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shirbertshitposts · 3 years

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10 Shirbert Moments from Anne of Green Gables series I think about a lot

In honor of Valentines Day I thought I would post a list of some of my favorite Anne and Gilbert moments. It was hard to narrow it to just ten as I have been going through all nine books and trying to queue posts about all their iconic moments through the series; However I decided to pick the ones that I remember even when I haven’t read the books in a while. I didn’t have the heart to rank them properly so they’re just listed in chronological order.

1. His future must be worthy of its goddess

In the twilight Anne sauntered down to the Dryad’s Bubble and saw Gilbert Blythe coming down through the dusky Haunted Wood. She had a sudden realization that Gilbert was a schoolboy no longer. And how manly he looked—the tall, frank-faced fellow, with the clear, straightforward eyes and the broad shoulders. Anne thought Gilbert was a very handsome lad, even though he didn’t look at all like her ideal man. She and Diana had long ago decided what kind of a man they admired and their tastes seemed exactly similar. He must be very tall and distinguished looking, with melancholy, inscrutable eyes, and a melting, sympathetic voice. There was nothing either melancholy or inscrutable in Gilbert’s physiognomy, but of course that didn’t matter in friendship!

Gilbert stretched himself out on the ferns beside the Bubble and looked approvingly at Anne. If Gilbert had been asked to describe his ideal woman the description would have answered point for point to Anne, even to those seven tiny freckles whose obnoxious presence still continued to vex her soul. Gilbert was as yet little more than a boy; but a boy has his dreams as have others, and in Gilbert’s future there was always a girl with big, limpid gray eyes, and a face as fine and delicate as a flower. He had made up his mind, also, that his future must be worthy of its goddess. Even in quiet Avonlea there were temptations to be met and faced. White Sands youth were a rather “fast” set, and Gilbert was popular wherever he went. But he meant to keep himself worthy of Anne’s friendship and perhaps some distant day her love; and he watched over word and thought and deed as jealously as if her clear eyes were to pass in judgment on it. She held over him the unconscious influence that every girl, whose ideals are high and pure, wields over her friends; an influence which would endure as long as she was faithful to those ideals and which she would as certainly lose if she were ever false to them. In Gilbert’s eyes Anne’s greatest charm was the fact that she never stooped to the petty practices of so many of the Avonlea girls—the small jealousies, the little deceits and rivalries, the palpable bids for favor. Anne held herself apart from all this, not consciously or of design, but simply because anything of the sort was utterly foreign to her transparent, impulsive nature, crystal clear in its motives and aspirations.

-- Chapter XIX, Anne of Avonlea

2. For the first time her eyes faltered under Gilbert’s gaze

“What are you thinking of, Anne?” asked Gilbert, coming down the walk. He had left his horse and buggy out at the road.

“Of Miss Lavendar and Mr. Irving,” answered Anne dreamily. “Isn’t it beautiful to think how everything has turned out . . . how they have come together again after all the years of separation and misunderstanding?”

“Yes, it’s beautiful,” said Gilbert, looking steadily down into Anne’s uplifted face, “but wouldn’t it have been more beautiful still, Anne, if there had been NO separation or misunderstanding . . . if they had come hand in hand all the way through life, with no memories behind them but those which belonged to each other?”

For a moment Anne’s heart fluttered queerly and for the first time her eyes faltered under Gilbert’s gaze and a rosy flush stained the paleness of her face. It was as if a veil that had hung before her inner consciousness had been lifted, giving to her view a revelation of unsuspected feelings and realities. Perhaps, after all, romance did not come into one’s life with pomp and blare, like a gay knight riding down; perhaps it crept to one’s side like an old friend through quiet ways; perhaps it revealed itself in seeming prose, until some sudden shaft of illumination flung athwart its pages betrayed the rhythm and the music, perhaps . . . perhaps . . . love unfolded naturally out of a beautiful friendship, as a golden-hearted rose slipping from its green sheath.

Then the veil dropped again; but the Anne who walked up the dark lane was not quite the same Anne who had driven gaily down it the evening before. The page of girlhood had been turned, as by an unseen finger, and the page of womanhood was before her with all its charm and mystery, its pain and gladness.

Gilbert wisely said nothing more; but in his silence he read the history of the next four years in the light of Anne’s remembered blush. Four years of earnest, happy work . . . and then the guerdon of a useful knowledge gained and a sweet heart won.

-- Chapter XXX, Anne of Avonlea

3. I just want YOU

“I have a dream,” he said slowly. “I persist in dreaming it, although it has often seemed to me that it could never come true. I dream of a home with a hearth-fire in it, a cat and dog, the footsteps of friends—and YOU!”

Anne wanted to speak but she could find no words. Happiness was breaking over her like a wave. It almost frightened her.

“I asked you a question over two years ago, Anne. If I ask it again today will you give me a different answer?”

Still Anne could not speak. But she lifted her eyes, shining with all the love-rapture of countless generations, and looked into his for a moment. He wanted no other answer.

They lingered in the old garden until twilight, sweet as dusk in Eden must have been, crept over it. There was so much to talk over and recall—things said and done and heard and thought and felt and misunderstood.

“I thought you loved Christine Stuart,” Anne told him, as reproachfully as if she had not given him every reason to suppose that she loved Roy Gardner.

Gilbert laughed boyishly.

“Christine was engaged to somebody in her home town. I knew it and she knew I knew it. When her brother graduated he told me his sister was coming to Kingsport the next winter to take music, and asked me if I would look after her a bit, as she knew no one and would be very lonely. So I did. And then I liked Christine for her own sake. She is one of the nicest girls I’ve ever known. I knew college gossip credited us with being in love with each other. I didn’t care. Nothing mattered much to me for a time there, after you told me you could never love me, Anne. There was nobody else—there never could be anybody else for me but you. I’ve loved you ever since that day you broke your slate over my head in school.”

“I don’t see how you could keep on loving me when I was such a little fool,” said Anne.

“Well, I tried to stop,” said Gilbert frankly, “not because I thought you what you call yourself, but because I felt sure there was no chance for me after Gardner came on the scene. But I couldn’t—and I can’t tell you, either, what it’s meant to me these two years to believe you were going to marry him, and be told every week by some busybody that your engagement was on the point of being announced. I believed it until one blessed day when I was sitting up after the fever. I got a letter from Phil Gordon—Phil Blake, rather—in which she told me there was really nothing between you and Roy, and advised me to ‘try again.’ Well, the doctor was amazed at my rapid recovery after that.”

Anne laughed—then shivered.

“I can never forget the night I thought you were dying, Gilbert. Oh, I knew—I KNEW then—and I thought it was too late.”

“But it wasn’t, sweetheart. Oh, Anne, this makes up for everything, doesn’t it? Let’s resolve to keep this day sacred to perfect beauty all our lives for the gift it has given us.”

“It’s the birthday of our happiness,” said Anne softly. “I’ve always loved this old garden of Hester Gray’s, and now it will be dearer than ever.”

“But I’ll have to ask you to wait a long time, Anne,” said Gilbert sadly. “It will be three years before I’ll finish my medical course. And even then there will be no diamond sunbursts and marble halls.”

Anne laughed.

“I don’t want sunbursts and marble halls. I just want YOU. You see I’m quite as shameless as Phil about it. Sunbursts and marble halls may be all very well, but there is more ‘scope for imagination’ without them. And as for the waiting, that doesn’t matter. We’ll just be happy, waiting and working for each other—and dreaming. Oh, dreams will be very sweet now.”

Gilbert drew her close to him and kissed her. Then they walked home together in the dusk, crowned king and queen in the bridal realm of love, along winding paths fringed with the sweetest flowers that ever bloomed, and over haunted meadows where winds of hope and memory blew.

-- Chapter XLI, Anne of the Island

4. Gilbert, I'm afraid I'm scandalously in love with you.

"Gilbert darling, don't let's ever be afraid of things. It's such dreadful slavery. Let's be daring and adventurous and expectant. Let's dance to meet life and all it can bring to us, even if it brings scads of trouble and typhoid and twins!"

Today has been a day dropped out of June into April. The snow is all gone and the fawn meadows and golden hills just sing of spring. I know I heard Pan piping in the little green hollow in my maple bush and my Storm King was bannered with the airiest of purple hazes. We've had a great deal of rain lately and I've loved sitting in my tower in the still, wet hours of the spring twilights. But tonight is a gusty, hurrying night . . . even the clouds racing over the sky are in a hurry and the moonlight that gushes out between them is in a hurry to flood the world.

"Suppose, Gilbert, we were walking hand in hand down one of the long roads in Avonlea tonight!"

Gilbert, I'm afraid I'm scandalously in love with you. You don't think it's irreverent, do you? But then, you're not a minister."

-- Chapter 9, Anne of Windy Poplars

5. Suitable Places

"(Are you sure you kiss me in suitable places, Gilbert? I'm afraid Mrs. Gibson would think the nape of the neck, for instance, most unsuitable.)”

-- Chapter 12, Anne of Windy Poplars

6. He narrowly escaped bursting with pride

"Anne, this is Captain Boyd. Captain Boyd, my wife."

It was the first time Gilbert had said "my wife" to anybody but Anne, and he narrowly escaped bursting with the pride of it. The old captain held out a sinewy hand to Anne; they smiled at each other and were friends from that moment. Kindred spirit flashed recognition to kindred spirit.

-- Chapter 6, Anne’s House of Dreams

7. Queen of my heart and life and home

"Gilbert, would you like my hair better if it were like Leslie's?" she asked wistfully.

"I wouldn't have your hair any color but just what it is for the world," said Gilbert, with one or two convincing accompaniments.

You wouldn't be ANNE if you had golden hair—or hair of any color but"—

"Red," said Anne, with gloomy satisfaction.

"Yes, red—to give warmth to that milk-white skin and those shining gray-green eyes of yours. Golden hair wouldn't suit you at all Queen Anne—MY Queen Anne—queen of my heart and life and home."

"Then you may admire Leslie's all you like," said Anne magnanimously.”

-Chapter 12, Anne’s House of Dreams

8. Annest of Annes

But the best of all was when Gilbert came to her, as she stood at her window, watching a fog creeping in from the sea, over the moonlit dunes and the harbour, right into the long narrow valley upon which Ingleside looked down and in which nestled the village of Glen St. Mary.

"To come back at the end of a hard day and find you! Are you happy, Annest of Annes?"

"Happy!" Anne bent to sniff a vaseful of apple blossoms Jem had set on her dressing-table. She felt surrounded and encompassed by love. "Gilbert dear, it's been lovely to be Anne of Green Gables again for a week, but it's a hundred times lovelier to come back and be Anne of Ingleside."

-- Chapter 3, Anne of Ingleside

9. I couldn’t live without you

Anne felt like a released bird . . . she was flying again. Gilbert's arms were around her . . . his eyes were looking into hers in the moonlight.

"You do love me, Gilbert? I'm not just a habit with you? You haven't said you loved me for so long."

"My dear, dear love! I didn't think you needed words to know that. I couldn't live without you. Always you give me strength. There's a verse somewhere in the Bible that is meant for you . . . 'She will do him good and not evil all the days of her life.'"

Life which had seemed so grey and foolish a few moments before was golden and rose and splendidly rainbowed again. The diamond pendant slipped to the floor, unheeded for the moment. It was beautiful . . . but there were so many things lovelier . . . confidence and peace and delightful work . . . laughter and kindness . . . that old safe feeling of a sure love.

"Oh, if we could keep this moment for ever, Gilbert!"

"We're going to have some moments. It's time we had a second honeymoon. Anne, there's going to be a big medical congress in London next February. We're going to it . . . and after it we'll see a bit of the Old World. There's a holiday coming to us. We'll be nothing but lovers again . . . it will be just like being married over again. You haven't been like yourself for a long time. ("So he had noticed.") You're tired and overworked . . . you need a change. ("You too, dearest. I've been so horribly blind.") I'm not going to have it cast up to me that doctors' wives never get a pill. We'll come back rested and fresh, with our sense of humour completely restored. Well, try your pendant on and let's get to bed. I'm half dead for sleep . . . haven't had a decent night's sleep for weeks, what with twins and worry over Mrs. Garrow."

--Chapter 41, Anne of Ingleside

10. Old love light

DR. BLYTHE:- “The old, old love light that was kindled so many years ago in Avonlea ... and burns yet, Anne ... at least for me.”

ANNE:- “And for me, too. And will burn forever, Gilbert.”

-- Page 189, The Blythes Are Quoted

Feel free to respond to this post with any of your favorite shirbert moments that I missed!

#Shirbert #Anne Shirley #Gilbert Blythe #aogg #anne of avonlea #anne of the island #anne of windy poplars #anne of ingleside #anne's house of dreams #the blythes are quoted

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mccartneysbass · 5 years

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foresaken destiney

pairing: jasper hale x reader

word count: ~2.1k, unedited excuse the over usage of commas and all other mistakes, I’m trying something kind of new with my writing sooo without further ado, enjoy!

summary: When the Cullens move to Forks, Y/N knows that something isn’t right about the Cullen family. As they investigate further into the mystery that surrounds the family, they wind up finding out more than what they were looking for. Meanwhile, Jasper struggles with the fact that his mate is human.

part i | part ii (to be posted)

Working at the front office had its perks, like having access to school files and being able to hear all the latest news, well more really, gossip from the office workers. Which was how you knew Forks was about to receive several new students all courtesy of the brand new Dr. Cullen; who had all the office workers willing to risk it all. Apparently, he was young but had adopted several teenagers after their family had passed away. Taking advantage of the office workers chattering about the Cullens, you searched through their schedules trying to see who you would end up having in class. Midway through your mini inquiry, the office door swung open and the family of the hour entered.

They all wore a variant of white and you couldn’t help but wonder if they had coordinated that morning. You handed each of the new students their schedules, each of them politely greeting you, their golden eyes shone brightly under the florescent lights. It was the last one who gave you an odd vibe. He looked like he was in pain, his hair was wild, sticking out in odd directions and he kept staring at you. His stare was broken by the shortest one, who pulled him down and whispered in his ear. You couldn’t hear what she said but it had a visible effect on him, his shoulders dropped.

He stuck his hand out at you, “Jasper Hale.”

You couldn’t help but feel tense, there was something about the new students that just didn’t sit right. But as soon as the feeling came you felt oddly calm and relaxed. Taking his hand you offered a small smile, “YN.”

Two things stuck out to you: how cold his hand was and his accent. You wondered what type of accent it was, you knew it was southern but you couldn’t quite nail the state. Alice broke you out of your thoughts, “YN, do you mind walking us to class?”

“No problem at all! I actually think I have next period with you and Jasper,” you replied. She clapped her hands before taking your arm and dragging you out of the office. You hid your surprise with a laugh, before leading the Cullens to their respective classes. Jasper was right behind you as Rosalie, Edward and Emmett trailed behind engrossed in their conversation. Alice who still had a grip on your arm, pulled you even closer to her, “If you aren’t busy this weekend YN, you should show us around Forks and Port Angeles.”

“Alice,” Jasper said firmly. There was an unspoken conversation as the two looked at each other.

“Relax, it will be fine. So what do you say, this Saturday?” Alice excitedly continued.

Running a hand through your hair, you let out a breath, “Of course. It would be my pleasure, though I will give you a fair warning, there isn’t much to see.”

“We are more interested in the company anyhow,” he drawled out. You could feel a slight blush at his words, before you could control yourself you blurted out, “I love your accent. It is uh- very soothing.” Mentally you chastised yourself, you hadn’t even known them for a full five minutes and you were already a twitterpated mess.

He smirked, “Texas, ma’am.” The accent was even more obvious.

You waved your hand in front of the classroom door, “Well this is it. I will see you next period, cowboy.”

You had seen the Cullens throughout the day, they were the only thing the school talked about and you couldn’t blame them. It was the most exciting thing to happen in Forks since sliced bread. By lunchtime, the whispering that surrounded the new arrivals was beginning to pique your interest even more. The rumors ranged from plausible to just outright ridiculous: your favorite one being where Dr. Cullen was secretly running a cult.

“So Nancy Drew, know anything about the new kids?” Lauren asked before you even set your food down on the table.

You threw one of your french fries at her, “Sheesh, let the new kids breath a little won’t you? And to answer your question, they seem perfectly nice, if not a bit odd but nice.”

“Really? They’ve been giving everyone the cold shoulder, not that I care. As if they are anything special,” Jessica added.

“I’m going to shoot my shot with the blonde one,” Tyler huffed.

Stifling a laugh you replied, “Please, the day you have a chance with Rosalie is when I meet the Beatles.”

When they entered the cafeteria you again thought they had to have coordinated. Locking eyes with you Alice waved, you glanced to the side of her and were met with Jasper’s stare. It was odd how he made you feel butterflies in your stomach while also unnerving you. You nodded to Rosalie and Emmett, while Edward only narrowed his eyes at you.

Throughout the rest of the day, you couldn’t shake the nagging feeling of someone watching you. It was a constant and kept you on edge. The same gut feeling from earlier came back full force, you didn’t shake it off this time.

The rest of the week the same feeling of being watched stayed with you, even at home you felt it. You had woken up several times throughout the night and saw those distinctive golden eyes. You had chalked it off as nightmares or even sleep paralysis but when you started finding items in places you hadn’t left them before your suspicion grew.

Alice and Jasper had taken to you relatively fast, they often hung around you and made sure to greet you every morning. You couldn’t quite figure out what was the deal with Jasper, he switched between looking at you as if you had just shoved his favorite pet off of a building and like you were the only thing that mattered.

You would find him waiting for you outside the office every day, “Here let me,” he would say as he took the textbooks from your hand. As you walked together to your next class he broke the silence, “What is your favorite subject?”

You hesitated for a second before you started rambling, “History. I love the post-world war II era. Oh and the culture of the 1960s, great music.”

He gave you one of his smirks, “Really? I love history as well. Although, I am much fonder of the antebellum period.”

It was almost 2 weeks since the Cullens arrived in Forks, they continued to be the talk of the school. They certainly continued to be the only thing Jessica and Lauren discussed during lunch. Their constant digs at you for being the only person to break into their tight-knit circle were starting to get on your nerves.

“I need a new lease for my camera, do any of you want to go with me to Port Angeles after school?” Angela interrupted Jessica’s ire towards you. If it wasn’t for Angela you didn’t know how you would’ve survived the two.

“I will! I need to make a quick stop at my dad’s office to pick up some files. He wants me to help with one of his cases.” You eagerly replied, you were dreading the drive to Port Angeles and now you would at least have some company. Your Father was a private investigator and you had often helped him with his cases and around the office. He had taught you everything you knew, from being observant to never doubt your gut feelings. As you grew older you started to get more hands-on with the investigations; stakeouts and learning how to take the money shots. You enjoyed helping him out, the disappearances and bigger cases were all puzzles that were waiting to be solved. All of that for better or for worse had bled into your high school days, it wasn’t like any of your snooping was hurting anyone.

“Ooo do tell. What’s the spicy drama this time?” Lauren leaned forward.

“I can’t really say much but it is the typical money shot case. Infidelity and whatnot, the usual, it will probably eat up my weekend,” you replied, not wanting to give too much information.

As everyone scattered to get to class, Jasper brought you to the side of the hallway. “What’s this I hear about you tailing someone?” Jasper questioned.

“How did you hear? But yes, I’m doing some lightweight work for my Dad,” you answered wondering how he could have heard about your upcoming job.

“You’re not going. I don’t want you to put yourself in danger.” He scolded. You couldn’t help the flare of annoyance.

“Well, news flash for you. You’re not the boss of me, you have no right telling me what to do. I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you think. Who do you even think you are?” You snapped.

His once golden eyes were almost black, he looked like a completely different person. He grabbed your bicep as you turned to leave, you squirmed under his grip, “Let go of me.”

Before you could even blink Emmett and Edward were pulling Jasper off of you. There was an almost animalistic snarl from Jasper as they dragged him out of the school.

Alice was by your side and started leading you away, “He’s just hungry, low blood sugar.” Alice reassured you. You wanted to believe it but the way that he reacted there was something more.

“You have to be kidding me. There is no excuse for the way he was acting. Just stay away from me.” You pulled away harshly from her grip. She put her hands up, “I know and I’m sorry. You will understand everything soon, YN. Just please,” you didn’t hear the rest of what she was saying as you ran to your car.

You sat in one of your father’s car, it was nondescript, which made it perfect for your stakeout tonight. He was currently out by the border trying to catch a bounty, leaving you to get the cheating husband.

Going on this stakeout was a much-needed distraction from the happenings of today, but it was also served as time to review everything that had happened. You dwelled in your thoughts, while you waited for the husband to leave his work and head towards the mistress.

Thinking back to your uneasiness you realized that it had all started when the Cullens arrived. Was it just a coincidence or was it something more? The Cullens seemed too perfect for you, there was something not right about their story. The good Doctor Cullen seemed too young to be so well respected and not to mention all of his adopted children sharing the same distinctive eye color and skin complexion. They had to be hiding something, you made a note in of the journals you always carried with you to look into their card statements and where they had previously lived.

You were broken out of your thoughts when you saw that the husband had finally gotten into his car and was heading out. Making sure to stay a decent length away as to not create suspicion you followed him all the way to a sleazy motel on the outskirts of Port Angeles.

Taking out your camera you started taking pictures of him exiting his car and making his way towards the motel room. The door swung open before he even touched the handle revealing a young woman, she pulled him in. In their passion, they had forgotten to close the curtain fully allowing you to take enough pictures for the husband's wife to make her case. It was too easy.

Returning back to your father’s office you decided to stay instead of making the drive all the way back to Forks. You printed out the pictures, having everything ready for when the wife would come in tomorrow. Not feeling tired at all you decided to get a head start and begin looking into the Cullens.

One of the best parts of being a private investigator, well having your father be one, was having access to websites that made tracking anyone down easy not to mention digging up dirt. The records of their previous schools all said the same thing: excellent students, kept to themselves, etc. Even Doctor Cullen’s past employments praised him.

There was nothing off about their paperwork, the adoption papers, not even their credit card statements revealed anything, except that Alice apparently had a shopping problem. You stared at the screen wondering what they were hiding. It was all just too good to be true.

You ended up falling asleep on the pullout sofa, all the while Jasper’s golden eyes plagued your thoughts. For the first time in weeks, you didn’t have the feeling that someone was watching you.

#jasper hale x reader #jasper hale imagine #jasper whitlock x reader #twilight imagine #twilight x reader #my writing #wow anyways i really am beatles trash titling nearly everything after one their songs #I need to get back into the swing of writing #i feel rusty

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a-song-of-quill-and-feather · 4 years

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Harry Potter OC Masterlist

Tag: oc: amoretta tonks

FC: Crystal Reed

Love Interest: Cedric Diggory / Fred Weasley

Story: Twisted Fates

Summary: Life was good.

Amoretta Tonks headed into her 6th year at Hogwarts with that thought to her mind. Life was good. She had finished her OWLs the year before with good marks, and had figured the only thing ahead that she had to worry about this year was what sort of trouble Harry Potter would bring to Hogwarts. Though really even that she worried little over, it hardly ever reached her sphere of Hogwarts with her being older and in an entirely different house. Really she just had to worry whether it’d effect quidditch or not.

Plus she had Cedric. Finally, after years of friendship and crushing and pining, she had him.

So life was good.

But then the Triwizard Tournament is announced, and feeling settles over her that something bad was coming. Dreams wrack her mind at all hours of graveyards and death. And when Cedrics name is pulled from the Goblet she is struck by an all encompassing dread that grows and grows as they pass through each task.

But life was supposed to be good.

Tag: oc: beatrice dursley

FC: Kaylee Bryant

Love Interest: Ron Weasley

Story: State of Possession

Summary: Beatrice Dursley grew up fairly unobtrusively. With her older brother demanding—and getting—most of the attention from their parents, and her cousin drawing— however unintended—the ire from them. She was left to her own devices for the most part, enjoying her own quiet room or the front garden where she could play about the flowers. She knew odd things happened occasionally around her, but she never really noticed them.

Then letters come for Harry and she learns that there is such thing as magic in the world. She doesn’t pay it much mind, sure it was rather funny to see Dudley get the tail, and the giant man that came to see Harry didn’t seem as bad as her father seemed to rant on about. But it didn’t have anything to do with her, until the start of summer when she turned eleven and a witch showed up at Privet Drive with a letter just like Harry’s for her.

Tag: oc: cadence hearthorn

FC: Bella Heathcote

Love Interest: Sirius Black

Story: And Into the Woods I Go [Ao3] [FFN]

Summary: Cadence Hearthorn doesn’t truly understand her relationship with Sirius Black.

Her relationship with Regulus is quite clear to her, they’ve been the best of friends and each others anchors in the political mine-field that is Slytherin house since their first year. The both of them striving to secure their spots amongst their peers. With Regulus working hard to detract attention from his brothers rebellion against their family, and Cadence struggling to bring her families name back to reputable status as the first magic user in generations.

But Sirius Black has confounded Cadence since the summer before her fourth year when she stayed at Grimmauld Place and met the elder Black brother more surely than she had ever before. He challenges her views and ambitions, and at the very least it seems she sparks his curiosity much the same. Especially after he wakes her from a dream where she saw the truth of one of his best friends deepest secrets.

Tag: oc: cassiopeia malfoy

FC: Jenny Boyd

Love Interest: George Weasley

Story: Mischief & Manners [Ao3] [FFN]

Summary: Cassiopeia knows what’s expected of her as the daughter of a pureblooded house. She knows that after Hogwarts she’ll get married off to a rich pureblooded wizard of good standing with whom she’ll be expected to have proper pureblooded children. She’ll be a good pureblood witch and follow her parents example and she’ll show that despite her more rebellious youth she can do as is expected of her, that it was all just a simple toeing of the line but not any serious deviation.

Cassiopeia knows that if it were entirely her own choice she’d make use of the N.E.W.T.S that she knows she’ll score perfectly on and become a healer. If it were her choice she’d continue on with Fred and George for the rest of her life and help them with their developing line of prank products even after their school years have ended. If it were her own choice she’d tell George her feelings and be with someone she chooses rather than someone chosen for her. If it were her choice she’d make something of her life that was challenging and brilliant and utterly hers.

Cassiopeia knows that for all her wants and rebellions she’ll do what she can for her family in the end, even if it means sacrificing her own choices.

Tag: oc: dahlia potter

FC: Holland Roden

Love Interest: Draco Malfoy

Story: Dream to See [Ao3] [FFN]

Summary: Twin to the Boy who Lived, Dahlia grew up alongside her brother Harry under the care of the Dursley’s. She always did her best to keep herself happy while also protecting Harry when she could. Thus when the twins acceptance to Hogwarts comes she is ready to move forward, away from the apparent hatred from their relatives and into the magic that a part of her had always known she held.

But then Harry goes into Gryffindor, after she had already been put in Slytherin. Leading her to deal with the fact that she’s separated from the brother she’s always strived to protect. She is left to the house that had held the man who killed their parents, to strange dreams that have haunted her for as long as she can remember, and to the blonde haired brat who seems determined to either get her to love him or hate him.

Despite it all Dahlia Potter perseveres through her years at Hogwarts with a determination to succeed.

Tag: oc: evie tatters

FC: Danielle Rose Russell

Love Interest: Harry Potter

Story: TBD

Summary: Evie Tatters is a witch.

Her parents had always said there was something special about her, but she’d always chalked that up to being a thing all parents told their children to make them feel special. But when a tall woman came to their home on Privet Drive telling her that she was indeed special, in comparison to muggles at least, Evie was determined to prove her entirely right.

It was just an added bonus that her best friend Harry also proved to be special. Though apparently he was special even in the world of magic. Not that she would let that affect her view of him, or if she could help it let it affect his view of himself, no she was simply overjoyed that she wasn’t going to a school where she’d know absolutely no one all on her own.

Of course then she gets put into a house that tells her she’s not special, rather she’s wrong and bad and does not belong.

Of course, that just makes her all the more determined to prove each and every one of them wrong and show them just how special she is.

Tag: oc: jeanie prewett

FC: Sophie Skelton

Love Interest: Marlene McKinnon / Nymphadora Tonks

Story: TBD

Summary: Jeanie Prewett was a witch, in her own opinion, who was exceptionally gifted.

Thus, it only made sense that she’d join up with the Order of the Phoenix come leaving Hogwarts.

Jeanie Prewett, in her own opinion, was quite skilled at fighting death eaters. And she had a bloody good time doing it as well. Alongside her brothers Gideon and Fabian she did her duty to the Order, and the greater wizarding community, and worked hard to end the reign of terror the Dark Lord was bringing to Britain.

Thus it only made sense that she was with her brothers when they died. But Jeanie Prewett did not die that day. No matter what was presumed when her body was not found.

Because Jeanie Prewett was an exceptionally gifted witch who enjoyed experimenting with difficult magics and had, a few weeks prior, found an illegal time turner that she kept for private research. Thus, when her brother’s and her were set upon by death eaters, she in a spur of reckless caution turned the piece in hopes of saving the day.

Of course, it wasn’t a regulation time turner and she had tinkered with it some. And so, in a dizzying sense of magic (that felt very much like falling upwards) she found it had nowhere near the effect that she’d hoped for.

Jeanie Prewett was a witch who opened her eyes to find herself stood in an entirely unfamiliar time that was heading into a very familiar war.

Tag: oc: lyra black

FC: Phoebe Tonkin

Love Interest: Remus Lupin

Story: TBD

Summary: Lyra Black has been hearing things she’s not supposed to all her life.

When she was little she heard of Bellatrix’s plans for the muggle family that lived down the way. She heard of Andromeda’s secret friendship with a muggleborn. She heard of Narcissa’s secret hiding spot for her things that she didn’t want her sisters to touch.

She heard other things too, just thoughts passing through the heads of those around her.

Her mother and Bellatrix insisted it was a gift. A thing most wizards and witches would have to work years and years to have even the base natural skill Lyra shows. A gift Lyra knows Bellatrix thinks is wasted upon her.

But it was a gift she didn’t particularly want. And thus since she was little, Lyra Black tried very hard not to hear things she was not supposed to.

But sometimes her focus slips and things slip through the cracks. Sometimes she sits beside a tired looking boy in Transfiguration and hears his pain and wonders on it just the second needed to see something she was never supposed to hear.

Tag: oc: tristram crouch

FC: Richard Harmon

Love Interest: Hermione Granger

Story: State of Forgetting

Summary: When Tristram Crouch enters his fourth year at Hogwarts he’s acutely aware of one pressing issue. He’s missing something. He’s certain if he got his hands on a remembrall it would smoke up faster than the fireplace in the Hufflepuff common room on chilly days. But he’s also certain it’s not an object that he’s missing.

No. He’s quite certain that whatever’s missing from him is missing from his head. A memory, he thinks, lost from his mind and leaving him rather pissed at its absence. And it’s not something small. No, he thinks it’s actually rather big. Which only pisses him off further.

So, he turns to the most brilliant witch of their age (at least that’s what he’s heard plenty of people call her) and asks for her help in figuring out memory magic in order to get whatever it is back into his mind where it belongs.

#oc masterlist #ocappreciation #masterlist #my oc #my fic

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for-your-therapeutic-smile · 4 years

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They Never Teach You How to Stop

Rarely do I lack the words to express myself. Perhaps this reflects my failure to maintain my journal consistently throughout 2020. Here goes an honest attempt to capture and document my mental state and the fatigue of Covid, the inertia of this shelter-in-place, the anxiety of this political crisis we face as a nation, the pressure of being a 1L in law school against the backdrop of civil unrest and Justice Ginsburg’s death, coming out - my dad told me he was disappointed -, the possible erosion of my relationship with someone I love, and this feeling of absolute dread and resentment for a system that continuously fails my and future generations (robbing us of a social contract that promised life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness), among many other things I’m too tired to consider. When did we accept a $0 baseline as the American Dream? Oh, to be debt free - free from this punishment for having pursued an education. Stifling the educated to prevent them (myself included) from organizing and mobilizing the masses so we can supplant this system with a better one is the overall objective of the oppressive class (read: Pedagogy of the Oppressed); it’s the conflict between the bourgeois and the proletariat. The proletariat has swallowed the middle class, leaving only the ruling class. I am essentially on autopilot, forcing myself to go through the motions so I can survive another day. I know others join me in this mental gymnastics of unparalleled proportions, one social scientists and medical researchers will soon study and subsequently publish their findings in an attempt to explain the unexplainable. Despite a lack of air circulation, we are breathing history; the constitution, like our societal norms, must adapt accordingly. Judge Barrett: there is no place for originalism. While I seldom admit weakness or an inability to manage life’s curveballs, this series of unfortunate events seems almost too much to bear.

And yet somehow I continue to find the energy to submit assignments due at 11:59 p.m., write this post at 1:38 a.m., “sleep”, wake at 7 a.m. so I can read and prepare (last minute!) the assigned material leading into my torts or contracts class. I find the energy to text my boyfriend (or ex-boyfriend) so I can attempt to salvage the real and genuine connection we have, cook elaborate meals to find some solace, wrestle with whether or not to hit my yoga mat (I don’t), apply to a fellowship for the school year and summer internships, prepare my dual citizenship paperwork, manage a campaign for two progressive politicians, and listen to music in an attempt to stay sane . . . ~*Queues John Mayer’s “War of My Life” and “Stop This Train”*~ . . . I realize I have to be kinder to myself, give credit where credit is due. I hate feeling self-congratulatory though.

Mostly, I am too afraid of the repercussions if I stop moving at a mile/minute, that I can just work away the pain and be the superhuman who numbs himself from the low-grade depression and nervous breakdown. My body tells me to slow down, as evidenced by the grinding of my teeth, but I take on more responsibility because people rely on me. I must show up. I am a masochist in that way. This is what I signed up for and I’ll be damned if I don’t carry through on my promise to do the work. Pieces of my soul scattered about like Horcruxes, though they’re pure, not evil, so I hope nobody resolves to destroy them.

My mind rarely rests. It’s 3:08 a.m., one of the lonelier hours where night meets morning; it’s the hour for and of intense introspection. It makes you consider pulling an all-nighter, one you reserve for an “important” school or work deadline. We always put our personal lives on the back-burner. 3 a.m. sets the tone for a potentially awful day. But that doesn’t matter right now. I’m letting some of my favorite albums play in the background: Joni Mitchell’s Blue, Mac Miller’s Circles, Rhye’s Blood, Alicia Keys’ ALICIA, Coldplay’s Ghost Stories, Frank Ocean’s Blonde, Miley Cyrus’ Dead Petz in addition to other playlists, Tiny Desk performances, and tracks (I unearthed last week, like When It’s Over by Sugar Ray). I need to feel something. I need to feel anything. I need to feel everything. We experience such a broad spectrum of emotions throughout the day that we lose track of if we don’t pause to absorb them. Music reinforces empathy; it releases dopamine.

I spent the past two hours reading through old journals and posts, as scattered as they were, on a wide range of topics: poems I had written about falling in and out love, anecdotes about my world travels, and entries on personal, political, and professional epiphanies. The other night I found one of my favorites, a previous post from my time living in Indonesia, centering on the dualities of technology. It resonated with me more than the others. To summarize, I wrote about my tendency to equate the Internet with a sense of interconnectedness (shoutout to Tumblr for being my digital journal; to Twitter for being a place of comedy and revolution; to Instagram for curating my *aesthetic*; to Facebook where I track my family’s accomplishments and connect with travel buddies displaced around the globe all searching for a home). And yet I feel incredibly lonely and disconnected whenever I spend too much time using technology, so much so that I set screen time limitations on my phone recently to curtail this obsession with constant communication and information gathering. Trump and Biden admitted that it’s unlikely we’ll know the results of the election on November 3rd during their first presidential debate. Push notifications don’t allow us to learn of trauma within the comforts of our own homes. I’m already fearing where I will be when that news breaks.

This global pandemic and indefinite shutdown of the world (economy) undeniably exacerbates these feelings. This is some personal and collective turmoil. But I was complicit in the endless scrolling and swiping of faces and places long before Covid-19. Instead of choosing to interact with my direct environment (today’s research links this behavior to the same levels of depression one feels when they play slot machines), I am still an active on all these platforms, participating the least in the most tangible one: my physical life. I am tired of pretending. I am tired of being tired. I am tired of embodying fake energy to exist in systems that fail me. I am tired of the quagmire. Like Anaïs Nin, I must be a mermaid [because] I have no fear of depths and a great fear of shallow living. This particular excerpt from that 2016 entry was difficult for me to read: “The fantasy of what could have been if a certain plan had unfolded will haunt you forever if you do not come to peace with the reality of the situation. I hope you come to terms with reality.” I am not at peace with my current reality. But is anyone?

It’s a bit surreal for my peers to have suddenly started caring about international relations theory. It’s transported me back to my 2012 IR lecture at Northeastern: are you a constructivist or a feminist? Realist or liberalist? Neo? Marxist? The one no one wants you to talk about. Absent upward mobility, this is class warfare. But I cannot be “a singular expression of myself . . . there are too many parts, too many spaces, too many manifestations, too many lines, too many curves, too many troubles, too many journeys, too many mountains, too many rivers” . . . It feels like America’s wake-up call. But I know people will retreat into the comforts of capitalism if Biden wins and, well, we all enter uncharted waters together if the Electoral College re-elects #45. For those who weren’t paying attention: the world is multipolar and we are not the hegemon. Norms matter. People tend to be self-interested and shortsighted. Look to the past in order to understand the future. History, as the old adage goes, repeats itself. Once a cheater, always a cheater. Taxation without representation. Indoctrination. Welcome to the language of political discourse. Students of IR and polisci have long awaited your participation. Too little too late? Plot twist: it’s a lifelong commitment. You must continue to engage irrespective of the election outcome or else we will regress just as quickly as we progress. Now dive into international human rights treaties (International Covenant on Civil & Political Rights; International Covenant on Economic, Social, and Cultural Rights), political refugees, FGM. No one said it wasn’t dismal. But it’s important. We need buy-in.

While I am grateful for the continuation of my education, for this extended time with family, for this opportunity to be a campaign manager for two local progressive candidates (driving to Boston to pick up revised yard signs as proof that the work never stops), it would be remiss of me, however, not to admit that I am lonely: I am buried in my books, in the depressing news both nationally and globally, and in precedent-setting Supreme Court cases (sometimes for the worst, e.g. against the preservation of our environment). In my nonexistent free time I work on political asylum cases, essentially creating an enforceability framework of international law, for people fleeing country conditions so unthinkable (the irony of that work when my country falls greater into authoritarianism and oligarchy is not lost on me). I am fulfilling my dream of becoming a human rights lawyer which stems back to middle school. I saw Things I Imagined (thank you Solange). I have held an original copy of the Declaration of Independence that we sent to the House of Lords in 1778 and the Human Rights Act of 1998 while visiting the U.K. Parliamentary Archives as an intern for a Member of Parliament. This success terrifies and exhausts me; it also oxygenizes and saves me. Every decision, every sacrifice, has led me to this point.

“It’s the choosing that’s important, isn’t it?,” Lois Lowry of The Giver rhetorically asks. This post is not intended to be woe is me! I am fortunate to be in this position, to have this vantage point at such an early age, and I understand the whole is greater than the sum of the parts. My life has purpose. I am committed to the work that transcends boundaries; it is larger than life itself. It provides a unique perspective. But it makes it difficult to coexist with people so preoccupied in the drama they create in their lives and the general shallowness of the world we live. It feels like there is no option to pump the brakes on any of this work, especially in light of our current climate, and that pressure oftentimes feels insurmountable. Time is of the essence. It feels, whether true or not, that hardly anyone relates to my experience, so if I don’t carve out this time to write about it, then I am neither recording nor processing it.

Tonight, in between preparing tomorrow’s coursework, I realize that I have an unprecedented number of questions about life, which startles me because typically I have the answers or at least have a goal in mind that launches me into the next phase of life or contextualizes the current one. These goals, often rooted in this capitalistic framework, in this falsity of “needing” to advance my career as a means of helping people, distract me from asking myself the existential questions, the reasons for why we live and what we fundamentally want our systems to look like; they have distracted me from real grassroots community organizing until now. They distract me from the fact that, like John Mayer, I don’t know which walls to smash; similarly, I don’t know which train to board. Right now feels like we are living through impossible and hopeless times and I don’t want to placate myself into thinking otherwise despite my relatively optimistic outlook on life. As we face catastrophic circumstances – the consequences of this election and climate change (famine, refugees, lack of resources) – I do not want to live in perpetual sadness. I am searching for clarity and direction so I can step into a better, fuller version of myself.

It’s now 3:33 a.m. Here is the list of questions that I have often asked myself in different stages of life, but recently, until now, I have not been willing to confront for fear that I might not be able to answers them. But I owe it to myself to pose them here so I can have the overdue conversation, the one I know leads me to better understanding myself:

Are you happy? Why or why not?

What do you want the future to hold? What groundwork are you going to do to ensure it happens?

What does your ideal day/week/month/year/decade look like? Why?

With whom do you want to spend your days? Why?

Who do you love and care about? Have you told people you care about that you love them? Does love and vulnerability scare you?

What do you expect of people – of yourself, of your partner, of your family, and of your friends? Should you have those expectations? Why or why not?

What do you feel and why?

What relaxes you? What scares you? What brings you joy?

What do you want to improve? Why?

What do you want to forgive yourself for and why?

Does the desire to reinvent yourself diminish your ability to be present?

Do you have a greater fear of failure or success? Why?

How do you escape the confines of this broken system? How do you break from the guilt of participation in it and having benefited from it?

How do we reconcile our daily lives with the fact that we’re living through an extinction event? This one comes from my friend (hi Jeanne) and a podcast she listened to recently.

How do you help people? How do you help yourself? Are you pouring from an empty cup?

How will you find joy in your everyday responsibilities, in the mission you have chosen for yourself? What, if any, will be the warning signs to walk away from this work, in part or in its entirety? Without being a martyr, do you believe in dying for the cause?

So here are some of the lessons I have learned during this quarantine/past year:

“I’ve Got Dreams to Remember,” so do not take your eyes off them. Chasing paper does not bring you happiness.

Be autonomous, particularly in your professional life.

Focus on values instead of accolades.

Do everything with intention and honest energy.

Listen to Tracy Chapman’s “Crossroads” & Talkin’ Bout a Revolution for an energy boost and reminder that other revolutionaries have shared and continue to share your fervent passion . . . “I’m trying to protect what I keep inside, all the reasons why I live my life” . . . When self-doubt nearly cripples you and you yearn a few minutes to run away when in reality you can’t escape your responsibilities, go for a drive and queue up “Fast Car” . . . “I got no plans, I ain’t going nowhere, so take your fast car and keep on driving.”

With that said, take every opportunity to travel (you can take the work with you if absolutely necessary). Go to Italy. Buy the concert ticket and lose yourself in the moment. Remember that solo excursions are equally as important as collective ones. But, from personal experience, you prefer the company. Find the balance.

Detach from the numbers people keep trying to assign to measure your personhood.

Closely examine the people in your inner circle and ask them for help when you need it.

“And life is just too short to keep playing the game . . . because if you really want somebody [or something], you’ll figure it out later, or else you will just spend the rest of the night with a BlackBerry on your chest hoping it goes *vibration, vibration*” (John Mayer’s Edge of Desire) . . . so love fiercely and unapologetically.

Be specific.

Go to therapy even when life is good.

#reflection #covid #quarantine #late nights #music #revolution #diary #politics #john mayer #alicia keys #tracy chapman #love #dear diary #travel #writing #personal #mental health

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remy-the-rat-official · 4 years

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It's hard to explain what its like to feel empty. To plaster on an emotion when you feel completwly devoid of it, when you're sat in your room and suddenly you're very afraid to leave. When even the thought of school or leaving the house or even talking some time fills you with dread. Its a bit hard to explain what its like to be shaking in the bathroom, hands trembling but it's not from the cold. When all you want is to slam your head into a wall repeatedly, cry and scream until your hoarse and get rid of the problem. But its not that easy. Cause you are alive and you have to deal with it. You can't die yet, too much to do but you've been doing nothing all day. All week even. I'm not even sure I was actually ill or if I was just faking it because I felt I had to. When the panic attacks started up again and I was in school, I wanted to try and stay at school. Get through the day thats all, focus on whats ahead not the sensation of choking, or the shaking, or the anxious rambling or the silence or how people look at you and they look and they stare and you can almost feel their eyes staring at you because you're not normal and then you realise that its only you and one other person in the room and they're trying to help but all you can feel is the shaking in your legs and the nausea that comes with it. You try to focus on them or something else, they give you things to squeeze and you squeeze them, but it doesn't work. You can't avoid it. Suddenly you aren't there, you're in your own head. Or maybe you are there but your body isn't. Either way its not real, it doesn't feel real. Reality isn't reality and you can't stop it. There isn't any help now cause you can't help someone who isn't there. And then thats over and more than ever you want to die. You want water to consume you or your organs to start failing or for something to happen anything really to stop the pain. And it is painful because you can't cry. That isn't working anymore. And you can't scream cause whats the point? No one will ever hear you because you're worthless. Pointless. Couldn't even do one thing, couldn't get through one day. And you feel sick to your stomach cause its true. You believe it. And its not a voice in your head either, nothings talking to you its all just you. If it was a voice then you'd block it out with music but now even the songs that make you feel happy feel like a death sentence. So you can't listen to music. Every word written in a book seems hazy, you can't read. You can't sleep, if you were to draw you'd only see the faults and hate yourself more, you can't do puzzles or focus ir anything. So you sit there. One room, pretending to be fine after a while. Something else is going on now anyway, don't make it so that you get all the attention again, you don't want to impose yourself even if you need help you aren't more important than anyone else remember your place. Be polite, smile and nod and go to sleep. And hope that for once it's eternal or at least lasts for a while. Cause you didn't sleep well, or at least thats what you say. Maybe you didn't.

(I wrote this on the 6th of December 2019. Found it funny that it still applies.)

#tw: anxiety #tw: mental health #tw: depression #tw: derealization #tw: depersonalization

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vegetacide · 5 years

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Whump prompt#4 - part III

Veg-notables - I noticed in some of my older stuff that I tend to write a lot of internal dialogue and thoughts so I decided to push myself to write more about the surroundings and such..for this part I actually looked up the picture of an old, wood mill and I attempted to draw a picture of it with words.. Not sure if I was successful but I think it was good practice.. Let me know what you think.

Thank you to @gumnut-logic for hashing out plot points with me.

Proofed by me..mistakes.. Blah blah blah .. be nice.

Likes, shares and comments are my motivational fuel and all that jazz

Rating: M for suggestions of torture.

Characters: Kayo, Scott and John is floating about

Prompt snippet - no title yet ‘cause I am still lazy and haven’t thought of one

Part I can be found HERE and Part II HERE

Enjoy….

oOo

Part III

Kayo approached the ramshackled grouping of buildings on silent feet. The red rust of the corrugated siding staining its rocky footing as if the dilapidated structure had met its end by exsanguination. Chunks of decaying metal sat like the curled husk of a dreadful creature across the marred vacant yard that was nestled between the forsaken mill and her bricked siblings. The bracket space between, a parody of some sick graveyard that lay ragged and open to the sky littered with the fossils of rotten wooden pallets and tipped over oil drums.

Pressing her back to an ash coloured brickwork of the stubbier of the two outbuildings, Kayo held her breath and listened. Her eyes ever moving over the landscape of disuse before her, scanning the skeletal remains for any sign of life. The gaping holes in the main structure absorbing the dying light of the summer sun and obscuring her gaze from seeing anything more than pitted cross beams and the ragged teeth the massive head rig.

Hearing nothing but the sound of wind through the four and a half story mill and the distant sound of the GDF patrol flyers that had been called in, Kayo allowed her lungs to once again expand. Alighting along the building’s perimeter she kept the scarred brickwork close to her back, her fingers dragging along its craggy surface as she continued her reconnaissance of the abandoned facility.

Coming to a wide opening, she halted her forward motion. Shuffling along to the very edge of it, she carefully peered around the broken framework of what was once a large, framed window. The mullions broken or missing in the absence of what would have been a rather hefty sheet of glass, the remains of which crunched under foot and glinted dully in the tapering light of day.

The dimly lit mottled interior was in utter ruin, particles of dust dancing about in the shafts of sunlight that filtered in from the ceiling, parts of which had caved in decades ago. Bits of old roofing tiles lay scattered across the moss covered floor along with support beams and metal fittings.

Across the large space of what she could only perceive was the main room, hung two heavy insulated doors. The once pristine polish of their surface now scuffed and tarnished. One sat open, its maw revealing nothing by darkness beyond. If she could guess this was a kiln house. A building that housed the large industrial ovens used to dry out and season newly milled wood.

Stepping out from behind the safety of her cover, Kayo gripped the edge of the decaying sill and made quick work hoisting herself in. The fact that the large machinery that made up the kiln hadn’t yet fallen through the floor, telling her that the structural integrity was most likely sound enough to support her weight.

Once within the confines of what was surprising a very large space, she tapped her comms twice, signalling to John that she was on site and triggered her camera. Recording everything she saw in case reference was needed later to correctly recall a poignant detail.

Stepping gingerly around the detritus of wood shavings, mouse escarpment and bird dropping Kayo began her search. The tracks she found at the further part of the mining camp some five clicks away had pointed her in this direction. They’d been hastily and haphazardly concealed and she’d picked up the trail easily after going another 30 feet or so into the underbrush. The snapped saplings and disturbed soil standing out is stark contrast to her well practiced eye.

After a quick call up to 5, John had provided her with an overview scan of the surrounding area and it hadn’t taken her long to stumble upon the old mill even though the likelihood of this actually leading anywhere was slim but she had to check. Only an idiot would use something so obvious as a…

A glint of something out of place brought Kayo up short and she stilled, eyes tracking back and forth along the floor boards. Something had caught the light as she’d been panning her vision around the space in her inspection.Tilting her head, she crouched as the change in angle caused something to catch the light again and her slender browns dipped downwards in concentration.

Four inches from the floor a fine, silver filament stretched across the expanse of a large archway at the head of a back hallway that appeared to run the length of the building. A tripwire. It was old tech but given the environment very practical and very skillfully applied.

Stretching her body out carefully alongside it, her eyes traced it length to it terminus, looking for any sort of trigger or devise hidden under the stacks of broken factory paraphernalia pushed off with little care at the base of the archways wooden support pillars.

Hidden just out of sight and strapped to what appeared to be a heavy old canister of some sort was a small, blinking red light. Definitely a trigger, though whether it was for a security system or an explosive she couldn’t tell and she couldn’t risk disturbing it to figure it out. Someone was definitely here if the trip was live..

Tapping her insignia, Kay opened an audio only channel to 5. As per protocol for Kayo, John would only be able to communicate with her verbally over the line, no visual holo-cast. He kept it short and professional, falling back on old CB radio codes on the small chance someone was piggy backing their secure line and eavesdropping. “10-2,” a short pause followed by “10-18?”

It was old school but it worked and kept chatter on the line to a minimal. With two short transmissions, John had verified that her channel was securely receiving her communication and had asked if she had anything to report. That last part she knew John would usually leave out as she wouldn’t have made contact otherwise so that meant that Scott was on the line too and chomping at the bit for anything he could get on his missing brother.

“Possible contact, have the GDF stand by”

“Message received. Alerting GDF to hold at perimeter.”

“10-4” Kayo heard a click over the comms as John change over to the GDF frequency but the quiet was short lived as he once again patched back over to her. Shaking her head as she lightly got back up to her feet and stepped over the tripwire, she should have known with the Defense Force so close they couldn’t sit still.

She had enough experience with Rigby to know there was good reason for the Colonel to call on her expertise for the more delicate operations. The man was good at his job in the guns blazing, hit them first sort of way that marked his and a lot of the other GDF personnel main character traits.

“GDF strongly advising use of backup before proceeding.”

“Negative.” Came her blunt, clipped reply. The GDF were not known for the ability to be stealthy and in this situation that was exactly what was needed. There was no telling what else she was going to find around here and the last thing she needed was their big boots stomping about the place tripping god knows what. Virgil’s life could very well be in the balance and that was a risk she just would not take.

The line went silent again after that and Kayo let out a breath. John would pass the information on and he wouldn’t bug her about it again. The GDF would be either mollified by that or not, she didn’t really care at the moment.

Scott on was another matter altogether though, she would prefer to handle this on her own but she knew that despite her hard no on the GDF joining that it wouldn’t forestall the commander of iR from racing over from where he was reconning. She just hoped she could clear the scene before he got there.

Pausing a moment to mark the hazard on the digital layout her wrist comm was compiling so Scott wouldn’t trip the thing when he inevitable got there, Kayo pulled a small pen light from her pocket and flashed it up the dark hallway. Light back here was poor with only a small 12 by 8 window every 10 feet or so making the long length a veritable minefield of hazards. A sprained ankle was the last thing she needed or worse if she happened to come across another surprise like the one she’d just found.

Picking her way cautiously down the hall, eyes alert and ears straining for any sound out of the ordinary she continued on.

Coming to a blind corner, Kayo glanced back up the hallway and assessed what she’d already seen and heard. With the skill needed to trick John with a false call, getting the upper hand on Virgil, left barely a trace and the set up with the trip wire, she knew that whoever was responsible was skilled, very skilled. She suspicions made her think that whoever it behind it was a pro

Hearing the tell tale sound of a jet pack, Kayo did her best to keep her internal mental tirade of courses just where they were and double tapped her comm.

“Sorry Kayo, Scott is en route.”

No shit, she thought to herself. “Be advised, area is not secure. Hold position until further notice.” If she could have, she would have added I will beat Scott’s ass if he doesn’t listen but she left it unvoiced. She hoped that her tone would be sufficient enough to pass that little ditty along.

“Understood, message has been relayed.” Guess it had.

Grumbling at the delay, she carried on until she came to a section of wall that looked like it had been removed with a sledge hammer, the jagged edges of which appeared fairly new and revealed a wooden stairway that descended into the earth.

Hugging the wall, Kayo took them with care, mindful to place her foot as close to the stringer as possible. Settling her feet on the first tread she gave a sigh of relief when the stairs didn’t just outright collapse under her weight. They looked study enough but looks could be deceiving.

Shifting back and forth she tested the next one down and so on and so forth until she reached the landing and the stairs made a 90 degree turn. Taking it as a sign when there was no creaking of loose boards or anything else that might result in her broken bones she alighted down the final flight with a bit more haste.

The tunnel that she found at the bottom was not what she expected. It was roughly constructed and lined with concrete, the ceiling being held in place by rough cut wood beams intersected by a newer spattering of electrical cords that ran off and disappeared behind a sealed door at the far end Pocked marked between the beams was an errant placement of naked light fixtures, the bulbs of which flickered and swayed.

It was damp and water had accumulated in several spots along the uneven rocky flooring. The dampness not only felt with a chill up her spine but smelt. It was earthy and metallic and clung to the inside of her sinuses.

Listening, she could hear the muted pitch of a motor. The faint scent of fuel and exhaust carried along with the wet soil that permeated the air had her picturing a generator, something easy to procure and set up. Her suspicions peaked again that this was anything but a random attack on her family. They were too well prepared for this to have been a spur of the moment, which meant organized and more proof that the perpetrator was not just some run of the mill kidnapper.

The click of her comm activating, had her cursing under her breath. Now was not the time. She quickly shut it off again. Scott could damn well stay upstairs and wait where she knew he would be safe. She couldn’t worry about him on top of all this.

Ducking into a shadowed alcove, Kayo parked behind a large crate, ears keenly tuned to pick up on any sounds that indicated her infiltration was a bust Back pressed to the tunnel wall she could just make out the first door. It was unlatched and moving slightly, caught up in a mild breeze that seemed to originate further down the tunnel.

The gap was just wide enough that Kayo could catch a glimpse of what lay beyond. There was a flickering light but by its random movements she guess a gas lamp of some sort was burning. Crates seemed to line a wall.. They appeared new and from the markings on the side possibly army surplus supplies. So who ever this one, they had been here a while.

Holding her breath as she waited a beat for some sort of reaction from the other side. A voice, a shifting of shoes, anything to forewarn her that she had been discovered. The small hairs on the back of her neck prickling with sensation as her adrenaline spiked a notch.

When nothing changed or came charging out, she plucked a small device from her the pouch at her waist and dropped it. Automatically a duel set of miniature rotors unfolded from it and it began to hover in the air. A little something that Brains had supplied her for just this situation.

The small device carried a micro camera and was easily controlled from her wrist comm. The magnetic rotors were virtually silent and their independent movement allowed the tiny bot the agility to move about basically anywhere that Kayo required.

There were some downsides to the tech, like heat sensitive and its range capabilities and battery life were limited due to its size but overall it was perfect for Kayo’s uses. It had a few other handy add-ons though that more than made of its for what it was lacking.

With a flick of her daft fingers, her wrist unit sparked to life and an image of herself from the little flyer sprang up on the screen. With easy, she maneuvered the craft out and around her hiding place. It hugged the ceiling, its onboard sensory preventing it from crashing into any obstructions and zipped easily over to the open door way. With a quick title on its axis, it breached the gap and entered the room beyond.

Automatically, data and floor blueprints popped up on Kayo’s display. Geological information followed, GPS locations and the general makeup of the room, ambient temperature. Everything that one could possibly need to know about a 10 x 12 space. It was as she had guessed, a storage room of some sort and from the tiny screen, she could make out an empty rustic seating area, remnants of food containers and even a small cooker. No bio reading or heat signatures indicative of a person though and a quick glance at the composition of the wall told her she would have to go room by room.

The little flyer made quick work of the tunnel and in a matter of minutes Kay had a good read of the layout of the place. Four rooms total, and no trace of any occupants. The place had been deserted and deserted in a rush by the looks of things.

Leaving the alcove, Kay stepped out into the middle of the tunnel and hit her comms. “Scott, you can stop your pacing. John, let the GDF know the place is a ghost town and that they can send in their team now.. Give em a heads up about the trip on the first floor and they should watch out for more.”

“Roger that”

Within seconds, the tall brunette leader of iR was striding down the stairs towards her. The scowl in place not impressed at being caged upstairs while she did her initial scans.

“Report?” His voice was blunt with barely contained anger.

“Nothing so far, but the place has been cleared out. No trace of any electronic signatures that could signal additional defenses but watch your step and stay behind me. If I had a choice you would be back at the island..”

“Tough shit.”

The made their way through each room. The storage room was first and proved Kayo’s theory that the facility had been set up for the long run. The next room was a bunkie with a couple of pallets for sleeping and little else. There was a generator room, that had makeshift ventilation system that vented exhausted into the mill above, it was heavily padded to reduce noise and the door was actually steel reinforced.

That left door number four. Pausing outside it, Kayo looked to Scott and laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. The little flyer hadn’t picked up on anything living down here but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t find something else.

When his blue gaze met hers, he gave a single nod and Kayo put her shoulder into the door.

The room was dark and barren. The only light source the signal bar bulb at her back which swayed lightly, illuminating briefly first one side of the room and then the other as its light cast about in the breeze.

Like the rest of the tunnel system the flooring was dirt covered but the walls appeared damp with water run off from some unknown source. It was colder in this room compared to the others as well and the creepy feeling she’d experienced out in the alcove returned, sending shuddered up Kayo’s spine.

Pulling her penlight out once more she flashed it around the room. There was a metal chair to one side of the room and discarded lashings strewn about the floor at its base. Walking over to it, Kayo did a cursory scan of the floor and didn't like what she found.

“The chair is fastened to the ground.” She pointed out, crouching to examine the bolts holding it down. Picking up one of the lengths of rope she tried her best to push down the fear at the sight of blood that darkened the strong twine, her light once more sweeping over the room.

She could trust Scott to stay out of the way, he knew how she worked and he kept himself over by the door so she could do her job. “What’s that over there?” He nodded, squinting his eyes as he tried to make out what it was from across the room.

Glancing back over her shoulder, she pushed up to her feet aiming her light at what Scott had indicated. “Not sure..” Walking over to it, she bent down to take a look and stilled.

“Kayo?”

Proof. “They had him here.” Turning back to Scott as he finally stepped further into the room she held the torn remains of a soft, grey shirt, one she knew that Virgil had put on some sixteen hours earlier.

In the early hours of the morning she’d been lazing in a tangled mess of bed sheets, languid and completely sated. Happy for the first time in ...she had no idea how long and oh so relaxed. She’d raked her gaze over his fine physique and with a smile watched him pull the soft cotton down over his finger tousled hair before he’d turned and cupped her cheek for a good morning kiss that had once again led to other things..

Clenching her eyes shut she pushed the image from her mind. The shirt in her hand that smelt of his aftershave (the one she’d bought him last Christmas), the irony tang of blood and fear sweat, held tight as she tried to make sense of all of this and couldn’t.

Drawing in her breath, she gathered her bearing and returned to the task at hand. Peridot eyes swept around the earthen room that for lack of a better word it was what amounted to a cell. Archaic as it was, the place looked like something out of one of the many old war movies she had seen and it was hard to believe that in this day in age people still resorted to them.

Eyes narrowing as something caught her attention across the room behind Scott, she canted her head slightly trying to make out what it was. “Scott, behind you on the table.” She directed with a head nod towards the far corner.

Sitting on a small utility table amidst various discoloured rags and a roll of duct tape rested a folded note address to Scott and a holo-recorder. “What is it?”

“I’m not sure.” Picking up the note, Scott examined both sides of it. His name graced one side of it with thick block letters but other than that it was blank. Furrowing his brows he turned his attention to the recorder and powered it up, the small piece of tech casting odd shadows about the cell walls as it started to play some pre-recorded video.

Within seconds Scott’s face went from confusion to a look of abject terror that found Kayo instantly at his side having no idea she’d even made a conscious decision to move. The look in his eyes had her heart stuttering and relocating somewhere North of her chest.

“Scott…?”

Instantly everything else in the room suddenly dissolved, like someone had hit the dimmer switch on the rest of the world. Sound took on a tinny quality and faded into nothingness. Her panic breath and what she was looking at now the only things that seemed to registered in the vacuum.

There on the screen was an image of Virgil, bound to a chair and bereft of his uniform. He was blindfolded, the dark material obscuring part of his face but she knew it was him. She knew intimately that slumped form and the filthy cloth did little to mask the angry bruises and sluggishly oozing blood.

Off screen a modulated voice spoke and Kayo heard it as if it was distorted by some great distance. Movement in the back of the recording drew her eyes as a darkly dressed form came into frame behind the battered pilot. The camera at such an angle that the body of the person was cut off above the shoulders masking their identity.

Virgil’s limp head was yanked painfully back by his matted hair, putting his face in the camera lens as a glint of finely honed steel pressed into the soft skin at his throat. A small nick with the blade let forth a small trickle of blood but by the lack of response and the lax, bloody mouth it was obvious he was unconscious.

Biting back a growl at the mistreatment Kayo didn’t dare blink or look away as she prayed for Virgil to show some sign of life. Anything to set the world in motion again. The poor quality of the holo hampering the search but than the faintest of movements caught her eye and made her breath hitch and her heart gave a mighty kick in her chest.

There, under the ruddy skin along his stubbled jaw, straining awkwardly due to the thrust of his head was a laggy pulse of life at his jugular

“He’s alive.” She thought she heard herself say, not realizing as she began to shiver just how worried she’d been that she would have found something else down here.

The brother beside her cursed and sagged back against her. “Oh god…”

And just like that everything came into sharp focus again and sound returned. Along with it like the rush of a burst dam a surge of anger coursed through her and immediately she registered what the digitally obscured voice was saying.

The robotic cadence crackled through the little speaker of the recorder. “Tracy, meet my demands and your Brother will live. No security, no GDF..if not...” The voice trailed off as another unidentifiable figure came into frame and with a rough hand bared down on Virgil’s shoulder. The scream that the action ripped from Virgil’s split, bloody lips and his body’s shuttered contortion of pain had Kayo nails biting into her palm in anger.

The warped laugh that followed the torturous sound was sinister and laced with an edge of madness, “We’ll be in contact.” A chuckle and the screen went dark.

TBC

#thunderbirds fanfiction #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds 2015 #thunderbird two #Virgil Tracy #kayo kyrano #scott tracy #john tracy #virgil/kayo #gdf

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jcmorgenstern · 4 years

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"#hey where's the fic where chaotic bisexuals jace and clary are in a relationship with clary's estranged brother's foster mom#literally lease my crops are DYING i NEED cougar lilith i NEED#(mundane AU 20k rated M or E) #im gonna have to write it myself arent i" // perhaps Lilith is beside herself over Jonathan leaving, and this is a chance to feel closer to him through people important to him. perhaps I love this idea.

tags from this post (thank you anon!!! i went a little fucking crazy and wrote this which is entirely unedited.....rip in pieces)

It had been a year and a half since she had seen Jonathan last. He had been hers in all the ways that mattered (but never flesh and blood) until he wasn’t, a stabilizing weight by her side cut loose. Sudden as that, she was in freefall. A prestigious editorship at a major fashion magazine turned to ball and chain, the envied life of a socialite the vanity of a mere woman, a luxurious New York loft to the dreaded empty nest. At her third strong drink in an evening, she could feel the thin coat of dust layering her womb, a mausoleum. Her son and one frivolous argument too many did what scores of small men had tried and failed to do.

On balance, she supposed she ought to proud it took her this long for the bland Promethean cycle of waking-working-talking-eating-sleeping-repeat to wear her down, and ashamed she gave in at all. A good mother, she knew, would never be caught where she is now--standing out in an ill-fitting tinsel dress she wouldn’t have been caught dead in two years ago, avoiding the eyes of men too young for her (beneath her) in favor of one in particular.

I only want to look, she’d told herself as she’d scrabbled at the bottom of her purse (Himalaya Birkin, years out of style, a metaphor dangling in crocodile skin off her arm) for her keys. Just to see. Get close. Watch.

It had been complete coincidence that she’d found out about the art exhibit in the first place. An invite to a wretched student affair from a once-great school grasping for relevance in the cynical age of the internet stuffed in with her morning mail delivery, ordinarily not worth a second more of her attention than it took to sweep it into the trash. The name was what caught her attention, an instinctive flash in the pan--Fairchild.

He didn’t go by Fairchild, of course. He was a man, and why would a man wear anything but the name of another man? At the threshold of adulthood, Jonathan shed the vile name of the woman who had given him up in favor of a ghost of a father. Her own, she realized now, had never been in the running. And so he called himself Morgenstern, an ugly name sealing him off from her like foreign territory. Morgenstern had a terrible finality to it.

She didn’t answer a single email or call the rest of the morning, snapping at any EA foolhardy enough to raise a word against her. By noon, she knew the girl and her boyfriend from smiling model pictures on Instagram, incomplete snippets of life from Facebook and Twitter. The wordless temptation finally had a face and a name and an achingly familiar mane of red hair. Fairchild was the name of his sister by blood, the girl for whom his birth mother had scraped together enough love to keep.

She picked the weaker link first--the blond. Men gave themselves away more easily than women, basking in every oozing ounce of attention. She took his measure in-between smiles and small conversations, observing him over the shoulders of conversational partners she took no interest in. Well-built, handsome, artfully disarranged hair, a James Dean sort of affable. The type girls wished for long after he’d moved on from her entirely. She could see him in the glossy pages of a fashion magazine and allowed herself to hate him, dip the fashionable one syllable of his white-hipster name in poison. Jace.

The second hour she allowed herself closer, indulged in scratching the surface. Uncomfortable in worn jeans and leather jacket surrounded by talk of Bosch, Mondrian, Xiaodong, he was here for his girlfriend, treading water in the art world to lend her a familiar face. He flirted with the girl at the bar more out of obligation than interest, reading off his come here often? lines stiff and atonal. By the time she drifted up beside him at the bar, she had given him enough nuance she could have convinced herself to like him.

“I don’t suppose you could get me one of those?”

It came out easy, like slipping into clothes from another life. Her first job as waitress faking pretty rouged smiles through propositions and comments and ass-pinches, or her first magazine internship weathering the same. He was drinking beer, and she couldn’t stand beer, but men had a peculiar weakness for women who drank their own kinds of drink.

He turned, bemusement turning to something else as she deliberately met his gaze. He was lovely up close, and all in a dizzying rush she felt the barest spark of that indescribable satisfaction she’d been chasing, found the ghost of Jonathan’s angular features in the broader contours of his face. His too-polite smile broke the spell. “I’d love to, but I don’t think my girlfriend would like that very much.”

The waitress smile slipped off. Put him in his place. “It just seems you’re the only one who can get any service around here.”

His smile turned instantly sheepish. “Oh, uh--sorry.” A quick word with the bartender, and soon she had her very own mug of alcoholic piss. He visibly cast about for a line of conversation, and it raised her ire that she couldn’t tell if he did it out of flirtation or pity. “Are you with the gallery?”

“Oh, no. I’m with Poise magazine. We like to browse local shows for rising talent. Keeps us fresh.” She gave a half-flicker of lash at fresh. The cover story was self-indulgent--the answer she gave only mattered to herself. She wasn’t searching for her son where she knew he wouldn’t be found. The flirtation was by rote. “Are you an artist? We’re always doing submission intake.”

It was an old and familiar lie. General licensure was the best any hopeful would get without prior connections.

“Me? No way.” He was warming up to her, rising to her charm like a snake from a basket. How old was he? He couldn’t even be half her age. “Clar--my girlfriend, she’s the artist. I’m here for her.”

For her, not with her. There was a distinction. She cued up the smile she used for interviews. “That’s lovely. What kind of artist?”

“A painter.” For a second, Jace’s expression was almost shy. “She landed the art school gig, but her mom taught her. It’s kind of her last connection to her, you know? Painting keeps her mom alive.”

The enormity of his statement quavered between them like a note from a tuning fork struck on an edge. She felt her expression flicker and melt like wax--Jocelyn was dead. Was it cancer, murder, a hit-and-run? Half-thoughts spooled out in her imagination, part vindictive and part lurid. Did he know? Did he think of her the day he learned she was dead, wish for her to put her arms around him and let him cry into her? She savored the imaginary heat of his short, hitched exhales on her neck, the precious hot droplets of salt falling on her skin.

“Oh god, I’m sorry, I’m an ass,” Jace was babbling. “Did you--have you lost a parent too?”

For a moment, she could have laughed at him. Her father was buried, her mother entombed in a home somewhere conveniently out of mind. With a strange, electric jolt she realized he had assigned her fallen expression to the closest thing at hand, unbiased by that all-encompassing occupation: mother. A mother must have lost a child; a person could lose a parent a lover or a friend. It had been so very long since she’d been seen as anything but.

“Jace! JaceJaceJace--there you are!”

A mess of red-gold curls bounded by her to plant a messy wet kiss to Jace’s cheek. They kissed, young dewy-skinned and unabashed, and she watched with a feeling unlike Jonathan creeping on the edge of her thoughts. Jace broke away first, pulling her back into conversation. “This is, uh, Clary. Clary, this is--” he broke off, embarrassed.

Clary spluttered in the middle of knocking back the last of a sidecar, whipping around to stare at her with something wide-eyed and akin to wonder. “Don’t you--? Don’t you know who she is? Editor at Poise? The Lilith?”

“Not exactly,” Jace admitted.

Clary paid him no mind, cocktail glass immediately moored at the bar. She looked up at her and once she saw past the stars winking in the girl’s eyes, she could see they were the same soft hazel as her brother’s. Clary was drunk, and brimming with it from her ugly artistic blouse to her blunt art-student-lesbian bangs to the untamed curl of her hair. “It’s really you,” she gushed. “I’ve been following your blog forever, and your twitter--I’m being so embarrassing, aren’t I? Can I...can I have a picture?”

Lilith disliked her with a magnetism that pulled the girl in close, letting Clary slip an arm around her waist and hold up a phone too big for her small, delicate-boned hands. In the phone’s screen she could see herself frozen in real time, her red lips lifting in a waxen smile. Next to the peach-fuzz facewash-clean of Clary’s skin, her fashionable makeup and Oscar de la Renta dress looked old and severe, black and gold metals oozing out of her like a snake shedding skin.

“You were my first-ever crush,” Clary was saying with tipsy candor, and with a strange bump Lilith realized Clary was talking to her, not her boyfriend. Her words rushed out in a graceless rush, difficult to make out over the music and wordless chatter drowning her in a dull roar. “I’d spend hours cutting out your photoshoots from magazines, making collages--it drove mom crazy, all those internalized gender roles and whatever. She realized later I just thought you were really hot.”

The full blushing import of Clary’s words hit them all at once and Clary flushed a blotchy pink all the way to the roots of her hair and touched her free hand to her cheek. “Oh my god, I’m fucking drunk.”

Lilith became suddenly aware her hand was still on Clary’s warm waist, trapped under her arm. This was all unscripted, unrehearsed; she felt as flustered as Clary looked, thrown off by the noise and the heat and the alcohol she hadn’t even drank. She was wearing perfume, something cheap and cloying, and in a strange moment Lilith could imagine Clary spread out over a glossy page, slim peachy legs and delicate collarbones bold and daring out from under the heavy drape of a dark dress.

She reached for something cutting to take the girl down to size, but what came out instead was a genteel, “That’s very flattering.”

Clary gave her a pinched little smile in return, the very pink tip of her tongue darting over her bottom lip, and her blush did not abate. Lilith looked to Jace, who was looking between them with something uncertain in his eyes.

A strange, smouldering sensation had risen in her chest, thick and suffocating as a plume of smoke. Her hand did not so much as tremble when she raised a hand to tuck away a stray curl, the color so much lighter when it caught the light. Clary’s face swam before her eyes, raw and pink from crying over her dead mother.

“You’re very sweet,” she said, and there was a husky quality to her voice that only came on with one or two glasses of red wine. Her heart was pounding out a dull, insistent throb rising in time with a painful lump in her throat.

Her phone vibrated in her bag, breaking the spell with a start. She pulled away to relieve the sudden alcoholic flush and dug into her bag with utter disregard for her nails, feeling for the familiar cool rectangle of her phone. When at last she managed to disentangle herself citing creative emergencies needing her immediate attention and a whole host of familiar excuses, it was only then she realized on habit she’d given Clary her card.

The taxi ride back to her apartment was blissfully silent, dark except for the rising crests of light along the near-silent streets. Her own face hovered ghostly in the window, close enough to touch. Her fingertips met glass with a flash of red-gold and her eyes seared with a sudden heat, the ache in her sternum widening.

Her thoughts lingered on him as she greeted the front desk clerk, beside her in physical form in the elevator, hovering at the margins like a melancholy raincloud as she launched into her nighttime routine. Squalane cleanser to remove makeup, wash face before an exfoliant chemical blend, a layer of hydralaunic acid and then niacinamide to hydrate, an retinol under-eye cream to top it all off. The ritual grip of her thoughts relinquished only once she’d folded herself under the covers in her nightclothes, receding as she fell into the uneasy lull of sleep.

This time, the thought of him was mixed with traces of red and gold.

#my writing #clary/jace/lilith #idk how to tag this ghskldjfhg #crispy chat #friend anon #ps poise magazine is 100% taken outright from 13 going on 30 im a classy bitch up in this establishment

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whatdoyouexpectthistime · 4 years

Text

Blood Spatter - Part 8

Part 1 : Part 2 : Part 3 : Part 4: Part 5 : Part 6 : Part 7

________________________________

It’s with both joy and dread I approach the exterior of Pale. Jazz on one side and that pathetic excuse for a vampire on the other, I should feel at least half way supported, but the fact is I’m heading into the storm otherwise known as Sebastian.

Knowing all I do now, this will be far from smooth sailing.

“Relax,” Kiril instructs.

In my peripheral vision I see his hand lift like he might have placed it against me, but it drops to his side again.

“Just shut up and make sure you don’t aggravate him,” I drop flatly, side-stepping a little closer to Jazz.

“My very presence aggravates him,” he points out, and I hardly disagree.

“There’s a bit of that going around,” I grate, and Jazz takes my hand.

“Don’t leave my sight,” he volleys coldly, and at this I stop and look at him.

“I am not your pet,” I tell him sternly. “And since you made it perfectly clear I’m not girlfriend material, you’re only my shadow for as long as it takes to break this spell – then, you can rid yourself of any concern of me.”

“Twenty minutes and you are tearing at your skin like a deranged junkie,” he points out, and while he’s right, it doesn’t excuse giving me orders, nor the tone in which they are issued.

“Just sit your ass in a booth and don’t move,” I tell him. “I have a business to run and I don’t need a supervisor.”

“Jazz?” a female voice inquires, and all eyes turn to where Selina has come out to open the club’s front doors. “Jazz and Miho! You found her!”

The young woman’s excitement is palpable, though in honesty we don’t know each other well. I can only think it’s transference: Sebastian’s constant worry.

“Yep, found her,” I confirm, linking arms with Jazz and approaching with a smile.

“Seb’s going to be thrilled,” Selina grins, holding the door open for us, and her smile only widens as she spies Kiril who follows in our wake.

All the scents, the sounds of Pale wakening in the evening, serve as a momentary distraction from the impending clash I anticipate. Sebastian will be glad to see both me and Jazz, but not the one stalking my trail. Luckily, there are no patrons.

And that is even before our regular employees demand explanations, or at the very least a recount of our ‘holiday’.

If I don’t take control, I just know I’m going to end up repeating myself a thousand times, and I want our return to be a celebration, not the continuation of a particularly challenging day.

Of course, Sebastian demands the full force of my attention the moment he lays eyes upon me, even more so when Kiril makes a point of standing close at my shoulder, but the rise of my hand calls everyone gathered to silence.

“We’re back, thanks for your patience and the warm welcome,” I declare, and the smile on my lips is genuine.

It feels odd.

Yet a bit sad.

“No doubt Mieke and Sebastian – along with all of you - have done an excellent job in our absence, and for that Jazz and I are both thankful,” I continue, avoiding Sebastian’s gaze altogether, because in them I know there are questions I shall not answer here.

Well wishes and a little bit of jealousy precedes my path upstairs – how lucky Jazz was to win a vacation; how glad they all are we’re back and all is explained – but the moment Sebastian closes the office door it’s like a guillotine beheads the joyful atmosphere.

It rolls across the floor and comes to a stop at my feet.

“Lottery vacation? That’s the best story you could concoct?” Sebastian scoffs.

Clearly, he’s having difficulty deciding who to glare at because his stare dances between Kiril and me. Jazz seems to be spared his ire.

“Not everyone needs to know the ins and outs of our personal lives,” I point out, trying to keep the irritation from spilling out; it is – after all – not all on account of him.

“I’m not everyone,” he counters quickly, finger-pointing in a stabbing gesture. “And I know who he is, and his persisting presence here is not only bad for business, he’s bad for you.”

“You are welcome for my assistance in the safe return for your friend,” Kiril pipes up, and it’s obvious he’s doing it to add fuel to the fire.

“Were it not for you and yours no doubt she’d not have needed saving in the first place!” Sebastian blurts.

Immediately I can see him calculating ways to explain what he means without revealing the truth.

“And, pray tell, what are me and mine?” Kiril drawls, approaching the other man until I hold my arm out to stop him.

“Ruthlessness,” Sebastian spits. “Dangerous, provocative manipulators who get what they want at the expense of others – you’re not wanted nor welcome here so take your…”

“The invitation of Miho and Jazz would suggest otherwise,” Kiril notes airily, not attempting to force his way through my flimsy barricade.

He’s getting what he wants.

Again.

“Stop it, Kiril,” I snap, giving him an ineffectual shove.

“Stop what, Sparrow?” he smiles infuriatingly.

This time the shot is at me, a bullet with a message on it aimed at centre mass; Sparrow may have begun as some teasing term of endearment, but now it sounds like a way for him to disconnect.

“Look, Sebastian,” I level, trying to keep my calm, trying not to sound condescending. “I know you don’t like the guy, but for the time being he’ll be hanging around.”

“Why?” Sebastian challenges, shifting his feet.

Obviously, his anger is riled by this. The suspicion in his eyes begins to burn.

“What did you do?” he hisses at Kiril, his fists clenching in warning a physical confrontation might be imminent.

“Other than offer my wealth and resources to find Miss Mann? Nothing,” Kiril answers glibly, even though that isn’t entirely the truth.

“Miho,” Sebastian prompts, sliding forward and slipping his fingers against my throat, tucking his palm against the underside of my chin.

The slight pressure he exerts there tells me he’s looking for something very particular.

“What are y…” I begin, but he stumbles away before I can finish thanks to the solid shove Kiril applies to his chest.

A rush of joy floods my system but is quickly dampened by the reality that Sebastian now looks ready to throw punches.

“Stop it!” I shout, planting myself between them. “Enough of this school yard bullshit, just calm the fuck down!”

Glowering fiercely between the two men, I can only pray they don’t push back. Knowing what I do of them both, it’s unlikely I could stop a brawl. Luckily, I’m not on my own.

Jazz finally leaves the window she’d been staring out of and comes to stand a little way in front of me.

“And what have you got to say for yourself?” Sebastian charges.

“You were worried, and I’m sorry for that,” Jazz says slowly, attempting to de-escalate the situation. “And I’m sorry for putting you and Miho in a tough spot…”

“I’m more concerned about the ‘tough spot’ Konstantin Lambert has put you in,” he volleys, his voice low, “and whether Miho was actually able to save you at all.”

“From?” Jazz exhales in exasperation, but Sebastian calls her bluff.

“You think I don’t know a fledgling vampire when I see one?” he barks, and this rhetorical question hangs sharply in the air, a neon sign advertising the blood-sucking cat is out of the bag.

“Maybe I thought you’d be able to put our friendship before the secrets you’ve been keeping!” she snaps back, all calm eluding her.

“If only I could find a way to commercialise this drama,” Kiril thinks aloud, and all eyes fix on him.

“I’d like you and Jazz to give Sebastian and me a chance to talk in private,” I declare firmly, anxious Jazz’s temper might boil over into something else. “We’re not making any progress like this.”

“If Mr. Ross can be trusted alone in your presence,” Kiril baits, amused.

“Get out,” I direct curtly, pointing in the direction Jazz has already stomped. “Do your job and keep an eye on her.”

Surprisingly, Kiril offers no further barbs and even shuts the door gently behind him.

A new silence suffocates the room, until Sebastian asks the question he has wanted to since the moment he saw me return with Kiril.

“Did he turn you?”

“No,” I reply honestly. “And he never tried, despite having every opportunity to do so.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean why, Sebastian?” I scowl, spreading my hands. “And what’s with the accusatory tone, huh? If anyone should be pissed off she was literally left in the dark about vampires, it should be me!”

“So, I should have just shown up for shift one night and said, ‘Oh hey, Miho, did you know half a dozen vampires are regulars at Pale?’ Ironic, right?” he drops sardonically. “I’m sure you’d have believed me.”

“You don’t know what I’d have accepted,” I hiss, beginning to pace. “We’ve been friends for how long? Were intimate how long? And you’ve known about vampires, for how long? No, let me answer that – long enough to find a way to convince me!”

The end of my exclamation is punctuated by the dramatic throw of my hands into the air.

“So, what about how you came upon this knowledge in the first place?” I grunt breathily, hands moving to hips, eyebrows raised.

His lips part, but when no sound emerges for several seconds I go back on the attack.

“It’s a pretty simple question, Sebastian,” I prompt. “All other things on the table…”

That’s a lie.

“It’s in my blood,” he replies finally.

“What is?” I push.

“I’m a hunter,” he admits finally, and I have to think Kiril had known this and chosen not to tell me.

“Explain,” I huff, and Sebastian sighs, running a hand over his face as if in fatigue.

“It’s an inherited thing, very old in its origin,” he expounds. “Hunters are, or were, monster slayers, tracking and destroying creatures that prey upon humans.”

“Were?”

“Things are far more complicated, political now,” he elaborates. “It’s different all over the world, but here in the U.K. the governing hunter body and the vampire leadership have a treaty in place that restricts the activities of both sides, providing rules are upheld by both sides.”

For a moment, I process this.

“No harming humans? No staking vampires at will?” I pose, and he confirms this with a nod. “So you take orders from this ‘governing body’?”

“Uhm, not exactly,” he reveals awkwardly.

“Explain,” I say for the second time.

“Like every organisation it has a mission statement, goals and practices, and after many years in services to questionable ideals, I decided to extricate myself.”

“So you’re a lone wolf,” I surmise. “What is it that you disagree with so much?”

“It’s complicated,” he answered, the same answer for the second time.

“Look, I’ll tell you everything you want to know,” he continues. “But right now I’d like to discuss Jazz.”

“She’s not for hunting,” I assert defensively.

It’s a knee-jerk reaction I can’t help.

“No, no - Jesus, Miho, of course not,” he rushes. “But she is a vampire, yes? Which one was it?”

Forcing my muscles to relax, I respond.

“Konstantin,” I disclose. “She - they - swear it was a mutual decision.”

“And how much do you know about them? The Lamberts?”

“Enough to know Jazz is in deep shit if Konrad ever finds out,” I mutter, finally turning away from him with a heavy sigh.

“And you…” he impresses. “Which is why…”

“I should stay away from Kiril Lambert?” I pre-empt. “Yeah, well, it’s complicated.”

Yeah, how do you like a taste of your own evasive medicine?

It’s with this thought I realise how pointlessly adversarial this conversation has been. Yes, I’m angry he didn’t tell me about the vampires. Yes, that he is a hunter like Kiril says I am, adds one more layer of complexity to the situation I’m stuck in, but making an enemy out of Sebastian isn’t going to help me in any way.

So, I try to let it go.

“Look, Konstantin needs to focus on keeping his father happy, so for the time Kiril has taken on the role of mentor for Jazz,” I tell him, moving to the window to look down into the club.

Below, Jazz is chatting at the bar with a couple of customers. She looks happy, smiling and laughing, and for a moment I can almost forget the mess we’re in.

“I’m not blind,” Sebastian exhales, close behind me. “Lambert looks at you like an object in his collection, a possession.”

Before responding, I scan for the object of Sebastian’s ire. There Kiril sits in a booth - he is not alone. Like a flame he’s drawn beautiful moths to him, women with long legs and commercially perfect bodies, pouty lips and swaying hips.

My teeth clench against the jealousy that raises my temperature.

“And that look on your face…” Sebastian adds.

“It’s disdain,” I fill in. “I know what he is. I know what he does, and I know the dangers. But for now, until Jazz is fully capable of functioning as a vampire without hurting anyone, Kiril is a necessary evil.”

“I’m sorry, okay?” he whispers, his hand coming to rest in the small of my back. “Everything I’ve done has been to try and protect you, even though it may not seem like it.”

“Yeah, I know,” I murmur, quashing the urge to throw him off. “I just want to get back to some semblance of normal.”

But the fact is, normal has been redefined. There is no going back to ‘what was’.

Sebastian is caught between giving me space and wanting to hover, and I feel as if he notices my every glance at Kiril and his bevy of bimbos. Each time, his worry deepens, his hate congeals, but there is nothing I can do about it.

“Hey!” Selina chirps, plopping down on the barstool at my right elbow. “You’ll get wrinkles if you keep frowning like that.”

“Wrinkles are the least of my worries,” I chuckle, swinging around to face her. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Having an open bar is awesome,” she grins, her cheeks flushed with a few too many drinks; I’m surprised she isn’t slurring.

“Don’t drink me out of club and home,” I say, envious of the innocence in her expression. “You want to remember your time here.”

“I know, I will,” she nods. “Remember, not drink too much,” she adds, giggling intermittently. “But what I really want to know is what the deal is between you and Hottie Mc Armani-pants over there.”

Hopefully, Kiril didn’t hear that.

“Don’t make that face,” she pokes, attempting to squish my cheek, but missing by a comfortable margin. “You and he have been making bedroom eyes at each other since you came down.”

There is a denial on my lips, but she’s probably right.

Despite his rejection.

Despite feeling wronged.

Kiril and I cannot help but feel attracted to one another no matter our true feelings.

“I suppose there’s no accounting for taste,” I quip, trying to throw her off any further inquiry.

Selina simply changes.

“What about my brother then, hmm? I thought you two were screwing.”

“We were screwing, yes,” I respond, and I see Kiril look over, his head tilted a little.

“Were?” Selina persisted. “You kick him out?”

“It’s not like that,” I sigh, letting a little of my irritation slip out. “I’ve just had other things to think about.”

“You going to screw him again?”

“What are you? His pimp?” I laugh.

“Matchmaker maybe,” she grins, leaning over at me. “You guys are cute together. I know he’d do anything for you.”

Her pupils are dilated, so dilated, in fact, I can hardly see her irises at all.

“Selina, did you take something?” I inquire, studying her more closely.

“Stop trying to change the subject!” she protests. “Seb looks tense; you should loosen him up, you know, now Jazz is back and everything is fiiiine.”

“Who’s fine?” Sebastian pipes up, appearing behind his sister to look brightly at me.

Brightly is the wrong word.

Cheeky, maybe.

“Your sister isn’t,” I point out. “She is high, and I want to know who supplied her in my club.”

“Pfft, I am not,” she scoffs, but I’m done observing her; now I’m sure. “Come on,” I prompt, getting to my feet and taking her arm. “Point out who gave it to you. Right now.”

“Hang on a minute,” Sebastian reasons, moving around. “Selina wouldn’t…”

There is no denying it, however, when he also gets a good look at her face.

“Take her upstairs,” I instruct. “Mieke can check the cameras while Jazz and I look for anyone else who’s taken something.”

There is no disagreement from him, though Selina protests as she is herded away.

“Perhaps if your head of security was not so preoccupied ogling you, he would have seen the drug dealer in your midst,” Kiril states, close at my shoulder, and I cannot suppress a shudder of desire.

“I don’t need your commentary,” I spit, despite the urge to lean back against him. “I have work to do.”

He just needs to leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone, or I’m going to crack and surrender my dignity, but he just can’t help himself. His hand falls on my shoulder, so hot I want to melt even though his sin is cold, and my shoulder reflexively relaxes beneath his touch.

“God damnit, Kiril!” I bark, whirling around to slap his arm away.

“Yes, Sp…”

My nickname stalls on his lips and I feel a mix of disappointment and triumph; his instinct was to use the pet name, but his stupid pride forces it down. Pride, or whatever it was that made him throw me away like garbage.

“Yes, Miho,” I grate, slathering smugness over my ongoing hurt. “Stay out of my way, or you’ll be the vampire I kill for my awakening.”

It’s an outrageous lie, not even a bluff, but it hits where it is meant to.

Kiril clicked his tongue, a sneer forming in the wake of Miho’s departure. He’d pushed her away – their lust for one another was born in magic after all – and though it had been his choice, it left a sour taste in his mouth where he’d rather have the taste of her.

Irritably, he set his sights on the crowd and began to sift through the throng of gyrating bodies. Locating the origin of the drugs would not be difficult, and he was certain he could identify the perpetrator before Miho and her people could. There were down sides to being a vampire, but the benefits were many – in this case, given Selina Ross’ symptoms, those with elevated heart-rates and heat signatures beyond the wildness of dancing, were clear victims.

But he wasn’t interested in them.

“You, however,” he murmured, zoning in on an individual seemingly like all the others.

No one paid Kiril much attention as he slipped through the gyrating bodies, and sidled right up to his target unnoticed.

“You and I need to chat,” he whispered into the attractive man’s ear, one hand on his forearm.

A flicker of anger sparked in the man’s eyes, but it died swiftly, and his expression softened as Kiril’s thumb brushed against his skin.

By the hand, Kiril led the man across the club, careful to avoid both Miho and her security staff, before letting him out the rear service exit into the dumpster-lined alley.

Click.

He hit the brick wall solidly when Kiril swung him and let go, collapsing in a daze onto the wet asphalt.

Kiril had no words for him; a warning would be pointless when the guy would be dead soon.

“What the hell, man?” the drug dealer sputtered as he pushed up on his elbows, but he was met a moment later with Kiril’s boot stomping against the middle of his chest.

Ribs began to give way.

“Kiril!” Miho barked, bursting through the door, fierce and demanding. “Stop!”

“I will handle this,” Kiril sniffed, satisfied by the snapping sensation beneath his sole.

“You will not!” she opposed, grabbing his arm and attempting to pull him away from his victim. “This is my club – get off him!”

Though she could not make him budge, Kiril was forced to divide his attention a little, especially when Miho began digging her fingernails into his clothing.

“Miho!” he roared in frustration, frustration that she had interrupted his kill, frustrated she didn’t appreciate what he was doing for her, and frustrated that the heat of her physical attempts against him stirred a different yearning.

This combination burst a rarely compromised bubble within him.

He lashed out, and with a swiping motion threw Miho away.

For several seconds she was airborne, flailing in a graceless arc before slamming into the rusted metal side of a dumpster. Flakes of dark blue paint rained down where she landed in a winded, gaping slump, silver dancing in her eyes.

“Damnit,” Kiril growled through his teeth, ending the drug dealer with the precise crush of his heel against the man’s throat.

Blood wafted from where Miho was struggling to lift her chin from the ground - sweet and potent – a call perhaps stronger than the witches’ magic that bound them.

Groggy, dizzy, her whole body crying out, Miho fought to remain conscious and to make sense of what had just transpired.

“Miho? You out here?” Jazz queried, joining the grizzly scene only to gasp.

Miho in a heap.

Kiril approaching her slowly.

Instinct kicked in – not that of a vampire, but that of a sister – and Jazz blurred past Kiril and adopted a shielding posture.

“Don’t,” she snarled, teeth snapping with all the ferocity she could muster.

She was fully aware Miho was bleeding, but some things could transcend the thirst – even that of the newly turned.

“Go back inside,” Kiril commanded, but this only caused Jazz to double down.

“How about you fuck off,” she retorted with rhetorical savagery.

“She is bleeding,” he pointed out. “And you are not entirely in control of your bloodlust. The chance of you causing her harm…”

“Harm like this?” Jazz persisted, helping Miho to slowly sit up while not for a second taking her eye off Kiril.

“It was an… accident!” he roared, his fingers flexing like they were itching to lash out and Jazz saw as much.

“You go and deal with that,” Jazz instructed, pointing to the dead man further up the alley.

Working his jaw, pressing his tongue against the ache of his fangs, Kiril finally moved away with a rumbling curse.

“Can you get up?” Jazz murmured to Miho, who continued to groan.

“Think so.”

With help, leaning heavily on Jazz, Miho managed to get upright, but was swiftly filled with a flush of nauseating warmth. The world tilted one way and then the next, leaving her muscles watery and weak.

Keeping one eye on Miho and the fledgling, Kiril made a quick call then snatched the dead man’s wrist before dragging him carelessly toward the alley’s mouth.

He wanted to be with Miho - needed to know she was okay - but more feverishly, he needed her to understand he never meant to hurt her.

Self-loathing took him completely by surprise. He tried to chalk it up to the witches again, but something gnawed deep down where he hid painful and undesirable truths.

That Jazz might lose control over her bloodlust was another very real concern, but he dared not call upon Konstantin to manage her, lest his relationship be discovered.

There was far too much time for him to think after Miho and Jazz had disappeared, too much time alone in the dimness to contemplate the bloody smear against the dumpster.

Before conscious thought emerged, he’d reached out to touch his fingertips to the wet, already cold. It beckoned him in a way he did not think Jazz would be able to resist. There was no one to see, no one to know if he tasted - just a little - but for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“Master Kiril.”

The feminine voice cut through Kiril’s thoughts despite its low tone, soft but with an undeniable undercurrent of steel, subtle yet definite, resolute.

“Finally,” he muttered, tipping his chin in the direction of a sleek sports car crouched under the streetlights of the main road.

Liana’s silhouette was visible emerging from the dimly lit interior of the driver’s side door, while a pair of dark eyes peeped through from the back seat, large and wide against a pale round face, over a small mouth hanging slightly open.

“It has been some time since you have called us for this purpose,” she noted, stepping silently through the shadows to where Kiril stood and glancing past him to the cadaver. “Could you perhaps not damage people so severely? Kai will learn nothing about the trachea from this… mush.”

“Excuse me for not providing pristine corpses,” he snapped. “This was not planned. Just get rid of him, I have somewhere else to be.”

“You will explain yourself,” she told him plainly but he sent her a look that said she should not push.

He didn’t linger, left the clean-up to Liana and her assistant, who waited at the rear of Kiril’s Jaguar, ready to receive their cargo.

With it wrapped in a body bag, Liana carried it effortlessly down the open street in plain view of the public, but she knew what passers-by would see, and it wasn’t a murder clean-up. Though he was out of sight, Kiril’s illusion persisted, shrouding Liana’s grim task in the visage of an empty London road.

“He didn’t tell you what happened, did he,” Kai stated, helping to fold the body into the narrow confines of the trunk.

“When he has time, he shall,” she assured.

“And Miss Fujiwara?” he persisted.

“I did not see her, but I am sure she is at the centre of this.”

“Hmm,” the diminutive vampire mused. “We need to find a solution more expediently. I’m worried.”

“About?” Liana prompted, closing the trunk and motioning Kai to return to his seat.

“Kiril, how he is with her,” Kai admitted.

When Liana had settled in the driver’s seat, her charge continued.

“He… kisses her - I still find such a thing disgusting - then tells her no, but is desperate to be near her yet doesn’t drink from her? Why? This behaviour is quite illogical, especially for one of such stature as he.”

“Is your seatbelt fastened?”

When Kai nodded, Liana put the car into gear, once again admiring the low, smooth purr of the engine matched by the near effortless handling of the vehicle as it pulled into the traffic flow. It was when they were well onto the thoroughfare home, that Liana glanced into the rearview mirror and picked up on Kai’s earlier query.

“What makes you think illogical behaviour must be exclusive to those of a certain stature, Kai?”

Her tone was almost dry, only the barest lift of one eyebrow an indication otherwise.

“My father may be an unacceptable parental figure, but he is king of the United Kingdom,” Kai explained. “As his second son, does it not behoove Kiril to behave with more… um… more…”

“Decorum?” Liana thought, filling in the blank as Kai struggled to find the word he was looking for. “Consistency?”

“Be more… respectable,” Kai finished finally, and Liana couldn’t help but laugh.

“Not a word I would use to describe him,” she chuckled. “Not now or ever in my knowledge of him.”

But that wasn’t entirely true - she knew he came across as irresponsible, even delinquent, but beneath all the bluster and bravado, Liana had witnessed Kiril do great things for honourable reasons. She had some insight into why he was the way he was, but this was not the face he showed often.

“As far as we know, Miss Fujiwara is not responsible for the spell that binds her to Kiril, so she does not deserve to be treated so discourteously,” Kai asserted, and Liana smiled.

Proud of her ward’s attitude.

“The emotions they are being forced to feel are complicated,” she explained. “And Master Kiril is not used to… being attached.”

In the emergency department of Royal London Hospital, Miho was seen relatively quickly as her scalp continued to bleed.

While this was rectified, Jazz found it impossible to remain, the bloodlust growing in ferocity every second she lingered. Everywhere, there were sources that baited her hunger, invading her senses - and while she had resisted the urge to jump Miho, she knew she couldn’t hold out indefinitely.

In the park outside she fidgeted with her phone, waiting for Sebastian to answer her text message, dying to send one to Konstantin. When Sebastian did reply, it was with a flurry of abuse - not at her of course - but at Kiril for whom he also blamed Selina’s ‘trip’.

Meanwhile, Miho was literally getting her head examined to clear her of skull fractures. As she held her breath as instructed, she played the scene in the alley over in her mind.

“Did I really forget vampires are monsters?” she asked herself, trying her best to ignore the hollowing of her stomach the longer she spent away from Kiril.

“Miss Fujiwara, please try your best not to move,” the radiology technician requested.

“Sorry.”

But it was a pointless apology, when a second later she felt a sharp snap. It sounded all throughout her body and sent her reeling, slumping from her seat to the linoleum, much to the alarm of staff nearby.

Their voices were muffled, drifting in a sparkling miasma and fading tingle of her skin. Even the throbbing of her head took a backseat to the blurry, floating disconnect between her body and consciousness.

“Dying?” she wondered.

Then pain rushed back in a jarring torrent, and she blinked furiously sideways at the nurse beside her.

“...ujiwara?”

A murmuring groan was all she could manage in response, but amid the burning in her head she could not help but notice the absence of something.

“Kiril,” she croaked tearily, but he was gone, no sense of him remaining, no emptiness. “I, I’m okay.”

Sceptically, the nurses helped her back up and began checking her vitals, before continuing with the x-rays.

Miho, meanwhile, searched inward, seeking out remnants of Kiril in her flesh and mind. Though she knew no magic, she was sure the spell that had bound them together had - for some reason - been broken. Perhaps Liana had discovered the cause and managed to counter it, but it came so suddenly, without warning, and if she was honest with herself, she thought they’d have at least warned her.

Surprisingly, there was alarm.

Though being bound to Kiril had caused her heartache and physical pain both, not being connected to him now felt altogether wrong.

It persisted as they talked at her, reported there was no fracture but they’d like to keep her in for observation given her ‘turn’.

“No thanks,” she declined politely, offering the doctor and nurse a lean smile.

Of course they protested, and made her sign a waiver before allowing her to leave.

On her phone, Jazz had left her several messages, including where to meet her.

“What will happen now?” she wondered, slowly crossing the face of the hospital. “He had to stay with you before, even after… but now he won’t have to.”

With the spell broken, that concept should not have bothered her, and as she realised it did, she stopped.

“Fuck,” she dropped, gently touching her temples.

She had definitely not intended… to collapse into unconsciousness.

But that’s what happened.

Part 9

#miho fujiwara #jazz mann #kiril lambert #konstantin lambert #Sebastian Ross #vampire #vampire fiction #OC #original content #witches #spells #fuck #romance #lust #hunter #Blood Spatter

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elulallemant-d · 5 years

Text

Prince Charming

Ch. 2/?

previous parts: 1

summary: in which lucas applies for a job at disneyland and oh my god, the guy who plays prince charming is way too attractive for his own good

read on ao3

———

Lucas immediately regrets his decision.

The reality of it all eventually hit him right after he signed his name by the main desk eoth Basile practically bouncing in the seat by him. After constantly convincing himself he wouldn't work here, one boy he most probably wasn't going to see again ruined it all and changed his mind in the span of a few seconds.

He was just realising it and really regretting it.

That boy was one in the millions of people he saw that day. What were the chances that he’d see him again? The heat of the day was probably getting to Lucas, maybe that’s why he thought Prince Charming was staring at him. Maybe he was far sighted and couldn’t tell he was looking at Lucas.

Yet, he still intrigued Lucas way too much.

After spending a few more hours following Basile around the obnoxiously colourful landscape — and shamelessly keeping an eye out for Prince Charming, but he wouldn’t even admit that to himself — he and the boys were on the train. It was fairly empty aside from a woman and a few students at the far end. It was probably late anyway, considering Lucas wastefully spent his day at Disney Land.

“I still don’t get it,” Arthur squinted his eyes, sitting opposite to Lucas, his elbows resting on his knees as he leaned toward him, “you always make fun of Basile and me working at Disney, but here you are.”

“Mika’s on my ass about paying the rent,” He mumbled.

Basile clapped dramatically, earning a glare from the woman, “God bless Mika,” he praised in a hushed voice.

Lucas rolled his eyes as Basiles exaggerated actions, his dangerous thoughts drifting elsewhere. Elsewhere meant those captivating blue eyes. Lucas spoke before he could stop himself, desperately needing a name to the face practically engraved to his mind.

“Who plays each character?” He questioned subtly, praying that either Basile or Arthur would mention Prince Charming.

“Well, Arthur plays Peter Pan, Daphné, Cinerella,” Basile began, physically ticking off each character with his fingers, “Imane is Tiana, one of our friends, Lucille, she’s Snow White, Manon is Princess Belle—“

Lucas paid less attention with each passing name, mentally ticking off each name that wasn’t Prince Charming. Basile went on, mentioning Disney characters Lucas didn’t even know existed in his life span. He mentioned people he knew from school and people whom he’s heard of from Basile and Arthur, but none of them were the one he wanted.

Eventually, Basile ended his documentary, not a single time mentioning Prince Charming.

“Uh, is that all?” Lucas pushed, getting to the point where he’d just blatantly ask for the name of Prince Charming. He was getting increasingly desperate.

Arthur spoke up before Basile could conclude his confirmation, “No, he forgot Eliott,” Arthur added without thought, but Lucas, on the other hand, prayed this guy— Eliott, was him, “you don’t know him, but he plays Prince Charming.”

Fucking finally!

Eliott.

A pretty face and a pretty name. How was that possibly fair?

“Oh, yeah,” Basile exclaimed, “he’s a cool guy, really chill,” he agreed, stopping for a few seconds, “but he doesn’t come in that much. A few days he’s in and doing really well on the job — he’s great with kids — then he skips like a full week and calls in sick. I don’t know why the manager hasn’t said anything about it. Ir happens so regularly you’d think he’d get a warning or even fired, but nothing really happens.”

Lucas couldn’t pay any less attention to Basiles rambling. All that rang through his head was Eliott.

Why was he so hung up on him? Lucas hasn’t even spoken to him and they possibly made eye contact for approximately half a minute and that’s as much as he got. He didn’t understand why Prince Charm— Eliott. He didn’t understand why Eliott had such a huge impact on him.

Lucas was open with his sexuality, his friends and family knew so he came to a firm conclusion that he just found Eliott attractive. Nothing more. He’s just a random, good-looking guy.

A really attractive guy who Lucas will be working with.

Lucas picked at the tight clothing, uncomfortable with how it hugged his body.

He eyed the white button up in the mirror, mentally noting that Disney probably has a legislation where everyone wears tight clothing. It was simple with a dark and beaten up blue vest on top.

It took him an entire week to get a message from the managers at Disney Land to call him in for what they call a ‘test week’. He already dreaded it. Adding to that, they had casted him as Prince Eric from The Little Mermaid. Lucas scoffed at that, he didn’t even have the right colour hair for that, but apparently they had a hair gel which would harmlessly darken his hair just a bit for the time being.

That’s what he’s been struggling with for the past thirty minutes.

“Fuck,” Lucas cursed under his breath as his hand slipped off the cap for probably the tenth time, struggling to pull the damn thing open. He didn’t blame himself for already failing, considering he was scared this unknown cream could possibly damage his hair and he’d inevitably have to shave it all off.

But that’s a problem for later.

Eventually, after many sad attempts, the cap popped open, the small cylindrical container letting out a strong smell. He grimaced and stared down at the dark substance and stood there for a while, running through thoughts on how he could apply this since there was annoyingly no instructions.

He looked himself in the bright bulb-lit mirror before sticking three fingers into the cold gel and scooping some out, carefully inspecting it. After a few hesitant seconds, he tried applying some to the front tips of his hair, making it stick out in a weird direction, and colouring it way more than what they told him.

He stared at his reflection, frustrated. Just as he was about to try again on another part of his head, a voice new to his knowledge spoke.

“That’s not how you do it,” Lucas jumped, turning to the voice, only to have Prince Charming, Eliott, in his peripheral. He was out of the costume Lucas last saw him in, instead in a casual black sweater and dark blue jeans. How did it still look so good on him?

Eliott. In the same room as him. Lucas had to painfully stop himself from gasping to avoid making himself look like an idiot.

“Uh,” Lucas desperately searched for words all whilst eyeing Eliott up and down, avoiding his eyes, “I’ve never used it before.”

Lucas blatantly awarded himself for the lamest reply ever.

“Clearly,” Eliott laughed softly, pushing himself off the door frame and taking a few steps closer, “if you start from the tips it’ll stick them together.”

“Oh,” was all Lucas could muster, steadying his breath as he finally made eye contact, but only for a second before he abruptly turned back to the mirror. He lowkey needed some confirmation that his face wasn’t a bright red.

He could physically feel Eliotts presence, even though he was a few steps away. A few seconds of silence passed before he turned his head back to Eliott, who was staring at Lucas’ hand with an upturn smile.

“You’ve taken way too much,” he gestured to the generous amount of gel in Lucas’ hands before stepping forward and taking a protion of it into his own, his fingers barely brushing against Lucas’, “only a little on the tips.”

Eliott paused for a second, his eyes meeting Lucas’, as if asking for permission before Lucas nodded softly, refraining himself from doing it too desperately and sudden.

The consequences of his action immediately hit him once Eliott stood behind him, the front of his body almost touching the back of Lucas’.

Eliott smoothed some of the gel between both his hands before raising them and softly digging his hands into Lucas’ hair. He started from the roots, gently massaging them into his scalp before going in a repeated upwards motion.

At this point, Lucas didn’t care if this gel were to burn off every last strand. The feeling of Eliotts hands gently tugging and massaging was way too overwhelming.

“My name’s Eliott, by the way,” He smiled into the mirror, looking at Lucas’ reflection and snapping him out of his trance as he works his fingers through the long strands. Lucas completely forgot that Eliott didn’t know his name and frankly didn’t know Lucas knew his name either.

He really needed to get a hold of himself. He’d spoken to the forms solid minute and made eye contact a few times. It was getting overwhelming at this point.

“Lucas.”

“Nice to meet you, Lucas,” Eliott flashed his smile, the sound of Lucas’ name in his endearing voice was something Lucas wanted to hear repeating, “welcome to the team.”

“I’m not officially part of it, though. I just started ‘trial week’ and I’m not doing a very good job at it,” Lucas gestured at his hair, finding the words gradually flowing out naturally.

Eliott scoffed, “You’ll make it, dont worry. They let attractive people in easily,” he mustered easily, shrugging as if his words didn’t almost make Lucas choke on the pure air he was breathing.

He knew Eliott didn’t necessarily mean anything by that. It was just a mutual comment, something nice someone would say to someone else.

But he couldn’t stop replaying it multiple times in his head, mentally checking he wasn’t losing his sanity and he heard him right.

“All done,” Eliott beamed, his lips curving upwards as his eyes crinkle with his smile. He steps back, leaving the comfy atmosphere he’d created with Lucas an examined his work.

Lucas eyed his hair in the mirror, it was styled differently, in a more curly manner, and was undoubtedly darker. He looked at it for only a moment before looking at Eliotts reflection. He was still inspecting his art work with that mesmerising smile. Smiling looked so unfairly good on him. It really made his eyes stand out and his face glowed so much.

“Thank you,” Lucas grinned in the most casual way he could build up, looking back at his own reflection as soon as Eliott made eye contact with him, “I’m pretty sure I would’ve pulled all my hair out on my own.

“Most probably.”

Lucas gathered every once of courage he could pick up and gradually turned his head to make eye contact with Eliott, who was already looking at him with that sickening smile and glistening eyes.

Eliott steps into Lucas’ personal space, again, and lifted his hand to adjust a small portion of hair between two of his fingers, a crooked smirk evident.

It was nothing special or intimate but Lucas’ heart seemed to be racing at the small action.

He was about to say something before the sound of the door swinging open physically pulled them apart, announcing someone’s arrival.

“Fuck, I’ve been looking for you literally everywhere,” a delicate, high pitched voice immediately spoke followed by the sound of heels clicking against the floor.

Eliott rolled his eyes even before turning around to acknowledge the person speaking, which Lucas might add, was oddly attractive.

A girl walked up to the two of them with an exhausted expression. Her dark brown hair was pulled up into a tight pony tail with a lengthy fringe covering her forehead. She had evident cheekbones and long eyelashes.

“Lucille is looking for you,” the girl eyed Eliott with a serious expression, “you can’t keep leaving every time she asks for you.”

“I don’t owe her anything,” Eliott grumbled, his voice dropping several levels than when he was speaking to Lucas.

The girl squinted her eyes, trying to study Eliott for some type of explanation, “Yeah, you do.”

Lucas patiently waited for his presence to be noticed as he watches her deeply sigh, feeling completely lost and out of place. His eyes dart between this random girl and Eliott, attempting to figure out the relationship between them. Just as he was running his eyes up and down the short girl, trying to make sense of her, she turned towards him.

“You’re Basiles friend, yeah?” She nodded towards his way, catching his eyes.

Lucas nodded reluctantly, regretting wanting the attention diverted back to him. He glanced at Eliott who intently had his eyes on Lucas.

The perky girl left Eliotts side, uncomfortably joining Lucas’ atmosphere with a somewhat suggestive smile.

“I’m Chloé,” she reached a hand out to shake.

“Lucas,” he grabbed ahold of her petite hand, throwing a friendly smile in hopes of ending the conversation here.

It doesn’t end there.

He notices her slowly trailing her eyes over his body in the least friendly way possible, clearly showing some sort of interest.

He wanted to look over to Eliott for help, but once he looked over, the boy was already walking away and Lucas immediately missed his presence, knots growing in his stomach.

He figured this girl had something much more important to do rather than checking Lucas out. Plus, he desperately wanted a way out of this awkward situation. He couldn’t help the fact that he didn’t find girls desirable, but he didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

“Uh, he left,” Lucas points towards the empty space, deciding to let Chloé assume he didn’t know Eliott, “the guy you were looking for.”

She jumped a little, swiftly turning on her heels and acknowledging the missing presence.

“Sorry, I need to get to him,” she apologised sincerely, “but I hope we can talk again sometime.”

Lucas really hopes not, but nonetheless, he nodded, pulling his lips in a tight line as he watched her step backwards and towards the door.

Once she completely left the room, he took a deep breath to recollect himself.

He couldn’t stop thinking about how Eliott looked so much like a Disney Prince throughout the rest of his day.

#axel auriant #eliott demaury #lucas lallemant #elu #maxence danet fauvel #skam #skam fr #skam france #elu fic

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becausetherearestars · 5 years

Text

Sit Down, Lucy Dear

Chapter Ten of Lord Thanatos here

Hadrian stiffened as he sensed his mate walking into the room. His hands tightened around the waist of the girl on his lap. The scent of both his donor and mate in the same room was driving the young Vampire crazy, especially since his mate had not yet been claimed and was surrounded by potential threats.

“Luna this is going to be harder than I thought.” He ran his nose along the line of her neck, breathing in her scent, salivating at the steady beat of her pulse under his touch. An impulsive decision and a quick wave of his hand put a privacy ward around the pair, blocking them out from the rest of the Peverell Manor sitting room.

“You know, my Lord, you could just tell him.” His little moon bared her throat more, drawing a soft growl from Hadrian.

“I will not force this kind of connection on him Luna, you know that,” he said as his fangs dragged along her skin. “He will come to me when he wants me.”

“Of course he will, my Lord.” She gasped as his long fangs pierced her skin. Blood, hot and sweet rushed into Hadrian’s mouth as he sucked at his donor’s pulse. He pulled away after a few mouthfuls, delirious look on his face as he licked the wound closed, pulled down his wards and leaned back in his chair.

Across the room, his beautiful blonde mate looked at the pair with unmasked jealousy written across his face. Hadrian knew he wouldn’t have to wait long before either he or Draco snapped.

Severus was waiting in the Peverell Manor sitting room, surrounded by students he had never even pretended to like, his Lord and two of the least annoying Death Eaters.

Severus was tired.

It had been a very long two days and he had this terrible feeling that whatever Hadrian Peverell had decided to do to wreak havoc on the world would, at some point, involve Severus cleaning up Peverell’s mess or saving his stupid hide. Again.

Severus was, however, dedicated to the Dark and the Dark Lord’s goals. And if his Lord believed that Hadrian Peverell would be instrumental in achieving those goals, Severus would do as he was told. It was what he was best at, after all.

And if Albus Dumbledore came away from this with barely a scrap of his current power and social standing, Severus would be an extremely contented man.

Sitting next to Severus on a large bronze and blue couch was one of the only people Severus would think to call friend, Lucius Malfoy. Severus was intimately acquainted with the less than stellar aspects of Lucius’ personality and therefore was not remotely surprised when the blonde man stood up suddenly and pointed an accusing finger at Hadrian Peverell. An extremely stupid thing to do in Severus’ eyes, considering said Vampire was currently in the presence of his Donor and his inner circle. Threatening Vampires in front of what they considered theirs was, generally, just a horrible idea if you wished to keep your blood inside your veins.

“I need some explanations,” Lucius said bluntly and Severus wondered, not for the first time, how this man made it into Slytherin. He could see Draco a few chairs over thinking something similar and felt a surge of pride for his godson. He was much more sensible than his father.

Peverell, who had been in a deep discussion with Barty Crouch Jr., of all people, while he wasn’t not-so-secretly draining the blood out of Lovegood, turned from the younger Death Eater and raised a hand to quell Crouch’s snarl in Lucius’ direction. “Yes, Lucy dear, what can I explain for you?”

The Malfoy Lord’s face flared at the nickname and Severus was amused to note the Dark Lord snorting into his whiskey glass, clearly enjoying the entertainment. Even though the Dark Lord was back to being as sane as he was when Severus pledged his loyalty, if not saner, the Dark Lord still enjoyed the humiliation of his followers every now and then. Or maybe it was just Lucius.

“You!” Lucius spluttered out and Severus could see Draco’s face getting increasingly more mortified. His father was about to make a fool of himself. “How did you do this?” he gestured wildly around the room, “Do you really expect me to believe you have been deceiving us all this time?”

Severus thought that, yes, Peverell had most likely been deceiving them all this time and that he, along with the entire wizarding world, had severely underestimated the wrath of an intelligent and powerful young man. Severus was glad to be on Peverell’s good side and was not going to be doing anything, any time soon to change that position. No matter how much he hated the boy’s father.

“Well Lucy,” Peverell drawled, a hint of a growl lacing his voice. “As I have proven to you already, you don’t know me.” The arm wrapped protectively around the Lovegood girl tightened and Peverell’s eyes flicked briefly to Draco.

“As far as I can see, the likelihood of me deceiving you of all people, and getting away with it, is considerably more likely than your ego is able to admit. So, I will ignore this rude outburst and kindly ask you to return to your seat before you see what threatening me in the presence of those that are mine will do to you.”

Severus noticed the young Vampire’s eyes flick to Draco yet again and a sense of dread worked its way into his stomach. He had a feeling Peverell knew exactly who his mate was and was going to be especially irritable until that bond was claimed. Lucius was sure to be on the receiving end of a lot of Vampire ire when Draco was around if he continued to deny Peverell’s authority.

Lucius sat back stiffly on the couch and glared at the young Vampire, shrinking back slightly when a growl rippled through the air. Severus did not fail to notice the slight blush that appeared on Draco’s cheeks at the show of dominance the Vampire displayed and knew there was already nothing he could do to stop his godson from eventually bonding with, possibly, the most powerful creature in the world. At least he couldn’t aim any higher.

“Perhaps, Hadrian, we should explain a little more before poor Lucius here loses his head?” the Dark Lord said, unsuccessfully hiding his smirk behind his whiskey glass once again. Lucius shrunk further back into the couch as he remembered the Dark Lord was present in the room for his outburst. Severus wanted to pity his friend, but couldn’t deny that Lucius got himself into these situations all on his own.

“Are all those things people talk about true?” Draco asked. “Like did you really stab a Basilisk with the sword of Gryffindor?” Severus was admittedly quite excited to find out what the Golden Boy had actually got up to during his years at Hogwarts. People worshiped the ground he walked on and, despite the proof sitting in front of him that Hadrian Peverell was nothing short of brilliant genetically, Severus wanted to know what more Dumbledore had been hiding from him concerning the boy.

“Well,” Peverell started, “there was the Philosopher’s stone in first year. Dumbledore had it all planned out to trap Tom and test me at the same time, but he obviously didn’t count on me having a mind of my own.”

“I managed to make a cheap replica of the stone, steal the real one and get a vow of non-combatants from old grumpy-face here all before Christmas. The test at the end of the year was all for show and I’m honestly still baffled that the man was so completely fooled by an eleven year old and a clinically insane wraith. He really is getting old.”

Looks of approval were shared through the room. “You made a Philosopher’s stone that was convincing enough to fool Dumbledore?” Severus said, looking at Peverell like he had never seen him before, and in truth he probably hadn’t. He had realised in the past two days that the Harry Potter Dumbledore had essentially described for the world was nothing like the young man in front of him.

“Well yeah, but it never would have worked as one.”

Severus didn’t even want to think about the dismissive tone Peverell used when saying that. This boy always managed to give him a headache, secret prodigy or not.

“Second year was all Lucius really, wasn’t it Tom?” Hadrian said. Eyes full of mischief as the Malfoy Lord paled considerably and shrunk even further into the couch. Severus decided that he needed to have a chat with Narcissa. They needed to keep a closer eye on the blonde prat before he got himself killed.

“Indeed,” Tom said, “he should be exceedingly grateful that you and I were working together already because that year could have ended very painfully for him.” Lucius glanced at Peverell with, what was probably a pleading look, and Peverell couldn’t help but laugh.

“Yes, well, I had a wonderful time conversing with your diary my dear and, even though I had to deal with the major temper tantrum at the end of the year, I have to say it’s one of the most engaging conversations I’ve had with you.”

Gasps came from both Malfoys and Severus who were shocked beyond belief that someone would dare talk to their Lord in that manner. Barty just smothered an amused snort, slightly more used to the way the two Lords interacted, but never willing to incur either of their wraths.

Severus noted that Peverell’s followers were gazing at the Vampire with awe in their eyes. There was no doubt that the boy had them completely in his pocket and he wondered if this was what it was like when the Dark Lord himself was at school. What a terrifying thought indeed.

“I never did kill the basilisk, Draco, but I did find the sword of Gryffindor while I was down in the Chamber.” Peverell said gazing intently at Severus’ godson with a look in his eye that confirmed his earlier suspicions. He was going to have to look out for anyone that would become a threat to the blonde boy, lest he have to deal with a potentially homicidal and extremely protective Vampire. “I’ll show them both to you one day, if you like?”

Draco nodded emphatically and Severus sent up a prayer to whatever gods were listening that the world would survive Hadrian Peverell and Draco Malfoy working together.

“Third year was a clusterfuck completely the fault of Peter fucking Pettegrew.” Peverell snarled and Severus had to agree with him on that one. The little rat was possibly the most hated man in all of magical Britain for all the trouble he’d caused. “Can I have him by the way?” Peverell asked, turning to the Dark Lord with a questioning look.

“He’s already in the dungeons waiting for you, my dear,” the Dark Lord said with a smile that could cut diamond. Peverell only smiled back just as sharply.

He adjusted Lovegood’s position on his lap and began talking to the room again. “Tom had begun sending me nutrient potions and food the summer before so I was stronger that year than the ones before. The Dementors were a pain though.” Peverell said and Severus was once again hit by the realisation that he had been brewing potions for the boy for a very long time, and was likely one of the only reasons he was alive and healthy right now. It was a strange feeling for Severus and he wasn’t sure how to feel after so long actively hating the brat.

“I found out Pettegrew was the traitor from Tom the year before and had no idea why my godfather was so intent on getting in to Hogwarts until I saw the stupid rat’s name on the Map.”

“What map?” Draco asked and Severus was glad he wasn’t the only one who picked up on that and wanted to know more. He didn’t want to seem curious after all.

“My fathers, Remus Lupin and Pettegrew made a map of Hogwarts when they were in school. It shows not only where everything is, including secret passageways and whatnot, but also where every person in the castle is. It can’t be fooled by polyjuice, animagi or invisibility cloaks and is really quite handy at insulting people.” The stupid brat had the audacity to wink at Severus then and he had the quell the instinctive urge to take ten points from Gryffindor.

“I can still confiscate items when we get back to Hogwarts, brat,” Severus said to the bane of his existence. “And give you detention.” He added just because he could.

“Ah, but Severus, then I wouldn’t let you use it,” the boy smirked at him and damn if he wasn’t a little bit tempted. “And what would be the fun in that?” Severus scoffed dismissively but said no more on the matter undoubtedly confirming his desire to see, and thus use, the possibly ingenious creation of the thrice damned Marauders.

“That year ended as all others have, with a showdown between that year’s ‘great threat’ and my ‘friends’. The Weasel, Granger and I ended up following Pettegrew and my godfather to the Shrieking Shack where my information from Tom was confirmed and Pettegrew was revealed to the rest of the Golden Trio. We were interrupted by Lupin and Severus and it all went to shit from there.”

Peverell looked a little exasperated, and Severus really couldn’t blame him. If he had gone through half of the ‘challenges’ Albus Dumbledore had put the boy through, he’d be a little exasperated too. Perhaps more so, but he doubted he was seeing all of Peverell’s emotions right now.

“We decided to take everyone up to the castle to sort everything out legally and then the full moon came out. Lupin is a werewolf, you see, and after nearly thirty years of taking the wolfsbane potion every full moon, without fail, he ‘forgot’ that night.” Severus’ eyebrows rose, he hadn’t thought of that. He’d always been too busy disliking the wolf on principle.

“I’m convinced Dumbledore had some interference, and knew exactly what was going on in the Shack, because after being attacked by a werewolf and ambushed by over a hundred Dementors, Dumbledore sent me and Granger back in time to save a Hippogriff and an Azkaban escapee. Both of whom could have been saved by Albus-I-hold-a-position-on-every-board-imaginable-Dumbledore with little effort on his part. In fact, I have all but confirmed that Sirius wasn’t allowed to be free in Dumbledore’s eyes because it meant I would legally have a closer blood relative than the Dursley’s.”

Lucius looked shocked and Severus hoped he wasn’t going to say something stupid again. “Sirius Black is a blood relative of yours?” Draco looked intrigued as well but Severus noted that everyone else in the room seemed to know what this meant. He hated being in the dark like this.

“Yes, my Grandmother was a Black from the main line. And, when I was born, Sirius blood adopted me and named me his heir. He knew even then that he would produce no heirs himself and I have always been like a son to him.”

Lucius looked enraged again. Severus really had no idea why this made any difference to the man’s life, or why it made him angry, despite the knowledge there was a child who shared blood and genetics with the stupid Black mutt. “You’re the Black heir?” Severus’ blonde disaster of a friend said incredulously and Severus had to stop himself from lowering his head into his hands and groaning in despair. Lucius really was too prideful sometimes. He had no right to his wife’s former family’s title despite his insistence.

The haughty look Peverell sported now told Severus exactly how he felt about his inheritance being questioned by a Lord of lower standing. “No, Lucius,” the young Vampire purred, “I’m the Black Lord.”

The blonde was standing up again before Severus could stop him, his face contorted in rage. “You don’t deserve such a title,” he sneered and Peverell just leaned back in his seat seemingly at ease with the situation. Despite this, Severus could see the tenseness of his shoulders and was sure the Vampire would be at Lucius’ throat within a second if he were pushed too far. “That title belongs to my son, not some filthy halfblood.”

The room was silent except for the slightly ragged breathing coming from the Malfoy Lord. Severus was shocked. He could see Draco was shocked too.

As was the Dark Lord. And Peverell’s followers.

Barty looked positively murderous.

Hadrian Peverell did something completely unexpected. He laughed.

A loud, probably genuine laugh that seemed to increase the tension in the room rather than ease it.

“Is that right, Lucius?” Peverell said, his voice turning dangerous as he passed the Lovegood girl to Barty and finally stood. He was taller that Lucius only by a centimetre or two but he seemed to tower over the Malfoy Lord as his magic whipped around him. “I have purer blood than you could ever hope to have, Lord Malfoy.” The title was said with such condescension that Severus would bet his best cauldron even Lucius could pick up on it.

“I have the blood of a Most Noble and three Most Ancient and Noble Houses running through my veins and I am the Lord of all four of them. You speak to me as if I am below you, but one word from me and your family name becomes synonymous with dirt throughout the British Isles. Every name I hold is older and richer and more respected than the Malfoy name and, if you push me Lucius, I have thousands of years to watch as every Malfoy who thinks themselves better than me falls. And they will know it is all your fault.”

Severus watched as his friend’s face got considerably paler as Lord Peverell continued to talk. He re-organised his mental schedule to make sure he spoke to Narcissa as soon as possible. He didn’t think Peverell would ruin Draco but he had to make sure Lucius knew his place.

“I am a full-blooded Living Vampire and therefore the literal top of the magical hierarchy, Lucius. So much more than the diluted Veela blood you try to hide from the world while you preach blood purity like you aren’t a hypocritical idiot who doesn’t know when to shut his mouth.” Peverell was in Lucius’ face now. Fangs bared, eyes glowing and magic choking the air from the room. Lucius was fucked if he didn’t stand down and Severus hoped he knew that.

“The only reason I haven’t already taken action against your disrespect, Lucius, is because your Lord likes you for some reason that I will never understand. I do not want to ruin your son and the pride he has in your Family name but I will if you continue to push me. Do you understand Lucius?”

Lord Peverell stalked back to his seat and sat in the most elegantly lazy position Severus had ever seen. One ankle crossed over the other leg and arms spread on the arm rests, he looked sculpted by the gods, like a predator wrapped up in the most beautiful and dangerous package they could come up with. Lucius was fucked.

“Yes, my Lord,” Lucius said meekly, attempting to retreat to his seat when Peverell cleared his throat.

“No, Lucius, I think you should address me with my full title tonight.” Peverell said, malice veiled behind a pleasantly sweet expression. Severus thought it was likely more terrifying than the anger he displayed just moments before. “That would be Lord Peverell-Ravenclaw-Black-Potter, to you,” the young Vampire said and Lucius’ eyes widened.

“Heir Slytherin as well if you don’t mind,” the Dark Lord said darkly and Severus was sure Lucius would be facing the wrath of their Lord at some point in the near future. Why he couldn’t just keep his mouth shut and act like a Slytherin, Severus didn’t know.

He sneaked a look at Draco and sighed at the mortified look on the Malfoy heir’s face. Likely he could not believe his Father would lack even a modicum of tact or decorum in any situation. Especially in present company.

Lucius bowed then, low and deep. Just a fraction higher than he usually would for his sworn Lord. His face deathly pale and displaying the full depth of his regret at speaking out of turn. “Yes my Lord Peverell-Ravenclaw-Black-Potter, Heir Slytherin. I apologise.” Peverell nodded his approval and Lucius slunk back to his seat. He was likely to remain silent for the rest of the night.

#lord thanatos #lord voldemort #Harry Potter #luna x harry #harry x draco #Draco Malfoy #Luna Lovegood #lucius malfoy #severus snape #tom riddle #barty crouch jr #fanfiction #my fanfiction #on ao3 #dark harry #albus dumbledore

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itsoktheyowedmemoney · 5 years

Text

Marinette March Day 15: Support

A/N: A mini crossover with Doctor Who. This idea has been swimming in my mind since last week and I thought it could work for one of this month’s submissions. Takes place post-ML Chameleon and post-DW Resolution.

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Marinette did not feel the cool spring breeze prickle her face as she headed out the school doors, her arms loaded with textbooks. It had been another draining day that left her numb to her surroundings. Despite all her efforts in taking the high road as Adrien advised, Lila’s manipulative habits exponentially grew. Every day she would spew out a dozen or so lies that elicited sympathy or admiration from the class. Marinette wound up as a frequent target where Lila painted herself as the victim of her jealous attacks. As if on cue, the students would rush to console the scheming liar while shooting glares at Marinette and shunning her to her corner seat in the back.

It got to the point where she would often wake up on school mornings filled with dread, like someone placed a heavy object on her chest and pressed down, down, down, squeezing every bit of confidence from her spirit. Tikki was a source of comfort that she could turn too, but there was hardly much the Kwami could do for her in the classroom.

She was tired. She was disheartened. She never felt so alone despite being surrounded by the classmates she once called her friends.

And right now, she just wanted to get back home and finish her assignments, then work on her fashion designs. Or maybe play some Ultimate Mecha Strike IV.

At least she managed to avoid Chloe’s hostility today-

The ground beneath her feet vanished as she stumbled on the edge of a step and sent herself flying down the stairs. The books she held spilled out of her arms and onto the sidewalk, one which happened to be her sketchpad –Marinette swore she put it in her backpack, just her luck – landed on the shoes of a very haughty blonde teen.

“Watch it Dupain-Cheng!”

Speak of the devil. The universe was truly conspiring against her.

Chloe snatched the sketchbook from the ground before Marinette could reach out for it.

“Still clumsy as ever, there's really no hope for you,” she said mockingly. “It’s a wonder that you can cross the streets in time before the cars run you over.”

“Give that back Chloe!”

Maybe it was because she found out her favorite makeup brand was discontinuing the mascara she always used. Or maybe it was because the newspapers published a detailed article covering an embezzlement scheme that linked André Bourgeois to a handful of top political officials two weeks ahead of the municipal elections. Whatever the cause was, her merciless behavior worsened the past several days.

“Don't tell me what to do! Or have you forgotten you're rightful place?” She opened the sketchpad and flipped through the pages.

“Oh look Sabrina,” she said as she threw a casual smirk at the red-headed girl standing beside her, “Lots of blank pages. Maybe the clumsiness infected her mind and hands too.”

Marinette felt her insides curl up. The stress of Lila’s torment hindered much of her creativity. She only managed to fully finish a few designs when inspiration struck, which nowadays came few and far in between.

Chloe stopped at a page “This one looks nice. The final work should belong to only the best.” She began pulling the edge of the sheet.

“Oi! What do you think you're doing?!”

Marinette looked to her right. A young woman in dark blue jeans and a grey sweater which was covered by a leather brown jacket approached them with an air of authority. She looked to be of South Asian descent and around Nora’s age, perhaps slightly younger. Her hair cascaded past her shoulders, with two bunches tied up in buns that perched on the sides of her head. She stopped in front of them, briefly hesitating as her eyes swept the scene, before steeling herself.

“What's going on here?” she asked calmly, but firmly.

Judging by her accent, she was not a local. The Dupain-Cheng bakery received plenty of visitors near and far for Marinette to gain a general idea of where a person was from based on the language as well as the way they spoke it.

In this woman’s case, definitely British, but unlikely from London.

“Why do you care?” Chloe sneered at her. “You're don't even go to this school, so it's none of your business.”

The older girl remained unfazed by the vitriol, taking a step to position herself between the two at an angle that shielded Marinette from Chloe’s scorching glare.

“I might not be a student, but we’re not on school grounds right now.” She quickly glanced down at Marinette in concern before returning her gaze on Chloe. “That means I have a right to ask. You’re Chloe, aren't you?”

Chloe seemed taken aback for half a second, only to immediately shrug it off.

“Obviously,” she said with a smug upwards tilt of her chin. “It's about time somebody recognizes my importance as the Princess of Paris, unlike some worthless people. They don't deserve to even hear the name Bourgeois grace upon their ears.”

“Everyone is important Chloe. And what you do isn't about what others deserve, it's what you choose to be. So as the mayor’s daughter, why not choose to be kind right now? Can you do that?”

Chloe paused in bewilderment, then threw out a snide laugh.“Ha, as if I’d take orders from someone like you!” she scoffed, “And what sort of nonsense speech was that? Only losers like you and her would waste time believing that type of garbage.”

The woman merely raised her eyebrows a bit. “If that’s your opinion, then I’m sure you would prefer to get on with the rest of your day away from some so-called loser like me.” She flashed a disarming smile that did not reach her eyes. “You two ladies must have something much more productive already planned on a nice Friday afternoon like this.”

Sabrina peeked from behind her friends shoulder “Yeah Chloe,” she chimed in. “We’re going to be late for you manicure appoint-“

“Oh zip it Sabrina!” the blonde snapped. She narrowed her eyes at the other girl, who remained composed, her face a mask of complete neutrality. A moment passed. Finally, Chloe rolled her eyes and released a huff.

“Whatever, it's not like I was going to stay around any longer.” She turned to leave.

The woman cleared her throat loudly and put out an open hand. “I believe you have something that should be returned to its rightful owner.”

Chloe let out a derisive snort and shoved the sketchpad into her hand.

“Ughh, both of you are utterly ridiculous. Come on Sabrina!”

The girl watched the pair go before turning to Marinette, her expression softening.

“Are you all right?”

Marinette nodded. “I-I’m okay.” She was still trying to process what just occurred. No one in recent memory had the guts to stand up to Chloe in that manner. Most confrontations with the mayor’s daughter ended in tears, frustration, or simmering rage. Her defender on the other hand not only got Chloe to back down, but managed to completely draw the ire away from her original intended mark.

The girl kneeled down to her level. Marinette studied her carefully. She had a calm yet steady demeanor, with deep brown eyes that exuded warmth. Marinette wondered if the girl dealt with these sorts of conflicts often. She certainly seemed experienced in facing a bully like Chloe. Perhaps she too was once a victim of one.

“That Chloe has no idea what she’s talking about,” the girl said gently, “You're not worthless or a loser. She puts people down to make herself feel better. You know that, right?

“Of course,” Marinette stammered with a little laugh. “That's Chloe acting like her usual self as expected.”

The girl frowned a bit, her brows knitted together. “Has she always treated you like that?”

“Yeah, but not just me. She acts that way with pretty much everyone. Don't worry, we're used to it.”

“I see...” Her fingers delicately brushed the surface of the opened sketchpad. “Did you draw these? They're beautiful.”

“Y-yeah, thanks.”

“You have a real talent for fashion you know. I believe you’re going be a great designer someday.”

Marinette felt her cheeks redden slightly. “Really? You think so?”

“I’m positive.” She closed and handed the sketchbook back, her dark eyes twinkling like they held some mysterious secret.

“My name’s Yasmin.” The edge of her lips curved upwards into a smile. “But you can call me Yaz.”

“I'm Marinette. Thanks for helping me out back there.”

“Anytime.” She joined her in gathering up the scattered textbooks, then helped her up. “Do you want me to walk you home? I can carry these books for you if you like. They're not too heavy for me.”

Marinette felt a smile grow on her face to match Yaz’s. “Uh, sure!” She pointed to the direction of the patisserie. “It’s that way.”

She hoped Yaz was in no hurry to go somewhere. Papa should hopefully have a fresh batch of cookies straight out of the oven that they could share together.

As they walked side by side towards the bakery, Marinette felt her heart lighten for the first time in a long while.

#miraculous ladybug #marinette dupain-cheng #marinette march #fanfic crossover #ok so I kinda missed the date but it's still Friday somewhere on this planet right now lol

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fidemcanem · 5 years

Note

❛ ♡ ❜

send ❛ ♡ ❜ to suddenly hug my muse // accepting

@pr0ngs -- cut for length (5K+)

It’s 1971, and Sirius Black is eleven years old.

He’s fluent in French, and proficient in Latin. He’s got all sort of books under his belt ---- treatises on magical theory, histories of the pureblood wizarding families, dense histories and slim essay collections alike ---- though very few voluntarily. He’s been schooled in manners, in acceptable pursuits, in wizard chess and dancing and which fork to use.

His parents deign to see him off onto the train, noses stuck in the air at the crowds around him. “Remember,” his mother tells him, “you are representing this family. I expect you to do whatever is necessary to represent it properly.”

Sirius can hear another boy’s mother in the crowd telling her son to be nice, to make friends, to have a wonderful time, to write home often. He nods, sullenly, but doesn’t object. He’s itching to step away from her, to discover what life is like away from her rules and strictures and scathing, sharp rebukes.

His father merely nods at him. Sirius often feels like his father believes that his sons are not worth his words; he reserves them for his wife, for those who are useful to him. One day, his imperious gaze seems to say, one day you might be worth my time.

Sirius hugs Regulus, but neither of his parents, ignoring his mother’s impatient tsk.

And then he’s on the train, pushing through a sea of nervous and excited faces that he doesn’t recognise, until he finds a compartment empty aside from one boy with messy, dark hair and glasses.

“James,” he introduces himself as.

“Sirius,” comes the reply, and he sprawls himself onto a seat with no regard for posture or decorum, because he can, and nobody’s there to stop him. When the train pulls away, each breath tastes a little more like freedom.

By the time they reach Hogwarts, he’s got a firm friend (and ---- perhaps ---- a firm enemy; the greasy-haired boy in the carriage who’d been oh-so-proud of Slytherin had rubbed him the wrong way entirely) and he can’t believe that his house and his mother are so far away from him, that he won’t be back there for another three months.

He’s a little nervous, as they gather to wait outside the great hall, though he doesn’t let it show. He and James have connected with an ease he’s never experienced before; for the first time he’s found a friend that he’s chosen for himself, who isn’t defined by name or money or social status, hasn’t been vetted for appropriateness. What if he does go into Slytherin, and James isn’t interested in being his friend anymore ---- leaves him stuck with Severus?

James catches his eyes just then and grins. It’s a wide and easy thing, and Sirius can almost taste the promise of late nights and whispered conversations, homework completed by committee, catching quaffles without having to look to know they’re coming.

Something resolves in his chest. So easily, are eleven years put behind him. Toujours pur, he thinks, derisively. No, not for him the tiring rhetoric of his parents. He’ll make a new Black family motto, carve out his own path. Toujours courageux, perhaps: always brave. Like James.

James whoops from the gaggle of first-years when the sorting hat, after a moment of deliberation calls out Gryffindor! to the room. Sirius can see the disconcerted expressions at the Slytherin table ---- cousins and peers who’ll write home in shock, tonight ---- and doesn’t care, because James is grinning at him again, and he’s grinning right back.

The hat barely has to come to rest on James’ mess of hair before it shouts the same, Gryffindor! sending a thrill through Sirius’ body, right down to his toes. James comes barrelling towards the table with no regard for the professor who tells him to slow down, Mr Potter!, and Sirius barely has time to twist his body before he’s caught up in a rough hug. James squeezes him tight and ruffles his hair and says “I knew it, knew we’d be together!” before he lets go and slides himself onto the bench next to Sirius, their legs pressed close together and their shoulders touching.

Across the table, a sandy-haired boy whose name Sirius can’t remember looks a little bemused, and he’s not the only one. Sirius doesn’t care; his heart is an uncaged bird. His blood is singing. He feels like he could live forever, with James Potter by his side.

It’s 1973, and Sirius Black is thirteen years old.

It’s July, the dog-days of summer. Sirius ---- cheeks pink with the heat, shirtsleeves rolled up above his elbows ---- is sprawled on James’ bed, his half-packed trunk abandoned some time ago. He scowls as he stares up at the canopy of his best mate’s bed, wallowing in the uncharacteristic silence carpeting the dorm.

It’s only a day before they’ll be back on the train, returning to King’s Cross and then back to their own houses for the summer.

There’s a dread in the pit of his stomach ---- a sour, lingering thing, like the taste of bad milk that just won’t go away. It’s curdled inside of his bones, all lumps and lactic acid, and he feels like he’d rather lie here and starve than willingly leave his friends for the oppressive walls of Grimmauld Place.

If last summer is anything to go by, it’ll be miserable. His mother can barely look at him anymore, save to fix her startlingly clear eyes on him with a look of tight disgust.

(“I might as well only have had one son,” she’d said to his father when they’re sat at the dinner table, Sirius obnoxiously chasing limp vegetables around his plate.

“Why, what am I?” he’d found the courage to ask acerbically. “Chopped liver?”

He’d regretted it the second she’d turned her furious gaze on him. She looked at him like something not human, like something she’d like to squash under the heel of her boot, given half a change. Toujours courageux, he’d reminded himself, but shrank away from her ire nonetheless.

“A parasite,” she’d spat. Regulus looked like he was about to cry. “And an ungrateful one at that. Leave this table: I’ll not have you and your petty rebellions ruin this family.”)

His father will barely consent to be in the same room as him. His brother ---- a guilty pang, as he realises he only write twice this term ---- is wide-eyed and uncertain, not sure whether to talk to Sirius or to follow his mother’s example.

Maybe, Sirius thinks, he can just stay here, the whole summer. He’ll sneak food from the house elves and hide out in the dorm, and nobody will know. His mother might not even miss him; she’ll go the whole two months of the holiday passing bitter remarks on a son who’s not even there. James and Remus and Peter will come back to school and find Sirius already there, living like a castaway, only much better fed and far less sunburned.

His thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the door; he heaves himself to sitting in time to see James push his way into the dorm. James is all packed ---- or at least, everything’s been thrown in the vague vicinity of his trunk ---- because James doesn’t feel like he’s going to be sick when he thinks about going home.

“Cheer up,” James says, unable to miss Sirius’ drooping shoulders and turned-down lips. “We’ll be back before you know it. Besides, mum said you can come stay for a whole two weeks, if you want.”

“And what about all the other weeks?” Sirius mutters, darkly.

“I’ll write.” James promises.

“And what about when you’re sleeping?” Sirius is aware he sounds pathetic, wheedling. But they’ve barely spent a minute apart this term. James smiles when he says it, so he doesn’t bother to feel too embarrassed by it.

“Then you’ll be sleeping too, idiot.”

“And if I’m not sleeping? If I’m trapped in a waking nightmare about my mother strangling me to death with my own Gryffindor scarf so she doesn’t have to touch me?” James snorts.

“Then I’ll be having nightmares too.”

He says it with such confidence. Like he really believes that across all that distance, something will keep him awake if Sirius is awake. It’s nonsense, Sirius knows, but it makes him feel better nonetheless.

“Yeah, all right,” he sights. “Do me favour and take my scarf, will you? If she’s going to strangle me, I at least want her to have to do it the hard way.” James laughs, and Sirius manages a smile, too, less sickly than before. Then all at once he’s pushed backward onto the bed, enveloped by the warm weight of James. It might be comforting, if James didn’t have such sharp elbows and a tendency to jab them right into Sirius’ more vital organs.

“It’s not that long, really,” James promises, and Sirius wraps his arms around his friend and breathes the scent of his jumper and wonders if it would be weird to steal one from James’ trunk. Just to feel a little closer to him. “I’ll write to you every day. Twice a day.”

It’s little consolation, but at least, Sirius thinks, making no effort to extract himself from this pointy jumble of limbs, he’s got this to look forward to come September.

It’s 1973, and Sirius Black is fourteen years old.

Or he will be in three minutes, at least ---- according to his watch. Halloween clings on in discarded decorations and leftover sweets, tongues stained pumpkin orange and liquorice-dark. They’ve all sorts of plans for tomorrow, given that Sirius has scored the ultimate prize this year with a birthday falling on a Saturday.

All of which means he ought to be sound asleep right now. Instead, he lies awake and watches the second hand tick ‘round, and the minute hand press closer to midnight. He wonders if he’ll feel any different. More grown up.

James had been delighted on finding out that Sirius was the oldest; last year he’d added a zero onto the birthday card he’d slung Sirius’ way, so it read 130 today, and it had been packed full of jokes about getting old --- creaking knees and failing hearing, and the inevitable decline of Sirius’ rugged good looks (James’ words, not his).

James’ birthday card, when it had eventually come around, had been addressed to young whippersnapper.

Sixty seconds to go. Sirius has seen James hiding something in his trunk, and is mostly sure that it’s a present for him. He can’t help but feel pleased at the attention. James’ mum had sent him toffee, last year, and he wonders if she’ll do the same again ---- if she’ll remember.

(His own mother sent him nothing, of course.)

Midnight.

He takes his first breath as a fourteen-year-old, and finds it tastes much the same as before. He’d half-hoped, idly, that getting older would make it easier to be his mother’s son. Before he can think to be disappointed, or annoyed, his hangings are whisked open and he lets out a startled yelp.

James is there, grinning in the dark, barefoot and with his glasses askew, wand illuminated but covered in his cupped hand so as not to wake the others.

“Budge up, grandpa,” James whispers, and Sirius does. James shoves a horribly wrapped present at Sirius, and then clambers in under the covers. His feet are freezing, and there’s a brief scuffle before Sirius ---- always warm ---- gives in and lets James press them up against his legs.

He looks down at the mess of wrapping paper and spellotape in his lap, and thinks to himself that cold feet in his cosy bed is a cheap price to pay for the fire that James has kindled in him all these years.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” James demands.

“Sure,” Sirius says, and some of his emotion must have spilled over onto his face without his permission, because James laughs and leans sideways to envelop him in a hug. It’s not rough or shoving, there’s no hair ruffling or teasing; James simply wraps him up on his arms and stays there with him, content.

Sirius couldn’t care less what’s in the present. James is the best gift he’s ever had.

It’s 1974, and Sirius Black is fifteen years old.

He was ‘politely asked’ to quit the quidditch team three months ago. Why his own house wanted to deprive themselves of their most handsome and second-most-talented player is a mystery him, except in all the ways it’s not.

So he had a habit of hovering around James and ignoring the rest of the team, what of it? There was another beater, wasn’t there? And someone had to protect the star player and his boyishly handsome jaw from the inevitable threat of bludgers.

(“Black! What the hell are you doing shadowing Potter? The bludgers are down the other end of the pitch harassing our seeker!”

“Yeah, but one of them was looking at him funny. Trying to lure me away, I think; I’d best stay right where I am. On the off-chance, you know----“)

It’s all rather a shame, really. When they were legitimately required to work in tandem, they flew like nothing else Hogwarts had ever seen. Even their erstwhile captain ---- departed now for the fair shores of adulthood ---- had grudgingly admitted that there was nothing to frustrate an opposing team more than Sirius and James flying in perfect synchronicity, one clutching the quaffle and the other with a devastating aim with bludger.

Apparently, though, he’s not dedicated enough. Doesn’t take it seriously.

(Ha, ha. Oh, how his teammates had laughed when he’d made the requisite joke. Or at least, James had.)

He’d bowed out gracefully, because to be fair, they weren’t all that wrong. Sirius loves nothing more than flying with James, but his fellow beater had been a bore and the rest of the team insipid at best. Loyal to his friends and his house though he may be, he’s not the world’s most enthusiastic team player.

He’d commentated once, after that, and once only; McGonagall had been furious when she’d got to him, mid-match ---- who knew that the general student body didn’t want a running commentary of James Potter’s every, dashing move ---- and then been relegated altogether to the stands with Remus and Peter and the rest.

He doesn’t mind, much. Watching James fly is a treat ---- nay, a privilege.

Especially in a match like this. The winner will take the cup, and Sirius feels like the crowd’s every roar is funnelled straight through him. His stomach swoops as elegantly as James’ broom, drops out when the quaffle is stolen, soars when James wins it back once more.

Come the end, he’s got one arm around Remus’ neck and one around Peter’s pulling them both uncomfortably down towards his level. There’s a knot of tension in his stomach; it’s been a long, difficult match, fought tooth and nail.

The snitch has been sighted and both seekers are pelting towards it; Gryffindor have a one hundred and fifty point lead (thank you, James Potter), and if Ravenclaw catch the snitch it’ll be a tie. They hurtle closer, skimming the grass before shooting up again, and Sirius must be the only person in the crowd not paying them the slightest bit of attention.

Because James Potter, a hero dressed in red and gold, has just bodily slammed a Ravenclaw chaser out of his way and snatched the quaffle from mid-air. He flies low and close to his broom, eyes focused, and the deftness with which his manoeuvres is incredible.

He slams the quaffle through the hoop from only inches away, and Sirius roars a half-second before the rest of the crowd as the Ravenclaw seeker’s hand closes around the snitch.

It doesn’t matter; James has won it for them.

They pour onto the pitch, a knot of seething celebration around the red-and-gold team at the heart of it. Sirius and Remus and Peter are all fighting to get through but it’s no good; the wall of human bodies is too deep and, in Sirius’ case at least, tall.

But then James Potter bursts through the crowd, still being patted on the back and clapped on the shoulder, eyes bright and grin wide and lip split from a close call with a bludger (wouldn’t have happened if Sirius had been up there), and throws himself at Sirius.

He goes so far as to lift his friend’s feet off the ground, earning a yelp and smack from Sirius and laughter from Remus and Peter, who are quick to join the embrace.

“Just proves it,” Sirius shouts above the crowd. “You’re the only worthwhile player on that team!”

“Oi,” comes the offended voice of the Gryffindor keeper to one side. Sirius ignores it, and clings a little tighter to James.

It's 1975, and Sirius is fifteen years old.

He's giddy with achievement. No other victory has tasted this sweet; no other glory has carried him higher. Three years it's taken them, but finally ---- finally ---- here they are, animagi at fifteen years old. And all right, they'd had to revise their expectations a bit from lions and tigers and bears (oh my) down to dogs and deer and rats, but even that can't take away from it.

They've been grinning for a week now, all wild-eyed secrecy and knowing laughter. If they'd been close before, now they must seem impenetrable.

Remus, who'd been flustered and grateful and disbelieving, and a little tearful, looks at them sometimes, with this small smile on his face that makes Sirius’ gut churn in a way he doesn't quite understand.

The moment of truth comes; the gloomy press of dusk, the sour taste of nerves behind his tongue. They're going to run with a werewolf tonight, and even if that werewolf is their friend, it impresses a quiet awe on them all.

And oh, do they run. The night is velvet-dark and apple-sweet, and they clutch it between their teeth as they thunder through the forest, weaving and tumbling and wrestling with the wolf who doesn’t seem sure how to react to its new companions, alternately curious and aggressive. But they keep him from leaving the trees, they keep him occupied ---- too occupied to bite and scratch and claw at himself ---- and it’s worth a wound, worth every wound to know that Remus might wake a little less pained and weak in the morning.

They’re exhausted by the time the moon sets, and they’ve nudged and chased and tempted the wolf back to the shack. They retreat, as they were asked to do ---- ‘I don’t want you to see me change. Horrible doesn’t begin to cover it’ ---- and creep back through the tunnel, towards the greying dawn.

It’s Remus that’s his downfall.

As a dog, Sirius can smell the sweat from Prongs’ flanks, rising as faint steam in the morning chill. He can smell the rodent scurrying ahead of them. He can smell the air and the decaying corpse of something small, can smell the vegetation and undergrowth and paint a picture of it all, even with his eyes closed.

But behind him, he can smell blood and wolf and man and pain and despair, somehow, and he doesn’t realise the low whine he can hear is from his own throat. He hesitates. He wants nothing more than to go back, than to stay with Remus, to hold him and keep him warm, to ease his aches and to help, in anyway he can.

That moment is all it takes; the willow shivers back into life above them, and though the deer and the rat might be beyond its reach, there’s a big black dog standing with its ears pricked, peering back towards the tunnel it guards.

It hits him like thunderbolt.

Sirius doesn’t realise he’s flying through the air until he hits the ground, a strangled canine yelp beaten from his lungs as his body bounces, paws scrabbling to right himself and unable to do it. There’s sharp pain in his hind leg, and he pulls himself away from the tree with it dragging behind him.

“Sirius!”

It’s James’ voice, faint with terror, and human once more. Will it be better, or worse, Sirius wonders, if he’s human instead of dog?

The change is brief, and agonising. He doesn’t cry out, but he can taste blood where teeth have pressed hard against tongue to stymie the sound. He rolls over onto his back, and looks down at his leg, and immediately regrets it. His ankle is twisted around the wrong way, like a comical mistake on a five-year-old’s drawing.

James and Peter half-support and half-carry him back to the castle. He doesn’t whimper with every step, because that would be pathetic, but he does crack a few jokes about it. Neither of his friends laugh.

They tell Pomfrey he fell down the stairs, in the dark. She probably wouldn’t believe them, except she’s distracted ---- she should be leaving to tend to Remus, Sirius knows, and the guilt of knowing Remus might spend any more time half-conscious and bruised in that shack than he needs to is somehow more painful than his broken ankle.

And so, in a thoroughly uncharacteristic display, he doesn’t joke or whine or flirt; he takes the frankly disgusting potion she pushes into his hand, grimaces hard when she flicks her wand over his foot and he feels the bones grind back into place, and lets her hurry away.

James clings to him when she tries to chivvy him out of the hospital wing and back to bed.

“You may come and see Mr. Black in the morning, after breakfast,” she tells him. “He’ll be perfectly fine.” James doesn’t let go, and neither does Sirius, because both of them know a broken foot could have been so much worse, in the circumstances. Eventually, he consents to be chased out, and Sirius watches him go.

He’s asleep not long after, and he dreams of having four legs, and freedom.

It’s 1976, and Sirius is sixteen years old.

He feels rotten.

Not just bad, or upset, or guilty. He feels rotten, to his very core; like he’s been riddled with maggots or termites this whole time, slowly hollowing him out with nothing to show for it until now. All it took was pressure in the wrong place, and he’d crumbled ---- showed what he truly was.

He’d cried for hours: wretched, self-pitying tears that left him somehow feeling heavier than before, until his throat ached and his diaphragm ached and his lungs and his eyes and his teeth ached, every sorry part of him punishing him for what he’d done.

How could he ever have thought it was harmless? How could he ever have let the words trip from his tongue like any other words, like they weren’t the words that would ruin his life? Maybe you should follow him to the Whomping Willow and see for yourself, Snivellus. Just a collection of consonants and vowels; verbs and nouns and connectors, all strung together in such a way as to leave him like this.

No-one’s talked to him, yet. For all Sirius knows, they might never talk to him again. They might cast him to one side like the false friend he is. He doesn’t deserve them, any of them ---- not Remus, not Peter, and not even James, who almost single-handedly moulded the image of the man he wants to be. Especially not James, perhaps, who’s brave in the real way that Sirius is not, and good in the real way that Sirius can never be.

In the end, blood is blood: it doesn’t come out in the wash. He is his mother’s son.

And yet, James comes to him, in the end.

Sirius is all out of tears; his head is throbbing, his eyes red and puffy, his face blotched and streaked through with tear-tracks. He looks a mess, and he knows it. James only regards him, serious and uncertain, lip caught between his teeth.

“I didn’t mean to,” Sirius croaks. “I didn’t think ---- I was just so ----”

He trails off, because there’s no real explanation past the first. I didn’t think. He has no excuse, no justification. Somehow, that makes it worse. This was all instinct. Didn’t that mean it was his true self, his real colours?

“I’m an idiot,” Sirius whispers, and knows the word doesn’t even begin to cover it.

“Yeah,” James agrees, curtly. The lump in Sirius’ throat rises a little further. He’s not sure what it is ---- shame or bile or perhaps his treacherous intestines trying to choke him from the inside. At this point, he’d consider it a mercy.

“I’m sorry,” Sirius whispers, even though it’s Remus who needs the apology, really. This isn’t sorry for what I almost did, this is sorry that I disappointed you, sorry that I wasn’t good enough, sorry that you thought you had a brother but he turned out to be a hollow, porcelain thing that shattered at the faintest knock.

James lowers his head, hands shoved in his pockets.

He’s not far away, but the distance is deafening. Even where they’re mad at each other, squabbling and arguing amongst themselves, there’s still a closeness. They’ll snap and snarl but their knees will still be touching, or their shoulders brushing.

The inches between them now are a gulf, a canyon. Sirius has burned his bridges without evening meaning to, and tossed his ropes into the abyss after them.

James heaves a sigh, and turns to go. Sirius chokes back a sob, the sound catching in his throat as he does his best to hide it ---- he doesn’t want pity, doesn’t deserve pity --- and James pauses. Sirius covers his face with his hands, tugs hard at his hair so the sharp pain in his scalp is all he can think about it.

He flinches as James’ arms close around him. He’s half-expecting to be punched, or shoved, but he’s not expecting this gentle embrace.

“You’re an idiot.” James places the words carefully, gingerly in the space between them. “You’re not evil. Give it some time, Sirius.” And then he’s gone, and Sirius has forgotten how to breathe, and he’s sure that this is how he’ll die ---- rotten and hollow and broken and wretched, choking on his own betrayal.

It’s 1978, and Sirius is eighteen years old.

There’s a bittersweet, syrupy regret clinging to him. These days have been the best of his life, and soon enough, they’ll be over. It’s mere weeks before they’ll leave Hogwarts on the train for the last time.

It’s impossible to ignore that the world outside these walls and grounds is a darker place than it was once. The saccharine glow of their childhood is fading, melting away from them. There’s no catching it. They’re grown up, and there’s a war building. Some nights, Sirius tries to hold the concept in his mind, to understand it; more often than not he finds that he can’t. It’s something far away, and abstract, something that happens to other people in other places.

Tonight, wedged tightly in the small space between their tower window and the cornice ---- even he doesn’t fit as well as he used to, though he’s been slower to grow than the rest ---- it feels all too real. Unavoidable, like it’s hiding behind every word and glance and thought, a shadowy presence that he can’t shake.

If he takes a breath too deep, he’s sure he can feel it as a crackle at the bottom of his lungs, like kindling ready to be tossed into the fire.

Sirius doesn’t often seek out time alone. Today, he’d slipped away without a word ---- they can find him if they need to, after all, they’ve got the map ---- and has been soaking in this silent solitude for hours now. Weightless, like he’s teetering at the edge of something, and he can’t quite find the courage to leap.

It’s a queer feeling that’s overtaken him, and all the stranger for the fact that it doesn’t seem to have gripped the others in quite the same way. Late last night, Sirius had sat up from where he was curled up against Remus’ side and looked down at him with a dark intensity in his eyes that had made Remus frown.

(“Promise me,” Sirius had said, low and fierce, “promise me that leaving Hogwarts won’t change a thing. With us, you know.” Remus’ frown had softened, and he’d reached up to brush Sirius’ hair from his face. Sirius had chased the cool touch of Remus’ palm with his cheek, leaning into it.

“I promise,” he’d said, but Sirius hadn’t been content until he’d heard it a dozen times, pressed close against his ear between kisses.)

He wonders if there might be something wrong with him, and pretty quickly dismisses the thought. It’s a dark rabbit-hole to go down. He thinks he’s all right, usually, and so do his friends, so what can it matter, anyway?

It’s James who comes for him, of course.

They barely fit up here, anymore, and James’ feet hang sickeningly over hundreds of feet of empty air once he’s wrestled himself up next to Sirius and stretched out his legs.

“All right?”

“All right.”

A call-and-answer that spans seven years. They have whole conversations in those words, meanings deeper than the brief syllables. Tonight it’s are you okay and I’m staying and you can’t stop me, and it’s the answering I’m not sure and I won’t try.

They sit in silence for a while, Sirius on the right and James on the left, just the way it always is, and their legs and their arms pressed together, just like they always are. Sirius feels sick with longing, missing something that’s not even gone yet. Where will they tuck themselves when they no longer have this vast network of corridors and rooms, passages and alcoves, towers and dungeons? Is there a space for them, out there?

“I’ll miss this place,” Sirius says. An obvious statement, and one that barely scratches the surface of his feelings. He doesn’t need to try and explain, with James.

“Yeah,” James agrees, quietly.

“I love you.”

It’s a muted admission. He proclaims his love for his friends often and loudly, grandiose, sweeping gestures and honeyed words stolen from Shelley, from Ovid. This softness is rare indeed, unprompted and unfiltered, free from his usual dramatics. James looks at him in surprise from behind his glasses, the sunset glinting from them in a burning yellow-orange.

“I love you too,” James says. As if it’s obvious, as if Sirius is an idiot.

He reaches over for a hug, ignoring Sirius’ mildly alarmed exclamation as they tip over in the tiny space, Sirius’ elbow hitting the wall and his head the window ---- inside, Remus peers out with some mild concern before he returns to his book.

“You’re stuck with me,” James informs his friend, once he’s got him trapped. “Stop being so unbearably dim and morose. Nothing will change when we leave school.”

Sirius doesn’t know what to say that won’t sound trite or twee, so he does the only obvious thing available to him, and licks a stripe across James’ face to get him to move. James does so, cursing him, and managing to land an elbow in his stomach (they haven’t got any less sharp, over the years.)

They lie there, tangled and laughing and oblivious and on the edge, waiting, waiting, waiting.

It’s 1981, and Sirius is twenty-two years old.

James pulls him into a hug, and Sirius pinches his arse to draw a laugh from him ---- few enough of those, these days ---- and looks at Lily over James’ shoulder, clutching Harry, his godson to her chest.

“See you soon,” James says, and it’s a demand rather than a statement.

“Promise,” Sirius says.

If he’d known this was the last time ---- the last hug ---- the last goodbye ---- he might have held a little tighter, a little longer. He might not have let go at all.

#;drabble: m #pr0ngs #i crey

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swishandflickwit · 6 years

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Shirbert — promise me (no promises) 1/1

Summary: Maybe love didn’t always mean the adventure was in far off places, but was found within the four walls of her classroom; where a rival, in actuality, was not the villain but a prince in disguise?

Maybe love wasn’t always the stuff of legends. What if it was the quiet things? The constance? Love was steady, she realized. It was study sessions and long walks, an ashen gaze and an encouraging smile in a sea of faces that expected her to fail.

It was standing up for what and who you believed in, going after them when they walked away and promising to want them for all time.

Words: 6.8k

Ratings: General Audiences

Also on: ff.net | AO3

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Anne Shirley-Cuthbert was in a rage.

How dare he, she seethed, that vile, repulsive, odious, witless pissant!

Oh, how Marilla would despair at her thoughts!

(Rather, Marilla would equally rage at her debasing introspection, as she would later realize once she had calmed herself)

However, in that moment, Anne thought no one in Canada—in all the world even—could neither rival nor temper her resentment. Fury rolled off her and stained her skin an angry red to match her hair. She imagined steam leaking from her pores as her blood curdled… boiled, and not even the pleasant coolness of the summer night air could ease her pique.

She stomped through the lane that would take her home to Green Gables, unmindful of the mud that tracked her boots and splattered across her pristine, white stockings. And they were new too!

I never should have come to this party, she continued her merciless tirade. I should have known better than to accept an invitation, from the Pyes no less! Nothing good ever came out of a gathering hosted by the Pyes. Never mind that it should be the last time we might all be gathered in such a fashion for a long while.

Indeed, for school had come to a close the previous day—at least for Miss Stacy’s pioneer class. A smattering of them would be staying in Avonlea but for the most part, a majority were resolved to pursue their higher education, including (though it hurt her to leave Diana behind) Anne.

Billy Andrews, however, had other… unsavory opinions about that.

“You got into Queen’s?” he scoffed, referring to the Academy in Charlottetown where those with a vocation in mind chose to pursue them. Anne had not only gotten accepted, but gained the highest marks out of all the applicants in Prince Edward Island.

(She was tied with Gilbert though she often, and with much convenience, forgot that fact)

Billy, the thick-headed oaf, elected to ignore this certitude. He had nothing of import or quality to say for Queen’s Academy, having not applied (and in his innermost musings, known that he was not smart enough to be accepted anyway), and therefore inwardly envied and outwardly ridiculed those who had passed.

Anne, through no provocation of hers, nevertheless received his special brand of scorn.

“You may have fooled the Cuthberts, and our classmates. You may have even fooled this entire island. But you’ll never fool me. I know who you are,” he said this in low tones, and lower still as he crept closer and whispered in her ear like she were his lover murmuring sweet nothings to warm her heart, “the Cuthberts didn’t want you in the first place. They were stuck with you, there was no one else. You may have gotten lucky with them, but you ought not to forget who you are and where your place is.” He grinned then, blinding and malicious. “I feel sorry for the Cuthberts. If I were them, I’d have treated my dog better than you. You’re lower than dirt. You’re an orphan, and who could ever truly want you?”

How she burned and burned, the nerve of this insolent and ill-mannered fool! And yet—she meant to say this out loud, make the most of her extensive vocabulary but, her body betrayed her. Her throat felt parched and her feet leaden. Where had her voice gone? The words that were otherwise ready for her to wield as weapons or shape as clay? Where was her indignation?

Her spirit?

Just as quickly, heat melted to cold, noise gave way to a ringing silence and she felt herself rooted to her spot, Billy’s awful, smug smirk frozen before her eyes until—

“ANDREWS!”

Gilbert’s voice pierced through the static that clouded her mind and Billy’s ugly visage was, at last, removed from her line of vision as he turned towards their schoolmate. Anne did not wait to see what would commence between the two boys, however. As soon as the feeling returned to her legs, she imagined she walked out of there with the poise and dignity befitting a nobility such as the Princess Cordelia.

(Bolted, would have been closer to reality)

With nothing but moonshine for light and the faint rustling of the poplar trees for conversation, Anne was her own company. She thought for sure Diana would have come to her side by now, but she supposed that no one had really seen her leave. Billy, for once, hadn’t made a spectacle of himself though somehow this was worse, for she shuddered at the intimate way he had pressed himself onto her as he purred his contempt.

She did not even deign to consider that one witness to that deplorable interaction and what it meant that he had not followed her so for the moment...

She was utterly alone.

Evenings were a curious thing. There was, after all, something quite romantical about the night—lovers meeting in secret to proclaim their forbidden romance, friends exchanging hushed yet excitable stories beneath blankets by candlelight, oh the adventures to be had under the dusky twilight!

But, it was not called the witching hour for nothing. Terrible things happened once the moon had come to siege the sky for every sin, if only for a moment, could be hidden beneath the cover of darkness—ghosts and wolves and brigands and villains abound, and demons too.

Anne’s demons were not of the horned and pointy-tailed kind. Though they too were born of baneful things, they were mostly made of shadows, wispy and seductive intimations that brushed softly against her mind, lulling and comforting and infinite, till it was a pervasive tumor that lay siege to her sense of reason before she ever realized it was a threat.

She looked at the mud tainting her legs, at the stark contrast between muck and cloth, and thought about how she was much like her stockings.

I am a stain. All I’ve ever given Marilla and Matthew and even Jerry since I got here was grief. And Diana... I dread to think how many times I’ve gotten my bosom friend in trouble! As for Cole, the only reason he is still my friend is because he’s miles away in Charlottetown and therefore spared from my importunate nature. Not to mention, I almost drove Miss Stacy to quit her first year here. I’m nothing but trouble! Though I have no love for it, it must love me, for why else would it follow me wherever I tread?

Anne sniffed, shame filling her gut as she fought back tears. I’m just a stupid, orphan girl. There’s no imagining my way around that. No one could ever want me. No one.

So immersed was she in her melancholy that she hadn’t noticed someone was calling her name till a hand descended on her shoulder.

She shrieked (a shrill, embarrassing, banshee of a sound), closing her eyes even as she whirled around to face her assailant.

“Whoa!” exclaimed a deep and resonant voice.

“Whatever riches you may think I possess I assure you sir I am as poor as the dirt beneath your feet, poorer even, than a cow that grazes a pasture for I am utterly incapable of producing anything of value and I—”

“Anne!”

She hadn’t realized she was without breath till she let out a long and heavy exhale. It occurred to her, then, that the tenor by which her name was said was uncannily familiar, the scent of her would-be attacker was that of sun and grass and clean sweat and deeper still, an aura redolent of quiet, fortitude and refuge.

She opened her eyes and breathed.

“Gilbert.”

“Anne,” he chimed in equally, susurrous tones. When she let out another astonished gasp, the air before her crystallized in an algid cloud.

“Where’s your coat?”

She groaned. Of course! Of course, she forgot her coat and bonnet when she left in a huff. Why, walking out may be as dramatic an act as they came, but the books failed to mention just how inconvenient it was! How had the heroines in her favorite literatures managed their adversities with so much courage and grace? And such humor too! While she must have her exposé out in the cold, with (at this, she is gratified) no audience in sight (and at this, she is mortified) save for one, as she cowers and quakes in her boots?

The ardor that fueled the ire in her blood had by now dissipated, leaving an icy and hollow blitz in her veins. Humiliated to her core, she demanded of him, in squeaky volumes, “What are you doing here?”

So she cleared her throat and asked, more stately, again.

Gilbert shook his head. He did not answer. Instead, he looked at her with wide eyes—silver pupils darting back and forth, as if he couldn’t take in the image of her enough. She felt the fleshy, apple of her cheeks flush, a bit of heat returning to her body though a shiver continued to wrack her bones.

“You’re freezing,” he blurted, before an urgent concern (that made Anne rather uncomfortable, as she was wont to be whenever she found herself in Gilbert’s presence—alone or elseways) driving his motions had him divesting his own coat and, without evocation, wrapping it around her frame.

Encased as she was in his jacket and engulfed in the warmth from his body that had suffused itself onto the cloth, the sweet and opulent smell of him further intensified.

(As did the beat of her heart)

(Though this, if asked about, she would vehemently deny to her grave)

“I don’t need your pity,” she averred in what she hoped was a cold and unforgiving demeanor, even as her hold on the coat about her shoulders only tightened.

“It’s not—”

“Isn’t it?”

He sighed, his face scrunched up in exasperation and though a part of her felt abashed at her behavior, a larger part was content to drown in thorough defeat.

“We’re friends, aren’t we Anne?”

She licked her lips, something of a nervous habit. His eyes darted to track the movement and his throat bobbed. She felt her blush deepen.

“Are we?” She whispered.

He laughed though it was more tight than it was humorous.

“Must you always answer my questions with questions?”

She glared at him in the universal expression of, you’re asking for it.

He chuckled in genuine good-nature this time and she felt her irritation abate as she joined him. But their mirth abated all too soon and Gilbert was once more looking at her through hooded eyes that did nothing to lessen their intensity.

“I don’t know what Billy told you that made you react this way, but nothing good ever came out of his foul mouth anyway so, whatever it is he said—don’t believe it,” he shook his head. “It’s not true.”

At once, where she was bereft, the animosity welled within her at the reminder. The wrath that had been absent when she stood before Billy Andrews was now within her grasp and expelled itself onto the nearest presence—Gilbert.

She shoved him. It was a commiserable attempt since he hardly moved, but he let her anyway and she felt a little of her dauntless energy return.

“You can’t say that. You don’t know!”

“Then help me know,” he pleaded.

“I can’t,” she exclaimed, an unwanted sob building in her throat. “It’s too gruesome.”

“Then at least tell me that you don’t believe it,” he took her hand in his with utmost care, his palm coarse with calluses born from a life tending to a farm, his fingertips of ice. And yet, she had never felt so delicate, her hand cradled within his. “Tell me you know he’s wrong.”

“That’s the worse part,” she whispered as she pulled her hand away. “He’s absolutely right.”

A frightful silence had descended upon them. Even the wind had died and the poplar trees halted their rustling, as if Mother Nature herself wanted to be privy to their conversation.

“You can’t mean that, you don’t know what you’re saying—”

“And you do?” she sighed, running a hand—that same, still-tingling hand that Gilbert held what seemed like only a heartbeat ago—over her face.

He groaned. “Not this again.”

She scowled at him. “What do you care anyway? Why are you here? What I do or what I talk about with other people, worthless they may be, is none of your business.”

“And if I want to make it my business?” he countered, the muscle in his jaw ticking from restrained frustration.

She frowned. “What do you mean, Gilbert?”

“Tell me what Andrews said and I can prove to you, I can guarantee, that it’s not true.”

“But it is!”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes. It is! ”

They bickered in this fashion as if they were six instead of approaching sixteen. She insisted on her truth (or rather, Billy’s truth), though she hadn’t the faintest idea why. Is this not what she craved? Is this not the assurance and acceptance she sought her whole life? But still, she found herself scoffing.

“You don’t even know what I’m talking about!”

He rolled his eyes and in snide intonations, rebutted, “Because you won’t tell me!”

“FINE!” she relented and snarled, nay, practically spat the words at him.

“I’m an orphan! Is that what you wanted to hear? Maybe my parents loved me, once upon a time, but apparently not enough to live for me.” Her voice was guttural, her words laced with so much acrimony, it was unrecognizable to her. “I’m a burden to Matthew and Marilla, who wanted a boy in the first place and instead was saddled with me. I bring misfortune on anyone I touch. I’m nothing but a curse. No one could ever want me.”

There. She said it. And again, that insidious reticence, how she was beginning to abhor it. She closed her eyes, unsure of which she was dreading more: his resignation or condescension.

As it stood, she had neither to fear, for what she received was far worse.

He laughed. Laughed!

“How dare you, Gilbert Blythe!” She fumed. She punched him on the shoulder, though his chortles only grew in volume. She made to cuff him again, but he caught her fist in his and pulled her closer—closer than either of them had ever emboldened to be.

No one was laughing now.

“You are an idiot, Anne Shirley-Cuthbert,” he murmured, his whisper a hot hiss of breath against her cold and beggared lips. She had never been more aware of the weight of her hand in his, she had never been more aware of him. “A downright fool.”

She was mindful that she should have been peeved by this imputation, her common sense screaming at her to react and do so with equal and voracious impudence.

If only the rest of her faculties got the message.

For though his words were intended to wound, the effect was rather lost in translation. Not when there was an undercurrent of awe in his inflection, not when he said ‘idiot’ and ‘fool’ as if that was not what he meant at all; like they were terms of endearment rather than grave offenses.

As if Gilbert had his own personal meaning just for her, and it was the very opposite of its conventional connotations.

“Am I?” She returned in watery tones for she trembled under the weight of all that implied.

He smiled and it was slight in breadth but tremendous in affection. He stepped closer till she had to crane her neck just to be able to take all of him in, her face tilted towards the moonlight. He stopped his beaming then, for a silvery stream had caught his eye.

She hadn’t realized she was crying till he brushed away a droplet.

“I guarantee you,” he repeated, his eyes fervent and bright, “no one could have ever provided you a better home than the Cuthberts. And Diana—she’s positively radiant around you and she was never that way until you came along. Cole found the courage to be who he truly is and you helped him achieve that. And it was you who orchestrated the plan to keep Miss Stacy in school and believe me, she has never regretted the experience for a single moment. This whole island is alive because of you, you emit a gravity of your own and anyone who meets you can’t help but fall into your orbit. If that’s not enough to convince you…”

That same rough hand, from which he never relinquished her violent fist, now urged her to bloom her fingers so that he might place it on his chest. There she rested them and there he cupped her fingers, with a lambency that made her ache for she didn’t expect such a touch from one who lived most of his life as a laborer.

There she felt his heartbeat, strong and certain and—and racing.

How could it thud so hard and so fast when they hadn’t been running or walking since they began? Astonishment etched itself across her features.

“How—?”

“Do you really need me to spell it out for you?”

“For old time’s sake,” she strived to banter, afraid to reveal herself.

(Afraid to acknowledge the truth)

“How did you figure that no one could ever want you? I’m right here,” he avowed. “I’m here, and I want you. So much.” He shook his head and released a laugh that was riddled with disbelief. “I can’t even begin to explain just how so. I want you, plain as that. I wanted you from the moment I laid eyes on you and I want you now and I’m—” he gulped. “I’m quite certain I’ll want you for as long as I live.”

She gaped, the flow of her tears halted from her stupor at such an exaltation. All this unbeknownst to Gilbert, her countenance spurred him to quip with a, “Well, Miss Shirley-Cuthbert, what say you about that?”

His lips stretched into a timid smile that betrayed his timorousness all the same.

“I’m at a loss for words,” she admitted freely. At that, his smile dimmed but did not diminish altogether.

He did, however, let her go.

(She hadn’t realized how much of him had seeped into her skin when at once, he stepped back, taking all the heat with him and leaving a resounding void in her chest)

“May I walk you home?”

And just like that, the conversation was dropped.

Anne, who was more confused leaving this exchange than she was when she entered it, acquiesced to this simple request for lack of a better reaction.

The true gentleman that he is, Gilbert indeed accompanied her the entire trek to Green Gables. Bubbles of conversation drifted between them before fizzling out due to the vapidity of their topics. It was only when they reached her porch did he speak to her with a solemnity that matched their earlier situation.

They stood facing each other, the space between them so corpulent it was its own presence. The camaraderie they had built (and sincerely enjoyed) in those final years at school seemed to have evaporated till their very atmosphere felt too hostile to breathe—they were that edgy. Still, he must have wanted to reclaim a bit of ease with a manoeuvre reminiscent of their first meeting.

He tugged on one of her braids.

But the stark difference between then and now was the intent for there was nothing teasing about his touch. There was no mistaking the feeling in his caress when it was so careful.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

It was devotion.

She licked her lips and again, the muscle in his jaw strained as he clenched it.

“Um,” she stuttered. Answer? Answer? She wasn’t ready to answer. Nor did she think she ever would be ready to answer!

“Relax,” He laughed, no doubt reading the panic that pulled her face taut. He smirked.

“We are friends,” he said, a bit of anxiety leaking into his tone. “Right?”

She blew a relieved breath though she shouldn’t have been, the uncertainty in his voice consoled her all the same. In this, she could unfailingly put her faith. She nodded with the eagerness of a pupil first in her class.

“Always.”

At her affirmation, he gave her hair one last, fond tug and replied quietly, “Good,” before arranging it away from her face and tucking it behind her ear.

“Anyway…”

She felt her breath catch in her throat.

“Anyway,” she returned in an equally hushed voice.

His parting smile was a shot of radiance in the gloom. She returned it with a crooked one of her own, praying it concealed the jumble of her emotions. His smile… it—did things, to her insides. Strange things. Things that made her sick at the image of him walking away from her.

Things that made her want to stop him leaving.

“Gilbert!”

He whirled at the sound of her voice, hope a living flame on his countenance. She floundered.

“I… you…” her hand clenched around the jacket engulfing her frame, and she remembered. “Your coat!”

She moved to take it off but Gilbert stopped her.

“Keep it.”

“But won’t you be cold?”

He shook his head. “I’ll be fine.” he said. “Take care of yourself, Carrots.”

She pursed her lips. Where once the nickname would have incensed her, now it filled her with a breathless sort of glee, like a language only the two of them shared because they were the only ones in the world who understood it.

“I guess… I’ll be seeing you around?”

Why was she stalling?

“So much, it’ll be impossible to miss me,” he teased with a roguish smile.

She chuckled.

He was approaching the gate when she called to him once more, “Goodnight!”

He turned, walking backwards as he tipped his newsboy hat towards her and bowed. “And to you, Miss Shirley-Cuthbert!”

And though he couldn’t see, she bit her lip, trying with all her might to hide her grin.

Watching him leave, she found her ebullience ebbing. Something felt different within her... had her soul shifted somehow? She did not feel like she had been halved nor did she feel any less of herself. If anything, she felt bigger. She felt more. Like her essence had expanded, only to carve a mold shaped suspiciously to Gilbert’s silhouette. She felt forever changed, it was incomprehensible to her that he didn’t feel the same way. And yet—

How could it be so easy for him to walk away?

His frame was swallowed by the darkness before he disappeared altogether, the echoes of their confabulation fading with him until she was all alone.

And it was as if it never happened at all.

Sun chased moon and dusk gave way to dawn. Recounting the occurrence to Diana and Cole (who was visiting from Charlottetown for the weekend to celebrate the start of summer with his childhood chums) betwixt the orange orchard that bordered the Barrys’ property, the sun warm and effulgent on their skin, she deemed her revelation from the night before as ridiculous.

“Right?” she questioned the two, expecting their full agreement. “I was being ridiculous!”

“I suppose that’s one word for it,” Diana muttered.

“I’m sorry,” exclaimed Cole, not sounding apologetic at all, “But I’m still hung up on the part where Gilbert proposed to you.”

Anne was certain she blushed to the roots of her flaming hair.

“He did not!”

“You’re right,” he acceded and she felt it safe for her mind to enter a state of palliation when he followed with a biting, “you are an idiot.”

“Technically, Gilbert said that.” Diana smirked as she spoke. Anne turned to her with a glare.

“And what is your opinion on this, oh bosom friend o’mine?”

She demurred but Anne persisted with a whinge in her voice.

Diana was perfectly aware what Anne wanted her to say, which is why it hurt her to divulge her true opinion. It seemed her friend was in dire need of a wake up call—not that she would be the one to give it.

So she skirted for an answer.

“Well, ‘as long as I live’ seems an awful long commitment…”

Apparently she hadn’t skirted well enough for Anne bellowed with a disparaging, “Diana!”

She cringed. “But—”

Anne groaned. “No! I think I’ve had enough of this conversation.”

Diana bit her lip, looking rather miserable. “I’m sorry, Anne.”

“Don’t be!” Cole reproached her. “Tell her.”

“Whatever it is, I won’t hear it!”

Anne, in a fit of childish tantrum, put her hands over her ears. It prompted Cole to roll his eyes and march over to where she was seated, buried amongst the roots of a tree so that he could unhand her. He locked eyes with Diana and raised his eyebrows. He tipped his chin towards Anne, who was glaring viciously at him.

“She needs to hear it.”

Anne turned her head away, but it didn’t stop her from hearing what Diana made known.

“I saw you leave last night,” she started. “I was going to follow you, but then Gilbert punched Billy! And apparently, it wasn’t the first time for no one stopped him. Personally, I think Billy has the kind of face that’s just asking to be punched so truly, who could blame Gilbert?”

“Diana,” Cole chided, though his mouth twitched in barely suppressed laughter.

“Well, Gilbert didn’t wait for Billy to get up, he just dashed for the door and that’s where he bumped into me. He asked me if I saw you come out that way and I said yes. I told him I was just about to run after you but, he stopped me.

“‘I’ll go after her,’ he said. ‘There are… words I must say and I can no longer conceal myself.’”

Diana and Cole expected Anne to react in an explosive manner, or, at the very least, say something. When she did nothing but give them both a blank stare, Cole gave Diana an encouraging nod.

“There’s something else, Anne.”

“Oh, what is it now?” she wailed.

Diana shook her head. “It’s not about you. It’s… I’m—”

Her troubles forgotten, Anne jumped to her feet and was at Diana’s side in a blink.

“Are you all right?”

Tears sprung into her eyes and Anne’s alarm grew. “Diana?”

She shook her head.

“I couldn’t be better. I’m, well,” she took a deep breath.

“I’m engaged!”

Anne stared.

Diana deflated. “Oh, don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what,” she said, crossing her arms in defense.

“Like I’m a different person. Like everything's about to change.”

“Everything is about to change!”

Diana looked away.

“When was this?”

She paused, as if unsure whether she should answer.

“Last week.”

“Last week,” Anne repeated, rolling the words around her brain till it clicked. “Last week!”

Diana nodded haplessly. Anne turned to Cole and pointed at him an accusing finger. “You knew!”

“To be fair, she only told me today, as we both made our way here.”

Anne furrowed her brows and rubbed at her forehead. An ache was forming at her right temple.

“But… but we’re only sixteen.”

“Prissy was sixteen when she first walked down the aisle.”

“Look how well that turned out,” she rebutted in a tone heavy with sarcasm. “And what have your parents to say about this? I don’t need a wide ‘scope of imagination’ to figure that Jerry is hardly their first choice for you!”

Diana flinched.

“They… don’t know. I haven’t exactly told them.”

“Oh Lord,” Anne muttered. She was beginning to sound a lot like Marilla, and was just now understanding the spectrum of emotions she herself put the female Cuthbert through on a daily basis.

“When will you tell them?” Cole asked in a more gentle manner.

“If you tell them!” she called out. "Diana, this is Jerry. He’s a dear friend but—"

“Stop it, Anne!” Cole bursted before he shot her a glare. “For someone who prides herself on her tolerance, you sure have a narrow perspective on this. If you would listen to her, you would see that she’s in love.”

“What do you know about love? What do any of us know of love?” she shot back.

Cole sighed in frustration. “You and I may be limited in experience but you would have to be blind not to see it in Diana. And perhaps you are, if you go on in this fashion! Are you so lost in your flight of fancies that you’ve turned your head around on what it means to love? Just look at her, Anne.”

She frowned but for once, Anne forced the words that piled itself into her mouth, down her throat. She turned still wary eyes to her oldest friend and observed her with the kind of open mind she beseeched upon the world, and saw her, truly saw her, anew.

Despite her pallor, she stood straight, her shoulders back in a way that would make her mother proud save for her chin, jutted out in defiance. She had never looked taller. Her eyes held a certain shine—as though nothing, not even the threat of her parents or the prospect of leaving Jerry behind to go to finishing school in Paris, could ever banish their light.

“I know he’s not the Ideal Man we promised ourselves we would find in our youth, nor is his proposal the grand advent that we dreamed of nor is our love the epic we longed to command, but Anne, I don’t know how to explain it without sounding like a silly, lovestruck fool. He’s so much better, he’s so much more…”

(She felt more. Was this not a thought she conjured to herself last night?)

Diana trailed off, evidently lost in her thoughts. In that moment, Anne had never felt so far away from her friend. But this wasn’t about her feelings. Diana had a smile on her face and it was awash in excitement but more than anything, it was serene. As though she had found her rightful place in the world, and it was by Jerry’s side, her arm slightly outstretched and her body angled in a way like she was merely waiting to fit herself to him.

Chagrined, the pit of her gut flooded with the shame of her actions. That she drove Diana to have to explain herself! How could she have done this and ever called herself a bosom friend?

In the end, she only had one other question to ask.

“Are you happy?”

Both Cole and Diana turned surprise eyes, at her and her tone, soft and apologetic. Diana though, her lovely jet-black hair a blazing amber in the noon sunshine, looked perfectly brilliant and Anne had her answer.

“If you’re happy, then so am I.”

She went to her, a mist transforming her gaze into pools as she hugged the girl who had grown into a woman, seemingly before her very eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, “you can’t know how much,”

“It’s all ready forgotten.”

Cole shortly joined their embrace and the three friends were laughing even as they wiped rivulets of tears from each other’s cheeks.

“Well,” Cole prompted. They were spread on the grass, their heads together in a triangle while they mooned onto the blue sky and painted pictures out of clouds. “How did he propose?”

Anne’s mouth twisted as she deduced that it must have been unromantical—though this sentiment, she kept to herself lest she again upset the comradeship that was so newly established amongst them.

But Diana’s tenor was sweet and dreamy as she recalled, “He wrote me a letter—a full-fledged letter! He gave it to me personally, of course, for fear of my parents finding it first but oh, it was in an envelope and stamped and everything, as if he had sent it to me through courier.”

She was all too relieved that she kept her opinions to herself, for though he hadn’t gone down on one knee, Anne supposed that an epistolary proposal sounded absolutely beauteous—especially once she considered just how far Jerry had come from, being illiterate as a child. He prided himself on his abilities now.

“If anything, I have you to thank Anne, for you began his tutelage.” Diana sighed. “I’d show you the letter, but I’d like to keep it to myself if you don’t mind.” She blushed as she said this and they all giggled, for they did not mind at all. “But truly, it was divine, it was himself in words. All his emotions on a page, and yet all he wrote of was me...”

Nestled within the grass, Diana was a rose in bloom with the way she blushed as she spoke of her betrothed. It was then Anne had an epiphany.

Perhaps love did not always come in the form of impassioned speeches or grandiose adventures. Perhaps it wasn’t always a princess who was locked up in a tower guarded by a fire-breathing dragon, her prince ready to brave the flames.

Maybe it was a low-burning ember, less hot than the blaze of a fire sure, but just as passionate. She thought of Diana and Jerry and wondered if it might be letters written in longhand, if the prince’s sword was actually a pen, the ink his weapon that illustrated his ardor—if the dragon wasn’t a dragon but the politics of society that told young lovers they must not marry below their station or, and she looked at Cole, their same sex.

Maybe love didn’t always mean the adventure was in far off places, but was found within the four walls of her classroom; where a rival, in actuality, was not the villain but a prince in disguise?

It was standing up for what and who you believed in, going after them when they walked away and promising to want them for all time.

“Anne?”

Diana touched her shoulder but all she could say was, “I am a fool.”

Cole smiled knowingly.

But, fool that she was, it took her till twilight to empower herself to take any sort of action. With word to Marilla on where she would be, and Marilla raising an astute eyebrow at the very young male coat she left behind when she departed (honestly, was she the only one oblivious to her own feelings?), she went where her heart led.

And her heart led her at the boundary of the Blythe farm, where she paced back and forth, back and forth and back and forth until—

“Anne?”

She startled. “Gilbert!”

“Hello…?”

He looked bewildered at her being there, and rightfully so. Dusk was falling, and here they were again. She chuckled, though it was riddled with tension.

“You’re always catching me unawares,” she jested. “I wonder when I’ll ever return the favor.”

“Impossible,” he muttered.

Disconcerted, she inquired, “why?”

He gave her a modest smile, though he didn’t look away.

“I’m always aware of you.”

She was tempted to look away—so heated was his gaze. But her determination was even more ignited and so she compelled herself to hold his stare.

“Not that I’m displeased,” he continued, before the silence could prolong. “But what are you doing here? It’s nightfall. Is something wrong in Green Gables?”

“No, no,” she assured in quick tones. “The very opposite. I just—I need to tell you something.”

His brows furrowed as he tilted his head for her to go on. “Yeah?”

“It is rather important,” she began. “Could we… could we talk somewhere more privately? Preferably, not out in the cold.”

“Oh!” Gilbert laughed in abashment. “Of course, let’s go inside.”

“Where are Bash and Mary?” She asked when they entered the dark and empty house. Gilbert led her to the parlor where he offered her a seat and he lit candles as he spoke.

“They’re in Charlottetown, I just came from the train station where I dropped them off actually. They’re going to attend to Mary’s son. He’s fallen ill.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I offered to go with them, but it doesn’t sound so serious. Overfatigue, probably stress from work, and a fever. Mary wants to be with him, just to be sure and Bash, well,” he rolled his eyes though when he spoke, it was full of fondness. “He never wants to be far from Mary.”

Again, they shared a weighted look. Anne cleared her throat, but nothing came out. Should she make more small talk? Ease into it? Or should she just dive right in?

“So,” Gilbert smoothly urged. “You had something important to tell me?”

Right, she thought, diving into it, then.

“I needed to see you,” she started.

“In the middle of the night?”

He sounded amused. Was he mocking her? Here she was, laying her heart bare and he was ribbing her?

“Hardly!” she burst out, her temper rising. “The sun hasn’t even fully set!”

“Hasn’t it?”

He gestured towards the window where, surely enough, darkness had conquered the sky with a swiftness Anne had forgotten it was capable of. She frowned and when she looked back at him, that insufferable smirk was affixed to his lips.

Oh he means to rile me, she conjectured. He thinks he’s so clever!

His goading gave her an inexplicable boost of confidence so, abruptly, she declared, “I have objections.”

“Objections?” befuddled, he scratched at the side of his head—a habit of his, she knew. “To what?”

“To ‘as long as I live’.”

“As long as I—”

He broke himself off as all humor was swept from him and the light of realization settled upon his eyes.

“‘Forever’ sounds ever more romantical, don’t you agree?”

“Anne,” he whispered, hope lighting his face and forging her heart and soul anew. She hid a smile. How unfair it was that he should look so glorious under the candlelight, the shadows sharpening his all ready chiseled jaw and the strong slant of his nose.

How he glowed.

“I think I ought to school you on the proper techniques to proposing. I am, after all, to be a teacher.”

“Oh,” he queried, his voice wobbly and a suspiciously wet gleam in his cinereal look. “What exactly would you have me do differently, teacher?”

“Well, for one, I would have you down on your knee like… so.”

Gilbert’s eyes widened in genuine shock. In truth, Anne too was surprised at herself. She never thought she would be so happy, lowering herself to the ground. But she was, as she bent on one knee.

“And then?” he said, low and susurrous.

“Then, I would have you take my hand,” Anne’s fingers touched his, resting open on his lap like he was just waiting, waiting.

They entwined.

“We would look deeply into… each other’s… eyes…”

Her breathing began to quicken. From the rapid rise and fall of his chest, so had his. She was drowning, captured by the depth of his wonder—nothing could have made her look away from him.

“Then?”

“The most important part, of course.” she breathed. “A vow.”

She gulped.

“I love you.”

Gilbert exhaled shakily, his grip tightening on her hand.

“Would you have me, Gilbert? Would you do me the honor of being my partner… forever?”

Her breath hitched. For one horrid second, she was of the mind he would deny her.

He let go of her hand. He shoved the chair away and was leveled in front of her in a heartbeat. He cupped her face in his hands, his touch light and cool as a doctor’s should be. Anne closed her eyes.

Was there ever any doubt?

Gilbert kissed her.

In this, she could trust. This, she thought, is true.

She was happy to stay that way, ecstatic to be linked in the most universal language of devotion. But air was a necessity, and when they pulled but a hairsbreadth away she asked, “Is that a yes?”

Gilbert laughed, jubilant and boisterous, and oh how it outshined even the shadows.

“What now?” she breathed, her hands cupping his own around her face.

“I love you, Anne Shirley-Cuthbert, more than anything. I’ll love you in this life and the next, you can be sure. Forever isn’t nearly long enough.”

“Now that’s a vow.”

He laughed again. She joined him. "Shut up and kiss me, Carrots."

"You shut up and kiss m—"

He did, and she didn't even mind that he cut her off.

For Diana was right. They were no Elaine and Lancelot, but how could she ever give this up? Give him up? A lifetime of his kisses, a lifetime of his touch, forever in his arms?

No... this was better.

This was more.

AN: Come say hi to me! ;)

#shirbert #shirbert ff #awae #awae ff #anne shirley-cuthbert #gilbert blythe #shirbert future fic #shirbert au #shirbert fluff #I just want my children to be happy #my two happy idiots #let them be freeeeeeeeeeeee #swishandflickwit ff

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lacrossepapi · 6 years

Text

Regrowth

Thanks again to our wonderful mods at @steterweek for putting all of this together!

Day two: Mating Bite or AND Magical Stiles

Ao3: Link

“What’s wrong little guy?” Stiles cooed at the wilting rose bush.

“It’s been on the edge of death for weeks. Please tell me you can save it!” Mrs. Jones pleaded behind him.

“I can help you, but it’s going to have to wait for the waning gibbous moon in two days.” Before Stiles could continue his explanation Mrs. Jones threw herself into his chest.

“Mrs.Jones, I’m happy to be of assistance, but we need to figure out why someone has been wanting your roses dead so that I don’t have to cleanse them every month.” Stiles laughed pleasantly as he gently removed the elderly lady from his body and said, “Not that I wouldn’t like to see you that often.”

He sent her a wink for extra measure.

Mrs.Jones giggled, “Oh you little minx! You’re too sweet to this old lady.”, her smile dropped as she thought for a moment, “I bet it’s that darn Peggy Clifton down the street! My rose bush beat hers for Most Vibrant Bloom and she’s been down right hateful since!”

“I think you should go over and see if a nice homemade pie might soothe her ire. Compliment her hydrangeas or something. Make her regret being so rude to such a nice young lady,” another wink, “and maybe she’ll stop killing your roses.” Stiles knew he was flirting with this woman, but old ladies always had the prettiest flora and if he could get in her good graces long term he might be able to spend time in her lovely garden surrounded by her happy plants.

“Yes my sweet I think that’s exactly what I’ll do! Like my nana always said ‘Kill them with kindness and if that don’t work a good stabbing will!’ Hopefully I won’t need to get out ol’ Richard.” Mrs.Jones let out a pretty laugh when she saw Stiles’ face.

“Nana named that knife after her first husband, you know they never did figure out where he ran off to.” Mrs.Jones sent him a wink of her own before linking elbows with Stiles and bringing him inside.

Three days later, under the gibbous moon Stiles said a quick incantation to bless the small cloth bag he’d put: clove, wormwood, holly, motherwort, lavender, and vervain in for purification, healing, and protection. Unless Mrs.Clifton decided to get really nasty Mrs.Jones’ roses were going to be perfectly healthy.

Mrs.Jones had sent him off with a pan of brownies and a teary hug goodbye. He really did adore the sweet older ladies in Beacon Hills. They always had such happy plants, and were always willing to have a chat.

The light of the large gibbous moon lit his way through the preserve, a path he’d taken so often he could walk it backwards and with his eyes closed.

Tonight something was different Something was calling him.

Stiles pulled his hoodie tighter around himself. The hair on the back of his neck started to stand as he went deeper into the relative darkness of the forest. The tugging sensation was getting stronger the further he went, but this was his quickest way home and Stiles wasn’t going to show weakness by turning around. The air around him danced quickly across his chilled skin leaving the impression of little feet racing down his spine. He tried to block out the smell of wet decay as he moved quickly down the path. The tugging sensation was strongest as he approached the trail to the old root cellar his mom used to go to. His steps sounded hurried and panicked even to his own ears as he raced out of the forest and into the orange glow of the streetlights.

Stiles avoided the path through the preserve until the day of the dark moon. He’d told his father where he was going to be for the night in case anything happened and headed out into the forest before the sun had fully set. Stiles wasn’t a fan of being caught out in the dark again, but tonight would be a good night for divination and he wanted to find out if the thing calling him that night had malicious intent or did genuinely need his help.

He downed the last of his rosemary tea, which he’d brewed specifically for courage, and stepped onto the path to the old root cellar he’d only ever heard stories about. Stiles immediately started hearing cries in the wind. Something was out here hurting, maybe even dying; unless he was being baited into a trap. He pulled his favorite hoodie tighter around himself, the red color soothing in its familiarity, not to fight the chill but to fight his sense of dread as he searched through the ever dimming light of the setting sun. His mother had told him that sitting in the root cellar that resided underneath a great elder tree would help him focus his energy, but he still hadn’t seen any trees he would describe as “great” or one of the elder trees.

When he finally did find the doors to the root cellar they were not at the base of a great elder tree, but at the base of the largest stump Stiles had ever seen. The soft cries on the wind had grown louder with each step towards that massive stump, but with the rosemary running through him and his belief in himself strong Stiles persisted. The wind whipped through the trees as if a tornado was only seconds away or perhaps already upon him. The branches of trees groaned under the pressure, the animals silent save for the screams. The entire forest was telling him to run, and yet Stiles still felt the tugging of a life in pain seeking help. Stiles whispered a quick prayer to Medeina, the slavic she-wolf goddess of the forest and its creatures, in hopes that she’d see that he was only here to help a tree under her protection.

Stiles moved away from the doors to the cellar and closer to the stump. Stiles could feel the ley lines that intersect in the base of the tree, which explained why his mother would come here for divination and other magics that needed extra power. There were two large wounds on the tree’s interior. The first was connected to the northern line that headed out of Beacon Hills, and was a massive dark ink blot like stain. The second, smaller but still significantly sized injury to the great tree was a large burn mark that was connected to the eastern line and if Stiles remembered correctly it continued through the preserve, past the old Hale house, and exited the town through the main road.

“Note to self: Check out where the ley lines run through town” Stiles mumbled, knowing he’d remember because he spoke it out loud and his need to know everything often helped him remember things like this.

Stiles raised the velvet sack of herbs in his pocket up to his lips for good luck before stepping up to the closest wound and lifting his empty hand over the burned scar to divine its origin.

Wolves howling in pain

Cackling laughter

Muffled screams

Human blood spilled

Vengeance

Balance

He stepped back and shook the phantom pain from his hand. This injury was old and while not forgotten it was obviously healed over. The great tree had made peace with what had caused this wound, had found balance with the events that surrounded the burn. Stiles vaguely remembered the arson case his father had worked on six years ago. There’d been six deaths and three survivors. Stiles remembered something about an uncle getting custody of the two Hale kids he went to school with even though the uncle was young. Stiles remembers thinking about how lonely and distraught his classmate and her brother must have been, the death of his mother fresh in his ten year old mind. Stiles shook off the heavy emotions of both the tree’s and his own remembered pain as he took a moment to catch his breath.

Stiles clutched his spell bag as he slowly walked toward the massive ink stain in an effort to keep his nerves from over taking him. He sent a quiet prayer to Gulbis the guardian angel and protector of human spirits, hopefully if something did go wrong tonight he’d get to see his father one more time.

Stiles sensed the presence of a lurking were just as he took one more calming breath and finally put his hand over the wound.

War

Death

Chaos

Destruction

Human blood spilled

Supernatural blood spilled

Stiles broke the connection, stumbling back with from the strength of the pull he now felt from the tree. He drew in quick shuddering breaths as he tried to further himself from the stain. He scrambled across the leaf covered ground before emotions exploded from the tree.

HATE

JOY

CHAOS

GLEE

STRIFE

Stiles was hyperventilating. He couldn’t breathe with the speed of his thoughts and it was causing his chest to contract, his vision going blurry. His world was closing in on him and he knew he was on the edge of blacking out; his brain kept reminding him that whatever was sealed in the tree was going to get him if he passed out, but he couldn’t fight the increasing panic.

A wet nose shocked him out of his thoughts and brought him gasping back into the world. A wolf was gently prodding him in the side as if trying to get him further away from the demon trapped in the great elder tree. That’s what it is, what it has to be; a demon. How was Stiles gonna defeat a demon?

The wolf whined efficiently stopping him from panicking again. The wolf was right, Stiles needed to get the hell out of there. He scrambled to his feet and grabbed a hold of the wolf’s fur so that it could lead him down the now pitch dark path. Stiles took a soothing breath as he blindly followed the wolf in the darkness before closing his eyes to focus his energy. He gripped his divination spell bag once as he slowly opened his eyes to a dark world exploding with color. The dark moon was so good for soul searching and divination that Stiles could see the auras of every living creature around, including the wolf he was following.

The wolf’s aura was intriguing to watch. The shades of yellow mixing with shades of blue and gold; lemon swirling around navy, gold intertwining with cerulean, pale yellow twisting through burnt amber. Stiles watched as the colors danced and began drawing his conclusions about his mysterious savior. His wolf was intelligent, creative, driven, but the specific mix of shades is what caught Stiles’ attention. He looked at where his aura met the wolf’s and noticed how similar they were. Medeina had sent him a savior who suited Stiles’ own personality and soul.

Stiles sent her a prayer of thanks before releasing his view of the spirits around him. He was immediately surrounded by darkness again, his only grip on the world around him was the soft fur under his palm and the sound of his stumbling footsteps. Once the wolf had guided him out of the preserve Stiles collapsed onto the sidewalk in relief and closed his eyes while he focused on his breathing.

Stiles heard his companion huff a mocking breath.

“If you were in my place you’d be relieved too you ass.” Stiles said with his middle finger in the direction he thought the werewolf was.

After a few moments of silence he looked around only to find out he was now alone.

Stiles had gone to the cafe next to the herbal shop he frequented to to read over the new banishing books he’d just bought. Unfortunately for him the cafe was busy and he kept being distracted by the bells that twinkled every few seconds as a customer opened the door. Being constantly distracted in a warm room with good lighting and just the right amount of anxiety to keep him awake was definitely better than reading alone in his apartment where he’d either go on a random research binge or would accidently fall asleep.

He glanced up as the bells twinkled and made instant eye contact with a gorgeous older man with blazing blue eyes and a charming half smile. Stiles was practically panting despite the knee-jerk reaction of awkwardly looking back down at his coffee when he realized they were holding eye contact for an unusually long amount of time.

“Way to go you useless twink. How are you ever supposed to get someone to actually date your bi ass if you panic after making eye contact with a fine ass man you don’t even know?” Stiles whispered to himself kicking himself for his lack of confidence.

Stiles’ head shot up when he heard a soft rumbling laugh from the direction of the register. The man was laughing, but was still alone in the line. Stiles’ life was ruined. He was a deadman.

“You’re a were aren’t you?” He whispered testing out his theory, this time watching the man for his reaction.

The man nodded and flashed him a dazzling, yet cocky smile that just so happened to also have a bit of fang to it.

Stiles knew his face was bright red as he stared into that self-assured beauty and remember the embarrassing way he’d responded to the man he had yet to actually say a formal word to. He dropped his head to the table with a dull thud and sent a quick prayer to Pilvytė for luck and focused his energy. When he lifted his head he could see the auras of the people around him, but not as vibrant as a couple weeks ago when he’d seen the whole forest alight with the colors of every living creature’s aura. He needed to make sure the mystery man didn’t have nefarious intentions as he approached Stiles’ table, but was shocked to not only find him pure of intent but also find out he was the wolf that had saved him.

Wasn’t that interesting?

“May I join you?” The man asked, his eyes twinkling with the secret upperhand he thought he had.

Stiles blinked away the Sight as he nodded.

They sat in silence as both men read the books they had brought. Stiles would have felt uncomfortable if he had truly not known the man, but this werewolf had saved him. Stiles was, perhaps foolishly, more comfortable with the man’s presence and soon found himself yawning as the task of focusing on the book in front of him grew tedious and exhausting.

“I’m Stiles. What’s your name?” he had planned on being smoother, but the man was truly gorgeous and had already saved his life so it was hard not to be weird.

“Thank you for sharing your table with me and gracing me with such lovely reading company, Stiles. My name is Peter.” Oh he was smooth, and charming, and gorgeous, and stunning, and Stiles’ kryptonite apparently.

“It’s been a pleasure Peter.” Stiles closed his book and put it back in the bag it’d came in with a grace he did not realize he possessed in the presence of this handsome of a man, “Nice to see you on two feet this time.”

Stiles did a mental fist bump as he heard Peter’s surprised intake of breath as he passed him and continued on to the exit.

Stiles wanted to never return to that wounded great elder tree, but he knew he had to. He had to help that poor ancient tree; it shouldn’t have to contain that monster that so obviously was hurting it.

He cursed himself and his stupid bleeding heart the entire walk to the nemeton. The only thing that ended his long litany of admonishments was the appearance of Peter, who had brought along a cup of coffee for him too.

“You intrigue me.” Peter’s voice was, unfortunately for him, as smooth and charming as Stiles remembered.

Stiles just hummed in response, a small smirk finding its home on his lips.

They spent the evening like that, Peter making flattering and imploring comments and Stiles replying with smirks and noncommental noises. The longer he spent in Peter’s presence the more Stiles felt grounded, and it helped him probe the spell containing the demon. The mechanics of the spell were incredibly complicated and Stiles groaned audibly in annoyance when he realized just how long it was going to take him to figure out how to re-enforce the containment and make it so the demon couldn’t hurt the great elder tree anymore. Stiles wished he could kill it, but he had no idea if it even could be killed. All Stiles could do is bind it more and monitor the spell until he found a better solution or died, whichever came first.

Stiles sighed and started gathering his things back into his bag, “Alright handsome, that’s it for today.”

“What have you found out, darling witch?” He turned to see Peter smirking up at him from his place against a boulder.

“Well, first of all don’t call me a witch. It has a lot of negative history and pain for my people attached to it. We prefer Gifted. Secondly, I’ve figured out I can’t kill the demon the tree holds, but I might be able to seal it better so it doesn’t leak out and hurt the elder tree anymore.” Stiles explained as they made their way out of the clearing and back into the preserve.

“Well that’s a bummer.”

Stiles barked a laugh at Peter’s lame response, and found the burden of saving the nemeton a little lighter with Peter by his side.

They spent the cool autumn days that way, bantering to distract Stiles from the demon inside the tree and the crushing weight of responsibility and researching in the cafe they’d first met in. Peter was a charming whirlwind that Stiles had no defenses against, and he soon found himself madly, deeply, irrevocably in love with Peter. They spent so much time together Stiles found it impossible to resist the man or his feelings.

Luckily for Stiles, Peter was just as enamored as he was. You could almost say Stiles had bewitched the werewolf with his wit and humor.

They spent the winter wrapped in each other’s embrace. Together they sealed the demon inside the nemeton so tight it could never hurt the elder tree again.

Fireworks sparkled above them as they finished the final ritual and Stiles found himself happier than he had ever been in his adult life. Here he was on a beautiful night, under dazzling fireworks, and beside the love of his life sent to him from the gods when he needed him most, and Stiles felt like he could fly.

“Come here darling boy.” Peter voice was a honeyed rumble as he held a hand out to Stiles.

His own joy plus the relief of the nemeton and the magic of new years eve had Stiles twirling happily into his lover’s arms and leaning against his strong chest.

“I want you to bite me.” Stiles sighed out in a dream like state high on the glee inside him.

Peter gently swayed them both, humming a tune Stiles didn’t recognize.

“I want to give you the mating bite too my love. Tonight, under these stars, we dance. In the morning you’re mine forever.” Peter’s words floated on the breeze, gently wrapping themselves around the couple.

“In the morning you’re mine forever.” Stiles whispered the words back to him, clutching Peter closer.

#steter #peter hale #stiles stilinski #peter/stiles #magical stiles #mating bite #fluff #steter ff #teen wolf ff #steter week 2018 #the steter network #kyla writes #kyla creates

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