#sounds so familiar I wonder where I have heard those arguments and phrases from before HMMMM | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

gisellelx · 3 years

Text

Faces

Carlisle x Esme 2200 words

for @needahugfromesme

Faces

Fall, 1934 Amherst, MA

It was an utterly ordinary afternoon. Rosalie and Edward had recently returned from university, and the sounds of their bickering rose up the stairs. Why the two of them did not find their peace elsewhere, she didn’t know. She might send them off to hunt, she thought. Perhaps in different counties.

Yet there was something familiar about the way the two of them had fallen into rhythm as siblings. Edward, older and younger brother at once. Rosalie, full of disastrously-won wisdom and always aggrieved, unwilling to listen to Edward’s point of view. There was no sign that they would ever be the partners Esme’s husband had once imagined, hoping that a woman might solve the same hole in Edward’s heart that Esme herself had solved in his. And yet there was a camaraderie in their arguments and insults, a rhythm to their family dynamic that somehow made it more whole. They were true siblings—occasionally quietly bonded over the latest news from Chevrolet, more often sniping like children about closed bedroom doors.

Carlisle, though—he was more difficult. Rosalie had snapped at him before he’d left for work. Her resentment knew no bounds, exacerbated by the knowledge that even in his moment of profoundly foolish savior-complex, he had been thinking of Edward, and the pain that still burned in his own heart, two years after their prodigal son had returned…

Esme wasn’t sure Rosalie would ever forgive him.

She wasn’t sure Rosalie should.

Her husband didn’t know how to relate to a daughter, Esme understood. His son had completed him so fully—unlocking with his gift the centuries of solitude which made Carlisle Cullen who he was. Like everything of importance Carlisle did, he had turned Rosalie it rashly, without regard to her effects on anyone else.

Rosalie was just strong enough to force him to pay the price for that.

Esme recalled her husband’s slumped shoulders as he exited the house after the latest round of berating from his daughter. The look in his eyes of utter defeat.

“She’ll cool off,” Esme had whispered to him hours before, but she hadn’t—as usual, she had taken her discomfort out on Edward. And as Esme listened to the voices reaching a fever pitch downstairs—a back and forth which grew increasingly intense but did not reach a point where she needed to intervene—she selected charcoal, her hand flying across the paper on her easel before she even knew what she was beginning. As so many times before, it was her husband’s face her fingers brought to mind. She had drawn him how many dozens of times in the ten years between the time she had met him and when she had awoken to this new life. The high cheekbones, the square jaw, the singular lock of utterly unruly hair at his temple which seemed to exist only to prove that there were some things Carlisle Cullen could never control. She had forced herself to recall those features over and over, to render them in more permanent forms—charcoal, pencil, oil pastel. Over and over she had drawn him until his face had been committed not only to the memory of her mind but also the memory of her fingers.

She had never planned to have a daughter. She had known, somehow, from the moment she felt the first strange sensation in her abdomen. Not a kick or a flutter or any of the things that her girlfriends had told her to expect, but instead as though some of her internal organs simply…flipped over. She had touched her own belly in awe, and had known right then, without thinking, that it was a male child. Perhaps a daughter would have softened her husband, but she knew, somehow, that a male child was in greater danger. That he would not be protected; that he would be pushed, that the expectation upon his barely-formed shoulders would be impossible. It had been that conviction that had put her on the Great Lakes train, whisked her to a state she’d never seen before, and which later drove her from her cousin’s to the very northern tip of the country.

Then her son had been born, with his tiny squalling body and his perfect smell, only to be ripped away fewer than two days later. And she had reached out in despair and found not her son, but the gentle face she had sketched for a decade, staring down at her.

Today, as she laid out the roughest of her husband’s familiar form, Esme was not fully aware that somehow, she had softened the beautiful severity of his cheekbones, that she had added subtle curvature to the sharpness of his jaw. But she had done so, and it wasn’t Carlisle’s face which was emerging.

It had been an entire year, now, that their family of three had been a family of four. And a scant single score of years that the hardened bachelor and his beloved son had welcomed any feminine presence into their lives. She had worried about being a bother to them both, and she knew, that sometimes, she was—the way Edward’s eyes would narrow from time to time, the way Carlisle shadowed him when he was upset.

And so she tried. She tried to reach to Rosalie. She tried to bridge the shared elements of their past, only to be met with the coldest of shoulders. This family, Rosalie seemed to say, was the world of the men. Rose hated Carlisle for his hubris, hated Edward for his gift, and if she didn’t hate Esme, it was only for Esme’s shared experience of these two things.

So, as she thought of her daughter, listened to bickering give way to quiet conversation, and then to silence, and then to the gentle chords of a sonata, the cheekbones softened, the jawbone became subtler, the high forehead became heart-shaped with a widow’s peak. The nose became thinner, the lips softer, and the single unruly lock of golden hair became dozens, spilling onto shoulders which sloped more gently.

It was difficult for vampires to get fully lost in work, and so she heard when the front door open and close. Edward was still playing, and wherever Rose had moved to—her bedroom, if the distance to her scent was to believed—she was quiet. So Esme knew that her husband was home even before she heard a briefcase drop gently to the floor and before the waft of smoked cinnamon made its way to her nose. She had a split-second to consider this fact before warm lips had buried themselves where her neck met her collarbone.

“What are you drawing,” her husband muttered, and she shook her head.

“Nothing.”

“It’s never nothing.” He stepped back and appraised the easel, reaching out with one hand. She laid down her charcoal and smacked his arm playfully.

“It isn’t nothing. But I’m not finished yet. Go bother the children.”

He sighed. “They’re fighting.”

“They’ve been fighting all afternoon. It’s quieter, now.”

Her husband chuckled, pressing his lips to her neck again. “I apologize for leaving you alone all day with that.”

She shook her head. “Edward plays impromptus when he’s angry with Rose. It’s good background.” It had been Fauré , today—the impossibly fast descending scales across the keyboard, sounding like water. Esme had never bothered to learn the details of classical music before, but now it was impossible not to—she marveled at times at the way her mind was able to store the names of styles and composers and even the actual beats of the music itself. She hadn’t cared, before, but with Edward, it became a thing about which one cared. To love Edward was to love his piano, and that meant that all of them learned to understand it.

“Give me another half-hour?” she asked.

Her husband nodded, kissing her neck again and then disappearing. The piano stopped mid-phrase, and she heard only one-sided murmurs which told her that Carlisle and Edward were engaged in one of their desperately intimate conversations. If she strained, she could hear them, no doubt, but she chose not to, letting her hand bring shape to the face whose provenance she now understood. She kept the long eyelashes, and the light-hued eyes. She made the lips ever so slightly fuller, and drew the slightest hint of a bosom at the bottom of the page.

It was longer than a half hour before Carlisle returned. From the subtle addition to his scent, it seemed likely he had been sitting with Edward at the piano, having one of their near-silent conversations. Edward could read Carlisle’s mind, of course, but after a decade and a half, it often seemed that Carlisle could read Edward’s almost as surely. They often sat in silent companionship, Edward plying, Carlisle listening, bonded by their thoughts and impenetrable by either Rosalie or Esme.

Carlisle kissed her before even bothering to look at the easel. She let herself fall into the kiss, the way her husband’s supple lips moved against her own. It was only several minutes later that he seemed to remember what he had intended to inquire after, and pulled away to appraise the drawing. His head cocked to one side as he gazed at it, his mouth falling open slightly in recognition.

He had revealed this sad fact in their very first conversation. She, half-delirious from the laudanum, he, trying bravely to keep his demeanor professional. Yet she recalled it with her hazy, opiate-influenced human memory, nearly with the same crystal clarity that he did. As she’d asked after his name, and after receiving his title, asked his first name, which he had, to his own surprise, volunteered.

“I’ve never met a Carlisle before,” she’d told him, and he’d only smirked.

“Nor I an Esme. One wonders why you are not a Mary, or a Margaret.”

And she’d returned his smile and his gentle banter. She had inquired where the unusual name had come from, and he had answered that perhaps it was his mother’s maiden name, and then she had asked after his mother, eliciting the same pained, faraway look that graced his features now as he explained how and when she had died...

“Not knowing what your father looked like,” Esme offered as he stared silently, “I wasn’t sure which of your features to subtract, but…”

The gulp was audible. “No,” her husband said quietly, “I imagine this is about right.” Another deep swallow, then: “What brought this on?”

She shrugged. “I’m not even sure myself.” Involuntarily, her right hand opened and closed, feeling the ghost of the charcoal still in her fingers. She sighed.

“Rosalie,” she said quietly.

Carlisle shot her a quizzical look.

“I suppose I was thinking about Rosalie. And how you left with her still angry.”

There were two stools in her studio, one before each easel, both unnecessary in the strictest sense, but they encouraged the right posture for sweeping her arm across wide paper or canvas. Carlisle pulled the second one near her and sat down, his lips suddenly pressed tight.

“She hates me,” he muttered.

Esme nodded. “Sometimes, yes. You don’t always make it easy for her.”

He thrust a hand into his hair, and the unruly lock fell through his fingers. When he spoke again, his voice was clipped with frustration. “I just want her to be happy.”

“You can’t force people to be happy, Carlisle.”

To her surprise, he chuckled. “You’d think that after what happened with Edward, I’d know that.”

She laughed in answer. Two years on, their mercurial son was beginning to recover from his shame and anger. Gentler songs came from the piano more often than not, and every now and then, even an original composition. Slowly, month by month, arpeggio by arpeggio, he was coming back to them.

“I suppose…” she began. When she hadn’t finished her sentence a moment later, Carlisle prodded.

“You suppose?”

She gestured. She had drawn the woman with the same tired but indulgently kind eyes her husband had. Eyes that suggested that whatever the person being looked on was wont to do, they would be forgiven. They would be loved.

“You have a daughter now,” she said gently. “I thought it might be helpful for you to remember that once, you had a mother, too.”

Her husband’s thin lips pressed together even more tightly, and she saw his adam’s apple move yet again. She stood up, brushing the charcoal off her fingertips against her skirt as she leaned in to kiss his cheek. She laid a hand on his shoulder briefly, then went down the stairs.

It was nearly two hours of listening to the piano later, watching Rosalie read and pretend not to care what Edward was playing, before Esme bothered to creep back up to her studio. The door was still open a crack, and the air was still thick with the smoked cinnamon that was her husband’s scent as she peeked inside.

Carlisle sat alone in the utter dark, his legs crossed, the moonbeams shading in through the window making his skin a translucent blue white as he gazed up into the portrait’s kind, pale eyes. Slowly, his hand crept from his side to reach out, the pad of his finger tracing the jawline she had sketched. And then it hung there, index finger outstretched, as though it was not the strong, assured hand of a surgeon but the beseeching hand of a child, reaching, desperately, across space and time.

Quietly, Esme pulled the door closed and went to find her daughter.

#fanfic #my fic #twilight #carlesme #carlisle x esme #carlisle cullen #esme cullen #cien años #draft #I'll probably come up with some more revisions by morning #had to find the right spot into this one

49 notes · View notes

the-a-word-2214 · 4 years

Text

I was always there

summary: the reader feels as if her relationship with Alex is crumbling as she reflects on their past and what their future looks like. Based on the “There for you” music video. Similar to a piece written by the lovely @jadelynlace

pairing: Alex Høgh Andersen x reader

word count: 1,974

warnings: language, angst, brief mention of sex

We grew up singing the same songs

You tried to teach me to moonwalk

Shared every dream for the future

Felt we had everything planned out

You could slowly feel him slipping from your life. The memories that you shared only seemed to drift further and further away.

Alex had been in your life since high school when you transferred to his school in Denmark for your father’s work. It was terrifying being in a new city with new people all around.

He flooded your senses with feelings of familiarity and longing. You two instantly gravitated towards one another and bonded, becoming fast friends.

He was so upbeat and bubbly, his dance moves and attitude infectious inspired you. On long drives with no destination in mind, you’d listen to song after song on his IPod, screaming the lyrics at the top of your lungs.

His English was still broken at the time, his sentences coming out in blips allowing you to fill in the rest. He slowly taught you Danish the longer that you stayed in Denmark.

He often talked about his dreams for the future and how his mom wanted him to pursue acting. He started with various plays and even singing alongside some groups around school. His drive and talent were undeniable. You urged him to start taking small gigs with even smaller roles, he had to start somewhere.

‘Til you ran away with the wrong crowd

We were so close, now you’re so far

And it’s like, you don’t understand what you put me through

I spent all my days tryna be like you

So why’d you go and change into someone new?

Just don’t forget that I was there for you

His acting jobs kept getting bigger and bigger until he landed a role on Vikings. You were elated, this much was true, but you couldn’t help but feel like he was taking on too much to continue to keep you in his life. There just wasn’t any room for you...with his new friends and girls finally starting to take a notice to someone who you’d always loved.

You needed to interject, to say how you really felt. But would he even care? He was drifting too far away for you to grasp at him. It didn’t matter, you knew how you felt and what felt right was telling him.

“Alex? Can we talk?” He had just gotten off a call with his cast mate, Marco Ilsø, who lived nearby.

“Yeah? What is it, kanin?” A drunken nickname meaning bunny that he had affectionately given you many moons ago.

You hung your head, already expecting defeat. “I wanted to talk to you about, us.” The phrase rolled off your tongue with ease, only now did it carry a different connotation. You could feel the metaphorical bile rising in your throat. How weak you felt, how insecure.

He only gave a kind smile. “What do you mean? Is something the matter?” His muscles ripple as he grabs your hands, gently pulling you closer.

Your eyes failed to look at him as you stared at your feet. Confrontation wasn’t what you wanted, if you could just go on without having any conflict, your relationship would be better that way. Or so you thought.

“Look at me, kanin. I want to see your eyes, I want to see what’s troubling you.” He urges your chin towards his face. His blue irises searching yours.

“I love you, Alex.”

He smiles his usual, bright grin. “I know that, (Y/N). I figured that was public knowledge by now.” He stifles a chuckle that rumbles in his chest.

“Not like that, like, a real love. A love that’s hard to come by. A love that brings two souls together. Not the love of two friends.”

His mouth gapes slightly before turning into a smirk, his eyes turning a deeper blue. “I should have known, min elskede. Your eyes told me more than what you were willing to say.” He pulls you into his lap, his arm wrapping around your lower back.

“I love you too. Don’t ever forget that.” He seals his sentence with a loving kiss, his free hand settling on your cheek.

And so, all was well for the time being. You were practically joined at the hip like two newlyweds. The envy of all when you came to set, and when you were gone, people chattered and verbalized how much they missed you.

When the real life shakes you

And when your fake friends hate you

Just don’t forget that I was there for you

When you were way too faded

I would always save you

Just don’t forget that I was there for you

His relationship with some of his costars and acquaintances seemed to be superficial to you. Some of the women on set were just trying to be nice to him to get in his pants.

Unfortunately, the apology sex could only go so far in putting your mind at ease. Anytime he would vent about how hard it was working with some of them and the labor of crawling on the floor every day, you would reassure him. You would always comfort his moods with a smile and a hug. Never once complaining when you felt that he used you.

The nights when he’d come home drunk after his friends persuaded him to ditch you, claiming now- even after you had shown what a good person you were- that you were a “ball and chain”.

You found yourself staring at him once he passed out on the couch. In your heart you knew that you loved him but a voice kept telling you how wrong your relationship was. How nothing was working out anymore.

Don’t get carried away, man, you’re floatin’

Don’t be a drop in the ocean

We all get lost in the moment

And don’t you forget where you come from

Don’t let the lights get you all numb

I’m here with you for the long run

His eyes bore into you just as his words did. “I don’t need you.” He had said in a heated argument. He didn’t mean it...he couldn’t.

The venom that dripped from his words was ever present as tears flowed freely down your cheeks. Even once the words had been uttered, he felt himself replaying what he had said.

You were only trying to help him since he had gotten into an altercation with one of his childhood friends who came back into town. You only wanted to help him come up with a solution. That deemed to be the straw that broke the camel’s back, your relationship crumbling in the process.

You packed up your belongings in a haste and stayed the night with your parents who now lived in a different part of Copenhagen.

So hear me out

I wish you would try to walk in my shoes

Just to see yourself from my point of view

Why’d you go and change into someone new?

It was true that Alex had changed. He was no longer the dashing boy you knew in school. No longer the considerate man who loved every fiber of your being.

His change in demeanor broke your very soul. You couldn’t see why the sudden change had happened, blindsided by the love that seemed to be missing.

The metaphorical hands of the people around him were dragging him farther and farther away from you. The disgusting toxicity was weighing him down, clouding his vision.

He tried to call you and apologize but you weren’t having it. It was just a bitter reminder of what once was.

Just don’t forget that I was there for you

When the real life shakes you

And your fake friends hate you

Just don’t forget that I was there for you

When you were way too faded

I would always save you

Just don’t forget that I was there for you

Months went by without a call or text from him. You moved on with your life even though a part of your heart was barren. You would see his presence on social media and see how well he was doing on Vikings.

It appeared that he was back to his old ways, at least that’s what you grew to believe. One day at work, you had gotten a fateful call from an unknown number.

“Hello? Excuse me, is this (Y/N) (L/N)?”

“Speaking”

“I’m sorry to say but Mr. Andersen was in a car accident, he was the passenger in a friend’s car. You were his emergency contact.”

Your heart nearly stopped at the officer’s words. Why would he do such a thing? Surely he had someone more important in his life now. So, why were you his emergency contact?

“I’ll be there.” Was all you said before hanging up and driving to the hospital. The image that you had of him in your head was far different from what you saw once you got there. His face was drained of color as he breathed steadily. His lip was split and he had a bruise on his head, but other than that he was stable.

His eyes pleaded for you to come closer as you stood by his bed. The only sound that could be heard was the steady beeping of the heart monitor.

You gently took his hand in your own, bringing it to your lips to press a kiss to his knuckles. He brought up his other hand to stroke your cheek.

“I fucked up big time, didn’t I?” His voice is hoarse as he speaks.

“Yes you did, Alex. I wonder why it took you so long to figure this out.” Your stare was blank as you saw tears surface in his eyes.

“I’m so, so sorry, (Y/N). I wish that I could do everything over.” He pleads as tears silently fall from his eyes. “You meant the world to me. I shouldn’t have let you go.”

“But you did, Alex. You let me go and you destroyed my heart. I would love to start over but the memories that we share will always remain.”

His cries turn into sobs as he takes your hands again like he did all those years ago.

Just don’t forget that I was there for you

When the real life shakes you

And your fake friends hate you

Just don’t forget that I was there for you

When you were way too faded

I would always save you

Just don’t forget that I was there for you

“Please start over with me. I can’t bear to live without you.” He sniffles as you sigh and look down at your joined hands.

“Fine, Alex. But you need to know that I was and always will be there for you. Just promise me this time that you’ll see it.”

You sink into the bed next to him as time melts away.

Just don’t forget that I was there for you

You don’t understand what you put me through

I spent all my days tryna be like you

So why’d you have to change into someone new?

Just don’t forget that I was there for you

When the real life shakes you

And your fake friends hate you

Just don’t forget that I was there for you

When you were way too faded

I would always save you

Just don’t forget that I was there for you

#ivar the boneless #alex hogh andersen #alex andersen #alex høgh andersen #alex hogh andersen x reader #alex høgh andersen x reader #there for you #ivar the boneless x reader #vikings #vikings ivar #ivar lothbrok

74 notes · View notes

boop-le-snoot · 4 years

Text

PARTY FAVOURS I CHAPTER 13

first time readers click here 💖

TWs/Summary: In this house, we ship Reader/Tony's Rolls-Royce. Reader and Tony being dorks on a date. That's it that's the chapter. Lots of sass and Tony being Tony.

A question for my readers: Are you still invested? How's the slow burn? Is everything realistic? 👉🏻👈🏻🥺

As usual, my beta is @miscmarvelwritings . I love her.

"Nice digs, Cupcake."

"Nice ride, Tin Man."

The sass fell from my lips, warm and familiar, paving the way for our upcoming debut like the old, soft living room rug. Any awkwardness I had expected there to be left the moment I saw Tony pull up to my front gate in his Royce: the man was just that extra. The size of my estate, the five-figure outfit of mine - it paled in comparison to his own clout.

In a world where my choices were usually distributed between stuck-up rich boys or insecure middle-class men, Tony was a fresh drink of water with his absolute indifference towards my and his own net worth.

I wasn't afraid to admire said ride, either. Being a huge petrolhead was what got me interested in engineering, physics and computer sciences in the first place. The desire for speed grew into thirst for knowledge: how to get more horsepower, how to tune, how to mod. No mechanic took an eighteen year old rich-girl seriously even when I had all the lingo right, I had to be a step ahead, at all times, if I wanted my ride to be the best. And I never settled for less than that.

"No driver?" I inquired for the reason behind the unusual behaviour. After all, a Rolls' wasn't the kind of car you drive personally. All the amenities it had, it had in the back.

"Gave Happy a day off," Tony remarked absently. I noticed the small quirk of his eyebrow, however. He was intrigued.

I decided to give it a shot. "So what, this thing packs, what, about five-fifty horses?" I mused, watching Tony nearly swerve into the opposite lane. "At two and a half tons, it's still gotta be pretty quick with that V12-turbo. How fast it go?" The satisfaction was immeasurable, as pleasant to my soul as sitting in a heated leather chair with the smell of a new car, engine quietly rumbling in front of me. And by quietly I mean, it was focus-or-you'll-miss-it kind of quiet.

"Well aren't you full of surprises, baby girl," Tony grinned; a happy, excited grin even. It made his face lose ten years of age just like that. "Zero to sixty in five and a half seconds," He said after a moment.

"Not bad," I said, sounding impressed. I already knew that but I wasn't planning on robbing Tony out of well deserved praise for his choice in vehicles.

"Got a ride of your own?" He asked with a smile, like he didn't know it already. No background check would have skipped my three speeding tickets, but I concur. This game was fun.

"I do, actually. It's a 2008 Range Rover. Supercharged," I added in the end, just to emphasise.

"A big car for such a little girl," Tony whistled playfully.

"I'm compensating," I deadpanned. "I'm a little slow on the uptake, y'know, so my Rangie with five hundred horses makes up for it. Gotta keep it balanced."

Tony chewed on his lip. "Five hundred? Haven't heard about that, it comes with three-ninety-five in stock," His eyebrow wiggled. "Tuned it?" He cast me a contemplative glance.

"Yup," I exclaimed happily. As far as the date, I would have been utterly ecstatic to talk about cars all evening. Screw the boring "where do you see yourself in five years" questions, talk to me about your favourite engine swaps. Concept cars, give me those. Monster trucks? Yes, please. Vintage low-riders? Couldn't wait to get my grubby little hands on one. Gimmee!

Tony kept his silence and kept his press smile starting the moment we set foot on getting out of the car. The place he'd taken me to was ridiculously upscale and fancy; the valet hesitated only for a second before catching the keys Tony so carelessly tossed in his direction. There was almost no fear in his body language when the boy approached the massive, expensive vehicle.

The hostess smiled big at Tony and gave me the world's biggest stink-eye when he looked the other way but what else is new? As soon as she left us in the privacy of our booth, I didn't hesitate to stick my tongue at her retreating back. A brief lapse in maturity, if you will.

Tony cackled, growing suddenly serious. "Did she bother you? I can get her fired. I should get her fired."

"Nah," I shrugged. "Don't really care, just wanted to showcase my amazing sense of humour." Snorting, I gave Tony a wink and a secretive grin.

"You really don't give a fuck, do you," His eyebrows twitched again, a sign of mild interest that I noted during our routine sciencing time together. Tony was incredibly expressive if one took the time to observe.

"I could suck your dick under the table right now," I answered honestly. "It's just that when God gave out things like dignity and shame, I wasn't home. Too many fun things to do, y'know," I spoke as casually as I could even though I was dying of laughter inside.

Eyes bulging, jaw hanging mid-way to the floor. Tony was serving Looks™ and I didn't mean just the white tee and purple blazer combo. "Princess, you're going to be the fucking death of me!" He took a sip from his water glass, smirking.

Finally releasing my mirth, I gathered my hands in a lock in front of me. His own, warm and calloused, reached over - I allowed the brief intimacy, clasping them, fiddling with the leather band of his watch. For a moment, it was just us, sitting in the dim light, discovering each other anew to Robert Johnson singing the blues and NYC bustling with life just behind the wall.

The waiter took our orders - and if I totally butchered the Italian, Tony was gentleman enough not to make any remarks.

"Somehow, every time I am with you, you both manage to meet my expectations to a T and surprise me at the same time," I wasn't able to completely ignore my nerves. My hand was still loosely in his and he didn't mind at all, me messing with his watch.

"How so?"

"I'm going to loosely quote someone, bear with me." Mr Davies's words popped into my mind just as I was wondering how to best articulate my feelings. "You're eccentric and interesting because it's, well, it's you, because it would be much weirder if we'd be sitting here and making boring small-talk and asking each other the genetic get-to-know-you questions," I briefly paused to sip my Dom Peringon and stare at our hands. Gathering my wits. "That would be why I don't do dates. It sounds so tedious on paper, just sorting through people until a person that's not absolutely mind-numbing comes around."

Tony was silent for a moment, the sheen of his eyes, the faraway look; he was lost in memories. Probably remembering all the girls he had charmed before. I didn't doubt it was easy for him: his smile was distracting and people usually were attracted to shiny things. He shone plenty. Also, most people were stupid, they never cared to look past the golden wrapper. I was convinced there was a diamond under it. But then again, I was biased.

"I've never thought about it that way, but I guess you're right," He finally said, serious. "With Pepper, at least, it was. Come to think of it, we never had that much in common, besides Stark Industries and her willingness to put up with my shit." It was painful for him to talk about her, that much was obvious. His laugh was forced and sardonic.

I, on the other hand, never understood why they got together in the first place. Or maybe I did - but the cold, composed Pepper and the chaotic, energetic Tony reminded me too much of my own parents. All four people in this fucked up equation could have been much happier if they choose... What? Being alone? That was terrifying, too.

I kept quiet, giving his hands a gentle squeeze.

"You know, this is so bizarre. Even an eighteen year old kid has got it figured out," He suddenly said, his tone bitter like the coffee that he loved.

"Woah, slow down," I put up a hand. "I never said I know what to do. I just said I know what NOT to do." The 'kid' remark would have made me eye-roll so hard my skull would crack any day. In this context, however, it was pretty spot on.

Tony snorted. "And how did you come by that information, pray tell, Baby?"

I huffed. "Have you met my parents?" We simultaneously cringed and I hurried to erase that mental image. "I make fun of myself for being into old dudes all the time," I made air quotes around the phrase that made Tony scoff, "But, honestly speaking, I've never even been on a date. Like a real one. Usually it's twenty minutes and I'm falling asleep mid-conversation. People can't seem to keep up with me or something," I felt genuinely dejected. "So many meaningless questions, so many downright idiotic comments. From men," I pointed out the obvious. "My mother used to tell me she thought I was gay because I didn't act like a girl... Whatever that means."

"That sounds pretty shitty," Tony was studying me like one would have been looking at an exotic animal in a zoo. "That said, I agree."

"That I don't act like a girl?" I teased him, the left corner of my mouth tilting upward. "Fuck that noise. I want to drive fast cars, drink straight liquor and have orgasms. If that makes me a dude... I look pretty good for a dude in a dress."

We laughed in unison, tension evaporating under the shared, mutual understanding. With Tony, it was easy. The waiter brought our selected dishes. Blink-and-he's-gone. Top notch service.

"A dude in a dress, can't say I'm surprised 'bout your lack of dates," He remarked conversationally, happily digging into his food. The noises he made were intriguing, to say the least, and I followed suit on my own food, finding it absolutely delicious. A delicious meal with a delicious man at my side. I refused to feel guilty about my thoughts.

"I guess I have exactly one (1) date on my ledger now," I raised my argument.

The fork clattered as Tony once again, came to a sudden realization. "Holy shit, you weren't kidding."

"No shit," I gave into the urge to roll my eyes. "But on the upside, my first date was with the most gorgeous, intelligent and witty bachelor of the city. I'd say I don't have it all that bad," I quirked an eyebrow at him.

"Aw, you're making me blush," Tony recovered quickly, grinning. "And don't be shy. The most desired bachelor of the country, if not the world."

I shook my head. "No, the world's most delectable bachelor is one of the Saudi princes. What's-his-name, the one who posts goat and horse pics on Insta," I snapped my fingers a couple of times, trying to remember the name as Tony looked at me all offended. "Anyways, you get my point. I could have a go at him, don't you think?" Cocking my shoulder, coyly twirling the strap of my dress, I gave Tony my best come-hither look and was rewarded with an appreciative once-over. His eyes were growing hungry again.

"You're a million dollar baby," He finally said, voice low. "And the extent of people I would be willing to share you with is very small."

That got me interested, sudden heat prickling underneath my skin. The conversation took a turn I didn't expect it to; and there lied the delight of being around Tony. He was always ready to surprise, in the best way. "Tell me," I requested politely.

"That's a conversation for another time," He was enjoying the chit-chat, desire beginning to creep into his features.

"Mmm, you think?" I allowed the strap of my dress to slip down my shoulder, exposing a collarbone, showing him just how far I was willing to go to satisfy my curiosity.

He swallowed audibly. "I think... You're smart enough to figure it out," He finally gritted his teeth, finishing off his dinner and immediately calling for the check.

I wasn't done yet, however. The possibility of riling him up, taunting him into a lustful frenzy - I was in heaven. Karma had favoured me that evening, it had given me a chance to get Tony back for all the times he unknowingly made my mouth water and my brain go blip. "Must be Steve then," I bit my lip in thought.

Honestly? I was as clueless as the couple next table over. Steve it wasn't, that much I knew for sure, he and Tony had their little love/hate dramatic connection that always ended in a massive ego standoff. Tony would be on the frontline fighting against Steve if the blonde dared to show anything even remotely resembling romantic interest towards someone Tony himself had his eyes on.

"Princess," Tony growled, sarcastically raising an eyebrow.

"Not Steve," I replied, cracking a smile. Success! "You know, I'm really bad at guessing who's into me. Unless someone is balls deep in me," My face was mere inches away as we quickly shrugged on our coats. "And even then, I can't be sure."

My giggling was accompanied by Tony shaking his head in exasperated fashion; he took my hand nonetheless and I happily swayed it between us, poster child for "not a care in the world". He allowed it, maintaining the same exasperated air about him, and I let him. Fondness and happiness seeped through that anyways.

"Brat," His voice was kind. And his kiss tingled where he left it on the corner of my mouth, sweet and short. "Here, have a go," Before I could react, the keys to his Rolls Royce were placed in my palm and he was making his way around the car to the passenger's side.

THE TAG LIST IS NOW OPEN! @another-stark-sub @mostly-marvel-musings @vozit @littlegasps @pilloclock @shereadsinquiet @downeyreads @hermione-grangers-wife @individualistfem @sleep-i-ness @capbrie @lillsxd @agustdowney @dee-vn @justanotherblonde23 @fanngirl19 @persephonehemingway (it finally let me tag you)! @softie-socks @schemefrenzy

#tony stark x reader #tony stark x you #tony stark x y/n #bruce banner x reader #bruce banner x you #bruce banner x y/n #stephen strange x reader #stephen strange x y/n #stephen strange x you #party favours #bun writes

133 notes · View notes

subtlereferencetomyinterests · 4 years

Text

No Other Version of Me

Ao3, MasterPost

Relationships: Moceit!

This ain’t a songfic, but the title is taken from ‘Jackie & Wilson’ by Hozier because. I wanted it to be.

Warnings: Very mild body horror related to excessive shape-shifting, Fwoggy Patton (he’s got frog features), insecurity, hurt/comfort, one (1) smooch, crying.

Word Count: 2,100

Janus was not nosy. Really, he’d only intended to return Patton’s electric blanket (he’d asked to borrow it on a particularly cold day in The Mindscape, and he definitely didn’t hold onto it for longer than necessary just because it smelled like Patton). Then, he would be on his way. Therefore, it was completely incidental that he’d heard a frustrated cry from Morality’s room before entering. And of course, the only reason that Janus continued to peer through the slightly ajar doorway- rather than just walking in- was so that he could assess the situation properly. To be safe.

The situation was this: Patton was hunched in front of the mirror above his dresser, shaking from head to toe. He was just visible in the reflection, revealing what seemed to be the issue.

Patton’s hands were oversized, webbed, and bright green. That same shade of citrus seemed to be overtaking his face, spanning across his eyes and nose and down his neck.

On the subject of his eyes; absolutely enormous, with oblong and dilated pupils surrounded by muck-brown irises. Oh, and they were also steadily filling up with tears, which was probably a more pressing issue.

Janus could have- and probably should have- just walked away and pretended he hadn’t seen anything. He almost did, turning to leave only to hear an absolutely heart-breaking wail from the room behind him. He sighed, spinning on his heel again and gently shouldering the door open.

“Good evening.”

The emotional trait startled at that, and when he flipped around he had changed- no webbed hands, no green splotches, just a shiny faux face. Janus clicked the door closed behind him; evidently this would be a sensitive issue.

“Oh- hey Janus! Can I help you with something?”

He had always hated Morality’s fake smile. Before they’d grown close, Deceit despised how it was another symbol of his repression. Now he hated it for how it paled in comparison to Patton’s genuine beam.

Janus held up the fluffy blanket still folded in his arms and then tossed it onto the bed.

“I was just dropping by to return your blanket. While I’m here, though, would you tell me why you’re doing that?”

Patton looked much like a deer caught in headlights, panic flashing across his masked face. He forced a laugh.

“Doing what?”

The literal embodiment of lies raised his eyebrow and patiently waited for Patton to own up. He didn’t, the stubborn little thing.

“The shapeshifting,” Janus pressed, “It can’t be comfortable to keep that up all day. I would know, I do it the most out of any of us,” with that, he extended his additional arms. He actually didn’t hide them much nowadays, what with being accepted and all, but they’d been getting in the way of chores (and also, it added some drama to the point he was making). Regardless, he hoped that Patton would understand what he was trying to convey- I know how you feel. You can trust me now, remember?

The moral side kept his hands held to his chest and his eyes downcast, blinking very quickly. The skin around his arms and face was taught and plasticky, like that of a mannequin. The disturbing signs of over-shifted forms.

“I know it’s been too long, Jan, I do- but this isn't a bunch of extra arms, or anything cool like that. It’s…” his hushed speech trailed off. Janus stepped closer and reached out. Patton let him hold his hands, trembling.

“Oh, come now, it can’t be worse than this,” Deceit gestured to the left side of his face, a clear joke. It backfired- Morality looked even more dismayed, muttering something that wasn’t quite audible. Janus squeezed his hands.

“Please. Show me.”

Patton seemed almost ready to argue as they met eyes, but the fight fell from him almost instantly. A dull teal shimmer passed over his face and neck, continuing to run down his arms. What was left from the transformation were watery, frog-like eyes behind his glasses and soft hands with pudgy fingers. The tips of those fingers were much wider than humans, not to mention nail-less. Up close, various lime-colored splotches were visible scattered about his skin in seemingly random places.

He was stunning.

And he was crying.

“No matter what I do,” Patton whispered, “It won’t go away. I’ve tried everything, Janus.”

“Why on earth would you want to get rid of this?”

Patton jerked his hands back to his chest and pulled away, bumping into his dresser.

“Look at me! I look like a monster! Why wouldn’t I want to get rid of it?”

Janus scoffed at the notion as if it were the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard, though his heart ached at the fresh tears that slipped down Patton’s face. He didn’t hesitate so much as a moment, sliding off his glove. His left glove.

“I am looking, can’t you see?” he let the article drop to the floor, reaching out a candy-apple colored claw to take Patton’s hand in his once more, “You’re absolutely beautiful, in this or any other form.”

Morality’s breath hitched as Deceit twined their fingers together, watching him cautiously. The moral side was quiet, save for staggered breathing, only for a moment.

“You don’t mean that.”

Janus cupped the side of his face with an unoccupied hand, gently dragging the gloved thumb beneath Patton’s eye to dry some of his tears.

“I’m not lying. Not about this, and not to you. I mean it,” I mean it so much more than you could possibly know.

Patton seemed to search his expression, gauging the sincerity. Janus met the gaze without falter. That was what most people forgot about lying- it’s the eyes, you can always see it in the eyes.

Patton leaned into him.

“You really do mean it, huh?”

“Of course I do,” the dishonest trait tried to ignore the heat that spread across his face when Morality smiled at him, tiny and genuine.

“You’re really pretty, too,” he murmured, “At least, I think so.”

The human side of Janus’ face was flaming. He tilted his head to the side and cleared his throat- this wasn’t about him. He would not relent to the thrumming in his heart and the fuzz in his mind, for he needed to focus on comforting his friend. Friend. Frieeeends. That was what they were, just in case he had forgotten.

“Thank you, Patton.”

He was met with a small giggle, and then they were hugging. Patton wrapped his arms around Janus’ torso and pressed his face against the side of the snake’s neck, and oh, that felt illegally wonderful. When he spoke, it rumbled against the lying side’s scales.

“Thank you. I don’t know if I’ll ever be used to this,” he held up a froggy hand, “It still seems like a punishment for what I did, one that I probably deserve. But if you still like m- it… then it doesn’t feel so bad.”

That pricked Janus’ ears. Patton saying he deserved any sort of ‘punishment’, like it was the most obvious and fair thing in the world, it struck something in him. Something deep and familiar and painful.

“Why do you think you deserve it?”

Patton hid his face further, his breath warm against Deceit’s skin.

“I did kinda freak out and turn into a giant monster… actions should have consequences.”

“So the emotional distress, the Roman fiasco, me showing up, those weren’t ‘consequences’? Consequences that don’t involve permanently changing your self-image?”

“But was it enough? Didn’t I get off a little too easily?”

Janus tossed his head back with a high-pitched laugh, which probably didn’t help the situation much- but the irony! The irony!

“I’m sorry, dear, but you saying that to me, well, it didn’t catch me off-guard at all,” he fixed his remaining arms around Patton comfortingly as the cackles subsided.

“What are you talking about, Jan?” Morality pulled his head back, melancholy replaced with confusion.

“Look at us,” Janus said gleefully, “Just a few months ago I couldn’t get within five feet of you without you acting like I was going to murder you.”

Patton winced at Deceit’s less-than-comforting phrasing.

“Let me reiterate: you thought that because I wanted you to. It was my intention to be threatening, and the blame for that lies with me. And after all of that, you forgave me almost immediately. You can’t extend the same courtesy to yourself?”

“But that’s different!”

“Is it? Explain it to me.”

“It just is when it’s somebody else.”

“Exactly! We’ve found the problem. Your self-imposed rules are much stricter on yourself than on anybody else. That doesn’t sound very fair, does it?”

“I-” Patton looked almost argumentative, but just as before, it evaporated into exhaustion, “I don’t know. Maybe. But I’m not in charge of other people, and I am in charge of me.”

“That you are. And you’ve just been so easy on yourself. Plus you totally haven’t been improving, and it’s not like that counts more than anything else.”

Patton blinked, taking his time to unscramble the backwards talk. He hummed in thought.

“Even if I still don’t love this new- uh- ‘new look’, I think… Maybe I needed to hear that?” he admitted, a sheepish smile returning. Patton kept himself so very near in their hug that it was becoming dizzying, but Janus had to stay focused.

“Perhaps I can help with that, too.”

He felt a thrill chase up his spine when Morality tipped his head to the side inquisitively.

“Really?”

“I believe so. I have no idea what it’s like looking abnormal, after all. So if you ever feel particularly bad about your, ah, amphibian appearance, then you know where to find me. I’ll be sure to remind you just what you are,” Deceit loosened his grip and leaned back just the tiniest bit, readying himself to make the final point.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re worthy of love,” he was just parroting the moral trait’s words back to him, it carried no connotations nor significance. It was a callback at most. Janus tried to hammer that into his head, even when Patton looked at him so shocked and adoringly and he felt that it was beginning to mean so much more. The meaning twisted around the more he prolonged the embrace, the more he stared into those wide watery eyes, the more he wanted it to twist.

“Oh,” Patton murmured. He curled his fingers in the fabric of Janus’ capelet, “Oh, Janus.”

They were so close, their faces just inches apart. And he was leaning closer, closer, almost touching. Janus’ breath hitched when Patton stopped short, watching him carefully and... expectantly?

Janus realized that Morality would never close the gap between them, not in this kind of sensitive state. Janus also knew that, should he not do it himself, Patton wouldn’t bring it up again, for fear of seeming pushy. As terrifying the thought of kissing the object of his affections was, there was something much more horrible about the thought of not doing it. So, no reason to overthink it, he supposed.

Janus tipped his head up and connected their lips.

Patton kissed back eagerly, leaning down to accommodate their height difference. He was sweet, and warm, a gentle pressure against Deceit. He smiled, letting his hand rest at the small of Janus’ back. They moved together slowly, easily, as though this was something they were already practiced at. It was a second nature.

When they finally broke apart, Patton glanced down at his arms. He giggled a little, pressing his forehead to Janus’.

“Looks like the kiss didn’t turn me human.”

Janus, who was trying very hard to have coherent thoughts at the moment, shook his head. It took a few seconds of breathy and very embarrassing squeaking sounds before he managed to say actual words.

“Humanity is overrated, Darling,” which would have been a very smooth and dramatic thing to say, if only he wasn’t clutching to Patton for dear life and burning at the ears.

“If you say so,” the moral side pressed a kiss to the tip of his nose.

“Hhaghhh,” Janus responded eloquently, shoving his flushed face into Patton’s shoulder. The trait laughed, a lilting sound right against Janus’ ear. It was intoxicating.

“You are just too adorable, Jan.”

“This was a horrible mistake. I never should have returned that blanket and I hate you.”

“I can let go of you, if you want?”

“Not in a million years.”

Patton laughed at him again. Whatever, it was so worth it.

@shrimp-crockpot

#my writing #fanfiction #fanfic #sanders sides #ts #moceit #janus #patton #ts janus #ts patton #sanders sides fanfiction #ts fanfic #tw frog

123 notes · View notes

paganvamp · 3 years

Text

Saving Grace: Chapter Seven

Meet Damon Salvatore!

(Holy shit this a long chapter)

2009 AD: The Other Brother

Elena was soaked, standing chest-deep in the muddy lake as Ric looked on from the woods above.

“Damon! How are you even here?”

“Thanks for the tip, brother.” Damon’s voice, disapproving and frustrated, sounded from his place behind Ric, leaning against the tree trunk next to him. Neither of them seemed too bothered that he had just launched Elena into the water, though Ric did have the decency to look a bit sheepish.

“You sold me out!” Elena accused.

“You think I'd take you to a mountain range of werewolves on a full moon without backup?”

“Get out of the water, Elena.”

“If I get out of the water, you’re gonna make me go home.” Elena protested.

“Yes, because I’m not an idiot like you.”

“Right now, you’re both acting like idiots.” Ric groused, rolling his eyes, and walking further away from the bickering pair.

“Well, it certainly wouldn’t be the first time. Probably won’t be the last.” Grace’s voice could be heard before she came into view, but it was clear from the tone she meant the jibe with affection and good humor.

“You dragged Grace all the way out here just to babysit me?” Elena frowned at Damon.

“He dragged Grace all the way out here because she doesn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.” Grace responded in Damon’s stead. A moment of silence as Damon and Elena stared accusingly at each other.

“You gave up on him, Damon.”

A klaxon-sounding bell tore Grace from her vision-dream, and she was momentarily too discombobulated to realize it was her own alarm clock. Who the fuck are Damon and Ric? Grace sighed. And why the fuck are they looking for werewolves? She’d just gotten over her strange Stefan vision, and the uneasy feeling of her hand in his. Elena liked him, seemed to trust him, and Caroline thought he was God’s gift… it was only Bonnie who seemed to share Grace’s reservations.

Pulling her phone off the charger, Grace found she had a string of new messages. Navigating to the three-way chat between herself, Bonnie, and Elena (some things needed to be Caroline-free), she noticed that the other two girls had apparently had an entire conversation while Grace was asleep.

E: Any word on the psychic front? Am I gonna win the lottery today?

B: ha-ha. I told you, Grams was drunk. No winning lottery numbers here

E: 2 bad. Aunt Jenna really wanted that new tv

B: Grace, I hope Ur not ignoring us. That’s very rude

E: She’s probably still asleep, Bon. It’s like 5 am

There were more, as well as some texts from Caroline, but all Grace could see was one word floating in front of her eyes: psychic. She’d prayed that Bonnie would show some inclination toward magic, that she would have someone to talk to and practice with. Could this be the first signs of her Tapping into her powers?

Quickly - so quickly her first draft was unrecognizable as English – she typed out a response to Elena and Bonnie.

G: I’m awake. Psychic???

While waiting for a response, she alternated between reading the rest of her notifications and beginning the arduous process of brushing and braiding her elbow-length hair. Strangely, Grace had yet to receive Caroline’s customary ‘good morning’ message, which usually consisted of a precise list of all the plans she’d made for the entire day, and maybe an actual ‘good morning,' if she remembered. She did, however, have multiple texts from Caroline dated the night before.

C: If you notice any new tall, dark & handsomes around town, know I’ve already called dibs – 8:00 PM

C: could you please tell Elena she just needs to jump S’s bones already? She listens to u – 8:30 PM

C: OK srsly, I’m asking — has Vicki always been such an attention whore – 8:45 PM

C: don’t answer that – 8:46 PM

No other texts had come in from Caroline until hours later, when she sent the last message of the night:

C: Elena may be a prude, but that doesn’t mean I can’t get some. Don’t wait up ; ) – 10:30 PM

So, clearly Caroline had run into her ‘tall, dark, and handsome’ last night and taken him home. The last part of the message, ‘don’t wait up ; )’, sent a pang through Grace. She remembered when she was the one sending her friends texts like that. Not now, Grace. It’s school time. Mostly, she was fine, didn’t think of Bryan at all… but sometimes a memory would hit her like a fuckton of bricks. She shook off the sudden melancholy and gathered up the scattered grimoires and spiral notebooks strewn across her room from the night before. No wonder she’d stopped answering messages at 8:00 – after pouring over magical tomes for hours, she had fallen asleep early.

“Grace, hurry!” Aimee’s voice urged from her room across the hall. “Don’t you have practice today?” Oh, shit. No matter how good Caroline’s mystery man had been last night, she would happily skewer Grace over a bonfire if she were late for practice again, and her practice clothes were in her duffel in the school locker room. If she was late to school, she wouldn’t be able to grab them before class, which would mean she’d have to detour before practice to get them and… well. Either way, she needed to move her ass or she’d be late to first period. She winced; It was kind of a habit of hers, unfortunately.

“Shit, Aims, I really have to go! Are y’all ready, or can you get dad to drive you?” ‘Y’all,' a phrase reminiscent of her childhood in Louisiana, usually only made an appearance around family members or when she was in a hurry.

“Neither.” Chloe called grouchily from the bathroom, down the hall from her sister’s rooms. She was not a morning person — which was lucky for her, since she’d somehow ended up with study hall (aka an hour to sleep in) first thing in the morning. “Dad left already, which you would know if you ever woke up on time.” Since she didn’t have time to argue, Grace let the snide comment go this once.

“Then get in the car, we have to leave, Chloe!” Where is my damn history book? Grace’s room was a mess of grimoires and textbooks and writings by and for witches. The history book was buried somewhere in the sea of paper and ink.

Chloe’s head popped out from the bathroom, a furiously indignant look on her pretty face. Her hair was to Grace a rat’s nest of clips and curlers and bobby pins, though she was sure it made sense to Chloe.

“Not all of us are okay with looking like Leif Erikson every day, you know.” As mothers are wont to do, Cecile somehow sensed an argument brewing and appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Grace, you go. Take Aimee if she’s ready. I don’t have anything until the afternoon – I can drive Chloe.” As Assistant Curator of the history museum in the city, Cecile worked strange hours and dealt with a fairly lengthy commute every day, but she and Joseph – manager at a bakery in town — felt it worth the sacrifice.

“I’m ready!” To prove her point, the only brunette among them sailed past her mother and sister down the stairs, bag over her shoulder and shoes already on. Shoving her feet into the first pair of tennis shoes she saw, Grace stuffed her history book — found under her bed, for some reason — into her bag and followed Aimee to the car.

Grace needn’t have worried about Caroline’s wrath; when she reached the school, Caroline was nowhere in sight. Bonnie and Elena were, though, so after saying goodbye to her sister, she headed their way, just in time for Stefan to join them.

“Good morning, Elena. Good morning, Bonnie, Grace.” Grace smiled and nodded at him, more focused on Bonnie’s reaction to him than a warm welcome. She hadn’t had any time to see if either of the two girls had responded to her inquiry about Bonnie’s supposed psychic powers, so she’d just have to observe and bring it up later.

“Hey,” the greeting was short and uncomfortable, even for Grace, as Bonnie cast her eyes around for an escape route, “Um, I gotta find Caroline. She’s not answering her phone. So, I’ll see you guys later.” Late and unreachable? Maybe mystery man was more Ted Bundy than Casanova? But before Grace could ask if Caroline really was AWOL or simply being used as an escape route, Bonnie was gone.

“She doesn’t like me very much.” How astute.

“She doesn’t know you.” Elena corrected gently, smoothing ruffled feathers as usual. “She’s my best friend. She’s just looking out for me. But when she does, she will love you.”

“Bonnie’s one of those resistant-to-change types, at least when it comes to the friend group.” Grace offered. She felt awkward, as she agreed with Bonnie but was standing with Stefan.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do.” Uh-oh. That’s her ‘I have a plan’ voice. “Are you free tonight?” Grace didn’t need any powers of divination to see where this was going.

“Yes.”

“Perfect. Dinner; My house, 8:00; You, me, and Bonnie.” Elena turned to Grace, an invitation on her lips.

“Oh, no. I’m not getting in the middle of that. This is Bonnie’s thing.” No need to mention her own reservations, especially if it meant getting out of the sure-to-be-awkward dinner.

“Fine. Stefan and Bonnie will spend some quality time and she’ll get to see what a great guy you are. Mission accomplished.” Elena had quite the self-satisfied smile on her face, as if she’d solved world hunger and not Bonnie’s bad attitude. In the silence, a familiar voice sounded in Grace’s ear.

“….Do, Ty?” It was Matt, clearly, but the words were faint. Grace could only make out a few of them,“…made…choice.”

“…One.” Tyler responded.

“Hey, I didn’t know Matt was here already.” Grace exclaimed, just to say something. Elena gave her a strange look.

“What are you talking about? How do you know Matt is here?” Elena knew Matt’s voice as well as Grace did. It should have caught her attention as well, shouldn’t it?

“You didn’t hear him and Tyler?” It was Stefan’s turn to give a strange look, but this one she couldn’t decipher. She wasn’t willing to read him again, so she was left bewildered at the searching expression on his face.

“…Ty, don’t! Ty!” That was louder, but before Grace could make a comment, Stefan was whirling around to catch the football that had been aimed directly at his head. He threw it back — a good throw, maybe better than Tyler’s. Elena laughed at Tyler’s shocked reaction, but Grace was focused on something else. They’re so far away… Grace had always had good senses — perfect vision, a sometimes-too-sensitive consciousness of smell, good hearing — but that was almost… inhuman. No wonder Elena was confused. She hadn’t heard a thing they’d said. Noticing more students arriving, they made their way inside the school, where Elena was not ready to forget Stefan’s display outside.

“That throw was insane. I didn’t know you played football.”

“I used to.” He looked nostalgic for a moment. “It was a long time ago.”

“So why don’t you try out for the team?” Grace asked. Football player and cheerleader may have been a cliché, but it was a cute one.

“Yeah, I don’t think so.” Stefan appeared to think the suggestion was ludicrous.

“So, you don’t like football?” Elena clarified. I hope the mixed signals aren’t a Thing with him.

“No, I love football. I think it’s a great sport.” Grace would beg to differ, though she would never tell Matt. “But in this case, I don’t think football likes me. You saw Tyler over there, and we both know how Matt feels.” The word ‘both’ let Grace know she was heading into third-wheel territory, so she told Elena she’d see her at lunch and made her way to her locker, where her worst nightmare had come true.

Tyler and Vicki. Kissing. She supposed the pair were always either fucking or fighting, so no option was great, but at least when they were fighting, they weren’t a unified front. They wouldn’t tag-team to make her day more difficult. In fact, one of them might even go out of their way to make her life easier, just to spite the other.

Maybe she was glad to be single after all.

“Luctor et emergo.” Grace muttered, as she elbowed her way past the writhing couple to her locker. Grace’s parents had insisted on all three of their children learning both Latin and French from an incredibly early age. Back then, Grace simply thought they were classists or wanted to set their kids apart somehow. Now she knew their true motives – Traditional Magic, and its spells, were almost entirely recited in Latin; the witches of the Quarter use Ancestral Magic – a large part of which was in French. Since childhood, Grace had a habit of slipping into another language in times of stress or hardship — similar to her use of ‘y’all’ — which seemed to be happening a lot more lately. Luctor et emergo: I struggle and emerge. A frequently used phrase when walking the halls of Mystic Fall High School. Another thing becoming more common lately was upper arm work-outs — for days, Grace had been shoving every textbook and spiral bound she could into her backpack and lugging it around all day, just so she could avoid the two forces of nature currently sucking each other’s faces off. The one bright spot was that Vicki had seemed to loosen up on her vendetta against all associated with Elena Gilbert.

Slamming her locker door shut, Grace glanced at her phone again. Bonnie was right — not a peep from Caroline. She began to type a message when the warning bell clanged, signaling two minutes to get to class. She would have to locate Caroline later.

Cheerleading practice was the highlight of Grace’s day. There was almost nothing she loved more than the rush that came from flying and tumbling, except maybe magic. Yes, she hated football — basketball was much less boring, without all that stopping and starting — but cheer was worth it. Of course, she’d made her three closest friends through the squad, and it was one of the few subjects she and Chloe seemed to agree on. Then there was the adrenaline rush, as well as the benefits of having to keep her body in such good condition. It didn’t hurt that the uniform was adorable, either; Grace was proud of the body both nature and cheer had given her, and tended to prefer silhouettes and styles that accentuated her curves, complimenting her features — which, of course, the uniform was basically designed for.

After dropping her water bottle and bag at the edge of the field, Grace began stretching near Bonnie.

“Seriously, if you could maybe make yourself look a little uglier next practice, I think we’d all appreciate it.” Bonnie japed, eyeing the cherry-red spandex shorts and black sports bra Grace had donned for practice.

“You’re one to talk.” Dana, doing the splits a few feet away, called to Bonnie. “Like, could you turn down the glow a little bit, Bonnie?” Grace herself dropped into the splits, having loosened up enough, and slowly rotated forward until she was flat on her stomach. She looked up to see Bethany, a fellow senior, inches away doing the same. Beth, who shared Grace’s weird sense of humor, grabbed Grace’s hand.

“Tell my family…” she whispered, as though she were dying. “Tell my family I died well.” She collapsed loosely on the grass as Grace wailed in feigned grief.

“No, Beth! Come back! I’ll miss you!” Before the charade could continue too far, Grace heard Bonnie’s voice from just outside her limited field of vision.

“Oh, my God! You’re here!” She sounded stunned.

“Yep.” Elena! Grace contorted herself as far as she could without spraining something and saw her two friends standing above her. “I can’t be sad girl forever. The only way to get things back to the way they were are to do things that were.” Grace wasn’t sure that made sense. She slowly pushed herself back up into a sitting position and Bonnie and Elena each grabbed a hand to help her up. “Oh, and you're coming to dinner tonight.” This could end poorly.

“I am?”

“Mm-hmm. You, me, and Stefan.” Bonnie gave The Look. “You have to give him a chance.”

“Tonight's no good. Have you seen Caroline? I texted her like a hundred times.” So, Caroline was still missing… Grace was seriously starting to worry. Missing practice was perhaps the most Un-Caroline thing that could possibly happen.

“Don't change the subject, Bonnie Bennett! You're going to be there.”

“Fine. I'll go.” No one could talk Elena out of something when she set her mind to it, not even Bonnie Bennett.

“Good.”

“Can I circle back to the Caroline thing?” This was probably an appropriate time for Grace to circle back to the psychic thing, but anxiety was gnawing at her. “Neither of you have heard from her. Like at all?” They both shook their heads, then all three girls looked around as if Caroline might pop out of a bush.

“Seriously, where is Caroline?”

“I don’t know. It’s not like her.” Grace was already reaching into her bag for her phone.

“I’ll try her again.” Before she could, however, a car pulled up to the field, containing none other than Caroline… and ‘Damon’. Dream Damon. Grace couldn’t equate Caroline’s sexy-bad-boy mystery guy to the obnoxious but lovable older-brother type she’d dreamt earlier.

“Uh…”

“Oh, my God. That must be the mystery guy from the grill.” Grace suggested. Her friends seemed dumbfounded, and some part of her found it good to know they were just as lost as Grace.

“That’s not a mystery guy.” Or not. “That’s Damon Salvatore.” Grace’s head swung toward Elena so fast she almost gave herself whiplash.

“Salvatore, as in Stefan?” So, she’d had visions of both brothers within days of each other? Each one an indication of future best-friendships? Caroline sauntered over to them, looking smug as all hell even with that ridiculous scarf around her neck. I’m all for a fashion statement, but at cheer practice?

“I got the other brother.” She said to Elena. Well, that explained some of it. Grace knew about Caroline’s deeply buried resentment of Elena, and the fact that never dealt with it or addressed it — she didn’t need to be an Empath to know that, because Caroline had told her. But even if she hadn’t, Grace could practically smell it radiating off of Caroline, she was so upset. “Hope you don’t mind.” Clearly not true. “Sorry I’m late, girls.” She addressed the whole squad this time. “I, uh, was busy.” That little smirk at the corner of her mouth let Grace know that she wasn’t completely wrong about Caroline’s activities the previous night. “All right, let’s start with the double pike herkey hurdler, what do you say?” The girls quickly formed lines, never willing to risk Caroline’s drill-sergeant-esque wrath, and Caroline began counting. Grace, who was behind Elena, could see the younger girl struggling with the maneuver and wondered if Caroline had chosen it on purpose. “Elena, sweetie, why don’t you just observe today? Okay?” It was never a good thing when Caroline used the word “sweetie," and smoke was practically coming out of Elena’s ears. “Keep going! Okay. Do it again, from the top! And 5…” as she went back to counting beats, Grace and Bonnie threw Elena as many commiserative looks as they could. But Elena’s attention had been drawn to the football field, where Stefan Salvatore himself was running plays. The girls watched as Tyler rammed into Stefan, all his weight behind it, and they went down.

“…Gonna live, Salvatore?” Coach Tanner called to the boy, still prone on the grass. Grace could fucking feel Tyler’s emotions from across the field, he was so worked up; he was pissed that some new guy was climbing the popularity ladder so fast, and though a part of him truly did hate Stefan for Matt’s sake, mostly he was jealous himself. It was moments like this when Grace remembered why she hated Tyler so much. The douchebag is using Matt as an excuse to deal with his Alpha Male Complex. Maybe next he’ll pee all over the school like a dog, just to mark his territory.

Stefan got up, and the boys huddled up again; Grace turned her focus back to Caroline’s instructions.

Grace was not looking forward to the football game. Between Caroline’s pettiness being at peak capacity, Elena’s patience at an all-time low, and Bonnie still refusing to come around and give Stefan a chance, Grace figured every moment spent not cheering would be in mediation. As soon as she arrived, she made it her mission to finally talk about the ‘Bonnie’s psychic’ text that had been hovering around her mind all day. Along the way, she ran into Elena, who had apparently quit the squad, and Stefan, who had apparently joined the football team — not quite the stereotypical couple she’d imagined earlier, but whatever.

Finally managing to locate Bonnie, Grace dove straight into what she’d been itching to ask all day.

“So, Bonnie. Psychic?” Bonnie scoffed and rolled her eyes.

“You know how my Grams will get drunk and then start telling me all these stories about magic and fairies and everything…”

“Yeah, I’ve experienced it a time or two.” Perhaps because Sheila knew Grace herself was a witch, she had even less of a filter when Grace was around.

“Well, the other day she starts going on about how I’m psychic.” As Bonnie explained Sheila Bennett’s drunken rambles, Grace realized what Bonnie had yet to put together. Her Grams was telling the truth – Bonnie was a witch. A powerful one, judging by her lineage and psychic abilities — not as strong as Grace’s, but present enough to mean Bonnie’s powers were likely almost unparalleled. “… I mean its crazy, right?” Bonnie was laughing, but there was the smallest part of her that was starting to think maybe it wasn’t so crazy after all.

“Yeah, maybe.” Grace didn’t think it was quite time to reveal herself to Bonnie, but she didn’t want to be unsupportive either. “But, I mean, I totally predicted the end of that movie the other day, so maybe Grams is on to something.”

“Guys, hello?” Caroline had found them. “Are you going to cheer, or are you going to chat?” The two girls rolled their eyes.

“Good to see you, too, Care Bear.” Caroline ignored them, instead using that freaky talent of hers to hone in on the slightest of imperfections.

“Hey, Tiki, it’s all wobbly. Can you stand straight, please? Could someone please help Tiki?”

Grace had her arms wrapped around Matt, despite his protests that he was fine.

“You’re not fine, you dumbass. You just found your teacher and coach…” She didn’t want to say it out loud. “You’re the one who found him, okay? Don’t pretend that didn’t suck.” They were standing by his stupid truck, the light from the ambulance and police cars throwing strange red and blue shadows over everything. The cab door was open, as Grace had bodily slammed into Matt’s back as he made to get inside and clung to him like a monkey.

“Yeah, Gracie, it sucked.” He sighed. “What kind of animal would do something like this?” Caroline’s mom had made the announcement not long ago – Coach Tanner was the victim of another animal attack, this time right in town. Grace shrugged.

“A starving one, I guess.” But Tanner hadn’t been eaten. Just attacked. Like the others. Matt rubbed his hand down Grace’s back as if he were the one comforting her.

“C’mon, Gracie. I’ll drive you home. You can get your car tomorrow.” He walked her around to the passenger’s side, the door of which sometimes stuck shut, and helped her climb up before finally getting in himself. The air conditioning rattled, a comforting, familiar sound in the silence. Grace toed off her white Nfinities, flexing her aching feet. She’d been an idiot in practice last week and fucked up her ankle during a particularly poorly executed scorpion stunt. She’d wrapped it in elastic wrap her mother had spelled with healing charms before the game, but it was no miracle cure. Matt must have noticed her grimace, because he glanced at her with a disapproving big brother look, despite being a year younger than her.

“How many times have I told you to keep your legs straight?”

“Well, look at you, Mr. Cheerleading Expert.” Grace mocked him, not wanting to admit that he had told her that countless times. After nearly 7 years of watching (and sometimes unwillingly participating) in backyard cheer practice, Matt was somewhat knowledgeable in the sport. Knowledgeable enough to know a stunt will fall if the flyer can’t keep her fucking legs straight, anyway. “Don’t worry, Caroline already tore me a new one.” Damn, had she ever. The moment Grace went down, she’d felt Caroline’s hawk-like gaze on her, even through the bodies of her bases. ‘Stop giving me excuses, Sinclair. It’s been four months! Get it together.’ Elena had been in Grace’s stunt group when her parents were killed, which left the foursome someone bereft of a base when she quit. Caroline had frantically rearranged but getting used to a new base was always an adjustment. Selfishly, Grace was just glad none of this had happened when she was captain.

“Yeah, well Caroline can be a nutcase but this time she’s kind of right.” Grace could feel herself getting defensive, even though he was once again correct, but didn’t want to say something that might stall the effectively distracting conversation. Matt might pretend to be blasé, but Grace was calling bullshit.

“Yeah, I get it mom, I need to be more careful.” By this time, they’d reached Matt’s house and, despite Grace living literally fifteen feet away, Matt drove past his own driveway and pulled into hers. “Seriously, dude?” She raised an eyebrow at him.

“I’m a gentleman,” Matt smirked, “sue me.” Rolling her eyes affectionately, Grace moved to unbuckle her seatbelt when she noticed Matt staring toward her house with a strange look on his face. She’d seen that look before. She waited for him to break the sudden silence, but he was lost in thought.

“Matt?” She prompted quietly. She knew what he was going to say, and if talking about it was going to keep his mind off Tanner’s mangled body a little longer, then she’d talk about it.

“It feels weird.” That’s specific. “Looking at… this.” He gestured vaguely towards her house, then back towards his. “I mean… yours is so…”

“Big?” It wasn’t really, not for a family of five — it was actually a completely average house in every way. Two floors, four bedrooms — well, three bedrooms and a converted office — two bathrooms. But next to Matt’s she supposed, it did look a bit extravagant.

“And your car is so…” Again, he trailed off, searching for a nice way to call her spoiled. She didn’t take offense.

“Fancy?” She did drive an Audi - cherry red and the love of her life — but (here comes the justification, she nearly cringed) her father had wanted an Audi for years. By the time they’d saved up enough, they had three little kids and it was impractical. So they kept the savings set aside and when Grace turned 16, her dad finally got his dream car… for her. ‘If you so much as scratch the paint, this car is mine,' her father had warned. Chloe, much to her disappointment, had gotten a Honda as her first car. It was a perfectly good car, but certainly not an Audi. Matt sighed and gave her a sheepish look.

“I’m sorry. I just look at the difference between the two… who knew one yard could feel like such a big divide?” It wasn’t like Matt lived in the “bad part of town” and Grace’s house happened to be the closest. His house should have been perfectly normal, just like hers. But his mother wasn’t the best with finances… Or upkeep… Or mothering. She hated that her family’s good fortune made Matt feel so inferior.

“Well, if anyone can bridge that divide, Donovan… it’s you.” Matt would almost certainly settle quite happily into the small town life, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t be a better small town life. He smiled at her, shaking off the seriousness.

“Well, it certainly won’t be the girl who can’t even keep her legs straight.” She punched him, both of them laughing. She gathered her shoes and bag and jumped down onto the still-warm asphalt.

“Goodnight, Donovan.” She called, circling around to his side of the truck. “But seriously. If you’re ever not fine…” she paused, searching for a way to end that statement that didn’t sound too smothering. “Well, you know where I live.” He smiled at her, backing out and pulling into his own car port, before waving goodnight as the side door into the kitchen slammed behind him. Making her way inside, Grace was nearly tackled to the ground by her sister, and she suddenly knew what Matt must have felt like when she leapt on him at his truck.

“Oh my God, Gracie, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Aims. I wasn’t…” I wasn’t there. But she was there, was just around the corner when a wild animal viciously attacked a man she knew. “I didn’t even…” I didn’t even see the body. But she had, just before the coroner draped a white sheet over her old history teacher and loaded him into a van headed to the morgue. “Matt found him.” Matt had it worse. That’s what she meant. She wasn’t fine, but Matt had it so much worse, so how could she admit that? Maybe that’s what Matt himself had felt, in some form.

“Oh my God, that’s awful.” Her sisters weren’t at the game, thank God, as Chloe had dance rehearsal and Aimee a date. All of their knowledge was second-hand and incomplete, which possibly made their worry worse. Or would, when rehearsal was over, and Chloe checked her phone to undoubtedly find dozens of messages ranging from factual to wild rumor. “Was it really a bear?” Grace snorted. She had no idea what kind of animal had attacked Tanner, but whatever story Aimee had heard probably involved some hulking Goliath of a grizzly storming onto the football field and biting the coach in two.

“I have no idea, Aims. No one saw anything.” So it was probably not a bear. Something stealthier, like a cougar. “Have you spoken to mom and dad?” Their parents were also out on a rare date night and Grace wasn’t sure if the news had reached them yet. If so, they were likely speeding their way home at this moment. But Grace’s younger sister shook her head.

“I don’t think they’ve heard yet. I didn’t want to spoil date night and tell them.”

“What about your date? I’m sorry it was cut short.” It was Aimee’s turn to snort, sounding just like Grace.

“I’m not. He spent the entire time bouncing between checking his phone and his reflection.”

“Yikes.” Grace knew her sister’s pain. “I guess maybe one good thing came out of this evening then, yeah?” Aimee worried her lip, something clearly on her mind. “What’s up, Aims?”

“I just… all these animal attacks… do you know of anything that could help?”

“What, like hunting the thing down?”

“No, doofus. Magically. Are there… protection spells or talismans or something, so I don’t have to constantly worry about you and Chloe and mom and dad?” As the only non-witch in the family — though their father practiced very rarely – Aimee’s knowledge of magic had limitations.

“Um, sure. Probably. But I’ve already got my jet.” To illustrate the point, Grace held her hands out her sister, the black rings sparkling on her fingers. She wasn’t technically supposed to wear much jewelry while cheering, but the thumb ring was inconspicuous and unlikely to cause problems. It was also a security blanket of sorts. The other one, the one she’d bought for herself only a few years ago, she took off right before cheering and put on again immediately after.

“Yeah, I don’t know if Chloe’s into the whole black-jewelry thing.” If Grace was into it, then Chloe likely wasn’t, more out of conscious decision than personal preference, but it didn’t matter. There were other alternatives. Grace sat at the dining room table, sliding her mother’s grimoire to her sister.

“Pick your favorite, then.”

Grace completely fucking forgot about the Founder’s Party. Like, literally, would not have remembered to go if her mom and sisters didn’t scream at her to ‘go get ready because your date is picking you up in an hour’. Actually, they walked into Matt’s house, uninvited — where she had been celebrating the news that the culprit of all the animal attacks had been killed (a cougar, like she thought) — and marched her back home.

When Jeffrey Lockwood-Hamilton had approached her and asked her to go to the Founder’s Party with him, quote ‘because it’s going to be so boring and you might actually make it bearable,' she’d been flattered, if confused. It wasn’t that she and Jeffrey were unfriendly, but they didn’t associate much, what with him being two years younger. Grace supposed that, the times they had hung out had been at other excruciatingly dull parties such as the Miss Mystic pageant, which Caroline required Grace to go to every year for ‘moral support’. They’d entertained each other while their respective ‘dates’ had been occupied, so she supposed it had become somewhat of an unspoken tradition that she and Jeff would hang out at parties.

So, here she was, digging her red party dress out from the closet and wincing as Chloe none-too-gently twisted her hair into an updo. The dress was pretty, standard, just passed the knees with a simple, straight silhouette and thin straps. She threw on some strappy sandals and grabbed a purse right as Jeff rang the bell.

“Ready to have some fun?” He asked sarcastically by way of greeting.

“Cheer up, Jeff.” Grace coaxed. “There’s always champagne.”

When they arrived, Grace immediately spotted a potential problem: Damon Salvatore, looking unfairly handsome in his dark suit, was on Caroline’s arm, and they were chatting with Elena and Stefan. Caroline was still sporting that weird-ass scarf.

“I’m about to be super fucking tacky, Jeff, and leave you alone for a few minutes.” Grace grimaced as she made her excuse. Jeff laughed.

“You’re fine, Grace. Go say hey. Bring me back a glass or two of champagne if you can sneak it past my mom.” He nodded to the corner, where his mother had one eye on the heritage display and one on her son.

“Sure thing.” As Grace approached, Caroline began dragging a wary Stefan onto the dance floor before spotting the older girl.

“Gracie, you’re here!”

“I am! And you’re with Stefan.” It was a question phrased as a statement.

“Damon won’t dance with me,” Caroline pouted, “but apparently Stefan is quite talented.” He looked like he would rather be anywhere else.

“Well, he’ll have to be to keep up with you, Miss Mystic.” Caroline beamed at the reminder of her potential title and the compliment.

“Why don’t we find out?” Stefan suggested, motioning Caroline forward. That was clearly code for “let’s get this over with,” but Care either didn’t notice or didn’t mind. Grace continued forward to Damon and Elena, who were studying the heritage displays.

“…I just… I hope you two can work it out.” Elena was saying, in her “Elena voice”.

“I hope so, too.” Damon’s tone rang of double entendre, but Grace dismissed it and made her presence known.

“Founding Families, huh?” She asked, looking over the document they were in front of. “Riveting.”

“You make fun, but you New Orleans-folks have your traditions too.” Elena poked fun right back at Grace, the age-old debate familiar and affectionate. Damon turned to her.

“You’re from New Orleans?”

“I am. I’m Grace.” Knowing he was Stefan’s brother, Grace was beyond reluctant to shake his hand and experience that same slimy emptiness, but it would be extremely rude not to.

“Damon.” He extended his arm and Grace placed her small hand in his, hoping she didn’t look as apprehensive as she felt. His hand was warm, but his soul was cold. Cold and dead, like Stefan’s, but there was something else… a warmth not from life or love, but bitterness and hate and malice all festering inside of him. There’s more than this to him. The Damon she had seen in her vision, the one she had been friends with — closer even than her and Stefan would become, judging from the emotions in her vision — was not this embittered, cancerous thing currently in front of her. So, she pushed deeper and deeper, shoving her way past all the black and bad, until finally, finally, there was something else. Something surprising. Insecurity and… longing. Love, or… something he thought was love. Something that maybe used to be love but was now merely the impression of it. Intelligence still glimmered in every corner of this part of his soul, but it wasn’t the cold cunning of before. It was hard won, a lifetime’s worth — several lifetimes worth — of mistakes and knowledge and experience. This was the Damon she would come to know, someone broken but too proud to show it, who used acerbic humor as both a defense mechanism and a show of support for those few he cared for. Suddenly becoming aware that this handshake was starting to become too long to be normal, she pulled her hand away as he looked her over, assessing. Too deep. She’d pushed her powers too far, had already reached her limit and was practically exhausted and out of breath, like she’d been running. She tried to covertly catch her breath, hoping Damon and Elena didn’t notice.

“Have you been? To New Orleans, I mean.”

“I lived there. Once.”

“Really?” Grace’s eyes widened. It wasn’t often she met other people who’d experienced the magic of New Orleans, let alone lived there. “Do you miss it? I know I do.” He smiled a touch nostalgically.

“Well, it was a long time ago.” There was something in his voice as he said "long time,” the same thing that had been in Stefan’s as he said the same words about playing football. Something that implied more. “But it was a hell of a lot fun.” Grace gave him a once-over.

“You know, Damon, I think you and I are going to get along just fine.” Damon’s eyes gleamed with something even she couldn’t quite place.

“I look forward to it, Grace.”

As Damon and Elena headed off toward the dance floor and their respective dates, Grace noticed Bonnie sitting at a table by herself. She knew that she was ignoring Jeff, but she hadn’t spoken to Bonnie all day, and she had the rest of the party to hover by his side. She made her way over, but when she was a few feet away, the breeze blew out the candle sitting as the centerpiece on the table. Bonnie turned her head, focusing her attention on the candle.

It re-ignited.

Grace stumbled, nearly fell over. Bonnie started, blowing the candle out and glancing around to make sure no one saw. From this short distance away, Grace could feel Bonnie’s budding realization that her Gram’s drunken rambles were true, her fear and confusion, her paranoia and loneliness. And Grace couldn’t let Bonnie believe she was alone in this. So, she righted herself, marched over to her friend, and grabbed her arm. Bonnie looked up at her, obviously scared she had witnessed the candle incident.

“I think we need to talk.” Grace pulled her friend out of her chair and away from bustle of the party. “There’s some things you need to hear.”

#saving grace #masterlist #oc #kol mikaelson #damon salvatore #fanfic #the vampire diaries #the originals #elena gilbert #stefan salvatore #bonnie bennett #caroline forbes #elijah mikaelson #klaus mikaelson #rebekah mikaelson

3 notes · View notes

charlieknighte · 3 years

Text

a creature born / a fire set

Genfic - Background Samot/Samothes

Character Study - Family Angst - Found Family

3,512 words

A gift for BYZANTIUUM in the Secret Samol fandom exchange

content warnings: the horrors of war™, unhealthy family dynamics

Sometimes, as the son of gods runs with thieves and scoundrels, he thinks that it’s not so bad to have lost everything he once knew.

Sometimes, as Maelgwyn slogs down rows of army tents and lifts his face to his father’s volcano for the hundredth time that week, he feels as if this war is all he’s ever known.

The corner of Marielda that his army is situated in isn’t particularly pleasant, the flaming sea bracketing them in on three sides, the hot, moist air frizzing up Maelgwyn’s curls and bringing a never-ending sweat to his brow. Even at night, the sea never quite lets the city fall into darkness, sitting like a dim red horizon behind the cubes of bright yellow light cast by the army’s temporary lodgings. The sight used to be beautiful before it fell into monotony.

Tamsen, his second-in-command, follows close at Maelgwyn’s heels, her ever-present and barely concealed anger and contempt not much of a breath of fresh air. She doesn’t generally direct it at him, but he can feel it simmering in her speech as she reports the latest updates from the front-lines. She’s not one to sugarcoat things, not one to pretend the cost of this war is just numbers on a page. Sometimes Maelgwyn wonders if she hates his fathers for all of this. Sometimes he wonders if he can hate his fathers, but he knows that he could never bring himself to.

Do you love him? Samot had asked him the last time they spoke about Samothes, his tone of voice expectant, knowing the answer and only needing to present it to prove his point. When Maelgwyn was younger, he’d often worry that his fathers didn’t love each other anymore as they shook the house with their arguments. Now that he’s older, the truth that you can love someone and still hurt and hurt and hurt them makes him feel sick. Of course he loves him. Of course they both love him, and yet here they are.

As they grow close to Maelgwyn’s own tent, Tamsen reaches the end of her report and settles into gloomy silence. Maelgwyn tiredly asks, “Anything else, Tamsen?”

She snaps right back to professionalism. “There's been a scuffle between two lieutenants. Not the first time. Their captain wants you to have a word with the instigator.”

Maelgwyn blows his hair out of his face, half purposeful and half out of annoyance. It sticks to his forehead, and he has to swipe it out of the way instead, irritation mounting. He’d have much preferred to be able to continue to his bed in peace. “At what time?”

“Well, sir...” She stops in front of a tent and gestures. The path she’d taken him on must have been engineered to get this over with. Sometimes he nearly resents her efficiency. He suppresses a sigh and lifts the flap of the tent, stepping inside. It’s small, but not as cramped as a lower ranking officer’s bunk might be. At his intrusion, there’s some shuffling behind a curtain separating the beds from the cluttered, meagre living area.

“Lieutenant?” Maelgwyn asks, his voice stiff and formal and sounding like it comes from another person entirely.

There’s a groan and more shuffling, like someone turning over in bed. “What d’you want?”

Half-asleep, Maelgwyn guesses. And ill-mannered. “I heard about your run-in with your fellow lieutenant. Your captain sent me to have a word.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then an impassioned thrashing and indignant thump as the lieutenant gets out of bed. “Well, you can tell Thackeray that instead of snitching, next time he can come to me directly," he says vehemently, finally emerging from behind the curtain with a rumpled uniform he clearly only just threw on. "I'll kick his ass—" It takes him a remarkably short amount of time after recognizing Maelgwyn to gain a sense of composure and scramble into a salute. “I mean, I'll deal with him myself. Sir. Sorry.” He grimaces to himself for a moment before settling into a pleasantly blank expression.

Something about him stops Maelgwyn cold. He's barely even a teenager, but it’s not that—uncomfortably young troops are far too familiar around here. It’s just that he's so familiar. Brown skin and sharp eyes and curls cut according to Marieldan vogue, but too loose to be local. He looks more like a westerner. And something about his contemptuous self-assurance, even now that he’s being deferential—the shrewdness of his eyes—I'll kick his ass—somehow he jolts Maelgwyn back to his best times as a child, running through the streets of his village after his best friend, stolen pies in their sticky fingers, a similar sly gleam in her eye. Maelgwyn feels like all the wind has been knocked out of him at the intensity of the memory.

“What's your name?” he asks, mouth dry.

“Hitchcock, sir.” Underneath the formal tightness of his voice, he still sounds squirmy, like he’s expecting a punishment to be handed down any moment.

Maelgwyn sighs, rubs at his face. If only there was a way to phrase what he wonders without crossing a dozen lines. “Try not to get yourself killed.”

Hitchcock's carefully blank expression wrinkles a little bit, and he looks at Maelgwyn like he's grown an extra head. “Okay,” he says, clearly caught off-guard by the lack of formality or reprimands. Maelgwyn is still reeling. He wishes he could ask him if he knew a little girl in the plains, but he knows it’s impossible for him to have been alive back then. The unnatural length of his life is starting to catch up to him. The silence between them is beginning to drag on uncomfortably long. Hitchcock stares at him without any regard for etiquette. The intensity of his eyes is suddenly too much.

“As you were,” Maelgwyn says, self-conscious at having been seen in a moment of conflict. He backs up, floundering for the tent flap and stepping out before his grip on himself can start to slip. As he bursts out into the warm, muggy night haphazardly, Tamsen looks at him quizzically. He shakes his head to clear it and squares his shoulders again, as a general should. “Anything else to report?”

“Nothing, sir.” She cuts her eyes away from him, pretending not to have seen his moment of weakness.

“Then you’re dismissed for the night.”

Some nights, he almost regrets dismissing her. Those are the nights when he’s too heartsick to pretend that it doesn’t hurt when his soldiers’ laughter grows quiet as he passes them, when they keep their expressions stiff and serious around him as if they think that’s what he wants. They’re the nights that he wishes he could sit around a fire and trade war stories with someone without being afraid of revealing too much.

Maelgwyn quietly imagines that as Tamsen clicks her heels together sharply and salutes. Maybe it’s for the best. Maybe her anger towards the gods would make her too bitter towards him if she knew. They turn together in opposite directions, Maelgwyn continuing down the rows of tents as they grow larger and more lavish. Contrarily, his tent is functionally plain and small, and not as cool and inviting as the lieutenant’s had been. Not the tent a son of Samothes would be given, if that was how he was known.

Some nights—those same nights that he wishes for a cup of ale and a warm fire among friends—he yearns for a place in a crowded bunk, hearing the muffled noises of other soldiers as they turn over in their creaky beds or grumble in their sleep. Tonight, he tries to put the thought out of his mind as he gets ready for bed. It’s too hurtful to dwell on. He doesn’t bother lighting a candle—his bedtime routine is so utilitarian he barely needs to do anything but strip off his uniform and fall into bed. Inside this tent, he has nothing, and usually it’s easier than the overwhelming number of fires outside waiting to be put out.

He sees Hitchcock again a few weeks later, in a lineup of officers waiting to be promoted by his hand. As he shook hands, pinned medals to chests and offered congratulations, most soldiers flinched, gazes unable to stay on his face for more than a moment. Their grips were limp and their thank yous rushed, too awed by his holy presence to keep it together. Maelgwyn feels like he should’ve gotten used to this by now.

Captain Hitchcock only looked up at him and grinned.

---

It’s odd, to have stumbled out of a university basement with a gauntlet affixed to his hand and not more than a handful of his memories of life. Most days Maelgwyn frantically spins in a daze of confusion, grasping at what memories he has, trying to cobble them back together into a sense of self and winding up frustrated when the pieces don’t fit as he feels they should. Other days—rarer than they should be, creeping up on him and overwhelming him with blissful surprise that he didn’t see coming—he feels steadier. Not quite good, but okay. He forgets his struggle to try to remember to be himself and just is. Those days feel like a fresh start.

That’s the benefit of forgetting the rest of his life—it feels almost as if this is all he’s ever known. Being dragged along on whirlwind heists, each disastrous and joyful, a spinning dance that at turns nauseates and delights him until he learns how to settle his stomach and feel consistent glee. A nervous thrill running through him as he pockets something that isn’t his and knows he’s gotten away with it. Running down alleyways after the Six—after his friends, his friends—heart thumping a dizzyingly fast tempo, feet aching, whoops rising from his throat unbidden but welcome. They always cut it close, and that’s part of the beauty of it—being crammed into smaller and smaller spaces and always engineering some way out. Always managing to find their way back to a safe place deep under the city, where they can share drinks and congratulatory hugs and sit on the floor sorting through their loot far into the night. On nights like these, Maelgwyn feels at peace.

Tonight’s take was excellent. They shake out their bags and pockets into a huge pile between the haphazardly arranged couches in the Six’s basement, voices still high and boisterous from adrenaline. Aubrey falls upon the pile first, snatching away a book of alchemy that one of the Hitchcocks swiped—specifically for her, undoubtedly. She scampers off to curl up in one of her favorite chairs, nose already buried deep between pages. Sige is next, scooping up a brick-sized tome Maelgwyn doubts anyone else would be able to lift or would care to spend hours poring through. Castille takes a little longer picking through the pile, finding the books on magical theory and Marieldan history and natural sciences that Maelgwyn’s come to know are her favorites. The Hitchcocks take more of an interest in finding drinks than books, which is about what he expected.

As Maelgwyn settles next to Castille, one of the twins presses a glass into his hand with a grin. It’s white wine. Maelgwyn doesn’t quite know why, but the lightness relieves him. He takes a generous chug, excited to slip into the giddy, warm chaos of the night that his friends always manage to create.

He’s long since settled into an arrangement to share Castille’s books—they have overlapping tastes, and what with their shared amnesia, a similar drive to brush up on the history they’ve forgotten. They settle into a comfortable quiet in their own corner as the rest of the Six shout out their discoveries as they find them, buzzing now from the excitement of getting their hands on knowledge that’s been untouched for what might be years, jealously hidden away by Samothes’s heavy hand.

Maelgwyn knows, objectively, that he is Samothes and Samot’s son. Castille had told him, pity clear on her face as she realized he didn’t remember. He knows, but it’s funny—he doesn’t feel like the son of a god, no matter how hard he tries. When he tries to think back to his past, he feels a sort of nausea at remembering something he’ll never be again and could never claw his way back to. The vastness of his forgotten past seems so threatening, like it hides horrible secrets he’d be better off not learning. It’s hard to put out of mind. At the very least, it contrasts with the lightness and joy of his life now, even when the spaces between it stretch long. He is happy here, welcome here, at times even able to put his fathers’ war out of mind.

That’s why his heart sinks when he realizes the first book he’s picked up is on exactly that— the war. The things Samothes writes about Samot… Maelgwyn could never imagine writing things like this about someone he loves. They make him ache to read, secondhand pain that’s filtered down from them despite how little he remembers of being their child. In Samothes's furious scripture decrying the boy-prince's rebellion, he can see through the anger to the deep sorrow of betrayal beneath. In even the cruelest of his propaganda against his husband, there’s reluctance, a sense that he’s holding himself back from showing the worst of Samot’s nature out of some remnant of respect. Maelgwyn knows in the depths of his mind that Samothes could strike much more cutting blows if he wanted, that there’s a cold cruelty in Samot he can’t quite remember the specifics of but used to feel like searing ice.

And yet… Samothes loves him. Even with rebellion. Even in a war.

There’s incredible tenderness to be found in his fathers’ writings, if one goes looking. Love letters, hundreds of them, thousands of them from the millenia they’ve been alive. Collected and annotated, dripping with endearments and genuine adoration. Even after reading about the violence they inflict on each other, their love letters beg the question—how could such a deep love have been lost completely? How could a fraction not have persisted, even after everything?

Do you love him? Samot asks expectantly, a dozen years and a thousand miles away.

Maelgwyn closes the book with a snap, hands clammy. He sits with it for a moment, letting the warm ruckus of his friends’ voices wash back over him and remind him where he is and who he isn’t. He sits until his hands feel more like his own again and then pushes the book back into Castille’s pile, trying to find something more innocuous in its place. He emerges with a guide to edible plants in southern Hieron. He traces his un-gauntleted fingers over its cover, far more pleasant memories sparking in the depths of his mind.

Some nights his grandfather would come to their house in the woods, and when he would step inside he would begin shouting so suddenly it shocked Maelgwyn. It would sound less like an argument and more like when one of Maelgwyn's fathers would lecture him, one-sided and allowing for little rebuttal. Eventually his grandfather would step back out, fuming. He would stare up at the sky and take a long breath, and when he looked back down at Maelgwyn he would always be smiling kindly. Why don’t we take a walk? he would say. Maelgwyn would be so relieved to get away from the arguing for even a few minutes that he would’ve gone anywhere with him.

His grandfather would walk Maelgwyn and his friends out to the forests and plains and creeks around their mansion, leading them through the terrain in a way that implied familiarity with every inch. He'd spend hours teaching them what berries to eat, what leaves to pick for tea. To remind you that I'm always here to look out for you, he told Maelgwyn cheerfully. It had helped—when Maelgwyn felt lonely, as he often did, he would wander out into the thick yard behind their house and immerse himself in the forest, feeling his grandfather's warm, comforting presence.

He realizes now that his grandfather is the continent itself, of course, and he had meant for Maelgwyn to seek his presence in a literal sense. It’s hard to feel him now, here, where Maelgwyn’s father has such power. The streets are densely packed with stone and metal and concrete, but still—bits of Samol still manage to peek through. The roots of trees forcing their way into the gaps between cobblestones, flowers determinedly poking up in the tiniest pockets of dirt, moss and lichen lightly dusting the roofs of houses. Nature always finds its way through no matter how hard Marielda works to keep it out, like a nagging parent. That’s one thing from his past Maelgwyn doesn’t mind holding onto.

It hits him that he’s going to have to give this book away when he’s done, and he’s seized by a creeping sorrow. It wouldn’t be fair for him to keep it—it’s merchandise, and more than that, it’ll likely fall into the hands of someone who could use the knowledge in its pages. But at the same time, he knows he’s the only person in the continent who could appreciate it for more than the simple guide it is. To him, it’s a piece of something—someone—he loves, wood pulp paper and plants distilled into dyes. Its weight in his hands is precious to him.

He sits, frozen and conflicted. Castille, oblivious, erupts in a flurry of laughter and gets up to help Aubrey lift a tome almost as big as her. Maelgwyn can’t move after her, left in a private bubble of confusion and trepidation that even noise can’t burst. One of the Hitchcocks flops down beside him in Castille’s place, already a little too drunk. Maelgwyn doesn’t think much of it until he realizes Hitchcock is looking at him. He feels a pang of fear that he’s being judged until he realizes there’s a sharp sort of curiosity in Hitchcock’s eyes, even as he lazily lets his head loll back against the couch.

Maelgwyn’s attachment to Castille is straightforward, but he doesn’t understand why Hitchcock is familiar to him. Some of the memories that try to surface when he looks at him seem to be from an impossibly long time ago, before Hitchcock was even supposed to be born. He remembers wildly tearing through the roads of his childhood with only mischief on his mind, hands grubby, curls untamed, chasing a girl with a mud-spattered dress who screamed far more wildly than him. Maelgwyn would probe him for possible connections if he wasn’t too nervous to reveal such an intimate memory, and if he trusted Hitchcock not to spin it for his own benefit. Crafty little worm, he thinks, his fondness soothing his anxiety once again.

Hitchcock suddenly sits forward, nearly tipping over unsteadily but catching his balance. He gestures at the book in Maelgwyn’s hands. “Take it," he says earnestly. Like he could read the hunger in Maelgwyn’s eyes.

Maelgwyn is taken aback. He stammers, and knows that tips Hitchcock off to the fact that he guessed correctly. “What? It's… it’s merchandise. You need it."

Hitchcock glances back at the rest of the Six, engrossed in cheering Aubrey on as she determinedly drags her gargantuan book up to a table. He leans in conspiratorially. There it is again—that familiar glimmer in his eye, the one that brings back the wild, free times of Maelgwyn’s childhood. "No, we don't. Not that badly. Take it."

Maelgwyn is breathless at the idea. Of course he’s stolen things before—many, many times during his tenure with the Six—but they were never for himself. It’s been so long since Maelgwyn owned something of his own, something that hadn’t been handed down to him by his parents or their followers, bearing a heavy burden of expectation or responsibility. Maelgwyn imagines dog-earing the book’s pages and writing notes in the margins and pressing flowers between chapters, leaving tangible marks of his existence all his own, and nearly bursts into tears.

He slips it into his jacket discreetly, the shiver like the one he’s learned to enjoy after a theft running through him. Hitchcock grins with infectious, mischievous glee, and Maelgwyn can’t help but laugh with him. “C’mon,” Hitchcock says, pulling him up by his hands. “Let’s dance.”

Maelgwyn lets himself be pulled, stumbling, to the center of the room, trepidation overwhelmed by excitement. The Six cheer for them as they start some partner dance Maelgwyn has no name for, Hitchcock whirling him around in dizzying circles until they’re both breathless with laughter, stumbling against each other as the rest of their friends find their own pairs and fill up the dance floor around them.

If Maelgwyn closes his eyes and lets himself melt into the moment, he can forget he was ever a god’s son, ever chosen to fight a war that wasn’t his, ever a historical figure before he was a person. He can wash those thoughts away with this life he’s built, no matter how temporary. This is all he’s known, and all he ever needs.

#friends at the table #marielda #maelgwyn #samot #samothes

2 notes · View notes

sad-sweet-cowboah · 5 years

Text

As We Meet

$10 comission! @la-vide asked for Arthur first appearing in modern!reader’s home/first adjusting to the modern world. This came out to be 2,460 words and fun to write! This actually lingered in the back of my mind for a while, but this gave me an excuse to actually write it!

The sound of fumbling aroused you from a comfortable sleep. Though still dazed, you got up immediately. Your clock flashed 7 am, and you groaned in annoyance. Not how you wanted to wake up on your day off.

“Fucking cat.” You rasped, rubbing your bleary eyes as you padded over to your door. It was ajar, and you saw the little silver kitten dart into your room. “What’d you knock down this time?” You asked her, shooting Artemis a glare as she disappeared underneath your bed.

Yawning widely, you stepped out of your bedroom, expecting to see some sort of decoration knocked over. You’ve only had Artemis for a month and she seemed to be on a mission to destroy anything on high shelves, despite the large cat tree you’d bought when you first got her.

You rounded the corner to your living room, your eyes fixed on your carpet only to find nothing indicating any damage. However, what you saw instead caused you to freeze and slowly back up.

A man stood smack in the middle of your living room. Dressed in all black and facing away from you. Your heart thundered wildly in your chest, wondering if this man was a burglar, or worse. You knew some self defense, and hoped he was slower than you.

You regretted turning down your father’s offer about having a firearm.

You glanced around, hoping that you had anything that could be used as a weapon. Thankfully, a broken floor lamp sat in the corner and you grabbed it, silently thanking yourself that you hadn’t thrown it out yet.

Gripping the lamp hard, you whipped around the corner, ready to swing. The first thing your eye caught was the myriad of weapons decorating his upper torso and his waist, secondly, how broad he was.

He seemed to be alerted by your presence and he turned around immediately. His face was partially hidden by a worn black cowboy hat, and when you got a good look at him, something struck you as familiar.

His arms raised in the air in a sign of surrender. “Easy there…” he drawled in a deep voice, his accent strong.

Wait…

“Who are you and what are you doing in my house?” You demanded, tightening your grip.

“I ain’t lookin’ for trouble. Jus’ tryin’ to figure out where I am.” He explained evenly and warily.

That voice…

“How about you get out then?” You growled, trying to keep yourself focused.

“Can you jus’ tell me where I am, ‘sides your house?” The man asked. He lifted his head, allowing you to see his face fully.

You dropped the lamp in surprise, the bar clattering awkwardly against the carpeted floor. “Arthur Morgan?!”

He frowned. “How do ya know me?”

You must be dreaming. There is no way in hell a video game character would be real, standing right in front of you. You pinched yourself, and held back a small hiss when the stinging pain made its presence. Okay, this was reality. You weren’t sure how to respond to him, every word failing to form coherent phrases. Your mouth made a couple of noises detached from your brain. “Are you real?” You managed to splutter out.

He gave you a look of confusion, and spread his arms out as if to answer you. “Last time I checked…”

You could only stare. Just last night you were sitting on your couch and playing Red Dead Redemption 2, running as Arthur through the cobblestone paths of Saint Denis. Now, that same Arthur stood in your living room. You wordlessly reached out to him, brushing your fingers against his arm. He flinched from your touch, but he was solid. His skin was warm.

“Ma’am,” he said, stepping back from you. “If you could kindly let me know where I am so I can get back home?”

Jesus Christ, he was really real. You pursed your lips and told him the name of your town and your state, only to see his confusion grow.

“Seems far from Lemoyne…” he murmured to himself, and looked around your house. “Ain’t never seen any house like this neither.” He paused when he looked at your TV. “That some fancy new mirror?”

“Uh,” you chewed your bottom lip, thinking of your next few words. You decided to avoid the question. “Do you remember how you got here?”

He looked at you again. “No. Last thing I remember is goin’ to bed. Next thing I know, I wake up on your floor.” He continued to look around the room, seemingly more intrigued by the modern technology. “You didn’t kidnap me, didja?”

“No!” You automatically answered.

“Well, ya know who I am. Can’t be a coincidence that I end up in some stranger’s home that knows my name.” Arthur’s eyes narrowed.

“I…have heard of you,” you lied quickly. “But I don’t know why you’re here either. I promise I didn’t kidnap you.”

He stared at you with scrutiny for a moment, eyes traveling up and down your body. You were only wearing a tank top and shorts, and you felt naked under his gaze. Once he realized your discomfort, he turned his head away. Even in an awkward situation like this, he was respectful.

“I think I should get goin’, you gotta horse I could borrow or somethin’?” He asked, wandering over to a window and peered outside. You caught a glimpse of your car in the driveway, and he stepped back in confusion.”The hell is that?”

How could you explain to him that he was a video game character in the future? Hell, he wouldn’t understand the concept of a video game in the first place. “That’s…a car,” you said carefully. “No one uses horses to get around anymore.”

“Anymore?” He repeated, turning to look at you. “What do ya mean by that?”

“Arthur, what year do you think it is?”

“1899,” he said, though from his expression he seemed unsure. “Ain’t it?”

You shook your head slowly. “It’s 2019.”

“Two thousand…” he trailed off, his brow furrowing in thought. He was silent for a moment, though the frown on his face deepened. “So…I somehow jumped 120 years in the future?”

“I…I think so.” You sighed, scratching your head in plain bewilderment. How in the world did this happen? Why did it happen?

Arthur seemed to be at a loss for words, the exasperated look on his face told you everything that he couldn’t form coherent words for. You weren’t sure what to say to him either.

The awkward silence was broken by the sound of your phone ringing from your bedroom, and Arthur jumped. His eyes widened in surprise.

“Relax,” you said calmly. “I’ll go get that. You don’t go anywhere.”

It was your workplace calling, asking you to come in due to being short staffed today. You were quick to lie; explaining that Artemis needed to go to the emergency vet, feigning concern in your voice as you did. In the middle of the conversation, some movement caught your eye, and you noticed Arthur stood awkwardly at your door.

You hung up, turning to catch his gaze. He seemed to be fixated on your phone. “What’s that contraption?”

“A cell phone,” you said, throwing it against your bed. “You okay?” you asked, noting the troubled look on his face.

He sighed, hanging his head slightly to remove his hat. You’d realized with a jolt that he was just as you designed him in your personal game. The initial shock of his sudden appearance caused you to not notice it previously. That short, slicked back hair was something you favored. It certainly looked much better in real life. “Jus’…worried, I guess. Dunno how to get back to my own time, if I even can.”

Your heart sank for him. As confused as you were, it was even more confusing for him. He technically didn’t exist in this world, so of course there would be nowhere for him to go. You could only hope that this was temporary, and whatever magic sent him here would send him back to the game.

Until then, he would need a place to stay. “Well…Arthur, you can stay here for the time being. I mean at least until you manage to get back.” You offered.

He looked at you, an intense stare from those bright blue eyes shining in the morning light. His lips twitched for a moment before he responded. “That ain’t necessary. I think I put you off enough by bein’ here.”

You shook your head in response. “It’s not your fault that you appeared in my living room. But since you’re here, you need a place to stay. I’m the only person you know so far.”

“Hardly,” He chuckled without humor. “I ain’t even know your name.”

You told him your name. “Better?” you said.

“Miss Y/N,” he repeated thoughtfully. “I still don’t-“

“Listen,” you interjected softly, stepping closer to him. Placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, you continued. “The world’s a lot bigger than much different than what you’re used to. I can promise you that you’ll be better off staying here with me. I don’t mind, really.”

He stared at you silently for a moment, and you kept your gaze even with his. The sunlight highlighted his features; the faint wrinkles and the scar on his chin, his cheeks and jawline decorated with faint stubble.

He certainly was nice to look at.

“I…’spose that would be best.” He finally agreed, looking around your bedroom.

You smiled at that, glad he didn’t put up an argument. A movement by your feet caught your attention, you glanced down to see Artemis had left her hiding spot, and was now rubbing against Arthur’s legs.

---

That night, you went to bed expecting Arthur to be gone by that morning. Instead he was sitting on your couch, writing something in his journal. One day turned into two, two to three, a few days to a week. Whatever had made Arthur come to your world showed no indication of sending him back.

And what an interesting week it’s been.

You first started by introducing Arthur to modern gadgets. His curiosity of everything reminded you of a little kid, though you had to remind him to be gentle with some things.

“So, this thing plays anything you want, whenever you want?” Arthur had asked, gesturing to the TV.

“Mostly. Although with cable, everything is set on a schedule,” you pressed the on button on the remote. The screen came to life, and the first thing shown was a particularly gory scene from The Walking Dead. “Check it out.”

Arthur’s face quickly turned to disgust. “The hell they doin’ to that poor feller?!”

You laughed at his response. “Don’t worry, it’s all fiction. It’s just a show. That blood is all fake. And that guy – he’s undead. They gotta kill him before he kills them.”

Arthur just shook his head. “And this is for entertainment?”

He as certainly intrigued by the microwave, in complete awe that food didn’t have to be cooked over an open fire anymore. You taught him how to use it, making sure he didn’t burn the place down whilst you were at work.

He also loved the shower, mesmerized by the mere concept of having hot water on demand. His first shower lasted around 45 minutes, and you had to pound on the door to tell him that hot water wasn’t free. He walked out wrapped in a towel, as you’d placed his clothes in the wash prior to him getting in.

“That was amazin’,” he sighed, running his hands through his wet hair. “Don’t get cold after sittin’ a while like a bath does.”

You looked at him from head to toe. You’ve seen him shirtless before, for those bath scenes. You had to staunch the sudden desire to reach out and touch that scarred chest.

“Hey, my clothes done yet?” he asked, unaware of your staring.

You blinked and nodded. “Yeah, come on.”

After a few days, it was apparent that he wouldn’t be going back anytime soon. You’d stopped by a local Tractor Supply to buy him some new clothes, instead of wearing the same outfit every day.

He once asked for your phone out of curiosity.

“What’s it called again?” he’d asked, staring at it in his hand.

“A smartphone. It can do a lot more than call people, that’s why it’s called that.” You said, reaching over to scroll through the pages of apps.

When your hand moved, Arthur tried it on his own. He tapped the screen rather hard, opening up the camera that had been set in selfie mode. He let out a small yelp and dropped it in surprise. “It turned into a mirror!”

You laughed, retrieving the phone from his lap. “Nah, it’s the camera.”

He stared at you incredulously. “You’re tellin’ me…that it’s also a camera? The hell else is it, a telegraph?”

“Actually, yeah. Kinda.” You said thoughtfully, watching his eyes widen even further.

Leaving him alone the first day was concerning, however. Though he swore up and down he wasn’t going to venture out, the thought still remained in the back of your mind. You ran down a list of things he could and could not do, as if he were a child staying home alone for the first time. You tried to keep your worries out of the way while working, though it was a prominent thought up until you drove home, and you let out a sigh of relief to find your house wasn’t burned down, nor was he out and about.

After the first week, you were getting used to coming home from work to him. Usually you would find him on the couch, scribbling something in his journal or watching something random on TV. During the second week, he began to cook you microwave meals that were ready for you once you stepped in the door.

You chatted with him over meals, learning a lot more about him than you ever have in the game. He was getting more comfortable with you as well, his hands brushing against you nonchalantly, sitting closer to you on the couch. Those lingering touches would send a flicker of heat to your face, though you had to tell yourself not to get too attached, in case you’d wake up to find him gone.

Before the third week mark, you’d gone to bed with him on your mind, a whirlwind of thoughts cycling back and forth. Somehow in these past few weeks, you’d realized you began to see him in a different light. You fell asleep with his face in your mind’s eye, leaning in for a kiss…

#Arthur Morgan x reader #Arthur Morgan #$10 writing commission

233 notes · View notes

cinnaminsvga · 5 years

Text

La Douleur Exquise Pt 6 | Incubus!Yoongi AU

➵ summary: in which you accidentally summon an incubus in the middle of your shitty apartment and he won’t leave until you agree to have sex with him. until then, min yoongi, incubus extraordinaire, is now your sexually promiscuous and grumpy roommate. aka, the incubus au no one fucking asked for. ➵ warnings: some blood/gore but no actual violence ➵ genre: angst, humor adjacent ➵ words: 8.2K ➵ a/n: HAPPY 6TH ANNIVERSARY BANGTAN!! zee?? writing lde?? sometimes miracles do happen 😌🤟(one more chapter to go let’s get it)

➵ part 1 // part 2 // part 3 // part 4 // part 5 // part 6 // part 7

The sound of birds chirping outside your window are what rouses you from your slumber. You don’t quite remember falling asleep, but you do recall the events of last night despite the fog currently residing in your sleep-addled brain. With your eyes still closed, you hesitantly pat the empty space beside you––a pillow meets your palm instead of the warm body you had foolishly hoped would still find there. You clench your fist around the offending fabric, incredibly saddened by its coldness.

Even though you had expected it, you can’t help but be heartbroken to discover that Yoongi has long since gone. He must have left sometime in the night, maybe even minutes after your breathing had settled for sleep. Despite the ache that you feel, you know that it is for the best that he had left sooner than later. After all, his safety and happiness are what matter in the end, and you are assured that after fulfilling his end of the bargain, he is now free of his contract––

––and free to seek other people to make him happier than you ever could.

There is a bitterness on your tongue that you can’t quite remove, even after you had brushed your teeth for the third time. When you head to class that morning, you know that the bitterness has nothing to do with your dental hygiene.

Your professor drones on about a topic you had long since lost interest in, his sonorous voice filling the large auditorium and lulling his students to sleep. Your pen scratches indecipherable phrases on your notebook, neither taking notes nor writing anything in particular. Occasionally, something that looks awfully a lot like “Yoongi” finds its way into your scribbles, but no one is watching hard enough to verify if this is true.

No one ever needs to know, anyway.

There are only ten minutes left before the lecture ends, and you already have half a mind to start packing up when a knock is heard from the front of the hall. Your elderly professor stops, mid-phrase, hands still up in the air in the middle of wildly gesticulating about some obscure ancient scientist. Everyone’s heads turn to watch as your professor starts mumbling profanity under his breath, probably unaware that his mic was still on. He slams open the door, ready to give the poor student who decided to arrive just before the class was about to end when the intruder pops his head in, ignoring your professor entirely.

The bespectacled young boy glances around the auditorium, scanning the room until they land plainly on you. You squint back; why do his dimples look incredibly familiar?

“Y/N? I need to speak with you right now,” the boy says, before slinking out of the room just as quickly as he had entered.

Everyone switches their attention to you, your mouth agape in confusion. Who was that boy? You are sure you had never met him before, so perhaps he was just a messenger from someone else? Were you in trouble? Was someone hurt? (You hate that your stupid brain immediately goes to an image of an injured Yoongi, but it’s ridiculous to think that, right? After all, no one else knows about him existing in the first place.)

It feels like an eternity by the time you had stuffed all your things into your backpack and made your way outside the lecture hall. You pointedly disregard the stares of your professor and classmates as you quietly close the door. You feel like you should apologize, but you’re sure a remorsefully worded e-mail at the end of the day should suffice.

Exiting the lecture hall, you find that the boy is no longer in the hallway. Instead, a gentleman in a nice crisp suit wearing the same glasses as the young boy stands there, waiting patiently for you. The dimples make a lot more sense now.

Your eyes widen in recognition. “Namjoon?” you ask, confused. Your gaze darts all around the hallway, afraid that someone will catch you speaking with the right-hand man of Satan himself. Although, he does look fairly human, so you suppose everyone would be none the wiser anyway.

Namjoon seems to have caught on to your apprehension. “Sorry for pulling you out of class. And don’t worry, no one will disturb us. We need to hurry now, actually.” His voice sounds controlled and collected, but his body language said otherwise. His hands are picking at his pant seams like they’re unsure of what to do, and there are droplets of sweat dripping down the sides of his temples. He appears as if he had rushed all the way here, even though you know he could have easily transported himself.

“Why? Is something wrong? Is Yoongi okay?” The words slip out of your mouth easily, the worry that had unknowingly been building up in your system suddenly bursting at the sight of his boss. You are not stupid enough to hope that Namjoon’s reappearance was just a matter of simply catching up with the powerful demon.

Namjoon’s lips purse uncomfortably, his figure hunched like he’s holding up an invisible weight on his shoulders. He starts walking out of the building, and you instantly hurry to follow after him. “He’s not dead, but I need you to come with me right now. His trial is about to start, and we need you to stand as his witness.”

Not dead. The “yet” hangs in the air, waiting for its turn.

You try to swallow down the fear, but all the saliva in your mouth has dried up and you find yourself shaking a little. The anxiety builds up to its climax as an image of Yoongi being punished and tortured fills your mind’s eye. It isn’t possible for that to happen, right? Everything should have been sorted out the moment you had sex with one another. That had been the whole point of baring yourself to him––what else could you have done? An echo of his words from that argument you had days ago suddenly flits through your head, and you remember him saying something about sabotaging his mission.

Sabotage… what on earth would cause them to accuse him of sabotage? Why would he purposefully botch his mission? Unless...

You remember the way he had run away the moment you told him you wanted him. You remember how hard he had tried to stay away, right up until the moment you had pretended to be at the edge of danger. He had risked safety for you, you realize. He had risked a lot of things, that night. All because he lo––

You shake your head of those thoughts. No––it’s too dangerous to even think about. If what you’re thinking is correct, then you can’t allow anyone to know about it. Not even Namjoon, despite his obvious care for Yoongi.

“The trial… It should be fine, right? He fulfilled his contract with me, hasn’t he?”

“Yes, but…” Namjoon hesitates, scratching the back of his head as if he isn’t sure on what to say. His trepidation only causes your own to increase tenfold, and you have to stop yourself from grabbing the man by the lapels to demand him to tell you everything he knows.

“Well? Spit it out!”

“I… think it’s better for you to see for yourself. Hurry, take my hand. We might not have much time.”

Just as he is about to place his hand in yours, a flash of light from out of nowhere blinds you momentarily. You yelp, shielding yourself against the dazzling gleam. Beside you, you vaguely register Namjoon crying out as well. The light dissipates, and once the stars have left your vision, you find that the angel who had been supposedly “protecting” you has suddenly manifested by your side.

Seokjin wraps a protective arm around you, and in your dazed state, you are frozen under his hold. When you squint to look at him properly, you are surprised to find that his gaze is cold and unwelcoming––entirely different from the easy-going and senseless demeanor that he usually has. Coupled with the fact that Namjoon is wincing at his brother’s arrival, everything that has happened from the last ten minutes has given you a serious migraine.

“Namjoon-ah, I am not allowing you to bring my charge to hell.” Seokjin cocks a hip, tilting his nose up at his brother. Namjoon snorts at his dramatics, as always.

“I was unable to interfere when she was still bound by your people’s contract, but that is no longer the case. She is staying here, where she belongs,” Seokjin announces, his tone edged with finality. It allows you to snap out of your trance just enough to squirm under his weight.

“Seokjin, let me go!” Despite his lanky body, his grasp on you was stronger than you expected. It is only when he notices that you are having trouble maneuvering yourself in an upright position does he loosen his hold, if only slightly. He still keeps a firm hand on yours, unwilling for you to touch Namjoon in any way.

“Y/N, don’t argue with me on this. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into,” he says, forcing you to make eye contact with him. Petulantly, you slant your gaze towards Namjoon instead, who is looking more and more anxious by the second. He fretfully looks at the watch on his wrist, and you know that there must not be a lot of time left to lose. For all you know, Yoongi could be sentenced to whatever punishment they dole out to demons in hell. What types of punishment do the citizens of hell give to their own kind, you wonder? Nothing you would like Yoongi to experience, no doubt.

“Hyung, I won’t allow any harm to befall Y/N. I swear on my own blood,” Namjoon says, taking the courage to step tentatively towards Seokjin. In an instant, Seokjin releases his brilliant light once more, and while it only blinded you momentarily, it seems to be agonizing for Namjoon, who lets out another blood-curdling scream. You paw at Seokjin’s arm blindly, begging him to stop.

“Seokjin! Please let me go! I need to save Yoongi,” you cry out, tears from both the pain of his angelic light and worry for your beloved incubi start to flow down your cheeks. Hearing your anguished tone, Seokjin stops, wiping your tears away with concern.

“Oh, I forgot. My holy light must hurt you slightly because you had intercourse with that wretched demon,” he mutters, caressing your face gently. It takes seconds for his touch to sooth the pain under your eyelids. Blinking rapidly and squinting around at your surroundings, you are surprised that Namjoon had mysteriously disappeared.

“Wait, where’s Namjoon––” you start, but the angel starts pulling you away, deaf to your loud protests. Students from the previous class start piling out of the lecture hall, but none of them seem to notice that there was a suspiciously handsome and tall man with an unearthly glow around his body. When the two you reach the outside of the building, he finally lets you wrench yourself out of his hold.

“Didn’t I fucking tell you to stop interfering? Of all the times you could have butted in, why must you be a hindrance at the exact moment I did not need you?” You seethe, jabbing a finger at his chest. His face hardens, and if your insides had not been coiling with worry and anger, you might have flinched under his judgment.

“This isn’t like the other times, Y/N. You have no idea what you’re going to get yourself into. Going to hell isn’t just like walking inside your local supermarket,” he says, voice dark. He heaves a sigh, collecting himself as he tries to explain the danger you’d be putting yourself in. “Hell… Isn’t for people like you, Y/N. I was basically born to protect you from ever setting foot in that place, do you understand? Being locked in that covenant with Yoongi was bad enough––why must you constantly put yourself in danger for him?”

Of course you know the reason. Hell, Seokjin probably knows the reason as well. The pain of the words that you cannot speak are lodged inside your throat, suffocating you with the truth of why you cared so much for him.

Yoongi was supposed to just be a demon––a demon you had no intention of ever worrying for. He was never supposed to be an important person in your life. He was never supposed to take so much damn space in your heart.

But most of all, he was never supposed to have been yours to call your own.

“Tell me this, then,” you whisper, lips wobbling already. You might have imagined it, but Seokjin’s stare softens, if only infinitesimally. “Remember when you said you couldn’t deal with my internal problems? Well, Yoongi is my problem now. He’s been my problem for a long time now,” you finish, breathing shallow as the weight of your confession lies heavily in your stomach.

Seokjin stands still as he appraises you, his lips pursing but giving nothing away as you wait for him to say something. When you feel like the silence has stretched on long enough, you give him one last pleading look.

“Please. I’ll stay away from all things damned after this. Just… let me save him, and I’ll do whatever you say.” You ignore the way your voice breaks at the end, and you ignore the way your eyes burn as more tears already start to well up.

There isn’t any reason for Seokjin to agree with you. After all, he is only doing his job, and despite what you might think of the angel, he is only doing what he thinks is best for you. You are at his complete mercy, and the realization hits you like freight train––he’ll never let you save Yoongi. Your beloved is out there, left under the judgment of his peers for a crime that he did not commit alone. Your own guilt consumes you, but there is nothing you can do.

Except.

Except Seokjin’s face has softened. His lips have unpursed, and there is a glint of something residing in his eyes that you immediately latch onto, hope surging through your veins. You clasp his hands, squeezing it so you can show just how much it would mean to you, if he would just let you go.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours. A lifetime. His irises jump as he calculates the odds of you getting hurt. Of him getting in trouble. You dare not breathe, not even for a moment.

And then, his warm hands squeeze back. He groans loudly, tipping his head forward as if in prayer. For all you know, he could very well be apologizing to his Boss already.

“Fine. Let’s go. But I’m coming with you,” Seokjin murmurs, a defeated look on his face. Somewhere along the annoyed lines along his brow, you can see a speck of endearment floating there. You send him a wry smile, nodding in agreement.

“Thank you. I owe you one,” you whisper. He just snorts, rolling his eyes with a grimace.

“Oh, you owe me more than you can imagine. Well, let’s get going then before that stupid incubus gets his ass served,” Seokjin says. He grasps your hand in his, but pauses just as he’s about to transport the two of you. “I forgot. We have to find Namjoon first. I might have accidentally banished him to a parallel dimension a while ago, and I don’t know where the trial is being held, so…”

You give him an exasperated glare. “That’s a bit extra, isn’t it? He hadn’t even been hurting me when you got here!”

“Yeah, but. He’s annoying and he’s my brother. Sue me,” he smirks, and the two of you disappear from your university, as if you had never been there at all.

xxx

After you had located Namjoon floating around in a dimension comprised completely only with lesbians (“Wow, hyung. You really shouldn’t even have bothered picking me up––it’s wonderful here!” he exclaims, before promptly being whacked in the head by Seokjin), the three of you finally make your way to hell.

When you had agreed to coming there, you did not know what exactly to expect. All the imagery you had of hell were from shitty teen angst tv shows and paintings made by horny Italian dudes. You could have at least expected some hellfire, right? Maybe some demons fucking in a corner? Or perhaps there would be some screaming mortals begging for salvation?

You really had not been expecting a dull office building with interns scuttling around cubicles and a broken water cooler beside a wilted potted plant. Well, maybe you expected the wilted potted plant, but everything else?

“Are you sure we’re in the right place?” you question, staring incredulously as a (hu?)man in chunky black glasses clacked monotonously on a keyboard. When you try to take a peek at what he was typing, you are surprised to see that he is actually playing a video game with the volume turned down. “These people look to be very… human, if I do say so myself.”

“What?” Seokjin scoffs, pulling you along despite wanting to observe the office workers a little bit longer. Namjoon has already walked ahead of the two of you, but it seems like Seokjin knew his way around the place just as well as he did. Strange, you think. Then again, when has that so-called angel seemed anything but?

“When I imagined hell, I was thinking more… uhh…”

“Hellfire? Destruction? Suffering? Please,” Seokjin laughs, gesturing towards the dead-eyed crowd of white collars. “Does this not seem like suffering to you? That dude over there is fucking playing Fortnite to try and soften the boredom of doing a desk job for all eternity. How much more sadistic can you get?”

“The air-conditioner is broken too,” Namjoon calls out from up ahead, turning to smirk smugly at the cubicle rats. The office workers groan in unison at his blatant violation of human rights, but none of them seem to be bothered enough to protest or something. Then again, you can imagine what type of punishments that Namjoon can come up with if pushed––after all, he is Seokjin’s brother.

Another thing you never thought to consider is how large Hell is. You can only remember so many twists and turns before everything starts to blur together; the dark grey walls run endlessly around you, with smatterings of dark mahogany doors that look almost as if they were only painted on. The two brothers do not pause at all in their journey, however, and all you can do is try your best to keep up with their long-legged strides.

Finally, the corridor widens into a full-fledged room, with a ceiling so tall that you can’t even begin to see the end of it. There seems to be more doorways just ahead of you, towards another hallway where no ends seem to be in sight, but the two men stop in front of the double doors to the right before you could go any further. Unlike the other doors, this one is painted pure white, almost illuminant among the drab grey walls. Namjoon and Seokjin stare ahead at the door, neither one of them going to turn the knob just yet.

“Well. This is it,” Namjoon murmurs, his quiet voice sounding loud amidst the silence. He casts a sidelong glance at Seokjin, who swallows thickly as he makes a point to look away from his brother. He fidgets beside you, shoulders rolling back as if he feels something crawling up his spine. You should know; you can feel the anxiety begin to make its way up to your throat.

“It’s the same courtroom…” Seokjin mutters. You want to ask what he means, but there are other things to worry about.

“Has the trial already begun?” you ask, though you already know the answer. It’s more to stall for time, afraid of what is to come. You try to think back about every single thing you did with Yoongi, what sort of conversations and interactions you had with him that might incriminate him. The steady throb of fear reminds you of the three words you had spoken aloud that fated night, and though Yoongi had not said it back, you wonder if your foolishness is what brought him to this predicament in the first place.

Namjoon watches you, sees the way your hands are clenched by your sides, dots of sweat lining your neck, and yet he does not mention your state of mind. Instead, he answers, “It started just a while ago. They’ve kept him in a holding cell while they waited for me to fetch you. We must hurry, or else…” Namjoon trails off, biting his lip. If you knew him better, you might hazard a guess and say that he was scared, too.

A demon who was afraid… You don’t know what that could mean.

“Wait, Namjoon. I have a question.” You have to make sure that this isn’t a lost cause. If what you were guessing is true, then…

For whatever reason, Namjoon doesn’t need you to state it explicitly. He sends you a weak smirk, head shaking as he goes to turn the doorknob. “No need to worry, Y/N. They can’t hear conversations when incubi are on missions. You’re safe.”

You flinch, foot melded to the floor. “H-how did you..?”

“Y/N, let’s hurry.” Seokjin interrupts, his sudden comment making you unfreeze long enough to allow him to tug you through the door. He had been so still and so quiet that you had almost forgotten that he was there. His grip on your arm is tight, unbelievably so, and you can feel it shaking slightly.

You glance at him, his usual expressive face empty of all emotion. He stares resolutely ahead of him, and when you follow his line of sight, you see that he is looking right at the imposing man behind the judge’s podium.

The judge is a slim man with dark red irises that seem to follow you wherever you go. His face is smooth like ivory, clear of any indication as to what age he may be. His black hair is slicked back neatly, showcasing his stiff widow’s peak like an arrow pointing straight towards his angular nose. Everything about him screams sharp. Impenetrable. What surprises you the most, however, are the deep set dimples permanently etched onto his cheeks even though he does not smile.

“Nice of you to finally join us, Kim Namjoon.” The man says, the timbre of his voice almost edging towards a growl. At his greeting, the quiet chatter around the room reaches a standstill as hundreds of eyes lock onto you and your angelic companion.

The courtroom is large, far larger than any you’ve ever seen in the surface. The circular shape of it makes you feel confined, like you’re trapped inside a toddler’s goldfish bowl. There are hundreds of rows filled with demons of all shapes and sizes, though most appeared quite humanoid. To your far right, you notice a crowd of winged women with unhinged jaws, their talons long enough that they graze the floor. Right beside the judge, there are a group of the most beautiful looking men that you have ever seen, their dark horns the only indication that they aren’t as human as they seem. One of them waves shyly at you, a small smile gracing his heart shaped lips. For whatever reason, you feel compelled to return the gesture.

“I am terribly sorry for the wait, your Honor. I had a bit of a misunderstanding on the way here,” Namjoon says. He bows deeply, his forehead almost reaching his knees with how low he goes.

The judge peers at Seokjin, brows raised with amusement. “I’m guessing it has something to do with our little guest, is it not?”

“Judge Kim.” Seokjin says, brittle. His ears have turned pink, though his expression is as blank as ever.

Judge Kim tuts, breaking the eye contact when he shuffles a pile of papers together. He flips through them, his smirk never faltering. “Is that how you treat your father after all this time? Surely they teach you better manners up there.”

You gasp, mouth dropping down in shock as you try and comprehend what the judge had just said. “Your father?” you whisper, trying to catch Seokjin’s gaze.

“I have no father,” Seokjin replies, jaw clenched. His lips tremble. “The only Father that I know is the one that I serve up above.”

The judge snorts, leaning casually back into his seat. “I believe we all had to serve the same Father, once upon a time. It seems like you’re the only one who hasn’t gotten the memo yet.”

Seokjin takes a step forward, urging you to do the same. You stumble after him, but not before turning inquisitively back at Namjoon. He smiles sadly, shaking his head and mouthing ‘later’ before heading to sit directly beside the judge––no, his father. The demon who had waved to you scoots over, patting Namjoon on the shoulder before hurriedly whispering something into his ear.

There is a podium right in the middle of courtroom. Seokjin leads you to it, never once letting go of you. When you stand before the court, you shoot him a frightened look, begging him to stay. He nods silently, standing firmly beside you with a hand placed warmly against the small of your back.

For the first time in your life, you feel grateful to this annoying yet kind angel, who chose to stay by your side despite having to go against every rule in his book just to keep your reckless self safe. Not for the first time, however, do you feel the guilt begin to eat you whole, at how your selfishness has once again brought pain to someone you cared about. Shithead angel or not.

Judge Kim slams the gavel, the echo especially loud in the hauntingly silent courtroom. He clears his throat, curling his finger at two impossibly large demons standing guard in front of another door closer to the judge. Without another word, they exit the room, the squeaking door frame resounding like a gunshot.

He clears his throat, his pupils blown unnervingly. “Miss… Y/N, is it not?”

You turn to Seokjin helplessly. He nods his head, quietly encouraging you. You turn back to the judge, a frog in your throat. “Y-yes. That’s my name.”

“You are the one who called upon Min Yoongi’s services on the 12th of August, did you not?”

“Yes. That is correct.”

“You, with your full consent, were locked in a covenant with Min Yoongi, an incubus who was bound to pleasure you in any way that might fulfill your desires, correct?”

You take a shaky breath. “Yes.”

“Miss Y/N,” Judge Kim peers at his documents, tongue darting to lick his fingers as he flips to the next page. His tongue is forked like a snake. “It says here in our contracts that if the conjurer, which is you in this scenario, is not sufficiently pleasured by the incubus within a given time limit, then he will be put under trial in the event that he has sabotaged his own mission. Are you aware of this?”

“Yes, your Honor.” You pause, unsure whether its your place to question him back. Seokjin notices your hesitation, so he pokes your back softly, giving you the courage you need to say your piece. You reach behind your back, finding his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze in thanks.

“Your Honor, may I ask why this trial is being held in the first place? Min Yoongi has sufficiently, uh, pleasured me to the best of his ability the night before. If my math is correct, then I know for certain that he has made his deadline. As his client, I can say that his services were more than outstanding.”

Judge Kim sneers at that, fanning himself with the documents smugly. “Although that might be so, there are other… circumstances that warrant prosecution. For example––”

Before he can finish, the doors reopen once more with a bang, drowning him out. The two guards return, hauling a mangled corpse to the front of the stands. They dump him unceremoniously to the ground, right at the foot Judge Kim’s podium. One of the guards forces the man to tilt his head up, grabbing fistfuls of his hair to reveal his bloodied face. It’s––

“Yoongi!” You cry out, nearly jumping out of your stand to reach him, but Seokjin pulls you back down. You sob in despair, trying desperately to get Seokjin to let go, but all he does is shake his head sadly. You claw the wooden podium in front of you, tears blurring your vision as you call hoarsely for Yoongi.

Yoongi lets out a low groan, eyes clenched shut. He slumps against the wall, head lolling to his shoulders as his shallow inhales fill the courtroom. His slacks are torn apart, leaving his bruised and slashed legs for you to see. His bare chest is littered with numerous small cuts, with one particularly deep gash lying dangerously close to his heart. His face is similarly decorated, with bloody rivers dripping down from his forehead and cheeks.

You can feel your heart beating outside of your chest. You want nothing more than to rush over to him, though you don’t know what you would have done if you could. He looks to be at the brink of death, as he struggled to even find the energy to take another breath. Fear rattles its claws up and down your insides, making you feel nauseous. The world begins to sway at your feet, and Seokjin has to prop you up to keep your knees from buckling under you.

“Miss Y/N, will you please explain to the court why we have testimonies from a multitude of other incubi that Min Yoongi has fallen in love with you?” Judge Kim booms, scattering all of his documents with a flourish. Dozens, if not hundreds of papers flutter above you, all of them affidavits of demons claiming that Yoongi loved you. Seokjin snatches one out of the air, scanning the document in bemusement.

“Your Honor, this is simply preposterous. Y/N and Yoongi have only known each other for less than three months! What makes you think that they could even fall in love in such a small amount of time?” Seokjin contends, shaking his head in bewilderment. “And what is this even about? How could anyone claim to be a witness to someone falling in love? What does that even entail?”

“We have eyes everywhere, Seokjin. You might have forgotten, but no demon is safe from being monitored.” The judge’s mouth curls up, smiling disparagingly at his exiled son. “It’s part of our… customer satisfaction program.”

“Bullshit,” Seokjin hisses, slamming his fist down on the podium. You startle at the pure hatred dripping from every inch of his body, his angelic glow slowly leaking out of his skin. A few of the demons closest to the two of you start shrieking in pain, crouching down to avoid his heavenly power. Judge Kim appears unaffected, however, as he slams his own gavel down to bring order back to the court.

“Silence, everyone!” he barks. He then points a finger at your companion. “As for you, Kim Seokjin... I would advise that you bring your temper down a notch. We wouldn’t want more nasty proceedings to happen while you’re here trespassing.”

“I am not trespassing––”

“Don’t think I don’t know that you still like to visit him during your downtime, my son.” Judge Kim chuckles, enjoying the shocked look on Seokjin’s face. “Why, you should know better than to try and get away without me noticing. You should be more careful. After all, I doubt you’d want Jeon Jungkook to––”

“Don’t you dare say his name!” Seokjin growls, taking a staggered step forward. Now it is your turn to hold him back, grabbing him by the sleeve to halt his advances. He doesn’t seem like he’ll go much further, but you don’t risk letting go just yet.

“Seokjin, please calm down. We have to save Yoongi.”

Seokjin glances back at you. His breathing is still harsh, but the glow around his body has subsided at least. “Okay. Okay. I––I’m sorry,” he mutters, stepping back to stand beside you.

You fix your attention back to Judge Kim. “Continuing with what Seokjin said earlier… D-don’t you think it’s ridiculous for people to claim that we have fallen in l-love, like you suggested?” You stammer a bunch in your speech, probably to your detriment. You scold yourself internally as you wait for the demon to respond.

He purses his lips, shrugging nonchalantly. “We have ways of knowing, Miss Y/N. We wouldn’t have this type of rule if we haven’t seen it happen in the past. Trust me, we always know.”

“What do you know, then?”

“We have witnesses say that when you and Min Yoongi… fulfilled your contract the other night, there was a slight difference in the way he moved. As you may or may not know, Min Yoongi is a highly trained professional. He knows better than to implicate other emotions into his job.”

“What are you implying?” You ask, though you already know what he means. In front of you, Yoongi’s chin lifts up imperceptibly.

“I am implying that Min Yoongi has fallen in love with you.”

The courtroom is once again filled with chatter. Hisses and jeers fly left and right, and even a wad of paper is thrown right at Yoongi’s immobile form. The winged ladies crow in unison, chanting “Foolish, foolish…” repeatedly as they strike their talons against the floor.

There is a yell from the upper stands. “Love has tarnished the infallible Min Yoongi!”

“Kill him! He is useless to us now!”

“What is an incubus if he is not blinded by lust? How will he ever be whole again if he is to share his heart with someone else?”

The uproar does not cease until the judge raises a hand. He affixes you with a gaze, prompting you to respond to their accusations. The crowd surveys you, like vultures waiting for you to take your last breath. You gulp, skin prickling with nerves.

“And who is to say that these accusations are even credible?”

“Oh?” The judge perks at that, leaning closely as he appraises you. You shrink back, unnerved by his sudden change in demeanor.

“Miss Y/N, did you come here to defend Min Yoongi? Or to stand as a witness? Why do you feel so… inclined to save some lowly incubus such as he? Surely, you have other things worth doing with your time right now.”

Murmurs. Nails and tongues click impatiently all around you. Your mouth goes dry as the demons start to openly stare at you, picking you apart. Trying to elicit the truth out of you.

“Or perhaps, Miss Y/N…” Judge Kim stands now, opening his arms to address the entire crowd. Everyone cheers as he pauses for theatrical effect. “You are also… inflicted with the same malady as our dear Min Yoongi is?”

The whispers grow louder. Cold terror paralyzes. You take a shaky inhale.

“I…”

“Y/N,” Seokjin warns, grasping your arm. He looks gaunt, like the soul has been sucked out of him. “The moment I sense that your life is in danger, I’m getting you out of here, understand?”

A warning. If you don’t say the right thing now, you’ll never be able to save Yoongi. You can’t blame Seokjin for wanting to get out of there either. This may be your last chance to see Yoongi, but you only hope that at the very least, it won’t be his last chance at life. You have to think fast.

You chance a look around the room. You see Namjoon sitting stock still beside his father, gaze unreadable. He is looking at neither you nor Seokjin, but somewhere over your shoulder. It is clear that he will not be of help this time. On the other hand…

The demon with the heart shaped smile beside him gesticulates wildly back at you, mouthing something that you can’t quite make sense of. You watch confusedly, as he appears to be asking you to keep talking, judging by the way he’s opening his mouth as wide as he can.

“Are you sure?” you mouth back, still feeling afraid. He gives you a thumbs up, nodding enthusiastically that you think his head might fly off.

“Miss Y/N? What do you have to say?” Judge Kim snaps you out of your trance, you cheeks burning after being called out once more.

“I… have a confession to make.” You hear Seokjin stifle a gasp. Yoongi is as motionless as ever, the wound on his chest steadily dripping with scarlet. It has started to pool on the floor, painting the tiles like molten tar. You almost miss it, but his hand twitches by his side.

“When I asked Yoongi to… have sex with me, I asked him to do it in a way where I could pretend that we…”

“Pretend?” Judge Kim repeats.

Your heart pulsates to a crescendo. “Pretend that we… were in love. It was all a farce.”

The crowd erupts.

“Liar!”

“A fucking stupid story, I bet!”

“Dumb whore!”

“Miss Y/N, I’m going to need for you to explain. Properly.” He glares at you harshly, slamming a gavel when the audience wails back in defiance. “Silence! We will listen to her testimony!”

Focus, Y/N. Think fast. This is the only way you can save him. It will hurt, but it will have been for good. It is worth it.

(Or so, you hope.)

“I… I have never been in love. I never knew what that type of emotion felt, and I craved it more than anything. So, when he asked me what I wanted from him, I told him that… I wanted to pretend like we were together. It’s a stupid type of roleplay that others might not have asked for from an incubus, but I did.” Your words sound pathetic in your ears, but in a way, they are nothing if not the truth. Despite what the other demons might say, you know deep in your soul that Min Yoongi could not be in love with you.

The two of you might have shared a connection, possibly even as close acquaintances, but love? It’s a long shot. Hell, you’re not sure if you love him either. (A lie, but you won’t admit it.) Everything about this trial is making your head swim, confusing you as terror and anguish become all you can perceive.

Yes, that’s right...

There is nothing about you to love. You have been nothing but a menace to him, an inconvenience. It’s your fault that he is hurting right now, your fault for being incapable of having the most basic of human desires. If you just had been a normal human being and just fucked him on the first day, then none of this would have happened. You’ve grappled with this guilt for years, and now you have proof that what you’ve always feared is true: you’re different, and you will be punished for it.

“She’s lying!” A demon with electric blue hair and pale skin screeches, standing up with a finger pointed at you. He bears his numerous teeth, a wolfish smile tugging upwards.

Others begin to say the same, a chorus of dissent starting to rise. Judge Kim looks down to where Yoongi sits, who still refuses to open his eyes. With a flick of his wrist, Judge Kim forces the guards to lift Yoongi to his feet. They do as he asks, and you’re left helpless as Yoongi staggers upwards, coughing up globs of blood like a morbid fountain.

“Yoongi. Is what this human saying true?”

Yoongi wheezes once, twice. He warbles something unintelligible, too soft for anyone to understand.

“Speak louder or risk your life being shortened to its last inch,” the judge sneers. The guards’ grips tighten on his torso, causing him to choke for air.

“Stop it! You’re gonna kill him!” You turn to Namjoon, wrecked sobs all you can manage at this point. “Namjoon! Make them stop!”

Judge Kim guffaws, as do the jury beside him. “Human, you really are as shameless as you say you are. However, we cannot just let him go. Your claims are baseless unless the incubus himself swears that what you say is true.”

“Y/N, we have to go now.” Seokjin fidgets beside you, shoulders hunched as if he’s ready for flight. You plead weakly with him, but he shakes his head. “No. There’s nothing else you can do.”

“Listen to Seokjin, mortal. He is right; there is no saving those lost to love.” Judge Kim says. He motions for the guards to shackle Yoongi once more, the clinking metal loud in the spacious hall. But then––

“Wait just a moment, your Honor.”

Confusion breaks out as the demon beside Namjoon stands up, his purple horns making him appear taller than he is. Even when he seems serious, his mouth still appears as heart shaped as they always do.

The judge looks surprised as everyone else. “Jung Hoseok?”

“Yes, your Honor. I am terribly sorry for interrupting you, but I’d like to question Miss Y/N some more.” He swallows heavily, jumping from foot to foot in anticipation. The atmosphere stills.

Judge Kim hums. “Well, I can certainly say that I am intrigued. Jung Hoseok, you’ve never once spoken during a trial.”

“I… believe there is something worth looking into with what Miss Y/N had said, that’s all.” He faces you, his determination blazing forth. He risks a small grin at you, making the all-consuming panic inside of you abate for a moment.

There is a pause as the judge appraises both you and Hoseok. A minute passes, but it feels like a millennia. Eventually, he sighs, waving for Hoseok to start. “Hmm. Alright, Jung Hoseok. You may proceed.”

His grin is charismatic, shedding a glow that you might even call heavenly. “Right. All I wanted to point out was that we should really consider who we’re dealing with right now. Like, come on guys!” He has the audacity to chuckle sarcastically, peering at his colleagues with contempt. “This is Min Yoongi we’re talking about! Hate him or love him, we all know that he’s one of the best in the business. Would he really risk his life for some filthy human?” He laughs, louder than before, so much so that the demons near him start giggling as well.

His amusement is contagious. Soon, the court shakes with laughter––even the blue-haired demon who had shouted a while ago has begun to snicker in earnest. Your ears redden as embarrassment fills you, defenseless against their cruelty.

Even the judge manages to let out a chuckle. “That’s true. What type of idiot would he be?”

Hoseok nods, enthusiastic. “Precisely. This is all just a misunderstanding. After all, humans are such fickle creatures… They want so endlessly, and yet at their core, they are nothing more than toys for us to discard.”

You can tell that the other demons have started to become swayed by Hoseok’s statement. A few nod their heads, and the ones closer to him even nudge him in a show of blatant camaraderie. Whoever this Hoseok was, he is certainly well-liked among the citizens of hell. Well-liked enough to be believed in an instant, it seems.

But to you, his words leave a sting that you aren’t sure you’ll forget. After all, Yoongi must see you like Hoseok described: nothing more than a foul, pathetic human. How foolish of you to think he could ever see you as an equal, much less a lover. He never once said he loved you, and he never will. Even now, as the proceedings reach its end, he has yet to look at you once.

The guards lift Yoongi up again, one of them grasping his chin so that he may face Judge Kim. You cannot see him except for his back, where his fists are folded behind him. Judge Kim leans over his podium, close enough to Yoongi that he could probably see through him if he so desired.

“Min Yoongi. I will ask you one last time and you shall speak clearly, lest you suffer the consequences. Did you or did you not fall in love with Miss Y/N?”

From your perch, you see his hands move. They tighten for a moment, fingernails digging so deeply into his palms that it is sure to draw blood, but it hardly makes a difference with how bloodied they already are. And then, they relax, just like that. Yoongi’s arms give out like a ragdoll.

You listen to his voice, for the first time that day. Like nails driven into a coffin. In just a few words, he buries you.

He says, “Yes. It’s true. Everything has been a charade.”

But the judge is not appeased. He needs to make sure that the nails won’t give out––that you’ve truly been buried under soil and heartbreak. He makes the guards turn him around, and you are faced again with Yoongi.

“If what you say is true, then say it once more. Look her in the eyes and tell her she is nothing to you. Go on.”

Yoongi refuses to open them, but he does as the judge asks. He repeats them, slowly, as if savoring them. You had hoped that it would hurt less this time, but it seems that the nails have reached deeper than you had imagined. It takes a century’s worth of effort to keep your sobs at bay.

Appeased, the judge allows the jury to convene. When they finish, Kim Namjoon is the one who stands to his feet, poised primly like he has been during the entire hearing. He is quick to dab a bead of sweat that trails down towards his chin.

“Has the jury reached a unanimous decision?” Judge Kim asks. Everyone waits for the jury to settle, watching with bated breath for the outcome of the trial.

Namjoon nods. “After heavy consideration, we, the jury, find the defendant to be... not guilty.”

Beside you, Seokjin releases a sigh of relief, head bowing in exhaustion. He laughs, disbelieving. “By God, he did it.”

The moment Namjoon finishes his statement, the guards immediately release Yoongi, leaving him to curl up to the floor in pain. He wheezes loudly at your feet, cradling his bloody torso. Instinctively, you jump over your podium, kneeling over his shivering form. Your hands float above him, afraid of hurting him further.

Seokjin is quick to pull you up, holding you tight when you struggle to reach for Yoongi. “Y/N, this is more than enough. We’ve done you needed to do, and we are going back now.”

“Fuck off,” you cry hoarsely, unwilling to leave him just yet. You need to know that he will be okay, that everything will have been worth it.

To your right, you hear footsteps hurriedly approaching you. Namjoon and Hoseok appear, a small vial of something clutched tightly in Hoseok’s hand. He is quick to feed the liquid to Yoongi, who begins coughing harshly when it hits his tongue. To your amazement, the medicine gives Yoongi enough strength to roll over on his back, broken gulps of air leaving his split lips.

“Y/N.”

Alive. Alive. He’s going to be alright.

“Yoongi, you’re going to be ok––” No. NONONONONO.

A scream rips out of your throat as you gaze at him, terrified, as he looks back at you. You are frozen, unable to tear yourself away from the frightening sight of the mangled remains of a demon who was once whole.

It can’t be real. They can’t have done this…

But they have.

...

His eyes are gone. Black holes where soft irises once called home.

“Go back home, Y/N. You’ve done more than enough.” Yoongi’s words would’ve hurt less had he shouted, but his voice is devoid of emotion. He stands up unsteadily, and you can only watch as Namjoon and Hoseok help him to his feet. They sling his arms around their shoulders, carrying him gently across the large courtroom. His feet drag listlessly behind him, his head bowed in silent defeat. They leave the room quickly, and you wouldn’t be able to follow even if you tried.

There is a warm hand pressed against your back. “I’m sorry, Y/N,” Seokjin whispers, his thumb rubbing circles across your shoulder blades, “There’s nothing else we can do.”

A wave of fatigue suddenly washes over you, your eyelids growing immensely heavy. You think your knees might have collapsed, Seokjin’s strong arms catching you before you hit the ground. You hardly hear him whisper another apology before your mind shuts off, allowing you to be sleep’s mistress for the night.

It is an entirely dreamless sleep––the eyes of your beloved incubus absent for the first time in weeks.

#networkbangtan #armiesnet #bts scenarios #bts fanfiction #bts #bts imagines #bts x reader #bts scenario #min yoongi #yoongi #suga #yoongi scenarios #suga scenarios #yoongi angst #bts angst #bts suga #bangtan #bts fanfic

677 notes · View notes

ravensinwinter · 4 years

Text

The Raven in Winter- Chapter One

Summary: On the eve of her wedding, a familiar face arrives in Fornburg alongside two strangers, bringing with them a chance at adventure. When Sigrid reluctantly follows her husband to England and learns of the sinister forces that hunt him, she is thrust into a dangerous plot to control England. Will she and Eivor be able to unravel the web of mystery that surrounds their new home? Or are they destined to choke under the rule of the Order of the Ancients?

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27665312/chapters/67698373

This tale will span the events of the game and beyond as Sigrid and Eivor's journey unfolds.

Pairing: Original Female Character x Male Eivor

Author’s note: Quick couple of things! ástin mín/elskan mín roughly translate as my dearest/my darling. Basically Viking pet names! The six witness tradition in a Viking wedding means that a minimum of six people from both families must witness the newlyweds in their marriage bed. (Yikes!) If any of my translations or phrases don’t make sense, please let me know. I’m using the Icelandic translations as that’s the closest you can get to original Norse.

Also, for this story, and in my game, Eivor has dark hair. (Give me unbound viking hair options, Ubisoft, you absolute coward!)

Longships! The cry startled me from my weaving, small fingers catching in the loom. I pulled them back with a sharp curse and a hiss of pain, shoving the digits into my mouth to soothe the ache blossoming there. Hlif answered with a disapproving glare and I quickly withdrew my fingers with an audible pop.

Beside me, Randvi gently set down her weaving with a sigh. I cast a cautious glance toward the other woman, failing to gauge her reaction to the news through her usual stoic mask. I often envied her ability to mask her emotions, though it was easy enough to spot the toll two years of separation had taken on her. I could see it now in the way her fingers gripped the cloth in her lap too tightly. “Do you think Sigurd has returned,” I asked sitting taller on the bench to stare through the window at the growing crowd near the docks.

“I would sooner think that it is Eivor slinking home at last,” Randvi answered, and I found myself nodding in agreement as I cast one last glance towards the window. Eivor had been gone nearly two months now, absconding in the night with a longship against our Uncle’s instruction.

I had awoken on the night he left to find him perched in the window of my small bedroom, the dying light of the fire casting him in a soft glow. He had looked much like Odin in that moment, straight from the stories Hlif had told to us as children.

“Siggy? Are you awake?” He had whispered so softly the sound was nearly lost of the soft crackling of burning logs.

“Eivor?” I blinked owlishly up at him, fingers pulling the thick furs to my chin to cover my thin shift. “What are you doing?” Eivor quietly slipped into my room, his thick boots surprisingly quiet as he crossed to sit beside me.

“Saying goodbye,” he answered, body warm as lay beside me. It was an act he had not done since we were children. I tensed at the feel of his thick arm heavy about my waist. “Your uncle means to remain in Fornburg until Sigurd returns. I am taking a longship to raid.” It was an old argument, one that had resulted in a shouting match that evening, the likes of which would have made the gods jealous at the thunder it produced.

“But, Uncle said…” Eivor silenced me with a soft jab of his elbow to my side. “You mean to go anyway?”

Eivor did not answer.

“Take me with you,” I blurted out, turning to face him. I could barely make out his features in the soft firelight, but by the way his brow furrowed at my words, I could tell he was not pleased.

“Do you remember when you came to Fornburg? A little girl who had lost both her parents?” His hand on my waist was gentle as he pressed me back onto my side, his body slotting against mine.

I hummed in agreement, settling back against him. Eivor pressed his nose to the exposed skin of my neck with a sharp exhale.

“Father had gone to Valhalla, and mother not long after,” I replied softly, eyes focused on the soft orange light the fire cast upon my walls.

“You were so small, so scared,” Eivor murmured, the softness of his voice lulling me back to sleep. “I swore to you that day I would keep you safe.”

I giggled at the memory of Eivor, then a gangly boy taking my hands in his after Sigurd had pulled my hair and declaring that he would be my protector. “From terribly cruel cousins. Do you mean to raid a settlement of bandits who pull on little girl’s braids?”

Eivor laughed, a deep rich sound that surrounded me with unbidden warmth. “Shall I bring you their leader’s head upon a pike, my lady?”

“If you wish, wolf kissed,” I answered, giggling at the soft nip of teeth upon the skin of my neck. “Though would prefer jewels as tribute. Or an offer of marriage from a handsome warrior. “ I answered, sleep beginning to at last overtake me, loosening my tongue. And before I could slap my hand over my lips, Eivor pulled me closer, his hand tight on my belly to silence my squirming.

“Go to sleep, little one” he murmured, mercifully unaffected by my words. Or if he had been, he made no sign of it. And so I did, the warmth of him against me pulling me gently down into a peaceful sleep, and when I awoke in the morning, he was gone.

Eivor Wolfsmal had not returned in two months, and the marketplace became fat with rumors that he had been captured and made to serve Kjotve the Cruel as a thrall. I had never been one for those rumors.

The sounds of the gathering crowd had finally reached the longhouse, thought as I strained to listen, I could not make the words they said. Hlif tutted, a sharp sound startling me back to the room around me and the two women gazing disapprovingly towards me.

“Perhaps it is Eivor returned after all,” I answered, trying hard to keep my voice even, uninterested. I was the ward of the king after all, I could imagine Hlif instructing me as though the words had been said aloud, and I must behave as such.

“I heard a rumor in the market that he means to ask your uncle for your hand in marriage,” Hlif answered, returning to her weaving. “I wonder what treasures he brings to pay your bride price for the wolf-kissed has no wealth of his own.”

I had heard the rumors as well, for they had followed me whenever I left the longhouse. Eivor Wolfsmal had indeed intend to ask for my hand, that much I knew. It had been a truth we had been dancing about since he had kissed me at the Yule celebration nigh a year ago under the shining green lights that shifted in the sky above us.

Our courtship had been secretive, stolen kisses, brief presses of fingers, gifts pressed into hands behind backs as we passed in the longhouse. I longed to embrace him each time he returned, fresh from battle. I had instead stood awkwardly beside Randvi as he greeted my uncle as was customary, biding my time at the feast til I could slip away to our meeting spot in the stables.

Each time I caught his gaze over a tankard of mead or found him staring at me over the crowd, I longed to do so without shame. And though I had pressed many times for him to ask my uncle for permission to marry, my brave warrior’s courage failed him.

“May I go to the docks?” I finally dared to cast a wistful glance towards Hlif who dropped her own weaving with an exasperated sigh.

“Go, you ill mannered beast,” Hlif answered with a pinched expression, her thin lips pulled tight in a grimace. Randvi paired her gentle smile with a wave of encouragement and a promise to join me later. I tore my apron free, tossing the brown fabric uncouthly to the floor.

With a bright smile and a quick stammer of thanks, I tore through the longhouse, pausing just long enough to greet my uncle and his guest with whom he conversed with a polite smile before continuing into the street. Fornburg was crowded, I thought, picking my way through the throngs of the busy market towards the docks. I ducked quickly into the small alley behind Svend’s shop, a short cut I had used countless times to reach the docks. The day before he had sailed, Eivor had pressed me sweetly between the hard form and the cool wood and kissed me til I could scarcely breathe. My fingers traced over my full lips at the memory as cries of Wolf-Kissed and Eivor echoed from the street ahead. Overhead, the squawking of a raven cut through the noise of the crowd.

“Sýnin!” I cried with a bright smile as with one last squawk, the raven crested the building and landed on my shoulder with a friendly chirp. “Hello, pretty bird, I’ve missed you so,” I cooed, fingers stroking the silky feathers beneath the raven’s chin. The comforting weight of the raven on my shoulder helped soothe my rabbit heart as I scanned the crowd. Sýnin cawed in answer, beak pulling at the loose hair of my braid impatiently. “What sort have wonders have you seen?”

“Wolves, as big as horses and trolls as big as wolves. Mountains so tall they blocked out all light. Maidens so fair they rival Freya herself,” came the reply, calloused fingers flicking a lock of dark hair from where it had fallen in front of my eyes. “I see you have charmed Sýnin, you minx.”

Eivor Wolfsmal clicked his tongue, chin motioning to his shoulder expectantly. Sýnin squawked once in disinterest before returning to pull at my hair. “Traitor,” he hissed before turning to smile brightly at me. My heart warmed at the sight, and I found myself answering with a smile of my own as I surveyed the man before me. He appeared to be whole, from the cocky grin that peeked from below his thick dark beard to the way he folded his arms over his broad chest as he stood ever so still. Poised, waiting.

“It appears your raven simply prefers my company to yours, wolf-kissed.” I scratched Sýnin’s chin one last time before she took to the sky. “And I don’t blame her for doing so. I am ever so charming.” I worried my bottom lip, stifling the girlish giggle that bubbled in my throat.

“Come here, little one,” Eivor commanded, his thick fingers crooked, beckoning me to him. And I answered, launching myself into his outstretched arms with a joyous laugh. “I’ve missed you.”

“And I you,” I breathed into the warm fabric at his chest, a height I just barely reached. He smelled still very much like Eivor, pine and soap and the sharp tang of the sea. Your Eivor, some dark part of my mind added as I reluctantly let him go. Though I wished he would press his lips to my own even if we were surrounded by the surge of onlookers. “I think my Uncle may be less pleased with your return.”

“Is he ever pleased with me?” Eivor’s arm was heavy as he draped it about my shoulder and steered us towards the longhouse. I found myself leaning into his embrace. “If I returned from battle surrounded by a host of valkyries, I’m afraid your uncle would still find some grievance with me. You shall just have to charm him as you have always done, Siggy.”

“You shall have to do better than that, Wolf-Kissed, if you mean to gain my Uncle’s favor.” I teased as the longhouse came into view. Eivor hesitated, pausing as he turned to me, expression suddenly serious. I faltered, pulling back at the heavy cloud that suddenly hung between us, as heavy as the weight of his hands upon my shoulders.

“Sigrid.” The sharp exhale of my name gave me pause. I knew what he meant to say next, though I found myself tensing at the words that spilled forth from between his thinned lips. “I intend to ask your uncle for permission to marry.” His words were hushed, soft, and I suspected it was to mask the sound from the crowd around us.

“That is good news, elskan mín,” I murmured, fingers lacing with his, hidden by light blue fabric of my skirts. I studied his clear blue eyes, the sincerity there. And the brief flash of unsettled nerves. Always so easy to read, my brave warrior.

Eivor squeezed my fingers, my eyes fluttering shut at the feel of his calloused skin rasping over my own. “I find myself longing for the moment I can embrace you without worrying about the prying eyes of others.”

“Wait for me, at the stables, just after sundown, ástin mín” he murmured, face ducking to rest his chin upon my shoulder. His broad chest pressed to my own, the heat of his body warming my own even through the thick layers of our clothing. His lips ghosted over my pulse hammering beneath my jaw, ever so softly before he straightened, pinning me with a crooked grin as he stalked off towards the longhouse.

We were married at Midsummer beneath the flowering tree that sat at the foot of the mountains. I had smiled so much on that day that Eivor had teased me for the weeks to follow. And each time he soothed me with sweet words of how I looked as beautiful as Freya herself in my crown of white flowers and my father’s sword upon my hip.

“Are you happy, ástin mín?” He asked when we had finally settled at our bridal table, both still breathless from the bridal race and sufficiently drunk on our shared ale. “You have a glow about you tonight. A man might think you have eaten Iðunn's apples, for you truly are a goddess, my love.”

I wrinkled my nose at the endearment, too sentimental, even for my warrior poet. “Unbearably so, elskan mín. I think I shall die and go to Valhalla from joy before the evening is through.” I choked as I forced another mouthful of ale past my lips. “Or the ale shall finish me first.” When I choked down another mouthful, my husband pulled my flagon from my fingers with a deep chuckle.

“Perhaps you should leave the ale for me, ástin mín, so that you may remember what is left of our wedding night.” Eivor finished the last of the flagon with a deep gulp before refilling it from the seemingly endless bowl of amber mead before us. Eivor had once compared my eyes to the amber color of mead, my hazy mind recalled. Yet the thought did not offer any comfort and I glared at the bowl before us as though I could will it to empty through my willpower alone.

“I do not think we shall ever see our wedding night, for you have drank three flagons already, and I do believe there is more ale here than when we started.” In truth, though I would never admit such a thing to the man who sat beside me, I was glad the feast would be a drawn out affair.

Randvi had explained what would occur upon my wedding night as she helped that morning to dress me in my ornate gown. Eivor and I would finally know each other as husband and wife, though I hadn’t the heart to tell her that our courtship had not been exactly chaste, often stopping just short of indecency.

And the act of lying with Eivor as husband and wife was not what scared me. In fact, I was very much eager to couple with him.

It was the fact that six must bear witness to that coupling for our marriage to be consider consummate. My uncle, Randvi, a priest, and three strangers would each have to watch as Eivor and I rut like beasts beneath the furs. The priest would declare our marriage official, and that would be the end of it. To ensure I was intact, Randvi had explained with a sympathetic smile when I wrinkled my nose at her words.

“With Eivor above you, you shan’t know we are even there,” Randvi soothed as she brushed out my tangled mane of dark hair. “And you’ll find it will be over far faster than you imagined.”

“Was it so when Sigurd and you married?” I drew my knees to my chest beneath my shift, my chin resting upon the scratchy fabric. I had not been witness to her wedding night, for I had been too young and unwed at the time.

“Our marriage is very different from yours,” Randvi answered with a heavy sigh, her fingers catching in my hair and drawing a pained hiss from my lips. “Our love did not come until much later.”

Warm lips that tasted faintly of ale pressed to mine, the rasp of dark beard against my skin drawing me sharply from my thoughts. I gaped at my husband, at the wicked glint in his blue eyes as he finally drew back, his breath warm pants upon the skin of my cheek.

“You are leagues away, ástin mín,” Eivor murmured, calloused thumb brushing over bottom lip. “What troubles you so?”

I did not answer, instead grabbing the flagon from his hands to set it before us. I fidgeted, words failing me, and I was unsure if it was from the nerves or shame that burned in my blood. “My thoughts linger upon our wedding night, elskan mín.”

Eivor answered with a sharp smirk, his fingers trailing down my neck to trace along the fluttering pulse that lay beneath my pale skin. “I find myself lingering there as well.” When I did not respond, his fingers slowed upon my skin, his dark brow knit in concern. “I will not hurt you, ástin mín. I promise that for as long as we both live, no harm will befall you by my hands.” My serious warrior and his pledge did little to calm my nerves.

“Its not that,” I murmured, “I am quite looking forward to that part.” My cheeks were aflame, burning hotter than the fire before us. “It is that we must do so in front of others, Randvi, my uncle. I shall die of shame, Eivor.” I turned away from him, my burning face hidden behind my hands.

“My sweet Sigrid,” Eivor soothed, large hands pulling mine to rest in his lap. “Everyone shall be too drunk to remember anything. Besides,” he pinned me with a wicked smile, “the only sight they shall be treated to is that of my bare arse.”

I giggled at the thought, the ale finally coursing through my blood enough to relax the nerves that twisted in my gut. “That would be quite the sight, husband.” I teased, suddenly brave enough to press a quick kiss to his lips. “Though you shall need to finish our bridal ale first.”

Eivor answered with a wink as he refilled our flagons, though I noted mine had only been half full.

“Ships on the horizon!” The cry came from somewhere near the entrance of the longhouse, and Eivor answered by rising quickly, his hand flying to Varrin’s axe belted at his waist.

“Stay in the longhouse, ástin mín,” Eivor ordered with a quick press of his lips to my forehead, “I shall return soon.” He was gone and in his place was Randvi, her hands cool in mine.

“Would Kjotve be so bold?” I asked her, my own hand gripping hers too tightly. “To attack on our wedding day?”

“Eivor will handle it,” Randvi answered, though I was unsure if it was to soothe my nerves or my own. “Do not worry, Sigrid. It is your wedding after all.”

No sound of battle followed Eivor’s departure, and after a short while, I found myself relaxing enough to sip at the mead Randvi offered. She distracted me with tales of her own wedding, of truths and knowledge on how to care for and please one’s husband, until my own finally returned.

He appeared hale as he crossed to press a sweet kiss to my lips. No wounds covered his skin, nor any gore marred his armor.

“I have a surprise for you, ástin mín,” he answered with a bright smile and another kiss. I followed his gaze to entrance of the longhouse.

And there stood Sigurd Jarl flanked by two strangers.

#assassin's creed valhalla #eivor wolfsmal #m!eivor #assassin's creed #eivor x original character #eivor wolfkissed

2 notes · View notes

harryimaginestuff · 5 years

Text

Ruin the Friendship: Part 2

hi lovlies! sorry for such a long wait, I hope you enjoy part 2!

Word count: 3k

Genre: angst

It had been 7 months since you had last seen and heard from Harry, the last time being when you walked away from his house and out of his life. In the beginning there had been a hole shaped like Harry that had sat heavily in your heart that had affected every one of your moves. You had never felt that way until Harry and you repeatedly promised yourself that you would never allow yourself to feel those emotions ever again.

However, your pessimism ended soon after as the hole in your heart slowly began to fill of a love for something else.

“Sam! I swear to god put that shit back how many times have I told you I can’t eat that!” You whine at him as he picks up a plate of sushi. “Why can’t I have it then?”

“Because you love me so much and wouldn’t want to tempt me?” you bashfully ask, giving him your sweetest smile as you walk closer to him to envelop him into a hug.

Whilst Sam is rarely stopped in public, the both of you wanted to ensure your privacy as you stepped out for your weekly shopping trip. Ever since Harry had been out of your life you had somehow grew even closer to the man beside you, something you had originally believed was impossible seeing as you were practically joined at the hip ever since you had met him when you were six. He had been there for you every step of the way. He was by your side once you had returned from Harry’s the same morning as your eventful ‘break-up’. He was by your side letting you cry onto his shoulder not saying a word because he knew that silence is how you deal best with sadness. He was even by your side the day you found out you were pregnant.

“Uh oh,” you hear Sam whisper causing to look over at him, aiming to see what had caught his attention. Annoyance fills you as your eyes follow his gaze to the wall of trashy magazines all with the common theme of himself and a ‘mystery woman’.

‘Sam Claflin spotted with mystery woman.’

‘Claflin spotted entering London home with mysterious girl and a telling package.’

‘Exclusive! Sam Claflin photographed entering home carrying baby crib packaging with mystery woman.’

The same image is used throughout all magazines, a blurry picture with your back the camera and whilst you’re not visible enough to be recognised, Sam’s face is clear as day which would in turn make it hard to disregard the pregnancy rumours that are bound to come.

“Hey look at me.” Sam reassures, gently grabbing your shoulders as to divert you away from the issue that has captured your attention. “It’s all going to be fine, and if someone stops us, we just say nothing okay?”

Trashy magazines were usually untrue, always coming up with some fabricated lie from a ‘reliable source’, however in this circumstance there was no need for a reliable source seeing as pictured in every one of the magazines was a picture of her and Sam and whilst she wasn’t recognisable, it only meant that a shit storm was on the way, it was just a matter of when.

“I know Sam, we both knew it was going to happen eventually.” You signed, stroking the swell of your stomach, “just didn’t think it’d be so soon.”

“Let’s finish buying you your ice cream and get out of here.”

“Love you Sam,” you smiled cuddling into his side.

“Love me enough to let me buy some Sushi?”“No.”

That night you couldn’t help but let your mind wonder to the moment you found out about the human growing inside you.

After almost a week of incessant puking and convincing yourself that it was just a general illness, as after all there had been some kind of virus that had been making its rounds around work over the past few weeks. And if you were being honest you would have ignored and waited out this apparent sickness if it weren’t for Sam’s friendly concern.

It was getting to the point where his consistent badgering and bothering had gotten you to reach your boiling point, leading to him taking you to the doctors for his benefit rather than yours.

It felt like only a week ago when you were sitting inside the doctor’s office with Sam waiting for you outside patiently.

It felt like only a week ago when the doctor had put you at ease and then into a frenzy in so little time.

It felt like only a week ago when you were left in shock after discovering that you were growing a real human inside of you and that little human happened to share the same blood as the man who singlehandedly held your heart and broke it.

You couldn’t even begin to explain the way your stomach dropped and the way your heart thumped so loudly within your chest. The words ‘pregnant’ has echoed across the room filling you with despair and warmth simultaneously. Tears had filled your eyes, but it wasn’t sorrow for yourself and the fact that you had accidentally fallen pregnant with a man who couldn’t lob you, instead it was grief for the small part of you growing from within who may never learn who their father is.

After going for your weekly shopping trip, the both of you were exhausted, you more so because of the full-grown baby chilling in your stomach, and Sam because you had made him carry every single one of the bags. All 10 of them. And now being the bestest friend that he is, he was currently sitting on a makeshift chair by your feet and massaging out the full ache that had developed. Who knew motherhood would be nothing but ache, pains, puke and love?

“I love you.” You moaned out, expressing your gratitude to the man who’s always been stood by your side.

“I’m only doing this because you let me eat sushi, albeit I had to eat it on my own in the toilet, but still, the gesture counts.”

You and Sam has been friends since childhood, before fame there had always been you. The whole reason he took on his role is Love, Rosie was thanks to you seeing as he saw so much of the both of you in the characters, sans the romance of course.

This is why as soon as you revealed your surprise pregnancy the first thing Sam said was that he would be whatever you needed, whether that was the baby’s father figure or just the cool uncle, either way you knew he’d be there for you through thick and thin. And he was. He attended every appointment, he was there for every craving, he was there for the first kick. Quite frankly here was no way that you would have been able to do it so smoothly without him. “Harry just texted me.” Sam said cussing your stomach to drop with unease. The last time you spoke to him was when you ended it and the last time Sam spoke to him as far as you knew was when he went to pick up some of your belongings from Harry’s place. “He must’ve seen the articles. But he doesn’t know it was you.”

You can feel the dread slowly travel through every vein in your body as the colour drops from your face. This is it. The moment you knew was coming “What did u want me to say.”

“um… just… I don’t know… just confirm a pregnancy but say nothing about me.”

Sam looked at you, eye brows slightly raised. “Are you sure? If we lie we can’t turn back and if he finds out we’re in shit.”

“Yes, yes I’m sure just send it.”

“Okay whatever you want.”

The inevitable fact that Harry could and would soon find out about his daughter had been pushed to the back of your mind as you concerned yourself with more important and urgent matters as you prepared for the arrival of your baby. However, deep down you knew that the real reason why you refused to acknowledge the truth was because you were terrified of what could happen if he ever did find out. More now than ever as you had made Sam outright lie to him, putting you in a pretty bad spot if he was to ever find out. You knew that the confrontation was unavoidable and either Harry would find out on his own accords or you would reveal it to him yourself. Either way that day was fast approaching, and you were one step closer seeing as Harry now believed that there was a pregnant woman in Sam’s life.

You just never thought that that day would be today.

Both you and Sam were sat inside the nursery, which previously was a game room that Sam had sacrificed as soon as you moved in with him. The two of you had been working on building a crib and painting the room since earlier that day. Whilst in every other sense the two of you made a great team however the both of you had come to the realisation that decorating was your weakest point. Rather than working together you were in one corner painting the wall whilst Sam was in the other building the crib. You currently weren’t speaking seeing as not even 20 minutes ago you had fallen into a tedious argument on what the colour of the wall should be, with you arguing for a universal yellow and Sam arguing for a lilac hue.

You were pulled out of your mindless humming by the sound of the doorbell ringing causing your movements to halt at the sudden intrusion.

“Mind getting it for me.” Sam asked, fiddling with the wooden boards laid out in front of him.

You simply nodded and strolled out of the room. Perhaps the person waiting behind the door was the delivery man, after all Sam had been raving on about some kitchen gadget he bought earlier on in the week, so perhaps it was that. Peeking through the hole you felt your body turn ice cold as behind the door stood a very familiar curly headed man.

“Shit shit shit.” You mumbled to yourself as you roughly distanced yourself, almost as if the door was fire, with the flames licking at you, melting the glue that pieced together your heart.

“Sam? It’s Harry.” The familiar voice ignited your body as you bolted up the stairs and back to the nursery.

“Harry-he’s-Harry…” Despite the broken phrases, Sam was still able to understand you as he gently pushed you into a chair and handing you his glass of water as he sweetly whispered in your ear.

You could hear the muffled voices of the distant men below you as you once again hid from your issues. From what you could hear, Harry’s random appearance was down to him giving a small gift for a child he beloved to be Sam’s. It was weird hearing his voice now so many months after you separated, and it was even weirder to think that that was the voice you listened to almost everyday. But now wasn’t the most recent time that you had heard his voice. The last time you heard it was soon after you found out you were pregnant and you had been calling and calling him only to be met with his voicemail over and over again, until one day rather than hearing him, it was an automated message informing you on how the number was no longer available. For you that had drawn the line since the lack of need for him to keep you updated on his contact details was a tell-tale sign that you no longer held any importance anymore. And yet there you were on the other line, completely in love with him and pregnant with his baby.

“Y/N?” And there it was again, that voice. That voice that could make you smile, scream and cry all at once. But it wasn’t the that that made you choke up this time it was the fact that he was standing right in front of you staring at your rounded stomach. You watched as his mouth taped open and closed like a fish and if it wasn’t for such a tense moment you would have burst out laughing, but this wasn’t the time.

“It’s you.” He hesitantly steps forward his hand subconsciously lifting towards you. “You were the girl who was pregnant.”

He takes one more step towards you before settling down at your feet his hands resting on your legs.

“You were the girl Sam was talking about.” You’re yet to open you mouth and speak, but the fear consumes you as you watch the clogs turn in his mind as he tries to piece together the information he’s just been given. “You’re pregnant with Sam’s baby.”

“What? No.” Apparently he was piecing together the wrong information. Sam chooses this moment to walk in, mumbling a quiet ‘shit’ at the image in front of him.

“I mean Y/N there’s no point denying it now I can see that you’re pregnant and Sam told me he had a pregnant girlfriend.”

“I’m almost 8 months Harry.”

“Okay?” He asks confusion still written across his face until suddenly his face goes slack and you think that this is it, he knows now.

“You were sleeping with me and Sam?”

“Harry for Christ sake.” He stands up creating a distance between you as he moves him self to the corner.

“You told me that you loved me.” He pauses as his eyebrows furrowed in anger. “But you were with Sam behind my back. That doesn’t look like fucking love to me.”

You open your mouth to speak but he holds his hand up to silence you. “And you.” He points at Sam. “You were supposed to be my fucking friend. No wonder you stopped speaking to me! You were sleeping with my girl. You were both laughing behind my back. I knew you were like everyone else, just using me. We were supposed to be exclusive.”

“Mate calm down, don’t say stuff you’ll regret just let her explain.” Sam said lightly gripping his arm.

“M’not your fucking mate.”

“You’re such a dick Harry! And still as oblivious as ever, first when I was trying to tell you I loved you and now when I’m trying to tell you the baby’s yours.”

Harry stills the anger leaving his face, “why didn’t you tell me?” He whispers. You laugh dryly, “I did so many times. As soon as I found out before telling anyone I called you. Over and over again but you never answered but I never gave up until that bitch automated voice me that your number wasn’t available, you changed it. Do you know how that felt?”

“Do you know how it felt to reach out to someone you had known and cared for and loved for two years to act like you never existed, to be left on the ground like dirt. You say now that I must’ve been using you but I’ve never felt more used at that point, I was left thinking that I was never anything more than a good fuck and once I was no longer willing to cooperate you pushed me aside to find a new plaything. I felt like complete and utter shit. I was so in love with this man, pregnant with his child and absolutely scared shitless. I didn’t know what to do and you weren’t there!” You cry out. “You were never there. Not when I needed you the most.”

“I can’t believe I was dumb enough to believe that you cared at all for me.” You broke down in tears, your body folding into itself as you curled up into a ball, a subconscious effort to protect your already split heart.

“Y/N… that’s not true.” Harry finally said after Sam quietly left the room, allowing you to have the conversation that was needed.

“There’s no proof from your actions that tells me otherwise.”

“I left you because I thought that that was what was best for you.”

“Harry don’t feed me the shit that you feed all the other girls when you no longer want them anymore, that you end whatever you have with them for their own safety.”

“But it wasn’t just for your safety this time. I did it for my sanity as well as yours. Do you know how many of my past relationships has ended as a result of the hate they receive? Basically, all of them. I realised too late that I loved you too, after spending a week without you in my arms I realised that I didn’t want a day like that ever again. But then I remembered all my past relationships and I couldn’t let you go through all the shit they had to. Not you because I had never loved anyone more than I love you.”

“You can’t say that to me?” you cried out. “You can’t play with my feelings like that. You never wanted me before this pregnancy, why would I ever believe that you were genuine about wanting me now. You’re just in love with the idea of a family. But you’re not in love with me.”

“I love you; I swear I do, and I’ll keep telling you that until you get sick of it. I didn’t handle the situation well back then, but I swear I’ve changed as much as a man can change in eight months. We don’t have to jump into everything now but please let me be in your life. The both of yours.” He said reaching out to stroke your swollen stomach.

“I’m only agreeing for now for the sake of our child, if we’re in contact we do it on my terms, I’m staying here-”

“-but”

“I’m staying here with Sam, you can come to any other appointments I have and of course the birth, whenever that is. But that’s it for now.”

“We just see where things go?”

“Yeah, we’ll just see where things go.”

You watched in awe as Harry sang softly into your stomach, maybe you’ll finally have your happy ending.

tags

@harryisalittleshit @killerqueenishere

#Harry Styles #harry #styles #harry styles imagines #harry styles angst

169 notes · View notes

max-is-tired · 6 years

Text

Now My Life Gets Better (Every Letter That You Write Me)

Prompt: “Pen pals! Logince” by @creativity-killed-thekitten

Pairing: Logince

Characters: Roman Sanders, Logan Sanders, Virgil Sanders, Patton Sanders

Words: 2.826

Warnings: Some insecurity, swearing, the rest is basically just fluff

Notes: I HAD THIS FIC IN THE WORKS SINCE FREAKING NOVEMBER CAN YOU HEAR ME SCREAMING-

I swear this fic did not want to work with me. I had to restart it like, five different times? It really did not want to get written lmao. But now here we are! Finally!!

Thanks to @creativity-killed-thekitten for giving me this prompt and not killing me for the long ass wait lmao ily and thanks to my amazing beta @tigertigertigger who makes sure the English language doesn’t kick my ass to the moon and back, you’re the absolute best

Hit me up if you want to be added to the taglist and let me know if you liked this, reblogs, comments and asks are always very welcome and much appreciated!

Read it on AO3!! Buy me a Coffee!!

It all starts in 6th grade, when two kids from two different states stumble upon an initiative about pen pals concerning different school districts scattered all around the country.

Since it’s advised more than once to choose a pen name, Logan decides to go by L –just a letter, but generic enough to pass as a nickname. His introduction is rather plain, almost technical, his handwriting clean and void of errors –but, even if he tries to act indifferent to the whole ordeal, he can’t help the little glimmer of curiosity that sparks in his mind, seeping into his words and phrases without him meaning to.

Roman introduces himself as Prince, his first letter written with every single colored pen he can find. It’s messy, as enthusiastic as a written letter can be, and filled with the occasional grammatical error –he should have proofread it, but his 11-years-old brain was too filled with excitement and anticipation to really care about that.

They’re polar opposites in every aspect of their personality and yet, something between them clicks. They keep exchanging letters through the years, a constant back and forth that accompanies them through their middle school and high school years.

They’re not all happy letters, of course. They fight, they cry, and there are windows of time in which no words are spoken, both parties too proud to admit their wrongs. But they always come back to one another, without fail.

And maybe one would think that exchanging written letters in the 21st century is weird, or a waste of time –technology is so much faster and reliable than a piece of paper or the American mail service- but they don’t care.

Even when they finally exchange email addresses first and telephone numbers later, their back and forth in letters doesn’t stop –it’s a tradition by now, something absolutely theirs none of them wants to give up on just yet. It doesn’t matter that they can now talk on a daily basis, may it be via phone or Skype call.

One thing they do not exchange though is their name. They don’t know why, to be honest. They know each other, they trust each other, and yet none of them knows the other’s real name –they still refer to each other with their pen names, even when they’re looking at each other through their laptops’ screens.

Which is never a big problem for Roman, who’s just a sucker for both pet names and flustering the hell out of his beloved nerd.

“I will tell you my name when we meet in person,” Logan says once, during one of their frequent Skype calls, “but only if you agree to do the same.”

“The I absolutely can’t wait for that day to come, my dear L,” Roman answers, dramatically draping himself over his chair while sending his laptop the sweetest smile he could possibly muster, “I’m sure your name is as beautiful as you are, if not more.”

Logan sputters, glaring at Roman as his cheeks and ears turn bright red, and Roman beams, eyes crinkling in delight at the other’s embarrassment.

“Starlight, is that a blush I see?”

“No it is not, and if you don’t shut up now I will end this call.”

Yup, he really can’t wait.

+++

“Hey Sir-Sing-A-Lot, stop talking to your boyfriend for a second, we need to reach that fucking café and you’re the only one between us who knows where it is.”

Roman looks up for his phone, scowling at his friend. “For the last time Mr. Dark and Gloomy, he’s not my boyfriend.”

“Every time you’re talking to him you get this sappy, stupid smile on your face,” Virgil smirks, clearly amused by Roman constantly denying the obvious, “It makes you look more stupid than usual, and that’s saying something.”

“I absolutely do not!” Roman exclaims, face red and eyes flashing. Virgil just laughs at his reaction, leaving a blushing Roman glaring at him and wanting nothing more than wipe that fucking smirk off his new roommate’s face.

In his hand, his phone keeps vibrating at an alarming frequency –L has probably launched into one of his little rants, so he’s not really concerned. It’s cute, really, how the other gets so fired up sometimes. Roman just needs to rile him up a little, a few choice words thrown into their conversation, and there’s no stopping him. Roman often finds himself looking forward to their little debates, moreover if they’re over face call. That way, he can admire L as his expression gets more and more invested in their argument, blue eyes lighting up with fire as his passions take hold.

It’s an endearing sight, and one Roman feels like he’ll never get tired of. It makes his insides squirm and flip, heart consumed by a flame oh so similar to the one in the other’s eyes, burning in his veins like liquid fire and-

“-rth to Roman! You with me, Lover Boy?” Virgil exclaims, waving a hand right in front of the other’s face. “Stop daydreaming about the love of your life for a second and get us to the cafeteria, would you? Patton is waiting for us, you know.”

“You want to go just because there’s coffee.” Roman grumbles, walking forward to hide his red cheeks from the other.

Virgil smirks, easily falling into step with his friend. “Damn right I do. Also, you did not deny it. You sure there’s no mysterious boyfriend you gotta introduce us to?”

Roman simply shoves him and keeps walking, effectively putting an end to the conversation.

And in the silence that stretches, his mind starts wandering.

It’s not that he’s not interested in L that way. He can’t say he hasn’t thought about it, that’s for sure. How could he have not?

L is downright stunning, with deep, intelligent blue eyes and always-styled brown locks that Roman just wants to sink his hand into. And he’s not only aesthetically pleasing –oh god, he’s starting to sound like him- but his personality is really something else.

L is calm and collected, the voice of reason in the middle of a storm. But he’s also passionate and incredibly clever, armed with a fiery temper and infinite knowledge. He’s not one to back out from a fight, wiping the floor with his opponent with the use of words alone.

He’s like the ocean, calm in appearance and yet hiding an inner strength to rival the strongest of fighters.

… yeah, maybe Roman is a little bit in love with his best friend. He can see where Virgil’s taunts are coming from. And if those lingering looks and quiet, soft smiles L has been gifting him more and more are anything to go by, he has a rising suspicion that his feelings are very much returned.

But Roman is more attentive than most give him credit for, and he hasn’t missed the uncertain look or the flicker of doubt on L’s face every time the other thinks he’s not paying attention. He knows what the other is thinking. How could he not, when he’s probably feeling the exact same thing?

Because for their whole life, their entire relationship has been composed of letters and messages and video calls. They know each other, but at the same time he can’t help but ask himself… do they really?

To be honest, Roman’s scared shitless of the day they’ll meet. He’s afraid –as illogical as it may seem- that the other will just look at him and decide that he’s suddenly too much –too loud, too affectionate, too dramatic, too Roman- and walk away, leaving him behind for good.

It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before, after all. But that doesn’t mean that, when the time comes, it will break his heart any less.

God, he’s not ready for that day to come.

“You sure you know where we’re going, Princey?” Virgil asks, snapping him out of his thoughts, “Patton is starting to get worried and he’s kind of blowing up my phone with messages.”

Roman rolls his eyes, gaze sweeping over their surroundings. Differently from his two friends, who have both moved just recently in the city for college, he’s lived his whole life just a town over and knows these streets like the back of his hand. He could navigate the town with his eyes closed, and the café Patton’s waiting for them at is, coincidentally, one of his favorites.

The boy grins as his eyes land on the coffee shop’s familiar windows, staring back at them from the other side of the road.

“See?” he exclaims, a smug smile appearing on his face as he points to their destination, “told you I could get us there.”

Virgil waves him off with a chuckle, shaking his head as he reads through Patton’s messages on his phone. “Yeah, yeah. Also, apparently Patton has somehow run into our mysterious fourth roommate and convinced him to wait with him for us, so yeah, heads up I guess?”

“The more the merrier.” Roman hums, quickly crossing the street.

“He says the guy’s name is Logan, he’s apparently very passionate about space and I think Patton just adopted him or something,” Virgil adds, clearly amused.

“Sounds like Padre alright,” Roman chuckles, opening the shop’s door, “I wonder what type Logan is?”

“Looks like we’re about to find out,” Virgil says, “There they are.”

Roman follows Virgil gaze, immediately spotting Patton’s wild caramel curls at one of the tables on the far right of the shop. He looks like he’s giggling at something, hands curled around his cup as he shakes in laughter. The scene brings a little smile on Roman’s face, who still has to get used to how adorable Patton can be –if his heart wasn’t already so set on a certain handsome nerd, he’s pretty sure that boy could have easily stolen it.

Then he looks at the other occupant of the booth and his thoughts loudly screech to a halt.

Roman freezes on the spot, completely ignoring the strange look Virgil is giving him as his heart starts beating wildly in his chest. He’s turned around, face hidden from him, but the slicked-back dark brown hair, the lean, thin frame, and the overall posture are so familiar to Roman he feels like he’s about to burst. And yet, he can’t quite believe it, blinding hope and rational skepticism clashing in his mind –there’s no way that’s who Roman thinks he is, why would he even be here, what even are possibilities that’s really-

“There they are!” Patton calls, waving his hand towards them, and as their mysterious new roommate turns around, every single doubt disappears from Roman’s mind.

Because he knows those deep blue eyes staring back at him, he knows them like he knows his own name and he can’t do anything but stare, completely dumbfounded as the other –it’s L, it’s really him, holy shit this is really happening- slowly stand up from the booth and walk towards him until they’re standing face to face.

L looks at him, cocking his head to the side as he seems to ponder something.

“It appears that you were right, after all,” he finally says.

Roman simply blinks, “W-what?”

“You really are taller than me,” L answers, a little smile appearing on his face, and Roman lets out a laugh, finally snapping out of his shock. He grins, happiness and giddiness pooling in his chest, and before he knows it he’s basically tackling his best friend, spinning him around as L –Logan, Virgil said his name is Logan holy shit he finally knows his best friend’s name- lets out a startled shout.

“What the hell are you doing here?!” Roman exclaims as he finally puts the other down, a blinding smile ever-present on his lips.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Logan answers, trying to keep his balance as a wave of dizziness hits him, “was it necessary to spin us around like that?”

“Very much necessary, Specs,” Roman grins, bouncing on his toes, “holy shit you’re really here, this is amazing!”

“Uh,” a voice suddenly pipes up, startling the both of them, “not to interrupt your moment or anything, but what the fuck is going on?”

Roman groans and turns around, sending a weak glare toward Virgil. His roommate simply raises an eyebrow, completely unaffected, while beside him Patton looks three seconds away from bursting into excited squeals.

“Remember the pen pal I told you about?” he says, gesturing to the boy beside him, “Meet the pen pal.”

“More like the guy you’ve talked our ears off about for literal hours, Princey,” Virgil counters, rolling his eyes with a little smirk on his face, “Nice to finally meet you, I guess.”

“OH MY GOD RO THIS IS SO CUTE,” Patton suddenly exclaims, giving everyone else a heart attack as he jumps up and down with literal stars in his eyes.

“Pat, my sweet friend, you know I love you dearly,” Roman wheezes, a hand on his heart, “but please do not do that ever again.”

“Whoops,” Patton giggles, a sheepish smile on his face.

“So,” Logan pipes up, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards, “Ro?”

Roman visibly startles, turning towards him with wide eyes. His surprise disappears quickly though, morphing in a big smile and gleaming eyes.

“Roman Prince, at your service,” he introduces himself with a flourish, complete with a dramatic bow and dazzling grin.

Logan smiles at his antics, rolling his eyes with an amused smile on his face. “My name is Logan Sanders, a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he says, “you used your last name as your pen name?”

“Told you it wasn't just because I am royally handsome,” Roman grins, wiggling his eyebrows.

“A royal annoyance, more like,” Logan shoots back without hesitation, his lips stretching into a smirk of his own.

Roman’s Offended Prince Noises™ are drowned by Virgil’s surprised laugh. “Roman, you didn’t tell us your pen pal was cool!”

“Thank you, I guess?”

“Nerd,” Roman chuckles, shaking his head, “I’ll change your mind, just you wait.”

“Oh, really?” Logan challenges, raising an eyebrow, “I’ve known you since 6th grade, Prince. How exactly are you planning on doing that?”

“How about some take-out dinner at my place tonight?” Roman asks without missing a beat, “we could even watch one of those space-themed documentaries you like so much.”

The other blinks owlishly at him, clearly caught off guard. Silence falls in their little corner of the coffee shop, the only sounds being Logan’s sharp intake of breath and Virgil’s stunned whisper of “holy shit Princey that was smooth as fuck-”.

Distantly, Roman knows he should be freaking out right now, fears and doubt swirling in the back of his mind like a storm brewing in the distance. Strangely enough, though, he can’t feel even an ounce of panic, a smile on his face and his heart beating wildly in his chest as he takes in his best friend’s reddening cheeks and a very familiar spark of something appearing in his eyes -it’s a special type of glimmer, one Logan gets every time he talks about the stars, the universe, the wonders of this world he oh so loves and admires.

It makes Roman’s heart sing, to be the one at the receiving end of that look.

“I- um-” Logan finally manages to croak out, fixing his tie and clearing his throat to try and get back some of his composure, “Are you- are you asking me out on a date?”

“Yeah, I think I am,” Roman nods, still smiling, “if you want to, that is.”

Logan looks at him, clearly pondering the offer in his head. Then, he lets out a sigh, shaking his head with a smile slowly spreading on his face.

“Leave it to you to ask me out not even ten minutes after we’ve met for the first time in real life,” he chuckles, fondly rolling his eyes, “but I think I’ll accept your offer.”

Roman grin widens even more, not missing a beat as he briefly closes the distance between them and gently lets his hands rest on Logan’s waist.

“I swear you won’t regret it, sweetheart,” he murmurs, before leaning in and finally kissing him.

It’s everything Roman has dreamt it would be and so much more. Logan’s lips are soft, slightly chapped, gentle as they move in unison with his own. Roman can feel the beginning of a smile threatening to form as he sinks into the kiss, his surroundings completely forgotten as his whole world narrows down to Logan, and nothing more -he barely acknowledges Virgil letting out a loud whoop, Patton squealing loudly in the background.

The world could end in this very moment, and Roman wouldn’t care less. Because he’s kissing Logan, his pen pal, his best friend, his crush, the man he fell in love with, and for now, everything is perfect.

611 notes · View notes

wistfulcynic · 5 years

Text

The Very Witching Time (5 / 6)

SO I would like to begin by sharing a snippet of conversation I had with @thisonesatellite when I first told her my plans for this fic. I don’t remember all the details but here’s the gist:

Me: *tells*

Me: “It’ll be four chapters, about 20,000 words.”

Her: “It’s so cute that you think you can write that in 20,000 words.”

Me: “20k. Max.”

HAHAHAHAHAHA so obviously I WAS WRONG. I tragically underestimated the number of words I would need to tell this story. So now there are six chapters. AND THAT WILL BE ALL.

Ahem. ANYWAY.

In this chapter Emma and Killian deal with the aftermath of the curse breaking, there is some bonding and some sexy times and a library that will make you DROOL.

Thanks as always to @cssns for the brilliant event and @gingerchangeling for the gorgeous art.

SUMMARY: Emma Swan is a hereditary witch, last in a long line of wise women who for centuries have guarded the coast of Maine and the small village of Storybrooke with their homemade cures and their ancient magic. She holds the delicate balance between magic and mundane, but now that balance is threatened by a new foe, one capable of bringing an end to everything Emma is and everything she loves. To defeat it she will need all her power, help from her friends and neighbours, and the loyalty of a very unusual dog who answers to the name of Killian.

RATING: M

AO3 | Tumblr: ch1, ch2, ch3, ch4

TAGGING: @thisonesatellite, @stahlop, @mariakov81, @kmomof4, @snowbellewells, @jennjenn615, @resident-of-storybrooke, @teamhook, @thejollyroger-writer, @winterbaby89, @darkcolinodonorgasm, @captainsjedi, @ultraluckycatnd @shireness-says @scientificapricot @tiganasummertree

(if you’d like a tag, please let me know!)

Chapter 5:

Emma was never quite certain how she got home that morning. A soft haze obscured her recollections of the journey, like the delicate lace of frost on a winter windowpane or a particularly tedious Instagram filter. On top of the woozy exhaustion that always plagued her after intense magic use there was also the discovery of Killian’s true nature, the visions with their troubling revelations about Cora and his past, plus breaking a freaking curse, and if that weren’t already more than enough to make her head spin, that kiss… the soft, wet warmth of Killian’s mouth on hers would render her dizzy and faint even if she hadn’t channeled immense amounts of magic mere hours before.

It is therefore, as you will surely agree, unsurprising that all she could ever remember of making her way back to her house was the radiant sunshine dappled by late autumn leaves, the sharp bite of frost the air, and Killian’s hand warm in her own, his arm around her shoulders and his body solid and reassuring as she leaned against him, her head tucked against his shoulder, breathing in the spicy scent of his skin.

He guided her straight upstairs to her bedroom, helping her out of her wrinkled and leaf-strewn gown and into her pajamas before tucking her under her quilt. His fingers traced her cheek with the gentlest touch and she caught his hand, sensing his intent.

“Don’t go,” she murmured. “Stay with me.”

“Are you sure, love?”

Such a simple phrase but she could hear every shade of meaning in the tone of his voice, Emma marvelled. The desire not to leave her warring with hesitation, uncertainty over what exactly his place was in her life now that he no longer wore the guise of a dog. She understood, and she knew there were important conversations they needed to have, but also she was desperate for sleep and certain she wouldn’t manage a wink without him there beside her. She squeezed his hand. “Stay.”

He smiled and nodded and removed his own rumpled shirt and trousers before sliding into bed behind her, snuggling close and wrapping her securely in his arms. Emma sighed and was asleep in an instant.

She awoke in the late afternoon just as the sun was dipping below the horizon, its bending rays bathing the sky in fiery blaze orange and softer coral, shot with streaks of heliotrope and brilliant rose. Only a sunset could make those colours go together, she thought with a smile, but in it they were breathtaking.

Killian was still behind her, the protective curl of his body around hers so achingly familiar despite his altered form. From the cadence of his breathing she knew he was awake, though his only movement was his fingers twisting absently through the ends of her hair.

She turned in his arms and was met by his smile, brighter and more brilliant than any sunset, flooding her racing heart with a wave of warmth and sparks born of a different sort of magic. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Better.” She smiled back at him. “Good. Wonderful, in fact. Starving.”

He laughed. “Shall we have some dinner?” He moved to slide from the bed, halting on a sharp inhale when she laid her hand flat against his bare chest.

“I’m not just hungry for food, Killian,” she said. The tingle in her blood was making her dizzy again but the day of restful sleep had restored her strength and she was buzzing and energised and ravenous.

He caught her meaning instantly and his eyes widened, glazing with answering hunger and heat and a trace of doubt. “Are you—”

“Don’t ask me if I’m sure,” she cut him off. “I am, completely. I’m still not certain how we broke your curse or shared my magic or what any of this is or what it means, but I know that I’ve never felt anything like this connection between us and I really, really want to make it physical. I need to. Is that okay?”

“You will definitely not hear any argument from me, love.”

He gave her another of his impossibly familiar grins and she took a moment to marvel at just how much of the man had been present in the dog without her even noticing and then she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him.

In common with many witches Emma’s beliefs, in the abstract, were very open about sex. Far from being considered sinful it was seen as a natural and integral part of life, elemental as water and air, earth and fire.

In the abstract. Practically speaking Emma was a shopkeeper in a small town where everyone knew everyone else and people talked. Where the local witch taking up with anyone would be a point of extreme interest to far too many people and there would be expectations and pressure and questions, and all things considered Emma had always found that celibacy was simply easier.

Meaning it had been some considerable time since she’d been touched. And she had never, never used her magic during sex.

Yet when Killian’s mouth opened under hers and his hand caressed her bare skin she found herself overcome, helpless against the rush of power that thrummed through her. Not her power, though. His.

“How…” she gasped when they broke apart for air, unable to form any more complex words but certain he would understand.

He did. “It’s in my hand, I think,” he said. “The magic that healed it. There was so much of it and not all got used. It’s— part of me now.” He stroked her cheek with his left hand and she could feel the vibrations of the magic it held. “And what’s part of me is part of you,” he whispered. “That’s how you feel it too. I think.”

She shook her head. “I’ve never heard of anything like that. It’s— I mean, it shouldn’t—”

“Emma.” His hand slid from her cheek to her hair, his eyes soft and amused and desperate. “I’m sure there’s a fascinating explanation but right now I do not care. Do you?”

“No.” She pulled him back down to her, surrendering completely to the energy that sparked wherever their skin met, and the intensely arousing sensation of someone else’s magic flowing through her.

Why the fuck not? she thought. Nothing about Killian had ever been what she expected, why should sex with him be any different?

He took the lead and she let him, another new departure for her, let him slip the clothing from her body with an infuriating lack of haste as his hands and mouth unerringly sought out every spot that yearned for their touch, heightening her pleasure layer upon layer, higher and higher, impossibly high, until she was sobbing and clawing at him and prepared to beg.

And when he finally —finally— slid inside her, joining their bodies in tandem with their hearts, the magic was an inferno, consuming them as they clung to each other, as they moved together in a rhythm both ancient and uniquely their own until the waves of magic turned to ecstasy and they fell apart, in pieces and more whole than they had ever been.

Emma had no idea how long they lay together, entwined and still joined, but by the time she felt capable of thought and movement the last rays of the sun had faded and the light through her bedroom window was the glow of the pale moon above the treetops.

“Gods, I’m starving,” she said.

“Again? Give a man a chance to recover, love, after you wring him dry like an old flannel.”

She laughed. “This time I’m talking about food.”

“Well thank fuck for that. I could definitely do with some nourishment.”

~~ 🌕 ~~

They raided the kitchen and feasted on whatever they could find that required no cooking: roasted corn and squash left over from the Samhain bonfire that seemed so much more than just a day ago, bread spread thick with butter and honey or generous slices of cheese, apples and slightly stale soul cakes and very hot tea.

Emma was so hungry she’d have eaten anything and cared little for the taste but it was all delicious, spiced by the magic still sparking in the air and the pleasure of eating with Killian, properly this time, with him sitting next to her at the table rather than under it.

“So,” said Emma, once the most demanding of their hunger pangs were quieted. “It feels really weird asking you this, after… well, after everything, but your last name is Jones, right? I remember from the vision.”

“It is.”

Emma’s brow creased as she tried to kick her sluggish brain into gear. “Killian Jones,” she mused. “Why does that name sound so familiar?”

“I’ve no idea. I spent most of my life on the sea or in England, though I have lived in Boston for the past few years—”

“Boston,” she interrupted, as faint bells began to chime in her memory. “Harvard University Press. Was it a book cover? Did you write a book?”

“Aye.”

A very inelegant snort of laughter burst from her.

“What?” Killian grinned at her mirth but his eyes were puzzled.

“Sorry.” She held up her hand as another wave of giggles overcame her. “Sorry. I just don’t think I’ll ever be able to hear you say that without remembering how you used to bark it.” She laughed again and this time he joined her, blue eyes twinkling.

“You might want to get over that,” he teased. “I say ‘aye’ rather a lot. It’s a navy thing.”

“I’ll do my best.” She wiped her eyes and breathed deeply to stifle the giggles. “Anyway, you were saying you wrote a book.”

“Ay— er, yes, I did. A history of the traditions of witchcraft from England to North America.”

“That’s it!” She snapped her fingers triumphantly as the pieces fell into place, then waved her hand in a circular motion ending with it palm up in front of her. Nothing happened. She frowned and waved it again, with more of a flourish this time but the same lack of result. Killian watched her curiously as she stared dumbfounded at her empty hand then rolled her eyes and shook her head. “I’m an idiot,” she said. “I forgot I’m so low on magic. It’s practically zinging through the air but none of it is the kind I can use. It’s a weird feeling. Anyway, I was trying to summon your book from my library but it looks like that’s not happening so I guess we’ll just have to get it the mundane way.” She looked at him, mischief glinting in her eye. “You’re a history professor, right?”

“Ay— I am.”

She grinned. “You’re going to love this.”

Grabbing his hand she pulled him up from the table and along behind her out of the kitchen and through the living room to a door that he had never seen opened for the whole of the time he had lived in her house. Emma opened it and guided him up a narrow and winding set of worn stone stairs, her movements quick and certain despite the darkness.

“Sorry there’s no light,” she said. “I’d put some on, but, you know, no magic.”

“It’s okay—” began Killian and then they arrived at the top of the stairs and the words died in his throat as his mouth fell open and his eyes widened and he gaped with an expression of mute stupefaction that he would have known was comical even if Emma hadn’t burst out laughing at the sight of it.

“Pretty great, huh?” she said.

Killian had been in many extraordinary libraries in his time, from the stately magnificence of the Bodleian at Oxford to the hushed gravity of the Reading Room at the British Museum, from the sprawling glory of the New York Public Library to the actual Vatican Archives, where he hadn’t even been able to enjoy himself for fear of breathing improperly and getting kicked out.

But none of them had prepared him for Emma’s library.

Every inch of the walls was lined with carved wooden shelves, precisely fitted to the graceful curves of the circular room and broken only by the door they’d used to enter and another on the other side, and randomly placed windows of varying sizes and shapes through which pearly moonlight slanted, illuminating the round and sturdy oak table at the centre of the room and the rows upon rows upon rows upon rows of books. These rows curved around and around in the endless arc of a helix, twisting up much farther than his eye could see to the very top of the sharply pointed tower.

Killian swallowed hard and with immense effort found his voice. “Why did we never come in here before?” he croaked.

Emma shrugged. “I usually just summon the books I need. It’s kind of a pain to dig through them by hand so I came up with a spell that sorts them based on the criteria I give it.”

Killian turned his astonished gaze on her. “You have a librarian spell?”

“Yeah.” Emma frowned at him as he began to laugh. “Why is that funny?”

He shook his head. “It’s just my friend Belle would not be happy if she knew that was a thing. You could put her out of a job.” He looked around again, struggling to grasp the extent of her collection. There must be thousands of books, he thought. Hundreds of thousands. “You really have my book in here?” he asked her, ridiculously flattered at the idea.

“Yep.” The room shifted with no apparent motion and a tall, rectangular window that Killian felt certain had been a good ten feet above their heads moments before was right where they stood. Emma pulled a book from the shelf beside it. “Here it is.” She held the book up in the shaft of moonlight from the window so he could see its familiar cover. “I enjoyed it.”

“You read it?”

“Of course. I read everything written about witchcraft. It’s important to know what’s going on in people’s minds. Your book was better than most, though of course there’s a lot missing.”

“Missing?”

“Uh huh. Oh, don’t worry, it’s not your fault,” she hurried to add when she caught his disgruntled look. “Most of the stuff you left out I’d’ve been worried if you’d included. We keep it hidden for a reason.”

“That… makes a lot of sense, actually,” acknowledged Killian, somewhat mollified.

“Mmmm,” agreed Emma. “Um. Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“What made you want to study the history of witchcraft?”

His expression shifted and he gave her an odd look, wondering and tinged with awe. “You did,” he said softly.

“Me?”

“Aye. I didn’t know it was you at the time, of course. I just wanted to find out more about the witch Cora was looking for.”

“But why was she looking for a witch?” asked Emma, voicing the question that had been niggling at her for some time. “For me, I guess?”

Killian blew out a heavy breath and ran a hand through his hair. “Now that is a tale,” he said. “Do you mind if we sit, love, and I’ll tell you all I know?”

“Sure.” Emma returned his book to her shelf and they sat together at the table, in large and ornately carved chairs that were far more comfortable than they looked.

Killian took her hand in his, absently, caressing her knuckles with his thumb as he began his tale. “Cora has practiced witchcraft all her life, taught by her mother as I believe most witches are,” he said, looking to Emma for confirmation. She nodded, and he went on. “She was always fascinated by the High Magic and by the stories of ancient witches who had great power, and she spent quite a lot of time studying those things. During the course of her studies she found a prophecy—” Emma made a disgusted noise “— just fragments of it but it enthralled her to the point of obsession, and from then on she pursued it single-mindedly. Over the years she pieced together more and more of it until she believed what she had was nearly complete.”

“And what exactly was in this prophecy?” spat Emma.

Killian looked startled at her tone but replied easily. “It speaks of a day when dark magic would be driven from this world for good. Of a witch descended from centuries of those who did not have to hide their gifts, with distilled power of her ancestors who would seal the breach. It... speaks also of that witch’s true love, whose aid she would require to complete the task. A man who could be her saving or her undoing.” He lowered his eyes, the flush on his cheekbones obvious even in the moonlight. When Emma remained silent he looked up to see her staring at him in disbelief and building fury, and his embarrassment became consternation.

“What is it?” he asked.

“That’s what this has all been about?” she hissed. “Nearly tearing open the barrier, nearly killing you? All because of that old thing?”

Killian frowned. “What old thing?”

Emma pushed her chair back and stood as the room shifted again. She stomped —there was no other word for it— over to a bookshelf and grabbed a leather-bound book as large as a dinner tray and thick as a club sandwich, then stomped back to the table and dropped it in front of Killian with an echoing thud. Killian’s eyes widened as he caught the title: Viarum Finis Omnium. The end of all roads.

“Bloody hell,” he breathed.

Emma hefted the book open and began ruffling through its pages. “Hmmm?” she said absently.

“Oh, nothing, nothing.” Killian waved his hand in an exaggerated gesture, though she wasn’t looking at him. “It’s just when I was doing my dissertation I’d’ve given my left nut to read this book.”

“Oh.” Emma paused, frowning at the book like she couldn’t fathom why anyone might find it important. “Well, you can read it now if you’d like. But I’ve got others that are loads better.”

“Others…” said Killian faintly as she turned another page and found what she was looking for.

“Here it is,” she said triumphantly, it being apparently the wrinkled and faded and folded piece of parchment she snatched from the book, handling it with a casual indifference that made the historian in Killian want to cry. She snapped it unfolded with an angry flourish and held it out to him.

“Is this the prophecy you mean?”

He took the parchment from her gently, touching only the edges. “This is it!” he exclaimed. “This is the whole thing. But… have you always known it was about you?”

“It’s not about me.”

“What?” He looked up at her and she scowled.

“I mean, it’s not necessarily about me. It could be about anyone in my family. It could be about no one. It could —and I’m gonna be honest, this is my take— be complete bullshit.”

He managed not to roll his eyes. “I know you don’t think much of foretelling, love—”

“That’s the truth.”

“But are you sure there’s never been anything to suggest that this is about you? Cora is not nearly as clever as she thinks she is but she did devote her life to figuring out this prophecy and she did identify us both… and if you and I aren’t the witch and the man it refers to then that leaves rather a lot of odd things unexplained.”

Emma folded her arms across her chest, her expression that of a child who won’t admit it’s bedtime. “Such as?”

“Well, there’s your garden magic,” said Killian. “For a start.”

“What about my garden magic?”

“It recognised me. The first time I stepped into the garden the magic there knew me. It welcomed me like an old friend, and warned me that danger was coming. It told me to protect you.”

“Hmmm,” said Emma, still scowling.

“And your own magic, love,” continued Killian, gentle but relentless. “You shared it with me.”

“I did do that,” Emma unfolded her arms and sighed. “Which shouldn’t be possible. Witches can link their power but to share magic with someone who has never practiced, and so easily… Well, it basically can’t be done.”

“And yet it was done.”

“But not because of a stupid prophecy—”

“And how can you explain my hand?” He held it up. “How did I get my whole hand back, and with added magic?”

Emma shook her head. “I don’t know. You’re right. There’s a lot that’s weird about all of this, though I’m just never going to believe that any of it can be explained by a prophecy. There’s gotta be more to it.”

She took his left hand in hers, examining it closely. “Why did Cora take your hand in the first place? I’m assuming she arranged for it to be damaged.”

“Aye, and then she amputated it with magic. I’m not certain why exactly but I imagine she was Shown something that told her you would need it, or need something I could do with it.”

“Shown,” echoed Emma grimly. “Which means she has the gift of sight,”

“Sight, aye,” Killian agreed, “but interestingly not perception. She found the prophecy but she couldn’t fully understand it, so she turned to her Sight for answers. Which it provided. But I’ve always suspected she misinterprets the things she Sees.”

“And that is why the Sight is next to useless,” scoffed Emma.

“Perhaps, but that doesn’t change the fact that Cora’s Sight what drives her. She asks to be Shown things and then acts decisively on what she Sees. She asked to be Shown the witch from the prophecy but her Sight couldn’t conjure you, so she asked to See the man instead. And was Shown me. This was years ago, when I had just joined the navy. It took her about two years to track me down after that.”

“The first vision,” said Emma. “She— did she really destroy your whole ship?”

“Aye,” said Killian grimly. “A few well-placed blasts of magic and the whole thing went under. It was the worst disaster in modern British naval history, and there was no logical explanation for it. And I was the only survivor.” His hand clenched into a fist on the tabletop. “It was declared an Act of God and afterwards the navy gently suggested that perhaps I wasn’t best suited to a career with them. Gave me an honourable discharge and no option of appeal.”

“Oh, Killian.” Emma covered his fist with her hand and he unclenched it to grip her fingers tightly. “What did you do?” she asked.

“Well, I had no family and no employment and no place to go. And a rash deal with Cora that left me in her debt, which is of course exactly where she wanted me. She came to me in what she claimed was generosity and offered me a job doing her dirty work and I thought why the fuck not? How much worse could my life get? Only it turned out that my life could get considerably worse. Cora was in search of any information she could find about the prophecy, and she, as you saw, did not hesitate to use her magic, and me, as weapons to obtain it.”

“But you stayed with her.”

“Aye, because I felt I had no other option. Exactly as she knew I would. I believe her aim was to corrupt me to the point where I could be used to destroy you. ‘The man can be her undoing,’ remember. Cora interpreted that literally to mean I would be able kill you as she couldn’t.”

“But what stopped her from killing me? Or at least trying to, I’m actually not that easy to kill.”

He chuckled, as she’d hoped he would, and shifted his hold on her hand so their fingers were linked. “Her Sight told her it would be disastrous to attempt it. I can only assume it Showed her the same thing about me.”

“Which is why she cursed you instead of just killing you.”

“Indeed. It was a bit of a gamble, my challenging her like that, but I figured what else could I do? It was either run with my theory that the Sight had instructed her not to kill me or die anyway, either of starvation or wolves.”

Her hand tightened on his, her mouth thinning as she thought of how she had nearly lost him before they’d even met.

“What was on that paper you found? That you threw in the fireplace?”

His mouth twisted wryly. “It said ‘Killian Jones is the man in the prophecy.’ Not much, I grant you, but once I knew that, and realised that she knew it and had likely known it since the beginning, a lot of things that had always struck me as peculiar suddenly fell into place. Like why she needed me, why she would go to so much trouble to get me in her control.”

“But do you think she showed you that deliberately?”

“I do. She must have, she’s not careless enough to leave anything lying around unless she intended me to find it.”

“But why?”

His thumb rubbed absent patterns on the back of her hand as he thought. “This is all just conjecture,” he said after a short pause, “but I believe she realised that I wasn’t fully on board with what she was doing. As awful as the things I did for her were, as much as they ate away at my soul, some small part of me always resisted, found little ways to thwart her. And she needed me fully committed. I believe she thought that if she let me go I would be lost again as I had been after I was discharged from the navy. That I would eventually come back to her of my own volition and then she would have me.”

“But you didn’t. You didn’t go back.”

“No. I was determined not to, no matter what it took. I knew I had to find a way to stop her, and the first step would be to learn as much as I could about that prophecy, and about witchcraft, and about the particular witch she sought.” He smiled at her. “About you. So I became a historian, specialising in the history of witchcraft and the occult.”

“And Cora kept waiting for you to come crawling back,” said Emma, an edge of deep satisfaction in her voice. “But you never did, so she had to come to you. And she found you a successful college professor.”

Killian chuckled. “Aye. She must have hated that.”

Emma thought about everything he’d been through, all he had suffered, and how he had still come through it all and beaten Cora at her own game. Love for him surged in her chest. “You’re amazing,” she sighed.

He flushed bright pink and rubbed at a spot behind his ear, exactly the spot, Emma noted, where he had loved to be scratched when he was a dog. “Ah, I don’t know about that,” he muttered.

“I do.” Emma wanted to crawl into his lap and have her way with him right there in her library, but she suspected he would be horrified by the prospect of fucking anywhere near ancient books so she settled for leaning across the table and kissing him gently.

He returned the kiss but when they broke apart he shook his head. “I’ve done some awful things, Emma. You don’t know—”

“I don’t need to,” she interrupted. “I’ve seen you, Killian, the essence of you. You’re a good man.”

“I’m not—”

“You are. And I love you. All of you.”

“Gods, Emma,” he whispered, leaning close to her again, resting his forehead against hers. “I don’t deserve— I’m not— ah, I love you so much.” He kissed her and she sighed, snuggling as close as she could get. “Let’s go to bed,” he murmured against her lips.

“Why not stay here?” She couldn’t resist teasing him. “We could—”

“On the books?” He pulled back to gape at her, his eyes as horrified as she’d known they would be. She bit her lip to keep from laughing. “Love, I don’t think you fully realise just how valuable, how important these books are—”

“I was kidding,” she soothed him. “We’ll go to bed. And afterwards, I’ll tell you all about my plan for giving Cora what’s coming to her.”

“Mmmm,” he growled. “That might be the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

~~ 🌕 ~~

The next morning they went to the shop together, almost as they always had except that the forest was as warmly welcoming as a frosty collection of trees can be and they walked along the path side by side and hand-in-hand. When they reached the edge of the village Emma could feel Killian tense, but they strolled unimpeded down the streets and no one they encountered reacted in any way to the sight of Emma holding hands with a strange man or stopped to ask her where her dog had gone.

“Hmmm,” said Killian, frowning as Leroy went past them with a gruff nod and no hint of surprise.

When they reached the shop door he kissed her and squeezed her hand before releasing it. “I think I’ll go see if I can find some new clothes, love,” he said. “And discover if my credit cards still work after I’ve been missing for several months. And I really should contact someone and let them know what happened. Er, as much of it as I can tell them, at least.”

Emma nodded. “You can use the computer in the back room if you need to. And there’s a shop at the corner of Main and Oak that sells men’s clothes.”

“Aye, I think I remember it. I’ll be back soon.” He kissed her again, then headed off towards Oak Street. Emma watched him go and tried not to feel bereft.

“Don’t be an idiot, he’s only going two blocks away,” she told herself firmly. But after nearly three months of Killian being constantly at her side even a short separation felt weird, and the shop empty and echoey without him.

Fortunately he returned in less than an hour, dressed in new jeans and a soft blue sweater that brought out his eyes. “This is nice,” she murmured as she snuggled into his chest and rubbed her cheek against it. “Almost as soft as your fur used to be.”

He chuckled. “I thought you’d like it.”

The shop door opened and Mary Margaret entered.

“Hey, Emma,” she said, not looking at them as she rummaged in her bag. “ I have to get to school but I just wanted to be sure you were okay, since you were closed yesterday. And yes I know you’re usually really tired after Samhain but I thought I’d check in anyway. Aha, there they are. Classroom keys, thought I’d left them at home.” She looked up, grinning. “Oh, hey Killian.”

Emma and Killian exchanged a glance and waited.

Mary Margaret’s eyes darted from Emma to Killian and back again and her bright smile began to fade. She opened her mouth then closed it again. Her forehead wrinkled. She began to blink rapidly and pointed at Killian with a shaking finger.

“What… you’re… who…” she stuttered. “You are Killian… aren’t you?”

“Aye,” he replied, short and sharp like a bark, and Mary Margaret’s eyes bugged.

“Oh my god,” said Emma, elbowing him in the ribs. “Do you have to?”

Mary Margaret’s eyes were so wide Emma was afraid she’d lose them. “But you’re… how… what… WHAT?”

Emma took pity on her. “Killian was cursed,” she said.

“Cursed,” repeated Mary Margaret.

“Yep. By Cora, actually.”

“Cora— wait, my stepmother Cora?”

“Mmm hmm. Remember I told you I thought she might be a practitioner.”

“I—” Mary Margaret swayed slightly and Emma darted over to catch her before she could fall. “This is a lot to take in,” she gasped.

“I get it,” said Emma. “Really I do.” She rubbed her friend’s back in a soothing motion as Mary Margaret concentrated on breathing. “And I hate to put pressure on you,” Emma continued, “but actually I’m glad you’re here because Killian and I could really use your help.”

“Well, I mean, of course I’ll help you if I can,” said Mary Margaret, once her shock had passed. “What do you need?”

“Do you think you and David could come to my house tonight?” asked Emma. “We’ll give you dinner. Killian’s promised to cook.”

“Come to your house,” repeated Mary Margaret, eyes bugging again.

“Yep.”

“Your house?”

“Um, yeah?”

“Your house where I’ve never once been because you never invite people there, even though I’ve been your best friend for ten years?”

“Ah. Yes, that’s the one.”

“And you want us to walk there, I suppose?” Mary Margaret had gone into full teacher mode, hands on her hips and eyes shooting daggers. Emma had to make a conscious effort not to squirm, and not to hex Killian who was leaning against the apothecary counter, trying without much success to stifle his laughter.

“You’ll have to really,” she told Mary Margaret. “There’s no road.”

“So you want David and me to walk through the forest? After dark?”

“Yeah, well the forest right now isn’t as scary as it used to be,” began Emma, trailing off when Mary Margaret fixed her with the Look she gave her students when they refused to share their coloured pencils.“But Killian and I will walk with you if it makes you nervous,” she hastened to add.

Mary Margaret took a deep breath, then another. Then she nodded. “I think… we’d like that. The company and the dinner.”

“Great.” Emma sighed in relief and sent a fervent prayer to the goddess that she would never have to see Mary Margaret’s teacher face again. “How about you meet us back here at about six?”

“Okay.”

“And don’t tell Dave about me,” Killian added, with a wicked grin. “I’d like it to be a surprise.”

~~ 🌕 ~~

At ten minutes to six that evening the streets of downtown Storybrooke were largely deserted, which is unfortunate as anyone who had been on them would have been treated to the sight of the town sheriff being dragged down Main Street by the hand, ruthlessly and at breakneck speed, by the fifth grade teacher.

“What is all this about?” David grumbled. “I know you’ve always wanted to see Emma’s house but this is a bit extreme.”

“It’s not about the house,” said Mary Margaret impatiently, then amended. “Well, it is a little bit about the house. But mostly it’s about something I’ve been dying to tell you all day but I promised I wouldn’t and you know how I am with secrets, David, I’ve deleted at least ten texts to you spilling the whole thing and I can’t take it anymore. Would you hurry, we’re nearly there.”

Seconds later she flung open the shop door and pulled him inside, to where Emma was just finishing counting the register.

“Hey, I’m nearly done,” she said, carefully ignoring the buzzing excitement that was emanating from Mary Margaret in almost visible waves.

David looked around, trying to figure out what had his wife in such a tizzy. He didn’t blink when Killian sauntered out of the back room, though he did scowl, as he had every time he’d seen that dog.

Hold up, thought David.

“Mary Margaret,” Killian said, kissing her cheek. “Lovely to see you again.” He nodded at David. “Dave.”

David stared for a moment then his face took on the deeply satisfied expression of one who had guessed right all along. “Well at least you didn’t lick her face,” he said.

“Not anymore, mate,” said Killian.

“KillianwascursedandCoradiditbutEmmabrokehiscursebykissinghimcanyoubelieveit?” said Mary Margaret, all in one breath.

“I always knew there was something off about you,” said David, then his eyes narrowed. “Where did you get those clothes?”

“Shop down the road,” replied Killian. “Thank goodness no one thought to cancel my credit cards.”

“And what exactly were you wearing before you went to the shop down the road?”

“I was dressed when I was cursed and still dressed when I became uncursed,” said Killian with a smirk. “Good bloody thing too as I wouldn’t have fancied a stroll through the forest of a frosty November morning tackle out, as it were.”

David opened his mouth again but Emma interrupted. “Stop interrogating him, David, you’re off duty. And anyway, we’ll tell you the whole story over dinner,” she said. “Let’s get going.”

But Mary Margaret couldn’t wait and she peppered Killian with questions as they walked, and by the time Emma was speaking the words to allow her and David past the garden wards she had pried the entire story from him.

“I just can’t believe it,” she said for the millionth time as she sat with Emma and David on the sofa while Killian prepared dinner. “I mean, I can believe Cora is evil and I can believe Killian has been a man all this time. He wasn’t really that convincing as a dog, was he? Now that I really think about it, I mean.”

“I always suspected,” said David smugly.

“You always suspected he was really a history professor cursed by your stepmother-in-law as part of her attempt to flood this world with dark magic?” said Emma, with admirably restrained sarcasm. “That’s some killer detective work right there.”

David had the grace to look chastened. “Okay, point taken, but I did always think he wasn’t quite right as a dog.”

“Me too,” said Mary Margaret decidedly.

“Well don’t tell him that,” laughed Emma, “He’s very proud of his dog cosplay.”

Killian called to them that dinner was nearly ready, and Emma led her friends into the kitchen where the large table was set for five.

“Are you expecting someone else?” asked David.

“Yeah, I am,” said Emma, looking slightly shifty. “And I’m gonna need you guys to trust me.”

“Trust you?”

“Yeah.�� The wards around the garden sounded an alarm, and Emma and Killian exchanged glances. “That’ll be her,” said Emma. “I’ll be right back.”

She returned a few moments later, accompanied by Regina.

David and Mary Margaret gaped.

“Regina is here by my invitation,” said Emma, before they could speak. “She’s going to help us.”

“Help us… how?” asked Mary Margaret.

“Against my mother,” Regina replied. “Miss Swan—” she took a deep breath and started again. “Emma has asked for my assistance in defeating her.”

“I feel like I’m way behind here. Why does she need to be defeated?” asked David. “Didn’t you take care of that on Samhain?”

“We’ll explain everything over dinner,” said Emma. “And our plan. But first, Regina has something else she’d like to say to you.”

She gave Regina an expectant look and the dark haired woman grimaced slightly before turning to Mary Margaret. “I want to apologise,” she said.

“A— what?” said Mary Margaret faintly.

Emma wondered if she should feel guilty for piling yet another shock on Mary Margaret, who had already had quite the day. But she needed her friend to trust Regina.

“For the way I treated you,” Regina elaborated. “When we were growing up, and—” she swallowed hard. “—just before your wedding. I owe you an apology for that as well,” she said, turning to David. “I could make excuses, but I won’t. I was awful, and the reasons why don’t matter. I just— I wanted to say I’m truly sorry, and I am going to do better. In the future.”

The room was dead silent for an uncomfortable moment, the only sound the hissing and bubbling of the food on the stove. Then Mary Margaret stood and approached Regina. Tentatively she put her arms around her stepsister, ignoring the other woman’s flinch. “I accept your apology,” she said.

Regina’s shoulders slumped as the tension drained from her body, and she actually patted Mary Margaret’s back. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Emma smiled and Killian put his arm around her shoulders, kissing her temple. “Well done, love,” he murmured in her ear. “I think the food’s all ready, now. Shall we eat?”

“Yeah. Let’s eat.”

#cssns #cssns19 #magic au #witchcraft au #witches #witchcraft #cursed!Killian #witch!Emma #cs fic #cs ff #csff au #captain swan #gingerchangeling #profdanglaisstuff #the very witching time

56 notes · View notes

delos-mio · 5 years

Text

Death of a Bachelor - Part 14

A/N: well well well. what have we here? i’m back from the dead with a new chapter for YOU! no major warnings, so knock yourself out. i’m tagging those who’ve requested it and some of you who i think might be interested. if you’re not, please forgive me! if you’d like to be tagged in future parts, let a bitch know.

Logan was still acting aloof whenever you’d ask him for details on this party he intended to throw for his father. It had been weeks since he first brought it up and every time you tried to ask clarifying questions, the subject magically got changed or you found yourself on the receiving end of a barrage of kisses, not that you were complaining about that. All you knew for sure was that one, it would be at the Delos compound in Bel Air and two, that everyone was going to be there. So, you knew nothing. Of course, Logan being Logan, you assumed he had some trick up his sleeve; he just wasn’t clueing you in.

You were sitting out on the deck of Logan’s house, finding yourself drawn to the ocean on a rare day off. Charles had been given a project to take over, a test of sorts, and was only to disturb you if it was an absolute emergency. The waves were calm as they crashed idly on the shore. Salt wafted through the light breeze around you, luring you to the brink of sleep. Your eyes had just fluttered shut when you heard a familiar voice call out accompanied by the muffled sound of the front door shutting.

“Princess? You here?” Logan called out. You didn’t have the energy to respond, merely humming low an affirmative to no one but yourself. Without opening your eyes, you tried to track his movements. He definitely set something down, then kicked off his shoes. Somehow, he found you and began treading quickly through his living room once he saw you draped on the outdoor furniture. “How did I know this is where I’d find you?” he said with a small smile, leaning down to kiss your temple before taking a seat in the chair next to you.

“Because you know I’m a slut for the sea,” you smirked, eyes still closed, earning a sharp laugh from Logan.

“And here I thought you were only a slut for me.” You smacked him half-heartedly on his arm, making him chuckle again. “How has your day off been?”

“Amazing,” you mused. “I haven’t done shit all day. I finished my book, ate lunch, and literally just lounged here for like, 2 hours. I wish every day could be like this.”

“I’m glad you had a good day, sweetheart. But I’m missing my baby girl. Come sit with me,” he asked gently, reaching over and running a long finger down your arm. You finally opened your eyes just enough to see Logan pat his lap with his other hand.

“But I’m so comfy,” you groaned, dramatically letting your head nod to the side. Before you could keep up you whining, there was a pair of arms winding themselves around your back and behind your knees. Logan easily lifted you from your spot, a squeal escaping from you, and sat back in his seat, now with you resting comfortably in his arms.

“Much better,” he grinned, placing a slow kiss on your lips. “How would you feel about going to dinner tonight? I have someone I’d like for you to meet.”

You looked up at him, confusion furrowing your brow. “Who’s the mystery someone? Oh! No, let me guess. Ok, um…a secret boyfriend? Long lost sister? Oprah?!” Logan laughed that laugh you loved so much. The one where all his teeth showed and his eyes snapped shut, the one where you knew he thought something was actually funny.

“You’re not even close,” he said. “It’s actually my partner.” Logan watched as your confusion deepened before it gave way to an expression that was the manifestation of your heart dropping into your stomach. Sensing your impending panic attack, he quickly ran his fingers through your hair. “Phrasing, shit. I’m sorry. Business partner.” You visibly relaxed again at his clarification.

“Jesus. Give a girl a heart attack, why don’t you?” you laughed anxiously. “Wait, since when do you have a business partner, babe?”

“Well,” he began, idly twirling the ends of your hair between his fingers, “Since a couple weeks after you found me when I got back from Westworld.” The project. How could you have forgotten about his project he’d been keeping under wraps for months? You supposed you’d been preoccupied with wondering what he was up to with this retirement party to even consider what his big project was.

“Are you finally going to tell me what you’re up to?” you asked, eyes wide as you looked over his face for any nonverbal clues.

“I’m hoping you can get to know John a bit since he’ll be a fixture around here moving forward and yes, you can learn all about our little venture,” he smiled, running the back of his fingers along your jaw. “I almost feel bad whisking you away from your little oasis out here. You look so pretty in the sun.”

“Almost,” you teased.

“Yeah, almost. But I did get you a little something if that helps convince you to part with the deck and go have dinner with a shitty guy like me.” His smile was wide. He knew how much you hated when he got down on himself like that, but you could see the genuine joke in his eyes, so you let the argument die before it even started this time. You got off his lap and look his hand, tugging him up to join you.

“You don’t have to get me gifts to convince me to hang out with my boyfriend.” You rolled your eyes and led him back into the house. “Really, you shouldn’t be getting me shit at all. It’s too much babe.”

“Shhh,” he cooed before rushing off to the table where he’d placed a garment bag when he first came home. “No such thing as too much for my princess.” Logan handed you the hanger end with big doe eyes, clearly anticipating your reaction when you opened it. You raised a brow before unzipping the front, revealing a deep maroon colored dress with a darting neckline. When you looked back at him, your lips partly as you still marveled at the dress, Logan’s eyes had grown dark as he no doubt imagined the clothing on you. “I thought maybe you’d like something to wear tonight.”

“Logan, it’s beautiful.” You stepped closer to him and got on your toes to reach up and give him a soft kiss. “Thank you. You know how much I love this color.”

“The color’s for you, the cut is for me,” he winked. You rolled your eyes before walking off toward the bedroom, your new dress firmly in hand.

----

Once the sun had set, you made your way downtown with Logan. He had made reservations at 71 Above and John would be meeting you there. Though you didn’t really have reason to be, you were a little nervous to meet Logan’s new partner. Logan said he’d become a fixture in his life, which by proxy also meant yours. Shit, was this Logan’s way of saying he was in this, with you, for the long haul. You hadn’t considered it until this very moment. Of course you saw a future with him and wanted nothing more than to spend forever with him, but you never thought much about it since Logan tended to live so day-to-day. Logan spoke a secret language you thought you understood until he pulled something new from his pocket that made you wonder if you had it decoded at all. As you leaned your head against the window, your thoughts were interrupted by Logan’s hand rubbing gently over your thigh.

“Everything ok over there, sweetheart?” he asked softly, not taking his eyes from the road. When did he develop this skill of just knowing when you were stuck in your head?

“Yeah,” you said. “I guess I’m just a little nervous.” Which was true, you were, but not necessarily the reason for your introspection.

“There’s no reason to be nervous!” he said with a smile in his voice. “I’ve known John for years, but I’ve always worked for my dad, so we never really had the chance to work together like we wanted to. But now that the stars have aligned, it seems like the perfect opportunity to finally team up.”

“I just worry…about you…” you said, your voice gentle. Logan tilted his head a bit.

“What do you mean, princess?”

“I don’t know.” You took a deep breath. “I worry about people trying to take advantage of you and your secretly big heart,” you smiled. Logan looked over to you out of the corner of his eye, a fond smirk playing on his lips.

“You’re sweet, you know that? Not nearly as cold as you want the world to think,” he grinned. But you don’t have to worry this time. He’s not a stranger to me. Besides, you’re smart and driven and funny and so fucking hot, he’s going to love you.”

You rolled your eyes before taking the hand he had resting on your thigh and lacing your fingers with his. Before long, Logan had pulled up to the valet and was opening your door, offering his hand to help you out. You made your way to the glass elevator and stepped in, Logan’s hand low on the small of your back. Once the doors shut and it was just the two of you, he reached out to press the button for floor 71 and pulled you close with your back resting snugly against him. He let his hands run up and down your sides, his lips dipping to place wet kisses along your shoulder.

“I don’t think I’ve told you enough how fucking perfect you look tonight,” he breathed out, his voice thick with want. “Who’s stupid idea was it to go out to dinner again, where I can only look and not touch?”

“You don’t consider what you’re doing right now touching?” you laughed lightly as you tilted your head, giving Logan better access to your neck.

“Mmm…not the way I want to be, no.”

“Well, the door’s about to open, so keep it in your pants.” You reached back to quickly palm over the hardening front of his pants just as the elevator let out a bright ding that was almost drowned out by the low groan coming from the back of Logan’s throat. You heard him mutter ‘tease’ before taking your hand and walking over to the host’s stand.

“Mr. Delos, welcome back,” a young man said fondly as you approached. It was clear the kid had a crush on him, and honestly, who could blame him?

“Thank you,” Logan returned politely. “Is the other half of our party here yet?”

“Yes, Mr. Collins is at your table. Right this way,” he said before leading you around the windowed perimeter before gesturing to a private table tucked in the corner.

“There he is!” The man you assumed was John was quick to his feet and wrapped Logan in a close hug. He really looked like a short, stocky version of Logan. His dark hair perfectly placed and a short beard with the same wide smile. Though he was easily half a foot shorter and had beautiful olive skin.

“Sorry, I know we cut it a little close. Sweetheart, I’d like to introduce you to John Collins,” Logan said with a smile as you reached your hand out to shake John’s.

“It’s so good to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you and you know, I just had to meet the girl who managed to reign in my boy here.” He laughed loudly, smacking Logan on the back.

“It’s nice to meet you too,” you replied, keeping up a smile. You wanted to be able to say you’d heard a lot about him too, but considering you only learned of his existence about 5 hours ago, you didn’t want to start off your friendship with a lie.

“Please, take a seat!” John pulled out your seat for you before sitting across from Logan. There was already a chilled bottle of chardonnay on the table, a full glass waiting just for you at your setting. “So, Logan tells me you own your own business?”

“Yeah. I uh, I have a marketing firm in Santa Monica.” Networking was the name of your game, but you found yourself a little bashful about talking about yourself. The way you saw it, this was as much you vetting John as it was him meeting you.

“That’s great! And that’s how you met Logan here?” John asked with a knowing smile.

“Something like that. I guess he finally wore me down,” you shrugged, sending Logan a little wink.

“Wow. It’s usually the other way around with this guy. You must be a tough nut to crack.”

“She made me work. But I like to think she had a crush on me all along too,” Logan chimed in, looking you over fondly.

“Jesus, you two are so…coupley,” John winced playfully. “I’ll tell you though- I’ve never seen my boy so happy, and that makes me happy.”

You ordered dinner and continued talking over your food. John was a nice guy. He seemed to balance Logan out. You got the impression that John always was the guy at the party with Logan, talking a big game, but secretly drinking water so he could make sure his bro was safe. He had a loud and embarrassing laugh that endeared you to him just a little bit more. After getting to know each other a bit, you felt less and less like he was partnering up with Logan for the wrong reasons, which lifted a huge weight off your shoulders.

As your plates were being cleared, it occurred to you that after everything you’d talked about tonight, neither of them had bothered to bring up what they were doing working together. You took another drink of your wine and reached out to take Logan’s hand under the table.

“You know, Logan told me that you guys were partners now, but he hasn’t shared with me what exactly you’re doing yet.” You rested your elbow on the table and propped up your chin in your palm, possibly batting your eyelashes at John. “Since he won’t tell me, will you?” You risked looking at Logan out of the corner of your eye, who was clearly not amused with you flirting in front of him, even if he knew it was a joke.

“You haven’t told her?!” John asked incredulously.

“I didn’t want to say anything until it was a done deal,” Logan mumbled, a little embarrassed. He then squeezed your hand that was still in his, drawing your gaze back to him. “Princess, we’re buying Delos.”

“What?” You felt the air drain from your lungs. Your mind was moving faster than you could comprehend. What did he mean, they’re buying Delos? Delos wasn’t for sale last time you checked. What the fuck?

“After…Westworld,” Logan started awkwardly, “I knew I couldn’t let my dad and Billy take the only fucking family I have and ruin everything I’ve spent the last 15 years working on. So, after I got home and you cleaned me up and kicked my ass a little bit,” he paused to beam at you fondly, “I called John. At first, it was just to vent. And we got to talking about what we could to keep Delos and Juliet. So, John and I decided to go into business together under just a generic holding company name.”

“Since Jim doesn’t know me at all, I may or may not have reached out to him on behalf of our company, making an offer for Delos since it had gotten out that he was retiring and that Logan had been tossed from his seat on the board,” John added, his eyes now sparkling with just a bit of mischief.

“And what does my dad love more than his family? William? Money.” Logan downed the last of the bourbon in his glass. “He accepted our offer. So come his little retirement party I so generously offered to plan, you know, as a sign of my desperation for him to forgive me,” he rolled his eyes, “John and I will own Delos. I’ll have my job, my company, back. And Billy will find himself unemployed.”

It was genius. It was sneaky and devilish and just a touch petty, but it was genius. Logan was legitimately getting Delos back, just no one in his family knew it yet. You looked at him, mulling over all the scheming that brought him here. Honestly, you’d never been more attracted to him than you were in this moment.

“This is what you want?” you asked quietly, only to Logan.

“Yeah, babe. I can’t, I—” he started, his voice quickly exposing him.

“Then let’s do this shit.”

----

When you got home, Logan unzipped you, helping you out of your dress. You carefully hung it up in your little corner of the closet Logan had granted you. When you first met, you couldn’t imagine him being the kind of guy to allow someone else into his space so intimately. But you knew there wasn’t a single thing on earth he wouldn’t do for you. You slipped into one of his old shirts and crawled up next to him in bed.

“John was really cool,” you said, tracing no particular pattern on his chest.

“I’m glad you like him. That means a lot to me.” He placed a soft kiss on your forehead and pulled you in just a little bit closer. You felt his chest rattle a bit as he cleared his throat, causing you to meet his gaze. “Not to like, dump a bunch of shit on you today or anything,” he began, looking…nervous? Logan was hardly ever nervous.

“What’s wrong? What’s making you nervous, Lo?”

His laugh came out as a puff from his nostrils. “Something about you.” He smiled and shook his head. “I just find myself wanting to make sure you’re always happy. And I worry about letting you down or making you uncomfortable.”

“Logan…” you whispered, reaching up to rake your fingers through his hair like you knew he liked when he was feeling tense. His eyes closed gently as he leaned into your touch, his breathing slowing down to normal. You spent a few minutes soothing him before he worked up to speaking again.

“Move in with me.” It took you by surprise. Of all the things you thought Logan was going to say, that did not make your short list. “I, I know you like your place. And I know you don’t need me to take care of you. But I want to. And I know you’re stubborn as fuck and I am too, but I promise I—”

You cut him off with a kiss. He didn’t need to say anything else. There was nothing he say to convince you even more. “Ok.” You were breathless as you parted just enough to answer him. His smile grew as his mouth pressed back on yours, quickly deepening the kiss.

“God, I fucking love you,” he said as though he was speaking to only himself, you just happened to be listening.

“Love you too, Lo.”

TAGGED: @marvelcapsicle @something-tofightfor @gollyderek @dylanobrusso @abroadcastofthemind

#logan #logan delos #westworld #ben barnes #logan delos x reader #logan delos fanfic #logan x reader #logan fanfic #logan westworld #logan westworld x reader #doab #masterlist

107 notes · View notes