#swallowing my small frame and clearly belonging to someone else | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

wkemeup · 3 years

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Sunrise (10)

summary: After an explosion takes his arm and his only sense of belonging, Bucky is content to live out the rest of his days in the hollow comfort of the dark. This is, until Sam drags him down to the local VA and he meets you. (Modern AU) pairings: bucky x reader chapter word count: 6.9k warnings: smut (18+), angsty angst, this time I dont leave you with a cliff hanger 😉 🧡 series masterlist / series playlist

“Come on, Bucky! I know you’re in there!”

You hit your fist on the door again. Perhaps you would have been more mindful of the the hour, but you’d heard glass shattering as you raced up the stairway just moments ago. You’d heard him shouting himself hoarse and heavy footsteps as he paced inside his apartment. You’d heard the cracks in his voice – the consumption of grief and fury and shame swallowing him whole.

One of Bucky’s neighbors had rung Sam the first time Bucky’s screams could be heard through the thin apartment walls. It was the fifth time in as many nights and Sam promised Bucky would get it under control before they went to the landlord with noise complaints. He made no such promises that he would be the one to do it.

An elderly woman in a nightgown peeped her head out into the hallway, scowling at you as you continued pounding on the door. Her beady eyes narrowed and you only spared her a moment’s glance before you returned to the door.

“I’ll wake up the whole building! I swear to—”

The door was pulled from under your fist. In its frame, stood a ghostly version of the man you knew. Dark circles hung heavy under his eyes. His hair was disheveled, blood dripped from a cut in his palm. Behind him, furniture was turned on its side, glass on the floor, magazines and unopened mail littering every surface. He'd torn his place apart.

“What are you doing here?”

You swallowed, forcing your voice stronger than you felt. “Sam called me.”

Bucky’s grip on the doorknob tightened. “Of course, he did.”

He paused only for a moment before he turned his back to you and walked inside the apartment. The door was left open in his wake and you took it as permission to enter.

Cautiously, you took your first steps into his apartment. You tried to ignore the dust lining the curtains and the fleeting thought wondering when the last time he’d allowed the sun to touch his skin. The latch clicked behind you and you winced at the intrusion to the silence.

Bucky meanwhile was staring out into the mess of his living room. His gaze rested on the couch turned on its side, then to the box of trinkets spilled on the floor by the mantel, then the broken glass by the window. His shoulders sagged; his expression unreadable. Slowly, he knelt down to the edge of the couch to flip it back on its legs.

You watched him carefully, not uttering a word or daring to move closer until he finished. Once the couch was right side up again, he exhaled a tired breath and leaned against the edge. Exhaustion flickering through his eyes, though you suspected it had little to do with the exertion of moving furniture.

As Bucky moved to throw the cushions back to the frame, you realized suddenly how he was dressed. Plaid blue pajama pants hung low on his waist. Bare feet prodding over hardwood floors too close to where broken shards of glass waited. His chest was exposed; skin glazed in the dim glow of moonlight as it peered through the small slit between the curtains.

You could see his shoulder blades move along his back as he tensed. The lines of his spine and the dips along his hipbones. When he turned to face you again, your eyes were drawn to his shoulder and the frayed mess of scar tissue and burns. It was mesmerizing, the intricate patterns and the markings on his skin. Pink and red and faded with time. You wondered if it still hurt, if he could feel the nerve endings there or—

Your gaze flickered back to Bucky’s. He was watching you, barely taking a breath. So vulnerable as he stood in front of you and he had no time to prepare for it. He probably didn’t realize how exposed he was until he noticed you staring. You’d imposed on his home, on his space. He couldn’t have known he’d be confronted with this tonight.

All the effort it took for him to simply remove his jacket and now he was left standing before you without a single layer to protect him.

You could see the doubt swimming behind his eyes. No matter how hard he tried to pretend like this connection between you was something he could easily push away, like he could let go of it without much of a second thought or a single word in his own defense, you could tell he was ripping himself apart at the seams, wondering whether you found him as repulsive as he saw himself to be.

He shook his head, his features hardening over again. He gripped at the side of the couch until his knuckles turned white.

“You should go home,” he said, breaking the silence. His voice was thick as gravel. “Sam shouldn’t have bothered you.”

“Shouldn’t have—?” You scoffed, stunned. “Bucky, look at this place!”

“I’m fine,” he replied flatly and you almost laughed if it weren’t for the deadpanned look upon his face.

“You’re clearly not fine!” You dared to take a step closer, aching to remind him of the lightness he carried weeks earlier, only for him to retreat. He rejected the contact on instinct – a flinch throughout his whole body. Your heart clenched as if a hand had slipped in past your ribs and squeezed until it burst.

Your breath was tight in your lungs as you tried again, a little softer this time, “you’re not fine, Bucky. You’ve kept yourself held up – alone – in this apartment for days on end. You’re pushing away the people who care about you. You’re not sleeping. You... You look like you’ve been through hell.”

Bucky’s jaw was clenched so tight, you wondered if it might shatter. His gaze was unfocused, staring down at the floor by your feet.

“You don’t have to put yourself thought this,” you eased, though the tension would not fade from his muscles. They remained locked as stone. You inched forward, a hand extending to him, an anchor to ground him. “Bucky, please... let me help you.”

Something snapped – as sudden as a rubber band pulled taunt until its breaking point – and Bucky’s cold eyes met yours.

"There is NO helping me!” he roared, startling you enough to flinched back a few paces, your hand curling back against your chest protectively. He curled his shaking hand to a fist. “I can't escape this shit! Even when I thought I could—when things were finally bearable again and I had a reason to get out of bed in the morning and I actually wanted to live through the fucking day— it all came back anyway! One word and I’m right back to where I started! I’m a fucking nightmare to be around! Don’t you get that?!”

His breaths were coming in ragged, too quick. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes red. He hit his knuckles against the edge of the couch, on the wooden frame under the spine. Bucky barely took in a full breath.

“I can’t keep my shit together and I’m -- I’m only going to hurt you, okay? You shouldn’t want anything to do with this. I—I mean, look around you!” He kicked at the glass near his exposed feet, angry tears burning on his cheeks. “This is what my life looks like! Is this—is this what you want for yourself? You really want to sign up for this? This—this fucking endless parade of night terrors and panic attacks and anxiety? Huh?”

He was brimming with pain. It was spilling over the surface and coating the floor. You were drowning in it and all you wanted to do was cross the room to him, to hold him, to soothe even an ounce of that suffering away because it would consume him whole if he let it.

Bucky’s right hand was shaking so badly, tremors wouldn’t cease even as he clenched his fist. His body betrayed the stone he etched into his features. It was crumbling under the weight.

“You really want to throw away your life for that? For me?” he spat as if the very idea itself carried venom in its implication, as if it were nothing more than a fool’s errand to spend a lifetime by his side, as if choosing him would be choosing to tie a noose around your neck.

You’d never seen the evidence of his self-loathing before—not in full view and smothering the man you adored. He was expecting you to recoil, to run, to fight and argue and ultimately accept that you could never love a man so broken. It was a reaction he could wait a century for and still never find even a glimpse of hesitancy on your features.

You steadied your breathing. Focused on the heart of the man standing in front of you, determined to push past the destructive fog he’d surrounded himself in. You took a step toward him, and this time, he did not run.

“You’re not going to scare me away, Bucky.”

Shame quickly spread through his body, replacing the threads of anger with something much crueler. His eyes fell to the floor, his chest rising unsteady and he stumbled back a few paces to give you space from the rage he wasn’t able to control. He looked about a decade younger as his features softened again, cowering back into the shadows.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you eased, daring another step.

Bucky shook his head, reflective lines along his cheeks. His lower lip was chewed raw.

“You don’t deserve this mess. You should—You should be with someone whole. Someone who can give you a better life than I can.” He could barely choke out the words.

“I don’t want someone else.” You took another step closer, determined to close the space between you. “I want you.”

The tips of your fingers brushed against Bucky’s hand and a shiver cast up his spine. His eyes were transfixed on your touch as you slowly encased his hand in your own, easing the tension through his body and crumbling the stones in his chest with a gentle slide of your thumb against his palm. He started to sink against it, his whole body caving in to the very thing he’d been keeping at an arm’s length. He was suffering withdrawal.

“You don’t know what I’ve done,” Bucky whimpered, tears slipping past his eyes as he shut them tight, as if he could cast away his demons if he were blind to their shadows over his shoulder.

You tugged gently on his hand, pulling him down to the couch. He followed you easily, his body moving of your accord as if he were made of clay. When you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, you felt the slight tremble along his spine, the shakiness in his bones. His head laid against your heartbeat, his right arm snaking around your waist in fear of letting go.

“I don’t need to know what happened. I don’t need the details,” you sighed against his ear. “I know you. I know you’re a good man, Bucky.”

Bucky was quiet for a minute. The silence hung thick in the air.

“What if I’m not?”

You tried to ignore the twist in your chest. “Oh honey, please don’t say that.”

“I lost eight people, Y/n,” he muttered out, holding onto you a little tighter. You could feel his heart pounding as you raked your fingers through his hair, hoping to ease him if only a little. “Eight of my unit. My friends. If I... If I had said something sooner... We were sitting ducks and... and...”

It was impossible to draw the pieces together. You couldn’t see the vivid image he held in his mind, but the details of that day weren’t necessary. He trusted you enough to outline the frame, to provide glimpses into the worst day of his life, even if they were messy and blurred. His body shook as he spoke, like maybe it was the first time he was saying the words aloud.

You ran your fingers along his spine, drawing patterns along his shoulder blades. He shivered.

The gentle glow of the moonlight caught the reflective edge of something on the floor. A medal. A Bronze Star. You pressed a kiss to his forehead, remembering what Natasha had told you about its merit for exceptional bravery.

“Were there any survivors?”

Bucky held his breath and slowly he nodded. “He was... He was just a kid when it happened. Peter. I think... I think if it wasn’t for him, I would have died out there. I would have given up. Woulda been easy enough. My arm would have bled out pretty quick and the sky... the sky was so beautiful that day. I don’t know why I remember that. Not a cloud for miles. It would have been a nice last thing to see, you know? I would have been okay with that. But Peter... Peter was so young and I... I wanted to bring him home.”

Tears were openly streaming down your face and you were thankful Bucky couldn’t see them as he laid against your chest. You tried to stifle the sob as it broke through. You kissed at his hairline again, holding him as tight as you could manage.

“You saved his life,” you stressed, hoping he might be able to hear it.

Bucky swallowed, tears brushing against the thin fabric of your t-shirt. “I lost eight others.”

“Yes, you did.” There was no disputing that. Eight lives had been lost and he was grieving his friends, his team, blaming himself for each life he didn’t save. His body tensed and you were mindful to draw pressured lines along his back to ease the rigidity there.

“You did everything you could, honey.”

Bucky shook his head. “No, I could have... I—I should have...”

“Some things are just outside of your control.”

“But I—”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Bucky froze, the recognition present in his body as he slowly lifted his head from your chest. “That’s....” He blinked a few times. “That’s what Sam always said. Those exact words.”

You smiled, brushing the hair from his eyes. You wiped your thumb along his cheekbone, drawing away the tracks of tears on his face. “Sam’s a smart guy.”

Bucky searched your eyes and you could tell he was wondering how you’d come to know Sam’s mantras, how they’d become words you often repeated to yourself in your darkest moments, but he couldn’t quite find a way to ask. He pulled himself from your lap and propped himself up beside you, your hands intertwined. He squeezed it lightly and an aching smile pulled at your lips.

"Sam used to have to write it on paper for me,” you admitted at the bittersweet memory. “I couldn’t say it to myself and he figured if I could read it in his writing, maybe I’d believe it if it were coming from him. After a while I started to say them out loud and hearing it my own voice... I don’t know. Sam kind of tricked me into healing, I guess.”

You laughed under your breath and you felt Bucky ease slightly beside you. He squeezed your hand again, a silent reminder that he was there. You focused on the feel of his grip, the callouses on his palms and the warmth of his skin. Real and tangible. Your Bucky.

“Sometimes I think Sam’s the only reason I survived after I lost Riley.”

A slight pinch formed at Bucky’s brows, his eyes narrowing—a subtle sort of curiosity, though he waited patiently for you to continue. The silence didn’t seem to frighten him as much as he focused on you, his eyes darted to your lip as you dug in your teeth.

You hadn’t let yourself be vulnerable next to Bucky before, afraid to take away from his own suffering in favor of your own. But you had known pain of a different kind.

You knew what it was to crave comfort, to silently beg to be held. You knew how it felt to be rejected by a man too shattered to offer any piece of himself away without breaking apart entirely.

The way Bucky was watching you, even through the dark circles under his eyes, the exhaustion pulling him in... it settled the twists of nerves in your stomach. His thumb traced at the edges of your palms, gentle sweeps to ease the tension away. His back straightened, a determination returning to his features, a sense of belonging – of purpose – in his comfort of you.

“He was a pararescue in the Air Force,” you continued after a moment and a flash of realization crossed over Bucky’s features. You pressed out a sad sort of smile as you said, “you remind me of him a little.”

You thought of the t-shirt you’d lent Bucky the evening you’d gotten caught in the storm together, how it clung to his chest. Bucky’s shoulders where broader than Riley’s had been. It was slightly bigger on your frame the next night you wore it. The logo had faded with constant washing, the soft green of the fabric muted to a grey. You’d worn it to sleep nearly every night for weeks after Riley left for his final tour, longer after he’d been killed.

It was the most cherished thing you owned. Lending it to Bucky that night had taken a strength you hadn’t allowed for yourself in years. It brought back memories you’d left untouched and an ache in your chest you’d forgotten. But somewhere, under it all, it had released you.

Riley would have liked Bucky, you thought, might have considered him a friend. You hoped he wouldn’t mind being the bridge that allowed you to move onto a new sense of peace, a new comfort. Even in Riley’s darkest moments, he only ever wanted you to be happy. You desperately hoped he meant that.

“I loved him so much,” you told Bucky, your mouth feeling suddenly dry at the admission, “but the war had hurt him beyond the scars on his body. Most nights, he woke up screaming. I tried... I tried to comfort him, to ground him back to what was real, but Riley was always so stubborn. He insisted he was fine, as if I didn’t notice the dark circles under his eyes or that he started drinking coffee in the evening before bed. He never told me what happened. I know he wasn’t trying to hurt me, that he was just doing what he could to hold himself together, but... the truth was, I lost Riley long before the officers showed up at his parents’ house.”

Bucky nodded, watching you intently, though he didn’t say a word. You could feel his eyes on you as you kept your stare ahead, focusing on the imperfections laced into the brick of the fireplace across the room. You studied the curve of the cement, the nicks in the mantel, the divots of the stone. It was the first time you’d uttered Riley’s name in years.

“I know you think I can’t handle this stuff, that it’s too much for me, but this isn’t the first time I’ve been around someone with nightmares, Bucky, or panic attacks,” you said, memories flashing over Riley sinking to the floor with his hands pressed to his ears, tears streaming down his face, images of him turning his back on you and disappearing for days on end. You had hoped he’d open up in enough time, but he never did. He couldn’t, he’d said, or it would consume him whole. Even years later, you still wondered whether it was under the weight of his pain that he suffocated, not in the prospect of its release.

“Riley struggled after his first tour,” you continued, a lump burning in your throat. “He... He came back different. He couldn’t adjust to civilian life. I could tell from the second he got home that he was itching to go back. Despite all the pain he endured, all the nightmares and the guilt, all he wanted to do was go back.”

You glanced over at Bucky to find his jaw clenched in understanding. It wasn’t an uncommon feeling, for soldiers who waited so tirelessly to be reunited with family and friends to feel isolated and insignificant when they returned home, to want to return to the one place they felt like they belonged.

“I tried to stop him,” you continued, wiping your eyes as unshed tears started to blur your vision. “I begged him to stay. He was out of his contract. He didn’t need to go back but...” You sighed. Bucky’s hand gripped yours and you drew on the ounce of strength he was offering. “The worst part was that he was better when he was over there. He was smiling again and laughing and making jokes like he used to. He was promising things for our future I hadn’t even allowed myself to consider before then. Being over there... it offered him something I never could and I was... I was glad for that. I was thankful he’d gone. I was... relieved. I’d missed him so much and I was just happy he was himself again, even if he was a world away, even if it broke my heart. Seeing him happy again... it was enough.”

You brushed at your eyes, the calloused touch of Bucky’s palm sliding along your jaw to gently wipe the wet from your cheek. His breathing was even again, the shakiness in his hands subsided. He waited for you to gather your thoughts again, not uttering a word in favor of the crickets chirping outside the window – unparalleled kindness in his patience.

You swallowed back the lump in your throat, urging yourself to continue. Your eyes met Bucky’s, finding comfort in the warm shades of blue and the encouraging glimpse of a smile that barely rose at the edges of his mouth.

“When Riley died, I blamed myself for a long time,” you said. “I told myself I could have stopped him from going back. I could have done more to convince him to stay, to get him the help he needed. I could have fought harder for him—for... for us. But Riley was his own person. He made his own choices and I couldn’t have done a damn thing to stand in his way. Sam helped convince me of that.”

Bucky’s face slacked. “That’s why you started volunteering at the VA.”

You nodded. “Sam and Riley were partners. They had some sort of pact to take care of the other’s family if something happened. Sam held up his side of the bargain whether I liked it or not. He dragged me to the open house that year and I haven’t left since. I do it for Riley, but... I don’t know... I think I do it for myself, too.”

You exhaled a heavy breath, turning away from the fireplace to face Bucky. His eyes weren’t as red as they had been, a frown no longer etched into his features. His gaze full, though heavy, and he watched you as if you carried the entire world in the palm of your hands.

“So, you have to understand... I can’t lose you to this war, too,” you choked out, squeezing at his hand to feel the firmness of it, to remind yourself that he was real and sitting right beside you and not an ocean away. “I won’t survive losing you, Bucky. I need you, okay? Please.”

He looked as though he was about to argue, but he quickly held his tongue as he watched the tears slip down over your cheeks. Reflective in the dim light from the window.

You took in a long breath, straightening your spine as you met his eye, your voice stronger than it had been since you started. “Not everyone comes home, but you did. You survived and you wandered into my life and somehow, you made me believe in love again. Even on your worst days, just being near you is the best part of mine.”

Bucky’s lips parted, a semblance of shock flashing over his eyes. You smiled at him through your tears, a hand sliding along the side of his cheek. He sighed against the touch of it, sinking into your embrace as if hadn’t ever expected to be held like that again. Your sweet Bucky, still so surprised that you could adore him as much as you did.

“So, I will take your nightmares and your panic attacks,” you told him, smiling through the trembling in your lips. “I’ll take your bad days and share the weight you carry on your shoulders. I’ll take every ounce of shame and self-loathing you have until the day comes you can hardly feel it at all. I’ll take the empty side streets with you and we’ll drive so far out into the country side we’ll never hear a firework again.”

Bucky chuckled at that, a smile pressing up along his cheek until you felt it under your palm.

“I will take anything you throw at me,” you sighed, your thumb brushing over his lips, “as long as you’re mine. As long as I’m yours. That’s all I want, Bucky. It’s all I ask. Just you.”

Bucky stared at you, a strange mixture of awe and disbelief on his features. You could see the hope burning behind his eyes, how badly he wanted to believe you, but doubt crept in and sunk its talons into his spine.

His smile sank. “You’ve... you’ve already been through so much. I don’t know if I’m worth all that.”

“You are.” You slid both hands along his cheeks, holding his gaze, until you leaned in closer, inch by inch, and pressed your lips to his forehead. Slow, lingering, you kissed his temples, his cheekbones, the tip of his nose, his jawline, pausing only when you found yourself a breath away from his lips.

“You are, Bucky,” you said again, brushing your thumbs along his cheeks and catching a tear in its path. He bowed his head, a slight trembling in his jawline. It took everything you had not to collapse into him.

“Honey, I promise you, it won’t always feel like this and I’ll convince you every day that you are enough, if you need me to,” you told him, your voice shaking as you held back tears. “I’m not going anywhere, okay? You’re not alone. Not now. Not ever again.”

You leaned forward to kiss the crown of his head and his whole body seemed to sink in response, lightening, as if he’d let go of a boulder strapped upon his shoulders. His muscles softened, the tension slipping from his spine, until slowly, he began to lift his head, hair parting away from his eyes. Though they were strained and red, a crystalized ocean current stared back at you.

You could feel the ease in his body taking over, a realization and a determination present in his stare, in his body.

His lips parted, a steady breath in. “I love you.”

***

It was the easiest thing he’d ever said; slipped from his lips as if the words had simply tumbled out on their own. Lost in how tenderly you touched him, how your hands never once left his body even as he held himself firm as stone, how you entrusted him with the most painful parts of yourself, how you gently coaxed him away from the shadows threatening to drag him back into a darkness he’d never recover from – he’d never been so certain of anything in his life.

“I love you,” he said again, just wanting to hear it one more time. His voice was stronger this time, steadier, and he could feel his cheeks curving up into a smile. It ached from disuse, but it was a pleasant feeling. A kind one.

He slipped his hand to rest on yours as it laid against his face and gently pulled it back just enough to kiss at your palm. It wasn’t often he found you at a loss for words, but it he didn’t mind the silence, not like he did before. He could still hear the slight hitch of surprise in your breath, the nervous laughter carrying in your exhale. You were smiling so wide, he wondered if it were even possible to love you more than he did in that moment.

“Really?”

God, you were so beautiful when you looked at him like that. Starry eyed and so full of hope.

He nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

You kissed him then, full on his mouth, arms thrown around his neck, and he had to stifle a laugh against your lips. He could feel the smile growing against him, laughing in between every kiss as the tears dried on your cheeks.

“I love you, too, Bucky,” you beamed, drawing him in to kiss him again.

He shouldn’t be surprised after all you’d said to him tonight, but it still fluttered in his chest, still caused butterflies to swarm in his stomach, still cast a blinding light deep into his heart that pushed out the remaining darkness lingering behind. His arm snaked around your back, holding you as tight against him as he could manage. He was breathless by the time you pulled away.

“Will you stay?” he asked, suddenly feeling nervous as his eyes flickered over to the bedroom door. “I know it’s a mess out here, but—”

Your lips were on his again and he swore he’d never talk again as long as you kept kissing him like that. Slowly, you began to stand from the couch, tugging him along with you. He pulled away from your lips just long enough to navigate his way to the bedroom, stepping over broken glass and the remnants of his nightmare on the living room floor.

His bedroom was untouched, at least. The sheets were thrown haphazardly off the bed, but other than that, it was pristine in comparison to the damage he’d done out there. A shame tried to work its way deep into his chest, but he felt your hand slip into his, carefully drawing him close to the bed, and it released him to your care.

His back bounced against the mattress in tune with the sweet sound of your laughter as you crawled over him. Thighs caging his hips, you straddled his waist and he looked up at you, certain he’d find a glimmering shine of a halo behind your head. The moonlight touched over your shoulders as you leaned down against him, kissing his lips.

He’d missed you so much. Those two weeks left him in a hole he couldn’t possibly dig himself out of on his own. He was scraping at the bottom, nails filled with dirt, digging himself deeper and deeper until he could no longer see the sunlight as it touched over the surface. It wasn’t until you jumped down into the pit with him that he noticed there were notches in a wall once perfectly smooth, allowing him to crawl his way back up to the top.

You leaned back a little, breathless, as your hands slid along his chest. It was the first time he’d been so exposed in front of you, the scars and burns on full display, and he was surprised that there was no hesitancy in your touch, no reluctance as you brushed your fingertips over the corners of the damage to his skin. But you paused, eyes flickering to him.

“Can I?”

Bucky sighed, his heart aching. You knew how difficult it was for him, for you to see this part of him. He hadn't even taken off his jacket once in the first few weeks of knowing you. But now, he nodded eagerly, wanting to feel the tenderness with which you handled him upon the broken remains of his left side.

Your hands slid up over his shoulder, brushing along the bumps and ridges in his skin. Hardened tissue and raised edges. The way you touched him, like he was something beautiful and adored, made his heart swell. It wasn’t until you leaned down to press a feathered kiss to his shoulder, just over the burn marks and the glimpse of what he’d lost, that he choked back tears.

“Is it too much?” you asked, noticing the trembling in his lower lip, but he quickly shook his head.

“It’s perfect,” he replied breathily, drawing you back to his lips. “You’re perfect. I don’t deserve—”

“Hush,” you warned, kissing him to cut him off, “don’t talk about the man I love like that. You deserve every ounce of love I can give you, you hear me?”

He stared at you for a moment, studying the sincerity on your features until the gravity of what you said sank in, and slowly, he nodded. It would take time to believe that, but he hoped the more you said it, the easier it would come. He’d believe just about anything if it came from your voice.

“Let me show you.”

Bucky stilled; his throat suddenly dry.

“Let me show you, Bucky,” you asked again, your lips against his neck. He shivered. You sucked at his skin, drawing a map along his collarbone. You tongue licked at the indent by his neck. “Please.”

When you met his eyes again, Bucky wondered if maybe you saw him with the same wonder and enchantment with which he saw you. It only took the slight tilt of a nod before you crossed your arms over your waist and slowly pulled your shirt up over your head. Your bra came next and Bucky shifted uncomfortably, realizing you were still straddling him, his hardening length prominent against your thigh.

He stared up at you, studying over the curves of your breasts, the dips in your hips, untouched and exposed – so incredibly beautiful.

He stopped himself as the thought entered his mind, the wondering whether he deserved such beauty in his life, wondering how he’d managed to trick the cruel twist of karma to allow him to love a woman like this – to love you like this.

He cast away the doubt, forcing it back to the shadows where it belonged. It was easier to do that when you smiled at him like that, like he was truly worth something.

You laid down against his chest as his hand slid up along your spine, feeling for the slight dip in your back and the goosebumps following in his wake. You shivered under his touch and for the first time, Bucky remembered what it felt like to be wanted.

He couldn’t stop kissing you, even as your hands slipped to his waistband. It was like you breathed new life back into him; reviving him with every touch.

He helped you push down the band of his pants until you could easily drag it down his legs and drop it to the floor by his bed. It had been a long time since he was so vulnerable in front of a woman, but he didn’t mind when you looked at him the way you did. There was no ounce of judgement in your eyes, no cautious glance to his shoulder and the absence there. There was only love.

You slipped the remaining clothes from your body and Bucky held his breath as you climbed over him again, straddling his waist, bare.

Bucky was trembling as he reached for the drawer at his bedside. Blindly digging around for a box in the back of the drawer, he felt for the edge of foil wrapping. He brought it to his teeth, careful to rip the packaging, though as he held it in one hand, he let out a heavy sigh.

“Would you...?” he asked, a blush creeping up into his cheeks.

He didn’t know why he was so embarrassed, given that you were both naked, but this was one of those things he couldn’t do for himself. It would have felt emasculating if it weren’t for how eagerly you nodded and how good it felt as you placed the condom on his tip and slowly rolled it down his base. He closed his eyes, sinking back into the pillow at the feeling, wondering how he was going to survive this.

“You alright there, honey?” you called, giggling under your breath and, damn, if it wasn’t the sweetest sound he’d ever heard.

“I won’t last long,” he admitted, his hand sliding up along your waist, thumb brushing over your breast. He tried to catch the whimper as it left his lips to no avail.

You smirked. “I think we’ve waited long enough. Don’t you think?”

You sank down on him and he choked back a moan, embarrassingly loud, but it only seemed to spur you on as you rolled your hips, giving him little time to adjust. You were so tight, squeezing around him, and – holy shit – when you dragged yourself against him, using him as you sought out the angle you were looking for, he’d never felt anything like it.

He held his breath, focusing on the ceiling as he listened to the sweet sounds you made as your hands curled against his chest, hair falling down into your face. He knew he wouldn’t last as long as he wanted— hell, he would have stayed in you like this for hours if he could have – and it was taking near everything he had to hold out long enough for you to finish.

Thankfully, you were just as riled up as he was – high on missing him, aching in the distance – and Bucky gasped as he felt your walls clench around him with the rushed circles between your legs. You picked up in pace and Bucky found himself meeting you half way, thrusting up into you as he braced himself on the headboard.

“Oh God – Bucky,” you whimpered, your chest falling down to his, unable to hold yourself up. He kissed your neck, his hand sliding from around the wooden of the baseboard to grip your hips.

If he could, he would have had a hand on your breast, teasing at the nipple, the other sliding down to the space between your bodies, rubbing circles on the nerves that left you so breathless you could hardly hold yourself up. But he was learning again, getting used to his body and his limits, and all he could focus on was holding you, guiding your hips, giving him leverage to fill you whole.

Judging from the sounds you were making, your body molding like puddy against him, you didn’t mind at all.

“I’m close,” you gasped, breath hot against his neck. “Ah, God, Bucky... I’m-- I’m--”

He could feel it before the words left your lips, the clench in your walls, the spasms in your muscles that left you weak against him, overstimulated as you pulled your hand away from your clit. Your cries gave him the permission he needed to let go, only a few more thrusts was all it took, and he shuttered as he came.

Breathless, hardly able to control the laugh as it bubbled in his chest, Bucky could hardly believe that he started this night in the darkest place he’d been in months, only to end up lying here with you, so full of light and love he could hardly stand it.

He didn’t let you go at first, just wanting to hold you a little longer. He felt the sweet touch of your lips as they trailed along his neck, smile brimming against his ear. Then slowly, you rolled off of him, gently removing the condom and tossing it to the bin. A shiver slipped up his spine at the touch.

“I’m sorry I pushed you away,” Bucky confessed as you laid against his chest, curling up to his side. He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. “Don’t let me do that again, okay? I can’t stand to go another day without you.”

You smiled against his chest, your fingers tracing along the lines on his shoulder, touching over old scars and burns. You traced them as if they were simply lines on his body, just another piece of him worth loving, worth memorizing. He wondered if the next time he saw them in the mirror, he might remember this moment and see them for something more than the evidence of his loss that day. Maybe, he might see them the way you did – as evidence of his survival.

“I love you,” you sighed and Bucky felt his heart swell; it grew and expanded so wide inside his chest, he wondered if his bones might bend to make room as it split him so lovely at the seams.

“I love you, too.” He curled his arm tighter around your shoulders, drawing you close to his side. Over your shoulder, a cast of moonlight seeped in through the windows, touching over your skin, illuminating the room in a gentle glow. He closed his eyes as sleep drew him near, comforted by the patterns you drew against his shoulder.

When he fell asleep, he fell willingly – protected in your embrace, safe, from the nightmares laying in wake.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x you

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kpop---scenarios · 3 years

Text

Sugar Daddy (1)

Pairing: Johnny Seo x Reader

Warnings: None yet..

Word Count: 1.8k

A/N: Let me know if you wanna be tagged!!

"I don't know about this." You say to Hwasa, tugging on her arm as she tries to walk into the club.

Your dress is tight, and you feel overly uncomfortable in something so revealing and your heels, especially since you are not small. You are a bigger girl, with a stomach, thick thighs and curves. You have rolls when you sit down, and stretch marks radiating up your sides. You're not like the kind of girls who go to these clubs and it was severely affecting your confidence.

"Ayn." She smiles. "I promise it'll all be okay. You don't have to do anything you don't want to do."

With a sigh you nod your head and Hwasa takes your hand leading you inside the club. The music was loud, you could feel the bass thumping on your feet as you walked towards the bar. Your eyes wandered as you were being led by Hwasa. Rich looking men in suits that had become untucked, their sleeves rolled up and collars loosened. They made sure to show off their watches, flashing the expensive ones, not a care in the world here. Most of the men were surrounded by women, some looking quite cozy, but some looking rather uninterested in what their company had to say.

As you sat down at the bar and ordered a glass of wine, your eyes continued to wander, especially over to a group of men who were by themselves.

"Those guys rarely find anyone here." Hwasa says, leaning over to whisper in your ear. "They are a few of the most wealthy men and their tastes are very particular." She finishes, sitting back up to take a sip of her wine.

Not even five minutes later a man approaches Hwasa, asking her if she wants to dance. She looks at you, making you roll your eyes. "Go." You laugh.

"Are you sure?" She asks.

"Get out of here, I'm fine." You assure her.

She takes the man's hand, and heads out to the dance floor. You watch her as she laughs, her head thrown back, the man's eyes watching her intently and in awe. You can already tell he's smitten with her, and they just met.

You turn back around, and take another sip of your drink, when you feel a warm presence behind you, someone pressing himself against you. You turn around slightly, and see a man with a smirk on his face. He backs up, looking at you and then down to his crotch which very clearly proved he had an election.

"Want to take care of this for me?" He asks, tilting his head to the side.

"No." You flat out say, going to turn yourself back around, when he grabs onto your arm, his grip tight as he squeezes your wrist.

"C'mon sweetheart, don't be like that." He grunts, his eyes wide, motioning down to his crotch.

"I said no." You yell, trying to shake him off your arm but he tightens his grip.

You can see his face begin to go red as he begins to get angry at your refusal. You try to fight him off more but he won't let go. He raises his other hand as if he was going to slap you. You closed your eyes, bracing yourself for the impact but it never came, and suddenly your arm was free. You open one eye and see the man on the floor, with another man shaking his fist.

"She said no, fucking respect that." The man yells, giving the man on the ground a swift kick to the ribs.

"Are you okay?" He asks.

"Um, yeah.. I'm fine. Thank you." You whisper. You go to turn back around, wanting to leave this place and never let Hwasa convince you to do anything ever again.

"Would you like to join me at my table?" He asks, causing you to spin back around, mid sip of your cocktail. You try to swallow but slight choke as you nod your head yes "Sure. I would love to." You sputter, trying to wipe the remnants of your drink from your chin.

You grab your drinj and follow the man to a table, the table that Hwasa had said before was very particular.

"Chanyeol this is.." he pauses, motioning to you to speak.

"Ayn. L/N Ayn." You say with a smile.

"I'm Park Chanyeol." He smiles, gently shaking your hand.

"And I'm Johnny Seo," He smiles. He eyes trail down your body before going back up to make eye contact.

"Nice to meet you both." You smile, sitting down on the edge of the couch. Your eyes dart from Johnny to Chanyeol then back to Johnny, but his eyes haven't left you for a moment. You nervously take a sip of your drinj before turning your head and really look at him.

Fuck, he's absolutely beautiful. His combed brown hair perfectly frames his face, his smile radiates through the entire club, and from what you can see from under his dress shirt, he had a nice body. As much as you tried to ignore it, the feeling that you didn't belong radiated through your body, filling your brain up with possible situations or words that could possibly be said to you. And it made you nervous. Johnny leans over, his lips hovering beside your ears. You can feel his hot breath radiating down your neck. "You are beautiful." He whispers. Your face immediately turns red and hot, a blush forming against your will. Before you can respond, Hwasa runs up to you, grabbing your wrist. "Ayn." She panics. "We have to go. Now!" She yells, yanking on your arm to pull you up.

"Oh." You partially panic. You sort of toss your glass down and stand up, Johnny's eyes on you. "I'm sorry." You say to him before Hwasa pulls you harder. "Thank you." You mouth before turning your head to watch where you're going.

A few minutes later you and Hwasa are outside and down the street from the club. You both stop, your hands on your hips as you both catch your breath. Running in heels is not an easy task for anyone.

"What the hell?" You whine. "Did you see that fine ass man in there?"

Hwasa laughs. "I'm sorry, Ayn. That guy I was dancing with, oh my god. He was fucking weird. Talking about going back to his mom's house, and how we can be loud because she's partially deaf. I needed to get out of there."

Your mouth hangs open as Hwasa describes the man she had been flirting with. You burst out laughing at her misfortune, the roles finally having reversed on the two of you.

"Now you know what I go through most of the time." You joke. You both begin walking back towards your apartment, linking arms as you keep a casual pace, talking and laughing, completely forgetting about Johnny, he was something that likely would have never happened for you anyways. He was a dream that would never have come true.

The next day, you went about your day, the thought of Johnny never crossing your mind. You went to your classes, and after that you headed to your part time job at a Taco Truck. It was perfectly located on a very popular beach, and everyday the truck made a killing and you made minimum wage, which is partially why you had shown up at the club last night. You knew it was a club for sugar daddy's to meet potential sugar babies, and you had thought that maybe you'd meet someone to help you out while you got your masters in Child Psychology. But part of you was happy that things ended up the way that they did, you now wouldn't have to suffer any disappointment of him deciding you weren't worth it, and you didn't have to waste his time realizing he should have picked someone else, in the long run it worked out for both parties.

With a smile you handed the last person their order, not even looking at the person next in line. You held your pencil and the small notepad you kept in front of you as you let out a big yawn. "Excuse me." You said, clearing your throat. "Welcome to Tacos, Tacos, Tacos, what can I get for you today?" You ask.

"Umm, three of your beef Tacos, and a chicken Taco please." You hear. Your eyes squint as you try to place where you've heard that voice before. You write down the order, continuing to rack your brain on why it sounds so familiar. You look up and are face to face with Park Chanyeol. He smiles at you, recognizing you immediately.

"Ayn!" He yells, holding his arms up. "You work here?" He asks.

"Unfortunately." You laugh, scrunching your nose.

"How much do I owe you?" He asks, grabbing his wallet.

"$13.5." You announce. Chanyeol hands you a twenty, telling you to keep the change with a wink, which puts a smile on your face. "It'll be out soon."

As Chanyeol steps away from the truck, he whips out his phone, dialing a number. You can only hear bits and pieces of the conversation, but you do catch the most important part. "She's here." He says. "That taco truck that we're both obsessed with." He laughs. "Yeah that one." You wave to him, hanging his bag out the window to let him know his order was ready. He hangs up his phone, grabbing his food and waving goodbye to you.

An hour later, you're told you can go home for the day, and honestly you're relieved as fuck. You're tired, your feet hurt and you just want to go to sleep before you head back to campus tomorrow for another full day of classes and then another seven hours at the food truck.

Wow your life was so exciting.

The next day you're walking through the psychology building, heading to your next class. You're on your phone texting Hwasa about how dumb your last professor was, when you hear someone clear their throat behind you.

"You're a tough woman to track down."

Your head shoots up as you swing your body around. You see Johnny standing there, a smile on his face. Your eyes trail down his body, his suit fitting perfectly to his body, making you want to cry, drool and cream all at the same time.

"Why are you looking for me?" You ask, tilting your head to the side, making him laugh.

"You left so quickly the other night. We never got a chance to talk, have a drink or anything." He says, walking closer towards you.

"What do you want to talk to me about?" You ask.

"I want you to be my baby." He grins.

"Your baby?" You stutter. "Why me?" You ask.

"Why not you?" He rebuttals.

"Let's talk. Tonight." He says.

"I work." You tell him.

"Food truck?" He asks.

You nod your head.

"What time are you off? I'll pick you up."

"9pm." You say. "But you don't.. " you trial off.

"Perfect. See you then.. " he pauses with a grin. "Baby."

#johnny seo #johnny seo smut #sugar daddy johnny #seo johnny #nct 127 #nct 127 smut #sugar daddy nct #nctzen #kpop #kpop sugar daddy #kpop smut #kpop writing #johnny seo writing #johnny fanfic

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princecharmingmendes · 3 years

Text

Heart by Heart | Chapter X | Raul Mendes

*secret agent AU*

Y/N and Raul have been friends ever since they could remember. And falling in love with your best friend can be pretty tricky and messy 99% of the times, add that to the fact they're constantly risking their lives side by side on the field since they're both secret agents, and the best team that's ever existed. Perfect recipe for disaster.

Hi, this chapter is finally here, it's a bit shorter, but I didn't want to keep you guys waiting for that long anymore and on the cliffhanger, and this was also important for the story development. Anyway, this is the tenth chapter of this series, you can find the first ones here. Please read the warnings on this one, if you don’t feel comfortable with the contents listed on the “warnings” section, please read something else, there are a lot of other works on my masterlist and on the “fic rec” hashtag on my blog. Please give me some feedback and I hope you guys like. Happy Reading!

previous chapter | masterpost | next chapter

*Word Count: 2K+

*Warnings: cursing, violence towards the reader, blood, kidnapping, hostage situation, angst.

Please don’t read it if any of this subjects make you uncomfortable, feel free to check my masterlist for other writings.

*Posted: September 16th, 2021.

-*-

Raul was a mess as soon as he was able to get into an empty room.

He allowed himself to finally let the severity of the situation hit him. He had no idea where Y/N and Tom were, if they were alright or what could Geonoff could possibly win with this. He certainly would’ve tried blackmailing them to get something in return of the two agents he had in his hands.

He’s been pacing back and forth in the tiny room as he tried to remain calm enough to keep his rationality so he could still be helpful. Raul just wanted to punch his way into that base and get the kid and his girl back, but he knew that was completely stupid, even for him. He could practically see the frown on Y/N’s face if she ever heard his brilliant idea, and the vision alone was almost enough to bring him to tears. Instead he shook his head, knowing that letting his feelings take control would only be a waste of time in this situation, and that’s something he learned a long time ago when he first started working with his best friend.

She was a really rational, and maybe even a bit cold on the field. Always with a sharp remark on the tip of her tongue and a thousand of extra plans in case something failed, she could easily slip into the role of the Professor in Money Heist. Constantly analyzing and thinking. And while she was clearly the brain of their duo, Raul was clearly the heart, not thinking twice before jumping head first to save someone or get and intel. And that’s why they worked so well, he pushed her to be more spontaneous while she kept him in his place (and alive) most of the time.

He needed her more than ever right now.

The sound of hushed whispers and two pairs of shoes approaching him, made Raul sharply move in the direction of the door, still on edge, and waiting for it to reveal his visitors. As soon as the handle turned, he was met with his triplet and Celine wearing the same saddened and worried expressions. He might’ve come down to help with the investigation as fast as he learned about his best friend.

Peter sighed taking in the sight of his brother. Raul looked like a lost puppy in distress, eyes on his face but his mind was clearly somewhere else, shoulders sagged and curls a mess from the constant nervous tugging habit he had. One look was enough for him to know he was carrying all the guilt and having no clue how to fix it. It’s the same look he gave his younger self when he accidentally broke his brand knew camera.

“We’re going to find them” was the first thing he said and Raul nodded, looking unconvinced “It’s not your fault” he then added and at that, his gaze finally seemed to snap into place as he stared his brother dead in the eye.

“Whose fault is it then?” his voice sounded a lot smaller and less threatening than he pictured.

“Geonoff’s” Celine mumbled “but not yours, you did what was best, what was right”

Raul shook his head in response, mumbling a quiet ‘yeah, right’ under his breath, but Celine was quick to take three steps closing the distance between them and placing both hands on his shoulders.

“Cut this shit right now” she snapped, catching both him and Peter by surprise “you and I both know I’m not your biggest fan and never truly got what everyone else saw in you, but this past months changed my perspective of things and you’re actually a decent person, a great friend and an amazing agent, and you did the right thing” she said squeezing his shoulder for great measure “and you and I both know Y/N would’ve wanted you to do the same thing, she’d be proud of you”

Raul nodded slowly and Celine let him go at that, as he was still processing her words. Peter finally reached his brother, placing his hand on his shoulder as he turned to face him “I know you’re going through a lot right now, but we need you to help us find her, we need you to hold on a bit and try to think of the places they could possibly take her, everything you heard or saw on the past month is useful”

He nodded again “yeah, okay, I can do that”

“Good, come with me then” Peter said patting his brother’s back “she’ll come back to us, you and I know her enough to know she’s probably making their life a living hell”

Raul snorted a little laugh, that didn’t quite reach his eyes and nodded along, as they dragged him back into the main room. He needed to do what Y/N would in his place, shut his feelings off and analyze every every they took.

-*-

Y/N starts slowing coming back into her senses, feeling her muscles burning, her arms stiff and head hurting, the dark place she was situated doing little to help her regain her memories. She tried looking around to see if she could find something useful to recognize the place, only noticing a slim frame still unconscious close to her. The person had its back to her, but from their clothes and body type, she was able to recognize them as Tommy.

Tommy who was still breathing and almost at arms reach.

That was a good sign, or as good as it could be in this situation. But he was there, breathing and no signs of big blood loss around them, so no external wounds that needed to be taken care of urgently. She tried to reach for him, but the heavy chains attaching her wrists to the cobblestone floor kept her in place.

She tried locating their belongings, or anything that could help them get out of there, but it was all missing. Raul was also nowhere in sight, which probably meant he wasn’t there and probably the info was delivered safely. At least that’s what she hopped with no signs of him around them.

There? Where the hell was there?

That’s when it finally clicked to her, she had no idea where they were or how long was she out. They could be across the ocean as far as she was concerned. She had to get them out of there. But before she could start planning their way out with absolutely nothing and Tommy still out, she heard the grating of the old and rusty hinges coming from the only way in and out of that room, a heavy iron door.

Coming from the source of noise that snatched her attention was the man responsible for all of this. Geonoff Reyes himself. Wearing a button up shirt, with the sleeves rolled back, and a pair of dress pants, and a smug look on his face. He took lazy long strides getting close to her, crouching down in front of her.

Geonoff smirked at her “You know, it’s pretty hard to fool me and you almost got away with it, if it weren’t for your stupid boss you’d be home by now”

Y/N just blinked at him, a completely neutral facial expression on as she stared up at him, making him tsk.

“By the way, how is your little boyfriend? Does he know this relationship is just an act or you manipulate him as well?” he asked and she didn’t even flinch at his statement, noticing that her silence was doing more at getting him upset than clapping back “it must be sad, being such a pathetic agent and letting his little girl and friend get caught as he fled, and in the end discovering this was one sided”

Her gaze shifted quickly to Tommy and then back to Geonoff’s face, that was too close to hers for her taste “don’t worry, he’ll live for now, need him to get you to cooperate” and Y/N felt a little lighter knowing that, taking all the self control she had to not let that show on her face “you know they’ll never find you, right? Thought about sending a little photo as a gift for them, but might do it whenever we move to our next location, better lighting and stuff”

“What do you want?” her voice was hoarse, but she was able to keep her tone steady enough to not seem frightened.

“Oh, sugar, missed that sweet voice of yours, it matches your pretty face, just wish I could see that beautiful smile again, but we’ll get to that” he said patting her cheek with his long fingers, making her insides turn in disgust and she had to swallow the sudden wave of nausea down “I want something simple, just know all the info you’ve been feeding your precious little team for the past weeks, you’re smart enough knowing I wouldn’t mind hurting you to get what I want”

Y/N only stared back at him watching his brow twitch in annoyance “don’t want to hurt your pretty face, so cooperate with me and I might even let you go safely”

But her silent response seemed to be enough for him to loose it, because he took a deep breath before slapping his hand across her face for the first time. The pure shock of the action almost made her react, but she held her face up as she kept staring at him, her face burning but she wouldn’t give him the little taste of a small victory at breaking her neutral mask of indifference.

“This could be so easy” he mumbled slapping the other side a little harder “you didn’t have to do this, you could be free by now” the third one was stronger than she was expecting, making her face turn with the pure force of it, the loud sound coming from the aggression echoing on the empty room and down the large corridor, the echo making her realize there wasn’t much down where they were, mostly just blank empty walls without doors to divide the sound.

“What is it? Anything you’d like to say?” he asked grabbing her chin and yanking her face to look up at him, but her mouth remained closed “well, your choice”

After a few consecutive hits, one being so strong making her face collide with the wall when it turned, and she felt the sticky liquid running down her face. Her skin probably breaking with the brisk contact with the stone wall, cutting her cheek in the process. The seemed to please him, since he let out a loud boisterous laugh, making her lean her head so he could see it better mumbling a quiet “vicious bitch” under his breath “stop fighting back” before going back to it.

After a couple more minutes, her right cheek numb already, Geonoff said grabbing her face roughly in his hands, forcing her to look up at him “Come on, sugar, you’re really stressing me out here”

“I’m truly sorry you had to kidnap and keep two agents hostage to try and prove you’re better than your sister” she said blinking at him monotonously and that seemed to hit a nerve, because Geonoff squeezed her face harder in his palms before pushing her head against the wall.

Y/N felt her limbs giving out as her vision got blurry, her vision going dark before she felt her body leaning to her side and hitting the floor with a dull thud. The sound of shoes hitting against the rocks and the door being shut closed again a sign that the man lost his patience and left them behind. She tried fighting the numbness getting ahold of her body, but ended up succumbing at the end.

The sounds of waves breaking somewhere near them and the constant throbbing of her head dragging her back into unconsciousness.

-*-

*Please reblog or like this post if you liked it so I’ll know.

*I’m sorry if there are any spelling mistakes.

*Please do not repost this without giving me the credit, this is a completely original piece and I do not give permission to copy this!

*Hope you guys enjoyed it!

*xoxo

-🌙

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bitchin-beskar · 3 years

Text

Royal Affairs - II

Consequences Will Follow

Rating: M

Warnings: Intense yearning, shirtless sparring, and oral (f. receiving), of course.

Pairing: Din Djarin x Reader (no use of y/n)

Word Count: 4.9k

A/N: Here’s Chapter 2!! I was planning to have this out on Christmas, but I ended up adding a couple extra scenes, so it took a little longer than I planned!! I have chapters 3, 4, and 5 outlined, so hopefully it won’t take too long for the next chapter! I’ve also got three other stories I want to get posted soon though, so it might not be right away! Anyways, I really hope y’all continue to read and enjoy this AU, I’m having so much fun with it!!!

P.S. If y’all wanna send me asks about this AU... I will gladly oblige 🥺😉

Please consider reblogging and leaving a comment!! I love hearing what you guys think!!

It’s late by the time you get back to the small housing unit you share with your sister and your buir. You’d spent hours doing mindless chores around the shop, unable to keep still, lest your mind start to wander to the guests you’d entertained earlier. It feels like a fever dream, something you can only half-recall, and when you try, you grow hot and dizzy and altogether exhausted.

Your family should be asleep, but when the door slides open, your sister and mother are sitting at the table, waiting for you with a glass of spotchka. A’denla looks up sharply as you walk in, worry written into the crease of her brow. Your mother doesn’t carry her worries visibly, but you can see in the way her eyes rove over you, checking for injuries, that she’s been just as worried as A’denla.

“Where have you been?! Do you know how late it is?!?”

Your sister is out of her seat and in front of you before you can blink, her hands gripping your upper arms as she does so, shaking you slightly. You know she’s just worried about you, but you’re exhausted, and the minute you’d gotten home and stopped moving, your mind began to wander, just like you’d hoped to avoid.

“Did he get your message? The gossip has been flying, did the King actually come to the shop?”

You blink tiredly, your exhausted brain only able to focus on one thing.

“His name is Din.”

There’s a beat of silence. A’denla’s hands drop from your arms. Then, your mother’s sharp voice pierces you like a vibroblade.

“What. Did. You. Just. Say.”

Your head swivels towards her, and you can actually see fear in her eyes. You frown. “He told me... to call him Din... twice.” Your sentence would hold more weight if you didn’t stop to yawn twice in the middle. Stars, how are you so tired?

Out of the corner of your eye, you see A’denla’s mouth drop. You yawn a third time, covering your mouth with your hand. There’s a little niggling in the back of your head telling you that you should be worried about this too, what it means for the King to ask for a peasant shopkeeper to call him by his name, but you can’t bring yourself to care, not when you’re less than twenty feet from your bed.

Your mother is muttering something to herself, and you think you catch something along the lines of “Maker, give me patience” but you can’t be sure. You just want to sleep, for kriffing sake.

“Go to bed, daughter. You look exhausted.” You weakly nod your head, already liking where this is going. “But, we are going to talk come morning.”

You hear the words your mother says, but they don’t really register as you’re already stumbling towards your room. Your sister’s voice picks up behind you as she starts to bicker with your mother, but you’re already falling into bed, asleep before your head hits the pillow.

***

Unfortunately, morning doesn’t bring you any peace and quiet like you were hoping for.

As soon as you were even halfway conscious, your mother had practically dragged you to the kitchen table, shoving you into a seat as she began pacing the length of the room. She was clearly agitated, and you didn’t have to wait long to find out why.

“What exactly happened yesterday, daughter? First, rumors are flying that the King’s son ended up in your store, then there are the rumors that the King himself visited, and then you come home half asleep, muttering about the King’s given name?! What in the name of the Maker possessed you, child? Do you know how much trouble we could get in with you just throwing the name of the King around like he’s some... some....”

Your mother’s breath quickens as she rants, raising higher and higher until she’s practically shouting. Her yelling makes you feel about a third of your actual height, small and meek as she scolds you. Stars, you knew better than to say the King’s name out loud, it was the height of disrespect! And coming from someone of your station? If anyone other than your mother or sister had heard...

It didn’t bear thinking about.

Your buir is clearly waiting for an explanation, but just as you open your mouth, a sharp knock sounds at the door. Both of your heads jerk towards the entryway, and for a moment, neither of you move.

When you go to stand, your mother holds up her hand sharply, gesturing for you to stay put. You feel shame rising in your cheeks at the way she’s treating you, like you’re still a child, but given last night, you can’t entirely blame her.

You’re only half listening as she answers the door, but when she calls your name loudly, her voice shaky, you jerk out of your seat, practically running to the door to see what’s wrong, only to draw up short when you see the woman standing there.

“I’m Cara Dune. I’m an advisor to the King,” she informs your mother, bending in a short, sharp bow of respect, causing your mother’s eyes to widen. “I’ve been sent to collect your daughter.” She turns to you. “Our King requests your presence at the palace.”

You have to physically stop yourself from twisting your hands in your skirt nervously. “Di– Did the King say why?” You ask, heart racing as you try to remember every little detail about your interaction with him yesterday. Did you offend him in some way, and he’s only now punishing you for it? Does he think you lied to him about the bounty hunters? Does–

“Your presence is requested.”

Swallowing harshly, you nod. Even though it is framed as a request, all three of you are well aware of the fact that a summons by the King is not something to be turned down lightly.

“Come on.” Cara turns and stalks out the door, her steps heavy and loud in the tense silence of your house. Your mother is staring at you with this indescribable expression, but when you make to step past her, she grips your arm tightly, causing you to turn to look at her.

“If you’ve done anything–”

The threat hangs in the air, and you nod shakily. She doesn’t even need to finish her statement. You understand her meaning perfectly clear. Whatever problems you’ve caused need to be fixed, or else. Your family doesn’t need the displeasure of the King of Mandalore hanging over your heads.

She lets you go and you follow Cara out the door, wishing you had a moment to change into something more presentable. You’re just in a simple dress meant for working around the house, not for audiences with royalty. Unfortunately, you doubt Cara is going to want to wait, and the quicker you get through this inevitable disaster, the better.

There’s a speeder waiting to take you both to the palace. Cara’s already waiting, so you gingerly step inside.

“Never been in a speeder before?”

You don’t have to look at her to know she’s looking at you with that look. The one all the higher-born give those born into a lower station, the peasants. “My family has never exactly been in a position to afford a ride in a speeder, much less own one of our own.”

Cara hums, and gestures for the speeder to start. You feel the engines rumbling beneath your feet and the speeder starts up, gliding smoothly above the ground as you begin to make your way out of the lower levels and up towards the palace.

You can’t help but look around, entranced by the way the buildings shift, from dingy, rundown stores and homes to sleek, shining high-rises and elegant towers seemingly constructed purely of transparisteel. You’ve never been out of the village before, so this was all completely unfamiliar, and you were even more self-conscious of your appearance. It was clear you didn’t belong here.

“You don’t need to be nervous,” Cara said suddenly, and you looked over at her incredulously. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Din so tongue-tied before.”

The King? Speechless? Because of you?!

“I’m sure you’re mistaken,” you whispered, looking down at your hands. Maker, your buir would kill you if you brought such unnecessary and unwanted attention to yourself. It wasn’t proper for a peasant to be drawing the attention of anyone above their station, especially the King himself. It didn’t matter how it had felt when he’d spoken to you, nor how his hand had felt on your back when he’d stood behind you in your shop. Peasants had been killed in the past for less scandalous acts than you’d engaged in.

“You’re very pretty.” Your head jerked up at Cara’s blunt words. “I’m not surprised Din is so drawn to you.”

Oh Maker, he thought you were pretty?

Cara just chuckled, terror and embarrassment clear on your features as you gripped your skirts tightly. This was not good.

“It’s not proper.”

The words left your mouth before you could stop them, and Cara suddenly stopped laughing. You flinched, worried that you’d offended her when she suddenly covered your hands with her own.

“Din doesn’t care about propriety. He was a bounty hunter before he became the King. The same people who look down on you for being a shopkeeper looked down on him as just a dumb mercenary.” You slowly raised your head, meeting Cara’s surprisingly comforting gaze. “And now, they all grovel at his boots, hoping that he’s forgotten how they treated him before he won the Darksaber.”

She pauses again, her hands tightening over yours. “Din doesn’t care about money or expensive gowns or connections. None of those things could impress him more than when he saw how you’d genuinely cared for his son. You didn’t know he was the King’s son, you didn’t care. You just saw a hurt child and took him in. That is why Din was so entranced with you.”

You were silent for a moment, mulling over her words, before something struck you as odd. “W–Wait, was? What do you mean by that?”

Cara’s soft grin suddenly turned wicked. Your eyes widened at the pure glee and mischief in her eyes. “Well, then he met you.” She waggled her brows, looking you up and down, a dirty smirk wide on her lips. “Now he’s entranced for a whole other reason.”

The innuendo was clear in her voice, and you felt your cheeks heat rapidly. She had to be joking. There was no way that the King found you attractive. It just wasn’t possible. You’d spent your entire life being told how plain you looked, by your buir, and the children you’d grown up with. You sister and Vys had tried to tell you otherwise, but you knew they were just trying to make you feel better after yet another boy taunted that you’d never find someone who wanted you.

Mandalorians were well known for their passion and intense desire. It wasn’t unheard of for couples to say their vows in their late teens, with females often pregnant before their twentieth year. Courtships often took days and weeks instead of months and years, a hold-over from when Mandalore almost fell to the Empire. It had become custom to find a riddur and marry quickly, and to get pregnant even quicker, incase too many warriors fell in battle.

Children were revered in your culture, and men and women alike dreamed of starting families, raising ad’ike and ensuring the continuation of the Mandalorian way of life, a desire that only grew stronger with the war.

Even though you weren’t that old in terms of lifecycles, you were much older than was typical for starting a family. Your sister had married young, but her husband had died only a year and a half after their union, and she’d chosen not to find a new riddur. Your brother has been married for close to twenty years now. But you’d never come close to finding someone you wanted to spend your life with. Not that your family hadn’t tried to fix that.

But you didn’t want to marry someone just so that you could pop out a few children so that you could be seen as “doing your duty for the betterment Mandalore.” You just wanted a riddur who would respect and love you, but it seemed that it wasn’t meant to be. The few boys you’d let your guard down around and had gotten close to had been absolute di’kuts, cocky and rude, demanding you submit to them and give up everything to please them, so you’d given up on ever finding a riddur.

“I’m not the kind of woman to inspire those kinds of thoughts in a man,” you muttered, missing the suggestive smirk Cara sent your way.

“You’ll see,” she whispered, turning back to watch as you approached the palace.

***

Cara had marched through the grand hallways of the palace with an air of authority that stunned you. Even though her outfit made her look out of place in the sleek and elegant palace rooms and halls, her absolute confidence radiated out, filling the rooms with her presence.

You just followed along behind, silently grateful for the fact that the palace seemed to be empty. Cara seemed to know exactly where she was going, and you followed her through all the turns, hopelessly lost. You’d never be able to find your way out of here by yourself, which made you feel a little uncomfortable, but you tried not to dwell on it.

As you made your way down yet another hallway, you started to hear what sounded like grunts, along with repeated clangs of metal hitting metal. Eyes wide, you almost asked Cara what it was you were hearing when she turned, a grin on her face.

“We’re here.”

She pushed open a door, and the grunts and clangs grew louder as the two of you entered what looked to be a training room. There was a large mat in the center of the room, with seating off to one side. There was specialized equipment lining the other sides, for what you assumed was different exercise routines. You first noticed little Grogu, seated on the stands. He turned when the door opened, and his little coo reached your ears as he clambered down, waddling over to you as fast as he could.

You’d thought he was running to Cara, but when he ran straight past her and collided with your legs, your eyes widened. He gripped the fabric of your skirts in his little claws, his big, beautiful eyes begging for you to pick him up.

Without thinking you bent over and scooped him up, settling him on your hip. You looked up to see Cara grinning. “He missed you.”

Your eyes widened. “Wait, what?”

She nodded. “Yeah. He really didn’t want to leave your shop last night. He pouted all day until Din told him you were coming.” Your heart melted, looking down at the little one who was snuggling into your side.

There was a loud smack, and you looked up suddenly to see a huge shirtless man falling back onto the mat, the beskar staff falling to the ground next to him. Another man, also shirtless, stood over the fallen fighter, his own beskar staff secure in his grasp.

A quiet gasp left your mouth, your eyes widening as you took in the sight before you. The man with his back to you was clearly in excellent shape, his golden skin glistening with sweat, his shoulders broad and muscled. His dark hair curled at the ends as it brushed the nape of his neck. His legs were clad in a pair of black pants, tight enough to show the muscles of his thighs and calves. You’d never seen a more attractive man, and you hadn’t even seen his face. The man on the ground was attractive as well, big and hulking and covered in tattoos, but your eyes kept flitting back to the victor of the fight.

You didn’t see the gleeful look Cara shot you, as she watched your eyes widen and your breath hitch when you saw the two fighters. Maybe if you’d seen her look, you would have been better prepared for what came out of her mouth.

“Din! Paz! We’ve got a guest, you nerf herders!”

Her yell was loud enough to cover the gasp of shock as you realized just who the shirtless men were. You recognized Paz, the general of Mandalore’s fighting corps, even though you’d never seen him. Gossip about him and his abilities had reached even the lower villages, and his tattoos were legendary. But it was the other man who still held your attention. The King.

He turned, his eyes landing on you and Cara, standing near the door. His gaze focused on you, and you felt your cheeks heat at his intense gaze. You’d thought his armour was intimidating, but actually looking him in the eyes was far more so. A slow smile spread across his lips, and he began to move towards the three of you.

You swallowed, forcing your eyes to stay on his face, and not the glistening skin of his bare chest. As he approached, Cara leaned in, plucking Grogu from your arms and whispering “have fun!” before turning and making her way towards Paz. Your eyes widened as she left your side, before you forced yourself to sink into a curtsy as the King came to a stop in front of you.

“My king,” you whispered, standing upright, but keeping your head bowed. You had no idea why you’d been summoned, and you were practically trembling with worry.

He was silent for a moment when suddenly, he reached out, lightly gripping your chin as he coaxed your head up, his eyes dark as he captured your gaze.

“I thought I asked you to call me Din?” His voice was soft, soothing, and yet you felt shame. Your king wanted one thing, but you knew what propriety demanded, even if it meant disobeying his direct order.

“It’s not proper, my king. I have no right to speak your name–”

He shushed you softly, his thumb brushing the underside of your jaw. “If you truly do not wish to use my name, I will not force you, darling.” Your eyes widened at his words, shocked. Here you were, outright disobeying a direct order from your King, and he was okay with that?

“But I dearly wish you would,” he continued, watching your face closely. “My name sounds so sweet, falling from your lips. I would ask you to humor me, at least when we’re alone.”

You inhaled sharply at his words, feeling like your heart was about to leap out of your chest. He was looking at you so earnestly, and his hand was warm against your neck. You’d never had anyone look at you like this, and you didn’t know how to feel about it.

“It’s not proper for me to address so informally,” You started, pausing to take a deep breath. “But, if you desire for me to use your name in private, then... I–I suppose I can humor you.” You paused once more. “Din.”

The soft smile that spreads across his face is dazzling.

“Thank you, darling.” He murmurs, releasing your jaw and taking your hand in his, gently pressing a kiss to the back of it. You felt your cheeks warm. The effect this man was having on you was one you’d never experienced before, and it was clear he knew just what kind of effect he had on you.

His eyes ran up and down your figure unashamed, and you were surprised to see a pleased smirk on his face as he looked at you. You’d never had someone look at you with such desire, and it brought on a dizzying feeling. You looked away, unused to such feelings and attention.

“Don’t be ashamed,” Din said, brushing his fingers across your cheek, turning your face back towards his. “Has no one ever told you how breathtakingly beautiful you are?”

You were sure he could feel your burning cheeks underneath his fingertips. You slowly shook your head, wanting to look away out of embarrassment, but his dark gaze held you firm.

“Well they should,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “You struck me speechless yesterday.” He chuckled, his dark hair falling gently over his brow. You drew your bottom lip in between your teeth, worrying the flesh out of nervousness. You’d never been this close to a man, let alone a half-dressed one.

Your breath suddenly hitched as his thumb moved to brush over your lower lip, pulling it from between your teeth. His gaze was heavy, looking at you as though you were something precious, something to be desired.

The trance was suddenly broken by a loud yell from behind Din.

“Djarin! I want a rematch!”

You’d jerked at the sudden sound, but Din only sighed, his eyes sliding shut as he stood before you, your face still cradled in his palm. He opened his eyes again, smiling softly at you.

“Have you ever seen a sparring match before?” When you shook your head, he gestured to the seats behind you. “Stay. Watch.”

He released you, turning and stalking back towards Paz, leaving you standing there with a warm face and fluttering in your stomach. You were dazed, and caught off-guard when Cara suddenly appeared back at your side, with Grogu in her arms.

“Come on, the kid likes to watch too.”

She all but dragged you to the seats, pulling you down next to her and plopping the little one onto your lap. Automatically, your arms came up around him, but you were still lost, your gaze still unfocused as you tried to make sense of the conversation that had just taken place.

You watched as Din and Paz centered themselves on the mat, falling into stances, with their staffs held at the ready. Muscles tense, the two men were still for a few moments, before they suddenly sprung into action. The clangs as their staffs collided were loud, and you watched, wide-eyed as the two men fought ferociously.

“Good, isn’t he?”

You just nodded dumbly, unable to take your eyes off of the sight in front of you. Cara chuckled, leaning forward and bracing her arms on her legs as she watched alongside you.

“You ever learn how to fight?”

You scoffed. “No. I’m a female shopkeeper from the lower villages. The most I was ever taught was how to run away and scream for help.” Unfortunately, unless you joined the fighting corps, most of those in the lower villages weren’t concerned with teaching women how to defend themselves. Your mother had always balked at the idea that you should learn how to fight, insisting that your husband would be able to take care of you, ignoring the fact that you still weren’t married.

Cara shrugged. “I bet Din’d teach you if you asked.”

A choking sound left your mouth, and Cara laughed.

***

“Your center of gravity is here.”

You stood as still as you could, feeling the warmth of Din’s palm as he pressed against your lower stomach, his bare chest pressed into your back. His breath was hot against your neck, and you swore you could feel the brush of his lips against your skin as he spoke.

His fingers splayed against your bare skin, his other hand gripping your waist. “If you keep your legs spread,” he muttered, using his his bare foot to knock your feet apart, forcing your stance wider. “Your center of gravity will be lower, and it’ll be harder to knock you down.”

You nodded, shifting slightly to settle your weight better onto the balls of your feet. Din’s hand squeezed your hip, before he let go and moved to come and stand in front of you. He mimicked your stance, thumping the center of his chest with one fist.

“Hit me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What?”

He rolled his eyes. “I want you to try and knock me down. So, hit me.”

Frowning, you hesitated for a moment. “How am I supposed to knock you down? You’re so much bigger than I am.”

Din chuckled. “I may be bigger, darling, but that usually means I’m going to be slower. Don’t try and use brute force, play to your strengths. You’re smaller than I am, but that doesn’t have to mean that you’re weaker. My center of gravity is here,” he tapped the middle of his chest, at his sternum. “It’s higher up on men, so it’s easier to knock us off our feet. You’re naturally more grounded. Use that to your advantage.”

You nodded, bringing your hands up like Din had showed you. You threw your fist forward, but Din’s hand came up, blocking your punch easily.

You frowned, and he only grinned. “Try again.”

This time, you tried to punch with your other hand, to throw him off, but Din still blocked your punch. Even though you weren’t surprised, you were still frustrated.

“Come on, darling. It’s not that hard, just hit me.”

His voice is sweetly condescending, and it lights a fire in your core. You can do this. You’ve just gotta hit him.

You throw a punch with your non-dominant hand, and as he goes to block it, you snap your other hand up, nailing him square in the center of his chest. He lets out a grunt, and as he bends over slightly from the force of your punch, you lean over and dart forward, ramming your shoulder into his stomach, knocking him further off-balance.

He falls back onto the mat, and you follow him down, landing on top of him, your legs on either side of his hips as your hands grip his shoulders, pushing him into the mat. You’re leaning over him, panting, a smug grin on your lips.

Din is smirking up at you, and you get the odd sensation that even though he’s the one on the ground, pinned under your weight, he’s still in control.

“There you go, was that so hard?”

You scoffed, sitting back, settling onto his lower stomach as you glared down at him. “God, what would it take for you to shut up?”

Din’s still smirking, but he mock-pouts at your words. “Aw, darling, you don’t like how I’m using my mouth?”

You groan, tilting your head back to stare up at the ceiling, annoyed. “Not particularly, no.” You miss the dark look that suddenly appears in Din’s eyes, but you don’t miss the way he abruptly grasps the back of your knees and jerks, bringing you up so that your core is centered over his face. You almost lose your balance with the movements, falling forward and bracing your hands on the mat as Din brings your legs up to straddle his face.

“Din?!” You gasp, your face growing hot as you feel his breath against your core through the thin fabric of your training pants. He just ignores you, ripping both your pants and your underwear in one quick move, his arms wrapping around your thighs and bringing you down so that you’re riding his face.

The first touch of his tongue against your folds causes you to whimper, the sensation unfamiliar but so good. He’s gentle at first, carefully stroking you with his tongue, but it doesn’t take long for him to grow impatient, his arms tightening on your hips as he pulls you down.

His tongue flicks against your clit, and you shudder, your head falling forward, eyes clenched shut. He seals his lips around your clit and sucks, and a high-pitched whine escapes your lips, your thighs trembling as he devours you like you’re the sweetest thing in the galaxy.

Din is relentless, insatiable, fucking you on his tongue, and every time breathy gasps and moans leave your mouth, he goes harder, faster, his fingers gripping your skin so tight you’ll wear the bruises for days.

“Fuck, Din–” You gasp, one of your hands gripping his hair as he grinds you down onto his face. “Please, don’t stop–!”

He moans into you as you tug on his hair, and the vibrations are just fuel for the fire that’s burning in your veins. He encourages you to circle your hips, helping you ride his face as he eats you out like you’re the last food he’s ever going to get to eat. You’re not sure how he hasn’t had to stop to breathe, but then he’s suckling on your clit and flicking it with his tongue and you almost scream.

“I–I’m gonna come, please, Din–!”

He sucks harder and you’re almost there, and–

***

Your eyes snap open, your whole body tense as you gasp, the fire burning in your belly becoming a raging inferno, and you have to clasp your hand over your mouth so you don’t wake the whole village. You can feel your walls clenching around nothing as you come, legs shaking as wave after wave of pleasure washes over you.

The fingers of your other hand are clenched tightly in the sheets as your hips desperately grind against nothing but air. Tears are leaking out of your eyes and running down your face as you sob brokenly into your hand. You’ve never felt anything so powerful, so overwhelming.

As you lay panting on your bed, trembling in the aftershocks of your first orgasm, your heart thumps in your chest as you remember the way Din had looked between your thighs. Groaning, you rolled over, drawing up into a little ball.

It was just a dream.

Just a dream.

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theowhy · 3 years

Text

pray for the wicked

1.2k, theo-centric, implied thiam, rated T

warnings: outsider POV, non-graphic violence, (probably inaccurate) religious references

last night, my gf inadvertently inspired an idea of theo in a confessional booth, and the concept of an outsider POV fic about that wouldn’t leave me alone until i banged this little thing out. i’m not very religious and am a terrible catholic, so pls bear with any (undoubtedly numerous) inaccuracies lmao.

Elias jolts in his seat at the sound of the confessor’s side door slamming shut.

There’s a clamor on the other side of the wall separating the two chambers of the confessional booth. He can’t see anything, of course, with the screen on the confessor's side covering the grated window, so he merely frowns and furrows his brow, sets down the book he was reading. These nights tend to be long, you see.

But Elias must be present and ready at all times, so despite the clamor and the banging and the disconcerting sound of panting on the other side, he says calmly, “Welcome.”

The panting continues on for a moment. Elias waits patiently.

Then, a boy’s voice, rough and low: “Shit, how does this go again?”

Elias raises his brows.

“Uh. Bless me Father, for I have sinned?” the boy tries again. “My last confession was… never? Nineteen years, if that’s how this works.”

Nineteen. It isn’t so long ago that Elias has forgotten what being nineteen was like, making his way through seminary school. Though he suspects his background may be different from whoever it is on the other side of the wall, who hisses and murmurs, “Never gonna get this bloodstain out. Great.”

Now that Elias thinks of it, he can smell the metallic tang of it, the scent quickly filling the booth.

Alarmed, he says, “Are you bleeding? Do you need an ambulance?”

“Nah.” A sigh, the sound of the cushioned chair on the other side creaking. “I’ll be good in a few minutes. Just need some time to hide—uh, I mean, confess.” A pained grunt. “This wolfsbane is doing nothing for me.”

The more words he speaks, the more confusion Elias feels. But… he is here to serve a purpose. And he will stick to it.

He says, “And what have you come to share tonight?”

Silence. Even his breathing is imperceptible. Elias begins to wonder if he managed to slip out of the booth entirely when, finally, the boy snorts. “Where do I start?”

“Well, what weighs on your heart the heaviest?” Elias asks.

That earns him a laugh. Elias doesn’t have the faintest idea why, but he’s beginning to realize he can’t expect anything to go the way he imagines.

The boy says, “Say, Father. What if this heart isn’t mine?”

Elias blinks. “Can I ask what it is you mean?”

The confessor’s chair creaks, and the boy’s voice is closer this time to the window between them.

“What if this heart doesn’t belong to me? What if I took it from someone else?”

Elias takes a moment to consider it. A metaphor, surely—one that he’s too frazzled and too confused to fully unravel at this time, but he ventures a guess, anyway. “Do you think the feelings you experience do not belong to you as well?”

“I’m not sure how much of myself does belong to me.”

The words are glib, lilting through the shallow space between them. Elias tilts his head, and while this boy has no reverence at all for the booth, he thinks he can understand what he’s getting at.

“Then you feel you have little control over yourself,” Elias says.

A hum. “Think you’re getting somewhere, Father,” the boy says.

“And that troubles you?”

There’s a clack, clack, clack against wood, fingernails tapping a rhythm. “Control isn’t the problem. I’m good at that.”

“Then… experiencing those impulses in the first place.”

The tapping stops for a beat, then continues. “Hey, you’re pretty good at this stuff.”

“What impulses are you experiencing?”

“Man, all business, huh?” The boy makes a pained hiss, followed by the sound of something metallic pattering to the ground. “Finally. Dumb bullet.”

“You’re certain you don’t need an ambulance?” Elias says again, allowing some desperation to come through.

“I said I’m fine. Anyway.” A breath blown, like being wounded is a minor inconvenience. “Impulses. Well, some of the worst ones don’t bother me anymore. I’ve apologized to Scott for that one time. Though, uh, it’s an ongoing apology. I’m working on it.”

Elias nods. “Penance is a crucial step in the path of forgiveness.”

“Right. Hence me coming to save their sorry asses all the time.” The words are a little more slurred. There’s a thump on the other side of the wall, a hand slamming against it. “Shit, this hurts. Sorry.”

Elias rises from his seat. “I really think you need medical attention.”

“No! Christ, you can’t make me go back to a hospital if you dragged me there blind and gagged.” Elias blanches. The boy continues, “Just—keep talking, okay? I’m almost done. I’ll be out of your hair soon, I promise.”

Not exactly convincing. But something compels Elias to sit down, anyway. Clearly this one is… troubled. If he can help somehow, then perhaps the medical attention can come after.

So Elias swallows and says, “You said you’re always saving someone. Who?”

Another sigh, the heaviest one so far. “That idiot. That ridiculous, headstrong, beautiful dumbass. His eyes are blue. Like, real blue. You know?”

Elias can’t say he does, but. “What makes you feel you need to save him?”

“Because—” A pause. Then a breath, shaky. “You were talking about impulses? His middle name is Impulse. He just rushes in without thinking about the danger, the numbers, a way out. Someone needs help so he goes. Period. I have my work cut out for me.”

“You want to protect him,” Elias says. He doesn’t need to phrase it as a question.

A laugh again, smaller, more fragile. “God knows why.”

“There is a path for us all; one that He knows. Being here now, confessing, is the first step. And it sounds to me like you’re already trying to do penance.”

“Good to know there’s a twelve step program to this whole thing.” He sounds distracted, and there’s that smell of blood again, making Elias feel sick. Another patter of metal. A sigh of relief. “Finally. Just the wolfsbane, now.”

“Wolfsbane is poisonous,” Elias says.

“You’re telling me.” A clicking sound, followed by the smell of gas. It can’t be—

“Bless me Father for one more thing,” the boy says. “Is this what they call a venial sin versus a mortal one?”

“Fire is strictly forbidden in the booth.” Elias shoots up from his seat. If he calls 911, he can get paramedics and the fire department both.

“It’ll just take a second.” The boy takes a few quick breaths, as if bracing himself. Then there’s the sound of something igniting, the smell of burning.

The boy chokes down a shout. Wood splinters on the other side.

Elias is bolting halfway out the door when the boy says, “Stop! No, no, I’m good.”

He sounds exhausted. Elias is feeling so, himself.

“What on Earth is happening?” he pleads, more to God than anyone else.

“Relax. It’s over now.” The boy still sounds pained, his breathing labored, but he isn’t slurring his words anymore. An acrid smell fills the booth now, something singed and herbal, on top of all the blood.

Elias squeezes his eyes shut.

“That’s better,” the boy says. “And by this time, hopefully the hunters have lost my trail.” The chair creaks again.

Elias jolts when the screen over the window rises.

Smoke trails through the grate. The boy’s face appears on the other side: dark hair falling over his forehead, framing his eyes that glow a bright, lurid yellow.

“Thanks,” he says, with a small grin. Elias swears his teeth are pointed. “And by the way, I’d be careful tonight, Father. Full moon’s out.”

He’s gone with one quick movement, the confessor’s side door slamming shut. The smoke and blood stay.

#theo #thiam #to you riding shotgun #caiwrites

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ifmywishescametrue · 3 years

Note

omg another taylor x stevetony stan!!! if you're feeling it, can i ask for a 'dont you'-inspired steve/tony fic?? the angst potential (and ofc happy ending) of that song is just *chef's kiss* and perfect for steve and tony! thank youuu

ahhh I love that you sent me this! don’t you absolutely screams stevetony

hope you like this one :)

He knew it would happen sometime or another. At some party or event that Tony doesn’t even want to be at in the first place, or maybe crossed paths on the sidewalk or the grocery store. For a city with millions of people, it’s still near impossible to avoid someone forever in New York. It doesn’t help that all of his friends, with few exceptions, were Steve’s first and cutting them out of his life was just too hard on top of losing him.

From them he knows that Steve moved on. A few dates here and there in the beginning, stops and starts for the first couple months after the break up that gave Tony a false sense of hope that maybe it wasn’t quite over. Maybe Steve was having such a hard time starting with someone else because he couldn't let go of what they had, either.

He doesn’t know the new girl’s name. Couldn’t bring himself to ask and none of his friends were offering anything except for sympathy. All he knows is that she’s blonde and beautiful and makes Steve smile in all of the photographs. She’s only been around for a month now, longer than the others have lasted, but Tony knows that this one means that it’s really done. There’s no recovery for them this time.

Unfortunately, knowing he would run into Steve eventually doesn’t quite prepare him for the reality of it.

He isn’t expecting to see Steve here of all places. It’s too late in the night, for one thing, going half past two on a Thursday morning. Tony’s eyes are aching with exhaustion, and he’s been swirling around the last dregs of his drink for far too long. He hates this coffee shop and its poor excuse for espresso and too bright fluorescent lights. Hates the playlist with the same ten songs in a loop and the guy behind the counter who never stops snapping his fingers along with it, but it’s the only one around him that stays open this late. It’s sort of their brand, giving lonely, pathetic people like him somewhere to be, and that’s another reason why Steve doesn’t belong here.

Tony looks up at the chime of the door opening, along with the other two occupants, and he shrinks into his chair when he recognizes that familiar golden hair and broad frame. Seven months isn’t nearly long enough to be able to forget the sight of him. Steve’s hands are in the pocket of his sweatshirt, and his cheeks are pink with the cold. He walks up to the counter and orders while Tony contemplates running out the door.

He wonders if Steve would notice, though. If he would get caught running away and how embarrassing that would be. Then he’s wondering if he should approach first to make it seem like he doesn’t care. Play the unaffected, blasé role like he’s doing just fine these days. But would Steve see through him? Would he take one look into Tony’s eyes and just know the truth in that easy way of his? Probably, he thinks. His pale skin looks like it hasn’t seen daylight in quite a while, and he’s clearly behind on haircuts these days and not in a good way.

In the end the choice is made for him, because he’s so busy running through the possibilities that he doesn’t notice that Steve is already coming over, not until he’s right there and saying, “Hey, Tony.”

Tony straightens instantly, almost knocking over his cup with the quick movement and catching it at the last second. He winces internally, the casual act already ruined. “Steve, um, hi.”

Steve’s smile is soft, sending a sharp pang through Tony’s chest. He points to the chair opposite him and asks, “Do you mind?”

Tony shakes his head, and the chair’s metal legs scrape against the linoleum when Steve sits down. Steve leans forwards, elbows on the table and hands wrapped around the paper cup of what Tony would bet is peppermint hot chocolate.

Neither of them speak, awkward, stifling silence settling between them like a weight that Tony can feel. There’s no safe topics between them anymore, and that hurts to realize more than it probably should.

“How have you been?” Steve finally asks, and Tony almost laughs.

“Fantastic. What about you?” he replies dryly.

Steve cracks another small smile. “Same here, I guess. I heard about the launch coming up. Nat mentioned it a couple of weeks ago, said it was running a bit behind schedule. How’s that going?”

“Back on track.”

Steve nods, taking Tony’s short answer in stride. “She mentioned there was a problem with the battery -”

“We don’t have to do this,” Tony interrupts, gesturing between the two of them. “The whole catching up thing and acting like we’re friends. It’s really not necessary.”

He sees the bobbing of Steve’s throat when he swallows, and Steve stares at a spot somewhere over Tony’s shoulder so he isn’t looking at him anymore. “I wasn’t trying to pretend to be friends, I just thought…”

Steve trails off, and Tony asks, “Thought what?”

“That it’s been long enough that maybe we could just actually be friends again. Like it used to be, before everything.”

“Like it used to be,” Tony echoes. “That’s what you want?”

“You were one of my best friends, you know,” Steve says, and he meets Tony’s eyes again. “You knew me better than just about anyone, even Buck sometimes. I miss that. Don’t you?”

Of course he does, but that’s not what he misses most. He misses waking up with Steve’s heartbeat beneath his ear and the warmth of his arms. Misses those little jokes and lingering looks, the way that Steve could make everything else just disappear with one touch.

Tony remembers thinking back then, before everything, as Steve called it, that being Steve’s friend would be enough for him, when he thought his feelings were one-sided and everything he actually wanted was unattainable. But now that he knows what it feels like to have everything, just some of it can’t possibly be enough anymore.

“I don’t want to be your friend,” Tony says, pushing back from the table. “I can’t.”

He walks out without looking back, hands shoved deep into his pocket and head down against the wind. The sting in his eyes has a new source, but he refuses to let anything fall. Steve doesn’t get to have that kind of effect anymore. He’ll keep pretending to be fine, until hopefully it stops being an act one day.

“Wait,” Tony hears. “Please don’t leave.”

If anything he walks faster, shaking his head. “Just let it go, Steve. We aren’t anything to each other anymore.”

Steve’s hand catches his elbow, spinning him back around and keeping him there. “I don’t think that’s true. Maybe we can’t be friends, but we’re not nothing.”

“You broke up with me,” Tony reminds him pointedly. “That makes us nothing.”

Sadness and pain contort Steve’s features. “I know I did, but -”

“But nothing. You have somebody else, and I’m really trying to be happy for you and to be happy on my own, and I can’t do that and still have to see you. That’s not fair to me.”

“I don’t have somebody else. There’s no one.”

Tony folds his arms over his chest. “Don’t lie. I’ve seen the pictures, and I still talk to your friends.”

“We broke up,” Steve says, and then he hesitates. His other hand reaches for Tony’s hip, and he takes a step in closer. Tony’s breath catches in his throat at the proximity and at the feeling of Steve’s hands on him again after so long without it. “She said she didn’t want someone who really wanted someone else, and I realized that I’d rather be alone than with anyone but you.”

Tony bites his lip, having to look away from the intensity of Steve’s gaze. It’s too much and not enough and he doesn’t know how to process any of it. But if there’s any chance of having this back, he won’t hesitate to take it.

“We’re still not friends,” he says.

“Okay,” Steve murmurs. “So don’t be my friend then.”

“You broke up with me,” Tony repeats. “You left.”

“I was wrong.”

Tony huffs a laugh, “There’s a first.”

“I should’ve said it a long time ago,” Steve says earnestly. “I fucked up, and I didn’t think you’d forgive me, so I tried to move on, but it wasn’t working. Then you were here, and I don’t really want to be your friend, either, but it’s better than not knowing you at all. I don’t like not having you in my life, even if it means I can only get part of you. But, God, if you’d let me, I swear I’d never leave again.”

“You should’ve come back sooner.”

Steve’s face falls, hope extinguished. “I’m too late to fix this, aren’t I?”

He moves back, but Tony doesn’t let him go far. Steve’s jawline has more stubble than Tony can ever remember feeling before, and he runs his palm over the rough texture as he pulls him back.

“You should’ve come back sooner, because we were both wrong,” Tony corrects. “We both fucked it up, and I don’t blame you for going, but I always want you to come back. Fight with me and slam doors sometimes, but come back.”

Steve nods, and his arms come back to hold him again. “I’ll come back next time.”

“Every time.”

“Every time,” Steve repeats. “I promise.”

“And I promise I’ll try not to make you leave so much,” Tony smiles, and he gets one from Steve in return. Now that he has the real one again, he realizes just how hollow the ones in those photographs were. “Don’t listen to me when I tell you to go. I never really want that.”

“I hope you remember that you said that next time you try to kick me out.”

Tony laughs, “I’ll probably deny it, but don’t listen to that, either.”

“Always gotta read between the lines with you,” Steve murmurs, thumb stroking across his cheek. “Never make it easy on me.”

“I’m sorry,” Tony says honestly.

Steve shakes his head. “Don’t be. You’re worth the effort.”

“Come back home with me?” Tony asks, and Steve kisses him softly, like a whisper of everything to come.

“Always.”

There’s still more to talk about and issues to work out, but for right now, with Steve’s hand back in his, this is enough.

#stevetony #stony #my writing #my fic #superhusbands #stevetony fic

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fanmoose12 · 4 years

Text

Partners

Characters: Petra Ral, Levi, Hanji Zoe x Levi Genre: Action / Mystery / Romance Rating: T

Detective!au

Summary: when Petra was promoted to a detective and partnered up with legendary Levi Ackerman, she felt like the happiest person in the world.

But, as she soon found out, detective Ackerman she used to admire so much was actually a far cry from the ideal policeman Petra thought he was. He was rude, harsh and easily annoyed. And, in addition, he still hadn’t moved on from the death of his previous partner - detective Hange Zoe.

Chapter 4/?

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Сhapter 3

Petra was standing in front of a coffee machine, trying to choose between latte and cappuccino. She almost pressed on a button with latte written on it, when a hand, which fell heavily on her shoulder, stopped her.

"Goodness, don't even think of buying coffee there!"

Startled, Petra whirled around. She gasped as she saw Captain Erwin standing in front of her.

"Am I... not allowed to buy coffee here?"

Was there some unspoken rule that newly promoted detectives couldn't take coffee from the precinct's coffee machine? Was she overstepping some line?

For a second, Captain Erwin's eyebrows drew together in confusion. But then his lips curved into a smile, as he let out a soft chuckle.

"Oh no, no, of course, you're allowed to order coffee there," he assured her. "But you really shouldn't. In Levi's words," he scowled, trying to mimic Levi's annoyed expression. Petra couldn't resist a giggle - Captain Erwin's impression was spot on. "It tastes worse than horse's piss."

Petra covered her mouth with two hands, stifling her laughter.

Captain raised his arms in a placating gesture. "His words, not mine. But it's truly awful. C'mon," he turned around and started walking, beckoning Petra to do the same. "I'll make you a better one."

***

As Captain was busy with preparing coffee, Petra couldn’t help, but look around his office. The office wasn’t big or spacious, but it was brightly lit and tidy. There wasn’t much inside, only a bookshelf, filled with case files and diplomas, a small leather coach and simple wooden desk. The desk, for some reason, attracted the most of Petra’s attention. It didn’t look different from her own, the same computer model, the same table lamp, however… there was a photo frame standing beside computer screen. She couldn’t see, who was pictured there, but she found it curious and a little strange nevertheless. She would have never guessed that Captain had a family. He didn’t seem the type.

"Here you go," Erwin placed a cup in front of Petra. She took it with two hands, lifting it up and inhaling a deep, bitter aroma. It smelled perfect. She brought it to her lips, taking a first sip. Oh. Not only it smelled perfect, it tasted perfect too. She couldn't keep in a small moan of satisfaction that escaped her lips, as the hot liquid made its way down her throat.

Erwin watched her with amused eyes.

"Thank you," Petra smiled sheepishly, blushing slightly, as she put the cup down. "It's the best coffee I've had in weeks."

"My pleasure," Erwin smiled back, drinking from his own cup.

Petra fidgeted. Captain’s expression was relaxed, but those bright blue eyes were so intense, she felt like he was staring into her soul. Why did he even call her there? Surely not just for coffee.

"C-captain?" Petra gripped the cup in her hands tighter. "Did you invite me there for any particular reason?"

"I wanted you to enjoy a nice cup of coffee," Erwin put the cup down and rested his chin on top of his hands. His eyes stared at her, following the smallest of her moves. "And to talk with you. How is the case going?"

"Um..." Petra swallowed, feeling uneasy. "It's, um, going."

Erwin slightly raised his eyebrow, but didn't push the matter further.

“Levi asked for a day-off tomorrow,” he said. “Would you be able to hold on without him? I know you’ve just been promoted a—”

“No, it’s fine!” Petra assured him eagerly. Of course, the prospect of surviving the shift without her more experienced partner was a more than a little worrying. But after what she had seen today in the interrogation room, maybe, it was for the best if Levi spent some time at home.

"Speaking of Levi,” Erwin began. “Does he give you any trouble?"

"Of course, not!" Petra exclaimed with way too much vigor.

Erwin smirked, raising an eyebrow higher. "Is that really so?"

Petra deflated, casting her eyes down. "Detective Levi is a great professional and I—"

"Petra," Erwin cut her off. "Levi won't get in trouble with me, don't worry. I'm asking as his friend, not as his superior."

"As his friend..." Petra whispered.

"Yes," Erwin nodded. "So if there's something I should know, please tell me. God knows, Levi would never tell me if something bothered him."

"I..." Petra nervously tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I think you should take him off this case. It's clearly too personal for Levi."

"Hm, maybe, you're right," Erwin scratched his chin. "I knew that appointing him to this case would cause some problems..."

"Then why did you? Give him this case?"

Erwin shrugged. "I wanted to see his reaction. To see if he had truly moved on from Hange's death."

That was... that was heartless. But as she stared at Captain's face, she didn't see the cold calculation or simple indifference in his eyes. Only uncertainty and worry. Maybe, it was his weird way of caring about his friend.

"You knew from the beginning, right?" she asked quietly. "That this case would involve detective Zoe?"

"I had a feeling," Erwin agreed. "The murder happened in the same apartment complex she used to live in, after all. Hardly could be a coincidence."

Right... so that's why the witness had recognized Levi. Did he really share an apartment with his partner?

"Forgive my bluntness...” she cleared her throat, gathering all of her courage to maintain a direct eye contact with Captain. “But what was the nature of Levi and detective Zoe's relationship?"

"They were partners," Erwin answered, his jaw set. "In every possible sense of that word.”

“Oh,” if before Petra’s cheeks were rosy, now they turned almost crimson read. She felt stupid for asking such a personal question. Clearly, her partner wasn’t the only one, who was still affected by detective Zoe’s death. “I shouldn’t have asked, I’m so sorry…”

“It’s nothing,” Erwin waved her off. “Levi isn’t the most open of people, so I understand the desire to… get to know him better.”

Petra nodded, although Captain’s words didn’t really help her understand anything. It also didn’t really make Levi’s story any clearer. She still couldn’t piece together what kind of bound existed between Levi and detective Zoe. They clearly were much more than just colleagues. Definitely more than just friends, too. Maybe, they were dating? Or even married? There were many ways in which the world ‘partner’ could be interpreted. Maybe, that’s exactly why Captain Erwin used it.

"By the way, did you finish questioning the witness?" Erwin asked, bringing her back to the present.

"We did," Petra replied, avoiding his gaze. The recent incident in the interrogation room still hung heavily over her head.

"I assume it didn't go that well," Erwin noted.

Petra sighed. "The man that the witness described.... Didn't fit the description of Zeke Yeager."

Erwin covered his eyes with a hand. "So he really is pursuing that theory..." he glanced up at Petra. "What was the description given to you by the witness?"

"Um, according to him, the killer is a tall man with brown and curly hair."

"And what makes you think he described a killer?"

"Huh?"

Erwin straightened out. "Are you absolutely sure that the man that the witness saw was a killer?"

"He went with the victim to her apartment..."

"But we can't know for sure if he was the one to kill her," Erwin said resolutely. "Did the witness say how that man left the building?"

"He finished his shift earlier," Petra answered, feeling more and more confused with each passing moment. “Do you think that someone else killed her?”

“I’m not stating anything,” Erwin replied, evasive as always. “I’m just saying that you can’t be too sure in any of your theories until you actually get some evidence. It narrows your scope.”

“A-aha,” now Petra got it. “Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains must be the truth and all that, right?”

“Yes,” Erwin smiled widely. “Remember these words and you’ll do great at your job.”

“Thank you for the advice,” Petra smiled briefly, before furrowing her eyebrows. Something in Erwin’s words bothered her. Could it be that…

“Captain, do you… do you also think that it was Zeke Yeager, who killed that woman?”

Erwin didn’t answer immediately.

“I know it seems weird for you,” he began with self-deprecating smile. “And I know that Levi may seem like he’s obsessed with catching Zeke, and, maybe, he really is, but… You didn’t know Zeke. He was smart. Very smart. And he liked playing with people. I’m not saying that he’s alive, I’ve seen evidence that very much proved the opposite, but the fact that he’s somewhat involved in that murder is certain. The glasses belonged to Hange, and the blood was hers too. Who else could have gotten it? It’s either one of Zeke’s henchmen, maybe, someone, who seeks revenge for his death, or…” he trailed off, shrugging.

“But the description didn’t match!” Petra tried to argue.

“Wigs exist,” Erwin said simply.

Petra hanged her head. She wanted to protest, wanted to come up with some argument that would destroy this whole outlandish theory. Unfortunately, if Levi and Erwin kept overlooking one small fact that Zeke had died two years ago, she doubted there was anything that would be able to dissuade them.

“Oh, shoot!” Erwin suddenly exclaimed, glancing at his wrist watch. “I’m almost late to a very important meeting!” he got to his feet, gathering the papers on his desk. “Thank you for the company, Petra.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” she smiled prettily, even though her head was still reeling from their conversation.

“Good luck with your case,” Erwin said, as he followed Petra out of his office. “And look over Levi for me, okay? If anything happens, you know where to find me.”

He gave her one last smile and then hurried away. Petra stared at his wide back for a second, and then she pulled herself together, turning around and heading towards her office.

It was about time she got some actual work done.

***

To her surprise, when Petra had entered their office, it turned out that Levi wasn't there. She glanced to the side, his coat wasn't hanging on the clothes rack. However... his computer was on, the screen burning brightly in the otherwise dark room.

Petra couldn't take her eyes off that computer. She remembered her first day at work (it seemed almost surreal that it was only yesterday, it felt like weeks has passed) and how Levi was so focused on his computer, as though whatever was on his screen was the most important thing in the world. She remembered her desire to find out what was he working on.

She stepped further into the room, wondering where Levi was right now. He promised Moblit he'd visit the forensics department, maybe, he was there? But why would he need his coat for? And why didn't he turn off his computer?

Petra took another step, her eyes darting to the desk next to Levi's. Detective Zoe's desk. It was a little different than yesterday.

There was... There was a pair of glasses lying atop one of the reports. The same glasses they found on the scene of crime, Petra realized, as she saw a crack running through the left lens. But the blood was gone. Whoever cleaned them, did a real good job. Petra had a feeling she knew one particular person, who liked keeping things clean and tidy.

She felt a lump form inside her throat. Two years had passed, and Levi still didn't give up on her, hoping that one day she would come back. Petra couldn't decide if she should admire his loyalty or pity his naivety.

Either way, she hurriedly turned away from that desk. It made her feel melancholic and more than a little depressed.

If the glasses were there, it meant that Levi had already visited Moblit and his team. Where was he now? How much time did she have?

Glancing back, as if to check that Levi wasn't coming back this instant, Petra took a deep breath. And then she swiftly sat down at his desk.

Moving the cursor, she studied his desktop. There wasn’t much on it, just a few folders. She ignored the ones with the obvious contents – the ones named ‘cases’ and ‘reports’. Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion as she saw the folder with a name ‘that fucking asshole’, she almost clicked on it, but then she saw another folder. This one was named ‘Sannes’, and Petra’s breath hitched, as she remembered Levi asking her about him. Could it be… could it be that this folder contained some evidence? The one that could back up Levi’s claim about Sannes’ involvement with criminal underworld? Feeling her pulse fasten, Petra opened the folder.

Well, she tried to open it, because as soon as she clicked on the folder, a new tab opened, requesting a password.

She cursed.

Petra tipped her head back, thinking. What could a man like Levi use as his password?

She typed four zeros and then pressed enter.

‘The password is incorrect. Please try again.’

Of course, it was too naïve to hope that Levi would use something as generic as this. But Petra wasn’t going to give up so soon. She opened the first drawer of his desk, trying to find something that would give her some sort of idea. Petra grinned as she found the old driver license. It was expired, but in the corner Levi’s birth date was written.

Bingo.

She quickly wrote the numbers and pressed enter, her hands slightly trembling in anticipation of seeing what was inside that folder.

‘The password is incorrect. Please try again.’

Shit. Closing the first drawer, she opened the second. She rummaged through it for a couple of moments, but found nothing, except old autopsy and ballistic reports. Petra groaned – she was starting to get desperate. She closed the second drawer with more force than was necessary, opening the third one. The last one.

It was empty, except— Except an old, tattered photo. Three people were pictured there – Petra immediately recognized Captain Erwin and Levi, even though they looked much younger. A bespectacled woman stood between them, her hands wrapped around both of their shoulders. It must be detective Zoe, Petra guessed, looking at the woman’s wide grin. Detective Zoe wasn’t the only one smiling – there was a delighted beam on Captain Erwin’s lips as well, and even Levi, as weird as it looked, was wearing a small, but satisfied smile.

They looked so joyous here, so… so happy. And now one of them was dead, and two others suffered heavily because of that loss.

She turned the photo around. There was something written on the other side.

The only time, when your face didn’t look so constipated, shorty! Keep it as a reminder

“Shorty?” Petra gasped, rereading the small note again. She would never dare to call Levi like that. Most people probably wouldn’t. Hange Zoe was clearly an exception. And it was obvious that Levi took her advice of keeping the photo to heart, the picture looked worn out, as though it was frequently held and looked at.

Shaking head, she tried to regain her focus. She didn’t come here to go through Levi’s stuff. Well, technically, that was exactly what she was doing right now, but she really didn’t mean to pry into his personal life. She did it more than enough today. She needed to guess his password, and, unfortunately, that photo didn’t help her in the least.

But what if…

Biting her lip, Petra bent over the keyboard. She almost finished typing ‘HangeZoe’, when the door handle began to rattle.

Petra jumped in her seat, frantically closing the password window on the screen and hiding the photo back inside the drawer. She wasn’t quick enough to get to her feet, though, the door began to open, as Petra erratically tried to think of some excuse to explain, what she was doing behind Levi’s desk, but nothing was good enough. She could quite clearly picture his furious expression, she already wanted to start apologizing, but then the door was opened completely.

And Petra saw Oluo, standing on the threshold.

“Goddamn it!” she cried out, heart still thumping way too loudly inside her chest. “You scared the shit out of me!”

Oluo frowned. “I have never heard you curse before. And, by the way, isn’t that detective Ackerman’s desk?”

“What are you doing here?” she asked instead, ignoring his last question.

Oluo rolled his eyes arrogantly, all signs of his previous suspicion gone. Petra felt warmth spread through her chest at the sight of his annoying face. Never would she guess, but she missed Oluo terribly.

“Someone wants to see you,” he replied, leaning against the wall. “So finish whatever you were doing at detective Ackerman’s desk and let’s go.”

“Someone?” Petra blinked in surprise. “Who?”

“Djel Sannes,” Oluo told her with puffed out chest. He was clearly proud to receive a command from such important man. “Deputy police chief.”

The folder at Levi’s computer immediately appeared in Petra’s mind. She couldn’t open it and see, what his partner found so suspicious about that man. But, maybe, she could investigate it herself.

She got to her feet, adjusting her blouse and skirt.

“Let’s go then,” she joined Oluo at the doorstep. “Can’t make him wait, right?”

***

As they were walking through the precinct’s corridors, Oluo didn’t take his eyes off her even for a second.

“Do I have something on my face?” Petra snapped, feeling uneasy under his gaze.

Oluo hurriedly looked away, his cheeks reddening ever so slightly. “No, of course, you don’t.”

“Then what’s the matter? You’ve been staring at me like I’ve grown a second head or something.”

“You look just fine,” Oluo huffed, still refusing to meet her eyes. “It’s just… you’ve changed.”

“Changed?” Petra let out a surprised chuckle. “People don’t change over a day, dummy.”

“Maybe, change isn’t the right word then, but…” he scowled, annoyed with his inability to express himself clearly. “You carry yourself with more confidence now and at the same time… you look more troubled than I’ve ever seen you.”

Well, she wasn’t sure about her newfound confidence, she felt nothing of the sort, but troubled? That was a vast understatement.

“A lot of stuff happened over these two days.”

“Want to talk about it?”

Oluo’s soft voice caught her off-guard. Petra glanced at him. Oluo was looking back. There was no amusement in his eyes, and his usual smirk was absent as well. He genuinely wanted to help her, Petra realized with a start.

“Yes,” she answered him after a moment, “I would love to talk about it,” she paused, staring straight in Oluo’s eyes. “With you.”

“Oh,” Oluo stopped abruptly, nearly colliding with someone. Petra giggled into her palm. He looked so flabbergasted. To Oluo’s credit, however, it took him only a few seconds to regain his posture. “I k-know a place!” he exclaimed loudly. “I found a new restaurant near the precinct, the food is delicious and it’s really nice p—”

“Alright,” Petra cut him off, still chuckling. “Let’s visit it tomorrow evening. If that works for you?”

“O-of course!”

“Great,” she patted his shoulder, before leaning in to press her lips to his cheek. “Then it’s a date,” she whispered into Oluo’s ear, before walking away, leaving him to stare after her with a dazed smile on his face.

Petra turned the corner and there it was. The door to Djel Sannes’ office. It looked the same as all doors in precinct looked – a sturdy, wooden door. Nothing unusual about it, and yet— and yet Petra’s palms were sweaty. Her heart was beating faster than usual too. Logically, she knew there was nothing to be afraid of, it was just a visit to her superior’s office. She talked with Captain Erwin earlier, and it wasn’t nerve-wracking at all. She would even call it pleasant. And she wasn’t even sure, if there was something wrong with deputy police chief, she had never met him after all. The only thing she knew is that Levi didn’t trust him, but Levi also believed that people, who had died two years ago in the explosion, were alive. His opinion clearly wasn’t the most reliable.

She just needed to get a grip on herself. What had Oluo said to her? She carried herself with more confidence? Well, maybe, the time has come to prove it.

Petra took a deep, calming breath and raised her hand, knocking on the door.

“Come in!” came a deep, booming voice from the other side of the door.

Petra took another breath, and then. She walked in.

***

Deputy police chief’s office, as it turned out, wasn’t much different from Captain Erwin’s. It was a little bigger and his desk was a little fancier, but otherwise it was the same type of office every high-ranked policemen had.

Djel Sannes himself didn’t look as scary as Petra imagined. He looked kind of plain, actually. He was a middle aged man with wide shoulders, neat haircut and clean-shaved face. There were more than a hundred men like him in their precinct.

Petra’s heart rate slowed down a little.

“Detective Ral!” Sannes spread his hands in a welcoming gesture. “I was waiting for you!”

Petra put on a polite smile, sitting down on the opposite side of his desk. “It is an honor, sir. Do you wish to discuss something?”

“Just welcome you on your new position. You’ve been a detective for…”

“Two days,” Petra answered.

“Exactly!” Sannes snapped his fingers. “And we’re seeing each other only now,” he cocked his head to the side, looking at Petra. His expression was still easy, friendly, but his eyes became sharper. Colder. “You’ve been busy, I’ve heard.”

“We were appointed a new case tonight,” Petra nodded, pointedly ignoring the sudden change in Sannes. It was probably her nerves getting to her.

“Yes, a woman was murdered. Do you have any clue who had done it?”

“We are working on it.” Petra said with much more confidence than she actually felt.

“Good, good,” her false bravado had either gone unnoticed by Sannes, or he simply didn’t care enough to call her out on it. “And what about your partner? Detective Ackerman?”

“Um… what about him?”

“I know that man,” Sannes said offhandedly. “To put it mildly… he’s not the easiest person to deal with. Is he bothering you? If he is, don’t hesitate to tell me, I’ll appoint a new partner for you.”

“No, no,” Petra waved her hands. “Detective Ackerman is a very skilled detective. I like working with him.”

Sannes gave her a very skeptic look. “Is that really so? I find it hard to believe, actually.”

He reached over to the drawer, opening it and taking out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply and sitting back in a chair.

“Do you smoke?” he asked Petra, offering her a cigarette.

She silently shook her head. Smoking inside the precinct was prohibited. But obviously Petra decided not to say it out loud.

“I should have fired that man a long time ago,” Sannes took another drag. “I would have done it, if Smith wasn’t so overprotective of him. He always had a soft spot for Ackerman. For him and that partner of his. Surely you’ve heard about her already?” he glanced at Petra, shaking out the ash into the ashtray. “Detective Hange Zoe,” the distain in his voice was so clear, Petra felt uncomfortable. “Between you and me, that woman got what she deserved. She was hot-headed and reckless, and in the end, that’s exactly what had gotten her killed.”

Petra wondered if Sannes had ever shared his thoughts on the matter with Levi. Sannes’ nose didn’t look like it was ever broken and Levi still worked as a detective, so she guessed they never had that particular conversation.

“But you’re not like them,” Sannes said. “You’re not a scheming bastard like Smith, you don’t put your nose where it doesn’t belong to like that Zoe did, and obviously you’re not a psychopath like Ackerman. I like you, Ral,” he grinned approvingly. “We should work together.”

“T-together?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “You help me and I help you.”

Petra honestly couldn’t believe her ears. So Levi was right after all. Although, she still had not even a hint of his connection to criminals, there was no doubt that Djel Sannes, deputy police chief, was a corrupt and malicious man. And it meant that Petra had to choose her words very, very carefully. She couldn’t let him know that she wasn’t on his side.

“And… what do you need my help with, sir?”

“Oh, not much,” Sannes put out his cigarette, the smug smile still present on his face. “Just keep an eye on your partner. If he does something suspicious… well,” he let out a small chuckle. “You know where to find me.”

“That I do,” Petra nodded with a smile she put on to mask her disgust. “Is that everything you’ve wanted to talk about?”

“Yes, that’s all,” he waved his hand carelessly. “You may go, but,” he gave Petra another careful look. “I’ll be expecting to hear from you, Ral.”

“Of course, sir,” she raised to her feet. “I’ll try not to disappoint.”

It was only when Petra was inside her office that she could finally breathe out in relief. With each passing hour, her life was getting more and more complicated. She would never expect deputy police chief to ask her to spy on her partner.

Speaking of which… where was Levi? She hadn’t seen him all day.

Petra’s eyes darted to his computer, but she quickly changed her mind. She had more than enough revelations for one day. She was tired to the bone, too. She glanced at the clock – it was already past six, which meant her shift was finally over.

Grabbing her bag and coat, Petra hurriedly left the precinct. She had a crazy day.

And something told her – tomorrow would be no better.

#yes the picture on erwin's desk is the same photo that levi hides inside his drawer #i wonder if a third copy exists..... and if it does exist who has it ;)#also!!!! fun fact!!!!#the conversation between petra and erwin was the first scene i came up with!!!#so it was kinda the thing that gave birth to this au lmao #anyways!!!!!! i'm real excited for the next chapter!!!!!#and i hope it won't take long to finish it!!!!#levihan #levi ackerman #petra ral #oluo bozado #snk fanfiction #levihan fanfiction

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desdemonafictional · 3 years

Note

Tarnma, “Don’t cry. I promise I will love you and protect you to the best of my ability, til death do we part.” please?

(I spent more time on this one than any of the others, I think ^^; )

In Pharma’s defense, it had been in the drunken aftermath of his third breakup with Ratchet, and the only thing on his mind had been the half-crazed conviction that he would never again subject himself to the idea of being another mech’s secondary. If Ratchet wouldn’t have him, after he’d swallowed down his ego mouthful after mouthful for so many years, just waiting to become the prize that Ratchet never seemed to want--well, to hell with the whole institution, Pharma wouldn’t be anybody’s second.

He put in his application to the arrangement firm as a Primary Conjunx, hit send, and passed out several hours later in a haze of engex.

A month later he’d been presented with the saddest little empuratee on Cybertron, all haunting single optic and clumsy tapping talons.

Pharma whirled on the matchmaker. “What is the meaning of this! I asked you for a secondary and you brought me junk!”

“Doctor,” the matchmaker said, clearly disapproving of the outburst. “Damus is a rare outlier, and has brilliant test scores at Shockwave’s Academy. He’s young, willing, and perfectly fertile despite the unfortunate, hem, adjustments. He’s also a very talented musician, aren’t you, Damus?”

“Yes,” Damus said, very softly. He had a surprisingly deep voice for such a little creature.

“Well there you have it,” the matchmaker said. “Everything you asked for. Culture, intelligence, and submissive temperament.”

“He’s a criminal!” Pharma said, throwing his palm wildly in the smaller mech’s direction. “Think of my career! I’ll look like some kind of--of--”

“We do have other candidates,” the matchmaker said, sighing to himself. “Give me a moment, I have to speak to my secretary…”

He turned and let himself back out the front door, taking a turn toward the garden that Pharma shared with his nearest neighbors. Pharma grimaced at the would-be conjunx in his living room. It wasn’t that Damus was entirely ugly, if you got past the empurata. Pharma did like wheeled vehicles. And he was a good height, not taller than Pharma, but not too small.

“So what did you do,” Pharma asked (very rudely, but he was in a bad temper). “You’re not a murderer, are you?”

“No,” Damus said. “It was for sedition. I was caught at a protest.”

“Really,” Pharma said. He considered it. Ratchet’s clinic was borderline seditious anyway, so it wasn’t as if Pharma had it in him to be particularly shocked about the existence of civil unrest. “Well,” he decided, “That’s alright then. As long as I’m not about to be stabbed in my sleep.”

Damus made a sound somewhere between a buzz and a laugh. He seemed tired. “No wonder no one wants me,” he said, “if that’s what you’re all thinking.”

“...I suppose you’ve been given the run around with a few before me,” Pharma said, feeling an unwanted pang of unhappiness, or sympathy, or something.

“Seven,” Damus said, with dark humor.

“Seven,” Pharma said, and then felt annoyed at himself for being surprised. He hadn’t wanted Damus, so why should he be surprised no one else did? But Damus seemed charming enough in his own way, unlinking single optic aside. Pharma switched tracks. “Why do you even want a conjunx, anyway? It’s not exactly suited to the life of a lone rebel.”

Damus looked at him for a silent moment, and then turned his head to the window. “I don’t know that you’d understand,” he said. “Your home is beautiful, your job is prestigious, you have enough career to be worried about it--I’m not sure you could understand what it would mean for me, doctor.”

“Try me,” Pharma said, impatiently doubling down.

“I guess I’d just like to feel…” Damus went over to the window. “Safe, again. Like I belong somewhere.”

Pharma stared at his back for a long stretch of silence. Outside, the wind ruffled a set of hanging chimes.

“Alright,” the matchmaker said, bustling back in with a ‘pad in his hand, “if you want to see the other options, or defer--”

“No,” Pharma said, suddenly, “let’s give this a try, I think. You have trial periods?”

“Oh,” the matchmaker said, and then hurriedly, very enthusiastically, “yes, yes, the handfasting period is already built into your contract with us if you’d like to utilize it--”

So Damus moved in. Pharma was irritable and techy about the whole thing, about which things were to be placed in what spots, but Damus didn’t have so many things of his own and really it was just a matter of berating the mover bots until they did as Pharma wanted.

The first night was. Strange. Damus very politely waited in the doorway of the berthroom until Pharma--equally nervous and trying not to show it--snapped at him to come lay down already, the morning alarm wasn’t getting any farther away. In the dark, their frames several inches apart, Pharma watched Damus’s hands lift, and flinch, and fall back silently to the berth.

There were meals. Pharma had shifts. The novelty of coming home to someone who was waiting for him, wanting to know about his day, was intoxicating. Damus had any number of passionate opinions on any number of subjects, and would happily make them known at length over the complicated spread of fuels he’d put together for Pharma’s evening return. He soaked up information like a sponge too--any obscure medical treatise or bit of gossip Pharma brought home was eagerly considered and dismantled.

But still… they did not, actually, touch each other.

Pharma thought about it. Most nights. Sometimes during the day. He wondered how far Damus would let him go. He wondered what Damus would look like, pressed down into the pillows, helplessly wriggling on Pharma’s spike. The allure of it spun Pharma’s head around with unease and confusion--no one fantasized about empuratee frames except the worst kind of fetishists, the lowest of the low, and Pharma hated to think he might be one of those, the type that wanted muck and dirt and crying.

Damus went sometimes to see friends, and was out long late nights, in which Pharma lay curled on the berth that was really built for one and felt terribly, horribly hollow. He did not actually have friends, he had realized. There had only ever been Ratchet.

The handfasting period dwindled to its appointed end. They were only a few dozen days away from the end of it when the news came, screaming neon light on the billboard in the quarter square which stopped Pharma dead in his tracks as he made his way home from the hospital--Senator Shockwave, missing, found finally with his frame mutilated by unknown assailants. They flashed the picture. The glaring yellow optic in the expressionless helm, so like Damus’s, made him almost sick in the street.

He transformed and flew home, heedless of sky laws. Clouds whipped past, stream of ice bit his nosecone. He let himself into the house without knocking, door shoved aside, and it was only when he found himself face to not-face with Damus in the metal that he realized what he had been afraid of. But Damus was fine. Physically, anyway. If he’d been crying, it was impossible for anyone to tell.

“I,” Pharma said, and then had no idea how to finish. He felt naked, like armor stripped to protoform.

“So you saw,” Damus said, in a very even, very reasoned voice, and then abruptly spoiled it by making a horrible grizzled sobbing sound down deep in his throat. The overhead lights flashed and popped, spraying glass over their helms.

Pharma discarded reservations entirely. He surged forward, cupping the blazing monstrous helm in both hands as gently as he could, and said, “Damus, my darling, you’re safe here. There’s no safer place in the world than here with me.”

“I’d love to believe that,” Damus managed. The voice came out busted and hazed with static, each syllable like a horrible little scratch against Pharma’s spark. “But Shockwave, he was our--Shockwave is a senator, if he--”

Pharma pulled the smaller body against his own, mouth a thin line, the back of Damus’s helm cupped in his palm. His visions, in that moment, were grim and bloody.

He was the primary. It was his job to make sure that Damus was cared for, safe, that nothing in the world touched him.

“Don’t cry, Damus,” Pharma said, “your conjunx is here.”

His thumb stroked the curve of Damus’s helm, absently tender, as a thousand vicious certainties flashed behind his eyes. In that moment, career and politics were the furthest they had ever been from Pharma’s mind.

“I promise I will love you and protect you to the best of my ability,” he said. “Til death do we part.”

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bcdrawsandwrites · 4 years

Photo

Fandom: Coco

Rating: K

Genre: Family, Hurt/Comfort

Characters: Miguel, Héctor, Imelda, and smaller appearances from the rest of the family

Warnings: Depictions of PTSD

Description: It’s been a year since the fateful Dia de Muertos when Miguel traveled to the Land of the Dead. Miguel is helping his family get ready... and then sees a familiar sight: transparent, glowing skeletons walking around the streets.

It doesn’t make him as happy as you might expect.

Beta Readers: @jaywings, @pengychan

Notes: Takes place in the same ‘verse as most of my other Coco fics, including Neither Can You, BUT if you’re not familiar with those, don’t worry! You’ll simply learn stuff along with Miguel, since this fic is from his perspective.

---~~~---

Dia de Muertos was going to be different this year.

It wasn't just because a certain someone wouldn't be there—well, especially because she would be there, Miguel assured himself, swallowing down the tightness in his throat—but because... someone else would be there, too. On top of that—and really, because of that—this would be the first Dia de Muertos in many, many years that the Riveras would be celebrating with music.

Music, plus a certain ancestor... and... oh, yeah, about a dozen or so other family members that didn't normally visit.

Voices from the kitchen interrupted Miguel's thoughts:

"Okay Mamá, I think we've got enough food for everyone," his papá said with a laugh.

"Absolutely not!" Abuelita retorted. "Your esposa's family is going to leave here well-fed! Now help me with the mole negro."

"Ay," Papá said, and Miguel could hear the smile in his voice.

It made him smile, too, but only briefly. Feeling a familiar wave of worry wash over him, Miguel rushed out to the ofrenda room for the fifth time that night, just to assure himself that Papá Héctor's picture was still there, and that Dante hadn't knocked it off, or something. He'd admittedly freaked out earlier when his mamá had taken down the photo to clean a smudge off of it, and had made some lame excuse about worrying she would drop the frame and it would break, like he'd done with the same photo the year prior.

But, sure enough, the photo still sat proudly atop the ofrenda, with Papá Héctor's face lovingly taped back where it belonged, and the photo given a lovely custom frame. Though it was not placed at the very top of the ofrenda this year, Miguel made sure that something worthy of the Rivera name was: a custom-made boot in Mamá Imelda's favorite style, and a miniature guitar decoration made by Miguel himself, the two items carefully propped up, each leaning against the other. He hoped his ancestors would appreciate the touch—maybe he'd ask them about it in a letter later. He also hoped they would appreciate—

"Oh, oh! Look, there's the twins!"

"Manny and Benny!"

"They've gotten so big!"

"That one over there is Carmen, Berto's esposa."

Miguel scratched his head—the voices sounded familiar, but he couldn't place them immediately. He knew what that meant, though, and poked his head through the doorway. "Papá, they're here!"

"Go on and say hi to them, mijo. We'll be out soon!"

"Got it!" Miguel stepped out of the room, looking down at his shirt and briefly wondering if he should go ahead and change into his new charro suit. He supposed it could wait until after he met his—

He looked up, and was greeted with the sight of roughly half a dozen skeletons glowing in a transparent orange shade.

No.

Heart leaping into his throat, Miguel ducked back into the ofrenda room, his back against the wall, and panted as he frantically looked over his left hand. But no bone showed through, and his skin was as solid as ever. But... hadn't he just seen...?!

Shakily Miguel poked his head out the doorway once more. Yes, the skeletons were still there. Their backs were turned, but he immediately recognized the tall twin frames of Óscar and Felipe, and his Tía Victoria, and Tía Rosita, and Papá Julio, and... and...

A small part of Miguel wanted to run up to them immediately, to embrace his Mamá Coco who had been absent for nearly a year, to wrap his Papá Héctor in the biggest hug... but his entire body was trembling. It was like when he'd ride in the back of the pickup truck, but he wasn't shaking from riding around in a car—he was shaking on his own. Once again he checked his hands, his arms, feeling them to assure himself that there really was flesh and muscle there and not stark white bone. But... what if he really was invisible and just couldn't tell yet, like he had been at first, after he'd grabbed the guitar last year? What if the second he tried to touch someone, they would pass through him, and he would turn transparent?

What if he was still...?

Before he realized what he was doing, he found his feet carrying him of their own accord to the kitchen.

"¡Papá!" he cried before he even stepped into the room. To his relief, the response was immediate:

"Miguel?" His papá nearly bumped into him, stepping back when Miguel threw his arms around him (doubly relieved to find that he could even do so). Immediately concerned, his papá stooped slightly, placed a hand on Miguel's shoulder. "What's the matter?"

Immediately he felt pulled down by the weight of shame, and took a step back, holding his wrist. "Sorry, Papá. I-I was just..." What could he say? He couldn't possibly explain the curse—that would require explaining everything that had happened last year, and how could he do that? "I saw... people coming in, a-and I realized... I'm gonna have to play this song for all of them! Wh-what if they hate my music?"

Abuelita cut in: "If they do, they'll hear from me!" She held up her spoon like a weapon, though it wasn't quite as scary as her chancla.

Meanwhile, his papá chuckled, shaking his head. "Miguel, your music is the reason they're here in the first place!" he said, unable to contain his grin. "When your mamá’s family heard about everything, they couldn't wait to come over to see it for themselves."

"Exactamente," Abuelita said with a decisive nod. "You don't have anything to worry about, mijo."

Miguel resisted the urge to wipe at his eyes, opting for what he hoped was a convincing grin instead. "G-gracias," he managed to stammer.

But to his dismay, his papá frowned, moving his hand from his shoulder to his back. "You're trembling. Are you all right?"

Oh, he was still shaking, wasn't he? He really wished his body would cut it out, but he had no idea how to make it stop. "I-I'm just nervous about the performance." And, suddenly remembering his Papá Héctor's words, he took a step back. "I need to shake out the nerves!" he said, and shook himself in an exaggerated manner.

Laughing, his father clapped him on the back and straightened himself. "That's my boy! Go on, now, you should get into your outfit!"

"Sí, Papá," Miguel said, glad for the excuse to leave. Without waiting for anything else to happen, he hurried off to his room, quickly latching the door behind him. His new outfit was laid out neatly on his bed, and he lifted the jacket, wishing to admire it... but couldn't ignore how badly he was still shaking.

"¡Basta!" he hissed to himself, dropping the suit and wrapping his arms around his body. He wished Dante were here—his spirit guide usually helped soothe his nerves, but the dog had been absent since he'd given him and Pepita some tamales in exchange for delivering a letter. But... why would he even need Dante right now? Usually when he got like this, it was when he would wake up from a nightmare, or when he was missing Mamá Coco, or when something happened that reminded him of...

The memory of transparent skeletons immediately came to the forefront of his mind.

...oh.

Groaning, Miguel laid his head onto his bed, burying his face into his arms. Stuff like heights and getting dunked underwater had been freaking him out, yeah, and that sucked, but now the sight of his own dead family—the very ones he'd been missing so much this entire year—was making him like this?

What was wrong with him?

Sure, his parents had said that it was normal when stuff freaked you out after something bad happened, but this...

He was still shaking.

With a frustrated sigh, Miguel lifted himself up again and got to work changing into his new charro suit. If this was going to freak him out, then he'd just have to ignore them. That would definitely work.

Right?

---~~~---

This was not working.

His dead family was, of course, all over the place. When he looked one way, he would see the twins marveling over Tío Berto's new shoes. In another direction, Tía Victoria and Tía Rosita were talking about Abuelita's tamales and how many she'd made. When he turned again, he nearly ran smack into his Mamá Imelda, whom he tried desperately to avoid the gaze of. Every time he caught a glimpse of them, he had to fight the urge to check his hands for a hundred-and-thirteenth time, to make sure he really wasn't disappearing or turning into a skeleton. He kept a fistful of cempasúchil in his pocket, just in case, which he also had to constantly resist the urge to check.

Finally it was time for him and his cousins to perform their song, and Miguel had to throw his everything into his music. It was slightly easier to ignore the skeletons wandering around when he was focused more on singing loudly and clearly and getting the chords right as he played. Even so, he found himself wandering about the courtyard as he sang, meeting the loving gazes of his living family as he tried to ignore the presence of the dead.

Dante helped a little, galloping up to him and licking him in the face to show him that he'd come back. Even so, Miguel almost lost his composure entirely when he passed Abuelita, only to find his Mamá Coco, in skeleton form, wrapping her arm around her in a loving embrace. He managed to cover for himself by belting out the next line even louder than he had before, which worked just as well, since he was nearing the end of the song. The joy and excitement of his living family made it easier to ignore the presence of the glowing souls around him, but he couldn't help but be reminded, when his papá and tío lifted him up onto their shoulders, of when Héctor had done a similar action when they'd last performed together.

Finally the song was over, and Miguel found himself panting, clutching his Papá Héctor's guitar far more tightly than he'd meant to. It felt good to sing with all his might—and a song he'd written himself, too!—but he was eager to step away for a while.

But his family wasn't exactly making that easy—several of them were calling for an encore, while his mamá urged them to let him catch his breath first. Miguel looked around the crowd, hoping to find a space he could squeeze through, and quickly pushed himself toward a small gap where a couple relatives he was less familiar with were standing.

"Great job, Miguel!" one of them—a tía or an older prima, he wasn't sure—said as he passed, and he looked up to thank her.

But his gaze was instead immediately pulled to a glowing figure who had followed him out of the crowd, and for a moment, he was frozen.

He looks like he's about to cry, was all he could think as he looked up into his Papá Héctor's eyes.

And then he realized his mistake.

Héctor, who had indeed looked like he was about to dissolve into happy tears in that moment, suddenly stared into his eyes, a look of shock crossing his face.

Terror immediately gripped his stomach, and Miguel ran.

Fortunately, other than the confused tía, no one had noticed his sudden departure as he fled into his room, slamming the door shut behind him. In a moment of panicked stupidity, he found himself shoving the white guitar under his bed (part of the neck poking out) before following suit, knocking his hat off and hiding with his hands over his head like a little kid scared of a thunderstorm.

But he felt like he could hardly breathe. He gasped for air, his breaths short and sharp. He was shaking. And this was stupid.

It was so stupid for him to be scared of this. Why was he scared? He'd missed his Papá Héctor. He'd even written that song for him and Mamá Coco. So why was he scared of seeing him again?

But then why was he seeing him in the first place? It didn't make sense. It made no sense. It made no sense, unless he was cursed again, which was why he could see them last time, but he didn't want to be cursed again, that would mean he would have to go back to the Land of the Dead. What if he had to face Señor de la Cruz again? He didn't want to face him again, he didn't want to get thrown into the cenote again, he didn't want to be thrown off a cliff again, he didn't want to fall into water or get trapped and lost away from his family, he didn't want to go through that again, he didn't want to be cursed—

A sharp whine from the other side of the door cut through his panic.

"¿Mijo? We're not mad at you. Please, are you in there?"

He realized the voice must have been talking for a while now. He was pretty sure he knew who it was, but he kept silent anyway, clasping his hands over his mouth to muffle his panicked breathing.

It was a moment before she spoke again. "I'm sorry, mi amor. Maybe Dante led us to the wrong room."

Dante whined again, scratching at the door with his claws.

"Are you sure he saw you?"

"...Sí."

The sheer amount of sadness in that single word caught Miguel off-guard. He hadn't even considered how his suddenly running off like that would look to Héctor.

"This is my fault," Héctor continued. "I should have told him—"

"You didn't do anything wrong, Héctor."

There was a long silence from the other side of the door, and Miguel leaned forward, straining to hear.

"He's... probably upset with me." Another pause. "I should go."

"N-no, don't!"

He clapped his hands over his mouth again when he realized he had spoken. There was a soft clatter of bones on the other side of the door—clearly he'd startled them as well.

"...Miguel," Imelda began again, her voice edged with caution. "May we come in?"

Well... no use in staying quiet anymore. "S-sí, Mamá Imelda."

For a moment he expected the door to open, only to be startled when the orange-tinted ghost of his Mamá Imelda phased through the door. She looked confused upon not immediately seeing him, and looked to her side, only to pause. "Héctor, come on."

"...H-he only said you, not me."

Rolling her eyes exaggeratedly, Imelda reached through the door and yanked Héctor into the room. His shoulders were hunched and his hand gripped his wrist behind his back in anxiety, but from the other side of the door, Dante gave a satisfied ruff and trotted away.

Now that his great-great-grandparents were actually in the room, it felt pointless to keep hiding, but at the same time, coming out from hiding would mean he'd have to acknowledge he'd been childish enough to hide under his bed in the first place, so Miguel stayed put.

"Miguel, it's all right," Mamá Imelda said. Her voice was calm, like it had been the very last time he'd heard it, right before he'd been sent back to the Land of the Living, and his Papá Héctor was seizing up in violent flashes— "You can come out now."

Miguel swallowed; his throat hurt, and he turned his head away.

"I'm... sorry I scared you," Héctor said, his voice rougher than Miguel had expected.

"You didn't scare me," Miguel mumbled. He wasn't really sure what gave Héctor that impression in the first place, but then, Miguel had just turned and ran from him.

Hearing his voice, Héctor knelt down next to Miguel's bed, and Imelda followed suit, leaning down in an attempt to see him better. "Is something else the matter, mijo?"

Miguel swallowed again, feeling more and more like some dumb kid with every passing moment. Part of him almost didn't want to say what was bothering him, but... unlike his living family, Mamá Imelda and Papá Héctor would be the ones to understand, even if it was really stupid. Even so, it was an effort to make himself speak, and his voice cracked: "I don't... want to go back to the Land of the Dead."

"Oh, mijo." Héctor's voice was warm with sympathy. "You won't have to go there again for a long, long time."

The knot in his chest loosened a little at the realization that his great-great-grandparents were not mocking him. The worries, however, kept a tight grip on him. "But... I can s-see you."

"So you can," Mamá Imelda remarked. There was a frown in her voice. "Miguel... did you get yourself cursed again?"

"I-I don't know!" he cried, and growled in frustration when his voice squeaked again. "I didn't do anything! I-I didn't steal, I promise!"

"If he's been cursed, we can just send him back. There's petals everywhere." Héctor pushed himself back into a standing position, and helped Imelda up. Something seemed odd about the way it looked, but Miguel didn't dwell on the thought. "Come out from under there, and let's take a look."

With his great-great-grandparents backing up to give him space, Miguel finally crawled out from beneath the bed. Unable to meet their gaze, he simply stared down at his hat on the floor.

"Let's see your hands," Imelda said, and Miguel obediently held out his left hand, still looking away.

He suddenly felt a strange combination of cold and warmth pass through his hand, and shuddered, pulling it away and looking it over. Nothing seemed out of place. "What happened?" he asked, and finally looked up to see Héctor and Imelda staring down at him in surprise.

"Oh," Imelda finally said, and reached out to him again. She moved to place a hand on his shoulder, and while Miguel could sense a faint warmth from it, he could not actually feel her touch. When she lowered her hand further, it passed completely through his shoulder, and he shivered from the chill.

"...You can't touch me," he said slowly. It was like when he'd tried to touch a living person last year, except the opposite. Experimentally he reached for his Mamá Imelda's hand, but his passed straight through hers, leaving a similar sensation of warmth and cold.

"Strange." Imelda crossed her arms, frowning as she stared at the floor. "This didn't happen before."

"And everyone else can still see me, too!" Miguel added. "They couldn't last time."

Héctor's face broke into a hesitant smile. "Maybe it's a leftover from last time," he said. "A good leftover from the curse."

Shuddering, Miguel shook his head. "Uh-uh, I'm not taking that chance. H-here!" Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a few petals, more spilling out onto the floor. "Can you take this?"

For reasons he didn't immediately understand, Héctor seemed hesitant to take the petal, but Imelda stepped in for him. She reached out, carefully, and plucked one of the petals away—while all of them remained in Miguel's hand, a spirit copy of one had appeared in hers. "I suppose it counts as an offering," she remarked, then held it out to Miguel again, her expression growing more serious. "Miguel... I give you my blessing."

Miguel held his breath, and waited.

Nothing happened.

Frowning, Imelda flicked her wrist and held the petal out again, closer to Miguel. "Miguel, I give you my blessing."

They waited.

Nothing.

"Huh." Héctor stared down at the petal. "If you can't give a blessing... there must be no curse."

"S-so..." Miguel fidgeted. "I don't have to... g-go back? And see de la Cruz?"

Héctor stiffened, his gaze going distant, while Mamá Imelda carefully held her hand over Miguel's shoulder. "No, mijo. Why would you think you would have to do that?"

"I-I... I dunno." He stepped back, sitting heavily on the edge of his bed. "I've..." He swallowed—he couldn't tell his parents this, but he could tell them. "I-I didn't tell you about it in the letters, 'cuz I didn't want you to worry, but... I've been having nightmares about him for a long time. Since it happened. And wh-when I realized I could see you, a-all I could think was that... I was cursed again, and I'd h-have to go back to the Land of the Dead, and... s-see him."

"You won't," Héctor said suddenly, causing Miguel to jump; his voice was a lot rougher for some reason. His gaze was out of focus, like he wasn't really looking at anything, or like he was seeing something that wasn't there. His left hand gripped his right wrist tightly, to the point where it was shaking, Miguel thought, but no—his entire frame was shaking. "N-not ever again. You won't."

"Tranquilo, Héctor," Mamá Imelda said, now placing a hand on Héctor's back, while another gripped his right hand. "Estas bien."

Confused, Miguel looked them over again... and then he saw it. Mamá Imelda was not holding Papá Héctor's hand, but a weird contraption attached to his wrist. "Oh!" he cried, his own fear momentarily forgotten. "Papá Héctor, what happened to your hand?"

That seemed to snap Héctor out of... whatever was going on with him, and he wilted, the life (so to speak) seeming to drain out of him. Imelda looked between the two in sympathy. "Seems you've both been hiding something from each other," she said softly. Gently she pushed Héctor forward. "You can tell him, mi amor."

"Not all of it," Héctor said, his voice a lot weaker than it had been as his gaze rose to meet Miguel's. There was a great deal of guilt in his expression, and it made Miguel feel sick. "We... d-didn't want you to worry, mijo."

Miguel pressed his hands between his knees anxiously. "Worry about... what?"

Slowly Héctor raised his right hand—or rather, the contraption attached to his wrist—and turned his arm a certain way. The contraption—a prosthetic hand, Miguel finally realized—clenched in response. Héctor moved his arm again, and the prosthetic hand un-clenched. Miguel stared at it in wonder before a terrible thought crossed his mind.

"P-Papá Héctor? What happened to your real hand?"

Héctor drew in a breath, gripping his wrist, but making no effort to hide his prosthetic hand this time. He stared down at the floor, almost looking like he was going to just... go blank again. "It's... it's gone," he finally answered. "I don't have it anymore."

"What—?!" Miguel jumped up from the bed, looking up at Héctor in alarm. "Why?!"

Again Héctor didn't answer, and started to tremble again, and Miguel's stomach wrenched in worry.

But Imelda stepped forward, again placing a hand on Héctor's back, though this time she faced Miguel. "First, you should know that we are safe now," she said firmly. "None of us are in danger."

If that was supposed to make him feel better, it had failed miserably. Miguel's legs shook, and he found himself sitting on the edge of his bed again. "Then... you were in danger?"

Mamá Imelda turned toward Héctor, rubbing his back carefully.

"Ernesto," Héctor blurted out, as though he'd had to force the name through his throat. "H-he took it."

"What?!" Miguel's breathing quickened, and he had to fight to push the nightmares he'd had of the man aside. "Can't you get it back?"

"We tried to, mijo," Imelda answered.

"It's gone f-forever," Héctor stammered, his throat jerking in a phantom gulp. With his attention drawn toward it, Miguel could spot faint scratch marks in the vertebrae, though he wasn’t sure what that meant. "He... t-tried to make sure I never played music again."

Something dropped from within Miguel's chest, falling straight through him and beneath the floor, and taking the life of him with it. "You... can't play music...?"

To his surprise, Héctor cracked a wavering—but genuine—smile. "Just because he tried doesn’t mean it worked."

With practiced precision, he loosened the straps on his prosthetic hand to remove it. He then reached into his pouch, swapping out the prosthetic hand for something that looked more like a claw, which he attached to the wrist instead. It looked weird, Miguel thought, like something a cartoon villain might have, but still kinda cool. After producing a guitar pick and placing it in the claw, he then stooped down, picking the skull guitar—or rather, a spirit copy of it—off the floor. He took a moment to feel the guitar in his arms, and drew in a breath, shutting his eyes.

And then he began to play.

It was not the same skilled music he had heard his great-great-grandpa play a year ago, in an old shack in Shantytown, nor was it the beautiful accompaniment he played for Mamá Imelda later that same night. It was Miguel's own tune, Proud Corazon, carefully plucked from the strings.

But there was clearly a struggle to it—Héctor nearly dropped the guitar pick at one point, and he occasionally struck a note wrong. There was also no skillful finger work, since he had no fingers on his right hand to work with.

"It's... not the same," Miguel said softly. And without warning, the emotions bubbled up from within his chest, breaking through him in the form of a sob. He growled, forcing his emotions back down, and lowered his head, gripping it in his hands. "This isn't fair!" he choked out. "Wh-why won't he leave us alone?!"

"Hey, hey." Héctor was suddenly sitting at his side, his good hand—his only hand—hovering just behind his back. "It's okay, mijo."

"He's in prison now, and should be for a while," Imelda said lowly, taking a seat at his other side. "So he is leaving us alone now."

"But he's not!" Miguel said, kicking his heel at the edge of his bed for emphasis. "He doesn't leave us alone! There's still people who like him, and they think we're a bunch of liars, and even though he's not here, I have nightmares—"

"I know," Héctor murmured. "I know." Careful of clipping, he wrapped his arms around him in an invisible embrace. Somewhere in the back of Miguel's mind, he realized that he could still feel a faint warmth, even from the prosthetic.

"He haunts our dreams too, sometimes," Imelda muttered, crossing her arms.

"W-well... you can hit him with a shoe, at least."

He realized how ridiculous that sounded just before Héctor burst out laughing, pulling away from Miguel and slapping his leg. Imelda only rolled her eyes, but her smile was genuine. "Yes," she admitted. "I can do that, but not hard enough to knock any amount of sense into him."

Though his face burned a little in embarrassment, Miguel tried to grin anyway. "Well if you hit him that hard, you'd probably just break his face."

The comment made Héctor laugh even harder, doubled down over himself and clutching his non-existent sides.

"...Did you get to hit him again?" Miguel asked, suddenly curious. "For real, not in a dream."

Imelda sighed. "No, but I believe your Papá Héctor did."

"Really?" He turned to Héctor for confirmation.

"S-sí," Héctor replied, looking up and grinning. "Hard enough to make his cabeza spin."

For a moment he pictured the face he'd so often seen in his nightmares... and Héctor's fist connecting with it. "...Cool."

"Heh, I guess it was cool." Héctor smiled down at him, only to cringe back with a shudder.

Alarmed, Miguel sat up straighter. "P-Papá Héctor?"

"Ah, it's, um, n-nothing," he replied, wrapping his arms around himself. "Just... remembered something I'd rather not."

"Oh... that... happens to me, too." He went quiet for a moment, staring down at his feet. "My Mamá and Papá told me before that... sometimes, things can make us remember bad things."

"Was that what was happening to you earlier, Miguel?" Imelda asked, leaning closer. "When you ran away from Héctor?"

"Sorta." He gripped the edge of the bed uncomfortably. "I was just being dumb, and was scared of going back and seeing de la Cruz again."

Héctor breathed out a laugh. "At least you didn't jump out a window when you were scared."

Miguel gave him a look. "Did you do that?"

"Eeehhhh..."

"He did," Imelda confirmed, rubbing her forehead. "Don't follow his example."

"Uhh... point taken." Miguel shrugged awkwardly. He felt a little better, though, knowing Héctor knew how he felt, but... "...Papá Héctor," he said, and waited until Héctor leaned closer. "Does it ever happen, when... something happens, and reminds you of a bad thing... and... suddenly it's like... you're there? Again? Even when you're not?" He gestured helplessly. "Like... you're there, and you can feel it... even though you're not..."

"Sí, mijo," Héctor said gently. Miguel was afraid to look at his face to read his expression. "That… has happened to me."

Swallowing, Miguel found his throat suddenly tight again. He pulled his feet up onto the bed, leaned his head on his knees, and wrapped his arms around his legs. His voice cracked again as he spoke: "I wish it would stop."

In spite of what his parents had said, he still couldn't help but feel dumb for still being so scared, after all this time—for still panicking about someone who wasn't there anymore. For being afraid of someone who couldn't hurt him. And he couldn't even talk to anyone about it—he couldn't tell his parents, his living family. How would they ever understand? But... why would they even need to? Why couldn't he just get over it?

But slowly he was aware of a faint warmth in the air, despite the fact that it was November. Lifting his head a little, he found an orange glow surrounding him, and was momentarily afraid that he was being transported by petals again, as he had a year ago. But raising his head further, he realized... no, it wasn't marigold petals.

It was Mamá Imelda and Papá Héctor, cocooning him in a soft, protective embrace.

Part of him wanted to protest—tell them that he was fine, that they didn't need to worry like this. But that thought was soon quenched by the realization that, unlike his parents... they understood. They knew exactly what he had gone through, and exactly what his nightmares were about.

They knew that sometimes... he really wasn't fine, and they knew why.

"Does it... ever stop?" Miguel found himself asking, already dreading the answer.

"I don't know," came Héctor's reply, confirming Miguel’s fears. He spoke softly, though his voice had a rough quality to it again. "But... whenever it does get bad... go ahead and tell us."

Imelda nodded at his other side. "We won't always be here, but we'll help however we can."

"G-gracias." Finally uncurling himself, he felt warmth around him spreading into his chest. Even just knowing that someone else knew... it made him feel less alone. But... he turned to Héctor. "...Will you tell me, too, Papá Héctor?"

Héctor leaned back in surprise, but was clearly touched by the gesture. "Of course, mijo."

Swallowing again, he reached out, imagining he could hold each of their hands. Really he could only hold his hands near theirs, pretending to feel the solid bone beneath his fingertips. While he couldn't feel that, he could feel the warmth of their presence, and that would have to be enough for a long, long time.

The moment was broken by his mamá's voice calling from inside the house: "Miguel? Did you go to bed already?"

"Oh—no, sorry, Mamá!" Finally Miguel slid off the bed, rubbing at his face. "I was just... uh..." He glanced back at his skeletal grandparents, who nodded to him. "Taking a break."

He could hear his mother's footfalls coming closer to his room, as well as the cooing of his little sister. "Come back out here soon! My papá was asking if you would play another song."

"Coming! I'll be out in a minute!" He reached down to pick up his hat.

"Out into the fray, eh?" Héctor said, standing up off the bed. “Here—“ He stooped down to pick up the guitar, only to blink when he found the spirit copy in his hand again. "Oh."

Miguel laughed, picking up the guitar on his own. "I got it, don't worry."

"Are you going to be all right, Miguel?" Imelda asked. "They shouldn't make you play more music if you're not feeling well."

"No, I..." Miguel looked up at his great-great-grandmother, then turned to meet the gaze of his great-great-grandfather. "I... I'll be fine," he said, and meant it.

Then, noticing the spirit copy of the guitar still in his Papá Héctor's hands, he gave a mischievous grin. "I'll play them more music... but only if you can keep up with me!"

Héctor seemed surprised, but smiled all the same. "Can't pass up a challenge like that." He clicked the two ends of his prosthetic claw together before slipping a guitar pick back into its grip. "Let's see if you can keep up with me!"

"You're on!"

Feeling his spirits lifting, Miguel hurried out of the house, his great-great-grandparents just behind. When he saw the other spirits around the courtyard, he paused, his stomach momentarily jumping in terror.

But he felt a warmth on his shoulder, and he didn't need to look back.

His fear wouldn't go away entirely, but it no longer held him back as he lifted his guitar, and began to play.

#hector rivera #imelda rivera #miguel rivera #coco #pixar coco #coco spoilers #my art #my writing #fanfic

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carewyncromwell · 3 years

Photo

Cinderella AU time again at last, baby!! Let’s do this!

Florence’s “Christmas Witch” is inspired by Italy’s Le Befana, who like Santa Claus/Father Christmas and his many variations serves as a holiday gift-giver to young children. Given that in this universe, Florence is more favorable toward magic than its rival nation Royaume, I figured them having a similar tradition was appropriate.

The background depicted in this picture is based on this window from a guest apartment in the Chateau de Chambord in France, though of course this is the outside of such a window, rather than the inside. Damn it, do I hate backgrounds with a burning passion. XD;;

In my headcanon, Orion suffers from anxiety. Anxiety disorders aren’t uncommon among children who were raised in orphanages, and a common visual cue for anxiety is clasping one’s hands in front of them, which Orion does constantly in the game Hogwarts Mystery. Plus two types of therapy prescribed for dealing with anxiety are meditation and regular physical activity (like Quidditch! :D). For safety, though, I also want to put in a trigger warning for this part -- be advised that there will be some discussion of PTSD and war-related trauma, around the middle of this.

Previous part is here -- full tag is here -- Katriona “KC” Cassiopeia belongs to @kc-needs-coffee -- and I hope you enjoy!

x~x~x~x

The morning after Royaume’s Winter Festival, Skye was surprised to find Orion in Florence’s palace library. Admittedly he was balancing on one foot with one leg crossed over the other on the step near the top of a tall ladder while reading, which was very typical of Orion -- but the book was a very thick volume on the weaving of various fabrics, and he was devouring it with intense interest while vaguely humming a tune under his breath that Skye didn’t recognize.

“Oh willow, willow, willow...willow...”

Skye cleared her throat to try to get the Prince’s attention. “Hey...Orion?”

Orion, however, was too focused on what he was reading. It took Skye striding over, stating his name twice more, and finally giving the ladder a light smack to get his attention.

“Orion! Mind coming back down to Earth for a minute?” she said, her voice oddly tense. “I need to talk to you.”

Orion stopped humming and looked up from the book at last, his expression rather pleasant.

“Skye...you’ve returned from the front.”

Skye frowned. “Yeah...Dad’s nearly recovered from his injuries. Penny Haywood wanted to thank you for the herbs you picked up.”

Orion inclined his head slightly. “I’m glad to hear your father’s condition has improved.”

Skye nodded, looking faintly guilty.

“...Orion...I’m sorry about what I said the other day,” she said uncomfortably. “I was just so worried about Dad and his troops, and you being all wrapped up in this girl who works for the enemy...it just...it rattled me, I guess.”

“Florence and Royaume should not be enemies for all time,” said Orion patiently. “If there is to be peace, the mistakes both sides have made in the midst of the War will have to be forgiven.”

“I know,” muttered Skye. “And...well, I know how you feel about the War -- about war and fighting in general. It just feels like what you’re doing is so slow, and people are hurting, and...”

She hung her head.

“I know it’s no excuse, for what I said, but...I am really sorry.”

Orion’s black eyes softened. “It’s already forgiven and forgotten, my friend.”

Skye looked very relieved. Her face burst into a smile.

“...Thanks, Orion. I gotta admit, I...kind of want to meet this ‘Lady Cromwell’ now, after everything you told McNully and me about her. She sounds a bit too good to be true, but...well, I never really thought I’d ever hear of a Royaumanian defending magic...especially one of their courtiers.”

Closing the book in his hands with a quiet snap, Orion lowered the leg he had bent beside the one he was balancing on.

“Fortunately I think you’ll have the chance to do so very soon,” he said with a smile. “Last night was an unquestionable success.”

He leapt down the rungs of the ladder with alternating feet, all the way back down to the floor with a light thump.

“I went to the Winter Festival and met the Prince of Royaume himself.”

Skye gave a start. “You what?”

Orion was beaming from ear to ear. “It was all thanks to Carewyn, appropriately enough. She was the one who arranged it so that he could sneak out of the palace disguised as a peasant and attend the Winter Festival, even with the King and Queen keeping him so strictly contained. Prince Henri himself even said as much, that it was all Carewyn’s doing. Imagine...because of her, the two princes of rival nations were able to meet on completely neutral ground as equals. And now that we’ve been introduced and I have a better fix on Prince Henri’s character, I have a great opportunity to open negotiations in full.”

Skye looked rather impressed, even as her face twitched with discomfort.

“That’s...smashing, Orion,” she granted halfheartedly.

Orion raised his eyebrows curiously. “I would say so...but your aura doesn’t seem to agree with your words.”

With a deepening, guilty frown, Skye reached into the hanging pocket attached to her faded blue skirt and took out a sealed letter, which she handed to Orion.

“The King asked me to bring this back for you,” she said lowly, as Orion opened it and began to read. “He’s requested you and McNully to join him at the front.”

Orion’s face had lost all of its pleasantry, leaving it very stony and unreadable, as his black eyes scanned the letter once, twice, three times.

“McNully’s gone to get the coach ready,” said Skye lowly. “He said that he’d meet us just inside the castle gate.”

The ride from the Florentine royal palace to the battlefield at the northern-most border of Royaume and Florence was a stressful one. Once anyone exited the capitol’s walls, the War was immediately much more visible, since most of the War was fought on Florentine soil. Plus many of those magicians who specialized in casting spells were encouraged to settle closer to the wealthier hubs of the country, so that they could cast temporary illusions to obscure certain buildings whenever the opposing army got too close. That was how people such as Florence’s court magician, Severus Snape, had attained such a respectable status.

Orion spent the entire coach ride sitting with his legs crossed, his hands clasped tightly in his lap, and his eyes closed so he could meditate. Despite his eyes being closed, however, when they arrived at their destination, he could hear the shrieks of wheels on old wagons, the whinnying of unsettled horses, and suppressed moans of pain, and he could smell the burnt wood, gunpowder, and indescribable smell that could only be labeled as “death.” Even just the sounds and smells brought all the memories flooding back -- his and his mother’s house set ablaze...the rearing horses with Royaume blue and red on their saddles...the deafening explosions and the gray ash that rained from the sky...his mother’s light-less eyes and his own labored breathing and clutching, shaking hands...

Orion had never been blind to how run-down much of his country was, but its problems only became more apparent the closer one got to the border, and especially to the war front. Every building was brand-new and cheaply built, for they no doubt had been built and rebuilt several times over and their occupants didn’t have the funds to build it back as well as before. And then once one approached the army camp itself, there were just about no buildings or fortresses at all, since it was so hard to keep them from being demolished. Instead all the Florentines really had were tents that wouldn’t stand up to most any elements. In the freezing cold of winter, many had been crowded under groves of trees, in a vain attempt to try to protect them from the snow that had buried their neighbors, and there were large bonfires set up everywhere where the soldiers gathered, just to warm their bundled hands and feet. One small fire featured a cooking pot and some sort of foul-smelling soup -- it took Orion a moment to realize the smell was burning leather.

It was tragic to think of how many men back in the Florentine capitol like Lord Malfoy had become very rich because of the increased danger of shipping goods through war zones, while the men who actually had to stay in that war zone had to cook their own boots and eat them for sustenance.

Orion did not open his eyes even when the carriage came to a stop. It was proving harder to find his center of balance when the smell of gunpowder outside made the memory of terrified screams and crackling wood pound against his eardrums.

Inhale. Exhale. Let go. Find your center. Balance.

He felt someone lightly touch the top of his clasped hands. When he opened his eyes, he saw that it was Skye.

“...We’re here,” she mumbled. Clearly she knew she was stating the obvious, but didn’t know what else to say.

Orion looked from her to McNully sitting next to her, his eyes very dark even though his face was rather unreadable. McNully looked very grim as he slowly opened the door to the coach. As soon as he did so, someone outside announced very loudly,

“Presenting his Highness, Crown Prince Cosimo Amari VII, heir to the throne of Florence!”

With a swallow, Orion slid his legs down to the floor and, unclasping his hands at last, he hoisted himself up as best he could, took hold of the door frame, and climbed out of the coach. He held his head up high and didn’t shrink, but his eyes were rippling turbulently like oil under candlelight as they surveyed the barren landscape.

Men by the dozens were being carried away on stretchers toward a large off-white medical tent -- even more were being carried away from it or, worse, not even coming close to it at all, for it was already too late. They were too badly injured for Penny Haywood’s potions to save -- for as powerful as magic could be, life and death were inevitable things. The gray-haired flower witch who’d given Orion the charm around his neck had told him so, the Prince recalled, as his hand absently came up to trail over the circular pendant. He’d asked her if she could stop someone from dying, and the sweet grandmotherly woman had looked upon him with an incredibly sad, pitying look.

“Death isn’t something anyone can stop, I’m afraid. One can put it off, certainly...I’ve been able to give people some extra time with my potions, but only by putting in a lot of my own time and energy. And even after putting in that time and energy, there are still plenty of people who I couldn’t work fast enough to help. That’s one of magic’s Chief Principles -- potions take time, but their effects last longer.”

The Prince of Florence tried to bring the cooling, calming sensation that had accompanied the charm around his neck when the woman had first given it to him back to his mind, as the smell of death that hovered over the camp made his heart chill and his stomach churn.

Orion could sense Skye climbing out to stand beside him, and not long after, McNully had lowered himself into the wheeled chair the footman detached from the boot of the coach. By the time McNully and Skye had joined him on the ground, a royal entourage had approached them, introduced by the captain who’d announced Orion’s arrival --

“Presenting his Majesty, Cosimo Amari V, Master and Commander of the Florentine Army, Lord of the Southeastern Sea, King of Florence!”

An older man about Orion’s height with a short mane of graying dark hair and just as strong of a jaw strode forward. Although he greatly resembled Orion visually, however, their physical attitudes couldn’t be any more different: as relaxed and modest as Orion was, the King of Florence appeared traditional and proud. They did, however, both appear quite detached, in their own way -- Orion because he didn’t want to be on the battlefield at all, and the King because he seemed to not be entirely sure how to address his adult son. But frankly, considering that Orion had been snatched out of poverty and made Crown Prince just to replace his older half-brother, Cosimo VI, after he was assassinated by the Royaumanians earlier that year, that wasn’t completely surprising.

“Cosimo,” the King greeted him formally. “Good that you’re here.”

Orion didn’t respond, his face close to impossible to read as he clasped his hands in front of him again.

The King’s emerald green eyes scanned his son’s face briefly before he brought up a hand to take hold of his shoulder and lead him further into camp.

“Come -- we have much to discuss...”

Skye and McNully followed Orion and his father to the largest and brightest white of the tents, pushing the flap with the official Florentine gold-and-green-flower emblem aside to walk inside and gather around a large table. There was a large map laid out on it with many dark green and blood red miniatures and model canons scattered across the surface. Skye’s father, General Ethan Parkin, was also present -- he had to sit in a chair rather than stand like almost everyone else due to him missing a leg and being forced to lean on a crutch, but he sat up very straight with boastful levels of pride. Once he, his generals, and the Prince were all gathered around the table, the King immediately set about discussing McNully’s newest military strategy, which would involve splitting the army in half so as to covertly attack Royaume’s forces from two directions, so as to not only better pinpoint where their canons were currently positioned and avoid them, but also to prevent them from retreating.

It soon became apparent to everyone in the King’s tent, however, that Orion was not in the mood to discuss any of this. He stayed quiet for the majority of the meeting, clasping his hands in front of him, and his eyes remained on the far edge of the map on the table, far away from the battlefield. In his mind, he tried to find his center, even though the sounds of the anxiously whinnying horses outside brought back the memory of the ones that had nearly stampeded him so many years ago, when his part of town was set ablaze.

Find your center. Find balance. Find peace.

Carewyn’s soft, content face as she sang under the willow tree beside the Royaumanian palace moat rippled over his mind, and he felt his heart rate slow.

“Oh willow, willow, willow...shall be my garland...”

Orion tried to stay there on that lake bank in his mind as the King discussed how essential it’d be to prevent any Royaumanians from getting in or out of their camp during their siege -- for, as General Parkin pointed out, if any help arrived, then it would prevent the Florentine Army from wiping out their enemy and ending the War. McNully himself looked rather unsettled by the thought of “wiping out” the enemy and was quick to say he’d only intended for the Royaumanians to be fenced in, like in a game of chess, but the King of Florence clearly didn’t think it was enough.

“This newest batch of drafted soldiers are our last resort. Unless we wish to expand the draft to take all those over the age of 18, regardless of health or status, to take their place, we must bring this War to an end, once and for all. And to do that, our enemy must be decisively crushed.”

He looked up at Orion.

“That is why, son, I’ll need you to take command of the left flank of the army.”

“What?” said Skye and McNully, both taken aback and horrified.

“Your Majesty,” McNully said very quickly and firmly, “I-I fully intended that General Parkin would -- ”

“Believe me, lad, I’d normally be chomping at the bit to do it myself,” said General Parkin with a rather sour expression. “But considering that I can’t even properly stand yet, his Majesty decided it might be a good idea for me to...sit this one out.”

“Prince Cosimo will need to know our army as well as I do,” said the King firmly. “Even when we bring this War to an end, he’ll need to be able to lead them in battle, in order to protect our kingdom. And from what I understand, Cosimo, you’ve been gathering intelligence in Royaume itself for a month now without arousing any suspicion...I believe your flair for stealth would be perfectly suited to the task at hand.”

“I’m afraid I must disagree,” said Orion in a very quiet voice.

The King halted. Orion had looked up at his father out the side of his black eye when he’d first addressed him, and although his expression had been very restrained, his eyes had gone very dark. His hands clasped a bit tighter as he faced the rest of the King’s military officers.

“This meeting is adjourned. Please excuse me.”

He turned on his heel and made as if to leave. The King, however, roughly grabbed his shoulder.

“It most certainly is not,” he said, his green eyes full of both disbelief and urgency. “Cosimo, this is not up for debate -- I require you here, to lead the men.”

Orion didn’t turn around. “...You require my aid, to lead our men in this battle?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” said Orion levelly. “Then should I choose not to cooperate, you will not be able to act on this strategy at all.”

All of the King’s officers looked appalled as Orion left the tent. The King’s eyes grew very wide, flickering with desperation as well as some righteous anger, as he chased after him, stepping in front of Orion to prevent him from leaving.

“Cosimo, this is our chance to end the War once and for all! To bring peace to Florence, to right all of the wrongs the Royaumanians have done...”

“Can one right any wrongs by committing more wrongs of their own?” murmured Orion.

“War is not that black and white, my son,” said the King sharply. The surrounding soldiers were starting to take notice. “Sometimes the ends must justify the means -- it’s something all young kings must learn, and I would prefer you learn it before I’m gone, rather than after making a big mistake.”

Skye and McNully had rushed out to join Orion.

“All people make mistakes,” Orion said softly. He tried to leave for a third time, but the King refused to let him pass.

“But you are the Crown Prince of Florence!” said the King. He was clearly getting frustrated now. “Therefore your mistakes are much more consequential -- when you make mistakes, the people you cherish, that you want most desperately to protect, pay the price!”

His father’s rising volume wasn’t helping Orion’s mood. His anxiety had already been spiking in the tent, but it was only getting harder for him to focus on his breathing with the King continuing to press the issue and the unpleasant, sickening smells and sounds of the battlefield surrounding him.

“Think of your friends, Cosimo,” said the King in a strained voice, “your home, your subjects...”

His friends... Skye’s and McNully’s faces rippled over Orion’s mind, before being joined by KC’s, Badeea’s, the Weasleys’, and Andre’s at the Festival...Carewyn’s...Carewyn rushing up to him at the palace gate -- sighing tiredly and handing him her uncomfortable white heels -- dancing in spirals around him, her red lips turned up in a smile and her ginger hair flying free --

Another battalion was coming through, with stretchers and horses loaded up with wounded soldiers -- the smell of death was suffocating --

“Think of your mother, Cosimo,” said the King. “Could you bear it if any other little boys lost their mothers, the way you did?”

“Don’t talk about -- !” gasped Skye, looking righteously furious, but McNully quickly grabbed her arm to urge her to be quiet.

Skye’s objection wouldn’t have helped, though. The mention of Orion’s mother, combined with the smell of fire and the sound of horses, brought the images flooding back -- his mother’s light-less eyes -- his own gasping for breath --

Orion closed his eyes, trying to find his center, even as his clasped hands started to sweat.

Return to Carewyn -- return to the lake shore, to her voice --

Carewyn’s brother was on the battlefield, fighting for Royaume -- if Orion charged into battle, could he not end up bringing about her brother’s death? Could he bear seeing Carewyn’s heart broken, upon learning that the only family she had who truly understood and loved her was dead? Could he bear the thought of all that blood being on his hands...the blood of his soldiers and Andre’s -- the blood of Carewyn’s brother -- ?

“This is your responsibility, Cosimo,” said the King, as he seized Orion’s shoulder and squeezed it. “You must lead our men into battle -- ”

SMACK.

To everyone’s complete and utter shock, Orion had actually ripped out of the King’s grip, backhanding his hand away with force.

The King flinched back, looking stricken. Orion stared at his father, his black eyes very wide and devoid of both consciousness and its usual composure. There was no rage or violence in his posture, but his face was very white and his hand -- still hovering in mid-air -- was trembling slightly.

“Forgive me,” he said at once, his voice very soft and unusually fragile. “Just...please, don’t touch me.”

He strode past his father, right over to the coach he’d arrived in. Instead of climbing inside, however, he immediately yanked one of the black horses free from its restraints and climbed up onto its back.

“Cosimo!” the King cried, but it was no use. Orion had already sharply flicked the reins and rode off into the distance with speed.

Orion didn’t stop riding until he’d once again reached the palace gate of Royaume. He ended up tossing off his well-tailored olive green doublet on the way, so as to leave his more peasant-like white undershirt behind. His hair also came loose of its ponytail in transit and Orion didn’t care in the least to try to restrain it again. His heart was pounding so fast and his blood was so spiked that all he could focus on was finding peace -- and in that moment, peace was a person. He just needed to hear Carewyn’s voice...needed to see her face...

Orion tied his horse up not far from the palace and hopped the castle wall. He knew Carewyn wouldn’t be expecting him -- before the Winter Festival, they’d said they’d meet up on the 9th, which was coincidentally after Florence’s Christmas Witch festivities. Even so, and even though Orion knew Carewyn would worry about him getting in trouble, he couldn’t think of the risk to himself. His heart was just too clenched with anxiety for him to place his focus on anything other than reaching her -- even though once he reached the castle, the tension that squeezed every nerve in his body in a vice grip only increased with the knowledge that he had no way to figure out where in the castle she’d be or how to get her attention. As fate would have it, however, as Orion paced through the gardens, clasping his own sweating hands, a familiar tune rippled over the air.

“The sweetest sounds I’ll ever hear are still inside my head...

The kindest words I’ll ever know are waiting to be said...”

The song itself was one even Orion knew -- it was a rather well-known love song in both Florence and Royaume, and one of his mother’s favorite songs when she was alive. But more importantly, the voice singing it was the wonderfully emotional, deep-as-the-sea tone he’d so needed to hear. Orion’s heart gave something like a spasm of relief as he swept around the perimeter of the palace, staying low behind the hedges, until he spotted an open window in a nearby tower where the voice was coming from. When Orion reached the tower in question, he couldn’t stop himself from collapsing against the wall back-first, closing his eyes, so he could just focus on her voice and let it wash over him.

He was suddenly so short on time. The King was so desperate to end the War that he was now open to slaughtering the enemy, if it served that goal. And as confident as the King was that the plan McNully had suggested would put an end to the Royaumanian army for good, Orion himself doubted it would or even could. The cycle of vengeance could only continue ad infinitum until either everything was destroyed or one royal decided to be the better person and stop the fighting. But how could Orion hope to pursue the diplomacy he’d wanted, once the King had done something so ruthless? How could he hope to appeal to Prince Henri or his parents, after such a severe, fresh wound? And Carewyn...how could he face her again, if her beloved brother died because of his own father’s orders?

He needed time. He needed peace. He needed...

“...is waiting somewhere...somewhere for me...”

Breathe. Find your center. Inhale. Exhale.

Orion barely knew what made him do it, but he knew he had to get Carewyn’s attention somehow. So he squeezed his hands, opened his mouth, took a deep breath, and started to sing the words in return.

“The sweetest sounds I’ll ever hear are still inside my head...”

Carewyn had been cleaning one of the guest suites when she suddenly heard her own song echoed back to her from outside the window. She straightened up abruptly.

Who...who is...?

The voice was male and oddly wispy -- the singer was certainly not trained or very comfortable singing, but he still sounded so earnest...almost desperate.

“The kindest words I’ll ever know are waiting to be said...

The most entrancing sight of all is yet for me to see,

And the dearest love in all the world is waiting somewhere for me --

Is waiting somewhere...somewhere for me...”

Carewyn leaned her broom up against the wall and looked out the window. When she looked down, she caught sight of a familiar mane of dark hair and slightly-too-clean white shirt.

“Orion?”

She recoiled from the window at once, her hands flying to her messy ginger ponytail as she looked over her burnt orange and beige servant’s dress. She was in no state for him to see her like this --

She looked into the mirror hanging up on the closest wall and swallowed.

Carewyn knew she was being foolish -- Orion was going to find out sooner or later that she was nothing but a servant...but...

She’d liked being a lady, for him. She’d liked being someone he could respect. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him with the truth of who she was, really, it was more...her being ashamed of herself. She hadn’t had a choice of whether or not Andre or KC or even the Weasleys knew that she was the child of Charles Cromwell’s disowned youngest daughter and a dead-beat merchant with no dowry or prospects. But Orion hadn’t known her. She’d been able to be who she wished she could be, if just for a moment, when they first met...and in every moment after, she found herself that bit more reluctant to put that mask away.

Carewyn wanted to be a brave, noble, graceful, sophisticated lady for Orion. She wanted to be someone he could admire, instead of the insignificant, pathetic, lying fake who’d sold her and her brother’s souls and futures away forever, just to try to save his life. A girl who, truthfully, was no better than her terrible family -- who had brought every bit of unhappiness she’d ever experienced on herself...

Orion started the song again down below, in an attempt to get Carewyn’s attention -- Carewyn, up above, quickly fashioned her hair into a pretty braid in front of the mirror and sang under him as an echo, as if wanting to reassure him that she could hear him.

“The sweetest sounds (the sweetest sounds)

I’ll ever hear (I’ll ever hear)

Are still inside my head --

The kindest words (the kindest words)

I’ll ever know (I’ll ever know)

Are waiting to be said --

The most (the most) entrancing (entrancing) sight of all (sight of all)

Is yet for me to see,

And the dearest love in all the world...

Is waiting somewhere for me... (Waiting somewhere...)

Is waiting somewhere...

Somewhere for...me...”

Once she was finished with her braid, Carewyn quickly dusted herself off and dashed over to the window.

“Orion!” she whispered only as loudly as she dared.

Orion opened his eyes, turning around and looking up at Carewyn with a very soft smile adorning his lips.

“Beautiful as ever, my lady,” he complimented her, inclining his shoulders in a short bow. His hands were still clasped in front of him. “Like the sweet Nightingale that sang for the Emperor.”

Carewyn took several quick glances around, visibly worried. “Orion, what are you doing here?”

Orion raised his eyebrows. “Standing, at present. Though I was singing just a moment ago -- or at least trying to. My voice cannot compete with yours, I’m afraid.”

Carewyn couldn’t completely keep the smile off her face, even despite the concern she felt. Her smile, however small, was like a warm, soothing hand on Orion’s heart.

“You’re lucky that no one else heard you!” Carewyn hissed down with as much reproach as she could manage.

Orion smiled wryly. “Most assuredly. I’m certain that Madam Ali and the Weasley brothers would hardly enjoy my ‘accompaniment’ as well as they do yours.”

The sweat on his hands had gone cold, making Orion actually shiver a bit as he found his body temperature and heart rate finally starting to calm. His smile flickered slightly on his face, creating a much more pensive and murky expression.

“...Will you take a ride with me, Carewyn?” said Orion, very abruptly.

Carewyn blinked. “What?”

Orion squeezed his own hands together, but tried to keep his voice level and his shoulders straight.

“I realize we’ve made no plans today, and that you are enamored of the work you do at court...but you so enjoy riding your horse, and we’ve not yet taken a ride together, out into the country. There are such beautiful valleys east of here -- perfect for stargazing, I should think, once the sun sets.”

Carewyn’s eyes drifted away, back into the guest suite she was cleaning. The windows weren’t washed yet, and she still had to bring the dirty sheets down to the laundry so she could have them clean in time for tomorrow morning...

Sensing Carewyn’s discomfort, Orion said in an oddly insistent voice, “I’ll wait for you, should you say yes. Whatever you must do, I’ll wait until you are finished.”

Carewyn’s gaze snapped back down to Orion in surprise.

She’d never heard him sound like that before. As mysterious and unreadable as his face was, she could still sense that something was off. Perhaps it was how his black eyes searched her face -- or perhaps it was the tenseness in his clasped hands.

Carewyn knew she was in no state to go riding with Orion in her dusty servant’s uniform, especially when she still had work to do...but truly, she didn’t have to wash the windows today, after having already done them yesterday...and she could always fetch the sheets early the next morning before coming up to the guest suite to change them out.

If something is wrong, I can’t leave Orion to deal with it alone, she thought to herself.

Even if she was only a fake and a liar, Carewyn wanted to be there for him. He deserved to have someone there for him...even if it was just her.

And so with a swallow, she looked back down at Orion with a very solemn, but gentle look.

“...I’ll need to change into something warmer and fetch my horse...but I’ll be down in thirty minutes. Can you meet me outside the gate?”

Orion’s heart flooded with relief that he couldn’t completely keep off of his face.

“I’ll be waiting, my lady.”

#hphm #hogwarts mystery #cinderella au #my art #my writing #carewyn cromwell #orion amari #skye parkin #murphy mcnully #katriona cassiopeia #andre egwu #badeea ali #charlie weasley #bill weasley #ethan parkin #this part got so long I had to split it in half!!#and also draw a new drawing for it #god I hate backgrounds #but yeah anyway the part following this one should be out tomorrow hopefully since the sketches are already done #my poor bb orion ;~;#and also my poor bb carewyn too to a lesser extent #this'll be better explained in later parts but orion is the bastard son of the king and his lover a peasant woman #as you might notice orion was named after his father -- just like the king's first son and orion's elder half-brother the first prince was #that signifies that orion's mother thought of orion as an heir to the throne even though he was still a bastard #(I'm sure all the kids who knew orion growing up must've been perfectly respectful about this one kid being named like a prince >> )#damn this thing is turning into a jukebox musical over here XD;#I'm sorry I just couldn't resist 'the sweetest sounds' just gives me such joy

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daretosnoop · 3 years

Text

Chapter 3: The Secret Room

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Once outside, Nancy gave Renee her chocolate and returned her key. She then walked around the small garden towards the gates that led to the cemetery. Following Henry’s instructions, Nancy eventually spotted the top of the mausoleum. She approached the mausoleum door but they were locked. Looking around the front, she saw the same crow engraving from the paper on the lower left. Along the bottom of the mausoleum were four different designs, a crow, bones, a worm, and a coffin. Odd. Then again, everything that happened so far had been eerie. Nancy placed her paper over each engraving and rubbed the image onto it. She quickly placed the papers back into her coat and hurried back towards the Bolet manor.

Once inside and back at the model mausoleum, Nancy put the engravings into each slot. She heard a click and the mausoleum roof opened to reveal a key. Now where do you go? Then she understood. This was clearly the key for the mausoleum. Pocketing the key, she hurried back towards the study. As she left through the doors, she noticed Henry was not at his desk.

As Nancy approached the mausoleum she could hear muffled sobs. It was Henry! He was, sobbing? Henry was down on his knees and letting out a torrent of tears. Nancy tried to mask her presence but it was too late. Henry heard her boots approaching. He snapped his head towards her direction. They locked eyes. His stunned expression mirrored Nancy’s, but before she could call out to him, Henry jolted up and ran away, the rain quickly masking his figure.

Nancy never knew how to comfort people. She understood grief, but others always found her advice to be too hard to swallow. Henry was clearly hurting more about his uncle’s death then he let on, but Nancy didn’t know what to say to comfort him. Move on? That’s what she did when her mother died. At least, her father never mentioned Nancy having any issues moving on from her mother’s death. Life went on, and she moved with it. Considering Henry’s testy nature, Nancy thought it was best to carry on like she never saw him.

She eagerly unlocked the mausoleum door, anticipating what she would find inside. Silence greeted her. Leaving the door open, Nancy walked through the small interior. She noticed every coffin had a stone marker with the name Bolet. So, this is the Bolet family’s private burial ground. She looked towards the more recent deaths, but Bruno Bolet was not there. There were, however, two other names with the same death date. Henry mentioned his parents died in a car crash. Marianne and Claude Bolet. Now it made sense why Henry was crying out here, alone. Not knowing what else to do, Nancy simply placed her hand on the stone markers and listened to the rain.

From her periphery, Nancy noticed a rolled parchment on the right-hand side of the mausoleum. She picked it up and unrolled it. Two figures stared back at her. A woman with lush brown hair gazed forward. Her eyes stared down at the beholder and a Cheshire smile laced her lips, as if she knew something they didn’t. Her arms were wrapped around a man. He was shorter than her and looked rather plain were it not for the smile on his face and his eyes which were affixed upon his wife. Charming couple, must be Henry’s parents. Then Nancy noticed that Marianne was holding an umbrella in her hand. She smiled. Of course. The kookiness of this family was quickly growing on her.

Nancy tucked the painting within her trench coat and headed back towards the manor. Upon entering she saw that Henry was back at his desk with a dry shirt. He very pointedly refused to acknowledge Nancy and she moved towards the living room. She took down the empty frame, attached the painting of Henry’s parent’s, and placed it back on the wall. Now what? Since each Bolet was holding an object, Nancy was sure that they were clues to something. She sighed. She would have to ask Henry, if he knew anything, and if he was even willing to talk to her.

Bracing herself, Nancy slowly slinked back into the study room. If Henry heard her, he did not give any indication. She moved closer towards the bookcases, thinking of something to say that would allow her to ask Henry about his family. Good god, Nancy, just ask him outright! The worst he can say is no! Or he could throw her out of the house. She leaned against a book shelf and was about to address him when she heard noises coming from the bookshelf. Looking up, she noticed that the stuffed iguana had moved!

The not-stuffed iguana leaped away from the bookshelf, knocking over a crate of books and scurried quickly out of sight. Henry swiveled around from the commotion but Nancy saw that he was not mad. In fact, there was a glint of humour in his eyes and he looked like he was suppressing a chuckle.

“What was that?” Nancy asked.

“That was uncle Bruno’s pet iguana, Iggy. He’s always in here stealing paper. Must be using it to build a nest or something”.

“An iguana! Keen!”

Henry shrugged as his face fell back into a scowl. “Hey, look. I had all those books arranged so they fit perfectly. Could you put them back please? I don’t have time”.

Nancy looked up and saw that Henry had his cell in one hand.

“Sure”.

“Groovy”.

Henry turned around and initiated a call with someone. Nancy eavesdropped for a bit, but there was nothing important. She turned towards the books and started to place them back. Once done, she noticed that one of the books was written by an old acquaintance. Beatrice Hotchkiss, professor of French history. She wrote a famous book on Marie Antoinette based the journal Nancy uncovered when she vacationed in Wisconsin. Looks like she wrote another book. The Crystal Skull: Fact of Fable? Strange, not related to French history. It must have been the result of professor Hotchkiss’s side research. The woman was a genius and always had some side project going on. Nancy opened it and saw a number near Hotchkiss’s name.

Flipping through the book she read about the theory and histories behind the legendary crystal skulls. They came from the Mayans and were made of a single pure crystal quartz. However, the skull’s histories enveloped a vast array of cultures. Some Indigenous communities claimed there to be 13 skulls total, and when united, they would reveal all the secrets of the universe to mankind. Some argued that the skulls came from Atlantis, and others believed the skulls contained some power and would give its owner anything from telekinesis to invisibility. One skull in particular, “The Whisperer” was reputed to give its owner immortality. It had a history of belonging only to owners who did not die of natural causes. Nancy sighed. There was being eccentric, and then there was poppycock. Still, she knew professor Hotchkiss would not write on something that did not have some irrefutable evidence.

As she closed the book, a piece of paper fell out. It had letters randomly spaced out on it. Three letters at the top and four at the bottom. Nancy recognized that the position of the letters matched the position of the photo frames. Perhaps the letters tell me where to place the photos! She hurried back to the living room and was pleased to see that her theory was correct. Each object a family member held corroborated with a letter. Arranging the pictures like the letters, Nancy heard the noise of a door unlocking behind her. She turned and noticed that a portion of the wall opened up. A secret passage way!

Nancy eagerly walked into the secret room and up the stairs. There was a door and it was locked. Rats. She looked at the lock, hoping that maybe she could use a paperclip. Instead there was a metal etching of a spider web with dashes coming out in various locations. I’m guessing that this Bruno Bolet foul proofed the door from blindly breaking in. It was another dead end, for now. Nancy pulled out her phone and took a picture of the lock. Walking back down slowly, Nancy heard noises coming from Bruno’s study. Leaning closer to the wall, she could hear Henry’s voice. He was arguing with someone.

“Aw c’mon Summer! Give me a break! You never said anything about that!” Henry paused listening to Summer’s response. “Well, how was I supposed to know? I mean, what am I? Telepathic? No. No. C’mon Summer. Don’t get upset! Look, I’ll see what I can do, okay?”

There was a silence as Henry listened to Summer’s reply.

“What do you mean ‘something else’? You gotta be kidding me, Summer. I don’t have that kind of money!”

Summer must have said something harsh because Henry quickly changed his tone.

“No. No. I meant, I don’t have it now, but I will soon. Okay? Bye”.

Conversation over, Nancy heard Henry toss his cell onto the table and groan.

Yikes, Nancy thought. On top of a dead uncle, Henry seemed to be having major issues with this Summer person. Has this guy ever been able to catch a break? No wonder why he was grumpy all the time.

As she reached the wall-door, Nancy noticed a spyglass built into the wall. Curious she peered through and saw the study again. Or rather, a specific shelf within the study. There was a zoom button and moving the cursor, Nancy caught the sight of a book, The Eye of the Beholder. Keeping it in the back of her mind, Nancy went out to talk to Henry.

When she entered the study, Nancy saw Henry looking towards the double doors that marked the entrance to the garden. He had a hand on his cheek and a vacant expression on his face.

“Want me to open the door for some fresh air?”

“No,” came a quiet response. Henry didn’t turn towards her.

Nancy tried again.

“I need to ask you some questions”.

Slowly Henry unfolded from his position and turned to face her. He looked exhausted.

“And what is it you need?” Henry asked in a tone that implied Nancy’s request was not something he wanted.

“I need to ask you about your uncle Bruno”.

Henry made a gesture with his hand for Nancy to continue.

“Okay, look, I know this is going to sound like nonsense, but I’m not losing my mind when I say what I’m about to say, okay?”

Henry gave her a puzzled look, then nodded softly.

“What can you tell me about your uncle?”

Henry shrugged. “Not much more than what I told you”.

“Well, you mentioned he was eccentric”.

“Yep”.

“And this manor isn’t exactly what you would call normal”.

Henry rolled his eyes and gave a small smile.

“Tell me about it. But that’s just your perspective”.

This was interesting to hear. Nancy titled her head and asked, “You find the manor normal?”

“Look at me,” Henry said gesturing to himself. “I fit right in.”

“Well, you are a Bolet”.

Henry stiffened at Nancy’s response. “Doesn’t really mean much. The family name and its meaning left me the day my parent’s died. Now Bolet just means something else”.

Nancy wanted to ask what it meant to Henry, but Henry, despite his firm appearance, looked like he wanted to cry.

“Right sorry, getting off topic. Well, you see, your uncle’s eccentric behaviour, well,” Nancy hesitated. She didn’t really know how to explain it to Henry. It wasn’t unusual in her line of work to stumble across locks and odd clues, but it was rare to see them so intentionally placed.

“I think your uncle is hiding something”.

“What?” Henry asked.

“I don’t know what or why, but your uncle’s eccentricities have a pattern. There are all sorts of wacky locks around the house and they each lead to a clue and another lock. I think your uncle was hiding something from someone”.

“My uncle?” Henry asked.

“Yep”

“Hiding something?”

“Oh ya”.

“And you’re sure your head’s not hurting right now? Cause I think you’ve got a concussion coming on”.

Nancy rolled her eyes.

“I know it sounds mad, but I’m telling you the truth. I can even show you”.

“Look, it’s getting late. Why don’t you just let this go? Whatever my uncle was hiding is not important now. He’s dead, so whatever he’s hiding is not worth anything anymore. Just go on back home and enjoy your vacation”.

Annoyance flared through Nancy.

“It does matter! It does matter Henry Bolet! I don’t know anything about your uncle or the Bolet family but there is clearly something important being kept secret here! Something someone wants desperately. I did not make up that skeleton figure, and if they were willing to attack me for whatever your uncle has, think of what they will do to you, to Renee! You cannot just ignore it!”

“Oh I can ignore it, just like my uncle ignored me”.

“This isn’t about you or your uncle. This is about something bigger. I don’t know what, but if you ignore it… I don’t know, but something’s just not right and in my experience that usually means trouble”.

Henry sighed and Nancy tried to again.

“Please. Just let me show you what I know. If you don’t find any of it intriguing, I’ll go”.

Henry got up and walked over to Nancy.

“Alright, lead the way”.

Nancy led him to the living room, explaining all her work and deductions up till now. She pointed to the mausoleum and pulled out the key it hid from her trench coat. She then pointed to the portrait of Henry’s parents and explained the order that unlocked the secret passage door. She led him up the stairs and pointed to the lock.

“I don’t suppose you know how to unlock this?” she asked. She was about to say more, about to delve deeper into her theories on what might be going on and further steps, but when she looked back at Henry, the man looked pale. He stumbled out of the passageway and melted onto a living room sofa.

They were endless in their onslaught. While the whispers didn’t give Henry any pain, they were distracting, making it difficult to do anything but listen. They repeated so many phrases to Henry as he tried to work. It didn’t help that there was now another person in the house. While Nancy ran about chasing some skull man, the whispers chased Henry with words.

Garden…skull…man…garden…bury…garden…look…her…spider.

At one point he gave into the voice and went out to the garden. They grew eager and urged him here and there till he found himself at the vulture shrine again. Bury…bury…bury.

“I can’t,” Henry exclaimed to the air, then realized what he had just done. Mad as he seemed to be, the words had their effect and the whispers quieted down. Enjoying the silence, he walked towards the cemetery gates, entered, and wandered around. Even after seventeen years, the paths were familiar. Henry remembered roaming around as an eight-year old. Uncle Bruno gave him free run of the place, for the most part, and a despondent, lonely Henry sought friends in the afterlife. He knew exactly where his legs were heading, the same legs that stumbled upon a solitary mausoleum as a boy. The door was open and when little Henry stepped inside, he saw his uncle yelling at the Bolet engravings, before collapsing in a sobbing heap. Now at twenty-five, the mausoleum stood tall and alone. Henry tried the door, but it was locked. Of course it was locked. When eight-year-old Henry ran away from his crying uncle, the Bolet mausoleum shut Henry out. The ominous building with its locked doors made its message clear, you do not belong here.

“So then where do I belong?” Henry cried out, stupidly to the rain. He collapsed onto the ground and felt warm rain run down his cheeks. No one responded. Even the rain became muffled. So Henry sobbed a thousand apologies though the recipients were long gone and forgotten. He didn’t know how long he sat there, but soon the pitter patter of the rain turned into the clicking of boots and Henry shot his head up to see a woman in a trench coat—Nancy Drew. Sound returned and Henry realized where he was and how he must have looked. The whispers came back.

Skull…man…skull…find…woman…garden…woman…spider.

Henry scrambled to his feet and dashed away. When he got back into the house, he changed his clothes and did his best to ignore Nancy. She, thankfully, didn’t bring up what she saw. But the whispers continued, and when Nancy returned, when she explained her convoluted theories, when she ushered Henry towards the living room and explained her madness, when Henry saw the door to the secret passage way open, when he saw the spider on the lock, he knew deep down that she was right. Bruno Bolet knew something and these whispers were determined he faced his uncle head on.

“Like I said, I’m pretty sure your uncle was hiding something. Trust me, in my experience people don’t make secret rooms if there wasn’t something to keep secret”.

Nancy continued to pace back and forth, lost in thought as theories spilled out of her. Initially, Henry just pressed his fingers to his nose and listened to her ramble. When he had the energy, he looked up and noticed that Nancy was soaking wet. The rugs are going to need cleaning now. Thankfully, most of the house was hardwood flooring. Henry glanced at his phone. 9:45 p.m. He looked back at Nancy, but she did not seem to be stopping any time soon.

“Henry, I think I need to call professor Hotchkiss. Your uncle seemed to have her number, at least, I think it’s her number. But she might know what’s going on”.

Nancy whirled towards him, eyes bright.

“So, what can you tell me about your family?”

“I already told you, I don’t know anything.”

“No,” Nancy countered. “You said you knew nothing about your uncle. You didn’t mention your family”.

“What’s the difference? I really know nothing”.

“Nothing at all?” Nancy’s voiced dropped as despair creeped in. Her eyes dimmed as she slowly slipped back into thought. Watching her, Henry felt his stomach clench. He searched the recesses of his mind for any scrap of memory, anything that might be of use for her.

“All I know from my parents is that the Bolet’s are an old family, synonymous with New Orleans”.

Nancy did not react and Henry dug further into his memories. It was hard to remember the things you did with your parents when you were young. The world mainly revolved around you. But memories had the ability to preserve expressions. Faces and reactions that you can only explore as an adult.

“My father, he always became sober when he had to return to the family manor. We didn’t live here, so you can imagine my surprise at hearing manor and seeing a bungalow when I came here at eight. My father was a very happy man, especially when my mother was around. He would,” Henry cracked a smile. “He would just light up and the whole room turned bright. Everyone felt the warmth. He usually went to the manor by himself. Mom was busy in the lab, so dad had to go by himself”.

Henry looked up and saw Nancy stare at him pensively. Unable to stand her fixed attention on him, he looked towards his phone.

“It’s getting late,” he started.

“So let me get this straight,” Nancy cut in. “Your uncle dies and it seems he’s designed some locks around the house. Your dad always comes here alone. Your family is wrapped up in the history of New Orleans and no one questions this or tries to change it. And now, a skeleton man appears. Henry,” she suddenly said and her voice dropped. “Is your family running a cult?”

“What,” Henry exclaimed. He jolted up from the sofa and placed his hands on his hips.

“Of all the— “

“I know it sounds weird, but think about it. All I know is that something is being hidden here and everyone respects the Bolets. What other conclusions would you come to?”

“Well,” Henry ran his fingers through his hair. “I wouldn’t immediately jump to cult. What would make you think that?”

Nancy looked away, a little bashful.

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been a houseith a secret”.

The stood together in silence for a while until Nancy asked him whether he believed her.

“Frankly, the cult theory sounds rubbish”. His eyes darted towards Nancy but she just gave him a small smile, prompting him to continue. “But, there might be something uncle Bruno was hiding”.

“So,” Nancy began, a smile growing on her face. “Want to help me find out what it might be?”

Henry was taken aback by her smile. He was reluctant to admit that the idea of searching through Bruno’s junk for some treasure was appealing. It didn’t help that Nancy’s smile seemed so mischievous, as is she knew he would find her offer more appealing than the piles of paper that sat on Bruno’s desk. At the thought of the work that awaited him, Henry scowled and shook his head.

“No. I already have enough to do”. He took a deep breath. “It’s getting late,” he started again.

This time Nancy got the hint. She didn’t want to go and was quite ready to stay up the whole night figuring out this case, but she couldn’t well do that in someone else’s house. Darn social politeness! But, if she left now, who knows what would happen tomorrow, or whether even Henry would let her investigate.

“The rain and power outage have most taxi services out of order. I don’t know if you’ll get a cab. You’re going to have to spend the night here”.

Nancy looked at Henry, appalled.

“Don’t worry,” Henry rushed to assure her. “We’ve got plenty of food, blankets, and room. So, it might put a damper on your vacation plans, but you can go back in the morning. I would drop you myself but”.

Henry didn’t finish his sentence and his throat clenched.

“Thank you Henry!” Nancy exclaimed. “You’re a great friend”.

Friend? They barely knew each other.

“Oh we’re going to have so much fun! I tell the best stories, all my friends say so,” Nancy rambled again and Henry looked at her confused.

“We’re not kids. This isn’t a sleepover”.

“Come on Henry, live a little. It’ll be fun”.

Henry just sighed.

“Groovy”.

#nancy drew #CRY #Legend of the Crystal Skull #henry bolet

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dercolaris · 3 years

Text

Lost

@shiranui7, I promised to deliver a short story to the picture and since I’m a good boy I will keep my words! Here you go^^ That's probably not what most people would expect, but why should I care? In the end I can’t hide my style, welp. Forgive me :/

I hope you will like it anyway. Thanks @shin-arei for beta reading my stuff. It helps so much! Really :3

Song? Yeah! Voila:

https://youtu.be/mm8QZhXOsMo

Enjoy!

James Gordon stepped towards the large hospital and looked up at the red letters. The last of them hung visibly crooked from the heavily damaged building. There were still so much to do since what happened a month ago in Gotham City. A whole month without Batman. The commissioner rubbed his moustache and entered the clinic. A young woman was sitting at the information desk, clearly busy to organize what was going around her in the lively entrance hall. James leaned slightly against the desk and waited quietly for the nurse. Today he was in absolutely no rush. The young woman put down the phone, then looked at Gordon with a friendly smile. She brushed a finger through her dark blonde hair and spoke very politely to the unexpected visitor: “How can I help you today, Commissioner Gordon?" The older man returned the smile, then said calmly: "Nothing to serious. I just wanted to see Jonathan Crane – at least if it's possible right now." The addressed swallowed loudly, then turned to the phone with a small apology. She quickly pressed a series of buttons and held the phone to her ear again. At the other end, someone seemed to have answered. She almost whispered into the mouthpiece: “Yes, the Commissioner is here. He wants to see him. Damn it, of course him. Who else? So, same question: is that possible at the moment?” The nurse nodded a few times, then hung up. She turned back to Gordon and pointed to the elevator, adding excitedly: “You have to go to the eighth floor. Our monitored quarantine station is located there.” The man at the counter thanked her and turned to leave. Suddenly the young woman's voice rang out again. She mumbled softly: “Are you absolutely sure you really want to see him, Commissioner? After everything he did to you and your daughter?" The white haired man paused briefly, then replied reassuringly: "We have arrested him successfully and I have to make sure that he is kept safe and sound until his trial." Without further words, Gordon stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the eighth floor. A soft melody played in the elevator, easing the serious situation a little bit. The Commissioner watched the board with the numbers, which slowly counted up. Finally the bell rang out and the metal door opened with a low hiss. Another reception came to light. An old woman was also sitting at this one, although she seemed much more relaxed than the girl in the entrance hall. She looked up from her computer and smiled warmly at him. How long has this nurse been working here? Gordon couldn't tell. At least as long as he was with GCPD. He greeted her kindly and asked cannily: “I want to see Jonathan Crane. Is that possible at the moment?" The addressed briefly typed something into her PC, then turned back to the Commissioner: "In principle it is of course possible, but you will not get much out of him. His condition has not improved since your last visit, Gordon."

The police officer sighed softly. Whatever Scarecrow had done to the citizens of Gotham in the horrible night, the devil himself didn't deserve such a terrible condition the rogue was in right now. James brushed this thought aside and replied calmly: “I will try to figure out his state myself, but thanks for the information. Maybe I'll get a word out of him this time.” The old woman frowned. Finally she found the clipboard with the registration and handed it to the visitor. The Commissioner accepted it with a quiet thanks and sat down on one of the three chairs to the side. The printed form was filled out quickly. He returned to the counter and handed the paper to the nurse, winked at her. She gave him a quick nod, then pressed the button for the heavy double doors. “It's the last room on the right in the corridor. Please contact a nurse who will unlock the door for you”, the old woman explained and tried to crack up a smile. The doors swung open and cleared the way to the quarantine station. The white haired man thanked her again before stepping over the threshold. The doors closed behind him, leaving him in the false light of the ceiling. The dull white looked unnatural and wrong. Like the whole station. Each of the rooms was locked from the outside several times. A prison in a hospital. Gordon walked leisurely through the corridor, looking into the rooms from time to time through the small windows on the doors. Often something moved in the four walls behind it, but it was hard to actually get the hint who it was. Still, one fact remained. This were all extremely dangerous criminals who had lost their minds and were to be turned over to Arkham - as soon as the asylum was completely rebuilt. Until then, the worst of them stayed in the improvised cells. A loud voice to his left drew his attention to one of the leading madmen. Jervis Tetch. He literally pressed his face against the pane of glass and panted hard, then spoke loudly to the police officer: “Gordon! Get me out of here! What a horror. I do not belong here. I have to go, I need to find Alice! I don't have time to rot here! Please, release the poor, poor Mad Hatter. I beg you!” The addressee put his hands in his trouser pockets and kept his face straight. Jervis was one of the absolutely weirdest individuals from Arkham. His psychosis was special, almost impossible to cure or treat. A life sentence in a psychiatric asylum was planned for him. Exactly the same was true for the actual reason of his visit. He ignored the Mad Hatter's loud shouts and continued down the long corridor. Among Jervis Tetch, the Riddler and Two-Face were also in the single cells on this floor. However, both of them made literally no sound. Maybe they were sleeping or minding their own business. Especially Edward wasn't known to keep his mouth shut for one minute and constantly got on everyone's nerves around him in no time. Halfway through the walk, Gordon heard a blood curdling scream. This made him actual shudder. The Commissioner stopped at the nurses' room and knocked on the door with a faint smile. The two attendants sat up instantly, almost alarmed, but relaxed again when they spotted the policeman. One of them took a green wine gum out of a bag and greeted Gordon cheerfully: “Hey Commissioner. Have you lost your way to us again? How can we help you?” The older man took a step towards him, then reached into the plastic bag. “I love the red ones”, the white haired man commented on his behaviour and ate a piece with relish.

He chewed on the gum until he answered the guy: “I want to visit Jonathan Crane today. Can you open the door for me?” One of the men rose and motioned for Gordon to come with them. He went ahead, then asked hesitantly: “Do you really want to go in there? I mean, come on, you can hear what's been going on here since he was brought in. Not a free minute without his screams.” The addressee shrugged his shoulders slightly, then replied calmly: “It's my job to make sure everything is okay.” The nurse sighed softly and nodded, then went to the last door in the corridor with Gordon. The little window gave away the madman's position in the dark room. He was firmly strapped to a bed, obviously immobilized. The body stretched in unusual movements, seemed to want to burst under the chains and leather straps. Another loud scream came from his room. After a few seconds the Commissioner turned to the nervous man: “Will you open the door for me, please? I'll get along with him, don't worry.” The man put the key in the keyhole and turned the iron twice. There was a loud crack and the door swung open. The white haired man thanked the nurse, then entered the small room. The door closed behind him, leaving him alone with Scarecrow and a wide variety of overwhelming memories. The rogue lay panting on the bed, hands and feet firmly tied to the metal frame, turned and twisted in all possible directions to escape his never ending nightmare. His fingers literally clawed into the leather straps, pulled on the chains that were attached to them. A clear liquid slowly flowed into the former psychiatrist body via a drip. Probably another attempt to cure him of his own damn anxiety serum. Since Batman disappeared, it has obviously taken longer to develop a cure for all the weird poisons going on in Gotham. So they tried a variety of drugs on Jonathan - so far without a great success. Gordon grabbed the folder by the bed, opened the documentation. He sat down at the small table inside the room and began to read: “The patient remains unresponsive to words. As soon as he is touched he falls into a convulsive panic attack. This makes it difficult to feed him. This is now taken over by a gastric tube.” Another font was indented between these lines. This confirmed the regular use of feeding tubes to transfer enough nutrition to Jonathan's system. Gordon pushed his glasses up a little and read on: “The patient is not responsive, but screams as soon as the lorazepam level drops. A permanent sedative solution is not planned, but is currently felt to be necessary.” The Commissioner closed the file and sighed heavily. A clear case of absolute madness. This condition should protect the criminal from worse punishment in court. Would it be of any use to report to Scarecrow that the entire population of Gotham wanted his death?

It was indeed a growing movement that called for his demise. Especially after Batman's sudden death. Gordon still couldn't believe it. Bruce Wayne had been Batman all these years and he hadn't noticed. How many times had they met in many different situations. Whether as Batman or Playboy. All of Gotham had been shocked by the revelation and still lots of voices screamed that this was just a very bad hoax. A loud scream drew the white haired man's attention to the body in front of him. The mask had been removed or sewn off from him. A disfigured face could be seen underneath. His lips were almost completely missing, as was his nose and half of one eyelid. Additionally, his cheeks had been torn in an unknown way. All efforts to find out where his injuries came from had so far failed. The only witness now lay in front of him and screamed his soul out in pure agony. Did he even still have one? The eyes stared blank and cold at the ceiling, never really blinked or moved. The older man knew about the blindness of the other, but seeing it for himself was something of a weird satisfaction. Yes, Gordon hated this man. For his plan he played a perfidious game with him and almost killed Barbara. He no longer had any sympathy for this criminal. Even in this battered state, the white haired man felt no pity. This monster was to blame for the deaths of many good people. Another scream squeezed from Scarecrow's dry throat. Apparently the lorazepam no longer worked or they had just changed the infusion. Gordon put his fingers around the bed rail, then snarled to Jonathan with a hint of anger: “Just be glad that you don't know what's going on around you any more. That would even scare you, John.” He had whispered the last words. Suddenly the grey eyes stared into those of the Commissioner, stayed for a long time on the man's face. Did the former psychiatrist understand what the white haired man had said? The shackles rustled softly again when suddenly clear words came out of the monster's mouth: “Kill me. Please.” The addressee wrinkled his forehead. Suddenly Scarecrow's cold hand grabbed the Commissioner's wrist and held him tight. The deep voice croaked again: "Please just kill me. Release me from my eternal suffering." Gordon shook his hand from his wrist, took a step back from the bed.

He muttered loudly: “A monster like you doesn't deserve the redemptive death, Jonathan. Not after what you've done to us. So many people died because of you and who knows how many more would have lost their lives if Batman wouldn't have stopped you in the night. You should actually rot in hell for your sins!” The man on the bed lingered quietly for a moment, then blinked and looked at the ceiling again. He gasped softly, seemed to have slowly slipped into his psychosis again. A loud scream came from his throat as his grey eyes closed tightly. He turned his head back and forth, suffered terrible agony caused by the fear serum. The Commissioner stepped to the door, turned back one more time to Scarecrow: "You will have a fair process, Jonathan. Don't expect more kindness from us towards a pathetic creature like you. I wouldn't actually identify you as a human being any more, but in terms of law I need to at least treat you like one. You will be found guilty and locked away in Arkham. Hopefully forever.” The white haired man stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him. Immediately another scream came from behind him from the doomed room. When he arrived at the nurses' room, he briefly gave notice that he was done, then went purposefully to the ward door. This opened again with a low creak and opened the way out of this illusory world. The Commissioner exhaled with relief and thanked the nurse again for her help. He went down the elevator, thinking for a moment about the short conversation with Scarecrow. Now he was nothing more than a sick man who would slowly age in a psychiatric hospital over the years and at one point die alone in his misery. Locked away from all living things. "You deserve this terrible fate, John", Gordon whispered into the emptiness of the elevator. These words got lost in the almost happy song. A small smile played on the man's lips as the door opened in front of him and beautiful sunlight literally flooded the small room. Everything would get better in Gotham. Eventually.

#DC #Batman #Commissioner Gordon #Jonathan Crane #Scarecrow #arkham knight #ArkhamVerse

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pogueshomecoming · 4 years

Text

you scared me - john b

requested? yes: “what about the idea of the pogues coming to john bs house and he’s gone because DCS took him? and the reader is more attached to him, but they’re not official yet. thank you!!”

paring: John B x reader

fill out this survey to join my taglist(s), here’s my masterlist, and requests are open!

warnings: swearing, descriptions of anxiety and panic

word count: 2.9k

The familiar sound of the van’s horn caught your attention. Immediately, you started to get excited. Another day with your best friends, but you were most looking forward to seeing John B.

You hadn’t had “the talk” with John B yet, so it’s not like you two were official, but it sure felt like it. Especially recently, he’d keep eye contact a little longer, and he’d linger his hands just near yours, so they’re just barely touching. Put that with staying over at his place sometimes, hanging out without the others, and the occasional stolen kiss... you’d call it “unofficially official.”

When you finally make it outside, you’re surprised to see JJ in the driver’s seat. Kie and Pope have their heads stuck out of the back with big smiles. You try to hide your confusion as you jump in with them.

“Come on, Y/N. I know you’re in love with John B, but you could be at least a little bit happy to see me.” JJ teases you with a wink.

“Whatever.” You roll your eyes.

“I borrowed the van for some business I had to take care of last night, but we’re taking it back to him now. No reason to fret.”

“Please, keep all of the information about last night’s antics to yourself. I’m not going to jail for something illegal you probably did.” Pope shakes his head, and Kie agrees with him.

Soon enough, JJ is parking the van next to John B’s house. Immediately, you know something is wrong. The front door is open, slightly swinging from the breeze that has just blown through.

“Uh... JJ, do you have the-“

“Obviously. It’s under your seat. Hand it to me.” He interrupts Kie. Everyone’s eyes are on the house, and it stays that way as the four of you slowly get out of the van.

“I’m going in first, you guys stay here. I’ll yell if I need help.” JJ keeps the gun at his side as he makes his way up the stairs.

“John B?” He yells before entering, and then he disappears inside.

Your heart is beating fast. Kiara is gripping one of your hands, and Pope is standing in front of you both. Vaguely, you can hear JJ yelling John’s name, but there’s still no answer.

“Come on, John B.” You whisper, mostly to yourself, but Pope and Kie hear it too. You’re hoping he’s playing a prank and will jump out to scare the shit out of you guys any second now.

Then, JJ appears at the doorway. “He’s not here, guys. His clothes are gone too.”

As if you didn’t already feel uneasy, your heart dropped to your toes. “What?”

Kie grips your hand tighter, but you let go, push past Pope and JJ, and into the house. JJ is right. Trash liters the countertops and tables like always, but the few personal belongings John kept out were nowhere to be found. You frantically run to his room, but the only thing that’s there is an unmade bed.

“Something is wrong. He didn’t tell anyone he was going anywhere. What if DCS took him? Or those guys looking for the compass came back, and he was caught off guard? Why isn’t he here?” Suddenly you feel your chest swell, and your voice is caught in your throat. You swallow to try and keep the tears from falling. As you turn around, you crash into JJs chest.

“Don’t panic. We’ll all drive through town to see if we spot him. John B can hold his own, I’m sure he’s fine.” JJ wraps his arms around you, but it doesn’t stop the panic that’s building in your chest.

“Yeah, good idea. We can ask the Sheriff if she knows. John B said she had tried to help him.” Pope speaks up. He’s entered the house with Kiara, and you can see him over JJs shoulder.

JJ spins around, eyes wild. “The cops? Why would we talk to the cops? No way.”

Pope’s eyes dart to you and back to JJ so fast that you almost missed it. You lean your head back against the door frame as they step closer to each other. Pope mutters something like “Can you not make her panic anymore? She’s obviously not okay, dude.”

They both look back at you, but you turn your head before they see you looking at them. “Okay, okay yeah. We’ll ask Peterkin.”

“Let’s get moving. If DCS has him, they could be off the island already.” Kiara speaks up from the kitchen, and Pope smacks his hand against his forehead, wondering why no one is considerate of how you’re feeling.

“I’m staying here.”

All three sets of eyes are on you at once.

“What? I’m staying here. He could come back here, and someone needs to be here when he does.” Your arms cross over your chest.

“No, Y/N. You can’t be here alone. Like you said, we don’t know if those guys got him or not. They could come back, and then you’re gone too.” Kie worries, her forehead is wrinkled, and she’s shaking her head. The four of you have moved back towards the entryway of the house.

“Give me the gun then. I know how to use it. I’ll be able to protect myself if someone comes around.” You reach your hand forward, but JJs eyes drop from you to the gun.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” He shakes his head as he looks back up.

“And it’s a better one to leave me here alone with what, a butter knife to defend myself with? It’ll be fine, J.”

JJ looks at the other two, hoping they’ll say something that works in his favor.

“We need to go. The sooner, the better. Give it to her.” Pope nods. JJ sighs before carefully placing the black object in your hand.

“Be careful, please.” You lock eyes with JJ for just a moment, but he says a lot in the silence. The main thing is that John B would kill him if anything happened to you.

Only an hour after they left, it was evident that you were not cut out for this. Sitting and waiting but not knowing what you were sitting and waiting for was the worst. You’d resorted to cleaning the house, which was an absolute disaster.

It took almost the entire day. The other pogues arrived back at the house around sunset. A pile of trash as big as the boat was in the yard, and it was their first clue that you’d been going crazy here all day.

“Y/N, it’s us!” They knocked as they entered, finding you on the couch. A blank look on your face, staring at the wall. You’d worn yourself out, mentally and physically.

Kiara sits next to you, reaching out for one of your hands. “We brought food. Do you want to sit outside on the hammock for a little bit? Get some fresh air?”

Pope and JJ are standing in front of you.

“No news? You didn’t find him?” Your voice is weak, and it makes all three of their hearts break.

“Why don’t we go outside first? It doesn’t look like John B got any groceries before he left, so I know you’ve got to be hungry.” JJ stutters, and it’s immediately a big red flag. Loud warning signals are all you can hear.

“I want to know now. Cut the shit. Why aren’t you telling me?”

The three of them look at each other. Your stomach feels like it’s bottomed out again. It has to be bad news if they don’t want to tell you.

“Come on. What happened to no secrets between pogues? What the fuck?” You stand up, clearly angry with them.

“Do you think I can’t handle it?” You poke JJs chest. “Huh, JJ? What I can’t handle is all of you acting like I’m a child for having feelings for him! I can’t handle not knowing what happened to him! So tell me. I’m a big girl.”

Your screaming makes the corner of JJs mouth turn down. His eyebrows are knitted together. He’s upset, just like you.

“Alright, fine, yeah. Peterkin said that the DCS lady showed up this morning asking for an officer to escort her here. That’s all she knows. The plan was to get on the ferry.”

The room falls silent. You can feel the tears coming, but there’s not any willpower left to hide them. A deep breath is what you need, but instead, everyone around you hears broken gasps for air.

JJ starts to reach out for you, but you shake your head and step away. “I’m gonna... I need... to be alone... Right now.”

You shut yourself in John B’s room just as the first of many tears fall. As you lean against the door, you feel someone else’s weight on the other side.

For a little bit, they take turns coming to the door and trying to coax you out. None of it worked. You didn’t want to leave. Leaving felt like giving up hope that he’d ever come back. Your heart was broken, even if nothing was for sure.

Time passed slowly. John B only had a few small things left behind, and it didn’t take you long to look at each one in detail. His bed smelled like him still. You’d stayed in here before, but never without him. It felt weird.

You don’t know what time it is when Kiara and Pope come to the door together to say that they have to go home. JJ tells you at the same time that he’ll be sleeping on the couch if you need him. They’ve left food right outside the door, but it’s gone cold by now. Any appetite you had is gone anyway.

The covers of John B’s bed engulf you as you fall asleep.

Knocking on the door, startles you awake. The only thing you can hear for a moment is your heart beating fast, and then the knocking sounds again.

“Y/N? Can you hear me?” It’s just JJ.

You open the door, and JJs shoulders immediately relax.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. The sun is going to rise soon. Peterkin called, my dad was picked up, so I have to go get him. I wanted to let you know I’m leaving, but I’ll be back in a couple of hours at the most.” He looks down at his feet, wondering if you’re still mad at him. Wondering if you’re going to yell at him again.

“Thank you, JJ. I’m sorry about yesterday.” You feel bad, almost ashamed of your actions.

“All is good. I get it.”

Without any other words, you embrace him. It takes him a second to reciprocate, but he does, hugging you just as tight as you are him. “It hurts.”

JJ exhales through his nose. “I know, god, I know. But John B is John B. He’ll make his way back to us.”

“You’re coming back here after you get your dad?” You lean back to look at his face.

“Yes. I promise. I’ll leave the gun in the couch cushion.”

He leans forward and kisses your cheek. For the first time in the last twenty-four hours, you smile. Well, as much as you feel like, which really is just one side of your mouth lifting a little bit.

“Okay. I’ll be fine. It’s early. No one’s going to come here.” You’re mostly trying to convince yourself, but JJ pats your shoulder, and then he’s gone.

Instead of going back to sleep, you sit on the couch. The cold leftovers are pretty much devoured only thirty minutes after JJ leaves. You’re about to stand up to but the box in the trash when there’s a crash outside, you immediately freeze in place.

Then, there are footsteps in the gravel outside. You’re sitting right underneath a window, the worst possible place. Slowly, you grab the gun. The footsteps are on the stairs now, you just have to wait until they swing the squeaky porch door to move, maybe it’ll cover the sound of your own footsteps.

As the porch door opens, you bolt around the corner. The house is dark and silent for a second. You peak around the corner, eyes trained on the door. Whoever it is is being less careful now, their footsteps not as slow or cautious. The doorknob starts to turn, and you cover a gasp with your empty hand, moving back out of sight.

Your tears are back. JJ would’ve announced his presence, but it hadn’t been long enough for him to return yet. Kie or Pope wouldn’t be so sneaky. The door opens, and you quickly wipe away your tears, returning both hands to the gun.

A thud sounds through the empty house, like a bag hitting the floor. You’re trying to decide if you should wait until the stranger turns the corner to find you or if you want to jump out and ambush them. The closer they get, the harder you cry. Your sobs are going to be hard to contain, and the thought of having to use the gun in your hand upsets you even more.

In a split-second decision, you step halfway out from around the wall. The person is a lot closer to you than you thought, and you almost collide with them. A scream leaves your lips, and theirs too.

“I have a gun! I have a gun!” You yell and cry at the same time, sounding and looking crazy as you pull it up towards the guy.

“Woah, woah, wait! Don’t shoot. Y/N?” The voice is familiar, one you’d know anywhere. It’s John B.

Your suspicions are confirmed when he clicks on a flashlight in his hand, it only illuminates his face for a brief second before he’s shoving it in your face. “What the hell? Why do you have that? What are you doing here?”

His hand covers yours and lowers the gun until you can set it on the floor. You’re both looking at each other. John B kicks it out of the way, but you both stay crouched for whatever reason. Suddenly, your body shakes with sobs. Your heart is still racing, you’re pumped so full of adrenaline that your whole body is overwhelmed.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. Oh my god. Come here.” John B falls back onto his ass and reaches for you, helping you crawl to him.

Feeling his shirt in between your fingers, his body pressed to yours, smelling his gross sweat, you’ve never been more thankful for any of it.

“What the fuck, John B? You scared me. Where have you been? I was so worried. I was so scared that you weren’t coming back.” You almost feel pathetic crying in his arms like this, but the look he gives you indicates that he feels the same way.

“I know, I know. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t call or anything, and they didn’t let me leave a note. I found a way back here, back to you. I always will, Y/N.” John B squeezes you tighter, pressing a long kiss to your forehead.

You’re still panting, and John B hasn’t quite caught his breath either. “Fuck DCS. I don’t want to lose you, John B. I can’t. The last twenty-four hours have been the worst of my life.”

John B sighs. “We’re going to figure something out. I’ll get someone to sign on as my legal guardian, so I can stay. I never wanted to leave you.”

He brings one of his hands to cup your face and pulls you to look at him.

“You know what this made me realize, though?”

“W-what?” You sniffle, thinking about how red and puffy your face must be.

“That I love you. Even when you’re crying, and there’s snot running out of your nose.” John B smirks, and you hit his chest, looking away to wipe your face on your sleep. The butterflies in your stomach are going wild.

“It made me realize I don’t want to live without you. It also made me realize that I have a badass girlfriend who’s willing to pull a gun on someone, even if she’s crying hysterically while doing so.” John B laughs again, the softest smile on his face. Your cheeks heat up from embarrassment and flattery at the same time.

“Girlfriend?” You ask, your eyes shining with more tears as you look into his that are just the same.

“Yeah. It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

All you can do is nod. You nuzzle your face into his neck and squeeze him tight. He feels your smile against his skin.

“Hey, John B?” You lean back after a few more moments of silence to look him in the eyes.

“I love you too.”

You both fall asleep right there, on the floor, leaning against the wall that you’d been hiding behind.

Hours later, neither of you hear the other pogues enter. They’re all panicked because you hadn’t answered when they announced their arrival. Just to find out you’re perfectly safe, and so is John B.

thank you for reading! feel free to give feedback :)

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thenightgazer · 3 years

Text

Spark of Stardust

Chapter 2 : Under The Fair Moonlight After months of friendship, tonight is the first time for Vergil to visit Lyra's house for a tea... and some unexpected confessions.

Warning : parental abuse, drug abuse, PTSD, psychological/emotional abuse, munchausen syndrome by proxy

Part 6 of Tales of Apotelesma

You can also read this fic on AO3

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

~~~

He doesn’t remember how he ended up lying on the ground.

He stares at the sky, only to find the full moon staring back at him.

Where am I?

What am I doing here?

An agonizing wail distracts him from his own thoughts. If only he could move his body, it would be easier to find out what’s going on here. He starts to lose his sight as he feels something come out from his head, dripping to his ear, then to his back. He tries to glance at his surroundings in vain and realizes that his eyes are going to betray him again.

Then he feels it— pain.

A tremendous pain all over his body.

The woman is screaming again. This time it is louder and sounds a lot more terrifying.

As he struggles to move his body, with desperation creeping in his spine, he finally sees a glimpse of the woman’s figure. Standing on the rooftop of the house, she is trembling and sobbing. He can’t hear what she’s murmuring, yet something forces him to keep his eyes on her. It’s against his will, and he can’t do anything against it.

To be fair, everything doesn’t make any sense to him since the beginning. He just wants to end this absurd dream.

But now he’s sure of something; that he recognizes her face. He can see it clearly now. It all makes sense why she looks familiar since the first time he had this dream. The same cold, void eyes...

… that belong to the late Asteria Crescent.

---

The first thing that Vergil feels before he opens his eyes is someone else’s hand over his face. He stares blankly at the dark, which he soon recognizes as Dante’s hand blurring his vision.

He pushes Dante’s hand slowly without waking him up, recalling the memory before the twins ended up passed out on the Devil May Cry entrance floor.

The party went smoothly. Kyrie loved the music box that Vergil gave her and wore the bracelet after he told her its function. The meal was delicious. The kids were well-behaved—more than usual—they even went to bed early with Kyrie. After that, they played poker and Dante suggested having a drinking game. Vergil was never a heavy drinker, but of course he was forced to join the game. In the end, they drank too much and could barely remember who won the gamble.

Vergil doesn’t remember the details, but the last thing he knew was that the cards and the smell of alcohol were all over the place. The entire crew passed out. Succumbing to alcohol and an over-flowing fatherly instinct, Vergil moved Nero to the couch and put a pillow under the young devil hunter’s head. He said goodbye to Trish, who was half-asleep on the dining table. Then he dragged Dante with him, made a sloppy movement to create a portal to Devil May Cry before he eventually collapsed.

I shouldn’t have drunk that forsaken whiskey, Vergil curses himself.

The blue hybrid stretches his body and tries to get up feebly, kicking Dante’s waist. “Wake up, Dante. Don’t sleep on the floor.”

The younger twin replies with a soft snore.

Realizing that it’s going to be futile to wake Dante up, Vergil walks to the kitchen and grabs cold water from the refrigerator. His throat is dry and sore after swallowing too much whiskey. He empties half of the bottle while thinking about his weird dream again.

“... Huston...” Dante murmurs in his sleep.

Vergil furrows his brow. “Who?”

“Play me... Elena Huston...”

Vergil puts the bottle on the table and back to Dante, grabbing his little brother’s ankle and drags him to Dante’s room clumsily. The alcohol still exists in his blood, making him slightly difficult to coordinate his movement. After struggling a little while to put the red devil on the bed and taking off his shoes, Vergil covers Dante’s body with a blanket. Foolish, meddlesome, slovenly little brother, Vergil grumbles, unaware of his opposite brotherly act of love he has done to Dante.

“Hey Verge...” Dante mumbles.

“What?”

“Thanks... you ... sleep... too...”

“Shut up, Dante. Just sleep.”

Vergil chuckles silently after watching Dante go back to unconsciousness. He laments the time gap between them. He didn’t have a chance to grow up together with his brother, but although he was indifferent to humanity, he secretly hoped that Dante was safe, wherever his brother would be. Even when he had defeated Dante for numerous times, he had never meant to kill him even for once.

Vergil cares for his brother more than he would ever admit.

He heads out from the room and takes a seat on the couch. When he’s about to take off his coat, he feels his phone is vibrating. He takes the phone to decline the call and shut the phone down, but Lyra’s name pops on the screen.

Coincidence?

He picks the call.

“Vergil?”

“...”

“Vergil? Are you there?”

“I’m fine,” he replies, almost like a whisper. “Just a little... tipsy.”

Vergil hears her snorting. “I thought you hated alcohol? You said it makes you lose your control or whatsoever.”

“Let’s just say the crews made me do it.”

“Even Vergil Sparda couldn’t escape peer pressure, aye?”

A subtle smile appears on Vergil’s mouth. “This is midnight, Stardust. You should’ve slept.”

“I did. Then I woke up and couldn't sleep again. I remember you said cambions don’t need to sleep, so I reckon you are still awake. How was the party?”

“What can I say?” Vergil massages his brow, relieving the pain on it. “Kyrie loved my present. Nero was more talkative to me than usual. Dante was less annoying. For the first time since I came back from Underworld, Mary didn’t glare at me like she wanted to kill me. Trish was civil. Nicoletta still wants to touch Yamato. Morrison still insists to give me his cigarette. The three little rascals asked me to read them Animal Farm and they left early for bed.”

A mocking snort comes out from the librarian. “Normally you would say ‘ It’s fine’ or something like that, but now you bother to describe the entire events to me—not that I complained though—it just convinces me that Vergil Sparda is sloshed for real.”

“... I’m just... happy, I guess. That everything went well.”

“Glad to know it,” there’s a short pause before she continues to speak. “Hey... do you know that there's this flower called butterfly pea?”

“Consider this is the first time I heard that.”

“It’s originally from southeast Asia. It has a pretty blue colour and if we brew it, we can have a blue tea. Bought a jar of it from Chinatown. In fact, I’m thinking of brewing it now, and... I think it would be great if I drink it with a friend,” Lyra chuckles nervously. “Would you mind coming for a cuppa? I know it’s midnight and you’re inebriated right now but—”

“I accept the invitation.”

There’s a gasp. “Seriously?”

“Yes. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“I thought you would decline it, but never mind! See you very soon!”

Vergil looks at the phone screen blankly after Lyra hangs up the call. Sounds odd. This is the first time she invites me to her house. What if this invitation has something to do with my dream?

He remembers Lyra’s statement that she doesn’t believe in coincidence. It’s all but synchronicity, she had said.

Coincidence or not, he decides to leave anyway.

---

Lyra’s neighborhood is always quiet. Surrounded by meadows and woods, her house is secluded and quite far from the central city. No one would have thought that there’s a small cottage here and someone lives there. Lyra had said to him once that she wants to live in solitude and avoid having some neighbors, or else she would go crazy by neighbors’ endless thoughts.

The door opens immediately after Vergil knocks. Lyra’s tender face shows up, smiling at his presence. She wears an oversized blue sweater and long pajama pants. But that’s not his main concern at the moment—it’s her stature. The moonlight helps Vergil to look at her scrupulously and realizes that he has never noticed how pale Lyra’s fair skin is, like she hasn’t seen the sun for a long time. Along with her dark eyes and shady smile, anyone could mistake her as a vampire.

“Welcome to my small and humble cottage,” the librarian chuckles after examining the devil hunter in front of her. “You look fine for a drunken man.”

Vergil shrugs. “Cut it out, will you?”

“Just messing with you. Climb aboard.”

As he follows behind her to enter the house, Vergil’s cautious eyes wander off to the house’ interior. The house is small with a cozy living room attached to the kitchen. The two doors beside the living room are assumed by Vergil to be a bedroom and a bathroom. He walks to the windows framed with burgundy drapes; the lace inner curtains remain drawn, allowing moonlight to enter the house. There he can see Lyra’s small garden, blooming delicately under the night sky.

“I always fancy stargazer lilies and munstead wood rose.” Lyra says from the kitchen.

“They look exquisite,” Vergil murmurs. “I can smell the fragrance even from here.”

Vergil still stands in his place, watching the midnight breeze swing the flowers. Some of its petals have fallen to the ground. The next thing he sees is the butterflies flying around munstead wood roses. It’s rare to find butterflies in this metropolis. Knowing that there’s still beauty worth living, Vergil is grateful that he isn’t dead yet. He spent most of his lifetime isolating himself from the world, loathing the beauty inside it because he thought it was worthless.

He glances to the kitchen where Lyra puts the kettle on the stove and takes a jar— he presumes that it’s dried butterfly pea— but seems like she’s having a tough time opening it. Trying his best to keep his dignity by not mocking her adorable struggle, he approaches her and takes the jar.

“The strange and powerful human being with the ability to move every object only with her mind, couldn’t even open a goddamn jar.” Vergil remarks in sardonic tone. “Is this what you call friendship? Acting as your jar opener and transportation device?”

Lyra taps her chin. “Tut-tut, Vergil Sparda. You forgot ‘personal bodyguard’ and ‘heat provider’.”

“I’ve never thought that you’re such an opportunistic capitalist who used your friend for your convenience.”

“Says a megalomaniac who raised a demon tree to fight his brother only to be kicked in the arse by his son.”

“... that's... it won’t happen again,” Vergil looks away as he gives her the jar. “Nero hasn’t succeeded in defeating me since I came back from the Underworld."

“Sure~ I believe you.” The teasing tone in Lyra’s word says otherwise, much to Vergil’s dismay. He decides to help her prepare the cups rather than to continue their banter as she puts the dried butterfly pea flower into the teapot. Lyra had told him to let her do all the work, but she finally gives up after Vergil glares at her while cleaning the cups with a napkin.

“You finally made your dream come true.” Vergil says, putting cups on the saucers.

“What dream?”

Vergil points at a 36-strings lever harp beside the table in front of the sofa.

“Oh!” Lyra exclaims, turning the stove off and brings the kettle on the countertop. “Couldn’t afford to buy pedal harp, so I’m quite satisfied to have this one. Sugar or lemon? Plain blue tea tastes super earthy, only if that’s your preference.”

“Just lemon. Thank you.”

“Okay. Have a seat on the sofa. I’ll bring the tea right there,” she says.

Vergil takes his time to observe the living room, which he finds odd since he entered this house. This house is too... plain. Except for the harp, a chess board, some Rubik cubes on the table and an old radio on the kitchen counter, there’s almost no personal touch in this house. No family pictures, trophies, or even a bookshelf.

Considering she’s a bookworm, that’s terribly odd. But as she said, this cottage is small. He tries to ignore his hunch and turns his focus to admire the lever harp, plucking the strings cautiously and listening to its mesmerizing sound.

“You like it?” Lyra asks while putting the tray on the table and pouring the tea to their cups.

“It's magnificent,” Vergil takes his seat. “Let’s see if you’re capable of playing this astonishing instrument.”

“Challenge accepted!” the librarian drags the harp to her side. “Happy or sad?”

The blue devil stays silent for a while, staring at the cold fireplace before he glances at the window, remembering the moment when Lyra greeted him under the fair moonlight, causing his old soul to demand something soothing and nostalgic. “Play me Clair de Lune.”

Lyra nods cheerfully. “Easy peasy.”

It’s such a picturesque scenery, to witness Lyra hold the harp like she was born to play it. It’s the same bewitching phenomenon as their little adventure a few days ago when they stargazed together to see the Lyrids. He’s bemused once he hears the strings from the lever harp plucked and formed a beautiful composition. The brighter and folksy sound from lever harp is different from the classic pedal harp, yet it doesn’t change the beauty and romantic tone from the song.

Vergil finds himself frozen under the spell— it’s not just the song, he muses. It’s her.

Your soul is a chosen landscape

Where charming masquerades and dancers are promenading

Playing the lute and dancing, and almost

Sad beneath their fantastic disguise s

While singing in a minor key

Of victorious love, and the pleasant life

They seem not to believe in their own happiness

And their song blends with the moonlight

With the sad and beautiful moonlight

Which sets the birds in the trees dreaming?

And makes the fountains sob with ecstasy

The slender water streams among the marble statues.

By the time when Lyra finally reaches the song’s outro, Vergil senses his body is less tense and his head gets back its clarity after succumbing to alcohol for hours. Her fingers are getting slower as she plucks the pin and a string for the last time, a satisfied smile appears on her face, “I like this song.”

“So do I.” Vergil agrees.

She giggles. “Next time, it’s your turn to play me a song. Dante told me that you’re a gifted violinist. He sent me a video of you playing Caprice 24 yesterday.”

Vergil covers his face with his palm. “Kindly remind me to kill him soon.”

“You play eloquently. You should be proud!” Lyra giggles and pours honey inside her cup.

“Silence,” Vergil put a slice of lemon on his tea, the tail of his eyes spy on Lyra. “Instead of flattering me, why don't we just straight to the business?”

“Sorry?”

“It’s obvious that you didn’t invite me just for a cup of tea and impromptu recital.”

The puzzled expression on Lyra’s face answers it all. She doesn’t say anything for a quiet long time, still stirring her tea as if she’s still preparing what to say to him. Vergil suspects she would avoid his question, but she just sighs and finally sips her own tea, “You’re right. But first, drink your tea.”

Her eyes fixate on his, as if she commands him to mimic her gesture. He has no choice but to obey, lifting his cup to his mouth and carefully taste the blue tea. He enjoys the mixture between the natural flavor from the tea and the acid from the lemon, slurping more of them to please his throat. He would enjoy the tea more if Lyra didn’t give him that hollow gaze, causing him to wonder if she put poison inside the tea and wait for him to collapse, but if there’s any poison inside the tea, he would find it out even before he drinks it.

“What do you think?” She blows the steam from the tea.

“It’s good. Not too bitter, nor too bland.”

“Drink a little more, then.”

Again, Vergil obeys her.

Lyra puts her cup on the table. “It’s easy, doesn’t it?”

“What is it?”

“When I told you to drink, it was easier for you to drink it.”

“I don’t see why it should be difficult to drink it. It tastes good and it’s an act of courtesy.”

“An act of courtesy,” she smiles bitterly. “Oh yeah, it was easier for me too.”

Vergil puts his cup on the table with the intention to end Lyra’s vague trickery. The words he says next are full of certainty. “You had a dream of me.”

Her eyes are widened, but she already expects him to spill the question. She nods, her fingers trail on a Rubik's cube. “Twice. Weird, huh?”

“What did you dream about?”

“Last night? I was you, grieven by the death of your father. You wandered to your mother’s room and cried together inside a drawer with Dante. An hour ago, I was you again, chained up and this titanic, god-like demon tortured you and called you ‘disgraceful offspring of the traitor Sparda’. I think it was Mundus.”

“That’s bizarre. I believe I haven’t told you about Dante and I inside the drawer. And that was what Mundus exactly told me when he tortured me in the Underworld.”

“What about you? Did you dream of me?”

“I did,” he admits. “I’m afraid I failed to understand the context, since you haven’t told me any single things about you.”

“Fair enough. In that case...” she holds her breath while solving the cube. “What did you see?”

“I believe I was on your point of view when the dream occurred. You were gravely ill and your mother tended you. I still can recall how bad your headache was from that dream. Then Asteria— your mother— read you The Hobbit . In that dream, I didn’t know who she was, until you mentioned her name this afternoon. I decided to not bring it up to you until I found out why I dream about something I’ve never experienced and why it was about you.”

“The dream, then,” she continues. “Have you seen another one after that?”

He shakes his head. “None whatsoever.”

“Really?”

Sorry, Lyra. “Yes. Why?”

“... nothing. A lot of weird things have happened since our accidental mind link. The dreams must be our memories. Let's say the dream was our brain projection of what we’ve told each other about our past, then how could we feel the pain we’ve never experienced before? How could I know the face of the demon I’ve never met before? I got a hypothesis that whenever I dream of you, you must’ve dreamt about me. But this time you didn’t dream of me while I dreamt of you. Seems like it doesn’t work like that...”

The sound of clicking cube stops at once, making Vergil wonder whether she stopped the cube because of his answer or she has solved the cube since all the layers are already in the right places.

“I was sickly back then. Could barely leave my bed,” Lyra says, showing him the cube. “And this was the only thing I could do, aside from reading.”

Vergil receives the cube. “I saw plenty of this thing in my dream.”

She rests her back on the head of the couch. “What do you think of my mother?”

“She seems caring and nurturing.”

“Do you love your mother?”

“What kind of question is that? Of course.”

“I’m glad that you do.”

“You don’t love your mother?”

“I don’t know,” she mumbles, her eyes are dreary. She lifts her feet on the couch and moves her body to face the devil. “I don’t want to lie to you, Vergil.”

“Then don’t. We promised to not lie to each other.”

She chuckles coldly. “Where should I begin... oh right, I told you I was sickly. Mum said I got this rare genetic disorder called severe combined immunodeficiency. SCID made me extremely vulnerable of diseases. Therefore, I should live in a sterile and isolated environment. I could barely leave my own house, couldn’t even open the window just to smell my garden. Didn’t get a chance to meet new people other than my mother, my nurse— I forgot her name, I never liked her anyway— and my governess, Norma.”

Lyra closes her eyes for a while before she continues. “She was a great scientist. She was the smartest person I’ve ever known. She was the one who made me in love with astronomy. I could only see her infamous work on telly and newspapers. Some days, there were people who came to visit us and talked to mum. They were forbidden to meet me because of my condition. Some of them left me notes and little presents, wishing me good health. They told my mum to have faith and carry on. And whenever my mum had to attend international conferences, she cried so much a day before her flight because she had to leave me, even though Norma was there with me.”

“What about your father?”

“Never knew him. Mum was never married. She always looked blue whenever I asked her about my father, so I stopped asking.”

Lyra clenches her hand before taking the Rubik cube from Vergil’s hand and begins to play it again. “We only had each other, that means we need to protect each other. I never questioned anything because she took care of me and devoted on me. If it wasn’t my mother, who else wanted to take care of me? I liked Norma, but she was paid for nursing me. She could leave anytime soon, but not my mum. She was the only family I had, and I loved her.”

Lyra gazes at Vergil, whose face is straight still without any meaningful reactions. “I ate and slept as ordered. Took my medicines. Never once went outside the house. I did exactly what my mum instructed. But one day I couldn’t take it anymore. I felt dizzy almost every day. I threw up a lot. Sometimes I couldn’t even move my own body. I didn’t feel any better, just getting worse day by day. I felt like I could die any time.”

She shuffles the cube again after solving it. “One day, I stopped taking all of it.”

“The medicines.” Vergil emphasizes, remembering the nasty smell of medicine in his dream.

Lyra nods. “No matter how persistent Mum’s and the nurse' persuasion, I didn’t take it. I just wanted it to be over. Then something unexpected happened,” she lets out a small grin. “I was getting better. Much better. I could walk without taking a deep breath anymore. I went to the garden without having a nosebleed. I didn’t throw up. My headache was gone. I felt like I was... reborn.”

Lyra takes another deep breath; her hands stop shuffling the cube. “I never said it out loud, but Mum was sick. Very sick,” she taps her head with her index finger. “Mentally.”

Vergil tilts his head. That’s unexpected. “What makes you think so?”

The librarian puts the cube on the table, leaving it unsolved. “Any time I refused to take medicine or disobeyed her, she distanced herself from me. She didn’t reciprocate everything I did. She was just going straight inside her room and locked the door. It was almost like she resented me— no, punishing me for disobeying her. She loved playing this guilt-trip game so much. It seems like she liked it whenever she succeeded to make me think that I was a worthless daughter.”

“I know there are parents who treat their children poorly and abusively,” Vergil contemplates. “But I’m afraid I still couldn’t comprehend why your mother did that to you. You were only a child. A terribly ill child. She should’ve been happy instead of punishing you for your better condition. I understand that we could never judge a book by its cover, but… in my dream, she seemed like... she loved you wholeheartedly. Why would she want to hurt her own daughter?"

Lyra hugs her knees. “When someone keeps putting a person in ugly circumstances, I can only think that it’s either out of hatred or love.”

“Why would you put the person you love in such circumstances?”

“Love can be... poisonous,” Lyra stares blankly at the ceiling. “It’s always easier to hurt someone you hate. It makes more sense. But if you love someone, you’d do anything for them, even if it’s beyond logic, consciously or not. You’d call it kindness and love, but it’s actually poison. You hurt your beloved ones and say that you do that because you love them. You keep them close to you, shower them your love until they’re blind by your love and never find the help they really need...”

Noticing her body begins to shiver, Vergil takes off his coat and wraps it around Lyra’s body to keep her comfortable. He couldn’t help but empathized with her. She’s as confused as he is about human emotions, which is surprising. She always looks so confident, like there’s no obstacle that could damage her. But now while she slowly reveals her past, she looks extremely vulnerable. It makes Vergil want to help her somehow, even just to calm her down.

“Here,” Vergil says, hesitantly offers his hand. “Just until you feel better.”

Lyra’s anxiety gradually calms down as their hands are attached. Vergil’s gloved palm is hard as steel—one squeeze can crush her bone, yet she can only feel the warmth between their entangled hands.

She lets out a sad smile. How long has it been since the last time someone holds my hand?

“Do you feel better now?” Vergil finally breaks the ice.

“A little,” Lyra agrees. “Although I must admit, this is awkward.”

Vergil closes his eyes and chuckles as he rests his body on the head of the sofa. “I don’t know what madness leads me to do this. Perhaps it’s because of you. You are a terrible influence for me.”

“That’s not a very nice thing to say to your best friend!”

“How unfortunate.”

With their hands still attached, Lyra lowers the coat from her head, revealing threads of her golden brunette hair, shifting her body to lean on the sofa. “Have you ever heard about Munchausen syndrome?”

“A mental disorder in which a person deliberately malingering?”

“Yup. And there is another one called Munchausen by proxy. Means the caregiver is the one who fakes the illness in a person under their care.”

“You mean...”

Lyra scoffs bitterly. “I know one should not self-diagnose without proper professional assessment. Mum was never clinically diagnosed, nor that people noticed her traits. They only knew her as a devoted mother and a great scientist. But I’m the one who lived under the same roof with her and I knew her better than anyone else. I could give you examples of how much my mother loved me”

“There was one time after my refusal to take my medicines, she humiliated me in front of her colleagues,” she continues with a calmer voice. “I was helping her to arrange a bouquet of roses to be placed at the living room. It was unusual that she allowed me to do the ‘hard work’. I did what she asked. I wanted to please her, just to see her smile again. I wanted her to look at me as her daughter, not a failure. I cut the roses diligently, and my fingers were bleeding because I was careless. I didn’t know that Mum brought her colleagues home, and they saw my bleeding fingers. She went nuts when she saw my fingers, scolded me for touching the roses. She said rubbish like, ‘I told you to not touch them!’ ‘Why are you so careless?’ ‘Oh, my poor, darling baby’ while her colleagues gave us the pity look as Mum brought me to my chamber, tended my wounds exaggeratedly, telling me that the pain will be gone soon and the wounds won’t leave any scratches. I was going to ask her why she lied to her colleagues but she kept shushing me like I’m a bloody idiot. I was confused, like, what did I do wrong?”

Lyra glances at Vergil, whose eyes are fixated to the fireplace in a silent rage. “You might’ve thought I was too naïve to indulge her unhealthy behaviour.”

“It wasn’t your fault. You were too weak and innocent to defend yourself,” the door to Vergil’s memory palace where his darkest memories are stored is widely opened. “It sounds like self-justification, but we were just children. We couldn’t have known the cause of what was happening back then. You didn’t deserve everything your mother did to you.”

The contemplative words from Vergil slightly lightens the weight on Lyra’s shoulders. Her solemn smile emphasizes her hidden sadness and weariness. “At those days, I thought she was just knackered, or in a bad mood. Maybe she really worried about me. Maybe I was too stubborn and that made her gutted, so I endured. I took those bloody medicines because it was easier for me. She was so happy and for a moment, I thought I was happy too. Took it longer for me to realize that I was frightened, but I had no options but obeyed her.”

Vergil remains silent whilst feeling Lyra’s thumb tapping on the back of his hand. He waits patiently for her to gather herself before she mumbles quietly. “I’ve been wondering too... why would anyone want to go back to the person who hurt them?”

“Violence often acts in a cycle,” Vergil squeezes her hand lightly as a reassurance. “Once the perpetrator realized their mistake, they would beg for forgiveness. Some people mean it, some people don’t,” he sighs deeply, carefully putting his words together. “You thought by forgiving your mother, she could change for the better. That forgiveness would improve your relationship with her. You came back to her, sacrificing your safety and well-being to seek her love and comfort. She planted the fear inside you. It was a wheel you couldn’t escape. But you were never a fool for coming back to her. You loved her and you were a child who had no one to have your back but your mother. Even when your expectation failed you, you could only rely on her. ”

“I tried to break the wheel,” Lyra pulls away their hands and cups her face, sliding it to her head like she had a headache. “There were countless times when I thought about running away. But it never happened. I couldn’t even survive five minutes outside. If I told anyone about my suspicion of Mum’s actions on me, they would never believe me and call me a spoiled child instead. Norma was the only person who believed me. She was trying to help me, like quietly flushing the medicines whenever I couldn’t take it anymore. Then she was fired shortly after she spoke to Mum about her nonsensical punishment to me.”

Lyra bites her lips. “It seemed like Mum tried to cut every string with Norma. I never heard about her anymore. Never found her phone number or address. There was a time when I missed her but I couldn’t contact her. She was the only person who believed me and my mother took her away from me because Norma defended me from Mum’s fucked up behaviour.”

A sting of familiar dread creeps inside Vergil’s bone, despite his awareness that it wasn’t his own fear but residues from his first dream about Lyra. He remembers his futile effort to move the body and the way Asteria’s calm yet terrifying gaze at him when she feeds him. The unpleasant sound from the friction between the spoon and the bowl... Asteria’s shady voice as she told him her worries...

“I told you I never knew exactly when I acquired my power, right? Because as long as I remember, I always had this power from the very beginning. I knew what pawn Norma would pick whenever we played chess. I knew the next word my mother was going to say. There were times I accidentally moved things even without touching them. I thought I was just imagining things,” Lyra fixes Vergil’s coat. “Therefore, when Mum scolded me again, I felt my wrath burning and something inside me burst out. I was shocked because suddenly almost anything inside my bedroom was dropped—the books, the toys, the lamps. Mum was pale and silent like a ghost while staring at the mess, until the nurse came. She glared at me like I was a freak and the last thing I remember was I woke up and was unable to move my body. I suspected Mum had me drugged again to prevent me causing havoc. She still had the audacity to act normal, even read me The Hobbit like yesterday was nothing.”

Vergil’s icy eyes get wider slightly. “The event in my dream...”

“Now you know,” Lyra giggles but her face stays impassive. “Then a month later, there came the moment when we both fell.”

Vergil straightens up his body. The picture of his second dream of her comes up in his mind. The same soulless eyes that he saw back then when there was a murder in the library a few months ago appear once more on Lyra. Somehow, Vergil knows where this conversation is heading and he knows he won’t like it. “What do you mean by 'we’ ?”

The pure honesty in Lyra’s eyes makes Vergil’s blood curdle. “I told you, didn’t I? I don’t want to lie to you.”

---

It was the end of the fall season when six-years old Lyra woke up from her slumber. She glanced at the clock on the wall, grinning unconsciously. They say 3 o’clock in the morning is devil’s hour. Unable to go back to sleep, she grabbed her mauve cardigan and decided to take a little detour to the balcony. I could find some autumn constellation, she thought with excitement. She remembered her mother hadn’t packed the cool and sophisticated telescope she had always admired since the very first time Asteria brought it home, and she left it on the balcony this afternoon.

Little Lyra succeeded sneaking out from her bedroom. The mouthful and annoying nurse was nowhere to be seen. She was sure that Asteria is already sleeping. Lately, Asteria didn’t show her ‘lunatic’ nature to Lyra, which Lyra was grateful for. So when she found Asteria on the balcony, Lyra’s excitement instantly turned into fear. Her mother stood with her hands on the balustrade. The telescope was still there, but it seems like Asteria hadn’t used it again since the afternoon. Thinking that her mother wouldn’t notice her presence, Lyra tip-toed to going back to her chamber, but Asteria saw her and startled. It was almost like Asteria scared of being caught on the balcony.

“Solstice?” Asteria gasped. “Why do you— oh, never mind. You must be here to stargaze, aren’t you? Come here, sweets.” A warm smile appeared on her face as she sat on the chair and fixed the telescope.

Lyra’s fight or flight instinct soared up. It was already horrible to think her mother would scold her for sneaking from her bed, but the sullen face of Asteria was unsettling. It looked like she was able to burst any time soon.

“Come on,” Asteria insisted. “Look, there is Andromeda!”

Without making any sound, Lyra climbed on her mother’s lap timidly. Asteria told her to peek into the eyepiece, which Lyra reluctantly did.

“What do you think?” asked Asteria.

“Beautiful,” Lyra said. “But I don’t understand.”

“About what?”

“The pattern. Andromeda doesn’t look like she was chained. More like she fell from the sky and died on the ground.”

Asteria chuckled. “As per usual, sweets. You have a vivid imagination.”

“I just don’t like that story. It was Andromeda’s parents’ fault, but she was the one who got sacrificed.”

“The gods punished her parents too.”

“Yet the gods placed them among the stars. It’s not fair.” Lyra murmured.

“Well, it’s mythology,” Asteria caressed Lyra’s hair. “On the other side, I think Cassiopeia loved her daughter. Too much that she got the audacity to boast about Andromeda’s beauty. If she were really that self-centred, she’d boasted her own beauty instead.”

Lyra’s small hands adjusted the focusing knob slowly. “If she really loved her, she would think for her daughter’s safety.”

It took Asteria a quite long time to respond. She hugged her little daughter from behind, resting her head on Lyra's crown and massaging Lyra’s shoulders. “Why don’t you go back to sleep? It’s cold here.”

Mummy sounds tired, Lyra noticed. Yet asking questions right now wouldn’t be the best choice. Asteria gave her a good night kiss lightly before letting Lyra off from her lap.

“You’re right. Cassiopeia’s pride put her daughter in danger,” Asteria said, cuddling her daughter tightly. “I love you, Solstice. I’m sorry for everything.”

What was that? Lyra felt an itchy ache somewhere in her heart by just listening to her apology, but Asteria just smiled as if she had never said anything. She waved at her, telling her wish for Lyra to have a sweet dream.

Lyra walked away from her mother with heavy steps, despite her wish to stay a little bit longer. Asteria seemed to be in a good mood this time, and that tender side of her melted Lyra’s heart. She’s her mother, after all. She couldn’t help but love her unconditionally. I hope I don’t agitate her, she hoped as she turned her direction to enter the balcony again, planning to beg to stay for a while.

But when she turned around, the horror already waited for her there.

Lyra was screaming like a wild animal as she ran and ran...

“MUMMY!!!!!”

… towards Asteria, who jumped from the balustrade.

Don’t leave me here! Lyra’s body felt like it was burning in blaze. She could feel an overwhelming power within her burst out. Please God, let me use that power again!

Her breath got heavier as she jumped from the guardrail and reached her hand to her mother with a hope to save her. It felt like eternity when she realized that her mother was floating on the air instead of falling. With an eerie face, Asteria screamed her daughter’s name while she was brought by an invisible force to the rooftop again.

I did it! Lyra thought cheerfully, but not for long because she quickly realized her mysterious power didn’t bring her to the balcony too. She tried to focus on herself, doing whatever she can to release her power again. She knew her power was still raw and immature. She had planned to practice secretly tomorrow, but she had no idea that things would go south like this. The first was always luck or coincidence, Norma had said to Lyra when she found out Lyra’s little secret. But there will be no more luck for the second time. There is no such thing as coincidence, but synchronicity...

While Lyra was still thinking about why her power didn’t work, her body crushed on the ground violently.

She was sure she heard the sound of her fractured bones.

She had never experienced that kind of pain before. All those side effects from her medicines was nothing compared to this one. The pain gradually ended as the numbness consumed her body. She looked at the sky, thinking how poetic her fall was under the fair moonlight with her motionless body. She was sure she saw Asteria on the balcony, shrieking and saying something she could not comprehend. Why did she jump? Was that because of me? Maybe because I made Mummy angry again... maybe afterlife seems better than living with me...

Lyra was willing to go. Afterall, she was sick of being isolated. Death seems promising. At least she would be free from medicine and endless hope for getting a healthy body. I look like Andromeda , she thought as she felt her eyes getting heavier. Like someone lying dead on the ground.

She knew it’s time to go when her eyelids could barely manage to stay open. She hoped Asteria would live a better world without her. If only she could laugh right now, she would do it for the last time, so she wouldn’t feel too bitter about death.

Mum—

Unfortunately, she never got a chance to think further. The only thing she saw before she lost her consciousness was her mother climbing up the balustrade again, this time to follow her daughter to death.

---

“Stardust?”

The gentle voice of Vergil startles Lyra back to reality. She doesn’t know how long the time has passed since she told him how her mother died. The long, buried weariness and sadness inside her consumes her like she has just released a huge burden from her body at once.

“Sorry, I was preoccupied with my own head.” Lyra scratches her right ankle, a habit she couldn’t let go since that tragic day. “You alright?”

“I was supposed to be the one who asked,” the blue devil says. “Are you sure you’re going to continue? We could discuss this later.”

“Nah, I’m fine. Just adjusting myself because I’ve never opened up to anyone else before,” Lyra continues, ignoring Vergil’s pity look. “Anyway, after that, I woke up in the local hospital. They said my nurse heard my mother’s scream and went to check. That was how she found us and called the ambulance. When we reached the hospital, they said they couldn’t save us. They went insane because suddenly my heart started beating again in an hour. They put me under intensive care for three months. I got severely broken bones and head trauma—I needed to do a couple more surgeries and physiotherapy. They said it was a miracle for me to survive and recover rapidly.”

“That must have something to do with your power.” Vergil adds.

“That’s very likely. I woke up hearing voices and seeing things I wasn’t supposed to be. I thought I was just dreaming, but day by day I spent my time hospitalized, I knew it was real. Those voices and images were people’s thoughts,” Lyra chuckles with irony on her lips. “It was already too much for me to read minds at once, and then I found out that my mother died. I saved her life just for giving her a chance to jump again.”

She sounds ireful rather than sad, Vergil suspects. He can’t deny his instinct to not let his attention to Lyra’s right ankle, which he stores his suspicion for a long time.

“One day, Mum’s lawyer came to visit me at the hospital. She said since I’m an orphan and have no relatives, she will act as my guardian and I’ll receive inheritance whenever I reach legal age. The whole ‘guardian’ part was just formality because she’ll send me to an orphanage once I get discharged from hospital. Even I knew what she had stored in mind before she started to speak. But that didn’t really concern me,” Lyra takes a deep breath and exhales. Her expression is slightly twisted as she telekinetically raises a Rubik's cube and tears every cube apart before she smashes them into flakes.

What in the seven hells— “Lyra?” Vergil calls her, but the word seems unreachable to her.

“I was going to forgive my mother because I wanted her to rest in peace, yet again she proved it to me that she was a fucking devil.”

Another cube is crushed, followed by a loud cracking sound from the teacup.

“The lawyer couldn’t bear to tell me this, but she found fake prescriptions of my daily medicines and a drawer full of placebo pills in my mother’s room. The doctors told her that they found traces of placebo pills and a very tiny dose of rat poison inside me. A. Fucking. Rat. Poison—”

The radio on the kitchen counter starts playing by itself, followed by a loud bang from Lyra’s front door.

“It was all placebo. There was never a fucking SCID nor fucking illness. I was perfectly fine from the start! The only reason why I always felt sick was because of that rat poison and abominable suggestions from that fucking b—”

Vergil grips her shoulder. “Lyra, you will destroy the entire house. Please stay calm.”

The view of her floating table pulls Lyra back to the earth. She startles at first, but it doesn’t last as she finally gathers herself and puts the table back to the ground. The bleak on her face remains while she tightens up Vergil’s coat. “Sorry.”

“I told you to stop earlier.”

“I can never be ready to tell you the truth unless I do it right now.”

“Fine, but if I notice even a small sign of you going berserk again, we have to stop this conversation.”

“Deal.”

“Good. Then, did the nurse have any knowledge about the poisoning?”

Lyra shakes her head in disappointment. “She claimed that Mum just gave her my medical certificate and records, which the lawyer found to be fake. Mum made up those records as if they were authorized by a credible health facility. She made up things and fucked up my life for Hell knows what she was up to. Then she just fucking died and leaving me alone without any explanation on everything.”

Vergil wipes his face in frustration, This is more messed up than I thought it would be.

Lyra lets out a rugged laugh. “You know what happened next. The media never told people how my mother died.”

“That’s what I always thought to be very suspicious. They can’t just spread false rumour. There’s evidence, witnesses and statements from the police and hospital.”

“All I could think was that Asteria Crescent was an infamous astrobiologist with great reputation. Imagine if the world knew this brilliant person was a mad woman who poisoned her own daughter. That would destroy the reputation of academical world. Her good legacy must be remembered.”

“... Was that really easy for humans to alter the truth?”

The librarian laughs bitterly. “They do it all the time, Vergil. It’s easier than you think it is. Money talks louder than words. They must’ve silenced Mum’s lawyer too since she said nothing about the truth to me. I tried to tell them that my mother was insane and that wasn’t how she died, but they thought I was the one who lost my mind. PTSD, head trauma, reconstructed memory, call it what you want. I don’t know who started it, why and how, but they closed the case.”

“But who were these people? Why did such a grandiose plan just to cover up a scientist’s death?”

“Who knows. There’s always someone behind the stage.”

“And they really sent you to an orphanage?”

“Yes, maybe to shut my mouth. Mum’s lawyer managed my financial support, but she never showed up at the orphanage.”

Lyra bites her lips, like she doesn’t know how to continue and stumbles over her own words. She scratches her right ankle again. “Kids in the orphanage used to tease me for limping whenever I walked. It’s odd for me, even until now. The doctor said I had fully recovered, just needed to adjust myself to the outside world since I stayed indoors for too long. But the sore thing in my ankle here never really disappears. I never found out why. All doctors I’ve consulted with said despite the fading scar on the skin, my ankle is perfectly fine and should’ve been functional. People couldn’t even see me limping, at least until a certain sulky devil spotted it.”

“I’m not sulky.”

“The more you deny it, the more it’s true.”

“Your logical fallacy amuses me.”

A relieved laugh comes out from Lyra. “You got me there.”

With the smile on her face blooming again, Vergil feels a towering wave of unpleasant ache filling his whole heart. Right now, he can grasp the reason why Lyra acts too secretive. He knows that burden very well; to be unable to trust anyone but themselves. Lyra has never received the real love from her mother, which was different from Vergil. Her childhood and self-esteem were stolen from her own kin. That is also the reason why Lyra can easily understand him, despite his despicable sins. Lyra has already had the power and was able to save her mother, yet in the end Asteria chose to kill herself. Contrary to Vergil, who even had demon power since birth, but he couldn’t save his mother from her doom. His love for his family was Vergil’s motivation to gain more power, which is a total opposite from Lyra who hates her mother and resents her power. They are two sides of the same coin.

“Terra to Vergil?” Lyra snaps her fingers in front of Vergil’s face.

“Pardon me,” Vergil says. “I was just contemplating.”

“About what?”

“About how humans can be so much worse than demons. No offense.”

“None had taken.”

The blue devil hesitates before he asks. “How... How did you cope from that?”

“Hmmm...” Lyra mumbles and sighs heavily. “It’s not easy. It still affects me in a way. I grew up thinking that people can’t be trusted. Telepathy made it worse. I hesitate to live, but I don’t want to die either. It’s difficult to form any connection, no matter how much effort I took to fit in. I’m not even sure myself whether this is the real me or I’m just a skilled imitator who fits people’s expectations.”

She smiles, this time the gloom on her lips is fading. “I met people who were sincerely decent and empathetic. But somehow, I just couldn’t bring myself to open up and let them enter my circle. I used to blame my mum for this trust issue, but lately I suspect it was on me.”

“You’re not the one to blame, Lyra.”

Lyra shakes her head. “I choose to leave them before they get too close to me.”

“Because you don’t want people to see your scar?”

“I thought the reason I’m pulling myself from society was because I’m afraid that I’d get hurt. Took me a long time to realize that I’m worried that I’d hurt people. That’s what you got when you have a telepath as your friend. You’d get caught in endless insecurity of having your minds in constant danger, while I really don’t want to read one. If only Sparda’s magic didn’t protect you and Dante, you’d leave me since day one.”

“I won’t.”

“Mundus screwed up your brain, Vergil. You have a thousand reasons for hating telepaths.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I saw your dreams. I know how much you want to kill those who fucks with you.”

“And I saw yours too, Lyra. I know how much you hate your mother, but deep down you still love her. Even since you saw her falling from the balcony.”

The realization hits her hard. “Wait— you knew this all along?!”

“Forgive me, but you won’t tell me the truth unless I told you a white lie. Your hypothesis is true; that our dreams occurred simultaneously.”

“You—” Lyra glares at Vergil like he has done treacherous betrayal, but she gathers herself up since she knows she was the one who lied to him first. She can’t deny that everything he said was true. It has been said that the dead won’t stay only if the living sets them free. For Lyra, it jabs her heart whenever she tries to brush that fact away. She knows that her hatred would rot her soul, yet it’s difficult to forgive her mother, who had tried to end her life multiple times.

“I envy you, Vergil,” Lyra confesses. “You were an arsehole evil lord back then, but you had a reasonable motive for fighting. You have a family. I got none. I don’t see the point of keep going on. Everyone wants me dead.”

“People are afraid of what they don’t understand,” Vergil states without any doubts in his voice. “It’s understandable since you’re undeniably enigmatic and can be threatening. But my fool brother of mine was right; strength is a choice. You choose to be strong to prevent more loss. You have every right to live, for death is the end. Make a full life while it lasts.”

“I wonder if I had such a reason to stay.”

Vergil straightens up his seat with a wary and cautious expression. “Sometimes… It doesn’t have to be something big. “

“Such as?”

“I don’t know…” he chuckles half-heartedly. “Don’t you have something to cherish for? Something that makes you willing to trade your life with?”

“Hmmm…. I love my job. I love books and the stars. But I don’t think I’d give up my life for that...” Lyra hums indifferently. “I think not. Nothing very important in particular.”

“There are things that could be important, but not everything important is worth cherishing.”

“What makes it different?”

“As time goes on, important things could become less important. The urgency wears off,” Vergil says quietly as he curves a faint smile, reminiscing his bonding time with Nero. “But something precious, something you hold dear most... you will suffer when they are taken from you.”

“Something precious, huh...?” Lyra’s eyes wander off, her voice is softer than a whisper. “Like... you...?”

Vergil almost gets choked by his own breath. “Beg your pardon?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing!”

“I’m certain that you said something.”

“If you’re so certain about that, why can’t you listen and repeat back what I said?”

“Because I couldn’t hear that properly!”

“Your loss.”

“You meddlesome creature.”

“You angry kitten.” Lyra holds her mouth to prevent her laughter from going too loud.

Vergil glares at her. “What did you just call me?!”

“Nothing~ I’m sleepy~” Lyra stretches her arms, the corner of her eyes flashes a mischief as she glances to the oblivious Vergil. “Those self-help books were right. It’s relieving to have the right person to share the burden with—”

“Don’t you dare try to change the topic. If you ever call me an angry kitten again—”

“We’re still talking about that? Bloody hell, Vergil, I’m just kidding!” Lyra holds his palms and takes off his gloves. “Come on, we need to rest. You might be sober now but even the strongest demon needs to sleep.”

A light crumple curves on Vergil’s forehead. “Why do you take my gloves off?”

“Do you have a habit to keep your gloves on while sleeping?”

“Hold on,” Vergil hesitates as he pulls his hand. “You want me to sleep here? In your house?”

“Yup.”

“You know that it’s not… very decent for an unmarried woman and a man to stay under the same roof.”

“Since when do you care about custom?”

“I’m not necessarily care about customs,” Vergil grunts. “It’s your convenience that I’m concerned about.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Lyra cleans up the table and waves her hand to send the tray to the dishwasher before making her way to the bedroom. “But my sofa is too small for you, and considering I have a quite spacious bed that fits two people, I don’t see any reasons why I would let my friend freeze on the sofa.”

Lyra opens the door, glancing at Vergil and tilts her head as a sign for him to follow her into the bedroom.

~~~

A/N : the poem mentioned in this chapter is “Clair de Lune” by Paul Verlaine, which is the inspiration for Claude Debussy’s Clair de Lune

Tagging : @drusoona @harlot-of-oblivion @shiranyaaww @queenmuzz @rubixa-seraph @andieperrie18

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#devil may cry #devil may cry fanfiction #vergil x oc #vergil #vergil x lyra #spark of stardust #tales of apotelesma #original character #oc #lyra #night writes

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