#hello anxiety you cruel cruel bitch | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

acapelladitty · 3 years

Text

Whole Day Off: Part 4 (The Event)

Pairing: Jonathan Crane/Female Reader

(Warnings in this chapter for: physical assault and attempted sexual assault, neither of which take place at the hands of Crane.)

Summary: After an unprovoked attack forces the Scarecrow to step into an unfamiliar role as a saviour, you find yourself experiencing a new side of Jonathan Crane which you never could have anticipated.

Twisting your keys as you pull them free of the ignition, the engine quickly dies and the chilled air of the night sweeps across your body as you step free of your car. You had not expected to be seeing Crane tonight, but the invitation had been a welcome distraction from the uninteresting pile of work which sat atop your desk at home, awaiting your attention.

As always, the warmth of your long coat keeps most of the cold air out and the only exposed areas of your body are your lower calves as they peek out from the bottom of the coat. The skirt and bra combination, a continued winner in your salacious rendezvous with the infamous Scarecrow, clung to your body beneath the coat and you amuse yourself with his reactions to such an outfit as you hurry along.

A low cough grabs your attention and your head snaps around to take in two nearby figures; their upper bodies leaning against one of the many metal cargo crates which were littered around the dock as their upper halves remained hidden by the evening shadows.

“Hey, baby,” the shorter of the two men piped up, “did you get a little lost?”

Ignoring them, your feet pick up their pace as you move through the dock, treading the familiar path towards your destination.

“Aww, come on now,” the voice continues, “I’m just trying to help you. Why don’t you come over here and tell me your name?”

The vague sound of footsteps in the space behind you forces you to turn your head and you can see that both men have moved off their original position and are now walking behind you at a slight distance. Anxiety grips at your chest as you realise you have no defensive weapons or pepper spray with you and the vulnerability of that knowledge makes your breath catch in your throat.

Moving even faster, you focus on your goal. The warehouse would provide a fantastic cover and there were few who would actively move against the man who resided there once made aware of his presence.

“Why you being so rude, darling?” A new voice, the one of the taller man, joined his friend, “We just want to say hello to the pretty lady.”

Breaking into an open sprint, you briefly appreciate your own foresight as your flat shoes make the task easier than it could have been as your feet pound against the gravel. The warehouse is just up ahead and if you can just get through the doors then there is a lock which will be strong enough to keep both men out.

In the quiet of the dock, the sound of mixed footsteps echoes off the metal containers which litter the area, and your breath comes in short sharp pants as you try to keep a distance. Fear curls against your spine and it is the raw fear of vulnerability, of being the victim of one of the worst types of violence.

A squeal of dismay escapes your throat as a rough hand locks around your upper arm, twisting you in place as you come face-to-face with the shorter of the two men. His mouth is twisted into a cruel smile as his free hand latches on to your other arm.

“Why you running, babe? We just want to talk?”

His face is inches from your own and his breath reeks of cigarettes as it washes over you. To his side, his taller friend wears a similar expression of cruel joy and it makes the anxiety in your stomach roil.

“Maybe you can show my friend and I here how sorry you are for being so rude to us?”

Snatching your hand free in one sharp jolt, you reach out to draw your hand across his jaw as you allow your sharp nails to score a series of lines down his cheek, the redness immediate and raw looking as the blood rushed to the area.

Howling in surprise, the man dropped his grip of your left arm as his hand flew to his face, pressing against the wound with open fingers.

“You fucking bitch!”

His hand drew back for a moment before a searing pain exploded across your lower jaw and you realise that he has struck you. The heat of the blow is stunning, and you can instantly taste copper in your mouth as your lip splits under the force of the hit. Adrenaline spiking, you raise your foot and bring it down sharply; the heel making firm contact with the tips of his toes, and the move catches him so off-guard that he drops his hold of you fully.

Resuming your sprint, the wind whips against your cheek as you move frantically through the dock, the sound of hurried footsteps and garbled obscenities hot on your heels. A wave of relief washes through you as you reach the door of the warehouse, but your hopes are short-lived as a harsh hand makes itself known against your head.

The grip in your hair is painful enough to elicit a short scream from you but it is quickly cut off as your head is thrust forward, colliding against the metal door and causing sparks to fly from behind your eyes as pain flares from the spot. Still a little stunned, you can do little to resist as your body is spun around, back pressing against the door as both men pin you there with firm hands, hard fingers digging in to your soft flesh.

“Stupid bitch.” The taller man speaks with a low growl as his hand settled along your jaw, drawing a grunt from you as his fingers disturb the tenderness there, “You’ll pay for that.”

The sensation of a hand fumbling messily at your coat buttons renews your panicked fury as you struggle in place, attempting to free your body from its pinned position as hot tears prick at your eyes and your chest heaves.

“Stop. Struggling. Cunt.” The words are hissed as a hand once again makes itself known against your scalp, pulling your hair with enough force to make you yelp as the pain blossoms across your head.

You are unable to prevent the inevitable as your coat is pulled open by rough hands, the fabric falling to the sides as a fresh well of shame rises to your cheeks when your almost naked form is exposed to their evil leers.

“Oh, I think we caught ourselves a whore, Don.” The shorter man grins, his eyes roving over your exposed chest as his fingers pluck at the thin lace of your bra strap, “You working tonight, baby?”

Lip trembling, you want nothing more than to cover yourself but with both hands pinned against the door, such a desire is unavailable and so you can do little but whimper as the free hand of the taller man ghosts over your chest.

Slipping his hand within the lace bra, fresh revulsion makes your throat tight as his disgusting fingers knead at your breast for a moment before pulling free.

“Oh, she’s a professional alright,” his words were rough, laced with sadistic joy, “you can smell it on the cunt.”

Fear and rage churn a torrid mixture within your gut and, at his words, you turn to face him fully as you use what little moisture you have left in your mouth to spit in his face.

“Fucking whore!” He recoils as your spit lands on his cheek and his retaliation is immediate as his hands dip within his jacket and pull free a small blade, the metal glinting in the low light, “Disgusting little slut.”

Pressing the blade against your stomach, blind panic seizes at your body as you suck in a sharp breath. The trembling of your fingers against the door is uncontrollable as the lump in your throat makes fresh tears spring into your eyes. Through your fear, a slight pain makes itself known and you know the blade had left a small nick in your skin, enough to serve as a warning.

The blade remains against your skin even as the shorter man drops his hold of your wrist.

“Keep the bitch there,” he grunts, his hands dropping to his slacks, “I’ve got a surprise for her.”

Blinking back the tears which were threatening to escape your eyes, you would not give these men the satisfaction of seeing your distress.

However, just as the tell-tale click of his belt unlatching sounded, a shadow emerged from the darkness behind him and a high grunt of surprise broke free of his chest as a thin arm wrapped itself around his chin and twisted his head to the side. Within seconds, his body had dropped to the floor unmoving as a syringe protruded from his exposed neck; the needle having been slammed in there and its contents deposited in one fell swoop by the man who now stood over the fallen body with a predatory stance.

Despite your fear, a frantic bubble of hope welled within you as you take in the sight of Jonathan Crane.

His usual clothing is all there, shirt and slacks covered by a pristine white lab coat, but his expression is hidden by his infamous Scarecrow mask; the burlap removing any human elements of his person as it concealed his mood and intentions.

It was the first time you had seen him wear any of his costume in person and a low whimper drew free of your throat as the taller man tightened his grip on your arm, the knife still pressed against your stomach.

“What the fuck is this?” Open panic clouded your assailants’ words, and it was clear he knew who he was dealing with from the genuine fear in his expression, “Why are you here?”

“Gotham is my city.” Distorted by the mask, Crane’s voice was almost unrecognisable, and it sent a shiver down your spine as you attempted to match it up with the man you had come to know, “I am everywhere as every shadow and darkness bends to the Scarecrow.”

“St-stay away from me,” his bravado gone, the man pulled you forward to stand between him and Crane, “leave me alone and I’ll give you girl.”

Bastard.

Even unable to see his expression, you could feel Crane’s eyes as they took in your form and a wave of shame and upset rocketed through you at how pathetic you must look in this moment.

“The girl already belongs to me,” the distorted voice spoke once again, devoid of any emotion, “as does everyone in this city. However, I will accept your cowardly bargain. Hand me the girl and we have an accord.”

Open relief flooded the expression of the man holding you as he released you from his grip, shoving at your back roughly as he pushed you towards Crane. Not expecting the shove, you stumble across the uneven ground but find your balance in Crane’s extended arm which presses against your torso almost urgently as he pushes something against you.

Glancing down, you take the simple gas mask into numb fingers as you press it against your mouth and nose. Barley a second passed before a dull thud was followed by loud hissing filling the air as a plume of orange-tinged smoke engulfed the small area and the three individuals caught within it.

A fear grenade.

You had seen his work on them in the basement.

The smoke stung at your eyes and you slammed them shut as you focused on even your breathing through the mask, desperately hoping to avoid the fate which had been decided for the bastard who attacked you. Eyes still closed, the sound of screaming cut through the cold air and you flinched at the sudden noise as loud wails and panicked grunts washed over you.

A firm hand on your shoulder makes you crack one eye open, and you can see that the smoke has dispersed as you turn to face your saviour. His mask is still on and the lack of visibility makes your heart stutter even as adrenaline continues to course through you. You hold his passive gaze for a silent moment before a fresh round of screaming draws your attention to the man on the floor.

Writhing in place as his mind conjured his every fear, the fallen form of your attacker looked very uncomfortable in the hell of his own making as you came to stand by his side. His body curled towards you, almost like instinct, and you draw your foot back to land a harsh kick to his ribs. The kick draws a low keen from his throat as he curls his body up further but the fire of revenge stokes your heart as you land another kick.

“Fucking bastard!” You hiss, teeth baring in rage even as a suspicious wetness once again threatened the corners of your eyes.

Drawing your foot back again, you deliver one final kick and this time you make sure that the target of your violence is his fear-consumed face. The ball of your foot connects harshly with his nose and a sickening crack makes itself known as blood immediately begins to spurt from his nostrils and his screaming ceases into nothing.

Unconscious.

Good.

Fuck him.

Your hands settle on the edges of your coat and your whole body shakes as you run your hands along the torn seam of the lapel. Your lip wobbles dangerously at the damage but you move past it as you fix the straps of your bra, forcing yourself to correct the mess that your attackers had left you in as you swallow down the small trickle of blood which your split lip bled into your mouth.

A loud metallic slam makes you jerk in place and you whirl around at the noise. Behind you, you just catch sight of Crane dragging the prone body of the smaller man through the warehouse door as he begins to move the bodies from the open.

Waiting patiently as he reappears, you want to thank him for his help but the words seem to stick in your throat as your trembling fingers instead move to play with the hem of your skirt.

Perhaps sensing your uncertainty, his voice is low as he speaks and the clarity of it makes you realise that he has turned off the voice modulator within his mask.

“Go inside to the basement,” the words are calm and yet they border no argument, “and wait for me there. I will move our guests indoors and then join you when I have them secured.”

Nodding even as your knees wobble at the effort of movement, you follow his instructions as you slip within the warehouse and carefully avoid the dumped body as you head towards the basement stairs.

Your feet feel heavy below you as you hear him begin to move the second body and you pause at the base of the stairs to survey the basement. It looked as typical as ever with several pages of work strewn across his desk as the shadows in the far corners of the room held what remained of his costume as it clung to the mannequin there.

Moving through the large space, you settle your gaze on the familiar metal gurney which was bolted to the floor at a nearby wall. It was a gurney which you often found yourself pinned to under his strong hands and it was a familiar space which your legs guided you towards.

The canvas across the gurney was soft as you lay your ass on it and pushed yourself up.

Now seated, you press your back against the wall as you drew your knees up to your chin. The heat from your legs is welcome against your chest and you wrap your arms around your knees as you settle into the comforting position. The shaking of your body is undeniable as is the ache across your abused flesh, from your bruised jaw to your throbbing scalp, and you take a moment just to breathe.

The vague knowledge of where you were pressed against your consciousness, and you had to admit to yourself that it was almost sad how much relief being in this familiar environment brought you. You were trapped within the lair of a different monster, but the sense of safety was undeniable.

You have no idea how long you remained in that position, time seeming to move at a questionable pace as your mind raced with the events of the evening, but your attention was soon captured by the reappearance of Crane as his heavy footfalls made their way down the basement stairs.

Watching him as he moved towards his workbench, his mask was clasped within his hands and a sigh escaped you as he dropped the mask on his chair before dipping his hands within one of the nearby drawers. Taking in the messy shock of disarray which the mask had left his hair in, you were thankful that he had neglected to keep the thing on as you took in his welcome appearance.

He approached you at a steady pace and your eyes flicked to his hand, taking in the small med-kit there for a moment before settling against his face. His expression was passive, but the signs of his rage were there, hidden in the tightness of his eyes and the thinned lips as they pressed together harshly.

You did not imagine the rage was directed at you, but the sensitivity of your emotions made you flinch away as his hand reached out for your own, your eyes darting away to look at anything but his face.

Ignoring the flinch, his hands settled on your ankles with a gentle firmness as he pulled them free of the gurney to hang in the air just above the floor. Your hands moved out to press against the canvas as he moved you to an upright position, his gaze piercing as he surveyed the damage to your face.

A small click of the med-kit opening alerted you to his intentions and you remained in place, lacking the energy to truly protest. His hands are clinical and precise as they swipe at your split lip with an antiseptic cloth, cleaning the blood there as he removed any dirt from the wound. Your tongue slips out to brush at the small wound and the sharp taste of the chemicals makes your nose crinkle.

Moving lower, his fingers make themselves known on your stomach and you jerk in position at the unexpected touch.

“You have a cut on your abdomen. It needs cleaned to prevent infection.”

In the chaos of your thoughts, you had forgotten about the knife wound and you give a pathetic nod as you relax your stomach to allow him to wipe off the small nick in the skin.

Having spoken once and broken the awkward air, he was quick to do so again.

“I heard the commotion and assumed I was being targeted,” his voice is low and confidential but there is an odd edge of discomfort to it which catches your full attention, “so I took some time to prepare my toxin and mask. Hence the delay.”

Your brow furrows slightly at the words, not understanding his point until it hits you.

It was his version of an apology.

For not helping sooner.

“I was foolish,” you answer, almost reflexively, “and I didn’t have anything with me to help. They saw a chance and took it; I should have known better. Especially at the docks.”

His hands stilled for a moment as he listened to your words.

“You cannot hope to control rabid dogs,” his tone was measured, not comforting but it had lost some of its earlier steel, “and those men were little more than parasites. No rational being can find pleasure in taking a truly unwilling soul.”

As much as you agreed with the sentiment, there was still a strangeness to hearing him confess to it out loud. Your mind flittered through the various crimes and atrocities which had been ascribed to the man before you and it struck you that for all his monstrosities, that could not be counted among them.

Your eyes met his for a moment and, as though once again sensing your thoughts, a fleeting mixture of irritation and amusement passed through his gaze as he moved from your stomach to lay his hands flat on your hips.

Pinning you with his gaze, his words were heated as his thumbs pressed into your skin.

“Rape is a tool of fear for those who are too weak to do any better. They seek power by inflicting the basest horror on their victims. Such a primal fear has no real power and is better left to the imagination. I would not sully myself to lower my standards in such a way.”

Despite the firmness of his grip, his hands are still gentle against your skin as you lean forward into his space, capturing his lips with your own in a soft kiss. The rush of adrenaline that has been holding you together is dissipating and it its wake you can feel an almost desperate need to please him as you focus on his presence. The familiar taste of him in your mouth is welcome as you latch on to the pleasant feeling, ignoring the prick of tears as they once again threaten the corners of your eyes.

Your hands claw at the lapels of his lab coat as you press your mouth against his, greedily biting at his lips despite the sting in your own as you feel his glasses pressing against the bridge of your nose. His grip is steady on your body as he stands between your spread thighs, and it tightens noticeably as your hands free his coat to dip lower and brush against the bulge of his crotch.

His lips pull full free of your own as his head settles in the crook of your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin there with his sharp teeth as he growls under your ministrations. Blinking, you feel a tickle against your cheek, and you wipe away the fallen tear with the back of your hand as you press your chest against him.

One finger dips below your skirt and teases along the length of your panties as his head lowers itself to your chest; chapped lips pressing along the line of your collarbone as they trailed a pathway towards your breasts.

Your breath stutters for a moment, the noise coming out almost like a sob and, as he pulls his head back up to speak to you, the words die on his lips as he takes in your frantic and borderline distressed state.

The lustful haze in his eyes appears to almost harden as his hand pulls free from its position below your skirt and instead settles below your chin; the analytical frown which often graces his expression returning full force as his gaze pins you in place.

Whatever he finds there makes his lips twist for a moment in clear indecision before his decision comes and he moves away from your body, taking a measured step back even as you lean towards him once again.

“No,” his words are simple and firm, “not right now.”

Shame and disappointment burn at your skin as your lip trembles with the perceived rejection. Your fingers are visibly shaking as they reach out for him carelessly, clawing in the open air as desperation once again bubbles in your chest.

“I want you,” your words are soft but the strength of them is missing, “I want this.”

Stepping back between your thighs, your heaving chest presses out against him but is stopped by his hand between your breasts as his palm lays flat across the latch of your lace bra.

“What you want, I cannot give you and it is clear that you are not in a position to offer me anything I can accept.” His tone has the grace to hold a little regret, but the steel is undeniable as he refuses your advances, “What I can offer you is a mild sedative, the effects of which will last around an hour and will give you time to settle your psyche. Then we can see about our little game.”

Panic settles in your gut as you attempt to decipher any hidden meaning or intentions in his words. A sedative is what he claims to want to give you and you have no reason to doubt his words. But still, he was the wolf and you were little more than his willing prey and that dynamic could not be ignored.

His grip against your jaw, tactfully avoiding the bruised area, loosened slightly as he once again caught your attention.

“I am a patient man, witty girl,” amusement threaded his tone and touched at his gaze as he held your eyes, “and I can enjoy your temptations whenever. Take this time I offer to heal.”

Nodding your consent, you allow him to pull you from the gurney and set you on your feet as your hands make quick work of your coat, dropping it in a messy pile atop the gurney as you shiver in the cool air of the basement.

His presence is quick to disappear from your side as he strode towards his workstation and you instead head in the opposite direction, making a steady path to the old couch which took up residence against one of the far walls near his costume.

The fabric of the couch is soft below your skin and you appreciate the sensation as you patiently await the good doctor to administer your medicine. One hand is tucked within his lab coat as the other holds a syringe aloft as he approaches you, allowing you to see the sedative openly.

Taking a space as he seats himself on the couch by your side, he extends his hand expectantly and you place the back of your wrist within it. His fingers are as steady and clinical as ever as he taps your forearm, searching for a perfect entry point, before depositing the full amount in your system. The needle was so fine you barely felt it and the slight burn of the medicine as it enters your bloodstream forces you to release a sigh while he discards the syringe on the arm of the couch.

As he stands, he pulls his lab coat free of his body and you reach a hand out and wrap it around his wrist to halt him from moving away.

“Stay with me,” you ask, forcing a tone of nonchalance despite your real desire to not be left alone, “just until the sedative kicks in.”

To your surprise, he relents and retakes his seat on the couch.

Feeling bolstered by his apparent generosity, you incline your body to the side as you pull your legs up on the couch and angle your head so that it lay flat against the thin expanse of his thighs.

You feel his muscles tense below you for a moment and you prepare for the rejection, but it never comes as he instead snatches up a nearby psychiatric journal and turns to one of the many ear-marked pages as he balances the journal on his lab coat.

The sedative is doing its job well and you feel your body loosening as it forces your muscles to relax. A low shiver wracks your frame as your bra and skirt do little to fend off the cool air of the basement. Your jacket was still atop the gurney and your legs were in no position to be travelling to collect it.

Your concerns were solved by a sudden movement on his part as he snatched up the lab coat from his lap and dropped it over your prone body, allowing you to hook your fingers along the edges of it and pull it over you like a blanket.

“Thanks,” your words are sincere but drowsy as your thoughts become woozy, “for everything.”

His answer is little more than a grunt.

“What will you do with them?”

Even as you ask it, the question catches you by surprise and his head tilts down, catching your eyes with his sharp gaze.

“Your assailants will not survive the week.” His tone is firm and unflinching, the words holding no apology, “I will use them as test subjects for my new toxin variant and if they do not die under the experimentation then I will dispose of them manually.”

Eyes fluttering shut, you focus on the lull of his voice as he continues to speak.

“Does that bother you?”

Curiosity colours his words and you fight the fog of your mind as you consider your answer. Guilt is the furthest thing from your mind as you imagine both of your attackers screaming under the torments of the Scarecrow; their screams that much different to the screams which he often drew from your own lungs.

A smile tugs at the corners of your lips as you give him an honest answer.

“No.”

And with that confession, you surrender yourself to the becoming darkness as the sedative wins out and lulls you into sleep.

Full fic available on AO3

#jonathan crane #jonathan crane x reader #scarecrow x reader #scarecrow #jonathan crane x you #gotham rogues #batman villains #dc comics

98 notes · View notes

fumingspice · 3 years

Text

kiss me hard before you go

Pairing: Billie Dean Howard x Reader

Angst because someone (not naming any names) *cough* @lilypadscoven is too happy to write angst. Such a strange excuse, i know. Like whose even happy anymore? That’s so 2014, Freya.

Warning: Angsty as shit! I think. Idk im usually a happy person. Mentions of cheating, mentions of smut etc.

Requests are open!

taglist: @sarahp-stan @jumpoffabridge-t @sarahpaulsonsoftie @definitelynot-a-writer @bottom4delia @delias-bitch-craft @creepingwolfberry @thesapphictimelady @goodeday2u @that-fucking-error @saucy-sapphic @sarahp-stan @winters-witch-bitch @rainbow-hedgehog @pearplate

You frowned to yourself, flicking through the endless posts on Instagram. It was some godforsaken hour in the morning and no matter how hard you tried or how deeply you tried to ease your restless mind you could not fall asleep. You scrolled on social media endlessly.

God, what time could it even be? 04.27.

You gave a defeated chuckle. Even time was in on the universe’s cruel joke. She exited Instagram and went to messages. You couldn’t count the number of unsent messages and thrown out speeches you had started and couldn’t bring yourself to finish.

Billie Dean Howard.

The contact had found itself hidden deep in the archives of old messages. You hadn’t contacted her since December when you had walked away.

Walking away was better that being the one left behind, or so you had tried so hard to tell yourself. In hindsight, the truth was that Billie Dean was going to end up leaving you anyway. Was it courage of conviction or just the simple knowledge that you couldn’t live knowing that the only person you had ever opened your heart to was going to leave you?

What was the last thing she said anyway?

Goodnight :(.

Always with those stupid text faces. Those stupid, adorable text faces. How did she have such a powerful effect on you that you could see Billie’s face in a colon and a bracket? Why hadn’t you blocked her yet? What was left to hold onto other than movie-like memories that had slipped away like the changing of seasons.

You slipped from beneath the covers, Your hair tickled Your shoulders. There was no one beside you for you to reach for in your infinite loneliness anyway. It wasn’t infinite. Why did it feel infinite? Why did you allow one person to waltz into your heart and make you home there? You reached for an unopened bottle of wine and paused. Billie had left this bottle there. You never drank unless it was around Billie.

“Dom Perignon,” Billie told you. You were never interested in the details of fine wine. All you knew was that the older it was the more people liked it.

“Isn’t that expensive?” The brunette asked, reading the label.

Billie nodded with a throaty chuckle. “Only the best for my girl. I thought I would save it for a special occasion.”

A special occasion. You chuckled in spite. The occasion in question was supposed Billie’s birthday. A party with many guests. One too many. The house was brimming with sets of both of your friends. You could recall reaching for the same wine all too well before being stopped by your friend’s girlfriend. Erin took you by the wrist and guided you out to the garden.

“No one’s out here,” you protested. Erin’s face was almost forlorn.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

Sorry for what? You snapped out of your confusion. You could see the side of Billie’s body. Pressed against the wall beneath someone else. The anxiety had somehow eased when you watched Billie kiss another, fading into nothing because you knew that there was quite literally nothing that could get even worse than what you were watching.

You pursed her lips. When you imagined these moments, you had always imagined screaming bloody murder. You imagined punching and yelling. You couldn’t move. No tears. Hell, you couldn’t even feel. Erin grabbed your arm and trailed you back, but not before the sight of you, heartbroken in a red dress. had registered in Billie. She barely had time to pull away from her kiss and have the shock of what she was actually doing register.

It was always a red dress. Red dresses end up in heartbreak. A goddamn blaze in the dark.

Now, you found yourself standing at the window that looked out into the garden. Looking at the spot where you had seen her lover betray every bit of trust that you had. What would have happened if you didn’t see? What if you had seen but Billie didn’t? Would you have said anything? Would Billie have said anything?

It doesn’t matter anyway.

Billie was wine. Aromatic, warm in her stomach. She was a magnificent swirl. She was the impossible to hide stain on your favourite white dress.

Every inch of this house had Billie in its essence. She was inescapable.

It got even worse when a buzzing noise brought your attention to your phone. “Who the fuck could that be?” you asked yourself. Your heart dropped at the contact.

Billie Dean Howard is calling...

Your world collapsed for a moment as you stared at the phone buzz. Your head told you not to answer, your heart launched for it like a desert oasis. You let it ring a moment too long. You barely managed to blurt out a cracked, “Hello?” when Billie hung up. Presumably giving up.

You bit your lip. Your thumb hovered over the redial button as you fought with yourself. Maybe she’ll call again. That’s a huge maybe. Your finger jolted down unintentionally. Billie picked up on the third ring.

“Y/N?” Her breath hitched. “Y/N, can you hear me?”

You swallowed hard. “I’m here,” you stated flatly, “I can hear you.”

“I didn’t think you’d answer.”

“Honestly,” you replied. You felt no need for warmth. “I don’t think I meant to.”

“Oh. Uhm, how- how are you?”

“What do you want, Billie? It’s five in the morning,” You cut off. You could hear Billie’s breath falter a little.

“To be honest, I just wanted to see if you would pick up.”

You shook your head, cursing how well you knew the medium. “Don’t lie to me, Howard.”

Billie chuckled. “How can you tell?”

“You were the medium, but I was the human lie detector.”

“You’re a lawyer with an Irish mother and Scilian father. It would be more shocking if you weren’t one.”

You smiled, before catching yourself in an eyeroll. “Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m in town. I wanted to see you.”

“It’s five in the fucking morning.”

“You’re telling me that I actually woke you up? You were sleeping when I called?”

You bit your lip. “Yes.”

Billie chuckled again. Like it was a fucking game to her. “Well, now who’s lying?”

“What do you want, Billie?” You scoffed.

“I already told you. I want to see you.”

The audacity of the last sentence. The fact that you knew Billie Dean would come whether or not she was invited boiled your blood.

“Why.” It was more of a flat remark than a genuine question. Why. Why now.

Billie was silent for a moment. “I just want to see your face.”

Your groaned internally, another eyeroll coming into play. You scoffed. “You know the address. Find your own way over.”

And she did. The door knocked almost immediately.

You opened the door so quickly that it creaked aggressively.

“You have some fucking nerve. You know that right?” You snapped. The medium’s eyes widened in shock.

“Nice to see you too.”

You stepped aside and ushered her in, cold from the whipping air. Refreshing if you weren’t standing in shorts and a cardigan.

Billie turned around to face her. Tension grew, like insulation keeping everything in. You could choke on all the words you never said.

“You look beautiful.”

“Je vais te tuer avec mes mains nues et dormir comme un bébé après.”

“I’m flattered.”

You groaned and walked away from her and into the kitchen. You didn’t know if you would slap her, kill her, or kiss her. You were just as prepared to strangle her as you were to fuck her hard on the kitchen floor then and there, kissing every single freckle and mole on her skin. “You have three minutes,” You muttered, pouring yourself a cup of coffee to stop yourself from looking in Billie’s direction. Your heart raced at a thousand miles a second.

“I just dropped in to say hi.”

“Hi.”

You were unamused. “Is that it? Are you going get out of my life again?”

Billie frowned. “Am I? Y/N, you left me.”

“Because you fucking cheated on me, Billie Dean! What? Did you want me to pretend I didn’t see it? Pretend nothing happened? Do you want me to pretend that you didn’t rebuild my ability to trust people just so you could knock it down yourself?” You shouted. The words were coming out thick and fast now apparently.

“I was so drunk, Y/N,” Billie whimpered, her eyebrows furrowed. She was in genuine pain, you could see the guilt right in her brown eyes.

And you couldn’t give a shit.

“I’ve heard this a hundred times.”

“How many times do I have to say sorry for this?”

You raised your mug to your lips. “You can say it until I’m dead.”

You met the medium’s gaze. Brown eyes waterlogged with tears. Billie dipped her face in her hands. “I don’t know if I can go through with this again.”

You snapped again. “Good,” you said. “Because I’m done.”

“You can’t be serious.”

The pair met, closer than you had in months.

“No matter what stupid, thoughtless, selfish, idiotic, drunken things you said or did. No matter how many times. I have never stopped loving you. I’ve never fallen out of love no matter how many times I told myself I had. I haven’t gone to sleep without imaging your goddamn mouth on my lips and hands on my body and I fucking crave to hate you for it,” you spat, venom on you tongue and tears spilled down your face. “I don’t sleep, Billie. I don’t sleep because I know your arms aren’t there to hold me when I’m still awake at four in the morning. Because I can’t reach across the bed no matter how angry I am at you and feel your hair. I fucking love you goddammit. You threw that away. Not me.”

Tears streamed down Billie’s face. “I regret what I did every. Single. Fucking. Day. I miss coming home and seeing you writing those stupid fucking reports that I know you hate writing because I know you hate your job. I miss seeing your face when you’ve won a case that has been scratching you for weeks,” she inched forward once more, her hands close to Mallorie’s face. “I miss seeing you reorganising the goddamn silverware every few weeks to keep the Fair Folk happy in the same way I miss seeing the way your mouth curls when you come.”

You scanned Billie Dean, searching despreately for a bluff, something that would give way to the fact that this was all a lie; a gimmick for a one night stand so that you could just shut her out and go back to hating her. Hating the person you love is so much easier than having your heartbroken again. You couldn’t find that bluff. Even your gut-instinct that panged you when someone lied to you wasn’t alerting anything. Billie’s words were as genuine as her tears and it was killing you to see that Billie loved you. The lawyer had hoped- prayed even- that the medium’s words had been bullshit, sweet nothings that could be whispered into the ear of any lover that had fallen into her bed. But you weren’t just a one time fling that had walked into a casual meet. You had walked into her long-term girlfriend with her tongue down another’s throat. You had stashed that little red box with a diamond engagement ring inside even further into the closet that night, and that’s what had hurt you.

A raw truth in her words soaked into you. Refreshed you. They were the words that the ocean screamed back at you when you stood on the cliffside begging for a reason to go on.

And so you gave in. Almost, at least. You stepped forward into Billie and allowed her storm to engulf you. There was no calm here. There was a raging appetite for destruction and creation. What was that lyric? A tornado has met a volcano. Her lips ravaged yours to the point of being rubbed raw, the type of sting that bothered virtually every moment of your waking day, one that went on for days. You bit down on her lips, her tongue, her chin and cheek. Whether in was in spite or the desperation to seek and find every single piece of her that you could was unclear.

Those fateful memories crept back, and you pushed hard against her chest. Billie’s lips, now red, white and swollen, pressed against yours again, retracting when there was no return.

“I’m sorry,” you lied. “I think there’s a possibility that I don’t love you.”

Billie’s eyes resembled a broken mirror, or maybe the view of a dying star. The thing about dying stars is that they died a very long time ago and you only notice years later. She nodded with a weak smile. “I understand,” she whispered, pressing her head against yours. She picked up her bag and turned to leave.

You stopped her. What on Earth were you doing? Let her leave so you can hate her in peace.

“Kiss me. Before you go,” you pleaded. “Hard.”

Billie shook her head, her face scrunched before throwing her face at you. The force drove you into the counter sending a glorious shock of pain up your back. Billie was doing what you had asked.

“Fuck you,” you pulled away and muttered, as if she had gonr too far in teasing you.

“What did I do?”

You raised your hand and slapped her face, lightly. “Fuck you for proving that I still love you.”

A rush of relief knocked Billie, visibly. She returned to your lips, much more gently this time, as if she were savouring every part of you.

“I told you to kiss me hard,” you whispered, although not necessarily opposed to Billie’s touch.

“I’ll do anything you really want,” she replied.

You paused for a moment. “Anything?”

Billie smiled. “Anything.”

You kissed her once. Soft. Tentatively. “Fuck me. On the table.”

#billie dean x reader #billie dean howard imagine #billie dean howard x reader #lana winters #billie dean howard #lana winters x reader #Cordelia Goode #cordelia goode x reader #sally mckenna #sally mckenna x reader #ally mayfair richards #ally mayfair richards x reader #wilhemina venable x reader #sarah paulson x reader #i was drunk when i wrote the last half #so maybe i'll drunk write more often

147 notes · View notes

salvador-daley · 3 years

Text

Quarantine (Part 1)

Robert Sheehan x Reader

A young starlet finally lands what she hopes will be her big break. But first she has to endure two weeks locked up with her annoying co-star

CW: Smut, of course. Plus a lackadaisical attitude to airline safety protocols

The flight is a little delayed, so you wheel your Louis Vuitton case into the airport lounge and order a glass of champagne. You pick a table by the floor-to-ceiling glass window overlooking the terminal concourse and pull out your book, trying to ignore that tight knot of nervous energy growing in your stomach. You hate flying and your anxiety only seems to get worse the more you do it.

Is it too soon to take one of my pills? you think. Probably. The flight could be delayed even longer and then you’d only end up falling asleep in this armchair and missing it altogether.

You’re so wrapped up in your thoughts that you barely register the tall man entering the lounge and sauntering towards your table, only fully becoming aware of his presence when he drops his slightly tatty leather rucksack at your feet.

“Hello there!” he says brightly in an Irish accent, slumping into the seat opposite uninvited. “I believe we’re going to be working together soon.”

You look up and see the familiar face of your new co-star smiling back at you. He’s wearing a designer duffle coat that could just as easily be from a charity shop and a slightly see-through sweater that appears to have been purchased from the womenswear section. You note that it bears several holes around the neckline.

“Hey, it’s nice to meet you,” you say, extending your hand and introducing yourself.

“We’ve met before actually, at Nancy’s New Year party last year,” he says, shaking your hand, his various beaded bracelets jangling.

You smile at him blankly. You spent that entire party sucking up to a producer who would later tell you that you were “a little too provincial” for a part you wanted, whatever the fuck that means.

“Anyway,” he says after an awkward beat, “I’ll bet you’re looking forward to being locked up in quarantine when we get to the other end.”

“Oh, I dunno,” you sigh, “I think maybe two weeks of peace and quiet sounds pretty nice. I’m quite good at entertaining myself and it’ll hopefully give me a chance to look over the scripts again. What about you?” you ask.

“I’ve come prepared,” he says, opening his coat to display a dog-eared copy of the Bhagavad Gita poking out of his inside pocket.

“Hindu scripture,” you say, raising your eyebrows. “That is some hardcore reading material.”

He leans forward: “Oh, I’m sure it’s no less hardcore than…” he lifts your book away from the table to look at the cover, “Jackie Collins! Now that is hardcore,” he says, giving you a devilish look.

“Don’t take the piss,” you say, snatching the book off the table and shoving it in your bag. “It relaxes me, I’m a bad flyer.”

You lean back and cross your legs, catching him as he steals a glance at the strip of flesh between your thigh-high boots and your leather miniskirt.

“You’ve dressed for comfort, I see,” he says, using his eyebrows to indicate your outfit.

“I’m not about to end up on the front page of TMZ in my jogging bottoms,” you scoff.

He sighs and leans back in the chair, shoving a hand into the pocket of his... jogging bottoms.

“Not everyone can pull them off,” you add quickly.

He smiles, perhaps at your accidental double entendre.

“Oh, I’m sure you could,” he says.

****

“Welcome aboard, sir, you are in seat 3A,” says the flight attendant, tearing off the stub of his boarding pass. “And you are in seat 3F, madam,” she adds, tearing off yours.

“Oh well, we can wave at each other across the plane,” he says, giving you a wink as he heads inside.

As he takes his seat he actually does wave at you from across the plane, wiggling his fingers impishly. You wave back and attempt to smile underneath your face mask, but your nerves are getting the better of you now. You slip one of your pills beneath the mask and try to concentrate on staying calm, every whirr and click of the aircraft setting your teeth on edge. At least the seat next to you is empty. You couldn’t cope with being sat next to a snoring stranger for the next eight hours.

As the plane takes off, you close your eyes, gripping the armrests and concentrating on taking deep breaths. After a while, you become vaguely aware of the seatbelt light turning off in the cabin.

He drops into the empty seat next to you: “How are you holding up?”

“Not great,” you say, opening one eye to look at him. “My therapist told me to take deep breaths, but that’s easier said than done.”

“Excuse me, my love,” he says, stopping a passing member of the flight crew. “Do we have to wear these for the whole flight?” he asks, indicating his face mask.

“I’m afraid so, but you can remove it if you’re eating or drinking,” she replies.

“I guess we should order some drinks then,” he says.

****

As he talks, you catch yourself watching his lips and you subconsciously run your hand through your hair. You’re both several drinks deep now and you’ve lost track of how long you’ve been sat like this, heads together, talking in confidential tones in the darkness.

Every now and then he leans a little closer and that playful look in his green eyes causes your stomach to flip. Although I suppose that could just be the turbulence, you think.

This close, you can smell his coconut shampoo and hear the chinking of his various beads and trinkets as he ruffles his hair. When it’s your turn to talk, you catch him snatching glances at your lips, his smile travelling to his eyes as you swap funny stories about shared acquaintances.

“So have you always been a nervous flyer?” he asks, sipping his drink.

“No, I used to enjoy flying, but it’s just got worse over the years,” you say, your face beginning to warm from the effects of the alcohol. “Actually,” you say, leaning your head closer to his conspiratorially, “I’ve always had this thing…” You stop yourself, suddenly aware of how unguarded you’re being: “No, I can’t say.”

“Oh, go on, tell me,” he says, in a low voice, shifting his body towards you in his seat.

“No, I can’t,” you say, shaking your head and half-covering your eyes shyly with your hand. You must be a bit drunk, otherwise you wouldn’t even consider telling him this.

“Come on,” he begs, his eyes glinting in the dim light of the plane.

“Ok, fine,” you say, whispering now, “I’ve always wanted to…,” you pause as the flight attendant passes your seats, “I’ve always kinda wanted to do it on an aeroplane,” you say eventually, cringing at yourself.

His thick eyebrows rise immediately at the revelation and his face breaks into a wide smile.

“Really?” he says, excitedly.

He looks around the plane for a second, then turns to you again.

“Well, in completely unrelated news,” he says quietly, trailing his fingers along the flesh above the cuff of your boot, “I’m going to head to the toilet. I’ll be using that one right there, just in case you need to know for any reason,” he adds, pointing to the bathroom at the head of the plane.

He rises now, giving you a wink.

“You’re not serious?” you ask, in a hushed voice. But he only bobs his eyebrows in response as he opens the door and shuts it behind him. The light comes on above, indicating that it is occupied, and you just sit there, your heart racing in your chest now, blood rushing to your face.

You look around the plane. Only a couple of reading lights illuminate the cabin and most of the occupants are now asleep.

Oh my God, this is madness. You’re not actually considering this? You’ll be caught. You’ll be arrested. Imagine what the press will say.

You undo your seatbelt and step into the aisle, the pounding in your chest travelling to your ears.

This is crazy, you think, walking up to the toilet door. You rap quietly on it and for a second you wonder if perhaps this is some cruel prank he’s playing on you. How will you react when you call his bluff? I was only kidding, I’m not really going to shag you in an aeroplane toilet, mate. Haha, so funny.

He opens the door and pulls you inside, locking the door behind you.

“Thank God, for a second there I thought you were going to leave me hanging,” he says, pulling you close and connecting his mouth with yours.

One of his hands wraps in your hair while the other pushes your skirt up over your ass. He grabs it and pulls you even closer, pressing his erection against you. His kiss is intense, frenzied even, devouring you while his hands press your body into his.

The tiny room fills with the sound of heavy breathing as his mouth explores yours, then moves to your neck.

“Wait,” you whisper, catching your breath, “what if we get caught.”

He pulls away and looks at you: “I know, right?” he says, flashing you a wicked smile.

And then his lips are on yours again, his hands travelling underneath your clothes. He tears your sweater off over your head, diving his face between the lacy cups of your bra, grabbing you, biting your breast through the thin material.

Now his hand is travelling down, hitching your skirt around your waist, dipping beneath the waistband of your panties.

His lips meet your ear as his fingers circle your clit: “I’ve wanted to fuck you ever since Nancy’s party,” he whispers, slipping his fingers inside you. He smiles: “Oh, you dirty bitch, you’re so fucking wet,” he says, finding your mouth again and wrapping his tongue around yours.

He lifts you up to perch you on the edge of the sink, fucking you with his fingers while his mouth roams around your neck, your collarbone, your chest.

It’s all happening so quickly you barely have time to find your breath, let alone think about what you’re doing.

You wrap one arm around him, plunging your hand into his soft curls, reaching down with your other hand to grasp his cock over his sweatpants. As you palpate him with your fingers, it only spurs him on.

“I can’t fucking wait to fuck you,” he says, pulling your head back by your hair and exposing your neck to his greedy mouth.

You place your foot on the lid of the toilet and drag his sweater over his head, pulling his torso close to yours.

“We have to be quick,” you hiss, conscious of the very real risk of being caught. Your heart pounds inside your chest, like a prisoner banging desperately against the bars of a cell.

You grab the waistband of his pants now, tugging them down roughly, freeing his cock. It springs into your hand, firm and eager.

He runs his hand up your leg: “I fucking love these boots,” he says into your ear, bringing his hand up your thigh and over your ass. With his other hand, he pulls your underwear to one side and enters you, filling you with his cock.

“Jesus, you feel so fucking good,” he growls in your ear, holding your body tightly to his as he begins to thrust inside you. You squeeze your eyes shut and bite your fist to silence yourself.

Fast, duelling breaths become the only sound inside the cubicle. You cling to his body and dig both fists into his hair, meanwhile his hands wrap around your ass, drawing you closer with every thrust.

You pull his face up and look into his eyes as you fuck each other, panting wordlessly. Then he kisses you again, his tongue searching for yours.

Your mind races: He’s fucking you in this bathroom and there’s dozens of people on the other side of the door. If you’re caught, you’ll be in so much trouble. The police will be called when you land, you’ll be handcuffed, everyone will know what you did…

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” you gasp, through clenched teeth, trying your best not to scream.

He groans and you feel him coming too, his fingers digging into your ass as he deepens his thrusts.

“Don’t stop, please don’t fucking stop,” you plead pitifully.

You claw at his back as your orgasm peaks, white hot adrenaline filling your veins. Every nerve in your body snaps and fizzes and you float thousands of feet above the earth, coming back down gently, like a falling feather, aided now by the gentle rocking of his hips.

You hold each other for a second, trying hard to regain your breath. Then the silence of the bathroom is broken by your laughter, then his, your bodies shaking together with liberating vibrations.

****

“You go first, give me a second to fix myself up,” you say as he pulls up his pants and slips his sweater back on, giving you one last furtive kiss before he unlocks the door and slips back into the cabin.

When you leave a minute or so later, you meet eyes with a glamorous older woman sitting in the seat nearest the bathroom, her eyebrow curling in the direction of the sky as she looks you up and down. You avert your eyes, feeling the blood rush to your face as you retake your seat.

He leans his head into yours: “I think the woman in 1E is onto us,” he whispers as you sink down beside him.

****

You lift your eye mask and see him sitting under the reading light, his head in his book.

“I can’t sleep,” you whine, sitting up in the reclining seat.

“Yeah, me neither, I gave up trying,” he replies.

“Do you want to watch a film?” you ask, offering him one of your headphones and adjusting the seat.

“Yeah, ok,” he says, closing his book and snuggling down under the blanket next to you.

You pick something at random, some vapid romcom that will ideally allow you to drift off for the last few hours of the flight.

“I auditioned for this part,” you tell him, your head resting on his chest. “Didn’t get it, obviously.”

“Really?” he says, lifting his chin slightly to look at you.

“Yeah, apparently the girl who got it was dating the director at the time,” you say, yawning.

“Well, you know what it’s like. It’s not what you know, but who you know, and who you’re willing to sleep with,” he says.

You snap your head up: “What the fuck does that mean?” you hiss at him, trying hard not to raise your voice.

“I didn’t mean you, obviously,” he says, fumbling for his words.

“You think I fucked someone to get this job?” you ask him, your eyes narrowing.

“No, no, I didn’t say that,” he says defensively.

“You think I fucked you for some ulterior motive?” you ask, sitting up in the seat now and glaring at him angrily.

“Well, Jesus, I hope not...” he says, his brow furrowing.

“I think you should go back to your seat now,” you say.

“I didn’t… I didn’t mean you,” he says, pleadingly. But you’re not listening. You throw two of your pills down your throat and pull your eye mask back over your face, rolling over in your seat with your back to him.

Stupid twat, you think.

He sighs loudly and rises from the seat.

“Touchy cow,” he mutters as he heads back to the other side of the plane.

****

“And here is the key to your suite. As you are spending the mandatory 14-day self-isolation period with us, please remember not to leave the room unless there is an emergency,” says the hotel receptionist as she scribbles quickly on your registration card.

“N-n-n-n-no,” you say, wagging your finger at the receptionist. “Not suite. Suites PLURAL. There should be two, one for him and one for me,” you say tetchily, indicating to him as he stands beside you at the desk.

The receptionist shrugs helplessly: “I don’t know what to tell you, madam. I’m only seeing a booking for one here on the system.”

“Well, check it again, there must be some mistake,” you say, irritation rising audibly in your voice.

“Madam, I don’t need to check it again, this is our last available room, I’m afraid,” she says.

You become aware of him turning towards you with a smirk, watching you with amusement as you feel your temper beginning to rise.

You plaster on a fake smile. You're not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing you lose your shit.

“No problem, I’ll just make a quick call and get this all straightened out,” you say through gritted teeth.

****

“I’m sorry, darling, but that’s the best the production company could come up with,” says Lynda, your agent, down the phone.

“Lynda, I’m a reasonable person, I can share a suite with someone, but why does it have to be with him?” you plead.

“What are you talking about? Everyone loves him, you’re the only person I know who has a problem with him.”

“He’s an arsehole, Lynda,” you say emphatically.

“Look, this job is a really big opportunity for you. I don’t want you to blow this by being… yourself.”

“What the hell does that mean?” you shriek down the phone.

“Darling, you know I love you, but you have to admit you can be a bit of a.. well, you know…”

“A bit of a what, Lynda?”

“A BIT OF A DIVA, ok? You can be a real spoiled brat sometimes and kind of a hothead. Just suck it up. It’s only two weeks. Just put on a smile and be nice.”

With that, she hangs up the phone, leaving you standing there in the hotel lobby, mouth agape, speechless, furious and frustrated.

****

“No luck?” he says with a smug grin, leaning against a pillar near the front desk.

“After careful consideration, I’ve decided that I am willing to let you share my suite, just to make things easier for everyone,” you say.

“How gracious of you,” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“I think so, yes,” you reply, snatching the key card from his hand and striding to the elevator.

“This is going to be a fun two weeks,” he mumbles, following you to the door.

Read Part 2 here | Read Part 3 here

Liked this? Why not give it a cheeky little reblog? 😘

Want more? Check out my Masterlist

Taglist: @slutforrobbiebro @iamsexytrash @pickledbeefwastaken @m0onlitmadness @blog-kyku-us @super-unpredictable98 @love-is-dirty-baby @clumsyramen @maerenee930 @simplymesam99 @crisis-of-joy @sheehaniphilia @rob-private @rina-cydonia @pythonstarlet @icarusklaus @badsext @robertsheefan @elliethesuperfruitlover @nostalgiawings @orangepear18 @p0tat0nug @21stcenturywitchcraft @ssanjuniperoo @the-freckled-luba @motherofanimals @archivemysins @faceache111 @robertsheehanownsmyass @lezzy-4 @archivemysins

Want to be tagged for the next one? Go here to join the taglist

207 notes · View notes

harringrovetrashrat · 4 years

Note

Intercrurral prompt: Billy’s been harassing Steve all year, and it’s taking everything Steve has not to think bisexual thoughts about the guy he HATES. But one night, wrong place and wrong time, where they run into each other in the woods while Steve is on demodog patrol and Billy is escaping a bad run-in with Neil. Things boil over - the biggest imagery I have is Billy harshly whispering in Steve’s ear “Tell me you want this. TELL me you want ME.”

Okay, okay, okay

Here we GO. Alright. It took me a moment to find just the right way to do this, but I finally got it.

And it somehow ended up over 3k, whoooops. Let’s hope the read more actually works this time lol

TW for one use of the f-slur and misogynist language from Billy.

Steve ran a hand over his face as he stomped through the trees. The cold February air bit at his skin, made his nose run. Steve sniffed for what felt like the millionth time, still unable to stop the jittering in his bones. He couldn’t go home. Things felt too still, too quiet tonight. Something was going to happen. Steve could feel it.

He twirled the bat again, stretching out his fingers. The trees were dark against the snow, the cloudless night allowing the moon to shine in through breaks in the trees. Steve bit his lip, thinking about the day. It sent a spike of warmth to his gut and he frowned, annoyed with himself.

It wasn’t much different than normal. He spent the day tailing after Nancy and Jonathan, ignoring Tommy when he passed him in the hall, and trying to keep his dick to behave whenever Billy pressed up against him. Or pushed him. Or teased him. Or fucking looked at him, jesus. Steve had a problem and he really didn’t want to have it. He’s looked at guys before, done stuff before, but of all fucking people, his dick had to be interested in Billy fucking Hargrove.

He’d prefer his dick be interested in Jonathan.

There was a snap from a few meters ahead in the trees and Steve froze, all thoughts exiting his brain. His blood pumped through his veins and his pulse skyrocketed as he adjusted his grip on the bat. He quietly made his way forward, looking through the brush for anything weird. Anything slimy. There were some dark spots on the ground that Steve followed, panic clawing its way into his chest.

“Fuck!” He heard someone hiss. The sound came from in front of him and Steve relaxed minutely. It wasn’t demodogs.

That didn’t mean there wasn’t still a threat.

Steve did his best to make sure his shoes didn’t crunch too much in the snow as he approached a clearing. Someone was sitting on a log, hunched over on themselves, but they looked human enough. There wasn’t any weird smell, nothing too obviously weird, so Steve lowered the bat.

“Hello?” The person on the log jumped, standing and whirling around, fists up and ready. Bruised as well. Which was why Steve wasn’t surprised to find himself looking at Billy Hargrove.

A messed up Billy Hargrove.

He had a black eye and a bloody nose, with what looked like a small cut at his hairline. Steve kind of wished he hadn’t said anything. Billy relaxed minutely, face scrunching into a sneer.

“Harrington? What the fuck are you doing out here? Mommy and Daddy playing house?” Steve ignored the sting, flaring his nostrils as he flexed his hand around the bat. Billy’s eyes darted down before widening. “What the fuck?” His voice lost it’s teasing edge, verging into actually scared.

“Oh,” Steve said, not wanting to drop the bat in case he needed it. For whatever reason. “Just-- On a walk.”

“On a walk?” Billy droned, unimpressed. “Really? Do you think I’m a fucking idiot?” Steve bristled and whatever was in the air that night pressed him forward, made him confrontational.

“Maybe,” he replied. Billy tensed up, nostrils flaring as he grit his teeth. “Smart people don’t come out here at night.” Billy barked out a mean laugh.

“S’Why you’re out here then, huh?” Steve stopped a few feet away, slinging the bat over his shoulder. Now that he was closer, he could see that Billy’s cut was still bleeding. Could see that his wounds were fresh. That he was shaking.

“Seriously,” Steve said. “The woods around here aren’t safe.”

“Safer than other places,” Billy grumbled angrily. He looked up at Steve, eyes sharp. “If they’re so unsafe, why are you out here for a walk?” Steve’s mind went blank as he grasped for a reason.

“I-- Well, I mean--”

“You out here meeting some fag lover?” Billy said, smile sharp and mean. Steve clenched his fist, cheeks going ruddy. Billy tilted his head, pushing his cheek out with his tongue. Steve couldn’t help the way his eyes were drawn there.

“No,” he replied, stony. “Honestly just out for a walk.”

“Really? You and Creep Byers don’t meet up when Wheeler’s being too much of a bitch?” Steve gripped the bat tightly, scowling.

“Don’t call her that,” he snapped. Billy snorted, hiding a grimace, and rolled his eyes.

“She left you, man,” he said. “And you follow her and her new boyfriend around like a fucking lost dog.” Steve felt his cheeks heating up again, felt a blush creeping down his neck.

“Fuck you,” he said. “It’s called having friends, ever heard of it?” Billy sneered, getting up into Steve’s space. It made it a little hard to think, having him this close. Close enough that Steve could see where Billy would freckle in the sun, how blue his eyes were, could fucking smell him. He pushed the thoughts down, ignoring the heat in belly, just from having Billy close. Stupid dick.

“You think you’re so above everyone, everything, don’t you?” Steve rolled his eyes, letting the bat fall to his side. Billy wasn’t a threat, not really. Not worthy of the bat at least.

“What’s your issue, man?” Steve asked. Billy shoved him a little, making Steve take a step back.

“You’re my issue, Harrington,” he snapped. “And I told you to fucking plant your feet.”

“What the fuck did I ever--”

“Your fucking existence fucking pisses me off!” Billy shoved him again, harder this time, and Steve let out a grunt, dropping the bat. “You’ve got a fucking family that gives a shit, you’ve got fucking money, you’ve got fucking everything, and you--” Billy punctuated each reason with a shove, pushing until Steve was back up against a tree. When he cut himself off, something flashed over his face. Worry, fear, Steve wasn’t sure, but it was gone as soon as it was there. “You, Harrington, just piss me off.”

“You don’t know shit about me, Hargrove,” Steve snapped, trying to push him off. Billy pushed back, pinning him against the tree. Steve let out a grunt, freezing up as Billy’s pressed up closer, getting into Steve’s face. This was… dangerous. Steve was already chubbing up in his pants and he swallowed thickly, giving some more frantic shoves to Billy’s shoulders. “Fucking get off,” he said, voice high and pitchy. Billy sneered, shoving Steve to the ground, standing above him.

“You’re such a fucking pussy,” he sneered.

“At least I’m not some fucking violent freak,” Steve said, sharp and cutting and cruel. It’s what he wanted to be, in that moment. Billy did that to him. Brought out the King Steve who was mean, alone, and hurt. And the words worked. Billy snarled, jerking Steve up off the ground. Steve grabbed at Billy’s hands, stumbling.

“Fuck you,” Billy hissed. He gave Steve a shake, shoving him into another tree, slamming a hand next to his face. Steve’s chest heaved with anxiety and, unfortunately, arousal. He kind of had a thing for being manhandled. At least, being manhandled by Billy. The blonde pressed close, hurt shining in his eyes behind the fury. It threw Steve for a bit of a loop. “Fuck. You.” Billy repeated, voice wobbling. He pushed at Steve, pressing him up against the tree, before pausing. His eyes widened and Steve flushed. It was bound to happen, but Steve had held out some childish hope that Billy wouldn’t notice he’d been sporting a boner for a little while. “What--”

“You’ve made your point--” Steve tried, tense as he tried to sink into the tree.

“Are you hard?” Billy asked. Steve swallowed and closed his eyes, wishing the world could swallow him up. “Seriously?”

“I’m not talking with you about this,” Steve squeaked, trying to move away. Billy pinned him even more against the tree, sliding a leg between Steve’s thighs. He let out an involuntary whimper.

“You are,” Billy said, almost with wonder. Steve opened his eyes, meeting Billy’s blue ones. They were calculating, stripping him down, and it made Steve shiver. Billy’s tongue flicked over his bottom lip and his mouth curled up at the side. “Is it from the lack of pussy? Not enough girls begging to wet your dick?”

“Why are you so gross,” Steve breathed, closing his eyes again. “It’s not-- Just drop it--”

“Oh, so you only get like this,” Billy trailed a finger over Steve’s clothed dick, making him let out a choked cry, “For me?” Steve’s eyes snapped open and Billy grinned. There was something hungry in his eyes that made something hot curl through Steve, made him breath a little harder. But, well, this was Billy. He was probably fucking with him.

“Fuck off,” Steve breathed out, finding it hard to control his voice. He tried to push at Billy’s shoulders, tried to avoid those piercing eyes, but Billy caught his face in one hand, making Steve look at him. He slowly pushed his thumb into Steve’s mouth, pulling it open. The salty taste of his skin on Steve’s tongue made him breathe harder, chest heaving, pupils dilating.

God he was gonna get the shit beat outta him for this.

“I thought I was,” Billy began, trailing off. He pulled his lower lip into his mouth, tongue peeking out as he looked in Steve’s eyes, at his mouth, still open and panting. Gripped Steve through his pants, making his legs tremble. He was grateful for the tree behind him, that was for sure, otherwise he might have stumbled from his legs turning into jelly. Steve’s chest heaved, nervous and aroused, and Billy exhaled heavily through his nose.

“Thaw yoo were wha?” Steve asked, breathy and mangled from Billy still holding his mouth open, thumb pressed against Steve’s tongue.

“The way you look at me,” Billy said, eyes heated now, hungry, almost rabid with want. “Thought I was imagining it. But this,” he rubbed over Steve’s erection again, making him tremble, “Suggests that maybe I wasn’t.” Steve stared at Billy, dick throbbing. Billy licked over his bottom lip, almost unconsciously. His eyes flicked down to Steve’s bulge, a weird groan escaping him. It made Steve’s dick twitch in his jean almost painfully. Billy’s eyes widened and his eyes snapped back up to Steve’s.

“‘illy,” Steve tried, still unable to speak clearly with that thick fucking thumb on his tongue.

“God,” Billy groaned, shaking again, but with restraint. Like he was trying not to touch Steve more than he was already. “You’re so fucking-- You want this, don’t you?” Steve tried to shake his head, to deny the fucking obvious truth. “You want my dick in your mouth? Stretching those pretty pink lips?” And god, Steve did. He’d never had a dick in his mouth but god, did he want. He nodded, weakly. Billy tsked, pulling Steve’s mouth open more, until it almost hurt. His dick shouldn’t have liked it as much as it did but, well. “No no, Harrington,” Billy crooned. “Use your words.” He leaned in, lips brushing against Steve’s ear as their bodies pressed together. Steve couldn’t feel the cold, couldn’t feel anything but the heat of Billy’s body pressed against him. Of his erection pressing against Steve’s thigh. Fuck. “Tell me you want this,” he hissed, breath puffing against Steve’s ear, sending goosebumps across his body. He gave a full body shiver, could practically feel Billy’s grin against his lobe, a wet tongue slowly following the shell. Steve felt like he couldn’t breathe and he never wanted it to stop. “Tell me you want me.”

“‘uck , ‘illy,” Steve wheezed, arching his back so their hips ground together, eliciting a moan from himself and a hiss from Billy. “Ye, ye, p’ease.” Billy’s hand fell out of his mouth, one hand gripping Steve’s hip as the other made quick work of his belt and zipper. There was a damp spot on the outside of his jeans, the inside of his underwear sticky from where he had been steadily leaking, and Billy’s sharp inhale made Steve groan. Billy looked at him, eyes hazy with lust as he licked his palm, maintaining eye contact as his gripped Steve’s dick, freed from the confines of his clothes. Steve’s eyes fluttered closed and his mouth opened in a silent gasp as he tilted his head back, thunking against the tree. “Fuck,” he whined, hands gripping Billy’s biceps.

“I fucking knew it,” Billy hissed, leaning to press open mouthed kisses to Steve’s neck. The heat of Billy mixed with the cold, harsh air, drove Steve fucking mad. His head was foggy, filled to the brim with Billy. “Every time I shoved you, fucking every time I looked at you, I could see it.” Steve gasped as Billy latched onto his neck, biting and sucking. It was so different than anything Steve had experienced, even with the guys he’d fooled around with. Billy was rough, yet somehow still gentle, still attentive. His hand was slow, leisurely stroking Steve and swiping the head with his thumb. Steve wasn’t sure he’d still be upright if it wasn’t for Billy holding him up against the tree.

“See what?” He gasped.

“That you wanted me,” Billy replied, breath hot against Steve’s neck. “Wanted me to shove you, touch you.” Steve was dripping, shaking as Billy teased him. “You know how long I’ve wanted to do this to you?” Billy whispered against Steve’s skin. Steve shook his head, unable to make his voice work. “Since that fucking party. Wanted to fucking claim you.” Steve found that he really, really wanted that too.

“Then do it,” he rasped, one shaky hand coming up to tangle in the hair at the nape of Billy’s neck. Billy’s hand faltered before pulling away. Steve whined, head tilting back down to look. Billy looked almost feral, eyes wild and face flushed. He made quick work of his jeans, pulling out his cock, angry and red and hard. Steve’s mouth fucking watered. Billy held his hand up, the one slick with Steve’s precum, and ordered,

“Lick.” Steve didn’t need to be told twice. He ran his tongue over Billy’s hand, getting it wet and spit slick. Billy watched, breathing hard through his nose, before he pulled his hand away, using the other to turn Steve around. “Pants at your knees, pretty boy.” His voice was low, husky, and Steve would do whatever he said. He could feel it, the need to obey. He’d never wanted to just let someone have their way with him, use him, but he found himself imagining Billy, relaxed as he ordered Steve to please him. He shuddered at the thought. Steve shimmied his jeans and underwear down, leaning against the tree and looking over his shoulder. Billy was stroking himself slowly, letting drool spill down his tongue and onto his dick until is was wet, dripping with saliva. Steve groaned.

“I’m not-- I’ve never--”

“Don’t you worry,” Billy said, hands gripping Steve’s cheeks as he squatted, pulling them apart. “When I fuck you, it’s gonna be thorough. Gonna open you on my fingers until you beg for me to stuff you with my cock.” And then he licked a hot, wet stripe from Steve’s perineum all the way up to his hole, circling the rim.

“Oh holy shit,” Steve cried, hips jerking back. He felt Billy’s chuckle against his skin. He lost himself in the sensation of Billy’s tongue, his mouth, licking and sucking at Steve’s taint and thighs until they were slick and wet. The sound he made, primal and needy, when Billy stood, almost made him embarrassed. He was too horny though.

“Clench those thighs for me, King,” Billy said, pressing a kiss to one of Steve’s back dimples. Steve shuddered, but did as he was told. When he felt Billy’s dick slide against the crease of his legs, he gasped, fingers clenching against the bark of the tree. The head of Billy’s cock slowly pushed in, gliding through the spit, now warmed by Steve’s skin. It was veiny, thick, and velvety soft against the meat of Steve’s thighs. When the tip brushed against the back of his balls, Steve whimpered, biting his lip. Billy’s hand was tight, bruising against his hip. The other came and pulled Steve’s hair, tilting his head back so he couldn’t hide any noises.

“Please, please, please,” Steve rambled, mind blanking out except for Billy. The feel of him between his thighs, the smell of his cologne, fuck, even the rough denim of his jeans against the back of his thighs. He didn’t even know what he was begging for. Billy let out a long, rumbling groan.

“Jesus fuck,” Billy said, voice sounding as wrecked as Steve felt. His hips snapped forward, slapping against Steve’s thighs and ass, and Steve gasped, fingers painfully gripping at the tree bark. He hadn’t expected it, but the glide of Billy’s dick against his thighs was incredible. The way the head tickled the back of his balls, the way he could feel Billy’s dick leaking precum, sliding it around as he made Steve’s thighs slicker and slicker. Steve clamped them as tightly as he could, getting an aborted moan for his efforts. He grinned as Billy moved faster, hips slamming against Steve, forcing high pitched moans out every time. “Look at you,” Billy rumbled. “So fuckin’ pretty like this, Harrington. Bent over like the needy little bitch you are.” Steve should have bristled at the words, should have pushed Billy away, but something inside him went white hot in pleasure. Made his cock drip.

Like most things Steve was discovering about himself, it came down to Billy. If anyone else tried it, he’d hate it. But, fuck. Billy made it sound like the best thing in the world.

“Yeah,” Steve breathed out. “Fuck yeah I am.” Billy let out a sound that made heat burst in Steve’s groin, brought him even closer to the edge. His hips shuttered, moving wildly until he slammed himself against Steve, curling down and pressing his forehead against Steve’s back as he came. Steve moved one hand down, jerking himself off almost painfully fast. The feeling of spit and cum, warm against his skin, cooling rapidly in the air, was almost too much. Billy moved to pull away but Steve whined, making him stop. “Just-- Stay there.”

“Jesus,” he heard Billy whisper. And like that, Steve came, painting the tree in white stripes of spunk. He cried out, loud where Billy had been quiet, muffling his sounds. Steve was loud, he knew that, but he reached obscene levels as he trembled, orgasm making him nearly black out.

They stayed that way, panting as their sweat rapidly cooled. Billy finally pulled away, hands leaving Steve and he missed the feeling immediately.

God he was so fucked.

Steve didn’t turn around as he caught his breath, shakily using the tree to stand erect. He pulled up his jeans, not bothering to clean up. Wasn’t sure he wanted to admit to himself that he wanted the feeling of cum and spit sticking to his skin, dampening his jeans and underwear, dirty and so fucking hot. When he turned around, Billy had his back to him, the sound of his zippo clicking loud in the wake of what they’d just done.

“Uhm,” Steve began, because, like, where do you go from here?

“We can keep this under wraps,” Billy said, back still to Steve. He let out a cloud of smoke, thicker in the cold air. Steve noticed the tension in his shoulders, in his voice, and he swallowed, wondering if he’d fucked up.

“Yeah,” Steve said, fingers twitching nervously against his thigh. “But uh,” he took a sharp inhale, forcing the words out, “My parents aren’t usually home so, you know, if you ever wanna like, let off some steam--”

“Aw, Harrington,” Billy teased, finally turning around. “You like my dick that much?” Steve wasn’t sure what it was, but something told him he needed to be honest. To tell the truth, or Billy’d run and never look back.

“Yeah,” he replied, honest. Billy’s eyes widened and his mouth went a little slack. But the attraction and want that shone in his eyes let Steve know he’d made the right choice. “Maybe next time you can let me choke on it.”

#anon #prompt #harringrove #steve harrington #Billy Hargrove #lemon #intercrural #gross boys being gross boys #dom/sub vibes

506 notes · View notes

ladynestaarcheron · 3 years

Text

Fears All the Way Down - Chapter Three

ao3 - masterpost

happy friday! here's chapter three, a little long, and dramatiqué so enjoy:)

canon fixes this week: 1) gwyn mentions the priestess who counsels them. nesta was never offered counseling. bullshit. 2) gwyn says they never talk about each other because they've all been through a lot. mm. okay. i went to a girls' school. you don't just not talk about anyone because they've been through a lot. it doesn't have to be cruel gossip, but you definitely still talk. and if someone is a bitch to you, then yeah, it's gossip.

---

When Nesta had first been brought into Prythian, right here into the House of Wind, she had often thought to herself that her life could not possibly get any worse. She was a faerie now, a monster, and Elain was wasting away before her eyes, and Feyre was off to no-one-would-tell-her-where doing no-one-would-tell-her-what. And every other day, Cassian would come by and interrupt her fear and anxiety to irritate her beyond belief.

‍And then the war happened, and the impossible happened. Her life did get worse.

‍And now she is here again, and it is...different. Sometimes worse. Sometimes better. Sometimes neither. But it's different this time.

‍This time, she doesn't have to be worried about her sisters. They're the ones who are worried about her. She isn't scared of her own reflection anymore--not comfortable in this immortal skin, but used to it nonetheless. And most striking...Cassian doesn't seek her out.

‍He doesn't sit with her for breakfast, though the healer, Daphne does come up every morning to check up on her (unnecessary. She is miserable and in pain, but stable). She hears him during the day, making rounds around the House, or doing something up on the roof, but she doesn't see him while the sun is out. He meets her once for dinner, to watch her take her mock liquor, and then once again when she hurls out her insides in the middle of the night.

‍And then the week is over, and he is gone.

‍Feyre is there to greet her for breakfast.

‍"I hear you slept the night!" she says, enthusiastic.

‍Nesta doesn't answer.

‍"You've detoxed," Feyre says. "I...I'm really proud of you. I know that was a long five days. Elain's proud of you, too. She sends her love."

‍Nesta nods slightly. She sits down at her usual spot at the head of the table, the chair dragging itself out to meet her.

‍Feyre notices. "Kind of creepy, isn't it? The magic all on its own?"

‍"I don't mind it," Nesta says.

‍On the contrary. The first morning she had awoken here, she had desperately wanted to bathe. But she stumbled into the bathroom and her body had seized up as she imagined herself sinking in the tub. Sinking...drowning...getting pulled under and never getting out. Perhaps it was being back here, but she had asked the House for some buckets, and reverted to her old practice of washing herself.

‍She had fully intended to accept her fate, coming to terms with the fact that while she was in the House, forcing herself to sit in the tub would be far too difficult, and she'd have to suffer through being covered in her own sick for a week, but on the second morning, the House had gifted her with an out.

‍The tub, ridiculously wide and deep--to accommodate wings, she realizes now--was still there, but hanging from the ceiling, almost like a chandelier, was a faucet. The House had turned on the water for her; she hadn't known what it was. The water came out like rain, with dozens of tiny streams instead of one the size of a fist, like in the bath. And she could...stand under it.

‍Nesta still isn't quite sure how much the House can hear, or if it cares. But she takes extra care to say please and thank you now, for things she wouldn't have bothered before.

‍"Well, at any rate," Feyre says, pulling her back to the present. "You'll be starting at the library today. Are you ready?"

‍Nesta shrugs.

‍"Do you want me to walk you down?"

‍No. Maybe. No. "Do...are girls normally escorted in?" she asks carefully.

‍"No," Feyre admits. "Normally...they're just brought here right after...but it's allowed. I mean, whatever's more comfortable for you."

‍She doesn't know what to say, so she deflects. "Did Elain not want to escort me?"

‍"She just didn't want to come by until you specifically asked for her."

‍"Why did you come, then?" She's blunt, but she only realizes how it sounds until after it comes out. She isn't trying to be cruel, though.

‍Feyre doesn't bristle. "I wanted to see you. And update you on the Illyrian situation."

‍"The rebels?"

‍"They're doing a good job of keeping their meetings secret," Feyre admits. "But don't worry. We're better."

‍"I'm not worried," Nesta says, and she honestly means it. She remembers the war well. Remembers Cassian's skill, precision, deadliness...no one compares. If he's defending her, there's no cause for concern. Except him, of course. "What is it?"

‍"They know you're at the House." Their spies in Velaris had probably noticed Cassian flying about, had marked Elain moving her things out of her apartment in the city...Nesta isn't scared of any Illyrians tracking her down while she's here, but the idea of some wretch skulking after her sisters in the dark....

‍Feyre continues, "And we do know they want to make a move. But they can't, Nesta. I promise you're safe here."

‍Nesta keeps her voice impassive, almost bored, when she says, "He's gone, though?"

‍Feyre knows whom she means. "Cassian? Well, we're still keeping the House secure...you might hear him or Rhys or Az checking the wards a few times a day, but that's it. No one in the House any longer. Just as you'd prefer it."

‍Nesta blinks. She hadn't realized this threat was real enough to warrant the three of them visiting the House multiple times a day. Perhaps...perhaps there is reason to worry. Or fear.

‍Because she certainly will be afraid...if it happens like last time. Strange faerie males breaking down her door, ripping her out of bed. By her hair, by her arms. Grabbing at her, pinching her. Elain screaming from her room down the hall.

‍"So, you'll go down yourself, then?" Feyre asks, dragging her back to the present.

‍Nesta blinks again, shoving that horrible night out of her mind. "Yes," she says, and because she doesn't want to give herself another moment to slide into that place again, rises to do just that.

Feyre had escorted her down to these doors once before, and they had descended the levels to find Hybern. This time, she is alone, and there are two priestesses waiting for her when she enters.

‍One clearly defers to the other, and she stands behind her. Her hood is set atop her head, and her brown face is pretty aside from some light scarring on either cheek. She smiles and says, "Welcome, Nesta."

‍Nesta cannot tell if the higher priestess smiles or not, for her hood covers her face. But truth be told, even if she were entirely naked, Nesta would only look at her hands, for they are wrecked beyond comprehension. Fingers at wrong angles and parts missing and--

‍"Hello," Nesta blurts out, because it's the only thing she can think to say and she doesn't want to stare. She hates when people stare at her. Her cheeks flame; she's not cut out for this. She can't be around these females.

‍The high priestess lifts her head slightly, enough for Nesta to see that she is, indeed, smiling. A parchment and fountain pen--and quite a good-quality one, she notes--appear out of thin air, making her jump slightly, and in a neat script write out:

‍Welcome, Nesta. I am Clotho, high priestess of the library. This is Thalia, one of our senior priestesses. She'll be showing you the library today. I hope you find it to your liking. I'll see you later today.

‍"Oh," Nesta says, not quite knowing what to reply. "Thank you," she adds, figuring that's as good as anything.

‍Clotho raises her head once more to offer her another smile and then sweeps away, parchment and pen disappearing after her.

‍"Shall we begin our tour, then, Nesta?" Thalia asks. She waits for Nesta to nod before beginning her descent down the spiralling levels of the library.

‍Thalia explains about the different sections of the library, and points out different offices for the other senior priestesses and what their specialties are. They meet some females here and there, and she introduces them, but luckily no one sticks around for a chat. Already Nesta can feel her pulse quickening, sick at the idea of having to be with all these people all the time. She is immensely grateful for her sisters for keeping her alone in the House during the nights, at least.

‍When they reach the fifth level, Nesta stops in her tracks. Thalia looks at her, patient and unhurried.

‍"Is it--back?" Nesta asks, unable to keep the fear out of her voice.

‍Thalia smiles. "Bryaxis has never harmed any of us and is no cause for alarm," she says gently. "But no, it is not returned."

‍No cause for alarm? Cassian was scared of that thing.

‍But if it's not here...fine.

‍"Where's your office?" Nesta says, grasping for a subject so she doesn't have to see the look on Cassian's face when he found her running out of the library in her mind's eye.

‍"Level six," she replies. "Come, let's go there now."

‍Thalia's office is clearly very separate from the library, as it has the least amount of books of any room here. Which is still substantially more than what Nesta guesses the average room in Velaris has, with one wall made up of fully stacked floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and some on the desk in the corner and one on the coffee table in the small sitting area.

‍"Come sit, please, Nesta," Thalia says, choosing a couch for herself. "Well,"she says, when Nesta is settled in an armchair, "what are your first impressions of the library?"

‍"I've been here before."

‍Thalia smiles. "So you have. But you're a bit better informed on our particular brand this time around, aren't you?"

‍Nesta nods.

‍"Well, allow me to explain further. I am the priestess who counsels the females who choose to join us."

‍"Counseling?" she repeats, her heart speeding up. So she's supposed to just tell this female everything about herself? Is that what her sisters expect her to do?

‍"I know that's a loaded word, but I promise it isn't as scary as it sounds."

‍How can she be so cavalier about this? All smiles and twinkling eyes.

‍"We can have sessions as often or as rarely as you'd please. If you'd like, you never have to come to another meeting with me again after this, or any of the classes or sessions my colleagues direct. Except, of course, for our weekly check-in."

‍"What's the weekly check-in?" Nesta asks, because the priestess won't say anything otherwise.

‍"We do one mandatory group session a week where we all check-in with each other. Everyone attends. No one has to speak, but we all attend."

‍All right. Fine. She can do that. Sitting in a room one a week, silent. Listening to other miserable girls talk about their problems.

‍Could be worse, she tries to tell herself.

‍"So what exactly...does life at the library entail?"

‍"Our institution exists for the purpose of preserving and furthering knowledge on every topic we can get our hands on," Thalia says, "but we also serve to help females heal from various traumas. Because everyone is different, there's no one correct way to go about this journey. But a very broad number of sessions and exercises are available to you, and you are welcome and encouraged to try any of them. In addition to these, you will also be invited to work in the library. First you can start with menial tasks, and when you've got your bearings you can be given a more specific assignment.

‍"But the real question, Nesta," the priestess continues, and Nesta startles when she breaks her generic explanation to address her by name, "is what you want life at the library to entail."

‍She clenches her fists at her side, trying to draw the blood away from her cheeks. "What?"

‍"What would you say your goals are?"

‍Her throat tightens. Goals? Nesta hasn't had a goal in...probably since she stopped taking magic lessons with Amren. And for her life, well....

‍"Why don't we start with what urged you to make the decision to come here?"

‍Blinking twice, Nesta says, "My sisters."

‍"Did you come to appease them, or another reason, or a mix of both?"

‍Perhaps it's something in the female's tone, that genuine curiosity, that puts Nesta the slightest bit at ease.

‍"For them, mostly. But...a little bit for me." It sounds stupid when she says it, but Thalia does scoff or roll her eyes--of course not. And that's enough for her to continue, unprompted, "I want to live again."

‍Without missing a beat, Thalia leans over and picks up the book from the table and takes out a pen from the pocket of her robe. "Why don't we figure out how you can do that, then?"

Perhaps it was because of the topic of conversation--Nesta hates talking about herself--but she didn't remember sober conversations being so...difficult.

‍Thalia had coaxed Nesta into telling her the things she most wanted to happen. She had congratulated her on her sobriety--almost a full week, Nesta's mind bit with mock enthusiasm--and encouraged her to take her success there as indication that she is capable of working towards everything else she desires.

‍But so far Nesta is only sober because she lives in a house completely inaccessible to the outside world--unless she wants to hike down ten thousand steps, or ask Rhysand to carry her down--and there is no alcohol inside of it. She can't possibly manage any of her other goals in the real world.

‍"Why not?" Thalia had asked. "And who says this isn't the real world?"

‍That was fair. So Nesta shrugged, and after a painstaking few hours, they had a list of things Nesta wanted to do for now, comprised of a sentence Nesta worded and then Thalia's additions.

Not drift off inside her own head for undetermined amounts of time -> determine triggers.

Not always feel like she needs alcohol -> find productive coping mechanisms.

Be able to talk to Elain and Feyre normally -> determine what is stopping her since all three of them want the same thing.

Start reading again.

The fourth one Thalia had been very pleased to hear, and she had left as Nesta said it.

"I'd be happy to give you some recommendations, if you'd like," she'd said.

"There are romances in the House," she said. She had spotted some on the shelves in her room that hadn't been there last time. And who knew when the next time she was going to have sex was? Who knew if she'd ever have sex again? So she'd better find a good novel.

She didn't tell the priestess that, of course.

So after a morning of that, and a quiet lunch of one slice of toast by herself in the House--not much, but more than she'd expected to have. The detoxing must've given her the slightest bit of appetite again--Nesta descends down to the library again to begin her new job of shelving books.

The work isn't so bad. Dusty, and tedious, but it's good enough at distracting her from herself, because she doesn't know the library well enough for it to be mindless. After a few hours of this, a strong bell rings out--the call to prayer. The priestess all make their way to the same place, leaving Nesta alone in the library for half an hour, then they are back. No one asks her why she didn't join. No one asks her anything at all the whole day, until a second, softer bell rings out, and the priestesses begin to leave for dinner, and she back up to the House, and Clotho waits for her at the door.

Hello, Nesta, she charms her pen to write for her. How was your first day?

"All right," she says. It was. It was...fine. Not terrible.

Thalia tells me she's very impressed with your progress.

Nesta blinks. She hasn't done anything.

Clotho huffs a small sound of amusement, swaying her hood slightly. It can generally take a long while for someone to share with Thalia as much as you did.

I noticed you seemed interested in the Wats books.

At this, Nesta blushed slightly. Children's books, tall tales. "I hadn't realized I was being watched."

Clotho only waits.

"Yes," she says eventually. "I...like stories."

One of our senior priestesses is giving a series of lectures on the history of children's literature. There's one tomorrow. Perhaps you'd like to join.

The pink tinge in Nesta's cheeks hasn't fully faded. "Maybe."

Was there something else you wanted to say, Nesta?

Is it that obvious? Nesta's always thought she's good at keeping her thoughts off her face, but Clotho and Thalia seem to see right through her.

"I still don't understand how this is supposed to work," she admits.

Clotho lifts her head to show her another smile. I'm afraid "this" will require some patience. We want to find the right path for you. In the meantime, however, you are welcome to join sessions or lectures, and I will figure out an assignment for you within the coming weeks.

You have nothing to worry about, Nesta, Clotho adds. You're going to do so well. You're stronger than you think you are.

She has to say that to everyone, Nesta supposes, but she nods anyway, and turns to go up into the House.

Dinner is as quiet as lunch was, and Nesta manages to stomach another slice of toast and even some raw celery. Anything hot or rich, Nesta finds, is too much for her to bear, and she can't keep down. Even buttering her toast is too much for her. The House doesn't seem to grow impatient with her as she uncertainly, almost shyly, asks it for new foods. Just to see if she can smell them without growing nauseated. Small steps. Perhaps one day she'll be able to eat normally again.

Or perhaps not. Perhaps she'll be this wretched, vile, pathetic thing--

I have never in my life thought you were pathetic.

It's not an uncommon occurrence, for Cassian's deep voice to echo in her mind, but it's been some time since they've felt so...comforting.

Your sisters love you. I can't for the life of me understand why, but they do. Yes, that had spun around in her mind for months. And most nights, sometimes even with another male's arms around her...I have no regrets in my life, but this. That we did not have time. That I did not have time with you, Nesta. I will find you in the next world - the next life. And we will have that time. I promise.

He hadn't meant it. Or...he had in the moment and then without the looming threat, he had changed his mind. Or she had done something...

But this is real.

I have never in my life thought you were pathetic.

It feels real. It feels honest and true and tonight, it is enough to drive out other thoughts, enough to spur her into choosing a book to start, enough to make her forget that she wanted the fifth thing on that list to be Not be so awful and disgusting and useless and pathetic because if he think she's not, then she's not.

It's enough to make her think she's doing the right thing, and enough to make her do it again tomorrow.

The next day, no one seeks Nesta out for a session. Some of the senior librarians say hello to her, but she is mostly left to her own devices and continues shelving books on her own. She does so all morning, and she expects to do so all afternoon, but around two, a priestess approaches her and asks her if she wants to join her lecture circuit on the history of children's literature. There's no real reason not to go, so Nesta agrees.

‍The room is smaller than the ones Father had once described to her were at higher institutes on the continent. It's the right size for the dozen or so priestesses already sitting in a semi-circle, facing a black board where a charmed piece of chalk already begins to write.

‍Nesta sits in an empty seat on the edge of the semi-circle, next to a copper-haired priestess, with her hood hanging at her shoulders. Actually, Nesta muses to herself as she studies the girl out of the corner of her eye, she might not even be a priestess at all. She isn't wearing that necklace they all have on their foreheads. It's nice to think that there's someone else here who doesn't worship that thing.

‍The lecture is interesting, if a bit confusing at times. Nesta is largely unfamiliar with children's stories over the Wall--there had been no magical quests or enchanted objects in her childhood. The witches and sorcerers and faeries had always been the villains.

‍But it's nice. To learn something new, to hear it from someone who is clearly passionate about it.

‍When the lecture is over, the priestess--Calliope--talks to her while the other girls file out.

‍"To your liking?" she asks, blunt.

‍"Yes," Nesta answers.

‍"Thalia said you might like some recommendations. What are you interested in?"

‍"Anything good. Romances."

‍"Are you well-versed in fae classics?"

‍"No," Nesta says. She's fairly well versed in human classics, though.

‍"I'll get you started. I'll have a pile ready for you by the end of the day."

‍"I...thank you," she says.

‍The priestess nods once and turns on her heel to leave.

‍Nesta blinks. She didn't realize priestesses could be...not so like Thalia or Clotho and maybe more...like her. Back when she was like herself, at least. She shakes herself a little and walks out of the room, too.

‍"What did Calliope say to you?" asks a clear, pretty voice from behind.

‍Nesta turns. The ginger possibly-not-priestess.

‍"Excuse me?"

‍"What did Calliope say to you?" she repeats, taking a step closer.

‍Tensing slightly, Nesta says, "She asked me if I liked her lecture."

‍"Well?"

‍Hands now fisted at her sides, Nesta says, "I beg your pardon?"

‍"Well, did you like it?"

‍"I did," Nesta says shortly.

‍"Do you think you'll be assigned to her?"

‍"I..."

‍"You haven't been assigned yet. I mean, you're new, so that's not unusual, but since you don't live with us and you're only coming now we wondered if you were going to be assigned earlier."

‍Nesta raises an eyebrow. "We?"

‍The girl offers her a sheepish grin. "It's not every day we get someone new. We...the other girls and I...we were just a little curious."

‍"Hm."

‍"Well, do you think you want to be assigned to her? I'm Gwyenth Berdara, by the way, I'm another student here."

‍"Nesta."

‍"I know. You're the High Lady's sister and you slew the King of Hybern."

‍Nesta freezes slightly, for a moment. Then she says, "I didn't. I stabbed him."

‍"Oh," Gwyneth says, teal eyes widening. "Well...they call you kingslayer. Not kingstabber. It's a better nickname," she adds, when Nesta doesn't say anything. "As far as nicknames go. Mine's Gwyn, by the way. Or what everyone calls me. Not as suave as kingslayer, but what can you do?"

‍Gwyneth Berdara...talks more than Morrigan.

‍"Sorry," Gwyn says, laughing a little. "We're not supposed to overwhelm you. I just...wanted to talk to you."

‍"Were you told not to overwhelm me?" Were those Feyre's orders, she wonders.

‍"Just anyone new. But...some girls don't talk for weeks, and you've already come to a lecture on your second day. And you talked to Thalia for a long time yesterday."

‍"I hadn't realized I was being studied."

‍Gwyn laughs. "This library's smaller than you think. So, you liked the lecture? Do you think you'll come to the next one?"

‍"Probably." What else is there to do?

‍"I like Calliope's circuits. She's always doing something interesting, if you like books. Do you like books?"

‍"I do."

‍"Well. Then you'll probably like her circuits."

‍They are both silent for a few moments, before Nesta realizes it is probably her turn to initiate conversation. "How long have you been here?"

‍"Two years, about." She is quiet for a beat, before she adds, "Lord Azriel and Lady Morrigan brought me here."

‍Nesta blanches. She's never heard them referred to with their titles before.

‍"Do you like staying at the House of Wind?"

‍"I...it's all right. Yes," she decides. "I like it." Why not? It gave her a standing bath. It keeps the fireplaces empty and uses some other form of magic, she thinks, to heat her room.

‍"Oh," Gwyn says, and Nesta thinks she deflates a bit. "I thought you might prefer to stay in our dorms."

‍"I'm not very religious." That's polite. Nesta actively hates their god. Or whatever the cauldron is supposed to be. Demon, more like.

‍"Oh," Gwyn says, blinking in surprise. "Oh. Well. That's all right. If you...ever change your mind. And you want to stay in our dormitories, I could help you find a room."

‍"Thank you," Nesta says.

‍Again, they are both quiet. Perhaps neither of them has had a friendly conversation in a while.

‍With a jolt, Nesta realizes--this has been a friendly conversation.

‍Nesta tries to grasp at something to say, something friendly. Has she been friendly? Or has she been cold this entire time? No, if the girl has been talking to her all the while, she must have been friendly. It's not as though Nesta's never been friendly in her life. She's had friends before. Clare and Joyly and Heather. She knows how. Even if none of them had thought her a good enough friend to bother trying to talk to her after she had distanced herself, after Tomas, after Feyre--

‍"I have to be getting back to my priestess. We're researching dimensions and other worlds. But I'll see you, Nesta." With a small wave, Gwyn bounds away.

‍"See you," she calls after her.

‍That...that's good, isn't it? Probably something Elain and Feyre would be pleased to hear. Maybe she should tell them. Invite them up for dinner.

‍Or is it too pathetic? One cordial conversation isn't anything to write home about. But maybe they'd like to know she's doing better; pathetic as her version of better is.

‍I have never in my life thought you were pathetic.

‍Maybe...maybe she should.

‍She'll just write them a letter, she decides. No, that's too formal. But sending them up is too dramatic...but if they want to come see her--

‍Nesta pinches herself. Hard. Enough till she's only focussing on the pain, so these incessant, stupid thoughts are driven out of her head.

‍Just go back to shelving books, she tells herself. Just put away the books and don't think about anything else.

‍Her mind does stray, though, and she wonders if any of the minuscule steps she takes in the right direction are worth the spiralling she has to go through after.

Despite her echoing anxieties, her physical weakness, and sheer exhaustion of being herself, Nesta does manage to get through the weekend--Feyre does not visit, but she and Elain both send up letters, decorated with little paintings and pressed flowers--and to the weekly check-in on Sunday. She doesn't know what to expect, but Gwyneth Berdara is there in the large hall, where they all sit in a circle, and waves her over.

‍"Good morning," she says.

‍"Good morning," Nesta answers.

‍"First weekly check-in."

‍"Yes."

‍"You don't have to say anything, if you don't want to. I didn't for months. Ten months, actually."

‍She certainly does talk a lot now, though.

‍"I didn't realize there were so many females here," Nesta says, looking around. Dozens of girls...probably more than fifty, plus the twelve higher priestesses. Gwyn is the only one who doesn't wear the necklace on her forehead.

‍"A lot don't wander so much. Some don't come out of their rooms except for this."

‍"Oh," Nesta says. So it's...good, then. That she can still go places. Talk to people. Maybe she really isn't as hopeless as she thinks.

‍Not that these females are hopeless. That's not what she thinks. Oh, that's a horrible thing to think, especially after what they've been through--

‍"That's Merrill," Gwyn says, pointing at a senior priestess. "I'm assigned to her."

‍Carefully, Nesta says, "Maybe I'll be assigned to her, too."

‍"Ooh, you better hope not. Merrill's the worst." Gwyn shudders.

‍"What?" Nesta asks. "Aren't they all supposed to be nice?"

‍Gwyn scoffs. "Says who? Are you nice?"

‍"I...guess not," Nesta says. "But I'm not a senior priestess."

‍"All right, that wasn't nice," Gwyn admits. "Sorry. You're right. She should probably be nicer. She should definitely be nicer...and you're all right."

‍"I'm not nice." She has never been nice.

‍Gwyn shrugs. "Well, I like you anyway."

‍Nesta's heart stutters. "Er--why don't you ask Clotho to reassign you?" she asks, pulse pounding in her ears.

‍Gwyn crosses her arms. "I can stick it out."

‍Is that what she looks like, Nesta wonders, to other people?

‍She should tell her something. This Gwyn. Tell her to switch priestesses. Or...tell Merrill to be nicer. Or tell Clotho to tell Merrill to be nicer. Or maybe she can do it for her.

‍"Good morning, everyone," Thalia starts, and Nesta's eyes snap to her. "Let's begin, shall we?"

‍The weekly check-in is mercifully not as terrible as Nesta imagined. There's no announcement of her presence, though she can feel plenty of people stealing glances ("It's not every day we get a Lady of the court in here," Gwyn whispers to her. "Especially not the kingslayer."). Thalia announces changes in the schedule for the week, and one of the other senior priestesses gives a short lecture on her specialty, and then Thalia asks who'd like to begin the circle.

‍The circle, Nesta learns, is the worst of it. Everyone goes around in a circle and introduces themselves by name and says whatever they want. True to Thalia's word, though, no one has to talk, and no one says anything horrible. It's mostly banal, like I worked really hard on a paper last week or I sent my mother a letter and she still hasn't replied and I'm feeling anxious or I don't have anything to say today, but I hope everyone has a good week.

‍And then it is her turn, and who-knows-how-many pairs of eyes are locked on her and she just...can't. She can't. What are they thinking? Gwyn says they call her kingslayer, so they must know what happened.. Are they thinking about how she couldn't save her father? How she killed one thousand Illyrian soldiers? How about how she drowned herself in alcohol, how the mark of its loss is still clearly etched in the bruises under her eyes, the dullness of her hair, the sallowness of her skin. How ugly she is, how she never deserved anything better than that slew of nameless males who didn't care about her, how she just fails at everything she tries--

‍"My name is Gwyn. I had a good week."

‍The next girl speaks, and the eyes are--finally--off Nesta.

‍Gwyn touches her shoulder. "Don't worry about it," she says in a hushed voice. "At least you didn't cry."

‍Nesta manages a small smile. It might look more like a grimace, but Gwyn gives her a grin.

‍"It's really not half as embarrassing as you think," she whispers. "Everyone here is way more concerned with what others think of them...until you realize no one's thinking about that."

‍Maybe she's just saying that.

‍But...maybe she can just believe it. Just for now.

‍The weekly check-in ends, and the week passes by.

‍Nesta doesn't get assigned to a priestess, but she still--she thinks--makes progress. She may be making a friend, as Gwyn seeks her out a few more times. Sometimes just to say hello, sometimes to ask her if she wants to join her for a lecture or a session. She generally goes. She likes the jewellery making, finding that working with her hands keeps her focused enough that she can't think about herself. All the lectures, actually, Nesta finds interesting, as there's just so much she doesn't know about this world.

‍On Tuesday, she writes a letter to her sisters, telling them she's doing all right, and perhaps they can come visit over the weekend.

‍On Wednesday, she feels hungry and restless--hungry and restless. So she has two slices of bread with soup and she doesn't even feel sick, and she goes for a walk afterwards, on the track circling the outside of the House.

‍On Thursday, she brushes her hair in the morning, and almost none of it is ripped out with the brush. She makes Gwyn laugh with something she says about a lecture they disagreed on. Thalia tells her she thinks she has some ideas for coping mechanisms she wants her to try. She goes for another walk in the evening, even jogging a bit as the House hurries her along with flashing faelights.

‍"What is it?" she says, as she enters the door, gasping slightly. Goodness, she's never been so out of shape in her life. That was barely a run.

‍But the House isn't done yet, flashing more lights, leading her into her bedroom.

‍"Oh...do you...are we playing a game?"

‍The House swings her door--impatiently?--to get her inside, and when she is, it swings shut behind her and disappears into a wall.

‍"Hey!" Nesta says. "What are you--"

‍A tea cart appears in front of her. Nesta can smell the lemon and honey from the kettle as it rolls towards her. One of the armchairs pulls out.

‍"Are we having a tea party?" Nesta asks.

‍As if in answer, a book appears on the coffee table.

‍"Do you want me to read to you?" Nesta asks.

‍The curtains pull shut and her faelights flicker on.

‍"I'll take that as a yes," she says, and sits down to entertain the House. She gives a small huff of a laugh. "You had to finish my walk early, did you?"

There's no way around it: Cassian has never been more pathetic in his life than he is with this female.

‍Whether it's circling her estate, thinking of insults to throw at her, or circling her apartment, imagining himself tossing out the male with her that night and confessing everything to her, or circling the House to sneak a peek of her through one of the Windows...all right, so it's mostly all the same move. Gods, when had he become so predictable?

‍Pathetic, nonetheless.

‍The worst part of it is, he doesn't even try and convince himself to stop anymore. Not when Elain shrieks one morning and says Nesta's invited her and Feyre up for lunch on Saturday. Not when he sees her go out for a walk Wednesday evening--a walk, with a bit more meat on her bones, and a shine to her hair and--he might be too far to tell, but it looks like--life in her eyes.

‍Not joy. Not...excitement. Not even contentment. But life. And that's...so much more than what had been last week.

‍He wonders if it might've consoled her to know that he was just as miserable as she was. More so, even. Because he felt all the pain she did and he also felt his own pain of seeing her that way. Of knowing that fierce, cunning, determined, wildly brave, unnaturally beautiful female was...struggling. So, so hard.

‍Sleeping a level above her each night, and thinking only of her...and knowing she's not thinking of him. Of course not. It was stupid and selfish and stupid again, but...it's true.

‍And her getting better is not for him he tells himself, as he watches her go on a walk for a second evening in a row.

‍(Not that he's watching her. He's checking the wards. It's not as though he knew she'd be out. He didn't. It just happened.)

‍Not for you, he says to himself. Feyre had been clear. This is for checking the wards; to make sure she's safe. And the extra weight on her is not for him to better imagine holding onto something as he presses her against himself; it's so she's healthy. So she doesn't wither and waste away. She is not imagining a stroll through the Night Court botanical gardens with him right now; she's just getting fresh air.

‍Time to go. Wards are checked, alarms are set, so it's time to go.

‍He doesn't let himself steal another glance--not for you--as he turns to fly away.

‍He should go to the ends of the city. Shake this off him, put his head on straight. This is pathetic. This is just sad. Maybe he should go out with Mor. He did this for her, didn't she? For five hundred odd years. She can do this for him. Maybe he can even meet someone, just for a night, just a distraction--

‍But Nesta is all he sees when he closes his eyes. The beautiful woman she once was, the sickly female she is now, and guilt and revulsion rock him to his core at the very thought of someone else...

‍Pathetic, since she doesn't want him, and probably never will. No, not probably, just never.

‍Three clear bells ring out in the distance, and self-pity and misery snap out of Cassian as blinding fear takes their place.

‍The alarms.

‍Nesta.

‍He is on his way, flying faster than he ever has in his life, before he even registers it. And for the first time, he wishes he were like Rhys or Az and could winnow--prays one of them is already there, or both of them, to fight off whoever it is, to keep her safe--oh gods--oh, she's so scared, she's terrified, she's afraid for her life--and the priestesses--

‍Rhys and Az are already there, inside the House, and there are half a dozen. Illyrians. Illyrians.

‍So they were right. He hadn't wanted to believe it. Doesn't want to believe it. That they would ever...that they would dare...

‍Cassian can't think, just has to move, get them out, kill--

‍"No," Rhys snarls at him.

‍Dimly, Cassian knows why. They're plotting a rebellion. To take over their court, and to give Nesta over to their enemy. Direct attacks against the royal bloodline. They need to be interrogated. They can't be killed.

‍But they can't live. They're going to hurt Nesta; they can't be allowed to live.

‍INCAPACITATE, Rhys barks to his mind.

‍Fine. He will. But he doesn't have to make it clean.

‍He does it quick, though. Nesta's scared. She's probably hiding somewhere, scared for her life. He needs to do it quickly for her.

‍They're fair warriors, but no match for the three of them. It's not close to being a fair fight. It's only a few minutes before he and Az have knocked out the six of them--Az letting him do the brunt of it--and Rhys drags back another two who had gone off to find Nesta.

‍"Easy," Rhys snaps at him.

‍"Calm down or go," Az adds. "Nesta's in her room. She's safe."

‍"You'll scare her."

‍"I won't," Cassian says, growling.

‍Rhys unceremoniously drops the two Illyrians on the floor next to the six others. "Well, you've already destroyed her living room," he says drily, "and you're covered in blood."

‍"Not mine." Not enough.

‍"Calm down," Rhys says, and this time it's an order.

‍Cassian takes a deep breath. "She's in her room?"

‍"I can bring Feyre up--"

‍"Bring her, but I want to see her. She needs to see me." The words come out of their own accord, but neither of his brothers corrects him.

‍"We'll both go," Rhys says. "Az...take care of this."

‍Az nods once, and they go down the stairs.

‍Nesta's scent grows stronger as they descend. Not much fear that he can detect, though. None of the bitterness of adrenaline. Just that sweet, gutting floral, mixed with traces from books she's always buried in. And, he realizes pleasantly, no alcohol.

‍When they get to her floor, Nesta's bedroom door is missing. In place is a wall. Before he can hurl himself at it to break it down, it morphs back into a door, and Rhys is there, knocking, again before Cassian can move.

‍"Nesta?" he calls out. "It's safe."

‍Cassian can hear her shuffling around before she comes to open the door.

‍He fights to keep upright and still as her eyes meet his, widening more than he's ever seen.

‍"What happened to you?" she asks, voice stronger and clearer than he's heard in a long time. Beautiful, lyrical, even if she does sound appalled. "Did you come from a battlefield?"

‍"How did you get the door to change into a wall?" Rhys asks her. "That was clever. Was that your magic?"

‍Nesta blinks at him. "No...the House was playing a game."

‍"You play games with the House?" Cassian says softly.

‍She turns to him again.

‍Yes, look at me, look at me, look at me, Nesta Nesta Nesta--

‍"I...we're friendly." She tinges pink.

‍"You're friends with the House?" Rhys says, blankly.

‍She reddens still--yes.

‍"Why are you covered in blood?" she says again.

‍"You...don't know what happened?" Rhys asks carefully.

‍Nesta rolls her eyes--oh, gods, how he's missed seeing her irritated. Oh, maybe she'll turn red again. "Obviously not."

‍"The important thing to remember is that you're safe," Rhys says, his voice patient and gentle.

‍Nesta shoots him a sharp look, fully aware he's never taken that tone with her.

‍"What is it? What's happened?"

‍Oh, brilliant--now she's scared.

‍Cassian takes a step closer. "The House was breached," he says to her, and her face pales. "But that's what the alarms are for. They worked. And we all got here, and we've got them. Now we're going to figure out who else is working with them. We're going to keep you safe."

‍Nesta looks up. "I was safe. I am, I mean. The House...I didn't even hear anything. It just told me to come into my room and gave me some tea and asked me to read to it."

‍"It asked you to read to it?"

‍"I thought it was a game." Nesta moves past them, walking upstairs. She gasps slightly when she reaches the main floor and sees the state of the living room.

‍Cassian ignored the pointed look Rhys gives him. "I can clean it up." Thank the Mother Az has already gotten the eight of them out.

‍But the House already appears to be doing so itself. It even moves some furniture around, away from a wall that's been badly damaged.

‍Nesta sucks in a breath as she walks towards it and crouches down on the floor. "Oh...did they hurt you?" she says, quietly to...to the House. "I'm sorry. I...thank you for keeping me safe. I'll...I can fix this for you. I'll get you something to fix it." She puts her palm on the cracks and craters, as if stroking the hurt.

‍You will not, Cassian tells himself sternly, be jealous of a house.

‍Pathetic. Just...pathetic.

‍"Your sisters will want to see you," Rhys says. "Maybe you should spend the night at our home."

‍"No," Nesta says, not turning from the wall. "I'm staying here. Oh!" She leaps up, whipping around, face white again. "Is--are--the library, was it--"

‍"The library is fine," Rhys says smoothly. "The priestess are all fine. They wouldn't have even heard any of this."

‍Nesta breathes a sigh of relief. "All right," she says. "That's...that's good. All right."

‍"Are you sure you don't want to come down, Nesta?" Rhys asks, voice kind again.

‍"Yes," she says. "But Elain and Feyre can come up if they want to," she adds. "I'm all right, though. Really. I know I'm safe here." She touches the wall again.

‍Nevermind that it's he who's covered in blood, who fought them off for her. It's the walls she's grateful to, the walls she reads to and plays games with--

‍Shut up, idiot, shut up.

‍"We'll go bring them up, then. Unless...would you like one of us to stay with you?"

‍"I'm really fine."

‍"All right. Well...we'll be back in a few minutes."

‍Nesta nods and turns around to put her hands on the wall again, to talk to the House.

‍Rhys, the bastard, takes notes and gives him a grin as they step off the veranda and fly down to the riverfront manor together.

‍"I was jealous a lot before Feyre told me she loved me, but never--"

‍"Shut up," he snarls, and Rhys has the audacity to laugh.

‍He doesn't mind so much. Nesta's safe and...she's doing better and eating and going on walks and she has a friend.

‍Even if it is just a house.

#acosf fic #nessian fic #i know this feels more like a nesta/house of wind fic #but there will be nessian eventually i promise #also yayyyy gwyn!!!

54 notes · View notes

hatsukeii · 4 years

Text

I have another songfic idea and despite the requests in my box I will do this first lmao if I don’t Imma forget tomorrow-

This blog is bnha starved, so let’s go with that:3

Idfc//Soulmate AU! Bakugou x Reader

Word count: 2700+

Warnings: Swearing

Summary: In a world where the name of your soulmate’s quirk is tattooed on your arm when you turn 17, Bakugou got unlucky in the soulmate department.

Despite all his prayers and wishes for the words “Game Over” to appear on his arm, life just didn’t want to go his way.

What’s even worse, is those words ended up on shitty half n’ half’s arm.

What a way to screw with Bakugou.

He watches as you step out of the school gates, Todoroki’s arm wrapped around your waist. Giving you a tiny wave, he rocks forward and backward, hoping for you to notice him. You glance towards his direction, pursing your lips, before ignoring him and making your way home with your boyfriend. The ash blond’s fake grin falters, shoving his hands down his pockets, head hanging low as he turns around and goes his own way.

He still remembers the moment he realised you weren’t his soulmate. The way his heart dropped when the words on his arm said “Zero Gravity”. His parents were ecstatic, cheering as they celebrated over how their baby boy was growing up, and how he would soon meet the love of his life. What they didn’t know, was that he had already found the one he loved, and it sure as hell wasn’t Uraraka, whose quirk was on his arm. Just that one revelation was enough to make his entire weekend shitty. He definitely did NOT want to be with Uraraka. She was way too bubbly and annoying. Plus, her quirk had a lame name. And she’s way too clingy for his liking. He tried his best to stay optimistic about the situation. Maybe he’ll eventually be able to change his fate if he defied it. Maybe if he was able to make you love him back, the names would change. He racked his brains, searched for answers on every website he could think of, asked on every forum he could find, but still, nothing. He was stuck with Uraraka, and there was nothing he could do but sulk and accept it. That night, he cried himself to sleep, knowing he was never going to get a chance with you. The only person he wanted was snatched away from him and just the thought of being able to win her over was ripped to shreds.

The following Monday back to school was no better. In fact, it was worse. He watched as you excitedly told him about your soulmate, the words “Half Hot Half Cold” imprinted on your skin as you explained how you got it the day before. You were beyond excited, knowing fully well who your soulmate was. The pretty boy of 1-A that all the girls were head over heels for. Thank god you couldn’t tell that the tiny grin plastered on his face and the playful cheering was fake. Those were all just poor attempts to mask all the despair and heartbreak he stored up in his chest. All Bakugou could possibly do was be happy for you. That’s what he should’ve done. However, no matter how hard he tried, it just never worked out. You were always there in the back of his head, lingering around in his mind like an annoying pest that he couldn’t get rid of. Thinking of you became a daily routine. He would stare at you longingly in class, text you every day after school, cry about you every night, and wake up puffy eyed. Waves of depression hit him every single time the sight of you having fun with Todoroki appeared in front of his eyes. He swore that if he heard another person talk about how cute you and Todoroki were together he would punch their face in. People backed away from him whenever he was close to the dual haired boy, not wanting to get on his nerves.

In class, Aizawa started noticing his lack of focus in class. For months, Bakugou had been in a constant state of daydream, staring at you in class as he thought of all the things you two could do if only you were his soulmate. He would spoil you so badly. Take you out on as many dates as he possibly could. Kiss your tears away when you were crying. Pillow fights every weekend. Cuddle you while the two of you watched movies on your bed. Eventually present you with a diamond ring in a tiny velvet box. All those possibilities, flushed right down the drain as he was constantly snapped back to reality by his homeroom teacher every single time, remembering that he was only a best friend to you, nothing more. He wasn’t doing as well in class, and his parents were worried. Since when did their straight A son start flunking English? Mitsuki was anxiety ridden, fearing for her son’s mental state, as she should. Bakugou would rather die than admit he was weak, but at times like these, a motherly hug would be nice. Mitsuki would let her son cry on her lap, instead of sulk on his bed all alone. He may not have told her anything about what was making him seemingly depressed, but all he wanted was some form of emotional support, even if it was from his old hag. Masaru would join in sometimes, giving Bakugou a few pats on the head or ruffling his hair. They didn’t know what had changed his son so drastically, however despite their worries for his academics, they knew that he was not okay, and that it was their job to help him, even if they were in the dark about the situation.

“Bakugou, you’re going home alone again? I thought Kirishima was gonna walk you back!” Mina jogs towards Bakugou, placing and hand on his shoulder and launching herself into the air with a jump. Usually, Bakugou would flick her hand off at the last moment, but instead of doing that, he remains stoic, completely ignoring everything around him. “Haaaah? Hello? Earth to Bakugou?” He rolls his eyes, trying not to blast the pinkette’s fingers off as she pokes his cheek, trying to get a reaction out of him as Kaminari and Sero approached the two.

The Bakusquad were quick to catch up on his issue. Kirishima was the first to point out the difference in his now quiet, negative attitude compared to his usually boisterous and aggressive personality. Being the top tier best friend he was, he tried his hardest to get something out of Bakugou. Anything. He soon informed the rest of the gang about it, much to the blond’s annoyance. Since then, they’ve been trying to get Bakugou out of his heartbroken state and back into the rat he usually is. Everyone was worried for him, fearing that this would affect his mental health. They were there for Bakugou since day one, hyping him up whenever he was about to make a move. Cheering him on when he finally asked you out. Encouraging him to continue fighting for you when he was feeling down. They always thought the two of you were meant to be, but they were mistaken, because obviously fate has a cruel way of messing with people. Out of everyone, Kirishima was the most concerned. He had watched his best friend put himself down time and time again, all because of you. He was always there to give him a punch to the back, reminding him that he still had a chance. He was there to listen when Bakugou wanted to vent his issues out. He was his number one wingman, setting the two of you up in secret as an attempt to help Bakugou get with you. When he eventually found out his soulmate was Uraraka, and that yours was Todoroki, he was shocked, to say the least. However he was also frightened. Scared. He was scared that Bakugou would go back to his cold self. He was scared that the friendship he had bonded with you would break. He was scared his best bro’s heart would be shattered. Despite his efforts to cheer him up, the blond was not improving. The fiery, determined flares in his crimson irises were gone, replaced by a dull, hopeless maroon.

“Don’t be so down in the dumps about the whole soulmate thing Bakubro! Maybe you’ll eventually move on!” Oh, what a big mistake Kaminari just made. The icy glare sent his way is scary enough to kill, piercing through his skull and shaking every single nerve in his body up. “I don’t fucking care at all. Leave me the fuck alone.” This isn’t his usually grumpy attitude, where he’s just irritated. He’s being dead serious, his tone hinting that if they didn’t get away from him right this instant, they were going to get their asses kicked badly. “Guys, maybe we should just leave him alone for now.” The three teens backed away from their moody friend, waving him off before going their separate ways.

Whenever anyone tried to make an effort to understand his frustration, the only answer they would receive was a forced out “I don’t fucking care.” That was the only thing Bakugou would tell people, including you. Oh how oblivious he was, thinking no one saw through the facade he was putting up. If he had to admit he was a weak bitch that cried over some stupid crush, he would kill everyone in the room and then himself if that’s the last thing he does. No way in hell is he letting his strong, tough, intimidating image down. Time after time, he would tell people he didn’t give a fuck about you. That you were just another extra in his life. Just another stepping stone to his inevitable victory. The time you overheard him telling Kirishima you were just another obstacle in the way of his success made your heart shatter into a million pieces. You slowly started to let him go, not wanting to let yourself get hurt anymore by his words. Everyone acted like they fell for his white lies, as if they were dumb enough to not hear the audible hint of pain in his usually shameless voice. He really did all this, just to convince himself to move on from these useless feelings that ate him up from the inside. His usually unfriendly self became extra hostile, shutting out everyone that tried to help him. He was increasingly aggressive with each passing day, letting out all the pent up anger and bitterness onto his classmates. At that point, Midoriya was so scared that he requested for a seat change from Aizawa. Almost nobody dared approach him. Some even begged for him to be excluded from sparring and training, although it was unsuccessful. It was guaranteed, without question, that whoever was going against him was going to be beaten to a pulp, bloodied and battered, burn marks everywhere on their bodies. In some instances, All Might had to step in, and even he suffered a few nasty blasts from the ash blond. Even you were getting irritated by his irrational actions, occasionally calling him out for it, much to his dismay. This was the last thing he wanted. For you to slowly break away all the bonds you two made. For you to take another person’s side, without even thinking about how he felt.

Walking out from his quick shower, he sat on his bed, grabbing his phone and going through your chat again, as if the ‘seen’ at the bottom of the wall of good morning and goodnight texts will magically disappear and replace itself with your replies. Groaning, he throws his phone onto the wall, letting it fall back onto his mattress as he shoves his face into his hands.

Since the time you heard him call you an obstacle, you started to let go of the friendship you had made with the fiery teen. He held a special place in your heart. He was your first, and best friend. You two shared everything during those late night talks you had through FaceTime. If you had to choose between Todoroki or Bakugou, you would save the latter first. The moment you realised Todoroki was your soulmate, you were ecstatic. Your fat crush on the aloof boy was a known thing around 1-A, and the fact that you were lucky enough to get him as your soulmate made all the girls jealous. However, things took a turn when Bakugou started to go back to his cold self. He stopped calling you after school. He stopped walking you home. He stopped trying to keep a conversation with you, only replying with the driest responses he could muster up. You didn’t know what was up with him, but it was annoying you. The one time you were looking to confront him, you overheard his conversation with Kirishima. “She’s just an obstacle.” “A stepping stone to my victory.” “I don’t fucking care about her.” It was as if everything you have done to befriend him was for nothing. He only thought of you as some extra. Nothing more. You were pissed, definitely. He was acting cold, ignoring you, all because he never cared. You made up your mind, and sent him one last text.

“If you didn’t care about me then we should’ve never became friends.”

And with that, the friendship that you two put so close to heart was erased from your life, never to be seen again as you left his side and joined with Todoroki.

This is the last straw for Bakugou. He yells into his hands. Nobody’s home, and even if somebody were in the house, he doesn’t care. He screams until his lungs give out, his voice reducing to a raspy groan after ten whole minutes of screaming. He was mad at himself. He was mad at his fate. Why did it have to take away the best thing that happened to him? Why did you have to land in the hands of Todoroki? Just the thought of it fills him with anger, sparks emitting from his palms as his sight is clouded by red. Scrambling onto his bed, he sends punch after punch towards his pillow, activating his quirk and letting the fabric burn as he continues the assault on the pillow, feathers now flying all around him as he screams, tasting his own tears. He doesn’t care about his pillow being completely demolished. He has extras at home anyways. Throwing the now tattered pillow onto the floor, he grabs a new one and shoves his head into it, sniffling into the cool material. “Why do I feel like this? How can one person ruin everything for me? Why is this happening? What kind of God does this to people? Why do I care anyways?” His eyes widen as he realises what he just confessed to himself. “No. I don’t care. I don’t fucking care at all. I don’t care. Not a shitty single fucking bit.” His heart aches when he says that, as if it’s mocking him for trying too hard to convince himself to believe something that was completely untrue. The ash blond thrashes wildly on his bed out of frustration, kicking his sheets away and muffling his strained screams into the clean pillow. “Stop, stop, stop, stop, STOP! WHY? CAN’T YOU JUST GET OUT OF MY HEAD FOR A FUCKING DAY? JUST A FUCKING SECOND? PLEASE?” Pulling his sleeve up, he stares at the words “Zero Gravity” in disgust. Bringing his free hand up, he activates his quirk, sending a scorching burn to the words as he hisses in pain, flinching a little bit. The soul mark is now a shade of pink, but the words are still clear as day. He knows he screwed up bad with you, but what could he do about it? You’re happily dating your soulmate, and all ties between you two have been cut off. All his texts have been left on seen. You have stopped talking to him. With that, Bakugou knew what he had to eventually come to terms to.

He cares. He cares too much.

All the times he’s said “I don’t fucking care” were just pathetic attempts to forget about the cruel truth, even just for a moment.

You’re never going to go back to him.

Todoroki is your boyfriend.

And he was just another classmate to you.

References:

Idfc- Blackbear

Lyrics to said song

A whole lotta brainstorming because oh my god my angsts are becoming more and more predictable and repetitive and I hate it ahahhaha

Tags:

@ewfilthymundane @izzyphantomgamer @artsamber @sunshines-and-tatertots @tiger1719 @inlwlevi @burnt-tomato @just-another-bored-writer @macaronnv @random-fandomlover @kaylacinderella @justachillgirl @for-ests @bokutokoutarou @trashcanweeb @itmekisuu @poppirocks @xonfusedsoul @shoutsukii @estherwritess @talks-a-lot-of-stuff @fullmetalfangirl21 @mariechan123 @agentvicinity @sakusasgarbage @tiredgr3mlin @letshaikyuu @emsvegetables

Have fun reading this love ya sorry for not writing anything in days and uh I’m gonna go to sleep now because I have school and I need at least 5 hours:D

244 notes · View notes

vancilocs · 3 years

Note

Im gonna throw some words and see what inspires you, no need to complete all, i know i dont have anything worth publishing for hands but i got a grand idea for sunrise. Beloved, mercy, mightnight? (Again no need to write all)

midnight is smth i wrote a little while ago that i figured i would never publish bc i think it's Bad but oh well (does it fit the prompt perfectly? nah not really but night is an element)

Beloved

The night was harsh and the wind bitter cold. The woman bundled her delicate quarry tighter into the furs, protecting him from the elements, as she made her slow but meticulous way forward with her companion. The taller man held aloft a persistent torch that battled against the wind, bringing some clarity to the path ahead. Not too long after two others joined, coming to greet the travelers from the other direction.

A few pleasantries were shared, quick and hushed. The mission was dire, and delicate. The taller man followed as the two newcomers lead the woman further, to the door of a solitary, silent hut. The man and the locals stayed outside as the woman quietly cracked the door open and stepped in.

The house was cold and dark, but in there was safety from the whistling wind. The woman brought up light with her own magic and the small bundle in her arms stirred, making some small noises. She shushed the baby and sat down to a vacant chair in front of the cold fireplace.

Now she would wait. She calmed her fussy package, the small boy in her arms soon settling down and closing his eyes for another, well-deserved nap.

Time passed. The woman knew these things were not to be hurried. She only wished she had been right.

The wind outside calmed a little and stopped whistling in the crooks of the chimney and at the door hinges. The atmosphere in the dim light became cozy, welcoming - warm, almost, but not in the sense of actual temperature. Mahran had known what to expect, when she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder.

She looked up and was greeted by the translucent, spectral face of a young woman. "Hello", she said, her voice thin and echoing, but still clear.

"Nesia, was it", said Mahran and the shade nodded. "I am- I was Qharil's wife."

The shade turned her head down in shame and regret. "I never knew", she then said and Mahran nodded.

"I blame you for nothing that happened. It's I who grieves for you", she said. "There are no words for me to express my sorrow for what he did to you."

Nesia nodded, grief still evident on her face - and the vicious wounds evident on her body. The attack had been swift and cruel. "But the most important is safe?" she then said, lifting her eyes to the bundle in Mahran's arms. Mahran gently revealed a bit more of the baby boy she had brought to see his mother.

"He's safe. And perfectly healthy. A beautiful child", she said and Nesia smiled, reaching out a spectral hand to touch the face of her beloved, the one she was ripped away from all too soon. Kaede yawned, eliciting a delighted gasp from Nesia, reaching out his little hands to swish past her outstretched fingers.

"You will keep him safe? You will raise him?" Nesia asked, voice strained, tears already glimmering in the corners of her eyes. Mahran nodded gravely.

"As if he was my own", she promised. Nesia simply nodded, choking back her tears, hand shaking ever so slightly as she reached out for Kaede's small hands. She mumbled something in a language Mahran didn't understand outright, but as a mother, she could guess the meaning.

"Thank you", Nesia whispered.

"And I'm sorry", said Mahran.

"You will tell him of me?"

"Everything he wishes to know."

Nesia nodded a final time and retreated, as Mahran bundled Kaede back into the warmth and comfort, him soon nodding back off into sleep in Mahran's arms. Nesia blew him a kiss, waved, with tearful smiles.

Mahran stood up and made her way to the door, when the lingering shade spoke once more. "Promise me something?" she asked.

Mahran turned, waiting for the request.

"Get that son of a bitch."

Mahran chuckled. "Count on it."

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

Mercy

An eery disquiet held a grip of the barracks as he walked in through the gates. He paid no mind to the gate guards as they let him pass without question, said no word, made no eye contact. He had always disliked the barracks and the nameless, faceless men clad in black and white, ever since he was a child. He would rather not spend any more time in there than was necessary.

Some of the knights stared, some were too involved in their own hushed conversations to pay mind to the man walking past, making brisk headway to his destination, the largest building within the walls of the compound. A knight by the door said nothing as he approached, merely bowed his head and opened the door for him.

The air inside was quite nothing like he had experienced before. He had seen death, yes, but in the confines of his own home, not within a dimly lit stone hall, not where death had took its rawest form, placed on the table right in front of him in the middle of the room.

He hesitated for a moment, for two. He stood in front of the shut door, fists clenched - out of anxiety, maybe. Or out of lingering resentment. He had not seen his brother in months, and the last time they spoke was... not on friendly terms.

It was odd.

Numair had grown to know Mahir as a large, intimidating, harsh individual whose physical presence took hold of a room and gripped the minds of men who were compelled to listen when the man, eldest of the three sons, spoke. He was a man who criminals ducked out of the way from, who stood out on the battlefield not only by his crimson sash, but also by his height and sheer stature.

But here, laid down on the table, still in his blood-soaked vestments, he seemed... almost small. Worn. Thinned out. Numair took a tentative step forward, looking down at his eldest brother's face. Even death had not brought him peace - his expression was that of lingering horror, eyes ever so slightly open and staring dead into the ceiling. The blood was the worst part. The deep, deep crimson pouring from his mouth onto his chin and down his throat only exaggerated his sallow skin and painted a macabre picture of his last moments.

Had it been painful? It must have. It must have been terrifying.

And had he always looked so thin, or had death already begun its work? His cheekbones jutted out compared to his sunken cheeks, dark shadows laid under his eyes and deep wrinkles framed his brow. Numair didn't even remember. Mahir had always had a stern look, and his dark eyes - inherited from their mother, just like Numair had - never held the warmth they should.

Silently Numair reached his hand out and swept a couple of curls off Mahir's forehead. His skin was cold to the touch and Numair almost pulled his hand away, but resisted.

This had been his brother, once. Numair didn't know where the change had happened. During their youth, when they drifted apart? During the years of relentless arguing over who should pick up the sword and who not? Or had it just happened, when the commander, the eldest son, was finally cut down?

He hadn't noticed the tears coming in. This was a hollow husk of the man he had once loved and admired as his brother and protector. This was the lingering ghost of a man who once knew love yet sunk into the bottomless depths of revenge and all-consuming grief, who responded to death with rage and more death, who made it his life to pay back the endless pain he endured not just for him, but for his mother, for his brothers, for his sisters.

It was no way to live.

Perhaps this, in its own, macabre way, was mercy.

"You can rest now, brother", Numair whispered, bent down and placed a soft kiss goodbye on Mahir's cold forehead. Then he wiped his tears, turned his back and left the room.

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

Midnight

The ocean was still. Night had taken over the coast, laid to rest all the little critters and birds who made no sound on the moonlit shore, giving in to the atmosphere of quiet solace and calm. No nearby people, no sound of city hustle and bustle, just a solitary hut with the smoke of the final embers of the morning quietly dying down. In the silence of the hut, one man sat awake, next to the peacefully sleeping form of another.

He had awoken suddenly, twisting himself free from a memory that was still too fresh, too harsh – time had not yet smoothened out its edges, not laid down a fog cloud of forgetting on its raw form that burned when touched. Claws, digging into skin, twisting bone and chilling its depths, teeth rending bare, unprotected flesh, a face so familiar but yet not at all, burned and gnarled and… wrong. The memory still held a grip, of his mind and his heart, which now beat harshly in the still silence of the hut, so loud one could almost hear it.

Slowly, almost afraid Goose turned his eyes to the man quietly laying besides him. Elk was asleep – in the depths of something blissful and calm, his breathing deep, his heartbeat steady. The sight of him both calmed and frightened Goose, because despite his love, his deep knowledge of the man, the stain of the demon who took his form to attack him still crept at the edges of his vision and threatened to cloud his mind altogether.

He wouldn’t, Goose told himself, over and over again; he wouldn’t, it wasn’t him. It had never been him. Elk had told him, his body wasn’t his own, his own memory had faded away from the way of the demon. It wasn’t that Goose didn’t believe him. But what Elk didn’t remember, Goose did, and those memories stuck to him tight in the hours where no other thought was there to push the doubts away.

Almost tentatively he reached out his hand and gently as ever stroked Elk’s cheek – unharmed, untwisted, warm and familiar as it had always been. Elk drew in a sigh, stirring but for a moment in response to the unexpected touch, a shadow of a smile creeping up to the corner of his mouth. But he did not wake yet, he remained asleep, peaceful as ever. Goose smiled as well for a moment, remaining still to ensure the man didn’t wake further. And, confident he didn’t, he as quietly as possible clambered out of their shared bed, careful as to not stumble over Elk’s legs. The previously so comfortable and welcoming warmth of the hut had become oppressing, the shadows in the corners almost feeling as if they had crept closer in the night than they had before – silently, Goose unlatched the door, creaked it open and snuck outside, pressing the door shut behind him.

Once outside, he drew in a deep, long breath, closing his eyes and taking in the sea breeze. The faint smell of salt felt purifying, almost. It smelled like home. It was where he had grown up, where life had offered him its most, given all to him – given him too much, sometimes, more than he could understand, more than he could do with. The small stones underneath his feet clicked and clacked as he walked barefoot towards the shore, until he found a suitably big rock and sat himself on it, facing the ocean and its ever-lapping waves. Somewhere in the horizon he saw birds against the clouds illuminated by the moon, too far for him to recognize. He had always been jealous of birds – what an existence, to just fly with nary a worry about tomorrow. But despite his sometimes less-than-affectionate nickname, he was merely a man, left to earth with his worries, mistakes and the regrets that followed.

Stupid fucking conch. Stupid fucking Goose. Of course they don’t talk to people. Only an idiot would think a conch would actually talk. All it was was just bait for someone as stupid as him to latch on to and for others to get in trouble for. It had always been like that – Goose gets in trouble, does something stupid, and the rest around him have to make excuses and take the blame: give him a rest, he doesn’t get it, you can’t expect Goose to get it. And it was up to the others to pick up the pieces. It was up to the others to put themselves in harm’s way.

To sell themselves to demons.

A demon Goose called in by being stupid, and now had to be protected from.

He didn’t know if his tears were of anger or regret, quite possibly both – he wiped them down to the much-too-long sleeves of his husband’s shirt. He stirred from his thoughts for just a moment to hear the gentle footsteps on the rocks behind him.

“What’s wrong?” Elk asked as he sat on the rock besides Goose and noticed the tears on his cheeks. He raised his hand instinctively to wipe them away but Goose turned his head away, and with a mix of confusion and worry, Elk put his hand down.

“Bad dream”, Goose mumbled and sniffled.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Elk asked, and Goose shook his head slightly. Elk knew if the man didn’t want to talk, he wouldn’t – but knowing him, being silent was either short-lived, or a reason for worry. Elk was content sitting quietly for a time, staring at the ocean alongside his man, pondering what the next thing he would say was. The silence did not end up being long.

“It had your face”, Goose mumbled.

“Was that the dream you had?” asked Elk, and Goose nodded silently, not looking towards his husband. Elk was quiet for a moment, hesitating – “It was just a dream”, he then said.

“It was real to me”, Goose said, still staring at the waves. Elk didn’t argue – Goose had refused to talk much about that day, and even if they had returned to life together under one roof there were hitches in the man’s behavior that had not been there before. Elk had seen hesitation in his eyes, seen him ever so slightly duck out from under his touch.

“I know. I’m sorry”, he sighed. Goose didn’t say anything, just sat there, swinging his legs slightly. The silence had an uncomfortable tinge to it, an awkward flavor that permeated the night, but which both of the men hesitated to disturb.

After a period of silence filled only with the waves lapping at the rocky beach, Goose turned his eyes at Elk once more.

“Why’d you do it?” he said.

“Did what?”

“You gave yourself to a demon. It was my shell. My mistake. It should have been me that the bastard took,” the man answered, voice wavering.

“I felt-“ Elk started, then spending a moment to choose his words. “I felt it was my duty. As a paladin. And I mistakenly thought I could… do something about it.”

“Do what? Kill it?”

“For example.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Elk sat quiet for a second, averting his eyes – Goose could feel the regrets the man had, and felt that he had pondered that same question himself.

“I tried to get through to you before. At this point I… I didn’t know how you’d react. I didn’t know how strong of a hold it already had in you, for it to start communing with me, as well”, he finally answered, meeting Goose’s gaze again. “I was scared for you. I was scared that if I told you, the fiend would make you outrun me – do something I couldn’t predict or prevent.”

Goose sat silent until Elk spoke again. “I’m sorry”, he sighed. “But I couldn’t lose you.”

“I could have lost you!” Goose exclaimed and Elk turned his eyes away in shame. “Weeks, Vragi, weeks – what was your plan? What did it want? You would disap- you’d disappear, I would… what was I to do? No matter the demon in my ear, but you? What would I have done without you?” said she smaller man, fighting back the tears that now tried to once again force their way out.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t-“ Elk began, pausing for a moment to pick the words.

“You don’t have to fix my wrongs! You don’t have to throw yourself into danger for me, because I’m too stupid to understand it myself! You don’t need to-“ Goose started before Elk could continue, when the man turned back to him and placed a firm but gentle hand on both of Goose’s cheeks.

“I did it because I love you!” he said, firmly, eyes nailed on Goose’s eyes, the man looking back in tearful bewilderment. “And I was terrified of losing you. Love and fear, they make men do the stupidest things, but I need you to know that everything I do is… I love you, Fégla”, Elk continued with a softer tone, hands still holding Goose’s head in place.

Goose looked back, sniffled, and Elk took a deep breath.

“I don’t have an excuse or explanation that would make sense now. I cannot justify leaving you with no word. I’m sorry, my love – I cannot take it all back. I wish I could”, he sighed. Goose, turning his eyes away from his husband choked back a sob, pulling in a long, wavering breath he then let out slowly, calming himself, collecting himself.

“I wish so too”, he said and Elk sighed deep, lowering his hands to his lap and pressing his forehead to Goose’s. He delicately, almost tentatively took Elk’s hands in his.

“I’m sorry”, he mumbled.

“I can’t imagine-”, Goose said back, but wavering. “If I lost you-”.

“I’m sorry”, was all Elk could repeat.

“I love you.”

They sat together for a moment, foreheads together, Goose holding Elk’s hand in both of his, listening to each other breathe in the rhythm of the gentle waves of the moonlit ocean lapping at the rocky beach. The first squawk of a distant seagull stirred Goose from his thoughts and he looked at the horizon where the soft, pale tones of reds and oranges breached into the purple and blue hues of the night sky, blending into a promise of warmth and life for the new dawn.

Elk took both of the Goose’s hands in his, for a change, giving them a gentle, reassuring squeeze before letting go. “Whatever happens”, he said. “I will be there for you every step of the way.”

And Goose smiled, wiped off the last remaining tears from his eyes and leaned in to give his husband a gentle kiss – a kiss of promise, and mistakes forgiven.

“Let’s go to bed.”

#the last one is like as long as the others combined but that one i wrote separately and the others into this post so #makes sense i guess #writeroo

6 notes · View notes

poisonedapples · 4 years

Text

Lasting Impressions - Chapter One: Three Hours Before

Summary: Virgil makes a good friend at the weirdest time of day; four in the morning, where everyone and their dog is fast asleep. However, deciding to befriend that person ends up getting him into a lot more trouble than he could ever suspect. His new friend ended up going missing that same night. And Virgil was the last person to see him alive.

Chapter Warnings: Kidnapping, missing people, nightmares and anxiety, mentions of death, mentions of murder (regarding Disney characters), blood, mentions of drunkenness/alcohol, and swearing

Pairings: Familial Royality, platonic Prinxiety that still flirt with each other in this chapter

Word Count: 4,307

Notes: Heed the warnings, as this story (although not mentioned a lot in this chapter) will contain missing people, kidnapping, and its fair share of violence as we go along the story. Always read chapter triggers before you dive in, and if there’s a chapter or scene you can’t read, you can always DM me for a less graphic or trigger free version of it.

It was 3:51 AM when Virgil felt himself jolt awake in a cold sweat.

He frantically turned his bedside table lamp on, ignoring the pain of the blinding light on his adjusting eyes. It wasn’t often he got nightmares anymore, but God when he did, they were horrible. He could always barely remember what it was about; something with not being able to scream and a weird creature chasing him, but nothing more than that. Instead he was left to shake in his bed and attempt to breathe in for four seconds.

In for four...hold for seven- fuck, wait-...four...hold for seven…come on! In for four...sev- Are you fucking kidding me!?

Virgil jumped out of bed, ignoring the weakness in his legs and shakiness of his arms and threw on his hoodie and a pair of jeans. He only bothered with putting on a sports bra, instead of trying to breathe in his binder, then stuffed his phone in his pocket and walked out his bedroom door. He was careful not to slam it to not alert his roommate Elliott, instead quietly scooting himself to the front door of their apartment. Despite his haste, he double checked to make sure he locked the door before going down the apartment steps. Like always, Elliott would be none the wiser.

Virgil walked out to the front of the apartments and took a left down the block. His body was still shaking, but the fresh air always helped.

It’s fine. You’re fine.

...It’s gonna be another one of these days, isn’t it?

Virgil sighed. Anxiety was always the worst. Sometimes, all it took was for you to wake up in a certain mood and hope it was gone by the next day. He’d certainly gotten better over the years when it came to nightmares and having to run away at terrible times in the night, but disorders never completely went away. Not that he’d heard of, at least.

The air had a different feeling to it outside. Fall was cooling the atmosphere and giving Virgil a kind of contentment he could only reach in this time of year. Halloween decorations had filled store shelves before September ended, though none of those stores were open at this time in the early morning. Instead, Virgil walked down the street and occupied himself with looking at street lights and the occasional car passing by.

The very, very occasional car.

Virgil plucked his earbuds out of his hoodie pocket and plugged them into his phone, putting a random playlist on scramble to drown out the eerie silence. Everything was so quiet at this time. Usually in the city, the streets would be so noisy Virgil was more at risk of a sensory overload than being this kind of uneasy. In a way, walking alone in the dark was the worst way to recover from a nightmare, no matter how many times it became his solution. He felt watched.

...Shut up, no, don’t think like that. No panic attacks for you. Not in the middle of the damn street.

Virgil pressed his earbuds deeper into his ears, as if that could muffle his thoughts the same way it damaged his hearing.

At least the air was a nice change of pace. Fresh air always helped him when he felt like he couldn’t breathe, and now the chills in his body could be explained with a different reason. Even if it really wasn’t that cold outside.

Virgil felt the cold bring a sudden wind to the back of his feet. He almost jumped three feet in the air as his mind raced with thoughts of someone’s chasing you, but as he looked around, no one was there.

He saw something move in the corner of his eye and jumped again.

Virgil kept deathly still, like any sudden movement would bring this mysterious shadow to kill him. The only thing keeping him sane was the emo music blasting through his earbuds, the rest looking like something out of one of his horror movies.

He saw something in the corner of his eye again, shooting to look at the black blob right next to his foot. He took a sudden, sharp breath to stop himself from screaming such a sketchy time of night and darted his head around to find the source.

Underneath Virgil’s feet was a very offended looking squirrel. Before he could smack himself in the face for being an idiot, the creature scurried away and disappeared in a dark alleyway.

Virgil rubbed at his eyes. Jesus, he thought, I’m really on edge. It’s just a damn squirrel.

Still, Virgil turned around and walked faster until the alleyway was out of his sight. He sighed and attempted to calm himself down a little, but his chest still felt ready to burst from all the fear. He breathed in deeply, then out again.

His hands still shook, but it was okay.

Everything is alright.

He paused his speed walk long enough to continue his breathing patterns. He focused on the feeling of nighttime air instead of the what-ifs. He looked up to gaze at the dim stars, barely visible from so much light pollution, but still a soothing presence. With each time he counted a second of breathing in, he counted another star in the sky. The sight of twinkling lights with a bright moon in the sky was more than calming. It reminded him of the nights he’d spend on his parents roof, looking up and not bothering to think about what was down on Earth.

Up there, everything was quiet. Peaceful. There was no sound or responsibility. No student loans or nightmares, only emptiness with chunks of rock and gas. The chaos was too far away for you to really be bothered with it, you could watch from afar and be completely safe on your own floating rock. Out there, nothing mattered.

Virgil closed his eyes and took a deep breath in. Everything is quiet. Everything would be okay.

The peacefulness was all that really mattered.

“Why hello, handsome!”

“Fuck!”

Virgil’s whole body jolted like an electric shock when an unexpected hand touched his shoulder. He yanked his earbuds out and turned to his attacker with wide eyes, fully ready to fucking slice the dude.

The idiot only smiled and waved. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you so badly! Are you alright?”

Virgil blinked. “Uh, yeah. I’m fine, thanks.”

Before he could put his earbuds back in, the guy put both his hands on Virgil’s biceps and pulled his arms down. Virgil was fully ready to knock his teeth out and make a run for it, but before he could reel his arm back, he noticed blood and scratches all over the guy’s face.

Virgil did a double take at him long enough for the guy to get his damn hands off of him and smile. “I mean more than you being okay after I scared you. You seem to be quite on edge in general.”

Bitch, why do you care? “Well, it’s the asscrack of night, better be safe than sorry if you don’t wanna get murdered.”

He laughed. “Fair point, fair point. And what are you doing out at a time you call ‘the asscrack of night’, as you so elegantly worded it?”

Virgil raised an eyebrow. “How about it’s none of your business?”

The guy put his hand on his chest in feign offense. “So cruel to me! Here I was, trying to be a humble citizen and help you out, and this is the thanks I get?”

He rolled his eyes. “Get used to disappointment. The only reason I didn’t pummel you is because you look like a wreck.”

The guy put a hand to his face. “Is it the blood?”

“It’s definitely the blood.”

“Ugh, I suppose that’s what I get for trying to have a good time so late in the night! I’ll admit, I’m exhausted and also a little buzzed. So maybe trying to befriend a cat at 3 in the morning wasn’t my greatest idea.”

“It looks like that cat wanted to gut you alive.”

“... I’m not the best with animals.”

Virgil couldn’t help but roll his eyes and laugh. Something about a tipsy guy trying to flirt after being attacked by a cat was hilarious. “You sound like an idiot.”

“Just a little bit! But that’s what’s so endearing about me, I like to imagine.”

“You keep imagining then, Princey.”

The guy seemed to freeze in place. “... Princey?”

Virgil’s eyes widened, awkwardly coughing to try and play himself off as collected. Damnit Virgil, play it off! “Well I don’t know your name, and you sound like a spoiled, dramatic prince, so… You’re Princey now.”

The guy chuckled. Nailed it. “I guess that makes sense, I am very dramatic. But that’s just what makes me wonderful.”

“You tell yourself that.”

Virgil started to walk ahead of Princey, only for him to stumble over his feet to keep his pace with Virgil. At least he wasn’t too drunk, and he certainly didn’t seem harmless. Of course, Virgil hadn’t known him that long, but right now he just seemed like a major dork who wanted to talk to someone.

Relatable, honestly.

The guy kept his pace next to Virgil, though staying a reasonable distance away before standing up proudly and smiling again. “Though if you want to know my real name...it’s Roman. Roman Goldsberry.”

Virgil hummed. “S’up Roman. I’m not telling you my name, though.”

Roman gasped. “Why not!?”

“Because I’m not gonna make it that easy for you to find where I live and murder me.”

Roman shrugged and nodded his head. “Okay, fair. I guess.”

“Maybe if I meet you in a less sketchy place, I’ll consider telling you my name.”

“I suppose I’ll have to call you something else until then. Something that suits you.”

“Oh really? What do you think suits me?” Virgil asked.

“Something dark and brooding, maybe with a dash of paranoia. After all, that hoodie you have is quite the emo aesthetic.”

“You picked up my vibes pretty quickly there, damn.”

“I have many talents! Now, as for something to call you…” Roman seemed to think about it for a long time, “...I think I’ll call you Emo Nightmare!”

Virgil reeled. “...Thank you. Best compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

Roman pouted like a toddler who dropped their candy. “Compliment!? Well now I can’t call you that! If you’re going to be so rude to me, then I should be able to be rude back!”

Virgil smirked, “Really now? Go ahead then, make a nickname that offends me.”

Roman seemed to think about it again, “Gerard Wayward?”

“Clever, but I don’t think you know what wayward means.”

“I’m only warming up! How about Brad Pitiful?”

“That one’s just funny.”

“Count Woelaf!”

“My feelings have yet to be hurt.”

“Surly Temple? JD-lightful? Incredible Sulk?”

“Literally where the fuck are you getting these?”

Roman put his hands on his hips. “I’m good at improv! Oh! What about Henry Ravens-brood?”

Virgil put an offended hand to his chest. “Now that one is mean. Congrats Princey, you just offended me.”

Roman clapped his hands together. “Fantastic! I knew I could- wait...you know Phantom Manor?”

Virgil shrugged. “What can I say, I’m a Disney fan.”

“You? A fan of fairytales and magic? I find that hard to believe based on your everything.”

“You barely even know me dude, don’t give yourself so much credit.” Virgil tried not to smile at Roman’s dramaticized offense. “And that’s way too much of an oversimplification for Disney. I mean seriously, Constance Hatchaway fucking murdered ten of her husbands! Who even marries that many people?”

“I’ll have you know that she had five husbands, not ten! Also that hardly counts, it’s a ride all about ghosts! Of course people have to die!”

“Doesn’t mean she had to hack them to death. They could have toned down the axe murdering part.”

“Please, that’s nothing compared to the scene where Mufasa gets trampled. It’s not like you watch the murder happen, you only see it implied with the paintings and when her bouquet turns into an axe on the ride!”

Virgil smirked. “So you admit that Disney can get dark sometimes.”

Roman scoffed, seemingly at a loss of words. “I never said that!”

“You literally just said that Mufasa’s death scene is really dark.”

“It was a necessary part of the plot! Simba would have grown up to be a selfish king who only cared for power if he didn’t have to save everyone from Scar!”

“Doesn’t change the fact that it’s super dark and not just ‘fairytales and magic’, Princey.”

Roman did an overdramatic, offended gasp as his hand went to his chest once again. Is that the only emotion this dude knows? “I can not believe you! Twisting my words in such a fiendish way!”

“Seriously dude, are you a clown or some shit as your day job? Because the way you act is kind of hilarious.”

The offense dropped from Roman’s face almost immediately, replaced with a soft, yet still prideful smile better fit for this time at night. “I’m going to ignore the clown part and say that actually, I’m an actor for the community theater only a couple blocks from here. That usually tends to explain my behavior to people.”

“Sounds about right, yeah. You any good?” Virgil asked.

“I like to imagine so! In three days from now, I’ll be playing the lead of Fiddler on the Roof for our fall musical! I’m usually too busy to make the bigger shows, but I tried my best to find the time this year.” Roman’s proud smile faltered for a moment into something softer, more sad. Like he was suddenly grieving a lost memory. “...Though I might end up having to miss it after all.”

Virgil tilted his head to the side. “Why’s that?”

Roman shrugged, and for a second, Virgil could see past the dramatics and pride. He looked lonely, almost. “Personal stuff. Since you won’t even tell me your name, I believe I’m inclined to keep that information to myself.”

“You always tease people this much?”

Roman chuckled. “Not usually. But I am exhausted, so maybe I’m a little slap happy.”

Virgil pulled out his phone to look at the time. 4:19 AM. Holy shit. “Yeah, no wonder. It’s late as shit, and I gotta wake up at eleven today.”

“I think maybe you should go home then. I would offer to walk you, but considering you won’t say your name, I doubt you’ll let me know your address.”

“You got that right. You should go home too, before someone kidnaps you.”

Roman stopped suddenly, right below a street light. He turned around to face Virgil with such a sad smile, but Virgil couldn’t tell if that was from exhaustion or not. He looked at Virgil so softly for a long moment in a way that made him feel vulnerable. “Perhaps you’re right, but don’t worry your angsty heart about it, I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah, fair.”

“Though, you are making me think, Emo Nightmare.”

Virgil tried his hardest not to blush. “Think about what?”

“Maybe you would like to see the show?” Roman asked, “I won’t be able to participate, but I’d love to hear how it went. And if you like Disney, maybe you can appreciate a classic musical as well.”

Virgil shrugged. “I mean, maybe. What days?”

Roman straightened his maroon polo and brushed nonexistent dirt off one of his sleeves. “If you go to the Sanders Community Theater website, it’ll show you all the details. I would tell you myself, but it’s a lot of information, and I really need to be heading out, sadly.”

Virgil took one last look at Roman. Even with a scratched up face and knuckles, he still looked like the softest person Virgil could ever meet. He was dramatic yet funny, and he didn’t seem to actually want to cause any harm. If anything, he just seemed like a humble idiot who wanted to make a friend late at night. Considering Roman also called him handsome, maybe he wanted a little bit more, but Virgil didn’t really mind. For someone who was tipsy and exhausted at four in the morning, Roman seemed like a good guy.

Maybe he’s not so bad.

“I’ll, uh…” Virgil hesitated, “I’ll be sure to check it out if I can. We all need a break sometimes.”

“We do.” Roman whispered.

“Yeah, so go home and get some sleep. I know you’re tipsy, but don’t get yourself murdered by being out here all night.”

Roman let out a tired sigh, looking behind himself as if to check if he could see his destination from where he stood. “You’re right about that, Jack Skellington. But I have one more pit stop to make, so don’t worry about me. I know what I’m doing.”

“If you say so, I guess.”

Roman turned back to Virgil. “Though, if you’re interested...maybe you and I could swap phone numbers? So you can tell me about the show if you see it, and so our destined crossing on a raven black night doesn’t go to waste?”

Virgil snorted. “Raven black night?”

“I’m tired, shush. Let me be my own type of poetic.”

He rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say, I guess.”

Roman took out his phone and pressed a couple buttons before handing it to Virgil. Virgil stared at it before taking it with a smirk. “...Android, huh?”

Roman didn’t just roll his eyes, he rolled his entire head. “Oh, shush and put in the darn number!”

Virgil laughed but did as he was told anyway, putting in his number and saving the contact as Emo Nightmare before handing it back to Roman.

Roman smiled at the name so fondly Virgil’s heart almost broke. This dude’s gonna be pretty damn disappointed when he finds out my name is fucking Virgil, of all things. “Do you mind if I send you a text to make sure it works?”

“Nope.” Virgil said with a popped p.

Though, instead of sending a random letter or a hello like a normal fucking person, Roman posed under the street light and held his phone up for a selfie. He ran his hands through his hair in a fruitless attempt to fix its messiness but eventually gave up, smiling for the camera and dropping the pose long enough for Virgil to feel his phone buzz in his pocket.

Virgil pulled it out:

Unknown sent a photo

Unknown: Make sure to remember this beautiful face :P

He shook his head with disapproval, but also to hide his smile behind the safety of movement. “Seriously?”

“Don’t you worry Beetlejuice, you’ll get used to it after knowing me for long enough.” Roman tried to flip his hair back, but considering it was way too short to do so, it was a fail. “Though if I don’t respond to any texts you may send these next few days, don’t worry too much about it. I’m going to be awfully busy and won’t have my phone on me.”

“Alright, noted.” Virgil sighed and put his phone in his pocket. “Talk to you later then, Princey?”

“I sure hope so. Though, Brad Pitiful?”

“Pretty sure you already said that one, but yeah?”

“It’s 4:24 AM right now. Don’t forget that number. Considering it’s the time you last saw me, I’m sure it has some kind of luck to it.”

Virgil almost physically facepalmed at that. “You have such an ego.”

“It’s what people love about me!” Roman laughed as he dropped the overexaggerated smile for a second to replace it with seriousness. “Though, I am serious about you seeing the show. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard you. I’ll look into it at least, promise. Though for now, I’m fucking tired and I gotta go.”

Roman hummed, and without another word, the two turned in opposite directions to head to their next destination. Which for Virgil, was straight to bed until he woke up wondering if all of this was a fever dream. He did hear one last thing be called out to him: “So long, Dark and Stormy Night!”

Virgil didn’t respond, he only waved behind himself and hoped Roman saw it. When he turned the corner and was for sure away from Roman’s sight, he pulled out his phone and went to his contacts.

New contact added: Prince Underarm Stink

Satisfied with himself, Virgil walked the next couple blocks back to his apartment. Once he opened the door, he crashed onto his bed without bothering to change, letting sleep overcome his body as fast as it had woke him up in the first place.

I’ll text him tomorrow morning, he thought, just to test it out. Even if he doesn’t respond.

That was the last thing Virgil thought before he fell right to sleep.

***

It had been three days since the night Virgil met Roman. He’s sent one text every morning since then, but had yet to get a response to any of them. Considering Roman said he would be busy, he wasn’t too worried. If Roman didn’t respond in more than a week, though, he would consider himself ghosted.

Oh well, it was a stretch thinking the cute guy I met at 4 AM would text me back anyway.

On the third morning, Virgil sent a text saying You there yet??? Lol, before packing up his stuff and starting to walk to his classroom campus.

The walk was normal, nothing but other college students bumping into each other on the street and in the hallways until he made it to his classroom, leaning back in his seat and checking his phone.

No text messages, but he did have a couple notifications on Tumblr. Not surprising, but it was still something to occupy himself with.

A few more kids entered the classroom, stopping in the doorway right behind Virgil. “D’you know anything about this?” One of them asked.

“Nope. The guy doesn’t look familiar.” The other said.

“Damn. A ten thousand dollar reward would do wonders for a college loan.”

Virgil slowly lowered his phone back into his pocket at the sound of cash. With this amount of eavesdropping, he felt like a cartoon character with their ear growing five times in size.

“That could pay one year’s worth of a dorm. Ten grand doesn’t do shit for loans anymore.”

“Still dude, that’s ten grand you don’t gotta work for. I wish I had that.”

“Then go looking for information on this guy, I guess.”

The first guy laughed. “Maybe! I hope they find him, though. It’s always sad to hear about missing people. They usually find their bodies, like, a month later.”

“Yeah, well, people are fucked up. Now come on, I need your notes.”

“Again!? Dude, you’re a damn mooch.”

The two voices faded away to Virgil’s left as they walked away. Once the two guys sat down, Virgil turned around to squint at a paper he hadn’t noticed when he first walked in, even getting out of his chair to take a better look.

Though the moment he got closer, Virgil felt his stomach fill with lead.

Missing: Roman Goldsberry. Last seen October 2nd. Virgil stared at it for a suspicious amount of time. His eyes were widened like a bug ready to be squashed, ripping the paper off the wall and taking a closer look. No matter how many times he squished the paper to his face and examined every letter written, the facts were logically unmistakable. This is the guy I met.

The guy I met on October 3rd.

Virgil wanted to vomit. It couldn’t be him. It just couldn’t be. Stuff like this doesn’t just happen, you don’t meet someone only for them to go missing that same fucking day!

Is this why he wasn’t responding to his phone!? Because someone grabbed him off the street and locked him in a truck!? Because he’s somewhere in the middle of the woods, probably being tortured right this second!?

It isn’t him. It can’t be. I’m remembering it wrong. Missing people just freak me out. They’re not. The same. Person.

Virgil felt a lightbulb go off in his head. The photo.

Roman took a photo of himself before they parted ways. He’d even said not to forget his face with that stupid egotistical smile that made Virgil wanna roll his eyes so far they went into the back of his head.

Grabbing his phone was like trying to grab an ice cube off the floor, but Virgil managed it, shakily opening his phone and going into his recent contacts.

Picture, picture, picture...there!

Virgil put his phone and the paper on his desk and compared them. Same hair color. Same hair style. Same smile. Same eyes. The only difference is the clothing.

He didn’t want to believe it. He wanted to pick apart every possible difference in the photos until he somehow managed to convince himself they were different people. But there was no way. Even in his hysteria, there was no way he could ignore that he had seen someone hours before their possible demise.

...He couldn’t stay here listening to a lecture. He didn’t care about his grade tanking because of a zero on attendance, or about the homework he’d miss turning in if he left, he had to do something. He had to help somehow, even if Virgil didn’t know exactly what he was doing.

The professor had just stepped in front of the class and started to speak. Virgil grabbed his bag and didn’t hear a word that was said.

He ran out the door and didn’t come back.

#sanders sides #thomas sanders #virgil sanders #ts virgil #ts roman #roman sanders #lasting impressions #blood mention #kidnapping #nightmares #anxiety #death mention #murder mention #alcohol mention #drunkenness #prinxiety #platonic prinxiety #ts sides

170 notes · View notes

mor-beck-more-problems · 3 years

Text

The Two Fingers of Death || Morgan & Gabriel

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @bugbearnecessities & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Gabriel needs a snack and tries out a new scare in the English department offices, to unexpected results.

CONTAINS: slight zombie body horror

“I can't believe that bitch flunked me!”

Gabriel was not supposed to be in the ladies room, and he honestly felt bad about it. Normally he did his best to respect people's boundaries, especially those involving very intimate ceremonies like make-up fixing, gossip sharing and any other mysterious ritual that normally went on in the ladies' bathroom. But he had no choice, really: it'd been far too long since his last feeding, and between that and his natural instinct to just nap the winter away, his energy level was dangerously low, so he needed a little pick me up, ASAP.

And the ladies' room, he'd found, was the best place to get a quick fix: Gabriel only needed to hide in one of the stalls, conjure up the illusion of a giant spider and BAM. Instant snack, with high-pitched shrills on the side. But not this time, apparently. No, this time the two girls washing their faces were too focused on their angry rant against Professor Beck to pay his fake Charlotte any mind, not even when he made the spider dance. The girls sounded so genuinely pissed that for a moment Gabe forgot all about his hunger and just listened intently. Apparently Professor Beck hadn't been particularly impressed with Jessica's essay about The Tell-tale Heart, and frankly Gabriel hated the idea that Jessica could be turned off that masterpiece forever just because of a misunderstanding with her teacher. And truth be told, he was looking for a decent meal... Professor Beck was no murderer, but ruining Poe for young minds all over campus was two steps away from a federal offense, as far as he was concerned.

With that thought in mind, Gabriel waited for the two girls to go away and then he left the bathroom. A quick internet search later, he made his way to the professor's office, knowing that she'd probably be inside. He stood in the hallway in front of her door for a few minutes, waiting for the perfect moment and then, when no one else was in sight, he bent down to spy from the keyhole and focused intently, projecting his magic inside the professor's office.

Morgan cherished her office hours no matter what: if any of her students got over their anxiety enough to come visit, she had a chance to get to know them and put in enough help and suggestions to make whatever homework they turned in after more interesting; if they didn’t, she had some time alone to get her work done, have fewer things to take home, and listen to some her playlists that didn’t get as much airtime around the house. Today was the latter, and Morgan’s only concern was making sure she didn’t write down the lyrics to “Ivy” while she was trying to respond to her students’ questionnaires. There’s no shame in liking Twilight, she wrote, Looking forward to seeing what your thoughts will be when we get to Carmilla! She got through a few more like this, singing along under her breath since the Medievalist Bros were out doing stars only knew what. Her timer went off. Morgan jolted from the switch between Taylor Swift to the X-Files theme, hard enough that one of her earbuds fell out and rattled to the far side of her desk. Morgan chased it with her hand, only then noticing the bright, bleeding heart on her desk.

She yelped with surprise and scanned the room. “Hello? Is this, uh...for me?” Morgan hadn’t seen anyone come in with a special delivery. But then again, whoever had been tasked with it might’ve been too grossed out to ask questions or stick around. Deirdre was usually more discreet than this when she sent presents over, but sometimes she used her promise binding powers to be a little dramatic. Morgan laughed fondly, remembering a small candy box of eyeballs. “Babe, you shouldn’t have…” she sighed, and reached for the snack, which called to her the same way chocolate cake had when she was alive. Morgan reached and--nothing.

Morgan couldn’t stifle her whine of disappointment, but now there were more pressing problems. “Okay,” she called, louder this time and mildly irritated. “Now I know you’re hiding. Come on out!”

Gabriel had to stifle a villainous chuckle (or, well, the closest thing to a villainous chuckle he could muster) as he waited impatiently for the screaming and the flood of energy that'd follow. Alright, maybe a still beating heart was a bit much, but hey, she was a Lit professor, she had to appreciate the poetic justice in that, right? In any case he'd make it up to her somehow, anyone who listened to the X-Files theme couldn't be so bad after all, and...

Gabriel frowned. There was no screaming, no delicious fear. Why was there no fear, the woman had a freaking human heart on her desk! Granted, hearts were fascinating, Gabriel couldn't wait for the embalming classes to start just so he could maybe see one up close, but most people were at least a little squeamish about them. Was Professor Beck actually... Something else? Blood-thirsty murderer? No, it couldn't be: she'd also been listening to TSwift, and most comments he'd read about her on ratemyprofessors.com actually depicted her as a sweet, caring person. Then again, wasn't that what neighbors always said about serial killers? I never thought he'd be capable of something like that, he was always so nice...

The theory was starting to look more promising as Gabriel watched through the keyhole. She was trying to grab the heart, holy crap! And when her hand just passed through the illusion she looked... Disappointed? Gabriel was so confused that it took him a few moments to realize she'd called out to someone, to him. He hesitated. Should he just go away? That would be the wisest course of action, for sure. But then again, if Professor Beck was a serial killer wasn't it his duty to expose her? He, unlike most people, had the means to defend himself against a crazy murderer, after all. And also he was still so hungry. His mind made up, Gabriel took a deep breath and opened her door, his steps far more boisterous than he actually felt.

“I wasn't hiding!” Gabriel mentally slapped himself. Of all the things he could have said, that was going to be his first line to the very first potential serial killer he'd ever met? Lame. And then he added “Dude, you do realize that's a human organ, right? Like, from an actual person. With a hole in their chest. And it's bleeding all over your papers. Doesn't that... Scare you? Please be a little scared, please.” Even just slightly grossed out. And then he realized what he'd just said. “Uh, I mean... That's a human heart, professor.” Hunger was no excuse to ignore someone's academic accomplishments, not even those of a serial killer.

The door opened and Morgan reached for her bag. Salt, knife, iron, they were all still in there, even if she didn’t want to use them. A dozen different possibilities flickered past her head. Was this a trap? A hunter trap? Some magic critter she’d never heard of? Morgan was alone, and if it hadn’t been for her earbud falling out, she might not have heard anyone come in. This world was cruel and bloody and maybe she was an idiot after all for setting aside her combat training---But then the door opened a little wider and there was just a kid. A college kid, twenty-one at most. Not one of hers, although he did have that awkward intellectual vibe that her more enthusiastic boys held. But he didn’t flaunt that archetype like them, he hadn’t finished growing into himself yet. He wore his presence like a suit that hadn’t been tailored yet, a little oversized in some places and a little too tight in others. But maybe he was just flustered, and she was reading too much to give her mind something to do while she came down from the surprise. Morgan looked from him to the phony heart and back again. Scared?

“Uhhh…”

Granted, most people probably would. The Medievalist Bros absolutely would, even though they loved to posture about how ‘sick’ some of their favorite comic books were when it came to gore. But this was White Crest, people were weird, everything was weird. Please be a little scared, please. And it was only then that Morgan remembered the last time she had been startled by illusion magic: in her family’s old haunted house, the day she’d met Nora.

“It’s...so gross. Nasty, ooey, gooey, gross...thing! Aaaah!” Morgan eyed the boy as she tried to scream. But her heart wasn’t in the charade, she was too focused on the idea of there being another Nora in White Crest and what it was about her that made her seem so yummy to them. Sighing, Morgan deflated. “I’m sorry. I actually kind of…like this stuff.” Especially for dessert. “And it’s actually pretty good looking! More true to life than most movies. Actually, I was too caught up in the visual to know it was pulsing, but that is a really great touch. And um….” Oh, stars, he didn’t think she was being patronizing, did he? He was so young, and she didn’t want to crush his confidence. “Look, it’s not you. Really. Anyone more a...well, anyone different from me in this office and you would’ve really had something. And I’m not just saying that! But, if we’re going to be coming clean about our respective supernatural secrets, you should probably come inside and close the door.”

Gabriel appreciated the effort, truly, but Professor Beck's fake groans were doing nothing to quench his thirst for some genuine shivers. And in truth her act could even get him in trouble: someone might pass by, hear a teacher scream (albeit unconvincingly) and think he was attacking her or something. Which he was, technically, but not in a 'this might get you expelled' sort of way. So even though he was still more than a little disappointed his illusion hadn't sorted the desired effect, Gabe let out a sigh of relief when she apologized. And then, listening to her following words, he actually perked up, a tiny smile tentatively making its way on his face. “You really thought it was realistic? It's kinda tricky to really shape them from behind the door, and I focused really hard to get the rhythm right, but I figured it'd be like, uh... Shakespeare! Mess up the beat and the Bard is just not the same, right? Rhythm's important, so...” Gabriel's voice waned as he looked past the warm fuzzy feeling only a straight-A student could get from a teacher's praise and he finally realized exactly what she had said.

Slowly Gabriel took a couple of steps into the office and closed the door behind him, one hand awkwardly flying to rub his neck. “Wait. Respective supernatural secrets?” Wait, not the right word to stress. “Err, I mean- Supernatural secrets? I don't know what you're...” He didn't finish the sentence, he realized no one, lest of all Professor Beck, would ever buy it. Note to self: learn to come up with a decent lie when put on the spot. “Nevermind.” Gabriel blinked, once twice, three times as he felt the awkwardness of that pause weight on him like a heavy blanket. He drew little circles on the floor with the tip of his foot, unable to meet Professor Beck's gaze as he quickly added “Sorry. About the heart. I know you said you liked it -which we're totally gonna go back to eventually by the way... But, uh... Sorry about the intention behind the heart, I guess. I just...” His stomach chose right that moment to rumble loudly. “I'm really hungry.”

Morgan waited until the boy had closed the door and they were well and truly alone. She ached for her magic and good old fashioned silencing charms. Whatever confusion and discomfort she’d had around his trick was gone. He was too clumsy and good-natured for his own hunt. If she had been a hunter or some kind of heartless caster, he might be in a lot more trouble, and he put so much thought into his magic, he was so...eager. Morgan couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen a young supernatural so positively engaged with their power and identity. She struggled not to smile as she said, “First of all, you really need to have your cover story in place before you do anything that might make a normie ask questions. You never know who’s going to turn out to be a hunter or an alarmist. You and I are fine, and I know you didn’t mean anything by it, but that may not always be the case.” She gestured for him to sit and reached into her bag for her pyrex, which had her brain stash, and her knife.

“Secondly, yes. The animal hearts I’ve seen are a little more purple-y, than that but not by much, and your average normie is definitely not going to notice any difference. And the texture of the blood? Amazing. We can and will circle back and it probably won’t take long because thirdly…” She eyed him warily. If anyone was going to not be terrified of what she was, it would be this kid, right? Nora hadn’t minded any, and whoever this boy was, he had her kind of fear magic. He thought bleeding hearts were cool, so maybe a whole zombie body might be something to feel excited about. Or at least...not something to flee in panic over. “Thirdly, first rule of supernatural club is you don’t talk about other people’s powers or species or whatever else without asking them. So I’m keeping this snack attack between you and me--well, I’ll tell my girlfriend, but I’ll leave anything specific to you out of it--and you’ll do the same for me. I uh, can’t help your food front, yet, but I can show you something about me that you might find….” Cool? “...Interesting.”

Morgan couldn’t help it; she smiled, she hoped. “How are you with real-life body horror? And how much would you like to see a real zombie…?”

Gabriel's fingers had a little spasm, desperate for a pen and a notepad. It was an automatic response, atavistic almost: when a teacher spoke, you took notes, and you listened and you learned. And man, was class fascinating today! Gabriel nodded, although part of him was so desperate to tell Professor Beck she didn't need to worry: he could become a 10 feet bundle of muscles and claws, he could defend himself. Then he remembered all those times his roommate had managed to draw penises on his face while he was snoring, and he realized that even an 800 lbs monster, when asleep, could easily be poisoned, suffocated, paralyzed... “Cover story is important, got it.”

As Professor Beck described the ideal heart, Gabriel tried to summon up a good image of it, but the result was somehow worse than the first one: less tangible, the heart illusion floated behind the professor, ghastly and practically see-through, such a pathetic attempt that he made it disappear without even showing the Professor. Gabriel frowned: why couldn't he do it anymore? Was it because he was running out of energy and needed a good scare? Or maybe it was because now he knew the Professor wasn't afraid of hearts, so his illusions would no longer be able to summon a heart for her? He would ask mami later, Gabe promised to himself: she was no bugbear, but with his father still doing his disappearing act she was the only one that had been able to give him any sort of info about those things. Until now.

“So basically supernatural powers or species is sort of like...” Gabriel paused, looked for the right metaphor, and then he perked up again. “S&M! Nothing inherently wrong with it, but some people don't really get or understand it so you gotta respect someone's choice to keep it on the DL.” Immediately he paled. Had he really just said that? To a professor? “Not that I know anything about S&M! I mean, that's not the point, the point is... Respect people's privacy, got it. I won't tell anyone about you, I swear.” Once again, Gabriel nodded solemnly, hoping that his awkwardness wouldn't make her doubt his sincerity as he raised his right hand up and made that promise, an oath he fully intended to keep.

Luckily for Gabriel, Professor Beck's next question brought the conversation back to a topic that was far more comfortable to him. “Body horror? Puh-lease! I'm majoring in Mortuary Science and yesterday I fell asleep watching The Hills Have Eyes... think I can handle some gor- Woah, wait, back up...” While during the rest of the conversation Gabriel's eyes had darted around the room, dancing between captive attention and awkward embarrassment , now they landed solely on the Professor, rudely staring. Normally Gabriel would have apologized about that, but all he could focus on right then was...“Did you just say... Zombie?” If the giant grin and wide-eyed excitement on his face didn't answer her doubts, the excited twitching probably would.

Morgan snorted with laughter at the boy’s comparison. More people knew about her species than the particulars of how she and her girlfriend frequently enjoyed sex together, and she didn’t know of anyone who was maimed for having a ball gag in their purse, but he was on the right track. “Oh, of course you don’t, totally just stuff you’ve heard around the dorms, strictly abstract, intellectual curiosity.” Her smile was knowing as she waved away the subject. There were a lot of things she was willing to speak to that other professors weren’t, but this wasn’t one of them.

The boy had put her so much at ease with his enthusiasm, she almost forgot to warn him. “What’s your name, by the way? This feels like a weird thing to demonstrate to just some kid in my office. But, anyway, brace yourself.” Morgan’s words were for herself too. It had been a while since she’d shown anyone this particular part of herself on purpose. She reached for the knife on her desk and raised it over her hand. She closed her eyes and imagined she was chopping carrots as she brought it down swiftly over her fingers.

There was a bite of pain, enough to make her whimper, but there were no tears, and by the time she opened her eyes and scooped up the two severed fingers to give to the boy, fresh white bone had sprouted from the sockets and red muscle and purple sinew were braiding themselves over it. The severed fingers did not bleed, per se, but dripped a few globs of black blood where they had been cut, but only when squeezed, like tube of toothpaste. “These’ll keep for about a day or two, if you want to stick them somewhere for somebody to find,” she said. “After that, they turn to goo.”

“Gabriel Rivera. Swear on mami's snake, I usually introduce myself before sharing secrets, but in my defense... Zombie.” There was still a hint of amazed incredulity in that last word, but any lingering doubt he may still have was quickly cut down with that swing of the Professor's knife. No matter how comfortable as Gabriel was watching gory movies or even studying the theory of preserving corpses, he still flinched out of concern for Professor Beck more than squeamishness. It was just a moment, and then he was back to enthusiastic curiosity. Without hesitation he grabbed the fingers and held them close to his face, squeezing a little and even sniffing them. He stopped short of tasting the dark blood and, after a few moments of enraptured studying, he looked up at the Professor again. “Did it hurt? Are you okay? Will they grow back?” She seemed pretty unfazed by the fact someone else was holding bits and pieces of her, though, so the questions continued rapidly, before she could answer. “Have you ever tried preserving them? I could stea- Borrow some embalming fluid from the lab and... Wait, is that offensive? Asking if I can keep your finger in a jar must be rude, I'm sorry. But just... Look at 'em!”

Gabriel traced the tip of her fingers with morbid fascination before closing his whole hand around them, like protecting some precious treasure. The Professor's words registered a second later. “Stick them somewhere for somebody? Wait, so you're saying you're not going to tell me I shouldn't scare people?” Not that he wanted to scare anyone, really, he just had to, as the waves of exhaustion made themselves known again. “Because I get it, it's not exactly nice. And, uh, I'd totally understand if you were upset about the heart or if, at the very least, you wanted me to just... Not scare people on campus. And I can totally do that, no feeding on school grounds is a reasonable rule! But since we're being so open I'll be honest.” Gabriel paused, a hint of guilt tinging his next words. “If you let me keep these I definitely will hide them somewhere. Pretty soon, too. And then I'll feed from whoever finds them. Kinda hoping it'll be Baker, since he's kind of an assh- A jerk. And then, after he runs away terrified and I'm no longer hungry I'll swoop in and retrieve them because I don't want the cops to close down the school to investigate your fingers. No need for a cover story if no one is the wisest, right?” Truth be told, Gabriel was proud of himself: between the pangs of hunger and the excitement of the Professor's revelations he thought it quite impressive that he'd managed to think ahead like that. Apparently moms with babies under cars had adrenaline bursts, teacher's pets trying to impress their new favorite Professor had bright ideas. “So, uh, if you want Baker to not see a severed finger maybe just...” It visibly pained him to finish that sentence and offer the fingers back, but he still did. “...Take 'em.”

“Yes, Gabriel, it hurt,” Morgan admitted, “But not to the same degree it would hurt you. And--” She waggled her hand in front of him. All the muscle had regrown on her once severed fingers and fresh skin was slowly growing from the knuckles upwards. “I’m fine. No need or interest in preservation. I can regrow anything but my head, which is great, because I can’t begin to tell you how many times my feet have been eaten by hungry critters here.” She determinedly kept up her blasé attitude, because at least this time she was in charge of what happened to her body. She didn’t need to feel like food or remember that to some creatures, even some people, she was only a thing. This was different. At least she and Gabriel were the same, and he understood the distinction between who she was and what she could do.

Satisfied, Morgan opened her pyrex and popped a brain meatball into her mouth, swirling it in some eyeball puree first. It would speed the re-growing process along and get the taste of fresh heart out of her head. “I should probably mention, the reason I wasn’t scared was because I kind of eat dead organs for dessert. Not really nutritious, but neither are candy bars, and that’s never stopped humans before. It’s like that.” She waved away Gabriel’s hand as he ate, insisting he keep the rather unconventional gift she’d handed him. “Oh, stars, what do you think I am? You’re, what, nineteen, maybe twenty? You’re a college kid, you need to eat! Granted, on campus is a big risk. But I understand that you need this.” And this gave her an idea. She scarfed down the rest of her food and ducked her head out of the office door. No one around, but there were some murmurs from the lower floors. Another class period had ended, and the Medievalist Bros’ lunch break was probably ending soon.

Morgan turned back to Gabriel, brow arched with a friendly challenge. “How do you feel about sticking a zombie finger inside a candy bar wrapper and telling a TA who still needs to respect women more that it came from a secret admirer?” She asked. “This will be easier if you have cash, but I don’t think my snack was so big that I can’t bust through some glass for a good cause. You can still save the other one for Baker. Also, side note, I really respect how fast you learn. But whatever you’re comfortable with, you should decide quickly, because my guess is we’ve got about five minutes to pull this off.”

Zombies were fascinating. Gabriel briefly wondered if there were any zombies working on movie sets, donating their limbs to get that perfect decomposing tint on the thousands of severed hands flying around during movies with a chainsaw-wielding maniac as the main character. Gabriel tried to listen to all the cool facts Professor Beck was spouting, but honestly it was hard for him not to get sidetracked by the gross, slopping noise of brains and smushed eyeballs being chewed. Not that it grossed Gabe out: he was actually memorizing it for his Scare Bank. “I'm 20,” He answered almost distractedly, with a small chuckle. “I only look younger thanks to my healthy diet.” Part of him was dying to ask about her diet: if organ snacks didn't cut it then what? Was the brain myth accurate? How come she was so present, so alert and aware? She moved like a living person, talked like one as well... Had she not claimed the title for herself Gabriel would have never guessed she was a zombie, not even after seeing her gulp down raw mashed livers. But something told him that was not a first meeting question, and the last thing he wanted was to upset the professor, so he kept those questions to himself. For now.

Gabriel's grin grew into a mischievous smirk as he listened to the Professor's plan. “Say no more, misogynistic dic- douchebags are my favorite meal! And it'll be the best two bucks I ever spent!” Acquiring the snack was easy, just a quick trip to the closest vending machine and back to her office, bless consumerism. Unwrapping the snack without tearing the plastic apart was a little bit trickier, but Gabriel was not going to ask the Professor to help, not after what she'd already done for him. Gabriel had finally managed to put one of the fingers inside the colorful wrapping. Not perfect, but hopefully the TA wouldn't notice. “Ready to go, just point me in that guy's direction and watch the magic happen.” He sounded more confident than he actually felt, but this time Gabriel's usual self-doubting and insecurities weren't enough to sully his excitement. “Also, do you want the candy? I'm not sure if you even can eat it. For all I know it's poisonous for you, like chocolate for dogs, and I definitely don't want to poison you.” The wrapped fingers almost fell as Gabe flailed and rushedly added “Not that I'm comparing you to a dog!!! And even if I did, hello, bear here! But, uh, what I mean is... You've been great, and I kinda feel like I owe you, so if you want candy it's all yours.” Another long pause. “Speaking of how great you've been, is this... Common for you? The whole reveal thing? Because it's a skill that might come in handy one day, really so I was wondering if I could maybe... Ask for your advice every now and then. Office hours only, of course!”

Morgan grinned, ducked her head out of the office door to listen. “Even better than that,” she whispered. She grabbed one of the spare chairs and tucked it near her own. “Have a seat here, and uh…” She grabbed one of the books stacked around her work and put it in front of Gabriel. “Look busy, or borrow it to read, if you want, I’ve got way more copies than I should really have.” She huddled near him. “The guy in question might be one of the people I share this office space with, so you can probably watch your handiwork play out if you really want. But, this is your scare, so you can do all the talking. Also, you can keep the candy. It’s not toxic, but it also doesn’t taste like much of anything to me.” She shrugged.

The TAs had made it to the hallway, making plans on how they were going to humiliate the competition on their next co-op game and how they were going to bribe the Anthro Babe into going out with Jeryn.

Morgan rushed herself, whispering rapid-fire, “And uh, about the reveals, I’ve only been dead nine months and I was a little depressed and graceless when I talked to my friends about it. I’ve been trying to work on it more recently, but you’re the first person I’ve told this month who didn’t feel the need to immediately run away. And I only made them check for my non-existent pulse.” She shrugged haplessly. “But, hey! Being dead is really different than eating fear. Maybe--”

Jeryn and his tweed wearing bros burst through the door.

“Maybe you should spend a little more time developing this post-colonial theory you’ve got!” Morgan turned to the TA’s, smiling sweetly. “Gentlemen. Nice to see you back.”

The shyest of the bunch flinched back, still traumatized from the time Morgan had threatened him with bloody murder. But Jeryn, the newest recruit to the program, was unphased. “Good day to you too, my lady. No girlfriend today? I came back early just to see you two.”

Morgan bit back her retort. Whatever she had to say wasn’t going to be nearly as satisfying as what Gabriel was going to do.

Gabriel sat down with his eyes glued to the book, but his mind was busy wrapping around Professor Beck's words. I've only been dead nine months. What do you say to something like that? The Grief Counseling classes included in his major often discussed how to talk to the family members of the deceased, the proper way to offer your condolences while keeping the professional detachment needed to help them through the trying process of accepting a loss, and yet Gabe had no clue regarding the proper etiquette to adress someone who had died. Luckily the door opened and spared him the awkwardness of replying.

When the TAs entered Gabriel was reminded of his high school's football team, only with tweed instead of letter jackets. Any hint of guilt he might have had at the fact he was about to scare, maybe even traumatize a young man was dissipated the moment Jeryn opened his mouth. Gabriel didn't need to look at the professor to recognize the target.

“Wait, it's you!” Gabriel did his best to sound surprised and annoyed at the same time as he stood up and approached Jaryn. “I thought Linda was making stuff up, but man you are something! Linda Blair, you know her?” Jaryn blinked. “The name sounds familiar, but I can't quite pla-” Gabe interrupted him. “She's been auditing your classes and just won't shut up about you, says her fingers literally fell off from refreshing your Facebook page.” As he spoke, Gabriel pretended to dig through his pocket for something, and after a few moments he produced the fake snack. “When I told her I had an appointment with Professor Beck she basically begged me to give you this. Think she wrote her number on it or something. Apparently the way you treated her made her feel things she just can't ignore, and she just has to meet you... Women, am I right?” The wink he offered Jaryn made him feel dirty inside, but it was for a good cause.

Everything on Jaryn's face seemed to scream 'Is she hot?' and sensing his reluctance Gabriel retreated his hand and started to tear the wrapper, raising it to his mouth as if to take a bite. It took all his effort not to gag as putrescine and cadaverine (They were decomposing already? So cool) assaulted his nose, but somehow Gabriel managed to keep his poker face on as he said “Hey, don't worry, you don't have to accept! I mean, honestly I was thinking about asking her out myself, so I was kinda hoping you wouldn't be here, I can tell her I-” Jaryn basically ripped the 'candybar' away from Gabe. “No need, kid. It'd be rude to refuse a thoughtful gift from... What was her name again?”

“Look inside...”

The female voice echoed through the office, repeating the name over and over, punctuating it with the occasional forlorn sigh. Gabriel's eyes were closed as he channeled his energy into the magic. “What the...?!” Jaryn and the other TAs looked around, tense. The more their panic grew, the easier it was for him to add whistles and bells to the trick. “Look what you did to me...” Jaryn turned to stare at the Professor, confusion and nervousness painted all over his pale face. “What's the meaning of this, Profe-” The door slammed shut. Or rather, the door sounded like it had been slammed shut, though it was all part of the illusion.

“LOOK!”

When a ghastly, disembodied voice barks an order at you, you obey. Or at least that seemed to be Jaryn's thought process. He went above and beyond the call of duty and clumsily tore the wrapper, revealing the two fingers inside. Gabriel had to hide a smirk. The smell of decomposition assaulted everyone in the room, magically enhanced by Gabe's illusions, and the sticky dark ooze coming out from the fingers added a layer of realism to the image of copious amounts of blood running down from the severed extremity. Gabe's magic couldn't give it weight or make Jaryn's hands actually wet, but Professor Beck's impeccable prop did the work for him. Jaryn's face paled and his terror... Man, his terror was prime. Gabe even let out a satisfied hum, almost a cat-like purr as he absorbed their fear, sharp and vibrant and oh-so-filling. After a few long moments Jaryn dropped the fingers inside a sizable pool of fake, intangible blood that had collected at his feet. Almost as if that were the signal they were all waiting for, the TAs snapped out of their petrified terror and trampled each other in a clumsy race to the door, their screams echoing across the hallways as they ran from the office.

With a satisfied sigh, Gabriel picked up the fingers, rubbed his belly and turned to the Professor, finally breaking down into a laughter that took a while to die down. Normally he would never be so informal around a teacher, but man he always felt ready to take on the world after an all-you-can-eat buffet like that. “So... Was it as good for you as it was for me?”

Morgan did her best to keep her face straight, even disinterested, as Gabriel summoned the disembodied voice of a young woman into the room. She opened her laptop, watching Jeryn’s reflection through the screen. When he called out to her she looked at him confused. “What?”

The voice cried for everyone in the room to look, and Morgan, her face still bland and innocent as before, did. She had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep herself steady. His scream, shrill, throaty, and desperate, must have echoed through the entire hall.

“Aw, guys! What happened?” She called. “Come back, are you okay?”

When she could only hear their footsteps thundering to the bathroom, Morgan finally let out all the laughter she’d been holding in, tipping in her seat and covering her mouth to stop from getting any louder. “Are you kidding me? Gabe! That was amazing! I mean, the way his eyes looked like they wanted to melt! He sounded like a little kid when he screamed too! I’d be surprised if one of them didn’t piss themselves! Oh, stars, I can’t wait to tell him he screamed over a plastic toy when he comes back. This is way better than anything I could’ve done on my own. Seriously, you were--” She shook her head, speechless, and offered her hand up for a high five.

“Hang onto those so you can grab dinner tonight, or dessert,” she said, pointing to the fingers. “They won’t be any good after tomorrow, and I’d rather them go to a good cause than Besides, I can trust a fellow supernatural to look after them, right?” She smiled fondly at Gabriel, already certain that she could. “And, in case it wasn’t clear, I’m really glad you showed up to my office. I think you’d also like my lit seminar, but I hope this isn’t the last time I see you either way.”

Gabriel shook his head vehemently. He wasn't going to take all the credit, he was raised better than that. “Listen, you're the only reason it worked so well, it had weight! Lots of people can take the sight of horrible stuff because, well... TV, I think. But the feel of holding a severed piece of a human bo--teacher?! CSI can't prepare you for that.” Gabe nodded solemnly at his own words, as if he was the teacher and she the student. And then he finally realized her position. Was that a... Holy crap, it was. An actual high five! From a professor! It was almost surreal, but he'd promised to himself long ago he'd never leave anyone hanging. The high-five echoed through the office, to his ears even louder than his own illusions, and his huge grin threatened to split his face in half.

“I'm glad I showed up, too! Though now I better go, I kinda don't want them to come back and find me still here...” Truth be told, part of Gabriel was dying to just stay and ask her all sort of questions about herself, but he still wasn't sure he could trust himself not to put his foot in his mouth and ruin what felt like the luckiest meal of his life. “Oh, and by all means, mail me the deets on the seminar because I am so there...” It was only then that he realized, once more, that this was not one of his peers, this was a teacher, he shouldn't be so casual with her. Yet something about her demeanor had managed to put him at ease from the first moment, to the point where it was hard not to file the Professor under the Potential Friends category in his mind. Maybe, just maybe, that's exactly where she belonged.

#two fingers of death #wr gabriel #wr chatzy #wr gabriel chatzy #wickedswriting

11 notes · View notes

gloves94 · 3 years

Text

To Be So Lonely [Draco Malfoy] 28

Rating: M Pairings: Draco Malfoy/OC Chapter warnings: Drug use! SuicideMentions! SlightGore! Violence! Death! Depression!

CHAPTER MASTERLIST

MY MASTER-LIST

The dull oatmeal might as well have been sawmill dust. It was just one of those days that felt duller than the last. Lately for Nel it had kind of been like that. She shot a woeful look at the empty seats across from her where Tracey would usually be joking around and Daphne talking about her latest work of art. Letting out an exhausted sigh, she turned her attention to The Daily Prophet which was next to her breakfast. She didn’t care much for the articles but attempted to keep her mind busy from the fact both her best friends weren’t speaking to her and the horrible holiday she would have to spend with her cruel guardian, Cloelia Lestrange, and her psychotic adoptive brother.

“This has to stop,” A voice interrupted. Nel looked up to see Theodore quickly sit in front of her. He looked over his shoulder making sure his girlfriend wasn’t around to witness him threading with the ‘enemy.’ “Nel, this is absurd, just apologize for whatever you did and make up with Daphne and Trace. I can’t be looking over my shoulder like this every time I talk to you.”

For somebody who knew a lot about everything, Theodore didn’t know much about people.

“You know Daphne is upset because of what you did and well, I think Tracey is just hurt,” He expanded.

Her dark eyes fixed on him with no expression. Theo was acting worse than the girls. He was acting like a two-faced bitch. Sneaking around when interacting with the orphan girl so he wouldn’t upset Daphne. Nel didn’t know what was worse his cowardness or his willingness to do anything for his girlfriend. She secretly prayed never to be that pathetically whipped.

It was then that the rest of the Slytherin’s arrived and Theodore scampered away to take a seat with them. To make matter’s worse Pansy’s loud laughter and cheerier attitude at the new company she kept was the cherry on top. Part of the reason she didn’t want to speak to them was – yes, because of the whole telling Dumbledore her story, but the other half of it… The Dark Lord wanted to kill her. He had placed a bounty on her head. The Lestranges knew it, so did Mr. Malfoy, she eyed her friends from a distance. This time her gaze shifting into a suspicious one. Just how much did they really know? How much had they overheard during dinners with their families? Eyes moving across the room she looked at the Headmaster who seemed distracted in a hearty conversation. Dumbledore’s façade of being a kind, sweet, twinkly eyed, old man became more corrupt as time passed by and she saw the ugliness in him. He definitely knew. There was absolutely no way he didn’t.

Looking all the way across the Great Hall she saw the Gryffindor table. The House she initially wished she had been sorted into. She could see Harry half away struggling to keep his eyes open spilling some pumpkin juice on his uniform. Hermione lecturing from a thick book and Ron trying to help Harry stay awake. They were her friends, too right? They were nice to her, so were some of the other Weasleys. But what if they didn’t really like her? What if they only talked to her because they felt sorry for her? Anxiety pricked at her and her insecurities. They hadn’t spoken in a while, maybe they hated her too. Elowen was so engrossed in her own dark cloud of anxious thought that she didn’t realize the second boy that noticed the anxious look on her face from across the room and decided to join her for breakfast this morning taking a seat across from her.

He sat down confidently with an easy smile resting his elbows on the table and greeted her. “What are you doing?” She asked wide-eyed and surprised self-consciously turning to see the dozens of prying eyes that were staring at the two. “Everyone can see us!” She asked wide-eyed.

“Are you embarrassed to be seen with me?” Cedric let out a charming laugh. She looked greatly frustrated at his unannounced appearance. They were supposed to keep their partnership down and under the wraps, it simply made everything less complicated. “We haven’t discussed the Third Task yet. What are we going to do?” He leaned forward with interest, his elbows resting on the table.

“I haven’t really thought about it,” She admitted sincerely. “I haven’t really thought about anything lately,” She said miserably slumping her head on one of her palms. She hadn’t even been in the mood to have any sweets she might encounter. For some reason there had been a lot of pear tarts around her as of the late. However, she didn’t fancy them.

“You don’t look too excited,” He noted observing her obviously upset demeanor. She neither agreed nor disagreed with his statement. “Say, what do you want to be when you grow up?” He tried shifting the subject. “A menace to society,” Nel droned out numbly. Cedric couldn’t help but laugh, “You know, I’m going to be Ministry of Magic one day,” He boasted with pride. Being in a foul mood Nel fought the urge to roll her eyes of course the golden boy wanted to be Ministry of Magic. How could she have forgotten that?

She didn’t even hear what he said after that. Somehow the conversation quickly shifted back to the Tri-Wizard Tournament and the Third Task. “Meet me at the Room of Requirement tonight, I’ll see you there after prefect duty,” he leaned forward and whispered before leaving.

The school year was near its end. It was almost the Tri-Wizard tournament so the two really had to get cracking to find out what they were going up against and properly strategize. That meant Nel also had only a few weeks to make up with her friends. Turning her head, she hoped to meet Tracey’s brown eyes from across the dining table however, the Quidditch player seemed more focused on whatever Millicent was gossiping about.

Nel thought she hadn’t done anything wrong, she was sure, more than certain about it. She even hadn’t gone out of her way to make some elaborate plan for vengeance yet, despite this she felt the need to apologize. Even Theodore had advised her to apologize, but for what? She hadn’t done anything wrong. What would she apologize for? For not wanting to come forward to Dumbledore in fear of retaliation from the Lestrange family? For lying to the Headmaster? If anything they had done her wrong. They had gone and babbled her story. It was hard, but she had to remind herself she wasn’t the antagonist in this situation.

Once again looking forward across the room her eyes accidentally met an icy pair this time. She looked away quickly, if she had moved any faster her neck would’ve probably snapped. Suddenly, she couldn’t be in the same room as her attacker any longer. Quickly picking up her belongings she rushed to her first class of the day.

She rushed out of the Great Hall and was about to reach the stairs when a handheld her back, the grip stern, not gentle or too harsh. She already knew who it was.

“Hello Elowen,” She was pulled back and cornered trapped in between a body and the wall with a stretched arm. Keeping her eyes down her jaw clenched when she saw the bottom of a Beauxbaton eggshell blue uniform pants. Impulsively she pushed past him and tried to walk away but the long boy didn’t flinch at her violent shove.

“I want to speak to you,” He spoke in a smooth voice cornering her further into the small space he had created in between the wall. “I want to give you something.” He spoke suspiciously scratching the tip of his nose, no doubt from having been snorting dragonpuffs.

It was the type of interaction which was downright ugly. Snape had already confirmed the girl’s worst fears. Ellar was planning something vile. So was his mother. Now all she needed to do was prove it. Prove it and find a way to escape going to their home this summer. She knew the moment she crossed the door she was as good as dead, and there was nothing she could do about it. “Stay away from me!” She spat once again attempting to rush past him. “Elowen come on,” Again, he spoke in an unstrained and eerily calm voice. “I’m late for class,” She snapped ignoring him. “History of Magic can wait,” He said senselessly. Nel tried to catch the eye of anybody passing by. She hoped someone would see and help her get out of this trap. “How do you expect me to talk to you after everything you’ve done to me?”

“Everything I’ve done?” He let out a cool laugh. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” He ran a hand through his shinny dark hair. “No ide-“ She coughed incredulously eyes widening in disbelief at what she was hearing. “You forced yourself on me, pushed me into the lake and tried to drown me!” She exclaimed, voice breaking at the admission. “You’re imagining things,” He didn’t bat an eyelash. “I didn’t do that,” He lied with terrifying ease.

“Yes, you did!” She spat back in a firm voice.

“You must be confused,” His eyes narrowed, and he looked at her as if she was the one acting insane. “We went down there just to talk, we started dancing-“ “Against my will,” She interrupted. He didn’t stop his manipulative narrative. “You fell in and I tried to get you out. In a moment of rush, I can understand how that can get confusing,” He smiled at her and even had the audacity to flick her nose in a playful manner. “Here, I got you something,” He said pulling up a small brown pastry box with a pear tart inside. She smacked his hand and the stupid tart away making it fall to the floor and looked at him furiously. “You could’ve killed me!” “Elowen,” He shook his head, ignoring the pastry she had rejected or her livid expression. She hated the way he said her name stretching it out like a long drawl he was too lazy to properly pronounce. “Stop twisting things,” He clicked his tongue remaining composed. “Do you hear yourself talk? I didn’t do that. You need help,” He let out a chilling laugh as he gaslight the hell out of the Fourth-Year girl.

She knew he was lying, but why did he sound so certain? There was no way somebody had used a Polyjuice potion to imitate him. There was no absolute way he had someone posing as him at Hogwarts. No way he was telling the truth. So, if she knew he was lying why did she find herself doubting her own memory? “And even then, it’s your fault for going down to the docks and falling in the water.”

“I didn’t fall-“ She stammered, deciding to stick to the facts she knew. “You pushed me.”

He flashed her an irritated look as if he couldn’t believe what she was saying. Elowen was beginning to question herself. Was she actually imagining things?

The hallway was now empty and Nel was officially late for class. “Don’t be unhappy,” He lifted her chin up with a finger and she jerked her head away not wanting to meet his eyes. “Watch the Third Task of the Tri-Wizard Tournament with me.” This time she looked at him in the eye. “No. This is the last time I ask you. Leave me alone,” she warned him before giving him a hearty shove that made him stagger back on his feet. Ellar stood back racking his brain for any idea to once again seize an emotional grip of control over the girl. He had really messed up at the Yule Ball. He should’ve sucked it up and strung her along for the rest of the year. How could he get her to stop walking away from him? To once again succumb to his will and squeeze her under his thumb. He needed her to attend the Third Task of the Tri-Wizard Tournament with him. After all, it was all part of the plan. “I just asked you to go steady and you walk away from me?” He followed. To be clear he didn’t ask, it was just another of his demands. “Nobody’s going to want to go with you just like nobody wanted to go with you to the Yule Ball,” He didn’t stop there when she realized the brunette continued to ignore his calls. “And Malfoy?” He let a rueful laugh aiming for where he knew it would hurt. The mentioning of her friend’s name brought her to a sudden halt. Ears automatically perking at the mention of his surname. “You think he’d ever be interested in a nobody like you? An orphan girl with no past, present or future?” He laughed, this time cruelly. “Please, Elowen, he’s only toying with you,” He said rounding around her his hand touching her back and caressing around her arm and shoulder. “But you already knew that didn’t you?”

She didn’t want to think about that… “Then again, he did strike me like a muggle. That brute. Perhaps, vulgar really is his style,” he chuckled. She smacked his arm away from her body and held her books closer to her body as she shrunk her shoulders forward. He side stepped around her this time and stood in front of her blocking her way. She continued to shrink under his intense gaze.

“You’re not pretty, you’re not smart, not even darling or graceful in any way shape or form without an ounce of elegance-“ “I already told you to stay away from me,” Her jaw was beginning to hurt from clenching it so tightly. Eyes beginning to sting. Why wouldn’t he leave her alone? Why did he have to be so cruel? Why couldn’t she see past the fear and find the strength to attack him with all of her bloody rage? “Who told you to say that?” He spoke in a low voice. “Your friends? The ones who don’t even like you?”

She was at a loss of words.

“They don’t know what’ good for you,” He paused. “But I do,” he insisted. His voice dripping like a bittersweet honey, the type that lingers in flytraps ready to capture an innocent passing by fly. How can someone be so damn fucking twisted? Who did this guy think he was?

“God, Ellar, you’re such a-“ She couldn’t even manage to get the word out. “You’re such a-“ As much as she pondered on picking the perfect word only one word came to mind. Ellar didn’t have a moment to react little by little a headache he had been feeling evolved into a migraine as his head began to swell and grow larger and larger until it inflated into large balloon. “You’re such a fat head!” She stomped her foot down and whipping her wand out of the inside of her sleeve zapped his back as he scurried away spitting out a trail of curses. His small body tipping from side to side as he struggled to keep his bobble head up. She would have to deal with whatever his mother would do to her over the holiday when the time came. Frustrated she wiped the one tear that had managed to escape.

“Nel?”

‘Oh Merlin, really? Now what?’ Spinning on her heel she turned to face Harry Potter with her wand still held high and up. “Are you alright?” He asked with a confused look on his face. Shouldn’t he be in History of Magic? “Oh, er- yeah,” She lied wiping at the tip of her nose and slid her pale wand up her sleeve. “Was he bugging you?” By now Harry knew that Saintday kept these types of things to herself. The abuse, the bullying- He understood why, probably better than anybody else at Hogwarts and decided not to press about it today. However, things like this he couldn’t ignore. His green eyes remained looking in the direction in which Ellar had turned and vanished into. “I took care of him already,” She muttered looking down at her cheap black shoes. Suddenly she didn’t feel like going to class anymore.

“Are you sure you’re alright? Really?” Harry pressed. Why couldn’t she confide in him? Why didn’t she really trust him? She would rather be alone that reach out to him, Fred, George or anyone really. Of course, he had noticed the girl’s aloofness as of the late and what was that whole thing in the morning? Cedric Diggory having a word with her. “I think the question is, how are you Harry? I’m sure dealing with the Tri-Wizard Tournament has been bad enough as it is. Tell me,” She crossed her arms and approached him immediately switching the topic of conversation with ease. “What are you going to do with all that fame and glory?” She arched an eyebrow somewhat still bitter that Harry was allowed to enter the tournament and she hadn’t been. Harry frowned at her comment. He couldn’t tell if she was being spiteful or not. “I don’t care for either,” The Boy Who Lived admitted humbly. Funny, considering it would be something The Girl Who Died would kill for.

“Hm,” She pondered on that thought wishing she could be Harry. She didn’t know if to take him for a fool or appreciate his humility. “Are you sure you’re okay?” She teased cracking a false smile. Harry saw right through it. “You know,” He began. “We should go to Hogsmeade someday. As friends. I know you’re banned from the Three Broomsticks, but there’s other stuff to do. We can go to Zonko’s? Or Honeyduke’s?” He offered with a casual shrug.

So, Harry actually was her friend. She felt rather foolish for forgetting but with the Slytherin-Gryffindor rivalry and clouds of anxious thoughts it was easy to forget. “Hogsmeade sounds nice,” She smiled at him sincerely. Harry was about to respond when someone bumped into his back shoving him forward. Irritated he turned to see Malfoy swaggering down the steps standing next to him shooting daggers at him. His eyes seemed to shout, ‘Shove it!’ Without acknowledging Potter, Draco turned to look at the girl. Harry returned the death stare.

“I’ll-uh, see you later Harry,” Nel broke the tense silence between the three bidding the Gryffindor goodbye subtly asking him for some space. “Yeah,” Harry looked between them. “Maybe at Hogsmeade,” He said purposely knowing it would irritate Malfoy to no end. He waved at her before walking away in the direction of Professor Moody’s classroom.

“Hogsmeade?” Draco exclaimed. “I heard you were with bad company, but Potter? Out of all people,” He combed his hair away from his forehead and shook his head. “And you’re going to Hogsmeade with him?”

She didn’t answer and kept her arms crossed looking at him with an irritated expression. They were just going as friends but that was none of his business.

“I’ve been with worse company,” She shot at him remembering that the time the two had attended together.

Ouch.

Despite the jab he let out a throaty chuckle. “Aren’t you supposed to be in class?” He asked. “Aren’t you supposed to be in class?” She shot back irritated that her hostile comment hadn’t made him upset. “Seems hardly fair you get to skip while the rest of us have to deal with Binns incessant rambling?”

Touché. “What is it to you if I’m in class or not?” She sighed pessimistically before walking away towards the Slytherin dormitory. The morning had been way too long. She didn’t want to think about anything Ellar had said to her. The thought of crawling into bed and laying in a fetal position underneath the covers passing the day by doing nothing was very tempting. “Davis and Greengrass still giving you a hard time?” He changed the topic both of his eyebrows knitting, the edges of his mouth pulling down in a frown. He sounded genuinely concerned, but then again- did he really care? She wanted to block him out of her head, but Ellar’s hurtful words sounded back like an echo: “He’s only toying with you.” She remained quiet her answer was her silence.

“I’m waiting,” the blonde said impatiently.

Exasperated she didn’t mean to explode but she did. “What’s there to say?” She paced around the corridor walking back to him. “My best friends won’t even look at me- I get harassed by Lestrange first thing in the morning and now!” She didn’t’ mean to raise her voice. “Now youwon’t let me skip the most boring class at Hogwarts!”

“It’s not even noon and I just want today to be over with! I just want to lay down and die,” She shouted frustrated.

It took her a moment to compose herself from her loud tantrum and depressive statement. “Are you done?” He cocked an eyebrow up.

She felt her blood begin to boil. Why was he invalidating her emotions like that? She was about to push him away just like she had done to Ellar, like she did to everyone when he interrupted her in a surprisingly cool tone.

“I’ll take care of it,” He said cooly trying to reassure the girl. She was more than perplexed by his statement. Taken aback she looked at him oddly. Just what did he mean by that? “Just like I took care of Lestrange.” “Huh?” Slowly she could feel her anger begin to melt away. A mischievous smile grew on his face before he began to walk away. Purposely leaving her to wonder just what he had done.

“Draco?” She asked in awe. “What did you do?”

“Wouldn’t you love to know,” he let out a low laugh and walked away leaving a very confused Slytherin girl behind.

Xxx

Nel never apologized to Tracey or to Daphne. She knew that sometimes it was best to yield and bend a knee in these types of circumstances. However, this time she would not apologize. It was her story and they had taken that away from her.

It didn’t help that since she had been seen with Ellar that day some of the Slytherin girls began to call her nasty synonyms like victim, tease, and attention-seeker, slut was also on that list.

She tried not to let it bother her. Words hurt, even if she had sworn she didn’t care what anybody else thought. Not that any of them would ever say it to her face considering how scared they all were of her.

It was nearly the end of the year. After having spent all morning long packing her belongings and getting ready to return to her guardian, something which she had been terribly dreading, Nel decided to head to the Great Hall to have a late breakfast alone before going to the greenhouse to spend the rest of the day with Nathair. It wasn’t like she had much interest in bidding goodbye to anybody else. Maybe to Professor Snape and a few others, but it wasn’t urgent. Besides, everybody and their mother would be viewing the last task of the Tri-Wizard Tournament.

“Saintday!” A voice interrupted her alone time and her meal. “There you are the tournament is about to begin!” It was Professor Moody. It looked like he had been running around the castle. For some reason he looked more agitated than per usual.

“So?” She shot back rudely. Not caring if her attitude caused her some lost points for Slytherin or landed her in some detention. At this point she was beyond that.

“All students must attend the tournament,” He repeated again. The edge of his mouth twitching oddly. His eye unnervingly shaking as it focused on her deep frown. “That’s not true,” She mumbled taking a mouthful of cereal. “Professor Snape said I could stay in the castle,” She lied.

Not to mention the fact she was also avoiding bidding Cedric and Harry good luck. Not because she didn’t wish it upon them, but because she really didn’t know what to say to either of them. Sometimes words were, well, hard. “No students are allowed in the castle without supervision. Tournament now,” He leaned down to try and meet her eyes, but she ignored him. Before she knew it, he had aggressively lifted her by the arm and dragged her out of the empty Great Hall. The cereal spoon she had in her mouth dropping halfway as the two made way to the arena.

“Get your hands off me,” She whipped her arm back to her person. By now she had an idea that the retired Auror had more than unconventional, perhaps even unorthodox methods of teaching, but she drew the line when it came to physical boundaries.

He led her all the way to the arena and all the way there he complained about ungrateful, slimy orphans, or something amongst those lines. Arriving to the arena she realized that it was actually the Quidditch pitch which had been modified to resemble a massive auditorium with tall stands so that everyone could see the tournament. It seemed like the Third Task had not been what her and Cedric had been imagining. It was a massive maze of hedges that were at least 20 foot high. The maze was filled with dangers and traps and in the middle from the distance one could see a bright celestial glow – the Triwizard cup. The first to reach it would be the winner of the tournament. This was it – the moment her and Cedric had been waiting for all year.

It seemed like the Third Task hadn’t started yet.

She sat far away from everyone on Ravenclaws’ side. The students didn’t seem to mind her presence. Cedric’s girlfriend Cho was in the group and the two shared a friendly wave. Distracted by this, she didn’t notice the Slytherins watching her from the distance.

She sat in the top corner towards the end where she could hopefully be invisible for the time being. Little by little she was starting to understand Professor Snape more and more. She understood his aloofness, why he dressed and acted like a wet bat, always trying to camouflage every day. She looked at him from across the pitch, he was sitting with the Headmaster and other professors in a private box. “If we were up any higher, we’d have nosebleeds,” a voice interrupted her wish of being aloneand train of thoughts. Sulking Simon, she acknowledged the ghost boy. Maybe his company was more than appropriate.

“We?” She asked. “Simon, you don’t bleed,” She let out a humorous snort. Everything was fine until the ghost began ranting, moaning and sulking about his status as a lost soul in this cruel and very dull world. “I mean, I don’t even like Quidditch that much, and I’m stuck here. It makes me want to dieall over again.” Avoiding him, really not feeling charitable enough to help a poor soul cross to the other side Nel walked down the stands and instead took a seat next to a blonde girl that had a dazed look on her face and was eyeing a bird that was flying over the arena. She didn’t pay much mind to the bird. She was just grateful this girl didn’t talk. She sat pretending not to hear Simon calling at her from the highest stands in the seating area.

“Saintday,” Malfoy who had been watching her from the distance approached her. “Malfoy,” the other greeted emotionlessly. “Why on Earth are you sitting with the Ravenclaws?” He half sneered looking at his surroundings with disdain.

Nel shrugged. She just wanted to be alone. She was mourning her last hours of freedom before she had to return to La Maison de Lestrange. She also didn’t feel like sitting together with the Slytherins. What was the point? Why would she put herself through the martyrdom of attempting to capture her friend’s attention through pleading looks of pity?

“Come on,” Draco tossed his head back cooly.

“No, I think I’m okay, I’ll just sit here and cheer,” she said in the most uncheerful tone hoping he would go away, and she could simply return to her silence.

“It’s because of them, isn’t it?” He realized looking back at her friends.

Before Elowen had a chance to answer Malfoy grumbled a mysterious “I’ll be back,” before leaving.

Once he was gone, Nel let out a heavy sigh. She wasn’t expecting him to be back any time soon. And finally, it was silent. Nobody would speak to her. All she had to do was sit tight, watch the task and hope that Cedric came in first place.

“You know, it’s bad luck to see nightjars in the daylight,” The girl sitting next to her spoke in a soft voice. Nel ignored her hoping she would stop talking or go away. She didn’t.

“They’re an omen of death.” She continued with an eerie soothing tone that contrasted her morbid statement. Looking at her closely she realized who it was.

Great – Out of all people she had to end up sitting next to Looney Lovegood. Momentarily distraught, she didn’t feel the presence creep up behind her.

“Hello, Elowen,” The silky voice made her body turn stiff. With an abrupt flinch she slapped the owner of the voice by swatting her arm over her shoulder. She didn’t stop to see his reaction simply stood up and walked away.

“I’m glad you made it,” Ellar said strained trying to keep his temper in check, rubbing his wounded nose. He snorted and sniffed right afterwards cleaning his nostrils from any leftover substance.

“Bloody fuggin hell,” She exclaimed vulgarly her temper leaping from zero to hundred. “Merlin,” She growled out pulling out at the roots of her hair in stress. “Leave me alone!”

God all she wanted to do was be alone and stay alone in the stupid castle and marinate in the misery and little time that was left of her few hours of freedom. She noticed Moody standing near the exit of the stands. He had witnessed the entire interaction and hadn’t even flinched. Why hadn’t he come and jinxed Lestrange just like he had done to Malfoy earlier in the year? Frustrated she decided to head the opposite way, descending down the stairs of the stands heading down underneath them.

Walking underneath the stands she followed the trail which led to the Champion’s Tent. However, hearing a creak she stopped and turned, but didn’t see anyone behind.

It was suspicious. “Where are you going?” Simon suddenly appeared levitating besides her. “Away,” She grumbled pessimistically. “You know the champions’ tent is on the other side, right?” There was no use in avoiding it, but maybe there was just no going around it. She’d have to face Cedric and Harry eventually. “Thanks,” She said shortly, not lengthening the conversation but not dismissing him either. She walked a long way, he hovered slightly behind. Once outside of the champions’ tent she assumed the participants were probably being interviewed by the media and preparing for the task.

She stood outside anxiously fidgeting for a moment and took a huge breath.

“You know it’s for champions only, right?” Simon said. “rules are for fools,” She scoffed self-importantly suddenly feeling some of the nervousness melt away as she pushed the tarp away and stepped in. She ignored the “Champions only!” Shout that came from a blonde journalist in the back.

All four champions turned to look at the intruder. “Nel!” Harry was the first to approach her. He was wearing a sporty long sleeve maroon shirt that was half black. “What are you doing here?” He asked surprised. “Harry,” She exhaled the breath she had been holding. Her dark eyes darted from Harry’s green to meet her friend’s across on the other side of room. “I just came to wish you good luck.” She really did. Even if her money was running on Cedric. “If you get lost, remember to keep your hand to the right, and eventually you’ll find your way out,” She advised wisely.

“Thanks, good advice,” He nodded looking exhausted. “You’ll do great, I know it,” She slapped his arm stating the end of the brief conversation. She turned to Cedric. ‘Harry already had made a name for himself, fame, fortune… Why not give somebody else a chance? It would be selfish of him not to do so’, she thought to herself with bitter resentment.

“Nel, you came,” Cedric looked pleasantly surprised as he approached the two students. Harry looked between the Hufflepuff and the Slytherin peculiarly. He had only seen the two of them interact a handful of times. However, after seeing the two in the Great Hall he decided to keep a close eye on them using the Marauder’s Map. To his surprise he found the two would sometimes vanish off the map. Not only that but they also spent a conspicuous amount of time together. Alone.

‘But wasn’t Cedric with Cho?’

Harry looked at them, it didn’t look like that type of relationship to him. However, with Saintday- it was always hard to tell these kinds of things.

The Chosen one pretended to busy himself with warming up and stepped away from the two.

“I’ll admit,” She began timidly. “I wasn’t going to come,” She admitted with discomfort, “Yet, here I am.”

A normal person would’ve perhaps taken offense to this but not Cedric. Instead, he chuckled at this. It was one of the great things about him, one of the things that made him so cool and easy going in the eyes of well, practically everyone. “I can’t believe you weren’t going to come bid your favorite person good luck,” he shook his head still wearing an askew smile that was perfect on him. This time it was her turn to laugh. “You? My favorite person?” “It’s been a pleasure Diggory, but I’m afraid this has all been business, not personal,” She joked stretching out her hand to him like partners usually did at the end of a successful business deal. Both shared a laugh. “Good luck. You’ve got it in the bag!”

Cedric smiled back and stretched out his hand to shake hers. However, instead, he pulled her into a hug. The girl wasn’t surprised by the gesture, she welcomed it and hugged her friend back. “Whatever happens Nel,” Cedric said pulling away. “If I win or lose, we’ll still be friends, right?” She wanted to joke and say that hadn’t been a plan of their business deal but chose not to. She was in a lonely moment of time, scarce in friends, and Cedric was a very good one at that. “Why wouldn’t we be?” She arched an eyebrow acting perplexed at his question.

“Good,” He nodded. “Because I’m going to need some eyes and ears in Gringotts when you get there. Specially since I’ll be working for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement starting this summer,” he boasted.

His friend couldn’t help but be genuinely happy for her. He was one step closer in the long way to accomplishing his goal as the next Ministry of Magic. She congratulated him and their moment was interrupted when a loud announcement was made indicating it was time for the champions to take their positions in their designated areas of the maze.

“Good luck everyone!” She said in general to all, including Viktor and Fleur. “I’ll see you on the other side!” Cedric waved as he began to walk away. “Oh, and Nel?” He paused on his step. “Be good?” He chuckled heartily before exiting the tent the opposite way.

To the Slytherin’s surprise Harry lingered behind.

“You’ll do fine,” She gave him a half side hug. “See you on the other side,” She exited the tent.

Walking out of the tent and underneath the tall stands she looked for Simon, but he was nowhere to be seen. Instead, she saw Professor Moody approaching the tent. The scowl on his face was deeper than usual and his walk was rushed. He did not look pleased.

“Oh, the task is about to start,” She explained. “I was just returning to-“ She ducked barely dodging a nasty hex the professor had cast in her direction. Her shocked mind barely had time to register when he again tried to hex her.

“Immobulus,” He spat. “Protego!” She blocked with swiftness.

“Professor,” She was tongue tied. There was no time to ask questions. Mad-Eye was lashing all kinds of spells in her direction. The attacks weren’t calculated yet weren’t sporadic either.

Nel took what she had said in the beginning of the year. So far, they had had a mass murderer, an idiot and a werewolf as a professor. This was a surprise – she hadn’t dealt with a psychopath before.

Taking back steps, she looked up the tall ceiling where people were sitting down witnessing the tournament. All oblivious to the hell that was being raised literally underneath their noses. “Help!” She shouted loudly hoping anybody would see her, would hear her. She shouted again until she backed up to a wooden rod that held the stadium up.

She raised her wand ready to cast any spell to the ceiling of people. Maybe then somebody would- “Incarcerous!” Like serpents, thorny ropes magically appeared and crawled over her body binding her with knots. Collapsing to the side her heart began to pound, she spat at the dirt she bit when she fell and attempted to blow a strand of hair off her face. She could see Mad-Eye’s limp legs approaching her.

“Filthy brat,” He walked over to her. Kneeling down he grabbed a fistful of hair with his good hand he turned her to the side roughly, “Scum,” he grumbled pulling on her hair making the student wince. She wanted to ask what he wanted. What his vile intentions were but suddenly couldn’t find her voice. She was looking at the man with hatred when a sudden zip knocked him back. Only then did she hear “Plumbum rectio!”

‘What was that spell?’ She could hear the footsteps crunching the ground below. Eyes peeled, shocked she looked up to see a boy holding his wand out looking down at Moody with a sneer. “Crucio!” He cursed without mercy making the older man writhe in uncontrollable pain. The ropes around her loosened and wiggling out of them she staggered to her feet she looked down at the horrifying scene. Strings of saliva, bulging veins and a twitching tongue were all in an irrepressible spasm as the man groaned and grit his teeth in terrible ache at the torment.

This had to stop. “Stop it!” She shoved the boys arm roughly.

Without removing his eyes from the professor, still wearing a sickly-sweet smile, he shot a final spell at Professor Moody making his body twitch one last time before becoming stiff.

Elowen looked at him with disbelief.

“I told you to stick by my side, didn’t I?” Ellar said gruffly closing the space between them and wrapping an arm around her side leading her away.

Panic and fear ridden she took his side without question as they walked away in rushed strides. “We have to find a professor! We Have to tell Professor Snape!” She looked over her shoulder to see that Mad-Eye was still laying limp on the dirt. “No,” He snapped harshly reaching for her hand. “It’ll only make things worse,” he said before once again leading the way. “How do you know there’s not more like him around? How do you know Snape isn’t with him? Or Dumbledore for a matter of fact.” Her mind was still processing what had happened. He was right, what if there were more people like Moody around the school grounds holding a wicked intent. “I mean- you don’t even know what that man was going to do to you. Do you ever use your head Elowen? Do you ever think?” He snapped cruelly making the girl flinch away from him, but his grip on her shoulder remained tight. “I know what to do,” he spoke without emotion.

Maybe he was right. Maybe he did have the best intentions after all. He wouldn’t have saved her and attacked Moody if he didn’t, right? But then again – he had tried to drown her earlier in the year. Snape had even admitted to her that the Lestranges had some evil plan in the works. So why trust him? Glancing over her shoulder she caught sight of the professor’s silhouette still laying down in the distance.

“Elowen, listen to me,” His tone was threatening. She started to step away from him, but he closed the space between them. “The only safe way out of here is through the maze. It’s dangerous out there,” He reasoned with a flawed logic that seemed to only make sense to him.

Going into the maze? Was he insane?

“It’s the safest place,” He insisted. “Somebody will see us there. We can hide! We don’t know who else is coming-“ He hurried towards her side, trying to take her hand in his, but she would not allow it. Her gust twisted at the thought of following him. All of her instincts should at her not to follow the boy into the maze.

“You,” a third voice made the two students turn their heads back. Before them stood Simon his translucent eyes were wide. He looked struck, almost as if he had been split by lightning. Eyes wide, thin jaw slack, the ghost remained frozen. ‘What was wrong with him?’ Nel turned to look back at Ellar who wore a contrasting nasty grin on his face. Unlike the ghost, he seemed pleased. Almost as if he was enjoying this.

“Sulking Simon. Hufflepuff died a couple of years ago. Some say it was a Quidditch accident, others say there was more to it,” She remembered Draco had said to her once. "I used to be the Slytherins Seeker and there was an accident," She remembered Ellar sharing. "They were looking for a scapegoat and well, there I was," She could still remember the way he oh-so innocently claimed to have been at the wrong place at the wrong time. Oh! And the worst part is that she believed him! “I-It was you,” She looked at him horrified. “You killed him!” Slowly she began stepping away from him creating as much distance as she could between the two. She looked in between the two males. “Nothing about your death was an accident. Was it?” She asked Simon who was rendered speechless. Triggers and lost memories of the night he lost his life came flooding back to the ghoul.

“Big deal,” Lestrange broke the silence with a loud scoff. “I had to prove myself to him,” he began. “Alas, my range of devotion was limit due to my schooling so I did what I could best. I began cleansing Hogwarts of the impure. Filthy blood mixed among us not worth the teachings of Sacred Salazar!” He shouted. “You tricked me,” Fuming Simon finally snape. “You tricked me into coming to the pitch at night and then used me to play your sick little game with your friends!” He rolled up his sleeves showing his twisted limbs and fractured bones. “Eighty-six fractures in my body!” Nel winced at the horrific sight, she couldn’t even imagine what Ellar and his accomplices had put Simon through. It sounded like they got away scat free by making it seem like Simon had fallen off a broom. “And there’s nothing you or anyone can do to prove it,” He threatened with a smug smirk with his crooked wand raised.

Nel felt nauseous. How had he conned her so easily? How had he done it again and lured her to this place and almost inside of the maze? Lying was a part of Ellar’s nature, just like violence was, it was a weed that had long been ingrained into his core by the environment he was brought up in. Yet, he was beyond the point of saving. At this point, he had no remorse, no conscience. She didn’t want to stick around and find out why he wanted her to go into the maze with him. “Simon,” Nel mouthed, her movements calculated as she waited to attack or deflect. The ghost waited. “Get help.”

Simon left.

And just like that- like a coin he flipped. Wands raised at each other, Nel wasn’t fast enough to deflect the silent Imperio curse he cast upon her. Just like his mother, he didn’t need to vocalize it.

Ellar smirked, pleased when he saw Saintday’s body tremble against her will as she dragged her feet towards him slowly until she was standing before him. A cross look on her face as she appeared to be struggling to fight back the curse. It was useless.

“Y-You’re a murderer,” she spat through a stiff jaw.

More than pleased and feeling haughty he opened his palm for her to hand her wand to him. “See? That wasn’t too bad,” He smiled before brushing her lose hair over her shoulder. Being close enough she socked him square in the nose. He bent down in pain feeling the hot rush of blood coming down his nostrils. God, that felt good. “Sniff that!” She shouted.

Heaving, quickly ducking for her wand Nel ran as fast as she could hoping to reach the stairs at the end of the underneath the stands. Her pounding, mind racing, consistently looking over her shoulder on the offense. It didn’t take the Beauxbaton student to catch up. She could see flashes of red as he casted aggressive dark spells in her direction. This time she knew he wouldn’t hesitate to kill.

“They’re an omen of death,” She remembered Lovegood saying early. She cursed the omen, did this mean her time had come?

Again, looking over her shoulder, she was so close to reaching the stairs, so close- when she stumbled on a wooden block and collapsed face first into the ground. The friction of the rocky roughly scraping her skin.

Ellar was unstoppable. She winced turning around to feel a sharp pain shoot up her ankle. He was getting closer, so close he lunged at her and in her moment of fear casted the only spell that came to mind.

“Expecto Patronus!”

A manic grin grew on the boy’s lips. It was useless. Instead, he was not expecting the creature that came out of the wand to be dark. Dozens of night jars shaped orbs of darkness surrounded him engulfing the boy in a whirling haze of energy sucking entities which rendered him weak and made him collapse on the ground. Again, struggling to her feet, she didn’t dare stop to see if he was fine or not. Instead, she limped towards the end. The stairs were closer now. Where was help? Why wasn’t anyone coming? Where was Simon? Finally reaching the entrance of the stairs she stopped to catch her breath and attempt to fix her wounded ankle. Leaning against the frame’s entrance she was about to cast the charm when she was unable to move her hand.

Stunned, her petrified body collapsed in a full bind.

She fell to the floor stiff, helplessly trying to find her attacker and when she did, she saw Professor Moody straightening out his ragged coat licking his chapped lips.

“Now, you’re coming with me,” was all he said before everything turned black.

Xxx

Alastor Moody barged inside of the Defense Against Dark Art’s Office. He tossed the student that limped like a ragdoll on a chair in the corner of the room. Her head lolled to the side as she struggled to regain consciousness. A haze of dark blurs blinded her dazed vision.

“You got lucky, eh,” He said over his shoulder as he opened and closed several of his desk drawers shut as he scavenged for a powder. “Real, real, lucky.” Finding a small vial with white glittery powder he rushed back to the Slytherin’s side.

With a flick of his wand, a robust manilla rope magically appeared binding the girl’s arms and legs to the chair. Head still down as she struggled to remain conscious the man uncapped the small vial and waved the dust under her nostrils making the girls back straighten out like an arrow. Eyes wide, chest heaving, a full-on panic began to settle in as she racked her body from side to side in a struggle to escape the binds of the chair. From across the room, she could see her wand on Moody’s desk.

“It got late, real late,” Moody said flipping a small blade on his hand. “You’re of no use for the Dark Lord today.”

She was trembling like a leaf in the wind. Looking at him terrified. Her eyes glued to the knife the man was playing with.

“Let’s see now-“ He held on the blade tightly and leaned in close to her. His breath stunk of fluxweed, not alcohol like she had always imagined. His tongue poked out. “I want to taste your blood, your precious blood.”

The man before her suddenly began morphing. His face molded and disfigured before tightening into the one of a younger man. The all-seeing mechanical eye fell to the ground with a loud thud. A thin man with sharp face features whom Nel had never seen before towered over her. A compulsive twitch which made his tongue stick out of his mouth revealed his psychopathy and mental instability.

She could’ve wet herself with fear. She didn’t even realize the door opened and closed.

“Was the Crucio really necessary?” He turned to look at Ellar Lestrange who had shut the door behind him and locked it as he approached the two.

Of course, the two bastards were in it together. “Had to sell it,” The other shrugged an invisible speck of dust off his shoulder. Without much of a care he pulled out a small, thin vial from his pocket, popped it open and snorted a hit of whatever was inside. “Want a hit?” He asked the man, who ignored him. “So, what are we going to do?” Ellar asked. “We can’t get her in there now that the Tournament has started.” “We wouldn’t have this issue if you hadn’t been so coked up on dragonspuff done what I instructed you to do since the beginning!” The other snapped. “Didn’t you slip her the amortensia that I gave you?” “I did! But she didn’t take it!” “Then who did?”

Both exchanged a look before looking back at their hostage. It had collapsed to the floor that time he had tried to give her that pear pastry. Sitting in her seat, with adrenaline pulsing through her system she watched the two males carefully and attempted to remember and memorize every single word they said. Struggling was futile. If they wanted to kill her, they would’ve done it already. She sucked in a deep breath as if she were going to sink and held it. “What’chu starring at?” The man growled out raising his knife. “Wan’ me to poke an eye out?” He warned pressing the blade against the thin skin on the edge of her eye socket. She winced pressing her back against the top rail of the chair. “Hold her,” He ordered, and Ellar pinned down her left arm. The man she did now know was Barty Crouch Junior undid the bindings of her left arm and rolled her sleeve up over her elbow. She struggled coughing a “No,” as the breath she had been holding escaped. Screaming, trying to kick, or fend for herself she failed. The knife dug into her forearm and tore her flesh down vertically in a long line opening her skin to pouring red ribbons. She cried out in pain as the blood began to seep out. Trembling and in tears the horrified child was rendered silent.

Ellar simply watched, Crouch could’ve been muttering something to himself gibberish or Latin, it was hard to tell. Elowen thought the pain was over, but it wasn’t, she let out the loudest most horrifying scream when the man dove and with his long, filthy, and twitchy tongue licked her open wound.

A loud pop echoed the room as the light fixtures violently exploded making glass rain. The curtains caught on fire, windows cracked, and a moment latter shattered. Books began tumbling outside of their spaces in the bookshelf and the door blasted open.

The men remained undisturbed by all the chaos in the room. Instead, their eyes were pinned to the poor girl’s horrified expression. “Try whatever you want, you’re not getting out of here anytime soon,” Crouch laughed evilly licking and wiping some of the smeared blood that stained his bottom lip and chin. Undisturbed, perhaps too drugged and numb Lestrange chuckled and seemed to waltz around the room before standing before a large trunk. Crouch stuck an arm behind the chair and dragged it with her body still on it. He dumped her inside of the trunk without much care. As if she were waste. “And – into the trunk you go,” Ellar singsong as he slammed the opening locking her alone in the darkness.

6 notes · View notes

cerberus253 · 4 years

Note

Hello. What kind of girl do you think Drago would like, what would he find attractive in her to draw his attention? And under what circumstances can this happen? Ie ... within the framework of the series it is rather difficult to imagine, Drago seems to be interested only in his "destiny" to conquer, but this beautiful boy needs love and he is so young.

Oh this is a question! Okay so, there is a bit of a difference between what attracts Drago’s attention, and what he unconsciously desires and truly needs.

What I think would catch Drago’s attention and maybe heart is a girl who speaks her mind, knows what she wants, ambitious, dark-humored, athletic, cruel, snarky, has a dominating personality, doesn’t take no for an answer, and will do anything to get what she wants. So, basically a stereotypical evil tom-boy female villain in a cartoon show. The first character that comes to mind is Shego from Kim Possible. I’m not sure if she’s exact, but she’s a good starting point for what Drago might like.

It’d start off as a basic master and sidekick, all business and whatnot and maybe Drago finding them a bit annoying and sees them as more of a rival, but then he starts getting feelings through common interests and yadda yadda yadda... Here’s the problem, though. Although it is cute to think about two evil individuals being a couple because oh boy they’re so alike, that’s the problem, they are too alike. Yeah, they may enjoy torturing people and committing domestic terrorism, making snarky remarks and enjoying their evilness, but get over that superficial level and you’ll cross loads of problems.

This is definitely destroying the playful “shipping fantasy“ and taking things too seriously, but ya know what, I’m still going to do it.

Anyway, that said character may catch his eye at first, maybe he’ll attempt going somewhere, but eventually personal problems would arise on Drago’s end. Assuming you’ve read my other Drago QnAs, Drago has mental and emotional issues, having a low self-esteem, anxiety, maybe depression, and constantly needing reassurance from others, all on top of having a different culture compared to humans, which causes issues on it’s own. So, although Drago would like the evil female stereotype, what he needs is someone he can fully trust, is patient and understanding with him, is connected with their emotions, sympathetic, observant, not minding the drastic changes between wanting affection and avoiding it from him (having depression will do that to people, but mostly it tends to make the person want to isolate themselves. Know this, though, if you are dating someone with chronic depression, and they constantly do that, do NOT let that be an indicator of if they love you or not, for more often than not their love for you is at its greatest point. Why don’t they just stay by you instead of isolating? I cannot explain, but their world and their battles are far different than a normal person’s; all I can say is trust them. What stereotypical villain knows that and practices it?).

All the evil female stereotypes I see are always annoyed by emotions, bring others down just to make themselves feel better or just out of cruelty and think it’s funny, and their sympathy and compassion was lost years ago and they do not care anymore; they be real bitches. HOWEVER, I’m saying that is a STEREOTYPE. I’m sure there are more complicated female villains out there with a roller coaster of emotions, but what it comes down to they all have emotional trauma/trouble on their end and would not be too fitting with a partner who is just as damaged. Whether you want to or not, you cannot fix someone if you have not fixed yourself; it will only end in ruin. Now, if the female villain has the same trauma as Drago does, and they somehow communicate it with one other (that requires throwing out their pride and exposing their vulnerability, and who is going to do that first and admit they aren’t perfect instead of just getting angry and taking that anger out on the other, which damages the relationship past repairment if not treated soon enough, is beyond me), things could work out; neither of them would worry about proving themselves to the other, they can potentially empathize with each other (ya know, if that characteristic is taught in the first place, because we know neither of them initially have it), and they won’t have to worry about being abandoned because of what they cannot do for the other.

Basically, Drago needs a combination of the two. He’ll like a girl who is confident, speaks her mind, can argue and debate with him, has a bit of a sadistic side (sadistic towards others, NOT towards Drago), courageous, and a sprinkle of territorialness, but he needs someone who is patient and understanding with him and his issues, kind and loving (at least towards him), smart and open minded, and maybe having similar mental disorders that they have at least a decent grasp on, at least enough to help Drago through his. Mixing all this together with a broad sense of humor, not being a sensitive snowflake but respectful enough if something really upsets and hurts him they will halt whatever it is, being brave enough to speak against him if something is really upsetting and hurting them, and being by his side through thick and thin. At least, this is what I think. He would like a badass fighter (metaphorically), but needs a truly loving partner.

This is a little weird, but I legit believe that a relationship between Drago and I could work for a while and fill in that “emotion teaching“ slot, but lasting forever I highly doubt it because I don’t fill in all those “badassery“ characteristics; at least not in public. We’d totes be friends, though, even if he just contacts me very little and out of the blue with some random personal question XD The close friends I have tend to tell me they absolutely appreciate how they can just talk to me about anything and not have the fear of being misunderstood and judged. I take that as my number one good quality :V

#ask #jackie chan adventures #jca #drago #girlfriend #love

7 notes · View notes

katehuntington · 5 years

Text

Title: Changes - part one (prologue) Word count: ±1750 words Summary “Changes”: Huntress Zoë Sullivan (OFC) crosses paths and swords with the Winchesters, when the brothers stumble on a case that she’s already working. When complications arise, they are forced to work as a team. Summary part one: Disaster hits the Sullivans, devastating loss ripping the seemingly perfect family apart. The oldest daughter, Abigail, fights to survive the demon attack, all while trying to save her possessed sister. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and medical procedures. Demon possession, supernatural creatures/entities. Smut, swearing, alcohol use/addiction. Kidnapping, mentions of torture and murder, illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks. Music: Child In Time - Deep Purple Author’s note: The maiden voyage of Supernatural: The Sullivan Series, and I couldn’t be more excited to share it with you. There are quite a few people I want to thank. @coffee-obsessed-writer, @girl-with-a-fandom-fettish, @winchest09, thank you for helping me with this story and for taking it to a higher level. Everyone who encouraged me to go for it, you are awesome!

Supernatural: the Sullivan Series Masterlist 01x01 “Changes” Masterlist

Los Angeles, California July 21st, 2001

Screams. Horrific, tormenting screams. The kind that causes blood to run cold and hair on the back of the neck to stand up. Desperate cries for help, coming from a broken soul, barely a woman, but certainly not a child anymore, especially not after today. But it isn’t just the pained voice that echoes through the mansion in Brentwood, on the west side of the City of Angels. There are no angels here. On the contrary: the sounds mixing with the anguished voice, is one that comes from the deepest foundations of Hell. “Abi! Where are you?!” The call-out is gut-wrenching, and Abigail Sullivan presses her mouth closed firmly, biting on her bottom lip in order not to answer her little sister. She has her back against the French doors between the dining room and the kitchen, a line of salt on the marble floor connecting the frames. The voice doesn’t sound like Zoë’s. She’s speaking in tongues, pure evil tainting her speech. The battle inside her own body is one she’s destined to lose, but man, she is putting up one hell of a fight. Demon possession is usually pretty straight forward. Black smoke, black eyes, and the host is all but a marionette. It’s rare that someone is able to break through the solid concrete walls that captivate them, but apparently Zoë is giving the bastard some serious competition. Abigail sniffles. That’s my girl.

Trying to calm herself, the older sister leans her head back against the polished wood, listening to the raging demon. She has to fix this. She has to find a way to expel that thing. This family has lost enough.

Determined, Abigail moves towards the kitchen cabinets, opening them and looking for anything that could be useful. She clears the storage area under the double sink and pulls up the lid over a secret compartment, exposing a 9mm, several knives, and jars that contain ingredients for basic spell work. Among the items is a flask of Holy water, which she shoves down the front pocket of her jeans. She doesn’t bother to take the handgun or the weapons; she would rather die than have to shoot her own flesh and blood. A bullet or a knife wouldn’t do a demon harm anyway, so instead, she takes a frying pan. It won’t kill anyone, but at least it will slow the son of a bitch down.

“Oh, Abi…” Abigail freezes. The trace of Zoë that was audible a minute ago is gone now. It’s the demon who is taunting her, its voice amused, almost singing. “We used to play this game all the time when we were little, remember?” the dark voice muses. “You are not my sister, you sick fucker!” she barks back, as she approaches the doors. “Oh, c’mon. Don’t be cruel; humor me,” the demon tsks. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

Abigail takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, listening to the sounds in the other room as she leans against the door again. Her heart is beating out of her chest, as if it seems to realize it might stop moments from now. The thing is waiting, and it will rip her apart once it gets the chance. She has to get to the office; it’s her only chance for survival. Dad’s journal and address book might be a way of sending out an S.O.S. signal. There’s a devil’s trap under the circular carpet at the entrance too. If she can capture the demon, they might live another day. Both her and Zo. With her weapon in her left hand and Holy water in her right, the older Sullivan sister swallows thickly, fearing for her life. The brave young woman takes another second to collect herself. and prepare for what is on the other side. Senses heightened, she waits for the footsteps to pass. 3… 2… 1…

With a fierce kick, Abigail slams the French door into the intruder’s face, giving herself a small window to make a break for the rotating stairway. With panicked breath, she conquers three risers with each stride, pulling herself up by the guard rail. She almost makes it to the second floor, before a force that defies physics pulls her from her feet and smashes her into the wall. Plaster crumbles on top of her when she hits the ground halfway down the staircase, a jolt of pain cutting through her hip when she lands on the edge of one of the steps.

Biting down a cry, she pulls herself together while retrieving the Holy water from her pocket, frantically screwing off the cap. Just in time, because the demon that has nested in her little sister’s body, towers over her, a chilling laugh that is anything but human erupting from Zoë’s throat. Blood has smudged her summer dress, dark red sprayed across her chest and neck. The expression distorts the twenty-one year old’s gentle features beyond recognition and her eyes fade to black. “Hello, sis,” the demon coos. Abigail’s lip twitches angrily, opposite of the pain in her teary eyes. “Get out of her, you fucking bastard!”

She throws the contents of the silver flask into the demon’s face, exposed skin sizzling when it comes in contact with the fluid. It staggers back, hands going for its face as it screeches in agony. Abigail knows this might be the only opportunity she will get and doesn’t waste a second. As fast as her feet can carry her, she gets up, ignoring the ache in her side, and hastens up the stairs. This time she does make it to the corridor, dashing towards the office at the far end. She is flanked by walls painted in crimson handprints, puddles of blood staining the polished wooden floors. As she passes the master bedroom, she doesn’t glance inside, not wanting to carve even deeper scars into her heart, but the image of the massacre pushes its way to the foreground anyway. She can’t afford to slow down, though, because she can feel the temperature of the warm Californian home drop at least twenty degrees in a matter of seconds.

With her fingers still clamped around the handle of the frying pan, she swings on pure gut, her hunter instincts - which she buried not so long ago - kicking in. The flat surface of the pan hits her demon-infested sister square across the jaw, breaking the skin, and for a moment Abigail feels guilty for hurting her sibling. Drastic measures; it’s all about survival now. Not daring to look over her shoulder, Abigail rushes into her father’s office, able to tell by the sound of firm footsteps that she’s mere inches from getting tackled. The demon is right on her tail, but when the dark entity is about to cross the room, it runs into an invisible barrier. Confused and frustrated, the creature tries again, without result. Then it scoffs, the mimic so different from Zoë’s. “Let me guess.” The demon tilts its head, staring down the other Sullivan sister. “There’s a trap underneath this ugly rug, isn’t there?” “Good luck getting out of that one,” Abigail returns, a trace of victory pulling at the corner of her mouth. “Oh, I don’t need to,” the demon chuckles, as it begins to stroll along the edge of the cage. “Seems like the only way out is through this door behind me.” Trying to mask the shake in her limbs from anxiety, Abigail sits down in her dad’s leather office chair, rolling closer to the desk. “We’re on the second floor. I’ve done bigger drops.” “I bet you did. You’re quite the hunter, aren’t ya? You’ve sent many of my kind back to the basement.” Bitter, the demon narrows its eyes, glaring at her. “I’m one of the best,” Abigail counters, before she pulls out a drawer and takes out a black leather journal. “Are you?” the evil creature questions. “Are you really going to leave poor little Zo all alone?”

The older Sullivan sister tries to ignore the words, but she feels the sharp sting anyway. Focusing on the task at hand, she leafs through the notes in search of a number. “She’s awake in here, y’know?” Abigail stops. “She’s crying hysterically, begging you not to abandon her,” the demon elaborates, clearly enjoying the sight of the hunter crumbling. “Begging me not to rip you to shreds and decorate the chandeliers with your intestines.” “Shut the fuck up,” Zoë’s sister warns, snapping her fiery eyes at the creature. But the demon doesn’t yield. It has both ladies right where it wants them. “Let’s face facts here: you’re as trapped as I am. You’re not gonna leave your only family. And you don’t have what it takes to exorcise me. Not without killing her.” “Maybe I don’t,” Abigail agrees, picking up the phone on the desk. “But I can call the cavalry.”

Her finger has stopped at two initials, scribbled down on one of the first pages by her Dad. He never wrote down hunters’ names, not wanting to expose them, should the book fall into the wrong hands. Several numbers of old burner phones are crossed out, but the last one isn’t. It’s the number Abigail dials. Without giving the demon the satisfaction of witnessing her despair, she prays for the call to go through. The phone rings three times, four times, causing her to swallow apprehensively. Goddamnit, pick up the phone. “Hello?” A sigh of relief slips from her lips. “It’s Abi. I need you to drop everything and get to L.A. as fast as possible.” “What’s going on?” “It’s my sister, Zo, she’s–”

She glances over the desk, watching the person in question staring back. For a second, Zoë seems to be fine: smiling eyes, bright and full of life. Like nothing happened, like their lives are exactly the way they were an hour ago: carefree, peaceful, optimistic. No tears on their faces, no blood on their hands. But then her Zoë’s mouth pulls into a smirk, a smirk that isn’t hers. Her baby sister laughs then, the sound of several dark voices erupting from her throat. Her brown eyes flick to black and little Zo is gone. Goosebumps run up Abigail’s arm and settles in the back of her neck, tears threatening to come down her cheeks. Abigail tries to compose herself, making sure the words will come out steady when she speaks again. But watching the definition of evil taking full advantage of the person who occupies such a huge space in her heart, is crippling. Acknowledging her family will never be the same again causes her voice to waver. “She’s possessed, John.”

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to reblog my work or buy me coffee (Link in bio at the top of the page)

Read chapter two here!

131 notes · View notes

lovebitesimagines · 5 years

Text

Aligned- Chapter Three.

Holy crap, this chapter has been hella requested. I hope you guys enjoy!x

Masterlist.

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5]

Tags: @biba3434 @i-love-you-green @lilianaswhatever @buckyboobear @between---the-bars @darkwolfpeanutskeleton @starkgaryan @labyrinth-of-thoughts @beaushelby @onlythechicagoway

Wanna be on the tag list for this series, or another? Just lemme know!

Warning: Swearing.

You’re having to come to terms with Tommy and Grace, but will he believe you when you find out some important news?

You were used to this. Nearly every man you had started to fall for, had gone off with somebody else. You had spent countless hours scrutinizing every aspect of your appearance, criticizing new found insecurities and flaws in the reflection of your mirror, wondering why you were never deemed worthy. The stomach drop sensation, the anxiety at seeing them again -you knew the heartbreak routine as well as the back of your hand. You could almost label yourself an expert.

But with Tommy, it wasn’t like he had opened an old wound. Every feeling you had once thought you were adept in experiencing, felt fresh and new. The heartache was as if you were suffering it for the first time. You lost count of how many shards your heart had splintered into, since everything took place two nights ago.

Your mind was cruel. It was as if your brain relished in forcing you to replay the events in your mind, a sadistic slideshow of your shortcomings. Of course Tommy would have gone for somebody like Grace. She was petite, her hair a shade of blonde that made her appear to glow. Her voice was angelic, even when she spoke it forced people to stop and listen. You could never possibly compare to somebody like her.

You didn’t know what you had been expecting with Tommy. Your arrival in Small Heath had come as a surprise to everybody, including yourself. Times like these though, you did yearn for the familiarity of your old life. You were frightened at where you were now, unaware of how this could possibly happen. It was completely against all the rules of science. Time travel- if that is what this could even be called- was impossible.

Yet you thought that you and Tommy possibly shared something special. The countless late nights you had spent together, telling each other things that no one else knew, your future together that he described to you…that had to mean something to him. He believed you when you told him about how you got here, the information not changing the way he had looked at you. You refused to entertain the belief it was meaningless to him, finding the thought completely out of the question.

Yet your mind continued to harbour the question, consistently playing on repeat. You didn’t even have respite in your sleep, your dreams conjuring up shiny brand-new doubts, which then went onto dominate every single waking moment. You hadn’t slept properly for the past few nights. Living with The Shelbys’ didn’t make the situation any easier, but you didn’t have any other option. You had no escape.

You knew that you couldn’t hide from The Garrison forever. You needed the job, the security of receiving a steady pay check to keep you on your feet, to allow yourself to eventually find somewhere else to live. You splashed cold water upon your face, in a fruitless attempt to appear more put together. A quick glance in the mirror in front of you, confirmed that this was a waste of time. The dark bags under your eyes betrayed you, shouting out about your lack of sleep to the entirety of Small Heath. And if that wasn’t bad enough, your waterline was rimmed with a dark shade of red- a result of the tears that had dampened your pillow case the past few evenings.

You chewed down on your bottom lip. The last thing on Earth you wanted to do now was to leave your room, but you knew that if you spent one more day in your sanctuary, suspicions would begin to arise. It was difficult enough convincing Ada that you were okay, blaming your lack of sleep on being homesick. You hated having to lie to her. The necessary action just didn’t feel right, leaving a sour taste in your mouth.

You didn’t pay much mind on what to wear to work, opting on a casual dusky pink dress. It needed ironing, possessing more wrinkles than you first thought. You pulled it over your head, attempting to smooth out the wrinkles with your hands as the fabric lay upon your body. It proved to be ineffectual, your actions having no impact upon the state of your dress. With a defeated sigh, you piled your hair on top of your head, a few curls breaking loose and framing your face. You quickly powdered your face, trying anything that could possibly hide your imperfections, before grabbing your bag and quickly rushing down stairs.

Luckily everybody seemed to be out of the house, or still asleep in bed. You gripped the front door handle, squeezing your eyes shut for a second as nerves paralyzed you. You took a deep breathe, opening your eyes as you turned the handle, stepping out onto the streets of Small Heath.

It was raining outside, the fine misty kind that clung to every strand of your hair and inch of exposed skin. It left little droplets upon your arms, mingling in with the goose bumps that had begun to form. Your shoes sunk into the mud slightly, leaving a thin layer of dirt to cling onto the soles. You inwardly cursed the weather, knowing that it did nothing but demolish any chances you had at looking somewhat presentable. At least due to the weather, the streets where significantly quieter than they would have been, allowing you to commute to work undisturbed.

You dug inside your bag for bag for the keys to The Garrison, your fingers brushing past the odd tube of lipstick and variation of coins. Your fingers fumbled with the cold metal as you tried to grasp them, the keys slipping out of your hand and onto the wet, muddy floor below.

“Let me get those” Arthur grunted from behind you, kneeling down to pick up your keys. You jolted slightly, unaware that he was beside you. He turned the key in the lock, pushing open the door and allowing you to walk inside first.

“Wasn’t expecting to see you here today” he stated, heading towards the bar. The corners of your mouth turned up in a small smile at his words.

“Didn’t want to let you down” you answered, trying your best to make your voice sound cheerful and optimistic as you made your way towards your office.

“That’s my girl” Arthur laughed, beginning to collect empty classes from the bar top.

You pushed open the door to your office, throwing your bag onto the empty arm chair that was stood beside the door, before lowering yourself onto your desk chair with a defeated sigh.

Your head hurt.It was a consistent throbbing in your temple, a result of a lack of sleep and heightened emotions. Your vision hazed slightly, hot salty tears spilling out onto your cheeks. You were frustrated and hurt and felt betrayed almost. You hated yourself for trusting Tommy so easily, yet he made it feel almost effortless to do so. You initially didn’t have any doubts in your mind about him, he encouraged secrets to overflow from between your lips. He had made you look like nothing but a fool.

“You didn’t have to come in today” Arthur stated. You hurriedly wiped the tears away from your eyes, turning to face Arthur. He was lent somewhat awkwardly in the doorway, his back pressed up against the frame. His face was a picture of concern, as his eyes bore into yours. It was a surprising show of tenderness from the eldest Shelby sibling, who initially had despised you. Since beginning work in The Garrison, he had softened towards you and you had classed him as one of your close friends.

“I didn’t want to let you down” you whispered, swallowing softly. Arthur sighed softly, as he made his way towards you. He pulled over an armchair, placing it beside you before flopping back onto it.

“This is about my shit-head of a brother, isn’t it?” he questioned, his eyes never leaving your face. You nodded softly, earning yourself a frown from Arthur. “Fuck him”.

“I just feel…second best. He made me believe that we had a future together, but the moment she came in, I’m forgotten. I feel like an absolute fucking idiot” you blurted out, blinking rapidly as you realised how much you had said. You glanced at Arthur, worried that you had potentially said too much. He leaned forward, softly grabbing your hand to hold in his.

“Trust me (Y/N). You are absolutely fucking not second best. My brother is the fucking idiot in this situation” he whispered softly.

“I understand what you’re trying to tell me, I really do. But how can I ever compete with someone like her?”

“Check those fucking references” Arthur stated, his eyes lighting up. “Check those fucking references and get that Irish bitch out of here”. He gave your hand a soft squeeze, before standing up and leaving you alone in your office.

You looked back at the papers that where piled upon your desk, suddenly feeling renewed after hearing Arthurs words. You scanned over the piles of documents that where placed upon your desk, before finding what you had been looking for. You carefully picked it up, dialling the first number upon the telephone, holding the receiver up to your ear.

“Hello, is this The Farmers Arms?”

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

You leant back in your chair, placing down the phone. You had spent the majority of your morning double checking Graces’ references, the information that you now knew weighing heavily within your mind. You rubbed your temples softly, closing your eyes for a brief moment, as you tried to comprehend what you now knew.

You pushed yourself up off the chair you had been sitting on, your thighs numb from being sat down for so long. You made your way out onto the bar, your eyes scanning the room in search for Arthur.

“I didn’t know you were in today”.

Your heart stopped at the sound of Tommys’ voice. He was sat in an armchair in the corner of the room, the area surrounding him slightly darker than the rest of the pub. He delicately held a lit cigarette in between his fingers, his eyes watching you as you moved further into the room. Your hands began to get clammy at the sight of him, nervous sweat beginning to sheen lightly upon your skin. It made things feel worse, seeing him when you least expected too. You felt the wounds open up again, when they had only barely begun to heal.

“I had some errands that needed doing” you stated, praying that your voice didn’t give Tommy any indication as to how you felt. You stopped a few meters away from him, gripping the back of a wooden chair in front of you.

“And those where?” he queried, taking a drag of his lit cigarette. He raised an eyebrow as he spoke, his expression daring you to expose everything that you had recently found out. The eye contact made you feel uncomfortable, but you refused to be the first to break it, despite the fact that it made your hands begin to tremble slightly.

“Have you seen Arthur?” you asked, your voice breaking slightly towards the end of the sentence.

“Answer my question”.

You swallowed hard, gripping the chair harder in an attempt to calm your trembling hands. You had been hoping to bump into Arthur, to inform him first on what you had been told. You doubted that Tommy would be the right person to know first, afraid of how he would react if he heard the news coming from your mouth. Yet being subjected under his glacier blue glare, you heard the words spill out from between your lips before you could stop yourself.

“Grace has been lying about her references. She hasn’t worked in any of the places she claimed she has. No one round there knows her, and therefore I believe we shouldn’t trust her. Who knows what else she has been lying about”.

Silence settled uncomfortably between you and Tommy, the only noise that could be heard was the soft sound of your breathing. His facial expression remained unchanging, unbothered by the news he had just heard. He lifted the cigarette up to his lips, taking another drag before continuing to talk.

“I know” he lifted himself up from the chair, carelessly stubbing out the cigarette on the table in front of him, before making his way towards the door. He turned to face you, before continuing to talk. “She told me. If I remember, we also hired somebody else with no references and no reason to trust them. She will continue to work here”.

The door slammed shut behind him, increasing the finality of his words. You knew then that no matter how hard you tried, you wouldn’t ever matter to Tommy Shelby. You glanced down upon the wooden floorboards, as if you could almost visualise the shards of your broken heart scattered carelessly underneath your feet. Hot tears burned your cheeks, as they spilled out from your eyes. You didn’t know if you were angrier or hurt at Tommys’ words. In that moment, you swore to yourself that was the end.

Tommy Shelby would never make you feel that way again.

#Tommy Shelby #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby x oc #Peaky Blinders #PEAKY FOOKIN BLINDERS #by order of the peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders imagine #fanfiction #fanfic #new fanfic #peaky blinder fanfic #Tommy Shelby fanfic #Tommy Shelby imagines

336 notes · View notes