#and he dreams; he dreams and it's shocking and vivid and echoes into the chambers of his heart

[acapelladitty]

The Sandman - Bootlicking 🥾

Summary: In a moment of foolishness, the Corinthian spits at Hob Gadling and Dream sets out a very appropriate punishment.

Fic Masterlist

Link to AO3

It was Hob who instigated the disagreement but the Corinthian who paid the price as, in a moment of pure irritation, he spat at the feet of the arrogant human who had succeeded in getting a rise from him.

The ice-cold voice of Dream rang out from his obsidian throne as both men stilled.

“You have disgraced yourself, Corinthian.”

Shame welling deep in his chest, the Corinthian did not dare to glance at his disappointed master. Instead, the Corinthian fixed Hob Gadling with a look which many had come to know in the final few moments prior to their arterial spray littering the chilled air before them. It was a look that promised a sweet violence, one carved into his very being.

The resounding crack which echoed through the vast chamber stirred memories of smashing marble – a thick, dense collision which left no doubt in those gathered that the Corinthian’s jaw was dislocated in place as he struck the ground hard.

Dazed, a low whine escaped the Corinthian’s busted lip as vivid crimson dripped to stain the floor below. His eyes rose to flick a very blurred gaze between Dream and Hob; the openly shocked face which decorated Hob’s expressive features at odds with the utter void of Dream’s stoniness.

“Come. Clean the mess you have made or lose your ability to do so again.” Dream warned, his power effortless rolling off his slim frame like the dark waves which crashed on the shores of Nightmare to wash over the Corinthian. It was a warning that promised consequence and fear trickled down the Corinthian’s spine as he were enveloped by it while Dream continued. “And be thankful that I am not taking it regardless.”

Hot shame flushed through his system as the Corinthian made good to stand and follow his lords demand but his knees had barely rose before he found his chest slammed down to the cold flooring once more as Dream carelessly flicked a finger in his direction. Barely a gesture and yet his lungs struggled to fill with air as the blow once again caught him off guard.

“Crawl.” Dream said. “If you act like a beast then you may crawl as one.”

The Corinthian nodded, the natural submission which clawed at his senses when the Dream Lord made a direct command of him taking precedence over what little pride still remained burning away in his chest.

And he crawled.

His knees were muffled against the stone flooring, the pale suit preventing any real noise from escaping as he moved on all fours slowly, directly making a path towards his maker to prostrate himself at his feet. To endure another shame which would eat away at his thoughts in those quiet moments where his thoughts were more dangerous than any beast of Nightmare.

Having reached both Dream and Hob as they towered over him, the Corinthian bowed his head until his aching cheek pressed against the rough floor – the cool stone providing a little relief to the broken bones there. He then turned to face the shiny patent leather dress shoes which adorned Hob’s feet as he existed within the Dreaming.

The Corinthian observed his spittle for a moment, the liquid glistening atop the leather like a jewel, mocking him as he went to open his jaw. Instantly, a sharp whine of discomfort leaked free of the mangled lips as the small movement sparked a dull, vicious ache across the displaced bones. It was a burning pain, one which was familiar in a terrible way as the bones scraped out of their intended place.

Swallowing down some of the blood which had accumulated within his mouth from the split lips, the Corinthian tried to ignore the pain. Ignore the shame. Ignore the way that his half-hard cock pressed uncomfortably against the seam of his slacks at the familiar submission.

His pink tongue dropped to lap at the spit which he had so foolishly fired at Hob’s feet, the soft leather thankfully clean as he swiped across the area with wide licks, determined to finish his task quickly. Clean leather, the scent of it stirring memories of centuries past where leather clung to his skin as he wove among the dreamers, imitating their style of dress without flaw.

His spit was cold in his mouth, the liquid having cooled against the leather and he swallowed it down with his own blood – the motion making his fists clench as he ignored the pain and tried to focus on the heat in his lower belly.

A creature of sensation, he would take whatever pleasure he could from such humiliation.

[obwjam]

to whoever wanted the Mr Electric G/T, here’s my first offering 🫴🏻 I hope you enjoy it

In the fantastical realm of Planet Drool, where dreams took on vivid life, a fierce battle unfolded. The nefarious Mr. Electric, the embodiment of malevolence, had descended upon the surreal landscape. His sinister intentions were clear - to capture Atomina, the size-shifting superhero who protected the dreams of children everywhere.

Atomina, with her remarkable ability to change size at will, was no stranger to danger. She stood resolute, even as her heart pounded with trepidation. As the looming figure of Mr. Electric approached, the air was filled with tension and apprehension. He had managed to shock her suit which had caused it to malfunction and leave her at a vulnerable size.

Mr. Electric's metallic arm extended, reaching for the three-inch-tall Atomina with ruthless precision. His mechanical fingers closed around her, and she felt the wires from his arm snake around her tiny form, binding her tightly. Panic welled up within her as she struggled against the unyielding grip.

"Let me go, Mr. Electric!" Atomina cried out, her voice filled with a mixture of fear and determination.

But the villain remained unmoved, his sinister laughter echoing through the dreamy landscape. He began to retract his mechanical arm, slowly drawing Atomina toward him. She watched helplessly as the imposing figure of Mr. Electric loomed closer.

As Atomina was drawn closer to the towering castle that served as Mr. Electric's lair, a sense of despair washed over her. She knew that if she was brought inside, she might never escape. Her heart ached with the weight of the impending doom, and she struggled against her restraints with all her might.

But Mr. Electric's grip was unrelenting, and the wires bound her ever tighter. Her struggles grew more desperate as the imposing castle drew nearer, its ominous spires casting long shadows over the landscape.

Inside the castle, Mr. Electric had prepared a chamber designed to imprison his diminutive adversary. Atomina's heart raced as she saw the cold, metallic walls closing in around her. The walls were lined with strange devices and machinery, all designed to keep her captive.

The anguish in Atomina's heart was palpable as Mr. Electric's mechanical hand released her, and she was placed into the specially designed chamber. The wires that had bound her were replaced by energy restraints, sapping her size-shifting abilities and leaving her powerless.

Mr. Electric's cruel laughter echoed through the chamber as he sealed the door behind her, leaving Atomina trapped in the heart of his fortress. She knew that escaping this nightmarish prison would be a formidable challenge, but she refused to give up hope.

As Atomina gazed around her confinement, a flicker of determination ignited within her. She would find a way to break free, to thwart Mr. Electric's sinister plans, and to protect the dreams of children everywhere.

Inside the dimly lit chamber of Mr. Electric's fortress, Atomina found herself trapped and vulnerable. The metallic walls seemed to close in around her, and the energy restraints kept her size-shifting abilities suppressed. She knew that her captor, the menacing Mr. Electric, had more in mind than just imprisonment.

As the sinister villain approached, his mechanical arm coiling with malevolence, he looked down at the defiant Atomina, her determination shining through her fear. With an air of wicked curiosity, he leaned in closer, his cold robotic eyes locked onto hers.

"Tell me, Atomina," he hissed, his voice laced with sinister intent, "where are Max and the others? What do you know about their plans?"

Atomina's heart pounded in her chest as she met Mr. Electric's gaze with unwavering resolve. She knew that revealing any information about Max and her friends could spell disaster. Her voice, though trembling, carried a steely determination.

"I'll never help you," she declared, her words ringing with defiance. "You can trap me in this nightmare, but I'll never betray them or give you what you want."

Mr. Electric's mechanical hand clenched into a fist, the wires within it crackling with malevolent energy. Frustration danced across his metallic features, but he couldn't break Atomina's unwavering spirit.

"Very well," he hissed, his voice a venomous whisper. "We shall see how long your resolve holds in the heart of my fortress. You may be small, but your defiance is boundless. We'll see who breaks first, Atomina."

As Mr. Electric retreated, leaving Atomina alone in her dark and imposing prison, she clung to her determination, vowing to protect Max and her friends at all costs.

Inside the dimly lit chamber of Mr. Electric's fortress, Atomina found herself imprisoned and vulnerable. The metallic walls seemed to close in around her, and the energy restraints kept her size-shifting abilities suppressed. She knew that her captor, the menacing Mr. Electric, had more in mind than just imprisonment and knew he’d be back soon.

As the sinister Linus, the mastermind behind this dark operation, approached Atomina, his cruel intentions were clear. He intended to extract information from her, and his eyes gleamed with malevolence. Linus reached out, his hands ready to grab her tightly.

Atomina braced herself, knowing that Linus was determined to get what he wanted. But before Linus could lay a hand on her, Mr. Electric intervened, positioning himself in front of Atomina's cage.

"Stop, Linus," Mr. Electric commanded, his metallic voice resonating through the chamber. He held up a menacing hand, preventing Linus from getting any closer to Atomina.

Linus, though frustrated, complied with Mr. Electric's command, stepping back reluctantly. His eyes remained fixed on Atomina, his desire for information burning like a sinister fire.

Mr. Electric stood guard in front of Atomina's cage, a formidable barrier between her and Linus. He knew that while they needed information, Atomina was also a valuable asset. She was their live bait, a pawn in a deadly game to capture Max and the others.

Atomina, though confined and surrounded by her captors, held her head high. She understood the perilous situation she was in, but her unwavering determination to protect Max and her friends remained unbroken. The battle for the dreams of children had taken a dark turn, but Atomina's indomitable spirit would shine through, even in the face of her darkest nightmares.

After Linus reluctantly backed away, the tense atmosphere in the chamber seemed to ease slightly. Atomina, though still imprisoned, turned her attention to Mr. Electric, who stood guard in front of her cage.

"Thank you," she said earnestly, her voice filled with gratitude. "For stopping him from hurting me further."

Mr. Electric, his metallic features impassive, waved off her thanks as if it were inconsequential. "It's not out of concern for you," he replied coldly. "You're still of use to us, Atomina. Remember that."

Atomina nodded, understanding the precarious position she was in. While she appreciated the temporary respite, she knew that her captors were far from benevolent. They had their own dark motives, and she remained their captive.

hope you enjoyed this one. I did submit another one so idk which you’ll see first, but I HOPE YOUR HAPPY. (cause this was not easy LMAO)

😭😭😭 the counterstrike

[nevertheless-moving]

Pop Star Wars AU: Waking

Drabble set in this au which I wrote way back a few weeks ago.

Back then, I had only recently decided to look up my tumblr password for a third attempt at being an appreciative fandom community member instead of just trying to think really hard at internet strangers, and maybe shout into the void a little. (But there’s like, several people here now??? How did you even find me on the internet? )

Anyway I have since learned how to spell Anakin’s name and insert links. Also that if you resize your window while typing directly into tumblr everything disappears.

Self Indulgent Crack Pop Star Wars Time Travel Fixit (star wars au no 3):

After several years of exile in the Jundland Wastes, Ben Kenobi had not quite finished mentally unpacking the decades of mistakes, grief, and failure that had led him to the desert. It was the work of a lifetime, and some days were harder than others. But after several forays in and out of alcoholism, spice addiction, and every other form of geographically-accessible self-destruction, he could at least say that some days were easier. 

The process was no doubt made more difficult by the abject solitude. Unlike the chaotic years that constituted the fall of the Republic, he had all too much time to think, and no one around to share his thoughts with. He closed his eyes in the dark of his hut, thoughts drifting between past and future. 

The past was as ugly and lovely as ever. The larger future didn’t look much better, but he could find some joy in the thought of tomorrow and fresh bantha milk when the herd roamed near. Owen was always much less begrudging of his presence when he came with an offering, and Beru would likely invite him to stay for noon meal where he would share in fresh cheese as Luke rambled about his plans to fix-up a junked speeder bike.

The thought of Luke’s happiness at the treat allowed him enough peace of mind to meditate more deeply.

He carefully broke off a piece of unfair-bitterness from his larger loving-grief. The bitterness he released into the force. The grief he turned over and soothed until its edges dissolved. He accepted it, now smoother if not smaller, laying it to rest alongside his hard-earned wisdom and unfinished poetry.

Tired, but fractionally lighter, Ben Kenobi drifted to sleep.

He opened his eyes to the first rays of daylight peeking in his temple chambers.

The room was intimately familiar. For a few years they were Ashoka’s, on the rare occasion she found herself temple-side and in want of privacy but not complete solitude. For a solid decade before her, the chambers were Anakin’s, though he was quick enough to accept the common room couch when Ashoka entered their life. And before that...they were his. That was his model rocket on the shelf, and his astronomical mobile hanging from the ceiling, and his robes scattered on the floor, though they hadn’t been arranged as such in this room since his apprenticeship with Qui-Gon. He sat up. 

Glad he had put energy into meditation last night, he used the lingering clarity of mind to try and work through possible explanations. 

Vivid Dream? No a quick pinch to his inner elbow debunked that, as well as the fact that the morning taste in his mouth was more the minty tang of denti-cleaner, rather than the saltiness of dried meat which he had grown accustomed to.

Hallucinogenic mushroom flashback? Possible, though it still wouldn’t explain the detail of physical sensations he felt, running his hand from the temple-spun linens on his bed to the warm-carved wood of his bedside table. He stood and did a perfect forward flip in place. Shockingly his knees didn’t ache at impact, but a drug induced hallucination of this intensity would have some sort of impact on his equilibrium, and he felt perfectly balanced, at least physically.

Force vision seemed most likely. Sinking into cross-legged meditation, he gradually lowered his mental shields. There was no whisper of Vader or Palpatine anywhere near Hutt space at this time, so the risk of reaching out was both manageable and necessary. Rather than the pure energy he personally associated with intense visions, he felt gradients of light, echoing ripples of emotions, and the unique solidity of force-imbued stone walls.

Heart beginning to race as reality set in, Ben concluded that he was, indeed, in the Jedi temple on Courascant. Even if he had suffered a complete psychotic break, his force sense couldn’t lie with such crystal clear detail. Confused unreality mixed with images of the past and future, sure. But this was the temple. It just was. 

He couldn’t make sense of it. Even if he had somehow been found, drugged, and transported to the heart of the empire, the rooms as he sensed them didn’t exist anymore. The contents were lost or burnt, the stone walls destroyed and rebuilt into a wing of the Imperial Palace.

Obi-Wan sank deeper into the force and reached out further, searching for he answers. In general, the force felt light, the shroud of the darkside was a hazy irritation in the distance, not a smothering blanket. The manifold wounds in the force formed by senseless war and destruction were absent. Also gone were the tang of grief and loss that he had begun to associate with the temple’s signature even before- even before the purge.

The temple was also full to the brim with tens of thousands of lights in the living force. He reached out to them incredulously, nudging many just to feel a living, sentient response. The last time he remembered feeling so many Jedi all in the temple at the same time was...well, when he still lived in this room. The nearest living force sensitive presence was achingly familiar, though notably and unquestioningly living. He could feel the presence moving nearer and retreated, pulling himself fully back into his body.

The only explanation that fit was that he had suddenly, miraculously, inexplicably traveled back in time. 

He half ran to his closet, opening the door with a yank to reveal a full length mirror. A once-familiar, 25-year old padawan stared back with visible shock. Of course his knees didn’t hurt, this body hadn’t yet been broken and abused by knighthood, war, and Tatooine. His hands examined the smooth chin, the unwrinkled forehead, and even the terrible, terrible haircut.

Obi-wan startled at a knock at his door, freezing in place. 

“Padawan?” Came Qui-Gon Jinn’s voice softly, “I don’t intend to pull you out of meditation prematurely, but is there a particular reason you were sprawling over the temple this morning? You startled me somewhat. To be perfectly honest, I think you might have alarmed a few people around the temple, I’ve already received messages from council telling me to reign in my padawan before he hurts himself.” 

Qui-Gon sounded more amused than reprimanding, and he paused, clearly waiting for an answer. 

Obi-Wan’s jaw locked up. What could he say? How could he even to begin to explain what had happened? He sank to floor, head pressed to the ground and tears silent streaming down his face. All he could do was offer to the force were words, the feelings could come later Thank you. Thank youThankyouthankyouTHANKYOU. 

For whatever reason, the force had granted him a second chance. Regardless if it was intended as punishment, gift, or inexplicable chance, he would build a better future than the one he left behind. 

“Padawan?” Qui-Gon knocked again, sounding concerned, “Are you alright? If you don’t answer I’m going to have to come in there.”

And all at once he had flipped back to not enough time to think and too many people needing his attention.

Obi-Wan managed to open his mouth to call out some meaningless assurance, intent on gaining more time to process the fantastical situation. Much to his surprise, what came out was a strangled, keening sob. Qui-Gon burst through the door. 

Obi-Wan realized, with a little embarrassment, that he was curled up practically into a ball on the floor, tears streaming in a shocking waste of water. It was probably not the most dignified, nor the most reassuring position for Qui-Gon to walk in on. 

Qui-Gon rushed to his side, pulling him up by the shoulders to frantically look him over. “What happened?” he demanded, “Are you hurt? Did something go wrong while you were meditating and you were trying to reach out for help?”

Obi-Wan smiled at the barrage of questions. He had almost forgotten that on the rare occasions when Qui-Gon’s perfect Jedi serenity broke, he became somewhat counterproductively intense. 

“I’m alright, Master,” he tried to say, but what came out was more of a croaking, “MNNrlerR.” 

This predictably, only increased Qui-Gon’s concern.

To Obi-Wan’s deep consternation, he was dragged by Qui-Gon to the healer’s wing. He remained quiet during the examination, not wanting to risk whatever was compromising his ability to speak. It could be readjusting to his younger body, or a manifestation of the admittedly great emotional shock he was still experiancing. Or simple lack of practice- it had been several weeks since he had last heard the sound of his own voice, from a certain point of view.

After finding no physical cause for concern, Master Vyr asked Qui-Gon to wait outside.

“Padawan Kenobi?” The Tortugan healer asked gently. “Your Master seems quite insistent that something is wrong. Would you like to discuss what the problem seems to be?”

Obi-Wan cleared his throat and was relieved when his voice came out smooth and under his control, “I’m alight, Master. I apologize for disruption. I experienced a... particularly strong vision when I woke up this morning, and temporarily lost control over myself. I’m already feeling more stable. I believe I simply need to meditate on what I’ve seen. My master unfortunately came in while I was dealing with some of the emotional aftermath.

“I see,” Vyr responded. “Did you experience this vision before or after your expansive foray into the force? I understand a surprising swath of the temple felt your presence press against them this morning.”

“I reached out after,” Obi-Wan admitted. “My vision was...particularly dark. I felt the need to ground myself with the presence of other Jedi. I’ll make certain to apologize to anyone I may have startled.”

Eventually he was cleared with the strict instruction to stick with shallow meditation for the next few days as well as a strong recommendation to seek out Master Yoda, Sifo-Dryfas, or one of the other Master known to experience visions. 

Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan walked back to their quarters together in a peaceful quiet. It wasn’t until the door clicked behind them that Qui-Gon rounded on his padawan.

“What vision could possibly have left you in such distress?”

Obi-Wan walked to the kitchenette to make tea, stalling before answering. “You have always told me to stay focused on the present, Master”

Qui-Gon frowned. “Yes, however this...vision seems to have altered you somehow. You are grieved by it.”

“Yes. But what I grieve may never come to pass.” 

It won’t come to pass. I might not know his every tool, but I do know Sideous’s biggest secret, and I WILL stop him.

“Will you not tell me what you saw?” Qui-Gon asked, sounding somewhat hurt.

Obi-Wan poured the hot water carefully, feeling torn. If he told Qui-Gon everything... would he believe him? Perhaps, eventually but...what would become of Anakin, still just a boy? And the moment he knew of Palpatine’s evil...he knew Qui-Gon. He would favor the direct approach, underestimating the sheer breadth of the trap the sith had laid (Obi-Wan himself lived through it and only began to understand long after it had closed).

“I saw...a great shadow fall over the republic.”

He sat at the table, relishing in the simple pleasure of pouring a cup for Qui-Gon and himself from a shared pot.

Qui-Gon cradled his mug in his hands. “I see. Nothing specific?”

“Your death. At the hands of a tool of darkness. You ran ahead...” Obi-Wan took a scorching sip to stop himself. “It was foolish. Unnecessary. And I was forced to fight alone without you.

Qui-Gon set the tea down to stroke his beard in thought. “Well. I have no great desire to die. While I make no promises, I will endeavor to avoid leaving you behind ‘unnecessarily.’”

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan replied, over sincere. 

They drank in peaceful silence. It was interrupted by a shrill noise from Qui-Gon’s comm.

“I’ve just received a personal request from the Chancellor to immediately assist in negotiations with a Trade Federation blockade around Naboo. Are you feeling up to it?”

“You know, I think I am”

[awnterslder]

 𝙸𝙽𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙶  𝙼𝙴𝚂𝚂𝙰𝙶𝙴... ... ...  𝚂𝚄𝙱𝙹𝙴𝙲𝚃  𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙴:  𝚂𝚃𝙰𝙽𝙳  𝚄𝙿  𝚂𝙾𝙻𝙳𝙸𝙴𝚁.  𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃  𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙴:  "  guess  who  got  croissants... "          her  return  from  the  bakery,  while  initially  merry,  instantly  drops  with  a  stunned  jolt  to  worried  and  distressed  when  she  sees  his  shoulders  shudder  with  sobs.  bucky.  crying.  both  perfectly  comprehensible  on  their  own.  but  together?  bucky  is  crying?  unimaginable,  to  say  the  least.  the  croissants  drop  unceremoniously  to  the  nightstand,  and  she  fights  the  urge  to  rush  over  and  hug  him.  instead,  she  moves  around  to  crouch  before  him,  hands  lifting  to  touch  his  knees,  gaze  lifting  to  search  his  face  anxiously  as  the  sobs  continue. "  bucky?  hey  now...  hey...  it's  okay.  you  let  it  all  out,  okay?  what  do  you  need?  you  want  some  space?  you  can  just  nod  or  something,  you  don't  need  to  talk. it's  okay... "

           𝚈𝙾𝚄’𝚁𝙴  𝙵𝚁𝙴𝙴,  𝙷𝙴  𝙷𝙰𝙳  𝙱𝙴𝙴𝙽  𝚃𝙾𝙻𝙳.  𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙳  𝚃𝚁𝚄𝙻𝚈  𝙸𝚂  𝙾𝙽𝙴’𝚂  𝙿𝚁𝙸𝚂𝙾𝙽  𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴𝚃𝙸𝙼𝙴𝚂,  𝙴𝚅𝙴𝙽  𝙽𝙾𝚆,  𝚈𝙴𝙰𝚁𝚂  𝙰𝙵𝚃𝙴𝚁  𝙷𝙸𝚂  𝚃𝙸𝙴𝚂  𝙷𝙰𝚂  𝙱𝙴𝙴𝙽  𝙲𝚄𝚃  𝙻𝙾𝙾𝚂𝙴.  memories  still  come  to  him  every  now  and  then,  triggered  by  any  one  of  the  senses  ———  in  both  his  dreams  and  in  his  reality. something  as  simple  as  a  small  electric  shock  from  the  lightswitch  had  sent  him  into  a  panic;  an  all  too  vivid  recollection  of  time  spent  in  siberia.  training.  overexhaustion.  cryostasis.  programming.  the  words  don’t  work  on  him  anymore,  he’s  certain  of  that.  it  didn’t  work  the  last  time. [  желание,  ржавый,  семнадцать... ]

            even  still,  he  hears  it  echoing.  he’s  reminded  of  his  first  few  weeks  following  the  addition  of  the  metallic  prosthesis,  a  star  painted  crimson  upon  his  left  shoulder.  the  incoherent  mutters  and  stares  from  scientists  and  his  future  handlers  on  the  best  course  of  action.  kept  all  his  military  training,  of  course,  but  everything  else?  faces  of  people  he  knew  he  held  close  to  him  starting  to  blur,  fade  from  memory.  the  frustration  that  consumed  him  when  he  tried  to  remember  their  names.  how  the  sergeant  had  curled  up  in  the  corner  of  his  chambers  as  if  it  were  enough  to  keep  hold  of  fleeting  memories.  [  рассвет,  печь,  девять,  добросердечный... ]

            by  the  time  @soulstcne​  had  returned,  he  is  seen  in  a  similar  position.  hitched  breaths  and  sobs  quieting  somewhat  the  closer  she  came.  he’s  used  to  putting  on  a  mask  in  front  of  others  (  be  it  his  handlers,  family,  friends... ),  but  there  had  been  a  crack  in  it  —  he  doesn’t  know  when  or  where  it  came  from.  tears  still  continued  to  spill  even  as  breathing  slowly  evened  out.  the  soldier  didn’t  have  it  in  him  to  look  at  her  yet  ———  bucky  bites  the  inside  of  his  cheek. gaze  flickers  to  anything  else,  the  hand  at  his  knees,  the  clothes  she  wore,  shoes,  paper  bag  of  croissants  enough  to  ground  him.

             [  возвращение  на  родину,  один,  товарный  вагон. ]  the  touch  is  still  a  little  bit  too  much  for  him  to  handle  at  the  moment,  despite  the  lack  of  a  complaint.  hidden  the  wince  with  a  harsh  inhale  through  his  nostrils.  “...  i  need...”  grasping  for  words.  “...  sorry,  i’ll  be  out  in  a  minute.”

[bala-xiv]

dream logic;

“A heartbeat without harmony...”

Words without tone, without rhythm, without melody still echoed in Robyn’s mind; lyrics without a song, a heartbeat without harmony. He struggled to make it fit as he lay in his bed, to piece it together with the plucked and hummed notes he had heard from the others in the expedition, but none of it seemed to slot into place. None of it seemed to work as it should.

It shouldn’t have bothered him so. The simulated goddess had fallen to his and his fellow expeditioners’ best efforts, after all, and their might had been duly proven to the Allagan node which barred their way... But where Robyn had heard only the goddess’ biting words and the clash of sorcery and steel, the others had all heard something far different: a song, as though emanating from the goddess herself.

“Moonlight without dark...”

It shouldn’t have bothered him at all, that he had missed something so unimportant — but how unimportant was it, really, that he had missed something which sounded so clear, so obvious to everyone else? 

What was missing? What was he missing?

“The heart seeketh equilibrium...”

It shouldn’t have bothered him, but it did, to have identified yet one more thing that marked him apart from the rest. Was it important, truly, or did it mark him as inferior in some way? Surely not, but that hardly mattered so much as the fact that he was marked in the first place. Though the goddess wasn’t real, only simulated, there was still something about her presence to which the others had innately attuned — some sort of wavelength that he couldn’t even begin to comprehend, let alone tune into.

Why, then? What was he made for, if not for this?

“...A pointless feature, if you ask me. Why even bother...?”

As the voice rippled through Robyn’s mind like a distant echo, a sharp, sudden spike of pain drove into his head, pounding harder and harder as he clutched his face with a cry. It came upon him with such force that he rolled right out of his bed and onto the ground, only the ground seemed so much more distant than it should have been...and as he landed with a harsh thud, and as the sound of rushing blood faded from his ears, and as the pain in his head finally started to subside, Robyn realized very quickly that he was not where he had been just a moment ago.

The sensation in total was not something altogether unfamiliar to him by now; his first thought upon looking up and finding a dark, cavernous space where his cramped bunk had once been was to wonder if somebody hadn’t managed to activate a materia nearby. But he could see no familiar faces around him, no one at all that seemed to be caught in the same dreamlike state — save two figures in the near distance, both stood with their backs to him as they observed a massive, softly-glowing cylindrical chamber.

“The bother, as with all my ventures, is for your benefit.” One of the figures, dressed in sleek white robes and a pair of spectacles that flashed in the light, was the first to speak. From this distance, from this angle, their face was indistinct. “Did you wish for a mere one-to-one replica, after all? Or would you prefer a body in its absolute prime, perfected for aetherial manipulation and abjuration both?”

The other figure towered over the first, sharp lines of heavy armor silhouetted by the soft light from the chamber.

“My wish was for you to provide a result that matched my expectations — and my patronage.”

It was a cold voice that echoed from beneath that sharply pointed helm. The sound of it turned Robyn’s blood to ice, touched upon a fear so primal that he could only wonder how he hadn’t already heard it in his nightmares.

“And this...thing that you’ve just presented to me,” said the one in armor with a wide, dismissive gesture toward the chamber, “does not seem to meet either measure. Look at it; can it even breathe on its own, let alone stand or fight?”

Robyn had counted incorrectly. There were three figures there: the one in robes, the one in armor, and the one in the chamber, blanched so pale that he could hardly make it out past the glowing light and the shimmering liquid within.

“Your concern is noted,” said the white robes, “but wholly premature. This creature you see before you is a necessary first step in our endeavor; Mark I, if you will, in our efforts to advance and perfect this technology. The next iteration will be significantly improved, I assure you.”

“Why not flush it, then?” Another dismissive gesture from the armored one. “It seems to me much kinder to end its misery... Though I suppose you aren’t well known for your kindness.”

The robed one answered with a breezy laugh. “And dispense with so much valuable data? No, our needs require that I keep this one in store... A framework, if you will, to build future generations upon. Only once we’ve reached the final iteration will I consider permanent disposal.”

“The final iteration?” echoed the armored one. “And how many iterations do you suppose it will take before we’ve reached that point?”

At that Robyn felt a sudden stabbing pain in his head, and words like a sharpened dagger, every bit as cold and painful as pointed steel, bloomed into his mind, echoing the man in armor’s true intent: How much of my time do you intend to waste before you give me what I want? How much of my wealth do you intend to invest in the birth of these worthless creatures?

But the one in robes did not seem perturbed. “While that remains to be seen, you should know that I’ve already begun work on the second iteration. Their differences in ability are already vast, but without this one as a guiding foundation... Well, let’s just say that one could hardly exist without the other.”

Robyn reeled, doubled over on the floor while he clutched at his head all over again. Two pairs of footsteps echoed away from him, one heavy and clanking, the other light and airy, but he could scarcely hear either past the words still echoing in his mind. Words that could only have belonged to that man — words that he could only hear in his own voice, no matter how hard he tried to shut them out...

When the pain finally faded, and when Robyn was finally able to pick up his head again, he found that he was alone in the cavernous dark — alone, with the pale figure in the glowing chamber. Slowly, unsteadily, he got up to his feet. At any moment, this dream could fall out from under him; at any moment he could be cast out from this vision, this memory, whatever this was, and never again have the chance to see what lay beyond.

As he drew closer, the shape in the chamber became clearer to him — a frail-looking Hyur suspended in translucent fluid, its impossibly pale skin cast in a sickly light by the chamber’s glow — though its face remained indistinct, mouth hidden behind a mask connected to several tubes, sunken eyes hidden behind a floating mess of shock-white hair. It floated there — unhearing, said that echoed voice in his mind, unfeeling, unthinking — without any evident response to Robyn’s presence.

Robyn knew, somehow, that he would never have this chance again. Slowly, tentatively, he raised a hand to touch the glass chamber.

The Hyur’s eyes shot open then, clouded and milky white, and with a sudden force that belied its apparent frailty it smashed its head upon the glass in front of Robyn’s face. Again and again it smashed at that spot, the sound a cacophonous roar in Robyn’s ears, and as the glass of the chamber began to crack, as a cloud of blood began to mingle with the fluid already leaking out, there was a voice, an echoed voice, screaming louder and louder inside of his head—

Robyn woke with a gasp, flat on his back on the floor of his bunk, head throbbing and ears ringing. Only once both sensations had subsided — only when he could be sure that whatever he had just seen was a vision, nothing more — did he make the effort to sit up, to double- and triple-check that he was without a shadow of a doubt back in the waking world.

But hadn’t he been awake all along? It felt so much more than a dream, after all; it felt so much more like one of those materia-bound memories, unleashed upon him with such vividity that he could scarcely tell it wasn’t real. But how could that be, when he was nowhere near the devices that unleashed those memories? And if it was a memory, then who...

Slowly, Robyn drew his knees to his chest, rubbing his palms over his forehead as he took one deep breath after another. Whatever it was that had just happened to him, there had to be some explanation for it; there had to be an explanation for all of it. He just had to find it...

“With balance will your worry part...”

Slowly, softly, a melody drifted into the back of his mind; echoed words from an echoed voice. No, he couldn’t fret over such a thing now; he had plenty enough to be worried about already. He shook his head and tried to put it from his mind one last time as he hefted up to his feet, opened the door to his bunk, and made his way out into the corridor of the ship.

[absentlyabbie]

caught me by the collar at the graveside

a tommy merlyn/oliver queen fic for the “it should have been me” collection

special thanks to @obscure-sentimentalist for this one, without whom it would have been much shorter and very... different

(reminder: i eternally reject all canon after season 2 so safely assume we’re all the way au or riffing during or after those two seasons)

------

Oliver knelt before the grave, brushing away dead leaves with a sigh. He let his fingers linger on the carved letters in the marble, the rough-cut snagging at his skin as it did the still-bleeding wound in his heart.

“I miss you, Mom.”

He held a pair of long-stemmed roses in his other hand, tied together by a slender white ribbon. His fingers shook as he laid the flowers on the short grass against the headstone, wishing as he did every time he visited these last four months that, with everyone in his life who seemed to come back from the dead, maybe for once it could happen and be good, maybe someone could come back and not be wrong, more scar tissue than ghost.

But the wish was never granted. Not his mother. Not his father, never even in the grave beside hers, moved from the manor before it sold to rest in Starling Memorial beside Moira. Not Shado. Not Tommy.

Certainly not himself.

Sara was the only gift, and she was as full of pain and darkness as Oliver was.

How he wished… how he wished that life would deal him a kinder turn. Just once.

Swallowing a bitter knot in his throat, Oliver blinked away a sheen of tears and stood, brushing the dirt from his knees and hands.

With one last longing glance, he turned from his parents’ graves and put his back to the lowering sun, threading the rows of markers further into the cemetery, away from the gates. The deeper in he walked, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket despite mid-September’s evening warmth, the older and more elaborate the grave markers became, spaced less evenly and more particularly clustered.

It was the old-money part of the cemetery, and it was where, of course, the Merlyn family plot was found.

He hadn’t visited in too long. Only once since his visit immediately after returning to Starling. Everything had gone straight to hell at such an accelerated pace, but even without staring at all that was left of Tommy in this world, he was in Oliver’s thoughts and heart always.

He was the beat beneath the sorrow and the courage, his memory both pain and promise. Tommy was never not with him, in every breath, the missing him in every one of Oliver’s molecules, the vibration on which he moved through the world.

They had been inseparable from birth. From birth until… until the Gambit.

And after, the world never let them truly reunite. Whether others held literal guns to their heads, or they were separated by oceans, or the gulf of Oliver’s lies and secrets and the things he couldn’t say without drowning in his own blood…

He had missed Tommy for so long he wouldn’t have thought death could make it hurt more, but he had, of course, been wrong.

As he should have known, should have learned by now, he could always hurt more.

He was staring at his feet as he walked, ruminating on loss, and raised his head as he at last approached the Merlyn plot.

His feet stumbled.

Stopped.

He wasn’t alone.

Oliver’s entire body tensed one muscle at a time, his eyes blowing wide and then narrowing to dangerous slits at the broad-shouldered silhouette standing in front of the grave of Tommy Merlyn.

More than once over the last year, Oliver had received a call from the Starling Memorial caretaker with the bad news that the Merlyn graves had been graffitied or vandalized. He had had to pay to have Rebecca’s headstone replaced after a chunk of it had been broken off, and it had felt like swallowing broken glass to imagine if Tommy had had to live to see his mother’s marker defaced.

If the stranger he approached now had any intention of directing misplaced anger at the memorial of his best friend or his mother, Oliver was ready to settle coldly and far too comfortably into the thrum of violence rising under his skin.

He softened his steps as he moved closer, hands slipping carefully free of his jacket pockets. He approached sideways, trying to keep the setting sun out of his eyes as he angled to catch sight of the stranger’s face.

The light and the hour were against him as he closed in on the figure from the side, their profile too much shadow to resolve into identity.

As if to answer his thought—though more likely, to answer a preset timer—a discreet electric lamppost flickered to life yards away beneath the branches of an elderly oak. The faintly blue light cast new angles of illumination on the stranger—

Oliver stumbled, stopped, for the second time.

The anger, the violence snuffed out in him like a candle, and he was left hollowed but for the echoing shock. His eyes rounded under brows tugged into a knot of agony, his mouth falling open but no air coming in.

He couldn’t breathe. His heart seized tight as a fist, and his vision darkened, swooped.

The stranger—stranger stranger stranger shadow dream lie—sighed, and it was like a trigger, or a bowstring twanged with release, and Oliver’s lungs flooded on a gasp. The inhalation wrenched his entire body back to sensation, to presence, with a violence more knives and needles than awakening prickles.

For a moment, his lips, his limbs, were numb but too alive, clumsy and painful with awareness as he staggered a step forward, and then another.

The next was surer.

The one after fell like thunder.

Oliver covered the last, short distance like it was eternity and his chest heaved from the marathon of those few strides. His hands rose, shaking, and he all but caught himself on snatching that coat collar, steadying himself as much as pulling the stranger around to face him.

“Hi, Ollie.”

Tommy Merlyn stared far too calmly into Oliver’s face, looking unruffled, unsurprised, even as the ground under Oliver’s feet threatened to crumble and reform as something new and unfamiliar.

He looked…

Alive.

Changed.

Like more than a memory.

Sideburns shorter, the shadow on his jaw a carefully trimmed almost-beard, rather than the unshaven jaw of a man too betrayed and heartbroken to pretend to vanity. Oliver’s fist shook on the lapel of a long brown coat knotted in his fingers with the front of a soft navy sweater.

It wasn’t the pale blue shirt Tommy had died in.

Or the painfully stark white of the one he’d been buried in.

“You’re not real.” The protest was heavy on his tongue, sticky on lips that felt too thick to form the words properly. “I’ve dreamed you before, this, you’re… you’re not real.”

The stranger that was Tommy Merlyn didn’t argue, only tipped his head to the side on an angle that matched the cut of his wry smirk, the quirk of that one eyebrow. The look was more answer, more counterpunch, than anything he might have said.

His hands raised, slow and carefully open, to settle on Oliver’s wrists. He squeezed, and his skin was warm, the pressure of his grip too solid against Oliver’s bones to be a projection of longing.

Something infinitely fragile trembled in the chambers of his heart.

“You’re dead.” It came out choked, almost a sob.

For a moment, he wanted to be angry, wanted to doubt and embrace suspicion and dread, to brace himself to be disappointed.

But it was Tommy, and the truth, the knowing of it was too rooted in his marrow to deny or question.

“Yeah,” Tommy agreed, sounding sorry, sounding resigned. “Technically, I am. For a while, I even was.”

Shaking in every inch, Oliver loosed his grip on Tommy’s collar, but only to transfer his hands to his neck, fingers curling around either side. Under his skin, Tommy’s pulse raced steadily on. Oliver stared at his hands, the furrow between his brows deep from pain, the tears spilling off his lashes hot from hope.

Tommy laughed, a soft breath of a sound, and Oliver felt it under his palms, the rumble in his throat.

Swallowing something barbed and deadly and beautiful, Oliver skimmed his hands up to fit Tommy’s jaw in the cradle of them, and he let his eyes follow the trace, and past, cataloging every feature he’d known so long he could recall this face better than his own. “How? How? What… where have you been?”

Smiling sadly, Tommy’s head shook back and forth in Oliver’s loose hold. His fingers were still circled around Oliver’s wrists, anchorpoint, tether. “I’m here now.”

Oliver’s legs almost buckled, the toes of his shoes bumping against Tommy’s as he let gravity only tug him closer. “You’re here.” Close enough now to feel the living heat of Tommy’s breath, he dropped his forehead against Tommy’s. All he could see was Tommy’s clear blue eyes, living, bright, vivid enough to at least temporarily overwrite the memory of them sightless and dull. “You’re here.”

Tommy took his hands from Oliver’s wrists and curled one around the back of Oliver’s neck. Oliver let his eyes fall shut, let the tears fall again, pressed his forehead more firmly against Tommy’s, like he could tie them by touch so they could never be separated again.

“I’m here,” Tommy breathed, and his nose shifted against Oliver’s.

The first brush of Tommy’s mouth was a shock, electric. Oliver gasped, but didn’t pull away from the second brush, lips grazing lips.

This was a memory older than either of their deaths, and it fluttered in Oliver’s chest, startled, nervous. The hand on the back of his neck squeezed, and Oliver tilted his head just to the left for a press, a kiss that was here and now, neither memory nor ghost.

It wasn’t chaste, but it wasn’t on fire with passion or need. It was something like confirmation, even tasting of the salt of Oliver’s tears.

And then it broke.

Tommy pulled back only far enough to breathe, to look Oliver in the eye. Oliver didn’t understand how he could look so calm when Oliver felt like he was shaking apart from too much hope and too much heartbreak, two gravities pulling him with equal strength in opposite directions.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy murmured, and Oliver didn’t know why he sounded so sad.

“Don’t say that,” he insisted heatedly, tightening his hold on Tommy’s face, unwilling to let him move any further away from him than this. Those words clanged in his ears like a car crash, dissonant echoes of Tommy’s dying goodbye. “Don’t ever say that again.”

Tommy sighed and briefly closed his eyes, looking resigned. Oliver stroked his thumb along the arch of his cheekbone, both to feel him real against his skin and to try to erase whatever made Tommy look like that.

There was no warning before the knife caught him between the ribs.

Tommy’s eyes opened again, the hand at the back of Oliver’s neck still anchor-firm. “But I am sorry, Ollie.”

“Wh…” Oliver’s shaking only intensified as he looked down in confusion, reality twisted out of joint too many times in too short a span.

But there was Tommy’s hand around the hilt of a knife, the blade sunk deeply in Oliver’s side and blood spreading quick and dark on the muted umber of his sweater.

The blade jerked free at the same time as Tommy’s hand snatched from the back of Oliver’s neck, and his fingers slipped nerveless from Tommy’s face. Oliver stumbled back, feeling colder from the loss of the touch than the pull of the blade.

He covered the wound in his side with his hand, and the blood made no sense to him. His vision swam, sudden and sickening, and one leg buckled beneath him, taking him down to one knee.

Poison.

The scuff of a sole against the dirt. A light touch on Oliver’s shoulder, than a heavier press of a hand.

Oliver looked up and had to blink to find Tommy’s face. He stood above him and just looked… sorrowful.

“I don’t understand.” The words slurred in Oliver’s mouth, dissolving, slipping away from him.

A wave of agony crashed over him, bringing him down to both knees, and he almost fell over as it ebbed to an overwhelming weakness.

Tommy caught him, kneeling with him now, one hand on Oliver’s chest, the other covering Oliver’s over the wound. Oliver stared down at their hands pressed together, pressed together and staining slowly red.

Tommy sighed.

Oliver raised his head, his skull feeling too loose on his neck as he sought and found Tommy’s eyes. “Not supposed to be like this,” he mumbled, even his thoughts slippery and fading now. “Just… just got you back. Wasn’t s’posed… to lose you again.”

“I’m here, Ollie.” Tommy lifted the hand on Oliver’s chest to wipe away the tear that dropped down Oliver’s cheek. “You’re not losing me. It’s me losing you.”

“‘S not fair,” Oliver exhaled, feeling now like even the breath in his lungs was slipping away from him. His head lolled on his neck, cheek pressing into Tommy’s palm. “Why?”

“If you find out,” Tommy said, slow and ponderous, eyes searching Oliver’s, “let me know.”

Oliver’s eyelids were too heavy now to keep open. Tommy’s voice was the last thing he lost his grip on, spiraling slowly away into the dark.

“Maybe next time we can make it be different.”

-------

@klaus-hargreeves-katz @princesssarcastia @ayotofu @adeusminhacolombina @sovvannight @storiesofimagination @obscure-sentimentalist @franklyineedcoffee 

[elveny]

New Chapter: Heartbroken

New Chapter: Heartbroken | Read on AO3

The night was nearly over, and the candles had almost burned down, but Solas was still hunched over his desk in the rotunda. One after another had wished him good-night as they left the tower to go to bed, and the darkness outside deepened. Solas barely stifled a yawn and leaned back in his chair to stretch. The disgusting tea that helped him stay awake and focussed was long gone, and he knew that if he wanted to get any real work done tomorrow, he would have to get at least an hour or two of rest, and soon. His muscles were stiff and groaned in protest as he stretched, standing to walk a few paces through his workshop.

Despite the fatigue he could feel in every inch of his body, he was reluctant to return to his chamber. Not after what had happened the night before. He still could not understand how he could have lost his focus so entirely that he had not realized that it had actually been her in his dream, not just a figment created by his own desires, his longing, and his grief. He had woken in a turmoil of emotions. The Fade was the one place where he had always been safe, in control, and he had lost himself. He had allowed himself to be weak, creating a haven for them both that could never be real. He had allowed himself to give in to her smile, throwing all caution overboard and just lose himself in the dream, in wish-fulfillment, in her.

Except it hadn’t been just a dream. It had been real in a way most people wouldn’t understand, and he still felt the echo of every touch and every kiss, the taste of her very essence in every cell of his being.

And he still felt her loss.

The shock and surprise when she had realized where she was, the sliver of hope as she had looked at him was still haunting him. He could still see the plea in her eyes in that second before he had woken her, the way she had reached for him. His heart clenched at the vivid memory. Was he going to have to hurt her over and over again?

Read the rest on AO3

This chapter marks the end of this part of Spark of Hope - I'm gonna take a little break and give myself and my wonderful beta readers a bit of time off from the story during the holidays. The next part, Embers, will start early in the new year, probably mid- to end-January. I am so happy that you were with me so far, your comments and kudos really make all the difference. ♥ Thank you!!

I wish you all very happy holidays and a great new year, and I hope you'll come back when this story goes on :D Have a little sneak in the Chapter Notes at the end!

[polynymph]

What Once Was Chapter 4

This chapter took waaaay longer than it should of, but I kept getting stuck. I hope you enjoy it! Thanks for reading!

As the sun drops below the horizon, the palace is illuminated with gold. The tallest towers seemed to kiss the stars. Across the alabaster bridge is Portia, the Countess’s servant who Armyah ran into at the market earlier that day. She walks toward the magician, meeting her halfway.

“If you told me you were Armyah I would’ve escorted you to the palace!” she teased. Armyah simply smiled back, but then, movement caught the corner of her eye. Corkscrewing through the swirling waters below was come sort of creature. She leaned over the edge of the bridge to get a better look. Whatever it is, it’s glowing like a bloodless ghost in the sparkling moat. Its body was long and rippling, almost ribbon-like. “Something catch your eye?” Portia asked, catching up with the other woman. She leans over the edge next to the fortune-teller. Her eyes light up when she spots the wriggling creature in the water below. “Oh! Do you like animals?” she inquired excitedly. Armyah smiled at her and nodded. “Oh good! You’ll definitely enjoy your stay here.” She loops her arm through the magician’s and leads her the rest of the way across the bridge. “The palace is home to all kinds of exotic pets! But you don’t want to get too friendly with that one.” She jabbed her thumb in the direction of the creature they just saw. “That’s a vampire eel, imported from faraway swamps. No eyes or ears, but they’re still pretty graceful, don’t you think?” Armyah doesn’t say anything. Even she wanted to, she didn’t think she’d be able to get a word in edgewise. “Unless you splash around a lot, they won’t even bother you. But you wouldn’t want to catch a bite. If they bite, they don’t stop drinking until the body is dry…” The fortune-teller nods slowly, peering just over the parapet at the creature as it spirals into the billowing silt. Graceful isn’t a word she’d use for the eel…terrifying seemed pretty fitting, though. Portia occupies them both with meaningless conversation all the way to the intricate doors. As they get closer, Armyah’s stomach starts twisting. Uncertainties start to bubble like water coming to a boil over a fire. Was this a mistake?

“We’ve arrived,” Portia smiles brightly. For some reason, the other woman settles Arymah’s nerves with the most simplistic of gestures. She swings her fists against the copper plating on the doors resulting in three skull-rattling rings. The pendulous doors swing open after the last echo fades and she sweeps the magician inside the radiantly lit hallways. Inside is like a different world, everything is gleaming; the floors, the walls, steep ceilings, all clean-cut and polished stone. Lining the hall on either side are many servants, standing at attention in brilliant uniform. Armyah winces slightly, she suddenly feels underdressed in her dirty, hand-made clothing. The servant just inside the door reaches out to take her bag, but Armyah clutches it close to her, unwilling to let the cards out of her possession. A chorus of welcomes chime from the smiling faces in all directions, the magician’s eyes flick left and right uneasily at the greetings. When they reached the end of the line, one servant slips away to join the pair. A kind face with exaggerated features beams up at them as they bow deeply. Barely four feet tall, a brilliant cerulean feather stands proudly from their hat of purple velvet. “How are we doing on time?” Portia asks them.

“Impeccable timing!” they exclaimed, “the first course will be served shortly. Her ladyship has yet to descend.” Portia heaves a sigh of relief.

“Perfect, run and tell the kitchen that our guest has arrived,” she directs. The funny, small person salutes dramatically and slips away behind a panel in the wall which slides seamlessly shut behind them. “Well, well! It looks like we’ll be arriving right on time!” Portia gives the magician a knowing wink and gestures for her to follow, “Her ladyship will be joining us soon. I’ll show you to the dining room.” Armyah stopped dead in her tracks.

“Dining?” she gulped, audibly, “as in…me? Dining? With the Countess?” Portia only looks at the young woman a moment before barking out a hearty laugh.

“What? Don’t tell me you thought we wouldn’t feed you!” She giggles and pats Armyah on the shoulders in sympathy. “Don’t be shy. You’re the guest of honor!” Her words make the apprentice’s stomach flutter with everything but hunger. Nevertheless, she follows the servant’s purposeful stride to the dining room. Soon, they were standing before a fine, mahogany door and Portia turns to face her. “We’ll go in together, okay?” Not looking at her, Armyah takes a deep breath and nods. She heaves open the heavy doors and leads the fortune-teller inside.

Rich scents fill her senses, unfamiliar and tantalizing. A quintet dressed in gauzy evening gowns are playing a pleasant, ambling melody. Before her, an impossibly long table laid heavy with platters of the most careful delicacies. There are foods that Armyah has never seen nor dreamed of right here in front of her. Portia pulls out a chair for her and she sinks down into the plush seat, clutching her bag to her chest anxiously. Now that the food was right in front of her, teasing her, her stomach knots. She wants to dig in, but the Countess had yet to arrive…and everyone was watching her. It takes every ounce of her effort to tear her eyes away from the table, trying to focus on anything but the delicious spread inches away. Her gaze falls on a strange painting on the wall across from her. The scene is that of a meal shared among a host of figures with the heads of beasts. The table is laden with smaller animals, provided by a central character with the head of a goat. Rays of gold glitter around its head, and its red eyes are strikingly lifelike.

“Do you like the painting?” a sonorous voice asks.

“No…” Armyah replies dreamily, without thinking. A chiming laugh pulls her from her thoughts, whipping her head to the voice’s owner. The Countess takes her seat, just as graceful as she remembers from last night. She smiles at the magician placidly.

“Such honesty!” she proclaims, “I must confess that I do not like it either.” She sneers in the direction on the offending décor. “I find it sometimes spoils my appetite. So why does it remain on the wall, where I must look at it always, you ask?” A servant appears at Armyah’s side and presents a bowl of yogurt and cucumber soup before her. She lifts the bowl to her lips and drinks generously. “Sentimental value, I suppose,” the Countess continued, “It was one of my husband’s favorites.” The magician is taken aback at the mention of the late Count. She looks back to the painting, the goat-like character in the center somehow seems familiar. Its ruby eyes so vivid it looks almost as if they’re looking right back at her.

“Beautiful red,” she mutters absentmindedly, still slurping her soup.

“Ah yes…” The Countess muses, “It is a beautiful red. But, more to the point…you have a spoon, I recommend using it.” Armyah flushes crimson, her bowl is already empty at that point. She sets the elaborate dish down carefully and wipes her mouth on her sleeve, not daring to meet the Countess’s gaze. Amusement shimmers in her brilliant, ruby eyes. “As I was saying, the goat-headed one in the middle is supposed to be him. Providing for the people, as he saw himself.” She scoffed, “Well, he certainly knew how to entertain. Festivities at the palace her exhaustive…he loved to spoil his guests.” Armyah’s empty bowl was whisked away, replaced with a dish of flaky golden pastries with some sort of savory filling. The Countess watches with morbid curiosity as the magician devours them. “Tell me, Armyah…did you ever attend our Masquerade?” She blinks up at the Countess, mouth full. “I would imagine so. Our doors were open to all…up to a certain capacity.” Armyah chews her pastry slowly, uncertain how to answer. If she did ever attend, she doesn’t remember. The Masquerade was a party held each year in celebration of the Count’s birthday. All this talk of the past, she wonders if it has to do with why she was called here in the first place.

“I know it’s a difficult matter to discuss,” the Countess reassures her, “I know how fondly the people of Vesuvia remember the Masquerade. And, of course, how deeply affected we all were by the murder.” Armyah nearly chokes on her pastry. Mercifully, she catches herself, but her pulse quickens nonetheless. “Such a terrible shock to the guests. Such a vicious injustice on this house,” the Countess looks almost forlorn until her expression hardens, “To slaughter the host while her celebrates his birthday, sharing his joy and prosperity, with open doors? A hateful crime, indeed.” The empty plate in front of the magician was replaced with a fragrant lamb dish in a complicated sauce. All she knows about the murder was through rumor and whispers. The story was full of holes, more questions than answers, but the end was always the same: The Count retired to his chambers and, by midnight, he and his bedroom were both engulfed in flames. The culprit was captured on the spot…or surrenders, the details vary. However, before he could be brought to justice, the murder escaped. The palace has been closed to the public since.

“You may be wondering why I’m telling you this. Why I called you here,” the Countess spoke with gravity. Every eye in the room was set on her. “I have been planning this for some time…This year, we will hold the Masquerade once more,” she announces. The room was split between two different reactions, delighted and petrified. “The gates will again open, and the festivities of Lucio’s honor will be more fantastical than ever.” She dabs the corner of her mouth daintily, you could cut the tension in the room with a knife. The only one who seems indifferent to the news is Portia. “As I said, I have planned all the necessary details already. There is but one loose end in need of tying.” She folds her napkin and places it back on her lap. “The murderer roams free to this day…too long he’s evaded me. So long as he stalks the shadows of this city, I cannot guarantee the safety of my guests.” She closes her eyes, her eyebrows furrow in determination. “I must find him, and I must bring him to justice before the people of Vesuvia. Surely, you know the murderer of whom I speak…” Armyah did know, she knew very well who the Countess was referring to. “Doctor Julian Devorak,” the name fell from her lip like venom, “my husband’s trusted physician.” There was a terrible crash. All eyes land on Portia, whose face is stricken with horror. The broken remnants of their dessert at her feet. “Portia?” The Countess’s eyes are wide with shock.

“F-forgive me, milady,” the young woman stammered, “slippery hands.” Two servants rush to her aid, sweeping away the shattered porcelain with wind-sprint speed.

“You are forgiven,” the Countess sighed with a wave of her elegant hand, “Anyway…this is where you come in, Armyah.” She looked to the magician as the young woman shrinks under her gaze. “The fugitive has proved very elusive. The palace guard is helpless in rooting him out, but while they continue to disappoint me…” she looks pointedly at the guards stationed on either side of her. “You come highly recommended. Your master is known far and wide.” Armyah was aware Asra had a reputation, but she didn’t realize his name was spoken far and wide. “Rumor has it that you have surpassed him already.” She wasn’t sure where the Countess was getting this information, but she would hardly say she was stronger than her teacher. However, he does go on about how gifted and talented she is. “I, myself, can see the future, in dreams whether I like it or not. That is how I know it is you who will find the fraudulent doctor who betrayed us and murdered my husband.” Her sour face softened, albeit slightly. “This is why I’ve called you here, Armyah. If anyone can help me find him, it’s you.” The Countess gives a smile that can only be described as mischievous as she takes a sip of wine.

“And…if we find him?” the magician squeaked. It’s not what she wanted to ask…she wanted to ask what would happen if she dared to tell the Countess no.

“When we find him,” the Countess affirms, setting her glass down hard, “we will bring him to justice before the people so that all may see his long-awaited punishment.” She sneers in disgust, “whether he begs for his life or hangs his head in defeat, the people will delight in his suffering. A spectacle of vengeance…the mob with love it.” Another impish smile crosses her lips as a servant fills the Countess’s glass and she takes a fresh sip. “And so, to commence the festivities the doctor will die on the gallows.” Armyah turned green at the thought. “If all goes according to plan, that is.” She rises. On instinct, Armyah does so as well. “Portia?” the Countess calls.

“Yes, milady?” she replies, stepping forward and awaiting her command.

“Show Armyah to the guest quarters. I imagine there is much to ponder before the night is out,” the smile she gives the magician is almost tender.

“Right away, milady,” Portia nodded obediently. She whisks young woman to the door after a humble bow to the Countess.

“I’m interested to see more of this magic of yours, Armyah,” she calls after them, “and I look forward to our partnership.” Portia practically pulls the fortune-teller out into the corridor. The Countess is probably counting on the fact that she’s too afraid to refuse.

They’re quiet as Portia leads her to her room, but she doesn’t mind. The Countess’ words left them both with a lot to think about. After a few turns, they pass a wide staircase, veiled in shadow. It’s cold and smells of ash. Armyah strains to see where they lead, but the darkness at the top is impenetrable. Curled up on the bottom are two large, lanky dogs. They notice the magician just as she saw them. Fathomless eyes fix on her and they silently rise from their stair. Though they look like they could strike at any given moment, she sensed no ill intent from the animals. She holds out her hand as they approach to sniff it. Huffing breaths tickle her skin and the longer they sniff her, the harder their tails swish back and forth. Portia watches is wonder.

“Oh…you actually got up from your favorite stair?” she asks the hounds, “These two never take kindly to strangers. It’s how they’re trained, but…” she pauses, hesitant, but intrigued, “I’ve never seen them act like this.” Slim snouts brush against Armyah’s sides as the dogs investigate her further. When they decide they’re satisfied, they draw back and look to the fortune-teller expectantly. There was something unsettling in their gaze. They weren’t ordinary dogs…and the deeper she looked into their eyes, the less she understood. She finds herself almost staring them down. The animals shiver and drop their heads low under the pressure of her observation. They slink back to the staircase obediently. When she looks back to Portia, her face is radient with curiosity. “I’ve…never seen them do that. For a second there, I was sure you were going to lose a couple of fingers. I’m impressed.” Armyah blushed from the compliment. “You didn’t cast a spell on them, did you?” Thankfully she laughed, the magician couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. “Ugh, remind me to get them their chamomile cakes after I get you to your room. Otherwise, they’ll be up all night.” She beckoned Armyah to follow her. As they passed the stairs she could feel her vision become hazy, almost like the feeling she gets when the cards speak to her, only more menacing. She shakes away the feeling and follows the Countess’s servant. They reach a wooden door with elaborate designs carved into it.

“Here we are!” Portia announced, “These will be your quarters for now, Armyah.” Armyah looked around at the beautiful room. It was simple compared to the rest of the palace, she was thankful for that. A large window looked over the city, dim under the moonlight. A daybed tucked under a canopy was nestled against the wall, it looked very comfortable. “You can put your things wherever you like.” Portia smiled at the magician. “Breakfast is at sunrise…I’ll be sure to wake you.” Armyah must’ve looked tired, the servant gave her a sympathetic smile. “If you find anything lacking, don’t hesitate to ask.” The fortune-teller put her bag on the bed and smiled at the other woman. “You look about ready to drop. I’ll leave you be unless you have any other burning questions?” Armyah blinked…she feels like she could tell Portia anything, but she knew better.

“What happened at dinner?” she asked, “why did you drop the tray?” The color drained from the girl’s face and she bites her lip anxiously. For a moment, Armyah thinks she just might bolt out the door leaving her question unanswered.

“You know…” she laughs nervously, “slippery hands, for one thing…” The magician doesn’t reply. “It’s just…we were all so glad to hear the Countess was expecting a guest, but to think she asked you to come here for something like this?” She quiet for a moment, then she shakes her head, “Finding that doctor who, for all anybody knows, could be dead in a ditch somewhere. I mean, it’s been years since anyone…you know.” She leans nonchalantly against the doorframe. “He could be anywhere, right?” And it’s not like the guards have had any recent leads. But now that you’re here…” she sighed, staring Armyah dead in the eyes, “the Countess is hopeful, for the first time I can remember. If anyone can help her, it’s you.” He pushes off the wall and claps the fortune-teller on the shoulder, “Sleep well, Armyah.” Her soft voice trails off as she walks through the door and shuts it behind her.

Armyah burrows herself in the soft, satin sheets and it feels as though she’s weightless. The sound of Portia’s ever distant foot-falls lull her into unconsciousness…

Of course she can’t sleep. After the day-long trek to the palace she finally has a chance to rest, but whenever she settles into the embrace of sleep she’s tugged back to consciousness. She sits up, frustrated. Once she does, she feels the faintest hint of magic in the air coming from somewhere beyond the door. Armyah slips quietly out of bed, slips on her shoes and grabs her bag. Turning the metal handle, she emerges into the brightly lit hallway. Thankfully, there’s no one in sight, she must’ve wasted a few hours tossing and turning. Shuffling down the hallway, she trusted her magic to lead her down the winding corridors. The trail leads her to a balmy veranda bathed in starlight. Below are the lush, green gardens and from the balcony she can see that the middle forms a maze of greenery with a clearing at the center. She silently descends to the garden path and follows the trail of magic through the maze. As she nears the center she can hear the soothing melody of falling water grow louder and louder. A gazing pool surrounding a beautiful fountain and a rich, old willow tree blanketing it. Hanging from the tree is a familiar face, a certain lavender snake she is delighted to see.

“Faust!” she whispers as to not alert anyone to their presence, “what are you doing here?” If she was here, maybe Arsa was too. She flicks her tongue at the magician and hovers over the gazing pool. She looks as if she wants to show her something. Armyah sits at the edge of the pool and leans over to peer in the reflective water below. The longer she concentrates on the shape of the water, the more the change; colors too faint to see start to deepen, shadows start to twist and form. She blinks, her reflection fades away and in its place is Asra, drawing water to his face and drinking deeply. Each droplet that falls from his hands sends ripples through the water and distorts his image. Armyah doesn’t speak, afraid that any sound will break the spell. She’s just relieved to see a familiar and friendly face. He shakes out his hair and blinks the water from his eyes and looks straight at his apprentice.

“Armyah?” he gasps in disbelief. He looks as surprised as she is. He leans forward, so close she can see the droplets sticking to his eyelashes. “Can you hear me?” Armyah nods, still barely able to believe she’s talking to him. If he didn’t do it, then how did she? “Incredible…” he breaths. He’s sitting cross-legged, probably beside a pond. His mount is laying beside him resting its head on his knee…it’s the same beast as she saw in her dream the night before. “I see Faust found you alright? I wasn’t sure about leaving her, but after that reading you gave me I thought I’d trust my intuition.”

“I’m glad she’s here,” Armyah admits. The serpent is still hanging from the branch. She looks very proud of herself. The magician is beyond relieved to have her near. In the pool, Asra looked pretty pleased with himself as well causing his apprentice to laugh, “I’m glad you’re here, too.” She swears she could see a blush creeping across his face, but she’s not sure why. Then the beast on his knee gives a grumbling snort resembling that of the sound of groaning wood.

“Where is here exactly?” he asks, looking behind her, “I know that tree…are you at the palace?” Armyah regales him with the details of the previous night with the Countess. However, she leaves out the part about the alleged murder breaking into their home…she doesn’t want him to worry. The more she speaks, the more interested he becomes. “Unbelievable! The day I leave is the day you needed me the most. Even then, you didn’t really need me at all.” She doesn’t say it aloud, but it would have been nice if he was there through it. The entire ordeal is still a bit overwhelming. “I’m glad Faust is with you, at least. I would guess that she had something to do with this.” He gestures to the water in front of him, “if anything happens to either of you, I’ll know. I can live with that.” She wanted to ask if he was so interested in her well-being then why did he leave in the first place, but she thought better of it. Mostly, because she’s too tired to argue. The beast on his knee groans and blinks awake, peering up at Asra. “Looks like we’ve rested long enough,” he pats the strange creature on the head and looks back at Armyah, “we have to go, but I’m really glad I got to see you.” He rises with one last glance and moves out of view of the gazing pool, the great beast lumbering behind him. The wind roars and the image was enveloped in a storm of rust-colored sand, once it clears she can see her reflection again with Faust slithering up next to her. The color of the sand, the creature beside him…everything was the same as that dream she had the night he left.

She remembers Asra once telling her magic is what you do to make the outcome of your desire become reality. Did her magic reach out to him, wherever he is, to find a familiar face in the sea of unknown surrounding her? Arymah rises, knees trembling with exhaustion, and beckons Faust to follow. Getting back to her room unnoticed is going to be a challenge. Steeling herself, she heads back to the palace. Birds chirping signal dawn is going to be arriving soon. A suffocating feeling engulfs her, and she feels almost like she’s being watched. Many eyes, from every corner of the garden. This maze is teeming with life. The rustling leaves are starting to sound like whispers. Hastening her step, she retreats up the stairs and slips back inside.

“That snake has gotten much bigger…”

Sorry about skipping over the part in Lucio’s old wing, but this chapter was getting way too long. Let me know what you think! <3

Tag list: @julians-chest-hair

[lady-therion]

At Second Sight: Part 2 [Elriel]

Summary: Elain accidentally turns Azriel into a dragon.

(Post-ACOWAR)

A/N: Okay, so it gets worse.

***

   “If you don’t stop fussing, I will put you in the basket.”

    Azriel scowled at her from the center of her bed, huffing and and puffing as much as he was able, the blue and black scales of his chest swelling with each beat of his tiny wings.

    It was adorable.

    Elain fought the urge to grin. The shadowsinger could have been dwarfed by a house cat, which amused her as much as it alarmed her. Though she had enough sense not to make light of his misfortune—a misfortune she was directly responsible for.

    It was a very sobering thought.

    At any other time, she would have yielded to her winged friend. But here and now? She would not bend. She may not be as formidable as her sisters, but she inherited enough of their mother’s imperious manner to face down the Spymaster of the Night Court.

    Of course, Azriel refused to cease his growling. How else could he argue with her? But as much as Elain wanted to soothe his agitation, she merely raised her brow with a haughtiness that would have made Nesta proud.

    “I don’t see what all the squawking is about,” she said. “It’s just for the night. Or until Amren finds a way to break the spell.”

    More squawking.

    Elain folded her arms.

    Azriel, ever the gentleman no matter what form he took, nearly singed her bedsheets in chivalrous protest when she insisted he sleep with her.

    Sleep next to her, she clarified, though she could barely hide her blushing as she said so.

    Azriel had looked so scandalized at her suggestion that she found it almost charming. As if this centuries-old fae warrior hadn’t done or encountered more shocking or salacious things…

    “It will be easier this way,” she continued. “What do you think will happen when the others return? Cassian’s room is right next to yours and he almost never knocks when he wants to see you. Unless you’d like to greet him as you are now?”

    A tiny ring of smoke told her what Azriel thought about that.

   “I’d have to come fetch you in the morning anyway,” she continued. “It would be harder to explain why I’d be poking about in your room. The others would ask questions.”

   The shadowsinger gazed at her in that keen and uncanny way that would have made other fae loosen their bowels. But Elain was not afraid. She could never be afraid of the gentle fae warrior who rescued her from a dark abyss. Even when his hazel eyes pierced her with that strange and assessing intensity, she did not feel a shred of apprehension.

   Instead, she felt an odd kind of pity.

    For all his selflessness, Azriel was always reluctant to accept any kindness or compassion on his behalf. As if he didn’t think he was worthy of such things. The thought of it pained Elain in ways she couldn’t explain.

    She sat on the edge of the bed and extended a hand, beckoning him to come closer.

    He didn’t. Not at first.

    “Azriel,” she said softly. “Please.”

     A beat. Then…

     He padded over to her, chastened. His tail dragging behind him as though he was regretting his stubborness. He pushed his snout into her palm, leaning into her by way of apology.

    Elain breathed a sigh of relief.

    “You can sleep at the foot of the bed,” she said. “I won’t have you sleeping on the floor.”

     Azriel sniffed, but obeyed, retreating the farthest corner before circling into a little nest among the covers. The sight of it, as strange it was, softened her heart. She was one of the handful of people in the world who this scarred and lonely warrior seemed to trust—even when she so clearly wronged him.

    She would not take that trust for granted. His faith in her was humbling, and she wished she could give voice to the gratitude she felt. But it was late and she was tired…and a new day of challenges was looming ever closer.

     So she changed into her nightgown, noting how Azriel had turned his back to her while he slept (no doubt an appeal to her modesty). Then she climbed into bed, mindful of the shadowsinger who watched over her. Only this time, she watched over him…counting each of her breaths until sleep finally claimed her.  

***

    There were many reasons why Elain hated her visions.

     They frightened her. They angered her. They were thrust upon her against her will. Worst of all, they imprisoned her in a realm caught between dream and reality. A place where the difference between one and the other was as razor thin as Truth-Teller’s blade.

     Her visions were like memories. So vivid and visceral that she could reach out and touch them, experience them in motion. And yet they passed through her like so many grains of sand; a collection of impressions, feelings, and words fighting for some kind of coherency. Images both real and the unreal formed labyrinthine corridors within the chambers of her mind. Corridors where monsters like Hybern always seemed to lie in wait.

    It was unbearable.

    But tonight, her visions were softer, kinder—like the falling of spring rain.

    For once she saw and was unafraid to look.

    There was a bed—not her own—and a warm and comforting presence. The sheets were tangled around her legs in a casual disarray. Her bare skin was cooled by the breeze seeping through an open window. And there was someone in her arms. A man. A male.

    It was like watching herself and yet not. A passive viewer in an unfolding scene. Everything was hazy at the edges, not unlike the oily texture of one of Feyre’s paintings.

    The male in her arms was still as she stroked his bare back. Elain held him close, murmuring sweetly into his ear. Then the dull blue light of dawn filled the room and filled her heart. And oh. She hadn’t realized until then…just how empty her heart had been.

    Then the male, bared to the waist, reached for her. Buried fingers into her golden-brown hair as he kissed…no devoured…her lips like she was ambrosia. There was shadow and there was light, melding together as easily as love and desire. Then suddenly, roses—like bright drops of blood—grew between the slats of the wooden floors.

    The strong contrast threw the passionate scene into a deeper relief, and the words came to her lips with the finality of a prophecy.

    A flower that blooms in light and shadow.

    The words reverberated through her like the tolling of a bell. Its echo like a hook that dragged her back to the shores of consciousness. Yet the words were still there when she woke, etched into her heart.

    She cracked open a bleary eye and wondered at the fluttering darkness surrounding her.

    Then she realized that it was the membrane of a wing.

    Had the spell been broken in the night?

    She shot up in bed, the mattress groaning strangely beneath her. Then her eyes alighted on Azriel and—

    “Azriel…oh no.”

***

    “He’s um…he’s bigger.”

    Amren smirked. “In what way?”

    “This isn’t a joke,” said Elain, raising her voice as much as she dared. “It’s just…come and see.”

   Amren trailed after Elain at a far slower pace than was considered polite. It wasn’t as if she didn’t care about the little seer’s dilemma. She simply relished how much she fretted and blustered over her precious shadowsinger.

   A shadowsinger who was clearly much larger than he was the night before.

   “I’m sorry Azriel,” said Elain. “I had to bring her.”

    It seemed like only a few hours ago that Elain could hold her friend in the palm of her hand. Now he was the size of a young thoroughbred: big enough to ride, like the wyverns that once roamed the wastelands of the old world.

    “It’s a good thing our High Lord saw fit to give you such wide and spacious chambers,” said Amren.  

     Elain wrung her hands while Azriel glared. His shadows roiled about him, whispering in his ear and winding about his massive spiked tail like tendrils of smoke. How much of his powers remained intact while trapped in this form remained to be seen…

    It was a miracle that the only things in the room that bore the brunt of his latest transformation was an upturned dresser, a broken chair, and a sagging bed. All of which would require far too much explanation if discovered. Given the sheer breadth of him, it could have been much worse. But at least it had shown that Azriel still possessed enough self-restraint to not have torn the room apart in rage and confusion.

    Amren wondered what would have happened had this spell inflicted itself on Cassian instead. Though the thought of witnessing how Nesta would take Cassian in hand, bridling him under her uncompromising control, made her smirk all the wider.

    “What do we do now?” asked Elain.

    “Well, you’ll need a bigger basket.”

    “Amren!”

    Azriel couldn’t answer her with words, but his growl of irritation said enough. But unlike last night where the sounds he made were barely above a whisper, they were now loud enough to be heard throughout the entire house. As loud as the baying of hounds.  

    Fortunately, the rest of the Inner Circle had yet to return from their duties to the Hewn City. Though given the late hour of the morning, Amren knew that time was not on their side.

   “Did you find out anything from the book?”

    Amren tilted her head, choosing her next words carefully. “Yes and no. It wasn’t a page-turner by any means, but I was able to glean the important things. Some of which I will tell you now and others I will tell you later.”

    “What’s that supposed to mean?”

    Amren waved the question away like a fly. “The book you discovered was the grimoire of a seer who lived in an age before the seven courts came to be. Here.” She handed Elain a scrap of yellowed paper. “This flower is the key to reversing the spell. Though its like is rare and has not been seen in many years.”

    Elain’s eyes widened.

    “A flower that blooms in light and shadow…”

    Now it was Amren’s turn to be curious. “What was that?”

    The girl blanched, fooling no one as she stammered that it was nothing. Amren narrowed her eyes but decided to let it be. They had more pressing matters to attend to.

   “That flower still grows in the valleys near the Steppes.” And here, Azriel bared his teeth, a tremor running through his folded wings. Not surprisingly, his birthplace was one of his least favorite places to be. “You’ll have to find the flower, crush it into a powder, then have him drink it under the light of the full moon.”

    “But the full moon is several days away,” said Elain. “What happens if we don’t find it in time?”

   “Well then you’re in for quite a wait until the next one, my dear. And I’m not sure how much longer we can keep the rest of the Inner Circle unaware.”

   As if on cue, the door to the townhouse creaked open. The hum of familiar voices followed.

   They were home.

   Elain cursed with a word that Amren didn’t even know she could use.

   “I’ll distract them,” said Amren. “And take this, as well.” She pressed a sapphire-like stone that hung off the end of a long chain into Elain’s palm. “Its glamor will keep you both undetected, even from us. Use it wisely.”

  “Thank you, Amren.”

   “Feh.” She turned to the shadowsinger. “I’m actually disappointed you don’t wish to stay in this body, little spy. You look like quite the warrior now.”

   The look in Azriel’s eyes could have charred meat. Amren laughed.

   “Head to the roof,” was all she said, before shutting the door behind her.

***

   Elain packed what few supplies she could in a leather satchel before throwing on her cloak and a more practical dress. She didn’t know how long she would be gone, and although the prospect of doing something so dangerous made her heart stutter, she couldn’t help but feel a thrill of excitement as well.

   This was an adventure, she thought. An adventure all her own.

   Azriel stood on the edge of the balcony, his wings beating as they opened to catch the open air. The air was his element, she remembered.

   He was born hearing the song of the wind…and the song of the shadows.

   “Obviously, I’m coming with you,” she had told him. “I made you promise, after all.”

    She had expected Azriel to snap at her, as he did with Amren. But no, he only bowed his head as he crouched down, allowing her on climb onto his back. Elain gulped. She had ridden before as a girl…at her family’s estate, her father leading her pony through the park on their grounds.

    But this was no pony.

   It took a moment to settle herself. The height from his shoulders was dizzying. She wriggled until she could find a comfortable seat, trying to stop the blood from rushing to her face as she did so.

   Why did this have to be so awkward?

    But if Azriel felt that way, he didn’t show it. In fact, he was patient and steadfast as ever. Then the tendrils of his shadows appeared, securing around her wrists like reins.

   When she was little, Nesta used to read her stories about princesses in towers, and the dragons that kept them there. But her dragon was no jailer. No, her dragon was her savior. It was a twist in the narrative that made her smile, and she leaned forward to clasp Amren’s jewel around Azriel’s neck.

   It gleamed bright and blue, just like his Siphons.

   “Well my friend?” she said, grasping his sides. “Are you ready for an adventure?”

    Azriel answered by spreading his beautiful wings as he reared back, running at a leap before taking off in the sky, leaving nothing behind save for the boom of his wings.

***

Thank you for reading, my loves.

Other chapters be found in the Masterlist in my Bio / I am Lady_Therion on AO3

[imhereforbvcky]

Watch Me Run - Part 3

Masterlist  -  Series Masterpage  -  Part 2  -  Part 4

Summary: You inherit a family relic that gives you the gift of foresight but there are others who are interested for more nefarious reasons. You turn to the Avengers for help. (Bucky x reader… eventually. I love a slow burn okay?!)

Prompt: The nightmare comes frequently and at the same time every day - one day you manage to sleep peacefully only to be greeted with the morning news by a story of a gruesome murder. The victim is the same person that’d appeared in your dreams

Warnings: violence, murder

Word Count: 3107

Author’s Note: Okaaay, I’m kind of iffy on this part but… here it is nonetheless. A necessary step forward in the story at the very least.

The evening you’d returned from your stunt at Stark Industries you’d barely made it inside your door before another dream took you. It fell over you like an avalanche and you struggled to keep your feet as you stumbled to the couch.

By some miracle, you’d made it to the plush cushions before the snowy wave overtook you and immersed your senses completely in another world. You fell into a clouded daze where time bent around you unhinged and unimpeded by reality. This time the dream didn’t take you far at all. A cloudy vision of yourself stood in your own bathroom, just down the hall from where you now lay locked in the strange green dream with your family heirloom, glowing a bright emerald shade from within its copper casing around your neck.

The dream took over every sense as you slipped into it until reality and dream and time all melded into a singular unrelenting sight, until you were the one standing in front of that bathroom mirror, adrenaline pouring into your bloodstream. Your heart raced as unshakable fear gripped every muscle in primal fight or flight response to the violent grunts and crashes just beyond the locked door.

You jumped at the angry thud that was so close it seemed to echo off the hard tile all around. With nowhere else to go, you quickly climbed into the bathtub and pulled the curtain closed behind you. A terrifying helplessness seemed to weigh down your very bones as you sank deep into the porcelain walls of the tub.

With a splintering crack the door flew open, shards of wood splicing into the curtain above and crashing onto the tile just outside your paper thin shield. You did your best not to make a sound, breathing slowly through your mouth. Somehow, you managed to keep silent despite the sound of your heartbeat raging in your ears and the screaming burn of your lungs, begging for more air as the adrenaline coursed through your veins, demanding more oxygen, screaming, “Run! Move!”

Heavy footsteps moved around the tub and suddenly the metallic rattling of the curtain drawing back on its post rang out above your head. There, hovering over you stood a man in a crisp black suit. He was large and broad with a slightly crooked nose like it had been broken a time or two. But what really struck you was the odd blue gleam in his eyes. You knew that look. You’d seen it in your grandfather’s eyes right before he’d betrayed you to a determined-looking god from another world on a snowy field in the middle of nowhere.

This man standing over you, bruised, disheveled, and menacing, was not himself. He was a puppet.

Before you could give it another thought the man raised his gun to fire. Finding only the unsatisfying jam of an empty chamber and a spent magazine, he growled and turned the gun in his hand. As you tried to clamber out of the tub, hoping to seize the opportunity to flee, he brought the gun down in a surprisingly fast, heavy swoop, smashing the hard metal into the side of your head.

There was a blinding pain as the heel struck your temple first. The sharp, immediate pain radiated across your face and down through your neck. But worst of all was the pulsing white throbbing behind your eye. He’d shattered your zygomatic bone and the swelling had begun immediately as blood pooled beneath the soft, highly innervated skin of your cheek. It felt like your eye would explode out of the socket if you so much as sneezed. Your vision was dim, hazy from the blow and you stumbled, unable to focus on anything but the pain.

Without warning another blow cracked down on the back of your head and you were out. Everything went black and you felt the cool tile of your bathroom floor greeting your face before the gentle mercy of unconsciousness took you.

Blood seeped from your ear and from the cut on your cheek, making a gruesome crimson puzzle pattern between the tiles as you lay helpless. The swelling and redness had continued to build along your cheek and forehead, though the bruising hadn’t yet begun.

The man knelt over you and reached for the copper chain around your neck. He was here for one thing and you’d only gotten in the way. Your aunt had been right to keep you in the city, away from your grandfather and his stories and dreams. This family relic was nothing but a curse.

Before he could untangle it from your hair two clear and loud shots rang out and the man staggered back. He fell against the wall of the tub clutching at his chest, but it took only a few moments of choking gasping breath for him to expire. You had a hard time feeling much pity for him, even if his actions weren’t his own.

“Damn it,” the shooter whispered as he stepped into the room and gracefully lunged over your body. He carefully pushed your hair aside with a shining metal prosthetic arm and pushed two fingers from his other hand to your throat. He was checking for a pulse.

The journey to Stark Tower had been filled with irritable silence and unanswered questions. Your latest dream had, not surprisingly, left you tense and paranoid. So when the sleek black SUV had pulled up to your door, you were already prepared. There wouldn’t be any large strangers with crooked noses barging into your flat, thank you very much.

You’d met the imposing, unsmiling man on your porch with your FedEx box clutched tightly to your chest. He confirmed your name and asked you to come with him to speak with Mr. Stark and that was all he said. The silence was deafening when you asked where he was taking you, if you needed a lawyer, if they’d found any traces of Loki in the city. You even dared to ask if the man could even speak for all the silence your questions earned you. Eventually the weight of his silence began to intimidate you more than any answers he could have given.

Finally inside the tower, with your escort’s presence looming over your shoulder, you entered a large open office, every surface made of sleek steel and polished glass. Tony Stark sat facing you, leaning over a glowing magnifying glass, two gloved hands working on a very small circuit board. His sharp brown eyes barely flickered over you for more than a second before returning to the tiny soldering iron in his hands.

“Ah! Damn it!” he hissed, letting the tweezers fall to the table and dropping the iron into its holster with a clank that seemed to echo an incurable frustration against the hard, unforgiving walls of this room.

Suddenly, standing in this illustrious tower, clutching your beaten FedEx box with its arcane family relics, every word disappeared from your mouth, your shoulder shrunk under the weight of the situation. Where you had been so brave in the press room, you now shrunk, so small and utterly ordinary, holding an old rock on a chain before this titan of technology and power.

As you reeled at the gravity of your situation, the desperation, you took a deep steadying breath and shut your eyes. You’d been brave enough to force this meeting, you could be brave enough to step up to the table and ask for help.

Just as you stepped forward, a large hand settled between your shoulder blades, encouraging you forward. The sudden contact sent a chill across your skin and you leapt forward with a defensive shout.

“Hey! Get your hands off me!” you snapped, turning to find, not the tall, irritable foot soldier who’d brought you here, but cool blue-grey eyes and a soft mouth parted with shock at your sudden and agitated reaction

“Sorry,” he mumbled, throwing his hands up in defense. “Just thought I’d offer a lady a seat.” He gestured toward one of the chairs opposite Tony’s desk with his shining metal hand.

You could only stare in stunned silence as the Winter Soldier passed by and took the seat beside the one he’d just offered to you. Too alarmed to speak or move, your thoughts reeled. He was the shooter from your dream. An ominous dread twisted knots in your stomach as one of the players from your nightmare walked into your life.

You racked your brain for answers to a thousand questions. Did you only see dreams of death? Had you witnessed your own death already or would he find a pulse? Were the dreams strict predictions or mere possibilities? Could you change what was going to happen?

You were lost in your own head, pilfering through 20 year old memories of cryptic warnings from an old man you hardly remembered. There had to be answers. You hadn’t noticed the others filing in behind Bucky until Tony’s voice cut through your haze.

“Alright, kid,” he finally began, leaning toward you and turning a piece of paper out to the rest of you sitting across the desk. “You wanted my attention; you’ve got it.” He tapped two points on the glass screen sprawled out in front of him and two images displayed side by side between the two of you.

To your left was your drawing of your dream in vivid detail, carefully measured for accuracy, not a footprint out of place. The only additions had been Loki standing in two of those footprints, hovering over the victim: your grandfather and the time 3:28pm. You’d distributed it to Tony Stark yourself at his company’s quarterly review the day before.

The image to your right was a crime scene photo, the timestamp displayed it had been taken just hours ago. You were no art student, but it matched your drawing beautifully, down to the number of unused bullets that never made their way into the victim’s revolver, the pattern of the stab wounds, the angle of the body when you lined the camera up to match the angle of the fence. It was a perfect match.

“Coroner says the cold makes it impossible to say exactly when this happened, but he estimates between 1 and 5pm last night. How did you get this image a day before the murder?” Steve pushed the photocopy of your drawing into your hands.

You pointed at the man in the snow, the determined look in your eyes softened by the effort of holding back your grief. “Three days ago he sent me this.” You pushed the FedEx package onto the table and let them take it apart, scrutinizing the note, the album, all of it, except the eye which you wore safely hidden under your sweater.

“‘You are the guardian of the Time Stone…’” Bucky read from the card that had come with the package. “What’s the Time Stone?” he asked as he passed the note back over his shoulder to Natasha.

“I don’t really know,” you shrugged. “All I know is that when I was a little girl my grandfather used to have strange dreams. Once, he told me that they were dreams of the future. He said changing the past was dangerous and there would always be dangerous men who sought to use the stone. He made it sound like a fairytale, like he was some super hero protecting the world.” You scoffed, looking down at your hands.

“But when he dreamed, the eye would glow bright green, like someone was holding a lamp behind it,” you continued. With nervous hands you reached for the small chain pressing into the tender skin at the back of your neck. Your fingers followed it forward and pulled the heavy green and copper eye from beneath your sweater.

“The day I got the package I dreamed that he died. Horribly and painfully at the hands of this… ambitious god from another world. It felt so real… like I was right there. I felt it all…” The talisman in your hands had begun to glow softly, like it had been called awake by the memories of the dreams it had given you.

“In the dream he told me to find you.” Your eyes lifted to the man across the desk from you. Tony Stark’s attention was locked on the alien stone on your neck. “He said to show you, so I am, and I’m hoping you’ll help me. Help me keep it safe, keep… keep me alive when Loki comes for it.”

The silence in the room bound you to your seat, kept your stare locked on Tony, pleading and helpless because you were. This stone had come to you out of the blue with little explanation and no instruction. You were defenseless against the man who would take it from you. You needed their help, desperately.

“Please believe me.” Your voice was but a strained whisper now that the desperation had taken hold. Your eyes darted quickly from face to face, seeking any support, but they were all unreadable.

While the others scrutinized you and the evidence you placed at their feet, Bucky placed a cool, unyielding hand on your knee. It offered more comfort than you would have expected. Somehow the steady strength there had a soothing effect that only grew under his soft, earnest gaze. He inclined his head toward you and murmured just loud enough for you to hear, “Nothing’s gonna happen to you.”

It really wasn’t a committed answer. It could mean ‘Nothing’s going to happen to you because you’re taking a nice stroll down Looneytoon Lane and nobody is coming for you except for the psychiatric nurse I’m about to call.’ Or it could mean ‘Nothing’s going to happen to you because I believe you and we’ll help you.’ You smiled weakly, just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Tony dropped the FedEx box back onto his desk with an overtly clumsy flourish. “I don’t know what the hell this is. This is a mess. It’s a PR nightmare at best thanks to you. And now you have to stay here while we make a public spectacle of investigating it or until you turn out to be right and that worm turns up again.”  With a sigh he extended an open hand toward you, nodding toward the pendant, and the source of your apparent lunacy. “Can I see that?”

Instinctively, your hands flew to the familiar copper, guarding it.

“I’m not going to take it from you, I just… fine.” The frustration made his motions quick and abrupt, he spoke in shortened huffs. He was used to others not following how quickly his mind moved, but it became especially difficult to tolerate when even he didn’t have all the answers. “Jarvis, what’s that thing made of?”

“The chain and decorative pendant are a copper zinc alloy that is resistant to corrosion. The central stone appears to be encased in a synthetic polycarbonate not unlike the shell of the Tesseract. I cannot determine the nature of the stone itself nor the source of the energy.”

“Well isn’t that interesting,” Tony mused, eying you with a new curiosity. “Your story seems a lot more plausible. Jarvis, keep looking,” Tony snapped.

“Yes sir.” The AI answered in his prim robotic voice.

“You!” Tony pointed sharply at you, “Go pack a bag.”

“She can’t stay here,” Natasha’s cool even cadence stopped all motion as Tony turned an annoyed glance to her.

“Nat’s right,” Bucky agreed, “Where do you think is the first place he’s going to look when he comes up empty handed at her place? You have too many staff here. If he’s using that scepter for mind control, he could easily get someone here to do his dirty work.”

“A safe house,” Steve concluded. “She’ll need some kind of security. We can’t just drop her in the middle of nowhere and hope for the best.”

“Wade?” Tony suggested.

The reply came in the form of a dismissive scoff from Steve, arms crossed over his chest.

“What?” Tony insisted, “He gets the job done! And he’s not associated with us. No one will even know to look for him.”

“He’s also reckless and doesn’t follow anybody’s plans but his own,” Steve argued. “This is going to take coordination and communication.”

“I like him. That kind of tactic could work to our advantage in this situation…”

The two argued on. Loudly. The natural leader and the independence of genius would always clash, even with a united goal.

“Hey!” Natasha shouted over the tension. “She just needs to hide while we deal with Loki, right? I know someone who’s real good at hiding.” She turned with a single arched eyebrow toward Bucky who had been leaning back, content to let the others sort this out. Until now.

“No! No, no, no!” He sat up straight as the others’ eyes turned to him with determined looks he wasn’t altogether pleased to see. “I could disappear because I was alone! And trained to survive and adapt. She’s going to get herself killed in two hours!”

“Hey!” you complained. Any warmth you might have felt in response to his previous comforting gesture dissipated immediately. You might have needed help, but you weren’t an idiot.

“This is our best option, Buck,” Steve reasoned. “You’re good at this. You hid from some of the best intelligence organizations in the world for two years.”

“Yeah until they found me,” Bucky grumbled, but Steve had already placed his hands resolutely on his hips and tilted his head with a quirked eyebrow that would bear no refusal. Bucky knew that look on his best friend. There would be no talking Steve out of this truly terrible plan.

“We don’t need two years,” Natasha reasoned. “You just have to buy us some time to find Loki. We’ll set up a couple of safe houses and you pick one. That way if he does get in here with that scepter, none of us will know where you are exactly.”

He looked darker and stormier than ever as he pushed himself swiftly to his feet. “Set it up,” he grumbled before turning back to you. “C’mon, you need to pack.”

You stared after him, mouth agape. This had all happened so quickly and a half-baked plan had been laid out without a word of input from you, the keeper of this stone. Your head swiveled back to the others, pleading for some guidance.

“You asked for this, Sixth Sense. Better hurry up,” Tony urged, nodding toward the door after one very grim Bucky Barnes.

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[lustriakeimark]

Chapter 1: Groceries

“Marcus… Marcus!”

Marcus heard his name being called, a wailing from a woman on a distant void. The sound was familiar and nigh, drawing him nearer from the source. He was engulfed by darkness, his sentience hovered to the sliver of light that trespassed his space. Like a black hole, he became a star stuck on the process of being devoured.

His consciousness returned. His eyes awaken from the circumstantial dream to the blinding light of noon sun over his windowpane and his heart thumped, loud and rushed. The ambivalent emotions of awe and aghast still hunted her heart, clutching and squeezing to plump.  He held her stomping chest, trying to ebb the wild and bursting throb. His ears deafened from the terrible ache of bellowing woman. The wrenching pain from the grip of a hand stung his flesh and cognizance to rouse up. He gasped with dire groan but immediately quelled by instantaneous panting. His sweat streamed down from his disheveled hair to his forehead, and his yellow flannel shirt drenched wet as well as his grey trouser despite the cold temperature of air conditioned room.

He looked up to the woman in her 20s, which he easily recognized as her 23-year old sister Chloe. She wore a white polo overlaid with cobalt blue coat and a fitted skirt of knee-length. Apparently, she just came from her Saturday work.

“Where am I?” he spoke, his words sloshing with shock and his upper body ascended.

“You’re in your apartment, idiot. You won’t wake up. You just remained shivering. What’s up with you, by the way? Do you have fever? Or are you having nightmare?” Chloe indifferently asked, her face mustered coldness and yet she was clutching her brother to death earlier, alarmed and terrified. She got up from the chair beside him, and calmly trudged, concealing a slight concern with her eyes scrutinizing his measly and jumbled chamber.

‘Thank goodness it was all a dream,’ Marcus thought, his expression released a soft sigh.

‘No, it wasn’t a dream but a nightmare so vivid and awful which make it more horrifying.’ He asserted to himself, his sigh turned back easily to a wary disbelief.

Incredulously unassured, he examined his place, disregarding the queries of his sister. The small glass windows, the grey ceiling with a simple bulb turned off, his varnished wooden table laden with his lamp, pens and books, the erect cabinet patched with stickers and notes, the tiled floor nestling his messy stuffs, his black fridge and his own bed beneath him, were all there. The modern place was evidently his apartment.

‘There’s no doubt, it was indeed, home.’ He deliberately figured out, his ashen face began to gleam pink, and the wild tide in his heart appeased down to a constant rhythm. Ascertained of comforting reality, he sunk down and laid on his fuzzy and buoyant bed.

“Nah, I’m not having fever. I guess it’s just some nightmarish dreams.” He caustically retorted, his lips simpering from delusional dread he had experienced. Plastering nonchalance, Chloe merely smirked and shrugged as being used to his brother’s idiosyncrasies. The rare presence of her sauntering to and fro in his apartment dawned late to Marcus.

“Wait, and why are you here? I don’t remember giving you my key.” Marcus partially rousted, his upper body facing her sister and his gaze was accusingly questioning.

He settled himself in this apartment for three years in a row, commencing from his fifteen years. The college he went was closed by, just a walk away. He wanted to be independent and do things alone thus he chose to purchase this apartment like her sister having her own house. Their parents were still healthy, dwelling on the countryside with his younger brother in a rustic and mediocre life. Being reserved with lofty precept of privacy, he reveled himself to clandestine solitude which allegedly ascertain himself being stingy of his privy stuffs especially his apartment key even to his kin.

“Of course you don’t, I put myself in trouble in snipping your spare keys to the forging shop. Well, it was your fault, putting your keys anywhere but I should commend your hiding ways, it was somehow clever, not on the usual shoe rack or the flower pots, rather on the corner of the gate. Maybe I should learn from you.”

She strolled, with her hands gesturing, her jaw lifted up and grinned, like an anime villainess explaining how she defeat her feeble opponent and how she proudly grappled her triumph. Marcus, being aware of his sister’s attitude, knew already that she was implying the opposite. The last part of her speech was entirely an air of sarcasm obscured by her crude snickers.

After flaunting and elaborating her sheer wit to his brother, Chloe continued to blabber words about how cluttered and disorder was his apartment. Her hands kept waving and pointing to scraps and unwashed clothes, emphasizing its lacked of appropriate arrangement and sanitation. Though a big chatterbox and haughty, it wasn’t for nothing. She was indisputably an astute and acute accountant, entitled as CPA.

Marcus, however, submerged his body on his bed, his mind drifting to another dimension of his own world. The blather of her sister began to fade, from echoing resonance to a stilly silence. His eyes remained open staring through the blue ceiling, yet farther and limitless. He perpended about his nightmare, how vivid and detailed it was like an actual scene happening on another time and space.

His mind shifted again to an image of an old woman roosting on her wooden chair, her curly hair was kempt and tied round, her skin was white, blotched with blemishes and wrinkled with time, and her eyes were deep, sparkling along the sun like an ocean glistening bottomless. She always wore her conservative fashion, a purple skirt extending to her ankle and a blouse of neat white. The old woman glinted a glance toward him, her lips contoured a brilliant smile. She was his grandmother, already dead for ten years. Dead as classified by the police, since she was gone missing for a long time, her body remained not found as her mother had told her couple of years ago. He remembered the tale of her granny, the mystical place of Seleria environed by the vast forest of Silva and herself, being the nanny of the precious mage. He was convinced this tale had triggered his meticulously detailed dream, resembling greatly on how his grandma described the Silva Forest and the Mages.

A booming sound pierced his imaginary domain, wrecking the glass of images to shattering pieces of his mind, putting halt to his old wandering memories. His awareness flooded back to him, from a bludgeoning torrent of a yelping woman in his front.

“…Marcus! Are you even listening?” Chloe yelled at him, her face reddened with infuriation.

“I’m sorry, I just napped a bit. What are you saying again?” Marcus replied, lost and perplex, trying hard to cope with the reality. Chloe’s facade sweltered of annoyance, her brother being absent minded was unusually vexing and somehow worrying.

“I was saying I visited our parents last week. Jonas was doing great in his study, but mom and dad was kind of disappointed without your appearance. Jonas said they were anticipating your arrival and thought I forgot mentioning you coming with me though I had invited you before. So, I guess you really need to drop by them these times. There’s a tinge of sadness when they saw me barging in alone. Don’t worry, I told them you were busy in your finals just as you said you were.” Chloe briefly repeated, her irritation soon vanished into sisterly solicitude.

Marcus reckoned the last time her sister had called. Last week for him was a tedious slog, his examinations every semester were a flaming time of his college. Yet, the feeling of completion and complacency of doing his best was worth the extreme heat like how he decided to filched some time off his weekend job. He supposed a three-day bucolic break with his family would be better than sprawling in his room for a day, and opportunely, he could inquire his mother more about her grandma fantasies especially the girl of her tale, Zariel. He surmised that through his granny’s tales, he could assuage the weirdness of his recurring dream and halt himself from overthinking.

“I think I could go this week. I got small cash in my card, and I already finished my exams, so just menial recreations at school. I guess I could skip that. How about this Monday, until Wednesday?” He insinuated, gathering his weight to get up from his bed.

“That’s up to you, but I guess that would do. And please, make yourself clean. Do something about that shaggy hair of yours.” Chloe dictated, her voice indicating command.

“I almost forgot, you need to buy this list. Just some groceries. Mom would definitely love that. And you need to cook something when you get there, that should be great. I already put some money with it, so no need to worry for expenses.” She added, her hand fixing the thick envelope attached with a short folded list, laying it on top the of table. Her stares eventually focused to his brother with his hands searching something on his cupboard.

“From the look of it, I bet train tickets would be far from my concern anymore.” Marcus chuckled, accustomed of her sister’s munificence. Given that she was a regular worker of the popular BWO Universal Bank for more than a year, he unhesitatingly accepted the offer.

“Thanks then. I will buy those by tomorrow morning. This Saturday was bustling weekend in malls, hordes of people is undoubted.” He explained, pondering Sunday would be more convenient to shop. His hand held a mug, raising it up, bidding her sister another cup and afterwards, emplaced it down to the coffee maker.

“It’s okay, it’s 1 PM already and I should be in the office by now. And please don’t over sleep, I was forced to open this room earlier.” Chloe responsively warned, her body motioning toward her sling bag.

“Bye then, just send my regards to our parents and Jonas. And call me if there’s a problem.” She dictated, her hands on the knob of the door, her pouch slung on her shoulder and her feet outside, stood on the corridor. For the last minute, she glanced back, checking the entirety of the room.

“I will. Goodbye.” Marcus adjourned while taking a sip from his cup.

A muffled slam concluded his sister’s departure, brimming his room a cool gust of quietude.

“So tomorrow is Sunday, guess I really need this three-day vacation.” He convinced himself, his eyes looking afar through his window. Outside, a canopy of lofty buildings stood, their heights were distinct with the sinuous roads eking its picturesque scenery and the sun, magnificent on its peak, illuminated the vast glasses of the city dwellings, yielding an ochre beauty of noon. A marvel of progress.

‘I guess the view would be more beautiful during night.’ He conceived.

“But still, the lingering breeze and the dazzling stars at night of the countryside beats them all.” His notions spun loud to an uttered words, weaved by a drop of nostalgia.

Just reminiscing his pastoral life brought him longing for his parents. Albeit it was only three months the last time he had visited them, he was still thrilled of seeing them in person.

He ambled toward his wooden table, filled with scraps and cans of soft drinks. He picked up the list his sister had left him. His eyes perused the tiny paper, and afterwards, his mouth became a purse of puffing mirth. His laugh amplified with his other hand dabbing his belly, triggered by the inane brevity of letters scribed on the bitsy sheet his sister called list.

“Groceries.”

05-17-2020

[marauders70s]

I love the title thingy! How's this as a title: Only Tonight

so i’ve been getting a lot of anon requests which is totally fine but a) I want to be able to tag you to make sure you’ll see it! b) if people are going to mock you for your interests/ships then hex them with bats for bogeys and c) i somehow always think of every anon as the same person. i think it’s the icon. it’s so weird.

also you didn’t pick a pairing so everyone gets to sail on my litle proudly captained fredmione ship for this one

Title: Only TonightPairing: Fred Weasley & Hermione GrangerSummary: The dream of what might have been was as vivid as waking.

“You don’t have to help wash up,” Hermione said to her brother-in-law exasperatedly.

“It’s alright, really,” George assured her. “I think Angie is out back playing with Ron and Freddy. He’s really making his Mum proud. Going to be a first rate Chaser.”

“And Roxy?” asked Hermione with a smile, spelling the drying dishes to their cupboards.

“Nah, she’s more of a Beater, like me,” said George in pride. He glanced over his shoulder up the stairs where there were giggling sounds of children distinctly not sleeping. “What about Hugo?”

“Rose and Hugo have little chance of not ending up in quidditch,” said Hermione in exasperation. “More than half the family is already on broomsticks before they can walk. But it’s sweet of Roxy to try to help Ron get them to bed.”

“She likes babies,” shrugged George. “And since Hugo was born in February like her, she thinks of him as her special cousin.”

“Well he is very cute,” Hermione admitted in spite of herself.

“And Rose is going to be a heartbreaker,” said George easily. At five, Rose already had two girlfriends and three boyfriends in her kindergarten class. 

“Not if she’s anything like her parents,” laughed Hermione. “One relationship apiece? Both bad for different reasons.”

“You had other chances,” said George offhandedly, and Hermione snorted into her mug of hot tea she had let been steeping on the windowsill in front of the kitchen sink.

“You’re sweet,” she told George, making a face. “But I’m no great beauty, and I know that. I think Ron and I were bound to end up together eventually.”

“Maybe,” said George, but this time with a little more evasive offhandedness that sparked Hermione’s interest.

“Why,” she teased. “Did you know someone? Lee maybe?”

George cracked a wry grin. “No, of course not.”

“Not Angelina?” and Hermione was really enjoying herself, pretending to fan the blush in her cheeks. “I don’t know if the world was ready for-”

“It was Fred.”

Hermione stopped short, her breath catching. George so rarely spoke of his twin, just the fact he was mentioning his name aloud was shocking. Hermione shook her head, setting down her mug sharply. 

“Don’t be silly,” she said briskly, trying to be as efficient and sensible as possible to keep George from spiraling as he sometimes did when they talked of Fred. He hadn’t suffered heartbreak at the loss of his twin, he had suffered breaking, period. Part of George would always be absent, always dark, always in shadow. It was up to the Weasley family - and its numerous in laws - to keep the darkness at bay before he could get too far into something.

“I’m not being silly,” George was quiet, but didn’t seem to have that manic, desperate edge they all watched for vigilantly. “He really did like you. Loved you, even.”

“Fred?” Hermione asked flatly, trying to make sure they were talking about the same person.

George nodded.

“No he didn’t,” said Hermione, and she knew it was useless to argue with George, his heart, his soul. But it was just so incredibly impossible that - 

“He did. It started in your fourth year. Just a comment here and there.”

Hermione was shaking her head, smiling stupidly, denying it all, but George persisted.

“Ron was hanging out with us, talking about you all the time. Drove Fred batty. He and Ron used to get in fights about imagined slights Ron thought you were taking Harry’s side against him, and of course Fred and I liked Harry so Fred started arguing for you, saying Ron was bonkers about the whole thing. I think it sort of went from there.”

Hermione only stared at him, eyes wide but mouth shut in disbelief.

George continued on, regardless. “But fifth year I thought even you’d notice.”

“What?” asked Hermione faintly.

“That punching telescope? Dabbing cream on your eye? He was head over heels by summertime in Grimmauld Place. Always volunteering to clean with you. Fred. My brother. Cleaning. We avoided our Mum making us clean so much growing up we developed a spell to shove everything into a closet if she came in.”

“No…” said Hermione, but her voice was doubtful.

“And the teasing?” George was incredulous. “Teasing you so badly when we were testing for the shop with the First Years? I admit now, that was well bad, but we didn’t have the real money for focus groups. And Fred just loved when you tried to tell us off. He’d live for it. Sometimes I think he’d wait to start the testing until you were around.”

Hermione’s thoughts were racing, rearranging memory with the tidbit of knowledge George had given her and the years of experience. She sank into a chair, pulling her tea mug closer to her, but not picking it up. The steam was comforting on the underside of her chin. “He can’t have,” she whispered, and she didn’t know why this was such a revelation to her. “He thought I was annoying.”

“Sure,” shrugged George. “When you were twelve. Then you were only Ron’s friend. But you know Mum. Knitting you a Christmas sweater and making you an Easter basket…you sort of became permanent, all the time. None of our friends ever did that.”

Hermione blushed, realizing that George was right. None of Bill, Charlie, Percy, the twins, or even Ginny’s friends had been adopted by Mrs. Weasley the way she and Harry had been.

“Did he really like me?” Hermione asked, her voice smaller than she liked it, “Or was it just a crush?” She didn’t know why that mattered. Either would have been fine. Something not realistic. Not going to happen.

“I think he really loved you,” said George. “Or he would have, if you would have let him.”

Hermione felt hot tears on her face, and for the first time, it was George holding her arm tightly over a mug of tea, while she mourned for their brother. 

“Hermione?” and it was Ron’s voice floating down the stairs. “Have you seen Bun-Bun? Rose says she can’t sleep without him!”

Hermione quickly stood up, brushing tears away and excusing herself from George, grateful for the menial task of looking for her daughter’s stuffed rabbit to take her mind off of all she had learned.

                                                                ***

She couldn’t sleep. Not even after Ron had dropped off, exhausted at wrangling Hugo and Rose into bed. Their goodnights to their niece and nephew had been brief; they would see them both in the morning, most likely. Or at least this week at Saturday family dinners with Molly.

She turned over again, forcing her eyes shut. She was loathe to take a sleeping draft lest she miss Hugo crying. Ron had even let her buy a muggle baby monitor, though she usually caught his stirring with her sharp ears even before the radio did.

A heavy, sleepy hand fell on her hip. Ron stirred awake slightly. “Can’t sleep?” he asked drowsily.

“Sorry, love,” said Hermione at once. “I can go out on the couch.”

“No,” yawned Ron. “I thought you’d want to-”

Hermione almost said no, but thought better of it. It might relax her and help her sleep, after all. She had a strange creeping feeling she should never tell Ron what George had said. He might develop some sort of complex over it. 

“Sure,” she said instead, turning into his arms and letting him kiss her. 

Ron was half asleep, but he did the job properly. Hermione felt her face flaming in the darkness, grateful that Ron was no legilimens, when she thought of a different red head down between her legs, this one grinning and teasing as she gasped, instead of methodical, knowledgable, sleepy but happy.

“Thank you,” she said, when Ron rolled over, stretching his arms up above his head like a starfish. She knew he always slept his deepest, most comfortable sleeps like this, and he didn’t even answer before he was dead into one.

Hermione lay for a while in the afterglow, hoping that sleep would creep up on her, but instead her mind only furiously worked over old memories, thinking of the differences that could have happened. If in Grimmauld Place, that summer of anger, he had just acknowledged it once. Their sneaking around old portraits and Order Meetings could have been very different indeed. His messages on the radio horcrux hunting could have been for her. And if he had - 

If he had, she would have asked Fred to the Chamber of Secrets. He wouldn’t have been there to greet Percy. He could have kissed her in front of Ron freeing the house elves. Ron would have been okay with it somehow…

Hermione realized she had drifted into half a daydream and half a waking dream when the baby monitor crackled with Hugo’s cry.

Ron didn’t stir, and Hermione was grateful this once for his insensibility. She did not club him with a pillow for his turn, but gratefully rolled out of bed to get her son, happy for the excuse not to toss and turn. 

“There we go,” Hermione said to Hugo, pulling him from his crib and crossing to the rocking chair. She put him to her breast and he began suckling at once as she set a steady swooping motion with one idle foot, tipping her head back and continuing the thoughts.

“They’re at it again,” said Fred morosely to his audience gathered around the extendable ears. 

“Again?” asked Ginny scathingly.

“Just ignore them Gin,” said George. “Percy can’t help that he was born a bastard.”

“George,” Hermione scolded, but without heart. What was her place to correct siblings?

“Come on,” said Ron moodily, feeling the echoes of the screams up the stairs. “If they don’t can it soon they’ll wake the kraken.”

He meant the painting of Sirius’ mother, and the others drew back, grimacing. 

“Fancy a game of chess?” Ron asked Hermione, but without hope.

“I’ll play you,” said George, resigned.

“I’ll play him,” said a new voice, and Ginny threw herself down the stairs in a rush to get to him.

“Charlie!” she whisper-screamed. “You’re here!”

“And don’t want to interrupt,” her brother grimaced, indicating the sunken kitchen door with their parents behind it. “Plus, Ron’s getting too cocky at chess. Needs a few pegs down.”

“Will you tell us about what’s happening in Romania?” Ginny demanded, and Charlie nodded. 

“Of course.”

“Think you can play gobstones with one hand and chess with another?” George asked slyly.

Charlie grinned. “A sickle says I can.”

Hermione-in-the-dream felt the rest of the memory play out. It was before she and Ron had gotten their prefect letters. Before Harry had arrived. Fred had gone with George and the rest of his siblings, as usual, and Hermione had gone up to the room she shared with Ginny and read a book, trying not to feel excluded. And if she had stayed, she would have only felt she were intruding.

But now.

“Want to see what I’ve done up on the roof?” Fred asked her cheekily - another memory, but not the same day.

Hermione shrugged. 

“Beats sitting around,” Fred challenged, and Hermione nodded.

“Fine. Sure.”

Fred lead the way up the endless tight staircase. The Black Manse was five stories not counting the basement. Each floor only had three or four rooms in a tight square around the staircase balustrade. The top of the Manse was a flat rooftop for a garden or a sitting area. But of course, like the rest of the house, it was a complete decrepit trash receptacle full of rusting parts of things, old nails, broken potion bottles, a broken laundry line, and other molding and odorous things. No one liked to spend time up there if they could help it, not the least of which was the chance of passing too high above the boundary spell to keep 12 Grimmauld Place hidden. There wasn’t even quidditch or broom flying to pass the time.

“Ta-da,” announced Fred, showing her the exact same trash heap she had seen before. 

“You’ve done a lovely job with it,” she said scathingly.

“No, that’s not it,” said Fred, grinning at her irritation. “This is!” And he pulled two old battered golf clubs from behind the door to the stairwell. They were slightly bent, and as rusted and dented as everything else.

“New sport?” she asked sweetly.

“Watch,” said Fred, lining up a half broken bottle. He took a huge swing, and launched the shower of glass over the edge of the building and onto the street. It disappeared halfway down in the barrier spell.

Hermione moved closer, impressed. “That’s one way to clear rubbish.”

“It’s incredibly satisfying,” said Fred, not looking at her. He was still shading his brown eyes, as if looking at an impressive long shot on the green, but really watching the thick haze of South London crowding the power lines across the way. 

“Line me up,” said Hermione at once, and Fred gave her an old dented tin can, with something black congealing out of the mold on its side. Hermione made a disgusted face, wound up the golf club, and thwacked it satisfyingly against the can, sending it and its contents spiraling everywhere before plunking over the edge.

“You’ve hit it too high,” said Fred, coming over and giving her another one. He took the club from behind - how had she not seen this in her memory - before carefully tapping the top of a new piece of metal with the club face.

“Nice and low. Really sweep it out of here. Like my mother with a broom.”

Hermione’s face split into a grin as she drew back. It was so rare to smile in Grimmauld Place. The whole miasma of it grew into the bones until everyone was curt and skittish and angry. 

“You’ve cut up your hands,” said Fred after Hermione sent another projectile launching into the nothingness around the rooftop.

Hermione looked down at her hands. “Oh, no,” she said, somewhat embarrassed. “It was Hedwig.”

“Harry’s owl?” asked Fred, astonished. 

Hermione nodded. “He’s really…really angry, being all by himself.”

“Probably a party compared to here,” Fred muttered. 

Hermione had never seen Fred anything but jocular. He was always trying to get everyone else to laugh. She hadn’t realized it was his way of coping. That he never was laughing. Not really.

“It’s been a hard summer,” she sympathized.

“You only got here last week,” Fred said bitterly, and then looked furious with himself. “Not that we’re not-”

“I know,” said Hermione, and this time she lined up the trash for both of them. In tandem, they swung and launched the garbage over the roofline. “That is satisfying,” she added, and Fred looked gratified.

“We’ll be going back to school, anyway,” Fred continued as they rummaged for more things small enough to hit, stockpiling.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Hermione. “About making…an Order for ourselves.”

Fred perked up. “Yeah? With who?”

“I don’t know,” said Hermione self-consciously. “Me, and you. George and Ron. Harry, of course. Ginny.”

“So the people here?” asked Fred dryly.

Hermione blushed. “It was only an idea,” she muttered.

They both launched trash over the roof with the violence they could not bring against the house itself. As they swung, Hermione sensed Fred was putting much more of a Beater’s effort into it than she was. So much, in fact, that he was spattering himself with the backlash of bursting things apart with the force of it, swinging over and over and over.

“I think that’s enough,” said Hermione, pulling the club out of Fred’s hands. That hadn’t happened, she had only thought about it….

Fred was panting, brown eyes hard and angry. “I hate it here,” he said bitterly, all at once. The words came pouring out of him. “And we have to be good for Ginny. And we have to make Mum try to laugh or else she’ll always be crying. Even anger is better than…than…and George and I are in a stupid old bed that someone probably died in and there’s not even beds enough to have separate ones. And Bill and Charlie get to go out and do and we’re in our last year and we’re of age and we’re supposed to sit by and sleep in little beds and pretend it’s fine and-”

Hermione didn’t know how to stop him. She only leaned in and hugged him. It was strange. She and Fred had never been alone together so much. Usually Ron was there, or at least George.

Fred only breathed hard and angry and hot into the top of her hair, his arms finally going around her in return. His breath made her scalp tingle, and his nose came down to find the top of her head. He was shorter than Ron was. Ron would be able to fit Hermione under his chin, but Fred held her near his mouth, his panting not quite slowed, hot against the skin of her head as she stared at the place where his neck met his collarbones, watching the fluttering of his heartbeat in the summer sun.

“Hermione, I-” said Fred, drawing back. He looked embarrassed, and he flicked his eyes to the clubs where they had dropped them. He let go of her to get them and lean them against the brickwork.

“I get it,” she said, her voice full of compassion. “It’s stupid, and not fair. You’ll be eighteen in April and-”

“And you’re going to be sixteen next month,” said Fred in a strange voice.

Hermione was taken aback. She nodded tentatively. “September 19th.”

“You’re older than Ron.”

Hermione smiled a little, lopsided. “I got my letter to Hogwarts almost a year in advance. I had plenty of time to memorize my textbooks. Poor Harry got his only four weeks to wrap his head around being a wizard.”

Fred actually laughed, his eyes growing crinkly at the corners, though she wasn’t sure his mouth was smiling because for some reason she didn’t trust herself to look at it. Against her will, her eyes flicked to it, and his smile grew.

“We’re going to be a year apart for half a year,” said Fred, leaning against the masonry of the house, not ready to go back in the gloom. 

Relaxing a bit, Hermione leaned beside him. “I know. Only eighteen months apart, actually.”

“I am awfully sorry about that punching telescope.”

Was it her, or did he seem closer than a few moments before when she had looked away?

She blushed, looking down. “It’s alright,” she said, though it had hurt, quite a bit.

“Let me see,” Fred commanded, tipping her chin up, and her blush grew at the touch of his fingers, though she didn’t know why.

“It looks better,” he said teasingly, his nose crinkling at her nervous swallow.

“Doesn’t hurt as much,” she managed, and his face grew serious. 

“I am sorry,” he whispered, his other hand creeping up. “Let me make it up to you.”

She had plenty of time to pull away, but she was a deer in the headlights. He cupped her face gently, sweetly, the sun making her squint up at his freckled face as he descended on her slow and sure, making sure she had plenty of time to refuse. 

The kiss lingered. Deepened. Until she felt it sparking through places she wasn’t sure she was ready for. Her mouth opened and - 

“Good morning,” said Ron, self satisfied at her wide eyed astonishment. He had found her sleeping upright, nursing Hugo who had long since fallen back asleep.

“R-Ron,” Hermione stammered.

He grinned at her. “Breakfast is ready,” he announced. She could hear Rose at the kitchen table already. Everything seemed so confusing. She wasn’t sure if Rose was real. She had opened her eyes to see brown and seen blue instead.

“Are you okay?” Ron asked, seeing her blinking astonishment.

“I just…need to wake up,” she managed, flushing to her core. How could she even look at Ron after dreaming about being fifteen again?

“Don’t worry,” said Ron cheerfully, dragging her to the kitchen without noticing her upset. “I made coffee.”

Send me a made up AO3 title and i’ll write you a drabble based off of it!