#I would listen to him read the prophet for hours if it meant laying like this with him 🤧

[doll-elvis]

I’m rewatching some of the movies made about Elvis and I completely forgot about the one that Linda Thompson made in 1981 called “Elvis and the Beauty Queen”

but anyways- could y’all imagine laying in bed with Elvis like this, I need it so badly 😭

[morihaus]

Campfire

The skies are mild and clear over the Ashlands of Vvardenfell, a blanket of brilliant stars splayed above the camp of two travelers, an aspirant priest and a wayward blade. A campfire burns before them as they sit upon mats, having eaten their fill of supper and now content to while away the night in dialogue.

A book lies open in the layman's lap, a thick tome embossed in gold and daedric lettering. He reads from it passively, as he knows the words by his own heart. "HOAGA, the Mouth of Mud, who appeared as a great bearded king, had the powers of Marshaling and breathing the earth." Their voice is low and mellifluous as he recants the sermon, scarlet eyes tracing carefully over every stroke of lettering, savoring the prose which sprung from the mind of a god. "On the battlefields, this demon would often be seen on the sidelines, eating the soil voraciously." They speak this in a deadpan, though a soft smile has not left their face since they began.

His companion, a foreigner to this land, restrains her laughter out of respect, chuckling only slightly. She does not mean to offend, but is calm in this interaction; this Dunmer has been the most accommodating of her presence out of nearly everyone on this ashy scab of an island, and over the weeks of their traveling together, she's come to see them as a friend.

"Were these real people?" She asks.

The priest-to-be, Ranso, smiles coyly. "Of course. Everything in these lessons is to be taken as fact."

Junah laughs softly, her grin is warm to him in the firelight. "Just thought I'd ask- I've never heard of a Nord eating dirt. I mean, not a general, at least."

They continue to read, Junah letting her eyes fall shut as she absorbs his words. Most nights they would spend like this, them reading their holy books, her listening, asking questions, having her questions turned back at her, the two of them discussing usages of imagery and metaphor, subtext hidden between the lines. It's not unlike her time at Anvil's College of the Arts, those poetry meetings that would stretch on for hours as they wound their way through pages and pages of purple prose, except these poems were much grander, they were scripture, holy texts, penned not by a devotee, by a preacher or a prophet, but by a god.

It's been fascinating to consider, and strange to the Redguard, who for all her life had been brought up on worship of the distant Divines of Cyrodiil, who spoke in winding ways to their followers. This god had winding ways of hir own, but hir words were plain to read on the paper. Theologians of Morrowind should be so lucky.

As Ranso utters the last few lines and reaches for his water skin, Junah remarks as such. "It's still so... strange to me," Her voice is hushed and bereft of judgement- this land is new and harsh to her Imperial sensibilities, but she's not so low as to insult its ways. "That your gods can communicate to you like that. Through published poetry no less!" She snickers to herself. "If only Akatosh were so thoughtful."

The Dunmer smiles against his drink before setting it aside and turning back towards her. "Perhaps he is not a good poet?"

Junah laughs at that; such an odd statement, too absurd to be profane, and yet there's an edge to their words that make him almost sound serious in this accusation. "What makes you say that?" She asks, curious and eager to hear him.

Ranso flips a page in the tome held in his lap, still looking at Junah. The dark painted spirals on his face, segmented like a carapace, seem alight as they reflect the fire. "Poetry is a personal art- and yet it taps into something much bigger, something felt by many. The microcosm, the words on pages or hanging in the air, shaded with impermanence, fighting to persist. It is a mortal expression. A god could not comprehend it as we do, nor could one communicate in a way we understand."

"But Vivec is a god, is ze not?" Junah asks.

"Yes, ze is. But ze has lived as a mortal, as all the tribunes have." Ranso explains patiently, their words coming easy for their passion for the temple. "This is why they can understand us, they have tasted mortality, they have felt the fleetingness of it all, and they remember this, even now as they are ascendant. Vivec writes with a twofold mind, one mortal, one immortal. Ze translates the experience of hir divinity in a way no other can, so that we might understand... 'the eyelid of the kingdom shall fill thirty and six folios, but the eye shall read the world. By this the Hortator needs me to understand.'"

Junah nods thoughtfully, carefully going over their words amidst a comfortable silence. With only the two of them, there is not much to do while they compose their thoughts, but they are content merely to lie beside one another.

"...I remember some theology, from my temple days in Cyrodiil." Junah begins, drawing Ranso's attention as she leans back and lays down against her mat. Her heavy armor had been discarded for the night, leaving her in a dark undershirt, buttons undone down to her breast, a few faint marks and bruises bared to the world along her collar. She raises her hands up to lay her head down upon them while she stares up at the stars. "I think- mortals can understand the gods, in little ways. The ways they manifest in our world. If you know hard work, farming, crafts, then you know Zenithar, at least a little bit. He is those things, that's how he makes himself known to us." She gestures one hand up as she speaks, laying it across her body, idly straightening her shirt. "Most of what I learned was Maran and Dibellan, though. They're... a little harder to quantify. Love, devotion, beauty, expression- I mean, people know these things, don't they? And how could these things not know us? If the artist understands their art, does the art understand the artist?"

Ranso listens quietly; they are less than familiar with the Imperial tradition, only knowing so much as the priests would tell the young to avoid their proselytizers. The Aedra, those he knew, cursed in the sermons, spoken of in distant pondering in the Vehkian circles he ran in as a youth. They find her words fascinating, their eyes are focused on her dark painted lips as she speaks these Imperial ideas- something, Ranso thinks, is best met with spiritual dialogue rather than ostracism. "It sounds more as though you know of things, and you liken them to the ideas of gods. A rather one-sided conversation." They tread lightly with their words out of respect for their friend, quickly honing in on another talking point. "Does the art understand the artist?... I like that." They chuckle softly, pleased to see Junah's flattered expression as they speak. "It's rather fitting, isn't it? Here we are, beings of a great work of the gods, marveling and wondering at those who created it, it which created us."

Looking up in the sky, Junah almost feels like she's searching for a face in the heavens now. Distant planets, the moons- waxing and waning- and a million tiny pinholes of light are all that she can see. "I hadn't thought of it like that... I meant the art as the god- as Dibella."

"Right," Ranso nods. "I'm not sure. It is more difficult looking up than down- even then, looking down, how does the artist communicate unto the art?"

"The art is communication." Junah says.

"So, the riddle is hidden away in itself?"

"I guess so... fat lot of good that does us though, huh?"

Ranso smiles at her. "It's not hopeless. There are always means of reflection."

She laughs softly, sitting back up and shifting closer to their side. "Ah, you're right. Let me get a closer look at you, maybe I'll figure it out." She leans in playfully and is met with a slight bump on her forehead as he moves to do the same. The two pull back with bashful grins and laughter.

After a few moments, Ranso finds his place slumped against Junah's chest, sermons still in hand, her heartbeat in his ear. Their eyes are closed as he recites the sermon from memory.

"Vivec says unto the Hortator remember the words of Boet-hi-ah:" Junah smiles, leaning down to rest her chin against the fuzz of Ranso's close-cut hair.

"We pledge ourselves to you, the Frame-maker, the Scarab: a world for us to love you in, a cloak of dirt to cherish." The winds of the ashlands blow softly behind the proud and dark voice he dons for the prince's speech. "Betrayed by your ancestors when you were not even looking. Hoary Magnus and his ventured opinions cannot sway the understated, a trick worthy of the always satisfied." Junah wraps an arm around their chest as they attempt not to let her affections distract them. "A short season of towers, a rundown absolution... and what is this?"

Junah breathes a deep, contented sigh and opens her eyes. The campfire is still burning, bathing the two in its glow.

"What is this but fire under your eyelid?"

[lastxviolet]

The Assistant - CH. 1

Description: Summary - Her sixth year at Hogwarts was supposed to be relatively peaceful but after an incident on the Hogwarts express, Violet Wilkes finds herself the newest target of the Weasley twins. This, combined with a dark family secret, and the Triwizard tournament, makes her first few months back more exciting and stressful than every year before.

pairing: George Weasley x Original Female Character

warnings: pg-13. slow burn, eventual smut hehe

https://archiveofourown.org/works/28218804/chapters/69148695

The Dark Mark.

Cloaked figures running, burning, torturing.

The threat of a second war.

Screaming.

A sharp train whistle brought Violet Wilkes back into her body on Platform 9 ¾, its sound tearing her mind away from the horrifying morning news in the Daily Prophet just last week. The moving pictures on the papers front page had barely left her thoughts, even now, as she was steps away from saying goodbye to her family for nearly a year, the dark mark burned behind her eyelids with every blink.

She walked ahead of her parents and little sister, weaving through the crowd of fawning mothers and sniffling siblings, towards the very last car in the line, dreading the long journey ahead more and more with every step.

For the past five years, she had seriously considered not returning to Hogwarts, solely because of the egregious train ride from London, and this year was no different, except for the pit in her stomach from the thought of noise, people, and confined space was joined by the fear of her family's hypothetical imminent doom at the hands of Death Eaters. Despite the fact that no one else shared her fears.

She'd told them all week that the events at the Quidditch World Cup weren't a fluke. No one conjured the most fearsome symbol in their world nearly thirteen years after its disappearance, by accident. It meant something.

A terrible something.

And now, she was leaving them. Defenseless.

Her father hadn't picked up his wand in nearly a decade, and her mother had no magical abilities to speak of. Her sister, Olivia, would surely be a powerful witch in the coming years but for now, she remained a timid ten-year-old. They hardly stood a chance without her. That was if the events last week were as dire and fearsome as she believed them to be.

Of all people, she thought her father would understand her worry but he insisted that it wasn't going to be like 'last time.' Even then, she'd made him swear that he would brush up on his spells and hexes just in case you-know-who had returned and picked up where he'd left off, targeting blood traitors and their families.

The train whistle cut through the commotion again and they sped up to make the 11:00 departure. She glanced down at her watch; 10:58.

If they hurried, she'd make it. But if they didn't, the train would mosey on without her. Not that she'd mind.

She looked around at her fellow hustling peers pouring into the train and exhaled sharply. What if she just stopped? Dropped to her knees and refused to move. Missed the train and begged her father to let her go to a muggle school as her mother had. Her fingers gripped the iron handrail in the vestibule of the final car, and she hesitated, ready to throw herself back onto the platform but deep down, she knew it was already too late. There was no avoiding the journey ahead.

Her sister launched into her arms, squeezing tight before her mother's arms replaced them around her neck. She kissed her father's cheek last, lingering on his kind, dark blue eyes, staring at their own mirrored pupils in her head. He pressed one more kiss onto her forehead before stepping back to wrap his arms around the other halves of her heart.

A blood-traitor.

How could anyone call him a blood traitor?

Easy, she thought. It was the same way her housemates called her a half-blood. With condescending smirks and dead eyes.

She turned to enter the car so they couldn't see the tear falling down her cheek and rushed to wipe it away before she came back into view through the last window.

Her sister called out a final time when the train began to slowly move away and a wave of dread constricted her lungs. The sound was too similar to the screams she heard in her nightmares nearly every night. Fog from her breath on the window obscured the final visible moments of her family's smiling faces and wildly waving arms as the platform disappeared from view.

11:00. As one torturous moment ended, another, 8-hour-long one, began. The ruckus of running feet, excited hello's, and sporadic spell work was instantaneous and completely impossible to ignore. She closed her eyes and tried to tune it out.

She couldn't conceive why a wizarding school would trust their unsupervised adolescent students to not blow each other up when muggle schools barely trusted their docile coeds to use the bathroom alone. Other people's happiness didn't normally give her such a headache but the lack of professor supervision provided no perimeters on her peer's ability to run amuck.

She felt her stomach flip with the swaying movement. Bile burned her throat, as the seat underneath her moved back and forth, rocking in a nauseating pattern. The noise, in combination with the repetitive piercing whistle and lurching wheels thudding through London, was dizzying.

Distraction. She needed a distraction.

Calloused leather brushed her hip, reminding her that she'd anticipated this very moment. She thanked her past self profusely and dug through the bag until the pebbly fabric of her favorite muggle book scratched her fingertips.

The deep blue hardcover still precariously clung to its title even after years of wear and tear, reading and rereading. She caressed the carved gold words with a shaky, anxious finger.

The Princess Bride

By William Goldman

It was a pity that the Hogwarts library didn't cater to muggle-born students, she thought. Even in Muggle Studies class, assigned readings were books about muggles, written by the magical beings that walked among them. Wizard writers were wonderful but their ability to write compelling fiction was limited when they can do the unthinkable with the mindless flick of a wand.

She flipped it open and paused to admire her mother's swirly signature on the dedication page before turning to the first chapter.

"I've been saying it so long to you, you just wouldn't listen. Every time you said 'Farm Boy do this' you thought I was answering 'As you wish' but that's only because you were hearing wrong. 'I love you' was what it was, but you never heard, and you never heard."

"I hear you now, and I promise you this: I will never love anyone else. Only Westley. Until I die."

Eventually, the disorienting blur of houses, trees, and cars ceased— replaced by much more appealing, rolling hills and sprawling fields. The speed of the train was barely discernible as the scenery outside the window moved in slow motion, barely changing, monotonous and still, a comfort to her dizzy head.

She glanced towards the glass doors that were protecting her from the chaos throughout the halls and determined that the motion sickness and general discomfort had been suppressed. She took a deep breath and weighed the options for the second half of the trip. Stay, and finish the beloved book that lay open in her lap, or leave, and trade all peace for conversation.

Alone, but also lonely.

She'd probably missed loads of drama on the first half of the ride, and Sadie would surely be furious with her for being absent.

Sadie Baldock had plopped down next to her at the Slytherin table one random morning during her second week at Hogwarts. Happy to have some company, she'd let the energetic girl talk her ear off for the entire meal, not once interrupting or telling her to shut up, even though it would've been warranted. They'd been best friends ever since and she'd been an absolute treasure for the entirety of their past five years.

Despite Sadies strong personality and pension for gossip, she understood and accepted that Violet had no desire to be attached at the hip to anyone and gladly gave her space.

Alone and lonely, was much better than being suffocated, she thought. This had been her preference, even before she arrived at Hogwarts, and was sorted into Slytherin, her supposed 'family' away from home.

She scoffed and shook her head.

Family, yeah right.

Other houses might consider themselves family. Hers, however, felt more like a cage.

Families weren't supposed to be judgmental, at least not to the degree that her peers were. Families didn't shun disgraced peers for impure bloodlines or enforce generational loyalty without question. In recent years, the house had shed any sense of camaraderie left, even between those with pure-blood and ancient ties.

Due to this, tensions ran high and tempers were like time-bombs. It was exhausting to bite her tongue enough to remain cordial with most of the somewhat sane peers in her house and fly under the radar of the rest. She clenched her jaw, remembering Draco Malfoy and crew taunting her half-blood status and muggle mother.

Exhausting, but necessary, for self-preservation and peaceful existence. She occasionally betrayed herself with a viper-quick temper that was always simmering in her chest but most took it for stereotypical Slytherin nastiness, and not a haunting disdain for those who shared her green and silver uniform. This, a knack for potions and a morbidly dark wardrobe were perhaps the only evidence of a correct sorting.

Oh well, she thought. It was a bit late in her career to be considering a house change, besides, the sorting hat was a sod old brute who insisted that he was never wrong.

In actuality though, it wasn't all terrible. At least she had Sadie and the few other perks that came with the snake emblem.

The dungeons provided cool darkness that deprived the senses of any reason for restlessness and anxiety. Although the green uniform occasionally invited disapproving glances, it complimented her dark blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair much better than the blue and white of Ravenclaw, or heaven forbid the bright red Gryffindor insignia. And, she was only a few feet away from the potions classroom, where she'd managed to instate herself as one of the only students their head of house, Professor Severus Snape, did not actively hate. The bond had been painstakingly cultivated over the years the only that way he would allow; speaking when spoken to, correct answers, and perfect potions.

She stared out the window, focusing on the rolling hills, trying to let go of the gnawing feeling in the back of her mind that couldn't help but wonder if the hat had gotten it wrong.

Introspection was one of her biggest flaws. Sadie was constantly telling her to get out of her head and she knew that she was right. But, analysis always felt necessary, even about moments and emotions long gone. Sorting through every feeling, decision, movement; double-checking every second to make sure they were all accounted for, was compulsory.

Even now, six years later, she wondered whether she even truly belonged in Slytherin, and whether or not being sorted into the other houses would've been easier or even different at all. Would it have been better to be sorted into her father's Hufflepuff house?

Maybe, but unfortunately, when considering where to place her, the sorting hat had ignored her father and zeroed in on the countless other Wilkes before him, all in Slytherin, before deciding that she would be forced to pick up the lineage again. Not that any of them would ever know, or care.

She felt a shiver down her spine.

It was for the best that they hadn't any idea of her existence, let alone the continuation of their legacy.

She squeezed her eyes closed and the beautiful scenery outside dissolved into the Dark Mark behind her lids and the memory of photos she'd secretly found amongst her father's old school things. Photos of a boy, a few years older than her father, clad in green standing next to his younger brother in yellow and black.

A legacy, broken. A legacy, reborn.

She felt her heartbeat quicken and tried desperately to conjure the image of her sister, next year, with the sorting hat on her head, yelling any other house's name.

Screams from the next train car over tore her away from her thoughts. She jumped slightly and shook her head, glad for a distraction from the oncoming downward spiral. She'd forgotten where she was for a moment but another chorus of "no's" and laughter bursting through the door at the front of the cabin pulled her back to reality.

Pushing the doors apart slightly, she poked her head into the hall and moved to step out but voices stopped her. Loud, obnoxious, exuberant voices yelled something about "research" to an amused audience.

The Weasley twins.

Maybe the imminent doom she'd been worrying about wouldn't come at the hands of Death Eaters at all, but two idiotic and insufferable redheads instead.

She searched for an escape, eyes moving frantically, but her only option seemed to be a jump from the back door and onto the tracks below. Why hadn't she left to find Sadie when she'd had the chance?

Rolling her eyes as far back into her head as they would go, she sunk back down onto the bench and held her breath, hoping to miraculously turn invisible before the twins could sour her mood further.

"C'mon George, one last try," a voice belonging to Fred Weasley yelled over the last wave of students laughing and telling the twins to get lost.

She groaned, knowing that they were indeed coming for her. She couldn't think of a single time during her years at Hogwarts when she'd enjoyed the terroristic Weasley antics, but this moment was particularly ill-timed. Their talents for pranking were legendary and despite being in the same year, she'd never been a target or victim. But, it seemed as though her time had come.

She screwed her eyes shut, trying to find a single positive about the cursed situation. The nerves twisted her stomach into a knot while she listened to nearing footsteps. Maybe, if she played along and let them get it out of their system, they would leave quicker, and get back to ignoring her.

Another couple of torturous seconds crawled by before the twin who she thought might be George yanked open the cabin door.

She forced herself to breathe and tilted her head to meet them with a perturbed expression glued to her face; brows furrowed, lips pursed, and arms crossed. Every Slytherin instinct whispered in her ear to hex them back to London but the exhaustion from her emotional goodbye a few hours ago overwhelmed any anger left, resigning her to accept this fate without much of a fight.

"Well hello, Violet. Today is your lucky day."

She was right, the one coming in first was George Weasley. She recognized the two moles on the left side of his neck from Herbology last year when she'd fantasized about slashing his jugular when he wouldn't shut up.

He moved her feet from the bench opposite her, and she stared at him, noting that his slightly crooked nose also distinguished him from the brother coming in second. Once seated, they stared at her with intense brown eyes, and eager slack-jaw smiles —incredibly sharp features exaggerated by flowing radioactive red hair, waiting for an answer.

"Is that so?" she growled, conjuring a deadpan stare.

The twins straightened their chests and leaned forward simultaneously. "Yes, indeed," Fred said, the excitement in his face and voice completely unaffected by her cold response. "And we'll tell you why. George?"

"For a limited time only, you have the incredible opportunity to join us on an intellectual exploration," George explained. She shot him a disapproving glance before shifting back to Fred who was nodding fervently at his brother's side. "Groundbreaking research," he added, sensing her apprehension.

"I've never exactly thought of you two as intellectual," she sneered.

"Been thinking about us though?" George teased.

She cursed herself for the blush that formed instantly and shifted her gaze back to Fred who was still waiting anxiously to explain the situation.

"All you need to do is eat this delicious toffee," Fred said, producing a brown lump from his robe.

He shoved it towards her and unsuccessfully tried to hide the mischievous glint in his eye with a sweet smile.

She glared at him, remaining silent, unsure of what to say next. What were they trying to pull? And why did they think that she was going to fall for it this easily? Did they think she was stupid?

She narrowed her eyes and tried to ignore her bruised dignity. "You're joking," she drawled, earning fake looks of concern from both of the twins. "What makes you think I'm going to fall for that?"

Fred's long red hair covered his face slightly as he shook his head. "See this is where everyone keeps misunderstanding us, George."

George leaned across the small space between them. "Indeed Fred —Violet darling, clearly our offer is much too transparent to be a prank," he said, now a little too close for comfort. "This is product research for our business so please try and take it seriously."

She scowled at the pet name and leaned away. Why was he being so familiar with her?

Gryffindors. Always too friendly to be trusted. At least her fellow Slytherins never tried to hide their agenda, no matter how much their bluntness stung.

It was difficult to gauge how to best get rid of them. Their puppy dog eyes didn't seem to be affected by rudeness, if anything, it seemed to egg them on further. She decided to try another route instead, hoping to catch them off guard.

"Fine. In the spirit of transparency, say that I do eat it," she said. "What will happen to me?"

Their coy confidence turned to surprise. "It's only ever been tested on a Muggle so we have no clue," George confessed matter-o-factly. "Hence it being such a great research opportunity."

"You'd be a pioneer," Fred finished, a stupid confident grin returning to his face. "Maybe even a legend."

Violet looked down at Fred's outstretched arm and plucked the brown ball from his hand. She stared at it skeptically and brought it up to her nose. It smelled just like normal toffee, but no way it was that simple.

The twins exchanged a nervous glance and she could tell that they were holding their breath.

They most likely doubted her ability to take a joke and were probably nervous about the outcome of their prank, if she did indeed fall for it.

She couldn't blame them, of course. Last year, Blaise Zabini, one of Malfoy's toadies, joked about her mother being a muggle during the Halloween feast, and nearly the whole school had witnessed her merciless rebuttal. She stifled a smile, remembering the look on his face when she'd stuck her wand in his mouth and said "Langlock." His friends had scrambled and scratched to open his mouth again and Madam Pomfrey had about reached her wits end trying to figure out how to separate his tongue from the roof of his mouth. She wondered if they'd been there for that, but the sudden hesitation in George's smile told her they were well aware of her short fuse.

Lucky for them though, she didn't have enough energy to fly off the handle today.

She slipped her wand out of her bag and touched the tip to the toffee, muttering a revealing charm. "Specialis Revelio."

The twins lunged forward to snatch their sweet back, but she was quicker.

"An engorgement charm?"

"That's cheating," Fred protested.

"What is this?"

They stared at her with a mixture of defeat and annoyance.

"It's a ton-tongue-toffee," George said grimly. "The newest product from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes."

She remembered him talking about his plans for a joke shop constantly in Herbology, while his gaggle of admiring Gryffindors hung onto every word but she never thought he could be serious about such a stupid career endeavor.

She frowned. "That's idiotic."

"That's the whole point," Fred snapped. "It would've been funny if you hadn't taken the easy way out."

"What would have been funny?" she countered, relishing in their sudden mood shift from smug to perturbed. "Me casting a counter-charm as soon as I felt my tongue swelling? I thought you two were supposed to be good at pranks."

She tried to hide her delight at the ability to get under their skin. Their presence was unwelcome but not as completely intolerable as she had expected, even as their cheerful nature and goofy grins faded, they were almost bearable.

Suddenly, she saw something dark shift over George's gaze. "Well then eat it, if you're so sure."

Violet's eyes widened, unprepared for the confident challenge. Irritation moved swiftly through her chest. She tried to hide her nerves and glanced down at the ball in her hand. It would be easier to tell them to leave, or even get up and walk away but she couldn't let a Weasley best her.

If living inside of her head was her first flaw, then pride was her second.

Her eyes bore holes into George's, and regardless of what happened next, his look of shock was prize enough as she popped the lump into her mouth. The toffee was a little warm and soft but not inedible, she wondered if their mother had made it.

Her mouth was fuzzy before she even swallowed, and as she had suspected, her tongue began to swell profusely. She poked the tip of her wand to her tongue as it flopped out of her mouth, nearly reaching twice its size.

"Reducio."

The twin's mouths dropped open in shock before they exchanged a curious glance. Even though the counter-charm came out with a slight lisp, as quick as it had happened, her mouth closed around her normal-sized tongue, the caramel-like taste of toffee on her lips all that remained of the prank.

She broke her staring contest with George and glanced back to Fred, but neither looked like they were going to say anything.

Arrogance replaced her irritation and she just couldn't hold back.

"Had you not thought of that?" She asked with a smug smile. "I hope none of your other products are so easily reversible. Who would want to buy something so temporary? Faulty merchandise is hardly a way to run a business."

They both stared at her in displeasure, but George looked more enraged than anything, not that she cared about hurting his feelings. This was turning out to be quite fun, she thought.

"Well, you've been a lovely assistant," Fred said, trying to quell the tension and clearly over the situation. "C'mon Georgie, finding someone less capable than Wilkes will be a snap."

George didn't budge. He just stared back at her, his brow furrowed, like he couldn't remember her name anymore. The thoughtful expression was freaking her out. She waited for him to return to the annoying ginger twat who had entered her cabin without permission but his expression didn't change.

His eyes searched hers for something but she couldn't tell what. She chanted 'fuck off' in her head, hoping that he could see the sentiment reflected in her eyes.

How odd, looking at them now, they weren't identical at all. While Fred seemed to operate as their crazy motor, George was something else…steering wheel maybe? Regardless, she was glad their exchange was coming to an end.

"What would you suggest then?" George inquired with a sneer, standing up to follow his brother out the door. "Since you're so smart."

As if she'd help them.

George loomed over her, blocking her view of anything else. She stared up at him defiantly, not letting his size intimidate her. The question lingered in the thick air between them, ringing in her ears over and over. Surprisingly, she did indeed have an answer to his inquiry, not that she was going to say anything. They didn't deserve her help, even if she could mask it as superiority. She waited for him to leave but he seemed just as content sitting in their tension as she was.

He smirked and that threw her over the edge.

Besting him in his expertise would be a satisfying final nail in the coffin and he'd asked for it. She didn't mind him this way, begging her to intellectually best him.

"Potions," she blurted.

She watched his eyes widen. "What?"

"Potions," she repeated wearily. "If you had used Swelling Solution, it wouldn't have been detectable by a revealing charm and no one would take the time to brew its antidote. Victims would be stuck with a fat tongue until the effects wore off, which, apparently, is funny."

It had meant to sound smug but it came out too much like she was tutoring him in earnest. He looked just as surprised at her tone as she was and stood up a little straighter, before reaching for the door. She glanced down at her hands, aware of his eyes still on her, and cursed the sincerity in her voice, hoping he wouldn't take it seriously or respond.

Thankfully, the door clicked shut and his footsteps disappeared down the hall, without another word. She sighed in relief and stuffed the book back into her bag to finally go find Sadie.

Violet shook the strange interaction with the Weasleys from her head and pushed through, packed train car, after packed train car before reaching the self-anointed 'Slytherin Only' door. Out of all the options on the train, her house had managed to claim the worst one. The tables and benches were much more uncomfortable than the stuffy cabins and the openness of the room made every ride a free-for-all.

The window fogged from her breath for a moment but through the sea of green, black, and silver, she could just make out the short, dark-haired girl she'd been looking for.

She wove through the room, focusing on Sadie's scowling face, at the back table. She followed the witch's death glare to a gaggle of girls surrounding Draco Malfoy across the room, holding up some Quidditch pamphlet that was somehow making them squeal. She pushed through a group of large boys lurking around a few older sixth years and successfully made it the length of the train without anyone trying to speak with her, or leer something hurtful, which was prone to happen.

"I was beginning to wonder if you even got on," Sadie said.

"Please, hold your applause," she responded, thankful to hear her friend's voice after months apart.

Sadie smirked knowingly. "Did you yak?"

Violet sat on the bench across from her. "Nope. Almost threw myself out of the window near Manchester though, when the Weasley twins raided my compartment."

She thought about recounting the entirety of the strange interaction but decided against it, as Sadie already seemed perturbed enough.

"Merlin, those spazzy gits never take a day off. We haven't even started the school year yet," she murmured. "Please tell me you unleashed your wrath on them."

Before she could answer, a chorus of ooh's and ahh's erupted from the show going on at the front table.

"Oi get a room or shut the hell up," Sadie yelled, earning her more than a few dirty looks around the room and an especially sour sneer from Malfoy himself.

"Shove off, Baldock," Malfoy sneered.

Normally, Violet would've laughed but she didn't particularly feel like drawing attention to herself today so she turned to avoid his gaze.

"I swear, those girls should be over that albino twat by now," she scowled, staring daggers into Malfoy's back.

"Not everyone has your refined taste Sades."

Her friend fell silent, gazing towards the blond boy dreamily. "Vi, do you think I could kill him? Snap him like a twig or something?"

She laughed and turned slightly, ensuring that Malfoy's ominous gaze was off of them. "Surely he deserves a more painful death than that."

She shifted in her seat to rest the side of her face against the window and smiled at Sadie's hearty, murderous cackle. The cool glass quelled any queasiness left as she watched the sunset over Scotland, signaling that the ride was almost over. Despite her surroundings and previous disposition, it was quite beautiful.

As she has suspected, Sadie recounted the first couple hours of the ride with impeccable detail. Pansy Parkinson had gotten an unfortunate haircut, Theodore Knott had gotten hotter over the summer, and Malfoy wouldn't shut up about the Quidditch World Cup.

Her mind snapped to the dark mark once again. Of course, the Malfoy's had been in attendance.

"He was there?" she whispered across the table.

"Of course he was. As if his family would miss an opportunity to show off to the whole world," Sadie said rolling her eyes.

"What did he say about it?"

"Just the usual. Father this, ministers box that. Gloating twat."

"Did he say anything about the ending…about the Dark Mark?"

Violet's ears rang.

A forgotten picture she'd stumbled upon in her father's abandoned school photo album flashed in her mind once more. Lucious Malfoy swinging his arm around her uncle, clad in Slytherin robes, a year before the war started. Their smiling faces were unburdened from what was yet to come.

The same Lucious Malfoy who was charged with being a Death Eater, but ultimately exonerated.

Sadie shrugged. "Just that he saw Potter running scared like a little girl," she said plainly before launching into the details of her summer. It was the same every year; she fought with her sisters and mother all summer long, and then cried like a baby while saying goodbye to them on the platform.

Violet attempted to tune her out and glanced at the cruel blonde.

This was the closest she'd been to him in nearly two years. Ever since Lucious had recognized her father on the platform, she'd taken every precaution to dodge him in every meal, class, or school event, in order to avoid the things that he knew about her.

The image of both Malfoy's smiles twitching smugly as Lucious recanted the Wilkes family history to his monstrous son on the train platform flashed in her mind. Her father had ushered the family away, uncaring of the secrets that would follow her to school and unwilling to speak about it.

She knew he knew, and even though he had every opportunity to tell the whole school, he didn't. Or rather, hadn't yet, like she knew he would someday. She could tell that he was waiting for the most opportune time by the way he said half-blood, and blood traitor instead of her name and the way his eyes were always just a little too confident when regarding her. The anticipation and fear seemed to be torture enough, for him. Surely though, it was only a matter of time.

His presence suddenly became too much. The thought of sharing a room with someone so amused by the ridicule of anyone who wasn't of pure-blood made the taste of bile claw up her throat.

"Sades," she interrupted her friend who was still animatedly speaking. "Wanna head back to mine and change?"

The dark-haired witch nodded and chattered on.

She led them both back down the train, breathing freely again among less threatening red, blue, and yellow students. She was relieved to have Sadie rambling at her side, yelling at first years in their way, and shoving leering seventh-year boys back into the cabins.

They finally reached the last car, and suddenly, she felt her breath hitch in her throat. A tall redhead was leaning against the wall outside of her cabin. He was staring down at his shoes and muttering something. She couldn't tell which one it was from this angle but had a hunch.

Two times in one day? She must be cursed.

Her stomach tangled itself once more with nerves. Maybe he'd come back to enact some cruel revenge on her, for thwarting his prank. She gripped Sadies hand a little tighter, thankful to have her as a backup if things went south. The sound of her footsteps made him finally lookup. She wasn't expecting the expressionless look on his face, and suddenly she doubted that he wanted to harm her at all.

Sadie saw him not a second later and pushed past her, letting go of her hand and yelling, "Bothering her once wasn't enough, you back for more Weasley?"

George's calm face suddenly contorted into panic as Sadie shoved past him and into the cabin. Violet didn't move, and stared at him from a few paces away, unsure of what he was doing if not pranking her.

She hadn't noticed his height earlier when they were sitting, but now that she stood in front of him, it was a shock to be eye level with his chest. Concealing her nervousness to the best of her ability, she met his eyes.

"What?" She said deadpan, hoping to convey his unwelcomeness as much as Sadie had.

He furrowed his brow and looked down at the ground for a moment, failing to hide a flustered blush.

"Sorry…erm — I thought I forgot something —talk to you later," he mumbled through a forced smile. The sudden change in demeanor was surprising. His attempt at confidence was oddly manufactured and she saw, for the first time, a glimmer of shyness.

Git. He probably needed his brother for backup.

Before she could say anything, he brushed past her and sped down the hall and out the door.

"What the bloody hell was that," Sadie said, scrunching her nose in annoyance. "Freaks, the lot of them."

Violet's stomach detangled itself and she turned to watch the floppy long hair retreat from view. She nodded in agreement but kept her mouth closed.

[buckysrighthanddoll]

Bad Guy

Pairing: Loki x enhanced!Reader

Warnings: swearing, drinking, fluff, a lil angst, and some of the team realizing that Loki isn’t as bad as they thought he was

When you were left to babysit the God of Mischief, you weren’t phased in the slightest. Sure, there were some nerves involved; Loki was the self-proclaimed bad guy. He was the cause for countless deaths in the Battle of New York, he seemed to have minimal morals, and he had a particular distaste for humanity.

Thor brought him to earth--or Midgard, as they called it--so that Loki couldn’t wreak havoc on Asgard. He thought that his brother could use a fresh start. Loki claimed that he was sick of vying for more extraordinary things, which you believed was bullshit. This was Loki--his entire life was nothing but lies and tricks.

But, nevertheless, Tony agreed to keep him holed up in the tower. Loki was never to be alone, but that spelled bad news for anybody who wasn’t busy. More specifically, you; you weren’t the newest to the team, but you were the most humane Avenger who also had a lot of free time. You showed compassion beyond the other members, and therefore were a perfect fit for the job.

Loki mainly kept to himself. He was always in his room, but occasionally he snuck off to different areas of the compound. He always told someone beforehand, which made the team feel better, but the cameras were always kept trained on him.

The first time you were introduced to Loki, your enhanced eyes picked up on his aura. It was a dark indigo color, not too bright and not too dull. You sensed isolation and a looming sense of self-hatred. This was the first reason you took a liking to the prince. The indigo hue also meant that he was hyperaware of people’s intentions, especially the unspoken ones.

And the first time you watched over Loki, you sat in the living room with him and turned on some music while he read and you wrote. He hardly said a word, although you caught him staring at you occasionally. He would just smirk a little and look back down to his book, and you would furrow your eyebrows and continue writing.

You weren’t intimidated by Loki. No, you weren’t as powerful as him, but you could see things that others couldn’t. Auras were the easy part, but you also felt a person’s emotions (no matter how well they were hiding them), and you could sometimes hear a person’s thoughts and see their dreams.

At first, Loki saw you as weak and naive. How else could somebody be so open to dealing with him?

The next several times you watched over Loki, you found yourself getting more attached to him. The conversations weren’t deep, but they left your mind reeling. His head was hard to get into, but you still tried.

One night, Tony said to take over Sam’s shift while he went to a mission debriefing. You weren’t feeling well on a mental level, yet you agreed.

You got to Loki’s door and let Sam go, and then you knocked. Loki opened the door with a smug smirk, but it was quickly wiped away when he saw how you looked. Sweatpants and a hoodie weren’t exactly a rarity for you, but your eyes were red, and you had dark circles and messier-than-normal hair.

His eyebrows furrowed as he shifts his weight. “Can we just go lay outside or something?”

“Of course, love,” Loki responded. If you weren’t so preoccupied with dark thoughts, you’d have questioned the pet name. Loki snaps his fingers, and suddenly he’s out of his black suit and in a pair of grey sweatpants and a t-shirt.

He walked beside you to the roof, where the stars were shining as brightly as they could within New York’s light pollution. Loki remained silent as you laid your back against the cold concrete, and then he followed your actions.

“I’m sorry this isn’t our normal babysitting routine,” You said, laughing drily.

“Don’t apologize; this is quite relaxing,” He responded. You turned your head to face him, only to find that he was already looking at you. “Do you do this often? Look at the stars, I mean?”

“Only when I need perspective,” You shrugged.

“How so?”

You turned your head toward the sky, admiring the twinkling lights. “It’s easy to see the night sky as two-dimensional. It looks like someone covered the earth with a black piece of paper and poked holes in it to let the light through. But each one of those stars is millions of lightyears away. Billions, even. Humans could never even hope to travel to one of them or the solar systems that orbit.” You point out one of the stars--not that it mattered which one. “That star right there doesn’t give two shits about our problems. We are as indistinguishable to them as ants are to us. Sometimes I feel like the world is falling apart, but then I come up here, and I remember that the universe was fine without humans--and it will be fine without us once we go extinct.”

“You speak so beautifully,” Loki starts, sighing as he turns onto his side. “Your mind must be a terribly dark place.”

A scoff erupts from you, and then you’re looking at the god. “Am I that easy to read?”

“Not at all,” Loki says. “You’re always wearing a mask around the team--around me. But this is unadulterated emotion. It’s quite admirable.”

You didn’t notice it until now, but his aura has shifted. It was still a deep indigo blue, but it seemed as though his walls were let down. His emotions were more apparent than they had ever been, and his thoughts nearly screamed at you. He thought about your strength and resilience--how you’ve fought through more shit than many could handle. Yet, here you were, breathing and having philosophical conversations with a god from another world.

“You know,” You start, sitting up. “Everyone keeps telling me you’re the bad guy.”

“And you don’t see it?”

“I see what’s inside. I see so much self-hatred that you’ve turned yourself into the monster others believed you were.” A short pause ensues as you allow Loki to interpret what you’re saying. “You’re not a monster, Loki.”

“I’ve killed thousands of people. I’m the prophetical cause of Ragnarok. I’m--”

“A misunderstood being who found that his whole life was a lie, and therefore became what others said you were. That’s not a monster. That’s a mask.”

“You’ve been in my mind, haven’t you?” He smirked.

You laid back down, shoulder to shoulder with the man beside you. “Only just now. Your walls are damn near impenetrable.”

“Good,” He quips jokingly. Silence falls between you, and all you can hear is the traffic from the city that never sleeps. You both resume staring at the stars until you’ve fallen asleep, and Loki carries you inside.

As Loki exits the elevator, Steve is scared to see you limp in Loki’s arms. Nat is on the defense until she sees that you didn’t pass out or die--you were leaning into Loki, an arm propped against his chest and your head in the crook of his neck.

“Loki what the--”

“Shh,” Loki interjects, making Steve even more upset. Natasha places a hand on his shoulder as a warning to calm down, and the three of them witness you stir a bit in your slumber and bury yourself deeper into Loki’s grasp. “She fell asleep on the rooftop; I’m just putting her in her bed.”

Steve fails to find words as Loki quietly walks down the hallway to your room. Once he gets Friday to let him in, he sets you on the bed. You wake up momentarily, only to ask him to stay with you for a bit. He supposed twenty minutes wouldn’t hurt, so he crawled under the sheets and laid next to you.

The instant you felt Loki’s coolness, you cuddled right into him. Your head rested on his chest, and your arm went around his torso to hold him tighter. What Loki didn’t expect was how warm this made him feel. He rests his arm around you and brings you in even closer. The twenty minutes he had planned on spending with you turned into an overnight stay; he fell asleep with you in his arms.

From then on, you were the only one to watch Loki when the team needed it. You were kind of bummed out that you were taken off missions, but the serenity of watching him made it okay. You watched movies together, stayed in your rooms and talked for hours on end, cooked together, and took naps together.

You hated to say it, but you were falling for Loki. He was respectful, and he was slowly (but surely) growing to tolerate humans and treat them as if they weren’t beneath him.

Tony had announced he would be throwing a party for Natasha’s birthday. He was going all-out and using the entire party deck--four floors included. You showed up late due to a doctor’s appointment earlier on, so the party was lively, and everybody was intoxicated.

You had on a little black dress, and you put effort into your hair and makeup. This was Nat’s birthday, after all, and you respected her a lot. You stayed by the bar area when you arrived to catch up to everybody else’s level of inebriation.

Loki found you less than ten minutes later. There was a clear connection between the two of you, to the point that you had considered that he was listening for your thoughts. “You look amazing, love,” He said, taking a seat next to you.

“You don’t look too bad yourself,” You quipped, watching as the bartender placed five shots on the bar for you.

“Those for some friends?”

“No, they’re for me,” You responded, taking one after another. “I gotta catch up to the crowd.”

Loki chuckles, but then it drops when he sees the liquor cascading down your throat as if it’s water. “Dear, perhaps you should pace yourself.”

You shrugged and ordered a few more shots, and then a mixed drink to sip on. “I’ll be fine, Loki,” You started. You picked up the cup and chugged it back, going against the initial plan of taking it slow. Within minutes, you’re feeling the alcohol’s effects. Your mind goes fuzzy, as do your senses, and the world around you feels lighter. You decided to stop at this level for now since everything was pleasant. The loud music enticed you, and as you looked around, you saw Natasha dancing with Wanda. “And that is my cue,” You smiled, standing up. You wobbled slightly, but quickly caught yourself and briskly walked over to your teammates.

“Took you long enough,” Wanda laughed as you started dancing with them. Little conversation followed that, mostly dancing and singing to the songs.

A slower song came on, and the three of you groaned as you stepped away from the dancing crowd. Natasha and Wanda’s faces hardened as they looked just past you, which immediately told you that Loki was approaching. You turned around as he got next to you, holding out his hand.

“Would you do me the honor of sharing a dance with me?” He asked, his tone as elegant as ever. You smiled and nodded, grabbing on to his cold hand and letting him lead you a few feet over to the crowd’s edge. One of his hands settle at your waist, and yours goes to rest on his chest. He holds your other hand, and then the two of you are swaying to the beat. “They don’t like me, do they?” He asked.

You give a small smile. “It’s less that they don’t like you, and more that they don’t like you with me.”

“Well, I can’t say I blame them.”

“Why’s that?” You asked. Your eyebrows turn up slightly as you gaze up to him. Loki can’t help but think that you looked more beautiful than any goddess he had ever met.

“I’m the bad guy, remember?”

“That’s what people want you to be,” You remind him. He extends his arm to twirl you and then pull you close to him--chest to chest, face to face. “You aren’t a bad person. You put up a wall so that people can’t get close to you. When will you let them down, Loki?”

Loki looks like an angel with the aura surrounding him. It changed right in front of your eyes. Where it was once dark indigo, now it was a clear and bright red. It meant that he could overcome any obstacle and sincerely wanted to change his life for the better. It nearly took your breath away.

“Perhaps now would be a good time,” He whispered. His eyes danced from your eyes to your lips, giving a physical hint to something that you knew just from reading his thoughts. He leans down slightly to gauge your reaction; he finds you also leaning in slowly. Your lips meet somewhere in the middle, and you can just feel the energy that surrounded you both.

His lips, like the rest of his body, were cool to the touch. Yet, they welcomed the heat of your body, like two opposite ends of a magnet meeting. You slowed to a stop in your dance, focusing on the euphoria that a simple kiss brought you. Loki cups your cheek to pull you even closer. The kiss feels like it lasts years, but it was only a few seconds. Your eyes flutter open as you pull away, and a smile spreads across your face.

Nat and Wanda watch with dropped jaws from ten feet away. “I’m gonna kill him,” Wanda states.

“No, Wanda, look at her,” Nat says, directing her friend’s attention to you. “She’s smiling--she’s happy.”

“Maybe she’s faking it.”

“She isn’t faking it,” Natasha responds. “The look in her eyes gives it away. She loves him.” She adjusts her stance and focuses on Loki. “And look at Loki’s face. It has genuine emotion. It isn’t stoic; it isn’t sarcastic--he’s letting her in.”

“Well, I’ll be damned. Why didn’t she tell us?”

“She knows that nobody else trusts him.”

You could hear the conversation despite their hushed words. It was one of the perks of your enhancements. Loki could hear their thoughts, too, which caused him to smile even more. “Would you like to go to bed?” Loki asks you. You nod your head and let him lead you away from the party, into the elevator, and down to the residence levels.

You take off your makeup and change into comfortable clothes, and Loki does the same. It was routine now to hop into the bed together and immediately hold each other. This time, though, when the movie is turned on, neither of you focus on the plot. You’re too wrapped up in each other, kissing whenever one of you felt like it, talking here and there, and just being absorbed into each other’s consciousness.

Loki was the proverbial bad guy. He had done horrible things in his past, and he had turned himself into a monster because his father had told him he was one. But Loki wasn’t bad at all; he was misunderstood, yes, but not evil. This was a man that you could spend all of your days with, and who wouldn’t drain you. He was not a monster. He could never be a monster.

[vanillann]

just the medicine (draco malfoy x reader)

another writing challenge, this time for the lovely @kashishwrites !!

warning: angst (you all seem to like my angst) and swearing, MENTIONS OF PTSD AND MEDITATION!!!!!

word count: 1.8k

“So you’re doing this?”

I let my hands fall to my side, even if they were sore from all the fighting that had already taken place within the first few hours.

“Not now,” Draco rolled his eyes, looking over his shoulder, scared like the little boy he was acting like.

“You’re choosing them over everything that could save you.”

Was I yelling?

The look on his face told me I was but I could barely hear my own voice, everything slowly draining from my body as seconds passed by. I guess that’s what the authors always say, how draining a war can be on everyone good or bad.

“I can’t be saved,” his voice had no emotions, but I couldn’t seem to have sympathy anymore. People were dead, people we loved and took care of and now he’s still picking them. Those people that think there's that much different than the rest of us.

“Maybe because you aren’t letting yourself be saved.”

I heard the yelling that time, I was definitely yelling now.

“Hush, someone might hear you,” Draoc held his finger close to my skin, close enough for the cold nature of it to radiant to my own.

“Why would that matter?”

Why do I have to ask the questions I know are going to break me?

“Because I can’t be seen with you, you know this.”

I knew this, I refuse to “know” this life anymore.

“Then don’t come near me,” my words were pure venom, like that apple from that fairytale my mother used to read me.

“What?”

“If you don’t wanna be seen with me don’t give us the chance to be seen right,” I held my arms out, shrugging my shoulders. I ignored the pain in my shoulder from that stupid curse, I’d make it hopefully.

“I don’t-”

“Frankly this isn’t about you anymore Malfoy. This is about me and my own happiness,” I looked him in the dead eyes of a boy I once knew, a boy I once called my sanity in an insane world.

Now he was the boy that was insane just like the rest, he was even worse than them.

“So you’re going to act like this didn’t happen?”

“Yep, the same way you acted like it wasn’t happening at all.”

I slowly backed up, letting my hurt shoulder hit the wall behind me. I gritted my teeth out of pain, looking back at Draco one last time.

“I hope you get the taste of your own medicine someday, Malfoy.”

*

I let my head fall to my desk, annoyed with the column I had spent the past hour writing. How do you write about Quidditch when you’ve never been to a single match? I should have listened to Ginny all those years ago, or at least her fiancé.

Two knocks echoed in my office, a slight release flooded me.

“Come in Luna!”

Luna blonde hair was seen in the doorway, a nice dreamy smile on her face as she kept her composure so well. You didn’t know how she ran this paper so well but you thought better not to ask.

“Someone is here to see you.”

I knew my fist in the air, happy Oliver finally answered my letters and actually came down to help me while Ginny was away for Charlie.

“Let him in please,” Luna gave me a shrugged, her eyes extra wide as she closed the door and left my office. I smiled, pushing my rough draft to the side and pulling out a clean parchment and a quill for notes.

Merlin knows I needed it.

I heard my door knob twist, my feet flying to rest on my desk as I waited for Oliver's pissed face to walk through the doors of my office.

But of course you never should expect things to go your way.

Draco Malfoy stood in my doorway, a few years older than when I left him but still pretty young. We were both 24 now, much older and wiser than the kids we once were I suppose.

He looked the same, yet different all at once. Maybe it was my broken heart making things up, the wound still awful fresh for something that happened years ago.

“(L/N),” his voice was weak, something definitely new for both of us.

“Malfoy.”

I kept my chin up, the “Harry Potter” pride was slowly starting to rub off on me.

Draco dugged in his coat pocket, pulling out a balled up piece of parchment. He slowly unfolded it and held it up for me to see.

Wizardry Can’t Protect You From Your Own Brain

The article I wrote months ago looked to be folded over and over, little water marks along the paper.

“I thought you were a Daily Prophet type guy,” I trailed off, watching him take the seat directly next to my door.

“I was but I thought I should try associating with my extended family, I didn’t know you worked here till I found this article.”

I knew the article, it was the article that got me multiple letters telling me I helped so many that survive the war find peace within themselves. I felt bad for being jealous, for all that was still a deep fresh wound to my broken soul.

“I read it, made me seek help.”

He chuckled as he spoke, a light hearted chuckle like what he was saying wasn’t serious. I watched him as I waited for more information, watching his hair closely.

It was slightly pale blond, but had a weird tint to it; one I simply couldn’t place my finger on. Maybe it was the lighting-

“I dyed it.”

I looked back to his eyes, much more untroubled than the day of the war.

“What?”

“I dyed my hair a few months ago, took forever to get the bloody color out,” he refused to look me in the eye as he spoke.

“Why’d you do it if you hated it so much?”

“Though it erased everything, maybe I wouldn’t be a Malfoy anymore.”

I felt my heart splinter, his broken frame was something I hadn’t thought I’d see again but he was sitting in my office ranting like nothing changed.

But that was the thing, everything had changed.

“You may always be a Malfoy,” I knew my words seemed harsh, but I didn’t know how to handle this. I was overwhelmed to say the least.

The one person I can’t function without is sitting here in front of me and I can’t help him because I can’t even help myself.

“I know, I had my opportunity and lost it.”

I bite my lip, waiting for him to speak first. I didn’t have anything to say at the moment, there wasn’t anything to be said at all in my opinion.

“Uhm- that’s not why I came here to tell you,” he straight out said, reading over the column again.

“I got help because of this. I have that thing, what do muggles call it?”

He snapped his finger, looking up to the ceiling for a few seconds when he clapped his hands and finally looked at me.

“PTSD, I got that.”

I couldn’t tell if he truly knew what that meant or not, but I thought best not to say anything.

“So I came to tell you, I did.”

“You did get help?”

“No, I got a taste of my own medicine. Literally and figuratively.”

He smiled to himself, laughing like it was a joke as she pushed around in his pocket, pulling an orange bottle from his pocket. Pills floated around in the bottom, my words caught in my throat.

“I got them from this muggle lady, real sweet that one.”

He shoved them back in his pocket, leaning his elbows on his knees as he stared me down.

“I shouldn’t have said that-”

“No, you were right,” Draco cut me off again, but I wasn’t mad. He had been the one to come to me anyways.

I let my hands lay on the empty parchment, not knowing what to do with them.

“No one should ever have to take pills to feel something normal,” I spoke gently, scared to break something.

Whenever it was me or him I couldn’t tell you.

“Yeah, I mean you're right; but some of us don’t get that luxury,” he said so gravely you would think someone had died.

But I guess someone did, the old us died that day on March 2nd. So many people died that day, literally and figuratively as Draco would put it.

“I’m sorry if I made it worse somehow.”

I felt so small, I felt crushed and broken, but this wasn’t my time to vent, it was his.

“A year ago I would have blamed you, but now I see you are the reason I’m trying to save myself. You alway said I never would let myself be saved so I made a compromise with myself, I’d save me.”

I felt a single tear stream down my cheek, one that was quickly wiped before anyone could spot it.

“I’m glad, you deserve that much,” I felt stone-cold. How do I talk to him now?

He was mature, but he looked like that broken boy still in my head.

“I just wanted you to know that I’m getting help I need because of you,” he leaned up slightly, trying to make eye contact as I stared at my desk.

“Yeah, but if I had done more maybe you wouldn’t be on medication-”

“It’s just medicine, if it helps it helps right?”

He shouldn’t be the one comforting me, he was the one who came to me.

“I suppose that’s true, I just wish this didn’t happen to us.”

“The only thing that happened to us was war, it destroys every relationship you hold dear,” I knew he was talking about his mother and father, but deep down I wanted him to be talking about me.

“Can we keep in contact?”

I nodded so fast I thought I pulled a muscle for a second. The sight made him smile, which still magically calmed my nerves.

I couldn’t help it, the thought of walking away again hurt too much.

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

I felt guilty still but I tried to push it away, trying to not make it seem like this was about me, because maybe it was years ago but now it was about him.

A hand laid over mine, the cold silver ring I got him in sixth year still fit his middle finger like a glove somehow. I slowly looked up, both our watery eyes meeting like it was the first time we’ve ever seen one another.

“Don’t worry, it’s just medicine.”

It was just medicine, it was just medicine that was saving the only boy I could ever find sanity in.

If it saved him then I’d buy every bottle he needed.

I’d be his medicine if he needed it.

But, I didn’t need to save him because he has finally learned to save himself.

overall harry potter tag list:

@siriusmaraudeers​ @haphazardhufflepuff​ @marauder-exe​ @aangsupremacy​

draco malfoy tag list:

@okaydraco​ @coldlilheart​ @starcross16

[messymormonmission]

the discussion routine

If someone let you in, and you had between 30 minutes and an hour, you could do a Discussion (this was 1995). A lesson. There were six, we were supposed to do them in order. I guess it's more flexible now.

There was all the introductions stuff, where are you from, where are we from (Building a Relationship of Trust) and then finding a place to sit. Almost everyone had their TV on, we were to have them turn it off to keep the vibe fresh, to Allow the Spirit. Sometimes they kept it on, sometimes to keep the kids occupied, and we were like, 'but surely this fascinating church lesson will capture their interest as much as the PowerPuff Girls' which again shows how much we knew. Screens were distracting for me, I loved them and missed them so much. I remember one night talking to a guy while his kid watched Space Ghost Coast to Coast, I didn’t get a lot out of that talk.

Elder Me: Can we start with a prayer?

Almost no one said no. At least among Latinx folks, prayer was a General Good, they were generally housebroken Christianity-wise. It didn’t always fit the situation, though. I had comps that would try to wedge it in even if it didn’t. My approach was to try to and make as smooth of transitions as possible, no fuss no muss. Some companions would stomp in and lay down the law of Mormonism wherever they went – do things right, in order, as we say to do them. There's probably merit to this approach – it could prepare them for what they would experience a lot in the church. I leaned towards a smoother ride if possible, to reduce the chances of being let out early, seeking out potential bumps in the road.

Principle 1 - Elder Me: Like most people, we believe in God.

My mission had us memorize the discussions. I was Spanish-speaking, so I did it in Spanish. It was doable. It took time, but was something I have to admit the mission taught me - I could memorize, with time and effort. We were supposed to deliver them word-for-word. They were designed as a logical argument, a spiritual sales presentation, to build people towards a series of commitments.

Elder Me: We’re God’s children. He’s our father in heaven and created us in his image.

Lots of nodding.

Elder Me: He wants us to be like him and has prepared a plan to bring us joy in this life and a way to make it possible to live with him forever. He wants us to be happy. [End of my first part. I turn to my companion.]

Each discussion has principles – about 6, and we would switch between companions. After each principle you testify to the truthfulness of that principle, your companion testifies of the same thing, then starts his. In the mouth of 2-3 witnesses.

Elder Companion: I also know God lives…

There were specific things we were supposed to get people to do along the way, commitments – reading, praying, getting baptized. Here’s the first discussion:

God’s plan [I just did this]

Jesus [Elder C. will do this]

Prophets

Joseph Smith

Book of Mormon Commitment – read the Intro, a chapter, and a few verses near the end

Holy Ghost Commitment - Pray to see if Joseph Smith was a prophet Commitment - Maybe someday get baptized Commitment - Listen to another discussion

In my Spanish copy of the discussions, there is a pasted-in piece of paper saying “WHY THE BAPTISMAL CHALLENGE? It’s the Lord’s Will!!!” This meant, ask them to get baptized in the first discussion. First discussion. Yup. This probably came from a mission conference where they talked about how anyone who didn’t ask people to be baptized during the first discussion was a weak missionary, needed to repent, didn’t have faith that God could perform miracles in these latter days. That our Savior Jesus, were he to be on a mission with us, would be asking people to get baptized in their first discussion, because he was always asking people to make huge commitments, without even using the commitment pattern, because that’s his commitment pattern was like a huge aura that covered blocks in every direction and if we could just be more like him we could get people to be Mormons the first time we met them. What is not figured into that argument is, we were not Jesus. What is figured back in is, yeah but we should and could be, duh.

A theme of my mission was anger about things mission leaders (both the president and kids my age) said were true, that weren't, that were likely youthful enthusiasms pushed onto others because they had power, because they'd been Called of God, that I fought with internally because laughing at them felt like heresy. I wanted them to be true, even if they weren't. I wanted to believe what they believed. I wasn't old enough to see it for what it was, whatever it was. Youthful enthusiasms. My brain didn't call shenanigans when it should've (*1).

TBM Me interjects: Ha! That’s a perfect example of how you actually had the Holy Ghost and they didn’t because you’d been baptized and they hadn’t! [Finds a book and slams it shut.] It’s all true, case closed!

Logic Me: I want to buy windows when someone is in the house selling me windows but when they leave I usually don’t want the windows any more. That’s why salespeople try as much as humanly possible to get the sale when they’re around. The chance of you calling them back later is very low. I don’t think it’s a spiritual thing. I think it’s a ‘people can make you feel things’ thing.

Back to the discussions. In the first discussion, which I did maybe 7-8 times a week on a good week, here was the mood from most investigators [the person we were teaching]:

God’s plan - sure

Jesus - ok

Prophets - hmmm

Joseph Smith – oh, yeah gimme some of this.

Book of Mormon – seriously doubt

Holy Ghost – and we’re back but what was that book thing?

The Spirit (*2) was strongest when we talked about Joseph Smith. What we share is that he was a confused kid about religion who went and prayed and God said, hey, how about you start a church because everyone else has it wrong.

Almost every time, it set the mood. We didn’t talk about his wives or dishonesty. But if we were going to commit people to stuff we should have done it there. We had people at that point.

Sometimes after sharing about Joseph Smith’s story we’d ask people who they thought he was seeing descend down from heaven in a pillar of light, and literally about half the time people would share visions they’d had themselves. I never quite knew what to do with this, and in retrospect wish I’d been kinder. Here we were, leading them into this spiritual crescendo, and they wanted to be a part of it, and I blocked it with a ‘that’s nice you also saw God, anyway, this guy...’ We needed to get through two more principles before the time was up, and how dare they have visions, it’s Joe Smith we’re talking about, he’s the one with the visions. I wish I’d given them a little more time at the mic and validated their experiences. They were thought we were talking spirituality, and we were really just talking Mormonism. I don’t know if they saw God. I don’t know if Joseph Smith did. He could have. They could have. I wasn’t there. I’ve had spiritual experiences and I’ll be damned if someone is going to tell me I didn’t have those (*3). I mean, I’m probably damned anyway. Except there is no hell. Except for the one mentioned over and over in the Book of Mormon (*4).

Anywho. I wish I had been more open about their experiences, is where I was headed.

After Joseph Smith we talked about the Book of Mormon and it was a letdown. Mormons love the Book of Mormon, but everyone else is somewhere on the spectrum of “oh that’s nice for you” to “reason #3 you’re a cult.” Which was frustrating as a missionary. Most people, if they read it, realized it was scripturesque and did, in fact, talk about Jesus. People thought it was a trick to get them to learn more about Joseph Smith. Back then I was like, no, it’s all about Jesus and people getting to know Jesus, because I was literal and it literally is (kind of), but we were using it as a way to get them to buy into the religion in general, and to believe in Joseph Smith, so in the end it *was* a trick. So, now I get the skepticism.

The Book of Mormon was the crux of the sale, though (*5). If they got hooked on The Book of Mormon, got good feelings while reading it on their own, they were much more likely to stick with us and be baptized, and they were more likely to stay in the church because they would have an independent source of spiritual feelings (*6).

Finally we’d talk about the Holy Ghost, as a way to help them understand how they would get answers to the question, “do these 50’s-dressed teenagers both named Elder know anything about anything.” Problematic. The trick with the Holy Ghost is/was answers are vague and amorphous, manifesting differently in different people. (*7) We wanted them to pray and feel fuzzy about the Book of Mormon and Joseph Smith. Nothing else. We would worry later about the stuff that might actually come up if they prayed (*8). We wanted them to be better people, eventually – right now we wanted to get them into the kingdom.

People generally understood the Holy Ghost. We were supposed to identify it if we felt it – “hey you feel that good feeling?” “yeah” “that’s the Spirit, man” so they knew what it was like. But that’s also hard to replicate.

TBM Me: How hokey are you going to get? Why do you talk around this stuff? At least be honest with yourself. It’s all true, and you’re trying to explain it away. [looks around for something to slam]

Logic Me: Most of the it isn’t true. Most of the Mormon-est parts of it, anyway, aren't. Sitting around talking about God with people who are by-and-large conditioned through religious upbringing to believe what you’re saying and having that feel good, that seems easy to explain sociologically.

We ended usually with whatever seemed like the right commitment – at the very least to meet again, and unless they totally balked at the Book of Mormon, to accept one from us and read a few parts of it. We try to close with a prayer, put down the next appointment in our little yellow planner, and leave. Usually feeling good, sometimes great if they were really into it, and sometimes bad if they really weren’t listening. But almost any discussion beat knocking doors or street contacting.

Also, as you can see, even out of the church for about 5 years, and 25 years later, I still have the TBM voice in my head yelling at me that I’m a heretic, that all these things are true and that if I would just have enough FAITH, just BELIEVE more because my lack of FAITH is a WEAKNESS and FAULT that keeps me from being HAPPY (*9). It's no fun. That early guilt sticks.

We did a lot more first discussions than anything else. Most people got spooked by one of the many problems they heard, or were just humoring us. But as one companion told me, discussions were the lifeblood of the mission. Without teaching people and connecting in that way I'd have been less motivated than I already was.

In retrospect, am I embarrassed or ashamed about teaching people this stuff? Kind of. Doesn't really matter. It's not a useful idea to sit with. I can't undo it, and if I went back in time and tried to get myself not to do it ("Hey, younger me, it's not true! Go home and go to college out of your hometown!") I'd have thought I was crazy. I had to have my own path out of believing it, and I wouldn't have been ready back then. But looking at it now, I'm more bothered by the idea that we all sin and need to repent. I think starting there is a good place to change direction.

----

(*1) I did ask people if they wanted to be baptized in the first discussion a few times, usually with people I knew weren’t interested. May as well push them away more quickly. It was a bet I was going to lose anyway. If there was someone who was actually interested, I would be scared to bring it up, but we had to eventually, it was the 5th principle of the second discussion. So at that point, if they still would have us, we’d ask them. The second or third time that we talked to them, ever, we’d ask them to change their life, with very little understanding or context about what it meant and what would be involved. We were asking them to do this based on basically the feeling they got when we were around. Like asking someone on a date after getting them to laugh, we were creating a spiritual mood in the room. That was the pattern. Create a mood, then when in the mood get them to commit, then when you leave and the mood is gone, hopefully they follow through. Most didn’t. When we left, usually the heat left.

(*2) which I then thought was a spiritual manifestation of God through a non-corporeal member of the Godhead which can be everywhere at once if needed and only could be manifest in Mormons who had received the Gift of the Holy Ghost, and now think is something like a common manifestation of belief in each other’s belief about inspiring events

(*3) Even if Joseph Smith saw God, it doesn’t make up for the shit he did later.

TBM Me interjects: We don’t know he did terrible things, faith-promoting historical sources blah blah blah just trust your FEELINGS unless they tell you he did terrible things.

Logic Me: Really this is a marketing thing. The church could pull back on Joseph Smith and they'd get a lot less heat but they double and triple down on him and have to spend time and money in counter-programming.

(*4)56 times, more than old and new testament combined

(*5) except we gave books away, a major advantage over Jehovah’s Witnesses’ missionary work, who had to literally sell their materials I think, which is like adding insult to injury for those poor missionaries

(*6) I don’t want to get too much into it here, but why does the Book of Mormon generate spiritual feelings? Grant Palmer argues that it’s because it talks about Jesus and being a better person, and that anything that talks about Jesus and changing to be better is going to do that. Which was helpful for me. The book is really problematic in so, so many ways, but Mormons go back to it again and again because it can, in fact, generate spiritual feelings when reading it, if you approach it a certain way.

TBM Me: Aha! That’s just the sort of the baloney someone who has left the faith would tell themselves to get away from the truth. It’s all true! [Finds an open door and slams it shut.] Case closed!

Logic Me: I’m not getting into whether the Book of Mormon was actually written by a series of dudes on gold plates a couple of thousand years ago. I’m talking about effect. Another post another post another post. Lemme alone.

(*7) I'm realizing I put this in without commentary. I'm still fuzzy on the Spirit, Higher Power, all that stuff. Another post for another time I guess because I still believe in getting answers from somewhere, I just don't know if they come from me or somewhere else. They sound a lot like me.

(*8) If you want to replicate this, wake up before everyone else and sit at a clean kitchen table, eyes open, lights on, for 20 minutes with only a piece of paper and pen. No phone, no music. If you wait the whole time things will come up, from wherever, and they probably won't be "Be a Mormon" they'll probably be "get that one thing done and for hell's sake be nicer to your partner." At least that's how it works for me.

(*9) I can then go back and do a logic chain from where my shelf broke and say, look, this isn’t true, therefore that isn’t true, therefore this and that and so on. And then it falls apart again, and I can see that the guilt is not really based on logic but on an emotional reasoning that leans on outcomes that are specifically geared for success only in the direction of the church being true. It’s not even a real logic test. We did this to other people and we did it to ourselves. The "test" looks like this:

Read the Book of Mormon and pray about Joseph Smith.

If you get a Burning in the Bosom (a warm feeling in your chest) then you know it’s true. a - If not, keep praying. Look for things in your life you need to change to be more in line with God, then try again. And again, and again, until you get the yes answer. If you don’t get the yes answer, there is something wrong with you that you are unwilling to face. b - If, heaven forbid, you get the no answer that’s the devil trying to deceive you. No joke, that’s the answer. From an outside perspective that must look ridiculous. "Check your floor for pentagrams. God isn’t telling you to be a Mormon. He’s on Our Side."

[katymacsupernatural]

A Flash of Blue

Michael!Dean x Reader

1400 Words

Written For: @heavenandhellbingo, @spnkinkbingo

Squares Filled: Angel Tablet (HH), Marathon Sex (Kink)

Summary: During college Y/N is turned into a prophet. Quickly snatched up by Michael!Dean, she helps him with a spell. A spell that doesn’t go as planned.

Warnings: Slight angst, nsfw, 18+, spell driven sex, dub con, marathon sex

With the Angel sitting there, watching you closely, you ran your fingers along the tablet once more, your heart racing. The stone was cold underneath your fingertip, the etchings catching against your skin.

To anyone else, it looked like a bunch fo scribbles, markings carved into a stone that made no sense. But you had been handpicked by God himself to make sense of the tablet. To be able to read it when no one else could.

You were a prophet, a fact that didn’t make you happy. Especially when the Angel Michael had found you, kidnapping you and forcing you to bend to his will.

“Well,” He spoke slowly as he moved to his feet, his long black coat settling like a cape around him. “What have you figured out?”

“I...It takes more time than this…,” you stuttered as he grasped your chin, turning your face to meet those beautiful green eyes of his. Eyes that flashed blue when he was annoyed. Like right now. “I promise, I’m looking as fast as I can!”

His hand moved from your chin, wrapping around your neck, squeezing just tight enough to remind you who was boss. “Look faster. I’m growing impatient.”

He pushed you back into the chair before he vanished from the room, giving you a chance to breathe. Your breaths were shaky, your hands trembled as you tried to figure out exactly what you had gotten yourself into.

You had been in college, studying to become an archeologist when this voice spoke to you. The next thing you remembered was waking up in this room, able to read what he called an Angel Tablet.

You had quickly lost track of days, stuck in this windowless room, shackled to the table with only a small cot and a couple of chairs the other furniture in the room. Michael came and went as he pleased, bringing you food and water, releasing your shackles long enough for you to use the restroom.

He never told you exactly what he was looking for. Just that he needed all the information on that tablet. That he would kill you if you didn’t do what he said. So you swallowed your questions and did as the handsome man asked.

After giving yourself a pounding headache, you had finally deciphered something. It talked of Angels and a spell that could enhance their powers. Or at least that’s what you thought. It seemed simple enough, even though you had never heard of most of the ingredients. Black salt, the finger bone of a smaller saint. The grace of the Angel along with blood from a human. It gave you a chant to say, the words ancient-sounding and hard to grasp.

“Well?” His deep booming voice echoed through the small room, shocking you so you almost dropped the stone tablet. He strode forward, taking the tablet and placing it safely on the table. “Have you figured anything out?”

You nodded nervously, completely overwhelmed by the proximity of the man in front of you. He was tall, towering over you, his wide shoulders trapping you in. You were drawn to him but scared at the same time, and it was so confusing.

“I have this spell,” you spoke up, your voice shaking slightly. “It talks about enhancing powers? For an Angel. But I don’t…,”

“That’s perfect!” He exclaimed. “With a spell like that, I could rid myself of those pesky Winchesters and their stupid friend Cas at the same time. Then this body would truly be mine.”

You wanted to ask whose body it was but smartly kept quiet. But you couldn’t help wondering about what you had just heard. If he truly was an Angel and that wasn’t his body, then who was the poor handsome man that was no doubt trapped inside with him?

Michael clapped his hands together. “Let’s get to work then!”

With a snap of his fingers, all the ingredients were laid out in front of you along with a large stone bowl. “Listen, I’m not sure I can do this,” you whispered. “I was just a normal girl, in college. Planning on what Saturday party I wanted to go to! I have no idea how to perform a spell!”

Within the blink of an eye, he was on you, trapping your body against the table, his hand wrapped around your neck. His thick thighs trapped yours, his hips pressing yours painfully against the edge of the table. You cried out, but he didn’t care. His eyes flashed blue, his lips raised in a snarl. “Listen, I don’t care about your previous life. You’re a prophet now, and as soon as you become useless to me…,”

His words wavered off, but you knew what he meant. As soon as he lost interest in you, well…

Gulping, you reached for your notes. “I can...I promise..,”

He released you and you took in a deep breath. “Good. Let’s get started.”

The spell was rather easy to prepare. The ingredients were ground into the stone bowl. His grace slipped from a small cut on his neck, your blood from a deep slice on your wrist. With everything mixed together, you spoke the words, feeling them deep in your soul, swirling around you like a deep blue fog.

Michael stood in front of you, his arms stretched wide, his long black coat gone, his white sleeves rolled to his elbows. His eyes were closed as the fog circled him, swirling and wrapping around him like silk. “I can feel it,” he whispered, his eyes vibrantly blue as he glanced down at you. “It’s working!”

As quickly as the fog started, it stopped, and you waited with bated breath for the results. Knowing that you had a hand in creating a monster. A killing machine.

“I feel..,” he spoke, flexing his arms when his eyes widened incredulously. “Wrong. This spell. Are you sure you read it right?”

“I...I think so,” you stuttered. “Why?”

“The only thing growing even more potent is my...lust,” he answered. In a blink he was in front of you, his lips hot against your neck. You tried pushing him away, but your attempt was feeble as you lifted your head to give him better access.

“The spell. What did you do wrong?” He breathed against your neck before nipping at the tender flesh, his hand slipping into your pants, cupping you without warning. You jerked but had nowhere to go as he cornered you against the wall, his body crushing yours.

You should have been fighting against this, but you had been drawn to this man from the start. So instead of pushing him away, you threaded your fingers through his hair, pulling his mouth to yours.

His smile could be felt through his kiss, his lips harsh against yours as his palm rubbed roughly against your sensitive nerves. His finger brushed against your entrance, slightly pushing it’s way in before pulling away. “Too many clothes,” he ground out, and suddenly you were naked in his arms.

His movements were a blur, his fingers driving you to the point of ecstasy before pulling away. His lips were everywhere, hot and heavy against your skin, leaving you wanting. It wasn’t until he filled you to the brim that you were able to come undone.

The wall quickly became the bed, the ancient wood creaking and groaning under his thrusts. He came undone while you screamed his name so loud the walls shook.

An hour later you were straddling his waist, his thick cock still deep inside you, your legs shaking as you shook your head. “No, no more,” you pleaded, but his hands were tight on your hips, moving you up and down.

“I...can’t...stop,” he gritted, bucking his hips up to meet yours, and you came so hard you almost blacked out.

You had lost track of time. Michael had laid claim to you on every single piece of furniture in this room. The bed more than once. Your entire body ached, you were chafed and dehydrated. Michael lay across from you, his arm loosely across his naked torso. Scratches covered his chest, and hickeys covered his neck. “Do you...think that...the spell’s worn off?” You breathed heavily.

His green eyes flashed blue, his erection proving your words false. With a growl he was on top of you, ready for another bought of marathon sex. A bought you weren’t sure you would end up surviving.

Dean/Jensen Tags: @acortez82 @acreativelydifferentlove @adoptdontshoppets @a-girl-who-loves-disney @akshi8278  @bebravekeeponfighting  @bi-danvers0 @brindz30 @cap-just-said-language @colette2537   @deansgirl215  @flamencodiva @hamiltrash1411 @its-not-a-tulpa @jerkbitchidjitassbutt @justanotherwinchester @just-another-winchester @karouwinchester @keikoraventeller  @krys198478 @librarygeekery @magssteenkamp @misspygmypie @mlovesstories @mrsambroserollinsacklesmgk  @mrspeacem1nusone @nothinbuttrouble2 @ria132love @ruprecht0420     @sortaathief @superseejay721517 @squirrelnotsam @team-free-will-you-idjiot @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @torn-and-frayed @tricksterdean @wonderfulworldofwinchester @woodworthti666

Forever Tags: @aditimukul @alexwinchester23 @algud @amanda-teaches @andreaaalove   @artisticpoet @atc74 @be-amaziing @camelotandastronauts @caswinchester2000 @cpag7 @chelsea072498  @closetspngirl   @docharleythegeekqueen @emoryhemsworth @ericaprice2008  @esoltis280   @foxyjwls007 @gh0stgurl @goldenolaf25 @growningupgeek  @heyitscam99 @hobby27 @horsegirly99 @imsuperawkward @internationalmusicteacher @iwriteaboutdean  @jayankles @jensen-gal @just-another-busyfangirl @karlee-fay-my-wayward-son @lifelovelaughangell123 @li-ssu @linki-locks11 @littleblue5mcdork  @lowlyapprentice   @maui137 @mersuperwholocked-lowlife @mogaruke @monkeymcpoopoo @musiclovinchic93  @nanie5   @percussiongirl2017 @plaid-lover-bay25   @roonyxx @ronja-uebrick @roxyspearing​ @samanthaharper2018 @samanddeanmyheroes​ @sandlee44​ @shamelesslydean​ @simonsbluee​ @sillesworldofwriting​ @sgarrett49​ @spnbaby-67​ @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester​ @spnwoman​   @superbadassnatural​ @thatcrazybookwormgeek​   @thewinchesterchronicles​ @vvinch3st3r​ @wecantgiggleitsafandom​ @whimsicalrobots​ @winchester-writes​ @zombiewerewolfqueen​

[cuculine-nelipot]

Wish We Could

Chapter Two: London

{ Pairing: Hermione Granger x Fred Weasley

Summary: After the Battle of Howgarts, Hermione and Ron start dating; their slow-burn friends to lovers arc complete. He’s nice, and she’s comfortable, and everyone is happy for them. Everyone but Fred, who can’t stop thinking that he loved her first, and Hermione, who begins to wonder if they really are as over as she thought they were. }

22nd August 1998, Night

“Well that was a colossally stupid thing to do,” George says from his old bed in The Burrow, spending the night at their mother’s insistence. Half laying down, he doesn’t look up from his magazine. Fred stands uncomfortably still, staring out the window, as though shell-shocked, even though Errol has long been out of sight.

“Yup.”

23rd August 1998, Morning

It was true that it didn’t take an awful lot to keep her up all night: a new book, a good essay, or better, a long one. Hermione had pulled her fair share of all-nighters, but none like this.

“Were you up all night reading again darling?” Her mother asks, taking stock of her daughter’s messier than usual hair, the shadows around her puffy eyes.

“Yes.” This wasn’t a lie exactly — she’d read that letter countless times.

“You look awful.” It sounds harsh, but her mother’s furrowed brow shows real concern.

“It was a sad story.”

1st July 1996

Summer had come to engender mixed emotions in Hermione. On the one hand she was of course excited to see her parents again, but on the other, she missed her friends terribly. She never had friends like Ron and Harry before; friends she saw day and night, friends she shared every meal with, friends she knew from experience would risk their lives for her as quickly as she would for them. She had no siblings, and had hardly kept in touch with the few friends from primary school. It was too difficult to keep fabricating stories about her Very Normal Boarding School Where Nothing Life-Threatening Ever Happened. So home for Hermione had become synonymous with the sort of deep-seated loneliness one only feels when one knows precisely what they are missing.

And now, to make matters worse, there was Fred. Fred who had kissed her in the hospital, and again by the lake, and again in several empty hallways while they waited for term to officially end. Fred who had, over the past year become more important to her than she ever would have expected. Fred, who didn’t look at her like he was lost and she was supposed to have the map, or make it. Fred, who so often grabbed her by the hand with a whiny come on Hermione, mischief dancing across his face, and dragged her along for some pure and honest thrill-seeking, who showed her the world as she had never seen it before.

The shrill ring of the telephone abruptly cut through her melancholia. Assuming it was only her parents phoning from work, she took her time making her way downstairs.

“Hello?”

“Hermione?”

“Fred?” She asked, her voice pitched with incredulity. “How are you calling? Why are you calling?”

“I believe it’s called a payphone and I am using one because I wanted to talk to you.” Even through the crackle and static, the teasing grin in his voice was obvious.

“Wanted?”

“Want.” He could hear the smile in her voice too.

24th August 1998, 10:17 a.m.

Perhaps George was right, and that her silence over the weekend means she isn’t coming. She is wiser than Fred after all. And George is usually right. Still, Fred waits, at an al fresco table at Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour, his right leg bouncing manically up and down, his eyes flitting to his watch every few seconds. He has been sitting there for forty-eight minutes.

Of course, Hermione knew at once that it was an undoubtedly bad idea, going to see Fred. Though really, it would only be a bad idea if she still has feelings for him, which she doesn’t, or if he still has feeling fore her, which she is sure isn’t true either. Then there is the fact that she had hardly made it to Florean’s all summer, and he has a lovely blackcurrant and gin ice-cream that he’s meant to stop making once Autumn rolls round. But then there is the question of why precisely Fred wants to meet her. And then there is Ron. Such thoughts chased each other in circles around her head, nipping at each other’s heals all Saturday night and most of Sunday, until another owl arrived. This one with a note from Flourish and Blotts asking her to please collect her order at her earliest convenience. Was Monday morning around 10 a.m. not her earliest convenience?

And so at eight-thirty on this almost chilly August morning, Hermione left her house for Belsize Park station, hopped on the Northern line, and alighted five stops later at Leister Square. She walked two minutes in the direction of The Leaky Cauldron, changed her mind, and instead went to Foyles, which reminded her that she did indeed need to go to Flourish and Blotts. After buying just three books and a new book bag, she again made her way to The Leaky Cauldron, then onward to Diagon Alley. This whole harrowing ordeal took over an a hour, and so apart from picking up Merlin’s Annotated Dante’s Inferno, she decided to splurge a little on some new quills, a well of peacock blue ink, and a couple of fancy leather bound notebooks.

It is perhaps this added weight that, on observing Fred Weasley’s anxious form outside Florean’s, impedes her attempted escape. Instead, before she can take two steps back the way she just came, she feels a hand pulling at her wrist.

“Hermione, wait.” She turns to see him looking imploringly at her with his bright green eyes, so wide and so close she can see flecks of gold in them, reflecting the morning sun. “It’s just ice-cream.”

Just ice-cream — who could argue with that? They order two scoops each and return to the table he had already occupied, Hermione dumping her bag on an empty chair emphatically in a show of annoyance. For a while they sit in silence; her refusing to speak first, and him not wanting to risk ruining their fragile peace. She scoops ice-cream into her mouth without looking up from her bowl, and he eats slowly, without looking away from her.

“I want the record to show that I think this is a colossally stupid thing to do,” she says suddenly, her eyes still fixed on her food.

“Well I suppose ice-cream’s never the healthiest thing in the world but Florean’s is pretty —“

“You know what I mean,” she cuts him off bitingly.

“The record will reflect that both you and George think that this is a colossally stupid thing to do. However, I would like to remind all relevant parties that it was my idea, and between the two of us I am the only Ravenclaw so therefore—“

“What do you want Fred.” She phrased it like a question, but her tone makes it abundantly clear that she would like nothing more than for him to just shut up.

“I just want to talk.” He looks abashed, or as abashed as he can look for Fred Weasley.

“I’m not sure we have anything to talk about.”

“Oh,” he says in a tone both needled and needling, “I think we have plenty to talk about.”

“Like what Frederick? You broke us up remember? Not me. You’re the one who walked away —”

“I walked away? You were the one who was leaving. You left —”

“I had to go. You’re the one who said you couldn’t —“

“And you’re the one who hung up the phone. And you’re the one who kissed —”

“I knew this was a mistake.” She grabs her bag, her chair scraping harshly on the flagstones in her haste to leave, desperate to not hear the end of that sentence.

“Hermione —“ He whines, but she doesn’t look at him. Can’t.

“Good bye Fred.”

17th July 1997

“Good bye Fred.”

“Hermione —“

A click as the phone disconnected. He stood alone in the red phone booth, in the flat above the store.

“You alright there mate?” George asked from the couch, turning from the Daily Prophet, his brows furrowed with concern.

The receiver still held to his ear. The singular, monotonous hang-up tone filled his head, his body, pervading the very fibre of his being.

2nd July 1996, Morning

“Buoyant” was the only word that came to mind as Hermione walked down Charing Cross.  She felt buoyant. She had resigned herself to spending the week or so before she and her parents went on vacation wandering around Hampstead with nothing but her books for entertainment, until Fred called and asked if they could meet the following day — today — at The Leaky Cauldron. So she made her way there, buoyantly, glad for some company and more so that it was his.

“Granger!” He hailed from the curb. Of course, her heart didn’t actually skip a beat, but it felt like it did.

“Why are you waiting out here?”

“Well the Cauldron’s a bit of a dive yeah? And Diagon Alley is just the one alley and we’ve been loads so I thought maybe you could show me your London?” He says, all in one breath. She wasn’t sure but she thought his face pinked a little.

“My London?”

“You know… Muggle London.”

“Why?”

“I dunno — if I’m going to live here I should know the area. And,” he added, looking down and rubbing the back of his neck. His speech became stilted. “I want to know what your world’s like.”

“Okay,” she smiled. Buoyantly.

The first place she thought to take him was of course Foyles bookstore, because it was close, and because, well, books. A whole monumental treasury of books.

“Bloody hell,” his eyes widened in child-like wonderment the second they walked through the door. The patchwork rainbow of spines and covers, the smell of new books, the sheer notion of being surrounded by so many stories, and so much knowledge. Even if it only lasted a moment, Hermione had never seen him so still or so quiet before, and she briefly wondered if she had broken him. “This place is massive,” he spun around as he spoke, taking it all in, “is everything in London this big?”

“Not everything. Just a lot of things.” She couldn’t look away from him, the spark in his eyes eliciting an adoring smile. “Did you bring any quid?”

“What’s that?” He asked, not really listening.

“Pounds, muggle money, did you bring any?”

His face blanched as he turned to look at her sheepishly. “Might have forgotten. But I have regular money.”

“‘Regular’ is a state of mind Frederick. And wizard currency far from regular. It’s ridiculous.”                                

“It’s not!”

“29 knuts to a sickle and 17 sickles to a galleon? It’s completely impractical.”

“Okay fine. Maybe you have a point.”

“Oh I definitely have a point.” Hermione retorted, grinning from ear to ear. She insisted that she had been meaning to change some money anyway, so they switched 10 galleonss for £50.

He moved further inside slowly, overwhelmed and unsure of where to start. At first he simply trailed behind her, but eventually wandered off on his own, winding through the stacks and pulling books off the shelves to peruse at length. She found him in a corner near the children’s section over an hour later, surrounded by piles of books ranging from classic literature to astrophysics. The only things he seemed sure of were a home improvement manual for Mr. Weasley, and the first two volumes of Asterix and Obelix.

“You alright there, Frederick?” She asked, crouching down beside him.

“There’s so many Hermione. How am I supposed to pick? I’ve never even heard of half these subjects before. Do I need a book about aerospace technology? Do I need seven? How should I know?”

“I’m going to go out on a limb and say you don’t need any.”

“Help me,” he whined, looking up at her with his big, doleful green eyes. He had never in his life felt quite so distressed. She sorted through the volumes surrounding him, eventually selecting The English Patient — one of her personal favourites — A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and a history of 20th century archaeological discoveries.

When they at last emerged, it was onto a London bustling with the lunch-time rush. Rather hungry themselves they went in search of sustenance and managed, with a little magical persuasion, to find a table in a small French bakery. At their window seat they split a quiche Lorraine and a croque monsieur, drank iced-chocolate, and tried to stave off the crash that inevitably follows a bookstore-high.

“You’re being awfully quiet today.”

“Hm?” He perked up. “Oh, sorry. It’s just a lot to take in, this.” He gestured vaguely to the sprawling city outside.

“But do you like it?”

He shrugged. “I love it.”

“Good.” She smiled, satisfied, settling further back in her seat.

“Do you like it?” He asked after a moment’s silence, studying her face carefully.

She picked at her food, considering. “I do but… I’m usually alone. I think I like it better with you.” She paused, then nodded as if affirming the truth of it to herself. “This quiche is pretty good.” She raised her fork but before she could take another bite, he was leaning across the table, one hand lightly holding her face, pressing his mouth to hers.

24th August 1998, Evening/Night

This time, Hermione is certain of it. She will not leave her room until the first of September. Her parents however are not on the same page.

“Hermione dear?” Her mother calls, hearing the jingle of keys in the front door. “Is that you? Come into the kitchen.” Hermione obliges, and finds her parents reading different newspapers at the kitchen table, with a steaming pot of earl grey and a plate of shortbread between them like they did everyday after work. The sight is enough to warm Hermione’s heart. She had missed this almost more than she could bear.

“How was your day darling?” Her father asks without looking up.

“Fine.”

“Did you buy any books?” Mrs. Granger does not look up either.

“I bought a few, yes.”

“That’s nice.” Her father offers, taking a sip of his tea.

Hermione lingers by the doorway, not saying anything. Eventually her mother looks at her, and observes a certain heaviness in her countenance. “Why do you look upset? Come sit down and have some tea.”

“Is this about Ron?” Mr Granger inquires, a particularly paternal brand of protectiveness evident in both his tone and in his eyes.

“Is it about the brother?” Her mother asks with hawklike instinct.

“Are you thinking about your… adventures?”

“You promised no more secrets darling.”

“I don’t want to talk about it right now,” Hermione interjects before they can pursue their line of questioning any further. They blink at her, equally taken aback. “If that’s okay with you,” she adds imploringly, unwaveringly meeting their eyes. They in turn consider their daughter carefully.

“Well alright then,” her mother says, turning back to her paper. “Dinner is in an hour. Go wash up.”

So she does, and she eats dinner with her parents, and after that she re-reads her new herbology textbook in the living room while her mother reads a le Carré and her father listens to a radio comedy. And she’s happy, honestly. She’s happy to be nestled in the warm glow of her childhood home, with her unchanging parents. She’s happy they are safe, and that for the first time in years there was nothing foreboding hovering on the horizon. She is happy, or at least, she is content.

Fred Weasley on the other hand is far from happy or content. After his rather disastrous morning he went straight back to the flat above the store, determined to spend the rest of his day off in bed. He didn’t move for hours. Rather impressively, he was still in bed when George came up after closing. His hair stuck out at odd angles as though he had been trying to pull it out, his sheets were fitfully dishevelled.

“Oh mate,” said George with an emphatically slow shake of his head, “you really need to get a grip.”

Fred looked up from Asterix and Cleopatra, shooting his brother a reproachful look.

“I’m going into London to get dinner. Do try to regain some level of composure before I get back yeah?”

That seemed like too much effort, so Fred fell asleep instead. He wakes up much later, at 1:38 a.m with London rolling round his head like a marble dipped in luminous dye, tracing webs of light. Quietly, he grabs his Nimbus 2001, climbs out the window onto the roof, and shoots off into the night. A certain frost sparks in the air, pinching at his skin. The wind whips through his hair, at his cheeks, stirs something inside his chest.

All the lights are off in the Grangers’ Hampstead home when he arrives, about 20 minutes later. All but the warm glow of a reading lamp emanating from what he knows is Hermione’s window. He hovers across the street, obscured by trees and shadow. He can see her silhouette on the sheer white curtains, sitting in bed, perfectly still, her head bowed slightly. Reading, most likely. His mind wanders to all the times he’d seen her in that exact posture, in a zen-state of complete focus; her small placid mouth, her smooth brow, the inward curve of her nose, mahogany brown ringlets framing her face. He remembers how he used to try and touch her cheek, her nose, her mouth, and how she would swat him away like she was shooing a fly.

She moves; her arms stretch above her head, her hands intertwined. She switches off the light, and Fred goes home.

2nd July 1996, Evening

“Had a good day darling?” Her mother called from the kitchen as Hermione closed the front door.

“It was alright, yes,” she said, leaning against the kitchen doorway. But the smile spread across her face suggested that it was a lot more than simply alright.

“What did you do?” Her father asked, his nose still in his paper.

“Oh you know, just went central. I met up with Fred. Went to Foyles. Had lunch. Walked around.”

“Who’s Fred?” Her father asked sharply, head snapping to face her.

“Ron’s brother,” she replied. Suddenly embarrassed, she shifted her weight nervously.  “One of the twins. You’ve met him before dad.”

“Why were you with Fred?” Her mother’s stare was as piercing as her father’s tone.

“Well he and George just moved to Diagon Alley and he asked me to show him around a bit,” she replied in one breath.

“Just Fred?”

“Yes.” Her face burned under her parents’ scrutiny, and she struggled to hold their gaze, not wanting to seem guilty, like she was hiding something.

“Why?”

Hermione only shrugged in response, pursed her lips, desperate for this to be over. “I’m going to shower now.” She turned abruptly and left the room.

“Dinner’s in an hour,” Mrs. Granger called after her daughter. A door slammed shut upstairs. She turned to her husband, and they shared a look of utter disbelief.

chapter one | chapter two

taglist: @thelasttime​ @bchnan​ @lovedyouthreesummers​ @keoghans​

[heartofsnark]

This Is Love (Chapter Five):Heart Like A Wildflower

Notes: Soooooo we get some Joseph POV for the first time but certainly not the last. Capturing his voice and energy is not an easy feat for me, but I hope this comes across alright. Also this chapter is a bit short for me; so, hopefully that’s still chill because I’m still very proud of it in many aspects. 

Word Count: 6253

Chapter Warnings: Joseph being a crazy motherfucker, PTSD  Faith Nips (sometimes white dresses are very sheer, don’t kill my vibe), Body Horror

For chapter one and the warnings about this fics overarching themes, please click here!

For the previous chapter; click here!

“We’re moving closer and closer to the edge; with every passing day we grow closer to the moment we’ve been preparing for. When the first seal breaks, when we will begin to reap the land for all we need to survive the collapse; to show our strength and our resilience and march through Eden’s Gate as a family. For I am your Father and you are my children…” 

“Praise be to you,” his congregation speaks to him unison, their voices echoing into cacophony in the small church.  Despite his growing flock, the church remains small and humble. Joseph much prefers it that way, despite the land and resources to expand, he never wishes to stray from their modest roots.

There’s a catch in his throat as the sermon ends; he means what he says, he always does. But, there is a new gravity to his words. The collapse is close. He knows it. There is a tension rising, the electricity in the air before the storm comes crashing down. The seal has yet to open, but it’s only a matter of time and that time is quickly running out. 

His flock stands from the pews, people of varying gender, race, experience, all united under his message. One woman comes to stand before him, a shake in her hands, Layla a young follower who works under Faith’s guidance for the project. 

It’s not uncommon for members of the flock to come speak to him following service, asking questions and needing his guidance. He knows every member by name; knows their struggles as intimately as he knows his own. So, it is no surprise to see her coming to him for counsel or comfort. Her attire is more surprising, he knows her typical manner of dress, the black leather jacket on her clashing against the vibrancy of her clothes. Behind her, Theodore, a chosen who works under John, lingers behind her. 

“Father Joseph…” She begins tentatively, unsure of herself. 

“Layla, The Father has greater concerns than what you’ve drugged in.” 

“What is it, my child?” 

“I’ve brought someone-”

“A police officer,” Theodore cuts her off, “who arrested brother Nathaniel and I.” 

“A wayward soul worthy of salvation, I don’t know how to explain it, but she saved me, and I knew I had to bring her here, if you’re able to speak with her…” 

“All are worthy of salvation, so long as they open their hearts to us and join our family,” he tells her, casting a glance at Theodore who avoids his gaze, guilt coloring his features. He is a valuable worker, perhaps one of few who can work closely with John and withstand the youngest Seed brother’s more…dramatic inclinations, but he struggles with Pride and Wrath as many do. 

“Please, Father, I don’t know if I can reach her…would you speak with her?” 

“Of course, my child.” Joseph lays a hand on her shoulder, hoping to ease some of the young woman’s nerves.

Layla and Theodore fall in step behind him as he makes his way to the door of the church; his brothers and sister are near the exit. Jacob’s scarred forearms are crossed over his chest, John fiddling with the sleeves of his coat, and Faith leaning against a pew. 

“There’s a cop outside,” Jacob tells him in warning. 

“She’s harmless, I promise.” 

Layla words do nothing to ease the tension in the eldest Seed’s body language, prepared to fight for his family and the project whenever necessary.  Joseph squeezes his older brother’s shoulder as he passes, hoping the contact can do something to ease the tension within him. 

The day has already been a stressful one for the Seed family; John spending earlier hours a mess over someone sharing a video of him online only for him to be ridiculed, something easily sending the younger brother into hysterics. Which, while that certainly hasn’t been a priority for anyone else, John has a way of making sure his concerns become everyone else’s concerns. 

Night air chills his fevered skin, wet with sweat from his sermon in the small candle lit church. Members of his flock talking amongst themselves following the service; the only sign of unrest the occasional wary glance towards the side of the church. 

“Layla, are you almost fuckin’ done? I’m freezing my tits off out here and I can’t afford to lose much more.” 

The crude statement comes from a young woman, sitting in front of the church chin perched on a motorcycle helmet. And all at once Joseph’s breath catches in his throat, pain throbbing in his temples as the hair on the back of his neck stands at end. All at once he’s struck with it, the burden of his prophetic stature, stuck with a simple fact. 

He knows. 

He knows it as well as he knows his own name. As intimately as he knows his own heartbeat. Knows it as certainly as he knows the collapse will come. Knows it as deeply as he knows the Voice. He knows it as well as he knows his own word; the prophecy and truths that he speaks. 

He knows. 

She is the Lamb.

The one who will open the first seal, the harbinger of doom, the beginning of the end. Unwittingly or not, in rebellion or in ignorance, she will be the one to bring forth the collapse. He’s felt it, the tension, the build, creeping towards the edge with every passing moment and it’s because the Lamb has arrived. They’re truly nearing the end. 

From between the ears of her helmet, her dark eyes watch everyone with intensity, flickering like a cat prepared to run or fight should anyone draw too close. Her gaze lands on him and his family; a dark brow raising, as if to question their presence on their property standing before their church. 

It has been said that over time, one stops seeing new people, seeing instead patchwork of those they’ve met before. Traits and details becoming echoes of the first person to show them. And as the Lamb stands before him; Joseph finds himself piecing her together through comparisons. 

The way her short dark hair falls across half her face only to be pushed back, reminds him of a love he lost long ago. There’s something in the eyes, as she meets his gaze, head held straight. Memories of a young Jacob standing up for him; the unbreakable will and fire always burnishing behind his eyes, an unspoken strength. She holds that same strength, but much like Faith it hides behind a soft face and a short build, just shy of being the height of his shoulder. When her gaze lands on Layla, the way the side of her mouth quirks up, the raise of her eyebrow; mischief and confidence radiating off of the expression, brings back memories of John using his silver tongue to get them out of trouble.  He knows people, can read their hearts; she’s a soldier, a survivor. Someone needing a purpose, not yet aware that she already has one. 

It is easy to blame the Lamb for their role, for opening the seals and beginning the end. But the Lamb works in the place of the Lord, whether they know it or not, they’re the hands through which he acts.  Setting forth the Collapse is not an act of malice on the part of their Creator. That first seal must be opened and someone must do it; it’s what must happen for those chosen to reach New Eden. Whether she will do it aligned with them and understanding of her role or not remains to be seen. She is chosen as well, a special soul given the gift of  purpose, what she does with her gift is another matter entirely. 

“I’m done waiting, Layla, jacket,” The Lamb speaks, holding her hand out to Layla. The out of place leather jacket clearly meant to drape across her shoulders instead of the flock member’s. He watches the muscles beneath her shirt  shift, pulling tighter over her biceps as she impatiently waits.

“You should have come inside, the time would have flown by,” Layla tells her. 

“Nah, in my experience sermons last even longer when you actually have to listen to ‘em,” her deep brown eyes flicker to Joseph, “no offense.”

“None taken, I’m Joseph Seed,” he extends his hand to her and she slowly takes it, as if he may strike her, her hand is scarred and calloused, a rough burn across her palm. 

“Nice to meet ya, I, uh, recognize you from the giant fuckin’ statue.” 

“Isn’t it lovely, you can feel his love spreading across the land,” Faith speaks up, the statue her doing, “it’s nice to see you again.” 

For the first time, The Lamb drops her gaze, red flushing across her tawny cheeks. 

“You know her, Faith?” 

“We saw each other briefly, a week or so ago, she reached out for me.” 

“Uh, yeah, I’m like real fuckin’ sorry about that,” she scratches the back of her head, “I, uh, thought you were someone else…” 

“Is that so?” 

“Yeah…” She stares at her feet, fiddling with her uniform shirt, a lie. 

“Well, I’m not sure who you thought I was, but I’m Faith.” 

“Nice to meet ya, for real. And…sorry again.” 

“While we're making introductions, it’s a pleasure to meet you, I’m John Seed,” the youngest Seed brother steals her attention, sticking a hand out for her to shake. His lawyer smile bright and wide, more Duncan than Seed in the moment. 

“Uh,” she reluctantly shakes his hand, “likewise I guess…” 

“We’re always happy to meet one of this county’s finest.” 

Jacob scoffs and rolls his eyes, the least tolerant of John’s chameleon-like behavior, knowing full well that just a week ago John was complaining about the police force for arresting Theodore and Nathaniel. This exact officer doing so, according to the former.

“’preciate it, but uh, if the introductions are done,” she tells him as she drops his hand, she’s not phased or charmed, refocusing on Layla again, “I’m actually kinda in a hurry, so if I could just get my jacket back, I’d appreciate it.” 

“Layla, are you holding her jacket hostage?” He casts a soft gaze towards Layla, no malice, it’s nothing significant and despite The Lamb’s insistence on getting it back. She doesn’t appear angry, just…on edge.  Layla shrinks, like a scolded child. 

“Maybe…I just wanted her to meet you.” 

“A noble cause, my child,” he squeezes her shoulder, “but we’ve inconvenienced her enough.” 

“You’re right, I’m sorry.”  

Layla pulls the leather jacket from her shoulders and hands it to Joseph, head ducked down. He offers it back to The Lamb with a gentle smile, a gesture she returns with hesitance, the expression not quite reaching her eyes as she takes her jacket from him.

“Thanks…” She pulls it on, despite being a little large on the small woman, it suits her. 

“This Friday, we’re having a barbecue following our service, it’s open to everyone, if you’d like to come.” 

“While I definitely, totally, would if I could, but I work Fridays so….,” she shrugs her shoulders, “I’ll just get out of your hair, now.” 

And she’s off, a quick hand wave as she rushes out of the gates, eager to get away from them and the church. Hopefully, his words will reach her and she’ll find the path before it’s too late. Her role as Lamb has marked her worth, her importance, the significance of her salvation. 

Dahlia slams her trailer door shut behind her, scrubbing her hands over her face. She feels dirty, gross and vile. Religious people do that to her, make her feel like something is wrong with her. They’re pure and she’s filthy. Meeting them, The Seeds was even more off putting than she expected. They’re not bad people; at least she can’t make that sort of judgment off of a five minute interaction. But, they’re off. From John’s businessman smile that didn’t meet his eyes to Joseph’s intense gaze that cut through to her soul. They hardly felt human. Though, if they weren’t off, she can’t say she’d feel any different, given her hatred of religion. 

She hasn’t ventured to step foot in the church in Falls End and hasn’t talked to the pastor there either; a streak she plans to maintain. Unless they need her out there as a cop, she’s not spending casual time there. Even free food isn’t enough to tempt her into spending time at church. She takes a shower, watches tv with a lackluster microwave meal as dinner and tries not to think about that family for the rest of the night. 

The Seeds are already close to a distant memory as she works the next day; stuck as a desk jockey to her misery. Filling out paperwork for hunting violations; that and traffic violations are the biggest crimes of Hope County. She understands the importance of protecting the environment and the animals but does the paperwork for it feels like fucking overkill. Her hands are cramping from typing and signing shit, all because a bunch of idiots decided to go hunting bucks out of season. 

Something pings off her skull, a crumpled piece of paper falling to her desk after hitting her. She glares at Pratt who’s smirking like the little shit he is. She throws it right back, pelting his cheek when he turns away. He rips another piece of paper from a notebook, crumpling it up into a ball and throwing it at her face only for her to bat it back at him. Then she rips a piece of paper out of her own notebook and throws it at Pratt’s dumb face. 

She hits Pratt in the nose with one; it falls and adds to the pile of paper balls that’s built around them, when the door opens. Nancy, the dispatcher and secretary for all intents and purposes, popping her head in. 

“Deputy Hale,” she speaks softly to catch her attention, “there’s someone here to see you.” 

“Me?” 

Dahlia looks over to Pratt as if he knows something but he just shrugs. She clambers up from her chair, double checking that her uniform is in order for utmost professionalism as she leaves the bullpen office; Pratt following in tow whether from curiosity or boredom she’s not sure. 

In the lobby is Layla from the other night, flashing a bright smile Dahlia’s way when she emerges. She’s holding a Tupperware container and the young deputy can’t help raising an eyebrow; what is going on here?

“Deputy Hale!” 

“Hey, is something wrong?” 

“Oh, no, no, no,” Layla shakes her head emphatically, “I thought I’d bring you something to eat.” 

She thrusts the Tupperware container out at Dahlia who reluctantly takes it, brushing across Layla’s hands and feeling the warmth of the food. 

“Why?” 

Pratt elbows her in the ribs when she asks the questions mouthing the words ‘don’t be rude’ at her when she looks at him incredulously. It’s a genuine question, why the fuck would Layla bring her food? Not that she’s complaining, it’s just weird.

“Well, you don’t cook right?” she notes Dahlia’s confusion, “your grocery bags last night were full of microwave meals or packaged crap, I figured you could use some decent food. As thanks, for helping me.” 

“Uh, yeah cooking isn’t…a huge priority for me.” 

“Her lunches are usually energy drinks and zingers,” Pratt cuts in, literally no one needs that information, so she elbows him in the ribs right back. 

“That’s not good, Deputy, you should take care of yourself…eating garbage, smoking, you should be more concerned with your health.” 

“I appreciate your concern, but if your meals come with lecture, I’m gonna pass,” Dahlia tries to push the container of food back into Layla’s hands. 

“I’m sorry, I’m just worried about you…I think you should really reconsider coming to our barbecue Friday.” 

“Not happening.” 

“I’m sure, if you gave our church a chance-”

“Layla, I said no and I meant it.” 

“But-“ 

“No buts,” Dahlia puts the food down on the counter, “I know you mean well, but you need to back off.” 

With that Dahlia marches back into the office; heat simmering beneath her skin. It stings at the back of her eyes, claws and burns it’s way up her throat. She runs her hand down her face, raking her nails down the skin harder than necessary as if she could carve out her anger as if the red lines could free that feeling, release it from her body. 

Stripes for the backs of fools, they are to the soul what healing blood is to a wound, for the Lord disciplines the one he loves. 

She kicks her desk, the voice reverberating in her skull isn’t her own and she wishes nothing more than to carve her own head open, to cut his voice and memory out like a cancer. 

“The fuck was that about?” Pratt asks as he comes into the office, nearly making Dahlia jump out of her skin. He’s carrying the Tupperware container of food, raising an eyebrow at her as if she’s grown a second head. 

“I helped her out last night, some dude was harassing her, I had to wait outside a church for hours and now they’re trying to drag me to some fuckin’ barbecue.” 

“And you reacted like a lunatic, because?” 

“’Cause I don’t like being harassed into religious shit.” 

“Eden’s Gate invites everyone to their little barbecues,” Pratt shrugs, “it's not a big deal, just some free food.” 

“If I say no the first time, no the second time, no the third time; don’t ask me a fourth time. It’s not that fuckin’ complicated.” 

Dahlia plops herself down in her chair, kicking at her desk again as she does so, as if it’s to blame for the mess in her head. 

“Eh,” Pratt shrugs, “they don’t mean anything by it, not really.”

“I don’t like it,” she says again with a groan, pinching the bridge of her nose, why can’t people just accept she doesn’t like this. Why is she in the wrong for not wanting to be badgered?

“You’re...surprisingly sensitive, you know that?”

“Piss off, I’m not sensitive.”

“You kinda sorta are. Bail on the F.A.N.G Center ‘cause it’s too noisy, avoid bars, avoid barbecues, hate church. Do you even like being around people at all?”

“Sometimes, it just depends….like what’s going on, how many sounds there are... and stuff.”

“So, you’re sensitive.”

“Well, doesn’t it bug you! It’s manipulation, food and barbecues to trick you into a false sense of security, then bam, you’re dealing with an eight hour lecture on how god ruins your life ‘cause he loves you or some shit.”

“And...we give people coffee before interrogations and then bam, they’re in a cell. We’re not any better.  Everyone is at least a little manipulative, it’s just life, why is it any worse when christians do it?”

“It’s not, I just, I just don’t like church, okay? Can we drop this?”

“Okay, okay, but if you don’t want the food…”

“Keep it, my appetites gone, just give some to Petunia.”

He rolls his eyes but, when he thinks she’s not looking he goes out back. Pratt can say what he wants but he has just a big soft spot for that opossum.  The day continues with desk work; Whitehorse scolding them for the paper mess when he sees it. Hudson calls them children and honestly, they kind of are. She’s not sure why Pratt brings out that immature gremlin part of her, but at least it’s fun.

“You know, this is your fault,” Dahlia tells Pratt as she’s picking up crumpled paper and tossing it in the trash can. Whitehorse said their better not be any paper on the floor by the time they clock out. It’s getting very close to that time; Dahlia having procrastinated the clean up and, well, Pratt is still leaning back in his chair like he hasn’t got a care.

“According to you, everything’s my fault.”

“I mean, yeah, but it’s true.”

“How you figure?”

“You threw the first paperwad at me.”

“You didn’t have to throw one back.”

“You didn’t have to throw one in the first place!”

“That’s besides the point.”

“It’s literally the entire point.”

Another crumpled piece of paper rattles off her skull, plopping down to the pile. She glares up at Pratt who’s smirking like he’s the funniest person in the world. Everyone keeps telling her how Whitehorse is soft and easy on her, which may be true, she has no doubt that being sent their way by Lloyd has made the sheriff more fond of her. But, she can’t expect that to keep her safe from reprimand. She’s still on probationary hire and has to try to be on her best behavior at least some of the time.

“Pratt, you’re in more danger of getting your ass reamed than her, so you should probably watch it,” Hudson pipes up, checking her phone as they get closer to quitting time.

“No ones getting reamed, it’s paper, for fucks sake.”

“Doesn’t mean he won’t make you stay back to clean it up.”

“Eh, sounds like a job for a probie,” Pratt tells Hudson, before throwing a paper ball at Dahlia’s head. She chews her lip and adds to it; that’s a thought, Pratt getting stuck behind on clean up. She may be short, but she’s fast… Dahlia watches the time as she keeps throwing paper balls into the otherwise empty trash can.

“You’re just being an ass now,” Hudson tells him as they near the final minute of their shift. Dahlia standing up with a now filled trash can.

“Hey, Pratt,” Dahlia catches his attention, “got ya a hat.”

She promptly plops the trashcan on his head , paper falling down on him and slaps the side of it for equal measure.

“Fuckin’ hell!” He yells as she darts off, his problem now.

“Bye Hudson!” She calls out behind her as she rushes to clock out and leave the station, hyena cackling as she goes. The image of him with that trash can on his head, god she hoped Hudson managed to take a photo for her.

Her cheeks hurt from smiling, her stomach from laughing as she jumps onto her motorcycle. A peaceful ride back to the trailer park, the wind whipping past her and music rattling inside of her helmet.

Then she sees her.

Faith looks so completely out of place in front of the rundown trailer park, long white dress fluttering in the breeze as she balances on a rock near the entrance. Un-fucking-relentless. Her green eyes spark alight when she sees Dahlia pulling up on her motorcycle, waving her direction. Dahlia rides right past her, if she pretends she didn’t see her, it’s fine. She locks up her bike and makes a beeline for her trailer door.

Just as she’s closed it behind her, intent on avoiding the pushy little church mouse, a knock rings out. She can’t exactly say she’s not home, can she? The young deputy opens the door a crack, Faith standing on her porch as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, smiling when she sees Dahlia’s face poking through.

“Deputy.”

“I already told Layla off for this pushy crap, I ain’t in the mood for preaching.”

“I just wanted to chat, is that so wrong?” Faith asks as Dahlia pushes the door open just a hair more.

“Does this chat involve trying to get me into church?”

“I don’t know, we haven’t had it yet.”

“I appreciate the honesty, but,” she glances down seeing Faith’s bare feet, “are you not wearing shoes?”

“Uh...no.”

“Are you stupid?” Dahlia asks, finally opening the door fully.

“That’s rude.”

“There are needles on the ground, dumbass, needles.”

“So, walk with me and make sure I don’t get hurt.”

“Y’all really like taking advantage of my kindness, don’t you?”

“So, you don’t want to walk with me?”  She pouts and bats her eyelashes up at Dahlia.

“Come on,” Dahlia tells her as she leaves, “let's get this over with.”

“Are you always so negative?”

“Life tends to do that.”

Faith walks alongside Dahlia as they leave the trailer park; watching carefully as the woman walks, to ensure she doesn’t step on anything dangerous. Not that the church mouse seems to have any concern about the issue, nearly floating along as if she’s meant to be there.

“It does, your life has worn on you a lot, hasn’t it?”

“No more than anyone else.”

“I doubt that.”

“Do you?”

“I expected to be waiting on you for longer…”

“Why?” Dahlia raises an eyebrow as Faith balances across stones in the field around the trailer park.  

The white clad woman starts to wobble, sticking her arms out to balance herself from the misstep, and Dahlia instinctively sticks her own hand out to catch her. Their hands catch each other, skin brushing together. Dahlia bristles and tries to pull away, the warmth of someone else’s skin jolting her, but Faith intertwines their fingers before she can avoid the touch. 

Faith’s hand is slimmer than her own, but the fingers slightly longer, more elegant. The skin softer and nicer than Dahlia’s too, smooth without calluses or scars.

“Everyone knows the deputies go to the bar after work; the one in Falls End, I assumed you’d be with them.”

“I can’t drink, legally, yet.”

“So, you can’t be there without drinking? Don’t they invite you?”

“No one wants to take a teetotaler to a bar.”

“That sounds lonely, do you have friends in the trailer park?”

The sky's alight with stars, dotting the black blanket of night. A chill in the air hangs through as the night settles in, goosebumps prickling up at the places her skin shows. She wanders how Faith stands it, in her thin white dress. Her eyes cast down at the woman and she realizes how truly thin the dress is; the soft pink of nipples just showing through. Someone should buy Faith a coat…and shoes…

“Not really a cop friendly place, pretty sure they’d rather hang me than be my friend,” Dahlia looks back to the sky, ignoring her discovery to try and find Andromeda.

“Do you have family nearby? You’re not from around here, are you?”

“I’m not close with my family and uh, from Louisiana.” That’s all the information she offers, not comfortable spilling her life story to some stranger, even a soft handed stranger with pretty eyes.

“So, you’re all alone.”

“Thank you for the observation.”

“Layla said she was worried about you, you’re alone and don’t even take care of yourself.”

“Yeah, uh, I think you all worry a bit too much about me.”

“It can be hard, accepting kindness when you’re so used to cruelty,” Faith pivots to face Dahlia and captures her other hand, intertwining the fingers there as well, “we become accustomed to the pain, thinking it’s what we deserve. So, when we are shown love, it feels wrong, unnatural, it scares us so we avoid it.”

“Are we done with this conversation? I wanna be done with this conversation.”

Dahlia yanks her hands from Faith’s, the intensity of her words and her gaze eating away at the deputy. But Faith yelps, the sudden move knocking off her balance from the little stone ledge she’s been walking along. Dahlia jumps up the ledge and recaptures one of Faith’s hands and wraps an arm around the woman’s waist, to catch her further. 

They stare at each other for a moment, soft green eyes looking up at her, they’re pressed close together in this position. The warmth of the youngest Seed’s siblings body pressing against her, nearly every inch of their bodies together. Faith feels so delicate, lithe and fragile in her arms. Breath fanning across each other’s faces, the tiniest of spaces having stopped them from an accidental kiss. Any passerby might think they were dancing and Dahlia had dipped Faith. 

A little...awkward, but at least Faith didn’t go tumbling back onto rocks.  Pink colors the apples of Faith’s cheeks, faint across her delicate cheeks.

“You okay?” Dahlia asks, maybe the cold is stinging Faith’s skin or she was flustered from the slip?

“Just fine, thank you,” Faith says as Dahlia steps back, gently guiding Faith off the little ledge, back safely on the ground.  The deputy’s eyes find the expanses of Faith’s arms, scars catching the moonlight. A chemical formula seemingly carved into one arm; each covered in track marks. Faith fiddles with a dirty blond lock of hair, focusing her gaze on the ground. 

“Are we done, now?”

“I know you’re busy and I know you’re reluctant, but even if it seems like there’s no place for you anywhere, there’s always a place for you with us.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I’ll leave you for now, then. I hope to see you soon.”

“Good night, Church Mouse, be safe.”

They part ways, Dahlia making her way back to the trailer park. She has no true desire to deal with Faith or Eden’s Gate, but she seemed less pushy at the very least. Though the conversation wasn’t anymore fun. Layla’s conversation left her nearly foaming at the mouth. Faith’s has left her wanting to find the nearest hole and bury herself in it. Yes, Dahlia is a lonely piece of shit, thank you so much for pointing it out church mouse.

She closes her trailer door behind her, more aware than ever that her trailer is empty. No one to greet her, no one to talk to. No friends to spend her nights with, no family to call or do anything with. Lloyd and Caroline are people she cares about, certainly, but she’s not their kid. She was a two-year charity case.

After a shower, Dahlia lands on the couch, watching tv again. When she thinks of it, she hasn’t slept much in her bed since moving in here. Spending most of her free time in the trailer on the couch; falling asleep watching tv, listening to music, or reading horror manga on her phone. 

Dahlia tried the first night, the large bed the trailer came with clearly meant to accommodate a potential couple. She’s not sure how to distinguish bed sizes; if it’s a double, a king, a queen, whatever. But she knows every bed she’s ever slept in before, aside from a few early childhood nights of crawling into her mother and dad’s bed, she’s been in one meant for just a single person. Her childhood bed, her bed at Lloyd and Caroline’s, or she’s been without a bed entirely. Sleeping in her share of closets, on benches, on the floor, etc. She can sleep on a park bench or in the bayou muck, but not in too large of a bed.  It makes absolutely no sense, but she’s use to being a cluster fuck of a human being. 

She smokes a cigarette, easing her nerves, trying not to think about her conversation with Faith. The loneliness that keeps seeping into her chest and following her wherever she goes. She’s long ago accepted that it’s a part of her life now, a part of her, and no one else is to blame. There’s no place or group of people that will erase. 

People, groups, like Eden’s Gate like to tell people they have the cure. That panacea to fix every trouble someone may have. They give pretty smiles and tell people that with a little bit of faith they’ll find a place where they belong. That following their ways eases that ache, makes everything okay. 

But, it’s not true. Not for her at least. God never made her feel more at ease, more at peace, there’s no god strong enough to ease the ache of loneliness. Nothing on the outside can fix what’s wrong with her inside. She can sing hymns and praise the man in the sky until she’s blue in the face, but it will never make her happy. 

If anything, the idea of god just pisses her off more. 

Someone who is supposed to hold all the power, who knows each of his creations intimately, yet doesn’t give enough of a shit to save them. This supposed god watched and knew her suffering, knew everyone’s suffering, and didn’t care. Hell, even the bible makes it clear god is a dick.  

Why the fuck should she praise him? 

If he were real, she’d punch him. 

Eden’s Gate likely means well; she knows that. They think they’re doing the right thing, saving her soul. All strong religious types think that way; they tell you you’re going to burn in hell as a helpful warning like letting you know your shoe is untied, they just don’t want you to get hurt. 

If hell is real…eternal damnation is worth it to piss off god. 

She staggers up and out of bed, the bed she doesn’t sleep in,  something itches at the back of her throat. Dahlia doesn’t question it, she moves, something is climbing up her esophagus. Rough and tearing up the tender flesh. Metallic taste of blood clings to her taste buds, cloying and noxious as she runs down the hallway towards her bathroom. The fluorescent light of it is like a beacon in the twilight hours. She doesn’t remember her hallways being this long, but with the urgency of something tearing her throat open from the inside, she doesn’t question it.

Dahlia reaches her bathroom and grabs the sides of the sink, nails digging into white porcelain, the strength of her hold is the only thing keeping her grounded. She coughs and gags, spattering blood across it, staining the white. Her breath staggers and stalls unable to break past what’s clogging her throat, ripping it apart. Blood and bile coating her tongue as she tries to get it out.

She coughs and hacks to no avail, only more blood for her troubles as it carves away at her throat. Dahlia shoves her fingers into her mouth, pushing further into her throat, trying to get a hold of whatever it is, to pry it out.

Then she gags and it all comes out; full white blossoms tinged pink with her blood fall into the sink. She spits out soft stained petals and dark green leaves. The flowers from the field by the trailer park, that were outside the church, that she saw when she first saw visions of Faith. She thinks she’s free, the flowers free from her throat. When her stomach churns again, gagging and coughing as fresh blossoms burst forwards from her throat. Each one cutting off her air for a nauseating moment before she can force it out. Again and again, blood stained flowers fall from her mouth. Her vision swims as white flowers float in a puddle of blood within her sink.

Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong.  Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong.

She falls to her knees, clutching at the base of her throat as she vomits again, blood and flowers splattering on her thighs. Dahlia gasps and takes in a desperate breath, throat raw and aching. Blood coating her teeth and tongue, syrupy and metallic, a petal stuck to her lips as she gasps. A soft sputtering cough sends blood spittle into her hands.

Is it over?

A tickle itches at the back of her raw and stinging throat, her stomach feels bloated with expanding and blossoming flowers ready to climb up her tender airway. She retches into her hand, bloody petals coating and clinging to her hand as she struggles to puke the rest up, blood dripping down her wrist in heavy drops.

Somewhere a woman laughs, the sound echoing in the bathroom, surrounding her. Mocking her pain or celebrating it; she can’t be certain. 

Dahlia wakes up with a jolt, a cold sweat clinging to her skin as she gags and coughs, the phantom sensation of flowers in her throat. She sits on the edge of the catch, sputtering to catch her breath. Nothing is in her throat, the dream was ridiculous, vomiting flowers. But it felt real and her throat aches deeply. She rubs at the back of her neck, waiting for her heart to stop rabbiting in her chest, for the tension in her muscles to fade. 

She stands from the couch and takes the short walk to her bathroom, legs wobbling as she moves. The pure clear white of her sink is a stark contrast to the red stained one, filled with flowers, in her nightmare. There’s still a tickle in her throat, a faint metallic tang of blood on her tongue; echoes of her nightmare. The faint sound of laughter still resonates in her skull as she scrubs water over her face, as if she could wash the nightmare from her mind. 

[visander]

A Bit of Space (5/6)

Alec gets sick.

You can read this chapter on ao3 here or listen to a podfic version here. Special thanks to @accal1a for creating the podfic and @the-prophet-lemonade for beta reading this chapter.

Chapter Five:

Apollo had reappeared by the time they got sick. Magnus felt it first. He and Alec had been stretched out, talking aimlessly when Magnus felt something unsettling in his stomach for the first time. He didn’t say anything, brushing it off as hunger pains that had become normal when only eating the nutritional blocks they did. Then, it happened again and this time, Alec heard it. 

He looked over to Magnus and frowned. “Do you feel okay?” He asked, a slight panic in his voice. Magnus had gotten him to relax a little but all of a sudden, he looked like he was terrified Magnus was going to keel over and die. 

Magnus nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine.” He waved his hand in Alec’s direction, brushing off his concern. The truth was, he didn’t feel fine. He didn’t quite feel sick, but he felt… odd. He felt like he might get sick but that wasn’t enough to worry Alec about. 

It was only a few minutes later that Alec himself sat up. He stared into the distance, wide eyed, a different kind of panic showing on his face now. 

“Are you-“ Magnus began, but before he could finish his sentence, Alec was on his feet. He rushed through the crack in the door of their ship and disappeared outside.

Apollo bounded after him, clearly curious about where Alec was going so quick. Magnus followed after Apollo, stepping outside just in time to see Alec bend over and projectile vomit all over the ground. 

Magnus, in comparison to how Alec was reacting to the water, still felt great. He counted his blessings but kept that to himself. He didn’t think rubbing it in would make Alec feel any better. When Alec finally stopped puking, Magnus approached him slowly. He placed a hand gently on Alec’s back. “You okay?” 

“Yeah,” Alec grumbled, carefully straightening out, one hand pressed against the wall of the ship for balance. He looked decidedly not okay but Magnus didn’t point this out. He squinted at Magnus. “You don’t feel sick?” 

Magnus shrugged. “I felt… a little uneasy, but-“ He glanced at the mess on the ground, grimacing. “-not like that.” He frowned, looking back to Alec. “You feel better now?” 

Slowly, Alec nodded. “I think so.” He wasn’t actively throwing up anymore, but he still looked pale and queasy. 

“Come lay inside,” Magnus said, reaching for Alec’s hand. “You can use the empty bucket if you need to throw up again.”

For a moment, Alec looked like he was going to argue, but then his shoulders sagged and he simply nodded, his clammy hand clutching Magnus’ as he was led back inside. 

Magnus made Alec lay down. He put the bucket somewhere close and tried to persuade Alec to eat some food, so that there was something lining his stomach in case he threw up again. Magnus only wished he had fresh water to give him but that wasn’t going to happen. 

“It’s pay back,” Magnus murmured eventually. He’d settled on the floor next to Alec, pretending the small room didn’t smell of vomit, sweat and sickness. “You had to take care of me when we crashed. I have to take care of you now.” 

Alec’s eyes fluttered open. He looked over at Magnus blearily. “I can take care of myself,” he mumbled, sounding vaguely offended. “You don’t have to.” 

Magnus hummed as Alec’s eyes fell shut again. His breathing slowed and he drifted into sleep, only to groan a few minutes later, roll over and heave into the bucket. 

Magnus grabbed the bucket when he was done and he went to dump the contents outside. Alec was too tired to protest.

Alec was sick for nearly five days. Magnus was worried about him, but he was also reassured by the fact that Magnus himself felt fine. Well, fine-ish. Whatever was affecting Alec so strongly had only mildly upset Magnus’ stomach, which was good news. If something in the water was toxic to them, Magnus’ body would be reacting just as strongly.

Still, Alec didn’t seem too comforted to hear that. 

Magnus didn’t blame him. He would be grumpy if he was throwing up for five days straight too. The first day, Alec wanted to be left alone. He seemed like he was trying to spare Magnus from taking care of him, even though he could barely sit up by himself without vomiting. The second day, Magnus sat by Alec’s head and ran his fingers through Alec’s hair as he slept. When Alec woke up, Magnus didn’t stop and Alec didn’t complain. 

The third day, Alec had leaned back into Magnus’ chest and let Magnus hold him. The fourth day, they had laid tangled in each other for hours, any hesitation on Alec’s part wiped away by the fact that he felt so sick and desperate for comfort. 

On the fifth day, Magnus decided to be bold. He moved to stand up and get them both something to drink. They had to reconcile that the water was making Alec sick but it wasn’t killing him like dehydration would, so Alec had to keep drinking it. When he pulled away, he was surprised to see Alec pout. 

It was an adorable expression on Alec’s normally very serious face and Magnus couldn’t help but lean it and kiss it. They hadn’t kissed since the first night, when they’d been rudely interrupted and they hadn’t talked about it either. Neither of them had said if they wanted it to be a trend that continued. 

Magnus pulled away, watching Alec’s face for any signs of discomfort or, worse, regret. This kiss was different from before. There was something domestic in kissing Alec while he was sick, something that made it clear Magnus was kissing him with no other ulterior motive in mind. Half of him was sure that this was the moment where Alec would tell him that it was too far. He was sure Alec was about to tell him that this wasn’t okay, that he had changed his mind, but Alec just smiled. 

Then, he spoke, “You have very bad timing. I probably taste terrible.” 

Magnus rolled his eyes but he smiled as he reached for the water. A lot more kisses came after that and it turns out that neither of them really minded. 

By the sixth day, Alec’s body seemed to have reached a tentative agreement with the water. He still felt ill, but he wasn’t throwing up every few minutes and dry heaving when there was nothing left. It was a drastic improvement. 

Magnus half-expected the kisses to stop now that Alec was on his feet and the haze of sickness had worn off, but they didn’t. Almost as soon as Alec was up and about again, he leaned in to kiss Magnus and then looked a little embarrassed after, as if he thought Magnus could possibly tell him no.

There was no universe in which Magnus would dislike Alec kissing him. After that, it was just a thing. Their thing. They kissed a lot. Kisses, touches, heated looks. Magnus wasn’t sure if they were together or if something like that even mattered when they were the only two people on the entire planet, but they kissed a lot and at night, they curled up in each other’s arms. Sometimes, they held hands like they were far younger than they really were. 

Magnus had never had this type of romance before. The only person he had ever seriously dated was Camille, and she vehemently did not like hand holding or cuddling. In fact, she didn’t like affection at all but Alec seemed to love it, even if he blushed every time Magnus reached out to grab his hand and reel him close. 

Magnus didn’t think Alec had ever had this kind of romance either. Alec had mentioned that he had once been engaged, but he hadn’t seemed too enthusiastic about that fact. He had admitted that he’d never let himself kiss a man before. Maybe that was what made this work for him; it was new, it was exciting and there was no better place to let go of your fear of rejection than in space, alone with one man who was more than willing to accept whatever Alec had to offer. 

Still, Magnus hoped he was more to Alec than just something to pass the time, someone to experiment with. He hoped that, even if they’d still been on Earth, Alec would have liked him. He hoped that Alec meant it when he said he’d have accepted his proposal of a date. 

Magnus liked to pretend he believed that was true. There was no use dwelling on ifs and maybes. They were here. They were not home and if being here made Alec like Magnus, then Magnus wasn’t going to complain or bother asking useless questions to make himself feel better. 

They were here and they had each other. That had to be enough. 

Once Alec was well again, he threw himself into trying to fix the ship. Magnus had assumed that they had both given up trying, but apparently Alec had not. In Magnus’ head, he had imagined nursing Alec back to health for them to spend all their time curled together, making out and adventuring back to the lake to collect water, if only to survive one more day. 

Apparently, Alec had imagined Magnus nursing him back to health so that Alec could then spend all his time fiddling with solar panels and flicking through books he’d already read ten times. Every once in a while, he would look up and spare Magnus a glance, sometimes a kiss, before he was back to focusing on a bunch of inanimate wires. 

Magnus admired Alec’s endless determination but, really, if there was any time to relax and enjoy some time off, it was now. They were quite literally the only people on this planet and nobody knew they were here. They hadn’t died from the crash, from the atmosphere, or from the water. They deserved some time to enjoy themselves and yet, Alec had found something besides Magnus to occupy himself with, something that very much resembled work.

Magnus tried to be supportive. When Alec thought he was on to something, Magnus would nod in agreement. When Alec said he was sure their solar panels weren’t completely broken, Magnus tried not to complain as Alec spent the rest of the day toying with them and hardly looking up. 

At least Apollo still liked spending time with Magnus but even then, Magnus’ alien friend seemed to be growing older and more independent before Magnus’ eyes. It had gotten bigger since they had found it. Magnus could see the gray around its eyes turning into a light blue. It still seemed to adore Magnus but more recently, it kept its distance.

Apollo spent more and more time away from the ship, only coming back at night to curl into Magnus’ side and then disappear early sometime in the morning. Magnus was being neglected and that feeling was only amplified by the fact that Magnus was slowly going out of his mind with nothing to do. 

Alec busied himself with the ruins of their ship. Apollo adventured out into the undergrowth every day and Magnus had nothing to do. He had filled his notebooks with sketches of Apollo. He’d reorganized all their supplies and read every training manual onboard from back to front. Alec said he could help him with repairs if he wanted, but Magnus declined the offer. 

Sure, it would be nice if their ship had power, but it was a long shot that Magnus had given up on a while ago. For all intents and purposes, they were offline and Magnus imagined they would stay that way.

That’s why he had Alec repeat himself one morning when Alec woke Magnus from his half-asleep haze by saying something incomprehensible.

“It worked,” Alec repeated, as Magnus stared blankly at him. 

Alec looked over to Magnus. Magnus wasn’t sure what he expected to see on Alec’s face, but the blank shock he saw there did nothing to illuminate what Alec meant. Slowly, Alec leaned back. He pointed to the control panel that had been dark since they’d crashed and there, Magnus saw one lone, red light. 

It was lit.  

Magnus jumped out of his seat, scrambling over to Alec. His eyes scanned the rest of the dark console, asking, “Can we use the radio?” 

Alec shook his head slowly. “There’s not enough power to do anything, but I thought, maybe, I could at least get one of the solar panels working. So, I went and set one outside and plugged it in to see if anything would happen and-” Alec trailed off but Magnus didn’t need him to explain any further. 

“And it worked,” Magnus stated, his eyes wide. Some part of him still didn’t realize what that meant. They could fix the rest of their solar panels. They could get their ship back online. They could call someone-

Magnus’ thoughts reared to a stop. He recalled the thick clouds he’d seen circling the planet before they crashed. They could try to call someone, but there was no guarantee that the signal would make it through the atmosphere without getting scrambled. Magnus shook his head, trying not to think about it. The most important thing was that they’d have power. That was enough. It had to be.

They would have access to the ship's offline database. That included research databases, video files and all the letters that Ragnor had ever sent him. They’d have movies too, unless the crash had wiped the hard drives of everything fun. If that was the case, Magnus was going to have some strong words with whoever had designed the emergency systems. 

Strong words in his head, of course. Maybe he’d write them down in one of his journals on the off-chance someone would find them. His angry letter could be read aloud a hundred years in the future to some poor man’s great grandchildren and they’d know Magnus had been furious that he hadn’t been able to watch his crappy sitcoms. 

“I didn’t think you’d get them working,” Magnus said finally. There was a part of him that felt guilty for writing off what he thought was a useless endeavour. Clearly, Alec had never been wasting his time.

When Alec turned to him, he didn’t look upset or offended. Instead, he was grinning. “I know,” Alec said and his tone made Magnus roll his eyes. He didn’t need to sound that smug about it. “So, are you going to help set up the other ones or are you going to make me do that myself too?” Alec asked finally, his grin no less prominent. 

Magnus glared at him before sighing dramatically. “Yes, I’ll help you, but only because I don’t want you to complain too much about having to do it yourself.” Magnus moved forward to peer over the table at what Alec had set up.

“I didn’t complain about having to do this one alone,” Alec pointed out, though he was still smirking. 

“I know you were desperate for my help the whole time.” Magnus waved his hand dismissively in Alec’s direction. “You don’t have to say it.” 

“I think I managed pretty well-” 

“You don't have to say it! I’ll help!” Magnus reached for a wire that was thrown across the table and glanced down at the charts Alec had been using. Some of them, Alec had written on, scribbling notes and calculations in the margins but it didn’t matter much to Magnus - who had no clue what he was looking at. “So… what do I need to do?” He asked, waving his wire in question. 

Alec huffed out a laugh. “Sit down, I’ll show you.” 

Magnus sat, drawing the charts towards him with a frown. He only had a moment to look across them before Apollo came bounding into the ship. It catapulted itself onto the table, excited to see what they were doing. It had done the same thing to Alec countless times but this time, the paperwork went flying. Apparently, Apollo was eager to help as well. 

“This isn’t that hard,” Magnus announced, a couple of hours later. He had put together a total of one solar panel. He’d been excited to set it up outside but Alec said that they should finish repairing all the panels first, before figuring out where they were going to position them. That made sense but Magnus, in his excitement to actually be working on something that mattered again, had still been disappointed. 

“It’s easy because I already figured out how to fix them,” Alec murmured. 

Magnus scoffed. “That’s a technicality. I helped you figure it out. I was sending you very motivational vibes the whole time.” 

Alec hummed softly. “Oh yeah, it really helped me power through every time you tried to crawl onto my lap. When you started kissing my neck and telling me to stop ‘working on something so boring’ and pay attention to you-” 

“I’ve never seen you work harder than after I did that.” 

Alec’s lips quirked. “Well, I was working on something but it wasn’t the solar panels.” 

Magnus looked up at Alec, a little surprised, before he burst into laughter. Alec had been growing more and more comfortable and confident, the longer they had been together and the closer they got. Magnus was learning that he liked this new Alec who was assured enough to make jokes about their new-found sex life. 

Magnus also learned that Alec’s confidence didn’t just extend to his words. He learned that Alec could hold him up with one hand and not even break a sweat while doing so.

That was a rather delightful discovery. 

 Magnus knew that the solar panels needed to charge and wouldn’t just instantly power on the ship but he’d still found himself disappointed when they finished setting them up and nothing happened. For all their hard work, it had been a bit anticlimactic. Alec said that it would take a while before they harvested enough energy to be useful. He wasn’t quite sure how much power they needed to test the radio or even just start up the ship but it wouldn’t be in the next few hours regardless.

Alec seemed like he couldn’t care less that they had to wait and see if they would suddenly regain contact with the real world. He didn’t seem to care that soon, their whole situation could change. He didn’t seem to care that they might not die here with no one knowing they had survived at all. 

Instead, Alec looked happy to have nothing to do but wait, as if his shoulders felt lighter and he could finally relax. Magnus, on the other hand, could not relax. He could barely sit still. How could he when all he could think about was the fact that they could be rescued? He could call Ragnor and Catarina and hear their voices. He could see his cat again. 

Of course, there was a chance the radio wouldn’t work. Magnus knew that. There were a lot of things that could go wrong. Even if they made contact, it would be a while before anyone could get out to them and anything could go wrong in the meantime but it was hard not to cling to thoughts of what could be possible now. 

Except, apparently, Alec didn’t find it too hard. He was laying sprawled across the couch with his feet propped up and his hands settled comfortably behind his head. His eyes were closed, frown lines gone from his forehead, while Magnus himself was standing, pacing back and forth across the room.

Alec opened one eye. “Would you like to do something?” he asked, causing Magnus to look over and glare. He spoke to Magnus like he was an energetic child who needed to get outside. True, it was how Magnus felt, but he was still offended. 

“What are you proposing?” Magnus scowled, choosing to ignore the smirk that had appeared on Alec’s face. 

“Let’s go swimming.” 

Magnus laughed dryly. He assumed Alec was kidding or mocking him, but when he looked over, Alec had sat up. Magnus blinked at him and stopped moving. “You’re not kidding?”

Alec shrugged. “No, I guess not,” he said. “You’ve stepped in the water more than once. I fell in halfway the last time we went to go get water and nothing happened.” He looked up at Magnus, his smirk now gone, his expression serious and thoughtful. “You’re completely healed and we’re drinking the water. Swimming in it can’t be any worse and the water is so clear.”

Alec frowned, still speaking almost to himself. “I think we’d see anything if it came close to us and if there was any harmful bacteria or anything, well-” Alec shrugged again, but it seemed stiff. “I think we’d know by now.” Alec looked up at him for a second before he continued, “We also could use the excuse to clean up.”

Magnus thought about it for a second before he nodded slowly. Alec was the more cautious one. If Alec didn’t think swimming was too dangerous, Magnus wasn’t going to correct him. He made a fair point about cleaning up too. They tried to stay clean but it was hard. They hadn’t managed to get completely clean since they’d been here and Magnus knew they both smelled like it. “It really can’t be more dangerous than drinking it,” he agreed finally. Slowly, a smile stretched across Magnus’ face. “So… are we going swimming?”

Alec still looked a little unsure, as if he was rethinking it but after a moment, he nodded. “Yeah,” he said, sounding more confident than he looked. “We are.” 

Magnus grinned even wider. “If I had known, I’d have packed a bathing suit.” 

Behind him, Alec laughed. It was a sound that Magnus had grown to love far too quickly.

In lieu of a bathing suit, Magnus found himself pulling out the shorts he normally slept in and tying them tight around his hips. He skipped a shirt and went bare chested, a fact that Alec seemed endlessly distracted by. The first few times they had ventured to the lake, they’d been so careful not to touch anything but Magnus had touched it all enough that they both could assume they were in the clear. 

Still, Alec didn’t seem inclined to share his body with Magnus, even though Magnus had seen it countless times by now. He chose a dark shirt that he normally wore under his uniform and pants Magnus had to convince him to take off when they got there. He could not go swimming in pants. Magnus would not allow it.

He fought Magnus on it the whole way there, insisting that he could, but when they actually reached the waterfront, Alec stripped out of his pants easily enough and stood there in just his underwear. He turned away from Magnus, blushing softly and seeming rather embarrassed. Magnus wasn’t sure what was different about getting undressed now compared to when they were making out but apparently, it was different. When Magnus encouraged him with a few pointed looks, he finally took his shirt off as well and when he saw the appreciation in Magnus’ eyes, he seemed to relax somewhat. 

Magnus wanted to push Alec into the water right then and there. The only thing better than Alec’s bare chest would be Alec’s bare chest wet with beads of water running down his sternum, getting caught in the hair he didn’t have a razor to shave anymore. He was embarrassed by it, Magnus already knew. Alec had admitted it one of the first times they slept together, when Magnus had run his fingers through it and Alec had flushed. He’d promised Magnus he was better at shaving it on Earth, with the proper supplies, but Magnus didn’t have a thing to complain about. He loved Alec’s body hair and he was determined to show Alec that he meant it when he said it. 

Alec turned to look out across the water, his eyes finally leaving Magnus. He looked reflective and Magnus wondered what he was thinking about but instead of waiting to let Alec speak, he moved behind him, touching his back softly. 

Alec leant back into Magnus’ chest, clearly expecting Magnus’ arms to wrap around him from behind. Maybe, he thought Magnus was about to give him a kiss but instead, Magnus planted both his palms on Alec’s back and pushed him, hard. 

Alec stumbled forward and fell right into the water, disappearing under the blue surface. His face reemerged a moment later, sputtering. “Magnus! Why’d you do that?” He spat out.  

Magnus stared down at him, putting to memory the sight of Alec glistening in the sunlight. What he wouldn’t have given for his camera to be able to take a picture of this moment, so he could look at it later.

Magnus smiled at the thought. If he had his way, the very first photo ever published of this planet would feature Alec, front and center, half-naked, bathed in sunlight and beautiful. That was, assuming the photos ever made it back to Earth in the first place. “I wanted to see you all wet,” he said to Alec, his smile growing. “I’m not disappointed by the sight.”

Alec scoffed and lunged forward without a moment of hesitation. He caught Magnus by his waist and yanked him down. Before Magnus could try to push him away, they were both underwater. Magnus clung to Alec, a flash of fear jolting through him as the surface disappeared.

They broke the surface of the water a second later and Alec’s arms held Magnus tight against his chest. He laughed, but as Magnus coughed and tightened his grip on Alec’s shoulders, Alec’s expression sobered. He looked up at Magnus, water trickling off his eyelashes. “Magnus? You okay? What happened?” 

Magnus took a deep breath, knotting his hands around the back of Alec’s neck and drawing himself closer. “I just don’t like water that much,” he forced out finally. “I’ve always been a little scared of it.” He admitted. 

Alec blinked at him. “Why’d you agree to go swimming then?”

Magnus frowned. “I wanted to see you all wet,” he repeated. 

The downturn of Alec’s mouth broke into a dumbfounded smile. “Magnus,” he whispered, “Do you want to get out?” 

Magnus shook his head no. No longer submerged, wrapped in Alec’s arms, it didn’t seem as scary. “But I think I’d feel much better if you kissed me,” he countered.

Much to Magnus’ delight, Alec was more than willing to oblige him.

Continue to Chapter Six - Masterpost.

[inkvvells]

⧼ toby regbo, cis male, he/him/his / quarter-life crisis by judah and the lion + desks piled high with books and materials, always crowded but never messy; guilt and shame that eat away at him with every mention of family moments and memories he chose to not be part of; three cups of black coffee to make it through the day, four if there’s too much that needs done (there’s always too much that needs done). ⧽ ━━ hey, isn’t that PERCY WEASLEY? i read a daily prophet article on them, once ; the TWENTY-NINE year old pure blood WIZARD is a GRYFFINDOR alumnus who has gone on to be a MINISTRY EMPLOYEE. i’ve heard they can be quite DRIVEN & METICULOUS, but i don’t know… they came off very OSTENTATIOUS & NEUROTIC in that interview. it really is hard to know what to believe these days though, isn’t it? — [pinterest]

who ordered a pretentious, family-abandoning guilty nerd? no one?? guess this one is on the house then. i’m???? super inspired in writing this bio and its more of a character analysis than anything else bc he’s an established enough canon that we don’t know much about personally so i went ham but i’m not about to ask y’all to read the mess i’ll inevitablty type up for him, so here are a few brief bullet points for now bc i want this up:

learned that the best way to get praise was to do everything he was told, be as respected as bill and charlie, and look after the younger kids. he took these lessons and ran with them into overdrive because percy only knows two modes: zero or one-hundred. hence how he turned out to be a killjoy

stupidly smart and stupidly ambitious. the sorting hat considered putting him in slytherin and he debated with it until the hat got annoyed with him and gave him gryffindor instead. you can pry that hc out of my cold, dead hands

so much of him is based in guilty: for the fight he had with arthur, for putting up so much distance between him and his family for years, and for not coming back to them until the very last minute. there’s also an immense level of guilt thinking he had a part in fred’s death, because he was there when his brother was killed and he wonders if he hadn’t caused a distraction, if fred might still be alive. he’s never spoken about any of his guilt because he’s about as good at communicating as he is at having any chill (aka, not at all)

after the war (and all of the grief and pain and healing that followed), percy made his primary focus on rebuilding his relationship with his family. it’s not been easy, but if the war taught him anything, it’s that he will not lose even more time

currently employed at the ministry (duh) in the department of magical transportation because jkr said that somewhere, i’m just too tired to cite the source

i’ll make a stats page and link it later along with the rest of the finished bio, thank u and good night

BIO — under co.

Born the third son to Molly and Arthur Weasley, one of the very first lessons Percy learned was that it was easy to get lost in the crowd. In a family that finally tapered off at seven children, there was always someone crying, laughing, or making some sort of racket (sometimes all three at once). It was such a loud environment, and it was clear early on that Percy didn’t like loud. He liked things to be quiet and structured, because that made sense to him.

While all of his brothers were causing chaos, Percy was more likely to be found trailing after their mother. It was the only time when he felt like he got one-on-one time — he’s never been all that great at sharing, you see, even within his family. Even better than the time, he quickly realized that it was the best way to get recognition in a family as big as his. Rather than trying to make the biggest display for reinforcement, Percy learned to set himself apart by doing exactly what he was told. When his older brothers were away at school, and the younger kids were causing Molly to want to tear her hair, there was an overarching, sometimes unspoken (often times not) question of, why can’t you lot be like Percy? Responsible Percy, who completed all of his lessons as soon as possible and made sure to not track mud into the house and make a mess. It didn’t matter that it made him less likable to his siblings. It didn’t matter that that lack of likability sometimes felt like a lack of love, either (not that he would say that out loud). Their family was under enough stress, with seven kids and strained finances. He wouldn’t be the one to add any more stress.

Over time, it became less about being the responsible one for the sake of being good, and more so just... because that’s who Percy was. He could be overbearing to a fault, and it wasn’t helped by the fact that he sucked at communication. Whenever he scolded the younger kids for even the most minute thing, it didn’t come from a place of anger. In Percy’s mind, rules were established to keep you safe, and if his siblings broke any of the his mother’s rules, it meant they were making themselves unsafe. He may have been garbage at showing it, but Percy always has and always will love his family. The thought of something happening to them, especially something he could prevent, was not okay in his book. They needed to listen in order to be safe, and if that meant he had to act like an overbearing mother to guarantee that, then so be it.

While he was his mother’s shadow growing up, there was also a deep respect for his father. That respect greatly shifted as Percy grew up and learned their family’s status in the wizarding world, but as a little kid? He wanted so much to be like Arthur. That’s why his desire to enter the Ministry has existed as long as he can remember. Thus began a serous case of tunnel vision further fueled by Percy’s own ambition. Once he set his mind to something, good luck getting him to change it. And Percy’s mind was set on the best.

One thing Percy has kept to himself for years is something said to him during the sorting ceremony his first day at Hogwarts. Slytherin would suit you. Percy determined that that stupid hat must be broken, and mentally argued with it for a solid minute before it put him in Gryffindor — like his parents, like Bill, and like Charlie. His only real care? That he couldn’t stand to feel more disliked in his family than he already did.

His school years were everything that he needed them to be. By the time he started, he already had everything planned out. Get top marks? Done (friendly reminder that Percy got twelve O.W.L.’s, how tf). Become prefect? Done. Become Head Boy? Check, check, and check. Of course, it was far more than just a bit stressful when the twins started school and his lecturing towards them went into overdrive. Then Ron, who’s life seemed to be put in danger every five seconds after befriending Harry Potter. And then the entire debacle that was Ginny’s first year. Needless to say, Percy got his first grey hair at aged sixteen. But he managed to deal with (read: ignore) all of his stress and worry, and left Hogwarts with Os on all of his N.E.W.T.s and a job offer at the Ministry. Everything was going to according to plan.

Everything did not go as planned. His first year at the Ministry was an absolute disaster, to put it lightly. His boss never learned his name, which was humiliating enough. But Percy knew that what he wanted involved playing along in order to work your way up, so that’s exactly what he did. And it worked! Even when most of his correspondence with Crouch was done through letters, it felt like something. Being asked to carry out Crouch’s role in the Triwizard Tournament felt like a reward. Nevermind that he was 18 at the time and that job should have been done by somebody much more established than him. So when word got out that someone had been Imperio’d for ages by someone, Percy was an easy target to blame for not noticing. He could have bit back that had barely known Crouch beforehand, why was it being put on him? He didn’t fight back though. That wouldn’t do him any good. He took it all in stride, bit his tongue, and did what he’d always done: exactly as he was told.

We don’t discuss the fight and his subsequent abandoning of his family.

Percy doesn’t like to think about the almost three years that followed. Why would he? The first few weeks were spent seething with anger, towards his father and towards himself. After the anger cooled, it was replaced with overwhelming guilt. Not for the doubt that he’d had in his parents’ side, oh no. He was still very adamant that they were delusional for trusting the word of a teenage boy and an old (though arguably respectable) man over the governing forces, those same forces that he’d been in awe of since he was a kid. No, Percy’s guilt lay in the accusations he’d shouted, and the blame he’d placed on his father for their family’s financial state.

listen i’ll elaborate on his time during and after the war later, it’s like 2am and i’ve been fighting with my laptop for hours and this is already sO MUCH THAT NO ONE ASKED FOR, PERCY IS JUST MY CHILD

[marlettwrites]

What’s this, you ask? An excerpt? Marlett actually writes things?

The answer to all those questions is: yes!

I’ve been debating sharing some of my writing on here for awhile now, and decided to just bite the bullet and go for it. This is the beginning of chapter 1, and, fair warning, it is pretty long.

TW: child abuse, mild descriptions of gore.

Any and all constructive criticism is welcome!

Jude focused on the image in his mind as layers of skin stretched over and over each other until a patch of unmarred flesh lay where the wound once sat. Ignoring the new pain in his shoulder, Jude pulled his hands away as the last of the blood vanished from his latest patient's arm. A relieved sigh rose from the woman’s throat. Jude looked up and nodded at his assistant, Braheem. The man stood and guided the blindfolded woman from the room.

Just before Braheem opened the door to let her out, the woman turned, a grateful smile on her face.

“Thank you,” she said.

Jude's heart swelled happily and he resisted the urge to tell her that she was very welcome.

Braheem closed the door and turned.

“Are there more outside?” Jude asked once she’d left the room, rubbing his arm just below the hole that had opened on his shoulder.

It looked startlingly similar to the one he just closed on his last patient. Fitting, considering it was her injury. A viscous red liquid seeped out of the small opening and the wound stung where Jude's fingers pressed against it. Braheem pulled his hand away and dabbed at the blood with a towel.

“Stop. You're only making it worse.”

“It itches,” Jude complained.

“That doesn't mean it's a good idea to touch it.” Braheem heaved out a frustrated sigh. “Just leave it alone for a minute so I can bandage it, alright?”

Braheem ran a hand through his unruly black hair, staring at the hole on Jude’s arm a moment. He nodded to himself and produced a roll of gauze from his pocket. Jude waited patiently while Braheem dressed the wound, flinching every time his fingers ventured near the opening in his shoulder.

Finally, the man stood and left the little room, leaving the misshapen wood door to smack against the rock walls behind him. The second Braheem left the room to check on the line outside, Jude resumed scratching at the bandages.

The door creaked open and Braheem re-emerged from what Jude assumed was a hallway. Jude forced his hand away from the bandages.

“Okay, it looks like Shadya was the last one in line. I think it's safe to say you can relax until tomorrow.”

Jude raised an eyebrow.

“You know her name?”

“I know a lot of people.” Braheem said. “I could introduce you sometime if you ever took a day off.” the man folded his arms across his chest and looked pointedly at the reddened bandages that nearly covered Jude from head to toe. Jude avoided his gaze.

“You know I can't do that. Besides, I healed a broken leg yesterday. It'll be at least another twelve hours before I can walk again.” Jude said, gesturing to the splint Braheem had made for him the previous day. This injury belonged to a little kid, about ten years of age if he remembered correctly.

A lot of people came and left through the frail wooden door that had been built into his cavern. His memory only held on to those that stood out against the crowd. Mostly, it was their injuries that made them stick. Sometimes, not often, a patient would talk about the world outside. Jude wasn’t allowed to answer them, of course, but he always listened intently to the tales of risky heists and daring escapes while he tried to imagine what a ‘city’ looked like.

Braheem stared down at him, his dark eyes boring holes in Jude's flesh.

“This is going to kill you one day. You know that, right?”

Jude looked down and dragged his good foot across the floor, back and forth, back and forth, before answering.

“Kasaika says I can't be selfish with my gift.”

Braheem scowled.

“Yes, well he also says that anyone foolish enough to leave their belongings unattended deserves to have them stolen. I wouldn’t put too much stock into that man’s words.”

Jude looked up sharply.

“So what, I should listen to you and leave my home to find some magical fairytale land?” he said.

A low blow, Jude knew. The island was something Braheem talked about a lot. When Jude was younger, Braheem used to tell him stories about the wonders of the island. How people there performed extraordinary feats, such as breathing underwater, speaking to animals, or even flying. Tales of people like him.

Braheem also told him that one day they would leave the kingdom and go home together. So far, none of Braheem’s tales had come true.

Braheem’s eyes narrowed.

“Punt is real. I’ve been there,” he said, pronouncing the word ‘Pwenet’.

When Jude was just learning how to read, he tried to say it as ‘Puhnt’ until Braheem informed him that was wrong. Jude turned away.

“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’m just sick of hearing about impossible futures.”

“It’s not impossible. Just incredibly difficult.”

Jude looked at the ground and nodded.

“Did you bring any new scrolls with you?”

Braheem’s eyes widened in realization. He snapped his fingers.

“That’s what I forgot!” the man spun on his heel and dashed toward the small wooden table that leaned against the opposite wall.

Braheem plucked his shoulder bag off the table and began rifling through it. The sound of paper crinkling caught Jude’s attention, and he craned his neck to see what Braheem was doing. Unfortunately, the man’s back blocked his gaze. Triumphantly, Braheem lifted a roll of paper from the dirty sack.

“Aha! Here it is.” he held the scroll out to Jude. “Tale of the Shipwrecked Sailor,” Braheem informed him. “It’s about-”

“Punt?” Jude asked knowingly.

Braheem seemed to deflate a little.

“Well, yes, but- look, there’s a giant talking snake in it, and most of the stories don’t include Apep.” Braheem said quickly. “It’s a shame, really. The sea monsters aren’t at all interesting to talk to.” looking down at the scroll, Braheem barked out a short laugh. “And this ‘Ahmose’ person didn’t even get them right! Apep isn’t some wise prophet,” he scoffed, “just incredibly overdramatic. But, I digress.”

Jude looked up at him quizzically.

“What’s a snake?”

Braheem stared blankly at him for a moment, as if he hadn’t registered Jude’s words. His face fell.

“Right,” he said to himself slowly. “You’ve never seen one.” shaking himself out of his stupor, Braheem said, “Well, imagine a lizard without- no, wait, you don’t know what that is either. Um, well, it’s like a rope. Yes! A living rope! A living rope that hisses!”

Jude reached up and accepted the scroll, looking down at it curiously. Although he was loathe to entertain the idea of visiting Punt, reading about it still brought him happiness. Besides, the talking snake sounded interesting. Jude began to hastily unroll the scroll.

“Hey, kid.”

Jude looked up.

“Bed first,” Braheem said sternly. “You can read when I know you’re not in danger of killing yourself by trying to walk two feet with a broken leg.”

Jude gazed longingly down at the roll of papyrus.

“It’s almost healed,” he protested.

Folding his arms across his chest, the man raised an eyebrow at Jude. Braheem held his hand out in an expectant gesture. Frowning, Jude handed the scroll back to Braheem and grabbed his crutch. Jude limped over to the pile of assorted cloth sitting in the corner of the room. After lowering himself down, Jude reached again for the scroll.

“And here I thought you were done with Punt,” Braheem joked, but Jude could see the sadness behind his gaze.

Braheem never liked to talk about it, but Jude knew that once he’d lost someone important to him. He also knew that loss was somehow connected to Punt. Jude asked him about it once, but Braheem never said much on the subject. Several questions made their way to the tip of Jude’s tongue, but he bit them back.

Braheem seated himself beside Jude’s cloth nest and nodded at him. Turning his attention to the scroll, Jude began to read aloud. Occasionally, Braheem corrected his pronunciation, or interrupted to ask Jude if he knew what a certain word meant. Other than that, the only sounds were Jude’s voice and the crackling of the torches that lined the walls.

When Jude felt his eyelids drooping, Braheem gently pulled the scroll from his grip.

“Great job. Your reading comprehension is really improving,” Braheem told him. “We’ll continue this tomorrow.”

Jude nodded slowly and curled into the soft bedding. In the back of his mind, he registered the sound of slowly fading footsteps followed by the soft pshh pshh as Braheem doused the torches hanging on the wall with sand. Behind closed eyelids, Jude saw the light slowly dim and then fade away altogether. A familiar creak echoed over the stone walls as Braheem left the healing room.

Jude wished he had left the scroll. Mere seconds after the man left, his leg twinged painfully, and Jude yearned for the distraction. He grit his teeth. He couldn’t complain. He wouldn’t.

He deserved this.

Jude woke the next morning to the sound of muffled sobs and angry shouts. The rust-iron scent of blood weighed heavy in the air. Sitting up abruptly, Jude stared at the door with a sense of dread.

The raid Kasaika organized must not have gone well.

Taglist: @aly-writes-stuff @imaghostwriter @runningonrain @marvel-and-writing @writingnosefreak @planets-and-prose

[pentomic]

help

The man was insane, probably, but he was compelling.

Day after day, he would stand in the town square, ranting, raving, screaming, cursing, exhorting. The people have gone astray, he would cry, casting his blazing eyes to the heavens, begging some unseen god to have mercy on his nation. The people would sometimes come to watch, and some would stay for hours, lost in the man’s rumbling tones and emphatic hand gestures.

His voice was deep, his eyes wild, and when he thrust a finger into the sky, the clouds seemed to dance and recoil out of its way. So it was no wonder a small crowd of spellbound individuals always seemed to surround the box where he stood, in the very centre of the town square.

But the ranting and cajoling wasn’t why the people of the town had come to view him with affection. It was what he did on the seventh day of the week, when he would set aside the box and sit on the ground, and with eyes closed and voice soft, he would spin the most fantastic, incredible stories, and to listen to him drew people not just from the city but from the farms outside and around it. They would sit for almost the whole day, lost in the fascinating worlds he created.

He told stories of his god, a god who could not be seen, yet filled the universe, and how this god had breathed life into mud and made the mud a man, and of a tower built to the sky, of prophets chosen to bear god’s message, of kings and sons of kings, of teachers who could split whole seas with a staff, famine, plague, redemption, struggle, battles, of priests and prophets and kings and teachers and faith.

The most chilling parts were when he would open his deep, dark eyes and stare into the souls of every person in the crowd, and he would growl these are not stories, they are history.

“Your history” he would say, and the crowd would gasp. “You-- all of you-- are HASHEM’s people, and I have been sent by the great King Artaxerxes to gather you from the dust and raise you back to HASHEM’s light.”

The people of the town-- Yerusalayem was its name-- always went away from the man’s stories with strange doubts. It was true, there was something in his tone that pulled on another something in their hearts. Yet this god the man spoke of: how could one venerate something invisible? It was easier, far easier, to direct their worship to the little icons on the god-shelves in their houses. Much easier to pray to a tiny wide-hipped Ashtara or her consort Ba’al. They provided good harvests, fat calves, profit-- and what else could a householder want?

Yassib bent towards the god-shelf and tried to direct his thoughts toward Ashtara, dancing her endless dance among the wheatfields, of the half-naked Ba’al walking towards her, grinning. Yet there seemed a mental block now, a block that had simply not been there before. 

He shook his head and refocused. The image of Ashtara grew hazy in his mind, and he snapped his eyes open, staring at the god-shelf peopled with its tiny images. His voice seemed to come without willing.

“Are you real?”

Ashtara’s dancing hips did not move, as they so often had in his mind. The clay was fixed in place. His heart was racing.

“Gods of mine-- are you real?”

He looked now towards Ba’al, the master, the great shepherd, smiling his fixed, beatific, frozen smile. He slowly reached out a hand to touch the god’s flesh, but it was not flesh. It was clay-- cool, rough, and dead. His hand closed around the idol and he brought it close to his face. Yassib realized he was shaking. 

“Ba’al, if you are real, if you truly reign over this earth, send me a sign!”

Yassib closed his eyes. A drop of sweat trickled down his temple. Nothing moved. No wind blew, no thunder sounded. Not even a tiny breeze ruffled his beard.

He dropped the image. It hit the ground and shattered into a million pieces. Yassib started at the sound, tears suddenly leaking from his eyes. Outside, the sky was growing dark.

He ran. Pushing past his wife and children, out of the god room, out of the house, towards the walls of the town, sobs pushing their way from his throat like shoots from parched earth. There were guards on the walls, but he did not care.

Up the stairs he ran, while the soldiers stared after him in confusion. Now the wind was up, and the dark clouds roiled out of the sky, blowing his clothes around him, his hair, his beard. In a daze he reached the eastern wall of the city, where the wadis and valleys and farms seemed to stretch for eternity.

Yassib was crying for real now, and it was effort to speak.

“WHO MADE THIS?” he screamed, but his words were lost to the wind.

“WHO MADE THE WORLD? WHO MADE THE WORLD?” He tasted blood in the back of his throat. 

Suddenly he remembered the man, the storyteller, and his name-- Ezra-- and his god, and he yelled to this god, this god who spanned existence, who was so vast and so holy he could only be referred to by a pseudonym, a single word that meant the whole world, that fell with the force of a hammer the size of a planet, he yelled it to the wind and the rain that lashed his face, to the thunder and to the lightning. He yelled and yelled until he could yell no more, and then a great warmth surrounded him, and he heard a great blast of song, and he fell senseless.

When he woke up, he was wrapped in a scratchy blanket, and a man was holding a cup of something warm to his lips. He started when he recognized the dark eyes, the heavy beard, the blocky hands. 

“Ezra.”

Ezra nodded, and turned his head silently towards the centre of the small room, which Yassib now noticed was crammed with people.The people were huddling around torches and small lamps, uncoiling long scrolls of parchment. They were reading, sounding out words in a language that Yassib had never heard, but a language that set his heart on fire.

“How did I get here?”

Ezra’s voice was a growl. “You came to us. We found you outside our door in the middle of the storm. Your face was sunburned.”

Yassib raised a hand to his face. Every touch stung.

Ezra nodded. “You were speaking Hebrew.”

“Hebrew?” Yassib frowned. “Where do they speak that?”

“Heaven.”

Yassib almost laughed at that, but the sound stuck in his throat. “Is that-- is that what these people are learning?”

Ezra nodded again, casting a roving gaze over the group of learners. “Not these people, Yassib. Your people.” He touched his chest. “Our people.”

“Me?”

“HASHEM calls his people to him. The day of reckoning is near. The day when the souls of his nation will rise anew and stand like an eternal flame among the nations-- or be lost as river water is when it flows into the sea.”

“HASHEM.” Yassib pronounced the name gingerly. 

“Our god. The only god.”

“I remember” said Yassib. “The invisible god.”

“The indivisible god.”

Yassib sat up. “And I belong to him?”

“The whole world belongs to him. You-- you and I and these people, and more, millions you have never met-- he has chosen especially. This is your home, your destiny.”

“But I don’t know anything! I can’t even read!”

“Neither could these people. They learned. They are learning. They will learn for the rest of their lives, for true learning never ends.”

Yassib ran a hand through his hair. This was all too much. “If-- if I wanted to learn-- would you teach me?”

“I would. I will teach you all. I will teach your wife, your children, their children. I will teach the nation. It is my mission.”

“Your mission?”

Ezra chuckled. “From King Artaxerxes. I come from Persia, where the Israelite community is thriving in exile. But my real mission comes from one place only” and Yassib knew exactly what place Ezra was referring to. He grasped the older man’s hand.

“Teach me. Teach me everything these people know, and more. I am in HASHEM’s hands now. If this is my destiny, I embrace it with both arms.”

“It won’t be easy. This is not a festival, like you gave to Ashtara or Ba’al. This is your life, your whole life.”

“If I am not ready now, I may never be.”

Ezra reached for a scroll that lay on a table. “Then we will start at the beginning. The very beginning.”

Yassib-- now Ya’akov-- walked home feeling, somehow, as if something fundamental inside him had shifted. There was so much to do, so much to learn, so much in his life that needed to change. His family awaited him at home, and he wondered how and what he would tell them. How would they feel about changing their lives like this? Would they come to believe in the true god, in HASHEM? Would they change their names, like he had?

He hummed the single line of Torah to himself. It truly was as Ezra had said: black fire on white fire. 

He trusted in HASHEM. He didn’t know how, or why. He didn’t know how he knew what he knew now about the world, but he knew one thing. It was a small thing, but he knew it, and he would carry it forever. His wife would carry it, and his children would carry it, and his children’s children would carry it, until the day when he descendants would stand on this exact spot in the holy city of Jerusalem, and carry the verse home, to the Mashiach.

It would be the first thing he would teach to his family tonight, and he ran through it in his head to make sure the order was correct.

Bereshit bara HASHEM et ha-shamayim ve-et ha-aretz. 

He was a link now, a link in a chain that would last forever. It was a nice thought.

[jonryatrash]

Jonrya Reread Week 3 - Jon IV & Arya III

So once again, when I made the schedule for the reread, I wasn’t thinking in terms of chronology. I’ll try to sort that out before we start ACOK. In the meantime, I’m trying to stick with the Jon and Arya chapters as they appear in the books. And this week, I want to treat the chapters separately (for the most part) because I think Jon’s chapter serves a heavy character development function for Jon himself. 

Jon IV

For me, reading Jon IV felt like a love letter to Jon-as-leader or, maybe eventually, Jon-as-king. When we last left bb boy, he was being an ass and getting his ass handed to him by almost everyone. He was a sad, lonely, angsty teenager. But after word arrives of Bran’s awakening, Jon’s narrative takes a turn, and we’re shown just how much Jon has grown in the short period of time (however long it is) between Jon III and Jon IV

Seriously, just look at how genuine Jon is, how he displays leadership qualities, and how his brothers follow him: 

Suddenly Pyp was beside him. “Three to two will make for better sport,” the small boy said cheerfully. He dropped his visor and slid out his sword. Before Jon could even think to protest, Grenn had stepped up to make a third.

Grenn was standing his ground as Jon had taught him, giving Albett more than he cared for, but Pyp was hard-pressed.

“For an instant, I thought I finally had you, Snow.”

“For an instant, you did,” Jon replied

Jon called after him. “You were hurt,” he said. “Tomorrow you’ll do better.”

His brothers are joining him, and they’re taking his lessons--the lessons of a boy that they disliked last chapter because he showed them up--to heart. In return, Jon--who is far more an expert in swordsmanship than any of them--praises them, admits when they almost have him, and encourages them to continue to improve, even someone he’s just met--Sam. 

And we see an even more pivotal moment later in the chapter when he rallies the boys to come to Sam’s defense the following day in the yard: 

“Stop it!” Jon snapped angrily.

The other boys fell silent, taken aback by his sudden fury. “Listen to me,” Jon said into the quiet, and he told them how it was going to be. Pyp backed him, as he’d known he would, but when Halder spoke up, it was a pleasant surprise. Grenn was anxious at first, but Jon knew the words to move him. One by one the rest fell in line. Jon persuaded some, cajoled some, shamed others, made threats where threats were required. At the end they had all agreed…all but Rast.

Jon knows his brothers. He understands what it will take to get them all to agree with his plan. So not only is he good with sword and as a make-shift master-at-arms, but he’s a good tactician and understands how to move people onto their respective places on the board, as it were. I know that it comes to a surprise to many, especially Jon, when Jeor Mormont begins to groom him for the Commandership of the Night’s Watch, but honestly? This chapter is evidence of Jon’s capabilities for the position. 

Arya III

Arya III also seems to serve mostly to move the plot along, though not entirely. We do get the big conversation between Varys and Illyrio that lays everything out that’s to come, though as readers the first time around we don’t know this. And honestly, goddamn Ned for not believing Arya when she tells him that someone is trying to kill him. All this aside, I have a couple observations, which I didn’t get to talk about last week. 

At the end of Arya II when she first begins training with Syrio that: 

Arya tried to strike him. She tried for four hours…

In Arya III, we’re told: 

When she’d run to him with her hands bleeding, he had said, “So slow? Be quicker, girl. Your enemies will give you more than scratches.” He had dabbed her wounds with Myrish fire, which burned so bad she had had to bite her lip to keep from screaming. Then he sent her out after more cats.

BB girl is 9 years old, and she’s a goddamn force to be reckoned with. She could barely lift the sword Syrio gave her, but she fought him for four hours straight. When she gets scratches from the cats she’s meant to capture, Syrio effectively pours fire in her wounds. But she persists. She’s dedicated. It’s hard and brutal training--more brutal than maybe even her brothers experienced--and she is embracing it and owning it. We know Syrio gives his life to give Arya a chance to escape, and I can only imagine in part it’s because he sees how invested Arya is in her dancing. He sees something in her, maybe something special. How could he not when most boys would have probably given up. Also, I can’t help but think this is an indicator of all Arya’s training that’s to come in future books. 

Thoughts of One Another

Even though their chapters this time around largely serve a plot development purpose, we still do get Jon and Arya thinking of or mentioning one another. For Jon, it’s in passing as he talks about his dream (more on that in a second):

Most nights it’s my father, but sometimes it’s Robb instead, or my little sister Arya, or my uncle.” 

For Arya, it’s more extensive: 

“Do you know my brothers?” she asked excitedly. “Robb and Bran are at Winterfell, and Jon’s on the Wall. Jon Snow, he’s in the Night’s Watch too, you must know him, he has a direwolf, a white one with red eyes. Is Jon a ranger yet? I’m Arya Stark.” The old man in his smelly black clothes was looking at her oddly, but Arya could not seem to stop talking. “When you ride back to the Wall, would you bring Jon a letter if I wrote one?” She wished Jon were here right now. He’d believe her about the dungeons and the fat man with the forked beard and the wizard in the steel cap.

And then: 

Arya stood rooted to the spot. “Nothing bad’s happened to Jon, has it?” she asked Yoren. “Or Uncle Benjen?”

Arya full-on fangirls over her big brother Jon here. In fact, once she mentions Jon, it’s all down hill from there. It’s all Jon, all the time, to the point where she even forgets to tell Yoren who she is. It also kills me that she wants to write a letter to Jon. We know it never happens, but I’d love to know what she would write. I can also appreciate her faith in Jon, that he would of course become a ranger. There isn’t a doubt in her mind. I’m not sure if this is because Jon’s told her he wants to be one, or if it’s because Benjen is also a ranger. Either way, it’s adorable. 

Dreams

In both chapters, Jon and Arya have dreams of being lost in places. 

For Jon: 

“Sometimes I dream about it,” he said “I’m walking down this long empty hall. My voice echoes all around, but no one answers, so I walk around faster, opening doors, shouting names. I don’t even know who I’m looking for. Most nights it’s my father, but sometimes it’s Robb instead, or my little sister Arya, or my uncle.”

“…Somehow I know I have to go down there, but I don’t want to. I’m afraid of what might be waiting for me. The old Kings of Winter are down there, sitting on their thrones with stone wolves at their feet and iron swords across their laps, but it’s not them I’m afraid of. I scream that I’m not a Stark, that this isn’t my place, but it’s no good, I have to go anyway, so I start down…”

For Arya: 

When they had first come to King’s Landing, she used to have bad dreams about getting lost in the castle. Father said the Red Keep was smaller than Winterfell, but in her dreams it had been immense, an endless stone maze with walls that seemed to shift and change behind her. She would find herself wandering down gloomy halls past faded tapestries, descending endless circular stairs, darting through courtyards or over bridges, her shouts echoing unanswered. In some of the rooms the red stone walls would seem to drip blood, and nowhere could she find a window. Sometimes she would hear her father’s voice, but always from a long way off, and no matter how hard she ran after it, it would grow fainter and fainter, until it faded to nothing and Arya was alone in the dark.

Both are lost in these dreams, searching for people who aren’t there, but specifically Ned. I can’t emphasize enough how important Ned is to both Jon and Arya; most of the time, he’s the only other person besides each other that treats them properly. I also wonder here if Ned’s absence doesn’t foreshadow something. And on that note: 

Foreshadowing

One of the hardest things about rereading is knowing what was meant to be GRRM sowing seeds and foreshadowing and what’s just writing. Because of this, I always hesitate to talk about foreshadowing in the reread reviews, but I think--especially because there’s not a lot of extra stuff to talk about this time around--it might be nice this time to look at a few lines. 

I’m particularly interested in Jon’s dream because we know that Targaryen blood carries a certain element of prophetic vision. Again, Jon dreams that: 

“…Somehow I know I have to go down there, but I don’t want to. I’m afraid of what might be waiting for me. The old Kings of Winter are down there, sitting on their thrones with stone wolves at their feet and iron swords across their laps, but it’s not them I’m afraid of. I scream that I’m not a Stark, that this isn’t my place, but it’s no good, I have to go anyway, so I start down…” 

Jon is a Stark and I will personally fight anyone who disagrees with me on this. YET, I wonder if this isn’t one of the first seeds to the R+L=J theory. This is especially interesting to me because Lyanna is down in those crypts, and Jon feels compelled to go down, thinking all the while that he’s no Stark. 

For Arya, one little bit could be more immediate foreshadowing than the other. The first is: 

“Well, as to that,” Desmond replied, drawing his longsword, “wizards die the same as other men, once you cut their heads off.”

Arya’s exchange with Desmond here is all about Ned’s safety, which is telling enough, but this is how it ends.

Earlier, but perhaps foreshadowing for much later, Arya is lost in the Red Keep. We find out: 

She was blind. A water dancer sees with all her senses, she reminded herself.

Side by side, we have the Braavosi water dancing and Arya’s blindness. We won’t see her actually blind until ADWD, but perhaps this is a seed too. 

As I mentioned previously, I have no real investment in figuring out which little bits were meant as foreshadowing. Some, certainly, are more obvious and others may be reaching. I do think it’s fun to think about what plots might have existed clear back in AGOT. 

[whatstruthgottodowithit]

Come With Me

Fandom: Harry Potter 

Pairing: Dean Thomas x Female Reader

Characters: Dean Thomas, Female Reader

Word Count: 900 // Rating: Teen

Warnings: muggle borns, persecution, worry, angst

Summary:  Dean’s going on the run, can he convince reader she’s not safe?

Note: Don’t know how many parts it’ll be [updated 9/22]

PART 1, PART 2, PART 3, PART 4, PART 5

Y/N's heart sank as she read the news that lay printed in black and white in front of her. The ministry was now under Death Eater's control from what she could gather though it was still functioning. The news reports that were surrounding her government had become increasingly worrisome. A few days ago, she had received the Daily Prophet that informed her that muggleborns would now be subjected to a registration process. The article was inconclusive but Y/N knew what this meant, muggleborns were no longer safe. The world has been hurtling towards darkness for the past few years and her type of wizard were some of the most uninviting kind to the dark lord. Now he had control he wasn't going to spare them.

Her mother was out and her younger brother was upstairs sleeping so she was left to eat breakfast alone. Sipping coffee and reading the newspaper the quiet made the news feel heavier. It was the phone that made her jump. The loud ringing echoed from the phone that rested upon the kitchen wall. Collecting herself she raised up from her seat and stretched to pull it down. ‘Hello,’ she said and listened as a low hoarse voice spoke through the phone ‘Y/N is that you?’ the voice said, though it was strained as the pain was making it hard to speak, nevertheless she recognised it immediately. ‘Dean? What's the matter I- ‘ ‘I need to see you.’ ‘Why?’ ‘It's important, look I have to go- but meet me at that cafe we went to last time I visited your house the one on the high street in like half an hour,’ the phone clicked off and the dial tone rang out. Panicked Y/N threw the receiver back in its holder and headed upstairs to change. Leaving a note for her brother she grabbed her coat and keys and headed out the door.

It wasn't far from her house, the cafe, she and Dean had gone there with Seamus a couple of years back then the boys had been to visit over the summer. She got there quickly and when she arrived her eyes scanned the small array of tables for Dean. There were only a couple of other people in the cafe and a young waitress who sat behind the counter with an expression of boredom. However, Dean was nowhere around and so she entered the cafe and plonked herself in a seat facing the large window that made the shop's face.

At every person who walked past or each jingle of the bell as people came and went Y/N’s head up flicked in hope. She ordered a cup of tea in hopes of not being thrown out and continued waiting. Eventually, Y/N heard a distinct popping noise outside the cafe and the rattle of a bell. Looking up she saw Dean as he ambled in, wincing as he walked. He was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt and though it was summer he was bundled into a hoodie. His lip was split and there was a purplish hue to the dark skin around his eye. He approached the table and sat down, smiling forcefully as he did.

‘Hey,’ he said as Y/N looked at him in disbelief ‘Hey? You call me out of the blue demanding a meeting and show up looking like shit and all you can say is hey. What the hell is going on?’ ‘It's complicated,’ he said, Y/N paused for a minute biting back the sarcastic retort that bubbled on her tongue and then quietly she whispered, ‘Dean who did this to you?’ ‘Snatchers.’ ‘Snatchers?!?!’ She shouted before looking round to see if she had diverted any attention she liked at Dean for him to continue. ‘Yes.’ ‘Shit, do you mean- ‘ ‘The ministry started a muggleborn registration commission. I was one of the first on the list for some reason so I got a letter to report to the ministry early last week but I heard what they'd been doing to muggleborns,' he paused his bruised face looking sour, 'taking them in stripping them of their wands. Saying they weren't wizards. There are stories everywhere, whispers. So, I didn't show and they sent snatchers to find me, nasty bunch. Gave me these,' he said gesturing at the bruises. ‘They did that?’ ‘Half and half. Some nasty curses and me trying to escape.’ ‘Oh, my God.’ ‘So, when I got out I went home, packed a bag and ran. Got them off my tail I think’ ‘So why come here?’ ‘Because you’re not safe,’ Y/N frowned. She and Dean had been friends since their first year navigating the wizarding world as two kids without a clue, relying on Seamus for help.

‘What do I do?’ ‘Same as I’m doing, staying out of the way and laying low. ‘What about school? ‘School?’ ‘You can't just leave school!’ ‘With Snape as headmaster and new teachers there. They're really suspicious, I've been reading up and it's not safe anymore! I’m going on the run and you can come with me.’ ‘You really think this is it?’ ‘Yeah, I do,' he said reaching forward and placing a hand on hers, ‘we’re in danger and I think this is our only option.’ ‘I don't think- ‘ Y/N started but her sentence was cut off by a blast. Their conversation had been so riveting she hadn't noticed the two snatchers slip in the door.

[every-night-that-follows]

41 Weeks and a Year

Characters: Namjoon x reader Genre: Fluff, tiny bit of angst Word count: 3473 Rating: M for language and mentions of sex

4 weeks

Namjoon finds it hard to believe. There’s two little pink lines on a stupid $9.99 stick that you had peed on ten minutes ago that has now officially changed his life forever. You’re watching him hesitantly, biting you lip as his usually acute mind tries desperately to process what this all means.

“Baby?” Namjoon blurts out in a squeak. “Small mini-me?”

You find it hard not to roll your eyes at his reaction. “Yes, Joonie. That’s what happens when two adults have unprotected sex in the broom cupboard at your Album launch party.”

It all clicks into place for him quite suddenly and Namjoon feels an overwhelming sense of accomplishment. He drops to his knees in front of you and lays his cheek again your abdomen, “My god, I’m gonna be a dad!” His beaming smile strikes you right between the eyes. “I can’t wait to tell the boys!”

You push him away with a frown. “Not yet, Joonie. It’s too early. Let’s make sure first, hmm?”

Namjoon pauses mid-text and pouts.

6 weeks

You want to kick yourself. Your words are fucking prophetic. You knew you should’ve kept your fat, unlucky mouth shut but here you were, alone in the emergency department, praying desperately as you felt another sharp cramp radiate through your pelvis.

The triage nurse is walking towards your seat with a sympathetic smile. “Is there anyone I can call for you, miss __?”

Namjoon’s on tour in Japan and you don’t want to upset him. Knowing his temperament, he would agonise over coming home versus staying to lead the boys. You shake your head at the nurse. “No, my mother’s on her way here.”

She nods and leads you into a curtained off cubical. The doctor sees you an hour later and you can barely comprehend what he’s saying as your mother clutches at your hand. He does some blood tests and wheels in an ultrasound machine.

There, in that grainy black and white screen, you see it for the first time. It’s the size of the tip of your pinky finger according to the doctor but there is a definite heartbeat that races like a horses gallop when the Doppler is turned on. The rhythmic beating fills you ears and your heart and you take a recording for Namjoon.

12 weeks

Namjoon can’t hold back the tears.

He knows he’s embarrassing himself in front of the Obstetrician but he can’t help but immediately fall in love with the small, odd creature rolling around on the ultrasound screen in front of him. It’s got four limbs, a massive head and a beautiful heartbeat which Namjoon records on his phone.

He’s holding your hand a little too tight and soaking the sleeve of your blouse but you can’t complain, it was strangely beautiful to watch this usually strong man wear his emotions so glaringly on his sleeve.

“Do you want to know the sex of the baby?” The Obstetrician asks.

“Yes.” Namjoon replies immediately but looks guiltily at you. “If that’s ok with you, honey?”

You nod, not minding in the least if Namjoon has a burning curiosity to know.

“It’s a girl.”

You’re ecstatic and there’s an overwhelming sense of amazement but Namjoon clearly feels it more intensely. He’s sobbing now and doing so in an incredibly ugly fashion. Even the Obstetrician looks concerned.

“We’re going to have a baby girl.”

Namjoon makes the recording of her heartbeat his ringtone.

“Guess we should tell the boys,” you mutter to him as he wipes the ultrasound gel off your belly.

15 weeks

Jungkook is talking to your belly again. He tells your baby girl the most incredibly inane facts about dolphins and ginseng and Justin Bieber. This is arguably the longest conversation you’ve ever heard Jungkook have with anyone.

The boys are all just as equally obsessed with your pregnancy though Yoongi will never admit to it. Jin buys endless amounts of pink clothing and Tae can’t stop shopping for toys though you’re not entirely sure they’re all for the baby. Namjoon talks about his “baby girl” like she’s a miracle of humanity and that no baby has ever been born before.

You draw the line when he starts to speculate about how she’s likely to change the human race as we know it.

Jimin’s actions are the most touching. He’s admiring in the quietest kind of way and hovers in the most inconspicuous moments. He holds your elbow when you walk down stairs and picks the boys’ meals knowing exactly what you can and cannot eat at this time. His pockets are strangely always full ginger lozenges to soothe your morning sickness and a bottle of water is never far from hand. “I can’t wait to be a dad, too.” You overhear him say to Namjoon one day.

Namjoon is currently in the corner of his studio where the boys are all gathered. “Honey, listen to this.”

He’s written a new song and the backing beat is the recording of your daughter’s heartbeat.

“I’m gonna put this on our next album.”

20 weeks

“She’s so big!”

Namjoon’s voice is annoyingly crackly over the video call. The wi-fi in his Thailand hotel room can be a bit temperamental.

You roll you eyes and try to get a look at the ultrasound screen yourself. It’s hard balancing a phone at the right angle for Namjoon since he couldn’t be here but you can understand his need to be a part of this.

“I thought you said it was a girl!” He says suddenly outraged. This shocks you into dropping the phone, craning you neck to see what Namjoon had meant.

The Obstetrician laughs patiently. “That’s the umbilical cord, Mr. Kim. Your girl is still a girl.”

Namjoon’s laugh radiates from somewhere on the floor. “Right. I knew that.”

You hum with happiness. This is the magical halfway mark and though you can’t say for sure yet, you think you feel the small fluttering movements you can see on the screen. Your morning sickness has finally passed and though your ankles swell like balloons after a long day, you feel on top of the world and the pregnancy glow has really kicked it.

“I can’t wait to come home and see her, honey.” Namjoon is emotional again. You can hear it in his voice though he’s trying hard to suppress it. “I miss her already.”

You smile though he can’t see you. “You’re not going to cry at every ultrasound are you, Joonie?”

26 weeks

“That looks good, give me a sip.” Namjoon leans over, sniffing the bottle.

You smack his hand away. “You know you’re not allowed any of this. It’s my glucose tolerance test.”

He whines and pouts adorably. “The doctor won’t know if I have a single sip.”

“But I’ll know.” The pathology nurse laughs as she finishes up with the initial blood test, pressing a bandaid to the crook of your elbow. “There’s a soda machine in the corridor if you want something sweet.”

Namjoon smiles charmingly at her, dimples and all and the pathology nurse looks a little flustered when he walks away with a kiss on your head.

“You’re a lucky girl.” She says to you as she shakes the vial of your blood.

He’s back a moment later, coke can in hand. He shares his audiobook with you and coos when you complain that the sugary drink makes you nauseous. He cradles you like a child when the third blood test makes you extra sore and piggy backs you to the car when you feel a little dizzy at the end of it all.

“I wish I could take some of this for you.” He mutters in the car when he thinks you’ve dozed off on the way home.

31 weeks

You should’ve known better than to read some of the comments online but sometimes curiosity really did kill the cat. Namjoon’s on a cleaning spree of the BTS fancafé and twitter page but even he can’t catch all the malicious things that slip through.

You honestly didn’t think you had gained that much weight but there are several unflattering pictures of you which make cows look like dainty ballerinas by comparison. There’s derision and mocking among his fans and though those comments make you angry, it’s nothing that you hadn’t endured before.

It’s the comments suggesting Namjoon deserved better that really got to you. There’s retweets from a supermodel whom had declared herself an ardent fan and the side by side comparisons were beyond unflattering. There are pictures from the award ceremony he attended last week where he had kindly posed for some selfies with her and they honestly looked like a stunning power couple.

That’s how he found you, curled up in a ball in your bed, trying to hide the tear-swollen eyes in your pillow. He knows instantly what has happened and curls up in bed next to you, drawing you into the cradle of his arms muttering profanities beneath his breath.

“She looks really good with you.” You venture after fifteen minutes of sniffling. “I can’t say I’d blame you if you were attracted to her. I mean, I would be attracted to her too if I were a guy. Why come home to this beached whale when you can have…”

Namjoon hides a smile in your hair, “but you’re my beached whale, carrying my little whale baby…”

You snort and punch him in the ribs, the only space you can find in the tight confines of his arms. “You’re meant to call me a gazelle; you’re meant to tell me that I’m still gorgeous and thin…”

“You’re not a gazelle and you’re certainly not thin but honey, these curves…” his hands stroke over your prominent baby bump and stops to cup you bum, “these curves are something I would kill for.”

The next day you wake to find all the BTS social media accounts suspended. Namjoon refers to this as a time-out for his fans until they can behave like adults.

34 weeks

It’s too early.

Namjoon doesn’t need a medical degree to know this.

He looks at your frightened features in the car next to him and tries his best not to panic but it’s hard when he thinks his baby girl is about to be born too early. He’s a smart man, he’s read not just the basic baby books but also the medical stats about premature birth. He can’t imagine seeing his tiny child being helped to breath by large sterile ventilators and being hooked up to things which feed her when she can’t breastfeed.

He wants to be your calming presence but it’s hard to when his imagination runs riot. All he can do is hold your hand and pray that Yoongi’s aggressive driving skills come to the fore today. You’re crying with the pain of the contractions next to him and when a small whimper escapes your tightly clamped lips, Namjoon feels like he’s been stabbed in the gut. He can’t imagine what you’re feeling right now and can only helplessly drag you into his arms just as Yoongi pulls up to the hospital.

Namjoon’s out of the car in a flash and while Yoongi scrambles around looking for a wheelchair, Namjoon scoops you out of the car and into his arms. He knows the way to the maternity ward like the back of his hand, having secretly drilled himself ever since he heard about how Jimin’s younger brother had been born in the hospital foyer.

His panic must’ve clearly shown on his face as he carries you through the brightly painted double doors of the maternity ward because the two midwives at the desk direct him straight into the nearest birthing room. His hair is stroked and his tears wiped away by a senior looking midwife as a young and entirely too cheerful doctor begins the examination.

He’s speaking but Namjoon can barely hear him through your whimpers of pain. His legs twitch manically up and down and he can’t seem to stop it. He’s alternately numb and panicked until he can hear his baby girl’s heartbeat again and watch the numbers light up the screen of the monitor.

“You’re not dilated, Ms. ___,”says the young doctor with a reassuring smile while he pulled off his gloves, “but we’ll keep you in for a few days of monitoring, if that’s alright with you.”

Namjoon nods frantically.

“Would you like some pain relief?” Namjoon’s head is bobbing desperately.

The morphine makes you sleepy but comfortable and Namjoon is finally relieved enough to leave your room. Yoongi is waiting at the door.

“You look like a bus hit you, dragged you down the road for a few blocks and dumped you in a country ditch.”

Yoongi always did have a way with words but Namjoon acknowledges that he’s cried a lot this pregnancy. More than you have really, if he made the effort to count the occasions.

The rest of the boys arrive twenty minutes later. Hobi has brought enough take-out to feed a small army and the doctors and midwives duck in occasionally to steal a spring roll. You’re too exhausted to eat but you’re keen for Namjoon to re-fuel since he insists on staying with you for the night. They leave an hour later when Jungkook is finished lecturing your baby on how badly behaved she has been tonight.

Namjoon stays throughout your 3 day stay. He cries again when you have another ultrasound just to be safe and beams with absurd amounts of pride when the doctor declares her a very good size for 34 weeks. You want to smack him for that because you’re going to have to push that little monster out through you vagina in a few weeks.

37 weeks

You’re in the emergency department again and you’re sure you recognize the triage nurse. She beams and waves at you even as Namjoon whimpers in pain beside you.

He’s cradling his left arm and his right foot is propped up on Jin’s bouncing leg.

“Will you sit still!” He hisses at Seokjin who only grins and waves at the fans who recognise him from across the waiting room.

“I don’t know how you managed to do this to yourself when you were only putting together the crib. Seriously Joon, you should probably have a doctor check you over while you’re here. This level of clumsiness has got to be some sort of disorder. Maybe there’s medication to fix it.”

You can tell Namjoon doesn’t appreciate the comment but vetoes retorting in favour of whimpering. You reach across him to smack Seokjin but the man has brilliant reflexes after years of dodging Jungkook’s punches.

Namjoon cries when you accidentally bump his arm.

It’s fifty minutes later when he’s had all his x-rays. He’s only got a sprained right ankle but his left shoulder is clearly dislocated. They give him some great drugs to relax him before popping his shoulder back in and Namjoon is talkative and philosophical for the rest of the evening.

You get texts from Jimin throughout this episode. He and Yoongi have finished putting together the crib and you’re secretly glad Namjoon won’t have to do it himself later.

Jin videos the whole of Namjoon’s exposition on the loneliness of palm-trees on deserted islands and puts it on twitter.

It trends worldwide for three days.

41 weeks

Namjoon’s got a new habit these past few weeks.

Since you haven’t gone into labour yet, he’s convinced that he can talk his baby girl out. It’s clearly not working.

Every part of you hurts except for your uterus but you refrain from rolling your eyes as you rest your phone on your abdomen. Namjoon’s on the other end of the line, in his studio working on their comeback album. He wants to do as much as he can before the baby comes and he becomes completely preoccupied.

“Now sweetheart, I know it’s warm and comfortable inside but you really need to come out and meet daddy. We’ve got your room all set up for you for weeks now…”

Taehyung and Jungkook had finished painting it 3 weeks ago after Namjoon had concussed himself on a paint can.

Your wayward child clearly loves her father’s voice because she chooses that moment to give you a whopping kick in the ribs, sending the phone sliding to the floor. You’re reaching to retrieve it when you accidentally wet yourself a little. At least that’s what you think happens until you realise the fluid isn’t stopping and it has now completely soaked through your underwear, your pants, the couch and was now dripping onto the carpet.

“Joon.”

“Yes, honey?” Namjoon happily continues to hum on the other end of the line.

“I think my waters broke.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then another. “I see. Well. I…”

Jimin’s voice comes next. “I’ve got him, ___. Call your midwife, I’m coming to get you.”

The trip to hospital is a blur. By the time Namjoon and the boys reach you, you’re contracting, it’s hard to walk and you fucking hate the world, especially Namjoon. You tell him so several times during the car trip to hospital and you repeatedly tell Jungkook, who’s rubbing your back, what a good little foetus he turned out to be and that his mother would be proud.

It’s quite a scene when you turn up to hospital, seven famous idols in tow but you lose six of them immediately at the door to the maternity ward. Namjoon is beside himself, pacing the floor as you strip to your birthday suit (all clothing is currently your enemy) and suck on the nitrous like it’s a lifeline.

Your world narrows down to one word when the doctor examines you and tells you you’re barely dilated.

“Epidural!”

Namjoon nods frantically and takes to hovering behind the lovely anaesthetist who calmly hands Namjoon the nitrous and suggests he takes a few puffs. He’s completely giggly and spaced out when you get the needle stuck in your back but that’s ok because sweet relief comes shortly after.

The nitrous is confiscated when the midwife returns.

It’s another arduous eight hours. The midwives and the doctors change shift before it’s time to push.

It takes another hour and a half before your baby daughter’s cries ring through the room. Namjoon cries immediately with her. He keeps his hands on her the whole time you’re getting stitched up. When she sneezes, Joon is absurdly upset that he didn’t capture it on camera. When she does it again, he’s ready and a short fifteen second video immediately goes out to family and friends. You’re inundated with calls and messages congratulating you. Namjoon is too beside himself to answer.

He thinks she absurdly adorable and tells everyone who will listen. Yoongi says she looks like an alien shot out of a space cannon. Taehyung is head over heels in love with her instantly and Jungkook holds her like she’s a unstable explosive device. She cries hysterically when Hobi and Jimin pass her between them and moments later lands in Seokjin’s slightly perturbed arms.

She looks at his face and stops crying instantly. She keeps her eyes on his face until she dozes off in his arms. Seokjin absolutely loves it. It becomes his new favourite story to tell. He tells the janitor who comes to empty the bins when they visit again the next day.

1 year later

Namjoon is an obsessively proud father. The BTS twitter account is now inundated with pictures of your smiling daughter who has her father’s dimples. Their selfies together are the stuff of retweetable legend.

Namjoon is already begging for another baby. He wants ten. You said yes…you’ll have two more and he can then find himself another wife.

When she has her first fever and is up all night, grizzly and unsettled, Namjoon holds her and rocks her until she dozes off in fitful starts. She’s up barely an hour later and Namjoon is exhausted and delirious when you suggest calling in reinforcements. Jin arrives at 04:50am, takes her in his arms and coaxes her to sleep across one very wide shoulder. Namjoon snores for the next five hours.

When she takes her first steps, Namjoon commemorates it by writing her a song. She cries endlessly when she first hears it until Jin adds his vocals to the mix. She loves it instantly. Namjoon wants to find this frustrating but can’t deny his daughter anything her little heart desires. Seokjin is it, apparently.

Namjoon is coaxing some lunch into her when you excuse yourself to the bathroom. You pee on that familiar blue stick which started it all nearly two years ago and watch as that double pink line reappears.