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tobiosmilktea · 4 years

Note

scenario request: enemies to lovers au! w atsumu, ✨ thank you 💛

paper daisy chains — miya atsumu

5.5k words | genre/s: fluff, a little angst, enemies to lovers!au | warning/s: language, lots of arguing | pairing: atsumu x gn!reader

↪︎ in which three hours of detention leads to your hatred for your former best friend to fall apart all due to a kiss

a/n: you had me at enemies to lovers anon 😏 ngl tho this is not my best work considering i procrastinated on writing this and i needed to post something today ✨

in a mere afterthought—after everything had gone to shit already, it was then you had some forming recuperation of the situation you were in despite always finding a chance to snake your way out was no longer in your hands. so, perhaps you could have handled the situation a little bit better. emphasis on ‘little’ as there was very little you could do about your absolute hatred for miya atsumu and that sly grin on his face.

it wasn’t like this before–this messy relationship between you and atsumu. if anything, you were the bestest friends in middle school, by each other’s side like you were stuck together with glue. yet a single assumption ruined it all, tearing everything down into nothingness.

did you sometimes yearn for things to go back to the way they were before? the simple answer was yes, but your pride would never let atsumu know.

“as for you (y/l/n) (y/n), atsumu is now sporting a broken nose after you punched him during lunch.” the principle states matter-of-factually which earned a quiet scoff from behind you.

despite not standing directly next to you, atsumu was still far too close for your liking as his right shoulder often brushed against you at every small and sudden movement. you could practically feel his breath grazing the exposed part of your neck. however, you couldn’t exactly blame the setter no matter how much you wanted to as both your teacher and his coach had sandwiched you two together.

“disrespectful little swine that one.” inarizaki’s coach grunts loudly towards you, “you oughta teach that one a lesson before she hurts my starting setter again before nationals!”

you flashed the man a toothy grin as you grit them together. he always had an odd way of speaking, “yes, of course, it’s completely my fault for defending myself.” you deadpanned with your own sarcasm of poisonous venom, surprising almost everyone in the office—everyone except atsumu of course. if anything, he’s the only one still smirking in amusement while all the adults had their faces all contorted.

however, his eyes did widen a bit as he looked at you the moment you smirked up at him with proud delight written across your pretty face.

your teacher cleared his throat, elbowing you slightly in the ribs discretely. “my student didn’t mean that, sir.” he excuses, quickly giving you a warning look as a sign for you to apologize.

“i’m really sorry,” you weren’t sorry.

the principle simply smiled at your scornful apology that left your lips in the most condescending manner. he then switched his gaze back to the atsumu’s coach who has been arguing against the old man for a good fifteen minutes on only punishing you and not atsumu as it ‘wasn’t his fault,’ but you hadn’t been listening. why would you, anyway? in the end, you were going to get the short end of the stick once again with atsumu getting away with everything. from his annoying teases to his backhanded compliments that caused him a blow right on his nose in the first place will never be called out.

enter atsumu’s twin, osamu, through the office doors. to your surprise he (in a way) defended your case by saying that atsumu was provoking you all day. so, you and atsumu were both in the wrong. then again, that’s what happens between two enemies since middle school.

“based on what osamu has said, i have no choice but to give them both detention.” the principle concludes, “atsumu and (y/n) will be on cleaning duty in the library for the time being.”

“if you don’t mind me commenting,” the coach exclaims, drawing himself up to perhaps argue for the umpteenth time again, “atsumu has volleyball practice to—”

the principle immediately cuts him off, “there’s nothing i can do about it.”

“can’t he serve detention after nationals?” he tries to express once more but is cut off yet again.

“then that goes against our policy of having no behavioral issues in order to go on field trips.”

“then it is decided,” your teacher confirms with a nod. even he was getting a bit tired on this back and forth. “i’ll make sure both students will report to the library the moment the final bell rings, sir.”

great.

there was always something unnerving about the after school noon at inarizaki as you teetered on the edge of boredom and monotony. and that’s saying a lot considering you spent the majority of your time after classes secluded in your own room or wandering the streets of hyogo by yourself instead of going to club activities. you’d come to think that maybe, in the absolute inevitability that for once atsumu’s company would be much better than being alone, but you were wrong. so incredibly wrong.

you would much rather stay locked up in your bedroom all day than be stuck mopping the library floors and dusting off the shelves upon shelves of textbooks and novels.

a sigh escapes from your lips as you bring your gaze up to atsumu on the other end of the aisle, his tall figure reached at the tops of each book shelf as he dusted them off haphazardly while you too care of the bottom layers. it was understandable though as the task was not only tedious but simply counterproductive. the shelves were going to get all dusty again weren’t they? granted, punishment was punishment no matter how futile and impractical.

the library’s fluorescent lights had created shadows upon atsumu’s face, creating deep grooves and shadows upon his jaw and cheeks that perhaps you didn’t think he looked absolutely repulsive for once (even with the bandage on his broken nose).

you lift yourself from your crouched position and brushed any lingering dust off of your uniform, which at this point was a bit unkempt from the light labor you were forced to do. approaching the preoccupied setter, the rag within your hand was tossed back and forth between your left and right.

however, your eyebrows furrowed as you stopped only a few feet shy away from atsumu who should at least be sensing your presence at this point. he always had a knack of being aware of where you were and honestly you found it plain creepy. your gaze fell upon the rag in your hand, shrugging to yourself before chucking it at atsumu’s face.

the setter’s expression contorted slightly in confusion as the piece of cloth smacked him on the side of his cheek before falling onto the floor. his gaze followed the rag before turning his stare towards you.

“i’m bored,” you sighed out in a mutter with little to no emotion coating your words.

“me too,” he replies, crouching down to pick up the rag before tossing it to you lightly. you caught it within your hands as you feign the look of surprise on your visage. you honestly expected him throw it as hard as he could, but he didn’t. “the faster we get this done the faster we get to go home–or whatever you do after school like wander around hyogo or something.”

you nod, yet curiosity stroked you. how would he know about that? gently placing one foot in front of the other, you steered closer to the boy. “and how would you know i do that everyday after school?”

it was then, you could finally feel the striking tension between the two of you. as if it was heat emanating and merging simply from the proximity you two were standing, a beat had passed again the moment you confirmed that whatever answer atsumu was going to give you would be complete and utter bullshit.

“just to make sure you were safe,” he mutters so nonchalantly. something so out of his character, especially for you would obviously be more alarming than a simple shrug and a brow raise.

your arms braided over each other, your gaze hardening by the second. “safe?” you repeat in disbelief that was accompanied with a scoff, “that’s rich, miya, anymore shitty lies you want to tell me before i could ruin that pretty face of yours again?”

a smirk had fallen on his lips as he flickered you an entertained look. “so, you think i’m pretty?”

you roll your eyes, turning your back towards him. you knew talking to him was a stupid idea and if only your teacher didn’t force you to try to make amends during detention with him, you wouldn’t have to feel your brain cells deteriorate every time you look his way. so much for taking sensei’s words into consideration into making friends with him again when your patience was being tested every five seconds. “whatever,” you scoff for the umpteenth time as you going back to your previous spot.

“the thing is, what i said just then wasn’t a lie.” he concludes while his eyes follow your figure to the other end of the aisle, “but, it’s not like you’d believe me or care for that matter.”

you’re right, i don’t. you thought to yourself, and yet you were still taken aback from the sudden ardor in his tone. it was less of atsumu’s usual bite from his arguments and more of a laceration to the skin, near rather than cutthroat despite both being some form of verbal wound. one hurt more than the other and you were sure atsumu was holding back.

“and what makes you think that?” you question.

atsumu shrugs, “nothing really groundbreaking.” he pauses as his eyes fall upon your expression of nothingness as for once he couldn’t find the right words to say. on the tip of his tongue laid words that would definitely hurt you and that hollow chest of yours, and usually he wouldn’t care just the same as you wouldn’t, yet something was stopping him.

come to think of it, this was one of the rare occasions that you and atsumu were actually alone together. nothing but the confines of the library bookshelves to obstruct you and your enemy. if anything, you and atsumu are constantly surrounded by others who are aware of your mutual resentment towards each other. hell, the only reason why your name was even as near popular as atsumu’s was because you had beef with him that was never serious in the first place. even after the numerous altercations you had since middle school with the blond boy, it was always him who provoked you.

it was almost as if you only kept up your act because that’s all you’re known for in this damn school. and you hated it.

“just the fact that you hate me is the biggest reason.” atsumu adds.

a sarcastic laugh emitted from you as you turned back towards him. you were well aware how priceless your expression looked, all muddied in disbelief and annoyance. “the feeling’s mutual.” you seethed through your teeth, stopping yourself from suddenly dumping fuel to a slow building ember. you had dirt on atsumu, but so did he and you had to be careful in order to play your cards well.

yet atsumu was already one step ahead of you, “you know hiding you emotions and feelings isn’t very healthy, is it?” he evoked. it was starting again and you knew it—from the way he inched closer to you and the way he held that godforsaken smirk on his lips again.

this guy was really asking for it wasn’t he?

a chuckle leaves your lips as you fully face him, your skin pulsated with arising anger, you couldn’t wait for miya atsumu to pull your final strings so you could finally land a punch on his face again. “it’s not like stalking someone after school is any better,” you hissed in the same venom. “i heard that shit can go on your permanent record if you were caught following someone. who knows, miya, maybe you’ll be surprised one day when you’re kicked off the volleyball team all of a sudden—”

“that’s hilarious coming from you, (y/n), you piece of—” atsumu had cut himself off in the midst of his retort, pursing his lips together as his hardened gaze suddenly dropped. “whatever,” he scoffs before turning away.

he let out a frustrated sigh as he attempted to walk back to the other end of the bookshelf so he wouldn’t have to look at your widening smile of provocation on your visage—slick with the taste of ash and synthetic amusement. it covered you in a downpour of emotions, most of which (if not all) were just synonyms of anger and acrimony. your tone was almost elated, drenched in salty irritation that couldn’t wither. you waited for him continue his words knowing damn well he could hit you with something stronger, something that can hurt more.

atsumu had to admit that he wasn’t as nearly as tough as you, though. you were someone that grew up surrounded with constant thunderstorms of a family and had a chest filled with bruising epiphanies waiting to be spewed out if anyone were to ever fuck up. it would’ve been best if he stepped himself away knowing that you both had no crowd to entertain, and yet there was an aching within you that wanted atsumu to continue whatever insult rested on his tongue.

pull that string, miya, i dare you.

“whatever?” you miffed, testing the waters you knew was tainted in tension. “no, please continue what you were about to call me, miya. i’d love to hear a new rendition.”

the setter shook his head as he couldn’t bring himself to meet the fury in your eyes any longer. “i hate how it had to be you,” he muttered under his breath.

“what was that?”

atsumu shook his head, “nothing.”

detention was flying by slower than you had hoped.

within the first hour, you and atsumu had finished all the work assigned simply due to the fact that keeping yourselves busy on opposite sides of the library was best for both of your mental health.

two hours left of detention and boredom was dangerous for the likes of you two. now that you were both situated at the array of desks, it was common sense that some form of dispute between the two of you were bound to happened despite being separated and sitting at your own tables.

stupid atsumu, you thought. he really thought he was sly trying to sneak glances at you every five seconds like he was just waiting to get you riled up. what was his problem anyway? you thought that atsumu was the one who stopped himself from making matters worse earlier but it seems like he wanted to start something again.

you ignored him like you usually do. you were far too busy making a second pair of paper daisy chains and you needed the utmost focus cutting out each individual paper daisy to string into a faux flower crown.

atsumu had some audacity thinking he could keep throwing glances at you when you literally had a pair of scissors in your hand.

“keep staring and you’ll lose all of your piss-blond hair,” you deadpanned. you didn’t even bother to look at him as you were too preoccupied in your latest craft activity to fight your boredom.

however, it wasn’t atsumu’s fault that you were a complete enigma to him. he hated the way his friendship with you ended up like this after one big misunderstanding. sure, the first signs of your wavering friendship on the cusp of the big chasm of hatred you both created started in the middle school, but it truly formed in your first year.

granted, it wasn’t like he was wrong for worrying about you. he thought you were in danger last year when he thought you were getting involved with terrible people and simply reporting any suspicious behavior was his best way to go. the report was anonymous, but after you received the news, you were immediately suspended for a week all because of him. atsumu wasn’t going to negate the fact that perhaps it was his fault, but despite his numerous trials and errors of apologizing to you, it turned into nothing but heated arguments that led to your relationship now. all jagged and broken.

the topic has been taboo since.

atsumu’s gaze left yours, scoffing under his breath as he rolled his eyes. why did it have to be you? it wasn’t like this before, but you were all well aware how stubborn you two were.

you were an absolute wildfire that couldn’t be contained and atsumu was constantly treading over fresh embers that threatened to ignite at any form of friction. he was tired of always having to be careful around you, especially now that you broke his nose, yet he still wanted for things to be different.

“here,” your voice interrupts the tense silence as you toss him a finished paper daisy chain. it landed on his crossed arms, raising an eyebrow of confusion when he picked it up. “give that to osamu.”

atsumu was a bit perplexed to say the least, but he simply sighs to himself before gently placing the flower crown over his temples. “why osamu?” he knew damn well why, “i think it looks better on me.” he mused.

“you look hideous with it on,” you scoff, “besides it’s for your brother for a reason.”

“cause you like him better?”

“no doubt about it.”

(can you believe you liked atsumu more than osamu back in middle school?)

the setter shrugs, “too bad, you gave it to me so it’s mine now.”

“no it’s not, you don’t deserve one.” you say as you stand from your chair that screeched against the dark oak flooring of the library. you try to reach for the flower crown on atsumu’s head, but his hand snatched your wrist before you could grab it.

atsumu’s adams apple bobbed up and down when he realized how close you were, “let. go.” your voice was hushed, yet still spat out your infamous venomous tone.

but he didn’t let go.

“aren’t you tried of it?” atsumu brings up instead.

“tired?”

“of this,” he continued before motioning to each other, “of us having to act like we hate each other everyday?”

you feigned a scoff, yet you couldn’t stop yourself from rolling your eyes to the absolute bullshit coming out of atsumu’s mouth right now. “i’m not acting.”

“well i am,” remarked atsumu before a millisecond could even pass, “i’m tired of having to act like i hate you all the time.”

it was then it seemed like something just cracked within you. lies, lies lies, everything was a lie with atsumu—from the moment he ruined your trust last year to every altercation, big or small, that happened until this point was nothing but lies. you swallowed a lump of pride, fear, and anger collecting in your throat as you let out a huff. “your lies are becoming progressively shittier, you know that right? i don’t need your sorry excuse of sincerity.”

you tugged at your wrist again, this time harder for atsumu to finally let you go, but he wasn’t budging. it wasn’t like you to admit this either, but it was starting to hurt.

“too bad i’m not lying.”

a sigh of frustration left your lips as you felt your anger suddenly swell within you. bottling up your emotions until they exploded was something you were explicitly good at and you could feel the bile rising in your throat, burning you along with words that threatened to spew out of your mouth. “what the fuck is wrong with you? you think that saying that bullshit now is going to make up everything that had ever happened between us?”

“no, I just—”

you didn’t bother to let him speak as you cut him off, “your volleyball fangirls harass me everyday for treating how i treat you, not mention i get constantly watched on like a hawk because of what you did! you made me lose my parents trust after i got suspended and i can’t even go out freely anymore! the only reason why i wander around hyogo alone after school is because that’s the only time i can have to myself since my parents think i have club activities—”

atsumu didn’t mutter a word as he waited for you to continue. he knew there was more inside you yearning to finally be verbalized and he was ready for it to come his way.

“you think i’m acting like i hate you out of pettiness, but that only proves how self-centered you are atsumu,” you huffed, not bothering to pull your wrist out of the setter’s vice-like grip anymore. “for once, i did consider finally letting this whole thing between us go and make amends, but not like this—not when you just keep fucking up and digging yourself a bigger hole.”

a few beats of silence passed between the two of you as you felt the heat rising within your slowly deplete. even atsumu’s hand on your wrist had loosened up a bit, sending a wave of relief within you knowing that you had a chance finally walk away.

“so you’re tired too?” the setter suddenly interjected.

here we go again, you thought with a dejected sigh. “can you—”

his hold around your wrist suddenly tightened again, but not as harsh as before. “answer my question.”

“no.” you pursed your lips together.

“liar.”

“atsumu, please—”

“listen, i’m really sorry about what i did.” the setter expressed, hoping the sincerity in his voice was reaching you. “what i did was fucked up, but just say the word and we can stop everything right here.”

“let go,” you muttered in between, but atsumu only continued.

“no more arguments, we could go back to how we were before or we could start over again—”

“i said let go!”

it was then atsumu’s grip left your wrist and caught your face in between his hands and leaned in.

it wasn’t like this was your first kiss, but it certainly felt like it. granted, this was the first time you kissed some you hate—or rather, someone you’re supposed to hate. you’ve kissed numerous people before, all of which were fueled with nothing but boredom and was nothing more than a simple peck. and yet, this was everything out of the ordinary. you were kissing miya atsumu for fuck’s sake and for once there wasn’t a clear instinct in your body to move away fom him.

your mind blurred so much that the confusion written all over your expression and in your head was muddied by the roaring of your heartbeat. perhaps it was the way atsumu had managed to somehow run his hand from your face and through your hair while the other gently caressed your cheek as if this was how it was supposed to be for ages. it certainly didn’t feel like some cheap thrill atsumu had devised as the way he pulled you closer to him felt like a missing puzzle piece finally being placed.

and for once, you didn’t feel absolutely disgusted when he touched you like this.

it was then when the bandage on atsumu’s healing nose tickled the bridge of yours had suddenly pulled your out of some dream-ridden euphoria. as if it was a reminder that this is what you did. the person who was supposed to be your best friend turned into your enemy after one misunderstanding. he hurt you once and that was the most he did, and yet it only made matters worse when you’ve come to the realization that all of atsumu’s quarrels with you was far less hurtful than what you ever said. they were all for the same reason and that reason was how he felt for you. the feelings had been simmering within him since middle school was finally revealing itself and you’ve been throwing it away for so long.

you didn’t deserve this type of love.

the swift beating of your heart was no longer from the burning sensation of atsumu’s lips against yours, but rather the adrenaline of every single worry tucked in the confines of your head were coming out of their shadows all at once. no matter how intoxicating a forbidden kiss like this felt, you were suffocating beneath the drowning ocean of the unspeakable.

your swollen lips, all tinted red parted slightly before biting down on atsumu’s lip.

“shit!” he suddenly exclaimed, suddenly pulling away to touch the bleeding wound on his bottom lip.

you took this chance to finally get away like you always did. and to your surprise, atsumu didn’t follow you into the labyrinthine aisles of the empty library for once. perhaps this was the one time you were glad that you and atsumu were alone in this huge room as it at least saved you from any humiliation of whatever the fuck just happened.

the inkling within your gut felt familiar, but too peculiar to fully comprehend. yet, with the blush that stretched from your cheeks to your ears still at it’s fullest opacity to the loudness your heartbeat still thumping against your chest and in your ears, it was obviously what the feeling was.

this can’t be happening.

you let out a sigh.

fifteen minutes. that’s all that’s left of the three hours of detention and after this, you were free from the confines of the library walls that suffocated you.

just fifteen more minutes before you can leave and avoid atsumu for the rest of your life. after those fifteen minutes, you would no longer give two shits about inarizaki’s setter and he could no longer confuse you anymore. and all you needed to do was wait in the most obscure corner of the library that most wouldn’t even go to.

the thing is, it was genuinely a good plan, but lately you’ve come to the conclusion that you had been underestimating atsumu for such a long time. this was one of those moments where you believed he would leave once detention was over, and yet he made sure to go through each and every aisle of bookshelves only to find you with your nose stuck in a book to keep you occupied. you didn’t even see him at first, but atsumu was glad you didn’t as he spent a good five minutes forcing himself to stop blushing just by your presence.

and to your (quite unfortunate) luck, here miya atsumu was now—approaching you in all his broken-nosed glory. it certainly didn’t help the fact that this entire time, you couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss. it was the way he spoke about his feelings for you via the sparks from the sudden excursion that had your heart blossoming out of your chest even an hour after it happened

atsumu plops himself next to you, yet still leaving enough room that you wouldn’t run away from him again. his arms rest over his knees as he picked at his nails in uncertainty, as if he was treading over thin ice and a single misstep would eliminate any progress that was created between the two of you. “we’re free to go in fifteen minutes,” his voice was gentle, yet hesitance laced it to soften it a bit more as you didn’t even spare him a glance. “...just to let you know.”

there was no response from you. a simple nod was a good enough answer even though you weren’t obligated to. if anything, you feared that atsumu could hear the wavering in your voice when if you did say anything verbally. you hoped just by a simple nod would be a sign for him to get up and leave you alone in your furrowing thoughts, but he just sat there. in the deafening silence and the flipping of the pages of your book, he stayed for you.

atsumu wanted to make sure you got home safely and not do anything stupid. he knew what you were capable of especially after something out of the ordinary transpires (see: the kiss from earlier).

you had to admit that maybe you didn’t care that he was right next to you anymore. before, you would always yell at him to leave you alone or give you space, but for once his presence felt comforting to you (you wouldn’t confess that for you the life of you, though). you just hoped he wouldn’t notice the heat rising in your neck again.

(he did end up noticing)

the setter cleared his throat then, his fingers still playing with each other to spare him from the awkwardness. “are you okay?”

you huffed, “i knew you were an idiot, but i didn’t think you were this stupid.”

there it was, atsumu thought. despite the severity of your response, he couldn’t help but feel a smile creep on his lips knowing that you were at least talking to him. throughout the past year, he had come to realize that having you throw insults at him was better than not talking at all. granted, you wouldn’t even spare a single breath to someone you truly hated and not give a shit about. so if anything, you being mean to him was a sign that you think of him as something more than a stranger.

it was an odd case of stockholm syndrome, atsumu had to admit.

“is it because of the kiss earlier?” he asked, yet you didn’t utter a word. rather it was the sudden bursting of red tinted ears and burning cheeks stopped you from forming proper words. you would never get used to this feeling. “if it makes you feel any better—”

“just shut up about it,” you hissed as plunged your face deeper into your book. atsumu seeing your tomato-red face was the last thing you wanted as you shooed him away, “i don’t want to hear it.”

a chuckle left atsumu as he took the book out of your hands, loudly slapping it shut that the impact of paper hitting one another echoed throughout the library. it forced you to look at him in the eyes as he smirked at your expression. he hasn’t seen a look of embarrassment on your visage before and he found it adorable. “if the next words that come out of your mouth is to forget about the kiss ever happening, i’ll do it again and make sure you remember.”

your jaw tightened slightly as you peered your eyes at him, “fine.” you affirmed, “it did happen, but it meant nothing.”

“well, it meant something to me.” atsumu countered, not even noticing the way he leaned in closer.

it felt almost impulsive the way your emotions just crumbled before you. with the sense of betrayal between your mind and your heart had you dragged into the tide of finally giving into the guy you’re supposed to be hating. it felt criminal the way you even let your eyes flicker back down to his lips that was still a bit swollen from last time.

it just had to you, huh?

“i hate you,” you say before pulling him his tie towards you.

the kiss was slower than last time, deeper even. you were sure this was how serendipity felt like, sweet against your tongue like marmalade and soft like feathers with the way atsumu was trying to chase that euphoria when he made his way down your jaw. the ghost of his lips left trails down your neck and to your collarbone before recoiling back to your lips. you tasted like mocha and atsumu already found himself addicted to it.

“miya! (y/l/n)!” the advisor in charge of detention’s voice suddenly thundered throughout the library, forcing you two to pull away from each other. “detention ends in five minutes! the hell is this? daisy chains?” he suddenly interjects before letting out a loud scoff. “if i don’t see the rest of the trash from these tables thrown away, i’m giving you two another after school detention next week!”

a disappointed sigh emits from you as you and atsumu make your way back to the other end of the library. you hoped the exchange between the two of you wasn’t too obvious as your lips were all pink and your uniform disheveled.

the advisor gave you two a look before turning away to leave the library. humiliation struck you then and atsumu couldn’t help but laugh.

“i’ll make sure osamu gets his paper daisy chain.” the setter reassures playfully as he snatches both flower crowns from the table and hands the other to you.

your hands brush together as you take it from him, muttering, “you can have it if you want.”

“what was that?”

“nothing,” you say as you make your way towards the library’s entrance, “i said you look like a cunt.”

#haikyuu!!#haikyuu #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu x reader #atsumu x reader #atsumu imagines #atsumu scenarios #miya atsumu #atsumu fluff #atsumu miya #atsumu hcs #hq atsumu #haikyuu atsumu

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charlessmithhasmyheart · 3 years

Text

Valentines 2021

Type: Arthur Morgan x Reader

Trigger Warning: mentions of possible death

A/N: Heyo! This is for the lovely @that-wimpy-cowboy-doll who requested something with Arthur for the Valentines Gift thingy! Apologies for this being a little late; work has been short-staffed lately, which meant my writing time was cut to a considerably small amount. Hopefully this is what you want; if not, I’m totally fine with adjusting it to your needs! Much love!

____________

The night air was cool, a slight breeze disturbing the grass as you sat near the rock ledge at Horse Shoe Overlook. It was a relatively safe place. It was quiet, secluded; hardly a chance of being followed by any unsavory characters. Most of the gang was able to relax with the threat of danger having been quelled. At least for the time being spirits were high. That was evident by the faint sounds of guitar music and off-key singing reaching your ears. Normally you would be over there joining in on all the merriment.

But not tonight.

Tonight you had sequestered yourself away from the others, their positive auras putting a damper on your already bad mood. That and the thought that Arthur could return at any moment, his clothes all mussed from a full day of riding, and the sour expression that usually donned his face disappearing as he joined the other outlaws by the fire, oblivious to your inner turmoil. It made you sick to your stomach just thinking about it even now.

Suppressing a shiver, you wrapped your arms around yourself and dangled your legs over the ledge. The grasslands below were quiet. Not even a rabbit stirred among the foliage. It seemed to mirror the loneliness that was slowly building up within you. In some ways it was a small comfort; if you were feeling lonely, why shouldn’t the rest of the world feel lonely too.

A sigh involuntarily escaped your lips as your mind continued to think of the surly outlaw.

You had met him nearly over a year ago during one of your excursions to Blackwater. The gang hadn’t settler properly then; Arthur was sent as a look-out of sorts to scout the area and see if anything looked promising. You, on the other hand, were simply a farmers child running a few errands. It almost seemed like fate when you really thought about it. You hadn’t planned to be out and about, but your mother, a strong and very convincing woman, had insisted you go looking for another bolt of cloth. In reality, you suspected she had been hoping you would find a suitor. A dreamers hope really.

You had never been interested in anyone. Blackwater was a dry desert full of farmers desperate to pull together a boom town. They were all boring individuals; either expecting a spouse who would commit to more than their fair share of work or someone to produce a large family, which was something you weren’t ready for.

Not to mention your mother had talked you up to half the eligible suitors in town creating an aura of embarrassment and anxiety.

As you made your way through the various builders and hagglers, you had finally come to the only general store for miles. The building was crude, more of a haphazard collections of walls and roof, but it was enough to get the job done. The owner of the store, a middle-aged man with a full beard and thinning blonde hair, stood behind a pile of wooden boxes that served as a counter with a welcoming gleam in his eye.

“Hello there. What can I do for you today?”

“Morning Andrew, just here to pick up some cloth. Nothin’ too special.”

Andrew’s mouth pulled into a small smile.

“Well, we don’t have too much, but everything we have is in the corner over to your right. Help yourself.”

Nodding in thanks, you had turned around and smacked right into something solid. Apparently there had been another person in the store, but you hadn’t noticed. You felt yourself start to fall. Not only had you knocked into the stranger, but you had snagged the back of your trousers under your shoe. Needless to say, the ground came up pretty hard.

“Oh, sorry ma’am. Are you alright?”

It was with those six simple words that your life changed forever.

After the embarrassing encounter, Arthur, having been the recipient of your clumsiness, had offered to buy you a drink to clear up any misgivings. Naturally, you accepted. A few drinks later and you had divulged your entire life story; how many siblings you had, your mother’s knack for finding all your flaws, the way your father hardly spoke any words when he was at home, and how the chickens on your farm absolutely detested you with every fiber of their flightless being.

Arthur had remained a bit more tactful in that regard, but he had found you charming and amusing, so he asked to see you a second time. And then a third. And then a fourth. He asked to frequently to spend time with you, that you were hardly at home. Your parents were quite happy with the prospects of a possible marriage, even if they had never met the man in question.

One day, while the two of you were out on a leisurely stroll, Arthur had decided it was time to come clean about his life story. To say you were shocked was too simple. An outlaw? And not only that, but a member of one of the most notorious gangs out there; The Vanderlinde gang? It was a lot to take in. Despite your obvious feelings for him, you had asked for some space to think about everything he had said, even going to your mother for some hypothetical advice.

Clearly your misgivings hadn’t been too difficult to overcome considering you were here now with the gang, but, at the time, it felt like the hardest choice of your life. Now, here you still were, legs over the ledge, and your annoyance at Arthur continuing to grow.

A part of you felt a bit guilty for your frustrations, knowing that Arthur already does enough around camp without having to cater to your feelings, but it was the anniversary of the first day you had bumped into that man in the store. You had hoped to have been able to spend the day together. Maybe a picnic in the fields or a day in town, but Dutch had sent him on mission after mission, without any signs of protest from Arthur. It seemed to you as if he didn’t care at all.

“Hey darlin’. What are you doin’ all the way out here, huh?”

You’d recognize that voice anywhere. The drawl was hard to miss. Your knight in dusty denim had arrived. A little too late, you thought darkly.

Your silence became an invisible barrier between the two of you, as Arthur took a few tentative steps closer and eased himself onto the grass next to you. His own legs dangled over the rocky ledge next to you. They were close, but he left a considerably larger space than you were used too.

The quiet lingered for a while, neither of you saying anything; you looking anywhere but Arthur and the outlaw whistling and bobbing his left leg.

“So,” he said, finally breaking the silence. “I can tell somethin’s botherin’ ya. What’s wrong?”

You twisted your head too officially look at Arthur. His signature hat with the bullet hole was perched atop his scraggly mop of dark blond locks, his beard was a bit unkempt as well, and there was a thing veil of exhaustion behind his eyes. Your irritability evaporated.

“Do you know what today is, Arthur?” You asked quietly. He stared back at you, an odd expression on his face, and you took that to mean the worst. “I figured as much. I’m gonna go to bed Arthur. You come when you’re ready.”

As you made to stand up, Arthur clasped his hand gently around your wrist, stopping you.

“You think I’d forget?” He said, quiet as yours had previously been. “You think I’d forget one of the most important days of my life? The day we met?”

You locked eyes with him once again.

“Darlin’, I know things haven’t been easy lately, and I haven’t been able to spend much time with you.” He continued, voice full of emotion. “But don’t think for a second that you aren’t a priority. You mean more to me than the stars do the night sky.”

You felt tears brim at the corners of your eyes, and you flung yourself forward and wrapped your arms tightly around his waist.

“Oh Arthur!” You cried, the reassurance he had given you making your heart soar. Arthur chuckled and returned the hug, his had brushing gently against the small of your back. When you pulled away, he had a sheepish grin on his face. He dug in his pockets and took out a small bundle of cloth.

“Here. Open it.”

Taking the cloth in your hands, you gingerly peeled back the fabric to reveal a small comb with a flower decoration engraved on the ridge. It looked eerily similar to the one your mother had used when you were young.

“I remembered you sayin’ somethin’ about a comb that your mother had, so I had one made up for you.”

“Thank you, Arthur. This is the best gift anyone has ever given me.” You gushed, before learned forward to press a gentle kiss to his cheek.

Arthur smiled and clasped his hand in yours, before resting his head on your shoulders. The two of you stayed there for a while, just watching the stars and enjoying each others company while the sounds of the gang and the crackling fires faded into the background.

#rdr #rdr2 #reddeadredemption #reddeadredemption2 #arthur morgan #reader insert #imagine #imagines #writing #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgran x reader insert

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celosiaa · 4 years

Text

avoidance

From a wonderful prompt I received! “A cold going around the season 1 archival staff and them just actively avoiding Jon because they don't want him to get sick because they know it'll be worst for him with his asthma. What they don't know is Jon's already caught it and is getting the wrong idea and just thinks he's being avoided because they don't want to catch it from him.”

Hope you enjoy this short little sickfic! Featuring hard of hearing Tim, especially for @haunted-by-catholic-guilt :)

“Oh, there he comes, Sash.”

“How does he look?” she replies, being sure to speak louder while Tim has his face turned away.

“Can’t tell yet.”

Tim cranes his neck and squints to better catch a glimpse of Martin, who walks toward their office from the lift, bundled up against the unseasonably cold weather in a knit scarf and hat.

“God, I need to get new prescriptions,” he says, rubbing his eyes against the blurriness. “He’s got a hat and scarf on, though.”

“Ooh, things are looking promising!”

Turning back to her, jaw hanging open in mock-indigence, Tim places a shocked hand against his chest.

“Miss James, I’m horrified! You would wish illness on our poor poet, Martin Blackwood, Esquire?”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” she says, sniffling a bit as she punches lightly at his arm.

“Morning, everyone,” Martin croaks as he steps in—though it must sound rather congested, judging by Sasha’s satisfied smirk, and she holds out her outstretched palm to him.

“Morning, Martin,” Tim replies at once, not willing to hand over his fiver just yet. “How are you today? Just peachy, I’ll bet?”

Throwing him a glare from where he’s sat down at his desk, Martin’s face suddenly goes hazy, his eyes unfocused as he pulls his scarf quickly over his nose—before sneezing thrice, harsh and miserable, breaking off into painful coughs to finish.

“Aw, Martin, I’m sorry,” Sasha coos in sympathy, patting his back with one hand while reaching out to accept Tim’s begrudging fiver with the other.

“Don’t you apologize, Sasha,” Martin croaks after he recovers himself, rubbing a tissue against his dreadfully pink nose. “We all know this is Tim’s fault.”

“Excuse me???” Tim bursts, throwing his arms wide in a gesture of disbelief.

“Shut it, you know it’s true,” Sasha concurs, unwrapping a spare tissue box to donate to Martin’s desk. “You’re the one who fraternized with Research, knowing they’ve had this bug going around for weeks.”

“Why are you both attacking me?” Tim shouts, breaking off to cough for a moment, his own illness not yet entirely abated. “This is homophobic.”

“Not if we’re all queer, you arse!”

He returns to clutching at his chest, taking a dramatic inhale.

“Martin, she’s slinging me with the cruelest of insults! Are you really going to sit there and do nothing?”

“Basically, yeah,” Martin replies, voice whittled down to a hoarse whisper—he makes sure to speak slowly, such that Tim can read his lips. “Because she’s right, and you deserve it.”

“I’ll have you know, sir—“

Tim’s scolding is interrupted by the opening of the heavy door to document storage, from which Jon emerges—looking unkempt as ever, carrying a stack of files tucked beneath his left arm. Nodding briefly at them in greeting, he hastens across the room to his office, and Tim just barely manages a glimpse of him pulling his inhaler out of his pocket before the door shuts.

“Is he coughing?” Tim asks, turning to gauge their reactions.

“Yeah. God, he sounds absolutely horrendous,” Martin croaks, wincing at the dreadful wheezing coughs, ineffectively muffled behind the door.

“It’s his own fault,” Tim mutters, earning him looks from both Martin and Sasha. “What? He could ask one of us to root through the dusty shelves for him, you know, like a normal boss. But he won’t, because he’s too damn stubborn.”

Knowing he’s at least a little bit right, Sasha and Martin say nothing, only continuing to listen with concern as Jon pulls twice from his inhaler, before finally seeming to get his breath back.

“We should all try to keep our distance from him,” Martin says at last, giving them both a significant look. “I don’t want him to get this—not when he’s coughing like that. Don’t want to put him at risk.”

Grin dropping from his face, Tim nods solemnly back at Martin, and Sasha follows suit.

“You’re right, mate. We’ll do our best.”

“Yeah, it’s a deal, Martin.”

“Thanks,” Martin replies, flashing them a sunny, if not stuffed-up, smile. “Right then, anything specific to work on today?”

—

For what feels like the hundredth time that day, Jon slams the pause button on the tape recorder, snatching up a tissue as fast as he can—near-silently stifling two into it. It makes his head pound every time, tears at his already-battered throat, but he’d rather not spread whatever miserable illness he’s managed to catch all around the office.

Though it seems that they’d all been avoiding him well enough as it is.

He’s not a fool—he knows he’s got a fever, knows that he’s contagious and really ought to be avoided—but when Martin had neglected to bring him his afternoon tea that day, well…he was more than happy to blame the lump in his throat on the fever. For all he tells himself that it doesn’t matter, that he ought to take care of himself, it does nothing to settle the ache in his chest. The one that his inhaler can no longer take the edge off.

Sighing in frustration, Jon does his best to turn his focus back to his work—rising unsteadily to his feet to search for the next file.

What was the number again?

God, I’m dizzy.

He stretches out a hand to brace himself against the filing cabinet, blinking away the stars sparkling across his vision as he adjusts to standing.

Right. 01319…0…8? 9?

Wait, did I—did I finish the last statement?

He muffles a cough into his elbow, bracing even heavier on the cabinet.

Doesn’t matter, I’ll just get this one anyway.

Won’t need to get up again, at least.

“Looking for something, boss?”

Tim calls from his office door, which he’s propped open—perhaps in the subconscious effort to tempt Martin into bringing him tea.

Pathetic.

“Jon? You alright?”

“Oh—err, of course,” he says at once, lifting his head toward him. “Can I help you?”

“I was the one asking,” Tim chuckles, stepping forward into his office—before immediately retreating again.

Oh.

“Sorry, I would help you, it’s just—you know, with this cold going around, better not.”

“R-right.”

Jon buries his hurt as quickly as possible, refusing to let it show on his face.

“Right, of course. Then, err, just—carry on then, I suppose, Tim.”

Turning back to the cabinets, Jon tries to leave the conversation there, feeling his chest beginning to tighten with every passing moment. He doesn’t want to get Tim ill, not when they’re all so clearly worried about catching it—

“Jon? You’re—you look shaky, are you alright?”

Don’t cough don’t cough don’t cough

“Fine,” he croaks, even as he brings a hand up to press against his fluttering chest.

“What was that?” Tim asks, stepping just a bit closer, tilting his head to better read Jon’s lips.

Don’t don’t don’t

He can’t hold it back anymore.

At once, Jon doubles over with coughing, shallow wheezing accented by the rumbling of congestion deep within his lungs—all of it nearly sending him to the ground with the force of it.

“Jesus, Jon—just sit down, alright? Christ,” Tim urges, at last entering the room to grab him by the shoulders, lowering him to sitting with his back against the filing cabinet.

Every thought of hiding or sparing Tim from contagion flies from his head, replaced only with the gasping need for air, his body screaming at him to breathe—

“What’s going on?” Martin asks from the door, scanning across the scene quickly, alarm rising at once.

“Get his inhaler,” Tim orders, tipping Jon’s head forward between his knees.

“Oh god. Right—right, h-here, I’ve got it—Jon?”

He taps gently on Jon’s upper arm as he crouches.

“I’ve got it here, can you look up?”

It takes every shred of focus he has left to his power, but he does—reaching out to cover Martin’s hands with his own as he guides the inhaler to his lips, pressing down on the button and drawing as deeply as he can from it.

“Good, good, that’s—that’s good, Jon,” Martin stammers, still holding the inhaler within his reach.

“Take another,” Tim demands, voice leaving no room for argument. “When you can.”

After a few more labored breaths, Jon complies—chest expanding a little more now, though he can still feel the crackling wetness at the edges of it.

“Here, Jon, I’ve got you some water,” Sasha says as she enters the room, undoubtedly having heard the commotion from outside. “You alright?”

“Shouldn’t be here,” Jon rasps, seeing Martin’s hands in his periphery, reaching up to sign for Tim’s understanding.

“I know—we didn’t want to get you ill, Jon, but—“ Tim cuts off momentarily, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I mean, it sort of seemed like you needed help, right?”

Wait.

“You didn’t…you didn’t want…to get me ill?” Jon asks through panting breaths, finally feeling steady enough to lift his head.

“Well, no, we—“ Martin suddenly breaks off, scooting a little ways back from Jon as he realizes their proximity. “Of course we didn’t want you to get ill, your asthma’s been so terrible the past few days.”

Jon shakes his head in confusion, brows furrowing as he glances between the three of them.

“I...I don’t—“

Oh.

“You didn’t…know I was ill?” he asks, and Tim’s eyebrows shoot into his hair, turning back to share a glance with both Sasha and Martin.

“Oh no, Jon, I’m so sorry,” Martin laments at last, sniffling a bit into his sleeve. “We didn’t—we thought that, well…we thought we were protecting you from getting it.”

The relief Jon feels at this is astonishing—certainly inordinate for the situation, but…he finds he does not care much altogether. Even if just a bit, the knot in his chest seems to loosen—his breathing made easier just for a moment.

“Woah—you alright?” Tim asks with renewed concern, the cause uncertain to him, before—

He feels a tear beginning to slip down his face.

“Oh,” he says, hurriedly scrubbing it away. “Oh, I—I’m sorry, I—I-I’m fine, it’s alright, I don’t know why—“

“It’s alright, Jon,” Sasha says from above him, leaning down to press a warm hand on his shoulder. “Look, if you feel like you can stand, I’ll drive you home, okay? You need to rest. I’m serious.”

The look she gives him now, that they all give him—it’s nearly enough to bring a smile to his face, his mouth barely quirking up at one corner.

“Y-yes, I—thank you, Sasha,” he says, allowing Tim and Martin to lift him slowly to his feet, leaning against them momentarily as he sways just a bit.

“You’re calling your doctor on the way,” Sasha continues, leading them out of his office and toward the lift. “I’m not leaving you alone until you do.”

“R-right,” he pants against the exertion of their slow-paced walking. “I—thank you. I suppose.”

“Don’t mention it Jon,” Martin says softly as they bundle him into the lift. “Just get well, okay?”

Something warm and lovely floods through Jon’s chest at this, and he cannot help but nod—a half-smile flickering across his face as the lift doors close.

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #tma sickfic #hurt/comfort #sickfic #my writing

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philicheesecake · 3 years

Text

An Unorthodox Lecture (UL)

Synopsis: Warren is sick of being belittled by Eli and has become paranoid of giants, so he seeks out help from Olivia to learn more about giants and how to defend himself from them.

Warnings: Language, mentions of fatal vore, M/M soft, unwilling, nonfatal vore, near death, fear, and Eli being Eli.

---

A little bell rang out cheerfully throughout the dusty shop as the front door swung open. It was after business hours , but the front door was left unlocked for a brief time, despite the little neon lights at the front window saying the shop was now closed.

The small Hunter began to stride briskly into the shop. The alchemist shop (or more publicly known as an herb shop) wasn’t a very welcoming sight. It was dull and lacked any real proper decorations. Upon entry, one would find themselves facing rows upon rows of dusty shelves with jars and containers of every kind which contained ambiguous contents.

Warren’s boots clanked against the creaky old floorboards with each stride as he made his way toward the back of the shop. Oddly contrary to his expectations, the desk in the back of the shop was unoccupied. He paused in front of it for a moment before ringing the service bell.

There was a pause.

He ventured to try it again then his hand froze as the door to the back of the shop opened.

“I don’t need to hear that bell another damn time, Wilbur.” A woman’s voice called out.

Warren turned to see the shopkeeper to the side. She didn’t look like much from what someone might assume from a powerful alchemist. She looked like she was sixty years old. Her unkempt hair was divided into twin ponytails that were slung loosely over her shoulders. Perched on her nose were a pair of buggishly big spectacles with a silver rim to them that enlarged her eyes almost comically when it hit the right angle. Despite the comical emphasis on her eyes, she looked very tired and droopy with baggy eyes. She was holding an entire glass carafe of steaming hot coffee.

“Oh— sorry, Olivia,” Warren quickly retracted his hand away from the bell. He paid no notice to her getting his name wrong. She never got it right anyways. For the reputation she held for her own intelligence, part of him wondered if she actually messed up his name on accident, or if she was just messing with him.

Olivia ignored his apology and took a swig from her carafe. She motioned for Warren to follow as she turned toward the doorway. “C’mon, let's get this over with.”

Warren sighed and followed her inside the doorway. There was a stairway leading down into a basement with a higher ceiling. This area was furnished a bit differently than the area upstairs. There were bookshelves of ancient volumes, some titles were written in foreign tongues that couldn’t even be recognized. On the far end of the room was a workbench area and some pots and alchemist equipment that looked almost like what one might find in the lair of a mad scientist. Across from the alchemist equipment, there were a couple of armchairs to the far side of the room with a coffee table between them and a book set on the table.

Warren took a seat as he was directed to one of the chairs and Olivia set down her carafe of coffee, picking up the big, heavy book.

She paused, staring Warren in the eye with a very tired sigh. “Alright, so you wanted to know about how to survive being attacked by a giant, right?”

Warren nodded, opening his mouth to elaborate, but Olivia spoke first.

“I couldn’t neglect to notice that when you were returning my silver bullets from your little werewolf hunt that three bullets were missing… and the werewolf’s body. I needed that werewolf hair for my alchemy. I would have thought that you would be more concerned about how to kill a werewolf properly than try to learn about something as random as giants, especially since their rotation has already passed this town and probably won’t pass by for another three years.”

Olivia yawned for a solid ten seconds before sighing and took another swig of coffee. Warren frowned. “But-- you know what happened last time I was around giants. They kidnapped me! They nearly killed me! And they somehow tracked me down, too! I can’t just--” Olivia held up her hand with a tired sigh, instantly silencing the young Hunter. “Look, you don’t have to explain your whole merry tale. It’s fine. I’ll teach you anyways. And I think that this would be the perfect opportunity to bring in someone who knows a lot more about the topic than any normal Hunter or alchemist.”

She sighed, her eyes rolling toward the side of the room. She glanced at her small brass watch around her wrist impatiently. “Ugh, well he’s a bit late, but he should show up any minute now. Anyways… To begin I think you should get to know the different species of giants, or at least the ones you’re most likely to encounter in this particular area.”

Warren’s brow furrowed in curiosity, wondering what sort of co-teacher Olivia had in mind to bring. Even though he knew he should figure out soon enough, his curiosity made him impatient to figure out who exactly it was. Was it one of the veteran U.L. members? A weathered hunter who had seen decades worth of hunts and slain countless monsters?

He was a bit distracted in his own assumptions as Olivia flipped through her huge book and landed on a page titled, GIANTS. There was a diagram there that portrayed the size differences of all of the different species. The book, despite being weathered and torn in some places, seemed relatively up to date and printed out in at least the past decade or so. There was a size chart that showed several different species of giants, and to the far left was a tiny human in comparison to demonstrate the scale. He could instantly recognize the giant in closest resemblance to Eli’s height titled, Wood Giant. He could at least recall Eli using that term once or twice in the past, and previously wasn’t sure if it was just a term they called themselves, or the actual title of that species.

Olivia’s bulbous dark eyes followed his and she tapped the image with her weathered fingertip. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the wood giants. They’re some of the most common these days. Most other species only have a couple thousand to a few hundred left in the wild, such as the mountain giants,” She tapped the largest giant on the page which was easily twice the size of a wood giant. Warren’s eyes widened at the sheer size. It was difficult to believe that creatures of such scale could even exist. His eye followed the page where paragraphs elaborated on each species. He stopped as he saw the information on the mountain giants. 23-27 feet tall. That was insane.

“How have people never discovered them to exist?” Warren pondered. With creatures at such scale, it sounded impossible.

“Well, they were discovered back in the medieval days. There used to be a lot more giants in the past, and they were a lot bigger too. In the late 15th century, there was a movement to eradicate all monsters, and the king of England at the time was just desperate to get rid of them, so he teamed up with the outcasts, such as alchemists and sorcerers to get rid of them. The larger species were quickly run to extinction while the smaller ones evolved to survive under the radar. Out of nowhere, they seemed to gain camouflaging abilities, which you’re probably familiar with. Camouflage varies by species. Wood giants can disguise themselves as humans for brief periods of time. Mountain giants can merge with stone and camouflage into the mountain. Kapres can merge with trees. Cave giants can turn invisible. And so on.”

She stopped to take another few gulps of coffee. In the momentary pause, she glanced up as they could hear footsteps coming from the shop and the door at the top of the basement staircase opened. A tall figure stepped through, and he could be recognized immediately. Golden eyes, spiky black hair, tall, muscular build. Eli. And he was in camo form, currently standing at 6’1, instead of his usual towering height of 13’3.

Warren’s eyes widened slightly as he saw the figure approach down the stairs. The camo’d giant was smirking. “Hey there ya little humans!” He announced cheerfully in his rough voice. Warren shot a look towards Olivia in confusion, but from her expression, he could tell that this was an expected entry.

“Speaking of camouflage, hello giant.” Olivia spoke calmly. “Warren, this is your co-teacher for now.”

“Wait-- really?”

“Who better to learn about giants, than from a giant? This is a rare opportunity, since most giants just love killing humans at first chance.”

Warren sighed, frowning slightly as the camouflaged giant came closer, skipping over to slouch against the side of Warren’s chair. “So! What are we learning about here? We doin’ those lessons ya asked about, Tiny?”

Warren narrowed his eyes at Eli, not feeling all that comfortable with Eli standing that close. “Uh, yeah, I guess that’s what this turned into then. Olivia was going to help me learn how to stand a chance against giants.”

Eli laughed. “Ohhh. Welllll sorry to disappoint ya then. Humans in general don’t stand a chance.”

“That’s not helping.” Olivia said tiredly. “You should probably know how your ancestors were driven to extinction by humans in the past, unless you’ve forgotten, or if the giants tell different tales about what happened.”

Eli rolled his eyes. “Aw, you’re no fun all talkin’ about history an’ shit. How about we talk about more fun stuff, like giants eatin’ people and all that fun jazz.” He smirked down at Warren and he scooted to the side of his seat uncomfortably. “Oh and by the way, since this room is big enough, I’m gonna get outta camo for a sec. I can’t stay in this form for very long anyways.”

Olivia shrugged indifferently, continuing to sip from her carafe. “Sure, just don’t break anything.”

Warren shot an uncertain glare toward the giant, “And don’t you dare try anything, okay?”

Eli chuckled. “Ya know I find it hilarious when ya put on that scary face, Tiny.”

He stepped away from the chair with a smirk and there was a sound of shifting and cracking of bones for a moment as his form regrew into massive proportions. He had to sit on the floor to avoid contact with the ceiling. His eyes became slitted like a cat’s, and they were lined with dark markings similar to a cheetah’s. His ears were long and pointed. His fingers were tipped with long, sharp claws. Ivory fangs protruded from his lips in a grin. Warren’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of the creature at his full size again, not feeling all that thrilled to be so close to the very same creature that had eaten him twice in the past.

“That feels so much better,” the giant sighed in a deeper voice. His sharp eyes focused again on Olivia as she seemed completely unphased, even tired at the sight of the transformation.

“Can we get back on topic now?” Olivia tapped her fingers against her carafe impatiently. Warren could only guess one thing might be on her mind right now; sleep. She couldn’t seem the slightest bit interested or thrilled in the prospect of this “class” and just seemed to want to get it over with. But then again, her true expression never really changed, so it was difficult to read past this.

“Yeah, whatever.” Eli snorted. He smirked at Warren’s alerted expression, baring his fangs.

Olivia sighed. “Alright, so now that we have the species of giants out of the way, now we can work on some techniques on how to survive them.”

“Wait-- what about fighting them? I should have to know that at least…” Warren glanced at Eli uncertainly, who scoffed at Warren’s statement.

“Look, kiddo. I’ve got claws, fangs, I can run almost as fast as one of your cars for long distances, I have a lot more stamina and I’m a lot more durable than any human. Look at what you got. You’re just a soft little thing that needs all sorts of bells and whistles like guns and knives to make up for all that lot of nothin’ you’ve got goin’ for ya.”

Warren looked hurt. He looked to Olivia for some sort of contradiction to Eli’s statement, but she just shrugged. “Well he said it. That’s why knowing how to survive is more important than winning in any situation. A lot of Hunters need an assortment of tools and tricks up their sleeve in order to stand a chance. Hence why alchemists are often employed with a lot of the Legion’s affairs. Back in the medieval days, Hunters had tried to use blunt weapons, but they were pretty much useless in comparison. Giants, apart from other monsters, were the sole reason why alchemists ever got accepted as allies of the Legion.” Warren frowned. This wasn’t any sort of answer he had wanted. He would just have to get better at using his weapons effectively against giants, but against Eli he couldn’t really do that.

“So… How do you survive against giants, then?” Warren said.

“Ya don’t.” Eli quipped with a smirk. “The only chance that humans have against giants is with your little tools and tricks, and giants know that. We’ve been trained ever since we were giantlings, all of the best ways to disarm ya tiny fellas, and we know how to find any hidden knife and weapon from years of practice even before our first Bindings. We don’t just have the looks goin’ for us to be the perfect predators. We were trained for it.”

Olivia sighed, not seeming to like the interruptions. “Without weapons, there’s still a few ways. Blunt attacks such as kicking and punching won’t do much against that, so you shouldn’t waste your energy. And energy is key here. Because if you’re eaten, the temperature is high enough to send you into a coma-like state within an hour or so.”

Warren frowned, recalling how the heat had been the main thing to subdue him so easily both times, even sending him to sleep once. “But-- if you’re eaten, it’s already over though, right? That’s it. There’s no way to escape.”

“Yuuup.”

“No,” Olivia said at the same time, and gave Eli an unamused glare. “No, that’s not it. There’s still ways. Pressure points and weak points to get familiar with. For the exterior, the point between the thumb and index is a pressure point, as well as beneath the bicep. Immobilizing the arm with pressure points might aid in your release. Interior points, for instance, the lungs. If eaten, you’d be directly beneath the lungs, and continued, repeated pressure to them can be uncomfortable, even shock the giant into awakening again by changing their breathing patterns. Keeping a giant awake is your first priority. Though their digestive system varies slightly per species, for Elmo’s type specifically, wood giants only digest when they’re asleep in order to conserve energy when they’re awake.”

“It’s Eli. Ya keep gettin’ my name wrong.” The giant glared daggers at her. She ignored him.

“Another point is a cluster of nerves against the spine. Harsh enough pressure there can actually send a giant into temporary paralysis and knock them out. The giant digestive system is directly linked to their preservation of energy. Since they’re a lot bigger, their energy can only be localized to a certain number of functions. For instance, if they’re severely injured, but just ate someone, their body will divert most of the energy to recovery before digesting anything. For getting knocked out, same thing here, and momentary paralysis affects this. So by knocking them out, you can actually set back their digestive system by a few to several hours. This can really buy you time, but the key thing here is that you are actually able to stay awake for any of this.“

Eli’s brow furrowed as she spoke. “A bunch of bullshit. I’ve never had anyone do that to me before. It’s probably just a myth. Cuz they always try everything, and it doesn’t do much except feel good.”

Warren grimaced disapprovingly at Eli’s words, but at least found Olivia’s words informative. He still had reason to be hesitant to credit it however, because of Eli’s comment.

“So basically… The best chance you have of surviving a giant is if you have weapons, or if you’re already eaten… But I mean if you’re hurting them, it’s not the same as being released. It’s just… prolonging death.” Warren said, the corners of his mouth tilted in a lopsided frown.

“Not exactly. The pressure point against the spine can set them off long enough in repetition to drain them of energy overtime into eventual release, which must be timed properly if you’d have any better chance of escaping them there, or to eventually kill them slowly from energy deprivation. That could take days, though. And you’d need methods of keeping yourself awake during that period of time.”

Eli let out a very loud yawn, that was more of a statement of boredom than him actually being tired.

“Do you have something you’d like to say?” Olivia raised a brow, unimpressed.

“Nah, nah. This is riveting. Just thought it’s ridiculous that y’all think it’s possible to kill a giant from a technique as lousy as that. It’ll never work anyways. How about we get to the hands-on learning part ya told me about already.”

Olivia ignored him again, beginning to continue. Warren’s brow furrowed slightly upon the mention of hands-on learning, not because of the opportunity to learn to defend himself against a giant, but because of Eli’s uncanny enthusiasm about the prospect, which couldn’t mean anything good.

“Another technique is to block their airway long enough to get released. Giants can’t breathe while they’re swallowing someone, but can hold their breath for a very long time, up to six minutes easily. Stretching out your elbows in the throat if swallowed forward, or locking your arms around the jaw if swallowed backwards might help you buy time until they begin to run out of air.” Olivia gave Eli an almost curious look behind her tired eyes. “How effective do you think this is, with your experience?”

“That doesn’t really work all that often.” Eli huffed. “I think there was only one person who tried that against me that got close, and he was like, a football player, so he had the build goin’ for him. He just grabbed onto my lower jaw for a solid five minutes and I was really tempted to bite him in half. ‘Course I’m stubborn and prefer live prey and managed to get him down whole just by biting a tiny bit. Totally worth it though. He struggled real good. Tasted like laundromat detergent though.”

Olivia frowned slightly. “We didn’t need those details.”

Warren was listening to the story with wide eyes. “Wait— so you killed him?”

Eli snorted. “What do ya take me for? Some sorta merciful giant? Pfft. Yeah, I killed him. Oh, terrible me! What an evil giant! Who knew giants actually killed people!” His voice raised an octave in mockery and he smirked.

Olivia’s eyes narrowed. “Can we get back on topic?” She took a swig from her carafe before sighing. “So what I’m gathering from what Ethan said is that if you try to choke them, you’ll get bitten in half.”

“It’s Eli. And most giants would probably want to avoid biting you in half unless they’re desperate. We like squirmy prey.”

Warren grimaced. Olivia ignored him.

“Anyways. Onto the hands-on learning part. Edgar?”

Eli’s eyes lit up with enthusiasm, barely bothering to correct her on his name again. He leaned forward, now sort of kneeling on the floor to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling. “Ah, right. The hands-on part. C’mon over here, Tiny.”

His eyes locked onto Warren’s hungrily. Warren’s heart skipped a beat and he jumped out of his seat stiffly, taking a few steps backward. “Uh-- hands-on? What… what exactly does this mean here?”

He was trying to hide the unease from his voice and expression. He knew that Olivia probably wouldn’t let the giant do anything outright terrible to him in her presence, but she also tended to be fairly apathetic enough to make things rather uncomfortable for anyone without seeming bothered too much by it.

“It means you’ll get a chance to try to ‘survive.’” Olivia sipped her coffee casually, her voice oozed of disinterest in the situation. She leaned back in her arm chair, seeming to halfheartedly be fighting off the ebbing tiredness that tried to draw her to sleep. Beneath her bulbous spectacles, there was a slight tinge of curiosity, though she dared not really show it. By principle, it was impossible to read what she really thought.

Warren’s eyes narrowed as he glared at Olivia. “Wait-- survive as in--” his eyes flitted back over to Eli who was trying to crawl towards him in the small space. His breath caught in his throat and his heart picked up pace. He stumbled backwards and quickly slipped behind the armchair. “Nononono-- wait-- Eli-- Eli stop.”

The giant rolled his eyes with an amused smirk playing over his face. “Yeah right… of course telling the evil ravenous giant to stop will work every time. You get a gold star for that, Tiny!” Warren felt a pang from his words. “But-- I don’t have any weapons! You should have told me I would--” “Blah blah, yeah keep complaining. C’mere Tiny.” The giant lunged forward in the small space, an arm reaching out to snatch the hunter. Warren dove out of the way, just narrowly grazed by the giant’s claws. He gasped, flattening himself against the wall. He glanced down at his arm that had thin lashes that shredded through the sleeve of his shirt. “Wh-- What the HELL, dude!” Warren shouted.

Eli only chuckled at his angry shouts, closing in on his prey that was now cornered. Warren could only see a small opening that led to the alchemy workbench. If he was quick, he might make it. He just had to make a run for it and hope that the giant’s disadvantage of size here could give him an opening.

Bracing himself with a quick breath, Warren burst forward. He ducked beneath the giant’s arm, flinching at the uncanny proximity to the beast. He had to keep running--

A hand roughly grabbed the back of his hoodie and yanked him backwards. Warren yelped. He struggled to pry off the giant’s grip. “Remember the pressure points,” He could hear Olivia’s voice lazily call out. Right! Think! The Hunter twisted to reorient himself in the giant’s grip. He could feel himself brought closer. The giant was now in clear view before him. Warren fumbled, recalling the pressure points mentioned. He quickly japped two fingers in between the back of the giant’s thumb and index finger to try to trigger release. Miraculously, Eli’s fingers reflexively came loose and Warren quickly tugged away. He stumbled onto his back, fumbling with his feet as he tried to get up or scoot away.

The momentary freedom was short lived as Eli’s hand clamped over the Hunter’s chest, pinning him to the floor easily. Warren pushed around the giant’s fingers trying to pry them off without much luck. He tried again to jam the pressure point, but without any success. Most of the force holding down Warren came from the arm after all, so his efforts came out useless.

“All out of luck now, eh Hunter?” The giant taunted.

Warren’s eyes narrowed. “Okay fine. You win. Let me try again.”

Eli let out a snort. “Uhh nope. I don’t think that’s how things will be working here. I’m not lettin’ ya go quite yet.”

Warren’s eyes widened by a hair. He shot a pleading look to Olivia, who appeared bored out of her wits as she sleepily sipped from her carafe. “Don’t look at me. Just practice those internal techniques we talked about.” She yawned, leaning back in the armchair, seeming almost ready to sleep.

Warren looked back at Eli nervously, but he knew nothing he said or did would change the giant’s trajectory now. He squeezed his eyes shut, taking in deep breaths. “I f-frickin’ hate this,” he muttered under his breath.

Eli disregarded the Hunter’s nerves and lifted the little human off the ground, leaning back to kneel on the floor comfortably. Warren flinched as there was a pause before he could feel and hear the hot breath of the giant waft over his face before things became warmer. His cheek was pressed against a plush, slimy surface. The tongue rose up to slide over his face, slicking him down to be swallowed more easily. And from the pleasant sounds Eli was making, Warren was once again reminded about how much the giant seemed to enjoy his taste. Disgusting.

It was even more humiliating here, knowing that Olivia was just sitting there idly watching as she would drink her coffee. Warren’s head was pushed in deeper and the tongue pushed him firmly back as the giant made the first swallow. He took in a quick breath, and his head was now stuck tight in the confines of the throat. It was too tight to breathe, so he had to conserve air.

The giant took his sweet time tasting him for a while as more swallows sounded, bringing him in deeper. It was a necessary function in order for the giant not to be harmed during this to allow his prey to be slicked up enough to be swallowed more easily.

Warren should have been used to this process at this point. He had been swallowed two and a half times already (the half was a bit of an unpleasant story). It was still frightening to him nonetheless. Not to mention, he couldn’t breathe in the tight space, and Eli taking his time with this only deprived his lungs from air even longer.

The giant had only swallowed the human up past the hips when he heard Olivia clear her throat impatiently. He shot her a confused but angered glare, pausing in his swallows. His neck was filled out with the bulge of Warren’s slightly struggling form and the legs dangling from his maw would twitch uncomfortably

“You’re taking your sweet time. You know humans can only hold their breath for so long. Take your time any longer and you’ll suffocate the poor Hunter,” Olivia muttered. Her voice was still very tired by default, but there was a strictness in it.

A muffled growl sounded in his throat and he rolled his eyes, tilting his head back. He made several more powerful swallows, gravity aiding the smaller form to sink in deeper before Eli rose up his hand to pick off Warren’s shoes. He swallowed one last time, the back of his tongue rising up to squish the little feet into the throat before they disappeared. The bulge in the giant’s throat sank in deeper before it disappeared from his neck, reforming as a small protrusion from his torso that wasn’t too noticeable, as the giant’s larger form could harbor the little human quite easily.

Warren coughed up the stale humid air as soon as his head pressed into the tight opening of a wider area. The air was hot, and already he could hear the gross, squelching sounds of the stomach as it stretched to accommodate him. He could hear the giant’s muffled heartbeat pounding nearby, and his labored breaths as he caught his breath from his airway being cleared. The rest of the Hunter was forced and squeezed inside the tight space, curled up in a puddle of clear drool. He was dripping with slime, and that gross stuff slid down the ceiling, connecting with him and getting in his hair. Warren panted for air for a while, disliking the heat and foul air that filled his lungs. It smelled disgusting.

Once again, Warren was stuck sort of upside-down in the tight space, forced to curl up so his limited mobility made it hard to right himself. He aimed an angered kick near the throat’s opening, scowling and shaking in the darkness.

Eli smirked through his fangs between breaths as he felt the small retaliation, then shot an annoyed look to Olivia.

“Why rush it? That ain’t no fun.” He huffed.

Olivia rolled her eyes, getting up from her seat with another swig of her coffee before she walked over to the giant. Her expression was unphased, though despite this, Eli could still smell a slight tinge of fear from her. This amused him.

“You okay in there, Winston?”

Warren’s face contorted into a further scowl as he heard Olivia’s muffled voice from outside. He squirmed wildly in place, trying to reorient himself in the sweltering darkness. He kicked at the tight walls angrily. “You frickin— freak! You just let me get eaten by a giant! What the f-fuck is wrong with you!” He glared up at the ceiling, grimacing as slime dripped onto his face. “And stop taking your sweet time. I’m not a dang candy!”

Eli snickered, rubbing at the form in his gut, much to Warren’s annoyance. “Nah, candies are sweet. You taste more like meat.”

Warren’s eyes narrowed and he kicked angrily in defiance. “That’s disgusting. Don’t ever call me that,”

“Ya know, I might actually have room for seconds if you were interested in learning as well.” Eli sneered at the alchemist.

“You do NOT.” Warren’s muffled voice came from Eli’s middle, punctuated by an angry kick that was visible from the surface.

The giant smirked. “Oh yeah? Wanna test that?”

Olivia’s eyes narrowed by a hair. Her voice lowered threateningly. “That would be unnecessary. And if you try anything, you’ll find yourself stuck in your camouflaged form again without even realizing what hit you.”

Eli smirked, “Aww you don’t think it’ll be fun?”

“Can we focus now?” Olivia’s voice came in a tired drawl. Any alarm from Eli’s threat of eating her was quickly gone from her countenance.

The giant rolled his eyes. “Meh, boring, but whatever.”

Olivia moved closer to the giant and poked his middle with an unwavering expression.

“Stopit!” Warren’s muffled voice snapped angrily.

Eli snickered. “Yeah, stop it, alchemist lady.”

Warren paused. “...Olivia?” He squirmed slightly in place to try to get himself at least more upright, though without much success. All that could be seen were the bulges of his form shifting around from the outside.

Olivia pursed her lips for a moment, part of her was curious and interested, and another part was a little fearful of the giant being completely capable of swallowing an entire human being. She had heard of it done before, but she had just never witnessed it. It was surreal to comprehend. The analytical, scientific side of her brain was curious about how it was physically possible, and how the hunter was even able to gather air there, despite having studied recounts of hunters who had confirmed that it was possible. It was a very curious opportunity to be able to work and study alongside a real giant. As far as she knew, giants never worked alongside humans, so this was a very rare occasion.

“Yes, that was me,” Olivia withdrew her hand, her voice returning in her usual tired drawl. Any interest she had was impossible to guess from how well she concealed it. “Are you able to get your back to face me? Just by using the poke as a point of reference.”

Warren paused, panting tiredly. The heat was overwhelming here, and being upside down, the crown of his head was half-immersed into the gross puddle of fluids at the pit of the stomach. He was getting a headache from this. The darkness here was disorienting and made it even harder to figure himself out.

“I can’t move. I’m upside down.”

“I guess you’ll die then.” Olivia huffed apathetically.

“WHAT-!”

A flurry of struggles came from the giant’s middle and Eli shut his eyes, putting his hands against his middle with a grin. “Yeah keep up that stellar fighting and that’ll magically teleport you out.” He chuckled, looking down and poked at Warren’s form. “Ya can’t just expect every giant to let you go cuz you’re a little tired, or landed wrong.”

Warren grimaced, trying to push away the contact from Eli, but was stuck in too bad of a position to reach it properly. The best he could do was kick near the stomach entrance tiredly.

“Okay, okay,” He muttered. He dug his foot into the low opposing wall, grunting as he tried to get enough purchase into pushing himself more upright. His socked feet slipped at first, just sliding against the slimy, malleable surface. He tried again a few times, finally managing to push the sides of his feet into the plush folds and tried to extend his legs just barely enough to push his upper back against the wall, sliding into a slightly more upright position. He grimaced at the gross sounds that came from this action, but at least his head was no longer immersed in slime. He panted for a while, the small change took way too much effort, and it was so hot and humid in here. The difficulty of breathing here didn’t contribute to his lightheadedness either.

“H—O-Okay, my back is facing the ‘poke’ now,” he panted.

“Wowww… you moved like a grand total of like two inches…” Eli’s voice quipped.

“Sh-shut up. You’re n-not the one stuck in here.” Warren retorted between breaths. It was taking a while to gain his bearings, and the heat was really getting to him. But at least now being somewhat right-side-up, he was beginning to feel a little less light-headed.

“Be quiet and focus, Wilfred.” Olivia drawled. “So from there, you’re in the perfect position to reach two pressure points. The lungs should be directly above you towards the front, and directly ahead of you would be the pressure point for the nerves along the spine.”

Eli’s eyes narrowed at her words, crossing his arms over his middle. “None of that’s gonna work.”

Olivia shot the giant a drained, unimpressed look. “Wilhelm?”

Warren tried to catch his breath in the darkness, putting out his elbows out to try to conserve a proper air bubble, as well as trying to keep the slime and stomach folds away from his head so he could actually hear. Olivia’s voice was muffled and he couldn’t hear it very well over the sounds of the giant’s innards and how his ears were probably clogged with the stomach fluids at this point. He was able to make out enough and pieced together the rest.

He grunted, trying to bring his legs up near the stomach entrance in a weak kick, not bothering to use his arms if he didn’t want to compromise his little air bubble. He only heard Eli’s rumbling chuckle around him in response. His eyes narrowed in the darkness and he kicked harder towards the ceiling. Heat was rushing up to his head and the air was thick and hard to breathe, making the smallest actions exhausting. There was a jerky clench around him in response to his action and he heard a small “hic—“ come from the giant.

Eli winced for a moment, but quickly smoothed out his expression with a smirk. “Hiccups, really? Wow… What a fearsome fighter.”

Warren glared. “Shutup!”

There were several more attempts of kicks and nudges that were barely visible from the surface, but were only felt as enjoyable sensations against the giant’s innards.

“This is lame. Almost relaxing. What if I just take a nap here?” Eli feigned a yawn.

Olivia glared at him, lowering her carafe for a moment. “Like hell you would.”

Warren’s struggles weakened and he rasped for air shallowly. His arms which had splayed out on either side to preserve his little pocket of air had grown too weak to maintain that position any longer. It was hard to breathe. He was exhausted.

“P-please… just let me go… so tired… I’m gonna pa-pass out. I ca-can’t breathe.” The timid voice was barely audible.

Olivia raised a brow, taking a minute to actually interpret the words because of their diminished volume. “Giving up already? You didn’t even manage one good hit.”

”What did I tell ya. It’s useless tryin’.” Eli scoffed.

“I do-don’t frickin care. I can’t bre-eathe. I’m going t-to suffocate in here. Ple-please, Eli.” Warren just gave up at this point. Whatever position his struggles had landed him in just wedged him into the folds bad enough that he couldn’t gather breath properly. Normally, this shouldn’t be as much of an issue with the esophageal sphincter currently being lax enough to allow air to pass through. His current position had him curled up downwards with his back facing the sphincter to block off the only passage for fresh air. He was running out of air pretty quickly.

Eli narrowed his eyes, at first thinking this was some sort of trick, but by focusing on the small sensations of the human’s breaths against the sensitive lining, he could feel the breaths were a lot shallower. He furrowed his brow. This wasn’t normally a problem, at least not one he commonly came across (not that he would normally care. Accidents happen after all.)

The giant sighed and rolled his eyes. “Meh, fine. You’re one pathetic human being getting stuck like that aren’tcha?”

Warren didn’t bother retorting. He was feeling lightheaded. The giant’s voice, as close as it was, felt foggy and distant.

He was faintly aware of the walls crushing in tighter as they squeezed him up into the throat. The feeble breaths he had gathered were sucked from his lungs within the tight tube. The harsh muscles tugged at his limp form, slowly dragging him out of the confines of the stomach and completely within the throat and he was carried upward.

Olivia stepped back, her expression only read of mild disgust as she watched the giant hack up the small hunter. The small bulge in his middle disappeared to reform in his throat. The fanged maw opened as the hunter was eventually emitted onto the floor in a slimy pool of drool. He wasn’t moving.

The alchemist grimaced, moving forward as the giant wiped his mouth on his sleeve. She crouched down in the gross puddle of fluids, wrapping her arms around Warren to lift his face out of the puddle. Warren seemed unresponsive, or at least mostly out of it at this point. She scowled, squeezing an almost too-tight hug around him in a swift motion, collapsing his diaphragm enough to force a ragged cough out of his throat.

Warren coughed again, spitting and rasping for air. His eyes were half-lidded in exhaustion. Olivia relaxed her grip around him with a sigh, letting him drop back to the floor on his back. She glared at Eli narrowly through her bulbous spectacles.

“That was too close of a call, Elric.”

Eli quickly caught his breath after the harsh motions of coughing up the hunter and narrowed his eyes at the alchemist. “So? Most people eaten by giants don’t even get to live to tell the tale. Tiny here just got lucky.”

Warren tried to get up, but got too lightheaded from the small action and laid back down on the floor, squeezing his eyes shut as he continued to try to catch his breath.

“I need… a… a shower.” Warren rasped quietly.

Eli smirked. “Called it. See? He’s fine. Priorities, right?”

“I am not— f-frickin— fine.” Warren opened his eyes slightly to glare at the giant, but his gaze was more weak than angry. A part of him shuddered to see the creature that had just eaten him and nearly killed him effortlessly. “I could have died— and— and I learned nothing! Y—you can’t do that to me again. I— I can’t take it.”

Olivia sighed, getting to her feet. She disregarded the gross slime that was now dripping from her clothes from helping Warren. “If you really don’t want to train with giants, you can avoid giant related hunts. Just stick with the werewolves and spirits.”

Eli snorted. “Keepin’ your nose clean ain’t gonna deter giants from huntin’ ya. Might help your odds a bit on encounterin’ em, but your fightin’ techniques are still shit.”

Warren sighed in defeat, rubbing his face as he laid back on the floor. “People are still out there... getting killed by giants every day. Dying l—like that…. I hate it that I can’t do fr-frickin anything.”

Eli shrugged, making a slight grimace of nausea as his stomach settled again. “Why bother? They’re humans. They’re gonna die anyways. ‘Sides, giants do a good enough job killin’ themselves from what ya saw at the Binding.”

The Hunter frowned at Eli’s words. He winced as he tried to sit upright again. He still felt a little dizzy and lightheaded and his senses were beginning to return in full… only to realize how gross he felt right now.

“I need to go home and get cleaned up before Rebeka comes back from work.” The young man said finally. He managed to get to his feet, but he was still a bit wobbly.

Olivia frowned slightly, taking a small sip of coffee as she finished up her carafe. She glanced at the giant tiredly. “Well, I guess class is over then. And I’ll add to the Legion’s records that those techniques don’t seem to work.” There was a slight tone of disappointment in her voice.

“You can tell the U.L. I’m done. I can’t… I just can’t do this.” He shot a wary look at Eli. Even seated, the giant was still a good three or so heads taller than him. He shuddered, still weary and recovering. He headed towards the staircase out of the basement.

“Atta boy, tiny! I knew you wouldn’t stand a chance there!” The giant cheered.

Warren turned on the stair for a moment to glare back at him. “I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing this for my sisters. I can’t do this to them. So you can shut the f...fuck up.”

He glared daggers at the giant before he stumbled up the rest of the stairs and left.

Eli snorted, rolling his eyes. “Sheesh. Humans are so dramatic.”

Olivia raised an unimpressed brow at him.

“What? Hey. D’ya wanna try out those ‘methods’ too, just for the sake of learnin’ something?”

Her eyes narrowed in mute disapproval.

Eli seemed to debate something for a while before backing down. “Fine. Fine. Some other time.” He’d rather not get stuck in his camo form again and didn’t want to give her any reason to do it.

Warren was still sticky and icky from all the gross fluids as he went towards his car. He quickly found his borrowed silver knife from Olivia and his magazine full of silver bullets. He frowned in disgust. It was a stupid idea to ever sign up for this. He had almost died and Eli wasn’t even trying.

Or was he?

The thought sickened him to dwell upon. He quickly loaded up his borrowed hunting supplies and set them down on Olivia’s desk at the back of the shop. He didn’t look back as he left them there. They were an ominous reminder of his foolishness. He couldn’t go back to that now.

----------------------------

Link to the rest of the series can be found here.

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killingkueen · 4 years

Text

Much More Than This

Hello, hello, hello @mrs-stiltskin! Can you believe it’s me again???

Prompt: cats, dogs, books, opposites attract

Summary: Mr. Gold tries not to pay much attention to the new librarian and her husband. He tries very, very hard. He almost succeeds.

Rated very E

A/N The First: There is some very mellow m/m as well as some m/f/m, so keep an open mind. It’s also the first slash I’ve ever written—today is the day I became a fanfic author.

2A2N: I have never met a Scottish person in my life

Edited to add AO3 link

OOO

The sky was moody and grey. It hadn’t yet determined if that was because the sun hadn’t fully risen, or if it was a sign of rain. It didn’t matter to Mr. Gold, who parked his Cadillac behind his shop. He parked there everyday, after all. And every day he took his cane and his keys in hand, and opened his shop. Mr. Gold had a strict schedule, a strict routine. That was how he liked it.

At the back door, key out and ready to be slotted into the lock, Gold paused. There were boots sticking out of the bottom of his shop. Boots attached to two squirming legs, the toes digging into the ground for leverage. If he strained his ears, he could make out faint muttering, followed by a psspsspss.

Gold stared, baffled. The boots were old, but not shabby, and along the lines of what he’d seen the dock-workers wear. He didn’t think any of the men who worked there would have the nerve to—what, exactly? Was this a robbery? If it were, he’d give points for creativity.

Whatever he was doing, he was an unwelcome change to Gold’s routine. He had a shop to open. Gold lifted his cane, knocking the handle against the wood paneling of his shop, firm and loud. As he hoped, the man startled, a muffled thud accompanied with what was now cursing as his head hit the floor above him.

The man scrambled out, his limbs kicking up dirt as he backtracked.

Mr. Gold almost smiled. This was the most excitement he had seen in months.

“And just what do you think you’re doing underneath my shop, dearie?”

The man now stood on his knees. His eyes, widened in surprise, snapped to Gold’s face.

“Glasgo’!” he exclaimed. “Isnae this a shock! ”

Gold raised an eyebrow. Not many people in town much cared where he’d come from, and a good amount of them swore it was somewhere much warmer than Scotland. Glasgow was a dreary place full of nothing of value to him, and he couldn’t say he missed his homeland.

“From Scotland yourself?” Gold found himself asking.

“Aye, I grew up in the highlands in a wee toon near Inverness.” He brushed off the front of his jacket, dusty from crawling around in the dirt. “I thooght I was stuck wi' these Americans, ye ken.” His smile widened, thrilled at the chance meeting.

That still didn't give him the answer he wanted. “What are you doing under my shop?" he asked again. What was he doing in Storybrooke, for that matter? It was still too early in the season for tourists.

The man’s eyes were too wide for his face, and very expressive. They darted away, to the library across the street, and for just a moment he looked like a kid who’d been sent home with a note from the teacher. The library. Of course.

Gold had heard the new librarian arrived last week, having come all the way from—London, was it? The UK, at least. He remembered the name he’d read when he filed the contracts with the city council: Isabelle French. He had seen a second visa for the husband, though Gold couldn't recall reading the name. He would bet his current inventory he was looking at him.

“Mr. French,” Gold said, deciding he didn’t much care what the man’s name was. He relished the look of surprise that appeared on his face for the second time that morning. It made Gold feel more on balance, knowing things people didn’t expect him to. Much more regular, keeping the townsfolk on their toes.

“Och aye, that’s reit.” A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. He half shrugged. “That’s me, innit.” His shoulders straightened with—pride, was it?

The man was thin, and the baggy clothes he wore only made him look smaller. Even on his knees, Gold could tell he wouldn’t stand any taller than himself, and tall was certainly not a word he could claim. His hair was shaggy but not quite to the point of being unkempt, and he needed a shave.

He also needed to know how things worked around here.

“Mr. French,” he said again, digging his cane into the ground. It was quite easy to look down his nose at him, when the man was already so far below him. “Just what were you doing under my shop?”

“Ah,” French blinked. “I havenae adjusted tae bein' haur yit. Jet lag, I’spose.” At Gold’s unamused expression, he hastened to add, “Sae, I was oot walkin' thes morn when I saw a moggie athwart th' causey. Puir hin' was injured. When I tried tae approach it, it ran under yer shop an' noo won’t come it.”

Gold was viscerally aware he hadn’t set foot in Scotland in nearly thirty years.

“There is a cat under my shop,” he surmised.

“Aye.” He stared up at him, brown eyes wide and waiting.

“What?“ Gold asked impatiently.

“You sound almost American,” French said around a half-smile.

That’s where they were, isn’t it? He pursed his lips. “How are you going to get the cat out, then?”

“If I had something tae wrap her in, I could pull her out safely, I think.” His eyes trailed to Gold’s throat and he knew what he was going to ask the moment before he did. “Do you mind if I knick your scarf?”

Yes, I absolutely do, Gold thought. He pulled the scarf from his throat, the cold air biting at his neck and collar bone, now bare. It was soft and wide, perfect for the early spring, and long enough to wrap around his neck twice and still dangle nicely. It annoyed him, probably more than it should, that it technically was perfect to wrap a cat in.

He held it out to French wordlessly.

“Cheers,” French said, disappearing under the wooden base, leaving Gold to stare at the heel of his boots once again.

Cane in hand, Gold waited.

French spoke in a low, even voice. Gold couldn’t make out what he was saying but it sounded comforting. Hopefully the cat agreed. After a few silent moments, Gold heard a terrible yowling, like a broken siren.

Making much slower progress than before, French inched his way from under the shop, the yowling becoming louder and louder.

“I suppose the noise is a good sign,” Gold said, voice raised over the beastie.

“She’s got a pair of lungs on her,” French agreed. He was smothered in dirt again, the knees of his jeans particularly dark.

He eased himself to his knees, rearranging the bundle in his arms so he had a much firmer grip before he carefully moved to his feet. The cat was wrapped quite securely in the scarf, enough so that Gold could only see a small tuft of dark fur peak through. He took it as further good news that he couldn’t see any obvious wet spots seeping into the fabric. Mr. Gold didn’t like blood.

After a long moment, French coughed. “Where tae now then?” He was cradling the cat like it was a child, holding it firmly to his chest. His hand rubbed circles against it’s back, which did nothing to silence the shrieking.

“You’re not bringing that mongrel inside,” Gold said.

“You dinnae look like much of a veterinarian,” French fired back.

Gold narrowed his eyes. Yes, it would be a vet he’d want. “Marian Hood owns a clinic that’s across the street from the elementary school.” She was known to be quite an early riser herself; chances were she was already inside her building, getting ready for the day.

French looked at him expectantly.

Sighing, he said, “Go north a few blocks and then take a left at the movie theatre. Once you reach Marco’s Woodworking, take another left. You’ll find it eventually.”

“Right. Thanks for the help, Mr. Gold.”

With that, the man turned to leave. Gold looked to the sky. It seemed to be settling on rain, after all. Hm. Gold wasn’t going to offer him a ride; the man had just been rolling around in the dirt. Besides, he had a shop to open.

“Mr. French,” he called, just as the man reached the sidewalk. “It’s too long to walk.”

“Oh,” he said, frowning. “But I don’t have a—”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Gold started to limp to his caddy. “Get in before I change my mind, Mr. French,” he said, opening the passenger side door with no small amount of sarcastic grandeur.

The ride was broken only by the pathetic wailing of the poor creature, and the quieting shushing of the man who held her.

Gold would open his shop as soon as he dropped them off. Then his routine would be back to normal, and he’d again be ignorant to the existence of Mr. and Mrs. French.

OOO

The sunshine was bright through the windows of the pawn shop. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky when Mr. Gold opened for the day. Only blue skies could be seen through his shop windows when he heard the bell signal someone had opened his door.

Gold didn’t look up from his ledger. An air of aloof casualness always worked best as a starting point. They were the ones encroaching on his day, after all.

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” he said, making a mark that he would erase later as the sound of heels clicked across his floor. He didn’t look up when the clicking stopped in front of him at the counter. After a pause, a plastic bag was set down on the glass.

Something to pawn, then. Shame. He was almost in the mood to argue about rent. Gold’s eyes flickered up. Standing before him was a woman he’d never seen before. She was quite pretty. At least her profile was; she was currently scanning the shelves of their various glassware and bits and bobs.

“Do you have many books here?” She turned in a slow circle to take it all in.

“No.”

The woman looked at him. “There’s antiques here, too, right? It’s not just a pawn shop?”

“Books aren’t really what most people think of when they think of antiques.”

“No, because then they’re usually called first editions.”

The corner of his mouth lifted, and nodded his head slightly, conceding her point. “All the same. My apologies.” His regular buyers weren’t interested in books, and certainly no one in town was either.

“I suppose I’m surrounded by enough books, as it is,” she said, sighing.

Gold had a feeling he knew who this newcomer was. He should leave it alone. He had enough work to keep him busy.

“If you’re interested, I can ask my contacts. I know a person or two in the rare books trade.” He knew exactly no one but they’d be easy enough to track down.

She smiled, delighted surprise brightening her eyes. He had been mistaken before, calling her pretty.

“That’s so kind of you to offer. I’ll let you know.”

Mrs. Isabelle French, new head librarian of the Storybrooke Library, was beautiful.

He nodded, not trusting anything he could say to her. She smiled again. It felt like a bullet straight to his chest.

“Yes, well.” Her hand went to the bag, almost forgotten on the counter. “I’m afraid I’m actually here about a different matter. You no doubt know who I am already, but all the same: hello. My name is Belle French, and it’s nice to meet you.” She opened the bag, taking out a familiar scarf.

“I know it’s rude to return something without having it cleaned, especially over a week later and especially with how my husband absconded with it in the first place, but it’s a very fine material? And hand dyed, which of course you would already know.” She bit her lip. The previous surprise on her face had long since evaporated, leaving nothing but worry.

The scarf had been a gift from his son from when the lad had taken a school trip to Europe. Neal had bought it from a boutique he probably shouldn't have been in, proud to present his papa with something that met his high standards. The silk was lovely and soft. It was his favorite; the final thing he reached for when he left the house on chilly days. His son had given it to him, after all, which made it irreplaceable.

“It’s just a scarf, Mrs. French.”

He shook the fabric, wanting to see the full extent of the damage. Near the center were two dark patches, clotting the silk. And there, at the end of one side, was two more.

“The thing is, the lady at the dry cleaners wasn’t sure if it could be saved. We’re on a strict budget until I get paid, and with the surprise expense of emergency vet bills,” she risked a slightly ironic smile, “I can’t justify paying for a service that might not even work.”

“I was the one who gave it to your husband,” he reminded her. “He didn’t snatch it from me. I was under the impression the cat wasn’t yours.”

“She wasn’t.” Shrugging, she said, “She at least hasn’t been chipped nor reported missing. Rum can’t bear the thought of leaving her at the pound, and so it would seem we have a new roommate. And honestly, if we were going to pay for the cost of fixing her up, we might as well take her in. Rum always said he was a dog person through and through, but he’s thrilled we have her now. Honestly it’s worth the bill to see him this happy.”

Mrs. French shook her head, blushing at her rambling. “My point was, if you took the scarf to the dry cleaners yourself, or just bought a replacement, we’ll pay you back for it as soon as my first paycheck comes in.”

“That won’t be for two months, at least.” Government jobs were notoriously finicky when it came to billing cycles, and the town having what could be considered a minuscule government didn’t make the paperwork any less annoying.

“I’m happy to sign something.”

“It’s just a scarf,” Gold heard himself say again. “Don’t worry yourself.”

The woman opened and closed her hands, confused about the lifeline placed in front of her. No doubt she’d been regaled with stories of the cruel, evil landlord from the townsfolk. On a different day he’d be more than happy to meet her expectations. Perhaps he merely wanted to make a good first impression.

She finally seemed to settle on a smile, small and relieved. “As soon as I get the library open, be sure to come visit, alright? I’ll get you signed up for a card, free of charge.”

Was that a wink? Gold had always thought library cards were already free, but then again, the town had been without a library for as long as he’d lived in it.

“Perhaps.” With careful hands, he folded Neal’s scarf into an orderly rectangle. He knew a few tricks for cleaning silk. “Good day, Mrs. French.”

After only a moment of hesitation, the sound of her heels clicked out his door.

OOO

Gold decided the best thing to do was put the Frenchs out of his mind. Better yet, avoid them entirely, as it was clear he couldn’t be trusted around either of them.

That didn’t stop him from hearing things. For instance, Belle had moved to the UK from Australia with her father when she was in primary school. She’d met her husband when she was finishing up her master’s degree and coming off a particularly nasty breakup. As Gold heard it, things were fine until her husband was laid off and they had to move in with her father in London. Unhappy, she went looking for any job that would get them out. A head librarian position in middle of nowhere, Maine? Fine. Perfect. And wasn’t that something else, that they only officially married so he could come with her to her new job in America.

Most interestingly, Gold heard they would sometimes go to the diner for breakfast. The morning Gold walked into Granny’s, it wasn’t like he was expecting to see them, or anything. He just thought it was high time he became a patron of the most popular Storybrooke establishment. Support small business, that kind of thing.

“Glasgow,” he heard before the door had even closed behind him.

Mr. French was waving him over to the booth he shared with his wife, a wide grin on his face.

Gold was going to ignore him, of course. He was going to stare straight ahead and pretend he hadn’t heard.

“Mr. French,” he said, walking slowly over to them. “Good morning.”

“Mr. French?” his wife repeated slowly, raising an eyebrow.

A bashful smile Gold couldn’t explain appeared on French’s face. He shrugged at his wife helplessly.

“Join us for a wee bite, Glasgow? We huvnae ordered yet.” He gestured to the menus spread before them, as if Gold needed proof.

He frowned. He already let them off the hook for the scarf. It was mostly his own fault, after all, and he was nothing if not fair. They didn’t pay rent to him, either, since they were residing in the caretaker’s apartment. Moving across continents was expensive; perhaps they hadn’t budgeted enough for it, especially considering the paycheck problem. If that were the case, they could come to his shop and ask like everyone else.

“I only came in for a cup of coffee,” he demurred.

“Oh.” His face fell, like he was actually disappointed. “You can sit here with it, if you want.”

“If he doesn’t want to join us, we can’t make him, Mr. French.” The look on Belle’s face was unreadable as she stared at him over her mug.

“I liked the sound of it, alright?” His mouth pulled up at the corner. “If that’s what he wants to call me, I’m nae gonna stop him.”

She snorted, her own grin breaking free as she laughed.

Gold looked towards the counter forlornly. He was finding he did not have enough caffeine in his system yet. He supposed he could walk away and wait by the counter like everyone else did, but something kept him by the French’s table. Belle had a pretty laugh. Maybe that was it.

“Mr. French is my father,” she finally explained with an eye roll and shake of her head. “This ridiculous man is Robert McWeaver.”

“Nice tae meet you.”

“Apologies for assuming.” He should have paid more attention to the paperwork. It wasn’t like him, not to pay attention.

“You couldnae have known.” Robert McWeaver took a sip from his own mug. “What would you recommend, then?”

“What?”

“To eat. What’s good?”

Gold wouldn’t know. This was his first time stepping inside for anything other than rent.

“I’m getting the pancakes,” Belle said, eyes on the menu. “Rum’s leaning towards the full breakfast.”

“As close tae an English breakfast as I can get. They got one thing right, eh, the English?” He laughed at his own joke, mouth wide, the crows feet at his eyes giving him a distinguished, friendly look. Gold’s own just made him look old. With his loose clothes and easy smile, McWeaver was the definition of laid back, almost—cool. Someone people gravitated towards. Not that Gold knew anything about it.

But that was the most constant thing he’d heard, wasn’t it? With their wide smiles and kind eyes, it was no wonder how the townsfolk had adopted them so readily. Anyone would be lucky to be their friend, to share in their warmth.

“Take a seat,” Belle said, smiling. “We’ll put an order in, get you your coffee.”

God help him, he almost did just that.

What was with these two?

“Some other day,” he said, turning on his heel. “Ms. French, Mr. McWeaver.”

“We'll hold you to—“ the door latched shut cut off what they were about to say.

Brooding, Gold walked to his shop. Whatever those two were after, they weren’t getting it from him. Besides, there was no room in their happy lives for the heartless, asshole landlord. It was better for everyone if he left them alone. He had held himself apart from the rest of the town for years. That was how he liked it.

Not bothering to flip the sign, Gold went straight to the back, deciding to bury himself in polishing every piece of jewelry in the shop until the lot of it could power a solar panel.

He was working through his collection of wedding rings when the front door opened, bell jangling. A quick look at the clock told him he was supposed to have opened twenty minutes ago. Whatever happened to his routine?

Not bothering with his cane, he stood up and pushed the curtain aside. He promptly froze.

“Alright, Glasgow?”

“Mr. McWeaver,” Gold said, frowning at the nickname. He needed to say something before it became permanent. “Ms. French.”

“Call me Rum.” His smile was back, broad and open as ever.

Gold said nothing, just stood in between the doorway. He had expected to have more time before they came to deal. After his retreat that morning, perhaps they thought it best to get it over with.

“You, uh, left before ordering anything.” Belle placed a to-go cup and a bag down in front of him. “We got you a muffin, too, in case you get peckish.”

They stared at him expectantly. Only when their smiles started to dim did Gold manage to clear his throat.

“Thank you,” he offered.

“We weren’t sure how you liked your coffee, so we just got it black,” Belle said helpfully. “I hope that’s all right.”

Gold liked it with enough sugar to make his auntie's teeth pop out.

“Black is fine.”

He was rewarded with a smile.

“Well,” she said, rocking back on her heels. “We have a shipment of new books coming that I need to sign for, so we’ll get out of your hair. Have a great day, Mr. Gold.”

Before he could do more than nod a goodbye, they were out the door, the bell ringing after them. He watched as Rum reached out to take Belle’s hand. Gold watched as they reached the library doors and she dug through her purse one handed for the keys. Rum kissed her neck, and he couldn’t hear the squeal as she batted him away, but he could imagine it. They were like teenagers; blissfully happy and seemingly untouched by the real world.

Gold looked at his coffee, and saw the heat guard had fallen down. He opened the bag. The muffin was blueberry, his favorite.

Staying away from them would be best.

OOO

Gold soon developed a new routine. Every morning he’d stand by the front counter of his shop and wait for Belle and Rum to make their way to the diner. He never wanted to go himself, but something always convinced him; maybe if Belle’s dress was blue, or if Rum had his arm around her waist rather than looped through her own. Gold would watch until they were out of sight, then finish up whatever busy work he was doing. After locking the door to his shop he’d make his own way down the street.

When he got to Granny’s, he waited at the front so he could order coffee to go. At least he would, if he ever got that far. As soon as Gold was through the door, Rum would call out to him and insist he join their table. Belle and Rum were never ready to order anyway, which was just as well, as he liked to rest his leg before making the short walk back to his shop. And Gold was finding he quite liked the breakfast spread.

So it went in the mornings. Gold knew sometimes they ate dinner there as well, but there was no pattern to when they went and Gold hadn’t run into them on the night’s he popped in, for rent or otherwise.

Currently, Gold had already walked through the door. He was waiting at the front, by the register. Rum usually noticed him by now. He tapped the handle of his cane. The front bar was white and shiny, as it always was. The glasses behind, stacked and waiting for the waitresses to fill them up, all glistened.

Gold shot a glance at their table. Rum was facing him, his elbows on the table, head in his hands, his face rapt as he listened to whatever Belle was saying. He nodded once or twice.

Gold frowned. He wondered what she was saying. Last week, after stumbling on a story about World War I soldiers and how they bonded over their trauma, she had gone on a tangent of medics and the first studies of shell shock. The time before, how cigars were made. It was no wonder Rum hadn't noticed his entrance if Belle was talking about her current passion. She could have anyone riveted with as little as a sigh.

He stepped aside as one of the tables finished up and left, passing him on their way out. This wasn’t part of the routine. Gold was never supposed to actually order coffee to go.

He had overstepped, that was it. They had likely seen him walk in, but hadn’t said anything in the hopes he left without intruding. He could leave them alone for a single morning to enjoy breakfast as a married couple, for once. Did that mean they didn’t want him there anymore? Maybe they were both too nice to say it to his face, and were waiting for him to take the hint instead.

Gold glared at the cups, standing pristine along the wall, as if he could intimidate them into giving him answers.

That was how Ruby found him when she came out of the kitchen, finally.

“Mr. Gold,” she greeted. “Are you going to sit down?”

He ignored her.

From the corner of his eye, he saw her look at Rum and Belle’s table, then back at him. She rolled her eyes.

“Granny,” she bellowed behind her, causing Gold to jump. “Has the special been updated? Like, on the board?”

“I wrote it last night,” Granny yelled back, muffled by the distance.

“Alright.” Ruby’s eyes were on him, something smug and knowing in their depths.

“Glasgow!”

Attention grabbed by Ruby, Rum finally looked up toward the counter to where Gold was brooding.

“You’re late today,” he called with a frown. “Everything all right?”

Ruby snorted. Gold shot her a glare which she promptly ignored.

“Take a seat, Mr. Gold,” she said with a bright smile. “I’ll get started on drinks.”

Rum was still staring at him, eyes overwide and welcoming. He had such an expressive face, so open, so telling, so. Gold wondered what he’d look like below him, panting and wanton.

When Gold continued to stand there, Belle turned as well, looking over her shoulder. Her hair was down today, the sheek brown curls cascading down her back. His fingers itched with his want to bury them in her hair, cradle her head while he kissed her.

These were not new thoughts; they had always been there, just below the surface. He swallowed, trying to bury his feelings deep in his stomach, keeping them from sight.

With numb feet, he limped to the table. Belle scooted to the side, making room for him to slide next to her. He liked the mornings he sat next to Belle; he could smell her perfume, light and floral like roses. And Gold liked when he was facing Rum; half the fun of listening to Belle was watching her husband.

“We havenae ordered yet,” he was saying now, folding his arms on the table and leaning forward. “Just waitin’ for you.”

They were too sweet for him. All this time, Gold was pretending it was just good timing on his part. Oh, but it hurt his heart, to be expected.

“Sorry for the delay,” he said quietly.

“It’s no problem at all.” Belle bumped him with her shoulder. The heat of her burned. “I was just regaling Rum about a new book Ariel recommended, about Octopuses, of all things.”

“Calling them ‘octopi’ is wrong, apparently,” Rum said. “And they have three hearts. And,” he sat up straighter, taking his arms off the table when he spotted Ruby approaching from the kitchen. “And, they remember their handlers, and especially the grudges they hold against each of them.”

“How about we order, and then we’ll catch you up to speed,” she teased.

“I would love nothing more,” he said. He meant every word, from the bottom of his decrepit heart.

OOO

When Gold told himself he had to stay away from them, he meant it. It was Belle and Rum who didn’t seem to get the memo. And okay, maybe he had developed a taste for Granny’s coffee.

At least he could admit to himself now that he didn’t want to stay away. The chance that they felt as deeply for him as he did for them was impossible, the thought of them willingly taking him into their bed was unthinkable. But he could have their friendship. If their mornings together in the diner was all he had of them, he’d cherish that time fiercely.

Seeing one of them alone wasn’t something that happened often, though. Yet here Rum was, no sign of his wife in sight, fidgeting in his shop as if he were a stranger.

“What are you doing here?” Gold asked.

“What, am I not allowed?”

His accent had mellowed in the couple months he’d been in town, through necessity if nothing else. It was a continued source of amusement for Belle that their accents thickened whenever they talked to each other.

Gold put down his pen. He was going through a list of items from an estate sale down south, but that could wait. Spreading his arms across his counter, he gave Rum his full attention, patiently waiting for him to get to the point, or leave. He was used to these sorts of games. Usually he could guess what the other player wanted, though.

Gold would have thought if they wanted something from him they would have asked a long time ago, but situations changed. He hadn’t heard of Rum rescuing any more wayward animals.

Rum’s full attention was currently on the paintings that hung on the wall behind him. Perhaps it was about his pride.

“Do you need a job?” Gold asked.

That surprised Rum enough to make him look over. “A job?” he asked, frowning.

“You don’t work,” Gold pointed out. He knew what Belle’s salary was. It was enough to sustain a two person household, but barely. He couldn’t imagine there was any left at the end of the month to for savings.

“Legally, I can’t. Couldnae get a work visa. Figured it was lucky enough Belle wanted me to come with her at all.” He shrugged. “If it comes to it, I’ll wash dishes at Granny’s. Said she’d pay me under the table.”

“I see.”

“I like not working, to be honest. I’m good at being a house husband.” He flashed a crooked smile, but there something hesitant in it, like he expected derision.

“That so?”

Rum wandered closer, leaning his hip against the counter. “Yeah. I like being able to make a home for Belle. It’s a great feeling, when she comes back to a tidy apartment and a warm meal.”

An image of Rum in a retro house dress, makeup neat and apron pressed, flashed in his mind. Better to focus on that then the stab between his ribs, knowing he was going to a cold, empty house devoid of Rum and Belle’s warmth.

“Now that’s an idea, innit?” Rum perked up, eyes expectant.

For a second, Gold was worried he had spoken aloud. “What is?”

“Dinner. I’m a good cook. Come and try it.”

Gold barked a laugh. Of all the things for him to suggest.

Rum looked down, his smile fading quickly. “It was just an idea,” he mumbled.

Afraid he’d leave, Gold reached out, grabbing his hand where he lay on the counter.

“I thought you were going to ask me for money,” he tried to explain. “Or some other sort of deal.”

Rum looked at their hands. He flexed his, but didn’t pull away. “Uh, right. Makes sense.” He straightened. “So, dinner? You’ll come?”

“Of course. When were you thinking?”

He shrugged. “Tonight, tomorrow. When—Friday!” Rum shouted, tugging his hand like an electrical current had gone through them. “Come Friday.”

“Okay,” he agreed, bemused.

“Just, uh, you open later on Saturdays? And Belle does too, at the library. Friday is best.”

“Expecting a late night?”

His eyes widened, brows drawing together. “Maybe? You know, just in case.”

“I’ll bring the wine,” Gold said after a pause.

“That would be perfect.” This time when Rum smiled, it looked genuine. “It’s a date.”

OOO

He had chosen a rosé. He hadn’t asked much about what Rum was planning on serving, wanting to be surprised. And rosés paired nicely with all most things..

With one final brush down the front of his suit, he knocked on the apartment door. Seconds later it opened, revealing Belle wearing a bright dress and a brighter smile.

For a moment he was struck mute, words lost as he stared at her. She was so lovely.

“Come in, come in,” she said, not seeming to notice his state. She reached out for him, sliding her hand along his back as she guided him inside. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

The apartment was small, but cozy. The living room was big enough to accommodate a TV and a sofa, and to the left a dining table with four chairs, but not much else. Not that it kept Belle from piling books on every conceivable surface, including the floor along the walls. Gold couldn’t help but smile at that. Everything was neat and tidy, excepting the books. A perfect home, all things considered.

Rum poked his head out of the kitchen. “Hey, Glasgow,” he called. “Make yourself comfortable.”

He hadn’t been too far off when he imagined the apron. “Smells good,” he said, not having anything better to say. And it did, the heady aroma or sizzling meat and spices heavy in the air. It would seem Rum hadn’t been exaggerating when he said he was good at this.

“I hope you like it. Should be ready soon.” He disappeared into the kitchen.

Gold felt Belle’s arm tighten around him. When he looked, there was a small smile playing on her lips.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Nothing.” She gave him a final squeeze before letting go. She took the bottle of wine from him before walking to the table. “He wants to impress you. We both do.”

That warmed him up from the inside in a way he chose not to examine too closely right then. “That right? You cook, too?”

“God, no. But I am the master of doing dishes.”

They were interrupted by a meow, coming from the ground.

“Hello again,” he said to their roommate. “You’re looking well.” He had never gotten a good look at the cat when Rum rescued her from beneath his shop. She was a handsome creature, a long-haired tuxedo. She looked completely healed, and would have looked completely normal too, had it not been for a missing eye. The socket was closed, and almost unnoticeable if it weren’t for the brilliant blue of her other eye.

That one eye blinked up at him. She mewled again before turning around, and he expected her to stalk off. Instead, she sat on his shoes. She weighed as much as a sack of feathers.

“You can’t have him, too,” Belle said.

The cat started to purr. Apparently, she thought otherwise.

Belle shook her head. “She’s intent on stealing all the men in my life, I swear.”

Gold wasn’t sure what to say to that. “What’s her name?” He asked. That was safe.

“Oh you’ll like this,” Belle said with a conspiratorial smile. “We named her Forte, on account of her looking like a music sheet, and being quite loud when she wants to be.”

“Aye, I remember. Fortan means luck in Gaelic,” Gold offered.

“Yes! Rum was quite proud of that. He can’t usually think of puns.”

Gold shifted, lifting up a foot experimentally. Forte ignored the hint.

Fine, then.

When he looked at Belle, she was staring at him, biting her lip.

“What?”

She shook her head. “I’m happy you’re here.”

Gold managed a nod. “I’m happy I’m here, too.” He tried to flash a smile. He hoped she didn’t mistake it for a grimace.

“Good.” Her gaze was intense, scorching.

Unable to bear it, he looked down at the cat, still on his feet. Her tail brushed his legs. He heard a timer go off.

“Belle,” Rum called. “Can I have a hand?”

“Take a seat, if she’ll let you go, the little monster,” Belle said cheerfully.

“I’ll pour the wine,” he said.

She shot a smile over her shoulder, disappearing into the kitchen.

He lifted his foot again, and Forte accepted he was serious this time. She slunk over to the couch, jumping up to the cushion gracefully before plopping down.

Gold had just filled the final wine glass when Belle came back. She set a basket of dinner rolls on the table, along with a bowl of salad. “He wanted to make buttered cabbage,” Belle said. “Apparently it’s a good side dish for this in Scotland, but I put my foot down.”

“Thank God for you, Belle French.” He pulled her chair out for her, making sure she was quite settled before taking his own seat.

Rum chose that moment to appear, dish in hand. He set it proudly in the center of the table, removing the foil with a flourish. All Gold could see was a white top,even except where a fork had been run through to create a swirling effect. The peaks were a crispy, golden brown.

“Shepherd's pie,” Rum announced. “Though I couldn’t get lamb on such short notice, so it’s actually cottage pie.” He shrugged. “Still good, I hope.”

“Still good,” Gold agreed, feeling his mouth water. Sizzling ground beef, cooked with onions, peas and carrots, drenched in a rich brown gravy. Then topped with a thick layer of creamy, buttery mashed potatoes. He hadn’t had it in years.

Rum was indeed a good cook. He scraped his plate clean, full from having second helpings.

“Was there something specific you had in mind for after dinner?” Gold asked, taking a sip of wine. The bottle was empty; an easy thing to do when split between three people.

Belle and Rum shared a look. “What do you mean?” Belle asked.

“Rum mentioned a late night. I assumed that meant board games. You seem the type,” he said warmly. Gold had been looking forward to it, honestly. He hadn’t played anything of the sort since before Neal moved out. “Something tells me you’d make a worthy opponent at Scrabble,” he said to Belle.

Belle shot her husband a look, who was looking intently at his wine glass. “He told me he had lost his nerve.”

“Sorry?” His heart stopped in his chest. This wasn’t supposed to be about a deal. That’s what Rum had said.

She seemed to read the disappointment in his face. “My husband and I owe you nothing of monetary value, Gold. We have no intention of changing this.”

“All I can offer are things of monetary value.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Rum muttered, staring at the legs of wine as they cascaded down his glass.

Belle cleared her throat. “I do actually have Scrabble, somewhere. And we have a deck of cards. If you’d like, we can certainly find a game to play. But we were thinking of a group activity of a different nature,” she said, licking her lips. His eyes followed the path of her tongue, and she smiled, wide and sultry.

“Ah?” His brain short-circuited. She couldn’t be implying what he thought she was. He looked to Rum for help, but he was staring at his wine as if trying to boil it with his mind.

Belle took pity on him. “Join us for a night.”

“A night.”

She nodded.

“Of sex.”

Another nod.

“Only one?” He asked before he could stop himself.

That got Rum’s attention. His head shot up, and he put his glass down with more force than necessary, almost knocking it over. The beginnings of a crooked smile played on his lips.

“Doesnae have to be.”

“Let’s see how we like it, first,” Belle said reasonably.

Gold didn’t ask why, out of every other sorry bastard in this town, they chose him. He didn’t question their taste or their eyesight. Instead, Gold nodded. Yes, a night with them was everything he had ever wanted.

Belle swallowed the last of her wine, head thrown back as she drained her glass. Gold followed the line of her throat as she swallowed, finally feeling like he was allowed to look.

“Leave the dishes,” she said to Rum. She scooted her chair back, holding out her hands to them. “And let’s go to bed.”

OOO

From there, it was easy.

Gold followed them into their bedroom, Rum being careful to shut the door behind them so Forte couldn’t get in to interrupt. The room was just as tidy as the rest of the apartment, with stacks of books on every conceivable surface. The bed was queen size, and he liked the thought of them three of them sharing the space. He hoped they’d let him stay for a while, after.

Rum cleared his throat, drawing Gold’s attention.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, quiet, almost shy.

Gold licked his lips.

“Yes.”

Before he could blink, Rum’s hands were on either side of his face, his thumbs brushing his cheek bones before his mouth collided with his. He started sucking on his bottom lip, causing Gold to whimper. Rum’s hand slid up, brushing through his short hair while the other ran along the back of his neck before settling in the space just above his collar bone.

Gold’s own hands were clutching the sides of Rum’s baggy shirt, pulling him closer and closer. As his tongue pushed past his lips, one hand cradled his jaw, turning his head slightly so he could push inside for a deeper kiss. Rum moaned happily, trying to suck on his tongue.

When they finally broke apart for air, Belle grabbed his head, turning it so she could kiss him deeply next. He leaned into her, almost stumbling before catching himself on her shoulder. Expecting the fabric of her dress, he was met with her bare skin. Gold broke the kiss so he could see.

While Gold and Rum had been busy necking, Belle had taken the time to undress. All she wore now was her lingerie, the dark blue silk making her skin almost glow.

If Gold hadn’t been hard already, seeing her chest, her belly, her legs, would have undone him completely.

“Oh,” he breathed. He kissed her again, feeling her smile. She undid his tie, then started to unbutton his shirt, slowly leading him to the bed. Gold didn’t have his cane, he couldn’t remember where he had left it, but it didn’t matter with Belle and Rum there to guide him forward.

When he was laying down on the bed, Belle kissed him again, pushing his back into the comforter as her mouth ravaged him.

He lifted his hips so Rum could pull off his trousers, then socks, and Belle finally got him to shrug out of his shirt. She eyed his chest hungrily, like he was dessert.

Belle went for his throat then, sucking and licking the skin there. He moaned as she worked lower, nibbling across his collar bone. Gold’s hands reached for her, wanting to fill his hands with her creamy skin.

“No touching,” Belle decided, giggling as she grabbed his arms, pinning them to his sides. She lightly bit his nipple, the breath of her laugh skimming over his wet chest as he gave a jolt.

Rum kissed his hip bone, before taking off his boxers. Then he was bare and achingly hard. Now free of all his clothes, splayed on his back, there was no friction, no barrier, to keep him sane. Just consistent, blazing want.

“Rum,” he groaned as Belle continued to kiss, lick and bite his chest. “Please.”

Rum shrugged out of his own shirt, was undoing the zipper on his jeans. Gold watched them fall to the floor before he stepped out of them. His eyes came up to settle on Rum’s bulge.

“Please,” he said again, voice hoarse.

Rum made eye contact. His eyes jumped to Gold’s cock, bobbing and thick. Then his hands were on the inside of Gold’s thighs, pushing his legs apart so he could settle between them. Gold saw a flash of his pink tongue before his mouth had swallowed his cock whole.

Gold yelped, his hips jerking upwards sharply. Instead of gagging (Gold had an apology already at the ready), Rum groaned. He pulled back so he could suck the head, then swallowed him down again.

Rum moaned blissfully around him, hallowing his cheeks as he sucked. Gold whimpered, desperately trying to keep his hips still. But fuck, he was good at this. After a few minutes of bobbing on his cock, Rum swallowed, taking him deeper until he hit the back of his throat and his nose was pressed to his pubic bone.

Gold grit his teeth, not wanting to come yet. But it was hard, impossibly hard, when Rum’s mouth was so hot, so good. When Belle’s hands were skimming up and down his sides, tortiously slow.

She looked down at her husband, hungrily sucking Gold off. Her eyes were blown out completely, and she wet her lips. Almost absently, she pinched Gold’s nipple. He whined high in his throat.

“He’s so good with his mouth, isn’t he?” she said, voice low. “God, that tongue.”

Gold could only whine, and keep whining as Rum sucked harder.

“I’m there,” he tried to warn him. “Fuck, Rum, I’m—“

Rum pulled back, but he kept the head in his mouth and used his hand to wank him off. Gold came across his tongue, panting. Closing his eyes, he sunk further into the soft bed, trying to catch his breath.

“Save any for me?” He heard Belle ask.

“Sorry, love,” he said, and Gold heard a smacking of lips.

“No, you’re not.” They kissed. Belle moaned; she could taste Gold on his tongue. Fuck.

“You can have him for round two.” Rum rubbed his thighs, using them for balance as he leaned forward and gave another kiss to Gold’s hip bone.

“I’m holding you to that.”

There was the soft sound of fabric gliding against skin. Gold felt the bed shift as Belle straddled his hips, legs on either side of his thighs. He opened his eyes when Belle kissed him; she was gloriously bare. His arms wound around her shoulders, a hand burying in her hair, keeping her in place.

He expected Rum to come close, but instead he backed off. Instead, he moved behind Belle. Gold felt a wave of molten heat go through him at the thought of Belle being fucked by her husband while she lay over him, panting in his ear as she took it deep and hard.

Wanting to entice Rum, Gold ran his hands down her soft sides, over her rump. He gripped her where her arse cheeks met her leg, his pinky and ring finger over her cunt lips, and he held her open, on display. She was already so wet, he had to let go so he could get a better grip.

Belle hummed, pushing her breasts into his chest and sticking her arse up, giving her husband a better view.

“Like this, Gold?” she asked, sucking on his neck. He hoped she left a mark.

“Fuck,” Rum breathed, his eyes drawn to her open cunt. “Oh, Gold, if only you had this view.”

“Describe it to me,” Gold said.

“She’s so wet and pink. Fuck, Belle.”

Her breath caught, and she pushed her arse back. Gold guessed Rum was using his fingers on her.

“You’re so wet. Did you like that, watching us?”

“Of course.” She wiggled, spreading her legs wider, bringing her knees up as best she could. Gold spread his legs again, too, helping to keep her open. “You two look amazing together. So beautiful.”

“What else?” Gold asked. He felt fingers skim from Belle’s thighs to his. Rum cupped his balls. He gasped, feeling a thumb press into his perineum, then down to circle around his anus, before coming back up.

“And here’s you, all spent. I did that. You taste so good, Gold. I want to suck you again.”

Gold moaned as Rum pressed his soft cock against Belle’s heat. She was ready and wet and perfect.

“Fuck, I can’t wait for you to get hard.”

Belle whined, trying to get the angle right to move her clit against Gold’s pelvis. “You said I got him next.”

Rum laughed. He let go of Gold so he could run his hands over the back of Belle’s thighs. “I did. Do you want to fuck her, Gold?”

He hissed an affirmative, hands leaving imprints where they still held Belle open.

“Should we wait, Belle? Let him have you first?”

“No, God! Rum! I need it now,” she begged, wiggling. “Fuck me now.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Yeah, I’ll fuck you.” He let go, eyes turning a bit more critical so he could figure out the position. “Close your legs, Gold, so I can fit,” he ordered, softly. Gold happily acquiesced, and he watched as Rum settled behind Belle, his knees pressing into the bed in between theirs.

Slowly, he guided his cock into his wife.

Gold let go of her arse, hand moving to tip her head up, searching for her eyes. “Look at me,” he murmured, wanting to see the moment she was filled up.

Belle bit her lip in bliss. Her eyes widened slightly when Rum bottomed out. He leaned forward so he could kiss her shoulder, giving them both time to adjust to the position.

“Good?” Rum asked.

She shuddered when she pushed her hips back into his, her clit sliding along Gold’s pelvis beautifully. “Oh, that’s perfect,” she breathed, eyes locked onto his.

“I’m not going to last,” her husband warned, pulling back before fucking into her.

Belle moaned, grinding onto Gold as she leaned into her husband’s thrusting hips. “Neither will I.”

One hand in her hair, the other gripping her upper arm, Gold held his breath as he watched her. She was stunning, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes clouded over with lust.

“Are you going to come, Belle?” Gold asked her. “Does he feel good inside you? Fuck, I bet he feels so good.”

Belle could barely nod. “Deep. Hard,” she panted. “Almost there.”

Her breath caught, and she clenched hard on Rum’s cock, slamming back against him, then stilling. Her orgasm triggered his, and with a grunt, he emptied inside her, hips stuttering.

Gold pulled her down for a kiss, and she went happily, boneless and sated. Once Rum caught his breath, he pulled out, flopping down beside Gold with a sigh.

Belle tucked herself against Gold’s chest, watching her husband cool down beside them.

The silence that fell on them was easy and soft, broken only by the occasional pawing of Forte at the door.

When she mewled, Rum looked up, and it seemed like he might let her in.

“Not yet,” Belle said. “I was promised round two.”

She pushed herself up, looking down so she could see where she had been rubbing herself against Gold’s pelvis. Rum’s spend seeped out of her, slicking her way.

“Fuck,” Gold breathed, unable to tear his eyes away.

It didn’t take much longer for Gold to harden again, helped by Belle’s skillful hand. She wasted no time in mounting him. She slid all the way down his shaft. She pumped her hips, delighted at feeling him so deep.

She was so wet; so hot and wet and already filled with cum and it was a good thing Gold had climaxed once already because he wasn’t sure how he would have lasted otherwise.

As it was, he was happy to watch as Belle took him for a ride. Gold’s attention was quickly drawn to her breasts, and he watched them bounce up and down. He wanted to suckle them, feel their weight in his hands. He hadn’t paid nearly enough attention to that part of her yet.

Rum moved so his head was laying on his chest, fingers circling one of Gold’s nipples as his eyes were glued to the area Belle and him were connected. As Belle moved up and down, Rum began to kiss and nip at Gold’s pecks, then his rib cage, his abdomen. He circled his tongue inside Gold’s belly button, making his stomach clench and his hips jolt. Belle’s moving hips kept him from being able to go down any further, and he sweetly got her attention.

“Lean back a little,” he requested.

That meant she stopped moving against him, and Gold moaned in protest.

“Like this?” She was spread open again, thighs wide, hands supporting her weight where they rested on either side of Gold’s legs.

“Exactly like that.” Rum latched onto her clit and sucked. She gasped, hips bucking hard against Gold’s cock.

“Fuck, Rum,” she said, clenching.

They set up a new rhythm. Belle worked herself up and down Gold’s cock while Rum sucked at the base of him, and Gold did his best not to utterly combust. Belle ground down when she got to the bottom, and Rum’s tongue flicked up to meet her.

The closer she got to finishing, the closer she stayed, and soon all she was doing was grinding back and forth on his cock, Rum latched to her clit.

Gold’s legs spread in answer to Rum’s searching hand; he felt it close around his balls and his hips jolted in response. Fuck, but that was heaven; Belle riding his cock while Rum played with him like he was a pair of ben wa balls. He moaned, low and deep and long, when Rum tugged them down, then up against the base of him, squeezing.

His hands gripped Belle’s hips tightly as he held her against him and emptied himself into her. He couldn't even moan; she’d taken the breath straight from his lungs.

With a final but heartfelt, “fuck,” Belle clenched, thighs shaking in aftershock. Gold would forever remember the blissful smile on her face as she came on his cock.

Before she could fall over, and it looked like she might, the poor lamb—Rum was there to wrap her in his arms, and help her down. Rum pulled down the comforter with no help from them, but soon enough, they settled into bed, curled into the sheets on either side of Gold. Rum kissed his neck below his ear, entwining their legs as Belle happily murmured into his chest.

“Do you need another one?” Gold asked into Rum’s hair.

He felt the smile against his neck. “I already have everything I need.”

Gold was still boneless when he finally looked at the clock; it was late but not terribly so.

“When do you want me to leave?” He didn’t want to ask, but felt he should. Besides, he didn’t think he could manage a round three. He could barely keep his eyes open, and he felt satisfied and content in a way he hadn’t in years.

Rum mumbled something unintelligible, legs tightening around Gold’s, face pressed harder against his shoulder.

“Don’t leave,” Belle murmured, moving closer herself. She blindly tried to kiss his cheek and missed. “In the morning, Rum will make tomato on toast.”

“Oh. Okay,” he said, not needing to be convinced.

In the morning, he’d wake to Forte’s tail flicking in his face and Belle wearing his shirt, Rum still curled into his side, but for now he was content to sink into sleep.

#rcij #rumbelle fic #Rumbelle Christmas in July

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glimmera · 3 years

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Buried Lede

The Dryl Library is, in a word, huge. In more words, it’s dusty, decrepit, unkempt, disorganized, dimly-lit, dingy, musty, and altogether inhospitable. But that hasn’t ever stopped Glimmer before, so it won’t stop her now. She makes a beeline towards the section she can only assume houses the combat and strategy references, given the little rusted-over placard of a shortsword adorning the shelf. The tomes sitting on the shelves are disturbingly sticky, if not otherwise stuck fast in their places, whether by virtue of being so wedged into the carrying capacity of the shelf itself or by some other act of negligence. The first book she can find is one on proper weapon maintenance, but it seems to only cover the basic martial weapons, as well as, for whatever reason, tool and equipment maintenance like pickaxes and shovels. She re-shelves it and picks up another, this one laying out the framework for martial weapon construction. If whatever substance had kept these books held so firmly in place for years hadn’t glazed Glimmer’s eyes over, the subject material surely would have.

Nevertheless, she presses on, determined to find at least one thing to bring back for Adora. She settles for a reference on proper staff-wielding technique, as she remembers Adora having fixated on that as of late. Surprisingly, the magic section seems... lacking, for some reason. Not that the selection was to be desired -- in fact, the catalogue showed a quite impressive repertoire hosted in the Dryl Library. The more obvious issue was that these issues were simply missing from their designated spots on the shelves. Although, it’s possible Entrapta got to them first and simply didn’t re-shelf them. Regardless, Glimmer manages to find a tome discussing curse reversal; perhaps a good read for a certain exiled sorceress, anyway.

As she pores over a particularly old tome about the history of trade deals during the reign of Queen Fulcra III, Glimmer spots an odd dog-eared page. Turning to it, she finds a separate reference section scribbled into the margins. The section mentioned... is missing. Not missing from the shelves as the other books are, but rather simply not within the section’s catalogue at all. Puzzled, Glimmer looks over the catalogue and shelves again and again, hoping it was perhaps just all the dust obscuring the correct reference. Frustrated, she simply begins unloading the books onto a nearby table, determined to open each one to find this oddly-scribbled section. Instead, she finds a litany of loose papers jammed into the back of the shelf, some of them in envelopes.

There’s something odd about these papers that she can’t quite place, until the glint of gold leaf catches her eye. Glimmer delicately unfolds them all, revealing correspondences between Queen Angella of Bright Moon and Queen Entrapta XII of Dryl. Most of them seem to be long-winded greetings and commendations, but a single, short letter stands out. It’s no longer than 2 pages, a reprieve from the loose-bound longform letters in ever so prim and proper handwriting. This one seems to be the most crinkled as well. It reads:

HM Queen Entrapta XII,

Bright Moon cannot abide by your actions any longer. Henceforth, all conduits between Bright Moon and Dryl in the procurement of Frozenium are hereby sanctioned and forbidden. Should Dryl wish to procure more Frozenium, She will conduct trade with the Kingdom of Snows directly.

My sincerest apologies that it must come to this, but you are aware of my position. You, in your wisdom, have chosen to proceed with construction of what Bright Moon considers in no small words an abomination to not only magic, but to life itself. This is a most reprehensible deed and while we may be on friendly terms as a nation, I, Queen Angella of Bright Moon, can no longer associate myself with such foul invention.

It is my belief that perhaps one day we may share tea again on better terms, after you have come back to your senses. Until then, consider this my last correspondence as your friend, Entrapta. Twas all fun and games while we were but Princesses, but as Queen, I must stand by my ideals... even if it means our friendship which I cherish so dearly. I take these actions with a heavy heart, the wellbeing of your Kingdom notwithstanding.

Should you decide to reverse your decisions forthwith and with haste, I shall reconsider my admittedly brash course of action in this matter. But should you continue to manufacture such grotesque vehicles of an otherwise sound penal system, I must remain steeled in my resolve.

Providence be with you, Entrapta.

Queen Angella of Bright Moon

Glimmer looks it over, front to back, turning the parchment over in her hands to make sure there’s nothing left to read. After a moment to simply process it, she goes scurrying over to Entrapta to share.

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ayankun · 3 years

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coffee shop au bitches (working title)

here, have this rough draft of the first half of part 1. consider it proof of concept. (the concept is Destiel Coffee Shop AU, but actually good) (”good;” YMMV)

9.3k words; Cas is human like everyone else so to compensate I made him socially anxious af; there’s a brief unpleasantness wherein someone in customer service gets harassed so watch out for that I guess; Cas is also carrying a lot of baggage (literally and metaphorically) and it’s vague for now but a little wearisome so GLHF I promise when it’s done-done they all get the kind of happy endings they deserved from the show

The town of Lebanon, Kansas sprang up without warning, its tree-lined streets shockingly claustrophobic after the three hours of patchwork browns and greens streaming by the smudgy window, the rolling plains uninterrupted to the very ends of the earth until the blank blue September sky finally picked up where the horizon left off.

Castiel felt his eyes strain, forced to reel in his thousand-yard stare, as he squinted at the blur of tidy little houses perched along Lebanon's brief outskirts. He blinked away from the window and pushed himself to his feet, sidling carefully into the aisle to pull his duffle down from the overhead rack. In short order, the bus turned onto the tidy little Americana main street and rolled up to a tidy little bus stop, and, reaching back into his seat to retrieve his briefcase, he squinted out at this, too.

The screech of well-worn brakes, the brace against the final lurch of inertia, the hiss and clack of the doors at the front and back folding open; with no more pomp and circumstance than that, Castiel's journey reached its end. Clutching the handle of his briefcase and slinging the straps of his duffle over one shoulder, he edged down the aisle and nodded his thanks to the driver on his way down the steps. Finally, Castiel planted his sensible shoes on the cracked sidewalk, looked carefully up and down the stretch of unremarkable, middle-of-nowhere civilization, and wondered what the hell he thought he was doing here.

The bus shrieked and rumbled back into the non-existent late afternoon traffic, a thick gout of black exhaust signaling its farewell, leaving Castiel behind before he had a chance to change his mind. He watched its departure absently for half a moment, road-weary and numb. Then he hiked his duffle a little more snug against his back, turned around, and began an unhurried stroll the shady two and a half blocks back to the motel on the south side of town.

---

"Been expecting you," the woman behind the counter said the second Castiel pulled open the glass door to the motel office.

He paused, looked over his shoulder, saw no one among the growing shadows of the motel's empty parking lot, no one except a trucker hopping out of his cab parked at the gas 'n sip on the opposite corner. Castiel watched him jog across the street towards the Biggerson's, the lights of its enormous, highway-facing sign flickering on in welcome, and turned back to shoulder his way inside. "I did reserve a room over the phone," Castiel said, approaching the counter, "And I was told that a few . . . personal items would be held for me at the front desk?"

The woman, Billie, according to her name tag, responded with a nod, less in answer to his question and more in the way one does when one is not surprised by what they've just heard. She pulled the keyboard to the old desktop computer closer to herself with one hand, and held the other out, palm up, to Castiel. "ID and credit card."

Setting his briefcase down on the floor, Castiel dug inside his overcoat's interior pocket for his wallet. By rote he thumbed out the military ID to give her, but at the last second his heart gave a sharp little twist and he drew it back. Her lips twitched, nonplussed, but she waited patiently until he handed her his driver's licence instead. She studied the picture on it for a second, mouthed the name, and carefully considered the face on the photo compared to the face on the man in front of her. He shifted his feet nervously, thinking he should have just given her the first one, if only to avoid looking any more disreputable than he already did.

Evidently their hangdog looks matched to her satisfaction, though, and she snapped the plastic down onto the counter, shifted her attention to the computer to check him in.

"Room's yours for the week," she read off the screen as he retrieved his licence and put the credit card down in its place. She slid it over to herself without looking, only glancing down to read the numbers, obsidian black fingernails clacking proficiently over the ten-key peripheral plugged into the side of the keyboard. "Checkout's at eleven on the 25th."

When she slid the card back over to him, Castiel palmed it off the counter, put it back into the wallet behind his IDs (driver's license on top), tucked the wallet back into his overcoat. "Um. I'm not exactly sure yet -- I may need to extend my stay." Absently, he wondered why he sounded like he was apologizing for it.

Billie looked up from the computer screen at him, neutral. "Whatever you need. We can do you by the week, month, whatever. Got your card on file, so you just let me know when I should stop charging it."

Castiel tried a smile he didn't feel, thinking as he did so that he probably shouldn't have bothered with one, what with how it seemed to crumple his face in unnatural ways. "I will let you know, thank you."

She pulled a blank key card from a drawer and ran it through the machine to code it for his room. "Here you go," she said, slapping it onto the counter with another plasticky snap, "Room 401."

"Thank you," he said again, taking the key card and putting it into his coat's front pocket. She held up a hand to keep him from running straight off to the room, a slightly unnecessary gesture, since he had no intention to do so. Not without the banker's box that she was now pulling out from under the counter.

It was sealed with tamper-evident tape, noticeably intact as she spun it 180 degrees so he could also see his name and a brief description of the contents inked with a tidy hand in the space provided on the lid. Billie pushed the box toward him and then tapped a nail over one of the items on the contents list. "She's parked out front."

Castiel peered down at the item she had indicated. "Keys," it said, rather cryptically, in that unfamiliar, efficient script. He nodded. "Thank you."

He bent to pick up the handle of his briefcase, letting the duffle fall farther across his back as he did so in order to free up space under his arm for the banker's box. It worked, albeit inelegantly, and he felt a little foolish as he fumbled the box off the counter and turned to go. He felt even worse when Billie said to his back: "I'm sorry for your loss."

No part of him wanted to say "thank you" again, so he just paused long enough to indicate that he had heard her, and then went out through the glass door and back into the shadowed parking lot without saying a damn thing.

---

Room 401 opened into a concise sort of entryway that pointed him toward a small kitchenette lit primarily by the glare of the Biggerson's sign falling in through the window. The space featured a round table with peeling laminate, two plastic-and-stainless-steel chairs, a sink and a microwave and a loudly humming fridge. It was downright lavish compared to the accommodations Castiel had shifted between for the better part of his life.

The banker's box went onto the table, to be ignored until the time came Castiel felt ready to pry inside.

He shrugged his duffle off onto the end of the bed, the briefcase going onto the floor at its foot. Successfully offloaded, Castiel turned and sat beside the duffle with his hands in his lap, looking at the boxy little TV set sitting on top of a banged up little dresser; at the dusty looking armchair shoved back in the corner to his right, under a dusty looking lamp; at the dim alcove immediately to the right of the TV, keeping discreet the bathroom sink and mirror and the door to the toilet and shower.

He didn't know what to do now.

Twisting to look at the digital clock on the bedside table, he marked the time with no real interest. Just after 6:30. Not enough daylight left to try and find his way around town, too early to sleep. Not that he really felt compelled to do either of those things. Not that he felt compelled to do anything.

But he had to do something, though, didn't he? He had to keep moving forward, in whatever small way he could manage. He had to.

With a long sigh that seemed almost to empty him completely, Castiel got to his feet. He pulled his overcoat off, went to the alcove closet to hang it up, stopped at the sink to splash some water on his face. He took a moment to appreciate his appearance -- mournful and aggressively unkempt after two solid days on the road -- before stepping out of the alcove to retrieve the briefcase. He opened it on the bed and slipped the laptop out, digging around for the charger, and brought both to the dresser, setting the laptop to one side and plugging it into the outlet he found by tracing the TV's power cord.

He stood there, hunched a little over the open laptop, waiting for it to wake from its hibernating state. He could check his email, at least, or scroll through the news he'd missed while in the air and in taxis and in the air again and in buses that sailed too quickly through isolated islands of 4G signal that lit up only a single bar before going dark again.

His desktop loaded, the wallpaper a heavily-filtered photo he'd pulled from who-knew-where: just an expanse of faded teal, adorned only by a single, old-fashioned kite, bold and bright with primary colors, pinned there on the sky by an unseen breeze for all eternity. He had set it a long time ago and never changed it; the image was a small comfort, though for what reason, he couldn't tell. It wasn't his memory.

The fleeting sense of well-being provided by the tranquil wallpaper faded as quickly as it had come. The only Wi-Fi network in range was named "Big D's iPhone" and it was locked. Castiel refreshed the network scan a few times, hoping to see something that looked like it was related to the motel, but nothing else appeared. He fished his phone out of his pocket for a second opinion, but it, too, displayed just the one fishy looking hotspot and very little 4G, even though he swung it around like an idiot, dowsing the room for a signal, watching the littlest bar wink at him no matter which out-of-the-way corner he took it to.

He even found himself squeezing between the table and the window, pushing the curtain aside as if the radio waves were having trouble making it through the few millimeters of dusty fabric. He knew better, but it couldn't hurt. In the Biggerson's lot, catty corner to the motel, a sleek black muscle car came to life with an animal growl, and he watched it prowl out onto the street and streak out towards the highway, taking Big D's iPhone with it.

---

It wasn't Billie manning the motel office when Castiel made his way back inside. He didn't know why this should surprise him, but the fact that his expectations had been subverted in such a minor way somehow made him stutter his step as he entered.

The woman lounging in the office chair with her boots on the counter didn't wear a nametag. She did look up from her magazine -- Knives Illustrated -- but only for a second, just a cool, cursory glance to let him know that she knew he was there and also that she wasn't too bothered by it.

"Howdy there, Clarence," she drawled.

Castiel didn't look over his shoulder, this time, but he did falter to a premature stop halfway to the counter, searching the vast middle distance as he tried to quickly figure out if he had enough information to parse the greeting. He didn't.

"My name is Castiel," he informed her cautiously, eyes lifting to meet hers over the cover of her magazine.

She turned a page. "Knew it was something hokey like that."

"Yes, well . . . hello," he said, brow furrowing. She turned another page and he pulled his hand down over his rough five o'clock shadow, a token from his time on the road. He probably should have cleaned up before leaving the room, but here he was. He stepped forward, "Excuse me--"

"You're excused," she sing-songed at him. The magazine dropped just enough to reveal her razor-sharp grin; it was not too dissimilar to the image on the front cover.

"--I was wondering if you knew where I might find a decent Wi-Fi signal in town." He arrived at the counter as he was speaking, and placed both his hands palms down on its surface. When she didn't stop looking at him, he picked his hands back up and dropped them to his sides.

She went back to the magazine. "Depends. Business or pleasure?"

"Alright," Castiel said, defeated, hands clenching irritably at nothing, "I apologize for having bothered you. Enjoy your evening."

He turned his back on her, and wasn't going to stop even when he heard the magazine slap closed and her boots clump to the floor, but still that's exactly what he ended up doing as she called, "Hold up, C."

It was the impromptu nickname more than anything, since hearing it inspired him to send a pinched look of consternation back in her direction, where she was now leaning towards him with her forearms planted on the counter, her straight dark hair falling over one shoulder. "I was only having a little fun," she told him once she was sure she had secured his attention, "We don't get fresh meat like you too often around these parts, and a girl's got needs. How could I resist?"

"That is a very forward way to speak to a customer," Castiel intoned, the dip of his head turning judgemental. He'd seen looks like that before; his skin crawled when they were for him. His hands balled up and flapped open again, trying to shake it off. "Good night."

"Best bet's the Roadhouse," she told him just as he reached out to push open the door. Again, he paused, against his better judgement, and she took that as her cue to continue, "Just head on up Main Street, you can't miss it. If you hit the prairie, you've gone too far."

Castiel ducked his head, hiding the twitch of a small, rueful smile at the joke that slipped its way in at the last second. "Thanks," he said, more to the half-opened door than to anyone else.

"You watch yourself out there, fresh meat," she hollered a parting warning as the door swung shut behind him, "The freaks come out at night."

---

Castiel walked back to his room to get his overcoat, taking in the rosy hues of twilight that striated the western sky dead ahead of him, chewing over the likelihood that the insouciant woman meant what she'd said. He couldn't imagine that a small town like this would be terribly dangerous after dark, but, then again --

Stopping at the door to 401, he carefully prodded his better judgement into at least considering taking the car -- he looked at it from the corner of his eye, trying not to dwell too long on the idea that its previous owner would have left indelible personal traces behind -- and, sure enough, he wasn't ready to go digging. Not in the box, and certainly not in the car.

Castiel gently shook out the fist he had made, swept his eyes over the brilliance of the western sky, and decided he was in the right kind of mood for a walk.

He unlocked his door, entered the room to grab his overcoat, stuffed the laptop back into the briefcase, exited again, pointed himself towards Main Street without giving the car another thought.

---

Turned out she was right about one thing, the Roadhouse was impossible to miss.

From the way the neon sign lit up the rustic wood siding of the cowboy-chic exterior, he half worried the establishment was a bar of some sort. The windows were dark, the shades drawn down against the setting sun, so he only could only make a guess based on what the exterior looked like. Hesitating on the sidewalk under a street lamp, Castiel squinted up at it and waged a minor civil war with himself as to whether it would be worth it to go in and find out.

He slowly turned around on the spot, in his little pool of light, casting up and down the nearly deserted street for some kind of sign that would help him choose one way or the other. Small town Kansas didn't seem to have much going for it, in the way of nightlife; from what he could tell, the storefronts looked exclusively like the little mom-and-pops one would expect from the heartland -- the highway-adjacent Biggerson's the evident exception -- and all of these were either closed or closing.

He completed his inspection, coming face to face once again with the Roadhouse. On the one hand, it purportedly had Wi-Fi, his current mission being to locate the same. On the other hand, it looked like a bar, and he didn't want to walk in there with his out-of-towner face, with his uncool overcoat and his briefcase, and specifically avoid ordering alcohol.

He was just coming around to the idea that he could very well survive off the grid for a night when a pair of headlights attached to a shadow came roaring down from the north end of the street at him, the car banking into a smooth, undoubtedly illegal U-turn in the middle of the block, slinking confidently into the open space directly under Castiel's street lamp. The engine cut off, then the lights, and then a man was ducking out of the driver's side, slamming the door shut behind him.

Castiel was stuck. He hadn't counted on this particular type of social awkwardness, caught loitering on the street without anything to say for himself. He averted his eyes, expecting the man to pass him by and go on with his business, but to his increasing embarrassment and frustration, the guy stepped up onto the sidewalk and shoved his keys into a pocket of his green canvas jacket and definitely didn't continue on his way.

"Coming or going?" he asked. The voice was something of a deep growl, but the tone was friendly enough.

Castiel looked up to be polite, or, at least, to be less weird. "I don't know," he found himself saying. Any chance to possibly come across as a reasonable human being was thoroughly smashed, he thought. He couldn't talk his way out of this one, even if he tried. Especially if he tried. "I've only just arrived," he added.

The guy looked him up and down, not in a lecherous way, or even in a macho, sizing up the competition way; just an unguarded appraisal of his bus-rumpled appearance, the suspicious looking briefcase, the disconcerting way he was caught standing in the dark looking at the door of a place without going in. The inspection was over in a second, and concluded with a good-natured nod and an open-handed wave that clearly said, "yeah, I figured out that much on my own."

"Well, we don't bite," the guy said aloud, slapping Castiel hard on the shoulder, making him rock from the impact and almost exactly undermining the sentiment. He immediately turned and stepped up to the Roadhouse's door, hauling it open and beckoning back at Castiel to get his ass inside. "C'mon, at this rate they'll be closed before you make up your mind."

If Castiel had been looking for some kind of sign, this was clearly providence's way of sending him one.

Even so, he realized he had started moving forward to accept the invitation without consciously meaning to, and, well, he had a lifetime of conditioning to thank for that. Castiel, ever the good little soldier, taking orders at face value, instead of thinking for himself. He frowned a little on the inside -- remembering to briefly tug a smile of thanks on the outside -- until the wave of warm, coffee-scented air hit him in the face along with the unavoidable understanding that the Roadhouse was not, in fact, a bar.

The relief of this revelation was powerful enough to enable him to put his weird little hangups back inside the box where they belonged, his outside smile going soft and honest around the edges, and he ducked his head sheepishly at the guy, who had followed him in. Automatically angling himself towards the register, as one did one when one entered a coffee shop, he said, "I was informed there was Wi-Fi here. Just not what 'here' was. 'The Roadhouse' sounds -- I thought perhaps it was a bar."

His honesty caught himself off-guard, uncertain as to where the need to explain himself to this stranger came from, exactly. It was probably because he had already demonstrated the kind of small town friendliness that made Castiel feel like it would be read as rude if he didn't attempt a bit of smalltalk in return. The guy looked like a nice enough sort of person to meet halfway; about Castiel's age, a little younger, perhaps; kind of a non-threatening good-ol'-boy with his ripped jeans, plaid flannel, and his not-quite-scruffy-not-quite-clean-cut style. Castiel thought that maybe he could survive being social for a minute or two, with someone like this.

Instantly, this thought hit a bump in the road, as his new friend twisted a funny look at him. "Got something against bars?"

Castiel dropped his eyes and tried to ignore his obvious misstep while he drifted into the back of the line, behind a towering mountain of a man in a black leather jacket. Castiel wasn't short, by any stretch of the imagination, but the two men hemming him in were both taller still. He thought about his answer to the question, flicking rapidly through the options, but wasn't able to pick one that was both simple and truthful before the guy abruptly leaned in. This startled Castiel, who instinctively shifted away a half step, shoulder bumping up against the glass that separated him from a shiny brass espresso machine.

The guy didn't notice his discomfort, having breached Castiel's personal space to say in a stage whisper: "If it's rough company you're worried about, nothin' to be afraid of, around here. The real seedy joints are across town. Ain't that right, Tiny?"

At this last, he straightened up and raised his voice some, directing the question straight past Castiel.

Castiel turned his head to see the huge leather jacket man fixing the tall canvas jacket man with a full-bodied glare. He also, at this time, took in the man's shaved head and appreciated the twisting serpent logo coiled on the back of the jacket. He shifted even closer to the espresso machine, clearing the space between the two men as best he could.

But "Tiny" didn't otherwise react, just turned back and stepped up to the register, boots heavy on the wooden floor.

"Wi-Fi's pretty decent here, yeah," Castiel's companion went on. Castiel looked back to him, surprised to see him relaxed and indifferent, like he hadn't just specifically tried to antagonize a 400-pound member of a biker gang after dark. "And the lattes are alright. Fair warning: your choices are pretty much either that or black coffee, those're the only things the kid can't mess up too bad."

Off the guy's nod over Castiel's shoulder, he obediently turned and saw the referenced kid -- in actuality, a young, sandy-haired man of about seventeen or eighteen -- working the espresso machine on the other side of the glass. The milk frother hissed demonstratively for a moment, the kid's face pinched in comically serious concentration on the task, but when he shoved the arm back into the off position, he looked up to see who was watching him and broke out into one of the purest smiles Castiel had ever seen.

"Hello!" the kid said, sunnily, like Castiel was his closest friend and not a literal stranger gawking at him like a zoo animal. The hand that had been operating the machine was summarily raised in greeting, palm forward, fingers wide. He radiated a positively angelic energy that instantly made Castiel feel at ease, despite the anxiety of the last several minutes, somehow even despite the soul-crushing weight he'd brought with him to town.

"Hello . . . Jack," Castiel replied, after realizing he could make out the kid's name tag pinned to his apron. Pinned to their apron, rather, as he belatedly noted the "they/them" pronoun declaration stuck on underneath the name with white label tape. He smiled, the desire to return just a small portion of the hospitality he'd received so far rising ferociously inside him, one of the strongest emotions he'd had the pleasure of feeling in recent memory. "I've been informed I should try one of your lattes."

He nodded at the stainless steel carafe of foamed milk in the kid's hand, and they looked down at it as if they'd forgotten it was there. "Oh! Yes, I suppose you should." They poured the milk into a waiting paper cup of espresso, face contorting back into that look of supreme concentration for only as long as it took to pour, smiling back up at Castiel the second the task was done. "I'm still learning how to make everything, but I'm getting better at the basics."

"Yeah, you are," the guy behind Castiel said, in that manner of speaking that was as aggressive as it was supportive. Jack grinned shyly, ducking their head at the praise, and shuffled the drink off to the pick-up counter on the other side of the register.

Castiel looked back over to see the guy grinning after the kid, and a thought hit him. "Are you their . . . parent?" he asked, tripping and catching himself on Jack's pronoun only slightly, a very jarring rush of panic hitting him in time to swerve around using the word "father," just in case gender-nonconformity ran in the family.

The . . . person met Castiel's eye and then looked away, shrugging a little. "Oh me? Nah. I mean. Sorta. We're kind of just, looking after them, I guess you could say."

The use of the first-person plural pronoun seemed like something Castiel would pry into next, were he the prying sort. Instead, he very, very briefly wondered what the average household looked like in Lebanon, Kansas, these days, or if he'd just stumbled into the exception on accident.

A hand was extended his way, along with a name. "Dean," Castiel was told as he accepted the handshake, "He/him, in case you were wondering."

Castiel let out an inward sigh of relief, and the guy winked before adding: "Aquarius. Stones, not Beatles. Star Wars and Star Trek, but not the garbage that came out after the nineties." Dean let Castiel's hand go with a chewed-on smile and something of a self-deprecating eyebrow wag. "That's basically all the important stuff you have to know about me up front."

"Castiel," he returned, "And . . . I am also a man."

Dean snorted a short little breath at that, eyes bright. He rubbed his chin, scratching through the close-trimmed stubble. "Castiel, huh?"

Castiel pressed his lips together and took a moment to take stock of the state of his shoes, squaring himself for the inevitable question about his uncommon name, but for once it didn't come. Dean didn't have the chance to ask it. When Castiel glanced up, Dean was looking over Castiel's shoulder in the direction of the register, all traces of his friendly disposition replaced by a cold scowl.

As one did, Castiel, too, turned to follow Dean's gaze, searching out the source of his sudden displeasure. For a second he assumed it had something to do with Jack, maybe getting into some difficult situation with a customer, but at a glance he saw that he only had it half right. Instead of Jack, it was the young woman behind the register, who pulled her wrist out of Tiny's pawlike grasp as Castiel watched.

Castiel's throat closed up, his second-hand anxiety over the situation momentarily flooring him. Embarrassed, he looked away, out over the sparsely populated cafe, everyone he saw slowly doing the same: turning back to their screens and their friends, pretending nothing had happened.

Everyone but Dean, Castiel saw as he finally looked back up at him. Dean was still watching Tiny closely, his brow drawn down and his mouth set in a firm line. He flicked his eyes down to Castiel when he caught him looking, and did a stuttered double take when he realized he had accidentally leveled that glare at him.

Dean relaxed his expression into something more neutral, obviously seeing the stress on Castiel's face; while Dean was clearly angered by Tiny's overreach, Castiel couldn't help but project a grim ache that he didn't want to name. Dean's head tilted, as if he was slowly cottoning on to the depth of Castiel's discomfort the longer he looked at him, and Castiel saw his jaw clench the moment before they both looked sharply back over at the register, hearing the woman's voice rise, frustrated and disgusted, over the country twang of the canned music pumping through the coffee shop's speakers.

"You kiss your mama with that mouth?" The young woman had taken a full step back into the space behind the counter, dodging out of the way of Tiny's reach. Castiel could see fire in her eyes, and barely registered Jack standing nervously on her other side.

Tiny laughed, a rolling chuckle that filled Castiel's gut with acid. The huge man leaned up against the counter, shoving a shoulder as far as it would go into the open space next to the register, and curled his hand around the far edge of the counter. "Why, you jealous? How 'bout you pucker up, sweetcheeks, let me show you what you're missing."

In an instant, the nerves and disgust flushed out of Castiel's system, and in its place a white-hot righteous anger swirled up. His hands twitched, settling for fists, and he took a lurching step forward, his briefcase swinging roughly into his leg, the emotion spilling out of him in a growl of "Hey, asshole--"

"Yeah, alright--" Dean growled at the same time, taking the same step forward, bringing him even with Castiel, the two men suddenly a solid wall staring daggers into Tiny's back.

"Stay out of this, Dean," the young woman said, fierce. The tone in her voice caused Jack to flinch, snatching back the reassuring hand they'd been tentatively reaching her way.

Tiny heaved himself off the counter, turning to face them slowly, deliberately, letting them appreciate his size and giving them ample time to reconsider the hill they might be about to die on. Castiel's chin went up, eyes narrowed. At his side, Dean sniffed and thumbed his nose, aggressively nonchalant.

A devil-may-care smile on his face, Dean put one arm wide. "No can do, Jo. There's a quick way to handle huge, steaming piles of human garbage like our friend Tiny here," he said, making stabbing motions with his hand at the man in question, "and I'd hate to see you lose your job over a broken jaw."

Castiel glanced sharply up at Dean, trying to gauge the realistic chances of an all-out brawl going down right here between the novelty mugs and the last of the day's homemade baked goods. Lebanon, Kansas was quickly proving to be something other than the sleepy, middle of nowhere hamlet he had assumed it would be.

In fairness, though, he had been warned that the freaks came out at night.

Dean didn't exactly look ready for a fight, though, loose-limbed and calm, fixing Tiny with a cocky grin that was daring the biker to make the first move. Castiel forced his own shoulders down, his fist to relax around the handle of the briefcase he was gripping like a weapon. He cut his eyes over to Tiny, who was equally not rising to the bait, just sneering at them for what he was reading as biteless bark.

"Like to see you try, pretty boy," Tiny said, digging in his heels.

Castiel frowned, seeing that the situation had ground into a stalemate before it had even started, two immovable objects sizing each other up, both content with the fact that the one who either struck first or walked away first would make himself the de facto loser of the conflict, one way or another. Even so, Castiel strongly felt that neither of these two would be the type to walk away. He raised a hand, palm out, and tried to press some sense into the moment before one of them exhausted their patience and decided to throw a match onto this powderkeg.

"No one has to try anything," he warned, making sure Dean knew he was included in the list of people encouraged to stand down, "Let's all conduct ourselves as civilized people. Please, just leave the young woman alone, let her do her job in peace."

Tiny peered down at him and made it clear it wasn't about to back off just because a stranger in a rumpled trenchcoat asked him to play nice.

Dean, meanwhile, licked his bottom lip and looked like he might actually be considering his options. He nodded, ducking his head as though coming to an overdue realization.

"See, I know Tiny's mom," Dean said, raising his eyebrows at Castiel.

Castiel dropped his own right back at him, a suspicious squint pinching his face as he felt in his gut that the situation was about to spin off the axle in some unforeseen way, despite his best efforts to prevent that exact outcome.

Dean went on, unperturbed, sliding one hand into his pocket as he half turned away from Tiny, like he was just carrying on their friendly chat from before, like they didn't have a behemoth of an audience listening in. "And I know she would be appalled -- shocked, even -- if she found out what her son was up to when she ain't looking. Sweet old Martha, she's been in hospice for what, six weeks? Seven?"

He swiveled suddenly and jabbed his free hand at Tiny-- "Please, correct me if I'm wrong--" Back to Castiel, he tapped his own chest twice to demonstrate-- "The ol' ticker's just not what it used to be, or so I hear. Can't imagine what a bit of bad news might do to her delicate constitution."

As he said this last part, Dean's arm fell, and with it his cheery facade. He rolled his head Tiny's direction, offering him one of the coldest, meanest looks Castiel had ever seen on a person.

All seven feet of Tiny was now quivering with a quiet kind of rage, his boiled egg of a head going pink as he struggled to hold it in, to not lose the game of chicken he and Dean were playing. "You're not gonna tell my Ma nothing, you hear me?"

Dean exploded forward a half step, a finger viciously stabbing the air in the vicinity of Tiny's face. "You stop being a dick, and I'll have nothing to tell," he roared.

"Dean!" Jo shouted over the top of him, slamming her hands down on the counter.

Everyone in the coffee shop flinched. Castiel felt himself hang his head, feeling the sting as if he himself had been scolded. But he'd made himself a part of it, stepped in and got involved, hadn't been able to prevent escalation. He looked out of the corner of his eye at Jo, thinking that maybe he should apologize, but she was just glaring at Dean with hard eyes and a furious shake of her head.

"Out," she ordered.

Dean ignored the way she obviously meant him, and swung an open grin Tiny's way, canines and tongue showing. "You heard the little lady."

Jo grit her teeth. "Both of you, out. We don't need your kind of trouble here."

Something about what she'd said or how she said it got Dean's attention. He dropped his arms to his sides with a slap of canvas on canvas, twisting her way with a schoolboy pout pulling down his face. "C'mon, Jo. You know I didn't mean it. You know me. I would never--"

"Save it," she cut him off. "Jack's shift ends in twenty-five minutes. Go wait in the car."

There was a second where Dean gaped, fish out of water, at the order, but the cool, commanding look that came with it forcibly shut his mouth with an audible click and he reared back, bumping into Castiel slightly. "Alrighty, then," he huffed, stomping the wrong way through the line and on towards the door without looking back.

Castiel watched his boots retreat over the polished wood of the floor, heard the bang of the door being slammed open with more force than absolutely necessary, then tilted his head to catch Jo giving Tiny the same icy treatment.

"What are you waiting for, then, an invitation? Go on, get. And if you try something like that again, trust me, I won't bother with your Ma. I'll go get mine." She smiled, sweet and sharp, leaned forward over the counter, right into Tiny's personal space, to make sure her point wasn't missed. "And we can see how many bones she can break before the Sheriff hauls her off your dead body."

An ominous kind of tension straightened Castiel's shoulders, surprised at Jo's candid threat, doubtful that hers would work where Dean's had failed. After a moment, though, Tiny heaved his bulk away from the counter, gave Castiel a dirty look, and similarly made his inglorious retreat into the night.

Castiel wondered what was going to happen now between the two men, whether they were going to carry on in the street or just back off to lick their wounds until their next meeting. He hoped Dean had sense enough to actually get in the car, at least.

"Next!"

Distracted from the errant thought of the well-being of a near stranger, Castiel turned to see Jo smiling at him from behind the register, the picture of award-winning customer service, and nothing like the stone-cold demon who had seconds ago threatened to have her mother bludgeon a customer to death. He stepped up to place his order, thoroughly cowed.

"I apologize for the scene, for my part in it," he told her quietly as he leaned to one side to set the briefcase on the floor at his feet, reaching for his wallet. "You clearly didn't need us to butt in, but still, I hope you're alright."

She waved his apology away, shaking her head. "Nothing to be sorry for, it's fine. Small town like this, hard for some folk to avoid bumping into the folk they shouldn't be bumping into. It happens, you handle it, you move on. What can I get started for you tonight?"

Castiel offered her a small smile, feeling it press a little tight around his eyes, his misplaced guilt swirling harder at her need to project such a tough exterior. It was unfortunate and unfair that the world demanded the thickest skins from some people more than others, and his heart ached in a vague, nameless way, wishing there was something he could do to alleviate the need for someone so young to have constructed such a defensive worldview.

Off her expectant look, he willed himself to remember what he ought to be doing in the here and now. He gave the menu board on the back wall a cursory review, not really consuming its contents in any meaningful way, until he looked down and caught Jack's eye from where the eager barista floated at a respectful distance between Jo and the espresso machine.

Castiel smiled, this time with notable ease as he remembered Dean's earlier suggestion. "A small latte, please. It came highly recommended."

"You got it," Jo nodded, punching the order into the register and pulling a cup from the stack. "Your name?" She looked up at him, reaching into a mug with a missing handle to fish out a Sharpie.

"Uh, Castiel," he supplied, and spelled it for her benefit, just in case.

"Castiel," she repeated, as most did when confronted with his name for the first time, trying it out for themselves, "That's got kind of a Biblical ring to it, doesn't it? Don't tell me you're some kind of guardian angel?"

"Hardly," Castiel murmured, dropping his gaze to focus on pulling the correct currency out of his wallet.

Jo passed the cup with his name on it to Jack, who immediately took it to the espresso machine and got to work, that same serious look of concentration commandeering their entire face for the duration.

"Anything else for you today?" she asked.

It was one of those scripted niceties that Castiel truly appreciated about by-the-book social interactions. A perfect sequitur that spared him the effort of trying to come up with one on his own. "Do you have a password for the Wi-Fi?"

She nodded, slipping a business card sized piece of paper from a loose stack next to the register, and handed it over in trade for the cash he gave her in return. As she punched open the till and dug around for his change, he glanced down at the code. It read "N@turomDem0nto," which, as far as Wi-Fi passwords went, was certainly one.

The till banged shut with a ring, Jo handing him back his change. Seeing his bemused look as he inspected the hotspot info, she explained, "Sorry, I know it's a little out there. Our IT guy, Ash, he's a bit of a supernatural freak."

"I see," Castiel said agreeably, though he felt fairly certain that there was some additional piece of trivia he was missing to be able to recognize the significance of the unintelligible string of letters and numbers. He put the paper into his pocket, dumped the loose change from his palm into the tip jar, and retrieved his briefcase. "Thank you."

Jo's eyebrows came down, not unkindly, as her lips pursed in baffled amusement. "No problem," she laughed, shaking her head at him. "Jack'll have your drink out in a minute." She waved him in the direction of the pickup counter, and Castiel went gratefully on his way, looking forward to the upcoming stretch of time where he didn't have to make small talk, or try to avoid physical altercations, or accidentally say "thank you" after tipping.

The remaining patrons of the Roadhouse appeared to have cleared out since he had last looked, but whether this was due to the late hour or the recent potential for violence, he couldn't be sure. Castiel thought about Dean waiting for Jack out in that beast of a car; thought about Tiny (or men like him) lurking out on the streets.

He pulled out his phone, noting the time as he thumbed to the Wi-Fi settings. Again, the hotspot listing was sparse, just the one named after the Roadhouse -- finally, full bars -- and, to his muted surprise, "Big D's iPhone."

He was still looking curiously at the cafe's curtained windows, in the direction where he knew that sleek black muscle car with the animal growl was parked under a street lamp, when a bright voice chimed behind him: "Here you go!"

Sliding his phone back into his pocket, Castiel turned to face Jack, finding a bloom of warmth filling the hollow of his chest to see them sliding his latte over with an exceedingly proud look on their face, certain of a job well done. Right on the drink's tail, Castiel was surprised to see a small plate with a piece of apple pie being pushed his way as well.

He held up his hand to stop or question the freebie, thinking he hadn't done anything today to have earned getting rewarded with pie, but Jo popped up at Jack's side and gave him one of those looks he already recognized as meaning he wouldn't be allowed to decline. His bottom lip pursed, he reached out and obediently pulled the plate the rest of the way over with one finger.

"At closing time, we either have trash all the leftover perishables or give 'em away," Jo explained. She nodded down at the plate with something of a wicked grin, "Normally I'd be packing this up for Jack to take home for Dean, but here's hoping I can teach him something by revoking his pie privileges for one night."

Castiel's eyes went wide, and his hand flew off the rim of the plate as though it had burned him. Before he could figure out a way to articulate how uncomfortable it made him to know he was stealing someone's pie, Jack laughed and shook their head.

"No, it's okay, really. Sam's always saying Dean needs to watch what he eats. So, you're helping!" They chirped this last bit with a scrunch of the eyes and a jerky shrug of their shoulders. Jo backed the assertion, a tilt of her head and a jag of her brow to say Castiel really didn't have the room to argue with either of them on this.

"Ah," Castiel said, eyeing the pie like it was a plate full of gold, feeling completely unworthy, "If that's the case. . ."

He looked up, met Jo's and then Jack's eyes, and told them solemnly, "I appreciate it."

Jack's endearing smile crinkled onto their face again, and Jo patted them on the arm.

"Hey, we're all set here," she said to Jack, "Why don't you clock out a little early, okay? I won't tell my mom."

Castiel kept his small smile to himself, busied himself shifting his briefcase to his other hand as Jack eagerly tripped off to head out for the night. Still, he lingered a little at the pickup counter, not missing the guarded way Jo eyed the front door, which gave nothing away as to what kind of trouble might still be skulking in the night on the other side.

She caught him noticing, which was fine, because his thoughts were running along similar tracks. It gave him the cue to share his own. "Um," he started, glancing away, "Would it be a problem if I stayed until closing? There's, uh, no Wi-Fi at the motel."

When he looked back over at her, shy, she was giving him a soft eye roll with her mouth screwed up to one side to hide some kind of smile. She chewed on the inside of her cheek a moment, then looked heavenward with a good-natured sigh.

"You know, for a guy who swears he's not a guardian angel--"

Behind her, Jack, who had traded their apron for a colorful windbreaker, swung through the half-door at the far end of the counter, on the other side of the espresso machine, and called out a chipper, "Good night, Jo! Good night, sir, hope you enjoy your drink!"

Oh. Castiel hastily lifted the paper cup, Jo waving her own goodbye as Jack trotted across the shop floor towards the exit. He took a sip of the latte, cringing a little to discover that it was still far too hot to drink without caution; even so, he smiled at Jack and gestured with the cup. "It's very good, thank you."

He was treated to another of those full-face, joyous smiles, and then Jack was out the door and Castiel was left alone with Jo, his scalding latte, and his unearned pie. He thumbed the lip of the plastic to-go lid, only half-certain she had approved of him sticking around now that she was on her own behind the counter. For all she knew, he could be just as rotten as any of them, just biding his time until--

"Please help yourself to our Wi-Fi for as long as you'd like," Jo told him, fixing him with a kind, if ever-so-slightly bemused, look.

He nodded his thanks, and, using the bottom of his drink, shifted the pie plate over to the edge of the counter where he caught it in the fingers of the hand already tucked under the handle of the briefcase, maxing out his awkwardness in doing so. Jo was biting her lip, watching the juggling act unfold before her, but she didn't otherwise comment. With a short smile of parting, Castiel fled -- cautiously -- to a small table at one of the shaded windows, far from Jo and close to the door.

As he went, the sound of a car engine, startling in both how loud and how familiar it seemed to him, rumbled up through the coffee shop's backdrop of picked guitars and singing fiddles. By the time Castiel took a seat, it had already roared off into the distance. He was glad its driver seemed not to have run into any further trouble, after all.

Drink settled, pie settled, Castiel himself settled, he set the briefcase on the floor beside him and clicked it open just enough to drag the laptop out from the pocket. He slid it onto the table between his other items, determined to connect to the Wi-Fi and check his email, to do the one thing he had ventured out to do, even if only to say he had.

As suspected, he now saw no trace of "Big D's iPhone" nearby, and carefully punched in the access code to the Roadhouse's network. The computer connected without fanfare. Dutifully, he clicked on his email app and watched the logo splash pop up over the muted periwinkle of his desktop wallpaper.

While the program loaded up, he reached out and pulled the pie over and dug a chunk out of it with the fork that had been so kindly provided. The first bite reminded him that he hadn't eaten since Kansas City, and his focus narrowed to the singular task of slicing and chewing until there was nothing left but crumbs stuck to the cinnamon-sugary tracks his fork made as it scraped over the plate's inexplicable cowboy boot pattern.

Returning the plate and fork to the table with a sigh, Castiel took up his latte, now sufficiently cooled, and sipped this while flicking his fingers over the laptop's trackpad, disinterestedly scrolling through his inbox. The loss of a few of his taste buds notwithstanding, he found he was able to appreciate the quality of Jack's handiwork, and he felt retroactively absolved for the preemptive high marks he'd given.

He stopped scrolling. Not that he'd been paying attention to the task anyway, but thinking about the young person's ineffable good cheer and the mercurial temper of their guardian had him staring at the curtain as if he could see straight through it, into the street and the night, imagining the shine of the street lamp off the hood of that dangerous-looking car.

He drank the rest of his latte while absorbed in the expanse of his mind's eye, the limitless vistas of the day's bus ride peppered with half-remembered moments of the evening so far, impressions of the short stretch of Main Street Lebanon he'd traversed, the faces of strangers blending one into the next into the next. There was one face in particular that he kept circling back to, though, and one moment that was sharper than the rest.

Standing under that street lamp, waiting. Waiting for--

"Sorry to interrupt," Jo said, tentative, seeming to materialize at Castiel's table.

He whipped his head away from the window -- had he really just been staring blankly at the curtain this whole time? What must she think -- and pushed back his chair to try to get with the program. "Sorry -- you've probably been waiting--"

She laughed and held up her hands, and he slowed his frantic sweeping of his belongings from the table. "Whoa, there. I was just gonna give you a five-minute heads up, is all. Didn't mean to spook you."

Castiel perched the briefcase he had snagged from the floor onto his vacated chair, and gently slid the laptop back inside. "I'm fine," he said, snapping the clasp closed, "please don't let me hold you up."

"No worries," she told him, and when he darted his eyes over to her, she was giving him that slightly amused, slightly puzzled look she'd been giving him since he walked in. She cleared his plate and cup from the table and made off with them. He picked up his briefcase and pushed in the chair, standing purposelessly there at its side.

She looked back over her shoulder at him, seeing him not leaving. "Five minutes," she said again, "and then I'm going to let you walk me to my car, okay? You seem sweet, and I just can't help feeling like you'll have an aneurysm or something if I walk out there alone."

"Sorry," Castiel repeated. He frowned, suddenly very invested in the stitching on his briefcase handle. "I've overstepped again."

Jo pushed open the swinging half-door of the counter and regarded him from across the coffee shop floor. "I'll let it slide, this once. Just don't make a habit of it," she told him with mock-gravitas, fighting back a telling smile before disappearing into the back.

It was a joke, he could tell, something to dispel the awkward energy Castiel had fomented up around himself. It worked, just a little, and he took a deep breath and let it out in a quiet sigh at himself. Anyway, he could promise her that, and easily. He didn't know exactly how long he'd end up spending in Lebanon, Kansas, but it wasn't like he was planning on sticking around forever.

He shuffled his feet, waiting on Jo's return, and willed himself to imagine opening that sealed box. Digging out the keys to the wide, boxy, gold-colored Lincoln Continental. Climbing into the driver's seat and watching this speck of a town vanish in the rearview mirror.

He wondered what tape would be playing in the deck, or maybe what radio station it was still set to. What the scent of the air freshener hung over the mirror was, and whether the built-in ashtrays needed to be emptied. What he might find forgotten under the seats.

All at once, a full-body shudder rolled over him, overwhelmed by all these questions with answers he couldn't yet face.

"Ready?"

He looked up as Jo crossed to the door and flicked the bank of switches to shut off the overhead lights, leaving them both shadows lit faintly by the glow of the displays on the equipment behind the counter.

Ready? Not in the slightest.

"After you," he murmured, reaching out to push the door open.

---

Castiel showered with military efficiency, the rushing water just about drowning out his empty thoughts.

He changed into his sleepwear mechanically, put himself into the bed, and flicked on the television because there was nothing else left to do. The day was finally catching up to him, and his body ached as it reluctantly gave itself over to the support of the mattress. His bones felt heavy, his eyes raw. He flipped channels without comprehending anything he saw on the tiny screen.

Maybe it was the jangle of espresso in his veins, or maybe it was his internal clock's confusion regarding what time zone he'd ended up in, or maybe it was his white-knuckled refusal to find out what his subconscious had in store for him, but it was several long, dull, droning hours of late-night soaps and infomercials before Castiel finally let go and allowed himself to sleep.

#words

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childrenoflight-darkness-nothing · 4 years

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Boots crunched in the fallen leaves as the wind howled overhead. Jace pushed the hood of eir cloak back off eir head as ey approached the castle, one hand tightened its grip on the sword sheathed at eir waist. Ey’d had every intention of marching right into the castle, confronting the beast inside, and demanding the release of the village girl that’d been taken. But now that ey were faced with it…. towers and spires looming high overhead. Jace thought that maybe ey should’ve put more thought into it. Planned more. Talked a few of the other villagers into helping.

Of course most would’ve laughed. Just as they had at the girl's mother when she’d stumbled into the tavern, begging and pleading for anyone to help her. My daughter, my darling Faye, please. Anyone…

The tavern’s occupants had mocked her, laughed and scoffed at her claims of a beast in a castle as they’d cast the old woman out and into the cold. But Jace had been there. Tucked into a corner while ey enjoyed a silent meal and a book out of sight and out of everyone’s mind.

Jace had been there, and ey’d recognized the desperation in the old woman’s eyes.

So ey’d followed her outside, offered a hand and pulled the woman out of the snow. A beast, she’d explained. Great and terrible. We’d been caught in the storm… The door fell open when we knocked, and the place looked abandoned… Inside we went, hoping for some shelter from the worst of it. He took us both, and my Faye promised she’d stay with him, without a complaint… Should he let me go.

I didn’t want to leave her, but I had to get help. Please. Please, say you’ll help me. She’s all I have.

And so Jace had promised. And had made the trek to the once grand Frostbane castle on foot, through the snow and the cold with little more than the sword on eir hip.

Towers loomed overhead, a dull grey in the day's dying light. Vines crept over nearly every spire, twisted and climbing to reach for the sun. Stones cracked and pathways overgrown from years unkempt.

Jace had heard stories of the castle. How it seemed a place that had always been. Not quite remembered, but never completely forgotten. Though it’s residents… and what had happened to leave it in such disarray no one could say. It seemed it was always a crumbling force, waiting to be forgotten and swallowed back into the earth.

But there were also stories of the music you could hear if you crept on paths close. A haunting violin. Solo in its sorrow. Melodies drifting without a home or source through the surrounding forest.

Some claimed the work of faeries. A cruel enchantment meant to draw you in and ensnare. Others thought ghosts. The memories of whoever the castle had homed before, yearning in sorrow for a different time.

Jace had never believed the tales. Though ey thought ey might start as ey climbed the stairs that led to the front door. Roses were carved into the stone pillars that held up the castles front. Frost encrusted the stony petals.

Ey unsheathed eir sword as they neared the door, unsure of what would be waiting for em on the other side. And unsure of whether ey should knock, or just barge right in.

The decision was made for them as the door swung open, hinges creaked and dust scraped against the flooring. Ey took a breath, and lowered the hand ey’d had held up in question, ready to knock. Another breath, and ey straightened eir stance. One nod of eir head and Jace strode right through the door, sword in hand and determined. Surely you can take one beast.

The last light of day filtered inside through dusty windows, it offered the only source of brightness in the castles main hall.

“That’s not creepy at all,” ey muttered as ey strode deeper into the castle. Finding an ornate clock, with gears made out to resemble a face.

Ey picked it up from its place perched on top of a small table, so ey could study it closer. Eir curiosity winning out for a moment over eir mission as ey marveled at the lack of dust on the furniture. Beside it rested a small candelabra, and Jace wished not for the first time since entering the castle that ey had some matches.

“You know,” a voice called, and Jace spun around to face the room. “It’s not polite to stare,” the voice continued, sounding as if it was behind em now.

“Nor is it polite to pick people up without asking first,” the clock added coming to life in eir hand and sounding disgruntled.

Jace took one look at the moving face and nearly dropped it, instead ey merely flung it down on to the table. “What are you?”

“Not a what,” the clock scoffed while it brushed it’s sides with what Jace had thought were merely decorations. Instead the wood shifted and moved like arms. “But a who. My name is Dragon.” Gears twisted into a frown as the clock looked around, seemingly unfazed by the sword in its face.

“I was supposed to introduce myself first, we agreed,” the voice from before spoke up again with a pout, and Jace realized it was coming from the candelabra.

Ey stepped back, raised eir sword higher and tried to ignore eir thundering heart as the two argued.

“We did no such thing,” Dragon glanced towards the candlestick, arms crossed over their chest.

“But we did.”

“Well, I've introduced myself already. So just get over it, and tell our guest your name. You’re being rude.”

“Hmmph.” The candelabra crossed his arms over his chest for a moment before turning to Jace with a waxy grin. “Caelum, mademoiselle. A pleasure to be at your service.” His words were spoken with a flourish as he extended a candle in Jace’s direction, like one would a hand in polite greeting.

Jace lowered eir sword, but remained standing a few feet away as ey blinked at the sight before them. “You’re enchanted,” ey said after a moment, all other words failed em.

“Enchanted to meet you,” Caelum said with a wink before Dragon lightly smacked him with a wooden arm.

“Cursed more like,” Dragon muttered. “What is it that brings you to our humble home?”

Jace blinked at the obvious change of topic, ey opened and closed eir mouth as ey struggled to find the words. It had been so simple. Eir plan. Storm the castle. Save the girl. And get back on the road without much time lost. But here ey were. Talking, or at least attempting to talk, to furniture.

“I was told of a girl,” ey finally settled on. “One that’d been taken prisoner by a horrid beast in this castle.”

The pair blinked before glancing at each other.

“A prisoner?” Caelum questioned in a hushed tone. “Did you see the master take a prisoner?”

“No, did you?” Dragon shook their head. “I haven’t,” they repeated.

“A girl? What girl?”

They spoke back and forth for a moment longer. And Jace was just about to leave them to their conversation, convinced ey’d have better luck finding the girl on eir own, when Dragon turned to face em again. “If it’s a prisoner you’re after, they’d be in the dungeons… though those havent been used in ages. But perhaps you’ll find what you’re looking for, and can be on your way before the master finds you.”

“Wait,” Caelum whispered to the clock, though none too quietly. “What if she’s the one…?”

“I doubt that, it’s not likely to be the first girl to step foot in the castle in five years.”

“But what if she-”

“Eir,” Jace interjected, biting eir lip. It was quite obvious he was speaking about em, even if he was making an attempt to be quiet. “Eir… not she, please. And what if I’m the what?”

“Of course,” Dragon bowed. “Our apologies. And you really needn’t worry yourself with that, he’s mistaken. To the dungeons if you please… captain.” They paused, looking Jace over before settling on the title.

Eir stance, and how ey carried eirself. Tunic and breeches, though simply spun and nothing near the finary a guard captain would normally wear, bore the mark of one of the neighboring towns insignia, styled in the way only a captain would bear. Dragon may have been years spent hidden away in isolation, but they could still recognize a guard and eir station if they saw one.

Jace merely nodded towards the clock, a short clip of eir head as ey gestured for them to lead the way. Dragon straightened their posture and jumped off of the table before Jace could do much more than lean forward to attempt to catch him. Worried he might break. But Dragon landed on the castle’s stone floors with nothing more than a loud thump, Caelum not far behind.

Ey blinked, watching the pair jump down the halls for a moment before ey found it in eirself to follow. Ey shook eir head, mumbling to eirself, “how did life get so strange?”

Caelum hopped a few steps down the hall before he turned, waving at Jace to follow. “Come! To the dungeons!”

“Quiet!” Dragon scolded in a hushed tone. “You’ll alert the master.”

#hmmm #how many more t swift refrences can i fir into this thing before people start to notice #tune as old as song #greybane #greybane beauty and the beast au #beauty and the beast au #morning scribbles!!!!

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365daysofsasuhina · 5 years

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[ 365 Days of SasuHina || Day Two Hundred Twenty: Country Road ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata ] [ SasuHina, alcohol ] [ Verse: To Rule Them All ] [ AO3 Link ]

Travel is always so dreadfully boring. Trapped inside her carriage, there’s nothing but the subtle jostling of the road, the creaks and rattles of the cart, and the slowly-passing landscape to observe. And there won’t even be any satisfaction once they arrive. The trip there will be over, true...but all that awaits her at the end is yet another suitor to meet and rub elbows with in an attempt to check their compatibility.

...Hinata already knows she’ll refuse.

It’s been over a year since her coming-of-age ceremony, whereupon she was assigned her personal knight and entourage: the younger son of the most noble knighted family in their realm. Sasuke of the Uchiha has remained quietly at her side these past months, protecting her from any threat, perceived or proven.

...and that has included the promise he made her...that being to keep any unwanted potential princes at bay.

Hinata knows she can’t run forever. Sooner or later, Hiashi will grow tired of her picky nature, and simply arrange something...whether she wants it or not.

There’s just one little problem:

...she’s smitten with her knight.

She hesitates to use the word love. Such a notion is a fleeting, rare thing. Few get to experience the feeling...fewer still are given the chance to act upon it. But during their time together, she’s become entirely reliant upon him. With him, there are no walls. She puts up no pretenses. No longer does she feel a need to hide her thoughts. He hears them all, whole and uncensored. He’s seen flights of passion, days full of tears, spikes of temper.

And she, in turn...has seen so very little.

Sasuke is a bit of an enigma. True, at times he’ll offer quips about himself, or his family...but for the most part, he simply keeps to himself. Not, she thinks, out of a desire for secrecy. But simply because there’s rarely opportunity to share, or perhaps he finds the information unimportant.

As much as Hinata would like to learn more, however...she’s not the sort to pry.

So, she’s left with very little to go on. She’s not even sure he could begin to feel the same way, if he doesn’t yet. He’s just so...closed-off.

She’d give her dowry to know his thoughts…

Jolted from her thoughts as the coach hits a deep rut, there’s a grunt at the disruption, hearing the telltale snap of wood giving way.

...they just broke a wheel, didn’t they? Or perhaps an axel.

Perfect. Curse these unkempt country roads and their pitfalls…!

Leaning back in her seat with a sigh, she hears the attending entourage begin to assess the damage. As if this gods-forsaken trip wasn’t going to take long enough.

“My lady?”

“...yes?”

“We must replace the wheel. If you would, it would be more easily done should you disembark.”

That earns a blink. “...y-yes, of course.” Door opening, she is assisted out of the carriage to the dusty dirt road.

“Apologies, my lady.”

“It wasn’t any fault of your own. If I’m to blame anyone, it’s this accursed road.”

“It shouldn’t be long - would you like a place to sit…?”

“...I think I’ll take the chance to stretch my legs,” Hinata then replies after a moment of thought. She’s been cramped inside that coach all day. A while to stand and relieve her posture is more than welcome…even if it is a bit warm and dry.

The sounds of hooves then catch her attention, turning to see none other than Sasuke astride his dark mare. “Are you all right?”

“Perfectly fine,” she assures him softly. “Perhaps jostled a hair, but no worse for wear. Consider this a break in the monotony.”

For a moment, amusement flickers across his face. Then he makes to dismount, standing beside her. “...should we keep you from the sun?”

“It’s not that hot -”

“Have a parasol fetched,” he nonetheless orders, ignoring her hint of a pout. “I don’t want your skin to burn.”

“Oh, please -”

Her indignation is also ignored, one of her staff spared to hold the thing aloft.

“You really don’t have to be so overly cautious,” she rebukes, giving him a glance.

“You’re in my care, my lady. It’s left to my discretion how cautious to be.” Though he doesn’t look at her, she can make out the slight hint of humor to his tone and the turn of his lips.

Her arms loosely fold. “Last I checked, you were my knight, not my father.”

“A knight must protect his charge from any threat.”

“...even the sun?”

“Especially the sun.”

The two exchange a glance.

“...well,” Hinata then offers, looking back to the carriage. “If I do somehow become queen of these lands...I know precisely what my first decree will be.”

“...oh?”

“Yes. All of these roads will be cobbled and smoothed so no other travelers will have to suffer a broken wheel again.”

In spite of himself, Sasuke gives a short chuckle. “Does it bother you that badly?”

“It’s an inconvenience. One that clearly needs addressing. A good leader takes all facets of their people’s lives into account, do they not?”

“I’m sure many a traveler and trader will thank you for it.”

Soon enough, however, the repair is made, and their trek begins anew. Riding slowly beside his charge, Sasuke makes conversation through the opened window. “We should still make it to the next town by nightfall. You will be lodging in the baron’s manor for the night. We’ll break for the next leg come morning, if you wish.”

“Yes...best to keep going. The sooner we arrive, the sooner we can leave,” Hinata mumbles.

“And here I thought you were eager to aid these people and their roads.”

“A marriage, I’m afraid, must be built upon more than roads.”

By some miracle, they finish the leg with no further incidents. Evening just begins to fall as they cross into the town’s streets, thankfully cobbled and pleasantly clickety-clacking beneath the wheels.

The baron’s manor sits upon a small knoll, and the company disembarks as his servants move quickly to accommodate them.

“Forgive our late arrival,” Sasuke offers with a bow. “The road was not entirely kind.”

“Not to worry, young man. Come! We’ll dine and make merry for your stay, princess. It’s not often I play the host to royalty!”

Though most of the staff are given leave to eat elsewhere, Sasuke remains with the princess as the baron presents a multi-course meal. Though there’s mead and wine aplenty, neither take more than a few sparing sips to keep their wits.

Excusing herself early with nod given to the long day on the road, Hinata makes her way to her quarters. Sasuke’s are just across the hall: near enough to hear any cry she may give of warning, should someone get past their host’s defenses.

“Rest well, my lady. We’ll break fast here, and then continue on to the capital.”

“...mm…”

“...is everything all right?”

“I just...dread this. As I always do.”

“Well...at least give him a fair chance.”

“...I don’t see the point.”

“...why?”

Because I already have you, she longs to say, but lacks the courage. “...I doubt he will make me happy.”

“You can’t know that until you meet him.”

“I know…” Mulling that over for a moment, she then softly asks, “...but if I do not approve...you will defend me, will you not?”

“Of course, my lady.

She looks up into his eyes, trying to find some trace, some inkling that he’s more wary than he lets on. That the prospect of losing her to another man somehow bothers him. But as always...he’s a carefully blank slate. Sighing, she murmurs, “...goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight, my lady. Rest well.”

“...and you.”

Slipping into her temporary quarters, Hinata leans against the door with a sigh. How cruel of her heart to latch onto one so out of reach. True, a knight of great valor and honor has, at times, claimed a queen...but she still knows nothing of his heart.

...how to delve into it…

Knowing there’s little to be done tonight, she resigns herself to bed, ladies in waiting freeing her from her gown so that she may sleep.

...or, with such turbulent thoughts...try.

.oOo.

More of the princess and knight AU! I'm really starting to like this one a lot - it's not often I get to write Hinata pining for Sasuke without much input from his side x3 Otherwise...not much to say about this one! I'm...very tired, so that'll be all from me, lol - thanks for reading!

#sasuhina #uchiha sasuke #hyūga hinata #alcohol //#to rule them all [ au ]#365daysofsasuhina

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thesuperyooper · 6 years

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True Visages

(This is a WKM fic prompted by @shitload-of-muses headcannon that they submitted to @monochromemedic that the DA is haunting the manor still and whenever someone looks into the mirror they see their true selves. I fell in LOVE with this hc and couldn’t resist writing this!!!)

TRIGGER WARNINGS: a little bit of blood but that’s all.

Dark knew to stay away from the manor after everything had gone down. There was nothing there for him anymore; he was finally free. So, for years, he stayed away. He tracked and searched for Mark all while plotting his demise, but no matter what, he never planned on setting foot in the manor again.

Wilford, on the other hand, didn’t quite remember the events of the manor correctly. And, to be honest, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to. He’s doing just fine now, so why would he need to reminisce about the past?

Mark tried his best to forget about the manor. Of course, it was hard when the spirit of the manor was now a sentient being, chasing him down to its heart’s content. Even so, he moved far away and burned almost all the evidence of that night. He burned Damien’s suit, his pin, his shoes… but he couldn’t bring himself to throw in the bow tie. So, he wore it in remembrance of his friends. He kept it with him in hopes that it would be penance enough for the sins he had committed.

But of course, everyone must meet their maker in the end.

You never left the manor. You stayed behind; trapped inside the mirrors. You were a silent spector, stuck in between life and death, in a place untouched by reality. Loneliness made your once vibrant energy wither.

The manor, once a home bursting with life, was now all but dead inside. Nothing moved, nothing died, nothing lived. Everything in the house was stuck in the place it was left. As soon as Dark walked out of the door, the house died; leaving its inhabitants to struggle in between the lines of life and death.

Dark was brought back to the manor by necessity. Certain things had come to light, and the only way he could understand them was to come back and relive that horrible night.

As he looked unto the manor, the warm glow that he had once associated with the building had faded into an icy darkness surrounding the entire place. The yard was left unkempt; the trees had withered and weeds had taken over the flower gardens. The manor itself was untouched.

Dark put a hand on the door and felt your presence immediately. He narrowed his gaze before pushing into the main entrance.

“There’s our little monster…” a disembodied voice whispered.

Dark pushed into the house and through the entryway into the living room. He kept his eyes fixed on the room he needed.

“Celine, what are you doing here?” the voice echoed, making Dark grimace. He tuned out the creaking of the house and trudged on to the detective’s room. When he stepped inside, it was almost empty.

“So, the bastard survived, did he? I’ll have to find him later.” Dark whispered, fidgeting with the books left on the bookshelf before one clicked and the book case opened. A sly smile slipped over Dark’s face.

“Get out. I think this is quite enough.” the voice demanded, now more cohesive and understandable than before. Dark knew those words; it wasn’t you speaking. You couldn’t speak, you weren’t strong enough. So you were using the voices and the words of the dearly departed to get into his head.

Dark reached behind the bookcase and pulled out a old, dusty binder. An old record book from back when Mark would bootleg liquor for his house parties. Dark tucked it under his shoulder and made his way back to the front door.

He tried to keep his eyes forward; he did. But he couldn’t resist sneaking a peak in the broken mirror in the entrance. In place of him stood your body, broken and bruised, along with broken fragments of Celine and Damien. You stood next to the three figures, making Dark glance behind him to make sure he was, indeed, the only one there. He looked back and you sneered at him and rushed the mirror, pounding on it and screaming obscenities into the void.

He turned away in disgust, shutting the large oak doors behind him.

Wilford stumbled upon the manor sort of accidentally. He was ambling away from the police (not running, no, he probably didn’t know he was even convicted of a crime) when he fell upon the steps to Markiplier Manor once again. He felt a familiar rush of chaotic energy as he entered the home. He recognized the house, of course, but from where, he couldn’t quite place. His mustache, a bright pink on the ends, covered the frown he wore as he pushed through the heavy door.

“Ah, bully!” the house echoed the long lost words. Wilford flinched at the memories hitting him like bullets.

He stumbled through the house and down to the wine cellar. Shards of glass missed by the butler still lay unmoved and a blanket of dust coated all the bottles.

Phantom gunshots rang through the manor, driving Wilford out of the cellar and back into the living room.

“You murderer!” the voice shrieked. Wilford shook his head violently.

“I didn’t kill anyone!” he yelled, backing into the entryway. His hands traveled through his hair nervously.

“You can’t handle the truth!” a figure in the mirror screamed.

Wilford whipped around to face the accuser, to find a forgotten face staring back at him through the shattered mirror. Dressed in formal military garb, with a hard, tan helmet almost covering his eyes, The Colonel stared back at Wilford with malice. He was clutching his pistol with one hand, and the other was entwined around another figure’s hand.

He didn’t recognize you. Even as you put your hand against the mirror and shouted his name, over and over, Wilford just stared at you in fear and confusion. You screamed for him to remember you; for him to save you.

Wilford backed out of the manor carefully, never taking his eyes off of you and the Colonel. As he stumbled down the steps backwards, the door shut in front of him, and he took off running; never once looking back. Eventually, he ended up in a dance club far away. Someone gave him a drink and an Afro, and he forgot all about his living nightmare.

Mark came back to the manor to mourn. He couldn’t count the years that it had been since the poker party; he didn’t want to. He tried his best to move forward, but something was keeping him back.

As he walked into the manor, the first thing he saw was you. He stopped and gripped the bow tie in his pocket tightly, before bringing it out and laying it on the table in front of him. The fragmented mirror on the wall showed you sitting on the floor, broken and bruised and crying. You didn’t realize Mark was even there until he put a hand up to the mirror.

“I’m so sorry.” he apologized, wincing as the glass cut into his hand. “This is all my fault.”

A sharply dressed man appeared behind you and helped you up, walking you towards the edge of the mirror. Mark looked on as the body he stole from Damien held you close and consoled you. He looked exactly as he did on the night of the party, but his bow tie was missing. A tear slipped down Mark’s cheek and his breathing got heavy.

“I never thought that it’d go this far.” he whispered.

“You really knocked ‘em dead.” Damien’s sauve voice echoed as he pushed a piece of hair behind your ear before turning to Mark. “It’s not fair, is it?” he asked, his voice turning to Mark’s own. Too familiar for Mark’s liking. Damien turned back to you, “He trapped us in here with no way out.”

“He was my friend… and so was Mark.” You echoed quietly, but the voice coming out of your mouth was Damien’s. You looked up to meet Mark’s gaze and for the first time in a long time, you felt the energy to use your own words instead of borrowed ones. “You left me here to rot. You left us.”

Mark shook his head, “I didn’t mean-“

You lifted your hand to meet his on the mirror, he could’ve sworn he could feel you through the cracks. “One day, I’ll be free. We’ll be free. Until then… be careful of the dark.”

Mark blinked away a tear and suddenly you were gone. The man in the mirror was himself, and his hand was starting to bleed. He pulled his hand away and hung his head low as he walked out of the manor. He vowed never to return unless he found away to free you; to make up for the sins of his past.

#markiplier #wkm #wkm wilford #william the colonel #darkiplier #mayor damien #damien #wkm celine #celine the seer #the mirror #who killed markiplier?#wkm da #actor!mark #fanfiction #markiplier fanfiction #markiplier community #tw: blood #lou writes #my writing

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captain-zajjy · 6 years

Text

Solstice, Chapter 28 - A Final Fantasy XV Story

Pairing: Ignis x Female Original Character

AO3 | Chapter 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27

A/N: Not gonna lie, I kinda love Valeria's dad (even though he has the worst timing ever).

Valeria stared down at her phone in disbelief. Dad. Dad is here.

All the desire, the anticipation at Ignis’s touch had been slapped right out of her, like a bucket of ice water to the face. It had been replaced with the irritation that always accompanied contact with her father, conflicting with the relief that he was alright.

Valeria had sent him a message that she was safe in Lestallum, but hadn’t heard anything in response for weeks. She knew her father was alive - at the end of the world, she was certain there would be cockroaches, daemons, and her father - but that didn’t mean he was protected from harm.

Ignis rose from the couch with a long, heavy sigh and retreated to the bathroom, accompanied by the sound of water splashing in the sink. When he emerged, he was wearing his sunglasses, and the tent that had formed in his pants was almost deflated.

“Well?” he asked her, slipping on his shoes.

Valeria remained rooted to the spot. “What?”

“We are going to get him,” Ignis replied, his tone half a question.

Her mind lurched, suddenly catching up to him, then spinning forward. Her father was here. And he had nowhere else to stay.

“This is going to put a damper on...things,” she said, recalling the sweet ache between her thighs and the thudding of her heart just moments before.

“I’m well aware,” Ignis muttered through clenched teeth.

“You are not sleeping on the floor,” Valeria stated, snatching up her boots and coat.

Ignis froze with one arm through the sleeve of his own jacket. “Er, well...it is your father. I wouldn’t want him to think anything untoward-”

“He doesn’t care,” she snapped, cutting him off. He doesn’t get to care.

Ignis clamped his mouth shut, and Valeria immediately chided herself for speaking so harshly. Her father’s sudden reappearance - especially right when they were in the middle of certain things - had set her on edge, brought all her walls up, and precisely none of that was Ignis’s fault. When she went to place a hand on his cheek and apologize, Valeria found herself laughing instead.

“Oh Gods, Iggy - your hair!” It was sticking out every which way but right, contrasting sharply with his neatly pressed suit.

“That’s your doing.” Ignis’s tone was grave, but a smile played upon his lips.

“I know. Here.” Valeria stood on her toes, using her fingers to put it in some semblance of order.

“Thank you, my dear,” he said after she patted him on the shoulder. “It wouldn’t do to meet your father looking unkempt.”

The mirth Valeria felt suddenly faded. “You met him before,” she said as they exited the apartment.

“I recall. But that was quite some time ago.” Just over five years to be exact. And though the encounter had only lasted a few minutes, it had been more than enough time to leave Valeria feeling both flustered and embarrassed on Ignis’s behalf.

“Then you’ll recall that he likes to make a lot of jokes. Just...” Ignis took her arm as they left the apartment building, the stink of the crowded Lestallum streets filling her nostrils. “Just don’t take anything he says personally, okay?”

She knew Ignis’s self-esteem was a precarious thing; he’d been trying so hard to regain the confidence he’d lost to that Imperial strike, and she would never be able to forgive her father if he toppled all the progress Ignis had made with some careless remark.

“Don’t you want to see him?” Ignis asked.

“I’m glad he’s okay. I just...” Valeria shrugged. “It’s complicated.”

“Of that I have no doubt. You can talk to me about these things - if you’d like. I happen to be all ears.”

“Thanks, Iggy.”

Valeria stopped at the insistent beeping of a car horn, pausing to allow a rickety-looking pickup truck to slowly trundle past them down the street. How could she explain to Ignis how her father had hurt her, betrayed her by leaving her behind, when Ignis’s own parents were dead? No matter how lacking, how infuriating her relationship with her father was, it didn’t seem right to complain about him to someone who’d been robbed of the opportunity in the first place.

Ignis didn’t press her further and they completed the rest of their walk in companionable silence until Valeria brought them to a halt. “Here are the gates,” she said, looking around. “But where-”

“There she is!” She recognized her father’s voice right away, and caught sight of him through the heavy metal bars on the opposite side of the entrance to the city, his head peering over a guardsman’s shoulder. “Sweetie, tell these fine gentlemen to let me in.”

Valeria let out a heavy sigh. Here we go. “Give me a minute to handle this,” she said to Ignis, leaving him standing next to the concrete mouth of the tunnel.

“Did you lose your I.D.?” Valeria asked her father as she stepped forward.

“City’s full, miss,” said the guardsman who stood between the two of them. “We’re only allowing relatives of current residents inside. The rest get sent off to the Fort.”

“And that’s my daughter, you numbskull,” her father replied. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

Valeria now saw that her father’s identification was in the guard’s right hand, so she fed hers through the slots in the gate.

“See,” her father said as he leaned over the documents. “Same last name. And same nose,” he added, rather proudly.

The guard pursed his lips, then handed their documents back, looking rather disappointed that he had to permit entry to the man who’d just insulted his intelligence.

As soon as he was through, Valeria’s father pulled her into a tight embrace, and, though she wanted to be annoyed with him, though the rational part of her was screaming to keep her walls up, she found herself leaning into his touch, and all the warmth and sense of security it provided, however fleeting she knew it to be. Daddy...

Mentally shaking herself out of it, Valeria pulled away, finally getting a good look at him. Her father was tall and slim like Ignis, although not nearly as fit, and aside from being a little rumpled, appeared no worse for his time outside the safety of Lestallum. He looked as if he hadn’t shaved in days, his hair was falling out of its ponytail, and his shoes were scuffed and dusty - none of which was out of the ordinary for him.

“Oh, my little girl,” her father said as he hugged her once more, this time rocking her side to side. “I’ve been so worried about you.”

Over his shoulder, she caught the guard giving them an impatient look. “Come on, Dad,” Valeria said, pulling him along. “They don’t like people loitering down here by the gate.”

“Oh yeah,” her father replied mockingly. “It really detracts from all the charming ambiance. You know - the garbage, the sewer smell, the-”

“It’s safe,” she said, cutting him off. “Where’s your bike?”

“Had to pawn it,” her father replied, his voice lamenting.

Valeria’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?” Sometimes she seriously thought he cared more about his motorcycle than her.

“Don’t look at me like that. It’s not like it’s easy to fill up on gasoline, anyway.”

Ignis was still standing where she’d left him, and Valeria stopped, positioning herself in between the two men like a referee.

“Dad, this is Ignis. You met him before.”

“Hmm... ” Her father furrowed his brow, looking the younger man up and down. The way Ignis stood now, with his hands folded and resting atop his cane, made it look more like a status symbol than assistive device. “I don’t remember any snappy dressers.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance once more,” Ignis said smoothly, extending his hand in greeting at the same time her father did. There was an awkward moment that Valeria could’ve sworn lasted several hours where both their hands hung in the air several inches apart, but in reality only a second or two passed before her father connected and the two men shook.

“Tenebrae, huh? I guess it’s sort of coming back to me. Weren’t you some kind of bigshot?”

“Well, I...” Ignis fiddled with his collar, a clear indicator that such a declaration made him uncomfortable. “I serve the Crown, I suppose, but-”

“Oh! Oh, yeah, yeah.” Valeria’s father snapped his fingers. “Now I remember you. Mister fancy-pants out doing stuff for the King. Guess you got a lot more free time these days.”

“Dad,” Valeria said, shooting her father a silencing look. Please shut up.

Fortunately, Ignis did not dignify that statement with a response, instead asking, “Do you need any assistance with your things?”

“Nah,” her father replied, patting the knapsack over his shoulder. “Always did like to travel light.” He turned back to Valeria. “So, is he your boyfriend now?”

She saw Ignis’s mouth drop open, but Valeria answered without hesitation, her tone challenging him to disapprove. “Yes. Come on, Iggy.”

Valeria took Ignis, who still looked a bit bewildered, by the hand, and began the trek back to their apartment. Had it been her mother, she would have spluttered out some excuse, too afraid to do or say anything that might meet with her ever-harsh disapproval. But, she almost wanted her father to say something, just so she could tell him he’d forfeited the right to have an opinion about her life the moment he walked out of it. But, he merely shrugged and fell into step alongside them up the cracked sidewalk, making more wiseass remarks about the city’s (lack of) sanitation.

“From the way everyone talked, I thought Lestallum would be brighter than this,” he said.

“They dim the lights in the evening,” Valeria explained. “They’re trying to keep people with some semblance of night and day.”

“Ah. Well, even so, I don’t think you’re gonna need those sunglasses any time soon, son.”

Valeria skidded to a halt and whirled on her father, feeling anger ignite in her belly. “No,” she snarled, jabbing him in the chest with her index finger. “You do not get to joke about that. Do you hear me?”

Her father recoiled, both confusion and shock playing upon his features at her sudden outburst. “What?” he asked, bringing his hands up defensively. “Joke about what? His clothes?”

Oh my Gods, Valeria thought. You great, lumbering idiot.

Ignis, ever tactful, cleared his throat. “I admit that it’s partially due to vanity, but on occasion, the city lights can pain what remains of my eyes.”

Get it. Valeria stared at her father with her own eyes wide, as if she could use them to directly launch her thoughts into his mind. Don’t make me spell it out.

Her father’s expression, taking in Ignis’s appearance once more, melded from one of puzzlement to realization to chagrin.

“O-oh, shit. Shit. Sorry, son. You know, I... I like to make bad jokes.”

“No kidding,” Valeria muttered, turning back to the sidewalk when her father had to open his mouth once more.

“What happened to you?”

“Dad,” she hissed. You can’t just ask people that!

“The Empire happened to me,” Ignis stated matter-of-factly. “A casualty of war.”

Valeria whipped her head around. In war, there are casualties . It was a common phrase, certainly, and only coincidence that Ignis used it to describe his injuries now, but the way he said it, in the same flat, even tone that the Imperial officer had used to justify the shooting of her mother - that was something Valeria found deeply disturbing. Yes, war inevitably had casualties - that didn’t mean they should be easily accepted and dismissed.

“Gods damned Niffs,” her father muttered after they resumed walking.

“Did you encounter any of them out there?” Ignis asked, undoubtedly trying to change the subject.

“Nah. At least not any that weren’t smart enough to keep their mouths shut,” Valeria’s father replied. “Just a bunch of loonies at Galdin Quay.”

“Something’s happened at Galdin?” Ignis asked.

“It was fine for a while. We had some people out on the boats, a few guys with guns on the perimeter - everyone mostly kept to themselves. But then one day this fella’ showed up and started filling everybody’s heads with crap. He had a real thing about ‘non-contributors.’”

“So - you,” Valeria said.

“Yeah, me. You want to call me a lazy bastard? That’s fine. But he started calling out old people. Kids. And everyone else was too yellow-bellied to tell him he was wrong. I swear, you give some people an ounce of power...”

“That’s troubling,” Ignis interjected. “The Marshal will want to hear about this - not right now, but when you have time.”

“Son, I got nothing but time.”

Valeria turned to her father. “The Marshal is Cor Leonis, Dad.”

His eyes went wide. “Holy shit. Cor ‘the Immortal?’ Well, I’ll be damned. No wonder they say Lestallum is the safest place to be.”

See , Valeria wanted to say to Ignis. You’re the only one who doesn’t think he’s a big deal. She could’ve sworn he muttered something under his breath.

“The apartment’s past the market, here,” Valeria said as they came upon the maze of stalls. There were far less merchants present these days, but any vacated spaces had quickly been filled by loiterers.

Her father chuckled to himself as he looked around, face wearing the same sense of wonderment Valeria was certain she’d exhibited her first time through.

“Don’t buy anything stupid,” she said to him. “We don’t have the space for it.”

When they entered Ignis’s tiny flat, her father said, “Damn. You weren’t kidding about the space.”

“You’re sleeping on the couch,” Valeria said as she hung up her jacket, hoping her tone made it clear that it was non-negotiable.

“Alrighty.” Her father crossed the small space and plopped down on the couch with a contented sigh, kicking off his boots into the middle of the floor. Valeria quickly crossed in front of Ignis and snatched them up, dropping them in her father’s lap with an admonishing look. Before they could argue about it, Ignis’s phone rang.

“Who could it be now?” He frowned as he took the call. A moment later, he said, “Iris. What’s wrong?”

Valeria could hear a female voice on the other end of the line, but it was too quiet and garbled for her to make out what Iris was saying.

“Sit tight, Iris. I’m on my way.” Ignis pocketed his phone and turned around to once again put on his jacket.

“What’s happened?” Valeria asked him, concerned. The city chimes had sounded eleven not long ago, and it was unlike Iris to disturb them so late unless something was seriously wrong.

“It seems that Iris is in need of some assistance wrangling her drunken elder brother.” Ignis grabbed his cane by the door. “I can take care of it,” he added when Valeria moved toward him.

“You want me to take you?” she asked as he opened the door.

“I know the way. I wouldn’t wait up, though.”

And with that, Valeria was left alone with her father.

“He’s nice,” he said. She turned to him, picking up his knapsack that he’d dropped haphazardly by the door.

“You can not leave your crap lying around. I’m serious. You pull out a chair, you put it back exactly where you found it. Same with anything in the cupboards.”

“Jeez...A couple of neat freaks, huh?”

Valeria shot her father an incredulous look. Are you really this dense ? “He’s blind, Dad. This is the one place where he shouldn’t have to worry about running into things.”

Her father shrugged, but he did tuck his boots under the couch. “Seemed okay going off by himself just now.”

“Yeah.” Valeria crossed her arms over her chest. “‘Okay.’ That doesn’t mean it’s easy for him.”

Her father’s voice dropped to a tone resembling serious. “Just how bad is it? His eyes.”

“He can tell when the lights are on.” Valeria glanced at the bulb overhead. “That’s about it.”

“That happen when they blew up Insomnia?”

“No. He was away with the Prince when...” When Mom died. “It was Altissia.”

“Ohh. Yeah, I saw the aftermath of that up close. Passed through there on my way back to Lucis.”

“What happened to your ‘girlfriend?’” Valeria didn’t even try to keep the disdain out of her voice.

“Went nuts after the Hydraean attacked. Dumped just about everything she owned into the ocean as an ‘offering,’ and then she dumped me when I told her that it was stupid.”

Valeria rolled her eyes. You sure know how to pick them. “Do you want something to eat?” Her father followed her into the kitchen, taking a seat at the small table. “Ignis usually cooks, but I’ve picked up a few things from helping him.”

“Sounds like you’ve got yourself a real homemaker,” her father said, rifling through his pockets.

“It’s not like that.” Valeria put a small pot of water on the stove. “Cooking’s his hobby. We share the rest of the chores.”

“Well, well. How egalitarian.”

Valeria looked up from the stove to shoot her father a withering look. “Do you have to commentate on everything?”

All her father did was laugh. “You sound just like your mother.”

“Don’t-” Don’t talk about her. Don’t compare me to her. “Just...don’t.”

Her father shrugged once more, and then Valeria spied what he’d dug out of his pockets: a pipe, along with a pack of matches and a small tin.

“Are you even going to ask if you can smoke in here? Also, how in the world did you get your hands on tobacco?”

There was a mischievous twinkle in his green eyes as he struck the match, igniting the contents of his pipe. He puffed on it a few times, then made an elaborate show of tossing the extinguished match into the trash can.

“Your old man’s still got a few tricks up his sleeve.”

Noting that he didn’t bother to answer her first question, Valeria cracked the nearest window. In truth, she loved the smell of pipe smoke - it took her back to evenings when she was small, sitting at home with her father and giggling as he made funny faces at her and tickled her ribs. How long had she yearned for this, to sit with him at home once more, not a quick lunch at a restaurant or a phone call? So many years of disappointment had conditioned her not to get too comfortable in this moment.

She dropped a packet of instant noodles in the boiling water, set the timer, and then took a seat opposite her father at the table.

“Is that how you got to Lestallum? A ‘trick?’”

“Not a trick.” Her father pulled out his wallet and slid a well-worn photograph across the table. Valeria recognized her seven-year old self immediately, smiling wide, exposing a large gap where she’d lost one of her front teeth.

“The fella’ who dropped off all the batteries said he was heading back to Lestallum, so I told him about all the horrible things you’d been through. Didn’t even have to lie, really. I may have neglected to mention that this picture was fifteen years old.”

Valeria shook her head, although she couldn’t help but chuckle. You wily old bastard. “I remember this,” she said, tapping the photo. “Mom was so mad that my tooth fell out right before picture day. She told me to smile with my mouth shut.”

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t listen. Because this is adorable.” He stowed the picture back into his wallet and then patted her cheek. “Still are. And I’m not just saying that because you mostly take after me.”

“Dad...” Valeria rolled her eyes once more, although this time she wasn’t really annoyed.

“I’m proud of you, honey. I know you’ve really been through some shit, but you’re tough. A hell of a lot tougher than me.”

Valeria had to look away then, swallowing the lump forming in her throat. I’m proud of you. I’m proud of you. Those words...

She was saved by the insistent ding of the kitchen timer. Hastily rising to her feet, she dumped the contents of the pot into a bowl and handed it to her father along with a spoon.

“Eat your soup, Dad.”

“Soup? Pumpkin, I don’t think I’d call this soup.”

As it turned out, getting to the Leville from his apartment was the easy part. Ignis thought Valeria and her father ought to have some time alone to catch up, and, right now, he needed a moment to himself as well. He was feeling rather annoyed - annoyed that they were interrupted just as they’d begun to take the first small step in deepening their relationship, and then annoyed with Valeria for suddenly acting like he was made of glass.

Normally, she was very good about helping Ignis when he needed it, but leaving him to sort most things out on his own; he could only imagine that the sudden appearance of her father had sent her into an emotional tailspin that, for whatever reason, caused her to hover and fuss over him.

Ignis knew he ought to be annoyed with Gladiolus for making trouble for his sister, but right now he was relieved for the out. Iris met Ignis down the street from the hotel-turned-tenement building, her voice small as she took his arm.

“He won’t come inside.” She sighed. “I’m really sorry. But I didn’t think he’d listen to Prompto, and the Marshal...”

“The Marshal doesn’t understand,” Ignis said, finishing her thought. He knew what this was really about.

“Gladdy.” Iris stopped, repeated her brother’s name, louder. “Gladdy.”

Ignis heard Gladio’s heavy breathing from where he sat a few paces away and could smell the liquor practically oozing out of his every pore.

“I’ll get him inside.” Ignis patted Iris’s hand on his arm.

“Are you sure?”

“Indeed. Go see to Talcott. We’ll be along shortly.”

As Iris’s footsteps receded, Ignis prodded Gladiolus in the shin with the tip of his cane. “Gladio. Gladio.”

“Iggs...” Gladiolus slurred, his voice booming but lacking any sort of cheer. It was impossible to get any sort of privacy on the streets of Lestallum these days, no matter the time, but Ignis could only hear a few scattered conversations surrounding them. If Gladiolus was causing a scene, no one seemed to mind.

“Have a drink, man.” A bottle, wet and sticky, was clumsily thrust into Ignis’s empty hand, a few dregs of liquid sloshing around at the bottom. Ignis brought it up to his nose, sniffed, and immediately recoiled. The drink smelled as Promtpo had described: more like it was fit for disinfecting wounds than human consumption. He poured what was left of it out onto the pavement.

“What the hell, Iggy?” Gladiolus growled.

“We don’t need any more of us going blind.”

“Dammit, Iggy.” Gladio’s voice was suddenly muffled, like he’d brought his hands over his face. “How can you joke about it...?”

Although Ignis had intended to treat his obviously miserable friend with compassion, he quickly found his already-waning patience wearing thin. “Would you prefer if I sat around in my cups feeling sorry for myself?”

Gladiolus merely groaned.

“You can’t do this,” Ignis said. “You have people depending on you. I understand-”

“Do you understand, Ignis?” Gladiolus snarled. “Because you’re not the one who fucked everything up.”

Ignis frowned. “No, that would be giving me far too much credit, not when everyone seems to think I can barely wipe my own backside.”

“Gods dammit, Iggy!” Gladio was on his feet, gripping Ignis painfully by the shoulders, spewing his hot, sour breath right into Ignis’s face. “I don’t think that! I don’t think that...”

Ignis took a deep breath. One of them had to keep a level head; Iris hadn’t called him here to get in a shouting match with her brother.

“I apologize,” he said, pushing Gladiolus back down into a seated position. He needed the height advantage if he was going to talk any sense into him.

“Don’t apologize.” Gladiolus had gone from angry to dejected in the space of a few seconds. “You did everything you could... you...” he trailed off, muttering incomprehensibly to himself. “What happened to you...it was my fault.”

So much for Ignis keeping his irritation under control. “This nonsense again?”

“If I’d gotten there sooner...”

“Can you stop mortar rounds with your bare hands? No, you can’t,” Ignis answered for him when Gladiolus started to speak. “You pulled me out of the water. You saved my life. Is that not enough for you? Because it’s enough for me.”

Ignis paused, but Gladiolus didn’t respond. “Gladio, look at me. Are you looking at me?”

“Yeah...”

Ignis gestured toward his eyes. “If I can accept this, then surely you can accept this. Do you understand?”

Gladiolus gave a heavy sigh and grabbed the empty bottle from Ignis’s hand, made a grunt of frustration, and then there was the sound of glass shattering somewhere off to his left. Ignis clucked his tongue in disapproval. As if Lestallum needed any more litter.

“Gladiolus Amicitia. Shit. My ancestors must be rolling in their graves,” Gladio muttered. “The King’s Shield without a damn King.” He laughed bitterly. “Like the punchline to one of Prompto’s stupid jokes.”

“I doubt your predecessors would approve of your wallowing,” Ignis said. “But the King will return.”

“Why’d they take him?” Ignis couldn't actually see what Gladiolus was doing, of course, but he imagined him opening and closing the fist on his sword arm, staring down at his empty hand. “Why’d they leave us?”

Ignis stuck his cane out to Gladio’s right until he found the bench where the man was slumped and sat down beside him.

“Noct is the ‘Chosen,’” Ignis said gently. “I’m not entirely certain what that entails, but I believe there will be places where we can’t follow.”

That made him feel every bit as frustrated and impotent as Gladiolus, but it was what it was. Whether fate or chance had selected them to fight at the Chosen King’s side, they remained mere mortals. Men. Pawns to be moved about, triumphant one turn and sacrificed the next.

“Noct will return to us,” Ignis repeated. “But, in the meantime, look around you. Look at what the world’s become. There are no shortage of people who are in need of your sword and shield. Perhaps...” The thought suddenly came to him. “Perhaps, that’s why we were left behind. We may not have the power to bring back the Light, but we can make this a world worth saving.”

“A world...worth...saving.” Gladio rolled the words around in his mouth. "A world worth saving."

Ignis clapped him on the shoulder. “I like the sound of it. How about you?”

“Yeah.” Gladiolus grunted in agreement. “Sounds pretty good.”

“Excellent.” Ignis stood and held out a hand. “Now, I promised your sister I’d get you back inside.”

“Can’t break a promise to Iris.”

“Indeed.”

Gladiolus grabbed Ignis’s offered hand and rose to his feet - more than a bit wobbly, leaning heavily on Ignis’s shoulder, but the pair of them somehow managed to make it up the stairs of the Leville without toppling over, so Ignis considered it a victory.

“Iris.” Gladio banged on the door to their suite. “Iris, open up.”

The door creaked open and Iris hissed, “Keep it down, Gladdy.”

With Iris leading the way, the trio stumbled over to the couch, and Gladio slumped down, the cushions sighing with his weight.

“Um...is...is everything okay?” It was a boy’s voice, timid, off to Ignis’s right.

“Gladio’s just feeling a bit ill, Talcott,” Ignis quickly replied. “He’ll be alright in the morning.” Well, probably far from alright, but he would no longer be intoxicated. Ignis gestured toward what he hoped was Talcott’s bedroom. “Off to bed, now. You need your rest for school tomorrow.”

“Oh, uh...yes, sir,” Talcott said. “I...I hope you feel better, Mister Gladio. Good night.”

Ignis let out a small sigh of relief when he heard Talcott’s door close. He knew a drunk man was hardly the worst of what the boy had seen at this point, but nonetheless wanted to shield him from as much unpleasantness as he possibly could.

“Should we put him in the shower?” Iris asked.

Ignis shook his head and began to pull off Gladio’s boots. “Let him sleep it off. A glass of water should help.”

Ignis heard the faucet running as he strained against the larger man’s bulk, attempting to get him into some sort of reclining position on the couch.

“Iggy...” Now that he was prone, Gladiolus already sounded half-asleep.

“What?”

“We good?”

“We’re good, Gladio. We’re good.”

#final fantasy xv #final fantasy 15 #ffxv #ff15 #ffxv fanfiction #final fantasy xv fanfiction #ignis scientia #ignis #ignis x oc #gladiolus amicitia #gladio #iris amicitia

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girlygameofthrones · 7 years

Text

The Game of Thrones Fanfiction Nobody Asked For

Fandom: Game of Thrones

Pairing: Eventually it will be Roose x Reader

Warning: None for now...except maybe foolishness

Summary: You are completely in love with this wonderful new HBO show Game of Thrones. You’ve read all the fanfiction and know exactly how they should go, but when you find yourself in Game of Thrones, you find out that being the “Original Character” isn’t exactly how you thought it would go. Story takes place before Season 3 was released, so Reader only knows Seasons 1 & 2.

Author’s Note: Okay guys, this shameful idea popped in my head probably at some ungodly hour of the morning. It’s totally stupid, and I apologize in advance for it.

Word Count: 2900

You adored this new show on HBO, Game of Thrones. You’d never seen anything like it before. It was dark, it was sexy, it was gritty, and the costumes were absolutely gorgeous. So far you had both laughed and cried, cheered and booed, and you’d even taken your socks off and thrown them at your television. The first season sucked you in, and the second season made sure you stayed there. Now that the third season was rapidly approaching, you could barely handle your excitement. By far, Game of Thrones was your new favorite show.

To quench your thirst of the show, while you waited for season three, you busied yourself by reading fanfictions. You generally kept these hidden, reading them on your phone, glancing around to make sure no one knew what you were reading. You had ships for everyone, and many of the boys you secretly shipped with yourself. To put it lightly, you were completely obsessed with it.

So the day you woke up in a strange new world, dressed up in a funny gown that looked like it was made from the same material as a potato sack, your immediate thought was: “I’m in Game of Thrones!”

As much as you wished it, you knew it couldn’t possibly be true. It was just a television show, and girls in real life weren’t like the OCs you found in fanfiction. You had school, homework to work on. You were finishing up your senior year in high school. Clearly you were dreaming, probably having a vivid one thanks to all the extra Mountain Dew you chugged before going to bed.

But it was so real!

“The Starks are requesting these men fight for them.”

“The Lannister forces left the battle, completely defeated. The Young Wolf had them on the run with their tails between their legs.”

You sat up, noticing you were in a lumpy bed. You took a look around, seeing dusty stone walls and flickering candles around you. Everything was so clear to you; you couldn’t possibly be sleeping. As if to prove this to you, when you put your feet down on the stone floor, you yelped at the icy cold stone. Yep, for some reason you were in a castle. For some reason you were dressed up in a hideous potato sack dress.

And for some reason, you were inside Game of Thrones.

Your first reaction was to grab your face and panic. What would you parents say? Game of Thrones was a terribly brutal show! It was gory and violent yet sexy in certain scenes. People died left and right in it! Was this really the sort of world you wanted to be in? Watching it was one thing, but living in it? How long would you last? What would happen when you breathed too heavily on Joffrey or trodded on the Mountain’s foot, and they retaliated by killing you?

But then (you were ashamed to think it) you thought of all your favorites. There was Robb Stark, Ned Stark’s eldest and very handsome son. After him was Jon Snow, the shy sweet virgin character up at the wall. He got extra woobie points for being a bastard. You wanted to like Jaime Lannister, as he was undeniably handsome, but he was an asshole who was sleeping with his sister. Oh, but there was Tyrion! You never thought you’d find a dwarf so charming. And that was just the boys! What of the girls? Daenerys Targaryen, the Mother of Dragons! Or there was Arya, a tiny badass that stuck out in your mind. Even Sansa, who you didn’t like first season, was growing on you as she handled captivity in her subtle way.

But the question really was, where were you now? Winterfell? Would you see the Starks come out and would they greet you? You’d heard them refer to Robb as the Young Wolf, so this had to have been past season one at least. You knew you weren’t at the Wall. Girls couldn’t go there anyways (though they always seemed to find their way there in the stories) and judging by the dusty room you were in, it wasn’t King’s Landing.

Maybe you were with the Doth Wraki?

But Doth Wraki didn’t have castles. They moved around and stayed in tents. As you pondered for a moment where you had found yourself (you felt ashamed in the back of your mind for enjoying this instead of panicking) the door to your room opened and in came two grubby looking men.

And grubby was an understatement! You wrinkled your nose as a certain stench wafted in with them. Were they servants? The two of them were unkempt and wore widow peaked skullcaps that hung down their bony faces. As you looked closer, you realized they were wearing jackets made from the same material as your potato dress.

“Sister,” one said with a thick accent. “You’re not even dressed! Father is waiting for you!”

Your jaw dropped open.

“Um, excuse me, but what?” You said, gaping like a fish.

“Come on,” the other man said. “Out of bed you! You gotta get prettied up! The Lord’s comin’ by to choose himself a wife!”

What lord? Maybe it was Robb? Your heart sank; he’d married that nurse girl, Talisa, at the end of season two. She was alright, but you still liked fantasizing about him. What other lords were there? Then again, this was like a crazy fanfiction, so maybe Robb hadn’t married her…

“Uh, well, if I’m going to get ready to meet a possible future husband, shouldn’t I at least wear something nicer than this?” You fingered the fraying gown, several loose threads poking out here and there.

The men, who apparently in this world were your brothers, blinked a few times.

“Are you ill, sister?” One asked. They looked kind of familiar, but you couldn’t put your finger on it. You’d seen them in the show, but they hadn’t made a lasting impression on you.

“No, I don’t think so,” You said confusedly. “Really though, I must have something nicer in my closet…”

“That’s what you always wear,” your new brother said. “Nicer clothes? Really, Father has other matters he needs to take care of with the family’s gold. You can’t expect nice clothing. Where do you think we are? In King’s Landing?”

Your head spun. Maybe you were in a poor family. But that didn’t make sense either, because you were being lined up for a lord to choose a bride. You were part of some noble house… You mentally pouted, thinking of all the gorgeous dressed and costumes they had on the show, and you were stuck in this horrible thing!

“Silly me,” You said broodily. You hopped up though and went over to the foggy mirror to fix up your hair. You were put off when your other brother handed you a brown skull cap just like his. “What’s this?”

“Your cap,” he said. “For your hair.”

Well, if there was any way to make the outfit that much uglier, they had found it. They were trying to be helpful, you thought. You took it from him and placed it over your hair, the sight of it making you choke up with disappointment. If you were going to be the OC in a fanfiction, why couldn’t you dress like Daenerys, or hell, even Cersei?

“Come on now, they’re all waiting for you,” your brother said to you and took your hand. He didn’t wait for you to say anything as he led you out the door.

The rest of the castle was just as utterly depressing as the room you woke up in. Whoever owned it seemed to be cutting back on candles. There was a thick layer of dust that wafted around no matter where you went. There were a few fireplaces, but most didn’t have fires in them, giving the fortress a constant chill, and the windows, when you found them, were foggy and yellowing. You knew deep down you weren’t in Winterfell, but this was definite proof you weren’t. Winterfell was never as fancy as the Capital, but it at least had its own kind of charm. This place had nothing of the sort.

You were brought inside a room with one long table at the front and several girls (your sisters? But there were so many of them!) standing in a row. They all wore various styles of the potato sack dress and those awful caps. There had to have been twelve of them though. Plus there were your two brothers. Each girl had her eyes downcast.

“Father, we present to you Y/N,” one of your brothers announced.

You looked at the front table, which had a large chair, and your heart sank. It appeared that all the kingdom’s money went into buying this chair your father sat on. And what an awful father he was!

You knew who he was, even though he hadn’t played much of a role so far in the show. Walder Frey, Lord of the Twins, was one of Catelyn Stark’s father’s bannermen. You remembered his big scene, the one where he bragged to Cat about being married to a fifteen year old. You had gagged when you saw it. That’s when you saw the mousy teen sitting beside him, eyes darting around nervously. Somehow in real life he was even more repulsing than he’d been on your living room television.

All the families in Westeros to be adopted into, you thought bitterly, and I’m a stinky Frey!

Walder Frey studied the group of daughters and wrinkled his nose. “Well, you’re certainly an ugly lot. It’s a good thing you were born into this family. If not, what man would ever take you?” His mean eyes scanned the room, jowls quivering, his yellow teeth peeking out from his thin lips. When he saw you, his eyebrows rose a hair. “What’s this? I don’t remember having a daughter this pretty! What was your name again?”

You couldn’t believe your ears. Who forgot they had a daughter? He couldn’t even remember your name!

“Father, that’s Y/N,” one of the brothers that retrieved you said. “You remember, right?”

Walder settled back in his chair and chewed his lip a moment. “Hmm, well then, I guess the whole lot of you isn’t so ugly after all. Maybe one of you will impress the lord and you’ll become a real lady.”

What lord was even coming?

“Catelyn Stark said her son Robb, the King in the North,” (he tacked on the extra title mockingly) “would marry one of you.”

Your eyes widened, and you bit your lip, holding back the squeal. You knew in the show that Robb didn’t marry one of the Freys, but maybe if he came, maybe if he saw you...maybe it would be love at first sight! Wouldn’t that be wonderful? You could be lady of Winterfell! You could be a queen, the Queen in the North! You chewed your lip as your eyes wandered, completely lost in lalaland.

“Unfortunately for you, King Robb is too important to keep his promises.” He made a hideous sound. “When you’re king, commitment clearly isn’t honored!”

Your face fell, the fantasy being knocked right out of you. Some fanfiction this was. Robb was doing exactly what he did in the show...marrying another girl. And why wouldn’t he? Talisa was pretty and kind and talented. He’d probably heard about the weathered Frey girls. As disappointed as you were, you still hoped the best for Robb. He and Talisa were cute together after all.

Again, though, you wondered: Which Lord was coming here to find a new bride?

“But one of you at least will marry the second greatest lord of the North,” Walder went on. “Lord Bolton will be arriving soon, and one of you lucky girls will be going with him.”

All your sisters refused to make eye contact, but as for you, you looked up and met Walder’s eyes. Who was Lord Bolton again? A northerner? Did he have many scenes? You wished more than anything you could google House Bolton on your phone. You couldn’t even remember what sigil they had. Was this lord old, young, handsome, cruel? Well, if he was a Northerner, that meant he was one of Robb’s bannermen.

And apart from Tyrion down south, everyone knew the Northerners were the good guys, so if you were picked, you’d be fine, right?

Just then a Frey servant came inside to tell Lord Frey that Lord Bolton had arrived. Your ears perked up. You hoped he was handsome and young like Robb was.

“Peh, bring him in,” Walder said carelessly.

The doors opened and you finally caught sight of your potential husband.

And you were not impressed.

Actually, it wasn’t that you were unimpressed, it was just Lord Bolton wasn’t the idea you had in mind. He certainly wasn’t unattractive, but he wasn’t young, strong, handsome like Robb. He was slender, definitely older, and had short greying hair. What got your attention were his cold eyes. Were they cold, though? You couldn’t tell. You could read him just as well as you could read a book written in Mandarin. Lord Bolton dressed exclusively in black, and his wardrobe made him look almost sinister.

“Welcome to the Twins, my lord,” one of your brothers said pleasantly, nodding his head.

Lord Bolton’s eyes scanned the line of your sisters, including you. You weren’t sure if you wanted to be chosen by him or not. This was not the fanfiction you had in mind, but you also didn’t want to spend any more time with the Freys. As you thought about what you really wanted, Lord Bolton gave a curt nod to Walder and then went back to studying you. None of your sisters could make eye contact with him, but as for you, you made sure to keep your head high, curiosity bubbling up inside you.

“As you can tell there’s plenty to choose from,” came Walder’s cruel voice. “Pick whichever. Pick two of if you’d like. I can’t find husbands for all of them. One can be your wife, the other a whore for all I care.”

Your cheeks burned, and before you could really think about what you were doing, you took a step forward and snapped at the old lord: “Are you freaking kidding me? What an awful thing to say! They’re your daughters, not some whores to do whatever you please with!”

At first Walder visibly stiffened, saggy chin shaking as he took in what you’d just said. Lord Bolton’s eyebrows raised just a fraction as he watched the scene before him the way you sometimes watched television. Was he amused by your outburst or annoyed? On top of that, your sisters heads dropped down even further, like they wanted desperately to hide from Walder’s wrath. You stood your ground though, fed up and unwilling to back down. After a tense moment, Walder choked on a bit of laughter.

“Well isn’t she feisty,” he said to Lord Bolton. “Couldn’t even remember her name this morning. Come to think of it...can’t even recall who her mother was. Some spirited whore, probably.”

Lord Bolton ended up smiling, which made your blood boil. “Yes, yes, I know a little about spirited children.”

You were a little taken aback by the Lord’s cold, smooth voice. It was the kind you would have fangirled over in any other circumstance.

Lord Frey grumbled something before taking a big swig of his wine. He grinned, the purple drink having stained his already yellow mouth. “Well, see anything you like? Like I said, take whichever one you’d like!”

“It’s a difficult decision, my lord,” Lord Bolton said casually. He showed absolutely no interest in any of the girls, except for you, but it wasn’t the kind of interest that said he wanted to marry you. “Perhaps I should think on it, get a feel for your daughters before making my decision. It won’t be easy becoming a Bolton.”

“No, that reputation of yours has stuck,” Walder grumbled. He waved a hand dismissively. “Fine. Stay here a night or two. Keep an eye on them and marry the one you want. I can wait a few days.” He turned to your brothers first. “Find a room, for Lord Bolton.” Then he snapped at his daughters. “And you lot, out! Out of here now!”

Everyone stumbled and ran into each other in an attempt to get out all at once. You didn’t budge, catching the gaze of Lord Bolton. You hoped to be able to read something of his expression this time but still you weren’t able. Then one of your sisters grabbed your arm, and before you knew it, you were being dragged out of the room with the rest of them. The whole time your head spun as you made sense of your options and what you wanted to happen.

On one hand, compared to Robb, Lord Bolton was a major disappointment. Not that he was bad looking, but he just wasn’t Robb. Your fantasy was crashing down around you.

But on the other hand...anything was better than the Freys.

So you crossed your fingers, hoping that out of the Freys, Lord Bolton would choose you to marry.

#weird fanfiction #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones imagine #game of thrones imagines #got imagines #roose x reader #eventually #i shouldn't be allowed to write #humor me #utter foolishness

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