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ollieofthebeholder · 3 years

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leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

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Chapter 50: Jon

“Do you have anything to declare?” the rather bored-looking man behind the counter asks without looking up from the paperwork.

For a brief second, Jon oscillates between how would you react if I told you what was in my pocket and yes, I declare this to be a complete waste of time, but he’s anxious to get this over with, so he simply says, “No, nothing.”

The man rattles off a few more standard questions, which Jon answers with only about half his attention. His eyes keep wandering over to the gates, just a dozen or so yards away. It’s so close, he’s almost there…

“Right, that’s everything,” the man says at last. He stamps Jon’s passport and pushes it, along with the requisite forms, over the counter. “Welcome to London. Next!”

Jon moves towards the down escalators, awkwardly attempting to stuff the papers back into his bag as he walks. Well, technically walks. He’s moving at a fast clip that doesn’t quite count as a run but could probably keep up with one. Part of his brain wanders off down the path of linguistics and semantics, trying to figure out what distinguishes a run from a fast walk, but most of it is preoccupied with what’s on the other side of those gates. Through the portal, down the stairs, outside and to the Tube station; he’s not thrilled about it, actually, but under the circumstances, it’s the best he’s going to be able to do.

Damn Julia for destroying his phone. Again. Nowhere has pay phones anymore, either. God, they’re going to be so worried, he promised to check in and he didn’t and now he’s a whole day overdue from what he originally said would be the latest he’d be back. The trains should be running, even this early, he should be able to get home before they have to leave for the Institute, and if he doesn’t he can just go the rest of the way to the Institute and meet them there…

He’s tired, he’s jet-lagged, he’s stressed. He’s used up too much of himself, given in to the Eye more than he should, and it’s overwhelming. He’s learned virtually nothing useful on this trip and he just wants to be home. He feels like he could sleep for a week. Or at least like he wants to.

When this is all over, he promises himself. When it’s all over, after the Unknowing, if Elias is still around, Jon will insist on vacation time for himself and his team members. They need the downtime, and Jon won’t lie, the idea of getting to spend a few weeks with just Martin and Tim is appealing. For the moment, though, he’ll have to settle for a few hours.

He would dearly love to take the day off. But Elias has made it clear that he wants them to think time is of the essence, so he can’t tip his hand and stay out too long. Maybe they can come in late. On second thought, though—he glances quickly at the outsize clock on the wall—he’s not going to make it home in time for much more than a quick nap, if that, before they have to leave. Maybe he should just go straight to the Institute, use the phone in the Archives to call and say he’s back, and curl up on the cot he still keeps in the storage room. He can at least get some rest, maybe—

“Jon! Jon!”

Jon’s head jerks up and whips around. He doesn’t have any checked luggage, so he just kept going and he’s crossed the line from the passengers-only area to the public area, but he hasn’t been paying attention to much around him. There’s a bit of a crowd, but not so much of one he can’t see Tim and Martin watching him from a few yards away.

Jon breaks into a run, never taking his eyes off of the two people he’s wanted most to see as they do the same towards him. He somehow manages to avoid tripping on a small child dragging a rolling suitcase and flings himself into their arms.

For the first time in almost two weeks, he feels some of the tension leave his body. Martin is soft, Tim is solid, both of them are warm, and he’s safe here. The song the Primes danced to, the night the three of them moved into their house, floats through his head, and he clings to Tim and Martin and inhales the scent he’s come to associate with home. For a long time, they just stand there clutching one another.

“Melanie’s right,” he says at last. “Jet lag sucks.”

Tim and Martin both laugh, a little desperately. Jon laughs, too, and looks up. Martin has at least a day’s worth of stubble growing on his chin and Tim’s shirt is inside out. It looks like they just rolled out of bed and came straight for the airport, or…oh, God. “Tell me you two haven’t been sitting here waiting for me since yesterday.”

“We thought about it, but no,” Tim assures him. “The Primes called and said you’d be coming in this morning.”

“We got them one of those throwaway phones,” Martin adds. “Honestly, we should’ve done that a long time ago, but…it’s a long story. We’ll tell you about it when you’ve had a chance to get some rest. You look exhausted.”

“So do you.” Jon looks from Martin to Tim and back again. “I’m sure we can take a half-day without anyone getting too upset. Do you think Sasha and Melanie will handle things for us?”

“Sasha owes us,” Tim says. He eases back but keeps one arm around Jon; Martin does the same. Jon shifts his arms so they’re behind Tim and Martin’s waists. “She’s taken a fair bit of time off these last couple weeks—and it’s for good reason, so don’t think I’m saying otherwise. But she owes us. I’m sure she’ll hold down the fort for a couple hours.”

“I’ll text Melanie when we get to the car and see what she says,” Martin offers.

They walk out of the terminal together and to where Tim has parked his car. Jon half-expects they’ll talk on the way home, but they don’t; he really is exhausted and he can tell they’re tired, too, so the ride is made in silence. None of them speak when they get to the house, either. They just head inside, where Tim and Martin pull Jon into the bedroom and none of them really bother to change into their sleep clothes, just shuck their outer layers and collapse into bed together.

Jon is plagued by his usual nightmares, plus a couple new ones, but honestly, at this point he’s used to them. He wakes up abruptly, but not screaming, and is momentarily disorientated by the brightness of the room and the awareness of another presence in the bed before he registers that he’s back where he belongs, safe and secure between Martin and Tim. Well, between is stretching it a bit; among might be a better word to use. They’ve somehow managed to end up in a tangled pile of limbs and extremities. Jon’s cheek is pillowed on the soft, warm fleshiness of Martin’s upper arm, his neck fitting easily into Martin’s elbow, and one of Tim’s legs is hooked over Jon’s hip. He normally doesn’t like the sensation of skin against skin, or at least he hasn’t with anyone he’s ever been with, but this feels…right.

Something clicks into place, all at once, and it makes his breath catch in his throat. When he called to talk to Tim and Martin because he needed to hear their voices, he didn’t expect to get so relaxed and comfortable that he stopped thinking before he spoke, and as soon as he heard the words love you both slide out of his mouth he panicked and ended the call before giving them a chance to reply. He’s spent as much of the last three or so days as he can—when he can spare the brainpower for it—turning his feelings over and over and trying to analyze them. He doesn’t doubt he meant those words, but he’s been trying to parse out what he meant by them and what it means for them all. Everything he’s been through between then and now has meant he’s been a bit stressed, a bit on edge, and hasn’t really had a lot of time to think about it clearly.

Now, though, he thinks about the safe and secure feeling he gets when he’s in their arms like this, about the desperate way he’s mentally cried out for both of them every time he’s been in danger, but also about the moments of deep and utter happiness they’ve shared over the last year, the nights they’ve laughed so hard they start crying, the afternoons they’ve spent with Charlie in their kitchen. He thinks about falling out of Helen’s tunnels into their arms and the perfect moment of joy when he saw their faces in the airport. Most poignantly, he thinks of the yawning chasm that seemed to open up the minute he crossed beyond the security barrier when he left London two weeks ago—the empty blackness that separated him from Martin and Tim—and for the first time, everything coalesces into pure certainty.

Love you both. Of course he does. He loves both of them with a depth he’s never felt before, and it scares the hell out of him because he runs the risk of losing them both to what’s coming. At the same time, it fills him with a sense of utter peace, because he has them now.

He wishes they could just stay like this a little longer, but an alarm he hasn’t realized someone set goes off and both Martin and Tim stir with varying noises of dismay. They’ve got to get up, got to get to the Institute. Still, Jon clings to them both for a moment more before, reluctantly, he climbs out of bed to go take a shower.

Tim drives them to work, and none of them argue.

Sasha meets Jon with a huge hug when he walks in. Surprisingly, Melanie offers him one, too. It’s a bit stiff, but it feels genuine, and Jon takes it willingly.

“I’m sorry you’re trapped here,” he tells her. “But for what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here.”

Melanie shrugs. “My choice. Maybe one I shouldn’t have made, but still…my choice. Glad I can help. Now tell me what I need to do.”

Jon’s more grateful to her than he can express. Looking around at the Archives, at the assistants, at his family, he can see now what he wouldn’t let himself see before: Sasha’s hunger, Tim’s exhaustion, Martin’s strain. They’re all on edge and they’re all walking a fine line. Melanie hasn’t fallen as hard as they have; she’s still just a regular assistant. Still a bit of an outsider looking in. She’s far enough away from all of this that she can…well, she can’t walk away, but she’s at least not having her soul sucked out of her body with every step she takes. And she’s choosing to be here, choosing to help. She’s someone he can trust to protect his people without reservation or hesitation.

And if what the Primes have said is even half true, which it seems to be, she can probably handle herself almost better than the rest of them.

“For starters, I’d like to hear what you’ve been up to while I’ve been gone,” Jon says. “Then, perhaps, I can tell you what I’ve been up to. We—we need to make plans.”

“War room or downstairs?” Sasha asks. “Either one should be fine. Elias left sick about twenty minutes ago, so we can all convene without him knowing.”

Jon is startled. “How do you know?”

Melanie looks gleeful. “Sasha went up to tell him you were back and that you’d be in later today and all that, and while she had him distracted, I distracted Rosie and mixed laxatives in with the creamer she was putting in his coffee. A lot of laxatives.”

“The whole building heard him, practically.” Sasha smirks. “Rosie wanted to call him an ambulance, but he insisted he’d be fine to get home on his own and that he just needed rest or something like that. I didn’t read his mind,” she adds, evidently catching something in Jon’s expression. “Or hers. Manal told me.”

“See, this is why I drink tea,” Martin says with a straight face.

Jon is torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to scold them both for recklessness. Instead, he says, “If you’re sure…let’s go ahead and do this up here. The seating’s a bit more comfortable.”

Melanie turns on her heel. “I’ll go get them.”

Jon ducks into his office only long enough to grab a couple of things, then joins the others in the War Room. There are a couple of additional pins on the board and a new color of string; considering it stretches from London to Beijing to start bouncing around the States, Jon guesses it’s tracing his journey. The whiteboard has a list of the most common names and places they’ve seen in the statements, with tally marks indicating how many statements they’ve come up with for each, but Sasha begins erasing it with the explanation that they’ve already made a more permanent copy of those notes. They’ve also set up a secondary tea station in the room itself, which Jon appreciates, since it means Martin doesn’t have to be out of his sight for the length of time it would take him to brew tea for them all.

God, the separation anxiety is terrible.

Melanie arrives with the Primes just as Martin finishes up the tea; Jon Prime crosses over to where Jon stands, smiling wanly, and pulls him into a hug. “I hope your trip went better than mine,” he murmurs in Jon’s ear.

“I doubt it,” Jon mutters back. Jon Prime sighs regretfully and lets him go.

He gets a hug from Martin Prime, too, and then they all settle into seats in a rough semicircle around the boards and single desk. Jon brings the mug of tea to his lips and inhales for a moment. Jon Prime is right, it doesn’t taste as good when Martin doesn’t make it. “Right,” he says at last. “Fill me in. What have I missed?”

“Not much, honestly,” Tim says. “A few live statements, Elias being a dick, and…whatever that mess was on Tuesday. But we haven’t been able to find much about the Unknowing.”

Jon is instantly on edge. “Tuesday? What happened on Tuesday?”

“Pick something,” Melanie mutters, with just a bit of an edge to it.

Martin sighs. “Peter Lukas was here.”

“What?” Jon barely manages to stop from dropping his mug. “I-I thought—I thought the deal was that he had to stay away from you.”

“The Institute doesn’t show up in those pictures in the Light, apparently, so there’s no way for the Keeper to actually know he violated the contract,” Martin says. “Unless someone tells him, which, well, if I can figure out how to find him, I’m going to. I got it on tape, at least, so there’s evidence. But yeah, apparently he had a meeting with Elias and made a trip down here first.”

Upset, Jon reaches over to touch Martin’s arm lightly. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’ll admit it was a bit rough, but that’s just because I was already kind of…not at my best. I took a live statement two days in a row,” Martin admits, wincing under Jon’s look. “But anything he did to me, I got over pretty quickly.”

Jon doesn’t like the emphasis Martin places on the word me, but when he turns to scan the others, he realizes the one who looks the worst off is Martin Prime. Jon Prime meets his eyes, and his lips flatten. “Peter Lukas trails the Lonely after him. I wasn’t here,” he says softly. “Martin woke up alone and…”

“It was a bit touch and go,” Martin Prime says. “But we’re all right.”

“Where were you?” Jon asks his counterpart. It’s not like him to go haring off around London, especially during the day.

“Hill Top Road. Your team found a statement I remembered…when Martin brought it to me the first time, I remember being tempted to investigate but feeling very strongly that I shouldn’t. I had the same feeling this time, so I went,” Jon Prime answers. “I thought I might get some…useful information.”

“Did you?”

“Not about the Unknowing.”

Jon waits a second, but it’s obvious Jon Prime isn’t going to say further, and he decides not to push him. Sasha evidently comes to the same conclusion. “I feel bad that I missed all of this, but I was out for the afternoon. My uncle called and wanted to talk to me, so everyone told me to just go.”

“Is everything all right?” Jon asks.

“Depends on your definition of ‘all right’,” Sasha replies. “He’s being released next week. Which is great, and I’m actually quite excited about it. But he also—he had a statement.” She points at the shelves. “Tape’s in there if you want to listen to it later, but short version, the Corruption killed my parents and grandparents. Uncle Wade and I probably had a lucky escape ourselves.”

“Sasha, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. Anyway, that was basically all that happened with us while you were gone. What about you?” Sasha pushes her glasses up her nose with her middle finger. “Did you learn anything useful while you were gone?”

“Maybe? Not by actually following Gertrude’s path, though.” Jon takes a sip of tea to brace himself, then sets it on the desk and takes a deep breath. “Did Martin and Tim tell you about what I found in Chicago and Pittsburgh?”

“Fat lot of nothing,” Melanie says. “Except for the fact that Gertrude Robinson managed to not actually get charged with anything after being arrested.”

“Essentially, yes.” Jon glances from Martin to Tim and back, knowing they’re going to be upset. “As you know, then, I planned to take the bus from Pittsburgh to D.C., then fly home. I should have been home yesterday. But…well, the bus I was on made a stop to allow us to stretch, and I was…accosted.”

“Jon,” Tim says, “did you get kidnapped again?”

“Only a little,” Jon protests. He knows how feeble it sounds, but it does at least get a surprised laugh out of Martin. “I’d—I’d had a feeling I was being followed since I landed in Chicago, but by the time I got to Pittsburgh…I’m sorry I didn’t say anything while we were on the phone on Monday, but I-I didn’t want to worry you two unnecessarily. But by then I was sure. I had hoped the cop that was stalking me would be left behind, but no, he was still after me when the bus stopped.”

“You got kidnapped by a cop?” Martin’s voice rose a bit in pitch.

Jon shook his head. “No, by someone chasing that cop. Alleged cop, anyway. You recall that statement last year, the—the anatomy professor with the students with the strange names?”

“Wh—oh, yeah, the Stranger statement. First live one after…” Martin waves a hand around the room, indicating the Primes, the timeline on the whiteboard, and his own scars.

“Well, apparently one of them was hiding out as a Chicago beat cop. Must have recognized me, or at least spotted the Eye’s influence on me. But he didn’t actually manage to get to me. I got kidnapped—or escorted, as she would have it—by Julia Montauk.”

Sasha’s eyes widen. “Robert Montauk’s daughter?”

Jon nods. “She’s working with Trevor Herbert. The vampire hunter. He’s still alive…somehow. They’re over in America hunting…monsters. Mostly.” He shivers slightly, remembering the smug sneer on the man’s face: The line gets blurrier every day. Could he…no. No, he won’t think about that.

Martin and Tim both reach for Jon’s hands at the same instant. He clasps them both, grateful for the connection. Melanie frowns. “Fill me in. Who are these people?”

“Robert Montauk was a serial killer, but he was also working with the Dark,” Sasha tells her. “Julia Montauk was, well, his daughter. She gave a statement a few years back. Trevor Herbert was a man who spent basically his whole life hunting vampires. Or at least that’s what he calls them. There’s this whole…thing. We thought at first he died of lung cancer, like, literally in the middle of making his statement, but apparently he survived.”

Melanie taps her finger on her mug. Her eyes go vacant for a moment. Before Jon can continue, though, she turns to Jon Prime. “So is he part of the End or the Hunt?”

“The Hunt,” Jon Prime says, looking surprised. “Why do you ask?”

“I thought so, but the whole cheating-death thing made me wonder, that’s all.”

“A lot of—of avatars have cheated death, in one way or another,” Jon Prime says slowly. “But it’s their patrons, I suppose, keeping them alive. One more favor.”

Melanie hums. “’S irrelevant, I guess. Anyway, I’m up to speed now. Go on. You got kidnapped by a Hunter and—the daughter of the Dark?”

“She’s with the Hunt now, too. I got their statement while we waited for Max Mustermann to—well, regrow a body.” Jon shudders a bit again. It was all a bit grisly. “They obviously didn’t know anything about the Unknowing, but I was hoping Mustermann would.”

“Did he?” Martin asks softly.

Jon sighs. “Mostly what we already knew. He didn’t even know when it was set to happen, just ‘when things are ready.’ I’d have tried more questions, but Trevor and Julia decided they weren’t going to get anything else useful out of him and dispatched him.”

Tim sighs, too. “So you got a net total of…nothing.”

“Not quite. Julia and Trevor offered me a—a thank-you of sorts, for helping them catch Mustermann. Apparently they’d been after him for some time.” Jon lets go of Tim and Martin’s hands and reaches into his pocket. “I made a deal at the time. Bring this back to England, promise to dispose of it after, and I’d get all the information I needed.”

Jon Prime chuckles slightly. “That sounds familiar.”

Jon pulls out the folded page he’s been carrying for two days. Martin eyes it apprehensively. “Jon…what did you do?”

Melanie leans forward. “Is that—leather?”

“Technically, I think leather has to be tanned first. It’s just skin.” Jon studies it. “There’s a book—Mary Keay had it. It’s got pages on it with—it’s hard to explain, but the pages are sort of…possessed by the spirits of people who’ve died. Technically, mostly people she murdered. Gertrude Robinson knew how to do it too, and…she bound Gerry into it. Uh, Gerard Keay.”

Sasha’s eyebrows shoot up. “Gertrude Robinson murdered Gerard Keay?”

“No.” Jon reconsiders. “Not technically, but I’m inclined to hold her responsible. She had to have known how little time he had left—his cancer was incredibly advanced when he was admitted to the hospital. But I-I don’t think violent death is necessarily a prerequisite for being bound into the book, just…fresh death. I wouldn’t know.”

“You’re right.” Jon Prime massages his temple with one hand, eyes closed. “I would rather not know those details, but unfortunately I do.”

Martin Prime slides a hand between Jon Prime’s shoulder blades and rubs gently; Jon Prime leans into him and sighs, almost inaudibly. Martin studies the page in Jon’s hand. “So what did he tell you? I—I’m guessing you…summoned him.”

“Nothing yet,” Jon answers. “Like I said…he promised to tell me everything he could if I would just bring him back here, and then burn the page after we’re done.”

He unfolds the page, takes a deep breath, and begins to read aloud. As the last time, the air grows thick and heavy, and the words taste bitter on his tongue. He aches with sympathy for the dying—technically the dead, but reading it, he feels there, the same way he does when he reads the statements.

“‘And so Gerard Keay ended,’” he concludes, lowering the page. And just like last time, there the figure is in front of him, with no clear idea of when he appeared or how he got there. Martin makes a strangled noise of surprise. Jon can’t help but smile a bit as he makes eye contact with the specter. “Welcome home, Gerry.”

Gerry grins and makes an ironic little half-bow. “Archivist.”

“My friends call me Jon.” Jon waves a hand around him. “And speaking of…this is my team.”

He introduces each one of them in turn, including the Primes. Gerry is particularly startled to see them. “Time travel? I didn’t know that was possible. How’d you do it?”

“Spiral,” Martin Prime says succinctly. “Not the best option in the world.”

Gerry studies Martin Prime for a minute, then gives Jon Prime a meaningful glance with a raised eyebrow. Jon Prime rolls his eyes, but there’s a fond smile on his face as he kisses Martin Prime’s temple. Martin Prime relaxes a little, and it occurs to Jon, all of a sudden, that he’s jealous, at least a little bit.

Turning back to Jon, Gerry folds his arms across his chest. “All right. I suppose you’ve got questions.”

“Just one,” Jon answers. “How did Gertrude plan to stop the Unknowing?”

He knows what the Primes did, but he’s hoping against hope Gertrude might have had a different plan. Blowing up a factory will work, but he’s afraid to let Tim get that close to an explosion in the name of revenge. Unless there’s a way to do it long-range…

“Don’t know,” Gerry says casually.

Melanie throws up her hands dramatically. “Great! Just great. Big help.”

“Hey, now,” Gerry protests. “Okay, I don’t know exactly, but…Gertrude reckoned it couldn’t be stopped ahead of time. It could be delayed, but nothing we could do would actually stop it properly. Even the Dancer could be replaced. But once it starts, it might be vulnerable.”

“Vulnerable to what?” Melanie presses.

“I dunno.”

Melanie lets out a string of profanity that would have had Jon’s grandmother washing his mouth out with soap and salt water. Sasha hides a laugh behind a cough. “Seriously, she never said?”

Gerry’s eyes twinkle. Jon’s pretty sure he’s enjoying teasing them. “She did say she had something that might disrupt it.”

Sasha rolls her hand in a go on gesture. “What?”

“Not long before I went into the hospital, she told me that if something got her first, I was…” Gerry pauses, and there’s a flash of pain in his eyes. Jon realizes he really, truly did care about Gertrude, in his own way. “There’s a storage unit on an industrial estate up near Hainault. She said she rented it under the name Jan Kelly, and hid the key somewhere in the Archives.”

Jon remembers the key he found under the floorboards with Gertrude’s laptop. “Oh. Uh, I think I found that, actually.”

“Well, it’s in that storage unit,” Gerry says. “Whatever she thought might disrupt the ritual, stop the Unknowing, that’s where it is.”

“But you don’t know what it is.” With a sinking feeling, Jon realizes it has to be some kind of explosive.

“No,” Gerry answers. “When I asked her, she said she’d show me when we got back to London. Mind you, she had this weird look in her eyes, like it was some kind of joke.”

Melanie sighs. “So we’ve got a net gain of…a storage unit.”

“Hey, at least I know where to go now,” Jon points out. “It’s something, at least.”

Gerry looks around at them, then turns to the Primes. “Did it work when you did it?”

“It did,” Jon Prime says quietly. “But we lost a lot in the process. We were hoping there might be another method.”

“I reckon if there was, Gertrude would’ve had more than one plan set up,” Gerry says. “She was like that. Never put all your eggs in one basket unless you only have one basket, or you’re damned sure of it.”

“Or you don’t have that many hens,” Sasha says.

Jon sighs and nods. “Thank you, Gerry.”

“Sure. Glad to help what I could.” Gerry studies Jon thoughtfully. “Don’t forget what you promised.”

“As soon as we’re done here.”

Gerry nods. “I think I’m ready to go now. Thank you. For bringing me home.”

“Of course. Uh…I dismiss you,” Jon says, a bit awkwardly.

Gerry sighs in relief and smiles. He gives a wink and a thumbs-up to Martin and Tim, and then he’s gone.

Jon sighs, too. He folds the page back up, then goes over to the metal trash can in the corner, drops it in, and fishes out the spiderweb lighter he keeps finding in his pocket even though he has definitely quit smoking. “Right,” he says, mostly to himself, then lights the page on fire.

None of them speak while the page crumbles away to ashes. Once it’s done, Tim exhales heavily and slumps in his chair, rubbing at his temples with his eyes closed. “Christ, that hurt.”

“Hang on.” Martin grabs Tim’s mug and brushes a hand gently against his cheek before hurrying over to the tea station.

Jon barely stops himself from dropping the trash can and hurries back to Tim’s side. “Are you all right? What’s wrong?”

“I’ll be okay. Just—lot of power, you know? It’s getting harder and harder to stop from seeing the marks without trying, and the—the page itself was bad enough, but watching it burn—I don’t know why, but it was painful.” Tim takes a few deep, slow breaths. “I’m okay, Jon, honest.”

Jon doesn’t move from Tim’s side until Martin comes back with the tea and slides it into his hands. After a few moments of inhaling the tea, with Jon on one side of him and Martin on the other, Tim finally looks up and manages a smile. “Sorry for worrying you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Tim.” Jon takes a chance and brushes the hair on the back of Tim’s neck lightly. “How are you feeling?”

“Bit drained,” Tim admits. “Should be okay tomorrow.”

Jon Prime sighs. “Tim, if you’re using your abilities…whether you mean to or not, you’re going to need a statement to really recover well.”

Melanie half-rises from her seat. “I can go try and grab you one. Then you can, I don’t know, read it while we go look at this storage unit?”

“We can do that later,” Jon says, waving her to sit down. “Look at the storage unit, I mean. As for the statement…” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the tape Tim locked in his desk drawer weeks ago, the one labeled in Gertrude’s distinctive handwriting with nothing more than a date and location. He holds it up to show everyone. “This is the statement we’re pretty sure is my father’s. Anyone who wants to can leave…but I think it’s time we listen to it.”

#ollie writes fanfic #leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall)#tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #jonmartim #(yes both are applicable here shut up)#Gerard Keay my beloved

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captaincravatthecapricious · 4 years

Text

Painful Use of Powers

Tim and Jon are having a friendly discussion that is rather rudely interrupted when Jon accidentally Beholds something. They powers of the eye have faded after the world is back to normal, and it makes Jon very ill.

Cw panic (not detailed), vomiting (he vomits static so like.... not anything gross just weird), food mention, baby shark

This prompt is from the bingo on my tumblr, feel free to send a prompt, a character, and let me know if you want a drawing or a fic! The starred ones I already have prompts for, the crossed out ones are ones I have already posted. Bingo by @celosiaa!

“It’s… been pretty strange. About half the people I talk to remember everything about… well, you know. And the other half don’t seem to remember anything at all. Just remember before… and then remember after. I have to wonder if it’s a trauma response thing or ….some weird eldritch thing. But… not actually that curious, if you know what I mean?” Tim is sitting on the couch next to Jon. Once upon a time, they maybe would have been flush with each other. But it had been a long time since they were that comfortable together. Jon hopes that one day he will feel safe enough to lean on Tim again.

Jon half swallows a partial laugh. Not a particularly humorous one, just a huff of air, really. “I’m curious… of course I am. I just… try to avoid thinking about it. Curiosity is a little dangerous for me… Which is irritating because being a teacher is about Learning as well as teaching. And apparently it is down to me to try to revive these children from the fatigue of rote memorization without an independent will to learn!”

“Ha! You inspiring people to learn! Are you sure you don’t just give them that glare of yours and tell them when the homework is due after babbling to them for an hour about whatever. Bet they don’t get a question in edgewise!”

Jon gives Tim that very glare. And Tim laughs properly. Which fills Jon’s chest with hope. He shouldn’t hang on the every positive response he gets from Tim… but he does.

“Actually I read something funny the other day! I was on twitter and I found a threat that had a theory that one of those stupid kids songs brought about the Eyepocolypse! One of those ones that you sing over and over again until every adult that ever met you just wants to clobber you…. I think it was the baby shark one… Whatever the fuck that is.”

Static fills Jon’s mouth. Buzzing through the air. And he Knows the song. The words. The many many many versions.

B̠̼̙͙̘͚̺̓̋̿͑̓͘͟͞ả̶͎̜̙̩̖̋̈́̆̂̚ͅḇ͕͓̘͖̦̫̥͂̊͂̀͂̇̇̂̚͜͢y̟̬̳̱̦̘͖̗͑͑͛̀̚͝͞͞ s̘̠̪̠͎̻̯̰̏͂̒̍̒̏͞ͅẖ̴̢͕̙͕̟̤̯͆̊͂͐̆͜ą̛̙̞͇̹̪̖͕͈͆̽͗̇͋̍͘͘͜r̡̛͍̹̳͉͕̱̝͔̾̒͛͊͐̾̿̕͠ͅķ̯̼̀̉͒͆̌̈͜͢͡ d̷̪͙͓͔̞̗͂̋̀͆͆̕͜͞ơ̵̲̩̦͐͋̊̔̉̑͢͢͠ͅ d̜̳̜̺̣͓̟̿̽̔̽̑͜ͅo̸̙͈͇̠̣͐̿̾̂̏̇̚̚ͅ d̸͍̞̹̫̤̀̑͒́̒͊̔ǫ͚̮̳͇̤̰̦̖̀̋̋͂͌̋͑͢͡ d̲̜̹̤̘̝͖͗̀͑̆̽͢ǫ̴̛̤̤̗̝̯͒͆̂̿̀̐͝ͅ ḍ̶͈͇͖͔̫̯̥̄̃͋̄͌̀̇̑͛͋͟ö̢̖̥̯̹͙̱̓̀͋͗͟͡ d͔̬͚̤̩̯͛̽̏̈͘o̪̼̬̯̮̼͌̈̎̐́̕ b̷̢͙̮̱̹͓̎͑͂̊̋̋͛̊͋̇a̗̩͍̩̲̾̇̄͐̾b̮͇̖̣̭̫͎̂̽̅̾́̄͠ỷ̷͚̘͕̫̲̩̠̮̬͒͆̾̃̅͑̓̄ s̲̳̖̼̩̙̓̿͆̉͛̃͒͝͠͡h̴̡̺̯̮̼̙̜̋̓̋͐̿͢ͅa̴̳̩̲͓̱̞͊͊̓̑̄͢ͅṟ̷̨̛̬͎͕̮̖̣̜̎̌̂̎͢k̟͍̱͍͛̅̉̏̑͑͌͡ͅ d̸̥͓̻̗̩̮͖̓͛̀͒̈̉̀̕͞o̹̭͓͎̤̝͆͂͆̈́͗d̵̙͕̼̖͔̬͚͕̞͂͑̒̀͢͞͝͞o͖͕͉̘̠̹͑̂̂̽̌̋͜ḑ̢̟̙̝͋̈̾͌̆͐͋͂̓̌͜ơ̛͖͎͖̱̳̘̓̽̒̔͌͐̔͒͢ḑ̵͍̱͙̘̙̇́̃͡͞o̴̧͓̼͔̜̣̲̻̔́̓͒͗͂́͜ͅd̨͓͈͎͚͕̳̝̩̿͋̂̔́̔̈̇̓͜ȍ̷͕͙̝͎̙̼̣̃̍̏͘̕͟͞d̴̩̩͖̙̘͕͓̼̯̊̿́̾͋̄͘̚͞ŏ̞̤͉̱̝̯̔̄̅͊̑͟ w̴̰̥̱̲̦̤̘̠̑̅̉̓̀͢ę̶̛̬̗̗͓͍̟̏̀̓͗͑͢ṇ̙̟̳̅͑̾͆̈́̀͋͢͞t̵̠̯̫̙̘̺̳͋̋̍͒͂̍̌̐̋ f̸̻̭̫͚̮͐̑̉̄̍̓̂͝ȯ̢̨͔͍̥̲̌̅̋̂͋r̢͔̥͈͎̭͔̼̹̀̿̀̂̊̈́̊͜͠ ả̢̡̛͉̙͓͎̩̈̈̑̇̒͢ͅ ş̺̦͍̣̬͔̭̲̅̓͑̿͗̍ͅw̺̺͉͙̩͚̻̣̜̪̿̍̽͒̎̀̚͝í̢̺̥̩͖̹̣͖͚̈́̿̐̏͜m̶̜̯̺͙̯͒̔̈́̍͞͡͠ d̶̢̨̡̛͓̖̥̱̩̹͊͒̔̽̈̎̽̚ò̤̤̪͎͔̺̽̍̋̅̆̔͠d̳͎̥̟̺̰̰̘̿̌̐́̄̌ơ͔̣̝̱̪̟̪̑̒̿̑͆̂̓̍̃d̢͎͖͖̭͓̭́̌̇̊̇̀͗͛ơ̴͖͓̤̝̘̯͓̐̊̓̾̕͜d̷̤̺̫̙̠̜̬̈̆͐̽̚͟ő͕͚͖̳͙̭̞̜̓̊͊͘͘d̴͈̲̰̬̘́̈́̓̚͠ȍ̶̠͙̜͖͉̱̥̄́͛͌̌̈͟d̳̜̮͓̀̓͒̈̌̅͌͢o̺͕̙̺͔̫̍̾̾̍͊

The knowledge floods his senses. Too many words. Too many songs. And he can’t stop it until he has experiences every annoying children’s song and rhyme and poem at once and he can’t take any of it in and he can’t thinkcantthinkcantthinkcantthinktoomanywordstoomanytoomany

sharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharksharkDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDoDo

The static crackles in the air, and Jon’s vision goes dark.

Jon wakes up and throws up. Or would, if his insides hadn’t turned to static. As it stands, static floods his mouth and echos around the bin that has been shoved hastily in front of his face.

He thinks vaguely this must be an unpleasant experience for whoever is guiding him upright and holding back his hair.

Even so, it is miserable for him.

This is one of the least pleasant experiences of his life. Which is saying something.

It hurts. It feels like he is being turned inside out and his head sawed in two.

Once his body is done, his eyes are leaking static is well and he slumps further, head still in the bin, breathing hard. He groans, pitifully.

He allows himself a minute. A minute to try to process the information overload that sent him into this state. To try to feel more real and less like a manifestation of buzzing energy.

He can’t drag his eyes open. He doesn’t even want to try.

Then he remembers Tim.

Tim who is almost certainly the one rubbing his back.

Tim who just witnessed Jon Behold something.

Tim who thinks Jon has this under control.

Jon is supposed to have this under control.

But does he? Does he really? Because this Does happen. Not too often anymore, but it does. Jon can’t always.

Sometimes a weak compulsion threads through his words. Sometimes he something slips through into his subconscious. And sometimes, the floodgates open like they just did, and Jon’s body is not equipped to deal with that now, if it ever even was. (Which it wasn’t. He remembers lying on his office floor… sick and shivering for hours before Basira found him at his desk, having finally found the strength to stand, plagued by a raging headache.)

Tim wasn’t supposed to see that he is still like this… this… monstrousness that hasn’t gone away. It hasn’t. Just a bit weaker. Still out of control and he should have this under control by now! It’s been years!

And he can’t think anymore because it hurts too much, and even the gentle hand on his back is too much like hitting. Like scratching. And he knows it is just oversensitive skin and he knows that touch is fine and grounding and good, but his brain can’t tell the difference anymore. Not after years of hurt have been visibly pressed into his skin. And not when merely existing is rending his head in two.

He is breathing hard with a solid band of panic crushing his lungs. And he’s gagging around more static. And static is streaming down his face and he can’t let Tim see him like this. he can’t. He can’t! He doesn’t want to lose Tim again. He can’t do it again! Not when things are so close to good that it hurts.

He tries to get up. To hide, but it sends him retching again.

Tim is alarmed. Not about Jon’s use of powers. He’s… something close to okay with that. Well… not Okay okay with it. But it’s still… just Jon. It doesn’t happen often. And Martin warned him Long before allowing them near one another, the second conversation they had after Tim ran into him in the grocery store and had to go through the awkward business of ‘yes I’m alive, sorry I didn’t say anything, also here’s Sasha who you thought was dead. What do you mean you almost got yourself killed because you were left with nothing to live for?’ That had been…. a conversation to remember.

In any case, Tim knows that Jon isn’t entirely human. Mostly human, at this point. But… not entirely. Sometimes things like this happen, although Martin hadn’t said anything about….. all the static. Something about ink? Something about some minor compulsion. And that Jon is… not cagey about it… but skittish. That he still expects to be punished for this thing that he clearly can’t entirely control. He knows that Jon occasionally Knows things on purpose and gives himself migraines. Much to Martin’s worry. But accidentally Beholding… well it looks worse than a migraine to Tim. This looks painful, and like it’s quickly devolving into a panic attack.

Which… Tim has a sinking feeling is because he is there. This would be…. the third one he’s caused. At least that he knows of.

There was the time that Jon was under the weather and compelled him by mistake. There was the time when he’d finally gotten comfortable around Jon again and had started joking and something in the tone of his voice or the volume had sent Jon into a messy spiral. And now this. He’s been so careful. He wants his friend back. And they were finally getting somewhere with easy visits without Martin moderating. Finally.

And now Jon is sick and hurting and afraid and Tim is probably just making it worse.

Jon flinches away from his hands with a whimper, and his theory is strengthened.

He stops. Timothy Stoker takes consent very seriously. “Do you want me to let you go? Can you sit on your own?”

Jon whines again, forehead resting on the edge of the bin. Dreadfully pale and face crackling with a static that Tim guesses to be sweat or tears… possibly both.

He would absolutely let go of Jon if he was sure he could safely do so, but… Jon looks as if he might just topple over as it is. Best not to disturb him too much. And if he looks uncomfortable with the arrangement, then Tim will try to fix it. However he can.

Until then, he ought to call Martin. But he can’t get up without dislodging an unsteady Jon. And Jon doesn’t look up for sitting in on a conversation.

He sends a text instead.

There’s been an incident. We’re okay, but if you could come back here soon… Please come back soon.

Jon cries. And so does Tim. Softly. Briefly. So many steps they have taken together, and there is still a journey before them.

Martin’s home. Jon would cry with relief if he wasn’t already crying. Finally real tears instead of trails of static. Every time he’s tried to move has made him sick. He eventually gives up and leans against Tim. Shivering slightly. He wishes he could get some painkillers, but…. he can’t even sit up. Not even far enough to let Tim get up.

He did find it in himself to weakly sign for Tim to wrap an arm around him.

It’s grounding. And solid. And warm. And real.

But now Martin is here. Speaking in low tones to Tim. Hands on his face. Jon leaning into Martin’s warmth. Martin wiping his damp face with a warm flannel.

“Hey, sweetheart. Jon, what happened?” Martin.

Jon doesn’t want to open his mouth. Insides still unhappy static. He signs, “Baby Shark.”

Tim chokes on a laugh.

It jostles Jon, which causes him to groan. But… but. A laugh is good. It isn’t derisive. It’s… just warm. And very Tim, as he once was when they were together. As he is, now.

Tim stays for dinner. It’s takeout. And while Jon is still queasy, he manages a little bit of soup before falling asleep. Still leaning on Tim, Martin cradling his legs.

#the magnus archives #tma #whump #jonathan sims #timothy stoker #tim stoker #martin blackwood #cw nausea #cw food #cw fainting #cw panic attack #cw vomiting #emeto warning #words #my words #my writing #my fic #art #my art

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rosy-cheekx · 4 years

Link

Chapters: 2/2 Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Additional Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, The Lonely Fear Domain (The Magnus Archives), Canon-Typical The Lonely Content (The Magnus Archives), Martin Blackwood Feels Lonely, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Tumblr Prompt, Prompt Fill Summary:

"Tea, tea, tea. Rooibos and chamomile for sleepless nights. Herbal for variety. Jon likes caffeinated teas. Maybe some chai? That’ll be good when it gets really cold…god how long will we be here? Through winter? Forever? He could stay here forever if it meant Jon was there too."

Martin can't remember the last time he drank tea. It's unsettling, the habits he picked up and habits he lost while overwhelmed by The Lonely.

Chapter Two is here! Thanks again to @ombreblossom for the prompt suggestion: “please don’t shut me out” and “we can talk through the door.”

Enjoy! (posted below too)

Jon didn’t know what to do. He was worried about Martin, had been for a while, after they had—for lack of a better word—evacuated to Daisy’s unoccupied safehouse. Jon knew Martin needed time, but it was still so strange to see a shell of the man he knew instead of the man he loves.

No, that’s not right. He loves this Martin too, there’s no doubt there. Jonathan Sims, the Archivist, doesn’t think he can put a modifier on that word. Love. “Loved” implies he doesn’t anymore, which he does. “Loves” implies present tense, which is technically true but still doesn’t sit right. It feels like it invalidates all the past versions of Martin, the ones who have waned into this one. Maybe it’s the monster in him, the eldritch being that exists out of time, that Knows and Sees everything at the same time, all the time, forever. But to say he love Martin sounds silly. There must be a better word.

He knows he has love for Martin (better?) when he finds him, quaking or shivering behind a door or in the shower or frozen under the covers. In those moments all he feels is a desperate desire to make things better, to ride out the storm alongside Martin and wish away anything plaguing him. He can’t, but tea and the biggest duvet in the house is close enough. It’ll do for now.

He can feel his love for Martin when Martin reaches out for him, clinging to his hand like a lifeline. Its rare. He’s gotten less tactile since before, well, everything. Martin was always the one to pat your shoulder comfortingly or pull you into a hug when your vision blurs from tears. Apparently people felt so warm to him, as he had told Jon in a calm moment, after he had flinched the first time. Searing hot. Something to do with the relationships they have with others heats them, like embers in their bellies. It was a debilitating reminder that Martin had given up so much, and a curse bent on keeping those relationships at arm’s reach. Literally.

“You’re not too bad,” Martin had said, a ghost of a smile reminding him of the man he knew. “T-that’s probably not good for you, all things considered. But we’ve both lost our connections, haven’t we?”

“Mmm. Everyone but you, I think.”

Jon has been too afraid to leave Martin alone. They’ve gone on a few walks together but overall neither of them has left the house. Jon’s afraid to be around people, to hear the whisper of a statement and be unable to resist the pull to Ask, to Know, to Beg for the knowledge if that’s what it takes.

The time has come, though, the day Jon dreaded. They needed to go shopping.

Jon reminded Martin over and over that he didn’t need to come, that he could stay and rest or write poetry or just take a break. But Martin was determined, it seemed, to fight his battles as much as Jon was. Maybe it would be easier to resist with Martin alongside him, his anchor to humanity.

The grocery wasn’t too busy, all things considered, but compared to the ambient silence of the house and the car, the noise was deafening. Jon felt a bit like an AI unit, using his all-powerful powers to figure out where the tinned soups, bread, and tea were stocked.

God that tea. He hadn’t meant to upset Martin, it was just that he knew how vehemently Martin despised oolong. Jon had tried to make it for him a while back at Sasha’s behest; only to return, tail tucked, with a full mug of tea in newly shaky hands. Jon had thought it was because Martin had finally snapped, lost his cool on his new boss. But Martin had stuck his head in the door, mumbling something quick about oolong and his mum and how he hated it now and he was sorry. Jon had forgiven him. He knew what it was like to be caught off guard by something from your past, whatever it was. But now he was here, staring at the spot Martin had been, shivering as a low fog pooled at his feet briefly before dissipating into the air. His connection with the Lonely was wearing off, sure, but it clearly wasn’t completely severed.

Jon vacillated for a moment. Should he stay here? Hope Martin reappears in the same spot he left? He knew that wasn’t how it worked. Martin had told him about the parallel world in which he could walk, this world but lonelier, softer, more distant. The safehouse would still exist in Martin’s world. It was probably the only place Martin could feel secure in. He couldn’t Know where Martin was going; even if he hadn’t promised he didn’t think it would work if he tried. Martin was avoiding being known and seen. He needed space, as much as Jon could give him, until he was ready to come back.

Jon paid for the groceries, grateful the teen at the till barely seemed to acknowledge his existence. No statement to give; mother on her deathbed; irrelevant, unhelpful child; girlfriend cheating with—Stop it.

Fumbling with bags of bread, fruit, tea, rice, pasta, veg, soup, anything that seemed healthy and easy enough to make between the two of them, Jon loaded everything into the car, backseat precariously filled. He drove home (how quick it was, to admit the safehouse felt more like home than anywhere Jon had lived for a while) in silence somehow more deafening than the scratchy Georgia Ann Muldrow playing from the speakers and the bustle of the tiny Scottish village. It was slow-going, half-hoping he’d spot Martin on the drive and half-dreading the idea of getting home and him not being there, willing himself to put that off as long as possible.

Jon did arrive home eventually, however, to a pant leg and shoe slipping through the front door. Martin. He wasn’t sure if the recognition was the Eye or just Jon, but either entity was certain enough in their knowledge.

Making a point to put the car in park, Jon shouted for Martin, diving out of the car as soon as he could and rushed into the house. He couldn’t tell where man he carried such love for had gone; the Eye beckoned, teased him with Knowing. Just this once. To help him. He pushed the thoughts aside and began to systematically check the usual places. The space behind the front door, next to the couch, the bedroom. As Jon closed the door to the apparently empty bedroom he heard shuffling coming from the bathroom and the unfortunately familiar sound of Martin’s suppressed crying.

Jon approached the door with the coiled tension of one approaching an injured wild animal, pressing his ear to the door. “M-Martin? It’s-it’s Jon,” Stupid, obviously. “Are you alright? I mean-I assume not. But—hmm. what can I do?”

“Leave me alone, Jon.” Martin’s voice was muffled; Jon could practically picture him, elbows resting on the sink, face in his hands. “I-I can deal with this myself.”

“I know you can, of course you can, Martin.” Jon ran a hand through his tangled curly hair, tugging on an errant curl as he spoke. “But-just, don’t shut me out. You don’t need to do this alone. You have people who—you have me. I care.” Sigh. “I-It’s the Lonely, Martin, it’s trying to trick you.”

“Its stupid. I-I don’t think I can say it to your face.”

“Then don’t. I can hear you. We can talk through the door. I certainly don’t have anywhere to go.”

Martin was quiet for a while. “It was that stupid tea, of all things.” His voice was slow, shaky; Jon could hear the effort he was taking to keep it controlled. “It made me realize how not me I was, am, whatever.” Jon didn’t speak, didn’t want to break Martin’s focus. “I haven’t drunk tea since Peter. That sounds so-so stupid to be the thing to lose my cool over but it’s more than that. I lost so much of myself, Jon, while you were gone, after my mum, after Peter-fucking-Lukas.”

Oh shit.

“It’s not just that obviously, it’s the loneliness and the touch and the anxiety I feel all the time. I changed so much, Jon, and I didn’t even realize it was happening until it was too late and then I didn’t have a choice. I haven’t felt human in so long and I don’t know what to do with myself now.”

“Martin?”

“I’m cold all the time, Jon, I used to be the warm one! I used to be the one Sasha and Tim and you would cuddle next to during movie nights in the Archives because it was freezing down there and now I can’t get warm.” Martin’s voice was escalating in tone and volume, a fever-pitch of anger and sorrow. “I just want to feel normal again! I don’t want to be lonely anymore, I want to be human!”

“Martin!” Jon had stepped back from the door, watching a faint haze seep out from under the door, thick and white, rising in front of the door. “Martin, what’s happening in there?”

“Wh—Oh!” Jon hear the click and squeak of the door opening, and the fog billowed out tenfold. He could just make out a silhouette of Martin, seemingly more solid than any way he had seemed in a while. Jon stuck out his hand, thin and tight and scarred, and felt another hand, thick and large and warm, grasp his. “Jon, w-what’s happening?”

“I-I’m not sure Martin, I can See, if you like.” He pressed his other hand to Martin’s face, treasuring how warm and soft he felt. “But I think-I think you healed yourself. Not wanting to be lonely, anymore, maybe?” Jon saw the warm, soft, exhausted smile on Martin’s face and was dimly pleased to feel it mimicked on his own.

I love you, he wanted to say. I think I have always loved you and will always love you. But there was time for that, Jon knew. There was time for sleepy love confessions and understanding exactly the right word to define how he felt for the man in front of him. Some things just need time.

(They remembered the groceries about an hour later, when Martin mentioned making a cup of herbal tea.)

#fanfic to a tea #fanfic_to_a_tea #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #the lonely #hurt/comfort #angst #prompt fics #id love some feedback!

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silent-scythe · 4 years

Text

Broken Love

Hello! My name is Scythe, this is my very first time posting on tumblr, I really don’t know how to lmao. This is a story that I wrote on AO3 a few months ago, but I’ll be posting it here too. Really sorry if the formatting is wonky, I don’t know how to use this lol

TRIGGER WARNING FOR: alcohol abuse, self hate, semi-descriptive mention of sexual assault, and slight sexual content. Please read at your own risk.

༺༻

“What, do you think your mother even bothered to think about you while she was worked to death?”

Nesta regretted it the moment those hateful words left her mouth. A part of her wanted to take back the venom she spat out, yet dignity trampled it down, keeping her spine straight and her head held high. She refused to acknowledge the pain that creeped upon her heart, instead curling her hands into fists as that maelstrom in her eyes swirled angrily.

Her eyes were a force to behold; oh, such rage filled those cunning blue-gray eyes, like that of a wrathful thunderstorm.

She watched, not a flicker of emotion showing, as the fire in Cassian’s eyes died out, reduced to ashes.

She wanted, ached for him to spit back at her, to argue and quarrel.

But she knew she went too far with that remark.

Yet pride, insufferable pride, refused to let her apologize.

༺༻

Cassian felt his breath still at the sneering insult she had flung back at him. They bickered endlessly, yet it was an unspoken rule between them to never bring relatives into it.

Never.

Especially when they were dead- have been dead for five hundred years.

Thousands of retorts came to mind, an endless collection of insults he could hurl back, yet they all died on the tip of his tongue.

Cassian could feel nothing, hear nothing, as he closed the door quietly behind him and walked out of Nesta’s apartment in deafening, roaring silence, wings tucked in tight. He did not know where he was going, and he definitely was not in the mood to fly back to the House of Wind. So he let his steps carry him to the ends of the earth.

And he couldn’t help but think back to what Nesta had said.

Do you think your mother even bothered to think about you while she was worked to death?

Somewhere inside him, uncertainty crept along his bones. He knew that his mother cared for him, even as he was abandoned at an Illyrian camp with nothing but himself. But what if he was wrong? Five centuries later, his only recollection of his mother was a hazy, warm face.

Oh, and the screams and body-wracking sobs that she had let out as he was taken away.

His mother had left him with an amulet, a necklace of ruby the same brilliant carmine color as his seven siphons. He chose to give it to Nesta. Yet that was at the bottom of the Sidra, thrown in there after she refused to accept it, telling him that she wanted nothing from him and leaving.

Oh, how he loathed himself.

༺༻

Nesta stood there, fists clenching and unclenching, as she processed what just happened, replaying the events over and over again.

She should have never said that. She had never hurt Cassian so deep before, so thoroughly that he had left, just left. Without firing some stinging retort back at her.

And what killed her the most? He was a good male. In her heart, she knew that he was worth everything in the world. Gods, he had even closed the door quietly, not slamming it like she would’ve undoubtedly done.

She finally shook herself out of her stance, pacing around her messy, drab-gray apartment, dirty clothes flung everywhere, cobwebs on the corners of the walls.

And so, Nesta resorted to the only option at hand.

The only way she knew how to cope.

Oh, how she loathed herself.

༺༻

Cassian’s steps eventually led him to the Sidra, his unkempt hair blowing in the harsh breeze. The biting cold chilled his fingertips, but he paid it no mind as he stared across the river, waves lapping gently at the sand that he stood on.

From besides him, he could feel shadows wreath him, swirling around the secluded beach, twirling in the air.

“Not now, Azriel,” he spoke, responding to the silent shadows. “I want to be alone.”

The shadows seemed to stop, hesitating, as if saying, ‘are you sure, brother?’ before eventually blowing away, returning to their master.

The Illyrian Commander stared out across the Sidra, his gaze unfocused, eyes on the horizon. Though he did not see the point where water met land.

No, the only thing he could see were smoldering eyes of stormy blue.

༺༻

Nesta cringed inwardly at the cheap alcohol that went down her throat, rough and burning. She took another massive gulp.And she kept this up, until only the last dregs remained.

And then she asked for another drink.

And another.

She drank, and drank, and drank, welcoming the oblivion and the lack of emotion that accompanied this. Nesta kept at it, until her head was fuzzy and dizzy and she could not hear nor see a single thing clearly. Empty bottles lined the table she sat at.

You are worthless, a voice in her head hissed. Worthless. You do not deserve him, you do not deserve Feyre and Elain’s kindness. You should continue to waste away, until you are completely gone.

Nesta wholeheartedly agreed with whatever spoke in her mind.

She hated herself, hated her walls of thorns, hated that she was like a plague, spreading hatred and sadness to everyone around her.

She wished she could change. And when she realized she couldn’t change, wouldn’t change, she wished she was gone.

A male approached her, sitting down next to her. A cruel smile slashed across his face, displaying a handsome face with striking blue eyes and cropped, dirty blond hair. Pointed ears and sharp canines added to his features.

High Fae, then, Nesta thought.

She could practically smell the lust and whiskey on the male.

She welcomed it.

Nesta did not mind as a phantom hand of his grazed her leg, inching up to her thigh. She smirked at him, an invitation and a taunt.

Soon enough, she grabbed his hand harshly, and they were in her bedroom within minutes.

This was the only way she could find freedom, through sex and alcohol. Perhaps she indeed was wasting away, a useless pile of garbage. Once upon a time, she would bristle at such a comparison. Now, she could only agree.

The male entered her, and an image of Tomas Mandray crossed her mind. The foreign touch, the mortal man who had torn her clothes to pieces and pinned her on the wall, until she had screamed her throat raw and clawed her way out of his grip. She still shuddered at the memory, but she shoved it down in her brain, all the way to the back of her mind, where all these other emotions and memories and feelings and happiness were, repressed and behind a gate that Nesta would never open.

She rode him deep into the twilight, though she did not see the male Fae.

No, the only thing she could see were fiery eyes of warm hazel.

༺༻

Cassian stayed by the riverbank until dusk, the rays of twilight sun warming him. Occasionally, he stretched his wings out, extending them and flapping once before he tucked them in tight again. Other than that, he stayed still, letting the waves lull him as he combed through memories and thoughts.

They always seemed to rebel, to go to that one day he didn’t want to think of. The day where his wings were broken, shredded to pieces, wounds dotting his body like stars in the night sky as he laid on that battlefield, with Nesta covering him.

I have no regrets in my life, but this. That we did not have time. That I did not have time with you, Nesta. I will find you again in the next world- and we will have that time, I promise.

Those words he had spoken echoed in his mind, and he remembered the way Nesta had shielded his body with her own.

And right before that- as Nesta had shouted, roaring his name, as he had avoided that blast of magic that would have killed him within milliseconds.

Did he deserve that?

Nightmares still plagued his mind during the night, where he watched as his soldiers, men he grew up with, died on the battlegrounds.

Where they had lain their lives for the war.

Where they died, and he didn’t.

Guilt still ate at him, reprimanding and lashing at himself for surviving when he should have died, was supposed to die with those people. He had been grateful for Elain and Nesta, who killed Hybern, yet oftentimes he still went back to that day, wondering why he was still alive when he shouldn’t be.

Cassian’s slumbering siphons flared brightly as thoughts invaded his mind.

He watched as the sun sank into the sky, the last rays of crimson and gold died with the sun, falling below the horizon. For a moment, the atmosphere turned the same, dark shade of vermillion as his siphons.

Gradually, the sky grew dark, as night fell and stars peeked out from behind their blanket of darkness.

Cassian lowered his head.

Purpose sang in his body, purpose to live. If he was granted with life, he would live it to the fullest. He would pull Nesta out of that dark, dark place, no matter how long it would take. No matter how much it would hurt himself, no matter how bleak some days might be. He made a promise to himself, vowing to never admit defeat and stop trying.

Because he loved her. Truly.

And love, unending love, refused to let him give up.

༺༻

Yeah that’s it! Leave any comments down below (are they called comments on tumblr? I think they’re like,, notes or smth? Also, prompts r nice, gimme prompts for Nessian if you want :)) love them sm. Hope u enjoyed!! I have other fanfic oneshots, which i’ll post probably after i figure out how Tumblr works

- Scythe

#nesta x cassian #nesta #cassian #nesta archeron #nessian #angst #how do i tag these things

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donteattheappleshook · 4 years

Text

Of Cars and Bars Chapter 11/14

As always, thank you Krystal @kmomof4 for all of your amazing beta work and for just being a lovely person. This story exists because of and is dedicated to you!

Summary:

Rated E

When Emma Swan is offered the chance to go on tour as an opener for one of the most popular up and coming bands of the decade, the last thing she expects is to find that the lead guitarist is the stranger she had a one night stand with five years ago.

This started out as a smutty two shot about Emma Ruby and Mary Margaret going on a road trip and has evolved into a slow-burn mutual pining angst-fest.

Read it from the beginning on Ao3 and Ffn because tumblr eats all my italics.

Chapter 11 - What If This Is All The Love You Ever Get?

So you've fallen in love / So you've fallen apart / What if it hurts like hell / Then it'll hurt like hell / Come on over, come on over here / I'm in the ruins too / I know the wreckage so well

Killian was trying to concentrate on the song - he really was. He was trying to focus on playing the right chords and singing the right lyrics and egging on the crowd that was cheering and singing along. He was putting in a valiant effort. But it was just so damn distracting. She was just so damn distracting. Emma was on the side of the stage, hidden from the crowd and the cameras - but not from him. No, he could see her just fine, leaning there against an amp, casually, as though she wasn’t looking at him like she wanted to devour him.

He tried to keep his eyes forward, to remember to interact with Liam (the fans loved that) and with Graham and David. But they kept betraying him, sliding back over to where she stood, still flushed from her own performance, biting her lip and raking her eyes over him from head to toe as he nearly stumbled over the chorus. His hands were sweaty and his heart was racing and he knew his ears must be red. She smirked. She knew exactly what she was doing. He couldn’t even be mad about it - not if it meant she would keep looking at him like that. How much longer was this set?

He felt like he was right back to five years ago, singing to her in the middle of a crowded bar while she practically begged him with her eyes to kiss her. His heartrate picked up even more. He wondered how mad his brother and the guys would be if he up and left the stage early again. No, he could probably only get away with that once.

She was smiling at him now - oh, god, it was worse than the leer. She was watching him, he’d just started signing again, lips pressed to the microphone and really wishing they were pressed against her instead, and she’d started smiling, a slow, happy smile, the kind that usually crossed his face whenever he watched her on stage.

He loved that smile - it was new, she’d only just started letting him see it. He’d almost seen it once or twice before but it had been quick, fleeting and bitten back immediately. But now, in just the last few days, she’d let it bloom across her face and he tried not to read into the fact that she seemed to smile like that mostly around him.

He finally finished the set. There had been seven more gruelling songs that he’d had to play through while actively trying not to let himself be distracted by her and while also being shot casual glares by Liam and smirks by David and Graham. Whatever. He didn’t care. They said their thanks, took their bows, and headed off stage away from the screaming fans who were demanding more.

He didn’t even bother to pretend like he wasn’t headed straight to her. Was too wound up and excited and happy to play it cool. He walked (jogged) right up to Emma and his heart jumped at the teasing and slightly smug smile she shot him. She let him back her up against the curtains and the amps that were placed haphazardly there behind her.

“Nice show,” she told him, throwing a quick glance in the direction of the ongoing cheers. The others were around them, Liam was no more than five feet away as he and the rest of the band hung out just next to the stage, debating an encore. And so, Killian didn’t touch her, as much as he wanted to he didn’t touch her because he knew she didn’t like people seeing them together - wasn’t ready to deal with it as she’d told him many times before. That was okay - well, it wasn’t okay, but he would deal with it. He would settle for flirting shamelessly with her until they could be alone.

He nearly choked as she reached out to toy with the hem of his shirt as she said something he didn’t even hear. He was too focused on the fact that she was touching him - almost touching him - in a way that could not be mistaken for friendly, in front of all of their friends, where any of them could easily see.

He looked at her, tried to read what was going on in her head, see if she was doing this to throw him off, to rile him or herself up. They’d gotten close to being caught in the past, especially early on in the tour and he’d noticed how it had excited her (despite her complaints about secrecy). It was why he'd started the little game they had, the game where he would try and sneak in any little touch or kiss he could when the others had their backs turned. But there was none of that on her face now. No, as she gazed up at him, her head cocked and that smile spreading across her lips again she just looked… happy.

“Come on. We’re gonna do an encore.” Killian was jarred out of his thoughts by Liam's hands clapping down on his shoulders. He was still looking at Emma and he could swear he saw a brief flicker of frustration and - was that disappointment? - flash across her face.

“Sorry, Love,” he told her. All he could do was shrug in apology. She smiled at him again.

“You gotta give the people what they want,” she joked and he laughed. He couldn’t help it, he felt too good.

He turned to head off after the others who were about to run back on stage, currently being handed their instruments by roadies. He was stopped by a hand catching his own. He spun back around and caught his breath just in time to feel her lips press against his, her hand coming up to his cheek, steading him, grounding him, elating him.

He couldn’t even help his reaction, it was automatic, a Pavlovian response to her. His hands went to her hair, pulling her just a little closer as he kissed her back with much more enthusiasm than the soft kiss she’d orignially given him.

“Emma!” Liam called, annoyed. “Release my brother and let him get his ass over here. We’re gonna lose them!”

Killian froze. Shit. He hadn’t even thought about the others. He feared what he’d see when he looked in her eyes, worried that she’d avoid him like the plague after this. But when he finally mustered the strength to face her, she smiled again, a faint blush on her cheeks, but none of the worry, none of the fear he’d been expecting. Like she didn’t even care at all.

He didn’t want to lose this. Was worried that if he walked away she would change her mind and start caring again. But he had to get back on stage. He didn’t want to leave her either, didn’t want to stop feeling her skin under his hands and looking at the curve of her smile, the openness in her eyes. He had an idea.

He took her hand, pulled her after him. “Come on,” he told her as he led them both over to where the others stood, waiting.

“Killian, what are you doing?” she demanded, not angry but definitely surprised and confused.

“Get her guitar,” he called to one of the roadies and he watched as it dawned on her. She looked nervous, but also a little excited.

“What are you doing?” Liam hissed. Killian only smiled at him.

“They’ll love it,” he told his brother.

And he knew they would. The crowd would go crazy to see Emma performing with them on stage. They loved that sort of thing. And it would give him an excuse to keep touching her, pull her on stage by the hand, throw his arm around her while they sang - and chalk it all up to performance. He also didn’t hate the idea that singing on stage with them would do nothing but boost Emma’s steadily growing notoriety and fame.

“They will,” Graham agreed.

Liam and David didn’t even put up a fight. They knew he was right. It was a brilliant idea. He didn’t know why they hadn’t thought of it earlier. He was more surprised that Emma didn’t resist. But she knew all their songs, he’d heard her singing along many times and right now she was already buzzing with the adrenaline and the rush that always came before going on stage.

They were handed their instruments and the other three headed off. Killian held back with Emma, wanting to increase the drama and the impact of them coming out on stage together. Thankfully, his bandmates were no strangers to his flare for the dramatic and played along, egging on the crowd before finally signalling him to join them. When he ran on stage with Emma in tow the reaction was electric.

He introduced her, not that they didn’t already know who she was - their screams were enough to prove that - and asked if they wanted to hear her sing again. They screamed once more. David counted them off and Liam and Graham joined in with a song the fans loved, one where Killian took the lead vocals.

Emma’s playing blended seamlessly with his own and with the band, as though she’d always been part of the group, and he was once again amazed at her talent, the ease with which music came to her. He took the first verse and the first chorus, Emma standing next to him and knowing already how to play this game, how to make the fans want more. He didn’t even have to signal her when the second verse came around and she stepped up to his mic and took over, her voice ringing high and clear over the crowd. She smiled again as they roared.

He’d made room for her for the verse but swooped back in for the second chorus, joining her, sharing the microphone, their faces inches apart and while it was, as always, filled with that electricity that sparked when they were near each other, they had nothing but bright, wide smiles on their faces. Even their voices fit perfectly together.

As Killian watched her sing with him, watched her smile and flirt with him in front of thousands of fans and cameras, he couldn’t help the tightening in his chest. Something had changed. Ever since the night of Liam’s birthday nearly a week ago now, when she’d crawled into his bed and woke him with her lips and her body and she’d let him make love to her like he’d wanted to for months - who was he kidding, for years, she'd been different.

She’d been gone when he woke up, and for a moment his whole body had filled with dread, with pain and loss and disappointment, certain that she’d run again. But then he’d found her in the kitchen, sipping coffee with Ruby and Graham and, when he’d approached her, cautiously, afraid of what he might see on her face when she noticed him, she’d smiled, that same, happy, open, maybe a little bit shy, smile that she’d been giving him ever since, and he felt the dread fall away and the hope take its place. She hadn’t run.

He’d wanted to ask her about it, ask if she wanted more, wanted what he did, but he knew better. He knew that that question would send her quickly retreating back into the shell she’d been hiding behind when he first met her. It would have to be her move.

Technically it was still just sex. There had been no talk of feelings or relationships or desires or exclusivity… but it wasn’t really anymore, was it? Since that night, they’d been spending every possible moment they had together, in his room or in hers and with the others. Yes, there had been a lot of that. But that wasn’t all it was. And even the sex had changed. It wasn’t any less passionate or mind blowing, she didn’t drive him any less mad with wanting and lust, but it had been less rushed, less frantic than it had been before now. They took their time more - she let him take his time more.

And his favorite part was after. Rather than throw her clothes on and head off or change the subject or find some way to ensure he knew that it was just physical… she lingered. She still left before the morning, still refused to wake up with him, but while she was there she let him wrap his arms around her, stayed in his bed for hours sometimes and let him slowly uncover new bits of who Emma Swan was.

He was surprised at how many random facts he knew about her now. He cherished every one. Like how she liked hot chocolate more than coffee and that she would sell her soul for a grilled cheese, and that she would try and convince everyone that she liked action movies and horror movies but secretly she loved romances. All of these things had been revealed to him easily, like she was no longer afraid of him knowing who she was rather than just how she fucked.

But it was more than that. Slowly, she’d started to share with him, share bits of her past, reveal the history that had shaped her into the woman she was. He knew now that she had ended up in the foster system because she’d been abandoned by the side of the road as a baby and never knew her parents. He knew that she had been taught to play guitar by Granny as a way to keep an angry kid out of trouble. He knew that she had been in love once and that it hadn’t ended well.

She hadn’t told him more than that but as she'd said it, her fingers had traced delicately over the tattoo on his forearm and he knew that this was a pain that had scarred her, changed her. It wasn’t hard to put the pieces together and realise that that someone had been Neal. He hadn’t pushed and she hadn’t elaborated but he knew how much it meant that she’d told him this much.

Sometimes he wasn’t even sure she meant to tell him any of it but another new thing he’d learned about Emma was that she didn’t do or say anything she didn’t mean, or without reason. And he just hoped that the reason was that she was beginning to trust him - to see in him what he’d been trying to show her from the start.

He didn’t want to use the word love. It was too fast and too intense but he couldn’t deny the familiar feeling that had taken over him, the one he hadn’t felt since Milah - it was stronger than it had been then. But, like when he’d first met her, the feeling hit him whenever she was near, hard and powerful and overwhelming and terrifying. He understood her fear of love, of trusting others, of being vulnerable and open to being hurt again. He was there too. He just wasn’t strong enough to fight it.

He could wait. Wait for her to decide what she wanted, let her set the pace and move at one that made her comfortable, one that didn’t scare her off. So long as she kept letting him into her past and her life and her bed and hopefully her heart, he was too happy to care how long it took. He’d waited five years for her. He could wait more.

They finished their song, his ears numb to the cheers and the cries of the crowd, numb to his brother speaking into his microphone, thanking them for their support. All he could see was her, see her smile and the way her eyes were filling with happiness and excitement and the way she was looking at him. All he wanted to do was kiss her. But he knew he couldn’t. Not in front of all these people. That was the surest way to send her running - not to mention the media shitstorm it would incur.

He settled for throwing his arm around her shoulders, feeling her close and trying to control his reaction to her as he asked the audience to give it up again for her. He caught his breath when her arm slid around his waist as she waved to the fans. He caught his breath again when the lights went down and that same arm slid back down, her hand brushing against his ass in a way that was definitely intentional. Lust flared in him as he looked off after her, making her shape out in the dark as she walked away.

They were discrete for as long as they could be. Both making their way off the stage carefully, finding their bandmates, congratulating each other. But as soon as their friends mentioned that they had been invited to a party that some celebrity or other was hosting at another hotel a few blocks away, both made their excuses, claiming the need to change, or shower or decompress and promising to meet them there later.

Killian was sure none of them bought it for a second. Their friends had barely left the hallway before he was being pulled into the dressing room - or maybe he was pulling her, it didn’t matter, both of them were just desperate to get the other alone.

He pressed her against the door, fumbling for the lock behind her as she tried to shed his jacket from his shoulders. He laughed at her impatience, finally turning the bolt and letting the jacket slip from his wrist. She was already working on his shirt, pushing it up, fingers trailing along his sides and his chest. He let her, lifted his arms so that she could pull it off over his head. He tried not to smirk at the way her eyes raked over his skin, her fingers following their trail from his shoulders to his hips making him shiver.

She reached for his belt and it took every ounce of his strength to rein in his desire. He took her face in his hands, dragging her eyes away from what he was sure was the very obvious bulge in his jeans and up to his. The corner of his lips pulled up at the pure want in her eyes but also - more so- at the way her expression softened when she finally looked at him.

Her fingers gave up their quest as she tilted her head up, waiting, but not for long because Killian knew an invitation when he saw one and brought his mouth down over hers. She opened immediately beneath him, letting out a little sigh as he kissed her properly, the way she’d just started letting him kiss her, the way he was going to keep kissing her as long as she’d let him. She let out a moan against his lips when he leaned in, pressing his hips to hers and trapping her against the door. He felt her nails dig into his hips and smirked a little.

“You were amazing up there,” he said, leaving her mouth and trailing hot, wet kisses down her neck.

“Mmm. So were you.”

“Oh really? Because I kept missing chords and forgetting lyrics because someone wouldn’t stop looking at me like she wanted to eat me alive.” He gave a little nip to her throat and she gasped. She grabbed hold of his belt loops, pulling him harshly against her in a way that shot heat right through him, making his head light and it was his turn to gasp as he brought his face back up to hers.

“That’s because I did,” she told him, her lips brushing his as she spoke. He groaned as she bit his lip, then his chin, her mouth and teeth and tongue slowly making its way down his neck as she proved her point and he wondered how and when she’d turned the tables on him so effectively. Since when was he the one fighting the slow, teasing pace and desperate to rip her clothes off?

He pulled her shirt over her head quickly before bending down to grab hold of her thighs and lift her up against the door. She let out a squeal as she laughed at his enthusiasm and it sent another wave of want though him. He ground his hips against hers again, trying to gain back some sense of control and watched as her eyes shut and her head fell back against the wood behind her, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Fuck she looked amazing when she was like this.

He brought his lips back to her neck, speaking against her skin as he kissed and sucked and licked. “Miss Swan, I think you have a bit of a thing for musicians,” he teased, his mouth finally finding its way to the gorgeous, perfect breasts that were hidden from him by her bra. He pulled a cup down, revelling in the sound that came out of her when he dragged his tongue against the stiff peek, before she grabbed hold of his chin, forcing his face away and back up to her. He met her eyes, confused and a little annoyed that she had stopped him, but he didn’t say anything when he caught the open honesty in hers.

“I-” she paused and he wondered what words were so hard to get out. “I have a thing for one musician,” she said and the words hit him like a mac truck. A thing. It wasn’t a confession of love or devotion or even of feelings. But he knew her. He knew how much even admitting that meant to her, how much of a step that was. There was a nervousness in her expression now that confirmed it.

He couldn’t have stopped the smile that spread over his face then if he tried, the corners of his mouth pulling so hard his cheeks hurt. But he didn’t care, when he saw the small, hesitant, hopeful smile that crossed her lips in response it was worth it.

“Good,” he said before kissing her again. He was elated. She liked him. She’d finally admitted it and that was huge. Emma Swan liked him - not just as a friend and not just as a fuck buddy. He felt like he was twelve years old but it didn’t matter as he kept repeating it to himself: she liked him liked him.

He set her down long enough so that they could get their pants off, both of them laughing as they fumbled to get undressed as quickly as possible but as soon as they were naked he rounded on her again, pressing her to the door and hiking her leg up over his hip.

Her hand came up to wrap around his cock and he groaned as she guided him to where she was already wet. He cursed, words he hadn’t used in years, ones he thought he’d forgotten as she brought the head to her clit, moving her hips so that he slid against her over and over. Killian thought his heart would explode or his cock would as he watched her take her pleasure with him, the feel of her grinding against him torture - amazing and not quite enough.

He looked up from where his eyes had been locked on her hand around him and found her watching him, heat and desire and softness plain on her face despite the moans that were leaving her mouth and the shudders that were wracking her body. He held her gaze, watching as she slowly brought herself higher and higher, his jaw clenching with the strength it took not to come right then and there. His hand found her breast, thumb brushing and teasing her nipple and her eyes fluttered shut. He couldn’t take it anymore.

“Swan, please,” he begged. She nodded almost frantically. He could see how close she was, her eyes screwed shut and her lips parted as she breathed heavily, faster and faster. She guided him to her opening and he pushed himself in, moaning at both the feel of her hot and wet and tight around him and at the way her eyes flew open, a gasp leaving her as she grabbed at his hair with one hand and his shoulder with the other.

He hiked her leg higher over his hip, both of their breaths hitching at the sensation before he started moving. It would be quick. He wished it wouldn’t be but he was so worked up, so close and so desperate to just have her and take her and bring her there that he knew he couldn’t last. He brought his hand back to her breast, his palm grinding against the sensitive nub as he tried desperately to get her where he was, to make her fall apart before he did.

He kept his thrusts slow but deep and purposeful, feeling her nails bite into his skin each time his hips met hers again. He was shaking, every nerve ending in his body on fire as he moved inside of her. His hand on her hips would leave bruises but he couldn’t care - he might later but right now it was making her cry out as she rocked against him, meeting him thrust for thrust and he just couldn’t bloody care. There was just her, nothing else mattered.

She pulled his head down, meeting his lips in a desperate, sloppy kiss as they both tried to kiss through the pleasure and the gasps and the cries that were leaving them. They were barely kissing, more a pressing of mouths, a mingling of breaths and teeth as they rose higher and higher but she didn’t let him go, keeping him there, keeping his lips to hers and the idea that she wanted to be kissing him while she came was enough to send him over the edge.

He cried out, the sound muffled by her mouth as the intense wave hit him, his arm wrapping around her, pulling her tight, needing to feel every inch of her against him as he rode this new height. She keened, her cries coming faster now and it took everything he had but he needed to bring her over the edge.

He redoubled his efforts, the look of her and the sounds she was making enough to keep him hard and desperate enough that he could thrust into her at a breakneck pace for a few more seconds. She was so close he could feel it and he brought his lips back over hers, giving her everything he had, and she fell, her walls tightening and fluttering around him and her moan breathed into his mouth as every muscle in her body tensed.

They stood for a moment, still pressed against one another, lips still touching but too exhausted to move as they breathed heavily into one another, his cock still buried to the hilt inside of her as they both leaned against the door for balance, for support. He could feel her legs shaking under his hands. He wasn’t faring much better.

He felt her fingers brush the side of his face, trail along his cheekbone and then scratch through the scruff of his beard. He forced his eyes open to look at her. She was watching him with the strangest expression on her face. A small, secret smile tugged at her lips.

“What?” he asked, wanting to know what was making her look so… proud? Amazed? Interested? Happy? He couldn’t read her and that was new for him.

“Nothing,” she said, her hand continuing it’s exploration of his face. Her thumb was at his chin now, dipping into the dimple there. “I just really like the way you look after you come.” She said it quietly, almost dreamily and it was a second before her whole face flushed red, eyes widening as she fully realised what she’d just said.

He could have teased her but he didn’t, decided to go easy on her. It had been a big day for confessions on her part and he didn’t want her to feel any more vulnerable than she probably already was. He hummed.

“Feel free to make me look his way whenever you please,” he told her, bringing his lips to hers and stealing another kiss before she could say anything in retaliation. She didn’t fight him, let him kiss her, likely too tired to take part in their usual banter. He couldn’t help but feel smug about that. Finally, he forced himself to pull away, smiling at the way she chased his lips for a moment. “We should get going,” he told her. “The others will be waiting.”

She sighed and he laughed but she nodded in agreement and they slowly pulled apart before gathering their clothes and dressing. Killian was surprised but tried to keep it from showing on his face when they headed down the hall to the exit and she reached for his hand. His heart beat a frantic staccato as her fingers laced through his.

She held it all the way to the hotel. He half expected her to drop it, to jump away from him when they arrived at the party, where their friends could see, but she didn’t and his heart soared, happiness and excitement singing through every muscle in his body, making his blood race. She didn’t even flinch when they made their way into the room and Mary Margaret spotted them, running over. Killian was too distracted to notice the wary look on her face.

“Did you not get my text?” she asked and Emma frowned.

“No, why?” Neither of them had checked their phones since the show.

“I think you should go,” she said, her voice worried and nervous.

“What? Why?” she asked.

Killian was as confused as Emma when he heard the sound of Ruby’s voice, louder and more aggressive than was reasonable for a party. They both looked over, ignoring Mary Margaret’s ‘Emma don’t’. He wasn’t sure what was going on. Ruby was standing with the rest of their friends, all of whom seemed uncomfortable and confused. There was another man with them, someone Killian didn’t recognize but Ruby was looking at him as though she wanted to murder him.

He felt Emma’s hand drop from his and turned to her. She was frozen, her breathing becoming erratic and her face twisting in shock and… pain. He could feel the panic radiating off of her. “Emma? What’s wrong?” he asked, his hand coming to her back, trying to soothe her but not knowing what ail to soothe.

The man spotted her and made his way over to them. Killian watched as Emma’s face changed from the panic that had been there a moment ago to a blank, empty expression. It was almost eerie how quickly her walls had shot up, like he could see the moment she locked herself away again. The man had reached them now. He didn’t look like anything special but Emma’s reaction, as well and Ruby and Mary Margaret’s told him something was seriously up.

“Hey, Em, long time,” the man said casually, giving her a friendly smile. Emma stared at him for a moment, her face impassive, not showing any hint of reaction besides the hard, guarded look that was already in place. He wanted to say something but didn’t get a chance before Emma bolted, turning and pushing her way through the guests, heading out the door. Killian was frozen for a moment, surprised by the turn in her mood.

“You need to leave,” he heard Mary Margaret tell the man. Killian shook his head, looking up and seeing the door close behind her. Shit. He had to go after her. No matter what it was, he had to go after her and be with her. Something was wrong.

“She’s overreacting,” the man said and he paused.

“Get the fuck out of here, Neal,” he heard Ruby spit and Killian inhaled sharply, finally putting the pieces together. Of course. He reeled back around, facing the man with rage already starting to burn in his chest and through his limbs.

“Oh, so you’re Neal,” he said to the man.

Neal stepped forward, holding out a hand. “Yeah man, nice to -” Killian didn’t even think. His fist collided with the man’s face with a force that sent him to the ground. Killian stood there, shaking out his hand, pretty sure he’d broken a knuckle. It didn’t matter, not when he saw the man out cold on the floor, his jaw already swelling dramatically.

“Killian! What the hell!” Liam started but he didn’t listen, he was already running off after her, out the door and then down onto the street. He needed to find her. ‘His name was Neal’. He remembered that first confession, remembered the way the song had ripped his heart out, had laid it bare for all to see, remembered the pain and the anger and the abandonment in her lyrics. Fuck. Fuck. He had to find her.

It was nearly an hour before he did. He checked every bar he could until he found the right one. He knew Emma. They were too much alike. While she might not have the same problems he did he knew that the first place she would go would be somewhere she could try and drown her pain, try to mute it - just as he would. When he arrived, the bottle in front of her was already half empty. He took a seat on the stool next to her and she looked up at him, pain and embarrassment and longing in her expression. She looked away quickly, turned back to her glass.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she told him.

“Yes, I should,” he said.

“You can’t be here,” she was insistent but there wasn’t any real fire in her voice, it was too empty, too lost for that.

“Why not?”

“Because I need to drink my way to the bottom of this bottle and you can’t do that with me.” She paused, turning to him a bit more seriously, something making its way through the glassy haze in her eyes. “I won’t let you do that with me.”

His heart stuttered in his chest a little. There was hope, hope that she hadn’t completely rebuilt those walls she’d finally let down, hope that she still cared about him enough to not run scared when she came out the other side of this. That part of him itched, as it always would, for a drink, to commiserate with her. But he fought it off. She needed him and she needed him sober. This wasn’t about him.

He looked at her now, saw the same expression he’d seen in the mirror too many times when he’d found himself in a bar after what happened to Liam, after what happened to Milah. She was hurting, that kind of hurt that took over your entire body, ached from the inside, clawing at your chest and your throat, ripping it raw and making you feel like you’d never be free of it, like you'd be hollow forever. She may think she needed to be alone right now but he knew that was the worst thing she could do. He couldn’t leave her.

He was suddenly shaken with the overwhelming urge to hold her, to take care of her, to be there for her however he could. The grief he felt over the fact that he couldn’t help, couldn’t take her pain away, couldn’t bear it for her, made one thing clear. He loved her. He was done denying it. He loved her and he’d do whatever he had to, risk whatever he had to risk to protect her heart, from Neal and from herself. He loved her. He’d been in love with her for five years.

He put his hand over her own. “I’m not leaving.”

She sighed and he could see the emotions warring on her face, torn between wanting to push him away and the relief that he’d stayed. He sat next to her, waving away the bartender when he offered him a drink. He didn’t speak, he knew there was nothing he could say that would fix this. But he could be there for her.

Emma’s eyes glanced down. “What happened to your hand?” He followed her gaze and realized that his knuckles were red and swollen. One of them was split, dried blood caked around it. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

“I, um… I punched Neal.”

A small snort left her and she raised the glass to her lips again taking a sip. “I should have done that,” she said wistfully. Killian looked at her with a small smile on his lips, remembering some of the stories she’d told him about her job.

“I don’t think he could’ve handled that.”

She grinned, looking a little proud. “No, probably not.” There she is, he thought. Neal hadn’t totally stolen her away.

They stayed at the bar for another hour during which Emma finished the bottle of whiskey. Only then did she let him ease her off the stool and lead her out of the bar. They managed to find a cab and Killian watched helplessly as quiet tears ran down her cheeks the whole way back to the hotel. She let him pull her against his side, let him run his fingers through her hair, but he knew he couldn’t stop her suffering, that it had to run its course.

When they reached the hotel she was too drunk and out of it to remember where her key was and after a fruitless search of her pockets he gave up and decided to just bring her to his instead. He would sleep on the floor if she wanted him too.

Unfortunately, his search through her pockets had brought forth a new facet of Emma’s inebriated personality. She turned into a giggling mess, hands groping relentlessly as she tried to cop a feel of, well, all of him. He was doing his best to ward her off while half carrying her to the room but she was so handsy. How does she have so many hands, Killian groaned as he caught one of her wrists only to feel the fingers he’d caught previously sliding against his thigh.

As he slipped the key into the door she grabbed for his face, desperately trying to press her lips to his as he ducked and turned his head to avoid her. They made their way inside and Killian led her to the bed but she didn’t stop her onslaught. When they reached the mattress she collapsed on it, dragging him down with her. He caught himself with his hands on either side of her face. His legs were still on the floor but she had a death grip on his jacket.

“Why won’t you kiss me,” she demanded, sounding annoyed and hurt and frustrated.

“Because you’re drunk, Emma,” he told her, trying to untangle her fingers. He had no luck. She was really much stronger than he’d realised.

“So what?”

“So you’re not thinking straight. It’s not right.”

“I kiss you when I’m thinking straight,” she insisted and he groaned in frustration, giving up his efforts to free himself.

“If I kiss you will you let me go?”

She nodded, smiling up at him eagerly. He sighed and leaned down and pressed a soft, chaste kiss to her lips. The moment she let him go he stood up. She sat up quickly, looking upset and cheated.

“No, I mean really kiss me,” she complained, reaching for him again. He caught her hands.

“Emma, no.”

His tone must have finally got through to her because her shoulders dropped, the lighthearted, frustrated expression leaving her as the sadness creeped back in. She looked away but not before he saw the tears spilling over. He felt like crap, knowing he’d brought her out of it, hating that he’d had to reject her when she was clearly already feeling rejected enough.

“I just want to feel good,” she told him and her voice broke his heart. “Just something good.”

He knelt down on the floor in front of her, pressed his palm to her cheek. “I know,” he told her, and he did. He’d been there, had tried to bury pain and grief in booze and sex and anything else that felt even just a little less awful for a second. She turned into his touch. “You will again. I promise.” She looked at him, her eyes red and wet with tears and he caved, leaning in and kissing her again, carefully, gently, trying to ignore the taste of the whiskey on her tongue. She clung to him like a lifeline but didn’t try to push him like last time.

“Thank you,” she said when they broke apart. He smiled.

“You never need to thank me for that, Love,” he said, throwing in a little cheek and hoping it would make her smile. It did, but only for a moment. “You should go to sleep,” he told her. “I’ll get you some water.”

When he returned she had shucked her boots and her jeans and crawled under the covers, sitting and hugging her knees to her chest, new tears staining her pale skin, turning it red and angry. He sat on the edge of the bed, handed her the glass of water. She took a long sip before looking over at where his guitar rested.

“Play me something,” she asked. He sighed, she really needed to sleep but he was powerless to deny her anything.

“Only if you finish that water while I do.” She took another long drink and he smiled a little, grabbing the instrument and resting it on his knee. “What do you want to hear?” he asked and she only looked at him for a moment.

“Something heartbreaking.” He nodded, trying not to show on his face how much seeing her like this broke his heart. Emma wouldn’t want his pity.

He played her a song. He played her a song that he had never played for anyone before, one he wrote when he was at his lowest, after he lost Milah and he didn’t see much point in anything, couldn’t understand the point of living in a world without her, couldn’t understand how the world could give him a love like that only to rip it away from him. His voice broke a few times as he sang, hit with the overflow of memories, wounds just as fresh as they’d been seven years ago.

When he finished, she was crying again, no longer the silent tears that had been slowly sliding down her cheeks but harsh heavy sobs that wracked her body.

“Hey, hey,” he tried to soothe her, reaching for her, cradling her in his arms and pressing soft kisses to her cheeks, her temples, her hair. “I’m sorry,” he said, feeling like an idiot for agreeing to play a song like that when she was this broken. She shook her head, wiping at her face. She was settling now, the violence of her pain having calmed and leaving her with a quieter ache.

She slid over on the bed, pulling him down with her and he didn’t fight. He lay down next to her and she turned her back, curling up on her side. She reached back, searching for his arms, wrapping them around her. He went willingly, holding her to his chest, placing kisses to the nape of her neck whenever another, leftover sob would wrack her body. He’d thought she was asleep when she spoke.

“I fell in love with him when I was seventeen,” she started. He kissed her neck again.

“Emma, you don’t have to tell me. I don’t want you to say anything you’ll regret tomorrow.”

She shook her head. “I want to tell you.” He felt his heart racing in his chest, bracing himself for this new part of her, feeling unworthy of the trust she was putting in him but promising himself, and her, that he would be.

“He was older than me,” she continued. “It made me feel special, like I was more mature, more grown up.” He hated that he couldn’t see her face but knew that she probably craved the privacy this position offered her, couldn’t handle him seeing her when she was this vulnerable. He didn’t say anything he just listened.

“He was an orphan like me, a runaway, and I thought that meant he understood me, that we were the same. He wrote music too so we started writing together. He always promised that we would make it big someday - that we would move to Nashville and get discovered and be rich and famous and have a family together. That was the thing I always wanted - a family.

“We moved to Nashville when I turned eighteen, Granny wouldn’t let me go before that. I think she knew something about him that I didn’t. But when I was eighteen I said I was an adult and I could do what I wanted and so I left. We lived in shitty motels for a while and I thought it was really romantic.” She let out a scoffing, self-deprecating sound.

“Then -” He felt her tense in his arms, held her tighter. “Then Neal was offered a recording contract. He came to me with it and told me we had made it and we would be famous and I signed it - without reading it.” Killian remembered the way she had refused to sign a contract with them and from the sound of her voice this was why.

“What he didn’t tell me was that the guy only wanted him. He didn’t want me. The contract I signed… I signed away all my songs to him. I didn’t find that out till later. He left, telling me he was going to sort out the legal side of things with the record producer and that he’d be back. But he never came back. I waited in that motel room for three days before finally calling Granny to come get me.”

“I’m so sorry, Love.” He wished he’d done more than punch the bastard now - wished he’d bloody strangled him. What kind of monster did something like that to a teenager - to anyone. His heart broke thinking about how young she’d been when someone had betrayed her like that. No wonder she protected herself so vigilantly.

“That was when…” she hesitated and he felt a twisting in his gut. Oh god, there was more. What more could he have possibly done to her? He’d already used her, betrayed her, abandoned her. “That was when I found out I was pregnant.”

“Oh, Emma,” he said, the words falling out as he pulled her closer to him. She turned in his arms, buried her face in his chest and he could feel the wetness seeping through his shirt as she continued. “I couldn’t keep it. I was barely eighteen when I had him. I gave him away and I just didn’t look back - I left him to grow up like I did.”

She looked up at him finally and he wiped at her tears with the back of his fingers, cradled her face and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You were a kid, Emma.” She nodded but he knew his words were only that - words, that this would likely be something she’d regret for the rest of her life.

Her fingers were toying with the charms on his necklace now, her eyes focused on them, avoiding his gaze. “It’s why I’m so afraid of you,” she whispered. His heart pounded against his ribs, a hollowness settling in his chest at the thought that she was afraid of him. He didn’t get a chance to speak before she continued.

“I’m so scared of how I feel when I’m with you. It’s too much and it’s too fast and I can’t stop it like I used to be able to.” His heart was racing again, for a new reason now, hope making his breath catch. “I’m scared because I don’t want to stop it. I want to feel that way and wanting that is scary because…” she was speaking quickly now but paused. “Feeling this way about someone is like handing them everything they need to break you. The last time I felt anything like this was with Neal and look what happened. And that wasn’t even close to how I -” she stopped herself. He didn't push, he just held her.

They lay in silence for a while, holding onto one another and Killian thought of how much she’d just revealed to him, how much of herself she’d trusted him with, how much she’d admitted to feeling about him. He knew how scary it was to be that vulnerable, especially when you didn’t know if those feelings were returned. He needed her to know they were. He needed her to know he was right there with her, just as scared but also just as desperate to make it work.

“I met Milah when I was twenty,” he told her and she put her hand on his chest, over his heart. “I met her when Liam was at his worst, when I was nearly at my worst, and she helped me. She was older… and married,” he admitted a bit shamefully, not of his love for her, but of the blindness with which he’d gone into it. “But she was my whole world.

“We were together two years and she helped me deal with Liam’s depression, she even helped me get sober for a little while… but then,” he paused. It was always difficult to talk about her, always difficult to remember how he’d lost her. But he wanted Emma to know, needed her to.

“She was going to leave her husband. She was going to leave him and we were going to get married and start a family and I was twenty-two and it -she - was everything I wanted. But then her husband found out and he-” He couldn’t continue.

Emma’s hand came up to his cheek, brushed through the hair at his temple and he knew she wouldn’t make him. He took a shaky breath. “He killed her.” He heard Emma gasp before her arms wrapped around him tightly. She sighed his name, pressing kisses to his neck and his shoulders, wherever she could reach. Her touch was like a balm, soothing the anger and the guilt that was stirring inside him.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, her lips against his chest.

“He tried to blame me. For months I was dragged in and out of interrogation rooms before they finally arrested and sentenced him. They said it was manslaughter, a crime of passion or something but… they didn’t know him. It was murder. He killed her in cold blood rather than let her leave him.

“I got really bad after that. My drinking problem turned into an illness, I cut myself off from everyone for nearly two years. I finally got help when I showed up to Liam’s wedding four hours late and plastered. I was the best man.”

Her hand was on his cheek again, her thumb gently stroking, and he looked down into her eyes. They were clearer than they’d been all night. “I’m not telling you this to compare our pains or for pity. I just want you to know that… I know what it’s like to feel heartbreak and how scary it can be to open yourself up to it again. But if you’re willing to, Emma, you don’t have to worry about that with me. I’m not going anywhere.” He brushed her hair off her face. “I’m in this for the long haul.”

Emma didn’t say anything, he didn’t expect her to. She’d said more than enough for one night. They’d both left themselves open and raw already. Instead, she turned her face up and kissed him again, the same way she’d kissed him the night of Liam’s party, the kind of kiss that held a promise, one to try.

He kissed her back for a long while, until both of them felt the exhaustion of the day and of the last hour weighing too heavily on them. He tried to stay awake for a while as he watched her fall asleep but too soon he was pulled under as well. But he found sleep with a lightness in his chest, despite all that had passed between them tonight. He loved her and it seemed - he hoped - that there was a chance she could love him back. He just had to be patient.

#cs fanfic #cs fanfiction #cs smut #cs angst #captain swan #captain swan fanfic #captain swan fanfiction #captain swan angst #captain swan smut #cs au #captain swan au #of cars and bars

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des8pudels8kern · 4 years

Text

This was a pain and a struggle and I am not happy with it, not even remotely, but it’s words, and more than 500 of them, so challenge met, no matter how uninspired I was and how much it is more an explanatory AU-scenario info dump than actual fic. I am not even going to try putting this in the tumblr tag. No one said this would be easy, okay, otherwise it’d be no challenge!

Warnings for pandemic, zombies, and the kind of death that comes with zombies.

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It started with Beltaine. People woke up the morning after with sore heads and stiff limbs, nothing unusual about that. And when enough people spent a night engaging in sweaty naked activities outdoors, then some of them were bound to catch a cold, surely.

By the time they heard about it, chatter had changed from an unseasonal outbreak of the cold to an outbreak of a fever that did not care how warm the sun shone on someone, because the people shaking in its grasp would still shiver with cold even as they burned from the inside, and they’d shaken and burned since the day after the fires, two weeks ago.

Geralt didn’t waste time arguing or letting Jaskier say his good-byes; he simply threw him over his shoulder, retrieved Roach from the stable she’d just gotten settled in, and hightailed it out of there as fast as she could carry them. Coughs and fevers spread through humanity every winter, and no one had mentioned death for this particular plague, just the fever, going on and on, but humans did die from diseases, so easily, and Geralt had watched enough of them from the sidelines to know how quickly a seemingly harmless bug could end up putting entire families into graves.

Jaskier for once did not object to Geralt’s insistence they rough it in the woods, avoid roads and people, and make their way across the river before re-entering society. Something about the nature of this illness had emptied the streets and unsettled the man he’d talked to, and that unsettled him. He had seen a plague sweep through Lettenhove when he was a child, and he had no intention of ever again watching carts filled with corpses roll through the streets.

They’d give all settlements a wide berth, move straight north for better pickings rather than meander from place to place for meager backwater picking that would barely cover the cost of staying at what passed for the local inn.

They were camping in a flower-filled meadow near a merrily bubbling crook when the disease changed.

As the moon, full for the first time since Beltaine, crested the sky, Jaskier sat up well into the night and tried his hand at an ode to the way Geralt’s silver hair shone under the stars, the first of the sick stopped shaking. Before the moon had again left the sky, they rose from their beds reached for those who had stood beside them, wiping their brows and praying for their recovery.

And their first understanding of what the fever had turned into came when they let screams for help carry them back to a road and found a caravan of three families trying to fend off a man they first thought mad with rabies, then cursed into unnatural bloodlust and berserkerdom, and then, once Geralt’s sword in his skull had finally felled him and they set about triaging the wounded, heard that he’d been the oldest son of one of the families, returned just the previous day from the south, worn and shaking with both fear and exhaustion from travel and horse ridden to ruin, with warnings of a disease that had gone from a simple fever to a fever that over night burned the souls out of the afflicted and left them with mindless hunger for human flesh.

One other man had not survived the attack, four people had merely been wounded.

As they started to pull luggage off the carts to make space for the injured, Geralt stepped up to the man he’d killed, pulled his sword from his skull and knelt beside the corpse. The dominant smell was that of the fresh blood smeared down his front, but under it he could still make out the dirt of the road and sweat, whether from travel or fever undistinguishable at this point. No magic, none that he could pick up at least. And, faint, faint, a hint of old blood. Following his nose, he pulled back a stained sleeve to reveal a dirtied bandage, come loose and slipped down to the wrist, and, now uncovered, a day-old bite on the man’s forearm, where Geralt himself had been bitten many times when he’d been forced to use his arm as a shield to protect his face and throat.

The man had been afraid, they’d said, and insisted they leave within the hour to outrun the disease.

Geralt stood, eyes flicking to the wounded. Bitten, all four of them. One a child, one just on the cusp of adulthood.

There was no outrunning a disease, that was already coursing through your veins.

As weeks before, Geralt didn’t bother wasting time with explanations. These people were family. Sickness, curse, poison - they would not abandon their own on the word of a witcher, nor would they let him put his steel through their heads.

But Jaskier, mortally human Jaskier, his thin, breakable skin still blessedly whole, did, and on the witcher’s word turned off the road back into the wilderness.

North. North, and no one but each other, no matter the calls, until they’d reach the river.

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Ah, I don’t even know where I was going with this. Was I even going anywhere? Not really. I guess sometimes you just have to force the words out of you, and then put them aside and check later of there is something you want to salvage from them. But for all that I do like the idea of a zombie AU, I think starting with an exposition info dump would not be the best way to go.

#pandemic cw #zombies #i was thinking about watching a pandemic disaster movie or maybe a zombie movie earlier today and apparently i haven't shaken the mindset #but i'm just feeling very uninspired today #look i'm going to put the fandom tag so far back it won't show up in the tumblr tag search because i just don't feel this #*repeats to herself* it wouldn't be a challenge if it were easy it wouldn't be a challenge if it were easy*#500 words challenge #not!fic #the witcher

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amvhel · 5 years

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hello hello,

I have tried to do this like 3 times but tumblr has made it so incredibly difficult after deleting it the first time round but here we go again.

Anyhoo, I was inspired a few weeks back by the stardust prompt on one of the Dicckory or Robstar weeks. I haven’t seen anything other than the Titans on Netflix nor have I read any of the comics so I based the characters off that and that alone.

This is also my first fanfic I’ve ever written and my first time writing at all in well over a year so please bare with me, I’ve tried to do the best I can aha

Please enjoy and let me know if you do! Thanks!

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Kory stared absentmindedly at her remarkably strong sangria, observing as the legs slowly tumbled down the glass, mimicking the atmosphere. Slow and lackadaisical. With arms crossed on the table and her head laid atop them, she looked on as the rooftop terrace lights reflected in the glass, creating a second moon which rippled in the scarlet liquid. The sounds of the live band playing in the downstairs bar drifted up and saturated the air around her.

Unsurprisingly, the alcohol had begun to take effect which meant that her usually adept responses were failing her and the only things permeating her concentration were the flat notes of the tune. So when the song transitioned into an acoustic rendition of a Frankie Valli song that Gar had shown her previously, she felt a spark of irritation. Feeling as if it were a mocking mirror to her melancholic mood. She listened on as the tenor voice sang of yearning and amorous desire and felt her annoyance rise with each following lyric.

Despite everything around her imploring her to relax, Kory could find no such relief. The events of the past few weeks constantly running a relay in her mind. Black shadows passing one worrying thought to another, again and again. The events with Rachel and her family, dealing with her absent identity and processing a myriad of emotions, some of which were only being made worse by the current love song. Safe to say that her sanity was being stretched relatively thin.

She had previously been grateful for her inhumanely high internal temperature which meant that she was alone in this open space (thanks to the frosty Chicago weather). However, now she could do nothing but hyperfixate on each and every one of her issues with nothing to distract her. With each tendril of anxiety expanding, she felt her heartbeat thud twice as hard in her chest coupled with the crippling swell of fear. Struggling to slow her rapidly rising panic, she lifted her head and took a deep breath in an effort to calm down and all she saw was sky.

And the sky stared back.

Filled with gleaming stars reflecting against each other, it oddly gave her a sense of comfort. As if they were calling to her, a connection she requited but couldn’t quite explain why. She took another breath and mulled over whatever lay in the vast expanse that was space. The wonder coating her mind like stardust.

‘You’ve been gone for a while.’

Dick’s voice pierced through the heady cloud currently enveloping her, his surprise entrance causing her head to snap towards him, spiking up her heart rate.

She surveyed him through hooded eyes as his silhouette became illuminated by the overhead lights, the glare of the bulbs causing the honey highlights to dance through the dark waves in his hair.

He slumped into the seat across from her with a deflated sigh and flashed her a tentative smile. She already knew the question he was going to pose by the change on his face and knew she absolutely was not ready to answer it. Not honestly at least.

‘Are you okay?’ His smile had faded and he looked at her with intense and anxious eyes.

‘I-’ She faltered with a sharp exhale. She wanted to answer honestly but not really knowing how to balance her feelings with her pride. ‘I don’t know.’

He stared at her for a moment longer, his brows furrowing together. ‘What do you mean you don’t know?’

‘I mean just that. I don’t know.’ She replied. ‘All of this- it’s so much. I want to enjoy this time, you know? We’re all okay, I s-should be happy. But everything we’ve been through and everything we’ve still got to...it’s s-so much to think about. It’s too much to think about.’ She winced when she heard the slight slur in her voice. Irked that her altered state was betraying her desire to conceal her vulnerability, and was instead throwing any glimpse of pride to the wind.

Dick’s face had morphed into a full on frown at this point, scanning her face with impotent concern. ‘Look, I-I know this is tough but we’ll figure it out. We’re in this together.’

His words were met with an indignant snort before Kory turned her head away from him to stare at the glimmering skyline of the Chicago night. ‘I wonder if you realise how ironic that sounds.’

Dick felt a flash of irritation then, one he knew he had no right to feel. But it was promptly followed a deep shame, shame that he wished he would have felt earlier and maybe if he had, he would have been too ashamed of these exact consequences to leave in the first place. He knew she had every right to call him out on his bullshit but it didn’t hurt any less to have her do it; especially when he felt he was doing the best he could.

He swallowed the negative emotions and tried instead to focus on how she might be feeling. It was made easier to know that most her issues mirrored his own internal turmoil. Trying to process a missing identity, the trauma of what they’d been through, along with many other things. Only her identity issues were so much deeper, so deep that they were literally out of this world. He got that it was all relative but with how much she’d been there for him in the past few weeks, it was up to him to finally step up.

‘Hey.’ He whispered gently, placing a hand placed on top of hers, causing her to turn back to him. ‘I know I’ve let you down before. I’m sorry. It’s stupid of me at this point to try and deny that I care about you. I do care about you. All of you. It just- it took me a while to get to the conclusion that I could care about you and be around you at the same time.’ He admitted.

‘Now it’s time to tell me what you mean.’ Kory responded pointedly, assessing him to such an extent that he’d never felt a stronger urge to scuffle out of the situation as quick as he could. He couldn’t remember a time he felt more uncomfortable, even with all the difficult situations he’d found himself in with Bruce Wayne as a guardian.

‘It’s just that I never thought I would be in a position that I would - that I even could - care about the people around me the way that I do about you guys. It just, I don’t know, startled me is all. I was scared that I would mess it up. It was easier to disappoint you guys once rather than to stick around and keep disappointing you.’ He admitted, feeling oddly emotionally lighter despite his trepidation.

Kory shifted her eyes to the table and stared at it so long that Dick thought she wasn’t going to answer. But then she moved her view back to his pensive, brown orbs before gripping the hand on top of hers with a squeeze then swiftly letting go. The small but tender gesture caused his heart to go into overdrive which was only made worse by her following words.

‘Thank you for being honest with me.’ She finally acknowledged, lifting her head backwards once more to gaze at the stars. ‘I care about you too. More than you know.’

‘More than I know?’ He repeated incredulously, completely caught off guard by her reply. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

Kory did not respond and despite her common sense being compromised by the pools of alcohol that were still swimming through her system, she knew that it was not time to let the depth of her feelings be known. Especially with someone who seemed unlikely to be explicit with their own emotions.

So, instead of replying, Kory stood and purposefully made her way to the edge of the terrace, leaning over the railings and peering at the busy street below.

Dick was hot on her heels, the irrational fear of her stumbling over the edge plaguing his thoughts in spite of his knowledge of her expert agility. He caught up quickly and stood facing her, still reeling from her semi-confession but alert, in case she really did go over the railings.

‘Kory, what do you mean?’ He asked touching her arm, the urgency for her response seeped through his voice against his own wishes.

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘It does matter. Please.’

There is such a prolonged silence that Dick thought she wouldn’t give him an answer and he feared she would walk out of here, forget about this and he would never hear what she had say.

Eventually, Kory turned, parallel to him and stepped closer, the aura around them changed completely thanks to the spark in her eye.

Shifting to something electric and magnetic.

Dick swallowed the boulder in his throat, suddenly feeling like he was the one who was intoxicated after only 2 beers. Completely inebriated by her.

Kory leaned forward, enthralling him by the swipe of her tongue on her bottom lip. The craving to capture it between his own lips engulfed Dick and he fought to shake it off.

‘What do you think it means, Dick?’ Her voice had dropped an octave, sending prickles of heat rippling across his skin.

He attempted to clear his throat before answering, redundantly hoping it would also clear his head. ‘I’m sure I asked you first, Kory.’

But Kory moved closer, muddling his brain even further, with their chests now touching, his heart was beating so fast he was positive he would go into cardiac arrest very soon.

‘This is your MO, isn’t it? Avoid talking about your emotions by deflecting then bridging the distraction with…’ Again, she moved closer. Lifting her hands to slide across his shoulders and sift through his hair.

It took a colossal amount of strength for Dick to hold his eyelids back from fluttering closed, her fingers doing things to the back of his neck that had him wishing they were alone in a hotel room, not with his surrogate sister and 2 teens downstairs. His hands lifted to her waist in an attempt to achor himself but the feel of her under his hands only made things worse.

Flashbacks to the last time they were alone in a motel room flooded his mind. The feel of her skin on his, his weight crushing her on the soft surface of the mattress, her weight on top of him sliding across his lap. Dick tried desperately to filter through his thoughts to get back to the coherent part of his cognition and found she was right.

Anytime they had been intimate, he’d been too scared to process the fear he felt from their connection and instead used sex as a way out or had, as per the last time, literally run away. This time it was his responsibility to lead by way of example in order to get what he wanted.

‘Now I’m not trying to say that you’re wrong but you did just thank me for being open and honest so how right can you be? Maybe I’ve changed.’ Dick attempted to be lighthearted, despite not feeling that way whatsoever. ‘Don’t you think I deserve some honesty from you?’

Much to his delight, Kory leaned her head on his shoulder and let out a breathy chuckle. Though the intensity of the situation hadn’t necessarily lessened, the tension had somewhat depreciated.

‘I guess you’re right, as much as I don’t want to admit it.’ Kory relented, pulling back so she could look him in the eye. ‘I feel something here, Dick. Something deep between us but I want to know I’m not the only one who feels it, that I’m not crazy and imagining things.’ The shimmer in her eyes validating her confession, leaving Dick breathless with shock.

The idea of Kory feeling a fraction of what he felt for her sent his heart melting and his soul soaring out of his body. As short as the time was that he’d known her, Kory had turned him upside down and inside out. She had made him deal with things he didn’t even know he needed to deal with. Her light had been so exuberant that it had reflected on him, allowing him to exist as the moon to her sun. It was no wonder that he fell so hard so quickly.

As she spoke, it was clear that Dick had hidden this well. Unsure as to why really. Fear of hurting her, of her hurting him, of them hurting each other. Who knew what excuse his brain had rationalised his emotional constipation with this time.

However, with Kory here now, vulnerable and honest, he felt every emotion he’d tried to repress flood to the surface, completely overwhelming him and terrifying him at the same time. His hands tightened on her waist pulling her closer to him so he could rest his forehead on hers, the action causing her breath to hitch in her throat.

‘Kory I- of course you’re not imagining things.’ He spoke through his fear, determined to be as bare with her as she had been with him. ‘How could I not feel it? You push me to be better, being with you gives me a sense of peace that no one else ever has. I’m in awe of you every single moment of every day. I’m sorry that I’ve made you doubt it but it’s all new and honestly terrifying. But I do feel this Kory, whatever it is and I want to see where it goes.’

Kory’s eyes had softened considerably by the end of his declaration, completely moved by his words. Catching them both off guard she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his as if her body responded to the words before her brain did. Both of their arms tightening around each other in an effort to get as close as possible.

‘Hey you guys are missing it, Gar and Donna are going to do Kara-oh! Whoops.’

Dick and Kory immediately broke apart to see a very nonplussed and very discomforted Rachel.

‘Nevermind, you guys are clearly busy,’ She muttered before scuttling her way back down the stairs.

The two adults shared a glance, smiling with slight embarrassment before Dick held out a hand. ‘Shall we?’

Kory responded by slipping her hand into his, threading her fingers through his own before pulling him in the direction of the stairs.

Both of their hearts fuller than when they’d come up there.

#titans 2018 #dc titans #dickkory #Dick Grayson #koriand'r #kory anders #robin #nightwing #starfire #rachel roth #raven #gar logan #beast boy #donna troy #wonder girl #idk i think thats all i can tag #???#fanfic #fanfiction

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words-and-seeds · 5 years

Note

🖊 i want to have a few sentence summaries of each oc you have and what fandom they’re for!!

Lawd have mercy, this is An Ask. I have so many babies. This is going behind a cut because it will be long.

FC5

🖊 - Del is my original deputy, born out of taking one look at Joseph and having the “oh no, he’s hot” reaction. Plus, Joseph as a character gives my heart a boner, so I had to do an oc to love up on him. She is the epitome of chaotic good. She only joined the sheriff’s department to pay the bills and because childhood bff Staci Pratt did. When they’re together, they have to share three braincells between them. They’re always getting into stupid shenanigans.

🖊 - April was my second. She’s a surgeon/child prodigy/was in medical school at age 16. She’s a little emotionally cold because of her background - emotionally neglectful parents, going right into a physically abuse marriage. She has three children from that marriage, and she moved to Hope County after being blackmailed asked by John Seed. She owed him a favor from when he was still John Duncan. She sees to the overall health and wellness of the Peggies - she does so many stitches, you guys. So many - and is also responsible for overseeing their medical supplies.

🖊 - Mavra is my captain, and she’s a stone cold badass. You know the phrase, “she would kill you as soon as look at you?” Well, Mav would much rather kill you than look at you. She’s the longtime partner (as in before the bombs even dropped) of Thomas Rush, and the mother of his daughter Mila. She is also pregnant during the events of FCND, but that comes out later (and I headcanon that baby will be a SuperBaby tm because of Eden’s Gift). As the Shepherd, she moves her children to New Eden and tries her best to get the two communities to cooperate, because they either all live together or die separately.

🖊 - Uli is another non-deputy oc. He’s an assistant district attorney in Missoula, and not really aware of the problems developing in Hope County. All he knows is he keeps getting files coming across his desk of people being arrested for serious crimes and represented by a lawyer who graduated from an ivy league school. This intrigues him and he decides to do a little digging. That’s how he meets John and it’s hate at first sight. It’s also lust at first sight and they end up hatefucking quite a lot. That is, until they both catch feelings.

RDR2

🖊 - Jessie is my main rdr2 girl. She’s pretty much a self insert into rdo who travels all around with her posse (her fam) doing jobs as the need strikes. She’s chaotic neutral. Killing, kidnapping, and destruction of property, right alongside rescues and recovery of property. She is a bounty hunter, again, as the need strikes. She’s happiest hunting and searching out treasures, and she avoids other people like the plague. That is, until she gets ambushed by a bunch of O’Driscolls and is assisted by one Arthur Morgan (as in, he’s riding through the aftermath and shoots the last remaining guy right before she sticks a hunting knife in his neck). Since she’s separated from her posse for the time being, she accepts his offer of safe harbor with the VDL gang.

🖊 - Lovisa is my other one. She’s a Swedish transplant into Saint Denis and she’s a doctor. At least, she practices medicine, even if the stupid rich old men on nob hill refuse to acknowledge her. She’s protected from charges of quackery charges by grateful patients who would otherwise be turned away from “decent” hospitals and doctors. She lives in a slum and is mostly paid in food, but at least she eats well.

🖊 - Evaline is my last rdr2 oc (so far). She’s got kind of a sketchy background right now because she’s so new, but so far I know that she was abandoned by her parents at a train station. There wasn’t an orphanage or anything she could go to, but she was taken in by the owner of a hotel in exchange for cleaning and helping out around the place. As long as she minded her Ps and Qs and avoided a beating, it wasn’t a bad life. She works as a bath girl now, and she hoards her money in a sack under her bed. As soon as she has enough saved for a decent horse, she’s going to ride out of town and never look back.

FO4

🖊 - Berenice is my FO4 baby. And boy, is she dealing with a lot. She did not cope well with the initial events of the game and spent most of the time internally screaming. But she pulls up her big girl stockings, gathers her group of ragtags, and turns into a capable leader. She and Danse totally get it on.

Destiny

🖊 - Foxtrot-5 is my exo hunter. She’s a Gunslinger who travels The Way of A Thousand Cuts. She’s a bi disaster, or bisaster. She has a crush on Zavala, and it’s honestly embarrassing for everyone involved. EVERYONE. Ultra reliant on her ghost, Sammy, to curb her dumber ideas. Cayde-6 was her best friend. She was wounded on Titan in a Hive nest and it took hours before she died and could be resurrected. It was very traumatic for her and Sammy, and she hasn’t been quite the same since. He’s afraid she might need to be rebooted, but he doesn’t want to lose her. Who knows what Foxtrot-6 will be like. She took off for the Tangled Shore as soon as they announced they were looking for a Hunter Vanguard.

🖊 - Neza is my awoken warlock. She’s a Voidwalker following the Attunement of Fission. She’s a Gensym scribe, a member of the Praxic Order with the Cormorant Seal, and she is married to Banshee-44. They’ve been together for like 80 years, since he was Banshee-15, and they’re very happy, tyvm. She is the apprentice of Asher Mir - whether he likes it or not, she’s not going to let all that knowledge die with him. She was furious after the Pyramidion debacle and barely spoke to him for like three years. He pretended to love it, but missed his “assistant”.

🖊 - Lia is my human titan. She’s a Striker and follows the Code of the Missile and is a little punch happy. She and her strike team mainly hang out on Nessus and keep the remnants of the Red Legion and the Vex from causing too much trouble. She is the: Captain, Godslayer, Iron Lord, Young Wolf, Hivebane, Kingslayer, Crota’s End, Rivensbane, Shadow of Earth, MMXIX, VIP #2014, etc etc etc. She’s lost track of her titles, thinks they’re a bit stupid really, but she has an overactive sense of duty and she rushes into a fight without really thinking it through. She is currently working for the Praxic Order to take down The Drifter, and she might be a teensy weensy bit compromised. But he better keep away from her ghost.

🖊 - Ursella Cousland is my Hero of Ferelden. I think we’re all very familiar with the Cousland background by now. She tried to honor her parents by using their teaching in all of her dealings, like when to be diplomatic and when to solve a problem with a knife. Dual wield rogue. She marries Alistair and becomes Queen of Ferelden and lives happily ever after. Let me ended it there, bioware you assholes

🖊 - Marilyn Hawke is the Viscountess of Kirkwall. Purple Hawke, my dudes. Another rogue here (I have a type, okay.) Fenris is her boo. Anders critical because, I as her creator, find Anders repulsive. She definitely kills him in the end. As much as she would love to, she is no longer able to follow Fenris around on his adventures. She gets stuck in the Fade, but you bet your ass she’ll be out and ready to kick Fen’Harel’s ass in jig time.

🖊 - Adelais Trevelyan was my first Inquisitor. As the youngest daughter of many, many siblings, she feels like she has quite large shoes to fill. Dedicated Andrastian. I headcanon that she was basically starting from scratch, combat wise. She’s would much rather be curled up with a book than out drilling in the snow. Cassandra definitely has to chase her down for training, but they bond over smutty literature. She’s reliant on Vivienne to keep her from embarrassing herself with her country bumpkin ways. They’re the land rich cash poor kind of nobility. She’s related to like…everyone. Family members all over the place. She’s madly in love with Cullen.

🖊 - Haletelbana (Bana) Lavellan is obvs my Elven inkie. I know they say the Lavellan clan roams the Free Marches, but I decided to make canon my bitch and say they were a desert clan based in the Western Approach. She joins Dorian in bitching whenever she gets cold. Eventually they just decide to share a bedroll for the warmth anytime they’re anywhere the temperature drops below sweltering. She sees the ocean for the first time in the Storm Coast and falls in love. Stupid sexy Solas breaks her heart. She also puts Briala in a position of power fuck you Celene

The Arcana

I blame @pabstbeerpussy for this.

🖊 - Sadb (pronounced Sayv) is the name of my apprentice. I don’t have much of a backstory for her yet, but she and Asra are in every kind of love it’s possible to be in, okay? Her familiar is a red panda named Batsa.

I have more, but I think this has gone on more than long enough, plus tumblr has already crashed once. But I’m always happy to scream about my babies!

#my ocs #Thanks for asking!#fc5 #rdr2 #fo4 #destiny 2 #dragon age inquisition #the arcana #i forgot Mass Effect #but damn #this is long

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dayseternal-blog · 5 years

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She's a nameless girl. Strange in dress, appearance, and accent in a foreign kingdom. She stowed away on a merchant ship, running from a certain future much worse than just losing her name.

An NH retelling of the fairytale Catskin.

Inspired by Tumblr's NaruHina Week 2019 Days 4-7 Day 4: Promises Day 5: Family Day 6: Forgotten Day 7: Yesterday

Rating: M

Chapter 5: Deceit/Honesty

She can’t go.

The thought is silly.

She’s a maid. She serves his family. She’s employed by his parents.

She could get caught. She could get sent home. She would have to face all of Konoha in shame.

But what if he discovers her a year from now? Five years from now? Ten years from now?

It seems practically inevitable that he would eventually discover her. She didn’t say a single word to him the last time he saw her, and he nearly recognized her.

It’s just a matter of time, one unlucky encounter, for him to realize, stare at her in shock, reject her, and send her home.

...Would he reject her?

The days toward the Summer Solstice Ball dwindle, and these thoughts plague her constantly.

Naruto…Naruto…

Master Naruto.

Can she handle watching him from afar for the rest of her life? Certainly his life will move on. Marriage, a family, the eventual lord of the province.

What’s worse?

Never knowing what could be, living safely, but constantly in fear of discovery?

Or his rejection, returning to Konoha, facing her father, and the scorn of the rest of the town?

There is an upside. She would see Hanabi again.

Either way, she will never know anything like him ever again. Whether she stays a servant or is sent back to Konoha, she is destined to grow to be an old spinster. At some point, she will be discovered, and that could go three ways. The first, that he accepts her, mysterious background and all. A thought she doesn’t dwell on for its implausibility. The second, that he rejects her but lets her stay on staff, condemning her to another kind of eternal shame, albeit one without fear. The third, that he rejects her and sends her away, condemning her to a sad life with her father.

She would see Hanabi again.

These thoughts circulate, over and over, day after day.

The avoiding and hiding doesn’t help.

She wants to see him.

A part of her wants to know if he would recognize her. A test of his feelings. Can he see her past the drab clothing, or did he only see her dolled-up appearance?

How much does he like her? As much as she likes him?

...What if she just told him?

What if I told him? What would he say? How would he react? Would he not believe me? Would he accuse me of stealing the gowns? Would he hate me? Or would he not care and still like me?

What if she just went up to him one day when he’s alone in the library? What if she just told him herself? Then she wouldn’t have to wait for him to recognize her. She wouldn’t have to wonder and wait in fear. She could take her fate into her own hands, at least a little.

But days pass, and she can’t muster up the courage to face him.

She’s not a cultured young lady anymore. She’s just a maid. Her hands are cracked and dry. Her hair hangs in tangles that can only be hidden in buns. Her clothes are not just plain now--they’re stained, used, and worn, too. She has no money, no family, no connections.

There’s no way he would believe her.

“Bucchi” is a far-cry from the “Miss.”

He would probably think that she’s trying to be sly. He would probably think that “Bucchi” is trying to pretend to be the lady he met.

Or even if he did believe her, he would be so shocked, he would be disgusted. There he was, spending all of his attention on a maid! He would feel humiliated to have spent all his time on a messy girl like her.

She can’t face him as Bucchi…

But what if he weren’t disgusted? What if he were just happy to find her?...

The week of the ball arrives, and she isn’t any closer to a solution than she was three weeks ago.

“Shizuka,” she murmurs. “I don’t know what to do.”

Her friend sits with her in Hinata’s dark room. “Do?” she asks, encouraging Hinata to share. She knows, though, that her secretive friend has been worrying about the young lord.

Hinata nods. She explains her predicament as quietly and as simply as she can.

“So you want to tell him?” Shizuka whispers, just as quietly.

“I...I think I need to...I don’t think I can hide forever.”

“...I don’t think he would send you away...Master Naruto isn’t like that…” She doesn’t share, though, that he can have a temper. She thinks that itis possible that he would get angry, or at least feel hurt at the deception. “I’m sorry, Bucchi. This is all my fault. I shouldn’t have forced you to go to the ball.”

Hinata shakes her head. “I could have refused. You wouldn’t have really forced me to go. I wanted to go.” She sighs. “It’s my own fault,” she says regretfully.

“It’s not...I pushed you to go. If I hadn’t done that…”

The two girls look at each other sadly.

“...I think the sooner you tell him, the better.”

“I know, but I’m too scared.”

“What if you told him at the ball? He would have to believe you.”

Hinata nods. If she told him at the ball, he would have to believe that the Miss is the same as Bucchi. She considered this possibility, too, but it seems underhanded, like she would be trying to sway his opinion of her while dressed nicely.

But isn’t that what she wants?

The morality of the situation is too confusing. And she realizes, even now, she’s trying to get Shizuka to make the decision for her. She’s being manipulative, a side of herself she never knew before.

Because hasn’t she already decided what she wants to do?

Hinata buries her face in her hands. “I really like him, Shizuka,” she whispers. “I-I just want to see him.”

Shizuka doesn’t know what would be best for the shy maid, but she does know that she shouldn’t try to influence her decisions anymore. “...Whatever you decide to do, Bucchi, I’ll support you in any way I can.”

The ball draws ever closer, and she only finds reasons that persuade her to follow her heart.

“I saw him pull out her glove from his pocket this morning.”

“He says his parents will have to force him to dance.”

“Oh, I’m sure after dancing with that lady all night, he wouldn’t want to dance with another.”

“Shion said he looks at her shoes every night.”

“He sighs too much these days.”

“Our poor young master. He’s too innocent in the ways of love.”

“He has always been too trusting.”

The gossip surrounding the servants’ favorite topic fills her with equal parts longing and guilt. How she wishes she could reassure him of her affection!

How she knows that she needs to make things right.

…“Right.”

She doesn’t know what’s right. She only knows that she wants to see him and spend time with him. Is that wrong?

Is it wrong for her to remember the way he talked so freely with her? The way he let her talk about herself? The way he allowed her to share herself and keep other parts secret? Never pressing too much, never forcing her to do or say anything..or nothing.

Being with him felt so right. How could it be wrong?

Is it wrong for her to want to catch his attention?

To want to be pretty for him?

To be the only girl to have his time?

“So you’re going to tell him?” Shizuka whispers as she pins the feather hairpiece in place.

Hinata nods. “...I’m scared.”

“Master Naruto is a good man. He won’t hurt you.”

“I’m not afraid of getting hurt. I’m afraid...of hurting him…”

Shizuka takes a careful breath. “...It would hurt him more the later he finds out.” She nods in affirmation of her own words. “It’s best to tell him tonight....there.” She pulls the ribbon of the dress once more for good measure. “You’re ready.”

Hinata looks down at herself. She’s never worn this dress before. The blue is nearly as dark as her hair. The bodice fits tightly, dipping down in the back slightly lower than conventions. Soft feathers adorn the full skirt, and she can’t imagine how much dye was used for such an expensive color.

Shizuka smiles. “Even if you tell him, he might have a hard time believing it.” She doesn’t know if she’s ever seen such an extravagant dress before. It’s hard to connect Bucchi with the magnificent sight before her. And again, she wonders about Bucchi’s past. To have come from such wealth, why would anyone run away to a completely new country?

“Thank you,” Hinata softly says. “Shizuka, I wanted to tell you...in case I don’t get a chance to later...thank you for being my friend. Thank you for always cheering me up and helping me when I didn’t know what to do.”

“What is this all of a sudden?” Shizuka asks, shaking her head. “Don’t say that! Everything will be alright, Bucchi. Everything will be alright.”

Hinata nervously smiles at Shizuka. She hopes everything will be alright. She doesn’t know what’s going to happen after tonight or how Naruto will react, but the one constant she has had since arriving at the Namikaze estate has been Shizuka’s camaraderie. She grabs her friend’s hands and squeezes them. “Thank you.”

“Stop that, Bucchi. Now go! Our young lord is waiting for you.”

Hinata blushes but lets go of her hands. She tentatively parts from Shizuka’s reassuring expression and steps out into the still day-lit evening.

The back of the estate is devoid of people as all hands are on-deck for the party. More guilt floods her. She should be in the kitchens at this very moment, helping out. It was incredibly selfish of her to have gone that first night. Even tonight…

She stalls at the side of the estate, once again feeling an onslaught of confusion. She shouldn’t be out here in this dress. She shouldn’t have come out here. She swore to herself that she was leaving everything behind for a life of safety. She promised Hanabi that she would never return to Konoha.

But at this very moment she is shirking her duties, her safety...for what? For what exactly?

Her heart hurts as she pictures him.

Everything was a mistake. Even now, is she making a mistake? Is she fooling herself? So what if she has to live her life in fear of being discovered? That’s just an “if” situation. There’s no certainty that he would ever figure her out. As far as he knows, she disappeared that night two months ago.

It’s better for him if he never sees her again.

She has nothing.

She’s just a manipulative, selfish, nobody girl.

She stares down at her feather-covered skirt. A nameless girl all dolled up.

A trick. She’s a trick.

She stands there longer in the hidden corner, unable to make the turn that would bring her closer to the party.

“Our young lord is waiting for you.”

Is he waiting? She heard the rumors of his melancholy, and that supposedly she’s the cause. But she wonders if she really can be the root of such romantic heartache.

She can’t imagine Toneri wishing to see her like that. She doubts that he ever really missed her at all.

She wonders if, right now, Naruto has already met someone else. Or if he really did say to Shion that his parents would have to force him to dance with another.

Two months is a long time.

Maybe he already got over her?

She shifts her weight uneasily as she wonders what she should do.

Should she turn around and go back to work, to a safe life?

Should she tell him?

If he really did get over her, then there is no need for her to tell him. If he has already forgotten her, then telling him would just be even more selfish on her part.

She just needs to see him.

She just needs to know if he’s still thinking of her or if he’s moved on.

She rounds the corner and slowly steps up to the veranda. People mill about inside as the night is still young, and many of the guests make their rounds to greet others.

She stands outside, unsure, peeking inside. She looks around but doesn’t step through the crowd, hoping to not call attention to herself. However, it seems that her costly gown makes that impossible as she notices people’s heads turning to look at all of the blue feathers. She can only hope they don’t recognize her.

Unable to spy her employers from where she stands, she slowly makes her way through, keeping close to the wall. She avoids people’s gazes, hoping that if she doesn’t return their stares, they won’t look at her.

Finally she spots them at the other end of the hall.

He stands with his parents, engrossed in conversation with another family and their daughter. As usual, his blue eyes, tan skin, and blond hair are bright in a way she’s never seen on anyone else. She hasn’t seen him in so long, not since that stormy day. He’s really beautiful. Even from where she is, she can see the energy he radiates, completely unlike the somber refinement of Konoha’s men. He exudes cheerfulness, as if just being near him would infect her with a case of high spirits. She can almost imagine his voice, just as bright as he is. She wishes she could hear it.

But he’s talking with the daughter, a young lady, who’s dressed in a simple purple crepe gown. Much more tasteful than her own flashy dress. She wears a smile just as bright, just as warm as Naruto’s.

It turns her gut inside-out.

She can’t do this.

She can’t watch him dance with other girls. Just imagining it hurts her chest in a way she’s never felt before.

“Young miss-”

She turns to notice a man addressing her. She steps back.

“You look very familiar-”

She shakes her head, sudden nerves crushing her. She actually forgot. She hates talking to strangers.

“Have we met before?”

She steps back again, shaking her head. “P-please excuse me.” She turns and rushes away rudely, escaping outside to the terrace, then down to the manicured courtyard.

She should return to work, she should help light the evening candles, she should help wash the dishes.

But she can’t bring herself to work a ball where Naruto will find some other girl to shine on.

He’ll forget about her eventually. She’s just fooling herself.

She sits in a secluded garden, one Naruto had taken her through that first night. She looks around, recalling the stories he told her about acquiring certain flowers. These are precious memories, ones she needn’t try to relive. But just for tonight.

Just for tonight.

She lets shadows extend around her, and she promises herself that she’ll be over him by morning.

“You’re not going to dance?” his mother asks.

He shrugs. Maybe he will, maybe he won’t. He didn’t see anyone he wanted to dance with.

His mother audibly sighs.

“You need to find someone to dance with. It’s only polite to all of the guests who came,” his father reminds him.

He frowns to keep himself from rolling his eyes. He can be sassy with his mother. Not so easily with his father.

“I’ll go ask Lady Konan.”

“She’s practically your aunt! She doesn’t count,” Kushina negates.

“Well, I don’t know who you expect me to dance with,” he fusses.

“I can choose someone for you to dance with,” she suddenly says, a bit of sadism hidden in her voice.

“I’ll find someone on my own!” he backtracks, to his mother’s evil smile.

“Good. Go take a look around. You never know,” his father encourages.

He nods and steps out into the crowd, noticing his own parents take to the dance floor. He watches them for a moment, admiring his parents’ grace and ability. The two make a lively match, his father’s cool demeanor a perfect complement to his mother’s Uzumaki fire.

“Did you see that young lady in the feather dress?”

A nearby couple’s conversation filters through the music and noise.

“I wonder who she was?”

The question perks his attention.

“She looked like-” Noise detracts from his hearing. “-the young master was dancing-”

He looks around trying to determine who’s talking. He steps up in a bit of uncertainty to a couple of guests.

“Young Master Naruto!” the lady says in surprise.

He nods. “Hello Mister and Missus…” He can’t recall their names.

“Ayukawa,” the man supplies. “Our family is in charge of the ports at Kishijima.”

He nods at the memory. “Right, yes. Um…” He grasps at polite manners. “Are you enjoying the dance?”

“Yes, we are. We might join your parents for a dance ourselves in a moment,” the man answers.

“They dance beautifully,” his wife adds.

They watch his parents for a moment.

Naruto nods, aching to just ask them about the subject of their earlier conversation. “My parents want me to dance with someone, too...I’ve been looking for a young lady, I thought I saw her…” he lies. “She has blue hair, light eyes..” He watches them to gauge their reaction. He’s far from disappointed.

“Oh, yes, we saw her, didn’t we, dear?” Lady Ayukawa says. “See, I knew it,” she exclaims, as further realizations come to her.

The man looks thoughtful. “She may have stepped outside.”

“She is certainly eye-catching. A young man tried to talk to her, but she brushed him off,” the woman recalls with an amused smile. “You had better hurry, young master, before someone else gets to her.”

He can feel blood rushing to his head, adrenaline running under his skin, his chest tight with combined disbelief and hope. He quickly bows with a word of thanks and jogs outside. He looks out from the terrace, scanning the grounds, half-expecting to see her dancing form like the first night.

She’s not there.

He gulps back the disappointment and descends the steps. The tall trees and hedges cast their long shadows on the ground, creating dark corners that could easily hide anyone. He resists scratching his head and messing his hair up.

She can’t be out here, right? Were they talking about someone else? She can’t possibly be here. She left a long time ago.

He looks back toward the ballroom, crowded with people here to have a good time. Except that he’s not having a good time. It’s hard to forget someone when people are telling you to. He never had an easy time with doing what people tell him to do.

Never good with rules, with expectations, with boundaries.

Why should tonight be any different? His parents can’t actually expect him to just find someone, right? He thought it a stroke of fate when he met that young lady. She was pretty, completely unaware of his rough reputation, curious about him and not his money, very obviously of some sort of noble birth...she checked out in everything his parents could have asked for, she was perfect.

He thought she was perfect. She held not only similar ideas to his own about social ranks, but she was way more progressive in thought, almost entirely unorthodox regarding family birth...it was fascinating. Yet everything else about her was so traditionally ladylike, almost too predictable. Dancing, reading, walking in the gardens. Easy to please. Certainly that must be true when she seemed easily amused by him and easily forgiving of him.

He turns around and heads to his gardens.

Maybe she’s there. Most likely she’s not.

He remembers her smile the most. The way she just seemed to grow happier as the night progressed during that first meeting. How he showed her this plant and that flower. Two months ago, that tree was full of peach blossoms, and she looked at them with such wonder.

He’ll never forget that.

Nor how he could see the shyness and propriety melt off of her as she got to know him. And that smile of hers on their last meeting. How they danced and danced and danced…

He intakes a sharp breath of air.

He forgets how to breathe.

He stares what feels like forever at the lady sitting at the ledge of one of the lotus pools, her finger caressing the pink petals, a luxurious skirt of dark, shimmery feathers trailing down.

A step toward her breaks her contemplation, and she looks up, blinking in shock. Her lips part, her light eyes widen.

She hardly has time to stand, to react at all, when he rushes toward her, his hands briefly taking hers before sliding up to hold her forearms.

“What are you doing here?” he asks breathlessly. “I thought you left!” Yet there’s no accusation in his tone. Only surprise, a hint of wonder that brings a smile to her face.

She registers the firmness of his grasp, only to realize that she’s holding his arms just as tightly. “I-I couldn’t. I tried, I really tried, but I couldn’t go back...”

He stares, the words barely registering as he takes in the last rays of the sun on her skin.

“Forgive me...I had to see you again…” she whispers, suddenly shy under his attention.

He smiles. She had to see him again. He tries to stifle his smile from growing any wider. It wouldn’t be a very becoming look. But the happiness brightening her own expression is too much. To know that she reciprocates every feeling he holds is a joy he’s never felt before. He sneaks his thumbs at the skin just beneath the ends of her gloves.

They gaze at each other for longer. He’s really here in front of her, as if he knew she’d be here. She takes in every bit of him. The exact shade of his skin, the shine of his blue, blue eyes, the way his brows have strands slightly darker than his blond hair, the dimple on his cheek, his lips…

He should have said something in reply by now, but he has no words. It’s his default with her, never saying or asking the right things. He’s heard stories of people falling in love with looks and regretting it, cautionary tales from his mother and father that he never thought would happen to him, but so be it. He hardly knows her. That’s fine. He’s always broken the rules. His story will be one to join the many.

It’s a relief to allow it, to feel it.

The softness of her lips on his.

The clench in his heart finally freeing from the confines of his chest, and he can breathe again in slow, slight, aching pulls that make his body feel heavy but his extremities light.

She tightens her hold on his forearms, fuzzy clouds filling her head, a fluttering in her gut, tingles sparking through her legs. In all scenarios of them meeting again, and not one had been like this.

Wilder than even her wildest dreams.

She lets her hands slide up his sleeves to his shoulders, fitting herself more easily in his arms that hesitantly come to rest around her back. But there they settle, his fingers pressing solidly into the material as his lips brush against hers once more.

Another gentle kiss sends a flush through him from his head to his toes. She doesn’t pull away, so he lets them meet for a fourth, a fifth, and he loses count when her fingers start to tease at his collar and his core starts to twist. He lifts his head, opening his eyes to see her lashes unwillingly flutter open.

We were kissing. The thought is unbelievable, and yet, here they stand, closer than she’s ever been to anyone, their bodies only a breath away from each other.

“I missed you,” he says, barely above a whisper.

“I missed you, too,” she replies.

It doesn’t take much to give in to her sweetly dazed expression, to lean down and kiss her again.

And it doesn’t take much for her to lean in to his promised warmth. To let his heat spread from her cheeks, through her arms, and down to her toes. It makes her brows pinch together; it makes her fingers feel like grasping onto something solid, to pull at the cloth of his vest; it makes her feel like tippy-toeing to reach out for something more, for his something more.

She brings him closer, and he embraces her tighter, feeling the rise of her shoulder blade and the narrow of her waist in his hands, chest shuddering against the knowledge of her bosom pressed to him, tasting the softness of her lips, only to suddenly find the softness of her own curious tongue. Hesitation slips away. He loves this. He loves the way she looks. He loves the way she feels. He loves the way she holds him and kisses him, and the way she lets herself be held by him. He loves it. He loves her, and isn’t that fine?

Isn’t it fine? To love him?

She doesn’t want to let him go even as she quickly realizes that the kiss is moving too fast. In all propriety, she should not be clinging to him, encouraging him by keeping him pulled close. But once it ends, once the kiss ends, he’ll have questions. So she leans into him for another kiss.

Just for now.

Just for another minute of him.

Just to memorize the way his arms feel wrapped around her. To commit to memory his intimate breath and the solidity of his shoulders.

To experience this kiss.

It should feel shameful, but it doesn’t. One meeting leads to another, and another, and any thoughts of guilt are forgotten.

A match strikes within her, lighting her in anticipation. She can’t breathe, but she doesn’t want to. It’s his hands and his pressure, steadily gaining weight upon her body.

She feels wanted.

Sensation settles deep, building and building. It’s something she’s never felt before, coursing through her veins, through her heart, racing. The taste of his lips and tongue, the sound of him breathless, the feeling of his hands holding her tightly.

She wonders if he feels it, too.

“Naruto…”

His name from her airy voice, a breath upon his lips, fills him with a desperation unlike any other.

Everything about this is so wrong. It’s so wrong and it feels so good. How he wishes he could say her name in return.

He gasps hard, trying to regain his sensibility.

She kisses him again, and he leans into it instinctively.

“Wait…” he murmurs. He tries to breathe. “Wait…” He pulls up reluctantly, only to see her, pressing against him, her eyes lidded, her cheeks rosy, her lips swollen. His heart shoots into his throat. He can’t possibly ask for her name right now. Any man with common sense would know that. He needs to kiss her. It’s the only thing he can do.

He kisses her. Over and over.

Her cute breathy sounds fill his mind, and he keeps going, just to earn that sound of approval. A heavy tightness gathers at his trousers, a worrying distraction that splits his morality between pressing forward and stopping altogether. So he stays against her lips, unable to bring himself to separate from her nor engage her in a completely illicit act.

The kiss itself feels amazing enough. Not just her lips. Her body. Her breath. Her voice. Her hands at his chest and neck. He’s never known anything like her.

He feels his brain melting, all sense of time and decency lost. He can only tell that shadows surround them, concealing their shameful act. Twilight chased dusk’s last light away before either of them realized, and he thinks neither of them care.

How long has he been gone?

Gone with her.

Oh, he wants to be gone with her all night.

She feels his hands sliding around her waist, up her sides, across the bare of her back, one to her neck. She registers him pressed against her, hard. It’s too much. She knows she messed up, remembering the awful lesson she suffered through in preparation to marry Toneri. She finally fully realizes what she’s doing to Naruto.

But…

She whispers his name again.

He squeezes her closely.

She can’t get enough of this. And she’s luring him on, closer. It’s unbelievable to her that she can entice him so. She can feel how he kisses her harder when she sighs or gasps. She can hear his hum of satisfaction when she presses against him.

It’s altogether too shameful.

She should feel ashamed.

She should. He doesn’t even know who she really is. But she can’t possibly tell him now. Not when she desires him so, and he so obviously reciprocates.

Just for tonight.

Just for one more night!

She twists her hips, feeling the pressure of his ardor against the heat pooling within her.

He shudders, breaking the kiss to let out a gasp, almost a groan.

It’s something completely unknown to her, and she kisses him again, wondering at the mystery between them. She wants more from him. He gives her shades of light and dark she’s never experienced before. Feelings so pure and honest; feelings so wrong and deceitful.

It fills her with suspense.

His fingers reaching through her hair, keeping her lips locked on his. His pelvis pushing against her, rubbing against her. His breath hot on hers. His arm wrapped around her waist.

She steps back against his leaning weight, and he presses forward. She realizes he’s walking her back, directing her somewhere, right when the back of her legs hit the bench. Her knees, weak from their tryst, easily give out.

He stands above her, his chest and shoulders heaving. He bends down over her, connecting their breath again. His hand threads through her hair, pulling her pins, her hairpiece out, until she can feel her long hair spilling down her back.

It’s such an intimate act.

Ladies never wear their hair completely loose around gentlemen. And she’s never had her hair touched by a man before. She gazes up at him as he smooths his hand down her hair.

The air feels heavy between them.

“Miss…” He doesn’t know what he wants to say. He wants something. He ardently wants something. He needs relief. He needs her to comfort him, to give him her sweetness, her softness. Everything about her excites him, thrills him, and he needs her to do something about it. He needs to be closer to her, he just wants to know her. Everything about her. Inside and outside, he wants her to be his.

He wants to love her.

To leave himself with her, irrevocably, permanently. To receive her, to have her.

To see her.

Feel her.

Every part of her.

He sits beside her. They kiss, but her lips and tongue aren’t enough. He slides his hand over her feathered skirt, feeling the angle at her hip, the round of her thigh, testing her boundaries with him.

She gasps away from his kiss, and he watches her look down at his hand.

He waits for her reaction to his intentions, hoping that her heavy breaths, shivering body, and misted eyes are an indication of how much she wants him.

Nothing about this is right, but he was never really a good boy anyway.

If she agrees, he can take her back to his chambers. They can get to know each other without worry. It can be just the two of them. Just her and him.

“Do you know what you do to me?” he murmurs to her. Not just tonight, but ever since they met. He'd been dreaming of kissing her since that second night, and this, this is far better than he thought a kiss could ever feel like.

She turns away, hiding her face from him, her long hair sliding over her small, pale shoulder.

He thinks to encourage her back into his arms when the sight of her strikes him as...odd. His gaze traces over her thick, inky hair, and when she turns to peek at him, he watches her lowered eyes. Before he can process any of it, he’s whispering a name. “Bucchi?”

She looks up in alarm, her eyes wide.

His hand retracts from her leg. “You’re...Bucchi, aren’t you?” His eyes, straining in the dark, searches her face, looking at her as if he never saw her properly before.

She wants to deny it. She’s not Bucchi. But she’s not “Hinata,” either. She hasn’t been in a long time. She’s not anyone.

He reaches for her, but she suddenly stands.

She doesn’t want to be Bucchi. She wants to be someone else. Someone who’s right for him. She steps away.

He doesn’t move. A belated expression of shock seems to be dawning on his face, and it makes her feel so ugly.

So ugly.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t...I didn’t…” Her heart breaks at his dumbfounded stare. And she flees.

She shuts the door of her room and curls up in her bed. She stifles her sobs in her blanket and wishes the dark could swallow her whole.

He sits in the garden, suddenly alone. One moment, heat and attraction were nearly suffocating him into madness. The next moment…

He’s not sure what on earth happened.

All he knows is he was kissing the maid.

But logically he can’t make sense of it. They seem so different. Bucchi, so timid and silent. The Miss, alluring and fascinating.

How could he have known with one always looking away from him and the other looking like Heaven’s jewels?

Still, the Miss and Bucchi are obviously one and the same.

Obviously.

He wants to hit himself for being so ridiculously, stupidly blind.

He didn’t know a maid could be so eye-catchingly gorgeous, so heartachingly desirable.

He blinks himself into awareness.

She ran away.

No, he let her run away while his slow-as-a-turtle brain processed.

And he’s still processing. Like the fact that every time she ran away, he never found her because he never thought to check the servants’ quarters. Or that she, Bucchi, never looked at him because she didn’t want him to recognize her. And that she never told him her name or where she’s from because she didn’t want him to know that she’s a maid.

Or did she want him to figure it out?

She said things like “comb” and “bath” because…

His cheeks flame worse than during the kiss. Oh...nooooo… She wasn’t being timid because she is timid. Oh NOOOOO… Realizations hit him too quick, and he’s hiding his face in his hands, slumped over, in terrible embarrassment. She was right there while I was…no wonder she couldn’t look at me!... And then she was combing my hair… He thinks he might die from his heart spasming from such severe embarrassment.

There was that time, too, after the rainstorm… For a second he’s filled with self-righteousness at having been correct that day, until he remembers the way he grabbed at her.

Embarrassing memories, just one after another flood him.

He was pining away right in front of her before that second ball. Just laying out all his insecurities for her to see.

What was she thinking during all of that?

Oh gods. He doesn’t want to know what she was thinking. What she must think of him! He never acted suave in front of the maids because he never thought he needed to impress them. Kimiko and Shion have always been sort of like his confidants, more like family than anything else. He pretty much grew up with them around. So he acted no different in front of Bucchi.

The way he was sighing and moping in his bedchambers right in front of her.

It’s mortifying.

His fingers run through his hair with the stress.

His mind flashes back again to when he last saw the maid. The way he grabbed her arm that day! That really was her, and he just manhandled her thoughtlessly, and he’d never have done that to a woman, anyway, but to her. To her. In front of her.

How could she still like him even after that?

He sits there, frozen, staring at the ground. His sight slides over to her shiny hairpins and feather hairpiece left on the bench. He picks it up, remembering the vision she presented when he found her here earlier.

He kissed her. They kissed passionately, in fact, and if he hadn’t finally recognized her, they might have gone even further.

He stands in panic.

He needs to see her. She ran because she thought he must have rejected her. He’s still hopelessly in love with her. He needs her to know that.

He runs out of the gardens and dashes toward the servants’ quarters. He runs through the halls of their bedchambers. He has no idea if she’s in any of them, so he calls her name aloud, hoping she might respond.

Nothing.

He runs up to the kitchens.

“Master Naruto!” Servants call his name in surprise.

“What do you need, sir?”

His intrusion completely halts their work. Everyone stops what they’re doing to look at him.

He looks out-of-sorts. His hair is noticeably mussed. His shirt is wrinkled. Their stares focus in on the hairpiece in his hand.

“Are you alright, Master Naruto?” a cook asks.

Naruto’s gaze darts anxiously from face to face, none of them the one he wants to see.

“Master Naruto?”

He takes a moment to calm his breath. “...I’d like to speak with..Bucchi.” He tries to tame his feelings of embarrassment, which are threatening to explode across his face and color his skin a telling red. “...Has anyone seen her?”

The servants look around. One of the cooks hollers her name out, as if she might be hiding in another room, which, honestly, everyone half-expects with the young master in the vicinity. Murmurings rise when she doesn’t appear. “She could be helping to clean the rooms?” “Maybe she’s in the scullery?”

“Sir, I think I might know where she is,” Shizuka says, speaking up. She nods assuredly to the fellow staff. “I can take you to her.”

“Thank you.” He follows the maid to a quiet hallway, far from the kitchens. He’s surprised when the maid abruptly turns around.

“Master Naruto, so...she told you?” The maid looks at him worriedly.

He stares at her for a second to collect his thoughts. “She didn’t tell me anything…”

Shizuka looks at the feather hairpiece in his hand.

“This is Bucchi’s, isn’t it?” he asks. “I need to speak with her. Do you know where she is?” Impatience threatens to leak through, but it’s obvious that Shizuka is his lover’s friend.

“I thought...I thought she was with you, sir,” Shizuka replies quietly.

He keeps himself from grimacing. “She was...and then, I thought maybe she returned here.”

Shizuka pauses and then nods, turning back around. She leads him down a hall he hadn’t ventured into and to a shut door, where she stops and knocks. “Bucchi, are you in there?” She leans her ear against the door. When she doesn’t hear a response, she goes on, “I’m coming in, okay?” She turns the door handle and looks at Naruto pointedly.

“I’ll...wait out here.” He can’t just go into a woman’s room, even if it’s the servants’ quarters.

“I apologize, Master Naruto. I will try to bring her to you if she is in here,” she whispers. She turns the handle and enters, shutting the door behind her. In the dark, she can barely make out the lump of her friend on the bed.

“Bucchi?”

“...Shizuka…”

She approaches carefully to her bedside. She wants desperately to ask what happened, but now is not the best time. “Master Naruto wants to speak with you, Bucchi. He is waiting right outside for you.”

Hinata turns her head in confusion, and then rolls over to face her friend. She doesn’t believe it. She was crying in humiliation and shame just a moment ago and only managed in the past few minutes to slightly calm herself. “...Really?”

“Yes. Are you able to talk to him? He really wants to talk to you.”

Hinata touches her swollen eyes. She’s still in her dress, but she must look like a complete mess. Not to mention her long hair is all over the place.

“What happened? Were you crying?” Shizuka asks, realizing the state that Bucchi is in. “Are you okay? I can try to ask him to leave if you are indisposed.”

“I should...I should talk to him.”

Shizuka frowns, wondering what happened. Bucchi said that she would talk to him, but instead, it seems that something went wrong. She helps Bucchi sit up and get out of bed. “Are you sure?”

“Y-yes, I’m sorry, Shizuka, for the trouble.” Hinata does her best to fix her hair, but it’s useless. She tries to wipe her face clear, but she knows she must look awful. Crying never looked good on her. She decides to change out of her gown at least. Slipping out of the tight-fitting material is another call back to reality. She’s not anything fancy. She’s just a maid. She cracks the door open, keeping her head bowed, and catches sight of his shoes. Shame engulfs her once more. She made him go looking for her again. And this time, he found her. “M-m-master Naruto, I’m so sor-”

“Don’t!” he interrupts, a bit too loudly. He sees her shoulders tense. “Don’t call me like that.” Hearing that from her makes him feel sick. And why won’t she look at him? Even if she’s a maid, it’s been clear to him that she wasn’t always one. She has no business calling him that way, not after everything.

“N-naruto, I’m sorry f-for deceiving you.”

“No. No, no, don’t apologize, Bucchi, I understand.” He looks up from her bowed head to see Shizuka standing awkwardly behind her. “Thank you, Shizuka,” he says as a way to acknowledge and dismiss her.

She nods quickly, rubs Bucchi’s back, and scampers away.

Naruto waits for her to leave before taking a deep breath. He turns his attention back to the young woman before him, the dream that’s been haunting him, his lover. All he can see of the beautiful lady is the top of her head, her long hair cascading over her strange coat. She seems so much smaller. Even still, it’s her, but the difference is so incredible, he feels now that he really doesn’t know her, that he has no business touching her at all. “...Come with me. Where we can talk somewhere private,” he invites quietly.

She nods, still unable to meet his eyes.

He navigates them as quickly as possible through the halls, and she follows at a respectful distance. To anyone watching, no one would know of their relationship. He opens the door to his bedchamber, quickly realizing the irony of the situation. He had been thinking of bringing her here earlier in the evening to get to know each other. Now he really means it.

His entrance immediately alerts Kimiko and Shion. “Master Naruto, you’re back early. Is anything the matter?”

Many things are of matter right now, but first, “I need to speak with Bucchi, alone, please. And I don’t want any interruptions.”

Their eyes shift to the shy maid in confusion before they leave the two of them alone.

When the door is securely shut, silence settles between them.

Hinata’s hands twist together anxiously. She doesn’t know what to expect now. He said he understands, but does he? What does he understand? She glances up at him in curiosity.

“You’re finally looking at me.”

She drops her gaze again.

“Bucchi, no...Miss. Please.”

She looks up at him, slowly meeting his eyes that are surprisingly soft. It encourages her to stand straighter, to relax her grip on her fingers.

“What’s your real name?” He steps closer, carefully. “Won’t you tell me, please?”

She doesn’t know his intentions. If she gives him her real name, he can certainly send her back to Konoha. She shifts uncomfortably as he draws closer. It would be rude of her to step away from him. “M-my real name is of no importance to you, N-naruto. I’m just..just a maid...I lost my name when I arrived in Uzushio.”

“Then, where did you come from?” He doesn’t like that she still looks scared. What makes her think that he’ll hurt her? “Please don’t say you’re from Towel,” he tries half-jokingly.

She bites her lips in shame at how she tricked him twice. “I-I’m sorry.” She lets her gaze drop, but he quickly steps up to her, his fingers at her cheek.

“Look at me. Don’t look away anymore.” He trains his gaze on hers until her light eyes are on him, too. “Nothing’s different to me. I still see you. And, it’s me.” He pauses to see if she understands him. “It’s just me.”

Just him. Hinata studies him, matching his words with his expression. He doesn’t sound or look angry. Concerned, definitely, but not really upset.

“I just want to know you.”

She can feel herself breathing easier.

“Bucchi, Miss, do you know?”

She looks at him in confusion. When he doesn’t go on, she asks quietly, “...Do I know…?”

He smiles at hearing her voice, calmer now. “I don’t think you know. That even now, I want to kiss you.” He watches her blush. “But I don’t know you. And you don’t know how much I want to know you…” Now that he can see her face clearly again, and so, so close, close enough to kiss, he finds it hard to focus on anything other than her soft skin. Her makeup looks smeared...from tears...but that only makes him want to kiss her fears away. It would be so easy to just continue where they left off. It’s frustrating to think that he’s the only one so affected, that she can leave him so easily, that she really did leave him, even after their tryst in the garden. It’s not fair. Not fair at all. “Is it the same for you? Do you want to know me?”

“Yes,” she whispers. “Yes, Naruto, I want to know you, too.” She says this as earnestly as she can.

“Then...tell me about yourself.”

She nods and swallows her hesitation. Nervously, she takes his hand, letting him feel the roughness of her fingers that her gloves had concealed all this time. She avoids his gaze, not wanting to see his reaction to her work-worn hands. “I...I’m from a land of great forests. I disguised myself, ran away from home, boarded the trading ships, and...and ended up here.” She takes a deep breath, readying herself for his questions.

#naruhina #naruhina fanfiction #romance #fairy tale au #i'm nh trash #please enjoy

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swampgallows · 5 years

Text

ive been in a really bad “mortality funk” ever since i went to the ER. this shit plagued me in my early 20s and i would have panic attacks over it twice a week on average but a lot of the anxiety abated once i had a job (til the dissociation set in). the anniversary of the accident was a few days ago and ive been having flashbacks of the crash the last couple of days, been waking up screaming and this morning i woke up crying, cheeks already wet with tears.

i drove on thursday when i went to the doctor and i saw a crash, a car flipped over onto its roof, and there were people gathered around with their heads in their hands. it’s one of those sixth sense things, a palpable dread, where i could just.... feel that death had occurred. then my heart leapt out of my chest when i saw a fire truck coming toward me in my lane, then turn and block 3 lanes of traffic to pull up next to the accident, tailed by an ambulance. i meandered my way around and it took forever to get home (and im still not the best driver, so it was kind of nerve wracking). at one point i tried to take a side street and... i dont really even know what happened but a guy was about to clip me so i legit drove up a little bit onto the curb to avoid him, nearly hitting a parked car in front of me. still have no idea how i didnt hit it. but it made an awful tire screeching sound, i guess of the wheel bumping up onto the curb. i heard it in my head over and over.

when i went to bed that night i kept seeing myself hit the parked car when i shut my eyes, even though i didnt hit it. it was fine. i turned off my car and even got out and checked and there was like a foot between my car and the parked one, cars swarming all around me in currents of traffic. i just sat in my parked car after that until things let up a little bit. it was so fucking hot, even though I had the AC on the sun was beating down on me through the windshield. i just wanted to get home so fucking bad, i had already been at the doctor way longer than i wanted to be. and driving at 5pm in l.a. is basically a death sentence.

when i went into the doctor that day i was smiling and feeling good, and i legitimately thought to myself “this time it’s a good thing”. i loved going to the doctor because i felt like “i’m taking care of myself. i am healthy”, but now i feel...so much older than i am, and i feel like “now i am in the process of dying. i am coming to the hospital because i am breaking down and dying.” i dont want to think like this because i’m truthfully still quite young, and all this will do is make my anxiety worse and drastically decrease my quality of life by constantly feeling like i’m going to drop dead in two seconds or that i’m wasting away.

i guess i still have a lot of trauma about cars. driving around makes me feel better because i feel like im gaining more control of my life and of the fear, but it’s also just fucking rough out there lmao.

i want to write more. i want to keep typing. ive been using tumblr too much today but i cant really seem to get engrossed in anything else. ive been so fucking on edge lately and the atmosphere in the house has been bad too. i constantly feel like somebody is about to fucking snap at me or like im going to get in trouble.

my tooth is hurting again. ive had the temp crown for over a year now. i need to fucking call and get the root canal done. for fucks sake. need fillings on th emolar too. maybe even another crown. need a crown on the other bicuspid. fuck my shitty mouth dude lmao

#blathering

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deceptioncheck · 6 years

Text

Fortune Telling

@mollymauklivesfest Day 7: Free Day (which I’m using to post the Fortune Telling prompt because I missed it earlier whoops)

Here’s a (long, unedited) teaser from a fic I’m currently working on! If anyone has any input or just wants to kick my ass to keep writing don’t hesitate to message me!

Everything after the first few paragraphs will be under the cut because this is lengthy for a tumblr post...

The interior of the Leaky Tap was filled with the warmth of a hearth and the soft din of various conversations. It was busier than usual, but that was to be expected with the festival fast approaching. The bartender looked up from the glass she was cleaning and made eye contact with Caleb long enough for them to exchange a nod before he looked away. Caleb ignored the other patrons and beelined towards his favorite corner table, which was blissfully empty. None of the servers bothered him—they all knew he would order something once he’d settled in. Caleb relaxed into the corner and closed his eyes to let the background noise of the tavern wash over him. He had all but dozed off when the shifting of the chair next to him caught his attention.

Caleb, staying still, opened his eyes and slid his gaze towards whatever had just disturbed him. A flutter of patchwork settled next to Caleb as the offending tiefling took a seat.

He was a lot to take in. Caleb was assaulted by the pungent smell of incense, as if the brightly-colored cloak and thigh-high boots weren’t enough to make an impression. Caleb quickly scanned over his figure, taking note of his pierced horns and the tattoos that wound their way across his purple skin, peeking out from his collar. Focusing his attention back to the grain of the table in front of him, Caleb waited tensely for something to happen. He had already decided that he didn’t like this technicolor whirlwind.

The heavy thud of a mug being placed on the table startled Caleb out of his stupor, earning him a short chuckle from the figure next to him.

“Sorry, friend. Didn’t mean to spook you. Just thought you might want a drink.”

Caleb finally turned towards the source of the voice, taken aback by the playful tone. He got a better look at the stranger now—at his toothy smile, his blood red eyes, and the thin, pale scars that ran across his chest where his shirt hung open. Becoming increasingly uncomfortable under the stranger’s piercing gaze and realizing that he had been staring for too long, Caleb pointedly redirected his eyes to the mug of ale that now sat on the table.

When Caleb made no move to reply, the tiefling leaned one arm on the table and extended the other to Caleb. “The name’s Mollymauk. Molly to my friends.”

Caleb stared at the bejeweled hand, mostly to avoid the blinding grin Molly was flashing at him. He remained silent and didn’t shake Molly’s hand, wholly unsure what to do. For all of the times he had escaped to the dregs of the city, no one had ever approached him like this.

Molly’s grin faltered, but he quickly pulled himself back up and held his hands up in surrender. “Alright, suit yourself,” he said, although he made no move to leave. Instead he leaned back in his chair and regarded Caleb with a detached curiosity. “S’fine if you’re shy, I don’t mind the silence. The drink’s still yours, though.” The lightness of his tone somehow managed to piss Caleb off.

Caleb let the silence drag on for a few more moments, until it became clear that Molly had absolutely no intentions of letting him sulk in the corner in peace. With a long-suffering sigh, Caleb slowly reached out and took the ale. He cupped the mug in his hands to fill them as he broke the silence.

“Caleb,” he muttered before taking a long swig. Molly simply waited for him to finish, clearly expecting more. “My name is Caleb.”

Another one of those insufferable grins spread across Molly’s face. “He speaks!” Molly exclaimed, placing his elbows on the table and resting his chin on his hands, still facing Caleb. “Nice to meet you, Caleb. Why don’t you take off your hood and stay awhile?”

Caleb hesitated, touching the hem of the hood that still sheltered him from the view of most of the tavern. “I’d rather not.”

“I was just playing.” Molly nonchalantly waved a hand around. “So, you’re a local? With that accent, I suppose you’d have to be,” he said.

“And with an accent like that, I suppose you’re not,” Caleb shot back.

Molly smirked, eager to play at this game. “Guilty as charged. I’m actually a spy sent to infiltrate the palace and make off with the crown prince.” He wiggled his fingers as Caleb choked on his ale. “I’m kidding,” he said quickly at Caleb’s violent reaction. “I’m here with the circus. Do you really think I look like a spy?”

“Not really,” Caleb admitted. “You are much too… flashy for that.”

“Just as I like it.” Molly let the words hang in the air, continuing to lean in much closer than Caleb was usually comfortable with. Although Caleb was certain that Molly didn’t recognize him, he still felt uneasy under such intense scrutinization. It was as if Mollymauk could discover all of Caleb’s secrets with his stare.

Caleb retreated further into the safety of his hood, prompting Molly to speak up. “So, what’s with the whole hood-on-indoors thing?” Molly gasped dramatically. “Ooh, you’re not here on some underground business, are you? I hope it’s nefarious.”

Despite Molly’s clearly joking tone, Caleb couldn’t help but defend himself. “I am not some common criminal,” he said brusquely.

“I would never call you common, darling.” Molly smirked and maintained his gaze, pleased that he had so quickly figured out how to push Caleb’s buttons.

Caleb’s face flushed red. No one ever spoke this forwardly to him. Whatever Molly’s intentions, Caleb was completely and utterly out of his depth. “That is not what I—” he stammered.

Molly leaned back in his chair and kicked his feet up on the table, causing Caleb to grimace. “Again, I was only joking. You sure are easy to get a rise out of, aren’t you?” Caleb despised the smug look on Molly’s face, but kept his mouth shut to avoid embarrassing himself further. “Just a bit of friendly banter, Caleb,” Molly said, pushing against the table so his chair tipped up on two legs. He rested his hands behind his head as he waited for Caleb’s next move.

“This is how you make friends? Does that usually work out for you?” Despite Caleb’s best attempt, the question came out more genuine than scathing.

“Well, sure.” Molly sat up straight again, unable to sit still. “You’re still here, aren’t you?” Caleb huffed annoyedly, earning a laugh from Molly. “How about I make it up to you? I can read your fortune.”

Caleb regarded him warily. “My fortune?”

“Well, sure. I did say I worked for the circus, didn’t I? Fortune telling is my specialty.” Molly had already pulled a tarot deck from one of his many pockets.

“Can you really read fortunes, or is it only a gimmick?” Caleb asked as he watched Molly deftly shuffle the cards. They were beautiful—gold leafing swirled across a dusty purple background, creating a celestial effect on the backs of the cards. It seemed like Molly was a fan of maintaining his opulent aesthetic, even down to his tarot deck.

Molly finished shuffling and placed the deck in front of Caleb. “That’s up to you to decide. But either way, it’s fun!” He grinned wickedly. “Go ahead and pick three cards for me, will you?”

Caleb sighed, conceding to sift through the deck. He tried to focus on picking cards, but Molly’s watchfulness proved distracting. “How?” He asked aloud, becoming frustrated.

Molly looked surprised. “You know, I think you’re the first person to ask me that. Just… pick the ones that feel right, I suppose. I can show you, if you’d like.” He placed his hands over Caleb’s and guided them to place the deck back down on the table. The tips of Caleb’s ears turned red at the familiarity of the touch, blissfully concealed by his hood. “Spread them out, like this.” Molly slid the cards from Caleb’s hands and fanned them across the table. He hovered his hand over the cards for a moment, putting on a bit of a show for Caleb before finally selecting one.

“This one was speaking to me.” He flipped it over with a flourish, revealing The Fool. Molly couldn’t keep the laughter out of his voice as he explained the card to Caleb. “This really is my card. Some people say The Fool represents naiveite, but I prefer its other reading—spontaneity and a free spirit. I think that suits me quite well, though you’re probably just thinking that it means I’m a fool. You wouldn’t be completely wrong.” This prompted a small smile from Caleb, which Molly considered a victory. He scooped the cards off of the table and handed them back to Caleb. “Your turn.”

Caleb pondered the cards for a moment before spreading them out like Molly had. His eyes flicked over the cards, and after a moment of thought he quickly pulled three cards from the pile. “What now?” He looked to Molly for guidance.

“Hand me one of them, if you would.” Caleb obliged and Molly plucked the card out of his hands, holding it between two fingers. With a flick of Molly’s wrist, the card landed face-up on the table.

“The Moon,” Molly began as Caleb picked up the card to examine it. “This card represents your past. It’s the card of the subconscious, telling us that your past has been plagued with uncertainty and anxiety, and that you’ve often let insecurity and fear rule your decisions.” Molly frowned and glanced over at Caleb, whose expression had tightened. “A shame. If that’s true, I’m sorry.”

Caleb stayed silent, still running his fingers over the card. He didn’t believe Molly had any real divination skills, but maybe there was something else behind his fortune telling. Whatever it was, Caleb found himself wanting to believe that Molly wasn’t entirely a fraud.

Molly cleared his throat, drawing Caleb’s attention back to him. He was holding his hand out expectantly, clearly waiting for Caleb to finish his brooding so they could move on.

“Oh, sorry.” Caleb offered Molly a second card, which he turned over with much less of a show than the previous card. Sliding it towards Caleb, Molly slipped back into his fortune-telling voice to explain its meaning.

“This is the Wheel of Fortune, representing your present. This card is good luck.” He tapped it lightly and shot Caleb an encouraging smile. “Means you’re at a turning point in your life. Something is happening, or will happen soon, that’ll change your life for the better. You just have to be open to that change,” Molly finished pointedly.

Caleb grunted, unable to staunch his sarcastic smile as he looked at the card. “I could use a bit of good luck to get through this week.”

“Not a fan of the festival?” Molly leaned forward to take the final card from Caleb, wanting to get a better look at that elusive smile. “Well, the cards don’t lie. You’re due for some good luck.”

Caleb snorted. “You could say that again.” He watched as Molly laid the third card in front of him. It sported a pair of androgynous figures being watched over by an angelic being, all bathed in soft sunlight.

Molly let out an amused hum, and Caleb startled slightly as he felt something brush against his leg. Looking down, he realized that Molly’s tail had begun to swish excitedly beneath the table.

“Well, the cards certainly are saying that. These,” Molly said, picking up the card to display it more fully to Caleb. “Are the lovers.”

Molly held up a finger as Caleb opened his mouth to speak. “Let me finish. This card represents your future. The Lovers symbolize important relationships, harmony, and, of course, love. They don’t always have to indicate a romantic relationship, but it’s much more fun if they do.” He grinned wickedly before adopting a relatively sober expression. “The Lovers value good communication. This card is telling you not to take that for granted—if you find a person you can be yourself with, be open with, hold on to them. And who knows? Maybe this card means you’ll be finding your soulmate soon.”

Caleb stared at Molly in awe. As much as he wanted to believe Molly’s cards, he couldn’t let himself hope his future held anything like that. Caleb knew he was unlovable.

“That is an… awfully optimistic outlook,” he said quietly, tracing the design on the card. “I am not exactly the most open person. Or the most approachable.”

Molly rolled his eyes. “Well, I approached you just fine. Haven’t had my head bitten off yet.”

“Not everyone is as outrageously outgoing as you, Mollymauk,” Caleb grumbled, sinking back into the corner.

Molly began to gather his cards back into one pile. “I’m choosing to take that as a compliment, Caleb.” He sighed. “Look, you don’t have to believe me. I’m a bit of a charlatan, after all. But the cards don’t lie… you just have to have a bit of faith. Sometimes people find each other in the strangest of ways.”

Caleb looked back up, willingly meeting Molly’s eyes. “Perhaps you are right.” He held the gaze a bit longer, wishing he could decipher the strange look on Molly’s face. He couldn’t quite put his thumb on it, so he cleared his throat to break the strangely comfortable silence. “Thank you for the reading.”

The peculiar expression quickly faded from Molly’s face to be replaced with an easy grin. “Oh, it was my pleasure. If you ever need another, you’ll know where to find me. Biggest circus in town.” His grin faltered slightly. “Speaking of…” He glanced over his shoulder at the large aasimar woman a few tables over. If her build hadn’t been enough to intimidate Caleb, the size of the sword strapped to her back would’ve done the job. She was turned away from them, but it was obvious that she was aware of everything happening in the tavern.

Molly stood up and stretched his arms above his head, sighing. “I should probably be going. Yasha over there is waiting for me. It was very nice to meet you, Caleb.” Molly extended a hand to Caleb, looking hopeful.

Caleb shook it this time, giving Molly a small smile. “Likewise, Mollymauk. This was interesting.” He paused. “And I mean that as a compliment. I don’t usually come here for the company.”

Molly laughed, full and loud, still holding on to Caleb’s hand. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that was a joke!” The same strange expression from earlier clouded over Molly’s face, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. “Ah, well, I’m off. I do hope our paths meet again.” He released Caleb’s hand and, with a flourish of his outrageous coat, gave a deep bow before turning on a heel and making his exit.

In a flash Molly had collected Yasha and made his way out the door, leaving Caleb with the lingering smell of incense and a lot of questions.

#mollymauklivesfest #critical role #critical role fic #mollymauk #caleb widogast #cr #I hope you guys like this and hopefully I'll have enough of the full fic to actually start publishing it on ao3 soon!!#please let me know what you think any and all comments are super appreciated and helpful!#my writing #also shoutout to this fest for being what I need right now and also encouraging me to share my writing :)

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waitingtobeimpressed · 7 years

Text

The Silent Serpent Part 1

Chapter 1 - South Side High

Sweetpea x OC

Part 1

Warnings: maybe a lil bit a violence but that’s life for you.

Word count: quite a bit.

The picture is mine and I did, in fact, create it. And umm if you didn't notice it can kind of only be used for my story because it has the title of the book and my name in it Sooooooo......

I also did not create Riverdale but some people get salty about not making that clear. However, I did create the character of Maeble Mikaelson/ Forgarty and all the relationships she forms. So. Yeh.

Yes her name is Maeble Mikaelson. For a bit of context, her mothers maiden name is Mary Mikaelson and her Fathers name was Fish Forgarty (It's complicated), She prefers to use Forgarty as her last name because to put it lightly she hates her mother with a passion…

She doesn’t remember her father because he was given life in prison when she was still a baby. We might see more of him in the future though...

I’m still new to the whole Tumblr thing so just give a chance and hopefully, I will figure it out.

Car pollution and second-hand smoke filled Maeble Forgartys lungs as she and fangs pulled into South Side High car park. It hadn’t been the first time she had been here even though this was the first time she was actually attending the school.

Maeble spent every summer she could remember on the south side. Her father, who was brothers with fangs’ dad, was a serpent so she knew the majority of the people she saw here. Her mother didn’t really approve of gang lifestyle and shipped her off to England where she attended a prestigious school for ‘Troubled Young Ladies’. Maeble laughed to herself every time that place happened to come up in conversation because she was hardly a rebellious child. She was quite the opposite actually as she didn’t even like socializing, let alone cause any trouble.

Fangs jumped off of the bike and gave Mae a huge grin. She, in return, gave him an eye roll.

“Why are you happy?, if anything I’m going to embarrass you…” She said sliding off a taking a wary glance at her immediate surroundings. Looking to the school she noticed the hoards of students around the entrance, taking turns in tormenting the people who attempted to make their way inside. To her left, she spotted the large row of motorbikes, a line in which they were also sat. Fangs noticed this and smirked with pride.

“Can’t I just be happy that the closest thing I have to a sister is going to be going to the same school as me?” Fangs continued to smile to the point it was starting to make mae feel uneasy. Almost like he was planning something.

“Shut up, Do all of these bikes belong to serpents?” Maeble questioned with a bit of amazement, already knowing the answer.

“Yeh, but this one,” he said and patted the bike they had just ridden in on. “Is the coolest” he stated. Maeble raised her eyebrows and nodded her head. “I dunno Fangs, that one is pretty impressive.” mae said and began to walk to one that had caught her eye. It was completely black except the sliver handlebars and rims of the wheels.

“You would fucking say that wouldn’t you?” Fangs huffed in defeat. “That’s Peas”. Maeble and Sweet Pea had met a few years back when she came to stay with her aunt and fangs for the summer when she was nine. He had immediately taken a liking to her and it quickly became obvious that he wanted to make her life as hard as possible.

Death by cheesy pickup lines…

So whenever she came to stay in the future Maeble would do anything in her power to stay away from him. Not in a cruel way, just as a way of self-preservation for his influence.

Mae’s eyes widened with annoyance “Well, in that case, you’re right, your old, rusty piece of crap is the coolest.” Fangs smiled with satisfaction not letting her words hit him too hard. He Swung his tanned muscled arm around her pale shoulders and guided her towards the entrance of the school. As they walked up the steps of South Side High she could feel the burning glare of at least half of the student body as they quickly ascended. Once they were through the doors Fangs removed his arm and took Mae’s bag and deposited it into a little grey tray and continued to guide her through the metal detector. On the other side, Fangs grabbed the bag again and handed to her

“Well, that was quite the experience.” She mumbled sarcastically (Sounding extremely Britsh making her cringe), pushing her thick, blonde coils of hair out of her face and back into place. Maeble’s hair had always been unruly, but it was only recently that she had become hyper-aware of what it was doing. Mae grabbed a black hairband for her wrist that was already cutting off the circulation to her hand. She attempted to grab all of her wavy curls with one hand and successfully managed a half decent messy bun with minimal effort. Smiling at her self she looked up to see what fangs were doing.

“That was a sight…” he grinned at her playfully.

Maeble rolled her eyes and jabbed him in the ribs. “ you have No idea how much practice and still was needed to pull that off, dear, sweet, baby cousin.” Fangs started to walk away without any explanation. Only looking back to see if she was following. When he saw that she wasn’t he quickly made a hand gesture and she casually followed, trying not to look threatened as a row of greasy Goulies hit their fists against the battered lockers and wolf whistled in her direction. “FRESH MEAT” A voice boomed and echoed through the corridor as almost everyone stopped what they were doing to look. Fangs came to meet her halfway and swung his arm over her shoulder again, glaring at everyone who dared make eye contact with him.

“She’s spoken for, shes with the Serpents” Fangs shouted and they continued around a corner until they were out of sight.

“Shit, Shit. Shit. Fuck” Fangs rambled as his pace slowed, pulling his free hand through his gelled hair. He looked panicked, not his usual state. Fangs had always had a laid-back demeanour, even when he was being scolded. The Serpent institution was an absolute breeze for him.

“What?” Mae asked, genuinely confused and only slightly insulted that she was being treated like today's entertainment.

“Well, darling Cousin. I pretty much just told the whole school you have aligned yourself with us, which puts an even bigger target on your back that if were still a sheep… so it's not great.“ he said.rubbing the back of his head

Suddenly an ear-piercing ringing noise filled the already bustling halls and everyone started to file into the designated classroom. “ Shit, where the fuck is…” Mae Paused to pull her class schedule from her black denim jean pocket. “ B10? History, I think?” Mae looked up, either hoping that Fangs would be in the same class or at least he would be close by.

Fangs’ bad mood jumped off of his face and an evil grin appeared. “Ohhh, unlucky… Soz Cuz, looks like you have Mr Stevens, or over wise know as ‘Brass Balls’”.

“I’m not even gonna ask” Mae sighed and followed Fangs into the classroom. He motioned for her to enter and as soon as she did her bright blue eyes locked with a certain tall Serpent she was hoping to avoid like the plague. He smiled a sickly sweet grin and Maeble turned oh her heal and left, bumping into a hard chest just outside of the room.

“Fangs!” She exclaimed as she hit him lightly. “You arse. You knew he was in there didn’t you?”.

Fangs pretended to look innocent but Maeble knew they had set is up. Those assholes, she thought. Fangs spun her around and pushed her back into the classroom. “I had no idea he would be here, honest, scouts honour, And you cant be skipping on the first day, you're giving the serpents a bad name,” he muttered as he quickly ran back out of the room smirking, leaving her to stand awkwardly at the front. Maeble’s eyes scanned the room hoping to find a seat that was as far away from Sweet Pea as possible. She found one relatively close to the front and as soon as she sat she hear her name being called out from the back.

“Mae Mike? Is that you?” Maeble smiled recognising the voice and the nickname instantly. She turned in her seat to see Toni grinning wildly.

“Toni, God Damned, Topaz!” Toni jumped out of her seat and ran to the front of the classroom, engulfing mae with a soft hug. When they broke apart Mae took the time to see how much her best and only friend had changed over the past year. Toni had defiantly grown into her body, looking absolutely stunning in a black pair of waist-high shorts and a red flannel shirt tied off around her hips. Her long wavy hair was somehow longer and sporting pink stripes that highlighted the structure of her slender face.

“ What the hell are you doing here?” she asked, kicking the kid out of the seat in front of me so she could face me.

“I moved in with Fangs Last weekend… Mum was getting to be a bit much and I got kicked out of the third boarding school she sent me to…” Mae said, smiling when she saw the impact her words had on Toni’s face.

Toni stood up and held her hand out, offering it for Mae to take.

“wha-?” Maeble started but she was yanked out of her seat and being dragged to the back of the classroom, to where the Serpents sat, to where SP sat. “you can’t sit down there, you’re an honorary Serpent, which means No Ghoulies” mae was confused but she noticed Toni’s line of gaze no longer matched hers. Mae followed it to see a slim, bleach blonde girl twiddling a piece of her hair in between her fingers as she flirted with a boy who was sat in front of her. The boy, that was, being Sweet Pea was straddling his seat so he could face her. “Scram Brit” Toni finished, glaring at the girl until she finally collected her stuff and strutted her the seat Mae was just sat in. Mae slid uncomfortably into the warm seat, feeling Sweet peas eyes gaze over her facial features. He didn’t turn around, but then again Mae didn’t think he would.

“Female Forgarty, always a pleasure,” He said as he leaned in even closer, so he could rest his elbows on the table.

“Not for me.” Mae rolled her eyes, Let the torture begin, She thought.

#sweet pea #sweet pea riverdale #riverdale #sweet pea imagine #silent serpent #part 1 #riverdale imagines

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katsitting · 7 years

Note

Hello.How are you? It's my first time asking someone on tumblr a request.Can you do a fem Tom Riddle/Voldemort x male Harry Potter one shot or multichapter fanfic(I wold like it if it was rated E but you can do otherwise ).There aren't so many (or not at all) fem TMR/LV fanfics so you would do me quite the favor.I love your writing style too and read some of your one shots /multichapterd fanfics.Thank you for doing this.

AN: This definitely came late. Sorry about that, I had a ton of prompts to fill and only just got to this one. I hope you liked. I don’t know how I feel about this story personally, but I hope that this is close to what you hoped for. It was supposed to be a PWP but, that didn’t come to pass.

Rating: M

Warnings: Horror, Naga!Voldemort, Female!Voldemort, Mild Sexual Content, One-sided Attraction, and Non-con elements.

“Are you sure this is a good idea, mate?” Ron cut in nervously, disrupting the heavy silence that had fallen between them in the dark forest.

Harry scoffed, rolling his eyes because of course Ron would be nervous now. They had agreed to this, they had made their decision earlier that morning when making plans for Halloween. Leave it to his best friend to chicken out now before the real fun actually happened.

“Ron, are you really going to do this now? You were the one that came up with the idea in the first place!” Harry said, exasperated when Ron yelped suddenly, his steady footsteps now sounding more like stumbles in the dark.

Ron had likely tripped on something, knowing him. Maybe he had gotten caught in a spider’s web? Maybe he had caught his foot on a tree root and now was working aimlessly to not fall on his arse?

Either way, Harry did not bother to turn back around. He was on a mission to get to the old Riddle manor, and there was nothing that could stop him. There were too many strange things happening at the place. Disappearances. The sounds of terrified screams. Odd things that should have made him think twice before going in, and of course, he did have his reservations about this whole thing.

But Ron. He had made it sound like a perfectly good idea to go on ahead.

And now, here Ron was. With second thoughts right at the last second. Harry could not go back now, not when he had crafted a perfectly good lie to his parents to get through. Especially when he’d told them that he’d be going to be at Ron’s when he in fact would not be at Ron’s.

“It’s just, this is creepy. Everything is silent and all…” Ron said again, seemingly gathering himself before following after Harry’s more brusque pace.

“…What did you expect? I told you that this would not be a good idea. I didn’t want to come out here at all. But you insisted. It’s too late to turn back now, Ron. The lies have already been made, we can’t possibly take it back after we told our parents we’d be at each other’s house.”

Ron heaved a heavy breath before shuffling more quickly behind Harry.

“…You’re right, I’m sorry. But can’t we just go to ‘Mione’s place? It isn’t too far from where we are.”

Harry groaned, finally stopping to round on Ron.

Honestly.

Ron looked ghastly underneath the glow of full moon, his blue eyes wide and terrified at the prospect of moving further through the shadows. It was fortunate that they had some light to ease their path, especially when their flashlights, although useful in some respect, were too small to truly capture much around the forest. They could clearly discern a couple trees and some gnarled roots, but not much else.

Still, it made Harry pause for a moment. He was tempted to call the whole thing off right then and there. He didn’t like the terrified look on his friend’s face. At all.

But toss it, it hadn’t been his idea to do this. He had wanted to stay home and play horror games all night long. And again, Ron had been convincing.

There was something odd happening in the Riddle manor. He couldn’t just go back now without at least scouting the place…

“No, Ron. We can’t just crash at 'Mione’s place like it’s alright. We both agreed that we wouldn’t tell her what we would be up to. Lord knows how well she’d react to seeing us both dressed up in heavy camo trousers and long-sleeve jumpers. She’d find out immediately, and then neither of us would be able to hear the end of it.”

Ron paused, mouth opening to say something before closing it immediately when Harry glared at him.

The last thing they both needed was an incensed Hermione on their backs. It was already bad enough that they were lying to their parents and sneaking off in the middle of the night to a potentially haunted manor. They didn’t need to tick off Hermione and have her rat them both out in an effort to stop them from going through with their, admittedly, stupid plan.

She was loyal, but she’d never accept their stupidity for such things. Especially when there were plenty of rumors following the manor like a plague. Rumors that, in Harry’s opinion, were enough to scare even the bravest.

“Toss it, why did you let me talk you into this? Why didn’t you just tell me no before we came here?” Ron groaned, hands digging into his hair in frustration. Harry shrugged, shooting him a resigned look before turning his attention back to the invisible path they’d been taking for several minutes now.

There was no real way to get to the manor, but everyone that lived in town just knew instinctively where it was. Better to know where it was than to not know at all and unwittingly stumble upon it when camping with the family. It was a place everyone avoided, save for a couple knuckle-headed teens. A group that, unfortunately, Harry fell under since he had only just turned seventeen earlier this year.

It certainly felt like the beginnings of a horror movie, but Harry would never tell that to Ron.

Harry started trekking through the trees, flashlight pointed to his feet to avoid stubborn roots and large rocks in his path. He heard Ron moving steadily behind him, oddly silent as they continued to walk.

They didn’t stop until the heavy foliage broke, and the manor came within view.

Harry shot the manor an assessing look, taking in the severe state of disrepair the place had fallen into.

The gates that had, once, protected the manor from thieves and other dangerous folk were rusted over. Misshapen and crude underneath Harry’s careful scrutiny.

It looked just like the manor in that Resident Evil game he and Ron had played earlier that month in anticipation of Halloween. It was uncanny, really. The wood holding the porch atop the double doors of the manor was rotted over, and Harry, if he squinted, could even see the way the roof at the very top looked about ready to collapse.

It was a hazard to go in, and Harry knew that. Hell, he could feel the danger on his skin like the frigid air tickling the nape of his neck, but that did not deter him in the least.

He was going in there, even if it killed him. He would make the best of his night, and it wasn’t as though he was going alone, he reasoned. He was going in there with Ron, and that was marginally better than him going alone.

“Alright, it looks like no one has been here for ages. The gate is wide open. We can definitely get in through the front entrance.” Harry said, turning round to shoot his friend the most convincing look he could muster.

But Ron wasn’t there.

The boy that had been following closely behind him had disappeared. The only sign that Ron had even been there at all, the second set of footprints in the snow winding down the path they had taken.

Harry felt dread seize his throat, as if a clawed hand had suddenly gripped him tightly by the neck.

“Ron?” Harry asked, swallowing down his fear to rush back to the opening they’d come through in the forest.

His footsteps echoed ominously in the emptiness. The crunch of his steps, of twigs and dried leaves as they snapped beneath his feet, thunderous.

It had taken him seconds to reach the opening to the forest, to scan the area for any sign of Ron. His friend wasn’t the most secretive, nor the most careful when he walked. On the walk to the manor, Ron had made more noise than a stampeding elephant.

So this silence unnerved him, more than he was willing to admit.

But instead of the sight of his friend’s turned back, or the sound of loud curses as Ron dutifully rushed back to civilization, Ron was nowhere to be found.

He wasn’t hiding behind the towering trees or the bushes flanking the stubborn trunks. All Harry had found were two pairs of footprints on the ground, packed deeply into the snow. They pointed back in the direction Harry had come through–towards the manor.

It was as though Ron had vanished out of thin air. There wasn’t a third set of steps evidencing that Ron had run back. Harry couldn’t make sense of it. People didn’t just disappear like that.

Harry swerved around to glance at the haunted house, dread making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

If Ron had not gone back from where they’d come, then there could only be one place he could have gone. Though how this was, how Ron could have gone to the manor when Harry had been staring at the only entrance to the entire place, Harry could not pin down.

It was impossible. The logical conclusion was to assume that Ron had turned back, that he had acted incredibly out of character to avoid the trouble waiting for them both in that manor.

Harry wasn’t convinced. In fact, everything about the whole situation reeked.

Harry paused, eyes narrowed into thin slits as he surveyed the open gates.

There was an itch just beneath his skin, a buzz of intuition thrumming along with his blood telling him otherwise. It made absolutely no sense. Hermione, if she were there, might even smack him upside the head for even considering what he was considering.

Harry couldn’t contain it even if he tried. Everything within him screamed that Ron was in there. Petulant and assured. More confident than the shadow of fear that lingered like a veil in the back of his thoughts.

Ron was in the manor.

Harry did not hesitate. He clenched his jaw before brusquely heading to the rusted gate, ignoring just how loud his footsteps were in the near silent place. There were no birds rustling through the trees. No sounds of animals crying out, hunting and playing, in the dark as Harry trekked on.

Everything was still.

It did not deter Harry, in the least. Convinced, even if irrationally so, that Ron was in the manor and that his friend had not come willingly.

Ron would never go out on his own. The redhead, though brave and stubborn, had been terrified once they’d taken their first steps into the forest. Just the mere notion of spiders was enough to get the bloke turning on his heels. It was an easy connection to make, even if it required quite a leap, even for him.

Harry was resolute in his stance, however.

The pieces just didn’t line up. There were no separate set of prints indicating Ron had turned back. No expletive when Ron, without a doubt, eventually ran into a cobweb somewhere in the dark. No sound of boots as they crushed leaves beneath his feet. Though anyone could argue that there was no evidence alluding that Ron was in the manor either, all Harry needed was his gut.

And it had spoken loud and clear.

If Ron had not gone into the manor willingly, then something had taken Ron without Harry knowing the wiser.

Harry passed the gates without sparing them a glance, shuffling quickly towards the front door that Harry had been certain were closed when Ron and he had first arrived. Harry’s gaze narrowed into slits, lips pursing into a tight line.

The doors were open. Parted wide, as if beckoning him to come inside. A silent invitation only Harry could understand.

Harry decided he would take the invitation. More than aware that he had been given no choice in the matter.

The polished wood and carvings inlaid of the door glowed brightly when Harry pointed his flashlight at them. The emeralds etched to the wood were lit in brilliant greens. The color becoming more and more pronounced as Harry neared, as if it hadn’t been exposed to light in far too long.

Harry frown deepened, but did not stop, even when everything within him told him to turn back.

He squashed his fear down, shoving it behind a proverbial lock and key. His friend was inside the house. There was no way he would leave him behind, not when he could do something to get him out.

Especially when it’s your fault he even disappeared in the first place…a quiet voice hummed in the back of Harry’s head, guilt like a ten pound weight in the pit of his stomach.

The guilt fueled his movements. Encouraged him to head inside even when his skin crawled.

Harry had barely stepped between the grand entrance when the doors abruptly slammed shut behind him. As if a powerful wind had suddenly blown against them, rattling the very foundations of the manor.

He stumbled, only just catching himself before he acquainted himself with the dust-ridden floor below.

Quickly, Harry after regaining his balance, he turned to the door and clasped on the ornate handle. He pulled, but it refused to buckle under his weight. The doors unmoving even when he pressed his foot against the door to force it open.

The wind couldn’t have done that…

Harry’s stomach jolted at the thought, and adrenaline rushed through his veins. He released the door after yanking at the door two more times with all the force he could muster.

It wouldn’t make a difference to yank on it. It was clearly locked.

Harry’s unease spiked, his grip on the flashlight tightening imperceptibly.

It had been an impressive show of power…though not entirely unexpected. He had already suspected something more was happening in the manor. His instincts practically screamed at him to turn tail the moment Ron had suddenly gone missing.

What was shocking though was that the ghost, or spirit, would just reveal itself to him like that. It would have made sense to catch him by surprise by trapping him in a room or something. To keep itself hidden as he explored the place while looking for Ron.

It was how most horror movies went. But for the door to just shut itself on its own? Not one second after rushing inside? Harry wondered what that could mean.

Maybe the creature felt confident than Harry would not be coming out alive? Maybe it somehow knew that once Harry walked in, offering himself like a sacrifice to an angry God, its success was assured?

If that was the reasoning behind this show, then the ghost, demon, thing was sorely mistaken. Harry would not make this easy, not when his friend’s life was at risk. Even if he died in the process, he’d make sure Ron made it out of it alive to tell the tale.

“I know you’re there.” Harry said, taking in the grandiosity of the main entrance with a shrewd gaze.

He hadn’t expected a response, so it was unsurprising when silence was all he got in return.

The creature may have announced in no lesser terms that it was there, but it seemed that facing the monster head on was out of the question.

The creature wanted to scare him, that was for sure. But it wanted a hunt. A chase, if the unsettling silence that surrounded him was anything to go by. Harry wouldn’t give it the satisfaction.

Harry cast his flashlight about the room with tense shoulders and bent knees. Ready for the smallest inkling of trouble even as a heavy silence settled around his shoulders like a cloak. Too aware that if he let his guard down, that the creature would pounce.

It had already done so when Harry made the mistake of taking his eyes off Ron. What was stopping it from doing something when he turned his back?

Harry eyed the way the shadows danced along old furniture, taking in the ghost of a once opulent parlor. It was a shadow of its former self, with dust coating every single surface in the room, refusing to part from the furniture it had made its home.

It was almost a shame that it had been left to such disrepair. That no one in the past decade had purchased the home and decided to restore it to its former glory.

Though, in all fairness, Harry was certain that the neglect was more due to the resident ghost problem than actual disinterest. No one was crazy enough to buy the Riddle manor when it was rumored to be haunted, when there were too many bizarre incidents connecting back to the manor.

Except for him and Ron, of course. That should have been his first clue.

But there was no point regretting this fact now. With each second he lingered in this ancient parlor, Ron could be fighting for his life somewhere. Scared.

Harry banished the mental image of Ron’s pleading gaze.

Harry swiveled his flashlight around the room, nose scrunching with distaste when the smell of mildew and decay practically oozed from the walls. The holes and pockets in some of the rugs on the floor, moth eaten and green with mold.

It was as decrepit as it was impressive. It was undeniable that this place, at one point, had been booming with loud voices and cheerful chatter. An impressive piece of architecture that was both the envy and the delight of all that entered.

The entrance was grand. The style reminiscent of the perfect symmetry of renaissance chapels, with not a single arch, painting, or step on the staircase out of place. Everything was precisely calculated, measured and tailored to the tastes of its owner–the style, perhaps at one point, innovative and scandalous.

Though, none of the poise remained now. Once soft green walls that had once paired impeccably with mahogany chairs and tables, with bookshelves and even a baby grand at the far corner right of the room, were now were darkened with age and neglect. The doorway with its beautiful archway, dazzled with oil lanterns and paintings, instead of shining brilliantly beneath his flashlight, were worn and rusted. Some of the hooks lodged off, as if torn from the walls. The source of that aggression, unknown.

Harry walked over the carpeted floor until he was right at the center of the parlor. His attention suddenly drawn to the second floor, the shadows writhing in the background forcing him to look.

There was something there.

Harry could not explain the feeling. The twists in his stomach were like cramps. Like a sharp claw had pressed against his solar plexus and refused to ease up. Even as his breaths strained, became louder and shallower.

The monster was in the second floor. The feeling was unmistakable.

And then Harry was moving, flashlight catching on one of the two staircases of the parlor. It wound around in a narrow spiral, the black railing gleaming beneath his light even through the many layers of dust coating it.

The steps on the staircases glinted a bright yellow, but Harry did not stop to consider whether it was safe to even climb up. His stomach was in knots. Something was urging him to go upstairs, and Harry had to follow.

It pulsed like a heartbeat, in time to the staccato of his breaths.

Harry took the first step, and it was as though all the air had been sucked from the room.

If the room had been still and silent before, nothing compared to the sudden listlessness that fell around him. The darkness felt more oppressive, practically oozing from the corners and the cracks in the foundations of the walls.

Even the railing looked brittle, the iron more like string than the gleaming black Harry had scrutinized earlier.

He hesitated. It was a brief second, no more than an exhalation.

Doubt swelled inside him, like an over-inflated balloon ready to burst at any moment’s notice. Fear reared its ugly head, depriving him once more of the tenacity he was known for. Notorious for, if what Hermione said was true. Everything was screaming for him to turn back.

Harry went forward anyway, swatting it away like a bug. Ron needed him. He couldn’t hesitate now.

Another step, and his senses began to scream. The voice, unlike one Harry had never heard before, shouted for him to turn back around. To ignore the second floor, to explore the first floor and leave things at that.

Harry pushed through it, jaw tense.

He wouldn’t be cowed. Not when the creature seemed to want him to stay away. It was hiding something up there, it had to be if it was fighting Harry tooth and nail. If this sudden fear was the creature’s doing.

Maybe what it’s hiding is Ron…

Harry took another painful step, and then another, and another. He didn’t stop even when his gums ached from how tightly he clenched on his jaw. Though this fact did not deter him. He doubted anything could. Not the whispers that suddenly began to murmur into his ears, and certainly not the weight that burrowed deeply in the pit of his stomach.

The voice begged him to turn back, to see reason where there wasn’t any. But he couldn’t, he had already come this far. Ron was somewhere in the darkness, and abandoning him was out of the question.

Though, even knowing this fact, Harry’s mind was absolute chaos. The rush of adrenaline through his veins, the tension in his limbs when another wave of fear clenched tightly around his windpipe. Harry could hardly make sense of the shadows and the yellow light catching the banister.

It was madness, the crushing weight of his own emotions and his stubborn nature clashing like two blades meeting.

And then Harry was at the top of the staircase, the world swaying around him as he tried to wrangle his breaths into submission. The panic thrumming in his veins abated at once, the rush of blood to his ears silenced.

Everything grew still, as if Harry had not tried to fight through a powerful gust of emotion forcing him back.

Harry cast a glance back to the bottom of the stairs, his fingers digging into his flashlight to glimpse at the world below.

There was only shadow. The light did not penetrate the gloom. Not even the broken windows at the bottom-most floor could pass through. It was as though the black devoured the light, prevented even a sliver of moonlight to wash the gloom with pale, silvery light.

Harry’s heart raced, fear like a sharp blade pressed to his chest. He couldn’t turn back, even if he wanted to. There was no telling what would happen if he went back down after he’d risked his arse to go up, when he had ignored reason to chase after something that waited for him there.

It was too late, and it would do nothing for Ron.

Harry righted himself, realizing then that he’d been doubled over. That in his rush, he hadn’t noticed how dangerously his knees dipped and his head swayed.

Sucking in a deep breath, Harry turned his attention to his new surroundings.

The stairs had brought him to a wide hallway. The furnishings and the cabinets lined along the walls nearly black with age and tattered, just as the first floor had been. Except now, there were actual doors. Not entrance ways, not openings, but actual doors that Harry could explore.

There were portraits of all shapes and sizes flush against the wall. Pictures and frames either face down or standing proudly atop the cabinets and dressers right at the entrance of the hall.

Harry could not make out a single face in any of them from where he stood.

Harry…

A startled gasp escaped his lips before he swiveled around–certain that the voice had come from somewhere behind him.

But there was nothing behind him. Only a door that looked as if it had seen better days. The edges were rusted. Burnt orange and red glittering obscenely under his flashlight as he tried to calm himself down.

The hiss had been so high that it had to have come from a woman. Like the scream of a banshee, or at least, how Harry would imagine a banshee were to sound like if it were real. Except it hadn’t been angry, at all. It was devoid of aggression, though that fact did not make it any less frightening.

The voice had come unbidden and much too close for comfort. It had been a hair’s length away from his neck, as though it had been murmured directly to his ear.

He shuddered, casting the iron door a wary glance.

It was suspicious how the creature had appeared only when he was gearing up to head down into the hall. Could it have done it on purpose?

It could have, for all Harry knew. He wouldn’t have noticed the door if the monster hadn’t scared the ever living shit out of him.

And now, Harry could not even think to turn his back on this door. Not when it looked like the entrance to some medieval torture chamber.

It stuck out like a sore thumb, and against his better judgement, Harry slowly moved towards it. With an outstretched hand, he reached for the handle, while the other clutched tightly on the flashlight as though it were a weapon.

Well, here goes nothing.

Closing his hand around the handle, he ignored how the cold metal drained what little warmth he had in his palm. As if it were sucking the very life out of him by simply holding on.

Harry swallowed nervously and squared his shoulders. If something stood waiting for him on the other side, he’d be ready for it.

With a hard wrench, the door came open with a loud, ominous screech. It echoed through the silent manor like a gunshot. Harry didn’t so much as flinch, already expecting it.

It was similar to the doors his dad often worked on in his garage. The hinges were always rusty and loud. They needed a bit of oil and the like to get up and running, to stop the annoying squeak that often plagued them. It was how he had met Ron in the first place. His dad had come by with the redhead in tow, in need of some help with a door he didn’t know how to fix.

Harry shined his flashlight inside with his left shoulder pressing against the open door. The cold metal seeped through his jumper, but he hardly paid it any attention. Not when the darkness was so thick that his small light barely penetrated it.

It was like a cloud of black smoke from an erupted volcano. The ash swimming like particles in the air, absorbing and swallowing all light that dared trickle through from the hot, summer sun.

Unease prickled the nape of his neck when a cold gust of air blew against his face, the breeze almost alive, twisting and writhing against every inch of exposed skin on his face and neck.

Harry had never been more grateful that he’d worn a jumper than in that moment.

It was freezing inside the room. Near arctic temperatures, if Harry had to guess. As if someone had trapped winter in that very room, with only that iron door to keep it from getting out.

Harry shuddered, fingers like ice, as he stepped deeper into the darkened room.

The door closed with an audible click behind him, but he hardly paid it any mind. Not when the darkness was percolating in the room, almost wispy, like the tendrils of his own hair after a bath.

He pointed his flashlight throughout the room, unsure of what he would find.

The darkness was still as oppressive as it had been from beside the door. It hadn’t changed, even as Harry stepped deeper, hand outstretched.

Still, it refused to yield to his silent demands. Light could not cut through it. Harry doubted that even the morning sun could light this room up, even if bottled in his hand.

And then, the flashlight went out. The darkness blinded him.

The flashlight released a soft groan and sparks of electricity shot out.

Harry hissed, dropping the thing when it shocked him, his fingers pulsing painfully.

The flashlight rolled somewhere unseen. The sound of it like nails scratching at a chalkboard. Grating and uncomfortable, even as Harry tried his best not to panic in that moment.

The light had gone. There was nothing except an endless, unfathomable abyss. The kind that Harry imagined lingered beneath the bed of precocious children. The kind that parents told scary stories of, that his own mum had, while he was curled in his own bed, warned him of.

Harry had never felt so afraid in his life. It was the sort of fear that settled between the space between his rib cage. It lodged itself into his throat, robbing him of his ability to so much as breathe.

It was endless, and everything Harry could see. All he could feel even as he tried not to lose himself to it, to let the monster that had lured him into this room, win.

He had to remind himself that this was what the desired. It wanted him to be afraid. It had wanted him to come through here rather than the hallway. It had trapped him in the manor, and now, it was doing everything in its power to frighten him out of his wits. To rob him of his own ability to think.

His insides churned, unable to tear off the suffocating horror that crushed his lungs.

“Harry!”

A voice snapped him out of his stupor, released him from the choke-hold of fear and unease that nearly overwhelmed him.

The voice…sounded like Ron.

Recollection bloomed in his chest, and Harry released a deep breath he hadn’t known he was holding. His relief, even if minor, welcomed.

Harry would recognize that voice anywhere. After years of playing football together. After weeks upon weeks of studying, complaining about Hermione’s rigid study schedule, it was unmistakable.

Ron was there.

“Ron? Where are you?” Harry called, releasing a deep breath before turning in the direction he believed it had come from. Though where that was, Harry couldn’t be sure. Not when he couldn’t make heads or tails of where he was. He could end up walking directly into a wall, for all he knew.

Harry found that he didn’t mind that at all. Walking into a wall, that was better than standing still. An improvement, considering he had nearly lost himself to his own panic in that moment.

Ron did not answer, but Harry began to move anyway.

Knowing that his friend was alive was all he needed.

It was all he needed to force himself to shuffle through the unknown.

Ron was alive.

Hidden, but his friend was somewhere with him. A place that couldn’t be too far away. Ron’s voice had not been muffled, had not been masked by layers and layers of wood.

It had been crystal clear, like Harry’s own breaths in the dark. Ron had to be close.

Hope bloomed in his stomach, and Harry did not stop even when his foot smacked onto something solid; when his arms flailed, and his palms shot out to break his fall.

A pained sound escaped his lips when his knees knocked harshly against the floor. When his fingers smeared on something wet, and then his hands were slipping, sliding across the ground. Harry’s chin knocked painfully on the ground, a sharp burst of pain making his teeth rattle in his mouth.

It was a miracle he hadn’t bitten off his own tongue, but still, it hurt.

His stomach had landed on something smooth and firm, a slight warmth burning its way up from that single point of contact.

It singed his jumper with its intensity. It knocked the air from out of his lungs, his chest suddenly tighter than it had been even when he’d tried to brave the stairs to this unknown floor…

His fingers twitched and more of the substance smeared onto his hands. Harry couldn’t help making a face, disgusted by just how sticky and thick it felt. Unaware, practically blind, to what he’d landed on.

He wished he could see, at least just to make sure that what he’d landed on wasn’t mud or shite.

“Harry…”

A fearful scream tore from his throat when a voice murmured into his ear. It was the same high, gravelly voice. The syllables, the words, fell from what, Harry could imagine, were lips that ghosted against his flesh. They breathed softly against the shell, enough so that Harry could feel just how dangerously close those lips were.

Harry jolted away, or at least tried to.

Before he could make some distance, something snaked around his ankle. It was a solid, firm hold that was so bitingly cold that Harry wondered if his blood had frozen from the contact.

Harry kicked back, a startled breath heaving from his lungs when the solid form beneath him began to move. The object that he tripped on, that had brought him crashing to the ground was alive.

Fear sliced through him and all rational thought fled.

“L-let me go!” Harry shouted, but then the hand dragged him back by his ankle. Sharp nails dug into the flesh, and Harry struggled against a grip that pulled at him with more force than Harry thought possible.

It was unyielding and none of his writhing could tear him from out of it.

“Harry…” A voice purred, cold air fanning along the shell of his ear. As if death had chosen that precise moment to speak, to show him that it was there. Waiting, always waiting, in the darkness for him with outstretched hands and sharp teeth. A mouth that was bloody and wet, ready to rear back and tear into quivering skin.

He scratched onto the ground, pinpricks of pain blooming along the edges of his fingers when the presence continued to drag him away into the unknown and his nails dragged on the grooves on the floor.

“You haven’t changed at all…”

Confusion bloomed along with his fear.

What?

Harry’s brows knit together, even as his fingers still scrambled for something to hold onto. The slaps of his palms against the ground were deafening, nearly drowning out the sound of the woman’s voice.

“W-what are you talking–”

Harry had no time to finish his question before he was suddenly sailing through the air, weightless.

No!

His stomach jumped, and his nerves screamed. His senses were lost, and the glasses that had so far remained on the bridge of his nose, fell away. Lost in the darkness, never to be seen again.

Panic rushed through his veins, and hands reached for the glasses he knew he wouldn’t find. Hoping, against all hope, that his fingers would catch on the wiry frames.

His fingers met nothing but air.

“Still too blind even with everything laying out in the open…”

Harry suddenly stopped. His toes were no longer touching the ground. He was dangling in the air, held up by some invisible force that robbed him completely of movement.

“Naive…trusting…in spite of the predator prowling around you…”

Harry tried to move his fingers, but they were frozen. He couldn’t even wriggle his toes. All he could do was throw his head back and forward, tilt and shift.

All of his movements had been robbed from him.

It was impossible.

His fear swelled inside him at this fact, at the knowledge that he was helpless. That there was nothing he could do, not when the monster had finally revealed itself.

“A bleeding heart…following a dangerous path with death hanging above your head…”

A cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck, and he gasped when the room suddenly exploded with light.

It blinded him, and Harry immediately closed his eyes to ease the ache that settled over his temples.

“How I’ve missed you…”

Slowly, he opened his eyes; wanting nothing more than to figure out what this creature was even talking about…

And he immediately wished he hadn’t. Not even his poor vision could mask it.

The creature that had stolen Ron from him. The monster that had hidden itself away, had played with him like he were some toy, stood before him.

Her skin was pale. Bone white and dry.

The skin glittered like diamonds, scales flashing purples and pinks when they caught along her jaw, cheekbone, and temples. She was hairless, the same white flesh stretched above her head.

Harry took her in, unable to look away.

Her face was monstrous. Instead of a nose at the center of her a face, where a nose should have been, there were two slits. They flared in time with her soft breaths. Thin lips were stretched into a sharp smile, dazzling white teeth exposed to his gaze.

Yet, those were not the features that truly made her horrifying. They weren’t what struck him, what made breathing more and more difficult as he stared at her.

Her eyes were scarlet. Instead of the browns and blues, greens and hazels he had come to see throughout his life, her eyes were red, so red that Harry wondered if someone had painted her irises with blood.

Harry couldn’t look away.

His eyes were captivated, caught by the thin shape of her pupils. They should have been round. But they weren’t. There was little humanity in that gaze. They were the eye’s of a snake, the ring of red making the creature look even more monstrous than she did already.

How had Harry missed this, when those eyes were so bright? How had walked into this manor without catching even a glimpse of eyes as cold and deep as those, when they gleamed like precious rubies even with the room lit up like a light show?

It didn’t make sense, but Harry had quickly learned that nothing about this whole evening did. Not the disappearance of his friend. Not the door shutting closed behind him as he tried to piece together this mystery. None of it did.

She was the most frightening creature he had ever seen. No horror movie could capture the essence of the power her face retained.

Absolutely nothing.

And there was no running away from her. No turning back, even when every thought in his head screamed for him to fight off the power keeping him restrained.

He made to shift, to pull back as far away as he could, but his body was immobile.

There was nowhere to run.

“W-what are you? What have you done to Ron?” Harry asked, voice so soft that if it weren’t for the silence that had fallen between them, he would not have known he’d spoken at all. Blood pumped rapidly in his chest, the rush of it like a torrential rain that refused to abate.

Panic pulsed within him, unrestrained.

The woman tilted her head to one side, the gesture like that of a predator assessing its prey. The movement drew Harry’s eye to the rest of her, giving him a chance to break from the intensity of her gaze.

The creature was shrouded in shadows. The long, thick fabric wrapped around her shoulders and hips, the cloth pooling to the ground. As if she hadn’t a care in the world that her clothes were getting dirty on the dirty floor.

Harry watched her with bated breaths.

She stepped closer, closing the short space between them with one fluid movement.

Harry followed the way her body swayed, how the cloth around her shape began to melt and fall away from her shoulders.

Pale skin revealed itself to him. Scaled where the bone jutted out from her rib cage, where her hip bones were most prominent and easy to discern.

She bared herself to him, unveiled rosy nipples that were nearly the same shade as her lips.

A deep flush settled onto his cheeks, utterly embarrassed and perplexed, as to why she was suddenly completely starkers. Why she was bridging the distance between them rather than killing him, as he was certain she would.

It didn’t make any sense to him, and Harry gaped when the fabric pooled completely to the ground and she stood before him, her own lips near his own, nude.

They were near enough that Harry could count her eyelashes, and how they framed her almond shaped eyes. Even without his glasses.

She was too close, and Harry wanted nothing more than to jolt back. To run and find Ron. To never return, even when this creature seemed to know him so well.

Her eyes were lit with recognition and something else. An emotion he had only ever seen an animal wear when presented with a delicious meal.

Harry wondered if he was that meal. If she planned to devour him, consuming him, before turning on Ron…

If Ron was even still alive.

“He is unconscious. You need not be concerned for him.” She murmured, trailing her nails against his cheek with an intense look of wonder. As if she had never touched skin as soft as his, or touched a human-being before.

Harry flinched, the contact making his skin prickle with gooseflesh.

“He will live. He has served his purpose.”

Purpose?

Harry licked his lips, unease winding more tightly around his throat when her gaze flickered to his lips, drawn in by the simple gesture like a moth to a flame.

“W-what do you mean? What are you even talking about? Just who bloody are you?” Harry said, eyes glued to the skin between her eyes.

Her nails trailed down his throat, and they scratched along his neck. They curled around the collar of his jumper, and Harry’s heart nearly leaped from out of his chest.

Her touch was questing, but nothing invasive.

Though his heart refused to settle, even when her touches had yet to turn violent.

“Did you think that your friend brought you here out of curiosity? Suddenly brave and intrigued by the promises lurking within my home?”

Harry swallowed, shooting the creature a glare when her lips twisted into a victorious smile.

It set every nerve in Harry’s body on edge.

“Of course not, dearest Harry. You and I both know that your friend would never risk himself in this way…and let alone drag you along with him.”

How did she know my name? How did she know so much about Ron?

Harry’s stomach dropped when she leaned in closer, her lips a whisper against his own.

“You are here because I wished it. From your decision to enter the forest to your refusal to turn back.”

Heat danced along his cheeks when a hand slid underneath his jumper. The fingers were cold, and her nails did nothing to stop his skin from crawling when it scratched up his stomach.

Harry wondered faintly if she had somehow drawn blood, if with a practiced precision, those claws could rip him open if she wished it.

Something wet slid between his lips, and Harry barely bit back a gasp when a long, forked tongue slipped past the woman’s lips. Her eyes shuttered closed for a brief second, as if the taste of his mouth were the sweetest thing she’d ever had in years.

Oh god.

“Don’t touch me!” Harry protested, but the creature did not listen.

She pressed against him completely, her naked breasts pressed against his chest and a long slim leg settled between his thighs, parting them for her.

Harry wanted to die.

“You taste…exquisite, Harry.” She said after pulling her tongue back, eyes flickering open to fix him with a hungry look.

“If you don’t stay away from me I’ll–”

Harry was unable to finish the sentence.

The monster had dropped her hand from his face and down to the fly of his trousers in seconds. Her nails were digging harshly against the material, and it took all the restraint Harry possessed to not squeak with surprise.

His cheeks burned brighter, embarrassment morphing into horror when the woman began to transform before him.

Once subtle serpentine features became more monstrous. Fangs began to grow from out of her mouth, her elegant cheekbones and jaw began to narrow. Her legs melted into one another, until it was no longer just one leg between his thighs, but a massive coil.

Pearly scales glinted underneath the atrocious yellow light above them, and Harry could only watch with mute horror as she became more beast than woman.

Harry’s throat tightened.

“Or you’ll what?” She mused, and Harry shot the monstrous bitch a glare.

The last thing he’d expected when he came after Ron was to come face to face with a snake monster. He’d guessed, at most, that there was a ghost in the manor. That the ghost, after it had discovered what his intentions were, would try.

To be accosted, to be told that he was the reason Ron had been snatched in the first place, was ridiculous.

His fear gave way to anger and confusion. He didn’t know what to feel, his mind shuffled through so many feelings that it was a miracle he could even feel anything at all.

Everything about the situation was overwhelming, and just as he was about to say a few choice words; tell her exactly what he thought of her, the creature’s grip on his groin tightened to the point of pain.

Harry saw white and a scream tore from his throat.

Her grip was punishing and cruel. Her laughter the only sound Harry could make out through his loud yowls and ragged breaths.

“You have no power here. You are a mere human now…” She sneered the word “human” out as if it disgusted her.

If his prick wasn’t currently being crushed within her grip, he might have pointed out that it was better to be human that a hideous monster. A creature that thrived in the darkness, that had no hope of blending in with the humans she spoke ill of.

“…For the time being, at least.” She said, and all the air fled from his lungs at the mischievous gleam in her eyes.

Harry glared at her, even through the pain, and spat.

Satisfaction blossomed in his chest when his aim was true and a thin trail of saliva ran from the top of her cheek bone down to her chin.

He had expected anger for his defiance. He knew that behaving the way that he had would only incite her ire.

But instead of angering the beast as he had first anticipated, the creature began to laugh at him. Her shoulders shook with amusement and her grip on his groin loosened enough for him to relax.

Thank god.

His prick still throbbed, but it was still better than when she’d been bloody crushing it.

“You’re mad, absolutely insane.” Harry gaped, unnerved by the glee that flashed in her eyes. It made her eyes burn brighter, like someone had shone a bright light into them.

“And you, are perfect…” She hissed, fingers lightly tracing along the inseam of his trousers. The touch made his skin jump and his mouth part with discomfort.

“From your riotous curls to your defiant mouth…you are truly my Harry.”

Harry had never been more confused in his life. He didn’t know who he was supposed to be, who she kept speaking of with such an excited glint in her gaze.

“I-I don’t know what you’re on about, but I don’t even know your name. I am nothing–”

“My name is Lord Voldemort, and you belong to me.”

Harry made to protest but stopped when her fingers, the very same fingers that were skirting over his groin, slid up and into the waistband of his pants. Dangerous nails trailed along the skin, and Harry refrained from insulting her.

Not with those claws. He wasn’t entirely mad enough to incite her with her hand down his bloody trousers.

She had nearly crushed his prick earlier. There was no telling what she might do if he said something in that moment.

“Your impertinent tongue…your brilliant eyes…all of it is mine. I allowed you free reign once. Permitted you to live a normal life before you were stolen from me. But no more, I will not lose you a second time.”

Voldemort looked absolutely feral. Her eyes were wild, all of her amusement had drained from her face. She looked as though Harry would, at any moment, be snatched from her grasp.

And then she was on him.

The hand playing with the sliver of skin inside his trousers wrapped around his waist, while the other, wove itself into his hair. She yanked and Harry groaned, a protest thick on his tongue when she bent his head so far back he could only see the light bulb hanging on the ceiling.

“Let me go!” Harry cried out when her fingers tightened on his hair, when she pulled his head further back and she pressed her face against the crook of his neck. She smelled him, her mouth hot and wet against the sensitive flesh.

He didn’t know what she was doing, but he didn’t trust it. Not when she had fangs and she had no qualms whatsoever about hurting him.

She said that she missed him. That she enjoyed his impertinence. Harry did not trust her not to bite into his neck, to not poison him with her sharp teeth.

“Never again, Harry. Never again.”

Harry’s world exploded with pain.

Sharp teeth sunk into his neck, and Harry could not bite back his screams when her jaw locked. She refused to let him go even when movement returned to his limbs, when the force restraining him melted away and he fell into her arms.

He was like a rag doll, unable to do much else as he dug his fingers into her bare shoulders. He practically crushed the skin, dug blunt nails into the flesh. He did whatever he could to get her off of him, to stop her from grinding her teeth into his neck until Harry could only see, could only feel, could only hear his own agonized cries and the pulse of his heartbeat.

The agony began to abate, but Harry’s horror only increased, his cries became more pronounced when numbness then began to spread from where her teeth had sunk. It was like ice chasing after the warmth of the gleaming sun.

Tears ran down his cheeks, the pain and the fear so much that he couldn’t contain them.

NO!

Voldemort retracted her fangs from his throat, the warmth suction of her lips falling away to expose his throat to blistering cold. His body shook, but the woman’s arms holding tightly onto him could not chase away the cold.

The terrible cold spread inside him, oozed from his pours, from his lips, and ears. Harry sobbed, terrified, and Voldemort lapped at his neck.

Her tongue was abrasive against his skin, and he shuddered when she continued to drink the blood leaking from his throat. The sound of her slurps and ragged breaths made his stomach turn, more than it already was.

“Shhh…”

He didn’t care that he looked pathetic. That his eyes burned and his throat felt like sandpaper. He didn’t want this.

He wanted it all to stop.

“It’s frightening at first, but in time, you will see the gift I have bestowed you. Death shall never have you…not again.”

Harry sobbed harder, and Voldemort’s words became softer. The madness had gone, evaporated like smoke from the tenor of her voice. As if it had never been.

“My mate…my soul…”

And then, his vision swam. The world began to darken at the corners; his lips, his ears, his fingers, and his toes all faded from his memory.

Something pulled at him, squirmed and writhed from somewhere within him. It itched, dragging him deeper into the nothing.

A soft voice began to speak, one he, somehow, knew he should have recognized, but couldn’t. It sang to him, carried him adrift.

“Sleep…and remember me…”

Harry closed his eyes, and then–

Nothing.

#Harrymort #I did a thing #prompt fill #I hope you like it more than I did c:#joleka69082

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danyka-fendyr · 7 years

Text

Sleep is For the Week

Big thanks to Tumblr user @tantalum-cobalt for inspiring me on my main account @rmswiftie13 to write this! This is just a short fic I wrote about Damian and Tim doing some brotherly bonding.

Word count: 2378

Tim Drake was not too proud to admit he had some issues. Some less open-minded individuals might even call them problems. However, Tim was an intellectual, and therefore could recognize at 5:00 AM on a Tuesday, watching the sunrise on a digital screen showing a view of the woods outside the manor that he had set up when Steph had asked when the last time he saw the sun was, that not sleeping for 8 days straight and not eating for 3 was really more of an issue than a problem. Tim knew this because Tim had been solving a problem for those 8 days, 5 hours, 23 minutes and 52 seconds. If anyone knew what a problem was, it was Tim.

No, Tim Drake didn’t have any problems except the one he was currently working on. He couldn’t figure out how Bane was doing it, but somehow he was managing to get a new and apparently enhanced form of his special little strength elixir through Tim’s carefully constructed screening system. Technically it was the GCPD’s screening system, but Tim may have nudged them along by dropping a fully formed plan into Commissioner Gordon’s inbox using an anonymous email account. Not to say that Jim didn’t know exactly who was responsible for the new low in drug-trafficking currently occurring in Gotham city. Jim Gordon was good at knowing things quietly though.

Tim hadn’t figured out exactly how enhanced Bane’s new serum was, and he wouldn’t be able to until he got his hands on some of it, which was another thing bothering him. He had some idea though since Bane had used it to knock Bruce straight out of commission for the past 8 days, 5 hours, 26 minutes and 34 seconds. Let’s just say there were a lot of broken bones involved. A ridiculous amount really.

That was why Tim was currently sitting here, working on overdrive. Dick was dealing with something in Blüdhaven. The details eluded him at this particular stage of caffeine-driven sleep deprivation. Jason was off with the outlaws doing goodness knows what, but probably involving murder on some level. Steph and Cass checked in on him occasionally, but they were a bit preoccupied, Steph with helping Dick and Cass with helping Alfred watch over Bruce, who was being particularly difficult.

That left Damian. Tim wasn’t worried about Damian interrupting him though. When given the option, the demon-brat avoided Tim like a vampire avoided daylight. So Tim was left in peace, except for the nightly patrol where he and Damian tried to avoid speaking. They couldn't afford to get into too many arguments, spread as thin as they were, so it was better to just not talk at all.

A steady dripping sound filled the cave, a peaceful background to Tim’s research. His fingers clicked steadily across the keys, and his background ambiance audio was helping him stay focused. Or so he thought.

As it turned out, the classical music combined with the sounds of a storm, the dripping off some stalactite in the back of the cave, and the steady thrumming of his fingers on the keyboard may have been a little too calming. Tim’s fingers began to slow as his eyes began to droop. In a last-ditch effort, he reached for his coffee thermos, only to find it empty. He idly wondered how that had happened, closing his eyes in annoyance. He only meant to close them for a moment, but once they were closed it just felt so nice.

All he wanted to do was drift out of his tired, aching, throbbing body that had been screaming in protest at him all week. His eyes itched and burned even while closed, his stomach churned, his head hurt and his limbs ached. Before he fully knew what was happening, brain slowing down to match the speed of molasses, Tim Drake was asleep.

Damian was bored. No, bored was an understatement. The understatement of the century. If he didn’t find something to do, he was going to stab someone. Speaking of stabbing people, what was Drake up to?

Damian figured he was probably in the cave, and if Damian was lucky, his guard would be down. A prime target for stabbing. Perhaps torture, if the opportunity presented itself.

Damian made his way down to the cave, at first confused by the echoing sounds bouncing off the walls. He couldn’t understand why on earth someone was playing classical music in here without headphones. It was an unspoken rule of the Batcave that if you were going to listen to music you should probably do it with headphones since sound resonated all too well. The answer became clear to him though when he took a few steps further.

Drake was lying crumpled in a desk chair, his body in a pathetically grotesque position. Headphones hung halfway off his head, the cord jerked out of the computer by some movement in his sleep. One arm was folded between his waist and his legs, and it looked like he was probably losing blood flow to it. The other dangled lazily down to his toes, fingertips brushing the floor, while his head was buried awkwardly between his knees, neck twisted in some inhuman fashion.

“Drake, as much as I would like to see you in pain, I need you to have my back on patrol tonight. Wake up, or I assure you, you will not have to feel my wrath to understand the meaning of pain. Though I shall provide more, no doubt,” Damian added.

Tim didn’t stir. He didn’t even move a single muscle, other than to breathe. Damian wondered if maybe someone had put something in Tim’s coffee, but then he realized that someone would have had to be him since no one else had the time for that kind of devious micro-managing. That was certainly one way to get Drake to sleep.

“Drake!” Damian called his name louder this time.

Still no response. He frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. It would seem there was only one option left to him.

Damian crossed the room, pushing Tim up by his shoulders into something that resembled a sitting position. He was heavier than Damian expected him to be, still in his Red Robin suit that he hadn’t changed out of from patrol. Carefully, Damian hefted him halfway over his shoulder. He stumbled slightly, taken aback by the sheer muscle mass of the older boy. He knew on a subconscious level that Drake had to be strong to some extent, but he hadn’t thought about how much time Drake probably actually spent working on maintaining that strength, or the weight that would result from that behavior.

Damian dragged Tim along, refusing to bow under his weight. Tim still hadn’t stirred, fast asleep. Curse Drake and his dangerous sleeping habits. Didn’t he know he could get Damian killed?

Eventually, after much dragging but certainly no sweating, panting, or any other signs of large amounts of effort, the 13-year-old managed to get his older brother into bed. The only problem now was that it was not Tim’s bed, but Damian’s.

Bruce’s room was the closest to the cave, naturally. He had to be there at any given time during the day, or the night for that matter, so it only made sense. However, Bruce was currently occupying his room, so it wasn’t like Damian could drop his load off there. The next closest room just so happened to be his.

He had demanded it under the pretense that, as the heir to the mantle of Batman, he ought to be just as close, if not more so, to the cave than his father was. It definitely had nothing to do with the nightmares that had plagued him since his death or the fact that the room had belonged to Grayson in previous years and perhaps was capable of bringing Damian such paltry feelings as peace and comfort. No, his reasons were purely practical.

So there Drake lay, diagonal on Damian’s Superman comforter, a gift from Jon. It was a stupid gift, but he never knew when Jon would be visiting, so he thought it best to keep it on at all times so as not to hurt the feelings of his overemotional...ally. Constant vigilance was important. Almost as important as making sure to stay on the good side of one of the most powerful families in the universe. It was an intelligent political move on Damian’s part, of course.

Damian’s hands came to rest on his hips as he stared at Drake, surveying his conundrum. The true heart of the problem was not that Drake was on his bed. No, the real dilemma here was that, after lugging Drake up a few flights of stairs and placing him on his bed, Damian was not tired, exactly. No. He just thought it might be prudent to rest and make sure he was up to his full strength for patrol tonight.

Of course, Damian could only see one way of getting any sleep right now. He refused to use a bed that wasn’t his own since that would be admitting defeat, something Damian never did. Instead, he would simply have to share the bed with Drake.

Moving him again wasn’t an option since Damian didn’t want to strain any muscles that could be vital in his role as the next Batman. He had a responsibility as the blood son. With that in mind, Damian moved to the far end of the bed, as far from Drake as he could get, and went to sleep.

When Tim woke up, his first thought was that he was not in the Batcave. Slowly, he assessed his surroundings. The first thing he registered was warmth. Radiating out from somewhere near his chest, there was something providing heat.

Tim looked down to see a shock of dark hair, messy with sleep. His first instinct was confusion, unsure who exactly was sleeping curled into his side. He shifted slightly to get a better look at their face, and nearly cried out when it was Damian.

The young boy’s long dark lashes brushed his high cheekbones, eyelids fluttering lightly from some dream and obscuring his sharp green eyes. He had his arms wrapped in on himself, knees pulled up to his chest, back pressed firmly against Tim’s own chest.

Tim was just going to quietly sneak out of the room, already sitting up halfway, when he heard something. A quiet groan slipped out of Damian’s mouth, so low Tim almost missed it. The noise got louder, whimpers now, gut-wrenching in their vulnerability.

Tim almost left it, knowing that the last person Damian would want to see waking up from a nightmare was him. When Damian cried out sharply though, Tim knew he couldn’t leave him like this. He didn’t have the heart to wait for someone else to help the demon brat. He may be annoying, but he was still Tim’s baby brother, and he looked tiny and fragile lying on his Superman blanket in the dim room, curled in on himself. He was protecting his core, the very same place Tim knew a large scar lay, one that marked more than just an injury.

He reached out, shaking Damian’s shoulder.

“Hey,” Tim whispered harshly. “Hey, kid. Wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”

Slowly, Damian stirred, the strangled noises coming out of his mouth fading.

“Drake?” Damian asked, blinking and revealing his hazy green eyes. “How did you get in...never mind. Go away Drake, I’m sleeping.”

The tiny boy turned onto his side, away from his brother. Tim knew better than to think that he was just going back to sleep. He had seen the sheen of tears in his brother's eyes before he had rolled over, and he knew what he was hiding.

“You were having a nightmare,” Tim said.

“I’m fine now. You may leave,” Damian muttered.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Tim asked softly, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“I will be quite alright, Drake. I assure you I shall be more than competent on tonight’s patrol.”

Damian’s voice was terse, but he couldn’t hide what Tim knew. With his pale hand on the boy’s dark shoulder, he could feel the slight shudders running through Damian’s body. Without pausing to ask, or to consider the possible effects on his own health, Tim scooped Damian up and placed him in his lap. Carefully, he wrapped his arms around the little boy and held him close.

“You don’t have to talk about it. I know I’m not close to you like Dick, and I can’t relate like Jason. Just...don’t do this alone. You don’t want to be alone, Damian. Trust me.”

There was a moment of silence, the feeling of it thick in the room, like the tight feeling in the back of Tim’s throat.

“Very well. I shall allow you to stay on one condition. Go back to sleep Drake. I can’t have you collapsing in the middle of a fight. You’re already a disaster enough as it is when you’ve had enough sleep, you had best not get me killed in a situation that could have been completely avoidable,” Damian said.

“Yeah, okay kid,” Tim said, lying back down with Damian still held tightly in his grasp.

“And you will eat something as well. Not that you need it. You are incredibly heavy, do you know that Drake?” Damian grumbled, wiggling so that he was more comfortable.

“Sure. Whatever you say, Damian,” Tim said, grinning to himself.

“Now go to sleep Drake,” Damian commanded.

As it turned out though, he didn’t need to tell Drake to fall asleep. He had already done just that, his breathing settling into a steady, slow rhythm. Damian felt his own breathing slow too, and before he knew it he had joined his older sibling.

When Bruce would finally convince Alfred to let him out of bed for the first time in over a week, he would be surprised when he went to check on his youngest only to find him sleeping, curled up underneath the cape of his third son. He smiled, closing the door as he turned to head back to bed. Not, however, before he had time to snap a pic to send to his eldest in Blüdhaven. Dick was going to love this.

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