#about half an hour sifting through to find the ones that were salvageable). this whole time we’ve had to throw everything away because

[crabs-but-better]

god okay i’m taking a break from what i’m doing rn just cause i’m. feeling a lot ok.

[mommymooze]

Big Girls, Big Hearts

The Golden Deer are devouring their lunch on a sunny fall afternoon. The conversation is lively as they are quite the boisterous bunch. Rumors are spreading about strange things happening in Remire Village. Everyone is working themselves into an anxious state about the perplexing rumors being overheard. Hilda decides it is time to lighten the conversation.

“You know, every year they hold a ball at the Academy. The students get the chance to get to know each other better in a more friendly environment and its sort of a reward for working so hard as well as a possible way to find future partners.” She grins widely.

“A ball?” you ask. “With dressing up and dancing? I’m a commoner. It’s only for nobles, right?”

Hilda scoffs. “No silly! It’s for everyone! Dancing and romancing!  Time to find love and intrigue, hugs and kisses.”

“Um, this is an optional event, right?” You ask nervously. You’ve never been to a ball. Never had to learn to dance. You would rather beat up 500 bandits than go to a single ball.

“Come on (y/n) . You are the bravest person I know. What’s so scary about a little dance? Getting to hold a special someone in your arms for a bit, maybe even a kiss in the moonlight…Ooooh so exciting!” Hilda clasps her hands together daydreaming wistfully.

“Maybe I can catch the plague by then.” You grumble at your empty plate in front of you.

“No! Don’t even think that. We are going to get you ready and dressed up and you will not believe how beautiful you will look.” Hilda stomps her foot at you.

“Yeah, like putting lipstick on a pig, but with fat swollen lips because I’m allergic to it.” You further groan.

“Pish Posh! We can accentuate your good qualities yet keep you comfortable. I may let you wear shoes with less than 3 inch heels even.” Hilda puts her finger on her chin plotting further ways of dressing you up.”

“Balls are for petite cute girls like you and Marianne. My arms are like tree trunks. I am bulgy and lumpy. Not a sweet and delicate flower such as yourself.” You moan on, hoping she gives up soon.

Hilda puts her hands on her hips. “Yes, I can be a delicate flower. I also wield an axe just like you. Those things are heavy and take strength to swing around. Yes, I will admit to having a few muscles. Not everyone wants a delicate maiden that falls over from the slightest breeze. Some want a good hunk of warm and loving body to squeeze them back until they can’t breathe. Everyone knows you are incredibly strong. Didn’t I hear about you carrying Dedue to the infirmary not that long ago? I bet Felix or Sylvain couldn’t do it at all, but you just whisked him up and hauled him across the monastery like he was a little kid and ran him up the stairs to the infirmary.”

You blush furiously. “What was I supposed to do? I walked into the greenhouse just as he slipped on the wet rocks and he was knocked out. I couldn’t just leave him there.” You are hiding your face in your hands, feeling incredibly embarrassed.

Hilda laughs. “(Y/n), We watched you carry him bridal style running to the infirmary. I heard that when he found out he blushed for a half hour straight.!”

You want to crawl under the table, settling for crossing your arms and burying your face in them.

Hilda tugs your arm, “We are hitting up the dressmaker in town. Gonna get you a killer dress, show off those muscular toned abs and legs, and get you set up for the night of your life.”

“Nightmare of my life more like.” You mumble to yourself.

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

The battle at Remire is terrifying. Thomas turns into a really creepy ghosty old guy. The Flame Emperor shows up being threatening. The worst part is the villagers. They are going crazy killing everything, even their own families. They didn’t know they are attacking their own loved ones, their own friends. The Deer try so hard to rescue as many villagers as possible. You work to subdue as many of the possessed ones you can. They are still someone’s family and hopefully the madness is temporary. When the battle is over you look at the village, not much is left of it. The smell of smoke and burnt everything is thick in the air, choking everyone, making their eyes burn.  Finally, after the cleanup is done and all the villagers are treated for injuries, it is time to head back to the monastery.

The Golden Deer are unusually quiet as they silently march back to the monastery. Even Hilda is quiet after what she had seen. Ignatz makes his way over to you as the group keeps walking back to the academy.

“You ok?” He softly whispers to you.

You take your sleeve and wipe the tears from your eyes. “Yeah, I just got a lot of smoke in my eyes there. Thanks.” You mumble back, hanging your head a bit lower than it was before.

It is a long walk back. Everyone finally makes it into the monastery gates and the group splits up, everyone going their own direction.

Claude takes you aside. “Are you going to be okay? I’d be happy to chat if you want to. The professor is a great listener too.” He says with a look of concern in his eyes.

You don’t know where your tears are coming from now. They haven’t stopped since you were in Remire village. You open your mouth but nothing comes out. Professor Byleth comes over and puts her arm around your shoulder, leading you to her room. She pulls out a tea set and prepares tea.

“You know I lost my parents in a fire. Watching the village burn brought the whole thing back.” You stare down into your teacup.

“I’m sorry.” Byleth responds. Her face is not extremely expressive, but you can tell she is being very sympathetic from her body language.

“Do you think I can talk to Seteth about helping them out some? Isn’t this something like what the church would do? It is so late in the year and many of them don’t have secure homes to live in.” You ask, the tears slowing.

“My father and I spent a lot of time at that village. That was where the church found us.  I will talk to him as well.” Byleth nods.

You return to your room to try to sleep after such a nightmarish week.

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

The next morning you check with Seteth about assisting the village. You find that he has already spoken with Captain Jeralt and Lady Rhea feels that this is an excellent idea. After a few days of gathering supplies and materials, a small caravan heads out to Remire. Professor Byleth, the Golden Deer, Shamir, Jeralt and all his former mercenaries who had been incorporated into battalions, Alois and some of the Knights of Seiros, and surprisingly, Dimitri and Dedue.

The town elders meet with your group, discussing their wants and needs. Repairs to the structures that are salvageable should begin quickly. Tasks are divided between those that are experts in certain areas assisted by warm bodies that can lift, move or hand things to others. Ignatz is working on a map of the to be reconstructed village. Since assistance has arrived so quickly, there are fewer residents that will be leaving for other towns, happily staying now that they have some support. Everyone has something they can do. Cutting trees, clearing branches, gathering wood and kindling, sifting through burnt houses for useful items that can be salvaged like utensils, plates, and tools. The young go with the old to fields gathering heather, reeds, and straw for thatching the roofs.

You start with gathering salvaged bricks together to repair buildings. Even Lysithia can carry a few bricks at a time, you tell her 30 are needed at this house, 15 needed here. A few Knights head off to a local riverbank for sand and water to make the mortar.  You clean and prepare the bricks, measure the materials and have someone stir the mortar mixture. Soon you find yourself up on a ladder with a full mortarboard spreading an even layer of the compound, then place a brick, lay more mortar between it and the next brick. Starting with the smaller repairs first there are now several restored residences that will keep the wind and weather out.

As the sun goes down, everyone gathers in the center of town around large cauldrons full of soup, together with fresh baked bread made by the residents from the supplies brought by the Academy volunteers. Many of the townspeople are crying thanking everyone for their help. The Knights certainly push that this is by the grace of the goddess and the church. Others are simply happy to help in any way they can.

You grab some soup and take a seat near Dimitri and Dedue. They greet you and welcome your presence.

“I am surprised by your bricklaying knowledge. I had no idea of your talents.” Dimitri smiles.

“My older brother was a bricklayer, I helped him out often when I was growing up. I can’t wait to get my hands on some hammers and nails once the brickwork is complete.” You grin. “I am surprised to find the two of you here.”

“Hey your Princeliness, Dedue, (Y/n). Mind if I join you?” Claude takes a seat next to you. “We really appreciate your help. We did not expect other houses to send anyone.”

“I am very interested to see firsthand the reconstruction after disasters such as this.” The prince says excitedly. “It is wonderous seeing everyone come together with a single mindset of rebuilding. Everyone is helping in so many different manners. The strong are carrying bricks and trees, cutting wood, lifting loads. The weaker are preparing food for everyone, gathering materials and completing more delicate work. I am amazed at how much has been accomplished in just a single day.”

“Agreed. Many hands make light work.” Dedue nods. “I am happy to lend my strength.”

“Both of you are certainly welcomed with open arms. There is plenty of heavy lifting to do.” Smiles Claude. “I hope we can replace a few homes before we leave. Talking with the elders, there are some families doubled up in the same house. At least if each family has their own place it would be much more pleasant making it through winter.”

“Another important thing is to provide these people support and comfort.” You softly speak. “Let them know there are others out here who care for you as your fellow man. I do not know any of these people, but I do know about losing things to disaster. People that had no idea who I was helped me, kept me going when my life was crushed by disaster. Now here I am, helping out someone else that I have no idea as to who they are. I just want to help them. I hope it keeps them going as well.”

Dedue nods and smiles. The two house leaders agree that this is a great learning experience for everyone. You take the empty dishes leaving them to chat amongst themselves and head over to Byleth who is sitting with her father and their former mercenaries.

“Byleth, Jeralt. I wanted to thank you personally for helping bring this together. It didn’t sit right with me leaving these people behind and in such a ruined state.” You say, a smile finally crossing your lips.

“If Seteth would have said one word about not helping with this I would have punched that ‘No’ right off of his face.” Jeralt laughs. Byleth smiles. “This is a great learning experience for everyone. I think all of the classes should complete a project like this. Hands on learning is the most practical. Even Lorenz is finding some hidden talents as a result of this experience. I think he has a greater respect for Leonie too. That girl can turn a pile of trash into 100 different useful things.”

After dinner there’s not enough light to work on building without making it dangerous. So you decide to knit a sock or two. That way you can talk to everyone and when you’re done, someone has a new pair of socks. Win-win! There is plenty of chatter to go around the campfires with everyone in the village telling interesting stories of its history, or funny residents who did silly things, famous village romances or deeds. They also share stories of when the Blade Breaker came to town to save or help them. Being in a village isn’t all peace and quiet. There were some exciting and spicy tales shared until the cobwebs filled everyone’s heads and it was time to sleep.

The next day is just as busy with more homes being made whole by the end of the day. Construction is started on two different houses. One for a larger family, one for a smaller. Everyone gives their all in some way or another. Gathering kindling, firewood, food, finding the animals that were scattered by the calamity. Suddenly Saturday morning arrives, the last day the group from Garreg Mach will stay for rebuilding. What a difference everyone has made! Every family in Remire has their own place to stay without having to share. There are a long row of stalls for wares in the new Marketplace. There is even a barn and stable to keep horses for the community. Firewood is stored to keep the homes warm. It is everything the smaller village needs to get them through the winter. There is a celebration in the village center and tears are shed. However, these are all tears of joy as new friendships have been forged and the feeling of a job well done can be left with the people. The march back to the monastery is full of high spirits and happy hearts.

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

Back at the monastery you look forward to a warm bath and sleeping in your own bed. Just as you’ve changed into your nightgown there is a knock on the door.

“Um, I was just about to go to sleep. Can we talk tomorrow?” you anxiously respond to the knock as you stand at the door.

“It’s just me.” Says Hilda. “Come on. We’ve got some girl talk to do.”

You roll your eyes as the chipper pink ponytailed girl comes bouncing in your dorm.

“You haven’t forgotten the ball now, have you?” She winks.

“Oh yeah, that.” You stammer. You kinda sorta did forget.

“Tomorrow we’re going to town and getting a dressmaker to take your measurements. I know exactly what you need to wear.” She bubbles out excitedly. “I think you would be adorable in yellow. I saw the most darling shimmery satin material that would make you look like a princess.”

“A muscular, big shouldered princess.” You whine.

“Girl, you have no idea how to work with what you have, and you have a lot going for you.” Hilda smirks. “Now, I’ve been thinking. I know that you can’t wear lipstick, but I was hoping you can do some lip gloss. It has different things that go into it. Some are even flavored. Have you ever tried any?”

“Um. No.” You shrug sheepishly.

“Great! Hold still now.” Hilda has you in her grip as she plunks you down in your chair and starts carefully applying some gloss to your lips.  “There. How is it?”

You mush your lips together. They aren’t tingling or stinging. They don’t feel like they are getting fat. She pulls your mirror from your dresser to show you your lips.

“They’re just shiny.” You say, looking confused.

“Shiny is healthy. Gloss makes your lips slippery. It’s really good for you in the winter. When the cold air hits them, they stay soft and won’t peel. Your lips are really pretty. They’ll be lined up around the building wanting to get a turn to kiss those cute shiny lips.” The pinkette grins.

“But this is a dance. Where is the kissing coming from? Do I have to? I’m so confused.” You plunk back down on your chair with a big frown.

“Listen and listen good. Pretty soon we’re going to graduate, everyone is going to go their own way and you’re my friend and I’m just trying to help you get the most out of life. The ball isn’t just a celebration for nobles. It’s a chance to get to know the other students better in a different environment, a casual and fun environment. So many people have met the love of their life at this very same Academy event! Who knows what will happen on that glorious evening? The magic is calling for you, I can hear it!”

You look at her like she has two heads.

“Come on! Loosen up! I told you I will get you through this. Let’s start with the dance lessons. If you are dancing with a guy, he’s supposed to lead. If you dance with a girl, then either of you can lead, just agree who is to lead before you start. So I am going to lead. That means you put your left hand on my shoulder on the same side, and put your right hand into my palm on the other.” She grabs your hand and waits for you to put the other on her shoulder. “Good. Now don’t stomp on my feet, you have socks on, so put your toes on mine so you can follow me. The lead person is going to take their right foot and step forward, since you are following, you take a step back on your left foot. You will be moving backwards mostly, so the lead person watches to make sure you don’t crash into anyone…” Hilda goes through the basics of the box step for the waltz. You don’t quite crush her toes, and just maybe you do get the hang of it a bit. She tells you to look at her face, don’t look down. Stop looking down. Looking down will mess you up. You crash and fall over on the bed laughing once and she makes you get up and try again.

“Enough for your first lesson. You did great.” Hilda smiles. “So tomorrow after breakfast, we hit the dress shop.”

You yawn, “Sure…” and wave as you see her out the door. You would have bad dreams about going to the ball and stomping on everyone’s feet, but you’re too tired to even do that and actually just have a good night’s rest.

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

After breakfast Hilda practically drags you to town.

“Maybe I should just wear pants.” You grumble.

“Come on, you would look so cute!” She giggles.

“Cute is a bunny or a baby chick. I feel more like a silly goose.” You whine.

She hauls you into the dressmakers where a tall redheaded woman with a lowcut red dress assists you. “Hello dahlings.” She greets you at the door. Hilda curtseys, so you do too.

“Madame Palmyre, I’ve brought you another beauty in need of a dress for the ball.” Hilda proclaims.

“Hmmm. Hmmmm. Well. Athena. Hmmmm. No, Artemis! With the shoulders of Atlas. Oooooh. Yes.” Madame coos and ahhs as she walks around you touching your shoulders, lifting your head, raising your arms. “We must measure, quickly!” and shuffles you to the back where you are hastily stripped to your undergarments.

Madame’s hands work at a fast pace. She’s put special strings around various parts of your body, writing numbers down. Hilda stands next to her and they chitter and chatter with each other for a while. You decide to put your clothes back on.

“Lovelies, I shall have it ready two days before the ball. She will be magnifique!” Madame Palmyre raises her right hand with a flourish and a wide smile.

Hilda drags you to the cobbler to see what sort of shoes would be best. You glance at the boots longingly.

“No. “The Goneril girl shakes her head. “Cute. Not clunky.”

“Hilda, I have feet shaped like a duck.” You groan.

“Come on, work with me.” Hilda finally finds the shoes she is looking for. “Check this out. There is almost no heel, the toe is rounded but the way it is made, it gives you room for your wider foot to be comfy. Still cute!”

You look at the shoes, then at your friend. “I know you know what you are doing. I am so clueless. Just promise me I won’t want to cut off my feet by the end of the ball and I will wear whatever you want me to.”

“Gotcha, fam!” Hilda smiles as she puts in the order. The cobbler takes your measurements and says they will be ready next Sunday.

Hilda takes you to the final store of the day, which is great because this is really getting confusing and exhausting and overwhelming.

“Hey Mattie!” Hilda greets the owner. “We’re here for lipgloss and earrings.”

“But I don’t have pierced ears.” You look at her puzzled.

Hilda grins. “You will.”

You are a brave girl in battle. You fight and punch bad guys in the face. Intentionally letting someone stab holes in your ears is a whole different story. You were brave when they created the first hole and stuck the earring through. But when they stabbed your other ear with the needle, the needle that kept getting bigger the more you looked at it, the tears were shooting out of your eyes like rain.

“It’s done, its done. You’re fine! Look! So pretty!” Hilda is patting you on the back showing you the mirror. Mattie gives instructions to turn the earrings frequently and keep them clean. They should be well healed by the time of the ball. She helps you pick out some mint and honey flavored lip gloss.

You feel exhausted and overwhelmed. Not even fresh treats from the bakery tempt you. You just want to go back and hide. And maybe punch out a Duscur bear. Do something more familiar and relaxing.

That night you can’t sleep well. You always sleep on your side and no matter how you crunched up or mauled your pillow it still hurt your ears. You are going to die from lack of sleep long before the night of the ball. That is a welcome end, you think to yourself.

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

The next morning, dark circles hang heavily below your sleep deprived eyes, you barely make it to class in time. Lysithia notices something different as soon as she comes into the room.

“Your ears are pierced. That is so cute! I’ve been thinking about it. I may do that too some day.” The white haired girl muses.

“Hey (Y/n), Lysithia! Look who has more holes in her head! Just kidding.” Claude says as he taps his own earring while looking at yours.

Hilda strolls into the classroom followed by Marianne. They come to sit beside you.

“My ears are killing me. You better take good notes. I am going to sleep through class.” You warn the mischievous pinkette.

“And you’ll be cute doing it too. Yes, sometimes beauty can be painful, but it will go away soon.” Hilda tries to reassure you.

“I wish I could use magic on it, but it might make your earrings stick to your ears.” Marianne comments looking at her hands.

You rest your hands on your books and your chin on your hands. Nothing is touching your ears and you fall asleep before Hanneman comes in and starts his lecture about crests.

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

The excitement surrounding the ball continues. Your stomach starts to twist in knots every time you hear the word “Ball”. You have your new shoes and Hilda makes you practice dancing in them and walking around your room in them so they are broken in enough to not hurt you on the night of the..you know.

Hilda drags you to town the Sunday before the ball to get a fitting for your dress. She’s being a real stinker, because she makes you wear a blindfold so you can���t see it.  It comes with a special bustier, lifting your bust to be plump like a partridge (Madame Palmyre’s words). You had no idea what a bustier is in the first place. They picked and primped on you for a few minutes and then took the dress away, letting you get back into your comfy clothes. It wasn’t too uncomfortable, but you certainly wouldn’t battle in the dress, you chuckle to yourself.

Hilda continues with dancing practice. Marianne joins so you can observe them dancing as well. Marianne, the best dancer in the Deer glides gracefully across the floor. You feel like you are stomping around like a moose with four left feet. You are getting better though, you hardly step on Hilda’s feet any longer.

Soon, too soon, the fateful day arrives. The ball is this evening. They have classes in the morning so that everyone can get ready or in your case, panic in the afternoon. You just know you have a fever, you’re sick to your stomach. You should go to the infirmary so they can pronounce you on the brink of death and give a written note excusing you from the…the thing.  Class finally ends, before you can escape, Hilda, Annette, and Dorothea grab you and physically take you to Hilda’s room for hairstyling and makeup. You try to excuse yourself because you forgot your lipgloss, but they are on to you and will not let you go. You have no idea how they can fit so many females in the same room and still have room to work on them all. You hope you can escape when getting lunch, but no, they are too evil and have lunch brought in for everyone.

“(Y/n), I have the perfect jewelry to match your look.” Hilda giggles. She holds up gold crescent moon earrings, bracelet, and a matching necklace. Many “oohs” and “ahhs” are heard from the others. The stones in the bracelet are perfect, they are a pale yellow and black, matching the colors of the dress. Hilda sends you off to your room with Annette and Dorothea to get you into your dress. The songstress shows you how to put on the sheer and dotted with gold sparkles thigh high stockings without ripping them, teaching you how to fasten them to the garter belt. They adjust the lacing of the bustier so that you can breathe easily and move, yet your bust is enhanced, which is quite embarrassing, but then you look over at Dorothea and she’s super enhanced and ready to spill over the top of hers any second. Finally they help you lift and pull the dress on. Soft yellow chiffon at the top, gathered under the bust into its empire waist. A black airy stretchy panel starts there and goes to the bottom of the dress, flaring out a bit. The front is just past your knees, the back a few inches above your ankles. It visually pulls your waist in. Dorothea has that perfect hourglass figure with a waist so tiny that you could almost enclose it with your hands. You have much more um, meat, around your waist, the muscles alone make you twice as wide as her, but with the black panel it flares so you really do look, dare you think it, feminine. You thought the slightly puffy sleeves would make your shoulders bigger, but they just give you more freedom of movement. This is the most comfortable and beautiful dress you have ever worn. Madame is a magician.

Dorothea nearly has tears in her eyes. “Our baby looks all grown up.” She sniffles.

“Wow.” Declares Annette. “I need to meet this seamstress. She really knows her stuff. Its like you’ve been magically transformed. If I didn’t know it was you under there (y/n) I would say it was a different person.

“Come on, you are going to make me cry.” You were emotional before, but seeing the whole outfit, you do feel like the princess Hilda wanted you to look like.

Suddenly it is time for everyone to head to the ball. Many of the women head off to meet their dates. Hilda and her date, Marianne, look adorable together. They have the same purple flowers in their hair and their dresses complement each other perfectly. They walk with you toward the sound of music playing. The students are filing into the large room for the dance, the variety of colors and styles are striking. Everyone looks so beautiful.

You wander over to where the Golden Deer have congregated on the side of the room. Raphael is wearing a shirt that fits across his chest, although his muscles in his arms still look like they are about to burst through the sleeves.

“Hey, (y/n). Glad to see ya. You sure look pretty.” Raphael grins. You take it as an amazing compliment, he usually only notices food.

Ignatz is nervously pulling at his collar. “I haven’t been to a Ball before. The monastery really went all out for this. The food, decorations, and presentation are a work of art.”

The house leaders are called to the front accompanied by Hilda, Hubert, and Mercedes. They perform a special dance together that includes changing partners. Of course, Claude has to ham it up by dipping Edelgard who is a bit shocked but recovers well from the unexpected move. The special dance ends and the surrounding students now fill the dance floor.

Leonie sits next to you with a plate of appetizers and sweets. “Go grab some food, (y/n). They have some amazing things on the banquet tables. I tried this gray stuff, it’s delicious.”

You quickly shake your head. “My stomach is so jittery. I’ll stick with apple juice.” You weakly smile as you take a sip.

Looking to the left, there is an anxious Lysithia trying to drag a dressed-up Cyril out to the dance floor. You laugh because he looks more nervous than you. Hilda has Marianne out on the floor, the couple gliding along smoothly like the floor is made of ice. Annette is smiling widely as Ashe is guiding her safely around the other couples. They look too cute.

“Ahem! (Y/n)” you suddenly hear a male standing next to you, breaking you from your trance.

You jump a little in your seat to see the Prince of Faerghus bowing low and asking you for a dance.

You stand up and stammer, “Oh, yes. Thank you.” You place your right hand into his left as he leads you among the dancing couples. Hilda’s dance practice pays off as you have yet to stomp on the Blue Lions leader’s feet or trip over your own. You chat about how happy he is having participated in the rebuilding of Remire and how some day he will rebuild Duscur as well. Just as the song ends, he bends closer to your ear.

“I think Dedue would like to have a dance with you as well. He is a bit shy, but if you wait patiently close by him he may gather enough courage to ask you, unless of course you ask him first.” Dimitri smiles as your face turns completely red.

You can feel the burn of the blush all the way to the back of your neck.  You curtsey as the song ends and he leaves to find another partner. You just happen to be close to where Dedue is standing, the tall man is against the wall, his hands behind his back, eyes flitting from couple to couple. You decide to stand not far from the Duscur male.

Watching the students dance, Claude pulls Professor Byleth out onto the floor. You laugh at the shocked look on her face. Balthus is dancing with Manuela. He has a grin from ear to ear as he twirls her around, making her laugh. Perhaps this is what everyone needs, to have a night to forget about their problems and issues going on and simply enjoy themselves, if just for a little while. You find yourself swaying with the music as you look over at Dedue who takes a step towards you.

“Are you enjoying the ball?” Dedue asks softly, smiling pleasantly.

“Yes. I was not looking forward to it, however now that I am here it is nice. It is good to see our friends simply being happy.“ You answer him. “Would you like to dance?”

Dedue bows, “It would be my honor.” He says, taking your hand in his.

He is so incredibly tall. The top of your head is well below his shoulders. You have to crane your neck to look into his face, but it is worth it to see his gentle smile.

The white haired man looks down at you, “You are small.”

You nod as you smile, trying not to laugh because compared Dedue, absolutely everyone is small.

Dedue continues, “You are very strong.”

You blush, mashing your forehead into his chest. This giant man just said you were strong.

He is not finished. “And cute.”

Your ears are burning because you are blushing so hard. You’ve never been cute before. You’re having a hard time looking into his eyes while you are blushing so hard, so you decide to focus your sight on his strong handsome chin. Breathe, don’t forget to breathe.

“You have many wonderful talents. Not only fighting and helping Dimitri.” You tell Dedue, daring to look in his eyes again. “In the village I was impressed by your construction skills. Your assistance helped us complete more buildings than we had originally planned. Thank you.”

You both smile at each other as you continue to dance for the rest of the song, as it ends, you curtsey, he bows.

Before you take one step toward exiting the dance floor, Claude mysteriously appears behind you, taking your right hand in his. He kisses the back of your hand.

“May I have this dance, my Deer?” Claude smiles widely at you.

“I cannot say no to our Leader-man. That would be against the rules. Not that you pay much attention to rules, Claude.” You laugh as you place your left hand upon his shoulder.

Dancing with Dimitri and Dedue had been proper and elegant. Their steps carefully measured, in perfect time with the music. Dancing with Claude is like holding on to a leaf in a whirlwind. You moved up, then down back then right then spun and twirled. One time he had spun you around you thought he was trying to fling you into the middle of the orchestra. You think it strange, then funny, then you begin to laugh. He twirls you away from him, then pulls you to twirl the opposite way around toward him, your chest lightly crashing into his as you laugh together.

His steps suddenly fall back in with the tempo of the music, you following. Your laughter calming, you gasp a bit as you are slightly out of breath, and dancing very closely with Claude. You feel his right arm around you, his fingers close to the center of your back, his chest is warm against you.

“Hilda told me that if I play my cards right that I might get to dance with a beautiful princess tonight.” Claude purrs softly in your ear. “I think I have a winner here.”

You blush profusely, trying to look away from his dazzling emerald eyes and failing. Claude’s grin is as wide as you have ever seen it. Suddenly the music concludes. The orchestra takes a brief break.

He bows and you curtsey back.

“Thank you, princess (y/n).” Claude Grins.

“Thank you, Duke von Riegan.” You smile.

Hilda runs up to drag Claude off to gossip about who knows what as you grab a seat and catch your breath. You will have to honestly thank Hilda for making you go to this. You catch your breath in the quiet during the orchestra’s break. Your heart has simmered down after beating at such an excited rate for so long.

You glance about the room. Looking left you see the orchestra has returned, preparing to begin, to your right you see two different redheaded gentlemen headed your direction. Oh my…

[occult-castiel]

A thread with no end

Cool metal lighter in hand, he finally takes a glance at the reason for all of this. 

It's small, swallowed whole by the thick yellow clothes Sam has it in. It yawns, puppy-like, and fixes his wide eyes on Dean.

Blue. Big and impossibly blue. Its shades too light, closer to ice than ocean, but it pulls something loose in him. It's — it's almost like —

When Jack is born, he doesn't come out fully grown.

[Part One]

[Ao3]

Chapter 2

When the sharp edges of adrenaline settle, the last couple of days are a blur to think about. The absence of it is always its own kind of tired — aches become apparent again. His temples sting. All thoughts are filtered through sludge. His stomach gurgles out loud groans. The reminder is a desperate attempt to make bodily functions matter again, but the desire for food is numb. If anything it makes him sick.

He shakes his head, uses his free hand to blanket his face, pinch the bridge. Trapped under the rough pressure, his tear ducts throb. But it’s all right. It’s fine.

Fucking peachy. 

Sloppy and mechanical, as Dean pulls the two of them off the ground. He doesn't look at the embers. The ash. His joins cry against all movement, each jagged step a chore. What should be solid ground slips loose under his boots. He has to catch himself with each half-stumble towards the house. Little snivels turn to full body whines, and Dean doesn't blame the kid. It can't be fun to get jerked around by some idiot that forgot how to walk right. 

The door juts open with a creak, and whatever course of action he might've tried to take vanishes. 

Unfiltered sunlight glimmers in through the curtainless window. Dust particles dance in yellow above the table where it's — it’s just empty now. His last pitstop. The last place Dean would ever get to look. To touch. Legs on autopilot, he trudges over. 

Light glistens off the table's glossy finish. Glints against the discarded keyring Sam somehow remembered to salvage. Carefully, he skims the tips of his fingers over the cool surface, and dread sits like a rock in his stomach. It was warm, right after. But the air has long since leeched any heat Cas left behind. 

Throat tense, he cups the keyring under his palm. Tightens his fist around it until the metal digs in and his arm trembles. 

It's not fair. None of this is fair. They used to have more allies. Friends. Something they could fall back on after so long of having nothing, but none of it even lasts. Like the universe has decided The Sam and Dean Adventure just ain't multiplayer. 

"Dean?" 

He shoves the keys in his pocket. "Yeah. Down here." 

Sam clunks down the steps and gives Dean a tight smile. Grey bags under his eyes highlight the bloodshot tendrils. His whole body slumped in on itself, the exhaustion of the last however-the-fuck long hitting him like a brick. Maybe he looks that bad too. 

Over one shoulder Sam has the world's largest baby bag — lime green and burgeoning with diapers. The zippers stuck halfway around. It thunks when it hits the floor, and Sam shakes a bottle. "Made some formula. There's an extra in the side pocket." 

"Thanks." Dean takes it. "Gonna have to toss the other one. Stuff can only sit out an hour." 

Sam doesn't say anything to that, just scrapes a chair to the table, plops down, and buries his face in his hands. That's okay. Silence suits Dean just fine. 

He repositions the baby in his arms, cradles the head against his shoulder so he's more upright. The kid latches on to the plastic nipple with ease. 

The last time he fee a baby was a lifetime ago in some stranger’s home, babysitting with an ex-angel post attempted-murder. He and Cas had straightened out his not-dates house, and the baby started fussing. The bottle was already made. He didn’t think about it when he started feeding the kid. When Cas saw him, he gave Dean a pleased smile and said you're good at this. 

It jolted his pulse. Compliments had a way of hitting him funny, but right then? In the low light of a picture-perfect suburban home? Right from the very human Cas who has sex and goes on dates and looks at Dean like he’s worth something? 

Neck warm and mind blank, he offered to help Cas do it right without thinking. 

And it was good, the light touches, soft adjustments that weren't necessary. But Cas never dressed down that much, so it was better than good. Dean spent the whole time thinking about how thin his cotton shirt was. Cas was smaller without the layers, and the warmth of him unfiltered. He tried to peel his hands away, but it was like he couldn't stop. Angel or mud-monkey, Cas felt strong and whole. 

The comfort of the words stuck with him for days. The feel of Cas underneath him never left. 

God, he should be here now. 

The baby’s pudgy face grimaces, and Dean moves the bottle back until it evens out again. 

"We need to figure out what we're doing." Sam's palms muffle his voice. 

"We're going home. Welcome to the joys of parenthood. Here’s to hoping it doesn't kill us during puberty." 

"It has a name." Sam drops his arms to his sides. "Jack. Kelly made videos on her laptop for him." 

Dean rolls his eyes. "Well ain't that just lovely?" 

Sam's jaw drops. "Dean."  

He's two steps away from being the spitting image of some scandalized Victorian chick, and it crawls under Dean's skin. 

"What? Jack here is the son of Satan, Sam. Fucking pardon me for not caring about mommy’s little home videos," Dean says. The baby — Jack, whatever — whimpers. Body tense, Dean slowly slides the bottle from his mouth. 

"He's a baby, not a monster. And I'm just saying we don't have to — to tuck our tails and go home." 

White spit-like liquid dribbles from Jack's mouth. Dean sighs. 

"Fan-freakin'-tastic. I forgot babies did this crap." Dean sighs, storms over to the table, and places the bottle down with a hard clank. "I'm not seeing an array of options here. We can't exactly put a Nephilim up for adoption. Or hire a babysitter." Carefully, he brushes off Jack's mouth with the color of his onesie. It’s probably the cleanest thing they have to do it with.

"There's Mom. If the portal was opened once, there's gotta be a way to do it again. Maybe the Book of the Damned, or the Demon Tablet..." Sam perks up. "We could try and get Donatello to help —” 

"Okay, I'm gonna stop you there." Dean lays Jack flat against his shoulder and pats his back. "First of all, you really want a soulless dude and Lucifer's kid bumping shoulders? Don't think they could be, I dunno, a bad influence on each other?" Jack releases a puff of air and Dean adjusts him back down. He levels a hard stare at Sam. "Second of all: Moms dead. Nothings gonna help that." 

Sam doesn't miss a beat. "You don't know that." 

Buzzing vibrates from Dean's pocket. He yanks it from his pocket for it. "Pretty sure I do. Lucifer ganked her the minute the portal closed." 

"You can't —" 

Unknown. He sends the asshole to voicemail. 

Sam shakes his head. Sighs. "Whatever. Who was that?" 

"Not Donatello." Well, it could've been. But whatever. He grabs the baby bag, then slings the lime green wrecking ball of a bag over his shoulder. "You've got Baby's keys. I'm taking the truck." 

The coach squeaks. Before Dean can make it out the door, Sam grabs the strap. The force yanks him in place. Dean swivels around and glares. Sam drops his hand and gives Dean a weary look. 

"Can we just talk about this?" 

Dean swivels around. "I don't know what you want from me. Crowley's dead. Kelly's dead. Cas is —" Pain pangs his chest, a little twinge that sends pin-pricks through his torso, down his arms. His eyes dart away and land on the table. The discarded, half-finished bottle sits just outside of the sunlight’s path. "Mom’s gone. We even lost Rowena. So I'm gonna take the kid, find a motel the next state over, and put up whatever sigils I can to let the dick brigade know they aren't welcome. Rinse and repeat until we’re back home." 

Sam scoffs, but whatever energy he had left is burned out. "Whatever. We'll talk later." 

"Unlikely." 

By the time Dean walks over to the table and grabs the bottle, Sam's halfway up the stairs. 

Dean pushes past Sam and grabs the bottle. By the time he walks through the door, Sam's halfway up the stairs. 

Ash has blown around the yard, smeared it in grey. Eyes downcast, pointedly away from the remnants, he beeline for the truck. Wind whistles by and smears ash across the lawn. Dean stares at the mustard-colored wet spots on Jack's clothes instead. 

Cars are like a testament to the owner. The truck is immaculate. The burgundy shines — there’s not a spec of dirt marring the strips of pearl-white. 

Dean doesn't bat an eye at the car seat. It’s green. Of course it’s green. His breath doesn't catch at the stupid cartoon bee sticker smiling at him on the car seat’s side.  And he doesn't think about Cas. 

Not him stumbling through a Walmart visit to buy the thing. God, he bets the nerdy little guy compared brands, sifted through online reviews in the middle of the aisle. He doesn’t picture how pleased Cas must've been at finding a pack of sticks, of all things. How the rest of them are most likely sitting in the glovebox. How it was probably the last enjoyable moment he had. Dean doesn't think — he doesn't. Merely shrugs the baby bag off onto the floorboard, buckles Jack in, and clicks the door closed. 

Sweat slick forehead pressed against the doorframe, Dean squeezes his eyes shut. 

The last conversation he had with Cas is a blur. An actual conversation, not stress-filled bickering over the newest pile of shit dumped on their doorstep. 

Dean tries to swallow, but the motion stops halfway through, and there’s nothing there to force down. 

The last movie night he'd managed to drag Cas into was over a month ago. It might’ve been the last time where either of them were reasonably happy. The last time his lips would tilt up in that small way that knots Dean's stomach. It isn’t fair. It's all wrong, and there’s no way to fix it. No magic is strong enough to bring an angel back, The only witch that could’ve tried is dead too. And any power Heaven could spare wouldn’t be used to help him. There’s only one shot to take, and it's the same useless one everyone’s thought of trying at some point. 

Dean grabs the side of the truck bed and turns his head towards the sky. He sighs. Here goes nothing. "Okay, Chuck. Or God, whatever. We need your help. You said — you said the world would be fine with us. It isn't. We've lost everything." 

He takes a deep breath, rocks his head to the ground. "You left. And I've never asked you for anything. Never begged. But now you're gonna bring him back. Cas. Mom. Hell, even Crowley." His hand tightens. "You owe us, you son of a bitch." 

"Please." It's begging. He knows it is and doesn't care. He’d beg for weeks straight if it wasn’t useless. "Please help us." 

A beat passes. Nothing happens. He didn’t expect it to work. God's never really gave a shit before, has he? 

It's fine. All fine. 

Jack cries when Dean slams the door. He strangles the steering wheel between his hands, hands that itch to inflict. Hit. Destroy. Sure as fuck not to nurture, not to quell the newborn screams, because Cas was wrong. Dean isn’t good at this.

A handful of deep breaths later, he leans down and fishes out a pink pacifier from the bag. Jack latches onto it, his pudgy face relaxed. Blue eyes float up to Dean. Innocent, full. It stings, and Dean turns away before his body uses whatever scraps of water it has left to make him cry again. 

When he brings the engine to life, Zeppelin creeps through the speakers, one track after the next in an order he memorized long before Cas got the chance. 

He plays it front to back on repeat until hunger and exhaustion win out, and he finds a motel.

[cantgetoutofmyheda]

Falling in Love in a Quarantine: Part 9.5

OP | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9

—

PART 9.5: DAY 20

After Lexa’s somewhat of a confession, she simply hopped out of bed as if nothing had happened and exited the room. Clarke, still totally unsure of what had transcended—and certainly unsure of how to navigate the rest of the day—stayed put in her spot.

Almost fifteen minutes later, Lexa called from downstairs, “Clarke,” a pause. “C’mon, breakfast is almost ready!”

Clarke scrunched her face. That’s where Lexa fled off to, because, of course.

She took her time—changed into another set of comfortable clothes, brushed her teeth, tried to salvage the mess of bedhead, and finally made her way down to the kitchen.

“What’s all this?” Clarke’s brow was raised—pancakes and eggs were set on the small table.

Lexa sat down at her normal seat, “I figured if we were going to have somewhat of an awkward conversation, pancakes would help us ease into it.”

“Do we have to do this right now?” Clarke sighed.

“We don’t,” Lexa shrugged. “But figured it would be better to, rather than us be home all day pretending like nothing happened.”

“Fine,” Clarke rolled her eyes, begrudgingly taking her seat as she watched Lexa put food onto her plate. “Thanks.”

“So,” they both started at the same time, both gave an awkward laugh, before Clarke finally spoke up again.

“Sorry,” she smiled. “You first?”

“Sure,” Lexa nodded. “I know you said you were mortified,” she started, her inquisitive eyes finding Clarke’s. “But I really want you to know you have no reason to be. I woke up and realized what was happening, and I just…”

She paused—perhaps the conversation she wanted to have with Clarke would be harder than she initially thought.

“You what?” Clarke finally asked, breaking the silence.

“I just wanted it, too,” Lexa confessed. “I’ve been trying to wrap my head around a few things, and Anya has been saying–”

“Anya?” Clarke immediately turned her attention from the hot cake on her fork back up to Lexa. “What has Anya been saying?”

“Nothing, really,” Lexa shrugged. “I mean, she’s been asking me if something’s been going on between us, and I keep telling her that nothing has—that we’ve been the same as usual, but I suppose our ‘same as usual’ has always raised eyebrows in the past anyway.”

“I’m going to kill Raven,” Clarke shook her head.

“Raven?” Lexa tilted her head in thought. “What does Raven have to do with this?”

“She probably fucking told Anya everything,” Clarke let out. “I’m seriously going to kill her.”

“Everything?” Lexa set her fork down—her eyes were keenly focused on Clarke’s. “I don’t think Raven’s said anything to her. What do you mean by ‘everything?’”

“What has Anya been saying?” Clarke asked again.

Lexa scrunched her face, “I already told you. What are you talking about with Raven, though?”

“I’ve just been talking to Raven, too,” Clarke exhaled. Her train of thought drifted far away from the breakfast on her plate. Perhaps Lexa was right—pancakes serving as an early-morning icebreaker. “She’s been wondering if something’s been going on with us, also. And has been very vocal that she thinks something should be.”

Lexa nodded in understanding, “Have you said anything to her to make her push for that?”

“Yes,” Clarke admitted. “Yeah, I have.”

Lexa raised a brow, “I see.”

“Is that okay?” Clarke asked.

“Clarke,” Lexa softened her expression. “Of course it is. That’s why we’re sitting here talking about it. I mean, after this morning,” she looked up to meet Clarke’s eyes again. “I think it’s pretty clear that we’re both seeing our relationship differently.”

“When did you first think about it?” Clarke finally asked. She needed to know.

Lexa shrugged, “I think it may have always been in the back of my mind. I’m not sure. You?”

“Sophomore year,” Clarke stated. “I’ve thought about it since sophomore year.”

Lexa’s eyes nearly jumped out of their sockets, “Why didn’t you say something?”

“I’m saying something now,” Clarke tiredly sighed.

“But back then?” Lexa started. “Why didn’t you say something back then?”

“I tried to, once,” Clarke shook her head. “But we were nineteen, and you were—are—my best friend, and that was just the most terrifying thought.”

“What?” Lexa blinked. “When?”

“Remember sophomore year when you planned that road trip for me, you, Rae, and O to go visit Anya at school?” Clarke smiled at the thought. “Right around that time.”

“I do,” Lexa recalled. “Since then, huh?”

It was a shotty plan, at best, but Lexa was still proud of it. The four friends were to take the holiday weekend, a Friday and Monday off of class, and drive Raven’s old Lesabre on an eight-hour drive to visit Lexa’s childhood best friend. She had met the group a bunch of times, and thankfully, they got along famously—but it was now Lexa’s turn to go visit her, and she wanted to bring everyone else along. The route was easy—Raven was in charge of that. Clarke and Octavia were in charge of road snacks and games, and Lexa was in charge of the playlist for there and back.

It was the Thursday night before they were set to leave, and Lexa barged into Clarke’s dorm room—Clarke and the other two were sitting on the floor discussing food choices and different places to stop for gas and snack-refuels. The look of excitement and happiness on Lexa’s face caught Clarke’s attention—in the two years they had been friends, she had never seen Lexa look so proud, and that’s when she knew.

Lexa held her phone in the air, boastful about the two playlists she created. Beamed at the fact that she sprung for a Spotify premium account so that no ads would interrupt her music flow. Said it was going to be like a symphony of sounds in the car the whole way there and back, and made sure to let everyone know that “no skipping” was allowed.

The smile on Clarke’s face said it all, and though Lexa didn’t catch on, Raven and Octavia most certainly did.

“Was there a particular moment? Did something happen?” Lexa questioned. Her mind was trying to sift through all the memories the pair had shared, trying to pinpoint a place in time that would lead Clarke to feel the way she did all that time ago.

“The look on your face when you came into my room the night before we left,” Clarke sighed again. “You looked so happy, so proud. And my heart dropped into my stomach and I guess I just realized it. I don’t know.”

“That was a killer playlist,” Lexa smiled.

“Debatable,” Clarke raised a brow. “There was too much Kenny Chesney.”

“Clarke,” Lexa started. “I literally crafted that playlist to the scenery I knew we’d be driving through. It was perfect.”

Clarke rolled her eyes, recalling the drive from Nashville to New Orleans, “I wanted to gouge my fucking eyes out.”

“Glad you didn’t,” Lexa smiled. “They’re too pretty.”

Clarke immediately softened, offering Lexa a smile, “Wow, I would have done that sooner had I known it would have meant you’d start being nicer to me.”

“Please,” Lexa scoffed. “I’m always nice to you. It’s probably why everyone always thought something was going on with us.”

“Everyone?” Clarke asked, but was just met with a shrug from Lexa.

“When did you try to tell me?” Lexa asked, changing the subject.

Clarke looked towards the window, then back to Lexa, “A week or so after we got back from Anya’s. Raven and O had been pestering me to finally come clean, and I had some liquid courage, so I figured I might as well.”

“But you didn’t,” Lexa was confused. “I mean, you never told me.”

“Correct,” Clarke gave her a sad smile—it showed in her eyes. “We were in my room—Monty had dropped off a jug of his ‘Murder Sangria’ and we were just drinking it and watching a movie,” Clarke recalled. “I don’t even remember what it was, but something happened and I was the only one that laughed. I couldn’t believe they didn’t think the scene was funny and made a comment about how you would have.”

“We do have a weird sense of humor,” Lexa chuckled. “I’m sure whatever it was, wasn’t actually funny, Clarke.”

“Semantics,” Clarke rolled her eyes. “Anyway, they both started egging me on, teasing me about how I was crushing on you and finally got me up and had me marching towards your dorm room to tell you.”

“But you didn’t,” Lexa repeated, still confused as to why Clarke never said a thing to her. “What happened?”

Clarke, tipsy on sangria and drunk off of a mad crush, sauntered over from her dorm room to Lexa’s. Two and a half weeks’ worth of teasing from her other two friends finally drove her to do it. Lexa had opted to skip out on movie night—second semester finals were around the corner, and she was hellbent on maintaining that shining GPA of hers.

A knock at Lexa’s door brought her out of her zone, and once she opened it, she found Clarke with a certain glow to her. Lexa smiled immediately, excited to see her best friend. To Clarke, the smile was the same one that gutted her heart right out of her chest from a few Thursday night’s ago.

“I have to tell you something,” they said in unison—both girls wound up laughing, but Clarke’s anxiety got the best of her. As ready as she was to tell Lexa what she wanted to, she figured another minute wouldn’t hurt her cause.

“You first,” Clarke offered.

“You’ll never guess,” Lexa beamed, her smile was growing even wider, and Clarke’s chest swelled even more at the sight.

Clarke raised a brow, “Then I guess you’ll have to just tell me whatever is it that’s gotten you so riled up, Lex.”

“Costia asked me out,” the look in Lexa’s eyes matched the smile on her face. She was happy—no, she was ecstatic. She was ecstatic and elated and beautiful and everything in between, and Clarke tried to pretend to be the same for the other, but the fake smile on her face was barely enough to mask her devastation.

“Oh, wow, Lex,” Clarke offered.

Lexa nodded, not realizing Clarke’s reply was nowhere near sincere, “You remember, right? That girl I told you about from my poli-sci class?”

“Yeah, wow,” Clarke couldn’t find the words. The combination of the Murder Sangria and Lexa’s news was starting to make her sick, “Lexa that’s awesome. Really exciting. Really happy for you.”

“Thanks!” Lexa beamed. “I think we’re going to try to do something after our poli-sci final this week. I’ll keep you posted. I’m going to need your help with what to wear and all that stuff.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Clarke nodded. “Of course.”

“What’d you have to tell me?” Lexa tilted her head. “Sorry, you came here for something and I totally hijacked the conversation.”

Clarke shook her head, “No, it was stupid.” She closed her eyes, “Uh, we were watching a movie and something funny happened and I wanted to tell you, but I don’t even remember. Your news was much more exciting.”

“Oh, okay,” Lexa smiled. “I’m glad you came by, though.”

“Yeah,” Clarke nodded again. “Me too. Night, Lex.”

“I showed up to your room to tell you,” Clarke nearly winced at the thought. “And then you told me about Costia.”

Lexa immediately felt her stomach drop, “Clarke.”

Clarked nodded, “Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” Lexa asked—Costia was new, but Clarke was a constant. Surely, had Clarke said something, they would have been able to navigate it together all those years ago.

“I’d known you for two years at that point, Lex,” Clarke offered. “I thought you finishing your stupid playlist was the happiest I had seen you, and I guess it was. Until that exact moment.”

“But–”

“No,” Clarke sighed. “You had been talking about her all semester, Lexa. You had a wild crush on her and wouldn’t stop blabbing about it. She finally asked you out, and I wasn’t going to take that away from you.”

“But–”

“No buts, Lex,” Clarke shook her head. “It’s in the past, okay?”

“But it was so new with Cos, Clarke,” Lexa tried. “If you told me, then maybe we could have figured this all out back then.”

“I wasn’t going to get in the way of you and Costia, Lexa,” Clarke started. “And look—it lasted six years with you guys, so it clearly meant something.”

Lexa rolled her eyes, “It’s not like we ended up together.”

“Six years, though,” Clarke pointed out. “It meant something.”

Lexa nodded, “Okay, so have you always felt this way? Since then?”

“I don’t know,” Clarke shrugged. “I really don’t. After all that, I kind of brushed everything to the side. You’ve been my best friend since we met and it was more so me just coming to terms with the fact that that’s all you’d ever be to me. Maybe I kept it in the back of my mind, but since then, I’ve just looked at you as my best friend.”

“Okay,” Lexa nodded. “I get it. So what do we do now?”

“I mean,” Clarke finally broke a smile. “I guess we see where things go? I’d say we take it slow—and this is new territory, so I do want to do that—but considering this morning…”

“We can take things slow and see where things are going, Clarke,” Lexa nodded.

“Can we refrain from telling Raven and Anya and everyone else about this morning, though?” Clarke winced at the thought of the endless teasing that would come her way.

“How about,” Lexa leaned in, grabbing Clarke’s hand with her own. “We keep this between us right now. We’ll see where things go, and if we decide we’re on the right track, we can let those idiots in on it.”

“I like that,” Clarke nodded. “Just me and you?”

Lexa smiled, before releasing her hold on Clarke’s hand. She stood up and made her way towards the blonde, leaning over her seat to brush a stray golden lock behind her ear, “Just me and you.”

Clarke’s expression softened. Her heart was beating out of her chest.

“I’m going to kiss you now, Clarke,” Lexa smiled, looking into her eyes to gauge her reaction.

“Fucking finall–”

Clarke was cut off by the feeling of Lexa’s lips against her own. To her, the kiss was ten years in the making—but the softness of Lexa’s touch, the look she had just given her, the hand that was now caressing her neck—that made it all worth the wait.

[mchutchmendes]

Island Records

Hi everyone. So I wrote a thing. A Shawn Mendes thing. My first Shawn pic so please be kind and let me know what you think.

BIGGEST of thank you’s to my girl, @shawnase for encouraging me to write and for editing and your feedback and love! I appreciate it! 

Warnings? Idk how to do these...swearing? Just super awkward fluff? 

Reader's POV

“So all you have to do when the phone rings is answer and say ‘Thank you for calling Island Records how may I help you?’ If they want to be transferred to someone, check to make sure whomever they are looking to speak to isn’t in a meeting or on their ‘do not transfer to me list’. If you aren’t sure what they are asking for just put them on hold and ask someone for help.”

“Uhh what do I do if the person is on their ‘do not transfer list’?” you asked nervously, tucking a piece of hair behind ear and out of our face. You were only minutes into your new job as a secretary for Island Records. You were trying to keep your ‘first day jitters’ under wraps but Chelsea, who was training you, was running through everything so fast you couldn’t keep up. You could feel the nervous sweat start to glisten on your brow and hoping you weren’t sweating through the white blouse you wore. You were already regretting wearing your somewhat tight pencil skirt on your first day, making it hard to breathe where it hugged your waist. But you wanted to go for the classic secretary and okay you'll admit it, cliché, look on your first day as a secretary.

“You just tell them they are out of the office right now or in a meeting and send them right to voicemail. Look you can see everyone’s extensions and schedules right here,” Chelsea points nonchalantly to the calendar on the desktop in front of you as you try to scribble down notes of everything she is saying furiously.

“You’ll be fine. This job is easy as pie. I will be in meetings all day but if you need me come find me.” Chelsea waved a hand so casually in the air as she floated off down one of the many hallways of this maze of an office building.

Great. Yeah I will be sure to interrupt your meetings if I need help transferring a call. You took in a heavy sigh and started sifting through the papers on your new desk trying to mask the panic that was surely written on your face.

Grabbing the travel mug of coffee you brought with you, the cup being the size of your face, which thankfully was not accidentally left on the counter at home on your bolt out the door, you closed your eyes and took a sip trying to calm your nerves. Setting the mug down on the desk you grabbed the stack of papers next to you, the ones Chelsea left you for instructions with “what to do if” scenarios. You heard the front door chime as someone entered the lobby of the building and you immediately started to sweat, more than you already were. At that same moment the phone started ringing off the hook, making you jump out of your own skin and accidentally knock your coffee over spilling it all over your brand new desk’s contents and computer. Immediately leaping out of your chair, you grab the phone and in a panicked rushed voice saying “Island Records y/n speaking, please hold,” putting the call on hold and slamming it back down into the receiver.

“Fuck me!” you moan falling back into your chair as you frantically grab Kleenex to try to soak up the coffee dripping everywhere, trying to salvage anything you can.

Pulling you out of your own misery comes a mans voice, “I’m sorry?” You had forgotten you were not alone in the lobby of the office, adding a whole new rush of nerves and you could feel the heat rise to your cheeks.

Still dabbing up spilled coffee from your desk, your face turning 500 shades of red from embarrassment, you slowly look up to see the man in front of you. Your eyes glance up his toned body finally reaching his face that had a small smirk settled on his lips. He was a thin man but broad and muscular with the most beautiful head of dark brown curly locks you had ever seen. But what your eyes settled on past his deliciously rosy cheeks were his soft honey-like hazel eyes.

“Oh god! I am so sorry you heard me say that,” you mentally scold yourself for swearing so loud in your first hour on the job, “How can I help you?” you sincerely ask the strangely familiar face, stopping mid dab of the coffee pooling on your desk.

A sweet chuckle escaped his full lips “I think I should be asking you that!” As he lurched forward towards the Kleenex box to help you attempt to salvage what is left on your desk. Missing the tissue box by mere centimeters, his tattooed hand bumps into your already half empty coffee mug, spilling it all down the front of your white blouse and into your lap. Your eyes snapped shut as you felt whatever remained of the burning hot liquid pour out all over your body, you reached your hand down to pick up the problematic mug and set it back onto your desk hopefully once and for all.

With the most horrified look on his face your eyes both lock for a moment both of you unsure what to do next. Time stood still, a few seconds felt like hours, just the two of you alone in this agonizing moment. This excruciating embarrassing moment, but a moment nonetheless.

Feeling the coffee seep further into your clothes, your white v-neck blouse starting to stick to your chest and surely making it look like you were the newest contestant in a wet T-shirt contest. You notice his eyes dip down to take in your now more well defined curves and see his tongue dart out to wet his bottom lip ever so slightly.

Your brain tried to quickly assess what the hell had just happened in quite possibly the worst minute of your life. Trying to hold back tears over the fact that you now have to spend the rest of your first day on your new job with your newly tan, no longer white top smelling like a Starbucks barista.

“Oh shit. I am so sorry about that!” the beautiful stranger said pulling you out of your thoughts. His cheeks seemed to fill with even more color now than before. “I only meant to help stop the damage on your desk and now I ruined your clothes too,” he finished with a sad look in his eyes as he looked you up and down. Something about his eyes on you made your body temperature rise and you knew it had nothing to do with the hot coffee spilled all over you.

“Oh pfft that’s okay its no big deal, honestly” you brushed him off trying to play it cool going back to cleaning your desk you picked up papers to try to see what you could save if air-dried. Remembering your actual job in this building you shook your head to clear your mind of the past few moments “oh shoot I am sorry how can I help you again?”

“Oh right” he chuckled running his fingers through his long dark curls pushing them up and out of his face, “I have a meeting at 9:30. My name is Shawn,” as he stuck out a hand to shake yours looking at you expectantly waiting for you to return the exchange.

Hesitating to return the gesture, you assumed most of the people you interacted with in this job would not bat an eyelash at who you were, let alone introduce themselves you. Finally you returned the greeting taking his outstretched hand in yours, “Y/N”.

The most delicious smile curled on his lips as he repeated “Y/N” quietly to himself and it felt like electricity coursing through your body as you felt his warm soft touch in your hand. Getting lost in his gaze you shake your head, breaking yourself free of his trance, dropping his hand immediately missing the warmth of his touch on your skin.

“Right okay…. 9:30 meeting. Let me just take a look here” as you rifle through the papers on your desk, “I am sorry I am a such mess – besides the spilled coffee I mean- today is my first day so I don’t really know where anything is…” you trail off trying to fill the air while you frantically search your desk for the calendar.

Shawn leans on your desk, arms crossed and a smirk playing on his lips, watching you struggle to find something that will help give you a clue as to what the day’s meetings were.

“A-ha! Got it!” finally with a triumphant smile you pulled out the schedule calendar already open to today’s events you run your finger down the day looking for a Shawn, “hmm oh okay here it is 9:30 meeting for Mr. Turner with……Shawn Mendes” you say as his name slowly rolls off your tongue. Shawn. Mendes. Fuck. That’s why he looked so familiar!

“Yep, you’ve got me, Y/N” as he leans back and stands up straight, hearing your name again come from his full lips sounding like sweet honey.

Surely a new color of red was just invented for the shade your cheeks had turned as you replayed the last few minutes you’d spent with him. Wondering how you could be so dumb, how you were unable to piece together who he was – you are a secretary at a record label for cryin’ out loud.

“Okay….cool. Shawn Mendes, yeah great….um please take a seat and I will let someone know you are here,” you wave over to the empty couches to your right, offering him a seat. Not believing the sentence that just came out of your mouth. Totally normal, we got this y/n act cool. Shawn Mendes standing in front of you just like any other Monday morning.

Shawn smiles politely at you, bringing a hand up through his curls, starting towards the couches before turning back to you. “Listen I feel really bad about spilling coffee all over you. Is there something I can do to make it up to you, Y/N?” He asks with the softest eyes and biggest puppy dog look on his face.

“Oh no. I’ll be fine, thank you though.”

Walking back over to your desk closing the space between you, “Are you sure? Your white shirt is a mess… oh I know here take my shirt” he says as he starts to lift his shirt over his head, you can see just the start of his six pack abs and the start of his V taking your gaze lower on his body.

Stopping yourself from drooling and from having Shawn Mendes stripping in the lobby of your building – not that you really wanted to stop him- you rush to reach your hands out to stop his arms from lifting his shirt any further up his body. “Really! I am sure! Thank you though, I really appreciate the gesture.”

Creating space between the two of you, you hastily walk back over to your desk trying to get this conversation back onto a professional level, “I will let someone know you are here Mr. Mendes. Someone will be down shorty to take you to your meeting.” Clicking on the schedule on your desktop to check Shawn into the building, notifying Mr. Turner that Shawn was here for their meeting

“Mr. Mendes?” Shawn looked taken aback, hand on his chest acting as if you had offended him, “Don’t get formal on me now y/n, please just call me Shawn,” he said as he took a seat on one of the couches, staring at you intently from across the room with a smirk plastered on his lips.

“Right, sorry Shawn. They will be down to get you shortly,” you said with a polite tight smile. Trying to remain professional and keep whatever poise you had left after what had transpired before.

You busied yourself with your desk trying to finish cleaning up the mess that had been made. Avoiding looking in his general direction felt like a forced game that you didn’t want to be playing, wanting nothing more than to just eye him from your desk. Any time you felt brave enough to glance in his direction his gaze was burning into you and immediately made you look away. Feeling goosebumps arise on your skin just from the way his eyes bore into you.

The minutes that it took for Chelsea to come grab Shawn to escort him to his meeting felt like an eternity.

As he got up from the couch to go with Chelsea to his meeting, he strode over to you one last time.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, y/n,” the word ‘pleasure’ rolling off his tongue in a sinful way, “sorry again about your coffee. Oh and by the way, you still have someone on hold.”

“Oh shit!” You squealed reaching for the phone receiver, completely forgetting about the person you put on hold from coffee spill number one. He chuckled devilishly as he walked away enjoying getting one last panicked rise out of you.

——————————————

Shawn’s POV

Concentration was at an all time low during this meeting about a few of your upcoming shows and some PR that was planned. Your mind traveling back down to the main lobby to the secretary that had just run your emotions through the ringer.

Sinful thoughts crossed your mind during your meeting and there was little you could do about it. The way that when you had regretfully, but in a way thankfully, spilled coffee all down her front seeing the way her shirt clung to her chest, leaving little to the imagination. Trying to keep yourself calm at the thought of getting to see her hopefully without her shirt on as she lay underneath you.

The way her skin glistened as the coffee dipped down her front. Wondering if her skin would shine just the same if you had her in your shower.

The way her cheeks became flushed and rosy anytime you came within close proximity to her, wondering to yourself if those sweet full cheeks would could go a shade redder as you get her to scream your name for the first time.

The way her skin felt so soft to the touch just by a mere handshake. Almost salivating at the thought of running your hands over every possible inch of her body.

Even just the shape of her body perfectly formed in her pencil skirt showing off her well-defined curves.  You could feel the blood rushing down south and yourself hardening at the fantasy of one day getting to push that skirt up her thighs and taking her right on her desk.

The way that her- “Shawn? Does that sound good to you?”

Snapping you out of your fantasy and the blood rush to your face in slight embarrassment, “Hmm? Sorry- yeah that all sounds great.”

As you tried to stay focused for the remainder of your meeting, your thoughts drifted back to Y/N every so often, trying to keep your thoughts more innocent to avoid walking out of your meeting with a hard on. You wracked your brain on how to talk to her again.

Once your meeting was finally complete, feeling like every minute in there was an hour, you made your way down on the elevator and tried your best to linger in the lobby without being too obvious. Finding new interest in whatever three month old magazine was left near the waiting area, you were carefully watching Y/N out of the corner of your eye, waiting for your moment to approach her. But it seemed like today was this was the place to be. Y/N was answering the phone that seemed to ring once every 30 seconds or directing guests once checked in to the waiting area couches, where you were patiently waiting for her.  You'd never know it was her first day with how well she seemed to handle herself after this mornings coffee catastrophe. You had caught her eye a few times and exchanged flirtatious smiles back and forth. Watching her work was a show in of its own, giving your thoughts some extra fuel for later when you were home alone. Taking a break from oogling the secretary, looking at the numerous messages you'd missed from Andrew, you realized you had been meandering around the lobby of your record label for a half hour longer than you should have been just to try to talk to her. You had been so caught up in her that you were now running late for another meeting and bolted for the front door.

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

Reader's POV

Shawn had been sitting in the lobby like a patient puppy waiting his turn, eagerly returning your smile any time you were able to steal a glance over at him.

You had been so busy that morning with learning the ropes of your new job and handling the steady stream of traffic that seemed to endlessly flow in and out of your front doors that you barely had a chance to offer another thought to this morning’s mishap. So Shawn reappearing and trying to nonchalantly linger in the lobby came as a surprise. At first you wondered if he was waiting for someone but as he sat there and made small talk with random guests, making no move to leave for the better part of twenty minutes you were a little dumbfounded. He cannot possibly be waiting here for me... he is Shawn Freakin' Mendes and I am no one! Shaking the thought from your mind you answered the never ending ringing phone, "Island Records, this is Y/N , how can I help you?"

A few more minutes passed and you seemed to have caught a lull in the chaos. You expectantly look up from your desk hoping to see chocolate curls waiting for you but the smile on your face drops as your eyes scan the room, realizing that he's no longer there. Ha. See. I knew it, it was all in your head. No way in hell he was waiting here for me.

Chalking this morning's events up to being an embarrassing freak accident on your first day, one story I am sure your friends will beg you to tell over and over to get a good laugh, you went about surviving the rest of your day. To be fair, you thought the day went pretty well. You only hung up a few calls, on accident of course and only managed to transfer one person that was on a 'do not transfer list', so all in all it could have gone worse.

Watching patiently as the clock hit 5pm, the most beautiful hour of the day meaning you were home free, you grabbed your bags and tried your best non-sprint but really was a sprint for the front door. Walking out the door with your attention drawn to your bag as you searched for your cell phone and headphones, your body comes to a screeching halt as it bumps into something. The something that you clumsily ran into made an "oof" sound. Immediately apologizing to whoever you just bodychecked, "Fuck my bad. Shit! I am so sorry that was totally my fault! I wasn't paying attention" you finished as you finally looked up at who you just hit, who was now emitting the most beautiful chuckle at your expense.

Shawn. Mendes. This guy again? What the actual hell. Confusion visibly running all over your face, you try to cut to the chase as to why he was reappearing in your day for the third time. "Oh, uh, hey Shawn, you probably don't remember me...Y/N, we met earlier, you might recognize me from the coffee stained look I was going for this morning," you rambled on as you gestured to your tanned outfit. Forgetting what you were trying to get at as he had put his hand on your forearm to steady you from your head on collision, feeling the warmth of his hand spread through your body like wildfire. "Did...did you forget something inside? I can try to call someone to unlock the door to get it fo-"

"No, no no," he cut you off thankfully, to save yourself from spewing nonsense for the next minute. "I actually came back to try to catch you leaving. I waited to see you before but forgot about another meeting I had."

He barely finished his sentence before you countered, "Wait. What? Why?" Taking the bewildered expression written on your face to a whole new level.

"Well I still feel bad about earlier and wanted to see if I could make it up to you.....so are you free tonight?"

"Oh, Shawn, I'm sorry," you say taken aback by his request, "I actually have dinner plans tonight, I'm going out to celebrate surviving my first day."

Watching the smile drop from his face causing a pang to strike your chest, "Right! Of course, I am sure your boyfrie-"

"Nope. No. Single. No boyfriend here," you cut him off before he can even think about finishing the word. Smooth. Fucking smooth. If ever there was a face palm moment, this was it, wishing you could rewind the past 30 seconds to avoid sounding so desperate. "But I am free tomorrow," you recover your misstep.

The smile that beamed from his beautifully full lips caused butterflies to race through your body, "I was thinking I could take you out to grab some coffee?" he smirked.

Causing a snort to involuntarily escape your mouth, "How about we stick to water since it seems coffee is too much for either of us to handle."

[thetakenpokemon]

Act 2 - Contest Winner (or Loser?)

[PoV: Jezebel]

After downing my next shot of rum, I set the small glass back down onto the bar counter - right next to ten other glasses.

Even though that’s a LOT of extremely potent alcohol I’ve consumed within such a short amount of time, the most that I’m feeling is a strong burning in my stomach - as well as a similar feeling on my face. I’m probably blushing really hard from the rum. Thankfully, my fur is there to conceal it.

Elizabeth on the other hand? She’s barely able to sit straight in her seat, she’s currently wobbling all over the place. The only thing keeping her upright is her free hand having a vice-grip on the counter, her other hand holding her eleventh shot glass of rum - said liquid spilling from the uncoordinated movements of her arm.

Honestly? I’m actually very impressed that Elizabeth managed to last this long. Part of the reason why I’m very good at holding my own alcohol is because I’m a Fire-type, so the heat within me helps burn some of the alcohol before it enters my system. That and paired up with a liver of pure steel? I can keep drinking this stuff all throughout the night.

Elizabeth? She’s smaller than I am, so I guess the only thing that’s keeping her going is the fact that she’s used to drinking this much.

“I cannnn keep doooooing tees all...n...” The Lopunny slurs, her expression being that of a goofy smile. She didn’t finish the sentence though, since she practically chucks the rum into her mouth. She smacks her mouth, her tongue lolling out. “Seeeeee...? Steell...going....!”

The bartender gives her a concerned look before looking back at me, obviously rather hesitant on giving us another round of shots.

I roll my eyes before looking at him with a smirk. “Just one more shot for the both of us.” I tell him.

I have a feeling that this’ll be the straw that breaks the Camprupt’s back, since Elizabeth is barely holding on as it is.

He slowly nods his head and grabs two more shot glasses and fills them with the crystal clear yet extremely strong alcohol. He sets them down in front of me and the Lopunny before taking a step back and watching us at our ‘game’.

I grab my glass and look at Elizabeth, raising an eyebrow at her. “Number twelve.” I say before immediately downing it, the burning sensation being the same as the previous eleven.

Elizabeth immediately goes to grab her drink, but in her attempt to do so she immediately starts falling off her stool. I quickly extend an arm and catch her, preventing her from having a rather rough embrace with the wooden floor.

“Noooooo...” She whines. “I can...do eeeeeeeet!” She tries to sit up, yet even with my assistance she can’t get herself fully back onto her stool.

“I’d say that it’s over, Elizabeth.” I say to her,. my smirk widening.

Honestly? Even though I’ve won, it didn’t really feel as satisfying because of how effortless it was. Yeah I get to have her ‘do anything I want’ for an hour since that was the wager that was made, but if anything I don’t have much interest in that.

If anything? Teaching Elizabeth a lesson was the biggest motivator for me since she really needed to not go off the deep end. Right now? Obviously she’s way too drunk to realize her mistake, but at least I get to feel rather smug.

“Nononooooo!” She continues to complain. “I...ammmm...not dooone. Tere ees...steell...” At this point she’s really falling over, in which I now have to use both hands to keep her from stumbling off her stool like a ragdoll.

“It’s over, Elizabeth.” I repeat, trying contain a chuckle. When she doesn’t respond to this I instead give her a stern look, in which she somehow manages to meet with her own gaze before slumping.

“Fiiiine...” She sighs, her cheeks a deep shade of purple from the booze.

With a bit of effort I manage to pull her off her feet and get her to lean against the counter, in which I turn back to face the bartender.

Said individual is looking at the massive spread of empty shot-glasses with a look of immense respect. “Sheesh, ladies.” He exclaims with a shake of his head, chuckling. “You two hold your liquor far better than anyone I’ve ever met.”

I couldn’t help but give my own chuckle, smiling to myself. “We’re not any simple ladies, after all.”

He whistles. “No kidding. If you members of the Guardians of Twilight all have similar alcohol tolerance, this place will be out of drinks in a night if at least twenty of you were to visit at once.”

I fumble with my dress before pulling out my wallet, and after sifting through it I pull out a sizable amount of money that should pay for all of the alcohol - and provide an impressive tip. I set it down on the counter before giving him a nod of thanks.

The bartender grins and takes the money. “Much obliged.” He says before looking at Elizabeth. “Need help, or-?”

I shake my head, still chuckling. “No need, I will take her back.”

I stand up from my stool - the action causes my body to lose its balance slightly.

Hmm, perhaps the alcohol has more of an effect on me than I thought. That’d also explain why I’m also more loose with my emotions. Guess it really has been a while since I last drank...

Grabbing my staff that’s leaning against the counter, I clasp Elizabeth’s arm and pull her to my form.

“Lean on me.” I tell her. “I’ll support you as we head back to the guild HQ.”

She doesn’t respond - verbally at least, and together we slowly begin to make our way out of the club.

The moment we step outside I immediately feel myself get blasted with fresh air, the strong scent of sweat disappearing with the midnight breeze. The city itself is also relatively quieter compared to the club, so my ears feel very thankful as well.

As the two of us slowly make our way back, Elizabeth starts talking again.

“Nooo...” She whines once more. “I...do not waaant...to beee....your slaaaaave!”

The last word causes my body to freeze, the action making Elizabeth stumble forward before falling - and with her grip on her body, she ends up taking her with me.

The two of us fall flat onto the sidewalk, my staff releasing from my grip and clattering the ground. At this point my face is so flushed that people would probably actually see a noticeable shade of pink on my cheeks - despite the dark fur covering them.

“E-Elizabeth!” I shout indignantly. “Not in public!” I blink before immediately following up with: “And forget about the wager, I have no interest in-”

“Buuut eet was a beeeet!” The Lopunny retorts in her drunken stupor. “I ‘ave to do eeeeeeet!”

I grit my teeth. “Elizabeth-” I start to say, but she cuts me off again.

“What weell you ‘ave me...doooo?” She continues her drunken tirade. “Weell you ‘ave me...streep een publeec? Weell you ‘ave meeeee....chained to a bed so youuuu-”

I don’t even let her finish that sentence. “NONE OF THAT!” I shout frantically, my face full on burning now.

At this point we definitely have a lot of onlookers now. Gritting my teeth harder I get back to my feet and grab my staff, and once I have my balance I pull Elizabeth back to her feet.

“Not another word!” I hiss at her. “Let us get back, no more of this nonsense!!”

She looks at me with confusion. “Buuut thee wag-”

“No!” I growl at her. “No no no! No wager! Just stop talking!”

And so we continued the long trek back to the GoT HQ.

...

Where did she get THAT assumption?! 

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

Much to my chagrin, the journey back did not go smoothly at all. Elizabeth continued to go on and on about the ‘wager’, shouting and whining about all sorts of obscenities she thinks I will do to her. Even with my best attempts I just...could not...get her...to shut up.

I have half the mind to burn her on the spot and be done with it. And the worst part is that if I drank any more alcohol? I probably would’ve actually done it due to the sheer embarrassment I’m feeling.

I swear, who the FUCK does she think I am? With all of the shit she’s saying, people would think I’m some extremely kinky freak!

At this point we’re navigating the hallways of the HQ, and thank Arceus because there’s barely any people walking around this time of night. The few who do walk by us have expressions of confusion - or worse, smirks.

As we’re navigating, a thought suddenly strikes me.

I have...no idea on where Elizabeth stays. Obviously asking her is out of the question, because of the fact she failed to listen to a SINGLE word I said ever since we left the club.

“Shit.” I say aloud, the uncharacteristic word causing a nearby passerby to flinch. I turn and glare at them, my green eyes blazing. “What are you fucking looking at? Keep moving!” I half-shout at them, causing them to start sprinting off - and nearly tripping while doing so.

“-aaand once you are done weet te strap-on...” Elizabeth continues with her tirade, in which I start cringing even harder.

“BY THE GODS AND GODDESSES ABOVE, ELIZABETH!” I shout at her in anger. “I AM NOT GOING TO DO ANYTHING SEXUAL TO YOU! STOP TALKING LIKE I’M ABOUT TO FUCK YOU!”

Okay, normally I would be complimented on having insane composure. How I am the pinnacle of professionalism.

Me right now? A combination of alcohol as well as massive doses of irritation and embarrassment is apparently enough to take said reputation and shatter it completely and utterly.

“Buuut te wag-” Elizabeth starts for the umpteenth time.

“Fuck the wager!” I growl at her, my teeth flaring.

Her eyes widen as her flushed face grows even more red.

It took me a moment to realize my poor choice of words. With an even louder growl I start dragging her stumbling form with me.

You know what? Fuck it. I am not navigating these hallways to find her room, especially since there are many potential witnesses. I’m taking her to my room so she can sleep this whole shit off, and MAYBE I still have a chance to salvage what little I have left of my dignity.

Of course Elizabeth continues to babble as we make our way as quickly as physically possible to my room. My ears are definitely flat against my head now, my jaw clenching so hard that it’s actually hurting.

As we finally take the last turn, I feel relief fill my body as the door to my room comes into view.

FINALLY! My salvation!

As I approach the room with Elizabeth in tow, I rest my staff against the wall as I start fumbling my dress for my room-key.

Elizabeth starts mumbling in a confused tone, her words lost to me. As she watches me pull out my key and put it into the slot in the door, her eyes widen to the point where I swear they’re going to pop up.

Oh no, you little shit. This is NOT what you’re thinking of.

“You are sleeping in my room till you’re back to your normal self.” I growl, doing my best to prevent her from saying a SINGLE word. “Nothing is happening in here except you getting rest. Got it?”

I don’t let her respond. As soon as the door opens, I stash my key, grab my staff, and drag her into the room.

Ignoring the scattered papers around my ‘humble abode’ from my duty as temporary Night Hunter Leader, I pull Elizabeth towards my bed and practically throw her at it. Her body stumbles before falling on top of it, her voice becoming muffled as her face is against the sheets.

With a sigh of relief I walk over to my study and sit down at the chair next to my desk. I rest my elbows onto the paper-covered wooden surface, using my hands to cradle my head.

It’s over, Jezebel. It’s over, no one will hear that dirty rabbit anymore. You’re safe.

You have a plan of action. You can tell everyone who overheard Elizabeth that she was in a drunken stupor, and that you were helping her to her room. If they ask about your outbursts, you can claim that they must be mistaking and it was Elizabeth who was acting in such a way. That or they misheard due to lack of sleep, since it was late at night after all.

I feel myself smile.

Yeah, it’ll all work out. Everything is good, your reputation is-

“I...am ready.” I hear Elizabeth meekly say from the direction of my bed.

My body tenses, my eyes widening.

I don’t dare look behind me to see what the hell she means exactly by that. Ohhhh no. No no no.

Hell. Fucking. No.

I cross my arms onto my desk and let my head flop onto them, and thus I begin to scream in exasperation.

[shels-kpop-main]

Moments, pt. 4 (Roger Taylor x reader)

Word Count: 2524

Warnings: See below.

A/N: Hey everyone. Just a warning, the angst in this one is more like heartbreak. I’ve mentioned to a few people that I myself lost my dad recently. Just like Joe, and just like the main character/reader in this story. This was a hard chapter to write. I cried a lot. But I think there’s a wealth of emotional depth that can be tapped into with the subject of losing a parent, so I didn’t want to shy away from it. Trigger warning if you have ever lost a parent. Trigger warning for taking someone off life support. This chapter is a heart wrenching one, but I promise things will be much easier in the next chapter. And remember, if you ever want to talk to someone about your struggles, I will always listen. Alright. I love you guys. Let’s get this out of the way.

It was almost dark when you woke up. The side of your face was wet and it leaked over onto the pillowcase. Whether the water was from tears or drool, you weren’t sure. But you wiped your face and got up, feeling even more exhausted than you had before. Roger nearly fell onto your legs when you pulled your bedroom door open. You jumped back in surprise, as he struggled to sit himself up. “What are you doing?” You asked, out of pure confusion. Roger got up and brushed off his pants, red in the face. “You seemed upset, so I… I, uh…” He trailed off, realizing in that moment that he didn’t have a plan or even a real reason to be there. “I just…waited. Here,” he finished, awkwardly gesturing at the spot on the floor he’d just occupied. You folded your arms, almost amused. “Right. Okay. Well, I’m hungry so I was gonna go fix some dinner.” You moved past him, shoulders brushing his, and started off down the stairs. Roger traipsed down behind you. He reminded you of a Golden Retriever following its human.

“We picked up loads of stuff at the market this week,” Roger sounded chipper. You hated it. “Surely we’ll find something we can make into a meal.” “We?” You asked him. He shrugged sheepishly as you walked through the living room. You looked at the fireplace, and felt momentarily better. “Well, I mean, you. If you’d like to cook for two.” “And what will you do?” You asked, more out of interest than interrogation. Roger gestured widely to himself, grinning. “Keep you company, of course,” he replied. You rolled your eyes, but smiled. Roger was happy with this, and spent the next hour talking your head off as you made grilled cheese sandwiches and steamed vegetables. He talked about everything under the sun—his favorite moments from their last tour, his new car, how much he hated Brian’s latest song. And you listened to all of it. Because he was fun to watch. Without your camera in hand, you could take time to just focus on Roger’s presence. His expressions, hand movements, even the slight changes in his vocal intonations as he went from subject to subject. You were giving him a muted smile as he ranted about some magazine that had given Queen a less-than-stellar review. But you stared at him too long, and Roger was interrupted by the smell of vegetables burning. “Is that supposed to be burning?” “Damn it!” You nearly shouted, lifting the pan off the stove to cool down. Roger just laughed as you stirred through the charred remains of what would have undoubtedly been the healthiest thing he’d put in his body all week. You grumbled, sifting through the burned veggies to salvage any that you could. “Should pay closer attention, love,” Roger smirked. “Shut up,” you retorted, smacking Roger on the shoulder with a dish towel. Roger mocked you with feigned offense, whining that you’d hurt him. You giggled and smacked him again, as he took off around the counter. He clutched at his shoulder dramatically as you laughed, still chasing him through the kitchen with the towel. When you were sure you had him cornered between the counter and the wall, Roger reached out and yanked the towel from your hands. You weren’t quick to let go of it, however, and you fell forward when he jerked. You all but knocked him over, laughing the whole way. But Roger expected you to put up a fight, and he reached out to steady you. You were sure that his fingers brushing along the gap between your sweater and your jeans was no accident. But you liked it, and you didn’t move away from him right away. You separated yourself from him after a moment of laughter by gently pushing against his chest. He was still holding the towel, and slung it over his shoulder. You turned away from him, focusing again on the meal you were trying to prepare. Your cheeks were a light tinge of pink, and you were glad Roger couldn’t see. You flushed easily, and you knew Roger wasn’t going to let it go without making fun of you at least a little. You slid the sandwiches out of their pan, and set them down next to the small pile of vegetables that weren’t burned. You shoveled all of these veggies onto Roger’s plate, handing it to him. He pulled the towel from his shoulder and looked at the food in disgust. “You want me to eat those? By myself?” Roger wrinkled his nose, and you pushed the plate closer to him. “Yes. There’s not that many. Besides, I think it must have been weeks since you’ve eaten a vegetable.” “What even is this,” Roger muttered bitterly, sifting through the contents of his plate. “Carrots, cauliflower…squash?” “Zucchini,” you corrected him, handing him a napkin. “You should know, you bought it.” “Nah, love, that was all Brian.” “At least one of you cares about your own diet.” “He only eats healthy cause he has to. He won’t eat meat,” Roger retorted. You got yourself a sandwich and sat next to him at the bar. The two of you munched on your dinners in silence. For all of Roger’s complaining about the healthy part of his meal, he ate his vegetables quickly. “You know, those weren’t half bad,” he admitted, after clearing his plate. You rolled your eyes. “I’m a decent cook, when I’m paying attention,” you said wryly. Roger grinned, picking up your plates and bringing them to the sink. You joined him as he washed them. Or tried to; it was clear Roger hadn’t done many chores in his life. You folded your arms, leaning against the counter. Roger’s shoulder almost brushed yours every time he reached over to put a plate or fork on the drying rack. But you zoned out, remembering the events of the afternoon. Y/N Playing with Dad You weren’t sure which film the label was referring to—you probably hadn’t seen it. Your parents made an excessive number of home movies throughout your childhood, and there had never been enough time for you watch them all. Still, the title was enough to drop a rock into your stomach. Not seeing it was almost worse than having to actually watch it. Roger glanced up at you as he finished the dishes. You were lost in thought, arms still folded. Roger didn’t like the way your brows furrowed. You almost looked on the verge of tears again. It made him uneasy seeing you that way. Roger looked around, eyes searching for a distraction. The only things in front of him were a fake decorative plant, a drying rack full of dishes, and a sink still filled to the brim with soapy water. He came up with something that was sure to either annoy you or make you laugh. He stuck one finger into the soap suds and picked up a small scoop of bubbles. Then, without warning, he touched your nose, leaving the bubbles there. You frowned, looking down your nose at the shiny, white suds. Then, you started laughing. Roger was relieved as you laughed so hard you almost cried. You were amused that the only thing he thought to do was to stick soap bubbles to your nose. You wiped your face with a towel, smiling at him and shaking your head. “Cute,” you muttered with light-hearted sarcasm. But your face fell again, because you couldn’t help it. You thought of your dad, and how much you missed him. And your heart broke a little bit. Roger turned to face you, frowning. “Hey,” he said softly. But you couldn’t bring yourself to look up at him. “Please look at me,” he pleaded, in that same hushed tone. You looked up at the ceiling, then finally to him. “How can I fix it?” “Oh, Rog,” you grimaced, reaching up to brush his cheek with your fingers. He smiled at the touch. “You can’t fix it,” you told him, defeated. Roger shook his head. “Well, what’s wrong?” You shook your head, pulling your hand back to your side. “Hey, you can tell me. I won’t judge. We’re friends, y’know?” You looked at Roger again, a sense of apprehension creeping up inside you. “Jim didn’t tell any of you why I’m here?” Roger was taken aback by the question. “Well, no. Not really. He just said you were here because you needed to get away from family stuff. The same thing he said yesterday when I asked.” You hesitated. Roger had asked about you yesterday? He cared enough to check on you, especially with Jim? He knew Jim was wary of him because of his reputation. But you didn’t have time to dwell on that. You pressed on, swallowing the lump in throat. This wasn’t the first time you’d had to explain your circumstances, but it was never easy. “I’m here because… Because I lost my dad last year. And I had to get out of Texas. Out of the country, really. Just…away from there. Where it happened.” You rubbed your face as Roger took in the gravity of your words. He lifted his arms to hug you, but you crossed the kitchen before he could reach you. “So, anyway. That’s my deal,” you gestured at yourself, not knowing where to go from there. Roger walked up to you, looking upset. “I’m sorry,” he replied. You shook your head at him. “Don’t,” you warned, tears spilling over onto your cheeks. “Don’t pity me. I’m doing alright. I’m working through it.” Roger nodded, biting his lip. “What happened yesterday? If I can ask?” “My mom sent me some old home movies. One of them was about my dad.” “Oh,” was all he could come up with. “I haven’t watched it,” you told him. “I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it.” “That makes sense,” Roger acknowledged. You rubbed your arms, suddenly cold. Roger went to grab a blanket out of a basket by the door. You let him bring it to you, and threw it around yourself. “I don’t want to talk about this any more,” you said firmly. “I’ve had enough heavy talk for one day.” “’S alright with me, love,” Roger responded. He scrunched his face up in thought for a moment, then grinned at you. “We could build another fire?” His tone was mischievous. Your heart did a somersault in place, and you giggled without meaning to. “Sure, that sounds good.”

“Where is everyone?” You asked as the two of you trotted across the lawn. Roger shrugged, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Dunno. Probably drinking in the house.” Your heart sank at the notion of having to share Roger for the evening. You felt better being around him, and didn’t want the relief to end. But, as if reading your mind, Roger piped up. “If they’re too noisy, we can always make a fire back in the barn. There’s a fireplace by the kitchen as well.” He smiled at you when he said it, and something akin to hope fluttered in your chest. You almost hoped the guys would be too rowdy, forcing you and Roger to go back to the more secluded barn. Lower chance of someone interrupting you. Roger threw open the front door and held it for you. “Look at you, so chivalrous,” you mocked him, grinning. Roger nodded at you with fake seriousness. “Chivalry is my middle name, love.” Your laughter was interrupted by voices upstairs. You and Roger exchanged glances, nonverbally agreeing to check it out. You led the way up the steps, pulling your blanket snugly around you. Roger followed you, reaching out to steady you when you stepped on the edge of the blanket and slipped. His fingers splayed across your hip sparked a blush in your cheeks that made you once again glad Roger couldn’t see your face. When you reached the top step, you took in the sight in front of you. Your uncle, along with Paul, Brian, Freddie, Deacy, and a couple others, all sat around an old film projector. You had nearly forgotten the day’s events, and it took you a moment to register what they were all looking at. An old home movie. You recognized the movie type right away. The setting was familiar, too. It was the backyard of your childhood home in Dallas. The home your mother had just moved out of. Then, you heard a familiar voice, as a figure entered the frame. Roger saw it at the same moment you did. Your vision blurred as you recognized the form and features of your late father. Roger put two and two together, looking from the film to you wildly. The world tilted on edge, and you swayed on your feet. Dad was holding a tiny version of you in his arms, happy and laughing. You vaguely remembered his green jumper as he waved to the camera, beaming with pride. The next thing flashing across your mind’s eye was the day he died. You recalled the beige hospital walls, running past nurses to find your dad, reaching his room. Rounding the corner to find your mom and a few doctors hovering over a body that didn’t look like his. You weren’t sure right away if he was even still alive. But he was, because the doctors kept telling you there was no way he could be alive any more. That no one could survive a car wreck like that. They waited as you and your mom made the decision to say goodbye. They watched in detached silence as the monitor went into a flatline after all the tubes and vents had been disconnected. They watched as your heart shattered into a million pieces there on that stupid beige floor. “Why would you play this?” It took you a moment to recognize the strained voice saying those words as your own. Jim opened his mouth to frantically explain, but you couldn’t hear him. The sight of him was the last thing you remembered from that night. Roger reached out towards you again as the ground rushed up to meet you.

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@itsametaphorbriansblog @pietrorunsforme @isabella-bby

[setaflow]

A Shovel

“In which Charles Smith returns to Beaver Hollow, buries some friends, and learns what it means to let go”

https://archiveofourown.org/works/18511528/chapters/43870252

Partially wrote this because I was inspired by @arthurs-lumbago, partially wrote this because I’m procrastinating, partially wrote this because I hate myself, partially wrote this because I don’t think I’ve seen this kind of story covered yet? Who tf knows. 

Length: ~5.5k words

Chapter: 1/3

The forest was quiet. What should've been a night of stars and sounds had become cold and silent, a world submerged. Clouds had long since rolled in and eagerly covered the moon, a promise of rain held in their depths. Shadows shifted around, stalking anything that moved and retreating back into the safety of the trees when they found nothing to hunt.

Charles wasn't lost. Always been too good with directions to find himself in a place he simply couldn't find his way through. He was walking now. His legs were so sore from riding Taima all the way from up north and needed a break from just galloping, hunting, and sleeping for five straight days. Silence pressed over him like a vice, heavy and weightless at the same time. He tugged Taima's reins gently and pulled her closer to his side. In part for her safety, and in part for his. Charles could still recall every single wolf attack this side of Annesburg with mind-numbing clarity. They were night hunters, and without the protection of someone else besides him, Charles felt almost as naked as the day he was born.

"C'mon, girl," he spoke softly, soothingly. Again, half for her and half for him. Taima whinnied—the only sound for miles, seemingly—and made to keep pace with him. Charles smiled to himself at his horse. His faithful, trusty horse. Been as much of a friend to him as any of the gang. Hard to believe he hadn't worked her hooves to dust just heading back south.

He shrugged his coat back on over his shoulders to cover up his exposed collarbone, fighting down a shiver. It was so cold that apparently even the Murfrees decided that anything was better than wandering the woods in the dead of November looking for fools to toy with. Charles certainly couldn't find it in him to care but also found no reason to test his luck. He tugged on Taima's reins again, this time harder. "Let's pick it up," he said. Taima followed, the cart he had hitched her to cutting deep tracks in the late autumn mud.

The path turned upwards. Charles had to tempt his horse with one of his last peaches in order to get her up the ridge without protest. They were close now: had to be. Beaver Hollow wasn't the most secure hideout that they'd ever had the privilege to lay low in. Too close to the road. Too close to Annesburg for Charles to really feel comfortable. People wandered in and out of the woods far more often than they ever did at other camps even with the Murfrees breathing down their necks. More than once, Charles had to shoo some dumb teenagers away from the river because Dutch was too paranoid they would go blabbing back in Butcher's Creek. Charles had protested, John and Arthur too. "They're dumb kids," they had said. "They just want to fish," they had said. Dutch had none of it. And when Micah shoved the barrel of his revolver down some poor kid's throat when they were on guard duty, Charles would've gladly given his position in the gang and more if it meant that he got to grab that greasy snake by the collar and beat him into next week or further.

But he didn't.

Charles didn't know who he hated more: Micah for threatening that kid, or himself for doing nothing to stop it.

Unconsciously, Charles' eyes drifted towards one of the bigger trees on the ridge above them. It was there that he'd often play guard of the camp. A big, scary man with wild hair and dark skin armed to the teeth? It'd be enough to scare even the most bullheaded of men out of the woods. But now, the tree had been riddled with bullets, the trunk's bark ripped away like a peeling burn to reveal soft wood underneath. Charles forced himself to move forward again when Taima nosed him. She was looking for more food, or perhaps some comfort. He ran a hand down her forehead for the brief relief it would give her. They moved forward, as steady as time itself.

On his entire way back down to New Hanover, Charles tried to imagine what he'd find back here. All the papers he'd read along the way said nothing of the conflict, only the results. For all he knew, the place could still be swarming with Pinkertons. Or Murfrees. Or hell, even some other gang. Charles was a good shot but he wasn't a one-man army. If he was outnumbered, he'd have to find a way to sneak around.

He was hyping himself up for a fight so much when he finally did pull into the clearing, he was almost disappointed how little remained of it. The earth smelt of blood and smoke and faintly of death. Tattered tents, some still half taken down, were scattered about here and there. What remained of the campfire had burned to ashes a long time ago. If there were authorities who'd died on these grounds, then they'd been long since cleared away. The mouth of the cave they camped in front of opened wide before him, a dark mouth ready and willing to swallow him whole. It all seemed so sinister now, Charles thought privately to himself, staring at the remains of the gang's biggest failure. The place itself seemed evil, malicious; that cave could whisper sweet nothings into the ears of anyone who'd listen. How did they ever think that staying here was a good idea?

It's all in the past. He'd repeated that mantra to himself like a madman all the way back down from where he'd left the Wapiti. It's all in the past. Just keep moving forward. Do what can be done here and focus on making things right. And damnit, Charles was going to make it right if it was the last thing he ever did.

But it was all scorched earth now. Where there should've been dead bodies was just nothing but barren soil and not much else. Taima neighed somewhere behind him (until then, Charles hadn't even noticed how far he'd strayed into camp), reminding him that she was still pulling that wagon he'd stolen from Annesburg a few hours ago. He'd brought it because, in truth, he didn't really know what he'd find. Dutch? Sadie? Arthur? John? God forbid, Abigail or Tilly? God forbid even more, Jack? But there was nothing here. Nothing but the ghosts of the not-so-distant past that desperately clung to the clearing like claws sunken into a rabbit.

Charles began sifting through the wreckage, wondering if he'd find anything salvageable. One or two things stuck out to him, though admittedly it wasn't much. There was a hat that was unmistakably Javier's, because who else would wear bowlers as often as he did? He'd found a book or two that Mary-Beth must've forgotten to take with her before she left. Under the burned remains of one of the tables he found a flask that surely belonged to Micah. He'd even stumbled across one of Arthur's old belongings in the remains of his tent: a pink flower incased in a small glass globe. Charles never understood why that stubborn beast of a man lugged it around everywhere he went but it hardly mattered anymore. With everything he found, Charles brought it back to the cart and loaded them in. Except the flask. Charles took a moment for himself to see how far he could chuck the thing off of the ravine.

He didn't actually expect to find a body anymore, but it seemed fate had more in store for him than just a few bits of memorabilia.

Dutch's tent had half-collapsed on the corpse of Susan Grimshaw, so Charles stumbled upon it without any warning. When he saw her, he recoiled backwards, gasping so hard he swore he must've cracked a rib or two. She looked as haughty in death as she did in life. Her blush and lip rouge did well to hide the truth of her demise from the rest of her face, but her hands told the rest of that story without needing to look further. She'd been shot in the chest—Charles had no idea if it was by a Pinkerton or by someone from the gang—and died choking on her own blood, clutching at her ruptured airway. His eyes drifted to the pump shotgun at her side, and his heart was set somewhat at ease knowing that she'd at least gone down with her teeth bared, ready for a fight.

Charles had barely interacted with Grimshaw, and those exchanges were never particularly fond memories for him. When he'd first fell in with the gang, she'd tugged him over to the cleaning basin by the ear, thrust a bar of soap in his hands, and declared that he wouldn't get a lick of food until she could see herself in his bare skin. But it was that tenacity that Charles admired about her. Susan Grimshaw, as fierce as a mother cat and about ten times more dangerous. She'd rather throw herself into the jaws of danger than see any of this happen to her family.

She didn't deserve this, the thought tasted like vinegar on his tongue. None of them did.

His heart heavy, Charles hacked away what remained of Dutch's tent and used it to cover Grimshaw. He lifted her up as gently as possible and carried her over to the cart, fending Taima's curious nose away from Grimshaw's corpse, and placed her in the back. He went back and fetched the shotgun, intending to bury it with her. A fighter in life, a fighter in death; she earned that much.

All around Beaver Hollow, a myriad of untouched footprints decorated the ground. Several pairs of them led inside the cave, to the point where Charles was wondering just what on earth went down inside of there. Was that where everyone had disappeared to? How many of those footprints where his friends, and how many of them were not? Once he was certain that everything had been picked through and that Grimshaw's corpse wasn't going anywhere, Charles grabbed his bow, a lantern, and his hatchet, and headed into the cave to solve this mystery for himself.

Deeper and deeper he ventured, lost in the silence of it all. Bullets that'd nicked the stone had fallen, useless, to the floor of the tunnels. Set by set, the footprints broke off to check nooks and crannies he hadn't even seen, until Charles was just following two lone pairs deeper and deeper into the caves. They climbed small ledges and skirted around thin crevices, keeping pace with each other.

Charles suddenly stopped for a moment, raising his lantern towards a small dip in the rock that formed a natural alcove. There, sitting disused and likely never to be used again, was one of the gang's wagons. If Charles were being honest with himself, he was sure it was the same one he, Arthur, and Hosea rode in out of Colter, peacefully making conversation as they wandered through the Heartlands on their way to Horseshoe Overlook. Peace seemed like a foreign concept these days: a false promise. But it was one of the last times that Charles could look back on where he had actually felt…well, safe. The way it should be.

But that wasn't what had drawn his attention. What had done that was the wooden chest below the wagon that had been half-pulled out and then abandoned. Charles approached it, set the lantern down, and tested the lock still on it. It didn't budge, of course, but his hatchet fixed that up proper. In one swift motion, Charles broke the lock off the chest and kicked it open. He knew what was in it before he even tore open the sack it was all contained in.

Inside was everything the gang had ever collected over the past ten months. Days of working and thieving and killing. Four camps' worth of blood and bodies and here it all was, staring back at Charlies, mocking him. Strands of pearls and opals that the girls nicked off of unsuspecting necks. Belt buckles and wedding rings that Arthur or Bill or Sean had taken from the bodies of those who no longer had any use for them. Full bars of gold and massive hunks of emeralds and rubies and what even looked like a diamond. Several gold teeth: Uncle's specialty, or so he claimed. And bills. Bills upon bills upon bills upon bills, enough bills to settle a man's debts, his children's debts, his grandchild's debts. All the gang's efforts—what they had lived and some had even died for—was all here, abandoned. And it was more than Charles could take.

Rage made the edges of his vision go red. He spun around and his gaze fell upon a stash of alcohol tucked away in the corner. Dutch's personal stash, surely, even though Charles didn't take the man for a heavy drinker. Charles moved with the same purpose that he'd felt for the past five days and seized the first two handles he could get his hands on. They covered the bills and the jewelry and the teeth, one by one by one, until Charles had run out of alcohol to pour. He fished a box of matches out of his pockets, lit several at once, and tossed them in.

The flames appeared with a blast of heat and light, quickly consuming the chest and its contents. And Charles watched, empty bottles littering the ground next to him, lost in the chaos he'd caused.

"You've gotta love yourself a fire;" Swanson had said that once at Clemen's Point one night. Hah. At the moment, fire was the one thing that Charles hated more than anything else in the world. More than Micah. More than Agent Milton. Maybe even more than the men who'd drove him and his father off his mother's land when he was still small.

But eventually, the smoke became too thick and the alcove became too hot and Charles forced himself to move again. He followed the footsteps further and further, higher and higher, up cliffs, down ledges. Ghosts of people perhaps long lost to the badlands by now. Charles followed the phantoms of those he knew until he came across a ladder leading back to the surface.

Up he ascended until he came out the back entrance of Beaver Hollow. Curls of smoke followed him out, the stench having already sunken into his clothes. The air felt damper, meaning that those thunderstorms weren't too far off. As if on cue, a flash of blinding light split the heavens above him open and nearly sent Charles scrambling to the ground in surprise. A moment later, thunder rattled the skyline, and the trees appeared to shake under the weight of its ferocious roar.

The footsteps continued downward, leaving soft imprints in the moss. Charles brushed himself off, took a deep breath to steady himself, and moved to follow.

Boot prints turned into horse prints—many, many horse prints—once they hit the path. For a moment, Charles considered backtracking so he could retrieve Taima, but he thought better for it as he turned his gaze skywards. The clouds were now rushing through the atmosphere at breakneck speeds, rushing and spilling over each other like the rapids of a wild river. They moved lower still, and thunder cracked ominously overhead once again. If he headed back now, then the traces of footprints would fade into mud and get lost to Roanoke Ridge forever. So Charles gathered up the rest of his wits and made to follow onward, his lantern the only light seemingly for miles, the smell of burning riches keeping pace with him like his very own omen of death.

The hoofprints must've been going at a non-stop gallop, judging by the spacing between each movement. The ground was still soft and mailable, and it showed each step, each struggle, each imprint of the bodies that'd been shot clean off their mounts as they hit the mud. Charles broke into a light jog, not fast enough to be a sprint but just quick enough to be sustainable. Maybe he wanted to solve this mystery as fast as he could. Or maybe he just wanted to get it over with. Whichever way he felt didn't matter.

Well, it did. Charles just wouldn't find out until the road turned upwards back into the hills and was met with a gruesome sight.

Just before the ground turned back to stone and got steeper, the trees broke away into a large clearing that sloped upwards back into the hills. The rocks were dripping with dried blood, cutting red trails down the slope like the mountain itself was bleeding. And lying in the middle of it all were two horses, their corpses being pecked at by turkey vultures.

Charles unsheathed his hatchet and quickly advanced on the birds. "Go, get out!" he shouted, swinging the blade around in an effort to chase them away. It worked; their beaks shining crimson, the vultures unfurled their wings and took to the air. They soared in lazy circles above their meals, and Charles watched as they climbed higher and higher and higher until they hung suspended in midair. There was no doubt they'd swoop back in the moment he'd left and try to reclaim their meal the moment he continued on the trail. Charles put the hatchet away with a muted sigh, then returned his attention to the dead horses.

Old Boy lay the furthest away. He'd been shot a lot but the one through the eye had probably made it a relatively painless death. Charles could see the wound from here, the blood crusted around the empty socket. The poor thing was probably dead before it hit the ground. John's saddle and its' contents had been left abandoned, suggesting a hasty getaway from a rider who still had use of both of their legs.

Achilles hadn't fared so well. The poor thing was riddled with rifle shots. In the chest, in the neck: one had even scored across his nose, making the white blaze clot with a thin trail of red. Charles' stomach gave an almighty heave against his ribs as he bent down and stroked Achilles' mane. Arthur had loved this horse. Probably would've taken all those bullets and more if it meant that Achilles got out of this mess alive. To have to leave him there…Charles thought of Taima, all alone at Beaver Hollow with Grimshaw's cold body, and shuddered. His eyes flicked upwards to the ridge where the blood trailed from and he understood. They'd ridden here and been ambushed. Led into what could've been their deaths. You don't have much of a chance to mourn your steeds with Pinkertons raining hell down on you.

All this pain. All this death. All for nothing, too—Charles had made sure of that now, with all their earnings going up in flames. This wasn't a mystery he wanted to solve anymore. This was a nightmare that he desperately wanted to wake up from. Another clap of thunder, as if the heavens agreed with him.

"Rest well, boy," Charles murmured. Achilles' eyes had already been closed, but it was as much of a last rite as Charles could ever hope to give. He stood up, shaken to his bones, and gave the same blessings to Old Boy before making his way up the ridge and back into the hills.

Charles followed Arthur and John's footprints, because who else could they be at this point? They became erratic, unsure, probably frantic in the midst of all this chaos that had erupted around them, until they came to another stop. It was here that the two pairs of footprints, once moving so close together in those caves that they could've been brothers, broke off. One pair headed south, another further up the mountain. Charles had no doubt that it was John who had disappeared into the trees. John, who still had a family to take care of. John, who still had so much to live for. Arthur had probably forced him to go through bared teeth (Charles couldn't possibly imagine Arthur pulling a gun on John and forcing him to go for Abigail and Jack, but knowing how bullheaded they both were, it certainly wasn't out of the realm of possibility). And Charles found himself mourning all over again, but for what, he didn't know. He turned upwards and followed Arthur's lone pair of boot prints through the dust.

But suddenly the trail changed. Where there should've been footprints, there was now a large disturbance in the surrounding rocks coupled with a spray of blood, like someone had gotten their nose broken. The entire area was disturbed and thrown about in the aftermath of a scuffle, but there was no other sign of the fighting having continued anywhere around here. Charles searched up, down, and around the top of the rock face until he finally looked off the ledge in curiosity. There, about ten feet below him, was a small outcrop a little way down. Careful not to drop directly down unless he wanted a broken spine, Charles carefully climbed down onto the ledge and was met with the most horrifying sight yet.

Blood. Blood everywhere. It seemed like you couldn't see the ground for blood—that's how much covered the earth, sprayed against the rock wall, dotted the small poppy flowers that struggled against all odds to grow on this forgotten little cliffside. The smell of it all was overwhelming, as if the mountain itself had been cut open like a pig for slaughter. He could taste it, even: a familiar coppery taste in his mouth. All around him was a struggle that Charles understood to his very core, his very essence. A slight wind stirred the flowers as Charles stared at them, overcome with a sort of melancholy he couldn't place for the life of him. The fight that had occurred here had been both poignant and pointless at the same time—a struggle that would only end in tragedy, and end in tragedy it did.

A piece of metal caught his eye. A revolver lay at the edge of the clearing, tarnished and useless. He stooped down and picked it up, feeling the cold metal in his fingers. It was one of Micah's revolvers, because after all, Micah was the only member of the gang who used double action revolvers. Days left out in the nasty New Hanover weather had ruined the thing beyond repair.

Images flashed through Charles eyes as he held the gun in his hands. Micah using this gun to threaten Milton all the way back before they cleared out of Clemens' Point. Micah casually loading and reloading this gun whenever he had nothing else he should've been doing, showing more care for it than he ever showed for any member of camp. Micah cutting down dozens of Strawberry residents in order to get this gun back (Charles could still clearly picture the revulsion on Arthur's face as he recalled the story, almost overwhelmed by his own fury towards those actions). Micah shoving the end of this gun down the throat of a fourteen-year-old boy. Micah sneering as the kid began sobbing, sure that he would lose his life over a simple mistake he wasn't aware he was making. Micah using this gun to beat and threaten and hurt and terrorize and kill: some sort of Devil incarnate.

Charles screamed. All his anger and frustration and disgust and shame escaped his body in a rush of air that scorched his lungs and throat on the way out. His fist tightened around the handle of the revolver and he flung it with all his strength off the mountain. He watched it sail through the air and inevitably drop into the forests of Roanoke Ridge below. The thunder boomed its approval overhead.

That was the second thing of Micah's that he had thrown off of a cliff tonight, Charles thought with some satisfaction. The next thing had better be Micah himself.

But where was Micah? Or Dutch? Or Arthur, for that matter?

There was really only one way to go from here. Upwards, to a small outcropping where the rock had eroded away into a small overlook sheltered from the elements. Thick trails of dust cut through the dirt, like someone had dragged themselves up this way. Charles moved with dreamlike slowness, because in his heart, he already knew what he would find here. He took a few steps and there he was.

"Arthur," the word fell from his mouth as gentle as the beginnings of a snowfall. Charles had to lean his weight against the rock, suddenly unable to find feeling in his legs.

The corpse of Arthur Morgan was not a pretty thing. Five days of cold air had preserved it well, but it didn't do anything to change the outcome. He was dead, dead and gone. Arthur had died with his back against the side of the mountain, overlooking the woods beneath them. He had changed clothes since Charles had last seen him. Back in his blue work shirt and leather jacket that was still stained pitch-black from their assault on the oil fields. His face was beaten to hell, so overlaid with purple and green bruises that it was hard to tell if it was truly him or not. That old frayed gambler hat that he loved so much was missing, possibly just another casualty of the commotion. His tussled brown hair stuck up in strange clumps that were bound together with mud and blood. His knuckles were split open as a memento to the hell of a fight that he had put up against Micah. One hand rested on his chest, the other dangled off the edge of the cliff. His head was lolled to one side, staring at nothing. Blue-green eyes, once mirroring the humor and good spirits of those he fought so hard to care for and protect, had dulled to a steely-gray in death, like cold water held within the depths of a stare.

Charles didn't cry. He didn't sink to his knees, nor pound his fist into the cliff wall. He didn't wail about how life wasn't fair and how Arthur was probably the last member of the van der Linde Gang that deserved this kind of fate. He just stood there and paid his distant respects with a sorrow he honestly didn't expect from himself. Arthur was a hard man to get through to and an even harder man to understand; even after a year of knowing him, Charles felt as though he had barely scratched the surface of what that stubborn outlaw was truly like. Arthur was a man who'd made bad choices, suffered from them, and then spent the last few days of his life truly trying to do better by himself, by all of them. All of Arthur's anger and pain were just something Charles had never found the courage to try and delve into, and now it was all wasted. Gone like dew in the morning sun.

…The morning sun…

Charles perked his head up at the realization, his braid swinging off his shoulder. Arthur's body was staring due east, out into the horizon. Even in death, those glassy lidded eyes were indeed focused on something, not nothing. Resolute to the end.

Arthur Morgan had died looking at the sunrise.

And despite himself, a broken laugh escaped Charles' lips.

Arthur had once proudly proclaimed during a round of poker that if he died, he wanted to face the setting sun. And now here he was, in the exact opposite situation he wanted to be in, with his final dawn hitting his face and his last breath flowing out of his lungs before it all sort of faded away. What a strange yet beautiful sort of irony.

You always were full of surprises, Arthur, Charles found himself thinking bittersweetly.

Charles gave himself another minute or two to gather his scattered feelings before moving again. He pushed himself upright and approached Arthur's body. For a heartbeat, he considered shaking it, as if Arthur was simply exhausted and taking a rest. Charles' hand was already halfway to Arthur's shoulder before he stopped himself. Instead, he moved for the eyes, finally shutting them for good. Charles shook his head in a pointless attempt to clear his thoughts, then took up Arthur's body and slung it as gently as he could over his shoulder.

And just like that, the skies opened up and the rain came down. Gently at first, a few drops to wet the stones, and then more, and more, and more, until it was pouring down overhead.

The way back down the mountain was difficult even without the hindrance of the rain. Charles took it slow, determined not to stumble or fall should he accidentally drop Arthur's mangled corpse on the way down. Time ticked by, bit by agonizing bit, but Charles eventually made it back to the clearing where Old Boy and Achilles lay. Then, it was time to go back to Beaver Hollow: to Taima and Miss. Grimshaw and everything else that had been left behind. Charles wandered into the deluge, Arthur over his shoulders, disappearing into the shadows of Roanoke Ridge.

Thinking that he probably wasn't going to be able to easily take Arthur's body through the caves behind the camp, Charles opted for the long way around, blazing his own trail through the undergrowth back down to the river and up again. The banks were already swelling due to the downpour, so Charles tried to find as even ground as he could and keep his pace as steady as possible. Brown water lapped hungrily only several feet below, the rain making it bolder, brasher, far more feral than it ever could've been otherwise. Like it had a mind of its own, wanting to make Arthur and Charles' final resting places to be watery ones.

But Charles' path eventually turned upwards again. He huffed and puffed the whole way back up the ravine, the strain of carrying literal dead weight starting to get to fatigue him. He almost threw Arthur's corpse to the ground when he made it back to camp but stopped himself at the last moment. Instead Charles just trudged, cold, waterlogged, and so, so tired, back to Taima.

She had remained where she was without moving a muscle, even with all the rain coming down. A good horse all the way the end. Charles ran his hand along her body as he passed as a way to show gratitude, and she snorted but didn't make any other sound besides.

Charles laid Arthur's body next to Grimshaw's, then crossed camp for the rest of the ruins. He picked out the only other tent that had remained in one-ish piece—John's tent, ironically enough—and started chopping off another sizable piece to cover the second corpse in the back. Eventually, Charles freed a decent chunk of canvas, hurried back over to the cart, and draped it over Arthur's corpse. He then stepped back to regard the fruits of his labor, brushing the chunks of sopping hair that had fallen out of his braid out of his face.

He felt like some sort of new-age Grim Reaper, here to pick up the rest of the souls that he'd forgotten about. Arthur and Grimshaw lay side-by-side: brothers, partners, family. And suddenly, an old memory resurfaced in Charles' memory, faded and dusted but apropos all the same. He fished around in his jacket, his satchel, and his pants before finally pulling out four quarters. Charles peeled back the coverings and placed one quarter over each of their eyes, four in total.

He remembered Hosea doing the same when Davey Callander died after Blackwater. Colter felt like years ago, and just thinking about it made Charles' bones ache with all that had passed since then. But it felt…right, in some way. Bookended. A beginning and an end, as all things should have.

But now he needed to find a shovel, a place to hunker down while the storm passed, and proper burial spots for Arthur and Grimshaw.

And a place to sleep.

Because Charles was exhausted.

So, so exhausted.

He clambered into the driver's seat of the cart and took up Taima's reins, giving them a quick snap. She moved without protesting, probably as eager to get out of the rain as Charles was. And so they went, leaving Beaver Hollow for the last time. The cart tossed and turned like a fussy child in the poor weather conditions; Charles occasionally spared a glance back to make sure there wasn't too much damage being done. Thunder dogged their journey through the darkness, and Charles swore the smell of all that smoke still clung to him like spirits he would never be able to shake.

[wastelandpizzas]

Walls: pt. 1

As we continue the journey through the personal take of SS Shaun Park Sr. And his attempt to find his son, We find the General of the Minutemen at headquarters in Fort Independence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Alright, Perkins, Garvey, on three!”

“One… Two… Three!!!” With one last shove we finished getting the last piece of the new, albeit temporary, north wall into place. It had been a grueling days work- though we had been restless from two days worth of waiting. The timbers from the thickets near Sanctuary had just arrived before dawn after a couple days worth of logging and cutting before Preston and I had even thought to head down to the Castle. The caravaneers had a hell of a time trying to manage the three Brahmin it took to haul enough lumber to do anything with. Being that the Commonwealth was, well, for lack of a better description, the Commonwealth, I was shocked to hear that Raiders, Gunners, and even Super Mutants stayed away from the caravan. It wasn’t everyday that a twelve man caravan went tromping through the Commonwealth, and much less frequent that it had a significant guard and still made it to its destination unscathed. One Brahmin master, two hands, and nine Minutemen, two of which were two of the same party from our raid on the Corvega plant earlier last month after another small group of raiders tried to hole themselves up in the old factory.

Preston had been on watch since three that morning looking for signs of our supply caravan on the south road and his face, since lunch, showed it. When they finally arrived, we had them use what cement we had salvaged from the breaking up the rubble over the entrance to the Castle’s tunnels to lay a foundation for the barracks and while the cement dried we started laying whole blocks along the edge of the wall and began to mortar them around the foundation. We had worked on putting up the wall frames for a couple hours after the cement hardened, and we were ready for a break. The two other weary Minuteman plopped down onto the ruined stone blocks off inside the fort, and after a quick look over the day’s work I joined them.

“Well, you really did mean that the walls needed work, didn’t you, General.” Preston took a long draught from his canteen before getting his words out.

“I did say that, didn’t I,” I followed Preston’s example and sat down to take a long breather. We finally had a wall set up on our northeast portion of the old star fort, the most vulnerable face to the greenskins over at the old Gwinnett pub. If I played the caravaneers right The Castle would have a new stone, or at least cement, wall to provide as a more permanent repair than the improvised barracks that our third builder, Captain Vern Perkins, brought to that rank after taking the killing shot of the Mirelurk Queen that had decided our headquarters looked as good a place as any to settle down, had planned to set up. We had plans to clear the rubble from the Northeast Bastion’s tunnel entry and try to cut a tunnel and new quarters when we had everything finished up, but that was arguably another year or two away. It took quite a bit of sweet talking, and frankly caps out the ass, but that nerve Mirna had finally agreed to set aside any cement or salvaged stone that her junkers and suppliers brought in to the city, 2500 caps upfront and 150 for each of the days she shipped more than 50 pounds our way. Cement, bricks and stone in Diamond City came at a premium given the state of the Fens after 211 years of direpair.

To make a long story short. the Minutemen were on the way to recovery. It had been nearly a year and a half since Quincy and since I had left the Vault. To say the least, we had what had once been the Northern suburbs of Boston aiding, enlisting, and paying into the Minutemen. It was something; we had a crew of 12 Regulars running active patrols around Sanctuary and the trading post and market at Starlight Drive-In which was only possible because 4 of those patrol men had cleared the Mole-rats living there once we had established Sanctuary as the main hub of the Minutemen north of Cambridge and Boston-proper, not to mention mounting support in the Fens. Hell we even had some a few Minutemen vets sent our way from somebody called Hancock over in Scollay Square. Though I hear it’s called Goodneighbor now, when I listen to the boys talk about it.​

I must have been daydreaming at that point, because Preston’s hand clapping on my shoulder brought me back to.

“General, do think we’re done for today?”

“I’m not sure, Preston,” I started. Noticing Vern had made his way back to the radio tower for a minute, I called at him,

“Perkins, what’s going on?”

“Not sure, sir, radio just went haywire there for a second” Preston helped me up and I started heading​ over to the tower myself to see what was going on when one of the guards posted on the southwest bastion hollered at us three.

“General, Colonel Garvey, you’re going to want to see this!” I must have caught a second wind because I bolted straight up the rubble of the western wall to join the soldier who immediately just pointed out over at the parking lot and handed me his binoculars.

I saw what looked like a shimmer of bright blue for a second and did a double take when I saw what emerged. Something that looked like a tan-ish grey skinned, plastic man in what appeared to be combat armor of some kind. I had never seen anything quite like it before, and boy was I curious.

“Can you tell me what I’m looking at, soldier?” after Preston got a look he said something that reminded me of a conversation I had with a certain reporter.

“I haven’t seen one so heavily armored before, but the color gives it right away. General, that’s an Institute synth. That caravan was damn lucky they left a couple hours ago.”

I had heard a great deal about the Institute from Miss Piper, and if stories were to be believed, the Institute was the shadow over the Commonwealth that everyone feared. And with good reason, I had taken the opportunity to have someone scout out University Point and they reported crops still in the field, shops relatively untouched, but no people, no bodies, and no trace other than their material goods that people had even been there. He had found an old holotape at one of the terminals on the fringe of the ghost town and gave it to me upon his return. I hadn’t looked at it just yet but I figured -after seeing a genuine Institute construct- that it was as good a time as any to give the files a once over.

Once we were sure the lone synth wasn’t gunning for us, I jogged down the rubble slope back to my backpack sitting over by one of our building workbenches on the northeastern wall. It took a minute of digging to find the tape labeled U.Point. but when I did and popped it in I was enthralled.

It was a personal diary, it looked to have went back up to two years or so before I left the vault, roughly 2285. I sifted through the years worth of writing and a saw, close to the end a someone mention a mercenary, and that piqued my curiosity at first. I was intrigued on who this man the journal referenced was at first, then I realized I recognized the description, the newest face to haunt my sleep. A nearly bald man with a noticeable scar across the left side of his face wearing a leather jacket with short cut sleeves and an improvised piece of shoulder armor. Supposedly he came around for a few days asking about any significant technology that the town knew about. And by the looks of the writing he came back with friends, the well armed kind. That child thieving bastard sold those bastards to the Institute. I unclipped my Pip-Boy and threw it into my backpack.

I must have been perusing the journal longer than I thought I had, because the sun was now setting in between the skyscrapers of downtown. I didn’t want to go to bed thinking about the massacre. I still had plenty of those dreams from the 2060s and the war with China and needed something to distract myself, so I relieved our night watchman once I had grabbed a bite to eat after the night fell. After a quick route across the walls and some of the scaffolding, I sat down next to the broken down artillery-piece on the northwest bastion. I looked over at the parking lot where the synth had shown up. Seeing a light flicker around a couple times, I wondered if I could make an easy target of the metal man, but after a closer look it was some dogs that got ahold of the synth and his gun. I couldn’t vent my rage against my son’s kidnapper and I wasn’t about to do something rash like rushing out into a pack of feral dogs.

I just wanted to seethe out every little bit of anger I had pent up at that bastard and get on with putting a bullet in his brain, after he led me to my son.

But for all the rage in the world, it wouldn’t bring Nora back. If I just had her with me, I’d not be this damned mess. Together we would have found Junior. With her keeping me focused I wouldn’t get caught by every bleeding heart farmer who was dealing with raider issues or the honest to God threats of this post-apocalyptic, radioactive, barely recovering wasteland. Though thinking it through, it was better that she didn’t see this, see me like this.

“Hey, General, I noticed you were still up” Preston seemingly popped out of nowhere with a couple beers

“Holy shit, Preston, don’t sneak up on me like that.” it was the second time he had caught me unawares that day, Im damn glad we hadn’t gone out to find some raiders or patrol the Fens and Hangman’s Alley. As off as I was then I was no good even for watch.

“You looked a little distracted after you read that holotape from U. Point. There something you gotta say?” I’d say this about Preston, he’s a good squad commander, and he’s got a way of telling when a man needs a beer.