#my throat has been itchy and strained all year

[sweetlysniffly]

Oh no!!! My throat is tickly and I’m coughing 😀 whatever shall I do??😖

(I coughed once in just a hypocondriach)

[aqqleshiqqing-archive]

me rushing to your bed like that candance MOM HOLY FUCK meme with chicken soup bc mwa anyways let's get this bread 💬 with jaide stone and zinnia since women hating women is a thing 😔🤙 (might throw you more idk) also highly honored to have my ocs in your s/i list 🫡 those are my boys

i may not be drinking chicken soup but i have nice tea to warm my itchy throat ✨✨ thank you mwamwa also of COURSE i have to include some of your OCs especially clear. it's almost hard for me to imagine the story without maroon or clear in it 😭

okay. oh no. my switch has been flickered. you decided to ask ME about ZINNIA? aka the woman who completely altered ruby's childhood? while I understand her hatred towards steven and devon corp itself she's still got issues that im not EXCUSING MF 💥 women hate women still exists im afraid and jaide stone is nothing but a hater when this lady comes around 💥

okay so let's start in the R/S arc. the salamence event happens, ruby gets injured. sounds easy right? sure, but why did it even happen in the first place? nobody knew where the salamence came from - that's what jaide held the biggest contempt for.

"who in the world, was this sick and twisted to allow their dragon creature come to fight harmless children?"

she didn't have the answers yet, but the day would get even worse when she also learns that steven's devon corporation has gone through with an accident that had something to do with... releasing the sky legend. and it was because of a salamence as well. while I imagine steven refusing to disclose that specific detail about caging a beast down (corporation secrets, you know?) it's still easy to tell jaide that he's very upset, combined with him learning what happened to ruby too. it was not a great day for anyone, not even professor birch, I'm sure.

but from that day onward, jaide would do her best to find out the perpetrator that caused this trauma on the children, she's not just doing this for ruby, but for sapphire as well. she's had this same feeling as before, when gold gets in trouble for dealing with the evil scums of the g/s/c arc. she just knew that feeling too well, and didn't want it to happen again. her willpower to find out the truth keeps expanding as she's forced to watch the strained relationship between ruby and steven become stronger as time goes by - they rarely talk about that incident, but it's like a core memory to everyone involved there.

proceeding to the oras arcs, i can't really imagine jaide to be very involved from the get-go, but that would be until she would learn about the meteorite that would come to destroy all of hoenn - she's more or less of a supporting character. i would have to reread this again to give you a full answer on what she can do

but let's skip to the good part, when jaide does learn that zinnia was the one responsible for all this. i can't remember the sequence of events too well, but let's assume it all happened on this part where zinnia brings fourth the reformed magma and aqua team. (again i could be assuming the sequence of events wrong but yeah shh)

she has no idea who she is, but from the way she spoke so lowly about devon (a company that everyone loves) and having that intimidating salamence by her side - she couldn't help but assume maybe this could be the one. combined with jaide's smart sense of pokemon nature reading - she can only assume it was the aggressive salamence that fought without rhyme or reason from years ago + the same salamence also attacked steven's corporation.

i like to imagine jaide didn't say much as first, as she's not one to be so brash and act upon it quickly and allows zinnia to proudly monologue about her plans, slowly trying to understand what's going on. part of her plan includes stealing the keystones to win the favor of the sky beast, and who else had a keystone? steven stone.

sending out her goodra, it immobilzes steven with its goo and commands it to steal his stickpin - jaide panics but steven wanted her out of this. but just in the nick of time:

ruby comes in a clutch to stop the goodra from stealing his stickpin. distracted, jaide would try to lunge at zinnia and try to apprehend her and keep her in place - grabbing her wrists and looking at her dead in the eyes - quite the angry mother, huh? while she didn't understand the whole context of what's going on, she knew that zinnia was bad business and wanted her to talk it out. that's when jaide asks her to confirm her speculations

"your salamence, that was the same one from 9 years ago, wasn't it? it wrecked havoc in the corporation."

zinnia would snicker.

"of course! it was also thanks to a little boy that made it even more agitated, and it broke off the cages to set the sky legend free."

her suspicions would be correct, it was the same one that harmed her son 9 years ago. the events lined up exactly with the woman's words.

jaide... was furious. but, she can't just fight all of a sudden, it's not like her but the least she can do was to call upon her ursaring to keep zinnia pinned - I mean, she got the boss, right?

zinnia would snicker at steven again.

"you're married? it would seem you're not the most honest husband around."

jaide assumed she was just... trying to piss her off. but in reality, jaide was missing a few chunks of context that steven had regrettably hidden away from her.

ruby stopped his mother from being passive aggressive towards the perpetrator, and would give up his and emerald's keystone bracelets just to simply say that he "wants this to be over."

it wouldn't be long before zinnia sets out, thanking ruby for the keystones and flying out of the place. jaide was stunned, steven looked dejected again.

it would seem he still has to clear up a few things about what he and his father does for a living.

it's complicated to be a family and business man at the same time.

[a-square-minus-one]

Honey 10

Thank you for those who have stuck to this progressing story. Here is the new chapter. You can find the whole story on AO3 and fanfic. 

I killed him.

Raven wakes up long before the team realizes she has. She can’t even register the itchy hospital bed sheets on top of her; her limbs are glued to the cot. Her chest expands as she breathes but she’d struggle less breathing underwater.

Malchior was a disgusting being. Intent to create chaos wherever he went. His only goal was to wreak havoc because he could and because no one could stop him. His life’s work was figuring out ways he could outdo his last destructive feat. His eyes only twinkled when he was asserting his dominance over something.

And she had killed him.

Or at least, separated his consciousness from its physical manifestation.

Or can you even separate that?

She made his limbs stop working.

His mouth would no longer form incantations.

Where would his thoughts go?

Would he be able to sort them or even hear them?

Or were they just whispers on another plane of existence?

Nausea makes Raven sit abruptly, the IV tugging painfully in her arm. She feels more than tastes the vomit fly out of her mouth. Chunks  of yellow bits propel out onto the floor next to her, right by Starfire’s purple boots. Starfire is quick to move Raven’s hair out of the way, despite the fact that doing so sinks her boots right into the undigested food. A few tears escape Raven’s eyes.

“Star…” she groans, making a feeble attempt to push Starfire out the way but the alien just shushes her and rubs her hand over Raven’s back. A green hand extends a plastic cup of water towards her.

“Small sips,” Gar reminds her. She takes the cup out of his hands and raises it to her lips. Raven stiffens when he moves closer, replacing Starfire’s hands with his own. She stares over the rim of the cup at his torso, feeling her eyebrows crinkling. He picks up the hair from her neck. She hears a snap and feels her hair moving left to right. Then he’s at a reasonable distance again. She places a hand on her warm, now bare, neck.

“You-” she clears her throat. “-you can tie a ponytail?”

“Can’t you?” Garfield asks, looking incredibly amused. She feels her face heat up as she places the water on the tray next to her and lays back on the cot. She looks to Star’s boots and then to her face.

“I’m so-”

“Shh I will be hearing none of that friend,” Starfire says, handing Raven a wipe. Raven wipes off one side of her lips. Her hand pauses when she gets to the other side.

“How many civilians?” Raven asks, her fingers trembling behind the tissue. Garfield immediately straightens out his relaxed shoulders. His jaw tightens. Starfire looks down to her feet. Raven turns to Cyborg.

“Two.”

Two fingers touch her lips as the contents of her stomach turn again. Her eyes well up as she swallows around the undigested food rising in her esophagus.

“Ages?” she asks in an almost imperceptible voice.

No one answers.

She clenches her fingers around the wipe and presses it to her forehead.

“Ages?” she pleads.

“54 and 65,” Cyborg says; his rage is like a hot iron in her side. Raven feels Starfire’s despair pelting her on the other side like an open waterfall. Garfield’s emotions are all sharp corners and metal bristles. She can’t even bear to approach the edges of it for fear that she’ll pop and everything will come pouring out of her. She sinks back into her cot trying to tighten her core under the pressure of all their emotions. She almost finds balance in the current until she senses something, like seaweed twisting on her toes when she’s swimming in the ocean.  

“You’re not telling me something,” she says, eyeing Garfield who hasn’t looked her way since tying up her hair. She almost didn’t want to ask considering how tenuous her hold on herself is.

“There was a six year old boy,” Nightwing says, entering the room with arms crossed over his chest. He leans against the doorframe of the med bay. Raven lets out a long breath. She spends a lot of her life thinking about how she breathes. Breathing is the first step to meditation. Right now she wonders what it would be like to be trapped at the end of a long exhale.

“He-”

“Is in ICU,” Nightwing finishes. She brings knees to her chest and sinks her head into them, gripping the fitted sheet on the cot. Her throat is one fire.

“We have to visit the family,” she says, looking at her team members. Everyone pauses.

“We did,” Garfield says, scratching the back of his neck the way he does when he’s pensive or nervous. Raven squints her eyes. She lays her legs flat on the cot.

“I have to visit the families,” she says, shifting to get up. Garfield quickly puts his hands on her shins and she almost kicks him off in surprise.

“You can’t,” Garfield says.

“Why not?”

“The public doesn’t love us right now,” Nightwing says, moving from his position at the door.

Then she feels it, pressing against her. Fire, all around her, filling the gaps between her fingertips, licking up the back of her knees. She almost gasps at the intensity of it.

“You’re angry,” she says, quickly looking up at Nightwing. A few strands of her hair have escaped the ponytail Garfield made for her. Starfire steps forward.

“We all are,” she says. Raven doesn’t look her way, keeping her eyes locked on the immobile Nightwing. This is a different anger. Nightwing knows she knows; their bond hasn’t faded in the years since she went into his mind.

“Where’s Malchior, Raven? Nightwing asks, his index finger twitching against his bicep. The fire around her stops all together. Something cool, fragile, and thin settles over them like a layer of frost on water. Then Raven makes the mistake of looking down. A fireball hits her in the chest like a cannon, she tumbles backwards on the cot.

“Damnit Raven!” Nightwing says. She looks up at his face, now red underneath his mask.

“Yo dude, chill out. She just woke up,” Garfield says. Nightwing whips towards him, his index finger inches away from Garfield’s chest. Raven is ashamed that she feels immediate relief at Garfield’s expense.

“How about instead of worrying about Raven you explain to me where the hell all the animosity for me came from?” Nightwing says, leaning much too far into Garfield’s personal bubble. Garfield leans back and tilts his head.

“Dude, clearly that wasn’t me.”

“So what you’re saying is that you’re not you when you transform into other animals?” Nightwing poses this as a question but the fact that each word is coming out like hisses between his clenched teeth makes it seem like he has already decided his answer.

“You know this isn’t just one of my other animal forms and could you check your tone?” Garfield asks. Raven feels his irritation like pricks from a cactus. She wiggles her fingers.

“Everytime the Beast has been present, I have been targeted,” Nightwing’s tone is even when he says this but punctuated in a manner that suggests he has ruminated on this and has already come to his own conclusions. His words sound rehearsed.

“That’s just not true and either way I’ve shown you for years that I’ve been able to control my powers as much as everyone else on the team, if not better.”

“You weren’t able to two days ago.”

“We don’t fight magical dragons everyday,” Garfield bites out and Nightwing swivels towards Raven again.

“And apparently we never will again!” Spit flies out of Nightwing’s mouth as he leans over the end of Raven’s cot. She sits up straight even though Nightwing’s words land heavy like a punch to her stomach.

“Almost sounds like you’re going to miss him,” Raven hisses back. Nightwing’s face is so red that Raven is sure it will explode off of his body.

“How can you be so desensitized to the loss of a life?”

“Jesus Nightwing relax!  It isn’t like she hunted this man down, which is more than I can say about you and Slade...every six months...like clockwork!”

“And yet he’s still alive.” The muscles on Nightwing’s neck are straining as he turns towards Garfield, bumping his chest a little. Any other man would have taken a step back and on any other occasion Garfield would too but right then, he doesn’t.

“Is that because you haven’t tried or because you’ve never gotten close enough,” Garfield says, jutting his own chest outwards so it bumps Nightwing’s.

“Much closer than you did when he turned Terra into stone.”

“Dude what in the actual fuck?” Garfield growls.

“That is quite enough!” Starfire yells, wedging herself between the pair. “You have both done the crossing of the line! Friend Raven is barely recovered!”

Neither man stands down, glaring at each other over Starfire’s shoulders. “Are you going to arrest me Richard?” Raven asks, chin tilted upwards. Nightwing turns away from Starfire and removes his hand from his utility belt.

“He will do no such thing-” Starfire starts.

“You’re not being fair,” he says. Raven tilts her chin higher and arches an eyebrow.

“If you are not going to arrest me then we have more important things to talk about right now than any morally ambiguous decisions I made that there is no way I can undo,” Raven mumbles. “Even if I really wanted to.”

Nightwing runs a hand through his hair then drops both of his hands on his hips. He’s looking her in the eyes. Anyone else wouldn’t be able to tell because of his mask but she knows he is. He’s trying to consolidate all his anger into a concentrated cube. She respects the effort. Garfield, who is hunched over like his spine is ready to break through the skin of his back, clearly does not.

“We have two of your brothers in custody. Lust and Gluttony. I will be handling interrogations. You can watch from another room. ”

Raven sucks in her bottom lip. She knows her brothers better than Nightwing but she’s on thin ice with him as is. She’d have to let him cool down a little before she can get anywhere near that room.

“If you’re going in alone, I need to heavily armor you.”

Nightwing shrugs stiffly. She nods.

Behind Nightwing, Garfield takes his exit; his anger is radiating off of him like an electric heater. Nightwing looks after him, his lips in a straight line but doesn’t try to stop him.

“How much of a dick was I?” Nightwing asks once Garfield has left the room.

“12/10 bro,” Cyborg says, rubbing his forehead. Nightwing cringes.

“I’m going to go talk to him,” Raven says, looking at Cyborg and then towards her IV. Cyborg looks hesitant at first but eventually sighs and does as he’s told.

...........................................................................

“This is very carnivalesque.” Raven says as she sits next to Garfield on the roof. Garfield raises an eyebrow at her “Usually you’re the one who comes to see me on the roof.”

“What?” Garfield asks.

“Nothing,” Raven says, looking down at her feet. She’s not as good as he is at this.

“You should be in the med bay for observations.”

“With all the healing it would be very hard to kill me,” she says. She feels a few fat drops of rain smack her cheek but Garfield doesn’t flinch so she stays put. Raven looks up at the thick clouds moving in the sky.

“Do you think you’ll die like the rest of us?” Garfield asks. Random. Raven hums. “I mean your father...sorry I know it’s a touchy subject-”

“No, go ahead,” Raven says, keeping her eyes on the sky. A warmth spreads in her chest like when she drinks hot tea. It’s been nice for her to see how delicate Garfield is with her boundaries in the last couple of years.

“Trigon is immortal. Does that make you immortal too?” he asks.

“I really hope not,” Raven mumbles immediately. “I’m not a god.”

Her mind immediately goes to Malchior’s lifeless body beneath her.

“Don’t lose any sleep over him,” Garfield says. Raven hums again. “Malchior. That’s who you’re thinking about, right?”

Raven looks away from the sky. Garfield’s lashes are dark and long. He’s green almost everywhere but around his pupils there is a rim of orange that she’s always been fascinated by.

“I took his life away,” she says, curling up her bare toes. “I-I’m afraid…”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Garfield interrupts softly. She feels the warmths curl through her insides again. She has to break eye contact.

“I don’t know if I made the right choice. It kind of feels...heavy? If that makes sense.”

“It makes sense.”

It grows quiet again.

“Nightwing was more angry at me than he was at you,” she says. Silence.

A few drops of water land on her thighs. She’s getting a little cold now. She had only come out in the oversized t-shirt she was wearing in the med bay. She thinks it’s Cyborg’s. It fits her like a dress.

“I think he might be right.”

Raven looks up at him, ready to protest. The protests die on her lips when she makes eye contact.

“I keep banking on the fact that I can control the Beast but it kind of sucks. He’s pulling at me all the time.”

“He doesn’t like Nightwing?”

“...He doesn’t like Nightwing’s power over me. Doesn’t like that he’s the one who calls the shots. Which is the complete opposite of me. Usually Nightwing and Cyborg are the ones measuring their dicks to see who gets to be boss.”

Raven snorts.

“Would it be so bad to let him out every once and a while? What else could he want?” Raven asks. Garfield presses his lips together. And his silence stretches like cheese. Just when she thinks it's about the tear, it stretches some more. For much longer than it should. She can’t pinpoint exactly what changes but she is suddenly hyper aware of how long she’s been looking into his eyes. She isn’t about to let on that she noticed the shift though because that would mean that it actually happened.

But maybe she should move?

Or look down?

Why isn’t he saying anything?

Did he lean forward?

Breathe Raven.

She inhales sharply.

There is a flash of lighting in her peripheral vision.

He doesn’t break eye contact.

“Can I see the scar The Beast left?” he finally whispers, keeping eye contact. Oh, that’s what he was thinking about.

She can’t think straight. What did I think he was thinking about? She pulls up her shirt without a second thought, looking down with him...

Then screams internally when she remembers she isn’t wearing any pants.

She freezes. Thunder rumbles.

He doesn’t say anything. She wonders if she’d hear him anyway over the long  ‘AGHH!’ reverberating in her head.

She looks up at him; he hasn’t said anything about her lack of pants. Instead he’s staring intently at her side, eyebrows furrowed and bottom lip wedged between his teeth.

Breathe. The team has changed in front of each other before. No big deal.

She wishes she can get a clear read on his emotions but she can barely get a hold on hers.

Then he reaches out his fingertips and slowly runs over the ridges of the three bumpy stripes on her side.

This time she actually shrieks out loud, dropping her shirt immediately. A few rocks on the shore explode into a million little fragments. He pulls his hands away like he just accidentally touched a stove.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry! Jesus, I don’t know why I did that,” he squeals immediately, running a hand through his hair roughly.

Aghhhhhh

“No! It’s... um...fine.Your fingers were just cold.”

The skin around her scars is burning.

Aghhhh .

He shuts his eyes so tightly that she can see little wrinkles at the edges of them. It looks like he wants to turn into a mosquito and fly away. She stays quiet. He places a hand over his eyes.

“Listen...I...I’m sorry about that. The touching,” his voice squeaks. He clears his throat. “But also giving you the scar in the first place.”

He reluctantly moves his hands away and looks at her again.

“I’m serious. I don’t want to hurt Nightwing. I don’t want to ever hurt you,” Garfield says, his skin changing from brown to green as his blush fades.

Agggghhhhh.

She hums.

Not the right response.

He sucks his lips into his mouth, face getting incredibly brown just as it was resuming its original shade.

“I-” he starts.

She looks at him.

He looks at her.

He flies away.

[buttonso]

The Ones Who Came Before: An Aura/Harvey short

Heyyy... Trivia Tuesday: Pride Edition.

This short could count as a lost mini-chapter of Breathe With Me. It would take place somewhere in the weeks between chapters 4 and 5, in the late winter or early spring. It touches on Aura and Harvey's respective romantic pasts.

I decided along the way that I viewed both Aura and Harvey as bisexual. At first I didn't really want it to come up in the fic, because I didn't want it to be a source of tension or drama. I wanted it to be a simple fact that they accepted about each other easily. So, I wasn't sure going back and writing a scene like this would be worth it, but, well... why not?

1,364 words. Mentions sex, and has a few swears but is otherwise pretty user-friendly.

Oh, and... proofreading was half assed so forgive any typos 😅

The Ones Who Came Before

Their respective romantic histories hadn’t been something they’d discussed at all before they began dating. Despite mutually agreeing that they would take the physical side of their relationship slowly, Aura seemed to have decided it was important to fill Harvey in on her rather adventurous romantic (and not so romantic, at times) history.

“After Stephanie and I broke up, I was alone for a couple of months… then the letter from Grandpa’s lawyers came, and a few weeks later, here I was.” She seemed a bit tense. “I know that we decided to kick sex down the road a bit… but I want you to know that despite that laundry list of exes, I have been tested for everything under the sun. So… whenever we decide we’re ready…” She trailed off glanced at him, her expression uncertain.

“That’s, ah… that’s good to know.” He wondered, not for the first time, what she wanted with the likes of him. Judging by her history, she could have just about anyone she wanted. Though she hadn’t gone into great detail on every relationship, she had been with several men and a few women, including her most recent ex before moving to the valley. “As a doctor, I shouldn’t be embarrassed to talk about that… and I’m clean as well.”

“Good to know.” She bumped her shoulder with his. “So, you’re… not bothered by it?” she added, her tone hesitant, shoulders tense, hands wrapped around her mug as she stared down into it. Her gaze flicked up from their contemplation of the coca when Harvey failed to answer.

“I’m not bothered by it.” Harvey shifted uneasily beside her on the couch. His own mug saw empty on the coffee table in front of them. His hand slid down her back, wondering how the green wool that had seemed so itchy when the sweater belonged to him suddenly felt so soft. She sat up a little straighter and smiled at him.

“Really? Not by the sheer number or… or the women? Because… some people have been super weird about it. In the past, I mean. It’s crazy, right… same sex marriage has been legal in Zuzu City for like, fifteen years, but some people are still so threatened by it.” Usually so cool and collected, Aura’s voice was a bit rushed and strained. “And I’m babbling…”

Harvey cleared his throat. He supposed it was his turn now. “…It’s not that I’m bothered by it. I think I will come off rather boring compared to you, though…” It was his turn to be hesitant. They had such a nice time whenever they were together. She’d assured him multiple times that even though he had been the one to say he wanted to put off sleeping together, that she was willing to go with what he needed, and that she wanted to change her own patterns when it came to relationships. But…

“You’re not boring. And you don’t have to tell me anything you’re not comfortable with. Whether you’ve been with one woman or a hundred… I’m just glad you’re with me now,” She scooted a little closer to him and sipped at her cocoa.

“I’ve been with two women… and one man.” Harvey couldn’t help but feel a touched of amusement as surprise flickered across her features. “So… only three… rather pathetic, isn’t it?”

“It’s not pathetic at all, it’s just… I’m a little surprised. I didn’t think… that is, I didn’t have you pegged for…ah…” Aura trailed off, a blush darkening her cheeks.

Harvey shrugged. “What does a bisexual look like?” It felt odd to use that word out loud, but considering how long he’d been alone, it had become little more than a background detail in recent years.

She winced. “Well… shit. I was worried the women in my past would throw you off, but now I’m the one being weird. I’m sorry.” She set her mug down and offered him her hand.

He took it, lacing their fingers together. He liked holding hands this way- it felt so much more intimate than simply clasping hands. “It’s all right. I do tend to notice women more often than men, but… I do notice them.” He hesitated. “Does it… bother you?”

She shook her head. “Not really. I’d be a big damn hypocrite if it did. It just surprised me a little, that’s all. Do you want to tell me about any of them?”

Harvey blinked, surprised with himself that, yes… he did want to talk about them. They might be few in number, but they’d all been very important in his life. A nervous blush heated his face as he nodded, releasing her hand so he could slide his arm around her shoulders. She put her head on his shoulder and a little of the tension eased from his body.

“Sybil was my first… my first girlfriend, first… you know… first heartbreak, first everything. I mean… I was only nineteen but… she was everything to me. Or at least… she was at the time. But we ended up going to different medical schools and that was that. She’s one of the top cardiologists in the Republic now… married, with two kids. She sends me a Winter Star card every year.” That breakup had been hard, but he’d thrown himself into his studies to distract himself, and the pain had faded in time. Now it was little more than a distant memory. “Medical school kept me too busy to date, for the most part… but… then came Phillipe.” He smiled faintly at the memory. “He was so handsome. And funny and charming, and… well, everything I’m not.”

“Will you stop saying shit like that?” Aura muttered, poking him in the side. “I haven’t even seen this guy and I’d pick you over him, so there.” Despite her aggravated tone, the words did please him. Not that he’d admit it out loud.

“I’m sorry… well… Phillipe and I were in medical school together… I don’t know if you’d call it a relationship, exactly, but… well… we enjoyed, um…”

“Blowing off steam together?” Aura suggested, then giggled as he glared at her.

Well. Yes, she was right. BUT STILL. “He’s a plastic surgeon in Sereness now. I get Winter Star cards from his well, but we haven’t spoken in years, so… I assume he’s doing well. At least I hope so. And as for my most recent ex, well… there’s not much to tell there. Another fellow doctor. Linda and I worked together at Zuzu General. I’m… not sure she even counts as an ex, exactly. We only dated a few times… the, um… the chemistry… didn’t really last beyond a few encounters. We decided we preferred to be friends and colleagues. When I find myself in the city, I often have dinner with her and her wife.” And… that was it. That was his whole romantic history. It had taken less than five minutes to roll the whole thing out.

“…I mean… I may have quantity, but it sounds like you had quality,” Aura remarked, reaching up and running her fingers over his hair briefly. “A few of my exes and I wanted to stay friends, but… no one sends me Winter Star cards. I think it speaks well of you.”

“…I don’t want you sending me cards,” Harvey blurted out, turning to face her. “I… I like to think I’d be a big enough man to remain friends with you if… if things don’t work out, but… I don’t want you to just be a pleasant memory, Aura.”

Aura’s eyes widened and she blushed, but she seemed to recover quickly. “If you’re not planning on dumping me anytime soon… I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that,” she said, reaching up to caress his cheek. “And I think…” Her fingers slid from his cheek to curve around the back of his neck. “We’ve talked enough for the time being. I have to get back to the farm soon, so… why don’t you kiss me goodbye?”

“I’m definitely not planning on dumping you…” Harvey managed, unable to say anything more articulate than that as she pulled him to her.

[andawaywego]

👋 Your fic is soooo good!!! I’d love to see one where Jamie acts a little jealous of Dani’s past relationship with Eddie which leads to a big conversation about how Dani was never into him ‘like that’ but she tried because heteronormativity.

you are so sweet! here you go! i hope it lives up to what you wanted. thanks for the prompt! i love writing for these two.

...

It doesn’t seem right, how heavy the frame is in her hand. It should be lighter, somehow. But instead, it weighs heavily on her wrist, makes the muscles ache from the strain of it. Jamie wonders if it has nothing to do with the picture’s physical state at all, and all to do with how absolutely fucking devastating and important it is.

And it’s early, still. Not even 8 o’clock, really, and Dani is in the kitchen ruining two mugs of tea for them both while Jamie starts on some of the boxes that make up the maze they’ve been stumbling through for the last week—since they signed the year-long lease on the studio apartment above the shop.

There hadn’t been any rhyme or reason to picking this box. It was just the nearest one, on the top of the pile by their new mattress. And now she’s sort of wishing she’d picked another.

It’s one of the ones Dani’s mother sent from home—full of things from Dani’s old apartment that she’d left behind when she moved to England—and, really, it’s Dani’s job to be going through this.

Jamie really should have saved herself the effort.

The frame is covered in dust. Jamie runs her thumb along the glass and reveals Dani’s smiling face first, and then Edmund’s. He looks different than how Jamie has been picturing him since she first learned of his existence.

Dani was so torn up, so ashamed about the whole thing—with the added bonus of seeing him around every goddamn corner—that Jamie hadn’t been expecting him to have such kind eyes. Happy and bright behind his glasses. Messy hair and a turtleneck as he and Dani sit on the grass of what looks like a university quad. One of his arms is slung around Dani’s shoulders, pulling her close, and she clutches him just as tightly, that same brilliant gladness reflected in her own expression as in his.

“Okay, I only did two minutes this time, so maybe it won’t taste as burnt,” Dani says as she weaves her way over, two steaming mugs held in her hands. She offers one to Jamie, who finally looks up from the photo to take it.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” she teases, speaking past that sharp wedge of something that’s in her lungs. When she blinks, the happy white of Edmund’s smile flashes in the darkness behind her eyelids.

Dani glances down at the photograph and they’re so close—their arms brushing—that Jamie can feel it when everything inside of Dani stops. Her breathing changes.

Jamie winces and sets the photo back in the box with Dani’s old yearbooks and records. “I’m sorry,” she says softly. “Your mom sent it.”

She can see the way Dani’s throat bobs as she swallows, then shakes her head. “No, it’s okay,” she says. “You’d think I’d be better at this by now.”

Jamie shakes her head. “Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to be. Things like these don’t get a quick fix, no matter how much we want one.”

Dani nods, breathing in shakily, and sets her mug down on the nearest tower of boxes so she can rub her face with her hands. Jamie sets her own mug down and wraps her hands around Dani’s upper arms, rubbing the smooth skin revealed by the tank top she’s wearing.

“You look happy in it,” Jamie says, and she hopes like hell that whatever bitter twinge might be in her voice goes unnoticed.

She knows what that emotion is, digging its claws into her veins, and she tries to blink it away. Even though she’s solved the mystery of Dani’s difficult romantic history, it takes a lot of willpower to look emotionless and steady. The last thing she wants is to take over Dani’s necessary grief and turn it sour by her own unmitigated envy.

Because there’s nothing to be jealous of. Not really. Edmund was someone Dani grew up with, was friends with, and loved in her own right. And now he’s gone and it isn’t as if it’s not possible to love again after something like that.

She spent the night before with Dani’s mouth against her neck, hand between her legs, and she has for the past three weeks—since they left Bly—and so there’s nothing to envy or long for. She has it already.

But, as she has every time he’s come up in the conversation, the reminder that Dani was once engaged to someone else—something that Jamie can never really give her—has left her feeling unbalanced and more than a little unsure.

“We were,” Dani whispers, leaning her forehead against Jamie’s, her eyes closed.

“I’m so sorry, Dani,” Jamie says, just as softly. “I didn’t mean to...I know you loved him. Love him, maybe. I didn’t want to upset you.”

With her arms wrapped tightly around the other woman, Jamie looks out at the window behind her, out to the bright-sky morning, and the clouds scattered across it. The studio is bathed in clear, white light, plants Jamie’s collected on their slow journey to America displayed on the counter by the stove, hung from a hook in the ceiling, gathering light and shifting and swaying as the oscillating fan in the kitchen clicks back and forth, waving cool air over Jamie’s suddenly-fevered skin.

Dani pulls away, reaches out for the picture and pulls it back out of the box. Looks down at it. Wistfully. Guiltily. She runs her finger—the pale tip of her forefinger, her rounded and trimmed nail—across where Jamie knows is Edmund’s face. They’re still pressed together, and Jamie can feel the warm and soft heat of Dani against her; can smell the floral shampoo she bought at that supermarket in Maine two weeks back on her hair. It’s in Jamie’s hair, too, she knows, but there is something to the clean scent of Dani’s skin. Jamie remembers the taste of it on her tongue and, for a moment, entertains the idea of leaning forward and kissing Dani right there, in the curve of her neck.

“I did love him,” says Dani. Jamie tilts her head, trying to get a look at the picture again. Her eyes trace the handsome lines of Edmund’s face with a guilty twist in her stomach. “Not the way he wanted me too. But...love all the same.”

Jamie isn’t sure what she’s supposed to say to that. She settles on, “Oh.”

Dani looks up at her, eyes filled with tears that Jamie knows won’t fall. Not right now. “But he was my best friend and I thought—” She swallows, shakes her head, and fixes her eyes on a point over Jamie’s shoulder. “I thought that there was something wrong with me. That I would...grow into feeling…that way about him. Loving him the right way.”

Jamie frowns, taking in Dani’s expression. Reaching up, she cups Dani’s jaw and Dani leans into the touch. And Dani meets her eyes—oh, there it is, there’s her girl—and her expression is so much softer than it was just seconds before.

“But...I didn’t,” she admits. “As happy as I was when we were around each other, when were...being best friends...it doesn’t even begin to compare to how I feel when I’m with you.”

She says this and Jamie’s eyes feel hot and itchy, so she blinks. Swallows. Tries to think of a good response to that but—Dani pulls back a little and kisses her forehead. She can hear the frame drop back into the box, but she can’t see it because she’s too busy fisting the material of Dani’s tank top in her hands and pulling her closer.

“And maybe I should feel...guilty about that,” Dani says next, her lips moving against Jamie’s skin where they’re still pressed. “But it’s hard to feel anything but crazy about you these days.”

She shifts a little and Jamie pulls back just long enough to lean in and press a hard kiss to Dani’s surprised, pursed lips.

And, the thing is—

There’s no hesitation. Dani’s hands grip at Jamie’s hips, pulling her in and making Jamie’s heart feel like it’s been turned inside out—like there is nothing beyond the two of them—right now, right here, for as long as they can be which is—

“I’m pretty crazy about you too, Poppins,” Jamie whispers against the line of Dani’s laugh. And then she kisses her again and Dani kisses her back and—

They lose a good portion of the morning after that, tangled up on their mattress together, reassuring one another with each touch, each kiss, each sigh, that they’re both here. All in.

In the end, the photograph goes in a different box—a shoe box, at the back of the closet in their bedroom. Not forgotten, no, but secured and remembered.

Jamie can live with that. As it turns out—with Dani around—she can live with a lot of things.

[lady-of-the-lotus]

Fractured Ice - Ch. 3/7

Xue Yang whisks a solipsistic Lan Xichen off on a murder roadtrip to raise Xiao Xingchen and Meng Yao from the grave. Because that will solve all of their problems, right?

Your hand,” he says. He can’t think straight, but that much he knows to say. “Show me your hand, and I’ll tell you what he said.”

There’s no hesitation in the imposter’s movements. He unwinds the bandages, drops them to the floor, and eyes the naked clan leader evenly.

A black glove. The glove is distinctively fingerless save for the cloth-covered little finger, which sticks up stiffly.

 “...Xue Yang.”

XueXiao & XiYao - Rated M

Read on AO3!  Tumblr: Ch. 1 Ch. 2 Ch. 4

Ch. 3: shadows and monsters    

Lan Xichen doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there, staring at the guqin, before Xiao Xingchen—

No. Not Xiao Xingchen.

—before the liar—the fraud—the imposter speaks.

“Well?” The imposter’s face is white, voice strained, eyes hot, but he’s sitting very, very still. “What did he say?”

That’s the last thing Lan Xichen is certain of for a while. Those words: What did he say? ringing in his ears, the desperation in the imposter’s eyes, and then, abruptly, icy-cold water on his skin, frigid water flowing around him, as he kneels naked in the stream outside.

The crane is nowhere to be seen, but Xiao—the imposter is on the bank. Sitting on a rock, as if he’s been there for a long time.

“Come on out, Zewu-jun,” he says coaxingly, as if he’s trying to lure a cat off a roof. Lan Xichen’s clothes are draped over his arm and there’s a blanket on his lap. “Let’s talk.”

Lan Xichen doesn’t remember crawling out of the stream any more than he remembers entering it, but he must have, because suddenly he’s being wrapped in the blanket and bundled back into the house.

The imposter sets the clothes down on a chair in Lan Xichen’s old bedroom and stands beside the bed.

“What did he say?” he asks. “He’s in there, isn’t he? I knew he was! I knew he wasn’t gone—”

Lan Xichen barely hears him. He’s almost completely numb, either from the icy stream or shock, but he’s almost certain he’s floating above the bed.

He tilts his head towards the imposter.

“Your hand,” he says. He can’t think straight, but that much he knows to say. “Show me your hand, and I’ll tell you what he said.”

There’s no hesitation in the imposter’s movements. He unwinds the bandages, drops them to the floor, and eyes the naked clan leader evenly.

A black glove. The glove is distinctively fingerless save for the cloth-covered little finger, which sticks up stiffly.

“...Xue Yang.”

The words hang in the air between them, blazing with the full heat of the betrayal, but Xue Yang doesn’t so much as blink.

Instead he claps slowly, grinning as if he’s enjoying himself. “Excellent detective work, Zewu-jun. Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, tell me, what did he say?”

“Xue Yang,” Lan Xichen repeats. He’s not sure what he expected, but it was not this. He struggles to put names and events together, find some explanation, but his mind is a throbbing blank. “Xue Yang.”

There’s a knife in Xue Yang’s hand. He’s still grinning, but it’s a grin full of fangs. “Tell me what he said,” he says, “and I won’t slice your face off.”

Lan Xichen hears someone laughing, realizes it’s him, but he can’t stop. He’s overwhelmed with it, suffused with it, completely awash with amusement, laughter gushing through him and clawing its way out through his throat.

And then Xue Yang is laughing too, his knife back wherever it came from, his shoulders shaking with mirth.

It’s a long time before either of them get themselves under control. Lan Xichen feels warm despite the wet hair sticking to his bare shoulders. That old swelling, growing feeling is back in his chest, and he could swear that he’s glowing in the dimness.

“Nothing matters,” he informs Xue Yang. The monster has brought the chair over beside the bed and is sitting on Lan Xichen’s robes, feet up on the bed. “Nothing at all.”

“I guess not,” says Xue Yang. He tilts his head at Lan Xichen. “And, as that’s the case, maybe you can tell me what he said?”

“ ‘Xiao Xingchen.’ ”

Xue Yang closes his eyes in a kind of ecstasy. “He said that?”

“His name would be impossible to confuse with any other words.”

A shudder passes through Xue Yang. “I knew he was still in there,” he says. “I knew it—” He opens his eyes. “I did it,” he says. “ I brought him back, I nursed his spirit—”

Lan Xichen wants to ask him about how Xiao Xingchen ended up in the bag. Not for any real reason. Just base curiosity. It doesn’t matter, after all. He had been right, after all, no matter what Lan Qiren had tried to convince him of. The world is all shadows, all shades, all layers upon layers of curtains and veils.

It can wait.

“My brother didn’t recognize you,” he says.

Xue Yang points to his face. His voice is steady, but his hand trembles slightly. “Face-mirroring talisman. Itchy, but it comes in handy. I didn’t stick around long, though.”

Another layer, another curtain. Lan Xichen is glad of it. More proof that nothing is real, that nothing matters, that he can finally let go.

“Let me see your true face.”

He expects an argument, but Xue Yang just sighs and grips the side of his face. Tugs, peels off his skin. Drops the mask into the pitcher of water he’s set beside the bed and turns to Lan Xichen.

“A bit of a downgrade,” he says, rubbing at the skin around his jaw and temples, “but I haven’t gotten many complaints.”

He’s quite good-looking, actually, in a jarringly youthful, innocent way. Far different from the elegant beauty of the mask. Softer, with no sharp angles anywhere on him, and a well-formed nose. A surprise. Lan Xichen had never actually met him despite Xue Yang’s years as a Jin Clan guest disciple, but the idea of him as a grotesque monster has been fixed in his mind since his slaughter ( supposed slaughter, reminds himself) of the Chang Clan. His voice is lighter than before, almost flippant, with nothing of the genteel tones he’d used to impersonate Xiao Xingchen.

“And underneath?” Lan Xichen asks.

Xue Yang raises an eyebrow. “Underneath?”

Lan Xichen leaves it alone. He’ll peel off the next layer when he’s ready, shed his skin, reveal another level of reality.

“Xue Yang was always described to me as a madman,” Lan Xichen says. “But you…”

“By a group of self-righteous fucks who met me for five minutes as an adolescent?” Xue Yang grins. The half-feral grin feels more natural when coupled with this face, deceivingly innocent as it is, as does the intensity of his eyes and foul language. “Perhaps they were right. Perhaps they were wrong. Does that really matter to Zewu-jun?”

Lan Xichen doesn’t respond. It’s true, Wangji and Wei Wuxian had only met Xue Yang for the few days it took to travel to the Unclean Realm, and Nie Mingjue had only interrogated Xue Yang once.

All three had been unanimous in their verdict that Xue Yang was not right in the head. A sadistic monster with no true emotion, an animal who killed for pleasure instead of necessity.

A-Yao, though…

Jin Guangshan had pushed A-Yao to take a special interest in the young man after all the hoopla over the Chang Clan massacre, and A-Yao had dropped a few words to him about Xue Yang over the years, mostly in response to Nie Mingjue’s tantrums over Xue Yang’s death sentence having been commuted to life imprisonment.

He can hear A-Yao’s voice in his head as if it were yesterday.

“Xue Yang is not a madman,” he had told Lan Xichen during one of their late-night talks. A-Yao had been lounging in his most casual robes, the collar open, belt loosely tied. “He has violent tendencies, yes, and I can see why the false rumors were spread about him. He is often quite rude—” being rude, going by A-Yao’s tone, was a worse trait than any potential for sociopathy “—but he is deceptively clever, hard-working, and brimming with raw talent. The Jin Clan needs more disciples like him.”

And a different time: “If only he had been instructed from childhood, he would have been one of the greats by now.” And then, as if rethinking that, “Or perhaps not. He sits outside of everything. Sometimes I think that is his greatest strength.”

There had been a sense of envy in the way A-Yao spoke the words “outside of everything.” A-Yao, who had spent his entire life doing everything in his power to get on the inside, to climb to the top of the pyramid.

Lan Xichen hadn’t understood it then.

He did now.

He looks at Xue Yang. The delinquent cultivator is sitting with one arm dangling indolently over the side of his chair, his feet still up on the bed frame, not even trying to hide his smile. He’s staring at the ceiling as if counting something invisible up there, twirling his hair with his good hand.

Rule 8: Do not sit with a disgraceful pose.

Xue Yang gives a cheery little wave when he notices Lan Xichen’s attention. Despite everything, the young man looks so—so innocent —

A-Yao had been certain that Xue Yang had not been responsible for the Chang Clan massacre.

Perhaps he had been right, despite what Nie Mingjue had very emphatically believed.

Lan Xichen should ask Xue Yang about it.

He knows he should.

Demand a full account of the slaughter—

But, “Were you flirting with me before?” he hears himself asking instead. He doesn’t think he’s ever spoken that ridiculous, adolescent word out loud, but it’s the only one he can think of that fits.

Xue Yang starts. “What?”

Lan Xichen is thinking of A-Yao’s half-open robes. A-Yao had never so much as made a move—chaste as his marriage was, he’d valued his vows and Qin Su too much to betray them like that—but during their time living together in cramped inns before the Sunshot Campaign, there had been little privacy, and he had not been above an occasional open robe, the occasional outfit change in front of Lan Xichen out of necessity, the occasional soft look when he thought Lan Xichen wasn’t looking, and after his marriage he hadn’t bothered breaking himself of those habits during their late-night talks.

Things Lan Xichen had always dismissed. A-Yao, he knew, had an almost obsessive dread of anyone associating him with his mother’s profession in any way. Had never said anything that could be taken the wrong way, be it to a man or a woman. Dressed neatly and simply. Never indulged in off-color jokes or humor, avoided so much as traveling through the low parts of town, had always been uncomfortable when certain topics came up.

But if he’s right about Xue Yang, perhaps his judgment isn’t so far off after all, and if so, that might mean that A-Yao—

“Before,” he explains. “Because I can’t always tell.”

Xue Yang laughs. His knife is back in his hand, but there’s no threat there anymore. He seems to like fidgeting with things—the knife, his hair, that leaf. He tosses the blade idly into the air, catching it deftly.

“Honestly, I didn’t think you’d say no to a pretty young man,” he admits.

“You were trying to…” Lan Xichen forces his tongue to form the words, uncomfortable as they feel in his mouth “… seduce me into helping you?”

Xue Yang shrugs. “I’ve done far worse trying to get him back than fuck another man.”

So Lan Xichen’s paranoia was justified, for once, but instead of this knowledge grounding him, it all strikes him as the funniest thing he’s ever heard. That Xue Yang should think infidelity is the issue here. That Xue Yang should have zero shame about it when all Lan Xichen has ever felt about anything that deviated slightly from the straight and narrow has been shame.

It’s all just so—so funny .

He shakes with silent laughter beneath his damp blanket, laughs until tears drip from his chin, till his ribs ache and throat is sore.

“What now?” he asks when the fit has subsided. Xue Yang is still tossing the knife up and down, patiently waiting for him to come back to himself. “What was your plan, exactly?”

Xue Yang straightens up. “You’re going to help me?”

“Of course not. But I’m curious.” Saying this out loud feels indescribably…luxurious is the wrong word, but it’s the one that comes to mind. Curiosity for curiosity’s sake has always been frowned upon in the Cloud Recesses. There is no single rule against it, but it violates a cross-section of rules ranging from admonishments to mind one’s own business to rules forbidding idle speculation.

Xue Yang is staring at his bandaged hand. “I was going to tell you that I know for a fact that there’s a ritual for bringing someone back to life in that forbidden library of yours, and, in exchange for you helping me bring back Xiao Xingchen, I would do everything in my power to help you bring back Jin Guangyao despite the fact that the little weasel did his best to murder me.”

“Execute you.”

Xue Yang shrugs. “Murder, execute, same thing.”

“What could you do?”

Xue Yang looks up from his hand. “Everything you aren’t willing to.”

“Get out.”

“But—”

“Get the hell out.”

Xue Yang reaches into his qiankun sleeve, pulls out a second spirit-trapping pouch, and sets it on the table.

“For your friend,” he says, and leaves.

* * * * *

Lan Xichen stares at the small brown pouch for a long time after Xue Yang leaves.

It stares back at him.

He gets out of bed, blanket pulled tightly around his naked body, and begins to pace the room, pouch in hand, rubbing his cheek on the soft material.

He feels—feels—feels surprisingly good , actually.

Nothing is real. Nothing matters.

And if nothing matters, if nothing is real, then A-Yao’s crimes don’t matter, his crimes aren’t real. All that’s real is the fact that A-Yao is trapped forever in a coffin with a vindictive spirit, stranded in limbo, never to ascend to the afterlife.

A-Yao. His A-Yao.

Nothing’s real, nothing matters.

Nothing but the fact that he wants him back.

Nothing’s real, nothing matters.

Nothing but the fact that the thought of A-Yao makes him happy. That emotion is real. Nothing around him is real, but the feelings inside him are, and right now the thought of A-Yao standing before him again makes his chest swell with warmth, makes him feel like he can jump swordless off the roof and soar, swoop through the air, glide over the treetops and fill his lungs with starlight.

Perhaps he has spent the night flying, soaring above it all. It’s almost morning when he returns fully to himself, standing naked in his mother’s courtyard, inhaling the moonlight, A-Yao’s spirit-trapping pouch still in his hand.

He throws his clothes on and hurries to Xue Yang’s room, yanking the door open so hard he rips the lock off.

Shocked awake, Xue Yang shoots upright, snatching the ornate knife resting on the bed frame. Shuanghua’s frosted white hilt peeks up from under the covers.

“Oh, it’s just you,” he says, breathing hard. He’s still gripping the knife, as if trying to ground himself with the feel of the cold metal on his skin and reassuring weight in his hand. “I almost bit my tongue off!”

“The library,” Lan Xichen says. “Now.”

Xue Yang bites his lip so hard he draws blood.

* * * * *

They spend all morning in the library. All day. All night.

All week.

“You said you knew for a fact that there’s a way to bring them back,” Lan Xichen says on the eighth day. “How do you know this?”

They’re sitting in the main library, eating a very late supper. Eating is forbidden in the library, but nobody dared refuse the Clan Leader’s orders.

Daily Tally:

Rule 40: Speaking during mealtimes is forbidden

Rule 43: Eating is prohibited inside the library

Rule 44: Eating is forbidden outside mealtimes

Rule 528: Do not conceal your intentions

Rule 2,007: Abuse not your authority

Rule 1,959: Reject the crooked road

And, of course, Rule 52: Do not befriend the evil , and the fifty-odd rules relating to demonic cultivation.

Xue Yang looks up from the honey-fried dumplings Lan Xichen specially ordered for him. Nobody has ever looked less evil. His mask is off, resting in a bowl of water beside him, and he looks like a sixteen-year-old who had led a particularly blameless life, albeit a particularly blameless life that’s kept him from getting enough sleep. “Did I say that?”

“Clearly.”

Xue Yang eats a few dumplings before answering. His table manners were better when he was pretending to be Xiao Xingchen. Lan Xichen wonders if he’s intentionally trying to provoke him by keeping his elbows on the table. If so, he’s failed. If anything, Lan Xichen finds the delinquent cultivator—the madman—the monster—fascinating. He’s so utterly different from anyone Lan Xichen has ever known.

He wonders how A-Yao got on with Xue Yang, his mirror opposite. Much as he’s always tried to suppress it, Lan Xichen has always had a taste for the absurd, and he regrets that he never got to witness them interacting.

Well, if all goes well, he’ll have that opportunity soon enough.

“I must have been talking about that thing I saw once,” Xue Yang shrugs finally, licking honey from his lips.

Lan Xichen resists the urge to remind him of Rule 23, Speak clearly . It’s hard to shake decades of being trained to think a certain way, to see rule infractions in every innocuous interaction. “What ‘thing’?”

“A page from a book originating here in this library. It discussed a ritual, but didn’t have all of the details.”

“Do you have the page?”

“It was destroyed in a fire, my luck.”

“What book was it from?”

“I don’t know. It was torn out. I’ve been looking for a book with a torn page.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me sooner?”

Xue Yang shrugs again. “Then you’d only be looking for a torn book instead of looking for potential alternatives. For example, at first I thought we could find the location of Baoshan Sanren’s mountain somewhere in the books, though it’s become clear that that’s impossible. No sense in closing off other potential avenues.”

Lan Xichen rises with a sigh. “Put your face back on. We’re leaving.”

Wrinkling his nose, Xue Yang replaces his face and follows Lan Xichen from the library to his chambers.

“Is this what you’re looking for?” Lan Xichen pulls an elegantly-carved blue chest from under his bed. Inside are bundles of books, scrolls, and wooden slips. Each has a portion missing, a page torn out, a section mysteriously shortened.

“Intellectual mice?”

Lan Xichen doesn’t respond. Xue Yang doesn’t need to know that he spent days going through the forbidden pavilion after Guanyin Temple, removing everything A-Yao had gotten to.

He seats himself at his table while Xue Yang goes through the chest. Touching the same books that A-Yao touched is too much right now.

He’s glad he hadn’t put A-Yao’s hat in the same box.

Xue Yang talks non-stop as he rifles through the chest. “…Not many cookbooks vandalized, I’ll guess. The food at Koi Tower was always good. Too oily though. Hell on your stomach, but no need to steal recipes from the Lan, of all people—Ah. Here it is.” Grinning, he holds up an ancient-looking book with unraveling binding and no title. “Let’s take a look, shall we?” He sets it on the low table and kneels across from Lan Xichen.

But Lan Xichen rises, still unwilling to touch the book. “You read it,” he says, crossing the room standing in the door, looking out over the silent Family Courtyard. The shadows are deep, the moon hidden behind mist, the world utterly still.

He wonders if the crane is back in the stream.

Humming to himself, Xue Yang reviews the book, pulls a few others out from the chest, starts copying sections out using Lan Xichen’s calligraphy set.

Eventually Lan Xichen takes out Liebing and begins to play. The music soothes his nerves, quiets the anxious thoughts starting to buzz though his brain: the fear of being so close to bringing A-Yao back, of not being close of enough, of what if this is all a farce, what if what Xue Yang found is nothing, after all—

“Here.” Xue Yang is beside him, papers in hand. “Want to take a look?”

Lan Xichen puts his flute away. “No. Just tell me what my role in all this is.”

Xue Yang grins, tucking the pages away in his qiankun sleeve. “Traveling expenses, mostly. Unless we fly—”

“No flying unless necessary.” Lan Xichen is relieved Xue Yang agrees on this point. He doesn’t want his dreams bleeding into whatever this all is. Not exactly reality, but not exactly not reality. “I’ll make the preparations. Where are we going?”

“The Unclean Realm. We need to extract his spirit from the sarcophagus before we can do anything else. Yes, we’re starting with that dimpled little freak. I figure he’s smart, he can help us with my half—”

Lan Xichen barely hears him. “I’m not going to Qinghe.”

“Clan Leader Nie has the coffin.”

“I refuse to so much as speak to that—that—” Words fail him. It’s not like he doesn’t know any appropriate curse words, but none come close to expressing the hatred he feels at the mere thought of Nie Huaisang.

Nie Huaisang, lying to his face. Nie Huaisang, picking up A-Yao’s hat without a trace of emotion. Brushing the dust off. Looking at the blood on his hand.

A-Yao’s blood.

“That twat-nosed little fucker,” Xue Yang suggests, though he can’t possibly understand why Lan Xichen feels the way he does.

“That—” Fucker .

“Fucker,” Xue Yang says encouragingly.

Lan Xichen shakes his head.

Xue Yang pats his arm, far too familiarly. “I’ll do all the talking to that half-witted little fucktoad, my friend. You just try not to trip and accidentally-on-purpose impale anyone on your hairpiece.”

Lan Xichen’s jaw tightens. “The mere idea of being in the same room as him makes me want to peel my own skin off.”

“Like this?” Heedless of the fact that he’s in full view of anyone strolling through the courtyard, Xue Yang tugs off his mask, laughing.

Lan Xichen slides the door shut. “Put your face back on, please, and please leave.”

Instead Xue Yang clicks his tongue and follows him back to the table. He sits on the corner, tapping his knee with his knife as Lan Xichen sets the table right, straightening the papers and brush set and wiping up the ink splatters. The table is lacquered to prevent permanent stains, and he ought to just wait until a servant comes to clean in the morning, but he can’t abide messes.

“What were you planning for the journey?” Xue Yang asks Lan Xichen as he tidies. “Full procession, servants, half-dozen outfit changes, increasingly ridiculous hairpieces, inns fit for an emperor—”

He doesn’t typically travel with a full procession, but the rest of it is fair. “What other way is there?”

Xue Yang smiles. “Leave it to me.”

***

Up Next: Lan Xichen + Xue Yang road trip.

Or: An innkeeper may or may not meet an untimely end, depending on your interpretation of, “Of course I didn’t kill him. Not even a little.”

Chapter 4

[corolune]

Breathing Underwater / Chapter One — Zephyr

AO3 / Tumblr Alex had always known he wasn’t like other children. They didn't hear the song of the ocean in their ears, or feel the thrumming rhythm of the waves in their hearts like he did. Then he finds a silvery coat made of seal fur, glistening and calling him to slip it on — and everything he thought he knew about himself washes away like foam on the sea. Alex Rider is a selkie, and this is the story of how a seal becomes a spy. Prologue 〰 Chapter 1: Zephyr 〰 Chapter 2: Nimbus

zeph·yr — a light wind from the west.

Alex Rider was seven years old when he learned that none of the other children heard the ocean’s song in their ears. A half-formed rhythm that beat in time with his breath, the way the Thames rushed in tune with the hustle and bustle of London.

Mrs. Smith held her finger to her lips, quieting the loud chatter of the class, and beckoned Katie to continue her show and tell.

“And this one,” Katie held up a large, spiralling shell in her hands, “is called a conch shell. When you hold it up to your ear, it sounds like you’re at the beach! It has ocean sounds in it and it’s really really cool. Miss, can I pass it around, for everyone to hear?”

“Yes, you may, but we’ll have to be quiet so we can hear the ocean waves, right class?”

As the shell made its way around the circle of children, Alex leaned into Tom and whispered, “Why would you need a shell to hear the ocean? I can hear it just fine wherever I am!”

Tom shot him a curious look from under his curly, dark fringe. “Yeah, you can imagine how it sounds, but with the shell you can really hear it!”

Alex furrowed his brow, shaking his head, but decided to wait and see what exactly this ocean sound was. The others oohed and ahhed excitedly, holding the conch up to their ears, and soon enough it was his turn.

Tom bounced in place, eyes going wide as he handed the shell over to him with a grin. Cupping it gently to his ear, he listened and waited, but there was nothing other than the sound of air rushing through the twists and turns in the spirally shell. Squeezing his eyes shut and clapping his hand over his other ear, he strained his hearing, but it still sounded nothing like the ocean.

When he blinked his eyes open, it was to Tom’s concerned look, and his neighbour poking his arm.

“Come on Alex, it’s my turn!” James whined, as Alex continued to stare at the shell in his hands. He passed it over to him, leaning over to Tom.

“That didn’t sound anything like the ocean.”

“What are you talking about, mate? That totally sounded like waves on a beach!”

“Waves? But the ocean sounds like a song Tom, and there’s just air in that shell!”

Mrs. Smith cleared her throat, and Alex realized that his whisper was perhaps not much of a whisper after all. “Would you boys like to share what’s going on?”

“Sorry Miss,” Alex mumbled, as Tom continued to glare righteously at him.

“Tom? Is something the matter?” Mrs. Smith raised her eyebrow pointedly.

“Sorry Miss, it’s just that Alex said the shell doesn’t sound like the ocean at all!” At this, the rest of his classmates' voices rose into a rumble and Alex’s cheeks grew pinker by the second.

“It sounds like waves, I suppose, but not like the ocean,” he tried to explain.

“But waves are the ocean!” James exclaimed, while Crystal gasped at him. “If it sounds like waves, it sounds like the ocean,” she said.

Alex sunk deeper into his seat and vowed to never bring up this topic again. Never ever. Especially the bit about the ocean song, which Tom teased him about for weeks afterward.

〰〰

Alex spent his days doing schoolwork, playing football, and sneaking onto the tube with Tom to go to the shops downtown. He learned to avoid other topics, too, like how Ian left him alone at home, or in a hotel when they were on holiday. Or how sometimes, Ian would come home from work trips covered in bruises and scrapes. He made friends easily enough, and then Ian hired Jack to keep him company. It helped him forget that feeling of loneliness that hovered over him like a rain cloud, as if there was something he was missing, like the melody of a song he couldn’t quite remember.

Sometimes, when he was alone at night, he stared up at the stars from his little window and wondered what his parents were like. He barely remembered much of when he was little. Sometimes he thought of the light on the surface of the sea, reflecting into the water below where kelp waved in giant fronds. He remembered cold air on his face and the smell of salt. His parents must have loved the sea, to have taken him to the beach as a baby.

The months passed by, and he got a new bicycle, learned Jack was terrible at cooking, and finally watched the X-Men films Tom had been gushing about. Soon enough, his tenth birthday had come and gone, and summer was upon them.

When the high tides came, at his uncle’s lake cottage in the country, Alex’s blood thrummed hard in his ears. The dark night blanketed the small hamlet, an inky sky bleeding into the city lights that he could see far into the distance. A little lake, too big to be a pond, rippled in the balmy breeze as he lay propped up on his elbows in the grass nearby. If he closed his eyes he could hear the water’s shush-shush-shush in time with his heartbeat.

He was a city boy, but something about the vast, empty lake called to him. He supposed other ten year olds would feel a bit frightened, left alone in the wilderness for hours, where the nearest city was a half hour’s drive away. He never liked the country very much, not when he and Ian went into the woods or hiked up a mountain. But here, there was something that quelled the itchy feeling that had him feeling lost, like he was holding a puzzle piece that wouldn’t fit.

When he heard the car rumbling on the dusty path, he rolled onto his knees and peered over the cattails in the moor. Ian was back from his trip into the little town, and maybe now he would finally stop being so mysterious and tell him the real reason they were here.

“Alex! Come and help me with these,” Ian called, opening up the boot of the car.

Scrambling down the grassy knoll, Alex reached him to see old crates and crumbling piles of paper amongst the grocery bags.

“What’s all this? Where’d you get all this old stuff?”

Ian smiled crookedly. “Help me haul it inside and I’ll tell you!”

The crates were splintered and creaky, rocking with every step on the uneven cobblestone of the driveway. The papers were bundled into musty files, but between the two of them it was short work to gather everything into the foyer of the little cottage.

“So did you drive us up here to go to an estate sale or something without me? Bet I could have found something a lot cooler than some old paperwork.” Alex grinned as he put down the last box.

Ian chuckled, shaking his head. “I didn’t buy any of this. Lucky for me no one had come across it yet.”

He pried one of the crates open. Inside, there were soft cotton dresses, yellowed with age, in floral prints and geometric lines in vibrant colours.

“These things, they’re your mother’s.”

He blinked, looking up sharply.

“My mum’s? But...I thought there wasn’t...” Alex stumbled over his words, confused and hopeful all at once. “I thought there wasn’t anything left of hers,” he finished in a soft, timid voice, feeling something pull at his chest. He ran his fingers over the soft fabric, trying to remember his mum’s face. The smell of sea salt wafted up from where he shook out the folds. A large seashell, curved into a spiral, fell out as he lifted it away, clattering onto the wooden floor, and he reached after it. In his hands, the shell was smooth.

“I didn’t think so either,” Ian said. “But last time I came up here, remember I had to check on some things for our holiday?”

Alex nodded, the sound of his blood rushing in his ears like the thrum of the ocean.

“Helen—your mum—she had a safe in the little bank in town. Just by chance that the man there recognized the name Rider, good thing we weren’t playing disguises, eh?”

Alex had moved onto untying the twine from the bundles of files. The folders were dry, caked with dust, and brittle. The papers inside were less dusty but equally crisp with age. Inside they held an eclectic mix of newspaper clippings and postcards, photographs of people he didn’t recognize, and pressed flowers. Little mementos of a life lived, a life that Alex had had little chance to wonder about.

His parents had died in an accident. But in him now, seeing these objects that his—mum—had once lovingly saved, a spark flared into a hopeful warmth. He read and read his mother’s journal until his eyes slid shut, and he felt Ian lift him up and tuck him into bed. He dreamt of Venice and Prague, of coffee shops and delicate flowers blooming under gentle care. His dreams were full of strange people and stranger plots surrounding both his mum and his dad.

〰〰

The next morning when he woke, he could feel the ocean’s rhythm in his ears, louder than it had ever been before. He stumbled out of bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, to see Ian already awake and halfway through his toast.

“Morning sleepyhead,” Ian said around a mouthful of crunchy bread.

Plopping into a chair, Alex stole some from the pile for himself, spreading a very generous amount of jam onto his piece.

“Hmmm,” he hummed. The jam was really very good. Actually, now that he thought about it, he felt very good too, light and happy for the first time in, well, a long time. If he concentrated hard enough, he could even make out words in the usually jumbled melody in his ears.

Come...sea...little...

He chewed over this development as he finished breakfast, glancing at the crates and papers still piled up in the foyer from the night before. There was just one box he hadn’t gotten to before falling asleep — it was sealed shut so tightly that he hadn’t been able to pry it open by himself.

Ian noticed his gaze. “We can bring those with us for you to keep, when we drive back home.”

“Yes, I’d like that,” Alex nodded. “But I didn’t get a chance to look inside that one, can you help me get it open?”

Without noticing it, he found himself in front of the small box and running his fingers over the little notches in the wood, as if he’d been pulled towards it. A dull rhythm echoed in his ears like a siren song.

Armed with a sharp knife, his uncle pried open the lid. Whatever was inside was wrapped in packing paper and plastic, and an unassuming beige envelope rested on top. “For Alex R.,” it read in curly script, and the back of it was sealed shut with a sticker in the shape of a round, pink heart.

Ian leaned over his shoulder, humming with interest at this new mystery. “I’d reckon your mum left you this, Alex. Strange that I never came across any of this when you were younger.”

“You mean this is all a lucky accident? If we hadn’t come here...if you hadn’t gone to that bank, I wouldn’t have ever gotten any of this?” It wasn’t the first time Alex had had this thought since Ian first told him what he’d brought, and it seemed a little too much like coincidence.

“Perhaps, but then again, maybe she’d assumed you’d go looking for her things one day or another. Either way, it doesn’t matter — go on, open that envelope, I’m dying to see what’s inside just as much as you are!” Ian grinned, and Alex could feel the excitement rolling off of his uncle, who was always thrilled to play detective. Truth be told, he was excited too — it wasn’t everyday that he discovered an old family treasure.

The sticker peeled open easily, its stickiness long since disappeared. Inside, there was thick, creamy stationery paper, folded into thirds, and something shifted inside with a dull clinking sound. A golden chain slid out, flowing into his palm like liquid metal. Tiny shells dotted the chain and a small seashell hung from the middle.

“I remember that necklace,” Ian said thoughtfully. “I only met your mother a few times, but I can remember her wearing it — the seashell opens like a locket, I think, though I can’t recall what was inside it.”

Alex was more interested in the letter than a piece of glittering, girly jewelry, and he was happy to hand it off to Ian to inspect. Unfolding the elegant paper, he shouldn’t have been surprised to see his name on it, but he still couldn’t hold back a small gasp. The curly letters were undoubtedly his mother’s.

Dearest Alex,

In this box is something that has been yours since the day you were born. I’ve kept it safe and hidden, and hopefully you will find it one day when you need it. I wish that I was able to share this with you, face to face.

You must know by now, that you are different from other children; I am sure you never had to be taught to swim, and that the waves call to you in a way unlike anything else. You make friends easily, and others are charmed by you when you smile. You get those traits from me.

There is something else you get from me, too. Like me, you are a selkie, and your life is equally in the sea as it is on land. The sealskin in this box — this is yours. Wear the coat and you will swim as a seal, slip it off and you will walk once more.

Make sure to never lose your skin, always keep it safe and hidden, always keep it a secret. If you lose your skin, you must find it before someone else takes it and holds power over you.

My mother gave me this necklace, and now I’m giving it to you—a rare shell that will be a compass to your coat should you ever lose it. I hope that one day, you will find someone you trust with your life, someone you can share your secret with.

I love you with all my heart, my darling son.

Your Mum,

Helen R.

With slightly watery eyes, he looked up to see Ian nonchalantly trying to read the letter from where he sat next to him. Nothing in the letter made any sense to him—he’d heard of selkies of course, but the idea that his long lost mother was a seal was so weird that it passed right over his head. Distantly he noticed Ian taking the letter from him to read properly, but Alex was too much in the midst of an identity crisis to notice.

The soft, crinkling sounds of paper roused him from his circling thoughts. He turned to see Ian crumpling up the packing paper and tearing open the thin plastic that covered the contents of the box, tipping it over.

Soft, white fur with patches of grey unfurled onto the floor, somehow familiar, beckoning Alex. Something in his chest unfurled along with it, and for the first time that feeling of something missing, that yearning for something more, dissolved like foam on the sea. He ran his hands through the short, white fur, and knew that this was what he’d lost, and now found.

“This is yours,” Ian said.

That night, as Ian sat at the dock and Alex, clad in the silvery fur, dove into the cold lake water shimmering with moonlight, everything he thought he knew about himself washed away.

← Previous Chapter | Next Chapter →

[dpimagines]

Softer; Wade Wilson feat. Vanessa Carlysle

warnings & details: reader is photokinetic! This means they can manipulate light waves. My version of photokinesis includes being able to absorb light, sometimes unintentionally. Wade and reader both devalue themselves to sex objects at certain points due to low self-confidence. F/S = Favorite Show.  

Wade bursts the door open with excitement, but before shouting “Honeys, I’m home!” he realizes the TV is on. You didn’t stir at the loud door, but he recognizes your favorite show on the TV.

It was something that you and Vanessa watched together, she’d gotten you a box set of the complete series, for your birthday last year. He wonders if that’s what made it your favorite. Either way, you were curled up on the couch, snuggled in a blanket. He was about to get closer to you, to kiss your forehead and tell you he was finally home.

“You know, she stayed up waiting for you. Again.” Vanessa comes out on the bedroom in a robe, looking over you, sadly.

“She should be used to me being late.”

“But she shouldn’t be so goddamn used to you breaking promises,” Vanessa disagrees.

“Promises?”

“It’s her birthday.” She looks at the clock. “Or it was, about three hours ago. Cake’s on the table if you want some, asshole.”

Wade shakes his head, the rare feeling of being ashamed washing over him.

“She begged me to wait, but once it became obvious you weren’t gonna make it… She said we’d eat the cake, but she’d wait to open her present from me, in case you got her anything. Did you?” She nearly snarls the words.

“Yeah, totally, I got her… A gun!” He lifts one from one of his holsters excitedly.

Vanessa presses a finger to her lips, before telling him:

“Y/N’s a dagger person, remember?”

“I take you two for granted,” he sighs.

“Especially her,” she adds bitterly. Vanessa had been the one to introduce you to the relationship, and while Wade definitely loves you just as much, it feels like she’s the only one who shows it, at least to you.

He smooths your hair back, away from your perfect face. Wade looks like he does, and he has the audacity to not only not show up to your mini birthday celebration as he promised, but to forget it as well! You hadn’t even wanted a party. He’d offered, like he was actually gonna make it, but you said you just wanted to spend your special day with the people who mattered.

Maybe this was his subconscious telling him he didn’t.

“What a piece of shit I am…” He mumbles. “I’ll go get her something. Something nice, that she’ll like.”

You begin to stir, sleepy little moans coming from your lips as you try to wake up. You rub at an itchy eye, and that’s when you notice the tall red figure at the end of the couch, the one you’d been waiting for since forever.

“Wade!” You cheer, immediately scrambling to get up and hug him. You wrap your arms tightly around him, so excited. “I’m so glad you’re back, V told me you weren’t gonna make it, but you did, you did, you… Didn’t.” He watches your heart break as you look at the clock, next to the door. “Oh. Well, that’s okay. The cake doesn’t disappear. Neither do- does the present.”

Vanessa usually enjoyed telling people “I told you so.”

She silently hands you the small box, heart in her throat, and you unwrap it, opening the velvet box that was hidden in the paper.

“It’s the brooch from the other day! Oh, Ness, I can’t believe you! How did you even- I don’t wanna know. Thank you! Right now, I just wanna cuddle with my two favorite people in the world.”

That breaks him. No matter how he screws up, you never make him face any real consequences. The relationship doesn’t even need him, not in his head. There’s already a strap-on available to you both, and all he’s good for is that. He’s just a detriment.

“Why don’t you hate me?” He asks.

“Huh? Why would I hate you?” You wonder. Sure, he’s late, but it wasn’t for nothing. He has other, more important responsibilities. It doesn’t matter how you feel, not to you. Besides, you’re just the addition. They’re the real couple.

“I promised I’d be here, Y/N. And I let you down. I always let you down.”

“You were just busy,” you reassure. “Your job is way more important than m-“

“Don’t. Don’t you dare fucking say that,” Vanessa cuts you off, her heart breaking for you. There was no malice in your tone, you’ve just learned the lesson Wade’s taught you and it kills the both of them that they didn’t stop it.

“It’s true?” You say, but it comes out more like a question. “Having your priorities in order isn’t a bad thing.”

“But they weren’t in order, Y/N. I love you, and it’s- It was your birthday. I missed it, I didn’t see you the entire day. I completely forgot. Doesn’t that feel like shit?” He asks.

“Yeah,” you admit, and, finally, a bit of sadness shows in your expression. “It does. But that doesn’t matter, you had more important things to do and that’s okay.” The sadness dissipates from your face, but Wade and Vanessa both know it lingers inside of you.

“But it isn’t!”  Vanessa insists.

“Baby…” Wade croons. “You gotta believe me when I say I’m sorry. But, being sorry doesn’t mean the way I’ve treated you is okay. Okay?”

“Okay,” you reply.

“I’m gonna try to work on it, but can you please call me out on my bullshit more?”

“I guess…” you say. “I just wanna go to bed, why can’t we go to bed? We can make a ‘Nessa sandwich!”

“What about a Y/N sandwich? It’s- It was your birthday, after all,” Wade offers. You shake your head, rapid and insistent. They both sigh sadly, but you just wanna cuddle Vanessa and go back to sleep.

The three of you make your way to the bedroom, performing your nighttime routines before cozying up in bed. Vanessa lays down between you two, opening her arms to you. You’d typically latch onto her for comfort, but this time you just shake your head and turn over.

You don’t see the hurt expression on her face, or how she silently denies Wade the right to touch her.

Once you’re confident they’re both asleep, hearing Wade’s steady breathing and Vanessa’s soft snores, you enact your plan. You can’t stay here anymore. You care for them both so much, but you see now that you’re just a strain on the relationship, a guest star whose role had become too big because of poor writing.

You’re already partially packed, you’ve been subtly putting your clean clothes from the laundry into your suitcase. You lived at Xavier’s before this, it was how you met Wade and Vanessa. You still work there now, you’d started teaching the kids music after you finished your bachelor’s degree. Your birthday was the last chance you’d given yourself to get him to care. You know Vanessa does, but now you know for sure that all he sees you as is someone who can give Vanessa something he can’t, just another woman to touch with the lights off.

There’s no way he’s really sorry, is there? He always does this, no matter how it affects you. You know you don’t deserve better, but you’d rather just be alone than deal with this or worse.

You quietly sob as you stuff your things into various bags, an Uber already ordered. You leave the box set of F/S, but not a note. You leave the apartment complex, and don’t look back.

When you arrive at the school, you know it’s late, but don’t care. You enter. Logan’s standing watch. You’ve always liked him, even if he doesn’t seem to like anyone but his adorable daughter, much less you.

“My old room still available?” you ask, biting your lip to hold back the tears you had to hold in once you got in the Uber.

“Yeah, kid,” he says. “Go on.”

“Thanks,” you tell him, trudging up the stairs with all your bags hanging from you. You know you look like shit, and you don’t even care anymore. You’re almost relieved to be alone. That, or you’re just relieved that you don’t have to address your own issues anymore because they don’t affect anyone else but you.

You drop your various bags on the floor, flopping into your old bed and rolling yourself into a poorly-constructed burrito before crashing.

The next morning, you wake up on time. You open your eyes, expecting to be safe in Vanessa’s arms before remembering yesterday.

Worst.

Birthday.

Ever.

You untangle yourself from the comforter and top sheet, getting dressed and ready for breakfast, grabbing something small before heading to your classroom to get set up for the day. You know that Wade and Vanessa probably aren’t even awake yet. They don’t even know you’re gone. That ties your stomach in a knot, wondering how they’ll react. Will they not even care, or worse, will they try to contact you in some way? You just want a clean break.

Your first two periods are elementary schoolers, then you’d have two periods of middle schoolers, with a lunch break in the middle, and the last two periods would be the highschoolers. You had it pretty easy.

The kids giggle amongst each other this morning, as they grab their clickers on the way to their spots on the rug. You arch an eyebrow at all of them.

“Okay, kids, you know how it goes. Vote for your favorite color based on the choices, and the votes’ll go to my laptop. First place and second place will be used to show high and low notes, respectively.”

“What’s respectively mean, again?” Leah asks.

“Well, in what I was saying it means that first place will be high notes, and second place will be low notes.”

The girl nods in acknowledgement, and you notice that all the votes are in.

“You all voted for… Red,” you realize, looking at the computer screen. Your heart hurts a little bit at the thought of the color, but you know they’re just playing a practical joke, and it is pretty amusing. “I see. Well, whatever shall I do?” You play along, before taking some light produced by the ceiling light and creating a gradient from medium to dark red.

“Wow…” the kids ooh and ah at the sparkling thing, as they typically do.

“Alrighty, let’s do solfège  as a warm-up. Do, re, mi, fa, so…” you continue the scale, heading to the piano while your students sing along. “Now, we need to practice. The school concert is soon, and all the choirs are going to perform. That means I get to steal you guys from your second period teacher a few days next week so you can practice as a group with the other kids from your level. But that also means we need to practice hard! Stand in your positions, please, everyone,” you request, like you’re commandeering twenty kids as opposed to ten, because that’s what you’re practicing for.

You move the light so that it’s above the piano, and begin to play. You play the background music as well as the notes the kids are supposed to sing, letting the light gradient glow brighter at the high and low ends to remind them where their voices should be.

“I'll stand by you / Take me in, into your darkest hour / And I'll never desert you / I'll stand by you / I'll stand by you / Won't let nobody hurt you / I'll stand by you / Won't let nobody hurt you / I'll stand by you…” the kids finish the song, and you stand from the piano bench, applauding.

“That was amazing, you guys! I’m so proud!” You find yourself wiping away a couple tears, impressed with how far they’ve come.

“Don’t cry, Miss L/N!” Adam says, running over and slamming you with a hug. He’s a small, sensitive boy, but with super strength. “I’m sorry we made you sad.”

“I’m not sad, I promise,” you technically lie. “Sometimes, when someone is really happy, they’re so happy that it overwhelms them and they cry. You kids make me that happy with how hard you work. I’m really proud of every single one of you.” Adam goes back to his position, and you begin the next song: True Colors by Cyndi Lauper.

After a few rounds of both songs, a bathroom break, and some constructive criticism (as well as praise,) the kids head on to their next class.

“Lather, rinse, repeat,” you tell yourself, and you do.

Until your lunch break.

The kids leave for lunch, but you find that you just can’t.

You think about yesterday, how everything’s over. You probably should’ve said something before going, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to. You look to the velvet box holding the brooch on your desk and think that maybe you should call Vanessa now, but the lump from last night returns to your throat and your eyes water up. You realize you’re going to be alone forever, and the waterworks start up again, choking sobs overtaking you. You hide your face in your hands, elbows supporting you on your desk.

There’s a pounding on the door.

“Go on to lunch, third period isn’t for another half hour!” you weakly tell the student or teacher that’s trying to bother you on your break, before dissolving into tears again.

The door opens, and you scramble for a tissue, dabbing at tears and hoping you don’t look like you’ve been sobbing your heart out.

“Oh, love, you look like you’ve been sobbing your heart out,” Vanessa sympathetically says as she enters behind Wade, hurrying towards you.

Wade beats her to you, though, practically yanking you out of your chair and into his arms.

“Oh, thank god, you’re okay. I thought someone took you,” Wade sighs.

“Why would they take me?”

“To get to me or V,” Wade says, like it’s the most obvious thing. “But if no one took you, why were you gone? Why are you crying?”

“I told you, she left. Her stuff is all gone,” Vanessa reminds him. “Tell him, Y/N. And make it clear why.”

“I just don’t belong. I wanted a clean break, because I got too attached to you both, had my expectations too high, considering what I am,” you tell him, avoiding the whites of the mask. Since you couldn’t see him blinking, or any indication of emotion in his eyes, it just felt like an unwavering burn of a gaze. You shrink back, leaning against your desk.

“W-What do you mean, what you are?” Wade stutters.

“I’m just someone who can give Vanessa something you can’t. Just another woman to touch in the dark. I know that’s all it is for you, and that’s okay, because I was the one who built it up to be something it wasn’t in my head. You won’t even let me see your face, and she can. I don’t know why I thought there wasn’t a difference between us.”

“But you didn’t make it up, it evolved from the fling into that. You’re right, originally it was just meant to be a fling, but- But I thought we all loved each other. You- You love me, too, don’t you?”

“Of course I love you, but that doesn’t mean- What?”

“Why do you think yesterday was so upsetting, Y/N?” Vanessa asks you, and you look to her. That’s much easier. She has the softest brown eyes you’ve ever seen and the sweetest smile no matter what emotion it’s conveying. “Tell her, Wade.”

“V and I got a divorce,” he says.

“W-what? I didn’t think they could finalize them that quickly, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cause so much trouble, you two should really go, this is exactly why I wanted a clean break, I-”

“No, babe, not today, and it’s not because of you. Well, not like that,” he reassures, cupping your face in one of his gloved hands. “You see, we decided we didn’t want to be married anymore if we couldn’t be married to the one we both love. So, we got a no-fault divorce, it was finalized about a week ago. We just couldn’t find the right time to tell you.”

“Y-you… You don’t mean…”

“We do,” Vanessa confirms, putting a hand over yours where they rest of the desk. Wade removes his hand from your face, putting it on top of hers.

“But I’m just…”

“Just what? Just as important as us?” Wade tells you, and V nods.

“Quite the opposite,” you reply, looking down at your shoes. Wade tilts your chin up with his free hand, seeming to be searching your face for something. “What?”

“I just- You’re so beautiful compared to me, and I still managed to take you so far for granted that you ran away from home. I’ll do anything if it means you’ll come home to us. Anything,” Wade insists.

It’s so tempting to ask him, but you know it’s wrong to pressure him that way. He seems to get it, though, from your poorly-hidden longing stare. He peels the mask off, and you can’t help but literally glow when you see him. He smiles at your reaction, and the next thing you can’t help is the big kiss you give him, arms flinging themselves around his neck while he hoists you onto the desk. When you break for air, he looks down at you, and you’re happy to look back into his eyes.

“Whoa there, Ms. L/N, we’re at school,” Wade jokes.

“No, I’m not going to spank you with a yardstick,” you joke back, and he and Vanessa both laugh. “I have more classes in a little while, but I promise I’ll come back home after school.”

“Good,.” Wade pulls his mask back on. “See you later, I love you!” he sing-songs, skipping out of the class and down the hall.

Vanessa gives you a long, sweet kiss, admiring your eyes with her own afterwards, and you realize that despite loving both sets, that Wade’s eyes are even softer.

[beatersdoitbetter]

Cottage Christmas

Ember sputtered slightly, gagging as she landed in the one fireplace she always wanted to return to no matter what. She stumbled out of the green flames, coughing on the soot she had accidentally inhaled… again. The redhead hated using the Floo network but it was the fastest way of travel when she struggled so much with Apparation. She’d Splinched herself more than once last year in practice, unable to focus completely on her destination as well as she should have been. It was still a work in progress and she was getting a bit better at it, but she still much preferred her broom. It was much harder to go longer distances as well and since she and Anne were traveling all the way from Anne’s home in the south of England to Ember’s in Ireland, the Floo network was actually a good deal safer. She stepped down off of the fireplace, ducking the stockings hung from the mantel and onto the rug her mother had tossed in front of it to wipe her boots. She reached up to rub at her eyes, only dirtying her face further, but it didn’t matter what she looked like, she was home now.

Home.

The cottage Ember had grown up in was small and cozy but the best place she knew. The main room was open, the living room and kitchen combined in a space that was warm and welcoming. The wooden floor was soft and slightly uneven in places, hinting at the house’s age while the walls were fresher, made of both wood paneling in places as well as sheet rock. Her Da had built the furniture, the pieces carefully sanded and coated with a clear varnish to keep the natural color of the wood shining through. The walls that weren’t paneled or stone were painted a gentle sage green, giving a soft backdrop to the many photos and pieces of art that had been hung up. Childhood drawings were still pinned with magnets to the fridge, the center one two handprints shaped in a heart that Ember and Eveleen had made the summer after first year. A tree, already lit with lights and topped with a delicate star stood tall in the corner to one side of the fireplace. Currently the whole place smelt of apple crisp, pine, and a vague undertone of sawdust that was easy to miss unless you were looking for it.  

Toeing off her boots, Ember moved towards the front door to hang up her coat. Anne had been right behind her, saying last goodbyes to her family and would be along in a moment and she didn’t want to be in the way in case she tumbled out of the hearth. Ember was just propping her hat on a hook when a door creaked open and shut followed by footsteps across the wooden floor. She didn’t have to look to know where her mother was, she knew how many steps it took to get from the basement door to the living room. Meghan came into view, her hair as red as Ember’s though it was definitely going gray in places. She was taller than her daughter who had taken after her grandmother height-wise. The woman carried a wicker laundry basket full of fresh smelling sheets, the gentle lavender and honeysuckle trailing after her as it always seemed to. Ember froze, staring at her.

Meghan jumped, nearly dropping the basket, not used to Ember being so quiet when she got home. Normally she popped in, stomped across the floor and shouted to alert her mother of her presence, but then, things had been strained since the summertime. Ember had been more subdued, hiding in her room for that last month, not eating or letting Meghan in no matter how many times she had tried. She’d said goodbye on the train platform without so much as a hug, a ghost of the girl she’d been before. Meghan’s heart had been broken, but she’d continued to send care packages and kept in close contact with Victoire on her daughter’s well-being. Things had begun to improve, Victoire said and Ember had finally sent her a small note, saying she was going home for part of the winter break with a new friend and that both of them would be coming home Christmas morning round lunchtime. Eveleen and Coal would also be joining them, which excited and worried Meghan at the same time. She had never met Coal, but she had seen pictures of him that Ember had brought home. The likeness was uncanny… But of course she hadn’t told Ember that. Not yet. There had never been a good time.

“Mo leanbh.” Meghan dropped the basket then, carefully of course, and marched across the room, arms reaching for her daughter. She stopped though, about three feet away. The last time she’d gone to hug Ember she’d flinched away. It was extremely difficult, not being able to touch her, to hold her like she always had when the world was too much. She wasn’t so skinny now though. There was more flesh and color to her cheeks and her eyes were getting that old twinkle back into them that Meghan was much more used to. She looked like she’d been doing better.

“Mammy.” Ember launched herself forward, nearly knocking Meghan off her feet as she hugged onto her tightly, burying her face into her mother’s hair, breathing in the scent of unconditional love and safety. She let herself melt into her mother’s arms, the wool of her sweat slightly itchy against her cheek but Ember didn’t care. She had missed her Mam so much her heart had seemed to physically ache for her. She allowed herself to be squished, held, and rocked slightly back and forth as Meghan drank her in just as much.

“That’s my girl.” Meghan finally pulled back, hands reaching up to press wild locks away from Ember’s face. “You’re absolutely filthy. Did you open your mouth in the floo again, you look like you’ve been eating soot and your hair! Did you brush it? Well I suppose the Floo would have mussed it, we’ll fix it. Perhaps a braid? Where’s your friend? Is she still coming? What did you do to your face this time? I swear every time I see you you’ve got another bandage! I don’t see why you don’t just heal them properly instead. I’ve made your favorite too, with extra sugar.”

Meghan hurried over to the kitchen, grabbing up the silver kettle from the stove and filling it with water. She placed it back down on a burner, snatched a dish towel off the oven handle and switched the water in the sink over to hot. “Come here, we’ll get you washed up while the water boils.”

“Mam...” Ember shook her head, but she was smiling as she followed after her mother. She reached for the towel but Meghan was already going at her face with it, rubbing her skin slightly raw as she washed the soot from the fireplace away. She peeled off the bandage Ember had had on her left cheek, eyed the scrape underneath and pulled out her wand. In two seconds flat, Ember’s skin flared hot and then cooled, the abrasion sealing over like it hadn’t been there to begin with.

“There. Better.” Meghan dropped the now dirty dish cloth into the sink as the flames in the fireplace lit up green. “Oh, that must be your friend now.”

“Mam, about that. Anne’s not just-”Ember paused, clamming up slightly, eyes shifting over to the fireplace. Her cheeks went pink at the sight of the tiny blond appearing among the flames. “She’s… she’s my...”

Meghan watched the way her daughter’s face got redder and redder as she glanced between her and the fireplace. The way her words got stuck in her throat, how she looked down at her feet and reached for the key hanging around her neck. It clicked quickly for Meghan, able to read her daughter quite well.  Meghan smiled, remembering how David had told her Ember, still so little at the time, had asked him if she could be a man so she could marry a pretty lady. He’d told her she didn’t have to be a man to do that, so she’d resolved to be a knight instead and a whole bunch of other things as all small children do. Meghan had thought that maybe it would be Eveleen, with the way Ember’s face flushed around her when they’d been about thirteen, but that has since passed. “Aye, Emmi. I understand.”

“It’s okay?” Ember bit her lower lip, looking up from her feet. Meghan nodded, reaching out to ruffle her hair.

“Best go make sure she hasn’t gotten soot in her mouth too. Though I suppose it’d make snogging you easier if she did.”

“Mam!”

[bodyswapmischief]

The Interview

(Although not a part 2. This story is linked to The promotion) 

If you can believe it ... before today, my body looked completely different. I was ... for the most part hairless. And that worked for me. It showed off the curves of my muscles. My six pack, biceps, and chest glistened after every work out. But, now everything changed.

It all started because, I really needed a job. I applied to everything  I could find. But, no one ever called back. Until I got a call from Transform Inc. They were a really big company, in the city. I didn't even think I applied to them. I knew it was a mistake. But, never turn down an opportunity... or so I thought.

The day of the interview, I dressed in my best. I wore well fitted slacks and dress shirt. It hugged my body and outlined my well earn muscles. I hope I was interviewed by a woman or gay man. I might not be the smartest person or have the most experience, but with my body I could seduce the pants off of anyone.

Reaching the building, I quickly realized I was out of my league, job-wise. I went up the elevator and was immediately greeted by a lady, at the front desk. She was insanely attractive and led me through the office. As we walked, I started noticing the people in the office. All the women were attractive, and the men would have been too, if they were in better shape. They had a range of different size bellies. From a little bloated to full size beer belly.

I finally reached the office. "Your interview will be held in there." She said, as she walked away. I walked in and saw the biggest fattest guy in the office. He seemed stressed and tired. His face seemed young, but the weight added age to him. His beach ball belly rested on his lap and pushed against his small desk. His dress shirt struggled to contain his stomach and his equally large pair of fat boobs. His beard hid what I could only imagine was a double chin. He looked at me, like he was caught of guard. "Oh, please take a seat." He said as he clean off his desk. On his desk was a salad and a water bottle. I laughed in my head (Yeah like that's gonna help you, fat ass). His name plate read: Steven Fuller. (Yup the name fits) I continued to laugh to myself.

I sat down, keeping my eyes on the big fat blob of a man, in front of me. He was gross and every part of me hated him, for doing that to his body. I was snapped back to the present with the creaking of his chair, as he moved. It was screaming to get this fat-ass of it. He was also looking at me. Checking my body out, but trying not to get caught. He started looking for something, but stopped as his face turned red, from embarrassment. He lifted up his massive gut and pulled out a file. "I forgot, I put this on my lap before my lunch." He shyly said.

I started laughing. The comedy of this fat pig in front of me was just to much to take. He looked hurt by my reaction. "Yeah, kid don't get fat ... it sucks." He weakly smiled, as he started reading the file. "Don't worry I won't" I winked. He immediately puts down the file and looks at me, straight into my eyes. "Do you care about your body?" I was thrown back a bit. "Yeah ..." I replied confused. "Then this is not the job for you. I recommend leaving now." he starts to put the file away. "But ... look...I'm sorry I laughed... it's just..." I tried to explain. He looked at me, "No ... you look, I know you. I've been you. In fact my body was in better shape then yours and now look at me. I am ... begging you, just walk out that door and leave."

I lost it and everything I felt just came out. "I'm sorry you don't like what you did to your fat ass body, but I am not you." I started flexing under my shirt. "You wished you had this body. But, you can't. That gut is massive and no amount of salad is going to change that." Anger filled his eyes. But, suddenly the door opened and an older man walked in. His body made of muscle, which made him look younger than he probably was. "Hello, I'm Thomas Sterling and I will be finishing the interview, in my office." He motioned for me to follow. I turned to look at Mr. Fuller. He shook his head in disappointment.

We reached Mr. Sterling's office and sat down. "I'm sorry about that." Sterling said "He shouldn't have told you to leave." His powerful arms pulled out a box. "Well, he hasn't been the first person to be jealous of my body." I said. "Oh, and you do have a good strong body. 7% body fat?" He laughed in delight. The way he talked about my body was making me nervous. But, his tone was soothing. "No ... 5%" I answered. He opened the box and revealed doughnuts. "Here take one." He whispered. "I shouldn't." I said looking at the doughnuts. "Just one won't hurt." He said. I took one and bit into it. Blue filling gushed into my mouth. It tasted so sweet and good. Sterling smiled.

Slowly my stomach felt bloated and pushed against my shirt. (I did have a big breakfast) I thought to myself. "You have the job." He smiled. He quickly got up to get some paper work. The muscles under his clothes, showing off with every move. I wanted to be like him when I got older. "Help yourself to another doughnut, in celebration," he cheered. And, I did. My shirt and pants started feeling tighter. A tingling sensation started spreading through my chest.

"Sign these papers and you can start working tomorrow." I quickly signed, every paper. "Good, Good, Good ... I'm happy to know your happy with getting as fat as I want you to." My throat choke up a bit. I looked down and saw what was happening to my body. My pants were skin tight as they squeezed my legs. My softer chest was squeezed by the now tighter shirt. My flabby stomach was peeking out of my straining buttons. "What the Fuck! What happened to me." I screamed.

Sterling laughed. "It's all part of the contract." He brought out a syringe of blue liquid and injected it into a doughnut. "You will eat 3 of these donuts every month, and gain 5 pounds of permanent fat, for each. For every 5 pounds you will be paid 10,000 dollars. That will be 30,000 a month. This will go on for a year. Then you will have an option of staying on and getting promoted or leaving the company, if you wish. If you do stay on, you will be paid 100o times your weight per year. It was written down on those paper, you signed."

"You can't do this. I quit! These documents won't hold in court." I cried out. "Aw, I thought this might happen. That's why I created this new formula. It will make you more obedient. Now, finish the last doughnut for the month." He said as he handed me the freshly injected doughnut. My hand grabbed it on its own and brought it closer to my mouth. I scream for it to stop. But my hand forced it in my mouth. As soon as the blue goo reached my tongue, I started unwilling chewing. It really was the best thing I ever eaten. I felt the effects immediately take place. My expanding ass caused my pants to rip. The buttons on my shirt popped, as my belly jiggled, now having space to expand and sit in it's full size. My skin became itchy has my hairless body started sporting hair everywhere I could and couldn't see.

"Oh, that's a side effect, I haven't worked out yet. But, I can't say it doesn't make me happy. Now my bear in training go home and get some rest, because tomorrow you start work. And let's keep this contract our little secret." He smiled at me. I started walking out and bumped into Mr. Fuller, waiting right outside. My eyes red from wanting to cry. "Before you leave ... you should come to my office." I followed him. By the way he wasn't freaking out, I already knew that he understood what went on.

He helped sneak me into his office so, no one saw me. Once there, he pulled out some clothes. "Here these should fit you." He said. "Why are you doing this." I said with a shaky voice. "I was mean to you ... I got what I deserved, maybe worse." I felt embarrassed, changing my clothes in front of him. I hated showing off the new fat rolls that I could feel on my body. "You aren’t the only one that made a deal with that devil. I wasn't lying. I was like you. About 180 pounds of  pure muscle. In my first deal, I shot up to about 270. With a little more convincing, he has me at 300 pounds." He said rubbing his swollen stomach.

The numbers started running through my head. 3 donuts each month for a year. 15 pounds every month for 12 months. That would be a 180 pound weight gain. I'm was currently 180. I would double my size with pure fat. I would be 360 pounds. 60 pounds heavier than the man in front of me. I started crying. Mr. Fuller came closer to hug me. His belly pushed tight against mine. He started talking " Look, I don't know how many pounds you signed up to gain. But you are not alone. I'm the fattest guy in this office..." (not for long) I thought to myself "And, I still live an active life. I might not be as fast or have as much stamina, like when I was in shape. But, I am able to keep my weight down to my permanent weight and not an ounce more. Just eat right and exercise. In fact some of us guys from the office go to workout everyday, you should come" He let me go. I calmed my self and started walking out "what's the point" I said. As I walked out the door, I hear him yell out " You can always be fatter than you have to."

Those words still ring in my ear, as I stand here exploring my strange new 195 pound and counting body. Imagining how I would look fatter. The door bell rings. It's a pizza delivery guy. "Order for Eric, from Mr. Sterling." He unloads 2 large pizzas, a 2 liter bottle of coke, and a cookie cake. My stomach starts to rumble. Might as well eat because, this stomach is going to get bigger whether I like it or not. I can always got to the gym tomorrow.

(Follow my second blog @malereblogmischief, where I re-blog the sources for the picture in my stories.)

[cuorepietoso]

Things you were afraid to say

requested by @evcravens   /   ft. Alessio Rossi

     I. 

          They have a dry run for the end. 

     In July of 2013, Sottotenente Alessio Giovanni Maria Greco Rossi, aged 25, receives a Croce di guerra al valor militare after an injury received in the line of duty. The location of this incident is heavily classified, as are the mission specifications, but he’s commended by his commanding officers for his valor and his hard work and his dedication. He’s recognized, briefly, as an intelligence officer that specializes in both human and counterintelligence in the Middle East, and then promptly forgotten about by the broader nation. No mention of his work with the Col Moschin is made. 

          He’s very handsome. He looks good on camera. 

     In July of 2013, Maresciallo Ordinario Battista “Tombarolo” Tahan spent three hours digging a bullet out of Sottotenente Alessio Giovanni Maria Greco Rossi’s asscheek in a rundown shack in Somalia, while the legend himself had laid on his stomach, smoked a cigarette, and bitched about the economy. And about polyester socks. And the way limoncello tastes like ass unless you’re already nine drinks deep. And every time he would stop bitching, Tahan would shake him just a little bit, and try to keep his own voice steady when he prompted him to keep going. 

     He’s silent on the CASEVAC ride out of there, hands clenched together as the other medics take over, watching Rossi’s face as he drifts in and out of sleep, finally drugged up on the good stuff. The ends and elbows of his sleeves are stained red. His knees don’t stop jittering until Rossi reaches out and settles a hand on one with an unhappy grunt. It slides off when he fades once more, and Tahan carefully sets it back at his side on the stretcher, and remains stock still for the rest of the ride. 

     It takes the doctors and nurses nearly ten hours to allow Rossi any visitors once they land on base. Tahan has showered, changed, been debriefed, and navigated tracking down some food for himself within that time, any words that had been forced out of him were terse or downright biting, unwilling or unable to rein in his tongue in the wake of such a disastrous assignment. When he finally steps into the cramped room and spots Rossi, alive and well enough, all in one piece, it’s like the wind falls from his sails, and he slumps into a chair next to his bed with a lackadaisical sprawl. 

     They’re silent for a moment, while Tahan eyes critically his IV, and the machines he’s hooked up to, and then his lap, under the blankets, where he knows there’s a hole in him about three centimeters wide. Rossi watches him back, an expression of openly warm, quiet bemusement settling on his face, and his voice sounds nearly normal when he speaks, if a little slurred from the painkillers. “You have something on your mind, grave robber?” 

     Tahan’s gaze is torn from his lap to meet his gaze, giving him an ugly look. He doesn’t say: you could have died. He doesn’t say: you need to be more careful. He doesn’t say: what would I do without you? There are some things, he’s found, that are just asking for trouble-- and opening that can of worms with Alessio Rossi could be qualified as begging for it. He just leans forward, and puts a hand on his wrist, and murmurs, “Did the doctors say you would make it? Or is your case of shittalking terminal?”

     He laughs, then, something bright, something with no place in the sterile halls. Tahan finds himself leaning closer at the sound of it, wanting to reach out and run his fingers over Rossi’s forehead, his cheeks, his chin, wanting to reach out and feel the breath rolling out of him and his chest rising and falling steadily. He wants to hear that laugh again. He’s happy to settle with watching the easy smile take its place. “I can’t die, Tahan.” Rossi’s voice fills the room like it’s a summer breeze, and he slumps even closer still, until Rossi can reach out and card his fingers through Tahan’s hair-- and that’s exactly what he does. The rest of the lingering tension drains out of his shoulders at the touch. “I have you looking out for me.”

     Tahan rolls his eyes so hard that he thinks they may pop out of his head. “I can only save you from so much stupidity, Rossi. I’m not God.” Most of the younger man’s so-called stupidity, he thinks, stems from his damned bleeding heart. His spine of steel, uncompromising morality-- traits that were God-given, hard to keep, and worth cupping his hands around and breathing life into. Worth protecting. 

     He thinks maybe he’s devoted to the man laying on the bed. It’s easy not to think about why, because he makes it easy. He makes it feel natural. 

     “No, not God.” There’s something terribly fond in his expression now, as he traces his fingers from Tahan’s hairline to his jaw, feather-light. “Maybe a guardian angel, then.” His grip tightens marginally when Tahan scoffs. “Right, sorry-- Your angels are a bit scarier than mine. But what’s wrong with that, hm? You’re ass ugly already--” 

     Tahan lets out a bark of laughter, the stormcloud of his foul mood finally releasing as he pulls Rossi’s hand from his face, settling their palms together. Rossi laces their fingers and settles their joined hands on the bed. “Your mother doesn’t think I’m ugly.” 

     Rossi’s nose crinkles. “My mother has awful taste. So do I.” They share another laugh, and have to smother it as a nurse walks by, peering into the room to check on the racket they’re making. When he speaks again, his voice isn’t subdued at all. “Seriously, though. I’m fine. And you know I’m fine. It’s just-- getting shot in the ass? I’d almost rather be dead. How embarrassing.”

     A weary sigh slips out of Tahan, and he settles a chin in his hand, elbow resting on the edge of the bed. The sheets are itchy. He thinks Rossi is probably too doped up to notice. “The bullet missed your femoral artery. But it might not have. Or it could have hit you anywhere-- the spine, the heart.” His lips are drawn into a thoughtful frown. “And you shouldn’t say things like that. Being shot in the ass is going to be funny… in twenty years.” 

     “You’re right, you’re right. And besides--” Rossi pauses, for dramatic effect, as he occasionally does. “If I died, who would watch your back? Hm? Rana and Rospo are good at their jobs, but they’re dumber than brickbats. And who would tell you to cut your hair, since you don’t know what a mirror is for?” 

     Tahan sighs again. “Bene, bene. Glad you’re alright, asshole. Try to watch out for ricochets next time.” Rossi’s smile is all teeth, and his only other response is to point imperiously at the bottle of water next to his bed, and order Tahan to fetch it for him.

     II. 

     In 2014, nearly a year to the day Alessio Rossi’s life is violently cut short, Tahan finds himself staring at the burned out shell of a building. The walls have crumbled in, mostly, and the fire still smolders and smokes in a few places. He has no idea if there was anyone inside when the building went up, or when it came down, and try as hard as he can he doesn’t feel anything about that at all, one way or another. His rifle remains cradled loosely in his arms, the radio chatter at his shoulder strangely muffled by the rush of blood in his ears. He almost hits Rossi when the younger man reaches out and touches his elbow, startled as he is by the contact. 

     Rossi just gives him an exhausted look, and bumps shoulders with him gently, tipping his chin in the direction of the smoking mass of brick just inside their hastily set perimeter. “What’s in that thick skull of yours?” His voice is quiet, but suddenly it’s the only thing Tahan can focus on, the soft southern accent, the forced smile curling in the corners of his mouth and the bags under his eyes. He is the easiest thing to focus on.

     Normally the question would make him laugh, or at least scoff. Today it draws his brows together as he tries to think, tries to put together words in his head and shove them out of his mouth in a coherent sentence. His voice sticks to his throat, it’s been so long since he spoke, and he has to cough a little and try again. “Was just wondering if there was anyone inside.”

     Turning his gaze to the shell of the building behind a crumbling wall, Rossi lets the attempt at a smile slip from his face once more. He swallows hard, thinks for a moment, and releases a long sigh -- “I think there were two women inside that didn’t make it out.” The words fall out, brittle, and shatter between them like glass.

     Tahan knows there was a point in his life where the news would have filled him with grief, and that there was a point in his life where the news would have filled him with bitter rage, at the waste of it, the clumsiness of it, the unfairness of it. Right now he feels a vast nothingness, struggling around and around to feel anything about it at all. The wisps of emotion slip right through his fingers. The cold wind at his back cuts right through him. 

          He thinks maybe he feels a little nauseated. His face is hot. 

     “That’s bad,” he finally responds. It’s meant to be a statement, hardly a whisper, but almost feels like it falls out of him as a question, because he just can’t make himself feel anything at all. He knows it’s bad. Civilian casualties are bad, are to be avoided at all costs, and so it’s bad that there are innocent people who died today. He can’t stop turning it over in his mind, thinking about what could have been done differently, thinking about their last moments, but it’s clinical. Logical. He can’t make himself feel anything. He can’t stop thinking.

     Rossi turns his gaze back and eyes him seriously. Whatever he finds on Tahan’s face must not satisfy him, because he makes a strained nose somewhere in the back of his throat and settles a hand on his elbow and turns him around, and starts to lead him away from the sight. The other man’s fingers are steady, he can feel them, warm and strong through the sleeve of his uniform. Tahan’s own hands are clenched, white knuckled on his rifle. He doesn’t notice until he looks down and sees for himself. Rossi continues to watch him, concern clear on his face. “Yes, Battista. It’s very bad.”

     The use of his first name snaps at him, and he drags his attention from the things crawling about in his own head to look Rossi in the eye. The younger man blinks at him, hand now traveling up his arm to settle warmly against the side of his neck. Tahan stands rigid, focused on the honey-brown gaze that flicks over him head to toe. His voice sticks in his throat. He doesn’t know what else to say-- there isn’t really anything to say, right now. He can’t exactly tell Rossi he doesn’t feel anything at all, can’t ask him how he’s supposed to keep doing this, can’t ask him for help in knowing right from fucking wrong.

     Silence stretches between them. It feels like the air is thick and syrupy, it feels like it gets tangled up in his lungs. He forces his fingers on his rifle to flex and work, lest they become too brittle and shatter like glass. Rossi’s gaze strays to whatever lurks behind him and then snaps back to his face, and his hand doesn’t leave his neck, thumb pressed carefully to the line of his jaw. Tahan starts to turn and look at whatever had drawn his attention, but Rossi’s voice cracks out like a whip, and his gaze settles on him once more. “We’ll be moving on soon. Do you have all your gear?”

     The question takes him a moment to process, if only because it’s a strange thing to ask. He looks Rossi over once more, feeling like he’s clawing his way out of the fog in his head desperately, trying to see something within the man before him that’s hidden far too well. His gaze is warm, but there’s something flinty, something brittle about him. Tahan touches his fingers to the elbow of the arm outstretched to him, and then drops them once more. He doesn’t ask him what’s wrong, or what just happened. He doesn’t think he wants to know. He just nods, adjusts his grip on his rifle, and lets his friend lead him away.

[sirius]

Chaos Theory Part 11

Pairing: Cedric Diggory x Reader, Harry Potter x Reader, Draco Malloy x Reader,

Warnings: Swearing

Word Count: 6383

A/N: We are finally at the Yule Ball guys!! Quite a lot of fluff happens in this chapter, and I had a lot planned, so I had to split it into two chapters. I’m already working on Chapter 12 :) I also decided against writing Fleur’s accent because a) it’s too hard and b) it disrupts the flow of the story. Sorry? 

***

Chapter 11:

Winters at Hogwarts are the type of winters you find the most beautiful.

The school seems to sparkle from the ground up, blanketed in luxurious clouds of soft, fluffy snow and sprinkled with snowflakes that drip from the sky like angel tears. Sometimes, the winter chill can permeate through your clothes and skin and scrape an icy finger down your spine, and it’s on these days when you prefer to stay curled up beside a log fire with your nose in a good book. But most times, the snowy days and winter nights are a warm reminder of the upcoming festivities. It's these days - when your veins gush with eggnog and butterbeer and the air is perfumed with the scent of warm, sweet cinnamon - that you welcome like an old friend and embrace with all the enthusiasm that the Christmas spirit can muster.

Today is one of those days.

The day had started with presents. A state-of-the-art writing kit from Hermione, an extra large assortment of all your favourite sweets from Ron, a bottle of stupidly expensive perfumed oil from Luke, a very large and itchy scarf from Hagrid (you supposed it would match the deep blue sweater Mrs Weasley knitted for you this year), and a tiny, cute plant from Neville. Your friends at the Newsroom had also bought you small gifts including a photo frame from Colin and a water-coloured painting of Nightshade from Dean.

After the excitement of unwrapping your Christmas presents, you and Hermione met up with Harry and Ron in the common room and head down to the Great Hall for breakfast. Ron, who proudly wears a paper crown, softly pats your head in greeting and drapes a skinny, freckled arm over your shoulders as the four of you step out of the portrait hole.

You pass the Fat Lady, who giggles gleefully with her friend, Violet, already tipsy and stuffing chocolates into their mouths.

“Isn’t it a little early for that?” Ron mutters as the four of you stroll down the hallway.

You shrug, “It’s Christmas, after all.”

Ron shrugs as you both continue to amble lazily down the hallway. Closing your eyes, you sink into the moment, allowing the excitement bubbling up inside of you to overflow. There’s just so much to be happy about; you’re surrounded by your best friends, it’s Christmas and tonight is arguably the most exciting night of the school year; the Yule Ball.

Your eyes flutter when you open them, your lips cracking into a giddy grin as you glance at Harry. He’s murmuring with Hermione, one hand in his pocket while the other fidgets with his glasses. He spots you staring and clears his throat, scratching awkwardly at the nape of his neck. Hermione and Ron glance at each other and Ron unhooks his arm from around your shoulders.

“We’ll catch up with you in a moment,” Harry says to Hermione as she and Ron walk ahead of you.

“What is it, Harry?” You ask, smiling softly.  Harry dips his hand into his pocket to fish out a small box.

“I wanted to give you this myself,” Harry explains, cheeks brushed an adorable shade of pink. He looks so cute like this, all boyish nerves, sheepish and bashful.

Beaming, you take the box from his hand and eagerly unwrap the gift, littering the ground with wrapping paper in your excitement. Harry swoops down to collect the pieces of paper, twisting it nervously as you remove the last of the wrapping paper, revealing your gift.

You gasp, smiling down at a beautiful, diamond pendant, a perfect fit for your charm bracelet. The pendant resembles a snitch, with small golden wings attached to a round diamond that winks up at you, sparkling between your fingers like a morning star. It feels ridiculously expensive in your grasp, gilded with gold and flaunting a pure, white diamond.

“This is...” you trail off, admiring it in the morning light, “Harry this is far too expensive. I-I can’t accept something like this!”

“I want you to have it,” Harry insists, wrapping his hand over yours and curling it around the pendant, “Besides, I’m a millionaire, (Y/N). The youngest in the UK, according to Witch Weekly.”

“You actually read those?” you giggle, arching a mocking brow at him. 

“I kind of dug that hole myself, didn’t I?” Harry chortles, eyes shimmering, “Promise not to tell?” 

“I’ll do you one better,” you smile, raising your free hand and extending your pinky finger, “Pinky promise.” 

Harry hooks his pinky finger around yours and you both laugh, his laugh so carefree and gentle, lips curling into that smile, the one that rearranges the sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of his nose. His touch lingers on your hand, like he’s not quite ready to let you go, holding onto the moment with warm, loving hands. You’re amazed at how perfectly your hand fits in his, like two pieces of a puzzle sliding snugly together to create a perfect image in your mind.

“Thank you Harry,” you beam, finally pulling away from him, “This-this is absolutely beautiful, I’ll cherish it forever...”

You trail off, staring down at the pendant in your palm. It had been a clear, sparkling diamond before, but now, it’s beginning to change colours; a rich, ruby shade of red bleeding into the white.

“Huh,” Harry frowns down at the pendant, “I didn’t realise it changed colours.”

“Even better,” You grin as you clip your new pendant to your bracelet, rubbing it between your fingers comfortingly. Warmth surges through you at the feeling of the pendant against your skin, a reminder of the boy you love so dearly.

“I’ll think of you whenever I see it,” you beam, kissing Harry on the cheek and looping your arm through his.

Resting your head on his shoulder and sighing, the two of you follow Ron and Hermione toward the Great Hall for breakfast, a contented silence forming between the two of you. The pendant on your bracelet feels slightly heavier than the others, a special weight to it that you can’t quite describe. It makes your heart sing with joy and fills your lungs with sunlit warmth as you soak in the moment, Harry’s presence feeling welcoming and safe.

“I’ve got to ask,” you say, breaking away from Harry’s side as the two of you walk down the stairs, “Why a snitch? I mean, it’s so beautiful and I love it but I’m just curious...”

Harry pauses for a moment, looking thoughtful, as though carefully stringing a reply together. He doesn’t quite meet your eyes when he answers, his hand flying through his hair in that awkward, adorable sort of way that leaves his hair even messier than before.

“Because you’re my golden snitch,” he explains, slowly, “I see you and I’m so close and you’re right there but...but when I reach out to grab you, you dart away. Sometimes, I feel like I’ll be chasing you forever, close but not close enough to catch you. And then... other times... I look at you and I think...maybe one day...”

Harry gazes at you, silently studying you.

“I’m not that far away,” you murmur, taking his hand and interlacing your fingers, “I’m always here for you. I always have and I always will.”

Harry flashes a sad smile that makes your heart ache, “I know. Just...not in the way I’d hoped.”

Harry untangles his fingers from yours and jogs down the stairs, leaving you with a strange pang in your chest, like one of your heartstrings snapped in half; a violin string straining beneath an invisible weight. Did Harry mean that he couldn’t approach you? That you weren’t supportive enough?

Suddenly, a cold, prickle of dread threads itself across the top of your scalp, crawls down your spine, settling over you like a curse, a spell, a bad omen. Your breath hitches, caught in your throat, frozen in your lungs.

Someone is watching you.

You spin around, eyes darting as you scan your surroundings, but you can’t spot anyone or anything and the feeling slips away like a ghost in the night, leaving you feeling paranoid and delirious. You swallow thickly and turn, shoving the anxiety that’s rotting your lower belly into a dark corner in your mind as you try to focus on the Yule Ball.

Fiddling nervously with your bracelet, you proceed down the flight of stairs, passing milling students and smiling weakly as they cheerily wish you a ‘Merry Christmas’.  

Are you going insane? Is this little investigation that’s currently come to a dead end the little shove that pushes you over the edge of sanity? It had felt so real and the fact that you had felt it twice before seems to be a strange coincidence.

Because it’s not a coincidence. Someone had been watching you, and then they hadn’t, like shadows crawling across a wall. Someone who moves quickly and silently, stealthy, someone who has been doing it for a while. Invisible? Maybe.

You begin stockpiling mental notes, clipping them in your mind and saving them for later. Right now, you really don’t want to think about a potential stalker. You just want to think about Cedric and your mother’s wedding dress and the Yule Ball.

“Everything alright?” Ron asks you when you sit down next to him, his large hand softly patting your head.

“Yeah,” you shrug, pushing aside your feelings of unease, “I’m fine, just hungry.”

As you begin to pile food on your plate, a loud whoosh of beating wings rolls over the Great Hall, dimming the excited chatter and the scraping clang of cutlery against plates. Overhead, owls swoop down to deliver letters, hooting and snapping their beaks expectantly. 

“Wow, look at that one,” someone nearby whispers in awe, followed by another murmur of admiration. A few moments later, you spot the owl they’re admiring.

A very large, very beautiful Eagle Owl soars overheard, wings shimmering in the morning light. Unlike most Eagle Owls, this owl is mostly black with droplets of gold dripping over its feathers. It’s beautiful, for sure, majestic and strong and flaunting itself as though it knows it’s beautiful.

And then it makes eye contact with you and dives rather quickly, stopping just in front of your breakfast.

“Wow,” you whisper in awe, reaching out to stroke his feathers, “You’re a bit of a show-off, aren’t you?”

He - you realise he’s a male - puffs his chest in response and nuzzles his head into your hand. You check the note attached to his foot, untangling the thread and gently pulling it free. Instead of flying away, he clips his beak and cocks his head, large, auburn eyes gazing at you almost lovingly.

You bite your lip as you read the note, scribbled in a familiar, elegant cursive.

Dear Belle Fiore,

It’s about time you received your first owl. As soon as I saw him, I knew he was meant to be yours. He’s very intelligent and has a bit of an ego, but he is also very loyal and an excellent flier.

Take care of him, and he’ll take care of you.

Merry Christmas, my sweet fiore.

All my love,

Papa

“He’s mine,” you grin, folding the note in half again and shoving it into your pocket, “My father bought him for me!”

Hermione and Harry share matching grins as they pat your new owl. Ron looks a little jealous, and you can almost hear his thoughts as he compares Pig to your owl. But you know Ron, to his core, sometimes better than he knows himself and you know that Ron is just as loyal to Pig as Pig is to Ron.

“What are you going to call him?” Harry asks, tickling your owls' feathers.

You stare at your new owl, at his distinct colourings, unique to every other owl you’ve seen, and the name comes to you in a low whisper.

“Atlas,” you beam, and Atlas hoots happily, almost in agreement.

“Atlas,” Hermione echoes, thoughtfully, “I like it!”

Grinning, you feed Atlas chunks of bacon and pieces of toast, patting his feathers gently, your father's written words coming back to you.

Take care of him, and he’ll take care of you.

***

Atlas remains by your side for most of the morning, even as you sit in the snow watching Hermione build a snowman, he’s perched on your arm, careful not to cut you with his sharp talons as you feed him little treats.  

But Atlas, as beautiful as he is, can’t distract you from the paranoia leaking down the ridges of your spine and the daunting feeling of dread you’d felt when you had sworn someone was watching you. The thought makes your stomach churn with worry, haunting you, as though the eyes hadn’t taken their silent, ominous gaze off you.

“Okay, what’s wrong?” Hermione asks, seriously. You shrug nonchalantly and Hermione pins you with a stern look, “There’s something wrong, I know there is.”

You lower your arm to the ground and Atlas hops off, digging his talons into the snow and giving a low hoot of disapproval, “Earlier today, I could have sworn someone was watching me...”

“When?” Hermione asks, anxiously.

“When Harry gave me his Christmas present and told me I was his ‘golden snitch.’”

Hermione blinks, “His what?”

“His snitch,” you reiterate, cheeks uncomfortably warm, “He bought me a charm for my bracelet and it was a snitch and I asked him why he chose a snitch and - well - he told me that I was like a snitch; close but never close enough for him to catch.”

Your gaze strays toward Harry, who is currently trying to shield himself behind a tree from Ginny’s barrage of snowballs. As if sensing your gaze on him, Harry turns to you, a goofy grin tugging at the corners of his lips, and as you make eye contact, the smile fades. The two of you glance away from each other quickly, blushing.

“But that's beside the point,” you say, quickly, “After he left, I felt someone’s eyes on me and it was...it was frightening...”

“That’s...interesting,” Hermione mutters, brows creased in thought, “How long did the feeling last?”

“Just a few seconds,” you reply, reaching out to scoop a handful of ice and plaster it onto the snowman.

“Hmm. Maybe it was Peeves? He’s been known to do that, he enjoys creeping people out.”

You blink, relief mingling with your worry. You’d never thought of Peeves. It would explain why you wouldn’t be able to spot him and how he moves so quickly. 

But the image doesn’t quite fit with that horrid, icy feeling that had crystallised your veins completely. Still, it’s the only logical explanation, and you bury that uncomfortable, sloshing swirl of anxiety beneath a relieved sigh.

“Yeah, it must have been,” you mutter, non-committal. Right now, you really don’t want to dwell on stalkers or anxiety, all you want to do is think about the upcoming Yule Ball, and your lips split into an excited smile, “Anyway, enough about that. Have you spoken to Victor?”

Hermione flushes, “Yeah. He...bought me some flowers earlier today.”

“Really?!” You gasp, grinning and poking her in the shoulder, “Hermione! You’re supposed to tell me these things!”

Hermione bites her lip sheepishly, cheeks stained a deep, crimson red, “I know, I was going to show them to you! But then...”

Hermione trails off, staring at something behind you. You straighten, dusting the snow from your gloves and glancing over your shoulder.

Luke strides toward you, hands in the pockets of his thick coat, his thick hair poking out from beneath a woollen beanie, and a wicked grin hooked across his lips.

“Lulu!” He calls out to you, breath turning to mist on his lips as he waves at you, “Hey! Looks like you got Adrien’s owl alright...”

When he approaches you, he ropes you into a one-armed hug, his body a furnace of heat as he holds you to his side. Atlas cocks his head and snaps his beak angrily, fluttering up to your shoulder and gripping you possessively.

“Looks like he’s jealous,” Luke laughs, as you extend your arm. Atlas slowly climbs down your arm, careful not to hurt you as you scratch his head reassuringly.

“You don’t have to be jealous,” you whisper, smiling, “You and my cat, Nightshade, are the babies of my heart.”

Atlas hoots happily and leaps off your arm, though not without glaring at Luke. When he hops away, you turn back to Luke, brows raised in mild surprise.

“You knew about Father’s present?”

“Yeah,” Luke shrugs, “He asked me what I think you’d like. I said an owl and he shocked us both by actually listening to me for a change.”

“Wow. You actually had a conversation with our dad without getting into an argument,” you pat Luke’s shoulder, smiling.

“Oh, fuck no. No it ended in a screaming match, it always does when I ask about...” Luke cuts himself off with a sharp intake of breath, swallowing the words on the tip of his tongue.

“Oh, Hermione,” he greets with a nod and a wink, “Sorry, I’m being rude. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Luke,” Hermione smiles softly at him, “Enjoy your morning?”

Luke nods, “There was an intense game of wizard chess between myself and Aiden Zabini in the Slytherin common room. The loser had to skinny dip in the Black Lake and touch the Giant Squid.”

“Judging by the lack of water, I’d say you won,” Hermione says, and Luke feigns mild offence.

“Of course I won, Hermione. Your lack of confidence in me is depressing.”

Hermione rolls her eyes and you nudge him in the ribs.

“So, did you just come to annoy us or do you have an actual reason to be here?” You tease, darting away from Luke as he reaches out to ruffle your hair.

“I just wanted to see what you were doing and I wanted to meet your owl,” Luke answers, eyes drifting to the snowman standing still behind Hermione, “Are you two going to introduce me to your new friend or are you both going to continue to be rude?”

You take Luke’s gloved hand and lead him closer to your snowman, “Luke, this is a snowman. Snowman, this is my stupid, older brother.”

“Wait, he doesn’t have a name?” Luke gasps, scandalously, “Every snowman has to have a name!”

“Well, What should we call him?” Hermione asks, a small smile flirting around the corners of her lips, “Since you suggested it...”

Luke bites his lip and stares at the snowman in silent contemplation. It’s then that you realise there’s something not quite right with Luke, different somehow. He seems...energised, bouncing on the balls of his feet as though his shoes were stuffed with springs. Like he could leap off the Astronomy tower and float away.

“So, Luke,” you begin, feeling the way your smirk spreads, “Are you the lucky bloke that scored Cho Chang as your date?”

Luke’s smile falters at its edges and he doesn’t meet your eyes when he answers, “Nah,” he shrugs, “No, I’m going with someone else.”

“Who?” Hermione pries, grinning teasingly.

Luke raises a challenging brow at her, “Guess.”

Hermione folds her arms over her chest and squints. Luke doesn’t tear his gaze away from her, smirking devilishly. Atlas lands on the snowman’s head, scratching curiously.

A look of realisation dawns on Hermione’s face and Luke nods, as if to confirm her silent question. He turns back to the snowman just as Hermione opens her mouth.

“How about Icesiah?” He suggests with a grin, “You know, instead of Isaiah?”

Hermione closes her mouth, lashes fluttering. You roll your eyes and chortle.

“Creative.”

Luke shrugs, “I try.”

“So you didn’t say who you were going to the ball with,” you pry, poking his chest, his shoulder, his cheek. Luke laughs and bats your hand away.

“I told you to guess.”

“You told Hermione to guess,” you giggle as Luke tries to grab you. Atlas hoots protectively and dives between you and Luke.

Luke juts his chin at Atlas, “He should really be up in the Owlery. Owls are nocturnal, y’know.”

Atlas gives an offended hoot at Luke’s suggestion.

“He’s obviously not tired yet,” you snip and Luke shrugs.

Now you can definitely tell what’s different about Luke; The light in his eyes is different, as though his pupils have been sprinkled with flecks of silver and gold. You watch with mingled curiosity and concern as those same eyes, shimmering bright with mischief and something you can’t read, drift to something just past you.

“Looks like someone’s waiting for you,” Luke nods at someone behind you and you follow his line of sight, spotting Cedric standing near the castle, waving at you. You wave back.

“I’ll be right back,” you murmur over your shoulder, leaving Luke and Hermione behind.

The snow crunches beneath your boots, as you approach Cedric, leaving depressions to mark your path. You shrug your coat around you a little tighter, shielding more than just the cold. Your breath crystallises in front of you, plumes of dainty, soft mist, and the air burns when it hits your throat. But you smile anyway when Cedric meets you halfway, beaming as he trudges through the snow toward you.

“Hey,” he murmurs, softly.

“Hey,” you breathe, heart soaring.

Golden sunlight streams through his hair, lighting the crown of his head like a halo, an angel of the morning, an angel with no wings. You feel drawn to him, to the way his eyes sparkle, like light dancing on the ocean.

A wingless angel...

“Come for a walk with me?” He asks, offering you his arm.

You bite your lip and glance over your shoulder. Hermione and Luke chat happily as he helps her build Icesiah, one arm bent behind him as the other one pats Icesiahs head. In one fluid action, he smoothly dumps a handful of snow down the back of her coat and Hermione shrieks a surprised laugh.

Nearby, George and Ginny are chasing Ron and Harry, snowballs careening through the air. Harry meets your eyes from across the grounds and there’s a pinch to his mouth and a muscle ticking in his cheek and he doesn’t look jealous, not exactly, just...disappointed, perhaps a little sad. His words from earlier seem to echo in your ears, rattling something deep in your chest.

Sometimes, I feel like I’ll be chasing you forever, so close but not close enough to catch you...

You quickly glance away, flashing Cedric what you hope is a warm smile. Sliding your arm under his, you let Cedric take the lead.

(You’d let Cedric lead you just about anywhere)

Atlas fixes Cedric with a warning glare before giving you an affectionate peck on the ear and flying off your shoulder, flapping his large wings deliberately, as though trying to show off to Cedric and Luke.

“So,” He starts, smiling softly as he watches Atlas soar through the air, “Atlas is the newest addition to the Arden family...how is Nightshade feeling about it?”

You bite your lip, “She doesn’t know yet...I hope she doesn’t get too jealous. She’s prone to jealousy.”

Cedric laughs, a burst of warmth that melts the ice in the air, “She should know by now that she’s irreplaceable.”

“I think a part of her does,” you chuckle, “Anyway, how was your morning?”

“Pleasant, actually. My friends and I smuggled a heap of pastries from the kitchens so the whole common room smelt like a French bakery.”

You hum, imagining the rich, sweet scent, “Nice. You guys have the best common room.”

Cedric chortles, “Yeah, we really do.”

The two of you stroll past the Black Lake playing your usual game of twenty questions, laughing and soaking up each other’s company. Somehow, the conversation turns into a snowball fight, though you’re not sure when and how it changed so dramatically (That is - of course - a lie; you don’t think you could ever forget the look of sheer surprise that crossed Cedric's face with you smeared a handful of snow on his head)

And it’s just like a black and white movie, romantic and dreamy, being chased through the snow while Cedric trails close behind you, his Quidditch strength propelling him through the snow as you laugh at him teasingly. And then his arms hook around your waist and he’s spinning you in the air, holding you close, and the orchestra swells into a crescendo and this is the part when the lovers kiss, when they fall into one another when they vow to love one another for all eternity.

But that doesn’t happen.

Instead, he carefully places you on your feet and you step away from him, back pressed up against the bark of a very large, very old Weeping Willow, biting your lip as he steps closer, closer, closer, tantalisingly close, cheeks flushed a rosy pink and eyes dancing and lips, chapped and soft, bent into a loving smile.

‘Pretty boy’ someone - Luke, maybe - had once said, and yes, he certainly is handsome but Cedric Diggory is so much more than just that and it shows in the way that he gazes at you like you’re the only star in his sky.

“Um,” Cedric hedges boyishly, glancing shyly at you, “I have something for you...”

You smile up at him in surprise as you accept the box, the cool silver biting into your gloved fingertips. The box alone is stunningly beautiful; an intricate, floral design carefully carved into the glinting silver, like something stolen from an Emily Bronte book. You slide your fingers over the smooth, cool surface and open it.

You gasp.

Sitting inside the silver box, cushioned on velvet, is a beautiful necklace. A small fire lily hangs from a delicate white-gold chain and in the centre of the petals is a small sapphire, winking up at you. The sentimentality of the pendant doesn’t go by unnoticed; the first time you met Cedric, he had tucked a fire lily behind your ear in an effort to cheer you up.

“Cedric,” you whisper, faintly, “This is...stunning...”

“You like it?” Cedric asks, ducking his gaze to catch yours.

“I love it,” you correct, launching yourself into his arms, hugging him around the neck and breathing in the scent of sandalwood and rich honey and Cedric, like you can inhale him and trap him inside your lungs forever.

Cedric laughs in surprise before his arms fold around your waist, holding you flush against him, lips pressed to the crown of your head. You close your eyes and sigh, nestling into him, his arms a crystal-clean oasis in the middle of a thousand-mile desert, and you don’t want to let go, not now, not ever.

After a long moment, Cedric breaks away, his smile lighting up the sun. You bite down on a grin, giggling with joy and holding the necklace up.

“Would you mind...?” You trail off, tongue sliding across the tip of your canine tooth as your lips break into a smile.

“Of course,” Cedric grins, gently taking the necklace as you turn your back to him, sliding off your coat and shuddering against the cool wind.

There’s a sense of hesitation lingering in the air as he steps toward you, his breath hot and silky on your shoulder, and your breath hitches, frozen behind your tonsils as you feel the flutter of his hand, warm, gentle and unassuming. His finger trails up the bend of your spine like following the roads on a map, tickling the hair at the nape of your neck as he drapes the necklace around your neck. His fingers ghost across your collarbone, touch dancing on cool skin, as though he were carefully connecting constellations on your skin.

Clamping down on your quivering bottom lip, you slowly turn to him, showing off the necklace hugging your neck.

“Thank you,” you whisper, fingers reaching up to slide a gentle finger over the pendant. Cedric flashes a radiant smile and his eyes dip to your fingers, following a path down your chest and up again.

“Beautiful,” Cedric breathes, drinking you in like milk and honey, his tongue flicking over the cushion of his lower lip, “You are absolutely beautiful.”

Your cheeks glow with warmth at the intensity of his gaze, like he’s admiring a piece of fine art. There’s something contagious in the way he stares, something that splutters in your lower belly, molten-hot and warming your entire body.

Static crackles in the air.

Laughter echoes in the distance.

And - just like that - Cedric shakes himself out of his thoughts, that strangely magnetic and equally disarming hunger swallowed up by the Cedric you’re so familiar with.

“You must be cold,” he states, rushing to wrap your coat over your shoulders. His arm brushes against yours and your breath catches in your throat.

“Thanks,” you murmur, glancing at him through your lashes.

If there is one thing that you learned today, it is that you love Cedric Diggory in any shape and form, but especially when he’s hungry.

***

You suppose there is a bit of humour in the fact that everything you’re wearing right now has been given as a gift to you.

Cedric's necklace, sitting pretty around your neck, sparkles and winks at your reflection. Your mothers' wedding dress cascades off your skin, waves of tulle and silk pooling around your feet. The warm glow of the dormitories candlelight glints off the white diamonds planted carefully in the centre of soft petals, shimmering like the dressmaker had stolen stars from the sky and stitched them into the skin of the dress.

You and Hermione had to make adjustments to the wedding dress, as the train was two metres long and there were several layers of tulle that probably would have frightened Cedric into believing he was actually marrying you. And, though you had entertained that fantasy in a million different scenarios, scaring your date off was not something you wanted to do for your first ball.

Anticipation climbs up your throat and inches itself across your lips into a smile as your hands grasp a handful of the delicate fabric of your dress and rub it between your fingers.

“You look beautiful,” Hermione coos, beaming at you. She looks as though she may cry.

You bite down on a girlish giggle, fingers playing with Cedric’s necklace as you turn to face Hermione.

“Don’t you dare cry,” you warn, pointing a shaky finger at her, “If you start crying, I’ll start crying and we’ll both be a snotty mess.”

Hermione snorts a laugh, shaking her head as you gather the delicate material in your hands and step toward her, looping your arms around her and hugging her.

“You look so gorgeous, Hermione,” you whisper into the shell of her ear, “You’ll be turning heads and breaking hearts for sure.”

The two of you break away and she laughs.

“Me? You’re the prettiest girl in school. If anyone is going to turn heads and break hearts, it’s you.”

You playfully nudge her shoulder with your own, rolling your eyes and barely managing to smother the flush of warmth crawling up your neck.

“We both look fucking sexy,” you grin, raising your chin and unfurling your spine, “Lets knock ‘em dead!”

Hermione throws her head back in a laugh and the two of you loop arms, gliding down the stairs of the girls dormitory toward the common room.

“You’re meeting Victor outside the Entrance Hall, yeah?” You ask and Hermione nods, giving you a questioning look.

“Same,” you breathe, nervous energy suddenly spilling into your lower gut. You sigh, breath trembling on your lips.

Hermione squeezes your hand.

“You look beautiful,” Hermione murmurs, flashing you a reassuring smile, “He’s going to love you even more than he already does. Trust me.”

You chew anxiously on your bottom lip, taking a deep breath in and exhaling shakily, faintly, as you enter the common room and step out of the portrait hole.

People stop to stare when you and Hermione walk past. It’s strange, unnerving, grating - really - gapes and whispers following you as you and Hermione head toward the Entrance Hall. It makes your stomach curl in mingled self-consciousness and embarrassment and maybe a little bit of pride because yes, this is your mothers dress, and yes it was as beautiful as she was, as though she had taken some of her beauty and stitched it into the gown and a part of you is anxious about what Cedric will think but the other part - the other part that knows him, that loves him - is excited.

Finally, you and Hermione arrive at the top of the stairs to the Entrance Hall. You spot Cedric and Victor chatting in light conversation and Hermione bleats a nervous laugh.

“Well, here it goes,” she chuckles and you squeeze her hand one last time before letting go.

Taking one careful step at a time, the two of you slowly descend the stairs. Cedric slants a glance at you and then he does a double take.

His eyes widen, jaw-dropping.

Your heart flutters, takes flight, soars.

Cedric gazes at you as though he’s just stepped into a daydream, caught in a trance, his eyes never leaving yours. He seems to have forgotten how to breathe, feet rooted to the spot, like a moonstruck groom at the end of the aisle, watching his blushing bride glide toward him. And - maybe ten years from now - this exact scenario might unfold but in a different setting. For now, all you can focus on is this moment, this very important bookmark in time. 

He meets you at the base of the stairs, rushing forward as though pulled to you by some invisible, magnetic force.

“Wow,” He murmurs, eyes sweeping over you hungrily, not sure where to look first, “You look - I mean - you are - absolutely s-stun-beautiful. Angelic.”

Warmth flares in your cheeks, “It’s the dress...And the necklace.”

Cedric licks his lips, shakes his head, “No. it’s you. You are...you are exquisite.”

Your tongue laves across your bottom lip, and that same hunger leaks into Cedric's eyes as he follows the movement and it’s thrilling and it’s disarming and it’s so unlike the Cedric the world knows and maybe that’s what makes it so damn beautiful.

“(Y/N)?”

You’re yanked out of your trance by a familiar voice and you turn, finding Luke standing behind you.

“Holy shit,” he curses, standing back to admire you, “You-you look...” a pained expression flits across his face, eyes misty, “...you look like - like her. Like mum.”

Eyes welling with tears, you throw yourself into Luke’s arms and he holds you close for a long moment. You break away, blinking back the tears wanting to roll down your cheeks and Luke beams proudly at you.

“She’d be so proud of you, y’know,” he murmurs, voice husky and low.

You nod, lips pressing together to stop yourself from crying, “She’d be proud of you, too.”

“Excuse me, but who are you?” A French, frilly voice snips sharply from behind you. You break away from Luke, finding Fleur Delacour standing behind you. Her arms are crossed over her chest, silvery hair flowing over her shoulders. She looks beautiful, even though her expression is pinched into a look of slight jealousy.

“Oh, right, you two haven’t officially met,” Luke says, shaking his head, “So, Fleur, this my little sister, (Y/N). (Y/N), this is Fleur, my date.”

Your eyes widen in disbelief, “Your date?”

Luke furrows his brows, “Don’t sound so shocked, you’ll offend Fleur. She’s more than worthy to be my date.”

Fleur rolls her eyes and prods him in the ribs with the sharp edge of her elbow, “I’m doing you a favour.”

Luke bends down and kisses her cheek, “And I’m just joking, of course. I feel like the luckiest boy in the world right now.”

“That’s because you are,” you retort, earning a chortle from Fleur. She smiles, and it seems to glow as though she’s bathed in moonlight. 

“So, you’re Luke’s little sister,” Fleur says, her eyes glittering.

“Unfortunately,” you tease in French, the accent rolling off your tongue, and Fleur gives a surprised laugh.

“I have a little sister too,” she replies in French, and you can tell she’s trying to fight back a proud grin, “She’s back in France.”

“Do you think she’ll come over for the second and third task?”

“I hope so,” Fleur sighs, just as Professor McGonagall claps for everyone’s attention.

Students begin to stream into the Great Hall, leaving just the four champions and their dates. Realising what’s going on, you turn back to Fleur, who’s startling blue eyes are already on you.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, (Y/N),” she smiles at you, taking Luke’s arm as he finishes a murmured conversation with Cedric.

“You too, Fleur,” you grin, already imagining Ron’s face when you tell him you’ve actually had a proper conversation with Fleur Delacour.

Fleur tugs Luke away by the elbow, who seems reluctant to end his conversation with Cedric. As you wait for them to finish up, you spot Harry stealing glances at you and your breath hitches. He seems to be struggling to keep his eyes off you, fighting hard with a jelly-like resolve. You flash him a small smile and wave and Harry turns away.

When Luke and Fleur leave to line up in front of the procession Professor McGonagall ordered, you cock your head at Cedric and give him a careful slide glance.

“What was that about?” You whisper, sliding your arm under his, and Cedric shakes his head dismissively.

“Nothing,” he reassures, though there is an adorable, moon crescent furrow in his brow.

“Alright, is everyone ready?” Professor McGonagall asks.

There are a couple of nods and murmured answers and Professor McGonagall spins on the clunky heel of her Mary Janes, striding toward the large, wooden doors.

You shoot Hermione a nervous glance over your shoulder, to where she stands behind you, and she grins nervously.

Professor McGonagall pushes the doors open.

Your breath hitches.

***

@marauderskeeper @weaselby418 @acciorinn @hervench @depressed-octopods-art @steph-fowlie @lilulo-12 @randomfangirl117 @asofslytherin @seunlight @thebesteleganttrashyouseen @elsie2018 @polkadotfairyposts @hylianhighlander @dracosdoves @siriuswitches @bernadineisreborn @lousimusician @randomoutsiders @smolldork @danidomm @xrosegoldwolfx @ashkuuuu @sly-vixen-up2nogood @tchalland @lucifersnipnips @notorious-fiction @peppermintspecks @sleep-i-ness @reducto-bitch @who-said @mhftrs @whimsicalangels1234 @kneekoteen  @steve-thotgers @qrangr @valiantlynervouschaos @klaudia-deer @bennie-badeend @gryffinclxw @steph-fowlie @acciorinn @fallern618 @alyenaaa @dammit-scamander @kararanae23 @myhopeisinfinite @blaised-zabini @poppykoke @swansong321 

[argylemikewheeler]

bro, i’ve got a veryyyy angsty prompt idea. for some reason, mike comes with Nancy, Jonathan, and Joyce in 2x9 and has to listen to will being tourtured and it’s just very angsty

|| this took me so long (like a year) to answer but I finally did it. I told you guys I’ll get around to all of them… ||

Everything moved faster than Mike could process. One minute, he was standing by Will’s bedside, finding comfort in hearing him breathe easily and slowly in his sleep; the next, he was rushing out of Hawkin’s lab, Will draped over the Chief’s shoulder; finally he found himself sitting in the backseat of a car– maybe it was Jonathan’s? All Mike could really understand was that Jonathan was the one driving it. Nancy was sitting in the passenger seat, stoic and silent, with a plug-in heater sitting on her lap. Will and his mom were in the back beside Mike. Will was wrapped tightly, nearly bound, in the quilt that typically laid uselessly over the end of Will’s bed. Now it was trying to protect him from the cold and the monster that thrived on it. Mrs. Byers was gripping Will to her body, rocking him back and forth and trying to coax him back to her. For her sake, Mike kept hoping every time they hit a hard bump Will would gasp awake.

He didn’t wake up. Well, at least not that way.

Mike followed everyone out of the car and into the cabin. It was buried in the deep shadows and foliage of the woods behind seemingly every neighborhood in Hawkins. Windows were boarded up and shattered glass covered the porch as they entered slowly. They scanned the house with interest and caution while Jonathan carried Will to the couch.

“We’ll do it here.” Mrs. Byers said, crouching by an unlit fireplace.

Suddenly, everyone began moving around the house. Jonathan moved a bed from another room and Nancy framed it with heaters and a well stacked fireplace. Mike stood by the door, still unsure of how his night had escalated to such surreality. Nancy and Jonathan moved with such swiftness and fury, and Mike clung to the wall, afraid to step in their way.

Mike was the one responsible for the radio. He could see it sitting on a table; an old police radio with receiver resting on top of it. Mike shuffled towards it, his actions going unnoticed by the three other people in the room. Technically four, but Mike tried not to consider the body being moved on the bed as Will. Not at that moment. It would go back to being Will, but first they had to sweat the monster out of him. The details of which were horrifically foggy to Mike.

“What are you doing?” It was the first time Mike made his presence known, stepping forward but a hand resting on the radio. Jonathan had rope in his hand and was beginning to bind Will’s feet and arms to the bed posts. “What are you doing to him?”

“Mike, we have to do this. We have to tie him down so he doesn’t hurt anyone.” Jonathan tried to explain it to Mike, but his tone suggested he was wasting time speaking to him.

“You’re going to hurt him!” Mike cried.

“It’s not Will.” Nancy said. Mike didn’t like the way it sounded coming from her. It might not have been Will’s actions and behavior, but Will was still in there somewhere. He was the one they were trying to save.

Mike lowered his eyes, looking down at the radio and the Morse code chart hanging above it. The heaters buzzed and hissed and the fireplace crackled, but no one spoke. Other than Mike, no one was consulting each other. No one wanted to voice their uncertainty. Mike couldn’t help but feel like maybe they didn’t have any.

Mike looked at Will and could barely keep a shudder from running through him; they were standing over Will’s bound body like he was peacefully dreaming. Nancy and Jonathan seemed able to ignore the vein surfacing on his face, like he was already dead and slowly bloating. They pretended not to see the way his arms already showed signs of bruising from when he fought against them in the Byers’ garage. They were acting like everything was fine.

Mike sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, and pretended too. Pretended he wasn’t watching his best friend burn to his possible death. Mike sat with his quivering lip hidden behind his hands and waited. His bated breath twisted to sniffles and he fought every unfamiliar instinct he had to cry.

Time seemed to pass slower the hotter the room got. With the four heaters and fireplace going, every breath was timed and only seemed to stretch the moment out further. Will had been still since they had been in the house, and his first twitch was like an electroshock throughout the house. He surged upwards, his back bowing and arms straining against the rope. Mike pressed his back against the wall, hoping he’d fall through it.

“What’s happening?” Will breathed, his eyes opening and arms tugging against the ropes repeatedly. His head twisted and he stared at the ropes, his eyes widening but not afraid. “It hurts.” Will repeated himself, growing agitated the more his brother and mother stood beside the bed, staring at him. Will’s voice cracked as he screamed at the ceiling. “Let me go! Let me go!”

Will’s neck snapped back and he convulsed against the bed. Mike closed his eyes, pressing the heels of his palms against them. He hoped the white dots would disorient him, give him something else to worry about as he heard his best friend screeching in pain across the room.

“You’re hurting him!” Mike screamed, Will’s pleas unable to be blocked out by his closed eyes. “Stop it! Stop it!”

“It’s doing its job.” Joyce said firmly, staring back at the monster showing himself in her son’s frightened face. “He’s had Will long enough.” She turned a knob of a heater higher.

“No stop!” Mike cried. He jumped to his feet but was held back by Nancy before he got two steps in. “You’re hurting Will! It’s Will!”

“It’s not him, Mike.” Jonathan said. He was reminding himself too.

“He feels it! He definitely feels it!” Mike screamed, watching Will’s neck nearly break. Will’s mouth was open but the sound was in no way created by his own vocal chords; it was creeping up from some voided part of him, swelling and seeping with darkness. “You have to stop!”

“No. Not yet!” Joyce snapped, watching Will convulse. It couldn’t have been easy for her, but showing any doubt would have been worse.

“Please! Oh my god, Will! Please, if you can hear me… just hold on!” Mike wasn’t sure what begging would do. His cries would have to go through the Mind Flayer first; Will would probably never hear it. “Will, please!”

In a sudden burst, everything in the cabin seemed to go silent– a blanket of white noise suffocating them all from the rest of the world. The lights began to flicker and Mike had the sinking feeling it wasn’t anything trying to communicate to them; it was purely a threat.

“His neck! Jonathan, his neck!” Nancy released Mike and pointed at Will’s throat, still straining as he screamed.

“I can’t watch.” Mike turned away as his stomach began churning. He thought he was going to throw up while at the same time start hysterically sobbing. He was on the edge of something short of a break down. “Please, Will, please. Please please please.” He was muttering nonsense, but it was the only prayer he had left. That was his best friend. His best friend. His Will.

It had already reached Hell-like temperatures, but only then did it feel like Mike was burning. Like the flames were surrounding not only Will but the entire room. Mike felt itchy, like he was drying up to stone. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even think. He couldn’t only hear Will screaming.

Mike thought he was going to start screaming back. It was on the tip of his tongue, a bubble of frustration forming under his ribs, a final demand to leave his best friend alone. Leave him alive. Just as he opened his mouth and turned around, Will did too. Except his scream wasn’t much of a sound. It was a coiling, fleeting string of smoke.

Mike wasn’t sure if it even was smoke. It felt human. The room felt like it was thrumming with static, frozen in time, before the thing darted toward the door. It sped past Mike and busted the front door open. Nancy ran after it, amazement following the black smoke and leaving the cabin empty and shaken. Mike turned around to see Will weakly blinking at his mother, who was now kneeling over him.

Mike fumbled for the radio, his hands barely pressing the button before shouting into it. There was a crackled answer, one Mike didn’t care to listen to, as he dropped the receiver and rushed to his friend.

“Oh my god, Will! Will, are you okay?” It was the stupidest question, Mike knew it, but he was hoping it’d be a yes. Hell, he’d take a no. He just wanted to hear Will answer.

“M-Mom?” Will whispered, still resurfacing. He turned his head. “Mike?”

“Yeah, baby, it’s us.” Mrs. Byers sighed, moving to sit beside him. “We’re here. We’re here, baby.”

“Is it over?” Will was begging. Mike couldn’t imagine how much he’d been doing that inside his own body. What didn’t they hear?

“It’s over, honey. Come here!” Mrs. Byers grabbed Will and pulled him tightly to her chest. Will’s hands squeezed her shoulders, his knuckles turning white. He was alive. He had some fight left too.

“I heard you.” Will said quietly, his head resting on his mother’s shoulder. He was looking at Mike. “I heard you talking. I thought it was a trick.”

“No, I was here! I’m here.” Mike nodded, kneeling by his bedside.

“Yeah, thank god.” Will laughed, but it was absolutely hollow. He was exhausted, tears forming in his eyes out of a strange combination of relief and utter fear. Mike reached out, against all instincts, and wiped one away.

“I’m here.” Mike repeated. “You’re here.”

Will was back. He was alive… and he was smiling. It could have been at anyone– his mother, Jonathan, even Nancy who was beginning to turn the heaters down– but Mike had a strange twisting feeling in his chest that it was for him. Will must’ve really heard him from where he was being held hostage in the back of his mind. He probably heard Mike pleading for him to live, to be okay, to make it back to them.

Mike wondered if Will had heard him back in the shed too. He’d meant every word he said: best thing he ever did. Mike hoped Will had heard him. He didn’t want his true feelings to be wasted on something trying to eat his friend alive– his confusing feelings were already doing that to Mike. That’s not what crushes were supposed to feel like… At least it wasn’t how Nancy had described them.

So maybe Will heard him. Maybe he didn’t. At least Mike still had someone alive to smile back to. There wasn’t much else he could ask for.

ao3

[ladyruina]

First story on this site

    Three weeks. It had been three weeks since promotion day and to be honest, I had no freaking clue what Promotion Day even was. Apparently once every month the facility selects someone to be “promoted”, the problem is that the people who don’t make the promotion selection get bare minimum notification. Turns out my sector was just informed that I was transferred to a new sector...no one even knew where I went ...explains what happened to Silica. Today, after three weeks, I woke up to a waiting room. Empty seats on every side and beneath my...tush. The same metal box I lived in for the past seventeen years after “recruitment” and would probably die in. The room had the same aesthetic as everywhere else in the facility, stainless steel walls and flooring with well lit bulbs. Couldn’t tell which type of lightbulb though I’d have to gamble fluorescent bulbs with UV integration, cheap, effective and keeps us alive for a little bit longer. Just how the facility likes it. As per my regular protocol when in an unfamiliar space without a commanding officer I entered a status I have titled, “eyes down, nose out of others business”. It’s embarrassing to say that it took a rough fifteen seconds before realizing that the marks of claws against the floor were EVERYWHERE. You adjust to this kind of thing in the facility, there’s always something clawing up the floors, crawling up the walls or eating your friends upper lobe… rest in peace Franklin. My mind defaulted to entity containment training, signs of anomalous activity identified, analyze the signs: three toed claws, they appear to be dexterous and agile similar to species of avians and raptors. Stage four determine if anomalous being has moved from the ar-, that’s when I finally looked up. Three seats down from me stood a humanoid figure, full combat armor with the exact raptorian legs and feet that produced the scratch marks but the entity was calm almost seemed like it was waiting, same as me save for a bit of an impatient air. It swiftly and repetitively tapped its talons against the ground. Naturally my first thought occurred. “Oh god, is promotion just code word for feeding me to an entity.” I scanned the room only to discover many more entities, some looked very similar to the raptorian entity, others were vastly different. Entities with helmets resembling felines moving from one individual to another, entities with creepy masks that were standing on the walls and ceilings to avoid the clutter on the ground, entities that had no eye holes but spikes at the back on the helmet that vaguely reminded me of bats. All were equipped with combat armor and....facility issue weaponry? Aside from that there were few other schmucks in the room that looked a lot like me, scared, panicked and confused. I looked over to the impatient one only to see it staring at me.

“Shit!” it said in a surprisingly human voice “I-uh, sorry about starin’. It’s always just so weird to see one of you in here.”

“One of...me?” I implored.

“Y’know, an unaugmented.” it gestured at all of me. “So… weird after you’ve gone through the process. So, y’know which one you’ll be?”

I hesitated. “What?” 

“Y’know. Like a raptor, a bat, a cat. That sorta thing.” it seemed to be naming things off the top of its head. “I’m a raptor so you could learn the ropes with me if you end up a part of the pack.”

This fascinated me, I had never been allowed to examine or interview an entity that I had no knowledge of. So a part of me was excited despite realizing that at any moment this entity could unhinge it’s non apparent jaws and rip into my throat with it’s horrific unseen maw. Yet the pioneer sense of exploring the unknown just...overcame me.

“So what are raptors?” I asked.

“Well, you’re lookin at one.” it said in a smug tone. “We’re faster and more dexterous than the others. Only downside is that itchy to move sensation you get due to the energy boost they hook you up with and that these masks keep you alive.”

“I’m sorry what?”

“Heh. yeah, that’s what I said. Apparently The Fixer said that our oxygen has been made “inefficient” by the pollution of the modern world so we’re hooked up with some sorta super oxygen. Apparently it’s the kinda stuff dinosaurs used to breath so that’s pretty badass.”

“And that helps?”

“Gives us the energy to bounce off walls, literally.”

“Fascinating… are the other entities safe to converse with?”

“Ent-? Oh, them? Yeah most of em are chill, might get an extreme one or two but they should be reasonable.”

“Right, thank you.”

“Eh, no prob dude.”

I stood up and began to wander over to one of the “bats” who was standing in a group of its own kin. I began to raise my hand to greet it as I approached, a quick “hey” to get it’s attention only to be interrupted.

“Yes?” it said in a high pitched tone, turning to face me before it even should have known I was on my way. Apparently my shock was apparent as it recoiled quickly. “Right, sorry. I forgot unaugmented wouldn’t know about that. I heard you coming, you’d be surprised how easily you are to hear coming.”

“Echolocation?” 

“Indeed! Along with some other traits.” It said “I’m basically omniscient with these mods! I can tell you anything about this room without even looking at it.”

“Hm.” I smirked. “How about this? What color is my shirt?”

It stared at me for a second before giving a light punch. “Cheating asshole.”

“Just wanted to see if you’re capable of processing color.”

“You could’ve asked.” 

the amusement faded from my expression as I began to realize that what I said was quite apparently a sore topic.

“Oh...sorry.” 

“Whatever.”

I began to awkwardly leave the company of the bats before slumping back into my chair. A few minutes go by and I’m bored out of my goddamn mind. Wish they left me a phone to check, or a magazine to read or a pistol to shoot myself with. Between the embarrassment of my slip-up and the boredom I think the lead would be preferable.

“Excuse me.” said a familiar voice. “I couldn’t help but notice multiple strains in your face aligning with stress that may be caused by the process of transferring to a new region. Is it possible that I may alleviate some of your stress through a formal discussion?”

I looked up, it was goddamn impossible. I heard she was transferred and she just never responded to any message from then on, I thought she either ditched me or… the far more likely scenario, eviscerated or incinerated.

 “Silica?” the name of my best friend. “Silica is that you?”

The entity looked confused. “Curious. You have information on my title but records state that you were only stationed here today.” 

“Silica. It’s me.” I said in a shaken tone. “Devin.”

“Devin…” she stared at me blankly, moments passed by. “Ah yes. We used to be close friends, is this information correct?”

“Yes. so you’ve been here this whole time?”

“Affirmative, Devin.”

“What happened? Why didn’t you respond to any messages I sent?”

Another brief silence. “I just checked my message log, I received none of them under the name of “Devin” or any related pseudonym.” 

“Really?” this was...a bit heartbreaking to say the very least. “You had to keep in touch with Evelyn! I remember the day you got Evelyn’s contact address and you were a goddamn mess. Head over heels! Please tell me you kept in touch.”

Another goddamn pause. “Oh yes, Evelyn. I suppose she was very nice and pretty wasn’t she?”

“What are you talking about?!” the other entity’s started staring at me. I was getting loud. “You sound like you don’t care! You goddamn loved her and now she’s an afterthought?!”

“Please calm yourself. You’re becoming exacerbated and it may draw negative connotations towards you in future conversations with the other people residing in this room.”

I began to look over, the entities around me seemed...concerned. “S-sorry. I’m just hurt is all. It feels like you don’t remember...anything from back at Mind’s Edge.”

“Oh! That I can answer! I don’t!” she said so simply. My heart goddamn sank into the Mariana Trench and she said it so easily.

“You..forgot?”

“Don’t take it personally. Cat units have an AI planted into their brain in order to give them in depth data banks of medical procedures as well as a list of information that may be useful. This unfortunately has to replace long term memories which our AI assistants must remind us of. This also can lead to stunted emotional development. Fortunately though the emotional stagnation only caused depression in earlier Cat units. It also allows us to be proper care takers without having to worry about emotional errors such as becoming overly attached to the patient in therapy settings or panicking in active combat treatment scenarios.”

“I...need some time to process all of this.”

“Acknowledged. Please contact me or another Cat unit if you require any further psychological or physiological aid.”

“Y-yeah, got it. You got it.” That’s probably what I said. Can’t remember if it was actually what I said or not, I was in a haze. Every entity in this room was...a person? My best friend had forgotten about me. The whole world around me just faded. My greatest fear though was...what came next. My thoughts were cut short by the distant sound of heavy claws scraping against the cold metal rang out. As it approached, I could hear the sound of cloth being dragged across the ground. A voice spoke, both high and low pitched with a sort of rattle in its tone.

“Routine Procedures completed. Additional Augmentation scheduled.”

The door on the farside of the room opened.

“Devin.” The creature spoke “Devin Hale. Augmentation scheduled. Follow for Augmentation.”

[typhonserpent]

Pause

Fandom: Dragon Age 2 Rating: Explicit, MAJOR trigger warnings for depictions of suicide, self harm, and death. Genre: Drama Pairing: Fenris/Anders Summary: Fenris catches on early to Anders’ suicidal plan. He’s seen so many slaves commit suicide before. He recognizes all the signs. Finally when Varric mentions Anders trying to give him his pillow, Fenris knows that there is little time left. He and Anders might not get on like the greatest of friends, but ten years does change people, and Fenris is set on rescuing Anders from himself.

It’s finally finished! Here’s my entry for Fill-a-Thon 2019. You can find the original prompt here.

✦ My Writing Tag ✦

✦ AO3 Link - Please leave me a comment! ✦

Fenris was 16 the first time he'd heard the word 'suicide' delicately danced around.

On hotter days, Danarius liked to dress him in a chain harness which looped around his chest several times and came together in a large emerald positioned over his heart. Danarius was, in fact, quite proud of the outfit, because the gem was enchanted to provide a barrier that made his usual chest plate unnecessary. Of course, the chest plate carried the added bonus of ensuring nobody thought Fenris was an easy target, and therefore was more practical to wear day-to-day. Nevertheless, private events sometimes called for different attire, preferably one that showed off the tattoos burned into Fenris' body. His best work of art, as he put it.

Fenris had been wearing that harness. The sweat dripping down his neck made his leather collar stick to his skin. Danarius was on the balcony, overlooking the Minrathos skyline. Sunlight bounced off of polished statues and brass roofs. Fenris poured more wine into his glass.

Pairian stepped out, and cleared his throat. He was an old elf, his hair all salt, no pepper. His collar was notably threadbare compared to Fenris', the leather's finish flaked and chipping along the edges. "Master?" Pairian said, stopping behind Danarius' chair, "I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm afraid I must inform you that we have lost Jamael."

Danarius heaved a sigh, rolled his eyes, and slammed his wine glass onto the table so hard that the base of it broke. Expensive liquid sloshed out as the body of the glass toppled and shattered on the balcony floor.

"How?" He growled without looking in Pairian's direction.

"We found him in the pantry when we realized he hadn't cleaned the banisters. He ..." Pairian paused with all the care of a man walking on eggshells. He knew the next words he spoke could be met with a whip, "He appears to have suffocated."

"Has the pantry been dug deeper? How in blazes did he suffocate?"

"The ... rope around his neck may have been the culprit. Master."

Danarius rolled his eyes again and stood, kicking aside some of the broken glass on the ground. "Fenris, fetch me another glass."

"Yes, Master." And without further ado, the obedient little wolf set down the wine bottle and bolted for the kitchen.

It had been only a few months since the lyrium ritual gave him his markings and stole his memories. He didn't know if he'd known Jamael before then. Perhaps they'd been friends. After all, Jamael had been friendly enough towards him. Sunlight bled through the windows and illuminated every other stride he took as he ran, barefoot, down the halls of Danarius' huge manor.

He reached the kitchen to be greeted by a small crowd at the entrance. A stretcher had been fashioned out of two poles and an old sheet, and two of the larger elven slaves carried away a man barely recognizable from the last Fenris had seen of him.

Fenris strained to remember the last time he'd seen Jamael.

They'd passed in the hall way. Jamael had smiled and said, "Hey, how are you feeling? Still itchy?"

Fenris shook his head. Jamael had seen the physical results of the lyrium ritual. The pain, the blood, the ache that lasted for weeks, and then the itch that persisted as the wounds healed.

"If you need more, don't be shy. If you can get away from the Master for five minutes, anyway. I can sweet talk Seri into more elfroot anytime you need it." Then, he'd grinned. He was always smiling. Always helping. A personality as bright as his red hair.

That smile was gone now. His tongue swollen and sticking out, cheeks and eyes puffy. His entire head was discolored dark shades of purple and blue, sharply cutting off where the rope was wrapped tightly around his neck. The end of the rope dangled off the stretcher.

"Never thought he was the type." Someone in the crowd muttered.

"He seemed so happy yesterday." Another whispered, "I almost thought he was turning around."

"That's how it starts." A nearby voice replied, "You remember Sheera? Same thing. Months of silence, three days of calm, and then her corpse gets dragged out of the wash room. Wrists all cut up."

"Such a shame."

Fenris moved his hands to his ears, fingers tangling with his hair. Why didn't anyone try to stop him? If they knew the signs they could have at least tried!

He had to push his way through the crowd to reach the kitchen, muttering apologies all along the way. He waited a few extra minutes with the glass in his hand and his back to the door, just to ensure that he wouldn’t see the corpse again when he left.

Danarius liked Fenris to sleep at the foot of his bed. After all, a body guard should be there to guard the master at all times. Fenris told himself he didn't mind it so much. It was comfier than the slaves cots, and warmer too. Danarius always afforded him a blanket and pillow. Sometimes they'd even share the same one.

Later that night, Fenris was curled up at the foot of Danarius' bed, blanket wrapped tight around him. Water trickled and splashed in the next room while Danarius washed himself, and eventually he returned to the bedroom, hair damp, body wrapped in a silk robe.

"I'm sorry in such a state as earlier, my pet. I despise slaves like Jamael. I thought I had rid myself of most of them."

The question danced on the tip of his tongue. After all, a slave who asked a question out of turn could very easily be answered with a whip. As Danarius sat on the bed and toed off his slippers, Fenris mulled over the question in his mind, and finally decided he could ask if only to find out what not to do in the future.

"Master," He whispered, his voice as small as a mouse, "What did Jamael do?"

"He committed suicide, Fenris. He killed himself."

Suicide.

Fenris turned the word over in his head. He'd never heard it before. Just hearing it made him want to squirm. It sounded sad. It sounded wrong.

"To kill oneself is a sin in the eyes of the Maker." Danarius continued, "You know that, don't you my pet?"

Fenris nodded, because despite his shattered memories, the words did sound familiar. The idea of killing himself had never even crossed his mind.

Danarius smiled, sending a wave of relief washing over him. He wasn't in trouble for asking the question. He wasn't going to be punished.

"Good boy," Danarius purred, "Now shed your armor and come here. I think I'd like to hold you tonight."

x - X - x

Danarius kept two whips in his office. One was a cat o'nine, a fairly standard punishment tool. A worn wood rod wrapped in leather that knotted at the end and then was sliced into several smaller strips. It stung the same no matter how worn it was, though it was occasionally replaced with one that bore stiff, fresh leather.

The other was a bullwhip, and it would be easy to assume that the whip with only one tail was kinder, but that would be a foolish assumption. At the end of the tail was a gold claw. Well, the slaves assumed it was gold. Nobody was ever facing it when it was out. It was as though he had cut off an eagle's toe at the first knuckle. It tore through flesh like a blade through paper, leaving deep gashes in it's wake.

It also made an unearthly hissing sound when it struck flesh, leaving Fenris to assume that Danarius dipped it in something before he used it.

Fenris, of course, had never even seen it. Danarius sent him to wait in the hallway when he had to use it, and he was left with the screams and cries of whatever poor soul was in there with him.

A year had passed since Jamael's death. Sometimes the image of the swollen, discolored face still made Fenris wake up in a cold sweat. If possible, he grew further away from the other slaves since then. Danarius no longer allowed him to dine in the servant's wing. He was to stay by Danarius' side at all times, even if it meant eating on the floor while guests were over. The few occasions where Fenris was sent away included especially confidential meetings (usually with other Magisters), evenings when he and his wife tried to consummate, and moments like these.

Whoosh-CRACK-hiss, and in the center of it all an ear-splitting cry that echoed through the hallways while the hiss gradually fizzled out.

"I said COUNT!" Came Danarius' voice, echoing in the same voice.

The slave girl sniffled, and in a weak, shaky voice, choked, "O-one."

Whoosh-CRACK-hiss. Fenris flinched. She didn't cry out this time.

"Two."

Whoosh-CRACK-hiss. Her cry was broken. Barely a sound audible above the whip's contact.

"... three."

Fenris closed his eyes, taking deep breaths to steady himself. He pressed his back against the wall. He counted the seconds in his head.

one ... two ... three ... four ...

If enough time passed that meant it was over.

five ... six ... seven

Whoosh-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK

Fenris put his hand over his mouth, listening to the stretched-out hiss so intently that he nearly missed Danarius' footsteps approaching. Danarius burst through the door and Fenris immediately straightened his stance, eyes open and forward. Icy eyes glanced at Fenris, then at the whip in his hands. He ran his fingers along the thinnest portion of the letter, sighing when he came back with a streak of blood on his hand.

"Get her out of my office." He commanded, "I'll find you when I need you again."

He was gone without another word, leaving the door open behind him. Fenris dared a glance inside, where the elven slave was crumpled in a limp heap on the floor. Six wicked, bleeding marks shone boldly on her upturned back.

Her face was pale. Wide eyes stared into space. She didn't move when Fenris knelt beside her. She was shaking, her breathing shallow and rapid.

"Can you walk?" Fenris asked.

She didn't respond. Fenris shook her shoulder.

"Come on, let's get you out of here." He continued.

She shook her head and turned her face towards the floor.

"If you don't leave he'll whip you again when he returns."

"Let him. Let me die." She choked, squeezing her eyes shut and letting her tears drip onto the marble tiles.

"You don't mean that."

"I do!" She was sobbing now, a hiccup on every breath. With a sigh, Fenris lifted her up by her shoulders.

He managed to hoist her over one shoulder so that her back was in the air, her arm wrapped across his other shoulder. In the kitchens, Seri was rifling through cupboards and emerged as soon as he entered, her face dropping.

"Maker, she must be bad if he sent you." Seri sighed, "Set her on the cot. I'll put the water on."

Unlike the other slaves, Seri had a tiny corner of the pantry to herself. All the better to wake up early to start breakfast, or to tend to the master's whims should he find himself hungry at night. It served double duty as the closest things the slaves had to a sick room.

As gently as possible, Fenris lowered her onto the cot, careful to lay her on her side. She winced as her weight left his shoulder.

"I apologize." He pulled up a crate and sat next to her.

Her eye were bloodshot. She replied with a sniffle, "Should've left me to die."

"To kill oneself is a sin in the eyes of the maker."

"I don't care!" She shouted, shakily propping herself up on one elbow, "I want out of this mess! I wanna be free! I don't care how I do it!"

Fenris felt the color drain from his cheeks. If ever there was a word that earned a slave six lashings, that was it. If anything that was generous. Some slaves had fingers and toes cut off for less.

He swallowed a lump in his throat, and chose his next words very carefully, "If you say things like that ... you'll be punished again."

"Oh what do you care? You don't even know me." She sniffled and flopped onto her stomach, chin buried in the pillow.

"What is your name then?"

Hugging the pillow close to her, she looked at him over the fabric. He held out his hand.

She wiped off her eyes, and shook his hand.

"M'name's Deveri." She said, her voice muffled, "I've heard Master call you Fenris."

"Yes."

"I wasn't always a slave, y'know. M'parents sold me to get out of debt. I don't care 'bout them, but I hate our Master."

Seri's voice popped in along with a pot of water in her arms, "As slaves go, we're actually quite lucky. We could be serving one of those magisters who cuts up every slave for experiments. At least under Master Danarius we get three hots and a cot. Decent food, too. Not rotten leftovers or table scraps."

She pressed a damp rag into Deveri's back, earning a hiss in response.

Fenris opened his mouth, then shut it again. There was something left unsaid between them, and he couldn’t put his finger on what. Seri poked his arm.

“You’d best get back to the master before he misses you.” She said.

Fenris never hesitated on an order. He immediately stood and left, barely catching Seri snapping, “Hush” while Deveri quietly sobbed.

Two weeks later he was fetching a bottle of wine from the cellar when he ran into Seri again. Burn-striped hands threw a glob of bread dough on the counter and started kneading deep caverns into it.

“Seri,” He began, pausing at the door to the cellar.

“Hm? What you need? You hurt?”

“No, I was ...” He shuffled his feet, eyes on the ground, “I was just wondering how Deveri was doing.”

“Heard the news, eh? I’m afraid she didn’t make it.”

His heart jumped to his throat. He looked up to see her kneading the bread as though she’d said nothing.

“What?” He breathed, “The whipping was harsh but … did her back get infected?”

Seri wiped her hands on her apron, “Her back was healing fine, she cut her wrists. That’s what did her in. Sorry I thought you heard.”

His jaw hung slack. He could feel the jolt from his heart spreading through his whole chest. He didn’t move until Seri set her hand on his arm and squeezed.

“Sorry, dear.” She said, “She did ask me to give you this.”

She pressed a purple ribbon into his hand.

“She says it’s from before she was a slave.” She continued, “Now you’d best get the master his wine. You know which one he likes.”

She went back to kneading the dough, and Fenris was still staring at the ribbon in his hand.

“To kill oneself is a sin in the eyes of the maker.” he muttered.

“I don’t think that helped her much, dear. It’s good if it works for you, but it ain’t for everyone.”

x – X – x

The sun rose through the fog in Par Vollen and cast a gradient smear of blue, pink, orange, and purple every morning.  It probably rose like this every morning, but few were so special as this one.

Fenris was bundled up in a knitted sweater and a scarf, both borrowed from the Fog Warriors. “Borrowed” was a loose term here, as they had thrust the items into his hands the first night they saw him shivering. Danarius never cared if he was cold. He was used to toughing it out.

A lot had been happening that he wasn’t used to.

When Danarius had been forced to evacuate Par Vollen, there wasn’t enough room for his beloved bodyguard. Fenris was left behind, alone for the first time he could ever remember, and was immediately taken by the very same soldiers who’d attacked and forced the evacuation in the first place.

He thought he’d be killed. Then he thought he’d be taken prisoner. More and more, though, it seemed like he was just staying here, and he liked it well enough he supposed. One morning he awoke in a panic, seeing that the sun was already set low in the sky and the others were already working. Oversleeping was not a luxury he was allowed in Danarius’ house.

Waking up early was nice, too. Never before had he perched on a hillside to watch the sunrise, simply because he wanted to. The Fog Warriors’ tents were to his back, and a few were already rising to greet the morning.

Gundat was a tal vashoth who had stripes of scars on both arms and short, curled horns. His jaw was crooked and so was his smile as he walked past Fenris while hiking up the hill.

“What are you doing up so early?” He asked.

Fenris shrank back, and Gundat knelt, signaling him to stop, “Hey, hey, don’t be like that, you’re not in trouble. I was just curious is all.”

Fenris didn’t look up, and muttered, “Watching the sunrise.”

Gundat gave him a tired smile and patted his shoulder, “That’s good, Fenris. That’s good. You should enjoy that stuff if you can.”

Gundat’s eyes were sunken in, dark circles lining them and an underlying exhaustion that he’d seen so many times before, in slaves worked to the bone for days without rest. Words got stuck in his throat while Gundat rose. He wanted to say something, but he wasn’t permitted.

Except Danarius wasn’t here, and nobody here ever stopped him from speaking. He watched Gundat walk away, and realized that he didn’t have to stay on the hill. There were a lot of sunrises, but there was only one Gundat.

He stood up, and asked, “Are you alright?”

Gundat stopped, “I’m fine. Just tired. I don’t really sleep at night, that’s why I take the night patrol.”

“You look so ...” Tired? Lifeless? Too calm to be normal?

"Fenris," Gundat set a hand on his shoulder, making him flinch, "You're on your own since your master left you here, right? You seem happy. You get to be happy. Treasure that. Not everyone has it."

Gundar turned again. Fenris watched him until he reached the top of the hill. His horns had just started to disappear over the curve when Fenris sprinted.

"Gundar!"

The tal-vashoth in question met Fenris as right as he caught up to him.

"I get to choose what I do every day, right?"

"Of course."

"Then I want to spend today with you."

Gundar huffed a laugh, "Why? You have better things to do. Watch the sunrise more. Be happy."

"I'll be happier watch...if you...I'll be happy..." Fenris stammered.

Suddenly, he couldn't breathe through his nose. He felt a teardrop run down his cheek, and sniffled.

Gundar brushed the tear away with his thumb.

Fenris knew what was happening. The Fog Warriors were masters of patience. Gundar was waiting for Fenris to continue, and would wait until the sun rose tomorrow if need be.

Finally, he whispered, "To kill oneself is a sin in the eyes of the Maker."

Gundar shrugged, "Sorry, I don't believe in the Maker. It's fine if that works for you, though."

"I...I don't want you to hurt yourself..." He choked, wiping his eyes with the sweaters' sleeve, "Please...if it helps...can I spend the day with you? Please...that would make me happy."

Gundar smiled, and although it was an exhausted, heavy smile, there was still a genuine sparkle behind his eyes.

"Alright, Fenris. If it makes you happy."

Fortunately, Gundar wasn't with Fenris when Danarius gave him the order to kill.

Unfortunately, Fenris would never be able to face Gundar again.

x - X - x

It was ten years before Fenris again heard the word 'suicide' delicately danced around.

He was in the hanged man like he had been so many other nights, though this time perhaps he'd had a bit too much to drink. He was finding a lot of amusement in teasing the others about how easy it was to read their tells. He'd attended enough high-class Tevinter parties as Danarius' bodyguard, after all. When you're not allowed to talk, you spend a lot of time listening.

"Looks like I have all of Hawkes coins~" He hummed, dropping a handful into a stack and delighting in the clink clink clink they made as they fell.

"Oh, I'm not out of this game yet. Ante up." Hawke pulled a coin purse out of her pocket and dropped it on the table. She gained a spark to her eye, one which Fenris had seen so many times. It meant she'd been taunted enough to push forward no matter how stupid it made her.

Not that it was hard to get her to that point.

"What's it mean when all the cards are different, again?" Merril asked.

Isabella answered, "It means Anders should have given me his hand back by now."

The mage in question had his head resting on his fist, cards lazily propped up with a limp hand. Isabella reached over and snatched them from him. Anders startled awake with a yelp that drew every eye at the table in his direction.

"You alright, Blondie?" Varric asked.

Anders rubbed his eyes and yawned, "Must have been one of Isabella's anecdotes. I think you should stick to the storytelling, Varric."

Isabella leafed the cards together, rolled her eyes, and passed the deck to Merril to cut. "Ha ha, very funny. Are you in this hand or are you going to doze off again?"

"Well as much as I love losing my life savings to Fenris, I can't be much fun when I'm like this." Anders pushed away from the table, leaving right as Isabella started dealing cards.

"What's gotten into him?" Hawke asked, jerking her head at the door.

Merril arranged the cards in her hand as she answered, "Maybe there's another outbreak in Dark Town. You know how he doesn't let himself sleep when the clinic is full."

Varric shook his head, "Nah, Hawke's right. He's been weird lately. Well, weirder than usual. You know the other day he tried to give me this pillow that his mom made. He said something about wanting me to have it. Don't get me wrong, we're close. He's a good friend. It just seems like the kind of thing you'd save for your brother or something, you know?"

Fenris felt a familiar jolt in his chest, the kind that made him want to stand up and follow Anders. He looked at his cards and couldn't focus on them. They were all red, which meant something, but words escaped him. He didn't want to be here. Hawke said something, and he didn't hear a word of it.

"I fold." He said, setting his cards down.

"Come on, don't be like that. You haven't even discarded anything yet." Isabella whined.

Fenris was already shoveling coins into his coinpurse, "Apologies. I remembered there was something I have to do." There wasn't a lot of time. Anders could already be out of sight by now. He'd only dug a trench into the pile of coins.

"Keep the rest for drinks." He added, straitening up. With a quick wave, he was out of the Hanged Man and into the seaside air.

Most of Kirkwall was protected from the wind by its own walls and buildings, so the chill was there but the moisture from the water's surface didn't settle in until early morning. Fenris could see his breath in the air. It was cold but not unbearably chilly, though it would be in a few hours. He looked left and right and was met only with empty streets.

His feet flew down the stairs that led to dark town. The clinic was the only place he could think to look. To his surprise the door was unlocked. He burst into an empty room. Looking wildly around revealed only empty beds and medicine shelves, with Anders' desk shoved off to one side.

"Shit." Fenris mumbled.

At the desk, there were piles and piles of papers all bearing Anders' handwriting. Perhaps he could have looked for a sign, a plan, a hint, anything if not for the fact that his reading lessons with Hawke had barely finished covering the alphabet. He was cursing - both mentally and literally - the fact that slaves weren't permitted to read, when the door by the desk creaked and Anders stepped out of his bedroom.

"Fenris?" Anders said. His hair hung loose and framed his face. His eyes were wide open, red, and shaded with dark circles underneath. "What are you doing here? Are you hurt?"

That was an excellent question, and it made Fenris freeze. Because really, what was he doing here?

For a brief second, he considered breaking his own arm. Then he’d have a reason to be here.

No, that would be silly.

Fenris cleared his throat, "You seemed troubled. I thought you could use some company."

"It's late. I'm surprised you care. I thought you hated me."

Fenris sighed. Maker, why was he making this so hard?

"No I don't hate you," He groaned, "I just think you're a misguided fool."

"And? If you're here to argue in favor of the Templar order imprisoning mages for the crime of being-"

"Maker, can we not talk about mages and Templars for one night?" Fenris snapped, "We can talk about something else! Literally anything else!"

Anders blinked, taken aback. There was silence for a second while the gears turned in Anders' head.

"Alright," Anders concluded, "What do you want to talk about?"

Which was another excellent question.

"Walk with me." Fenris decided. Because if they were walking, at the very least, he had something to do while he was thinking of what to say. And thankfully without question or comment, Anders took his staff and followed Fenris.

They left dark town, largely because dark town was a bad place to be when it was dark. Low town wasn't much better, and as they passed the Hanged Man they could hear Hawke loudly demanding another round of drinks. Their friends were great company, but crowds weren't needed right now.

"The sky's clear tonight." Anders said, "If it weren't for the buildings you could see the stars."

Which gave Fenris an excellent idea.

"Do you want to?"

"Want to what?"

"See the stars?"

"... I guess?"

They cut through high town to get to the abandoned manor Fenris claimed as his own. On the top floor in one of the guest bedrooms, a portion of the roof had collapsed and the accompanying chimney had crumbled into a slope of broken cobblestone. Moonlight was shining in beams through the hole when they entered. Fenris climbed up first, and offered his hand to help Anders up.

It was a sight to behold.

Kirwall stretched for miles from one end to the other, but as high up as they were, they could see the ocean in the distance as well as the gallows and every side of the wall that surrounded the city. Above them was a velvet blanket coated with dots of light that drew the eyes heaven bound. The ground and the sky fought for attention here. One a feat of man, the other a feat of the divine.

"It's beautiful." Anders breathed, "How long have you known about this spot?"

"I found it not long after I moved into the mansion." Fenris sat down next to a handful of empty wine bottles and dirty plates, "Sometimes I come up here to think."

"That's a laughable thought. Most nights I'd prefer to stay out of my own head." Anders sat down next to Fenris, "So, what was it you wanted to talk about."

"I don't know. Something. Anything. The stars?"

So they talked about the stars.

The constellations were different between the Marches and Tevinter, though they found a small handful had the same names. They both had a hobby of stargazing, it seemed. And when they grew bored of the stars, they watched the town below, and found they both enjoyed people watching as well. It seemed they had a lot in common, so long as they weren't talking about mages or Templars. They watched drunks stumble home and graveyard workers shuffle around on the streets. They swatted bugs and talked about how annoying mosquitoes and flies were. They talked about bugs that they didn't find annoying. They talked until the sky grew pale with morning twilight.

Anders had his arms crossed to hold in his warmth, his legs drawn up to his chest. They'd been silent the past few minutes, occupied with watching a gray-haired human man. He was on a long walk that started at the docks and went to low town, through through the market place, and stopped for a rest on the chantry steps, completely unaware that he was being watched. "Thank you, Fenris." He said, "I suppose I did need some company."

Fenris nodded, and a long silence stretched between them.

"You know ..." Anders continued, "I was considering doing something incredibly stupid tonight, and I'm glad I didn't do it now."

"I know."

Anders wouldn't meet Fenris' face. Instead his cheeks flushed, and he looked to the ground.

"'To kill oneself is a sin in the eyes of the Maker'." Fenris continued, "But you already knew that, and the Maker isn't going to stop you. I am. Because nobody ever says the word 'suicide' until it's already a regret. And if I had to choose I'd rather abolish that sin than the sin of being a mage."

Anders drew his knees closer to his chest and buried his chin in them. A breeze sent a chill all the way to his bones. He flinched when Fenris' hands brushed his skin. Gentle, patient hands pulled his bangs back into their usual ponytail.

When Fenris moved away and returned to his seat, Anders dared to look up again, and glimpsed a flash of purple fabric behind him. A ribbon.

"Slaves don't have any possessions, strictly speaking." Fenris said, "I've had that in my pocket for more than 15 years. I expect it back. Not from Varric, not from Hawke, but from you. So if you find no other reason to live, you can know I'll be expecting to get that ribbon back. It means a lot to me."

Anders wiped the tears from his eyes and smiled. Fenris returned to watching the skyline. Scooting a little closer, Anders leaned on him, and they watched the sunrise together.

[hurt-care]

Okay, look, I’ve had this idea for AGES and I’ve finally written it. It’s not 18+ explicitly because of sexual content, but because it involves cannabis. So, proceed at your own discretion I guess? 

Remus/Tonks, allergies

-

Everything ached.From the balls of his feet up to the hairs of his head, every centimetre of Remus' body felt hyper-sensitive. The prospect of getting up from his seat at the kitchen table was daunting, but the soft embrace of the living room sofa was much more appealing.

Pushing down on the table with his palms, he rose to his feet with a wince and took a moment to tilt his head from side to side, stretching the tight muscles of his neck. This was always the worst part of the moon; the recovery day after. Sometimes he didn't bother getting out of bed, but that always felt like the height of laziness. So usually he pushed through it, suffering the fire-hot nerve endings of his body burning in pain as they recovered from the full moon.

His wife, Nymphadora Tonks, looked up as he hobbled out of the kitchen into the living room. She sprang to her feet, nearly tumbling head-first over the coffee table in her haste to vacate the couch.

“Hello, love!” she said cheerfully, regaining her balance. “It's all yours. I was just warming it up for you.”

He gave her a wan smile and sunk slowly down into the cushions, breathing heavily. Cautiously, she sat back down at his side and extended a hand, gently raking in through his sandy greying hair.

“How are you?” she asked softly.

He shrugged and leaned his head back.

“Sore,” he admitted. “Nauseous. Achy.”

They'd made an agreement that he'd be more transparent about the transformation side effects. He'd become so accustomed to hiding them from people that it had been difficult to acclimate to being open about it. It'd been well over a decade since he'd lived with anyone that knew about his condition. It was a little different than school because of his access to Wolfsbane, but the physical pain of the transformation remained much the same. And with age came a longer recovery time as his muscles and tendons bore the strain of thirty-odd years of monthly injury.

“You can lie down if you'd like,” Tonks said softly.

He exhaled through his nose loudly.

“No, I'm alright,” he said.

Her mouth twisted into a slight frown.

“Do you want some of that muscle rub?”

“No, Dora, it's okay. I just want to sit here with you.”

She lowered her hand from his hair and gently rubbed his neck, gradually increasing the pressure on the tight muscles. He groaned softly but did not shy away.

“Have you ever smoked a spliff?” she asked, pausing on a particularly tender spot on his shoulder.

Remus laughed softly.

“I'm a child of the 60s and 70s, Tonks. Once or twice in my life.”

“I mean, have you ever tried it for pain? Like, it's pretty popular with Muggles now and my mate Archie at the Ministry swears by it for an old spell injury.”

“Mostly I ate a lot of Sirius Black's potent brownies and listened to records,” he said, closing his eyes as she kneaded her knuckles into a knot.

“Yeah, but shit's changed a lot since then. They've figured out how to grow stuff that's helpful for pain specifically.”

“Then, no,” he said. “It's probably been fifteen years since I have. Couldn't afford it on my own and no one I was hanging about with was giving it as a handout.”

“If I had some from Archie...would you try it?” she asked.

He opened one eye and peered at her, twisting his mouth into a judgemental smirk.

“Are you doing drug deals at the Ministry, Auror Tonks?”

She batted his arm lightly.

“It's medicinal.”

“And is this an 'if' you had some or 'I do have some'?” he asked.

“There may be a spliff in my bag,” she said with a laugh.

He shrugged.

“I mean, what's the worst that could happen? I get the giggles and eat a bunch of food and then pass out. A normal Tuesday with you.”

She leaned over and pecked him on the cheek.

“Good. I bet it'll help. Archie said it's great for nausea and headaches.”

“Check and check.”

Tonks flicked her wand and summoned her satchel from the front hall. It zoomed over to her and she missed catching it, sending it flying into the couch cushions at her side. Remus snorted in amusement.

“Shut up,” she scolded playfully. “Aren't you meant to be moaning in pain or something?”

“I am positively in agony,” he said dramatically. It was an exaggeration, certainly, but not entirely removed from the truth. His lower back and hips were aching with a dull, pounding rhythm that no heat or pain potion seemed to truly remove. And these days, he tried to avoid using pain potions. Partially because of the cost of them and partially because he didn't want to rely on them and then find himself without them again someday.

Tonks found the small hand-rolled joint in her bag and pulled it out triumphantly.

“Ha! The goods, Lupin,” she said, presenting it to him.

He took it and sniffed it, wrinkling his nose. A small tickle burned with a sudden urgency and he took a sharp breath.

Ngh'TSXHT!

“Ow,” he said after the sneeze, clutching his side.

“Bless you,” she said sympathetically. “It's meant for smoking, not smelling.”

With a tap of her wand, she lit the end and took a long drag. Exhaling smoke from her nose with practiced ease, she grinned at him and passed the spliff over.

He took it to his lips and inhaled tentatively, careful not to take in too much smoke in fear of starting a coughing fit. He exhaled slowly, tasting the old familiar flavour in his mouth and feeling the tingle of his throat and sinuses as the smoke drifted back out.

“Again,” Tonks instructed and he took another drag, harder and longer this time.

His nose was burning urgently now and he felt his eyes begin to water.

“You're going red,” Tonks said, giggling.

Ehh-TSCHXHT!

Remus sneezed urgently, shielding his nose with the back of his wrist.

“Ugh, fuck,” he groaned, rubbing his nose with his palm.

Ngh'tSCHHT!

Tonks carefully took the joint from his grasp and extinguished it.

“Remus?” she said, worried.

Ehh—nhh-TSGHHT!

His eyes were starting to swell and stream with tears.

“What the hell?” she said, leaning over to the end table to grab the box of tissues. “Here.”

She shoved a handful into his grip and he pressed them to his nose in time to catch another sneeze.

Ehh-GSHHHT!

He kept the tissues clamped to his nose and his itchy eyes shut.

“Remus?” she repeated, reaching over to push his hair out of his face. “Had this happened before?”

“No,” he growled from tissues. “But...hehh—hold on—ehh—ehh'tSGHHT!”

He erupted into an itchy fit of sneezes that tumbled out with frightening speed.

Eh-TSCH! TsgHGHHT! Ngh'TSCHH! TS'CHHTT! Ehhh..hehhTSGHHT!

Tonks watched in horror and then stumbled to her feet.

“Hold on, I'm going to find you an allergy potion.”

He sat on the couch battling the burning itch that threatened more sneezing while Tonks rattled through the medicine chest. There as a loud crash as she evidently dropped a potion bottle, followed by the sound of her cursing and then repairing it with magic. She reappeared a moment later with a bottle in hand.

“Here we go,” she said, sitting back at his side. He tentatively removed the tissues from his face and sniffled damply.

“Just a sip,” she instructed, tipping the bottle to his lips. He took a greedy swig, eager to soothe his itchy and parched throat.

“There,” she said, corking the bottle with its stopper. “It should only be a moment.”

As quickly as the attack came on, it began to fade. The redness in his eyes faded and the swelling of his nose and eyelids lessened.

Utterly exhausted, Remus keeled over sideways with his head landing on her lap and his legs stretching out along the rest of the sofa. She raked her fingers through his hair and muttered endless apologies.

“I didn't have any idea anyone could be allergic to a spliff,” she said. “I mean, I would have never...you just started sneezing and I was like 'oh my god his poor muscles' and then it kept going and-”

“Tonks,” he rasped, cutting her off. “It's okay. Please.”

“But-”

“You were trying to help. I should've realized that I'm much more sensitive to smells around this time. Sirius smoking cigarettes in the house back in the day used to set me off the same way. And then there's the hayfever...Christ, that's the worst.”

“I'm so sorry, love,” she said, leaning over to kiss the top of his head where it rested in her lap. “Feel better now?”

“Almost,” he said. “Still just a bit itch—hehh....ehh-TSCHHT!”

He shook suddenly in her lap, convulsing with a sneeze.

“Oh Merlin, bless you,” she cried, taking a tissue and dabbing at his nose.

He laughed softly.

“It's alright,” he reassured her. “I do feel a little...I don't know...looser maybe? Next time we'll try making brownies instead. I think Sirius had the right idea.”

She stroked his cheek affectionately.

“Alright. Go to sleep, love.”

He closed his eyes, drifting off as she massaged circles into his scalp.