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omgrachwrites · 3 years

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The Princess and The Duke - Chapter Four

Pairing: Sirius Black x Reader

Summary: As the Princess of Spain, you were always supposed to marry King James of England to make an alliance between Spain and England. When he marries a woman at his court for love, you are married off to his best friend, Sirius Black the Duke of Bedford to keep the alliance. However, the court is riddled with secrets and a rebel in the North starts to rise against the Throne. Royal AU.

Warnings: fluff, lil bit of angst

Words: 2547

Disclaimer: This gif and the wedding vows do not belong to me!

Translation: Mantenerte fuerte - Stay strong

A/N: Happy New Year guys! Here’s to hoping this year will be better! I used the wedding vows from Game of Thrones in this chapter hahaha! Hope you guys enjoy this part and please let me know what you think and let me know if you would like to be tagged! I love you all! xxx

Chapter Four - Spring Music

Sirius could hardly think clearly or concentrate on his work, he couldn’t concentrate on his work for King James and he could hardly concentrate on his med that were holding Calais brilliantly for him and the King. All he could think about was her, the Princess, Y/N; he couldn’t get his mind off of her proposal of marriage, even though she had explained her reasons to Sirius. He had never wanted it to be this way, he had wanted to throw a magnificent party and invite his friends and even his enemies.

Sirius had wanted to properly show Y/N off and show everyone who threated James’ rule that he had the full force of Spain at his side. But then again, he supposed his marriage would prove that, they wouldn’t have needed to have a party. It troubled him but he couldn’t help thinking that Y/N had been forced into marrying him so quickly. Whatever was going on in Cumbria had sealed their fate and perhaps the rest of England’s.

Sirius didn’t have time to dwell on anything more because the door to Sirius’ study burst open and Remus stormed in, frowning at a letter before he flopped down on a chair, rubbing his temples. Remus had avoided going back to court for a while now and Sirius was sure it had something to do with Sophia, Y/N’s lady in waiting.

“Are you alright?” Sirius asked, raising an eyebrow.

Remus looked up from the letter and sighed, stretching out his arms behind him, “apparently, there’s some powerful Lord at court and he wants his daughter to marry well. The King writes that this Lord wants to meet with me when I return to the English court,” his eyes grew sad and Sirius bit his lip.

Remus was his best friend and in an ideal world Sirius would have Remus marry someone for love. Unfortunately, Sirius knew things couldn’t always turn out that way, not everyone could be as lucky as King James and Queen Lily.

“I’ll talk to James, surely he can’t make you marry someone that you don’t want to, and I know that he’s the King but he’s also our friend.”

“He made you get engaged to Princess Y/N, she’s beautiful and considerate but you didn’t choose her.”

Sirius laughed dryly, if he hadn’t had to marry Y/N then he would have stayed an eligible bachelor for the rest of his life, “I agreed to take Y/N’s hand in marriage and to be honest, I’m glad that I did because she’s one of the good ones,” he said truthfully, “but I also knew that it would be the best course for England but it doesn’t have to be that way for you,” he cleared his throat, “speaking of Y/N, you haven’t seen her have you?”

Remus smiled and nodded, running a hand through his hair, “she’s in the library, or she was the last time that I saw her. I was talking to her about the wedding and she seems rather excited about it.”

At Remus’ words a warm and floaty feeling blossomed in Sirius’ chest, “really? Huh, well I’m pretty excited too,” the two young men shared a smile before Sirius bid his friend goodbye and he set off for the library.

Just as Remus had said, Y/N was in the library but she wasn’t reading a book. Instead, she was staring at her hands and Sirius could have sworn that a couple of tears slipped out of her eyes and slid down her cheeks. What could she be crying about? Unless, unless it was something to do with him or the wedding. Sirius got a bitter taste in his mouth as that possibility crossed his mind.

Even when she was crying she was so hard to look away from, she was so devastatingly beautiful. Something in Sirius’ chest squeezed hard as Y/N wiped the remaining tears off her face and combed her fingers through her hair. It made him sad to see her so upset, he had to try and ease her worries.

“Y/N, are you okay?” he asked, his voice echoing slightly in the vast room.

Y/N jumped slightly, her bottom lip trembling before she offered him a weak smile, sniffling slightly, “I’m fine,” her voice sounded wobbly and it seemed like she was on the verge of tears once again, “it’s nothing that you need to worry about, I promise.”

“Oh, Y/N,” he hesitated when Y/N’s eyes got more teary and her lips parted just a little bit, he gulped and proceeded to say what he needed to. He needed her to hear him, he needed her to trust him, “we’re to be married and I always want you to feel like you can come to me about any worries you may have, even if they’re about me,” he sat opposite her and lifted her cold hands to his lips, kissing over her knuckles, warming her hands with his lips and he dropped his voice to a whisper, “please Y/N. Let me in, don’t push me away, we’re in this together remember?”

Y/N gave him a weak watery smile as she leaned forward and kissed his cheek. Sirius shivered at the feeling of her warm lips against his skin, “sometimes I almost forget how kind you are,” she sighed wistfully and cupped his cheek, “I received a letter from my parents today, I wrote to them with news of our upcoming marriage and my father sent me one back to tell me that he and my mother won’t be in attendance,” her lips trembled and she looked just like a lost child, “the most important day of my life and my parents won’t be there. In his letter my father told me that he wanted to come but my mother fought him every step of the way. But, it’s silly,” she wiped her eyes and looked away from him.

Rage started to simmer and came to a rising boil in Sirius’ chest; he couldn’t believe that the King and Queen of Spain wouldn’t be attending their own daughter’s wedding. Y/N looked so heartbroken, he just wanted to make it better, “it’s not silly if it upsets you, and they are your parents after all. If it helps, my parents won’t be there either,” he hesitated for a second, “well, they’re dead but if they were alive then I wouldn’t let them come. My mother was a horrid bitch.”

Y/N let out a surprised giggle of laughter as she almost touched his lips with her thumb, her sparkling eyes studying his face, “I take it that you and your mother didn’t get along then? I can’t think why because you must have been the ideal son.”

Sirius let out a dry bark of laughter, he was so glad that Y/N would never have to meet his parents, “I was the black sheep of the family, the disappointment. Regulus was always the favourite, he was everyone’s favourite.”

“Not mine,” Y/N whispered, looking up at Sirius from beneath her eyelashes and Sirius felt his heart speed up, “Regulus isn’t my favourite,” her first kiss was tentative and shy. Sirius could hardly revel in the feeling of Y/N’s lips because she pulled away too soon.

Y/N bit her lip and looked at him with her sultry gaze and there was a light dusting of pink across her cheeks, she looked so beautiful and intoxicating. Her gentle fingers cupped his cheek and she pressed her lips against his more firmly. Sirius sighed against her soft lips and threaded a gentle hand through her hair as he kissed her back.

After a beat she pulled away and let out a tinkling laugh, “perhaps we should have waited until our wedding to do that.”

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” Sirius’ lips curved up into a smirk, causing Y/N to roll her eyes with a smile, “so, tell me about your wedding dress, what does it look like?”

Y/N’s face lit up at his question but she raised an eyebrow, “isn’t it bad luck if I tell you?” she asked and Sirius shook his head.

“It’s only bad luck if you show me.”

Y/N nodded, looking satisfied with his answer, “well, it’s champagne lace lined with golden thread and that’s all the information you’re getting,” she giggled and Sirius nodded with a smile though he did feel a little disappointed.

“It sounds beautiful.”

Y/N flushed at his words, “it is, I couldn’t imagine a more beautiful dress and I’m so thankful that I’ll have a kind husband who will respect me,” she smiled and placed a hand over his.

Sirius grinned bashfully and stood up, holding out his hand to her, “come on, you must be hungry. I’ll have the kitchens make you something special. Do you have any requests?”

Y/N smiled and graciously took his hand, “hmm, something with honey and fruit,” she giggled and rested her head against his shoulder.

“Your wish is my command,” he chuckled, grinning down at her as they walked down the bright, sunlit corridor.

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It was a warm radiant morning on the day of your wedding, the birds were chirping their beautiful song and there was the scent of flowers on the wind that was almost a promise of what was to come. It seemed like God himself was smiling down upon you today. The King himself helped you into the magnificent comfortable litter that Sirius had procured for you. The King was to be walking you down the aisle today; he was going to be giving you to Sirius since your father wasn’t coming.

The knowledge that your father wasn’t coming felt like a dagger to your heart, in all honesty you didn’t really care that your mother wasn’t coming; you just wished your father was. He had written you a second letter telling you how proud and sorry he was but his words did nothing to soothe your aching heart.

With a sigh, you uncorked a bottle of springtime wine and poured yourself and Sophia a goblet, adding liberal amounts of honey, you drank deeply sighing with pleasure as the sweet taste danced along your tongue.

Sophia accepted the goblet with a thankful smile but you could see the sadness in her eyes. The news around the chateau was that Remus had returned to court because he’d had an offer of marriage. The news troubled Sophia and you had spent many nights with Sophia crying herself to sleep in your arms. You just wanted to make her feel better.

Sophia smiled at you as she sipped her own goblet of wine delicately, “are you excited Y/N?”

You nodded, there was a fizzle of excitement blooming in your chest already, “I’m nervous too, I always knew that I would be a wife one day but I was unprepared on how it would make me feel,” you admitted, biting your lip.

Your dear friend smiled kindly as she leaned forwards and placed her hand on top of yours, “it’s completely normal to be nervous,” she spoke to you gently and you smiled at her, you were so grateful that she was by her side.

You looked out of the thin curtains of your litter to look at the surroundings as you travelled through the woods to the small grove where the chapel was. The beautiful trees and the dappled sunlight that streamed through them slowly but surely seemed to calm your nerves and you smiled, taking in one deep breath. All too son the litter came to a halt just outside the cluster of cherry blossom trees that shrouded the chapel from view.

King James helped you out of the litter and smiled at you as he took a little bow, “you really do look beautiful Your Highness.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” you grinned back at him as you took the hand that he was offering you.

Your nerves increased as he led you through the curtain of pink petals and you looked up at the trees and smiled as the petals began to fall as soft as a kiss and settled in your beautiful hair. You closed your eyes as you took a deep breath of the sweet scent of the trees. Sirius had been right; the air was practically fizzing with magic. The most beautiful piano music floated outside of the open door of the pretty chapel and it seemed to diminish your nerves ever so slightly.

“Mantenerte fuerte,” you whispered to yourself, remembering the last words that your father said to you and with your head held high you walked through the front doors of the chapel, on the way to your future.

You gasped in delight as the weak sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows, making rainbows in the air; you reached out a hand to the quivering beautiful light. Queen Lily also looked beautiful in robes of forest green and flowers in her hair. Biting your lip, you looked over at the altar where your future husband was waiting for you. You smiled, feeling your eyelashes flutter of their own accord. He looked so handsome and he grinned at you with a light dusting of pink on his cheeks and those gorgeous grey eyes were shining as brightly as the stars. His teeth worried at his bottom lip as you floated towards him, not even sparing a glance to the spectators, they didn’t matter. It was only him that mattered.

When you reached the altar, King James lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to it before he joined your hand with Sirius’ and he clapped his best friend on the shoulder before going to join his Queen. Sirius’ lips curved up into a nervous elated smile as he squeezed your hand gently and you smiled back before the priest cleared his throat and began the service. The priest proclaimed that Spain and England where to be joined today but you weren’t really paying attention; the only thing you could think of was Sirius’ hand in yours. You jolted slightly when it was time to say your vows.

“Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger. I am yours and you are mine, this day until the end of my days,” you said together and smiled all the way through. It wouldn’t be so bad being Sirius’ wife, you knew that he would respect you and care for you, and you would do the same for him. It would be something, anything was better than nothing. Even if you never fell in love with each other, it was going to be okay.

“You may kiss your bride,” the priest prompting Sirius and the flush on Sirius’ cheeks only deepened.

Sirius took a deep breath as he cupped your neck and leaned in gently to press a chaste kiss to your lips, it was a pleasant kiss that made your lips tingle and your heart beat wildly. Before Sirius could properly pull away, you took hold of his shirt gently and tugged him back to you, threading a hand through his hair as you kissed him back, nipping at his lower lip slightly. He chuckled into your mouth and the outside world seemed to melt away until it was just you and him.

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@smiithys @elayneblack @amelie-black @siriuslyjanhvi @pregnant-piggy @lindatreb @mabelle-cherie @hxrgreeves @britishspidey @mads-bri @classicrocketqueen @sxtansqueen @hufflepuffzutara @missmulti @bruxa0007 @ourstarsailor @fific7 @squ1dward @2410slb @sunles

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be-bi-do-crime · 3 years

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Do you do headcanons?? If so can i get some domestic carulia headcanons 👀 like after carmen spends some time in argentina but then she misses jules so she goes back to england but jules is sad she left her so abruptly and isnt taking her shit so carmen moves near her and like has to re-win her over🥺🥺

anon, i absolutely do headcanons!! my brain is practically a dump for headcanons, you’ve come to the right place :D and if anyone ever wants me to write any just leave me a request in my inbox!

here is part one of my classic fic style headcanons based off of the prompt you’ve given (which is SO good by the way please i am so tempted to write it into a full fic and add to my mountain pile of drafts rn-):

carmen loves her mother, she really does. she’s sweet and kind and her family. it’s all she’s ever dreamed of. after carlotta sees her standing on her doorstep, her warm brown eyes freeze and then she gasps, launching forward and hugging her equally as shocked daughter.

“your eyes. my god, i would recognize them anywhere. [given name], is that you?”

“it’s carmen, actually,” she manages to say, her mother hugging her like it’s the end of the world. and her mother doesn’t question it, merely letting go and smiling at her with tear filled eyes.

“well, carmen, it’s nice to meet you.”

things aren’t perfect after that, of course. there are questions, so many of them that they stay up the entirety of the second night talking (not the first, carlotta insisted that she had to get some sleep). carlotta doesn’t seem fazed when she tells her about VILE and stealing from them, cries when she brings up her father, but they push through it because now they have each other.

it’s strange, then, the feeling she gets a month or so later. she’s lying on the couch after a few rounds of games with the orphanage kids, and she doesn’t feel... satisfied. she should, shouldn’t she? this is what she’s spent her life searching for. she left her team behind to focus on this, to give something to herself for once.

it’s maddening. she can’t figure it out, talking to player as she bounces a ball against the ceiling. her mom worries, asking her what’s wrong, but she can’t answer her because she doesn’t know.

another few weeks pass. she’s cleaning her tools, sorting through her red coat for some nostalgia. a slip of paper falls out, and written on it is the address to this house she’s living in, and-

“player- i never asked, and i’m not sure if you even know. who found the address?”

he hesitates. a beat, then— “your favourite ACME agent.”

oh. oh. jules. she hasn’t let herself think of her ever since she left them all behind, afraid of the memories of her brainwashed time being dredged up. julia probably hates her, and rightfully so.

but she’s buzzing. she feels like she’s onto something, like satisfaction is just out of her reach, and player is more than happy to check up on julia’s blog for her whereabouts. turns out she’s not in france but in england, visiting her mother, telling her blog audience that’s why she’ll be inactive for a while.

carmen laughs at the irony. player books her a flight.

fast forward and she’s halfway to julia’s mother’s place and in the middle of the sidewalk, she stops, suitcase rolling behind her. she probably shouldn’t be showing up randomly like this, no warning and dropping back into julia’s life when she doesn’t need it. julia’s had to have moved on by now, the girl in red just someone who was too afraid to meet up with her before she left.

“red, what’s up?” player asks her, staring at her unmoving icon on his screen. “you having second thoughts?”

“kind of, yeah,” she admits. “i’m just not sure if-”

there’s a tap on her shoulder. carmen turns around and feels her heart drop out of her chest.

julia argent stares back at her, arms crossed and looking exactly the same with her glasses and dressed in a casual tan coat, yellow sweater, and black jeans. she looked good, and, well, annoyed.

“hey, jules!” the greeting doesn’t come out as confident and suave as she hoped, but it suffices, and player speaks excitedly from his end. tell julia i said hi! he says, before cutting off.

“by the way, player says h—”

“ms. sandiego,” julia says stiffly, none of the playful flirting and easy tones that she’s gotten used to. “why are you here?”

“i thought you—” carmen stammers, reaching into her pocket and showing her the slip of paper. “you gave me this, and i wanted to thank you. also you know you can call me carmen.”

something in julia’s eyes softens at the sight of the paper, but then hardens again when she looks back at her. “you’re welcome. you didn’t have to come all this way to tell me, though. and calling you by a first name basis would imply that we’re friends, but it seems that we’re not, doesn’t it?”

carmen chokes a little, eyes widening. “we’re not- friends?”

“i would think a friend would at least say goodbye or get in contact with me any way before disappearing for months, so no, ms. sandiego, i don’t think we are.”

carmen’s first instinct is to feel offended, but she understands where the agent’s slight hostility towards her is coming from. this wasn’t just julia being petty, it was the consequences of her actions that she had to now make up for.

“jules, i’m sorry,” she says, going to grab her arm but drawing back at the last second. right. their subtle touches with each other were definitely off limits now. “we can talk about this in somewhere that’s not a public sidewalk, and i’ll explain everything, i promise.”

julia’s mouth twists into a frown, and she uncrosses her arms, one finger pushing up her glasses. she looks her square in the eye, her gaze cold and unflinching. “what is there to explain, exactly? how you left me- left us all so abruptly, and gave your closest family a note to remember you by? zack and ivy mentioned it to me- they’re being trained for ACME now, but i’m sure you knew that already.”

she didn’t. she hasn’t asked player for updates for a month. a heavy exhale escapes her, and she wishes she had player in her ear. julia lets out a humourless laugh at her lack of a response.

“i guess you found something better, ms. sandiego. i’m happy for you.”

the declaration is bitter- and with that, julia spins on her heel and walks away, heading to her mother’s house. carmen stands with her suitcase on the sidewalk, apologies on the tip of her tongue, wanting to chase after her. she swallows them down and drops onto the nearest bench, burying her face in her hands and tapping her earring so player can reconnect.

“red! how’d it go? what has julia been up to? is she-” player’s voice bursts through with questions, and carmen doesn’t say a word, a new mission in mind.

“do you know where julia is staying? not her mom’s place, i’m assuming.”

if player is surprised by the question, he doesn’t comment, and carmen can hear his keyboard clacking as he scans address books and properties. “she’s a couple blocks over, i’ll text you the address,” he says at last. carmen’s phone pings with the incoming text, but that’s not the actual thing she’s looking for.

“thanks, player. are there any houses up for sale near her street?”

“give me a second.” player pauses, scrolling through listings, and then continues. “there’s one like, diagonally across from her house, actually.”

“we have any funds left from our world saving?” she can tell player knows what she’s asking for now, from the telltale anxious drumming on his desk and the slower than usual clicking.

“a couple million, actually. i thought we were slowly distributing to-”

“i’ll make up for it, maybe nag some of the VILE stragglers and the remaining stolen artifacts and whatnot. can you set up a meeting with the house owner so we can wire the funds over?”

“this is a bad idea,” player cautions.

carmen grins. “and since when have i ever been known to have a good one?”

part two will be up as soon as i can get it written out! if you’re the anon that sent this, send me an ask about part two so i can answer it that way!

#asking carmen #my writing #carulia #julethief #carmen x julia #why do these posts of mine always get outrageously long 😭#give a writer a prompt and then boom a full fanfic #anon you asked for this #i love how you asked for domestic hcs and instead i handed you angst #don’t worry this is just part one!!!

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stillbandofbrothersthirsty · 3 years

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As Far As Friends Go

Chapter 9 (Chapter 1; Chapter 2; Chapter 3; Chapter 4; Chapter 5; Chapter 6; Chapter 7; Chapter 8)

****TW: Please beware that this chapter mentions miscarriages and may be triggering.

Emily - March 1944

The world seemed to narrow in around them. The black sky felt heavy, draping them in a blanket of privacy where all time seemed to stop. Nixon looked frozen staring at her.

“What?” Nixon sounded gobsmacked.

She could only imagine what she looked like standing there in front of him. Her hair was down - he rarely saw it down since she was always in uniform. The icy breeze blew wild strands of auburn across her rosy nose and cheeks. Emily had rushed out of the hospital and had spent the entire train ride back crying and doing her best to make sense of her emotions. She hadn’t thought once about checking her compact to fix her complexion or hair as her body brought her back to the base that had become her home.

All that ran through her mind was the vision of John’s hospital bed and the woman who sat beside him. As soon as she had seen that woman turn, her profile punctuated by her bulging stomach, it dawned on Emily that nothing but opportunity lay before her. She was no longer tied to this man. Everything Emily had ever wanted began with her returning to the airborne division of the United States army, so she immediately did just that.

“I’m free,” she repeated. She smiled up at him as tears filled her eyes, giving her a manic look.

“What do you mean? Why aren’t you in Worcestershire?” Emily shook her head as if in awe and Nixon wondered if she had gone mad.

“When I got there he had another woman at his bedside.” A tear ran down her cheek. Nixon stepped forward with an outstretched hand as if to comfort her. Emily quickly wiped the tear away, “no I’m okay, it’s okay.” Nixon stopped just in front of her. His eyebrows wove together in confusion and Emily knew she had to go on, “John was involved with another woman,” Emily swallowed as she felt her face grow red. She couldn’t help but feel a little embarrassed that she had been usurped by another woman. “They met in Liverpool when he first docked over two years ago, before Italy. Almost immediately after he left the states actually,” Emily laughed a bitter laugh. “And she’s pregnant, with their second child.”

Nixon let out a low whistle. This caused Emily to burst into a fit of giggles. She didn’t know why- she wasn’t sure why she was responding this way at all. The entire train ride back to Aldbourne her mind had gone in circles trying to make sense of everything that had happened in the short morning she had spent at the convalescent hospital. The plan she had when she first arrived in England was completely shot to dust. What would her parents think? What would they say? Who cares what they had to say, Emily reminded herself. That was her new mantra. The end of her relationship hadn’t been her doing, she had done everything right. If anyone was at fault now it was John. Now free from guilt, Emily was free to make her future anything she wanted it to be.

Nixon was looking at her as if she was crazy when she finally recovered herself. “It’s fine, I’m fine.” She pressed two fingers against her temple and exhaled.

“Are you?” Nixon’s eyes were wide with bewilderment, “Emily that is.. that is fucked up. And you didn’t know?’’

“No! Didn’t even suspect,” Emily said almost laughing again, “although, a lot does make sense now. I may have accidentally received a few letters meant for her over the past couple years.”

“What did you mean you’re free?” Nixon was nearly a silhouette in the darkness though they were only standing inches away from each other. The gears were turning in Emily’s mind. She wasn’t sure how much she should reveal to him, but at this point did it matter?

His eyes narrowed. “What?” he asked.

“Can we go inside to talk? It’s cold.” Emily shivered for effect.

 Nixon took her suitcase and led her inside. By habit, they ended up back by their desks in the intelligence room. Officers filled every other comfortable room in the manor house but even so this work room was where they both felt comfortable.

“Coffee? Tea?” Nixon asked going over to the coffee station.

“Tea sounds lovely,” Emily said.

“You really like that stuff? It tastes like brown water to me.” Nixon disappeared to fill the kettle. When he returned he placed the piping hot pot on a crochet pad and set to preparing Emily’s mug with a strain of herbal tea leaves. It was sweet, Emily thought. He had such a look of concentration for such a simple task. Emily felt too restless to sit down so she leaned against Nixon’s desk as she waited for him to finish.

Eventually, Nixon handed her a well-steeped cup. He leaned against her own desk across from where she stood, a cup of steaming coffee in his hand.

“So what did you mean you’re free?” he asked. So much in Emily’s world had changed in the last twelve hours but Nixon was still his impetuous self.

Emily inhaled deeply, trying to think of how to best explain herself. “What I meant was, I finally feel free without a fiancee. My life, my career here, was on a timer and each day it ticked closer to the buzzer. Now that I’m not engaged I could do anything.”

“Sure, but free is an awfully dramatic word to use.”

Emily shrugged but Nixon didn’t miss her withholding smile. “It’s not like you were trapped, being engaged isn’t a death sentence,” Nixon cocked his head, “well, not complete death.”

“It wasn’t the end of the world, no,” Emily conceded, “but it wasn’t what I really wanted.”

“Then why were you engaged to him in the first place?”   Emily eyed Nixon wearily. “You can tell me,” he said soothingly, “I promise Em, you can trust me.”

Emily sipped her tea meditatively. Could she trust him? He had teased her over what she had confessed to him in the past.

 “Fine, you don’t have to tell me,” Nixon said, “but just know that I regret embarrassing you back then.” Nixon nudged his shoulder, gesturing back in time. “I shouldn’t have teased you about something sensitive, especially in front of Harry.”

Emily flushed hot at the mention of Harry. She had thought of him on the train. Then she had thought of Kitty. The woman she had only briefly seen in a little black and white photo, and a character that seemed further away the more she and Harry spent time together. If Emily had learned anything today it was that not all men were as noble as they seemed. A very deep-set, shameful part of Emily wondered if Harry weren’t as noble as he seemed.

“You have to promise, Lewis. If I tell you anything it stays here, between you and me.”

“Between you and me.”

Emily cleared her throat in preparation and took another sip of tea. “I met John at a Notre Dame social. I liked him enough at first. He was cute, still a boy, but entertaining enough. I was so bored at school and happy to have a distraction. And, I have to admit, I didn’t hate the other girls envy that I was on the arm of a Notre Dame football player.”

Nixon snorted, he couldn’t stand jocks. Emily glared at him. “Continue,” Nixon prompted with a wave of his hand.

“Anyway, things were fun, casual. And we began…” Emily circled her finger in a propelling movement, “ya know.”

“What?”

“We began having relations.”

“You slept together?”  

“Yes,” Emily said curtly, “which again was just fun and casual.” She paused, “but then I got pregnant.”

Nixon’s eyes widened. His expression said what everyone’s did; so where’s the baby? A steel hand clenched around Emily’s heart.   

“Obviously, it was a disaster when I found out. I wasn’t married, hadn’t graduated yet, but at least I had a guy on the hook. I didn’t know who was devastated more, me or my parents.” Emily’s gaze was far away now. She was falling away into the land of memory. The only thing anchoring her to the room was the hot mug clutched tightly between her hands. “I felt like my life was over. The best I could hope for was that John would make a decent woman out of me, which he did. He proposed. My parents, my mom, was thrilled and the wedding was rushed ahead. The hope was that we could be married before anyone realized this baby was conceived out of wedlock,” it was Emily’s turn to snort.

“But a few weeks before the big day I began bleeding,” Emily tried to swallow past the rock that had formed in her throat. The sorrow that had overwhelmed her then was edging itself back into her chest. “I lost the baby,” her voice was barely a whisper, it was all she could manage. “my mom thought John would cut and run. He had no reason to be with me anymore. She told me I was spoiled goods. She was terrified no other man would want me. I asked her why did anyone have to know? But in a town like ours, the size of ours, it was unavoidable. Everyone knew about the wedding and suspected the reason. Luckily, John didn’t cut and run. He honored our engagement. The wedding was pushed back but then Pearl Harbor happened, and John enlisted.” Reaching the end of her sad story, Emily finally looked at Nixon. His eyes were darker then she had ever seen them. His mouth was fixed in a taught line across his face. She couldn’t read him at all. He was probably disgusted by her - her recklessness, her lack of backbone and desperation for any man who would take her. “So, now you’re all caught up,” she said quietly.

“Emily,” when he finally spoke his voice was raspy, “I’m so sorry.”

Emily fought against the sobs that were forming in her chest, her throat and eyes. If she let the tears fall they wouldn’t be out of relief like before but tears of utter grief. A grief she didn’t have the energy to touch tonight. She shrugged, “yeah, well, apparently I was just an obligation to John. But that’s fine, he was only meant to be a fun time for me. We weren’t each others forever.”

The corner of Nixon’s mouth turned up, “careful, one may say you’re a romantic Miss Rooney.”

Emily smiled, “maybe one day. Not today, I’ve got a job to do.”

“Come here,” Nixon pulled her into a tight hug and Emily let him. She allowed her body to melt into him and allowed herself to, in that moment, be completely dependent on him. She exhaled her suppressed sadness gratefully into his broad chest. The lump in her throat grew stronger but she fought against it by concentrating on Nixon’s warm embrace, the smell of his aftershave and the roughness of his uniform against her cheek. All was well with the world, she reminded herself. Her future had never seemed more hopeful.

Finally, Nixon released her. “Ya know, George Luz is going to be thrilled to hear you’re single again.”

 Emily laughed a true laugh and punched him on the shoulder. “Leave it alone, Lew.”

#band of brothers #hbo band of brothers #fanfiction #as far as friends go #lewis nixon #lewis nixon x oc #original character #harry welsh #george luz #george luz x oc #harry welsh x oc #hbo war

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teacup-crow · 3 years

Text

Things That Make it Warm

Zombies Run Secret Santa fic for @whirly-wind! Thanks for organising @runnerzero, @goblinsharkz and @notforconsumption. Spoilers up to S5M24 below the cut :)

Hi Mystery! I was so so so excited to get you because you’re always lovely about my writing, especially my Tom/Jody stuff 😍 this is the story of them getting to know each other (with a Christmas involved, because Christmas is romantic right?)

Apologies that it starts off just a LITTLE bit angsty but it’s these two and angst just happens to them. A writer can only do so much. I promise there’s festive fluff in there!

I hope you enjoy this! Merry Christmas!

((Stole the title from a Cavetown song because I hate naming things!))

*****

“Jody’s running slowly, so she’ll give ‘em a good chase.”

She almost has to swallow a laugh at Sam’s sweet admiration. Jody’s running slowly because everything hurts, because this idea is crazy, because it might be the last run ever gazing at an Abel sunrise, orange and pink flecking the horizon, and she wants to see it before-

Boom. The explosion rattles her teeth, her bones, smoke rising behind her. She doesn’t look back. She knows better.

“Miss Marsh! To me!”

Tom grabs her hand and before she can process anything at all they’re sprinting. Her heart and lungs are burning; it’s been months since she ran like this, weeks since her muscles atrophied, and the pain shoots through her legs at every step until she feels nauseous. But they’re running. At some point, she lets the bundle fall from stiff arms, a pile of empty blankets. Tom whispers something, and vanishes into the dust he created.

***

“We are not leaving you here.”

“Ian won’t kill me. He knows I still have some useful things inside my broken noggin.” His smile is lopsided, his eyes slightly glittery. Jody doesn’t know him that well, really, but that look has never been a good one on him. She pats his arm, and it dulls a little. She leaves her hand there.

“Isn’t that a reason to get you out?”

He swallows. “I can’t… I can’t promise that I’ll…”

“You saved my life. You’re coming with us.”

She knows, even though his sister might protest out loud, that Janine is grateful to her for making the call. She knows her so well she can hear that the woman’s shoulders have dropped just a bit in relief.

***

Tom likes Noah Base.

It’s warm, and enclosed, and safe. He can feel the presence of walls around him at all times. When he whistles, it echoes. It’s familiar.

When he was younger, being inside used to bore him silly. Paperwork was the worst part of the job; as a boy, Jane did his homework more often than not. Back in Karachi, the memories warm and soft as parchment, he’d play football with the neighbourhood kids late into the night, everyone teasing but good-natured, curious about the white boy who spoke Urdu like a local. The calls of other boys’ mothers rang out as the day grew long until at last they’d scatter at the figure of his father, the ambassador cutting a long shadow across the evening, rumbling “Thomas? Thomas? Time to come home.”

A couple of years later, he lay out on the family’s broad flat roof, breathless - hiding from his sister so she wouldn’t see him crying about their parents, about being ripped away from everything and everyone they knew. Hiding from the men from the embassy, so he couldn’t hear the bad news. So they couldn’t take him to England. Outside there were birds soaring above him, the sun shining like any other day. He didn’t have to confront reality.

And after that, inside meant dull lessons at boarding school far away from Jane, where he actually had to concentrate to keep at the top of the class, and inside meant stuffy offices with stuffy bureaucrats who would never understand the realities of field work no matter how often they were explained, and then inside was three bare walls of concrete and agony and time.

When the open air was no longer a choice, when life became nothing but a cube, six by six, lights off more often than on, inside became more comforting. There, nobody could sneak up behind him. It was easy to keep one eye open. If you stay in the corner, you’re never surrounded. It’s outside where things go horribly wrong. Outside is where the crawling men eat human flesh. Outside is where Jane and the others left him behind.

And so, years later, England again, he’d slip off his cuffs in his new cell and finally manage to relax enough to rebuild some of his sanity. He knew now that inside isn’t the problem. Being trapped there is.

Noah Base is safe. He can map out the whole place in his head, learn fourteen different escape routes, ranked from worst to best.

Noah Base is better than safe.

Noah Base has Jody in it.

***

Jody, for one, feels cooped up.

It’s okay, at first. Things were worse than this right after the outbreak. She’d stayed in a Tube station for a couple of nights, only peeking her head above ground to try and get decent reception to call her mum. When her phone gave up the ghost, she trekked it out of London. But sometimes, especially now, she still thinks of the noise, the irrepressible heat, sickness already spreading like wildfire.

It’s okay, at first. She knits. She stretches. Builds up her core strength again. Takes lectures on strategy. Starts to actually read Janine’s notes, to Sam’s disgust. She keeps positive as morale begins to drop, until one morning she doesn’t get out of bed at all.

Tom arrives at her door with a plate of cold toast and strawberry jam.

“You weren’t at breakfast.”

Of course. He notices everything.

“I wasn’t hungry,” she replies, then bites her lip. If anything, the latest messages from Abel make her far too sick to eat. Steve, inexhaustibly flirtatious, convivial, suave Steve, had sounded shattered. Half-rations. Quarter-rations. Ian’s getting… more unbalanced. Kefi reckons half the town is anaemic.

“Come in if you like, I’m decent.”

“You need to eat something,” he insists, pushing the door ajar and handing the plate up to her. She sits up, back against the wall, and tries to give him a wobbly smile.

“What’s the matter, Miss Marsh?”

“I just… can’t believe we left them.”

And she bursts into tears. He pats her arm.

He doesn’t rationalise anything to her.

He thinks that, just maybe, it’s worse to be the leaver than the left.

***

She’s so strong.

He watches her with a bow and arrow hit one- two- three targets in the centre, more accurate and deadly than his own hand with a pistol. She swings up the climbing frame like a monkey, upside down and ten feet in the air. The gym in Noah Base is cramped - what isn’t? - but training is manageable with the lack of equipment to fill the space. Peter - the man who found them this place, the man with the silver tongue, the man who hurt his sister - is at the weights. He’s always in Tom’s peripheral vision; Jane only puts him there to keep an eye, he knows that.

“Whoop!” Jody swings down from the ropes triumphantly and rolls to a halt. He clicks the stopwatch.

“One-forty-seven. Your fastest time yet, Miss Marsh. That was excellent.”

“You can stop calling me that any time you like, you know.”

“Nonsense. What would I call you then?”

She looks up at him, quite serious. He’s maybe a foot taller than she is. He’s a madman. A murderer. But there’s not an ounce of fear in her gaze, not anymore. When her hair is tied back like that, he can see her face properly, the fading freckles, soft straight hair, her laughing eyes, the cleft in her chin, the birthmark on her cheek.

“...Jody’s fine, Tom.”

“I… yes.” He blinks away in embarrassment. “If you would prefer that name. Yes.”

“Not if it makes you uncomfortable. Anyway, I’m going to try that again. I just know I can beat you.”

“And then you’ll take a break?”

“We’ll see,” she grins, and jogs back to the start.

She’s not only physically strong; she’s been through so much and she hasn’t let it harden her. She looks at every new day like an opportunity, a sunrise, swallowing back the bitter pill of life with orange juice. Not like him. He’s so far past broken he doesn’t even remember what wholeness tastes like; some important part of his soul still lies in that cage, rotting. So how can he be falling in love?

***

It just doesn’t feel like Christmastime.

The last few Christmases have fallen into some kind of routine, at least. They were bare and hard but everyone was together, kids faces lighting up as they decorated the township, people working together to make it as okay as possible. A bit more frivolity, a bit more food.

It’s December already, and nobody has even mentioned it.

Steve hasn’t sent a message in a good while, and the radio silence is making all of them itchy. Five’s been gone for weeks; Cameo’s probably dead. Everyone she cares about is probably-

“Jodes? Can you help me with this?”

It’s Tom, sprawled on his stomach on her bedroom floor, attempting to darn a sock and failing miserably. She laughs.

“They didn’t have darning as a class at Harrow?”

“Not that I remember, but I can recite some Latin at you if you’d like.”

“That sounds extremely helpful.” She swings down from the bunk and looks closer. “Have you just been tying knots in this?”

“I was trying to…” he stares at the sock in his hands with a rueful expression. “It appears that yes, I have just been tying knots in it.”

“Okay,” she sits down cross-legged and takes it from him to start unpicking. “At least you’re honest.”

“Where did you learn to sew and knit?”

“Our church hall ran a youth club. They’d do snacks and activities after school most days, and Mum always liked us out doing something; there were four of us and she didn’t want us under her feet all afternoon. I was a big fan of the needlework table. Who knew it would come in so handy, hey?”

“I have underestimated it.”

He rests his chin on his hands, intently watching her work. Her fingers are so small and quick compared to his. Her gaze flits between the sock and his face. It’s weathered and worn but she still sees warmth and handsomeness there, between the cracks in his scarred armour. The way he’s kept an eye on her every day since that breakfast, just to make sure she’s holding up. She shakes her head, and passes it back to him.

She can’t fall in love with Janine’s brother.

***

It’s the day before Christmas Eve, and Sam hasn’t let Five out of his sight for more than two consecutive hours since they got back to Noah Base, his hand stuck to theirs with glue. They’d normally protest this, but yet another dusting of horror and shadow under their eyes has cut their counterargument short. They nod to Jody when they see her request, and make some excuse about going to ask Janine about work assignments, hobbling a little on a twisted ankle. She appreciates it.

“Sam! Finally got you alone for a minute!”

“Jody! What can I do for you?”

He’s almost himself again, grinning at her from the chaotic comms desk that he’s tacked a bit of tinsel to. She can nearly forget the sound of his screaming last week when Five practically died in that godforsaken maze. It turns out nobody is better at picking up and piecing back together than Sam Yao.

“How did you know that… how did you…”

She pushes the door closed, and clears her throat. “How did you know that you liked Five?”

His grin broadens. “Jody, you like someone?”

“Shut up.”

“I thought you didn’t have crushes!”

“I didn’t. I don’t. Well, maybe I do. I don’t know!”

“Well, describe it to me.”

“It’s like…” God, his smile is dopey. “Stop looking at me like that, Sam, you’re putting me off! It’s like… every time I look at him I feel warm, and the world feels a little bit softer, more yellow, and I just want to protect him. Like, I’d die happy if I knew he’d be safe. And his face. His jawline. I… you’re giggling!”

“Tell me more, tell me more!”

She lobs a stack of rotas at him half-heartedly. He ducks.

“He’s just… so clever and so kind. And he’s still hurting, and I wish he would stop.” She sighs, warming to her theme. “Janine will go mad with me if she hears about it.”

Sam’s face goes slack with shock. “Oh my God. You like Peter?”

“Jesus Christ, Sam, no! I like Tom!”

“Oh, that makes so much more sense!” He chuckles, and then adds: “You do know he’s still a bit...”

“And Five isn’t?”

It comes out defensive, and she immediately wishes she’d bit her tongue, but he doesn’t get annoyed. He shrugs.

“You’re right, Five isn’t well either. Both of them have been through… stuff we can’t even imagine. Done things that people maybe shouldn’t forgive.”

“Who hasn’t.” Jody says darkly.

“Exactly. Their hearts are in the right place, but… just be careful, Jodes.”

Lines like but he would never hurt me and things are different now are not lines she likes to have run through her head. She heard those lines often enough as a little girl, when her brother Cameron was still in nappies and she herself barely out of them but already knowing they were lies. Her mum’s taste in men had got better by the time she’d had the twins, but Jody didn’t forget. She’d vowed to never, ever need anyone that volatile that much.

And yet - here she is.

“So. How’d you know you liked Five?”

“I just,” he flushes. “One day I woke up and just knew. My heart belonged to them. I couldn’t get it back. When they’re not around… it hurts.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s it. Oh Sam, what am I going to do?”

“You could just tell him?”

“Yeah. No.” She swings around in the office chair as she talks. “What if he doesn’t feel the same? What if I make him uncomfortable? He’s going through a lot still, deep down, and I don’t want to add to it, or put him under any pressure.”

“He’s a six foot three MI6 Commander, Jodes, I somehow don’t think you’ll be pressuring him into anything.”

“I suppose... but you keep your mouth closed, no matter what, okay? I don’t want to hear this anywhere outside of this room.”

“Just tell him you like him!” Sam calls after her as she heads back down the corridor.

***

“You’re coming to me for advice about women?”

Tom’s already realised that this was probably a bad idea, but he can’t exactly back out now. “I mean? Jane likes you.”

“Janine’s Janine. She’s… well, I know she’s your sister but she’s not like other women.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, she’s…” he’s flustered. “She’s amazing.”

“And other women aren’t amazing?”

“Fair point, fair point,” he raises his hands.

Tom runs a hand through his hair. It’s thinning. When did he get old? So much of his youth was wasted.

“Jody is beautiful and talented and so good. She’s got this… hope about her. This luck. I feel like nothing could truly go wrong when I’m beside her.”

Peter nods. “And what does she think?”

“I have no idea, but she can do a lot better than me. She’s seen me ranting and raving out of my wits, and I’m ten years older, and… just look at me, Pete. I’m mostly scar tissue.”

Peter does, up and down.

“You’re very good looking to me, Colonel,” he winks at last. Tom snorts. Maybe the bloke isn’t so bad.

“You must have had relationships before, though? Surely? The way Janine always put it you’d think you were James Bond. A different person on your arm every day of the week.”

“I mean, I did. Of course. Lots of people. Nothing serious, but… that was so long ago. Before… before my head became a mess. When I could tell truth from lie as easy as up from down. These days, I’m not even sure if you’re in front of me. If I squint, I might lose you completely.”

Peter doesn’t know what to say to that. Tom’s introspective seriousness has always made him uncomfortable.

“Anyway, enough of all that rambling. I’m going to give her this.” He proffers a wicked-looking weapon. “For Christmas, I mean. Do you think she’ll like it?”

“An automatic crossbow?” Peter whistles. “Romantic. Right up her alley. She’ll love it.”

He nods in gratitude. “I appreciate you listening. Before you ask, Janey will love the ringbinder full of poetry you put together.”

“How did you know about that!” Peter is ashen, mortified.

“The name’s Bond, James Bond.” Tom throws the line over his shoulder as he wanders away.

***

Their Christmas is a quiet one, but perhaps more festive than anyone expected. Someone dims the base’s lights with crepe paper, and Amelia emerges from her quarters with a bottle of champagne. “Not as a gift, you understand,” she impresses firmly, “but as a service to myself. Being around you lot is making me bloody miserable. Put some smiles on, for once!”

Someone else has found a flock of wild geese and thanks to Jody’s crossbow the residents of Noah Base feast like Victorian paupers made kings. Janine taps her glass, makes a speech about times being tough and the importance of finding the things to celebrate. “I salute you all for your fortitude and bravery. This time next year, we will be with our friends and families again. It’s only a matter of time before we take our home back.” She’s got good at these at this point. They all raise a cheer, at least.

Tom and Jody talk long into the evening about everything they can think of that isn’t the last decade. Childhood stories, mostly: Tom and his football friends accidentally crashing a wedding and causing a minor diplomatic incident; the prank war with next door that Jody and her brothers got into one summer; Tom, Janine and General Bakari’s three-way chess matches; Jody nearly burning the house down attempting to make her mum breakfast in bed. Debates over Doctor Who episodes lead into arguments over the best Quality Street chocolate until they’re the last people still awake.

“D’you believe in God?” She asks, at some point, hazy under piles of blankets in front of the heater they’ve powered for the occasion. He’s wearing the new jumper she made him (“I’m sorry it’s bottle green, it was the only wool we had enough of but it’ll bring out your eyes, I reckon”) and leafing through the pamphlet of beginners knitting patterns she’d painstakingly copied out and tucked inside it.

He chews his lip, lost in thought, his mind straying back to Algeria even as he takes her hand in the present. “No. I used to. I was a chorister when I was a boy.”

“Seriously? One of those ones in Westminster Abbey? My mum always used to listen to them!”

“Yes! I loved it!” He laughs. “Only did the Christmas service once, though. I got bronchitis the next year, and after that my voice broke. But it was the first time I started enjoying life in England. When we stepped outside after the service, that was also the first time I saw snow. I thought it was a miracle. Janey told me not to be so ridiculous, so I put a snowball down the back of her coat.”

“I can’t get over how posh you are. Did you have to wear robes?” It’s the biggest he’s seen her smile in ages. He laughs again at the look on her face.

“Yes, I had to wear robes.”

“If there are no photos left of this, I’ll never forgive your sister.”

“What about you? Why did you ask about God?”

“I don’t know: I was just wondering. True meaning of Christmas, and all that. I used to think at the start of all this that if He did exist, he must have a pretty sick sense of humour. But I’m not sure, I don’t think it’s all that black and white anymore. Maybe He’s just tired of us.”

“Perhaps He’s on a long holiday. He’ll check in next millenia. Until then, we’ll have to figure it out for ourselves.”

She falls asleep not long after that, her head on his chest. He loves her so much his ribs ache.

Maybe there is a God, if a feeling like this can exist. If the two of them can find each other, despite everything. If he can leave so much behind, and lose so much, and still be so happy.

#zombies run #zr #tom de luca #Jody Marsh #zrs5 #zrs5 spoilers #zr secret santa #Noah base Christmas and Christmas 2020 have the same energy #zr secret santa 2020

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punkandsnacks · 4 years

Text

Between Wolves & Doves, Chapter Four; Acquaintances.

Author: @punk-in-docs & @adamsnackdriver

Also on AO3-

Trigger Warnings: Nothing much to trigger in this chapter - just as the title suggests, a swooning moment or two perhaps-

Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.

He’s been stalking this earth long since civilizations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it.

He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia.

In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.

He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.

He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.

~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~

The sky remained hard. Resolutely letting snow sift from the thick great heavens, like icing sugar drifting down. The ground also continued to be frosty hard and scattered with patches of hidden silvery ice.

No sooner than the sun had risen over the tumbling flat frosty vista of Hampshire hills and frost crusted meadows, than Iris is up, and going about her daily chores all in the life of a gently bred - yet unwed- daughter, of fairly considerable means.

She takes food parcels to the poor. Calls on sick relatives or companions for tea. Pays calls. Fetched supplies for cook from the butchers or the grocers, or the fishmongers in town.

When one of the maids is ill, or is suffering a passing heartbreak until the next suitor comes along, Iris is the one to step into the void and fulfil their tasks. She collects the eggs from the chickens at the farm, or makes the ailing girl a hot milk posset or a cup of hot chocolate to cheer them.

It seemed like every other week their maids, Meg and Julia, seemed to go getting their hearts broken. Some farm hand. Or the boy from the butchers shop. The milliners son, or the strong handsome one who works in the drapers shop. As ever; Iris steps into the fray when - another - devastating crisis comes their way. She helps cook in the kitchen with supper. Or she helps out with idle cleaning around the house. Or see’s to the chores on the farm.

This morning is no different. Meg took to her bed with an ailing heart of the most acute kind. For the boy she fancies had become engaged to another girl. Iris brings her a cup of chocolate after breakfast and lends her a handkerchief and a shoulder so she can have a good long cry about it.

So household tasks fall onto her today. Fetching in what cook needed from market for supper. Even though she’d have liked to have spent a morning reading her book, or helping Julia get on top of the household washing. She’s wanted to take down the parlour curtains and give them a good scrub, for weeks now.

Or today she had ideally wanted to lend Flora and Posy a hand in drying some flowers, and french lavender and roses. For perfumes and bathing oils. They had to use their home grown stock from the gardens carefully. It was a long winter. And the convenience of summer blooms are far off yet. Dried flowers cost a pretty penny up the market.

Her duties are endless. She’s got calls to pay. Off to the butchers to buy sweet meats and game for the jugged hare cook is making tonight. She needs to buy beeswax candles and salt, and some more soaps.

And Posy and Flora are allowed to purchase two new ribbons each. They’ll walk into the village with her. No doubt nattering all the way there about what colours they want. And all the way back that they should’ve chosen different ones.

Iris steps outside in her wintry best and her cracked leather boots. Two pairs of wool stockings this time. Her navy blue wool pelisse over a thick white cotton dress. For good measure, she puts a bonnet on to keep her ears warm, and wraps a gold embroidered shawl around her shoulders.

Posy and Flora are trussed up as if they’re off to go personally meet the Prince Regent. Flora is in her gold pelisse with her pink dress under. And Posy had her powder blue coat over her mint green dress. They’re both wearing bonnets that they made up themselves. Their hats staggering under the weight of ribbons and cloth and trims and flounces.

Iris’s was far simpler - No fuss. No trims. A gold straw bonnet with grey ribbon tied under her chin.

Iris has to chide Posy, when they step out of doors, for forgetting to wear her gloves. She insists she hasn’t a decent pair and slips back into the house to go up to Iris’s room to conveniently borrow her grey rabbit fur lined gloves. Making her elder sister roll her eyes. The plot was clear.

They had a heavy basket each to carry. Some old granary loaves, soused herring, and some jars of Jam from their kitchens to go to the poor. They’re not even at the end of the drive and Flora is whinging about the weight of her basket. Iris heaves a sigh and grabs it off her.

She trudges behind them. Both arms carrying heavy baskets.

Her and Posy link arms, giggling, walking along merrily, animated and discussing last nights ball. Or, more accurately; making sport of the people who’d attended.

“Did you see that awful Lavender gown Jane Penwell had on?”

“I thought it suited her very ill indeed.”

“And did you hear about Lawrence Fisher? Apparently he’s now to be courting Lucy Miller.”

“I cannot stand her. Last night she was so boastful about the lace trim on her dress. She’s vile. And I haven’t had any new lace on my dress for over a year! Not since last summer. I’m sure she does it deliberately, just to vex me.”

“You are far prettier than Lucy Miller. She has ten million freckles and no conversation at all. She’s a pale ugly little thing.” Posy’s insisting fiercely to her younger sister.

Iris is amused by the sheer frailty of their worries.

“And besides, Mama said she had a letter from Mrs Thornby today, and apparently Lord Ren and Iris were the talk of the ball all night, last eve.” Flora says cheekily.

Turning over her shoulder to scrutinise her sister with a smug grin that flashes her straight little row of teeth.

Iris rolled her eyes. Strongly suspecting that as of now, her and Lord Ren would be gossiped about in front parlours for weeks. This was a sleepy country village with little amusement and not much variety to sustain it.

Mama’s and girls of the Ton would fall on the new shred of tittle-tattle like wolves.

“He left the ball last night without talking to any other girl, mama said.” Posy explains.

“The poor man probably didn’t have time enough to get through all the desperate Hampshire girls, eagerly throwing themselves at him to make an acquaintance.” Iris thinks aloud.

They walk up Westwell’s frosted drive and out onto the snowy lanes that cut through quaint countryside and woods.

The golden sun is in its early rising, striping ribbons of thick satin gold through the trees. The ruddy browns and ash greys and ochre coppery rusts of the Turner-esque English countryside. Of fields and hedgerows and treetops. The grass is no longer green. It’s a musty white. And that same cloying powder clings onto the dead taupe leaves and branches of every tree. The air is bitter to breathe in.

Iris takes a deep lungful of it, and its like a chest full of sharp pins. Needling at her lips and her neck. She should’ve thought to employ a wool scarf. As it is she can only tuck her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Tucking the heavy baskets into to dig deeper into her elbows. The frost numbs her feet, and sneaks up her skirts and snatched cruelly at her legs.

She clenched her numb fingers, scrunching and unscrunching them up in her much too thin gloves.

Posy and Flora continue their giggling and swapping tidbits of gossip about Lord Ren.

“You know he didn’t even dance with anyone!”

“A great sin, I’m sure. Punishable by death.” Iris thinks to herself under her breath.

“He probably didn’t have time-“ Posy remarks.

“Or he doesn’t know how.” Flora supposed.

“A man that lofty, of course he can dance. Maybe he prefers not too.”

“Maybe he has a false leg, or, or a war wound!”

Iris rather wishes her ears were purely ornamental by this point.

Give me a pair of vestigial ears anytime you wish. She idly prays. Turning her eyes skywards.

“Maybe he’s shy-“ Flora squeaks. Posy clasps her hand over her mouth and laughs so loudly it startles the chaffinches out the trees.

“I don’t think he can afford to blend into the wallpaper with a stature like that.” Flora grins.

“His shoulders were twice the width of me.” Posy says dreamily.

“Did he have soft lips Iris? For you must’ve felt them through your gloves... Were they heavenly?” Flora demands to know. Both sisters walking in step alongside her now.

She side eyes them. “That is not a proper thing to discuss. And well you know it Flora Jane Ashton.” Iris insists. Concealing her secrets to herself.

She wasn’t telling her sisters how her whole body burst into shivers popping and skipping up her spine. How his touch made her skin feel like it was dancing of its own accord. Free from her body. She shivered yet she was blushing hot.

His lips were the softest, sweetest things that had ever come into contact with her body.

Her whole arm felt dizzy afterwards. It wasn’t possible. But that’s how it felt. Hours after she was still rubbing the patch where his lips had lain on her satin gloves.

When she got home after the ball, she peeled her glove off and looked at her hand.

It still looked ordinary. Her skin wasn’t red or marked - but it felt like it should be. It felt as if something utterly astounding had happened to her.

The memory of his eyes gazing their arrow-striking glare into her own haunted her head all night long. Swam behind her closed eyelids in her sleep. Those opulent piercing eyes.

“We won’t tell a soul.” Posy promises

“Oh, look. Here is the Barton’s cottage. Flora pass me the ointment for Mr Barton.” Iris demands.

Seeing the little boxy cottage coming into view. Roof thick with iced thatch. Walls butter yellow. With fat pink sickly rose vines creeping up the walls. Iris sees the chimney is smoking. They must be home keeping warm on this frigid morning. Acrid woodsmoke from the house drifts across the woods.

They deliver the ointment into Mrs Barton’s hand. Along with some jam, a loaf, and pickled goods to see them through the wintry cold week. They were a frail elderly couple after all. And Iris likes helping people. She always had. Her mother always insisted she’d been cursed with an unshakable vein of kindness.

Which often meant as a child she was forever taking in birds wounded falling out their nests in the gardens. Leaving carrots out for the wild rabbits. Seeds for the birds. Feed for the little monk-jack deers. She shared all her dolls as a girl. Forever saw to caring for the people and creatures which surround her. She visits the infirm with medicine. Reads to the lonely old matrons who’d lost all the grandchildren of their own.

Now she’s grown that inclination hasn’t left her. She likes making sure none of the infirm elderly, or the more impoverished friends of her acquaintance suffer through the bitter cold climes. They never have to struggle alone. Iris is a balm to the hurting. She gives what she can. And is a friend to everyone kind enough to recognise it.

Before long, the trio of ladies dispense their generosity upon those who need it. Giving what sustenance and leftovers they can spare. It’s not much really- when all is said and done. But it’s helping in any little way possible. And that’s what matters.

They come eventually into Pembleton high street. The every busy and jagged row of higgledy Tudor houses. Separated by a lane of sticky brown mud where horses hooves and carts churn up the dirt. Carts and stalls line the streets. Modest shopfronts sell their wares. The air is full up of woodsmoke and the scent of roasting nuts from the brazier on the stand nearby.

Iris loses Posy and Flora very quickly to the haberdashers, where the ribbons hang from great silken trails in racks from the ceiling. Every colour Imaginable.

She sees them fussing over Belgian lace and leaves them be. She steps into the butchers for Cooks desired hare and sweet meats. She buys the candles, salt and the paper wrapped little cakes of soaps from Mr Milton’s shop next door.

She crosses the street to the grocers. Fills her basket with green leeks, onions, potatoes and carrots. She tucks everything in her basket, around the poor lamented hare with its fur still on, and covers it with a patterned linen cloth.

She has a shilling spare- she wanders over to Mr. Greeley. The proud proprietor of the roasted nuts stall. She buys a bag of warm, buttery sweet chestnuts.

Hides them from Posy and Flora. This was her one little indulgence for today. She sneaks one of the hot things onto her tongue and savours it.

She strides back up the line of shop windows. Looking and listening to the clack and bustle of the street behind her. Clopping hooves, rattling carts, ponies and traps clunking along the high street. Friends and acquaintances stopped to gossip and chat in the street. Young and old. Of every walk of life.

She looks in the drapers window. The reflection off the glass, showed her a watery image of a gaggle of matronly mamas stood behind her across the street, loudly gossiping in her direction. Pointing and gesturing toward her.

She rolls her eyes in huffing annoyance.

She wasn’t enjoying being the inconstant centre of attention. Open to such censure and fascination in odes to the Hearst’s ball last night.

Also in odes to the mysterious new stranger to these shores, too. The dark, dashing, and taciturn Lord Ren.

Every wet-behind-the-ears girl in all of Hampshire was busy envisioning their swirled initials joined with his in their embroidery. A big handsome stranger from far off lands. It was the precursor to the stuff of romance from drippy novels. A harbinger of a great love story.

Maybe not hers. Lord Ren may have kissed her hand and called her handsome. But so have countless other rich suitors, and then two months later them and their pretty blonde heiress of ten thousand pounds, are lavishly married and installed in a house in Brunswick square. She’s sure he’ll eventually find some far more moneyed girl to march into matrimony.

It won’t be her- not her turn to pick out her wedding clothes. It never is.

She lets the whispers and doubts about her, flourish from unimportant mouths.

She never cared for the savagery of society. She won’t start being missish about it all, now. It won’t serve her any purpose-

She can only hope the next scandal or engagement or elopement, or any other source of fascination to the bored inhabitants of this county, comes flooding in quick to snatch away all unhealthy - and rather undue - interest in her.

She waits outside the haberdashers for her pair of silly sisters. They eventually come out. Comparing their new ribbons with each other’s. Flora has a pink, Posy has some frothy white lace.

Posy hands Iris a teal silk ribbon. “For your hair. It would become you so well. And it will go with your eyes.” She insists.

Iris smiles. Wrapping the long length of satin around her grey glove. It was very pretty.

“Pray how did you afford this?” Iris narrows her eyes in smiling suspicion at the pair of them.

“I saved up my allowance.” Posy insists plainly. Iris continues her look. She tilts her chin down a notch. Let’s her eyes harden to steel. Arched her muddy shaped brows.

“...And the haberdasher’s son is so very obliging.” Flora beams. The younger Ashton’s giggle together knowingly.

Iris sighs again. Strongly suspecting she could safely boast that she had two of the silliest siblings in the entire country. Hell, in the entire British Empire.

“Let’s take our leave shall we...” Iris says. Slowly heading away. Down the street in the opposite direction they came. It took them home down on the woodland path.

She picks up her pristine white skirts and steps over the mud. Baskets heavy with her goods now thunking against her hip as they walk. One filled with meat. The other with candles and potatoes and other luxuries for supper.

Posy and Flora trail behind her. Discussing how best to use their ribbons. On bonnets or around the waistline of their favourite dresses. Iris drowns them out and listens to the crunch of her feet on the frost. The silver wisp of her breath as its whisked away up into the reach of the sky. She likes how sun glimmers off frost like sparkles and diamonds and gems. Like something fine and rich.

They just come across a curve in the lane. Leading through an open meadow full of frosted grass and withered wildflowers. When a thundering sound gallops into being, hitting the hard ground in succession from beyond the bend.

Iris looks up, attention captured swiftly by the beast of a large rider atop a colossal shimmering black horse, moving quick towards where they are walking along the quiet little lane. The peace shattered by the horses hooves pounding the earth.

A great hulking beast of a man sits astride it. Who indeed almost matches the brutally-enormous muscled intensity of the creature he rides.

Lord Ren.

Iris startled and went to move aside. But he sees them and is already slowing the horse. She draws a deep breath and watches as he tugs the reins to reel in his galloping mount. Reducing to a canter, a trot and then to a slow stop. Hooves churning up frost and spitting wet and crushed muddy grass, under its enormous stomping treads.

The sun in fiercely shining behind him. So Iris can only make out the silhouette at first. There’s no mistaking that singular body for another man. The primal size and bulk of him is unmistakable.

But then he shifts forwards on his horse as it stops. Lumbering towards them all. And that winter sun shines amber over his shoulder and she’s met with the full face of the handsome man she became acquainted with yesterday. His breath and that of his horses turn to silver smoke in the cold air

He passes the strops of its black reins into one gloved leather hand. His attire not much changed since yesterday. Still all black. The shining calf riding boots. The breeches that sit entirely too snug to the sturdy trunks of his legs and hips. The tailored black wool coat. White shirt tied with an elaborately knotted wine coloured cravat. Diamond pin studded central into the tie of the cloth.

His hair is free and rumpled by the wind. Desirable and untamed. Wild. He wears no top hat on his head like most gentlemen of civility did, when out riding.

Something about that lack of full dress she admires. Maybe he likes to feel the wind tangle his hair. The suns kiss his pale skin. The wind stinging at his cheeks. Likes galloping across the terrain at full speed on his mammoth sized beast of a horse.

“Good morning ladies.” He nods to them all. Still seated on his horse.

“Miss Ashton.” He smiles directly down at Iris as his horse shifts and stomps and nibbles the dewy wet grass below.

She ducks her head and curtseys. “Good morning. Your Lordship.” She says politely. Dwarfed by his horses shadow.

He holds her gaze for a second and smiles. Eyes more opulent charcoal in their shade than ever, this morning. He even had a kiss of pink colour in his cheeks. He looks healthy. Less alabaster pale. She strongly suspects its because of the icy wind stinging his cheeks as he rode.

He unlatched his right boot from the stirrup and smoothly swings himself off the horse. Grips the pommel at the front of the black saddle and swings himself down. Feet land to earth with a crunching thud. Frost and grass crushed underfoot.

His long wool riding coat flaps at his knees. Billowing open at his chest to show just his white shirt beneath it. Such thin layers. He must’ve been freezing.

“If I may be so bold, Miss Ashton, allow me to see you along to your intended destination?” He asks kindly. One big hand patting the solid flank of his horses shoulder when it huffs at his dismounting.

Iris’s cheeks go flaming red. She’s sure of it. Throat dry she manages to answer.

“Oh. Forgive my impertinence Lord Ren. But I don’t wish to take you out of your way. Only we are heading in the opposite direction to your path.”

“With your permission. I should like to walk with you. I’ve done a sufficient amount of riding for this morning.” He tells her.

Iris smiles. Flattered that he’d rearrange his ride, just to see her safely home. Just to walk with her for a moment or two.

Posy digs a sharp elbow into Flora’s ribs. Which jolts the youngest into speaking. “Iris. We were just going up the lane here to call on Charlotte Morris.”

Iris gazes pointedly at Flora with a piercing state that could’ve rivalled a dressmakers needle. “How remiss of you not to bring it up until now...” Iris glares a little.

“Should you mind?” Posy asks. Fluttering her lashes.

“Of course not.” Iris says flatly. “Mind the hour home and do for heavens sake be sensible.”

“We are the very vision of sensibility.” Flora beams.

Iris quirks a wry brow at the both of them. Teeth grit.

The two most transparent pests on the planet. Their plot was clear as day- One of sneaking away and leaving their elder sister unchaperoned and alone with him.

They turn away giggling and make for the little lane opposite. Gabbling and whispering all the way. Loud giggles follow them like fluttering birdsong.

When she turns back to Lord Ren he looks slightly amused. She blushes.

“I feel I ought offer an apology, your lordship. They are- most puerile and trying at times.” Iris offers as she shifts to step nearer to where he is.

He smiles gently. “They are young girls who fancy themselves cunning, I wager. No apology is necessary for that.” He declares affably. Patting his horses neck.

He brings the big horse around. Holding the gathered reins in his left hand. He leads his gigantic horse around with a click of his tongue and some soft words in urging Bavarian. The big creature follows his lead. She moves and alters the heavy baskets on her arms.

He sees this. Kylo frowns at the heavy weights at both her elbows. She shouldn’t be tasked with fetching and carrying like a damned pack horse. He extends a hand. “Allow me, Miss Ashton.”

“Oh, no it’s- I couldn’t.” By the time her protestations die on her lips. He has one basket in one hand, the other, he tied the handle to a saddle bag strap on his horse. Lays it rest against the saddle.

She’s mortified that a Lord offers to carry her basket for her.

“That’s truly a magnificent horse. I’ve never seen the like before.” She says. The steeds eyes glitter as if it knows it’s being discussed. “What’s his name?” She asks rummaging in her basket he holds. Hand slipped under the cloth.

“Erland.” Kylo says. The horses ears twitch.

“Erland. A majestic name. For a majestic beast.” She smiles at him.

She steps up to the horse and strokes her gloved hand down the flat bone between his eyes, leading down to his snout. Scents of hay and oats and animal sweat pour musky off his coat.

“He’s a lovely animal.” She says. Stroking his solid flank.

“Percheron. He’s a French draft horse. His breed originated in the Huisne valley in western France.” Lord Ren tells her.

“Bred for use as war horses, and pulling stagecoaches. This one has a fair mount of Arabian blood in him too. Makes him far too proud and headstrong.” He announces. Erland flicks his swishing tail at his owner. Snorting at him.

“I bought him with me from Bavaria. He’s the best riding horse I’ve had for a while. Stubborn temperament.” He offers. He watches her stroke his head. Touch the soft spot behind his ears.

“You like animals, Miss Ashton.” He states.

Most girls, as far as he’s aware, deigned horses as smelly, ugly creatures, whose only purpose was beneath them. Or to pull their carriages. She seemed to like this big equine creature very much.

“I do. Especially ones who are as beautiful as him.”

“Careful. Or else that flattery will shoot right to his ego.” He warns lightly.

She smiles.

Erland’s hairy velveteen muzzle cheekily nudges at her shoulder for more affection. He clearly likes her touch. Kylo tugs on his reins and frowns at him.

“Benehmen Sie sich.” Kylo rumbles in a firm Bavarian command at his horse. Calling him back. Telling him to be good. Rubbing his stocky shoulder. The round strong bones of him and the hot silk of his coat underneath his gloved palm.

She smiles. Lets the carrot she fetched from her basket, sit in the flat cradle of her gloved palm. She offers it to Erland, who snuffles it up and crunches on it. Breaking the frail vegetables skin with his big teeth. Munching it all down. Nuzzles her for more when he’s done.

He snorts when Kylo speaks up. “Anymore and you’ll get fat. You great beast.” He assures his horse in that soft foreign dialect. Shoving his snout into Miss Ashton’s hand for yet more treats. Erland’s head was so big and his power so strong, he could’ve very realistically knocked her over with one push.

She steps back and takes her place alongside a Lord Ren so they can continue in their walk. He’s a busy man. She doesn’t wish to hold him up. They fall into step easy. Her on Kylo’s left, Erland in his big lumbering enormity on Kylo’s right. His master has his right hand holding his stallions reins. The other easily carries her basket for her.

“Did you enjoy your introduction into Hampshire society, Your lordship?” Iris can’t help but ask him with mirth creeping into her voice and on her smile.

He turns his head to look at her. “The sheer amount of handsome and accomplished young ladies hereabouts is staggering.” He comments with dry humour. “I wonder if this isn’t the most accomplished county in all of England.” He states.

Iris finds herself smiling. Every desperate mother worth her salt last night would be crowing her daughters praise to high heaven. Enough to induce the possibility that her very accomplished, pretty and upstanding daughter might have a chance at landing him.

“Mothers can be so very domineering when the subject of marriage arises.” Iris promises. Looking down to step over a particularly frosty puddle.

Kylo looks across at her. Watches her profile. Along the curve of her nose and the swell of her smiling lips. It occurred to him then, that she didn’t know of her beauty. She was not aware of its potency. He could sense it; this was a girl who overlooked her own worth and highly underestimated her attractiveness.

With her pebble-ash eyes shining in the marigold sun like that, sparkling as if made of moonstone gems, and her rosy smile so unguarded and free. She didn’t see her beauty then. Not the way he could. Didn’t see it lay in the kiss of pink in her cheeks or the merriment of her face. On the geniality of her laugh and smiles.

“I know I shouldn’t comment on such things. But I do feel so dearly for every new suitor who comes to this village. Every Mama and every daughter must veritably drown poor men with their female offspring.”

Kylo raises one brow. “Rest assured. I’m not a man so inclined to favour polite safe conversation.” He promises her. He doesn’t tiptoe around propriety.

“And I will admit I lost count of the young ladies I was introduced too last eve. My ears were quite ringing with names and sickly smiles by the end of the evening.” He confesses.

She smiles wide again. Looks across. “I do sometimes wish that the people here could look beyond the scope of their own ignorance. To look beyond the defining goal of matrimony.” She confesses.

“Why should a woman’s worth be tied onto who she weds? Can she not be her own person and find a man to suit that.” She avows. Letting her stalwart brain run away with her rather passionate mouth.

“That’s very forward thinking of you.” Kylo says to her with a kind smile. Her face falls. She’s inspired insult with that comment.

She’s flushing with embarrassment.

“Mother would faint if she heard me confess that to you. Do forgive me, for the impertinence of my tongue.” She begs. Face wrinkling into a worried frown.

“You have a mind. Miss Ashton.” Kylo says. “It’s entitled to make itself known.”

“I’m a gently bred, unmarried, woman. And the eldest daughter, Lord Ren. My mind should be silent at all times. And possessed only, night and day, by thoughts and longing for matrimony.” She says. Quoting one of her mother’s rants.

“Well. You have my word. I’m most blessedly glad it’s not.” He says. Turning to look deep into her eyes.

She seems curiously confused. “You are?”

“Indeed.” He answers plainly.

“It means you are the one woman in this entire county with whom I can conduct a refreshing conversation. One that doesn’t revolve around reminding me again and again, that I’m a rich man who desperately needs a wife.” He offers.

“I’m glad to hear it.” Iris says laughing. “Not often I happen find someone on the same page as myself.”

“English men may find your so called ‘impertinence’ intolerable, Miss Ashton. For they were raised to know no better. But I am not a English man. Where I came from, it is applauded that a woman might speak her mind and have judgements and executions of her own.” He supplies.

“Our way of life here must seem so strange and strict to an outsider.” She dares. The defining pinnacle of English country society was its savage nature, after all.

“I don’t see much of the society in Bavaria.” He explains. “I see to the welfare of tenants on my land. I go hunting every season to pass the time. I’m afraid I rarely indulge in attending parties and balls.” He tells.

“A castle must be an incredible home.” She guesses.

“Even so- it can be very limiting being confined to it in the cold dark winters. Very little company. Little to entertain. I found myself wanting a change of scene. I had looked for some land opportunity’s to enclose in over here. When Hellford became available. It seemed a good opportunity to travel. Sink my teeth into a new venture.” He smarts. Eyes darkly roaming over her face with that handsome smile.

She nods. “I quite understand.” Erland clops alongside them in the misty morning sunshine. Snorting breaths silver and wispy still in the biting air.

“What are the winters like in Bavaria?” She enquires.

He smiles. “Beautiful. But bitter.” He explains. “The snow can be deep. As tall as me some days when it falls.” She smiles at his description.

“The castle stands out of a tall pine forest. A lake and a river to the east. One of the biggest woods in the country. Full of wolves, boars, and deer. It’s quite a wilderness in its own right.”

“Goodness- wolves. Isn’t that terribly dangerous?” She frets.

Not as much as me. He thinks. Matter of fact, when he steps foot in that forest, he is the most bloodthirsty dangerous animal in it.

“The beasts respect the boundary of my castle. I respect the forest is theirs. It’s a symbiotic relationship.” He tells her.

“Surrounded by wolves. You must feel very at home here too, then.” She jokes.

He laughs. “There’s something familiar I grant. Though the wolves back home don’t don lace caps and thrust all their daughters at me.”

She laughs at his remark. And suddenly, she goes spinning off course. Her worn boots slipping on a sneaky patch of frost and ice. No grip to their soles in this devilish cold. A yelp leaves her mouth as she skids. Blood flashing flushing hot and terrible suddenly. The shock of slipping stabbing at her stomach.

He acts quick. He lets go of Erland’s reins and steps that big form forwards and snatched one arm out to grab her. Slips back around her waist, cups the back of her hip, and yanks her tight to him to stop her falling.

She gasps and trembles as her vision spins, to be quickly halted by a sheer wall of cold, dark clad muscle. She barely registers where she is now.

Because she’s pressed right up into Lord Ren’s redoubtably firm chest. Her palms crushed flat on his lapels. His arm seizing her back and cupping her onto him to stop her slipping. She can feel under her coat how her breasts are crushed flat to him. Can feel his breathing heaving up and down, much like her own.

A shaky gasp leaves her mouth as she looks up, peering past the peak of her bonnet with flaming cheeks. Realising that they are slanted very close together. His face is right there, and he’s gazing down at her.

She’s in his arms. Buried into his chest. And it feels incredible. Such musculature and sheer masculine mass under her palms. Her head swims. He’s dizzying. Hypnotising.

Eyes as dark as burnt-ember molasses flecked with gold, and his lips look so invitingly pink ripe and soft- she curses at herself for that treacherous thought and her blush rises more. His wool coat and cologne nearly smacks her in the nose as she almost collided into his pectorals.

Kylo can hear her fluttering heartbeat. Like a racing preys pulse beating wild. Frail and fast, like a baby birds. A huge drift of her fragrance absolutely drowns him, pulls him under. Clary sage, French lavender and peppermint. Sweet and calming. Addictive. He wants to lean down and taste the salt of it off her neck...

It seems an eternity passes before he speaks.

“Are you hurt?” He asks. Making sure she didn’t turn one of her ankles. Or damage the bone

“T-Thankyou. I’m, I’m well.” She gasps. “I’m so sorry- I” She explains moving her hands down off his chest. He nearly swept her up off her feet. Now only her tiptoes brush the icy ground. The only part of her barely rooted to earth. Lost in those eyes.

Domineering, commanding, brutal, eyes. Eyes that had seen this world ten times over. But never gazed upon anything comparable to her-

Erland brings them both back down to earth. Snorting and fussing. Swishing his tail and nudging his nose at his masters shoulder.

Sense swims back through the fog of attraction and the heady bloom of lust. Kylo unleashes her back and her hip from his hold.

Quite liking the feel of her he accidentally - and literally - caught underneath her coat. The plump of her thighs and the shapely flesh of her hip and her bottom. There’s doubtless a figure to rival Venus herself, under this shapeless coat and thin dress. She slowly drags her hands off his chest and steps back. Avoiding the ice beneath her toes. Her gloves rasp on his fine wool coat.

“You fell. Miss Ashton. No need to be sorry for such a thing.” He tells her.

“You’ve a steady hand, Lord Ren.” She compliments. Thanking him further. He still held her basket in the arm that had not reached out to catch her. He looked as if he barely had to flex out an arm to catch her. Just twisted his body. His reflexes were sharp and cunning. As strong as he was.

He reached out and retook Erland’s reins.

They continue walking carefully along the little lane. For Westwell is just beyond the tree line now. It saddens her that she’ll be home soon.

Back to her daily chores. Back to scrubbing curtains, and helping cook roll pastry and mediating the silly shouting screeching arguments that Posy and Flora have over who gets to take turns to wear their favourite bonnet

She reflects how restoring it is to talk to someone so fully - without having to watch or guard her tongue. It’s even more enlightening to talk to someone such as him. Someone who, like her, feels like an outsider. Never fully fits in. And harbouring no desire too.

She feels her heart sink, morbid mournful and grey settling in her ribs, when they come to the meagre gateway along the short drive to Westwell. The twin stone pillars signifying the gateway were old and crusted with frosted moss.

Kylo calls Erland to halt. She pats the wonderful beasts strong shoulder in goodbye. He rubs the great velvet plain of black his forehead at her. Kylo untied her basket and handed it to her.

“I’d have no hesitation in seeing you to the door directly. But I fear your mother might see fault with our being left unchaperoned.” He disclosed. Giving her back the groaning full wicker basket with a clever grin.

She shivers when their hands brush. If she had any doubts in her attraction, that betraying little Judas of a tingle that thrashed her body, made her realise otherwise.

She likes him-

“Astute observation, your lordship. I Thankyou for your discretion.” She blushes. Hooking the baskets back on her arms. Adjusting the shawl where it had slipped down from her shoulders.

She looks down into her basket, and smiles. “A token of gratitude.” She explains before handing over the still warmed bag of chestnuts across to him.

He cradled them in his leather gloved hand. Appreciative of the gift. He rarely ate food. There wasn’t much need for it and it wasn’t the manna that’s sustained him. He had little joy in any human sustenance - apart from humans themselves.

When he did eat food, it was red meat that was still rare, juicy, and dripping blood. And he only drank sharp deep red wine.

He reaches over and took her hand. Once again dropping Erland’s reins. He took her dainty hand and brought it up and bows to kiss her palm.

He’s tired of satin and calfskin under his lips. He rather wanted to grasp a taste of her skin. Soon.

“Always a pleasure, Miss Ashton. I hope the experience of your company repeats itself shortly.” He compliments.

She smiles, apples of her cheeks creasing dimples with her widened smile. She nods politely and curtseys. “Your Lordship.” She curtseys gently. Bonnet tipping forwards. Criminally covering that beautiful face of hers.

She turns and he watches her walk up the pale lane to home. Sun striping through the trees onto her bleached linen white skirts. Bleached by sunshine. And softly scented of fresh cotton and French lavender.

Miss Ashton is made up of good intentions and possesses a giving heart as pure as gold. Pure. That’s his little dove all over-

He looks down in his hand and weighs the small bag of nuts she’d gifted him. He lifts it to his nose and inhales their scent. Buttery, sweet, burnt and acrid.

He tips his eyes back up to watch her. Thought creases up his brow. He’ll never know how it is to have such a virtue as a kind heart.

She was made up of honour and purity and softness. Doves feathers, lavender and rose petals. And he is made of cruelty. Of war and broken glass and shards of steel. He was made between ash and snow and a landscape soaking swimming festering in blood.

There’s no kindness in him. No mercy. Barely any love in him either.

He cares little for humans. After he was turned. That’s just how he became. They became meaningless specs of nothing to him. She has no idea what he is- who he is- he’s sent entire scores and countries of men shrieking to their deaths and writhing in agony into hell, cursing his name on their lips.

And here she was handing him this little harmless gift, like he wasn’t one of the most fearsome beasts put on this earth.

She’s not far away when she turns back - just as he’s about to mount Erland to ride back to Hellford Park once more. He tucks her meaningful present into his coat pocket.

“Erland... Is that a Bavarian name?” She turns and asks curiously. A kind frown on the lintels of her eyebrows. She tilts her head curiously. Her grey eyes glitter innocently off the sun like honey poured onto slate.

She’s so innocent. And it strikes him so deeply right then. How much he admires that.

He hoists himself into the saddle using the pommel. Feet slipping in the stirrups. Hips resting back onto the cantle behind him.

“It is a Norse name.” He calls to her. Erland is whinnying excitedly. Stomping his hooves to get out to the open fields and get his blood pumping. Kylo can feel the excitement shivering through his stocky legs.

“What does it mean?” She seeks.

“In old Nordic tongue, I believe it means ‘Outsider.’” He tells her.

She smiles. “Well. I trust you both know you have atleast one friend in this Hampshire county.” She smiles.

“Good day, Lord Ren.” She beams brightly. She turns away and she’s already missing the gaze of those melting cocoa eyes appraising her warmly.

Her skin still thrashes from the memory of his touch. All over her skin is alive with the memory of that strength of his. His chest under her hands she’s never felt the like- he was as cold and solid as marble. Some Greek god manifested out of carved stone and come to life.

He turns Erland back onto the snowy road. Clicks his tongue and urges him to run with a sharp dig of his shoe into his side. He feels the ice and the wind sting his skin for all the ride home.

He thinks about her parting gift and her touch against his body for the rest of the day - truly he does. It’s moved him.

He hasn’t been moved so much by another being in all of his years.

~ ~ 🥀 ~ ~

#kylo ren #kylo ren oc #vampire!kylo #vampire au #very wolves and doves #Iris vibes 🕊#Lord Ren vibes 🐺#Draegan vibes 🥀#vampirelovestory #vampire #demon #ao3 fanfic #lovestory #angst #slowest of slow burn #slow burn

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atruththatyoudeny · 4 years

Text

Monthly reads | March 2020

Happy 28th! Thank you to everyone who shares their stories with us, especially in times like these. ♥ Stay safe, everyone!

♦ To Him Who in the Love of Nature | wayfared | traveling - implied depression - minor character death - coma - 71k “Enjoy your stay in Svalbard?” the cab driver asked over his shoulder. “Amazing,” Harry answered for Louis, flashing his signature smile. “Good,” the man nodded in approval. “Everyone is lucky in Svalbard. You're lucky, too.” Or, after Louis' delicate world comes crashing down upon him, he takes off for the loneliest place he can think of. But, in the midst of the whirling snow, there's always a warm fireplace to come home to.

♦ The Space Between | emma1234 | a/b/o - famous/not famous - insomnia - implied/referenced drug use - sexism - smut - 40k Harry Styles is the alpha rockstar who can’t sleep and doesn’t know why. Louis Tomlinson is the omega PhD student who helps him figure it out.

♦ Strip That Down | Anonymous | waxing - college/university - friends to lovers - smut - pain kink - 7k “You’re doing well,” came Louis’ voice, and Harry’s eyes flew open, craning his head to see Louis sat on the sofa across the room, legs crossed, hands resting in his lap as he sat there, an amused smile on his lips. “A bit of a wimp, but I guess it must hurt-” “You guess? My legs are on fucking fire, Louis,” Harry retorted, his voice a little shaky still. The alcohol he’d been consuming all night was doing nothing to numb the pain, and the thought Louis thought he was a wimp wasn’t helping. “You have literally no idea how much this hurts.” “No pain kink, then. I’ll bear that in mind,” Louis said smugly as Jesy walked back into the room, a fresh pot of wax in her hands. “Oh goody, here we go again.” “Please don’t do my thighs, please-” “Them’s the rules…” Jesy muttered as she started swiping wax over Harry’s left thigh. ***** Offering to wax his legs as part of a bet wasn’t one of Harry's finer ideas, but if it has Louis ogling his thighs, who is he to complain?

♦ I Like It Better When It Hurts | dimpled_halo | BDSM - dom/sub - kink negotiation - spanking - subspace - aftercare - 6k Dear Mr. Louis, Hello. I’m Harry. I got your contact from a good friend of mine and was wondering if I can get your services. My 30th birthday is coming up and all I’ve ever wanted is to get spanked, maybe more? If you’re interested, please contact me. I’d love to hear from you. Sincerely, Harry Marcel reads over the words. He guesses there isn’t a much better way to ask for what he needs. He almost changes the name again but decides Harry is fine. It’s generic and nothing that can be traced to him. At least he doesn’t think so. Okay, he’s overthinking again so he clicks the send button before he can talk himself out of it. His heart races as soon as he does. He almost wants to take it back, figure out a way to undo it, but he takes a big gulp of his wine to calm down. It’s fine. This is fine. He can do this.

♦ Hold the Night for Ransom | thinlines | a/b/o - pwp - established relationship - angst - hurt/comfort - nesting - 4k “Hate that you make me weak.” Louis whispers it like a secret as he watches Harry tracing his lips. Harry could smell it now. Smell Louis’ delicious slick. He sneaks a hand inside the blankets, searching until they reach Louis’ joggers. Wetness meets his fingertips and he growls, shutting his eyes and seeing the red blossom behind his lids. The bursts of desire. “Is that for me?” He asks, opening his eyes and stare into Louis’. In which Louis tries to prove he doesn't need his alpha and Harry knows it's a losing battle before it begins.

♦ Learning to Breathe | youcomecrash | college/university - hate to love - sexuality crisis - reconciliation - fluff - angst - secret relationship - unresolved sexual tension - unresolved romantic tension - coming out - 110k He’s playing football at one of the top universities in England and he should love everything about his life right now, but instead he’s moving backwards. How does your past fit into your present? Louis is still figuring it out.

♦ Paws, Whiskers, and Unexpected Surprises | Emd1991 | hybrids - fluff - angst - 14k Harry meets Louis after he gets a new job at a local shelter for Hybrids. Louis' stubbornness and mischief stirs up some trouble at the shelter and Harry finds his job tasks difficult to complete. Problems and feelings arise though when the shelter is forced to transfer some of their hybrids to new locations.

♦ We Can Work It Out | kassio | college/university - gyms - body image - implied/referenced homophobia - biphobia - friends to lovers - 24k Louis Tomlinson had big plans for his last year of uni. He was going to hit the gym, he was going to get hot, and he was finally going to catch the eye of the girl of his dreams. Enter Harry Styles, friend-of-a-friend and part-time personal trainer. Falling for him was never part of Louis’ plan.

♦ Underneath the Moon | orphan | mpreg - angst - fluff - famous/not famous - mutual pining - friends to lovers - misunderstandings - anxiety attacks - 47k In five years’ time, Louis would be the one saying to his students about how he knew the great Harry Styles, in a time before he had ever put out an album or performed on a real stage. Harry fucking Styles had been his best friend and he still loved him, he always would. But they couldn’t stay that way. (Or, Louis and Harry are best friends until Louis goes to London while Harry tours Europe. It was going as planned until they unintentionally messed everything up, but it might be for the best.)

♦ an entire desert in our hourglass | tofiveohfive | pre-apocalypse - angst - hurt/comfort - post-break up - getting back together - happy ending - 19k The first time around, Harry doesn’t recognize it as the reason behind the sudden tightness in his throat. He sees the hourglass sitting empty on Louis’ rack and mistakes it for just another souvenir from a life he used to know. The second time around, he feels insulted by the glaring stoicism of the sand on the bottom. His hand itches to make it move. He thinks he’d find some comfort in knowing that at least the grains of salt are getting somewhere. The third and final time he sees the hourglass, it almost doesn’t catch his eye. The warmth in his bones keeps him from gravitating towards acidic reminders. However, the soft light coming from the window paints a new shade over the lifeless sand. Whereas before Harry couldn’t see past the bitter finality represented by the stillness, now he sees it as a chance waiting to be taken. A new beginning waiting to start. He flips the hourglass. · The world is ending. Harry comes over.

♦ Your secret's safe with me | lightswoodmagic (sarah_writes) | royalty - friends to lovers - pining - 7k He knew almost everything about Haz, considered him his best friend. He knew his favourite movies and books, how he liked his coffee, knew how many pets he had and what he was most afraid of. Louis knew how to calm him down when he was panicking, and that he’d lost his virginity to his ex-boyfriend when he was 17. He knew that Haz had curly hair, green eyes, that he was tall and considered himself slightly awkward. He knew his Instagram account that only had aesthetic pictures or ridiculous jokes, but in the all the time that Louis had known him, he’d never learnt, or been allowed to know, Haz’s full name, what he sounded like, or what he looked like. Louis didn't care. Or, when Louis' favourite singer comes back and announces he's performing again, him and the rest of his group chat decide to go. When Haz, the man Louis' fallen in love with without meeting him, says that he can't, Louis tries his best to convince him with a drunken phone call, hearing his voice for the first time. It's not until he's at Royal Variety that he swears he can hear it again.

#28th appreciation #fic rec #my fic rec #monthly reads #larry fics #completed fics #my reads

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xhanisai · 5 years

Text

Phantom Pain

Read on AO3 and FFN

A/N: *Dumps remaining coursework and essay crap to one side* So! Chat! Fucking! Blanc! EH? I think it's my favourite episode of miraculous of all time lel~ An idea popped up in my head and I won't be able to sleep till I've got it out of my system. It's been a long time since I've written some decent angst despite it being my favourite genre. Enjoy the drabble and my ten minute doodle along with it~~~

(WARNING: Mentions of child abuse is in this fic)

Inspired by this MV "Phantom Pain" (collaboration of Rahwia and Luz of their Royal Scandal collection) It's wonderful~!

~(x)~

"Tch!"

Again.

The familiar yet foreign stab of pain resonated through the teen's body as he recoiled slightly and clutched his chest. This time, Adrien felt like he was smacked by something hard and heavy.

A cane perhaps...?

He inhaled sharply once more and then allowed himself to relax. The boy didn't dare to meet his kwami's pitiful gaze- he's had enough of everyone treating him like some wounded lamb.

"It's been weeks now kid..." Plagg murmured out with anguish, ears and tail drooping and his favourite pungent snack left uneaten. The God of destruction plopped himself on top of Adrien's shoulder, hoping he can comfort the boy. "You need to tell Ladybug-"

"No." Plagg felt his fur stand up to the ends at the hero's uncharacteristic harsh tone. Adrien realised it too, lowering his head down apologetically and used a finger to stroke his kwami's head. "No Plagg, not now."

"You've been saying that for a long time! You can't hide it forever. If you're not gonna see a doctor then at least see the Lady!" Plagg was met with another sigh whilst Adrien flopped back down on his bed. He pulled a pillow against his face, fingers close to digging holes into the few comforts he has in life.

"My Lady was literally thrown into Guardianship with little warning and zero training even though she's so exhausted from her civilian duties. I don't know how much you can see or hear whilst I'm transformed but one good glance at her and you can tell that she's about to burst. I'm supposed to help her out, not add to her burdens..."

"You'll only start burdening her once your pains elongate, especially during akuma attacks. Stupid!" Plagg scoffed, kicking one of Adrien's blonde locks that stuck out of his gelled hairstyle. His scowl only deepened when the model chuckled at his antics. "This isn't funny kid! Watch, when you start bending over in pain and crying and crawling on the floor, I will rub it into your face of how I told you so! Stupid kitten!" The God kicked the hair strands a few more times till Adrien rolled over and merrily flicked him away.

"That's not going to happen Plagg." A reassuring smile was set on Adrien's face. "These pains itself are kinda...I'm not sure how to word it...abstract?"

"What is that supposed to mean, Blondie?"

"It's like they're there but not there at the same time, do you understand? It's like taking a shot to the arm and getting that sting for a split second...only to feel nothing afterwards- excluding that horrible ache you get from injections. That's about it..."

"Hmmmm...interesting..."

"Do you have an idea of what it is?"

"The only thing I know is that human biology is weird and sucky."

"Wo-ooow. You're so helpful." Adrien commented dryly.

"I know~ I should absolutely win the most helpful being on Earth award!" Whether Plagg was being serious or not, Adrien couldn't tell. With another painful sigh, the boy forced himself to sleep.

He couldn't sleep that night.

Neither could Plagg.

~(x)~

Until the God commented on it, Adrien wasn't aware that he was unconsciously avoiding his father. The boy hadn't realised when he have made a habit of eating his meals in his room or when he stopped asking about his paternal figure in general. To no one's surprise, neither Nathalie nor Gabriel attempted to approach him about his new behaviour patterns.

"Huh...I didn't notice," Was all that Adrien muttered out before he shrugged and munched on his toast. Plagg narrowed his eyes at this and decided to pursue a new mission.

Keep his eyes open.

Even if this costs him his own sleep and relaxation.

Just as the teen was about to leave the bitter mansion for school, an authoritative voice from the top of the stairs halted him. Whether that was from habit, surprise or even fear, neither Plagg nor Adrien were able to pinpoint it.

"Yes Father?" As soon as the boy made eye contact with the man, excruciating pain bled through his body. Adrien's acting skills however are said to be immaculate so the only thing Gabriel caught was an eye twitch from his son.

"Nathalie has fallen sick again so I'm here to inform you that you have a photoshoot starting at twelve sharp till the rest of the afternoon. Make sure you're on time, or else." The pain only worsened when Gabriel's tone turned grave.

"U-Understood, Sir." It took everything for Adrien to let his voice out coherently rather than the anxious, scratchy feeling that built up instead. He couldn't bare to stand for another second so with a quick nod, the boy exited the building.

A walk turned out to be a speed walk.

A speed walk quickly changed to a jog.

A jog suddenly burst into a full blown sprint.

Adrien didn't stop until he was safe and secure inside the car with Gorilla. He gasped for a breath and clenched a fist against his chest till the pain and apprehension died down. Plagg's soothing purrs sent warmth through his body and Gorilla's presence was like a soothing balm to the mind.

"I haven't been this scared since..." Adrien immediately bit his tongue to say no more. He refused to let that memory resurface to his messed up mind. It took him months to stop flinching at his father's presence ever since that day and he would gladly chop off his arm than go through that again.

Finally, they've arrived at school, a good thirty minutes early. Just as Adrien was about to step out, Gorilla caught his attention with a soft grunt. Curious, Adrien paused with wonder.

The bodyguard moved his hands and arms into various gestures, his beady eyes softened with worry and kindness.

'I'm here for you, it will be okay. I will protect you.'

Adrien felt himself getting choked up from the exhilaration that spread through his body from head to toe. Blinking back his tears, he signed back a 'Thank you,' with a megawatt smile.

He's not alone.

~(x)~

She looked so much more tired today.

Not as in sleepy or anything like that- just exhausted and full of melancholy.

Her wonderful smiles were always something that Adrien looked forward to along with her energetic antics. Now? He hasn't seen that smile in weeks (he declines the outrageous idea of her fake smiles as an actual smile).

What happened to his Princess? She could give his Lady a run for her money right about now.

Adrien felt a heavy ache agonising his chest and his eyes pricking again. Only this time, it felt like his heart was mourning. Or that he was longing for something. He has long since gave up on identifying his emotions when it comes to the budding designer. Before, Adrien vowed that if anyone dared to hurt Marinette or make her cry, he wouldn't spare them.

Now, he's willing to destroy the world for her.

It scared him beyond conception but at the same time, he's accepted it as naturally as breathing. He didn't dare to tell Plagg this. Nor Ladybug.

"You alright there, Marinette?" Adrien placed a tentative hand on her forearm, face etched with worry. Marinette lifted her head off her hand, blinking slowly at the boy. Her desk was scattered with so much work, ranging from school work to commissions to student council work and- is that Mandarin?

"Hey you," For the first time in a long while, Marinette smiled. It was soft, slightly pained and her eyes twinkled ever so lightly. Yet, it was like a goldmine to Adrien. He let his lips mirror hers. "I'm fine, don't worry about me Adrien," Her voice was quiet and slow as she placed a hand over his.

"Telling me not to worry about you is like telling the weather to stop raining in England," He earned a delightful giggle from Marinette and he felt his body alleviate from the pain earlier on. Sometimes, he could swear that Marinette's smile is the cure to everything.

"I can assure you that there are better things to worry about. Like the Chemistry test we have this afternoon,"

"Eugh. For once I'm thankful for the shoot at twelve." He dramatically draped himself on the desk, the back of his hand against his forehead as he pretended to die. He caught laughter from not only Marinette but a few other students in class. "Also, sorry to burst your bubble but I can assure YOU that you're the only thing worth worrying about,"

He got a small gasp from her.

Marinette's cheeks pinkened beautifully and her lips were shaped in a perfect 'o'. She was about to gleefully retort back but suddenly, she seemed to have closed back in and her eyes turned downcast again.

A restraint.

But why?

Adrien didn't get the chance to ask; the bluetooth on her ear buzzed, alerting Marinette of some prior engagement and she was quick to excuse herself. The teen didn't want to let her go so easily.

Marinette felt her hand getting tugged backwards by a larger pair. Like a deer in headlights, she glanced at Adrien with despair. He only stared back with plea, tightening their interlocked fingers.

'Stay. Please.'

'I can't...'

Reluctantly, Adrien let her go. He memorised every movement and feeling as her fingers slipped away, taking away all the comfort and warmth with her without a word. The misery and irritating pain sounded their presence in his heart once more for a millisecond before droning away into a numbing buzz.

Is this...

Heartbreak?

"Hey dude," Nino's voice brought Adrien back to reality. "I know you're worried, we all are. But we have to give 'Nette some space. She's going through some personal shit right now."

"She is? I wasn't aware..." He clutched his shirt and twisted the fabric against his chest, staring at the door forlornly as if Marinette's going to magically appear.

"None of us were till I finally cracked her down after pestering for so long," Alya mused sadly. "She mentioned that she's really messed things up so badly that she has no choice but to fix it alone. Oh and she's taken on Chinese too which is like another clusterfuck."

"I saw some of the papers on her desk..." Adrien added.

"She literally lives in the library now with all this work she's doing. When was the last time she ate Alya?" Nino's innocent question set Cesaire off as she stormed out of the room.

"MARINETTE! YOU BETTER HAVE EATEN BREAKFAST TODAY OR ELSE I'LL SHOVE A MILLION CROISSANTS DOWN YOUR THROAT!"

Adrien bit his lip and shook his head, knuckles whitening as they gripped the desk with displeasure.

"Whoever turned Marinette into this must be the lowest of the low..." The model let out a violent curse afterwards, ignoring Nino's astonished look. It's rare for Adrien to swear but from what Nino has observed, whenever the boy does so, it's because he's absolutely pissed.

"Marinette must really care for them, whoever it is she claims she's hurt." Nino murmured. The pain in Adrien's chest only intensified after hearing this.

"If making her into a passive, depressive robot is what it takes to satisfy them, then they clearly need a wake up call,"

"...or maybe she isn't aware that she doesn't need to push everyone away and take on all of these responsibilities to redeem herself. Marinette is a perfectionist so whenever she falls, she falls hard."

"I-I never really thought of it like that..."

"You gotta come up with conclusions of both sides of the argument before jumping into the fray. Not everyone likes to dig their teeth in like an overprotective angry boyfriend." Nino cackled at Adrien's flushed complexion, digging his elbow into the model's torso fondly.

"Hey! I'm not her boyfriend!"

~(x)~

Ladybug and Chat Noir stood tall at the top of the Eiffel Tower, peering down at the citizens downbelow at the stroke of midnight. The lights of the tower gave the duo a superhuman glow, making them seem impenetrable and omnipotent.

The wall between them however made them so much more vulnerable and human than a Parisian could possibly fathom. The heroine was oddly knackered, silent and stoic whilst the hero was peculiarly submissive, tight lipped and detached. Their internal thoughts brought out their intimidating fronts, possibly fooling a foreigner that Ladybug and Chat Noir are mere strangers.

"So, when were you going to tell me?"

Chat Noir felt another strike of pain hit him but this time, in the head. His iron will and pride was what stopped him from staggering on the spot. His eyes did widen in surprise but knowing his partner, she caught that in her peripheral vision.

"Tell you what?"

"Don't act dumb, Chat Noir. Plagg snuck in this evening and told me everything." He would have melted at Ladybug's gentle tone had he not been busy muttering about how he's going to replace Plagg's camembert with the cheapest cheese in France. "Why didn't you tell me?" Ladybug's voice wavered with hurt and Noir was hit with deja vu.

"They're not serious bug, just...odd sensations that come and go."

"He claimed that you collapsed onto the floor once because you were in so much pain!" The boy winced at this, recalling the horrendous memory that surfaced. His mind wandered to his father's actions a few years back and suddenly, the belt wounds on his back felt raw again.

"But you've already got so much on your plate already..." He found his face cradled by her hands and her bluebell eyes turned icy. Chat couldn't help but shudder, shattering his aloof composure.

"Listen to me, those things are nothing compared to you. You will always take priority, do you understand? If you're hungry, we drop everything and get you food. If you're tired, my arms are open for you to sleep in. If you're in pain..." Tears were now pouring out of her eyes as she sniffed. "Then you should let me heal your wounds...and I can't do that if you don't tell me what's wrong, Chaton."

The sight of Ladybug's composure crumbling before him suddenly flashed to Marinette's despondent expression, causing a piercing pain to shoot through his head like a bullet to the brain. Chat didn't stop himself this time as he toppled into his Lady's arms, digging his claws through his hair with one hand and grasping Ladybug's waist like a lifeline with the other.

"If worrying about me is what makes you cry like this, then I'd rather die."

Chat pulled away from the embrace and clenched his teeth. Ladybug only paled, shaking her head. She didn't dare to let him go, gloved fingers digging into his shoulders.

"W-Why would you say something like that?" Ladybug sputtered before masking her raw feelings with anger. "Don't you DARE say something like that again! Do you understand!? There will be no dying or talk of death!" She banged a fist against his chest for good measures. Hard enough to send a message, gentle enough to afflict zero pain.

"I can't help what I feel," Chat Noir settled a hand on her cheek, thumb massaging the area below her eye. His face mellowed to the most tender expression Ladybug has ever seen. "You were already acting weird and skittish around me that evening when you placed your head on my shoulder," He let his hand trail to the back of her head. "And then when Fu gave up his memories and left you with everything, I always saw you with puffy eyes, tense muscles, no more of that beautiful smile..." He kissed her forehead so lightly, it was like a butterfly tickled her skin with its delicate wings. "It's like you've given up on happiness and I hate it. And if I'm just going cause more sadness then-"

"Stop. You're one of the few people out there in my entire life that keeps me going. You're one helps me keep fighting," Ladybug looked away again and then faced him with newly found determination. "But that's not what matters right now. What matters is this bizarre pain you're going through. Please, tell me everything."

Ladybug is a stubborn girl. This doesn't mean it's impossible to crack her down. However, Chat decided that it'll be easier to tackle on her overworking habit after they got his mundane problems out of the way.

He told her everything. Starting from waking up in the middle of the night, clutching his chest, the feeling of heartbreak whenever he sees his close friend, the deja vu and finally, his avoidance of his father.

"You...you fear your father?" Ladybug looked confused for a second as Chat looked sheepish. Abruptly, her face darkened with indignation, causing his heart to start throbbing. "Chat Noir...has your father ever hit you?"

The wind breezed past them in a howl.

Time seems to have stood still.

Chat felt the blood rushing through his ears like a hurricane and his body shook. Hugging himself, the boy quickly denied, shaking his head and stammering.

His teary eyes said otherwise.

~(x)~

Adrien collapsed back on his bed, the energy seeped out of his pores yet his eyes remained wide open. He played the memories of earlier on through his head.

Of how Ladybug refused to let him go.

Of how she cursed their secret identities.

Of how she threatened to mutilate his father for DARING to lay a hand on him despite it being a few years ago.

Or...

Has he recently done so but Adrien somehow wiped it away from his memories?

He didn't know anymore.

The model rubbed his chest, thankful that he's been relatively pain free after his meeting with Ladybug. Was opening up the cure to it? Did Ladybug put some sort of healing spell on him? Maybe talking about feelings isn't so bad after all. Yet, Adrien worried his lips with guilt- how is his Lady meant to cope now that she knows what a shitty Father he has?

Plagg has been strangely quiet, now that Adrien has realised. He prodded the Kwami a few times with his fingers, trying to get a reaction from him. He even waved a slice of camembert but that got nothing!

"Plagg...please talk to me..." As if the heavens have finally answered his prayers, Adrien grinned goofily when Plagg finally faced him. The God gave a little purr when his charge stroked his head.

"Get some sleep kid, I wanna see you, Glasses one and Glasses two bully Princess into eating breakfast tomorrow. M'kay?" Adrien felt his heart warm at the thought of the noir haired girl.

"First of all, stop calling Nino and Alya 'Glasses'. Second, 'Princess' is my nickname for Marinette, get your own." With that said and done, the teen was swept away into a blissful sleep for the first time in forever.

No more pain.

No more sadness.

Plagg's gentle smile was then eclipsed with the most demonic, dangerous expression a being could possibly have. His lime green eyes turned acidic and feral. His aura switched to one of bloodlust.

There are many things and secrets that kwamis keep away from their holders or be vague about.

For example, when the holders are transformed, the kwamis can see everything through their eyes and hear everything through their ears. It's like watching the world in someone else's body.

Consequently, it wasn't only Ladybug who found out that Adrien used to get hurt.

That's also not it, not even the slightest.

It took perhaps a week or longer for Tikki and Plagg to regain their memories from Oblivio. An adorable secret that they'd happily share with Adrien and Marinette once it's safe for them to share their identities.

It was only after Ladybug asked that question today when they regained their memories...

From the erased timeline.

Plagg phased through Gabriel's door robotically, his aura growing larger and larger and so much more dangerous.

This is the man who hurt Adrien...

This is the man who forced Marinette to leave Adrien or else he'd take away his freedom...

This is the man who did this just to create akuma fodder...

This is the man who broke Adrien's mind with his mother's corpse in the basement...

This is the man who BEAT the ever loving SHIT out of his own son...

This is the man who MANIPULATED Adrien and kept on BREAKING him...

This is the man who CAUSED his kitten's and Ladybug's world its DEMISE.

And ALL of this is just for a SELFISH wish which can only be granted at the price of ADRIEN'S LIFE.

Much to Plagg's chagrin, Gabriel was wide awake, ready to step inside a strange circle with Nooroo hovering miserably by his side. The dark God knocked over something to grab the man's attention.

Gabriel Agreste turned around with anger at being disturbed and caught (probably was expecting Adrien and more than ready to lash out at the poor boy) only to gawk like a dead fish. Plagg paid no mind at the villain's rambles, piecing together that his suspicions were true of Adrien being Chat Noir. As expected, Gabriel had a psychotic grin plastered on his face, ready to steal Adrien's ring.

"Nooroo," Plagg finally spoke. "Take the brooch and hide in my kitten's bag. You'll meet up with our lovely Guardian tomorrow." Tears of joy escaped the lilac kwami's eyes, nodding and easily phased through his ex-master's chest to grab the brooch, making way to the door.

"What!? Nooroo what are you doing! Obey your master now this instant!" Gabriel's thunderous roar was left unheard and soon, it was just him and Plagg. "What the hell did you do to my servant you despicable rodent!?"

"That's the God of Destruction to you, scum." The aura around Plagg suddenly took shape, distorting into the most monstrous being one could ever imagine.

"And I will show you what we do to those who misuse the power of the Miraculous and mistreats their offsprings..."

~(x)~

Marinette and Adrien burst out laughing as they witnessed Nino get whammed by a hoard of snowballs from not only Alya but the rest of the girls as well. Something to do with revenge of his earlier comment about how the latest Marvel film sucked. The duo sipped on some of the delicious Dupain Cheng hot chocolate, savouring every drop.

"How are you not freezing your butt off?" Marinette whined, blowing some air into her hands with a shudder. "I can't feel my fingers..." This caused the boy to blurt out into snickers again.

"Not all of us are cold blooded like you, Mari." The girl in question simply stuck her tongue out at him. "Wow, very mature." He poked her cheek with his ungloved hand, earning a squeal in protest.

"Don't touch me! You're so cold what the hell!?"

"But the best way to warm up is to cuddle! Come one~"

"Noooooooo-"

Marinette didn't make it two steps as she found herself enveloped in a pair of arms and her untimely clumsiness caused them both to trip and fall into a blanket of snow. The two glanced at each other for a moment before dissolving into giggles.

"Ah~ it's been a while since I've laughed like that." Marinette quipped. Adrien helped lift her to her feet, brushing off any snow on her body like a gentleman. "I missed it, letting loose like that."

Adrien smiled warmly in return when she fixed his scarf. "I missed it too, your laugh," Marinette's eyes widened with awe, that beautiful shade of pink sprinkled on her cheeks before she ducked down shyly and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Deja vu swept over them both as they made eye contact again.

Adrien tucked a strand behind her other ear before trailing his hand down her arm and reaching her hand. He gave it an encouraging squeeze so that she can let her fingers curl with his. Their eyes darted between each others lips to their eyes, a silent question left in the air.

The model didn't get a chance to lean in as soon as he felt a large hand place itself on his shoulder. He turned around only to see a grave looking Damocles.

~(x)~

Dead.

His father is dead.

Police has swarmed the mansion, searching for clues and leads in how the man managed to die.

The details weren't pretty.

Apparently when Nathalie went to Gabriel's room with his schedule in hand, she found a grotesque looking corpse staring back at her on his chair. The room was filled with black soot, vines and extraterrestrial things. Things beyond human understanding. Adrien had an idea of who exactly did it.

He surprisingly didn't care. In fact, it's like a weight has been lifted off his chest and he can finally breathe.

"Monsieur Agreste? I know it's a lot to take in but do you need a minute to clear your head? Anything?" Sabrina's father asked considerately, a fatherly tone used in order to coax him.

Adrien didn't say anything for a while, touching his shoulder with one hand and staring off into space.

Plagg's purrs in his pocket gave him a sense of reality and finally,

The dams broke.

"He can't hurt me anymore...I'm free..."

~(x)~

A/N: Tfw you say you're gonna do a drabble but sit down four hours straight instead and go crazy hurr durr...

168 notes · View notes

rufeepeach · 5 years

Text

Fic: i had a night (i had a day)

Title: i had a night (i had a day) Rating: T Fandom: Good Omens Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley Summary: After the world is saved, and Heaven and Hell sent back to their respective corners, Aziraphale and Crowley attempt to settle into a new kind of coexistence - a much more shared existence, without those barriers (spiritual, emotional, and professional) keeping them apart. Unfortunately, this requires a conversation neither of them really knows how to have.

Or: in which it takes all of two (2) bottles of wine to make Aziraphale both theological and emotional.

On AO3

“You know, at the end of it all, I came to a rather startling conclusion.”

Crowley’s head rolls to one side, and one eyebrow arches over his sunglasses. Aziraphale wishes he would take those off while indoors; it always seems like one more barrier to understanding between them, an unnecessary wall in place.

After another rather lovely dinner at a relatively new and very charming French restaurant near Covent Garden, it had felt natural to return to Aziraphale’s flat above the restored bookshop for a nightcap. Such has been the way of things for a few weeks now, ever since Armageddon was averted and their relative head offices apparently retreated. Aziraphale had been fortunate to see Crowley once or twice a month, before: now, it is a daily occurrence. It feels natural; no one has felt the need to comment.

Crowley sprawls on the sofa and Aziraphale takes his comfy chair by the fire, and the coffee table between them fills with bottles of wine, mugs of hot cocoa, snifters of brandy, whatever takes their fancy tonight.

And yet, despite their being practically joined at the hip these days, unwilling or perhaps unable to let go after their brush with the unspeakable loss of one another, those damned sunglasses remain even in this warm, dark, private place. Aziraphale has no idea why: he’s very familiar with Crowley’s snake eyes, has been since the literal dawn of creation, and he’s always found them rather lovely, all things considered.

Crowley lowers the wine bottle from his lips, and swallows an ungodly gulp.

“Oh?” Crowley says. “And what have you concluded?”

“I still have faith,” Aziraphale can feel the smile that bursts across his face, the stupid happiness that accompanies the declaration: hopeful, wonderful.

Crowley frowns, not getting it. Aziraphale can sense the doubt as it slithers into Crowley, that endless worry that he hopes someday – perhaps in another thousand years or so – he can eradicate entirely. “In… in what? Heaven? They tried to burn you alive, angel, I’m not sure they’ll take your call.”

“Oh, no, no no, of course not!” Aziraphale waves a hand, brushing the ridiculous notion aside and with it the entire concept of Heaven: Gabriel, Michael, Head Office, the whole shebang. “Heaven can hang!”

“Quite right too!” Crowley salutes with his wine bottle, and goes back to swigging directly from it, uncouth fiend that he is. He does it just to wind Aziraphale up, and Aziraphale refuses to rise to the bait.

“But… but in something above Heaven,” Aziraphale continues, cautiously, gauging Crowley’s reaction. He imagines his eyes narrowing, although all he has to go by are lowered eyebrows and a furrowed brow. “In… In Her.”

“Right,” Crowley hums, noncommittal. “You’re gonna have to explain that one to me, angel. I’m not seeing the difference.”

“You something, back in Tadfield, while we were waiting for the bus,” Aziraphale says. “It’s been rattling about in my mind ever since.”

“If you’re talking about the invite back to my place, that was a shameless ploy to get you to clean up the holy water and what was left of Ligur,” Crowley says.

It’s a lie – Crowley had been as surprised as anyone to rediscover the remains of his former colleague on the floor of his flat, the night the world didn’t end. What it had been, Aziraphale was sure, was an unsubtle way to say ‘please don’t leave me alone’, a sentiment Aziraphale more than shared. He never intended to leave Crowley alone ever again, if he could help it. He’d had more than enough of that for one eternal lifetime.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m talking about something else. You suggested that everything, our prevention of Armageddon included, was perhaps part of the Ineffable Plan.”

“I was just chatting bollocks, angel,” Crowley sighs, and oh Aziraphale does not enjoy the bitter edge to his tone, however familiar it is. There’s such sweetness and warmth in Crowley, and the bitterness is so firmly turned inward, that it breaks Aziraphale’s heart.

“No, I don’t think you were,” Aziraphale shakes his head. “In fact, I said something very similar at the air base, and I think we were both right.”

“What’s that then?”

“That the Grand Plan and the Ineffable Plan are in fact two separate plans!”

“Right.”

“Oh don’t give me that look!” Aziraphale scolds, a little wounded by Crowley’s ignorance, or his scepticism, or whatever it is that is making him look at Aziraphale like that. “Think about it, about everything that had to happen for us to still be here! Not only did you have to be chosen to deliver the Antichrist, but you had to show up right when the Youngs were already at the convent, and you had to be reluctant enough to want to get out of there as fast as possible, and you had to just happen to run into the most incompetent nun in the whole building!”

“I was chosen because I’d spent thousands of years taking credit for everything evil under the sun,” Crowley corrects, slurring a little. “It was my reward for… for everything.”

Aziraphale takes another sip from his wine glass. If anyone deserves a proverbial olive branch from faith itself, it’s Crowley. Crowley who had had doubts from the very beginning; Crowley who had been asking questions before mankind was a twinkle in the Almighty’s divine eye; Crowley who had reluctantly Fallen and still fought harder than anyone to save the world and everyone and everything in it.

“Alright, but suppose you had arrived at the convent and any other nun had greeted you,” Aziraphale insists. “The baby would have been successfully placed with the Ambassador, and named Warlock, and we would have been-“

“Ham-fistedly shoving contradictory moral lessons down the right boy’s throat for eleven years?” Crowley finishes for him.

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale fiddles a little in his lap at that accurate but certainly unflattering portrait of their valiant efforts. “Quite.”

“So you still have faith in the Almighty because of what? Lucky incompetence?”

“Very lucky incompetence,” Aziraphale corrects. “Remarkably lucky, in fact: lucky that the Youngs are good and kind people from a good and kind place; lucky that Adam grew up with strong-willed and happy playmates; lucky that the last witch burned in England wrote down her prophecies, and that her descendants maintained the only book in existence, and that her ultimate great-granddaughter was in exactly the right place at exactly the right time to collide with your Bentley, and that she left that one book in the backseat, and that I happened to find it.”

“That… is a lot of luck, yeah,” Crowley concedes.

He rolls his head back, his long limbs splayed, wine bottle all but dripping from his slender fingers. Aziraphale allows just a moment of pause – allows, because he could not prevent it, because he cannot help it, he can never help it – to admire him in all his louche, careworn beauty. He allows himself to marvel that somehow, against all the odds, Crowley is here with him after the end of the world. In this rare unguarded moment, sprawled on his sofa as if nothing had happened, Aziraphale thinks Crowley might be more beautiful even than Mozart, or sushi, or a perfect 1922 Châteauneuf-du-Pape: certainly worth preserving the world for. The thought of eternity without Crowley doesn’t bear contemplation.

He swallows that thought down with another sip of his wine. Of course Crowley is beautiful – he is the original temptation, it would hardly work if he weren’t easy on the eye. Aziraphale isn’t sure that was really the point of that stray thought, however. He’s never been sure that beauty begins and ends with physicality.

“It’s not luck,” Aziraphale presses, instead of voicing a word of what passed through his half-drunk mind. Not luck, because to think that their being here now, safe and happy and together, is the product of a string of random fortune is too terrifying to dwell on. “It’s the Plan.”

“Oh don’t start,” Crowley moans. “This the Great Plan or the Ineffable Plan?”

“The Ineffable Plan,” Aziraphale clarifies.

“But you spoke to the Metatron, didn’t you?” Crowley frowns, looking at Aziraphale, confused. “I thought he said that She wanted the war to go ahead.”

“Yes, I’ve given that some thought,” Aziraphale replies. “And I’ve come to the conclusion that in order for the Ineffable Plan to succeed, I had to be convinced we were on our own.”

“Right, assuming the Ineffable Plan wasn’t just to end the world, like everyone including Satan himself and the Archangel-fucking-Gabriel assumed,” Crowley nods, sarcasm rolling off him. Aziraphale rolls his eyes. Crowley is always at his most dismissive and biting when he feels threatened.

“Right, assumed,” Aziraphale presses. “An assumption is not necessarily correct.”

“So you think the Metatron lied to you?”

The question is sharper, and carries with it the weight of a heavier question, a broader question, the question of why when Crowley was at his most lonely, vulnerable, and frightened, Aziraphale was seeking guidance from his higher-ups rather than fighting beside his best friend. Why, when given the chance to choose a side, Aziraphale had not immediately chosen him.

“I think the Metatron… gave an inaccurate impression of the Almighty’s true purpose,” Aziraphale says, carefully. “I believe so, anyway.”

“Believe,” Crowley nods. “This where the faith comes in, yeah?”

Aziraphale swallows hard, his throat suddenly dry, the wine not necessarily helping but welcome nonetheless. This new body is identical to his old form, and yet… and yet. Not. Not quite. More human, perhaps, maybe just because it’s younger, it has a tendency to race its heart and dry its throat, to adrenaline spikes, to panic, to physical response. It’s hard work. He’s still working out the kinks.

There’s a long silence. Crowley sinks deeper into Aziraphale’s couch. Aziraphale clenches his hands in his lap, both wishing he had chosen the seat beside Crowley – the distance between them suddenly looms, a cavern as broad as the gap between Heaven and Hell – and thankful for the relative safety of his armchair. The look on Crowley’s face is unreadable, and yet Aziraphale can read him, and he knows it isn’t good.

The silence stretches. Aziraphale’s oh-so-young heart starts to beat. He wishes he were one to pace. He wishes someone, anyone, would say anything.

“Why’d you do it?” Crowley asks, at last, the question Aziraphale is certain he’s been burning to ask for weeks now, the proverbial elephant in the room.

“Do what?” Aziraphale’s cowardice, as always, gets the better of him. He won’t answer the question until it is asked, in case he’s gotten it wrong, in case he ends up saying more than he has to.

“You know what,” Crowley sighs. “C’mon, angel.”

“No I do not know what!” Aziraphale lies, panicked, maybe he’s lying, he hopes he’s not lying. He doesn’t know, technically, but he can make an educated guess.

“Why’d you walk away?” Crowley demands. His posture hasn’t changed, lithe body still spread out across the couch, easy as you like, but his tone is serious and a touch angry and a touch more hurt, although Aziraphale is sure that last part Crowley hopes he’s hiding. It hurts him, nonetheless, pokes at that shameful bruise under his ribs, the knowledge that in six thousand years he’s never made a worse mistake. “In the park, at the bandstand, you knew I was right and you ended up agreeing with me anyway so why’d you suddenly run away?”

Aziraphale sighs. He’d been right. He had known what Crowley meant.

The unspoken fact of their togetherness, the fact they’re barely apart for more than a day at a time, the lunches and dinners and walks together, has all come at the price of Aziraphale’s shame that he didn’t get here sooner.

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

Crowley has been waiting for decades, centuries, longer, for them to be on the same side, their own side. And yet, it took until the literal eleventh hour for Aziraphale to finally join him there.

“I… I was lost,” he says, at last. Crowley hums softly, but doesn’t comment. Aziraphale looks down, at his hands, fiddles, shuffles, cannot meet the gaze that pierces from behind Crowley’s sunglasses. “My faith was… shaken. Not in Heaven, I… I mean I knew what they were, who they were, I think I’d always known. They wanted their war and they would have it. But I had hoped… I mean, I believed they were misguided. I thought if I could make the Almighty understand that it was more complicated, that there were… shades of grey. That maybe then…” He trails off, stops, thinks, recalibrates. He knows what he needs to say. It’s the reason he started this conversation, if he’s honest with himself.

He cannot form the words. They die in his throat, too heavy for such a delicate balance.

“Maybe then what? They’d all become pacifists overnight?” Crowley’s trying for biting, but he doesn’t succeed, it just comes out with that soft, sad sympathy Aziraphale has always adored in him. The tone of one who could see the lie all along, and yet is saddened by another’s disillusionment. For a demon, Crowley has a notable, admirable lack of schadenfreude.

Aziraphale doesn’t doubt that there was a time, before the Fall, when Crowley had been as Aziraphale is now. Crowley had just learned to question sooner, lost his innocence sooner, thought for himself quicker. He’d gotten there faster, like he always did, and it had taken over six millennia for Aziraphale to begin to catch up.

“That maybe then it would all be alright,” Aziraphale murmured, ashamed of his own naiveté, embarrassed at such a childish thought. “I thought She might… understand. And then there would be no need for sides, or for the war, and the world could spin on.”

“That would have been lovely,” Crowley agrees. “Shame She’s as bloodthirsty as the rest of them.”

“But that’s exactly my point!” Aziraphale exclaims. “Had I… had I agreed with you, we would have left together, yes? Leaving the world to rot. Or perhaps we would have stayed to fight, but that fight would have involved killing Adam, which we may or may not have been able to do, and had we done it would not have allowed the world to be restored after Armageddon was averted, and had we failed he would never have trusted us.”

“We almost did that anyway,” Crowley notes, his voice bitter as ash. They are in agreement there: the memory of the split second staring down the barrel of that oversized gun, of Adam’s curly head in his sights, of pulling the trigger… well, it doesn’t bear remembering, really.

“But we didn’t! We failed again!” Aziraphale’s smile is back; he slaps his thigh for emphasis. “Because the portal stayed open, so Sergeant Shadwell turned up uninvited, so I was discorporated, so I had to take that witch’s body, and so she stopped me. If I had been in my own body… well…”

He trails off again. His too-young stomach flips at the thought of what he might have, what he almost, what he intended to do. To a child. An innocent. A human boy who had already chosen to save the world rather than end and rule it.

“Well,” Crowley agrees, his voice heavy. “For the record, I wasn’t happy about it either.”

“You made a good argument,” Aziraphale weakly tries to comfort them both. “You know, the world versus one child.”

“Yeah but that was when it was Warlock, and he was such an arsehole,” Crowley waves a hand, as if it matters at all who the child was. “And it was never about the world, anyway,” Crowley continues. “I mean not entirely. Not really.”

“Oh?” It is Aziraphale’s turn to frown, perplexed.

Crowley’s head is rolled back, eyes back on the ceiling, casual and relaxed and oh-so-cool when in fact the universe rests on his words. “Decision came down to your life or his,” he shrugs. “Didn’t even have to think about it.”

Aziraphale swallows. His heart, treacherous newborn organ that it is, starts to pound. “Oh.”

It warrants an answer. He knows that. He’s always known that. How many times have they been here, Crowley reaching out, opening up, seeking reciprocity, Aziraphale reaching back only to falter and retreat and withdraw, cowardice masked as righteousness, hiding behind sides, behind us-and-them, behind orders? How many times has he failed, and yet Crowley continues to try, nonetheless, hopeful to the last.

He can’t find the words, and the silence stretches, and Crowley gets restless, he knows this dance as well as Aziraphale and is too weary to expect the answer he deserves.

“More wine, angel?” he asks, casual and cool, as he stands to fetch a bottle he could have easily summoned from the sofa, and paces across the room to find a corkscrew he certainly doesn’t need.

“I put my faith in all the wrong places,” Aziraphale blurts, forcing himself through this, gritting his teeth through the panic crawling up his spine, although every instinct screams to be quiet, to pull back, to run, to shut this down now before it can go any further.

It’s easier now that Crowley is facing away, and he wonders if that was Crowley’s intention, or whether this displacement activity is entirely for the demon’s own benefit. He continues: “Although I believe my doubt was part of Her Ineffable Plan… that doesn’t mean I was right. It means my wrongness was essential, but that’s altogether different. Many things were, are, will continue to be essential to the Plan, but that doesn’t make all of them right.”

Crowley is silent, fiddling with the wine, his shoulders tense, eyes down. Aziraphale wishes now that they were sat side-by-side, that this distance could be closed, but he is rooted to his seat and he cannot muster the strength to move. Everything he has is going into pushing these essential words out of his resistant mouth. His small living room has never felt so vast.

“What I mean to say is that… well, all along I shouldn’t have cared for Heaven, or Gabriel, or even the Almighty, Ineffable Plan or no. From the start, well, I should have put my faith in… you.”

Crowley stills. He does not respond.

“C-Crowley?”

Silence. Aching, awful, silence.

“Oh Crowley do say something!” Aziraphale cannot handle this quiet, not now, not from Crowley. They’ve always, always been able to talk to one another, and just as he needs Crowley’s effortless ability to fill any silence, with his probing questions and his sharp remarks and his intellect, he goes silent! “You were right, alright? We ought to have been our own side, and whether or not I was capable of accepting when you offered you were owed… well, better, anyway, than what I gave you. I betrayed you and I’m so very, deeply, terribly sorry.”

“You said you didn’t like me,” Crowley reminds him, finally turning to face him, and the shame hits like a punch to the stomach.

Aziraphale rises to his feet, on instinct, unnecessary, and meets Crowley at the end of the coffee table. He takes his wine, letting Crowley put the bottle on the coffee table, fiddling, fussing, not wanting to sit, not wanting the distance back, not wanting to commit to sitting together as if that isn’t what this whole conversation, at its heart, is about.

“I… I was scared,” Aziraphale admits, in for a penny in for a pound, true honesty not being something one can provide in moderation then retreat. Heaven has shown its cards. There is no more risk to openness, no more excuse to pull away.

“Understandable,” Crowley nods, and Aziraphale wishes he weren’t wearing those bloody sunglasses, because if he’s going to spill his heart out then for God’s sake he will at least see Crowley’s eyes while he does it! “The punishment was hellfire, after all. I was there.”

“I wasn’t… I wasn’t scared of that,” Aziraphale admits. Then, helplessly, scolds: “Oh do take off your glasses, Crowley!”

He’s certain Crowley rolled his snake eyes, if that were possible, but he cannot see them until a moment later, when the glasses are in Crowley’s pocket and his full face is revealed. “Better, angel?”

“Much,” Aziraphale sighs, happy, delighted, smiling, God, it’s ridiculous how Crowley’s proximity can bring a smile to his face even in such a difficult, tense moment. He’s grateful for the slight crack in the tension, too, for a moment to breathe.

“You’re braver than I am, then,” Crowley murmurs, returning to their previous topic. “I’ve been terrified of what Hell might do if they caught on for centuries.”

“I mean, I was scared of the hellfire,” Aziraphale corrects himself. “But… not only that.”

“Gabriel’s withering stare?” Crowley suggests, lightly. “A promotion back to head office, away from your books and your sushi? Being forced onto harp duty for a few centuries?”

Aziraphale fights the smile threatening to spread across his face. “Oh do be serious,” he mutters instead. “I was scared that… that you were right. And of what it would mean that you were right.”

“I was right,” Crowley reminds him. “And the world did not, in fact, end, which proves I was right.”

He hasn’t returned to his seat. They’re standing a little awkwardly, just a little too close, wine glasses held between them.

“Yes, but you had been right for some time,” Aziraphale replies. “Since at least the fifteen-hundreds, possibly since the Garden. We had been our own side since well before the Antichrist’s birth, I was just… well, I had always been too scared to admit it.”

Crowley thinks about that. Aziraphale watches the emotion play over his expressive face, his lips pursing then relaxing, thoughtfulness, confusion, a little sadness, a little anger, his head bowed, his snake-eyes unreadable.

Aziraphale nearly jumps out of his skin when something touches his free hand: Crowley’s fingers, tangling with his. They’ve never held hands like this before: never in private, never in the warm semi-dark of his lamp-lit sitting room, never without a good reason.

“Angel, I-“

“And that has always been terrifying, because…” he rushes on, his eyes on their hands and his lips loosened by the rush of warmth through his whole body at the contact, so much more potent than mere alcohol. “Well, because if that were true, that you were integral to me, then I’d have to admit to being scared of losing you. Much safer to stay loyal to Heaven, and pretend you gave a damn about Hell, and forget the whole idea.”

A breath, a pause, he could stop here, he could leave it here, this is enough, this is all Crowley needs to hear, but now the fight is to keep his mouth shut and stem the tide and he fails and: “Much easier to pretend I didn’t… love you.”

The silence now is deep, tense, but comfortable, like a heavy blanket, like the glow of a hearth, like love, but not celestial love, no, material love, personal love, love that grows in the warmth and the dark where nobody’s looking, that belongs only to those who feel it, that is possessive and generous and earthly, neither blessed nor damned. Aziraphale doesn’t need to breathe, and yet he finds his lungs constrict anyway, as he waits for Crowley to say anything, anything at all.

“Oh, angel,” Crowley murmurs. That’s all he says, just that, and yet it’s everything. It’s like the first time, like on the garden wall, a release from doubt, a benediction from an unlikely corner, relief pouring through him. Then, like a snake in the Garden of Eden, doubt, sadness, loss: “That’s what angels do, isn’t it? Love everything. Trust you to take it too far.”

“What?” Aziraphale blinks, confused, trying to work out where in the name of the Almighty Crowley has gotten the message confused. “No, no, I don’t mean in an angelic way. I mean like…” he can’t get his thoughts straight, all jumbled, and Crowley is so close and their hands are still all tangled up and blast it, Crowley has been literally inside his body, and he’s so clever, so why is he choosing this moment out of six thousand years of moments to be so stupid? “Oh bugger this."

Aziraphale surges, half-falls, forward, and kisses him, full on the mouth. It takes his too-new brain a moment to catch up with what he is doing, and why, and how, and that he is kissing Crowley, that Crowley has leaned instinctively toward him and is kissing him back. Then there are some rather ostentatious fireworks exploding behind his eyes, and a rich, syrupy warmth floods through Aziraphale at the sensation of Crowley’s soft, cool lips moving gently, lovingly against his, and that young heart of his pounds in his chest.

It’s a brief kiss, startled, inexperienced, chaste, over in a moment after what Aziraphale was coming to realise had been six thousand years of build-up. It is utterly remarkable.

He pulls back, and has the pleasure of watching Crowley’s eyes flicker open, dazed, confused.

“Like that!” Aziraphale says, decisively, triumphantly, his point proven. “There, I don’t kiss everything like-mmph!”

He is cut off by Crowley slamming his mouth back against his, his eyes slamming closed a second too late, another kiss, deeper this time, overwhelming, Crowley’s lips caressing his, passionate. Two hands at his neck, one creeping into his hair, holding him closer, holding him still, and it is all Aziraphale can do to angle his head slightly and follow Crowley’s lead and let himself be kissed. If the first one had been fireworks, then this one is a forest fire, and he is happily, willingly consumed by it.

He lifts one hand to Crowley’s cheek, and just holds it there, gentle, his thumb stroking the sharp cheekbone. Crowley makes the most beautiful, intoxicating little noise in the back of his throat, and opens his mouth, and suddenly his soft tongue is stroking Aziraphale’s and he can’t help but gasp, the sensation at once wonderful and unbearable.

He pulls back a moment later, his head reeling. “You were saying, Aziraphale?”

Crowley says his name so rarely, only when his mask slips in times of great seriousness, and it’s a shame because it sounds inexplicably delicious in that low rumble of his. Aziraphale gathers his bearings as quickly as he can. “I was saying that I’ve never been all that good at that impersonal all-encompassing divine love, and what I feel for you… well, it’s always been really rather personal with us, hasn’t it?”

“Just a little, yeah,” Crowley murmurs. He's smiling; Aziraphale's heart stammers. “C’mere, angel.” His lips cover Aziraphale’s once more, and all thought is smothered in static, and belonging, and love, so powerful he’s amazed he hasn’t sensed it before.

He can’t get the thought out of his mind: the love rolling from Crowley in crashing, deafening waves, why had he never sensed it before? How could he possibly have been so blind to this? Now it’s smothering his senses, drowning out everything except for Crowley and I love you and finally!

They kiss for long moments, Crowley’s lips caressing and plucking at his, Crowley’s tongue licking and teasing at his, with far more skill than Aziraphale’s enthusiastic, unpractised fumbling can manage. He’s thankful Crowley seems to know what he’s doing, because Aziraphale’s hands have started to tremble, and it’s taking all his divine willpower to prevent his knees from buckling under him.

Crowley finally pulls away – well, he disengages his beautiful mouth from its even-more-beautiful activities to speak, but nothing else about his action could be described as ‘pulling away’, given that his hands remain firmly on Aziraphale’s neck, and not a sliver of daylight could have found its way between their bodies. But Crowley’s lips do pull back, and it gives Aziraphale just a moment of vague lucidity to process the colossal shift in the world around him.

“Is it going to sound disgustingly cliché if I say I’ve been waiting six thousand years to do that?” Crowley murmurs, a gorgeous smile tugging at his lips. There’s something so intoxicating about that attitude of his, breathtaking sincerity cloaked in a thick layer of swagger and charisma. The latter lends itself willingly to irony, which easily masks and distorts the former, and Aziraphale has been thoroughly remiss: he has used it as an escape far too many times.

“Oh, darling,” he sighs. Crowley’s eyes flick up to his, a sudden moment of aching vulnerability that clutches at Aziraphale’s heart. Oh yes, nothing divine and all encompassing about this: this is personal, this is earthly, this is, for lack of a better term, human. “I know you have.”

“Bollocks you knew,” Crowley snorts, rolling his eyes, fighting that genuine, beautiful, face-splitting grin Aziraphale adores, and failing miserably. “I’ve been subtle, I’ve been hiding it, remarkably well, I would add. You just can’t admit that I fooled you this long.”

Aziraphale’s jaw drops. He sputters, half-laughter, half-astonishment, a sprinkling of genuine offence, which is entirely the response Crowley was looking for, he supposes. He kisses Crowley again, surprising him, then pulls back to cry: “I beg your pardon! You have not been subtle: you have been painfully obvious! I’ve just been… well, a coward I suppose.”

“You can literally sense love and you can’t lie to save the world and yet you’re telling me you knew this entire time and just… what? Pretended not to? Give me a break, angel.“

“Yes that’s exactly what I’m saying, if you’d give me a moment to think.” Aziraphale steps back, takes his wine glass, drinks, misses the heat and skittering spark of Crowley’s hands on him the moment they’re gone. The answer is obvious, now that his mind has been given a second to catch up.

He takes a seat on the sofa, bracing his trembling hands on his knees, gesturing for Crowley to follow. Crowley sprawls next to him – well, half on top of him really, one inch to the left and he’d be in Aziraphale’s lap, his long legs swung over Aziraphale’s knees, like an overgrown cat staking a claim. Aziraphale’s heart stutters again. “I’m not saying… I’m not trying to say that I’ve been walking around for six millennia fully aware that… that this was a possibility.”

“Okay,” Crowley’s eyes narrow, confused again. He gives a lazy grin, his eyes gleaming, and oh, Aziraphale can barely think straight. “This, being…” Crowley leans forward, and presses a kiss to a sensitive place just below Aziraphale’s ear. Aziraphale’s eyes flutter just for just a moment, his skin tingling unbearably, wonderfully, under Crowley’s lips. “This sort of thing?”

“Yes… yes that sort of thing,” Aziraphale swallows. “This whole… our being in love, business.”

“Yes,” Crowley all but purrs, another kiss, and then another, one arm slung over Aziraphale’s shoulder, Crowley’s tongue gently stroking the shell of his ear, and dear heaven above the sensations that’s causing through Aziraphale’s body are delicious, and addictive. His treacherous mind can come up with a thousand ways these sensations could be applied elsewhere, a thousand distinct and wonderful and entirely earthly ways to lose himself in Crowley, and none of them are an aid to concentration.

“You’re being terribly distracting here, darling. I’m trying to apologise for six thousand years of distance and-“

“And here I am,” Crowley’s grin is delicious against Aziraphale’s skin. “More interested in closing that distance.”

“It’s interference!” Aziraphale squeaks, shudders, as Crowley nips at his earlobe, supernaturally sharp teeth soothed with a flick of his warm tongue. A hand has crept back into Aziraphale’s hair.

“That’s one word for it,” Crowley agrees, easily. “Doesn’t it feel good to be interfered with?”

“No!” Aziraphale yelps, and Crowley pulls back as if he’s been burned, a hundred emotions flickering across his face. “No I mean, yes, yes it does, it feels quite remarkably good.”

“Oh,” Crowley’s smirk returns as quickly as it had left. He reclines back, just his long fingers still combing through Aziraphale’s hair. Aziraphale resists – then, purposely, ceases to resist the urge to lean his head into Crowley’s hand, the sensation of his fingers lightly stroking and scratching his scalp simply too good to resist at all. “You were saying, angel?” Crowley prompts, generously, “Interference?”

“The… the feeling of love,” Aziraphale explains, struggling to keep his thoughts in line, to keep his traitorous new body from arching against Crowley’s and losing itself in sensation. He always did have an issue with self-control, a terrible trait in an angel, although he thinks his hedonism probably something that draws him and Crowley together so he can’t regret it too much. “I… I’ve always been able to sense my own as well as anyone else’s. The bookshop has always felt terribly loved, and that’s because it’s my home.”

He turns his head, until he’s looking Crowley directly in the eye, and dear heaven above how did he miss it all this time? The sheer force of the open, naked emotion in those yellow eyes, how devoted, how loving, how longing… well, it’s quite breathtaking.

“I knew I loved you,” he says, softly. Crowley’s throat bobs, his hand clenching just a little, perfectly, against Aziraphale’s scalp. “I- it was easier, when I sensed it coming from you, to assume instead that it was all from me. Plausible deniability, you know? I knew but…”

“But you didn’t want to know,” Crowley says, heavily. “I understand, angel. The risks for you were always higher… you can only Fall once after all.”

“It’s not an excuse,” Aziraphale insists. “It’s intended as an explanation, to elaborate on an apology. You were always right. We ought always to have been our own side.”

Crowley nods. For once – for perhaps the first time in six thousand years – he seems truly at a loss for words.

“I love you,” Aziraphale says again. “In a way that has nothing to do with heaven, except perhaps as a metaphor for how I feel when I’m around you.” Crowley gives a delicious lopsided smile at that, and Aziraphale is sure – although perhaps he’s just projecting – that he can see the tinge of a blush on Crowley’s sharp cheekbones. “I am in love with you, darling,” he murmurs, shifting closer, pulling so Crowley is almost entirely in his lap and he can press their foreheads together. “And I have been for a very long time.”

“Took you long enough,” Crowley grumbles, and then ruins it by beaming.

Aziraphale smiles, and returns his hand to where it belongs – holding Crowley’s cheek – and his mouth to where it belongs – kissing Crowley with reckless abandon, making up for lost time.

#good omens #aziraphale x crowley #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #crowley #good omens fic #writing #fanfiction #fanfic

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loki-fanfic-whore · 5 years

Text

Venomous Curse ch. 2

Loki x female

Warnings: sexual situations, language, abuse, noncon adult situations.

Chapter 2 Remorse

Alice's eyes flitted open, she was laying in her bed after what had felt like the deepest most peaceful slept she had ever had. Maybe it was due to the fact Conner didn't burst in. Maybe exhaustion just got the better of her.

She got up, showered and dressed for school. Her face swelling was going down and her eye was now turning to shades green and yellow, a sign of healing.

She couldn't really remember yesterday evening. How she got home or what happened. She remembered sitting in the park...and seeing...

"Professor Laufeyson!" She spoke aloud. Her heart beat sped up as she felt her core burn. What in gods name was happening to her? Why did she feel turned on all of the sudden?

She grabbed her back pack and decided to walk to school. The sun hadn't peaked yet and the calm darkness comforted her. She walked at a brisk pace but still enjoyed the silence, before she would have to face everyone for another day of torture.

She got to the school a few minutes early and slipped into the library. It only had a few students in the corner playing some card game. She went to the back and picked up a book on the history of England in the Tudor era, which was one of her favorites. Sitting on an over sized bean bag she began leafing through the pages when the door burst open to the library and a shrill sound assulated everyone's ears.

"Where are you you little fucking slut?!" Selenas voice carried to every corner of the library. Alice kept quiet ignoring it and continued to read. Her heart sank in her chest as she knew she wouldnt be able to escape. Her hands were becoming sweaty at the adrenaline rising in her system.

Selena peaked around a corner then sneered.

"I found you fucking cunt." She marched up to Alice and grabbed her by the nape of her sweater dragging her off the beanbag chair. Alice simply froze, as the triggers led to tears. Selena slapped her across the face causing a small yelp to escape.

"How dare you touch Conner in any way! You stupid bitch!" She roared angrily as she continued to hit her. After the third or fourth hard contact to her head, slice felt herself becoming concussed. Everything going hazy.

"What is the meaning of this?! Miss. Ramos let her go and go see the principle! Miss. Lovelace come with me." A deep voice filled the air causing Selena to drop her. Alice crumpled into a ball on the library floor.

"Miss. Lovelace? Can you hear me?" His voice was fuzzy and going in and out. Alice moaned gently and rolled onto her side. The lights were so bright.

"Miss. Lovelace I am going to pick you up and take you to the nurse. I think you may be concussed. Do I have your permission?" He made sure to say it loud enough for the other students present to hear.

Placing his arms around her he carried her bridal style out of the library and into the nurses station.

"Abigail...I need help." He called out laying her body down.

"Alice? Stay awake please. You can't fall asleep." His hand gently held her cheek.

"Loki? What happened." A thin old woman in a white coat came in.

"Abigail there you are. She was attacked by another student. I think she is concussed. Abby- she is my new blood." Loki mentioned the last sentence in a low hushed tone. The older woman's blonde eyebrows raised in suprise.

"Loki- how long has it been since your last?" She asked as she looked to the poor beaten girl on the table.

"Its been...decades....but that's not important...our bond has just begun, but I believe I can help her."

"Yes yes.... I'll lock the room. Just call the desk phone when you are done." She turned and left without another word. Loki sighed gratefully and closed the door locking it. He moved to the table and leaned over Alice checking to see if she was still conscious.

"Alice? I need to make you better. I- I can help you, but its unconventional...I need to touch your body...do you give me consent?" He spoke gently and his minty breath fanned her face. She had a throbbing headache and opened her eyes a crack to process his words. After a few moments of silence she groaned gently

"Do what you need to." She laid on the table as Loki took his jacket off revealing a pressed button up shirt and black slacks. He rolled his shirt up to his elbows and then gently sat her up removing her sweater. He unbuttoned her shirt and slid it down her arms revealing her chest to him. He could see the bite he had left the night before that was almost healed. He also could see countless bruises and cuts. He gently took her neck and waist in his hands as he kissed at her throat.

"I am going to bite you Alice...itll sting, but I promise it will become much more enjoyable soon." He let his dual fangs extend and sunk them into the crook of her neck, she let out a soft whimper as he began to drink. Jesus christ the feeling she gave him was euphoric. He could feel his cock twitch in his pants painfully erect from her scent and taste.

He only drank a little, just enough to strengthen the bond. He then gently bit his palm and placed it to her mouth. His other hand still holding her up gently grasping the back of her neck.

"Drink Alice...we need to complete the bond today" he spoke softly. Alice opened her mouth and licked at his palm. She could taste his bitter blood and wrinkled her nose. She drank only a few drops before it was too much. She felt herself growing increasingly turned on.

"L-Loki I dont feel any better." She slurred out.

"Darling...I need to be intimate with you in order to finish this process and heal you...do I have your permission?" He spoke in a hushed husky tone in her ear. He knew she was aroused. He could feel her heart beat picking up. When they were complete in bonding he would feel every emotion she had and she would feel his.. it was what made the bond special. She would be his forever. The over powering scent of her arousal caused him to groan and try to readjust himself.

"Do I have your permission?" He asked again not trying to push.

"Y-yes." She spoke breathlessly. Loki immediately freed himself from his trousers and pulled her underwear to the side exposing her sweetness to him. He sank into her to the hilt sucking in air as he became overwhelmed with emotions. The bond was completed. Alice moaned out as she felt herself changing. She was becoming more clear headed. The concussion slipping away. She looked down to see Loki biting his lip his cock buried fully in her.

"Alice...now that you are level headed and the bond complete....I need to ask again. Are you okay with this? Or would you prefer me to stop?" Tears slid down her cheeks as she began to tremble.

"I-I" she hiccuped. Lokis face turned to one of anguish.

"Shhh it's okay. I'll stop my darling....we need to talk and now is probably the best time." He gently slipped out of her and groaned internally. His cock was a light purple from lack of release. He pushed it back into his pants and handed her back her sweater.

"What are you?" Alice was the first to break the silence. As she buttoned her shirt and pulled her sweater back on over her head.

"Uh...I am called many things...I believe the most recent name is a succubus. I get energy from extracting it through...different means from others."

"And this bond?" She asked again breaking the silence.

"Uh..well contrary to most beliefs, succubi do not enjoy sleeping with everyone....we bond to a certain person who calls to us. And we are bonded for life...I can...feel your emotions and you can feel mine...the bond becomes stronger with every time we mate or whenever you allow me to feed..." he chose his words carefully staring at her with his arms crossed.

"And I am now bonded to you? What if I dont want to be?" She asked her eyes flicking up to meet his.

"Well...it would break my heart...being rejected within a bond can cause many negative effects, but ultimately it leads to death of one or both bonded individuals." He didn't hide the hurt in his eyes. She felt a slight pang in her chest. It must have been from him, it was such a strange sensation to be the cause of sadness within yourself.

"Professor-"

"Please, when we are alone call me Loki..."

"Loki- I don't know if this is what I want...I- have a lot going on with Conner and school and-and I dont even know you!" She gushed forward as she stared right into his green eyes.

"I am aware it is overwhelming Alice, but now, with this bond I can protect you...keep you safe..we dont have to be intimate if you wish not to be...I- I can see some of your memories and I understand completely." His voice was soothing but she wrapped her arms around her middle trying to hide the trembling.

"You-youve seen my memories? You have watched my life like an open book before you and I dont even know you.." she was becoming increasingly upset.

Loki sighed and ran a hand through his hair. This is not how he wanted this to go.

"Alice please, we dont have to do anything you aren't comfortable with until you are fully ready....but this bond...it doesnt go away...it will only make you sick if you fight it...I will tell you anything you want to know. I will woo you and we can even go on dates if you prefer all until you are comfortable with me...I didn't mean to be intrusive...the bonding just shows me a great deal about who I bond with...I was hurt and you were wanting and willing to help." he looked to her with semi-pleading eyes. She could feel the tightness in her chest.

"You are my professor! I am your student! What will others say?" She was incredibly opposed to this bond, but she could literally feel the hurt of trying to reject him.

"You are almost done with school." He countered before moving from the counter to stand infront of her.

"Alice...I'm so sorry if you didn't want this, but it's too late now..." he spoke softly before cupping her cheek. She flinched to his touch and he immediately took a step back.

"I'm sorry Professor Laufeyson...I need to go. I've missed class." She stood up and quickly moved past him unlocking the door and bolting out. Loki stood in the doorway horrified at how he had just scared her off. Abigail stood and moved beside him.

"Young man...you know how wounded she is...she will come around, but you must go at her pace. She is scared of being hit not caressed. Of being raped not loved..."

Loki sighed and ran both hands through his hair.

"I'll need to help her see her self worth."

#loki (marvel)#loki fanfic #loki laufeyson #im sorry #loki #slow burn #au #loki au #succubus loki #vampire loki

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brightlybound · 6 years

Text

In Every Universe: Erased

A/N: I’m so sick of editing this. Have at it.

Read on FFN

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1: ELASTIC HEART

PART I (Ginny)

Ginny was old enough and smart enough to classify herself under the broad term of bitter. It probably (most definitely) had to do with being cast out of her home at the age of twelve, brain still muddled and fuzzy from an accident she had apparently been coerced into causing. Her whole life up until that point had been the sound of grating metal, water hissing on heat, flashing lights behind her eyelids, and shouting, screeching. She’d begun at the end, pulled from deep darkness, body cold and stiff and aching, into evergreen warmth, life.

Being sent off to Brighton to stay with her mother’s distant cousin hadn’t been terrible; she was right on the sea, and her walks to and from school introduced her to briny air that soothed her scattered nerves better than any cup of chamomile tea ever could. It also helped to restore several memories, mostly embarrassing ones she would’ve rather left behind, like the time she stuffed her elbow in the butter dish in front of Harry, or the night Hermione ignored her in favor of reading a book under a duvet.

Ginny spent a handful of days at the Burrow with her family, a few days during summer holiday here, a Christmas break there. Such visits should have been beneficial, someway, somehow, but she was always held at a proverbial arm’s length, regarded warily by her parents, whispered about behind closed doors. She never quite belonged, felt like an extension of herself when she was around them. Even so, she loved them with everything she had.

And then her sixteenth birthday came and went without a single present, card, letter, or call. Nothing had ever been so hurtful. They’d forgotten her, and yet she was the “miserable, frozen” one.

What a joke.

So, when Harry said, “Your family misses you, by the way,” she huffed out a skeptical breath.

“Right, and I’m the Queen of England.”

“I mean it. You should contact them.”

Ginny turned to look at him as they approached Cranbourn Street. He had both hands stuffed in his robes pockets, and he was looking at her with something akin to pity in his eyes. She had the sudden urge to throw his cloak in his face and get as far away from him as possible. This extended lunchbreak she’d requested was pointless; she should’ve never agreed to attend that stupid New Year’s Eve office party, she hadn’t even found a dress. And now she was arguing with this man from her past, who she’d dreamt of for years and years after last catching a glimpse of him at the age of eleven.

“Exactly who are you to tell me what to do with my life?” she demanded, coming to a complete stop now. Her fingers clenched around the opening of his cloak, hands shaking from a sudden burst of anger.

Several passersby quickened their steps to get around them. Harry grimaced at their retreating backs.

He could not seem to meet her eyes now. “I care about your family. They’ve been nothing but good to me.”

“Lucky you,” she said coolly, removing his cloak and shoving it at him. He just barely caught it in his arms. “Fuck off, and forget you ever saw me.”

And she thought that was the end of it as she walked away from him, head held high. Tears were blurring her vision but whatever. She was fine. Perfectly fine… even though every therapist she’d thrown money at told her quite the opposite. But not a minute later, Harry was grabbing her arm again, pulling her out of foot traffic and up against a storefront.

“I’m sorry,” he said, ducking his head to look at her as she stared down at her worn winter boots. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset,” she stubbornly replied to her feet.

“You’re crying.”

“Clearly, I have something in my eyes,” she said defiantly, her voice warbling traitorously.

Harry’s tone was laced with amusement. “You know, I didn’t peg you as absurd.”

“You don’t know me at all, so,” was her absurd reply.

“Not anymore.”

She glared at him, bugger her tearstained, blotchy cheeks. “Never, actually.”

“You were shy, but Ron told me you never stopped talking.”

A reluctant laugh bubbled out of her mouth, and she rubbed roughly at her cheeks with the backs of her gloved hands. “The next time you see Ron, tell him to wash out his filthy, lying mouth.”

“Come to lunch with me,” Harry said.

She leaned back, resting her head on the brick wall, and felt her hair catch on the jagged surface.

“Why?” she said.

“Because… I owe you.”

“If this is about throwing me out of that pub-”

“You saved my life.”

Ginny’s breath caught in her throat.

She’d been told, of course, that Harry had been a part of the accident, and that Ron had been there, too, but details were scarcely provided, and Ginny had automatically concluded that her head injury and subsequent amnesia were from a horrible car crash she’d been in, that she’d caused.

“Rumor has it that you saved mine,” she said, watching him through the corner of her eye.

He waved one hand airily, the other still clutching at his crumpled cloak. “Technicalities.”

She hadn’t written her family since she’d moved flats last month, hadn’t wanted them to find her, at least for a little while. She knew, of course, that Harry was trying to cajole her to lunch under the pretense of keeping her in one place long enough to call her family over or getting her to open up and reveal her new address to him, but maybe she could use him, instead. And get a free meal of it, too.

“I’ll go to lunch with you,” she said. “But only if you pay.”

“Of course, I’ll pay,” Harry said, sounding on the verge of outraged.

“And only if you tell me what happened.”

Instantly, without having to explain herself, Harry knew exactly what she was talking about. His face clouded over, and his lips pulled into a frown.

“That’s not fair, you know I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Ginny-”

“You don’t have to tell me everything.”

She stared him down, and for a moment, it seemed like Harry was going to walk away from her, turning his back to her as he stared out over the street. But then he pivoted to face her, and his mouth was drawn in a thin line.

“Fine. All right. What do you want to know?”

PART II (Harry)

It was extraordinarily fortunate that he’d walked into the Leaky Cauldron from Diagon Alley just as she’d stepped into the Leaky Cauldron off Charing Cross Road.

From what he’d gathered over the years- and he’d kept his ears very much open to any mention of her- Ginny had been living her life as a Muggle after the incident in the Chamber robbed her of her memories, of her magic. He’d been full of guilt about it since it’d happened, no matter what anyone said to him regarding the matter. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had not blamed him, and her brothers had called him an idiot, reminded him several times over that she was alive because of him. But he’d said it then, and he’d say it a thousand times over, especially now that the war was over: she had saved him, not the other way around.

If she hadn’t had Riddle’s diary in her possession, he’d still be hunting for one last horcrux with absolutely nothing to go on.

Just the thought made him feel sick.

And now she sat before him, unaware of his near-decade inner turmoil, asking him to tell her the truth. He owed it to her, of that he was sure, but she’d been sent away for more reasons than one.

“Tell me how it started,” she said, all settled at a little table by the window, her bright blue coat and multi-colored scarf draped over the chair beside her. She’d piled her hair into a messy bun on the very top of her head while he’d gone up to order and pay for their meals, and her slender neck was on display, captivating him in a way that was completely unexpected.

Ginny had always been cute- he’d seen her age gracefully in the yearly school pictures Mrs. Weasley kept over the large fireplace mantle- but seeing her today had thrown him for a loop. In the dim pub, she’d stood out like a beacon, and against the dreary London backdrop, she was positively aflame, all blazing eyes and fiery hair as she chewed him out for pulling her so unceremoniously out of the Leaky Cauldron.

Something within him pulled and pushed and struggled for control, and Harry forced himself to concentrate on the bubbles bursting along the top of his Coke bottle.

“What do you remember?”

“A voice, mostly,” she said.

He started, gazed over at her with his mouth slightly unhinged.

She couldn’t mean…

“What kind of voice?” he said, trying to remain impassive even though the hairs on the back of his neck came to stand on end and dread flooded the pit of his stomach.

She shrugged, looking quite uncomfortable as she twirled the straw stuck in her lemonade. “Older, kind of soft. Telling me to ‘do it’, whatever that means.”

A wave of cold washed over him, and it had nothing to do with having shucked off his cloak and robes upon their entrance into the Fish and Chipper.

“Is that… is that all?”

She worried her bottom lip between her teeth, glancing away from him and then back again, and tucked a non-existent strand of hair behind her ear.

A habit, then, he thought, following the trail of her hand as it curled around the length of her jaw.

“I remember sort of… crunching sounds? Bangs and crashes and… this weird hissing, like water on hot metal maybe?”

Harry stared at her beautiful face, pale in the recollection of her traumatic experience, but in his mind’s eye he saw the battle between himself and Riddle play out as if it were yesterday, felt the skeletons of the Basilisk’s meals cracking beneath his feet, heard the serpent’s tail slapping against stone like clapping thunder, and Parseltongue, the language he’d lost upon Voldemort’s death, rang in his ears.

“I was in a car crash, right?”

Her voice sounded far off. Harry shook off the vestiges of their unkind past and focused on her doe-like brown eyes.

“Yes,” he heard himself say.

It was a very logical, Muggle explanation, and he hated himself for agreeing with her, for lying to her.

“How? Why?”

“It was Tom.”

“Who?”

“Tom Riddle. He… he was an older student, and he manipulated you. Because you were lonely.”

Ginny sat back in her chair, looking ill, petrified. They descended into a deep silence as their server made an appearance, dropping off two baskets of freshly fried fish and chips and a stack of napkins on the way to another table. They made no move to touch their food.

“My parents told me- told me someone had died, that you and multiple people were hurt, that it wasn’t my fault,” she whispered. “But how could it not have been? I agreed to whatever he’d suggested. It was me-”

Harry reached across the table, nearly knocking over the malt vinegar. He wasn’t sure what overcame him, why he hadn’t even hesitated in comforting her in what felt like such an intimate way, but he took her hands in his own, small and soft and cold, and vehemently shook his head.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Of course, it was-”

“Ginny,” he said, voice hard, and squeezed her fingers. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Look, I can’t help it,” she said.

Harry found himself very nearly laughing, and she smiled at him in a gentle yet sad way that made his heart ache. When it came time to let go of her hands, he found himself regretfully untangling his fingers from hers.

She did not ask any more from him. Instead, she opened up to him, trusted him enough to tell him about her job writing for the sports section of a small newspaper, where she was one of two women in the whole department. She painted a mental picture for him of the flat she’d recently moved into: small, bare living room with a telly sat atop a cardboard box, a kitchen with nigh five feet of white cabinetry, and a bedroom with a shoddy view of the London skyline. Also, he learned that she was saving up to buy a cat, even though she’d killed two succulents in the past month alone.

“Does that make me a bad person,” she said, looking gravely concerned as she added another glob of ketchup beside her chips, “wanting a living, breathing animal when I can barely take care of a fucking cactus?”

“I wouldn’t know. I was never much of a herbologist.”

“You mean botanist?”

Harry paused with a bite of food hovering before his mouth. “Er, yeah. That.”

They chattered away for a while, and he tried to keep his answers to her questions short and to the point: he lived in London with Ron and Hermione; he worked in law enforcement; yes, he liked it well enough, though the paperwork was a nightmare; no, he hadn’t seen The Lord of the Rings film yet (this drew a horrified gasp out of her).

It was when he’d finished eating and was taking a pull from his drink that Ginny, tearing at her last strip of battered cod, divulged nonchalantly, “I’m thinking about taking flying lessons.”

He almost sprayed her with his cola.

“What?” he choked.

“Flying lessons,” she reiterated, handing him a napkin. “What, you think I can’t fly an aircraft?”

“No, no. Of course you can,” Harry said, mopping at his chin. “You just surprised me, is all.”

“I’ve always wanted to fly. My dad would be so thrilled. Can you imagine?”

Harry took the opportunity. “He’s always reading about planes. Maybe you could talk to him about it.”

“Maybe,” she said, and turned to stare out the window.

He smiled to himself, triumphant.

Soon, they were pulling on their winter garb. Harry was very aware of the stares he received upon donning his robes and cloak; he had to get out of Muggle London soon, and back to work, too, before he was missed. Ginny seemed a little antsy, as well, as she peered at her wristwatch and grimaced.

“This was nice,” she said when they stepped outside, her breath fogging the air between them, “catching up.”

The thought of breathing the air that had once been in her very lungs left him feeling lightheaded, and dumbly, Harry wondered what to do with his hands. He must look very stupid, standing there. How did one normally stand?

“But I’m really, really late now,” she finished.

“Me too.”

She paused, glanced up at him, bit her lip. “Do you want to, I dunno, do this again sometime?”

Harry’s heart stuttered to a stop, then kickstarted and ran.

“Again?” he blurted in surprise, and instantly felt the need to strangle himself for sounding like a prick.

“Oh, um, that’s all right, then, if you’d rather not-”

“No, I do,” he said hurriedly. His right hand had a mind of its own and jumped to land gently on her arm. He reeled it back quickly, as if she’d burned him. “Um, when are you free?”

Ginny’s cheeks looked pink as she rooted in her purse. “Here,” she said, and took out a biro and a notepad. She scribbled on it and ripped a page out. “Here. My number.”

“Oh,” he said. He took the piece of paper and stared at it.

When Harry looked up at Ginny again, she was running a hand through her hair, trying to tame the windblown locks. He wished she’d stop. She looked perfectly ruffled.

“Just, call me?” she said, taking a few backwards steps. “Whenever. I mean, after six is preferable. Work and all.”

“Yeah, definitely.”

Harry’s mind was going a mile a minute, and one of the many thoughts that continuously hurled itself against the forefront of his brain was where the hell am I going to call her from? But everything went hazy when Ginny decided to throw herself into his arms and hug him.

She pulled away, and he stood there with his arms outstretched, paralyzed.

“And can you maybe do me a huge favor?” she said, her hand in her hair again.

He barely managed a nod.

“Don’t tell my family you’ve seen me.”

“And I know that I can survive, I walked through fire to save my life.”

Elastic heart- Sia

#hinny #harry/ginny #harry x ginny #fanfiction #amnesia au #hp #brightly bound #my writing

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thetruthampere · 7 years

Text

SG Pearl and R&R Garnet as requested by @dokirosi :)

SG Pearl walked into the house she shared with SG Garnet cracking her neck as she made her way to the kitchen for a glass of water. It was past the time SG Garnet usually got home each day, but she hadn’t seen or heard her in the house. Casually she poked her head into the master bedroom seeing if she was there. In the dark light, she could make out the tall figure sleeping on the bed. A smirk played on her lips as she sneaked into the room and silently crept up to the figure. SG Pearl furrowed her eyebrows when she noticed Garnet’s attire. A full ballgown from the 1800′s that looked incredibly authentic. She didn’t know Garnet had this, but she wasn’t complaining, Garnet looked stunning in it. SG Pearl sat down on the side of the bed and tenderly brushed a stray dreadlock to the side of her girlfriend’s face. She wasn’t entirely sure why Garnet had gotten all dressed up. A low chuckle burst from her lips. Garnet looked like a sleeping beauty that was put under a spell.

“Perhaps a kiss to break the spell and wake her up.”

SG Pearl leaned close, letting her breath brush over the woman’s ear. “Wake up beautiful, I’m home.” She pressed a feather light kiss on her cheek, then moved to the other ear. “Wake up my sweet Garnet.” The sentence was punctuated with another brush of her lips on the woman’s face.

Brown eyes fluttered open and started right into blue ones. SG Pearl smiled and pressed a kiss to Garnet’s lips. It was a surprisingly short kiss as Garnet didn’t respond at all. SG Pearl pulled back and stared at her girlfriend with confusion. Wide brown eyes stared at her, the woman unusually tense. SG Pearl narrowed her eyes. Two brown eyes. “Are you ok Garnet?” she asked.

R&R Garnet: “P-Pearl?! Is that you?”

SG Pearl was deeply troubled, she quickly looked over the woman who was sleeping in their bed. Similar body structure, but without any of the muscular definition she knew SG Garnet had. Hair was done up in dreadlocks, and most importantly, the presence of two brown eyes instead of the half blind one. SG Pearl pulled away even more. The woman looked like her Garnet, but wasn’t at all.

R&R Garnet laid there on the bed stiff as a board, unsure of what to do. First of all, she had no idea where she was. The last thing she remembered was being overwhelmed at her change of scenery and time line. From there everything was blank. She did remember the nice, and if she dared to admit, stunning woman who must have been the one to take her in. Now she was facing another woman who looked a lot like Pearl, but was dressed and spoke very differently. To add to that her face was burning, she had just been kissed! By a woman no less! In hindsight she didn’t mind, but it was a bit shocking.

SG Pearl backed away, her face heating up at her actions towards what looked like to be a guest of theirs. “I....I thought you were my girlfriend, Garnet, sorry about that...rude awakening. I’m Pearl.”

R&R Garnet’s mind was all over the place. Girlfriend?! The woman’s name was also Pearl?! R&R Garnet swallowed and composed herself after a few seconds. “I am Lady Garnet,” she said as she sat up.

SG Pearl: “Lady Garnet?”

R&R Garnet: “Yes. I am the Duchess of Osmington in England.”

SG Pearl: “Shit...like for reals you’re not fucking with me?”

R&R Garnet pulled back at such crass words. “Such unladylike language!”

SG Pearl raised an eyebrow. “I am no lady.”

R&R Garnet: “Then what shall I call you?”

SG Pearl: “Pearl works fine.”

R&R Garnet: “Alright then Pearl works fine, would you please tell me where I am?”

SG Pearl paused, she wasn’t sure if that wording was intentional or not. “You’re in my, or more technically, Garnet’s house. In our bed. I thought you were her, so I tried waking you up like I would do to her.”

R&R Garnet: “Garnet is the woman who looks like me, wears trousers, and has the beautiful thick curly hair?”

SG Pearl: “Yeah, that’s her.”

R&R Garnet: “And you both live here,” she swallowed, “and share this bed?”

SG Pearl: “Yup.”

R&R Garnet: “Why do you share a bed?”

SG Pearl didn’t really anticipate that question. Her mouth ran before her mind could catch up. “To fuck each other senseless on a regular basis.”

R&R Garnet didn’t know if she should be scandalized or intrigued. There was no hiding, it was plain in the open. Two women living together, sharing a bed, and more. She wanted to learn more about this relationship between two women. “Tell me Pearl works fine, how does one,” she braced herself to prepare for saying the crude word. “fuck each other senseless?”

SG Pearl: “Well um...” Pearl coughed as her eyes inadvertently looked over R&R Garnet once again. The woman was every bit as beautiful as SG Garnet, but had a much softer and regal look to her. A blush dusted her cheeks. “Normally I like to start with some teasing words, to set the tone, let her know I’m interested and want to have sex with her.”

“Like what?” R&R Garnet pressed as she leaned forward. While SG Pearl wasn’t much like the Pearl she knew, there was a definite appeal of her rougher attitude.

SG Pearl: “Like, hey there beautiful, you’re looking awfully lonely tonight, care for some company?”

R&R Garnet: “I wouldn’t mind your company,” came the lower tone. “We could have some tea if you’d like.”

SG Pearl’s heart hammered in her chest at the drop of R&R Garnet’s voice, it was similar to SG Garnet’s, but not exactly. “I’d like the tea, do you have any sugar?”

R&R Garnet: “I don’t have any sugar,” she frowned.

SG Pearl sighed. “Not like the actual thing, but,” she breathed out and internally debated her action and potential consequences.

“Oh fuck it.”

SG Pearl leaned forward and placed a kiss on R&R Garnet’s lips. “That kind of sugar. A little bit of sweetness,” she explained.

The light turned on for R&R Garnet. It definitely was sweet. “I think you need a little more sugar for that, the tea is quite bitter.” R&R Garnet grasped SG Pearl’s face and pulled her in for a lingering kiss.

SG Pearl’s mouth hung open after they parted. “You look awfully hot in your clothing, perhaps I could help you remove some of it?” The words slipped past her filter once again. Lady Garnet was turning out to be someone she would have a hard time resisting.

R&R Garnet scooted even closer to her. “I would appreciate your help to do so.”

SG Pearl was about to reach towards R&R Garnet when a new voice joined them.

“What is going on here?”

SG Pearl whirled around to see her Garnet standing in the doorway.

“Garnet!” SG Pearl jumped to her feet.

“Garnet!” R&R Garnet smiled as she recognized the attractive woman that had been so kind to her earlier.

SG Garnet’s expression was hard to read, but she didn’t look mad at least. SG Pearl crookedly smiled. “Oh just getting acquainted.”

#SG and R&R mashup #SG Pearl #R&R Garnet #SG Garnet #suggestive #swearing #hahahahah #mashup AUs

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harritudur · 7 years

Text

rpf . jodie comer/jacob collins-levy . 3 155 words . rating M

note: as I promised, here my Jodie x Jacob smut. I tried to not turn this into a gratuitous smutty fic and so, I decided to add some fluff as well lol :) For @thefairfleming who gave me the courage to write and to post this shit fic (again, i apologize for the typos and my bad english)

Jodie couldn’t remember why she had ever thought it would be a good idea to start in the first place. Sometimes she blamed it on drink, on the nice French Rosé. And then, the annoying voice in the back of her head that sounded a little like her Mum telling her to stop being such a naive fool. She should have been enough of an adult to admit to her mistakes.

The thing was, she couldn’t find it in herself to stop.

Two weeks before, Jodie’s computer began to ring with the sounds of a Skype call from Jacob. Her former co-star whom she hadn’t made the least attempt to contact when she was still in the UK and he, in L.A. -or Australia maybe? They were not been in touch often recently. “Hello, Miss Comer,” he said, and then checked his watch. “It’s almost 7pm in L.A.! What are you doing up at such an ungodly hour?” “Working!” she replied proudly, showing to the camera the recent script she received for a new play in London. “What about you?” “Well, I am keep selling my soul in Hollywood for the sake of my career”. There was a hint of something in his voice that she can’t decipher, and yet it made her nervous. "I heard you were in the US recently and you didn’t even call me?” “Well, I wasn’t technically in the US,” Jodie said, taking a sip of her nocturnal tea. (British habits die hard) “I was in New York.” “East coast superiority problem,” he snorted, and he got this unreadable expression on his face. “How is England?” “Damp. And lovely,” she said, smiling brightly. “I will be there soon. To visit my father’s side of the family. It’s been a while… Can I come visit you at some point as well?” Jodie was slightly taken aback. He’d never asked if he could come visit. They’d been mostly cut off from each other since he’d gone to Los Angeles. “Yeah, Jake. Sure. If you felt like it.” “I will,” he said. “You mark my words, I will.”

To be honest, she wasn’t expecting him to show up. But, Jacob had always been hyperactive, a touch unpredictable and adventurous (she liked to call him Crocodile Dundee on set, just for the tease), so she was only about sixty percent surprised when he called her from Heathrow. “Jodz,” he said, “why aren’t you here to pick me up?” “Probably because you didn’t tell me you were coming! But I’ll come now.” She grabbed her keys and ran out the door before she could even think about what she was doing. Luckily for him, she moved to London the last week –a better decision for her career. “Finally,” Jacob said as she burst through the door at the airport, scrubbing a hand through his hair like he had just woken up from a long nap. “Finally, she shows up.” “Do you have any idea how far Heathrow is from London, Jacob!” Jodie said, trying to ignore the conspicuous lump in her throat and the way her heart rate sped up a little when he stepped forward and gave her a massive bear hug. “Missed you, Jodz,” he whispered in her ear, and suddenly, yup, there they all were, all those crazy feelings that she hadn’t let herself express for all those months she’d co-starred with him. “Missed you too, Jacob,” she said, and now she regretted not calling him while she was in the US.

True to form, he had no interest in actually sitting down for a proper meal, so they managed to navigate the interminable Tube of London for some takeaway Indian food that didn’t look like it would give them food poisoning. They sat on the floor in Jodie’s flat she just rented, cardboard boxes everywhere (and Jacob couldn’t believe how much of an improvement it was over any flat for a comparable -or even more expensive- price in Los Angeles) and chewed down. Just like old times in their trailers.

She brought out from her fridge a bottle of cheap French Rosé and they’d swapped stories about friends, family, one-night stands. He’d let her listen to a few songs on his ipod. She’d teased him about his Californian tan. She’d talked about Glastonbury Festival. He’d regretted to not have been there with her. They’d drunk the bottle dry.

Jodie hadn’t felt much nostalgia or sadness for her many former co-stars, realizing she’d gone off and lost touch with many of them. And more important, she’d had the possibility to meet them in London when she wished to. But now, she was nostalgic and sad -she didn’t know how much she missed him and how much she hated suddenly the Atlantic & the Pacific Oceans (and the Indian one too!). Jodie wasn’t aware that Jacob had been staring at her the whole time as she looked contemplatively in to her rice. “Jodz,” he said, “are you okay?” She exhaled, and looked back up at him. “Yeah, I’m alright. Just… missing the old days, you know?” There was a beat of silence. He smiled wistfully, which was an ability Jodie didn’t believe that people could develop before the age of thirty. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too. That’s why I’m here, I suppose.” “So you came all this way to sit on my floor and eat curry with me, and I suppose you’re flying back tomorrow in time for… your family right? Or an audition maybe? An event? Or a romantic dinner with whoever you are hooking up with?” The twinge of bitterness that Jodie heard in her voice was unintended, and she almost apologized to him right there. He laughed, harsh and bitter, like she’d never heard him laugh before. “God, we’ve been out of touch, haven’t we Jodie? No one is waiting for me in my cold cold bed.” “I’m sorry…” and instinctively, she reached out for him and grabbed his hand. Jacob sighed. “I miss you.” “Same, Jake.” “You’ve done an awful good job of hiding it.” “Oh come on,” Jodie said, reeling. “We’ve both been busy. I’ve been doing auditions and some new projects are in the coming. I’m an actress. It’s my job! I could say the same about you.” “I just thought… I just thought we were…” Jacob said, struggling to finish. Never once in her life, she had seen him at such a loss for words. If it weren’t for the emotional gravitas that she suspected the situation deserved, she would have whipped out her phone and taken a video. “Friends?” Jodie supplied, trying her best to be helpful. “Friends?” Jacob practically yelled back at her, his hands shaking. “Oh, sod it.” He got up and made his way towards the door. “Jacob,” she said, popping up and running after him, stopping him just short of her front entranceway, “what the hell?” “Friends, huh Jodie? Right, because I’m going to fly all the way across the goddamn Oceans for someone who I like as a friend. I don’t understand how you could possibly be so thick!” Quieter, he continued, his sharp blue eyes on her. “Did you really just want to be friends this whole time?”

A pause.

“No…” Jodie just managed, and finally, here, she was being perfectly honest; she was addressing the feelings that Jacob gave her, and everything that she missed about the last year and him most of all. “No, I didn’t not want to be just friends, but I felt that our hands were a little tied. There was this whole unspoken rule about not dating your co-star, and I had commitments in the UK and you had your life in Australia and then… then I just wasn’t around anymore, and you deserve more than a girlfriend half a world away, and you deserve to have a great career as well, and… it’s like life just kept getting in the way. Bad timing or whatever it is. But, yeah, the way I dreamed about you or us or… the things I managed to think up… it was just, you know? Just a dream…”

Based on the look Jacob was giving her at this exact second, Jodie could’t decide if he was going to kiss her, or storm out her flat door. But the next thing she knew he is crushing himself against her, arms wrapped around her waist and lips against hers. She felt his tongue prodding her lips, and she opened her mouth to him and mentally fist-pumped, and then shivered when he ran his tongue across hers and gently slipped his fingers under the hem of her t-shirt. The feeling of his fingers on her skin made her mind spin with anticipation. He pulled away, looked at her kind of funny, and said, “Is someone else dropping by tonight?” What? Oh yes, we are in London, she realized, and a Saturday night, and I have friends in the city. “No. No Jake… there’s not anyone coming, if that’s what you’re implying…” “Good,” he whispered, “because I am taking you to bed and we are not leaving there for a while.” “Oh,” Jodie said, and hoped that she wasn’t making too much of a dopey happy face. Then she was the one kissing him. An impulsive action –and she thought that she still had some part of Lizzie in her head when she did it. They had kissed so many times before. But this, this felt different from the working-friendly snogs they had shared in front of the crew ~for the job. The kiss tasted of darkness and the metallic hint of danger and excitement. It tasted new. She’d say that the drink had made her just the slightest bit reckless, but it wasn’t true. Not entirely.

She walked him back through her rented apartment. He stopped her somewhere in the middle of her living room not far away from their abandoned dinner (waste of good Indian food, she thought) and kissed her again, and something about how his hands were once again under her shirt and rubbing against her low back made her knees go conspicuously weak. Jacob took advantage of that and subsequently picked her up and carried her bridal style to her bedroom. She tossed her head back and laughed and was still laughing when he placed her down on her bed. “You literally cannot be serious about anything for more than five minutes,” she said as he climbed over her. “You’re about to be proved very, very wrong,” Jacob said, and Jodie had a snarky response forming in her head that died on her lips as soon as he kissed her again. And suddenly getting his shirt off was very high on her list of priorities. She gave up on the buttons and just ripped it, then mentally reminded herself to help him sew those buttons back on if they ever got out of bed.

He didn’t seem to care, but there he was, bare-chest, on top of her, with his lips on her neck and she moaned embarrassingly loud. She could feel him smiling against her skin, the bastard. She sat up briefly to aid Jacob in getting her shirt off, and her bra, and then he laid her back down and relieved her of her jeans and knickers. Not to be outdone, she started undoing his belt but he pushed her back on the mattress and settled over her, kissing a trail down her body. He slipped off the edge of the bed to kneel, kissed the inside of her thighs, and positioned his face between her legs. He looked up at her and opened his mouth to ask a question. She somehow (because she had no idea on how her brain would actually been working) intuited what he was about to ask.

“God yes,” half-spoken, half-moaned.

About a second later her head was thrown back as she felt pleasure course through her body as his tongue rolled against her clit. This simple motion made her gasp out loud. The sound seemed to please him, and he growled low in his throat before attacking her with tongue and lips and gentle teeth, until Jodie was biting her lips and forcing herself not to wrap her thighs around his head. One, then two fingers entered her and she literally gasped as they curled inside her. She dug her heel in to Jacob’s back accidentally, and as soon as he reached up and replaced her hand on her nipple with his she involuntarily pushed harder in to his back with her heel. That was probably going to leave a little bruise, she thought, but he didn’t seem to stop or mind, even when she threaded her hand in his hair. He started focusing intently on her nub, and next thing she knew she was arching off the bed and coming around his fingers. Pulling them from her body, he climbed up over her on the bed.

Jodie wanted to move, to drag him down on her, to taste his lips once more and herself at the same time, and to return him the favor. But instead she watched him strip as he kept a safe distance between them. A part of her wanted to help, to shorten the torture, and to get rid of that satisfied smirk on his face –yet, another part wanted to enjoy the show, to savor each new glimpse of his skin and to memorize them for her lonely nights. But the impatience that curled in her low belly was hard to tame. Socks and shoes, then the belt and jeans followed, kicked off and the boxers flew somewhere and then he was naked, finally.

“Jodie,” he breathed looking down at her. Fuck! her name sounded so good on his tongue. His voice was broken, his Australian accent more marked, and his eyes were darker than anything she’d ever seen; she just wanted to kiss him absolutely senseless, “…do you have anything?”

Oh, that. How unfair that he should ask her where anything (especially something so infrequently used by her nowadays) was in her post-orgasmic haze. “Ummm,” she said to help, and flailed in the general direction of a cardboard-box by her nightstand. In vain. “One second,” Jacob said, and quickly dashed out of the bedroom, which at once was one of the most hilarious and sexy things that she’d possibly ever seen. She really hoped he didn’t trip over anything because she was not doing first aid on his naked… anything. She heard his suitcase unzip and zip and he came back with a fistful of condoms, swaggering triumphantly. “Bloody Hell,” she said, as he deposited all but one on the nightstand, “You totally planned this whole thing.” “The possibility crossed my mind,” Jacob replied. “Allow me,” Jodie said, with a wicked smile, and pushed him back so he was lying on the bed. She ripped the foil open with her teeth, tossed it aside, and rolled the condom on, never taking her eyes off of him. There was something extremely gratifying about the way that his head lolled back and his mouth fell open. Deciding that she relished the sensation of being in control, she straddled him and sunk on to him as slow as she could possibly manage. “God, Jodz… Jodie,” he sputtered out, “just do it already.” His hands moved to her hips and tightened. “Don’t know why you think this is any easier for me Jacob,” she sputtered out, but put on a veil of crazy confident feminine guile and started rolling her hips very slowly. She bit her lip hard, and looked down at Jacob whose pupils were blown out and just looked absolutely wrecked. His thumb found her clit and started rubbing it gently, and then harder, and then right when she was about to come, thanks Jacob, he rolled them over and started thrusting in to her. It was sinfully good to feel his skin against hers. She wanted everything, wanted to lose herself in the warmth of his skin, the taste of his lips, and to pretend that the world outside her flat didn’t exist. That they weren’t betraying any social convention for coworkers –or acquaintances? –or friends? Really? He was gentle, at first, one hand pressing her right wrist into the mattress, the other wrapped around her hip as he thrusts into her. Again and again and again and then he started to lose some of his control, and the hand around her wrist pushes down harder. It felt so good. They felt so good, fitted so well together and moved so in time with each other. Heat built in her and she could feel the rest of the world fading away into the background, and she wanted to close her eyes because there would be sparks behind her eyelids, but he wouldn’t let her out of his gaze. Just as she didn’t want to stop looking at the blue of his eyes. Jacob pulled almost all the way out of her and thrust into her again, deliberate and slow this time, and Jodie could feel the crest of her climax rising to meet his and she chased it eagerly, rocking her hips back against his. Maybe she was a little out of line, but the look on Jacob’s face told her she was doing something extremely pleasing. She buried her flushed face in the crock of his neck and bit down into the pale, pristine flesh of his shoulders and marked it hers. A low moan from him. And then, his hand at her hip loosened its grip and cupped her face instead and suddenly he was kissing her, all sweet tenderness and heat. Jodie kissed him back hungrily, whining into his mouth. So close. She was so damned close– “Let go,” he said against her lips, after pulling his mouth away from hers. “…you’re beautiful like this. So beautiful.” His accent, music to her ears. Then suddenly he was just hitting the spot, and then she was arching off the bed and seeing stars, and she was just barely aware of his hips stuttering and then giving one final prodigious thrust and collapsing on top of her. They just lay there like that for an indeterminate amount of time (Jodie wasn’t going to be counting anything, she knew that much) until he rolled off of her and dealt with the condom. She was still lying on her back when he got back to bed and he curled up beside her.

Taking this as her cue, she wound her arms around him, pulled him against her, felt his breath on her neck and shivered with post-orgasmic delight. He pressed a kiss to her collarbone, then to her neck, making her giggle, and then he kissed her so gently she could almost cry. Jodie wished there was more to this, more than just her London flat and previous stolen moments in trailers. More time. More of him. Her fingers ran through his messy hair and pulled him closer for another kiss. And then another, until she felt him stirring against her again.

“Fuck,” she stated as her hand moved down his body to cup the curve of his arse. “We’re screwed now, aren’t we?”

He didn’t even try to argue this statement. His hands cupped her face and before she could breathe he kissed her. “Oh yes, we are.”

For the first time in a long time, Jodie felt whole.

His return ticket had been booked for the next weekend, but he managed to worm his way out of further events and auditions (“My new agent will kill me later” he jested) so that he could stay two weeks. One morning, he disappeared for two hours, but re-appeared with red and white roses so she forgave him the minor heart attack. “Seriously? Jake?,” the reference obvious, but she accepted them anyway. He disappeared as well an whole day, but she knew it was to see an aunt or an uncle in Essex. Easy to forgive.

Later that month, she followed Jacob back to L.A. (“For work!” she had claimed to her friends who were not buying this shit). He was there, of course, waiting at the airport, and he took her to his flat without any questions. Unexpectedly, there was an extra chest of drawers waiting for her. “Thanks. It would make things easier,” she said in a smile. “I’m looking forward to this.” “Me too,” he said, and kissed her.

It was Jacob’s phone ringing that woke them, and Jodie blinked, the California sun already shining through the window. She didn’t realized she was so tired. The Hollywood way of life -and other private exertions. She was vaguely aware of Jacob groaning, his arms unwrapping from her as he stretched to pick up his phone. She turned back, spooning around him and scattering kisses over his shoulders and neck as he talked. “Hello? Oh, Emma, good morning. Yes, yes, I’m fine. I don’t know, we haven’t… Okay. Yes. Yes, she’s still here.” Jodie frowned. Even though she only heard half of the conversation, she knew he was talking about her. Telling Emma she had stayed the night might not be a good idea. “I’ll tell her. Yes. Thank you. Bye.” He hung up after this little talk and placed the phone back on his bedside table, before turning back and wrapping his arms around her. “Hello.” He kissed her nose and she couldn’t help but smile. “Hello. Hmm, what did Emma want?” “Oh, nothing, just be sure everything was alright. She is planning a dinner this week so, we could go? And she says hello.” “Jacob…” She tried to be serious but it was difficult with his hands on her hips, just upon her ticklish spot. “Why did you tell her I was here?” “It’s true, isn’t it?” “I’m not sure she had to know…” “Oh. She already knew.” “What?” He shrugged. “Said it was obvious and that we should have realized before.” Jodie turned pale, her blood freezing as she wondered what she meant by obvious, and who else knew. And then she remembered the many smiles and teasing and eye-rolling from her friends. Was the great actress Jodie Comer so easy to read? “Are you okay?” he cupped her face and brushed her cheeks gently, eyes full of affection. Oh shit. She was in love with this man -maybe she hadn’t realized it all quite yet. Or maybe she had, and this sudden understanding was like letting out a breath Jodie didn’t know she was holding since months. “More than okay,” she sighed, and let him kiss her, and more.

- -

#rpf #J² #*OOPS I MADE A THING AND I AM SORRY*#i post it now when everybody is sleeping so you don't have to endure this shit #can u believe it's my third fic about them? it comes from to 'awkward meeting' to 'let me eat you in your new flat'#it escalated so quickly #lol

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shirtlesssammy · 7 years

Text

Somewhere Between Heaven and Hell: Savor it because we won’t see Cas for over a month Recap

Then:

In which writer, Davey Perez, continues to ascend to the Fan Throne of Goodness vacated by the much missed Robbie Thompson.

Now:

On a camping excursion in the wilds of Nebraska, a young woman, Gwen, attempts to split firewood against the grain, her boyfriend, Marcus, is busy watching nature on his iPad, and the audience realizes -with or without monsters- this cute city couple is DOOMED. Before their imminent demise, they talk about her acceptance to a veterinary school out-of-state, and the ability to make a long-distance relationship work. On the premise of getting more firewood, the boyfriend wanders away to practice his proposal speech. Gwen stumbles upon the ring. And unfortunately for Marcus, a hellhound stumbles upon him! He just makes it back to camp before getting shredding to pieces. Gwen stands paralyzed but eventually gets the wherewithal to slash the invisible beast with the ax (also against the grain --the hellhound lived, even if Gwen escaped.)

RIP Marcus.

At the bunker, Sam and Dean and Lucille are just getting back from an epic hunting trip. (Fun Fact: Boris had to stop watching The Walking Dead just when Papa Winchester showed up. Too many sads.) It seems Sam keeps finding new jobs through a new computer program, aka, Frodo, aka, Mick Davies. So I see Sam hasn’t told his brother of his little allegiance yet. Dean’s ready to go, after all he has baby wipes in the car to remove any residual siren gunk, but Sam insists he shower first.

Dean acquiesces but insists he’s going to use Sam’s fancy shampoo in retaliation. (Boris is willing to hand-wave Dean’s lack of cleanliness for himself due to his overwhelming need to hunt and forget about his mom issues, but getting monster gunk in Baby? That cannot stand.)

The boys make it to the scene of Marcus’s demise, finishing phone calls as they exit Baby. Sam (talking to his mom): “Let us know.” Dean (talking to Cas): “Love you too.” Oh wait, scratch that, reverse it. Sam fills Dean in on their mom’s recent hunt with the Brits. Dean fills Sam in on more angel killings (like, doesn’t that warrant a drop-everything-and-help-Cas situation? Finding the nephilim seems WAY more time sensitive than bear attacks, but don’t mind me, I’m just a bitter Cas girl.) (Natasha: raises hand in solidarity.)

Speaking of Cas, or Agent Solange...

He’s at a diner, investigating the death of a waitress. Herb, the diner’s manager, believes she was killed by a Reptilian alien, you know, like the Queen of England. Cas is dismissive but Herb has proof and pulls out a tape! Man, this whole scene played like a goofier episode of The X-Files. It gave me happy feels. It also reminded me of Ronald Reznick and Mandroids. (And I love the silly reference to Misha Collin’s weird thing with the Queen.) In any event, they watch the video, which consists of Kelly Kline’s confrontation with angels and her rescue by Dagon, and her yellow eyes. “Like I said, reptilian,” Herb confirms. Cas takes the tape and leaves.

At the campsite, Sam and Dean hear about Gwen’s strange account of the attack. They were attacked by an invisible wolf. “Invisible dog. Sounds like a hellhound to me,” Dean concludes, and Sam agrees, as they head out to interview Gwen.

Once at Gwen’s house, the brothers disagree on how they should explain the situation. The much handsomer brother spitballs telling her the whole disturbing and unbelievable truth, but Sam says they just need to lie, a lot.

Of course, by letting in Agents Clapton and Baker, Gwen unknowingly lets in the hellhound. They tell her that a bear killed her boyfriend. She is not in danger, but Gwen doesn’t believe them, and tells them to leave. And the hellhound attacks! Sam and Dean burst in and shoot the hound, but it escapes out the window.

Crowley. Oh Crowley, what are you doing with Lucifer? You’re a smart demon, Fergus. But this seems...ill-advised. Yet he continues to hold Lucifer prisoner and taunt him. Lucifer isn’t too concerned. “I’m still gonna peel off your skin and eat your soul.” Lucifer makes it clear that they both know that the chains that hold him are just a temporary situation. “I’m already 10 steps ahead,” Crowley reassures the audience. He then meets with Demon #1 and #2. There’s a lot of Hell business to handle.

Back at Gwen’s, Sam and Dean tell her the whole disturbing and unbelievable truth --a hellhound just attacked her. Dean’s admission that they’ve tangled with hellhounds in the past is an understatement. *crying in corner over sad season 3 feels* The boys tell her that hellhounds only go after people who have sold their soul to a demon. They ask her to recall anything in her past or Marcus’s that they might have done unknowingly. Her answer is a firm “No.” The brothers call in the big guns for a conundrum like this: Crowley.

Summary: Dean calls Crowley “Peaches”, and Crowley is still pissed about the whole Gavin thing. Dean asks about the hellhounds and Demon #1 and #2 admit that Ramsey escaped. Crowley pops over to the brothers without hesitation.

Outside the diner a new angel, Kelvin, confronts Castiel. He’s looking for Kelly Kline as well and suggests that they partner up.

Back at Gwen’s house, Crowley unhelpfully introduces the hellhound as “THE Hellhound.” Sam squints inquisitively. Well, God created posies, koalas...

...and hellhounds! He wanted to make God’s best friend but ended up with a vicious beast instead. Rather than killing all the hounds, Lucifer rescued Ramsey, a pregnant hellhound. Loyal to her first master, she’s the one hound Crowley has never been able to control. As to why this wayward hound is after Gwen? Well, she did whack it with an axe. You could say that hound has an “axe to grind.” (Shows myself out.) Everybody looks exasperated at Gwen when instead, IMO, they should be high fiving Gwen’s bad ass self for sticking an axe in a hellhound and surviving the encounter. Anyway, everybody - even Crowley - is ready to saddle up and put an end to Ramsey.

“That mutt’s head, mounted on my wall - good for the brand,” Crowley says, explaining his participation.

“A hellhound gunning for revenge,” Dean snarks. “Just when I thought this gig couldn’t get any weirder.”

“It can always get weirder,” Crowley tells him, weirdly. (I APPROVE of this message and also your weirdly significant look, Crowley...and by extension Andrew Dabb / Davy Perez?? That is a damn fine motto right there.)

Back in Crowley’s palace, two demons open up Lucifer’s cell with a key they purloined from Crowley’s pocket. They walk in to find Lucifer trussed up and mouth gagged.

(At this point there was a commercial break during the broadcast. I feel compelled to tell you that I spent the whole commercial break cursing Crowley’s stupidity for locking Lucifer up with simple chains that open with a key. Crowley! Who is always so clever when it comes to self-preservation. Anyway.)

The two minions immediately begin fawning over Lucifer - and complaining about Crowley. He killed everyone involved in “the cage project.”. Minions 1 and 2 set Ramsey free as a distraction so they could bust Lucifer out.

Back in the woods Dean pulls out two holy-fire-treated pairs of eyeglasses. Dean and Crowley will patrol the woods for Ramsey while Sam drives around with Gwen in the Impala.

Dean settles a soulful look on Sammy. “Take care of her,” he implores. Oh Dean, you big soft package of cotton candy! Don’t worry! The Winchesters always find a way to save the day! While we’re all clutching at our hearts, Sam realizes that Dean was referring to Baby - not scared little axe-swinging, hellhound mauling Gwen. “Imagine she’s a beautiful woman,” Dean tells him. (The rest of us: side eye.) Okay, great talk, Dean. He heads off into the woods with Crowley as Sam drives away.

Boomeranging back to Castiel, he’s parked in a bar with Kelvin sipping waters. (Bartenders must HATE angels.) Heaven’s running along in an orderly fashion but the angels want him back to help with their nephilim problem. Castiel has the most field experience, after all.

“I think you overestimate me,” Cas says, profoundly underestimating himself (as is his way lately).

Kelvin begs to differ and suggests that having Heaven waiting in the wings when the wee human Winchesters fail is just smart strategy. Plus, as a bonus, if Cas does Heaven a solid then he can go back to coming and going as he pleases. Cas doubts Kelvin’s ability to actually follow through on any of the promises he’s spinning, so Kelvin drops his power card. Kelvin is just a messenger from Heaven - Joshua can restore Cas to his rightful place in Heaven. Go on, emotes Cas, turning towards Kelvin.

“Imagine it, Castiel. For you to come and go as you please. Part of your family - your true family again.” Cas looks at him in consideration. (Me: Noooooooo Cas!)

Back in the palace, Lucifer is suffering through the worst Hell-torture of all: irritating minions. They finally finish outlining their list of demands. Well, one of them has a long list of demands. All that Minion #2 cares about is “Making Hell great again.” (Me: laugh cries)

At last they unlock Lucifer. Stupid STUPID minions. Minion 1 disintegrates in a puff of fire and ash. Minion 2 offers himself up. “My life is yours to devour!”

Lucifer: “See, now you just made it weird.” POOF.

In the woods on the hellhound hunt, Crowley flirts with Dean. He’s all “those glasses bring out your eyes” and “remember that fivesome we had when you were a demon?”

Dean and Crowley marvel at a Winchester and the King of Hell working together yet again. “You saved Cas,” Dean says, at last thanking Crowley for saving the day a few episodes ago.

“Just to spare myself the Winchester man pain,” Crowley snarks.

Dean sees something in the woods - it’s Gwen’s boyfriend’s body, dragged back to Ramsey’s den. The hellhound’s den is empty!

For Science

And back to the Impala, where Sam drives along merrily with Gwen who succumbs to the Impala’s magical confession and introspection powers. “This is all my fault,” she mourns. She asks Sam to pull over so she can vomit. When she returns she confesses that she wanted to break up with her boyfriend, but she still acted like everything was perfect between them. “Why couldn’t I just tell him the truth? I lied to make things easier.”

Sam weeps along with her (internally) and reflects upon his own lying lies with Dean. He finally pulls himself out of his miserable slump and looks up to see Ramsey snarling in front of them. (Me: Hit it with the car, Sam! Wouldn’t be the first dog, amirite?)

Ramsey busts up Baby a bit, then Sam grabs an angel blade and heads out to kill the dog. The glasses get knocked off of his face during a scuffle and things look bad for our hero. Then Gwen comes out and knocks the hellhound off of Sam like a fucking bad ass.

This gives Sam just the distraction needed to climb to his feet. When the hound rushes him again, he stabs her with the blade, killing her.

When the four regroup, Dean castigates Sam for his damaged car. A relieved Gwen gives Crowley a giant happy bunny hug. Sam thanks Crowley with actual words and feelings and Crowley zaps out. “He seems nice,” Gwen says, chirpily.

Crowley heads straight for the palace where Lucifer’s torture chair is empty! He finds Luci in his throne room. I’m yelling ZAP OUTTA THERE CROWLEY WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU when Crowley snaps his fingers and Lucifer’s magical archangel wings fizzle out.

“I’m always ten steps ahead,” Crowley reminds Lucifer. He had his vessel fixed up and heavily warded. Lucifer’s meatsuit is his prison! (Me: punches air in joy at this development) Just as Crowley learned not to underestimate the Winchesters, Lucifer really has to learn not to underestimate the MacLeods.

Crowley dusts off his hands, steps over a whimpering Lucifer, and settles onto his throne. Crowley’s going to rip apart Lucifer’s child in front of him, and then he’s going to continue his revenge. (I’m guessing with more torture-by-irritating-minion.)

Elsewhere, the boys are just making it back to the bunker when Cas calls. He has a lead on Kelly Kline. (Hooray!) Cut to Cas, getting out of his truck and walking into...fuuuuuuuck...a playground. While I’m freaking out, Cas tells the boys about Dagon.

They hang up and Dean frowns at the phone. “He sound weird to you?” Dean, your worried husband rader is SPOT ON.

There’s no time to reflect on that, however. Sam gets an alert from the Men of Letters about another case. He decides to come clean to Dean, telling him that instead of a computer program feeding him cases, he’s been getting jobs from the BMoL. Sam tries to explain his position and apologizes for lying to Dean.

Dean hates it, but he agrees that they work with people they don’t trust all the time. Hell, they just worked with Crowley. So he’ll work with them on one condition: the second something feels off they both bail.

The phone rings again. “It’s Mick,” Sam says, holding up his phone.

“Pick it up,” Dean says, not radiating any kind of deep man pain at all.

Boris: Overall, on the surface, I felt like things were a bit off this episode. Dean seems to be taking all these lies and deceptions really well. What’s he thinking? Is he going along with Sam and Mary because he doesn’t want to lose them? Suddenly Sam has another family member to choose--and in a way he picked a side. Dean’s gut instinct is usually right --so it hurts to see him cave so easily to Sam and Mary. And Cas? I want to believe that he went to heaven for one final goodbye. Can he find a way to use the angels to TFW’s advantage? So much hasn’t been said after his big confession. He’s said and done SO much for the Winchesters this season, but there’s been very little given to him in return. And, I’m totally on board for cleaning up the ridiculous Lucifer Meatsuit improbability. I just thought it was such a stupid reason for it, but to have Crowley be 10 steps ahead of Lucifer is satisfying to watch. And Sam saved the flipping day again! And started the trials again? He killed a hellhound. I realize it’s nbd for them these days, but it’s, uh, really not.

Natasha: Sam didn’t do the incantation, so no trials. I thought Dean was shocked about Sam’s news - bitter and worried, but also respecting Sam’s right to make his own choices. He’s probably going to angry fix his car the first chance he gets. I agree that Cas trying to get back into Heaven’s good graces is a tired storyline by this point. What I’m hoping is that Cas appears to agree because he sees the tactical advantage of using Heaven’s resources. After all, he just saw two angels confront Kelly Kline...they must have some resource that’s beyond him to find her. Furthermore, he seems intrigued by Joshua’s involvement. I think Cas wants to know who’s on the game board. I’m hoping that Cas gathers intel and heads down to the Winchesters when he’s put together a solid plan. However, there are definitely parallels between the Winchesters/BMoL and Cas/Heaven in terms of our heroes working with people they don’t trust, but that might help them achieve their goals in an efficient manner. Given that Cas is gone for the next 3 episodes leaves us with a ton of questions about what could explain his absence. And the fact that he isn’t telling the Winchesters a thing is breaking my fuckin’ heart.

Who’s a good Quote?

It’s two and two. Doesn't count if you flip ‘em inside out.

Computers. Monsters? Porn? Is there anything they can’t do?

Most sheeple can’t handle the truth. But not me. I’m woke.

Who ya gonna call? Douchebusters.

The FBI, the Man in Black. Well, you know, Beige.

#spn 12x15 #somewhere between heaven and hell #spn recap #dean winchester #sam winchester #castiel #cas #crowley #lucifer #supernatural season 12

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jackmckenna-writing · 4 years

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Untitled Story - II

We arrived at the door before long, and Sami looked down to the crate in his hands and then to my empty hand without a word. I sighed as I knocked.

The door peeled open to the smell of marijuana smoke and sweat. Some guy neither of us knew answered.

“Yeah” a croaky voice let out.

“Where’s Tommo”, I said, not asked. He leaned back and let the door swing open. We walked through and the initial shock of the smell faded away by its becoming normal.

“What brings you boys back in town after all this time, eh?”, jeered Tommo, his red eyes squinted further as his grin widened.

“We’re just passing by is all, been travelling a bit”, I replied, trying to ease myself with the comfort I presented in my voice.

“Oh sweet”, he had sat down on the couch next to Brad and begun concentrating on rolling the cigarette paper as strands of brown and lumps of green fell out of the end, “where you headed?’, he asked, the tongue previously poking out in concentration retreated as he spoke.

Sami glanced at me and must have caught my blank expression, “London, checking something out, but we’ve taken it to be a bit of a tour-de-England”.

Even I believed him, nodding slowly.

Gazes turned towards the TV, lost in its cartoons and in the volume turned too loud. My mind had sunk into the couch as Tommo passed around his impeccable roll. The couch’s softness reminded me of how much tension had been in my body, and, as I slouched further, let it go. The party commencing in a couple hours seemed to cease in significance as the drawn blinds hid the fall of the sun. I stared headlong into the flickering lights. I let my focus blur in the brightness and shatter through my mind’s eye. Shards of glass contained fragments of what was my view, and they jumbled them henceforth. Those long roads curved no longer as laughter rippled by my ear and into my own heart. I gazed stolidly, with restricted view and pink hues, of the small, small room that filled up my mind.

My consciousness drifted to shore, seasick and strained. I splashed water onto my face and took the beer from beside the sink. Glancing at myself in the mirror I took a drink. The hallway lights had turned off, I suppose making it officially the ‘party’. People arrived in bursts and I spoke briefly to each and passed on. I had lingered in the kitchen so far, and that’s where I returned. To Sami, probably bitter at me leaving to go to the toilet, trying to hide his impatience, he spoke immediately.

“Looking good so far”, his eyes scanned the room, “I think Georgia’s coming soon when Mia does, I’ll probably speak to her for a while when she does”. He sipped his drink, “you know Tommo’s kicked out Reece”.

I frowned and lifted my head with an enquiry, ‘why?’

“Some rubbish about Mia”, he waved his hand away, “she’s made things complicated as usual”.

I cared little for the politics and let myself get lost in the brief exchanges and jarring music of the bold speakers. Sami stuck to his word and would occasionally pass me by arm wrapped around Georgia as she paraded around the rooms. I lingered in the kitchen, filling the bottle bin slowly. Jenny came, I said hello and suffered the usual passive aggressive remarks about getting my life together and her new job. Whatever. I had filtered through the kitchen into the small, concrete garden outside. Two plastic chairs encroached upon a small table with an overflowing ashtray in the middle.

I placed myself down next to some guy I didn’t know, what I did know was, judging by the smell, he was worth making conversation with.

“Alright mate, have I met you before?”

“Nah mate, nah. What’s your name bro?”, he was holding the joint trying to find a lighter as I asked, he slipped it into his mouth to offer me his hand.

Somebody opened the window of the kitchen to let out of some of the bass from the non-descript garage song playing.

“Ethan, used to chill with Tommo and co back in Uni”, I shook his hand.

“Sweet mate, yeah”, he had found the lighter by now, “I’m Danny.” His eyes met mine, “you smoke?”

“Yeah mate cheers”, I replied, and we talked with the usual profundity that two smokers could share outside a party. He was a nice guy, nothing much for me to pick up on apart from his relaxed demeaner. He seemed at ease before we even smoked, like the party had been a place of comfort for him. Another guy joined us outside, sitting on the floor against the wall opposite us. They began discussing Reece being kicked out by Tommo and the drama that unfolded from there. I took this as my cue to drift off into my own thoughts, or anywhere less superficial. I leaned back and gazed up at the night sky. It was the dead of the night, and I thought about all the stars being washed away by the city lights. I had wasted the opportunity to use their house to my advantage, my clothes still stunk and so did I; I knew I definitely would not be doing those things tomorrow. I imagined Sami sweet-talking Georgia, or him commanding a room with his wild stories that only came out with a bit of rum. Things really had not changed since I left.

I thanked the two guys, not sure why I thanked the one sat down, and made my way inside. The night was drawing to a close, and my failure to find Sami in the living room or hallways told me to not wait up for him. I had been gathering my stuff to try find a spot to sleep when I bumped into Mia. Mia was hypnotising, she had something French about her that drove me wild, I always tried to play my cool around her. She had recently cut her hair into a bob, so now her dark brown hair hung boldly above her shoulders. Her expression was tired, and her eyes were always awake. She would always tilt her head slightly as you talked and nod along. She knew how to make you feel heard.

“Ethan! Where’ve you been all night?”, hugging me.

We talked, leaning against the staircase. She talked about how she had moved from Hyde Park and rented a flat in the city with a workmate of hers. That this group was always holding her back, and so forth. I nodded along and followed her words eagerly. She had dark brown eyes that needed appreciating.

“I’ve got Sam’s room anyway he’s off travelling Europe, if you want to come for a smoke?”

“Since when did everyone start smoking up?” I thought to myself, shrugging as I followed her upstairs into the room. For now, I escaped the night and let it become forever as she closed the door behind me and hopped onto the bed. The room was dimly lit by a shaded lamp, illuminating the tattered posters of all our old favourite indie-rock bands. The lighter cracked and then we brightened the shimmering tip of the joint by filling our lungs. We talked about ourselves and what was going on.

“How’ve you been, anyway, Ethan?”, shooting an inquiring glance, already tilting her head.

“Eh. Alright yeah”, I thought I’d be honest for once: “me and Sami are a bit lost at the moment, I guess. We’re just hopping from place to place and hoping that nothing will go wrong to stop us dead in our tracks. We set off in February this time, and up until Easter it was pretty grim. I was writing mainly, got a bit of money from that, whilst he was working on some bar. This was in a small town in the middle of nowhere past York, and we thought we’d stay there for a while, but, as soon as the frost cleared from the windows and the trees started to bloom, he woke me up earlier than usual and dragged me out. He’d packed our stuff and was dragging me across the plains again, he had quit the job and began acting out his usual wild ideas. I’ve just been following along and filling my notebook. Think I’ll end up home soon though.”

I ended my speech with a bow, and she provided her usual warm optimism.

“That’s amazing, Ethan”, placing her hand on my wrist, “you’re doing the right thing and living life. Ugh, I’m so jealous”, she dropped her head back onto the pillow and let out a cloud of smoke, “this job is so, so boring, and my flatmate, so, so boring. It’s like I thought I was making a smart decision leaving this behind, getting a job. I thought the money would sort it all out, and it did, for a bit, but everyday has become the same and I’m sick of it already.”

I really couldn’t provide anything to comfort her; the smoke had made the hazy room hazier and I found myself moving slowly into her embrace, wondering where the time had gone. What was Sami doing?

#Creative writing #Untitled #Short story

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airmidtheawakened · 6 years

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Edge of the Blade, Part 3

Last time on Airmid the Awakened:

Having barely escaped Dr. Westgate’s Saw LARP, my cabal and I found ourselves in the care of Free Council mage named En. He agreed to teach us how to use our magic until it was safe for us to go back to our homes. Punches were thrown, spells were cast, and Lipsy got a puppy.

This time on Airmid the Awakened, things are a little less exciting. I know I promised you guys a “much more exhilarating tale,” but after thinking it over, it makes more sense to finish off the last part of our education. Gotta keep the narrative flow going and all that.

We spent about two weeks at Professor En’s School for the Gifted, practicing and studying and doing our best to make our new teachers proud. En bought us everything we needed. Food, clothing, hygiene products… We really didn’t want for anything.

Saki spent a lot of time with Mr. Fisher studying more offensive uses for his magic (and learning about self defense in general). SiSi worked with Aces on learning the Space arcanum. Hugo spent most of his time hunched over books and drinking way too much coffee. Edgar was always at his side, being as encouraging as possible for a relatively non-emotive spirit dog. I tried to learn more through trial and error, though I did do some book work to so I could brush up on my first aid and biology knowledge. I was a bio major before I Awakened, and rely a lot on that education to help me with my healing spells. After all, you can’t fix something if you don’t have a firm understanding of how it’s supposed to work in the first place!

SiSi, Saki, and I started learning ASL too, so it’ll be easier for us to talk to Lipsy. He was so happy we all put so much effort into it. He’s really adorable when he’s in a good mood. Our Lipsy likes to act all bitter and grumpy, but don’t let it fool you. He’s got just as mushy a heart as the rest of us.

At the end of those two weeks En wanted to test us on what we’d learned. Poor Saki was a big ol’ bag of nerves about it. He never gives himself enough credit. And the test wasn’t even that bad. En had this people-sized wooden mannequin set up that he animated and had start attacking us. One by one he told us to defend ourselves. Saki went first, and used his Mind magic to confuse the thing into attacking something else. SiSi tried to set it on fire, but couldn’t get a big enough flame, so settled for giving it a punch backed up with the Forces arcanum. She splintered the mannequin’s torso. It was sick.

En fixed the mannequin (with a Matter spell, I think) and told me to go next. Now if there’s one thing I always try to do with my magic, it’s to cast with style. I managed to get a hold of a halfway decent phone to play music on, so I pulled up Foreigner’s “Hotblooded” and went to town. The mannequin threw a punch at me. I spun out of the way, and imagined the spiral motion curling up in my muscles like a spring. I came out of the twirl with a roundhouse kick, tapping into my Life arcanum for a strength boost, and kicked the mannequin’s head clear across the room.

Lipsy went last. Rather that attack the mannequin itself, he used his mage sight to find out who was controlling it – Aces – and turned his attention to her instead. En decided that was enough to constitute a win. Which is fair. I mean, we couldn’t have one of us throwing down with one of our teachers now could we?

Needless to say, we all passed part one of the test. Part two was less of a success. Mr. Fisher brought a fluffy little puppy into the room. En told us we had to kill it. Something about learning to make difficult choices? I don’t quite recall. I was too busy wondering why the hell he’d ask us to do something so stupid. We all huddled up and discussed our options. Lipsy used his Mage Sight on the puppy to make sure it was really a puppy. He determined that it was. Saki tried to read Mr. Fisher’s mind to see if there was a catch to the test. All he picked up on was annoyance. That didn’t surprise me at all. Mr. Fisher was almost always in a bad mood. Either way it wasn’t helpful.

Anyway, I wasn’t about to hurt such a precious little pupper, so I picked it up and started petting it. And then I turned it into a kitten. I showed En and Mr. Fisher and said “We can’t kill a dog if there’s no dog here.” I thought it was clever. En must have thought so too, since he burst out laughing. Mr. Fisher was less enthused. He said he knew we would fail. Like I said, that was one was almost always in a bad mood. En then revealed the trick of the test to us. The dog hadn’t actually been a dog at all, but a spirit of pity that took a physical form to feed on people’s emotions. If I had just bothered to use my own mage sight – the one attuned to Spirits – then I would have figured it out. So despite our failing the test, we did learn to rely on everyone’s skills to solve a problem rather than relying on just one or two.

But let’s be real, turning an animal into a different kind of animal is super freakin’ cool and I stand by that decision one hundred percent.

After the test was done we got a visitor. He called himself Patch, and he was one of En’s former students. He’d rigged up this massive video phone that we could use to give a two minute, magically-protected call to anyone we wanted. He told us that the Seers of the Throne had most likely stopped looking for us, but just to be safe, the first contact we had with our families had to be brief. He said he’d know more in a couple of days if we were totally in the clear or not.

I called my best friend, Will. She and I have known each other since we were kids. She’s always been a believer in magic and faeries and whatnot, and while I couldn’t tell her what happened to me or that I’d discovered real magic, I figured she’d be a least a little bit more accepting of my mysterious disappearance than my Dad would be. And I’d probably cry if I talked to Dad, which was not on my list of things to do that day.

Will ended up just being mad at me though. I told her to keep quiet for the next two days, and if I didn’t call back, she could tell my parents I talked to her. But the call cut off so I don’t actually know if she heard me. In hindsight it was a really poor decision, but at least I put forth the effort. And I can’t really blame her for being upset. I was gone for half a year with no word. I should have known she wouldn’t accept anything less than a full explanation.

I don’t know what the others talked to their families about. I do know Saki didn’t talk to anyone. He’s undocumented, Muslim, and gay. He had nowhere to go and really no one who would miss him. I’m glad he ended up with us. No one should go through life all by themselves.

We had one more surprise in store for us that day. Mr. Fisher took us on a field trip to our first magic shop! It was owned and operated by a changeling – an honest to God, real changeling – who kinda looked like a corpse, but was really cool at the same time. He had an entire basement full of different enchanted items, things that were useful for casting, and other supernaturally-inclined doodads. En wanted us to pick focus items for our casting. I found a blue silk ribbon that, if I attached it to the right type of rod, I could use really easily in my dancing.

SiSi got a Native American necklace. Hugo found a ring made out of a tiny bird skull. Saki hit the freakin’ jackpot, though. He found a magic set of tarot cards that cut anyone who isn’t supposed to be using them. I guess it’s kind of like a “wand chooses the wizard,” type of thing. Abraham (that’s the changeling’s name) didn’t want to sell them at first, and even then was worried En wouldn’t be able to afford them. But in the end he gave in, and we all went home with fancy new magic toys. And McDonalds. Mr. Fisher actually let us go to McDonald’s. Yeah, he actually knows how to have fun every once in a while.

And with that, we come to the conclusion of my cabal’s introduction to the mysterious. Hope you all liked it! Next week things really heat up, I promise. We’ve got mysterious disappearances, a rural fishing community in New England, and a ragtag group of investigators trying to get to the bottom of things! Are we going Lovecraft or Stephen King? There’s only one way to find out! Tune in next time on Airmid the Awakened! (same magic time, same magic archive!)

#IC #Session recap #Mage the Awakening #Mage: The Awakening #Onyx Path #NWoD #Word of Darkness

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