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antihero-writings · 3 years

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If These Walls Could Talk (Ch7)

(^^ Art commissioned from Junki Sakuraba on instagram and deviantart!!)

Fandom: Castlevania Netflix

Summary: Vampires do not have reflections, and castles do not have hearts. But Dracula is no ordinary vampire, and Castlevania is no ordinary castle. If castles can fight, maybe they can think too. The series, and Adrian’s childhood, told from the perspective of the castle.

Notes: Hey all! I am SO sorry this chapter took so long to come out. My perfectionism really got the best of me with this chapter. But I saw that S4 was on its way and that really lit a fire under my butt because I really do want to post my season 3 chapter before s4 comes out. I’m highly doubt I’ll accomplish it as it almost always takes me longer than I have to get a chapter out, let alone two, but I'll try, at least.

I really really hope you enjoy it!! If you enjoy this chapter, please please consider commenting. I assure you it’ll be more likely I’ll post the next chapter faster the more people comment on this showing you still enjoy this fic. Each comment is a little shot of energy and motivation for me.

Important! This chapter is meant to have aesthetic indentation in some places. So if you want to read it as-intended, please look it at on Archiveofourown at I_prefer_the_term_antihero on your computer or tablet!!

If you get here and are thinking “Wait, what was this fic about? What were the main themes?” then this would be a good time to reread/skim back through the earlier chapters. This is the climax of the fic and will (hopefully) be more impactful the more you remember about the rest of the fic and its many themes.

Chapter Summary:

"Go back whence you came! Trouble the soul of my Mother no more!" "How? How—How is it that I've been so defeated?" "You have been doomed ever since you lost the ability to love." "Ha—Ah... Sarcasm. 'For what profit is it to a man if he gains the world, and loses his own soul?' Matthew 16:26, I believe. "Tell me. What—What were Lisa's last words?" "She said 'Do not hate humans. If you cannot live with them, then at least do them no harm. For theirs is already a hard lot'. She also said to tell you that she would love you for all of eternity." "Lisa, forgive me. Farewell my son."

Chapter 7: “Heart”

Hey there, Sunshine, the Room adds with a smile.

The Room forgot the sweet tang of breath. How gentle, how vicious. Like honey, like relief, like a cozy blanket and a fireplace. It came in great, gulping gasps, and living was painful after such long breathlessness, but hurt far less than being half dead.

The Room rushes to Castlevania, shaking it, saying, Open your eyes! Open your eyes! It’s Adrian. It’s our boy. My master. My sunlight. And Castlevania limply flickers open its eyes, for it cannot help but obey.

Obey to see the golden man standing in its doorway.

And it feels a jolt of warmth in its broken chest.

Alucard has returned home. He arrives at the doorstep with resolve in his closed fists and a sword on his tongue. The threat to the war they all knew he would be, and the Room promised it would rear him to be.

But he isn’t alone this time.

There are two humans by his side. One with fire in her fists—quite literally—the other with a barbed tongue at his hip.

Castlevania recognizes a crest on the clothing of one of them, gold and proud: The Belmonts. The ones who came with whips and scourges to defeat its master long ago. The ones whom Dracula and his Castle were bound together against in their undead war. The ones whom Dracula trusted his Castle to protect him from. The owner of the hold now beneath Castlevania. He has come to defeat its master like the rest…but this time the boy is by his side, and for that reason, the Castlevania is unsure how this will end.

“I terrify them,” the Belmont explains the plan, “Sypha disorients them, Alucard goes over the top and we support him.”

“Yes.” The Speaker confirms.

Alucard holds his sword out horizontally in front of him, unsheathes it, and speaks:

“Begin.”

Alucard is with the Belmont.

And Castlevania knows when it sees them, the fire in their eyes, that they are the intent that brought it here. That they have indeed come to kill its master once and for all. It had wished when the boy returned, it would be with the promise of hope. But there is no promise of life and the sparing of it this time.

They bring death inside with them; the war room is filled with war, blood and burns on its floors, but it is different this time, because this is not an ambiance, a continuation, a fact of life, it is a swift and fatal kiss—the end they said he would bring, once. The blood is rotten on the floors, but it doesn’t itch or burn. And the boy uses those techniques his father taught him on brighter nights about turning into things with teeth, and the ones his mother once taught him on sunnier days about how to make metal listen.

They did not bring life inside this time, not life of the same kind at least. The war, the death, has followed and swallowed them too, but not in the same way it has its master. They are not bloodthirsty. The cold the dark and the death are merely clothes they wear, they have not reached the deepest parts of them; there are still light-starved Rooms in their hearts waiting to breathe.

There is a song at their heels as they dance in rings of fire, with the wind and the moon, upon the blood and water Castlevania isn’t sure will come out of the carpet. It is a song that is all too familiar. It has been played here before, when other, more, less, holy Belmonts barged in long ago. A song of blood and tears.

Bloody tears its master cried once, for his wife when he realized they had taken something that could not be borrowed, bartered, or souled.

They’re bringing an end to the strife, and all the undead lives that facilitated it, and vice versa. They are cutting the puppet strings, and not all puppets can live without them.

Isaac fights the nameless soldiers on the staircase for its master…until he sees someone who is far from nameless.

Isaac’s reddened eyes meet Alucard’s golden ones. Alucard’s sword aims at him, but it hits the deadened flesh of the nameless instead.

Isaac runs to tell its master—Dracula, busy ripping out the heart of a nameless—who’s here; that his sun has returned, and at his side is magic and might.

Dracula knows the prophecy.

He’s willing to die—Issac. He stands before Dracula, his form barely able to shield three-quarters of Dracula’s, willing to give his feeble human life for Dracula’s indefinite undead one. He believes knowledge and will are more important than the blood of a good man. He believes in love, and loyalty is love of a sort. And it is Castlevania’s understanding that when someone is willing to live for something, they are also willing to die for it. This is the noblest of causes.

“You are the greatest of your people, Isaac. You have a soul, I think.” As Dracula says the words, he raises his hand, and the mirror shards behind them begin to rise. “Perhaps that is more valuable to the world to come than a dusty collection of books and apparatus.”

Lisa looks on from the portrait, and Castlevania thinks it is a look of pride. She always did stand for saving human lives rather than destroying them. Isn’t it funny that in what will perhaps be the deciding battle of this war, the one where his goals should possess him stronger than ever, it is the human who he values more than himself?

“Or perhaps you simply deserve a better fate than to die instead of me.”

“I choose my death, as I chose my life.” The words are stronger than iron.

“Then I regret only that I have taken a choice for you.” A hand at his shoulder.

Dracula throws him halfway across the world, to the kind of place Isaac was born in, and the kind of place Isaac least wants to die in.

Isaac believes in love. And it is for this reason, this belief, that Vlad saves his life, Castlevania knows. Saves his life, by denying the choice he so desperately wanted to make—perhaps his whole life—and had no regrets or apprehensions about making, rather a lot more in being kept alive.

And when the mirror shatters and falls, his son is standing there, like he did a year ago, though this time he is not backed by sunlight. The only light in the room is the fire glinting in his eyes.

A pause. To remember the dead.

“Father.”

A word. To remember the living.

“Son.”

This should be a reunion, perhaps. Better people would think they should happily hug each other, and say they missed each other, and that they love each other all the same. Better people would say that the sunlight should plead with the dark to come back into its embrace. All the sinners know there was no chance of that the moment Dracula scrawled fate on his son’s skin with his own claws.

Instead, there is nothing but bitter, fighting words:

“Your war is over.”

Dracula tilts his head to the side. “Because you say so?”

“It ends.” Alucard looks at his sword, the one she taught him how to use. “In the name of my mother.”

Dracula looks at his son, the one she gave him. “It endures in the name of your mother.”

“I told you before I won’t let you do it.” Alucard’s voice is so soft, yet solid and unwavering. There is no anger, but he will not step aside. Not this time. Even when the claws come. “I grieve with you…but I won’t let you commit genocide.”

“You couldn’t stop me before.” Dark assurance in soft words.

Footsteps. A cue to the magic and the hunt behind the curtain, who step out on either side of him.

“I was alone before.”

And Castlevania understands. Understands that they are not here to talk things out. Understands that they are not here to save Dracula, to appeal to the good in him, as Lisa once had, and the Room once thought. Castlevania itself even hoped, when the boy returned, the song would be a bit more inspirational. But, beaten and broken and bloody, Castlevania understands now, if Alucard stands with the intent, if Alucard brought a Belmont—

Then they do not believe there is a chance. They are not here then, to talk him out of it. They are here to halt this war in its tracks, make it rear up, lose its balance, and fall.

—(And Castlevania knows, deep down, that to do this… they must end something else)—

Alucard is bringing back the sunlight. But there is only one way he can do that, and goodnight is not quiet.

And make no mistake he does intend to bring the full, the warm, the life, and the light back, just like Castlevania and the Room wanted. But there is too much cold, dark, death, and emptiness here to do this quietly. They are here to kill Dracula—the master now puppeteered by Death’s strings rather than his own soul.

The Speaker raises her fingers to her lips as if to say a prayer, or perhaps take a heavenly name in vain for the sake of a little silence. The Belmont’s whip clinks in his hand. Alucard’s sword sings as he raises it.

Alucard drives it towards his father: a bolt of golden lightning through the room, pinning him against the fireplace as books fall to the floor. Castlevania, wincing at the pain, knows that will bruise in the morning.

The picture of his mother cracks and falls, as if she has to close her eyes for this.

Alucard, growling with fierce resolve, pushing the sword into him with all his might. But Dracula has the sword in his hand, rather than his heart. He steps calmly forward, barely having to use any of his strength to combat so much of his son’s, as if he’s about to tell him to put the toy away.

A glint of golden eyes. Alucard pulls back the sword. A slash. Two. Three.

Dracula raises his arm as if to knock the sword from his shoulder.

Instead he bashes his son’s head into the fireplace—and Castlevania cries out at the feeling, feeling its stomach burn.

The Speaker and the Belmont ready for a fight. The floor splinters—(Castlevania grimaces, tasting blood)—as Dracula flashes through the room, and pins the Belmont into the hall, against the wall, sending his sword out of his hand. He keels over onto his hands to cough up blood, the puddle crawling on Castlevania’s skin.

Castlevania never had any qualms with the blood of Belmonts on its floors before, so this hurts less, but this is different, and Castlevania still wonders if Dracula could be a little gentler with his Castle.

A flash of light at his side. He raises his cloak as the Speaker sends tongues and teeth of fire at him.

“Speaker magician!” Its master realizes.

He rushes at her, knocking her hand out of position. She creates an ice shard before her with the other.

He scratches up with a claw, sending her flying with the broken pieces towards the ceiling, and angry gashes appear on her arm as she rolls along the floor.

“Sypha!” The Belmont calls.

He must love her in some way, because in a fit of some sort of emotion—instead of picking up his sword—the Belmont uses his fists. They probably haven’t failed him before. But this is Dracula, and his punches don’t cause the king to so much as flinch.

“You must be the Belmont.”

Castlevania laughs a little at the words; it too thought the method was rather common of his line.

It’s Dracula’s turn, and his punch doesn’t just cause the Belmont to flinch, the sound is as if he hit rock, sending him into the air with the force. He doesn’t give him a second to breathe, rather reaches his claw is around the human’s neck, holding him there.

He raises his other claw level—a blade, more trustworthy than any.

“The end of your line.”

Before he can make these words true, another blade stops him: his son’s, driving itself through both his arms.

While he is pinned the Speaker, knowing this is an opportunity she will not get again, rushes forward—still bleeding, mind—a bead of fire between her fingers. Dracula cannot move to protect himself, and the magician, knowing this, lets the fire loose to lick his face raw.

Dracula drops the Belmont, attempting to get away, deciding his own life takes precedence, but it is hard to get away when your hands are tied together with metal.

The Speaker, seeing that her fire is about to hit Alucard, falters. And in that moment Dracula wrenches his arm off of the blade and uses it to knock her down, before sending his other fist into his son, who goes flying along with his sword hitting the wall. This one may not be so hard as to bruise, but, with everything aching and breaking, the smallest tap hurts Castlevania.

The Belmont pulls a blade of bone from his back-belt, and as Dracula turns he drives it into his chest.

It’s not close enough to his heart, but red distaste fills Dracula’s eyes. He thought this was a game, but they have some amount of ability, and he may have underestimated them. As Alucard and the magician get up he attempts to grab at the Belmont in quick motions, but he has some skill in dodging.

The Speaker rips off her shirt and cauterizes her wound as the Belmont and Dracula dance in the hallway, neither weapon hitting flesh.

Dracula sees the Speaker’s intent over his shoulder, and as the Belmont lunges at him grabs his arm and throws him into her, stopping both their attacks. An effective move, if Castlevania does say so itself.

Alucard sees his opening and rushes forward, pinning his father to the wall, which shatters behind them with a painful lurch.

Dracula puts his hands together and brings them down over his son’s head with such force the floor cracks.

And Castlevania coughs blood.

Alucard pushes his arms away and slaps both sides of his face, getting a grunt this time. Dracula sends him back with such force it almost seems like a shockwave, creating wind and smoke curling around them all.

The Speaker roots him in place by sending ice spears into his leg. The Belmont clears the smoke by spinning his whip, before creating more by sending that whip—the one he fed the vampires that didn’t agree with their compositions—sizzling into Dracula’s chest. There’s an explosion to be sure—a rather big one—but after the smoke dissipates, and a wait with bated breath, Dracula is still standing just as he was before—as Castlevania knew he would—like all he threw at him were words.

…At least at first, to show he isn’t taken down so easily. He does fall to his hands thereafter.

“The Morningstar whip.” The words are scratches in the carpet. “Well played, Belmont. But I am no ordinary vampire to be killed by your human magics.” The words sizzle on his tongue. “I am Vlad Dracula Tepes,” he crosses his arms with purpose. “and I have had ENOUGH!”

His voice is a shockwave of its own across the sea of stone and bone. He sweeps his hands to the sides, his cloak rising like wings as he floats into the air, and creates a ball of magma: the cheat that will end the game. He was going easy on them until now.

It rumbles towards them, eating the carpet as it goes—and Castlevania can feel the burning in its chest. The Belmont’s eyes widen with fear at last. The Speaker rises to the occasion without hesitation, and holds out her hands to stop it with the force of her magic. It’s a force to be reckoned with, for sure: at first she succeeds, but, though it may be slowing, it isn’t stopping, and her feet are slipping. The Belmont puts his back to hers, as any good friend and comrade would. Alucard phases in front of them, the burning wind rushing against his face. He calls his sword, which sings as it reaches his hand, poises it, and drives the point into the magma ball.

They each fight with all their might, the Belmont and the speaker begins to grunt with the weight of it. The ball gives a falter their way, and Castlevania is sure even three cannot match Dracula’s strength, but the Speaker gives a final push, which gives Alucard just the right amount of momentum to drive it back toward his father, who is as caught off guard by the display as Castlevania is. He needs no sword or magic to stop it, however, and puts his hands out to hold it. Gold and red push against each other, until Alucard gives a deciding motion, then another, another, each chipping away at the ball until the sword goes flying and it’s just Alucard’s arm against Dracula’s throat, and their momentum creates a sizzling tunnel in the wall.

Castlevania may not know what guns are, but it knows what it feels like to be shot.

The two burst into the library, shattering the already shattered mirror.

It was so quiet in here. Must they sully the silence with the sound of strife? They read here, once. Sometimes alone, sometimes to each other. Whispered to each other of history and mystery.

Dracula lands on the floor and Alucard floats above him in the room in which he once stood on his level and told his father calmly he wouldn’t stand for genocide.

There’s anger in his eyes now.

Dracula hisses, then gives a war cry, and the two allow their hungry fists to attempt to devour each other as best they can in the air, red and gold flashing.

The Belmont picks up a sword in the other room and, deciding it’d be best not to follow them through the tunnel—(Castlevania is glad for that decision. The wound is still raw and would more than likely sting tremendously if they walked on it)—he and the Speaker run up the stairs to follow them.

They’re on the floor now and their punches fly like starlings—their duel reflected in the shards of mirror fluttering, jittering about, ever awaiting their command, as if attempting to tap their shoulders and ask what they should do, and why they are hurting each other—until they are hitting the bookshelves they once were gentle with—lest the pages rip and the silence tear—the ones they once smiled and discussed philosophy beside.

Castlevania’s head aches, nausea in the back of its throat.

A smiling boy and his father handing him another book, saying if he liked the first he’d like the second too, are all but gone now.

Dracula throws Alucard into the ceiling, and enters the room above with an unearthly sound, in an unearthly way: only his cloak is visible, moving like slime. As his hungry footsteps lick the floor behind him, Alucard is heaving on his side that same floor, his hair falling across his face. He turns around, fear coating the sound he makes as he, without his sword, grabs the nearest block of wood that happens to have a point on the end.

Dracula laughs, like they’re playing a game—(they did once, do they remember? Humans and monsters. Sometimes there were princes, and knights, or pirates. Even a princess or two. And the wolves and the bats were free in the night wind)—and stops.

“You mean to stake me?”

“You want me to.” Alucard murmurs, turning around with some difficulty.

“What?” Dracula chuckles, still with that put-the-toys-away intonation.

“You didn’t kill me before.” Alucard breathes. “You’re not going to kill me now. You want this to end as much as I do.” The look in his eyes is almost crazed.

“DO I?!” The tone is almost crazed in response, the nonchalant edge gone, the words resounding with power and grief.

Alucard scrambles away like an animal, causing Dracula to punch the floor instead of his head—Castlevania’s body lurches. It feels a gentle touch at its chin, someone trying to wipe the blood off perhaps.

“You died when my mother died. You know you did.” He reasons as Dracula’s breathing gains weight. “This entire catastrophe has been nothing but history’s longest suicide note.”

Castlevania jerks its head up, eyes wide at these words.

And Castlevania understands.

The cold, the dark, the empty, the death. They all make sense now.

Alucard rushes at him, Dracula knocks the stake out of Alucard’s hand with ease, but, in a moment of extreme dexterity, Alucard manages to grab it from the air and drive it into his chest still. The look in his eyes is almost pleading, like he’s going to ask “Daddy did I do a good job? Did I do it right? I’ve gotten better at fighting haven’t I?”

“Not quite close enough.” There is a gurgling quality to Dracula’s enunciation.

No more playing.

He shoves Alucard so hard its into the next room.

Castlevania keels over onto the floor, it’s stomach aching and prickling.

Dracula pulls the stake out and heaves before rushing after.

Floors below the magician and the Belmont can hear them, and are trying their best to catch up, to have a say in this fight.

But Castlevania isn’t sure they have much chance of that, as they are flashing through the halls now, Alucard, a foot off the ground, zig-zagging between the walls in the narrow hall as Dracula keeps punching bloodless stone—

—(The stone may be bloodless, but god this hurts)—

Until Alucard punches him back, sending them into a room, a bedroom—(but not that one)—and the room is a pile of rubble with just that. And Castlevania can feel the splinters. That furniture was nice.

Dracula grabs Alucard’s face and shoves him into the dining room, pinning him to the table like he’ll eat him too if they’re not careful, and those chairs were perfectly nice too—

And Castlevania sees a little boy waiting at the table for his birthday surprise, and his father pulling out a burned cake, and his mother laughing. There was no fear then. Though its master was a creature of blood it never thirsted for theirs, and they knew this full well. Can they see it too? Why would they destroy this room if they did? Why would they destroy each other if they did? Are they even the same creatures as those in the memory?

At this point Castlevania is pretty sure they broke a few of its ribs.

Alucard kicks his face and gets on the table on all fours, rushing him into the next room still.

Castlevania’s bleeding, broken heart skips a beat. Surely they must have broken a few ribs, for how else could they get into Castlevania’s heart? The control room, where its gears still lie dripping, glowing as orange as a brand, once beating organs now blazing stalactites.

They punch each other along the platform, Dracula’s cloak whipping about, like a cat’s fur trying to make him look bigger and scarier.

They are framed in the paneless window—those bones have been all but broken too now. The frame where the picture—that is to say, the die—no longer sits. For Castlevania’s heart didn’t just break, it was destroyed when they brought it to this place, the place where its enemies once lived, and still stand today.

—(So why can Castlevania still feel it beat?)—

In the frame now is moon drunk on blood, a night soaked in tears—and the wind whispers to their cloaks, bidding them to whip around them.

Dracula draws in a hissing breath.

Alucard stands tall, his eyes aglow, gold melting into something new in this forge, his hair whipping about him as he raises his fist yet again.

They are getting tired. Their snarls have a weakened quality to them now.

—Can they see the father and son in this room, the father teaching his son that his Castle is special?—

But instead of just punching him, Alucard teleports beside his father, hitting his shoulder, sending a gust of wind to his face, then teleports around the room to send his fist into him over and over, from every possible angle, and some of his kick-offs create cracks in the already breaking bindings of the room.

It feels like pins and needles, but it’s okay. It’s okay.

Why?

Dracula’s grits his teeth, sharp as ever, his eyes alight with bloody determination, his hair playing about this gaze. To end it, on the next hit he grabs his face, shoving him by it onto the stone platform. He shoves him once, twice, a third, the metal cracking, the metal creaking—

Castlevania’s gut lurches, and it can taste bile and iron at the back of its throat, and it’s hard to breathe.

Then its master raises Alucard back up, holds him by the face in the air a moment, and punches him with such force he is blown across the length of the platform and through the thick stone wall into the next room—

And Castlevania vomits blood.

Dracula bolts after him, the dust creating patterns in his wake—and Castlevania could gaze in the clouds if it weren’t for whoever’s trying to slap it awake.

Alucard coughs, and it sounded deep.

Its master is nothing human now. There’s a growl in his throat as he marches towards him, and another cough in Alucard’s as he struggles to stand.

Another punch, but this one is not fast like the rest, nor is it blocked. Alucard tries to stand up, to rush towards him, but he is getting tired, and Dracula hits him again. Another growl. Alucard takes a single step back, soft against the floors. An exhale. Another of both, and as Dracula raises his fist the murmur—plea?—on his son’s lips sounds a lot like “Father,” as if he’s reached his limit, and has to stop the game.

It’s too late to hit quit now.

The vampire king doesn’t grant the plea—or perhaps even hear it; with a belabored punch he sends him into the next Room, rolling this time, instead of flying, the contents of the Room staying in tact…all except the bed, which catches the boy.

The next Room. But this one is not like the rest. It is not just a room.

This one breathes.

A gasp, another growl, a scratch against the wall, and—

Castlevania burned today in this bloody fight, on this bloody night. Its skin, its legs. Even its heart broke.

Castlevania. The thing that Vlad Tepes brought to life with a little bit of lightning, several gears, and a few words. No magic words, just words: the ones he spoke on lonely nights to the walls about how he’d like to be something more than ruthless.

Castlevania did everything it could. It lies burned and broken and unable to fight now because of it.

But none of that burned half as much as those scratches on its walls.

There have been many stories told about Dracula, and there will one day be more stories told about Dracula, books written, enough that one could fill libraries with just the retellings of his story. And Castlevania has no doubt that one day these scratches will be on their covers. This growl, these scratches are the signet of a vampire, of a monster: the disfigurement of his Castle, bloody intent directed at his son. The dark, the death, and the emptiness have overtaken completely. That is all a monster is, really. That is all he is now.

He marches into the Room, his cloak flowing, dipping and twirling in the broken wind. The sound of Alucard’s breathing fills the Room as he heaves against the bed.

Or maybe the breath is the Room’s own.

The Room has seen all that happened, it has been watching Castlevania beaten bloody till it could barely breathe, or see through the blood dripping down its face, let alone move. Castlevania could barely feel the comforting hands on it, the attempts to bandage the wounds, or at least stop the bleeding that it knew could only belong to the Room. Castlevania could barely hear the Room’s frantic, desperate calls to action, to get up, or just ask if it was okay. And now the Room stands, fists clenched at its sides. The Room wants to fight back. It will fight back.

The Room is not violent. From the very beginning it stood against all the violence, the dark, the empty, and the death. That was what it was made for, after all. As much as it would like to, it does not wrap its hand around Dracula’s throat, claws digging until it draws blood, and demand “How does it feel?! How does it feel to be on the receiving end?!”

The Room’s footsteps are soft as it comes up beside Dracula. It puts its hands over the king’s eyes and whispers in his ear, gently as it can:

“Remember me?”

Then, quietly as it came, it removes them, as if playing peekaboo, revealing that it was there the whole time, his eyes were just covered for a while.

It may as well have been removing scales, because Dracula freezes, his eyes wide, as if he’s seeing, not just the Room, but the whole world for the first in a long time—And he is. The first time with living eyes. And one sees things very differently with living eyes. And Castlevania was his world and it hopes he sees the world differently, for Castlevania is not a thing for him to beat and break. Just when Castlevania thought there was nothing left…there is something more than anger in his eyes now.

Dracula’s angry cloak quiets, falling docile at his feet: a sign of reverence towards the Room, and all it stands for.

Alucard, after allowing his breath to regain itself, looks up, his eyes widening too at his father. His father. No anger, no fear, not even determination now. Not in this Room. This Room is different. He remembers now: in the hush that has fallen across the world like freshly fallen snow, this is his father.

The Room kneels at it’s boy’s side, putting a hand on his shoulder feeling nothing but life and love, so much so it extends to the creature that created the scars on its throat, and on its boy’s chest.

“It’s okay. You can go to him now.” The Room says.

And it knows what that means.

It knows that sometimes peace comes at the price of war.

Dracula curls his hand, the one with the claw that just made marks on the walls that are written in stone, and will never be undone. Within the glow of the window, his reddened eyes too are no longer angry. For so long those eyes sat dormant, empty, and glazed in his skull and at last they contain something. The Room’s words have gotten through the glaze, shattered the glass.

“It’s your Room.”

It’s more than just a statement. He made a promise when he made this Room. This Room was to be his son’s Room. There would be no violence, not in this Room. Not ever. Not today in as much as not ten years ago. He will not hurt this Room. He will not dare touch it, for fear those claws will mark more than just the walls; that all the memories will come crashing down.

The words are not angry. They are not dark. They are not empty. They are not dead. They may seem dry, and stated, but they are dripping with such longing and loss it might fill the whole Castle.

The desk where Vlad taught Adrian of letters, and of numbers, and of the borders of the world. The wardrobe where Lisa dressed him up in fine clothes, and casual ones depending on the occasion—Dracula had so few special occasions to celebrate alone, they were a lovely thing. The bookshelf full of all the knowledge of immortals, and the stories of mortals. The carpet where the boy sat and played with his toys. The nightstand, still with a potion bottle upon it, and the cards of a game they’ve no doubt forgotten how to play, right where they left it long ago. The shelf above it with another bottle, and a tiny satchel of even tinier precious things, and a little toy lamb. The bed upon which Vlad and Lisa once sat and told stories, and sang lullabies, or else lay curled up next to him when the nightmares got too vicious to bear alone.

—(How many did he have to face alone?)—

And Castlevania can see them all. The father teaching his son to count, and to write. The mother running after her naked toddler, trying to convince him clothes really aren’t so bad. The careful pouring of the potions so they change color, or explode just right, the father smiling proudly when he gets the questions correct. The pride of the mother when her son won the game, and the way her husband said “again” like if they just played another round he would win this time. The boy playing with the lamb and the wolf; they they got along in his stories.

The control room never was Castlevania’s heart…was it?

Alucard stands—the motion fluid now—blue light caressing his face as he raises his eyes. Vlad too looks up. But they’re not looking at each other, or the Room, rather into the stars. Not the ones outside, the ones they painted—brushing paint upon each other’s noses, so long ago, and Castlevania can see that too—as if those stars hold all the bottled wishes of childhood. It always was crowning jewel of this Room.

Adrian’s eyes oscillate like perturbed waters, because he knows, he knows he’s about to lose it all. And yes, there’s a sort of childlike yearning in Adrian’s eyes, as if he’s wishing upon those stars that he didn’t have to do this, because he’d really rather find another way to spend this night.

The stars wipe the bloodstains off of Dracula’s eyes. The blood drains off the moon too, as if he is so powerful he can bid the sky to bleed.

His lips shake with long-forgotten words—(or maybe they were just buried, and not everything buried in a grave stays there)—and he holds his hands to his chest, if nothing else to stop them from hurting innocent boys and castles, and shuts his eyes.

“My boy.” The words are said like everything in him is breaking

And it is.

—(The control room never was Castlevania’s heart. Does that mean it never broke?)—

“I’m—I…” The word falls to the floor, so soft, like it’s the only apology he has to shed. “I’m… I’m killing my boy.” And the truth is so gentle and broken its almost more painful than all those punches to the walls.

He steps across the Room, and this time his footsteps are not foreboding, not marching nor stalking. They are soft. He is only walking. This boy is not his prey. Not in this Room.

He walks to the picture on the wall, the one called “Happy.”

Castlevania remembers the day they took it home. The painter really did do a good job, Lisa had said, and Castlevania agreed. Castlevania soon learned that even when they were not here, even when the boy was not small, even when they were not happy, that moment would still be captured upon the wall to return to any time they missed it. Long ago Dracula had no need of pictures and paintings. But those pictures have been everything to him, and everything left him, now that Lisa is gone. They are all the traces left of what they once were in this Castle. That picture—the one Dracula buried and tried to forget existed—that picture bottled happiness, and it gives Vlad back his happiness now. And it makes him so very sad.

“Lisa. I’m killing our boy.” Vlad says to the memory. “We painted this Room. We…made these toys.”

His eyes as they dart around the Room—to the books, to the basket with the wolf and the blocks—are glazed, but not in the same way as before, this time it is with memory, and that makes them more alive than ever, as are his words. And in that moment she is alive too, and he is Vlad, Lisa’s husband, and Adrian’s father.

“It’s our boy, Lisa.”

And then as he looks down his eyes are not glazed at all, rather they hold understanding. He understands what must be done.

Alucard’s foot pushes off the ground, bends the knee, stands, and, no, he is not Adrian, for there is a cracking, a cracking like lightning, a cracking like the world breaking.

And it is the most horrible sound either the Room or Castlevania have ever heard. More horrible than the squelching any heart Dracula ever ripped out. More horrible than the desperate pleas of his victims. More horrible than the cackles of his friends. More horrible than the crying of the child that Castlevania can still hear echoing through the Room.

—(The sound Castlevania hated so so long ago, and now longs for far more than anything else in the world, longs for that painting to swallow the universe and bring it to life again)—

Castlevania and the Room can both feel that sound like a thousand splinters and spider bites, like both of them shattering as if they were made of glass after all. Even the furniture here bleeds.

Vlad backs up, putting his hands over his face—Don’t hurt them, they don’t know what they’re doing—

—(Yet…he hurt them all. So much so he didn’t just disgrace her words, he tried to kill her gift, their son, her blood)—

“Your greatest gift to me. And I’m killing him.”

He lifts his hands from his face and looks into his son’s eyes, his own so alive, despite their glass, tilting his head to the side. Everything slow and gentle now. He is Vlad. He is Adrian’s father. Not the vampire king who put innocents on stakes. But they all know something happened to Vlad on the night Lisa died.

“I must already be dead.”

And Castlevania, burned and bleeding, understands. The final piece of the puzzle has been put into place. It has been dead too. It’s life, bound in red to its master, will break to the call of a stake. Because a reflection cannot exist without the thing it reflects.

Because…they are mortal.

That was the trade, all those years ago: immortality for mortality. Lisa would gain an immortal mind, and Dracula a mortal soul. He would teach Lisa the knowledge of immortals, the methods of healing that must be kept secret to live with a vampire like time held no grip on them. And she would teach him how to live as a man, how to travel as a man, how to care for his son, as a man, as a father. And in that moment his soul was bound to hers.

She brought the undeath in him to life, and Castlevania understands; only things that are alive can die.

It learned through Lisa, through Adrian, what it was to be alive. And it knew that undeath, while not death, is not life. Dracula was undead and his body could not die. But now that she brought him to life, he could die. His soul already died with her. He’s been rotting in an empty shell—no wonder Death could tie those puppet strings to him. That’s why the emptiness in him was so active; cold and dark and empty were only adjectives before, now they are nouns; he was emptiness, death, walking around. And that, too, is what Castlevania has become. It too is mortal. It didn’t die with her, but something in it ceased to tick when Dracula came back without a soul in his chest, and it knows, bruised and burned, broken, and bleeding that that stake in his son’s hand is calling them both.

You knew all along, didn’t you? Castlevania asks the Room, and there is no malice, no blame, there.

The Room jerks its head up to look at Castlevania, then its eyes soften and it grimaces. I hoped I was wrong. The Room replies softly. I…I hoped there was another way.

Alucard’s eyes hold some sympathy, some semblance of the boy they once knew, in fact rather too much, for both threaten to pour out of those eyes and stop all this. He doesn’t want to. But it’s too late for anything else.

Vlad eyes hold some semblance of the man they once knew, so much so they threaten to make him something more than ruthless, something that doesn’t deserve to die. He closes them tilting his head. He knows what must be done.

There is no anger in either of their eyes, no determination, not even resolve. Not anymore. Adrian wants to free his father in the only way he can.

A step forward, and this step has purpose, that stake is silently growling, drooling at his side as he stalks his prey. Another. Another. Like the beating of all their hearts, and the atmosphere is so silent that everything can only break.

And Dracula will not stop him, will not fight back. Not this time. Like all those times he let his son win, because even though he was more skilled at at the game, it was more satisfying to see Adrian smile.

He is not here to talk things out.

Alucard barely raises that stake—

A second horrible cracking, this one in flesh.

This time he aimed higher.

Dracula’s mouth fills with blood, it seeps through the cracks in his teeth. The blood from his chest drains down the stake—the broken piece of childhood—down his son’s arm, collecting on his elbow, and when it hits the carpet a burn begins to appear on the Room’s chest.

A grunt as Vlad leans forward, the blood dripping from his mouth to the floor—another angry gash upon the Room’s skin, and the Room is trying to pretend it’s okay, but it can’t hide the hurt in its eyes.

It knew what had to be done…but the violence goes against its nature.

His eyes fill with blood, but not from undead purpose. The moon is still clean. These are those bloody tears, the ones from the song earlier today. He is free, relieved…and he will never see his son again.

“Son.”

To remember the living, and those who will live on without him.

And the word is spoken very differently than it was earlier today. Then it was solid and hollow. Now it is ghostly, and so full it could hold all the world. Their world, at least.

This Room, this Castle, that word. They are their whole world.

And it is an honor to have been a world to such terrible, wonderful creatures.

“Father.”

To honor the dying, and what they once were while alive.

The word on Adrian’s tongue is the same, though more solid, more alive, and thus able to hold more pain. A faltering breath, a cracking forgiveness.

The word means something now, at the end, where before they were nothing more than titles. They are pleading with each other. They are bleeding with each other.

They don’t want to do this. They shouldn’t have to. It is far too cruel.

Mothers shouldn’t have to bury their daughters, and sons shouldn’t have to kill their fathers. It’s an unspoken rule of life.

But Alucard can’t stop there. He must finish this. The fire, the resolve regurgitates in his eyes, and he pushes harder, like with the magma ball, and, no, this cracking is worse, because Castlevania can feel it in its own chest now.

Castlevania can hear its master’s heartbeat, can feel it with the drops of blood dripping and sizzling on the floor, and it thinks it might just be its own heartbeat.

Alucard does not hate his father: there is pain on his face. But he cannot stop there.

He must end this war. And unlike those given with kisses to his forehead once, this goodnight is not gentle. Not this time.

He inhales,

closes his eyes,

and breaks his father’s chest.

That stake goes right through Castlevania, and something in it involuntary breaks.

The control room never was Castlevania’s heart. The destruction of the die was merely the amputation of both its legs, still bleeding out. This is a breaking, not of skin or bone, but of something deeper. It thinks this might just be what it feels like to cry.

And something happens in the breaking. A change of some sort. Castlevania isn’t quite sure what—pain and disorientation are the best of friends—all it knows is that the world is smaller now, and hurts less.

And as Castlevania’s heart breaks, the reflection in the painting shatters, the reflection of the bond between father and son severing with a stake.

The world is so much smaller now.

Dracula’s head jerks back and, eyes now seeing something other than this world.

Dracula is no ordinary vampire, so he does not die like an ordinary vampire. Rather than catching on fire, there’s just smoke and ash; his face drains, turning from ghostly pale to a charcoal, black without flame, before it really is ash, sliding off his face, his cloak like sludge.

There’s no orange, just the red stain, and the grey his life was marred of. Ash and smoke. The true undeath.

Alucard turns his face away, still holding the stake in place.

Dracula lifts up a hand, a skeleton hand, and Alucard turns to see the skin sloughing off around his ring. Though his spirit may have left, it seems his body won’t quite let go of this world; with mere bones Dracula reaches out, takes a step forward, as if to touch his face, to hold his son one last time, to catch the last embrace he was not afforded.

Adrian has shed that resolve, now he can do nothing but take slow and careful steps back away from the monster he has no sword or shield to fight. He the child again, the one who belonged in this Room, shying away. He is Adrian, the one who didn’t like the stories that were bloody. And in all the years the boy spent in this Room, the sheer fear in Adrian’s eyes as he looks up to see his father’s rotted face, with mouth agape, leaning bloodlessly towards him—an image that Castlevania fears will haunt him the rest of his days—is matchless.

Hurried footsteps at the door. The Speaker and the Belmont, at last, have made it to the show, though it seems they paid for only the final song. They step upon the threshold to see the rotting corpse of the king stepping towards his fearful, tearful price.

The Belmont draws his sword, and Dracula’s deflated head—the one that seemed so alive moments earlier—lies in a bloody pool on the floor. And as the neck bleeds and the Belmont watches the body fall to the floor, he isn’t sure if that was enough.

And Castlevania can’t feel its heartbeat anymore.

“Alucard. Step back.” Sypha’s voice is tempered. “Let me finish this.”

He does, the steps cautious and small, sorrow in his gaze. He holds the unbroken bedpost till his hand shakes.

Castlevania never liked children, the crying, the leaving, the guests, or being controlled.

But it did like Lisa. It did like Adrian. And—be it a sting—it did like the sunlight. And always and forever, it loved its master. A reflection cannot help but adore the thing it reflects. A creation cannot help but be a worshipper of its creator. A dream cannot help but revere its dreamer.

“You want me to.”

Smiling a little at how true the words were, in the end, Castlevania found it quite liked the relief.

Castlevania puts a hand on the Room’s cheek, smiling, and its mouth tastes less like blood now. It looks at the moon—bleeding no longer—and blue calm fills every part of it.

“What a wonderful night to have a curse.”

The Room stares at the castle, a little horrified by the sentiment.

“What…What should I do?” The Room stutters, fear and realization coating its words, for it knows what’s happening.

Castlevania smiles wider than ever, and its voice sounds softer; “The children.”

“What?”

“You should let them in. Any child who needs refuge. Along with as many guests as your master wants to welcome. And you should cry. Cry when you need to—and let your master cry too. Stay, but let him leave, if he must, knowing he will always come back. Let yourself be controlled at times, because sometimes that which feels the least right is the most right.”

“I—I don’t understand.”

“Be warm. Let the light in every window. Be full, and most of all, live. Can you do that for me?”

The Room holds onto the Castle to keep it from falling, tears already descending its cheeks.

“I—I will try.”

The Speaker lets the flame loose to eat the pieces, to engulf its master’s body in the fire he stared at all along, as if yearning for its embrace, creating a spiral of flame upon the circle in the carpet.

They were right to assume it wasn’t over, at least, because there are shapes in the flames; from the smoke and ashes rises a tower of skulls, a legion of spirits, more than a one king’s soul should hold. They’re all crying havoc, war, blood and pain from a yesterday long forgotten. Their smoke snuffs out the flame, blight covering the Room, blocking out the stars that so enraptured them earlier. Sypha and the Belmont cover their faces, but Alucard is unsurprised and undaunted by the darkness lurking in his father’s chest, and faces it without looking away. This darkness bursts out the window like a flower bloom, flows like a river out into the hall—the one cracked and bruising—flying over the war Room where the war resides no longer, and escapes into the night, fluttering, spiraling around Castlevania’s parapets like butterflies.

On the charred floor, the only thing left of the king is his wedding ring.

Castlevania sees the vampire king as he once was; young and restless. The skeletons eating stakes. Castlevania remembers what it once was: lightning, books, gears, and a few lonely words. It sees the woman with the knife at the door. It watches them build the Room. It watches the boy grow up into this beautiful thing.

Castlevania always wondered if it could breathe. It was never quite sure. The Room always seemed to possess a kind of life it never had; a life that hid in the breath.

“Take good care of him for me,” Castlevania murmurs to the Room.

“Have I ever failed you before?” The Room tries to smile, wiping its eyes.

As the sun rises over the hills, a single ray filters in through Castlevania’s window, touching it, filling every part of it, and for once it doesn’t sting.

And with the last sigh of the last ghost circling the parapets, Castlevania exhales its last breath.

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geekgemsspooksandtoons · 3 years

Text

More thoughts on RE8 and Lady Dimitrescu

This was copied from my DeviantArt journal when I was making it.

Yes...I mentioned her.

So nothing spoilery huge. But I will mention stuff. I played more of Resident Evil 8. And I finally got the ever so popular Lady Alcina Dimitrescu to be chasing me now...

I'm mainly gonna ramble. And before I played the game, I decided to check out the concept art which is, "The Tragedy Of Ethan Winters" and it was nice to look out. I also found out there's no item boxes...and that it's true they were trying to make it more like Resident Evil 4...wow...that's something.

Castle Dimitrescu is a nice area with it's layout. I could like it more than the Baker Residence. But for these levels, I'm kind of going in blind. Despite I know the story. Yet there's another thing I wanted to say. Because I can't upgrade the Samurai Edge, I decided to buy back old pistol and use it. Including use that custom thing on it for more fire power. The Samurai Edge was cool to use. But I think I want to upgrade my pistol in case.

But this isn't the main focus...I think it's time I talk about the 9'6 vampire milf lady that the internet went crazy for. And is likely still crazy for. Considering she's part of gameplay now. Meaning she's acting like Mr. X and Nemesis, trying to find me.

Let be honest, considering I have talked with friends about her or so. I like Lady Dimitrescu. While I'm not as on board as others are. I will admit, she's pretty. Yet whatever criticisms I have of RE8. It's the Lords that honestly interest me. I thought the Baker family were pretty cool as villains. But what I've heard about the Lords is that I honestly have a liking to mythological creatures or so on.

I mean, I loved the Lycans, I worry of not seeing them for awhile. But I know I'll see them again. I really loved that first part with them. But Dimitrescu, I must say, I just wanted a unique villain since the likes of Wesker, Nemesis, and whoever else. She seems like a scene stealer in a way. What I mean is, there's more intrigue...but I want to be honest. I want to get to the thing I wanted to talk about. Because I was doing a little bit of commentary as I was playing this game.

I do like the memes of Dimitrescu. I think there silly, and again, she's honestly pretty. She catches my attention. But considering how much fame she's gotten....

HOLY SHIT. She actually scares me.

Even before this game, I felt weird that people don't seem to take into consideration this woman is sadistic. And that fact there are dungeons below the castle that strangely creep me out because of all those torture devices. That were part of trying to turn maidens into people like her daughters. Seriously, it is disturbing to see that torture stuff and it makes me think.

But even after my funny little commentary after she drops me down through the floor. That the internet loves her. Holy crap, she again, scares me strangely.

Because of the fact that whole little scene of Ethan getting his hand cut off(I thought that was gonna be at the end of the level with her or something) and you can't just heal it. And I nearly died in that part, but luckily I escaped. I was just trying not to get close to her.

But then...it's where The Duke is at and...this is where the real fun begins. What I genuinely found funny. But why I found her scary. While she's no Mr. X or Nemesis. But oh my God...

I think her daughters scare me the most. Because they just pop out of nowhere and while I hear music! I hate that they pop up! Or just this one daughter. Flies just pop up and she says something and I RUN! I know I can't kill her. And I knew it likely wouldn't work. But I threw my only pipe bomb near her and it didn't kill her. Yet it destroyed a bunch of vases.

Okay, the first three times, I'm trying to remember. I literally kind of yelled/screamed in a way when those flies popped up. Yet even Dimitrescu popping up, and this is the one part I need to talk about. It was the third time I got spooked.

I was gonna enter the dining room, I was running towards the door, in case that daughter shows up. And on the other when I open it, there's Lady Dimitrescu and I quickly backed out. I did a little scream, but then I think I check out my inventory and I just laughed...it was so silly. Like oh my God...this happened.

Seriously, at times I kept going back to The Duke's room for safety. I did put the first angel face on. And before that, I even ran across the courtyard with Alcina trying to get me. I have shot at her before that, and I knew it wouldn't work like I've seen some footage...

I kind of got stuck on the stairs and onto one the left balcony. But I healed myself and escaped. All because a daughter and Alcina sandwiched me on those stairs. I thought a shotgun would slow her down...but it didn't...she didn't do the hat animation...

I just wanted to talk about this. Because it was strangely hilarious. I felt like not leaving The Duke's room. It's just so funny despite all those memes and jokes, she and her daughters make me feel tense. This is because I haven't completed the game before, I have no deluxe weapons, and Dimitrescu can't be shot multiple times where she can drop a case filled with stuff...which I'm mentioning Nemesis. You could even stop Mr. X for awhile. But as of right now, I'm just a little man compared to her.

And I've read the next Lord, Donna(Who I've been slowly becoming more of a fan considering what I've been told about her). Her part has been said it's almost Silent Hill like...and that her part is scary...and here I am being tense about a giant vampire lady and her daughters...

I wanted to ramble about that. Anyway, the save room theme is beautiful in this game. Been listening to it while making this.

youtube

#GeekGem Rambles #resident evil #resident evil 8 #lady dimitrescu #alcina dimitrescu

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giuliafc · 3 years

Text

Stuck in a Cabin (with you)

Read on: Ao3 || FFN || Wattpad

Summoned to save his Lady's life, Adrien gets stuck with her in a cabin during a blizzard. Identities get revealed, feelings come out...but who's been plotting to kill Marinette? Will the culprit be punished? Read to find the answer :) (Adrienette)

Written by: JuliaFC

Betas: Khanofallorcs, Agrestebug, Etoile-Lead-Sama and genxha. Thank you all so much!

Cover Art credit: Rosehealer02 on Deviantart

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by (c) Thomas Astruc, TS1 Bouygues, Disney Channel, Zagtoon, Toei Animation. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

oOoOoOoOoOo

Chapter 1 — Lila’s plan

Lila sighed looking at the message that had just pinged on her phone.

Mamma: [Sorry, tesoro. I got stuck at work because of the snow, don’t know when I’ll get home tonight. If you want, you can order something. Otherwise dried pasta is in the first cupboard at the side of the hob. I’ll make it up to you. Love you!]

Even after all those years, messages like those left a hollow feeling into her heart. Lila had been moving around a lot in the last few years, because of her mother’s job. She hated her mother’s job. Because of it, Lila had had to leave her grandparents and aunt in Sicily and all her childhood friends. Besides, her mother had been completely absent since she started working at the embassy, sometimes not even coming back home before Lila went to bed. Sometimes she wouldn’t see her for days in a row because when she woke up to go to school, mamma was sleeping and when Lila would go to bed, mamma wouldn’t even have started to come home. Mamma tried to make up for it by filling her days off with a lot of activities they could do together, but that wasn’t enough for Lila. She wanted more. She wanted her mother all for herself, like she had been at home, when papà had been there and mamma hadn’t yet obtained her role at the Italian Embassy.

She had been moved around like a pawn: Vienna for a couple of years, then Berlin, Geneva, Dublin and finally Paris. A lot for a 14 year old girl, having to leave it all behind way too many times.

When she moved to Vienna, she had been bullied quite badly because of her accent and her difficulty speaking the language. She had been ostracised and had spent the better part of two years fighting against stupid kids that she couldn’t even understand very well. Add to the mix the fact that papà ended up having an affair and mamma decided to divorce and leave him, and Lila’s life became even worse, even lonelier.

Luckily her mother had been moved to Berlin, but the situation hadn’t improved for her. Vienna or Berlin, the language was still incomprehensible to her and the kids didn’t like her because she was new, uncool, and because her accent sucked. Because her skin was too olive. Because her hair was too brown, or her eyes too green. They used to make fun of her hairstyle, of her clothes, of anything they could put their hands on. Lila started developing a huge amount of rage, frustration and anger. Plus, she missed her papà terribly, and she couldn’t understand in her mind why her mamma had decided to leave him.

Then she moved to Geneva, and on her first day there she met a girl who ‘acted’ cool. She was a couple of years older than Lila; her name was Charlotte, but she allowed Lila to call her Lottie. She took her under her wing and gave her some very interesting lessons. Lottie was a manipulative wench. She used to be the most popular girl in class because she always knew what to say in order to flatter the interlocutor, twist words around and obtain their favour. Lila was fascinated by her ability and craved to learn how to do the same. She worked for months to copy Lottie’s mannerisms and behaviour.

‘In life, you need to always take the upper hand,’ Lottie told her. ‘Tell people what they want to hear. This will automatically bring them to your side, and when you have them wrapped around your little finger, there’s nothing that they won’t do for you. You just need to keep up the appearances and you’re set for life.

‘Always settle for the best. If you set your eyes on a boy, make sure that he’s the best catch in the whole school. Make sure to understand what he likes and slowly set your trap. Let him fall for you, and you’ll be automatically the most popular gal around.’ Lottie had proved her own advice right easily, and had ended up in a relationship with a pop singer that attended their school. That increased her popularity even more and Lila became much more envious of her.

‘If someone bothers you, destroy them before they can attack you, or as soon as you can after that,’ was Lottie’s last bit of advice.

Lottie taught Lila to act cool, taught her that image was everything. Soon ,they had become like twin sisters and instead of being the bullied one, for once Lila enjoyed the feeling of being the bully. They were L&L’s, and they were respected. Her heart broke the day her mother told her that they were moving again, but she had no choice. Saying goodbye to Lottie was one of the most difficult things she had to do in her still young life.

‘Stay strong, Lil,’ Lottie had told her. ‘Remember, image is everything. Teach those Dubliners how great you are and you won’t have any trouble. And if you do,’ she added with a wink, ‘send me a message and I’ll hop on the first flight!’

That had made her laugh. Lottie acted strong and rich, but Lila knew that in reality she would never have been able to uphold her promise, as she was still too young, and had no money.

Dublin hadn’t been that bad for her. Except the weather. The HORRIBLE Irish weather. She still had nightmares of the torrential rain and the storms. But at least, there was the sea. Lila had missed the sea so much in the last few years. She used to make excuses that she was sick, to skip school, take the DART metropolitan train and get off at Portmarnock, Greystones or Bray (more the first two than the latter, because the sandy beach reminded her more of the shores at home). She would walk on the beach without a care in the world, listening to the sound of the waves crashing on the sand.

She had followed Lottie’s advice and had acted cool as soon as she started in her new school. She had gotten used to lying when she was in Geneva under Lottie’s wing, and now the lies came out more natural than the truth. She had become immediately popular when she started, managing to get into a relationship with the most exclusive guy in the class (she didn’t like him, as he was a twat, so full of himself that you could hear him boasting from a distance, but she didn’t care. He was popular and that was all that mattered. He would never realise that she was only using him). She learned how to trick everybody, making them think that she knew all sorts of actors and celebrities. It was fantastic, she was loved and popular and her life was amazing. She was so upset when her mother was moved once more.

And that’s how she ended up in Paris — again far from her beloved sea. She hated the city, she hated the noise and the frantic way of life. Despite the horrible weather, she had loved Dublin because it was smaller and reminded her more of the small town she was born in. But Paris was massive, full of people, of noise. She couldn’t stand the noise. And she hated all those lights. Ville lumière my foot.

Immediately as she started in Françoise Dupont, she tried to remake the same setting she had carefully created in her previous location. But she found the big obstacle of Marinette Dupain-Cheng. The most annoying girl Lila had ever dealt with. Except Ladybug, obviously. Such a tiny girl, but such a big problem for her, and for her resolution to follow Lottie’s footsteps. From the very beginning, Marinette had never fallen for her lies. From the very beginning, she had tried to unmask her and show to everyone her true colours. From the very beginning, she had been an absolute and utter pest.

Lila had fought back. She wouldn’t make it easy for Marinette to win against her; Lila had soon managed to get every student in the class wrapped around her little finger, as Lottie had taught her. She had hoped that soon Marinette wouldn’t be a problem anymore. But unfortunately, she still was. Even more annoyingly, Adrien, whom she was trying to charm in order to again be the most popular girl in school who dated the most handsome and popular guy, seemed to believe Marinette.

Lila had tried all her tricks. She had tried to bring the whole class to her side, she had tried to even manipulate Adrien’s father and make him think that Marinette was a bad influence on his son. But nothing seemed to have an effect on the blond model, and Lila had gotten desperate. She had finally managed to set up a great trap and had gotten Marinette expelled. However, the joy hadn’t lasted long because Adrien had threatened her and had gotten to the point of making a deal with her so that Marinette would be readmitted to school.

Lila was seething that day, but she had no choice. Losing Adrien’s friendship would have been even more detrimental to her image. It didn’t matter if it was only a fake friendship; it would add to her image, and image was everything, as Lottie said.

The more time passed, the more Lila hated Marinette. She had tried everything she could to make her life miserable, but the young designer somehow always managed to resist. Even getting akumatised and trying to use Hawkmoth’s power against Marinette didn’t work, because Ladybug and Chat Noir would get in the way and protect her. They would try to expose Lila’s lies. She had had to make her lies become bigger and bigger and create more and more imaginative excuses in order to keep up with the popularity she craved. And it was never enough, because Marinette always managed to dismiss her claims and most of the time prove her wrong.

From Lila’s point of view, Marinette was the enemy. She was the sole obstacle left in her path to getting what she wanted, and she would get what she wanted, no matter the cost. In her mind, there was only one path left to take to get rid of her.

Marinette Dupain-Cheng had to DIE.

Finally, she had managed to come up with the perfect plan. The perfect opportunity.

The perfect excuse: a school project. She had cheated the sorting and gotten paired with Alya, and the weather today was giving her even more help. When something is meant to be, it’s meant to be. It had already been a cold winter up to then, but very unusually for Paris, in the last week the temperature had dropped way below zero. In fact, it had dropped so low that it had been declared the coldest winter in history, only topped once in the late 1800’s.

Lila didn’t like the cold. Her family came from a little village on the sea, where it was always warm even in the bad season. Yes, it had been cold from time to time, but the sea warmed the temperature up and made the chill more bearable. Her beautiful sea, which she missed so much after having gotten a taste of it back in Dublin. But there was no sea in Paris, only that stupid river… and no warm weather in the winter, especially not this year.

But that cold weather, for once, wasn’t upsetting her because it was helping her craft her plan; she had faced the freezing temperature that very morning before school, and had set up her trap. She would use the cold to her advantage. And this time, she’d have the perfect alibi, and not even Adrien would suspect of her.

This time Marinette would be gone. Forever.

“Are you all right, Lila?” asked Alya, her face showing genuine concern when Lila dumped her phone on the desk in front of her with a pout.

“Yes, I’m fine. Just another charity event being cancelled this week because of the snow,” she made up. Alya’s frown disappeared and the girl gave her a look full of admiration.

“I don’t know how you do it, Lila, your commitment to charities and people in need is admirable, really.”

Lila gave Alya her best puppy eyed glance. “This city, and especially Ladybug and Chat Noir, have done so much for me with all the times I have been akumatised. It’s only nice to give something back!”

Alya put a hand on her shoulder. “You’re a truly amazing person, Lila. I have been akumatised four times, and I guess half of Paris has been in a way or another, but nobody does all you do to ‘give it back to the community’.” The girl with glasses looked at her door thoughtfully. “But if you’ll excuse me a moment, I need the restroom.”

And that’s when the perfect opportunity arose. Alya’s phone was resting on the desk in front of them. Lila gave a cunning side glance to the brunette who had just stood up and was fixing her glasses on her nose and, with a graceful flick of her finger, she pushed Alya’s phone slightly making it fall to the ground, quickly kicking it with her foot underneath the computer desk so that Alya wouldn’t find it.

“Uh… I’m sure my phone was here a moment ago…” muttered Alya looking at the computer desk and scratching her head. She moved her gaze around superficially, but since she couldn’t see the phone anywhere, she sighed. “Well, never mind. I’ll be right back,” she said, looking at Lila before disappearing from view.

“Take your time,” said Lila, her lips curling in a wide smirk as she picked up the phone from the ground. Things seemed to be going her way this time. The phone was unlocked. Lila’s eyes had a triumphant gleam in them as she looked for a conversation with Marinette.

She quickly peeked to ensure that Alya was still in the restroom and opened the chat with Marinette. Then she typed the message she had been planning all day, clicking send immediately after.

Alya (Lila): [Hey, girl! The girls and I are planning to go to Lac Daumesnil. Fancy doing some ice skating with us?]

She kept eyeing the door of the restroom with concern, but Alya was still there. Soon she saw the three dots of the conversation flashing, meaning that Marinette was answering.

Marinette: [It’s been some time since I went ice skating. Last time was a disaster. Sounds like a good idea, Alya. I will be there in an hour]

Alya (Lila): [Great. Start skating if you get there before us. We’re on our way!]

Marinette: [OK!]

Lila looked at the messages with a smirk and took care of deleting each of them one by one. Alya wasn’t going to find out. It was after she had just deleted the last message that Alya emerged from the restroom and she put the phone down immediately.

Alya frowned at her. “Are you okay, Lila?”

“Yes. I found your phone; it was on the floor here.” She pointed at the side of the desk. “I thought I heard it notify you of something, but there’s no notification, nothing at all.”

Alya looked at her phone with interest. “Oh. Maybe an akuma alert?” She started scrolling through her phone, but she didn’t find anything new. “That’s peculiar, there’s no new announcement.”

“Don’t worry, I must have made a mistake,” said Lila, dismissing the conversation with a gesture of her right hand. “So we were saying, about Napoléon?”

This took Alya’s attention away from her phone and brought her back to concentrating on the project they were working on. Lila smirked — her plan was unfolding well.

Author’s Note:

Hi again! I know, I know, another story. I told you I was going to unload everything I had this weekend. This isn’t finished yet (well, one part is, and in theory it could be left like that, but the second part I thought is worth writing!) so I will update this, the AU and “When Magic Fails” as soon as I can. Hope you liked getting inside Lila’s head. The next chapters are not about her, don’t worry. Or rather, worry, because the next chapters are her plan unfolding. And the title of the next chapter (and the beautiful cover art) is kind of revealing… so, well, I’ll hide again… ^^;

In the next instalment of “Stuck in a cabin (with you)”, “Drowning”:

— “I don’t know, Marinette. This sounds fishy. Why aren’t your friends here yet?”

— “I can’t move, Tikki, I think I have cramps! HELP ME!”

— “Sugarcube! It won’t happen again, not if we can help it, don’t worry!”

Ehrm… I know. Doesn’t sound good, right? ^^ Please subscribe if you’re interested in knowing what is going to happen, so you will know when the next update is!

Last but not least, as usual, if you read this and you’re not part of our wonderful Discord server already, but you enjoy reading, writing and talking about Miraculous, please join our Discord server, Miraculous Fanworks (for people on FFN, discord dot gg slash mlfanworks). See you there soon. Not sure when I will update this story but it won't be too long! Promise!

#miraculous #miraculous ladybug #miraculous les aventures de ladybug et chat noir #adrienette #adrien agreste #adrien and marinette #reveals #identity reveal #marinette dupain cheng #tales of ladybug and cat noir #ladybug #lila rossi #hurt/comfort #angst #romance #hurtcomfort #marichat

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rrdcooc · 4 years

Text

Please excuse my plunge into the Xiaolin Showdown fandom. Yes, I know the show is 17 years old. Yes, I know the remaining fandom is small. But I finally gave this show a chance and really liked it. Which is funny, because I used to watch Jackie Chan Adventures when both were on TV and absolutely refused to give XS the time of day. Anyway, I finished last night on the advisement of many, I will not be watching Xiaolin Chronicles and I have Impressions (tm) in no particular order:

Raimundo Pedrosa: You are my son. I am SO PROUD of you. Look how far you’ve come! Look at that character development! Look at how smart you are, and how people underestimate you all the damn time! Thank you, @xiaolindude for getting me to watch the show because of him. I was not disappointed.

Jack Spicer: I underestimated you, boy, back in 2003. Fanart of you was all over deviantART, and I thought you were just another pasty-faced emo “evil genius” wanna be. (Turns out that role was reserved for Chase.) I apologize to both you and your fandom. Your fanbase was deserved. You are a funny, funny kid.

Clay Bailey: My big, soft cowboy. Tall as a mountain and strong as one too, but you are the softest of bois, and I love you. Also, I hope you are aware that Dojo sits on you so often because he likes to be tall. Speaking of Dojo...

Dojo Kanojo Cho: My first impression of you compared you (favorably) to Mushu. (I know I’m not the only one.) Now, I don’t find you all that similar, but I still think you’d get along. And now, once a week, I will make sure to think, “Be sure to return your opinions to their full and shut up positions.” Thanks for taking care of these kids. Thanks for taking care of Master Fung. You da best dragon.

Kimiko Tohomiko: Smart, sassy, and well-dressed. (Well... not always well-dressed, some of those outfits were absolute disasters or downright appropriative.) Still, I love that your roll as The Girl (tm) did not include making you into someone’s love interest. You’re strong and independent, not to mention multifaceted. It was refreshing, and not what I was expecting when I saw there was to be a Girl (tm) on the team. Why are your eyes blue, though?

Wuya: I liked you way better before you joined forces with Chase and essentially became the Jack Spicer to his villainy. You were mistreated, girl, and I respect you.

Chase Young: When you were introduced, I thought you were cool (thanks at least in part to Jason Marsden), but that hype went away pretty fast. You’re pretty one-dimensional, and you can’t decide what your thing is. Is it turning into a dragon creature? Is it big cats? Is it ravens? Is it international warriors that you turned into big cats? Pick a thing, man. You’re a bunch of wasted potential. You could have been so interesting.

Master Fung: I like you. You’re a good guy. I really liked seeing you kick butt when the chips were down, in classic grand master of martial arts style. But like Kimiko, I can’t help but wonder why your eyes are blue? Is there something I’m missing?

Omi: While you did grow on me over the course of the show, I never really started to like you. You had your moments, but your ego is out of control, and the way you talk down to others is infuriating, especially because every single other person in the show is older than you. Your last name will forever by Crud to me. Also, learn how to idiom, kid.

Grand Master Dashi: I knew who you were the moment I saw you. Though you weren’t in the show much, I did enjoy the time you were there. Nice work on the puzzle boxes.

Hannibal Roy Bean: I hate you. I legit hate you. And not because of anything you did in the plot, you were just so freaking unnecessary. Big bad was a ghost witch lady, who became a not-ghost witch lady, who was turned back into a ghost witch lady. Time to introduce the hot dragon guy (and turn the ghost witch lady into a measly sidekick. And also a not-ghost witch lady.) ! Not evil enough for you? How about an evil Southern kidney bean, reminiscent of Krang from TMNT in appearance? I just... you were so unnecessary? How did they ever think you were a good idea? And the fact that you were genuinely formidable makes it even worse! I hope your stupid hawk eats you.

#Xiaolin Showdown #Raimundo Pedrosa #Jack Spicer #Clay Bailey #Dojo Kanojo Cho #Kimiko Tohomiko #Wuya #Chase Young #Master Fung #Omi #Grand Master Dashi #Hannibal Roy Bean #OPs

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ongaku-ato-kakikomi · 4 years

Note

In that case... You decide to ask the PCs out after they've been humiliated by any of the ROs?

(A/N): Aaaaah, first time writing for the playable characters, but I think I did an okay job. Thank you for requesting, I hope you’ll like it!

+ The art isn’t mine. It’s from aripng on Deviantart! Go check their stuff out!

Amira Rashid:

Amira was known to be a bold, charming and fun person, and you’ve always loved to hang out with her at all times. Her competitiveness would often bring out a side of you you never thought you ever had: with her, you feel like you can achieve anything you set your mind too… and you also feel like you’re right where you’re supposed to be.

It didn’t take long for you to fall for her, that’s for sure. She’s just so confident in everything she does, it’s one of the many things you admire about her. And right now, as you’re about to ask her to go to prom with you, you wish you had has much strength and courage as she usually has.

The fact that she looked like all life has been drained from her eyes when you finally found her that day made you rethink even asking her if she was going to the prom at all. She didn’t seem sad, but rather embarrassed, you know that by how her fire hair is sulking along with her shoulders. This happens every time she’s about to win a game against someone and then immensely loses, though half of the time she manages to give out a genuine smile a few minutes later.

“Amira?” Your voice manages to bring her attention to you, though you can feel the anxiety rising inside your chest when she sets her eyes on your form. “Are you… okay?”

“Meh, just got rejected by Damien, no big deal.” While she seems to straighten her back and give out a genuine smile after those words; you, on the other hand, feel like sulking on the floor. “What about you?”

“O-oh, well, I wanted to ask you something, but…” You rapidly shake your head and turn around, your feet dragging you elsewhere. “Nevermind.”

“Hey, wait a second there, sweet cheeks.” You feel the heat creep up on your cheeks at the nickname, shy eyes looking back at a worried frown settled on her face. “You know you can ask me anything. Come on, do tell.”

You shyly play with your hands, not noticing her lips stretching out into a smile.

“I’m not gonna let you leave before you do, you know?”

“W-well…” You take in a large breath, trying to find that courage she brought out of you so many times before. “I was wondering… if you would like to go to the prom with me?”

Her expression quickly changing to a shock one is enough to make your heart skip a bit in a panic.

“If you don’t want to, that’s totally fine! I just really like to hang out with you and thought it would be fun to spend that night together, but… but like I said, I’m fine if you don’t want to-”

“Aye, shut up for a minute so I can talk, alright?”

The heat rises on your face and you hide it with your hands in embarrassment, believing that you’ve ruined all of your chances now; maybe even your friendship. Though your eyes rapidly flutter in surprise when you feel her pat your head.

“That was adorable, (Y/N).” You give her a confused look, not sure how to interpret the smile on her lips. “Sure, I’ll go with you. I thought I’d have to spend that night alone, but having fun with you sounds like a great plan.”

A huge smile breaks out of your lips. “Really?”

She gives out a chuckle. “Yeah, of course.” She gives you a wave just as she walks away. “I’ll pick you up at six, alright?”

As usual, Amira makes you feel like you could take over the world.

Brian Yu:

People you meet at your school either scare the crap out of you or makes you incredibly nervous all the time, mostly because they’re either very threatening or always do dumb shit that almost kills you just because they can. Needless to say, your everyday life is very stressful, and Brian is the only one who manages to bring you some sanity when everything feels like falling apart.

He probably hasn’t noticed; the guy’s almost always sleeping or zooming off when you’re hanging out, but he’s just so chill and so calm, the whole atmosphere around him always makes you feel safe. You could stand under a tree and stares at clouds with him for hours, with no need to talk about anything at all.

He’s just perfect like that, and you often wonder if he ever sees you the same as you see him.

Until one day, he proves to you that he has, in fact, never seen you that way, and thus by simply asking out Miranda for prom out of nowhere and in front of everyone. Needless to say, she did not replicate his feelings, nor did she reject him in a nice way, and so now you’re forced to pat his back with your own broken heart while he silently engulfs food for his own comfort.

“I’m sorry to ask you this, but…” His black eyes turn to you when you speak up, his mouth full of his favorite food. “Why did you ask Miranda out? You barely talked to her since I’ve known you…”

“Ah…” He blinks a few times while he gulps in the rest of his food, trying to find the right words to answer you. “I don’t know… she’s been talking about finding her prince, I thought I could be hers for one night.”

You stay awfully silent after that revelation, your heart aching while your mind race with things that could maybe cheer the one person making you happy in this world. You give out a small smile a few moments later, deciding to go all in.

“Well… how about you be mine instead?”

You can feel the heat spreading on your neck when he turns a surprised expression towards you. “Huh?”

“I-I mean… if you really wanna be someone’s prince for one night, you could have just asked me.” You look down at your lap in embarrassment, not being able to stop the next set of words from coming out of your mouth. “Because… I kinda already see you as one since you basically save me every day…”

Your breath gets cut in your throat when his fingers brush a strand of hair out of your face, your (e/c) eyes looking up to see him with a contented smile on his lips.

“If the prettiest princess is asking, then who am I to say no?”

You both love and hate how calmly he can say those kinds of things.

Oz:

Oz has always been the shy and mysterious person around, but after spending so much time with them thanks to your group of friends, you’ve managed to discover that they’re an absolute and adorable geek. You love how passionate they are with their hobbies whenever they manage to step out of the insecurity net they’re often trapped into, but you also just love spending time with them whenever you can. They’re very sweet and you just wanna do your best to make them happy, especially since they’re often anxious or depressed.

You know how horrible it is to feel those things, and so you always know to just be there for them and to remind them that you’re there for them. You’re always gonna be there for them, even if they break your heart in the process.

You always knew they had a crush on none other than Scott, they’ve told you once in a whisper at a night out with everyone. It hurt to know, it still does, but all you want is for them to be happy.

Today, they were supposed to ask out Scott for the prom and they were nervous about it. You understood why: you’ve tried to tell them about your feelings for a while but always bailed out because of your own anxiety. But for Oz case, they were only two possible outcomes: either Scott accepts to go to prom with them, or he rejects them in a nice way.

Turns out he rejected them in a nice way, and now Oz’s shadows seem to be sulking even more than usual as they stare at empty spaces.

“I’ll never find love.” The words rip your heart’s tissue apart, your fingers slightly crisping the back of their shirt. “I’m just good at being alone.”

“Don’t you dare say that. Don’t even think about it.” You grab their shoulders and make them look at you, your eyes looking for any kind of light in their black orbs. “You will find love, okay? And you’re not alone, I’m right here. I’ll always be here. Even if I die, I’ll come back as a ghost and haunt you.”

They manage to let out a small chuckle, but it sounds hollow and you can see the tears sprinkling in their eyes. “It’s kind of you to say those things… but we both know that no one will ever love me-”

“Someone already does!”Their eyes go wide in shock just as your fingers tighten their grip on their shoulders. “It’s me, I love you. I-I’ve loved you for months and I will always love you. And I don’t care if you don’t love me back, because I want you to be in my life… even if it’s just as friends.”

“You…” Their words barely manage to come out of their lips. “You love me?”

You free their shoulders, the heat creeping up on your cheeks another proof of the embarrassment you’re suddenly feeling after blurting your feelings out of nowhere. “Y-yeah…”

“Well… that’s… a lot to process…”

You feel a last amount of courage bubbling up inside your chest, the heat rising on your face. “Wanna… go out for lunch and talk about it?”

They blink a few times, then nods. “Yeah… Yeah, I would like that.”

You know they probably just want to talk so they can understand why you love them, especially since they tend to believe that no one loves them, but you’ll take it.

You’ll do anything to prove to them that they deserve love.

Vicky Schmidt:

For as long as you can remember, Vicky has always managed to bring a smile to your face. Her cheerfulness and her will to always do her best to achieve her goals and make others happy are what you admire the most about her… and also why you secretly love her so much.

You noticed how she would always go out of her for others, but almost no one would make sure that she gets some happiness back too… and since you weren’t too courageous enough to talk to her about your feelings yet, you decided to put anonymous letters in her locker. Not necessarily love declarations (though you do have left those), but just little notes to brighten her day or to make her feel better if she ever feels insecure about something.

Of course, she absolutely loves them. Every day, you could see that her smile was brighter, her eyes shinier and that she would laugh more than usual. It made your heart bursts with pure happiness and love knowing that you were the reason behind all of this, and even though it hurt that she thought Liam was the one behind all of this, you were happy for her.

And so, one day, you decided that you would tell her that you were behind all of this… even if she rejects you after it, at least she would know that you were the one who wanted to make her so happy in the first place.

The only thing is, when you finally manage to find her in a hallway, her usual happy expression has now turned to a devastated one, her hands grasping onto a piece of paper you remember putting in her locker the day before.

“Vicky?” She turns wide shocked eyes towards you, her expression not changing in the slightest. “… are you okay?”

“I-I… I thought…” She opens and closes her mouth a few times before she manages to explain what happened to you. “I thought Liam was the one sending me those letters, but… when I talked to him about it, he just… made fun of me!”

You kinda feel bad that she had to live through such a hard humiliation from the vampire, but you can’t help to let out a smile. “What made you think it was him?”

“I-I don’t know, this letter…” She looks down at the piece of paper, confusion spreading on her features. “It said…”

“To meet them here today, then you saw Liam and thought it was him?”

“Yes! Wait-” She squints her eyes at you. “How do you know that?”

Your smile stretches out, trying your best to ignore the heat on your cheeks. “I wrote the letter. And all the letters before that.”

“Huh?” She blinks rapidly before a wide grin spreads on her cheeks. “For real?”

“Yeah, I was-”

“Let’s go on a date!” It’s your turn to open your eyes wide in surprise when she suddenly attacks you into a tight hug, her words resonating inside your head. “That’s what you were gonna ask me: if we could go on a date?”

“Y-yeah-”

“Good! It’s settled!”

She gives your cheek a kiss before she runs out of the hallway, her giggle following her around. You just smile like a dumb person, feeling the butterflies spreading inside your chest.

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lalahbug · 4 years

Text

You Will Learn to Love Me - Male!Belarus x F!Reader

Fandom: Hetalia Word Count: 3,255

My Masterlist

Warnings/disclaim: general Male!Belarus is an aggressive stalker; it can be triggering to some people. This is NOT meant to romanticize talking or stalkers. Stalking someone is NOT okay whether it’s gentle and patient or not, do NOT invade others privacy. Reader in this basically falls in love with Nikolai at first sight, so she brushes off his tendencies, still is NOT safe for IRL. This fanfic fantasy, do NOT romanticize it. Some yandere thoughts from Nik.

Author’s Note: (continued under story) Originally posted on DeviantArt, under the same username, on 05/25/2014. Revamped/edited in 2020

___ is a blank for your name/oc/whatever you prefer Written in 3rd person

Line/header is to separate paragraphs to indicate time skips, as Tumblr hates my formatting.

Story under cut

___ yawned softly as she set down her book. In her favorite little cafe, she sipped her caramel latte then picked up her book, continuing to read.

Time lapsed, she put down her book to drink her latte, as she put down her book, she noticed someone was sitting at her table. She smiled gently at him before taking a drink. He was staring at her, with very determined eyes. He didn't smile back. "C-can I help you with something?" ___ marked her book and set it down fully. "Dy." He stated with a thick Russian sounding accent, but he kept staring and not saying anything. She assumed it meant yes by his tone. "Well, what can I help you will?" She asked cautiously. He sat up very straight and locked his ice blue eyes with her (e/c) eyes. "Love me." She smiled slightly as a slight blush formed on her cheeks. "I don't even know you." She thought this was just a joke, so why not play along. "But I know you, ___." ___ paused and looked at him. He just kept staring. His icy blue eyes were boring into her (e/c) eyes. "How do you know my name?" "I know a lot more than just your name. So love me." She had no idea how bad he wished to just kidnap her. He still wanted her happy though, so getting her to love him seemed like a nice try. If it didn't work, he would just kidnap her. He was very prepared. She looked at him then looked from side to side and gave him a nervous laughed. "Did Mel put you up to this? She's always trying to set me up with guys." "Niama." He stated plainly. Which she assumed was no. Something inside told her to run as fast as she could. But there was something about him that enticed her to stay there. "Why don't we be friends first?" She asked with a gentle smile. "Then will you love me?" He never hesitated. She was starting to sense he was being very serious. Her heart raced, noticing this was no joke. "Maybe someday," she eyed him and tried to stay calm. "You will learn to love me." He stated plainly. She felt her heart jump. "Are you going to hurt me?" ___ asked a little wide-eyed. "Niama. I will never cause you physical harm." ’He isn't hesitating so maybe it's true.’ she thought to herself. "Okay,” she looked down at her hands then at her book then back at the man sitting to her right. "Well, what's your name?" "Nikolai Arlovski." "That's a very handsome name." His eyes didn't move from hers but she could see a slight blush on his checks. She smiled softly, 'He's kinda cute when he blushes.’ He didn't reply. "With your accent and name. Are you Russian?" "Niama. I am from Belarus." He gave her a small smirk. He was actually very handsome. Icy blue eyes, shaggy pale blonde hair, and skin like smooth ivory. He was in a very big tan winter coat which seemed to be lined with black fur. It looked lovely on him. Silence hung in the air as both of them stared at each other. She leaned over and took her latte. "Well, can we be friends first?" She didn't want to get his hopes up. Just because he's attractive doesn't mean she'd date him, let alone love him. He thought for a moment this time. "Will I have a better chance that way?" She smiled and thought for a moment. He was being very honest and patient, maybe she could give him the benefit of the doubt. She shrugged with the gentle smile that never seemed to move from her plump lips. "More than likely. You are so honest, I like that about you already." He smirked, 'She falling for me already. This might be easier than locking her up.’ "I am glad you are starting to love me already." "I never-." "You will learn to love me. I will do everything I can." She stared at Nik. 'There are no questions, only statements. 'How much confidence or seriousness he must have to do this with no hesitation.’ "What do you like about a guy? I will do whatever is needed." Nikolai asked leaning a little closer to ___, putting his elbows on the table between them. "Just be yourself." He shook his head no. "What do you like in a guy? I will not ask again, so tell me." He wasn't going to let her get off with that answer apparently. "Well... I like gentlemen, it's nice to be treated like a princess sometimes." Her smiled from before was still playing on her lips but her eyes sparkled like a little girl for a moment. "It'd be nice if he likes reading and art." "I will do both of those easily. You are mine, treating you like a princess will not even need effort. I must protect you and keep you happy. I'll just make sure to be more gentle like with my words." He smirked softly. "My sister, who is from Russia, raised me on arts and music. I like to read. Reading is how I found you." "Found me?" ___ echoed in question. He leaned down his side where he had a bag. Which she hadn't noticed until now. He pulled out a newspaper and extended it to her. She took it from him softly. There was a picture of her in a group of people. She knew what the picture was for. It was doing an amazing job on a project at her work. It was under the business section, where almost no one reads. "I saw you and I had to know everything about you. I fell in love with you, reading all your awards and progress, also reading your journal on your one website. How you're always smiling" He took the paper from her and placed it neatly back into his bag. "I know almost everything about you." She was silent. He leaned across the table and took her hand. His hands and eyes were so warm. "I love you, ___." After a couple of minutes, she smiled softly. "I would like to get to know you better. So that, maybe, I can return that love." He smiled broadly. "I knew you'd learn to love me."

Months had passed. Nikolai and ___ had been very close. He treated her like a princess, he was very, very, protective of her. He never let her more than an arms reach from him while she was with or near him. He also seemed to pop up when a new guy would start talking to her. He even moved into an apartment across from hers. He cooked for her every chance he got. He always took her places and bought her small things. She had to be careful not to comment on things she wanted that are expensive. Or else he would buy them; she learned that after he tried to buy her a new car. He was like a best friend whom she was very attracted to and always made her happy. There was something more there, but she never really dug into it. Every day before he walked to her door. He would ask. "Do you love me yet?" His smirk was always gentle and sad. She would simply smile and say. "We'll just have to see tomorrow." He would smile slightly. "Then goodnight and sleep well." With that, she would say goodnight and enter her apartment.

___ was at her favorite cafe once again. Of course, Nikolai tagged along. Both were just sitting there reading, with an occasional sip of drinks then Nikolai glanced over at ___. "Hey, ___," Nikolai questioned finally. He had to ask her. She didn't stop reading, just simply said. "Yes?" He sighed and reached over and pushed down her book so she'd look at him. She quickly put in her bookmark then grabbed her drink and took a sip. She smiled and looked at Nik. "Okay, you have my full attention." "Will you go to dinner with me tomorrow night?" "Sure, my kitchen or yours?" She giggled and smiled at him since they did it often. "No. I mean to a restaurant. You will need to dress up too. When you love me and marry me. I will do this often. I just want to show you how I will treat you." "There you go again with the 'when' and not the 'if',” she laughed softly, taking another sip of her drink. He smiled. "There you go again, thinking I won't make you love me." ___ sighed jokingly and smiled slightly. "What happens if I don't?" "You will." He smiled viciously. When he smiled like that a shiver ran down her spine, something about it scared her and attracted her to Nik even more. "Then you're going with me to dinner, right?" "Just as friends or as a date?" "I told you to dress up, so date." She thought for a moment, this would be a big step for her. To accept a real date from him for once. She had declined multiple dates before now. "Where are we going?" "I knew it,” he smiled more whole-hearted. "Dress very nicely, I will pick you up at 6 pm at your door tomorrow night." "I will need to go shopping for a dress then." He grinned, it was so sexy and lustful, and she blushed at the sight. "I'll go with you,” he scooted closer to her. "No, you won't! It's meant to be a surprise~!" She gingerly pushed him back. He considered it for a moment before sighing and giving her a soft smirk. "Okay. Only because I am allowing it." "You act like I'm yours,” she looked down at her latte in her hands. "You are, you just don't know it yet,” she smiled at his confidence, before glancing up at him. This was the usual banter; it happened all the time. "Here take my card," Nik said before extending it to her. "No, I can't do that." "I wasn't asking. Take it,” she blushed at his dominance, he rarely showed it surprisingly. Staying true to his conviction to try and be more gentle with his words. She sighed, in defeat, knowing if she argued she wouldn’t win. She’s learned that the hard way a few months ago. Taking the card from him, she gasped. "It has my first name but your last name?" She traced her finger over the words: ___ Arlovski. "I told you, you're mine,” he stated nonchalantly while taking a sip of his coffee. Her flush reached her ears, for a moment. Nikolai smiled brightly, a rare thing, he loved making her blush over the smallest things. Although these past 9 months have been the best. Was this the best idea, leading him on? He's never hurt her, physically or emotionally. He was a bit controlling at times, but if she was firm or really wanted it. He’d let her be her own person. But the thought of what the future might hold was a little scary for ___. For she didn’t know how she truly felt about Nikolai.

___was in another dress shop. She just couldn't find what she wanted. While shopping, she started thinking about Nikolai, she stopped moving for a second from the dress she was looking at. <Why am I thinking about him all the time? Why do I always want to make him happy?' She rolled these thoughts around in her mind. She was looking at elegant dresses that would be modest. Then she stopped and thought. Why can't I get him off my mind? Do I love him? Or do I fear him? Do I think of ways to make him happy, just out of fear of what he might do? Or do I do it, because I like to see him smile' Continuing her contemplation, while perusing gowns. While balancing out the truths and assumptions in her mind, she froze, she admitted in the smallest whisper. "I love him." It was so softly that even she could barely hear it. ___’s checks burned while she smiled thinking of Nik. Then a devious thought came to mind. She walked over to a sales clerk, who was fixing a displace. "Hello,” she greeted the employee with a sly smirk. "Why hello." She politely smiled at ___. "I need a dress for a very special night. Something good for a happy confession. Somewhat sexy too." She smiled and looked ___ up and down before doing a devious smirk that matched ___'s. "I have the perfect thing." She winked at ___.

Nikolai was in an old fashion tailcoat, wearing an all-black suit and undershirt with ___'s favorite color of tie. He was slicking back his hair then his nerves hit and he messed it up again. He breathed out and patted his pants pocket to make sure the small box was there. He smiled. She was going to say yes. There was no doubt in his mind. Love or not, he would marry her. She will be Mrs. Arlovski. But he had to ask first, he wanted her to be willing, so she’d stay happy and smiling, the way he fell in love with her. It was almost 6 pm, he grabbed his phone, keys, and wallet then exited his apartment. Locking the door behind him. He faced ____’s door and breathed deeply, calming himself, mentally preparing for anything that didn’t go as planned tonight. Steeling himself, he knocked on the door. ___ was panicking, debating if she was ready, and then she heard a knock at the door. She quickly grabbed her coat and slipped it on. Then she opened the door. Nikolai was about to speak then his breath caught in his throat. ___ was beyond elegant and gorgeous, just with her makeup and hair alone, done in an amazing up-do. He noticed blush spreading across her cheeks. Oh, how he loved it when she blushed. "Nik, you're staring with your mouth open." She reached up and pushed his jaw up, closing it.

Nikolai and ___ were at the restaurant, it was big, crowded with beautiful people. A host was showing them to their table, which was a little spread away from everyone else. Just for a little privacy. Host set the menu's down, gesturing for them to sit before walking away. Nikolai put his hands on ___’s shoulders. "Time to take off your coat." He whispered raucously. His curiosity was eating away at him; he had to know what she was wearing. She smirked and undid her buttons. He quickly slipped it off her shoulders. ___ was in a dark blue strapless dress, the back gone until the middle of her back. The dress clung to the curve of her body until about mid-thigh then flowed down from there. She turned around to face Nik. He breathed in quickly, seeing how the dress gripped the front of her, showing off her beautiful neckline. She was wearing a choker necklace, thin and loose around her neck. It was the first thing Nikolai had bought for her. His eyes danced all over her, oh how he wanted her. He wanted to lock ___ in the basement and keep her all to himself. But more than anything he wanted her love in return. Locking her up probably wouldn't be the best way to get that, but it was his last option if she rejected him tonight. He had been more than patient; it had been 9 months since he found her and 8 months of trying so hard to keep a distance. Nik wanted nothing more than her, right now, in every way. He couldn't keep his distance now, though. Nik could see men around the restaurant staring at her backside. Staring at ___, he growled softly, his ___. His body moved, roughly pulling her against his body. His lips smashing against hers and his strong arms snaking around her waist and back, holding her body against his even more. He soon realized what he did. He slowly pulled away from her, he had forced himself on her, after resisting for so long, that isn’t how he wanted their first kiss to be. He stared at her bright red face. Her eyes were wide but she never fought back. Nikolai smiled placed a hand against her cheek. He leaned in slowly; ___ closed her eyes, Nik smiled. He gently placed his lips against hers. ___ smiled into the kiss and kissed back. This was how he wanted their first kiss to be. Nikolai pulled away and stared into her eyes. 'Things are going better than planned. Maybe I won't have to lock her up after all.' "Should we sit down?" She asked in a small voice, her blush had traveled to her ears. Nikolai nodded and guided her, to her seat and pulled it out the chair for her, and gently pushed it back in.

By now they were eating, the food was spectacular. Although, ___ didn't even really know what she ate, because she didn’t get to choose. Once the waiter came, Nikolai ordered for both of them and sent him away. She’d asked why he didn’t let her choose, and he simply stated he already knew what she would love. He changed the subject quickly and they joked and laughed until the food arrived. Dessert had arrived now. ___ was talking small spoonfuls of ice cream while listening to Nikolai talk about his Russian sister. "You love her, don't you?" She questioned without thinking. He smiled and leaned forward a bit to reach across the table to hold her hand. "Not as much as I love you." ___ blushed which made Nikolai smile even more. "I love you, too,” she whispered. Nik froze for a second; he had almost given up on hearing her confess. He stood quickly and walked over to her. "Finally." With that, he put a hand on the back of her head and kissed her. Pulling her up from her sitting position. His arm pulled her close to him. ___ kissed back, wrapping her arms around him. After a moment, they pulled away slowly and stared into each other's eyes. Nikolai rubbed small circles on her back while resting his forehead against hers. 'My sister was right, if I just tried long enough, I would have her next to me.' He thought to himself with a small smile while staring into ___'s beautiful eyes. "I love you, Nikolai." She whispered again. "I love you, ___" He pulled away from her slowly and got down on one knee. ___'s froze as Nikolai pulled out the small box. He took her left hand in his, lacing their fingers together. Her other hand was over her mouth. He opened the box to show a small sliver, yet gorgeous, ring. "Nik I-" she whispered. "Wait." He kissed her hand then slid the ring onto her ring finger. Of course, it fit perfectly, he knew everything about her. "Marry me." Now that he knew she loved him too. She had learned to love him. He couldn't wait any longer to make her officially his in every way. As she hesitated, she looked in his eyes and let the words echo in her mind. She beamed at him lovingly. It wasn’t a question; it was a demand.

Author’s Note: continued So I love Male!Belarus. I think it's just the protectiveness and dominant side. Sorry if he is a little OOC. Got this Belarusian Google Translate. Sorry if it's wrong. Niama supposed to mean no. Dy supposed to mean yes. Also, I just googled what Male!Belarus’ name would be, but I don’t know if there is a canon or not.

#fanfic #fanficition #heatlia #heatalia fanfic #male!belarus #male!belarus x reader #male!belarus/reader #lalahbug #fic #lalah writes #reader insert #xreader #self insert

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theartofbeinganeldar · 4 years

Text

The Art of Being an Eldar: Legolas x Reader Prologue

Summary: You're a fantasy-loving, LARPing human from this world, who's the black sheep of society because of your obsession for the unreal and alienation of what's real. When you're in the middle of a LARP battle with some pretty phony boars, you fall out of a tree and bust your head. You wake up, alone, and are suddenly attacked by some very pissed-off, very real wargs. Without any idea of how you got there, you got dropped into Middle-Earth, with only bits and pieces of memories of Tolkien's masterpiece, though your recollection of everything else is perfectly clear. And of all places in Middle-Earth, you got dropped into Mirkwood, with some suspicious, potentially hostile, Woodland Elves...

Chapter No.: Prologue

Key: [Y/N]=Your Name [F/N]= Friend's Name [B/N]= Bro's Name [S/N]= Sis's Name [M/N]= Mom's Name [e/c]= eye color [h/c]= hair color [s/c]= skin color

Notes: So, this is my first fanfiction on tumblr, and I'd thought I'd try it since I have very little time for DeviantArt's chaos. It's much different from my Legolas x Reader on there. I added a small loving family to make the emotions relatable-- even if you don't have siblings, or have more than what I added, it's just fanfiction! Also, I tried to make my pronouns for said reader gender-nuetral so that everybody can enjoy it! The reason your character is so wild is for the sake of not fitting in to this world, yet you're used to it, so that later points in the plot can become more... Well, you'll see. And yes, I made Elves pansexual because I don't think they'd care much about gender or age at that point. LARPing plays a big role in the prologue, because your character is really into it for personal reasons. If this isn't your cup of tea, don't drink it. I hope you like it! Feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

Warnings: Fluff, angst, graphic depictions of gore and violence (Cuz of orc battles y'know?), more angst, slow burn, some light depression in the first few chapters, some amnesia about Middle-Earth because the Valar say you're not supposed to have foresight, hard-core language, feels, lots and lots of feels, mentions of NSFW content, maybe some eventual NSFW content, LGTBQ+ characters, Thranduil being a jackass at first because he's fabulous, Legolas being a hot edgy prince that nobody can handle, Kili being an innocent bean, Hobbits being smol innocent beans, except for Bilbo 'cause he's been through some tough shit, Bard being dad of the year, Thorin being one dumbass boi, awesome dragons, awesome Nazgul, awesome scenery, awesome stuff in general, Elrond isn't listened to by anybody, confused Aragorn is confused, Denethor's a bitch as always, brace yourself for creepy as fuck Cream of Wormtongue Grima Wormtongue, Boromir lives, Gandalf. (yes these are all legit warnings don't judge me.)

Pairings/Ships: Legolas x Reader, Legolas x you, Aragorn x Arwen, Faramir x Eowyn, Thranduil x Elvenqueen, Galadriel x Celery Celeborn, Boromir x OC, Thorin x OC, Fili x OC, etc. general LoTR standard shippings plus some of my own cuz I can't stand my boys being lonely

Word Count: I try to keep my chapters short, under 2000 words.

Rating: Teen (14+) for now

You'd never been considered normal by anyone. You enjoyed LARP instead of reality. Your "job" was just staying at home and captioning videos all day every day you weren't LARPing instead of interacting with society at a normal job. Your home? A tiny studio apartment that only cost $450 a month without bills, and you did without cell phone, car, and electric for the sake of being your weird self. You hadn't been to college yet, despite the fact that everyone told you to go once your gap year was over, and it almost was. What would you even study? Acting was all that got you close to who you were, so, ok, guess that's fine, but nobody else thought of that as a career. Maybe you could write fiction-- you were good at that much.

You weren't always like this. There was a time when you were just a normal kid, living a normal life. But somewhere around ten, you started to change, and by sixteen you'd become who you were today. If the Old You could see the New You, you weren't sure if they'd think you were weird too, or if they'd stare up at you in awe.

Hopefully it was the latter, which made you feel good.

I mean, come on, were you born in the wrong timeframe or what?! That's what you thought, anyway. There's no way that this world was for you. The fact that nearly all people were heartless jackasses that enjoyed destroying the planet, the fact that everybody had to be the same or were considered freaks, prejudice and injustice were key factors of life and the rich got handed everything on a silver platter while the poor had to scavenge... Just, everything of this reality made you hate it. If only you'd been born five hundred years earlier, or, y'know, in Game of Thrones or Lord of the Rings...

You'd really liked to have been born in Middle-Earth. You had so many books about it, you knew practically everything there was to know, even the confusing shit about Faramir being in the Fall of Gondolin. You'd practically memorized Elvish, and dwarvish, and you knew the whole six movies by heart, every line. And of course, like most Lord of the Rings fans, you had a massive crush on a certain Elvish princeling who was too pretty for his own good. In fact, Legolas was who inspired you to learn archery; maybe one day you'd be as good as he was.

Despite your wishes, you were stuck in reality, however much you hated it

. Even amongst your LARP groups, you were considered outlandish.

Everybody else had normal lives outside of their games, whereas you pretended this was your life. You didn't have any job aside from the small caption jobs you did when you weren't LARPing, no social life, nothing. The only people you had was your mother, brother, sister, and your only friend, [F/N]. They accepted you and your strange fantasies, even if they thought you'd one day regret acting in a way when you could've been beginning a normal life and being productive.

So excuse you if you decided to invite them to a LARP event and let them borrow some of your costumes. It wasn't the end of the world. But your LARP group apparently didn't get that memo.

"You invited your mom?!" A royal asshole sneered, yet you took satisfaction in the fact that his knight costume looked like it was made of cardboard painted silver, whereas your sci-fi Elf getup was actual leather and cloth. His name was Jacob Brent; you'd never really liked him. He'd always had it out for you because your costumes were so much more fabulous than his. Plus you may or may not have actually known swordplay and archery and dagger throwing and martial arts... Kinda. You were still in the process of learning kickboxing.

You cocked a sky blue-- yes, sky blue-- eyebrow to your equally bright blue hairline, spiked up in a short faux hawk. This was your first sci-fi Elf, and you'd wanted to go all out. A cocky grin split its way across your face. "Yeah, so? It doesn't effect you on any level, Tin Can."

He sniggered with his cronies. "I can't believe you don't have anyone else to come with you." He mimicked rubbing his eyes like he was four. "'Oh Mommy, I need somebody to come with me!'" His whole group burst into laughter.

You surprised them by joining in, actually appluading. "Oh, wow! Wonderful, just wonderful! Hey, should I tell Mindy that I seen you feeling up Roxie behind your fort last week?" He paled, and almost everybody in his group of crappy cosplay got 'o' faces. You put your hands on your hips. "Guess what, asshole, just 'cause I'm close with my family and you're not with yours doesn't make it a crime to hang out with them. It's my life, my decision, and I enjoy spending time with them." You hefted up a disappointingly fake spear, turning to walk away. "Oh, and by the way, your paint's chippin' off."

Reason for Hating Reality Number 6, 965: Immaturity levels are almost incomprehensibly high.

Your mom glared daggers at Jacob's Immaturity Harem. She'd always been a tough gal, always sticking up for you when you got bullied when you were younger, but now that you were an adult, she had to let you kick ass yourself; you were pretty good at it. "I don't like him." She stated casually, and you chuckled.

"'Course you don't. He looks like a cheesy robot costume you'd get from Wal-Mart with a too-big crotch protector that's not impressing anyone but himself, and he has the face of a roasting pig. Too tanned, too grubby, and always with something in his mouth."

She smiled slightly. "Has he always been giving you trouble?"

You swung your gear pack off of your shoulder, letting it yank itself down to earth. "Since the day he tried kissing my ass 'cause he didn't know me." [F/N] must've overheard that last sentence, because he burst into laughter when he approached with your brother, [B/N], and your sister, [S/N]. "You talking about Jacob?"

"Sure as hell."

You'd first met [F/N] a year ago, when you'd joined extra-curricular activites for your last year of high school. He thought your personality was incredibly brave, especially in this modern world, but even still... He was just a friend, not a best friend. You'd never had that luxury outside of your tiny family. You just didn't trust him after the life you'd had.

Unfortunately, it seems they didn't like the getups. "Do I have to wear this?" [B/N] asked dramatically, slumping over. He didn't look right in the pauldrons and leather breastplate.

"It's too heavy!" [S/N] complained.

You sighed theatrically. "My piteous children, deal with thy armor, for it must be worn despite thou complaints."

[B/N] pressed his palms together and bowed down. "Screweth thou, false companion."

You mimicked his bow. "Off to hell with thee."

"Hey! You guys! It's starting!" [F/N] cried, and ran off, his pack of weapons and magic bags trembling dangerously on his back. The rest of you followed more slowly, as you explained to your family how exactly LARPing worked. Battles weren't actually bloody, magic was just colored powder, you get points for a hit, and so on and so forth. [B/N] and [S/N] got it immediately, but your poor mom, who hadn't even ever played Skyrim, had no idea how the point system and leveling up worked. You had to explain it six times over before you'd reached the massive gathering of LARPing cosplayers. [F/N] returned to you as you reached it, carrying a map. "We were in Larsgyushter Prairie last, right?"

"Duh," You shrugged, at the same time [S/N] asked with a grimace, "Luckyestire Prairie?"

[F/N] inclined his head. "Well, I made some arrangements because your family joined us. We made for Glewnburg, where we picked up their characters, and then headed into the Elder Woods."

You took the map. "Sounds fair enough."

[S/N] frowned. "What exactly were you guys doing last time?"

[F/N] blushed; he must've liked her, which made you feel proud and like pummeling him all at once. "A quest to defeat a horde of wildebors in order to get a good amount of gold."

"How much?"

"Four hundred."

Your mom seemed confused. "Is that a lot?"

"For the land of Sisgremor," You retorted, "Not much. But it's enough for us. We hunt for food, and sleep in the woods. It's summertime, so we don't have much need for shelter unless it storms, and we know where to find caves. The coin is for some new bits of armor, and some weapon upgrades and a couple of magic books for [F/N]."

"Oh," Your mom said, and you took the lead, getting into your Elven character with a huge grin on your face.

"Come, my children! We must meet the bors by midday!" You ran off, but you didn't miss the looks over half of the LARP community gave you.

~le time skip~

The one thing you didn't like about LARPing was the enemies. They weren't believable and were crappily dressed, at least in your community. They were crappy actors and their dying acts were unrealistic. Unless they were orcs that had good makeup skills and good cosplay, they weren't worth fighting, but you had an imagination to kick them up a notch.

As always, the wildebors were just some guys in black outfits decorated with needles, and wearing pig masks with an underbite bearing tusks. Your imagination knocked them to eight-feet long beasts with bloodstained tusks, wild red eyes, and porcupine-like needles that shot out of their near-impenetrable hides if provoked.

You'd only fought these beasts once. They had three separate healthbars, each a different strength: eight hundred, four hundred, and one hundred. Your spear-- the only weapon you could afford after your bow snapped (Poor prop craftsmanship.), had a damage rate of ten health per hit, thirty if you could make a three-combo move (The highest combo move allowed.). [F/N]'s magic bombs, bolts of energy, and other magic stuff only varied from ten to fifty health damage per hit, except for his Fyrering, which was a once-a-day power that was ninety health damage, plus a three minute window of burning which took ten damage every thirty seconds.

The boars were also viscious; one hit from them took around fifty health, and at level nine, you and [F/N]'s health bars were only at two hundred and fifty, plus your armor rating of fifty and his of twenty. Your family, however, were only at level one, with a one hundred strength health bar each and armor ratings varying between ten and fifteen.

In short: that meant a hell of a lot of hits, very little openings, and there were always numbers to consider. There were six of them, and five of you. If you had your bow, this would be easy. You'd climb a tree, avoid their needles, and fire your twenty-five damage arrows relentlessly (With the thirty plus bonus from your actual bow.) while [F/N] pelted them with magic. You could take down two, maybe three that way before retreating, waiting for your strength to regenerate and your undamaged arrows to "respawn" before coming back for more battling (The arrows don't actually exist, for safety reasons. You had to wait for ten minutes before an approximated number of arrows, determined previously by the quest-giver, "reappeared" in your "inventory.").

But you had to think of a new plan. A brand new plan. You had three level one novices, two level nine intermediates, and six angry-as-hell wildebors that were level twenty. This was an impossible quest. You should never have accepted it knowing your family was coming.

You were hiding behind a huge oak, and glanced around it; for a split moment, you saw the crappy actors, but your mind quickly fixed that. Above and to your immediate right, [F/N] hid behind a mound of boulders up on a hill, and you'd positioned your family similarly. You just couldn't see them. [F/N]'s hand waving caught your attention. Frantically, he pointed above you. You whipped your head up, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. You gave him a look like WTF dude, and he rolled his eyes. He picked up a rock as an example and pointed back up into the branches, but still, you didn't see anything. He gestured again, almost forcefully, and this time, you seen it: brightnuts, a specialized kind of walnut bred specifically to explode into a bright white light on impact, with dangerous shrapnel and poisonous fumes that had one hundred and fifty health damage.

Of course, in reality, they were just blue and white beanbags hanging in nets rigged all over the branches, but you pretended they weren't.

But still, perfect.

You'd start calling out orders as soon as you started throwing them. [F/N] knew how to improvise to a plan already, but your family didn't. You propped your spear up on the tree, and started climbing, wincing when the bark scraped your palms; you were wearing what'd used to be white bridal gloves, but you'd tinkered with them to match your costume, sewing sky blue patterns into the gloves.

You personally didn't make a sound, but a couple of leaf-covered branches fell; luckily, wildebors were mostly deaf and blind, so you should make it to the top of the tree without any consequences.

You flashed [F/N] a triumphant smile when you reached the topmost branches, snatching a bag of brightnuts and holding them high above your head. He shot you a double thumbs-up, then made a wheel-like gesture to get you to move on. You stuck your tongue out at him, then readjusted yourself on the branch to get a good aim.

A few seconds of struggling against the knot, and you'd gotten the net open. With barely a minute of hesitation, you drew your arm back, and fired. Your aim was almost perfect. You hit one of the wildebors in the side, and you seen the actor as he started the most over-acted reaction you'd seen yet: a violent jump, then what sounded like a deranged "Guuuugh!" You rolled your eyes. So dramatic.

Either way, [F/N] whooped behind you. "Hit! A hit!"

Before you could give any orders whatsoever, [B/N] charged down the hill with his realistic-looking wooden battleaxe bellowing a war cry. You slumped over. "Aw, shit."

In the blink of an eye, [B/N] was officially dead but still pummeling the poor actors, your mom didn't know what to do, [F/N] didn't realize what was happening from behind his rock, and [S/N] was dodging air like a boss. You waited on the branch until the coach of the actors stood, took off his mask, and blew his whistle.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! You with the axe! You died already! Come on everybody, regroup, come on..." Your mom and [S/N] were laughing it off with a couple of the actors, but [B/N] was having a heated argument with the rest of them, and they were starting to shove each other around; he'd always been a sore loser. The coach separated them, and [F/N] called to you from below. "Guess we failed this quest, huh?"

You shrugged. "It's all good. There are other, less dangerous quests."

He perked up. "Yeah, so hurry up and get down here! We've gotta get back to Glewnburg!"

You tossed the beanbag you'd had in your hand back into the net. "Comin'." Unfortunately for you, you were a bit of a show-off. You stood, stretching your arms out for balance, walking quickly and carefully across the bough. A loud snap that echoed through the forest silenced everyone: your sudden movements had weakened the branch down the middle, where a split was slowly cracking open.

"Oh shit." Did I have to choose the top branch?

Everything seemed to be in slow motion as you fell. Your ribs exploded with pain as you slammed into a slightly lower branch full-force. Your ankle snapped. Your arms were whipped and bruised. Your head cracked painfully across the thick, unmoveable base of one branch, and white and yellow dots burst in your vision. Your sight started to fade, as did the pain, until you met the ground with a dull thud.

I should've went to college.

~time skip~

When you woke up, the first thing you realized was, Hey, I woke up! I'm alive! which was immediately followed by, Holy fucking shit what the fucking hell did I break, then a much more painful thought of Why the fuck am I still in the goddamn forest?

And you were. You were laying on your side, in a couple of very small but still immensely terrifying pools of drying blood, one of which came from the corner of your mouth. Your entire body throbbed painfully. Every breath you took caused sharp, white-hot pains to spiderweb across your entire torso. Your ankle was burning up, and you couldn't move it or your left arm. Your head felt like you'd been hit by a truck. A truck made of solid wood...

Why were you still in the forest? You knew your mother well enough to know that she've panicked. She'd've screamed your name and ran to you and called 911 immediately. [F/N] would've done the same. In fact, there was no reason why they wouldn't have called for a medic. You fell from the equivalent of a three-story building with poles sticking out of it.

By all accounts, you should be near death.

So why were you still in the forest, exactly where you'd fell?

With immense effort, you rolled onto your back, panting heavily and wincing against the pain. Your vision swam, and things were blurry. The trees were different; the tree where you'd fallen from was tall and branchless for most of the way up, and definitely not an oak. To boot, there weren't any nets full of beanbags, and your spear was gone. Behind you was a cliff with an outcropping of rock that looked similar-- but not the same-- to the one [F/N] had been behind. There were roots and underbrush and bushes and walls of thorny branches surrounding you, and in between the ground was filled of orange and gold fallen leaves; up in the canopy, which hadn't been as thick before, the leaves were all dressed for Fall. You stared at it in confusion. "What the hell?" Shit. Even that hurt.

Where were you? Why weren't you in an ambulance with the sirens blaring? You were pretty positive you'd broken quite a few bones, and from that fall, you couldn't not have internal bleeding. So where were you?

You waited, but no one came. When the sky started to darken and the pain began to worsen, you were forced to move, slowly getting up, inch by inch, until you'd managed to be in a sitting position. It felt like all the blood rushed from your head and torso, making you cold in the evening chill. You hugged your right arm to your chest, really wishing you'd've worn arm cuffs or something; your short, high-collared, sleeveless, sky-blue leather jacket over a thin white crop top and a black corset-style belt really weren't meant for chilly weather.

"Hello?" You called out. Your voice carried on, but you got no return call. Blood trickled down your chin from where your lips had rebusted; you were lucky you hadn't bit your tongue off or shattered teeth. "Hey! Help!" Still, nothing. "Hey!"

After a twenty-minute bout of screaming for help, you gave up. You were confused-- so, so, confused. Where were you and why were you here? Where was your family? Where was [F/N]? Where was the coach, and those shitty actors? Hell, where was the rest of the LARP group? You'd even be relieved if Jacob appeared out of nowhere.

The moon had risen by the time you’d made it to your feet. Your ankle wasn't as bad as it was earlier; you could put some weight on it now, even if it wasn't a lot. You must've only sprained it. You tried calling for help a few more times, but only the crickets replied.

Then, they went silent.

You frowned. In books and movies, that was usually a bad sign. What'd caused them to shut up so abruptly? Not aliens, you hoped, like in Signs.

A low growl from behind you-- behind you, dammit-- made your skin crawl. A chill ran down your spine. You turned, slowly, hoping you wouldn't aggravate the wolf or coywolf or whatever it was; it wasn't either of those.

It stood on top of the small cliff, and it was at least the size of a horse. A boar-like coat, dull brown, covered its entire body, spotted in places. Its head was broad and massive, bearing an underbite of fangs and small beady eyes. Drool fell from its jaws as it snarled at you. You were half tempted to try the "Nice doggie" before you seen the rider.

Damn, it was ugly as hell. Small, malformed, with dark green skin and a crooked nose. Greasy, thin hair hung from its wrinkled scalp. Nasty claws protruded from its wart-covered fingers and dug into the horn of some kind of saddle. It sneered with an evil grin, and a mouthful of sharp teeth.

You didn't know what else to do; you took off running at full speed, ignoring the pains shooting up your leg from your sprained ankle. Branches and weeds whipped your skin, trailing blood. You glanced back once. The monster-- which you knew was an orc-- and the giant dog that you couldn't place the name of watched you for a couple of moments more before the orc gave a sharp order in a language you didn't understand, but it felt familiar. Two more of the giant dogs burst from the bushes on either side of the first, and they did give chase. Shit, were they what'd happened to your family? Some whackjob dressed as an orc riding a pitbull on steroids mauled everybody?!

You pushed yourself to run faster. Your heart pounded in your ears. Adrenaline rushed through your veins. Each step jarred your aching body, but you couldn't stop. The dogs were enjoying the chase, keeping their strides slow enough to still be on your heels, but not close enough to get you yet. A new sound-- a river, maybe-- gave you hope, and you tried to move even faster, your lungs burning from the strain.

It was a river you'd heard, but it was down a steep hill filled of arching roots and thorny bushes. You didn't have time to stop; you barreled forward, tripped, and rolled the rest of the way, hurting your body even further. By the time you reached the pebbly shore (With all of the sharp edges of the rocks jabbing into you unnecessarily.), the dogs were halfway down, the orcs riding them laughing like hyenas.

You couldn't swim, but you'd rather take your chances with the river than with the giant pitbulls. You waded in, and were immediately swept off your feet by the strong current. It dragged you under, and you were bashed into some boulders, getting cut up badly. One slammed into your hip, nearly causing you to suck in. Another rammed into your already-broken ribs, and this time, you did scream, getting a huge gulp of water. A crimson cloud engulfed you as something long and sharp burst through your calf. You were pushed up against another boulder, and you grabbed on, hauling yourself out of the water and hanging on for dear life, hacking and coughing out the water that'd filled your lungs.

The dogs had chased you up the shoreline, and the orcs carried shortbows with arrows of dark wood. A glance down and, sure as fuck, they'd hit you with one in the calf, dammit. You looked ahead of you: rapids, a slow and drawn-out death. Ahead of you, probably a very painful death, but hopefully it'd go faster than drowning while being battered to a lifeless corpse.

I should've gone to college.

You squeezed your eyes shut tight and braced yourself for the next arrow, but you were pretty much forced to open them again when you heard the sound of dogs yelping and orcs wailing. One of the dogs was dead, neck slashed open and pouring blood onto the rocks. It had landed on its rider, who struggled beneath its weight. The other dog had taken off, but its rider had an arrow jutting out of its face.

A troop of warriors, clad in forest-colored tunics of dark browns, greens, and grays had appeared in the second you'd closed your eyes. Every one of them had long, straight hair, braided away from their faces. Most had a quiver of arrows and a longbow, but some, like the one who'd killed the dog, had a curved longsword. Others still had long knives. Compared to the dark orcs, these people seemed to almost be made of light...

Oh shit.

Elves. These were Elves.You could see it clearly now, in the way they carried themselves: regal, majestic, every move perfectly balanced and smooth. Their ears were pointed, but not drastically like the ones from Zelda, and they were taller than most average men. You were in awe.

These were some damn good actors.

No, they couldn't be actors. That clicked, finally. Especially when you were able to see the one that'd killed the dog slice off the struggling orc's head cleanly and deftly before kicking it into the river. Thankfully, it didn't come near you.

Shit. These were real orcs, real giant bloodthirsty dogs, real Elves... This was all real. But how...?

You heard the sound of a bowstring being pulled taut, much closer to you. You couldn't exactly whip around in your current state, but you still moved as fast as you could. Another Elf, standing on the flat rocks halfway across the river, no less than thirty feet away. How the hell did he get there?!

After the initial shock passed, you realized there was an arrow nocked in the bow. You'd already felt one once in the last ten minutes, you didn't need to feel it again, so you stayed still. He watched you with eyes so blue you could see them from where you were. He was illuminated from the side by the moon, giving him an almost ethereal appearance. His hair was somewhere between platinum and very light blonde, and a quiver of orange-feathered arrows hung over two identical sheaths for ivory-handled long knives. His bow was almost as gorgeous as he was: dark wood engraved with golden leaf designs. His tunic was dark green, and you admired his fancy Elven belts and buckles and bracers for a second before your eyes were drawn back to his face, the profile of which was almost... Dished, in a way, like an Arabian horse's. Your eyes locked, and you felt as if you'd seen him somewhere before...

An Elf on the shoreline spoke, breaking the trance. You couldn't understand what exactly he said; you could've swore you knew some Elvish...

The Elf staring you down watched you for a minute longer, then jerked his bow toward you in gesture, shouting an order to one of his comrades. His voice sounded so familiar... It was on the tip of your brain... It was deep and soft and gentle and commanding all at once. You couldn't explain it. Two Elves followed his order, nimbly leaping from tiny rock to tiny rock to get to where he was, then past him, coming to you. Their weapons were sheathed, so you hoped they were going to help you instead of kicking you into the water or something.

Carefully, noticing how banged up you were, they grabbed you underneath of the arms and lifted you onto the flat rocks the blue-eyed Elf stood on, still ready to fire, and stepped back as you coughed up some water in a delayed reaction to nearly drowning.

When you finished, your eyes felt like they wanted to close on their own. You felt too tired, too weak, too pained... Despite that, you sat up, shivering in the chilly evening air. "Th-thank you..." With a start, you realized they might not even understand English.

"Who are you?" The blue-eyed Elf demanded. "Answer me quickly; do not think we cannot throw you back to the river."

Shit. Pressure. Suddenly you forgot your name for a split second. "I-I'm [Y/N]."

"What are you doing in these lands?"

"I was chased," You looked pointedly at the dog and orc.

The Elf watched you for a minute, judging you... He signaled. "Throw them back into the river." Suddenly, you were being dragged.

Aw, fuck. You struggled against the Elf's strong grips. "W-wait! I don't even know where I am! The last thing I knew I was playing a game with my family and I fell out of a tree! All of a sudden I'm being chased by giant dogs and being manhandled by a couple of Elvish pri--!" You were cut off by a bought of coughing that wracked your body so hard that you doubled in on yourself, pulling the Elves down with you. Your eyes widened when blood trickled out of your mouth, leaving crimson droplets on the rocks. Shit.

The blue-eyed Elf ordered something in their tongue, and the two dragging you halted on a dime. He finally decided to lower his bow a little, inspecting you. "Are there more of you?"

You shook your head; you were getting dizzy, and your vision was blacking out. "I-I don't know... I was alone when I woke up."

The Elves conversed in their own language for a few minutes, and the blue-eyed Elf finally came to the conclusion that you weren't much of a threat in your current state. He looked to the Elves on the shoreline, and gestured at one of the ones holding you, who then scooped you up bridal style, but like you were the ugliest bride he'd ever seen. "Und win'doheim!" Shouted the blue-eyed Elf, obviously the one in charge, and lead the progression back to the forest.

I should never have gotten out of bed today...

Despite the crazy situation, you managed to doze off a few times on the Elf that carried you, until a coughing fit or pain would wake you up. A fever spiked up as you crossed a bridge, and you were half out of it as you entered some kind of woody building surrounded by trees and rivers that you couldn't comprehend very well in your feverish state. You were panting and wheezing, and couldn't see straight. It all seemed so surreal, like you were viewing this from somebody else's perspective. This had to be a dream... A very vivid, very painful dream...

The last thing you remembered was Elvish chanting, golden and white lights surrounding you, and the silhouettes of the Elves. Your pain faded, and you fell into a forced sleep.

When you woke up, a breath of relief whooshed out of your lungs. It was a dream! It was all a dream! It was night, and your nighlight had gone out, but your hall light was still on. You turned over to see what time it was, but your nightstand was gone. So was your window, and shelves and desk and computer and all of your things. Your bed was different. Your relief dissipated to terror.

Fuck. It wasn't a dream.

You were in a small room. An orange-hued light came through the low doorway, and the dark walls were ridged, as if carved from the earth itself. You felt the remains of your injuries from earlier-- or days ago, you couldn't tell how much time had passed-- as throbbing remains. Your clothes were still ripped and bloodstained, and as you stood up, it felt like you were just coming off of the flu.

Wobbly, you staggered over to the doorway, hoping to find somebody that definitely wasn't an orc or Elf.

You slammed face-first into elaborately crafted iron bars.

Outside of them, fully-armored Elves patrolled on small ledges beside the spiraling rows upon rows of cells like yours. This was a dungeon.

...Well shit.

Tag List: @tesserphantom @thedragonghostofmordor @taurlel @hauntedsiriel

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imacrowcawcaw · 4 years

Text

The Apples (Penntin)

Author (as known on Various sites): Lady Lover- Rockfic, Luluthechoosingcrow - AO3, theladylovingcrow - Deviantart and Wattpad, @sammy_bluebells - Instagram, @imacrowcawcaw - main Tumblr, @theladylovingcrow - writing/art Tumblr, @insannywestan - Sanny shipping Tumblr

Fandom: The Magicians

Pairing: Penny Adiyodi/Quentin Coldwater (Penntin)

Length: 3.3k

Warnings/tags: Fluff, Getting Together, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Confusion, Marriage Proposal, Accidental Marriage, accidental Marriage Proposal, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Penny is pretty soft here, Banter

Summary: It was all in the apple. If only he hadn't been holding it... but, was marriage really that bad? Penny was surprisingly calm for someone who had just proposed to a nerd he had hated four months ago. Maybe everything would be alright.

Author’s Notes: Taking a break from my other Penntin fic to write this one -- it was one of those amazing daydreams us writers have that rarely get written down, but I thought this was worth getting out of bed and typing up. I should note that I decided to really diverge from canon because it just makes sense for this to be happening under different circumstances than what actually did. So, Julia managed to kill Reynard and the Beast, Penny's hands never got fucked up, the wellspring was replenished, and both Alice and Kady are more or less out of the picture, romantically. Enjoy!

AO3 link right here!

----------

Quentin sighed and warmed his hands on the fire in front of him. He looked up at the night sky in between the tree tops and grinned, wondering how he managed to land himself such a great life in Fillory of all places. It was so unbelievable, and yet he had never been more awake. Maybe it was the opium air.

He snorted and took a bite of the apple in his hand, gazing around the fire at the four other men with him. Penny was busy roasting some pheasants he had caught, an orange glow reflecting his concentrated, furrowed eyebrows. The other three were servants of the castle - his servants, technically - that had come along to help with their quest.

“We should reach the edge of the woods by noon,” one of them said. Quentin was pretty sure his name was Malke.

Penny grunted and shook his head. “If you’d just let me travel us there…”

“You know we can’t. There’s old magic ruins there, the wards are still up and we’ll bounce off. Have to go back to the beginning.”

Penny and Quentin eyed each other for a minute before the other man grumbled and conceded, going back to the birds he was slowly turning with magic over the fire. Quentin sat back and took another bite of his apple, then accepted a sip of wine from Malke’s flask. The stars twinkled and the trees rustled softly; he let the night’s atmosphere enveloped him.

He jerked and looked up when his knee was tapped. Penny had finished with the pheasants, apparently, and had a bit of the meat speared on the dagger he had been using to pare them. Quentin eyed it suspiciously but Penny just chuckled and shook his head, urging the food closer to his face.

“Trust me, white boy, it’s not gonna kill you. The yellow is turmeric powder. Try it.”

Quentin sighed and did as was prompted. He leaned forward and took a bite, moaning a little as flavor exploded on his tongue.

“Wow, that’s good,” Quentin mumbled, mouth still full.

Penny grinned and nodded, picking off a piece for himself to try. He groaned his own approval and gave another bite to Quentin, snorting and brushing his thumb over his cheek when a bit of food got on it.

Quentin blushed and looked away, a warm feeling running through his veins. He knew that Penny was just messing with him - he flirted with everyone, and especially loved to make himself squirm - but that didn’t stop the pleasantness of the action. But it didn’t matter; they were finally becoming friends, and he wasn’t going to ruin that.

“Full moon tonight. Think we’ll run into any werewolves?” Penny asked, tilting his head up to look at the sky where a brightly glowing moon shone in between the trees.

“Hope not, I don’t really want to hear anymore complaints to bring back to court.”

Penny laughed. Everyone they ran into seemed to notice Quentin’s crown right away and asked him to do something -- about their crops, their children’s education, the mice in hats invading their house. There had been some weird problems. But Quentin had heard it all graciously, and dutifully wrote them down in a notebook to deal with when they got back to Whitespire castle.

He was trying his hardest to be a good king and do the right things, but he was also tired. They’d been on this quest for a specific type of berry bush for several days now, and he already had four pages full of requests and complaints. Everyone seemed to have a million problems to fix and no directions to the berries. Quentin couldn’t say he blamed them; Fillory had been fucked over by The Beast for a long time, and there was a lot that needed to be fixed. Plus, the berries only had one specific, uncommon use, so he supposed that most people ignored them.

“Lighten up, man. We’ll find the fucking berries,” Penny sighed, quickly tugging a strand of Quentin’s hair like he did when he was getting tired of listening to moping. “Come on, you need to get your mind off of everything. Drink.”

Penny handed him his own flask - full of smuggled in Earth scotch - and Quentin took it, getting a good mouthful. He watched as Penny started the motions for a fireworks spell and joined in, that warm feeling growing inside of him again. They really were becoming good friends; Penny would never have tried to cheer him up a couple months, or maybe even weeks, ago. But now they were sitting side by side, eating pheasant off each other’s knives, sharing alcohol, and watching the mini fireworks display above the fire.

He rolled the apple in his hand and took another swallow, trying to reconcile the uncomfortableness in his gut with the delicious taste. It didn’t add up; the bird was good, he was happy, and Penny was actively being friendly with him. There was nothing wrong, except -- this was the feeling of being watched.

He worriedly gazed around for spying eyes in the trees and realized that everything was very still. The servants had stopped talking and moving quite a while ago and were staring at them strangely. Quentin tried to subtly nudge Penny with his mind, gaining a glare for the detested Taylor Swift song then a worried look as the man also realized.

“Uh, guys? Is everything good?”

Malke coughed and cleared his throat. “Of course, Your Highness. It’s just that- well, I mean… are you certain, Sire?”

Quentin could only guess that he was nervous about the quest and he relaxed. No one in Fillory had been on anything like an adventure for a long time; afraid of the beast, kept to their small homes and villages by a desperate lack of resources as magic unknowingly withered away. He smiled, big, and tried to reassure them.

“Yes! I’ve never been more sure about anything. It will go great, and life will be much better once this happens.”

“He’s a good king, he knows what’s best,” Penny added on. Quentin figured he had caught the thought of what was happening from his still open mind. “Sometimes things can be uncomfortable if they’re unfamiliar, but we do what we have to for the good of the kingdom.”

Penny sat back after his turn at inspiring the men and gnawed at a wing. He shot Quentin a look, understanding (or so they thought) passing through both of them. He held out a pheasant thigh and Quentin gladly took it, nudging him for real this time with his shoulder.

“You could be a good king, too. I feel inspired by that. I’d follow you anywhere.”

“Yeah, well,” Penny laughed, “You’ve always followed me around, even when I didn’t want you to. Like a little lost puppy, Coldwater, sulking right behind me and complaining when I told you to fuck off.”

“Hey, look where it lead us!”

“True,” Penny conceded with another nod. He tossed his bone on to the fire and watched the remaining string of fat sizzle. A waft of smoke blew into their faces and they both turned their heads.

Quentin looked down at the forgotten apple in his hand and brought it to his mouth, taking a large bite. He never would have thought that magically grown purple apples and tumeric pheasant would make a good meal, but a lot of things weren’t as he was expecting anymore. All of Fillory, for example.

“You know, I’m glad you don’t hate me anymore,” he said quietly, turning to look at the man sitting next to him.

Penny met his eyes, an almost sorry look in his own. “I never hated you. Hearing you singing all the damn time, sure, and you get on my nerves, but… you’re not bad. All things considered, I like where we are now. I’m glad this is happening,” he said, referring to their growing friendship and the list of epic quests they were slowly collecting under their belts.

“Me too.”

Quentin realized that Malke and the other two servants were staring at them, still, but it looked to be more out of respect and some odd, growing happiness than uncertainty. Weird, but good. How long had that been happening? Since he’d been king, or just starting now?

He kept getting so distracted by Penny that everything else seemed to fade into the background; it was never a feeling he had gotten with just a friend before, but it wasn’t bad. Maybe dangerous, in high-risk situations, but he could probably turn it off. Besides, Penny was observant enough for the both of them.

“Doesn’t mean you still don’t have to try, Q,” he whispered.

Quentin grinned and looked back up at the stars.

----------

“Uh, hey, can we talk?” Quentin asked, poking his head around the corner into the Armory.

Penny looked up from his book and sighed. He marked his page with a strip of ribbon and set it onto a stack of more leather-bounds he had obviously been perusing. The Armory was slowly and surely being built up again after its contents had been ransacked by The Beast; citizens who had taken a book or two for safe keeping returned them, Brakebills gave up a few extra copies, and new volumes of knowledge were even being written. It was a place the whole group ended up in quite often, for its resources and relative solitude.

Quentin walked inside and cautiously sat down on one of the wooden chairs they had moved in there. He gazed at the materials Penny had spread around him -- a modern notebook and pen, yellow sticky notes, the royal symbol on a sash that let him access the Armory, and five books on Fillorian customs.

“So you know, then,” he sighed.

Penny nodded his head, containing the grimace his face wanted to make to just a slight scowl.

Quentin didn’t mind; it was a huge improvement to how they used to interact. Their first few months of knowing each other had been rough in many ways, particularly involving Penny’s anger and Quentin’s cowering personality. They had clashed on a near daily basis in a volatile way that just left them both more resentful.

He couldn’t pinpoint what exactly had changed when, but the fights had become less frequent and less extreme recently. It seemed they had both realized the size of their problems with each other was much, much smaller than the size of the problems with the worlds at large. Their quests together had certainly helped too, as had getting drunk and stumbling through the halls hanging off of each other’s shoulders on an almost weekly basis.

Too bad it might not last.

“Did you know that’s what it was?” Penny asked him. There was a slightly accusing look in his eyes, like Quentin had just let him (possibly) fuck up their lives without sayng anything.

He shook his head quickly. “No, no, of course not! It wasn’t in the books, I had no clue that was a thing.”

Penny sighed and nodded, silently passing his notebook to Quentin so he could see his research.

At the top of the page, it read “Fillorian Marriage Customs” in big letters. Underneath, there were outline-style notes on various concepts that would hopefully help them figure out the whole mess they had accidentally gotten into.

Quentin looked over the most important section -- Marriage Proposals. He brushed his hands over the smooth paper and read aloud from Penny’s surprisingly nice handwriting.

“Four common ways of proposing: classical arranged marriage through parents, asking for political marriage, bargaining, or proposal ceremony.”

“That’s what we did,” Penny interjected quietly.

Quentin looked up to find the man closer to him than he expected. His breath caught in his throat as he watched dust and sunlight glint on Penny’s long lashes, his whole face awash from the window so he looked like glowing caramel.

Penny took the notebook back and explained, not seeming to notice Quentin’s staring -- or maybe just being used to him “spazzing out”, as he often said.

“A proposal ceremony is this complicated, really fucking odd ritual that is traditionally done between two high-ranking magicians, apparently. During a full moon they have to share food, then share wine, and then perform magic together in front of three witnesses, all while the recipient of the marriage proposal holds an apple. Which we did.”

“In fucking order. God,” Quentin sighed, slumping back into the chair.

He wasn’t sure what to think. On one hand, he wanted to immediately call it off because obviously they weren’t romantically involved and it wouldn’t be a good idea. On the other hand, the servants had gossiped and now practically the entire kingdom knew. Calling it off could be really bad press. Quentin could still hear Margo’s voice in his head as she pulled him aside to chastise him about something he didn’t understand in the moment; “The apple , Q, the fucking apple. You idiot. Make a decision, and make it fast.” Then she strutted away with her long, pink dress swishing around her legs. It had left him in a daze of confusion until he’d heard some guards chatting as they made their rounds -- and then everything had started to make horrifying sense.

Penny snapped him out of his thoughts, like he always seemed to do. “So, we need to talk about this. Dinner?”

A level conversation from Penny was not what he had been expecting, but Quentin took it. He also took the offered hand to pull himself up, helping Penny clean up the space before they pulled the heavy doors shut behind themselves and parted ways, agreeing to meet back up at the castle gates. From there, Penny traveled them to a tavern that had become one of their favorites.

They ordered food and beer, settling down against the rough bark of a large tree right outside. The sun was just setting and the air was still warm, so they sat in silence and watched the sky darken; both thinking.

A bar wench brought their food and Quentin took a drought out of his cup, trying to ignore the eyes she was making at Penny.

“Alright. So, uh…” He trailed off, uncertain of what to actually say. What were they supposed to do about the situation? There were so many variables, and yet so few options and even less time. Margo had warned him about the deadline for cancelling before it became absolutely politically devastating; Fillorians did not take divorces (or ended engagements) lightly.

Penny cracked a wry smile like he knew what Quentin was thinking - he probably did - and chugged his beer, setting down the empty stein on the grass. He wiped his mouth and trained his eyes on the emerging stars.

“We have two options: be married for the rest of our lives, or not.”

Quentin snorted. “Well, when you put it that way. I mean, why not?”

“Yeah. Seriously.”

“Wait, what? Really?”

He turned to look at Penny -- that was supposed to be sarcastic. The other man was staring straight up at the rising moon, eyes stealy but voice soft. He didn’t sound like he was kidding.

“Really?” Quentin tried again, matching his voice to the one Penny had used. “You see marriage as an option? You know that it’s lifelong and monogamous, right?”

“I know. And yes, it is technically an option. You don’t wanna marry me, Coldwater?”

He faltered. “Well, I mean- okay, yes it is an option. And yes, I kind of don’t want to marry you. We have about a day to call it off.”

Penny looked at him strangely, and it was all Quentin could do to look at the sky and eat his stew. What was he thinking? It was times like these where he wished he had the psychic powers Penny did.

“Trust me, you don’t.” And his wards hadn’t been up, great. “But why don’t you want to marry me? We’ve been getting along.”

If he wasn’t mistaken, Penny sounded almost offended. Not mockingly indignant - he knew he was hot - but actually a little upset, like he had been considering the marriage.

“I have. It’s a viable option.”

“Stop reading my fucking mind!”

“Then close it!” Penny snapped right back, crowding Quentin against the tree so suddenly he couldn’t breath.

They were both breathing hard, worked up with worry and lust and thoughts of the future. Quentin stared at Penny, trying to read the look in his eyes; what was he thinking? About all of this? A sudden kiss was pressed to his lips and then Penny’s face was back in front of him like it had never left, staring intently.

Quentin sighed and tipped his head back. He could still smell the beer on both of them, and feel the brush of Penny’s beard -- it was more pleasant than he would have thought. Penny’s eyes slowly closed as their foreheads were pressed together. He understood a little bit more now.

“Say we did get married. Are you really willing to be celibate, or only have sex with me, for the rest of your life? And what about Kady?”

He thought that Penny might get angry - bringing up his ex-girlfriend usually did the trick - but he only shook his head. “Kady isn’t coming back. Or, if she is, I’m moving on. Too much happened. Besides,” he said, opening his eyes and smiling until Quentin felt his knees shake, “I’d have you. I don’t know what it is, but something is telling me that I actually wouldn’t mind it that much. You’re not bad looking, Q.”

He knew he was blushing, but Penny also looked like he wasn’t sure why he said what he had, so it was fine. This whole marriage and friendship business with Penny was odd and confusing but it was also really, honestly fine.

“I don’t think I wouldn’t mind either. I mean, we’re actually pretty similar.”

“What?” Penny scoffed, “How? Have you taken another walk in the flying forest, Q?”

The Penny he usually knew was still in there; that was good. Quentin shrugged his shoulders in the small space he had between the tree and his fiance (and that was crazy). “Well, we’re both magicians, and we more or less discovered Fillory together. We both like beer and food, and traveling, and our friends, and I know that you like some nerdy shit underneath all of that tough guy-ness. And, we’re both getting over stone-cold girlfriends, so.”

So, we should get married, he thought with a quirk of his eyebrows. Penny’s eyelids lowered in agreement and he leaned in again, asking for another kiss.

Quentin granted the request, slotting their lips together. It was nice -- warm, stew-flavoured, slow and gentle in a way he enjoyed more than he could have guessed. Penny was constantly surprising him, his soft kisses being even the least of the things Quentin was discovering about him.

“Husband,” he whispered, pulling back.

“Not quite yet,” Penny rejoined, giving him one more peck before standing tall like the tree they had been resting on.

He smiled and stood up, helping Penny gather their bowls and cups to bring back inside. It wasn’t going to be smooth going, falling into a romantic relationship and then marrying so soon after being almost enemies. But he was willing to try, for the good of his country (they liked monarchs in stable marriages) and for the good of his personal life. Penny could make him happy, he thought, and he would try, too.

“Hey, Q, we need to have apple pie at the wedding,” Penny whispered in his ear, leaning down to give him a smooch on the cheek before striding away. Quentin grinned without restraint and followed after him like the puppy he was.

#penntin #penny x quentin #penny adiyodi #quentin coldwater #the magicians #fanfiction #penntin fic #fanfic #my writing #fluff #alternate history #alternate universe #marriage #marriage proposal #first kiss #friends to lovers #soft bios

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empressxmachina · 4 years

Link

Patients Zero - iii. by Imperial-Radiance

~Also on Wattpad~

*gasp* *cough*

Oh, good god. What? I thought I was— But, how am I—? Didn’t I get—? Wait, where am I?

Hard: I’m on something hard. Hard, flat, slick, and cold. My back hates this. I’m guessing it’s a floor. But I feel grooves, not just one that takes up my entire hand. It almost feels… made for me. Impossible. My eyes; they’re closed. It’s dark, behind and in front of the lids. Yet, there’s a glow: a… soft one? Not the blinding white from before? It’s cool, still, but not as much somehow. I wait for a voice to give me any sort of insight of where I am, and all I get back is just the gentle hum of a… a… Wait, is that a fan? No, is that a heater? Even on the hottest days outside in the real world – real because this is a fantasy, still, especially if I’m alive – it never went past room temperature. I… I’m boiling like I’m stuck in an oven.

Oh, my god. Am I being cooked in here? No, screw that. I’ll accept going out in plenty of ways in this diminutive state, but I will not go out as someone’s di—!

Well, this is… new? I finally lift my back up and open my eyes, and I’ve found myself lost… and in pain. Holy crap! Everything hurts! Ugh. But that’s the least of my worries. I’m alive, somehow, for some reason. But, why, and why here, wherever here is?

Am I crazy? This sure looks like a living room: not very different from my one at home. There’s a sofa, a table, and works of art that admittedly caught my vision immediately. I’ve liked to think that I’m not a leech for moving media, so not seeing a television or the like here is pleasing. There are dimly lit LEDs as large as me, a rug across the ground over there as large as me, and an actual fan even larger than me. Sure, it nearly takes up a whole wall like a fireplace would, but the latter would be unconventional. It’s blowing out heat, so it must switch between hot and cold. The only thing missing is a collection of literature of varying genres, but I doubt printing that small is even possible. Besides that, it’s like it was made for me.

But that’s just it. That’s fucking weird. It’s made for me, and how small am I now?

I must be going insane. This can’t be real. This room can’t possibly be mine—Oh. Oh shit.

That’s a kitchen over there behind me. A real kitchen – well, as real as it can be with its counters and cabinets. But it’s the actual cooking stuff that made it real: the primitive tools in the corner for refrigeration and cooking – some solar funnel/pot thing, I think – and the bruised yet familiar food scraps from my past life stacked in a triad of pyramids next to them. Wait, past life? I say that like it’s been forever since I was… ambushed… by someone big enough to make a place like this if they’re careful.

I’ve got to get out of here. But what is here? First things first, I should probably get my ass off the floor: this uncomfortably perfectly-sized floor.

O-Okay. Up and at it. The floor isn’t an ocean anymore. Appliances don’t have as much of a chance of killing me now. If I go this way, then I can sit at this table right here and contemplate all the dumb stuff I did to get here… wherever here is, not to mention there are enough chairs to fit a whole family or a group of housemates. Housemates. AmI alone here? Why am I here? Why do I keep asking myself these questions rather than just looking for the answer?

I’m irrational. This is irrational, but I must make the most of it. No, screw it, do I even have a choice? Well, with all these grabbable, sharp things around, I guess the answer’s technically a ‘yes.’ But. I’m not that depressed. I’m not. Not *sigh* that depressed. I’ve fought this long for others’ lives before and my own at this level, so why stop now? It’s not like I’m not used to being like this. It’s just this current situation that’s new… and heaven knows how much I love surprises… and rambling. Where was I? Oh, right.

If I go that way, now, then I can go to a surprise upstairs with who-knows-what… or who-knows-who. Would they really bunk me with someone else? I wasn’t one for strangers at full size, so how would they think I’d manage one on this scale!? They’re the ones that are short-sighted, not me. Ugh, I can’t wait to deal with that possibility. Though, maybe I don’t have to.

There’s the door. Huh.

I know I just got out of some stasis a moment ago, but it only just occurred to me that all the windows are covered and presumably closed. There seems to be no light peeking out of anywhere, either, so either it’s still nighttime, or I’m enclosed somewhere cut off from the world. No, the latter’s always going to be true here, now that I think about it. I don’t know where here is, but I do know it sure isn’t out there. There’s no use in not verifying it, though.

I guess that I shouldn’t be surprised how what should be a small door doesn’t have a lock. Yet, it has a hinge – two of them? Okay. Am I too dumb for not checking the windows? No, just crazy, but I knew that already. What’s crazier, though, is how I’m simultaneously right and wrong upon opening this door.

This is a small house, and this sure doesn’t look like a lab, a ward, and especially not that basement. To be honest, I kind of expected there to be grass or an equivalent on the ground here. Ground. I say that like this place containing me isn’t on a freaking table right now. Well, to be fair, they brought in real grass, plants, and stuff for the diorama dwellings, so I guess it’s not that weird. But those were for hundreds if not thousands of people on several stations. This is just me… and a house for me… on a table.

A table in what looks like a… a bedroom? I mean, I think I can make out the mountainous shapes of a bed, nightstands sandwiching it, and I think a dresser across from them, but it’s freaking dark in here. I’m surprised I can see that far away. Those LEDs boxed in my walls shouldn’t be able to reach that far, even if their brightness was somehow magnified through the cracks between windows and the door, yet here they are. Despite that, there’s no denying I’m in some resting place for some giant somewhere. Somewhere.

I could be freaking anywhere, but where?

I do know one thing: it’s damn fine that I don’t have a fear of heights. That helped me back there with the commons, so it’ll help me here, too. But, god, damn it, that drop is large. I bet it was intentional, along with my placement here. With the back edge cut off by the wall and the front sharply opening to this no man’s land of a room, I don’t have many options of escape.

I hear a heater running like a radiator under a window on one side of this table, and I’d rather not get burnt to cinders today. I could test my luck descending the curtains, but I don’t think I’m in proper form to climb or slide down. The opposite side is blocked by a chair in the corner. Falling onto a cushion might not be a bad idea. Maybe there’s a vent I can get through behind there. Hmm.

Screw it. I’d rather risk seeing my maker than wait for them to come to me. Chair, it is. It seems like the only way to go. But, should I take a leap of faith or weigh my options? Eh, watch with my luck, and this room’s patron comes back in and throws something atop of me – maybe even themselves. A smudge on somebody’s ass: that’s not legacy worthy. At least if I’m up here for some time, then I can probably make it back in the house and use it for even a smidgen of protection.

Hopefully.

Huh. Should I be bothered by how my steps aren’t clicking across this surface? I mean, they never did in the basement, but there were plenty of people around causing noise and whatever. Here, I’m alone… at least for now. That should be calming, shouldn’t it? Alas, as I continue forward, the curve of what-now-looks-like-an-accent-chair crests over the horizon and—

Oh, curse me.

So, I was right in being worried about possibly being suffocated to no end in colossal clothing. But, of all of them, did it have to be scrubs? I’m no color aficionado, but I do think that’s how that health-centric blue is supposed to look in this lighting—er, lack of light, I should say. Of course, they’re not just any scrubs, either. Any sensible physician would know to discard of their scrubs in at least a hamper to be washed after use or just use a new pair. These look like cast-offs like mad.

I’d put money down on them being his. That monster brought me here, didn’t here? Then, me being here would make sense: I’m where he lives or, at least, stays so he can watch me like some project.

Looking back at this rather extravagant house for a subspecies like me, who knows how much other preparation has been done since he acquired me? Is he why I’m hurt like this? Speaking of hurt, wasn’t I beeping before, and that led to all of this? It’s stopped now, and so was I, but is replacing it with pain much better? If I run away, then how do I know that the beeping won’t restart and lead to an even greater demise?

I’m curious, though, considering he could’ve ended me earlier while I was presumably incapacitated if that were his goal. But what if he may have plans for me, instead? What if he’s planning for me to run away, and that’s why he’s away, probably watching from afar? The basement had cameras whether they wanted us to know they were there or not, and I bet there’s some in here, too, with night vision, thermals, and all that other fancy gobbledygook. Ugh, it’s dark and distant in here, but damn it, I’m going to find one if it’s the last thing I—

Are you kidding me?

Do not tell me that’s been him this whole time. Him, and he’s that? Well, that’s poetic as hell, isn’t it? He was going to take me out beforeall this crap started. Now, he’s going to do me in here, instead, screwing me sideways and 1-upping me even more so.

In my visual pursuits of a camera, the last thing I expected to find was an I.D. To surprise me even more, I recognized the face on it. I remember my first time seeing it.

I was on a lunch break, just reading in my journals about Match Day – how it had been the largest amounts of matches in history or whatever – and then Doc Adams suddenly broke the fun and excitement, coming in with a list of our future interns. One of them was him. If it had been just a few years prior, then I would’ve been excited. After all, there’s nothing wrong with more doctors, right? But, Adams, the louse, has… had been trying to get me out of the doctoring game since.

It’s because he knows that I’d be better at his job than him, and the supervisors at the system H.Q. have been telling us both this. I can’t help that I love – loved– helping people directly so much to not replace it with a tedious desk job, even if it looks over pretty much everyone else in the hospital. Thus, his solution was to put more and more people in our ranks to dilute the focus away from me. It worked for a while until someone had a symptom that they didn’t know how to treat, but I did.

Despite my knowledge, this new guy was perfection, though, and from across the ocean, no less. I bet Adams creamed his pants at him on the list: this—What’s his name again? Oh, yeah: this ‘Mikul Merchant’ or whatever. I wonder how many bribes Adams had to make to get him. But that doesn’t matter now, does it? The first day for the interns would’ve been months ago, and the kid and I are both here, apparently, with him ruining my life just as much if not more so than he would’ve been without this wretched disease.

Though, if he was already on this continent way before then, then he must’ve been excited, too. After all, I’m sure his home country has its own center like this where he could’ve been. Why was he here, and how in the world did he turn out to be a carrier, too?

Upon registration, everyone is given I.D.s, but rather than having the random number sequences and barcodes the others get until they’re rendered useless by dwindling heights to where they can’t carry the damn thing, carriers’ listings are just ‘zeroes’ with a Q.R. code. I’m positive that’s how that self-deprecating squad of bugs found me and put their emotions out on and into me. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one here, so why would they charge me rather than someone like him? Well, besides his youth, foreignness, and relative handsomeness that may correlate with them, unlike me, he’s a carrier of and might as well be immune to both strains.

Curse this minute minutia. Curse my imperfections. But, most importantly, screw this—!

*CLICK* God, no.

Before I can even blink, a beam of light blinds me, revealing the previously dark side of the room and thus allowing me to see that this isn’t just a bedroom but more like a hotel room. A vanity adjacent to a closed closet appears. It’s spanning across the wall opposite me, this table and chair, that house of mine, and the window. How I didn’t see the reflection of this house in the mirror beforehand is beside me. But, no other reflection aside from my own hasn’t yet come into view, which makes me wonder if this is genuinely that giant’s room.

I know I used to come across my team’s scrubs in my office on occasion, so who’s to say that a lead person isn’t just keeping subject/’Doctor’ Merchant’s clothing with them for testing or safekeeping? Though, I don’t think that just throwing them across a chair shows its direct importance or proper sanitation practices. Or, maybe there’s another type of experiment going on. Perhaps it’s just dealing with me and what I do in this new location? Either way, that doesn’t answer whose room this is or why—

Never mind. There, he is. I’m here with him. I should stop doubting myself. No, this is the one time I should challenge anything and everything I’ve ever known.

Emerging from what I assume is a bathroom, a lanky, lean embodiment of a supposed human comes through. Supposed. Humans aren’t meant to be that large. It’s almost godly – the glow of his mostly bare, solely-pants-wearing, towel-draping-necked form – but I’m not glorifying a monster, checking his face and onyx hair over the sink and counter like he hasn’t done anything wrong. His auburn skin with no marks in sight is so nourished like he’s been able to bathe sensibly and get proper sunlight. There’s not one eye bag or wrinkle like he’s never had a single stressor in his life: the pampered, pompous prick. I’d almost say he’s prettier in person, but beasts are never pretty.

If you’re here, then you should be under all the stresses. Yet, here you are, flouncing around almost naked like you aren’t contracted with and spreading disease! If that’s the case, then why the hell am I here, trapped with you—!?

You… You… You’ve got to be kidding me. I mean, it was only a matter of time, but… don’t fucking dare.

Before I can even comprehend it, his almond gaze snaps on me like a locked crosshair in a gun’s sight. I try freezing in place, but I’m sure the vanity lights are making my eyes glow like a beady animal’s, so it’s all in vain. Aside from that, I didn’t think he had even noticed me at first, but then he had squinted his eyes and cocked his head like an inquisitive dog trying to hear. Just to test my luck, he even acknowledges me… or whatever he thinks I am if he doesn’t know for sure for some reason,

“H-Huh?” He sounds so soft, almost… Nope, I’m not going to say that. There’s no way he actually cares. I… I’m nothing in comparison. He’s taken out souls larger and smaller than me, so what difference would I make? “Is something there?” See? ‘Something.’

I’m a thing now.

I almost thought he’d salivate for his new toy, treat, or whatever I am to him. He’s already been a predator in public upon thousands of eyes. How much craftier will he be, all alone? I’m not going to wait to find out. Even if that’s what he’s expecting me to do, I don’t care. It’s fight-or-flight, and the former is definitely out of the question.

“W-Wait!”

Like hell, I’m doing that.

#g/t #my writing #patients zero #giant male #sm #male giant #medical fic #pandemics on my mind lmao

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