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sassycassie-s-writing · 3 years

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My Favorite Smile

By: SassyShoulderAngel319

Fandom/Character(s): DC/BatFam - Jason Todd/Red Hood

Rating: PG-11/T- (this one has a couple ✨swear words✨ in it lol. I don’t usually write them out, but sometimes you just gotta say what you mean)

Original Idea: X (Obsessed with this channel right now)

Notes: (Masterlist)(By Character)(About Me) 2,182 words... it’s a longer one again. I casually wrote this in, like, two hours. @welovegroot @jason-redhood @jason-todd-squad

^^^^^

Holding his coffee and croissant, Jason looked around the crowded café for a place to sit. Every table was occupied by at least one person, and the rules of personal space in public said the couches were full, with one person sitting on either end.

His eyes fell on a table with a single occupant.

His heart stuttered to a stop. Wait… is that her? Damn, she looks good this time. He scoffed at himself. Who am I kidding? She looks good every time. Should I talk to her? Should I tell her? She didn’t believe me last time… and I don’t know if I can stand another lifetime without her… but last life we didn’t meet till I was almost fifty. I really wasn’t expecting to find her this early.

He straightened up and strode over to her table. “Excuse me, is it alright if I sit here? The café’s pretty crowded and the other tables are full.”

She looked up and Jason’s brain stopped working as she met his eyes. She was just as incredible as she always was. Thousands upon thousands of years, and he still never got over how beautiful she was. “Sure, go ahead,” she said with a smile before going back to her phone.

—

“I’m Jason, by the way,” the man said, sitting down.

I glanced back up and gave him my name in return.

He smiled. He had a handsome smile. Just looking at him… something tugged in the back of my mind. “That’s a pretty name,” he said.

My ears warmed and I looked away. “Thanks,” I muttered. I looked back at him. “Sorry if this sounds… weird—but have we met before?” I cringed but smiled. If we had…oh it’d be so embarrassing if I’d forgotten him. And a man as handsome as him—how could I have forgotten?

But a look of delight crossed his face, before being replaced by one of neutrality. “Not in this lifetime,” he replied.

“Kind of an odd way to word it,” I remarked before I could overthink whether that sounded really rude or not.

Jason’s ears turned red. “Well… yeah I guess so. Sorry.” He looked down at his coffee cup and croissant and chose to take a sip of his drink. After swallowing, he looked back up at me. “This is probably gonna sound really creepy, but please just hear me out for a few minutes. Do you believe in soulmates?”

I reached up and scratched an itch just behind my ear. “I mean… kind of? I think maybe they exist for some people, and other people could be matched equally well with multiple potential partners,” I said.

His shoulders slouched with a sigh of what might have been relief. “Thank goodness,” he said. He met my eyes. “Because… we’re soulmates. You and I. Sometimes—very rarely—two people are so destined to be together, that they’re reborn over and over to stay together throughout thousands of years’ worth of lifetimes. Sometimes we both remember, sometimes only one of us does. I don’t think there’s ever been a lifetime where neither of us remember. Besides the first, I guess. Back when we didn’t know we’d be reborn. We never look the same twice—different bodies, different backgrounds. But we always have the same soul.”

A reasonable person would have thought he was making up a really long, bad pickup line. But I stared at him with rapt attention. Like some missing puzzle piece I’d been looking for my entire life fell into place. It just sounded… right.

“How do we find each other, if we look different every time?”

He took a deep breath. “Well… when one or both of us remember, we can… kind of sense it? Kind of see it? Like, right now, I see you, but I also see every face of yours that I’ve seen across every lifetime.” He cleared his throat. “Sometimes we don’t. Find each other, I mean. The distance between where we’re born or the timing of our rebirths keep us apart. But there’s only been… three of those, if I remember right.” He laughed. “So glad you believed me this time. It would have sucked if you got a restraining order—because those are a thing now—and I had to spend this life without you.”

I leaned forward, shoving my phone in my pocket. “Tell me more,” I said.

“Where do you want me to start?”

“Um… I don’t know. The beginning? Our first life?”

He nodded. “Ancient Greece,” he said. “Like, really early in Ancient Greece’s history. The gods blessed us. Bound our souls for eternity. Your hair is actually the same color now as it was back then. Kind of a… nostalgic favorite of mine. You’re absolutely stunning every time I see you, but I have some favorites. You do too.”

I snickered. “Oh really? Like what?”

“Well… I always think you’re adorable with dimples or freckles. Green eyes are a favorite of mine too. And your current hair color is my favorite. There were also a few times where you were a little taller than me. Those were nice. You’re most comfortable to hug that way. But, without fail, every single lifetime I see your smile and I think, ‘That one. That one’s my new favorite.’” He chuckled. “As for you, you’ve told me that you like me best with brown eyes—even though you don’t like brown eyes normally. Um… you also like it when my hair is curly.” He gestured to his black hair, slightly curled, with two white curls arcing down the center of his forehead. “You told me… seven lifetimes ago? That you like me best with piercings and tattoos, but when I brought it up last lifetime you said even when I have them I still look like, and I quote, a ‘giant nerd.’”

We both laughed. Jason sighed and shook his head.

“Then again, you said that was your favorite during our pirate lifetime. And I can also say hot damn you looked good with tattoos and a big hat.”

I gasped out a laugh. “We were pirates?”

He laughed too. “Yeah. Well, you were. To start with, anyway. You and your crew were visiting my town and you, absolutely drunk, stumbled into my house. I was a carpenter that time. Thank the gods we both remembered that lifetime or I probably would have shot you. You spent half the night drunkenly blathering about how much you hated my hair when it was long the way it was and that you’d cut it off if I didn’t. The next morning, when you’d sobered up, you apologized. And I’d said it was fine. And… you asked me to come with you. I’ve spent dozens of lifetimes endlessly in love with you. So, like the lovesick fool I am and was, I said yes.

“It… was not a long lifetime. Pirates rarely made it to old age. We were both killed when a Royal Navy ship attacked us. I went down first. You told me in our next lifetime that you single-handedly killed half of that crew’s sailors in revenge even though you knew you’d see me again—because you’d been having so much fun that life and they ruined it. Eventually their captain killed you himself.” He took a bite of his croissant.

It was certainly a lot to take in. But everything he said was so vivid… I wasn’t sure if it was my imagination coming up with the images or… memories that had merely been locked away somewhere deep inside. The sea. The deck of a ship. An octopus tattoo on my left forearm, tentacles reaching to the back of my hand, a similar one on his tanned, scarred neck. Curly auburn hair, a scruffy beard. Brown leather coat and blood under his nails. Pierced ear and eyebrow. A tattoo of a mermaid with a face and wild hair that I knew must have been mine on his right thigh as we found alone time together in my cabin—a pile of leather clothes in a heap on the floor, topped by a big hat with a big feather.

I met his eyes again. “Tell me about another one.”

He smiled. “Well… there was another time I was a soldier. You remembered. I didn’t. I passed through your town on my way to report for duty, and the weather got bad. Your family owned a tavern that doubled as an inn. So, that was where I stayed. You didn’t tell me. I fell in love with you anyway. You would tell me stories and sing for me and make me food in private. When the weather improved, I went off to war and, miraculously, I survived. Even though I spent most of my time that fight thinking about you. I came back to your inn and asked you to marry me. You said yes. We were married soon after. I had to leave a lot. Fighting battles I didn’t care about. Eventually, I came home injured and dying. You held my hand and promised you’d see me soon. I thought you meant heaven or just said it to comfort me. You never told me we were endlessly-reborn soulmates.

“When I was about fifteen my next lifetime, all my memories came back. We both remembered that time, actually. When we ran into each other again we got into such a big argument about you not telling me. Literally picked up right where we left off. Two twenty-year-olds bickering like the old married couple we were. The life after I don’t remember is always a bit of a wild ride as all my memories come back. I imagine it’s similar for you. It’ll be similar for you.”

He reached across the table and took my hand. I squeezed his fingers. Our hands fit together perfectly. I wondered why I’d told him I liked him best with brown eyes when his blue eyes were absolutely gorgeous. “So… what now?” I asked.

He made a face. “Beginnings are always hard when one of us doesn’t remember. Because I have thousands of years of love for you, and you don’t even know me.” His fingers tightened around mine. “I’d like to take you out on a date, if you’ll let me.”

“Does it count as a first date?”

He smiled. It was a sad smile. “It can. It does for this life.”

“Have we… ever had children? Together?”

Jason regarded me thoughtfully. “We have,” he said. “But our bloodlines never last long. Usually we’re lucky to get great-grandchildren. We’re blessed to be together forever, but our families die off quickly. You speculated once that it’s the blessing’s attempt to make sure we’re not reborn into our own bloodline.”

“So we have no living descendants.”

“No. It’d be a little weird if we did. Like ‘Hey, kiddo, you’re our great-great-great-grandson! I know we’re younger than you but trust us!’” Jason laughed.

I could get drunk on that laugh. “I’d… I’d like to go on that date.”

He looked elated—and relieved. “Me too. I’d like to get to know you again.” He glanced around the crowded café. “What do you say we get out of here and go somewhere quiet and I can tell you more stories about our lives? You’ve always been the far superior storyteller, but I learned from the best.”

I smiled. “Yeah. Let’s get out of here. I want to hear everything.”

He helped me to my feet. I gathered my jacket, cup, and phone. “Great. I can’t wait to tell you about the time I was a magician.”

I giggled. “My place or yours?”

“Mine. I have a memento from our most recent past life that I tracked down. I’d like you to have it.”

“What is it?”

Jason didn’t answer immediately. Just held my hand as we left the café. Gotham’s overcast autumn sky was chilly. “I… I want it to be a surprise but I’m also too excited to tell you.” He bit his lower lip, staring at me. “Gah. Fine. It’s your wedding ring. I found it at an antique shop not far from where our oldest niece lived. We didn’t have any kids, last life. We didn’t meet till I was forty-nine and you were forty-three. We both decided it was too late for kids. But I had a few nieces and nephews. Our oldest niece was in charge of our estate. We died in the eighties. But I found your ring. You can use it again, eventually, if you want. Or we can get you a new one.” His face reddened. “I don’t mean to presume. But I don’t know if I can live without you this lifetime after having you for such a short time last life.”

I squeezed his hand. “Let’s try that first date first. I feel this pull toward you I can’t explain, but we’ll build up to the soulmate thing. Okay?” I smiled at him.

—

Jason couldn’t help but stare at her. Those eyes, that stunning face. This one, he thought. This smile is my favorite.

#My Favorite Smile #Jason Todd #jason todd imagine #jason todd fanfiction #Red Hood #red hood imagine #red hood fanfiction #DC #DC imagine #dc fanfiction #BatFam #batfam imagine #batfam fanfiction

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eldonash · 4 years

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Losing Balance - Fran&Orobas

Happens during and after this. Also Featuring Carrington @carringtonblackwood; @caraitaliadolcemeta Possible TW: Death, dismemberment

Summary: Orobas and Francesca have spent all week looking for Carrington. At the far edges of their emotions, Orobas is lost to anger, and Fran is lost to desperation. The two, usually clear-minded and violent killers, fall into an argument as they are unable to process the hopelessness nor help each other now that it’s gotten this far. Somehow, they find Carrington among the wreckage.

Fifteen minutes. Francesca had been waiting for fifteen minutes, and if she did any more back-and-forth pacing, there would probably be a hole in the cemented floor right under her feet. Could fifteen minutes make a difference when he had been missing for days now? Fifteen minutes wouldn’t make a difference. Could they? Maybe she should start looking instead of keep waiting for Orobas. He’d probably throw those empty threats at her anyway.

Taking out her phone - with no messages from him, by the way - she shared her live location with the vampire. He could come to her wherever she was at Amity Road whenever he decided to show up. Because sure, Carrington was dead anyway, right? “He fucking isn’t. Lui non è morto!” Francesca exclaimed to herself, getting more and more nervous with the waiting and the wondering and the possibilities. And as a sudden presence made itself known behind her, she spun on her heels, startled, too much in her own head. “Cazzo, Orobas!”

Orobas didn’t feel exhaustion often. It usually happened when he’d battle through crowds of people in the past, to the point Haxian had to drag and carry him out almost limp over the hours of fighting. Now, it wasn’t just a physical exhaustion eating away at his resolve and his temper which was a low simmering frustration like it was warming a blast furnace. It was emotional and Orobas had no fucking idea what that meant. He was covered in blood when she turned around, it splattered up over his face in tiny dots, his shirt half on where a large burn had singed part of his chest and up around his shoulder. The stunning ivory handled knife was in his hand, dripping on the ground and though he was infuriated about everything-- he held no emotion on his face, just this distant stare like he wasn’t all present. He isn’t even sure how on instinct he found her. When she said his name, he glanced up with red eyes, and it took every ounce of his control to not cut her throat open immediately. He couldn’t exactly speak right away, his mind was racing, and he was leaving a trail of blood near Amity Road. “Fran-- cesca,” he mouth was crowded with fangs, and his voice struggle to now sounds demented. “I’m-- on the edge. I’m-- on a dangerous, dangerous edge. If I don’t find him--”

It was like taking a trip to the past. Back in the eighteen hundreds, she had seen him like that numerous times. Although, for whatever reason, life drew them apart and the sprees weren’t shared anymore, that image would never leave her. Francesca blinked multiple times, trying to make sense of the figure in the of her. Why. “Why did you come?! You’re in no bloody shape of doing anything, I -” Whatever distance there was between them, she ended it in a second, rushing to him to stand in front of him, close enough to delicately pull his shirt and examine the injuries on his skin. “You’ve been walking in the sun…?!” She concluded, taking a moment to stare him in the eye. She was angry, worried. “Why the fuck would you do that?!” Careless to his previous threat less than an hour earlier, her voice was higher than usual, angrier than it normally would be. If he weren’t that terribly hurt, no doubt Fran would’ve shoved him. Both of her hands rested on each side of his face, her hazel, caring eyes gazing in his, trying to have him focus on her.

“I don’t know why!” He roared at her, the sunken features of his face contorted in a rare show of rage, and his body almost dissipated into a swarm of bats, the sound of fluttering wings echoed in threat around them. Like the shadows of the night wanted to pool around him. Orobas age showed right now, though a ninty or so years off of elder, he could appear so far from human-- sometimes far from vampire when he was at this dangerous point.

“Look at me. You can’t do anything like that. Let’s go home, take care of you - you’ll feed, you’ll heal and we’ll come back. This isn’t a suicide mission. I can’t fucking lose the both of you. Do you understand me?!” That look, bloody and distant, bored and evil. Orobas was certainly moving on his instinct, slaying and hurting whatever came his way. She knew what he was thinking - he was controlling his urge to hurt her too. But she ignored his blade. She ignored his impulses and focused on taking care of him. How could she love a man who had to control himself not to kill her? That was a query hard to answer, yet she was still there for him if he needed her.

His hand lifted and in a frightening disjointed amount of speed, it pressed harshly into her cheeks, covering her mouth from speaking more soft caring words when his emotions felt like a hard strum of a string instrument in the back on his mind. A snarl burned all his eyes to red, the whites dissolving into crimson, unblinking and staring inches from her face. He stepped closer, staring keenly at her face. And then walked passed her, releasing his hold and stepping a few more steps. “Why? I don’t want this anymore. I want to find him tonight. I don’t care the cost.”

She cared. She cared more than she dared to say it aloud. But having his hand grip her face and control her movement, keeping her steady, like a rag doll, that wasn’t alright. No doubt Francesca respected him. He was double her age, about to become an elder and more often than not was caught with a deadly gaze in his handsome eyes. Only someone daft wouldn’t respect that. But she didn’t exactly fear him, for whatever reason. Maybe she should.

Growling quietly when she was released, the brunette exhaled loudly through her nostrils, angry. Angry that he was letting himself get to that point, angry that, through the years, more often than not, took his frustrations out on her. What the fuck was she? “Really? Isn’t it obvious?! You’re severely hurt, you probably haven’t had a shut-eye in days, all that blood there is probably splattered on walls instead of in your lips - how the fuck do you think you got like that?” Keeping her distance this time, Francesca was done being loving. It didn’t make a difference, anyway. “Now, I’m not bloody helping you like that. I’m not going to be an accomplice to your exhaustion just because you got to do every fucking thing your way. You’re always like this, you act like you don’t give a shite, you never call, you let people get out of your life and suddenly you’re putting yourself in harms way to protect them! Do you fucking believe Carrington would want to see you like that? Madonna, look at yourself. You’re more bat than vampire.” Scoffing, she turned around nervously, so angered to the point she didn’t want to look at him. There was more to just worrying for Carrington’s safety in that speech. There was anger about a lot of things. Like he’d often get to where they were now, as if on purpose, as some kind of masochist cleanse? He was hot and cold with her, he treated her bad then good, then carry on acting like nothing. She was fed up with everything, from Carrington’s disappearance to Orobas ways of treating her. “Merda, I’m so done.”

Her words barely got through to him, distorted, echoing. The beastal part of him starved-- hallowing his face, skin paper thin and barely draped over his cheekbones. He knew she was correct in the why he was appearing like this. He hadn’t eaten well as said, he always hacked his victims up over drinking. Francesca knew him for too long. His mind swam in red, like a lapping ocean against his sight, even as he looked out, everything dimmed in darkness less the pulse point of blood vibrated through the air to lure him. Lust suddenly cut into him like a jagged crystal, a hard lump that settled in his throat, a deep thirst he’s not experienced since Haxian locked him in a coffin for ten years. His jaw clenched, teeth sharp, and as she kept telling him off he felt a screech confirming his transformation barely stop from coming out of his mouth. His back to her the entire time, he tilted his head back, looking at her when she spoke the last words. He felt the need to say he ‘wasn’t like this all the time’ when it wasn’t true. He’s done this in the past centuries-- and it never worked out for him. They are all dead less Harsh and Francesca… and now Carrington, who else in the future? When you have lived this long you fell on repeat. A circle of shit that proved it was your core personality over and over. He just looked at her. Barely seeing, barely even knowing it was her.

“Francesca,” the name came out as it always did, though far from being in control it came out dark, demented like someone else was speaking. He turned to walk back towards her.

“You of all people know this is me. Mhm? The real me--” his head tilted again, the bones creaking. “I believe I’ve figure it out. For once, I am ready to have a family. I want-- us together and I will do anything, absolutely anything, to have my way. You think all this for Carrington is taking it too far--” he leaned forward, a crooked sharp, monstrous fanged smile. “I’d create an army of spawn to find you if you were in this situation. I’d find the person who hurt you and kill every member of their bloodline-- I will take it too far, because this is what I am becoming. You can handle it and me right now. You are probably the only one in this moment who can. So help me, mhm?”

“Non - non fare così, non ‘Francesca’ mi,” she spoke under her breath in complaint, denying him the right to call out to her. This time she was the one who kept her back turned at him. It was always the same script. He’d call her, call out her name and, somehow, she’d listen. This time, however, she forcefully ignored it, which took her all her strength, to a point where she didn’t notice the change in his voice. Whatever was happening right now, she couldn’t deal with it. Why couldn’t he act rational now, like he always did? Why let himself get to this point now?

As the bones cracked behind her, so close that they snapped in her ears, the woman turned to look at him. She couldn’t recognize him. Why? She questioned herself once more. Francesca shook her head in denial. “You’re going to kill yourself.” Hands turned into fists, arms flat to her sides. That anger grew hotter, boiling inside. She didn’t want to truly burst, not now, not when Orobas was this mess; this handsomely frightening mess. “Yes! Yes, I do think it’s too far! I told you - I’m not willing to lose you. Or him. Much less the both of you, one after the other.” Sappy words, he was just trying to calm her down and have her listen to him, get on board with his plan. But she disagreed with his plan when that could get him killed because he was acting sloppy. “You don’t know what you’re saying. Haxian doesn’t let you stick around long enough to have a family. You’ll leave again.” Her words were cruel, but they reflected her fears. She knew he had always been absent, distant, and now he was with somebody else. She’s smelled her on his belongings a few times when dropping by Bloodhaven. She was willing to accept all that, bury her anger again, as long as he stopped being careless.

Everything spoken burned through his skull, not understanding why she couldn’t just say okay and do what they always did. “This time I’m not,” he growled, not wanting to believe it. It had been him holding her back from moments like this, toying with her thirst like pulling on pigtails until he had to save them from the mess. Now, it was justified to himself, at least, that was all the emotion is could strongly hold onto right now. The jab at Haxian, at his maker was sharp and she knew it. Orobas didn’t have a choice in that, and worse-- he’s always listen to Haxian no matter what. Rarely has he said no, and even then when comparing someone, anyone else to his maker-- Haxian would always come on top. Too much time together, too much of their conscious bled as one unit. Even now, he could feel him in his mind, urging him to kill more, because Haxian would always have his back no matter how far he took it.

“Ok. I’ll help.” Her response was cold, yet decisive. “Follow me.” And she disappeared, leading the way to a dark alley. From there, in the shadows, the vampire spotted a man standing by his threshold, about to enter his home. Fran appeared right next to him, dragging Orobas along. “Evening,” she greeted the human. A healthy, perhaps a bit tired, adult human. He looked at her, surprised. “It’s a bit chilly outside. I could really use a warm place to wait for my cab. Could you please invite me in?” Eyes locked with hers, the man nodded, saying the words: please, come in, wait inside. Fran passed through the frame along with the man. “Are you alone?” He nodded. “Good. Would you mind inviting my mate inside too? You understand - a woman in a man’s home, all by herself, can be dangerous.” Come in and be with your friend, he said to the vampire standing outside. Francesca broke eye contact with the human, waiting on Orobas. “Eat,” she told him sternly. She was only helping any further if he got himself better. There was no arguing there.

When she kept on urging him to eat Orobas felt conflicted and angry, but when he followed and the man allowed him entrance, he paused on the stoop. The moment the man locked eyes with him fear surfaced, the flush of color raced away from his face, and his pulse ticked faster and faster. Orobas watched the bob of his throat as nerves made him swallow the spit in his mouth, the tendons and muscles ready to scream, and the monster there smirked and in a burst of speed broke the fragile body against the far wall. Suspended in the air, their spine snapped instantly, and all their ribs shattered from the impact. Blood gushed from their mouth as they exhaled the forced shove of air from their punctured lungs and began to gag on it. Their scream muffed in a gurgling sound as Orobas looked them in the eye, there was a second where it appeared like he still wouldn’t feed. The pulse weakening as the limp body was only held up by his hand, but he conceded, the scent too much and bit into their neck, teeth like serrated blades punctured the artery and Orobas drank deeply. Consuming the rest of their blood until the artery deflated from the lack of liquid. He let go, the body crumbling at his feet, the broken drywall bloody from the impact. Orobas let it heal him, and made to unbutton his shirt, tossing the ruined item on the floor.

His red eyes looked over at her, the blood not enough to quell his dangerous mood, but he looked better. He took a jacket from the human off the wall and pulled it on his shoulders.

It was unfair that he didn’t even take a moment to compel the man out of his terror. Watching the human stare, completely frozen and horror-stuck, was pitiful. Yet it was understandable. If the circumstances were different… Well, if they were different, nothing would’ve changed. Because that’s how things always played out when the two got together, apparently. There was suffering in every aspect - physical from others and emotional from unresolved feelings from them. Francesca always would put up a fight, treated him coldly, just as much as he’d keep his hot-and-cold thing. They always hurt, cut open, gutted and killed together. It’s always been like this, as if he still could awaken the animalistic side of hers that’s been implanted in her so many years ago by her sire.

The chandelier of the living room shook above their heads as the man’s body crashed against the wall. Still standing on the side, the Italian intently watched, slightly apprehensive that Orobas simply wouldn’t do what she told him to do. It was common sense that he had to feed sooner than later, she couldn’t understand why he was putting up a fight. Was it only because she was the one forcing him to do so, instead of it being by his own will? Nonetheless, he heard her. The temptation was probably too strong for him to resist and persist with his stubbornness. When fangs ripped open the human’s throat, Fran decided to take a seat in an armchair and start thinking what the bloody hell they could do next. Run up and down the bloody place looking for a lead? Find vampires and torture them, wish they knew anything about Carrington and make more enemies in the process?

She realized Orobas had been looking at her, the man now flat on the ground like a sack of potatoes, in a pool of his own blood. Fran stood from her seat, noticing through the layer of blood how there were no more sunburns over his skin. “You’re looking terrible in that jacket.” It was her way of complimenting him, actually, because she was still quite angry - maybe she’d be constantly pissed off for five decades or so. Sadly, he could never look terrible in her eyes in any way. And it only got her all the more annoyed. “Certo. E che facciamo adesso? How can I help?” Finally, she yelled to him. At least he wasn’t that hurt anymore, in spite of the obvious mental exhaustion.

“Should I forgo everything then?” He teased while she yelled at him, unzipping it and depositing it on the ground to walk around the house and find a bedroom. The man lived a boring life, a soul easily forgotten if the lack of pictures of family was to go by. Though of course, he didn’t have any photos of his friends either-- should he? Did their kind do that sorta thing? Haxian and him aren’t in one photo together, no need to pull such old memories when the future was right there.

He couldn’t possibly be teasing her right now. Hazel eyes squinted at him in response, not really taking the time to lash back at him. But as she carried on with genuine questions to pressing matters, he simply turned him back on her and walked further into the house! Orobas wasn’t taking the piss, after all, he was truly going after the man’s closet to try and find something more fitting to his personality. Why not take a shower while at it? She thought. Maybe put some of his cologne. Mentally drained, Francesca fell in the sofa and rubbed her face, the portrait of frustration. Both of her hands were placed on her stomach as her questioning eyes stared at the ceiling. A crack opened there too when the man’s body hit the drywall. She didn’t know what to do.

A pang of something frustrating surfaced as he found a dress shirt in their closet, and he washed his hands and face in the bathroom. Ignoring her wasn’t entirely on purpose, though on brand for Orobas when she raised her voice at him. He was thinking of a better plan than interrogating people and trying to find out who knew what. There was a bad feeling in his gut that someone knew something, but was keeping quiet for the fear of the label of rat being put on their back. Droplets of water clung to his face, still exhausted, thin and gray. Eyes a deep crimson, he licked his lips, the taste of blood still present and his stomach coiled in thirst for more. Walking out of the bedroom, he gave her a look as if to ask, ‘is this better?’, but was already buttoning up the dress shirt and made to sit with her on the couch.

“Someone said they could do a locating spell, but it’s going to be too late. I just can’t believe it will work without people bargaining for stuff while we won’t have time,” he scratched at his fang with a nail, lounging back improperly and stared at the mangled corpse. “The person I killed before I got you, said they saw someone on the beach with a truck and swore they took someone from the water. Maybe it’s him, maybe it's just another human corpse. He has to be on Amity Road. I think, the best course is to find the truck. Black, overly large with equipment in the back.”

Orobas’ return caught her by surprise. When she heard the water running, Fran truly thought he was washing off all the blood. Which wouldn’t have been a bad idea, it just sounded wrong taking a shower when all she could think of was Carrington. When he sat next to her, her expressive eyes were nearly overflowing with water. She quickly sat up and rubbed them, humming in agreement in a weakened voice to the silent question he threw her way. Not really though, he still looked terrible and she still preferred him in his own clothes, but - Francesca cleared her throat, inhaling quietly. The last thing she wanted was for the vampire to notice she was crying right there. The woman who had been quietly waiting for him to finish draining a man from his blood was now crying in his sofa. It was pathetic. She felt pathetic. Yet she couldn’t help it. Fran without her emotions just wasn’t Fran.

“Fine,” almost promptly, the brunette stood up to her feed, running her hand through her dark hair, clearly distraught. Fran, who’s never been patient, now just seemed restless, unable to stay still for too long. “Let’s move then.”

Orobas sensed the emotion in her easily. Attuned to suffering within people. He stood up and grabbed her hand, and made to look her in the eyes. People crying was Orobas’ greatest weakness. Not in wanting to console them, but to savor it. When someone got to that point of emotion, where it swelled their eyes, and fell in tracks down their cheeks-- it was truly beautiful and distracting. Orobas’ gaze was predatory, but for once he didn’t lash out and make her feel ridiculous, didn’t say something to have her anger rise and to lash out at him. Though he quite enjoyed that too, he felt the heaviness in his chest over the situation. Carrington was making both these ruthless monsters emotional to the point of confusing. He pressed and kiss to her cheek, and walked past her and towards the door.

“Let’s move then--”

Orobas darted for a good part of the night, around Amity Road looking for the truck that was scene. It was the only lead they had, and for tonight, it could be the only one they should follow so it didn’t get distracting. He battled the desires for mayhem. His anger at its peak, his concern a confusing anxiety driven reaction, but as they looked, he was thankful he had Fran with him tonight. So they could keep one another in check. As the sun was only two hours away, he finally found it in a parking lot. Looking around nothing really moved, the place quiet as it should be this early in the day. No. “Francesca--” in a dissipation of speed to ran towards him.

Carrington wasn’t quite sure how long he had been walking. The road seemed to lead nowhere, even though he knew where he was. Didn’t he? Amity Road. Wasn’t it? Had he passed that street already? Was that the same car parked there on the corner? Carrington swiped a hand over his eyes. Surely he wasn’t walking in circles.

He looked up at the sky. What time was it? How long until the sun came up? He’d need to either find his way home or find shelter. It wouldn’t do to have survived the hell of the last week (or was it longer?) only to perish at sunrise because he couldn’t find his bloody way home. His watch and his phone weren’t working, and there were no clocks or signs to let him know the time. Only sallow, greasy light from the streetlamps, the smell of wet and rot, and the feeling of simply wanting to sit down… just for a moment. To rest. Perhaps he would.

Carrington stumbled… and fell to the sidewalk. And this time he didn’t get back up. Christ, he was so tired. Lying down wouldn’t do any harm. He would rest. Just for a moment…

That complicity gesture forced her to swallow the lump of sadness that gathered in her throat. Discarding those overwhelming emotions was the only way to focus on what was important: the task ahead. They had to find Carrington, or at least a second lead that got them anywhere closer to finding him. Anything but remaining where they were now.

Whist one would look in the right, the other would sweep the left, going through block by block following the same pattern, covering the area as quick as possible; not exactly together as in side by side, but hardly apart, for with a whisper and the blink of an eye Fran would be standing standing beside him. But nor their speed nor their insistence seemed to matter when that bloody truck was nowhere to be found. Maybe they’d given him a wrong lead just so Orobas would get off their back, somehow believing they wouldn’t end up dead in a ditch after Orobas was done with them after that lie.

Exhausted, Fran was about to give up. She was hungry, the sun would come up in a few moments and they couldn’t find a vehicle that was probably nonexistent or maybe was some type of invisible-kombi from the high-on-drugs-and-seeing-things-that-don’t-exist fae world.

Turning her back to the vampire, she sighed loudly, a hand on her hip and another on her face. That’s when she heard the quiet call and immediately ran to Oroba’s side. That’s when she saw him. Or was it some drunk, homeless man? He smelled different. Past the dirt, the worn-out clothes and lack of his typical aftershave. Did he drink from someone on drugs? Why was he lying there?! Was he... dead? “... is it… him…?” After a couple of second of uncontrollable first-shock and strong fear, Francesca threw herself to the ground, kneeling and, as carefully as her disperair allowed her, rolled him over. Her hand delicately touched his face. “Carring? You’re fine. You’re fine, we got you,” she tried to sound as confident as possible, but without even noticing, Fran was already silently crying. For a second she looked back at Orobas, wanting to tell him thanks for not giving up on him, for finding the lead to him, for finding him, for getting to that point for him - but no words came out.

Orobas didn’t want to see her despair right now, and her tears-- ever delightful and distracting, almost had him letting them have their moment, but they were all cutting it close, and in the morning-- someone would likely call the police on their bodies. When she looked up at him as he stood there, Carrington starved, wearing clothes not atypical, and his general state in her arms, he grew impossibly mad. It was wildfire, and his gaze didn’t hide it. The frustration of it all almost consuming, because he didn’t know the why, and he wasn’t sure Carrington would even explain. He knew he probably wouldn’t-- if this situation was reversed. His fists curled inward, and Orobas had to calm down or he’d walk away from this. Haxian-- we found him. He felt his master close, not intruding on their hunt, nor helping, but was in their car waiting patiently to be sure they didn’t get caught in the sun. I’m coming. He crouched down, running the edges of his fingertips over Francesca's cheeks, and once more looked at Carrington.

“Come--” Haxian pulled up fast to the parking lot and the group sped off towards Bloodhaven.

#x: carrington #x: fran #x: losing balance

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ahtohallan-calling · 5 years

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chapter 18 of love is the only thing we can carry with us (kristanna slowburn/angsty but cute/no magic au, rated t) is up!

next chapter // all chapters

“And that way, you see, someone of your bloodline can still inherit Arendelle down the line. Things will work out so very nicely in both our favors. So much neater than the alternatives.”

“And those would be?”

He poured her a cup of coffee. “There’s just one, really, but so many ways we could get there. It’s inevitable that one way or another, Arendelle will pass from your family’s hands-- whether I take it by force or your sister runs it into the ground, no matter what, I’ll be there to pick up the pieces for my own.”

“And if Arendelle didn’t need you or your kingdom’s support?”

He laughed, stirring in a lump of sugar and handing the cup to her. “You are so funny, darling, I think I’ll never tire of hearing your silly little ideas. How lucky I am to have won your heart.”

chapter 18: sisters

Get up, Anna.

Blackness was creeping in at the edge of her vision, unconsciousness rolling in like a fog. It was tempting to lean in to it, to let it consume her entirely.

Get UP.

Another wave of crushing pain rolled through her chest; she would have been sick if she had been able to stomach breakfast that morning. Maybe this really was it; maybe that was what Hans wanted.

If you die right now, then you left him for nothing.

Anna staggered to her feet, stumbled over to the wall. She leaned heavily against it, waiting for her knees to stop wobbling. Once she was steady, or at least close enough, she started walking, unsure of where to go at first. No one could know about what had happened, but if she collapsed again and was on her own…

She gritted her teeth. She knew where she had to go.

Getting up the stairs was the hardest part; she had to stop every three or four steps to catch her breath, desperately grateful that no one passed her way. From there, it was easy; she’d walked this path so many times as a child, in the dead of night or on holiday mornings or just when she wanted to check if her parents were still there.

They weren’t her parents’ rooms anymore, but the only family she had left was inside, whether she liked it or not. She raised a shaking hand and knocked on the door, slumping against it as an aftershock of pain rolled through her.

By some miracle, Elsa was there. She pulled the door open, frowning, and Anna fell into her.

“What happened?” Elsa gasped, catching her just in time.

Anna couldn’t respond, too focused on staying upright. Elsa kicked the door shut and helped her over to an armchair; she slumped into it, her vision going hazy again. Cool hands pressed against her face, giving her something to focus on, something to cling to while she found her way back to solid ground.

When the pain finally subsided to a dull ache, she blinked and realized Elsa was crying, silent tears rolling down her cheeks and dropping heavily to the floor. “Sorry,” Anna whispered, her voice tremulous as she, too, began to weep. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Elsa leaned down then, wrapping her arms around her shoulders and pulling her close. Anna hesitantly hugged her back; she couldn’t remember the last time they had held each other like this. She closed her eyes, letting herself be comforted by it, even knowing that by the end of the day they’d likely be at an impasse once again. For the moment, at least, it was an anchor, something to help her keep her balance while she prepared to take her next step.

---

Eventually, Elsa had coaxed her sister into lying down in the four-poster bed. It hadn’t taken long for Anna to fall into a fitful sleep, but Elsa had no intention to leave her side. She rang a bell to summon a servant, instructing him to cancel all of her meetings for the rest of the day and send up a pot of tea.

It was lukewarm now, she was sure, but it was the closest thing she had to an idea of how to help her sister. Anna had always loved tea; even as a little girl, she had insisted on drinking some with the adults, though never with more than a pinch of sugar. “Just milk,” she would insist, put out when the grown-ups tittered about how funny she looked holding such a big mug in her tiny hands.

Elsa had brought her some every afternoon back when she had first gotten sick, carrying the pot and cups on a tray all by herself, all the way upstairs from the kitchens, holding her breath to keep it steadier every time she turned a corner. Growing up, they’d still kept up the tradition on occasion, but as they had grown apart, Elsa focusing on matters of state while Anna learned...what had she learned? How did she not even know that? How long had it been since she had really talked with her sister?

She realized, suddenly, that the last time they had even had tea together like this had been the night their parents had died. Anna had brought the teapot then, hands tremulous as she poured, and Elsa had let her do it, knowing that finding some way to make herself useful was the way she showed her love.

It struck her then, the terrible weight of what Anna was doing for her and for Arendelle, and suddenly Elsa found herself clambering up onto the bed beside her sister as she had when they were children and one of them had a nightmare. Anna blinked blearily and rolled to face her. “What time is it?” she asked, her voice hoarse.

Elsa shrugged. “I-- I’m not sure.”

Anna started to sit up then, but Elsa reached out, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You need to rest. Please.”

Her sister eyed her, clearly debating whether she had enough energy to start another argument; apparently, she didn’t, and instead sat up the rest of the way, swinging her legs to the side of the bed before freezing suddenly.

“You...made tea?”

“Well...I had it sent up. I thought maybe it would help.”

Anna bowed forward, burying her face in her hands. Frightened, Elsa leaned forward, pulling her into a hug as her sister burst into tears again.

“He knows,” she sobbed. “I think he’s known the whole time. I’m so sorry.”

Elsa’s heart dropped. “What happened?”

Anna told her everything, from the beginning, explaining how Hans had dragged her out for so many excursions, had insisted on all the dances, had made her dance today until she had collapsed on the floor and then left her there. Anger curled around Elsa’s heart like a snake poised to strike, fierce and deadly. “That monster. I’ll--”

Anna shook her head. “We can’t do anything. I’ve sat in enough meetings. I know how bad of a spot Arendelle’s in.”

She was right; Elsa hated to admit it, hated herself for not finding a better solution, hated her parents for leaving them in this mess. The Southern Isles had had its eyes on conquering Arendelle since even before their parents’ passing; a marriage tie might be the only option left protecting them from the larger kingdom’s ambitions, might buy them enough time to find a long term solution.

Still, she found herself stroking Anna’s hair, desperate to find some way to comfort her. “There might be another way,” she said. “Maybe-- maybe I can talk with some of the ambassadors of the other smaller kingdoms, or...we still have some money, if we put off a few projects, in case they tried an embargo…”

“It’s okay,” Anna murmured, looking drained. “I...know this isn’t your fault. Not really. But thank you for trying to fix it.”

“I should have been trying long ago. I should never have let the advisors even suggest this as an option. It’s not worth it, making you marry him, making you leave Kr--”

Anna let out another little sob. “Don’t-- please don’t say it. I can’t bear it.”

Elsa nodded, pulling her a little closer. “I mean it. I’ll do what I can to find another way.”

“There isn’t one. But...thank you, anyway, for trying.” Anna squeezed her hand then, turning and giving her a weak smile. “I miss you, Elsa.”

“I miss you, too. I’m sorry for...everything. I should have told you about your heart years ago. And I never should have pulled away like I have. I just...I didn’t know what to do, especially after Mama and Papa...oh, god, Anna, they left us in such a mess.”

Her sister nodded, resigned. “No use sitting and crying about it, though, is there? Time to start finding our way out of it.”

---

He was waiting for her when she went downstairs the next morning for breakfast. She had been expecting it, though normally he only joined her for dinner. She was surprised, really, that he had even waited this long before pouncing, though she wished he’d waited a little longer; her throat was still sore from all the crying the previous night, which would make it much more difficult to tell him off if it came to that.

“Good morning, darling,” Hans purred, standing up from the table and pulling out a chair. “Do come and sit beside me, won’t you?”

Anna curtsied prettily, rising with a sweet smile. “Of course.”

She settled herself in the chair, folding her hands neatly in her lap to keep them from trembling as Hans piled toast and eggs and bacon onto her plate. She hated eggs.

“You know,” he said conversationally, “Some people would suggest I cancel our engagement, cut my losses and let the world know of this little game to marry you off to someone before you drop dead.”

“And what would you suggest?”

“That it doesn’t matter to me, really, how long you live, so long as the wedding happens. I hope, of course, that you’ll live long enough to give me an heir. Wouldn’t that be lovely? A little prince, with your lovely blue eyes.”

Anna simpered at him. “How sweet.”

“And that way, you see, someone of your bloodline can still inherit Arendelle down the line. Things will work out so very nicely in both our favors. So much neater than the alternatives.”

“And those would be?”

“And if Arendelle didn’t need you or your kingdom’s support?”

---

“How did the meeting go today?”

Elsa shrugged, glad Anna was turned away so she couldn’t see her expression. “Pretty well, all things considered,” she said, hoping she sounded lighthearted as she continued plaiting her sister’s hair.

Anna turned her head and was rewarded with a gentle tug on her half-finished braid. “Okay, okay, geez,” she said with a tired little laugh as she turned to face forward again. “But I can definitely tell you’re lying. Just so you know.”

Elsa sighed. “I tried talking with the Duke, really. But he’s happy with our current trade arrangement. If we raise import taxes on Weselton’s goods, that’s going to change, and we can’t afford to lose that income entirely. If you’d been there, though, maybe things would have gone better. You’re much better at diplomacy than me.”

“Maybe I should marry the Duke instead, then.”

“He’s even shorter than you.”

Anna shuddered theatrically. “You can have him, then.”

Elsa laughed and tied off the braid. “You’re all finished.”

Her sister didn’t move, content to be sitting at her feet and leaning back against her knee. “This is...nice. Getting along with you again.”

Elsa couldn’t help but agree. It was a small miracle, really, that her sister had forgiven her for her coldness and for her part in shutting down her relationship with Kristoff. It was plain to see that Anna still longed for him, if anything even more now than she had when she had first left, now that the wedding date was drawing nearer. Hans was planning on taking her back with him the morning after the ball, now only a week and a half away. A lump rose in Elsa’s throat; she had only just gotten her sister back and now was losing her once again, and as much as she had hoped that Anna’s recovery over the summer would stick…

She reached down and squeezed her little sister’s shoulder. “Dinner should be ready now. Will you come down with me?”

“I’m not really hungry, sorry. And my head still hurts.”

Elsa frowned. “Should I have them send some sandwiches up to your room?”

“I’m fine, really.”

She wasn’t; they both knew it. A pang of fear struck Elsa’s heart, not for the first time; she was starting to worry that before long she would be losing her sister to a place much farther away than the Southern Isles.

---

Hans still insisted on his walks, on introducing Anna to this diplomat or the other, on their

little dance practices, though now, mercifully, he would let her take breaks when she started getting tired.

She questioned it one day as they were walking back to the castle, having just had a close call; they had only made it a few blocks into the town before she had suddenly felt faint, leaning heavily on Hans’s arm and despising herself for needing his support in yet another way. “Why did you want me to...you know...that one day in the ballroom?”

“I already had an inkling. But I needed to know for sure.”

“How did you know? They kept it hidden for so long.”

He chucked her under the chin, smiling fondly at her as a group of noblewomen passed, eyeing her enviously. “That was exactly it. Who would hide such a lovely flower of a princess, and for what purpose? It’s been clear for years that something was wrong in your little kingdom. I’m just the only one smart enough to do something about it.”

It made her stomach turn to hear him talk so about Arendelle, not only because of his obvious disdain but also because she knew he was right. Her parents had been good people, but they had never been fit to rule; her father had come to the throne much too young, and her mother had been a commoner. She wondered what they would think of what their kingdom, what their daughters, had come to now.

She wondered if wherever they were, they were sorry.

---

Talking together had become something of a nightly ritual, so when Anna was nowhere to be found one evening, Elsa was more than a little worried. She had just spent the day having a final dress fitting with Hans; there were only a few more days to go before the engagement ball. Elsa was starting to worry that perhaps something had happened, that Hans had made some more daring move; desperate, she ran to Anna’s rooms and almost flung open the door before catching herself and pausing to knock.

“Come in,” came the weak reply, and she did, hurrying to where Anna was laying on the bed, curled up on top of the blankets and wearing a deep blue sweater that was far too big for her-- the same one, Elsa realized, that she had been wearing when she had left the mountain.

“Anna! What happened?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. Just...tired. Long day.”

Elsa placed the back of her hand against Anna’s cheek. “You’re burning up! How long have you felt like this?”

“I’m fine, I promise. Probably just the fire.”

“Let me call a doctor.”

Anna sat up. “No! I’m okay. Please.”

“But your h--”

“No.”

Anna’s eyes were bright, that spark of anger returning to them. Elsa tried again. “Anna, if you’re not--”

“I probably just have a cold.”

“But--”

“Whether I’m sick or not, it doesn’t matter,” Anna snapped. “The sooner I marry Hans, the sooner Arendelle is safe from the Southern Isles. There’s not any time to waste. And if I die before it happens--”

“Anna!”

She clutched Elsa’s wrist, silencing her. “Call a doctor. But I’m not staying in my sickbed. If I die before I marry that bastard, then I gave it all up for nothing.”

“There’s still time to see if there’s another way.”

Anna let go, sitting back as a cloud passed over her face. “I don’t think there is.”

Elsa didn’t dare to ask more; she didn’t think she could bear to hear Anna explain further. “I-- I’ll send someone up with something, at least, to see if we can break the fever.”

Anna nodded. “Okay.”

She flew from the room, asking a servant to call for a doctor as she passed by them in the hall, hardly stopping to explain where to send him. She kept going until she was outside, in the crisp, late-October air. She looked up at the gray clouds on the horizon; the first snows were supposed to fall in just a couple of days, maybe even before Anna left. Hans had been right; there was no time to waste before this wedding.

She took a deep breath, willing herself not to be sick in the middle of the garden. Anna had proven herself over the last few weeks to have a sharp political mind, to be a more skilled diplomat than she had ever realized, but she had refused to accept Elsa’s suggestion that she simply break the engagement and stay to help sort it out. “I don’t actually know what I’m doing,” she had insisted. “This way I’ll know for sure. We can’t risk it.”

Elsa had never been a risk-taker, but now, after the revelations of the last few weeks, she was ready to make a gamble, even if it meant the stakes were so high they raised the possibility of losing both her sister and her kingdom. It was a long shot, she knew, in more than one way, but she would take it, would take any chance that meant keeping Anna in Arendelle and Hans out.

She turned and went back inside, heading straight for her writing desk. A regular letter wouldn’t do; she knew her correspondence was being watched carefully-- Hans had come with quite a few servants and fellow noblemen to keep him company, and though her parents had failed her in so many other ways, that had always made sure Elsa knew how to recognize a spy.

There were still a few invitations left for the ball, and one last batch going out in the next morning’s mail for the people who hadn’t made the first cut. She picked one up, flipping it over and writing carefully in the top corner, hoping no one would think to open the envelope and pull it out.

She needs you. I’ll have someone meet you at the gates. Come ready to leave.

---

A knock came on the door. “Come in,” Anna called wearily, fumbling with her petticoat again. She’d sent her servants away, tired of their fretting; she was still running a fever thanks to this blasted cold, and her head had been pounding even before they had started trying to talk her into calling off the party. She was regretting it now that she was faced with the prospect of getting into this monstrosity of a ballgown alone.

To her surprise, it was Hans who slipped into the room, already dressed in his finery and carrying something in a black garment bag. “The night’s finally here, darling. Isn’t it exciting?”

“Very. Help me with my corset?”

He did, pulling the laces tight with practiced ease. “You’re lucky I have a couple of sisters, too.”

“I’ll have to thank them in person.”

“You’ll get a chance very soon. The first snowstorms are rolling in earlier than expected. We’ll leave tonight immediately after the ball.”

She whirled around. “Tonight? But I didn’t get a chance to--”

“I am sorry about that at least. I’ll make sure you get a chance to talk to your sister before you go.”

Anna squeezed her eyes shut tightly; at least it would mean getting it all over with sooner. She was suddenly so, so tired she didn’t even have the strength to argue. “Fine. Help me with...that?” she asked, gesturing weakly to the underskirt.

“No need. I had something else made for you so you won’t have to worry about changing after the party.”

He pulled a gown out of the bag; to Anna’s surprise, it was more to her taste than the massive ballgown had been. “It’s...nice.”

Hans chuckled, motioning for her to step into the gown. “I’m not a complete monster, dear, no matter what you may think. I can at least do this for you.”

She tried and failed not to shudder as he fastened the buttons up the back, imagining a lifetime of this, of being grateful for his small and unpredictable acts of mercy. You’re doing it for Arendelle, she reminded herself. It’s worth it.

Hans offered her his arm. “Are you ready?”

She wasn’t, but she never would be. She took it and let him lead her away.

#it's a long one!! i'll make up for the lack of kristoff very soon!!!#also heads up again it's still angsty and hans is still terrible so pls be forewarned if you dont want to read sad stuff!#litotwccwu #my fics #cw: chronic illness

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vivithefolle · 6 years

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Why I headcanon Hermione as white, an essay by me

I’ve been told to post this as an individual post since apparently I was making good points - so here ya go. Please don’t bake me into Dementor cookies.

Okay, so I never thought of Hermione as being anything but white, because in the books there are a few lines that describe her has having pale skin; however “going pale” is also a euphemism for being afraid. Same as “going green” is a euphemism for sickness.

However, I never thought of Hermione as anything but a British white girl because of her lack of reaction to the word “Mudblood”.

Okay so now I’m gonna dig myself a grave because people will accuse me of racism, but hear me out on this one. To be clear: I don’t mind fanarts of Hermione or Harry with varied skin colors. Hell, draw and interpret canon in any way you want, buddy, it’s your interpretation and it’s awesome! But when I write about Hermione and Harry, in my mind’s eye, I envision them as your average caucasian kid.

Below are my explanations for it. You’re free to disagree or call me out, but please read them first before you condemn me to twelve years in Azkaban.

When Hermione is being called a Mudblood, she doesn’t react. She understands that it’s an insult but she doesn’t seem to grasp its actual meaning, even after she’s learned what it’s for, and as the series progresses, she still doesn’t react to it. She mostly tries to keep Ron from beating Malfoy into a pulp over it.

Now, this behaviour doesn’t strike me as that of a socially inept, extremely opinionated and argumentative, very bossy young woman.

I mean. Would Hermione be the sort to let herself be insulted without doing anything about it? She replies to Pansy Parkinson’s cruel barbs by comments of her own. She defends herself when she’s being called out by her friends. She has no problem insulting Ron when she thinks he’s being insensitive. Rita Skeeter talks shit about her and she ends up locked in a jar for a week!! But have Malfoy call her “Mudblood” and she remains silent, at least until the sixth book.

What if it wasn’t because she’s used to racism, but on the contrary because she doesn’t know how to handle it, because she’s never experienced it?

I mean, had Hermione ever gotten grief over her skin colour, she’d be outraged and disappointed that this ideal, magical new world, that she would consider an outlet from the racist bullies back home, had actually its own form of racism, right?

Seeing her reactions to being called a racial slur, Hermione doesn’t strike me as a person who experienced racism - it’s because she’s not used to it, because to her it’s isn’t someone insulting her heritage; rather, it’s just some bully calling her an insult that feels distant and faraway to her.

For example. I once got called a whore. I’m asexual, I’ve never dated anyone, and never once dressed in anything that could be considered as remotely risqué. Still I got called a whore. And it mostly left me a bit confused rather than offended, because I knew that if there was a word to use to qualify me, “whore” would definitely not be one. (For the curious ones, the guy called me a whore because of my lifelong obsession with Pokémon. Yes, I fail to see the logic as well.)

So when Hermione hears someone call her a Mudblood, she doesn’t really registers the word as being a racist comment, instead she considers it some trivial, playground-level insult. It’s exactly why Ron gets so angry and protective on her behalf: because she should be offended by such a slur, and she isn’t. Anyway, that’s always how I’ve read it.

Also, her comment on horses when she talks about Firenze. Now I know that people of color can be racist as well, but she says it so… casually, so flippantly. It’d strike me as odd that someone so sensitive to the plight of creatures seen as “subhuman” would be able to say something like that without understanding the implications… Unless she has no idea that referring to centaurs as “horses” is an extremely offensive thing to do, because she doesn’t realize how racist it sounds, because she herself has never heard someone, say, call her “a monkey” for being black.

And you know, I think that having Hermione as a white girl isn’t so bad, come to think of it. My opinion is probably going to come off as controversial but I really, really want to voice it.

We have Harry, Ron and Hermione, a set of three characters, all from different backgrounds, and all privileged in different ways.

For Harry, it’s fame and fortune. Being the Boy-Who-Lived, no matter how much he may complain about it, is something that puts him ‘above the rest’. It allows him to get away with ballooning up Aunt Marge because Fudge won’t have the Saviour of Wizarding Britain in prison over something as minuscule as one tiny breach of the Statute of Secrecy - yes, it’s sarcasm. The point is: Harry’s status as Boy-Who-Lived may cause him grief, but it certainly comes with a few perks.

Ron’s privilege is, of course, his blood status. Being a pureblood is valued among the magical community and could even make some Death Eaters think twice before killing you. I think Voldemort would want to preserve as much of the Sacred Twenty-Eight’s bloodlines, considering how few there are left. (and yes, I have my own headcanon for how exactly he’d keep them alive. Wait for it…)

Hermione’s privilege is, quite simply, her normal, comfortable life in the Muggle world. A life where nobody looks down on her origins; a life where she never had to experience a war and its aftermaths; a life where she might feel a bit the outcast due to her brains and accidental magic, but would you rather be an outcast and live, or be considered “impure” and be killed without a second thought?

So, each member of the trio has some form of privilege, and it’s counterbalanced by a lack of privilege somewhere else. The ironic thing is that it’s usually the privilege of another one of them!

Harry’s, we all know: not everyone can be raised in a loving, accepting home like Hermione and Ron do, and it hits him full force with the Dursleys. For all his money and fame, Harry lacks a true, warm family (luckily Ron is quick to offer him one). And even if he can see the Weasleys every summer, he still has to return to Privet Drive and be reminded for a few weeks that yes, these arseholes he’s forced to live with are his only still living relatives.

The Weasleys’ poverty is evidently one of the ways Ron lacks privilege, but the very thing that is considered a privilege in the magical community turns out to be a double-edged sword; being a blood traitor, in dear Bella’s own words, is “right next to being a Mudblood”. Now, I mentioned I had a headcanon for how Voldemort might try to keep the old bloodlines running? Well, even though they’re blood traitors, the blood’s still pure, right? You’d just need them to stop supporting these pesky Muggleborns… you could have one of them conceive an heir, a perfect blank slate whom you’d teach all about blood purity… Now wouldn’t that be convenient? (I am aware that this headcanon is absolutely horrifying and I’m sorry I ever came up with it. I was just thinking of what Molly might have said to try and stop Ron from going on the run in DH, and suddenly this popped into my head and I was like “oh this is so awful!… it’s perfect”.)

And finally, Hermione’s lack of privilege solely resides in the Wizarding World she loves so much, and is probably what she considers the only downside to her being a witch: the fact that she’s looked down upon by blood supremacists who hold on to archaic views, and sadly these guys are from rich families and have influence over several important people… since they can bribe the less morally sound, it makes them much more dangerous than a couple of penniless drunkards shouting abuse in the street.

Making Hermione into someone who’s been dealing with racism her whole life instead of giving her this comfortable, safe home to return to - it breaks the delicate balance of privilege / lack of privilege in the trio.

I personally think that Hermione’s character is much more interesting if you make her come into the Wizarding World as this wide-eyed little kid who’s already persuaded she knows everything and that she’ll be hailed as a prodigy, only to have her understand that, just as respect is not something you’re entitled to, but something you have to earn - that’s the first lesson she’ll learn from Ron - there are also people who just won’t respect you because they’re prejudiced little buggers - and that’s where Malfoy comes in (and sorry but he’s just here to be a disgusting bigot, not to be redeemed by Hermione’s luuuuurve).

I get it, the the whole “Hermione is discriminated in both worlds” theme makes her a very tragic character… But that’s exactly the problem. If you take away Hermione’s privilege, it ends up being “the terrible, tragic, angsty tale of Hermione Granger, woe is her”, and she ends up in a position where people will just throw her a gigantic pity-party.

The trio’s characters are carefully balanced, and making Hermione a victim of racism in both Muggle and magical worlds ends up screwing over the remaining two by putting more woes on Hermione’s shoulders. Making Harry a victim of racism as well does the exact same thing - and I’d argue it makes it worse, because Ron-bashers are already very eager to scream “omg so wha t if he doezn’t hav moneys he complain for nuthing what a t erribl e freind” and to completely disregard Ron’s struggles… so add discriminated, rejected-by-both-worlds Harry and Hermione into this mix and Ron’s issues would be downright ignored in favour of Harry’s and Hermione’s, who would seem to have “more misery” on their plates compared to him, at least in a purely mathematical sense (the argument being that “more issues to deal with = more misery”).

Okay, you’re still with me, you haven’t unfollowed me, and you’re not completely outraged at my reasoning? Then let me tell you again: I don’t care about the characters’ skin color, and you can interpret them any way you want. Make Harry have Asian ancestry or have Hermione be a black woman, be creative, have fun. This is the way I see the characters and the way I interpret them, and my own reasoning for doing so. A trio is a balancing act and must be carefully constructed so there is equilibrium on every side. Add or substract something and it all tips over. It’s the main reason why the trio is so unrecognizable in the movies, with a Harry as bland as canned soup, a Ron turned into both a joke and dead weight, and a Hermione as realistic as a turtle dancing the boogie on ice-skates.

The triangle is the most stable geometric figure. Without Harry, Ron and Hermione have no purpose (besides falling in love and living happily ever after of course). Without Hermione, Harry and Ron manage but lose a great deal of time, and then it might be too late for them to save the day. And without Ron… Harry and Hermione are downright unable to function, kind of like a horse with a broken leg.

Why do you think Rowling had created only three different wand cores at first? Or why Harry, Ron and Hermione present some qualities from Slytherin, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff respectively? (yes, I associated Ron to Ravenclaw, because Rowena wanted “wit beyond measure” and Ron has wit in spades, and Hufflepuffs are known to be hard-working, which fits Hermione’s work ethic perfectly) Or why there are three Hallows, and why each member of the trio picks a different one? It’s all for the sake of the balancing act. A duo is made of opposites. A trio is made of complementarities.

… Well, this turned into an impromptu lecture on literature. I hope this’ll help you if you ever need to create your very own trio of heroes.

#harry potter #harry potter discourse #hermione granger #rip me

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salemspoint-blog · 7 years

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❝ Like a wildflower; she spent her days allowing herself to grow, not many knew of her struggle, but eventually; all knew of her light. ❞

» Savannah Delore » Twenty-five » Delore witch » Architect » Blake Lively

Physical Appearance —

If there is one rarity within Salem’s Point, it’s seeing Savannah Delore with a single hair out of place. For as long as anyone can remember, she’s been an absolute figure of impeccable physical appearance. From her clothes, to the light wisp of makeup and the golden curls that cascade almost too effortlessly. She isn’t often found in anything short of expensive, and while that may sound vain, it’s not at all for the cost, rather her love of clothing. Savannah’s collection is more than extensive and it’s often believed that it’s one of the few things she allows herself in a life that never seems to slow down. Between her work at her firm, and the work she does for the Mayor, it’s rare to see the blonde in something as simple as jeans and a t-shirt. It’s out of her element and while she owns them, only those that catch her in the bleakest of situations will ever see her looking so normal.

Savannah possesses an element of grace about her that can’t quite be explained by anyone. Even in the most dire of situations, she holds herself with an air that begs respect from a woman that would never demand it. Her physical appearance is somewhat of a deception more recently. The once glow of the Delore witch foretold of hope and optimistic opportunity, and now it merely lives on as a mask for the loss and pain she bares for those around her. The weight she carries is one that she shares with nobody, and after so long she’s even gone as far as to mask her very aura, to train it to fool anyone observant enough to notice. Softly spoken, every word she breathes seems like a finality, despite the lack of sharpness to her tone, those around her seemingly accept anything she says without question, without argument despite what they might already think, if only because she openly seems to disconnect herself from allowing any such argument to slip through even the slightest of cracks.

Personality Traits —

♦ Altruistic, optimistic and protective ♢ Stubborn, indefatigable and unforgiving

Biography —

The power of the Delore bloodline was never anything that slipped the mind of Savannah Delore; she felt it in her very fingertips from such a young age that when it was finally explained to her, she had not a single question other than, “When can I start practicing.” The skill it took to learn and master any spell she pondered over in family grimoires was a second nature to her as breathing and by the time she was nine, she could recite and cast every spell her parents had allowed her to touch. With little choice left other than to satiate their daughters desire to learn, she was put through the paces and given the option to learn far beyond what any young witch was ever given the opportunity to do. There was no other way to describe it, Savannah thrived in every element, though desperately drawn to earth magic, the creation and life of everything around her. The magic she practiced, nourishing and benevolent shaped the very essence of the Delore Witch and throughout her years she became a shining beacon among a town filled with horrors beyond what any human could conjure with a sober mind. It was easy to believe that there would be daylight come the edge of darkness as long as the hope that rested on the Delore name was easy to look towards, and with Savannah’s quick rise among her coven members, it was a glimpse at peace, and all they had to do was wait.

Her devotion to her coven grew as she flourished, high school was a blur. Whenever she wasn’t buried in her studies, her nose was buried in a new grimoire, with barely a moment to breathe, the golden Delore child set the bar of standards high for herself, forever doting on those that needed it most; giving their hope reason to thrive. In the face of choosing a future coven leader, the refusal of those before her left the responsibility to her shoulders and while she’d only ever dreamed of as much, believing for the longest time that she would never be granted such an opportunity, she had no idea of everything that came with it.

Some claimed her heart bled for others, though Savannah would insist that it beat in her very chest for everyone but herself. In her first years of college, the bright and full of life witch was well beyond the realms of teenage love. Consumed by the reality of it, Savannah became blind to the dangers of bringing a human so intimately into the life of the Delore family, and while most knew the risks, so very few ever had the heart to tell her otherwise, knowing that her relationship with the young man was solely for her, and that much she deserved when they all remained all too aware of how impersonal her life would soon become. When an ambush of vampires was ordered on the coven members and their upcoming leaders, the man she held so dear to her was subject to the attack and Savannah was forced to take the lives of three vampires and wipe the memories of her high school sweetheart, removing any and all thought of the supernatural and twisted his memories to remember her as a woman turned cold. She’d have done anything to keep him safe, to keep him alive and allow him a life that he so deserved.

Without much else, she turned her back on him, with nothing to remember her by other than how she’d broken his heart.

Loss was a heavy burden that Savannah learnt to shoulder as the years went on. Stepping further into the workings of the coven, she worked tirelessly to ensure Salem’s Point held onto some semblance of peace, which evidently was no easy feat. There was never really any guess as to how she would ever perish — either at the hands of those she reprimanded for their actions, or by shear fact of exhaustion, whichever came first. Her own demise would likely come from her inability to look away, her reflexive state to help even when there is no possible way to lend it. Forever the bleeding heart the town believed her to be, Savannah worked tirelessly, past the brink of anyone’s own ability and ever the picture of stability, she remained a figure of peace. Someone to look to in the bleakest of moments.

But even the pure of heart falter. Twisted and forced to adapt to the darkness. Years after she forced the man she loved out of her life to keep him safe, he returned to town with questions of the impossible and a grudge against her that could rival even those of the Original families. No amount of convincing him to leave, to put their hometown in his rear vision mirror and say goodbye to everything he knew could have changed his mind. And though it left her weak, she reversed every manipulated memory she’d left him with, and as realization dawned in his eyes about the world he lived in — the life she lived and how desperately she had and still did love him — Savannah could no longer claim all she had done had been out of love lost, rather than the painstaking thought of losing him for good. But no amount of truth could untangle the web of lies she’d twisted to keep him safe, nor could it soften the blow of finding out about the supernatural. Cast aside by him, damned to hell and labelled as certifiably insane by the man she loved, Savannah watched as he finally listened to her, as he finally said goodbye to the beacon of horror their hometown was —- only to find that he never made it past the borders of town.

One of the first on the scene, another witches hex took his life from him before he could heed years of warnings. Her one triumph — keeping him safe, had failed. Broken and shattered, Savannah stood by as if she’d never known him, hollowed out by the fact that she could save as many people as the town and the coven expected of her, but she could never save the one that mattered. It left a brand new taste on her tongue, bitter and unwilling. Unwilling to believe that she could fight so hard and have her world taken from her in the blink of an eye.

Gone was the forgiving nature of Savannah Delore. No longer capable of looking past the digressions of those around her became a light that burnt like fire to anyone that thought to get too close. The familiar glow of bright features remained, though now, the thriving spirit of a naive girl that once was, was replaced by an unforgiving nature that no longer chose to look for the good in those around her. A mistake was a mistake, and anyone foolish enough to tread delicate waters around her, anyone daring enough to threaten the stability of the ground she stood on would feel the full weight of the Delore power by her hands.

#savannah delore #takenf #c.witch #blake lively

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boltspat · 8 years

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royal family + undertones . warnings: incest , ( child & child on child ) abuse / neglect , paedophilia .

don`t take this post as literally anything but an analysis on the royal family & specifically the roots of these incestuous undertones .

now , this post inspired this one now . it`s a wonderful post about azula`s sexualisation & really , if you haven`t read it , you should .

i want to talk about her relationships with her father & brother . her relationship with her mother deserves an entire post of her own , honestly . let`s start with ozai .

to be completely honest , i`ve overlooked ozai & azula in this light for a long time . his abuse is very blatant with zuko & some may argue there`s no abuse when it comes to azula . the desire to be perfected in her father`s image , receive endless amounts of his praise , listening to every barked order that is not simply a FAVOURED CHILD . as the linked post said , azula`s way of avoiding her father`s abuse was / is to be TOO PERFECTED for him to be angered by . when he so much as says he doesn`t want her to accompany him , she impulsively blurts out these incredibly entitled & codependent statements . she truly believes she should be by his side , she deserves she`s EARNED IT . again , the post mentions grooming & azula is an eerily perfect image of that . her worship of her father & her entitlement to be by his side do give a sense of a sexual relationship . a very obvious fact but one that is very important : azula`s entire personality , since a young child , has been more akin to ozai`s ; has only been tuned to his over the years with simply added desperation for his approval . take that as is . it`s not uncommon for young girls with abusive fathers to find safety in being perfect for him & unfortunately , very often to the point where they would find a sexual relationship all the more safe . such an intimate bond , there couldn`t be a way for him to harm her . ( despite it hurting her regardless ) to not only share this intimacy with the one you worship , but the same beloved bloodline it`s a disastrous & cruel form of abuse that was implicated in such a way that , looking back on it , really disturbs .

now , on to zuko . which , personally , was always a bit more blatant than the implied relationship with ozai . even as a child , i remember feeling the tension in their interactions , i felt the implied darkness that i always just wrote off as the antagonist ( azula ) being , well , a villain . but it would come in the oddest moments. simple conversations , a regular scene trying to depict azula as a liar ... would still have this undertone that i never put a finger on until i was older . let me be clear . when i say tension , i don`t mean sexual tension ( in a way , yes , but you get it ) i mean the tense atmosphere you feel well two people know a secret but intend to keep it that way until the day they die . that kind . the kind where you don`t see it , they don`t speak of it ; but you can safely assume every action is some form of ‘ i know something you don`t know ’ for the viewers . body language is key & almost all of their interactions are heavily physical .

anyway , let`s talk about how this fits into her abuse but also doesn`t . abuse is synonymous with sibling incest , no matter what; when you hear of two siblings in such a way , your mind goes ‘ poor things ’ . in this case , you think ‘ poor zuko ’ & it`s justifiably so . azula is one of his abusers . of the two it`s easy to see who will gain the initial sympathy .

her abusive behaviour revolves around power play , her ego & zuko`s weaknesses . all these things create how she manipulates & emotionally / mentally drains zuko . she`s stronger , she knows more , she has their father`s love , she drills into his head that she never cared their mother favoured him ; which makes her BETTER THAN HIM , since he did care his father didn`t love him as much as azula . zoning in on his weaknesses / insecurities are not difficult for someone so close to home . it`s also not difficult when the victim already thinks lowly of themselves due to the abuse of yet another family member . her ego is fuelled by this simplicity , by his simplicity . now , that`s all obvious . but let`s go back to the fact that AZULA is the one presented as the one initiating an incestuous narrative . the temptress , siren , succubus , what have you . ( might i add no young teenage girl would come up with this on her lonesome , which further adds suspicion to her relationship with ozai )

this in mind , we see her as the one touching zuko , circling him like a vulture , as she belittles him or those he trusts / loves , as she speaks nonchalantly about traumas they endured , as she lies to him . we see her getting the envious glare from his girlfriend / her best friend . we see her on her bed in a revealing robe in the darkness of the room as he stands still , angrily asking for her intentions . as he attempts to fight the abuse . one could say his lack of movement , lack of argumentative dialog , lack of retreat of her touches , lack of reaction to the tone of her voice ( which is in itself suggestive in most scenes ) the lack of escapism of the additional implied sexual relationship between them ; it may be the same kind of endurance he has for the verbal , physical & emotional abuse he`s suffered from his father as well . i could go on but this is the gist of it . it`s abuse , it`s wrong but partially , both are aware . one believes it`s perhaps deserved , perhaps NORMAL due to past abuse & dishonour of his family , the other may have simply learned another power tactic from her worshipped father .

now . i want to end this with just a few things . don`t take this next part as an attempt to normalise or romanticise incest , but rather as why the royal family is more prone to being called out for these implications than any other sibling - type relationship in the entire franchise .

i see a lot of people point out the ‘shipping’ is mainly of the royal fire nation family . there are a few reasons i`ve thought of as to why this is such an obvious implication now .

firstly , katara & sokka , bolin & mako are not abusive to one another . they have their regular sibling kerfuffles but none have attempted to murder or kidnap the other . let alone have such suggestive scenes with one another .

secondly , unhealthy relationships , coping mechanisms , defence mechanisms , family practises ; they`re all to be expected of the antagonists . right ? the protagonist siblings would never show that kind of body language , they`d never attempt to ignite such a relationship in hopes of fuelling their own ego , they`d never partake in these things . you don`t hear katara lying through her teeth in such a soft , low voice at night while circling around sokka in her private quarters touching his chest just steps away from her bed . it`s an entirely different living situation & upbringing , despite their similarities of familial loss & coping .

& lastly , they`re royal . olden royal families did practise incest . they did see it as a way of keeping the bloodline clean . ( which is brought up by the abusers quite often & embedded into the victim`s mind . that blood is thicker than water , you`re born with this & that , you`re worth is gone if you dishonour this purified bloodline )

something i want to bring up here ... there was a certain screencap of something said about ursa . taking this into account , you wonder if maybe mental illness within this family tree stretches out further than just ozai & azula .

why do i bring this up ? well , to simply put it i`ll just quote barristan selmy about the bloodline that still believed in incestuous breeding :

“ Targaryens have always danced too close to madness. [....] madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin. Every time a new Targaryen is born, he said, the gods toss the coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land. ”

TL;DR : this is my pov as to why there`s so much royal family incest about & why i can`t simply narrow it down to just fans that fetishise siblings , it runs deeper than that & with that in mind , it affects the children in the situation in an even more sinister way than the abuse we DID see .

#♛ . ❛ ANGEL DESTROYED . // ooc .#this made me so sad ugh #long post #incest //#paedophilia //#abuse //#csa //#cocsa //#for the record i will not write these implications as canon on this blog #just gonna post this here n then queue replies.......#just let the kids rest #i wrote this so sloppily im sorry im so Tired

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victorluvsalice · 5 years

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AU Thursday: Londerland Bloodlines -- More Than Blood

More fic for you as I take a crack at figuring out the whole Londerland Bloodlines timeline/quest results thing (the wiki claims this whole game takes place over 11 nights?! Yeah, noooooo). This snippet takes place between the retrieval of the sarcophagus from the Giovanni and Victor's nightmare that leads to Alice trying to get everyone out of L.A. before she's sent up against the Sabbat by LaCroix. Everyone's settled into a routine now that Lizzie, Emily, and Bonejangles/Sam are free of the Giovanni -- Lizzie and Sam are cautiously trying out this "relationship" thing, and Emily has officially joined the group of "people Victor is allowed to date without it being called cheating." Surrounded by various forms of loved ones, Alice is happier than she's been in quite a long time. . .

At least, while she's not thinking about how, eventually, Victor and Victoria are going to grow old and die. Yeah, the problem with being happy is, she wants things to stay happy forever. . .and that means wanting Victor (and Victoria, and Emily, but -- one thing at a time) to stay with her forever. And since she won't Embrace him, that means the blood bond. . .but obviously she's not exactly keen on that either. So she goes to someone whom she's been previously told she can trust, and who might have a better view on the whole subject that she does. . .

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"So, what brings you to mine if you ain't looking for the goods?"

Alice perched herself on the arm of the couch, idly twisting her hands into knots (and trying to ignore the faint scent of blood clinging to the fabric – surely that should have gone by now!). "I – I have it on some authority that I can trust you," she said, remembering Rosa and her beach riddles ("The man on the couch for sure. . ."). "And the nature of my question means I can't quiz just anyone. I don't want to ask the other vampires – the ones who haven't already made their opinions known, anyway. They've got a different view of the whole mess. And Knox – he's nice enough, but he's got stars in his eyes about his particular situation. Can't see a single bad thing about it. And he and Bertram tried to play me once, so. . ." She shrugged, looking up at Mercurio. "You, I might be able to coax a straight answer out of."

Mercurio raised an eyebrow. "Huh. Guessin' this is about you and Victor, then?"

Alice nodded. "Our relationship, as it stands." She tipped her head back, staring at the ceiling. "You know that I'm trying to break him of his bond to me. Send him back to a normal life."

"Yeah, I heard. Victor ain't exactly happy about it."

"I'm aware." Alice sucked in a breath out of old habits. "And I don't – I don't particularly want him to go. He – he's so sweet, and kind, and creative. . ." Her fingers tightened on her jeans. "But that's why he has to go. I can't condemn him to follow me around like a puppy the rest of his days. He deserves to go back to being an ordinary human. To forget this awful world of eternal night and manipulative monsters exists. To have the veil raised once more so he can go off and fall in love and get married and raise a family and – and g-grow old and. . .and. . ."

Her voice cracked, failing her. She wiped desperately at her eyes, well aware she probably looked hysterical (in multiple senses – ugh, why was it she cried blood?!) but unable to stop herself. Damn it, why did she always let her emotions run away with her like this? Why couldn't she look at this with the same cold logic that bastard Strauss might? It was right to let him go! To encourage him to head off with Victoria (and probably Emily too, at this point, though sending off either of the girls made her insides knot up too – argh, Alice, one relationship issue at a time!) and enjoy those sunny days she no longer could! To have the mortal life she'd been denied! She had Lizzie now – she could give him up!

"Could you?" the Queen whispered, a tentacle curling around Alice's shoulders. "Could you stand to rise in the evenings and not see his smile? Could you come home to your haven and not miss his warmth on your couch? Could you watch him go and know that, one day, he won't walk this earth anymore? That you are sending him, slowly but surely, to his death?" Her voice softened, became desperate. "My king is gone – don't throw away yours!"

"Hey. Hey." Mercurio leaned over her, biting his lip as he pressed a handkerchief into her hand. "Relax, okay? Come on. I don't do well with crying ladies."

"Neither do I," Alice choked out, sitting up straight. She scrubbed the blood off her cheeks, struggling to master herself. "I just – I know it's the right thing. I know I shouldn't keep him. But then I look at him, and I see him lying in a hospital bed, old and decrepit, struggling for every breath. . .all alone again, just like I found him, only this time he's not getting any reprieve. . ." She pressed her face into the cloth, shaking her head. "He's made this dark parody of an existence so much brighter and warmer, brought so much good into my life, and I don't want to lose him. But I – I can't make myself Embrace him, because – how can I say I love him and yet take the sun away from him? Not to mention LaCroix would turn us both to dust in a heartbeat. . .and if I – I feed his addiction, give in and keep him as my ghoul. . ." She squeezed the bridge of her nose. "Back in England, I was under the care of a man who twisted my mind and memories in an attempt to make me his perfect doll. He thought nothing of destroying the wills of others – of children – in the name of making a profit. He came dangerously close to destroying me and all I am. And now I'm at the mercy of a prince who can force me to obey his commands with a mere glance. My thoughts no longer my own unless I jump when he says to jump. So when Bertram told me what vampire blood does to a person. . ." She let her head flop onto her chest. "Victor says he loves me. But is that the truth, or just my lingering vitae pulling words from his mouth? And if I give him more – bond him for good – don't I destroy everything he is? Replace him with something who will worship my veins, but never really care for me?" A tear trickled down her cheek. "Will I love just a – a puppet, and not the man?"

There was a long and exceedingly awkward silence. "Shit," Mercurio said at last. "You really ain't like other vampires."

Alice's lips twitched upward. "I'll take that as a compliment." She wiped up the tear and licked it off her finger, before patting her face clean. "So – yes. I need your opinion, as a long-time ghoul. Wonderland actually suggested I come to you, in fact. 'The fleet-footed god shall speak the truths you seek,' as Cheshire put it."

Mercurio snorted. "Cheshire's kind of flowery, ain't he?"

"Oh, that's not even him at his worst. . ." She sighed, then looked Mercurio straight in the eye. "I'm open to any advice you can give me. Do your worst."

"Right." Mercurio stepped back. "You want my advice? You take that boy and you make him yours." He held up a finger, forestalling any argument. "And I'll tell you why – 'cause first off, no, he ain't saying he loves you just 'cause he got a taste of your veins. You know how I know this?" He pointed at her. "'Cause I've been blood-bonded to LaCroix for years now – and I still think he's a prissy little bitch. Would do anything for him – loyalty's written in blood – but damn he can be an asshole."

Alice blinked. Blinked again. He – she glanced at Cheshire, who simply grinned back at her, as smug as he'd ever been (and that was very smug). "I – from what Bertram said–"

"Oh, the Nossie wasn't lying," Mercurio cut in. "I ain't saying my free will ain't taken a beating. I love that prissy little bitch. Wouldn't raise a hand against him. He gives me orders, I jump through hoops to get 'em done. That Astrolite thing you saved my ass on? Part of me didn't want him to find out just because I knew he'd be disappointed, and that tore me up inside worse than those fuckers up at the cabin did. I'd do anything to keep in his good books and keep getting my monthly supply." He held up his point-making finger. "But I got no illusions about the guy either. I'm all for the Camarilla, but I get why the Anarchs ain't if he's what they see of it. He's stuck-up, snotty, and will do whatever it takes to get more power, Masquerade and elders and all that be damned. And I know I've only got a good thing going with him as long as I'm useful. Minute I fuck up and he hears about it – that gorilla of his is gonna make sure I never fuck up again. And shit, the speeches. . ." Mercurio almost rolled his eyes right out of his head. "I'll put up with whatever he dishes out to get my blood, but I'm really glad he's got me posted out here instead of living in his bloody tower."

"There are reasons I still pay Trip to keep my haven here unoccupied," Alice agreed, chewing her lower lip. "So. . .you're bonded to him. . .but you don't like him?"

"Basically," Mercurio nodded. "Like I said, I'll do whatever he asks while he's still supplying me. If that ever dries up though. . .well, it'll hurt, I'll bitch and moan about it, but I think I could push through and get myself a new backer. Strauss probably wouldn't mind having a guy who was useful. It's all about getting that next fix." He tapped his fingers against his leg. "Your Victor, though? It's more than that. You gave him elder blood – the good stuff – and he said that he preferred yours. He shouldn't be that picky on one drink. I mean, yeah, maybe you got super-duper addictive blood. . .but from Fish?" He scoffed. "Yeah, doubt that. And that ain't even getting into how he'll go on and on about you if you let him. And it's not your blood he's talking about – it's your smile, or your eyes, or your sense of humor. It's you. He loves you."

Alice's undead heart fluttered, recalling soft looks and shy smiles across the couch. "You're certain?"

"I've been around the block a few times now – you see me getting that moony over LaCroix?" Mercurio retorted, smirking. "Hell, even Knox don't get like that, and he's all about his 'nasty dude.' What he feels for you is real, Alice. If you go the full three drinks, he ain't gonna act any different."

Alice couldn't help a frown. "You don't know that for sure."

"Maybe not, but I think I can take a pretty solid guess," Mercurio retorted. "And, if the mushy stuff ain't gonna convince ya, let me remind ya – your boy? Son of one of the richest guys in the world. Heir to a cannery empire worth billions. You don't want him? Another vampire will. And they ain't gonna care about him being sweet and kind and all that. They're just gonna see the dollar signs."

A brief, vivid image of Victor standing by LaCroix, blank-eyed and stiff, shot through Alice's brain. "Pound signs, technically," she said to distract herself from the rush of horror.

"Whichever – that'll be all they want. A Ventrue might want the business, a Toreador rich arm candy, a Nosferatu a laugh as they drain the bank accounts. . .they'll use him up and then throw him on the side of the road. Like I said, you're weird for a vampire. Most of them don't give a shit about how ghouls feel." He gave her a significant look. "Much less go head over heels for one."

"I gathered," Alice said, now trying to ignore the flowers blooming all over the walls of the apartment. Cheshire leaned up against her, purring – she resisted the dual urges to either push him away or scratch him behind the ears. "Thank you, Mercurio."

"No problem – you covered my ass for LaCroix, I can stop you being all stupid noble and lettin' your dream boy go," Mercurio replied, cracking a smile. "Besides, look at it from his point of view. Who wants to go back to being just plain old human after you've got a taste of the good stuff? I know I don't."

"To be fair, in your case, that might just be simple vanity," Alice teased, smirking. "You did mention before that you were getting into your sixties."

"Hey – which one of us was the one complainin' they didn't want their ghoul to get old?"

Alice snickered. "Okay, fair enough." She slipped her hand into her pocket. "All right – now that we've gotten that out of the way, I suppose I should pick up some more ammo while I'm here. Do you have any for the McLusky hanging around?"

"Now we're back in business." Mercurio clapped his hands. "Yes I do – and hey, you're gonna want a look at this beauty I snagged the other night. . ."

#londerland bloodlines #fanfic #yeah I know my original plan was that she doesn't break until after the events of the game #but when I started looking at the timeline I was like #'. . .okay if she doesn't go ahead and give him her blood earlier #he's not going to be a ghoul at all'#I mean I got around that somewhat with her giving him some of the vampire blood she picks up around the game #but still #once I figure out a more set timeline this'll probably be easier #it CAN'T be eleven nights because that only takes into account the main quests #and even those I don't think are spaced out correctly #I'm pretty sure dealing with Therese and Jeannette is a multiple-night business #as well as some of the other quests #I'm actually planning on a Malk playthrough starting this summer #I'm hoping going through the game again while trying my best to mimic what I think Alice would do will help #I mean I already have a Victor run of Fallout 4 going soooo #queued

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