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eboneeblak · 1 month

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Touched (Short Story)

A supernatural Southern Gothic tale. (6 minute read)

CW: Ableism, Murder, and Domestic Violence

Everything is black, an endless pit of nothingness. In the void, where no constraints exist, I gleefully experience many sensations. The sound of ambiance lingers around me. The air feels…fuzzy on my skin. The cool grassy earth beneath me sinks. Gravity weighs down on my shoulders, rendering me still. I wince. There is a sharpness that pokes at my flesh. Annoyed, I clench my hands and pull!

Go away.

GO AWAY!

“Ophelia, baby!”

I hear a voice from outside, and the comforting blanket of nothingness passes away. Finally, I open my eyes; it is my mother. Her eyebrows furrow with concern. Her velvety, well-manicured hands clasp mine. I see a clothing tag in it.

Stupid itchy tags.

“Baby, Sister Inez was askin’ how

speech therapy was goin’?”

It was dark now, and we were still alone in the church's parking lot. Choir practice only lasts two hours. However, in my mother’s usual fashion, her chatting forced us to stay late. My eyes glaze over Sister Inez, and I notice her scowl. Her burgundy lipstick lips tighten.

“It’s going okay.”

I look down at my shiny black shoes that Mother bought, notice the cute bows, and excitedly squiggle my toes inside.

“Ophelia has only been in it a few

weeks; the therapist says it can take a

while for her to catch up to regular

kids.”

Sister Inez’s judgmental eyes gawk at me, sharp enough to pierce a gaping hole.

“That daughter of yours reminds me of

someone; she was also a little…

different.”

For a woman who proclaims to be so holy and sanctimonious, Sister Inez has barely mustered an ounce of empathy and kindness towards me and my mother since we arrived several months ago.

“We’ll pray and hope she turns out

better.”

Mother and I had to travel across four states to escape my father’s abuse; the place where we are supposed to be safe has yet to make us feel welcomed.

“I’m afraid we can’t pray away what

Ophelia got goin’ on.”

“What a shame.”

My mother’s soft palms began to feel clammy and tense; I must escape this conversation.

“Water.”

I make a beeline for the church.

“Ophelia, don't take too long, dear.”

Cold water splashes into my mouth. A creaky air conditioner buzzes above, and the sound is deafening. I look around, continuing to quench my thirst. New Hope A.M.E. has seen better days; vinyl walls peel away, revealing the 200-year-old frame. Beneath the wooden floors is a mismatched array of new and old bark, with small cracks cascading across the floor, each getting larger and larger….

“What is that?”

It’s a shadow. My eyes lift, revealing a dark figure of a woman. I blink, and she vanishes. A chill shivers throughout me. My body stiffens; a deep scream traps itself in my throat. Slowly, my eyes search the room. Passing the wooden doors, there's a loud creak; instinctually, I follow the sound.

Moonlight beamed through the colorful stained windows, accentuating the dusty pews. As I inch down the aisle, the old floor bends under my weight with each step.

Demons?

My eyes examine the small, quaint church back and forth. The pulpit sits steeply above the congregation. “Minister Hezekiah Thomas” is embellished in gold on an oversized dark cherry chair. It stands tall like a throne directly in the middle of the pulpit.

A foggy memory clouds my mind.

Evil…

Minister Thomas’s boisterous sermon lingers in my head.

“Demons often disguise themselves as human and come to earth to harm us good Christian folk.”, so he says.

But why didn’t that woman hurt me?

Could she be something else?

Gravity rushes past me, I'm suddenly falling. Bracing my hands, I strike the hard floor, wincing in pain. I had just fallen on the edge of a staircase. The red carpet is beaten and worn. Flustering, I push myself up. There's a shrill, almost childlike cry from above, then I see her…

Her eyes glowing…

Her face was veiled in black.

She stands still…

Watching me…

“Who are you?”

Before I could utter the last syllables, she vanished. Footsteps run above me. I dash past the staircase, loudly creaking as I stomp my way up.

At the top, there’s a small corridor. A small bulb dimly lights the hallway. To the right, a door is wide open. Hanging from it is a sign that reads “Minister’s Office.” I catch my breath. A cold breeze brushes past my body. Trembling, I tread inside.

The smell of mothballs burns into my nostrils. Minister Thomas’s office is quaint but heavily decorated. White curtains cover a large window that overlooks the church’s parking. A worn bible is on his desk, and a family portrait is next to it.

I pick it up; it's Minister Thomas; he wears large silver-wired glasses that match his salt and paper hair. Next to him is First Lady Thomas and his four teenage sons; they all smile except for her. I place the framed picture down and notice an open drawer below.

I persist through piles of paperwork until I notice the back of a photo. I turn it around and see a couple, but I could hardly make out their faces.

Quickly, I pull the curtains back and re-examine the photo.

The woman’s smile is bright, her coily hair is pulled tightly into a French roll, and her eyes shimmer with colorful eye shadow. Next to her is a visibly younger Minister Thomas.

“Could this be her?”

I look out the window; Mother and Sister Inez are gone. The office doors slam behind me! A familiar chill touches my skin; a strong force holds me still. I look down and see no arms. My heart palpates. Slowly, I turn my head, quivering in fear.

Large, black, and socketless eyes stare back; a decaying black veil covers her face. What should be her mouth widens, and an ear-splitting cry erupts.

The scream wrestling within me explodes. There's a loud banging on the door. I shut my eyes.

“Ophelia!”

I cry out in terror, stricken with fright.

“Please don't hurt me, demon!”

I am held tighter.

“Ophelia, open your eyes, baby!”

It’s my mother's voice. I open my eyes to see her warm almond ones staring back. Relief washes over me, and I collapse into her arms.

“This girl has no business being in

Minister Emmanuel's office. It is

strictly off-limits!”

My mother's soft, plush skin calms me.

—————————————————————

“What scared you back there,

honey?”

I squeeze Mr. Charlie, my stuffed bear. The old Honda Civic bumps over the dirt road leading away from the church.

“Was Minister Thomas married to

another woman?”

My mother has a stunned look on her face.

“Why do you ask that, baby?”

I shrug my shoulders.

“Just curious.”

She sighs.

“He was a long time ago, according to

Sister Inez. Her name was Violet. She

was quiet, kind of like you.”

“Do you know what happened to

her?”

My mother stares at me through the rear-view window; she grips the steering wheel harder.

“Well, Sister Inez says Minister Thomas always seemed angry at her. Said she couldn't bear any children for him. After a while, she stopped showing up at church. Then, one day, Minister Thomas announced to the congregation that the poor girl cracked her skull on a gardening hoe and died. There was no funeral; she just disappeared, everyone moved on, and he got a new, pretty wife, First Lady Thomas.”

I look down at the photo studying Violet’s face.

“What you got in your hand,

baby?”

I stuff the photo into the pocket of my velvet dress and lean back into my seat. I watch the maze of trees pass us by.

“You saw her poor ghost, too,

didn't you?”

I stare at my mother through her rear-view mirror; slowly, I nod my head.

"I don't believe a garden hoe killed her,

Mama."

My mother rolls down the window and lights a cigarette.

"Me neither, baby."

I sink back into my seat and close my eyes, waiting for a pool of darkness to embrace me and retreating into nothingness. Instead, a pair of large socket-less eyes gaze back at me.

Demons ain’t the only ones harming us.

THE END.

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sagaofstardustmkg · 2 years

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they stepped and sidled and rolled their eyes like circus animals | arianna | trial 5.2

Lady’s tears knock the words out of Janelle’s mouth as clean and sudden as a punch to the jaw. They go tumbling to the floor, and she does not attempt to retrieve them for a long while. Just pulls the brim of her hat down slightly so no one else at the table can see the shine in her prickling eyes.

I just wanted to help. I just wanted to do something good.

(Bright, sweet, well-intentioned Lady’s whole life is a joke. Have you heard the one about the man who pushes a boulder up a hill every day, and every day it rolls back down? How about the girl who loves to make people happy trapped in a game that runs on misery?)

Mizu, too, just wants to help. Always. Sometimes, in moments of frustration, she figures him as single-minded and thoughtless as a dog — a born-and-bred racing greyhound whose hindbrain propels him forward at forty-five-an-hour before the rest of him has had a chance to recognize what he’s chasing. Or why.

(Earnest, hard-working, well-intentioned Mizu’s whole life is a joke. The kind made by someone with a mean sense of humor, who doesn’t recognize any distinction between slapstick and real cruelty, who expects you to laugh at the sight of a breaking heart.)

And —

Everyone is shouting. Her head throbs. It’s all personal safety, hedged bets, desperate loyalties. Underneath the few pretenses of right and wrong, all she can see are the scrabbling claws of frightened animals. It sounds like: Not me. Not mine. Not today.

There is a scream that’s been building inside of her. It will come out someday.

Not today.

But someday, when she can take a deep enough breath for it.

For now, she takes a shallow, shuddering one and blinks hard, banishing the tears back to the place they come from.

“I agree with Miss Lucy. It’s not right to send Lady off when she didn’t mean it, and neither did Mizu. We’re down to twelve in a class used to be twenty. I know the stakes here, but — how many do we have to lose before we realize the only thing that matters is us? How many down until we stop tryin’ to shove folks off the raft to keep ourselves afloat? Or does it just get worse from here? And three more trials in, we’re back here goin’ So sorry, we know it's awful and you don't deserve it, but it’s how the game works while we all vote for Miss Makka?

"Sasha and his little friends are gonna get his kicks one way or another, sure. Fine. Nothin' we do matters on that count. But — if nothin' we do matters, and the end is always gonna be horrible no matter what, I think all that matters is what we do. When we got the chance to do anything.

"And I'm doin' this."

She’s too soft-hearted.

But she votes.

#ch5 #trial #arianna #submission

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sehyoons · 5 years

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remember when A.C.E’s Wow was the most adorable lil bean ever with ONF’s Laun? what’s that? they’ve always been and will always be adorable lil beans? you’re so right my mistake.

#a.c.e #kim sehyoon #onf #og #we goin soft hours folks

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queenxxxsupreme · 3 years

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A Conversation In The Night (Arthur Morgan drabble)

A/N: There really isn’t a plot to this. Just some idle chat with Mr. Morgan at Shady Belle.

Warnings: none

Word Count: 1.3k

***

You jolted awake, eyes snapping open. Your lungs sucked in a sharp breath as you gripped the pillow beneath your head so tightly that your knuckles hurt.

You sat up quickly and looked around, dazed and still half asleep. For a few moments, you forgot that you were in your shared tent with Karen and Sadie. You found both of them laying on their bed roll, peacefully sleeping.

You continued to look around. You wanted to make sure that they were the only ones in your tent, that there were no unwanted guests, no O’Driscolls hiding anywhere. You knew it was foolish to think they’d be there, that they’d somehow find your camp. However, your mind was still replaying the nightmare, still showing you the gruesome details you’d seen just moments ago.

Since the nights at Shady Belle were chilly, the sides of the tent were rolled down. This caused shadows to be made on the canvas from the moon. The shadows were no doubt creepy, but you could tell they were from the trees.

Your heart was still racing in your chest and beating wildly in your ears. You took a deep breath in an attempt to calm down.

A stick cracked somewhere outside and there was rustling. Your eyes flew over in the direction of the noise and you saw a shadow move quickly across the bottom of the canvas. Had you not been so panicked and still frantic from the nightmare, you would’ve been able to tell that it was something small like a raccoon or a fox. But your mind was screaming at you that it was the O’Driscolls.

You tried to calm yourself down, telling yourself that Lenny and Charles were on watch right now and they wouldn’t let anyone into camp, but nothing was working.

Your breathing had become so labored that you thought for sure you’d wake the girls up. So you carefully but quickly moved out of the tent.

The night air was bitter and chilly, and it was sprinkling just a little, which did help to wake you up a little more and pull you from your panicked mind.

You stood there just outside of your tent for a few moments, taking even breaths and counting each one out.

You were able to calm your breathing down to where you felt you’d be able to go back into the tent without waking the girls up, but you knew you’d not be able to go back to sleep. But the rain began to come down harder so lingering outside of the tent or even sitting at the table outside of the tent wasn’t an option.

You let out a soft sigh and decided to go into the house. You’d at least be able to sit in one of the downstairs rooms until morning.

***

Someone gently shook your shoulder, pulling you from your light sleep. You rubbed your eyes and lifted your head.

“What?”

“What are you doin’ in here, Miss Y/N?”

Your eyes opened at the sound of Arthur’s voice. You sat up quickly, realizing you had fallen asleep in a chair inside the house. You looked around, finding one of Mary-Beth’s books she left in the house in your lap. You fell asleep reading it not too long ago.

“I-I woke up.” You looked over to Arthur, who stood next to you. “I was having a, um, a dream. I didn’t want to wake the girls up anymore. I didn’t mean to fall asleep again.”

Arthur nodded his head as he moved to sit in a chair to your right.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Morgan.” You began to stand up but he stopped you.

“You don’t have to leave, Miss Y/L/N. Just wanted to make sure you weren’t gonna fall out of your chair.”

“I don’t want to be a bother.”

“Ain’t a bother to me.” Arthur assured you.

You returned to your seat, smoothing out the material of your skirt before picking up the book.

“What was the dream about?” He pulled out a cigarette and put it between his lips. He offered you a cigarette from the carton. You took one with a small thank you.

As he lit his cigarette, he brought the match up to the end of yours, lighting your cigarette for you.

You watched him for a few moments. It wasn’t often that the outlaw didn’t wear the hat that covered his eyes and did a good job at shielding his features, so you took the opportunity to get a good look at his eyes.

They were a shade of deep blue you had only witnessed a few times before, the same shade of blue as lakes far away from Saint Denis, the ones unpolluted by people.

His cheeks and the bridge of his nose were freckled from the sun. There were a few white scars that stood out on his skin. You silently wondered where they came from, how he’d gotten them.

Dirty blond hair was swept back out of his eyes, but a few pieces fell across his forehead.

You dropped your eyes down to the book in your hands, not wanting to make him uncomfortable by staring too much.

“Oh just…. A bit of this and that.” You answered with a dismissive shrug of your shoulders. “It’d probably be easier to tell you what I don’t dream about than what I do.”

A little smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He nodded understandingly.

“How long have you been with us, miss?”

“Three months, I suppose. Though I haven’t kept perfect track of the days.”

He nodded once more.

“You have dreams often?”

You placed your book on the table and looked up at him. You had never really spoken with him besides a passing greeting here or there. You didn’t care to share personal information with most of the members of camp, nor did you care to have any sort of real conversation with any of the men. They all seemed to have one thing on their minds. But Arthur had never approached you with the proposition of sexual acts. If anything, he had gone out of his way to stay away from you. You were thankful for this. Men were best kept at a distance.

“Most nights.” You took a drag of the cigarette. “They never get bad enough unless I sleep decently.”

“Is that why you’re always up at night?” Arthur tilted his head to the side a bit, curious. “I’ve seen you wander around camp at night. You hang out a lot by the dock.”

“The water is pretty.”

“It’s dangerous.”

“Lots of pretty things are dangerous, Mr. Morgan.”

He nodded, blowing smoke from his nose.

“I reckon so.”

A comfortable silence fell between you both.

“Where are you from, Mr. Morgan?”

Arthur leaned back in his chair.

“I can hardly remember sometimes, if I’m honest.” He flicked the ashes of his cigarette. “My folks come from out west.”

You nodded gently.

“What about you, Miss Y/L/N?”

“I grew up on a little farm a few hours north of here. As far as I know, my folks still live there.”

“As far as you know?”

You took a long drag of the cigarette and looked across the room at the bottom of the staircase.

“I haven’t seen them in years. Doubt they’d wanna see me after this long. We didn’t part ways on such good terms.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

Both of you became quiet as the floorboards upstairs creaked.

“Well, I should be goin’.” Arthur stood up. “You should get some sleep, miss.”

“You too, Mr. Morgan.” You nodded, giving him a little smile before you watched him leave through the front door.

Taglist: @winterwolf @lauramb7 @caraqas @bluscryn @krenee1drful @zodiacaldust @nonodino @cal-lifornication @thefirelordm @sargeantsea @sokkasdarling @thecollection @mayday1284 @kashasenpai @misskrql @brooke-supernatural16 @lassiee @hocdolliday @micahs-bird

If your name is in italics, it wouldn’t let me tag you :(

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x reader fluff #arthur morgan rdr2 #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 fic #arthur morgan fic #red dead redemption 2 fic #arthur morgan drabble #queenxxxsupreme

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jamiemackenziefraser · 3 years

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All That Was Fair

Chapter 31: Counsel of a Witch

Summary: Jamie turns to the bookstore owner in search of help

Read on AO3

Read chapter 31 on tumblr below the cut

Previous, master list, next

Chapter 31

***

Jamie was at the end of his rope. With every passing hour, he watched Claire get worse and worse. She was pale, drawn, with dark circles stark under her eyes. Her ashen skin, so different from the soft gleam of its usual pearl, made him want to break down sobbing. She was so different from the vivacious faerie he’d come to know. It broke his heart to see her despondence, and he loved her far too much to endure her suffering in silence for even a moment more.

So he decided to turn to the one place he might find help.

The bookstore owner.

It seemed foolish— bordering on mad— to go to a complete stranger for help on the love of his life. Only this Geillis seemed to be the only one besides Claire herself that knew anything about the Fair Folk. Jamie couldn’t simply take her to a hospital. Going to Geillis was the only thing he could think to do. He was out of options.

He sat then on the couch, with Claire draped over his lap like a flesh and blood blanket, having just arrived at a decision.

“Mo ghraidh?” he said quietly.

He reached out a hand to tangle gently in her curls, his fingers delighting in the softness of it.

“What is it, Jamie?” she asked.

Even her voice came off weak, hard as she was trying to sound unaffected. There was a breathy tonality, as if she couldn’t quite draw in enough air. A chilling reflection of her exhaustion.

“I’m goin’ tae go back to the bookstore,” he said simply.

At that, Claire sat up, pushing her hands against his thighs to brace herself enough to get upright. Big whisky eyes regarded him with a bewildered expression.

“To see the witch? Why?”

It took Jamie a second to realize what she had just said. He was opening his mouth to answer the “why” when the first part of her question finally sunk into his brain. His heart stopped beating for a solid second at the same time as his brain ground to a halt.

“Did ye say ‘witch’?” he asked hollowly.

Claire furrowed her brows and stated simply, “of course. The one who gave you her notes on traveling through the stones? That witch?”

“I—” Jamie’s tongue was tied in knots as he struggled to get on board with this new reality-shattering revelation, “I didna ken witches were real,” he finished lamely.

“Oh,” Claire said, with the same patience Jamie had when explaining something like toothbrushing to her, “she is. That just means she is a human who understands about our realm.”

Blinking, Jamie gave her a look. He was struck dumb for the moment, but as soon as he regained the ability to speak, he demanded, “ye kent she was a witch all this time and didna tell me?”

Claire blinked her weary eyes and gave a nonchalant shrug, looking a bit more like herself as she answered with a straightforward, “It didn’t seem all that important.”

“Ehmm... so… how did ye know?” he asked, trying to keep up.

“Sensed it. I just sort of… knew. Like how you know when someone is from a different place that you haven’t been. We both saw each other for who we are. Plus it makes sense, since she obviously knew I’m of the fair folk, that’s why she gave you the book.”

Jamie gave a hesitant nod. He was about to ask more questions about witches when he noticed Claire was raising a hand to her head and rubbing it wearily. His stomach turned over in sympathy.

Overcome by the bittersweet tenderness, he reached out a hand to replace hers, cupping her face gently.

“I’m goin’ tae ask her if she kens anythin’ that can help ye, lass,” he said gently, “Just because ye dinna ken what’s goin’ on doesna mean we canna find answers.”

She leaned her face into his touch until his hand was the only thing keeping her head raised.

“That’s not a bad idea, Jamie,” she said quietly, “let’s go.”

“‘Let’s’?” Jamie echoed, “nae, a nighean. Ye can barely stand on yer own two feet. I wouldna have ye do anything other than rest.”

“And I would not have you go to a witch alone,” she countered.

Jamie’s eyes widened and he felt his brain kick into overdrive. “Do you mean she might be dangerous?”

“No,” Claire said with a shake of her head, still leaving her face pressed into his hand, “I know she’s not. But I’m coming.”

His stubborn lass.

Jamie brought his other hand up to frame her face, fixing her with his best admonishing stare.

“I said no, mo Sorcha. Ye’re stayin’ here.”

He saw the spark of resistance flare in her eyes before she made the move. Pulling away from him, Claire stood abruptly to her feet. Weak as she was, she swayed for a second, thrusting out a hand to grab hold of the top of the couch and steady herself. Jamie popped up beside her, getting ready to reach out to grab hold of her waist, but she took a hasty step back.

“I’m going,” she insisted.

Jamie was left trailing after her as she began to walk stubbornly toward the door (her weakness only betrayed by the way her body shook with tiny tremors). She grabbed the bolt and slid it free with a clang before throwing open the door and walking outside.

“Claire!” Jamie called, running out after her, barely snagging the car keys and his wallet from the table before he did, “wait!”

She whirled around— the most energetic thing she’d done in a long while, it hurt him to recognize— and placed her hands on her hips. As she did though, her eyes grew wide as if she was suddenly feeling dizzy, and her hand shot out instead to brace against her knee.

Getting hold of herself, she straightened once again. “Like I said, I’m coming with you. Now, should I do it myself or are you going to help me?”

Knowing he’d lost the battle and terrified that he’d be forced to watch her collapse as she stubbornly walked to the car if he refused, Jamie caught up to her.

Gently taking her by the arm, he said quietly, “alright, a leannan, my stubborn lass, you win.”

***

Claire had laid her head down on his lap the moment they were both seated in the car. She spent the majority of the ride to Inverness slipping in and out of consciousness while Jamie worried over her. He prayed under his breath that God would send them answers in the form of this witch. She’d provided him with revelations once before, so Jamie could only dare to hope she’d have a solution just waiting for them.

As he pulled into the public lot nearest the bookstore, he found himself daunted by the distance Claire would be forced to walk. She hadn’t seemed to have noticed that they weren’t moving anymore, and her breathing was shallow as she drifted in that odd state of half-consciousness.

“Claire,” he said gently, his voice catching in his throat, “we’re here, a nighean.”

She raised her head, curls falling back behind her, and then dragged her body upright. She rubbed again at glassy eyes, trying to find the necessary strength.

“Take yer time,” he said softly.

When her hand fell away and her eyes connected with his, the desperate look inside of them sent him crumbling to pieces.

“Do you really think she’ll know what’s happening?” she asked in a tiny voice.

The air in his lungs was expelled with a whoosh. She wasn’t asking him that, not really. She knew he would have no idea— he’d only just learned about the existence of witches mere minutes ago. No, she was asking him to tell her everything would be okay. And that much he could do.

“Aye, a nighean. I pray that she can gi’ us somethin’. It’ll be alright.”

She gave a shaky nod, and Jamie took that as her being ready. He went around to her side to take her hand and pull her out of the car. She got out easily enough, but once she was standing outside, she fell against Jamie’s chest. He quickly encircled her in his arms, holding on tight to keep her upright.

“Woah,” he murmured, “take a second. Ye’re okay.”

The words felt weak even in his own mouth.

She took his advice, leaning against him for a drawn out moment before she raised her head just enough to say. “Okay, let’s go.”

Of all the tortures Jamie’s brain had conjured in his life— speculations about how it might be to die by fire versus drowning or other such morbid games— the torture of the next few minutes of watching his very ill faerie struggle to walk down the street topped any agony he’d considered before (save maybe the time when he’d left her at the stones and thought he’d be facing a life without her).

He kept one arm wrapped tightly around her waist the whole time. The weight of her leaning against him was obvious, and he worked to support her as much as possible. As she struggled to put one foot in front of the other, drained as she was, Jamie cursed himself for giving in so easily and allowing her to come along.

But she pushed on, his stubborn lass. After a couple slow and shaky blocks, they arrived at the bookstore. There was only time for a single exchange of hopeful looks before Claire stepped away and took his hand instead.

He pushed open the door with a jingle.

Just like the last time, they were greeted by the air of other-worldliness. Knowing as he now did that Geillis was, in fact, partial to things not of this world, the odd atmosphere made more sense. It took a moment for Jamie’s eyes to adjust to the dim lighting and an even longer while for the goosebumps on his arms to ease.

Claire must have sensed Geillis’ presence before Jamie did because there was a squeeze to his hand the second before a red head popped out from between two shelves in the back.

“Ooh, the lovers, back again. Did ye read my wee notes, fox cub?” Geillis cooed.

She emerged from between the shelves holding two old books to her chest, looking quite excited.

“Yes, they were verra… informative. I thank ye for it. That’s actually why we’re here…”

Jamie was about to launch into his plea for help when Geillis suddenly stopped dead in her tracks a few feet before reaching them. Her eyes went wide as she looked at Claire, a frown slowly forming between her brows and on those cherry colored lips.

“I see…” she said softly, “something is wrong wi’ yer fair one, aye?”

Sensing something— maybe it was a laxness in her fingers or maybe it was just his intuition— Jamie glanced down at Claire just in time to see her face freeze and eyes go distant. He let go of her hand and whirled around to catch her just before she collapsed. Both of his arms went around her tightly and pulled her to him as her knees buckled.

Looking down at her pale, scrunched features, Jamie was relieved to see that she wasn’t unconscious, but she certainly wasn’t doing well. Her eyes were glassy as she blinked hard, trying to keep herself aware.

He looked up from his suffering love to give Geillis a pleading look.

“We need yer help,” his voice broke on the word help.

Geillis looked somber, studying him and the faerie in his arms. Then, she gave a nod.

“Bring her back, and then tell me everything.”

“Back” apparently was referring to a back room. Geillis had led them to the back of the bookstore as Jamie all but carried Claire, and then she pulled back a curtain to gesture them into another room.

With Claire tucked tightly into his side, Jamie ducked through the doorway.

On the other side was a whole second bookstore with the same crowded shelves and haphazard organization. Only this side also had shelves of all kinds of paraphernalia— vials of colorful liquids, bowls containing small animal bones, and all types of odd trinkets. Jamie tried to take everything in, but his mind was so fixated on Claire that he had trouble taking stock of all the things Geillis had in her secret stock.

His survey was interrupted as Geillis gestured them toward a window on the far right. There was a bench seat built into the window, and Jamie brought Claire over to it and sat her down before joining her on the smooth, wooden surface. Geillis appeared a second later with a chair, setting it up in front of them before settling in and regarding him with raised brows.

Claire was leaning against his side, quiet as a mouse and their fingers entangled where they rested together on Jamie’s thigh. Her head tilted down slowly to rest on his shoulder— too tired even to feign strength.

Geillis looked at them for a long moment before saying, “tell me everything.”

So Jamie explained. How he found her on the hill. Her story of wandering on the moors when she fell through the stones. How he’d taken her into his home before reading the book and trying to take her back. Her choice to stay. And finally, her deteriorating condition— the exhaustion that rendered her drained and lifeless.

In the middle of his explanation, Claire had drifted down to lay her head in Jamie’s lap and curl her feet on the bench. It had made the lump in his throat grow, nearly choking off his words, but he’d pressed on to finish his story, knowing how important it was to get answers.

Once he’d finally closed his mouth, Geillis gave a thoughtful hum, looking down at the faerie in his lap with a worried expression that was almost pitying.

“I could tell the moment she walked in that somethin’ was wrong,” she said softly.

“Anyone wi’ two eyes could see that, she can barely stand on her own two feet!” Jamie snapped. He regretted it instantly. Geillis was their greatest hope and her comment didn’t warrant that response, he was just so worried that he was strung nearly to breaking.

He started to apologize when she cut him off. “Nae, I meant her aura is wrong. Worse than wrong it’s… barely there.”

Jamie couldn’t help but ask, “that’s how ye kent she was a faerie the first time, aye?”

Geillis nodded. She was quiet for another gut-wrenching moment, looking down at Claire. The lass in his lap was unconscious, and Geillis seemed to be longing to talk to her instead of him. Or maybe she was just studying her.

“Do ye ken what’s wrong then?” Jamie couldn’t help but ask, “please? Any ideas at all. I—” he started to try to express how terrified he was, how he couldn’t bear for anything to happen to her, but the words clogged in his throat. He looked down at her as hot tears pricked in his eyes and brushed those beautiful curls back in a way that was probably more soothing for him than it even was for her— out of it as she was.

When he looked back to meet the startling green eyes, there was sympathy there.

“I have a theory…” she said, but trailed off.

Jamie felt his entire body lift. His back straightened as he eagerly asked, “tell me?”

Her eyes flicked down again to his hands stroking Claire. “Ye willna like it.”

The hope that had begun forming in his chest popped with suddenly ferocity. He felt sick to his stomach, worse than he ever had on a boat or plane in the worst of his motion sickness bouts. He wished he could just refuse to hear the bad news that was about to come, but he had to face it, for Claire’s sake. No matter what, he would keep fighting.

“Tell me,” he said. This time it wasn’t a question.

Geillis settled back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap.

“Ye said she came through the stones by accident, aye? I think…” for the first time ever, Geillis looked hesitant, “I dinna ken how else to say it…. I think she’s becomin’ human.”

“What?!” Jamie burst out, loud enough to make Claire jerk in his lap. He quickly looked down, placing his hands on her again to settle her. She hadn’t fully woken, so his touch on her side and face was enough to soothe her back into tenuous sleep. He looked back up to Geillis and repeated, more quietly this time, “what?”

She looked uncomfortable as she looked at Claire like the theory was forming in her head. “Well, not exactly becomin’ human. Not really. She’s still fae. It’s jes— ye ken she’s from another plane, aye? Well now she’s separated from her realm, and things are different here. She canna draw energy in the same way. Going through the stones— being here in this realm— she’s cut off, and she canna eat and drink like the rest of us to sustain herself, her body isna capable. She’s likely been drawing on what energy she can, but it isna the same as in her realm.”

Jamie came back to himself to find he was clutching the end of Claire’s hair in a balled-up fist. He felt like Geillis’ explanation had torn him open and ripped him inside-out.

“So...” he spoke through the bile rising in his throat, “she’s essentially starvin’ to death? From lack of energy?”

She nodded solemnly. Her fixed gaze on him was so intense that he had to look away. He tried to look down, but the sight of Claire’s pale face as she slept in his lap made his eyes burn with tears.

“Do ye—” Jamie tried to ask, choking back tears, “what can I do?”

Geillis looked sympathetic but made no move.

“Take her back to the stones,” she said simply.

Jamie shook his head violently, his very body tense, as if it could expel the idea. “No, no, she doesna want that. There has to be another way. She could eat— or—”

“That won’t help her, that’s not what she needs. I’m sorry, fox, I… I don’t know of anything else,” her voice was so low and excruciatingly sympathetic that Jamie wanted to scream.

He found himself still shaking his head in denial. There was a sharp ache in his stomach, as if his heart had shoved its way down there.

“I dinna think I can—” he choked as the first tears began to fall. Trying to find the barest hint of comfort, he stroked Claire’s hair again, his fingers brushing her face.

“There’s no choice,” Geillis said finally, “she’ll die.”

Jamie wanted to leave the bookstore. He almost wished that he had never come— only he could never wish to be ignorant about such a thing, even if it was tempting. He glanced down at Claire in his lap.

She was unconscious, her face nearly ashen in the light from the window. There was no hint of her usual golden warmth— only pallid skin and dark circles under her eyes. He could feel her shallow breathing,

He wanted to break down completely. The allure of giving into his grief was so strong, but she didn't deserve to languish in this place any longer. He would see her home.

The polite thing would have been to thank Geillis for her help. Only his throat was so clogged that the words never would have come out. He couldn’t even spare a glance up at her.

A silent tear dripped down his cheek as he reached a hand down to gently shake Claire’s cheek.

“Mo ghraidh?” he choked.

He was suddenly overcome by the acute desire— no need— for her to wake up. He had to see those golden eyes or he’d die. He couldn’t draw breath, he couldn’t—

She opened her eyes slowly, blinking dazedly up at him from where her head rested in his lap between his hands. He expected her to murmur out “what’s wrong?’ as she usually would have upon finding him in such a state of extreme distress. But she didn’t say a word. She was likely too tired to sense his emotions, too tired to even bring herself to confront the reality that was showing on his face. She just breathed in shakily.

Jamie somehow found a strength inside himself that he didn’t know he possessed. He gathered his composure— for her sake.

“Let’s go home,” he said softly, his voice astoundingly even.

He gathered Claire up in his arms with the utmost care, lifting her under back and knees until he was standing face to face with Geillis.

“Take care of her, fox cub,” the witch said solemnly.

Jamie swallowed hard. Unable to verbalize it out loud, he gave her a nod.

A promise.

He would send her back. He would do what needed to be done to save her.

At that moment, Claire stirred in his arms.

“We’re leaving?’ came her breathy question.

“Yes, a leannan. We’re going home.”

To his surprise, her hand pushed against his chest— her touch weak and lacking any real force, but still insistent.

“I don’t— they’ll—” she sounded distressed, which broke Jamie’s heart. But she was so incoherent he didn’t have any idea how to assuage her.

“What is it, a nighean?” he asked, on the verge of tears.

“Don’t want them to see,” she finally managed.

That did him in. More tears leaked from his eyes to pour down his cheeks. He swallowed the sob in his throat.

She had always hated other people seeing her— accustomed as she was to being invisible to humans— and now she was embarrassed by the thought of Jamie carrying her through Inverness.

“Dinna think about them,” Jamie answered, barely able to contain the heartache in his voice, “no one matters except you, mo ghraidh.”

She still looked distressed. Her eyes were squeezed closed again, her brows furrowed, and she shook her head.

“Jamie, I…”

Her voice trailed off. Her head lolled on his shoulder, and he nearly broke down all over again.

He turned his teary gaze to Geillis, giving her his best look of pleading.

“Is there nothin’ ye can do tae ease her?” he asked brokenly.

Geillis looked wrecked too, staring at Claire as if the sight of his wee faerie suffering was too terrible to look away from. “I’m sorry,” she said with a sad shake of her head, “there’s nothin’ I can do.”

Jamie bit his lip, hard enough to draw blood, and then refocused on his love.

“Damn the world,” he told her firmly, “we’re goin’ home.”

***

IMPORTANT:

Hi, friends! I mentioned a few chapters ago that I will be going on hiatus for a short time. I've finished writing arc II now, and in the interest of leaving you all at a decent stopping point before I go on hiatus, I will be dropping a chapter a day. There are 3 more chapters after this one until arc II wraps up. BUT the story will be far from over, so I truly hope you stick around until I get back in a number of weeks. I love this story and these characters so much and I'm really excited for arc III.

With that being said... I will now be running off to hide in fear of my life. IknowIknowIknowI'msorry! SORRY!

#next day update!!#all that was fair #claire x jamie #outlander fanfiction #fae claire

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sentanixiv · 3 years

Text

Tomorrow’s Problem

Something sweet to offset the feels that I attacked y’all with yesterday. John Marston suffering through the poor life choice of drinking more whiskey than his liver and body can tolerate.

Birds chirping have no right to sound the way they do this morning, piercing calls penetrating the deep fog of sleep and waking not only John, but also the heavy, aching pain of having indulged too much in liquor and too little in sleep after celebrating the success of their take late into the night. He groans, a sound which in itself is too loud, and drags the thin pillow of the hotel room bed over his face like it’ll smother noise. Or maybe him, because each second spent being dragged into the state of waking has him feeling nothing but regret.

Think you oughta slow up there, Marston. Keep at it and you ain’t gonna be fit for living come morning.

Even the recollection of Arthur teasing him about the pace with which he kept downing shot after shot sounds too loud and he buries his face in the mattress as though peace and quiet’ll be found somewhere between the feathers and springs that separate him from the bedframe and the floor beneath it.

That’s something for tomorrow John to deal with.

The cocky remark’d sounded witty, damn near hilarious when he snapped it out and tossed back the next shot in a line of too many that blurred the hours together, made hazy the hands of poker he’d played, then inspired his running into the alley, leaning a hand on the wall as he emptied his stomach of too much whiskey and too little food out onto the muddy ground. Vaguely, he remembers Arthur coming out to find him, holding back his hair and offering a rare find: Cloth-wrapped ice, a premium in these parts, that he was able to rest on the back of his neck, then against his forehead as the drinks wound down and his stomach knotted up, bringing with it a misery that’s three times worse this morning.

Let’s get you back to the room, Marston. You ain’t in any shape to stick ‘round here.

That explains how he got back here, their small safe haven of a hotel room in a town looking out for two degenerates that robbed a payroll stage late yesterday morning. Hazy memories fling themselves out of the dark void that follows the actions in the alley, then of John stumbling under Arthur’s guided patience up each stair and down the hall, of fumbling off the layers down to his union suit and then getting the brilliant idea of stripping Arthur down to have some fun, of being told to hold off for some time he ain’t drunk, so’s there’s no regrets about it, and then it fogs up into the murky sleep that he’s slowly pulling free of. John knows that any regret he feels would not have been from getting rowdy; every ounce of it relates to the sheer amount of alcohol he packed into his gut before his body stirred a riot against it. Still, he figures Arthur had it right, because he ain’t sure he’d’ve remembered the fun of it with the way he feels right now, ready to roll over and play dead if that’d make the hangover stop.

Only, he can’t. They need to ride out, connect with Dutch and the others a couple towns south, and that means John has to roll off the mattress and piece himself together no matter that he feels worse than shit dragged twice through the pigsty. He is ready to try sitting up when the creaking hinges of the door split open his head anew and he curls up into a ball in the middle of the bed, palms pressing against his temples to force his skull back together and a whimper slipping from him.

Gentler the door is when it closes, but the screech is the same to his sensitive hearing; the low rumble of a chuckle, however, is the first sound since waking that doesn’t make him want to wither and die under the cotton-and-nails chaos inside his head. John moves the heel of one hand to his forehead, pressing against the ache there, and the other peels back the pillow until he catches the blurry sight of Arthur walking soft and quiet across the room, setting a plate of something on the bedside and then nudging a cool tin hug moist with the condensation of cold water against the hand that’s holding back the poor barricade the pillow provides against the world.

“You’s gonna be fine, John,” Arthur tells him, voice pitched low and quiet where it doesn’t drive deeper the spikes of the hangover in his head.

John groans at the sentiment regardless, turning his face back into the mattress. “Don’t feel fine,” he whines, knowing it sure is a whine by the pathetic lilt of it. “Shootin’ me’d be doing me a kindness right now.”

The cold touch of the mug lifts as Arthur sits down on the bed next to him, a sigh let out to vent whatever chiding frustration he wants to bring up about warning him off drinking that much. “C’mon,” is what he says instead and he’s carefully brushing John’s hair back from his face, carding his fingers through it and coaxing him to turn his head towards him. “Got you some water, need you to drink it.”

Broken bones or gunshot wounds and John’d resist the treatment, but he’s feeling miserable and lets Arthur slowly get him up, braces an elbow under himself to hold himself there, half lying down, as Arthur puts the mug to his lips and lets him sip at it slowly. Cool water floods his mouth, dives deep into him and it’s the second soothing thing he’s felt this morning. The first is Arthur being here at all, being gentle over abrasive, and he figures it’s because ain’t no one else around to call him out for being soft on John. They’ve been riding a string of paired off jobs, the two of them, and some of Arthur’s harsh edges start wearing down the longer and further they are from the gang, from the expectations of it, from the work he seems to think falls squarely on his shoulders to bear, the rules he figures his to enforce. Some days it makes John think about not going back, letting Arthur be himself more than this rough jackass he’s been sculpted into, but the thoughts always fade too fast. It’s family, the gang, found and kept; it ain’t something Arthur can leave and even John ain’t fond of the idea to separate from it when he knows the hell that’s life in this country.

“Got you some eggs and beans, bit of bread.” Arthur unknowingly breaks that line of thought before it draws him in with the temptation it, pulling the cup away to set it down.

The smell of food, and the idea of beans after the night he’s had, leaves John wrinkling his nose in disgust. “Ain’t hungry,” he says and it’s true, but the look he gets? The borderline aggravation muscled quick under the hold of patience? Tells him he’ll be trying to eat and hunger ain’t got a thing to do with it. There’ve been times when that look ends up with Arthur forcing food into him with a spoon and his fingers prying his mouth open, but that ain’t been a thing since his early teens, back when John knew nothing about trusting anyone but himself. “Fine,” he mutters. “I’ll try, just… gimme a few minutes here. Then I’ll eat’n we can ride out.”

The thought of riding with the way his stomach churns ain’t a fond one, but Hosea taught him oft enough that you dig the grave, you gotta fill it; sometimes, that means your pride’s what gets buried and sometimes it’s a body, but something needs to go there and he figures his pride will be the victim today. Reluctantly, John goes to push himself to a full sitting position, but Arthur puts a hand on his chest and pushes him back down to the mattress. Bewildered, he blinks and looks at him blankly.

“We ain’t goin’ nowhere yet,” Arthur says, wiping the moisture of the mug off his hand against the thin blanket of the bed, looking away at the windows that stand vigil over the main street.

Suspicion flares up and John frowns, almost makes the mistake of shaking his head and just barely holds off jarring his hungover brain by it. “We ain’t sticking idle because I drank too much,” he manages, though he’s not yet trying to push the hand away and right himself with any real effort. He’s tired and the water felt good, good enough that he’s starting to think that eating’s got potential too.

“We ain’t,” Arthur tells him flatly, leaving off the gentle press of his hand, a half-hearted pin he’d let keep him there, to stand up. “Heard a couple fellas last night talkin’ about the bank bringing in more money in a couple days, how they’s looking to pull law and security out of town to guard the stage when it comes in.”

Here he’s been thinking his drinking was stupid enough to land him in this state, now Arthur’s talking foolish plans about hitting the stage again? “No way we could pull off the same job twice,” John tells him, feeling odd being the one to point this out. All that added security means bodies and risks that they don’t have the manpower for.

Arthur grins and it ain’t bitter, it ain’t grim; it’s to the challenge, the idea of it being fun to him and that’s rarer the older they both get. “Ain’t never said we’d hit the stage again,” he says, hooking his thumb under his gunbelt. His eyes are bright, something that John ain’t seen since before Mary ended things and tore out what little heart Arthur had left. “All them folk pulled away to protect the stagecoach? Seems to me like we got a good chance of clearing out the bank while they’s all looking the other way.”

Two of them taking on a bank? The idea sits beyond the scope John can currently manage, his head threatening to split anew when he tries to sort the details, and he drops it down back onto the pillow with a grumbled, confused muttering. “How’s that supposed to go?”

There’s a shrug, a pat on his shoulder before Arthur starts towards the door. “I ain’t sure yet. You rest up, John. I’ll case the bank, see if we don’t got an opportunity too damn good to pass up.”

#morston #rdr2 #kichi writes #john marston pov #kind of a sick/comfort #it's sweeter than the other piece!

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cicada-bones · 3 years

Text

The Warrior and the Wildfire

Chapter 3: Oath-Breaker

Sorry for taking so much longer than I thought I would! But I hope it was worth the wait! Please let me know what you think- your comments are seriously what keeps me going. love you all sm ❤︎

word count: 4108

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

It was fresh, and completely unmistakable. Within the past few hours, Lorcan Salvaterre had passed by Mistward, heading for the sea.

Rowan immediately swooped low, following the scent to where it meandered over the forest floor, his heart pounding in his chest. The trail skirted around the edge of Mistward’s perimeter, following a path that was just out of their sightline, but close enough that in the morning, the scouts would find it immediately.

It almost felt like a message.

Rowan shifted in mid-air, landing hard on his heels and already drawing the wind towards him from all directions, searching for anything, any whisper of a dark form, flitting between the oaks, quick as a shadow –

But there was nothing. Only the memory.

Rowan began to run, following the trail westward. Even though Lorcan had passed through these trees barely a few hours ago, the wind couldn’t sense him. He was already gone, miles and miles ahead. Out of the reach of Rowan’s wind.

As the trail solidified before him, Rowan’s stride lengthened, his footing becoming more sure with each step. And he longed to be able to shift again, to use the wind to propel him over the land.

He could fly so much faster than he could run, but then he risked losing the scent – a chance he could not take. So instead Rowan dug his feet into the earth, tearing through the forest mists. A predator on the hunt.

Only one thought in his head.

Why in rutting hell was Lorcan Salvaterre trying to get his attention?

···

Fenrys wasn’t there when she found out.

He was out on a run, hunting through the forests around Doranelle. Chasing down after whispers of the forest-spirits. He knew they were here: the elemental beings, as ancient as the very stones and mountains and valleys. Older than history – than time itself.

Fenrys would hear them in the night – sounds of crashing rock and tearing metal, the felling of trees when no wind blew. Still fighting their ancient wars, either uncaring or ignorant of the affairs of lesser beings. But Fenrys had never seen them, nor did he know of anyone who had.

Every now and again, he would glance a fairy or two. One of the Little Folk, going about their little-great-deeds. But it was never when he was looking for them.

It was something he and Connall used to do as young ones – charge through the forest, hunting for fairies. For the heroes of the tales their mother would tell them, over glasses of sweet fruit juice on lazy summer afternoons. Stories of battles and warriors and the hidden magic of the land. To this day, Fenrys didn’t know whether the stories were true, or if she had made them up herself.

He knew it was only purposeless distraction, and one that he would likely pay for when he returned. But he just had no idea how much.

So no, Fenrys wasn’t in the palace when Maeve found out.

But Connall was.

···

The trail was nearly a straight shot through the woods, barely deviating for trees and boulders. Lorcan was really hauling ass. And as he drew closer and closer to the coastline, and the little market town that was waiting for him there, Rowan felt his suspicions begin to grow.

It was nearing evening when Rowan finally began to hear little signs of approaching civilization – the neighing of horses, the soft thumps of an axe chopping wood. But the trail pushed on, breaching the edges of the trees, following over the cobbles through the market, out towards the end of the main street, until it came to a stop. Right at the end of the long wooden dock.

Rowan stood at the brink, right where the path met the sea. And he could feel fury coiling in his gut.

Lorcan had left. And Rowan thought he might be able to guess where his former commander was headed. But before he decided anything, before he made a plan, he needed to be absolutely sure.

Rowan turned on his heels, headed back into the village. His cloak was pulled high over his head, hiding much of his face. He let his body fall into a slump, hiding its powerful shape. Evening was coming on, and if he kept his movements sloppy and wide, he could be just another traveler, coming to wet his throat with watered-down ale.

Outside the pub, a young maid was lighting the lamps, her hair neat and apron clean. When she looked up at him, Rowan caught the glint of sharp eyes. Maybe he wouldn’t even need to go inside the tavern.

“Hello miss,” Rowan said, ever so slightly shifting his accent, letting the words fall from his mouth like marbles. “Might you be able to tell me where I could hire passage on a ship?”

Her face twisted shrewdly, and she gave him a quick once over as she straightened and said, “Depends on where you’re goin’. And how much coin you’ve got t’ spend.”

Rowan nodded, making sure to keep his clothes hidden with the cloak, knowing that an accidental glint of silver from one of his hidden blades might be enough for her to call for help from inside the tavern. And that last thing he wanted was trouble. “When was your last ship headed for Adarlan? And when will you be expecting the next one? It doesn’t have to be fast, or comfortable.”

Her expression tightened, but she answered reasonably enough. “We get a fair few ships headed to the western continent this time o’ year – the sheep’ve just been shorn and ships head that a-way bearing wool to trade for furs from the north, and steel from the south. I’m pretty sure we had a ship go through this morning.”

“And the next?” Rowan prompted, his expression schooled into neutrality.

“If you ask around the dockyards, I’m sure you might find another ship headin’ that way – once the tide comes in. And if not, then I’m sure there’ll be another come tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” Rowan slipped the girl a coin. “By chance, you didn’t catch another traveler come through here today, heading the same direction – asking questions? Tall, dark hair, harsh look?”

The shrewd look fell into a scowl. “Maybe. Either way, my answer’ll cost more’n just a copper.”

Rowan slipped her another couple of coins, and she pocketed them. But her scowl didn’t soften.

“I might’ve seen your man. Came through around mid-morning, in a massive rush. Massive man, at that. Huge. Musta been six, nearly seven feet? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man that tall. And he nearly knocked me over coming in the pub to ask after passage to Rifthold. Kept his face covered though, so I couldn’t be sure.”

Rowan nodded again, but before the maid could turn to leave, he asked, “Oh – and do you happen to know a place where I could send a letter?”

“If you give it to me, I can get it to my mother and she’ll give it to the courier when he comes ‘round in the mornin’. You gonna come in for a pint?”

The maid held open the door, and Rowan followed her in, thinking it much easier to just go along with the girl, and far too wrapped up in his thoughts to come up with a polite refusal that wouldn’t leave her even more suspicious than she already was.

The tavern wasn’t bustling, but it was far from empty either. A few farmers sat at a table in the far corner, enjoying a few beers after a long day’s work, while a few younger boys, perhaps their sons, were laughing and joking across the room. There were a few other individuals – travelers like himself, or people who lived and worked in the village. But the majority of the bar was filled with sailors – teasing and joking and climbing all over each other, celebrating their last night on dry ground for many weeks to come.

Rowan headed for a quiet corner, flagging down the waitress and settling onto a creaky wooden bench. He ordered some bread and ale, which she had brought over in mere seconds, and he began to pick at it mindlessly.

There could be no doubt. Lorcan was heading for Adarlan, for Rifthold. For Aelin.

Maeve had sent him to go after Aelin. And she had ordered him to pass by Mistward, Mistward specifically, so that Rowan would be drawn into the conflict. Maybe they were planning on using him to get to Aelin, to follow him in order to find her.

The question was, why only Lorcan? Where were the twins? Gavriel? Vaughan? Would they follow Lorcan? Were they already headed for Adarlan?

Rationally, Rowan knew that Aelin was safe. That she was still somewhere in the middle of the ocean, on her way to Rifthold. But it took all of his self-control to keep himself from shifting right there, in the middle of this tavern filled with mortals, and fly out into the ocean skies to find her.

What really worried him was the idea that he would get there too late. That even if he got on a ship right at that moment, he would get to Rifthold after she had already been found, taken, overwhelmed. The idea that there were already forces there, waiting to seize her.

And no matter what, Lorcan would arrive in Rifthold hours or days before Rowan would be able to, and well before Aelin could read any letter he sent. Not that he even knew where he could send a letter. All he knew was that she used to own a hidden apartment in the slums, and that for the past six months, she had lived in a stone tower in the castle.

It seemed unlikely that she would return to either. Both were compromised, the castle being an obviously insane choice. Unless of course she had something hidden up her sleeve that she had kept from Rowan. Which felt distinctly possible. And Arobynn had to know about the apartment. She had nowhere safe to go, and Rowan had nowhere safe he could send a warning.

So the only way he would be able to tell her about Lorcan would be to go there himself. To break his oath.

Rowan knew that he could, and without much difficulty at that. But it still felt wrong – a violation of trust. If he left Wendlyn without being told to by Aelin, he would be going against her wishes. He would be taking advantage, both of the flexibility of their bond and of her trust in him.

And it definitely didn’t make things any easier that he so desperately wanted to leave in the first place. It felt like he was exploiting the opportunity to be close to her again, no matter how rationally necessary it might be. And there was a chance that she might not forgive him for it.

But no matter how much that might sting, he couldn’t live through following her requests to the letter, and Aelin dying because of it.

So, Lorcan was headed for Rifthold. And soon, Rowan would be heading there as well.

Rowan tore into the bread, newly reinvigorated. He didn’t see any reason to return to Mistward, there wasn’t anything there worth sacrificing another day for. But he did feel bad about leaving without any notice. Deserting Emrys and Malakai, and…Luca.

So as he ate, Rowan dug out a piece of paper from his pack and began to write.

Emrys,

I’m sorry. Something came up. Tell Luca to remember to practice swings off his left side just as much as his right, I don’t care if they hurt more.

When I see her, I’ll tell her you say hello.

Then he folded up the paper and sealed it, leaving it unmarked. Hopefully, even if someone – such as that suspicious maid – opened the letter to see what it said, what he wrote would be meaningless.

He spent the rest of the evening listening to the sailors’ conversation, until he heard mention of a crew headed for Rifthold. The barmaid hadn’t lied – it was a ship bearing crates of wool heading to Adarlan to trade for steel. This was their last night ashore, and they were setting sail sometime in the early morning, just before the tide shifted.

So Rowan waited a few minutes more, then left the waitress his fee, gave the maid his letter, and walked out into the lamplit village, his jaw squared and his shoulders set. Determined.

···

Fenrys returned to broken furniture. Splintered wood and broken glass. Twisted metal and shattered stone. That was the first thing he noticed.

The second thing he noticed was the silence. It stretched its fingers through the walls and corridors and archways, until it brushed through to his skin. Until it was the only touch he could feel.

Silence.

Where there should be sound.

The third thing he noticed was the bodies. Their touch was even colder than the quiet. There was no red, no black. None of the usual gory signs of death. Just nothing. An absence.

Fenrys worked his way through the wreckage, his hands empty of feeling, his heart a stone in his chest. His intestines resting somewhere near his toes.

Until he reached their rooms, and found Connall in a dark huddle across the sea of space, and he was still breathing and it felt like Fenrys could breathe again too, but then Connall spoke and sound returned to the world, “Why did he leave? Why did he leave us?” and his voice was so full of fear that Fenrys felt tears sprout from his eyes like wings.

“Who?” Fenrys asked. “Who, Con? What happened?”

But then the palace stones began to thunder, and the questions that had seemed so important only a moment ago fell from his mind on a scattered breeze.

···

Rowan flitted into a dark alleyway around the back of the tavern, and once he was sure there was no one there to see, he shifted into his hawk and flew out over the small village.

From his eavesdropping earlier, he had learned that the ship headed for Rifthold was an old galleon vessel near the edge of the docks, bearing white and yellow flags. It had a large enough cargo bay that hopefully Rowan would be able to find a place to stow away, but wasn’t so large that the journey would take even longer than it should. Which was already far, far too long for his liking.

Rowan circled high above the ship a few times, making sure that he appeared as nothing more than just another sea bird, hunting for its dinner. Although most of the crew, including the captain and first mate, appeared to be drinking away their pay on the floor of the tavern in the village, the ship wasn’t completely empty.

His winds told him that at least three men were asleep below decks, their rumbling snores echoing through the wooden beams. But a few lamps still shone, and with their light Rowan could see a few flickering shadows just beneath the upper deck that made him think not all of the sailors were yet asleep.

So Rowan would have to be extremely careful in making his approach.

He waited for long minutes for those lights to vanish, and shadows to disappear. And the second they did Rowan was sailing down among the rigging, twisting and turning around the sails and masts until he could be absolutely sure that there weren’t any watchful eyes to mark his presence.

Then Rowan was swooping down into the maze of rooms below decks, making sure to avoid the various sleeping quarters, kitchens, and officers’ cabins. Heading towards the hold at the very bottom of the ship in as straight of a path as he could.

Rowan found a dark corner behind a case of flour and barrel of barley, and then shifted back into his Fae form. Once they passed the halfway mark between Adarlan and Wendlyn, magic would stop working, and he wouldn’t be able to move between forms. He had to find a place he could hide in during the day that was large enough for his Fae body. A task far easier said than done.

A ship like this had a crew in the dozens, and quarters were cramped all to hell. Every piece of available space was used, from every corner to closet and even the toilets. Only the captain would have room to stretch his legs, and even then, it was barely by a few feet. Nothing like the space he would need in order to not attract attention.

Rowan looked over the hold once again, scanning for anything that could possibly be large enough. Then he nearly huffed a laugh when he realized exactly what he needed to do.

···

When morning came, Rowan was crammed into a wooden case lined with wool. The back panel carefully pried out and its nails removed, but then leaned carefully back into place to allow him a quick exit. And the majority of the wool was now taking a trip down the coastline.

He had spent an hour or so that night carefully removing armfuls of the fiber and tossing it overboard, using his wind to propel it from the shipyard and out to sea, leaving only just enough room for himself. It was crammed, scratchy, uncomfortable, and smelled like sheep dung, but it would do.

Now, as the ship slowly meandered its way through the reef and out into open ocean, with the occasional shouts and curses of the sailors toiling above, Rowan had nothing to do but think.

For the next month.

It might just be the longest month of his life. At least he couldn’t complain about not having enough time to plan.

Aelin certainly would have a strategy, and by the time he reached her, she would have been working away at it for nearly two weeks. And while he could only guess at her aims, he knew that when he reached her, he would do whatever he could to help her reach those goals.

The question was, should he reach her at all?

Rowan knew he needed to warn her about Lorcan, but once he was actually in Rifthold, that could be done in many ways – not just by contacting her in person. And deep in his bones, Rowan knew that Lorcan had dragged him here on purpose. That the male had wanted him to follow, to pursue. There were faster ways to travel from Doranelle to the sea than to go by Mistward.

So wouldn’t it be playing right into Lorcan’s hands to join up with Aelin? Giving him exactly what he wanted?

Lorcan wasn’t familiar enough with Aelin’s scent, nor with the city of Rifthold, to track her down by himself. He would be digging in the dark – except for the trail that Rowan would give him, as easily as handing over their lives like so much coin.

Perhaps Rowan could go to Rifthold, warn Aelin anonymously, and track down Lorcan by himself. And the faster he rid himself of his former commander, the sooner Rowan would be able to reunite with his Queen.

The pain of that future made him physically flinch.

And it wasn’t only the idea of being in the same city, or even just on the same continent, as Aelin and not being beside her. It was the thought of Lorcan, Lorcan, his commander of nearly three centuries, someone he had almost once thought of as a brother, or even a friend, Lorcan, as someone he needed to dispose of.

Someone who was his enemy.

It was a heavy, uncomfortable weight. It felt strange, and wrong, to have someone he had so trusted become such a dangerous enemy. No matter how necessary he knew it might be, Rowan couldn’t really think of killing him.

It would be like destroying a part of himself, an old part, but a necessary one.

Without Lorcan, he wouldn’t have become the person he was today, wouldn’t know the things he knew, or understand what he now did. About war and sacrifice and leadership and teaching.

Lorcan had been a pillar in his life when he needed one. And while Rowan hadn’t loved him, he had respected him.

And now they were enemies.

Rowan scowled, the crate somehow becoming even more uncomfortable.

What he did know was how Lorcan worked, how he operated. If Rowan did decided to reunite with Aelin, then he would have to keep his distance. Because Lorcan was expert at finding pressure points, and using them to his advantage.

Lorcan already knew that Aelin had turned Rowan away from Maeve, knew that Rowan had chosen her over his oath, over his life.

Idiot. He was such an idiot when it came to her.

If Lorcan found out that there was anything more, that there were other, deeper feelings –

No, Rowan could keep his distance. He could keep those thoughts under control because he had to. Not only because they did no good, but because they might get Aelin killed. Or worse, captured and taken back to Maeve.

But Rowan knew that he wouldn’t be able to deal with Lorcan without her – that he wouldn’t be able to return to Rifthold without reuniting with her. No matter how much easier it might be to keep her safe if he stayed away.

The only thing that was keeping him sane was the thought that at the end of this journey through hell, stuffed in this tiny rutting box that smelled like dung, unable to lay down properly for weeks, was an image of Aelin’s face. Even if she wasn’t happy to see him, even if she didn’t forgive him breaking his oath.

For the first time in weeks, he was heading towards her, instead of away.

So Rowan curled up and turned on his side, and tried to get some sleep, as the shouts of the sailors above him faded into the rising dawn.

···

Across Wendlyn, Emrys was stirring a large pot of rabbit stew, listening to the potatoes crackling as they fried on the stove. It was a lot of work, feeding this many people each and every day. But Emrys loved it, caring for this large family of his. Making sure they were all fed. Taking in strays.

Aelin Galathynius had been such a stray, and he couldn’t say that he didn’t miss her. But he knew that she was where she was meant to be, doing what she was meant to do. No matter what that prince said, or how much he tried to hide, Emrys knew that Aelin had survived her encounter with Maeve, that they both had escaped. Together. And now she’d moved on to other – perhaps even greater – foes.

Even when she was all the way across the ocean Emrys was worried about her.

The old male just sighed, then shuffled over to the counter to begin chopping scallions to add to the stew.

But before he could start, he was interrupted by the afternoon courier, bearing a letter for him – of all people.

Emrys wiped his hands off on his apron, and took the letter from the boy’s fingers. It was unmarked, but the paper was old and worn. As if it had lived in someone’s saddlebags for some time.

Emrys ripped it open, then read through it. Unable to keep a smile off his face.

That scoundrel.

He began to untie his apron, then headed out of the kitchen to go find Luca. Emrys couldn’t really find it in himself to be disappointed in the prince, even if he had abandoned them. Had left Luca with his grief and his guilt.

The boy had finally told him and Malakai about what had happened, and they had talked and cried together into the wee hours of the morning. Even so, Emrys had really hoped that Rowan might be there to help Luca through that grief. He knew that Luca had too.

But it was not to be. Perhaps they might see each other again, in years to come. Perhaps Rowan might even be their king one day.

Emrys almost wanted to laugh. He could already see the scowl that would twist Malakai’s face when he told him the news. Rowan, gone off to chase the future. Leaving them to tend to this little piece of the present.

When Emrys told Luca what was in the letter, the boy smiled too.

···

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

···

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#warrior and the wildfire #rowaelin #rowan pov #rpov #queen of shadows

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lu-undy · 3 years

Text

Un-alone, Chapter 18

Here it is!

“Corpus Christi in Texas?”

“Yup, seems your boy’s mobile.” Fred was playing with a toothpick while sitting on the Frenchman’s couch, in his suite.

Lucien sighed from his bedroom.

“Do we know if he intends to settle there or is his US tour going to last any longer?” He asked.

“Apparently he had to meet with some folks in New Mexico but intends to settle for real in Texas. Some of his henchmen were spotted there already, but the man himself still has to join his goons.”

“Very well.”

Lucien walked to the telephone and composed a number.

“Allô? Oui, please let the driver of Agent J know that his stop should not be in New Mexico but at Corpus Christi, in Texas… Many thanks.” Lucien hung up the phone and went back to his room, leaving the door open.

“So you’re goin’ there too or it’s too easy for the great L to take care of, huh?” Fred asked with enough disdain for Lucien to frown from his bedroom. He had laid a suitcase open on his bed and was packing his essentials.

“I am joining him. He is still in training and has no idea how to even dress. How could one expect him to capture an everything-trafficker?” Lucien's voice said from the bedroom.

"Well, he's still technically in trainin' but you just called him 'Agent J', as if he was official…" Fred took a chocolate from the bowl on the coffee table. Lucien came out of his bedroom with a briefcase in his hand. “Think he has potential?”

"Thank you for letting me know where Mordankovich is." The Frenchman coldly answered and Fred raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t wanna answer?”

“Non.”

“Fair enough…” Fred took another chocolate from the bowl on the table and tossed the wrapping on it. Perle jumped on the table and started playing with the shiny bit of plastic.

“Perle, non.” Lucien came and took the wrapping away from her. “Chocolate is no food for you.”

“Meow!”

“C’est malpoli de répondre.” The Frenchman gently answered.

[It is impolite to talk back.]

Lucien threw the wrappings in the bin and Perle followed him around.

“What are you gonna do with it?” Fred asked.

“With what?” Lucien answered.

“With the cat? You gonna go to Texas with it? Also, I didn’t know you had a kitty… C’mere…” Fred extended a few fingers to Perle who came to sniff them. “Ouch! She slapped me with her claws!”

Lucien couldn’t help but smirk.

“Perle, ne lui fais pas de mal, s’il te plaît.”

[Perle, don’t harm him, please.]

The American sucked on his bruised finger and frowned.

"To answer you, Perle is coming along." Lucien said and crouched down next to the cat's travel box. He put a little soft blanket inside and dropped a few treats on it. "Viens, ma belle."

[Come, my beauty.]

Before obeying, Perle brushed herself on the Frenchman.

"Oui, tu viens avec moi. Je ne vais pas te laisser toute seule, non?"

[Yes, you are coming with me. I will not leave you on your own, will I?]

He gently scratched her head and Perle purred. She appreciated the scratches for a while before she decided that she had enough and the smell of those tuna treats inside the travel box was divine…!

"Never thought you were the pet ownin' type." Fred helped himself to more chocolates. "Hell, you couldn't even bear with people who wanted to work with you…! And now you got a kid and a fuckin' cat!"

"Well, if we are done, Fred…" Lucien walked to the front door. He put his coat on and wrapped a scarf around his neck. "If you don't mind, I need to leave."

"Oh, sure." Fred took an extra handful of chocolates and left. “Oh, before I forget…” Fred turned from halfway through the hotel corridor. “We’ve got a guy in Texas, E, he’s good with machines and stuff. G'luck!"

A few hours later, Lucien was aboard a plane. He stretched his legs in front of him and sighed as he looked through the window. He was thousands of miles above the ground and as late as it was, he couldn't even see the clouds beneath him. It gave him the impression that he was floating in space, far from the Earth and its problems, in a business class bubble, far from targets, ministries and intelligence agencies.

The lights dimmed out in the plane and most passengers slowly fell in Morpheus' arms. Lucien looked through the infinite darkness.

"Meow?"

"Dors, ma chérie. Je suis là."

[Sleep, sweetheart. I am here.]

Lucien had put Perle in the seat next to him, still in the box.

"Meow…" She complained.

"Je sais, c'est moins confortable que dans mon lit, sur le coussin à côté de moi. Mais on est dans un avion."

[I know, it is less comfortable than my bed, on the pillow next to mine. But we are on a plane."

"Meeeoooow?" She begged and Lucien sighed. He opened the box's door.

"Tu restes près de moi, d'accord?"

[You stay next to me, understood?]

Perle curled in a ball of fur on her master's lap. He scratched her and she gently purred, blinking slower and slower.

"Meow."

"Qu'est-ce que tu veux?" Lucien smiled. He could barely admit it, but he grew fond of Perle in a way he never thought he could.

[What do you want?]

When he left his suite in his hotel, he had taken a last glance at the living-room, and smiled. That cat had transformed his days as much as it had his environment. Now he had to commit to a routine to feed her, to change the water from her bowl, even though she preferred to drink from a tap, to take care of her. And he had to invest money in toys, scratching posts and even in a soft satin bed that she decided wasn't good enough for her. She preferred to sleep with him and wake him up in the morning, sweet headbutts and rolling purrs.

"Meow?" She asked.

"Fine, Fine." Lucien smiled and Perle rolled on her back, looking up at her master with her deep blue eyes. Lucien cleared his throat.

"Ne m’oublie pas,

[Don’t forget me.]

Je vais devoir m’en aller.

[I have to go.]

Ne m’oublie pas

[Don’t forget me.]

Tu ne dois pas pleurer.

[You must not cry.]

Même quand je suis très loin de toi,

[Even when I am very far from you,]

Tu restes dans mon coeur

[You remain in my heart.]

Je chante en secret chaque soir

[I sing in secret every night]

Pour que tu n’aies plus peur.

[So that you don’t feel scared]

Ne m’oublie pas,

[Don’t forget me,]

C’est à regret que je pars.

[It is with regret that I leave.]

Ne m’oublie pas,

[Don’t forget me,]

Quand je chante, tu es dans mes bras.”

[When I sing, you are in my arms.]

Lucien smiled. Perle had fallen asleep, just as Jérémy used to when Lucien used to sing this to him, in bed.

"Sir?"

Lucien's head swooshed to the feminine voice. It was an air hostess.

"He is adorable." She said.

"She is a female, but thank you."

"Oh, I'm sorry. What's her name?"

"Perle, or in English, Pearl."

"Beautiful name you gave her…"

They exchanged a smile.

"I'm sorry but uh, you're not supposed to let her out of her box for the duration of the flight."

"I apologise, Mademoiselle. Although, I suppose it doesn't cause too much of an issue if she is asleep?"

[Miss]

"Ah, I'm sorry, Sir, but…"

"Tell me, Mademoiselle," Lucien cut her. "Most people are asleep now, non?"

[Miss]

"Oh, uh…" The air hostess looked around them. "In business class, yes, I guess you're the only one awake."

"Non, I am not, for you are too." He gave her a smile and a twinkle of his eyes that only women could understand.

“Yeah, I’m on night shift duty.” She answered.

Lucien removed the cat box from the seat next to his. "Please do take a seat."

"But, Sir, I-"

"Please." Lucien insisted and the woman eventually yielded.

"Right…"

"It must be poetic." The Frenchman started, still lazily brushing Perle, asleep on his lap.

"What is, sorry?"

"Your position. Air hostess… Ah, you travel high in the skies, borders mean nothing to you."

"Well, that's a way to put it. And uhm… What do you do, I mean, apart from singin' lullabies to your kitty?"

"Ah, so you did hear me?" Lucien lowered his eyes to Perle who was sleeping soundly.

"I did, yeah." The hostess blushed. "You got a great voice, I mean, it's soothin'."

"Thank you."

"I can understand how she falls asleep that fast with ya."

Lucien raised his eyes to the woman sitting on the seat beside him. Through the dim lights, he saw her hat, assorted to her uniform, the twinkle of her brown eyes, the bright red lipstick and white and red foulard around her neck. Her jacket dived along her shy cleavage and as she crossed one leg over the other, the edge of her tight skirt grazed her skin, revealing her porcelain thighs.

“Why would that be?” He asked, half whispering, both to not wake the passengers around, even though the Frenchman had a booth for himself, but also for the thrill of it. He stared in her eyes gently, his front lock of ashen hair falling poetically between his eyes.

“You… You’ve got a beautiful voice.” She answered and looked away. As she swooshed her head, a lock of her hair fell from under her hat.

The Frenchman put Perle back in her box and put it opposite him.

“Mademoiselle?” He then asked.

[Miss?]

The young woman turned to face him, her eyes still lowered. Lucien guessed that her cheeks had turned pink even though, in the dimness of the low lights, he could not see it. He pushed the lock of hair behind her ear and she raised her head, slowly. She looked around, quickly. Everyone was sleeping soundly.

“Sir, I…”

“Oui?” Lucien answered with a dreamy smile. He knew where this was going, he could see it in the woman’s nervous breath as if he had been the one pushing her. In all fairness, he had been exactly that. He was one of these men that could whisper in people’s souls straight through his eyes. And he loved it. He felt nothing for the woman, even though she was far from repulsive. But it wasn’t his heart that wanted to see her breath hitch and her eyes flutter, it was his ego.

As impulsive as a blink, the air hostess bent on her side and pushed her lips on the Frenchman, who made all the efforts in the world not to smirk, not now, it would make her stop. Instead, and to encourage her, he gently slid his hands on her waist and pulled her closer to himself. Her hands found Lucien’s face and she kept on touching, her eyes closed. Soon, she removed her hat and Lucien started touching the collar of her jacket. She unbuttoned it herself before hungrily opening Lucien’s shirt. That was when the Frenchman looked deep in her eyes. Ha, she looked like a deer flashed by the lights of a passing car, thoughts racing but not fully hitting her head.

The hostess moved from her seat to sit on Lucien’s lap and that’s when he knew he had won. Not against her, he would never fight or compete with a woman, but against himself, against his old age, against all those years of remaining faithful to one woman despite her dancing on her own vows, trampling them with her stolen stilettos.

The hostess bit her lip to contain her heavy breathing and her moans as Lucien felt her hips grind against his crotch. He spent more time nibbling her neck, filling his lungs with the scent of his trophy, of his victory, he let his hands run on her golden sides, such a pretty cup… She wrapped her arms around his head, slightly ruffling his hair while he kissed her chest, chaste pecks just to push her to show her eagerness; because at the end of the day, Lucien was not particularly in the mood for more, nor was he against it. He was just proving a point to himself.

Oui, Marie, you thought only you could have anyone at your mercy with a blink of your eyes, hm? Well, I can too, and maybe I played with you too? Maybe I sometimes faked a few things with you too, huh? Who told you that I was that head over heels for you? Look at me now, my head in this woman’s chest. Mind you, I have barely met her and don’t even know her name yet, but here she is, begging for more of me. Do you see this, Marie? Do you? Do you see how I am playing now? Do you see this? Watch carefully, I will make her scream my name, as you used to, I will make her scratch my skin until she draws blood, as you used to, and who knows, maybe I will feel content and satisfied with her more than I ever was with you, you insolent, lying-

The air hostess had unbuckled Lucien’s belt and her hand was exploring the Frenchman’s lower stomach. As it slid down, more and more, wet kisses pressed to whatever corner of skin both could reach-

“MEEEEOW!”

Lucien and the hostess both froze on the spot, the woman pulled the panes of her open shirt back together.

“I-I should go back…” She said, as Perle jumped on the seat that the woman previously occupied, and showed her fangs.

Perle’s hissing screech left Lucien confused. The hostess left his lap and the Frenchman remained in a state of blank and utter confusion for minutes. The kitty hopped on her master’s lap and started to knead his bare chest. Lucien still had his shirt and his trousers’ fly open. His hair was a mess and on his lips, the taste of the hostess’s lipstick lingered.

“Comment es-tu sortie de ta cage?” He lowered his eyes to meet Perle’s.

[How did you come out of your box?]

“Meow.” She ignored him and brushed herself on him repeatedly.

Lucien sighed. He had got used to Perle’s presence, he had accepted her and adapted to her, but if she was going to “intervene” whenever he least needed it, well, that was something else!

“Meow?” She asked, tilting her head.

“J’étais occupé, Perle, et j’aurais apprécié que tu sois restée sagement dans ta cage. Pourquoi es-tu sortie? Et pour crier en plus?”

[I was busy, Perle, and I would have appreciated it if you had stayed put in your box. Why did you come out? And yelling, at that?]

Lucien looked away from her, visibly annoyed, even angry at her. He buttoned his shirt again and looked down to zip up his trousers when he noticed something that pushed him even deeper in frustration.

The Frenchman had spent so much of his energy being furious at Mary, releasing all kinds of anger against her ghost, that he did not even notice that his body did not show any signs of wanting to proceed with the air hostess.

Or was it just his advanced age and he needed a bit more… help for his body to show some eagerness?

The rest of the flight was spent inconsequentially. He landed, took a taxi and was driven to his hotel where he settled. A few phone calls later and Perle found a litter box, a few toys and a cat tree had appeared. That, and of course a piano.

Lucien had taken a shower and went to sit on the black, velvet seat, wearing his pyjamas and a gown. A cigarette was slowly fuming from his lips.

“Meow?” Perle jumped on the keys and then on top of the grand piano.

“Quoi?” He asked, the tiredness and annoyance taking away his usual politeness.

[What?]

She looked at him pleadingly with her round, deep blue eyes, as she slowly made her way to stand in front of him, before offering her head. The Frenchman sighed and bent his head forward to meet her with a soft headbutt.

“Non, je ne t’en veux pas. C’est juste… Bah.”

[No, I am not mad at you. It’s just that… Bah.]

He brushed his head against hers for a while and ended up closing his eyes, running his fingers through her long fur. When she backed off and he opened his eyes again, he felt like a different man, as if that incident in the plane had happened decades ago, or to a different man altogether.

“Merci.” He smiled at the cat who reciprocated by blinking slowly. Perle lay down on the varnished black piano in front of him and Lucien started playing.

As his fingers drummed the keys, his brain dwelled on the events a bit longer. The truth was that he had been completely indifferent to that air hostess. She was pleasant to the eye, oui, but… But Lucien was proving a point, not making love to her! There! He said it! His ego wanted to make love to her, not his mind, not his heart and not even his body.

He didn't realise it but his fingers were playing the same piece on loop, The Bard, by Brad Mehldau.

Even his body didn’t want to make love to that woman.

“Mon Dieu.”

His eyes snapped wide open and his fingers hung in the air as the realisation hit him.

His body had not been remotely interested in anyone or anything since… Well, not since he had left Marie and Jéramy all those years ago, non. God knows he had had to sleep with this or that, and he did, and his body happily played along. Non, his body had fallen disinterested in anything since he had learnt the truth about Marie.

“Mon Dieu…”

Lucien repeated as the last note he played still hung in the air.

#tf2 spy #tf2 sniper #sniperspy #unalone

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haravath0t · 3 years

Text

A Christmas Wish - Day 1

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Filipino!Reader

Warnings: fluff, an immense word count, a talk with the mom??

Hello, everyone! Finally, we have Day 1 of A Christmas Wish! I’m so happy I found a way to extend the Christmas Spirit well into the year through this request! We are uncovering a huge tradition that means a lot to me and my family as Filipinos! Many of the Filipino community are Christian/Catholic, so this particular tradition will be based on the Christian Christmas tradition for the sake of the plot and its personal meaning! I hope this is something that can be understood between author to reader! I promise, the religious aspect of this particular tradition will not be as emphasized as other parts of the culture that I will introduce! Happy readings my lovelies, and to all my Filipino readers, pasensya kung mali ng English translation ko. Ang hirap naman talaga mg translate eh 😅😅😅 huhuuuu

(italics indicate flashbacks! english translations are provided and the pictures of the foods are attached in the bottom!)

You opened your eyes excitedly, a big smile forming on your face as you remembered a particular memory from yesterday that really made you so happy:

You, Steve, and your family had finished putting your luggage in the trunk of the van, squeezing themselves in either of the two vans. The driver was now hours in on the road, the chaos had died down as your cousins who decided to join yours and Steve’s van were asleep. The city was long gone, as the buildings had now become hills and green fields, passing by small little towns and provinces. The once crowded and traffic highways turned into a wide empty road.

Contrary to your cousins who fell back asleep, you were wide awake, not only from the jet lag, but also from your excitement. You were sitting in the middle of the back row of the van, earphones plugged in your ears, listening to the familiar tracks of OPM (Original Pinoy Music) and 70s/80s hits that you were familiar with from your karaoke nights with your parents. Steve was seated on the window (something you recommended him to do), looking as the green grass and hills passed by. Steve couldn’t help but smile, this was something that was so new to him, but it was something you saw as a reminder that you were actually back with your family, back in your roots, back home. It was simple. That’s what he liked most.

“What do you think so far? We’re still a bit far from the hotel and their house, but we’re about more than halfway home,” you ask softly. Steve’s eyes left the window as he instead looks at your lovely sparkling eyes. He couldn’t help the smile that forms on his face as he easily recognizes the excitement on your face. “I already love it, doll. I really do. I can’t wait to have you and your family show us around.” He says softly yet with sincerity. You smiled excitedly and took an earbud out of your ear, kissing his cheek before you put the earbud in his ear, making him laugh. “Y/N, doll, what are you doing?” He asks softly as his eyebrows furrow. You giggle as you scroll through your list of songs that you had downloaded on your phone. “Oh, I figured… well.. If you want, we can listen to this playlist? We can try napping?” You offer, the excited smile turning in a shy one, tints of pink being apparent on your cheeks. Steve’s smile only grew as he kissed your forehead. “Yeah, I’d love that, sugar. What’s the type of music in this one?” He asks softly, securing the earbud into his ear further. “It has some Filipino music and some 70s and 80s songs that my parents love… I listened to them all the time growing up,” you reply with a smile, choosing the song “I Think I’m Falling in Love” by The Boyfriends, smiling as the familiar opening notes are being played into yours and Steve’s ear. Steve’s eyebrows raise in surprise when the music plays but smiles as he lets the tune settle into his ears. Steve subconsciously wraps his arm protectively around your body, “C’mon honey, get comfy, yeah?” You did not think twice as you lean against him, resting your head against the crook of his neck, a big smile on your face reappearing as his familiar scent fills your nostrils. A deep chuckle is felt underneath your body. “Feelin’ better?” He asks softly, resting his cheek against your head. “Mhm, much better.” You sigh happily, closing your eyes as you feel his fingers comb your hair. You smile as you drift off to sleep, hearing the lyrics “I think I’m falling in love, something’s telling me so”.

“You do realize wherever you’re goin’ I’m goin’ right?” He asks with a smile, as he swallows a piece of pandesal. “This is so good by the way,” he adds before you speak up. “I know, but this thing takes place at 4 AM in the Cathedral, Steve! That’s early! “Okay, but we go to different time zones for missions, sweetheart. This is not new, we’ll be fine, you know me,” he responds, chuckling, “besides, we can sleep in after everything.” “Fair point,” you giggle, finishing your milk and throwing the plastic cup away. You kiss Steve’s head and hug him from behind. “Well… I can’t thank you enough, honey. You are doing so much already. Thank you. My family likes you already, I’m sure” A comforting hand rubs your forearm up and down before a soft pair of lips meets the back of your hand. “I’d be very happy if your family does. Their opinion of us matters to me too.” “How’d you even know about us going to mass today?” “Your Tita Joy mentioned it actually last night over dinner, asked if we both were going to Simbang...Simbang Gabi?” Your heart leapt at the sound of Steve saying something in Tagalog, a giggle erupting from your lips. “Goodness, Steve, you’re so adorable. Come on, we gotta get ready if we’re going to the Cathedral by jeepney.” You say, kissing his head before you get your clothes from your suitcase to head to the bathroom.

“Yes, ma’am,” he chuckles, playfully saluting you before he follows suit.

Steve was quite happy he tagged along with you, for the town was wonderfully decorated with parols (Christmas lanterns) and a nativity scene in front of the Cathedral. Not only that, he loved seeing you focused throughout the service, watching as you were alongside your family and practicing your tradition. It was truly something beautiful to see in his eyes.

Now, you and your family and Steve were outside of the Cathedral alongside other churchgoers, the town now starting to busy itself as the dawn arrives. There were now many food stalls outside, serving coffee and tea as well as wonderful foods to pair with the Christmas season. These included, bibingka, puto (rice cakes), suman, pandesal, and so much more. “Teka lang, Nanay, kukuha ako lang pagkain para sa atin lahat,” (hold on, mom, I’m just going to get some food for all of us) you say to your mom, her nodding in response. “Oh sige, anak. Sama mo ng Tatay mo! May pera s’ya!” (Alright, take your father with you! He has money!) She responds as you disappear in the crowd to get your guys’ share of good food. Steve only smiles at the interaction, watching as you go ahead with your father to one of the food stalls. “She’s like a kid, isn’t she?” Your mom says to Steve causing him to jump a little and only nod in response. “Yes, ma’am.” She playfully groans and waves her hand to him dismissively. “Oh, please you’re gonna call me ma’am? No, Tita will do for now,” She chuckles, making Steve relax in relief, not realizing his body had been tense. “Oh, Okay Tita.” She smiles and gives Steve a thumbs up and a nod of approval, which makes Steve smile. “You know, Steve, this whole Simbang Gabi thing is something she always has done since she was a girl. She loved it very much.” Steve smiles at this, imagining a younger you holding your parents’ hands as you make your way in the church. “It makes sense why she was up earlier than me during the Christmas season. I always wake up for a morning jog. I normally hear or see her out and about back home.” Your mom only chuckles, watching you and your father order some bibingka first.

“Did she tell you what her motivation was as a kid?” She asks, seeing Steve shake his head. “No, I haven’t.” “Ahh, well, there’s this funny folk belief here, you see. If you attend all 9 masses, then you can make a wish and your wish will come true if that’s what God wills it to be.” Your mother explains, smiling when Steve has an “aha” moment and nods in understanding. “I think that’s beautiful,” he says, hands fumbling within the pockets of his jeans, eyes making contact with yours. He smiles even more when you show your beautiful smile before you go back to ordering from the stalls. “You really love my daughter, don’t you Steven?” She asls, looking up at the taller man. “With all of my heart, Tita,” he responds firmly and surely, which eases your mom.

“That’s good to hear. I love the certainty. She deserves that much you know. She’s been through a lot. And… I can see the way you two look at each other. It makes me happy,” She says, sighing in content. “We’re glad to be able to have you celebrate with us. Goodness, I cannot even thank you enough for letting us fly over with you two.” “It’s not a problem, Tita,” He starts. “Family is important to Y/N, and I hope you know that she talks about you guys constantly. I can’t blame her, you all are very kind and lovely to me. It’s been a wish for her to come here for the holidays.” “Her wish, huh?” Your mom smiles. “Yes, Tita.” “What about you? You’re joining us in these, so do you have a wish?” Your mother presses on, burning through Steve’s eyes with her eye contact. Steve however, was blushing for different reasons. “I do, Tita. It’s ambitious, so let’s see.” “Well don’t be shy, tell me!” Your mom squeals excitedly, motioning to Steve to whisper it into her ear. And so he does, your mom is smiling bigger and bigger and bigger as she hears.

“Oh, susmaryosep! (Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!) That’s a nice wish, very ambitious, I like it! I’m sure it will come true. I’m sure.” Your mom exclaims clapping her hands together in pure excitement. “You...you think so?” Steve asks shyly, seeking for reassurance. “It’s a tough one, Tita. I’m sure you’ve heard the expression “a man out of time” being used on me. It’s a very tough thing to do, you know, to adjust to current events and current society.” He comments, scratching the back of his head. “And you are doing good, Steve. You’re an honest hardworking guy. I promise. I think when the time is right, you’ll get what you wish for.” “Well let’s see, Tita, let’s see.”

FOODS MENTIONED BELOW!!!

Pandesal (bread rolls)

Puto (rice cakes)

Bibingka

Suman

Permanent Taglist: @world-of-aus @world-of-aus-reads @whew-oh-em-gee @tomholland-96 @lordyitsjordy @letstalkaboutsebbaby @thee-soom-soom @lookiamtrying @vesper852 @hailhydra920 @buckybarnesthehotshot @heyiamthatbitch @rodrikstark

A Christmas Wish Taglist: @faithtrustandrobbiekay

(If you would like to be included in a tag list let me know via ask! ❤️☺️)

#mcu #steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x filipina!reader #steve rogers x filipino!reader #filipino marvel #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers oneshot #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers fanfiction

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louisapennyfeather2021 · 4 years

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Can you do a Jack Kelly sister x race or Albert (up to you) and Jack finds you guys kissing and is about to kill race or Albert. Then you all sit down and Jack gives the classic dad talk. This could be plantonic Jack/ race or Albert love. (You also don’t have to make it a sister I’m just a girl myself haha)

I finally made myself do this, mostly because I said I'd have it done by Friday and that's in less than four hours, but I'll(hopefully) make it happen!!! Have I finished my essay? Of course not, but I did finished my math tests! Planned procrastination is somewhat effective, right?

Anywho, here it is!

Relationships: Brother!Jack, Reader x Albert

Pronouns: She/Her as the person who asked did clarify that she is a girl :)

(psst... I can always make this with they/them pronouns if anyone would like that)

A/N: This is definitely not my best work, but it's not bad!!! I always feel awkward trying to write Dad Talks, but never enough to not write them at all!!! Maybe it'll help that I'm awkward with it so it'll be projected onto my work haha!

Warnings: some kissing, a bad word or two. That's about it? Oh, also, I'm really bad at writing kissing stuff lmao

Setting: 1899 Duane Street Lodging House

***

"No, Y/N, you gotta wear ya cap right or ya gonna look like ya ain't got hair." Jack snatches Y/N's hat from off her head before flipping it and placing it on her head correctly.

"Jack, cut it out! Ain'tcha got somethin' better t' do?" Y/N swats at her brother's hand, ducking to avoid his mother hen behavior.

"He ain't got nothin' t' do cause he's too busy hoverin'." Crutchie snorts from where he sits on the front steps of the lodging house. Jack throws a half-hearted glare at Crutchie, which gives Y/N enough time to sneak past Jack and hurry down the street towards Newsies Square.

"Hey, where d'ya think yer goin'?" Jack calls. Y/N huffs and shakes her head before looking over her shoulder. As soon as she does, she takes off sprinting down the street, Jack chasing her down. Y/N squeezes past some of the guys that are making their way down the street, successfully managing to not completely shove Jojo into a walk on accident.

It's not unusual for Jack to be so overbearing, specifically with Y/N. Sure, he's oddly protective over all the Newsies, but he practically turns into a bear with Y/N. Jack says it's because she's his "baby sista' 'nd nothin's ever gonna happen to no sister o' mine."

Y/N understands to an extent, of course, but it makes some things, well, difficult. Specifically hanging out with friends. Or maybe someone who's more than a friend.

"Someone's rushin' this mornin'." Racetrack Higgins snorts as Y/N hurries to duck behind him and Buttons. Both wait outside the gates for Weasel to come open them. Albert leans on the gate opposite of Race, raising an amused eyebrow at Y/N. She playfully narrows her eyes at him before breathing a sigh.

"Just my parasite of a brotha'. Again." Y/N grumbles. Jack treats her like she's still a kid, when really she's just a year and a half younger than him. To some folks, that's a lot, but when you're forced to grow up on the streets of New York, it's just numbers.

"Ain't like he's doin' it for nothin'." Race scoffs a laugh, sharing a knowing look with Buttons before glancing between Albert and Y/N where she's still hiding behind the two smirking boys.

"Oh, shuddup. Jack ain't gotta worry about what he don't know about." Y/N glares pointedly at both Race and Buttons.

"Don't worry, I've kept Racer from hawkin' yer secret t' all of Manhattan." Buttons shoves Race's shoulder. Race squawks in protest and he starts arguing with Buttons. Y/N laughs, knowing Race would keep her secret no matter what. It's just funny to see Buttons get a rise out of Race.

"Could be worse. Buttons could'a taken his cigar." Albert chuckles, although he absentmindedly rubs his upper arm. He's learned the hard way not to take the blond boy's comfort object. However, that doesn't keep him from occasionally stealing it.

"You'd know how that turns out." Y/N sneaks behind Race as he argued with Buttons and stands next to Albert. She doesn't stand too close, especially since Jack is probably on his way with the rest of the fellas.

The last thing Y/N needs is for Jack to get suspicious of her and her relationships.

So Y/N just leans on the gate near Albert, both laughing as Race and Buttons start on a tangent. Eventually the others gather around, Jack and Crutchie being the last to actually show up. As soon as he's at the gate, Jack starts fussing over Y/N's hat again. She smacks his hand away and glares at him, receiving a horribly hidden laugh from Albert.

"Would you stop swattin', I'm tryin' t' make ya not look like a hooligan." Jack huffs.

"You know we're a bunch'a kids that sell papes for a livin', right? Hooligan is the nicest thing folks can call us." Y/N rolls her eyes. Jack opens his mouth to respond, but he doesn't get the chance. Instead, the sound of the gates rattling and snarky comments fills the air. Y/N turns to see none other than Oscar and Morris Delancey hesitantly opening the gates.

"What, no hello?"

"Wake up on the wrong side'a the cave this mornin'?"

"Aw, did'ya not have someone t' tuck ya in last night?"

The jabs make Y/N's face go red to hide her laughs. The dramatic eye rolls and frowns on the Delancey Brothers' faces are pure gold. Y/N doesn't doubt that either brother would go after any Newsie if it wouldn't get them in some trouble. After all, good ol' Mr. Pulitzer needs someone to make money for him.

As some of the guys keeps teasing the brothers, Y/N sneaks past them with Buttons, Albert following not too far behind. The three line up to get their papers, waiting for Weasel to slither his way to the distribution stand.

"Alright, line it up!" As if hearing his name, the Weasel himself stands grumpily behind his money box.

"Mornin' Weasel! Long time, no see!" Y/N grins brightly. The annoyed twitch under Weasel's left eye is enough to make Y/N snort.

"Not long enough." He grumbles.

"Aw, don't be such'a grump." Y/N mock pouts. She pulls a dime from her pocket and flips it onto the money box before moving down to take a stack of papers. She's grateful when Morris hands her the stack, although he does it with a sneer. Nice to know he's not specifically angry at her, at least not angry enough to throw her papers at her like he'll likely do to Jack and definitely to Race.

Y/N waits by the gates for her selling partner, aka the one and only Albert DaSilva. Thankfully Jack hasn't picked up on the Y/N and Albert almost always being partners. They switched it up once and a while to throw off any suspicion, but they're usually selling together. After all, it's one of the only times they can be together without the worry of Jack seeing.

"Ain'tcha sweet for waitin' for me?" Albert teases as he reaches the gate, his head down as he organizes his stack of papers in his bag.

"We both know you'd get lost if I let'cha go alone." Y/N snorts a laugh. She successfully ducks a playful swat from Albert before she looks over his shoulder. She sees Jack taunting Weasel and she knows she has a few seconds to leave before her brother chases her down. "C'mon, best we get a head start on Jack."

"Well stop screwin' around then." Albert grins and hurries out of the square, Y/N right on his heels.

They hurry through the streets of Manhattan towards the Brooklyn bridge. They usually take up selling along the waterfront, sometimes a few blocks around the bridge. They mostly sell at the bridge because it's one of the furthest spots from where Jack sells. Meaning they can hang out once they finish selling morning papers in peace.

"Bet I can sell all my papes b'fore you can even hawk a headline." Albert elbows Y/N's arm as they reach the bridge, the area slowly coming to life as people hurry to get to work.

"You're on." Y/N smirks before hurrying across the street to start selling.

The two spend most of the morning selling, taking a few small breaks to hide in the shade of an alleyway from the July sun. Y/N manages to finish selling her last paper just a few minutes after Albert. The red head is all smirks when he notices Y/N finish after him.

"Don't come smirkin' at me, you bet that you could sell out before I even started. You didn't say nothin' about finishin' first." Y/N points a finger at Albert as they turn down one of the alleyways behind the produce market. Y/N holds an apple in hand and Albert has a pear.

"Should'a bet I'd win first, that way I'da got a free lunch." Albert sighs dramatically and takes a bite of his pear. Y/N rolls her eyes for what feels like the millionth time today before eating her apple.

"I still don't see how ya eat those things." Y/N mumbles.

"I don't see how you can't!" Albert scoffs before finishing his pear.

"Too sweet. And soft, they make a mess." Y/N shrugs and takes another bite of her apple.

"You just can't handle how sweet pears are cause you're so bitter." Albert laughs. Y/N's mouth drops open and she doesn't hesitate to throw the core of her apple at Albert, effectively hitting his neck. Albert gapes, although there's a slight upturn at the corner of his lips. "Low blow, Kelly!"

"Aw, did I hurt the your ego on accident?" Y/N can't hold back the laugh the bubbles up from deep in her stomach. Albert gives her a "seriously?" look before he jumps at her. Y/N accidentally let's out a panicked squeak before turning. She gets a few steps before Albert wraps his arms around her and squeezes her into a hug from behind. "No fair!"

"I think you should apologize." Albert hums, his chin on top of Y/N's head. She's not short, but the way she's standing makes it easy for Albert to rest his chin in top of her head.

"Do you realize how awkward this is?" Y/N squirms. Her feet are in front of her and she's practically leaning against Albert, it's almost like she's trying to sit down. "Seriously, I think you're gonna break my back."

"Apologize 'nd I'll let go." Albert starts swaying back and forth, making Y/N grip his arms and shuffle her feet to keep from completely slipping to the ground.

"Ain't got nothin' t' apologize for." Y/N finished the sentence in time for Albert to sway further and nearly drop Y/N on her bottom. She squeaks again, making the obnoxious red head laugh and try to keep a firm grip on her so she won't fall.

"You're ridiculous." Albert shuffles back and helps Y/N stand up, laughing when she huffs in annoyance. Albert moves around to stand in front of Y/N, his arms crossed as he meets her faux annoyed expression. "I still think you owe me 'n apology."

"I don't see no reason why." Y/N shrugs, although the corners of her mouth twitch up into a horribly suppressed smile.

"That's a lousy thing t' say." Albert pouts, receiving a raised eyebrow from Y/N. The girl takes a small step closer to Albert and shrugs her shoulders slightly.

"Lousy ain't always bad." Y/N jokingly winks. Albert shakes his head with a laugh before naturally gravitating closer to Y/N. She follows until her nose bumps Albert's, the two of them getting closer until Y/N closes her eyes and feels Albert's mouth lightly touch hers.

Y/N hums into the kiss as Albert reaches up and rests his hand on the side of her neck. She follows, her hand gently wrapping around Albert's wrist and her thumb rubbing the soft skin. She can't help but smile as she moves her mouth againsr Albert's. This is far from the first time they've kissed, but with how little time they get to spend together, every kiss feels like the first.

Y/N still gets butterflies in her stomach. She still gets that happy high afterwards.

But even the happy high can end in a snap.

"Oh, hell no." Y/N's eyes snap open and she quickly pulls away from Albert. Her wide eyes meet Jack's furious frown as he stands near the mouth of the alleyway. Behind him, Race stands with an apologetic expression, Crutchie next to him with a hand over his mouth like he's holding in a laugh.

"Oh boy." Y/N whispers. Albert turns around, his expression matching Y/N's.

"Hey, Jack..." Albert awkwardly waves at the fuming boy.

"You're dead, DaSilva." And that's all it takes for Albert to bolt down the other end of the alleyway, Jack right on his heels. Y/N just stares in shocked silence, hardly noticing Race and Crutchie come to a stop next to her.

"I swear, I tried to distract him." Race rushes, although Y/N doesn't seem to hear as she opens and closes her mouth in shock.

"You are so in for it." Crutchie busts out laughing.

I'm so dead, Y/N thinks.

***

"Jack, you need t' calm down!"

"Calm down?! He was suckin' my sista's face!"

"Oh, no, gross, that's definitely not what we were doin'."

"You stay out of this!"

"Okay, everyone shuddup!" Y/N yells from one corner of the rooftop of the lodging house. Crutchie leans against the fire escape, watching and occasionally throwing in a comment or two. Jack paces around the roof, eyes narrowed in on Albert. The red head stands near the edge of the roof, as if he's ready to make a break for it if need be. Y/N stands somewhat between Albert and her fuming brother, sort of like a last resort for a barrier between the two. Y/N faces her brother, her arms crossed under her chest and her mouth set in a thin line. "Jack, it was just'a kiss 'nd I like Albert. S'nothin' wrong with that."

"Nothin' wrong with that? Everything's wrong with that! You're my sista', Albert's s'posed t' be my pal! Seein you two lockin' lips is just-" Jack wiggles around and gags, his nose scrunching up.

"Oh, we are not having this conversation because the thought of your sister kissin' a boy makes ya uncomfy." Y/N rolls her eyes before planting her hands in her hips.

"She has a point." Crutchie comments. Jack whines and shuffles around like he's about ready to throw himself off the rooftop.

"That don't change the fact that it's gross and weird and just wrong. She's my sister." Jack stares down Albert and points at Y/N.

"Yeah, 'nd it just so happens I was kissin' someone you know and trust! S'not like I was kissin' a Delancey or nothin'." Y/N's comment makes the other three on the roof gag and squirm uncomfortably. "Oh, we all know it's true!"

"Doesn't mean we wanna hear it." Albert shivers in disgust.

"Alright alright alright." Jack exhales heavily. He paces a few more times, shakes his head and pursing his lips. Y/N waits in silence with Albert and Crutchie, all three knowing Jack needs a second. When he finally stops pacing, all the attention trains in on him. "Fine, okay, s'not the worst thing ever, I'm gonna set some ground rules."

"What?!"

"Seriously?" Y/N whines, something she unfortunately shares with her older parasite- um, brother.

"Yes. Now I d'know how long this has been goin' on, but I'm sayin' right now that we will not be havin' any littles-"

"I'm gonna be sick." Y/N gags, and it's unfortunately a legitimate gag that makes bile sting the back of her mouth. Albert must inhale sharply and start choking on his spit because he starts coughing obnoxiously. Even Crutchie, who had found the whole situation so hilarious, looks like he's going to be sick.

"Oh, quit it ya pansies." Jack huffs. He angles towards Albert, his eyes narrowed again. "'Nd you. If you hurt my sista' in any way, I swear you'll find yourself swimmin' in the East River in no time."

"I'm definitely not planning on it." Albert manages to say before coughing and clearing his throat, his eyes watery from coughing.

"Good." Jack nods in satisfaction. He looks at the sky and seems to ponder before signing. "Get'a move in, gonna have evenin' papes out soon."

Albert throws an anxious look at Y/N before hurrying to the fire escape. He disappears, Crutchie quickly following and leaving the Kelly siblings alone.

"Y'know, ya could'a told me." Jack's shoulders sag. Y/N kicks her foot awkwardly, her eyes trained in the ground.

"Not if it risked ya reactin' the way ya did t'day." Y/N mutters. She looks up to see Jack sigh and move closer to her.

"I can definitely tell ya I wouldn't have chased him down." Jack snorts.

"I guess that would've been a perk." Y/N hums. She meets Jack's gaze and suddenly the two start laughing. Jack reaches over and playfully shives Y/N's shoulder.

"C'mon, weirdo. We got papes t' sell." Jack shakes his head.

Y/N smiles and follows him off the roof.

That's one crisis averted.

Granted, they still have the rest if the day left.

#Newsies #newsies #newsies broadway #newsies imagine #newsies memes #newsies imagines #newsies x reader #albert imagine #albert dasliva #albert dasilva #albert newsies #albert x reader #albert dasilva x reader #jack kelly #brother!jack kelly #jack newsies #sister reader #she/her pronouns

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finn-ray-nal-beads · 3 years

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I JUST GOT HOME FROM WORK AND SAW YOUR POST SO I HOPE I SENT THIS IN IN TIME, BUT DADDY!CLYDE TRAINING HIS BABYGIRL TO LACTATE WITHOUT BEING PREGNANT (BECAUSE THAT IS 100% A CLYDE KINK) AND BEING SO PROUD OF HER WHEN SHE FINALLY STARTS PRODUCING AND HE CANT STOP SUCKING ON HER TITS. OKAY LOVE YOU BYEEE!!❤️❤️

@clydesfavoritegirl SO, I HAVE BEEN WRACKING MY BRAIN ABOUT THIS AND I HAVE A WIERD THOT ABOUT IT.

So, little fun facts about Sara, I have had a baby (she’s five now), I breastfed for about a year (very hard to keep up), and I have also donated my eggs for other people to have babies in the future. All of this mentioned above is not easy to accomplish and requires patience and willpower to do.

Any way you have a child is valid no matter which avenue you are given in life. If you want kids by all means have them, if you don’t that’s totally and completely fine. If you want to use formula to feed them, do it queen all the power to you, the same goes for breastfeeding. Adoption is just as important as shooting baby out yourself and surrogates are true angels in my eyes. I had not considered this lactation thing until I did research on it, because I really wanted to know if it was possible to accomplish, and it is.

Upon my research I saw that it takes months and months of hormone therapy to produce milk without being pregnant and even then, doctors prescribe it for couples adopting and or trying surrogacy for new babies coming into the family. SO, that being said, I can twist this into maybe Clyde and yourself looking at adopting or using a surrogate for a child, and you want to try to breastfeed them because you want to bond with your new baby. And of course Clyde is ALL about it because anything that makes you happy and comfortable!

PLEASE INDULGE MY THOTS ON OUR SOUTHERN BELL CLYDE AND HIS INEVITABLE LACTATION KINK....

**I’m gonna put warnings on here because it mentions some heavy stuff (plz don’t read if you are triggered by any of this): Infertility, hormone therapy, angst, depression, adoption, and surrogacy**

“Baby girl?” Clyde calls from the living room, his nose deep in the baby books you both had purchased over the months of trying to start your big happy family, fumbling though his phone at the same time.

“What’s goin’ on big bear?” you chime, busy fixing yourself up in the mirror after a relaxing shower to wash the sex from your skin after a session with big daddy.

Adjusting you hair, wincing as you lifted your arms, “Jesus,” groaning out, feeling the soreness from your heaving breasts as they felt like concrete on your chest.

_______________

Ever since you'd begun the injections and pills, your body was hating life. The raging hormone cocktails running through your bloodstream causing every single emotion to emit from your body at once.

You’d be happy and cheery one second, followed by crying in your shared bed under the sheets in the fetal position, and finally raging about the fact that the TV was turned too damn loud in the other room, when it all actuality it was the same level you’d always kept it at.

No matter the tears and agony, Clyde and yourself took all of this one day at a time, just as you had when you found out that children may not be a possibility when it came to the old fashion way of doin’ it. The pain was so hard to bear that day. You cried and cried, locking yourself away from the world as you cursed whomever was in charge of your fate, feeling like less of a woman the more the days droned on.

It took a few months for you to smile again, Clyde painstakingly trying to solve your problems with everything under the sun, reading books, catering to your needs, holding you when you sobbed yourself to sleep over your vacancy.

Cradling you when you felt like less of a person for not being able to accomplish one simple thing you’d both hoped for in the future. He’d hush your tears away, forcing you into him as he felt you shudder during the night, silent tears falling from his face as he prayed for some kind of sign or solution to all of this.

Then it all fell into place one day. Clyde was working his ass off during the nights, leaving you to stew about things at home, which inevitably led you to the internet.

You looked up all kinds of solutions, message boards talking about infertility, therapies, injections, adoption, and surrogacy. All of them possible in your eyes if it played out like it had for the folks at the various agencies you’d looked up. Finally, a glimmer of hope in this shit-storm of uncertainty, as you glanced over the testimonials and pictures of various families, so happy with their children healthy and happy.

“This is it,” you had muttered under your breath, a flutter from deep in your stomach causing tears to well up in your eyes as you thought about Clyde and you taking home a sweet new addition.

You’d brought it up to him immediately upon entering the house at and ungodly hour, to which you were scolded by your big bear after you’d made your sales pitch to him.

“I think it sounds perfect baby girl,” he cooed as you both laid in bed that night, caressing your sweat sheened skin after a good punishing from his cock, “if ya want ta do it, m’ happy with anything ya want,” whispering as he felt you sink into him to relax for the first time in months.

“I jus’ wanna make ya happy to big bear,” kissing his thick chest as you inhaled his musk, “I think this is the way we can have that family we want,” ghosting your lips up his sternum as he sighed into your touch.

“Mhmm,” he embraced you further, “I’ll adopt as many babies as ya want honey. Yer jus’ gonna be the best momma regardless,” hearing your light cries in the quiet of the darkened bedroom.

“T-thank you big bear,” you strained out, still hiding in his neck as the tears spilled, “I can’t wait ta make ya a real daddy finally,” gripping the back of his neck as you fell into another chorus of cries.

_____________

“What’s up?” your v-neck t-shirt straining on your heaving tits, the bra you’d picked certainly not fitting you as the days went on and on.

“I think I found the pump ya were wantin’,” he gulped, seeing the peaches poking through your top half as you bent forward to look at the contraption he’d found.

“Oh ya!” you jumped slightly, your tits bouncing in a ripple at your excitement, causing Clyde to salivate at the sight.

“Thank ya big bear!” jumping into his lap as you pulled him to you, kissing his cheeks as he buried his face in your pillows, running his thick hands over your sweatpants.

“A-anythin’ fer ma baby girl,” he panted, burying his prominent nose deeper into your rock hard tits, “Gah damn yer so juicy darlin’,” lifting his head to place pecks all over the tops of them.

“Ya like ma milky titties baby?” biting your lip as he started sucking a mark over the soft skin, “ya wanna taste a mama’s milk?” cooing in his ear as he moaned into his make out session with your chest, rubbing his head to press it further in the valley of them.

“Ya think they’re finally full baby girl?” he glanced up, his eyes glimmering with love and lust in the same gaze. You pet his precious face, the hopeful look only making this more special as he’d been helping you with your injections since you’d gotten the go ahead from the doctor and the agency.

“I think so daddy,” feeling them tense up at your words, the soreness pulsing all the way to both nipples as you tried to avoid making faces in front of him. He helped you remove your fresh top, exposing your lacy bra, the skin popping out with colored veins, gravid from the fullness of them.

“Fuck me,” he drooled, reaching behind to undo the clasp, eyes widening even further when he saw them perked up out of their hiding spot. The nipples taut and ready for his lips to suck on at his leisure.

“Ya look so damn perty baby girl,” raising his hand to grip the skin, feeling how heavy they were on your chest, “ya want daddy ta see if they’re ready ta go?” practically begging as he ran a thumb over the sensitive nipple.

You reared your head back at the slight touches he made, “please daddy,” whining as he watched you fall apart from his motions, “suck on my tits big bear,” shoving your chest closer to his waiting mouth as he inhaled deep, a growl brewing as he went to latch his pink lips on your areola.

“Mother fuck!” you cried out, the pleasure releasing from your throat as he sealed himself on your tit, massaging the sore skin as he coaxed the sweet liquid to fall from it.

He vacuum sealed his lips, sucking lightly at first, feeling you writhe and find the back of his to grip his mane, pushing him further into your warm skin.

“O-oh g-god baby,” you moaned out, feeling a burning feeling build in your boob that felt both uncomfortable and welcoming as he sped up his jaw on your nipple.

“Mhmmmm,” he whined out, feeling the body temperature liquid seep from your tit, coating the insides of his mouth in a warm embrace as he sucked more and more.

Just then, you felt your other tit release a trickle of fluid, the stream of white beautiful in contrast to your skin as you glanced down in awe and pleasure. The cement block feeling escaping as Clyde sucked down your sweet nectar.

“Oh f-fuck d-daddy,” you gasped, a mixture of elation leaving your body, “I-I’m l-leakin’,” you winced out, feeling Clyde let up on your boob, picking his head up to reveal a white sheen covering his lips and part of his mustache.

“That ya are darlin’,” he eyes completely dilated as he looked over at your stream sliding down the underside of your neglected tit, making its way down your stomach in a perfect line, “yer doin’ such a good job baby girl.”

Gripping the other tit in his large hand, coaxing the nipple into his mouth sucking your sweetness down in a frenzy. Your hand massaging the back of his head as you arched your back into his motions, feeling a huge relief as he emptied your other aching tit.

He lifted his head in a gasp, wiping his mouth from the mess he’d made, watching as your sultry eyes bored into him. The both of you panting and elated at the hard work it had taken to accomplish this huge step.

“Ya perfect, baby girl,” inching his lips to yours as you tasted your milk in his mouth, sighing into his tongue wrapping around yours.

He pulled away for a moment, the noticeable bulge in his jeans ever present as he fulfilled his fantasies he’d had since he’d met you, “I don’t think m’ gonna be able ta keep up with these tits though as much as I’d like ta suck on ‘em fer every damn meal,” giggling as he lowered his mouth to your neck, sucking more marks on the skin as you mewled under him.

“Don’t worry big bear,” you purred, gripping his hair again, arching yourself into his lips, “ya can help me when I get that pump we saw,” feeling him smirk under your neck at the prospect of him watching that show.

“But fer now,” you lifted him by the ears to gaze into his precious eyes, “I think mama needs ta take care a daddy,” gesturing to his now tented erection.

“Please mama,” he begged, watching you get up from your spot to curl and index finger as you backed into your bedroom again for round two.

___________

God I hope I did this ask alright for you honey! Thank you for sending it in so I could learn something from it, as well as indulge in this juicy Clyde thot!

oneshot taglist: @maybe-your-left, @safarigirlsp, @clydesfavoritegirl, @emeraldsiren20, @thepalaceofmelanie, @bpdbensoloblog, @hopeamarsu, @caillea

🖤,

ray-nal-beads

#tw infertility #tw adoption #tw surrogacy #tw hormone injection #tw lactation kink #tw breastmilk #tw depression #angst #clyde logan #clyde logan x reader #clyde logan fluff #clyde logan smut #clyde x reader #clyde x you #tw children

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babbushka · 4 years

Text

Biting Dust - Ch.3

Life ain’t too easy for a woman, ‘specially not a woman on the run like you. With a bounty on your head and gunpowder in your nose, you’ve grown adjusted to a life of solitude away from the hustle and bustle of civilization. That is, until you meet one particular man who’s got a face you’d only ever seen in your dreams – or on wanted posters. And when he offers you a proposition that sounds too good to be true, well. You don’t think your life will ever be the same again…

Outlaw!Kylo Ren x Reader

Tumblr Masterlist | Available on AO3

5.5k ; Content Warnings: Mentions of scars, mention of injury, mention of blood ; NSFW (Masturbation [Kylo jerking off], leather kink, scent kink/turned on by smells, mild praise kink)

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

You wake up with the sun, with the earth. The sky blazes in a pink and purple blanket of clouds, cacti juttin’ up proudly from the ground, a black silhouette against the pale light of mornin’. The birds are your first call, the alarm mother nature herself has set for you, the one which you’ve obeyed every day for as long as you can remember. There’s too many of them, the chirps, all of them in an off-beat harmony that goes on echoin’ over the gorge.

The water is your second alarm, the soft rush of the river as it twists and turns ‘round the bend a thousand feet below. The sound of it alone has you sighin’ with relief, knowin’ you’ve made it to water. Water wasn’t too easy to come by out in the desert, but the chicken scratch on that map had done you good, had led you straight to where you needed to be.

The sound of footsteps approachin’ is your third alarm – and this alarm was one felt deep in your gut. Sittin’ upright real fuckin’ fast and holdin’ the gun steady in the direction of the sound, you blink away the sleep sand from your eyes and level a glare so mean it coulda killed the sonofabitch stranger on the spot.

But then you open your eyes a little further, and you focus on just who the sonofabitch is, and you sigh.

Oh right, you can’t help but think with a groan. Kylo Ren.

He looks well rested, if a little scruffy. Scruffy, you think with a scowl, how the hell does he look so sleep mussed and yet still handsome? That wasn’t right, not one damn bit.

The events of the day prior come slammin’ through you all at one, and you toss the gun down lightly as you fall back onto the bundle of sacks that you’ve called your pillow, stretchin’ your limbs way high up over your head. Kylo is chipper, a mornin’ person it would seem, and he’s standin’ over you blockin’ out the sun from your eyes like a gentleman.

“Mornin’ Angel.” He greets you, offerin’ you a hand. “Sleep tight?”

You regard the hand, regard him.

The fact that you woke up at all is a surprisin’ one – a damn surprisin’ one. You’d’ve thought, well, you were almost certain he woulda left you stranded, if he left you alive at all. But there he was, his hand outstretched, and you take it, allowin’ him to help haul you up onto your feet.

“You didn’t kill me.” You say instead of a proper greeting, and Kylo rolls his eyes.

“Well that would go directly against the proclamation I gave to offer my protection, now wouldn’t it?” He replies sarcastically, puffin’ on that same cigarette he had worked on last night.

You try not to think about how good it looks between his crooked teeth.

“Those were just words.” You shrug, avertin’ your gaze and regardin’ the horses. Agnes and Sam seemed to be chumming up real nicely, the both of them grazing side by side on the few desert plants that managed to grow near the gorge. “I didn’t think you’d actually meant ‘em.”

“If there’s one thing you should know ‘bout me, it’s that I say what I mean and I mean what I say.” Kylo is serious in a way that makes you raise a brow, and he continues, “Too many tragedies get born from mis-communicatin’, don’t you think?”

“I wouldn’t know.” You lie, not feelin’ like divulging anything about yourself to this man, not yet. You don’t know him, don’t trust him, how could you?

Yes he didn’t go killin’ you when he had the chance but what if that meant he was savin’ it up to kill you later? What if --

“Are you hungry?” Kylo interrupts your train of thought before you can spiral down into a paranoid place. It was just strange, so damn strange, the way he regards you so calmly. Even up in the tree he had spoken to you like he’d known you your whole lives.

You were sure you’d never met him, a face like his wasn’t one folks seldom came across, and one even less likely to forget.

Dusting off the beautiful Hopi blanket and folding it neatly, you think the question over. Really, your stomach was still pretty full from the meals you’d enjoyed at the hotel, and you knew that the earlier in the day you started eatin’, the hungrier you’d be later on. It was a tough life, and on your own you’d gone too many days without food at all in your belly, so the thought of givin’ any of it up now didn’t sit too right with you.

“I’ve got some dried fruit and nuts in the knapsack,” You say anyway, because really energy was good and you would need it to deal with him, this man. Kylo nods once and makes to rifle through the knapsack, and you don’t know what comes over you but you offer, “We’ll split it.”

Kylo looks at you with an expression you can’t quite place. He looks caught off-guard by that, by the offer. And maybe he was, food bein’ so scarce out here in the desert the way it was, particularly for a coupl’a outcasts like yourselves. You try not to think about those two dollars you gave up the day before.

You wonder if Kylo’s got any money, what might be in his knapsacks he rides around with.

“I boiled us come coffee.” He blinks, and you blink too – well, you think, there’s one thing he carries on him.

The fire from last night must’a smoldered out while the both of y’all were asleep, because there’s fresh brush smokin’ up into the morning sky when you turn to take in the sight of the tin coffee pot bubblin’ away. As a matter of fact, Kylo moves over there now with the fruit and nuts in his hand, fixes a cup while it’s nice and fresh and so it don’t get scorched. You’ll have to drink from the same cup, you realize, because you don’t have one. The only thing you’ve got are the canteens for water, and you can’t go pourin’ coffee into that.

“How long have you been awake?” You ask, gratefully accepting a big handful of nuts and some dried apricots.

“Before the sun, wanted to get the coffee started, and needed to go lookin’ for some salve, for this here burn.” Kylo tilts his head to the side and exposes the nasty red gash that winds itself ‘round his throat. He grumbles and scowls, “Hurts like a bitch it does.”

You toss back a big swig of the coffee and crunch down on a couple pecans before you pull one of the bags over and begin openin’ up the different pockets and pouches, lookin’ for the jar of ointment you know is there.

“C’mere.” You wave him over when you do find it.

It ain’t a big jar or nothin’ like that, but it’s still good, smells just fine. If anythin’ was gonna soothe that burn it would be this. You had purchased it from a medicine man some months back as a precaution, and though you know you’d have to use the whole thing on him eventually, it beat lettin’ the ointment spoil and wastin’ the money.

Kylo sits close to you, real close. Too close, the way he was yesterday, in your personal space. You’re wary of him, but he sits real still, eyeing the ointment. It’s now that you actually take time to look at what he’s wearin’, as you push his clothes out of the way.

He’s got a long coat somewhere, you remember seein’ it hangin’ around his body up in the tree. He’d been hidin’ a smartly fitted pair of brown corduroy trousers and heeled boots, a white button down with billowing sleeves, and a dark red waistcoat underneath it. There was a gold chain peekin’ out of one of the waistcoat pockets, and you’re pretty sure it’s a watch.

You wonder if he’s got someone’s picture in it.

Somehow, this close to you, he’s enormous. Absolutely the biggest man you’ve ever seen, his hands alone are longer than your face, you can tell just by the way he runs his fingers through his long dark hair.

He sits still, real still, and closes his eyes. Ever so gently, you scoop up a little bit of the salve and hold your breath as it makes contact with his neck. Kylo doesn’t wince, doesn’t do anything as you smear the ointment against his angry skin, and you have to admit, you’re impressed. Even if this were another exaggerated display of toughness, you’re impressed.

You make sure to cover every bit of the rope burn, mostly because you don’t want it to get infected. It’ll likely scar, but Kylo’s got bigger and badder scars to concern himself with, you doubt that this one will bother him much. And if it does, well, too fuckin’ bad, at least he ain’t dead.

“Thank you.” Kylo says softly, his voice deep in the quiet of the morning. He’s so close, too close, as you close the little jar and put it back in your knapsack for when you know you’ll have to reapply it for him. Kylo watches as you do so, bringin’ his cigarette back up to his lips and humming, “You’ve got magic in that bag or somethin’?”

“Not magic, just a lifetime of shit.” You say, and for the first time that you let him see, you smile at him.

Kylo’s still too close, and he doesn’t go movin’ away once the bag is closed and you pluck the cup of coffee from his hands, bring it up to your lips and take a sip of the bitter brown brew.

“I reckon we’re goin’ down to that there river, ain’t we?” Kylo nods in the direction of the bend, and you smack your lips, the coffee coating the roof of your mouth.

“You’d be reckonin’ right. It won’t take long, maybe only an hour on account of havin’ to be real careful the horses don’t slip, and then we can move along the river.” That was the plan anyway.

Yesterday you’d been privy to a nice long soak, and it had done your muscles wonders, but you had a bundle of bloodied clothin’ you needed to get washed and get washed ASAP. You were still in the blue dress, and you knew you’d feel much more comfortable in your ridin’ clothes, except the ridin’ clothes were stained through with dried blood right about this time.

That was going to be a bitch to get out, you think as you sip your coffee, but you try to remain optimistic about it. Really it only mattered if the blue dress stayed nice, that was the only one townsfolk were liable to see.

“Where are we headed, when we follow the river?” Kylo takes the cup of coffee back and pulls a deep swig out of it.

“I’m going to Colorado.” You make a point of emphasizing, and he only frowns with something like concern.

“Central City or Victor?” He chews on his lip, his good eye a little too bright, a little too interested.

“I’ve heard nice things about Victor. I think there might be a good chance of gold there.” You shrug with one shoulder, feigning interest.

Whatever Kylo might be after, whatever he might want, you don’t want him to know that you want this more, more desperately than anything anyone could ever want.

“So it’s gold that you’re after.” He muses, and you snap your head to glare at him.

“It’s freedom I’m after.” You’re real quick to correct him, not wantin’ you to think that you’re just some greedy person wantin’ to get their hands on every last penny they can. You knew people like that – had known – and you never wanted to be anything like them. It’s just that, “Freedom don’t come cheap, and gold’s the best place to start with something like that.”

Kylo looks down into his coffee for a long while, contemplatin’ what you’ve just said. You wish you could see inside his head, wish you could hear what he was thinkin’. Was he the same? Was he itching for a plot of peace and quiet and calm?

Where had he been headed, when you’d found him?

“I can take you there, to Victor. I’ve been before, so I know the way. Shortcuts through the canyons and everything, I swear.” Kylo pinches out the cigarette and sticks it back in his pocket, clears his throat a little. “I’m good for it, you’ll see. Besides, it’s less conspicuous to go travelin’ in pairs than for a woman to go ridin’ into town alone, ‘specially a rough town like Victor.”

“I can handle myself just fine, thank you.” Unless yesterday, you’re not quite so venomous with the way you respond. In fact, you find yourself in a rather teasin’ playful kinda mood now that the caffeine is perkin’ up your system. “I seem to recall between the two of us, I was the one cuttin’ you down.”

Maybe Kylo’s in a playful mood too, because that almost gets a smile out of him.

“Fair enough. But seeing as you’re stuck with me for the foreseeable future anyway, might as well take advantage of my good sense of direction.” He points out, and you have to ask:

“What’s in it for you?”

Kylo hesitates on that for a little while. He looks over to the rising sun, now well into the sky. It’s no longer purples and pinks, but the pale blue you’ve grown so used to seein’ hanging over your head. Birds fly high above you, their wings spready wide.

You wish you could fly.

“My gang’s waitin’ for me there. We got separated few weeks back, and that’s always been the meet-up spot. I’m hopin’ that, if they’re alive, they’re there and waitin’. I’d like to at the very least get there to find out.” Kylo says finally.

“Those would be the Knights of Ren.” You muse, still not really believing him. You’ll call him Kylo and you won’t kill him for it, but you’re not convinced, not really.

“That they would.” Still he sticks true to his story, and something changes in his voice with the way he talks about him, “They’re the closest thing to family a guy like me could ever get, and if I’m bein’ honest with you Angel, I’d very much like to get home to them.”

You sigh and get up, brush off the sand from the skirt of your dress and offer him a hand.

He looks at it, looks at you, then back at it, and with a hopeful glimmer in his eye, he takes it.

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

The journey down the canyon is done in silence, mostly outta concentration. Neither of you want to distract the horses as they make their way down the perilously narrow pathways carved out of the canyon by millions of years of rivers flowin’ through these parts, so you stay quiet.

It’s nice, the quiet, gives you time to appreciate the beauty of it all. You’re surprised Kylo manages to shut up for two seconds, with how chatty he seems to be. You can’t go blamin’ him too bad though you suppose, if he’s been on the run as long as you have, if he’s been alone as long as you have, a fresh face to talk to was probably the most welcome thing Kylo could’ve asked for.

Eventually, you do get to the bottom of the gorge, and Agnes and Sam both make a beeline to the river’s edge. You and Kylo have to yank on the reigns and get them to slow down, they’re too excited and it would be really shit to have all your bags soaked.

An hour or two after breakfast you find yourselves face to face with Horseshoe Bend, the lush vegetation that grows right along the bank. The water is a rich blue, and the land around it is a deep green, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen something this magical, so refreshing after eons of red and orange dirt.

The first plan is to fill the canteens, which you do right away. You fill them all up until there ain’t no air left, and then you fill ‘em up some more. Then, you decide, you have to wash the blood outta your clothes.

Kylo watches you do that right on the bank, doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t ask any questions, and for that you’re grateful. You wouldn’t have the answers to go givin’ him. He leaves you to your own devices as a matter of fact, walks away from where you’re kneeled over the steady stream of water to go tend to Sam.

Something comes over you, and idea, a notion poppin’ into your head.

You begin to strip down to nothin’, not a stitch of clothing on you, and you tiptoe into the river.

It’s a risk, of course.

But it’s also a challenge.

He wants you to trust him. Trustin’ means vulnerability, and you can’t think of nothin’ more vulnerable than this. If he wants you to open yourself up to him, well shit. He’s gonna have to open himself up to you too. So there you are, naked in the river. The water is cold against your skin, the current whooshing between your legs. Every now and again a fish bumps into your shin, and you suck in a small breath of surprise as it passes you to continue its journey down the river.

Your back is to Kylo, givin’ him time to make a decision – join you or not. You haven’t decided yet what you’ll do if he joins you, but you hold your breath and wait.

A few moments and some rustling later, you hear the light splashing of Kylo stepping in too, and your pulse pounds. You’re not quite right next to one another or nothin’, but definitely close enough that he should be able to hear you when you chew your lip, the inside of your cheek, and ask,

“Are you lookin’?”

You don’t know what answer you want him to give.

“No.” Kylo says, says it hesitantly. He doesn’t say it like it’s a complete sentence, like there’s more he wants to tumble out of his mouth, but nothing comes.

“Do you want to?” You whisper, turning to face him.

You smile briefly, because he’s turned away from you too.

Only for a moment though, before he’s glancing over his shoulder and lookin’ at you, really lookin’ at you.

Exposed, is how you feel, in a word. Your shoulders are squared and your chin is raised in defiance, your tits out above the water. It’s almost a dare, seeing how long it’ll take him to glance down, to break the staring contest you’ve found yourselves in.

He breaks first, you find with a small thrill, as you watch him look at you, take in the sight of your body. His is…a marvel. Incredible, really. He’s so wide? Impossibly broad, the kind of shoulders you could sit on with no problem. And he was wide all the way down, stomach not tapering down to trim hips – no, this man was sold through and through.

Solid, and covered in scars. He shows them off proudly, the same way you show yourself. It’s a challenge, a dare, a plea. You don’t know what you’re askin’ for, but it’s a plea nonetheless. Hesitantly, he takes a step towards you. He’s askin’ for permission in this silent way, a hand outstretched. You bite the inside of your cheek and take a step towards him.

This dance continues, one step after the other, the both of y’all coming to meet in the middle.

It’s the water, you reckon. The cooling river washing away your sins, your crimes. It took the blood out of your clothes, will it rinse the very same from your hands?

Suddenly, somehow, he’s too close again.

This time, for some reason, you don’t mind.

You tilt your head the barest bit, and whatever you’re askin’ for, he seems to be answerin’, by resting his forehead against your own. He hunches down and curls himself around you to fit, to make up the distance from bein’ so much taller than you, and he lets out a contemplative sigh.

Silently, you stare into each other’s eyes. This close, you focus on the mangled and marred one he’s got, the scar that goes with it. It starts from his browbone and carries all the way down to his shoulder. How did a man go about gettin’ something like that, you wonder. He’s sure to have a story for it, somethin’ like that, somethin’ as big as that always had a story.

“I like the way your leather smells…when you’ve been ridin’ all day.” He says abruptly, doesn’t break his gaze from yours, lookin’ from your left eye to your right with the only one he’s got left.

You blink rapidly, unsure what to do with that information. Unsure what to do with him.

Unsure what to do with yourself.

“What’s it smell like?” Your ribcage expands when you take a deep breath, a steady breath.

“Like sweat, the earth.” He replies hungrily, his eye darkening with what you know has to be lust, “It smells warm, like it’s still alive. It smells like you.”

“And what do I smell like?” You stare him down, making him sweat even there in the cool of the river. It’s fulfilling, seeing him sweat under your gaze.

“I – I don’t know.” He admits, voice faltering.

“Do you want to find out?” You whisper, eyes wide, terrified.

When was the last time you did this sort of thing with someone? You can’t remember, not as far back as your memory goes – and it goes pretty damn far. You’ve never done this, not with another person, not in broad daylight. And what would you do, if he said no? If he thought you a cheap loose woman now, if he –

“Please.” He whimpers, and oh.

Oh.

He was the kind of man you’d been dreamin’ about, wasn’t he? The kind who needed a firm hand, who wanted to be put in his place. Made sense, it did, if this was really Kylo Ren, surely no one would dare try out of fear of bein’ shot. Well, he’s not got his pistol on him, and your hands are already smoothin’ up his chest, already draggin’ up to his shoulders, around his neck, fingers weavin’ into the hair at the base of his skull.

Giving and encouraging little nudge, Kylo ducks his head down and shoves it into the crook of your throat, already taking in deep gulpfuls of breaths, smelling you. He must like it, must like the way you smell, because in seconds you can feel his cock filling out hard and thick, pressing against your stomach. It’s huge, and that shouldn’t surprise you given the rest of him, but it still does.

Without so much as a second thought, you let one of your hands wrap around it, and Kylo immediately moans.

“Your cock’s hard for it?” You lick your lips, curious, wanting to see where this takes you, where the two of you will go.

“Yes.” He replies straight away, and something about that trips your brain up. He likes answering your questions, he likes doing what you say, he likes when you’re pleased with his answers. You can tell by the way his cock gets harder harder harder, and you give it a squeeze.

“For me or the leather?” You whisper, mouth run real dry. You shake your head and speak low in his ear, makin’ goosebumps shudder through his flesh with a groan when you say, “You can take care of it, if you’d like. If’n you need to.”

Releasing his dick, Kylo groans at the loss. His hand replaces yours, and he begins a slow stroke. His face is still tucked into your neck, and he’s still breathing hard, breathing you in. You can’t see much because of the way he’s shoved himself against you, you can’t see past the wall of muscle that is his shoulders and back, but you can feel it.

His hand speedin’ up, twistin’ the muscles in his arm twitching and spasming as he grunts softly, groans. Your ego swells at the thought that all of this is because of you – before your mind catches up and scolds you for the thought. You were probably just a body to him, to Kylo. Just another pair of tits, a naked woman for him to feast his eyes on.

“Can I kiss you?” He asks, voice wobbly with how he’s workin’ at his dick, jerkin’ himself off.

“No.” You shake your head, your mood souring just the tiniest bit. Him wanting to kiss you helps soothe your thoughts, so you keep your tone light, “But you can taste me. Come on cowboy, taste me.”

It was the right thing to do, to say, because the moment your words leave your lips, Kylo’s tongue is pressin’ against your pulse. He moans outright, his hips bucking up into his fist, shoulders curlin’ in on themselves so they can press him closer to you. Your arm curls around his waist, friction against your nipples as he shudders and shakes against you, laves his tongue and licking up the sweat that’s started to collect.

Your pussy throbs, so turned on by him, too turned on – but you won’t let him watch you do that, not today. You’ve won this battle, this test, this challenge for trust, he will win another day. You’ll find some secret time to touch yourself, to slide your fingers between the folds of your cunt and rub at your clit and come around your fingers like you spend so many nights doing; although this time, you’re sure you’ll be doin’ it to the memory of him,

“Angel, oh – ughn, that’s good.” He moans, voice gravelly and deep, the back of his throat clickin’ with want. Your name, your name sounds divine comin’ outta his mouth, and you want to hate how much you love it, how it makes the pit of your stomach flutter.

Ain’t nobody ever said your name that way before, not like this.

“I’ve got you.” You soothe him much like you used to soothe the childr—no, you shake your head, not the time, not the place. Kylo’s whining and crying, you can feel the wetness against your neck as he licks your throat, sucks on it, worries it between his teeth as he tastes you.

He comes before he can give any warning, aside from the way his body tenses up all of a sudden.

“Mmm, ah, ah,” He shudders as he spills over his hand, his fingers blockin’ it so it don’t go arcin’ up onto you. You appreciate that, the consideration, even though you wouldn’t have minded one bit. You’re in the river after all, and the river washes everything away. He winces and sighs and groans out a little, “Fuck.”

“Hm?” You don’t step away from him yet, you don’t go nowhere. You stay close, right there, too close.

“Probably shouldn’t’ve done that in the water we’re supposed to drink.” Kylo grumbles, slightly slurring his words.

Something about that makes you want to laugh, and you only rub his shoulder. He looks up at you with that big brown eye, the other one milky white, the reflection of the universe, everything and nothing inside of it all the same.

“I’ve already filled the canteens, but the current will take it.” You say like it’s no problem, because it ain’t no problem, not really. You don’t know what to do next.

What comes next, in times like these? You don’t have the know-how, not really, you don’t know what to say. So you simply grab a bar of soap that’s been resting on a rock that justs outta the river, and wade deeper into the water, tossin’ over your shoulder, “Next time aim somewhere else.”

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

Later, much later, when your clothes have dried and you’ve changed into clean outfits, the both of y’all walk a great long distance against the river’s bank. Sam and Agnes must be thrilled, you think, to be out of the immediate blaze of the sun, the cliffs of the gorge sheltering y’all as you keep close to the river.

Kylo doesn’t say much, but he does walk beside you and not in front of you, and he’s earned a shred more respect from you for that.

“What were you doin’, stealing the sheriff’s horse?” You ask, the question havin’ been on your mind all day.

For the first time, he doesn’t react well to your questions, stops straight in his tracks with a murderous scowl, and for a second, you think he really could be Kylo Ren.

“I didn’t go stealin’ no fuckin’ horse!” He fumes, hands wavin’ all wild like as he talks, as he explains, “Sam had gotten herself all interested in the town and wandered off in the middle of the night. I had to walk eight miles followin’ her fuckin’ prints in the sand only to find her integrated into the town. When I tried to explain that she was mine, they didn’t believe me and strung me up.”

There’s a lot of questions there that you could ask, but the one that blurts out before you have a chance at a real thought it,

“You tracked her prints for eight miles?”

You stop walking too, impressed. You hate to admit that you’re impressed. You were so used to runnin’, so used to avoid bein’ caught that you never really learned how to chase.

“It’s easy when there ain’t no wind.” Kylo doesn’t move, regards you carefully as he explains, “Nothin’ to blow ‘em away.”

“What about when there is wind?” You demand, not sure why you’re suddenly so interested. Maybe you’re jealous, is that what this is? Jealousy? Maybe he’ll teach you, you think, maybe he’ll show you.

You think about your wanted posters, how yours is only 25,000 and his is 100,000. You wonder what else he might be inclined to show you.

“I’m real good at that sort of thing, my uncle taught me. Tracking, trapping, hunting, herding, you know.” Kylo says, “When it comes time for dinner tonight, I’ll show you.”

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

He hunts a cottontail, for dinner.

You’ve never been able to catch a cottontail, you think, as it roasts slowly on a spicket over the fire that you and Kylo built once you’ve settled in for the night. You’re a long way away from Horseshoe Bend now, but you haven’t left the closeness behind. Further along the river you and Kylo have set up camp for the evening, and this time, you don’t worry too much about him guttin’ you in your sleep.

You still worry about it o’course, but. Not too much.

“Shit.” You sigh as your teeth rip into the meat when he hands you your portion, and Kylo’s chest puffs with pride.

“At the rate we’re goin’, we’ll be headin’ into a small town tomorrow.” He replies quietly, biting into the rabbit he serves himself, “Smaller than the last one, by a lot. I think they got maybe three public buildin’s, the rest all houses and farm. We’ll need a cover story, because there’s gonna be questions.”

“You wanna be my brother or my cousin?” You hum, and Kylo looks at you funny.

“I’m too old to be your brother.” Kylo’s quick to respond and he says that too harshly, a sour subject that you didn’t know. Well how were you supposed to know, you think, trying not to get angry with him for snapping at you.

“How old are you?” You wonder, because really, you know so little about him, you know so little about anyone in the world, you realize.

“Too old to be your brother.” Kylo whispers, and you nod in resignation. There was enough sharing today, you think, enough testing the waters as it were.

“Cousin it is then.” You finish the last few bites of the small rabbit and begin to settle down atop your pillow made from the knapsacks and satchels, fishing out your favorite blanket and tugging it around your arms, “We’ll figure the rest out in the morning, I’m tired.”

It’s quiet, for a while.

Nothing but the sound of the river, and the fire that separates you and Kylo, a wall between you. You listen as he rustles and shifts around on the hard ground, no pillow and no blanket again. He puts his hat over his face as a cover against the light from the flames, you watch discreetly from the corner of your eye.

“It’ll be cold again tonight.” Kylo whispers.

Come sleep next to me.

“Goodnight, Ren.” You reply.

I can’t. Not yet.

Not yet.

#kylo ren/reader #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren/you #kylo ren x you #kylo ren fanfiction #kylo ren fanfic #adam driver character #adam driver fanfiction #adcu #kylo x reader #kylo x you #reader insert #my writing #historical au #wild west au #outlaw!kylo ren #biting dust

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adhdeancas · 3 years

Text

Sunset Sound: God is Dead?

I might start updating twice a week because I am writing this story at BREAKNECK speed. this is my favorite chapter so far. enjoy! (special thanks to @friedchickenangelwings once again for sticking with me and my incessant rambling about this story at all hours during holidays)

Fic Summary: Everything is the same up to the end of 15x20. Chuck has been “defeated,” but it was all a farce. When Jack absorbed Chuck, Chuck easily took over the 3 year old’s body and acted as if he were defeated. Chuck!Jack then had the Rusty Nail placed in the barn where Dean died, and with Cas gone, Dean didn’t fight it. Chuck did reimagine Heaven, but he’s fed the same lie to them all: that everything is perfect, they are free, they are in real paradise. Except it’s all an illusion insulated by blue skies and endless horizons. Because, just like the Good Place, people make Heaven into Hell for each other. And there’s nothing Chuck loves more than the natural order of tragedy. He “let it slip” to Bobby that he brought Cas back, when he really left him to rot in the Empty. Dean has to find his best friend before it’s too late, and he has to keep a happy face for everyone else, because Chuck is watching. Always watching.

“You know?” Dean shakes his head. “What’s going on?”

Charlie leans back against the bar. “Well, after Ash and I found each other-” they give a cute little nod of the head in sync, dorks, “through the frankly shitty wifi they’ve got up here, we got to talking.”

“Yeah, we realized some shit just didn’t add up. Like angel radio.” Ash spins around and ducks into his backroom, coming back with a laptop that’s way more advanced than it was last time. Dean raises his eyebrows at it. “Yeah, man, it’s sick, right? Charlie upgraded my systems, it’s bitchin’.” he reaches past Dean’s shoulder to give Charlie a fist bump (enthusiastically returned) and Dean backs off.

“Yeah, bitchin’,” Dean repeats with a grin. He’s too dumb for these people. But he sure is glad they’re on his side. “Well, hey, show me whatcha got.”

Ash nods and taps his temple. He mutters to himself and pulls the system toward him while Dean watches anxiously. Ash pauses and looks at him. “Dude. Gimme a second? This setup is a lil’ more complicated than your blackberry.”

Dean snorts and gives him space, followed by Charlie. “Dude. you’ve been dead too long. Blackberrys haven’t existed for like… ten years.”

Ash gives him a genial middle finger and Dean grins. Charlie sits up on the pool table and Dean leans against it next to her. “Listen, Charlie, I gotta. I gotta say sorry, again, for…” He clears his throat.

“Dying?” Charlie asks lightly.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Not your fault, Dean.” She shrugs, and she actually manages to look cheerful. Damn, Dean loves this chick. She puts her hand on his shoulder and shakes her head. “Seriously, Dean. Let it go! I have! Seriously, I got to spend a few years with my high school girlfriend watching Lord of the Rings - she was a cheerleader - and sneaking out to design some fucking world-altering programs with Ash! Being dead, for me, it’s kinda amazing.” She smiles at him. “Guessing you don’t feel the same though, huh?”

Dean swallows. He doesn’t know how much he wants to say about that, but being dead… it definitely sucks. And not in the good way. “Guess it just feels like I got more to do. Now, at least.” Now that Cas is… and heaven is…

Charlie looks like she doesn’t know what to say. Luckily, they’re interrupted before she has to think of something.

“Eyo! Sorry, amigos,” he leans over backwards to look at them. “Found it.”

Charlie jumps off the table and grabs Dean’s hand. After a few steps she shoves him with her shoulder until he bumps into Ash’s back. Dean bounces off his soft form and clears his throat. “Sorry,” he mutters, throwing a death glare back at his surrogate sister. She flashes him a smug grin before focusing back on the computer screen.

Ash recovers from getting jostled in time to point. “Yeah, so, we got word on Angel FM that this Jack kid is goin’ real Jim Jones over here.” He holds a finger up at several paragraphs as he’s flipping through them. “Preachin’ all kinda love and peace and hippy commune shit, but if somebody even questions it, he snaps. Naomi no-likey,” He smirks up at Dean and points to a group of cuss-words even Dean barely uses. “Rough translation.”

Dean shakes his head. “That doesn’t sound like Jack.” Jack, especially Jack-with-a-soul, almost never got mad. I mean, he’d spent quality time with Lucifer without blowing up. The kid is level-headed to a fault. “Anything else?”

Ash frowns at him. “Y’know, going through angels’ personal phone calls is a lotta work.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, you’re a genius. Got anything else?”

“Ash, what about the human rumors?”

Ash looks at Charlie and they have a silent battle of wills, but Dean’s too impatient to see who wins. “What human rumors?”

They pause and come to an agreement. “Fighting. People fighting. Couples. Families. Friends. All over, since the reboot. People are happy, but… it’s like earth. People can talk - people can fight.”

“And?” Dean raises his eyebrows. There’s something they’re not telling him, and he thinks he knows what.

Ash raises them right back. He’s not about to divulge. “Hombre, this ain’t earth. People are supposed to be happy. If they ain’t… like a glitch in the matrix, y’know?

Dean grunts. “Anything else weird on the radio? Anything at all.”

Ash’s sigh sounds labored. He leans back in his chair and wobbles, obviously sorting through all the enochian bullshit he’s read over the past… whenever. “Meh… I got… I don’t know, God was singing?”

“Singing? Singing what?” Dean leans in, intent. If it was Taylor Swift, Beyonce, maybe Lizzo…

Ash cocks an eyebrow. “Folk shit. Indie music.”

That’s what Dean was afraid of. “Shit.”

“Why? What does that mean?” Charlie grabs onto his arm.

Dean’s worst fears, that’s what. “It means that ain’t my kid. It’s Chuck.”

“Who the hell is that?” Ash stands up as Dean walks away, cursing every stupid atom that had decided to make this dumb universe. Although, he guesses, that was Chuck’s purview too.

“He’s god! God before the reboot I mean, the dick who up and left and only came back to screw me and Sam over. Fuck, I thought we’d finally gotten out from under his thumb! Now, apparently, he’s just using my kid for his meat-suit.” Dean takes a deep breath. This is bad. Worse than bad-bad.

“So… what do we do? How do we nuke God?” Charlie asks the question like it’s normal, just another Saturday afternoon.

Dean thumps his forehead onto the nearest table. Sure, sure, good, great. They were back to square fucking one. “I don’t fucking know,”

“Alright, break it down. We need more mojo, right? How do we get more mojo?”

“Well, angels are the next best thing, right? Maybe if we get them all together, they’re obviously not psyched about folk-God, or whatever,”

Ash points at her like she’s a genius. “Alright, yeah!”

“Guys, there aren’t enough angels left to even try.” Dean feels hopeless. There’s nothing to do. They are literally out of options. There’s no hope.

“Well, where can we get some more angels, then?”

Dean stands up. “I know a place.” His heart feels like it’s being squeezed like a lemon. It’s a crazy idea. It’s practically impossible. And probably suicide. And he’s gotta find a way. “We gotta break open the Empty.”

“The Empty?” Ash looks skeptical. Dean smirks.

“Yeah, angel/demon afterlife. We punch our way in there and we’ve got juice for days, man.” He spreads his arms out, asks the question.

Ash glances at Charlie then back at Dean. He sniffs and nods. “I’m in.”

Dean looks to Charlie, who scoffs. “Duh. Of course. So what, we get in and say pretty please help us kill your dad?”

A warm feeling spreads through Dean’s chest. “Well, we’ll have a little help on the inside. Cas.”

“Castiel? The angel dude?”

“He’s dead?” Charlie’s voice has much more concern than Ash’s. Dean nods in response to both questions. It still makes him feel like he’s swallowing glass to think about it. “What happened?”

Dean looks down at his boots. It’s only the scene that keeps playing on repeat behind his eyelids. Cas crying, holding onto his shoulder, telling him… telling him goodbye. Telling him that. “He saved me.” he starts, expression guarded. “He made a deal.”

Ash grunts and nods, ready to drop it. Charlie stays quiet too, but she clearly wants to say something. Dean’s thankful for the drop. He doesn’t know what he’d say if they asked more. All he knows is that he needs Cas back. And he needs to talk to him. He needs to tell him that - that he wants him to just stay fucking put, damn it. That he needs to stop dying on him. And that he can’t just go and say something like that and then leave. It’s a bitch-ass move.

“Yo, Deano?”

Dean jerks his head back up. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“How do we jail-break ‘em?”

“Guessing we’re gonna need some serious magic shit. And since we can’t get to Rowena…”

Ash breaks into a wide grin. “Pamela? I’ll give her a call.”

Pamela is “busy,” so they have to wait for her to finish up with Jesse before she can come by. Dean has to hand it to her, it’s just about the most Pamela thing in the world to put off their realms-saving work for a heavenly hookup. Dean hangs around talking for a bit, filling his friends in on the latest on Earth, but he can’t concentrate. Ever since they’d decided the next thing is to get into the Empty, he can’t relax. He takes his beer and goes outside to wait, settling down on the Roadhouse’s front step to watch for Pamela.

After a bit, Charlie plops down next to him, a soft grin on her lips. He returns it half-heartedly before looking out across the clearing. She leans her head against his shoulder. A few minutes pass in comfortable silence before she turns into him. “So we gotta get into the Empty.” she sighs. Dean nods glumly. Just his fucking luck. Even heaven is ruined. But at least… at least they’ve got a shot. “And get Castiel.”

Dean frowns and pulls away to look at her. Maybe it’s just his paranoia, but he hears some deeper meaning in her voice. “The guy died for me. I gotta,” he presses his lips together, hating himself for the half-lie he’s telling. Cas deserves better. Charlie just nods and watches, like she’s waiting for him to keep going. When he manages to talk again, his voice cracks. “We gotta get him, Charlie.”

Charlie pulls him into a side hug. “I always said he was dreamy, that angel.” She points out. Dean snorts. He remembers. He’d blushed like an idiot after she said that the first time.

“Yeah.” He mutters. Okay, so she knows. That he and Cas are… that Dean’s… good. Cas deserves recognition. He deserves someone to talk about him. For Dean to talk about him. But then Charlie just hasn’t spoken, and he feels like he needs some explanation. “I… there were other guys, before him.” He continues, clearing his throat. His mind wanders to Benny and Lee, Crowley. “But he’s… he’s it.”

He risks a look at Charlie and she is just staring at him with a fond smile. She surges forward and kisses his cheek, squealing. “Yes, I fucking knew it, you bisexual dumbass! Bi, right?”

Dean laughs. “Yeah, I guess- wait, you knew?”

Charlie looks around, like Dean’s a dumbass it was so obvious. “Well, yeah, dude. Game recognize game.” She motions between the two of them and he scoffs. That’s right. Gaydar. That would’ve been nice to have for the last, oh, 12 years? “We’ll get him back.”

Dean pulls Charlie in for another hug and leaves her tucked under his arm until a motorcycle pulls up and Pamela gets off, shaking her hair loose like a blind slow-motion model in a porno. She grins at the pair on the steps like she can see them. “Take a picture, you two. It’ll last longer.”

“How did you-”

She throws a hand out in dismissal. “Please, I can feel ogling from a mile away.” She pauses, laughing at the embarrassed silence Charlie and Dean are sporting. “Nah, I’m just joking. I do the hair-shake for a reason. I deserve a good stare. Hell, it’s half the reason I own this motorcycle.” She throws her helmet in the general direction of the motorcycle and greets her friends. Dean can’t decide whose hug is more flirty, his or Charlie’s.

“Alright, bitches. Let’s séance some shit.”

tag list: (ask or dm to be removed or added)

@dochunterwitch @justonecitizenoftheearth @gnbrules @purpe @castiel-is-a-cat @alienapparatus

#sunset sound #god is dead?#chapter 3 #fanfic #deancas #destiel #my writing #dean winchester #castiel #charlie bradbury #pamela barnes #ash

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livesincerely · 3 years

Text

it’s beginning to look a lot like... ch.3

Also on Ao3. Chapter two here.

00000

The Sixth Christmas

Jack nudges the door shut with his shoulder, stopping to stomp his boots against the mat in the entryway before making his way into the kitchen.

His boys have been plenty busy in the half hour he’s been gone: Davey, Tony, and Charlie are gathered around the kitchen table in what has clearly become the designated Latke Zone. Charlie is sitting on top of the table, grating the last of the peeled potatoes, his brow furrowed in careful concentration, and Davey’s talking Tony through dicing an onion, instructing, “—and you keep your knuckles curled under like this, see, so you don’t cut your fingers.”

The scene is underscored by the soft hum of Christmas carols playing on the radio and the flurry of snow visible through the window. Jack lingers in the doorway for a moment, a smile spreading across his face of its own accord as he takes it all in, fingers itching for a pen and paper.

He shakes the daydream away.

“Delivery,” Jack announces, setting the grocery bags on the counter top.

“Hey, Jack,” Davey greets, then has to catch Tony’s wrist in his hand when he starts to wave while holding his knife. “Careful, Tones.”

“Sorry,” Tony says sheepishly. “Hi, Jack.”

“How’s it goin’?”

“Pretty good so far,” Davey says letting Tony get back to his task. “I think we’ve almost got everything ready. Did you have any trouble finding the schmaltz?”

“I think I got whatcha wanted,” Jack says, rubbing his hand along the back of his neck. Davey had given him the name and address of the kosher butcher he’d needed to go to and told him exactly what to ask for, and yet he’s still worried he’s messed it up somehow. “But I can run back out if it ain’t right.”

Davey peeks into the grocery bags, unearths the container, and gives an approving nod.

“Perfect,” he says. “Thanks Jackie.”

It’s a little embarrassing how quickly those simple words make the flutter in Jack’s chest steady and settle.

“Yeah, no problem,” he answers.

“Davey, is this enough potato?” Charlie pipes up, shaking a cramp out of his hand, gesturing at the mound of potato piled in front of him.

Davey moves over, staring down at the mass with a critical eye.

“Yeah, that should be plenty,” he says, scooping the potatoes up and dumping them out onto a dishtowel.

“I think this is done too,” Tony says, carefully scraping the bits of onion that have stuck to his knife off onto the cutting board.

“Looks good,” Davey says. He sweeps a few stray potato pieces off of Charlie’s shirt and into the trash can that’s been positioned next to the table, leans down to press a quick kiss to the top of his head, then goes back over to Tony and gives him the same treatment. “Great work, boys.”

“Do you need anythin’ else?” Tony asks, glowing faintly at the praise.

“I think I’ve got it from here,” Davey says, ruffling his hair. “But thank you for helping me.”

“You’re welcome,” Charlie chirps with a wide smile, hopping down from the table.

“Welcome,” Tony echoes. “Can we watch TV now?”

“Wash your hands,” Davey reminds them, spreading the onions out onto the same dishcloth with the potatoes, folding the mixture up in the towel and patting the moisture out. “But go ahead.”

As the boys skip away, Jack steps into the bit of clear space at Davey’s side.

“Anythin’ else need doin’?” he asks.

“Can you grab the eggs for me?” Davey replies. “And the flour and the baking powder?”

“Got it.”

Davey gets the batter mixed together, seasoning it all with a good helping of salt and pepper, then carries the bowl into the kitchen, the container of schmaltz tucked under his arm. He sets a cast iron skillet on the stove and turns on the eye, scoops out a hardy spoonful of fat and lets it melt, then pours some oil over top.

“It’s good of you to do all’a this,” Jack says, as Davey drops the latke batter into the pan with a sizzling hiss.

“It would’ve been good of me to remember to ask Mama if I could borrow some of her schmaltz before we left last night,” Davey says with a scoff, prodding at the batter with his spatula, flattening the drops out into little disks. “Then I wouldn’t’ve had to send you out to the store in this godforsaken weather.”

“Nah, I don’t mind,” Jack says, shaking his head. “I mean, you’re the one that’s doing the hard part. And when you didn’t have’ta.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Davey says, adjusting the temperature of the eye. “I just hope they turn out alright. Mama has this way of getting them perfectly crispy on the outside while keeping the insides soft⁠—I haven’t quite mastered it. But hopefully the boys won’t mind.”

“They’ll like them because you’re the one making ‘em,” Jack says, trying a different tactic. “Because you’re making ‘em special, just for them.”

“Well, they asked me to,” Davey says simply, still not getting it. “It’s not like I mind.”

“But you’re still goin’ outta your way,” Jack counters. “I mean, they gorged themselves on the things last night, practically ate your folks outta house and home, then woke up this mornin’ beggin’ for more, and even though we didn’t have the ingredients for ‘em, plus the fact that Hanukkah ended yesterday and half the city’s closed for Christmas, you still made it happen. I’m jus’ sayin’, it’s a nice thing to do.”

“Jackie, it’s just latkes,” Davey says, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t need to thank me, or whatever it is you’re trying to do⁠—”

“But I do need to thank you,” Jack insists, frustrated with his inability to get his point across. “I do ‘cause it’s… because I…”

He doesn’t know how to explain, doesn’t have the words to encapsulate how nice this all is, how different, yet familiar, and impossibly better this holiday season has been than all the others: how great it was to have someone to help him with holiday shopping, how much he loved getting to hang strings of blue and white lights across their balcony and put their first Christmas tree up in the living room, how every time he sees Davey’s menorah sitting on the coffee table with his and the boys’ stockings hanging on the wall behind the couch, he can’t help but smile, how strange and exciting it was to get roped into⁠ the Jacobs’ Hanukkah traditions—not asked, not invited, but folded right in, like it was never a question at all⁠ that he and the boys would be a part of it all—how he’d nearly cried last night, watching Les walk Tony and Charlie through their first game of dreidel, because he’s just been so desperately happy that he feels like he might burst with it.

And right at the center of it all is Davey: the best friend and co-parent and partner that Jack could’ve ever wanted or asked for. He’s so thankful, every single goddamn day of his life, to have Davey at his side.

Jack wants to tell him, wants him to know how deeply appreciated he is, but he can’t figure out how to phrase it. There just aren’t words to encompass the depth of this feeling.

How could there be?

But Davey looks at him and seems to read the heart of the matter right off of Jack’s face. His expression softens, his eyes warm with tender affection, and he curls his free hand around Jack’s forearm and gives it a gentle squeeze.

“It’s okay, Jack,” he says with a soft smile. “Really. Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay,” Jack says hesitantly. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” Davey promises. “You and Tony and Charlie? You’re family. You don’t need to thank me.”

Jack swallows heavily, throat thick with sudden emotion. “Alright,” he whispers.

Blinking through the sting in his eyes, he continues, “Uh... speakin’ of family, are we still goin’ back up to your folks’ place for New Year’s?”

Davey watches him a second longer, a hint of concern in his gaze, but he lets Jack change the subject without comment because he’s good like that.

“That’s what Mama said when she called this morning,” Davey answers, sliding the first set of latkes out of the pan and onto a wire rack to drain. “Though, she mentioned that if the weather ends up being bad, then she’d understand if we decided to stay in.”

“Are we supposed to be getting a lot more snow?” Jack asks, confused.

“Like, two inches, maybe, the night before,” Davey says. “I tried to tell her that, even if it does snow, the roads and sidewalks would be clear by New Year’s Eve, but you know how she is.”

“Well, we’ll see how it goes,” Jack says, fingers creeping casually towards the fresh stake of latkes as Davey gets the next set frying.

Davey slaps his hand away without a hint of mercy. “Don’t even try it, Kelly.”

“Aw, Dave,” Jack whines. “Where’s your holiday spirit?’

“Holiday spirit isn’t gonna keep you from burning the shit out of your mouth,” Davey says. “There should still be some gelt in the cabinet above the fridge if you want something to snack on while these finish.”

“Fuck, yeah,” Jack says.

He finds the bag of chocolate coins and immediately unwraps three of them and crams them into his mouth.

“Do we need to bring anything?” Jack asks. “That’s like, the thing to do, it’nit?”

“We could bring a small something,” Davey says, working his spatula under a latke and flipping it. “Mama will have the mains covered, but we could bring cookies or chips? Maybe a liter of soda? I’ll ask her when she calls next.”

“Or, we could make somethin’ too, couldn’t we?” Jack says.

“Do you want to make something?” Davey asks, stealing a piece of gelt from Jack’s pile, tearing away the foil, and placing it right on the center of his tongue with a teasing smirk. Jack’s stomach jolts and jitters. “We can if you want to.”

“I could make a pan of cheesecake brownies,” Jack suggests, opening up another piece and offering it to him, watching the way Davey’s lips close delicately around the chocolate coin. “The ones I made when we first moved in? Do you think they’d like ‘em?”

“Those were fucking fantastic,” Davey says. “If they don’t like them, I’m perfectly fine eating them all myself.” He pauses, head tilting to the side. “You should make extras, so we can keep some here.”

Jack laughs. “Okay, remind me to get extra butter when we go to the store next and I’ll handle it.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Davey agrees, turning to Jack with a smile⁠—a gorgeous little thing that lights up his whole face⁠—and as he does, Jack notices a dark smudge on the side of his mouth.

“Oh, wait, you’ve got a bit of chocolate...” Jack says, reaching up without thinking about it, and he doesn’t realize what he’s doing until after he’s already dragged his thumb across the corner of Davey’s mouth, stopping to rest right on the fullest part of his lower lip, his forefinger curled under Davey’s chin.

Davey looks back at him, his expression slack with surprise and his cheeks a bit pink. He’s probably wondering what the hell Jack is doing. Jack’s wondering much the same.

“There,” Jack rasps out, finally connecting the broken fuse in his brain that’s responsible for all his terrible, terrible decisions and dropping his hand from Davey’s face. “That’s better.”

What Jack should do next his wipe his hands clean or give ‘em a quick rinse in the sink or, hell, take a cleaver and chop ‘em off at the wrist⁠—anything except for what he does next, which is his stick his thumb in his mouth and swirl his tongue around it, licking it clean.

Davey’s eyes go a touch wider, his face flushing that much deeper. He clears his throat a few times, looking distinctly flustered⁠; Jack can’t even imagine what he’s thinking⁠—he’s probably embarrassed on Jack’s behalf.

“Thanks,” Davey eventually gets out.

“No problem,” Jack breathes back.

“Uh…” says Tony.

Jack stumbles back a step, his and Davey’s heads whipping around to look: Tony’s standing just behind them, eyes darting back and forth between him and Davey. He holds up the glass in his hand, which is almost empty.

“I need some more juice?” Tony says, but his voice lilts up at the end in question.

“Sure,” Jack says, running a hand through his hair. The back of his neck feels hot, his heart pounding against his ribcage. “Yeah, sure, bud.”

“So, can I get into the fridge?” Tony asks.

“Go ahead,” Jack says.

Tony looks at him like he’s a complete moron. “Jack, you’re blocking the fridge.”

“Right,” Jack says, moving to the side. He accidentally bumps into Davey and his hands dart out instinctively to steady him, but he rethinks the impulse mid-motion, diverting at the last second and stuffing his hands in his pockets instead. “Sorry! Sorry, I’ll just⁠—” He backs up the other way and knocks into Tony. “Sorry! I can⁠— I’ll go⁠— I’ll just stand over here.”

“Idiota,” Tony mutters under his breath as he passes.

“Cállate, Tonio,” Jack hisses back.

“The latkes are done,” Davey announces, mercifully oblivious to the exchange. His face is still distinctly pink. “Someone get Charlie.”

“I’ll go,” Jack offers immediately, latching onto the excuse. He needs a second away from Davey and his stupidly pretty eyes. “Dish me up a plate?”

“Do you want applesauce?” Davey asks.

Jack pauses, frowning. “Do we got any sour cream?”

“You absolute heathen,” Davey says mildly, and he’s starting to sound a bit more like himself, his voice dropping back into its usual register instead of the panicked squeak from before. “Les got to you, didn’t he?”

“Sour cream, cielito,” Jack says, the pet name slipping out without him meaning it to. Tony hits him with a look that’s twice as judgmental as the previous one. “Pretty please?”

“Fine,” Davey grumbles lightly. “I guess if I have to.”

“You’re the light of my life, Dave,” Jack says.

Tony sighs, loudly. Jack’s ears burn.

“Be right back,” he mutters, then he turns on his heel and flees before he can embarrass himself any further.

Jesus Christ.

00000

Chapter four here.

#newsies #javid #jack kelly #davey jacobs #*the writing desk #*editor's note #*final cut #the domestic au #i know it's not christmas but i hope you still enjoy!#😊😊😊

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thiswasinevitableid · 3 years

Text

Back in Time (Indruck superhero AU)

This was based on a prompt requested by several folks on the Indruck discord, and is set in the same universe as “The Thrilling Adventures of the Green Knight,” taking place some time after “Aww, Rats.” It deals with memory loss, so if that’s a no-go for you this is one to skip.

Duck Newton is proud of how far his boyfriend has come. How a man who was once, in his own words, “a hissing, scheming villain” now dedicates his life to protecting the city of Kepopolis, fights side by side with Duck to keep their home, their city, and their friends safe.

But sometimes, he wishes the self-preservation instinct that ruled him as a villain made more appearances. If it did, Duck might not be sitting outside the med bay of the hideout, jiggling his knee while he waits for news. Indrid might not have thrown himself in front of the blast from Dr. Amig Dahlias’ newest invention.

Duck might be unconscious in the med bay instead, but he’ll take that outcome any day.

The door slides open and Dani pokes her head out, “He’s waking up.”

“Oh thank fuck.” He rushes inside, takes Indrid’s hand as the silver-haired man groans and shifts on the cot.

“S’okay sugar, you’re in the base, everyone is safe, just take it easy.”

Red eyes blink open. Then stay that way, wide and scanning the room.

“I...I am glad everyone is safe. That is good. But, ah, I, I…” he turns to look at Duck, “I’m sorry, I do not know who any of you are.”

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

“Is it permanent?” Duck corners Dr. Octavius the minute he’s out of the room. The doctor is one of the best when it comes to dealing with damage from supers of all kinds.

“I’m not sure. That blast he was hit with dealt a massive blow to his memory; as far as I can tell, he can’t remember anything from his past. Not his childhood, not his time as a villain, not all of you. I don’t know if this was the intended result, but the blast also severely dampened his precognition; his powers are functionally dormant.”

“Fuck.”

Dr. Octavius sets a hand on his shoulder; they’ve known each other a long time, he’s been patching Duck up since his days with the Chosen Squad. Some childish part of Duck’s brain had hoped he could make Indrid better, the way he always made Duck.

“It may not be permanent, and I think the chances are good the memories are all suppressed, rather than gone. I’ll consult with some colleagues to see what can be done.”

“Thanks, Doc. Is he okay? I mean, uh, is he scared or anythin?”

“Mainly confused, which is understandable.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Thanks.” He waves as the man departs, then grabs his phone. Maybe there’s someone else who can help.

Dr. Mwangi arrives a half hour later; she’s Indrid’s therapist and, like Dr. Nelson, the vet, she’s one of the few people in Kepopolis whose office is neutral territory. She helps supers of all alignments, and Indrids’ flashbacks are more easily handled since he started seeing her.

“Just...do you think there’s anythin I can do to help him remember?”

“Any photographs, items of emotional significance from his past or present, those might help bring some memories back to the surface. Maybe taking him places that he’s fond of, or where important things happened. And I agree with you all that keeping all the super hero business quiet for now, as it could be completely overwhelming. Other than that, all we can be is patient. Is he staying with you?”

“Yeah. Our place is the safest, thanks to all the security he installed, so if word gets out where we live or that he’s incapacitated in some way, no one’ll be able to get in and hurt him.”

“That’s good. But I was more concerned with the need for him to be with someone he trusts. Even if he doesn’t remember you, I suspect he’ll feel safe with you.”

Duck looks into the other room, where Indrid is chatting with Aubrey (“I have a niece? That’s wonderful”).

“God, I hope so.”

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

“You are...my boyfriend?”

“Yeah” Duck is fighting to keep a gentle smile on his face, to not crumple at the lack of recognition in Indrid’s eyes, “we been together almost two years.”

“You seem very nice. And handsome. I must be very lucky.”

“Here we are.” Duck flips on the lights, shuts the door and arms it, “home sweet home.”

“This is love--OH, oh hello.” Indrid smiles as Chicken runs up to them, demanding her dinner, “who is this.”

Duck’s heart twists with disappointment for the three-hundreth time that day; he keeps hoping the next thing they encounter will be the one to jog Indrid’s memory.

“That’s Chicken.”

“She’s so charming. I had no idea cats could be hairless.”

Duck nods with a tight smile, is digging out the new bag of cat food when Indrid chirps with delight.

“Rats! You have rats!” His face is pressed to one of the boxes of Ratopia, his mischief of five scurrying up to greet him, “I love rats, they are so clever and resourceful.”

“They’re, uh, they’re more yours than mine. They missed you, see?” He opens the nearest door on the enclosure and five furry little bodies run out, squeaking for treats and attention. Void clambers up Indrid’s body like a black comet, letting out indignant noises when he finds Indrids coat without it’s usual special pocket for his “heart rat.” Indrid scoops Void into his hands, studying him.

“I am sorry, little ones. You seem to know me, but I don’t know you. I would like to, though.”

“You, uh, you wanna spend some time with them while I get dinner goin?”

“Yes, please.”

Duck starts water on the stove, pulls down the box of pasta, when Indrid speaks from behind him.

“The same applies to you, you know. I do not know you, Duck Newton.”

The box crunches in half in his hands

“But I would very much like to.”

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

It’s been three weeks, and Indrid’s memory shows no signs of returning. Duck tries to hold onto hope, tries looking on the bright side, but it all turns to rubble when he feels the empty space beside him in bed, makes a comment or reference only for Indrid to blink in confusion.

There is one bright spot, which is that Indrid insists Duck starts their courtship over. He’s adamant that he wants to build up to dating Duck again, that he clearly has met someone wonderful and is not about to let a little bout of amnesia get in the way, thank you very much.

So Duck takes him on date after date, finding some happiness in watching Indrid experience things he enjoys for a second-first-time. They get Gelato, Mrs. Nguyen shooting Duck a puzzled look when Indrid asks to sample several flavors, rather than ordering his usual Blue Moon with marshmallow sauce on top. They go to the movies, the zoo, to one of Aubrey’s magic shows, and all the while Duck keeps his hands glued into his pockets; Indrid is still learning to be comfortable with him, and he will not so much as brush a hair from his face unless he’s sure it’s what he truly wants.

When Indrid takes his hand as they’re walking out of a movie, Duck tears up with embarrassing speed.

Today, they’re in the Monongahela, Duck taking Indrid on the lake loop. As they round a patch of reeds, the taller man points out onto the sparkling water.

“What kind of ducks are those?”

“Wood Ducks” he replies softly, then laughs to himself, “you must really like ‘em, they were one of the first things you ever, uh, ever asked me about.”

“Really? I suppose that makes sense, their coloration is stunning.”

“Yeah.” Duck watches the two birds paddling on the water; he can’t be certain, but he thinks they’re the same mated pair that fascinated Indrid two years ago. The memory of Indrid, voice curious and shy rather than taunting, asking Duck what the bird was over the phone makes him ache down to his neurons.

“I’m sorry, Duck. I know this cannot be easy on you.” Indrid is watching him through his slightly tinted tortoiseshell glasses, “to have to wait for me to fall in love with you again.”

“‘Drid” Duck takes him by his shoulders so they’re face to face, “I can’t lie for shit, so I ain’t gonna say I don’t wake up everyday hopin you remember me. But what I want outta all of this is for you to be happy, to have whatever kind of life feels right to you. Even if we don’t end up together in it or I, uh, I ain’t in at all.”

Strangely, Indrid smiles, soft and bright, as the admission hangs between them. Then he cups Duck’s cheek and leans down, kissing Duck so lightly that it’s only the sensation of too-cold hands on his skin that let’s Duck know he isn’t dreaming.

“Wha-”

“It just felt right.” Indrid smiles wider, and holds a little tighter, wondering if this is it.

His phone rings, the tone that signals “shits going down, suit up.”

“Fuck.” He grabs it, brings it to his ear “go for Duck”

“It’s the fucking White Star boys again. They’re threatening to set off a bomb from the top of the GreenBriar Mall and are causing a major scene downtown.” From the sound of it, Barclay is driving as he talks.

“Fuck, okay, lemme get Indrid somewhere safe and I’ll be right there.”

“Somewhere safe? Duck, what’s going on.” Indrid pulls his sweater around himself

“Long story, swear to fuckin god I’ll tell you later, now come on.” They run back to the car and Duck floors it out onto the highway. The nearest safehouse is close to the mall, so he can drop Indrid there, change, and go help his friends.

This plan goes up in a literal cloud of smoke as cylinder hits the hood of the car, releasing a black cloud and causing Duck to careen into a fire hydrant.

“Guess we’re closer to the whole mess than I thought.” He grumbles, grabbing his spare mask from the glove box and ripping off his shirt to reveal his hero garb underneath, “you okay?”

“Not really, as we just crashed and there is a lot of yelling happening outside.”

Duck takes his hand, “It’s probably obvious, but I’m a superhero, and a bunch of dipshits are tryin to blow up innocent folks. Stay close to me, I’ll try’n get you somewhere safe and come find you after this is taken care off.”

Indrid does not look convinced, holds onto Duck’s hand like he’ll be sucked up into space if he lets go.

“It’ll be okay, ‘Drid. I promise.”

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

He focuses on Duck’s hand as they run, as if the link between them is enough to keep him safe. The chaos around them, the shouting and dust and disaster in the air, it all feels familiar. Then again, of his boyfriend is a superhero, maybe Indrid’s been in this situation before.

Duck’s fingers are ripped from his own as the hero is tackled by a bulked-up man with a white star on his back. They two grapple on the ground, rolling out of sight in the surrounding smoke. Before he can call out, pain shatters through the back of his head and he hits the ground, pavement scraping his hands. He flips over, finds another starred man sneering down at him.

“There you are. We all had bets going on whether the good doctor killed you with that ray.”

“I” Indrid scrambles back on his hands, head ringing too hard for him to stand up, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t play dumb, Cold. Everyone knows where the Knight is, you’re right behind him like some weird fucking shadow.”

“I’m not, I swear, please, I have no idea what’s going on.”

The man hits a button on his belt, and a short staff, covered in what looks like sci-fi barbed wire, springs into his hand.

“Let me tell you, then: you’re a pain in the ass, and I’m going to enjoy killing you.”

“Wait, please” his hand connects with something cold, and his fingers tell him it’s a bit of broken pipe.

“Oh yeah, it’s gonna be fun to squash you like the bug you are.”

Indrid watches him raise the weapon. His fingers curl around the pipe.

And he lets instinct take over.

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

Most of the mob scatters as soon as Aubrey gets the smoke under control, but some of the more determined White Star Boys put up a fight. Duck throws one off of him, turns towards the commotion of two more fighting-

Oh fuck.

“Indrid!” He runs towards the melee, then skids to a stop as his boyfriend takes one down with a skilled, precise blow to the head. The lands a cut on his cheek with a Bowie knife and Indrid snarls, whirling to break the offending hand and knocking the man’s head to the side with the lead pipe he’s using as a staff.

The man goes down, hands weakly covering his face, and Indrid hits him again. And again.

“Moth, for fucks sake, stop! He’s down, you don’t gotta kill him!”

Indrid locks eyes with Duck, tilts his blood-spattered head to the side.

“You have the wrong villain, hero. I am The Sword. And you are in my way.”

Indrid lunges and Duck braces to take the hit that never comes. There’s hissing and cursing from above him, and he looks up to see Indrid trapped in red light.

“I came to help the Lady Flame” The Quell regards Indrid with sorrowful eyes, “but it seems we have a far worse problem than those little power-mad stars.”

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

“He’s much quieter than his brother” Stern stands outside the Pine Guard holding cell with Duck, while Indrid sits calming inside, eyes shut as if in sleep, “The Flame monologues whenever he gets a chance.”

“Of all the goddamn parts of his life to remember” Duck clonks his head into the wall.

“I called every specialist on our roster; the consensus is that one of the white star boys must have attacked him. In moments of that kind of intense stress and fear, sometimes people revert back to what they first learned. In Indrid’s case, it was his training to be the perfect villain.”

Duck grunts in acknowledgement, keeps his head on the wall so he doesn’t have to look at the man he loves reverted to his worst instincts.

“I promise we’ll take good care of him until our next move becomes clear.”

“Thanks, Joe.”

The agent takes a final look through the glass, “We’ll get him back somehow. Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

They’ve just reached the parking lot when alarms sound and lights flash, Joe’s communicator ringing like mad. He looks at it and blanches.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Indrid got out?” It’d be the perfect, shitty cap to a perfectly shitty day.

“Yes. Do you want me to call in back-up?”

Duck shakes his head, “No. I was real good at huntin’ down the Moth. Think I can find The Sword the same way.”

He doesn’t add, as Joe wishes him good luck, that he has a horrible feeling he already knows where Indrid is.

Unlocking the apartment door, he takes two steps before his own SmartWhips close around his torso and arms. Indrid steps out of the hall, grinning at him.

Duck sighs, “Yeah. That’s why I figured.”

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

Indrid studies the trapped hero, wondering if he should ask him the main question on his mind, which is whether this location they’ve been pretending is an apartment is Indrid’s hide-out or his. He’s been searching it for twenty minutes and even with his foresight back he cannot tell. He did find his staffs, smart glasses that are confusingly red rather than silver, and a set of wings he knows are based on a prototype of his.

But that is not the most important question to his mission.

“Where is The Flame?”

Duck shakes his head, “Not tellin you. You were the smartest villain I ever faced, Indrid, and I don’t doubt you could bust him out no problem. But you and I both know you don’t want that.”

“It is my duty to free my partner. It is for the best.”

“Is it really? You honestly tellin me you wouldn’t be happier far, far away from that brother of yours?”

Indrid forces his face to stay calm, but his guts twist; how could Duck know how often he wishes Apollo would go on a mission and never come back, or just leave him be for a few days so he could do something, anything other than villainy.

“You know nothing of my brother.”

“The last time he saw you, he tried to blow you up, tortured me, and then tried to kill in some weird trainin arena. He’s a cruel, egotistical dipshit.”

“That...that sounds exactly like him. Very well, maybe you do know what you are talking about. So tell me where he is, and I will not be forced to get the information from you another way.”

Duck squirms, afraid, but stays silent. Indrid hauls his to his feet.

“Tell me where he is.”

“No. Let him rot, it’s what he deserves.”

“What he deserves is immaterial. What matters is he will get out one way or another and if he does it without my help he will-”

Duck gives a knowing look. Indrid huffs, drops him back to the ground.

“Nevermind.”

“He’ll hit you with that lightning rod of his? Or threaten to drown you, like he did that time in, uh, in Kansas City?”

“Would you kindly shut up so I can think?” Indrid turns on his heel, begins pacing. Duck knows a great deal, which means Indrid must have confided in him at some point, likely before he lost his memory. Maybe he was interrogated by him? But even then it doesn’t make sense; Indrid can withstand any kind of torture. Well, almost any kind.

Why on earth did he tell the hero those things?

He spots the rat run, the little black one (Void, that was what Duck called him) sending demanding squeaks his way through the plexiglass. Indrid leans down, touching his fingertip to the glass to mirror the placement of the rat’s paw.

“I wonder if I could take you with me. Doubtless you would make a skilled minion.”

“‘Drid, the scariest thing he’s ever done is wear those glasses that make him look like a giant monster rat to scare off intruders.”

“What part of ‘shut up’ was unclear, chivalrous one?” Indrid glances over his shoulder, finds the hero sitting up with a hopeful expression.

“That nickname. ‘Drid, it’s the first time you called me that since you lost your memory. Do you remember anythin’ else about that name, about why you call me it?”

He thinks, gets flashes of images that he’s certain are the past, not the future; Duck, the Green Knight, throwing him out a window, chasing him from warehouses, trapping him in those blasted SmartWhips. Oh yes, he remembers him now.

“You. You are my nemesis.”

“Uh, I was, but-”

Indrid laughs, high and sharp to cover the disappointment in his chest, “Oh that is diabolical. I lose my memory and what do you all do? You put me in the hands of my nemesis, convince me that I had a life with someone who cared for me as if that could change my nature. Not even I could concoct a plan that cruel, chivalrous one.”

“Indrid, please, you gotta remember the rest.”

“I do not need to do any such thing. But it does change what I do with you.” He stalks forward, wrenching Duck up by his hair.

The whips close around his wrists, trapping them together.

“Let me go this instant!”

“No can do, sugar. I ain’t gonna fight you, but I ain’t gonna let you hurt me, or anyone else.”

“You” Indrid sees the explanation coming, “you stole one of my smart picks! You are as bad as Apollo is!”

“Trust me, I ain’t.”

Indrid tries to hurl him against the counter, but Duck holds fast, causing the villain to simply unfurl the whip some. The hero giggles, quiet at first, then growing louder.

“Christ, it’s like fuckin deja vu, you and me bein like this. At least I did it on purpose this time.”

The villain is about to snap that there’s nothing funny about being trapped with one’s nemesis. Then the memory comes, he and Duck taken from enemies to allies in an instant as they tried to undo the malfunctioning smartwhip trapping them together. The night, about a week later, when Duck sent a spy B.U.G just to make sure Indrid wasn’t too badly hurt from a fight.

The Green Knight, looking after the Moth as if he was a friend, not a villain.

The Moth. He’s the Moth.

He surges forward, slamming his lips against Ducks mouth. The hero gasps, bound hands gripping the front of Indrid’s black shirt.

“My love, my love, Duck, I’m sorry, I am so sorry, one moment, I can get us unraveled.” He kisses him again, his mind and body registering the full weight of almost a month without his hero’s touch.

“Please tell me this means what I think it does” he mumbles into Indrid’s mouth.

“It does my love. More or less. Things are not coming back in a linear fashion, but it feels as if my memories have all awakened and will be in order eventually. I, I feel like myself, my full self, again.”

“Thank sweet baby christ, fuck” Duck huddles close, shoulders shaking, “didn’t know how much longer I could stay calm, you’re fuckin terrifyin when you want to be.”

“Oh, oh dear, apologies” The whips drop to the ground, “I did not remember, I, I was more lethal, more willing slash and burn when I was The Sword, I never wanted you to be on the receiving end of that, oh goodness, I’m so sorry, my sweet.” He holds Duck to him, buries his face in his hair when he thinks of what he might have done.

“You’re back.” Duck presses a kiss to his neck, “you’re back. That’s all that matters, fuck, I missed you so much.”

Indrid shuts his eyes, holds fast to the man who makes his mind sing “home” with every beat of his heart.

“I missed you too, chivalrous one.”

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

Dr. Amig Dahlia prowls towards her laboratory. The Pine Guard brought her latest scheme crashing down, and it’s high time to make them all into blank slates, the way she did with the meddlesome Moth. At least he’s still nowhere to be found.”

“Hello, doctor.”

Seated directly in front of the memory ray is none other than The Moth. He stands, patting the ray, “this is a very clever device, and had it not made my life, and the lives of others, miserable, I might applaud you for it. As it is, I am here to demand you disable it, and turn yourself in.”

“Last I checked, my ray didn’t damage your intelligence, so that idiotic idea must be all yours.”

The Moth cocks his head, “Is that a no?”

In answer, she steps forward, pressing in the sequence to arm the device.

The hero stays put, right in it’s path, “firing on me will not end well. I modified your device while you were distracted by my teammates. It will backfire when you pull the trigger”

“Nice try,but you’ll need a more convincing lie to get out of this one.” The lights on the side of the ray turn green.

The wide smile changes, all ice and edges, “Before you make your choice, consider this; Because of you, I almost hurt the man I love.”

She rolls her eyes, touches the trigger, and white light explodes all around her.

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

“What did you do to that ray?” Duck stands next to him as they watch medics help a sobbing Amig Dahlia into an ambulance.

“In addition to reversing the direction of the energy, I changed how it interacts with memory; instead of blanketing them over it pulls certain ones out and plays them on repeat. Namely, it pulls out those memories one would most like to forget.”

“Jesus.”

“Believe it or not, the futures show this being an exercise in empathy. The effects are not permanent, and when she comes out of them she will swear off villainy and move to Key West.”

He does not add that this seems a fitting quid pro quo for the fact recovering from her device means memories of his childhood appear without warning more than they usually do.

Duck is no longer beside him. There’s a metallic crack, and the hero drops the two halves of the ray on the ground.

“Just to be safe.”

“A wise idea, chivalrous one.”

They finish up at the hidden lab, and the Moth and The Green Knight disappear into the Pine Guard base. Twenty minutes later, Indrid Cold and Duck Newton step inside their home. It’s warm and comfortable, bustling with love and promise.

Just like Indrid remembers.

#indruck #indrid cold/duck newton #superhero au #Angst with a happy ending #memory loss

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