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dakarimainink · 3 years

Text

Invitation

WARNING: 18+, SMUUUUUT, alcohol, public fingering, public orgasm, cocky attitude, bodily fluids, protected fucking, oral female receiving, multiple orgasm for female, orgasm, slight humiliation, a splash of angst, swearing, a hint of sub/dom, clit slapping (because lord have mercy)

Pairing: Dave York x You (Reader)

Wordcount: 7K

Note: Not betad, all mistakes are my own. omfg... this is a fuckin' mess!!!! this is the most warnings I've applied too.... This is my first work with Dave York and I loved how it turned out! Probably going to hell for this too

it started as a small idea and as I wrote, it just became longer and longer. 7K??? gah! I just fell straight for Dave York when I watched the equalizer 2 and omfg!!!

Anyway, just a second note to this story, you (reader) is a bit of a hopeless mess for this guy, just sayin'....

You're invited to the CIA gala dinner by Dave York and you accept.

Masterlist

It was the annual CIA gala dinner. Somehow, Mr. York had decided to bring you – his secretary – to the dinner, as his wife were out of town with the kids.

You had never been to such an event before and were worried perhaps you wouldn’t fit in. You certainly didn’t have the clothes for it, so you sought help from your friend, who had pulled you through nearly every clothing store in Washington. Dresses weren’t your thing, they were clingy, uncomfortable and the biggest crime of them all, no pockets.

After following tediously several YouTube videos on how to do makeup and hair, you finally were ready to leave for the gala. Your friend had suggested getting a coat with the dress, but you knew it was a one-time thing and therefore opted for your own black long-coat. Your friend had also lent them their silver clutch bag to match the little jewellery you had. You barely remembered last time you wore a necklace, but there it hung around your neck. A small little diamond droplet you had inherited from your mother (or was it grandmother?).

The doorbell rang and pulled you out of your thoughts. Your heart thumped a little harder as you walked towards your front door. You were nervous, not quite sure on how to behave or talk or even if you would recognise anyone there. The people you did work with – the other secretaries and office workers – weren’t even going to the event. It was only for the people higher up and you had received some strange looks when you told them.

You admitted to being honoured that Mr. York had asked you of all people, that he didn’t even chose to go alone. He could have even asked Alexis – a woman with style and class sitting higher up than yourself – as she was into him. The only reason you knew was because she never shut up about it whenever she engaged in conversations with you by the coffee machine.

She would gush about him like a schoolgirl, which was uncharacteristically of her. Whenever he passed by, not even glancing in your direction, she would almost squeal her heart out once he was out of sight. You knew she was only engaging with you in order to know Mr. York’s schedule and meetings, but you weren’t giving up that information so easily. You took your job seriously, mostly because you were desperate to keep it as you had been going from one workplace to the other for two years.

You admitted to yourself he was a good looking man, always cleanshaven, neatly dressed and always carried himself with such high authority. But he was married with children and in your book, that was hands off. You weren’t sure if it was Alexis who had smitten you or if his authoritative aura and stern voice whenever he asked you to do something, had led you to sometimes dream of him. But you had slapped yourself mentally and told yourself to not pursue it further than your dreams.

You remembered once she asked you why you kept calling him Mr. York, he had a first name after all. You had said truthfully, you did it out of respect, but there was another reason as well. You were afraid that if you called him by his first name, you would trick yourself into thinking you would ever have a chance with him. The only time you did say his first name, was when your fingers were deep inside your drenching pussy, moaning out his name as you came undone.

You brushed the crease on your high cut black dress before reaching for the door handle. You knew it was him on the other side who had come to pick you up.

You opened up the door and found Mr. York standing tall with his back to the door, looking at your front porch. He turned around and his eyes widened at your presence. They drew across your body as his lips parted with a slow exhale. His eyes lingered for a moment on your exposed leg before they drew up again to meet your eyes.

“Miss Y/L/N you look…” His eyes roamed your body again, taking in the sight of you before locking eyes with you once more. “Divine.”

Mr. York was particular with his words. He believed choosing once words carefully would aid one to a clearer understanding of once intentions. The fact that he chose to use “divine” to describe you, sent delicious shivers down your spine.

“Thank you, Mr. York.” You felt a blush creep up your cheeks. “You look handsome.” You added, trying to avert attention from yourself. And he was mouth-watering handsome; dressed in a dark blue three piece suit, white shirt and black tie. His hair was styled and he was newly shaven.

He stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets and smirked at your compliment. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yes, just let me get my coat and clutch bag.” You turned around, grabbed your coat and swung it around your body before sliding your arms in. You picked up your bag and made sure you had everything you needed. You locked your front door and followed Mr. York outside.

He opened the door to his black BMW and held your hand as you sat down into the passenger seat. He closed the door after you and got around and into the driver’s seat.

As he sat down, the smell of his spicy cologne hit your nose and you inhaled deeply. As you exhaled, you realised he was looking at you curiously. You cleared your throat and felt a heat wash over you. You reached for the seatbelt and secured it.

He did the same before starting the engine. The roar of the motor startled you and you held onto your bag. He placed his hand on the shift stick and looked at you. “Everything okay?” He asked softly.

You swallowed thickly, trying hard not to rub your thighs together as his eyes lingered on you. “Y-yes, just a bit anxious.” You admitted and shifted in your seat. You darted out your tongue to dampen your lips. His eyes immediately snapped to your shimmering mouth and you couldn’t help but nervously smile.

“There’s no need to be, I’ll take care of you.”

Your lips parted at his words. Oh god how you wanted this man to tend to you and your desires. You pressed your thighs together as you looked away, trying hard to be as discreet as possible. You could feel his gaze lingering on you, which made you squirm on the inside, fighting the urge to throw yourself at the man sitting next to you.

The engine roared again before you drove off to the gala.

~~~

On arrival, a man dressed in a black tuxedo opened the door for you and assisted you in getting out. You decided to leave your coat in the car, as you were told the event would be completely indoors.

A second man held the door open for Mr. York before he handed the man his keys to park the car. You stood still as you waited for Mr. York to arrive by your side, your eyes wandering the tall outside walls and windows, a warm light emitting from inside.

You walked nervously next to him, your fingers clutching onto your bag as you stepped up the small flight of stairs to the entry. Mr. York handed the invitations over to the man by the entrance before the door was pushed open by a second man. A mellow glow of light shone through and a wall of chatter hit your ears.

As you passed the threshold your eyes widened at the amount of people grouped up all around the grand ballroom. Great chandeliers hung from the ceilings above the many round tables decorated with expensive dining ware and huge vases overfilled with big bouquets of flowers. There was a golden glow all around the room, making it almost like a lucid dream.

Your presence caught people’s attention as you stood by the door. You gulped nervously as you felt eyes burning into you. You wanted to run and hide. You wanted to curl up in Mr. York’s embrace and melt away. You sensed a sting of regret as you stood there like a piece of exhibition for anyone to ogle at.

Your eyes widened as you felt a warm hand on your exposed lower back. You turned your head and met a pair of calm brown eyes. He leaned close to your ear. “Relax, Y/N.” He whispered, the breath tickling your skin.

You let out a shuddering breath. “Everyone’s looking.” You mumbled back, feeling small in such a huge room with high-ranking people.

“I can’t blame them; the view is stunning after all.” He smirked and straightened up. A man dressed in the same outfit as the men outside, held up a tray with champagne glasses. Dave picked up one and handed it to you. You looked at him questioning. “You might as well enjoy it all.”

You took the glass from him and took a sip. The taste was crispy with a hint of apple. He retrieved his hand from your back and held it in front of you. “I won’t let anyone get near you.”

You glanced at his hand and believed him. Your eyes darted at the several hungry-looking men before placing your hand in his. He gave it a small squeeze before leading the way into the room.

“Thank you, Mr. York.”

He scoffed in amusement. “No need to be so formal, Y/N. Call me Dave, I insist.” Your eyes met and for a moment, the buzzing around you drowned out. You could stay connected with them until the end of time. He guided you through the crowd of people, giving a nod here and a shake there as you walked. You didn’t recognise anyone or any of the names as Dave greeted them one by one.

“Ah, Dave. It’s good to see you.” A man dressed in a black and white suit came wandering over to you with a woman next to him in a red dress. “And who is this sweet little bird?” His eyes roamed your body and lingered on your chest. “Didn’t know you had a mistress on the side, Mr. York.” He winked and looked at Dave next to you, who had a stern frown painted on his face.

You uncomfortably took a long sip from your champagne, feeling out of place with a hint of disgust the minute the man had said his first word approaching you.

Dave’s arm immediately went around your waist and pulled you a little closer. “Mr. Brown, this is Y/N.” You could feel the heat radiating from him through his suit. “Y/N, this is Michael Brown and his wife Alexis Brown.”

It took you a moment to register it was in fact Alexis from the office. This would explain why he didn’t invite her. Your eyes met and you could see the jealousy drip from her pores as she gave you the most toxic smile you had ever seen someone give you.

“Ah, the secretary.” She scoffed. “Wife busy, Mr. York? I thought you would at least settle for something more…” She wiped her upper lip with her tongue. “… séduisant.”

You furrowed your brows at the last word. You had no idea what it meant but you sure as hell knew there was something venomous behind it. It made your blood boil and all you could think of was spitting something back at her, but what? You didn’t even know what she said and it just frustrated you further.

“Alexis, the day I want to invite a snake, I’ll make sure to keep you in mind.” Dave bit back and his words took you all by surprise. “By the way, how is Jonathan at eleventh floor? I heard he helped you with a copying issue last week.”

Your jaw dropped.

Alexi’s eyes narrowed.

Michael’s lips turned thin. “No need to ruin the mood, Mr. York. We get your point.” Michael said through clenched teeth. “We’ll leave.” He grabbed Alexis’ wrist and pulled her with him as they stomped through the crowd.

You looked up at Dave who kept his eyes at the couple until they were gone. He turned to you and placed his hands on both your arms. “Are you okay?” He asked concerned, as if you had been hit by a truck, which it felt like considering the scene that just unfolded right in front of you. His thumb lightly caressed your skin and you felt your knees tremble slightly.

“I’m just…” You stumbled at a loss for words. The mixture of alcohol, his presence and caress made your head swim. “What did she say?”

He gave you a half smirk and let his hands fall to his side. “Doesn’t matter, it was rude and she got what she deserved.” He looked around the room, noticing the crowds were wandering towards the tables. “Let’s find some seats.” He took your hand in his and led you through the room.

Dave held your chair and assisted you in sitting down. Once seated he sat down in the chair next to you, sliding the chair a little closer to yours. You could feel the warmth emit through his clothes and you swallowed thickly. Inhaling once again his musky scent and exhaled slowly. Fuck he smelled good.

You quickly reached for your champagne glass and downed the whole drink. You didn’t remember the last time you had drunk alcohol and realised it was probably a mistake to even drink it, as the liquor had a pretty fast effect on your body, especially considering you had only eaten breakfast that day.

Your eyes roamed the faces of the table, but you realised there was no point to it, as you didn’t recognise any of them. You hadn’t even seen their faces before, let alone even heard their names. You kept your hands twiddling in your lap as you kept looking down on the big round plate with nothing on top. You could feel a slight growl in your stomach and darted your gaze around to make sure no one heard it.

It would be hard of course, as everyone around you were too busy chatting with each other. Some were talking about finances, others about their families and Dave –

“Well yes, unfortunately my wife is out of town this weekend, but luckily I was accompanied by this lovely lady.” You felt a hand gently wrap around one of your twiddling hands, his fingers brushing against your thigh as he grabbed it. You inhaled sharply as your eyes locked with his. “Y/N, I would like to introduce you to the director of public affairs; Caleb Wallace.”

You put on your warmest smile and reached your hand over to him. He gladly shook it with a firm grip. “Pleasure to meet you, Y/N. Dave told me you’re working as his secretary and that he is very satisfied with your work.”

Your eyes jumped to Dave who seemed to hold by that statement. You weren’t sure if he was lying or not, but you decided to take it. If he had said it, then he probably meant it.

“Well, I wish he had told me those words as well.” You chuckled jokingly.

Caleb laughed with you, finally letting go of your hand. “Why yes, isn’t that always the struggle. Praise is often heard by the ones it’s not directed at.”

You leaned back and saw the stern underlying face on Dave. You gulped as his eyes barely narrowed onto you and you felt your heart drop. You realised your mistake already and cursed yourself for drinking the champagne.

He turned his head to Caleb with a grin, joining in on the joke, but you knew he was upset with what you had said. “Well, I am sure she will see the value of her hard work once we go over the yearly results and the bonus she might get.”

You turned away from the men and chewed on your inner cheek as you stared back at the plate in front of you. Your heart skipped a beat when a man suddenly leaned on your left and poured champagne into your empty glass. You were about to protest when you felt a squeeze on your hand. You looked down and found Dave was still holding it.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea I have any more.” You mumbled as the waiter continued to pour drinks for the rest of the table.

Dave leaned closer to you. “You don’t have to drink it, but it’s nice to have an option, isn’t it? I also heard it pairs good with the meal we’re soon to be served.” He winked and leaned back before turning back to Caleb.

You stared at the bubbly glass and agreed, it was nice to have an option. And you believed if you were to survive this evening, you needed some liquor courage. Out of habit, you reached for the glass and took a sip as you felt the anxiety linger as some eyes continued to glance at you from around.

The meal was served; slow cooked brisket with wine and mushroom sauce, served with side of homemade creamy mashed potatoes, along with a slightly buttered and grilled zucchini and squash vegetables.

Your mouth watered instantly the smell hit your nose and you dampened your lips in anticipation. You picked up your fork and knife and begun to eat. The room almost fell silent as everyone ate their served meal. The taste was better than you imagined and your stomach were silently thanking you for finally eating something.

As you ate, the older woman sitting next to you on your left had begun a light conversation with you. When you told her you were a secretary, she had really shown interest, as she said it was how she had first begun working for the CIA.

“Never let men walk all over you, you hear me?” She had begun sternly. “If anyone tries anything funny, if they even step a toe over your personal line, you make sure to tell them.”

You knew her words were meant as good, but you couldn’t help but notice a slight tinge of toxicity in her tone. She must have gone through quite a bit of struggle to give such a warning to you, but you knew this yourself, considering the struggle you went through on your third full-time job. You had made sure to clap back at him when you saw him go from annoying you to the newest girl at work.

You finished your meal and alternated from having a conversation with Caleb and Dave, to the older woman next to you, Rosa Shell.

As you were turned to Rosa, you felt something bump into your knee. You looked down underneath the tablecloth and saw Dave had widened his legs apart as he was speaking with Caleb. The movement took you by surprise and you couldn’t help but notice the slight bulge growing in his trousers. You darted your eyes up to the flower bouquet adorning the middle of the table and shallowly breathed through your lips.

“Is everything alright, my dear?” Rosa asked and took your hand.

You cleared your throat before turning back to her. “Yes, just… it’s a bit warm in here.” You lied. Although it wasn’t a complete lie, the mix of alcohol and Dave’s innocent touch had made your ears burn.

Rosa nodded in agreement. “It sure is. Why don’t we, after dessert, step outside for some air.”

“Dessert?”

And as you said those words, a plate adorned with a chocolate souffle was placed in front of you. You blinked down at it, not being prepared for a dessert to be served. You shifted in your chair and glanced over at Dave who seemed preoccupied talking with Caleb and another man next to him again.

You were about to take a bite of your souffle, when you felt a hand rest on the middle of your thigh. Your eyes widened and you looked down, seeing it was Dave’s hand. You breathed as slowly and controllably as you could, trying not to let it get to you.

You took your first bite as you chose to ignore the heat enveloping between your legs. The chocolate melted on your tongue and you felt your body relax a little, until you felt a light squeeze on your flesh. You turned your head slowly and met a pair of dark brown eyes. You held your own breath as you scanned his face. His fingers were gently rubbing into your skin and you felt your panties getting wet already.

There was a smirk hiding on his lips as he leaned closer to you. “You seem a bit flustered, Y/N.” He whispered. “Could it be because you haven’t had any relief all day?”

You titled back and looked at him with wide and confused eyes. How did he know? And how can this man have such an effect on you? He’s just resting his hand on your thigh.

He let out a scoff. “You don’t think I noticed your dilated pupils, trembling breath and rubbing thighs in the car?”

You swallowed thickly as a blush crept up your cheeks. You felt your whole body heating up as his fingers reached between the slit on your dress and to the inside of your thigh. You inhaled sharply at the touch of his fingers against your skin.

“Mr. York…”

“Dave.” He reminded you with a dark gaze.

“Dave…” You corrected yourself. “I don’t think…” His fingers slowly slid up your thigh along your ever heating flesh.

“Think what?”

Your jaw trembled. “I don’t think this is appropriate.” You squeezed out, trying to hold your composure.

At the apex of your thigh, he dug his fingers into your skin. “But rubbing your thighs together and spreading that sweet aroma of yours in my car is?”

You let out a shuddered breath and wrapped your left hand around his wrist. You wanted to push him away, but your body was already betraying you and you let him close the gap to your aching mound.

His fingers brushed against the fibres of your panties and a dark grin grew on his lips. You saw he felt it and your ears burned red. He tilted his head in a mocking way as his fingers pressed against your clit. Your lips parted at his touch and your fingers dug into his skin.

“Don’t.” You whispered, begged.

His fingers circled your clit slowly. “Don’t what?” He asked, as if he had no idea what you were talking about.

Before you could reply, his fingers slid between the folds of your clothed mound, feeling your juices seep through the fibres. Your right hand snapped to his thigh and you held your breath as he teased you.

Your jaw trembled as you tried to speak up.

“Don’t what, Y/N? We need to communicate in order to understand each other.”

Oh, he was enjoying this. You could see the mocking glee spread across his face as he continued to massage your nub.

You took a deep shuddering breath, ready to tell him to retrieve his hand from your dripping cunt and leave you be, but…

“Don’t stop.”

Fuck…………………………………

He seemed just as surprised as you were. His lips parted in disbelief as he scanned your face.

You tried to speak up again, to say that’s not what you meant, but it was what you meant. God, you had been thinking about having this man fuck you for weeks and now he had his fingers rubbing your soaked panties in the middle of a gala dinner, surrounded by high ranking people you would probably never see again.

He hooked your panties to the side and as soon as his warm fingers slid between your folds, you squeezed your hand on his thigh. He pushed two fingers into your mound, massaging your walls and your eyelids fell heavy.

He leaned close to your ear. “Keep your composer.” He ordered and rubbed your clit with the heel of his palm.

You clenched your jaw as he pumped his fingers in and out of you. You let go of his wrist and forcefully placed your hand on top of the table, trying hard to not moan as you felt your walls tighten around him. You bit your lower lip and stared at the flowers in front of you.

You couldn’t believe Dave York was fingering you in public like this. Not only could it expose you, but it could get you both fired. It could easily ruin both of your lives, but here he sat; fingers deep and eyes fixated at the restraint on your face.

He felt your legs quiver and knew you were at the verge of coming. A smirk grew on his lips as he rubbed your clit faster, pressing harder into you.

Your fingers grasped at the table as you clenched around his fingers. Your abdomen tightened and you almost choked on your breath as you forced yourself to not cry out in pleasure. Your whole body were set on fire and you coughed in order to get something out of you. You tilted your head back as you inhaled deeply with lips parted wide. You breathed out shuddering and swallowed thickly. You lowered your head, terrified of meeting anyone’s eyes.

Dave retrieved his hand and you both saw his fingers shimmer in the low glow from the chandeliers. He admired it for a moment before leading it up to his mouth and cleaned them with his mouth, sounding a low hum from his chest.

Rosa turned to you and placed a hand on your shoulder. “My dear, are you alright? You’re at the brim of sweating.” She asked with a worried look.

You kept your head low as you stared at the souffle on your plate. You were still on your high wave and had no way of speaking.

Dave placed his hand on your forehead and your eyes widened as you smelled the lingering aroma of your juices from his fingers. “Hmm, you’re very warm, Y/N. Perhaps I should take you home.”

You nod. It’s all you can do. He gets up from his chair and assist you in standing up. You leaned onto him as your legs still felt like jelly.

Fuck, it had been a long time since you had come that hard. It was almost embarrassing how quickly he made you come as well. You barely remembered the last time you even got laid. The thoughts made you squirm inwards. You just begged no one else could smell your pussy as you made your way out to the car.

~~~

You opened your clutch bag and fiddled around to get out your keys. You felt Dave’s eyes burn into the back of your neck. You pulled out your keys and froze, feeling flustered at what had happened during the dinner. A tinge of irritation and embarrassment washed over you as you thought back on you coming by the table.

You whipped around and gave him a stern look. It was time you told him you shouldn’t have done it and you expected him to never do such a thing again.

“That was not okay.” You barked out, trying hard to be upset about the situation. Deep down you knew you enjoyed it, having him play with you like that. “Do you have any idea how embarrassing that was?”

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and cocked his head to the side. “It didn’t sound like it when you told me to not stop.” He began casually. “It didn’t feel like it when you were already soaked before I could reach that aching cunt of yours.” He took a step closer to you, making you press your back against the cold door. “It didn’t look like it when your whole body shuddered at the orgasm I gave you.” He raised his hand to your cheek and gently stroked it. “It didn’t smell like it when that sweet honey of yours seeped between your thighs and it most certainly didn’t taste like it when I enjoyed the hint of you on my fingers.”

His words had you panting as he held your chin in a tight grip. You were dripping once again and you were about to press your legs together, when his knee was placed between your thighs. Your lips parted in surprise as you met his eyes.

“Aroused?” He asked in a fruity and teasing tone. You swallowed thickly as you breathed between your parted lips. He glanced down at your legs pressing against his knee. He shook his head with a smirk before his eyes snapped to yours. He scanned your face with a stern look. “I want you to unlock that door of yours and then I’ll give you a choice.” He loosened his grip on your chin and peeked at your plump lips. He swiped his thumb across your lower lip. “Either you tell me good night and I will leave without question. We will pretend as if this evening never happened and you will continue to work as my secretary. Or…”

You had already decided that the first option was the best. You had to set down your foot and leave this night behind you.

He dipped his head down and brushed his lips against yours before tilting back again, looking at you. Your head moved forward, wanting to kiss him before you forced yourself back. The movement made him smirk. “You let me in and I will make you come twice more.” He whispered.

You felt like someone had smacked you across the face as his words hit your eardrums. Did he just…? Your mound screamed at you to just fuck this man right there. You gaped at him in disbelief.

He let go of your chin and took a step back, giving you room to think and to breathe. Your legs immediately clapped and you pressed them together, feeling embarrassment wash over you at how turned on you were. You were glad you had the door to lean on as you felt your knees already struggling. But no, you couldn’t let this man do this to you. You had to say no. You had to.

He stood unbothered in front of you with hands in his pockets. He kept his eyes on your face, trying to see what was going on inside.

You gulped and turned around, keys in hand and guided the key to the lock with a shaky hand. You struggled to get it in and it didn’t take long until his hand wrapped around yours and helped you steady your trembling. The heat of his body seeped through your coat as he leaned into you. You heard him inhale your scent deeply and you couldn’t help but exhale unsteadily.

You managed to turn the key yourself and open the door. You stepped across the threshold and turned around to find him standing still. He was looking at you patiently, waiting for you to make your choice.

Good night. Good night. Good night. Good night. You chanted it like a mantra inside your head as you held his gaze. You’re not welcome in. You’re not welcome in. You’re not welcome in.

You’re not wel- “Come in.”

Oh, for fucks sake…………………………………

He dampened his lips as he dragged his fingers through his hair. He sauntered past you and into your entry hall. You shook your head at yourself. I need more self-control, what is wrong with me.

You closed the door and turned to him. He was standing sideways, looking up and down your body. The stare made your skin heat up immediately and a blush crept to your cheeks. It was already too late. Your body had spoken. Your mouth had spoken. Every part of you yearned for this one man who were now standing in your hallway, scrutinising every inch of your delicate frame.

You licked your lips and caught your lower lip with your teeth. You didn’t know where this was going. Perhaps he had said it as a joke? To test you. Oh god, what if you had failed. You were about to open your mouth, when he took three long strides towards you and pressed you against the front door. The lion had you cornered and your body cried for more.

You inhaled sharply as his hands roamed down your waist and he placed fervent kisses on your neck and along your jaw. He caught your lips and begun a slow dance with your tongue. His hands slid up your body and squeezed around your breasts. You moaned into his mouth and he kneaded the flesh, surely to leave bruises the next morning. You wrapped your arms around his neck and felt your pussy drip with excitement.

He grabbed your wrists and placed them above your head against the door. He ended the kiss, hungry and determined eyes met your aching ones. “Keep them there.” He ordered and trailed kisses along your jaw and down your throat.

You gasped for air as he slowly went down to his knees. You looked with wide eyes down at him. He tilted his head back and met your gaze. His eyes were dark with desire as he grabbed the hems of your slit in your dress. You breathed faster as he fisted the silk between his fingers.

A loud rip sounded through the house as he tore the dress apart. You let out a cry of surprise as he smirked up at you. The slit, once ended at your thigh, was now open all the way to your navel.

“Legs apart.” He growled, already smelling your arousal. You did as you were told and he bent forward, biting your inner thigh. Your arms flew down to his hair in plea. He lifted his hand and gave your cunt a slap, eliciting a yelp of surprise and pleasure. “I instructed you to keep your arms above your head.” He reminded you and you heaved for air as you rose them above your head again.

He kissed and nibbled at your flesh as he moved closer and closer to the apex of your thigh. You were fighting against moving your arms as he closed in on your aching mound.

He hooked the sides of your panties and pulled them down slowly. He inhaled deeply as the smell of your honey reached his nostrils and he let out a shuddering breath. You kept looking down on him, seeing how he admired the sight in front of him. He tilted his head slightly back and caught your eyes. He held it as he moved closer and you could feel his hot breath on your skin.

He drew the flat of his tongue between your petals and growled as he tasted you on his tongue. Your eyes fluttered shut as he circled your clit with his tongue. He rose his hand and pushed two fingers into your dripping cavern. You moaned out as he massaged your inner walls.

Your arms lowered down and you wrapped one hand around the door handle for support and one hand grabbed your breast, kneading the flesh to soothe the sexual frustration building within you. He pressed his fingers deeper into you and it made you buck your hips forward. He jerked out of you and snapped his head back. Before you could look down on him, you felt a sting on your pussy and a cry of pleasure left your trembling lips.

“Stand still.” He snarled. You looked down at him through heavy eyelids and nodded apologetically. No one had treated you like this; dominating your movement. Your body loved every part of it.

His expression softened and he dove straight between your legs again. He lifted up your leg and placed it over his shoulder. With three fingers in and the flat of his tongue pressing on your clit, you felt your knees starting to shake and your walls clench.

He sucked and circled your clit as he curled his fingers in, massaging your g-spot. A shock shot through your body and you gasped for air as your stomach clenched. “Dave…” You rasped when you tripped over the edge. Your body lit up and delicious sparks flew through your veins as you came undone. Both your hands grasped at his hair and he growled as he lapped up every drop dripping out of your pussy.

He rose to his feet and crashed onto your lips immediately. You could taste yourself on his tongue as it made you groan. Your fingers entangled into the back of his hair and you lightly tugged at it as you felt his erection against your abdomen.

He broke the kiss and placed wet kisses on your neck, sucking gently on your pulse. “Are you protected?” He murmured against your skin as he worked the clasp on his belt.

You cursed at yourself. You had stopped taking pills about a year ago, finding it a waste of money as you didn’t have a boyfriend. “N-no.” You stuttered.

He reached into his inner suit jacket pocket. He pulled out a thin foil packet and gave you a wink. “I had an intuition.” He smirked proudly. He pulled the jacket off and threw it to the side, letting it land on the hallway bench.

He unzipped his trousers and pulled out his throbbing cock. You gaped down at the sight of it, seeing the precum on his head glisten in the light. He held up the packet by your mouth and looked at your lips. “Bite.” He ordered with a breathy voice.

You bit down on the corner of the pack and he pulled it to the side, making a tear. He pulled the condom out and rolled it onto himself. He pulled your leg up and placed himself by your opening. He kissed you hard as he slowly pushed himself inside you. Your walls moulded to his entry as he pushed all the way in, kissing your cervix.

You both moaned heavily as you were connected, revelling on the incredible feeling. He pressed his forehead against yours and sighed heavily. “Fuck, you’re tight.” He rasped.

You let go of his hair and wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to you. He grabbed the hem of your dress and pushed it to the side. His hand slid around your other thigh and he pulled you up. You immediately wrapped your legs around his hips and he pressed you harder against the door, his cock going deeper into you. You snapped your head back against the door and let out a cry of pleasure.

He pushed out of you before slamming in again, forcing the air out of your lungs. His hips moved back and forth in a passionate pace. Your walls sucked him in every time he pulled out and pushed him out whenever he slammed in. You felt his cock throb inside your cunt as he continued to fuck you to oblivion.

You dipped your head forward and left fervent kisses on his neck and jawline. He moved his head back and caught your lips, kissing you hard as he felt your walls clench around him. “I need you to come for me.” He gasped between kisses. “Come for me.”

You broke away from the kiss and pressed you head against his shoulder as he thrusted harder into you. You knew if anyone walked past your home, they would hear the door slam in its hinges and the lock rattle. You loved how he wasn’t careful with you, that he didn’t think you were a porcelain doll easily broken. It made your head swim.

Your abdomen tightened and your toes curled as a heat exploded within you. Your fingers dug into his back as he fucked you through your orgasm. You gasped for air as he trusted once more inside you and stilled deep within. He grunted out as he came undone and his fingers dug into your thighs, leaving more marks on your skin. You both shuddered and heaved for air as he rested his forehead on your shoulder.

He carefully let you down to your feet and you immediately reached for the doorhandle to lean on. You felt your knees shake and you struggled to stand up. He admired the hopeless sight of you and helped you sit down on the small hallway bench.

Your eyes fluttered open and you saw him take the condom off. He tied a knot on it and put it in his trouser pocket. He tucked himself back in, zipped up and buckled his belt. As he turned to you with a cocky smirk, he dragged his fingers through his hair and readjusted his tie.

He took a step closer to you and caught your chin between his thumb and index finger. He leaned down and tenderly kissed you. You felt the high of your orgasm calm down and you could focus in on his face. He straightened up and picked up his suit jacket, swung it around and slid his arms in. “I’ll repay you for the dress.” He said apologetically and bent forward to caress your cheek. “I’m looking forward to see you on Monday.” He kissed your forehead before he walked over to the door. He placed his hand on the handle and looked over his shoulder. “Preferably without underwear.” He opened the door and stepped outside. He gave you a last look, savouring the beautiful sight and closed the door behind him.

You sat still on the bench, feeling your legs still trembling and your pussy sore. You still couldn’t believe you just got fucked by Dave York.

(Wanna be added to my tag list for Pedro Pascal and his characters? Let me know and I will happily add you)

@cynic-spirit, @lililolli, @notabotiswear, @sara-alonso, @blankmooon, @ah-callie, @mamacitapascal

#Pedro pascal #Dave york #the equalizer 2 #Dave york x reader #Dave york x you #Dave york x Y/N #smut #writing #fanfic #fanfiction #ao3

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random-imagines-blog · 4 years

Text

Shine {Tom Cruise x Reader One Shot}

Requested by: @beatlebabe1996 Wordcount: 2236 Summary: Great food, great dancing, and a bit of jealousy - what more could a date need?

As early 2000s as this was about the sound - the club was popping. It wasn’t the usual sort of club filled with twenty years grinding on one another with barely distinguishable beats playing in the background. It was a Latin club, with food and dancing and drink. The spice of the food was rivaled by the spice of the band that was playing tonight. This was where you felt the most in your element, this was your place. And that was why you had brought your date here tonight. It was also relatively low-key, where most of the people were focused on the band and the chef rather than the patrons. Something that your date for the night, a Mr. Tom Cruise, appreciated. You recommended a dish for him and that was what he had ordered - a definitely win in your books. You liked a man who was adventurous and yet trusting. He knew that you knew what you were doing.

“So you come here often then?” Tom asked, leaning back in his chair. He had shed his leather jacket to show the red button up shirt that he was wearing. It was tight on the arms, showing off the muscles that his constant work-out routine had produced. The color was great too, it added a little Latin flair to him. Your own outfit matched almost perfectly.

“I’m a regular,” You admitted, leaning in, playing with the straw of your drink. “The staff all know me by name here. It’s how I knew that we would be safe. They don’t care about celebrities so they won’t be posting anything on social media about your visit.”

“Our visit,” Tom laughed, taking a drink of his beer. “You seem more like the celebrity here. Even the band has been looking at you.”

“It’s rare that I sit down this long,” You admitted. Your eyes caught that of the waitress coming around, your food on her platter. You straightened up and licked your lips, more than ready for the meal.

“What do you mean?” Tom asked, straightening himself up as well. There was a smile, and then thank yous to the waitress, and forks were picked up.

“Oh, I hit the dance floor,” You grinned, a sparkle in your eye. “That’s one of the best reasons to come here. The music, the dancing, the atmosphere. You get a good coupe of people on that floor, the whole place will be moving. Are you up for the challenge after we eat?”

“I don’t know if I’m going to be able to stand after all of this,” Tom laughed, digging into the food on his plate. You chuckled along with him, but remained hopeful. Dancing was one of your absolute favorite things to do, and not to toot your own horn, but you were good at it. No matter how handsome or famous this man was, he wasn’t going to be able to get into your heart without taking a few steps.

“Is that so?” He asked. You nodded, and watched as he took his first bite. You were waiting with bated breath to find out if he enjoyed it as much as you hoped that he would. He chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, then took a sip of water. “Spicy,” He explained. You nodded again, and continued to look, waiting for an opinion and not a fact. “It’s really good.”

“I knew you would think so!” You stabbed your fork into your own food, cutting off a piece for your consumption. “The food here is the best too. It’s the most underrated restaurant in the city, but it’s kind of great that way. No lines to get in. Plenty of room for dancing. And the food never takes too long to get to the table.”

“My kinda place,” Tom said with a grin. You two ate in relative silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was just two people enjoying a meal, and each others company. Every time that his foot bumped against yours under the table, though, you felt like you were going to start blushing. You thought about saying something about it but decided to just let the moment be that - a moment, without you ruining it. “Should we get dessert?” He asked after you two finished eating, picking up the small dessert menu that was on the table. You were about to recommend one of the items when you were interrupted.

“Y/N!” One of the waiters, Antonio said, coming up to your table. “I just noticed you were here. I got assigned to the left section tonight. How are you doing? You look amazing tonight.”

“Oh hey, thank you. I tried my best. Date and all,” You said with a grin, looking over at Tom. He chuckled, and looked back at the dessert menu. “How are you doing, Antonio?”

“Same old, same old. Just got on my break.” He said, looking between you and Tom with a grin. He raised his eyebrow at you as if to say, ‘Really? You bagged Tom Cruise?’ To which you just replied with a confident nod and a smirk in return. “I was going to ask if you wanted to dance, but since you’re busy, I’ll go and find Gabriella-”

“And get your toes trod on?” You asked in horror. You loved the bartender, she was a complete sweetheart and always full of laughs, but she was a horrible dancer. “Do you mind, Tom? At the very least, let me help save this guys feet.”

“Not at all,” Tom said, still perusing the menu, though it was rather short. He must be reading through the ingredients or something. “I’m excited to see your moves.”

“Better watch then,” You winked daringly at him, before allowing yourself to be lead to the dance floor. Normally you wouldn’t let even wild horses drag you from a date, especially from someone as good looking, kind and charming as Tom. But this was also a chance to show off for him.

Dancing had been an outlet for you all of your life. It gave you a sense of control over your body that you could feel good about, especially when you had been a teenager and it felt like you didn’t have control over anything. It brought on a confidence that you needed to get to where you were in life. And that confidence landed you a date with one of the best men that the city, perhaps even the world, had to offer. The fame wasn’t a bonus to you, the attention wasn’t something that you craved. It was just him as a person, and you felt so completely lucky that he even looked at you twice. You didn’t even know that he felt the same way about you.

The band started up a beat with a strong rhythm and a quick tempo. It was perfect for Salsa dancing, which was exactly what you wanted. You and Antonio both knew the moves like the back of your hand, which meant you didn’t have to waste time worrying about getting everything right. You could just relax and have some fun.

Your heels clicked against the hardwood floors of the restaurant as you danced with Antonio. You started apart, and then slowly came together, a familiarity between the two of you because you had been friends for so long. You had been dancing together since you started coming here as a teenager, when he had just been a bus boy. You shimmied your hips as you two spun around one another, under each other’s arms, him dipping you, back and forth. It was a very sexy way of dancing. A very sensual and fiery dance. But you kept things under control, making sure not to get too close. You did have your date watching after all.

Your eyes kept flickering over to him to see that he was watching very intently. In fact, there was a look on his face that was almost jealousy. He couldn’t stop looking at you. Even as you and Antonio separated for a small part of the song, he was following you, and not Antoni, who was probably a better dancer than even you. You shot him a smile, then got right back into it, ending it with a couple more twirls and then the song came to a finish. You were a little breathless but also exhilarated, a high that only exercise could bring.

“Always a pleasure,” Antonio said with a little bow. “And my toes thank you.”

“You’ve really got to get yourself a girlfriend,” You chuckled. You turned to go back to your table, only to find that it was empty because Tom was approaching you on the dance floor.

“Mind if I cut in?” He asked to Antonio, though his voice wasn’t nearly as pleasant as it was when you had been taking earlier. “Considering we’re on a date and all, I would think not.”

Ouch.

“All yours,” Antonio said, bowing his head towards Tom as well. He raised his eyebrows at you as he walked away backwards, holding his hands up in surrender. You just shook your head subtly then looked at Tom. He had his hand out to you, and you took it, feeling the warmth of his body heat against yours. You haven’t been this close to him before. You had to admit, it was pretty nice. He looked even more handsome up close than he did from across the table.

“Were you a little jealous?” You asked, as the next song started. “If you were, that’s actually kind of cute.”

“Maybe a little,” Tom admitted. The song was a slower one, so you tended to stay close. He spun you beneath his arm and you twirled expertly, then ended right back against his chest. “Was it that obvious?”

“Perhaps you’re not the amazing actor that you think you are,” You challenged.

“I don’t think that matters much to you, does it?” He asked. He had a point there, and you lightly shook your head. His arm dropped a little lower below your waist, going towards dangerous territory. He had a bit of a smug face, which was pretty adorable.

You did a quick spin out of his arms on that one, to make his face change. He had to know now that you had the upper hand - and that you had a sense of humor. And that you could throw in a little bit of spice into everything. When you went back into him, his arm was a little higher this time.

“A little handsy for a first date, Mr Cruise,” You said, amused.

“What can I say,” He grinned. “I perform my own stunts.”

You laughed at that, and swayed along with him to the music - up until the band started to heat it up, bringing back in the fun. You stayed on the dance floor, waiting to see what Tom was going to do. He went along with it, rather than drag you off. Slow dancing was easy, but many men were intimidated by the faster steps. Tom wasn’t the same way. He actually managed to keep up with you, his steps quick, his eyes on you, his smile on his face nonstop. Those hips didn’t lie.

“What a daredevil,” You teased. “What other stunts do you intend to do tonight?”

“Well, it all depends,” Tom said, looking into your eyes as you spun side by side.

“On?”

“Where this night is leading. I might dare to kiss you on your doorstep...”

“How bold,” You smirked, dancing around him, looking over your shoulder to keep up the eye contact.

“Or I can show you a couple of moves if you’re feeling this as much as I am.”

“Ballsy,” You laughed. The song came to a close and you and Tom clapped for the band. You leaned against him, back to his chest, and his arms went around you, holding you close. You liked that feeling. You liked him a lot. And you usually weren’t this sort of person but ... but you were interested in what sort of moves that Tom had off of the dance floor. “I like it. I suppose I could let you take me home - if you really think that your moves are that good.”

He seemed a little off-guard that you had agreed with the idea so quickly. But he covered it up by bringing you back to the table and quickly throwing down some money and putting his jacket back on. The dancing, the food - all of this was an amazing aphrodisiac, and you were feeling the mood with Tom right now. You hurried with your own jacket, and finished off your drink which you had left behind when you had gotten up to dance. You left together hand in hand, and he showed off his gentlemanly he could be by opening the passenger door for you, and waiting until you were settled in with your seatbelt on to close it.

If he kept up this perfect combination of sweet and spicy, you were very excited to see what moves he was going to show you in the bedroom tonight.

#Tom Cruise #Tom Cruise x reader #Tom Cruise oneshot #celebrity #celebrity oneshot #x reader #oneshot #one shot #tomc #request

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jeannereames · 4 years

Text

Writing Historical Fiction (Well)

From an anonymous ask:

"What advice would you give to someone who wants to write about Alexander?" Sorry I didn't clarify, I was thinking of writing a fictional novel (but do not plan to publish it, lol)

If you’re just writing for yourself with no plans to publish, you don’t have to worry about constraints like wordcount and publishability. Unfortunately, it’s difficult to sell mainstream historicals. Selling a genre historical is easier (historical fantasy, historical mystery, historical romance). But there’s a reason it took me 30 years to get Dancing with the Lion into print. Yes, some of that time I was actually writing it, but much more was devoted to finding a market for it, and notice that I did, finally, have to sell it as genre even though it isn’t really. (It was that or shelve it forever.)

Yet if you’re asking for my recommendations, I assume you want to write something that’s marginally readable. Ergo, what follows is general advice I’d give anybody writing historical fiction.

For historicals, one must keep track of two things simultaneously: telling a good story, and portraying history accurately enough. It’s possible to do one well, but the other quite badly.

First, let’s look at how to write a good story.

There are two very basic sorts of stories: the romance, and the novel. Notice it’s romance small /r/. A romance is an adventure story; in romances, the plot dominates and characters serve the plot. A novel is character-driven, so plot events serve character development. Dancing with the Lion is a novel.

Once you’ve decided which of those you’re writing, you have a better handle on how to write it. You also need to know where you’re going: what’s the end of the story? What are the major plot points? Writers who dive in with no road map tend to produce bloated books that require massive edits. That said, romances will almost always be faster paced, in part because “what’s happening” drives it. Whereas in novels, the impact of events on characters drives it. Exclusive readers of romances are rarely pleased by the pacing of novels. They’re too slow: “Nothing is happening!” Things are happening, but internally, not externally.

Yet pacing does matter. Never let a scene do one thing when it can do three.

You will want to pay attention to something called “scene and sequel.” A “scene” is an event and a “sequel” are the consequences. So let’s say (as in my current MIP [monster in progress]) you open with a fugitive from the city jail racing through the streets with guards following: he leaps the wall of a rich man’s house and ends up in the bedroom of a visiting prince. That’s the scene. The sequel is the fall-out. (House searched, prince hides fugitive, prince gets fugitive to tell him why he’s running.) Usually near the end of the sequel(s) to the first scene, you embed the hook to the next (a slave of the rich man has been found murdered outside the city walls). The next scene concerns recovering the body and what they discover (then fall-out from that). Etc., etc., etc.

That’s how stories progress. Or don’t progress, if the author can’t master scene-sequel patterns.

It also means—again—you need to know where you’re going. Outlines Are Your Friends. But yes, your plot can still take a sharp left-hand turn that surprises you…they almost always do.

When I sat down to write Dancing with the Lion, I knew three things:

1) I wanted to write about Alexander before he became king.

2) I wanted to explore his relationship with Hephaistion.

3) I especially wanted to consider how both became the men they’d did.

With those goals in mind, I could frame the story. Because I always intended Hephaistion to be as important as Alexander, the novel opens in his point-of-view to establish that. And because I didn’t want to deal with Alexander as king, the novel had to end before he became one. History itself gives a HUGE and obvious gift in the abrupt murder of Philip. Where to open was harder to decide, but as I wanted to explore the boys’ friendship and its impact on their maturation into men, I should logically begin with their meeting, and decided not to have them meet too young. From there, I spun out Hephaistion’s background, and his decision to run away from home to join the circus, er, I mean Pages. 😉

IMO, Alexander’s story is Too Big to do in a single novel, or you get an 800+ page monstrosity like Chris Cameron’s God of War. The author must decide on what piece of the story she wants to tell. (Or, like me, view it as a series.)

So that’s (in a nutshell) how you construct a story.

As for the historical side, there are three levels here:

1) What the world looks like (details).

2) The events that take place.

3) How people living in that world understand life, the universe, and everything.

Number two is probably the easiest. Numbers one and three require deeper research on all sorts of things. Sometimes historical novels spend all their time on number one and completely forget number three exists.

The past is a foreign country. Just as you wouldn’t (or at least shouldn’t) write a novel set in Japan (if you’re American) without learning something not only about the physical country but also the customs…same with stories set in the past.

This is why the Oliver Stone movie failed. He put modern people in a costume drama. He didn’t understand how ancient Macedonians (or Greeks or Persians) thought. So he committed crazy anachronisms like the oedipal complex between Alexander and Olympias. Freud may have named his theory after a Greek hero, but it’s largely a foreign idea to the Greek mind. (Whether it’s valid at all is a topic for another day).

The author has to let ancient people be properly ancient.

Problem: what do you do when they’re SO foreign they’re impossible to understand for modern readers—or their attitudes are outright offensive?

Well, if you don’t plan to get your story published, you don’t have to worry about that. Or not as much. But if you want to share it with others, you might still want to consider it.

There are two basic approaches:

1) Introduce your world through a “stranger” who enters it.

2) Spread out more “modern” views among various characters in the story, to give modern readers something familiar to hang onto.

The first of those is by far the most common. So in Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander, Claire Randall—quite literally a modern woman—introduces the modern reader to Jacobite Scotland. As she learns about her new world, so does the reader, and in Claire, the reader has a voice to express both their fascination and their horror of that world. In Judith Tarr’s Lord of the Two Lands, she uses Meriamon, an Egyptian priestess, to enter the Macedonian world of Alexander. Judy can then contrast Egyptian and Macedonian cultural values in order to explain them. Meriamon asks questions the reader wants answers to—or Niko (or Alexander) ask questions of her about Egypt.

The second choice (which is what I did in Dancing) is to identify cultural mores likely to offend modern readers: indifference to slavery, glorification of war and conquest, Greco-Macedonian attitudes towards women, and Greco-Macedonian attitudes towards sexuality. Then to assign one of the characters to voice a more modern view. Alexander gets to be a proto-feminist, and I gave points of view to two women. One of those women, I made a slave. Hephaistion gets to express a more modern view regarding the horrors of war. Sexuality was a bit tougher, but I used the boys’ atypical relationship—that the younger is the one of higher status—to illustrate Greco-Macedonian assumptions about what a male-male relationship should look like.

That approach presents more hurdles, but for my purposes, I preferred it.

I harp on this because it’s the biggest problem for historical fiction: not having historical characters! It wrecks what might otherwise be decent research into the details. No matter how much you look up what they ate, how they dressed, the way their houses were laid out…if you have them behaving anachronistically, it’s a bad historical. Or if you have circumstances that just wouldn’t occur.

Let me give an example. I’ve said before that, when I started writing the novel in December of 1988, Dancing always began with a run-away boy (Hephaistion). But in my initial version, he showed up in Pella incognito. The more I read about Macedonia, however, the more I realized that was virtually impossible. There just weren’t that many Hetairoi. He’d have been recognized, and probably sooner rather than later. So I went back to the drawing board and, instead of having him try to hide, he comes right out and says who he is, and that he wants to join the Pages. It might take away the “mystery,” but set up more interesting dynamics: would Philip let him stay? What would his father do? Etc.

That requires the author know enough about the culture to know what’s possible, probable, and impossible. It also requires the author to be willing to change original plans in order to reflect reality, not insist on doing ___ anyway.

A good example of jettisoning history in favor of “what I want to do!” can be found in David Gemmell’s Lion of Macedon. So many, many things wrong with that book, starting with his choice to make Parmenion a Spartan for no historical reason whatsoever—but (I assume?) because Spartans Are Sexy. Parmenion likely belonged to the royal house of Upper Macedonian Pelagonia. Although even if he didn’t, absolutely nothing suggests he wasn’t Macedonian, and quite a lot says he was. The whole duology (with included The Dark Prince) was essentially Blue Boltz ™ Epic Fantasy Does Greece. The fact he actually included a bibliography in back, and got weird, isolated details right only added insult to injury.

Yet Gemmell was a best-selling British fantasy novelist who knew pacing and how to spin a good yarn. For a reader with zero knowledge of Alexander, it would stack up as a predictable but tolerable fantasy set.

Remember that as an historical fiction author, your job is to practice the art of getting it right. If that isn’t important to you, please God, write something completely made up.

At the spectrum’s other end is Showing Notecards on Every Page. You’ve done ALL that hard research, and you’ll be damn sure the reader knows it!

Um, the reader doesn’t care. The reader wants to be transported to another world. How locals in that world shoed horses (or if they shoed horses at all) is irrelevant. It matters only if your main character’s a farrier. And even then, it matters only if said-farrier is having a conversation with someone else while shoeing a horse.

If people want all the little details of history, they’ll read a history book.

Now, how much detail is “too much” can vary from reader to reader, and often has something to do with the genre.

Regular readers of historical fiction are fans because they enjoy history. So they’ll expect proper world-building. But they don’t want the Dreaded Information Dump. Weave in details. The Dreaded Information Dump is a common beginning-author error across the board, but especially bad in certain genres, such as historicals, fantasy, and SF.

What’s an “information dump”? It’s where the author provides details the reader doesn’t need at that point in the story. What the character looks like, is wearing, their family background, what they had for breakfast….

As mentioned, details should be woven into the story organically. What your character had for breakfast matters only if, later, it’s giving him/her gas: “Damn those beans in my breakfast burrito!” Some details may be useful to set a scene and prevent characters from walking around, having conversations in a void, but again, a light touch.

Similarly, One scene, One head. We do NOT need to see everything from each character’s point of view. No, really. We don’t. And dear God, please don’t “head-hop” inside of scenes (unless you’re writing omniscient, but be sure you know what omniscient IS). Drives me BUGGY.

Anyway, back to the Notecard Showing Problem. As noted above, genre expectations and reader preferences often dictate what IS “too much detail.” Generally, historical Romance (the genre) and historical mysteries go lighter on detail than historical fantasy or plain historicals. That’s because the former two have genre conventions that work against it. Romances preference the love story front-and-center at all times, and mysteries have a mystery to unravel. E.g, they’re plot driven. By contrast, historical fantasies tolerate more world building because world building itself is a feature of fantasy (and science fiction too). And the appeal of mainstream or literary historicals IS the world building, so you get massive novels like Ken Follet’s Pillars of the Earth.

I’m blathering now, but hopefully this gives pointers not just about writing Alexander, but writing fiction period, and historical fiction in particular.

#historical fiction #writing #the writing life #writing how-to #Alexander the Great #Dancing with the Lion #ancient Greek fiction #scene and sequel #asks

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enygmass · 4 years

Text

Title: Caveat Emptor

Author: Ames

Wordcount: 3393

Warnings? : Everyone is an asshole in the end?

Characters: Jonathan Crane, briefly Oswald by mention, and the entire Irish Mafia

Synopsis: Jonathan discovers that undergraduate lessons can be applied to real life situations. He also discovers the saying that there is ‘no honesty among thieves’ is more real than anticipated.

AO3 Link can be found HERE

_______________________________________________________

There were seven steps to a sale that Jonathan Crane could recall from his brief venture into business during his undergraduate years. The first step to a successful sale was prospecting: one needed to find potential customers and decide whether they were in need of your service—and if they could afford what you had to offer.

Angelo Murphy was a chief for the Irish Mafia, down in the Cape Carmine area. In fact, word had begun to trickle down from the upper-class criminals to those residing within the rodent-infested alleys that Angelo Murphy was primed to take over upon the retirement of the current Skipper, James Synnott. Oftentimes changes of power such as this were handled swiftly, to prevent too long of a buffer period—or layover, as some liked to call it—which could allow another criminal to step into place. Angelo Murphy needed to prove to the other members of the Irish Mafia that he was more than capable of handling himself. Angelo Murphy needed to do something big.

Jonathan recently found himself becoming a fan of “big” things.

Not a new change of behavior, of course. Jonathan began elaborating his plans to make them “big” ever since names such as Two-Face and Riddler started getting thrown around. No longer was his typical method of subtle manipulation and toxin injection working. He couldn’t lean into politicians' ears and play the role of Judas anymore; Jonathan needed to step up to the plate and play as Pontius instead. He needed the starring role, and truth be told, this was the only way to gain recognition for what he was capable of in these new times. And Jonathan was capable of a lot.

Which is why the co-occurrence of both Jonathan’s need to change pace, and Murphy’s need to prove himself, seemed to be almost written in the stars.When Angelo Murphy’s subordinate approached him one evening and handed him a card that simply said ‘J. Crane’ with a phone number on the back, Murphy was not hesitant to call.

The second step of a successful sale is preparation. You have to prepare for the first contact with the customer, research and collect all relevant information, and develop a presentation tailored to the customers needs.

Murphy was a desperate man. Jonathan's practice had led him to become familiar with the scent of desperation over many years; it smelled of musk, of sweat and grime, of anger and adrenaline that was accompanied with shifty glances and trembling palms. One could almost taste the terror on their tongue if they looked upon a desperate man for long enough. It was a satisfactory flavor that pulled at your heart and your mind and left a desire in its wake. Once you've tasted terror, it leaves nothing but an empty hunger, and Jonathan was ravenous .

A warehouse in the Industrial District seemed a suitable enough spot for a meeting to occur. The Irish Mafia were known to be hesitant about meeting in areas that were not open and did not have more than two exits. Jonathan credited that particularity to the time they tried to strike an arms deal with Cobblepot that resulted in the death of the previous Skipper and the premature coronation of Synnott. Anyone with half a brain cell knew better than to try and skim money off the top in a deal with the likes of Oswald. Besides, the scent of rotting wood, the constant chill that seemed to cut through all of his clothes, and the low groaning noise of the wind passing through the exposed foundation made Jonathan feel almost like he was back in his lab again. It was incredibly therapeutic .

After you successfully prepare for a sale, there comes the stage of approach. This is when you first make contact with your client in a face-to-face (or face-to-mask, he supposed) setting. There are three ways to do this: a premium approach, in which the client receives a gift; a question approach, in which you prompt the client with a question; or a product approach, in which you give the prospect a free sample to review the service. Jonathan? Well, Jonathan always did favor the latter.

“Mr. Murphy, I presume?” Jonathan’s raspy voice sounded filtered by the tears in the burlap mask he wore over his head. Pulling his hand away from the various bags he had been oh-so-lovingly caressing moments earlier, Jonathan centered his attention towards the group of men approaching him now from one of the two exits. They all looked typical of henchmen—tall, broad-shouldered, with angry scowls on their faces that seemed to waver upon seeing Jonathan's lanky form. Henchmen usually had to be exposed to many things during their services, and Jonathan had no doubt that more than one in this group had been exposed to what he had to offer this day. All of them, of course, except the dark-haired man who stood front and centre.

Besides being desperate, Murphy was also the most common looking creature that Jonathan had the pleasure of regarding. Once one had been exposed to the flash and the flair that the rogues of Gotham so proudly carried themselves in, to come face-to-face with someone calling themself a crime lord while dressed as though they had just crawled from the couch was a bit of a disappointment. Murphy was short, with a beer gut, and his hairline was already receding. When he arched his eyebrows at Jonathan’s question, it brought much amusement to the rogue to see that the hair-line was capable of going back even farther.

“Mr. Crane, I presume?” Murphy’s parroting of his words only further proved to Jonathan that the man likely didn’t even have two brain cells to rub together in that head of his. The henchmen around him seemed to agree. Most people who had dealt with rogues before also knew better than to act disrespectfully in their presence—Jonathan, especially.

“Your presumption would be correct, Mr. Murphy. I’m so glad that you managed to make it here unharmed with your, ah,” Jonathan paused and allowed the words to hang in the air as he surveyed the men again. He then let out an airy chuckle, “Groupies in tow.”

Murphy’s eyes seemed to narrow a bit at these words, and his hands came to fold behind his back.

“Best believe we made it here unharmed, Mr. Crane. I got more pressin’ matters on my plate to deal with than any unwanted inconveniences, mind you.” Jonathan’s head tilted slightly at these words as Murphy’s gaze slid from him to the products he had displayed. A few steps forward, and Murphy’s hands unfolded to rest upon the chipped surface of the table. “Is this it?”

“Not all of it, of course. These are just test samples.” Jonathan’s hand shot out and hovered over the bags again, as though he were uncertain which one to grab. Truth be told, he was eager to show all of them, but Murphy seemed more keen on dealing with those other matters than allowing Jonathan to put on his show, and pointed to the bag nearest to him.

“Mitchell, c’mere.” One of the henchmen, a man with a mop of curly blonde hair and an uncertain expression, took a few steps forward to stand beside Murphy. “I want ya to open this one here.”

Mitchell looked as though he wanted to do anything but open that bag, and Jonathan wondered if he should advise Murphy against doing such things. Then again, he wasn’t responsible for the henchmans’ life, nor did he particularly care for it. So when Mitchell wrenched open the bag and a burst of putrid green dust shot up into his face, soaking through his pores and entering into his mouth, the only thing Jonathan could really do is sigh.

Then Mitchell started to scream.

The fourth and fifth steps of a successful sale include presentation and the handling of objections. The presentation allows you to actively demonstrate how your product meets the needs of the customer. Jonathan felt strongly that, given the manner in which Mitchell was now thrashing on the concrete floor, and how Murphy was spouting off slurs Jonathan could only dream about, his product had been aptly presented. The handling of objections was a more tedious process. This was where he was supposed to ask Murphy if he had any concerns. He felt like the presentation may have raised a few.

"Mr. Murphy, as you can see, the product is one of a kind, and incredibly effective.” Jonathan did his best to speak up above the howlings of Mitchell, but his voice had always been so soft and hollow, and raising it to anything above an indoor-level was not something he was capable of. So, without even taking a break from his speech, Jonathan pivoted and gave a swift kick to the fallen Mitchell’s head. The resounding crack echoed throughout the warehouse before blissful, and abrupt, silence followed suit. Murphy stared at him. Jonathan adjusted his sleeves as though this were a Sunday stroll and not a black market exchange.

“As I was saying, the product is incredibly effective. What you just witnessed here was merely a pinch of what I’m willing to negotiate for you. Do you have any concerns with what I’m offering?” Typically, this would be the moment where paperwork would be pulled out of briefcases and pens handed out, but Jonathan had done enough paperwork in his lifetime that he felt no sense of urgency to do more. Murphy continued to stare for a moment, his jaw clenching and unclenching, before he rapped his fist twice on the table.

“How long does it last?”

“46 to 72 hours. Of course, factors such as the victim’s body weight and health must be taken into consideration when calculating its longevity. I’ve found personally that those with heavier body weights tend to be able to tolerate higher doses as compared to those with lighter body weights. Also, a few patients of mine seemed to have an almost reduced susceptibility to the effects. I’m sure this won’t be much of a bother for whatever you have planned, however.” Jonathan pressed his fingers on the table in anticipation. He normally didn’t mind diving into the ins and outs of his product, but tonight he was the only rogue—to his knowledge—actually doing anything, which meant if anyone caught wind of his actions the Bat would be on him within minutes. This was why it was always good to plan crimes in coordination with someone, else in case one got caught.

Murphy seemed satisfied enough with that response and didn’t press any further. Nor did he bother to look down at Mitchell’s unconscious form by his feet. This was good. This was very good. It meant that they would be done soon.

The sixth step to a successful sale is closing. This is where you get the decision from the client to move forward, which Murphy’s curt nod assured Jonathan was the case. There are then three strategies to choose from: an alternative choice close, where the seller asks if the client will be paying upfront; the extra inducement close, where the seller offers something else to the client; or the standing room only close, where the seller emphasizes how time is of essence. Jonathan was short on funds and needed to establish himself as soon as possible, so the first option was the only viable one. Breakouts from Arkham were hardly cheap, after all.

“Excellent! If you would so kindly place the money on the table here, I’ll lead you to the rest of the product.” Jonathan gestured to a space beside the various bags.

A heavy pause filled the air in the moments after Jonathan had provided his instructions. It weighed down, pressing harder, and harder, as Murphy stared at Jonathan with a slightly wide-eyed look. Then, Jonathan understood. Oh, he understood.

“The money isn’t here,” was all Murphy offered.

“The money isn’t here.” Now it was Jonathan’s turn to parrot back the words. A shiver of unease stirred among the henchmen.

“The money won’t be here, either.” Another sound soon filled the room, one that Jonathan had also come to recognize from so many years in the business. A clicking of hammers being pulled back on guns. Murphy's big thing wasn't to buy Jonathan's product and use it, no. Murphy seemed intent on stealing the product, thus showing that the Mafia is above the rogues, and then using it to make it clear that the Mafia is also above Gotham. Devious. If Jonathan wasn't so unamused already he might've felt a trickle of respect for the man. Too bad he had delegated Jonathan as his scapegoat. An unfortunate mistake.

Oswald was not the first rogue to be crossed during a deal. In fact, contrary to popular belief, double-crossing was a common occurrence when it came to intra-underworld dealings. Criminals were dishonest by nature and God forbid that change when dealing with one another. This posed a great inconvenience, because many of the rogues regarded themselves as above criminals, Jonathan included. This was why over the years many of the rogues had begun to design their own foolproof methods to counteract such double-crossings. Riddler had his robots, Harley had her hyenas, Ivy had her plants, Oswald had an entire army of henchmen at his disposal, and Jonathan, well. Jonathan always liked to pick the locations he did his dealings at with a purpose.

“Mr. Murphy, think hard about this. Although that may be a bit of a challenge for you.” Jonathan couldn’t stop the rueful grin from splitting across his face at the sound of Murphy’s snarl in response. The henchmen he had arrived with were now pointing a variety of weapons at Jonathan’s form. They looked uncertain, unwilling, and their eyes told Jonathan that more than a few were terrified. This alone sparked that long-standing hunger in Jonathan’s gut that caused his grin to turn from rueful to damn near predatory. He bet they could see his teeth between the openings on his mask. He hoped that made things worse.

“Show us where the rest of it is, Scarecrow, and we’ll make sure you keep a majority of your straw within ya.”

It took a miraculous deal of self-restraint on Jonathan’s behalf to keep him from groaning at the man’s goad. He was getting quite sick of the jokes people kept mustering in association with his persona. If it wasn’t something about having a brain, then it was straw, or yellow-brick roads. It was, to be frank, rather demeaning.

There were more pressing matters to attend to, however. The henchmen had inched their way closer to Jonathan, who slid his hands off of the table and folded them behind his back. This was partially for comfort, and partially because he didn’t need Murphy seeing the silver remote he held before the surprise was ready to be revealed.

“This is incredibly unprofessional of you, you know? Synnott and I had a good standing relationship, and now? Well, Murphy, now you’ve gone and fucked it. ” There was a bite that came with the curse. Jonathan didn’t typically swear, but that comment about straw had really wormed its way under his skin. “I would like to keep all my organs arranged in the way they are, though. You want to know where the remainder of the product is?” Murphy gave a curt nod, and if Jonathan’s smile spread any wider, he would be giving the Joker a run for his money.

There were numerous benefits to always being permitted to pick the location of your meetings. One of them was convenience; the warehouse they were in now was located close to where Jonathan had established his lab. Another was time; it did not take long for Jonathan to arrive at the warehouse, nor did it take much effort to move the product. Yet another was the area itself. For example, Jonathan knew that there were numerous vents that led to the basement of the warehouse. These were used to filter air into the workers’ areas from the furnaces during the cold winter months. This also meant that if any chemicals were to spill in the basement, the toxins from those said chemicals would fill the entire warehouse in seconds— one of numerous reasons why the warehouse had been shut down.

Jonathan knew that he could elaborate on what he intended to do. He elaborated all the time with Batman—every rogue did—but that was because Batman was worthy. Murphy? Well, to Jonathan, Murphy was just a piece of shit someone forgot to clear out. Which was why when he had hit the button on the silver remote and putrid green gas billowed upwards into the room, Jonathan didn’t blink twice. He did, however, dive behind the table as a flurry of gunshots from terror-stricken men with weapons filled the room. Gradually, the gunshots reduced in numbers, and the screams that had been like a cacophony moments earlier began to fade away, until there were no sounds except Jonathan’s breathing and a few lingering, echoed groans. His mask’s built-in filtration device was suddenly appreciated a lot more.

He peered over the edge of the table. Several dark masses littered the ground, and numerous new holes decorated the warehouse walls. The green toxin had begun to move its way upwards out of the warehouse, and Jonathan knew it was only a matter of time before the Bat signal lit up the sky. He needed to get out of there, now.

But first.

The seventh, and final step, of a successful sale is key. Once a sale is closed, the job is not done. The follow-up stage keeps you in contact with customers, not only to repeat business, but to enable referrals as well. Maintaining relationships is both cost-efficient and key to expanding business.

Jonathan hauled himself up and carefully stepped around the bodies of the henchmen. They had done a good number on themselves. A few henchmen's heads had been shot open by their panicked colleagues, and the blood let out a sickening squelching noise as Jonathan carelessly stepped through it. There were pieces of brain matter on the floor, and it appeared as though there was a tongue lying not too far from a corpse. These things mattered little, of course. What Jonathan was most focused on was the still shivering body of a man with a receding hairline whose beer gut stuck out not too far away. A few steps, and a sharp kick, and Jonathan was once again looking down at the face of Angelo Murphy.

He had been shot in the leg, it seemed.

Tragic.

Jonathan leaned down and peered at the man.

“Looks like I’m not the one whose straw came out, am I?” Jonathan chuckled and patted the man's cheek, smiling at the way it prompted another groan. He then reached into his coat pocket and fished around a bit before pulling out a card and tucking it into Murphy’s own front pocket. The card was white, pressed, with a single black line of “J. Crane” on the front and a phone number on the back.

“Well Murphy, unless you have any questions or concerns, I think we’re ready to wrap this up. I’ve never been a fan of verbal sparring, and I think I’ve done enough to earn your business today. Give my regards to Synnott, will you?” At this, Jonathan straightened up and stepped past Murphy’s now-twitching form. He hadn’t taken enough time to enjoy the way Murphy had looked at him with so much horror in his eyes. He almost wished he had a spare minute to soak in it some more.

“Oh! And do remember to recommend me, yes?” He spared the man a flippant glance from over his shoulder. “My product is one of a kind, and incredibly effective. You’ll find nobody better than me.”

With that, Jonathan adjusted his sleeves once more and made his way to the second exit of the warehouse—the one not blocked by corpses. He supposed that until the calls for his toxin came in and he could begin generating revenue again, he could just request a loan from Oswald. The free drink that was sure to come with his arrival certainly beat what he had just endured here.

#jonathan crane #batman #dc #batman fanfiction #amy writes #ugh im back babies

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bronte-deserves-better · 5 years

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Hey...guys...so....you know how I like to occasionally dump really painful snippets on you? Well, I might be about to do it again. Time to inflict some serious pain. ha ha because Bronte’s an inflictor...haha...I’m funny...

ANYWAYS I wrote this snippet in about 20 minutes at midnight last night, so it’s probably shit, but here you go.

Taglist: @skimmilk11 @raven-the-over-excited-bookworm @sleepdeprivedgarlicbread

Title: Planting

Wordcount: 682

Brief Summary: After the light healing that ended in disaster, the world mourns a Councillor, and Bronte mourns his brother.

Trigger Warnings: Death, but only mentioned.

Actual Snippet:

They did not hold a planting for Fintan. They did not put a seed in the ground for Kenric’s murderer. There was no event, no mourners, no crowd to watch a little sapling sprout.

They did not hold a planting for Fintan, but there was a planting held for him. They did not put a seed in the ground for Kenric’s murderer, but there was a seed put in the ground for him. There was no event and no crowd, but there was a mourner.

Bronte approached the entrance to the woods, reading the all-too-familiar inscription. Not all those who wander are lost. His brother certainly had been.

Bronte’s feet carried him further into the woods. The morning was dark, the sun still far from peeking over the horizon. It was even more silent and still in the Wanderling Woods than usual. Even some of the gnomes who tended to the trees were taking their rest now, in the early hours of morning. One of the few who was not met him near the gate, and led him towards the little plot they had helped him find. Here, Fintan’s tree could grow safely-and secretly.

“Please, let me know if we can help with anything else,” The gnome told him.

Bronte nodded. “Thank you.”

The gnome nodded and retreated.

Alone in the darkness of the woods, Bronte silently retrieved the seed from his pocket, a strand of his brother’s long, blond hair curled around it. He dropped to his knees, digging in the dirt with his bare hands. After a minute of digging, the hole was deep enough to lay the seed softly into.

“Fintan…” My brother, my enemy, my friend, my first supporter, my friend’s murderer…

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t have been a better brother, kept you from turning towards the darkness. I’m sorry I chose to have your mind broken. I’m sorry I voted against the healing. I’m sorry chose to have the healing in a room with a glass ceiling.”

He could hear how choked his voice sounded.

“I hope, wherever you are now, you’re finally at peace. I hope you’re happy. I hope you can see all the things you did, the good and the bad, and make peace with them. I hope you know that I loved you, even when you worked against the Lost Cities, even when you turned the tower to flames and killed my friend, even when you died.”

Bronte places his hands in the pile of dirt he had unearthed. It was a long moment of hesitation before he silently brushed it over the seed, burying it at just the right depth. Instantly, a sapling sprouted, and it was so distinctly Fintan that it took his breath away.

The little tree was thin and small, with leaves that looked more like Spanish moss than proper leaves, blond and just as soft and messy as Fintan’s hair used to be. The trunk was still thin, and the tree almost sickly, but at the top sprouted a single ice-blue flower. It seemed almost hopeful, despite the darkness surrounding him. As he watched it sprout higher, a faint bit of pink illuminated the sky.

Pink was Oralie’s color. Pink was hope and joy and love and a thousand things Bronte had no time for now. Pink was fluffy and silly. But, watching that faint bit of pink, Bronte couldn’t help but think that it signaled a new day, a new light, a fresh hope for their world.

Bronte had learned long ago not to let himself fall into dreaming. And certainly, the darkness in this world took much to face. But how could a world where there were sunsets and sunrises and beautiful splashes of color be entirely cruel?

He climbed to his feet, knowing he had a planting to attend and a thousand things to do, and that the rest of the Council would ask questions if he didn’t show up on time, but resolving to stand strong. I will survive. I will face the world. I will go on. I always do.

#pyren brothers AU #Fintan pyren #Bronte #Councillor Bronte #writing #My writing #fic #KotLC #keeper of the lost cities #sad #i'm sorry

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storytellerofuntoldlegends · 5 years

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Stars in Our Eyes and Hearts on Fire

A/N: So @sanderssidesfanfiction organized a Reverse Big Bang, and I’m so excited to finally unveil my fic based on @incubchii‘s wonderful fanart! Huge huge thanks to my beta, @bangthekobrakid, who I couldn’t have done this without! Anyway, without further ado, enjoy the fic (it’s a wild ride, and is probably both the angstiest and the fluffiest thing I’ve written)!

Pairings: endgame Romantic Analogince, Familial Moxiety, Romantic Remile

Wordcount: 10,922

Summary: Logan was a witch of great power- but also of great regret. One night, while flying over the city on his broom, he notices that his former flame was in trouble. Logan swoops in to save the day, and things only get more complicated from there. Can he and his newfound friends, a pair of twin brothers, save his once lost love from being hunted?

Warnings: breakups, feelings of regret, violence, injury, torture, attempted murder, death mention, passing out, kissing, anxious thoughts, food mention, distrust, magical exhaustion, crying, pain delirium, mild jealousy, thoughts of guilt, implied rough childhood, attempted stabbing, minor villain Deceit (he’s only in one scene), blood, relationship negotiations, soft makeouts, implied NSFW, mild insomnia, embarrassment, playful teasing, nearly getting crushed, cursing (lmk if anything should be added!)

The wind ruffled Logan’s hair, threatening to blow away his pointed hat, while the stars twinkled above him and filled his very being with magic. It wasn’t the most logical thing to be doing, flying on his broomstick over the city, but Logan didn’t care. Being up there, it felt right. Even if the people below him could potentially see him up there, thus exposing the regulars to magic, Logan felt it was worth it. He was feeling particularly reckless tonight… if only Roman could see him now.

Logan huffed, shifting so that he was leaning back on his broom, idly twirling his staff between his fingers while his other hand adjusted his hat. Why did his train of thought always shift to the hot-headed magma-witch? Was there nothing that didn’t make Logan’s heart twist painfully with the memory of Roman? He was supposed to be glad that he was rid of that unfairly gorgeous idiot. Yet, all he felt was regret.

Logan and Roman had studied magic together under the same master witch. Roman was a witch bound to two elements: fire and earth. Meanwhile, Logan was one of the rarest witch types: an astro-witch, bound to the celestial. The two of them had bonded over their oddities, making quite the unlikely pair. Logan had always studied hard, desperately wanting to live up to his title of astro-witch, meanwhile Roman was quite the show-off, flaunting both his earth and fire skills with no uncertainty. Such differences… it tore the two of them apart. And after their training was finished, things didn’t end well, and Logan hadn’t talked to or seen Roman since.

A sudden spark of red magic burst past Logan, nearly throwing him off of his broom. He quickly righted himself, turning to glare up at the spark that was shooting higher in the sky. It burst into a fiery explosion of reds and golds, and Logan’s heart clenched with fear. That was undoubtedly Roman’s magic. His gaze shot down to where the spark came from, and a horrified gasp choked its way out of his throat. Down below, in an alleyway, a swirling mass of shadow lashed at a beacon of red and gold. The bright beacon of light was flickering in and out, the shadows threatening to overtake it.

“Roman,” Logan gasped, eyes narrowing as he zoomed back towards the beacon of light and the shadows surrounding it.

The shadowy figures crept closer. Roman held his side with one hand, while the other was outstretched, magical flames dancing in his palm. He wasn’t sure how, but an entire band of shadow-witches had managed to jump him while he was on the way to visit two of his closest friends. Now Roman found himself cornered in an alleyway, his magic dangerously close to being depleted.

A sudden wave of shadows flew at Roman, and he desperately tried to summon a wall of flames to shield himself, but he was too late. The mass of shadows hit him square in the chest, and he was flung against the alleyway wall. Pain flared through his body, and the air was knocked from his lungs. He fell to the ground, dazed for a moment or two before desperately scrambling to his feet. His vision blurred and he stumbled to one side, eliciting cruel laughter from the shadow-witches.

“What’s the matter, sweet Prince?” one of them sneered. Tendrils of shadows shot out, wrapping around Roman and pinning his arms to his sides. He squirmed, trying to break free, but the shadows clenched tightly around him, causing the magma-witch to cry out in pain and fall to his knees. One of the witches came closer to Roman, summoning a sword made of shadows as they walked. The point was put beneath Roman’s chin, forcing him to meet the figure’s dark eyes.

“Roman Prince. You will pay for what you’ve done,” they snarled.

“Which would be what, exactly?” he asked, brows furrowed in confusion. The figure growled, making a clenching motion with their free hand. Roman let out a pained yelp as the shadows cinched around him tighter.

“Don’t play innocent. You deserve this,” the figure hissed, and they raised the sword above their head, preparing to strike.

Suddenly, a bright bolt of light threw the figure to the side. Roman’s head whipped to the side, and his breath caught in his throat. Logan hovered just above the ground on his broom, staff brandished in front of him. He had a powerful aura about him, starlight twinkling dangerously in his eyes. He was more gorgeous than Roman remembered.

“Take care of Prince! I will deal with this interruption,” the figure snarled, jumping to their feet and summoning another shadow-sword. One of the figures flanking Roman nodded curtly, and in two brisk strides, they were in front of Roman, their hands pulsing with some sort of dark energy. He desperately tried to squirm away, but the shadows held him fast. The figure placed one hand on either side of Roman’s head, and the magma-witch screamed in pain. The dark energy pulsed through his skull, and Roman’s world was narrowed to the pure pain radiating through him.

In an instant, the pain was gone, as well as the shadowy tendrils keeping him bound, and Roman felt himself falling forward. A set of arms caught him, and Roman blearily tried to scramble away until he heard a soft and painstakingly familiar voice murmuring words of comfort. Through the pain-induced haze, Roman looked up and saw Logan, instinctively reaching out to caress the astro-witch’s cheek.

“Starshine?” he gasped weakly. A flush overcame Logan’s cheeks, and he covered Roman’s hand on his face with his own.

“Roman, you’re hurt- I need to heal you… but I’m not sure-”

“I have friends nearby… Patton and Virgil, a pair of twins- healers,” Roman hurriedly tried to explain, feeling his grip on consciousness fading fast.

“Patton and Virgil who? Where do they live?” Logan pressed, eyes wide and his expression becoming fearful.

“Picani,” Roman gasped out, the world around him and Logan’s face- his almost painfully beautiful face- fading in and out of focus. The astro-witch was pleading with him, possibly begging him to stay awake, but Roman couldn’t quite catch Logan’s words. With one last burst of strength, and before he could truly think about what he was doing, Roman leaned up to press a kiss to the corner of Logan’s mouth. The astro-witch’s face flushed deeper, and Roman smiled softly, glad that he at least got him flustered one last time. And with that wistful thought, the magma-witch’s eyes fluttered shut, and he fell limp in Logan’s arms.

Virgil Picani sat on the roof of the joint apartment and tea shop he shared with his brother, Patton, and stared up at the stars. Shadows curled around him restlessly, and he sighed in frustration. Being a shadow-witch had its disadvantages, he supposed. One of them being that the shadows tended to darken around him because of his emotions.

“Need some tea, kiddo?” a voice piped up from behind him. Virgil jumped at the sound but looked over his shoulder to see his brother Patton, a solar-witch, standing behind him. He held two mugs of steaming tea, offering one of them to Virgil. He took the offered cup with a smile, and the shadows cleared slightly as he took a sip.

“Chamomile and lavender? You’re turning into Dad,” Virgil joked.

“Aw, Virge! Don’t tea-se me like that!” Patton replied, grinning from ear to ear as he sat down beside him.

“Ugh. You really are becoming Dad,” Virgil groaned, rolling his eyes.

“Is that such a bad thing?” Patton retorted with a giggle.

“Nah. But if you start wearing colorful ties and cardigans, I’m staging an intervention.”

“But Virgil… I already wear cardigans!” Virgil let out a dramatic gasp at that, grabbing Patton’s shoulder.

“Patton, it may be too late for you! You’re turning into Dad!” he said with a laugh.

“Don’t you mean I’m evolving into a dad?” Patton grinned.

“Cartoon references! It may be too late!” Virgil cried, dramatically placing a hand over his chest.

“Technically Pokemon is a video game.”

“There was a cartoon too, I’m counting it,” Virgil scoffed. A comfortable silence settled between the brothers, and Virgil idly sipped at his tea. The shadows had finally calmed behind him.

“So. What’s got ya so restless?” Patton asked.

“I’m not restless,” Virgil protested. Patton raised an eyebrow, and the shadows twitched defensively behind him.

“You’re sitting on the rooftop, and the shadows were just swirling around you. Something’s got you worried,” he pointed out. Virgil let out a sigh, and took another sip of his tea.

“It’s Roman. He should have been here an hour ago.” Roman Prince was a good friend of theirs and often met up with the Picani brothers to hang out or discuss magic. It was also no secret that Virgil was harboring a bit of a crush on the magma-witch, but Roman was either clueless or didn’t care. Virgil tended to believe the latter, but Patton was pretty confident in the former of the two.

“Aw, well you know Roman! Probably got distracted, and he’ll tell us about his adventure when he gets here!” Patton exclaimed. Virgil’s lips quirked up into half a smirk, and he took another sip of his tea.

Suddenly, a burst of red magic shot up into the sky, just a few blocks away from Patton and Virgil’s apartment. Virgil’s heart clenched in his chest. That was Roman’s magic, no doubt. A flash of blue shot down towards where the magic originated from, and the shadows around Virgil pulsed with fear.

“Patton-”

“It’ll be okay, don’t panic, Virge,” Patton soothed.

“Don’t panic?! This a perfect time to panic! Roman must be in trouble,” Virgil exclaimed as he shot up to his feet. He stormed over to the door that led to their apartment, flinging it open before descending down the stairs. He practically flew through their apartment, grabbing his cloak off the hook before going down another set of stairs that led to the tea shop that Virgil and Patton owned. The brothers had named it Quali-tea Time, although the name was more Patton’s idea than Virgil’s. But Virgil didn’t have time to think about their adorable tea shop. Roman was in trouble.

“Virgil, wait!” Patton exclaimed. Virgil halted in his steps, having just affixed his cloak around his shoulders. He cast a glance back at his brother, who had his pointy gray hat clutched in one hand, and his wooden staff in the other. It was topped with a sun shape made of gold, with an orb in the center that glowed a soft yellow.

“Sorry. I just-”

“You’re worried, it’s okay. We’ll get him,” Patton soothed, placing his hat on his head firmly. Virgil nodded curtly, and the twins headed out into the night.

Logan’s heart pounded in his chest as he cradled a limp Roman in his arms. For maybe the first time in his life, Logan felt completely clueless. Helpless, even. He barely knew any healing magic, and he doubted he could find the brothers that Roman had mentioned in time. The name Picani was vaguely familiar to him, but he couldn’t place why and his brain was too frazzled to try and remember. All he could focus on was the soft, adoring smile Roman gave him before unconsciousness snatched him away. And, of course, the kiss that had sent fire skittering along veins and heat to Logan’s cheeks. How was it possible that Roman could be so alluring, even while battered and half-dead?

“Get away from him!” a voice snarled from the mouth of the alleyway. Logan gasped, placing Roman on the ground and springing to his feet. He took a defensive stance in front of him, brandishing his staff at the two figures that had stepped into the alleyway. One wore a hooded black cloak with purple patches, and shadows twitched around them restlessly. The other figure seemed to be the polar opposite, as they wore a light blue polo, a gray cardigan over their shoulders, and khakis. The only sign that they were magical was the pointed gray hat on their head, and the sun staff they held in one hand.

“Who are you, what do you want with him?!” Logan cried.

“Could ask the same about you,” the hooded figure growled. The shadows curled towards Logan menacingly, and he sent a warning blast of starlight from his staff in response. The shadows jumped back, as well as the two figures in the alleyway.

“An astro-witch?” the hooded figure gasped in surprise.

“Please, we’re Roman’s friends, we just want him back!” the individual with the gray hat pleaded. Logan furrowed his brow, magic simmering dangerously in the air.

“He was just nearly killed by a band of shadow-witches. Why would I trust another one?” Logan snarled.

“We’re two of his best friends, I’m Patton Picani and this is my twin brother, Virgil! We’re both gifted in healing magic, let me heal him and prove to you that we don’t wanna hurt him!” the one with the gray hat exclaimed. Logan’s eyes widened in surprise. These two were the brothers Roman had wanted him to find.

“Pat, you sure we can-”

“You’re the friends he wanted me to find,” Logan gasped, interrupting Virgil.

“Aww, he mentioned us?!” Patton squealed.

“How do we know you’re telling the truth? That he really told you about us?” Virgil demanded.

“My name is Logan Andromeda. Roman and I studied under the same master witch,” Logan explained, a little exasperated. He didn’t have time for this- Roman didn’t have time for this.

“The master witch, what was their name?” Virgil pressed.

“Thomas, Thomas Sanders. He’s a solar-witch,” Logan answered. Virgil and Patton seemed to share a sigh of relief.

“Okay. Your information seems to check out, although I’m not sure if I really trust you yet… but we don’t have a choice,” Virgil said, tone grim. Logan nodded curtly, and he stepped to the side to let the brothers take a look at Roman. Virgil darted over, dropping to his knees beside Roman. He placed a hand on his forehead, brow furrowing in confusion.

“What the hell happened to him?” he murmured.

“Like I said, he was attacked by a band of shadow-witches. I believe there was four or five of them that had ganged up on him. When I arrived, one of them was about to strike Roman down with a shadow-sword they had summoned. I disarmed them fairly quickly, but they had commanded one of the others to ‘deal with him.’ They attacked him with some sort of dark energy-” Logan’s voice cut off as Roman’s screams of pain echoed in his memory. “After I had dealt with them, the others scattered and ran off.”

“Thank you for saving him, Logan,” Patton replied, placing a hand on Logan’s shoulder and giving it a comforting squeeze before kneeling next to Roman as well. He closed his eyes and placed a hand on the magma-witch’s chest. A soft glow emanated from Patton, and it began to seep into Roman’s body. He shuddered as the energy flowed into him, and his eyes fluttered open as he drew in a sharp breath. Logan could have sobbed in relief.

Patton suddenly slumped into his brother, the soft glow fading away. Virgil wrapped an arm around his brother’s shoulders, expression twisted with concern.

“M’kay. I’m okay,” Patton insisted, voice slurring slightly as he tried to sit up.

“Hey, whoa, no you’re not. What did you do?” Virgil asked, supporting him as he sat up a bit straighter.

“Roman was… he was- closer to… closer to d-death than we-” Patton broke off into sobs, leaning against Virgil heavily.

“Pat? What’s-” Roman gasped out weakly.

“The loveable dork that is my brother nearly depleted his magic saving you,” Virgil huffed out with a slightly hysterical laugh.

“Logan found you… I knew he would,” Roman sighed, his voice soft and wistful.

“It… It was more like they found me, actually,” Logan chuckled.

“Smaaaart friends,” Roman said, voice slurring a bit.

“Get some rest, Roman. We’ll take you back to our place,” Virgil said with a soft laugh, reaching out to brush Roman’s hair from his eyes. Roman sighed, leaning into the touch. An unfamiliar emotion twisted in Logan’s gut. Were Virgil and Roman… together? It certainly seemed so, with how fiercely protective Virgil was of Roman. But then why had Roman kissed him? Perhaps he was too disoriented when Logan found him?

“Logan, can you take Roman? I’m gonna help Patton,” Virgil said, snapping Logan from his thoughts. He nodded, willing his staff away before walking over to Roman’s other side and scooping him up into his arms. He clung to Logan, nuzzling into his chest with a hum. Logan’s face flushed, and his gaze flicked over to Virgil. The shadow-witch seemed mildly annoyed but didn’t say anything as he rose to his feet, with Patton’s arm over his shoulder to support him.

“Where are we headed?” Logan asked.

“Our place. It’s a tea shop with our apartment above it. It’s only a few blocks from here, can you carry him that far?” Virgil asked.

“Yes. I am stronger than I appear, and Roman isn’t that heavy anyhow,” Logan replied. Roman made an indignant sound, muttering something about not being a feather-light damsel in distress. Virgil and Logan chuckled at that, and even Patton let out a light giggle.

“C’mon. Let’s go home.”

Somewhere along their journey, Roman had passed out again, this time from sheer exhaustion instead of pain. Virgil had convinced Patton to climb on his back, and the solar-witch had quickly slumped into unconsciousness, his face nuzzled into the crook of Virgil’s neck.

Eventually, they reached the home of the Picani brothers. The sign above the door read “Quali-tea Time”, and had a picture of a smiling teapot pouring out tea. Logan also noted that the door was painted in rainbow colors, and the sight caused a smile to quirk up on his lips.

Virgil shifted around a bit awkwardly for a moment or two, eventually fishing out a key from within his cloak. He unlocked the door and pushed it open, silently beckoning for Logan to follow him. Once inside, Virgil shut and locked the door behind him, while Logan took in the tea shop. Although the lights weren’t on, Logan was fairly certain the shop was filled with pastel shades and rainbows, if the exterior was anything to go by. There was a counter with barstools at it, where customers could order and pay for their tea. Shelves with various types of tea lined the walls, and there was a plush seating area with a fireplace off in one corner.

“C’mon. Our apartment is upstairs,” Virgil said, heading to a door towards the back of the shop. He opened it to reveal a set of stairs, and he adjusted his grip on Patton before heading up. Logan continued to follow him, being mindful of the unconscious magma-witch in his arms. Virgil flicked the light on when he reached the top, and Patton let out a sleepy, confused sound.

“It’s alright Pat, we’re home,” Virgil soothed, smiling softly to himself. The expression seemed almost… strange, on the shadow-witch’s face. Virgil hadn’t done more than scowl or frown since Logan had met him, and this soft, shy smile made an emotion that he couldn’t quite place unfurl in his chest. It was shockingly similar to what he once felt when he gazed at Roman, before harsh words were flung and the mere thought of the magma-witch’s dazzling smile only brought pain and regret.

“You can- uh, lay him down on the couch. It’s just past the kitchen nook… follow me,” Virgil said, snapping Logan from his thoughts. His face flushed slightly, and he hoped Virgil didn’t notice that he was staring at him. Why had he even felt such things about Virgil? Logan was still hung up on Roman, wasn’t he? Nothing made sense, but he pushed those thoughts aside and followed Virgil deeper into his apartment.

They walked through a small kitchenette area, and made their way over to a seating area with a couch nearly overloaded with pillows. The couch was set across from a television, and Logan could picture Roman and the Picani brothers sitting down among the many pillows and watching movies. Virgil clumsily cleared the couch, pillows flopping unceremoniously onto the floor.

“I’ll tidy that up in a sec, just lay Roman down for now. I’m going to get Patton to bed,” Virgil said, walking over to a door past the seating area. Logan nodded, although Virgil couldn’t see it. He walked over to the couch, leaning down and gently depositing Roman onto it. He instantly snuggled down into the couch, letting out a sleepy sigh. A small smile wormed its way onto Logan’s lips at the sight.

“How is he?” Virgil asked, causing Logan to jump. He hadn’t realized that Virgil had re-entered the room.

“I think he’ll be alright, just needs some time to recover. How is your brother?” Logan asked. Virgil huffed out a laugh.

“He’s pretty zonked out right now, but okay,” he replied. An awkward silence settled between the two, until Logan noticed the shadows shyly creeping closer and shuffling the pillows into a pile beside the couch.

“You could have just walked over and done that,” Logan teased.

“Hey, gotta get rid of this nervous energy somehow,” Virgil shot back.

“I suppose,” Logan replied, fighting back a yawn.

“Are you tired? The pillows make for a nice napping spot, I know from experience,” Virgil replied with a teasing smile.

“That… actually sounds like a good idea,” Logan said with a yawn, arms stretching above his head. Virgil’s brows furrowed in confusion.

“You seem… awfully trusting of us,” Virgil said, suspicion creeping into his voice.

“Roman trusts you. Plus there is something… familiar, about your names. Specifically, your last name,” Logan replied. Virgil chuckled slightly, a blush creeping onto his face.

“Yeah… our Dad is Emile Picani,” he replied sheepishly. Logan gasped in realization. No wonder their names seemed so familiar to him. Emile Picani was a well-renowned herbal-witch, and his healing magic was legendary.

“I wasn’t aware that he had sons… it must be quite the reputation to live up to,” Logan commented.

“Yeah, that combined with our Pop being a dream-witch… growing up was interesting. But they never expected us to be like them, Dad always emphasized that we weren’t defined by who he and Pop were,” he answered with a shrug.

“A dream-witch?!” Logan gasped. Astro-witches like himself were incredibly rare, but dream-witches even more so. They could manipulate dreams and cause people to fall asleep with a single touch… such power was unheard of and often abused.

“Yeah… Dad met him soon after taking in Patton and I. His name’s Remy Picani- well, formerly Remy Morpheus. But then he married Dad and the rest is history I guess,” Virgil continued. A silence settled over the two as Logan let the information sink in. Something in Virgil’s tone implied that he and Patton had been through a lot, but he wasn’t certain that this was the time to press the subject.

“Well, guess I’ve bothered you enough. You get some rest, I’ll be in my room,” Virgil said, gesturing to a door back towards the kitchen area.

“Of course. Goodnight, Virgil.”

“Night.” The shadow-witch left the living room, shadows curling after him. As Logan watched him leave, he vaguely wondered how his life had managed to get so complicated so fast. With a sigh, he flopped into the soft pile of pillows and drifted to sleep almost instantly.

Roman’s eyes snapped open. He wasn’t sure what had woken him up- or how he even fell asleep in the first place. His memory was a foggy mess… there was a fight- Logan was there? Patton and Virgil, too. He was in the Picani brothers’ apartment. But what woke him-

Someone was suddenly on top of him, their hand clasping over his nose and mouth, while their knee dug into his stomach. He let out a muffled cry of surprise, and his eyes widened at the glint of a blade in the darkness. He struggled beneath the figure in vain as it got harder to breathe, and the blade drew closer to his chest, just above his heart- he couldn’t let this happen. He couldn’t be the damsel in distress again. A small burst of flames sputtered from his hand, and while it wasn’t much, it was enough to throw his attacker off of him. They slammed into the wall, but were back on their feet in an instant. Glowing golden eyes glinted at him in the darkness, and Roman scrambled backwards in fear, ending up falling to the floor with a loud thump. The sound startled what he had previously believed to be a pile of pillows, but was instead Logan.

“Roman, what’s-” his sentence cut off as he saw the fear in Roman’s eyes, and he quickly sprung to his feet, conjuring his staff in an instant. His gaze swiveled about, trying to find the source of Roman’s distress. The figure behind Logan crept closer, and the magma-witch’s eyes widened.

“Behind you,” he gasped out. Logan whirled around, and the attacker slashed at him with their blade. He cried out, stumbling backwards for a moment before regaining his footing. Logan glared at the golden-eyed witch, and sent a burst of starlight from his staff. They were thrown back once again, but sprang to their feet again and snarled at him in frustration.

Suddenly, before the attacker had a chance to try and strike Logan down, the shadows whipped out at them, disarming them and binding their hands behind their back. Roman glanced over to see Virgil standing a few feet behind him, and he practically melted in relief. Virgil gave Roman a small smile, which for whatever reason made his heart flutter ever so slightly. But before he could contemplate that, Virgil’s expression twisted into a scowl as he regarded the attacker.

“Kiddos? What’s going on?” Patton said, having emerged from his room at the sound of all the chaos. He had a fluffy blue blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and his hair was unruly from being asleep.

“This individual broke in and tried to kill Roman. I managed to hold them off for a time, but luckily Virgil came in and restrained them,” Logan explained, his voice slightly breathless.

“Logan, are you okay?” Patton asked.

“I’m fine. Let’s just find out who the attacker is,” Logan said dismissively. Patton looked like he wanted to protest, but summoned a small sphere of light in his hands. It cast the room in a warm glow, and allowed them to see who the golden-eyed witch was.

The figure was a man who wore a black cloak edged with yellow trimming, and had dark hair that fell into his golden eyes. A jagged scar ran over half of his face, trailing from the top of his forehead to his lip. His blade, now discarded on the floor, was a curved dagger with twin snakes twining around the hilt.

“Who are you?” Virgil growled.

“No one of importance,” the figure hummed, sounding bored.

“I’d consider rewording your statement,” Logan said cooly, his staff humming with magic. The figure swallowed nervously, then let out a pained sound as the shadows clenched unexpectedly for a moment.

“Don’t make me ask you again,” Virgil snarled. He rolled his eyes, huffing out a sigh.

“Fine. The name’s Declan,” he replied smoothly.

“Why did you attack Roman?” Logan demanded.

“You know, I’d love to stand here and answer your questions all night, but I have a job to do,” Declan snarled, and his dagger flew to his hand. He tried to slash through his bonds, but the blade merely slipped through them, not breaking their hold. A shadowy tendril shot out and snatched the blade from his hand, bringing it over to Virgil.

“Dude, they’re shadows. You can’t cut through those. But good to know that you must be an earth-witch with a particular talent in metal manipulation,” Virgil said with a smirk. Declan scowled, squirming in the shadowy bonds.

“Are you in league with that band of shadow-witches?” Patton asked, his voice firm and eyes almost cold, a strange phenomenon for the solar-witch.

“What?! Those idiots? Oh please, I’m a solo assassin. I don’t need those morons,” Declan huffed.

“Thanks for telling us you’re an assassin. Now, why are there people after Roman?” Virgil pressed. Declan cursed under his breath, clearly frustrated that he had given himself away.

“Hell if I should know. Prince did something to piss someone off, and now there’s a rich bounty waiting for any assassin who kills him,” he replied, shrugging nonchalantly.

“But I haven’t-” Roman’s voice cut off with a pained gasp as he tried to sit up.

“Roman!” Virgil gasped, eyes wide with concern. Unfortunately, Virgil’s sudden flash of panic at Roman’s condition caused his hold on Declan to slip for the briefest of moments. But that was all the assassin needed, breaking free of the shadows and summoning his dagger to his hand.

“Well, this has been fun, but the bounty is not worth this much trouble,” Declan scowled, before turning around and leaping out the open window.

“I’ll go after him,” Logan declared, but only managed to take a step forward before he winced and fell to his knees, hand clutching at his side.

“Logan!” Virgil cried out, rushing over to Logan before dropping to his knees beside him.

“M’fine,” Logan protested weakly, before he slumped against Virgil, eyes fluttering.

“Bullshit. You’re holding your side… he managed to get a hit on you, didn’t he?” Virgil pressed. Logan shifted uncomfortably for a moment, until Roman shuffled closer to both of them, expression twisted with concern.

“Jus’ a scratch,” Logan muttered, moving his hand. Both Roman and Virgil’s eyes widened as they saw the jagged cut running across his side, and the red rapidly blooming from it and onto his polo. With hardly a second thought, Virgil closed his eyes and ran his hand along the cut. Shadows trailed after it, before settling into Logan’s skin and leaving a mere scar behind. He let out a shaky breath once the cut was healed, opening his eyes.

“There. It’s no light-healing magic like Patton’s, but it gets the job done. You’ll probably feel a little sore and weak for a few days,” Virgil said with an apologetic hum.

“S’okay. Thank you,” Logan said softly, clasping his hand over Virgil’s. A light flush overcame the shadow-witch’s face, and Roman felt his heart thud the slightest bit faster in his chest.

“You’re- uh, you’re welcome,” Virgil stuttered, eyes darting around frantically, unsure of where to look. Logan smiled, and gave Virgil’s hand a comforting squeeze. Virgil met Logan’s gaze for a moment, then switched to look at Roman. The magma-witch had pink dusting across his cheeks as well, and lips parted in a somewhat surprised expression. This only caused Virgil to flush deeper, and let out a light chuckle. An emotion Roman couldn’t place settled over the three of them. It was strangely warm, and almost caring. He wasn’t sure if he wanted it to stop.

Patton watched the nearly silent exchange between his brother, Roman, and Logan with an amused smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He could see what was happening as clear as day, but the three of them had absolutely no idea. Which was even more amusing, considering Patton had no desire for romance, dating, or anything of the sort.

“I think you three have something to talk about,” Patton piped up, breaking the tender moment.

“What?!” Roman spluttered, gaze whipping over to Patton. The solar-witch merely giggled in response, slipping the fluffy blue blanket off of his shoulders and draping it over the back of the couch.

“I’m aroace, not blind, Roman. I see what’s going on here,” Patton replied with a grin. A surprised squeak escaped Roman’s lips, while Virgil gestured uselessly behind him. Meanwhile, Logan seemed to be silently unraveling Patton’s words.

“But-”

“I’m not saying you have to talk anything out, but you probably should before things get… interesting. I’m betting people aren’t going to stop coming after Roman, so I’m going to go get some help,” Patton said, finger-combing his unruly locks as he began to walk out of the living room.

“Patton, you’re still recovering from healing Roman!” Virgil protested.

“I’ve gotten some rest, I’ll be fine. This can’t wait. Besides, Dad and Pop aren’t too far away,” Patton said, summoning his staff in one hand, and his broom in the other. Virgil frowned, but let out a sigh of defeat.

“Fine. But be careful. And don’t forget your hat.”

“My hat!” Patton cried out, shifting his broom under one arm, then holding out his now free hand. His bedroom door flew open, his gray pointed hat zipping out and into his hand. Patton put on his hat with a determined smile, then took his broom in hand once more.

“I’ll be back soon. You three should talk. Love you!” Patton said, rushing out of their apartment, leaving the three witches to stare after him in mild bewilderment.

Logan mulled over what Patton had said. He wasn’t entirely sure of what the solar-witch was implying, but he had a niggling feeling that it had to do with… well, feelings. It was clear there was something between Roman and Virgil. And, much as it pained him to admit, Logan still cared deeply for Roman, in spite of everything that had happened. Not to mention that there was something about Virgil that just seemed to draw Logan in.

“There’s something I must confess to the both of you,” Roman blurted, before either of them could say anything. Virgil and Logan exchanged wary glances.

“Well… perhaps we should move to the couch, first,” Logan proposed, starting to rise to his feet. Roman and Virgil nodded, flushing slightly before standing up and making their way to the couch. Roman sat down in the middle, with Virgil at his left, and Logan at his right.

“So… uh, what was it you wanted to tell us?” Virgil asked, fidgeting with the ends of his cloak.

“Well… the first thing is that- that I… I really still care about you, Logan. I know I said some awful things… we both did. But I didn’t realize just how much I still cared about you until you saved me. Twice,” Roman said, looking down at his hands, which were nervously folding and unfolding. “And yet… I find myself caring deeply for Virgil as well.”

“What?!” Virgil shouted in surprise, cheeks flushing red.

“I know, I know. It’s strange, but true. I care for both of you. Very much,” Roman uttered softly, brown eyes warm and earnest. Virgil’s mouth opened and closed uselessly, the shadow-witch unsure of how to respond.

“Roman… I must confess that I too, still care for you very much. And perhaps the reason things didn’t work out before is that we were missing something. Someone,” Logan replied, flicking his gaze up to Virgil.

“I… what?” Virgil gasped, looking incredibly flustered. Roman’s reaction seemed to be more or less the same, except for the excited glint in his eyes.

“I’ve never been one for the ‘love at first sight’ sentiment, but there’s just… something about you, Virgil, that makes me want to reconsider,” Logan confessed softly. Virgil’s blush grew darker, if possible, and Roman looked like he was about ready to squeal with excitement.

“I… um…”

“I’ll admit, you came off as tough, powerful, and fearsome when I first met you, but there’s an underlying softness to you that is…” Logan’s sentence was cut off by Virgil suddenly surging across the couch, taking his face in his hands, and pulling him into a deep kiss. Logan made a startled sound, but quickly sank into the kiss. Virgil pulled away, a bit too soon for Logan’s liking, eyes wide.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking, I shouldn’t have-” Virgil’s sentence cuts off as he suddenly realizes he’s practically in Roman’s lap, the magma witch having wrapped his arms around Virgil’s waist.

“It’s alright, Virge. I don’t think Logan minded,” Roman said with a smirk.

“Ugh. That’s- that’s not- this is complicated. Roman, I feel like I’ve had a crush on you since forever, but I don’t- I’m not sure how I feel about Logan. But I just kissed him, and I really liked it- I don’t really know what I’m feeling,” Virgil rambled.

“Virgil, a kiss doesn’t have to be a commitment. If you’d rather just remain friends, I am fine with that. But for the record… I enjoyed kissing you as well,” Logan soothed, a slight flush over his cheeks.

“I think… I think I want to try. A relationship. With the two of you. I’m just scared,” Virgil said, refusing to meet either witch’s gaze.

“I’m scared too. But I think what we have, what we could be- it’s worth the fear,” Roman said, one hand rubbing soothing circles into his back.

“You’re scared? But you’re… you’re you! Brave and reckless… and- and all that stuff!” Virgil exclaimed. Roman chuckled, tugging Virgil the slightest bit closer to him.

“Oh Virgil… I’m afraid more often than you would think. I talk about going on grand adventures… but they can be terrifying. The fear of not coming home after a quest… but that’s what makes them an adventure. And in the end, it’s worth it. To have won, and to return with a noble story,” Roman declared, voice soft and eyes shining.

“Can you stop being so adorably dramatic? It just makes me wanna kiss you,” Virgil grumbled, but there was a soft, adoring look in his eyes.

“Guess I’ll just have to be more dramatic, if that’ll finally get you to kiss me,” Roman smirked.

“Shut up,” Virgil murmured, looping his arms around Roman’s neck and pulling him into a soft, sweet kiss. Roman seemed to melt for a moment, letting out a satisfied sound against Virgil’s lips. The arm around Virgil’s waist tightened, while the other hand reached up to run through his hair, causing a shiver to run up Virgil’s spine. He let out a sound akin to a moan, and Logan found himself shaking his head with a fond smile.

“Careful you two, I’m sure it won’t be long before Patton returns,” Logan teased. Roman broke away from Virgil with an indignant sound, face red. Virgil let out a snicker, covering his mouth with his hand soon after. Roman soon dissolved into giggles, and even Logan found himself laughing slightly.

“Oh Logan… I’ve missed that smart mouth of yours,” Roman sighed wistfully.

“I’m sure that’s not the only thing about my mouth you’ve missed,” he replied with a smirk.

“Fair enough. C’mere you,” Roman said, carefully disentangling his hand from Virgil’s hair and reaching out towards Logan. The astro-witch chuckled, and leaned in. Roman’s hand rested on his cheek, and their lips met… it was everything Logan didn’t realize he was missing.

Emile hummed as he tended to his plants, a small watering can in one hand. They reached up and stretched towards him, their vines curling around his fingers. He huffed out a soft laugh, stroking the leaves lovingly.

“It's alright, I'm here,” he soothed. They retracted from his fingers, and if plants could purr, Emile believed they would have.

Suddenly, a pair of arms wrapped his waist, and a nose nuzzled into his neck. Emile laughed again, turning his head to look down at his husband, who was now pressing soft kisses to his neck. He pressed a kiss to Remy's soft yet unruly hair, setting his watering can down.

“I'm here for you too, don't worry love,” Emile said with a grin. Remy let out a pleased hum, pulling back slightly to look Emile in the eyes. He twisted in his husband's warm grip, placing a hand on his cheek and kissing him lovingly.

“What're you doing up so late, babes?” Remy asked after pulling away.

“Couldn't sleep,” Emile shrugged, pressing another kiss to Remy's lips. Remy was frowning when he pulled away, but was stopped with a hand on his chest when he tried to kiss it away.

“I could help with that, you know,” Remy pointed out.

“You were sleeping soundly, for once. I didn't want to wake you,” Emile murmured, brushing a strand of hair from Remy's eyes.

“You're like… too sweet. But as you can tell, I woke up anyway. Bed feels empty and strange without you,” Remy hummed, pulling him down into a deep and passionate kiss. Emile laughed into the kiss, hands plunging into Remy's soft, thick hair.

“Mmm… I love you. Sorry for leaving bed,” Emile murmured against his lips once he pulled away.

“Betcha you'll find a way to make it up to me,” Remy smirked. Emile let out a low laugh, and leaned in once more.

A sudden blur of blue and gray bursting in from the window caused both witches to jump, Emile losing his balance and toppling backwards, taking Remy down with him. The two of them glanced over to see their son, Patton, looking a little disheveled with an urgent look on his face. Remy was the first to scramble to his feet, rushing over to Patton and stopping just short of pulling him into a hug.

“Patton? Hun, you okay?” Remy asked softly. Patton’s expression wavered for a moment before he threw himself into Remy’s arms, sniffling. The dream-witch hugged his son tightly, looking over Patton’s head at Emile, expression twisted with concern. Emile rose to his feet and walked over to Remy and Patton, wrapping his arms around both of them.

“What happened?” Emile asked in a murmur, gently rubbing Patton’s back.

“You remember our friend Roman?” Patton asked.

“The one Virgil has a crush on?” Remy asked. Patton nodded, tears beginning to spring from his eyes. Emile and Remy exchanged concerned glances once more, hugging their son tightly between them.

“Someone’s put a bounty on him, he’s almost been killed twice! Thankfully an old friend- well, they were more than friends- of Roman’s saved him, but then he got hurt too! I just… I don’t know what to do, we need your help,” Patton whimpered, burying his face in Remy’s chest.

“It’s okay hun, we’ll figure this out,” Remy murmured, gently running his hands through Patton’s hair. Emile pressed a gentle kiss to his son’s hair, then pulled away from the hug.

“I’ll grab my bag, and then we can head to your apartment,” Emile explained with a soft smile.

“Grab my bag too, sweetie? I’ve got my broom,” Remy said, shifting Patton into a one-armed embrace and holding his now free hand out. His broom flew into his grip, and Emile smiled at his husband’s dramatic antics before heading to their room and grabbing their respective bags- Emile’s a large floral handbag, and Remy’s a brown messenger bag. Both bags were enchanted so that any object could fit in it, no matter the size or weight.

Emile strode back into their main living space to see that Patton had now detached himself from Remy, wiping at his eyes before adjusting his hat with a confident smile. Emile smiled back before giving Remy his bag. He slung the bag over his shoulder, before giving Emile a smirk.

“What?”

“Aren’t you forgetting something, babes?” Remy asked, gesturing with his broom for emphasis.

“Oh! My umbrella!” Emile cried out, holding out his hand. After a few crashing sounds, and winces from Remy and Patton, his umbrella flew into his grip. Remy chuckled fondly, shaking his head.

“You and your Mary Poppins aesthetic,” Remy scoffed, but had a soft twinkle in his eye.

“Practically perfect in every way! Now, let’s go to Patton’s and see if we can sort this dilemma out!”

Remy wasn’t sure what he was expecting when he arrived at Patton and Virgil’s apartment, but his son curled up on the couch with Roman and another man he didn’t recognize was not one of them. Virgil was seated in Roman’s lap, one of the magma-witch’s arms around his waist. His nose was buried in the crook of Virgil’s neck, eyes closed and snoring softly. His other arm was around the darker haired man that Remy didn’t recognize, his face smushed against Virgil’s chest, one hand clutching at his cloak. Virgil was leaning his head on Roman’s, a soft look on his face as he gazed at the two men clinging to him.

Patton let out a sharp gasp, and Virgil’s head shot up at the sound. The movement nearly startled Roman and the other man awake, causing Virgil’s expression to twist to one of mild panic. But they both settled back asleep, and Virgil let out a sigh of relief.

“Calm down Patton, you’re gonna wake them up!” Virgil hissed.

“Sorry! I’m just so excited! It looks like you three talked things out!” Patton whisper-shouted. A light flush came over Virgil’s face for a moment, paired with a rare soft smile.

“Yeah… we did. They’re my… uh, well- we’re uh- dating. All of us. Together,” Virgil stammered, becoming more and more flustered.

“Well, I’m very happy for you three,” Emile said, smiling encouragingly. Virgil gave a small half-smile back, gaze shifting back to Roman and the other man.

“Thanks, Dad. And while you’re here, do you think you could take a look at Roman and Logan? Patton and I tried healing them the best we could… but I’d really feel better if you’d double-check our work,” Virgil asked, gave flicking between Logan and Roman, then back to Emile.

“Of course, Virge, I’d be happy to! But it seems they’re a little wrapped up with you right now,” he replied with a wink. Virgil flushed deeper, if possible.

“Daaaaad! I am so glad they’re not awake right now, you’re embarrassing,” Virgil muttered. Just as the words came out of Virgil’s mouth, Logan began to stir. His eyes fluttered open, and he blinked tiredly for a moment until he saw Virgil. A soft, adoring look came across his face, and he leaned up to give Virgil a quick peck on the cheek. A small squeak escaped Virgil’s lips, and he glanced frantically between Logan and the others.

“Logan!” he hissed, face incredibly red.

“Mmm… you’re cute when you blush. Was kissing you okay? I didn’t overstep, did I?” Logan asked, brow furrowing with concern.

“No, you’re fine-”

“Good,” Logan interrupted with a murmur, pulling Virgil into a soft kiss. Virgil made a surprised sound into the kiss, but began melting into it- until Remy cleared his throat.

Logan jumped, breaking away from Virgil with a yelp. The noise awoke Roman, who made a tired, distressed sound, tugging Virgil closer to him in a protective manner. An incredibly deep blush was over Logan’s face as he saw Remy, Emile, and Patton standing in the living room. Virgil was murmuring soothing words to Roman, assuring him that they weren’t in danger, and his grip on the shadow-witch loosened.

“Remy, they were having a moment! And you spooked poor Roman!” Emile protested with a frown.

“Babes, I’m happy that our son is happy- but we came to help them with whoever’s trying to take out Roman, not see them be all cutesy and domestic,” Remy replied.

“Yes, of course- sorry Mr. Picani,” Logan stammered. Remy huffed out a laugh.

“Gurl, you can just call me Remy. And don’t sweat it.”

“Yeah. Besides, he and Dad are much worse,” Virgil teased with a smirk.

“Hey! Now wait just a minute-”

“You said something about helping us?” Roman piped up, before a full-on sass-off erupted between Virgil and Remy. The dream-witch quickly schooled his expression and nodded.

“Roman, do you know why someone would be after you?” Emile asked. Roman sighed, drawing one arm away from Virgil’s waist so that he could run a hand through his hair.

“That’s the thing- I have no idea,” he replied.

“Are you sure? What about your adventures, you’re always running into unfriendly people,” Patton pointed out.

“But I haven’t come across anyone as of late! The last big adventure I had was slaying a dragon that was terrorizing people,” Roman said with an irritated huff. Remy and Emile exchanged nervous glances.

“Is everything alright?” Logan asked, but the two of them didn’t seem to hear him.

“You don’t think that-”

“Emile, it’s been years, decades since one’s been seen or even heard of!”

“The same could be said about you.” Remy let out a frustrated sigh, then turned to Roman.

“Are you absolutely sure it was a dragon you killed?” he asked.

“I think I know a dragon when I see one, Remy,” Roman huffed, expression twisted with confusion and frustration.

“Are you sure? Think about its eyes, its mannerisms, did anything strike you as strange about it?!” Remy demanded.

“What? I don’t know! It was a dragon, it was hurting people, so I put an end to it!” Roman snapped.

“Pop… what are you trying to say?” Virgil asked carefully, gaze flicking between Roman and Remy.

“A dragon-witch might be targeting Roman,” Emile replied gravely. A shocked silence settled over them for a moment, until Logan spoke up.

“But- they’re even more unheard of than a dream-witch or an astro-witch!”

“Yeah! And how could one be after Roman if he killed them?” Patton asked.

“There could be more than one dragon-witch. Or it could be one of their dragons that Roman killed. It’s hard to say,” Emile explained.

“See, this is why I keep telling you all of these adventures are a bad idea! You’re gonna get yourself killed,” Virgil huffed.

“The dragon was hurting innocents! I couldn’t just sit there and let people die!” Roman protested.

“Why do you have to be so goddamn noble and heroic?! It’s both the most frustrating and charming thing about you,” Virgil grumbled.

“You think I’m charming?” Roman smirked.

“Oh my god, shut up!” Virgil exclaimed, burying his face in Roman’s shoulder.

“Roman, where was the dragon’s lair? Maybe if we went there, we could figure out what exactly happened,” Emile suggested.

“It was in the old subway system under the city,” Roman replied.

“Then it’s settled. We head to the old subway system in the morning,” Remy said.

“Why not now? We’re all awake and ready to go!” Roman protested.

“Gurl, haven’t you been attacked twice?! Y’all need rest before we try and take on a dragon-witch!” Remy scolded.

“I agree… but it may not be safe here. An assassin has already come here, there’s no telling who else may know of our location,” Logan pointed out.

“Hun, I’d like to see them take on a dream-witch and the most notorious herbal-witch,” Remy said with a confident smirk. Emile blushed slightly at Remy’s proclamation, but nodded.

“Yeah, and Logan did a pretty good job of protecting me earlier,” Roman cooed, leaning over to kiss Logan’s cheek.

“I got wounded.”

“Virgil healed you!”

“I’d prefer not having to heal either of you.”

“Okay lovebirds, that’s enough. Let me take a look at Roman and Logan to make sure that they’re healed up okay, then you all can get some rest,” Emile said, tone making no room for argument.

He looked over Logan first, then Roman. He checked over Virgil too, despite his protests that he was fine. The three of them then trudged to Virgil’s room, none of them needing Remy’s dream magic to help send them to sleep. Emile sent Patton off to bed, despite his insistence that he didn’t need to rest. However, he was practically asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. It reminded Emile of the days when Patton and Virgil were just children, just after he had married Remy.

“You should rest too,” Remy murmured, arms wrapping around Emile’s waist and nose nuzzling his neck.

“What happened to potential assassins not being able to take on you and me?” Emile teased.

“I’ll wake you if anything happens, promise,” Remy murmured.

“Fine,” Emile sighed, letting himself be led to the couch. Remy sat down first, and Emile laid down with his head in his lap, letting Remy stroke his hair until he fell asleep.

The next morning was calmer than expected, with Patton and Emile making breakfast for everyone. Logan and Virgil hardly left Roman’s side, both of them equally paranoid about how he was holding up despite Emile’s okay on his condition. They shuffled through their morning routine, a little different from what they usually experienced on their own. Roman didn’t mind it one bit- in fact, he felt he could get used to it, waking up with Logan and Virgil.

After they had eaten and rounded up their various magical paraphernalia, their quest could not be put off much longer. The band of witches set out to the abandoned subway. It was a bit of a trip from Patton and Virgil’s apartment, but with their brooms (and Emile’s umbrella) they made the trip in no time.

“So where’s the dragon?” Remy asked, voice echoing in the empty subway cavern. Scorch marks could be seen all over, as well as parts of the tunnels that had completely collapsed, leaving behind only rubble.

“That’s the thing, it just went poof after I killed it. I didn’t really think anything of it at the time,” Roman explained.

“What?! Why didn’t you tell us this sooner?!” Virgil demanded.

“Hey! I’ve had a very stressful past few days! Details slipped my mind,” Roman protested sheepishly.

“How about the detail that you should check to see if the dragon you killed is actually dead? Or that the dragon is actually a dragon?” a voice snarled from behind them. They all whirled around, Logan and Virgil taking a defensive position in front of Roman. Patton stood beside his brother, while Remy and Emile were in front of the four younger witches.

Before them stood a tall woman wearing a sleek bodysuit that seemed to be made of shimmering green scales. Her dark hair was piled into a haphazard bun on the top of her head. If the horns protruding from the top of her head weren’t enough to prove what she was, then the fiery orange-red reptilian eyes certainly were. She was a dragon-witch.

“Um… heyyy, about before-” Roman started, but was cut off by Virgil elbowing him.

“Don’t make this worse than it already is, Princey,” Virgil muttered. The dragon-witch moved as if to step closer, but halted by a firm glare from Remy.

“Gurl. Don’t even think about it,” he snarled, golden dreamsand beginning to swirl between his fingertips. The dragon-witch arched an eyebrow, dark laughter rumbling in the back of her throat. She threw her head back and began to full-on cackle. Remy gritted his teeth, and with a defiant yell, hurled his dreamsand at the witch. Golden tendrils surged through the air- but ended up curling through nothing. The dragon-witch had vanished.

“Where did she-”

“REMY!” Emile cried out, but his husband turned around too late. The dragon-witch was behind him, hands having morphed into claws. She slashed them across his face, and Remy cried out, stumbling backwards.

“NO!” they cried out in unison, Virgil’s voice swelling above the rest as a wave of shadows flew from his fingertips, hitting the dragon-witch in the chest and sending her sprawling. Emile and Patton rushed to Remy’s side. Emile kneeled beside him and pulled the dream-witch into his arms. Patton’s hands flew to his mouth when he saw the heavily bleeding cuts over his father’s face. Remy let out a whimper, eyes fluttering and tears of pain mixing with the blood trailing down his cheeks.

“It’s okay, you’re going to be okay, my sweet Bedtime Bear,” Emile soothed, his voice trembling as tears dripped down his face. Some of them landed in Remy’s cuts, the tears causing them to heal slightly.

“Thought ‘m more of a Sweet Dreamsss Bear,” Remy slurred. Emile choked out a laugh, brushing Remy’s hair out of his face.

“Maybe now’s not the time for cartoon references,” he murmured.

“Youuuuu ss-started it,” Remy pouted.

Patton let out a sudden gasp, and Emile’s gaze shot up to him as he slammed the end of his staff into the ground. A shimmering golden dome materialized above them, just in time to stop a massive dragon claw from crushing them. A frustrated roar was heard, and the claws came down, again and again, Patton letting out a pained gasp with every hit to the dome. His body was trembling with the effort to keep the barrier up, and sweat trailed down his brow.

“Patton…”

“Don’t worry about me, heal Pop!” Patton cried out. The dome was hit again, and Patton let out a shout as he fell to his knees. The barrier flickered, but stayed up as Patton leaned against his staff, gripping it firmly with both hands.

A burst of starlight hit the dragon-witch, soon followed by a wave of shadows and a blaze of fire. She roared in pain, stumbling back from the golden dome. Patton glanced over to Logan, Virgil, and Roman, giving them a weak smile before slumping to the ground with a pained sound. The golden dome flickered out, and Virgil was at his side in an instant.

“Nononononono, Patton, don’t do this to me, c’mon- not like this, please-” Virgil begged, shadows clinging to him and swirling anxiously as he took his brother into his arms. Patton’s eyes fluttered open, and Virgil sobbed in relief.

“‘M okay, jus’ tired,” Patton murmured.

“Well, if you weren’t sleepy, I would be able to help you with that, hun,” a voice piped up from beside Virgil.

“Pop!” Virgil and Patton cried out in unison, seeing Remy standing beside them. The cuts had healed to become just faint lines against his face. Emile stood at his husband’s side, smiling in relief as he gazed at him and his sons.

An enraged roar broke the Picani family out of their reverie, and their gaze snapped to see the dragon-witch stumbling backwards against the old subway system’s wall. Bursts of fire and starlight rained down at the witch, Roman and Logan fighting together in tandem- almost like a practiced, graceful dance.

“I’ll take care of Patton, you two go help Roman and Logan,” Emile said, already scooping Patton up into his arms.

“But what do we do?” Virgil asked, glancing over to the dragon-witch nervously. No matter how many hits Logan and Roman got on her, she would get back up, jaws snapping and spitting fire.

“You three keep her distracted long enough for me to use my dreamsand without her noticing. Once she’s asleep, we turn her in to the Board of Master Witches. They’ll figure out what to do with her,” Remy explained.

“Sounds good, Pop. Be careful,” Virgil said.

“You too, hun. Go help your boyfriends,” Remy replied with a wink. Virgil spluttered for a moment or two, blushing, before turning and running to help Logan and Roman. Logan caught sight of Virgil first, expression flashing with concern. He sent another burst of starlight from his staff before rushing over to Virgil. He gently grasped his shoulder, eyes searching for any injuries.

“Are you okay? How is your family holding up?” Logan asked, gazing softly into Virgil’s eyes.

“They’re okay, Pop has a plan,” Virgil said, then explained Remy’s plan to him. The astro-witch nodded curtly, about to pull away and tell Roman the plan, but hesitated.

“I’ve never been one for superstitions, but-” he paused to press a soft kiss to Virgil’s lips. “A kiss for good luck.”

“Good luck,” Virgil gasped out, practically breathless from such a simple, soft kiss. Logan smiled, then turned to run and explain the plan to Roman. Virgil watched him leave for a moment, until he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. The dragon-witch was getting up from Logan’s most recent blast of starlight, and her angered gaze was zeroed in on Logan and Roman. Something snapped inside Virgil. He couldn’t let them get hurt.

“Dragon-witch!” Virgil cried. Her head snapped to glare at him, but Virgil stood his ground, glaring right back. Tendrils of shadow writhed and whipped behind him, and Virgil was surprised to see a spark of fear run through the dragon-witch’s amber eyes. The tendrils lashed out at her, pinning her front claws to the ground. Her massive wings flapped as she roared in frustration, trying to free her claws.

A burst of starlight hit her side, and a mighty roar shook the old subway system. She breathed a plume of fire at Logan, but Roman countered it with his own fire. With his other hand, Roman summoned some of the rubble towards him, and it swirled around him for a moment before he sent it flying at her. She roared again, and Logan sent another burst of starlight straight into her mouth. The dragon-witch shrieked and writhed, but Virgil’s shadows held firm.

“Gurl, you sound so overtired! Bedtime for you, bitch!” Remy shouted, dreamsand swirling around him before it shot forward into the dragon-witch’s head.

“No!” she shrieked, before her eyelids fluttered and her body slumped to the ground. The dragon form shifted and melted away, and she soon was in human form, fast asleep. Virgil’s shadows retracted, and he let out a sigh of relief.

“We did it!” Roman squealed, rushing over and wrapping his arms around Virgil’s waist, lifting him up and spinning around with him in his arms.

“Put me down! And could you be any louder? We just got her to sleep!” Virgil hissed. Roman gave him a cheeky grin, setting Virgil down but still keeping his arms around his waist. Virgil opened his mouth again- probably to reprimand Roman- but he was cut off by a pair of lips meeting his own. When Roman pulled away, his grin was brighter and his gaze soft and loving.

“I’m sure your Pop can get her to sleep again,” Roman murmured.

“You’re insufferable,” Virgil muttered.

“Yes, but I believe I prefer him that way. It can be rather charming,” Logan said, walking over to them and dropping a kiss on Roman’s head. The magma-witch flushed bright red, causing Virgil to smirk.

“That’s our Roman. So charming it’s insufferable,” Virgil agreed, loving the blush that danced along Roman’s cheeks.

“Alright you three, how about we head home?” Emile’s voice piped up, and the three witches turned towards him. Patton was still in his arms, although he was more alert. Remy was just behind him, the dragon-witch slung over his shoulder and snoring softly.

“Home sounds fantastic,” Virgil said. Logan and Roman nodded, and the witches headed out of the old subway system, the threat over their heads finally gone.

Logan woke up to sunlight streaming through the window, strong arms around his waist, and someone’s head against his chest. He blinked in confusion for a moment, not quite recognizing where he was. But then, soft kisses were trailed up the back of his neck, and Logan remembered in an instant.

“Good morning, Roman,” he murmured, turning his head to look his boyfriend in the eyes.

“Shhh… too much talking, not enough kissing,” Roman pouted. Logan rolled his eyes, but leaned in to press a kiss to Roman’s lips. When Logan began to pull away, Roman followed and kissed him deeper, causing Logan to let out a soft gasp. He could feel Roman’s smirk against his mouth as the two continued exchanging soft, passionate kisses. One of Roman’s hands inched underneath Logan’s shirt, and Logan gasped again.

“Hey, some of us are trying to sleep here,” Virgil grumbled, his voice muffled against Logan’s chest. Logan broke away from Roman with a laugh.

“Sorry Virgil, you know how Roman gets,” Logan teased.

“Hey!”

“Only teasing, love,” Logan said, still not used to the thrill that went through him whenever he said that. Love. It had only been a few weeks since they had defeated the dragon-witch, and Roman, Virgil, and Logan’s relationship had started. But Logan was certain of his feelings, for one of the first times in his life. He loved them.

“Hey, you guys are adorable, but am I gonna get a good morning kiss here or not?” Virgil huffed.

“Of course, my dear. Apologies for forgetting you,” Logan replied, shifting towards him again. Virgil leaned up to press his lips to Logan’s, the astro-witch running his fingers through his boyfriend’s hair. He let out a sudden gasp into the kiss, as Roman had begun kissing up his neck again.

“Roman!” Logan gasped out. Roman smirked against his neck, pressing another soft kiss there.

“Sorry Starshine, you’re just so kissable this morning,” Roman murmured.

“I’d have to agree. C’mere?” Virgil asked, a little bashful. Logan smiled, and leaned in once more.

As the three of them exchanged soft kisses for most of the morning, Logan couldn’t believe his luck. Just weeks earlier, his heart had been filled with regret. But now his once lost love was back, and he had Virgil now too. And he would fight a thousand dragon-witches if it meant they were forever by his side.

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joeybelle · 6 years

Text

The house under the magnetic clouds

Armitage Hux x Reader

To @agentpeggyfreakingcarter

Rating: M

Warning: Explicit Language, Accidental Nudity, Drinking, First Person POV

Setting: Pre-TFA

Other: Romance, Humour

Wordcount: 8800

Summary: There is this tiny house in a valley, on a small moon covered in tall grasses and surrounded by electromagnetic clouds, where I come to unwind every time life becomes a bit too much to handle. Whenever I'm there, I don't expect company. And definitely not someone with this attitude, walking around like they own the place. I save his life from a burning escape pod, and what do I get in return?

The escape pod pierced through the multicolored clouds, leaving a trail of dust and smoke in its path. It darted through the sky, directionless and out of control, spinning wildly before falling to the ground. I counted the seconds since I saw it hit the ground until the sound reached me, trying to calculate how far away it had crashed. Not that far, by the looks of it.

“Poor fella.” The pit droid shook his head, looking in the distance. “I don’t think they survived.”

“I guess we’re gonna have to see for ourselves,” I said.

“You don’t plan on going there, do you? It could be dangerous.”

“Well maybe someone survived,” I shrugged, and headed towards the tiny house in the valley. “And if they didn’t, there may still be something to salvage. I wanna get there before the fire ruins everything,” I said, and started running. “Hurry up, Dum-E!”

I packed a small bag of first aid supplies, just in case there was someone to rescue, while Dum-E reluctantly prepped the speeder. No matter how much I’d tried in the past to calibrate his personality, he always ended up being either a daredevil or having a higher than normal sense of self preservation. Eventually, I chose the latter, the former always cost me too much in repairs. Also, I was reckless enough for both of us, and having someone to temper me wasn’t such a bad idea.

I could see the smoke from the crash site in the distance so there was no way to get lost as I piloted the speeder. The small moon I was living on was mostly covered in grass so it wouldn’t have been a problem to find it anyway.

There was a sizeable crater where the pod had made contact with the ground, but to my surprise it seemed less damaged than I’d expected. It must’ve had an emergency landing system, but I was pretty sure after passing through the electromagnetic clouds above us, it wouldn’t have worked properly. Nonetheless, it looked far better than I had anticipated.

“Come on, Dum-E!” I yelled at my droid, landing close enough to the crash site that we could easily load any potential survivors into the speeder. “We might have someone to save.”

I didn’t wait for him, but grabbed my protective suit and some tools and stepped outside. The escape pod was a model I hadn’t seen before, all new, shiny materials. The person inside must have been some sort of big shot, maybe royalty even. Hopefully not royalty, I really didn’t need an army at my doorstep, but if they decided to repay me for saving their royal ass, I could really use the credits. Eh, I could dream. No one would find them until the electromagnetic clouds would pass anyway. Besides, I’d still have to save their life before waiting for any sort of reward.

I put on the protection suit, grabbed the multitool and approached the pod. It took me a while to pierce through the many protective layers, but since it was made of such quality materials, I was really happy: there was more of a profit to make when I’d cut it into pieces and sell it. Eventually, I managed to get through. The inside of the pod was filled with smoke and that gave me a new sense of urgency. I was protected by my mask, but whoever was inside wasn’t, so I squeezed through the hole I had made.

I found him pretty quickly, still strapped in the chair but unconscious. I figured he’d inhaled enough smoke so I pulled off my mask and fitted it over his face. Hopefully, he could still be saved. The smoke in the room was thick and it stung my eyes, but I knew I could take it for a few minutes for someone’s sake.

“Dum-E!” I yelled, almost choking, prompting the droid to poke his head though the opening. “Help me drag him out.” I unstrapped him and he nearly fell over me, but with Dum-E’s help I managed to get him outside. I collapsed on the grass next to him and took a few deep breaths, trying to clear my lungs of smoke.

When I finally got my eyes to stop stinging, I took off the mask and looked at him. He really did look like some sort of aristocrat, the type that doesn’t see the light of day much, with his pale skin and flaming red hair. His uniform seemed really high quality and was really nice to the touch. He looked like he was military, something that looked like the First Order insignia etched into his coat sleeve. I’d heard about them, but we’d never crossed paths before. They were bastards as far as I knew, but didn’t really care about the far end of the galaxy, where I spent most of my time, so I didn’t really care about them either. But bastard or not I couldn’t just let him die, now that I had dragged him out of the crashed pod. His life was in my hands and I felt responsible.

As a smuggler living in the Outer Rim I knew a few things about first aid, so it wasn’t that hard to stabilize him. He wasn’t that badly injured anyway. With Dum-E’s help I took him home and settled him in my bed. Something about his fancy clothes made me think I couldn’t just throw him on my tattered, old couch. I had a feeling he’d thank me.

I kept the oxygen mask on, his lungs would be thankful for the help, and placed a wet rag on his forehead. His breathing was laboured and his skin was burning, droplets of sweat forming on his brow. The red hair contrasted beautifully against the paleness of his skin, and I couldn't help running my fingers through it every time I’d change the rag. He was beautiful, I had to admit, even in his unconscious state.

I spent most of the night tending to him. He started talking in his sleep at some point, just gibberish really, but didn’t wake up. He eventually fell into a deep sleep so I dragged a chair next to the bed and wrapped myself into a blanket, just watching over him. After I was certain he wouldn’t die on me I slowly buried my feet under his blanket, leeching off of his warmth, and dozed off.

I woke up to the stranger pushing my feet off the bed.

“That’s rude,” I told him, trying not to lose my balance and fall. “That’s my bed, you know.”

“Who are you?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at me, his pretty face twisted in a sneer. I didn’t like it.

“The one who saved your life. So, who are you?”

“Where is my blaster?” He completely ignored my question, frantically patting his pockets.

“What blaster? There was no blaster?” I lied. Of course there was a blaster, and of course I’d stashed it somewhere he couldn’t get to. I had saved his life but that didn’t mean he wouldn't wanna repay it with an expertly placed shot between my eyes. On the Outer Rim a lot of people seemed pretty allergic to kindness and by the increasingly annoyed expression on his face, I had a hunch the same was true about the First Order.

“You’re lying,” he said, pointing an accusatory finger at my nose.

“What would you need a blaster for anyway?” I tried diverting his attention. “No one’s attacking you here. It’s just me and my droid on this god-forsaken moon. And if I’ve gone through literal fire and smoke to save your life, I nursed you the whole night, why do you think I’d start attacking you now that you’re awake? Try to relax a bit, you’re wounded, you need to rest.”

The scowl on his face became even more pronounced, but I did my best to keep a smile on. I wasn’t going to let him ruin my mood. But something told me he was going to be a very difficult patient. Especially since he was already trying to get out of bed.

“No, don’t,” I said, catching him as he lost his balance and nearly fell from the bed, the little colour he still had in his cheeks draining completely, his eyes losing focus for a second. His hand went to his ribs and he started breathing heavily. “I think you should lay down for now,” I said, pushing him onto the pillows and meeting almost no resistance from him. “You’ve had a pretty rough landing there so don’t think you can recover overnight.”

“I have to get back…” He swallowed his words at the end and grimaced. I held his head and helped him take a sip of water, hoping it would make him feel a little better. I didn’t want to imagine what he was feeling right now.

“Unfortunately you’re stuck on this planet for a while,” I said, once the wave of nausea I assumed had washed over him had lost some intensity, and he was once again glaring menacingly at me. “You fell through a cloud of electromagnetic dust that scrambled your controls. It happens quite often here, it’s one of the particularities of this moon. While it’s out there above us, nothing goes in or out. No ships, no distress messages, no nothing.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Hey! It’s not my fault,” I snapped, crossing my arms. His attitude was starting to get to me. “You could have crashed when I was away and you would have died alone and miserable. I’m the only inhabitant, so you know. You should thank me.” He didn’t say anything, and turned his back to me. “Fine, don’t thank me,” I mumbled, getting up. “I’m going to make something to eat, please don't try to get up without my help. I really don’t wanna have to hoist you back in bed. You may not be that heavy but my back hurts.” I heard him huff in reply and I snickered. He was a brat.

I made something quick for me to eat and a nutritious soup for him. I used some of my emergency rations on it, to give it a little kick, but I knew he needed something filling and easy to eat, so this was my best bet. I poured it into a large cup, took my plate and joined him in the bedroom. However, he seemed less than thrilled with the food I presented him. He took the cup and stared at it like he expected something terrible to emerge out of it. He had managed to lift himself up while I was away and now he was propped onto the pillows, looking a little less dead than before.

“What’s this?” he asked, throwing me another glare. If I hadn’t seen him when he was unconscious, I would have thought that was just the way his face was, perpetually stuck in a frown.

“Soup,” I said, shoving food into my own mouth and not paying too much attention to him.

“Soup isn’t supposed to look like something died in it.”

“Hate to break it to you, but most soups have something that’s already dead in them. Unless you like the ones that are made with live animals, but I don’t have the necessary ingredients to make one of those, so this is all you get for now.” I smiled and he didn’t. Safe to say he didn’t really appreciate my humour.

He held the cup between his slender fingers and extended his arm away from himself, dangling the cup above the floor.

“If you drop it,” I let him know between bites, “it’s gonna stay there until you can get up and clean it. It’s gonna start stinking in about a day. So you better think it through.”

He seemed to consider his actions, and for a brief moment I was sure he’d still drop it just to spite me. “Take it away,” he eventually said, and I breathed, relieved.

“You should eat,” I said in a much milder tone, taking the cup from his hand. “I can promise you it tastes better than it looks and you really need some nutrients. I mean, it’s not like you have any stored extra fat you can break down in times of need.” His head turned slowly, and his eyes were shooting daggers at me. I should have taken the hint to stop, but I lacked basic self preservation instincts. “Seriously,” I continued, looking him in the eye, “your coat is heavier than you.”

“I’ll kill you,” he said, and by the look in his eyes I knew he meant it.

“Sure,” I shrugged. “Too bad you can’t get out of bed without fainting. I’ll leave this here for you,” I said, placing the cup on the small table next to the bed, within his reach. “In case you change your mind.”

He glared and promptly turned his back to me, so I knew I should leave him alone. I’d seen his injuries and even though he seemed fine, I knew he was quite battered. I had a feeling that if he hadn’t been this injured he wouldn’t have stayed one second in my home, and once he would feel better he’d bolt out the door. I wasn’t gonna stop him, he didn’t have anywhere to go anyway. But for now, he needed time to rest.

I made myself busy for a couple of hours, still keeping an eye on him from the distance. When I came back he was sound asleep, the cup of soup was empty and there were signs that he had gotten up and tried to rummage through my home before getting back into bed and falling asleep. He had recovered his coat from where I hanged it and I could see a small transmitter clutched in his hand. He was trying to call home. Hopefully he realized that I wasn’t lying to him when I said no signal would go through the curtain of clouds.

I took the coat off the bed and hanged it somewhere where he could see it. It was a really nice coat, black, sleek, high quality material, so I didn't want him to think I was trying to steal it, even though I really didn’t mind owning one. It looked really warm, I thought as I passed my fingers over the material.

I took the transmitter out of his hand and placed it on the table next to the now empty cup so it would still be within his reach if he woke up. No one would be receiving his messages anytime soon, but I figured it would help him understand that I didn’t mean him any harm. After all, I had disarmed him. Which, in hindsight, had been a really good idea, since he seemed at least a little apprehensive. He was military, and everyone knows they’re educated to shoot first, ask questions later. So it was better that I didn’t give him the chance to shoot.

But he didn’t really look like the soldiers I’d sometimes meet. He was much too slender and, as far as I’d seen when I checked for wounds it wasn’t the wiry type of slender that fighters sometimes were. He looked more like someone who had a desk job. His skin was much too light and his blaster too new and unused for him to have any other type of job. But he looked pretentious, so I assumed it was quite a good desk job.

He was really cute right now that he wasn’t sneering anymore. His hair was gorgeous and I really couldn’t stop myself from passing my fingers through it, brushing a few strands from his forehead.

“Stop touching my hair,” he mumbled without opening his eyes.

“Oh,” I gasped, taking my hand back. “Sorry about that, I didn’t know you were awake.” When I didn’t get any reply, I decided to leave him alone and go about with my day. I had a feeling he’d like to sulk in peace for a while.

He was peaceful for the rest of the day, mostly sleeping and sulking like I had anticipated. He didn’t try to run away or ransack my house anymore, probably knowing that he wouldn’t be able to find his blaster. Or maybe waiting for the right moment to start searching again. I didn’t care, as long as he was non-violent that was enough for me.

I spent most of the day doing chores and all the other things I kept putting off, since there was no signal and none of my electronics worked properly so I had to do something to occupy my time. I tended to stay away from my guest, as he seemed a little snappy every time I tried striking up a conversation. We did have to interact from time to time, though, because he wasn’t able to walk to the refresher on his own.

“So what’s your name?” I asked at some point, waiting patiently for him outside the bathroom.

“It’s none of your business,” I heard his muffled voice on the other side of the door. He said it in such an affected tone and I made a conscious effort not to roll my eyes.

“It is my business, you’re in my care, so I’d like to know your name.” I crossed my arms and leaned on the wall waiting for him. I could hear the faucet running, and I fought the urge to tell him not to waste all my water because he’s not paying any bills. But he was a guest, so I had to accept it. He eventually got out, and instantly frowned when he saw me. I guess he somehow expected me to vanish in his absence. “That, if you don’t want me to call you Red for the rest of your stay here.” I continued, offering my shoulder for support and grabbing his waist. “That’s what they’d call you if you ever hung out with me basically anywhere around this area of the Outer Rim.”

“I’d never hang out with you,” he said, in disgusted manner.

“Yeah I bed you wouldn't,” I said, helping him back in the bed. “You don’t look like someone who’d ever step foot in the bars I usually go to. Or that has ever tried Jet Juice in their life. Not that you’d be able to handle it anyway.” He scoffed and I laughed. “So, Red it is then?”

“Just call me General,” he spat.

“General?!” I really couldn’t hold my laughter, making him turn to look at me. “You’ve got to be shitting me, you don’t look like a General. Sergeant, Lieutenant at most! And that only if you have some family pushing you forward,” I laughed.

I could see his face redden with what I assumed was anger or embarrassment, or both, and wondered if I had struck a chord. “Check the insignia on my uniform if you don’t believe me,” he said, with a frown and a really stuck up expression on his face, which only made me want to continue. It wasn’t like I didn’t believe him—although his claim was pretty far-fetched—but his smug face really pissed me off.

“Yeah, sure,” I continued. “I can buy five of those for 10 credits on the black market, whatever army I chose. Some of them are even authentic.”

He looked at me wide eyed for a moment. I had no idea what he was thinking, but then he crossed his arms and turned his back to me. “You wouldn’t be able to recognize an authentic insignia anyway.”

“You may be right about that,” I laughed, and I could hear him snort. “But I know the people wearing them. And you really don’t look like a general.”

I left him alone for the rest of the day, coming into the room only to bring him something to eat and drink and administer medication. He ignored me most of the time and I didn’t try to rile him up anymore. He was recovering after all.

I watched him while he was sleeping once again, just to make sure he wouldn’t die on me. This time I dragged in an armchair, with the help of Dum-E, and was able to sit more comfortably. I fell asleep pretty early, seeing that my patient wasn’t as restless anymore, but he did cough pretty often in his sleep so I woke up every time he did to check on him. It wasn’t so odd after how much smoke he had inhaled, even I could still feel my throat irritated.

When I woke up in the morning, he was already scowling at me.

“Morning Sarge!” I got up the chair and stretched my aching muscles, letting out a satisfied yelp. I would fall asleep pretty often in the pilot’s chair, but that was somehow more comfortable than any chair I had at home. “Ready to face a new day?”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Sorry, but you really have to impress me to promote you to anything higher than that.” I shrugged and I could see him start to get annoyed with my presence.

“I want to take a shower,” he said in a commanding voice, and for the first time since I’d met him he gave me the impression that he might actually be someone in charge, not just a spoiled brat.

“Are you always that bossy? Can’t you say ‘please’?” I asked, not letting myself get intimidated. After all I was pretty sure I could win against him in a fistfight. “You don’t have many friends, do you?” I asked, seeing that he wasn’t going to reply. “Just asking because if you give me your address I could send you a card on your birthday, they sell these funny holo-cards that you can keep on your desk and they scream insults at anyone that passes them…”

“I would like a shower… Please!” It wasn’t a plea, more like barking an order, but he still used the word ‘please’ so I decided not to subject him to my ramblings anymore.

“Okay,” I said, passing a hand over my face. “Alright, we’ll be facing some logistic difficulties.”

I wasn’t sure he’d be able to stand for long without fainting and I really didn’t know how he’d react to hot water being poured on his head, seeing that he was still pretty dizzy every time he got up. I was afraid that if I left him alone he’d fall and hit his head. Of course, I could stay with him and make sure he was alright, but something told me he wouldn’t appreciate my concern.

“Are you sure you don’t want breakfast first?” I asked, trying to win myself some time to think.

“No,” he replied, abruptly.

“Then you’ll have to wait.”

I left him and went to the refresher. The only thing I could come up with in this amount of time was placing a stool in the shower so that he could sit on it, and hope for the best. I took out some towels and a change of unisex clothes that looked like they might fit him.

He was pretty compliant as I helped him to the refresher. Sat him on the stool and wanted to help him take off some of his clothes, but he refused, sending me away with a wave of hand.

“Leave everything in a pile on the floor,” I told him before closing the door. “I’ll put them in the washer later.”

I waited for him nearby, just in case he needed me. I tried doing something productive, but in the end I just paced in front of the door. I knew I should have been starting breakfast in the meantime, but what if he’d need my help and I wouldn’t hear it? What if I wasn’t fast enough? So I ended up cleaning his coat while I waited.

It was a really nice coat, something I didn’t get to see that often in this part of the Galaxy, but it was something I assumed a high ranking officer would be wearing. I wasn’t familiar with the insignia. I had heard about the First Order, but they were so far away that they didn’t pose a threat to us yet. And I didn’t care that much either. In the end it didn’t matter who ruled the Galaxy, we’d still be the same misfits we’d always been.

But the coat was nice. It was something I would have bought if I weren’t currently—perpetually—broke. It looked really sleek and polished, even with the tiny holes and traces of ash and dust from dragging him through the crash site. I wondered how he’d look in it. Probably a lot more impressive than he did swaddled in my blankets.

The loud crash made my heart almost project into another dimension. I dropped the coat and bolted through the refresher door. I found him lying on the bathroom floor, covered in foam, clutching his sides.

“Are you alright?” I asked automatically, although I could see perfectly well that he wasn’t. He was still conscious and there was no trace of blood, but his body looked really bruised under all that foam.

“No, I’m not!” he barked and I couldn't blame him.

“Sorry about that. Let me help you up.” I grabbed him and helped him on the stool I was pretty sure he hadn’t used. “Want some help rinsing off? I promise I won’t peak.”

“No! Get out!”

“Alright, have it your way…” I said, roughly half a second before watching him lose balance and almost slip off the stool. Fortunately, my reflexes still worked and I managed to catch him in time. “Or not.” Water and foam seeped through my t-shirt as I was trying to stabilize him, my face pressed to the back of his neck. His head was hung and his breathing laboured. “Right,” I said, stretching for the shower controls, “let’s rinse you and get you out of here.”

A wave of warm water hit us both and I stepped into the shower not very concerned that I was getting all my clothes wet. All I cared was to get him cleaned up and back in bad as fast as possible, before any other accidents could happen. It was my fault that I’d let him fall in the first place. I should have watched him more closely, despite his protests.

And speaking of watching, I did my best trying not to look, I really did. But somehow, looking at something else, my eyes fell onto his nether regions. That was also exactly the moment he chose to lift his head, open his eyes and look at me.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” I said, looking from his groin to his face, “the carpet does matches the drapes.”

I’d said a lot of stupid things in my life, and this wasn’t even in the top ten, but it was still pretty stupid. I blushed furiously as I hurried washing the soap off of him. He didn’t say anything, but I could see he was actively trying to avoid looking in my direction. I turned off the water, grabbed a large towel and covered him in it. He immediately grabbed it and pulled it closer, covering himself.

“I’m sorry,” I said, taking a smaller towel and beginning to dry his hair. “I really didn't mean to. It was a stupid accident and I promise it won't happen again.” He just looked at me, but said nothing. The judgemental look in his eyes was enough anyway.

By the time he was mostly dry he seemed to be feeling a lot better because he was able to dress himself without any help from me. He was still shooting daggers as I turned around to give him a little privacy. And I really didn’t look in the mirror, although I knew I could get a good look. I didn’t wanna seem like a creep.

When I turned around he was already dressed. The clothes fit him somewhat, but he looked more like a lanky tenager than a soldier. The t-shirt was loose and the pants a little short, revealing his ankles. He still seemed a little insecure on his own two feet. His hair stuck in all directions and his face was flushed. I smiled.

“What?” he asked, frantically running his hands through his hair, trying to tame it somehow.

“You’re cute,” I laughed, offering him my shoulder for support.

His eyes widened. “You’re insane!”

“Wow! That’s a weird way to accept a compliment. You don’t get that many compliments, do you?”

“Stop talking.”

“Your wish is my command, Sarge,” I said, mocking his pompous tone. “Let’s get you back to bed before I have to pick you up off my bathroom floor again.”

He seemed a bit reluctant to hold onto my shoulder, but I convinced him to do so anyway. I couldn’t afford to see him topple to the ground once again. He stumbled a couple of times before I noticed he kept looking up.

“Will you please watch your steps?” I said, frustrated.

“Your t-shirt is wet,” he said, pressing his lips together in a tight line.

“Yeah, I’ll change it in a moment, just let me get you back in bed.”

“And see-through.”

“Oh!” I looked down and understood that he had a pretty good view of my boobs every time he looked down. I could feel my cheeks starting to burn, but there was nothing I could do right now so I tried hiding my embarrassment behind a nervous laughter. “What, don’t you have boobs in the military, Sarge?” He snorted and kept looking away from my boobs. “Yeah, I figured that would be the case. But you should be a lady killer with that impressive coat of yours…”

“Please stop,” he pleaded.

I laughed and helped him back in bed, fluffing up the pillows a little so he could sit upright. “There you go, Sarge. I’ll go make some breakfast and I’ll be back in a minute.”

He exhaled loudly and I was sure I’d reached the limit of his patience with my ramblings, so I decided to shut up and leave him alone for a while.

“It’s Hux,” he said before I left the room.

“Pardon?”

“Armitage Hux. My name is Armitage Hux.” He seemed to force himself to say the words and I smiled.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, offering him my own name in exchange. “Can I call you Armie?”

“No! You can call me Hux,” he barked.

“Ok, Hux. I’ll go make breakfast now.”

The next couple of days passed without incident. Well, almost. He was very resilient and seemed to heal faster than I had anticipated. I had to fight him to get some bacta on his bruises—almost literally, since he only yielded after I’d grabbed the fly swatter and threatened to give him a couple more if he didn’t take his shirt off—but other than that he wasn’t being that difficult.

He always ate all of the food I brought him without complaining. After the first day I thought he’d do the same every time, but he slowly and meticulously ate everything. Of course, he never complimented my food—or thanked me for it—but the fact that he was eating without putting up a fight was enough.

However, I had to send Dum-E away after the first couple of days. He didn’t like Hux and made it very clear, so I loaded him with a handful of supplies and sent him to my ship to help the astromech repair the blocked exhaust port and to wait for me there until I’d come for him. His help wasn’t really needed—astromechs usually did a much better job without someone pissing them off—but I needed a reason to get Dum-E off my back without hurting his feelings. He did what he was told, but wasn’t very happy about it.

Hux insisted to try and get out of bed a little every day, and although I knew he was in a lot of pain he never complained. I helped him walk around the house a little bit at a time and he seemed to get stronger every day. He still got a little dizzy everytime he got up too quickly, but I was there to support him until it passed. He also started breathing and sleeping better, so I could sleep on the couch instead of by his side.

His new favourite spot seemed to be outside on the porch, sitting in my rocking chair. He never rocked in it, just sat there, arms crossed, frowning at the scenery, occasionally watching me work in the garden. I didn’t mind his presence, actually I’d grown to quite enjoy it. I’d make him tea as he said he didn’t like coffee. He’d never touch the cookies I’d leave on the table, so I’d end up eating them during my breaks.

“So this is what you do for a living?” he asked once I’d taken a break from gardening and joined him in on the porch.

“What? Gardening?” He nodded. “No, it’s just a hobby. Occasionally I feel like I need a break from people so I come here to be alone.”

“Then what do you do?”

“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” I said, biting into a cookie. A glimpse of something—fear maybe—flashed through his eyes. “Odd jobs,” I said, still chewing on the sweet treat. “I used to work in a mining company, I hated them. Then I worked as a cargo pilot, they hated me. Now I just… freelance.”

“Do you have your own ship?”

“No, I walked to this moon.” I snorted. “Of course I do. I saved a lot for it. Had a lot of repairs done too, but now it’s in pretty good shape,” I said with a smile on my face. I was really proud of the trash compactor, as I sometimes lovingly called her.

“I don’t see it. Where is it?” he said, curiously looking around.

“Docked. Somewhere.” I laughed. “I know that look. But I’m not gonna let you steal my ship and crash it. Just look at the sky, no one’s able to pass though that.”

He looked up. I still wasn’t sure he believed me, but I wasn’t gonna sacrifice my ship so that his curiosity would be satisfied. The sky was a combination of pastels and greys, mixing together in wide swirls, almost glimmering where the clouds were thin enough to let some more light come through. Occasionally, a flash of lightning lit the sky. It was insanely beautiful, in my opinion, and that certainly made up for the inconvenience of being grounded for extended periods of time.

But I wasn’t looking at the sky right now, I was looking at him. Ever since he seemed to have gotten used to my presence, he was frowning a lot less. And he was really cute when he relaxed a little. He had such beautiful features, mesmerizing green eyes brought out by the colour of his hair. He looked pretty imposing now that he wasn’t hunched over anymore, dressed again in his freshly cleaned and mended uniform (I actually did a great job with it). With the coat hanging effortlessly on his shoulders, he actually looked like a higher ranking officer. Not that I would have ever told him that, he had an ego problem anyway.

“What?” he asked, turning around to look at me.

“I like your coat,” I only half lied, because I really liked his coat.

“I’d tell you to join the First Order,” he said, looking away. “But I’m sure you’d never be able to climb to my rank anyway,” he said in such an honest voice that it only sounded moderately condescending.

“Well, if you did it I can do it too. I can even take your job if I really want to.” He snorted, and it almost sounded like a laughter. Almost. “But you’re lucky that I don’t like the military, so you’ll be able to keep your job a little longer.” I got up and headed back to my garden.

“But you like gardening,” he said, watching me grab my tools.

“Yeah! I’d rather get my hands dirty with mud than with blood.”

“Sometimes, blood is necessary,” he said, leaning back in the chair. “Change requires sacrifice, sometimes literally.”

“You sound like an idealist,” I said, shaking my head. “Maybe you should try gardening,” I offered, changing the subject. “Helps a lot with meditation and inner turmoil. Might help with that crease between your eyebrows.”

“Not in a million years.” He got up, and walked briskly inside.

“Well you could wash the dishes if you’re going inside. Or set the table,” I yelled after him, knowing full well that he wouldn’t dirty his hands doing any of that.

As days passed and he was getting better, he started spending more and more time with me. He never did anything around the house—something told me that he’d never done any housework by himself—but he followed me around like a shadow. He’d spend hours walking around the garden, listening to me ramble about the plants or listen to funny stories that happened to me or my friends. On rare occasions he’d even smile or snicker at one of my jokes. He seemed to appreciate my flower garden, since he liked to spend time there the most.

He didn’t talk much about himself and seemed quite emotionally constipated. He only fired up when he talked about the First Order, but when he noticed how little I cared, he stopped and never mentioned it again. Instead he started asking me questions: about my childhood, about my family, my friends. He seemed restless whenever the house was too silent so I kept talking and he listened.

“The weather’s changing,” I said one evening, while sitting on the porch. The air was warm and a bit humid, but it wasn’t unpleasant. The static in the air was probably higher than usual. “I think the sky will be clearing soon.”

“How do you know?” he asked, joining me, looking at the dwindling light near the horizon. “It looks the same to me.”

“It’s hard to explain. You start noticing some changes after spending some time here.”

We were both silent for a while, watching the setting sun colour the clouds a fiery orange, just before turning dark. I was a bit sad that he’d have to go, but I knew I couldn’t just ask him to stay a little longer. Besides, I’d have to go to work too. My little house and garden were a great place to unwind, but I wouldn’t be able to survive without working. I sighed and headed inside.

He followed me a couple of minutes later, watching me pull out bottles out of a cupboard.

“I was thinking,” I said, placing a bottle on the kitchen table and fishing for two mismatched shot glasses in another cupboard, “since we’ll both be off this planet soon and something tells me we’ll never see each other again, I was thinking of treating you to a glass of jet juice. You can’t leave without tasting it at least once now, can you?”

“No, thank you,” he said, taking a step back as I was pouring the drink, as if it could bite him though the air.

“Oh, come on, General. You need to learn to unwind a little,” I said with a cheeky smile, pushing the glass towards him. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone,” I said, taking my own glass and downing it. “Kriff, it’s bad!”

“Why do you drink it then?” He took the glass between his slender fingers and sniffed it, the look of disgust on his face becoming more evident.

“Oh you don’t drink to enjoy it,” I shrugged, refilling my glass. “You drink to get drunk.”

“That’s because you don’t drink the right thing,” he said with a very visible air of superiority. I snorted.

“Sorry, rich boy, but here we can’t afford the fine drinks you’re used to.”

“I’m not rich.”

“Yes, you are. Maybe not now, but I’m pretty sure you grew up rich. You have this air of entitlement that only rich kids have. You walk around like you own the place, you act like you deserve everything. I think you’ve been used to having everything handed to you because you never clean after yourself, you never say thank you for anything, unless it’s sarcastic.” He frowned, but didn’t deny it. “You know, I didn’t have to save your life,” I continued, and he was already avoiding my gaze. “I didn’t have to look after you or give up my bed or share my food with you. But I did it anyway, because I wanted to.”

He still didn’t deny it of try to argue with me, instead looking down at the glass in his hand. “Thanks,” he mumbled and brought the glass to his lips. I could tell the exact moment the drink hit his throat, because I saw his eyes widen in shock, his face take on a crimson shade and eventually he started coughing. At least his heart didn’t stop.

I walked around the table, unable to hold my laughter as he doubled down coughing. “Are you okay?” I asked, wiping the tears from the corners of my eyes, once he seemed to compose himself a little bit.

“That is absolutely appalling! How can you drink it?”

“You didn’t have to try and down it. I’m used to it, but you will need some practice.”

“Fuck,” he took a deep breath, wiping the sweat on his forehead. “I didn’t expect it to be that strong. And why does it taste that bad?”

“Yeah, this is the good shit,” I said, pouring another round. Hux looked at the bottle with barely concealed fear in his eyes. “Rock brews it on his ship when he’s away. Comes back with a fresh batch every six months or so. It’s always the strong kind, cause that’s how he likes it.”

“It’s horrendous,” he said, but still took his glass. This time he proceeded with a lot more caution, only sipping from the glass. It was entertaining to watch him force himself to drink the liqueur. That level of self-discipline was to be admired. He even made an effort to keep a straight face, but failed miserably. I laughed and downed my glass. “You’re insane,” he whispered, looking at my empty glass.

It only took a couple more glasses for him to actually take the bottle and become the one in charge of refills. He stated loud and clear that it tasted like the depths of hell, but he kept drinking anyway. I was already dancing on my own in the middle of the living room, the sound system blaring some stupid galactic pop music.

“I thought you said electronics don’t work,” he said, looking at me with a slightly unfocused gaze. He was actually taking the alcohol far better than I had expected. Most people who drank Rock’s jet juice for the first time ended up under the table. Or worse. But he seemed to handle it surprisingly well.

“They do, they just don’t get any signal from the outside,” I said, swaying to the music, probably a lot less graciously than I thought I was. “This is just some pre-recorded shit. Come dance with me.”

His usual scoff was back, and in my drunken state I realized I’d missed it. He shook his head and I extended my arm out, inviting him again. “I don’t dance,” he said, pouring himself another drink, this time being a lot more generous with it than I had been.

“Ever?”

“Ever.”

“You’re lying,” I giggled, fumbling with the sound system. “You’re high society, you guys have balls or some shit. You must have at least slow danced once in your entire life.”

“I did not.” He crossed his arms and looked away.

“Well then, there’s always a first time for everything.” I finally managed to find a slow song I was pretty sure we could dance on without stepping on each other’s toes. “Come dance with me,” I said once again, taking a few steps towards him, holding my hand out.

He still had his hands crossed over his chest but his posture wasn’t that rigid anymore. A few hair strands had escaped from his usually slicked back hairstyle and were falling into his eyes, but he didn’t do anything to brush them away. He was looking. Just that, looking, as if he couldn’t really make up his mind what to do. I still kept my hand out and an inviting smile on my face, although I had little hope that he would accept my invitation. So I was really surprised when I felt his hand in mine, my smile widening considerably.

“Only one,” he said, placing a hand on the small of my back and pulling me close.

My heart jumped at the contact. I wasn’t expecting this much intimacy, if anything I had expected him to be a lot more awkward and stiff. But he was swaying next to me like he knew what he was doing, his hand warm in mine, his face so close that I could feel his breath. I allowed my head to rest on his shoulder, melting into his frame. After all, a little vulnerability was allowed from time to time.

The song ended and then another one started, and the promise of only one dance was temporarily forgotten. My head was spinning a little—no doubt the effect of the alcohol in my blood—but I knew dancing could do that to you too. He had rested his cheek on the top of my head and I had my eyes closed, languidly moving in sync with him. And then another song started, and another.

I don’t really remember how my lips found his. It felt like waking up from a dream, or waking inside of a dream because I felt oddly detached from reality. The kiss was slow, needy and selfish, lips mashed together almost painfully. My hands had traveled up, entangling my fingers into the hair on the back of his head. He was pressing me closer to his chest, in an almost desperate gesture. I wasn’t thinking anymore. The only thing I was feeling was him, and his soft lips on mine.

The music changed, pulling us back to reality. He broke the kiss and we pulled apart. It took us a couple of moments to regain composure, me a bit more reluctantly than him. He passed a hand through his hair and looked around nervously. He seemed a little flustered, and I was sure it wasn’t just the alcohol.

“I’d better go to sleep,” he said and I pouted.

I really didn’t want him to leave, my head was still spinning and my lips were tingling, wanting to be kissed again, but even in my drunken state I knew it wouldn’t be wise to insist. He was rebuilding his shell just as fast as he was getting his hair in order, and the only thing indicating that he had been kissing mere moments before was the redness of his lips.

I straightened my posture and smiled. “Goodnight, General,” I forced myself to say.

He mumbled ‘goodnight’ and left. I turned off the music and poured myself another glass, before cleaning up. I was still drunk when I eventually went to bed. I stopped for a moment to look at the sleeping figure in my bed. I’d miss him after he’d leave. I really would. I made a mental note to tell him that before he left and crashed on the couch, falling asleep almost instantly.

For the past week, as Hux had healed enough so he could get out of bed on his own, he had been the one to wake me up every morning, at the break of dawn. I had no idea how he could live on such little sleep, but I blamed it on his military upbringing. So I found it a little strange when I woke up unprompted, and the house was filled with the light of day. I figured the hangover was making him oversleep, so I got up to close the blinds.

The sun was shining brightly, and I groaned as my head felt like it wanted to explode into a million pieces. The sun was shining… that meant the cloud blockade was gone. It took me a minute to realize, my brain foggy and slow.

I ran to my bedroom, my head protesting against any sudden movements, nearly tripping onto something on the way. The bed was empty. I looked around the house, but he was nowhere to be seen, my heart sinking with every step I took. I stopped and listened, but everything was silent.

I ran outside, my last hope was to find him in my garden, or at least to catch him before he reached his rescuers. Just to say goodbye. What I didn’t expect was to see was the silhouette of a battlecruiser blocking half the sky, terrifyingly close and menacing.

I stopped dead in my tracks, unable to move. So he hadn’t lied, he was someone really important if they’d sent a star destroyer to pick him up. A ship that would wipe the tiny moon I lived on in mere seconds, erasing any proof that he’d ever been here. And from what I’d heard about them, they were capable of doing just that. I knew enough that I could be considered a liability.

I just stood there in front of my house, where we used to walk together less than a day ago. I was scared. For the first time in a long time, I was scared. I watched with widened eyes as the ship started its engines and entered hyperspace.

It took me a couple of minutes to realize that it was actually gone and I was still alive. He didn’t kill me, although he could have done it with just as little effort as squishing a bug with his shoe. I took a few deep breaths to calm myself and went back inside. I needed a strong drink, so I poured myself one. My hangover wouldn’t thank me. I plopped down the couch and covered my eyes.

He left without saying goodbye. I knew he hadn’t tried to wake me up, because even drunk I wasn’t a heavy sleeper. So he actually made an effort to not wake me up as he left. I didn’t get to tell him that I would miss him, and that he could visit anytime he needed a break from whatever life he was leading. That he’d be welcome again in my tiny house.

I got up before I made myself cry and looking around the house my eyes fell on the coat, thrown on the back of the armchair. It was his coat, the same black coat I spent half a day trying to clean and mend. All the military insignia had been carefully removed. I laughed, wondering how long he’d actually spent carefully cutting each one of them off, leaving nothing but the beautiful black fabric. I put it on. Yeah, I loved it. It didn’t fit me quite right, but I could wear it on my shoulders and look badass.

Looking through its pockets I found an emergency transmitter, the same one I’d found him clutch in his hand the first time he woke up, and the same one that had called the First Order to pick him up the moment the clouds had stopped jamming the signal. It was currently turned off, but I was sure that the moment I’d turn it on, it would start transmitting. ‘In case of emergency’, I knew it meant. I smiled and put it back in the coat pocket. This was his way of saying thank you.

A couple of days later, I had picked up a very disgruntled Dum-E along with my ship and I was making the final preparations to leave for another season of working my ass off for little to no pay. I opened my safe box to grab some stuff and I noticed that Hux’s blaster was gone. So he’d found my safe box and he broke into it, recovering his weapon. It was useless for me, since it was fingerprint locked and those wouldn’t sell for much on the black market, but it was nice thinking that he could have killed me anytime he wanted, but didn’t. It was almost romantic.

I laughed and closed the safe, making a mental note to get a better one before I came back again, turned on the security system and left the house, hands in my pockets and a black, First Order general’s coat hanging on my shoulders.

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scottishhellhound · 5 years

Text

Here's the first chapter to my original novel Godlings: On Victory's Wings.

Despite some still clunky feeling scenes, I'm ridiculously proud and happy with how the rewrite turned out, and how much better it flows than the previous version.

Title: On Victory's Wings

Chapter: 1/18?

Genre: Urban Fantasy/Mythology, dark comedy, adventure

Summary: Aislinn is your average high-school Senior, worrying about average teenage things. Balancing schoolwork, sports, her social life (such as it is), and random Spartan Shades appearing in city parks on her morning jogs. Or maybe not so average, but that's just how her life goes, being a mortal daughter of Zeus. First the Shade thing, and then the new guy she bumps into sets her instincts ringing. But when one of her best friends - a son of Hades - goes missing, and beings from the Underworld begin appearing in the Upper-Realm, Aislinn has to navigate a world that has been trying it's best to kill her since she was a child. With just herself, an unclaimed demi-god, and her very much mortal best friend out trying to save the world...? They are so screwed.

Wordcount: 5386

Aislinn ran callused fingers through her still damp red hair, ripping at the tangles in agitation. Her mind raced, one thought tripping on the heels of another; each worry vying for her attention. She ignored the call of her fellow students as she strode passed, too caught up in her own thoughts to stop and talk. She chewed on her lower lip as she tried to make sense of what she had seen on her morning jog.

The first a dead lawn. Not yellow death from over or under watering, or lack-luster care. No. The ground was the gray of old decay, as if life never existed there; the earth cracked and cobbled as if by drought. Trees, leafless and petrified, lined the yard. A mist that was more miasmic and thick than any she had seen on earth, hung in the air. When she ran her hand through it, it clung to her skin, swirling around it, like ink in water, writhing and reaching. As if it would take form at any moment and steal her essence. More alarming, was that the lawns of the houses on either side were still lush and green with life. Untouched by whatever had decimated the lone lawn.

The second – and the one that concerned her more – was the man, standing alone in the middle of a field. A man, dressed in full, authentic, Spartan hoplite armour. A brown leather cuirass, leather strips hanging from around the waist, providing some modest coverage. A bronze tipped spear gripped in his hand, shield hanging on his back, and a sword at his waist. On his head a horse hair crested helmet, crest dyed red, tail trailing down his back. She slowed her jog, coming to a stop at the edge of the field, staring at the helmeted figure in confusion. She tried calling out to him, speaking in Greek. “Warrior! Are you lost? Do you have payment for the Ferryman?”

In response to her call the hoplite turned towards her. The helmet, and distance, hiding his features. She watched him shift his stance, lifting the shield from his back with ease, fitting it to his arm. He raised the shield in front of himself and leveling the spear over its edge, glared at her over it. Before the Hoplite could charge, his form wavered, a mirage in the sunlight, then vanished.

Aislinn shook her head at the memory, turning the last corner that would take her down the hall that contained her locker. ‘What would a Shade be doin’ in the middle of a field? Here of all places?’ She thought to herself as she reached her locker. Letting her gym bag slid off her shoulder, she reached for the dial, twisting and turning it, inputting her combination. ‘I’ll ask Drake after school. See if he knows anythin’.’ The lock popped open and she lifted handle, opening the door. She swung her bag inside with one hand, while the other searched for an extra hair tie.

A flash of bright pink caught her eye, and she turned to look at the post-it stuck to the door. Her locker mate, and best friend, Diana Williams, had left her a note on the offensively coloured paper.

‘Hey! I had to run to the nurse’s office for my meds. Wicked headache today, and I don’t want it to turn into a migraine. See you and Drake in class. Diana’

Aislinn winced in sympathy for her friend, knowing how debilitating her migraines were if not treated. She blinked as a thought hit her. 'If I hurry I can ask Drake before Di even makes it to class!’

Her questing fingers located a hair tie and she pulled her hand out of the locker. She grabbed her book bag with the other hand, and swung it up onto her shoulder. She hip checked the locker door shut, and hurried down the hall, ducking her head as she pulled her hair up into a messy bun at the base of her neck. Since her eyes were on the ground, she didn’t see the other student coming around the corner until she walked smack into him. Sending them both crashing to the floor in a flurry of limbs and curses.

“Ay!” The other student had tried to catch themselves and ended up tripping over their own feet, sending them to the lockers to their right.

“Son of – shit, ar’ya okay?” Aislinn asked, upon realizing that she had knocked over another person. And not just walked into the wall again. She rolled over and pushed herself into a sitting position, a contrite look on her face, taking in the fallen student.

His skin was a light golden brown, and he was dressed in dark jeans, with a white shirt under an open, dark blue button up. Long fingers felt through silver-blonde hair – that to Aislinn’s eyes didn’t appear dyed - as he felt the bump near his temple.

Aislinn climbed to her feet and took a step forward to help him up. “I am so sorry. I swear I’m not usually this much of a klutz.”

He waved her off. “It’s okay. No real harm done.” His words were enunciated carefully and Aislinn could pick up a faint accent, though she couldn’t place what it might have been. Pulling his hand away from his head, he looked at his hand. Showing it to Aislinn, he wriggled his fingers, an awkward smile on his face. “See? No blood.”

“Still, I’m sorry. I should’ve been payin’ more attention.” She held out her hand, offering once more to help him to his feet, but he shook his head. Instead using the lockers he had knocked into for balance, he climbed to his feet himself.

He stood on too long legs, and dusted himself off. He had the look of a teen who had hit a growth spurt and his body hadn’t yet caught up to his limbs. Shrugging broad, but scrawny shoulders as he straightened up. “Eh, it’s a Monday. I have never known them as good days, but…if you want to make it up you could answer a question for me?” He looked at her, a shy smile on his face as his dark blue eyes met Aislinn’s green.

Aislinn fought not to react as every hair on her neck and arms stood on end. An all too familiar shock racing up her spine. ‘Demi-god!

The blonde rubbed at back of his neck, an odd look coming across his face. “Or…not?”

“N-no, sorry. Just lost in thought for a second. I must have knocked my head when I fell.” Her laugh sounded strained to her own ears, as she shook her head, trying to rid herself of her distracting thoughts. “What was your question?” Aislinn asked, smiling at him, her mind continued to race as she watched the awkward teen in front of her. ‘He must not know what he is. Which means they never claimed him. I need to talk to Drake!’

He smiled in relief. “Great, could you help me find classroom 213? The office gave me a map, but it might as well be in Greek for all the sense it makes.” He held out the map that Aislinn now noticed crumpled in his other hand.

She shifted her bag so it sat higher on her shoulder, and waved away the map. A small smirk pulled at the corner of her mouth as she answered. “Nah, if it was in Greek, it’d be way more confusin’. I could tell you how to get there, or I can do you one better. I’ll take you there, that’s where I’m headin’.”

“Great!” He twisted around, shoving the map into an open pocket on his back pack, no longer seeing the need to keep it out. He faced Aislinn and held out a hand. “I’m James Morgan. Nice to meet you.”

“Aislinn Carter.” She grasped his hand and shook it twice before taking her hand back. “Come on, class is this way.” She turned and headed back down where James had come from. She waited a few seconds before wiping her hand, trying to rid herself of the ghostly feel of sparks dancing along her skin.

James fell into step next to her, and Aislinn saw his hand going to the back of his neck once more.

The halls filled with students, as the first bell crept closer and closer to sounding. James kept as close to Aislinn as he could, without stepping on the backs of her feet. Jostled from side to side in the seething throng of students, James struggled to keep his feet under him, and not swept away like so much debris in the ocean of writhing students. He did not relish the thought of getting lost again.

A few minutes later Aislinn came to a stop in front of a black door with multi-coloured swirls painted on it, and presented it with a flourish. “I present to you room 213, Mr. Warner’s Art Room! Ta-da!”

James shook his head at the strange girl, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Gracias! I would have ended up lost in the basement if you hadn’t run into me.”

“Good thing for you I chose today to be a klutz then, eh?” She grinned and winked at him, her slight Irish accent giving an odd lilt to some of her words.

“My hero.” He rolled his eyes, but his grinned widened when Aislinn laughed as she reached behind herself to open the door.

“Here, write your room numbers on that map, and I’ll layout how you get to each class from the other. That way you won’t get lost again.” She said as she held out a hand for the map.

“Really?” He was already digging out the paper and a pen.

She shrugged. “Yeah. I’m surprised the office even gave you a map, to be honest. They tend to let new students fend for themselves. Especially this late into term.”

James laid the map against the wall and penned out his room numbers in the corner; numbering them so Aislinn would know which class came first. “Thanks so much. This’ll be a huge help.” He handed her the crumpled map, and she folded it, placing it into her back pocket.

Aislinn waved him off, “It’s no big deal and it won’t take me long. I’ll give it to y'after class.”

“Sounds good. Thanks again.” He stepped around her and made his way to the front of the room, to introduce himself to the teacher, and get the assignments he’s missed so far.

“No problem. See ya after class, James.”

As James headed towards the teacher, Aislinn looked around the room, trying to spot a familiar mop of dark hair. Her hand automatically went to the necklace around her neck. A simple silver pendant of a laurel wreath and spread wings. She twirled it between her fingers as she took in the room around her. The smell of paint, clay, and ink invaded her senses. There were easels stacked against the wall furthest from the door, and a small kiln was in the opposite corner. White cupboards lined the walls, their fronts painted with different scenes and designs, painted by various students over the years. The ceiling tiles were art by students, ranging from scenes of happiness and light, to subjects of a much darker nature. She finally found who she was looking for near the back of the room.

She walked through the work tables, waving at a group of girls near the front of the room, as she made her way to a table occupied by a lone sleeping student.

‘Thank Zeus! He came to school today.’ She hurried her pace, wanting to talk to him before Diana got to class. She dropped into an empty seat next to the boy snoozing at the table and shook his arm.

“Drake. Drake! Wake up, I need t’ talk to you!” Her tone was urgent, but she tried to keep her voice low, not wanting to draw attention to herself.

“Unngg, wha-what? Can you not see that I’m sleeping, wench? Be gone.” Drake’s deep voice rumbled out from where he had his head buried in his arms.

Aislinn rolled her eyes and grabbed a hand full of Drakes hair, her pale, freckled skin almost glowed against the darkness of his hair. She pulled his head up enough she could see his eyes. Which were now glaring at her. Two dark pools of black, staring out of a dark golden brown face. She ignored the dangerous look in onyx coloured eyes and hissed at him. “I need you to focus, this is important. Now, wake up you lazy bum, or I will shock you!” She emphasized her threat by pinching the thumb and fore-finger of her free hand together, out of sight under the table, sparks dancing between the digits.

Drake grabbed the hand in his hair, his larger hand encircling her wrist, dwarfing it, and pulled it free of his hair. He raised his head out of his arms, still glaring at her, black eyes taking on a glowing blue sheen. “What?” It was more of a snarl than an actual word.

Aislinn pulled her hand out of his grip, rubbing the feeling back into it. “I saw strange things on my run this morning. Things that had no right bein’ where they were.”

“Like what? Other people running?” She watched as Drake took a breath, calming himself, hopefully responding to the urgency of her words. She was vibrating she was so anxious. Her fingers twitching in the fabric of her back pack as she set it on the floor, feet tapping, unable to contain her agitation.

Aislinn laughed, rolling her eyes at the taller teen. “Ha-ha, hilarious. No, smartass, a Shade. Not a new one that Hermes just hadn’t gotten to yet, either. It was the Shade of a Spartan hoplite, ready for war.”

“What!” Several students turned to look at him, and Aislinn sighed.

“Keep it down, would you? We don’t need the whole class tryin’ to listen in.”

He ignored the reprimand, but lowered his voice. “You’re sure about what you saw? One hundred percent?”

“Well, no. They were a ways away. But what sane person would be up at six in the mornin’, dressed in authentic, ancient Spartan armour, mind you, standin’ in a field, in the middle of a city.”

“Hermes.” Drake said eyes going flat and unamused. He flapped a hand at Aislinn, waving off her stuttering protests. “Or Apollo. I bet you didn’t even think of that possibility did you? That it could have been your brothers messing with you?”

Aislinn glared at him, green eyes going darker in her annoyance. “I know what I saw, Drakon.” Aislinn ignored the glare Drake sent at her for using his full name. “It wasn’t Hermes, or Apollo…they know better than to pull stunts like that in broad daylight. Besides they vanished after I called out to them.”

“You were probably just imagining things. I mean you get up at 5:30 every morning to go for a run! What sane person does that?” He laid his head back down on his arms, smirking as Aislinn glared at him, mouth opening and closing, but no words coming forth.

“Look here, you little –” A sigh from behind where she and Drake were sitting interrupted her.

“Are you two fighting again?” The two seated teens looked over their shoulders and up at who had spoken.

Diana Williams was a short, heavier set girl, with brown hair, kept off of a tanned face with two braids. Bright brown eyes stared down at her friend’s, one eyebrow raised, as she walked around them, taking one of the remaining two seats at the table.

“Yes.” Aislinn snapped, tuning back to glare at Drake, who was already ignoring her in favour of talking to Diana, head still pillowed on his arms.

“But it’s not anything important.” He shot Aislinn a look that told her to drop the subject. One dark brow raising, waiting to see if she would do as she was told.

She glared at him for a few more seconds before she let out a hard breath of frustration, grinding her teeth in her agitation. “Fine. We’ll finish talkin’ later.” She moved her gaze to Diana, eyes softening as she looked at the other girl with concern. “How you feelin’, Di?”

“Better. I still have a headache, but it should wear off before class is over.” Diana was pulling out her sketch book and pens for class, and reaching into her bag she handed an extra sketch pad to Drake. “Here, looks like you forgot your bag again.”

“Thanks, Di…wait another headache?” Drake looked up at her as he placed the offered sketchpad on the table in front of him. “You’ve been getting them a lot.” Drake’s brow furrowed in annoyance and worry. Sentiments that Aislinn sympathized with, guessing at what the source of their friends headaches were.

“It’s not a big deal.” Diana shrugged, smiling at her two friends concern for her well-being. “I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night, that’s all.”

Before either of them could question Diana further the bell sounded and the art teacher, Mr. Warner, coughed to gain the classes attention.

“Ahem, splendid. Good morning class. We have a new student joining us today, who’s just moved here from out of Province. This is James Morgan.” The class gave a monotonous hello, and Aislinn couldn’t help her giggle at the look on the young man’s face. Golden skin going pale, blue eyes wide and darting, as if he was wishing the ground would open him up and swallow him whole. Wanting to be anywhere but at the front of a class of a bunch of 17 and 18 year olds.

Mr. Warner straightened his glasses, as he coughed again. “Yes, excellent. You may take a seat at the table behind that of Mr. Jordan and Ms.’s Carter and Williams.” He waved James in the general direction of his seat, a table with two boys at the back of the room. James hurried through the rows of desks to his seat, eager to be out of the spotlight. Mr. Warner pulled open a drawer as the teen left, blinking in confusion as he stared inside.

“Hmm, my notes for today’s class seem to be missing. Oh well.” He stood from his search to face his students, fixing his glasses again. “Today we will study Still Life. Send one person from each table up to grab an item. Your assignment is to draw the object as accurate as you are able; the correct shadows and light sources, size, etcetera. I will give you the history on Still Life tomorrow instead.”

Diana stood and made her way to the box to find an object she liked, and would also not be too difficult for her, less art-minded friends, to draw.

As soon as she was out of ear shot, Aislinn turned to Drake, punching him hard in the arm. The young man didn’t even flinch, as if he hadn’t felt the blow at all. He gave her a flat look.

“What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me." She hissed, annoyance and frustration dripping from every word. "You know exactly what. You know as well as I do that what I saw wasn’t either of my brothers!”

“This still?” Drake rolled his eyes, reaching over and taking the pencil from her hand. He twirled the pencil around his fingers as he spoke, “It had to be. The only people that can summon, or send, Shades to this realm are myself, and my father. I didn’t summon it, and father doesn’t send Shades to random fields,” He paused, a fond smile flitted across his features for a moment. “He doesn’t have that well-developed of a sense of humour.”

Aislinn didn’t bother trying to steal her pencil back, just dug another out of her bag. “Do you think I would have brought this to your attention, if I had had a doubt in my mind, that it wasn’t one of my brothers? Come on, you know me better than that!”

Drake raised a hand before she could say anything else, seeing Diana returning to the table out of the corner of is eye. “Okay, okay. We'll talk more about it after school lets out. All right?”

“Thank you.” She pulled out the map that James had given her and using different coloured pencils, marking routes for him on the paper. Ones to and from each of his classes, and also how to get to the Cafeteria, and the Library from any room location.

Diana sighed as she searched through the box of objects, searching for one she liked. The hand not searching for a suitable item, rubbed at the bridge of her nose. Glad that her medication was kicking in. She appreciated that her friends worried about her, but she wasn’t sure there was much they could do about the cause of her headaches. Divorces were messy, and her parents had been arguing all weekend. She had had that weird dream again too, that she still couldn’t decide if it was stress related, or something else. A shadowed figure surrounded by fire, spreading its wings. She smiled, forgetting her dream, as she pulled out and object turning to head back to her table. It was an ornamental, blown glass vase, made up of a rainbow of different coloured glass, its neck twisted in a loop.

She rejoined her table to see her two friends were no longer arguing, and smiled in relief. She didn’t think she could handle the added stress of her friends fighting, on top of everything else. Aislinn was doodling on a paper and Drake seemed to have gone back to sleep.

She smiled in sympathy, though no one noticed. Art was not the young man’s forte, having only joined it for an easy credit, and to hang out with his friends.

She set the vase at the centre of the table and retook her seat on the other side of Aislinn, furthest from Drake. She unzipped her pencil case, paint stained fingers digging through its contents, before emerging with a set of inking pens.

Diana started when Drake’s voice rumbled from where his head was resting on the desk, still sounding muddled by sleep. “So another headache? You had two last week, too. You sure you’re okay?”

Diana smiled, strained though it was. “Yes, I’m fine. It’s just…” She paused and scowled down at her paper, hand clenching around the pen in her hand, taking a deep breath to keep her emotions under control. “My parents were fighting again this weekend, over…who knows what.” She took a deep even breath before continuing, fighting to keep the quiver from her voice. “I get they’re upset, their marriage is falling apart, I – I just wish they wouldn’t fight.” She sniffed and rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes, annoyed at the tears she could feel forming.

Aislinn leaned over and hugged her friend around the shoulder, feeling them shake. “Di, why didn’t you call one of us?”

“I didn’t want to impose on your guys’ weekend.”

Drake raised his head up enough he could glare at her, gaze softening when he saw Diana flinch. “You, are not an imposition, Diana.” He cut her off with a raised hand when she tried to protest. “No! I’m not hearing it. If you need to get out of your house, because your parents don’t have the decency to keep their fighting to themselves, you call me. Day or night. I’ll come get you. Got it?”

“But, I –”

“Got it?”

Diana smiled, hearing the sincerity in his voice, a blush spreading across her face. “Okay, I got it. Thanks Drake, I appreciate – umm…hello?”

Aislinn and Drake looked over their shoulders to see what had made Diana interrupt herself. Aislinn grinned at seeing James standing there, fiddling with the straps of his bag, blue eyes unsure, and fixed on the table top.

“What do you want?” Drake snapped at him, going stiff when black eyes met blue briefly. Two flicks to the back of his head, delivered by two of the women in his life, had him turning around, a glare on his face. “Ouch! What was that for?”

Aislinn rolled her eyes, and flicked his nose, smirking when Drake yelped and grabbed his now stinging appendage. “Don’t be such a boar, Drake.” She ignored Drake’s grumbled threats and turned to smile up at James. “What’s up, James?”

“Sorry…I didn’t mean to interrupt, but do you mind if I join you guys? My table isn’t art friendly at the moment.”

The four teens looked back to see the other two occupants of James’ table having a paper ball war. A glance up at the front of the room told them that the teacher was too busy looking for his notes to do anything about the disturbance.

Diana nodded, smiling up at the gangly teen. “Sure, pull up a chair. I’m Diana Williams. I see you’ve already met Aislinn, and this surly grump is Drake Jordan.”

James smiled in gratitude as he walked around the table to take the last empty chair, next to Diana. “I’d introduce myself, but the teacher did it earlier.”

Aislinn grinned and handed him his map back with a fanfare it didn’t require. “Let me be the first to say: Welcome to the hell that is High School, here is your illustrated guide.”

James chuckled as he accepted the offered map with a bow of his own. “Gracias! This will save me a lot of time.”

Drake raised an eyebrow at the coloured lines he could see on the otherwise black and white map, as James put it away. “They’re giving out maps now? Ha, about time.” He stopped spinning the stolen pencil and sketched a rough outline of the vase Diana had placed on the table. “Maybe now they won’t have a repeat incident from last year.” He smirked when he heard Aislinn laugh.

James raised a pale eyebrow as he pulled out his own art supplies. “What happened last year?”

Drake waved a dismissive hand as he erased a few mistakes he had made. “Oh some new girl came in, halfway through last semester. She got lost between second and third period. She had opened a door she thought was her class room, but it ended up being a janitor’s closet.” Drake had to pause to control his laughter. Aislinn had buried her head in her arms, shoulders shaking with mirth.

“She walked in and the door closed behind her. From what we heard later, they’d been having trouble with that door locking. So when it closed behind her she ended up being locked in. They didn’t find her until midway through fourth period, when a janitor went in there for some light bulbs.” He joined Aislinn in laughing then, covering his mouth to keep from laughing too loud, not wanting to draw the teachers attention to them.

Diana was shaking her head at her friends, though was having trouble keeping her own mouth from twitching into a smile. “It’s not that funny you guys.”

“You’re right, Di.” Drake gasped between fits of laughter. “It’s hilarious!”

James snickered, more entertained by how much the story amused the other two. He shook his head, as he added detail to the loop of the vase he was sketching. “Well, here’s hoping I have a better sense of direction.”

Drake raised his head up enough to smirk at him. “We’ll be sure to check the closets for you.”

“Hey!”

Drake and Aislinn laughed at his indignation, and Diana reached over to pat him on the shoulder. “At least you’ll have someone looking for you, if you get lost.”

James glanced over at the other two occupants of their table, who were still laughing. “I’m not sure if that instils me with confidence or fear.”

Diana looked over at her two friends, grinning, watching as they gained control of themselves and went back to drawing. “Yeah, they get that reaction a lot.”

As the laughter subsided, the four teens settled in to a comfortable silence as each of them resumed work on that classes assignment, letting the idle chatter of the students around them fill the spaces between their own quiet conversations.

James discovered that he shared third period, Science, with the three friends as well, and Diana invited him to join them for lunch. An invitation he happily accepted. It wasn’t often that a close knit group of friends invited an outsider into their circle. A fact he took advantage of.

His father had promised that this would be their last move associated with his job, so James was going to try making friends. For once.

However throughout Science and lunch, James thought he had noticed Drake and Aislinn giving him strange looks every now and again. Whenever he tried to catch either of their eye he found them always looking away. He let it go for the time being, but made a note to ask one of them the next time he saw them. He also wanted to ask if either of them felt a weird static every time they met his eyes, the same way he got when he met theirs. It was the most peculiar sensation that he had ever experienced. And not one he noticed with Diana, or any other student or teacher he met that day.

James perked up as he made his way towards the exit he needed, Aislinn and Drake were chatting at an open locker. He thought to call out to them, but as he got closer he could see they were, in fact, arguing. He was unsure about what, however, as they weren’t speaking in English. Drifting closer, trying to go unseen, he caught a few words. ‘Greek! They’re speaking Greek.’

Drake made a sharp motion with his hand that brought Aislinn up short from what she was saying. Seeing green eyes narrow at the taller teen, James decided that he’d wait until tomorrow to ask about the odd looks they had been giving him. He made his way back down the hall, careful not to draw any attention to himself. He’d find a different door to leave out of.

“I’m telling you, Aislinn, what you think you saw, isn’t possible. There’s no way.”

Aislinn prodded him in the chest with one finger, anger making her eyes dark and her words sharp as cut glass. “I know what I saw, Drake! I may have only been to the Underworld a few times, but I remember what the place looked like.” She dropped her hand back to her side, balling her hands into shaking fists, as the dark haired teen continued to look down on her. “I’ve also seen you summon Shades enough times to know what they are, even from a distance. There is something wrong here, and you’re just being too much the proud immortal to see it!”

“Enough!” His hand slashed through the air between them.

Aislinn took a step back, slipping out of grabbing range. While Drake would never hurt her, she would always rather be safe than sorry when dealing with her divine relatives.

Seeing Aislinn move back, snapped Drake out of his anger. He took a deep breath, as he ran a hand through his hair, before letting out an annoyed sigh. “Look. I get you’re concerned, but don’t you think if something was wrong back home, that my parents would say something?” Aislinn opened her mouth to object, but the look Drake sent her had her snapping her mouth shut. He stared at her for a few more moments before sighing once more. “Fine! To satisfy your curiosity, I’ll look into it, make sure nothing is wrong. Okay?”

Aislinn looked up at him for several moments, trying to judge if he was being sincere, or just humouring her. “Okay. Thank you, Drake. I hope I’m wrong.”

Drake clapped a hand to her shoulder, making the shorter girl stagger. “No worries, Nike,” he ignored the warning growl she gave at the nickname. “I’ll just prove you wrong and we’ll go back to pretending you aren’t an idiot.”

Aislinn could only glare at him in dumbfounded silence as he patted her shoulder once more then, stepping around her made his way down the hall, heading for the student parking lot, and his car.

“Arrogant, immortal bastard.”

#writeblr #my writing #violetvineyard #writers on tumblr #urban fantasy #new adult fantasy #Original Work #original characters #sidhe writes #wip: godlings

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roman-writing · 5 years

Text

no end in sight (4/?)

Fandom: World of Warcraft

Pairing: Jaina Proudmoore/Thalyssra

Rating: T

Wordcount: 5,719

Summary: Jaina goes to Suramar seeking aid after leaving the Kirin Tor. An AU exploring the events post-Theramore and Jaina’s recovery during Legion.

Read it here on AO3 or read it below the cut

“I am used to being lonely but forever to be a stranger is a strange grief.”

— Ursula K. Le Guin

The bay lapped against the ivory walls of Suramar city, wine-dark. From the outside, the city appeared perfectly unspoiled, but even from where Jaina stood studying the First Arcanist’s Estate behind the safety of a crimson thicket she could see the markings of the Legion here and there. Demons stalked freely along the gleaming parapets, blazing with fell magics and casting horned shadows. The oil-slick barrier around the city stopped at the walls, leaving the bay and the First Arcanist’s Estate outside the city’s grasp.

Jaina counted the number of guards around Thalyssra’s old house. Fifteen. And some of them mages, though she did not know exactly how she knew that, only that she did. It wasn’t the way they dressed -- elves tended towards elegant flowing robes most days, especially the Nightborne -- but somehow Jaina knew. She could look at them and all but see the crackle of arcane housed in their very bones.

Checking that the mask was still firmly in place, Jaina emerged from behind the thicket and walked towards the manor as purposefully as she knew how. A few of the guards flanking the pillars that mark the entrance to the gardens snapped their eyes towards her as she approached. She tried to think of what Valtrois would do, and immediately lifted her chin a bit higher and ignored them utterly.

To her surprise, it worked. They let her pass without so much as a whisper of complaint or question as to why she was here. Keeping her steps steady, Jaina continued around the manor, seeking an entrance to Thalyssra’s old private quarters. Petals were strewn artfully across the ground. The gardens were overflowing with pale lilies. The estate had its own private dock with a little ship at port and a view of the calm bay beyond it. What appeared to be a guard with more decorative ornamentations to his armour -- a captain, perhaps? -- was talking to his underlings aboard the ship. Jaina quickened her step as surreptitiously as she could.

She passed a handful of other guards, all of whom raked their eyes over her in suspicion. She only breathed easy when she found what appeared to be Thalyssra’s old rooms. Shutting the door behind her, Jaina leaned back against it for a moment, waiting for her racing heartbeat to slow before exploring any further.

Despite the fact that they had been visibly ransacked, the rooms were a broad, open space, filled with warmth, and awash with amber light. Once this must have been a lush comfortable space, with reading nooks, an open-aired study, a communal seating area for entertaining family or friends, a low-slung bed in sight over the railing. Now, there were books tumbled across the floor, clothes spilling in tatters from the armoires, and pillows ripped open by blades seeking any secrets the First Arcanist may have attempted to hide from the Grand Magistrix’s avarice.

Jaina walked over to the study corner and pulled out the drawers of a table. A few sheets of spare parchment and naught else. An open book atop the table itself with handwritten notes in the margins. More books were stacked all around. Jaina flipped through a few of them, only to toss them all aside. None of the furniture held any promising leads as to the arcane amplifier’s whereabouts. A tall cabinet in one corner proved to be completely empty, its contents already taken away by Elisande’s minions, or otherwise strewn across the floor. In a fit of desperation, Jaina went down on her hands and knees to peer beneath a bookshelf, to no avail.

Pushing herself upright, she strode briskly over to the only piece of furniture she had not yet checked: a waist-high chest of drawers, its drawers sticking out at odd angles, and clothes falling to the ground. She pawed through its contents, only to sigh. When she shut the last drawer with a touch more force than was necessary however, the back made a hollow noise like a muted drum.

Jaina paused. She pulled the drawer completely free from the chest and tipped its contents onto the floor. Then she began to tap along the base. With a push of her thumb, the false base gave way.

There, beneath the false base, were a set of pristine robes and a series of letters. The edges of the parchment were worn and yellowed with age and the care of multiple readings. All of the seals had been broken, but Jaina hesitated to read them. The correspondence was lavender-scented, and clearly of a personal nature. Setting them aside atop the chest, Jaina smoothed her hands over the densely woven fabric of the robes. Silver thread had been richly embroidered into the cloth, which was dyed a purple so deep it appeared plum-black.

The cloth quickly warmed beneath her touch. Jaina did not realise she had been standing there admiring its fine hand until she heard someone clearing their throat behind her. Dropping the robes atop the letters, she whirled around to find the guard captain from the ship silently shutting the door behind him.

“Have you found what you’re looking for, Lady -?” the guard captain trailed off; his smile held a dangerous edge. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”

Magic thrummed inside the caverns of his chest. He had not yet channeled it into being, but Jaina could almost smell the cloying acrid sweetness of it, as though he had gathered the energy in his hands, waiting.

Jaina drew herself up. “Because I did not give it. I fail to see how that concerns you.”

His smile remained, but he was moving forward slowly, like a manasaber stalking a doe that had dared to stray too far from the herd. “Of course, my Lady. Only that I could have sworn the Grand Magistrix placed this estate under my charge. So, unless you explain to me very quickly your business here, I will have to escort your from the premises for further questioning.”

Jaina watched his every step. Slowly, she circled as far away from him as she could, keeping a table between them. Her mind raced for a lie, any lie. “My mother -”

“-Will be understanding, or she will be fed to the Legion’s hounds, no matter her name or station,” the guard captain finished for her.

Graceful as a cat, he leapt atop the low table and continued walking straight towards her. He stepped down on the other side. He stood close enough to reach out and touch. Something flickered on his face a fleeting moment before he struck.

Quick as a bolt, he had grabbed Jaina’s wrist. A flood of arcane energy flowed from his hand, and the illusion shattered, the silk ties unravelling and the mask falling to the floor. Jaina stood stock still as the guard captain’s face screwed up in confusion when he saw who, or rather what, she was.

“A human?” He sounded incredulous and faintly disappointed that she was not some greater prize.

Mana welled up beneath her skin. It boiled until his hand started to smoke, until he released her with a cry of surprise and outrage, until he staggered back a step, clutching his arm and staring down at the blisters scorched along his palm and fingers. In this light, she could almost imagine him with golden hair, with golden skin, a pale mimicry of his cousins across the northeastern sea.

Jaina felt as though she were carved from stone, and her voice sounded distant to her own ears. “Don’t touch me.”

With a low snarl, he bared his sharp teeth. He threw out his good hand to cast a spell, a bolt of pure arcane energy that lanced through the air, streaking towards her. Flinching instinctively, Jaina flung her hand up and caught the energy as though it were a ball tossed between children.

For a moment they simply stared at one another in confusion. Jaina glanced between him and the mass of arcane energy thrumming in her hand, cool to the touch but otherwise harmless. The leylines visible on the back of her hand were glowing with an eerie light, and all of the other inscriptions in her skin itched. Then, she lobbed the energy back at him.

The arcane missile scattered into multiple arcs and pierced straight through the guard captain’s chest. They struck the wall on the opposite side of the room, leaving soot-blackened scorched marks in their wake. His blood was like starlight, dark and dwindling all at once. He slumped to the floor. His body upended the table, and with a start Jaina lurched forward to keep it from making too much noise.

Grimacing, she lowered the table to the ground, while his body began to soak in its own blood. That old headache returned with a vengeance; it was a steady pressure behind her eyes, as though someone had jabbed their thumbs into the meat of her skull. Jaina pinched the bridge of her nose and steadied herself with a deep breath. The guard captain’s body appeared fuzzy, like a dark silhouette with the light of him draining out onto the floor.

Jaina shook her head and blinked until his body came into focus again. Then, shooting furtive looks towards the shut door, she began to rifle through his pockets. It was a vain hope but --

-- and there it was. An arcane amplifier. In three pieces, but all the same; it could be rebuilt. With a sigh of relief, Jaina straightened and tucked the pieces of the amplifier in the bag slung across her waist. She was about the pick her way across the floor, avoiding splatters of blood, when she paused.

Thalyssra’s letters and robes still sat, unmarred, atop the chest of drawers. Jaina glanced at the door, then at the body. Then, swearing under her breath, she stuffed the robes and letters into the bag beside the arcane amplifier. She bent over to retrieve the enchanted mask and tied it back over her face. The illusion draped over her once more, she slipped from the estate as quickly as she had arrived.

The moment Jaina stepped through the portal back to Shal’Aran, she reached up to undo the mask, only to freeze. Half a dozen new people were milling about the main floor. Some were Nightborne refugees seeking shelter from the Legion. One appeared to be a Troll shaman exchanging words with Valtrois near the arcan’dor sapling. Jaina eyed them askance, even as Oculeth and Thalyssra approached her from one of the nearby work stations.

“Excellent work!” Oculeth peered around Jaina to admire the teleportation beacon anchored behind her. “A little dusty, by the looks of it, but perfectly serviceable. At this rate, we’ll have the rest of the network up and running in no time at all.”

“Not with the way my luck has been running,” Jaina replied dryly. “My cover was almost blown by all those mana wyrms in the vineyards. Why do vineyards need so many mana wyrms, anyway?”

“To bother potential spies,” Oculeth answered. Then with a grin he added, “And also to eat the locusts that plague the area.”

“Sounds about right.” Shuffling through her bag with a clink of glass, Jaina pulled out three dark-glassed bottles of arcwine. “Luckily for you, the wyrms were unsuccessful, and I was able to swipe a few of these on my way through. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Both Oculeth’s and Thalyssra’s eyes widened.

“You didn’t,” Oculeth breathed.

“Oh, you don’t want them? In that case, I’ll just -” Jaina pretended to put them back into bag.

He lunged forward to rescue the bottles before they vanished from sight. Hiding a smirk, Jaina let him take them. He appeared awed as he studied the bottles, thumbing the embossed engravings in the glass.

“We'll have to ration it,” Thalyssra warned.

“You're no fun at all,” Oculeth grumped, though he relented by tucking two of the bottles into the crook of one arm, and holding the last by its neck in his free hand. “Just a sip today? For old time's sake?”

Thalyssra pursed her lips, looking grave. Then her shoulders slumped and she sighed, “Very well. But not for me. You and Valtrois may crack into one of them, if you wish.”

“Oh, I wish,” Oculeth said fervently. “I wish very much indeed.”

He strode over to Valtrois, brandishing one of the bottles of arcwine with only the kind of pomp he could muster. Immediately, Valtrois forgot all about the Troll and turned to Oculeth with wide eyes and an outstretched hand. He made as if to give her a bottle, only to snag it back at the last moment so that she grasped at nothing. A stream of rapid-tongued Shalassian followed, and Valtrois trailed after Oculeth, trying to snatch the bottle from his hand as he eluded her around the centre ring of Shal’Aran’s main floor. When she tried to swipe at the bottle, he jumped just out of her grasp.

Thalyssra watched them with a fond expression, though she said, “If anyone asks, I don’t know them.”

“It’s all too late for that,” Jaina replied, gesturing towards the Troll, who was watching the antics as well with a smile around his long tusks.

He glanced over in their direction, and looked as though he were going to walk over to join them. Jaina stiffened. Something must have changed in her expression, for the Troll’s steps faltered, and Thalyssra shook her head at him curtly. Puzzled, he looked between the two of them. He stopped and inclined his head respectfully towards each of them, before turning to leave Shal’Aran.

Jaina’s eyes followed him, unblinking, until he was out of sight. Even then, she touched the mask’s silk ties at the back of her head to ensure her disguise was still firmly in place. A few of the other Nightborne refugees were starting to take notice of them as well. Jaina took a step back, trying to surreptitiously shield herself behind one of the pillars in Oculeth’s section of the main floor.

Thalyssra tilted her head to one side. “Come. Let us go somewhere more private.”

Jaina followed her down the stairs and into a secluded partition of screens. As Thalyssra was dragging one of the screens shut, Jaina unlaced the silk ties and let her mask fall away. With it came the feeling as though a great weight had been lifted from her chest, or perhaps laden down -- she could not tell. She looped the ties around her belt so that the mask hung from the hip opposite her bag.

Turning around, Thalyssra asked, “The amplifier? Did you have any luck?”

Jaina reached into her bag again and pulled out the pieces of the amplifier. “This was the best I could do.”

Eagerly, Thalyssra held out her hands so that Jaina could tip the pieces into her cupped palms. “That’s more than fine. I can repair them.”

“I also found these.” Jaina held out the letters. “Don’t worry. I can’t read Shalassian.”

Slowly, as if awed, Thalyssra took them. She turned one of the letters over before tucking it and all the rest into a pouch at her belt. “I thought Elisande would have surely confiscated these. Thank you. Did you encounter any trouble?”

“No,” Jaina lied. She had never been particularly adept at lying, yet Thalyssra was nodding and taking Jaina at her word. That alone made her gut twist. With a grimace she admitted, “Actually, yes. A guard captain found me.”

Thalyssra glanced at her sharply. “And?”

“And -” Jaina continued, “- I killed him.”

“I see.”

Thalyssra’s jaw tightened. She turned her attention back to one of the pieces of the twisted amplifier, tracing the break patterns along the silvered metal.

Jaina had to swallow past the disappointment; it made her heart sink in her chest like a stone. “I’m sorry. If this negatively impacts your campaign in any way, I didn’t mean to -”

“What?” Thalyssra frowned at her. “I put you in a position where you had to kill a man for my sake, and you think I am angry with you?”

“Well - I - I mean - ” Jaina stumbled for what to say. “Yes?”

If anything, that only made the furrow between Thalyssra’s brows deepen. “What kind of people were you around before that would lead you to believe something like this was your fault?”

“They weren’t all that bad,” Jaina said lamely.

“Hmm.” Thalyssra looked unconvinced. She set the pieces of the amplifier aside. They gleamed atop a low table in the amber light. “I am not angry with you. I am angry with myself. I should not have let you go.”

“I make my own choices.”

“Of course. But that does not mean I could not have sent a Champion in your stead.”

“I -” Jaina’s hands clenched into fists and she forced them to relax. The thought of a Horde Champion taking her place stuck in her craw. “I wanted to help. I still do.”

“And for that I am glad.” Though Thalyssra’s words sounded sincere, her expression was inscrutable, as if veiled. Perhaps it was the shadow cast by her hood. Perhaps she could read Jaina far too easily. “You know, when you first arrived I was afraid your insistence upon transactions was a sign that you were too far gone.”

“In what way?”

“Have you ever known an Ethereal to do anything for nothing in return?”

“I’m not an Ethereal.” After a pause, Jaina added, “Yet.”

“And you won’t be ever, if I have anything to say about it.”

At that, Jaina managed a weak smile. Still she ducked her head; she could not meet Thalyssra’s warm gaze.

After a moment Thalyssra asked softly, “Are you alright? Was there anything else?”

Jaina’s hand made an abortive movement towards the bag slung at her waist. She stopped herself from pulling out the robes. Instead, Jaina grasped the bag’s leather strap, trying to disguise the motion as her simply readjusting the bag where it hung. The headache that had been present since the fight with the guard captain had never truly waned, and she found herself wincing.

She shook her head. “No. There was nothing.”

For a split second she was afraid Thalyssra would be able to read the truth on her, pluck it straight from her mind with deft fingers. But all Thalyssra did was nod and say, “You should get some rest.”

More and more new faces began to crop up in Shal’Aran. Everyday, the ranks of the Dusk Lily’s insurgence swelled. Jaina wore her enchanted mask every time she stepped outside the safe confines of her own partitioned space on the main floor. Even when encloistered by screens, she nursed the fear that someone might peer over the top of the screens and recognise her face.

More often than not, her usual quiet time tending to a headache by the pond at the entrance of Shal’Aran was interrupted by Champions of both the Horde and Alliance. They would approach her asking for directions, thinking her a native of Suramar, and always Jaina would withdraw with a vague gesture in some direction or another that she hoped was the right way. Unless it was a Horde Champion, in which case she would point them down the opposite path and watch them go with a sickening mix of guilt and pleasure fermenting in her gut.

By night, the headache would have intensified to a needling behind her eyes. Jaina would lie awake, scratching at the leylines in her skin, rubbing at the bruising beneath her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose, shaking her head until the carved ceiling seemed to writhe with its engraved flowers and vines. And every time she started to drift off, she could hear the scuffling of feet outside her screens or the murmur of voices -- some sleepless Nightborne refugees who had taken up residence in Shal’Aran.

Sitting up and summoning a ball of bluish magelight by which to read never seemed to help. If anything, it only made things worse. The magelight would begin to pulse in time with her heartbeat like a will-o’-the-wisp, until all Jaina could sense was the steady bruit of energy flushed beneath her skin, until she chewed her lower lip ragged and had to dismiss the magelight with a terse gesture.

“My friend, you look unwell,” Oculeth remarked to her one morning almost two weeks after she had returned from the Twilight Vineyards. He was fiddling with another apparatus, which was splayed open atop his workbench while he prodded at its metallic innards with a needle-like device. He wore a self-made monocle that he used to more closely inspect his work.

Jaina scowled at him with one eye as she rubbed at the other. She had to poke a few of her fingers beneath the mask to reach, lifting the warm ceramic from her cheek. “How can you tell? I’m wearing an illusion.”

Glancing up at her, Oculeth twirled a dial on his monocle so that it zoomed in on her face. “Trust me,” he replied dryly, “I can tell.”

With a huff, Jaina lowered her hand and straightened. “If I don’t do something around here, I’m going to go mad. What do you have for me?”

He turned back to his apparatus, speaking in a distracted tone, “Give me ten days -- give or take -- and I’ll have this telemancy beacon calibrated for the Sanctum of Order.”

“Ten days?” Jaina repeated, incredulous.

“Give or take.”

“Well, twiddle faster. I’m going even greyer.”

“I’ll do my best, Lady Proudmoore.”

Behind them, someone cleared their throat. Jaina started, and whirled around to find a night elf standing right behind her. His eyes glowed a deep golden hue, and his long green hair was unkempt. He clasped a wooden staff in one hand.

“Can I help you?” Jaina asked coolly.

When he looked at her, she felt the crawl of mana down her spine. He seemed to gaze past her, unblinking. “Perhaps,” he answered after a long, contemplative moment. “We will have to wait and see.”

Jaina blinked.

Oculeth dropped his tools and rose to his feet. When he bowed to the night elf, the monocle made him look ridiculous, though he did not remove it. “It is good to see you again, Valewalker Farodin. Are you searching for Thalyssra, perhaps?”

The night elf shook his head. “No. I’ve come to speak with your other Arcanist this time.”

“Of course. I believe she is downstairs at the moment.” Oculeth held out one arm, and already began walking in the direction of the stairs. “Shall I take you to her?”

“Thank you,” Farodin said, though he did not move nor look away from Jaina. He stared at her for so long, she shifted her weight from foot to foot. She was about to step away, when he bowed his head towards her and murmured, “Ande’thoras-ethil.”

Warily, Jaina watched them go. She waited until Farodin’s head was out of sight before creeping forward to the circular railing, where she frowned down at his tall, descending figure. The light of the arcan’dor sapling seemed to dye his green hair a darker hue, almost sea-coloured. She turned when she heard footsteps behind her and found Thalyssra approaching, holding a mug of tea.

“I see you’ve met Farodin,” Thalyssra said. Pale curls of steam rose from the mug bewteen her hands.

“I have. Who is he?”

“A ancient druid recluse who has lived outside the city for many years,” Thalyssra answered. “He is helping us ensure the arcan’dor’s growth does not encounter any issues. Would you like some?”

Jaina glanced down in surprise at the cup of tea Thalyssra was offering. “Oh. Thank you.”

Thalyssra removed her hand too quickly, so that their fingers did not brush. Jaina could feel her teeth clench, but she refrained from commenting. Instead, she gamely cupped the handle-less mug in her palms. “What is it?”

“An herbal concoction. Valtrois made it for you.”

Jaina had been about to take a sip, but she stopped to sniff at the brew in suspicion.

“The only side effects are drowsiness,” Thalyssra assured her. “She and I both agree that you need to sleep more.”

“Ah. So, you told her to gather it for me.”

“No, she did that herself. She likes you, you know.”

Jaina snorted. “That's news to me.”

Still, Jaina took a sip. It had been sweetened with honey, but a bitter tang still lingered on the back of her tongue. It sent a warmth sweeping down to her stomach. The arcan’dor branched overhead, its trunk beginning to form a silvery symmetrical arch. Together, they leaned their forearms over the railing, and watched Oculeth, Valtrois, and Farodin’s discussion below. The three were too far away to be heard from this distance, though Valtrois had begun to point towards the leylines flowing with mana beneath the arcan’dor. Farodin nodded; his long green hair reaching to the small of his back.

Idly, Jaina asked, “What colour was your hair before the Nightwell?”

“Dark green,” Thalyssra answered without hesitation. “I was quite vain about it in my youth. I quickly grew out of that, however.”

“And which do you prefer now?”

Thalyssra glanced over at Jaina. “Which do you think would look better?”

Jaina's mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. Thalyssra was watching her flounder with a smile. Finally Jaina said, “Silver, I suppose. But only because I can't imagine it green.”

Thalyssra smiled and countered, “And I can't imagine you blonde.”

Rubbing a lock of her own hair between thumb and forefinger, Jaina mused. The illusion had made her hair far brighter and paler than it would have been otherwise, but the effect was similar enough. “I suppose I’ve gotten used to it. Barely. Sometimes it still takes me a minute to recognise myself in a looking glass. I keep expecting to see a nineteen year old.”

“Don’t speak to me of mirrors.” Thalyssra pretended to shudder in horror. “We’re not on speaking terms these days.”

“It’s not that bad,” Jaina lied gamely.

Thalyssra shot her a look.

“Alright, it’s pretty bad. But at least you don’t have green hair anymore. Very unfashionable, I hear.”

Shaking her head, Thalyssra could not hide a small smile nonetheless. “Your attempts to cheer me up are noted.”

“At last I’m useful for something,” Jaina said dryly.

If anything, Thalyssra seemed taken aback. “Useful? You are here to heal. You shouldn’t worry about being useful.”

Jaina sipped at her tea and shrugged. “You’re probably right. I’m going to worry anyway.”

“Hmm.” Thalyssra’s brows drew together. “Your fourth session with me is in two days -”

Jaina grimaced, already dreading tomorrow’s upcoming potion of purging. “Yes, I remember.”

“- and I've asked Valtrois to make enchanted cloth bindings for you.”

At that, Jaina froze. She lowered the cup of tea and stared at Thalyssra with wide eyes. “You -? You did what?”

“The procedures have been going remarkably well, all things considered, but we are fast approaching the final stages. I won't take any risks,” Thalyssra replied in a tone that was far too calm and even. “In the events of a complication, your body will reject the leylines and begin to unravel even faster. The cloth bindings should keep you stable long enough for us to fix any such problem. Hopefully.”

“But you may still have to wrap me up like an ancient Troll King,” Jaina said in a flat tone. Sighing, she leaned her elbows upon her knees and rested her chin in her hands. “Great. Just what I've always wanted.”

“They may not even be necessary,” Thalyssra assured her.

Jaina ignored her. “I suppose I should get used to being swaddled in cloth bindings. In the end, I may be stuck wearing them forever.”

“That's enough of that, now.” Thalyssra’s voice was iron. “It is one thing to worry. It is something else entirely to stew in self-loathing. The latter is less than productive; it is self-reinforcing.”

Her words struck Jaina like a physical blow. Jaina’s head jerked back as if she’d been struck. She opened her mouth to retort, but the words died on the back of her tongue. Her throat felt too constricted to speak, and Jaina swallowed. Looking away, she lifted the cup of tea for another sip, and prayed the illusion hid the flush of shame that had risen along her neck.

Beside her, she heard a sigh. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Thalyssra lift a hand as though to grasp her shoulder, only to stop and lower her arm once more.

Jaina’s stomach felt like it was curdling. She handed the cup back to Thalyssra and turned to leave. “Thank you for the tea.”

The tea did not help. No matter how many times Thalyssra and Valtrois plied her with cups, she continued to sleep poorly, and to cradle headaches that would creep to the base of her skull the longer the day went on.

The days passed. Jaina’s fourth session passed without incident, though she now had to resist the overwhelming urge to scratch at the leylines etched into the top of her feet. Every now and then she would catch herself rubbing her boots together in an attempt to relieve the intense itching, and she would stomp her foot down firmly on the ground with a growl.

That would inevitably earn her a few odd looks from the surrounding Nightborne refugees, and, feeling both sheepish and irritable, Jaina would leave to hide herself somewhere for a few hours. She was sitting on a cushion on the ground beneath the first floor of Shal’Aran, reading one of the few books actually written in Common, while Valtrois and Thalyssra were off somewhere with Farodin. She reached into her bag to grab a quill and make a note in the margins, but froze when her fingers brushed against the robes at the bottom of her bag.

For a moment, Jaina allowed her hand to wander over the material, following the delicate filigree with the pad of her thumb. Ever since keeping the robes, she had tried thinking of ways to rid herself of them, but was unable to bring herself to follow through.

Perhaps she could leave them in Thalyssra’s partition without a note? That would seem suspicious.

Perhaps she could burn them? Or weigh them down with a stone in a lake? Thalyssra probably thought they were destroyed anyway. She wouldn’t miss them.

Regardless, Jaina continued to carry the robes at the bottom of her bags wherever she went, as though they were a charm for good luck, or for warding off evil. As Jaina worried the cloth between thumb and forefinger, book propped on her knees, a pair of plated boots approached. She snatched her hand from her bag as though the robes had burned her, and looked up.

A blood elf stood before her. The glowing hammers on his pauldrons marked him as a paladin. He bowed. “Excuse me for disturbing you. Have you seen the First Arcanist anywhere?”

Jaina narrowed her eyes behind the mask, and turned her attention back to her book, pretending to be engrossed. “I have not. Why don’t you go ask Oculeth?”

“I did. He suggested I come to you.”

At that, Jaina jerked her gaze back up to stare at him. “He - what? Why would he say that?”

The blood elf placed a gauntleted hand over his heart in a gallant gesture that made Jaina’s lip curl. “Forgive me. I did not mean to -”

“Spare me the pleasantries, and just answer the question.”

He inclined his golden head. “My lady, everyone knows where there’s one of you, the other is close by.”

Something tightened across Jaina’s chest, as though rope had been wrapped and pulled taut around her ribs. She shut the book and shoved it into her bag. When she rose to her feet, she twitched away from the blood elf’s offer of help. “Thalyssra is out. I don’t know when she will be back. Before nightfall, probably.”

The blood elf bowed again. “Thank you, Lady -?”

He waited for her to give him her name. She did not offer it. Brushing by him, Jaina stalked towards the stairs leading to the floor above, careful to step around the leylines winding through the floor. She stopped with one foot on the first stair, and said over her shoulder, “I would appreciate it if you could inform other members of the Horde to not approach me in the future.”

He looked puzzled, but nodded. “As you wish.”

She inclined her head in return, then climbed the stairs to the first floor. There, she strode quickly towards Oculeth’s workstation, avoiding making eye contact with any of the refugees that had begun to flock to Shal’Aran in droves these days. The arcan’dor had developed mana-bright branches now, and arched up towards the high domed ceiling.

When Jaina walked around one pillar, it was to find Oculeth fixing a plate over the same apparatus he had been working on before.

“Please tell me it’s been ten days,” Jaina asked, crossing her arms.

Oculeth held up the fixed telemancy beacon with a triumphant grin. “It’s been nine, but I’m just that brilliant. You may praise me now.”

“Thank the Tides,” Jaina sighed in relief. “Where am I taking this one?”

“The Sanctum of Order. Careful,” Oculeth warned as Jaina took the telemancy beacon and tucked it beneath one arm. “This isn’t a lazy traipse through the vineyards. It’s right next to the Nightwell. There will be guards, Elisande’s creatures, and the Legion’s demons crawling all over the place.”

“Who are you calling lazy?” Jaina drawled.

“I’m being serious. I would hate for you to be snapped up by the jaws of a hungry demon.”

“So am I. I would hate to be eaten.”

He chuckled, waving her off. “Just be sure to come back in one piece. Thalyssra would kill us both if you died.”

Jaina was already making her way towards the portal she had opened to Vineyards. She stepped through with a parting, “I make no promises.”

#jaina proudmoore #thalyssra #first arcanist thalyssra #world of warcraft #wow #roman writes #no end in sight

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tarithenurse · 6 years

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I see you - ch. 3

Ch. 3 - (Don’t Fear) The Reaper

Pairing: eventually Heimdal x fem!reader Wordcount: 1318 Warnings: descriptions of injuries and fighting, language, angst?

Half carrying and half supporting Malik, you sidestepped the way to the back exit of the bus. Explosions were going off in the distance, each one sending rumbling tremors through the ground and into your body. You’d already heard them before you craned your neck past the last seat to look through the thick, tinted glass with the splinters and cracks forming a thickly woven spiderweb: heavily armoured and carrying a crossover between a gun and a spear, the aliens walking the wrong way, in your modest opinion. Crap. Looking down at Malik, you tried to put up as brave a face as he did. Double crap! At least the kid had noticed them yet, because all he was focusing on was staying upright in spite of the pain and the blood-loss that made his face ashen, void of any warm glow a kid like his should have.

Glancing out again, you saw the group of invaders had come to a halt, all of them swinging their heads slowly from side to side like serpents searching for prey. The moment you’d made the comparison, you realized they’d caught your scent. As if to confirm, the enemy closest to the bus reached up and yanked the vizor off. It had no nose in the grey-tinted face and the cheeks were more than simply sunken…it looked like they were missing, granting a view to a mouth full of sharp teeth-like structures. But its eyes were the worst. Small, beady, locked unblinkingly onto you. The clicking shriek of one of its fellows broke the trance, alerting all of them to something outside your field of vision.

…

Heimdal let go of a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Where the Chitauri had stood was now a raging fire, burning through the twisted limbs and corpses the explosion had created. Too close. The Midgardians were arriving, but it was a battle against an unstoppable river, and although their efforts were valiant, he could clearly see the growing desperation on their faces. None except Thor had faced such a foe.

I’ve sworn an oath to the All-Father, Heimdal reminded himself, not to interfere lest to save the prince. It was a test. Standing by idly as he watched innocents get slaughtered at the hands of an old antagonist. A host let by a former child of Asgard no less. Tearing his gaze away, Heimdal refound Loki atop the tower with the name of the Man of Iron upon it. The pale-faced trickster was standing face to face with his adoptive brother, from the looks of it finally listening to reason and the deepfelt hope laced into each word that fell from the blond Asgardian’s lips. Both the brothers and the watcher knew what was at stake: come willingly…or risk death. Many has tried to kill Asgardians and Frost Giants throughout the eons, finding it to be a difficult task. Not impossible, though. Loki appeared healthier than when he first came to the unprepared world, and the haunted look upon his face that made him pale, granting him a gaunt look, was due to something else than the fear of battle or even execution. Remorse flickered in the momentarily emerald eyes but was replaced with icy blue as quickly as the blade was slit between the ribs of the blond warrior.

To someone not familiar with the physique of the Asgardians, Heimdal’s lack of reaction might’ve appeared callous, but his people were hardy, and the cut would heal quickly, making it a symbolic gesture rather than carrying any tactical purpose. Mocking or pretence? Even as the slender form of the former prince rolled over the edge of the platform, Heimdal could not convince himself that it had been a brazen attempt to please someone else while avoiding to carry out an order…and order to kill anyone in Loki’s way. Lifting his eyes towards the distant sky, there was no higher in command to see, however.

…

It had been hard to part ways with Malik, but you’d managed to get him to a small group of people who were fleeing Manhattan, and one of them had turned out to be a doctor. She had looked at you as if you were crazy when you said you were going back. Who could blame her? No one in their right mind would volunteer to do that.

The idea of using the subway tunnels was appealing as you moved from overturned vehicles to broken entries where debris served as makeshift shields. Glancing over the rubble you saw the stairs leading down to the sheltering underground system, and you were about to sprint towards it when a large cloud of smoke and flames blasted from the passage, carrying trash and a horrible stench with the heat. Not using the tunnels. Instead, you hurried to the corner of the building and pressed your back against the concrete, trying to blend into the shadows.

Too far for you to reach in one sprint was a group of cops that were busy evacuating civilians and organizing some way of containing the invasive forces even if it seemed like a hopeless task. It didn’t deter them, and every once in a while, when one of them would look on the verge of giving up, he or she would glance towards the Park Avenue Viaduct. Up ahead on the bridge, was a strange sight. An odd group of people were assembled there, two of them were strangers to you, but one was easily recognizable. Captain America. Everyone knew him from the history books and seeing him and his friends in action, it made sense why people had considered him a hero because they made quick work of the deadly aliens that kept coming from all sides and dropping from the surrounding buildings.

A blinding array of jagged lightnings struck throughout the area simultaneously. Blinking against the flash that had been scorched on your retinas, it took a couple of seconds before you could make out the smoking corpses of what used to be aliens. Right then and there, no enemy was alive to challenge the small group of heroes who now had been joined by a large man wearing nothing less than a cape. It would’ve looked stupid on anyone else, but you had to admit it worked on this man. Not the time. Grabbing the opportunity, you made a beeline for the cops and were immediately put to work as soon as you’d stated your ability.

Perhaps that was what distracted you from the surroundings and the development. You vaguely noted the extra turmoil but were busy tending to a broken ankle until its owner pulled away, flinging himself sideways to the ground and dragging you along. Where you had stood a moment before, a large slab of concrete, with a splintering granite layer on one side, slammed into the ground with enough force that the police cars shuddered and you felt yourself bounce on the asphalt.

The cop was scrambling to tie a knot on the supportive fabric on his limb when a new shadow fell over him and you, just as you got onto your feet. There was no name for the monstrosity. Metal, flesh and bones in one messy construction was succumbing to gravity, allowing itself to fall onto the bridge right above the cops’ makeshift field post. You saw in slow-motion how the thinner end of the thing crushed the railing, spurring your body to leap towards the injured cop and shove him with all your might away from the debris and the extraterrestrial giant of whatever-the-hell-that-was. It wasn’t just something that collided with your shoulders and back. It was everything. You had time to realize that you felt no pain, even as you were flattened against the ground and the air knocked out of your lungs. You also saw an odd shimmer just as darkness took over.

#I see you #I see you ch.3 #mcu #marvel #heimdal #heimdal x reader #Avengers #the avengers #chitauri #battle of new york #slow burn #fanfiction #fanfic #writing

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random-imagines-blog · 4 years

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Battle for the Sun {Diana Prince x Reader Oneshot}

Requested by: @justarookiewriter Wordcount: 2768 Summary: Trips to the museum are always fantastic, but a certain curator makes it all the better. But what happens when you keep getting interrupted?

The display that the museum was putting on was absolutely spectacular. You turned up every single day that this exhibition was on, using your membership card to get through the long lines. Italian sculptures, men and women, all sorts of bodies from ones that would be shamed today to the ideal. You walked the long stone halls alone, your hands behind your back, taking in the art as it was rather than trying to take pictures of it. A photo on a phone was nothing compared to the majesty that you were seeing in front of you. You stopped in front of your favorite, a sculpture of a woman. She was kneeling on the ground, her face turned upwards, her dress revealing one breast. There was something delicate about it. The way that the artist made stone look like fabric. It was incredible. But you weren’t just here for the art - there was another reason that you came around, and that was for one of the curators. An astonishing woman named Diana Prince.

You were hoping to see her, but instead, the only person you saw was a security guard who tended to follow you around. Not because he thought that you were up to devious behavior, but because he enjoyed the sight of you. He told you so enough times, and each word out of his mouth made you gag. But the art and Diana were worth putting up with him, just for a little while.

“Oh, you’re here again!” The very wanted voice of the woman that you were hoping to see came through the room, which cuts the creepy security guard right out of the picture. As it well should have.

“You found me already,” You said, turning the tall woman with a smile. “Usually you only catch me when I’m about to leave. I’ve only been here about an hour.”

“I can leave you to it,” She said, her accent being one that you couldn’t quite place. There were a dozen or so places that you suspected she could have come from, but never felt that you could ask such a rude question. She was here now, in France, and that’s what really mattered.

“Oh, no, only if you have other things to do. I never mind your company, Diana,” You said with a smile. The way that she looked today was breathtaking. How she managed to make a simple pair of jeans and a blouse look glamorous, you didn’t understand. You didn’t even have hope that you could emulate such a look. You probably looked horrible next to her, in your comfy University sweater to fight off the chill of the upcoming autumn months. “Not for a little while, no,” She said, smiling back. She stood next to you and looked up at the sculpture that you had been stopped in front of. “Is this one your favorite?” She asked you. You nodded in response, then started to speak, realizing the little gesture was not nearly enough.

“I wish that I knew what she was looking at,” You admitted, looking up into the face of the beautiful piece of artwork. “And how the marble looks like fabric, how you can see through it, it’s...”

“Breathtaking?” Diana responded. You nodded. That was the word that you had been struggling to find. It sounded more sincere coming from her lips. “Yes, I feel the same way. I’m often drawn to it as well.”

You both fell into a silence at that moment, looking at the sculpture. You wished that you could touch it, making sure that it really was stone. You didn’t even realize that you were leaning into the partition rope guarding it from people doing exactly that.

“Hey - stop-” The creepy security guard said, squeezing his way between you and Diana. “You know the rules, you can’t get close to the artwork.”

“I wasn’t going to do anything,” You started to argue back, but Diana interfered.

“You’re excused,” She said, lightly pushing the guard back. Still, it seemed to take him by surprise that he was being handled like that, and he stumbled backwards. He glared at her, and opened his mouth to retort, but she continued on. “And I will be speaking to your supervisor about this.”

“I was just trying to-”

“I’ve already put in a complaint about you,” You said, wanting to back up Diana, just as she was doing for you. “And I have the feeling that I am not the only person who did. I wasn’t going to touch it, especially not with the curator here. Please, do not touch me again.”

It was hard to keep in your temper, but he had been rather rude with you in the past. He once slid behind you in a crowd, his hand touching your bottom a little too roughly for it to have been an accident. You had put in the report, but as you had expected, not too much had happened. “As I said, you are excused,” Diana said, her eyes sharp as she stared the man down. He faltered, and walked away from his post, mumbling under his breath.

“Thank you. I’ve been a bit nervous to come back because of him,” You frowned at his retreating back.

“I’ll make sure that he never bothers you again,” Diana said, soothingly. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” You said, bringing the smile back onto your face. “And so ready to finally enjoy the museum without him breathing down my beck. What is your favorite sculpture here?”

You were getting a tour from the curator herself, walking in her footsteps, taking in all of the information that she was giving you which wasn’t in the placards. You found yourself wishing you had brought a notepad so you could write all of this information down. She gave a much better tour than any of the tourguides or online tours that the Louvre provided.

“And that is all,” Diana said, after explaining the last statue. You had done a large lap, ending in front of your favorite once more. You clapped and felt very fortunate to have gotten such a personal tour.

And, well, very flattered as well that she had taken time out of her busy day to lead you around an exhibit you knew like the back of your hand. This woman was as beautiful as the sculptures themselves, so fine in form, so elegant in her movements. But there were a lot of differences between you and her that made you a little wary of getting rejected, if you did gather up the courage to ask her out.

You two turned to look at each other, both of you smiling. Her painted-red lips opened to say something. They formed your name when there came a loud announcement through the speakers around the museum. ‘Miss Prince, please return to your office, Miss Prince, please return to your office.”

“I’ve kept you for too long,” You said, realizing how much time exactly had flown by. At least two hours! You were just your average guest in the museum but you had taken up far too much of the curator’s time. Diana laughed, shook her head and lightly touched your shoulder. Her hand was well-manicured, warm. Exactly as you thought it would be. Her skin matched her laugh - sunshine.

“No, you haven’t,” She insisted. “I like your perspective on this art. On history. It is refreshing. We should talk more about this.”

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” You offered with a smile. She nodded enthusiastically, before waving her fingers at you and headed towards her office to get back to work.

And you did return, catching sight of Diana immediately. She was standing in front of the statue that was your favorite, which also now became your favorite meeting place. It was going to be a huge shame when the exhibit moves onto the next location. Diana had told you that it was Germany. The memories you had with these statues were almost enough for you to move along with it.

She was wearing an all white outfit, clean and completely pristine. She fit in wonderfully with all of the statues. “Good afternoon,” You said, walking up to her and stood next to her tall frame. The look that she gave you, the large smile, almost gave you a thought that maybe, just maybe, she admires you as much as you admire her. It gave you a sense of confidence, made your shoulders straighter, your chin a little higher.

“Hello!” She said, surprising you with a hug that you eagerly returned. “I had hoped you knew this was where I wanted to meet you!”

“Right in front of my favorite, I’m surprised that you remembered.”

“There is no way that I could have forgotten,” She said, ponytail swaying behind her back. “The many times that I saw you looking at it - I wish I could gift it to you.”

“Oh,” You said, eyes wide at the very thought. “No, something like this should be appreciated by everyone. That is the artist’s intention. And I would never want to mess with that.” You smiled, though, very flattered that she thought of something like that. “But I don’t wish to take up too much of your time today, you must have work to do.”

“I do,” She admitted, looking over shoulder. It was as if she was looking to make sure that there was no one around. Though of course there was. The Louvre was one of the most famous attractions in Europe, not just in France. There were plenty of people about. It was hard for you to notice most of them however, next to this very striking woman. “So I was going to ask you-”

“Excuse me,” A gruff man said, pushing his way past you. Despite the rule about no food or drinks in any of the halls, he must have snuck something in, since you felt a liquid go across your chest. The smell that rose from it told you that it was coffee. You gasped, as it was still hot, and immediately tried to stretch the fabric away from your chest.

“Security,” Diana said, holding her arm out to stop the man from going further. Two security guards, neither of them being the creepy man, came up and escorted the man to the security office, probably to fine him for bringing in drinks. But you were more focused on your shirt. At least it was warm, not scalding, you might be a little tender where it splashed but it didn’t look like any real burns.

“I guess this is a good excuse as any to buy something from the gift shop,” You said, trying to make it into a joke.

“Are you sure?” Diana said, examining your shirt with a frown. “I don’t know if those stains are going to come out - come with me.”

Rather than take you to the gift shop, she lead you past the restricted areas, to what was apparently her office. There were many books in here, many artifacts. It smelled of her perfume, delicate but enough to wrap around your senses.

She also had a closet, which she opened up and went through. You looked in awe at the amount of gowns that she had in there; there must be a thousand euros worth, at least! She went through them before picking out a blouse of her own, and holding it in front of you. “This may fit you,” She said, sizing it by eye then handed it to you.

“Oh, um, thank you,” You said, looking around, feeling slightly embarrassed. She pointed towards a door that blended in with a row of bookcases.

“You can use my bathroom,” She said, kindly. You thanked her once more, then ducked into it, closing the door gently behind you. It was a standard half-bath - just a toilet and a sink and a mirror. But it seemed to be well stocked with lavish perfumes. Like she highly separated her home life from her work life. You snorted to yourself as you took off your wet shirt, trying to imagine her in sweat pants. She would look like someone out of a gym commercial if she were to try to wear those.

But what you were thinking was she kept her dresses here, her fancy things here. Maybe she only went to extravagant events for work, but did something else in her down time? Did curators even have down time?

You wanted to know everything about her, especially what she was like when she wasn’t around the museum. You buttoned up the blouse that she was loaning you after drying yourself off with some toilet tissue, then set about trying to get the worst of the stain out in the sink. You managed to get most of the brown liquid off but it would still need a run or two through the wash, with real cleaning liquid and not hand soap.

You folded up your shirt and held it in your hands as you left the bathroom, returning to the office. Diana stood there, waiting for you while leaning back against her desk. The way that the sun filtered in through the windows, reflected off the white walls onto her face - magnificent. She straightened up when she saw you come out. “It fits, wonderful!”

“It does, thank you,” You said. “Do you have a bag that I could put this in?” You brought up the shirt that you had been wearing. “Oh, let me take care of that. I’ll get it cleaned, then return it to you. It’s the least that I could do.”

“You didn’t spill the coffee on me, Diana, it’s quite alright.”

“No really. I want to. Because then I can see you-”

There was a knock on the door and two seconds later, it opened to reveal a man with dark hair and brooding features. You recognized him from somewhere. It hit you within a moment though. Bruce Wayne, of American fame.

You also noticed the dark look that went over Diana’s face, and how her smile seemed to drop when she saw who it was. “Diana,” Bruce said, stepping inside.

“Bruce,” She said, in the same low voice.

“Am I interrupting?” He asked, looking over at you. You glanced between the two of them then smiled your best and brightest smile to try to bring light into the room again.

“Not at all,” You said, setting your folded shirt on top of one of Diana’s chairs. “But one more thing, Diana,” You felt a bit nervous about this part but if you didn’t sputter it out before you left, you knew that you were going to regret it. “I was wondering if you maybe wanted to get dinner sometime next week. To return shirts. If you’re not too busy, that is. If you are, I can just come back and-”

“Dinner sounds great,” Diana said, looking like someone had just turned on the lightbulb inside of her once more. That alone was more flattering than her acceptance, because you had done that. You turned around what Bruce’s visit was, though you still weren’t sure why he was here. “I’ve been trying to ask you for a while but everything just kept getting in the way.”

“I know what that’s like,” You said with a nod. You found a package of post it notes on her desk and scrawled down your name and number on the top sheet. “Call me?”

“Yes, yes I will,” She said with a nod. You bowed your head, gave a respectful smile to THE Bruce Wayne, then headed out of the door, closing it behind you. You didn’t walk away immediately but took in the smell of the shirt that you had borrowed. It had a hint of perfume to it, but it wasn’t strong. It had been washed since she had last worn it perhaps. But it was still faintly there.

The rest of your walk around the museum was not nearly as uneventful as it had been earlier, but as you walked home, your phone began to buzz in your pocket. Unknown number. Only one person that could be and it was a call you were very eager to take.

#Diana Prince #Diana Prince x reader #Diana Prince oneshot #Wonder Woman #Wonder Woman oneshot #oneshot #dc #dc oneshot #x reader #request #one shot #dianap

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