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2plottwist · 1 month

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A Fabled End

Summary: You end up with a magical, impossible to decipher book. Before you know it, you and Astarion are literally sucked into the story, having to play your parts in order to escape. The catch? You have to play star-crossed lovers.

Pairing: Astarion x Reader, referred to with she/her pronouns

Characters: Astarion, various made-up fairytale creatures, super brief Gale and Shadowheart appearance

Warnings: absolute tooth-rotting fluff, the f word (scary!)

Author: Emma:)

Word Count: 7.8k

A/N: this is definitely a longer read, but oh my god, do I think it is worth it. This is my favorite thing I have probably ever written. I hope you enjoy it as much as Kenna and I do. (p.s. fan art is appreciated)

Your brows furrowed in confusion as you glanced over the text again. Wyll and Karlach had gone out looking for supplies nearby your camp and had found little to nothing- besides a very large, very magical book. It had been offered to Gale first, who kindly declined to prepare everyone dinner. So it was given to the next best option- you.

After the enormous tiefling plopped it in your hands, you took a second to examine it before revealing its contents. Though it was cast in worn leather, swirls of purple emitted from beneath the cover, beckoning you closer. At first.

Encoding it had been a rather infuriating task. Every time you looked at it, the tangled mess of runes seemed to change, spelling out some ancient, or made-up, language. No matter how hard you concentrated, the meaning eluded you, as if the book was mocking your attempts.

“Why in the hells could Gale not busy himself with this?” you grumble to yourself, pricking up the pointy ears of one of your nearby companions.

“Having a hard time, darling?” Astarion drawled, sauntering towards where you were sitting in front of your tent. “I knew you struggled with finding me good bits of reading, but you appear to be illiterate.”

You rolled your eyes at the words despite the fact that your undead companion was probably right. You'd pored over various dusty tomes for years, but you couldn’t make anything out of the book.

“Hey.. it’s not my fault you don’t appreciate ‘The World According to Bumpo’,” you shot back, referencing the fictitious tale you had brought back to him from the goblin camp. “It’s got layers.. You’ve got to actually use your mind to discover them.”

The vampire let out a dry laugh before lounging on a pillow that was laid against the wall of your tent. “Well, in that case, I guess neither of us know what it’s really about, hmm?”

Though his words were pointed, you recognized the playful lilt of his speech. It was a delicate balance, Astarion’s personality, and you couldn’t tell if it was by design or by accident.

You groaned, dropping the heavy text in between the two of you. “Before you embarrass yourself by belittling me further, why don’t you have a go?” you say, motioning your hand toward the discarded book.

“Hmm,” Astarion considers the proposition, tilting his head and smirking. “Alright. I suppose I have nothing else to do during the precious hours I have to myself.”

He picked up the book, giving it a once-over before carefully flipping through the dry parchment. His brows furrowed, and he muttered something to himself before laughing.

“Oh, this is interesting,” he said casually, as if discussing the weather.

“What? What is?” you ask excitedly, attempting to peer over the cover and see what he was seeing.

“You really are illiterate, aren’t you?” Astarion continued, shooting you a devilish grin. “There’s text right here, as common as drows in the underdark.”

You narrowed your eyes, unable to believe what the elf had just told you. You had stared at the book for so long, the indecipherable runes were practically burnt into your eyes.

“What does it say?” you ask, tilting your head.

“Hmm, well,” Astarion starts before clearing his throat and adjusting his voice to a mockingly low one. “The path to freedom lies in truth. Only when you embrace what you have discovered can you leave this place.” He chuckled again, meeting your gaze. “A bit ominous, isn’t it?”

“You’re full of rubbish,” you shoot back, shaking your head out of frustration. “You can read it, just like that? After I spent all that time trying to decipher it?”

Astarion grinned, clearly enjoying the surprise on your face. “What, you don’t think I have any skills beyond my charming wit and dashing good looks?”

You cross your arms, looks mirroring the dejection you felt within yourself.

“I assure you, darling, I’m not making it up. But, if you’re still so inclined to doubt me, why don’t you come and see for yourself?”

You frowned at the elf before reaching out to take the book from him, but Astarion didn’t release his hold. Your fingers brushed against each other, and for a moment, the two of you hesitated, locked in a brief standoff. Then, the pages of the tome began to glow with a soft, ethereal light.

“What in the Hells-” you began but were cut off when the light flared, engulfing both of you. The world around you blurred and twisted sharply, and you were suddenly yanked from your camp with a force that left you breathless.

When the light finally faded, you found yourself thrown onto a cobble path- right in the middle of a picturesque village, the kind that belonged in a fairy tale.

As you stood, you noticed blooming flowers lining the cobbled roads, their sweet scent filling the air. The roofs were thatched in all colors of shingles. Nearby, a baker had opened his window, the smell of freshly baked bread wafting into the street.

You blink in confusion before realizing you were no longer in your clothes- you were dressed in a flowing, ethereal gown that shimmered like starlight. Beside you, Astarion looked equally stunned, his usual dark attire replaced with a fine, tailored getup that made him look every bit the nobleman.

He glanced around, then down at the book, which was still in his hand, now glowing with a faint, pulsing light.

“Well,” he mused, his tone a mix of amusement and annoyance. “It appears we’ve been… transported.”

You shot him a look, your frustration bubbling up again. “Transported? Where? Was it the book?”

Astarion held the suspect up, smirking. “Hmm. It seems our little tug-of-war triggered some sort of enchantment.”

Before you could respond, the two of you were approached by a plump woman, her bright pink cheeks and exaggeratedly twinkling eyes making her look like a character from a children’s story.

“Oh, my darlings!” the woman exclaimed, her voice as melodious as a jingle. “You two are just the most perfect couple I’ve ever seen!”

Before you could protest, she was pushing you towards an intricately decorated cottage at the edge of the village. A sign hung above the door; it depicted two cartoonish dragons curving into a heart. Below it, you could make out “Enchanted Encounters by Madame Delphine” in a deep purple, delicate handwriting.

With a flourish, she gestured at the building. It was just as cartoonish as the sign, if not more, with its heart-shaped windows, a thatched roof adorned with twinkling lights, and a garden bursting with oversized, colorful roses.

“Welcome, welcome to Enchanted Encounters, where love is our specialty!”

As she ushered you deeper inside, the air was filled with the scent of lavender and roses, and the walls were lined with love-themed trinkets and framed, exaggeratedly romantic artwork. Despite the overwhelming theme, the atmosphere was warm and inviting. Soft, fluffy cushions and plush armchairs were scattered around, and a fireplace crackled.

The woman motioned for you and Astarion to sit. You exchanged a wary glance with Astarion before he gestured to an armchair. “Ladies first,” he purred, flashing you a devilish smirk.

The woman plopped down into a chair opposite you. “I have so much to tell you! First things first-”

“Now wait just a second,” you interrupted, shifting uncomfortably in your dress.

“What in the hells is going on? Who are you?”

The woman smiled softly, the expression on her face as if you had just asked her the most mundane question.

“I am Madame Delphine, matchmaker extraordinaire! And you, my lovelies, are here to discover the magic of true love.”

Astarion raised an eyebrow, glancing around the room with a mix of curiosity and skepticism. “We’ve been trapped in a book, for the gods sakes. You know that, don’t you?”

Madame Delphine’s eyes widened with a touch of drama, as if she had known all along. “Ah, that’s the crux of the matter! The village of Fable’s End is a place where destinies intertwine. The magic here seeks out those who are at a crossroads, those who might benefit from a little extra push in discovering their true feelings,” she mimed pushing the air as to add emphasis.

“Well, that’s just lovely, but we had important matters to attend to,” Astarion retorted, motioning to his head.

Madame Delphine chuckled softly, her laugh a melodious sound that seemed to resonate with the whimsical surroundings. “But that’s just it! The magic doesn’t always wait for the perfect timing. You see, the enchantment isn’t about disrupting your lives but about giving you a unique opportunity to reflect.. And connect,” she added, wiggling her eyebrows in a suggestive manner.

“Madame Delphine,” you start, your tone firm but respectful, “you’ve made a mistake. You brought us here under the impression that we are lovers. But that’s simply not true. We are not in love.”

Astarion, his arms crossed, added, “Oh, indeed. This whole scenario feels rather contrived.”

Madame Delphine’s eyes softened with a mix of sympathy and understanding. “I see. Well, if you truly believe that, then perhaps it’s best to explore what the village has in store for you with open minds and hearts. The journey might reveal more than you expect.”

As Madame Delphine spoke, an unexpected, shimmering light began to swirl around you and Astarion. The colors shifted, and the cottage’s walls seemed to dissolve into an ethereal mist. The light took on the shape of a heart, and the air was filled with a gentle, melodious hum.

You and Astarion exchanged puzzled glances as the enchantment’s glow enveloped you. Suddenly, scenes from your past adventures began to play out around you, projected in vivid, heartwarming detail.

You saw shared glances, instances of unspoken support and subtle gestures of care. The images revealed how your bond had deepened over time, showing you moments that had seemed insignificant but were actually filled with unspoken affection.

The scenes began to shift to more intimate moments. You saw yourselves laughing together by the campfire, comforting each other after a battle, and sharing quiet conversations.

When the light finally faded, Astarion’s eyes met yours, his usual aloofness softened by a vulnerable gaze. “I didn’t realize… We’ve been through so much together, haven’t we?”

Your cheeks flushed with a blend of surprise and embarrassment, and you nodded slowly. “Yes, we have. And when I think back on everything…”

Madame Delphine, who had been quietly observing, smiled warmly. “Sometimes, it takes a little magic to help us see what’s been there all along. Your journey here has allowed you to confront your true feelings and understand them more deeply.”

You stared at each other for a moment longer before the matchmaker interrupted your thoughts.

“Now, let’s get down to the nitty-gritty, shall we? You see, my dears, this isn’t just a simple matchmaking service. This is a story, and every story has its rules.”

You raise an eyebrow, your curiosity piqued. “Rules? What kind of rules?”

Madame Delphine leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with a mischievous glint. “You’re not the first couple to find yourselves in this delightful predicament. This village, and indeed, my matchmaking services, have seen many a pair before you.”

Astarion looked intrigued, his usual smirk replaced by genuine interest. “What happened to them?”

“Ah, well,” Madame Delphine said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “some found true love, others simply discovered something about themselves they never knew. But all of them played their parts—quite literally. You see, in this story, you must embrace your roles as lovers. The more convincingly you play your parts, the closer you’ll come to breaking the enchantment.”

You frown slightly. “And if we refuse to play along?”

Madame Delphine’s face became somber, though her cartoonish eyes still held a glimmer of mischief. “Oh, I wouldn’t recommend that. The enchantment is quite persistent, and resisting only prolongs the tale.”

Astarion leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face. “And what exactly are these roles we’re supposed to play?”

Madame Delphine clapped her hands together, her cheery demeanor returning. “Oh, nothing too difficult! Simply be the star-crossed lovers you’re meant to be. The village will do the rest, guiding you through various trials and encounters. Just remember, the more authentic your feelings, the smoother the journey.”

You glance at Astarion. “Well, it seems we don’t have much choice.”

Astarion, with a dramatic sigh, offered her a small smile. “I suppose so. I do love a good drama.”

Madame Delphine clapped her hands with delight. “Splendid! Now, off you go, darlings. The story awaits, and I’m sure it will be a most enchanting one!”

The two of you stood, walking out of the cottage. As the door closed behind you, you sank to your knees, head in your hands. “Gods, why is there never any fine print on enchanted objects?”

Astarion, standing beside you with an amused smirk, glanced over. “And here I thought you liked surprises, darling. Isn’t this all just a bit of unexpected fun?”

You shot him a look, your tone dripping with sarcasm. “Oh yes, so much fun. Being trapped in a magical book, forced to play the part of lovers—absolute delight.”

Your bickering was abruptly interrupted by a clanging sound and the appearance of a rather comical figure.

A paladin, clad in ridiculously oversized armor that made him look like a walking castle, emerged from behind a heart-shaped archway. His helmet was so large that it wobbled precariously with every step he took, and his lance looked more like a toothpick in his gloved hands.

“Ho there, fair maiden afar! A beautiful thing, a shining star!” he shouted, voice vibrating throughout his suit of armor. “How I cherish Lathander, my guiding light, for blessing me with such a sight.”

“Is he.. Rhyming?” You questioned, sharing a quizzical look with your companion.

“I think one weirdo is enough to deal with today,” Astarion stated before pushing on your waist, ushering you to walk away.

“Halt, pale fellow! Leave her be, so kind, so mellow,” the knight declared with exaggerated bravado, his voice echoing through his oversized helmet.

Astarion raised an eyebrow, turning back to the paladin. “Oh, and who are you to address this.. Maiden?” he asked.

“I am Lord Reginald, in the flesh. And her heart.. With mine, I’d like to mesh.”

Astarion’s wariness gave way to amusement. “Her? Are you sure? She’s rather unpleasant in the morning.”

You reach out and hit him on the arm.

“You dare insult her, a rose, a petal?” Lord Reginald boomed back, attempting to lift his helm from his eyes. It clanked back into place. “For your sake, sir, I hope you have the mettle.”

“Are you threatening me now, Lord?” Astarion shot back, then turned to you. “I’m growing rather bored.” Realizing he had unintentionally rhymed, he muttered “Shit” under his breath.

“A duel it will be then, for the lady’s heart!” Lord Reginald said, raising his lance. “Come forth then, sparrow fart!”

Astarion narrowed his eyes, shooting the lord a steely look. “Sparrowfa-” you hit his arm again, a laugh threatening to spill out of your mouth. “Alright then, a duel, you say? And what weapon do you propose we use, lordling?”

Lord Reginald puffed out his chest, though it seemed more a result of his armor's bulk than his own physical prowess. “Not with swords, not with steel! We shall engage in a battle of words in which the lady must feel!”

You, caught between laughter and astonishment, looked at Astarion with a teasing grin. “I think he wants to duel it out over.. Romantic poetry. Seems like you may have a rather shit hand.”

“Perish the thought,” Astarion said. “How could I refuse such a challenge?”

He smirked, stepping forward with a flourish. “I suppose if it’s a duel of words, I should rise to the occasion.”

Lord Reginald straightened his oversized helmet with a flourish. “Let us begin the duel of melodies and verses, for the heart of the lovely Y/N calls me across universes.”

The knight stepped back and cleared his throat, preparing for his performance. He launched into a grandiose ballad with exaggerated gestures and a booming voice:

“From distant lands, both far and wide,

I’ve ventured forth with armor’s pride.

To win the heart of one so rare,

I sing my love with tender care.”

You smiled at the heartfelt, if not somewhat over-the-top, performance.

When Lord Reginald finished his verse with a flourish, he took a deep, exaggerated bow, his armor clanking with every movement. “My heart, my weapon. My words, my shield. Now, pale one.. Do you yield?”

Astarion stepped forward, his demeanor calm and confident. With a playful glint in his eye, he began.

“Beneath the moon’s enchanting light, In shadowed depths, where stars ignite, Our journey’s path has led us here, With every step, my heart grows clear.”

His verses felt tender and sincere, and you blushed as he took a bow, looking at you with a smirk as he did so. The village seemed to respond to his melody with a soft, shimmering light.

“You think that’s all? I’m not impressed,” Lord Reginald boomed. “Let’s see if you can handle this new test.”

He cleared his throat again before continuing.

“In twilight’s glow and morning’s dew,

My heart beats only, dear, for you.

Your laughter rings like sweetest chime,

A melody that transcends time.”

You raised your eyebrow at the lord before looking back at Astarion, who seemed unimpressed. “That one was pretty solid, Star. I’m not sure if you can do better than “a melody that transcends time.”

Astarion huffed before turning back to the knight.

“Through battles fierce and nights so long,

It’s with you, Y/N, where I belong.

In every glance and every sigh,

You’re the reason why I fly.”

As Astarion finished his verse and took another bow, you looked at him with admiration. Lord Reginald gave a respectful nod.

“Your performance was most admirable, Astarion,” Lord Reginald said, his voice filled with respect, and thankfully, no more rhymes. “I concede that the heart of the fair Y/N is yours, though I shall continue to admire her from afar.”

You stepped forward, your eyes sparkling with appreciation. “Thank you, Lord Reginald. That was quite an entertaining duel.”

Without another rhyme, Lord Reginald turned, clanking down the path and out of the village.

The two of you watched him walk away for a moment before you turned to him, smirking. “The reason that you fly, eh?”

Astarion frowned, facing you. “Oh, don’t you dare. Did you see what I was up against? The bastard was, unfortunately, rather well-spoken, if not annoying. Like Gale,” he spat.

You laugh. “I’m just teasing you. Your ballad was quite charming.”

He rolled his eyes, smirking. “Well, you weren’t exactly against embracing your role as a muse.”

Your exchange was interrupted by a burst of joyful laughter and the sound of rustling leaves. In the center of the village square stood an enormous, exuberant tree. Its branches swayed with an upbeat rhythm, and its bark seemed to be drawn on. The tree had eyes, large and twinkling with excitement, that were set in knots in the wood.

“Oh, oh! They’re coming!” the tree’s voice rang out in a sing-song tone. “Hey, over here! It’s Arboris! I’m a talking tree!”

You looked at each other, brows furrowed, before approaching the odd sight.

“Hello, there! I’m Arboris!” the tree repeated, looking at the two of you expectantly. You hesitated before giving it your names. “Hello, Arboris. I’m Y/N, and this is Astarion.”

The tree’s branches shook again. “Oh, I am so absolutely thrilled to meet you! Yes, I am! What fun we shall have!”

You crossed your arms. “Gods, please don’t burst out into rhymes,” Astarion quipped under his breath.

“To continue your delightful journey, you must solve my riddles. Oh, but you two are such pleasant company, I almost don’t want to tell them to you! Oh, what a dilemma!” they cried, casting their eyes to the ground.

You and Astarion exchanged another glance- you’d hardly said a thing. In fact, the pair of you likely came off as stand-offish. Pleasant company wasn’t the first thing that came to your mind.

“Riddles, you say?” he asked, his tone curious.

Arboris clapped their branches together in delight, shaking deep green leaves onto the ground, seemingly forgetting about being upset.

“Oh, yes, yes! And with such a splendid theme at that! I’m positively giddy! Here comes the first one!”

They continued clapping for a moment longer before they stilled completely, eyes turning a deep shade of purple. In an ominous voice, they declared:

“I am a bond that binds hearts tight,

A feeling that makes everything right.

I’m often whispered, sometimes declared,

In moments of joy or when hearts are bared.

What am I?”

Arboris began waving again happily, as if nothing had changed about them. “Come on, come on, what is it?” they squealed.

You turn to Astarion as you contemplate the riddle.

“Do you think they ever run out of rhymes here?” he groaned.

You ignored him. “Let’s see.. If I was the optimistic type.. Hmm. It sounds like ‘love’ itself!”

Astarion nodded, grinning. “Yes, it has to be love.”

With a smile, you spoke aloud, “The answer is love!”

Arboris became even more animated, branches swaying in a celebratory dance. “Brilliant! Oh, how wonderful! You’re so clever! Now, onto the second riddle!”

They grew still again, eyes turning the same shade of purple:

“I am a gesture that’s sweet and dear, Often given when loved ones are near. I can be soft or full of fire, I’m a sign of affection and desire. What am I?”

Astarion’s face lit up with recognition. “Why, it’s a kiss!”

You nod in agreement. “Yes, it’s definitely a kiss.”

You answer in unison, “A kiss!”

Arboris practically danced with joy, their branches moving in a jubilant swirl. “Oh, how splendid! You’re doing marvelously! I can hardly believe it! Now for the final riddle!”

The tree stilled once more:

“I am a bond that ties two hearts, A connection that never departs. Though time may pass and distance grow, Our feelings for each other always show. What am I?”

You and Astarion looked at each other. After a moment, you speak up with a smile.

“It’s a promise. It’s the bond between hearts that remains strong.. despite time and distance.”

Astarion nodded in agreement. “Yes, it’s definitely a promise.”

Arboris’ branches erupted in a cascade of sparkling leaves and squealed. “Bravo! Oh goodness me! You’ve answered all my riddles with such flair and insight! What a delightful pair you are indeed!”

The two of you smiled at each other, despite the barrage of rhymes.

“Oh, carry on now, on your adventure! But do remember our time together, when you met Arboris, the talking tree!” They waved a branch at you in goodbye.

You and Astarion turned and walked down another cobbled path, laughing to yourselves about the encounter.

“That creature was something else, wasn’t it?” Astarion remarked, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I think Arboris might have been a bit too cheerful for my taste.”

You chuckle. “You know, I think Arboris and Halsin would get along famously. Imagine the two of them together- enjoying the freedom of nature’s gifts,” you said, mocking your druid companion’s deep tone.

Astarion let out a sharp laugh, before mocking the tree. “Oh, Halsin, pick my leaves! And Halsin would be like, 'very well, if the Oakfather sees fit'.”

The two of you laughed, shaking your head. Turning a corner, a grand mansion adorned with opulent decorations came into view. It was certainly out of place in the sleepy village; the mansion’s splendor was undeniable, with intricate carvings and luxurious tapestries giving it an air of aristocracy.

Standing at the entrance was a striking noblewoman. Her gown, a flowing ensemble of crimson and gold, was adorned with sparkling jewels that caught the light with every subtle movement.

The woman spotted the two of you, and her eyes lit up with an unmistakable glint of interest. Her gaze lingered on Astarion.

“Well, well! What a delightful surprise!” the woman exclaimed, her voice rich and melodious. “I am Lady Seraphina, and I must say, it is a pleasure to meet such.. Intriguing individuals.”

Astarion, ever the epitome of charm, inclined his head in polite greeting. “The pleasure is all ours, Lady Seraphina. I am Astarion, and this is Y/N.”

You offered a courteous nod, but you couldn’t help but feel a twinge of discomfort as Lady Seraphina’s gaze became increasingly fixed on Astarion. The noblewoman’s approach was not merely cordial; it was laden with flirtation.

“Ah, Astarion,” Lady Seraphina purred, her voice dripping with exaggerated affection. “You’re quite the striking adventurer, aren’t you? I’d love to hear more about your travels. Perhaps you’d care to join me for a private chat inside? I’m sure we could find many… fascinating topics to discuss.”

As she spoke, Lady Seraphina’s hand brushed against Astarion’s arm, lingering a moment longer than necessary. Her eyes were wide with an artful blend of admiration and seduction. For you, the sight was a jarring contrast to the polite distance you were accustomed to. Your heart raced with a blend of irritation and something deeper- an emotion you hadn’t expected to feel so intensely.

You had always prided yourself on your composure and self-control. Yet seeing Lady Seraphina made your chest tighten with a pang of jealousy. The way her eyes sparkled as she looked at Astarion, the subtle but unmistakable way she attempted to draw him away from you- it all seemed to chip away at your usually steadfast resolve.

You had been trying to ignore the way Astarion’s charm seemed to attract attention from all quarters, but this was different. The noblewoman’s words were brazen and direct, and the unspoken challenge was impossible to miss. You felt a surge of uncharacteristic possessiveness; it was clear Lady Seraphina was trying to seduce Astarion, and the sight stung.

Taking a deep breath, you stepped forward. “Lady Seraphina, while your offer is generous, Astarion and I have our own plans. We prefer to explore the village together.”

Your tone was steady, but there was an edge to your words that surprised even you. Lady Seraphina’s eyes widened slightly, her practiced charm faltering for a moment as she processed your unexpected intervention.

“Oh?” she replied, her voice carrying a note of barely concealed irritation. “It’ll only be a moment, I’m sure.”

You look at your companion who seemed to be smitten with the fact he was being flirted with. He glanced at you, devilish smirk gracing his features. You felt a tug from the tadpole burrowed in your head.

‘Just playing my part.. Like you did so graciously with Lord Reginald.’

With that, the lady tugged him into the mansion, the loud thud of the wooden doors closing in front of you making you jump.

“You bastard!” you shouted, hoping he could hear you despite the thickness of the door.

You shake your head before becoming lost in thought. ‘Is he trying to make me.. Jealous?’ you thought to yourself. Because dammit all, it was working.

What in the hells had come over you? When Madame Delphine had forced you to reflect on your relationship with the vampire, you realized something that you had tried to suppress deep down. With the weight of the entire realm on your shoulders, feeling anything for anyone was selfish, would deter you from the task.

Oh, but the way Astarion made you feel. He made you feel alive. Like you could do anything, be anything. And you could only hope you made him feel the same way.

After a minute or two, you couldn’t help but be drawn back to reality, or whatever it was, by the heaviness of the situation. You had to go get Astarion.

You pushed the door open quietly and stepped in, being greeted by an equally lavish hallway. What appeared to be hundreds of other hallways branched off of it, all lined with doors.

“Oh, hells,” you murmured to yourself. You took off down one hallway, picking up the ends of your dress to ensure you didn’t trip over it. Slowly, you had managed to make your way down the entire branch, pressing an ear to each door and hearing nothing.

Feeling defeated, you turned to walk back down to the main hallway, when suddenly, a shrill scream rang out. A door burst open, and there Astarion stood, gasping for breath. He caught your eye in an instant.

“Oh gods, Y/N, you have to hear this- Lady Seraphina was trying to-” His eyes were wide, and his cheeks slightly flushed as he struggled to find the right words. “I didn’t think she would actually, well, you know..” You stared at him in confusion, and right before the realization dawned, Astarion shouted it out.

“Gods, Y/N, she was trying to fuck me!”

“Are you always this stupid, or are you making a special effort to torment me?” you shot back. “I could’ve told you that at the front door!”

You couldn’t help but burst into laughter at the sight of the visibly flustered vampire. He rolled his eyes as you reached your arm out to him. He linked his in yours, and the two of you began to run out of the mansion. You leaned in, your laughter mingling with his as you navigated the lavish hallways.

As you exited the mansion, Astarion leaned against the door, finally having a moment to catch his breath.

“Now, before you say anything,” he panted, “I didn’t go in with the intention of that happening.” You placed a hand on your hip. “Oh? And what intention did you go in with? Playing a friendly game of lanceboard and having a glass of wine?”

He glanced sideways at you, and hesitated. For a moment you thought he wasn’t going to speak at all, but then he continued. “I thought it might be a bit… amusing to see if I could make you a little jealous.”

You raised an eyebrow, a sense of relief washing over you. “And what in the hells made you think that was a good idea?”

Astarion shrugged. “Well.. you made me endure Lord Reginald’s attempts to make you swoon. I thought I might return the favor with a little.. Strategic distraction.” You laugh. “That’s rather bold of you.”

Astarion’s lips curved into a grin, exposing his pearly fangs. “Ah, but there’s something rather intriguing about seeing you flustered. And I must say, it worked better than I expected.”

Just as you went to respond, Madame Delphine appeared, her arrival marked by a swirl of colorful mist and an air of dramatic flair. She had changed into an extravagant gown of deep purple and red, and her face was covered by a mask resembling a cat.

“Voila!” she stated, twirling around before meeting the expectant gaze of you and Astarion. “Impressive, hmm? Weren’t expecting that, were you? Then again, you two have done all sorts of things I haven’t expected.” She paused for a second and looked at Astarion. “Lovely rhymes, by the way.”

Astarion scoffed as she pulled out a letter from her corset. “Why does everyone act so surprised by that?”

Madame Delphine gingerly handed you the parchment. “I have a final challenge for you- one that is both grand and delightful.”

Astarion turned to face her fully. “And what might that be?”

Madame Delphine’s smile widened as you opened the letter. “You are cordially invited to the Enchanted Revelry! Oh, it will be a wonderful time. It will be the final challenge of your journey here in Fable’s End. A chance to showcase not just your charming features, but your true feelings for one another in the most enchanting of settings.”

“The- what?” you ask, tilting your head.

“Why, a masquerade ball, lovey! Simply attend, I’ll do the rest. I’ll be just like your Faerie Godmother, eh?”

Astarion raised an eyebrow and turned to you. “Well, it seems we’re in for quite the evening.”

You grinned, nudging him playfully. “I’m sure the revelry will be just the thing to top off our adventure. I mean, we’ve already faced the barrage of ballads- a ball should be a piece of cake.”

Madame Delphine clapped her hands together with glee. “Excellent! I shall see you both at the ball.” In her usual burst of theatrical flair, she conjured a majestic castle right before your eyes. The building seemed to rise from the very heart of the village, its walls sparkling.

With a final, enthusiastic wave, she disappeared.

The grand entrance of the castle loomed before you, adorned with cascading banners and glittering lights. From beyond the doors, you could hear elegant music playing, and the scent of delectable treats wafted through open windows. You couldn’t help but feel excited- despite your predicament, whether it was inside a book or out in the real realm, attempting to keep mind flayers at bay, you were still a girl, enchanted by dancing and big dresses.

As you entered the castle, the doors closed behind you with a soft, resonant thud. The ballroom was an exquisite spectacle, with crystal chandeliers casting a soft glow over an elaborate dance floor. Couples swirled elegantly in their masks and gowns, their laughter mingling with the melodious strains of the distant orchestra.

However, as you and Astarion stepped into the ballroom, you were separated by an unexpected enchantment. A gust of wind swept through the hall, and you found yourself alone on one side of the grand space.

“Wait!” you called out, your voice tinged with urgency. “Astarion!”

But your call was swallowed by the crowd, and Astarion was soon lost among the masked revelers. Frustration and concern mingled in your chest as you scanned the ballroom, trying to catch a glimpse of him.

As you struggled to find your way through the throng of masked guests, Madame Delphine appeared beside you once again. With a wave of her wand, she conjured a resplendent gown for you.

The gown shimmered with hues of deep emerald and silver, its fabric flowing like liquid moonlight. Accompanying the gown was an intricately designed mask, shaped like a graceful fox with delicate filigree patterns.

“There you are!” Madame Delphine said, her voice filled with delight. “You look enchanting! Now, to find Astarion, you must let your heart guide you.”

Before you could respond, Madame Delphine vanished in a swirl of sparkling mist, leaving you alone in your magnificent new attire. Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself and stepped into the ballroom.

The grandeur of the castle was breathtaking, with its high ceilings and sweeping staircases leading to ornate balconies. The guests, all adorned in their own elaborate masks and gowns, danced and mingled beneath the glittering chandeliers. You felt a mixture of excitement and trepidation as you moved through the crowd, your eyes scanning each masked gentleman with hopeful anticipation.

Every masked face you encountered seemed to carry an air of mystery, and the enchantment of the night made it difficult to distinguish one from another. Despite your frustration, you found yourself caught up in the rhythm of the event, letting the music and the atmosphere guide you.

On the other side of the ballroom, Astarion wandered about, half blinded by his own mask. The dance floor was a swirling sea of masked figures, their costumes and masks creating a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes. To the casual observer, Astarion might have seemed like just another guest, but his every movement betrayed a focused intent. His eyes, sharp and alert, scanned the crowd with a keen determination. This hunt was different from any he had known before—it was not for prey, but for the one person who had captured his heart.

Astarion’s movements were smooth and calculated, each step and turn a testament to his skill in navigating both physical and social landscapes. He slipped through the crowd with the ease of a shadow, his gaze shifting and darting as he searched for you. The ballroom's ambiance—the swirling music, the laughter, and the gentle clinking of glasses—seemed to fade into the background as he honed in on his target.

His mind raced with thoughts of you, each memory a vivid reminder of why this search was so crucial. You, with your grace and warmth, had become the center of his world. The way you moved, the way you spoke, and even the way you challenged him—it was all part of what drew him to you. This hunt was driven by an emotional urgency, a longing to find you and be with you.

The thrill of the hunt, so familiar to him, was now tinged with a new, profound significance. It was no longer the thrill of the chase for its own sake, but rather the pursuit of something far more precious. Each masked face he passed seemed to blend into the next, a sea of anonymity that only heightened his determination. His heart pounded not just with the excitement of the chase, but with a deeper, more intimate anticipation.

He maneuvered through the crowd, his senses attuned to every subtle shift in the atmosphere. Astarion's eyes, narrowed in focus, finally caught sight of a familiar figure amidst the revelry. His heart quickened as he recognized your elegant silhouette, your back turned to him.

As he approached you, the world seemed to narrow to just the space between you. The masks and costumes of the other guests fell away, leaving only you in his field of vision. He moved with a purposeful elegance, closing the distance with a sense of anticipation that was both thrilling and a bit terrifying.

You spun around, seeing Astarion standing several paces away. Behind his mask, his gaze locked onto yours with an intensity that spoke of both relief and adoration.

Astarion, with his predatory grace now softened by his genuine feelings, bowed before reaching out and offering a hand. The search had led him to the person he had come to love, and the fulfillment of that pursuit was more satisfying than he could have ever imagined.

As the music shifted to a softer, more melodic tune, the ballroom seemed to clear slightly, allowing you and Astarion to draw closer. For a moment, time seemed to stand still. You hurried towards each other, weaving through the remaining dancers.

Finally, you met in the center of the ballroom, where the music swelled, filling the space with a sweeping, romantic melody. Astarion’s eyes were alight with joy as he took your hands in his.

“There you are,” he said softly. “I was beginning to think I’d never find you.”

You smiled, your eyes shining as you looked up at him. “I was searching for you, too. However, I knew I would find you.”

The orchestra’s music swirled around you, and as if by design, the dancers around you fell away, leaving you and Astarion alone in your own world. Astarion held you close, his hands resting gently on your waist as he guided you through the dance.

Your heart was racing. The way Astarion’s gaze lingered on you, the warmth of his touch, and the rhythm of your dance all combined to create a profound sense of connection. You felt as if the entire evening had led to this singular, perfect moment.

As the waltz reached its crescendo, the dance seemed to slow, drawing you closer. The music swirled around you, and as you moved together in the final, lingering steps, your faces drew near. Gently, Astarion pulled up his mask, then yours. You could feel his cool breath fanning against your face.

“Well, my dear,” he began, voice barely above a whisper. “It seems we’ve survived this.. Masquerade of madness. But before the curtain falls on our little performance, there’s one last thing I’d like to do.

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the intimacy of the moment. By him. “Oh? And what might that be?”

“I was wondering… since we’ve managed to breeze our way through every other challenge, would it be terribly forward of me to ask if I might kiss you?”

You felt your heart skip a beat at his words, but you quickly regained your composure, matching his playful tone. “Terribly forward? Perhaps,” you replied with a smirk, “but then again, when has that ever stopped you?”

Astarion chuckled softly. “Touché. But I’d rather not assume. After all, I’ve been trying to behave myself… most of the time.”

You tilted your head slightly, your smile softening as you looked at him. “Well, since you’ve been so well-behaved, I suppose I can grant you this one request.”

Astarion’s expression shifted, a mixture of genuine affection and delight replacing the earlier teasing. “In that case, I shall take this rare opportunity and make the most of it.”

With a gentleness that belied his usual bravado, Astarion leaned in and pressed his lips to yours in a tender, lingering kiss. It was a kiss filled with unspoken words and emotions that had been building between them for so long. It was a revelation, a silent admission of everything you had been too guarded or too afraid to say. His hand, cold and steady, cradled the back of your neck, drawing you even closer.

As you slowly pulled away, the lingering sensation of the kiss remained, a sweet ache that left both of you breathless. Your foreheads pressed together, and the quiet after the kiss was filled with a newfound understanding. It was as if the kiss had woven a thread between your hearts, something strong and unbreakable, a promise of what was to come. “Thank you, Y/N. For the dance, for the adventure… and for this.”

You smiled, your heart full as you looked into his eyes. “The pleasure was mine, Astarion.”

Before you could fully savor the moment, a sudden shift in the air signaled a change.

The grand ballroom began to dissolve around you, the enchanting lights and sounds fading away. As you felt yourselves being transported back to your world, the figures of Madame Delphine, Arboris, Lady Seraphina, and Lord Reginald became visible once more.

Madame Delphine waved energetically, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Farewell, my dear adventurers! Until our paths cross again!”

Arboris, despite being clearly uprooted, was placed on a velvet chaise lounge, a tablecloth draped over them. They gave a jovial wave, their branches and leaves rustling with the movement. “Bye bye, dear friends! Oh, do be good!”

Lady Seraphina, now dressed in an elegant gown that matched her haughty demeanor, offered a graceful nod. Though her expression was one of polite interest rather than warmth, there was a hint of amusement in her eyes. “It seems you managed quite well… despite our little disagreement.”

Lord Reginald, wearing an oversized blazer, gave a flourish with his lance, his voice carrying a hint of good-natured pride. “Bravo! Your performance was most impressive. Until we meet, I’ll hope you’ll be-” he turned to Lady Seraphina. “Damn it all! What rhymes with impressive?”

With a final burst of magical light, you found yourselves back in your own world, sitting right where you had first touched the book. Gale was the first thing you saw, his hand waving in front of your face with a look of mild concern.

“Ah, there you are! Welcome back to the land of the living,” he said, his voice tinged with relief. “You’ve been out for over an hour. We were starting to get worried.”

Before either of you could respond, Shadowheart’s voice echoed from within her tent. “Hold on, Gale! I finally found the spell!”

Gale waved a hand dismissively in the direction of Shadowheart's tent, clearly more interested in ensuring you and Astarion were alright. But Astarion, with a rare, contented smile, simply waved him off. “We’re fine, Gale. We just… had a bit of an adventure.”

Gale raised an eyebrow, clearly curious but perhaps wisely choosing not to pry. “Well, as long as you’re both alright,” he said, stepping back to give you some space. With a final glance between the two of you, he turned and walked away, leaving you and Astarion alone.

You sat there in the fading light, the camp bustling quietly around you, but it all seemed distant, unimportant. What mattered now was the shared experience that had shifted something fundamental between you. Astarion’s hand still held yours, and as he looked at you, his usual teasing smirk softened into something more sincere.

“Y/N,” he began, his voice low and thoughtful, “I know we’ve been through a lot together, but what we just experienced… it felt different, didn’t it?”

You nodded, your eyes meeting his with a mix of understanding and affection. “It did. It was like everything we’ve been avoiding or denying just came to the surface. And now… now I can’t imagine not having you in my life.”

Astarion’s grip on your hand tightened slightly, as if anchoring himself to the moment. “I feel the same. I’ve spent so long not trusting, not letting anyone get too close… but with you, it’s different. I don’t know what the future holds, but I do know one thing—I want you in it. I want to be a part of your life, whatever that looks like.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and you smiled, a soft, genuine smile that reached your eyes. “I want that too, Astarion. Whatever happens, we’ll face it together.”

As if drawn together by an invisible force, you leaned in, sharing a kiss that was both a reaffirmation of your bond and a vow for the future. This kiss was slower, more deliberate, filled with the understanding that you were stepping into something new, something lasting.

When you finally pulled apart, the world around you came back into focus. The camp, the fire, the distant sounds of your companions—it was all still there, but now it felt different, brighter, as if the future you had just spoken of was already beginning to unfold.

You leaned your head on Astarion's shoulder, a small smile playing on your lips. “You know,” you murmured, “I think we make a pretty good team, even when we’re thrown into ridiculous situations.”

Astarion chuckled, gently resting his cheek against the top of your head. “Ridiculous is an understatement, my dear. But yes, I suppose we do make a rather formidable duo, don’t we?”

You nodded, your smile growing as you closed your eyes, savoring the closeness between you. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Neither would I,” he whispered.

You sat there in silence, the night wrapping around you like a cozy blanket. And as Astarion glanced over at Gale, a mischievous glint in his eyes, he couldn’t help but add, “But I really do look forward to calling him Lord Reginald.”

You burst into a fit of giggles, and Astarion grinned, his heart lighter than it had been in centuries. The adventure was far from over, but for now, you had found something even more precious—each other.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #astarion x reader #astarion #astarion x you #astarion fluff #fluff #tooth rotting fluff #fairy tales #lord reginald deserves the world

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theredofoctober · 1 month

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MANNA- CHAPTER NINETEEN: DUCK

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, Daddy kink, cannibalism mentions, murder mentions

Read after the cut

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“Family,” says Hannibal. “Let’s return to that subject today.”

You occupy the living room, each in a velvet armchair tilted with intent to replicate the layout of his office, the clever dressing of a theatre set. Attempts to put off this particular session had proved inefficacious, the coercion of your attendance rendering you curt and snappish in demeanor.

Truthfully you’ve been so since this morning, having rolled, coughing and vaguely feverish, from dreams of bodies hung rattling like so many clothes hangers in some subterrestrial den.

Hannibal, as expected, had still seen fit to persist with his agenda, weathering your complaints with a brisk good humour.

Will had made himself scarce sometime before you’d awoken, and has left word that you’re not to expect his return for many days. You yearn for him in all his brittle ferocity, a gabion against his friend’s subtle erosion of your mind as you know it. The early hour, the assault of unwanted conversation: such sly methods of torture will damn you to madness as quick as the murkiest secret.

“I’ve told you about my family,” you say to Hannibal, fingering a loose tuft of angora on your sweater. “Besides, you won’t even let me talk to them.”

“I don’t think that it would be to your benefit for me to do so,” he answers, and makes a gracious pretence of examining his pen.

Had you not extended a hand to Amy there would indeed have been a second call, this you’re clearly meant to understand. Hannibal is not above such trivial warfare, as he makes a continuing point to prove; you might be entertained by so comic a flaw were you not in such dire opposition.

“Maybe it’d be good for me to talk to my family,” you say, smartly. “And how can you know that it wouldn’t be when you barely know anything about them?”

Hannibal smirks, pleased to have cast such irresistible bait.

“Enlighten me, then. Begin with your mother, if you like. A predictable start, but in that simplicity rather less challenging than other avenues.”

You glance about the room as though seeking inspiration from it and find it wanting. Only the window at which the dying autumn presses its face wets the brush of conversation again, that symbol of fleeing dark brick to beyond a reminder that you must play on.

“We fight a lot,” you say. “My mom and me. She always has to be right about everything all the time. Never made a mistake in her life. Never apologises for anything. And if you criticise her— well, just don’t. Plus, she used to hit me when I was little. Nothing crazy, but still. She hit me.

“Then one day I slapped her right back and she never did it again.”

Pausing, you tug the hem of your sweater to your knees, an instinct to cover skin that today is not an inch bare.

“It’s funny,” you say. “She acts like she doesn’t remember any of it now.”

“Those in denial of their misdeeds often excise those shameful moments from the past,” says Hannibal. “It may not even be a conscious decision on her part.”

“It’d almost be better if it was. Then maybe she could own up to it, some day.”

Hannibal’s pen mars a fresh page in his notebook; even were it not upside down you suspect you’d fail to untangle his complicated hand.

“Has your mother’s behaviour caused friction surrounding your anorexia?” he asks.

“God, yeah,” you say, half laughing. “She used to yell at me. Tried to bully me into eating. Now she cries a lot and kind of makes it all about her. She loves me, but not in the ways you want in a mother. She pays for stuff. Drives me to places. Ticks all those boxes, you know? But she’s never been kind or comforting, really.

“It’s not all her fault. I guess she just doesn’t know how.”

A leaf falls against a windowpane like the hand of a dead, withered child, and you find yourself drawing back in your seat, wishing you’d the strength to push the chair against the wall.

“Why do you think your mother is unable to fulfil her role as you would like?” asks Hannibal.

“I guess my grandparents treated her the same way she treats me. They were always kind of cold with me when I knew them.”

“Generational cruelty is an infection one must wittingly sterilise. A pity so few are self-aware enough to administer that treatment. Was your father sufficiently conscious?”

Odd, this invocation of the paternal when Hannibal and Will have worked so diligently to embody it in place of your genetic relative.

Now, in a shirt the colour of thatch rolled pristinely back from the jewel of his wristwatch, the doctor could well be the wealthy father of a girl your age, the type to pour upon you his thousands, to walk you down the aisle in a venue of his choosing to marry an approved match of your class.

But you will never wed now that Hannibal has claimed you. He speaks of your family from a wreckage of his making, at ease with his distance from it.

“I love my dad the most,” you say. “But he’s a weird guy. Quiet. Never opens up about his feelings. He’ll talk about movies, or the news, but real stuff? Nope. So I've never felt all that comfortable around him. I mean, with good reason after... after everything.”

“More than good,” says Hannibal, firmly. “That you aren’t angrier with both parents for their abandonment in your time of need surprises me.”

“I don’t really blame them. Uncle Lee has this way about him. He can make people believe pretty much anything he says.”

Inevitable that you should mention Leland, who—though of other blood—is still an incestuous growth on the vine.

“What is this way of his?” asks Hannibal. “You’ve previously spoken of a power to sash the eyes of loved ones against what you perceive to be an obvious darkness. How does that ability present in him?”

You bring your legs up onto the chair, crossing them under you for comfort.

“He moved from Louisiana in his twenties,” you say, “so he still has the accent and everything. He even speaks French sometimes. Then there’s this way of holding himself he has. Kind of cocky, but funny, though. From the second he moved in on our street my parents just loved him, apparently. They never saw what I saw.”

“He’d donned the rubber mask.”

You look up at Hannibal almost shyly.

“Yeah. You remember.”

“Yes. And did you love him, in spite of what seemed to you an obvious guise?”

“I did. In some sick way I still do. So I get why my Mom and Dad believed him over me, but sometimes I think maybe part of them knows the truth, but they just shove it down deep like something dead.”

Scrubbing your face angrily with the sleeve of your sweater you snub, without noticing it, the omnipresent box of tissues on the nearby table top. Hannibal makes no remark on your unclean habit, only pours you a cup of green tea which you accept for the sake of avoiding an argument.

“To truly love someone you mustn’t bury their evils,” says Hannibal. “You must find acceptance of them in whatever form you can. Your parents do not care for this friend so much as fear the upheaval of the known. A suburban life, a sullied idyll— by sending you to me they are attempting to reverse its disunion from their image of it in memory.”

“They’re selfish,” you say. “I know. What’s new there?”

You look at the bottom of your teacup, hunting an impossible pattern in the pale ceramic.

“I don’t want to talk about my family anymore. What about yours? You had a sister, didn’t you?”

Hannibal’s eyes change like the blackening of dusk.

“Will told you this,” he says.

“Does it matter?” you ask, shrilly. “I want to know who you are, Daddy, and this is where I want to start. What happened to Mischa? What did she die of?”

It’s frightening how the man before you alters in only light adjustments: the quiet crossing of a limb, the rhomboid slant of shoulders under his jacket, each a signifier of the restless potentiality for truculence in him.

His face is not so beautiful in moments such as this. The flaws in it stand out to you: flesh racked over halberds of bone, something amphibious in the mouth, of some alien taxon. A killer’s physiognomy, little though you care for such sciences as would define it so.

“My sister was murdered when she was a little girl,” says Hannibal. “I interrupted the culprit in the midst of defiling her body, but it was too late. She was lost to me.”

The moon opal of a tear tips loose of an eyelash, its passage a kinetic artistry. What you’d taken for anger is another emotion: a raw and ancient loss.

“Oh my god,” you say. “That’s awful. Do you know who killed her?”

“A man who remains imprisoned to this day,” says Hannibal. “That is his penance for taking Mischa from me.”

You are in too great a terror and disgust of this man to embrace him, as would feel apt for a moment such as this.

“I’m sorry,” you say, weakly.

Hannibal closes the notebook in his lap and asks, almost blandly, “Are you?”

His bald disbelief flusters you.

“Yes. Of course. She was just a little girl. In fact, I feel like I get it, now. All of this. Me and you. It makes sense why you want me. Why you are what you are. It’s because of her.”

Forcing a smile, you reach over and touch a hand to Hannibal’s cheek.

He turns his face gently away from the caress.

“You’re mistaken, Little One. Whereas you were moulded by your circumstances, I was liberated by mine.”

You stare at him, endeavouring to bone his words for their meaning.

“What are you saying?”

“My philosophies and desires pre-existed Mischa’s death. My love for her restrained me, for while she lived I was never free to act as I yearned to in fear that she would be harmed. In some ways I resented that restraint, but in passing Mischa offered me the opportunity to forgive her.”

A cloud snuffs out the sun, and you sit in the dark of it, aghast.

“Forgive her for what?” you ask, in a near whisper. “Helping you? Hannibal, I—”

“We are still at an impasse, I see,” he says, coolly. “We must rectify this. Would you like to know how she received her absolution?”

You shake your head.

“But you must,” says Hannibal. “You’re a curious girl. Mischa’s remains now lie in a grave in my home country. Before I buried them there, I ate part of her. That is how I reconciled my feelings for my sister with what I am.”

Shock throttles your body in its tremor, and the empty teacup drops from your hand, prevented from breaking only by the carpet underfoot. You had, with all the delicate senses of a medium, deciphered the presage of his appetite, and still you feel the plates of the earth shudder with the magnitude of his confession.

Hannibal gets up from his seat, places the cup back into its saucer, and takes your hand in his.

“Let’s end the session there,” he says. “I’d like to involve you in preparing today’s meal, since that’s a new interest of yours.”

With a fear-stricken servility you walk with him to the kitchen, expecting him to have something—someone—preserved in the glossy coffin of the refrigerator.

Instead Hannibal kneels to unlatch an ingenious door in the floorboards, revealing a neat little staircase which runs down into a basement room. From it emanates a rolling field of cold, biting at you through your clothes.

You take a step back, near tumbling in your eagerness to escape it.

“What is that?”

“It’s an expansion of the freezer,” says Hannibal. “With all the dinner parties I host it’s natural that I found myself in need of more storage space. This is my answer to that problem. I’d like you to go down and choose a cut of meat for dinner.”

There’s no threat in the statement; he speaks, in fact, quite casually, meaning to impress upon you the mundanity of his diet in his eyes. To make supper of his sister, to dine upon lamb: there is no separation for him, being that all of it is meat.

You squeeze your eyes shut, cannot face the oblong of shadow beyond the steps which you’ve dreamt of, unknowing,

“Please don’t make me go down there, Daddy.”

“There’s nothing to be frightened of. Open your eyes, Little One.”

“No. No. I don’t want to.”

You try to turn away, but Hannibal arrests you by the arms, holding you as a farmer would a wriggling hare.

“I’m not going to eat you,” he says. “If that’s what you think.”

“I know!” you wail. “But it doesn’t matter. If I go down there and... see, everything’ll change forever. Because I’ll know for sure, and I’ll be part of it. And I can’t be part of it. I’ll go crazy.”

You jerk passionately in Hannibal’s grip, but his greater strength prevails.

“Wait,” you say. “When you talked about Leland—bringing him to me—you meant that I should kill him to eat.”

“Yes,” says Hannibal, simply. “I did.”

There is a softness in his eyes you recognise as hope. He is a man desperate to create others like him, for all that he believes that they are born.

“But you said with Mischa that eating her was forgiveness,” you say. “But you don’t want me to forgive Uncle Lee. So what would it mean to eat him?”

“Look to why trophy hunters keep mementos of their sport. Some as markers of achievement and dominance over the animal, and others in a subconscious humiliation of the predator they’ve slain. Man gloats to bring a tiger to kneel; a girl, having conquered man, might do the same.”

Thinking of Hannibal’s recorded killings, some of them young women, you say, “Most animals don’t deserve humiliation.”

“That’s all a matter of perspective, my dear. A seasoned hunter develops rather a discerning eye for flaws in his quarry.”

Hannibal smooths a lock of hair behind your ear, his rancid touch queerly soothing.

“What did Savannah Belmont do to deserve humiliation?” you ask, sulkily. “She wasn’t a bad person. She was just a girl, like me.”

“A cursory reading of obituaries and odes to Miss Belmont’s life denote her brief career at a rare bookshop,” says Hannibal, “for which position her personal tastes suggest she was underqualified to take. It wouldn’t be so unrealistic to assume that she left customers unhappy with her inadequate ability to serve them.”

Horror breaks over you like the falling of a chandelier. This, too, you had foreseen: no serious cause to kill was ever required for Hannibal, and that you are fucked rather than murdered by him is but a flourish of fate.

Peering into your eyes, Hannibal comes to a rapid decision and bends to close the trapdoor again.

“Duck, tonight, then,” he says. “That will suffice.”

Through terror you cling to Hannibal long into the afternoon, lurking at his elbow, a thumb in your mouth, as he prepares for the day’s appointments.

If he is he here, with you, he cannot kill, you reason, not while he thinks only of the invitation of tear-salt on your lips, the liquor of your nether mouth around him. Again and again you’ll die upon his cock as tribute, for though cold in your disorder you are not so callous as to allow others to, if you can help it.

“I’ll be gone for just a few hours, sweet girl,” he says, pausing to rock you in his lap. “No more of this. I’ve left a new book for you in your room. Please begin reading it for me. And there is the recording of an opera I’d like you to watch. That should keep you occupied until I’m home to you.”

It’s only after he’s driven away in the hearse of his car that you succumb to the awfulness of all you've heard. As in those primordial days of captivity you grasp the bars of your window and scream into the burnished day, beating your fists upon the iron until they burst across the bone.

Only a volley of coughing halts you in this fit, sending you to your bed alarmed by the weakness come over you. You lie shivering for hours, wondering if this is the nervous exhaustion you’ve read about in novels that ends in heroines consigned to the madhouse, sunny climes, or else the grave, none of which you might expect to be released to.

When Hannibal returns he feels your forehead and listens to your coughs with a mildly furrowed brow.

“Hospital,” you croak, but he only laughs and strokes your head.

“There’s no need for that. You have a chest infection. Your immune system is very poor. Nevertheless, you’ll be well again soon.”

He perfumes your damp neck with a kiss and sits down in a chair beside you.

“Perhaps it’s for the best that Will is occupied with work,” he comments, at length. “I wouldn’t like his condition to worsen again.”

#tw noncon #tw rape #tw daddy kink #tw abuse #tw cannibalism #tw eating disorders #tw anorexia #hannibal fic #yandere hannibal lecter #hannibal lecter #hannibal lecter x reader #reader fic

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esmedelacroix · 11 months

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Coffee Shop Love Pt.3

pairing: miguel o'hara x f!reader

summary: He's as stern and cold as the snow falling from the sky blanketing the bustling streets of Nueva York, Miguel O'Hara stumbles upon a hidden gem of a coffee shop just around the corner from Alchemax. Only problem is the annoying-as-shit smiley-ass barista.

contents: slow burn, no use of y/n, so much fluff, implied age gap, a teeny smidge of angst, suggestive

author's note: Hi lovies, third part! I'm so happy you all like this series! I really like writing it. Please let me know what you all liked its really helpful! Enjoy...

word count: 1.5k

Pt.1, Pt.2, Pt.3, Pt.4, Pt. 5, Pt.6, Pt.7, Sequel: Sweet Tooth

The next morning you got up and got ready to start baking for the morning rush. By the time you got down to the shop your two employees were already baking the muffins and cakes. You said hello and went over the menu for the day. You then started preparing lunch menu ingredients.

Just when you had finished the morning preparation and opened up. You felt your phone buzz in your back pocket. Which was weird because no one ever texted you in the morning. You took your phone out and stared at the message that awaited you.

Miguel: Hey could you make my coffee in advance? I'm running late today...

You: Of course, hurry!

Miguel: Maybe sneak a lil muffin in there...?

You: Sugar? Am I speaking to Miguel or an imposter?

Miguel: 😡

You smiled down at your phone. You had texted Miguel last night for a while before going to bed. Older people using emojis always cracks me up. You thought to yourself. You put your phone back in your pocket and made his order. While the morning rush built up to its usual catastrophic storm of angry city folk. Mr. Smith picked up his order and his rent, just when the morning rush was at peak catastrophe and the line was going out of the shop, you saw Miguel pull up to the sidewalk and step out of his car.

You put on your scarf and earmuffs, along with a puffer jacket and gloves before heading outside. If there was one bad thing about you, it's that you were practically allergic to cold weather. You rushed out to Miguel who was leaning against his car. "Hey, I came as fast as I could," you huffed out smiling at him.

"Thank you, Baby—you look warm," he teased. He noticed the way your eyes watered when gusts of wind carried snow. How the snowflakes fell on nose and eyelashes. The way your nose turned a slight shade of pink, he could already guess that if you didn't have those earmuffs on, your little ears would be pink too. Even though you were wrapped in the warmest clothes, you still looked so chilly Miguel was resisting the urge to wrap his arms around you and warm you up properly himself.

"I'm so sensitive to the cold, my hands and feet are always cold," you explained as you held his drink out to him as well as a little brown paper bag. "I packed you a lemon poppyseed muffin, something tells me you'll enjoy it," you said.

"Hmm, I let you know," he hummed looking away. He was obviously a bit embarrassed to be enjoying baked goods. You chuckled to yourself and shook your head.

"Get inside Baby, or you might freeze right where you stand," Miguel chuckled as he ushered you back into the shop.

You waved goodbye and entered the battlefield of morning brews and muffins. It was a long day but you looked forward to the clock finally striking 9 p.m. because you knew Miguel would walk in, probably get stuck in the mistletoe, and say hello.

So he had walked through the door into the empty shop and got caught in the mistletoe while accidentally knocked over the yuletide, your night was finally complete. You never would have thought that a man as intimidating as Miguel would also be so clumsy. But it wasn't his fault that he was incredibly tall and monstrously muscular.

"Miguel, can you stop trashing my shop?" you teased as you walked around the counter to fix your holiday decor. Just when you have adjusted the yuletide, his broad shoulder bumped into a bell and it fell as well.

"Great, now you're throwing stuff at me," you joked giggling at his clumsiness.

"Oh stop it," Miguel said rolling his eyes. The both of you were so lost in the moment of laughter and bliss that you didn't realize that you were standing at the entrance of the store. You both realized and looked above you to see the mistletoe, you felt the heat rise from your chest to your face all the way to your ears.

You had never been this close to Miguel so you never realized that his eyes which you thought were mahogany brown had a slight hint of ruby in them. They were both whiskey and wine while simultaneously being black coffee and velvet cake.

He smelled like sandalwood, vallina, musk, roses, and cedarwood. In short, he smelled better than sex. His scent drugged you and kept you in his trance while swimming in his eyes. You stared at each other far too long for it to be nothing. You finally broke the tension by clearing your throat. "It's too bad you don't believe in Christmas, I'm a really good kisser," you said as you began to walk back around the counter, hoping that he didn't notice how nervous you were. He walked up to the counter visibly not over what had just happened.

"Well, who said I don't believe in Christmas?" he asked.

"I said I haven't celebrated in a while," he explained correcting you.

"Are you just saying that because you want a smooch? So needy," you said shaking your head at him. You handed him his coffee, which you already started to make. Your question made him blush a bit. Cute.

"Don't worry you don't have to answer that question, but you have to tell me if you liked the muffin I made you," you asked with a shy smile.

"It was actually really good. But don't take that wrong way, I still don't like sweet things," he said.

"Yeah sure, anyway I'm going to drop the extras off at the homeless shelter down the road if you want to tag along?" you suggested

"Okay, I don't really have much to do," he replied rubbing the back of his neck.

You were partially asking so he could help load the stuff into your car. How could he blame you? He didn't have all that muscle for nothing. As you both got in the car and drove the short drive to the shelter, you sparked a bit of conversation. "So, I've never seen you around the area, did you just move here?" you asked.

"I moved recently, I actually work at Alchemax, it's not too far away," he explained. You let out an impressed hum.

"Ohh snazzy, what do you do there?" you asked as you taped the wheel rhythmically to the Frank Sinatra Christmas song playing in the background.

"I'm a geneticist," he answered.

"Yeah, I don't know what that is, but I was born and raised here," she said as Miguel laughed at her earlier comment.

"Tell me more," Miguel said under stifled laughter.

"The coffee shop is kind of a family heirloom if you will, it's been around for decades. Naturally, I followed in my parents' footsteps and went to culinary school. But my parents passed away a while ago so I couldn't finish school," she explained.

"Well, I'm sure your parents would be proud. I think you have this coffee thing down to a T," he said, making you smile like an idiot.

"Thank you, Miguel, that means a lot," you said as you pulled up to the shelter. You both got the stuff out of the trunk. You walked in and took it to the front desk where your best friend Estella was. "Hey, Baby—oh? Who's this? Boyfriend? Hookup?" she asked while sizing him up and giving you a nod of approval.

"This is Miguel and um, he's my uh—" you started trying to find the words.

"We're friends," he answered simply. Estella still looked at us suspiciously before letting the volunteers take the goods off our hands.

"Well you two have a great night, and Miguel, she may not look like it but, she likes it rough," Estella teased throwing a wink at Miguel.

"Oh my god, Estella!" you groaned as you walked out with Miguel and got back into the car. The ride was silent until he said, "Rough huh?"

"Please forget she said that," you said smiling sheepishly at the revelation.

"Oh, so you're not going to deny it?" he asked.

"Well, why deny it when it's true?" you said accepting the shame.

You had parked and looked over at his face for a reaction to this information. But nothing, you couldn't read his expression. The two of you spent the rest of the night chatting it up about everything under the sun(or moon). You have learned so much about Miguel.

You learned that he has a brother named Gabriel, his favorite color is red, he prefers chocolate over gummies(wrong opinion), and he absolutely has to keep eye contact when speaking with someone.

As you both continued to bond over Christmas cookies and brews, your moment was interrupted by a buzz from both of your phones. It was an amber alert that read:

[Blizzard Warning! This area til 9:00 PM EST Mon. All citizens must stay indoors. All roads closed]

Next... Pt.4

taglist:

@iite-cool@jewelz-teehe@br0-please@thesilenthill@d1lf-loverrr@amber-content

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mountain-in-springtime · 1 year

Text

somethin' stupid (like i love you)

pairing: sam x reader | word count: 5.3k | warnings: kissing, language, alcohol consumption | my masterlist

summary: you and sam have been best friends for years, but the presence of three little unsaid words could be enough to tear you apart.

author's note: Y'ALL this is my longest fic ever like what is happeningggg?? anyways, this fic is almost entirely unedited aside from whatever grammarly told me to fix lol but i love her anyways. i was unsure of how to format this, and i was kinda worried that it was corny, but i think i'm really happy with this one. it makes me so very soft. also it's based off of the song somethin' stupid, which is one of my songs of all time and is also linked below!

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The icy night air stung your cheeks as it whipped around you, making your hair tumble from its carefully done style, and you were sure that you would wake up with a cold in the morning with the way the weather turned you into a sniffling mess. You guessed it was partially your fault for not grabbing a jacket when you and Sam had snuck your way from the cramped, sweltering space of your high school gym, but in your defense, you hadn’t had a lot of time to think it over. You were laughing and dancing with one of your friends, swaying with giddy delight when you felt a hand grasp your own. After whipping around, you saw that it was your best friend, his expression pleading as he made his request.

“Let’s get out of here,” he had said, and you followed without a single question as to why. Next thing you knew, you were walking hand-in-hand down the empty streets, wandering aimlessly in silence. Occasionally, you would hear a quiet sniffle from him, and you couldn’t be sure if it was a product of the environment or something else entirely.

After many minutes of wordless strolling, the two of you came across a playground. Void of any of the childish giggles and shrieks it usually fosters, it was almost an eerie sight. Still, you went with Sam as he turned toward the old, rusty swing set. The seat creaked as he sat down, and the chain on yours squeaked as it gave with your weight. You turned to your friend, studying the serious expression he wore as he gazed downward and kicked the pebbles that littered the ground below him.

“You okay?” you prompted, hoping for him to open up. He kept his eyes away from your own but held his hand out beside him. You reached your own out to him, and he linked his pinky with yours. It was a small gesture, but it didn’t go unnoticed by you. Even when he was hurting, Sam was sure to give you reassuring bits of affection, making it clear that it wasn’t you he was upset with.

“She dumped me,” he finally said after a long moment. His voice lacked any of its characteristic light, and his eyes stayed trained on the ground. The long waves of his thick hair hung like curtains that obscured his face from your view, something you figured he was grateful for.

You sighed and reached out a sympathetic hand, resting it on his arm. “Oh, Sam,” you mumbled, “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“I know. That’s not your fault. I didn’t tell you. I… couldn’t,” he answered, his voice quiet and strained.

A moment of silence fell between you as you took in what he had said. “Why?” you finally asked, and you could feel the weight of the question hanging in the air the minute you uttered it.

Sam let out a long sigh before answering. “Because… you never liked her anyway. I thought if I told you, you’d just rub it in my face that you were right.”

His confession hit you like a ton of bricks as you say there, feeling like the biggest jerk in the world. “Oh, shit, Sam. I… I never meant to make you feel like that. I’m sorry,” you whispered, “Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he replied through a deep breath. You knew he could tell how bad you felt. Sam was always so in tune with your emotions, quick to lift you up when you were down, but in this moment, you couldn’t let him do that.

“No, it’s not,” you corrected, shaking your head, “It’s really not, Sam. I’ve been a shitty friend. I thought that I was looking out for you, but I was just being a jealous asshole. I think seeing you so happy with someone else… it made me feel left out, y’know? But that’s not your problem, it’s mine. I made you feel like you couldn’t talk to me about your relationship, and that’s messed up. I’m sorry.” You turned to face him and were surprised when he was already looking at you.

His grip on your pinky moved to your entire hand as he laced his fingers with yours. He wore a gentle smile as he shook his head softly. “No need for an apology. I already forgave you, silly,” he mumbled, brushing stray hairs from your forehead. His hand cradled the back of your head and pulled you forward. You sighed softly as his lips grazed your temple. “I could never stay mad at you, y’know,” he said quietly.

You nodded. “I know,” you teased, “You love me too much.”

He let out a small chuckle and looked down at you. “You got that right. You’re the best friend I have,” he answered. His arm rested across your shoulder, pulling the two of you close despite the groans of the swings you occupied. You tilt your head up, your chin resting on his chest as you meet his gaze. You wished that you could keep this moment in a capsule and return to it over and over again, but you knew that there was more that needed to be said.

“Sam? You wanna talk about it? The breakup, I mean,” you offered, not wanting to pry but also desperately wanting to be there for him.

He gave his head a small shake as he continued to smile down at you. “Nah, it’s okay. I kinda knew it was coming.,” he explained, “She was pulling back. I just tried to ignore it. Told myself I was making it up, y’know?” He said it more like a fact than a question, punctuating it all with a long sigh.

“I’m sorry,” you replied, unsure of what else to say. You looked down at his hand in yours, turning it over and examining his long, slender fingers. You thought about how funny it was that even up close Sam was so beautiful and warm. He was perfect down to each minutia of his being. Your fingers traced along his knuckles, transfixed in the dips and curves between them. You grazed his fingertips and felt the rough calluses that had formed there from years of practice and passion. It was like you had fallen into your own private world as you stared at the canvas of your best friend’s palm.

A small chuckle from Sam pulled you from your daze, his laughter vibrating through his chest and flowing into you. You wore an expression that fell somewhere between amusement and confusion as you looked up at him. “What?” you asked with a soft giggle.

He shook his head as he held his fond expression. “Nothing,” he answered, “You look pretty when you’re all focused like that. Your brows get all scrunched, and your face gets all serious.” He tried and failed to mimic your expression, falling into a fit of wild, bubbling laughter.

You rolled your eyes and gave him a playful look. “That doesn’t sound pretty, Sam,” you chided jokingly, “You make me look like a doofus.” You shoved him lightly, making him only laugh harder.

He shook his head, fighting off his persistent chuckling as he placed his hand on your cheek and tucked a windswept strand of hair behind your ear. “Trust me, sweetheart. You look so pretty right now,” he whispered. Your heart jumped at how shamelessly he said it, making it impossible to not believe him. You swallowed thickly in an attempt to calm your racing pulse.

“Yeah?” you questioned teasingly, “You’re not too bad yourself, y’know.” Your cheeks felt hot as you said it, and you could feel creeping regret encompass you as you were suddenly afraid that you had gone too far and ruined the moment, but a small laugh from Sam calmed you instantly in a way that only he seemed able to do.

He mirrored your question, “Yeah?” His gaze pierced your own, freezing you in place despite your desire to look away and hide your growing bashfulness. You felt completely bare before him, like he was seeing every piece of you, and you weren’t sure if you could handle it or if you even wanted to. Just when it became too much to bear and you moved to turn away, you felt Sam’s fingers grip your chin, keeping you facing him. “You scared?” He asked quietly, his voice even and sincere.

You hesitated before answering, unsure of what the honest answer was. Your heart was racing faster than it ever had, and you felt like you were seconds away from passing out, but as you stared up at Sam, you had never felt safer. You were scared out of your mind, but you knew that he would never lead you astray. You shook your head. “I’m alright, Sam,” you answered shakily.

He smiled softly. “Good,” he cooed as he leaned forward, stopping when his lips were only centimeters from yours. His eyes flitted up to meet your own, silently giving you one last chance to back out. You let out a nervous breath and smiled at him before closing the gap between you, hesitantly locking your lips with his. You heard Sam gasp quietly in surprise, and he stayed still for a moment of pure shock before kissing you back in earnest. His hand on your cheek moved to the back of your neck, pulling you close with all of the gentle passion in his body. You squeezed his hand as you sighed softly into his kiss. Everything around you melted away. There was no playground, no icy wind, and no pressure to be anything but yourself. It didn’t matter where this went or what it would mean for you and Sam tomorrow. All that mattered was this beautiful, messy, perfect moment between the two of you as you made your undefined and unexplored love for each other tangible between squeaky swings and shuffling rocks.

Sam may not be right about a lot of things, but he sure was right about one: you really needed to learn to pace your drinking. You stumbled about Josh’s house, placing your hands on empty walls, wobbly shelves, and innocent party-goers in an attempt to steady yourself. Occasionally, you would spot someone you recognized and slur out a desperate “Where’s Sammy?” to which you would get pointed in a direction that never seemed to be where he actually was. After a few minutes of aimless wandering you gave up and decided to make your way to the kitchen. Your stomach had been growling endlessly for about fifteen minutes, and you had ignored it for just about as long as you could in your drunken state. As you crossed the threshold into the kitchen, your foot caught onto a statue near the entryway, sending you tumbling downward. You yelped and braced yourself for impact, but at the last moment, you felt strong hands grip your arm and waist and pull you back up. You mumbled out a quick thanks before turning towards your savior and seeing a familiar face.

“Oh, Sammy!” you gasped, “There you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” You giggled softly and pulled him into a crushing hug, making it his turn to give a surprised yelp, which was followed promptly by his signature, good-natured laugh.

“Looking for me? What do ya need me for?” he asked. He kept a hand on each of your arms as he talked to you, making sure you didn’t take another dive toward the hardwood floors.

You stared blankly for a moment before shrugging. “Don’t remember,” you answered before a look of realization crossed your face, “Oh, yeah, I’m drunk. And hungry.” Your stomach growled loudly, cementing your latter point. “See?” you added, pointing to your belly.

He let out a bark of laughter before he looked at you with a smug grin. “Lemme guess, you didn’t listen when I said that doing all those shots with Jake and Josh was a bad idea, huh?” his voice had a tinge of prideful victory, and it was putting a serious damper on your excitement at finding him.

You let out a groan and stuck your lip out in a pout. “It’s their birthday, Sammy. What kind of friend would I be if I turned down shots?”

“A sober friend,” he countered with a chuckle, “Besides, they’re professional alcoholics. No one can keep up with them.” He pulled you into his side and ruffled your hair slightly.

“Hey!” you whined, swatting his hand away from your now-tangled hair, “You know, I think you only say that no one can keep up with Jake and Josh because you’re a lightweight.” You look up at him, wiggling your eyebrows in an act of challenging playfulness.

He rolled his eyes. “Watch it there, sweets. Don’t wanna bite the hand that keeps you from falling on your ass,” he quipped, his grip on your waist tightening slightly as he felt you shift your weight from one foot to the other.

“Whatever,” you dismissed with a scoff, “You know I’m right, though. That’s why you never drink much at these parties.” Now it was your turn to look up at him smugly, your nose scrunching slightly.

He brought his other hand forward and tapped the tip of your nose with his index finger playfully. “You wish,” he said with a smirk, “I don’t drink because I know you’re gonna get wasted and beg me for a ride home. What you gotta say about that one?” His gaze on you was triumphant as he expectantly waited for you to answer.

You opened your mouth to protest but stopped as your cheeks flushed, and your face grew into a half-hearted glare. “Can we get Taco Bell on the way home?” you finally asked defeatedly.

You felt Sam shake with laughter as he nodded, “Sure,” he agreed, “Now, c’mon, let’s go say bye to everyone. Don’t wanna be bad guests, now do we?” You nodded in reply, and he started to guide you out of the kitchen in search of his brothers. Finding them proved to be anything but a difficult feat, considering that all it took to find Josh was to listen for the loudest person and head in their direction. Jake, of course, was right beside his twin, Josh’s arm wrapped affectionately around his shoulders. After wishing them goodbye and a happy birthday and assuring them that while, yes, you’d love to stay, you really did have to go home, you set your sights on finding Danny. He was just as easy to find as the twins, pouring himself another drink and making friendly conversation with some of the other guests. You and Sam bid him farewell and began to make your way out of the house. You clung desperately to Sam’s side as you made it through the living room, and only three extra goodbyes and one near-faceplant later, the two of you had made it outside and all the way to Sam’s car. He unlocked the car and opened the passenger door for you, helping you climb inside.

“Thank you, Sammy,” you mumbled, “You’re a real sweetheart.” You gave him an affectionate pat on the arm, which he returned before shutting the car door and moving to the driver’s side.

“Alright,” he said as he sat behind the wheel, “You ready to go? Got your seatbelt buckled?”

You gave a gasp of realization, “Oh!” The seatbelt made a loud zipping sound as you pulled it across your body. Sam watched with fond amusement as you tried again and again to click the buckle into place, finally nailing it on your fourth try. “Got it!” you exclaimed, all giggles and excitement.

He laughed along with you as he backed out of Josh’s driveway and set off down the road. You let the time pass between you, an ever-flowing stream of consciousness pouring from you as you shared anything and everything on your mind. Sam listened to every word, never interrupting or making you feel silly for your drunken rambles. It was the kind of thing that you’d really appreciate and probably comment on if you were a little more sober.

Eventually, you felt the car slow down as Sam pulled into the Taco Bell drive-thru. An excited squeal left your throat as the car rolled to a stop. He rolled down the window, and a few moments later the metallic voice rang through the speaker, asking for your order. You heard Sam ask for a moment before he turned to you with a lopsided grin. “Alright, what are you having, sweets?” he asked.

You gave a loud, exaggerated hum as you thought it over, staring at the menu through the windshield. “Ummm, quesadillas,” you finally answered, “Oh, and a Mountain Dew, please. A big one.” You held your hands up and mimed the shape of a comically large drink. Sam rolled his eyes and chuckled softly in response, ordering quickly and driving up to the window. You leaned over and reached down for your purse. As you picked it up with a victorious huff, you stuffed your hand inside, fishing around for your wallet. However, your movements stopped when you felt Sam’s hand on your arm.

“Don’t worry about it,” he told you, shaking his head as he pulled out his own wallet from his pocket. He moved to take out his card but stopped with a sigh as you shoved a few bills his way.

“Lemme pay, Sammy,” you pleaded, “People are gonna think I’m a gold digger if you’re always buying.” You hoped your attempt at a joke would make him give in, but it seemed that the odds weren’t in your favor as he shook his head again, pushing the bills away.

“Nice try,” he said as he handed his card to the woman at the window, “Besides, we’re not even dating. No one’s gonna call you a gold digger.” He laughed, mostly to himself, and took his receipt from the cashier. You pouted slightly as you heard her tell him to pull into a parking spot, letting him know that the food would be out in a few minutes.

You were about to open your mouth to complain about how hungry you were, but when you looked at Sam, the thought was erased from your mind. The glow of the parking lot lights washed across his features, making them seem beautifully sculpted and impossibly soft all at once. His lips looked plush and full as he sang along quietly to the radio, and the way his lashes fluttered with every blink was enough to make your heart beat out of your chest.

Before you could stop yourself, you reached out with one hand, gently touching his cheek. “You’re so pretty, Sammy,” you whispered as your thumb brushed along the smooth skin of his cheek. He laughed softly and thanked you, but you shook your head, feeling a burning need to make him understand. “No, I mean it,” you insisted, “You’re beautiful. The light makes your face look so good.” You leaned over the center console, craving to be close to him.

You didn’t notice the soft flush of his cheeks, but you felt his hand grab yours softly and place it back in your lap. “Thanks, sweetheart,” he answered with a small smile playing across his lips, “You look really nice, too. Even if you’re a little sauced.”

You sigh, ignoring his playful dig at your current state. Your gaze stayed trained on him for a few more lingering moments. “You look the way you did in the playground that one time,” you mumbled, and you felt your cheeks heat up even as you said it.

“Yeah?” he asked, tensing slightly and gripping the steering wheel tighter with his left hand, his right one drumming on the gear shift.

You nodded. “Yeah. I think about it a lot. Do you?” you asked with such unfiltered candor that Sam couldn’t deny you the truth.

“Yeah. Sometimes,” he uttered, his eyes staying trained forward, unable to face you. It was only when he felt your soft grip on his chin that he turned.

“I wanna kiss you, Sam,” you blurted. The words hung in the air, and you desperately wanted to take them back, but it was too late, and as much as you could try to deny it in the morning, they were all true.

He searched your face for a few seconds, confusion and heartbreak dancing over his features. “No, you don’t, sweets. You’re drunk,” he muttered with a shake of his head, “You’re just getting in your head and saying things that you don’t mean.” His hand firmly but gently gripped your wrist, pushing your hand away. You moved it back immediately, your face holding a look of vulnerable want.

“No,” you protested softly, “Drunk or sober, this is what I want. I just… I’ve never been brave enough to say it before. Please, Sam, you know I love you.” You leaned forward slightly, praying to whatever powers that be that maybe he would feel the same way, but he only shook his head, placing his hand over yours.

His voice came out in a pained whisper, punctuated with a shake of his head, “I love you, too.” They were the exact words you wanted to hear, but you never knew how painful they could be. What you thought would be a heartfelt confession became the biggest rejection of your life. You opened your mouth to speak back, to ask why he didn’t want you if he loved you so much, but you were cut off as a woman approached the car, knocking on the window and handing Sam your food. You sat in a terrible silence as he placed your drink in the cup holder and handed you the brown paper bag. He stared ahead for a moment before sighing and putting on a half-hearted smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Alright, sweets. Let’s get you home.” And just like that, the moment was over.

Hot tears poured down your cheeks, burning your skin and making you choke with every sob. You wiped your nose with your sleeve, not caring how gross you would normally find the habit. Your knees were pulled tightly to your chest as you sat perched on your couches. After a few moments, your breathing slowly evened out, and you took a deep breath before reaching for your phone, dialing quickly and praying for an answer.

“Hey, sweetheart,” you heard Sam’s voice from the other line, full of cheer and affection. The sound of him alone was enough to pull fresh tears from you, pouring out in loud cries. He responded immediately with concern, “What’s wrong?” His question was simple. He never pushed too far, and it was something you appreciated now more than ever.

You sniffled loudly for a few moments before answering. “I dumped Austin,” you sobbed, “Can you please come over?”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Do you need anything?” He asked, his answer swift and to the point.

After a few moments of silent thought, you whimpered back, shaking your head, “No, just get here as soon as you can, please.” Your grip on your phone was tight and desperate as if holding it close would bring Sam to you faster.

“Alright. I’ll be there soon. You hang in tight, okay? I love you,” he cooed, slowly easing your nerves, making your breath still.

“Okay,” you sighed, “Thank you, Sammy. I love you, too.” You hung up the phone and took a deep breath. All you wanted was to ball back up on the couch and scream, but you decided that you should try getting yourself together before Sam arrived. You were sure he wouldn’t mind if you were a blubbering mess, but it wasn’t like he could help you much if you could barely speak.

You walked into your kitchen, throwing open your freezer and grabbing a tub of ice cream. It made a soft thudding sound as you dropped it unceremoniously onto the counter and swung the door to the freezer closed. Next, you pulled open the drawer nearest to the stove, grabbing a spoon for yourself and an extra one for Sam. The old barstool that was posed near your kitchen island screeched as you dragged it towards you, and it creaked loudly when you sat upon it. You mentally reminded yourself to look for new barstools and yanked the lid off of the ice cream, scooping a large spoonful and shoving it into your mouth. The sugar truly did little to lift your spirits, but at least it didn’t make you feel worse. At least that was what you were telling yourself when you heard a knock at the door, signaling Sam’s arrival.

You got up from your place at the counter and plodded to the door. As you opened it and saw your friend’s face, you fell into his arms in a tight, bone-crushing hug. “Hey, Sammy,” you mumbled into his chest.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” he answered. You felt his hand splayed out across your back, rubbing up and down in a comforting gesture. After a moment, he spoke again. “You okay?” he asked, his voice full of gentle concern.

You let out a long sigh. “Yes. No. I don’t really know,” you whined, “I feel so bad, Sam. He had no clue it was coming.” Your head fell forward, landing in your palms as you rubbed your temples in frustration and uncertain grief. You slowly moved back to the kitchen and plopped back into your chair.

“I thought things were going really well,” Sam asked, following you and sitting beside you at the counter.

You nod as you take another bite of ice cream and nudge the extra spoon in his direction. “It was. I mean, he was so sweet and nice. He would come to all my family stuff, even when he knew he didn’t have to, and he was always doing all these sweet little things to make sure I knew he cared. Flowers, chocolates, the whole nine yards, y’know? He was the best boyfriend I ever had,” you shared, one long stream of consciousness pouring out of you.

Sam sat in silence for a moment, taking in what you had to say. Then, he gave a long sigh and finally answered, “I don’t understand then, sweets. Why’d you dump him?”

It was your turn to give a sigh in response, paired now with a shake of your head. “I didn’t love him,” you said quietly, “I tried. I tried so hard to love him. I mean, why not, y’know? He was a nice guy, the kinda guy I should consider myself lucky to be with. But I just couldn’t do it. No matter how hard I tried.” Tears started to roll down your cheeks again and your shoulders started to shake as Sam pulled you into a tight embrace, resting his chin on the top of your head.

“Hey, it’s alright. You don’t have to love anyone. You know that? Besides, any guy who’s with you is the lucky one, not the other way around,” he cooed sweetly to you as he gently patted you on the back, swaying slightly.

You gave a small huff, leaning into Sam’s embrace. “It’s like this every time. I meet a nice guy, and I try to love them, I really do, and it always just blows up in my face. God, what’s wrong with me?” you cried as you buried your face into the crook of his shoulder.

He shushed you softly, “Oh, now, come on. You know nothing’s wrong with you. You’re the best gal I know, and you shouldn’t try to force yourself to love anybody. That’s not the way to go about it. It’s not fair to yourself.” You felt his head tilt downward to look at you. “What’re you doing trying to make yourself love all these guys anyway?” he asked, no mocking tone in his voice, only a genuine desire to understand.

“It’s embarrassing, Sam,” you replied with a shake of your head, “I can’t….” Your sentence trailed off and you kept your face pressed against his body, unable to answer.

He nodded, “Alright. That’s fine. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, but just try to remember that things are gonna work out, okay? You’re gonna find someone out there who’s gonna really knock your socks off.” A small chuckle rumbled in his chest as he tried to slowly lift your spirits.

“No, I won’t, Sam,” you muttered, “I’ve tried over and over. It’s not gonna work out for me.”

Your words only made him tighten his grip on you. “Now, that’s crazy talk,” he chided softly, “Why would you think a thing like that?”

“Because you don’t love me.”

Your words hung between the two of you, Sam being the first to cut through the thick tension they left behind. “What?” he asked, his voice bearing incredulous confusion, “Of course I love you. I tell you I love you all the time.”

You gave a frustrated groan and pulled yourself away from him. “God, Sam, you just don’t get it. I don’t mean love like that. I mean love. You might love me, Sam, but you don’t want me. Not the way I want you.”

A painfully loud, blaring silence filled the room as the weight of what you said rested on the man before you. He didn’t say a word, his eyes staying locked on the floor.

“See?” you continued, “I’ve always loved you, Sam. I thought it was pass, but… fuck, I love you, Sam. And you just don’t love me. You never did.”

You opened your mouth to say more but was cut short as you felt warm, soft lips pressed against your own. Your body went rigid with shock for a moment before melting into Sam’s kiss. Deep, hungry sighs of relief flowed between the two of you as you desperately grabbed at each other. His tongue slotted itself between your lips, coming to meet with your own as his hands combed through your hair, gentle need filling him as he cradled you to his being. Your hands rested upon his shoulders and acted as an anchor to prove to yourself that this was real and not some sick joke your brain was playing on you.

After you could hardly breathe and had exhausted yourself in the raw passage of love you shared, you pulled back, looking Sam in the eyes. “I’ve always loved you,” he confessed, “I loved you since that night we kissed our senior year. I just… I was scared. The way I feel about you, it’s bigger than me. Hell, it’s bigger than the both of us put together, and I was scared that if I told you, if I really put my money where my mouth is and just laid it all out, it would ruin what we had. I could never afford to lose you. I still can’t. I just always told myself that I’d do whatever it takes to keep you around, even if it meant I couldn’t love you the way I wanted.”

You were almost moved to tears at his words as you pulled him close, hugging him tighter than you ever had before. “Oh, Sam, you’re so stupid. Stupid and wonderful. How could I ever not love you? And how could a love like ours ever go bad?” You tilted your head up and kissed him again, feeling so free just to know that you could.

A loud laugh rumbled through his chest as he held you and kissed you back. “Yeah, I guess love makes us all a little stupid, doesn’t it?” he asked and looked down at you, his playful, lopsided smile plastered to his face.

You giggled with unbridled delight. “I guess you’re right on that one,” you conceded, “At least we can be stupid together, right?”

“Right,” he answered, leaning in and kissing you sweetly. You smiled into his kiss, happy in the fact that you and Sam were both incredibly, undeniably stupid and unmistakably, absolutely in love.

taglist: @westernwoods @sunfl0wer-power @gold-mines-melting @alwaysonthemend @andtherestishistory13 @writingcold @sunandthemoontwinflames (send me an ask/dm if you wanna be added to my taglist!!)

#mal writes #sam kiszka #sam gvf #sam kiszka x reader #sam kiszka x you #sam kiszka x y/n #sammy kiszka #sammy gvf #sammy kiszka x reader #sammy kiszka x you #sammy kiszka x y/n #sam kiszka fanfic #gvf fanfic #greta van fleet #gvf #Spotify

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garricks4thwingqueen · 4 months

Text

Always Yours Part 3

Raelynn and Liam have to face the parapet. Xaden has to prep himself that the day is finally here for them.

Trigger Warnings: Slight NSFW mentions, Swearing

Part 3

Word Count :2128

Xaden’s POV

I woke up to the sound of Sgaeyl’s voice in my head “It’s time for your first official day of being a wingleader. Get up or risk the raft of being late.” I groaned. “ I could have fucking slept better if a certain dragon remembered to put her shield up when she was fucking her mate.” and then I felt her slam that mental door shut. “Great, at least you do it now.” I groaned as I heard a knock on my door, “coming.” I groaned knowing far too well it was either Bodhi or Garrick or both. I opened it to both of them. “Man you look shit.” “Shut it Boh, you can take my dragon from me.” “No thanks man, you can have that mated pair.” Bodhi responded with a chuckle. “Ready for today?” Garrick asked as we started to head down for breakfast. I huffed in the mildly cold morning air mixed with a sky that was a gloomy gray that threatened to brust through with a storm any minute. Hopefully after the parapet I said to myself. “Xaden, they’ll be fine.” Garrick siad reassuringly as we sat down at the leaders table for breakfast leaving Bodhi with Imogen. “I was terrified last year for Bodhi and Imogen, But this year? I may as well be a fucking trainwreck.” I said looking down at my breakfast plate which did not look appetizing at all, hoping that my sister and foster brother at least got a decent breakfast filled with protein.

Garrick and I made our way up to the turret as we could see this year's cadets already lining up for their turn. Taking surveillance, I didn’t see a head of blonde or a head of blonde with burgundy highlights or any relics sticking out in my vision yet. As wingleader and section leader it was mine and Garrick's job to take down the names as the cadets started to cross. “It’ll be my damned fault if anything happens.” I heard Garrick sigh. I didn't even think I had said them aloud Stop blaming yourself. They don’t blame you. They’ll do fine. I don’t respond to Sgaeyl. “Xaden.” Garrick started to say as I asked the approaching cadet their name and he wrote it down and I motioned them forward to start. “What?” I snapped “They’ll be fine. We all have been.” “Yeah, do you know what it feels like standing here being the one to call your foster brother and biological younger sister to the start of what may be their death sentence.” Garrick sighed once more as the 10th cadet started crossing. “That's not fair on yourself or even to me. You know I care about them too and Bodhi and Imogen. For the millionth time Xaden we are all in this together, so stop blaming yourself because we’d all rather be here then dead, and you know as much as I do that Raelynn isn’t going to put up with the blame game.” I chuckled. “Yeah, you may care about my sister a little too much.” It was Garrick’s turn to chuckle. ” You kind of squashed that a year ago and if I have a feeling in what she's written back to me, they may be a little more than friends now. Get ready for the next one, Riorson.” He finished. I sighed, taking in my line of vision in front of me about 6 cadets back was Liam. Liam holding on to my little sister, kissing her passionately like no one was watching. “Damn they need to breathe.” I said to Garrick. “Guess I was right.” As they finally stopped what may be their last kiss; I shook the thought out of my head as Liam’s soft blue eyes locked with mine as he was now third in line. Stop it. Sgaeyl said in a very annoyed tone. This time it was my turn to slam the mental door shut that connected us as there was only one more cadet ready to cross in front of Liam as it officially started to downpour. “Fuck.” I cursed. The parapet was a lethal balance beam on its own, but with weather conditions it may as well be even worse. Their strength was about to be tested as Liam stepped up. Instead of asking for his name which Garrick was already writing down I whispered, “Good luck, see you after this shit is over with.” “You’ve got this. "Garrick said on my left. Liam nodded “See you guys later. Remind Raelynn I love her.” He said, stepping forward. I nodded, not trusting my voice. He’ll be fine I whispered to myself as Garrick nodded in Rae’s direction and that's when my heart skipped a million beats. All I wanted was to hug my sister, but I couldn't. I couldn't risk that target on her all ready and as leadership we weren't allowed to intercept during parapet. “I love you.” She whispered with an added “both.” “I love you too, find Bodhi.” “Slow and steady. Small steps with the wet ground.” Garrick added as I motioned forward giving her a little more time then other cadets. Hopefully, Liam was at least now out of her line of vision if anything was going to happen. “She’s on.” Garrick whispered as I sighed, motioning for the next cadet to come forward.

Raelynn’s POV

I jumped off the parapet straight into Liam’s arms and buried my head into the crook of his neck. “I love you.” He whispered into my shoulder. “I love you more.” I said through a few rounds of tears; after facing one of the most stressful things I've done in my entire life, I never wanted to leave my man's arms again. ”Ouch, I thought you loved me the most?” “Boh!” I shrieked, flying out of Liam’s arms into my cousins. “Glad to see you both made it across. We’ve missed you.” I heard Liam chuckle as he pulled me back into his arms after he took his turn hugging Bodhi and placing a soft kiss on my lips. “So, are you two like what, official now?” “As of last night.” Liam said with the biggest grin on his face in Imogen’s direction. “Let’s just say I’m finally glad to have my best friend again. Dealing with these 3 alone this past year, it’s your turn.” Imogen said, giving me a hug. “Ha, I’ll gladly watch them all for a day.” I chuckled. “So how much of this is left?” I asked in Bodhi’s direction. “Let’s see, it's 11 am so it's about all day. First formation is at 6pm.” “Don’t worry we are all divided in the fourth wing evenly.” Bodhi said, looking between the both of us.

Later that evening after dinner and after formation, Liam and I finally had a chance to step away before going to our cots in the dormitories. “I love you.” I whispered as he pulled me in close in an enclosed alcove area off of the courtyard. He lifted me up as I wrapped my legs around his waist. “Not having the same bed is really going to suck.” I sighed as Liam let out a deep chuckle in response as his fingers slipped into my underwear. “Who said we can't share a cot.” He said in a low raspy voice as he playfully bit my neck, his fingers still exploring my lower region. “Li.” “yeah baby?” “I need you, now.” “So eager.” He chuckled and started sliding my pants just low enough. “Being frisky in public?” I heard my brothers familiar voice, “Fuck.” Liam cruised, quickly pulling my pants back up. “Anything you two want to share?” Xaden asked, now coming into full view. “That I missed you like hell.” I said as he chuckled, pulling me into a hug. “It was so hard not to hug you earlier.” I whispered. “I know. I was a nervous wreck the rest of the day; until Sgaeyl actually finally told me you both made it across.” He said letting go of me and hugging Liam. “Let’s go for a walk.” Xaden said, wrapping his arm around my waist, Liam’s already there. “I hate having to say this but you're really going to have to be on guard the majority of the time. Being my sister and who our father was.” “Xaden.” I sighed “You really think I’m going to let my girl out of my sight if I have any control over it.” Liam intercepted. “No and I’m thankful she has you.” Xaden said as we stopped under a tree. “Garrick!” He chuckled as he turned around from talking to Bodhi and Imogen. It took Gar only 4 steps to close the space between us, “I’m glad you both made it.” he said as we hugged. “Isn’t this illegal?” I asked, looking around our core group of 6 and leaning back into Liam as he rested his back against the fruit tree. “Technically.” Xaden answered, “but it’s also the one place besides classes that we can all be together.” Garrick added in. I sighed, grasping Liam’s hand a little more for the added comfort. “The first year is always the toughest, not that it gets any easier.” Xaden said with a steady gaze on both Li and I. “Unfortunately, because of me, for us it's worse.” “Xad.” s started to say. “Told you Riorson.” Garrick chuckled. “Because of you we are alive.” I said, stepping towards my brother. Xaden was never one to show his emotions well. In fact, he was basically a solid rock when it came to expressing himself. “If you didn’t do what you did 7 years ago none of us would have a chance to even be standing here.” There were times I could break his tough exterior, but I knew it wasn't going to be now, especially when it involved mine and Liam’s safety. However, I did feel his tension release as we stepped out of our hug. “We just need to make sure that we all continue to help each other, so we all make it through.” He said while pacing back and forth. “We are safe in our squad. Those in the same squad can’t attack squad mates. That's why we split up.” Garrick explained looking directly at me.” The only class we have together is battle brief.” Imogen added. “ I wanna meet as much as we can here at night during the week.” Xaden said. “ “We come and go in twos. Splitting up pairs so it's not so obvious each time. It’s also getting late, and we all need our rest for the new year.” he added. “Let’s start heading back. Mairi goes with Garrick. I'm borrowing my sister as I can’t seem to trust you two tonight.” He said with a smirk on his face as I sighed, turning around to face Liam and giving him a kiss and a “Good night, I love you.” “I love you, Rae. I’ll see you at breakfast.” He hugged me tighter before letting go and walking away with Garrick, with Imogen and Bodhi following shortly after. “What’s your signet?” I asked as we killed time to leave.

“Shadow wielding.” He said as I felt a tap on my shoulder that I noticed didn't come from his hand but instead the shadows as if he had full control over them. “So Sgaeyl, coincidence or did she choose you because of Grandpa (who was one of her previous riders.) “Grandpa I’m 100% certain, even though she says it's because of my ruthlessness.” He answered as we started walking back to the campus, his arm around my waist protectively almost a little too tight. ”Xad.” I said “Hmm.” “My ribs would like to breathe.” “Sorry.” He chuckled, only easing up a little bit. “So you and Liam. Officially, official?” “Officially.” I said “I’m nervous as hell Xaden.” I said barely above a whisper as we stopped at the entrance to the hall that led to the girls dormitory; there was no point in giving first years their own room until after Threshing. “Losing Liam is my biggest fear besides losing you or anyone else close to us. I’m not even sure I’d be able to function without him. I’m not even sure I’m going to make it to October 1st. It's still the beginning of July and we’ve never spent a night apart.” Xaden chuckled letting go of me “You’ll survive that’ll be the least of your challenges up ahead even though I know it won't be easy for either of you.” “Speaking of night you best get to your cot before it's any later.” “Xad.” I said barely above a whisper trying to hold back my tears.

#fourth wing #xaden riorson #fourth wing fanfic #liam mairi

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the-ellia-west · 2 months

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hio

am bored and procrastinating a bunch of stuff so i decided to drop this random excerpt from one of my wips into your inbox for no reason at all hope you don't mind btw

ps: if u do just ignore this cya~

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

"...the sky isn't looking its best right now…" as if mirroring my thoughts, shifting my eyes again, they gazed at you.

"...." my words aren't forming anymore, my thoughts aren't churning anymore.

All I can feel is this emptiness around me, chilling and unforgiving

My eyes alone are what's keeping me from faltering,

Lost in my own mind I kept Gazing at you.

"...you always hated bad weather, didn't you?" Not that you remember anyway,

"...although if you asked me there's nothing bad about rain or storms," despite their darkness they are still beautiful in my eyes.

"..maybe sometimes misfortune happens through them, but that doesn't mean it's fully theirs to blame,"

It's nobody's fault really, accidents happen all the time, people constantly make mistakes.

They won't be human if they don't.

They trip and fall, they forget and miss up, they bumble their way in life until they die.

it always has been this way, from aeons past till this day.

People never stopped bumbling their way, whether it's through their life, their work, their hobbies

Or their relationships, people keep going on with their day bumbling here and there

Falling down and getting back up, forgetting and remembering, people are just humans after all

They keep trying throughout all of their bumbling,

Hoping for a change someday.

Like me finally getting my feet here after all these years!

Yay I guess?

Every time I tried to convince myself to come here I failed, every time my feelings overwhelmed my resolve.

Just thinking of you had me breaking apart, tearing up, screaming and crying…it was all far too painful to bear…so i selfishly ran away,

"....i missed you, you know…i..these years…without you..they," bumbling my words, I stopped to try and speak coherently.

Once again I searched for my words carefully and awkwardly.

"...those passing years have been crazy…those years of my life were so long yet so short,"

As if having a mind of its own, my mouth started talking, pouring my deepest thoughts to the world,

"Everything went by so quickly, so vaguely,...moments I thought would last forever turned into unclear images and memories,"

Somewhere in myself started to hurt,

I don't understand what hurts so much.

"..things I thought would last forever ended far sooner than I was ready for….things I took for granted, people who were always a part of my life, simply vanished,"

I…don't want to understand those tears

"....those years without you had been hard, they were painful and tiresome and ..and…confusing,"

Blurred with tears my eyes can't see you anymore,

"I…kept going,"

As if you will reply, I reported my small achievements to you.

" I didn't lose to the pain,"

Except when it came to visiting you,

" I didn't forget you, if you are wondering by the way haha,"

As if I would be able to! you idiot,

"...I'm slowly getting back on my feet,"

…I'm sorry

“....”

"..it's still painful and sad sometimes…but I'm getting there,"

As slowly as I can, carefully and timidly,

I'm getting there

"...thank you for being a part of my life" closing my blurry eyes I finally said those words.

As if a burden had been lifted off my chest I breathed in relief.

Finally opening my eyes, I looked towards you once again.

"…sorry for taking so long to come and see you,"

I couldn't bring myself to do it, no matter how many times I tried, I couldn't come here.

Wow...

Idk what to say,

Just... wow...

It's poetic, the dialogue is beautifully written, and it's honestly a little bit chilling.

The ending

MAKES

WANT

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tohisprettyc00l · 1 year

Text

Snow Day! Lilith + Reader

A/n: Fun fact! Mac n' Cheese canonically exists in the demon realm https://youtu.be/PSYuG-PizoM?t=136 this is just a simple slice of life with you and Lilith

You heard a knock at your door. When you opened the door you saw your best friend there. "Lily!" "Hello y/n!" She waved. You looked behind her back "Where is Hooty?" "He was sleeping... I think. I'm not sure if he can sleep, but if he can I didn't want to disturb him." "Fair enough." You replied. She walked in carrying a bag. "Can I show you a history model I made?" "Of course!" You replied. "Okay, so, this is a model based on houses in the savage ages! A little-known fact is that they had a thatched roof, made by hand." She rambled on, and you listened closely to every word she said.

After what could've been hours or minutes, she stopped her mini-history lesson. "Lily, I might as well be a history expert with how many amazing lessons you've done." "Ah come on, you're going to make me blush. They're not that great." "Come on, no need for humility. They're amazing!" "Let's go eat before you turn me red permanently." You giggled and went to your kitchen. You turned on your stove. "Are you okay with Mac n' Cheese?" "Mhmm." "Okay!" You poured water into a pot and put it on the stove.

"Yn what have you been up to?" "Not much, mainly watching shows and then reading stories about them. I've been really into polliwoga right now." "Would you like to tell me about it?" Lilith asked. "Sure, it starts with a human named Anna being transported to a world of frogs called polliwoga. Her main goal is to get back home." "Heh, kinda like Luz." Lilith interjected. "Kinda yeah," You said. You both paused. "I think the water is done boiling," you said standing up.

As you poured the noodles into the water you saw snow fall from the sky. You checked your scroll. The weather app said that there would be snow. "Lilith it's going to snow, you might need to leave early." "Probably not I've been on trips for the emperor even in the most fearsome storms!" Lilith boasted. "If you're sure," you said, stirring the Mac n' Cheese. After a few minutes of stirring, you scooped the food into two bowls. You placed the bowls on the table. Lililth gotta get some silverware. "Would you prefer a spoon or a fork to eat Mac n' Cheese?" "Lilith asked "I don't really care I guess a fork." "Good choice." Lilith giggled. Both you and Lilith began eating. In between bites, Lilith said, "Say wanna watch that show you were talking about after we're done eating?" "If you're up for it." "Okay." You smiled.

After you were done eating you started watching tv with Lilith. It started with Polliwoga, but eventually, it just turned into you watching random shows and laughing at them. "Lily, I would 'like to watch an episode or two of a historical drama next?' but those would probably make you more annoyed than anything." "Oh titan, it's so easy to make an interesting history show without being completely inaccurate!" Lilith exclaimed, "It might be the easiest task in the world to make an interesting history show." "Well, my teacher who taught history seemed to think it was pretty boring." "Well, that's your teacher's fault."You chuckled and looked out the window. "Oh my- you gotta get home its night time!" "I was hoping we could maybe have a sleepover." "Does your family and Hooty know about this?" "I can let them know!" "Alright then."

"Though, y/n, I hope you know I'm not going to stay up late just because it's a sleepover." he narrowed her eyes. "And I'm expecting you to also go to bed at a reasonable time." "Psh asked me to go to bed at a reasonable time is like asking Eda to join a coven... Which you did... Multiple times. You're not going to let me stay up late are you?" "Nope!"

True to her word she carried you to bed when she thought it got too late. "It's 12 this is nothing!" Lilith grumbled something unintelligible. She gently placed you on your bed. "Now I will go to the couch and you better not move-" "You can lay in bed with me." Pardon?" "My couch isn't comfortable to lay on." You said patting the spot behind you. "Okay, then give me a moment." Lilith returned with a blanket and pillow. Lilith climbed into bed. "Goodnight, Lilith." "Good night, Y/N."

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

"Oh no, nononono-" You awoke to Lilith's panicked mumbling. "What's happening?" "There is a lot more snow than your scroll said." "Whaddya mean?"You asked. "I can't open the door! If I do, snow will fall in!" "Oh yikes." "I also promised Hooty that I would hangout with him today." "I wouldn't worry too much.Knowing Hooty if he really needed to hang out with you today, he would've found a way to come to you." "Heh, yeah." Lilith chuckled. "Wanna drink some hot chocolate and play games." "That sounds delightful."

You brought two cups of hot cocoa while Lilith set up Jenga blocks. "Are you ready?" "Yep." You sat down. "You go first." Lilith said. You slowly pushed one of the bottom blocks out. "Oh come on." Lilith said with a giggle. As you guys pushed blocks out eventually knocked over the tower. But out of instinct you held the tower up with magic. "You can't do that, that's cheating." "If you haven't thought of it, that's your fault." You said undoing the spell. The blocks knocked over your cup. "Good thing it was empty." You said annoyed, "Give me a minute. I want to go get some more hot chocolate." "Okay."

As you went to get more hot chocolate you suddenly got an idea. You slowly opened the door just a crack and some snow fell in. You shut the door and picked up some of the snow. Creeping behind Lilith you throw the snow and hit the back of her haid. "AH! Y/N! Where do you even get snow!?" "Outside, duh." "Oh is that so..." Lilith got up with a smirk on her face. "Wait no." Lilith went door and got some of the remainder of the snow on the ground. She hit you in the face with snow. "Hey I hit the back of your head! Not the face." "If you didn't think of it, that's your fault." You both laughed. "Honesty Y/n this is already the best snow day ever."

A/N: Lilith is ooc to YOU, I know her personally, she really acts like this. Yeah but in all actually I tried my best but i don't know if i got her character correct. Also this focused on the snow day as much as i wanted but i think it was in there enough to keep the title.

That's all my (kinda old) Wattpad fics on Tumblr!

#lilith x reader #Lilith and reader #toh x reader #the owl house x reader #toh and reader #the owl house and reader

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apoapsis · 1 year

Text

@healingbrews // [x]

He finds it funny– the way he can instigate such upset in others, whether it be due to the malaise of his ANOMALY’S influence, or due to his incorrigible demeanor. In some ways, SIEBREN quite enjoyed his ability to offset the atmosphere of a room with little more than a couple of choice words.

He liked to see others squirm when pressure is applied, whether they become confrontational or not.

The downside to this, is the emotional exhaustion that follows; a limited emotional spectrum offers very little emotional range– he doesn’t appreciate having them dumped onto him so ceremoniously. The argument in question is slightly one-sided in retrospect, Hinoka having not taken kindly to the notion that SIEBREN, despite either his or SIGMA’S attachments to her, still has zero intention of remaining on Earth for any longer than necessary. Her fault for insisting on asking what he, hypothetically, would want to do, should his research be completed. In a way, it was almost cute– the notion that any one would insist on him remaining behind. Then again, his fault for not considering the illogical nature of the inhabitants here– how much is there to blame upon naturalistic behavior when he should have circumvented the question altogether? Even hyperintelligence seemed to have oversights of its own, unfortunately!

He might have been more appreciative of the sentiment, or perhaps, slightly more receptive to it, were it not delivered so brashly. “-- You know, I will never understand you…. Emotional sorts,” SIEBREN conjectures flatly, rolling his eyes in muted annoyance as his arms cross over his broad chest. “-- The way you… feel the need to project it at the worst of times– SIGMA is just as awful about it. You’re both so… embarrassing– letting your emotions get the better of you.” However, rather than sounding frustrated by it, he remains neutral– as if discussing the weather, rather than ethics. The feigned nonchalance of a childhood bully, awkwardly attempting to mitigate the consequences of an unintentionally razor-edged tongue.

“-- What if I were to insist that you leave the Earth as well? Or go anywhere, for that matter? Just because, say… SIGMA loves you? Obviously I likely would not, as I have no interest in further displacement of any other individuals in my mission, but doesn’t it sound a little dramatic…? Demanding things only because of your personal attachment– do you truly think SIGMA or I belong on this planet anymore?”

“-- Besides… how much can you really mean it if you only say it in response to our eventual departure?”

“... It isn’t even that annoying– I suppose I am just… confused by the platitudes I keep encountering in regards to socializing with other life forms again.” SIEBREN pauses, looking thoughtful as an index finger traces the edge of his jawline. “... I guess I cannot blame you for it; it would be only logical for humans to crave the comfort of surface life planetside, but what, then, am I expected to do? The more I see take place upon this planet, the less I want to stay– it is nothing personal. Would it genuinely feel that much better to have the truth omitted...? I thought you wanted me to be honest with you-- I am trying to understand.”

#interactions + ғʟɪʀᴛɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ɪɴғɪɴɪᴛʏ ; ʏᴏᴜʀ ɢᴇᴏᴍᴇᴛʀɪᴄ ᴘʀᴏɢᴇɴʏ +#healingbrews #recall + ʙʟᴜʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪɴᴇs ᴏғ ᴡʜᴀᴛ's ʀᴇᴀʟ ; ʀᴇ ɪᴍᴀɢɪɴᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʀᴜᴛʜ +#siebren anytime emotions get involved; MAKE IT MAKE SENSE!!!!!

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gogoyolko · 1 year

Text

Way to say "I Love You" #37 - "Can I Kiss You?" (WIP)

Pairing: Minami “South” Terano x Renge Haitani (OC)

Word Count: 973

Authors Note: This is my first time writing anything, or at least anything like this, that someone else will see. It’s unfinished but I need to start from somewhere and if improvement hinges on divulging my self ship nonsense, then so be it. Any feedback is welcome, even just a simple like tells me “Hey! You’re doing something right! Not too shabby!” Thank you!

Neither of them knew what time it was but it really didn’t matter; wherever they went there were streetlights.

South led the way for most of the ride but was soon overtaken by Renge who gestured for him to follow her.

She weaved in and out of traffic, laughing at the blaring horns and screeching tires. She darted into a parking garage and almost lost South in the process.

He managed to follow her, his knee sliding against the pavement and thinning a hole in his new jeans. They rode up several floors before stopping on a relatively abandoned level.

Renge pulled her helmet off and grinned widely at him. “Good job keeping up. And that turn? I thought you were a goner.”

He threw a half-hearted glare her way. “I don’t know how I did it either.” He said, getting off his bike. “One of these days I’m actually gonna wipe out and you’re gonna feel really bad.”

“Yeah?” Renge laughed, situating her helmet between her thighs as she perched on her seat. “I doubt I’d feel that bad. That would be more your fault than mine.”

South gave a bemused smile. “Sure thing, crybaby.” He teased.

Renge rolled her eyes and shook her head, scoffing. She turned around to place her helmet on its spot at the back of her bike and when she turned back to face South he was looking outside at the snow that started to fall. “You good?” She asked as she got off her bike.

South looked back at her. “Yeah, fine.” He shrugged. “Just… checking out the weather.”

His attempt at nonchalance made Renge smile. “I heard you like snow. Is that true?” she asked as she started down the stairs.

For one of the few times in his life, South felt flustered. “Yeah,” he laughed as he still tried to shrug it off. “I guess growing up without it makes it more appealing.”

As they made it out onto the sidewalk, Renge looked up at the sky. “I guess I can see that.” She turned and kept walking down the street. “C’mon, it’s just, like, a minute that way.” She said, pointing North.

It was definitely a short walk but definitely not a boring one. Being as tall as he is, South received constant stares and Renge got a similar reception for being adjacent to him with her diminutive stature. Honestly, the tokkōfuku, tattoos, and unorthodox hair colors didn’t help them blend in with the office workers and students that walked the streets with them.

As they walked, South couldn’t help but notice the couples around them. He glanced down at Renge who seemed completely oblivious, instead focused on reaching their destination. She had that scrunched up, determined look on her face that he adored. How someone who was typically wide-eyed and sweet could manage to look so sour was beyond him. He supposed that was one of the reasons he fell in love with her to begin with: she was multi-faceted. He smiled softly and wondered if he should say something but ultimately decided against it. Maybe he’d wait for Christmas Eve… or her birthday… or—

“Hey!” Renge shouted, jumping up to hit him on the chest. “We’re here!” She said before she crossed her arms and pretended to look at the scene in front of them when, in reality, she was watching for South’s reaction.

They stood at the end of an avenue lined with at least two dozen zelkova trees, each adorned with multiple strings of lights that seemed to twinkle as the snow fell. In a city full of lights it still managed to stand out. There were no fancy gimmicks or choreographed music but that honestly didn’t matter to South.

“So?” Renge asked.

South smiled and put a hand on her shoulder. “This is amazing.” He looked down at her and smiled genuinely. “Thank you.”

Renge looked up at him and almost choked on her spit in surprise. She quickly looked back down. “Y-yeah! For sure! I-I know you like sightseeing and stuff so I figured this would be pretty…”

They were both quiet for a few beats before South decided to break the silence. “Hey… can I kiss you?” He asked softly.

Renge’s eyes widened and she jumped back a bit. “K-kiss?” She asked. Her heart began pounding in her ears and she felt like she’d faint. “I-I…”

“You can say ‘no’, Ojōsama.” He teased.

“N-no!” She said quickly. “I mean yes! Please do!” She said, quickly covering her reddening cheeks. “Just give me a sec…” she said, rubbing her face.

South shrugged, trying to play off his nerves. “Take your time.”

Renge took a deep breath and stalked over to a bench and stepped up, turning to face him. “Alright, let’s do this.” She said, tucking her hair behind her ears.

South laughed. “Don’t make it sound like a chore.” He walked over to her. “If you don’t want to, you don’t have to.”

“I want to! I’m just… nervous.” She said, looking down.

“You don’t think I am, too?” He asked, taking her chin and tilting her face up to meet his eyeline because, despite her standing on a bench, she was still far shorter than him.

“I… can’t really think right now…” she admitted.

South chuckled and slowly closed the gap between them. “Now you know how I feel.” He said, leaning forward and pressing his lips to hers. He put a hand on her cheek and stroked it with his thumb.

Renge deepened the kiss and brought a hand to his shoulder. She couldn’t believe this was happening. Not the kissing, she’s kissed plenty of people, South included, but it was where and when they were kissing. It was Omotesando at Christmas and they were surrounded by beautiful lights. It kind of felt magical.

#Yolko #Tokyo Revengers X OC #South X OC #WIP

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rhetoricandlogic · 2 years

Text

Issue 97 – October 2014

9880 words, novelette, REPRINT

A Rich, Full Week

by K.J. Parker

AUDIO VERSION

He looked at me the way they all do. “You’re him, then.”

“Yes,” I said.

“This way.”

Across the square. A cart, tied up to a hitching-post. One thin horse. Not so very long ago, he’d used the cart for shifting dung. I sat next to him, my bag on my knees, tucking my feet in close, and laid a bet with myself as to what he’d say next.

“You don’t look like a wizard,” he said.

I owed myself two nomismata. “I’m not a wizard,” I said.

I always say that.

“But we sent to the Fathers for a—”

”I’m not a wizard,” I repeated, “I’m a philosopher. There’s no such thing as wizards.”

He frowned. “We sent to the Fathers for a wizard,” he said.

I have this little speech. I can say it with my eyes shut, or thinking about something else. It comes out better if I’m not thinking about what I’m saying. I tell them, we’re not wizards, we don’t do magic, there’s no such thing as magic. Rather, we’re students of natural philosophy, specializing in mental energies, telepathy, telekinesis, indirect vision. Not magic; just science where we haven’t quite figured out how it works yet. I looked at him. His hood and coat were homespun, that open, rather scratchy weave you get with moorland wool. The patches were a slightly different color; I guessed they’d been salvaged from an even older coat that had finally reached the point where there was nothing left to sew onto. The boots had a military look. There had been battles in these parts, thirty years ago, in the civil war. The boots looked to be about that sort of vintage. Waste not, want not.

“I’m kidding,” I said. “I’m a wizard.”

He looked at me, then back at the road. I hadn’t risen in his estimation, but I hadn’t sunk any lower, probably because that wasn’t possible. I waited for him to broach the subject.

By my estimation, three miles out of town; I said; “So, tell me what’s been happening.”

He had big hands; too big for his wrists, which looked like bones painted color “The Brother wrote you a letter,” he said.

“Yes,” I replied brightly. “But I want you to tell me.”

The silence that followed was thought rather than rudeness or sulking. Then he said, “No good asking me. I don’t know about that stuff.”

They never want to talk to me. I have to conclude that it’s my fault. I’ve tried all sorts of different approaches. I’ve tried being friendly, which gets you nowhere. I’ve tried keeping my face shut until someone volunteers information, which gets you peace and quiet. I’ve read books about agriculture, so I can talk intelligently about the state of the crops, milk yields, prices at market and the weather. When I do that, of course, I end up talking to myself. Actually, I have no problem about talking to myself. In the country, it’s the only way I ever get an intelligent conversation.

“The dead man,” I prompted him. I never say the deceased.

He shrugged. “Died about three months ago. Never had any bother till just after lambing.”

“I see. And then?”

“It was sheep to begin with,” he said. “The old ram, with its neck broke, and then four ewes. They all reckoned it was wolves, but I said to them, wolves don’t break necks, it was something with hands did that.”

I nodded. I knew all this. “And then?”

“More sheep,” he said, “and the dog, and then an old man, used to go round all the farms selling stuff, buttons and needles and things he made out of old bones; and when we found him, we reckoned we’d best tell the boss up at the grange, and he sent down two of his men to look out at night, and then the same thing happened to them. I said, that’s no wolf. Knew all along, see. Seen it before.”

That hadn’t been in the letter. “Is that right?” I said.

“When I was a kid,” the man said (and now I knew the problem would be getting him to shut up.) “Same thing exactly; sheep, then travelers, then three of the duke’s men. My granddad, he knew what it was, but they wouldn’t listen. He knew a lot of stuff, granddad.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Him and me and my cousin from out over, we got a couple of shovels and a pick and an axe, and we went and dug up this old boy who’d died. And he was all swelled up, like he’d got the gout all over, and he was purple, like a grape. So we cut off his head and shoveled all the dirt back, and we dropped the head down an old well, and that was the end of that. No more bother. Didn’t say what we’d done, mind. The Brother wouldn’t have liked it. Funny bugger, he was.”

Well, I thought. “You did the right thing,” he said. “Your grandfather was a clever man, obviously.”

“That’s right,” he said. “He knew a lot of stuff.”

I was doing my mental arithmetic. When I was a kid; so, anything from fifty-five to sixty years ago. Rather a long interval, but not unheard of. I was about to ask if anything like it had happened before then, but I figured it out just in time. If wise old Grandfather had known exactly what to do, it stood to reason he’d learned it the old-fashioned way, watching or helping; quite possibly more than once.

“The man who died,” I said.

“Him.” A cartload of significance crammed into that word. “Offcomer,” he explained.

“Ah,” I said.

“Schoolteacher, he called himself,” he went on. “Dunno about that. Him and the Brother, they tried to get a school going, to teach the boys their letters and figuring and all, but I told them, waste of time in these parts, you can’t spare a boy in summer, and winter, it’s too dark and cold to be walking five miles there and five miles back, just to learn stuff out of a book. And they wanted paying, two pence twice a year. People round here can’t afford that for a parcel of old nonsense.”

I thought of my own childhood, and said nothing. “Where did he come from?”

“Down south.” Well, of course he did. “I said to him, you’re a long way from home. He didn’t deny it. Said it was his calling, whatever that’s supposed to mean.”

It was dark by the time we reached the farm. It was exactly what I’d been expecting; long and low, with turf eaves a foot off the ground, turf walls over a light timber frame. No trees this high up, so lumber had to come up the coast on a big shallow-draught freighter as far as Holy Trinity, then road haulage the rest of the way. I spent the first fifteen years of my life sleeping under turf, and I still get nightmares.

Mercifully, the Brother was there waiting for me. He was younger than I’d anticipated—you always think of village Brothers as craggy old fat men, or thin and brittle, like dried twigs with papery bark. Brother Stauracius couldn’t have been much over thirty; a tall, broad-shouldered man with an almost perfectly square head, hair cropped short like winter pasture and pale blue eyes. Even without the habit, nobody could have taken him for a farmer.

“I’m so glad you could come,” he said, town voice, educated, rather high for such a big man. He sounded like he meant it. “Such a very long way. I hope the journey wasn’t too dreadful.”

I wondered what he’d done wrong, to have ended up here. “Thank you for your letter,” I said.

He nodded, genuinely pleased. “I was worried, I didn’t know what to put in and leave out. I’m afraid I’ve had no experience with this sort of thing, none at all. I’m sure there must be a great deal more you need to know.”

I shook my head. “It sounds like a textbook case,” I said.

“Really.” He nodded several times, quickly. “I looked it up in Statutes and Procedures, naturally, but the information was very sparse, very sparse indeed. Well, of course. Obviously, this sort of thing has to be left to the experts. Further detail would only encourage the ignorant to meddle.”

I thought about Grandfather; two shovels and an axe, job done. But not quite, or else I wouldn’t be here. “Quite,” I said. “Now, you’re sure there were no other deaths within six months of the first attack.”

“Quite sure,” he said, as though his life depended on it. “Nobody but poor Anthemius.”

Nobody had asked me to sit down, let alone take my wet boots off. The hell with it. I sat down on the end of a bench. “You didn’t say what he died of.”

“Exposure.” Brother Stauracius looked very sad. “He was caught out in a snowstorm and froze to death, poor man.”

“Near here?”

“Actually, no.” A slight frown, like a crack in a wall. “We found him about two miles from here, as it happens, on the big pasture between the mountains and the river. A long way from anywhere, so presumably he lost his way in the snow and wandered about aimlessly until the cold got to him.”

I thought about that. “On his way back home, then.”

“I suppose so, yes.”

I needed a map. You almost always need a map, and there never is one. If ever I’m Emperor, I’ll have the entire country surveyed and mapped, and copies of each parish hung up in the temple vestries. “I don’t suppose it matters,” I lied. “You’ll take me to see the grave.”

A faint glow of alarm in those watered-down eyes. “In the morning.”

“Of course in the morning,” I said.

He relaxed just a little. “You’ll stay here tonight, of course. I’m afraid the arrangements are a bit—”

”I was brought up on a farm,” I said.

Unlike him. “That’s all right, then,” he said. “Now I suppose we should join our hosts. The evening meal is served rather early in these parts.”

“Good,” I said.

Sleeping under turf is like being in your grave. Of course, there’s rafters. That’s what you see when you look up, lying wide awake in the dark. Your eyes get the hang of it quite soon, diluting the black into gray into a palette of pale grays; you see rafters, not the underside of turf. And the smoke hardens it off, so it doesn’t crumble. You don’t get worms dropping on your face. But it’s unavoidable, no matter how long you do it, no matter how used you are to it. You lie there, and the thought crosses your mind as you stare at the underside of grass; is this what it’ll be like?

The answer is, of course, no. First, the roof will be considerably lower; it’ll be the lid of a box, if you’re lucky enough to have one, or else no roof at all, just dirt chucked on your face. Second, you won’t be able to see it because you’ll be dead.

But you can’t help wondering. For a start, there’s temperature. Turf is a wonderful insulator; keeps out the cold in winter and the heat in summer. What it doesn’t keep out is the damp. It occurs to you as you lie on your back there; so long as they bury me in a thick shirt, won’t have to worry about being cold, or too hot in summer, but the damp could be a problem. Gets into your bones. A man could catch his death.

It’s while you’re lying there—everybody else is fast asleep; no imagination, no curiosity, or they’ve been working so hard all day they just sleep, no matter what—that you start hearing the noises. Actually, turf’s pretty quiet. Doesn’t creak like wood, gradually settling, and you don’t get drips from leaks. What you get is the thumping noises over your head. Clump, clump, clump, then a pause, then clump, clump, clump.

They tell you, when you’re a kid and you ask, that it’s the sound of dead men riding the roof-tree. They tell you that dead men get up out of the ground, climb up on the roof, sit astride the peak and jiggle about, walloping their heels into the turf like a man kicking on a horse. You believe them; I never was quite sure whether they believed it themselves. When you’re older, of course, and you’ve left the farm and gone somewhere civilized, where it doesn’t happen, you finally figure it out; what you hear is sheep, hopping up onto the roof in the night, wandering about grazing the fine sweet grass that grows there, picking out the wild leeks, of which they’re particularly fond. Sheep, for crying out loud, not dead men at all. I guess they knew really, all along, and the stuff about dead men was to keep you indoors at night, keep you from wandering out under the stars (though why you should want to I couldn’t begin to imagine). Or at least, at some point, way back in the dim past, some smartarse with a particularly warped imagination made up the story about dead men, to scare his kids; and the kids believed, and never figured it was sheep, and they told their kids, and so on down the generations. Maybe you never figure it out unless you leave the farm, which nobody ever does, except me.

As a matter of fact, I was just beginning to drift off into a doze when the thumping started. Clump, clump, clump; pause; clump, clump, clump. I was not amused. I was bone tired and I really wanted to get some sleep, and here were these fucking sheep walking about over my head. The hell with that, I thought, and got up.

I opened the door as quietly as I could, not wanting to wake up the household, and I stood in the doorway for a little while, letting my eyes get used to the dark. Someone had left a stick leaning against the doorframe. I picked it up, on the off chance that there might be a sheep close enough to hit.

Something was moving about again. I walked away from the house until I could see up top.

It wasn’t sheep. It was a dead man.

He was sitting astride the roof, his legs drooping down either side, like a farmer on his way back from market. His hands were on his hips and he was looking away to the east. He was just a dark shape against the sky, but there was something about the way he sat there; peaceful. I didn’t think he’d seen me, and I felt no great inclination to advertise my presence. If I say I wasn’t scared, I wouldn’t expect to be believed: but fear wasn’t uppermost in my mind. Mostly, I was interested.

No idea how long I stood and he sat. It occurred to me that I was just assuming he was a dead man. Looked at logically, far more likely that he was alive, and had reasons of his own for climbing up on a roof in the middle of the night. Well; there’s a time and a place for logic.

He turned his head, looking down the line of the roof-tree, and lifted his heels, and dug them into the turf three times; clump, clump, clump. (And at that point, I realized the flaw in my earlier rationalization. Three clumps; always three, ever since I was a kid. How many three-legged sheep do you see?) At that moment, the moon came out from behind the clouds, and suddenly we were looking at each other; me and him.

My host had been right; he was purple, like a grape. Or a bruise; the whole body one enormous bruise. Swollen, he’d said; either that, or he was an enormous man, arms and legs twice as thick as normal. His eyes were white; no pupils.

“Hello,” I said.

He leaned forward just a little and cupped his hand behind his left ear. “You’ll have to speak up,” he said.

Words from a dead man; a purple, swollen man sitting astride a roof. “Tell me,” I said, raising my voice. “Why do you do that?”

He looked at me, or a little bit past me. I couldn’t tell if his mouth moved, but there was a deep, gurgling noise which could only have been laughter. “Do what?”

“Ride on the roof like it’s a horse,” I said.

His shoulders lifted; a slow, exaggerated shrug, like he didn’t know what a shrug was, but was copying one he’d seen many years ago. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I feel the urge to do it, so I do it.”

Well, I thought. One of the great abiding mysteries of my childhood not quite cleared up. “Are you Anthemius?” I asked. “The schoolmaster?”

Again the laugh. “That’s a very good question,” he said. “Tell you what,” he went on, “come up here and sit with me, so we can talk without yelling.”

In the moonlight I could make out the huge hands, with their monstrous overripe fingers. How tight the skin would have to be, with all that pressure against it from the inside. Breaking a neck would be like snapping a pear off a tree.

“Let me rephrase that,” I said. “Were you Anthemius? When you were—”

”Yes,” he said, speaking quickly to cut off a word he didn’t want to hear. “I think I was. Thank you,” he added. “I’ve been trying to remember. It’s been on the tip of my tongue, but somehow I can’t seem to think of any names.”

The approved procedure for coping with the restless dead is, essentially, what Grandfather did; though of course we make rather more of a fuss about it. The approved procedure should, of course, be carried out in daylight; noon is recommended. Should you chance to encounter a specimen during the night, there are two courses of action, both recommended rather than approved. One, you draw your sword and cut its head off. Two, you challenge it to the riddle-game and keep it talking all night, until dawn comes up unexpectedly and strands it like a beached whale in the cruel light.

Commentary on that. I am not a man of action. I don’t vault onto roofs, I don’t carry weapons. One of the reasons I left the farm in the first place was, I have trouble lifting even moderate loads. So much for option one; and as for option two—

Also, I was curious. Interested.

“What happened to you?” I said.

“You know, I’m really not sure,” he replied; and the voice was starting to sound like a man’s voice, my ears were getting the hang of it, the way my eyes had got used to the dark. “I know I was out in the snow and I’d lost my way. I got terribly cold, so that every bit of me hurt. Then the pain started to ease up, and I sort of fell asleep.”

“You died,” I said.

He didn’t like me saying that, but I guess he forgave me. “I remember waking up,” he said, “and it was pitch dark and terribly quiet, and I couldn’t move. I was very scared. And then it occurred to me, I wasn’t breathing. I don’t mean I was holding my breath. I wasn’t breathing at all, and it didn’t matter. So then I knew.”

I waited; but I hadn’t got all night. “And then?”

He turned his head away. No hair, just a bulging purple scalp. A head like a plum. “I was terrified,” he said. “I mean, I had no way of knowing.” He paused, and I have no idea what was passing through his mind. “After a long time, I found I could move after all. I got my hands up against the lid, and I pushed, and I could feel the wood burst apart. That scared me even more, I thought the roof, I mean all the earth on top of me, I thought it’d cave in and bury me.” He paused again. “I was always frightened of tight places,” he said. “You know.”

I nodded. Me too, as it happens.

“I guess I panicked,” he went on, “because I kept pushing, and I somehow knew that I was incredibly strong, much stronger than I’d ever been before, so I thought, if I push hard enough. I wasn’t thinking straight, of course.”

“And then?” I asked.

“Pushed right up through the dirt and into the moonlight,” he said. “Amazing feeling. The first thing I wanted to do was run to the nearest farm and tell them, Look, I’m not dead after all.” He stopped; he’d said the word without thinking. “But then I thought about it; and I still wasn’t breathing, and I couldn’t actually feel anything. I could move my hands and feet, I could stand upright and balance, all that, but—you know when you’ve been sitting a long time and your feet go numb. It was like that, all over. It felt so strange.”

“Go on,” I said.

He didn’t, not for a long time. “I think I sat down,” he said. “I don’t know why I’d have done that, standing up didn’t make me tired or anything. I don’t feel tired, ever. But I was so confused, I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. It all felt wrong.” He lifted his heels slowly and let them drop; clump, clump, clump. “And while I was there the sun started to come up, and the light just sort of flooded into my head and bleached everything away, so I couldn’t think at all. I guess you could say I passed out. Anyway, when I opened my eyes I was back where I’d started from, lying in the dark.”

I frowned. “How did you get back there?”

“I just don’t know,” he said. “Still don’t. It always happens, that’s all I know. When the sun comes up, my mind washes away. If I’ve gone any distance, I know I have to get back. I run. I can run really fast. I know I’ve got to be back—home,” he said, with a sort of breaking-up laugh, “before the sun comes up. I’ve learned to be careful, to give myself plenty of time.”

He was still and quiet for a while. I asked, “Why do you kill things?”

“No idea.” He sounded distressed. “If something comes close enough, I grab it and twist it till it’s dead. Like a cat lashing out at a bit of string. Reflex. I just know it’s something I have to do.”

I nodded. “Do you go looking—?”

“Yes.” He mumbled the word, like a kid admitting a crime. “Yes, I do. I do my best to keep away from where there might be people. It’s all the same to me; sheep, foxes, men. I’d go a long way away, into the mountains, if I could. But I have to stay close, so I can get back in time.”

I’d been debating with myself, and I knew I had to ask. “What were you?” I said. “What did you do?”

He didn’t answer. I repeated the question.

“Like you said,” he replied. “I was a schoolteacher.”

“Before that.”

When he answered, it was against his will. The words came out slow, flat; he spoke because he had to. “I was a Brother,” he said. “When I was thirty, they said I should apply to the Order, they thought I had the gift, and the brains, and the application and the self-discipline. I passed the exam and I was at the Studium for five years. Like you,” he added.

I let that go. “You joined the Order.”

“No.” The flat voice had gone; there was a flare of anger. “No, I failed matriculation. I retook it the next year, but I failed again. They sent me back to my parish, but by then they’d got someone else. So I ended up wandering about, looking for teaching work, letter-writing, anything I could do to earn a living. There’s not a lot you can do, of course.”

Suddenly I felt bitter cold, right through. Took me a moment to realize it was fear. “So you came here,” I said, just to keep him talking.

“Eventually. A lot of other places first, but here’s where I ended up.” He lifted his head abruptly. “They sent you here to deal with me, am I right?”

I didn’t reply.

“Of course they did,” he said. “Of course. I’m a nuisance, a pest, a menace to agriculture. You came here to dig me up and cut my head off.”

This time, I was the one who had to speak against my will. “Yes.”

“Of course,” he said. “But I can’t let you do that. It’s my—”

He’d been about to say life. Presumably he tried to find another way of phrasing it, then gave up. We both knew what he meant.

“You passed the exams, then,” he said.

“Barely,” I replied. “Two hundred seventh out of two hundred twenty.”

“Which is why you’re here.”

His white eyes in the ash-white moonlight. “That’s right,” I said. “They don’t give out research posts if you come two hundred seventh.”

He nodded gravely. “Commercial work,” he said.

“When I can get it,” I replied. “Which isn’t often. Others far more qualified than me.”

He grunted. It could have been sympathy. “Public service work.”

“Afraid so,” I replied.

“Which is why you’re here.” He lifted his head and rolled it round on his shoulders, like someone waking up after sleeping in a chair. “Because—well, because you aren’t much good. Well?”

I resented that, even though it was true. “It’s not that I’m not good,” I said. “It’s just that everyone in my year was better than me.”

“Of course.” He leaned forward, his hands braced on his knees. “The question is,” he said, “do I still have the gift, after what happened to me. If I’ve still got it, your job is going to be difficult.”

“If not,” I said.

“Well,” he replied, “I suppose we’re about to find out.”

“Indeed,” I said. “There could be a paper for the journals in this.”

“Your chance to escape from obscurity,” he said solemnly. “Under different circumstances, I’d wish you well. Unfortunately, I really don’t want you cutting off my head. It’s a miserable existence, but—”

I could see his point. His voice was quite human now; if I’d known him before, I’d have recognized him. He had his back to the moon, so I couldn’t see the features of his face.

“What I’m trying to say is, you don’t have to do it,” he said. “Go away. Go home. Nobody knows you came out here tonight. I promise I’ll stay away until you’ve gone. If I don’t show up, you can report that there was no direct evidence of an infestation, and therefore you didn’t feel justified in desecrating what was probably an innocent grave.”

“But you’ll be back,” I said.

“Yes, and no doubt they’ll send someone else,” he said. “But it won’t be you.”

I was tempted. Of course I was tempted. For one thing, he was a rational creature; with my eyes shut, if I hadn’t known better, I’d have said he was a natural man with a heavy cold. And what if the gift did survive death? He’d kill me. I had to admit it to myself; the thought that I could get killed doing this job hadn’t occurred to me. I’d anticipated a quick, grisly hour’s work in broad daylight; no risk.

I’m not a coward, but I appreciate the value of fear, the way I appreciate the value of money. I’m most definitely not brave.

I saw something in the moonlight, and said (trying not to talk quickly or raise my voice); “I could go back to bed, and then come back in the morning and dig you up.”

“You could,” he said.

“You don’t think I would.”

“Not if we’d made an agreement.”

“You could be right,” I said. “But what about the farmers? You’ve got to admit—”

At which moment, the Brother (who’d come out of the back door, crawled up on the roof behind him and edged down the roof-tree towards him until he was close enough to reach his neck with the axe he’d brought with him) raised his arms high and swung. No sound at all; but at the last moment, the dead man leaned his head to one side, just enough, and the axe blade swept past, cutting air. I heard the Brother grunt, shocked and panicky; I saw the dead man—eyes still fixed on me—reach behind him with his left hand and catch the swinging axe just below the head, and hold it perfectly still. The Brother gasped, but didn’t let go; he was pulling with all his strength, like a little dog tugging on a belt. All his efforts couldn’t move the dead man’s arm the thickness of a fingernail.

“Now,” the dead man said. “Let’s see.”

The delay on my part was unforgivable, completely unprofessional. I knew I had to do something, but my mind had gone completely blank. I couldn’t remember any procedures, let alone any words. Think, a tiny voice was yelling inside me head, but I couldn’t. I heard the Brother whimper, as he applied every scrap of strength in a tendon-ripping, joint-tearing last desperate jerk on the axe handle that had no effect whatsoever. The dead man was looking straight at me. His lips began to move.

Pro nobis peccatoribus; not the obvious choice, not even on the same page of the book, but it was the only procedure I could think of. Unfortunately, it’s one I’ve always had real difficulties with. You reach out with your hand that is not a hand, extend the fingers that aren’t fingers; I’m all right as far as that, and then I tend to come unstuck.

(What I was thinking was: So he failed the exam, and I passed. Yes, but maybe the reason he failed was, he didn’t read the questions through properly, or he spent so long on Part 1 that he didn’t leave himself enough time for two and three. Maybe he’s really good, just unlucky in exams.)

I was mumbling; Sol invicte, ora pro nobis peccatoribus in die periculi. Of course, there’s a school of thought that says the magic words have no real effect whatsoever, they’re just a way of concentrating the mind. I tend to agree. Why should an archaic prayer in a dead language to a god nobody’s believed in for six hundred years have any effect on anything at all? Ora pro nobis peccatoribus, I repeated urgently, nobis peccatoribus in die periculi.

It worked, It can’t have been the words, of course, but it felt like it was the words. I was in, I was through. I was inside his head.

There was nothing there.

Believe me, it’s true. Nothing at all; like walking into a house where someone’s died, and the family have been in and cleared out all the furniture. Nothing there, because I was inside the head of a dead man; albeit a dead man who was looking at me reproachfully out of blank white eyes while holding an axe absolutely still.

Fine; all the easier, if it’s empty. I looked for the controls. You have to visualize them, of course. I see them as the handwheels of a lathe. It’s because I had a holiday job in a foundry in Second Year. I don’t know how to use a lathe. What I mostly did was sweep up piles of swarf off the floor.

Here is the handwheel that controls the arms. I reached out with the hand that is not a hand, grabbed it and tried to turn it. Stuck. I tried harder. Stuck. I tried really hard, and the bloody thing came away in my hand.

It’s not supposed to do that.

I re-visualized. I saw the controls as the reins of a cart, the footbrake under my boot that was not a boot. I stamped on the brake and hauled back hard on the reins.

I haven’t got round to writing that paper for the journals, so here it is for the first time anywhere. The gift does not survive death. Nothing survives. The room was empty. And the handwheel only broke off because I’m clumsy and cack-handed, the sort of person who trips over cats and breaks the nibs of pens by pressing too hard.

I heard the Brother gasp, as he jerked the axe out of the dead man’s grip. The dead man didn’t move. His eyes were still fixed on mine, right up to the moment when the axe shore through his neck and his head wobbled and fell, bounced off his knee and tumbled off the roof into the short grass below. The body didn’t move.

I know why. It took ten of us, with an improvised crane made of twelve-foot three-inch fir poles, to get the body down off the roof. It must’ve weighed half a ton. The head alone was two hundredweight. Two men couldn’t lift it; they had to use levers to roll it along the ground. There was no blood, but the neck started to ooze a milky white juice that smelt worse than anything you could possibly imagine.

We burned the body. We drenched it in pine-pitch, and it caught quite easily and burnt down to nothing; not even any recognizable bits of bone. The white juice flared up like oil. They rolled the head over to the slurry-pond and pitched it in. It went down with a gurgle and a burp.

“I heard you talking to it,” the Brother told me. For some reason, the word it offended me. “I guessed you were using a variation on the riddle game, to keep it distracted till the sun came up.”

“Something like that,” I said.

He nodded. “I shouldn’t have interfered, I’m sorry,” he said. “You had the situation under control, and I could have ruined everything.”

“That’s all right,” I said.

He smiled; as if to say, it wasn’t all right, but thanks for forgiving me. “I guess I panicked,” he said. Then he frowned. “No, I didn’t. I saw a chance of getting in on the act. It was stupid and selfish of me. You’ll have to write to the prebendary.”

“I don’t see why,” I said mildly. “The way I see it, your actions were open to several different interpretations. I choose to interpret them as courage and resourcefulness. I could put that in a letter, if you like.”

“Would you?” In his face, I saw all the desperation and cruelty of sudden, unexpected hope. “I mean, seriously?”

“Of course,” I said.

“That’d be—” He stopped. He couldn’t think of a big enough word. “You’ve got no idea what it’s like,” he said; all in a rush, like diarrhea. “Being stuck here, in this miserable place with these appalling people. If I can’t get back to a town, I swear I’ll go mad. And it’s so cold in winter. I hate the cold.”

You can sleep in the coach, Father Prior said, when I tried to make a fuss about the timetable. I didn’t say to him; have you ever been on a provincial mailcoach, on country roads, at this time of year? A dead man couldn’t sleep on a mailcoach.

I slept, nearly all the way; on account, I guess, of not having had much sleep the night before. Woke up just as we were crossing the Fulvens bridge; I looked out of the window, and all I could see was water, moonlight reflected on water. Couldn’t get back to sleep after that. Too dark to read the case notes, which I’d neglected to do back at the farm. But I remembered the basic facts from the briefing. These jobs are all the same, anyhow. Piece of cake.

The coach threw me out just after dawn, at a crossroads in the middle of nowhere. Somewhere up on the moors; I’m a valley boy myself. We had cousins up on the moor. I hated it when they came to visit. The old man was deaf as a post, and the three boys (mid to late thirties, but they were always the boys) just sat there, not saying a word. The mother died young, and I can’t say I blame her.

They were supposed to be meeting the coach, but there was no one there. I stood for a while, then I sat on my bag, then I sat on the ground, which was damp. I heard an owl, and a fox, or at least I hope it was a fox. If not, it was something we never got around to covering in Third Year, and I’m very glad I didn’t see it.

They arrived eventually, in a little dog-cart thing; an old man driving, a younger man and the Brother. One small pony, furry like a bear.

The Brother did the talking, for which I was quite grateful. He was one of the better sort of country Brothers; short man, somewhere between fifty and sixty, a distinct burr to his voice but he spoke clearly and used proper words. The boy was the younger man’s son, the older man’s grandson. He’d been fooling about in a big oak tree, slipped, fell; broken arm and a hideous bash on the head. He hadn’t come round, and it had been a week now. They had to prise his mouth open with the back of a horn spoon to get food and water in; he swallowed all right, but that was all he did. You could stick a needle in his foot half an inch and he wouldn’t even twitch. The swelling on the back of his head had gone down—the Brother disclaimed any medical knowledge, but he was lying—and they’d set the arm and splinted it, for what that was worth.

I thought; better than killing the restless dead. One of my best subjects at the Studium, though of course we did all our practicals on conscious minds, with a Father sitting a few feet away, watching like a hawk. I’d done one about eighteen months earlier, and it went off just fine; in, found her, straight out again. She followed me like a dog. I’d been relieved when Father Prior told me; it could’ve been something awkward and fiddly, like auspices, or horrible and scary, like a possession. Just in case, I’d brought the book. I’d meant to mug up the relevant chapter, either at the farm or on the coach, but I hadn’t got round to it. Anyway, it had to be better than that empty place.

It was quite a big house, for a hill-farm; sitting in the well of a valley, with a dense copper-beech hedge on all four sides, as a windbrake. Just the five of them in the house, the Brother said; grandfather, father, mother, the boy and a hired man who slept in the hayloft. The boy was nine years old. The Brother told me his name, but I’m hopeless with names.

They asked me, did I want to rest after the journey; wash and brush up, something to eat? The correct answer was, of course, No, so I gave it.

“He’s in here,” the Brother said.

Big for a hill-farm, but still oppressively small. Downstairs, the big kitchen, with a huge table, fireplace, two hams swinging like dead men on gibbets. A parlor, tiny and dusty and cold. Dairy, scullery, store; doorway through to the cowstalls. Upstairs, one big room and a sort of oversized cupboard, where the boy was. I could just about kneel beside the bed, if I didn’t mind the window-sill digging in the small of my back.

The hell with that, I thought; I’m a qualified man, a professional, a Father; a wizard. I shouldn’t have to work in conditions you wouldn’t keep pigs in. “Take him downstairs,” I said. “Put him on the kitchen table.”

They had a job. The stairs in that house were like a bell-tower, tightly coiled and cramped. Father and grandfather did the heavy lifting, while I watched. It’s an odd thing about me. Sometimes, the more compassion is called for, the less capable I am of feeling it. I offer no explanation or excuse.

“He shouldn’t have been moved,” the Brother hissed in my ear, just loud enough so that everyone could hear. “In his condition—”

”Yes, thank you,” I said, in my best arrogant-city-bastard voice. I couldn’t say why I was behaving like this. Sometimes I do. “Now, if you’ll all stay well back, I’ll see what I can do.”

I looked at the boy, and I could remember the theory perfectly, every last detail, every last lecture note. His eyes were closed; he had a stupid face, fat girly lips, fat cheeks. If he lived, he’d grow up tall, solid, double-chinned, gormless; the son of the farm. Pork fat and home-brewed beer; he’d be spherical by the time he was forty, strong enough to wrestle a bullock to its knees, slow and tireless, infuriatingly calm, a man of few words; respected at market, shrewd and fat, his bald patch hidden under a hat that would never come off, probably not even in bed. A solid, productive life, which it was my duty to save. Lucky me.

Theory; theory is your lifeline, they used to tell me, your driftwood in a shipwreck. I reminded myself of the basic propositions.

To recover a lost mind, first make an entrance. This is usually done by visualizing yourself as a penetrating object; a drill bit, a woodpecker’s beak, a maggot. The drill bit works for me, though for some reason I tend to be a carpenter’s auger, wound in with a brace. I go in through the spiral flakes of waste bone thrown clear by the wide grooves of the cutter. I assume it’s from some childhood memory, watching Granddad at work in the barn. You’re not really supposed to use personal memories, but it’s easier, for someone with my limited imagination.

Once you’re in; first ward, immediately, because you never know what might be waiting for you in there. I raised first ward as soon as I felt myself go through. I use scutum fidei, visualize a shield. Mine’s round, with a hole in it at twelve o’clock so I can see what’s going on.

I peered through the hole. No nasty creatures with dripping fangs crouched to pounce, which was nice. Count to ten and lower the shield slowly.

I looked around. This is the crucial bit, and you mustn’t rush. How long it takes depends on the strength of your gift, so naturally I take ages. The light gradually increases. First things first; get your bearings. Orientate yourself, taking special care to get a fix on the point you came in by. Well, obviously. If you lose your entry-point, you’re stuck; in someone else’s head forever. You really don’t want that.

I lined up on the corners of a ceiling, drawing diagonal lines and fixing on their point of origin, measuring the angles with my imaginary protractor (it’s brass, with numbers in gothic-italic) One-oh-five, seventy-five; repeat the numbers four times out loud, to make sure they’re loaded into memory. Fine. Now I know where I am and how to get out again. One-oh-five, seventy-five. Now, then. Let the dog see the rabbit.

I was in a room. It’s nearly always an interior; with kids, practically guaranteed it’s their bedroom, or the room they sleep in, depending on social class and domestic arrangements. In all relevant essentials, it was the room upstairs I had him carried down from. Excellent; nice and small, not many places to hide anything. So much easier when you’re dealing with a subject of limited intelligence.

I visualized a body for myself. I tend not to be me. With children, it’s usually best to be a nice lady; the kid’s mother, if possible. I’m not good enough to do specific people, and I have real problems being women. So I was a nice old man instead.

Hello, I said. Where are you?

Don’t worry if they don’t answer. Sometimes, they do, sometimes they don’t. I walked round the bed, knelt down, looked under it. There was a cupboard; one of those triangular jobs, wedged in a corner. I opened that. For some reason, it was full of the skins and bones of dead animals. None of my business; I closed it. I pulled the covers off the bed, and lifted the pillow.

Odd, I thought, and touched base with theory. The boy must still be alive, or else there would be no room. If he’s alive, he must be in here somewhere. He can’t be invisible, not inside his own head. He can, of course, be anything he likes, so long as it’s animate and alive. A cockroach, for example, or a flea. I sighed. I get all the rotten jobs.

I adjusted the scale, making the room five times bigger. Go up in easy stages. If he was being a cockroach, he’d now be a rat-sized cockroach. If he was being a rat, of course, he’d be cat-sized and capable of giving me a nasty bite. I used lorica, just in case. I looked under the bed again.

I visualized a clock, in the middle of the wall opposite the door. It told me I’d been inside for ten minutes. The recommended maximum is thirty. Really first-rate practitioners have been known to stay in for an hour and still come out more or less in one piece; that’s material for a leading article in the journals. I searched again, this time paying more attention to the contents of the cupboard. Dried, desiccated animal skins; squirrels, rabbits, rats. No fleas, mites or ticks. So much for that theory.

I visualized a glass jug, to represent my energy level. You can use yourself up surprisingly quickly and not know it. Just as well I did. My jug was a third empty. You want to save at least a fifth just to get out again. I visualized calibrations, so as to be sure.

Quick think. The recommended course of action would be to visualize a tracking agent (spaniel, terrier, ferret) but that takes a fair chunk of your resources; also, it burns energy while it’s in use, and getting rid of it takes energy, too. I drew a distinct red line on my measuring-jug, and a blue line just above it. The alternative to a tracker is to increase the scale still further; twenty times, say, in which case your cockroach will be a wolf-sized monster that could jump you and bite your head off. I was still running lorica, but any effective ward burns energy. If I found myself with a fight on my hands, I could dip below that essential red line in a fraction of a second. No, the hell with that.

I visualized a terrier. I’m not a dog person, so my terrier was a bit odd; very short, stumpy legs and a rectangular head. Still, it went at it with great enthusiasm, wagging its imaginary tail and making little yapping noises. All round the room, nose into everything. Then it sat on the floor and looked at me, as if to say, Well?

Not looking good. My jug was half empty, I’d used up my repertoire of approved techniques, and found nothing. Just my luck to get a special case, a real collector’s item. Senior research fellows would be fighting each other for the chance of a go at this one, but I just wanted to get the job done and clear out. Wasted on me, you might say.

I vanished the dog. Quick think. There had to be something else I could try, but nothing occurred to me. Didn’t make sense; he had to be in here somewhere, or there’d be no room. He couldn’t be invisible. He could only turn himself into something he could imagine—and it had to be real; no fantasy creatures the size of a pin-head. At five times magnification, a red mite would be plainly visible; also, the dog would’ve found it. Tracking agents, even inferior ones visualized by me, smell life. If he was in here, the dog would’ve found him.

So—

As required by procedure, I considered abandoning the attempt and getting out. This would, of course, mean the boy would die; you can’t go back in twice, that’s an absolute. I’d be within my rights, faced with an enigma on this scale. The failure would be noted on my record, of course, but there’d be an annotation, no blame attaches, and it wouldn’t be the first time, not by a long way. The kid would die; not my problem. I’d have done my best, and that’s all you have to do.

Or I could think of something. Such as what?

They tell you; be wise, don’t improvise. If in doubt, get out. Making stuff up as you go along is mightily frowned on, in much the same way as you’re not encouraged to fry eggs in a fireworks factory. There’s no knowing what you might invent, and outside controlled conditions, invention could lead to the Cartographic Commission having to redraw the maps for a whole county. Or you could make a hole in a wall, which is the worst thing anybody can do. At the very least, I’d be sure to end up in front of a Board, facing charges of unauthorized innovation and divergence. Saving the life of some farm kid would be an excuse, but not a very good one.

I could think of something. Such as—

There’s no such thing as magic. Instead, there’s the science we don’t properly understand, not yet. There are effects that work, and we have no idea why. One of these is spes aeternitatis, a wretchedly inconsistent, entirely inexplicable conjuring trick that no self-respecting Father would condescend to use. That’s because they can’t get it to work reliably.

I can.

Spes aeternitatis is an appearances-adjuster. You can use it to find hidden objects, or translate lies, or tell if a slice of cake or a glass of wine’s got poison in it. I do it by visualizing everything that’s wrong in light blue. It’s a tiny little scrap of talent that I’ve got and practically everybody else hasn’t; it’s like being double-jointed, or wiggling your nostrils like a rabbit.

I closed my eyes and opened them again, and saw a light blue room. Everything light blue. Everything false.

Oh, I thought; then, one-oh-five, seventy five, and I started lining up diagonals for my escape. But that wasn’t to be, unfortunately. The room blurred and reappeared, and it was all different. It was my room; the room I slept in until I was fifteen years old.

He was sitting on the end of the bed; a slight man, almost completely bald, with a small nose and a soft chin, small hands, short, thin legs. I’d put him at about fifty years old. His skin was purple, like a grape.

“You were wrong,” he said, looking up at me. “The talent survives death.”

“That’s interesting,” I said. “How did you get in here?”

He smiled. “You practically invited me in,” he said. “When I heard that fool behind me, with the axe, I looked at you. You felt sorry for me. You thought; is he not a man and a Brother, or words to that effect. I used Stilicho’s transport, and here I am.”

I nodded. “I should’ve put up wards.”

“You should. Careless. Attention to detail isn’t your strongest suit.”

“The boy,” I said.

He shrugged. “In there somewhere, I dare say. But we aren’t in his head, we’re in yours. I’ve made myself at home, as you can see.”

I looked round quickly. The apple-box with the bottom knocked out, where I used to keep my books; it was where it should be, but the books were different. They were new and beautifully bound in tooled calf, and the alphabet their titles were written in was strange to me.

“My memories,” I said.

He waved his hand. “Well rid of them,” he said. “Misery and failure, a life wasted, a talent dissipated. You’ll be better off.”

I nodded. “With yours.”

“Quite. Oh, they’re not pleasant reading,” he said, with a scowl. “Bitter, angry; memories of bigotry and spite, relentless bad luck, a life of constant setbacks and reverses, a talent misunderstood. You’ll see that I failed the exam the second time because, sitting there in Great School, I suddenly hit on a much better way of achieving unam sanctam; quicker, safer, ruthlessly efficient. I tried it out as soon as the exam was over, and it worked. But I got no marks, so they failed me. I ask you, where’s the sense in that?”

“You failed the retake,” I said. “What about the first time?”

He laughed. “I had the flu,” he said. “I was practically delirious, could barely remember my name. Would they listen? No. Rules. You see what I mean. Bad luck and spite at every turn.”

I nodded. “What happens to me?”

He looked at me. “You’ll be better off,” he repeated.

“I’ll stop existing. I’ll be dead.”

“Not physically,” he said mildly. “Your body, my mind. Your fully qualified licensed-practitioner’s body, and a mind that saw how to improve unam sanctam in a half-second flash of intuition.”

It says a lot about my self-esteem that I actually considered it, though not for very long. Half a second, maybe. “What happens now?” I asked. “Do we fight, or—?”

He shrugged.”If you like,” he said, and extended his arm. It was ten feet long, thick as a gatepost. He gripped my throat like a man holding a mouse, and crushed me.

I guess I was about seventy percent dead when I remembered; I know what to do. I drew a rather shaky second ward; he closed his fingers on thin air, and I was standing behind him.

He swung round, roaring like a bull. He had bull’s horns sticking out of his forehead. I tried second ward again, but he got there before I did, grabbed my head and smashed my face into the wall.

Just in time, I remembered; there is no pain. I used Small Mercies, softening the wall into felt, and slipped through his fingers. I was smoke. I hung above him in a cloud. He laughed, and fetched me back with vis mentis. The back of my head hit the floor, which gave way like a mattress. I became a spear, and buried myself in his chest. He used second ward and was the other side of the room.

“You fight like a first-year,” he said.

Which was true. I clenched my mind like a fist; the walls closed in on him, squashing him like a spider under a boot. I felt him, like a nail right through the sole. Back to first ward, and we stood glowering at each other, in opposite corners of the room.

“You can’t beat me,” he said. “I’ll wear you down and you’ll simply fade away. Face it, what the hell have you got to live for?”

Valid point. “All right, then,” I said.

His eyes opened wide. “I win?”

“You win,” I said.

He was pleased; very pleased. He grinned at me and raised his hand, just as I got my fingers round the handle of the door and twisted as hard as I could.

He saw that and opened his mouth to scream. But the door flew open, knocking me back. I closed my eyes. The door was, of course, the intersection of two lines drawn diagonally across the room, at 105 and 75 degrees precisely.

I opened my eyes. He’d gone. I was in the boy’s room, the room upstairs. The boy was sitting on the floor, legs crossed, hands under his chin. He looked up at me.

“Well, come on,” I snapped at him. “I haven’t got all day.”

They were pathetically grateful. Mother in floods of tears, father clinging to my arm, how can we ever thank you, it’s a miracle, you’re a miracle-worker. I wasn’t in the mood. The boy, lying on the kitchen table under a pile of blankets, looked up at me and frowned, as though something about me wasn’t quite right. A quiet, analytical stare; it bothered the hell out of me. I refused food and drink and made father get out the pony and trap and take me out to the crossroads. But the mail won’t be arriving for six hours, he objected; it’s cold and dark, you’ll catch your death.

I didn’t feel cold.

At the crossroads, huddling under the smelly old hat father insisted on giving me, I tried to search my mind, to see if he’d really gone. There was, of course, no way he could have survived. I’d opened the door (Rule One; never open the door) and he’d been sucked out of my head out into the open, where there was no talented mind to receive him. Even if he was as strong as he’d claimed to be, there was no way he could have lasted more than three seconds before he broke up and dissipated into the air. There was absolutely nothing he could have done, no way he could have survived.

The coach arrived. I got on it, and slept all the way. At the inn, I got a lamp and a mirror, and examined myself all over. Just when I thought I was all clear, I found a patch of purple skin, about the size of a crab apple, on the calf of my left leg. I told myself it was just a bruise.

(That was a year ago. It’s still there.)

The rest of the round was just straightforward stuff; a possession, a small rift, a couple of incursions, which I sealed with a strong closure and duly reported when I got back. Since then, I’ve volunteered for a screening, been to see a couple of counselors, bought a pair of full-length mirrors. And I’ve been promoted; field officer, superior grade. They’re quite pleased with me, and no wonder. I seem to be getting better at the job all the time. And I’m writing a paper, would you believe; modifications to unam sanctam. Quicker, safer, much more efficient. So blindingly obvious, I’m surprised no one’s ever thought of it before.

Father Prior is surprised but pleased. I don’t know what’s got into you, he said.

Originally published in Swords & Dark Magic: The New Sword and Sorcery, edited by Jonathan Strahan and Lou Anders.

#K.J. Parker #A Rich Full Week #short story #novelette #long post

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author-chan06 · 2 months

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👾❤️‍🩹🫶🥰🎁 with 682? Both f/o and s/i? :3

👾: what made you fall in love/like with them?

“Well… I suppose it wouldn’t surprise you if I said it wasn’t exactly Love at First Sight. I wouldn’t even call it Like at First Conversation. Our first interaction was pretty hostile- not on my end. I was as professional as I could be. But 682 just thought of me as another living being and he’s not really a fan of those- as his reputation shows. I didn’t really like him at first either, because of the hostility and the terror I felt at the idea of him breaching again while I was working, but I didn’t dislike him. If anything I found him… interesting. I had already gained a reputation at the Foundation as being understanding of the anomalies to, what some would call, a fault. And I wanted to understand why 682 felt the way he did. And guess in doing so, I started to learn more than about just that. I learned that he actually had a sense of humor, that he actually had opinions on things that had nothing to do with killing, that he was actually able to feel more than anger. And I guess realizing that made me allowed to realize other things. And it just kinda. spiraled from there. Until the breach happened.”

- Ari

“Gmmm. Love is a strong word, that I’m not sure I can relate to. But what made me decide that I didn’t want them dead, even though they’re another living being that’s infesting this Earth? The thing that made me decide that if any living being deserved to live it was him? I guess… it was its unrelentingness and their ability to look over everything I’ve done without asking for me to change. I can’t say that there haven’t been people that aren’t scared of me- whether they were fools or brave or both is of no concern to me- and I can’t say that there haven’t been people willing to overlook what I’ve done in the past. But he was scared of me and got over it by being near me. He wanted to learn, not to fix me or kill me but to understand. He wanted to learn about me, but not in the scientific way, and that’s never happened before. And then the breach…”

- 682

❤️‍🩹: how do your f/os react to you being affectionate towards them?

“Depending on the type of way it can be anything from grunts- that sound annoyed but actually aren’t- to surprised tail swipes. Gotta be careful about those, ahah! But really normally, he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t care about what others think about him, and so if he likes it he doesn’t hide it. It’s really hard to get him flustered, but I’m on a never-ending mission to do so!”

- Ari

“Affection? I’m not very affectionate, but if I had to guess… I suppose they would be pretty receptive. They’re usually the one initiating, so if I did I can imagine them being disgustingly excited about it and asking me a bunch of annoying questions about why I did it and how I liked it.”

- 682

🫶: is there something about your f/os that makes them more "human"? Feelings?

“Make 682 human? Gods he would hate if I said anything other than ‘absolutely not’, butttt— Well, honestly, I’m not a big fan of the idea of something making someone “human” as a concept. Some things about humans are close to universal, but nothing really is, and I don’t think it’s ok to class people as less human based on these things. But I guess if I had to pick something that most would consider a very human thing I would pick his stubbornness in his beliefs. Heh. I feel like that’s a pretty human thing. And he sure argues about them like it. Whether it be for smaller things- like the best kind of weather- or for the bigger things- whether living beings deserve to live at all, he can get very passionate about all his arguments.”

- Ari

“They’re pretty human, unfortunately. Emotions, vulnerability, morals- though those might be skewed they’re still there I’m sure. They might have some… anomalous abilities, but they’re still human through and through.”

- 682

🥰: gush about this f/o! No limits!

“What to talk about? Hmmmm oh! 682’s abilities are so remarkable! His reputation as unkillable is certainly correct. If you look through him files it seems pretty obvious that he could survive almost anything! But, though the other doctors didn’t seem to care, that isn’t the only reason that 682 can adapt. We’ve talked about it a bit, and according to him he can just… do that. Sure, the dire circumstances they put him in can make sure he speeds it up, but his adaptability isn’t limited to that. And he’s actually used this before to- uhm. Well to actually do things with me. And I don’t mean that in like a ‘sex’ way, but more in a ‘receiving affection’ way because he found out that I was worried about if he liked the affection and just wasn’t saying anything. Or if he was adapting to not be annoyed by it. And so he adapted new limbs and new vocal cords to talk to me easier and show me he did like it. Oh that reminds me! I also love the way he doesn’t care about what others say or think! Like when I was nervous, he told me that I would have no doubt if he didn’t like something because he would tell me quite clearly, no matter what that made me feel, and that was… comforting. But ah, I’m going on for too long, hehe. I could go on so I’ll cut it here.”

- Ari

“I will not ‘gush’ but I will say that I… appreciate their willingness to actually talk to me. Even when I get hostile or kill people, they never hold it against me, and are always willing to listen to why I did it. And when I don’t give an explanation, he’s okay with that too. I guess, it’s just… ghh nice to have someone willing to listen and… not mind what I am. They’re also intriguing, mainly because I’ve never spent as much time with any living being than I do him- willingly at least. And the more time we do spend, the more I find… interesting about the experiences of the living world. And about them- specifically about them.”

- 682

🎁: share either a heacanon or a canon fact about your f/os!

“682 likes volcanoes and their eruptions! (Hc) When people think about it it makes sense- it’s a big destructive event that kills a lot of living life, so of course he likes them, but it’s more than that. He likes the look of them towering over the ground, spitting out ash and lava and smoke, and watching the lava run down the sides like the blood of the Earth- those are his words actually. He also likes the smell of the eruption, as it apparently smells very dead and yet still very alive at the same time, according to him. He’s apparently went to watch at least three of them, one of them being the cause of a breach years ago and when he heard about it.”

- Ari

“The doctor here is actually only not an SCP themself because of their weird relationship with the 05 council. No one else but me, 049, and them, themself, know about this relationship, and why it is the way it is. Even the 05 council is ignorant of this most of the time.”

- 682

#authorchan06.asks #f/o ask game #scp foundation #scp 682 #proselfship

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hyperfixation-tangentopia · 1 year

Text

More incorrect quotes!! Chikao & Tongbi with Nezha this time!

Chikao: Well, it rained today, but as a whole it's been warmer than it was last week.

Nezha: Why does it seem like every time you talk to us, you end up talking about the weather? Is your life so unimaginably dull that you can't think of any events in your life to describe that might be more interesting than the weather? Let's think of something for you to talk about other than the weather. I mean, we barely even know anything about you, other than where you live.

Nezha: Let's start there. What do you do for a living?

Chikao: I'm a meteorologist.

Nezha: Chikao, I rebuke thee! I rebuke thee!

Chikao: Rebuke? Is that a word?

Nezha: You have all invoked my fury! You will all pay recompense for your transgressions!

Chikao: What, you got like a word-a-day calendar or something?

Nezha: Sorry it took so long to bail you out of jail.

Chikao: No, it was my fault. I shouldn't have used my phone call to prank call the police station.

Chikao: I’ve been here in jail so long I think I’ve lost my mind.

Chikao: The days turn into weeks, weeks turn into months.

Chikao: How long have I been in here now? Almost a year?

Nezha: This is Monopoly.

Nezha: Chikao…

Chikao: Oh no, 'Chikao' in B flat.

Chikao: You're disappointed.

Chikao: I think this might be a bad idea…

Nezha: Don't start thinking on me now!

Nezha: Chikao, are you drinking… drinking hydrogen peroxide?!

Chikao: It says H2O2! That means it’s the sequel to water!

Nezha: What's two plus two?

Chikao: Math.

Nezha: …I will accept that answer.

Chikao: Guess who just found out the difference between wax paper and parchment paper the hard way?

Nezha: Wait, what’s the difference?

Chikao: One you can use in the oven safely, and the other you can also use in the oven… if the thing you are trying to make happens to be fire.

Chikao, T-posing in the doorway: Greetings, Nezha.

Nezha, not looking up from his coffee: Good morning, problem child.

Nezha: I have a new hoodie.

Tongbi: Wrong.

Tongbi: We have a new hoodie.

PIF: Red Son was in a fight.

Nezha: Oh no, that’s terrible!

Tongbi: Did they win?

Nezha: Just so everyone knows, don't ever try to climb a tree at night carrying a strobe light, owls DON'T like it.

Tongbi: …what happened?

Nezha: I made a VERY bad mistake.

Nezha: I did it! I memorized everything in the book! I'm gonna ace this test!

Tongbi: Ok, Nezha, I'll give you one more question before you go. What ended in 1918?

Nezha: 1917.

Tongbi: …You're ready.

Tongbi: Awww, why don't you like cats, Nezha? They're just snuggly buddies! They have toe beans! They make a little blep! What's not to love??

Nezha: I don't know Tongbi, I just prefer to be conscious instead of dead on the floor.

Tongbi:

Nezha: I'm ALLERGIC.

Tongbi: Mint is just cold spicy.

The Squad: …

Nezha: What the actual fuck is wrong with you.

Nezha: How would you like your coffee?

Tongbi: As dark as my soul.

Nezha: Got it, one cup of milk coming right up!

Tongbi: I can do anything I put my mind to. I once figured out Nezha's phone number just by choosing random numbers.

Nezha: Look, Tongbi, it's the third time this week you had a mental breakdown and its Monday.

Tongbi: I’ve become a bread crumb dealer to four crows at the lake. They pay me with a bit of everything. Like shiny things, fabric, or pens. But recently they paid me with a 20 dollar bill they found somewhere. So I decided to buy them some more expensive bread. They loved it. So they understand what to do. Give me money. I’ve probably racked up about 200 dollars at this point. Is it morally wrong though, I mean. They’re the ones who steal the money from others. Or perhaps they just have a big pile laying somewhere. Should I keep on doing this?

Nezha: You sound like the start of a Batman villain.

#I could 100% see Nezha leaving a hoodie somewhere while they're babysitting Red Son and by the end of the night Tongbi takes it home tbh #and nobody knows how it happens and nobody thinks Nezha has noticed #he has he just doesn't ask for it back #also Chikao literally having caused the rain #Tongbi would totally help Nezha with studying for something #especially spacey related because ofc #please note when I talk about Tongbi and Nezha I am talking about stuff like #way after the Chikao & Nezha comic thingy #tealstars

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nancywheelersgirlfriend · 2 years

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the pleasure is mine (to die by your side)

(3,103 words) read on ao3 :)

It was 1994 and Robin Buckley woke up with no blankets on her side of the bed. She wasn’t particularly surprised - even when the harsh winter weather wasn’t raging outside their bedroom window, Nancy was infamous for stealing the covers over the course of the night. It wasn’t her fault. It was innate. Some secret urge to be warm. Robin ran hot, anyway. Her metabolism made her a human furnace.

So when she blinked awake at a bleary six in the morning, eager to turn back over and frankly not wake up again for the next three days, Robin simply turned over on her side. She tossed a haphazard arm over where she guess-estimated Nancy’s shoulder was underneath the pile of fabric. She pulled the lump closer to her chest and let out a contented little hum; just like a furnace.

Robin hand pawed at the comforter, yanking it down far enough to both ensure Nancy’s ability to breathe and press a kiss to the side of her warm neck. She splayed her fingers out at the base of Nancy’s collarbone where her ratty sleepshirt had slipped over the course of a turbulent night. She nuzzled her nose against Nancy’s curls. They spread out over the pillow like a biblical halo.

“‘m up,” Nancy mumbled. She clearly wasn’t. Robin pressed her responding grin into her hair and nodded encouragingly. “Did you have good dreams?”

“Yeah,” Robin said. Her foot, reaching forwards in exploration, hit the end of the comforter. Score! “I dreamt I got to wake up next to the most beautiful girl in the world, cold as shit.”

“Aw,” Nancy drew out the word, trying and failing to turn herself over in the mass of comforter and limb. “Baby, ‘m sorry.”

“It’s fine. Now you can warm me up,” Robin replied, mischievous toothy grin carefully disguised by the dark room as her absolutely freezing foot dug its way underneath the comforter and landed on Nancy’s leg. Nancy immediately sprung upwards, yelping as she leapt into a sitting position. Robin nearly got herself knocked off the bed.

“You bitch!” Nancy accused, but it was hard to sound serious when she was laughing so much. Underneath the comforter, which had flown half up in the chaos, Robin took the opportunity to slip completely underneath. Inside the blanket it felt like a womb. Nancy’s laughter was dimmed but no less beautiful. Robin lunged on her legs, shimmying up her hips, her waist. She pressed a quick kiss to the mole on Nancy’s left hip. Her face popped out from the line of the comforter.

Robin grinned up at Nancy, hair all mussed and arms coming to wrap their way around Nancy’s waist. Together they tumbled back down onto the bed, Robin and Nancy no longer two people but one ball of warmth.

“Let’s sleep in,” Robin suggested. Nancy turned Robin’s head with her hand to press a smacking kiss to her cheek.

“Let’s stay here forever,” Nancy added. Robin’s hand squeezed her thigh in a resounding ‘hell yes’.

* * *

Robin -

Yes we’re fine and no, we don’t need money. Come down and visit us sometime. New Hampshire isn’t that far from Greenwich, seriously. Plus you guys have a car - pretty lucky for that. Mike wants to save up but I don’t see the need. If we had a car, we’d have to go to Hawkins. That sounds like Hell. So we got a cat instead. Picture included, of course. But you’ll have to come down to touch her. Mike says I should enclose a bit of her fur as a test sample for you two. Why do I love him again?

* * *

Robin looked up at Nancy’s hazy form, disguised by the steam coming off of her abnormally large coffee mug. She was gorgeously tired. Sat in a little cafe somewhere in Bath, where the brick walls peeled themselves apart and the barista gave up her post to chat up the guy working the pick-up window, they had breakfast.

“You want a bite of my croissant?” Nancy asked. She was picking apart her pastry. The little flakes fell to the plate.

“Let’s trade,” Robin agreed. She pushed over a bite of her cinnamon roll. Nancy dropped a piece of hers into Robin’s open palm, brushing their fingers together as she did. They ate them at the same time and smiled around their food.

Nancy nudged the side of her foot against Robin’s big combat boots. She scribbled something down on the open and inked-up notepad on the desk in front of her.

“Whatcha writing?” Robin asked, nodding down at the offending paper. Nancy passed it over to her, laughing as she watched her quickly lick off the sugar icing as to not dirty the pad. Robin squinted her tired eyes, red-faced and fresh. A child. “Hm. Red wheelbarrow. Red hair. Who’s got red hair?” She tilted her head. Nancy reached over and tugged representatively at a strand fallen out from behind Robin’s pink-tipped ear.

“You’re so red all the time,” Nancy said.

“Is that a good thing?” Robin replied. She leaned down to take a tentative sip of her burning hot coffee. It scalded her tongue. It reminded her of being alive. She smiled into the rim of the mug.

“What color am I?” Nancy asked, moving forward to rest her chin on her open palm. Robin hummed contemplatively and dipped a finger in Nancy’s tea. It was equally hot and swirling. Nancy paid no mind.

“You’re green,” Robin said decisively. Nancy raised a questioning eyebrow and stole another piece of Robin’s cinnamon roll. “Like the forests back home.”

“And the forests here aren’t green?” Nancy asked, laughing.

“It’s a different kind of green,” Robin elaborated. She passed Nancy back her notepad, watching as she jotted down two words - different greens - in the margins of her work-in-progress poem. “It’s a warmer green. Even though you run cold.”

“You’re not red just because you’re burning hot all the time,” Nancy protested. She held up her tea cup in offering. Robin took it and tasted it experimentally. It tasted like floral. It smelled like Nancy. The green coloring swam in front of her eyes. She loved this coffee shop.

“We’re Christmas colors,” Robin gasped. Nancy stole her coffee mug out from underneath her hand.

“I’ll toast to that.” When they knocked their mugs together, the liquids splashed into each other.

* * *

Anyway, El’s been begging to go see the beach, so I think we’ll head out soon enough. She’s just finishing her last exams and then we’ll have the winter off. She finally decided she wanted to study biology. I think it’s perfect for her. And Lucas’ book - it’s great. Just great. If you want, we can send you a copy. He’ll sign it and everything. He’s very excited. I hope you’re doing well.

Love always,

Mad Max

* * *

Robin tucked her nose into the warm fabric of her scarf. On the cobblestone street of their little backwater town, the ground was getting littered with snow. Nancy was a few feet in front of her, gloved hands picking at a haphazard stack of books outside. They rested atop packed cardboard boxes, scribbled on with unreadable words and backlit by the yellow-stained windows of the bookshop they were in front of. A red, messy sign that read ‘ONE DOLLAR’ was taped and half-off the main table.

“Anything good?” Robin asked, words muffled by the thick wool. Her scarf was roughly knit, a gift from Joyce Byers (who was attempting to find something else to do with her hands besides chain-smoking).

“A signed copy of Frankenstein,” Nancy said, shaking a small paperback around enticingly.

“Signed?” Robin repeated incredulously.

“I didn’t say by who,” Nancy laughed. Robin snatched the book from her willing hands, cracking it open to the inside of the front cover. Therein lied a note written by blue pen: to suzie christmas 1960. “Wonder why Suzie gave it up.” Robin furiously flipped through the pages, uncaring that it was decades old. As she did so, a group of about twenty pages suddenly came apart from the spine and fell onto the snow-covered ground. The two women watched it flutter down, barely holding back their laughter.

“Probably that,” Robin said. She handed Nancy the book, who tucked it back into the book Jenga game in front of them. “You wanna go in?”

“Did you even have to ask?” Nancy replied. As they squeezed their way through the tiny, handbuilt doorway, Robin let her fingertips brush Nancy’s waist. It was a dangerous game, even in their sweet, sleepy little town. The older woman at the register seemed seconds away from passing out. Robin let her fingers stay on Nancy’s waist.

“History section?” Robin suggested, letting her eager eyes stray down the stacks of bending bookcases. She caught a glimpse of a book about ancient Europe and nearly foamed at the mouth from excitement.

“Science fiction!” Nancy argued. Robin followed her dutifully.

“Haven’t you lived through enough?” She groaned dramatically, leaning on the shelf as Nancy shifted meticulously through the books. Robin registered how far back they’d gotten in the bookstore - nearly at the back. They were completely alone. As she watched Nancy pick out the leftovers of the shelf in front of her, she shook off her scarf.

“They’re raising the prices,” Nancy muttered absently, flipping with fast fingers through the Ks and Ls. Robin draped her scarf around Nancy’s neck. The wool fell in front of her eyes.

“Guess who,” Robin sing-songed. Nancy’s hand came up to yank down at the fabric, smirking up at her much taller girlfriend. She stepped back so that her back hit Robin’s chest, pressing them together.

“Hello, beautiful,” Nancy said, tilting her head up to meet eyes with Robin. The scarf fell to the floor, completely forgotten. Robin’s hand drifted to grab at Nancy’s chin, holding her face in place as she leaned down and connected their lips. Nancy laughed at the position, spinning in place to fully face Robin in between the tight bookshelves. Robin squeezed her chin and then dropped her arms to wrap them around Nancy’s waist. She yanked her closer. They melted together.

Robin slowly pressed Nancy into the bookshelf, wooden grooves and all. She tilted her head and suddenly her mouth was falling open in pure contentment, Nancy responding tenfold. Her hands shot up to grip at Robin’s hair - a habit Robin loved teasing her about.

She whimpered into Robin’s mouth, a quiet little noise Robin heard like a bomb. She pushed her farther into the shelf in reply. One of her hands balled up a bit of Nancy’s sweater in her fist, fingertips skimming her skin. As they tussled against the stack, a group of hastily stacked books fell to the floor.

Robin pulled back, eyes deer-like and scared. But the woman at the front made no move to come back and see them. She kept Nancy close to her chest, both blinking back to the present.

“You make me forget where I am,” Robin told her as Nancy bent down to grab at the poor, damaged books. Nancy set them back onto the bookshelf with a final pat to their covers.

“You make me forget I’m alive,” Nancy retorted. She scooped up the scarf and tossed it around her neck with a wink. It looked much better on her, Robin thought. Everything was beautiful on Nancy Wheeler.

* * *

Nance and Rob,

We’ve got a guest room with clean sheets if you want it. Come out and escape the New Hampshire snow.

Jon and Argyle

* * *

The dimly lit sign nailed up outside the teensy church said the Christmas candlelit service was at 8 o’clock. Robin tilted her head to check it out, admiring the lopsided Jesus figure atop the sign. She resisted the urge to fix its position.

“Snowball?” Nancy offered from a few feet away. Robin turned on her heel just as Nancy was pitching back and tossing said weapon, which she’d balled up from the multitude of snow at her feet. Robin raised her hands too slowly. The snowball hit her square in the chest, soaking through her coat. She grinned challengingly and made a ‘come here’ motion with her hands. “No, no, I already gave it to you!”

“I want to return the favor,” Robin protested, bending halfway over to scoop at snow blindly - she couldn’t tear her eyes from a pink-cheeked Nancy even if she wanted to.

“You really don’t have to,” Nancy reassured, but it was too late. Robin threw the snowball way over her head - it hit the back of Nancy’s hip as she shrieked and leapt away.

“No, no, you ran away,” Robin said, words dipped in laughter. “Come back, let me get you again.”

“I think one was enough!” Nancy squealed as Robin rushed forwards like a bull, hands piled high with snow. “Rob!”

“Come here, you coward!” Robin accused, but it hardly held any weight with how much she was giggling. Nancy dodged again. Robin scooped up more snow and stumbled forwards, puffing out her cheeks and turning a little green.

“Rob?” Nancy asked, all concerned. She stepped forward, hand on Robin’s shoulder. Robin grinned mischievously up at her for a second before she made a gagging sound. She pretended to throw up the snow all down Nancy’s coat, stumbling into her and her hand. Nancy gasped from the sudden cold. “Robin Buckley!”

“It’d sound better with Wheeler after it, wouldn’t it?” Robin said, grinning like a fox. Nancy rolled her eyes affectionately. She let Robin pull her in close, pressing their equally soaked chests together for warmth.

“I dunno, I think Nancy Buckley has a good ring to it,” Nancy mused. Unbeknownst to Robin, she began to shuffle snow with her heels.

“You would never give up your last name,” Robin argued. Nancy hummed in agreement, reaching up with one hand to cart her fingers through Robin’s shaggy hair. As her girlfriends’ eyes shut in contentment, Nancy reached down with her other hand and grabbed loosely at snow. She slammed it down onto Robin’s head. The snow leaked down onto her face as her eyes snapped open, betrayed.

“You traitor!” Robin shouted. She barreled into Nancy, sending them both tumbling onto the snow. They rolled around in the snow, tussling for control and better access to ammo, getting increasingly colder and wetter as they went. Robin shoved snow down Nancy’s sweater along her spine. Nancy managed to get a few flakes into Robin’s open, accusatory mouth.

“Truce?” Robin gasped, chest heaving as she flopped onto her back in the snow. The steeple above, towering over them like God himself, peered over her. Nancy’s face, flushed and beautiful, appeared for a moment before she was flopping down beside her.

“Truce,” Nancy agreed, equally exhausted. Her gloved hand flopped out on the snow to grab at Robin’s hand. Their fingers tangled together. It was a ball of warmth. Robin shut her eyes and let out a sigh, breathing in the smell of snow.

* * *

Robin, please please please let me come over and visit. I’m so sick of Oregon. Okay, that’s a lie. I love Oregon. I love teaching. But I want to see you. Maybe become a Robert Frost. Maybe read some Nancy Wheeler poetry. Maybe ordain your wedding? Kidding. Kind of. Call me!

Your best friend,

Steve

* * *

Robin squinted into the lit fireplace, embers sizzling as it kickstarted itself. Outside the snowstorm raged. On the coffee table in front of her was a spread of letters and postcards, collected from friends. All waiting to be responded to. They’d been silent for too long.

But as she watched Nancy putter around in the kitchen, cooking up a batch of rocky road cookies and working on another round of coffee, Robin couldn’t help wishing they were the only two people in the world. Living in this little cottage off the side of the road, surrounded by mountains and wind and birch trees, it felt like they were. She smiled to herself. Nancy swore as she burnt the tip of her pointer on the hot, rumbling oven.

“Cookies are almost done!” Nancy called out, turning her head in Robin’s vague direction. She knew where she was. She looked almost shrunken in the low doorway from the living room to the kitchen, the doorway Robin had to duck through everytime she passed - or hit her forehead on the rim as a consequence of not thinking. Still Robin appreciated the hobbit hole. She liked feeling so close and so small. She’d never been able to feel that way before, at least not positively.

It was hard to believe anything had happened. Hard to believe it would never happen again. She let herself close her eyes and shift on their lumpy couch, head to the plush back and body warmed by the fire. The letters spoke like her friends. Robin wished they were here, in person. Then again, it was nice for everybody to be somewhere else.

“You wanna lick the spoon?” Nancy asked, waving around the spoon enticingly. She pretended to drop it into the sink, laughing as Robin’s face twisted up in childish pain. “You know I would never!”

“Nance, you’re evil,” Robin promised. She managed to get up off the couch anyway, stumbling through the doorway (ducking her head) to reach her girlfriend. She came to stand beside Nancy in front of the oven. The cookies within rose like little babies. Nancy passed her the spoon. Robin gave her a kiss on the cheek as thank you. She devoured the leftover batter like a starved man. Nancy just laughed. She looked adorable in her overalls, too big for her body and perfect for her soul.

“You’re a child,” Nancy retorted, leaning up against the counter a with a grin. Robin shrugged, unaffected. She dropped the spoon into the waiting bowl, which had been disposited in the sink. Soapy water splashed up onto the sides of her long sweater sleeves.

“You love me,” Robin challenged. Nancy reached up to twirl a bit of Robin’s hair around her finger and nodded in easy agreement.

“I do,” Nancy said. “I will.”

“Forever?” Robin asked. Nancy pursed her lips, the smile on her face that seemed permanent whenever she looked at Robin. She stepped closer and watched.

“Longer than that,” Nancy promised.

“Cheeseball.”

“Nerd,” Robin replied snarkily. When she leaned down to kiss Nancy, she met her halfway - arms around her neck, feet stepping on each other, the whole shebang. The oven dinged tellingly. Robin tightened her grip on Nancy’s waist. There was no point in letting her go.

#ronance #ronance fic requests #ronance fic #ronance fluff #ronance is real #robin buckley x nancy wheeler #stranger things #nancy wheeler #robin buckley #ronance hc #ronance fix it #ronance supremacy #fruity 4 #the fruity four #nancy x robin #robin x nancy

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tendouluvr · 4 years

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aizawa calling you clingy - gn reader

- [attempt at] angst to fluff

- warnings: being called clingy, aizawa gets annoyed with reader and berates them, one use of the word ‘shit’

- wc: 1.9k

a/n: this wasnt......as sad as i wanted... i cant tell if im just not so good at writing angst or immune to it T_T

once again, not edited!

#! aizawa!!!! eee

#! hes a levelheaded man so arguments are rare

#! u both trust one another so theres no reason to have doubts in ur relationship

#! being his s/o, he tells u things thats not so easy to tell others over time, and you’re patient enough to let him take however much time he needs to let u in

#! however, years of keeping to himself most of the time doesnt just disappear even if you’re his s/o

#! so aizawa does have this tendency to close off and distance himself from u bc of his stress and insecurities

walking through the spacious halls of ua, you were headed towards your lovely boyfriend. aizawas been pretty busy lately with teaching his class, making sure no one is being left behind progress wise, doing his job as a pro-hero, and then spending his free time training with shinsou.

you knew showing up at school unexpectedly was something aizawa found irky, that’s why you made sure to tell him the night before that you would be coming during lunch time to bring him some yummy homemade food.

humming softly to yourself, you finally reached the door opening to class 1-A and walked in. the classroom was empty, but there at the front was no one other than mr. aizawa shouta. you quickly greeted him with a smile and he turned to look at you.

“what are you doing here?” he slowly asked with a look of confusion.

“i brought you some food! did you eat yet? i hope not, i made-,” you quickly stopped talking once you noticed the look he was giving you.

“why are you here? i already told you, you shouldnt be showing up without letting me know first. our relationship is quiet, if the students see they’ll get noisy and ask questions, i’ll get bombarded by my colleagues, and it’ll put you in danger if words get out. did anyone see you coming here? can you listen to me for once instead of continuing to always be near me? you’re so damn clingy and need to start thinking about the consequences your action will bring. i already ate, just go home before anything happens.”

your jaw dropped a little after hearing what he just said to you. did he not remember what you told him last night?

worst of all, you couldnt believe he just called you clingy. you just wanted to do something nice for him by making his favorite food hoping that it’ll relieve some of the stress thats been building up, but he just thought of you as clingy.

fine, if clingy is what you are then you’ll stop bothering him. you quickly whispered an apology, not sure if he could hear or not, and began making your way back home as fast as possible. the food you made for him was still tightly grasped in your hand.

due to the new dormitories, aizawa stays at ua majority of the time. he comes home to your shared apartment whenever he can to spend time with you. unfortunately, those time aren’t usually much because as soon as he’s free, he’s quick to do something else.

once you’ve made it home, you packed the food away and put it in the fridge. you felt your phone buzzing repeatedly, already guessing who it could possibly be, you took it out to see it was your boyfriend.

shou <3: im sorry

shou <3: honey, im so sorry. pls text me back when u can

shou <3: i know what i said hurted u, but i promise u i dont mean it. pls just call me or text me so we can talk about this

shou <3: i have to go back now. but i love u. so much.

staring at your screen, you contemplated texting him back.

letting out a sigh, you decided not to.

putting your phone to the side, you walked to the bedroom and changed out of your clothes into the comfy pjs you were wearing right before you left.

seeing that there was nothing for you to do other than wallow in your insecurities and let out a few tears, you got into bed and made yourself comfortable for an afternoon nap.

aizawa on the other hand was at school and distracted. his own words kept replaying over and over in his head and all he wants to do is smack himself a few times (after comforting u ofc).

his students could tell he was in a badder mood than usual so they collectively agreed to not worsen it (one particular student does not care. can u guess?). aizawa just wanted the day to pass so he can apologize to you directly and make it up with some cuddling.

despite being distracted with planning his apology and thinking about you, he was still teaching as he should and constantly telling his students to be quiet because he’s intimidating like that.

a few hours passed, the students are back in their dorms and some of the teachers are still in school finishing up some work. the hallways were empty and silent, and the weather outside was nice and calm - not too sunny with just the right amount of wind.

however, if you were to peek your head inside of class 1-A at the moment, the environment is an exact 180. aizawa is quickly trying to grade the remaining stack of papers he has on his desk so he can leave as soon as he can. there’s papers everywhere, he’s not so sure where the answer key went off to but to hell with the answer key. he just needs to go home.

his hair is messily tied up and his lips have probably been gnawed off by now. as soon as school ended, he got out his phone to see if you replied and sadly you didn’t. he doesn’t blame you though, considering all of the shit he said to you earlier.

finally writing down the fat score in red pen onto the final paper, he gathers everything and put to the side of his desk and packed up his stuff. his stuff being his yellow sleeping bag and that’s it.

he went to his room first to clean himself up a bit, and then grabbed a taxi to go to your shared apartment. arriving at the front door, he takes out his copy of the key and entered.

first thing he noticed while entering and taking off his shoes was that the apartment was dark and quiet. he made his way to the kitchen first and turned on its lights to check the fridge. in the fridge laid the food you made for him earlier today. he took it out to start heating it up in the microwave then he walks away from the food and to your bedroom.

quietly opening the door, he poked his head in to see you laying on your side with your back facing the door. he assumed you were asleep and gently closed the door to not wake you up. he made his way over to the bed and sat on the edge of it.

you, feeling the bed dip, slowly opened your eyes to be greeted with the sight of your boyfriend gingerly brushing his fingertips across your cheekbones. he notices that you’re awake and looks up to meet your eyes.

making eye contact with him, you quietly grunted and brought the blanket up to cover your face while turning your entire body to the other side to ignore him. aizawa sighed and brought his hand down to rest on your waist as he begins talking.

“yn... i know you’re.. mad at me for the things i said to you earlier, but i’m truly sorry. i know saying i didn’t mean it isn’t good enough for you to forgive me, but i want you to know i’m really really sorry. i’ve been so busy for the past few days, my head is all over the place, seeing you at school just got me overthinking and worried that i ended up saying things about you that’s not true at all. i love you so much, hun. you’re the best thing to happen to me. you don’t have to forgive me now, i understand if you want some space.”

it was silent for some time after he finished his apology. the echoing silence was slowly making aizawa worried that you’ll leave him, but he won’t tell you that. thinking that you wanted space, he lifted his shaky hand off of your waist and moved to get off of the bed when you suddenly grabbed onto his hand to keep him there.

“i...i told you the day before that i was going to be visiting you during lunch time. did you not remember? or even hear me tell you?”

aizawa situated himself back down onto the bed before replying. “if i’m being honest, i don’t really remember much of that day at all. my brain was occupied with work and rest, so i was practically drained by the end of the night. i’m sorry i took it out on you, it’s my fault for overworking when i know you’ve been trying to help.”

letting out a soft sigh, you turned your body back towards him. still holding onto his hand, you carefully slotted your fingers in between his and pulled him down to lay with you. he immediately found comfort in this and placed his head into your neck. you could feel his facial hair against your skin making you let out a quiet giggle.

“i love you. i know you have a habit to overwork since that’s all you did before we dated, but please shou, take care of yourself. im not talking physically, cuz you’re already so damn fine, but mentally. i hate seeing you bury yourself in work and training that it even makes me tired just watching you.”

he grumbled something against your neck - his usual reaction to you complimenting him - and held onto you tighter while putting light kisses on your collarbone.

“i know. i will. please bear with me, i know i’m a pain but i’ll always try to be my best for you. i’m never letting you go, love you too much for that.”

“hmm? who said i’m going? you’re stuck with me forever just so you know,” you laughed and patted his head before rising from the bed.

“i heard you heating up the food earlier. get up and come eat,” you tugged aizawa to get him off the bed.

he grumbled once again because he was being forced to leave the warm comfort of your shared bed, but followed you out anyway holding onto your hand.

“wait. you heard me entering? so you were pretending to sleep when i got here?! not funny, babe. not funny. -also don’t take sleep for granted. i did and look where that got me. stop laughing!”

bonus:

it was the next day and aizawa just finished passing out the grades he rushed grading yesterday. even though it was rushed, he was confident that there wasn’t any mistakes-

“aizawa sensei, you marked this question wrong when it’s right. this one too. and this other one on the last page. are you trying to fail me?!” denki dramatically wailed as he showed aizawa his papers.

guess he did make mistakes after all.

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