#he's got impossibly intense powers of conjuration | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

worryinglyinnocent · 4 years ago

Text

Fic: Leave a Piece of You Behind

Summary: Every time Hohenheim uses his alchemy he uses up the souls inside, leaving an emotional imprint on the world.

He always swore he would never use it on Trisha, but one day, it’s unavoidable. As the souls make her whole again, it forges a strange bond between her and Hohenheim. It’s not quite telepathy, not quite empathy, not quite sympathy, but it’s something, and it will change the course of their lives forever and shape the future to come.

(Or: Trisha lives - twice over - and when Hohenheim returns after ten years on the road trying to defeat Homunculus, he returns to the family and home he was expecting to find.)

Rated: T

Content warnings: Childbirth complications and childbirth-associated gore. Very sick child. (He gets better!)

Leave a Piece of You Behind

1899

When Hohenheim first told Trisha his story, he made a promise to himself that he would never use his alchemy on her, and she laughed and told him not to make promises he can’t keep. For all he doesn’t want to taint her with what he is, for all his immeasurable raw power, he can’t possibly see the future and there might come a day when there’ll be an impossible choice, and alchemy is what he’ll choose.

Today is that day. Hohenheim knew it long before Pinako and Yuriy showed up and shooed him out of the room. Trisha’s water broke in the early hours, a good five weeks before she’s due, and there was bright red blood in the glossy fluid. She’s been crying with pain ever since, and he’s been pacing the corridor from the nursery to the bedroom door and back again, listening to Trisha’s voice get smaller and quieter, and Yuriy’s and Pinako’s get more and more concerned.

“It’s an abruption,” he hears Yuriy say. “We need to operate if we stand any chance of saving either of them.”

No. Not on Hohenheim’s watch. Not when he knows he can save both of them. Not when the midwives and doctors resident in his veins are already telling him what needs to be done, and the others are calculating how much will need to be expended to secure both Trisha and the baby’s lives.

He opens the bedroom door, and Pinako tries to shove him back out.

“Hohenheim, you really can’t be here.”

“She’s my wife and she’s having our baby and I know they’re both dying, Pinako, so let me in and let me do what I can do.”

Although Pinako trusts him as a person, she’s never quite trusted his strange and intensely powerful alchemy, but she steps aside and allows him in. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen so much blood; the bed is drenched in scarlet.

Trisha is pale and cold and clammy, her breathing coming in shallow pants.

“The placenta’s come away from the womb lining too early,” Yuriy explains. “Trisha’s bleeding and the baby’s not getting any oxygen.”

Hohenheim nods his understanding and goes over to Trisha, squeezing her hand.

“Trisha? Love, can you hear me?”

“Hey, Van.” Her voice is soft, slurring and mumbling over the words, but it’s still there. That’s all he needs.

“Trisha, this will hurt, but I’ll make it better. I promise.”

She nods weakly and Hohenheim gets to work, ignoring Yuriy’s strangled bark of shock as Trisha’s abdomen slices open under his touch and he reaches in with red sparks flying off his fingers, finding the baby’s head and pulling him out.

Immediately Pinako is there to take him, level-headed and unperturbed by the whole thing as always, and Hohenheim can stop the bleeding, knitting layers of ripped flesh back together again until the entry wound is closed and there’s not even the slightest scar to show for it. Yuriy has since regained his momentum and steps in to make sure Trisha’s all right.

Hohenheim turns his attention to Pinako and the blue, unmoving bundle in her arms that she’s trying to get to take his first breath.

“Come on, Edward.” They decided on Edward for a boy months ago. Trisha had been so convinced she was having a boy that they hadn’t even discussed girls’ names. He presses his palm over his son’s chest, so tiny in comparison. The alchemy sparks again, and there’s a chorus of voices almost singing through his veins, encouraging the baby to breathe. It’s so strong Hohenheim slips into Xerxian along with them. “Breathe, Edward. Breathe, my little golden one.”

Edward finally takes a massive gulp of air and starts screaming loud enough to wake the dead, and everyone in the room bursts out laughing with sheer relief.

Pinako hands Edward over to him and his tiny flailing fist catches Hohenheim’s finger in a surprisingly strong grip for someone so incredibly small.

“I’ll keep you safe,” he says softly, but, although it breaks his heart to do it, he stops short of saying I promise. After all, he’s immortal and Edward isn’t, and today has already taught him the futility of making promises he can’t keep.

1904

Ever since the day that Ed was born and Hohenheim plunged his hands into her to save them both, Trisha has been oddly… aware of him. Even when he’s not there with her, she can still just about feel him in the back of her mind.

It’s not telepathy, not really, just a feeling, an impression, all very nebulous and no-one would believe her if she told them. Well, no-one apart from the boys, and even then, Ed is a born cynic. Just a feeling, nothing concrete, but it’s always been a nice reassurance, knowing that he’s still around and still all right.

In these last few months since he’s been gone, it’s been even more so. She knows that wherever he is, he’s all right, and he misses them all, and that’s all she needs to know. He’s safe, and he’ll come back to the boys when he’s done doing whatever it is that he has to do. He promised, and she’s told him before about making promises he can’t keep.

It’s just such a shame she made one of her own. She coughs wetly, but it does nothing to clear her aching chest.

I’m sorry, darling. I made a promise I couldn’t keep. I have to leave you first. Just be sure you keep yours and come back to the boys, all right?

Time’s been standing still with day and night blending into one for a couple of weeks now, and Trisha has no idea how many hours have gone by when she hears the gentle whisper of a familiar voice in her ear.

“Trisha? Love, can you hear me?”

“Hey, Van.” She just hopes he can hear her in return. Her voice is so small these days. She wonders if he’s really here or if this is some kind of feverish hallucination her brain’s conjured up to comfort her in her final moments.

“Trisha, this will hurt, but I’ll make it better, I promise.”

“You said that when Ed was born.”

He laughs softly. “I kept my promise though, didn’t I?”

She nods. There’s a piercing pain in her chest and she feels the lightning shock of alchemy course through her veins. It leaves her exhausted, every muscle pounding like she’s just run across the great desert to Xing, but her chest is clear, and she can feel that the illness is gone.

“There. Now you can keep yours, too.”

He squeezes her hand, and Trisha finally opens her eyes to see if he’s real.

He’s dishevelled and worse for wear from the horrible weather outside – his hair’s dripping on the blankets – but he’s definitely there.

“You came back.”

“I could tell something wasn’t right.”

That odd awareness must go both ways. Just as she’s been reassured knowing he’s been all right, Hohenheim has known she’s not been all right and he has not been at all reassured.

“How long can you stay?”

He shakes his head. “I can’t. I have to go again. I won’t put the boys through watching me leave again. Best if they think I was never here, and you got better by providence.” His voice is cracking, and Trisha can tell how much it’s breaking his heart to go again. “I’ll be back. I promise.”

Trisha doesn’t chide him about promises he can’t keep this time.

He stays until she falls asleep, and when she wakes up, he’s vanished like a phantom. Outside the bedroom door, she can hear Ed and Al arguing, with Al swearing up and down that Dad was here last night and Ed countering that he couldn’t have been, because Dad left and Isn’t Coming Home.

“He is coming home,” Al says simply. “He promised.”

“Al, you dreamed it.”

“No, I didn’t! Dad was here, and I saw him, and he promised to come back! He even pinkie-promised!”

Trisha sighs. Best laid plans of mice and men and Hohenheims and all that. She sits up in bed and calls out to her sons.

“Ed? Al?”

They rush in, beaming to see her well again.

“I told you!” Al says. “Dad came back and made Mom better!”

Ed’s too relieved to argue the point.

1910

Al always remembers the night that Dad came back, even though Ed stubbornly maintains it was all a dream. Even now, six years later, he remembers those few minutes more clearly than anything.

He wakes up in the middle of the night to a shadow in the doorway, peering in to check on them. It doesn’t worry him. Since Mom’s been ill, the Rockbells often come over at all hours to give her medicine and they always look in on him and Ed too.

The shadow is too tall to be Granny Pinako, it has long hair tied back so it can’t be Uncle Yuriy, and the moonlight is reflecting off glasses, so it can’t be Aunt Sarah and it must be…

“Dad?”

The shadow retreats and the door closes.

“Dad?” Al looks over at Ed, but he’s still fast asleep, so it’s up to Al to be brave and investigate on his own. He climbs out of bed and goes over to the door. “Dad? Daddy?”

He reaches up to open the door and pokes his head out very carefully in case of monsters on the landing. There are no monsters, but Dad is sitting on the floor with his head in his hands.

“Dad?”

Dad makes a weird noise that’s half groan, half laugh, and half cry, and he rubs his eyes, putting his glasses back on and looking at Al.

“I have to go.”

“Will you come back?”

“Yes.”

“Soon.”

Dad shakes his head.

“But you will come back?”

“Yes.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Pinkie promise?”

“What?”

Al holds up his pinkie and takes Dad’s unresisting hand, unfolding his pinkie and hooking it together with his own. “Winry says a pinkie promise is magic. You can never break it.”

“I promise I’ll come back. Now, be good for Mom and go back to bed.”

Al knows it happened, and even though he’s now old enough to know that there’s nothing magic in pinkie promises, he still has faith that someday, Dad will come back. It’s the only thing that he and Ed argue about. Well, they argue about a lot of things, but this is the only argument that they can never resolve, and they can’t get Mom to resolve it for them, because Mom has never had any doubt that Dad is coming back too. She knows he’s all right; that he’s still out there and he hasn’t forgotten them. She doesn’t really know how she knows, but she does. It’s a feeling. Al’s content with that, but Ed’s the kind of person who needs hard proof, and he just doesn’t believe that Dad will ever come back.

Al’s faith is rewarded the year he turns ten. The year he gets sick. The year his body starts to waste away and vanish in front of him. The doctor says there’s some kind of poison in his blood, eating away at him from the inside out. He can see the outline of his bones through his skin in some places.

Mom can’t stop crying, and once, when she thinks he’s asleep, he hears her whispering from her chair.

“Van, please, you have to know that we’re not all right. It’s Alphonse. Please, wherever you are, we’re not all right. I need you. Please.”

Mom cries. Al sleeps. Ed gets angry because he can’t do anything, and this isn’t something he can fix with alchemy. He’s even more angry, because if he believes that Dad did come back that night to make Mom better, why hasn’t he come back now to make Al better?

“Alphonse? Can you hear me, little one?”

The voice is very soft but instantly recognisable.

“Dad?”

“Shh. The nurses can’t know I’m here.”

Al opens his eyes. Dad’s there in the early morning light, crouching beside the bed. Mom is asleep in her chair. Ed is curled up on the little cot in the corner of the room. He can hear the rest of the hospital waking up around them. Al smiles.

“You kept your promise.”

Dad gives a lacklustre smile. “I’ll need to make another. I don’t have much time and I have to go again soon. This might hurt. Be brave for me.”

He stands up, covering Al’s thin and bony hand with his much larger one.

“Close your eyes for me, Al.”

Al’s always known that Dad’s alchemy is different, because it sparks red instead of white or blue like his and Ed’s, and he does it with touch alone and no circle. It hurts like fire shooting through his entire body, something more powerful than he’s ever achieved, and although tears come to his eyes, he doesn’t cry out.

“There. That should do it.”

Al rubs away his tears and looks down at his arms. They’re still so thin they’re almost not there, but they feel stronger already. Dad’s making to move away, but Al grabs his hand tighter, and after an awkward moment, he gives in and sits on the bed.

“Is that what you did for Mom when she was sick?” he asks.

Dad nods.

“Can you teach me and Ed how to do it? You know. In case we need it.”

Dad shakes his head, and there’s something so incredibly sad in his expression. “No, this kind of alchemy can’t be taught. It’s something only I can do. It’s why I have to go away.”

“Are you saving other people?”

“Sort of. More making sure that they won’t need to be saved in the future. Now, you still need to sleep to get well.”

“You’ll be gone when I wake up.” He doesn’t mean it to sound like an accusation, just a reason why he doesn’t want to go to sleep.

“Yes.”

“You’ll come back though?”

“I promise.”

“Van?”

Mom’s voice is hoarse and croaky from so much crying. Dad gets up off the edge of the bed, giving Al’s hand a final squeeze, and he goes over to her. Mom just sobs against his chest, the silent, shaking sobs that are the worst of all for Al to see.

“I have to go,” Dad murmurs. “I’m sorry, it’s still not over yet. I have to go but I knew something wasn’t right.”

By the time Al wakes up again, Dad’s gone, Mom’s tears are happy tears, and Ed’s too happy that Al’s going to be ok to argue whether or not he slept through Dad’s whirlwind visit yet again.

1914

Ed has had to accept that since it has now happened twice, Dad has indeed come back.

He just wishes that he’d stick around long enough to say hi to Ed whenever he drops in.

It’s nice to know that he hasn’t forgotten them and that he still sort of cares, but if he has to be at death’s door in order to get a flying visit, then he’d rather not. Still, at least he has Mom and Al safe and well. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he’d lost either of them, or God forbid both of them.

He tries not to think about it, and instead he throws himself into his research. Mom’s always said she’s got a feeling that Dad’s ok, and since he healed Al, Al says he feels it too. It’s hard for either of them to describe the sensation, but Ed’s determined to get to the bottom of what it is. He’s never heard of a side-effect of alchemy like that, although that said, Mom’s always been able to feel it, not just since she got sick.

Maybe it’s a weird quirk that has nothing to do with alchemy and just got passed down Mom’s side, and Ed didn’t inherit it.

He’s fifteen when the truth finally comes to light. It’s a perfectly normal day and he and Al are tidying their room – Mom has said that it’s a death trap and considering the amount of paper and books strewn over the floor in the name of research, Ed can’t say that he completely disagrees.

Suddenly Al stops mid-sentence, brow furrowing.

“Al? Are you ok?”

“I think Dad’s back.”

Before Ed can reply, there’s the sound of crockery smashing on the kitchen floor, and they both rush downstairs. Considering Dad only comes back when someone’s ill, and the last time Mom was ill she ended up on the kitchen floor…

But Mom is fine. She’s racing out of the kitchen and out of the front door, jumping into Dad’s arms as he comes up the path. He staggers but catches her, and they stay like that for such a long time that Ed gets somewhat uncomfortable with the display of affection and goes back into the kitchen, drawing a transmutation circle on the table and beginning to fix the shattered plates.

He can hear Al’s excited chatter at the front door, and suddenly, Ed feels like an outsider. Unlike Al and Mom, he hasn’t seen Dad for ten years. His last memory of him is him leaving, with that incomprehensible cold look on his face making Ed wonder what he did wrong to make his father go away. Even though Mom has explained countless times over the years that Dad is away doing important work, and that he didn’t want to have to leave them, but it was inevitable, Ed still feels that resentment and abandonment.

He doesn’t share the same bond with Dad that Al and Mom do. He doesn’t begrudge them it, because he wouldn’t wish their horrific illnesses on his worst enemy, but there’s a part of him, deep inside, that still feels a little jealousy.

“Edward?”

He looks up to see Dad in the kitchen doorway.

“Hi.”

“I’m sorry it’s been so long.”

“Yeah, well, I guess I’m lucky I never got sick.”

“Edward…”

“It doesn’t matter. Welcome back, or whatever.”

He pushes past, leaving the house and ignoring Al yelling after him. He stomps around the neighbourhood trying to get his thoughts in order until it starts to get dark, whereupon he returns home and sits outside on the swing forlornly.

“Ed?”

Mom comes out of the house and sits down on the grass in front of him, taking his hands in hers. “Talk to me, honey.”

“I don’t know how to feel,” Ed admits. “I want to be angry at him for leaving, but I can’t because I know he came back when we really needed him, even if he didn’t stay. I want to think he didn’t care, but I know that he did. And I know that the only reason I’m feeling like this is because he never came back for me and I never saw him and I never experienced that care, but I can’t stop feeling it.”

He sighs, but Mom is as open and understanding as ever, and her soft smile prompts him to go on, knowing that there’s no judgement in her mind at all. “You three all have this weird bond that I don’t understand. I mean, even you don’t understand it. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful that he came back and made you better when you were sick. I know he saved your lives. I can’t say I’m jealous because I know what you went through, but…”

“You feel like the odd one out,” Trisha finishes for him. She squeezes his hands. “Even though you know it doesn’t make sense, you feel like he cares more about Al and me than he does about you.”

“Yeah. I guess that’s it.”

“It’s ok, I understand. So does Al. So does your father. And now that he’s back and doesn’t have to take off again in a couple of hours – a couple of days, maybe, but time enough – and now that you’re not five years old anymore, I’m going to make him tell you the full truth of what he’s been doing and why he’s been away so long. Maybe we should have talked about this more whilst you were growing up. I know that Al and I have always brushed this strange feeling that we have under the rug because we just can’t explain it, but I know how much it’s eaten away at you. I should have taken more of an interest in it. But the thing that always struck me is that you ought to be able to feel it too, you know.”

“I’ve never been sick.”

“Not that you remember, but your father did save you, like he did me and Al. Maybe you don’t feel it because you can’t remember. You were so, so little when it happened, you’d only just been born. You came early, you see, and there were complications. I was losing blood and you couldn’t breathe, and Dad had to break a promise he’d made to himself that he would never use his alchemy on us. He saved both of our lives that day.”

“Oh. I never knew.”

“I guess it never came up. But now you do know. Your father has always loved you, Edward, just as much as he loves me and your brother. Why don’t you come inside and let him tell you that for himself?”

When Dad next leaves, a couple of days later, off to put in place the final pieces of a puzzle ten years in the making to lead to a confrontation over four hundred years coming, he doesn’t vanish in silence whilst Ed’s asleep. There are hugs on the doorstep and pleas to be careful, and the three of them who remain behind watch him go long after he’s vanished out of sight down the hill.

Ed notes, somewhat ominously, that this time he didn’t promise that he would come back, not like he did to Al the previous two times.

1915

When the Promised Day comes, Ed and Al sit in the kitchen with Mom, watching the sky darken as the umbra begins to creep over.

“Is Dad ok?” Ed doesn’t know exactly how the connection works, none of them do, but right now he’ll take anything he can get in terms of reassurance.

“I think he’s all right for now.” Mom’s hands are shaking around her teacup as she speaks, and it’s that horrible for now that no-one wants to dwell on. Nothing more is said. What else is there to say?

Then everything goes dark, and everything becomes agony. Ed’s lost in a swirling vortex of pain, knowing Mom and Al are within touching distance, sitting at the table with him, but they’re so far away now, and some kind of instinct kicks in.

Dad! Dad! Help me!

Somewhere in the back of his mind, if he even has a mind anymore, Ed hears Dad’s voice speaking a language he’s never heard before but somehow still understands.

Breathe, Edward. Breathe, my little golden one.

He remembers Mom’s words from the day Dad came back to warn them about the Promised Day: You couldn’t breathe.

Breathe, Edward.

He can’t breathe. He can’t do anything. He feels like he’s living and dying at the same time.

“Hold on, Ed. Just a few more seconds. It’ll be all right. You’ll be all right. I promise.”

Dad’s voice is very faint and far away, but it’s clear as day in Ed’s ears and Dad’s never yet broken a promise he’s made to someone else. So Ed holds on, even as he feels like he’s being torn apart, because for all his tumultuous feelings towards his father, he trusts him to keep his promises.

It’s over.

For several minutes, Ed, Al and Mom just stay in the tightest hug there’s ever been, until finally, Ed speaks.

“Dad’s ok. I can feel it.”

Al and Mom smile, and he knows they both know the deeper meaning behind the words.

This time, when Hohenheim returns home to Resembool, it’s Ed and Al who drop everything and run out, taking an arm each before he collapses with sheer exhaustion. He sleeps almost solid for two days, only getting up to stumble to the bathroom or when Trisha forces a cup of tea into him.

She sits on the bed next to him, watching over him like he did when she was sick. He looks like he’s aged about ten years overnight, but she knows he’s all right. She can feel it. In the end, he kept that promise too – they’ll get to grow old together.

There’s a soft creak as the door opens and Ed pokes his head in. There’s a frown line furrowing his brows, and as Trisha beckons him in, there’s a hesitancy in his movements.

“Is everything ok, Ed?”

He nods, and for a long time he just looks at the lump of blankets currently masquerading as his father.

“Mom… When you said you could feel Dad in the back of your mind… Did you ever speak to him?”

“Just once. It was just before he came back to help Al. I was so desperate I was willing to try anything even though I knew that this odd connection wasn’t anything like telepathy. I mean, it must have worked in some respect because he knew that something was wrong enough to come back.”

“Oh.” Ed’s brow is still furrowed, and he comes and sits beside her, sinking onto the mattress slowly.

“What’s wrong?”

“So… he didn’t respond or anything? I mean, Al said he’s tried talking to him loads of times, but it never really worked, and we figured it must be because he’s only had that connection for five years.”

“No. It’s not telepathy, honey, we could never chat to each other. It’s just a feeling.”

“Oh.”

“Ed? What’s up?”

“I spoke to him. When everything went terrible on the Promised Day. I just yelled for Dad, and he replied. I heard him. And that’s never happened for you or Al?”

“No, never.” Trisha smiles. “It took a long time coming, but it looks like the bond you two share is stronger than we ever could have imagined.”

She knows it’s going to take Ed a while to get to grips with this. After years of what could be termed radio silence, suddenly the connection is not only there, it’s deeper than hers and Al’s. She wonders what Hohenheim makes of it, whether it’s just as unexpected for him as it is for Ed. She wonders if he’s always been able to feel that Ed’s all right in the same way he’s been able to feel when she’s not all right.

Trisha puts an arm around her eldest and kisses the top of his head.

“You’ll get there, I promise.”

“Yeah. I guess we probably ought to hope that we don’t need to rely on this weird whatever-it-is in the future.”

Trisha has to agree with that summation. Hopefully, it’s all over now, and they’ll finally be together again and can know in person that they’re all ok.

1920

Trisha worries when Ed and Al head out, leaving home in search of adventures and alchemy in the East.

“They promised they’d come home safe,” Hohenheim reminds her. “And this family always keeps its promises.”

“I know, I know. But I’m their mother, I can’t help it. I worried about you when you were gone, too.”

Hohenheim just smiles. They’ll be all right. He can feel it.

#FMA Brotherhood #Fullmetal Alchemist #FMA Fanfiction #Trisha Elric #Van Hohenheim #HohenheimxTrisha #Edward Elric #Alphonse Elric #Elric Family Feels #Fic: Piece of You

39 notes · View notes

honey-and-strawberry · 4 years ago

Text

Demons (A Glimpse)

An OT7 MX Vampire x Spellcaster AU

Warning (for this piece): smut, swearing, jealousy, blood, marking, semi public, oral (male receiving), rough sex (but protected 👍🏼)

Named OC (May) paired with Wonho (written as Hoseok)

Word count: 1.5k

It’s been five days since my first interaction with these men and I never felt so powerful. I know this vitality ritual was supposed to be intense, but I didn’t expect to feel so...unstoppable.

Stocking the shelves with spellbooks, I skim through titles, hoping to find something on patrons. There’s a book on communicating with devils, no. A book on gifting through the law of nature, no. Come on, there has to be a book. It’s not like I can research this on the internet! My coworker, Derek, notices me distracted and taps on the shelf to get my attention, making me jump.

“Got some demons with you, May?” he casually laughs, unaware of my situation. Don’t get me started. I roll my eyes at the question.

“I wouldn’t say demons, but there are definitely some energies at my place” I mumble, continue stocking.

“Need a cleansing spell? A protection spell?” Derek offers. It’s not that I want to get rid of these...energies. I just need to see if there are resources for patron bonds. I got marked and I need to see how these relationships work.

“No, it’s not that, I want to see what the sacred texts have to say about patron bonds” I sigh.

“I’d be careful with those, once you’re bound, it could be impossible to break it” he warns. Thanks for being five days too late with that information, Derek. I try to reach for the top shelf to restock the spellbooks on conjuring. Derek lifts me by my waist to give me a couple of more inches of height, letting me slip the book between the others. He puts me down and I immediately step away from him. We may be work friends, but I’m not ok with contact like that without asking. The mark in the nape of my neck stings. I’m used to a pinch, but now it’s a sting? What’s different? Wait, where are they? It’s daylight, how could they be out? I’ll go find them and tell them to leave, I’m at work! I look over my shoulder, hoping they’re not right behind me, posing as a customer.

“Could you help me with the crystals, if you have a second?” Derek asks.

“Yes, but first, I’m going to see if there are some books in the back” I nod. I keep my eyes peeled as I go to the back room. They wouldn’t be stupid enough to come to my work. Would they?

I go to the back room, nothing out of the ordinary. This must be a fluke.

The second I’m clear inside the room, the door slams shut and locks simultaneously. The light shuts off, leaving me blind. A hand grabs my wrist and pulls me further into the room. I’m dragged to sit down on a chest that I assume holds charms. Out of fear, I breathe a spell of telekinesis to flick the lights back on. It’s Hoseok?! He’s alone? And he looks...pissed. He stands before me, arms crossed, huffing. I never saw him mad before, but I’d be a liar if I said this didn’t make him look ten times more attractive. His pecks are looking extra perky today. There’s a little pout in his mouth. His eyes say disappointed, but his lips say whiny.

“What are you doing here?” I bark for answers, crossing my legs.

“I came here to see you” Hoseok rolls his eyes. “And it seems like you already have someone grabbing your attention”. Oh my goodness, is he jealous of Derek? Gross.

“You mean my coworker?” I scoff. He tightens the grip around his waist. Ew, he is jealous.

“It’s cute that you’re jealous, but I’m at work” I giggle. He gasps.

“I’m not jealous” he exclaims. Oh? You’re not jealous? Let’s see about that.

“You didn’t like how he lifted me, did you?” I tease. Hoseok deeply inhales. I stand up, putting my hands on his strong shoulders covered by a loose t-shirt. One touch and I’m already shivering for more. The last time I put my hands on his shoulders like this, he’s railing me in the shower. He doesn’t even have to touch me and I’m weak for him.

“You didn’t like that he touched me?” I baby talk, pouting my lip for emphasis. He licks the tip of his fangs, keeping full eye contact. I take my finger and outline his plump lips. He’s cold to the touch, but it cools my boiling hot skin. Standing on my tippy-toes, I try to get closer to eye level with him.

“You know I’m yours” I whisper. I kiss his cheek as I purposely prick my finger on a fang. A drop of blood falls onto his bottom lip. The pupils of his eyes slowly dilate. He’s almost as easy as I am.

“Fuck” he murmurs.

“Take what’s yours” I whisper in his ear. He came here for me, right? Why would I disappoint him? A devilish thought springs in my head. I know how to make his visit worthwhile.

“Sit down” I seductively breathe. I guide him to the chest. He looks up at me in awe, amused by me taking control.

I get on my knees, pulling his tight jeans to his knees. His cock is already hard, suffocating in his boxer briefs. A condom falls from his jeans pocket. I look up at him, a single eyebrow arched.

“You must have been really hungry if you thought coming to my work was a smart idea” I chuckle.

“I-I” Hoseok attempts an explanation. I free his cock from his underwear, pumping a couple of times, some precum already dripping. He’s already moaning. I squeeze my finger that got pricked to bleed.

“Suck my finger” I direct, rubbing some blood on his tongue. The second his lips wrap around my finger, I bob down to take his tip into my mouth. Teasing with my tongue, I lightly kiss his tip. His thighs flex from the contact, his eyes shut closed, hands grabbing the corners of the chest. I take my hand off his shaft and rub his thigh to relax. He sucks generously as I glide my tongue along his length. He’s holding back, I know he can do more. Now that I lubed his cock with my tongue, I take all of him. He’s definitely one of the girthiest of the group, next to Jooheon. He bites down on my finger when my lips touch the base. There he is. My tongue rubs the underside of his cock as I lift my head, till his tip is at my lips. I get a rhythm bobbing my head, the faster I go, the harder he sucks my finger. The wetter my mouth, the more he moans. His breathing is getting heavier and heavier. I can’t have him cum yet, I want him to stay hard! I pull away from his cock, unleashing a whiny Hoseok I never seen before.

“Fuck me” I growl, grabbing the condom from the floor. Taking my finger back is going to be impossible. He pulls me up and strips me out of my jeans and panties, I kick the clothing aside. Taking the condom from me, he wraps himself so the finger could stay in his mouth. Hugging me in his arms, he does a swift smack on my ass, making me pleasantly yelp. I mount his lap, positioning myself over him. He hums something indescribable. Hands holding my ass, he lifts me and takes us to the door. The first thrust makes me feel the rush of adrenaline I was waiting for. I let out a moan deep from my diaphragm. Spitting out my finger, Hoseok latches onto my neck, no warning before biting. He’s feeling the adrenaline too. With each powerful thrust, I can feel my muscles get stronger. The sounds of wet skin slapping and mouth slurping fills the room, I don’t even care if my coworkers could hear it. He’s getting sloppy in drinking, I can feel a streak going down underneath my shirt. His hands shift to my hips, digging his nails, nearly puncturing skin. He slams me down as he thrusts upward, hitting me harder than I’m used to. I love it, but I need to be careful in case he goes feral. No one is here to save me if he does.

“Fuck, Hoseok” I scream. I’m close and he knows it, I usually cum pretty quick with him. His pace quickens, but keeps the same intensity.

“Please let me cum” I whine to myself. His chuckling tickles my neck. One of his hands reaches over to my clit and rubs vigorous circles with his thumb. I come undone, letting out a whale of a moan. My skin tingles, feeling like glitter sparkles. He’s not done, no no. I stopped him from cumming before, he’s going to make me regret it. He hammers into me, making me ache from the slam. That man is not going to let me walk, is he. One more mighty thrust and he holds me still. A little mewl escapes his mouth before he unlatches from my neck.

“Y-you” he pants. I softly shush him so he can catch his breath, his head nuzzling my chest. From his mouth to all the way down his neck is covered in my blood. It’s a little worrisome knowing he drank so much, he wasn’t so gluttonous before.

“I’m sorry I was jealous, baby” Hoseok breaths. “I didn’t want some guy to have a taste”.

(Edit courtesy of @uh0paque)

#monsta x #monsta x smut #monsta x scenarios #monsta x imagines #monsta x wonho #wonho #vamp mx agenda #monsta x fanfic #kpop smut #kpop fanfic

52 notes · View notes

writing-the-end · 4 years ago

Text

LoL Chapter 50- To the East

Masterpost

A Wizard Hermits tale (AU, designs, ideas belongs to @theguardiansofredland)

A dragon spirit, guardians and attendants to the gods, is in peril. When a few hermits and the wanderers go to face the trouble, they’re not the only ones fighting against dark magic.

_______________________________________________

Not all of the hermits could afford to leave Doc behind, nor could they all make the trip in time. Avon’s insistent they leave now. She was about ready to transform into her dragon form and carry the wanderers to the eastern fjords. It was Ren that was able to calm her down just enough to think. In the end, they decided less is more. Avon doesn’t know what has her on edge, but she knows it’s not good.

“My mentor, Flaryn, I… I have a really bad feeling.” Avon paces the floor.

“Your mentor, like the dragon?” Mumbo squeaks, already feeling faint as he remembers facing Avon in the duel. What could possibly be causing a massive dragon trouble?

As soon as Cub opens a portal, the wanderers are the first through. Following them is Iskall, already brandishing a spear of iskallium. Ren volunteers as well, offering up his dynamic, versatile magic. Three hermits, plus the three wanderers, set off through the portal, from the dark wooden bookstore to the verdant evergreen forests around the eastern fjords. Arriving beneath the pine canopy, someone was already waiting for them.

“I got your message,” The long, ebony black haired sorceress reaches out, taking hold of Red’s hands and holding him close. Prolonged, pointy ears rise from the black curls like rocks from the sea, and deep purple eyes gaze upon the small group. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know, Selene.” Avon growls, brushing past everyone present. Her eyes wander across the tall mountains, covered in snow as they slope to the waters below. “Things just feel...disturbed. Out of balance, like a rockfall about to collapse.”

“You called your master Flaryn, correct?” Cub questions, boots crunching heavy in the snow. Ren realizes he’s wearing sandals, and uses his imagination magic to conjure up a pair of boots. “You don’t mean to tell us that the dragon you learned your magic from is a dragon spirit? Flaryn, dragon of the east, guardian of balance, master of flame?”

“Why does a dragon need that many surnames?” Iskall huffs. Cub’s eyes only widen when Avon gives a curt nod. Cub has gotten used to his fellow hermits being from incredible or strange backgrounds, but to master a magic from the very spirits that aid the gods?

“Well, go big or go home, I guess.” Cub chuckles. “So...if something really is wrong, why don’t we go to Flaryn’s roost and check for ourselves?”

“Because Flaryn lives at the top of that mountain,” Selene, now carrying Red through the snow as tall as the kipling, interjects. “And that isn’t just a mountain. That’s a fucking active volcano.”

As if to prove her point, a low growl escapes the peak of the mountain, and smoke roils free like the maws of a dragon. And within the smoke, a massive shadow, wings outstretched, appears. Bigger than Avon’s dragon form, so big that even this far away the hermits can tell it’s great size. This was a dragon above dragons, a beast that could bend nature to it’s whim.

And it was under attack. The dragon banks hard within the smoke, dancing with embers and tendrils of flames as lava erupts from the mountain peak. From the bottom of the mountain, the hermits can’t tell who is attacking, though they can make an educated guess on who would possibly have that much hubris to take on a messenger of the gods.

If it wasn’t Dolios, then surely it was one of his council members. A roar shakes the ground at their feet, sending snow tumbling from trees. Selene uses her magic to create a shield, brushing aside the snow like it was little more than a gnat. Shield magic must be her power. Avon takes point, guiding the team up the mountain to the peak. Where she learned to control her magic. A battle continues at the caldera, fire blazing from the mouth of Flaryn and strikes of magic shooting from the ground.

A wayward breath of fire misses the combatant, orange flame burning down the mountain. Barreling for the team. Avon opens her wings to block the flame, but is little more than raising a hand to stop an avalanche. Iskall squeezes his eyes closed and waits to be burnt to a crisp by the superhot flame.

It never comes. He waits a second longer, still braced and prepared for death. Still nothing. Iskall dares to open his eye, about to ask where his untimely death has gone. He finds it, instead, under the control of Selene. She’s ensnared the fire, dancing with the stream like it was little more than a ribbon of silk. When she’s gained full control of the flame, she turns it back up the mountain, aimed directly at the distance figure they’re approaching.

Iskall blinks, stunned and confused. “I thought you were a shield wizard. Are you a multi-mage as well?”

Avon doesn’t stop, leaving the others to follow. “I’m not a multi-mage, but I can do multiple forms of magic.”

“How so?” That’s impossible. Most wizards only have one form of magic, as unique as their personalities. Multi-mages were an exception, as if the gods themselves couldn’t decide what magic the wizard would excel with.

“Ever heard of a learned mage?” Red questions, falling into the snow and clambering through. It’s as high as his chest. When all three hermits shake their heads, he continues. “Learned wizards are born without magic, but with enough time and dedicated study are able to gain the understanding of powers and use it themselves.”

“I had no innate magic. But I didn’t let that stop me. I’ve since learned more than twenty varieties of magic, and can perform them as well as wizards born with it.” Selene looks over her shoulder, a coy grin appearing on her face when she sees the stunned expression on the hermits’.

Ren opens his mouth to ask a question, but the words that rise from his throat are lost to the wind, the thunder of the dragon above. It wasn’t an angered roar, not like those before, when Flaryn fought the intruder. Rather, it was more of a cry, higher pitched, sharper. Grating against their ears. Alarmed, Avon takes off, leaving the rest behind to join her mentor in the sky. Her trident is already in hand, flame erupting in a blossom of purple.

The distant figure turns, curly brown hair falling across his blue capelet, a scowl creasing the charismatic expression. “And i thought you’d be too busy handling your criminal friend to get in my way.” Dolios sneers. He attempts to blast Avon out of the sky, but the draconic mage dodges in the nick of time. “You flying lizards have always been such a pain, but imagine the honor of being the person to slay a dragon spirit.”

“You’ll have to go through us first.” Avon hisses, then attacks. Dolios casts his wisping magic circle, corrupted by his dark magic. Just as unstable as the man that controls it. A heavy wind picks up, snapping the tops off trees and tossing Avon aside like she was little more than a leaf. With her out of the way, Dolios turns back to Flaryn. Another circle, this time summoning a swarm of wasps. The mottled monstrosities swarm the dragon, stinging and paralyzing the spirit. Forcing Flayrn to land as wings become overwhelmingly heavy.

Iskall lets out a war cry, and plows through the deep snow, to the peak of the mountain. He shoves his shoulder, all his weight into Dolios. The two both go sprawling against the ground. Iskall can feel the heat of the erupting volcano, burning at his cheeks in waves of intense heat.

“I think it’s time for you to meet your doom, you mega bastard.” Iskall growls, wrestling the magistrate. Dolios isn’t very strong, it turns out, all his attention focused on keeping Iskall from throwing him into the lake of lava.

“Do you know any other adjectives except ‘mega’ and ‘doom’, or are you just too dense to learn a thesaurus?” Dolios hums. His words spark an angry fire in Iskall, frenzying him.

Exactly how Dolios wanted it. With a swift repertoire of hand movements, Dolios casts his dark magic, and grabs hold of Iskall’s arm. Fingernails puncture under Iskall’s pale, exposed skin. Like venom from a wyrmbite, poison seeps under his skin, sending Iskall writhing backwards in pain.

Red catches Iskall before he falls all the way down the volcano, while Selene casts not one, or two, but three different spells at once. Despite the uncertain predicament Dolios finds himself in, he’s more interested in the magic that’s trapped him rather than the fight. Through all of this, his nonchalant, charismatic smile never leaves, and never fails to infuriate the hermits. “It seems we have something in common here. Though one of us definitely chose the harder route.”

“We are nothing alike, you asshole.” Selene hisses, reeling back and casting her magic. In the split second between the spell being summoned and taking effect, Dolios uses his own spell.. A concussive blast, just like he used in the chess match so long ago, sending the hermits and wanderers tumbling down through the snow. The mountain rumbles, snow shifting and threatening to collapse into an avalanche. To sweet away the rescue team.

“Well, at least now I have an audience to witness the beginning of a new sport.” Dolios rights himself, brushing the snow from his robes and turning back to the wasp covered, incapacitated dragon. “Dragons are so dangerous, only the strongest, bravest mages would dare slay a dragon. Think of the honor to be in such an exclusive group.”

“Fucker!” Avon shouts, launching herself free from the snow, unleashing every once of her magic, as well as her trident, against Dolios. But he bats it away, and grabs the draconic mage from midair, hands wrapped around a wing and tipping her towards the explosive volcano below.

“Well, if none of you are going to be a gracious audience, why not become willing participants as well? I may not have gotten the joy of seeing that criminal burn before my eyes. But I will relish in wiping you all from existence, right alongside this monster.” Dolios’s gaze turns wild, frenzied as he raises an arm. The sleeve of his robes falls back, wine red fabric and trimmed gold seams fleeing from the swirling black mist. The power of his dark magic grows stronger, more violent. Even from this far away, the hermits can feel the deadly, life draining energy that he harnesses.

Dolios lines up the shot, so that every last hermit, every single wanderer, and eastern fire dragon is in the line of fire. A maniacal smile grows on his face, thirst for death and the feeling of pure control and power overwhelming him. The angled fingers turn, ready to snap together and release enough dark magic to destroy every living being in the line of fire. His thumb rests on his middle finger, pressing down.

Then his eyes roll backwards, hand and body falling limp into the melting snow. None of the hermits, the wanderers, even Flaryn breathe for a second, realizing that Dolios is passed out. Not dead, unfortunately. But how? Did he overexert his dark magic?

Another person is on the crest of the volcano. Long blue hair, straight and flat as if it had been slept on. Mostly because it was. Tired, bored eyes sparked with a hint of determination, and finned ears flick aside the pyroclastic ash from the eruption. His chest rises and falls, body exhausted from overusing his magic.

“You don’t have much time.” Apatia breathes, body slumped. About to pass out as well. “I did as much as I could to keep him knocked out as long as possible, but his mgic took the brunt of my own. You leave, I’ll make sure the dragon spirit is okay.”

The councilmember steps forward, offering a hand to the hermits. Ecto recoils, preferring to sink deeper into the snow she hates than be anywhere near Apatia. “Why should we trust you? You’re a part of his crony gang. You’ve been letting him, helping him do horrible things!”

Apatia’s shoulders slump, and he looks as exhausted mentally as he is physically. “I don’t have time to explain everything. He’s going to wake up soon, and he won't fall for that trick again. Let’s just say I… I’m tired of just letting bad things happen to good people.”

Red’s the first up, the two kiplings looking at one another. Apatia offers a soft nod, some unspoken conversation between the two. Avon does her best to ease the pain and help her mentor from the wasp attack, while Cub opens a portal.

“Can’t we just drop him into the volcano?” Ren questions. “This could finally all be over.”

“It won’t stop his work, not with Eurynomos in the forest. Waiting.” The hermits glance at one another. Eurynomos. Is that the name of the beast they found? “Just...send him back to Milliara. We can’t have people wondering what’s happened to their beloved magistrate as well.”

“Just one stab?” Avon questions, still furious he called her a monster. “He deserves more than what we’re letting him off with.”

To Cub’s chagrin, he knows that Apatia is right. As much as he’d love to finish Dolios off now, to get this over with, nothing is ever that easy. Once Dolios is gone, there team of rescuers step through their own portal. The wanderers first, and the hermits following after.

Iskall steps through last, but turns while he’s in between places. Looking at the councilmember. Apatia looks back, exhausted. “Know that you hermits aren’t alone. This is your fight, but you have others on your side now too.”

#hermitcraft #hermitcraft au #hermitcraft fanfic #light of lairyon #wizard au #lol #also im a bit tipsy sooooooooooo #if there's spelling issues its cause i cant tell rn #wizard ren #wizard cub #wizard iskall #iskall85 #cubfan135 #rendog

20 notes · View notes

3pirouette · 4 years ago

Text

Fic: She Wanted (1/1)

Title: She Wanted By: TriplePirouette/3Pirouette Spoilers: CA: TFA Disclaimer: They're not mine. Word Count: 3100 Distribution: AO3 Anyone else please ask first :)

Story Summary: Peggy wants to eat Skinny Steve alive.

Chapter A/N: Written for Steggy bingo Bash Prompt “Oral Sex” This is explicit and graphic. No fade to black stuff here. Strictly for adults. If you are not an adult, I highly suggest you skip this particular piece of fiction. ADULTS ONLY. Also, if you are not an adult who enjoys explicit sex acts, please ALSO skip this.

This is filthy. And also the prompt comes back around, I promise, it just takes a while. I’m sorry… or you’re welcome. I’m not sure which applies.

~*~ There were two things Peggy had heard about herself floating around Camp Lehigh.

The first was that she was a prude. Regarding this, she never felt the need to correct people, and it had never come up in her presence, so she didn’t pay that one much mind.

The second was that her particular shade of red lipstick would look beautiful with her lips wrapped around the base of a soldier’s cock, gagging it down. Now this, Peggy couldn’t much argue with. She did, in part, pick her particular color because she thought it made her lips look sinfully good. It made her feel desirable and powerful in a way that had nothing to do with the men around her and everything to do with how she felt when she wore it. If the red did just happen to turn heads, that was a positive side effect. The part about gagging down cocks she could take or leave.

Oral sex never held much of a draw for her. Her experiences, giving and receiving, had been largely underwhelming when compared with actual sex and hand jobs. She thought many of the solders would be scandalized to learn that Agent Peggy Carter, strait-laced Marge, had not only slept with her fiancé before they’d been engaged, but had been quite the experimental teenager.

She’d overheard a comment or two here and there, seen the men adjust themselves as she walked by, but it never fazed her. She was here for a job, a reason, and the meatheads she trained weren’t worth her time or energy.

They could imagine her gagging on their cocks all they liked, it didn’t mean their little fantasy would ever become a reality.

The soldiers at the camp never held her interest. She could appreciate a well sculpted body and wonder what they looked like under their uniform, or imagine how strong arms might hold her up against the brick wall out behind the mess, but her own fantasies were just that: fantasies, and they often vanished once she managed to actually have a conversation with the man in question. If they could jerk off to her lips in the showers, she could damn well slip her fingers between her legs and think about them fucking her from behind under cover of the munitions building.

She had needs, and getting them met in wartime often meant she handled things herself. It was quick and efficient, and had the lovely attached perk of not getting her in trouble for fraternization. If a private starred in a fantasy here and there, it made no difference.

Until Steve Rogers.

Until she found herself eager to get back to her bunk every night just so she could let her imagination run wild as she slipped her fingers into her slick heat.

The first time his face popped up in her mind she was surprised. So surprised, in fact, that she slowed her fingers to a stop, biting her lip and wondering where that had come from. All she could think of was his smile: his charming little smile, and without her notice her fingers began moving again, sliding against her lips and clit, teasing as she thought about his impossibly blue eyes and the way he smiled.

She came, hard, and spent the rest of the night staring at the ceiling, wondering what had happened.

The next night she tried to fit him into her favorite fantasy: a clandestine meeting behind the munitions building, soft touches of the hands before he pushed her up against the brick wall, thrusting his tongue into her mouth. She tried to imagine him lifting her from her feet, and dissolved into a pool of giggles, thinking that she’d break the poor boy in half if she tried that with him. He was sweet and adorable, and his intense gaze made her nipples hard when he looked at her, but Peggy knew that he wasn’t strong enough to hoist her up anywhere, at any time.

The next day she tried not to think of those thoughts as she ran the group of men through calisthenics, but she couldn’t help take a peek at his ass when she walked behind them, couldn’t help but look at the crotch of his trousers as he stood at attention.

She wanted to make his cock stand at attention.

The thought hit her from left field and left her clit throbbing. She crossed her legs, hoping to relieve the painful tingle as blood rushed south, her mind conjuring up visions of what might lay under his baggy pants as she cued them to the next exercise.

Was it thick and short, like Fred’s had been?

Long and thin, like her high school boyfriend?

She’d had a one-night stand with a chap just before she’d met Fred, and his cock curved, long and thick and heavy in her hand.

Peggy couldn’t help but lick her lips, her mouth suddenly dry as her brain wondered if he was circumcised, and how he’d feel in her hand as she pumped him to completion across her chest.

They were on their backs now, Steve trying and failing horribly to complete sit ups. She imagined stepping over, sitting across his hips, and grinding on him like a teenager. She thanked god for the thick army issue clothes as she felt her panties soak through at the thought of taking him, then and there. Sinking down on his dick, long but thin she’d decided, rocking back and forth with her hands on his chest, rubbing herself on him, his dick inside her, his little breathy moans under her.

The whole garrison watching.

Those damn meatheads who joked about her being a prude being shown they were wrong, the ones who wanted her to choke on their dicks jealous that she picked Steve. That she chose Steve.

The image left her breathless, and wanting. It didn’t help that all she could hear were Steve’s little grunts as they flipped and moved on to push-ups. His breathless sounds were exactly how she imagined he’d sound under her.

Peggy wanted to make him breathless. She wanted to make him moan. She wanted to take his cock in her mouth and leave a ring of a red lipstick in the curls at the base.

From then on, he was her favorite nighttime subject.

Her usual fantasies had to be thrown out the window. He couldn’t lift her, couldn’t hold her down with his weight. But she did like to imagine him being forceful: ordering her to slide off her panties from under her uniform and sliding his thin, beautiful fingers up inside her. She liked to imagine him taking her in missionary, something she rarely fantasized about, because she liked the idea of wrapping herself around him, of feeling his whole body pressed up against hers and his full body weight pressing down on her when he’s finished. She imagined he undresses her slow, takes his time. She imagined he would take her with his mouth, slowly and carefully, raking his fingers over her thighs and through her curls, nipping and biting and finding out what she liked before covering every inch with his tongue. Swirling and sucking, his big, blue eyes looking up at her as she played with her own nipples, a slim finger, then two entering her, curling up, pumping in and out, his inquisitive mind trying things and learning quick until she was panting under him.

That was her favorite fantasy.

Her brain told her that he’d be shy about his body, his thin frame and his hip bones sticking out.

It made her want to lick every inch of him all the more.

The day he got the flag down was the day she decided she’ll have him, one way or another. The way he smiled at her from the back of the jeep sent shivers down her spine and to her clit. She rode back with her legs crossed, cursing and loving each and every bump in the road.

When she saw him dive on the grenade, intent on saving them all, selfless and sure, she was done for. She came hard that night, biting her pillow to keep from screaming his name as her fingers worked her sensitive flesh furiously.

She knew Phillips was against picking him, and that worked well for her plans. If he was discharged, she could ask him out. She could take him back to the little apartment off base that some of the girls shared to get some time away, she could lick him from ear to ankle and ride him until he came on the threadbare sofa. When they discharged him, she could have her way with that man and his gorgeous little smirks, his can-do attitude, and his persistence.

Then they picked him.

She barely had three days before he would be undergoing the procedure.

Erskine had, very clearly, told everyone involved that there was a chance of death, and yet they’d all signed up.

He’d signed up.

She lay in bed the night they chose him, hand sitting between her legs but unmoving. She felt no joy thinking that he might have only days to live. That she’d never be able to kiss the cocky smile off his lips or slip her hands in his pants to cup his balls and hear him squeak and moan in surprise pleasure.

She took her hand from her panties and brought her thumbnail to her teeth, worrying it as she stared at the ceiling.

A fitful sleep, and a long day of planning for the procedure, left her frustrated and tired the next night. She knew if she could get off she’d feel better, sleep better, but the worry was still there. She worried that her Steve, somewhere along the way she’d come to think of him as her Steve, would be hurt or lost in the experiment.

She closed her eyes and slipped her hand under the blanket, letting her fingers rest there, her other hand drifting over her breast. She tried to call up all sorts of fantasies, with and without Steve, but none of them worked. She tried one last time, taking a deep breath and letting the fantasy haze over her.

She shows up in his barracks in her robe and nothing else. He is the only one there. She gets on her knees and starts to unbuckle his belt, followed by his pants. He stutters, telling her she doesn’t have to, that he can’t ask her to do that. She smiles, bright red lipstick fresh on her lips, and cups him through the fabric. He moans and his objections are lost. She slides his pants down skinny legs. The thin, blonde hair is sparse, and she runs her nails through it, making him shiver. He’s throbbing, more than half hard. She stands, taking his shirt off and tossing it aside. She licks her lips before sucking a tiny, pink nipple in her mouth, her hand going to his cock as she feels it bobbing against her thigh. She pumps over him gently, slipping his nipple through her teeth before taking the other, her strokes getting more insistent. She kneels, and in one motion takes him in her mouth. She moves back and forth, one hand at his base, the other gently cradling his balls, and he moans. She makes him breathless as she swirls her tongue over the head, tickling that spot just under the tip that she knows is so, so sensitive before taking him as deep as she can go again. Over and over she repeats it, keeping a slow and steady pace. She starts to squeeze him at the base tighter, her hands more insistent as she moves quicker, sucking harder, letting her tongue press against him from base to tip over and over again, finally sucking at just the head until he grabs her shoulders, a stuttered warning coming from the back of his throat just before he comes, spilling his warmth in her mouth and down the back of her throat, over her chin and trickling down to her chest as she lets him fall from her lips.

Peggy came hard, her walls spasming against her fingers, her hand tight on the mound of her breast as she tried to keep from crying out, teeth biting herd into her lip.

She tried to force her ragged breathing to slow. She was shaking, and knew this would not help her sleeping problem.

She wanted to get up and go right then, her heart pounding in her chest and the adrenaline in her system made her brave. She wanted to undress him and let her red nails roll over his ribs, each and every skinny, exposed rib. She wanted to kiss his hip bones and press him back into bed. She wanted to see his face when she sat over him, naked. She wanted to know what it felt like for those fingers to pinch at her nipples, what it would feel like for him to pull and twist and suck on them as she rode him hard. She wanted to know if the sounds he made in basic, the grunts and moans and sighs, are the same sounds he’d make if she took him in her mouth and in her pussy.

Before she could lose her nerve she got up, wiping her fingers on her slip and throwing on the uniform she’d laid out for tomorrow. She pulled her pins out in a hurry and only bothered with eye liner and the red lipstick. Her boots took so long to tie she nearly changed her mind.

She was moving before she could stop herself, and found herself at his barracks, now alone that he’s been picked for the project, far quicker than she imagined.

She stood, staring at the door, fists clenching and unclenching, when the door opened.

Steve startled when he saw her there. “Agent Carter?”

She set her shoulders, determined and far calmer than she felt inside. “May I come in?”

He opened the door wide, even though it was late and dark and if they were caught it could be curtains for both of them. He was far too polite to tell a superior office she couldn’t join him. She could see by the way he squared his shoulders he expects her visit will be about the project, something serious.

Well, this was serious, but in a far different way.

“How can I help you?” He asked in his trousers, undershirt, and stocking feet. His bed was mussed, like he’d just been in and hopped out.

“I’m here on… on a private matter,” she said softly. Peggy licked her lips out of nervousness and couldn’t help but feel a thrill when his eyes dipped down at them.

“Oh?” he asked gently, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Yes,” she continued, trying to smile. “Quite unofficial, actually.” She turned away from him, hands fidgeting as she paced. She found she was much more nervous now with his bright blue eyes boring into her. “So unofficial that it could get me sacked, really.”

Steve tipped his head in confusion. “Agent—”

“Peggy, please,’ she corrected him, turning to look in his eyes. “I quite like you,” she blurted out.

His eyes grew wide, his shoulders pulling back in surprise. “You?”

“Yes. Is that so unbelievable?”

“Well, I mean a dame, no a girl- a woman like yourself,” he corrected himself, stuttering over and over again, and she felt a buzzing between her legs as a blush crept up his cheeks. “I’m just…”

“You’re just kind of wonderful, I think,” she filled in, moving closer. “And I needed you to know that before all of this continues.”

He smiled at her, radient. “That’s... I… I’m sweet on you, too.”

His confession warmed her from the inside out, emboldened her. “Then, perhaps, you’ll indulge me?”

He chuckled, and she thought maybe this was the most endearing she’d ever seen him. “I’m inclined to do anything you want right now,” he answered, somehow making it both flirty and a little self-deprecating.

“Oh, don’t say that yet,” she warned in a low, soft voice.

“Is this the part that could get you sacked?”

She smiled. “If we do it right.”

~*~

She spent that night in his bed, learning that he was respectably both average and thick, heavy in her hand but he prefers her mouth and she was happy to indulge. When he slipped inside her he felt like heaven and having his full body weight on hers when he finished felt like the best thing she’s ever known. He was unpracticed, and they fumbled more often than not, but when she came to him the second night things flowed smoother. He licked at her nipples like a dying man scouring the dessert for water, making her writhe under him. His eyes grew wide as saucers, watching her breasts bounce in the moonlight over him as she rode him. He watched her orgasm twice under his fingers, learning quickly where and how she liked to be touched.

She was shaking, from the thrill and the fear, as she left him that next morning to get changed, only to meet him at the front gate, ready to escort him to Howard’s laboratory.

Her heart pounded as she watched him in the pod, as she listened to him scream in a way she’s never heard and hopes to never hear again.

When he stepped out, she couldn’t help herself. She needed to touch him, needed to feel him under her fingers, needed to know he was alive and still the skinny, adorable man she’d fallen in love with.

She remembered herself, her station, and their location, before she managed to make a total fool of herself.

Her heart pounded in a different way now. His fingers were still long and thin but stronger and thicker, his chest was so broad she could curl up on it and stay there for days. His thighs and legs, his arms, every piece of him was stronger and larger and she felt conflicted as all of the blood in her brain started to rush south. She was already mourning the loss of his thin touch, the exposed ribs, the bumps of his spine under her fingers.

But she looked him over again, and knew that her fantasy about getting lifted in his arms and taken hard and fast against the brick wall behind the munitions tent was absolutely a real possibility now.

#Steggy Fic #Steggybingobash #3P's Fic

22 notes · View notes

anistarrose · 4 years ago

Link

Chapter Summary: Why has Kravitz gone unresponsive on all channels? What have Barry and Noelle been planning? Who, if anyone, is left on Taako’s list of people to be trusted? Find out the answers to all these questions and more, right now on Fear The Reaper A Lot, Actually!

Characters: Kravitz, Taako, Barry Bluejeans, Angus McDonald, Magnus Burnsides, Merle Highchurch, Noelle | No-3113, The Raven Queen, The Director | Lucretia, misc. BoB cameos, Julia Burnsides, Garyl

Relationships: Taakitz, Angus McDonald & Taako, Barry Bluejeans & Kravitz, Kravitz & Angus McDonald

(chanting) ghost fight ghost fight ghost fight

***

Kravitz landed ankle-deep in an underground lake, scarcely twenty feet away from the red-robed figure on the shore. Barry’s head was turned, and he gave no sign of noticing Kravitz’s arrival, but it was clear where his focus was directed — a small mob of six freshly animated undead, occupying the full spectrum between zombie and skeleton.

Wasting no time, Kravitz threw himself at the lich, scythe blazing to life with a silent radiance.

Barry had really snapped, if he was out here raising the dead without any wards to hide himself. Even without the summons, this stunt could’ve appeared as a beacon on Kravitz’s radar at any moment, and that wasn’t at all like the Barry he’d known —

Heeding to his nagging suspicions, Kravitz slowed his pace — but Barry still didn’t move, and Kravitz felt his reluctant scythe slice through illusory red cloth, then tangible rotting flesh and brittle bone.

Fuck.

Leaping back from the disguised zombie, he decorporealized as fast as he could — just in time to withstand a light that felt blinding even to his undead senses, burning even to his formless soul. When the sunbursts faded and he returned to his reaper form, dazed, he barely glimpsed a robotic silhouette duck behind a rock formation on the other side of the lake, revealed only by her still-glowing cannon arm.

“Noelle, you backstabber!” Waves of magical force whipped off Kravitz’s scythe, hurtling across the cave and towards her hiding place. “I was rooting for you —”

Jagged spires of ice burst out from the lake, intact for less than a second before intercepting the force wave, and the two spells neutralized each other with an explosion of roaring wind and frozen shrapnel. Before Kravitz could attack again, a skeleton’s clawlike fingers dug deep into his right shoulder, and he launched himself into the air with a flick of his cloak to shake the attacker loose.

But before he could reach his intended altitude, a few yards short of the stalactite-dotted ceiling, something pulled him to a stop — not a bony hand at his shoulder this time, but a fuzzy constricting sensation around his scythe-bearing arm. When he looked down, he saw a web of tangled red threads, impossibly thin yet ensnaring him from wrist to mid-biceps — and every single one of them led back to Barry Bluejeans.

When Kravitz saw the real Barry, floating a few feet above the undead horde on the lake’s near shore, he couldn’t believe he’d fallen for the disguised zombie. This Barry was glowing with power, with desperation, with determination — but his form remained as composed and his expression as unreadable as ever. The only exception was his own right arm, around which his robe had unravelled up to the elbow — not just exposing smoke-black bones, but freeing the threads of that sleeve to go on the offensive, humming with an intensity that made Kravitz’s own bones shake as he tried, unsuccessfully, to decorporealize and escape.

He’d never seen anything like it before — but then again, he’d also never seen Barry come after him, instead of the inverse, and wasn’t that an equally urgent and terrifying mystery to unravel?

“Why, Barry?!” Kravitz shouted. “Why now?!”

Barry narrowed his eyes, and with a flick of a spectral hand, hurtled Kravitz down towards the rocky shore. Channeling another force blast through his free limbs, Kravitz flung himself to the right, but his downward momentum stayed with him, and he plunged into the lake with enough momentum that he hit the bottom with a sickening crunch.

You can give up any time. Barry’s voice echoed inside his head as electricity coursed through the threads, sending both Kravitz’s mind and body reeling. But I never will.

I’m sure you’re right that you won’t give up, Kravitz thought back with all the determination he could muster, still submerged in the lake, but like it or not, that’s one thing we’ve got in common.

Fighting through what must’ve been a potent paralysis spell, he summoned his scythe into his unrestricted hand and swung it at the threads, expecting to slice cleanly through most of them — but his blade was met with a fierce resistance, and though sparks of red and blue magic exploded from the point of contact, he didn’t feel a single thread snap.

He did feel Barry recoil, letting out a psychic scream that would’ve haunted a mortal for months, and drawing the threads back into his robe to let Kravitz free — which would be cause for celebration, if only it wasn’t supposed to be impossible. No part of a lich’s essence should withstand a reaper’s most sacred weapon — it was simply the way the world worked, the way the world was supposed to work.

Barry was stunned and convulsing, true — but the undead that Kravitz knew didn’t go through death throes, either, and Kravitz could only assume that the being he once would’ve called a lich was on the verge of recollecting himself.

What is Barry made of? What is he, and what happens if I try to reap a whole robe’s worth of those threads? Can I even reap him? Do I have any chance of winning this fight?

“Mister Bluejeans!” Noelle shouted from behind some stalagmite, but she was rapidly descending on the list of Kravitz’s top concerns.

As he burst to the surface, seeing Barry regain his composure, Kravitz began to chant as quickly as he could, offering a prayer to the Raven Queen and infusing the water of the lake with her power. When Barry’s eyes — gleaming white within a faint halo of blue — fixated on him again, Kravitz was ready, and he tore open a rift from the bottom of the lake to a point just above Barry’s head.

The ensuing deluge passed straight through Barry’s lich form with the telltale hiss of celestial magic burning away at an undead soul, and Kravitz allowed himself a relieved grin as Barry vanished into the waterfall. No matter how resistant Barry was to his scythe, there were always at least a few tricks that could hurt any lich under Faerun’s sun —

Then the crimson silhouette within the waterfall raised a hand, and the sapphire-blue edges of Kravitz’s portal turned an ashen gray as the rift shriveled and closed with a pop. Barry emerged from the water with hardly a shudder, wisps of magical steam rising off a red robe that was otherwise no worse for wear.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” said Barry, sounding genuinely apologetic, “but I spent the last few cycles building up an immunity to holy water.”

He extended his hands, firing a bolt of necrotic energy from each of his ten fingertips, but Kravitz twirled his scythe with a flick of his hand, reforming it as a shield emblazoned with swooping raven wings. Each bolt ricocheted off it in a different direction, and Barry clenched his hands into fists, channeling the spell’s residual energy into two spheres of consolidated dark magic. He hurled them in mirror-image arcs, both circling back towards Kravitz from behind —

With another flick of Kravitz’s wrist, his shield became two identical lightweight scythes, each intercepting a different sphere before the whirlwind of blades propelled Kravitz towards the ceiling, equal with Barry’s altitude. Expecting Barry to flee, but not about to risk an opening going to waste, Kravitz charged — but Barry snapped his fingers, and two discarded femurs from the bottom of the lake flew to his side, transforming into a pair of crimson scimitars and crossing to catch the blade of Kravitz’s first scythe.

The blow from the second scythe was more precise, and sent the scimitars hurtling across the cave, but Barry clapped his hands together, and they flew back to his defense, exchanging a flurry of increasingly rapid blows with Kravitz. One of them grazed the cuff of his jacket, and as he dove out of the way, he deliberately bashed his sapphire blades together, releasing a sunburst of blue light — and more importantly, a wave of thunderous force to fracture the scimitars, which Kravitz shattered with one final swing of his scythe.

He returned his focus to Barry himself, and realized — too late — that a single red thread of his sleeve had once again unraveled. Kravitz preemptively turned skeletal, surrounding himself with ghostly flames he hoped would make Barry think twice about trying to restrain him — but instead, Barry swung the stray thread towards the ceiling, where it cleaved through stalactites like a red-hot wire through butter, and a barrage of newly-freed spears rained down on Kravitz.

Only one struck him — barely bruising his shoulder in the fraction of a second before he decorporealized, and his soul-light possessed the stalactite itself. Barry summoned two more elongated bones to his side, but before he could transform them into scimitars, Kravitz hurtled his new form at them with such force that they crashed into the damp cave wall, shattering both the bones and stalactite while releasing Kravitz’s soul.

“It’s time to explain yourself!” Kravitz shouted, rematerializing and conjuring a dual-bladed scythe. Explain your lichdom, the Grand Relics, Taako’s unexplained deaths and missing memories —

With both hands, he spun the scythe like a baton, generating a vortex of blue lightning drawn from the essence of the Astral Plane itself. “This ends NOW!”

Undaunted, Barry shrugged. “Y’know, I did try to warn you the apocalypse was imminent,” he said nonchalantly, and melted into the shadows cast upon the wall.

The lightning pulverized stalactites across the cave, rendering even its darkest corners in brilliant blue light, but Barry had retreated too far into the earth for the magic to touch him — and in a way, it was almost reassuring, if only because the rest of this encounter had felt so alien.

This was the Barry that Kravitz knew, the Barry that would casually say something ominous before disengaging and vanishing off the map for the next three to eight months — but the moment of reassurance didn’t last long, because Barry reappeared on the lakeshore with his undead minions a moment later, and no, Kravitz was not falling for that again.

His scythe transformed into a longbow, a sapphire arrow already nocked. When he let it fly, it pierced the illusory red robe without a sound, and Barry’s deception vanished with a puff of smoke.

Where did you really go, Bluejeans?

He glimpsed some kind of shadow at the bottom of the lake, but before he could identify it, the surface froze over — and then, with a mighty creak, it rose, first as rapid-fire spears that Kravitz dodged with ease, but then as staggered subsections that formed a staircase — or as the terrestrial skeletons and zombies saw it, a perfect opportunity to charge at Kravitz.

The three who lead the assault fell in a volley of just as many arrows, but before the rest could arrive, Kravitz swung his bow around himself in an arc, transforming it back into a scythe just in time to strike the staircase with maximum force and shatter the ice. The remaining undead plummeted into the lake of still-blessed water, dissolving in a flash of light and a plume of steam.

“Not as resilient as your creator, eh?” Kravitz quipped, but not quite loud enough to miss the crackle of electricity behind him, and he somersaulted in midair to evade a crimson lightning bolt. Undeterred, Barry fired again, then a third time with two bolts at once, but Kravitz had no trouble dodging — though he realized, not a moment too soon, that Barry’s otherwise ineffective spells were driving him backwards and down, towards the rocky shore where Barry had raised the dead.

Not so fast, Kravitz thought, and plunged his scythe into the wall. Halfway across the cave, a massive blue crystal burst out from among the stalactites, missing Barry by a hair — but as he absconded, more sapphires tore through the cave ceiling, cutting him off at every angle until he was trapped in a cage of jagged crystalline fangs. Kravitz trembled from the exertion, bones rattling beneath his skin, but he didn’t have to maintain the spell for long — because through the translucent sapphires, he saw Barry’s silhouette clap two lightning-wreathed hands together, and an explosion of thunder pulverized every crystal in the cave. Kravitz morphed his scythe into a shield just in time to deflect the brunt of it, but the sheer force sent him flying backwards, and he landed on his feet on the lakeshore, exhausted but alert.

“I really am sorry, Kravitz. You seem like a decent guy.” Barry’s words echoed across the cave, making it impossible to tell if the slight distortion was coming from his own voice or simply the acoustics. “I’d always hoped that — that somehow, it wouldn’t turn out like this —”

“Oh, that’s real rich coming from you, Barry J. ‘created the Animus Bell and picked a fight with the Grim Reaper’ Bluejeans,” Kravitz retorted, switching his shield back into a scythe with none of the usual dramatic flourish. “You’re talking like my fate is sealed, but you haven’t won yet —”

Kravitz paused — because for the first time in twelve years of hunting Barry Bluejeans and ten years of knowing him, he could perfectly read the expression on Barry’s cowled semblance of a face. It was triumph, clear as day, and colored mainly by relief…

But not without an edge to it, a telltale hint of smugness.

“No, I think I have won,” Barry said. “Remember — you’re still outnumbered.”

A bolt of scorching light lanced down from above, rupturing the ground before Kravitz’s feet with all the red-hot fury of a meteor impact. He flung himself backwards, trying to escape the brunt of the attack — but the explosion hurtled him to the very back of the cave, where his spine met the cold limestone wall at high velocity, and he toppled to the ground before he could get his bearings.

“No,” he whispered. “No, I’m not outnumbered.” His ears rang, and lights danced across all but the most peripheral corners of his vision, but he still pulled himself to his feet, bracing himself against the wall. “I am the Raven Queen’s champion, and she will not let you escape me again —”

He extended an arm, to summon back the scythe he’d lost his grip on…

But for the first ever time, after more than eight centuries in the Queen’s undead flock, his scythe didn’t heed his call.

He could see it on the ground, barely ten feet away and undamaged as far as he could tell. But it didn’t move an inch, much less spring back into his hand — and only then, for the first time since arriving in the cave, did Kravitz notice the dark gray runes carved all around him, separating him from his weapon.

A trap, which had been Barry’s endgame all along. A trap, which Kravitz had flung himself right into.

Noelle floated to ground-level, hovering next to Barry and exchanging a few words that Kravitz’s ears still rang too much to hear. Making the most of their distraction, Kravitz lunged for his scythe with nothing to lose — but a shimmering, opalescent barrier sprung up from the runes, and he bounced off of it, shoulder first.

Barry glanced at him, and just sighed — which manifested, for a breathless entity made up of pure magic, as something more like a low electric crackle. “This was how I didn’t want it turn out, Kravitz.”

Kravitz ignored him, closing his eyes and raising his fingers to his temples. My Queen, I’m outmatched. I beseech you —

He ceased his prayer, his eyes flying open. It was wrong, all wrong, the terrifying gut-churning kind of wrong — and worst of all, he knew exactly why.

No electric blue buzz had reached him when he’d prayed to his goddess. It would be one thing if the Raven Queen hadn’t replied, but Kravitz hadn’t even been able to open a channel of communication in the first place.

And his scythe, he now realized, was not damaged nor unresponsive. He simply no longer had the ability to summon it — because The Raven Queen, and all the powers she’d graced him with, were completely cut off by Barry’s spell.

For the first time in countless lifetimes, Kravitz was alone.

***

Taako jumped when he heard the second knock of the day, expecting a barrage of accusations from the Director to follow — but it was Angus’s voice, not Lucretia’s, that called out to him a moment later.

“Sir? Do you mind if I come in? There’s something I need to talk to you about!”

Taako pressed his ear to the door. He couldn’t hear anyone else in the hallway, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. “Talk about what, Agnes?”

“Oh, uh… I’d rather not say while I’m standing out here. It’s kinda personal…” Angus lowered his voice. “And you know the drill, prying eyes and ears.”

Taako’s heart skipped a beat — because Angus McDonald, light of his life and the closest thing to a son he could imagine ever having, knowing information too dangerous to speak out loud — was scarier than any apocalyptic nightmares or even malfunctioning arrows.

Pointing his Umbra Staff at the door and tapping his forehead, Taako extended his sense of sight outside, verifying that the hallway was deserted — aside, of course, from one innocent-looking boy detective. With that information confirmed, he cracked the door open and grabbed Angus by the vest, yanking him inside before Angus could even get a protest in edgewise.

“You bring your Stone of Farspeech?” Taako asked, fidgeting with locks both magical and arcane. “Power it down, right now.”

“But — but I’m waiting for a text back from —”

Taako snapped his fingers, silencing the Stone in Angus’s pocket. “Well, suck it up and wait a little longer, kid, because the Director’s listened in on me through those things before and I’m sure she’ll do it again — so how’s that for prying ears? I’m about to be in enough trouble as is, I can’t let you get implicated too —”

Angus glanced around the room, gaze lingering on the ruins of the coffee table and the ashen footprints tread across the rug. “Sir, are you… okay? You’re acting like Caleb Cleveland whenever a case-changing discovery sends him spiraling into paranoia —”

“I — okay, look. The day got off to a rough start, but — but you worry way too much about me, kid.” How had Taako already fucked up this badly, confirming there was a conspiracy afoot and getting the kid invested? He should’ve just begged Angus to stay quiet, to stay away from him.

“I — I just can’t tell you what’s happening, Angus, for your own good! I shouldn’t have even let you in here in the first place, when I don’t know what’s going on or how to protect —”

With a hug, Angus knocked the wind out of Taako’s lungs and the wizard hat off of his head. “Sir, I found something big too! I didn’t know how to face it alone, but I couldn’t find Noelle, and Kravitz hasn’t texted me back —”

He smiled. “And I came to you, because I’m sure we can figure this out together. You just have to trust —”

“I trust you implicitly, Ango. You know this,” Taako blurted out. “I trust you with my life.

“I suspected as much, though it’s nice to hear you say it.” Angus met his eyes. “But I meant that you have to trust yourself with mine.”

Taako closed his eyes, and saw Glamour Springs. Forty people, fatally poisoned.

“I need to know what you know, sir. It might put me in danger — but there’s no one else I’d rather have watching my back. I’ll be okay, I really will — I believe in us!”

Phandalin. Eight-hundred and fifty people, all incinerated.

“And if it helps, sir… I trust you. Both implicitly and rationally.”

The return to Wave Echo Cave in search of liches. Angus imperiled, but alive.

Taako wasn’t sure when he’d first started hugging Angus back, but he hugged a little tighter, just for good measure. “I just don’t want to put any more pressure on you than I already have, little guy. Your job’s hard work, and I keep making it harder —”

“I know my limits better now. Kravitz helped me with that,” Angus assured him. “I’ll tell you if it ever gets to be too much, I promise.”

“Yeah, you better.” Taako took a deep breath, then another, coming a little closer to spilling the truth with each inhale. “So, I guess… I’d better tell you about the second Voidfish.”

“I knew it!” Angus exclaimed, but lowered his voice as he went on, seeing Taako flinch. “I knew the Bureau wasn’t telling us everything! How did you figure it out?”

“Garyl helped — he’s immune, apparently,” Taako whispered. “He was making me paranoid, so I unsummoned him — but earlier today, he said I lost a bunch of my memories twelve years ago, and it might’ve all been Lucretia’s master plan —”

“Twelve years?” Angus echoed. “Kravitz said your bounties showed up twelve years ago, at the same time as Barry and Lup — and believe it or not, also the Director and Davenport, of all people!”

Taako collapsed onto the couch, for what felt like the tenth time that morning. “I don’t think my brain can physically unpack all of this, so I’m just gonna ask — when did Kravitz say this? Have you talked to him recently?”

“This was just earlier this morning! He was the person I was expecting to text me back, actually — but did something happen?”

Taako stomach dropped. “Did — did he tell you anything that showed up as static?”

“He did! Something about your bounties and the relics that I just couldn’t grasp! That was how I figured out there was another —”

“Shit,” Taako muttered. “I hate to break it to you, Angus, but our little rogue detective bureau’s first order of business might be figuring out what the hell happened to Kravitz.”

Angus gasped. “You think some necromancers captured him? Or — or the Director?”

“I don’t know! Maybe both — maybe Lucretia is the evil necromancer behind all of this! Or maybe it’s Davenport, or it’s Barry after all, or whoever the hell Lup is —”

His umbrella unfurled in his lap, its handle swinging up to hit him in the chin before it tumbled to the ground. “Hey, learn to read the room! You think I have time to deal with you causing problems on purpose right now?!”

Angus pursed his lips. “Where did you get that Umbra Staff anyway? Seems like it’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Oh, you don’t know the half of the trouble this thing has given me, Ango. I found it on the original Wave Echo Cave trip — kinda near the Relic, actually. Former owner was just a skeleton in a… oh shit, that’s right. A skeleton in a fucking red robe.”

Angus just stared at him, dumbfounded, for ten full seconds before he pulled out his notebook and jotted the information down. “You and the other Reclaimers are terrible at passing on relevant information, you know that?”

“In my defense, I have severe undiagnosed memory loss!” Taako shot back. “And it’s been, like, eight months? Ten? See, I can’t even remember how long it’s been!”

“Wait. Hang on.” Angus sat down his notepad and closed his eyes. “If the Red Robes made the Grand Relics… you told me that Barry has mentioned Lup by name, correct?”

Taako nodded, then upon realizing Angus’s eyes were still closed, he spoke up. “Yeah.”

“So we can reasonably assume Lup’s a Red Robe, too. She’s been missing for ten years, last seen in Wave Echo Cave — and I would hazard a guess, specifically in the part of the cave that housed the Phoenix Fire Gauntlet. The part of the cave where you found your Umbra Staff.”

“And the worst times the umbrella has ever malfunctioned,” Taako realized aloud, heart pounding, “were when either Kravitz or I was about to hurt Barry.”

“Your staff doesn’t just absorb arcane foci, does it?” Angus gasped. “It absorbed an entire lich. We thought we’d never find Lup — but she’s been under our noses all along.”

***

“Barry, how? How did you do this?”

Noelle was still looking at Kravitz, but Barry had turned away, seemingly with no purpose in mind besides cultivating a sullen appearance.

“Took some inspiration from an entity I already knew could cut off planes from each other, and gods from their emissaries,” he muttered after a few seconds. “Not too proud of it, but you forced my hand.”

There was the confirmation Kravitz had been looking for, yet dreading — because Kravitz needed a font of magic, needed the Raven Queen, not just to fight but to exist in any capacity. His soul would burn out, drained by the exertion of maintaining physical form, without a direct line to either her or her dominion of the Astral Plane — gods, his soul should’ve burnt out already, within seconds of being sealed in.

“No, I mean — how am I still here, Barry?” How am I still half-alive?

“Arcane core buried a few feet beneath you.” Barry’s voice was practically monotone, and the concerned frown on Noelle’s display didn’t escape Kravitz’s notice. “Should fuel your soul at least until the end of the world. Maybe longer.”

He shuddered, though he kept it together — and unlikely as he was to admit it, even Kravitz was starting to feel a little worried for the lich who’d just spared his not-quite-life.

“You could’ve killed me like this at any point,” he pointed out. “During any of those ten years. Why didn’t you, if I’ve been such an impediment to your master plan —”

Barry whirled around, teleporting to a spot right outside the barrier with a clap of thunder and a spray of sparks. “You think this was a type of magic I wanted to mess with? You think I did this for my own sake?! I only did this so you wouldn’t kill my family!”

He and Kravitz stood face to face-shaped void — and there was something unsteady about that void and the lights inside, something telling Kravitz that if Barry had a true face at the moment, his expression would’ve just crumpled.

“Your family,” Kravitz echoed. “The other Red Robes. Magnus, Merle, and… Taako.”

“I’d do this all again to protect them,” Barry rasped. “No matter how convinced you are that you’re in the right, I can’t let you reap them —”

“I’m not going to reap them!” Kravitz blurted out, and the threads of Barry’s robe froze in place.

“What?!”

Kravitz raised his hand. “I swear I won’t! On my oath to the Raven Queen!”

Barry went not just perfectly still, but utterly silent, until Noelle spoke up. “Why not?!”

“We worked out a deal! I assumed you heard —” Before Kravitz knew it, he was laughing, even well aware that it made the lich in the room look like the sane one by comparison. “Gods, Barry. I really thought you were some kind of omniscient memory-wiping mastermind, leading a massive conspiracy with informants everywhere — but you didn’t even know I was letting the Reclaimers go! You’re just a family man who happens to be undead and a colossal pain in my ass! I can’t believe this!”

“What — what do you know about the memory wiping?” Barry finally spoke up, softer than Kravitz had ever heard him. “About the Voidfish?”

“Apparently not enough,” Kravitz admitted, lowering himself onto the floor of the cave and crossing his legs. “But… do you think could you tell me about it?”

Barry just stared at him for a few seconds, eventually glancing at Noelle, as if to check that she was just as dumfounded as he was. Then he turned back to Kravitz, and with a shrug, replied: “…I guess?”

Kravitz drummed his fingers on the ground — absorbing and channeling a trace of the arcane core’s aura, all while hoping Barry interpreted it as an absentminded tic, not one of deep and deliberate concentration. “If it’s not too much of a tangent, then literally any information on the apocalypse besides ‘it’s imminent’ would be nice.”

“Well, then,” Barry said slowly, “I guess I should start at the beginning. I wasn’t always a lich — I guess that was obvious, ‘cause that’s just how liches work — but I also wasn’t always a necromancer. I was totally fascinated with death, don’t get me wrong, and sometimes I dabbled in true necromancy against my better judgement, but it was… about as discouraged in my homeworld as it was here. So instead, I dedicated my life to studying interplanar travel.”

“Your homeworld,” Kravitz repeated, “which is… different from the Raven Queen’s domain? Different from this planar system?!”

“Probably shoulda led with that, huh?” Barry muttered. “Yeah, I’m technically an alien, and for a long time, I worked for an alien space agency. We searched for signs of life, or even mere existence, outside our own planar system, but we kept hitting dead ends — until a light we almost mistook for a meteor fell from the sky, and changed everything. We called it the Light of Creation, and it…”

He sighed. “You could say it enthralled us. It illuminated these underlying mechanisms of not just magic, but broadly speaking, interactions — between things, between worlds, between people. We called them bonds, and with the way we were studying them so single-mindedly, it didn’t even take us a year to build a spaceship that could run on the things. Seven of us flew that ship off the material plane on her maiden voyage, and — well, you can read all our names straight from your book of bounties. Our captain was Davenport, and Lucretia was our chronicler, while Merle was the biologist, and Magnus — oh, Magnus was the best security system that a team of five wizards and a cleric could wish for. I was chief science officer, of course, and… Taako and Lup, the twins, were the arcanists.”

“Oh my gods,” Kravitz whispered. “Taako — I had Taako hunting Lup. He thought his life depended on —”

“He didn’t know.” Barry shuddered, red smoke escaping from his mouth as he spoke. “Neither of you did.”

Faced with any other lich, Kravitz would’ve braced himself for a breakdown and ensuing fallout, but today, he stayed seated to watch as calmly as he could — and sure enough, the smoke faded to a few harmless wisps as Barry went on.

“Sorry, I — I’m getting ahead of myself. The mission, the Starblaster mission, it was only supposed to last two months. But in our obsession with the Light, with the spaceship it made possible, we missed… warning signs leading up to our departure. Storm clouds hanging overhead, colors losing their luster, hell, even eyes in the sky and in the Ethereal Plane. When the seven of us took flight, we thought we were explorers — but in the blink of an eye, we became refugees, because right after we took flight, the Hunger descended on our world and devoured it whole.”

He must’ve noticed a shell-shocked expression on Kravitz’s face, because he went on: “Yeah, it’s a lot, even when you’ve had decades to process it. We fled to another planar system, and the Light of Creation followed us there — but so did the Hunger, and a year after arriving, it consumed yet another world without mercy. Magnus died fighting it, but I’m sure you see where this is going — when we materialized in the next planar system, he was as good as new, and the cycle repeated. We figured out that as long as one of us escaped the Hunger on the ship, anyone who died that year would return to life, and that if we could escape with the Light, the Hunger would only damage the plane instead of consuming it — but recovering the Light was about as consistent as rolling a pair of dice you hadn’t rigged, and the Hunger kept gaining on us.”

“And this,” Kravitz assumed, “was when you started practicing necromancy?”

“Yeah. I guess I could play it off as, I dunno, something I studied to understand how we kept getting revived every year, but… I’m not gonna lie to you. I was calling myself a necromancer by the third cycle because it was dangerous, and we needed dangerous magic to stand a chance against the Hunger.” A fondness crept into Barry’s voice, and Kravitz watched a small tear in his robe sew itself back together. “Lup and I didn’t become liches until decades later — just like we took our time with most things, I guess — and that was for power, too. But there weren’t any blood sacrifices, or any of that traditional ‘store your soul in an artifact of dark magic’ stuff — we powered our lich forms with bonds, the same things that powered our spaceship. We did it with the help of our family, to protect our family, and I’d do it all again. And Lup… I know she’d feel the same, if she were here.”

“Were you close? You and Lup, I mean?”

The lights of Barry’s not-quite-face blinked. “Gotta say, bud, after everything I just told you, that is not the question I thought you’d have for me. But… yeah, you could say that. We were in love for the better part of a century, and if you’ve ever seen me… not fall apart when I should have, it was because I was thinking of her. Reminding myself that if I gave up, then everything we’d worked for would be the next to come undone, and even worse, I’d — I’d never have a chance to see her again.”

“You don’t know where she is either,” Kravitz realized, and only noticed he’d spoken out loud when he saw Barry shrink backwards and wrap his arms around his chest, his robe folding in on itself like red light drawn towards a spluttering black hole.

“Wow, Kravitz,” Noelle spoke up, digitized voice dripping with sarcasm as she glared at him. “Way to not ask sensitive questions to the guy you just learned was powered by emotions —”

“I’m sorry!” Kravitz exclaimed, and he honestly meant it. “I wasn’t thinking —”

“No, I’ll be alright,” Barry insisted, with a confidence that suggested he’d survived worse breakdowns. No longer radiating lightning nor anguish, he floated right up to the opalescent barrier, even resting a hand on it. “You know, the Hunger’s kinda like this spell I used to trap you, ‘cept on steroids. It cuts off all the planes in a system before devouring them, but always goes for the Celestial Plane first, rendering the bonds between god and emissary unusable — and it’s done that so many times, Kravitz, it’s consumed so many deities and added them to its number. It’s impossible to defeat that kind of army, that never-ending march of fallen gods from fallen worlds older than memory — but Lup and I, we came up with a new plan. We knew the Hunger needed the Light to persist — so we hid that Light, splitting it in seven, to try and starve the Hunger out.”

He sighed. “And that’s how the refugees of my homeworld nearly destroyed yours with the Grand Relics.”

Though Barry had only confirmed his suspicions, Kravitz’s jaw still dropped. I was right. And Taako still has no idea. I need to tell him —

“We were enthralled, all of us, with the idea of finally stopping the Hunger,” Barry continued, drifting back from the barrier. “Not all of us in the same way — Lucretia had an idea that was different altogether, equally bad as it was — and when we descended from the sky to introduce the Relics, like demigods about to be undone by our hubris, we enthralled your world with conflict and bloodshed. Because the Light of Creation, at least in the form of the Relics we made from it, is a poison disguised as an antidote. It will always be… hungered for.”

He chuckled bitterly. “And here I am, confessing my family’s crimes to the one person in this universe who knows the cost of our actions better than anyone. Kravitz, on behalf of all of us — I’m so sorry that you and your world bore the consequences of our mess. I’m sure your job was an awful lot simpler before we showed up —”

“It was,” Kravitz agreed, “but maybe not for the reason you think. You know, before the Relic Wars, souls almost always retired to the Astral Plane without resistance… but victims of the Relics never rested quietly. I’m no stranger to ghosts with unfinished business, of course, but so many of them were still enthralled, as you put it — and before the wars dwindled out, there were constant rebellions and escape attempts that plunged the Astral Plane into chaos.” He paused. “Speaking of which. I always wondered why the Relic Wars ended when they did.”

“Good question.” Barry sighed. “Out of seven explorers, you know how many had the foresight to realize how dangerous the Grand Relics were? It was just one — Lucretia, the youngest, who knew before anyone else that we were about to poison this world. She had an alternate plan to defeat the Hunger, and though its side effects were just as unacceptable, she was in denial of those effects just like I was in denial about the Relics’ consequences. I — I hate talking about her like this, she’s family to me just like the rest of them, but — she needed the Light in one piece for her plan, so not long after Lup went missing trying to bring an end to the Relic Wars, Lucretia went and — she fed our mission archives to the Voidfish. A being that consumes information, and makes it incomprehensible unless you’ve been specifically inoculated… or, unless you’re undead.”

“So your family, and the world, both forgot the Grand Relics,” Kravitz finished. “Except you and me.”

“Exactly. But Lucretia still needed to collect all seven, and… well, there were only seven people in the world who could resist their thrall, and that was because they’d spent a century building up an immunity. And Fischer, that’s what Magnus named the Voidfish, eventually had a kid — or so I assume, because I don’t know where else Lucretia would get a baby alien jellyfish whose home plane was destroyed. Point is, Luce fed the baby certain things she needed kept secret, then inoculated Magnus, Merle, and Taako from the parent, so she could set them up as Reclaimers in her Bureau of Balance —”

“Wait, you mean that — that Lucretia from my list of bounties, and the Director I keep hearing about from Taako, are the same person?!”

“Yeah.” Barry nodded. “Do you know if Davenport’s also with the Bureau, by any chance? I haven’t seen him in — in a really long time.”

“If I’d known where he was, I would’ve arrested him for dying eleven times,” Kravitz replied without thinking, regretting it instantly when Barry glowered at him. “I mean, I would have before having this conversation, but not now! I swear!”

“You’re not bound to your oath while you’re cut off from your goddess,” Barry pointed out. “And I dunno why I just told you that, though I guess you seem like the kinda guy who’d stick to your word anyway —”

“Let’s backtrack to Lucretia,” Kravitz cut in. “What was her plan to stop the Hunger? Why was it so unacceptable, and… and why does she need the Light?”

Barry looked away, answering in a slowly fading voice.“She wanted to starve the Hunger out too, just like Lup and I were thinking. But she wanted to use the Light to create a shield around this planar system — and I know that sounds great in practice, but any barrier strong enough to keep out the Hunger would sever all this world’s extraplanar bonds. It would keep the Hunger out, but everything inside would be reduced to ash, and Lucretia… never wanted to believe that. I have to assume she still doesn’t believe it, and will go ahead with her shield as soon as she reclaims the last two Relics. The Temporal Chalice, and the Animus Bell.”

“Well, shit,” Kravitz muttered, earning a grunt of agreement from Barry. “So our options — our only three options are being turned to ash, fighting a losing battle with an eldritch abomination, and continuing to let the Relics tear this world apart?”

“It’s… a little too late for that last one, actually.” Barry shook his head. “The Hunger’s got a lock on our planar system now — Noelle told me she saw stars disappearing, and that means we’re down to a matter of months.”

“Oh gods, that’s why there’s fewer stars? I thought I was going crazy!” Kravitz gasped, turning to Noelle. “Barry told you all this as well?”

Noelle bobbed up and down slightly, presumably to indicate a nod. “He filled me in on the highlights. Then a bit more detail ‘bout the Hunger, when I asked him just a couple hours ago if he knew why the constellations looked off.”

“I can’t believe this,” Kravitz sighed. “I should’ve just asked you to explain yourself years ago! You could’ve cleared up so much —”

“I should’ve tried to tell you more,” Barry admitted, “but the truth sounds so insane that I didn’t think you’d believe the whole unfiltered thing. Hell, I’m amazed you believe me right now —”

“Uh, actually, about that…” Kravitz smiled sheepishly, instinctively crossing his arms behind his back to hide his soon-to-be-implicated spellcasting hands. “I appreciate you leaving me some magic when you cut me off from the Raven Queen, but in the interest of… honesty, you should know that before I joined the Queen’s retinue, I was a bard. My powers are limited right now, since I don’t have an instrument on me, and even with one I wouldn’t have expected this to work — but a couple minutes ago, I cast Zone of Truth on you.” He shrugged. “Being a last-ditch effort as it was, I kind of assumed you’d notice it —”

Barry threw his head back with a guffaw of laughter, and his hood fell to his shoulders, unveiling a mass of dark smoke that resembled a mullet. “Oh, Merle would be so proud!”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” Noelle wisecracked, and then all of them were laughing at poor Merle’s expense, just like three old friends who’d never, ever tried to kill or imprison or backstab each other.

“Yes, it is a compliment,” Barry chuckled, “but don’t you dare tell him I got got by a Zone of Truth, or I’ll never hear the end of it!”

“I, uh, I’ve got one more backstory question, if you don’t mind,” Kravitz began as his laughter died down, and Barry’s attention immediately returned to him. The lich was easier to read with his cowl down, revealing cues like the quizzical, attentive tilt of his head.

“Yeah? Shoot.”

“I saved this one for last because I’m asking in… well, mostly my own self-interest…” Kravitz took a breath. “But does Taako have any, um, still-relevant love interests he lost his memories of?”

“Oh my gods, Kravitz…”

“I like him a lot, even though it’s still early — but I’d feel awful replacing a partner he was ripped away from, especially under these circumstances —”

“A truce with the Grim Reaper is one thing!” Barry shouted to no one in particular. “But being the Grim Reaper’s brother-in-law? Being Taako’s best man when he and the Grim Reaper get married?!”

Kravitz beamed. “Okay, I’ll take that as a no!”

Still chuckling, Barry silently snapped his fingers. A dozen runes flashed before going dark forever, and a moment later, the opalescent barrier faded away.

“I tell you what, bud,” he said. “You help me save all of reality, and I won’t even give you the shovel talk.”

#taz #taz balance #kravitz taz #barry bluejeans #taako taaco #taakitz #angus mcdonald #no-3113 #taz balance spoilers #fic: ftrala #rosalia writes fic

16 notes · View notes

songfell-ut · 5 years ago

Text

Chapter 1, I suppose

...Hello! It looks like this thing is on. So. Hi.

I am posting this because I saw an Undertale comic by @lostmypotatoes on one of those dub channels, and it was such a neat and unfinished concept that I started writing an original story based on it. Then I contacted her and she was super sweet about my thievery and I was like ha ha too bad I didn’t make this a UT fic and now I wrote this too.

I don’t know any of the usual formatting or etiquette for posting fic on here because I’m old and don’t do stuff. Sorry! (I signed up here for this very purpose.) It’s...good gravy, almost 7,000 words. Anyway! Here you go, let me know if I should look into Witchfell I don’t know I just did him Underfell but there’s witches

*takes Valium*

~~~

"Make way! The High Priestess approaches!"

The monster sat up in his prison cell, focusing on a slim figure coming down the stairs. In the room's single witchlight, he could make out a few details: a black gown with a narrow skirt that flared over the stone floor, a spiked headdress, and a long, dark veil over her features. The orange pinpricks of his eyes narrowed.

The guards stood at attention as the priestess approached the cell, her head high and her hands demurely folded. "Make haste, men!" barked the captain. "Secure the creature! Tighten those bonds!"

She stopped just short of the bars as the guards made a show of pulling levers on either side of the cell, stretching the chains tighter on the monster's limbs. "How long has he been here?" she asked.

"Three days, my lady," the captain said, "but he has refused all of his meals."

The priestess looked steadily at the captive monster. "Does he have a name?"

"He calls himself 'Sans,' my lady," the captain replied.

The High Priestess' headdress tilted to one side. "You know, Captain, wood and iron bars cannot hold a boss monster," she said quietly.

The men jumped as the monster snorted—as much as a skeleton could do so. "Funny, I told 'em the same t'ing," he said, his voice rough and painfully loud in the tiny space.

The captain gripped his sword hilt with one hand. "Silence, monster!" he snapped.

"No, let him speak," said the priestess.

Sans grinned wider, baring huge, jagged teeth. Though he remained sitting, he towered over the humans on the other side of the bars, especially the young woman. "How generous of you, witch," he said mockingly. "Tell me, how may I repay your kindness? Let you take my SOUL? Harvest my magic? Or add me to yer evil little collection?"

The guards muttered to each other in dismay. "How dare you speak to her with such disrespect?" demanded their captain. "She is the High Priestess of this realm, and you will address her as such!"

"Wow, what a loyal dog. You heard 'er, I get to talk," retorted the skeleton. He glared down at the priestess, ignoring the captain's sputtering. "Now, witch. Tell me. What are ya gonna do t'me? I ain't very fond of surprises. My heart can't take it." He placed his bony palm on his chest. "Grant me this one kindness, ya magic thief."

The High Priestess did not move. "Captain. Free him."

Sans lifted the equivalent of an eyebrow as the men gasped. "High Priestess," protested the captain.

"Release the bonds," she said.

The captain swallowed. "Is this a wise—"

"Free him, now." The woman's hands dropped to her sides as the guards reluctantly pushed the levers back up. "Sans, I'd like to make you my apprentice," she told the bemused skeleton. "In return, I will give you your freedom."

Stunned silence hung in the air. "You want me to be your apprentice?" the monster repeated. He looked at her, and he threw his head back and roared with laughter.

The captain bristled, moving in front of the woman with his sword drawn, then stepping back at her murmured command. The other men winced as the monster's laughter echoed off the walls. "Stars! That is rich!" Sans slapped his thighbone. "Ya know," he said, more conversationally, "I'd be less offended if ya dragged me out an' forced me to be yer slave."

Suddenly, his grin had no humor in it. The priestess tensed as the monster reached up to grasp his collar. "Do ya think I'm stupid? Me as your apprentice, witch? Please, don't fool yerself with your own lies!" The collar shattered, crumbling to dust. He gave another laugh, eyes glowing a hellish orange. "But I guess I should thank you for the opportunity," he said savagely. "'Cause now I'm going to—"

The air around him exploded in white-hot flame as the monster's voice rose to a bellow of "KILL YOU ALL!"

Power raced through the skeleton in scintillating waves, lighting the cell as bright as a hot day. Now Sans could do what he'd dreamed of since that first human sorcerer had caught him unawares: murder everyone in his path. There were so many possibilities! Fire was fun, but usually worked too fast. He could always tear them limb from limb, but that was messy and labor-intensive. Then there was blue magic, which turned them into stupid, flailing rag dolls, easy to pick up and impossible to put d—

A twinge of suspicion interrupted his musings. Where was the screaming, or the sound of fleeing footsteps? Sans lowered his aura until he could see the room clearly, and what he saw chilled him to his very SOUL.

His attack hadn't killed anyone. It hadn't even singed them. The cell's bars had disintegrated, but now a translucent golden haze stretched from floor to ceiling, and his magic was splashing off it like raindrops off an umbrella. The guardsmen were bravely huddled by the stairs, slack-jawed but unharmed, while the High Priestess stood right where she'd been, hand raised and lips moving.

Sans was not quite so confident now. In fact, his first impulse was to run away screaming. This was the stuff a monster's nightmares were made of: he was trapped by a barrier.

Once upon a time, he'd tormented his brother with stories about a bad little skeleton who went out alone after dark, or talked to strangers, or didn't do his big brother's chores for him, and it always ended with the bad skeleton getting caught by a human. All monsters heard those bedtime stories and learned that there was no escape from barriers; not even the King was strong enough to break one, and just touching them would kill you. If you were lucky, the human would drag you off to be their slave, never to be seen again. If you weren't, they'd squeeze the magic from your body or snap your ribs open to dig your SOUL out, then leave you to die and let your dust blow away.

Panic closed over him like a shroud. He gathered all of his magic and threw himself into a shortcut out of the castle, only to strike an invisible wall and bounce right back into the cell. Shaking his head to clear it, Sans looked around and realized that the barrier had him boxed in on all sides.

Anger saved him, as it always had. In another moment, he wasn't afraid anymore; he was furious at his captors and their whole cheating, thieving, murdering, thoroughly worthless race.

And it was the worst possible moment for the priestess to open a small hole in the barrier and say, "Sans, please calm yourself. I don't want to hurt you."

She snapped the barrier shut half a second before a wickedly pointed bone thudded into it, the tip nearly touching her nose. "So be it," the young woman said tightly, and the bone evaporated as the barrier glowed brighter.

Sans knew better than to waste his energy in an all-out assault. Instead, the boss monster contemplated the force it'd take to punch through one small area around her neck or her heart. He might still be afraid, but every fiber of his being wanted that woman dead on the floor. So...

With a flick of his wrist, he summoned an array of massive, razor-sharp bones, almost too many for the cell to hold, and began firing them at blinding speed, one right after another. The priestess didn't react, but as he struck the same few inches of barrier over and over again, he saw bits of gold flake away, revealing a tiny crack.

He smirked, focusing his magic to hit harder and faster. So much for scary stories. Her people might have been glorifying her as some kind of mighty sorceress, but she was just another stupid human, witch or not. She'd raised her other hand to reinforce the spell, but more and more cracks were forming. You're boned, he thought, chuckling to himself.

Still, as he watched and waited for the golden light to shatter, he had to feel some grudging admiration. Most of the magic-wielding humans he'd killed were big, blustery men, and none of them had lasted half as long as this scrawny female. What kind of SOUL did the witch have, anyway? He'd seen just about every color there was, and figured she was stubborn enough to be purple, or maybe a patient cyan, or even orange for bravery. After all, he was throwing out everything he had, and she wasn't backing down. The skeleton squinted at her through the barrier, searching for the telltale spark of—ah, there it was. There...it...was.

For the second time, Sans looked at her and knew instantly that he was boned. Despite the ferocity of his attacks, the cracks in the barrier were starting to fill themselves in, and the air crackled with another surge of her magic. A merry little chorus of Shiiiiit shit shit shit rang in his head as he stared at her blazing-red SOUL, and it only got louder when he remembered what that color meant.

Determination.

It didn't matter that she was just a human. His intention to kill her was nothing compared to her will to live. As the bones he conjured came slower and weaker, dissolving as they hit the barrier, Sans knew with horrible certainty that he wasn't going to win.

The stories had to be true after all. Unless the priestess got careless and he could either kill her or use a shortcut, he was going to have to do whatever she wanted for as long as she said. But maybe, if he caught her off guard...

Sans let his arm drop. The last few bones clattered to the floor, and he sank to his knees, head bowed. Behind the High Priestess, the men all breathed a sigh of relief.

To her credit, the woman didn't let the spell go. She poked her head through for a better look at him, motioned to the guards to stay where they were, and knelt in front of the massive skeleton, halfway inside the barrier. "I'm not surprised that you wanted to escape. I can almost excuse you for trying," she said. Her voice was calm enough, and as far as he could tell with her veil on, her face was still expressionless.

He would have bought it if he hadn't noticed her hands clenching in her lap. "Almost?" the skeleton asked, head still lowered, eyes fixed on her.

"Almost."

He shrugged, watching her knuckles turn white. "Guess that's why yer the High Priestess, huh?"

"It is. None of my magic is stolen," she said.

"'Course not. Our power's no good in barriers. We ain't that stubborn, or that dumb," he added bitterly.

"My offer stands," she continued, as if he hadn't spoken. "Do you have any questions or conditions you'd like to propose?"

Sans glanced at her headdress. The spikes atop it dipped in and out of the golden curtain as her head drooped. She had to have expended most of her power holding him off; after several days with no food or sleep and then wasting all that effort on the barrier, he was pretty worn out himself. Too bad monsters couldn't take a human's magic, just her...

Her SOUL. It took all his self-control not to jump to his feet in excitement. Why the hell hadn't he thought of that? An ordinary monster who absorbed an ordinary human SOUL was supposed to grow incredibly powerful. What would happen if a boss monster gained all the power of a gifted and highly determined witch?

The High Priestess shook herself and sat up straighter. "Please answer me, Sans. I don't think either of us wants to go through that again."

"No," he admitted, shifting his weight back, edging toward the wall. Sure enough, she unconsciously moved closer, a few more inches into the cell. "I do have one question," he said, moving back again.

The woman frowned, scooting almost all the way out of the barrier. "What is it?"

He slowly, delicately reached down and tapped on her headdress, gentle as a light breeze. "Mind if I get a better look at ya?"

The priestess started. For the first time, she seemed uncertain. "I..." She frowned, and as she opened her mouth again, Sans lunged at her.

There was no question of her ducking behind the barrier in time. Before she even knew that he'd moved, one of the skeleton's hands had closed around her torso and lifted her as easily as a child holding a doll. The barrier vanished behind her, and Sans said casually, "Heel, or I'll stomp 'er like a grape."

The guards froze in the act of drawing their swords. The priestess started to say something, but he flexed his hand ever so slightly, and she stopped.

Sans smiled. He considered her for a moment, wondering if he should crush her anyway and squeeze her out slowly in front of the guardsmen, the way humans drained a monster's magic. It was tempting, and kind of poetic, but he decided he'd better not; he didn't want to damage her SOUL. Besides, she'd put up a hell of a fight. If anyone deserved a quick death, it was—

"Sans," she said. To his astonishment, she worked her arm out over his fingers and rested her hand on his knuckle. "Please," she murmured.

Normally, he would have laughed at a human begging him for mercy, but this didn't feel like begging. She was just looking at him calmly.

...No, the crazy bitch wasn't asking, she was telling. She was distressed, but expectant, as if she was just waiting for him to put her down and apologize!

He should've squished her or bashed her against the wall for that. But, somehow, as the veiled priestess stared into the fire of his eye sockets, the idea of breaking her didn't seem much fun anymore. Her head lowered and tipped to one side, and all of a sudden, it was like his mind – his memory – got pulled sideways.

As he stared back at her, he was no longer facing a mortal enemy. He was back in a moment he thought he'd forgotten, standing in front of his house in Snowdin. A tiny human in a striped shirt was holding his hand and smiling up at him with perfect, stupid trust, and he knew that however much he despised humanity, he could never hate this kid, any more than he could reach up and stop the sun in its orbit. Why did he have to think of it now, when he needed all the homicidal energy he could muster?

With a painful effort, Sans tore himself away from that memory, back to the present and the woman in his hand. The skeleton growled, starting under his breath and working up to a snarl that reverberated throughout the stone walls. To hell with her. To hell with all of them!

Lack of space was a definite issue, but Sans prided himself on adaptability. He extended his arm to its full length, nearly shoving her into the frightened guards, which gave him enough room to materialize a single blaster.

It was much smaller than usual, and that was fine, because it'd concentrate the last of his power into one good shot. The skull shone an incandescent red, eyes aflame and fangs glinting in its own light, literally nose-to-nose with the High Priestess. Sans let his rage and frustration rise like a tide of pure filth, distantly surprised that he could still feel some grief beneath it all, and the blaster's mouth creaked open from the pressure building in its throat.

The priestess had pulled herself upright with her free arm. The scarlet luminescence was right up against her eyes, but she screwed them shut and leaned forward, face set with determination.

In his haste to align the blast and hit all the humans at once, Sans didn't hear anything unusual; he didn't even notice when the light dimmed just a little, or that the pressure had stopped rising. But then a shock ran through him like a hand grabbing his SOUL, and he jerked out of his concentration to see – and feel – the woman stroking the blaster's nose as if it was an overexcited puppy. "It's all right," she said, so low that he barely heard her. "Please, stop. It'll be all right. I promise." And he'd be damned if the giant skull wasn't closing its mouth and leaning into her hand!

No one had actually touched one of his blasters before. They were long-distance weapons, and he used them as such, only getting close when it was fun or strategic to do so. His first reaction was horrified indignation; he might be about to vaporize her, but for crap's sake, he wasn't being inappropriate.

As she kept petting, though, she leaned in and rested her forehead on the skull's lower jaw, and the skeleton felt an alien sensation steal over him, something he didn't recognize at first. The light dimmed further; the skull's jaws drifted shut. For the first time, Sans heard a soft, rich sound—it was the woman humming to herself, or to the blaster, as if trying to soothe it.

And it was working. Sans felt as if he'd been drugged, with a sense of...peace? Was that it? Yes, it was absolute peace washing over him, relaxing his grip so that the young woman had to catch herself before she fell out of it. She might have been smiling faintly beneath the veil, but he couldn't focus enough to tell. He wondered if it was the same magic that had made him think of Kris, a distraction to save herself and kill him before he attacked again.

No...he wasn't drugged or under some kind of spell. Sans remembered feeling this way when he was a lot younger, and a couple of times during the humans' last visit to the Underground, when he and Pap discovered that at least one human was worth something. Of course, then they'd lost him, and there were no more humans worth anything.

It never failed to amaze him. They'd had less than a month together, but all these years later, he still missed the little bastard so much that it hurt.

Luckily, the pain didn't last. The woman kept humming, and Sans grew less and less angry. The blaster made a kind of purring sound and vanished; at the same time, Sans' arm fell, releasing the priestess, allowing her guards to rush in and pull her away.

The boss monster gazed at the angry humans with total detachment, scratching the back of his head as he yawned. She'd won. "You win," he mumbled.

"Are you all right, my lady?" demanded the captain, helping her sit down against the wall.

The humming had stopped. The young woman rubbed her eyes, keeping them shut. "Don't kill him, please" was all she said.

Sans closed his eyes, too. The humans were conferring in rapid whispers on what to do with him, but he didn't care anymore. It was almost a relief when they stepped back, a couple of them grunted with effort, and something crashed into his skull, knocking him out.

Over a day later, the High Priestess shut the outer door to her chambers, set a covered tray on the table, and sat down at her mirror. She checked that her eyes were clear, or at least not so puffy anymore, then picked up her veil and headdress and settled them over her head. She stared at her reflection for a full minute, as if waiting for the woman in the mirror to get up first. She sighed, and finally pushed herself to her feet.

Just outside her bedroom, she paused, running a thread of magic ahead to check each of the loose barriers she'd set around the bed. Two ripples came back, one very close by. "Good morning. Please step back," she said into the slight crack in the door.

A pause, then a soft creak of floorboards, unnervingly quiet for something – someone – his size. "Further, please," she ordered.

He made a noise she couldn't interpret. Floorboards creaked again, and the bedframe groaned under his weight. The priestess turned the doorknob, picked up the tray, and elbowed the door open.

Sans was sitting on the edge of the bed, knees on his elbows. He had opened the windows, and in the early daylight, he looked even more menacing; the light shone through his filthy shirt, shadowing the spaces between his ribs. The young woman made herself place the tray on a side table and pull up a chair with perfect unconcern, as if she couldn't feel him staring her down. "I see you're all healed. You must have slept well," she said coolly. "I know I did."

The skeleton glanced behind him at the rumpled sheets. "Uh..."

"You were alone the whole time," the priestess hastened to add. "There's a very comfortable couch in my office that I've been using."

"Yer office, huh?" Sans stretched his arms out over his head, bones clicking softly as he rolled his neck around. "Pretty nice setup y'got here. What is this, silk? Real feathers?"

She inclined her head. "I would have removed you from your cell much sooner if I'd known you were there. No one told me until Duke Archibald asked me to help select your new owner, which, no, I am not." She grimaced. "May I ask how you were caught? You're certainly capable of defending yourself."

Sans didn't answer. The young woman was thinking of what else to say when he grunted and turned to stretch back out on the bed, splaying his limbs across the huge mattress. "This's the most comfortable place I ever slept, y'know that?"

"Me, too," she said before she could stop herself.

Sans glanced up, as if wondering whether he'd seen a glimpse of personality, and she cleared her throat. "Is it the same reason you made no attempt to break out of your cell for three days?"

"Got caught tryin'a steal some grain," the skeleton mumbled. "Not a lot of food in the Underground these days. I hadn't had anythin' for a while, so I was weak as hell."

"You refused to eat anything while you were imprisoned," she pointed out.

He shrugged. "I figured it was poisoned or drugged 'r some other shit. Humans don't get their mitts on a boss monster every day, but ya can't have five sorcerers watchin' me every second. Feeding me some kinda crap like that would be the easiest thing t'do."

That didn't feel quite right, but without more evidence, the priestess decided to leave it for now. Instead, she pulled the side table closer to the bed and removed the tray's cover.

Sans twitched at the sight of steaming hotcakes, piles of cheese-sprinkled eggs, tomatoes, and crisp-crusted sausage links. The priestess cut a tomato slice into quarters with her fork, speared one and, with the ease of long practice, took hold of her veil between two fingers and lifted it long enough to get the fork to her mouth, dropping it as she put the fork down.

"Seriously? Just take the damn thing off," the skeleton remarked, sitting up.

The young woman made a show of chewing, swallowing, and lifting another tomato to her mouth. He didn't have a stomach, but if he had, she probably would have heard it growling; he was shifting around and scowling, clearly agitated. So she quickened her pace, taking a huge bite of egg, a chunk of hotcake, and a sausage, in turn eating as fast as she could.

Sans' eyes had lit to orange again, and the priestess was glad to put the fork down. "There. You see? It isn't poisoned," she said briskly. She stood and pushed the side table over to the bed. "Help yourself."

The orange faded. His skull tilted this way and that, like a wary but curious animal. "What?"

"I had breakfast over an hour ago. This is for you," she explained.

He glanced at the tray, then back to her. She waited for a full ten seconds, almost holding her breath, before she was rewarded with a rude noise. "Can I have another fork? Don't want your germs," he said.

The priestess knew when she was being tested. She picked up the fork. She went to the nightstand and the pitcher of water standing ready, and dunked the fork in it, swishing vigorously. "Here. But first," she said, holding up the dripping utensil, "I'd like to get a few things straight."

He didn't move. A moment later, she felt a tug on the fork, and instantly snapped the connection by raising another barrier. "No cheating," she reproved him.

"I'm cheating?" The skeleton banged his fist on the bedpost. "How the hell are you doin' this? I'm not dumb, lady! Ya can't just slap a barrier on somethin' that blocks every kinda magic! I can't get out of here, I can't go blue, ya did some weird crap to my poor blaster—"

"I helped you calm down. You've been asleep for twenty-six hours, by the way."

He stopped dead, but only for a second. "Yeah? Well...well, how do ya know so damn much about what I can do? If I'd known this was gonna happen, I'd'a left a long time ago!"

"And yet you didn't." The woman crossed her arms, keeping the fork pointed away from him. "I don't believe that you were too weak to remove yourself from the situation, Sans. We all have our secrets, and I don't mind that, but I need to know that you won't take drastic measures before we've completed our arrangement."

"There is no arrangement, witch," he shot back. "I'll make you a deal, okay? Forget this apprentice crap, lemme go now, and I won't kill anyone on my way out. How's that?"

She tapped the fork on the pitcher's handle. "Your people possess almost no farmland, and the area we've left you has notoriously poor soil. Did you know there are several potions, all made from common ingredients, that could double your crop yields in the space of a few years?"

Sans started. "No, and I don't care," he said, but without conviction.

"You should. There are also potions that can heal wounds, preserve foodstuffs, and send you to sleep with no ill effects, using only the tiniest bit of magic. Do you mean to tell me that monsters need none of these things?"

The skeleton looked at her warily. She could almost see him thinking. His rough speech and rougher appearance didn't fool her: he was at least as intelligent as she was, and also cared enough to want to hear more. "So," he rumbled, "I learn all this fantastic secret knowledge, and you get...?"

"Insight. Humans have been fighting monsters for centuries, and the more we know about you—"

His eyes flamed. "The easier it is to kill us? You seriously think I'm gonna—"

"The easier we can stop dying!" she snarled, her anger suddenly flaring right back at him.

The boss monster's eyes went blank with astonishment. She took a long, deep breath that did not help at all. "Believe me or not, Sans, when I say that I want to make peace for everyone's sake. I am tired of hearing every unsolved crime and evil thought blamed on monsters. I am tired of arguing with sorcerers who want to seal the entrance to the Underground and let you starve to death so that we don't have to talk about it anymore. I am tired of mediating disputes over monster ownership, as if we had any right to help ourselves to other sentient beings, and I'm sick to death knowing where our magic comes from and being unable to stop it!"

She was almost panting now, gripping the fork like a trident. Sans was staring at her like she'd grown another head. She swallowed, and lowered the fork. For want of something peaceful to do, she dipped it back into the pitcher for more swishing. "Monsters are not completely blameless," she said quietly, "but you are outnumbered by a much crueler and stronger race, and we've taken that advantage too far. It has to change, Sans, but we cannot do anything until we learn to talk to each other again."

Sans' teeth ground together. "Have you ever read a history book?" he snapped. "Ya know what happened the last time we had humans over to play?"

The priestess stared at a spot on the wall. Sans looked up in alarm as the barriers surged in and out of visibility, hissing softly. "Yes," she said, and went on, reciting from memory: "Several people were killed in an explosion caused by faulty stage effects at a farewell gala for the human delegation, most notably Prince Asriel of the monster race. Though the exact cause of this unfortunate accident remains unclear, its scope and destructive power were hallmarks of human magic, leading to accusations of sabotage and assassination from both sides. War was prevented solely by the will of Queen Toriel, who was devastated by the loss of her son and adoptive daughter, but nevertheless prevented her husband from executing the remaining humans. The delegation was permitted to leave, and in exchange, humans promised the Underground would never be sealed."

"...O...kay, then. Yeah. That's...that's pretty much it." Sans rubbed the back of his neck, scratching between the vertebrae. "Knowin' that, you still think you can teach me a bunch of stuff, turn me loose, an' make everything all better?"

"No. But I can try." On impulse, the priestess knelt, looking up at him and hoping the effect wasn't spoiled by the dirty fork. "Sans, give me one month. That's all I ask. You can have copies of any recipe you need to take back with you, and I'll show you the techniques to make them work properly. You won't have much freedom of movement, but you won't be kept in a cell, either." She glanced at the feather mattress and added, "You can keep the bed for yourself. As luxurious as it is, I feel lost in it."

He didn't laugh, but he didn't sneer at her, either. His eyes went from the fork to the bedpost, the canopy, the bookshelves lining the walls by the fireplace, and back to her face. "I need some time t' think about it," he said reluctantly. "What happens if I don't wanna?"

Her magic crackled in the air again, and she winced, trying to calm down. "I'd rather not say, but I think you know the answer. Remember, I'm not the only human who can use barriers."

He did not like that, and she couldn't blame him. She looked down at the fork in her hand. "You should eat now," she said lamely, and held it out to him, handle first, praying she had judged correctly.

The skeleton's face was impossible to read. Now that it was quiet, it reminded her too much of when he'd grabbed her in the cell. Her instincts screamed at her to pull her hand back and throw a barrier between them, but determination surged as she remembered how she'd already faced down his attempts to kill her. She was going to forge a lasting bond between their worlds and hand him a kitchen utensil like a normal person or die trying.

Slowly, Sans reached down, and she fought to keep from panicking as his massive hand approached hers. He paused...and plucked the fork from her grip with delicate courtesy, holding it up between them. "Hm. Too small. Still dirty." He tossed it back into her lap.

She stared at the fork. She stared at him. She picked up the fork, dropped it into the pitcher, and plunged her hand in after it. Out came the utensil; she turned her back to him, and with one swift motion, off came her veil. As High Priestess, she wore it for most of her waking hours, which meant she'd learned to whip it off without even disturbing her headdress, the way she'd once seen someone yank a tablecloth out from beneath a set of dishes.

And as High Priestess, if she wanted to use her sacred veil to dry a mostly-clean fork in order to please a giant monster who was intimidating her and somehow also being a complete snot, then who was going to stop her? No one, that was exactly who.

With a righteous huff, she turned back around, still polishing the bedamned fork. "Here," she said, facing him for the first time. "I hope this is satisfactory."

Sans looked at her. He didn't say anything.

The world always seemed a little too bright when she'd just had the veil on, and the light from the window was in her eyes. She rubbed them on her sleeve and tucked a strand of shoulder-length hair behind her ear. "Well?" she demanded.

Sans didn't take it. He was leaning forward, hand dangling as if he'd started to reach for it and somehow forgotten what he was doing. His sockets were blank, an odd color washing over his bony face. "Uh," he said. "It's."

The priestess didn't know that that could be a complete sentence. It probably wasn't, she thought in growing irritation. "Sans," she said carefully, "are you going to use this, or would you like to eat with your hands?"

The skeleton shook himself and turned away. "Never mind. 'm not hungry," he grumbled.

She bit back the urge to call him a colorful name or two. "Sans, this is not a joke. There is nothing wrong with your food, except that it's cold. Eat it. Please."

"I will, I will." Sans hunched his shoulders. "Just gimme a couple minutes."

She did not have the time or patience for this. "Sans. Look at this." He glanced at her, and in one motion, she stabbed a sausage and another chunk of hotcake. "Say 'ahhh,'" she ordered, and when he blankly repeated, "Ahh?" she thrust the fork into his mouth.

Sans nearly choked, demanding, "Wh' th' fuh, 'a'y?" before he swallowed it whole. The priestess was fascinated to not see anything pass his throat, though she knew he had eaten it. "What the fuck, lady?" he clarified.

"I am not 'lady,' thank you, and I know you know better words than that," she said sternly, putting the fork back on the tray. "It's not my fault if it got cold."

"I don't care how hot or cold somethin' is, lady. Ya didn't give me a chance to get my tongue out, so it's all the same to me." The boss monster answered her puzzled look by concentrating, then opening his mouth and pointing. "Thee? Tah-dah."

Good God, he suddenly did have a small, floppy red tongue. She flapped her hand at him, face burning. "All right! I believe you! Put it away!"

He did, and she was relieved to see nothing but a mouth full of giant fangs. "So," he said presently, "if I'm not supposed ta call you 'lady,' what's your name?"

The priestess blinked. No one had asked her that in a long, long time. "Well...if you don't like 'my lady,' there's always 'Your Eminence,' or my ceremonial name, Thea." It occurred to her that he was probably not going to react well to any of her suggestions, but she soldiered on: "You could just say 'High Priestess,' though that's a mouthful. At the convent, they gave each of us a different saint's name, and I was—"

Sans held up his hands. "Okay. That sounds peachy. But what. Is. Your. Actual. Damn. Name?"

She grasped her skirt so hard that her nails dug into her palms through the thick velvet folds. "My name is Frisk."

Sans' eyes were blank again. "Huh. No wonder. Welp, nice to meet you, Frisk." He raised a hand.

It was a blatant lie, but cordially given, so she attempted a smile in return. "It's nice to meet you, too, Sans."

For some reason, that seemed to alarm him. He drew back, then suddenly grabbed the tray, tipped his head back, and dumped the entire contents into his mouth. He had no cheeks, but his face somehow looked very full before he swallowed it all, dropping the tray on the floor. "There. Where's the bathroom?" he rasped.

Frisk realized her mouth was hanging open, and shut it. "It's...why do you ask? You're a skeleton."

"Right. Right." He scuffed the bones of his foot on the carpet. "Oh, look at this. Fork yes."

Sure enough, he'd found the fork. She scooped it up, setting it on the table, and out of nowhere, the priestess felt a real smile lift the corners of her mouth. "Just in tines."

The words hung in the air for a long moment. Frisk was beginning to feel stupid when Sans smacked his thighbone and gave a shout of laughter. "I'll be damned! You got the point."

"It's food for thought," she said, and grinned as he doubled over. "I'm sorry. Please fork-give me."

Just like that, she thought distantly. Yesterday – the day before? – she'd fought for her life against a boss monster who interpreted her overtures as a deadly threat, and now they were giggling in her room like drunken schoolgirls. Was this going to work after all? Was this how real peace began, with awkward silence and stupid puns? If not, Frisk could always console herself that this was the most she'd laughed in years.

Sans was not wondering the same thing. He was thinking how he'd woken up not knowing where he was and had had to figure out that he wasn't dreaming about the battle in his cell; a human witch really had trapped him and knocked him out with some kind of weird brain-magic. Once he got over the fact that he couldn't take any shortcuts and wouldn't fit through the windows, though, he had to admit things could be worse; the bed really was the most comfortable thing in the world.

Talking with the witch was not comfortable. It was bad enough when she was asking him questions about his capture and not breaking out of prison, but then she had to give him food and say things that made sense, and things that made even more sense, and then...

He'd never understood why human men made such a huge fuss over women. Monsters came in so many shapes and sizes that anything was possible; the inside really did count more than the outside, except maybe when it came to reproduction. But that was a rare occasion for monsters, who thought that humans' obsession with it was shallow and weird at best. Sans in particular had no interest in the human form unless he was trying to destroy it; they were all just skeletons with varying degrees of hair, meat and fluids in the way.

And then that infuriating woman had turned around in the sunlight, veil and stupid fork in hand, and he suddenly couldn't breathe. The overall picture was what made him feel a huge mess of feelings he didn't like or understand, but he could see every detail perfectly: her lips pursed in annoyance, the sun reflecting off that black circlet thing, chestnut hair shining and eyes half closed against the light. Her dress was still black, but today it was a looser, laced-up style, shoulders partly hidden under some kind of sheer material that ended high up her neck.

And then she had turned her head and done something with her hair, and now he couldn't think things right. All he could try to do was turn away, then eat it all in order to make her go away, and only his punning instinct had saved him from saying or doing anything else stupid.

Why did she have to like puns, too?

This was bad. It had gotten very complicated, very fast. He had to get out of here. She'd demonstrated some emotion behind her priestess-y facade; maybe he could appeal to it, persuade her to take some other monster under her wing and...wow. Speaking of wings, as she laughed, he happened to look down at her from a different angle, and she had a really nice rack. It was hard to see under such dark clothes, but they accentuated the graceful outline of neck and shoulder perfectly. Under the sheer material, her collarbone was—

"...going to do it," she was saying, wiping away tears of laughter. "I'm not all-powerful, but I have enough influence at court and with the Church to guarantee your safety." Frisk looked up at him, bright-eyed, and his SOUL did another loop-de-loop. "So, Sans. Will you stay?"

He didn't want to, it was a bad idea, and he said, "No," in his mind.

She smiled, tilting her head.

"Yeah," Sans said out loud.

#frans stopitstoptalking

228 notes · View notes

snowflake-of-destruction · 5 years ago

Note

For the drabble challenge: 114 and/or 43?

Got sidetracked but here is 43. Pick up lines only work when I’m drunk. Maybe I’ll do a sequel that contains why Roxas is upset for 114 once I decide what the reason is Onward!

Roxas could have been charitably said to be broodily nursing his drink, but to say he was watching the tracks of condensation and mentally taking bets on which bead would win and the intense concentration this took gave him a moody air that fit with the personality some expected of him was closer to the truth. So it was up for debate as to whether the tall redhead with the lip ring (obviously new, judging by the way he didn’t seem to be able to stop himself from darting the tip of his tongue out every so often and flicking the hoop) and the leather jacket so weathered it either said ‘interesting life” or “I found this in the back of a thrift store” was foolishly overconfident or paying attention to signs more closely than those who thought the blond wanted to be left alone when he took the stool next to Roxas, leaned over into his personal space and asked, “Did you just cast aeroga?”

Roxas’s unwavering fixed focus on the glass in front of him was too steady to be anything but purposeful. It said he was fighting the natural instinct to look toward the source of noise, not just lost in thought. His deep sigh of breath was exaggerated enough and his shirt tight enough that the expanding of his ribcage and following exasperated exhale was easy to track.

“What?” His elf ears twitched. That was a fun detail. Axel liked the bodies Donald had conjured for them for blending in on New Mushroomton. Even if Roxas disagreed, he should admit it could have been much worse. They could have been pixies. One of them could have been a mermaid, leaving the other to haul around a kiddie pool and keep casting waterza. They were both the same species too. That was a win, even if the rest of their mission had gone a little off track. The kind of off track that had Roxas deciding to give up completely and go stomping off, muttering about how at least they had bars here, and Axel running after him, apologizing because he really thought they would get a lead in that pixie piercing parlor, and then deciding to give him a bit to cool off before following.

It wasn’t the mission that had Roxas disgruntled though. He’d been blue since they landed. Pun intended.

“Did you just cast aeroga?” Axel repeated, making an attempt to wiggle his ears like Roxas had. “Because you swept me off my feet.”

“Axel,” Roxas all but growled in warning.

“Are you a keyblade? You look like you could pierce my chest and complete me again.”

“Bad taste.” Roxas still wouldn’t look up, but Axel was pretty sure he could interpret the way Roxas had pressed his lips together more tightly when he’d been listening to Axel speak as an attempt not to smile, and the growl could have also been a disguised laugh..

“No, bad taste would have been asking if I look like your Somebody, because I’ve heard your purpose is to get inside me so we can both feel complete.”

“Axel!” Roxas’s head snapped up and Axel counted it as his victory, even if the wide blue eyes were admonishing.

He could not be blamed then for enthusiastically continuing on the same track that had produced results before. “You have mastered the Power of Waking my…”

“That’s enough!” Roxas was near manic in his attempt to cut Axel off before he completed the sentence. Last shred of their combined dignity saved, he continued more calmly. “Pick up lines only work when I’m drunk.”

“Let’s work on getting you drunk then,” Axel flagged the bartender, not bothering to call out that what Roxas had said wasn’t strictly true. He loved bad pick up line competitions usually. Though, admittedly, it was less fun when they didn’t have Riku there with them, stuck with the impossible choice between sinking to his friends’ level and admitting last place.

“They won’t serve me,” Roxas mumbled through his hair as he ducked his head back down. “That’s why I just have a soda. I have no ID.”

“...And you’re so short they think you’re a child,” Axel hemmed sympathetically, trying very hard not to laugh. Saying anything at all was a mistake, and Roxas’s quick glare corrected him for it. He wasn’t much chastened though. “I’ll buy you a drink if you admit you’re thirsty.” he rolled the words around on his tongue to make them come out filthy, hoping to see Roxas’s elf face turn from sky to royal blue.

“I’ll rip out your lip ring.”

“I could be into pain if you’re the one dishing it out.”

A hard, well timed shove, had Axel struggling not to fall off his barstool, but, while Roxas was still a shade off from a robin’s egg, he was starting to look less blue, and that was all he wanted.

#akuroku #Anonymous #snippets

12 notes · View notes

jolgan · 4 years ago

Text

Something Wicked Comes to Stay

Intro/Summary

Prologue

Rating: T

Warnings: teenagers making out, demons, knives, identity crises (plural), existentialism, strong language at times, violence (teenagers attacking each other in a controlled environment, mentions of gang violence, oh yeah, demons), Teen Angst and other dumb teenage bs

Word Count: 1551

Chapter: 2/?

Chapter 1

The integration of Magic School was met with varying degrees of concern and outrage from students and their families. But, even so, the decision was already made, and demons were admitted. Even with extra safety precautions put in place by the Elders, many families pulled their children from the school. Instead, they chose to educate them themselves or to send them to public school. The Halliwell family wanted to do the same, but the oldest students refused. CeCe was the most adamant. She argued that because she attended Magic School for her entire education she would not fit in at a public school. She had never been in a classroom with non-magical students and she was uncomfortable with the idea. Besides, all her friends were at Magic School. Chloe and Adam Halliwell agreed with their cousin and stood with her. Their parents did eventually yield, but the agreement was conditional. The three oldest cousins would be allowed to continue at Magic School, but they had to demonstrate they could use “the power of three.” This was a ridiculous stipulation. It was impossible. They were not the Charmed Ones. They weren’t even siblings. The only hope they had was that each possessed one of Melinda Warren’s powers.

Specific powers alone were not enough, the cousins soon found out. Over the summer they went through brutal training. They had to learn to fight together, what each of their strengths and weaknesses were and how their powers worked together. They did have a close relationship from being so close in age and growing up together, which helped, but it was still bitter work. Their parents conjured “replica” demons for them to fight. The difficulty of each battle increased. The pressure came to a head when one training exercise ended badly. While fighting a replica brute demon, Chloe was seriously injured. The trauma of seeing his cousin in that state awakened Adam’s healing abilities. He was able to save her without intervention, but that was the final straw for Wyatt, who believed they were pushing their children too hard to achieve something that was impossible. P.J. also had growing concerns with the intensity of the training they were forcing their teenage children through. “My daughter almost died tonight because of your “training” exercises. Your son is probably traumatized from seeing her like that,” She argued to Chris. “My child is my problem. Besides, it would have happened eventually. It’s probably better that it happened now than later,” Chris reasoned. “If this is too much for them, then so is going to a school with evil students,” he finished. Overhearing this exchange, CeCe and Chloe came up with a plan. They were going to prove to their parents that they could manage demons and use their own brand of “the power of three,” they just had to get Adam on board. The girls went up to CeCe’s room to find Adam lying on her bed, his arm over his eyes. “You okay?” Chloe asked him, as she and CeCe sat on the edge of the bed. Adam groaned and his arm slid back to his side. He looked at Chloe. “Are you okay?” he asked seriously. She nodded. “Of course I am. You healed me,” she assured him with a smile. The three teens sat in silence for a few moments before CeCe broke it. “We came up with a plan,” she said, waggling her eyebrows. Adam tensed for a moment and sighed. He never was a fan of their schemes. “What kind of plan?” he asked her reluctantly. “I’m glad you asked,” she giggled, almost evilly. The girls explained their idea to their wide-eyed younger cousin. He stared at them in disbelief. “Wait a minute, let me get this straight,” Adam said. “An hour ago, you almost died fighting a fake brute demon,” he said as he looked at Chloe. “And now, you freaks want to summon a real one to try and vanquish it. Do you have a death wish? Do you need to talk to someone?” he questioned. “Come on, Adam, you can heal now!” Chloe said proudly. “I can’t heal you if I’m dead! I can’t heal you if you’re dead!” he all but screamed. “Okay, okay. Keep it down. We don’t want the parents to hear,” CeCe shushed. “Listen, I am not going to public school next year. I am going back to Magic School even if it means I’m going alone. You don’t have to get involved if you don’t want to. I’ll just do it myself,” she said as she started to get up. Adam caught her wrist. “Wait,” he gave in. “You don’t have to manipulate me. I don’t want to go to a human school either. I’m in.” CeCe’s face brightened. “Yes! You are the best cousin ever!” she exclaimed as she and Chloe both attacked him with a hug. “Yeah, yeah. Get off me. You two owe me for this,” Adam said pointedly. “I’ll give you my notes from Wiccan History and write all your spells for you this year,” CeCe offered. “I’ll help you with potions and tell you if any of your crushes like you back,” Chloe promised. “Deal,” Adam grinned. “Okay, great. Call for the book.” CeCe told him. “What? What if your mom is using it and it just orbs out by itself?” he asked. CeCe rolled her eyes. “She’s out of town, the only other people here are our parents and they are currently arguing downstairs. Get the book,” she pressed. Adam sighed and held out his hands. “Book of Shadows,” he called. The book appeared in his hands with a swirl of white light. “Let’s get to work,” Chloe cheered. With that, their preparations began. They studied the Book of Shadows and found every scrap of information that was available on brute demons. Unfortunately, not much was available that they didn’t already know. They had to write both a summoning and a vanquishing spell, which was more difficult than they thought, especially since they couldn’t really practice them. They could only make sure that they were as specific and accurate as possible, and pray that they worked. The cousins were very thorough. They went over every detail and every possible thing that could go wrong and made back up plans to cover that. If the vanquishing spell didn’t work, they hoped that CeCe’s combustion power would be enough, but during their potions lesson with Grams the next day, they brewed a potion that replicated it just in case. “Hey, Grams?” Adam asked, flipping to the right page in the book. “Would it be possible if we could make this one today?” “Why?” Grams eyed him suspiciously. “I’ve always been jealous of you and CeCe. I want to know what it’s like to blow something up! Besides, you wrote the recipe for it right?” His words were dripping with feigned innocence and flattery. A slow smile spread across Grams’ face. “Yeah, okay,” she agreed, but the suspicion never left her eyes. She wasn’t born yesterday. Adam sent a covert wink to the girls when Grams was distracted. After they brewed and played with the potion, Chloe made sure to stash a few vials in CeCe’s desk drawer. The next part of the plan was to perfect using the crystal cage. This was purely to be sure that they could get the job done before they got attacked and things started going wrong. It would be humiliating if they needed their parents to bail them out. Adam and CeCe both orbed to the attic late at night so he could practice sliding the last crystal perfectly in place. When they felt confident enough, they put their plan into motion. One evening after training, they set up the crystal cage in the conservatory. Chloe called their parents into the room and joined Adam and CeCe, potions already in hand. When their parents arrived the three of them began summoning the brute. When he appeared, Adam slid the last crystal in place using his power. The brute began to fight to escape from his prison. The cousins joined hands and recited the spell they wrote together to vanquish him. The demon burst into flames signifying that their spell had worked. The cousins reacted excitedly, thrilled that they were successful. When they were done celebrating, they looked over to their parents, who were wearing varying expressions of shock and amazement. “Did our fifteen-year-old kids just…” P.J. stammered. “Mine is fourteen,” Chris stated. “Was that a brute?” “I didn’t think there were spells to summon or vanquish brutes,” Wyatt pondered out loud. The older Halliwells were impressed with their children’s performance, but that didn’t save the teens from a lecture about how recklessly they behaved. By the end, they admitted that the cousins had proved themselves and they would be allowed to stay enrolled in Magic School. CeCe, Chloe, and Adam were thrilled. Of the nine magical Halliwell children, three remained at the school and the younger six were pulled out and sent to public school. The oldest three cousins were excited to see what it would be like to go to school with demons. Excited, but also terrified. It was a thrilling mix of emotion. They couldn’t wait for school to be back in session.

**A/N** I wanted this to just be a nice little recap and then to get right into the story, but they had other ideas. I am but a vessel, so who am I to argue? The boys are coming next chapter I promise!

#charmed 1998 #charmed hq crossover #haikyuu!!#SWCtS #future magic school AU #all photos from google dot com #OCs

5 notes · View notes

orionwhispers · 6 years ago

Text

Beware Of The Dogs - Part II

(A/N - here is part 2!!! almost 12,000 words lol. i hate myself. so much alfie fluff and also a little smut(?) dare i say, not really but i tried. i hope you enjoy it, there will be more parts!!)

PART I

PART III

The first taste of freedom was intoxicating.

Your flat was small, with smudged paint and charcoal coloured fingerprints along every wall and a pipe that dribbled stagnant water onto the carpet, but you adored it, because it was yours. You consumed the city like it was medicinal, desperate to see everything and anything. Your insatiable thirst reminded you of bittersweet memories from your childhood, like greedily drinking from the tap with John on a summers morning after spending every moment from sunrise running around the fields. You felt younger and lighter, a sensation so unfamiliar that you mistook it for a sickness at first, before you realised that you were finally free, like a weight had been lifted from your shoulders. Your whole body felt electric, the spark that had dwindled inside of you suddenly reignited, you awoke every morning with a sense of purpose, slipping into your work heels and skirt like they were a new skin.

You always were careful though. You introduced yourself as “Rosie Smith” to anyone who asked, the alibi becoming second nature and slipping off of your tongue like sweet wine whenever you needed it. You felt like you could be a whole new person, you weren’t even sure what was real and what was fantasy, the big city engulfing you and dragging you under. You had heard people say that London was too overwhelming, that they couldn’t make themselves heard, but you loved that. You loved that no one knew your real name or who your family were, you loved that people skipped over your face in the street and let you drown in the crowd. You hung around backstreets and ran through alleys, never staying in one place for too long, you were always cautious, because you knew that all it would take was one sighting from a stray Blinder and your game would be up.

You didn’t plan to stay in London. You knew eventually that the Blinders would expand their company to the capital and it would only be a matter of time before you would be sniffed out by the hounds and dragged back to Birmingham by the scruff of your neck. Edmund had an opening lined up for you down South, and you were planning on saving your pay checks for a cottage to call your own, but before you knew it you found a reason to stay.

Two months after you arrived, Edmund sent you on an errand. It was November, the sky was a vibrant blue, the ground icy and the harsh wind was licking at any exposed flesh. Weeds grew from cracks in the pavement, leaves dripping with dew and the trees were almost entirely bare, naked branches swaying above you. You pulled your coat closer to your skin, blowing hot air onto your hands as you made your way down the street. You were in Camden, a part of the city that you had left unexplored, and you repeated Edmunds hazy directions in your mind like a mantra.

You had visited a quaint bookshop, with plants lining the windowsill and novels stacked crookedly on top of one another, the smell of dust and paper filling the room. Edmund had been on the phone with the owner for weeks, bargaining a price for some first edition Jane Austen’s that had arrived, but by the time you had got there, the woman informed you that they had already been sold.

You scuffed your heel onto the solid ground, frost sticking to your shoe. It was the first task your boss had sent you and you would be returning empty handed, it might not have been your fault but you still felt defeated. You made your way back the way you came, through the park with big looming trees. You were amazed by the vast sapphire sky above you, and the flame coloured leaves that fell on the ground. You were certain you had never seen colour like it before, Birmingham seemed like an eternal grey, and you were engrossed by the spectrum around you. You were so distracted that you didn’t even notice the dog bounding towards you until it was too late, and his massive mud covered paws slammed onto your dress.

“Cyril! Cyril! Down boy! Bloody dog.”

You heard him before you saw him, his voice raspy and gruff. You were entranced by the dog, he was huge, with fur the colour of amber and big hazel eyes that followed your every move. You knelt down to his level, not that you had to go far, and rubbed the fluff on the back of his neck, watching his tongue loll happily. Your knees prickled at the sensation of the cold ground and you felt dampness soak the fabric of your dress, but you didn’t care.

“Oi! Cyril, off mate. Get up you big lump.”

The dog relented, leaning into your touch and sighing, his back leg twitching with glee. A large hand wrapped under his thick leather collar, pulling him back gently but firmly and the big dog fell onto his haunches, paws skidding across the frost tipped grass. You glanced up at the figure that now stood before you; tall and solid like the oak trees planted in the dirt all around you. Surprise made you gasp, bitterly crisp air shocking the back of your throat, so cold it almost tasted metallic in your mouth. Before you could say anything, he offered you a large hand, olive coloured and calloused, and you took it without hesitation. He hoisted you to your feet with little effort, the dog sniffing at your heels, his tail wagging with such force that you wondered if he might take off. You looked up at the man, trying to keep your gaze steady and cool, but his presence was unsettling. He was very handsome. Not in the traditional way perhaps, not like the clean cut boys from back home with sharp haircuts and shaven faces, he looked strong, powerful, as if he could command attention with just a look. He’d certainly captured yours. Your stomach was tight, blush rising to your cheeks as you glanced at him, an unwelcome fever brewing inside of you, you felt ridiculous, small and meek beside such an alluring man. You couldn’t help it, he was unlike anyone you had ever seen before, with his wiry beard and strong nose and rose coloured lips; even the tall hat on his head and the tattoos that marked his fingers, they were all intriguing to you.

You smiled up at him and shrugged softly, toying with the hem. “Its OK. If anything I think he improved the design.”

He was silent. He watched you, his eyes unwavering as he studied your face with such intensity that it made you shiver more than the cold chill of the breeze.You desperately wanted to know what he was thinking, but he remained impassive, his sea glass coloured eyes flickering with an emotion you couldn’t quite comprehend. It seemed as though he was inwardly debating something, his eyebrows furrowing.

You were about to make a hasty excuse and leave, the prickling thought that you were behaving like a child stinging your skin like nettles. You wondered if you looked impossibly young and immature compared to the rest of the women in the city that this handsome stranger probably surrounded himself with, but before you could conjure up words, he opened his mouth, seemingly overcoming the battle he was having in his mind.

“Where are you headed?”

His name was Alfie. You introduced yourself as Rosie and told him that you were heading back to work in Highgate. His accent was thick and unusual to you, but somehow it made you feel at ease, somehow familiar. You wondered if your accent was strong to him, wondered if he could detect the “brum” inside of you, and you hoped he didn’t ask about your past, for some reason you didn’t want this stranger to know anything bad about you.

The two of you walked side by side along the cobbled path that ran through the park, it was quiet, almost empty except for the odd dog walker or couple. A low fog had formed around your ankles like the tide, and you watched Cyril chase some squirrels into the bushes, a rumbling growl emitting from his throat. You were mostly silent, your hands shoved into the pockets of your coat for warmth, clenching and unclenching your fingers from nervousness. Alfie seemed to be mulling something over in his head, his lips moving ever so slightly. Only after you had walked about fifty yards did you notice the cane in his hand, his fingers wrapped around a brass lions head adorning the top and the ever so slight limp in his gait.

“So, what do you do?” You asked eventually, your frozen breath lingering in the air for a moment.

“I own a bakery.”

You stalled for a moment, looking him up and down, pupils flittering on his fine jewellery and expensive three piece suit. He mirrored your gaze, mimicking your movements, his cane thumping suddenly on the solid ground. You smiled suspiciously and raised your eyebrows, not even giving yourself a moment to think before you asked incredulously, “How much bloody bread do you sell if you can afford a Patek Philippe pocket watch?”

As soon as the words came out of your mouth you regretted them, but you didn’t miss the spark of curiosity that flickered across Alfie’s eyes and the twitch in his upper lip. Damn Tommy and his affinity for designer brands.

He toyed with the golden chain tucked into his waistcoat, stroking his thumb across the expensive hardware and pinching the dial.

“You’ve got a fine eye.”

“My dad was a collector.” You lied. The only things Arthur Shelby Sr collected were empty bottles and spots on his liver, anything he owned that was worth something was quickly pawned for cigarettes and alcohol.

Alfie looked you up and down, his tongue darting out to wet his lips and you hated how your stomach flipped. “Right, right.” He smiled. Your comment had obviously knocked him off guard, and you could almost see his mind whirring, trying to figure you out. “So, what are you then, some kind of jeweller?”

“No. I’m a secretary, I work for a publisher. I only started a few months ago.” You couldn’t stop the words from leaving your mouth, since arriving in London privacy was the one thing essential to you and your camouflage, but something about this mysterious stranger had you spilling your secrets. He had an aura about him that intrigued you, attracted you like a bee to sticky, warm honey.

He swung the cane from the ground, tilting the end towards the street that curved in front of you, using it like he would a pointed finger. “That new one up by the butchers? My mate was in there last week.”

You smiled, “Yes, that would be the one.”

He whistled suddenly, and Cyril’s large caramel head lifted from where he had stuck it down a rabbit hole, the big dog lolloping back to you both immediately. You stroked his velvet ears gently, as his body rammed into your knees and Alfie watched you, his eyes trailing you up and down once more. “So what brings you out to Camden? A woman like you shouldn’t be in a place like this.”

You stopped, “A woman like me?” You didn’t try to sugar coat your tone,

He held up his hands and you noticed the rings adorning his fingers, so close that you could cut your teeth on them. “I mean no offence, right,” He leant in slightly as if he was telling a secret, the heat of his body hitting yours. “But Camden is a bad place filled with very bad men.”

“It seemed perfectly safe to me.” You quipped. “Besides, I’ve dealt with my fair share of bad men.” You faltered, the words tumbling out before you could stop them, you only recovered when Cyril nudged your palm and licked the tips of your fingers, begging for crumbs. “I wasn’t there for very long,” you added quickly, wanting to change the subject from the truth you had let slip. “My boss sent me out looking for first editions, but they were all sold when I got there.”

He nodded, sucking his tongue, the ghost of a smile at the edge of his mouth. “You’re not from around here are you?” He asked finally, and you were close enough you could see the outline of his lips as he enunciated his words, and you traced them, familiarising yourself with every dip and divot.

“You can tell?” You pulled away, not allowing yourself any more time to drown in him, you felt small and young and stupid beside him, watching him like you were a child, but what you hated more was the ache in your chest when you pulled your gaze away.

“I would have remembered a face like yours.”

You felt heat rise to the tops of your ears, and could only imagine the colour of your cheeks. You kept your eyes trained anywhere but him, following a magpie dart into the bare branches of a tree, ebony coloured feathers glistening under the milky blue sky. You had reached the end of the path now, stood beside the iron gate that led back into the street. You listened to the roar of the cars and the people around you, but neither were a match for the thumping of your heart and the rush of blood in your ears.

You could feel him watching you as you stepped onto the pavement, stood at the top of the road that would separate the both of you. You spun on your heel so you were facing him. You dared to look up and meet his gaze, noticing the scarring and texture on his cheeks that you hadn’t spotted before, his features flourishing in the sun, no longer able to hide under the shadows of the trees.

“I should head back to work.” You said, first to break the silence that had formed between you like a sheet of ice. There was no awkwardness, but rather unease, neither of you knowing quite what to say to the other. You had never been in a situation like it, never felt so nervous in front of someone who wasn’t blood, and little did you know that Alfie was feeling the same, observing you under the pale light and wondering how you left him so winded.

“Let me walk you to the office.” He insisted, voice thick and raspy.

You appreciated his offer, and truly wanted nothing more than to spend as much time as possible with him, but the voice inside your head reminded you that he was a distraction you couldn’t afford to have, not right now anyway. “No, thank you, but I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

He shook his head, starting to protest but you held up your hands, silencing him with your movements and the soft look in your eyes, he rolled his own in defeat, pursing his lips. You moved closer to him, filling in the gap that separated you, the icy breeze and the recklessness of your actions making goosebumps rise along your spine.

He smelt like leather and cedar, warm but musky, and you thought if you closed your eyes you’d be stood beside the wood burner in the house you grew up in, watching the firewood crumble into ash. You had never been this close to a man who wasn’t related to you, the only time you could recall was when you were fourteen and Harry Miller from your arithmetic class asked you to the pictures. You lied to your family for the first time that night, telling them you staying at Isabella's for dinner after school. You can remember the smell of buttery popcorn and half chewed toffees as you sat sucking on a liquorice whip, your shoulders brushing ever so slightly against Harry’s cotton shirt. Your hands were slick with anticipation and nerves from your rebellion, but the film hadn’t been on for more than five minutes before the doors swung open and you heard John and Arthur hollering your name under the flickering lights.

But you were alone now.

You could sense his eyes roaming across you, so delicate and intimate it was almost as if he was running his fingertips across your skin. You felt so alive and it terrified you, how could somebody you had spent less than an hour with make your whole body feel like it was catching alight? Before you could think you stretched out your hand, Alfie hesitated, a smirk on his lips as he covered your palm with his own, the warmth and the spark that ran through your blood almost making your knees buckle but you ignored it as you looked up at him.

“Goodbye, Alfie.”

“Goodbye, Rosie.”

That night he infiltrated your dreams. You woke at midnight after hours of tossing and turning and sat on the windowsill, watching the stars. The air was icy and you pressed your back against the old radiator, the dull warmth soothing you as you tried to get the constant thoughts of him out of your mind. For the first time in a long time you were focusing on someone who wasn’t a sibling, for the first time you had a tight coil your stomach, knotted like a rope and you felt strangely hopeful. But as soon as the thoughts came you pushed them away, you weren’t in the right place to let anybody in, everything you had worked so hard for could come crumbling down around you if you weren’t careful, you couldn’t afford to risk it all. So with a heavy feeling in your chest, you pulled your blanket over your eyes, settling into the cheap mattress and willing yourself to sleep, ignoring the tall, handsome man who tried to climb inside your mind. You couldn’t be distracted.

The next morning you woke up late, your head throbbing from exhaustion and your eyes blurry and sore. You let the cold air wash over you like a wave as you ran down the street, boot laces untied and top messily tucked into your skirt. You were panting by the time you reached the office, swearing as you rattled the doorknob and it whined in protest, you finally got it open, tumbling across the doormat and smiling hastily as your colleague Elizabeth’s head snapped up.

You didn’t notice the package until after you had made a steaming mug of coffee, inhaling the nutty aroma and letting the heat hit the back of your throat. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with red string, nestled on top of the paperwork you had been meaning to sort out. You frowned in confusion, looking up at Elizabeth with a furrowed brow.

“Oh, right, I forgot to mention it, sorry. A boy dropped it off for you this morning.”

Your mind immediately filled with storm clouds, rampant thoughts running through your brain like wild horses and you briskly ran into an empty office, shutting the door behind you so you could tear open the surprise in peace. Bile rose in your throat, there was no note written on the top or return address, and all that did was enforce the sickening feeling that somebody had found you, somebody bad.

Your fingers were shaking as you manipulated the wrapping, tearing off the ribbon and smoothing down the sides, your heart pounding and your mind immediately thinking the worst. You were expecting a threat, your over active imagination wondering if you had been sent a severed body part as a warning, but as you unwrapped the present, your heart stopped for an entirely different reason.

There were books. Six of them exactly, in pristine condition, the covers vivid and exciting, begging you to open and devour them. You hesitated, not daring to run your finger along the spines despite them pulling you like a magnet. It took you a second but realisation struck you like a stream train. They were first editions. Thomas Hardy, Charles Dickens, Jane Austen, authors you adored and admired. You felt your adrenaline spike, like when you ate too many sweets as a child, that nauseating kind of elation that spread throughout your entire body. Edmund was going to be thrilled, you tentatively opened the cover of “Oliver Twist” a story that had always reminded you of your own family, and watched as piece of paper fluttered onto your shoe.

“I hope you can find some use out of these - Alfie.”

The next time you saw him was on a Friday, after work. The sun had set, the streetlights burning yellow, and the night air so cold it cut like a knife. You had stayed late and twisted your key in the lock, your fingers growing numb, trying to move as quickly as you could before you froze on the spot. You were dreaming of getting home, slipping out of your shoes and crawling into a hot bath, you could practically hear the tub calling your name. You turned around, rubbing your hands together, preparing yourself for the bitter walk home, but you jumped in shock as you saw a silhouette watching you under the pale light.

“Alfie!” You muttered, recognising his features and trying to keep your voice steady despite the surprise bubbling inside of your throat. In any other circumstance you would have been scared, terrified of being alone in the dark with a man you barely knew, but looking at him, you felt nothing but a calm wash of ease flow over you. “What are you doing here?”

He stepped closer, the familiarity of his features striking you in the gut, rendering you speechless just like the first time you met. Luckily for you, he filled in the silence that surrounded you both.

“I was waiting for the shop to close.” He said, his eyes darting across your face and towards the locked office behind you, if you knew him better you would dare to say he seemed apprehensive. “I wanted to walk you home.”

You swallowed quickly, your back growing warm and your toes curling together, suddenly feeling lightheaded and dizzy. “You wanted to walk me home?” There’s a hint of bewilderment in your voice, the only men who have walked you home - beside from your brothers- had been Blinders ordered to keep you safe, stealing any independence you had from a young age. You had always loathed those escorts back home, the men eyeing you as if you were a criminal, ready to run as soon as they looked the other way. You hated losing control and being forced to put it into the hands of whoever Tommy deemed suitable, and as much as you hated to admit it, you felt a gentle twist in your stomach at Alfie’s gesture. It seemed genuine and kind, something you weren’t used to.

“A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be walking alone at night.” The words left him as quickly as running water, and it took you a minute to digest them, fiddling with the keys in your hands like they were a puzzle waiting to be solved. There was no malice or condescension in what he says, and you could see the ghost of a smirk on his lips, and as you looked at the innocence on his face, you could feel a hammer being slammed against the walls you have built around you.

“Are you flirting with me?” You asked finally, quirking a brow and looking up at him through your eyelashes.

“You finally noticed?”

You laughed, soft like snow hitting the pavement and Alfie felt his heart stop. The sky was jet black and these cold months seem to make everything darker, ebony surrounding you like the ocean but as your eyes met, a spark ignited between your bodies. He felt himself unconsciously drawing closer to you, the unfamiliarity of what he was about to do no match for the attraction that connects the two of you.

He brought his thumb to his mouth, scratching the chestnut coloured hairs that decorated his upper lip, flitting his eyes to the ground and tightening his grip on his cane with his other hand, using it to level himself. “Look, the other day in the park, right? I don’t usually do things like that. Well actually, I never fucking do it.”

You frowned, “You mean, you’ve never asked anybody to walk with you?”

“No.” He interjected, the truth of what he’s saying evident on his face. “Look.” He continued, eyes looking everywhere but your own. “It’s just not me, and I honestly had no bloody idea why I did it.”

You sucked on your tongue, taking in everything he said, not knowing what you should respond. Wondering if you’re imagining the magnetism that flows between you, wondering if you’re about to be made a fool and leave with your head hung and your tail between your legs. But whilst your mind fills with dark clouds, Alfie continued.

“But, truth be fucking told right, I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Your eyes snapped up and connected with his, and the urgency makes the both of you smile, connected by your mutual unease at the situation you have found yourself in. He has never opened up to anyone, let alone a girl he’s known for less than a day, and you’ve never been as close to someone as you are now. A moment passes, and given that you haven’t run for the hills, Alfie took it as a good sign and turned back to face the street, gesturing with his arms.

“So, where are we headed?”

Your first date was at a bar in Camden. Alfie picked you up in his car at eight, swallowing thickly when you opened the door and came out in your finest dress, his pupils blown out like he had done a line of snow. You talked all night and into the morning, drinking glasses of rum and champagne in a gold and blood coloured booth at the back, away from any prying eyes. He listened to everything you said, hung on to every word, and any break in the conversation was filled with soft looks and timid smiles. He was so burly and big and unlike anyone you had ever encountered, hard around the edges but melting in the middle when he looked at you, whilst you were so beautiful and sweet and gentle and unlike any woman he had ever encountered in the smoke of London. When the sun finally rose again and the fatigue was setting in he drove you home, promising to take you out again and you climbed up the stairs like you were in a daydream, squealing with happiness after you watched his car turn a corner and vanish down the road.

You always met up at twilight, somewhere dark and secluded where you could both be alone. It was perfect for you, you needed the privacy, you couldn’t imagine what would happen if your family found out you had begun seeing someone, let alone a man like Alfie. As you got closer, the guilt in your stomach constricted your insides like a python, you despised the lies that came out of your mouth whenever he asked about your family or your past, you hated the way that you erased your family as if you were ashamed of them. You reminded yourself though, as Alfie smiled at you, with wide teeth and shining eyes, that you were doing it for his sake, his protection, but a month or so after you had first gone out, you realised just how little he needed your help.

Maybe you had been naive, maybe you had been so wrapped up in your infatuation that the warning signs had turned into butterflies but you ignored the omens from the start. You were a smart woman, and you had grown up with enough cloak and dagger that you should have seen the signs as they unravelled around you, but you were too swept up in emotion to care.

The first time you noticed something wasn’t right was at work. Edmund had thanked you profusely for the books, running his hands across them as if he was in a trance, fingertips gently tracing the spines. He asked you where you had found them, and you told him that you had been sent them as a gift.

“Well, that’s brilliant.” He said, “You must tell me who, I need to write a thank you letter.”

You nodded, smiling to yourself, “I’ve already got it covered, I don’t have an address though, would you be able to help?”

“Certainly. I’ve lived here my whole life. I might know him.”

“His names Alfie, he owns a bakery and - ”

You watched Edmund pale like he was draining a pint of bitter, his obvious discontent evident on his face, and he held the books limply in his palm as if they had transformed from something magical to evil in mere seconds.

“Edmund are you alright?”

He ignored you, walking around you and shutting the door to his office, peering into the hallway to check you were alone. You were about to question him once again but he opened his mouth first, silencing you with a look that could cut through leather.

“How do you know Mr Solomons?”

You frowned, “We met that day you sent me into Camden, he walked me back to the office.” You spoke as if it was the simplest thing in the world but the way that your boss regarded you made your body twist together, worry constricting your airways.

“I know it’s not my place.” Edmund started, his voice barely above a whisper but his words held as much conviction as a punch in the gut. “But you must be careful - ”

“He was perfectly nice, I mean...” You didn’t dare tell him that you had been seeing Alfie for weeks now, the information you had already wanted to keep private suddenly seeming forbidden.

“Rosie. Promise me you will be careful? You can’t trust men like him. He’s dangerous.”

You wanted to ask Edmund who the hell he thought he was policing you as if he was your father, but the way the older gentleman ran a hand through his greying hair and chewed on his lip you stopped yourself from protesting. “I knew I never should have sent you out that day.” He mumbled, and you tried to pry more out of him, but the conversation was over as quickly as it started and he held up his hands and left, leaving you confused and alone.

You made your way to the bakery on a Saturday, Alfie had changed the time of your date from the afternoon to the evening claiming that he was busy with work, but your insatiable need for the truth overpowered the rational part of your brain. It wasn’t hard to find. You retraced your way back to where you had first met, through the park and along the canal, arriving at a bustling market. From there you simply asked for directions from a very hesitant vendor, only promoted with a twenty you shoved into his palm. You would be lying if you said that the hairs on the back of your neck didn’t stand up as you made your way deeper into an alleyway, surrounded completely by men who watched you with greedy eyes.

Your heart hammered in your chest as you noticed the similarities between the bakery and the business back home, the same boat yard with its stagnant smell and looming crates, the workers whose hands were dirty and eyes were distant and the darkness that surrounded you like a robe. You thought about turning around and running back, the knowledge that the perfect bubble you have created would shatter like glass if you continued, wanting nothing more than to stay in your candy coated daydream you had made, but you knew that you had to do this.

You were ignored for the most part as you made your way inside what you assumed was the warehouse, the smell of baked goods and dough hitting you like a steam train. It was a good cover, the first floor completely filled with men rolling and kneading batter between their palms, cases of rolls and loaves packed and ready for shipping, but you knew that it was all false. The men here were heavy set and covered with tattoos, as unconvincing in their aprons as they were likely to break out into song in front of you.

A man spotted you, his head snapping up and voice tight and prickly. “You can’t be back here! Oi!What are you doing?”

You opened your mouth to apologise and ask after Alfie, but before you could a distinctive stentorian voice echoed through the room like a rumbling carriage and you followed it, chasing it down a hidden set of stairs. Your curiosity was piqued, you were nervous but filled with determination to find the man whose voice surrounded you like the ocean, and you smiled as you saw the tops of his curls jutting out from above rows of barrels and kegs. You almost called out his name, but a sharp strike of something metal made you stop in your tracks, the sound so carnal and sickening that you stay rooted on the spot, concealed in the shadows.

“What the fuck are you lot playing at? I’m paying you all good fucking money right, and all I ask for is a bit of fucking respect!”

You lifted your head, trying to angle your vision and get a better view. There were about a dozen men, dressed like militant workers but with their heads bowed in shame. They were lined in a crescent, all cowering from a figure in front of them, strong men shaking like lambs being brought to slaughter.

“That fucking shipment right,” He continued, “It was very valuable and all you fucking pricks had to do was make sure it got there on time, now you’ve made me look like a mug. Am I a fucking mug to you?”

“Boss... I...”

“Shut up.” The voice was so familiar but something inside of you prayed for it to be a case of mistaken identity, especially when another blood curdling thwack echoed around you, and the slump of a body hitting the floor made you gasp. The movement of your inhale made a stray bottle fall from next to you, green glass sparkling as it cracked and shattered onto the floor, the noise making every head snap towards your hiding spot.

You swore you could feel a million eyes on you but any attempt to flee would be futile, having captured the attention of almost every man in the room.

“What the fuck are you all looking at?”

He stepped out from the murk, blood splattered on his white cotton shirt like some kind of abstract painting you could never understand. His hair was loose, tousled from his hands, chains and rings adorning his fingers, catching the light ever so slightly. He looked raw, not hiding behind an expensive suit or lavish grandeur, you would have thought he would have looked softer like this, almost exposed in front of you, but if anything it made him look more powerful, almost... frightening.

It took him barely three strides before he saw you, he was still mumbling under his breath, wiping his hands on a handkerchief in his pocket, the fabric slowly turning red. He lifted his head up, spotting you instantly and faltering, stopping dead in his tracks, his face pale, his eyes glassy. He blinked, softening ever so slightly, he opened his mouth and almost choked on the air, turning away as if he couldn’t bear to look at you.

“Ollie.” He said after a minute, and you watched a boy of about Finns age stand by his side immediately, “Take her into the office, alright lad? Let me finish up here.” His words seemed controlled, but you could hear the tremor of anger in his voice and you feel your knees buckle, reminding you of waiting outside the headmasters office when you were a child, waiting for the inevitable punishment.

Ollie approached you, much kinder looking than the rest of the men you had seen working here, and he gently beckoned for you to walk down the final few steps. He guided you into the vast warehouse, his hand hovering behind your back, but never quite touching it. Everyone’s eyes were still on you, questioning and domineering, but you kept your head held high as you passed them. Alfie’s body was blocking most of your view, but you couldn’t help the bubble of surprise that rose in your throat, some kind of strangled squeal escaping when your gaze dropped to the floor, and Alfie spun around immediately.

The man was lying on the ground, probably only a handful of years older than yourself, a pool of crimson laying around his crown like some kind of fucked up halo. Alfie’s eyes never left yours, he swallowed thickly, running a hand over his face as if he could restart his vision and you would no longer be in front of him, safely tucked away at home, away what you had seen. Ollie didn’t hesitate, finally grabbing the small of your back and pushing you forward, down a long corridor and into an office, slamming the door behind the both of you.

Back in the warehouse the tension was thick like a cloak, Alfie’s breathing short and tight, rage coursing through his veins, adrenaline bubbling inside of him. The men kept their eyes trained on the floor, sensing the anger inside of their boss, all of them terrified of being the one who bore the brunt of it.

He cleared his throat, the sound low like a rumbling wave. “If I catch any one of you fuckers looking at the girl - even fucking thinking about her, I will cut your cock off and feed it to my dog. You see her you keep your head down and keep fucking working. Is that clear?”

A chorus of agreements circled around, Alfie was less than satisfied, wanting to drill his message in everyone’s fucking skull, but the thought of you waiting for him, perhaps scared of him, was enough for him to leave his subordinates and find you.

It was silent for a few minutes, you attempted to control your breathing and the unsteady pace of your heart whilst Ollie awkwardly scratched his curls, shifting his weight every couple of seconds and you watched his sock falling down his leg with his movements, a welcome distraction.

“So you’re the girl?” He asked, his voice raising an octave, plucking up the courage to try and out a face to the stories that had been clouding his mind for the past few weeks.

“The girl?” You enquired, tilting your head.

“Yeah. The girl.” He repeated as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “The one that Alfie can’t stop...”

Before he could finish the sentence you were dying to hear, the door rattled and swung open, the sound of Alfie’s boots filling the room before he did.

“Fuck off, Ollie.”

You wanted to scold him for his language towards the boy, but that thought quickly dwindled as you felt his presence behind you. Ollie didn’t scurry away like you imagined he might, obviously used to his boss’s harsh tone he instead bid you farewell, smiling kindly as he left the room. Alfie was behind you, not knowing how to approach, not wanting to startle you yet afraid of the silence that surrounded you. You kept your gaze on the mess of papers and files and folders all across the desk, so different to the calm and cleanliness of Tommy’s office, the contrast overwhelming.

“What the hell are you doing here?” He tried to keep as many expletives out of his mouth around you, but his resolve was wearing thin. He walked around the desk, chewing on his upper lip, avoiding eye contact with you and trying to keep his cool, despite the millions of questions he wanted to ask.“You shouldn’t be here, right, how did you even find it? I mean...”

“It’s a distillery!” You interrupted, much more enthusiastically than you had planned, the pieces finally slotting together. His love of rum, the barrels and kegs, the shipyard and the fake bakery, suddenly everything made sense. It was a brilliant cover, and his cunning scheme gave you a newfound respect, and you looked up at him admirably whilst he stared back at you, dumbfounded.

Alfie exhaled loudly like he was deflating, his whole body slumping until he practically fell into his chair, exhausted like he had done laps around the park. He had to admit that he was impressed, and his attraction to you had grown stronger knowing that you had sought him out, and had sussed out his business significantly faster than any of the coppers had, but now this meant that you were tangled up in his web of danger, after he had tried so hard to not let you get involved.

Twisting his neck slightly, he could feel the droplets of stray blood staining his skin, their message loud and as repetitive as an alarm, warning signs telling him to let you go. He had been foolish, he had let you get close, since the very first time you laid eyes on another he knew he was in trouble, and yet the usually artful man had allowed himself to act like a commoner.

“You should go home.” He said, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together as he mulled over his words. “I can have one of my lads drive you.”

“What?”

“You should go ‘ome.” He repeated, “Forget everything you’ve seen today,” He cleared his throat. “Look, I’ll give you something, for the trouble yeah?”

He rummaged around the top drawer of his desk and you gawked at him incredulously, “You’re trying to pay me off?” You asked, your tone false and high pitched.

“How much are we talking?” He continued, ignoring you entirely and sorting through notes in his hand.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just ask me that.”

He rifled through the money, fingers moving at an impossibly fast pace and his eyes following the movement, knowing that if he looked at you he was at risk of crumbling. You moved around the wooden desk so you were on the same side as him, slamming your hand onto the edge of the oak, letting the noise speak for you.

He sighed, placing the bribe on the table, halfway between both of you.

“I’m not taking that.” You said, turning your nose up at his ridiculous offer.

“You should.”

You moved closer, and you noticed every time you inched towards him he shifted backwards. You looked at the splatters on his shirt, ruby red like the jewels that adorned his rings, something oddly beautiful despite the brutality. He could feel your eyes on him, knew you were looking at the grim reminder of just what kind of man he was, the kind of man that didn’t deserve something as heavenly and innocent as yourself. Unbeknownst to him you were thinking the opposite, if anything you felt like your connection was strengthened, joined by the sinful things that seemed to follow you like a menacing shadow. Perhaps you were being stupid, you had left Birmingham to get away from the melodrama of your family and here you were wanting to get tangled up with someone potentially just as chaotic, but watching him under the pale yellow lights in his office, you wanted nothing more than to be close to him.

He was trying to push you away, but he had already anchored himself to you. There was something familiar about his actions, the attempts to pay you off and wallow in self pity. You hadn’t come to London looking for anything, but you had found each other, and after years of letting others make your decisions you dug in your heels, you would no longer let your choices be moulded for you, it was your turn to get what you wanted.

“I’m not scared of you.” You said finally, the heat of your gaze and the warmth of your words making him look up, his tongue in his cheek.

“I’ve done bad things.” He argued, and you moved closer, your belly filled with butterflies. You were acting impulsively, edging towards him like the low tide, as if invisible magnets were pulling you towards him. He was following you closely, he prided himself on his ability to be one step ahead of his enemies, but with you he was at a loss, his head swimming when he looked at you for too long, drowning in your aura.

“You were in the war, you couldn’t help it.” You replied.You were almost touching him now, and he pushed back in his chair slightly, allowing you to slip in between his legs, resting on the edge of his desk. The feeling of the wood in your spine the only thing stopping your whole body from going numb from adrenaline.

“The wars ended.” He countered. He wanted to touch you. You were radiating white hot, and he wanted to let his fingertips ignite as he felt your flesh. This wasn’t like at the clubs, there was no noise, no distraction, you weren’t dressed to the nines but you looked just as beautiful, and he wanted to feel the pulse of your heart as he pressed his lips to your throat. You were intoxicating his thoughts, so small and meek and gentle and yet you had him trailing after you like a puppy.

“Not for everybody.” You said, opening your legs a little, letting your knees touch his, an action so delicate yet the effects hitting you both like you had been doused in ice cold water.You were fully clothed and hardly touching and yet you had never been this intimate with someone before, heat contracting from both of your bodies, your words soft like smoke.

“You should leave, it’ll be safer that way.”

You leaned in and you felt him open his mouth to speak, to tell you to stop, but the smell of you and the closeness of your skin made any rational thoughts dissolve inside of him. You had kissed a few boys before, all young and immature and all just a way to anger your brothers, and you were worried you were going to feel inexperienced as you pressed yourself against him, but you didn’t want to keep thinking, you wanted to feel him.Your nose brushed against his, the curls in his beard coarse against your soft skin, his breath on your neck. Your eyes met, his pupils dark and frantic, and you smiled softly and he swore his heart burst, so you pushed yourself onto him, your mouths meeting, and he felt like you were resurrecting him. You slipped on to his lap, and he ran his hands through your hair, any protests or logical arguments for why you should both stop vanishing, melting into one another, warm and soft but also desperate and greedy, like addicts desperate for another hit. You pulled away far too soon for his liking, resting your forehead against his, breath levelling, the rise and fall of your body against his electrifying.

“I’m not going anywhere, Alfie.”

—-——————————————————-

You had always been a fan of summer, loving the heat and the late nights and the wildflowers that bloomed all around you, but you would have happily traded in all those summer evenings for the first winter you shared with Alfie.

It was cold, blisteringly so, leaving you with numb fingers and frost bitten toes but your insides were gooey and warm like melted chocolate, your body ethereal and light. There was no label on your relationship and that suited both of you, but after that magical kiss you shared in the silence of his office it was obvious that the two of you were bound together. Alfie wanted to keep you safe, he was essentially putting a target on your back every time he looked at you, every time he felt himself being drawn to you, but he couldn’t be the bigger man and let you go. He had hazy memories of love, being a teenager and kissing a school friend in a back alley, but those memories were shattered on the front line. As he grew older he preferred visiting a brothel and taking out his frustrations there, he didn’t have time for a relationship, couldn’t allow himself a weakness, but something about you had expelled the lock from around his heart, one he didn’t even know was clasped shut.

You kept your relationship a secret. Alfie knew Camden like the scars that littered his palm, and you’d meet at dusk, roaming through his kingdom without any qualms. To you he was a beautiful enigma, handsome and unpredictable and quick witted, and you longed to uncover all of his secrets. He could be guarded, to his workers he was thunderous, his voice echoing around the walls long after he had finished his rants, but to you he was quiet, wanting to drink in all the words that left your mouth, rather than speak himself.

You’d meet in the morning, walking Cyril through fields when the grass was so icy it hardly moved beneath your boots, Alfie pulling him away from chasing the ducks into the freezing water. His coat would rest on your shoulders when he walked you home from work, leaving the bakery long before he was due to just so he could guide you through the streets, your hands brushing together under the light of the moon.

After hours he led you around the distillery, voice filled with pride as he showed you his magnum opus. He would offer you his rum, feeling like his mouth might tear in half as he laughed when you choked on the flame coloured drink, pulling you into him and tasting his work on your lips, your innocence mixed with his sin. You’d sit in the back room of the warehouse, knees pressed together, him looming over you, his broad shoulders touching the smallness of your own, listening as you talked, his heart racing like he had downed dozens of pints.

Maybe a month or so later, those bitter mornings grew colder, and soon the sky was filled with clouds, thick snowflakes falling onto the streets and covering the pavement with a blanket of ivory. You had been with Alfie, Cyril at your heels, watching the deer run through the park, watching them leap and canter across the heath. It had been snowing lightly, but it wasn’t long before the sky darkened and the gentle dusting turned into a flurry, the wind whipping around you, melted snow covering your clothes. You squealed lightly, Alfie wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you closer, his large body shielding you as Cyril mimicked the deer and attempted to eat the falling droplets. You felt like your whole body was alight, could feel the strong muscles of his stomach as he cradled you, a sense of of comfort and security that you had never experienced before.

“C’mon,Pet,” he muttered into your cheek, hot air against your skin. If he wasn’t holding you so tight you swore your knees would buckle and you’d drop to the floor. “Let’s get you home, you’ll bloody freeze to death out here.”

You both turned on your heels and started the walk back, Alfie slowly intertwining his large fingers with yours. It was a foreign feeling for both of you, Alfie not remembering the last time he had locked hands with someone, but your delicate palm against felt so right it was as if you were meant to be moulded together, like the ivory sculptures he had seen at an art gallery years back. The thought made him falter momentarily, gripping his other hand tighter around his cane, the only affection he had had for years.

You had barely reached halfway, your feet sinking into the snow and the cold attacking any bare flesh you had exposed, before the path in front of you was nothing but a blur of white. You had never seen anything like it, it was beautiful and pure but also unnerving, the streets you had familiarised now unrecognisable, Alfie’s hands in yours the only thing keeping you steady from getting lost yourself.

Alfie stood next to you, running his tongue along his cheek and across the ridges of his teeth. Inside his head was a whirlpool of thoughts, all so strange and unfamiliar he was certain that if he said them aloud they would burn his tongue, but something about the way you felt beside him made him want to fight his usual instincts.

“We can’t go any further, right, we’ll turn into snowmen. Carrot nose and all.” He tried to keep his voice steady, his finger gently touching the redness of your frost bitten nose, feeling himself tighten when you smiled shyly up at him. “Come back to mine.”

————————————————————————

Alfie’s house was nothing like you imagined.

London was so different from Birmingham, it was more advanced in so many ways, the architecture was beautiful and revolutionary, and everywhere you looked was filled with tall buildings and towering structures. You knew he made a lot of money, you could see he ran his business with a firm hand and was obviously reaping the rewards, but you weren’t attracted to his wealth. You liked his artfulness, his dedication, you liked that he never apologised for the man he was, and most of all his underlying kindness that only appeared around you.

Nevertheless you were expecting a flat, probably on the highest floor, overlooking the city below. Perhaps filled with expensive furniture and modern art that decorated the walls, a doorman that required identification before you could leave the reception, but the reality was so much better. He lived in a cottage, just outside of the city, a small walk from the bakery but just far away enough that the noise and bustle stilled for a moment.

Everything was covered in white, but you could see the faint outline of a pebbled path leading to the front door. There was a line of flowerbeds either side of you, filled with overgrown green plants, their leaves drooping from the weight of the snow. The roof was thatched, something you hadn’t seen often and the brickwork was intricate and delicate, and ivy grew along the walls, climbing towards a window.

“It’s beautiful.” You said.

Alfie turned to look at you, finding himself smiling at your childlike wonder. He was rummaging in his pocket for his keys, Cyril impatiently scratching the front door, the big dog grumbling quietly. Alfie stilled. He liked watching you, your face red from the cold, eyes wide, taking in your surroundings. He looked at his house, he had bought it years ago and only used it as a place to eat and sleep, but even then he spent most nights at work, hunched over his desk. It wasn’t a symbol of his accomplishments, he wasn’t a man who dreamt of a manor or mansion, to him he preferred his wealth in other ways, power and order, but seeing you gazing up at it, he took a moment to take it in, appreciating his home in a way he hadn’t before.

He found his key, twisting it in the lock and pushing the door open. He held it for you, letting you walk in first, Cyril at your heels, the warm air cradling your body. You stood on the doormat, wiping your winter boots and trying to dislodge the mound of snow that had settled on your heels as Alfie brushed past you quickly, pulling off his shoes and rubbing his hands together.

“Right, I’m gonna go and put the fire on, alright Dove?”

You tried to not let the effect of his pet name show on your face but your whole body felt as if it was grinning, the term of endearment warming you up quickly. You nodded, tentatively undoing the buttons of your coat, trying your hardest to stop water from dripping onto the floor.

Alfie obviously noticed your struggle, pointing to a door at the far end of the hallway. “The loo is just down there, so you can freshen up and whatnot.” He cleared his throat, “And there’s a drying closet for your wet things and such in there too, you can’t miss it.”

With that he disappeared into a door on his right, and you noticed droplets falling from his jacket to the floor, leaving splotches along the wood. You flexed your fingers unconsciously, feeling goosebumps at the base of your spine, and you rapidly followed his directions, locking yourself in the bathroom he had mentioned.

You sat on the edge of the claw foot tub unlacing your boots, sighing once you pulled them off of your feet and realised your stockings were soaked through. You shrugged off your coat, your scarf and your winter hat, bundling them in your arms as you tiptoed across the oak, making your way over to the drying closet. You hung everything up, placing your shoes upside down the way Polly had taught you when you were a child, pushing the memory away as soon as it came.

You took a moment to catch your breath, looking into the mirror hanging above the sink. You wiped away a few stray flakes of mascara from under your eyes, and patted the apples of your cheeks, hoping for a natural flush of colour to replace the ashen tone the cold had given you. You realised as you caught your reflection in the glass that this was the first time you had been alone in a mans house, but more importantly than that, you didn’t feel scared or uneasy at all. If anything, you felt comfortable and the longer you spent apart the more you craved to be in Alfie’s presence. It was a strange and unfamiliar feeling, wanting to constantly be around someone, and you wondered if Alfie felt the same.

You slipped out of the bathroom and walked back the way you came, noticing Cyril through a gap in one of the doors, curled up fast asleep on a velvet dog bed. You pushed open the door to the living room, smelling fresh wood and smoke, Alfie’s broad back blocking the view of the fire you could hear roaring behind him.

Alfie felt your presence and turned around, a crooked grin on his face.“There you are! Was worried you had fallen down the bloody plug ‘ole.”

You laughed, rubbing your hands together, the warmth of the fire suddenly noticeable, the heat hitting your body. The room fell into a comfortable silence, Alfie moving to sit on the sofa, gesturing for you to join him. You fell onto him, resting your head on his shoulder and curling your legs underneath yourself. His hand moved to your hair, eyes watching the flames dance as he combed through your locks with his fingers, feeling the softness against him. There were a million things Alfie wanted to say to you as the quiet consumed you both, but the words were stuck in his throat like cotton wool. He wasn’t sure how to articulate himself properly, how to tell you that the last few months had felt as if the soot had left his lungs and that he could feel the rhythm of his heart once again, something that he had thought he had lost a long time ago. He was used to ruling with an iron fist, he knew how to chew someone out, make them submit to him, but handling you, something so delicate, was new territory for him.

He wasn’t great with words, so he didn’t use them. He lifted your head to meet his, cradling you in his large hands, so soft and pure and angelic under the roughness of his calloused palms. His lips met yours, kissing you in a way you hadn’t experienced before, desperate for the feeling of you. He tried to be gentle, he wanted to show his affection in the kiss, wanted to silence any doubts you might have, wanted to show you a different side of him, but you were deadly, the feeling of your lips and your hands and your hair as electrifying as the rum he would drink to numb his thoughts, his very own personal nirvana.

He stopped too soon for your liking, and you felt yourself pout, dragging your swollen lips against his, pleading for more, but one look at the want in your big eyes and he pulled back, shifting so the two of you were apart. You frowned at him, curious for the lack of attention, his eyes flitting around the room and far away from your own.

You moved closer, your hand shifting to his thigh, but pulling back when he jumped, hissing slightly at the feel of your palm against him.

“Alfie?” You asked, leaning up, brushing your lips against his once more. He tried to resist, but he couldn’t, opening his mouth and devouring you, your sweetness tainting his bloodstream. Your foreheads pressed together, and before you knew what you were doing you were in his lap, pressing yourself against him, unsure and inexperienced but full of desire, your hands moving to his hair.

You shifted slightly and Alfie groaned into your mouth, and the sound rang out like a gospel to you but an alarm to him, and he pulled back again once more.

“Pet… Pet, we should stop.”

You were breathless, your voice hoarse. “Why?”

His fingers tentatively grazed the edge of your face, pushing a stray hair behind your ear. “Because right, this is all moving too fucking fast and I don’t wanna do something you’ll regret later.”

“I’m not going to regret anything.” You said honestly. “I… I want this.” The desperation in your tone was embarrassing and you inwardly cringed, but you were being truthful, you wanted him.

Alfie sighed, running his hand over his eyes. “Look, I know that you’ve never done anything like this before, OK… and I don’t think it would be right if we carried on.”

His words stung and you pulled back, feeling young and foolish and naive. You knew you were inexperienced, but the fact that Alfie could tell you were a virgin made heat prickle along your body.

“You don’t want me?” You asked quietly, so soft like silk but soon turning to flames and scorching Alfie’s skin, turning him frantic.

“No I really, really fucking want you, right, and that’s the problem.” His voice was low, thick with lust that made him feel guilty yet urging him to continue. He felt starved of you, he wanted you more than he had ever wanted anything, but the risk was too great. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

You glanced up at him, shaking your head. “You won’t.”

“I’m not good, dove, not good for you. You should be with a good man, a kind man.”

“Alfie.” You sighed, ignoring the protests in your head and instead crawling closer, settling between his open legs, watching as he took a sharp breath. “You are a good man.” You pressed your lips to his neck, around his throat and at the bottom of his jaw, your face brushing against his course hair. He had never been touched so delicately, you felt angelic under him, like some kind of messenger from God designed to make him weak, make him crumble.

He was done being patient.

His hands wove around your waist, careful but longing, running his fingers over you like you were sacred. “When I look at you I can’t think straight, and that’s bad news for a dangerous man like me.” He whispered into your hair, his words made you melt onto him, making him stiffen and cradle you, the feeling so euphoric.

Your eyes met and you smiled at him and he knew he was done for.

“Alfie, take me to bed.”

—————————————————————

The sun was setting, you could see the colours through Alfie’s window. Pink and purple coloured the sky like streaks of paint, the world going dark. Alfie was next to you, your head on his chest, and you felt warm and comfortable, your body alight. He ran his finger along your spine, liking the feeling of your skin reacting to his touch, goosebumps rising as he circled and traced patterns along your flesh.

He had never felt like this before, it wasn’t a simple fuck or a drunken mistake, and as he looked down at you, watching the slow movements of your breath, he realised that he had never let a woman sleep in his bed. He was fucked. He wanted you, needed you, he didn’t know why, but something had brought you together that day, he was sure of it. He never allowed himself to have a weakness, something that his enemies could manipulate and destroy, but you were like a drug to him, and he was a hopeless addict.

He wanted to tell you everything, wanted to say that you drove him mad and made him weak, but he couldn’t muster up the words, they felt ridiculous on his tongue and he felt like a child. So instead, he used the tactic that worked best, control. He knew he would never own you, you were not his possession or his property but he wanted you to understand that now you were bound to him, that he didn’t want you to leave, that he wanted you by his side.

“דו ביסט מייַן” He said, words running over you like warm honey.

You tilted your head, “What does that mean?”

“You’re mine.”

You blinked up at him, drowsy and content and happy. “And you’re all mine?”

He scoffed, his boyish tone returning, booming and full of life. “Course I am Pet, been yours since the very first time you fuckin’ looked at me.”

You both laid in silence, mulling over the sentences separately, bare skin against one another, an owl hooting in the distance. You relaxed, closing your eyes, your body aching and sore but in such a delicious way that you wanted to savour forever. You felt the bed dip, Alfie reaching over and slapping your thigh playfully and greedily, completely enamoured by you.

“Right, shall I put a cup of tea on, Rosie?”

Rosie. The name hit you like a slap in the face, making you feel pale and sick and faint. All of the lies you had told swam in your head, great white sharks of guilt gnawing at your skull. You had given yourself to this man, felt him above you, kissed his skin, giggled into his shoulder, moaned into his mouth. He trusted you, and yet he barely knew who you were. You looked at him, completely bare in the dim light of the room, so big and burly but kind and silly. You didn’t want to lose him, you didn’t want to be without him, you didn’t want your family destroying the one thing that finally made you feel something.

“Yeah, a cup of tea sounds lovely, Alf.”

#alfie solomons imagine #Alfie Solomons #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders oneshot #alfie solomons oneshot

223 notes · View notes