains tense, shoulders set and whose fingers make a minute twitching motion against his side, silently beseeching Jason to keep his calm.

It doesn’t work.

“I have nothing to prove to you, or any who swore oaths to you,” Jason snarls through gritted teeth. “The horse-tamers have never threatened my home, have never stolen our stock or torched our fields. I chose to be here, to sail to this wretched city and help your half-wit brother regain a woman who likely doesn’t wish to be reclaimed.”

More murmuring; it’s a sentiment no one has wanted to voice.

“Have a care with your words, boy; not all gods who listen are favorable to you.”

“And what would you know of the gods? I’m closer to their ilk than you ever will be, without the scandal that troubles your bloodline. If anyone should have these men’s fealty, it’s not you. Perhaps you should be the one who bends knee in appeasement.”

The crowd is outright clamoring now, supporters and enemies alike shouting over one another. The older man’s eyes widen in triumph. “You think yourself better than me? Or than the men I command?”

“No, they are my equals. You’re the dog-faced son of a bitch that isn’t fit to clean the boots of the men you profess to lead into battle.”

Exclamations of disbelief.

“That’s enough!” Tim hisses, jabbing him with an elbow.

“Yes, listen to your keeper, Peliades. He seeks to save you from being named a traitor to this army, and suffering punishment for it. Though I think we are beyond the point of playing this off as country bumpkin ignorance to custom. Your war prizes are forfeit; I will take them under tutorship until you come to your senses and offer submission to me.”

Jason’s muscles pull taut in incandescent anger. “You have no right to do that!”

“I have every right, especially since you are so keen to take mine. In fact, I demand the first woman you took as spoil at Ilion—fetch me Briseis’ daughter. She will replace the woman the gods wish me to return.”

“If you touch her, you forgo your victory in this war. I will take my ships and return to my land.”

“Flee, then, if your heart urges you! I have no fear of you—of all the kings the son of Kronos nurtures, you are the one I hate the most. Go with your ships, run with your tail between your legs. But I will have the woman before you go.”

Jason’s hand goes to his sword, but Tim’s hand is on his then.

“Leave it,” he whispers, frantic. “There are greater punishments than death. Let’s regroup and find a solution to this away from prying eyes.”

Jason knows he’s right. The men around them are filled with shock and disapproval, but none of the cowards will support him if he strikes down the king of men.

And so instead of slicing the ignorant prick’s kneecaps out from under him, Jason simply spits at his feet.

“You’re a coward with the face of a dog but the heart of a deer. You’ve never had the courage to arm for battle along with the men you boast to lead because you fear death. You’re faithless, taking the property of those who speak contrary to you, preferring to rule over a kingdom of nobodies. Your words today doom you and your men to disgraceful ends.” He glares at all the men gathered there simply watching. “I won’t fight alongside this army any longer, and without me, you’ll all fall, ground beneath the feet of the man-killing prince. The day will come when you send your toadies to me to beg, and you’ll kneel before me crying for forgiveness, but I’ll give you nothing but laughter as you bleed in the dust before me. You will all die in ignominy for what the son of Atreus does today.”

And with that, he turns on his heel and stalks away.

Tim follows, as do the rest of the men sworn to him.

“I’ll kill him,” Jason fumes under his breath when they are far enough away not to be heard. “I would have if you hadn’t stopped me.”

“I know. And then you would have been struck down, which I couldn’t allow,” Tim soothes. “Be patient. I’ll think of a plan, you know I always do.”

“And in the meantime, that sack of pig shit will take Hippodamea and vent his frustrations toward me on her,” Jason growls.

“If he rapes her, he violates the life of one who is under your gods given protection. His men and the gods will turn on him if he does. After that display, he’s not going to court anymore of their disapproval. She will be safe until you bend knee to him.”

“Which won’t happen.”

“There are more important things than your pride,” Tim reminds him, a bit of reprimand in his tone. “Don’t lower yourself to his level, to the level of men, when you are as a god.”

Jason blinks, and turns to Tim. “That’s it.”

“What?”

“I’ll go to my mother.”

Tim’s face pales. “No!”

“Why not? And it better not be because you think she hates you.”

“She does hate me, but that’s besides the point. I just…have a bad feeling. The silver-footed are like the sea—unmerciful and uncaring who they harm in their storm. That path leads to death, I think.”

“Yes. His.”

Tim is silent and continues to look worried.

“I don’t need your permission to do this,” Jason tells him, a little sour that he doesn’t have his support on this matter.

Something like hurt flickers across his face, but then Tim’s expression goes carefully blank. “I would never presume to tell you what to do.”

“That’s not what everyone on this gods forsaken beach thinks!”

“Since when have you ever cared what people think?”

“You can’t stop me doing this,” Jason snaps.

Tim looks sad now. “I know.”

He turns to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to prepare Hippodamea for what’s to come. Somehow I doubt you will be able to feign sympathy long enough to shoulder that burden,” he replies coldly, and stalks away.

Jason watches him go, his righteous anger continuing to simmer, until it occurs to him that Tim is actually quite angry with him. Some of the bite goes out of his rage, and worry creeps through his body.

“No, wait,” he starts, hurrying after him. “Don’t go—”

“—Tim!”

Jason sits upright in bed, arm outstretched as if to make a grab for a hand or arm, only to grasp air.

A maelstrom of different emotions cloud his mind, blocking his awareness of the room around him for several long seconds while he fights for his bearings. Anger and hurt and guilt and fear, all tied up with longing, playing on repeat in his head.

He has the strangest compulsion to make amends for something and he doesn’t remember what.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, pulling his hand back close to his body, elbow to chest, hand pressing against his shoulder. The skin radiates heat through the cotton of his t-shirt, warmer than his normal body temperature; probably from the wound.

He is alone, surrounded by pillows and a comforter that should smell like Tim but don’t (because Alfred washed them, so they’re new), in a room that feels somehow too big (which it shouldn’t, it’s the same size as the other rooms, as his room that he never goes into if he can help it. It’s bigger than the holding cell was).

A glance at the digital clock reads two in the morning. Prime patrol time, and more importantly, four hours since he put his head down. He’s pretty sure that’s the most sleep he’s had in a week, even if it was cut short by another of those maddening dream sequences that vanish from his memory in direct relation to how awake he becomes.

Where’s Tim?

He swings his feet over the edge of the bed, ready to go looking for him in the house, before remembering what he said before he fell asleep.

Don’t freak out.

Right. No problem. Tim’s just off somewhere having a human moment, which is just as well. He probably needs a break from Jason. Jason knows he needs a break from Tim—from everyone really. He can’t remember the last time he was in someone’s constant presence.

This is a good thing, he tells himself as he glances around the room, absently picking at the dry skin on the side of his thumb. He didn’t really look around when he first walked in. His brain was still trying to process the concept of Tim being the one to suggest his room as being the best place for Jason to relax.

And the surprise that he was actually right.

Tim is everywhere in these walls—video game posters and obscure pop culture refences—and furniture. There are candid photographs of him and his friends—Jason scowls at one of him and the Super Clone standing way too close together—and half-finished projects of wire and circuit. Clothes and books are strewn across the floor and—

“Christ, kid, you’re a goddamned slob.”

He never really took note of that quirk of Tim’s before, probably because they never really hung out. His knowledge of the kid’s lifestyle was limited to his own notions of what spoiled rich boys were like, and the general observation that his replacement ran on coffee and energy drinks.

His thumb is bleeding now from his continued picking, and he wipes it angrily on his pants, standing up. He needs a distraction. Otherwise, he’s going to go looking for Tim, or blow up his phone with calls until he picks up. He needs to prove to himself that he still has some control—test how long he can manage on his own, or at least test how long it takes between Tim leaving him alone and the anxious thoughts to set in.

He’s coming back. He wanted me to be here, or he wouldn’t have suggested it.

Jason just has to be patient.

Which…yeah, that was an issue even before this fixation crap.

“Screw this, I’m not just sitting here,” he grumbles, and starts wandering around the room, sorting clothes and tools and whatever other detritus has gathered on the floor. Cleaning is both mindless and immersive, something to do with his hands instead of scratch bloody welts into his skin.

And yet, he still drops everything when his phone vibrates.

“Tim?” he asks in the same breath that he unlocks the phone.

“Sorry.” Barbara actually sounds apologetic. “Just me.”

Disappointment hits him like a punch to the face. “No, yeah, it’s fine.”

“How are you holding up?”

Of course she knows what’s going on, too.

“Spectacular,” he says dryly, running a hand through his hair. “Can we maybe can the sympathy? I’m getting enough of that over here as it is. And you never call just to check in.”

There’s a beat, and then Barbara speaks again, still in her own voice, but more businesslike. “I may have found something.”

He likes that about her. She doesn’t get upset when called out on something, nor does she spend time on bullshit.

How the hell she dated Dick so long will forever be a mystery.

“What?” he asks, studying a strip of picture booth photos of Steph and Tim; the typical assortment of funny faces, pressed close together. Jason frowns, tugging absently at his hair.

“I’m not sure it’s anything, yet,” Barbara cautions, “but it’s almost certainly related to your situation.”

“And how’s that?”

“Because it involves Carrie Cutter.”

Jason straightens up. “What?”

“As soon as you and Tim established that Cupid was involved—both Cupids, I guess—I set up a search algorithm to track her whereabouts for the past month or so.” Of course she’s been monitoring everything from her little command center; this goddamn family and their surveillance… “It’s a bit too neat, someone with her modus operandi just bumping into the real Cupid.”

“And we don’t do coincidence.”

“Exactly.”

“So, she had to be sent there by someone or something. Specifically, to steal from Eros.”

“Yeah. Still working on who, though,” Barbara agrees. “That’s not the most interesting part, though.”

Jason’s scalp is beginning to burn from the distracted tugging, but he doesn’t stop. The pain is punishing, keeps him focussed on Barbara’s voice, and not the urge to hang up on her to call Tim. “Lay it on me.”

“I’ve got newspaper reports from the village of Delphi in Greece with a woman of her description killed a blind twelve-year-old two weeks ago. Sliced her throat with one of her arrowheads and walked away, took out anyone that tried to stop her.”

“Fuck.” Jason almost bites his tongue.

Carrie Cutter’s always been a murderer, but from what he knows of her from Roy, she never hurt a kid. His fingers itch with the need to punch something; he yanks his fingers out of his hair, several strands coming away with it, and slams his fist down on Tim’s desk. It creaks at the force.

“You okay?”

“Better than she’s going to be,” he replies tightly. “What else?”

“You heard me say Delphi, right?”

There’s a pause, like she’s letting him process, which he’s glad for; he did miss that the first time. Jason thinks the news over again, remembering bits and pieces memorized from National Geographic when he was a kid.

“Delphi,” he repeats. “Like the Oracle of Delphi Delphi?”

“Exactly.”

His back goes even more rigid. “Isn’t it common in a lot of myths that people who can see the future tend to be blind?”

“Good memory.”

“So we’re thinking the kid was a seer.”

“I’m thinking the kid was the actual Oracle of Delphi.”

Jason whistles. “But there hasn’t been one of those in hundreds of years, right?”

“Not since Theodosius I closed the temple when the Pythia gave him some bad news. Five years later, he was dead, and the Visigoths had captured Rome, and after that it wasn’t safe to be an oracle. But secret societies have been started over less.”

“Still, how would someone like Carrie Cutter know or even be interested in looking up some secret oracle? Even for Queen, she’s small-time.”

“Still working on that part.”

“And if she did talk to the oracle beforehand, what did the kid tell her that made her kill her?”

“Unfortunately, there was no tech anywhere around to pick up on that. Not even tourists taking cellphone videos.”

“Fuck.”

“But lucky for us, we have someone that can sort of see ghosts.”

Jason’s eyes widen. “Duke.”

“Exactly,” Barbara says, and sounds smug, like she’s just managed a checkmate against fate or circumstance or something. “As soon as he’s done with Dick, I’m sending him on quick trip to Greece. He’ll get a kick out of the plane, I think.”

Jason winces.

It won’t be easy for the newest member of the family to watch a kid being murdered, all for Jason. Worse is the fact he’s a hundred percent sure Duke’s seen worse.

Instead of voicing that thought, however, he says, “Keep me updated.”

“Will do.”

There’s a heavy silence.

“Do you want me to stay on the line?” Barbara asks after a moment. “Until Tim gets back.”

Jason’s first instinct is a snappish retort, a denial that he needs her pity.

But his hand has found its way back into his hair, tearing at the strands as he anxiously waits for the younger man to return and for all he knows, it could be anywhere from ten minutes to ten hours before he sees him again.

He shivers at the thought.

That…would be bad.

And so he clears his throat and tells Barbara in a gruff voice, “Yeah. Okay."

⁂⁂⁂

Next Chapter

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wavesofinkdrops · 5 years

Text

Eternally, Yours.

Snippets inspired by @cuttoothed ’s piece, and as well thank you @aphchiptease for talks that spawned some of the ideas here and for letting me use them. No specific characters, more a description piece.

On AO3 now as well

Warnings: I mean. It’s the Entities. Literally everything you’d expect to be warned for

What is it like, to love an entity?

i. the vast

An endless, depthless love, reaching heights that you can’t fathom, depths that you don’t understand. You fall in love every day, every hour and every minute, always falling more, yet never reaching the ground. That love is boundless, limitless, and it is soon the only thing you know of. A desire that you can’t express, leaving you breathless, words slipping from your mind in gentle whispers that you can’t hear over the thrumming in your ears. It takes you for a ride, highs and lows, a rollercoaster that never ends − that you never want to end. And it goes on, a waltz with the emptiness, with the eternal.

ii. the lonely

It’s a strange feeling, loving alone. Loving something that may never feel real, that may never have been real. Every time you get too attached, it all disappears, and your arms are left empty, your heart hollowed by the presence you miss. It’s to love something that is not yours to keep, that grows colder the more you kiss, that becomes fainter the more you love, that thins into a wisp of fog when you try to cage it. It shimmers under your touch, ripples of silk that vanishes under your touch. You miss it when it’s not there, but the presence of it makes you feel more alone. You love the nothing, and that’s alright with you.

iii. the dark

It’s quiet, and there’s nothing in the darkness that surrounds you. And yet you feel the presence, something there, holding you in its empty embrace, its blackness blanketing you in a warm keep. You never want to leave, and you love how peaceful it is. It makes you feel safe, where most people are terrified, and you love what the Dark whispers into your ear at night. Promises of perfect paradise, an Eden, left empty forever, just for you and that which will bring you to oblivion. A kiss leaves a darkened trace, dripping from your cheek and smudging into your hand, and your smile goes unseen in the neverending darkness. There is nothing more you would ever ask for.

iv. the beholding

It knows every part of you, and you’re little more than an open book. You’re laid bare in front of its thousands of eyes, watching incessantly. Not that you ever see them, but every cell in your body can feel them, the scrutiny, the darkest parts of your mind ensnared by its witty tendrils. You love how it knows every inch of you before you even say a word, and your silence is all it needs to know your most burning desire and your deepest fear. Perhaps once it picks apart every part of you, and that you have nothing to give anymore, perhaps it may grow bored of you. But for now, you love the way it feels like everything it is, focuses on you. You are the centre of the world, and you love it.

v. the stranger

To love the Stranger is a love for the adventurous. The normal bores you, makes you feel like you’re dragging through the mud of the mundane. No, the love of the Stranger is ever changing and always shifting, becoming something new each day, each second. Waxen kisses that linger on your skin even when you no longer recognise the person in your arms, it is a love that takes each part of you and molds it into something entirely new. You don’t know how long you’ll be able to love that which is a constant metamorphosis. How long until you begin to miss all those you loved before, that you’ll never see again, and all those you’ll love in the future, but can’t keep?

vi. the spiral

Love-driven to madness, a theme you’ve read of in all those poems you’ve perused, in every book whose romance you’ve clutched to with tender hands, and you’ve never appreciated what a crazed state love truly is. And when you wander that endless feeling of confusion, of left and right turns where there should be none, you wonder whether this is the love they’ve all sung about. It sends a shiver down your back, and you spiral further down, further away from what others call sanity − but the freedom of insanity is what you seek. Its promises are unintelligible, but you know what they mean anyway. Twisted kisses are all you know from it, and when it holds you, you feel like curling inwards. You love the hold it has, and you let it take you.

vii. the web

It feels like you’re bound, tethered into the hold it has on you. Silver threads wrapping around you, keeping you close, safe, under its control, and you don’t mind. It doesn’t want you to go too far, wander off into the unsafe, and you’re happy to stay in its hold. You’ve gotten used to the cobwebs and the spiders, and you let them find comfort in your home. After all, what is yours is just as much theirs, and you wouldn’t think of depriving them from the safety you benefit from. You love how it protects you, whispers gentle requests and quiet promises all night to you, allows you to be held and never straying away. You let the filaments capture you, and you feel their hold tightening on you. You take it as a sign of the strength of your love, and you let it. You let it happen. You’re happy.

viii. the corruption

You can feel the love burrowing into your skin, navigating every part inside you, and it tells you it’s just for your sake − to make you a part of it. And soon enough, you learn to not pay attention to the squirming inside you. It’s only love. And you love it back, and you let it have your body as a feasting ground. You let others think you’re infected, contaminated, and you let them think that. They just don’t understand − none of them would ever really understand it, and you don’t particularly want to explain to them. You want to keep it all to yourself, and all of it is yours. You cherish every one of the bugs it gives you, grants you, blesses you with, and you let it spoil you with its love.

ix. the hunt

Love is exhaustion. It is the taste of stale salty spit in your mouth and the desperate panting of your lungs as it chases you further, even if it’s already found you all too long ago. You feel primal, when those talons dig into your skin, those claws capture you and grip you, before releasing you again. The Hunt begins again, never ending, and it’s the eternity of the chase that you love. Hard-to-get, is how some have described it, but it’s so much more than that − you’re the prize at the end of the race, and you race against time itself as you attempt an impossible escape. It always catches you, and you can only smile between gasps when it threatens to tear into you, before it lets go all over again.

x. the flesh

You want nothing more than to take each piece of yourself, and let it meld into the larger being of the Flesh. Let it grow, take more form, turn into even more beauty, but you can’t give up everything at the same time. You want to watch as your love feeds it, and it does − each day, you surrender a bit more, and each day, you love a bit more. The embrace is tender and warm, and the clicking noise of bones is soft to your ears. It doesn’t matter to you whether you lose a bone, a muscle, or a lung, you will give it everything it asks for. And your happiness grows with it. It’s never enough, and it won’t be, until you belong entirely to it.

xi. the slaughter

The blood slides on your tongue, your lips, and you let the acrid taste slip into your memory with tender adoration. You’ve gotten used to cold metal against your skin or the smell of gunpowder whenever it’s around, the leaden, heavy scent of it pervading the air. Bruises litter your skin, testament to the mindless violence it so cherishes, that you’ve learned to tolerate, and then love, a sign of what you’ve come to adore yourself. Loving the Slaughter is painful, red slits against your skin, ink-dark kisses and bone-breaking touches. You drink the devastation it gives you, a castaway in a sea of red water. You fall prey to its love and its hate, both different names for what really is the same thing in your love. And it takes your heart and your being, desecrates it into a tomb for empires, a cemetary of the thousands of fallen it never cared about.

xii. the desolation

You feel like Icarus, letting yourself so close to something that for sure will destroy you. You can feel the trembling heat, radiating from the barren terror of the burn you so long for, but don't let yourself have. You love a scorching desert, that can never return to you what you give it. You want to get closer, but every time the heat starts searing your skin, the dryness in your mouth, your throat, your body starts to clench your innards, your eyes burn with tears they can’t cry from the ecstasy you can’t achieve. You want more, you need more, but it’s the abandonment of cracked earth, burnt land. It’s begun seeping into your skin, into your bones, and you feel colder with each blistering touch. One day, you want to burn for love.

xiii. the buried

A chokehold touch, encompassing your entire self in what it is − you suffocate, but you know that it’s normal. It’s only what you’d expect. It’s not easy, always, to be subject to an asphyxiating love, feeling the rough earth sliding against skin as you gasp for breath. It’s the gravel you taste on your tongue, the sand in your lungs, the dust in your throat, smothering you in all it is, and you surrender to the feeling of dying in your lover’s arms. And yet you never do − it won’t let you die, and even as it gets harder to breathe, you feel all the more loved.

xiv. the end

To love the utter destruction at the end of everything, to feel the gripping fear of every soul on the planet, and yet feeling so small in the face of that shattering love, is what loving the End means. It feels like the voice of a thousand pains, of a million eternities and millennia of agony washing over you, drowning you in their endless fear, and you let it wrap you in its cold, cruel embrace. The god of all, that final fear, the End of everything, it wraps you in its arms and presses despair and ruination against your skin, with delicate lips as white as bone. Decay coats your skin, your eyes turn blind and your breath becomes shallow, and you give your life away in return for its undying love. A symbiosis, symphony for the dead. Perhaps someone might find the irony amusing, but you find your laughter captured by the eternal chill, your smile frozen, unmoving as a corpse. And maybe you are − maybe that’s what it made you into, that’s what became of you. It gave its love. You gave your life.

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lastbluetardis · 5 years

Text

Chemical Potential (5/11)

Summary: Slightly homesick and stressed about her abysmal chemistry grade, Rose Tyler meets quirky James Smith, the boy who sits in front of her in their chemistry class. They become fast friends as James makes it his personal mission to help Rose get through the semester.

Ten x Rose University AU

This chapter: ~4400 words, light teen

Notes: This was written for the lovely @thegreenfairy13 as part of the @dwsecretsanta gift exchange.

AO3 | Ch1 | Ch2 | Ch3 | Ch4 | Ch5 | Ch6 | Ch7 | Ch8 | Ch9 | Ch10 | epilogue

She was in love with James Smith.

That daunting realization infiltrated her every thought for the rest of the day. Rose was surprised her manager didn’t yell at her for being so distant during her work shift, though she was moved from the register to the produce section after she’d nearly forgotten to accept a customer’s cash and was about to let them leave without paying for their fifty-dollars’ worth of food.

Cursing to herself, Rose tried to shove all thoughts of James bloody Smith out of her head so he wouldn’t be the reason she lost her decently-paying job, the job she desperately needed. But no matter what, he kept cropping back into her thoughts. The way his hand felt in hers. The way his hair stuck out at all angles because he couldn’t seem to stop running his fingers through it. (How she wanted to run her fingers through it.) The way he wore trousers that were far too tight but gave a delicious view of his legs and bum…

“Dammit,” Rose hissed as she realized she’d been stocking various types of apples all in the same crate.

Her coworker watched her with some amusement and mercifully came over to help her sift through the mess she’d made of the apple display.

It was a relief to clock off and go home for the night.

It was not a relief, however, to go to school in the morning.

She waited nervously in their chem lecture for James to arrive, wondering how the hell she was going to keep her head once he’d plonked down beside her. Once he smiled his beautiful smile at her. Once his soothing voice told her all about what he’d gotten up to on Sunday. Once his delicious smell pervaded her senses…

But as the professor strode into the lecture hall and began speaking, there was no sign of James. Rose didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed, but soon she didn’t have time to be either of them as she took page after page of notes on the lecture of quantum mechanics.

The fifty-minute lecture flew by, and when the professor released them for the day, Rose was worried that James hadn’t shown up. She grabbed her phone to text him, but saw a text from him instead.

I caught some sort of bug. Won’t be in today.

“Oh no,” Rose typed, adding the frowny emoji. “Get well soon!”

She then chewed her lip and typed, “I missed you in class.” She sent that text before she could overthink it, then she shoved her phone deep into her jacket as though that would alleviate any embarrassment that might come when she inevitably regretted that text message.

She made her way to the library, where she would be content to spend the next two hours. She didn’t have much homework, so while a tiny voice chastised her for not using the free time to study, Rose perused the fiction section for a book to read to pass the time. It had been ages since she’d read for fun.

She got lost in the novel, barely pulling back to reality in time for her noontime class. She hastily checked out the book so she could finish it later, then she jogged across campus and snuck into the classroom just as her Art of the Renaissance professor began speaking.

Rose had forgotten all about her text to James until she got home that night and grabbed her phone to input a project deadline into her calendar app.

Two messages were waiting for her. The first had been sent promptly in reply to her own. I missed being in class too. You’re a great table mate.

The next was time-stamped thirty minutes ago. I’ve got the bloody flu. He’d sent a series of emojis, ranging from the angry cursing face to the crying face to the sick face. I probably won’t be in for the rest of the week.

Her heart clenched, not only in sympathy for him, but more selfishly that she wouldn’t see him at all until next Monday.

“That sounds awful,” she replied. “I hope you feel better soon. Drink lots of fluids. Stay hydrated. Get some rest.”

He replied instantly.

I napped all afternoon and still feel exhausted. My body hurts. Breathing hurts. Existing hurts.

“Not at all dramatic, are you?”

Have you no pity for the dying?

Rose burst into giggles.

“I highly doubt you’re dying,” she said. “But if you are, I promise I’ll give an excellent eulogy at your funeral.”

What a comfort.

How was class?

“You picked a hell of a week to get the flu,” she said. “It’s the quantum chapter.”

Crap. I’m sorry.

“Why the hell are you apologizing?”

This is a complicated unit and I’m not gonna be there this week to study with you.

“I had meant that it’s a complicated chapter for YOU to miss out on,” she said. “Though I appreciate your selflessness and chivalry in thinking about me.”

The little dots that indicated he was typing a reply popped up. Then disappeared. Then popped up again.

After a few minutes, he finally said, Oh, I’m a very quick learner. I’ll bet I could already teach this stuff.

Rose rolled her eyes. “Forget what I said about being selfless and chivalrous. You’re quite egotistical and arrogant. Not sure how your neck is strong enough to support your inflated head.”

James sent back the crying with laughter face. Then he said, In all seriousness though. If you need help, or want help, you can give me a call. Or text me. Or we can video chat. Though perhaps not today or even tomorrow. I’m quite exhausted.

“Don’t you worry about me,” she replied. “Focus on getting better. I’ll be fine.”

Okay. The offer still stands though.

But I’m about to pass out again. I’ll text you later. ‘Til then, Rose Tyler.

“Sleep well.”

oOoOo

While Rose was disappointed about James’s absence, she thought maybe it was a small blessing. It gave her a week to get over the ridiculous notion that she was in love with James, and to figure out how to force her brain to think of him as her friend.

She hoped that the longer she went without seeing him in person, the more her nerves would settle back to what they’d been before their trip to Philadelphia.

But she didn’t take into account their texts.

They spoke daily, and their conversations were rife with teasing banter that most certainly skated the line of flirting at least 99% of the time. Rose found herself looking forward to their nightly chats and was impatient to see him in person again.

The weekend finally arrived, and that Saturday, James texted, So I’m feeling loads better, and I’m not contagious anymore. Wanna meet up tomorrow and work on stuff? I’m going stir crazy sitting around my home.

“Sure,” she said, her heart thudding with the anticipation of seeing him. “I get off work at noon. Wanna meet in the library at twelve-thirty?”

Sounds good.

Rose was impatient for the rest of the weekend to go by, and when Sunday dawned, she packed her school stuff to take into work with her.

But she’d forgotten to bring more than her breakfast bagel, and by the time she’d clocked out and caught the bus to the university, she was starving.

James was waiting in the same study cubicle they always used, and she was disappointed that he hadn’t brought his usual hoard of snacks.

His face lit up when he saw her, and he jumped up from his chair. His face was a tad pale and gaunt, and he’d definitely lost a bit of weight, making his lanky frame look bonier than usual. But his eyes were bright and dancing as he skipped towards her, arms flung open.

She raised her arms just in time for him to crash into her. She clung to his shoulders as he lifted her up off her feet in a crushing hug.

“Oof,” she grunted when he gave her a tight squeeze. But it felt nice, so she returned the squeeze and buried her nose into the collar of his shirt. His scent filled her lungs, making her feel so at home.

“I missed you,” he crowed into her ear before setting her on her feet. “Feels like I haven’t seen you in years!”

“We texted every day,” she reminded him, but cursed herself when his smile slipped. She grinned at him, then bumped her hip against his. “But I missed you, too. Chemistry lecture was very lonely. I nearly moved seats to find a new table mate.”

“Rose Tyler!” His voice went high in indignation. “Am I that replaceable?”

“‘Course you are,” she drawled. At his pout, she gave him a wink. “Oh, you know you’re my favorite table mate.”

His cheeks pinkened.

“So,” she said quickly, “chemistry.”

He bobbed his head in a nod. “Chemistry. Shall we get to it?”

Rose plopped down in the seat beside him, and together, they poured over the homework sets that were due the next day.

It took nearly an hour to finish, and by the time they were done, Rose’s stomach was growling and gurgling nonstop. James had either not heard it, or pretended to not hear it. But as they slipped their finished homework into their respective folders, he said, “Y’know, I’m kind of starving. For something that isn’t soup. Wanna go grab lunch somewhere?”

“Yes please,” Rose said immediately. “I barely even ate breakfast this morning.”

“Where shall we go?” James mused as he unceremoniously stuffed his school things into his backpack. “Ooh! Wawa!”

Rose blinked. “What-what?”

James laughed. “Wawa. It’s a sort of fast-food place. You’ll see. Come on.”

He took her hand and threaded their fingers together as he guided her out of the library. They walked hand-in-hand across campus to the lot where he’d parked his car. She settled into the vehicle and let him drive her to whatever a Wawa was.

It was a petrol station.

Rose frowned at him, but he explained, “Food’s inside.”

James led her into the store front and to the kiosks where several customers were tapping away on the computer screen. They waited their turn, and when they stepped up to the computer, James said, “Just select whatever you want to order. They’ll make it, and call your number. Simple.”

He was quick with his order—he’d obviously been here before and had a favorite—but she slowly examined all the options, before building herself a chicken Caesar wrap. Rose had to admit the convenience of it was nice; she could pick out exactly what she wanted, all without even socializing with another human being.

“An introvert’s dream,” Rose said as they waited for their food.

“Indeed. I’ll have to take you to Sheetz sometime,” he said. “It’s very much like a Wawa. Both are specific to the east coast of the US, and they’ve got a bit of a rivalry going on among the locals as to which is better.”

“Which do you prefer?” Rose asked.

“I, unlike the majority of people, have no preference,” he said. “It’s all a bit ridiculous, in my opinion, but it can be entertaining to see people get up in arms about it.”

They got their lunch and headed back to the university to continue studying in preparation for the exam in three weeks.

oOoOo

The next three weeks passed in a blur. Somehow, it seemed all of her professors wanted to give their exams at the same time, and Rose frantically tried to balance all of her schoolwork on top of itself.

James was a saint, and happily worked around her schedule. When she asked if he needed any time to himself to study for his own exams, he replied simply, “I’ll study for my other classes on the days you study for yours.”

Weekends became their days to hole up in the library together and work on chemistry. Rose asked her boss for at least the afternoons off until this latest round of exams was over, and she was relieved that her boss obliged without a fuss.

The weekend before the second chemistry exam, Rose’s brain felt like mush. She’d had three other exams that week, and all she wanted to do was unplug from school. But she couldn’t, not without feeling guilty that she wasn’t working as hard as she should be.

It’s not healthy to over-work yourself, James had texted when she told him how she felt. If you want to take this weekend to recharge your batteries before the exam on Monday, that’s completely fine, Rose.

“I would if I was confident about the exam. But I don’t. I don’t know what to do. My brain is screaming at me that I’m unprepared, but it’s also screaming at me that I’m exhausted. Help.”

Maybe take Saturday to yourself? he suggested. Then we’ll bear down on Sunday?

“I need as much help as I can get. This exam MUST go better than the first one did.”

It will, he replied soothingly.

Rose huffed out a sigh and dug the heels of her palms into her tired eyes.

They did indeed meet up both days that weekend as Rose tried to cram as much information as she possible could into her strained brain. When she got home on Sunday night, she was exhausted and a little dejected. She still wasn’t confident in her knowledge of the material that would be on the exam.

But nevertheless, she went to bed early to get as much sleep as she could, and she made sure to eat a good breakfast before catching the bus into school.

The lecture hall was already packed when she got there, full of frantic students flipping through their notes. She tried to ignore them, lest their antics give her more anxiety than she already had, and she instead plopped into the chair beside James. He was slouched in his seat, his long legs stretched out in front of him, as he absently flipped his pencil end over end.

“Ready?” he asked when she’d pulled out her own pencil and a calculator.

“I’ve got no other option, do I?” she replied, her heart beginning to race with panic.

“It’ll be fine,” he said soothingly. “We’ve worked so hard at this. It’ll be fine. Just stay calm and work immediately on the problems you know how to do. Save the ones you’re uncertain with ‘til last.”

He continued his pep talk, and Rose tried to let the sound and cadence of his voice relax her as it usually did. But nothing he said helped, and soon her hands were trembling and her breakfast was a hard rock in her belly.

The professor strode into the lecture hall and barked at everyone to put their notes and phones away.

“And if I hear anybody’s phone go off during the test, they automatically get ten points knocked from their score,” she warned, scanning her eyes across everyone in the room.

Rose double checked that her phone was completely off before stuffing it into a pocket of her backpack.

When everyone was settled, the professor passed out the exams. James rested his hand on her thigh, and Rose nearly jumped out of her seat at the contact. His palm was warm through her jeans, and his thumb idly stroked her leg.

What the hell?

“Good luck, Rose,” he murmured out of the corner of his mouth, right as the professor told them to begin. He gave her leg a squeeze, then took his hand back to open the first page of his test.

Stupid bloody fucking James!

Rose took a deep breath to calm her racing thoughts as she forced her mind to focus on chemistry and the problems on the pages in front of her rather than how it had felt to have James’s hand on her thigh.

The sounds of pens and pencils scratching against paper filled the room, and Rose once more took a calming breath before she began to read her test.

The time went by in a blur of numbers and chemicals and panic. She was barely aware of James when he stood up out of his chair to hand in his exam after only a half hour.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

Rose was near tears when the professor called out that there were five minutes left, but she still had several blank pages. She blinked them away and began writing the first things that came to her mind when she read the problems.

It was both a mercy and an agony when the professor ordered them to turn in the exams. On one hand, she was done. On the other, she didn’t think it had gone well. But there was nothing she could do about it now.

Her hand and back were aching as she walked out of the lecture hall and towards the doors.

“Oi, you were just gonna leave me here?!”

She squeaked when a familiar hand wrapped around her bicep.

“James! I thought you would’ve left by now. You finished ages ago.”

“Yeah, but I wanted to wait for you. So what did you think?”

She shrugged and hummed noncommittally, but said, “If it’s all right, I’d rather not talk about it.”

“That’s fair.” He beamed. “We’re finished!” He opened up his arms for a hug, and it was second nature to her by now to lean into his chest. “No matter what, it’s finished, so you can stop worrying.”

“Well, at least for another month ‘til exam three hits.”

“Don’t be such a downer,” he said, poking her ribs. “Now what? My next class was cancelled so I’m free for the rest of the day.”

Rose thumbed behind herself to her backpack as she said, “I brought my camera. I’d planned on taking some photos of campus to help me relax from this ordeal. Wanna come with me?”

He nodded eagerly, and she linked her arm through his and walked outside. The frigid November air bit at her nose, making it sting and burn. It was a gorgeous day, otherwise. The sky was a deep, clear blue with no clouds in sight, and despite it being the beginning of November, there were still quite a few colorful leaves on the trees. They shimmered like glittering jewels in the late morning sun.

Rose breathed in deeply, inhaling the fragrance of autumn.

“This is my favorite season,” James said from beside her.

“Mine too. Everything’s beautiful. Spring is my next favorite, because everything’s so colorful and fresh.” She paused for a moment, then asked, “Does this area get much snow in the winter time? London rarely got anything more than an occasional dusting.”

“It all depends,” James said. “Last year, we got a huge blizzard at the end of January. But the year before that, we hardly got anything. Winter is fickle around here. But yeah, there are usually a few snow or ice storms. I’m sure that’ll be pretty to photograph.”

“I can’t wait,” she said. She guided him to one of the abstract statues on the edge of the walkway, and rested her backpack on the base of the statue. She rifled through her bag and gently lifted out her camera.

“Wow, that’s a beauty!”

Pride shot through Rose as she slipped the strap around her neck.

“This was a gift to myself,” she said. “When I finished my A-levels. It’s the most money I’d ever spend on myself.” She turned the camera on, and when she fiddled with a few settings, she pointed it towards James. “Smile.”

He grinned, and her heart clenched at the sheer joy on his face as she froze that expression in time.

Pleased with the photo, she turned around and took a photo of a wooden bench, its paint peeling from age.

“Let’s get higher up the mountain,” James said. “There’s a perfect view from the physics building.”

Their hike up the campus was slow as Rose snapped photos of anything that snagged her artistic interest. Some photos were crap, and she would delete those later, but she was pleased with other ones.

James was more than happy to model for her, and even when he wasn’t striking a pose, she managed to get a few candid shots of him. Those were her favorite, when she caught him unawares. She loved capturing his essence as he gestured wildly with his arms, deep in a rattling explanation of something. As his tall, lithe body moved fluidly as he walked. As the chill air frosted in front of his lips whenever he breathed. As the sun sent flares of red and gold through his rich brown hair.

She fell a little more in love with him as she photographed everything that made him James.

Thankfully, he seemed to be utterly unaware.

“Look at that, Rose Tyler!”

They’d made it to the physics building, an old stone building that looked more like a castle than an academic building. She ignored the view in favor of photographing the beautiful architecture.

But when she turned around, her lungs hitched. The view was perfect. The university sprawled before them, and beyond it was the sleepy little city it was nestled within. The buildings shone in the brilliant sunshine, and all around, trees were shot through with reds and yellows and browns.

“Not bad, eh?” James said smugly.

“I suppose it’s all right.” But her tone fell short of indifference at the sheer awe she felt in this moment. She turned to him and smiled. “Thank you for bringing me up here. Even if my thighs are killing me.”

“Imagine hiking this path every day,” he said with an exaggerated shudder.

Rose turned away from him to snap a few photos of the view. Then she played with a few settings, and said, “Can I take a photo of you?”

“You haven’t asked to take any of the other billion photographs you’ve been snapping of me.”

So he had noticed. Oops.

She just shrugged and backed away a few steps to get the best angle for the shot.

oOoOo

That night, Rose was inordinately pleased with all of the photographs she’d taken of campus. She’d moved everything to her laptop, and was sprawled on her sofa in her pajamas as she sifted through the ones she wanted to keep and edit.

She found herself staring at the photos of James more than she probably should have. But she couldn’t help herself. He was beautiful, and he really made for a wonderful photography model. His entire being was so expressive, from the way he held his body to his multitude of facial expressions.

Just as she was saving her work for the night, her phone buzzed. James.

So… I had a thought.

Rose smirked at her phone, and waited for him to continue. But after five minutes and still nothing, she asked, “And are you going to share this thought or were you just making a generic statement that you do, indeed, think?”

Smartarse.

So we just took an exam.

(Which I’m sure you nailed, btw.)

And we’ve been working so hard that I thought we should take some time to relax. Not put too much time into studying as much.

Rose’s stomach sank. Was he trying to tell her he wanted a break from her? Had she become too clingy and desperate? Oh, God, did he realize she was head over heels in love with him and he was deeply uncomfortable with her blatant flirtation?

She didn’t know what to text, because her brain was empty except for the crushing mortification and sadness.

A minute later her phone dinged.

Tomorrow’s election day. And I have a little tradition for election nights.

I order pizza and drink wine and play some sort of game whilst watching the results.

The band around her chest slowly eased, and Rose waited to see if he was actually implying what she thought he was implying.

So, Rose Tyler… how would you like to have a sleepover?

A sleepover? A sleepover. Oh. Oh!

Her cheeks warmed.

We could crash at my house and gorge ourselves on pizza and… hang out.

Rose stared at the little ellipses in front of ‘hang out’. Was that supposed to be a euphemism?

God, she wished she were in the same room as him to get any clues at all about his intentions from his body language. Was he all cocky smiles and wiggling eyebrows, or was he stuttering over his words and red-faced as he made a mess of his hair? Did he mean for them to simply hang out, or to… hang out and have a sleepover?

Rose didn’t think James would be the kind of bloke to ask her to come over for a mindless fuck, but…

Only if you want to, of course. I’ve got a spare bedroom you can crash in. But if you’re not comfortable spending the night with me, I totally get it. I could drive you home after the results. Or we could hang out at your place and I’ll leave after the results are over.

Oh, blimey! Or you don’t even have to say yes! I’m sure you’ve got loads of other assignments to catch up on. If you wanted a quiet night to yourself that is totally 100000% okie dokie just let me know.

Rose giggled at her daft James. Of course he wasn’t asking for a one-night stand. Ever the gentlemen. She was ashamed that a tiny piece of her brain even considered the notion that James would ask for such a thing.

Now, about his offer. What did he mean by it? Was this something special? Like a date?

Or was she simply reading too much into this, and it was just James being James, asking her to hang out as friends.

A mate-date, she remembered fondly.

She had to admit, it would be nice to relax with James without the stress of chemistry. Even if she wished it was an actual date-date instead of a mate-date, she couldn’t say no to spending time with the boy who had inexplicably become one of her closest friends.

“Pizza and hanging out with my best mate?” Rose typed, her chest warming with anticipation. “Sounds like a great night to me.”

His reply came immediately in the form of five grinning emojis.

#ficandchips #dwfic #doctorroseprompts #thegreenfairy13 #doctor who #ten x rose #ten x rose au #university au #my fic #chemical potential

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vaderssidechick · 6 years

Text

FICLET: The Worth of Tears (A Companion Piece to the Dark Angel/Chronicles of House Vader Series)

Howdy Y’all!

This is really just more-or-less a writing exercise to help me explore Vader’s thoughts and feelings for Lylla. I was VERY inspired by this piece on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/15280773

GREAT one-shot, very dark, and is a unique take on Vader’s inner life. I highly recommend it (@perfecttimemachinestranger, I think you’d really dig it).

This is the first time I have ever written Vader in 1st person. Like I said, it’s really meant to be just an exercise, to help me build up some writing muscle. I’ve been feeling really stuck, unmotivated, and untalented recently. Writing a quick one-shot kinda helps me get my head right. It is NOT a finished product, just a drabble more or less.

Enjoy!

* * *

Synopsis: Vader’s thoughts and memories of Lylla on the Death Star, and things he cannot bring himself to say to her.

I cause you pain. I do it because I love you. Because your pain is delicious, euphoric, and I drink it like wine. Because I am the only one in the Galaxy who can cause you suffering now. No one else can, and no one else would dare. They would die by your hand, but more likely, they would die by mine. Your tears belong to me and me to only, my beautiful Lylla. My dragon, my bride, my dark angel.

I knew it that day. I do not surprise easily, nuyak kranjen, but I did that day. When I sensed you in that hangar bay of the Death Star. For the briefest moment I thought I had sensed another Sith, for I had never felt such rage, such buried despair in another being save for myself. But then I looked down and saw you. You towered over everyone around you, in your worn, cheaply-made corset and your ragged cloak and another’s boots a size too small for you. Yes, I felt that pain too, as well as your lamentable pride in having been been chosen to service DS officers. To have your body used and abused by the Empire’s finest was, at that moment, the pinnacle of your existence. Oh, my dark nova. You had no inkling of your potential greatness.

I had seen thousands of women many considered beautiful over the last two decades. They were nothing more in my eyes than the compilation of the genes that humans find physically appealing, and their attributes meant nothing to me. Many foolishly thought they could persuade me, with their supposed allure and their offers of sex, to spare their lives. Needless to say, they never did. But you Lylla, with your scarlet hair, your pale skin and your aura as black as a Tatooine horizon at midnight… you possessed a beauty I had never encountered before. A preternatural beauty. A Sithly beauty.

You dared look up at me, the only one in that hangar who did. You didn’t know of me, did you? Had you never heard the tales? Had you even known my name? I do not know, even now, for I have never asked. But when I looked at your face, I saw no fear there, no terror. I saw awe in the part of your lips. I heard the quickness of your breaths and the pounding of your pulse through the Force. I saw wonder in your eyes, wonder of me, as well as...interest? No one ever looked at me like that. Not since before… I became this.

But you did. And you still do, my sa’thraxxx.

I immediately had you followed. Watched. You performed your work dutifully, and played your role of the eager seductress well. Exceptionally well. Until you thought no one was watching.

I questioned the guard posted at the library. The one you solicited with the offer of oral gratification for clearance. Unlike all the others before him, he refused you, as per my orders; had he agreed to your offer, my Lylla, I would have killed him where he stood before me. He told me how you had gone from seductive to desperate, how you pleaded with him and even offered him credits to allow you in. When he refused again, he told me he saw your lip quiver before you bit it down and hurried away.

Security footage showed me where you went afterward. To a seldom-used viewing lounge a level down. I watched you light a glimmerspice joint, in spite of such actions being against regulations, and take a long, slow drag. You sank into a seat, ran pale fingers through your bobbed red hair and stared out the port. You turned your face away from the camera, but your body told me everything. The slump in your shoulders, the mournful bent of your head, the way you held the cigarette down between your knees, all betraying your hopelessness, your defeat. Caused by my orders to bar you from the library.

It was the first time I caused you pain. Even before I met you. I will never forget it nuyak kranjen, and will always cherish it.

What was there, Lylla, in that library that you so grieved? I pondered for a moment that you might be a Rebel spy. But your records showed no evidence of such an affiliation. Indeed, the examination vid conducted for serving onboard the Death Star assessed that you were wholly loyal to the Empire. That you were grateful for its protections, and that you had never eaten or slept so well once the Empire seized you from Malifino’s estate. The lie detectors embedded in the room confirmed this as well.

I saw you drop your head, and your shoulders tremble. You had begun to cry. But then you bolted out of your seat and slapped yourself across the face. Again. And again.

I understood, Lylla. How inflicting physical pain can suffocate a deeper one. But there were other ways to do so, my girl. The pain you inflict needn’t be your own to ease your own. I could teach you.

You struck yourself several more times until you panted like a thirsting animal, but you no longer cried. You cheated me even as you beguiled me. I wanted to see you cry. I coveted those tears, because I knew I had caused them even if you did not. I wished to feel them drip on my cheeks as I tangled my fingers into your hair and forced your weeping eyes near mine. I longed to taste your pain. Would it be like mine, bitter and burning? Or would it be sweet on my tongue and in my mind, coming from a delicious creature as you?

You straightened, tall as a willin tree and as graceful. You inhaled your cigarette, blew the smoke through your nose. The smoke curled around you, glowing in the faint light from the stars outside. You smoothed the black mesh body sleeve down your long body, unashamed of its indecency. I saw you wipe your eyes and stare out into space once more. I could not hear your mind, but I could see your face again. I saw hatred stiffen the lines of your mouth and tenacity harden your eyes.

In that moment, I craved you. To thrust into you, crush you in my arms and under my weight, to devour you, to feel you. I wanted to hurt you, to hear your sweet cries in my ears. But I did not want to break you. No Lylla, quite the opposite. I wanted to experience you, because only suffering reveals the true self. Would you crumble under my strength? Or would you challenge me, fight me, even knowing you could never win? Or would you enjoy me, as women could with men? Would you use your prowess and share your passion with me? Perhaps even… kiss me? Could you see me like that, Sa’thraxxx?

As simply a man?

Did you never wonder why, the next time you tried to enter the library, you were allowed access without refusal? Without having to offer any favors for it? I do not doubt you did, but you didn’t know it was I who had cleared you. I wanted to see what it was that you wanted so desperately in there. Why you would offer yourself in such a degrading way.

I had had the cameras set on the most comfortable seating area in the library. I was pleased that you took it. I had ordered the guard to allow you to stay as long as you wanted so I could witness what you read. I watched you rush through the aisles of cylinders, grabbing without looking at them, until your arms were full. You spilled the cylinders onto the viewer table, and I perused the titles. I realized then that there was no one piece of information you were seeking, no one subject that interested you, but a plethora of texts and literature. You had, truly, just wanted to read. To learn. Anything. Everything.

Then you sat at your station, shoved one into the viewer, and started reading. The first cylinder was a history of the Goroth Alpha system, the first history ever recorded by a sentient Galactic race. You read it for over three hours, even paging back and reading certain parts again. I watched the subtle changes in your face, the way you raised your brows and exhaled incredulous breaths at various passages. I saw you devour it with your eyes. The second cylinder was, of all ridiculous things in a military library, a romantic novella. Before I realized it, I chuckled with you at the preposterous plot and inane antics of the protagonists. I watched you shake your head and cringe even as you laughed at the foolishness.

The third and last for that evening was a strategic history of the Battle of Salient, led by none other than Tarkin himself. This was when I watched you with the utmost attention and first realized the full potential of your intellect. You were entranced by it, entirely glued to the text. I saw you curse and mimic the wish to have something to write on, to take notes. Instead, you just read a passage over and over again, memorizing it. I saw you want to understand, to know the mind and maneuvers behind such a bloodbath of a campaign.

I was already fully aware that you were Tarkin’s favorite whore aboard, having received the reports from my spies about your visits to his quarters. Tarkin had had a number of lovers over the span of the Empire; Admiral Natasi Daala was one, Ysanne Isaard was said to be another. Even Orson Krennic was rumored to have succumbed to him at one point. But a conscripted pleasure slave of no rank, of no influence and with no formal education, one not even of the elite Imperial courtesan caste? I did not fully understand why Tarkin would have deigned sully himself with you until that moment.

You fascinated him too. You challenged him. He had seen your intelligence, your drive. He even conversed with you. He saw it in you before I did. And called you back to have you, again and again. I became angry, my girl. I seethed with jealousy for the first time in twenty years. Because I know Tarkin. I know his need to control. He wanted to tame you, to break you.

I wanted to refine you. Forge you.

It was then I decided to summon you to me. But not that night. I watched your eyes droop and wander after hours of reading the viewer. You yawned and set your high-boned cheek into your hand. No, I wanted you refreshed. Collected. Ready to meet with me.

You arrived the next day, dressed to entice me. While you wore it well, the outfit was far too suggestive for my tastes. Perhaps common men found such show of skin tantalizing, but I did not. I would dress you differently. Elegantly. Modestly, for then only I would know what you truly looked like underneath. Nevertheless, it was a provocative ensemble, obviously one of your own choosing and not Imperial issue. I knew then that you did nothing without purpose, even in dressing. But what was your purpose, kranjen? What was it that you wanted from me that you wore such a thing in my presence?

The answer came easily enough, from your lips and through the Force, without guile or deception. You wanted me. Not my power nor influence nor favor. Just me. As fiercely as I wanted you. Then you did challenge me, insolently tossed a verbal barb back at me. I knew then you did not fear me. My loins tightened and burned for the first time in years, I grew hard under my codpiece. I didn’t know I still could. I walked away from you, because if I didn’t, I would have taken you right there. Pinned you against the viewport, torn your salacious clothing, buried myself inside of you, felt you tremble in my arms. I wanted to make you come, over and over again through the Force, and have you beg for my mercy. But I did not act upon the impulse, because if I did…I might have killed you.

So instead, I set you to a task. The first of many. To prove to me that you were deserving of my desire, and of my mercy. I wished to see if you were worthy to be spared before I destroyed the Death Star and everyone on it. You had shown me your intelligence, your strength, and your will.

It was time to show me your cruelty.

I knew it was there, simmering under your cool poise. Admiral Motti’s aide was one of my spies, and her reports indicated that his… tastes… were well entrenched in the sadomasochistic. And that you were the only pleasure slave onboard who could satisfy him. This was proven fact when at a meeting of the Moffs, Motti took his seat slowly. Carefully. And winced when he settled in. A sound came out of my vocoder, garbled and diffused, that no one in the room recognized or comprehended as laughter. What had you used on him, Lylla? A strap? A whip? Your bare hands? Your teeth? When I tasked you with interrogating the Rebel prisoner, I made sure you were provided with a wide choice of implements.

That prisoner had been close to breaking as it was under my own hands. But just as he was about to crack, I exited the cell and left him. For you. And you did not disappoint, my scarlet star. With murder in your eyes and glee in your soul, you slashed that barbed flogger down the boy’s back, your lips curled back in a drooling snarl. You showed me yet another part of yourself.

The killer.

As I watched you tease, mutilate and toy with that Rebel pup through the cell’s camera, I sent a message to the Imperial Registrar of Citizenship from the detection block’s computer stating that Malifino’s tax debt had been repaid, to release you from Imperial indenture, and to grant you full Imperial citizenship. Seconds later, I received the response:

To the Illustrious Lord Darth Vader, Supreme Commander of the Imperial Forces:

In order to complete your request to grant Imperial Comfort Thrall ID 6790237-1 full Imperial citizenship, we require a complete name. Please respond.

I glanced at the monitor again, and saw you caress the boy’s face and coo in his ear just before you gripped his genitals and twisted with all of your strength. As his screams spilled from the speakers in the detention control center, I found myself typing this name:

Lylla Sa’thraxxx. I presume that is sufficient, Director?

The response seconds later: Affirmative, Lord Vader. Imperial Comfort Thrall ID Number 6790237-1 is now officially named Lylla Sa’thraxxx and is granted full Imperial citizenship. Glory to the Empire.

Someday I will tell you why I chose that name, my dark nova. That day is not today.

When you emerged from the prisoner’s cell, you were breathless, flushed, and still held the bloody flogger in your hand. How proud you were, and how you craved my approval. I gave it to you gladly. As well as my arm to take. Your shock did not escape my notice. I saw your eyes widen and glisten, and I smiled under my mask. I had caused you delicious tears again Sa’thraxxx, and even if they were not born of pain, they were for me nonetheless.

Do you understand now, my Dark Bride of the Sith? From that moment on, the cruelty of the galaxy, of existence itself was no longer worthy of your tears.

Only I am worthy of your tears.

#sw drabble #dark angel series #ao3 #glory to the empire #vader #lylla #fanfic #not beta'd #random keyboard pounding #vader may be a dacrophiliac

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strawberryaziraphale · 7 years

Note

Sherlolly and number 7

7. fake relationship au

| also on ao3 | the prompt list |

this is one big cheesy, cliché yuckfest but honestly #sherlolly mood

It started with flowers and chocolates, sentanonymously to her workplace; bouquets piled high with her favourite flowersfrom daisies to hibiscus and the finest Belgian chocolate. There may have beenno distinctive indication as to the sender but Molly was no fool. This was why,when Scotland Yard’s finest arrived that morning, she was huddled over a microscope,running all sorts of tests on a halved chocolate truffle.

“Everything alright, Molly?”

The pathologist turned to the Detective Inspector,a wild look in her eyes, “Greg, thank God. Look, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’timportant. Could you run a check for me?”

Sherlock and John, who’d taken up position atthe consulting detective’s preferred microscope, paused to listen as Greg tookout a notebook.

“Yeah, sure, what’s their name?”

“Pete Truman. He…was arrested six years agoand was serving time for assault in Leicester. I just…I want to know if he’sout yet,” the way she was wringing her hands had Greg biting his lip, pullinghis phone from his pocket.

“I’ll run him through the system,” he saidbefore leaving the lab, his phone pressed to his ear as he spoke to hiscolleagues.

An awkward silence descended on the room.Molly turned back to her results, finding the chocolates clean; she wasn’tsurprised if she was honest. Paranoia. John was the first to address the elephantin the room.

“Er, an ex, Molly?”

After a moment, Molly took a deep breath andfaced her friends – it was for the best that she explained, they’d only worry.That, or Pete’s mangled corpse would end up on her morgue slab if she’d keptthe information to herself. Who knew when it came to them two.

“He was my lab partner in Uni. I thought hewas my friend but…that wasn’t how he saw things. When I told him I was movingto London for work, he was hell bent on following me,” as Molly explained, sherecalled her relationship with Pete – how overly sweet he was, how reluctant hewas to let her out of his sight. Towards the end, he’d virtually become her shadow.She continued, “I told him he’d misunderstood and he turned nasty. He gotdrunk, trashed my flat and got into a pretty vicious bar fight. After he gotsent down, he promised he’d find me and ‘make things right’. I haven’t seen himin years but if he’s the same person…he’d never have forgotten. He was neverviolent to me,” she hastened to add at the look on their faces; the morgue slabending was looking more likely the more she spoke. She ran a hand through her hair,“I can’t go through all that again. What am I going to tell him?”

“Tell him to sod off,” John nearly shouted,gesturing angrily, “you don’t owe him anything.”

Molly shrugged, “I’ve tried. He’s not the sortof man you say no to.”

“Tell him you have a boyfriend.”

Both Molly and John swivelled to stare insurprise at Sherlock; the two of them had almost forgotten he was there. He washuddled over his microscope, working on his latest case – Molly had simplyassumed her tedious problems were beneath him.

Shooting a confused glance at the army doctor,Molly answered, “I’ve tried. He never believes me.”

Silence fell once again, the detectiveapparently delving into his mind palace. John and Molly shared another glance,the former shrugging briefly. Minutes passed until, finally, Sherlock openedhis eyes and rummaged in his pocket, retrieving his phone.

“Angelo’s. Tonight, eight. Can you managethat?”

“Erm…” Molly blinked, taken aback by thesudden change of direction the conversation had taken, “why? What do you mean?”

Suddenly, he was on his feet and at her side,smiling almost triumphantly at her, “well…” in a matter of seconds, Sherlockhad cupped her neck and leaned down to kiss her tenderly, capturing the moment onhis phone with his free hand. Swallowing hard, Molly opened her eyes to findSherlock smirking at her, “you have a boyfriend.”

He swept away, leaving her gobsmacked…not thatshe was complaining. Not at all. John, however, took slightly longer torecover; he quickly closed his mouth and awkwardly shuffled after his friend,wondering what the hell had gotten into him.

Molly couldn’t stop staring at the Twitterpost Sherlock had made after the bizarre snogging incident at Bart’s. The image– on his account under the handle @consulting_detectiveSH – was accompanied withthe simple caption ‘smitten’ followedby an emoji of a heart. He’d even tagged her, @barts_mhooper, and added the affectionatehashtags bestsnog and workbreak. Smiling, Molly placed herphone in her bag and looked around the restaurant – happy diners milled about,chatting and enjoying their meals. Angelo’s staff flitted between tables,filling orders and conversing with customers.

Molly glanced at the door nervously, taking aswig of her glass of wine; she’d arrived early, having rushed home after hershift, changed into a simple red dress and hurried out. Sherlock was yet toarrive, or Pete for that matter, and she just hoped the former would make itbefore the latter. Thankfully, five minutes later, the detective strolledinside, with Rosie Watson balancing on his hip.

“Sorry I’m late,” he was saying, placing Rosieopposite her Aunt; the youngster looked pleased to see her, if a little tired.Molly was about to greet him in return when the coat came off; it wastremendously unfair that Sherlock Holmes managed to look mouth-watering atevery opportunity. He sat close to her, close enough to rumble into her ear, “anysign?”

Molly swallowed, finding it immenselydifficult to concentrate, “n-not yet.”

Rosie, who’d been contentedly sucking herthumb, pulled a menu closer and perused the options; it didn’t matter that she couldn’tunderstand the writings, Angelo had her usual order of bitesize spaghetti bolognesememorised. Molly was busy watching the windows, studying passing taxis for thefamiliar blond hair and- and…

“Sherlock…” Molly sighed breathlessly, her visiongoing blurry as Sherlock continued to suck at her neck in the most heavenly way,only humming his acknowledgement into her skin. She forced herself to focus, “w-whatare you doing?”

He mumbled something about keeping upappearances or having to make things look genuine, Molly didn’t really care.She just didn’t want him to stop. Somewhere at the back of her mind, she knewit might help if their intended target was on the receiving end of thespectacle. It didn’t take much for that thought to disappear for good, Sherlocknipping at the spot below her ear to be exact. It took all of Molly’s willpowernot to moan, or slide her hand up any higher from wear it was resting on hisknee.

Not even the clearing throat of Angelo’s headwaiter was enough to stop the detective’s actions, “would you like to…orderanything Mr. Holmes?”

“S’getti!” Rosie exclaimed delightedly,giggling as the waiter winked and made a gesture of disgust at the nauseatingdisplay of her aunt and uncle.

“I-I think you’ve made your point,” Mollyreplied in a voice that definitely didn’t sound like her own. Rosie waswatching them curiously, sipping from her glass of orange juice the waiter haddelivered. Sherlock finally removed his lips from her skin, raising an eyebrow.

“Do you want me to stop?”

NO!

“I have work tomorrow,” she said lamely, herhand still firmly in place on his knee; Sherlock merely chuckled and resumedhis previous ministrations as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

They were interrupted yet again not tenminutes later by the arrival of Pete, a tall, skinny, balding ex-con, a far cryfrom the long-haired blond student Molly knew in Uni. The woman on his arm wasshorter with should-length red hair, her eyebrows raised as she viewed the performanceSherlock was reluctant to cease. He had no choice when Molly stood to hug heruncomfortable looking former friend.

“It’s good to see you, Molly,” Pete smiledgenuinely, holding her hands gently between his own. He looked well and not atall what Molly had been expecting at all. He glanced at the neck-sucker and thebored child, smiling, “…looks like we’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

They took their seats opposite, forcing Rosieto shuffle round and hide shyly behind the elbow of her uncle. Pete introducedthe woman as his fiancée, Martha Kirk; they’d met through the prison’s pen palsystem and struck up a relationship almost immediately. Relieved didn’t beginto describe how Molly felt.

“I’m so happy for you, Pete.”

The man smiled at his lady, intertwining theirhands before looking back at his former crush, “so, come on, what about you andyour…” he briefly glanced at the neck-sucker, who appeared in deep thought, “husband?Newlyweds if I ever saw it.”

Molly bit her lip, preparing to come clean, “well,not exactly…”

“Three years strong, actually,” Sherlock pipedup, linking fingers with Molly, meeting her gaze and brushing away a strand ofhair for good measure. He kissed her knuckles, adding softly, “everyday feelslike the first with Molly.”

Molly was sure her eyes were as wide assaucers when Sherlock had pressed his lips to her hand, but his final words hadrendered her completely speechless. There was something about him that told herhe meant it. Before she could properly function and tell him she felt the same,Martha reached over patting their still joined hands.

“Never lose that, love. It’s so rare.”

Sherlock caught Rosie’s eye and noticed theyoungster smirking at him as if she’d just won a bet; knowing her father, sheprobably had. At that moment, holding Molly’s hand as the waiter took theirorders, he couldn’t find it within himself to care.

“We didn’t have to lie to them,” Molly wassaying as they strolled down the street, clutching Sherlock’s coat tighteraround her shoulders. Sherlock said nothing, balancing his sleeping nieceagainst his chest. Molly breathed in his scent, smiling to herself, “he’sgetting married, right? It’s pretty clear he’s not interested in me in theslightest.”

“Mmm,” was the only thing he said and Mollyvowed to drop the subject until they’d reached Baker Street.

She was determined not to leave withoutanswers. They’d had a surprisingly pleasant evening, swapping stories with Peteand Martha, laughing and drinking like old friends. The thought and effortSherlock had put into each little detail of their supposedly fake relationshipwas far too detailed for her to simply forget about. He’d covered everythingfrom his crime scene proposal, private wedding and even the birth of theirnot-daughter, Rosie, who was thankfully fast asleep against her uncle’s arm bythen. When they’d reached Baker Street and handed Rosie back to her long-sufferingfather, Molly accepted Sherlock’s offer of a nightcap. Once safely inside, shedecided to have it out with him.

“Are you going to tell me what all that wasreally about?”

He stepped closer, removing the glass of winefrom her grasp, replacing them on the coffee table, “I think you know perfectlywell, don’t you?”

“Every day feels like the first…” she repeatedbreathlessly as he tugged her close, resting his forehead against hers.

“Always.”

#sherlolly #mollock #thejonderettegirl #I liked this until I hit post. isn't that always the way XD #my writing #answered asks

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angstmongertina · 7 years

Text

9. Strings (Inktober 2017)

I’m starting to think I should just resign myself to being a day behind for a while longer, especially since my ideas keep expanding out of my control. Like, I made Jihyun cry. Again. (Incidentally, I noticed once i finished most of this that there’s a prompt for “instrument” so I suppose I kind of fucked up and need to think of something new then. Maybe a serenade, maybe a duet. We’ll see. ;D)

Disclaimer: I has been a few years since I last touched my violin and I have no idea what it’s like to pick up one that hasn’t been played in so long, so I made my best guess. :P

Here’s a link to the piece she played if you’re curious!

Spoilers for V’s route! (It’s in the tags, but I figure this one’s big enough that I should mention it here as well.)

AO3 Link || Masterpost

The violin Eunbyeol finds lying in the closet is a beautiful instrument, far too valuable for where it’s being stored. She frowns as she unzips the hard case, brushing her fingers lightly over the strings and wincing as they vibrate, out of tune and dissonant.

But even in spite of that, she can hear the quality of the sound, knows that it must be very finely crafted, and stands back up with the intention to ask Jihyun about it before remembering that he has gone out. Instead, she takes it out, holding it in her left hand and again plucks at the strings, listening to the discord and, more importantly, to the potential. It is enough so that she cannot resist the urge to bring it to the small, upright piano that Jihyun purchased as a hobby for when he needs a break from his art.

Naturally, he takes to music like he does to what seems like anything related to art: with aplomb. It's almost enough to make anyone jealous, or would be if he weren't so endearingly modest about his own capabilities.

Nonetheless, ten years of violin lessons growing up have not been completely lost on her as she settles on the piano bench, fingers finding the half-remembered d-minor chord, and she begins to tune. The strings are old, nearly brittle with age, but another inspection of the case reveals new ones, purchased recently. They are not quite the same professional quality, but certainly carefully selected, and she changes them with a careful hand before returning to her tuning.

After several more minutes, she nods. The strings are still stretching but for now… She runs her thumb along the strings, listening to the familiar ring of the notes with satisfaction. For now, this will do.

The bow, too, is old but very fine. She discovers a worn piece of rosin, tucked with care into a pocket, and drags the bow across, watching as the pale yellow hairs cover in white dust. They will need to be replaced at some point but this should do in the meantime.

Rising to her feet, she finishes tuning by ear, making the final touches before she is satisfied. Each fifth sounds with richness, filling the room with warmth, and her smile only widens as she runs through some scales. The strings bite into the soft pads of her fingertips and she knows she'll have callouses in the morning, but it is nothing to the beautiful sound that fills the air, as full and golden as the afternoon sunshine. If this is what it sounds like after what must be years of neglect, she can't imagine what it must have sounded like at its best.

She has never played a professional instrument before but this must be what it feels like.

Sufficiently warmed up, or at least as much as she can be given that she hasn't played in years, she moves to the window and waits, the bow resting lightly on the strings as she considers what she remembers. Something warm, romantic...

Perhaps there is music with the case?

She returns to the closet and rifles through the large cloth bag still lying on the carpet. Inside, she finds pages of sheet music, yellow with age but still legible. Vivaldi, Kreisler, Bach...

Beethoven.

Without a music stand, she contents herself with using the piano, putting down the sheet music and flipping it open to find the two romances. Pencil marks adorn the pages, highlighting passages and circling tempo markings. Angry slashes and gentle reminders, lasting imprints of the last person to peruse the music.

Her hand settles into the appropriate position on the fingerboard before she even consciously decides which piece to play. The notes are awkward at first, the double-stops fumbling and out of tune, but her fingers remember more than her brain does, and she finds herself standing, taking occasional glances at the music when muscle memory fails her.

It isn't until she finishes with a flourish that she realizes she has company; sometime during her performance, Jihyun has returned home, and she carefully sets the violin back down before rushing to his side. “I'm sorry I didn't hear you get ba—” She cuts herself off as soon as she gets close enough to see the tears sparkling on his cheeks. “Jihyun? What's wrong?”

He laughs shakily, swiping at his face with one hand. “I… The violin…”

“Oh, I'm sorry! I just found it in the closet and you weren't home to ask and…”

She snaps her mouth shut when he shakes his head. “No, I'm glad. It… I let it sit for far too long. I'm glad it still sounds good. I just…”

“Jihyun.” She waits until he's looking at her, instead of through her, and takes his hand, pulling him to the couch where she sits beside him. “This violin… It’s yours?”

“No. Well, yes, it is now but… I never played it. I never learned.” His fingers reach out as if to ghost over the wood before he withdraws them and takes her hand, clutching it tightly. “I… My mother… I don't believe I ever told you… She was Yeona Park.”

“The professional violinist who lost her hearing after an accident?”

The hint of a sad smile crosses his face. “Yes. I suppose you must have heard of her, since you play. I… She stopped playing after she lost her hearing, as you know. She always just kept her instrument put away. And then… the fire…”

“Jihyun, you don't—”

She cuts herself off as he takes a deep breath. “No, I should… I want you to know.” In spite of his words, he says nothing for a long while, his fingers vice-like around her own. “You may have heard that she died when our house caught on fire?”

Instead of saying anything, she simply nods, shifting until her shoulder is pressed against his, as warm and comforting as she can be.

“I… She shouldn't have. She went back to save me. She… By then, she wasn't living in the main house, hadn't been for a long time. But she saw that I hadn't made it out… So she... She went back. I hadn't seen her since I told her I never wanted to see her again and she… She died saving me…”

Even though he doesn't say it, she can hear the question in his agony, in the voice that cracks and threatens to break with every word. Why?

“She loved you,” she says, very softly. “What you told her in a moment of anger doesn’t change that, and she knew it. And…” She hesitates, squeezing his hands tighter until wet turquoise eyes meet hers. “And I think she would be happy to know that you kept this, and proud at everything you've done. You're keeping her legacy alive, Jihyun.”

For one, long, moment, he says nothing and she wonders if she has overstepped her bounds before his face crumples. Silently, she wraps her arms around him as he buries his face into the crook of her neck, shoulders shaking with the force of his grief. She feels more than hears the apologies murmured against her skin, but she knows that they are not for her, not now, and she cannot help but wonder if this is the first time he has ever let himself grieve for the woman whom he had been almost ashamed to have loved.

Eunbyeol has never met his father and knows almost as little about him, but she has never been so inclined to dislike somebody on principle in her life.

She’s not sure how much time has passed before he pulls away, eyes red-rimmed but soft and with a gentle, if watery smile. “Thank you, Eunbyeol.”

“I said nothing that isn’t true, Jihyun.”

“Nonetheless… I needed that. Thank you. Truly.”

At that, she softens. “Then of course.” She shifts to press a kiss to his cheek. “I love you, you know.”

“I know. And I love you too.”

For several more moments, they sit in silence, before she gets up, wiping the violin off carefully and storing it back into its case. “Here,” she says, holding it out to him.

To her surprise, he pushes her hand away. “No, keep it. I think…” He pauses, as if searching for the right words. “I think she would rather it be played than kept away as it was. And I don’t think I could part with it to anyone who would respect it, or who she would respect, as much as you.”

“I…” She coughs, clearing a suddenly tight throat. “Thank you, Jihyun. It would be an honor.”

#V's route #V's route spoilers #V route #Jihyun Kim #Mystic Messenger #MysMes #Tina writes stuff.#Tina plays MysMes.#my sun my stars #otp: a new muse #Tina's Writer Inktober

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justalittlebluetiefling · 7 years

Text

Chapter 51: Sometimes I Can’t See Myself

Rating: T Fandom: The 100 Pairing: Bellamy x Clarke Chapter: 51/68 Word Count: 3512 Words

Chapter Summary: The one where Bellamy tries to be supportive.

A/N: This chapter didn’t go at all where I intended, but it felt like an important subject to at least touch on. Send me questions if you have them. I’m happy to chat about it. I’m sorry it took me so long to get this chapter out. The next one’s finished pending edits, though, so I’ll work on that tomorrow!

Also on AO3; Start from the beginning on AO3

It had been two and a half weeks and Clarke was tired of crying.

It was easy to ignore her feelings during class. It would have been nice if she still had the MCATs to study for, but her regular homework was almost enough of a distraction on its own. Most of the time, she made it through her shifts at the clinic without incident and it was easier to shut down her emotions when Octavia was home (and distracting by proxy).

But the nights? They were the worst. After two months of sleeping next to Bellamy and almost four months next to Lexa, she had adjusted to sleeping next to someone on a fairly regular basis. Instead, half of her bed was cold and empty. When she tried sleeping in the middle, it made her feel worse. In the middle, she was surrounded by the cold and empty spaces. She ended up plugging in her old night light, because total darkness was too suffocating. Sometimes she cried, but a lot of the time, she just lay there wondering why.

Why couldn’t Lexa try harder with her friends?

Why didn’t Lexa trust her?

Why didn’t she believe in love?

Clarke wasn’t sure she believed in love after everything. It was hard to convince herself it didn’t exist, though, with the friends that she had. It was easier to try to push them away. Try being the key word. It was easy to ignore text messages, but impossible to avoid a roommate. When she stopped answering texts, her friends just texted O instead. When they all gave up on texting her and just asked O how she was doing, it didn’t feel like much of a victory.

Still, Octavia refused to shoulder the burden that was Clarke Griffin alone and recruited Wells to try to convince her to leave the apartment. Clarke was annoyed and didn’t feel ready to go out, so she may have yelled at him a little louder than she intended. It did get the message across, though.

He shoved his hands into his pockets at the door and turned around to frown at her. “Clarke, I know you’re not okay. I can stay if you want company.”

“I don’t want yours.”

He winced and exhaled heavily. “Okay. Message received.”

The guilt caught up when he finally turned the doorknob. “Wells, wait!” He hesitated. “Look, I’m sorry. I—”

“Clarke, it’s no big deal. We can do the apology thing when you’re feeling better.” He turned back to give her one more sad smile. “You know my love can be bought with coffee.”

He left and she was alone. Again. It wasn’t much of a victory at all.

The Senator 6:45pm It’s your turn.

Bellamy 6:53pm What’s my turn?

The Senator 6:54pm To try to get Clarke to come out tonight? Or to just get her to say anything?

Bellamy 6:56pm I need more of an explanation than that.

The Senator 6:59pm Didn’t Octavia text you? We’re all going to The Island tonight. Gina’s here. I thought you’d be coming, too.

Bellamy 7:01pm No… I told O I couldn’t. I need to finish this project.

The Senator 7:01pm You also told her to text you if Clarke was coming. That implies a willingness to join us.

Bellamy 7:05pm And you just told me Clarke isn’t going. You guys should just give her some space. She wants to be alone. That’s how she handles all her emotions.

The Senator 7:07pm The specific sentiment I received from her when I asked if she wanted company was: “Not yours.”

Bellamy 7:10pm Ouch. Do you need me to defend your honor? Do you need me to tell her your feelings are hurt? Do you need a hug?

The Senator 7:12pm Neither of you are any fun right now. Here come the big guns, bitch. Yeah, I called you bitch. It didn't feel right, did it?

Gina 7:14pm I’m supposed to tell you to rescue Clarke from her self-sabotage?

Bellamy 7:17pm Wow. Do you know I have the worst friends? They’re so nosy. How do you even hang out with them?

Gina 7:20pm You know I have horrible taste in people. ;) Is Clarke okay, though?

Bellamy sighed. Gina’s question bothered him, because he didn’t know the answer. It had been a long time since he didn’t know the answer to that question.

It wasn’t like he had been avoiding Clarke, but O had basically immediately told him the reason behind the breakup. If anything, he assumed she’d rather not see him. He still texted her every day to ask if she needed anything, but her one word answers got pretty annoying. She didn’t even fight back when he told her that.

That should have been enough of a hint that she needed him, but he had been a stubborn idiot.

Bellamy 7:30pm I don’t know. I haven’t heard from her today.

Gina 7:52pm Well, it’s been discussed at length over here and now you’re aware of the group consensus. If you can’t make time in your busy schedule for us you should probably go check on Clarke.

Bellamy 7:54pm You're right. As usual. Don't let it go to your head.

Gina 7:55pm No promises.

He was already at the store when Gina texted him again. He felt a little guilty about being so willing to go to Clarke’s, but they were right. She needed someone to lean on, whether or not she would admit it. To help her get there, he needed supplies. The looks he got while he was perusing the nail polish aisle didn’t bother him. It wasn’t like he had never bought O nail polish.

Gathering up what he needed didn’t take too long, so he made it to her apartment before nine. He used his key to let himself in more out of habit than anything. It didn’t occur to him to knock until he saw the shocked look on her face.

She was standing at the dining table in an oversized t-shirt and shorts using the easel he bought her for Christmas to paint. It was a good thing it was warm outside, because she had all the windows open (he assumed it was to get rid of the paint smell before O got home). She had also spread plastic all over the table and the floor. He grinned, because it had been a long time since he had seen her painting, but she tilted her head and pointed the red-tipped brush at him accusingly.

“What are you doing here?”

He hoisted the grocery bags up in the air. “I heard you decided to stay in, too. I come bearing gifts.”

She eyed him carefully. “What did you bring?”

“Well, other than myself?” When she rolled her eyes, but set down her brush, he took the invitation to start emptying the bags onto the other end of the table. “I’ve got some double fudge brownie ice cream, some chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, a couple different kinds of cookies, red vines, soda, Doritos, some—”

“Did you buy out the whole fucking store?”

“Nope. Just got enough stuff for a fun night on the couch, if you want.”

“Well, I don’t want.” She glared at him again. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“That’s been pretty clear since the day I met you.”

“Has it? Maybe I wanted to stay in, because I wanted to paint! I’ve been sitting on this idea for weeks now and no one will give me any fucking breathing room.”

Bellamy sighed. “I’m not going to take the bait, Clarke.”

“You think I’m baiting you?”

“I think you’re angry and you don’t know how to get it out, so you’re trying to fight everyone who cares about you.”

“I was trying to take it out on this painting, but you came waltzing in here like you own the place.”

“Then take away my key!”

“I thought you weren’t going to fight with me!”

Bellamy paused and took a step back. Her eyes were watery, but her jaw was set, and he didn’t know what to do. Even though he was mad at her, he couldn’t bring himself to actually argue. It wouldn’t make her feel better. If it would make her feel better, he’d let her yell at him all she wanted, but he didn’t want to be another reason she felt guilty.

“I’m not. I’m sorry.” He pushed everything back into the bags and took it into the kitchen to unload it. When he came back, she looked less confrontational, but he set the handful of nail polish onto the table so he could leave. “You’ve got the stuff. You can do what you want with it.”

“You bought nail polish?”

He shrugged. “I have a little sister. I know what to buy in case of emergency.”

It was silent for a moment and he risked another glance up. She was studying him with narrowed eyes. Still, her question didn’t come out sounding entirely unfriendly. “I’m supposed to paint my nails to feel better?”

“Well, I would have painted them while eating copious amounts of junk food and watching shitty television.”

She studied him a moment longer and he forced himself not to look down under her scrutiny. The corners of her lips twitched up in an almost smile. “Can I paint yours?”

Bellamy rolled his eyes, but couldn’t hold in his smile. “Did O tell you I used to let her do that?” Clarke shrugged and he wasn’t surprised O said something. When she was younger and he had to babysit, it was one of the only things that would keep her still. “Fine. You can paint my toes. I can’t go into Etter’s class with….” He trailed off and studied the nail polish. He’d brought her a variety: neon green and pink, bright purple, yellow, and a blue. He met her eyes again and she was actually smirking, so he grabbed the pink. “I can’t go into her class with bright pink fingernails, but toes? That’ll be fine.”

“Okay, cool.” She walked around the table to look at the colors herself and picked up the neon green bottle. When she looked up at him, her eyes were watery again. “Bellamy, I’m really—”

“Going to find out how awesome I am at painting nails? Yeah, I know. What kind of ice cream do you want?”

Before she could answer, he started back toward the kitchen and left her to clean her brushes. He didn’t need an apology, because she was letting him stay. He had to ask her a second time before she told him to bring everything out into the living room.

“We’re not watching shitty television, though,” she said as she helped him set all of the junk food on the coffee table. When she grabbed the roll of paper towels away from his side, she shook her head. “How did you carry all of this?”

“I’m really talented,” he said around the spoon in his mouth. “What are we watching if we’re not watching shitty television?”

“Did you only bring one spoon?”

He set the spoon on top of the ice cream and smiled at her. “Your kitchen is right there, Princess. If you don’t want to share, go get your own spoon. I’m only so talented.”

She settled on the couch and grabbed the remote and the double fudge brownie ice cream. “If we’re watching stuff, I’m almost done with season six of Parks and Rec again, so we’re just picking up there.”

He threw himself down next to her and grabbed her foot and the nail polish she picked out. “I can’t believe you’re forcing me into the end of a season. Andy and April’s wedding, Ben and Leslie’s wedding? How much of pregnant Ann have I missed? You know I’m going to have to start season one when I get home now.”

She rolled her eyes, but smiled at him. “We can start at season one, if you really need to.”

“No, it’s your night.”

They started the where she left off and he painted her nails while she ate ice cream. Then, they switched and she painted his nails while he ate ice cream. He was proud of himself, because he got her to laugh a couple times when she was paying too much attention to the television and not enough to where she was putting nail polish. After a few episodes, when she was sure her nails were dry, she got up to put the ice cream away and sat down a little closer to him when she got back.

Clarke leaned her head on his shoulder and propped her feet up on the coffee table, wiggling her toes. “How have we been friends for three years and I didn’t know you could do this? You are way better than I am at painting someone’s nails.”

“We haven’t been friends for three years.”

She turned her head so she could glare at him. “Well, fine, if you want to not count the six months we couldn’t stand each other.”

“No,” he laughed and her expression faded into a pout. “I mean, it’s May. We met in October.”

“Oh. Well, I’m rounding up.” She settled her head back onto his shoulder. “How come you haven’t come over before tonight? Everyone else has been really ‘in my face’ trying to get me through my moping stage.”

They had both been busy and he was scared that she wouldn’t talk to him. Their relationship been different the last few months, too. He didn’t want to say that, so he tried to joke instead. “I wanted to, but you know how you get around me. Word vomit. You’d let it all out and it would be cathartic and you wouldn’t be able to be sad anymore. I’m sure you wanted to mope for a while before I magically made everything feel better again.”

She elbowed him, but she laughed. They watched the episode in silence for a few more minutes before she paused it and turned to look at him. “I’m ready for it. The cathartic word vomit, I mean.”

He pulled his feet up onto the couch and turned to face her. “Okay, hit me with it.”

“How is Gina okay with us being friends?”

The question shocked him. He had been expecting a rant of some kind. Even if she had asked a question, he would not have expected that one. “This is part of your cathartic word vomit?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure my bi-ness is what broke my relationship with Lexa. Like, I’m not gay enough for her or something. She was just so jealous of you and I don’t get why she couldn’t trust me. So how does Gina trust you with me?”

Bellamy felt his heart breaking for her. She didn’t like to talk about it, so Bellamy never pressed, but he knew it was the same reason her first girlfriend ended their relationship. “I don’t really know. I don’t think she’s wired for jealousy.”

Clarke fell back onto the couch and closed her eyes. “Yeah, I figured. I guess I was secretly hoping she was talking behind my back or something so it would justify Lexa’s behavior.”

“Well, too bad, because she’s on board the ‘Clarke is awesome’ train. I think Harper and Miller had her brainwashed before she even met you, so you never had a chance.”

“Well, that fucking sucks.”

“Yeah, it’s absolutely awful how nice she is.”

She nudged him with her foot and a small smile that disappeared almost as soon as it materialized. Bellamy watched her for a moment, but she lay there with her eyes closed, mouth slowly twisting back into a frown. It almost startled him when she opened her eyes and met his gaze. A couple tears escaped, but she wiped them away with a quick swipe. He couldn’t stand the idea that someone made her doubt anything about herself.

“I need to circle back to the whole ‘you’re not gay enough’ thing, if that’s okay.”

She nodded and her brow furrowed a little as she picked at her nails.

“Is this something she actually said to you?”

“No. Not in so many words. I just thought it was interesting that she was only jealous of—” She cut herself off and shook her head. “She was only jealous of my male friends. She didn’t care about Raven or Octavia or Harper. I know that I’m projecting my insecurities onto the situation. It’s stupid.”

Bellamy grabbed her leg, because it was the only thing within reach. He felt a little dumb, but he pushed through, because he was committed to the moment. “It’s not stupid, Clarke. But if some guy is ever jealous of the girls in your life, you’d tell him to suck it up, right?”

“Well, yeah, but that’s easier.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. Instead of responding, she focused on the spot where Bellamy’s thumb was rubbing against her calf. He waited, hoping she would say something, because he didn’t know how to make the situation better. When she didn’t, he sighed.

“So, I don’t really know what to say to try to make you feel better. I assumed you’d be doing the venting, not me.”

“But I need validation, Bellamy. Duh.” She laughed weakly and he smiled.

“I don’t know if I can give you that, but if anyone ever makes you feel like you’re not ‘gay enough’ or ‘straight enough’, please tell me and I’ll fight them for you. I’ll tell them that you’re the perfect amount of bi. One hundred and ten percent bi with all that extra credit you turned in. That’s an A plus in most school systems.”

Clarke finally let out a full laugh and Bellamy grinned when she threw a pillow at him. “I’ll keep you in mind the next time my sexuality needs a letter grade.”

“Good. I don’t like it when you doubt yourself. “

“Too bad.” She sat up and smiled at him before pulling the pillow back into her lap. “I’m always a bundle of self-doubt, but I usually hide it better.”

“I know.” He toyed with the edge of the pillow and frowned. “I hope you know that you deserve someone who accepts you unconditionally, though. You don’t need to prove yourself to anyone.”

“Just myself. And you. I had to prove that I wasn’t the spoiled brat you thought I was.”

“But here’s the difference. It bothered you that I thought that stuff, sure, but you didn’t have to actually do anything to prove I was wrong except be yourself. It didn’t take long for me to figure out that you were probably the best person to ever exist.”

Her face immediately turned bright red and she looked down at her lap.

“I’m fucking serious, Clarke. You deserve someone who is going to acknowledge that daily. Someone hot and smart who accepts you and wants to take care of you as much as you take care of everyone else. Someone who will travel the world with you and go art exhibits with you and come to our movie nights and–”

“If you don’t stop, I’m going to start crying.”

“Okay, fine.” Bellamy threw his hands up in the air. “I’ll stop embarrassing you with your awesomeness.”

Clarke glared at him, but the effect she intended it to have was ruined by the smile tugging at the corner of her lips. He grinned at her and pulled her into a tight hug and sighed when she buried her head into his shoulder. It had been a long time since they’d had a real hug and he allowed himself to enjoy it. There would be time for guilt later. After a few moments, she pulled back, wiping her eyes again.

“Sorry if I embarrassed you with your awesomeness.”

She smiled sadly. “Sorry I tried to kick you out.”

He shrugged. “It’s not the first time that’s happened. I mean, you’ve actually kicked me out of here before, so….” He trailed off and she smiled again. “I know this is a dumb question, but do you feel any better?”

“Not a ton, but I’ll get there.”

“Well, you didn’t rant as much as I expected. Maybe it’ll come in waves.”

“I’ll be sure to call you as soon as I get the urge to finish the cathartic word vomit.”

“The second you do, you promise?” She looked down at her lap again and he had to tilt his head to look her in the eyes. “I’m serious. Eight in the morning? Midnight? Two in the afternoon? I’ll answer any time.”

Clarke agreed reluctantly and he could see her pulling back into her shell a little. He tried not to let it bother him. Instead, he chose to focus on the fact that she finally talked to someone and as they turned the show back on, he hoped she knew that he would do anything she ever needed.

#bellarke fanfiction #bellarke #modern au #sometimes i can't see myself #my work #bellarke au #erin writes

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welshwoman1988 · 7 years

Text

Poor Unfortunate Souls - The Human King

I think i might have a problem...

@pale-silver-comb, another update for you!

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, and now a Part Eight!

And an AO3 link for y'all as well!

“I swear, you are going to get me banished one of these days!”

“Aw, don’t be like that, Sourgills! Like the Queen is going to banish her own son! Besides, I’m pretty sure she already knew that the whole thing was my fault.”

There is the impression of a smile, more a smirk, this time. A feeling of fond exasperation follows, causing Derek to try to focus past the fog that seems to always follow him into these… are they really memories, or just an illusion like Stiles had claimed..?

“You think? I don’t know anyone else who hates Harris enough to make his hair the color of slug slime.”

“You mean the only person who's clever enough to do it, everybody hates that kelp brain.”

“I don’t know why you let him get to you so much.”

“It’s just that… some of the things he says when I’m held back…”

“What does he say?”

“Whoa, cool your waves and put away the killer shark glare! It’s nothing, forget I said anything.”

“I am the Crown Prince of Pacifica and if Harris has been harassing you thinking that he could get away with it, I’m going to show him-”

“Derek! It’s nothing like that! He’s just been saying some stuff… saying some stuff about… about my mother.”

“…I’m going to kill him.”

“What! No! Derek, where are you going?!? Derek, come back here! Derek!”

A broad hand grips his arm suddenly, more solid than anything else in this place half between awareness and sleep, pulling Derek around until he is face to face with-

Derek jerks awake with a gasp, drawing in greedy breaths of air as if he is half afraid it will disappear if he waits too long, a sharp pain once more settling in his chest as blinks the water out of his eyes.

He’s pushing himself upright despite the sudden flash of nausea, his body feels like one giant bruise again, and the headache that had only just faded is making its home behind his right temple, so he can be excused for taking a few waves to realize that he’s breathing in air instead of water…

It’s also around that time that he realizes that he’s spread out on a sandy beach, part of the reason that his body feels so sore, and that he’s completely naked, two legs in the place of where his tail used to be attached.

Now, Derek knew that he wouldn’t be able to keep his tail on his journey to the Land Above, that Stiles’ potion would give him the legs that Humans needed to make their way around, but it was a whole lot different between thinking about it and actually seeing it come to be.

It also explains why the panic that had gripped him the first time he had been hit with Stiles’ magic is gone; he had an idea of what would happen, so it wasn’t as much of a shock this time around, although there is a sense of unease at the fact that he cannot see Stiles anywhere along this beach…

Hoping that Stiles has not abandoned him to the cold and wind, instead has simply gone looking for some help, Derek decides to distract himself by examining his new limbs.

Reaching out to run a hand along one of his legs, Derek chuckles a little at the feeling, the small amount of hair covering it an interesting texture against his fingers. His hand travels further up and he gets another surprise when he widens his legs to see if the hair covers the entire extremity:

He has a strange tentacle between his limbs, slightly smoother and warmer than his normal genitals, its sensitivity making him wonder why Humans did not have protective pouches to keep them in as the barest brush seems to send an interesting, but not unpleasant, spark throughout his entire body…

So intrigued by his new appendage and the sensations that he’s experiencing, Derek doesn’t realize that he has company until he hears someone coming over the sands right in front of him, their voice muttering along ahead of their feet.

“I really hope that you’re awake now and not just lying splayed out on the sands like some sort of cor- Holy Mother of all the Oceans and Seas!”

Derek’s head jerks up at Stiles’ voice and his mouth drops open at the sight of a long, lean body and leagues of pale skin that is still decorated with the speckled coloration that Stiles carried as an Aquid before he is turning on his heel, showing Derek his back.

His new genitals seem to like what he sees as well, because it gives a little twitch in his hand, making Derek let out a soft gasp that has Stiles turning toward him in concern before pulling his gaze away again with a muttered curse.

His legs are slightly smaller than Derek’s own, muscled and lean as the rest of him, and his shoulders look broad and strong; Derek can’t see if Stiles has the same kind of tentacle as he does, because the sea witch is determinedly facing away from him, but that does show off a rather nice backside to Derek’s gaze…

It makes his genitals twitch again and stiffen in his grasp, Derek’s gasp is slightly louder-as well as longer-this time, which in turn makes the muscles in Stiles’ back tense.

“While I did say that you could explore your new body when I first talked about all of this, I would really appreciate it if you didn’t do it now, where anyone could walk up on you and I need to be more worried about the fact that you were knocked unconscious again instead of-”

Stiles cuts himself off and runs a hand over his face in a move that seems to drain all the tension in his body, his shoulders dropping as if there is a weight on it that is too heavy for him to carry.

Derek removes his hand guiltily, feeling slightly sick that what he was doing was making Stiles so uncomfortable, so much that he seemed unable to even look Derek in the eye.

“I’m not… I’m sorry, I was just…” It was just that the sensations were so new and nice, Derek wasn’t trying to make Stiles feel uncomfortable and with the way that he seemed to be falling for the sea witch despite only spending a few tides with him…

It does not bode well that everything he has done has either upset or made Stiles uncomfortable and Derek cannot help but think it might have been easier if he simply listened when others told him to stay away from the sea witch.

Stiles mutters something before finally turning around, revealing a pile of cloth in his hands that cover his front and his eyes pointed looking at a spot just over Derek’s shoulder, which just makes that hole in Derek’s stomach stretch all that much farther.

“It’s alright, I get that it was a lot of new sensations all at once and you got…uh, distracted.” A red flush travels across Stiles’ cheeks and chest, something that Derek finds extremely endearing before he remembers that Stiles is uncomfortable and he drags his gaze away. “Anyway, I got some clothes and figured we could try seeing if we can get you on your feet.”

Derek nods, head still turned away and hands as far away from the tentacle that started all of this trouble, and listens to the rustling sounds of the clothing as a pair of feet walk up to him, pleasantly surprised by a hand on his chin, gently guiding his face up so that he can meet Stiles’ eyes.

He was half afraid that Stiles would just dump the clothing in his lap and leave him to figure out everything on his own, so he is more than willing to listen when his fellow Aquid speaks.

“I’m not mad at you, Derek, far from it.” Stiles’ voice is as soft and soothing as the waves that flow through his home, making muscles that Derek didn’t realize were tense relax, his body leaning even more into Stiles’ grip. “I just wasn’t expecting to come around the bend and see you… well, exploring your new body like that… after everything that happened.”

The flush is back again, but this time it spreads even further than before, Stiles eyes wide and darting downward like something is drawing them there, making Derek struck with a sudden realization that makes him smile at the Aquid above him:

Stiles wasn’t embarrassed by what he saw, he liked it.

But if he liked it so much, why did he turn away?

Maybe he thought Derek wouldn’t appreciate him ogling his body?

But why would Derek take pleasure from his perusal of Stiles’ body and not allow Stiles the same courtesy?

Perhaps Stiles has had an unpleasant interaction with a different Aquid-a thought that makes Derek bite back a growl and something pinch tight against his chest-and that made him think that Derek would react the same? They do not know each other all that well, after all…

“I didn’t mind.”

“Hm?” Stiles is now looking at the clothing in his hands, separating them into piles that he either places on Derek’s lap, effectively covering up the strange tentacle between his legs, or across his own arm.

“That you were looking at me. That you want to look at me… or, at least, wanted to look at me.” Derek can feel his own face heating at the end of that confession and he once more dips his head so that he does not meet Stiles’ gaze.

There is a sharp intake of breath beside him, a sudden shifting of sand, and then there is a line of warmth all along his side as Stiles leans close enough for his breath to drift across Derek’s face when he gets close enough to whisper Derek’s name…

“Stiles!”

The Aquid pulls away from Derek with a yelp, leaving Derek to feel wrongfooted and slightly lightheaded, a clamoring of some sort coming from the same direction the call had come from.

Derek feels another growl building in his throat and he starts to shakily try to make it to his feet before he sees the look on Stiles’ face:

He looks absolutely remorseful, eyes darting away as soon as he realizes that Derek is looking at him, even as he lets out his own gleeful cry of “Scott!” echo across the clearing to where a man is dismounting some sort of creature to run to Stiles and wrap him up in a hug that is uncaring of the bareness of the other man.

Derek is glad that is already laid flat, because the stabbing sensation he feels would have surely dropped him; it doesn’t matter if Stiles liked what he saw or not, he was right to turn away. Going by the way the two of them were embracing and talking in tones too low for Derek to hear, it was obvious that the pair in front of him were intimate in the way that Derek had been hoping he and Stiles could be.

Derek lets out a deprecating huff as he remembers Erica’s tease of him finding a nice Human to bring back home. Well, it looks like Stiles is way ahead of him in that regard…

“Greetings.” So wrapped up in his thoughts, Derek didn’t even realize that the other male had walked up to him; looking over the boy, Derek can see why Stiles would be enamored with the Human:

He had soft brown hair, wide eyes, and a crooked jaw that bent into an expression of innocence when he smiled; where Derek rarely ever smiled when it wasn’t around his family or his friends, he had hair the color of squid ink, and there were thousands of corals the exact same shade of his eyes.

Yes, it was very clear why Stiles had chosen this one.

“Stiles has told me that you are a friend of his from the Land Below,” The boy says with a smile that, strangely enough, doesn’t reach his eyes as he holds out a hand in greeting. “I am King Scott of the Delgado Kingdom and I have been friends with Stiles for many a year, so any one he claims as friend can say the same of me.”

Derek so badly wants to refuse the hand being held out to him, wants to get to his feet under his own power, but he can’t for two very important reasons; the first and foremost is that he’s not sure he can get up on his own, and the second…

The second is that Stiles is looking between the two of them with such an expression of hope and nerves that Derek would feel like a right kelp brain if he refused something that was obviously so important to his fellow Aquid.

So, setting aside both his pride and his feelings, Derek accepts the hand that King Delgado offers him, holding the clothing in front of himself so that there is no unwanted baring of skin. He only sways a little before his legs seem to seamlessly understand what they need to do and he steadies himself enough to stand without leaning too much on Scott.

Who, apparently, is also a King.

Is there nothing that Derek is better than this boy at? He is merely a Prince, albeit a Crown Prince, but this child has already made himself a ruler!

Mentally shaking his head, Derek chides himself for acting so uncouth when he has barely known Stiles for a twofold of the tides changing, and he has not made any declaration of his intentions.

Not that it would have done him any good…

Giving his head a real shake this time, Derek bows as well as he’s able to in his current situation and responds with, “Greetings, King Scott. I am Derek of the Hale pod, son of Talia, and Crown Prince of the Waters of Pacifica. Thank you for welcoming me to your kingdom and I return your well wishes with all the strength of the Summer Tide.”

He grew up with manners, alright? You gave a fellow royal the proper greeting no matter how you felt about them in the moment, for there are those that would take a minor insult and turn it into a call for war.

The King, for his part, does not take offense as he stares opened mouthed at Derek the entire time through his customary greeting, and still stares for a few moments afterward. Derek turns his gaze to Stiles, who is staring at him as well, but he’s wearing that same fond look he wore in his cave before blushing and getting to work on some sort of fastening at the front of his clothes.

Which just serves to remind Derek that he is, in fact, still nude and that there seems to be some sort of Human custom that is touchy about the nakedness of a person.

He pulls his hand back from King Scott so that he can get to work on his own clothing, which seems to shake the man out of his stupor, and the King finally gets around to how he managed to be on the shoreline the same time that Stiles and Derek surfaced from the Lands Below.

“I had just been filled with an urge to go riding, which you know is something that I don’t really like to do more than I really have to, seeing as the horses don’t really like me all that much-here, that goes the other way ‘round-”

Derek corrects his garment while Stiles chimes in from where he is petting said ride, already fully clothed. “It’s because Roscoe can smell that you’re afraid of him, Scotty! You just need to relax around him and you’ll be fine!”

“It’s a bit hard to relax around an animal that nearly bit my fingers off!”

Stiles just laughs at this and Derek clears his throat in an attempt to get the story back on track, which causes King Scott to start guiltily as he gives Derek an abashed grin.

“Anyway, I had managed to saddle Roscoe without the beast biting off any important parts, probably because he knew that I was heading over here in the hopes of seeing you-”

“Aw, is that true, big guy? Where you so happy to see your favorite Aquid that you held off nibbling at the King’s toes?”

Derek chuffs out a snort, he can’t really help it; the sight of Stiles nuzzling at some large beast that looks like it could crush him easily like it was a threefin was too adorable not to coo at.

King Scott gives him a knowing look before putting his hands on his hips and exclaiming, “You know, he’s supposed to be my horse!”

“You have thousands of horses, Scotty! This one is mine, he likes me better!”

Derek can’t help it, he lets out an honest to Poseidon laugh at hearing that; the pout on Stiles’ face just made the whole thing too ridiculous, and when he settles down enough to meet the pairs’ eyes again, it’s to find both staring at him in matching astonishment.

“What?” Self-conscious at the attention, Derek runs a hand down the clothing he was given, worried that he had somehow managed to scuff them up in some way despite just finishing putting them on.

“Nothing!” Stiles interjects just as King Scott is opening his mouth, giving his friend a look that Derek can’t read and that the King huffs at, his head shaking like this is something he has to deal with on a constant basis. “It’s just that… you look different when you smile. Not a bad different! Just… you know, different.”

Stiles is blushing again and Derek is pretty sure that he is as well, but thankfully Scott saves them both by clapping his hands together and announcing, “Alright, now that everyone is dressed and upright, why don’t we make our way back to my castle? There is much that you and I need to discuss, Stiles, and so much that I want to ask of you, Derek! What do you say?”

After a quick glance Stiles’ way, Derek nods at the question and makes his stumbling way to where the animal King Scott rode in on is waiting, where Stiles takes one look at the beast and then turns to his King with a disbelieving snort that immediately draws attention.

“How are we going to get back to the castle? I know Roscoe is a hell beast when he wants to be, but I sincerely doubt he could carry all three of us…”

“Well, it seems like Derek is still getting used to his legs, so I thought that he could ride and we could walk back-”

“If you are walking, then I am walking.” Derek directs his statement to Stiles, pleased at the surprised blush that he can see forming, ignoring the way that King Scott raises a brow at his claim.

He may be having a bit of a problem walking, despite his legs seeming to know how to balance without much input from him, but he is not going to ride on some beast while he makes Stiles walk however long it is to this ‘castle’ place.

Derek’s feelings must show plainly on his face, because Stiles is quick to suggest that King Scott simply ride back as he rode in while Stiles and Derek walk beside him.

“What if his legs give out and he falls?” The King’s face is twisted in an expression of worry, and Derek would be touched if his tone did not make the former Mer feel like he was merely a summer old.

“Then I’ll catch him.” Stiles response makes Derek feel a little better, as well as the way that he sends his fellow Aquid a smile before continuing, “And he also happens to be right there, so if you have any other concerns, why don’t you just ask him?”

With that last comment, Stiles crosses his arms and turns so that his complete attention is on Derek, a tilt to his brow that dares anyone to make a comment on what he just said.

“Well, Derek? Do you feel up to walking to the castle? I know the transformation was a bit jarring, and it would be perfectly understandable if you wanted to take a break before doing anything else, so if you want to rest for a few-”

“I can walk.” Derek insists, half to cut off the stream of words that he is starting to realize is Stiles’ way of showing that he was nervous, and half because he knew that if they did not get moving soon, that he would certainly fall flat on his face.

Scott still looks like he wants to argue, but resigns himself to their verdict with a heavy sigh as he swings himself up to the beast he rode in on, giving Stiles a look that has a deeper meaning than Derek can decipher, because Stiles is almost immediately glaring back at him and mouthing something like suspiciously looks like ‘Later’ before turning back to Derek with a grin.

“I’m glad that your legs aren’t giving you any trouble, I was a little worried with what had happened before…”

“I’m sure that was my own fault, after all…” Derek insists, explaining to Stiles his thoughts that his fellow Aquid’s theory of his magic trying to protect him seemed much more plausible after feeling the gentler effects of the potions transformation of his Human form.

His quip about the sensation still being one that he’d rather not repeat any time soon has Stiles throwing back his head in laughter, the sound seeming to travel the entire length of his frame before making it to his mouth.

“It takes a bit to get used to, trust me on that.” Stiles’ expression seems to suddenly get serious with his next question, even drawing King Scott’s attention from the terrain around them, “Did you… was there anything different when you woke up this time?”

Derek debates with himself for only a moment before nodding and telling them of the memory of wanting to protect someone, a faint shadow of movement to go along with the memory, which leads to another one of those strange looks; only, this time it’s Stiles that glances at King Scott, and the younger man rolls his eyes back at him.

The exchange lasts for maybe a few moments, but Derek is once more reminded of the fact that these two seem to be a lot closer than mere friends. While it would make sense, that Stiles would find company in the Land Above when the rest of the inhabitants of their home simply fear him on a good day, it sours Derek’s mood to see the easy way Stiles and King Scott interact when he still has a hard time speaking to Stiles the way he would like to.

Sighing, Derek simply keeps quiet for the rest of the journey, allowing the conversation between the pair beside him to flow over his head like a soft current, instead focusing on his feet and keeping them under him on the uneven path.

He’s made himself look the fool in front of Stiles far too many times today…

#Fic: Poor Unfortunate Souls #Mer!Derek #Sea Witch!Stiles #King!Scott #Everybody Is Human Now!#Sterek #eternalsterek #Victoria Writes #Victoria Writes Fanfiction

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