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dragons-bones · 4 years ago

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FFXIV Write Entry #12: Nock, Draw, Loose

Prompt: tooth and nail | Master Post | On AO3

I don’t know a damn thing about archery, so this is probably riddled with errors, but that’s a worry for editing.

When Rereha Reha, at seventeen, threw up her hands, cussed out the Thaumaturge’s Guild, and ran off to Gridania, there were three people who were utterly unsurprised by this: Dancing Heron, her best friend since before either of them can remember; Synnove Greywolfe, her other best friend for seven years; and Janchette Vainchelon, her archery instructor.

(Well, there were four: Rerenasu Kukunasu, her father, but he was disqualified on the technicality that he was surprised it took her that long to realize just how unhappy she was. His little sunbeam was so very good at egging on Synnove’s rebellion from her mother, but did rather more poorly when it came to bucking off Shushuha’s expectations.)

Janchette was, perhaps, one of the finest archers of her generation—or she would have been perceived as such, had she been born to Wildwoods of the Twelveswood, and not a family of Duskwights living on the nebulous scrubland border of the Shroud and Thanalan. She had learned her craft providing for her family, and then working as a mercenary until creaking joints forced her retirement. Unlike some of her merc peers, however, she had been foresighted enough to save the majority of her coin, and she had enjoyed her old family home, now rather more well-to-do than the rough cabin of her girlhood, until a few friends had written to her on behalf of an acquaintance of theirs, whose daughter was keen to learn the bow.

Instructing a rich Ul’dahn merchant’s daughter would probably end up as a fruitless endeavor, but it was coin, and it would break the monotony, and so Janchette had answered Radiant Opal and Towering Sentinel’s letter, and made her way to Ul’dah.

Little Miss Rereha was all of thirteen when Janchette met her and exactly what the elezen had expected: pink hair pulled into a bun secured with a jeweled hairstick, the dark skin of her face soft and blemish free from a regimented care routine, hands lacking calluses, and wearing a pretty sky blue frock embroidered with mariposa lilies and acacia flowers. She had been starry-eyed and bouncing on her toes; apparently, she had recently learned about the Autumn War in her studies with her tutor, and had been particularly enchanted by the recorded stories of archers using their bows as makeshift lyres and harps, weaving battlesong to turn the tide of battle.

Janchette had not expected this flight of fancy to last long, not when the young lady would discover how much worked was required. Miss Rereha, at least, was well-mannered and courteous for all her exuberance, so while the engagement would be short, it would not be as unpleasant as it could.

Her first surprise, though she did not show it, was when Rereha arrived at the rented archery range in sensible breeches and short-sleeved shirt, hair pulled back into a single plait, and a plain though well-made yew box, perfectly sized for a lalafell.

Her second surprise was that Rereha breathed not a word of complaint when they spent the entirety of their first lesson on teaching her how to draw her bow.

“The draw is the foundation for all of archery,” Janchette had explained. She had needed to sit on the ground to properly help Rereha adjust her feet, her posture, the grip of her tiny fingers on the string. “There are plenty of tricks and feats of dexterity a master archer can perform, but if she doesn’t know how to get a proper draw, she’s liable to hurt herself rather than an enemy.”

At the end of the lesson, Rereha’s right arm shook, the muscles in the limb and her shoulder and back twitching from exertion, but she had successfully managed to get a full draw on her bow.

“Very good!” Janchette had exclaimed, genuine in her delight, and Rereha had beamed. “Now, until our next lesson, I want you to practice that draw whenever you can; don’t dry loose, just relax your arm and the bow again. Take a hot bath when you get home and put on some liniment if you need to; you’re working muscles that aren’t used to being worked, and taking care of your body is as important as taking care of your bow.”

And during the second lesson, it had been clear that Rereha had been practicing: her arm still had a barely perceptible tremble, but the draw and hold had been rock steady.

Janchette had admitted to herself she might have underestimated this story-loving chit.

The real test had come when Janchette had allowed to Rereha to live fire. She had had to find a box for Rereha to stand on so she could properly center the target in her sight, but as always, Rereha didn’t complain, even as her cheeks puffed in frustration.

“More lalafell in Ul’dah than anywhere in Eorzea and everything’s still hyur height,” she had grumbled as her teacher made sympathetic noises.

Rereha’s first attempts at firing had been an unmitigated disaster: the arrows only made it a few fulms down the range, if that. It was obvious Rereha’s frustration had been growing, but Janchette put her foot down.

“Don’t worry about aim,” the Duskwight had said. “I don’t care if your shot goes wide. Keep firing.”

They had to stop and collect the arrows littering the floor, but at the end of that lesson, Rereha pulled, and breathed, and—

—her arrow had embedded in the wooden wall behind the target, a full fulm wide of the outer ring.

Both Rereha and Janchette had whooped with excitement, and then Rereha had yelped and lowered her arms

“I think I pulled too hard,” she had whined, flexing her fingers and rotating her draw arm.

“And now you know not to do that again,” Janchette had said, even as she had grinned. “Well done, little miss.”

The day Rereha had landed her first bullseye, Janchette had taken the little girl to her favorite tavern to celebrate, where they had served (and still did) the best marmot stew in Thanalan, spiced to eye-watering perfection. Rereha had wolfed down three bowls, happily sopping up the remaining liquid with fresh, hot bread, all what chattering about her music lessons, interspersed with questions about the jobs Janchette had taken as a merc. And, for the first time, Janchette had answered them.

Eventually, Rereha didn’t need formal lessons, but she always arranged for time on the shooting range a few times a sennight. Janchette wandered back to her house in the scrubland, but would blow back into Ul’dah on a whim to drag her former student to the range and teach her some ridiculous new way to get a draw on a bow not made for a lalafell. The not-quite-a-lady would still babble happily about her music lessons, ask questions about archery, but bitched about thaumaturgy and her mother’s desire for her to join the Order of Nald’thal.

“Like, okay, yeah, the giant explosions are pretty cool. Fire good,” Rereha had said during one such training session, drawing back a Gridanian longbow without fuss and adding to the cluster of arrows at the bullseye. “And it’s stupidly easy for me to do, sure, okay, natural talent blah blah blah, but gods, Synnove is the bookworm, not me. And five of the Coco brothers are there, Thal take them.”

Janchette had hummed, providing no commentary, but over bowls of marmot stew after, as had become their tradition, she shared what stories she had of the archers of the God’s Quiver, and an old man who wandered the land but had been recently spotted in the Twelveswood for the first time in decades, a bow on his back but a harp in his arms.

The Wildwoods of Gridania could choke for all she cared, but they were some of the best. And even she had heard of Jehantel; even if he gave up no secrets of archery, Rereha would prefer the songs, anyway.

So, when word reached of her one of Ul’dah’s most notorious socialites scampering off to the Black Shroud with only a single pack of clothing, a quiver on her back, and a bow in hand, Janchette raised a toast to her erstwhile student.

Rereha would do just fine.

#ffxivwrite2020 #final fantasy xiv #oc: rereha reha #oc: janchette vainchelon #dt's writing

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lady-divine-writes · 5 years ago

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A Dish Best Served Cold - A Prince of Omens Inspired One-shot (Rated NC17)

Summary: Starmakers rarely Fall. Crowley was the first. But every time one does, Crowley feels it, like razor sharp thorns throughout his body. When the latest one does, Aziraphale offers to accompany Crowley to Hell to make certain they're all right. But while they're there, Aziraphale decides to settle a score on his husband's behalf. (3689 words)

Notes: All right, I said I wasn't going to do this again, but I couldn't help myself. So this is inspired by @whiteleyfoster 'Omens of Egypt' mini comic 'Down' about Crowley's Fall from Heaven, along with their Bastille torture implied pic, which you can see here . I know there's a contest going on. This isn't about that. There's better writers for that. It's just something I've been working on since the end of 'Down'. I needed some BAMF Aziraphale sticking up for his demon husband against his former managers, so to speak. Warning for angst and mention of torture (not explicit).

Read on AO3.

“N-no … s-stop … I … I didn’t … I didn’t do … anything wrong … I … I’ll stop! I … swear!”

Aziraphale closes his book and sets it aside, then rolls on his hip to face his husband grabbing at the sheets covering his body, gripping so hard his knuckles have begun to turn white.

“Dearest?” Aziraphale whispers, brushing aside strands of hair from Crowley’s face with careful fingertips. “Wake up, dearest. Please wake up. You’re safe, my love. You’re all right …”

“N-no … no, you can’t … p-please …”

“Crowley? Dear? Can you hear me?”

“N-no … no, please …”

Aziraphale sighs as his husband continues to whimper. He rests a hand over one of his to anchor him, give him something tangible and familiar to hold on to, even in sleep.

An anchor is all Aziraphale can offer because there is no consoling him.

Crowley had once confided to Aziraphale that as much as he loved sleep, he had nightmares pretty on the regular, and they got worse as time went on. They’re rarer now that angel and demon sleep together, but they still crop up from time to time.

Unfortunately, Aziraphale can’t always tell which torture he’s reliving - being tossed out of Heaven into a steaming pit of sulfur, or the various punishments he endured the second he became a demon.

Having the down torn from his wings over the sin of being vain and naive.

Or having symbols of degradation burned into his skin with hot irons for the treachery of rescuing an angel.

Aziraphale didn’t even know that was a possibility until he’d discovered them.

The burns had faded, but the malevolent power that created them remained, its vile signature seared into Crowley’s skin. Aziraphale stumbled across them one night while they were making love, when they were close together, mouth to chest, with Crowley sitting in Aziraphale’s lap, riding him. Aziraphale blew hot air across Crowley’s chest and there they were.

Aziraphale’s divinity had brought them to light.

The way Crowley covered them, the shame in his expression when he confessed what he’d gotten them for, speared Aziraphale to the depths of his soul.

For that, and for a hundred other things (including blessing that blasted Thermos of water) Aziraphale has never forgiven himself. Crowley tells Aziraphale there’s nothing to forgive, especially when they’re in the throes of passionate embraces and a single puff of breath from Aziraphale’s lips brings those marks to the surface. Despite the consequences of his decisions, they were Crowley’s decisions, and the ones pertaining to Aziraphale’s health and safety, he’d repeat a thousand times.

Yet, the nightmares continue.

“Sleep easy, my love.” Aziraphale leans over and lays feather-light kisses on his demon’s sweaty forehead. “Sleep, and dream about whatever you like best.”

Crowley’s breathing slows. The furrows in his brow smooth away. His hands begin to loosen, let go of their vice hold. He melts into the sheets, eyelids fluttering slowly.

A small smile even manages to tilt up the corners of his mouth.

“That’s it. Relax. Be calm … at peace. I’m here with you. I’m not going anywhere. I won’t leave you alone.”

Crowley hums behind his lips, finally happy in his dreaming.

Aziraphale exhales with relief. It worked … thank God.

…

But for only about a minute.

Aziraphale goes back to his book, but a second later, Crowley jerks, jarring the bed as if the mattress had saved him from a terrible tumble. He sits bolt up, fist clutching his chest over the shadow of one particularly gruesome burn, his eyes wide and unblinking like those of a frightened foal.

“No!” he gasps, staring straight ahead, the remainder of his nightmare fading where Aziraphale can’t see.

“No what, dearest?” Aziraphale asks, careful not to speak too loudly in case it takes Crowley a moment to remember where he is, and that he’s not alone. “Which nightmare was it this time?”

“A … an angel … will Fall,” Crowley reveals in a voice that trembles. “A … a Starmaker.”

His answer stuns Aziraphale into closing his book and setting it on the table beside the bed without saving his place first. “Is that … will that really happen?”

Crowley swallows hard. “Yes.” He runs a hand through his sweaty hair, on the verge of tears. “Yes, I … I feel it. I could see it. It’s happening now. Tonight.” His eyelids pinch shut. He shakes his head, trying to dislodge the image from his brain, but Aziraphale knows it will be difficult to erase.

Starmakers rarely Fall. Maybe one in a thousand years. Crowley was the first, and for some reason, he can feel when another does. It rips through him like shards of ice, makes the return trip like tongues of fire, and haunts him for days after.

Aziraphale has often wondered if Hell did that on purpose - found a way to curse him with that foresight as one of their many forms of discipline.

Or perhaps it was Heaven’s doing.

Aziraphale wouldn’t be surprised either way. It seems like something they would both come up with.

“Do you have any idea when they will …?”

“Any second now,” Crowley says on a single breath, eager to push the knowledge from his mouth.

“Well then …” Aziraphale lifts the comforter off his legs and makes to get out of bed “… would you like to accompany me to Hell? Make sure they’re all right?”

Crowley’s eyelids snap open, blown pupils finding Aziraphale’s smiling face. It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve traveled to Hell together. Crowley looks like he might jump at the offer, but something holds him back.

Things are different now. They’re different now. They’re free agents. Crowley doesn’t answer to Hell anymore. As for Aziraphale, it’s not like Hell welcomed angels too freely downstairs with open arms before the Nope-ageddon. Angels’ visits to Hell have always been procedural, planned ahead, with paperwork involved. Heaven holds the keys to the bottomless pit, after all. It’s their job to tend to the prisoners there.

What Aziraphale is recommending they do is more than a little unprecedented.

If Aziraphale gets himself in a tight spot, Heaven more than likely won’t help him.

Is one Starmaker worth that chance? Worth the Guardians of the Gates treating Aziraphale the way they treated Crowley?

No, Crowley decides. For all it does to break his heart, it’s not worth putting his angel in danger.

“I’m … I’m probably overreacting,” he says, forcing himself to calm down. “There’s … there’s no reason to drag you down there. They’ll be fine. They … they don’t need me.” He closes his eyes again. Aziraphale can see the pain on his face, the memory of that poor angel’s Fall, or maybe his own, playing behind his eyes.

The harsh reality is that those angels that Fall need to learn the hard way that Hell is a terrible place. No one is waiting in the wings (so to speak) to rescue them.

No matter how slight their sin.

But this is important to Crowley. Aziraphale knows it is.

And Crowley means the world to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale puts a hand beneath his husband’s chin, coaxes his eyes open with kisses to his lips. “It never hurts to check, my dear. I’ll go get my coat.”

***

Hard-packed dirt where very little grows.

Thick clouds of black, acrid smoke.

Yellow-orange sulfur seeping from the earth, super-heated and bubbling, popping, releasing noxious gas into the air.

Aziraphale pops the collar of his coat, holds the ends tight over his nose.

He hates the smell of Hell.

The pools of sulfur fallen angels nosedive into are located right outside the gates, so they’re still far from the mildew infested basement that is Hell’s head office.

But this outdoor landing pad is probably worse: surrounded by air that burns the sinuses with every breath, the breeze swirling around them hot and oppressive instead of cool and refreshing.

Looking up and seeing a Heaven that no longer welcomes you, stars you will never touch again.

He envisions Crowley here - scared, confused, emerging from the pits for the first time to see his beautiful, snowy-white wings blackened and singed, covered in this foul-smelling ooze.

All alone.

Consigned here by those he loved.

Aziraphale feels a long-building contempt for Heaven rise up in his chest and does everything to keep it at bay. This isn’t him, he reminds himself. Not really. It’s Hell’s influence. It’s too easy to surrender to anger here, which is why the Almighty sends the Archangels to conduct Heaven’s business in Hell.

They’re more immune to the air here.

“There they are!” Crowley says, rushing towards a pit about fifty feet from where they materialized, where a drenched and bedraggled set of wings sits atop an orange mess, attached to an angel … a demon … lying underneath the surface.

Aziraphale doesn’t rush to help. Best to let Crowley lead that charge. Instead, he keeps watch. He’s only been here a handful of times, but that’s definitely enough.

One time in particular, he could do without.

Aziraphale peers through the black smoke, trying to decipher their bearings. Crowley snapped them here. It’s the easiest way to come. Which means that Hell should know they’re there. Every time Crowley performs a miracle, they receive a fax. So there’s a fifty-fifty chance a welcoming committee of some sort might arrive.

The wind blows.

The smoke shifts.

Vacant mold-gray eyes catch his.

Bingo.

As the smoke continues to clear, Aziraphale gets a better view, and he smiles.

Luck, oddly, seems to be on his side.

“You stay here, my dear,” he says, not bothering to raise his voice since he knows Crowley will hear him. “I’ll take care of this.”

Aziraphale isn’t a vengeful angel. His job is to inspire humanity, to spread love.

Wrath is normally reserved for Archangels.

But as in most things, Aziraphale doesn’t feel they’ve done their jobs right for close to a millennium.

And besides, this is personal.

Aziraphale strolls up to the demon hopping through the sulfur pits in his direction.

“You’re Dagon, right?” he asks.

The demon slows, approaches warily, not expecting to meet Aziraphale (of all entities) after the memo they received.

Not expecting to see an angel flash a smile that is eerily at home here in Hell.

“What’s it to you?” Dagon asks.

“Come on. Let me preen these for you,” Aziraphale hears Crowley say to the new demon he’s helping out of the sulfur. “And take my advice … learn to do it for yourself. You don’t want to ask anyone down here for help.”

“Nothing, my dear.” Aziraphale steps to the right, blocking Dagon when they try to blow past. “I just like to know whom I’m addressing. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Aziraphale sashays left - another block that leaves Dagon gnashing their teeth in frustration. “Crowley says you’re a rather creative demon … when it comes to cruelty and violence.”

Dagon squashes their plan to leap around the angel and grins proudly at that remark. “Did he now?”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale returns, the words as dry as the ground beneath his feet. “In fact, he told me that from the first day he Fell you couldn’t keep your hands off him. I almost got jealous … until he elaborated.”

Dagon’s face falls, their eyes blank, but they snicker when they catch on.

Every time Dagon tore at Crowley’s wings.

Every time they put a hot iron to Crowley’s skin, tied him up and whipped him for his treachery.

Or worse …

That’s what the angel is referring to.

Dagon can’t help noticing the loathing in Aziraphale’s eyes, the undeniable rage.

And Dagon smiles.

Anger feeds demons like well-roasted mutton. It intoxicates them like wine.

And the anger of an angel?

That’s about the finest vintage any demon can find on earth.

Hence why calling off the war disappointed them so.

It makes Dagon long to stab Crowley in the back with their claws to see how angry this angel can get.

What Dagon might be able to convince him to do.

Dagon tries to dash past again, but Aziraphale is surprisingly quick. This time, Dagon walks straight into Aziraphale’s chest and stops short.

It’s like walking into a brick wall.

Dagon sniffs. They refuse to be intimidated by an angel. Especially a plump and useless little Principality like this one. Dagon remembers Ligur talking about what the Archangels think of him, how they have no respect for him.

Thinking of Ligur reminds Dagon that that demon is gone. Gone at the hands of Crowley, who doused them with Holy Water.

Holy Water he got from this angel.

The only angel in Heaven that can withstand Hellfire, pudgy or not.

Dagon’s face goes pale. They swallow hard. Those memories of torturing Crowley, the times they’d been so proud of, flood their mind with vivid sound and color.

Staring at this angel’s cold, hard expression, they begin to regret every single one.

“You look parched,” Aziraphale says with an unexpectedly warm smile.

“Yeah, well, it’s hot down here,” Dagon growls suspiciously. “Otherwise it wouldn’t be Hell.”

“True, true. That’s why I brought this.” Aziraphale reaches into his inside coat pocket and pulls out a tartan Thermos. Dagon stiffens at the reveal, but they’re too curious to back away.

It’s just a Thermos. How much damage could Aziraphale possibly do with a Thermos?

“It’s … it’s a Thermos,” the demon points out.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says in a condescending tone. “Very good. And what do you think it’s filled with?” He pulls off the cup and puts it in his pocket, then unscrews the cap. “I’ll give you three guesses and the first two don’t count.”

Dagon scoffs. “How the Heaven should I …?” Their eyes blow wide as context melds together in one harrowing spark of realization. “That wouldn’t be … Holy Water? W-would it?” Dagon takes a step back, but Aziraphale’s hand shoots out, grabs the demon by the wrist. Thick, sausage fingers wrap tightly around, solid as stone.

“You know,” Aziraphale says in a low, gravelly voice to match, “I don’t like the way you’ve treated my husband.”

Dagon pulls, trying to break free, but Aziraphale has a grip like iron. “We’re … we’re demons! It’s what we do! Wot did you expect?”

“Doesn’t matter what I expect. It matters what I’ll tolerate.” Aziraphale lifts the Thermos to his mouth and takes a drink. Dagon stares as Aziraphale gulps the blessed liquid, licking his lips when he’s done. But from the sound of sloshing, there seems to be plenty left. “Oh! How rude of me,” Aziraphale says, holding the Thermos out to his captive. “Fancy a sip?”

Dagon’s eyes nearly pop out of their head. “You … you wouldn’t!”

“Wouldn’t I?” Aziraphale lifts the Thermos over Dagon’s wrist where it’s caught in the angel’s fist. “By the way, I wouldn’t tug too hard if I were you. I am clumsy. I might slip. It only takes one drop to dissolve a demon.” On cue, a single drop begins to form on the silver lip of the container. Angel and demon watch it grow, dangle like a trapeze artist lowering themselves down the rung of their swing, preparing to jump. Aziraphale looks on in amusement; Dagon in utter horror. The drop lengthens, heaves, the tenuous connection thinning as it threatens to break.

“N … n-no! “ Dagon stutters, lurching backward, but Aziraphale holds on impossibly tighter.

“What was that you said?” Aziraphale asks, taking his eyes away from the precarious drop, not caring a whit for its fate.

“It … it’s going to fall!”

Aziraphale shakes his head, inadvertently shaking the Thermos as well. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t quite …”

Aziraphale doesn’t finish his sentence.

He sticks out his tongue and catches the drop seconds before it falls.

Dagon makes a strangled sound as they struggle to recoil.

Aziraphale watches the demon flail in his grasp and laughs. “Phew! Will you look at that? That was a close one!”

“You’ll … you’ll start a war!” Dagon cries, utilizing this momentary reprieve since the Thermos is still there, held aloft by the angel, his loathing brewing into a full-fledged flame. “A war between demons and angels! You didn’t want that, re-remember?”

Aziraphale shrugs. “Perhaps I’ve changed my mind. You wanted a war, didn’t you? Well, now you’ll get your wish, provided doing away with you is impetus enough to start one. Pity you won’t be around to join in. I’ve heard you give some rousing pep talks.”

“N-now, listen to reason, angel …”

Aziraphale’s grip around Dagon’s wrist ratchets from tight to bone-crushing, almost bringing Dagon to their knees. They lose their footing, but Aziraphale drags them closer, holds them upright by that one thin and straining joint.

“You … don’t get to call me that!”

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I …”

“Aziraphale …” Crowley’s voice creeps into Aziraphale’s ear. It sounds distant for the pounding in Aziraphale’s head, but it’s mere inches away “… don’t ...”

Aziraphale doesn’t turn to look at his husband, the full force of his anger trained on this one pathetic demon, ready to turn them into dust with the weight of that alone. But Aziraphale pictures Crowley’s amber eyes in his mind - doe wide and pleading.

Begging for no more.

“Are you sure, my dear?”

“Yes.” A hand finds Aziraphale’s shoulder and squeezes gently. “I’m sure. Don’t do this. For me?”

Aziraphale shudders. He would do anything for Crowley, give him anything he wanted … but he can’t seem to do this. For all his posturing, all of his simply wanting to put the fear of God into this demon for everything Crowley said they’ve done, he can’t just let go. With his Thermos poised over the green-gray and fetid skin of their arm, he’s so ready to pour.

And it would feel good.

It would feel like righting a wrong.

The wrong of Aziraphale not being around to protect Crowley when he truly needed protecting.

But the kneading of his shoulder muscles loosens his grip ever so slightly. A kiss on the crown of his head loosens it more.

“Angel,” Crowley whispers against his scalp, his cheek pressing there to enjoy the softness of his hair, “please?”

“Urgh! All right!” Aziraphale grumbles, releasing his grip. He’d been holding on so tight, it takes a few seconds for his corporal form to actually detach, sending Dagon stumbling back, landing undignified on their tailbone in the sulfur. “But just you remember, Dagon,” Aziraphale adds, straightening his waistcoat, “the next time you get it in your empty head to try and do something … anything … to my husband, that he’s the only reason you’re not a puddle right now. Yes?”

“Y-yes,” the demon stutters. “I-I’ll remember.”

“In that case, I do believe some appreciation is in order.”

Dagon shoots a glare Crowley’s way. Not an inch of conceit can they see on Crowley’s face, only concern for his angel. And that makes Dagon furious. Despite themselves, Dagon scowls. But seeing as Aziraphale has put no cover on his Thermos and could always change his mind (that’s what Dagon would do) Dagon has little choice. “Thank you,” they grind through pointed teeth.

“Thank you what?” Aziraphale stresses.

If Aziraphale weren’t both immune to Hellfire and carrying a Thermos of Holy Water, Dagon would bolt out of that pool of sulfur and rip him to shreds.

At least, that’s what they tell themselves.

“Thank you … sir.”

“Better. Now run along. My compassion only lasts so long in this place, and it’s getting rather hot out here.” Aziraphale swirls the Thermos in Dagon’s direction, taking another drink as the demon scurries away, mumbling under their breath. The sulfur pits become tensely quiet, thicker and heavier than the black smoke stinging their eyes.

“Aziraphale …?”

“How’s the fallen Starmaker?” Aziraphale asks before Crowley can finish. Whether he intended on thanking Aziraphale or lecturing him, Aziraphale isn’t ready to hear it.

Crowley sighs. “As good as can be expected.”

“Well, that’s the best we can hope for, I suppose,” Aziraphale says with a sympathetic smile.

“Don’t you think that was going a little too far?” Crowley asks, lowering his voice and gesturing toward a sulking Dagon with his chin.

“Not at all. In fact … would you like to make your friend Dagon over there lose their bowels, so to speak?”

“Only always.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Without question.”

“Take a nice long swig out of that, my dear,” Aziraphale says, handing off the Thermos.

Crowley knows this Thermos. Knows it well. He pauses when Aziraphale offers it to him. Touching it gives him a jolt, fills his brain with the echoes of Ligur’s screams, but he can’t betray fear for one second. He’s supposed to be the demon who can withstand Holy Water, after all.

Plus he trusts Aziraphale … more than anything.

He brings the Thermos to his lips and throws his head back, taking the biggest mouthful he can before his survival instincts can force him to stop and spit it out. He hears Dagon curse from across the sulfur pits, and Crowley almost sputters. His eyelids squeeze, preparing for the burn of the righteous.

It burns, all right, but it doesn’t dissolve him into the dirt.

“It’s … it’s not Holy Water,” Crowley comments only loud enough for Aziraphale to hear, helping himself to another hefty mouthful. “It’s not water at all! It’s vodka!”

“Oh dear. Look at that,” Aziraphale says in a dry, sarcastic tone. “I brought the wrong Thermos. I’ll be more aware of how I pack next time.”

Crowley shakes his head, wrapping his arms around his angel’s body and holding him tight. “You know, you’re pretty sexy when you’re being all guardian angel and stuff.”

“Yes, well, it’s only for you, my love,” Aziraphale says, resting his head against Crowley’s chest and hugging him back, more than ready for his husband to snap them back home. “Only for you.”

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #anthony j crowley #aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #prince of omens

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elliemarchetti · 4 years ago

Text

Red Queen Pride and Prejudice AU (Part 6)

@lilyharvord as you've obviously noticed by now, I moved the famous hand flex scene after the dance while in the movie it was when Jane and Lizzy come back home. I hope you don’t mind.

Masterlist

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Words: 3267

The next day Mare told Wren what she and Mr. Maven had said to each other, leaving her friend incredulous, astonished and upset, but at the same time unable to question the sincerity of such an amiable-looking young man: the possibility that he had really been the victim of such cruelty was enough to affect all her more tender feelings and therefore there was nothing to do but think well of both, defend the conduct of both, and attribute to a misunderstanding all that couldn’t be explained otherwise.

"I really believe that both of them have been deceived in a way we can’t imagine,” she said. “Maybe someone interested have made them look bad in each other’s eyes, so, in short, it’s impossible for us to speculate on the causes or circumstances that may have driven them away.”

"Very true, sure; and now, my dear Wren, what do you have to say in regard to the people concerned who were probably involved in the matter? You must absolve them too, otherwise we would be forced to think ill of someone,” Mare teased her, but the other didn’t take the bait and seemed truly immovable in her theory. Mare, however, wasn’t convinced, and it was easier for her to believe that Mr. Maven had been deceived, rather than that he had managed to invent a story of that kind and tell it with such fluency. And if it had been a lie, sooner or later the General would’ve contradicted him, probably at the ball, for which they both had received an invitation that very morning, event that would take place the following Tuesday, a prospect extremely welcome for all the women in the Stilts: Mrs. Skonos decided to consider it a tribute to her daughter, who was particularly flattered to have received the invitation from Mr. Samos himself rather than with a ceremonial ticket as it had happened for the Barrows, and Mare already had a foretaste for the pleasure to dance for a long time with Mr. Maven, moment that would’ve served as a testing ground to ascertain whether or not what was said about the General was a lie. Gisa and Diana, who this time had been invited too, were also happy, but not so much for a particular event, since, although both, like Mare, intended to dance for half of the evening with the newcomer, who was rumoured to be an excellent dancer, Mr. Maven wasn’t the only knight who could satisfy them, and a dance was always a dance. On this occasion, Mare's mood was so excited that, although she didn’t often speak to Mr. Jesper unnecessarily, she couldn’t help but ask him if he intended to accept Mr. Samos' invitation, and if so, if he didn’t consider inappropriate to join an evening dedicated to fun, but she was rather surprised to find out how not the slightest scruple had come to his mind, and how far was him from fearing a reproach; on the contrary, he reassured her that his benefactor often gave parties dedicated to respectable and reputable people too. Fortunately, the dance also kept the minds of Ruth and Daniel Barrow’s sons busy, otherwise the poor boys would’ve been really plagued by the weather, so rainy that for four days straight it had been impossible to get to the Farley’s house. If only they had succeeded, they could certainly have dampened Mare’s enthusiasm, as the Colonel knew very well that Mr. Maven would never be invited to the ball, but since this didn’t happen, Mare had to see it herself as soon as she arrived at the Hall of the Sun, when she met Mr. Thomas, who informed her that the day before his friend had been forced to leave urgently for Archeon.

“A business trip,” he said, but it was evident from that there was more he couldn’t say here, which made her even more determined to avoid any conversation with the source of so much disappointment, to the point that she decided to seclude herself with Diana, whom she hadn't seen for a week, to tell her about her pains. Evidently, her friend too had thoughts that weighed down her heart, and so they ended up talking about the oddities of Mr. Jesper, with whom she was forced to share the first two rounds of dance by her mother. Mr. Jesper hadn't thought, when he accepted the invitation, that the ball might require him to dance too, and so, clumsy and solemn as he was, he continued to apologize to his cousin before he could reach the person he actually wanted to spend his time with, Miss Farley, who was dancing with extreme enthusiasm with his younger male cousin. It was evident that the two were in confidence, and he had managed to understand, from the time spent at both the Farley and Barrow homes, that the two families often visited, making his interest in her even more difficult to express. He was so taken by these thoughts that he hardly noticed that General Calore had approached and asked Mare to dance with him and that she, taken aback, had accepted. He was certain that she wouldn’t act silly and wouldn’t let her whim for Mr. Maven, which certainly hadn’t escaped him, made her seem unpleasant to a man all the more important, and if he had doubted, he would’ve suggested to stay silent if she hadn’t been asked any question, or at most to make some empty consideration on the event. If he hadn't been so busy worrying about the beautiful smile Miss Farley was giving to Shade Barrow, he would’ve told her to please the wishes of her interlocutor, and to highlight their similarities and put aside their differences, but he did none of this, and Mare found herself maliciously teasing the one she wanted so much to detest, as in her habit.

"Do you frequent the village very often?" he asked, at the end of the first dance.

She replied affirmatively, and unable to resist the temptation, she added that when they met, they were just doing a new acquaintance, something that cast a shadow of lethargy on the beautiful features of the General, who replied that surely Mr. Maven was good at making new friends, as for keeping them, however, it was different topic.

"He was unfortunate enough to lose your friendship," she replied with emphasis, "and in a way that will probably make him suffer for a lifetime."

The General didn’t answer and seemed eager to change subject, a chance given to him by Colonel Farley’s arrival; the brief interruption, in fact, gave him the opportunity to pretend that he had forgotten what the topic they were previously dealing with was, but Mare had no desire to converse in other respects, and didn’t care about his attempts, reminding him instead of when he said to be a man with little inclination for forgiveness, whose resentment once born is relentless.

"You are very careful, I suppose, even in giving it birth."

"I am," he said in a firm voice.

"And you never let yourselves be blinded by prejudice?" she asked, peremptorily.

"I hope not," he replied, evidently annoyed by the aims those questions might have. She said nothing more, and once finished the second round they separated in silence, both dissatisfied, though not alike, as there was a rather strong feeling in Cal's heart towards her, which soon led him to forgiveness and directed all his anger towards someone else. They hadn’t long been separated when Miss Samos walked towards her with an expression of polite contempt on her face: “And so, Miss Mare, I heard that you are enthusiastic about Mr. Maven! Your sister told me about it, asking me countless questions. However I recommend you not to believe all his claims, as the fact that Tiberias has treated him badly is completely false and, on the contrary, he always had been extraordinarily nice to him, although Mr. Maven behaved so infamously that my dearest childhood friend decided not to share such detail with me or my brother. Anyway, I don't blame him for not even bearing his mention, but I guess you found it out for yourself as I doubt you had the foresight to avoid such a sensitive subject during your two rounds of dancing. I am sorry that you have discovered the faults of your favourite, but in reality, considering his origins, we couldn't expect much better," she said, and before Mare could ask for further explanation, she turned away, distracted by Lady Haven. How much insolence! Mare thought to herself, full of anger. Did Miss Samos really think she was influencing her with a petty attack like that, full of her stubborn ignorance and the General's malice? With a sigh she composed himself, and began to look for Wren, who had undertaken to gather information from Mr. Samos regarding the same subject. When she reached her, however, her friend greeted her with a smile so sweetly satisfied, illuminated by such a happy expression, that it made clear enough how happy she was with the events of the evening. Mare caught her feelings immediately, and in that moment every concern for Maven, every resentment of her enemies and whatever else was put aside, facing the hope that Wren would achieve happiness in the best of ways.

"I would like to know," she said, her face no less smiling, "what have you learned, busy as you should’ve been with your pleasant company."

"I wasn't as busy as you think, but unfortunately, I have nothing satisfying to tell you: Mr. Samos doesn’t know the whole story and completely ignores the events that have particularly offended the General, but guarantees the irreproachable conduct, the righteousness and sense of honour of his friend, and is absolutely convinced that Mr. Maven deserved far less attention than received. I'm sorry to say that, but from what he and his sister said, your new acquaintance is by no means a respectable young man, in fact, I'm afraid he was very imprudent, and that he deserved to lose the General's respect."

Mare was still perplexed by those statements: certainly it was a skilled defence, but everyone seemed not to know part of the story and what little they knew had been learned by the General himself, all points that allowed her not to change her opinion on the two gentlemen in question, so she decided to change the subject in favour of more pleasant arguments, on which they couldn’t have conflicting opinions, and listened with joy to the happy, albeit modest, hopes that Wren cherished about Mr. Samos, and said all was in her power to bolster her friend's confidence, until he caught up with them, and Mare went back in search of Diana, who tried to convince her that although Mr. Jesper was a bad dancer, he was excellent company, when at ease, until the subject of their argument, as if feeling called into question, reached them. Since she no longer had any personal interest to pursue for the evening, she turned her attention almost entirely to her friends and the series of pleasant reflections aroused from the remarks about Wren, who she saw already settled in that same house with all the happiness that can come from a love match, was only slightly overshadowed by the idea that Diana could finally choose to give in to her cousin's attention not so much because she preferred him to her brother, but because Shade hadn’t given her a way to guess that their relationship wasn’t just one of dated friendship. She saw clearly that her mother's thoughts were pointing in the same direction, and decided to not dare to go near her, for fear of hearing too much. What she couldn’t know, however, was that her desires weren’t so disinterested and dictated by her displeasure with her son’s possible sadness, as by her interest in a union between her and her cousin, something she was able to discover during dinner: when they sat down Mare considered it an evil fate to find herself separated from her only by one person, and was deeply irritated in seeing her speak freely and openly just with that person, Lady Skonos, of nothing but her expectation that Wren would soon marry Mr. Samos, as, although the prospect was exciting, the two seemed unable to tire of enumerating the benefits of that union. The fact that he was a charming young man, and so rich, who lived just three miles from them were their main reasons for satisfaction but it was a consolation too to think of how his sister was fond of Wren.

"It's a promising thing for Gisa too,” said Mrs Barrow, “Wren's excellent marriage will give her the opportunity to make acquaintance with other wealthy men and her dear friend will introduce her properly, not forcing on me any more social life than the one I desire to have.”

"These are occasions that you have to like, but nobody loves staying at home at any time more than me. I just hope that Mare will soon have similar luck," replied the other, but Mrs. Barrow told her to extend her wishes to poor Miss Farley, because her daughter would soon be engaged, and concluded by casting an eloquent glance at Mr. Jesper, who indeed was speaking exactly to Diana. Mare tried in vain to stop her mother's rapid flow of words, as she had no intention of accepting any kind of proposal made by Mr. Jesper, or at least get her to describe her happiness for Wren with a less audible tone of voice, since, with inexpressible irritation, she had noticed that much of the conversation had been heard by General Calore, who sat on the opposite side from them, but Mrs. Barrow just scolded her for saying such nonsense since she really seemed unable to understand who that man was for them and why they should owe him the courtesy of not saying anything that could displease him, and she went on talking about her points of view in the same audible tone, making her blush several times with shame and irritation. Mare couldn’t help but throw frequent glances at the General, even if every one of them confirmed what she feared, since, although he didn’t look constantly at her mother, she was convinced that his attention was invariably focused on her. The expression on his face gradually changed from indignant contempt to composed and steadfast seriousness, until Mrs. Barrow had nothing more to say and Lady Skonos was left to cold ham and chicken. The quiet interval didn’t last long, however, for, once dinner was over, there was talk of singing and Gisa, following very limited prayers, prepared herself to entertain the company. With many meaningful looks and mute prayers, Mare tried to prevent such a courtesy, but in vain: her sister seemed to not want to understand, and such an opportunity to perform was a delight for her, so she began to sing, arousing the most painful sensations. Mare followed her progress with an impatience that was very poorly rewarded by the conclusion, seen Gisa had received, among the thanks from the table, a hint of hope that she might be persuaded to concede her favour again, and after not even half a minute, she started again. Her sister's abilities were absolutely unsuitable for such a performance, given her weak voice and affected manner, and Mare's torture was only lightened by the fact that Wren was chatting amiably with Mr. Samos and neither of them could see any signs of derision that his sister and Lady Haven exchanged. Although Mare would’ve expected the General to take part in the mockery too, he had remained impenetrable serious, even when Mr. Barrow told his daughter she had been very good, but now it was better to leave room for the other ladies. Mare couldn’t understand whether the General's silent contempt or the insolent smiles of his friends were more intolerable, so she turned to Diana, and had a brilliant conversation with her and Mr. Jesper, which seemed to further annoy the man. Mr. Barrow, equally silent, enjoyed the scene: he was old, compared to all those young people, and since he had a finer mind than his wife, it wasn’t at all difficult for him to see what dynamics had been established in the group, and while they waited for the carriage that would take them home, he analyzed them one by one, but without sharing his thoughts with anyone, as he used to do if he wasn’t asked about it. And so he watched Mr. Samos and Miss Skonos, whose carriage, which was supposed to take her and her mother home, was miraculously late just like their own, stand a little apart from the others, just like Miss Samos and Lady Haven, although the former casted worried glances from time to time towards General Calore, who was talking, if it could be considered a dialogue and not a monologue, with Lucas Samos, his gaze fixed on Mare, whose back was turned to him as she chatted with Mr. Jesper. He would almost have liked to laugh, if everything couldn’t end so tragically: it would’ve been enough for all of them to speak honestly, even at that moment, just before taking their leave, and every problem would’ve been solved. But it would never happen, it never did, and so Mr. Barrow kept on observing, and saw his wife being urgently courteous to the Samos, saying she hoped to see them soon at their home, although she knew perfectly well it would never happen, as no one there, with the exception of the General, who would’ve never admitted it so publicly, felt particular affection of their daughters, and he actually didn’t mind: he didn’t like Miss Samos’ feigned gratitude nor the tacit assent that her friend gave to everything she said, and didn’t want his daughters to surround themselves with friends of that kind, much less that one of his sons would bring one of those harpies under his roof. When the carriages finally arrived, Mr. Barrow took his seat and watched Mr. Samos escort Miss Skonos to her vehicle and greet her with one of his rare smiles. His wife and sons also took their places, and finally came the girls' time. Despite the embarrassment, the Barrow were accompanied by the General, who, despite not having paid the same attention to Gisa, instinctively reached out a hand to take Mare's and help her to climb the high step. Immediately Mare turned to throw him an amazed look, and taken aback by his gesture and by those dark eyes full of questions, he let her go and turned without a word, ready to reach his friend and the safety of home. He just couldn’t understand what was wrong with him, and such was the confusion in his heart that he ended up flexing his fingers until he felts the nails against his palm. It was something he often did as a child, when everything became too much, when he had to remember to maintain a certain demeanour, but for years he hadn't felt the need anymore, since nothing moved his soul up to that point. Slowly he straightened them again, and in that moment he decided his attentions for Miss Barrow were definitely bad and had to be nipped in the bud, and perhaps it was time to remind his dear friend that he too had a part in their plan.

#red queen au #pride and prejudice #p&p au #mare barrow #cal calore #maven calore #ptolemus samos #wren skonos #evangeline samos #elane haven #lucas samos #diana farley #shade barrow #bree barrow #tramy barrow #tyton jesper #daniel barrow #ruth barrow #thomas

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spacegayparty · 5 years ago

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Heart-warming Tea and belated Arrivals (Oneshot)

Pairing: Logan x Roman/Logince. (minor: thomas x Patton, Sleepxiety)

Summary: It was supposed to be a sleepover before starting a road trip together but instead, a bunny ruined it all and left Logan and bear with the unbearable: each other... unless-

Tags: bunny mention, mentions of an injury, biting mention, rabies and hospital mention, mentions of Virgil being panicky, jealousy, mutual pining, alcohol, drinking, wine, food mention, cooking, passing of time, kissing, onesies, mentions of frogs, mentions of dragons and unicorns

ao3

My KoFi - Support me ♥ or Commission me

Story under the cut

A foot tapped. Up and down, up and down.

The clock was running, ticking. It was deafening in the stretching moments of silence.

Finger pads rubbed against a resistant fabric. Back and forth, back and forth.

Unaffected, the clock kept running. Its arms lethargically jumped from one to another number. One, two, three, four seconds.. five.. A sigh, followed by a groan. Two different sounds, two different people. Tic, toc. Tic toc.

It was 9.13 pm.

Roman shifted, shifting one leg over the other for a moment only to discover the tapping was not as satisfying without a ground underneath his foot. Logan let his fingers trace over his watch and patted it as if touching a device to show time could actually influence its course. Long legs glanced over at Mr. Watch who caught him. They both averted gazes.

9.16 pm.

Notification sounds chimed loudly. Vibration could be heard and spiked up hands grabbed their phones to check for the important messages they were all waiting for. The relief was so great, for a moment, the clock was mute to their worlds.

***

9.11 pm

Pattoncake: We didn’t forget about you! Just a few issues, nothing to worry about!”

9.16 pm

Pattoncake: Uh... so, we found a cute little bunny and I wanted to pet it and Virgil told me not to and it bit me and I am bleeding and Virgil is freaking out and driving really fast but we are on our way to get me checked because Virgil said this might be rabies. Pattoncake: I don’t think i have rabies but we took the bunny with us. Sorry, kiddos! I am fine and Virgil will be fine! I will sing with him, so he calms down.

*Prince Roman and Logan are typing*

9.17 pm

Logan: It is responsible to have foresight. Take care of the injury and calm down Virgil, if possible. It is advisable to drive when in a calm state. If Virgil needs time, maybe call a cab.

Prince Roman: Stay safe, padre! We shall defeat any and all disease if necessary! If you need someone to drive in place of our stormy knight, I will jump in for you!

Pattoncake: I am okay! We are there, gotta go before Virgil carries me! *chuckles* Love you!

***

Roman squinted at his exchange of messages. This could not be everything. A mortal bunny had dared to injure his friend, ruining their whole get-together! He had been so delighted all day and he needed it, he deserved it! Why was the world so mean to leave him stuck with the nerd when he has had such a horrible time all day! He wanted to sneer at life, at this situation. A foul feeling within him prevented him from following his easy whims. It sucked all energy out of him.

Stupid nerd..

Said nerd himself was similar in terms of thoughts. His apathetic stare into nothingness seemed more tense then usual, his shoulders pulled up in discomfort at the situation. Glasses were adjusted almost obsessively while calculating meticulously just how and when the others could be back and whether it was worth it.

They had travelled back home to Virgil’s apartment and Roman as much as Logan were much further away from their respective homes. Roman wanted to do some travelling and perhaps look out for some career-related things while Logan had returned because he wanted to use the extended weekend to meet his friends. Together, they had agreed to have one sleepover at Virgil’s and one at Patton’s. Inherently, Virgil’s home was supposed to be the meeting point for a comfortable night in preparation for a small road trip.

Logan only wanted to see his best friends again but now he was stuck. He was stuck with Roman and it was too early to go to sleep, even for him.

“We could prepare a few things for them-”

“Shut it, nerd. You already eyed the whole kitchen Virgil has probably deep-cleaned before. If you want the dude to have a full mental breakdown, you can’t mess with his shit or he will cry or something.”

His words, his tone. They were as sharp as his cheekbones. The fire was burning in his eyes and it came all towards Logan.

“I meant we could cook for them. It is past dinner time and they will need sustenance upon return.”

The contrast between burning Roman’s fierce tongue and Logan’s nonchalant commentary was stark. It was like two different worlds clashing together. Out of all people, Roman just had to get stuck with the least fun person in their group. Logan was okay. He was handsome, decently dressed but he was so stuck-up. The dude was literally wearing a necktie to a sleepover with friends! They usually wore onesies! Roman was in his dragon onesie and he felt stupid because of him.

“I mean, yeah, whatever.”

The two got up into the kitchen, a neat space. Roman was right, this room was meticulously cleaned. The taller one noted to himself that Virgil had to be sleepless from at least cleaning through a whole night. That was for sure.

“Oh, what the hell-”

Logan perked up. His eyes had been lost in the details of admiring how perfectly clean everything was. A part of him assumed Virgil did not use the kitchen after cleaning it. Probably too busy or worried about ruining “everything”. The smaller friend was focusing on something else instead. He had his gaze fixed on the fridge, particularly a photograph on it. It was Virgil and his roommate - Remy - who was currently out of state to visit someone else.

“What’s the matter, Roman?”

Logan’s direct voice cut right through to Roman.

“Can you believe this? Logan, they are dating. Virgil did not tell us shit. They are abso-fucking-lutely dating.”

The nerd squinted at the photograph. Roman snatched it off the fridge and examined it.

“Yes, definitely. Clean your glasses, specs. This is a pair of dating pals.”

At last, he handed it over to Logan who adjusted his glasses to sit exactly where they had resided before. The photograph was one of these instant photographs, he believed the term was polaroid. There was nothing too peculiar about the photo, just Virgil and another person in front of a fountain. They looked at one another, holding hands

“They are holding hands, Roman. I do not know whether this is indicative of a relationship. We all hold hands with Patton a lot and cuddle. Speaking of which, you give anyone but me a lot of kisses which would usually be seen as a rather romantic gesture.”

Something in Logan felt off. His words seemed more fired up and he adjusted his glasses once more, hiding away the hard glance in his button eyes. He rushed past Roman and reached for one of the bottles of wine around.

“We can prepare sandwiches for everyone.”

...Well, that was something. Roman almost wanted to believe there was jealousy burning in Logan’s eyes when he tried to open the bottle. Whatever. The theatre student busied himself with finding the necessary ingredients for sandwiches. Cheese, ham, salad, mustard, cream cheese, gherkins, and tomatoes. Oh - and the sandwich toast, of course.

He placed all things on the kitchen counter where Logan still resided in intense fury as he tried to stab a cork.

“Hold on, calculator watch. I got this for you.”

Roman approached the other from behind, in complete disregard for personal space and put his hands around him. He placed his fingers on Logan’s and softly tugged them around the bottle’s neck and the its opening. There was a heavy fight in his limbs and he could feel cold anger radiate from him. Not that it mattered. He wanted this wine, too. If they were to stay with one another for even another minute, he would need to numb his system.

“Let me help you, Logan.”

At once, the nerd loosened his grip and turned his head just enough to glance at Roman for just a minute. Their eyes met, ever so softly gazing at one another. It felt like a deja-vu. His heart was yearning. For a moment, they just looked at one another. Logan’s neck tickled. His skin was covered in delightful goosebumps. The wine at their hands might have been still but Roman’s heart was sparkling like fireworks in the sky.

“Do it, then.”

Demanding as always, Roman thought. For a moment he had been lost in the charm of Logan - not that there was too much of this. Still... it was a mesmerising experience. Instead of falling for these siren-like songs Logan sang with his eyes, he carefully used the corkscrew to push it deeper through the cork and then, he carefully pulled the remaining pieces out.

Not perfect but just good enough.

“Thanks.”

He could hear the eye roll. Maybe he wanted to hear it, rather than listen to his tell-tale heart. Glasses clang together, rattling. Liquid flowed into glasses and Roman was handed a rather filled glass of red wine.

“You think Virgil would not tell us about his partner- or partner?”

Swish. Logan turned around, wine in hand and mischief in his eyes.

“Why would you think so?~”

The taller one stared down at Roman and sipped his drink. It was as red as his heart or Roman’s racing thoughts. He shifted and cleared his throat before rewarding himself with an idea for stalling.

“How about a toast? Don’t you have manners?”

Logan rolled his eyes. It was in his whole face which seemed to sneer at him. Despite the reaction, he stepped closer and reached out to let their glasses’ rims meet.

“To Remy.”

“Who is Remy?”

“The person you assume to be Virgil’s partner. The one on this photograph -”

“I get it, I get it.”

Roman took a big sip.

“I’m just glad Virgil is dating someone. Like, wow, I was worried he would get it on with Patton.”

Alarm rushed over Logan’s face but he caught it quickly and drowned it in a face of wineglass. Their glasses were almost half empty already.

“I don’t want to sound as if I was against our friends dating but I, too, was worried about our group dynamic suffering from imbalance.”

Eyes rolled once more but it seemed .. so sassy all of a sudden. It gave Roman a smile.

“Also, I really am glad they didn’t move together.”

Logan nodded hard.

“Good luck we found Thomas. Wait, actually - you found him, did you not? It was a good choice to introduce him to Patton after one of your plays.”

Warmth bubbled up in Roman’s big chest.

“You-you really think so?”

Genuine eyes locked with Roman’s blurry honey orbs.

“Of course. You found a rather kind person and successfully introduced him to someone who would like him. Thomas and Patton are a cute couple.”

The other snickered and turned around to start preparing some sandwiches. Patton and Virgil would probably be thankful. After he had seen the kitchen, he was even more so convinced that Virgil needed a break. He was quite for a while. Roman continued on his wine, drinking faster than wine should be enjoyed but the mood had him look into the glass like into the howling abyss.

“They are a cute couple..”

The smaller student joined in, silently putting his near-empty glass down. He cut the cheese slices and tomatoes and gherkins patiently.

“Of course they are! Patton is an absolute sweetheart. He is the cutest of the group. How could you not love him?”

Tic toc. Tic toc.

“I guess you are right. He is the loveliest in this group.”

9.57 pm.

Logan finished his glass and poured himself more but only took a few tentative sips before emptying the bottle into Roman’s glass.

“Lo-” “Ro-”

The two looked at one another. Shock froze the room. They were stuck staring. Mouths agape and fingers grabbing into the air. Bodies turned to one another but nobody leaned in.

“Uh- mayonnaise. We should make some with mayonnaise. Patton really likes them with mayonnaise.”

“Ah, yes.”

Disappointment darkened Logan’s voice. It edged on hoarse by now. He wordlessly retrieved a whole jar of mayonnaise. It was unopened. Bought for Patton only. Logan made no more attempts at communication, downed the rest of wine instead and opened the jar.

“Woah there, you worried about Patton that much?”

The nerd nearly hissed at this. Bile burned his tongue. He didn’t even have the heart to miss one of his best friends amidst this situation.

“How about you sit down, Logan. I can finish the rest. You did so much already-”

Roman approached him, his arms finding their way around Logan who violently stepped back.

“Don’t touch me!”

He pulled away, his eyes wide. Logan hugged himself, his back pressed against the wall behind him. His eyes vaguely glanced at the fridge, the picture of Remy and Virgil burning into his mind.

Life wasn’t fair!

“Logan -”

“Maybe we shouldn’t do this. I- I have made a mistake with this. My apologies, Roman.”

“What do you mean?”

Logan pushed himself off the wall. His steps were unusually uncoordinated, his vision hazy and delayed. He had not eaten, he had drank a good glass of red wine and for all he knew, he was tall and lanky, even a bit more so than Roman.

“Logan, please talk to me. Don’t just go - what are you doing? What is wrong?”

Worry rose in Roman. He knew he usually picked fights with Logan, he would challenge and fight him on any and all points he ever made but seeing him like this? This was torture. Roman did not hate Logan, he just did not know how to connect to him and when he got close, Logan pushed him away like this.

“I am leaving. I - I think I will sleep in a hotel or whatever. I will leave you space, so you can have fun with Patton.”

The theatre lover stepped back a bit.

“What do you mean by that.”

His sentence was a question but he stated it, almost like a threat. Logan held onto the door frame for support and barely tilted his neck enough to glare at the other. They were blurry with pearls of tears and pure hurt.

“If you have an appreciation for Patton of that kind, maybe you shouldn’t have come. Maybe I shouldn’t have listened to you speak about this. It is for the best we both go home and forget about this.”

He turned to leave, his dark blue shirt rubbing together and creating a sound so painful, Roman did not know such harm could exist outside of tragic plays.

“What are you - What are you insinuating. I d- I don’t like Patton this way if you mean that.”

Logan seemed to care about his drunk strive more than anything. He kept walking, feet stepping into nothingness and leading Logan into walls, furniture and so on. He was a dead man walking.

“Fuck it, me-me....figuratively..”

Logan stumbled and fell onto the couch, luckily. A few steps aside and he would have met the table or maybe just the floor. None of which were as pleasant as meeting the couch face-first. Roman was head on his tail.

Thump thump.

Tic toc.

10.38 pm.

“Logan, are you okay?”

The nerd grumbled. His body slowly wiggled away from Roman but stopped when his height took in the length of the couch.

“Go away..”, he mumbled into the soft cushions.

“No way. You tell me what’s wrong. Are you hurt at all?”

A soft head shake.

Roman squinted at the sight but at least Logan answered him, somewhat. A weird suspicion stirred up inside of him. It was like the foreshadowing in books. Something was about to happen and he felt as if he had enough clues to know where this was going.

“Come on, let me help you. You got sleeping things with you?”

Logan curled up and made a little sound.

“I will get it for you, just wait.”

He didn’t know what was going on but he took it. Logan was talking to him again. Maybe he just had a bad phase or was caught up in a bad headspace? When he was in a bad place or remembered shit things, he often snapped at others. Not that this was a good thing, it just happened and sometimes it was difficult to keep things in line. To be fair, it was a little exciting to see Logan show some feelings. Even if it was those kind of feelings people usually didn’t want to see. It gave Roman a funny sensation inside. It was like a warm comfortable hug for his brain. He was the only one who could do that. Logan yelling? Only he could do that and he had developed an odd pride for it.

Roman got to the bedroom and swiftly got to the deed of sniffing around in Logan’s things. Figuratively - oh no. Now he also started with this insanity as well. Well, a little clarity never hurt anybo- What was this? He pushed his fingers deeper into Logan’s bag and slowly pulled out.. a onesie. The unicorn onesie he had gifted him last Secret Santa.

Butterflies tickled his stomach from the inside and Roman found himself smiling, eyes wet. Logan had not forgotten. He did not.. he did not hate it or him at all. Roman hugged the onesie to himself. It was supposed to be a little fun gift, not too serious. It smelled of the other so much, it had Roman convinced he had worn it before.

Slowly, he detached himself from the fabric and brought it over to Logan.

“Hey..”

Logan was sitting by now, rubbing his temples and groaning.

“My apolog-”

“Logan.”

The nerd stopped himself and looked at Roman. He noticed his glasses were on the table rather than on his face. All anger seemed wiped off like makeup with a cleanex.

“Let’s wear our onesies and watch a film together.”

He hummed.

“Will you meddle with the vote again?”

Roman laughed, tossing him the unicorn suit.

“I have just decided we will rewatch Frozen I, so we can watch the sequel together with Virgil and Patton!”

“I am in pain just thinking about it.”

The shorter student smiled at him and quickly left to finish the sandwiches and clean the kitchen. His mind was a bit hazy, slightly warmer than usual but it was okay. Everything was okay.

When he returned, Logan was cuddled up in his onesie and a blanket - another one was next to him, still folded. The remote was in place and Frozen I was selected. He quickly slipped into the bedroom and changed his attire. Within a few moments, he was back and cuddled up next to Logan. He softly opened his arms.

“I will snuggle you if you want to~”

10.53 pm.

“Roman, will you ever be quiet?”

Of course he snuggled up to him. Roman started the film and hugged Logan back, before leaning in and whispering.

“Maybe Patton is objectively the cutest but you are by far the more attractive and feisty one, teach~”

Logan closed his eyes and snuggled Roman closer.

“...thanks.”

He glanced at him. Roman glanced back. They inched closer, closer, their noses nearly touching. Lips met, covering one another. Logan slowly moved on top of Roman and straddled him, one of his hands cupping Roman’s face.

Eventually, he pulled back just enough to mumbled back to him.

“You might be rather handsome yourself..”

Roman beamed!

“But Patton is rather aesthetically appealing, too~”

The laying friend pouted but Logan leaned down to softly peck it away.

“You don’t like Patton?”

Roman shook his head.

“Well, we have another thing in common, then. How pleasant.”

Fingers entangled. Logan shifted to brush through Roman’s hair with his free hand. He closed his eyes.

“Are we throwing off the dynamic now?”

Logan shook his head.

“No, we are not dating Patton, so it’s fine.”

“That does not even make remotely.. any.. I mean.. that.. that doesn’t make sense, Logan.”

The taller one smiled.

“What is so illogical about this? I think I did not get your point ~”

Roman stuck out his tongue for a moment and sighed contently before mumbling.

“How about you come down here and I will tell you?~”

“Sounds sufficient~”

***

3:37 am

“Hey Virgil, look! I think they finally got together.”

A silent snort shook the air ever so softly.

“I sure hope so. This will finally balance out the group dynamic. This whole tension between them got fucking unbearable.”

“Language-”

“Shh, let’s go get a snack for your new pet.”

Patton hugged his bunny close.

“Why would you call a bunny “Froggy” ?”

The two slowly sneaked into the kitchen and left the cuddling dragon and unicorn alone. Tomorrow would be another day.

It would just never be quite as sweet as Logan’s and Roman’s embrace.

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slashiest-slasher · 5 years ago

Note

How about a male s/o who has chronic lower back and tailbone pain? To the point where they cant walk or sit most of the time uwu I love ur writing

uwuwuwuwu thanks, i love when you guys send stuff in! i don’t know who specifically you want so i’ll go with my default slashers. i struggle with back pain a lot so i feel this, there's a reason i only sleep on my front lmao wish i had a big beefy slasher to make it all better tho

warnings for some nsfw (sorry, can’t help myself, jerking off helps when my back’s hurting so *shrugs*)

Michael Myers

□ Lets be honest here, at first Michael isn’t going to really care. Yeah, you hurt, big whoop, everyone has back pain. You don’t see him laying around whining about it. (Michael blease, you get thrown around and shoved off building enough to know how much it hurts….)

□ But as he starts to care about you more, and sees how bad it is, when you can’t get out of bed and you’re crying so hard that you’re not making any noises or tears any more because your pain pills are all the way in the bathroom. That’s when he starts becoming more considerate and, dare I say, soft.

□ He always makes sure the pills are on your nightstand, and there’s a glass of water usually waiting for you. When you refuse to take your pills, but are obviously in a lot of pain, he’ll hold them to your lips until you take them. But the damn bastard isn’t likely to do anything else.

□ Except maybe lay in bed with you to keep you company, though this tends to line up with his own back pain since this dumbass has wrecked his back doing some pretty stupid shit over the years.

□ If your pain is particularly bad, and the pills aren’t doing anything to help, he does have one solution he learned over the years. It’s best not to ask where he picked it up from. And if you’re not already in a sexual relationship you better get real comfortable, real fast.

□ He lubes up his index finger and slips it in, and massages your tailbone between it and his thumb. At first it feels odd, especially if you and Michael haven’t crossed that line yet, but pain starts to lessen so you don’t say anything.

□ Once Michael notices that you aren't crying anymore, he switches over to ruthlessly fingering your prostate, catching you off guard, but making you cum all over his mask in record time (since he didn't exactly have the foresight to move away). And damn, as awkward as that might've been, it did work, at least for now.

□ Michael is going to make you be a whole hell of a lot more conscious about everything you're doing to help with your back pain, because if he can cope, so can you. Though you do smile at the advertisement for spinal injections for back pain slipped in with the mail.

Jason Voorhees

□ You normally sleep in pretty late compared to Jason so he’s not at all surprised to see you stay in bed late while he gets up and does all the early morning chores. What /does/ worry him is when he comes back home and still finds you in bed, hiding your face, and your pillow stained with tears.

□ He immediately starts to panic, thinking he might’ve done something to hurt, and starts trying to gently roll you over to face him, but stops as soon as he hears you whimper. He’s breathing pretty heavily and if could, he would start crying, but he hovers instead until you explain to him that you’ve been dealing with back pain for a while now, but you've run out of your pain pills and it hust hurts really bad.

□ Say no more! Jason rushes off to his little collection of loot he has saved from the campers over the years. Pain pills, close enough to your prescription, included. Once you take them and they've kicked in, Jason gets you sitting up so he can start helping you stretch your back muscles, and going for a walk.

□ After all, that what his mom always did when her back hurt from being up on her feet all day. But if walking around starts bothering you too much, he'll carry you back to the shack, and will instead lay down with you and will but either a really warm, or ice cold hand on where the worst of the pain (depending on if he's dead or not, since he's nice and chilly when dead, but unnaturally warm when alive).

□ Jason will be extremely careful with you from then on, and will ensure that you're taking care of yourself, sleeping the right way, and doing anything he can to lessen the strain on your back, which includes stretching your back and holding you through the worst of the pain.

Thomas Hewitt

□ The moment Thomas sees you struggling to get out of bed and making pained noises, he immediately knows what's up. Come on, boy grew up in rural Texas, where back pain is exceedingly common. He immediately goes downstairs to get an ice pack (usually reserved for Charlie) from the freezer and pushes you down on your front and makes it clear that you're not getting up any time soon.

□ He contemplates raiding Charlie or Monty's pain pill stash, but he knows that wont fly, so he asks Luda Mae to do it instead. And once she finds out you've got bad back pain, expect to be doted on by both her and Thomas.

□ On your bad days, if you can even get out of bed, Luda Mae has you on light household chore duty, just to keep you moving. Stagnation, after all, will only make things worse. Charlie will call you a lazy bastard, but it doesn't have the same mallice as usual.

□ And of course at night Thomas will sit there and rub where the worst of the pain is with those giant hands. He will also still want to have sex with you, since Charlie sat him down to give him the dirty on how to help with back pain. And that dirty old man couldn't help but tell him fucking your brains out would do the trick.

□ But he doesn't want to hurt you further, so he is extremely gentle. He has you on your back, several pillows underneath your hips to ensure you're comfortable, and fucks you nice and slow, making sure to jerk you off in time with his thrusts. There are times when Thomas will only chase his own pleasure and worry about you later, but when you back pain is real back, he makes sure it's all about you, and pampers you.

□ He takes the utmost care of cleaning you up, and rolling you onto your front, and cradling you in his arms when the two of you go to bed for the night.

Brahms Heelshire

□ You've had your back issues since before Brahms ever came out of the walls, but you had been ensuring that you were taking your pain pills, stretching, and sleeping right to cope, so he was never the wiser.

□ And even when he revealed himself to you and came out of the walls, he never picked up on how much your back bothered you. He always thought the stretching and pills were because you were a health nut or something. And Brahms is, after all, intensely curious.

□ So when Malcom brings in a fresh pill bottle around the same time your current one is running a little low, he snatches up the new bottle and hides it in his loft. A few days later, he skipped right ahead to sitting at the kitchen table and waiting eagerly for you to come down and make breakfast.

□ But you never do, and Brahms just thinks you overslept, but he's waiting there for an hour before he realises you aren't coming down. And you're being naughty and breaking the rules, and he isn't very happy about that, so he storms upstairs to wrangle you down, but he slows his roll as he gets closer to your room.

□ He hears you crying inside.

□ And he thinks the worst, that someone broke in and hurt you.

□ So he rushes, ready to beat someone up, but all he finds is you laying on your front, crying into your pillow. For a brief, split, second he thinks it's because of him, that you hate him and this is what you do in private because you can't stand him.

□ And he's about to start crying right where he stands, until he sees the empty pill bottle on the nightstand and he puts two and two together. Oh, it was just about your medicine. You were upset about that.

□ When he makes himself known, you're still crying but asking him where your other pill bottle is, that your back hurts so much and you need your medicine to deal with it.

□ Oh Christ! That's what the medicine is for? Without saying anything, he rushes off into the walls at mach speed to grab the bottle from his loft. He apologizes over and over again for inadvertently hurting you like this. He was just curious.

□ He's running all over the house that day trying to make it up to including, including trying to make breakfast for you, which is either going to be tea with slightly too burnt toast with marmite on it, or whatever leftovers he deems appropriate to heat up and serve to you.

□ Once he's settled down, he'll crawl into bed and try to massage your back. It's definitely amature, but it feels good at least, and you make sure to let him know. Once your muscles are all nice and loosened up, he'll roll you onto your back (making sure to cushion you), and slips between your legs.

□ Before you can ask him what he's doing, his mask is already off, and he's suckling on your dick. Christ, you never knew someone could look so shy while sucking dick, but Brahms manages it. If his mouth wasn't full, you know he'd be asking if he was doing a good job, if it felt good. So please be sure to pet his hair and tell him what a good boy he's being, and how he's doing so well.

□ By the time he's gotten you off, he's already cum in his pants, so please stand by while he sneaks off, face red and heavily embarrassed to go change his clothes, before coming back to cuddle with you until you're feeling good enough to get back to tending to him and the house.

□ Honestly if this is what it takes to get Brahms to be a well-behaved and submissive, it might just make up with how much your back hurts. Well, maybe not, because it does hurt pretty bad. But at least it softens the blow.

#michael myers #jason voorhees #thomas hewitt #brahms heelshire #lemon #michael myers x reader #jason voorhees x reader #thomas hewitt x reader #brahms heel #leatherface #shape hc #jason hc #cannibal hc #brahms hc

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casshasfangs · 4 years ago

Text

Cassius Halestorm's life was now divided into two sections: Pre-Stevie Nicks, and Post-Stevie Nicks. Of course, Pre-Stevie Cass had cared immensely about the band and put time and effort into making things sound good, but after the White Witch herself had written them a letter, things kind of blew up. They had to redirect fan mail to Piper, because the school owls were getting frustrated. The Slytherins were getting mad at him because Gryffindor first years kept trying to sneak into his dorm. Piper was owling them albums to sign, for fuck's sake. And then there was the practice, the writing the furious injection of energy that the illustrious Stevie Nicks had thrust into the band. It was exhausting. Like the recording day, but every day.

So, when Cass crashed at night, he crashed hard. He was asleep by ten, which never happened, only because Shosh had the foresight to let him feed before practice that night instead of after. Even so, Cass was exhausted when he felt someone shoving his shoulder in the early hours of the morning.

Cass started, squinting as his assailant pointed his wand in Cass's face, the bright light blinding him. "Merlin's beard, can you fuck off? Put that light out."

The prefect pursed his lips, then shoved Cass again. "Professor Izaak needs to see you. Come on, put your shoes on."

"What? Why? What time is it?" Cass grumbled, still groggy as he rolled over in bed, convinced this was a prank from jealous Slytherins who were sick of the aforementioned first years.

"It's 3am, so you best not keep me up anymore, you prat." His roommate waved his wand and Cass's blanket was stripped off him. Cass literally growled and then leaned down to shove his feet in his converse sleepily. He was already wearing a band shirt and his flannel pyjama pants. He couldnt be arsed changing just for a prank.

He followed his roommate out to the common room, and Cass yawned as he walked out of the dungeon, covering his mouth and pausing, freezing in his tracks when he realised that this wasn't a prank. Professor Izaak stood at the entry to the Slytherin common room. It was odd seeing him in casual robes.

"Professor?" Cass was wary when he noticed another witch with him. She wore auror's robes- and had a look about her that Cass was certain he'd seen her somewhere before. In the paper? With his Dad? "Professor what's going on?"

"Evening, Cass," His Head of House looked more scruffy than usual, like a late evening shadow had appeared on his face. It made Cass uncomfortable, because Professor Izaak was always so put together. "The Headmistress needs to see you in her office, she's asked me to take you there now."

And then they left, with no mention of why the auror followed them. Cass kept looking at her out the corner of his eye, still slightly dazed from just being woken. He swallowed as he walked, trying hard to keep calm. They knew he was feeding from Shosh, surely that was it. Or that he hadn't signed his Census. They knew and he was getting thrown into Azkaban late at night. What would happen to the band? To his guitars? Who would tell Shosh? His Dad?

All of this fretting built as Cass was led up to the Professor McGonagall's office, and Cass heard the heartbeats of more humans than just his Headmistress. No, there were... Five people in her office.

Cass swallowed, panic rising in him. The only calm constant he had was Professor Izaak, who he was certain would not lead him into danger so calmly. He'd been one of Cass's strongest advocates since day one.

This anxiety was not abated, though, when he was led into the room and realised that three of the people in the room were also aurors. Four, when you counted the one who had been following them. The auror at the door was particularly intimidating when gangly, awkward, pale Cass passed by him, about half the man's size. They were going to take him to Azkaban. He was done for. This was it.

He paled when Professor McGonagall turned, stepping towards her desk, revealing the other adult in the room.

Duncan Armstrong.

The Minister for fucking Magic.

"Thank you for fetching him, Gerolt. Take a seat, Mister Halestorm." His Headmistress said, and Cass blinked, nodding mutely.

Cass's knees practically knocked as he moved to the indicated seat and sunk into it.

He wondered if maybe he should apologise, if admitting anything outright might win him some favour, or if he should go down denying that he’d ever fed from Shosh. Maybe he’d get some sympathy if he explained what happened with Pomonia. The Slytherin swallowed the lump in his throat as he looked between the adults in the room, eyes wide and terrified as they watched him.

The Headmistress spoke again, her tone unchanging from when she’d spoken earlier. “I’m afraid there is no easy way to deliver this news, Mister Halestorm, but it has come to our attention that your father has been the victim of a fatal attack on his return home from the Ministry. I’m very sorry you had to be told in such a manner but we thought it prudent you be made aware immediately.”

Cass blinked. What?

Maybe stunned silence wasn’t the reaction she had been expecting, because McGonagall pursed her lips into a very thin line as she informed him, “The Minister insisted he come and inform you directly.”

Cass was still staring straight ahead. What? What had she said? His father? Fatal attack? He blinked drearily, watching through hooded eyes as the Minister stepped forward, pulling his shoulders back. “Thank you, Headmistress. Cassius, I would, if I may, express my deepest sympathies to you. Your father and I have been working very closely over the past year and I am shocked that such a thing has occurred; rest assured when I tell you that we are doing everything we can to find out who is responsible. I also want you to know, from myself directly, that I’m willing to make this time for you as comfortable as I can. I’ll admit that I feel partly responsible, what with it happening so closely to the Ministry itself, but I feel obligated to your father to offer as much support to you as I can."

The boy frowned at the floor, and tilted his head. Partly responsible. The Minister for Magic felt partly responsible for what had happened? Not because he did nothing but fueled the flames of hatred that had been burning brighter than ever- but because apparently his Dad had been murdered in a politically inconvenient location. The first emotion Cass felt since he’d heard the news ripped through him as he looked up, gaze teary and hot and angry. The feeling didn’t go through to his voice, apparently, because it was flat and monotone by the time Cass looked up at the politician. “You are… Completely responsible. You did this. You want us to register like fucking dogs? You practically put the stake in their hand.”

Heightened by the intense feelings he was experiencing, Cass heard the soft footsteps of his Head of House behind him. Professor Izaäk cleared his throat, eyeing the aurors carefully. Cass was not usually this brash- but the Minister had brought his personal aurors for a reason. They thought the boy was a threat. It was written all over Mirilla’s face and countenance. She had not moved from her position behind the Minister, but she also hadn’t moved her eyes off Cass. Watching him like he could lash out at any moment. Cass was oblivious to it.

It physically ached him when the Minister continued to speak. “I understand your frustration, Cassius, but your father and I were working to come to an agreement about the new regulations. It’s one of the reasons why it’s been taking so long; I wanted to be confident he was happy with the proposal before we moved forward with any action.” Cass closed his eyes and curled inward, trying desperately to continue breathing. His chest had started to ache- and every word from this man was twisting in his chest, making it harder and harder to breathe.

There’s silence for a moment, and Cass can sense them all watching him. The sound of so many heartbeats echoing in the room was maddening, so the teen opened his eyes and looked around. His Head of House was watching him with a soft, sympathetic look. Professor McGonagall was stoic as always, unreadable. It was a comfort to have nothing change. "How did this happen? He… he was staked, right? There's no other way. Who.. What happens now?" Cass asked his teachers, looking between them.

His shoulders hunched when Professor Izaäk opened his mouth to speak, but he was interrupted by the Minister. It hurt. It hurt so badly that Cass could barely comprehend what he was saying. Tears gathered in his eyes. “We’re not sure who is responsible, but I can promise you I have my very best from the Ministry’s Law Enforcement investigating the incident as we speak. As for our next move, our,” He gestured around the room while Professor McGonagall conjured a tissue, and Professor Izaäk brought it forward for the boy. Cass bunched it in his hand, almost like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. “biggest concern is your safety. I’ve some arrangements to make with Professor McGonagall - should you allow it, Headmistress - in regards to a few things we could do--”

“My safety? Why wouldn’t I be safe here? This is Hogwarts.” He frowns, his voice quiet and low. “I don’t want any arrangements. I wanna see my dad.” He says the last bit quietly, self-conscious now he’s noticed the aurors staring at him. “Can I see him? I’ve got.. There are things I’ve gotta…” He looks back at Prof Izaäk hoping for any kind of back up.

“We’ll sort that out for you, Cass, don’t worry.” The man said, giving him a reassuring nod.

The Slytherin was looking to him for that reassurance that they’d be able to do what needed to be done, when the Minister spoke again. “It’s better to be safe than sorry, Cassius—”

“There is no obligation, Mister Halestorm, to assume a regular school week. Should you wish to have the rest of the week absent from lessons, we would be happy to oblige...” The Scottish woman said clearly, having had rather enough of the Minister’s tone-deaf nonsense. She continued speaking, interrupting the Minister whenever he chose to open his mouth. Cass didn’t absorb most of it, honestly. She was talking about bereavement leave and who he could speak to, where he could go. A Professor being available to take him home, he could choose to bring a friend to support him, if their family gave permission. All he had to do was ask.

Cass nodded mutely, looking up and sniffling as he realised that despite being in a room full of people, he was completely and utterly alone.

#drabble #death for tw #henry

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viskovie · 4 years ago

Text

Almost Like Family

Chapter I

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

Following his return to the States, Matt would like to say he was productive. Would like to say that he found a job, connected with old friends again, and started looking at apartments so he could finally move out of his mom’s house. In reality, he put in an application for college - after haphazardly picking a degree - and then lay around doing nothing. For six weeks.

He knows he needs to get his shit back together, but how the hell are you supposed to do that when some of it’s still in some godforsaken war camp on the other side of the world? His mom is worried about him, and usually that would be enough to guilt him into getting off his ass. But now it just gets under his skin. He’s been to war - literally. If he was only a boy before he left, he definitely isn’t anymore.

Part of him is uncomfortably aware that he’s being unreasonable. Of course his mom’s worried. Her baby just survived hell on earth - the same hell she lost her husband to. She doesn’t want to lose him, too. But still. Matt doesn’t appreciate the coddling. She was an army wife, so she of all people should know to leave him be.

The first thing he bought when he finally had his feet back on familiar ground was an armful of the most American fast-food he could think of. Later that evening, with his system flooded with relief and his belly full, he’d seriously considered ditching the whole college idea in favour of aimless travel. He’d wanted to buy a car and just roam the country until he’d seen everything there was to see. But his mom had - luckily - had the foresight to shut him out of his bank account before he got home. No better way of making your kid stick to the plan than not giving them any other options, he’d thought moodily, but he knows she was right. He still wants to travel around the States, but he reasons that he can do that after he’s graduated and got a good job.

He wants to be a veterinarian, although it was kind of a snap-decision. Besides, it’ll be a better reason to call himself a vet than going to war is. Will ever be. His time there was… useless. A waste of resources; of life… He doesn’t want to think about it.

He’s been having this recurring nightmare ever since he got home. He’s standing out in the desert - somewhere familiar, but he can never place exactly where. He always looks around, trying to remember, and when he turns back Chutsky’s walking toward him. There’s blood on his helmet and smeared all over his face. His gun is in his hands, but the trigger is missing. He gets close. Close enough for Matt to see how glassy and vacant his eyes are. He looks ragged and disoriented. He’s a shell of himself; all the life in him gone. Sometimes he just stands there, with a sad, longing look on his face, but sometimes he talks directly to Matt.

“Why didn’t you help me?”

“Why didn’t you try to stop me?”

“I had a family…”

It’s infinitely worse when he speaks, because Matt can never answer. He doesn’t know what to say. He’d been too busy covering his own ass to worry about anyone else’s, and his teammate had died for it. Chutsky always looks at him like he’s waiting for a response, but when he seems to realise that Matt isn’t going to reply, he turns away with a lonelier expression than before. He breaks into a sprint, gets a few steps away, and gets gunned down. He hits the dirt exactly like he did in Baqubah. The shot echoes in Matt’s head even after he’s sat up in bed, drenched in an icy sweat. It’s his fault that Chutsky’s dead. His fault, and there’s nothing Sergeant Harper can say that will change his mind.

He often wonders how Harper’s doing. The Sergeant’s a career soldier, so for him this is probably just an intermission before the next tour. Matt doesn’t envy him, but he does miss him. He wonders if Harper ever reconciled with his fiancée (Anne? Andrea?). He doesn’t like to think about that either.

Matt had discovered his sexuality in ninth grade. It had not been a particularly fun experience; he’d immediately told his best friend at the time, but the friend hadn’t taken it well. He was never mean about it, and never told anyone else (which Matt was, admittedly, grateful for) but there had been a weird tension between them ever since. Eventually, they drifted apart and didn’t really speak to each other again. In eleventh grade, Matt had his first - and last - boyfriend. Once they’d moved past the excitement of a new relationship, the whole thing had been disappointingly average. It had ended quietly. There were no hard feelings, but they were never friends. All in all, Matt isn’t proud of his attractions and tries to keep them under wraps as best he can. He’d been doing a pretty damn good job of it, too - until he’d met Sergeant Harper.

It hadn’t been some Romeo and Juliet, love-at-first-sight bullshit. There were plenty of good-looking men around, and statistically speaking some of them should’ve been gay, but something about Harper fascinated Matt.

It could’ve been anything, really. Even after fifteen months in Iraq, living practically on top of one another, Matt still couldn’t say he knew much about him for certain, besides what he knew as a soldier. Harper was fair, he knew when to pull rank and when to let things slide, he did his best to keep his team safe, and he showed a sensitivity that most of the other blokes had lost long ago. The only thing Matt didn’t like was that he never stepped in when Burton, Enzo and Chutsky’s teasing had gotten nasty. Harper had a “fight your own battles” attitude, which was all well and good, but sounded frustratingly like his middle school teachers. And so Matt did his best to ignore them, but it was hard not to feel alone when he noticed Harper watching and never intervening.

He also had this weird ability to know what Matt was thinking. After he’d broken his hand, Harper had asked how it happened. The question was casual, innocent, but Matt couldn’t quite force himself to make eye contact as he answered. The sergeant wasn’t an idiot. No way he bought the story, even if he never really mentioned it again. The rational part of Matt knew he couldn’t actually read minds, but still. He’d tried not to take any chances.

He knows he’d been in hot water by the time he finally left. He thinks back on their conversation in Baqubah, after the mission that was supposed to be quick and painless and ended up being a total shitshow, when he finally came clean and told Harper everything. Why he’d broken his own hand, how it’d happened, why he’d even signed up in the first place. Harper had nodded - he hadn’t brushed him off or told him to suck it up like the others would’ve, and Matt couldn’t tell him how much he appreciated it. Harper seemed to understand. But Matt thinks he’d confessed more than he’d meant to, even without explicitly saying it. Harper had given him a long, searching look before going back to his cigarette. Matt can’t stop thinking about it.

They were never exactly close, but did Harper suddenly seem to hold him at arm’s length? Was it because he’d known more than he was letting on, was it because he was still in shock over that ill-fated raid, or was it all in Matt’s head? Had he projected a little too much, desperately hoping for reciprocation and terrified of rejection?

He sighs, staring up at his bedroom ceiling. The paper stars he stuck up in sixth grade are still there, hanging from their fine white threads in a loose cloud. He thinks the original idea had been to cover his entire ceiling in them, make it look like a galaxy. He can’t quite remember. What would his twelve-year-old self think of him now? He’d dreamed of working at NASA. If he searches, he’ll probably find all the drawings and plans to build cool space tech that he made when he was a kid. The thought makes him smile, but it’s heartbreakingly bittersweet. Poor little Matt; lost his dad at six, lost his best friend at fifteen, and now losing himself at twenty-two.

His mom knocks gently on the door, tactfully waiting for invitation to enter. She’s holding the home phone. She looks a little sad, but quietly knowing.

“It’s for you, hun.” She says, holding it out for him. Matt accepts it and she gives him a small, tired smile.

“Don’t keep him waiting too long, he seems sweet.” She adds, shutting the door again as she leaves. Matt brings the phone to his ear. He doesn’t know who would be calling him, nor does he really care. It’s probably one of his few high school friends, making a token attempt to reconnect. He’s not expecting to hear Harper’s voice.

“Hey Ocre. How’s it feel to be home?”

Matt nearly drops the phone. He sits heavily on the edge of his bed.

“I- uh, good, sir. It’s good to be home.” Even to his own ears the words sound hollow. He sits up a little straighter, subconsciously falling back into the familiarity of addressing a senior officer. Over the line, Harper laughs softly.

“Yeah, it takes a little while to get used to the fact that nobody’s trying to kill you anymore.” He says. There’s a few moments of awkward silence, in which Matt can’t think of anything to say. Harper makes a sound like he’s clearing his throat.

“Are you still in the area?” He asks carefully. The question takes Matt by surprise. He fumbles his anwer, suddenly self-conscious about still living with his mom.

“Good. There’s some stuff we never got to talk about back there.” Harper continues steadily. Matt’s heart skips a beat and his blood runs inexplicably cold. No, no, no, no. What happened in Baqubah was going to stay in Baqubah, including their little ‘chat’.

“Ocre? You still there?”

“Uh…”

“When are you free?”Harper prompts. Never, Matt wants to say.

“Whenever.” Is what he actually says. He cringes as soon as the word has left his mouth. God, he sounds like a teenager with a crush! He hopes Harper doesn’t notice. But of course, no such luck.

“Damn, you’re that excited to see me again, huh?” Harper teases, laughing again. It sounds more genuine this time. Matt opens his mouth to snark back, but realises there’s nothing he can say that will let him win. They arrange a time and place to meet, and when they hang up he feels lighter than he has in weeks. He lies back on his bed, looking up at his stars again.

He isn’t sure whether to be relieved or agitated that he’s gonna see Harper again. He’d left Baqubah with the sense of absolute certainty that if he never saw or thought of the guys again he’d be able to forget what he’d seen and done. But on the other hand, Harper may well be the only other person in the world who knows exactly how he feels. It’s confusing, and Matt’s getting another headache.

He isn’t sure when he dozes off, but for the first time since he got home, he doesn’t have his regular nightmare. It’s not a peaceful sleep, but he doesn’t wake up with the shakes so he counts it as a success.

#sand castle 2017 #sand castle #matt ocre #sgt james harper #fanfic

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chrysalispen · 4 years ago

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Prompt #25 - Wish

aurelia bas laskaris, age 16

AO3 Link HERE

=============

Sometimes it seemed as though the entire span of L'haiya dus Eyahri’s life had been defined by the Empire. It had influenced her path even before she was born. Her mother had been in the city of Rabanastre when it fell to imperial troops, and the Garlean soldier who had sired her--- well, best not to think much on him. Mother had wed a cobbler from the edge of the capitol's market district when L'haiya was four summers old. He had raised her, and to L’haiya’s mind he was her true father.

In the old days she might have attended a primary school before taking on her family's trade, but under imperial occupation such luxuries were not afforded to her or her compeers. L'haiya and her half-sister L'jhutei were sent away to a school in the capitol for "the finest education the Empire can offer" as it was phrased by the viceroy ("propaganda," her father had called it, muttering it so quietly that he must have thought her unable to hear), one which had turned out to be a military school. Both sisters had had a commission into the legions after graduation.

L’haiya had almost taken it, too. But then? Well, then she had met Vittora cen Remianus, and Vittora had met her husband, and…

Perhaps it was for the best. Her service to the Laskaris family had earned her a fast path to imperial citizenship, after all; Mama would have said one was as good as the other, were she here, and the equally practical L'haiya was not one to look too much askance at such a boon. Even if it had left her in the rather troublesome position of raising her friend's child.

She stared at that slumped posture, the bowed golden head. From the porch, she could see her charge's shoulders trembling but could not tell if she was shivering from the night air or if she was still crying.

L’haiya felt a sort of stern and helpless pity for her. Although Julian rem Laskaris’ only child had learned something of the importance of controlling herself and learning which battles to pick (particularly in a place like the Empire, where speaking one’s mind in the wrong ears could have very severe consequences indeed), children would be children. The girl was very young and very sheltered, and she had been friends with the boy since they were small. L’haiya didn’t suppose she would have taken well to the news either were their positions reversed.

Quietly she rapped on the door and stepped over the threshold into the garden. The stars overhead were a diamond spray and the air still carried the day's warmth.

“Aurelia.”

“Go away,” the Garlean girl said in a choked voice. “I don’t want to talk.”

L’haiya made her way down the steps and into the grass, her skirts swishing about her legs, and perched herself upon the edge of the Doman fountain next to her charge. Aurelia’s body went rigid, but she said nothing and remained in place. “Your father-”

“If you’ve come to tell me I was a fool, you needn’t do so. I know I shouldn’t have said what I did. I know.” The girl sniffled and wiped at her eyes, then returned her hands to her lap. “But I just- I don’t understand how Father could do this to me. I didn’t even get to tell him goodbye, or wish him well! If I could have had at least a few more days with him then-”

“I think that would have been quite unwise.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your father had nothing to do with L’sazha’s early departure, Aurelia. He left under my advisement.” The Miqo’te’s voice was steady. Calm. “And 'tis well that he did. You’ve caused trouble enough for the boy as it is.”

“Sazha is an adult by imperial law. As am I,” Aurelia said stiffly. “We’ve hardly any need for my father’s approval to do as we wish.”

“What you did,” she snapped back, her words clipped and cold, “posed a serious risk not just to you, but to L’sazha. The tribunus would have had him swinging from the nearest gibbet did he know the extent of your dalliance.”

"But he didn't know. We were careful and nothing happened until you decided to meddle in our affairs. Father barely cares enough to ask me about my studies, never mind aught else."

L’haiya wanted to shake her. She took a deep, measured breath.

“I was young once myself. And I daresay I was just as selfish and thoughtless,” she said. “I can hardly fault you for your age. But I feel the need to spare you your blushes by explaining the implications of what you did, as you don’t appear to quite understand the magnitude of it.”

“If we were adventurers, no one would have cared who I am, or what we-”

"The fact is that you are not an adventurer, Aurelia,” she snapped. “And this is not Eorzea. For better or worse we live in the Garlean Empire and under imperial jurisdiction. L'sazha is my legal ward and you are a lady of a certain social status. Better that you be angry with me for a time. It would have been not only dangerous to let the two of you continue on as you were, but it would also have been wildly irresponsible on my part.”

Aurelia looked stricken, her face pale. Relentlessly, L’haiya continued on.

“They hang our kind for far lesser offenses, Aurelia. If you care a whit about that boy, even a fraction of what you claim, you’ll go apologize to your father and put a decisive end to this romance of yours.”

“But-”

“But what?”

Aurelia’s chin quivered.

“I love him. I’ve loved him for so long.”

Seven hells, she might have known it was as simple - and as dangerous - as that. She’d assumed the girl’s interest in her Miqo'te companion to be little more than a childish infatuation, but it seemed their feelings had blossomed beneath her nose into something deeper than she had suspected. She had deluded herself it would pass, and in the meantime, they'd fallen in love with each other. Or as close as a pair of children could get to romantic love.

“I know you think you’re in love with him, Aurelia. But you’ll move on. And so will he. That's the way of things, good and bad.”

“No, I won’t,” she choked. “You don’t understand at all. He loves me, and once I’m done with school and my enlistment-”

“Let Sazha move on with his life,” L’haiya said, in a quieter, gentler tone. Better not to let the girl finish that statement. Better not to let her even entertain the notion it might be possible. “Let him find himself. He deserves better than my largesse and your shadow.”

Aurelia's stare was full of incredulous fury- and then her angry expression crumpled into one of despair, and on its heels welled a single sob of broken-hearted anguish. This time L’haiya put an arm about her shoulders and pulled her in for an embrace, and met no resistance. One of the girl's hands dropped into her lap and the other grasped at a handful of L’haiya’s linen shirtwaist as she buried her head under her governess’ chin.

“It’s all right, sunshine,” L'haiya murmured. “All will be well in the end. You'll see.”

“I’ll never love anyone again.”

“Yes, you will.”

“As long as I live,” she vowed, “never.”

She kissed the bright golden crown of hair and nestled her cheek against its softness, this child who she loved as her own, and let her spend her grief without comment. It was what it was. Years abroad on tour with the army would do one of two things to their relationship - either it would strengthen their resolve to be together (in which case, L’haiya thought, they would have little choice but to defect) or it would cool their passions. L’haiya expected the latter; sixteen was very young, and carried with it little foresight or understanding of the way love worked.

But she knew Aurelia would hear none of that. The girl might have the look of her mother but she was every bit as obstinate as Julian rem Laskaris had ever been.

“Elle?” the girl said, in a small and choked voice.

“What?”

“Can I tell you something? A secret?”

“Go on.”

The hand that had gathered in her shirtwaist clenched into a fist.

“Sometimes,” she whispered, “I wish I had never been born.”

“Oh, child, you don’t mean that.”

“I do.” The words were harshly emphatic. “Mama and Father were so happy together. But then I came along and ruined everything.”

“That’s not true at all.”

“It is. I wish I weren’t who I am.”

“Why would you even consider something so dreadful?” L’haiya felt something in her chest twist. “Aurelia, darling-”

“I mean it. Every time Father looks at me, I see it in his eyes,” she choked. “He resents me. If he had the choice between me or Mama, he’d have taken Mama without even thinking about it. Sazha made me happy. I didn’t have to feel guilty about being myself when I was with him, ever. And now he’ll be on the other side of the world and I’ll just- I’ll be here, making everyone unhappy just by existing. If I just hadn’t- I just-"

"Aurelia-"

"I just wish I could be someone else!” she wailed. "I wish I could be somewhere else, I wish I had any kind of purpose, but I don't, I'm just trapped in this cage and I can't-"

L’haiya bowed her head. There was nothing she could say and little more she could do, to speak either to her charge's frustration or her suffocating loneliness. She was a practical woman who had made a promise to a close friend to watch over her family, but nothing in that promise had prepared her for a man so bereft of his wife he could not bear to raise his own child.

Something had to be done, she thought. Or at least said. It was her fault for allowing Julian to continue as he had done for so many years, not wanting to rock the boat and tell him he needed to behave like the father he was. She decided she would speak with him tonight, as soon as she was able.

But in the meantime, she couldn't leave Aurelia alone like this. So she sat with the girl in silence, and let her weep until there were no tears left to shed.

#ffxivwrite2020 #prompt 25: wish

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cogentranting · 4 years ago

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7, 13, 14 for SPN ask game

Thanks!

I think that there’s a lot about the season 5 ending that is sort of tighter and cleaner-- the season arcs all flow one to the other very naturally so that the themes and the character arcs and plot feel very unified and well thought through. And the seasons after season 5 don’t have that same level of unity and foresight. And I think that the first five seasons present a very clear, fairly simple, and satisfying arc for Dean and him getting a sort of happily ever after with Lisa and Ben and a normalcy he never could even admit that he wanted. So on the one hand I think season 5 is a good ending on most counts. Sam sacrificing himself in a final defiant triumph over the destiny that everyone has predicted for him for so long, is also I think a really good crowning moment. But you’re also presented with the problem of the aftermath not being a satisfying ending. I’m totally fine with characters dying but your options with Sam would be dying and going to Hell to be tortured by Lucifer forever (not a good ending), leaving it on an ambiguous note of Sam’s back but how and does he reunite with Dean or... ? (not a satisfying ending because it is way too ambiguous and pretty much any prediction of how it plays out casts the rest of the ending into doubt too), or you send him to Heaven and at that stage in the show that’s not even a good either.

Add on to that all the things that would have been lost if the second 2/3rds of the show weren’t there and I end up really favoring the season 15 ending. I think Sam and Dean get such a chance to mature and grow and regain some balance in their life after that point and all that makes such a difference. And I really do like how things ended.

BUT I might move that ending we got and make it a season SIXTEEN ending. Not from a position of “I didn’t want it to end yet” but because of how the end date affected a couple arcs. While I like the season 15 ending, I thought season 15 as a whole was pretty lackluster. There was a lot of missed potential, a few things I really didn’t like, and overall just not that much that I was particularly attached to. But season 14 had so much potential. Dean being possessed by Michael, the Malak box, Jack losing his soul. But all of that fell short in the last handful of episodes, and my theory is that came as a result of deciding to end with season 15 and meant that they had to switch gears into setting up that final season arc which I think they’d been holding in reserve for a bit. So Michael ends up being kind of anticlimactic, Jack losing his soul happens and then never really gets fully dealt with because season 15 didn’t seem to want to dive into all those complicated emotions . But if there was one more season, season 14 could have ended with a big confrontation with Michael-- allowing more of the consequences of what Dean went through with Michael at the beginning of the season to be felt, more resolution for what it meant for Dean to try to cage Michael himself, the consequences of choosing not to use the Malak box (and why Billie was so sure that was the ONLY way), another appearance of Michael Dean (who I really enjoyed), and then have Jack lose his soul at the end. Then you have all of season 15 to deal with what that means, letting maybe the moment when Jack goes completely off the rails happen around midseason and then at least half a season to work on fixing the relationship between Jack and Sam and Dean (especially Dean). Then you could even end season 15 with Jack still dying, and being brought back part way through season 16 then regaining his soul, all the same, But that final season wouldn’t have the burden of trying to fix the damaged relationship. It would just be there. Because my least favorite part of the last season is that it doesn’t do nearly enough to fix the relationship between Jack and Dean. So yeah. Give season 14 more breathing room. Then copy and paste 15x20′s ending but put it onto the end of season 16.

13. My favorite arc is probably the Mark of Cain. Which is a long arc since it’s a full season and a half, but I really like how all of it plays out. I think it’s really interesting to dive into that darker side of Dean that has been present since season 1 (I think of the end of the season, him telling Sam that it scared him how he didn’t hesitate to kill the possessed man in order to save Sam and John, and that he’s scared of how far he would go for either of them) and that just kind of kept getting amplified over the seasons, with his time in Hell, and then really became even stronger after how he had to live in Purgatory for a year. But the Mark of Cain stuff draws on it in this really interesting way of making it a curse on him and while simultaneously pulling Dean down into the worst, darkest, most twisted version of himself (which is so fun to see), it also highlights a lot about what is best about Dean-- how strong he is in fighting against the Mark, how deeply he wants to do the right thing and protect people, the force of his determination, how much he cares and how intensely he feels the weight of every time he ends up hurting someone. And it confronts this image of himself that Hell and Purgatory and everything in between have given him that he is dark and damaged and a killer and warrior and that’s it but ultimately makes all about how much he is willing to sacrifice to protect the people around him (especially Sam) and about everyone else around him-- Sam, Cas, Charlie, even Crowley-- loving him so much that they’d go to the ends of the Earth and cross all these lines just to save Dean. It’s one long extended character study of so much of what I find fascinating about Dean and it’s dripping with angst and I love it. I also really like the arc in season 2 of Dean coming to terms with the fact that his father died for him. The arc where Jack is dying is really good too, because I love seeing Sam and Dean and Cas being paternal.

14.

Agh. I don’t know. I think Jody probably reflects a lot of things I’d like to be. But overall my gut reaction is to say that I’m more Sam than anyone else. I can’t even put into words exactly why. Certainly I wouldn’t say that I identify with Sam’s struggles-- more like, if Sam had a led a more normal stable life we would have a lot in common. As it is I wouldn’t say I really identify with Sam (or with any character really. most of the shows and stories I like I don’t have someone I really identify with) and that it may actually be why I don’t find myself very drawn to Sam or his storylines. I like Sam (probably more as I’m rewatching now than I have in the past) but its not often that I’m super invested in his individual arcs or storylines.

#supernatural #spn ask game #also i think there's a lot i agree with you about regarding spn #but i think with the last two questions you managed to ask me the things that elicited me talking about some of the points #where our opinions most diverge

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minteacutiewrites · 5 years ago

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Silly Man- The Magnus Archives

Just finished Season 3 of The Magnus Archives. I’m sad, and maybe a little in denial...so have some cute Tim/Sasha that I’m using to cope with these feelings. There will probably be a part 2 so look out for that.

Sasha looked up from her research when she heard a soft knock on her door, “Oh, hey Jon, did you need something?” She asked.

Jon lingered in the doorway, shifting uncomfortably, “Look, I usually wouldn’t ask you to do this, but…I need you to tell Tim to go home.”

“That’s specific.” Sasha snorted, “Is he really causing you that much trouble?” She teased

“That’s not-look he’s sick, probably managed to catch whatever bugs going around the office.” He explained, fidgeting awkwardly.

“Any reason, in particular, you can’t do it, boss?” Sasha asked, resting her chin on her hands, quirking an eyebrow up, smiling.

“Martin and I have already tried telling him, and you know Elias is hardly any help,” Jon started to explain, rambling a bit, “and you two seem to be close, so I thought maybe you’d get a better response from him.”

Sasha shrugged, “Fair enough, I’ll go see if I can work my magic, but I won’t guarantee anything.”

Sasha went to go find Tim, stopping by the staff area, making him a mug of tea to bring as a peace offering.

Walking into the room, however, she could see what Jon was talking about. Tim looked terrible, hunched over his some paperwork, brow furrowed, a heavy flush on his cheeks.

He rubbed his forehead, a headache settling there if the crease in his brow was any indication.

She sat across from him, pushing the mug of tea towards him, “So Mr. Stoker, someone told me that you’re stubborn.” Sasha told him, earning a sharp glare from Tim. “What's with the sour look?”She asked, “Am I wrong?”

“Jon sent you, did he?” Tim croaked, rolling his eyes, “Tell him I’m fine and to leave me alone.”

“That’s funny you don’t look fine to me.” Sasha said, combing her fingers through Tim’s unruly hair with a hand feeling him relax a little into her touch. “In fact, I think you’re running a little fever.” She said, gently resting the back of her hand to his forehead.

“It’s just a cold, s’not even that bad,” Tim mumbled, closing his eyes, leaning into her cold touch, “and there are only a few more hours left, I’ll take some medicine and be good as new by tomorrow.”

“Or you could just go home now and get a head start.” Sasha countered playfully in a weak attempt to get Tim to go home.

“Eager, aren’t we.” Tim answered a bit too sly for her liking, wearing that cheeky grin on his smug face.

“Fine, do what you want, I told Jon not to expect a miracle.” Sasha huffed, throwing up her hands, leaving.

“Hey, Sasha, have you seen Tim?” Martin poked his head into the break room, “ I need to do some fact-checking with him, and I haven’t been able to find him.”

Sasha looked up at him from whatever dull document she was reading, shrugging, “Haven’t seen him since this morning.” She told him. “Have you asked Jon?” She asked.

Martin’s face wrinkled, “I tried, he’s in the middle of reading a statement, and you know how he gets.” He explained with a wave of his hand.

Sasha could feel anxiety creep into her chest as she thought back to how Tim had looked this morning. She couldn’t help but wonder if he’d gotten worst and was collapsed in some dark corner of the archives.

This place was enormous; he could be anywhere.

She shook these thoughts off quickly, clearing her throat, “I’ll help you find him, he’s probably off somewhere slacking off or something.” Sasha told him, getting up from her seat, “Two heads are better than one after all.

It took a bit of searching before Sasha found Tim, relief washing over her.

Tim was lying in one of the lesser-used rooms, on an old beat-up couch, fast asleep his congested snores the only sound permeating the silence.

Sasha rolled her eyes, finding this absolutely ridiculous. She should have woken up and told him to go home, but instead, she ducked out of the room, snagging a thick duvet from one of the cots, draping it over him.

She was pretty sure it belonged to Martin, but she knew he wouldn’t mind.

Hesitating for a moment, Sasha knelt down, combing his damp bangs away from his forehead, pressing her lips to the warm skin there.

Tim snorted, shifting, and her heart nearly leaped out of her chest as she quickly pulled away. He rolled over onto his side, coughing a little before his breath evened out once more.

Sasha got up, letting her eyes scan Tim’s sleeping form just for a moment before turning to leave. She just had to tell Martin that he’d have to pester Tim later.

“Hey, why is Tim wandering around the archives wearing my duvet?” Martin poked his head in to ask, not really upset, just confused.

“Oh, he’s just stubborn, he sick and he won't go home.” Sasha replied, looking up from her work, “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Oh no, not at all.” Martin said, putting hands up, “I was just wondering if there was a reason, I think it’s getting on Jon’s nerves.”

“Don’t tell him that, it’ll just feed his ego,” Sasha told Martin, rolling her eyes, getting up, “I’ll go see if I can go talk him into going home, again.”

Sasha was on the search once again for Tim, wondering just how a man wearing duvet was so hard to find when she stopped in her tracks outside the bathroom hearing something.

She listened silently, hearing what she was sure was a sneeze, sighing pushing the door open to the bathroom. Not particularly caring that it was the men's restroom, glad that Tim at least had the foresight not to drag Martin’s poor duvet in here with him.

Tim was blowing his nose into a paper towel, muffling a cough afterward. He didn’t notice Sasha until she cleared her throat, looking a little like a deer in the headlights, “Fancy meeting you here.” He croaked, “In the men's restroom…”

“Ready to give up and go home yet?” Sasha asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Why would I do th-that?” Tim shot back, his breath snagging as sniffled liquidly, pressing a knuckle under his nose.

“Come on, Tim, give up this ridiculous charade; you’re clearly miserable.” She told him, poking him in the chest, “Go home and call in sick Stoker.”

Tim brushed her hand away, “Mind your own business, James.” He answered pointedly. “I told you I’m fine, leave me alone.” He grouched, turning around leaving. Pausing momentarily, in the doorway, his breath snagging, “Huh’HUHISSHhiew!” He bent nearly in half, with a harsh sneeze.

He spun around, facing her, “That doesn’t prove anything.” Tim said, pointing at her backing out of the room.

It wasn’t long after that encounter that she found herself sipping tea on the couch in the break room.

Tim stumbled in flopping down next to her, head slumping onto her shoulder, his body radiating a stifling heat.

“I changed my mind,” He croaked his voice, sounding wrecked, “I feel like I’m dying.”

Sasha sighed, setting her tea aside, facing him, “I know, let's get you home.” She said, smoothing his hair back from his face, “I’ll call you a cab.”

It didn’t take long for the cab to get here. Sasha helped Tim up, stumbling a little under his weight as he leaned on her for support, half carrying him out to the cab.

Sasha then went around to the other side, getting into the cab. Tim huffed a breathy laugh this, rolling his flushed face to look at Sasha with a dopey grin, “ Ha, I always knew you couldn’t resist me." He teased, winking at her, dissolving into a harsh fit of coughing.

She rubbed his back rolling her eyes, “You’re ridiculous, you know that right.” Sasha said, letting Tim lean against her, with a weak groan.

“I try my best.” Tim croaked, letting his eyes slip closed exhausted.

“Take a nap, you need, we’ll be back at your place soon.” Sasha told him, feeling Tim relax a little next to him as he started to nod off.

#the magnus archives #tim/sasha #timothy stoker #god I love Timothy Stoker #Sasha James #Sasha James deserved better #Jonathan Sims #Jon can't people #martin blackwood #Martins trying his best but he's so confused #sick!Tim #caring!Sasha

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pomegranate-belle · 5 years ago

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Fic or treat - Matt and Foggy during that one Halloween ep of Spiderman where people turn into the monsters they dress up as for the night (doctor strange helps sort everything out if I recall correctly)

I guess this is a recurring Halloween Thing (Buffy, Halloweentown, and now apparently Ultimate Spider-Man) and honestly I love it with all my heart and soul. So this got... Long. Also I just sidestepped the actual plot of the episode because Baron Mordo sucks eggs and I don’t care about him, lol

—

Foggy’s still adding the last touches to his costume and hasn’t put it on yet — that’s the only thing that saves him. But the second a blast of orange light radiates across the city, he knows something fucked-up freaky is going down.

“Oh jeez,” he mutters to himself, watching through the window as the energy continues to spread like ripples on a pond. “Matty, you might wanna go get your other Halloween costume.”

There’s a groan of pain from behind him. Foggy whirls around.

“Matt, what—”

But Matt doesn’t answer. Can’t answer, more like. He’s staggering around, hands clutched to his head. Foggy has no idea if it’s a direct effect of the freaky magic flooding the city or if whatever that magic is doing is overloading Matt’s supersenses, but either way he can’t just stand by and let his boyfriend suffer. He rushes over and wraps Matt in a hug — takes as much of Matt’s weight as he can, tries to cocoon him so his senses have time to settle or acclimate or whatever they need to do.

“I got you,” he murmurs nonsensically. “I got you, Matty, it’s ok, it’s gonna be ok, just breathe with me, buddy, just breathe—”

All Foggy’s reassurances are choked off when a clawed hand closes around his throat. He’s shoved backwards, into the wall, and Matt’s...

Matt’s gone.

In his place, the figure Foggy had been holding — that not a minute ago had been the love of his life — is otherworldly and terrifying. Its skin is cold to the touch, and flecks of gold freckle its face, creep down from its ears to the familiar arch of its cheekbones. It has Matt’s messy, dark hair but his eyes, still unseeing based on the way they don’t track, glow ice blue. It still wears the white tunic Matt had put on, but the cloth is clearly of finer quality. What was once a sparkly golden pipe-cleaner halo is now an aura of radiance so bright it makes Foggy’s eyes water. Oh yeah, and this thing’s got a pair of fuck-off enormous white wings instead of the tiny, goofy-looking faux-feather ones Matt had strapped on like a backpack not five minutes ago.

When it opens its mouth — Matt’s mouth — and speaks, the words are unintelligible and so powerful that Foggy instinctively stops trying to remove the hand from around his throat and claps his palms to his ears instead. He has an alarming thought — that he’s going to die here — and the very distant realization that Matt would be completely enraged about him giving up. But even if this... Angel. Thing. Even if it’s not Matt anymore, it was him. And Foggy has to believe the magic that changed him is going to be undone. There’s like a hundred fucking superheroes in Manhattan alone so like, it had god damn better be undone. And when it is, who knows if any injuries sustained will carry over? Foggy could never risk hurting Matt like that. He just couldn’t.

Jessica Jones does not have this problem.

Foggy learns that the second she comes bursting through the door of the apartment and discus-throws her unconscious vampire boyfriend right at Angel Matt’s unprotected back. Not that Foggy actually sees any of this — because, again, fuck-off big swan wings — but once he’s able to breathe again he’s also able to put the series of events together thanks to context clues. Flattened angel plus unconscious Hero of Harlem with an open, snoring mouth and especially pointy canines plus panting, disheveled Jess? The math’s not hard. He and Jess stare at each other in silence for a few seconds.

“You ok there, Nelson?” she asks at last, gruffly, before stepping forward to sling her enormous boyfriend into a fireman’s carry.

“Yeah? I’m good, I think. Mostly. Um...” Foggy points at the knocked out form of Luke draped over Jess’s shoulder. “How did you...?”

“Vulcan nerve pinch,” she says flatly, but doesn’t give Foggy the necessary space to determine if it’s a joke or not. “Now come on, you’re the one who knows every-fucking-body, who do we need to stomp to fix this?”

Good to know you saved me because you were concerned for my safety or something, Foggy thinks but is smart enough not to say.

“I don’t know who did it,” he admits, now that he has the time to think, “but that guy Strange who lives in the Village is supposed to be a wizard or something. Maybe it’s one of his baddies.”

Jess slams a fist into her open palm, murder in her eyes, then immediately has to break the pose to stop Luke from slumping onto the floor.

“Well he better fix it or I’m gonna kick his ass,” she insists, clearing her throat and straightening up again.

Foggy does not dignify this with an answer, and to further pretend he didn’t just witness Jess fumble Luke like a football he crouches down to check on Matt. He doesn’t seem to be unconscious, although at first it’s a little hard to tell based on the ethereal, retina-searing glow around his head. But upon inspection, the prone angel is in a pose Foggy knows well — Matt’s ‘I’m suffering and I refuse to move’ pose. Often adopted whilst sick or otherwise mildly inconvenienced, and never done while seriously injured. Which is good, Foggy supposes.

“Up and at ‘em, Matty,” he mutters, slowly and gently closing his hands around the angel’s and noting that Matt’s newly clawed nails are tipped in gold.

Matt gets to his feet without a fuss, just tilting his head to the side curiously. He sniffs. Once. Twice. Then flips their handhold so his fingers are circling Foggy’s wrists and pins him to the wall again. This time, though, instead of strangling him, he buries his nose in Foggy’s throat, sniffling at his pulse point like a weirdo.

“Hey! Murdock! Don’t make me come over there!” Jess snaps.

“It’s good, we’re good!” insists Foggy shrilly. “He’s um. He’s just. Sniffing me.”

“Fucking weirdo.”

But there’s no thud of Luke being used as a blunt weapon again, so at least she’s listening to him. After another ten uncomfortable seconds, Angel Matt pulls back. Slowly and gently, he lets go of Foggy’s wrists before combing the fingers of one clawed hand through Foggy’s hair. Then he smiles and speaks.

The expression, combined with the musical but incomprehensible words, is so beautiful that tears begin to streak down Foggy’s face. Angel Matt brushes them away with the side of his thumb.

Jess ruins the moment by groaning in frustration.

“Ok, we get it, gay love conquers all, can we get a move on before my boyfriend wakes up and tries to tear out my throat again?” she demands.

Which, to be fair to her, doesn’t sound like a great time. Matt’s wings flare angrily and he spits more crazy angel language at Jess that sounds like a threat, but Foggy is able to soothe him easily enough. After that, he tows Matt along by the hand like a particularly docile six-year-old and they set out without further incident.

—

The problem with having a huge city-wide curse fucking up everyone’s night is that getting a cab is impossible. On the bright side, Jess is one of the few people Foggy knows who actually owns a car. Then again, it’s usually hard enough fitting everyone inside that car without a potentially-murderous vampire and an angel with a fifteen foot wingspan to consider. They’re still trying to figure out the logistics when a horde of monsters descends upon them. Foggy counts two zombies — and there’s a frightening thought, are those guys contagious? — a werewolf, a ninja, and some kind of terrifying... Fish person. There’s lots of snarling, howling, and gnashing of teeth. Foggy really wishes he hadn’t been so preoccupied with Matt and had the foresight to grab his baseball bat on the way out the door.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got like, a tire iron in there or something?” he asks Jess as they’re backed up against her car.

“What do I look like, a mechanic? I’ve barely got gas in this piece of shit car.”

“Cool, great,” Foggy says, too strained to be as sarcastic as he wants since this is about as far from cool and great as it’s possible to get.

Then Matt squeezes his hand and lets go. Foggy scrambles to try and pull him back to safety, but his strides are long — too long for any normal human, like he’s gliding instead of walking. He doesn’t stop until he’s standing squarely between them and the monsters, and then he flares his wings wide enough to block them all from view. Foggy can still hear snarling, but he has to squeeze his eyes shut as the luminance around Matt ramps up about a thousand percent. There’s hissing, yelping, and the slap of feet on concrete, and the light turning the back of Foggy’s eyelids orange only fades after the sounds of retreat abate into silence.

“Holy shit, Murdock,” Jess mutters. “Maybe we oughta keep you like this.”

“Jones,” Foggy scolds. “Rude.”

He opens his eyes to find Matt now facing him as though waiting for something.

“What, Matty?”

“Fuck’s sake, Nelson,” says Jess, “he just saved our bacon — you gonna thank him or what?”

Matt continues to stare — for a certain value of stare, Foggy supposes — in his general direction expectantly.

“Um. Yes, thank you,” Foggy says, and probably because he’s gone completely insane, reaches up to pat Matt on the head. “You, um... Did good? Yes. Good job.”

Matt leans into the touch, beaming, and honest to god the expression is almost brighter than the glow of his halo. Jess makes a very rude gagging noise as she stuffs her still-snoring boyfriend into the trunk. Matt and his wings, even folded up, take up the whole back seat, so Foggy rides shotgun. With monsters of all shapes and sizes roaming the city streets, what would otherwise be a pretty boring car ride ends up feeling like a chase scene in Jurassic Park, but at last they make it. Foggy wasn’t a hundred percent on the address but Strange’s place is pretty hard to miss. It’s enormous and scary-looking and it’s got a big skylight in the shape of some round symbol that probably has magical significance.

There’s no answer when they knock on the door, except for a “doctor is out” sign that flickers into existence, along with a huge padlock — you know, just in case they weren’t getting the message. Foggy’s torn between being weirded out and being amused that the creepy mansion has a sense of humor.

“He’s not even home?!” Jess kicks the door, hard. “This is bullshit!”

She lets out a wordless, frustrated shout, and Luke startles awake. He’s on his feet almost immediately, eyes glowing blood red. Matt wraps his arms around Foggy from behind, casting huge shadows with his flared wings. But Luke? There’s no recognition of Jess there, except as food. None of the half-domesticated sentience Matt’s been showing, just snarling animal hunger. Luke’s such a chill, reasonable guy that the contrast is shocking and even if he hadn’t been held back Foggy wouldn’t have been able to do more than freeze in terror as Luke pinned Jess to the wall of Strange’s mansion and lunged for her throat. Jess, thankfully, is more of a fight instinct person than a freeze instinct one. Also she’s got superstrength. She catches Luke’s wrist and flips him like a pancake. Once he’s on the ground and winded, she really, genuinely does Vulcan nerve pinch him back to sleep, which is wild. Foggy had been leaning sixty-forty towards her being joking about that.

“Well,” he says awkwardly. “That was impressive.”

“Impressive? Impressive?!” Jess is laughing, but the sound is sharp and bitter. “It should’ve been me,” she growls, stomping back down to the sidewalk and kicking a stray soda can so hard it embeds itself in the wall of a building across the street. “Fuck. I hate seeing him like this. I’m already— half fucking feral, and he’s got that unbreakable skin. It should have been me! He’d probably just sit there calmly and let me try to bite him while he worked out how to fix everything, and all I can do is be a, a panicked fuck-up!”

“Jess!” Foggy scolds sharply, extricating himself from Matt’s arms to confront her. “You’re not a fuck-up. You kept Luke safe. You didn’t let him hurt anyone. You got us here. Look, if Strange isn’t home then maybe that means he’s out fixing this. That’s a good thing. You just need to take a deep breath. We‘ll rest here a little bit, then we’ll start driving back — dollars to donuts whatever big fight is probably going down right now is in, like, Times Square or something, because it literally always is with you super-people.”

Jess makes another frustrated noise that Foggy hopes isn’t going to end with him going through a wall, and then plops down on Dr. Strange’s porch. He settles in beside her, and Matt perches beside him. Luke’s still sprawled in front of them, snoring again. They wait quietly for a good ten minutes, and the tension fades from the air.

Foggy’s just about to suggest they get up and start heading back the way they came when there’s another blast of orange magic — this time running in reverse, moving in towards an epicenter instead of out from it. It washes through them with a disorienting whoosh and leaves behind two dazed boyfriends in simple, cobbled-together costumes.

Foggy’s never been so happy to see a lopsided pipe cleaner halo in his life. He kisses Matt full on the mouth. Matt kisses back eagerly but is also the first to pull away.

“Not that, not that I’m, um, complaining but... What was that for?” he asks, baffled but clearly amused. “And... Where are we?”

So then Foggy has to explain, while watching Jess rip the cheap plastic fangs out of Luke’s mouth and stomp on them repeatedly, exactly how the four of them ended up in front of Dr. Strange’s creepy magic mansion.

“So anyway,” he finishes lamely, “I guess somebody saved the day or something, but we didn’t do much.”

Matt shakes his head.

“You did wonderfully.” He takes a deep breath, the way he always does when he’s gathering himself to say something emotional. “I love you.”

“Love you too, angel,” Foggy says, and the flush of embarrassed pleasure that colors Matt’s cheeks in response is sweeter than any candy.

#fic or treat #mattfoggy #writing #letsgetthisblog

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realfuurikuuri · 5 years ago

Text

For Fox Sake

MMHOPH Missing Arm! AU fic Chapter 2

WC: 2,888

AN: Again, made using the MissingArm!AU created by @spookylovesboba And it’s now on Ao3 if any of y’alls want so read it there. I reccomend you do becuase chapter 1 had some editing issues that were fixed. Writing this chapter was fun. I like Rufus and Reggie. They force things to be less about fights and more about words. A song rec for this chapter would be Won’t Get Fooled Again - The Who (the cultured among you will notice that it’s also the theme song to CSI: Miami). Will tamble in tags some more. AO3 Link

Mao Mao sat on a bench, nursing a cup of coffee that had started to become tepid. Adorabat and Badgerclops were there with him. They weren’t doing much either. They tapped away on their games without a care in the world. He thinks it was called Mini-mons, or something. Mao Mao would have reminded them that they were on patrol if the day wasn’t so slow. The only thing he did was give Pigguns another driving ticket, which he does every day, so it wasn’t anything but routine at this point.

In his boredom, Mao Mao’s mind began to wander. The first of which being Jǐngtì. He probably went back to meet up with Tanya. Hopefully, she could give the kid the talk Mao Mao couldn’t. The next thought that passed his mind was the valley itself. It was a strange place. He knew that it was guarded by the Ruby Pure Heart. Did the thing have to do with the sweetipies? They were strange creatures. Despite their age, they all seemed like children. Destructive, naive, gullible, children. Even the ones who he assumed were older were still flagrantly immature. Snugglemane and Camille being prime examples.

“Hey, Badgerclops,” he said.

“What do you want Daddy Issues I’m doing -Oh C’mon not Dirtmon,” he said, tapping buttons on the game even harder.

“You think the Ruby Pure Heart has something to do with the sweetipies?”

“Elaborate.”

“I mean do you think it has to do with why they’re all so… immature… and feral?”

“Nah, dude I think that was just the barrier thingy. No problems; no need to learn, right?”

“I suppose that makes sense.”

“You need to find something to do. You always get so questiony when you’re antsy.”

“I would if there was something to do.”

“Play Mini-mons with us?”

“No.”

“Then go find some sweetiepies or something. All they do is commit crimes, to be honest. Shouldn’t Puggin’s be speeding around now?”

He couldn’t say Badgerclops was wrong about that. Mao Mao got up and threw away his coffee. “No he gets his daily ticket at 4:00, but you have a point. I’ll see you around.”

“Okay dude I’ll be… losing to this child. Get me a pie if you’re going to the bakery.”

Mao Mao almost told him to go get it himself when he sighed and decided to go along with it.

* * *

Rufus could barely believe his luck. He sat at the table watching Muffin stack all sorts of valuables on the table. Golden coins, priceless gems, paintings, and a menagerie of riches that would fit a king. He was eyeing a golden watch on this ugly little mouse’s wrist, searching his head for a con, when the thing walked up to him. He was eyeing a golden watch on this ugly little mouse’s wrist, searching his head for a con, when the thing walked up to him. Somehow Reggie managed to pull a scam out of nowhere that the creature actually believed.

Just an hour ago he was looking for yet another town to go to where his face was unknown to run another scam, only to find a surprise kingdom that wasn’t on any maps. Even better than that was that everyone here was dumb as bricks! Rufus kicked back to watch more savings be put on the table when a strange cat walked in. To be fair, the black cat only looked strange relative to the technicolor weirdos.

“Can I get another Everyberry...” The cat’s voice died out as it caught sight of Rufus Regg and the stack of treasures.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed,” Muffins, what are you doing?”

“Well, I was making some pies when these two nice gentlemen come in. They looked like the wanted to talk to me, so I go up to them and it turns out their distant relatives who are looking to set up a branch of the company here. They just need some investment to set up shop, and well you don’t say no to family,” Muffin said.

“You're savings,” he did a double-take looking at the stack of treasures before shaking it off,” that… comes later. Muffin, right now you need to stop giving them their money.”

Rufus began to wonder if things were starting to sour.

“Why not help family?”

“Muffins you are a yellow mouse. That is a raccoon and fox.”

“And?”

The cat looked like he was about to strangle the mouse when he took a deep breath,” listen, they aren’t your family. They’re scam artists taking your money.”

“A preposterous claim, under what authority do you have to make those allegations,” Rufus asked with all the feigned bravado he could muster.

“The crown’s.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m the sheriff.”

* * *

Mao Mao watched the fox’s eyes go wide as he forced himself to wear a smile. “Ahhh, I see. Well, you must be a busy person, as are we, so you must understand if we have to cut this engagement short. We have places to be you know.”

“You’re both under arrest.”

“Run!”

Rufus quickly grabbed his companion and bolted out the door.

Mao Mao checked his watch. It was 3:50. If he did this quick he should be able to give Pigguns his ticket. After giving them a fair head start before he crashed through the storefront to give chase. It was pretty disappointing, to be honest. The grifters weren’t particularly fast or smart. They made the horrible choice to run right to the kingdom gates. Mao Mao knew twenty different shortcuts that could have put him ahead of them, but he didn’t need to use any of them. He checked his watch; It was 3:58. Mao Mao picked up the pace, closing in on them at blinding speed.

He drew his sword and leaped forward. He screeched to a halt at the last intersection. Instead of giving chase, he rested his arm on Geraldine, and began to write on his notepad.

“Ha-Ha! Yes! We did it Regg. We’re free! We’re-”

Rufus learned why the sheriff stopped when Slim-Pigguns careened down the road. Mao Mao calmy stuck yet another ticket onto Pigguns’ car as it zoomed by, and waited. When the smoke cleared the fox was kneeling next to his roadkill companion. Unfortunate that it didn’t hit both.

What a great day! He captured the scammers and gave Pigguns his ticket all at once. Whoever said a “ bird in the hand is worth two in the bush”could go get fucked. For once in his life, Mao Mao was feeling proud of himself. That and his little joke must’ve been why he laughed. He laughed, and he did it quite loudly.

Slowly, Sweetipies began to crowd around, murmuring amongst themselves.

The sweetipies pushed past Mao Mao, crowding around the raccoon. “Poor thing, who did this to you?”

A wicked glint ignited in the foxe’s eye,” it was the sheriff. He did this.”

“Oh my god, you think anyone is actually going to believe... that.”

The mob turned to face Mao Mao, moving like a single angry creature.

“What a monster,” a sweetiepie said

“I knew he’d lose it eventually,” said another.

“Oh, come on! You can’t actually believe him!”

“What a horrid man.”

The crowd began to close in on Mao Mao.

“That’s preposterous. I would never do something like that… without reason, at least. Either way, you can’t just believe a couple of strangers right?”

“I knew we shouldn’t have made him sheriff.”

“Woah, woah, woah, that’s enough,” Badgerclops said over is police siren hand to get through the crowd.

“What on earth happened here?”

“The sheriff attacked this innocent man.”

He and Adorabat looked over to the Reggie then back to Mao Mao.

“You seriously can’t believe them,” he said.

Adorabat sucked air in through her teeth,” Badgerclops, should I tell him?”

“Now. Now let’s not make assumptions,” Badgerclops said before immediately huddling down and speaking in a whisper. “What the fuck, dude? I know I already have bags packed, but geez.”

“I didn't do it! It was Slim Pigguns who did this!”

“Can you prove it,” the fox choked out.

“Prove it?” Mao Mao marched through the crowd, grabbing, shoving and tossing Sweetipies out of the way, grabbing the fox by the collar. “Of course, I can prove it. Its what happened!”

“Could you prove it in a court of law?”

“Sure!”

“Then we will. I sue the Pure Heart Valley Sheriff’s Department.”

“What,” Mao Mao, Badgerclops and Adorabat screamed in unison.

“No. In fact, we’ll sue the Pure Heart Valley itself. We’ll sure for everything it owns.”

Mao Mao and the three of them quickly formed a team-planning hug. “He can’t actually sue the entire valley for everything it owns, can he,” Adorabat asked.

“Don’t ask me. Ask Mao Mao.”

“Well… they might. The article that relates to suits against the kingdom doesn’t exactly put a limit on what can be demanded.”

“Don’t worry Daddy Issues. I already got our bags packed and-”

“We are not running!”

“Why not, I don’t really wanna be here when you lose the case.”

“I won’t lose the case because I didn’t hurt him.”

“You sure,” they asked.

“Yes, I’m sure. He got run over by Slim Pigguns. I didn't hurt him. Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Because that would be ridiculously on-brand for you. It's not an ‘if’ but ‘when’. I already have bags packed for when it happens.”

“You have what now?”

“Nothing. Anyways, if you want to challenge them then we go to court,” Badgerclops said.

“I’ll handle the case and you... try not to be yourself. Or at least don’t be yourself in front of the sweetipies.”

“What?”

“Oh! Oh! Oh! What do I do,” Adorabat asked.

“You’ll be his PR,” Badgerclops explained.

“Yay!”

Mao Mao began to consider if it was time to use those emergency packs.

* * *

Mao Mao didn’t know if the sweetipies had any foresight or common sense. Rufus could literally sue the valley for everything it owns, and for some reason, the sweetipies were taking Rufus’ side. The fact that Snugglemane was in control of the proceedings was the shit icing on top of the shit cake. Mao Mao tapped his fingers against the table. The court was taking too long to start. The jury was seated and the spectators mumbled amongst themselves. Snugglemane fiddled with the white wig he was wearing over his usual one. Rufus and Reggie weren’t here yet. Badgerclops wasn’t present either. Only Adorabat was here, which wouldn’t be much help since she’s his “PR” and a child.

Everyone turned when the doors opened. Rufus rolled his friend in on a stretcher. Despite the obvious greed in his eyes, Mao Mao could see genuine concern for his friend. Granted, that didn't stop him from wanting to see the fox on a stretcher as well.

“Oh good, the prosecution is finally here. Let's get this thing started,” the king said banging his gavel.

“But my defense isn’t here yet,” Mao Mao objected.

Adorabat took the stage. “Don’t worry,” she said,” I got this.”

“Aren’t you like... Six?”

“Seven, actually.”

Snugglemane considered it for a moment before banging his gavel. “Good enough for me. The Prosecution has the stand.”

Rufus stepped up. Mao Mao thought it was weird for Rufus to be speaking for himself, then again it's not like the valley has any lawyers.

Rufus cleared his throat, speaking in a pained voice,” Thank you, your… Honor? Majesty?”

“Call me both.”

“Alright, you're Honorific Majesty.”

The king giggled; the sheriff rolled his eyes.

“As you all know,” he began,” I had come to the Pure Heart Valley to visit a relative. Muffin, a distant cousin of mine-”

“Oh, c’mon. You are a fox. Muffin is literally a yellow mouse,” Mao Mao interrupted.

“Silence,” the king demanded with his gavel. “The prosecution has the floor.”

“As I was saying. I came to the valley because I’d come across some financial troubles. I’ve been trying to start a business of mine. A newspaper in fact. Everything was going smoothly till that brigand appeared.”

The crowd hissed and booed at Mao Mao. The king didn’t bother to stop that interruption.

“This foul creature chased me all the way through town. When he finally caught up with me. He proceeded to do… this to my friend.”

The crowd winced and ooed in sympathy for that awful fox.

“A heartbreaking tale,” the King sniffled. “Does the defense have anything they want to say?”

“Yes,” Adorabat said.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Then speak your piece.”

“Um.. line?”

Mao Mao pinched the bridge of his nose.

* * *

Mao Mao did not expect much from a defense set up by a seven-year-old, but by god, it was somehow worse. Adorabat was naive and easy to manipulate. Rufus found it easy to set up leading questions.

“Do you think the sheriff is responsible for his actions?”

“Ehm… yes?”

“Is he one of those hateful people willing to attack others?”

“I suppose.”

“Does his tendency to attack first without asking questions often bring others to harm?”

“King, I object,” Mao Mao interrupted.

“Say the full titles.”

Mao Mao swallowed his fury. “I object to his questions, your Honorific Majesty.”

“On what grounds?”

“Well, the fact that they’re all loaded questions and Adorabat actually being a seven-year-old toddler.”

“That’s no grounds for an objection. You elected her to be your defense of your own accord. It conflicts with no rules or laws.”

“Laws here make no sense, though. The fact that you’re suing an entire county for everything it owns is proof enough.”

Rufus and Mao Mao began to argue more and more. Snugglemane pounded his gavel demanding order, but no one listened. Things just got louder and louder, wilder and wilder until Rufus and Mao Mao were grappling on the floor of the courtroom.

“I’ll tear your eye out you armless bastard,” Rufus yelled.

“I’d like to see a corpse try,” he responded.

They only calmed down when the guards pried them apart When the guards finally pried them apart they were both left beaten and bloody. Mao Mao punched Rufus in the stomach; Rufus bashed him in the nose, along with the countless bumps and bruises they shared. Although, Rufus was definitely worse for wear. His left arm was twisted in all the wrong ways. Mao Mao couldn’t even feel proud of that. His head was throbbing and there was this awful hum.

No the hum wasn’t in his head. More heads began to turn when the noise got louder and louder. It was a hum, that grew into a rumble; a rumble so loud he courtroom began to shake. It sounded like a car… no, it was a car. Mao Mao quickly shook himself free of the guards, grabbing Adorabat as the wall caved in with a mighty crash.

Mao Mao waved the smoke away, clutching Adorabat to his chest. “You alright,” he asked.

“I’m fine,” she coughed out.

Despite the damage, no one seemed to be hurt. Pinky was laughing maniacally, so the sweetipies were fine, the king peeked his head from behind the podium, and unfortunately, the grifters were still alive. Despite the car belonging to Slim Pigguns Badgerclops stepped out first. He took a few tentative steps before he threw up his lunch. Slim Pigguns stepped out more concerned for his car than anything else.

“What is the meaning of this,” the king growled.

“Well… god damn… that was horrifying,” Badgerclops heaved in between breaths,” I have proof that… Mao Mao didn’t… do it.”

“What’s the proof?”

“Witness... testimony. I call to the stand… Slim Pigguns!”

The fox’s eyes went wide.

“Hm?” Pigguns poked his head up, not even paying attention to the court.

“Mr.Pigguns, could you tell us what happened when you ran over the raccoon?”

“Yeah. I was going for my daily drive, when I got near the gate I felt a bump.”

“And you didn’t stop?”

Pigguns just shrugged,” it happens.”

“This is just testimony! Can you prove he was even there,” Rufus objected.

“I still have the sticker Mao Mao gave me.”

“That’s a speeding ticket,” Mao Mao added from the back.

Rufus began to sweat. Nm “Do you have any physical evidence?”

“Does the fender with your face still dented into it count?”

“I’ve been meaning to buff that out,” Pigguns mumbled.

Everyone turned to face Rufus. He pulled at his collar. His calm, collected demeanor beginning to give way to panic.

“Does the prosecution have anything to say,” the king asked.

Rufus balled his hands into fist before sinking low,”... no, your honor.”

“Say it right.”

“Just give us the verdict, already.”

“So rude,” the King banged his gavel,” I deem the defendants not guilty of assault and declare that the prosecution be jailed upon charges false accusations and wasting the courts time. The defendant's punishment shall be to clean up this mess.”

“What, why?”

“Because you’re all rude. So very rude.”

“Could you at least take me to jail first,” Rufus asked.

“I’m not going to put you in jail,” Mao Mao said.

“What?”

“I am, however, going to put you in the hospital.”

Mao Mao pounced at him when Bagderclops grabbed him out the air,” as I said. It's not a matter of ‘if’ but ‘when’.”

#Adorabat #Mao Mao #Badgerclops #Rufus #Reggie #Mmhoph #Fanfic #MissingArm!AU #Rambling begins:#Rufus and Reggie are interesting characters #Despite seeming like the typical scummy villains #Rufus actually cares of Reggie's wellbeing #That combined with their lack of actual physical skill #makes them no threat in a direct confrentation #its the way Rufus lies and manipulates his way around things that makes him dangerous

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treatian · 5 years ago

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The Chronicles of the Dark One: The Dark Curse

Chapter 70: A Significant Milestone

"Well…that went well. Just as you'd planned!"

"I don't know what you're talking about…" Regina sneered.

Sure, she didn't. Ever since that long-ago day that a near encounter with a stranger at a bar had nearly taken Regina and her future from him, he'd been sure to pay close attention to her activities, especially when the King was away. He was particularly vigilant now that the King had begun to leave Snow White behind, so she could learn to rule as Queen. All alone with Regina, the watchful eye was necessary. He'd thought that Regina had been frustrated before, when the King had simply left her alone, but now that Snow White stayed with her during these times, sat in the Great Hall by her side, watching her give orders to peasants and solving problems her husband never gave her credit for, his girl was starting to become a woman. Her anger and fury grew time after time. And on this time, as soon as the King had gone, he'd made note of one trip Regina had taken by magic, to meet a criminal in the woods. They called him "Dead Eye". And it just so happened, immediately after this meeting, that Dead Eye had invaded Regina's Kingdom. While her husband was away, she and Snow White had been left to deal with the problem.

He'd watched it all play out through crystal ball, cauldron, and mirror as Regina's attempt at making a power play, getting the Kingdom to see her as the rightful ruler and not just someone keeping the seat warm until her husband died, failed miserably. He'd known it would from the start, even without his powers of foresight.

He had to give her credit; her plan had been simple enough. Bring a terrible bandit into the Kingdom, create pressure Snow White couldn't handle, which would lead to failure and a very public humiliation for her step-daughter. At that point, she would sweep in, save the Kingdom somehow herself, and publicly comfort Snow White so the Kingdom would see her as their Queen and Snow White as nothing more than the next monarch who was still not ready to take the throne. No one would be any wiser as to the fact that it was their Queen that had brought the trouble in the first place. Except, of course, he who heard and saw everything.

"It was a good plan you came up with," he commented to a frustrated Regina who had just stormed into her bedroom after everything had failed. "It had decent goals, an untraceable source, and easy to remember lines. There was of course just one thing you neglected to account for?"

"And what was that?" she questioned rolling her eyes. "Please, enlighten me! Tell me where I went wrong!" The tone of her voice suggested that was anything but a begging plea, still, he did like to rub people's noses in their mistakes, especially those who called themselves his students.

"You failed to account for the determination of your step-daughter," he sneered. "Among other things…"

There were other mistakes that she'd made of course, but none bigger than that one. Snow White had been humiliated at the beginning and scared and frustrated as well, she'd wanted desperately to reach out to her father, but instead Regina had insisted she handle it. It was ironic, if she'd allowed her step-daughter to do what she'd wanted to in the first place and call on her Dear Papa for help, or instead just stepped in right then, her plan might actually have worked. Instead, she'd let Snow go, she'd let that teenage girl make friends with some boy or other who taught her archery, and after paying the robber not to kill the girl lest she become a martyr, the pair had faced off. Snow White had protected her people, and now they saw her in higher esteem than they had before. It practically had the people wishing Regina would die just so they could call her Queen.

Regina's lips turned red and hard as she made a face at him. "That girl! That miserable excuse for a Princess! She outwitted me!"

"Oh no!" he corrected quickly, getting to his feet. "One has to know who their true enemy is to outwit them. What she did was to overpower you with…love!" he stated in a high girlish voice putting his hands over his heart as if it could feel any more than Cora's could at the moment.

"Love!"

"Love is far more powerful than you realize, Regina. Capable of just as much and sometimes even much more than hate. There are a number of things one must account for in plans such as these. Timing, the temperament of the victim, and one must never fear backup plans. But most importantly of all, you must account for the relationship between the victim and the motivation you are using. Snow White, daughter of the King, loves her Kingdom as though they were her very children. If you had a mother that loved you, you'd know that parents will lay down their lives and sacrifice everything for their spawn. That was where you went wrong, which suggests, oddly enough that you don't know your own enemy. Strange considering she lives in the next tower."

"And now all the Kingdom looks up to her like she's perfect!" she suddenly burst out. "I'm the Queen; she's the Nothing, nothing but a princess! She's not as perfect as they all think she is! They just don't see it. They respect her more than me!"

"Of course they do! She's the treasure of the Kingdom! Who are you but the woman who replaced her mother?! You are here to keep the throne warm until she's ready to ascend. Jealousy is natural."

"What I feel for her it's not…it's not jealousy."

"Something more then…perhaps something a bit stronger…anger, maybe?"

"I hate her!" she shouted unexpectedly with rage that assured him she'd finally crossed into a place with Snow that he could work with. "Hate." She'd never used a word like that before, not in his presence. "Hate" was exactly what he'd wanted from the beginning, but this was only the start. Today Snow White, tomorrow the Kingdom, and from there...the realm.

"Hate is a very powerful emotion, dearie."

"But it's true! I hate her! I think I have nearly since the day I met her, ever since Daniel…"

"Ever since dear Daniel passed away."

"Well, it was her that did it! I told her not to tell my mother and she just…she told! Like it was nothing, like I was nothing!"

"To her…you were…"

"Are you here to cheer me up? If so then you're doing a lousy job of it!" she roared before storming out to her balcony. He smiled. No. He hadn't come to cheer her up. He hadn't come for a lesson or to find out what happened. He'd come because part of him was proud. Whether she knew it or not, she'd taken a step in the right direction for him today. Regina had plotted. For the first time, she'd wanted something and used her power and her wealth to try and take it for herself. The results had been disastrous, but the way she'd gone about it suggested something he was very pleased with. Her animosity and jealousy toward her step-daughter were growing. She was taking steps to ruin her. Steps that would one day lead toward a curse. He'd come to gloat today because he was proud of her. She'd grown a spine. And it was a spinney one indeed.

"So…what do you intend to do next, Regina?" he questioned, letting himself appear on the balcony before her so that he could rest his back on the castle wall.

Kill her. That answer was written plain as day on Regina's face. It was in the tightening of her fists, the way her knuckles shone white against the moonlight.

But there was an indent in her cheek like she was biting it and a muscle that twitched in her jaw that suggested she didn't want to open her mouth to say the words. That was good in a way. He didn't want the Queen to kill her step-daughter. He needed the hate that she had for her to exceed death, to want to make Snow White suffer, to make the entire realm suffer! But this was a one step at a time operation. First, he had to get her to the point that she was ready to kill her and then offer that more appealing option.

"Nothing," she finally huffed over her shoulder. "There's nothing I can do."

"Nothing?" he pressed.

"Haven't you been listening?!" she cried, turning toward him. "Haven't you been watching in your creepy little way?! I just tried! I tried to change things. I tried to get them to see her for what she is and turn the tables. It backfired!"

"Tried?!" he laughed. "That was a rather poor attempt if I do say so myself!"

"I tried," she snapped. "I'm sorry if we can't all come up with plans as grand as the Dark One!"

He bit back a laugh as she went back inside her room. He was getting to her. That was perfect. It was what he needed to get her to take this to a new level. She was ready to move forward with everything; with her magic, her plans, and her future, she just didn't know it yet. He needed her to know it.

"You failed," he stated appearing in front of her so that she stumbled when she came to an abrupt stop. "What is it that you want Regina…not what you intend, what is it that you want."

"I want…I want her to die for what she did to Daniel."

"Good goal. Short, sweet, easy to remember. It does of course lack a proper plan."

"So teach me! Teach me…how to kill her! Teach me how to finally take the revenge I should have taken long ago-a life for a life. If I can't earn their respect with her around, then I'll take it when they've no princess to fawn over! A spell, a potion, a curse…there must be something that you can give to me that will destroy her, that will end this…this pain…this suffering!"

"Well, of course, I do…but I don't really think you want to use it."

"And why wouldn't I?"

"Well, because then you'd be no better than you were the day your dear mother took a trip through the looking glass. Make no mistake of this, Regina, you've not been nearly as careful or discreet as you think you have. Their perfectly healthy and lovely Princess suddenly takes ill and dies or is found one day in her room with her life snuffed out…they'll look to you. Perhaps not right away, but they'll eventually make the proper conclusions."

"I can be miles away from here before they come from me! I can live on the run!"

"Perhaps but what then of your dear father. Oh!" he piqued as her face fell with sudden understanding and sadness. "Didn't think of that, did you? A rather half-baked plan indeed."

"Then it's true," she whimpered, slapping her hands against her thighs and falling into a seat. "There is truly nothing I can do. I'm trapped here in this miserable life until...until the day I die."

"Oh, now I didn't say that, did I?"

"But you just said-"

"What you need to do, Regina is think bigger and smarter. You need to plan wiser. You need to open your mind for a long game, not a short one. You failed because your attempt was only half thought through. You tried to control what you couldn't control and your plan backfired. You were so caught up on the way you saw things in your head you were unable to adjust to what was right before you."

"I don't even know what that means! What are you talking about? Why are you here if you can't help me?!"

"I'm beginning to ask myself the same question," he reflected. Regina was smart, but he was coming to find that in her anger, she could be one of two things. Abrupt and foolish. Or thoughtful and conniving. He needed her to be the second above all else. "I am good for more than the occasional magic lesson, dearie. It means that death is too good for her. Death is final; it's peaceful. Do you really think she deserves that after all she's cost you?"

"Without a doubt!" she growled.

He bit the inside of his cheek to keep his disappointment to himself. It was progress, but still a wrong answer.

#Rumbelle #Rumple #Rumpelstiltskin #Dark One #Regina #Evil Queen #Snow White #ouat #ouat fanfiction #fanfiction

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neednothavehappenedtobetrue · 5 years ago

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remember this? it’s my Ketzedon fairytale about death marrying Ruby and Opal, the goddesses of stability and change. I recommend you read or reread it before you read this post, which is part 2

ruby, opal, and death have children. this is something of a complicated process, as death cannot make living things and ruby does not seem capable of making new things at all, but they persist.

opal is eager and hungry for this, but scared to do it alone. things she does totally alone tend to go off the rails in short order.

there are different stories about how opal came to be pregnant. some of them involve death making a miniature man that opal managed to make live for only a day, only as long as she could combat that much entropy. some of them involve straightforward infidelity with a human man. some stories suggest that her third-born child Coin figured it out, and figured out how to make it retroactive, only born last because retroactivity is a bit fiddly.

ruby, for her part, cannot get pregnant, but she stays close beside her sister for months and months. she fusses over her extravagantly, leaving her side only to bring her rare fruits and herbal remedies for the various unpleasantnesses of pregnancy. she talks her sister repeatedly out of smiting down all the humans there are in fits of pique. she has grown used to humans and likes them.

death is busy with the business of death, but happy to be a father, regardless of precisely where the baby came from. he takes to asking the humans he meets questions about childcare. they are generally bewildered by this.

opal’s firstborn is born very late and a bit strange. they borrow a human midwife for the occasion, one who does not easily fluster.

“is he perfect?” opal asks, when the baby is finally born. she is very tired now.

“he’s very big.”

“good! right, good?” opal is beginning to feel anxious.

“humans do this every day,” ruby says breezily. “he’s fine. you’re fine.”

“be careful. he’s a bit sharp.” the unflappable midwife hands the very large baby to his mother.

“are babies supposed to have teeth right away?” opal asks worriedly. “they’re very big teeth.”

“he’s a big baby, but no, generally they don’t have teeth,” says Death.

“they start getting teeth around six months,” the midwife confirms. “and usually they’re duller and flatter than that.”

“I know what a baby looks like,” ruby says. “I can make him look more like a baby, if you’d like.”

“hmmm,” opal says. “usually it is helpful when you fix things. save the teeth, though, in case he wants them back later.”

ruby dutifully puts all the teeth in a little box. “do you want him smaller?”

“no, I don’t think so. he’s just going to get bigger again, right? I went to all the trouble.”

ruby hands the baby back and opal commences to nurse him, a task made easier by the removal of the thirty-two rather large and sharp teeth previously in his mouth.

they give the baby a handful of names, just in case. fang is one.

he is a rambunctious and quick-tempered child. he breaks things and spills things. his mother and aunt are indulgent with him. he is four, (or something like four, time is different for them), when he finds the little box of teeth.

“did you get these from a tiger?” he asks his aunt, who often watches him when his mother needs to go on her own adventures. he roars. he has a very impressive repertoire of animal noises, very authentic.

“no, little fang, little fierceness, I got them from you when you were very new born.”

“you took my teeth away!”

“you needed to be fed. you would have maimed your poor mother.”

“I want my teeth back!”

“ask your father.”

“he’s off with the dead people. and mama’s on an adventure. I want my teeth.”

ruby sighed, but she was indulgent and so, she knew, was her sister. she returned little fang’s teeth to his mouth. he was very proud of them. when she returned, opal was proud of herself for having the foresight to save them.

but her baby was big now, big enough to demand his own teeth. she decided on a second baby, won over first ruby and then death to the idea. conceived the same way she had the first one, whether it involved miniatures or infidelity or some trick of her not-yet-born third baby.

the second baby is a source of some contention. opal wants a girl very much. she loves little fang with his fierceness and rough-and-tumble play but thinks two of them like him might be a little much to handle. fang, of course, wants a brother.

“we’re both girls and couldn’t be any more different,” ruby says. “besides, maybe you’ll have a boy that takes after his father, fastidious. anyway, they’ll be born the way they’re born.” she refuses to put forth a preference. nobody asks Death and he is relieved not to be asked.

the baby is born early and very small, a girl.

“oh dear,” opal says. “how small is too small?”

“usually, that’s too small,” says the unflappable midwife, who has been hastily fetched. “usually, that small and this early is a problem. not necessarily insurmountable, but tricky. that’s humans, now. can godlings die?”

“I’ve seen babies that small more than once,” says death worriedly. ever since little fang he has been a bit emotional about taking babies and gone rather out of his way to avoid it, but sometimes a thing must be done.

“give me the baby,” ruby says. “I told you before, I know what babies are supposed to look like.”

she gives the baby back a few minutes later, somewhat bigger.

“she’s still small,” opal says.

“babies are supposed to be small. her brother was unusually big,” ruby says.

“yes, but could you make her maybe just a little bit bigger?”

“no. some things are just small. she’s got smallness the same way her brother has got fierceness. do you want me to fix those feet, though?”

“oh, they don’t need feet until they’re a bit older, do they? fang wanted his teeth back as soon as he found them. we should wait until we can ask her for permission to fix her feet.”

ruby huffs, but her sister has the final say when the baby is this new and small.

fang is thoroughly disappointed. she’s so little! she can’t run or chase or play.

“she was always going to be little,” ruby says. “you couldn’t even crawl til you had been around a while and you were three times as big as her, at least.”

“I wanted a brother.”

“you got kin,” ruby says, and that is what the baby is named, Kin, though mostly she gets called Little One, Little Sister, Little Daughter.

kin is a quiet child. she learns first to crawl and then, surprising everyone, to walk, though her walk is wobbly and slow. she refuses to have her feet fixed.

“they’re my feet,” she says. “fang got to keep his teeth.”

fang decides he loves her, even though she is quiet and doesn’t move much. he loves her because she is his sister, his kin. he romps around her and teaches her animal sounds from his impressive repertoire.

she loves the workroom with her father’s miniatures, which little fang never took much interest in. she follows her father around, slowly.

when she gets a little older, he takes her with him when he needs to bring little children to the land of the dead. he still does not like to do it, but now the children have someone to chatter with as they travel, and she seems to put them more at ease. on the way back home, he disguises himself and little kin as humans and goes into towns to buy her the world’s different sweets. he has no difficulty carrying her. she stays little, even as she grows.

by the time opal decides on a third baby, fang has taken to objecting to being called “little.” he is still young, maybe ten or eleven by human reckoning, but taller than his father, his mother, her sister. he wears his hair long and smiles toothily. little kin is still little, maybe six or seven, newly occupied with cheering and consoling the dead children, a task she loves and not just because of the candy after. she is friendly, gregarious, eager to meet other children.

“are you sure?” ruby asks, a little skeptical.

“there’s one more. I feel them. I dream about them. there’s one more.”

“well, if there is then there is,” death says obligingly. and they repeat whatever they do to conceive again.

the unflappable midwife has long since died, but opal will have no other, and it is an easy thing for death to fetch her.

“this is miserable, why did you let me do this?” opal wails, and ruby squeezes her hand, wisely does not remind her whose idea this was.

the third baby is perfect. there is nothing for ruby to fix. they have ten fingers and ten toes. they have no teeth at this juncture. they have a light fuzz of dark hair and bright, curious eyes.

fang wanted a brother and kin wanted a sister, so neither of them is particularly pleased or disappointed. kin kisses the little baby on their forehead. fang sings a little birdsong, the gentlest sound he can make.

“what’s their name?” ruby asks her sister.

“coin,” opal says. “they told me in a dream.”

that settles the question.

three children is a lot to manage. opal leaves for her adventures as soon as the baby is weaned, reappearing periodically with presents and stories. sometimes death takes kin with him, and he makes time to spend with the other two, but as usual the bulk of the childcare falls to ruby. fang becomes a teenager while baby coin learns how to walk.

kin, meanwhile, from watching her father, learns to take herself down to the mortal world. she wants to meet other children and there are none in the land of the gods besides her dumb brother and the baby. she loves them, of course, but it gets lonely being eight years old and best behaved, so she decides to be no longer the latter. when ruby is chasing fang or the baby, kin quietly disappears herself and brings herself to parks and beaches and temple schools and city streets, everywhere children congregate.

time is strange between home and the world and sometimes kin manages to be gone for days before her aunt, quite flustered, finds her and drags her home. she is a bright and resourceful child, even if her gait is slow and wobbly, and she usually finds her own way and makes hew friends. no amount of scolding will stop her.

then fang learns to copy her. he goes to the world, but not so much the places where people are. he makes friends with wolves and bears, lions and tigers. he has no interest in people outside of his immediate family. ruby is always going off to find them, one or the other or both having disappeared, wearing coin strapped to herself.

opal, of course, thinks fresh air and a little independence is healthy. ruby wants to attach all three of them to leashes, even the teenager. instead, she calls her own parents, the earth and the sky.

“three children is a lot to manage,” she says. “fang is old enough to apprentice to somebody, but he has no interest in the world of people.”

“we are only marginally interested in the world of people,” the earth and sky say. “we can teach him things he might enjoy learning. is two easier than three?”

so ruby, with her sister’s permission, sends the oldest godling off to his grandparents until he is ready to be a responsible adult or until they get sick of each other, whichever comes first.

#you keep misplacing your house #to hell by compass #I need a general ketzedon tag

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marshmallowprotection · 6 years ago

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Hi! Could you do some headcanons for the RFA reacting to an MC with narcolepsy and cataplexy? My cataplexy is triggered whenever i laugh, so when someone tells a really funny joke i lose muscle tone and my body ragdolls (i cant hold myself up at all) and the first time other people see it happen they get really worried but after they get to know me its just a common everyday occurrence lol

First off, sorry this took so long, but I had to do a little bit of background information on your chronic illness before I wrote anything.

I was excited to write for someone who suffers from something just as I suffer from chronic diseases, so I hope this brightens your day and does you justice. I apologize if my imagine doesn’t quite fit your experience, I did my best. In the end, the RFA would do their best to understand how you feel and do everything that you’ve advised for them to do in these times. How they handle it is where they tend to different just a bit!

Yoosung Kim

° Okay. So, when you explain to him that you’ve got some health issues, he works himself up to understanding more about your condition. But he doesn’t know-know, and he’s going to fall into some pitfalls trying to get past ablest content that’s been put out in the media about what you have and what you deal with.

° “Oh. So you… just fall asleep whenever…?”

° “No, Yoosung, that’s the idea but you don’t quite get it yet.”

° “I want to try to learn more so you can feel comfortable around me, Y/N!”

° It doesn’t quite really click for him until he meets you in person, and it happens to you when you’re together and he really sees what’s it like for you. Oh, then it makes sense. Him flipping through the internet to find out more can only do so much for him when it comes to dealing with that firsthand.

° When he’s chatting with you amicably, and he makes you laugh about something, it happens.

° He barely manages to stop you from slumping to the ground, but he does it and boy is he proud of himself from keeping you from hurting yourself.

° You’re unbothered by this. It happens all the time. But you reassure him that it’s alright and that you’re okay.

° “Are you sure you’re okay?” He’ll ask.

° “Yeah, Yoosung, I’m fine… although, I definitely wouldn’t mind being this close when I’m able to make it happen willingly.” You tease him. “You aren’t even embarrassed by how close we are, now.”

° Oh. So much for that! He looks down, face red. "Oops.”

Jaehee Kang

° So, you’ve got some health issues. Jaehee understands that. She’ll actually take the foresight to look into different research outlets, just as much as she’ll want to talk to you about the matter. She wishes to understand what the right thing to do for you is, and honestly, the way that she expresses her worry is very wholesome and sweet. She wants to support you just as much as you have supported her all this time with sparkles in her eyes, how can you deny educating somebody so willing to learn?

° She’s prepared for just about everything. It might seem like everything has been baby proofed but that’s not it. Jaehee is always prepped for a lot of different outcomes. There are cushions all over the place just to make sure when you have something to lay on when you feel particularly weak.

° I have never seen this woman spring into action faster than the moment she thinks that you need a hand.

° Literally, there she goes, somehow getting to you before you know something is wrong.

° It’s not awful. You get to lay down on her lap for the time being when you’re having a bad day and that’s the most comfortable place in the world. You aren’t going to lie.

° You get to stare up at her and laugh. “Oh, look, my guardian angel. Jaehee, I’m fine.”

° “Oh, I know that, Y/N.” she says. “I’m just making sure before I get back to work.”

° Of course, she was. Bless you, Jaehee.

Zen

° Best believe that Zen is more than willing to make sure you feel comfortable and safe. He’s a little bit more like Yoosung in the sense that he’s going to assume that you might need more people looking out for you more often, it’s his instinct to want to protect you from well, yourself. He doesn’t mean anything il by it. But you’ll have to explain to him that you don’t been be babied all of the time, this is pretty normal, if he wants to do anything, then he should do what you suggest to him at most.

° He just wants to know that you feel comfortable around him in spite of whatever you may be going through.

° When you two are hanging out for the first time, he really doesn’t think much about any of it. Because you’re seemingly alright and smiling but boy, he should have known this would happen.

° Your knees just felt a little wobbly and then they caved.

° “Jagiya, I knew you fell for me when you saw me, but this is too literal.”

° He’s holding you upright because this boy has some fast reflexes. He had been expecting this one. Does he look impressive staring at you with confident eyes? Hell yeah.

° Probably don’t admit that though. It’ll only fuel the fire that is his endless ego.

° “Hilarious. Yes, you’re very handsome, Zen.”

° There’s some more genuine laughing on your end because honestly, this is so ridiculous but Zen really makes you feel better about everything. Trust him to always hold you when you fall. He’s ready to really hold you. It’s an excuse to carry you everywhere.

Jumin Han

° People don’t give Jumin enough credit for his empathy. Sure, it manifests in a way that not everybody understands, but it’s there, and it’s a hell of a lot. He takes it seriously when you tell him that you have some difficulties, and boy, the closer the two of you grow, the more he’s going to the little things and really think about why nobody’s done anything to make life any easier for you, and people with conditions like yours. Jumin Han about to fund so many health programs, oh my God, there he goes.

° Besides that note, he will surely do anything that you ask of him to make things just right for you. Even if you don’t really need anything and can get by pretty easy on your own.

° 10 points to Elizabeth for being a very faithful cat as well. She pretty much will plop down right next to you if you’re having a bad day.

° He catches you if you tumble, and it’s honestly the sweetest thing.

° “Nice save, Jumin.”

° “I wouldn’t let you fall, Y/N.”

° Not as outright flirty as some of the others can be when this happens, expect more gentle remarks and care when he handles you.

Seven

° He knew before you told him. It was one of those things that popped up in his background check and immediately that’s when some alarm bells went off. Seven was worried about how well you would be able to fair with your condition, but you pretty much proved him wrong every step of the way. You’re a lot tougher then most would believe and it’s one of those things that he admires about you. He takes whatever you tell him to heart about what you need when you feel bad.

° Seven’s the one most likely to take extra measures that nobody else would think of. He’s got his robots on the job. Even if you don’t ask him, he kind of makes things that he thinks will help you out. It’s kind of sweet.

° Gotta give him some credit though, he knows as much as you do by the tie you meet face to face.

° He’s the one that makes you laugh the most, and because of that, he gets to see you dip more often than that. He doesn’t mean for that to happen, but neither did you, it’s not like you can stop yourself from toppling over time from time.

° He’s got reflexes that are on par with Zen, though, if a bit just a little less than his. Just… don’t expect him to react like Zen does. He’s just going to tease you and try to make you laugh more.

° “Did it hurt?” he asks.

° “Excuse me?” you stare at him.

° There’s a goddamn shit-eating grin on his face as he just lets this one loose and makes you want to either smack him or die laughing, “Did it hurt when you fell from heaven because you’re an angel and I caught you?”

° The moment you can feel your muscles once again, don’t hesitate to wallop this boy for his jokes. He means well, though, don’t get him wrong. He just wants to make sure that you don’t feel bad about anything. He’s really pulling out all the stops to make sure you’re comfortable.

💜 Mod Kait 💜

#Ask #anon #Mystic Messenger #MysticMessenger #Mysme #mystic mess #mystic messenger imagine #mod kait #yoosung Kim #jaehee kang #hyun ryu #jumin han #saeyoung choi

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