#He helped me with my grief over Fizz

[baconcolacan]

Just wanted to say thank you for all the messages, both in my inbox and under my my last post. I’m in a bit of a better mood now since I just came back from visiting Parm, he’s doing alright, hopefully his surgery today will go smoothly.

Again, thank you guys, you’ve helped alleviate a bit of my anxiety about everything going on <3

[silverbeluga]

*spoilers for Apology Tour*

Something I can not get over...

I can not get over the fact that we got to see Stolas find out that Striker tried to kill him during the Harvest Moon Festival.

I am really appreciating the writers for how they handle information and which characters know what. In a show as episodic as this, it can be easy to hand wave what knowledge a character has, letting the audience assume a conversation happened off-screen. But they're keeping tabs. I am in love with how the characters' points of view are shaped by the information they do and don't have.

It gives me Hitchcock levels of suspense, waiting for them to learn or see what we have.

I love that these two are starting to see the versions of each other that the audience knows. I loved Blitz's comment about how much Stolas was drinking, because he's never seen him get sloppy drunk. Blitz has never seen Stolas in a robe slumped on a couch watching Hell-a-novelas. I loved Blitz reacting to Stolas singing his birdy heart out. Good grief if he ever got to hear Look My Way. They don't know what they don't know about each other.

Which brings me back to Harvest Moon.

Stolas was, as usual, oblivious to what was happening with IMP in the background of that whole episode. And I loved hearing Blitz lay out his logic for not telling Stolas because, if they could handle Striker, surely a powerful Goetia could, no problem, easy peasy. Which just murders my poor heart because Stolas is not hearing Blitz when he talks about how powerful Stolas is. Blitz is in fucking awe of him when he wrecks the DHORKS (look your way, indeed. He does, Stolas)

But his attempt at the festival is not the only thing Stolas does not know about Striker. In particular:

Stolas has no idea Striker kidnapped Blitz.

He knows Striker captured Fizz. He does not know Blitz was with him. He fought over Fizz's safe return, without knowing he should be worried for Blitz. I really doubt Blitz ever told him. Arguably, it is what let him keep a cool head to help Ozzie. He was concerned, but if he had known Blitz was in danger?

*cue the end scene of Truthseekers*

I need to know his reaction to it.

I can not stop thinking about it

[musewrangler]

✨ Out of comments you’ve received, what two or three are your favorites?

🚀 Do you like to outline first or create as you go?

🎨 If someone made fanart of your work, what fic or scene would you hope to see? (I know you make your own wonderful art and you have received fanart, but is there something that hasn’t had art you would like to see?)

this is one of my favorite ask games---such good questions!! Thank you friend!

Favorite Comments--Oof hard one. I'm thrilled to get any comments honestly---aren't we all? ;D I have had some very moving replies though. One reader informed me that reading some of my work got her through some tough medical procedures. I was tearing up. I'm so honored that it helped. Another reader had a bad day and went to re read one of my stories to feel better. Things like that are so HUMBLING. And a reminder of why we create stories and art and music. We're all helping to feed each other's souls. And that doesn't mean with rainbows and fairy dust. It's not all happy clappy. We need to read about hardship and difficulty and grief too so that we can see how it can be overcome or how we can comfort. There. You didn't ask for all that, but it happened. ;D

I Outline-- Granted my outlines are literally word vomit all over the page, but it helps to get ideas out. So it will often be bullet points---thing thing thing, and sometimes actual bits of dialogue I don't want to forget and sometimes bits of scenes for the same reason. xD It's a hot mess, but it helps

Fanart for my work-- I do indeed love illustrating, but I will ALWAYS be down for other people's art of my work! I will be a fizzing whizbomb for that sort of thing. It's so AMAZING. I am still weak on the human body [need to work on that] so scenes that have more action are hard. I think Piett saving Veers in my one shot 'Not In Time' would be epic. Equally, Vader riding a ship as he crashes it into the side of the temple in my fic Sons and Daughters would be incredible. Or you know. Any scene ever in any of my works. ;D

Thank you!

[defaulttwig]

Interdimensional Lover

tasm!Peter Parker x fem!reader

Summary: You were another iteration of a Spider-Person that joined in the ruckus of NWH. And, in a room of different Peters, you gravitated toward the one who was most like your Peter. At the end of the fight, you made sure to tell him you'd meet up again. Peter didn't think you'd actually stand by your word.

Warnings: Spoilers for NWH, angst (the smallest amount), fluff?

Word Count: 2.8k

A/N: I want to kiss him so badly. He deserves a good ending. 

You still couldn't believe it. Safety goggles on, you glanced up at Peter. Well, the only one in a lab coat. Behind him, the other Peters weaved and worked on their own projects. The one in front of you fought villains similar to your own and you offered to help him.

But you couldn't believe you were in a room with three Peters. To think, your life had been hectic with just one. Your Peter, back on your earth, was a huge dork who got you two into trouble all the time. It's been years since you got to hear his voice again, and it wasn't even him. Your Peter died in your arms the night you got reckless, cocky with your abilities. Never again..

"Hey," Peter muttered. You flicked your gaze up from the Bunsen burner. He smiled. "You know, I met your counterpart on my earth."

Small talk. You eased into yourself, feeling young again. Like you were meeting Peter for the first time. Only, you were. "You have?"

"Yeah. Though, he went by a different name and was a prick." He scoffed. His eyes widened and he spluttered to correct himself. "Not that you're a prick. You're actually really cool."

"Thanks." You noticed the way his hair jutted out over the goggles. "Your counterpart pretty much acted like you."

"Oh." He sank. "Do you want to talk about it?"

In all the introductions to the younger Peter on top of Midtown High, your grief-stricken speech had been about losing Peter Parker. Of course, it was awkward to describe losing your best friend given that all three of them were alive and well, but your voice pinched at the time you talked about it. And here you were, holding yourself together around these three like you didn't almost break down around them earlier. As if they weren’t living, breathing copies of your best friend.

"Actually, this is nice." You shrugged. "You're not him, but it reminds me of old times, you know? Reliving those memories? Like, there’s a feeling that I’m with him again, even though I’m not? I can’t describe it well."

Ned called out to Peter and earned all their attention. You watched in amusement as he struggled to nab his Peter but succeeded with a few tries. The Peter in front of you cast his eyes to that Peter, watching the young teen glance at MJ. She smiled at the younger counterpart, who grew giddy and returned to his work in a better mood.

Peter turned back to you, a wistful glaze behind his eyes. "Yeah. I get what you mean."

Glancing back at the young teens, you hummed. Peter's heartbroken speech about Gwen came to mind. How his composure slipped when he talked about her. He really loved her. Just like you loved your Peter.

"Can you pass me the-" You didn't quite catch what Peter said. Blinking slowly at him, he pointed again. "The blue liquid."

"Right. Sorry." You quickly handed it to him, berating yourself for thinking about stuff like that.

This wasn't your Peter. And your interactions here wouldn't be forever. Everything had to go back to normal sooner or later. He'd be back on his earth and you'd be on yours, doing your spider thing like he didn't exist.

"No worries." He poured the blue liquid into his mixture slowly. It fizzed and changed colors. Peter glanced at you. "So, you had a lizard?"

"Six. He managed to create a little army."

Peter let out a low whistle. "Wow. And you took them all on?"

"Individually." You snorted. "I'm not invincible."

"Still, that's impressive." He smiled at you. "Dealing with one lizard-man is bad enough."

Your heart warmed at the compliment. Geez, and the people from your earth expected you to take them on and more. Peter sounded awestruck just hearing about one of your enemies. It was a breath of fresh air to not be held up to higher standards. To be appreciated for your small act of heroism.

The hours flew by and before you knew it, you were on the liberty statue with the three variants. Peter one, or baby Peter as you affectionately referred in your head, went over the plan with you all one more time. Altogether, you’d face five villains. All powerful in their own right and eager to get their hands on Spider-Man. Working together, you’d fight to save them from themselves. Simple enough.

When the villains arrived, you all worked together to do your part and stop the threat. You got your fair share of injuries. Dr. Connors managed to slam you into the metal pipes and knock you over. Flint Marko hurled a wave of sand at you while you were at least ten feet off the ground, and succeeded in punching you through floorboards. You couldn’t even imagine if Elektro shocked you. What sort of pain you’d be in.

It was a long and hard-fought battle. Your ribs rubbed against each other in a crunchy way with each breath as you stumbled over to join Peter three in holding Peter two up. Peter one came to you all and thanked you for your help and you had a group hug. When he left, you glanced at the Peters beside you, namely Peter three.

"You think we'll ever see each other again?"

Peter three pursed his lips and nodded slowly. "I don't know."

You hummed. "Well, we'll have to. I had too much fun with you guys."

"Thanks, but I don't think I'm up for it." Peter two groaned between you. "I've had enough interdimensional fun for one lifetime."

You two laughed at his response.

Peter three looked at you with an emotion you couldn't pinpoint. Joy? Nostalgia? Your Peter looked at you the same way when you'd spend late nights brainstorming for sturdier web fluids and throwing crumpled balls of paper at each other. Your guy-in-the-chair, he referred to himself lovingly…It was so long ago and you couldn't explain what he felt at the time either.

"You promise you'll see me again?"

You nodded and smiled. "Definitely. I'll find a way."

"Do you see the sky?" Peter two interrupted as he looked up.

All three of you watched the sky quite literally stitch itself back together. The sight was magical, apart from what it meant. You hummed, a twinge of disappointment in your heart. If only you could have another second with them. You imagined your Peter would've been like this if he was here. Not as the guy in the chair, but as Spider-Man, fighting alongside his variants. Seemed like each earth only had room for one spider, and your earth had you.

"This is it," you muttered. This really was the end. "I'm going to miss you guys."

"Same here." Both of them answered.

This would truly be an unforgettable memory. Not every day you get pulled into another multiverse and meet different iterations of the spider symbol. And you wouldn’t even be able to share it with anyone. Secret identity and all.

You all looked over at baby Peter. You smiled brightly at him and waved, wishing from the bottom of your heart that things would turn out well for him. As for yourself, you glanced over Peter two's head, straight at Peter three. He looked at you too. A dull ache rested in your heart as you smiled sadly at him.

Everything faded away.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

It took a shit ton of willpower and months of trial and error. You managed to track down the top scientists of your earth and the one you most trusted to plead your case to. Hank Pym. Your begging didn't sway him over, though. No, you saved him from his own enemies and he felt indebted to you. And with a bit of urging and gaining his trust yourself, he learned it was a tool you'd handle with care. It took an extraordinary person to make him believe in the best of people, and you showed him that people with good hearts still existed in the world.

Now, here you were, standing in front of your earth's first inter-dimensional portal. Wrapped around your wrist was your own portable remote to access this one. At the press of a button, it would turn on from whatever dimension you found yourself and you’d be two steps from home.

Your stomach filled with butterflies. You'd never actually tested it between dimensions yourself. Hank had sent messages in bottles and claimed them the next day. Bottles of letters you had for someone in particular. And each time, they were received but not by him. Not until this earth.

Hank stood at the controls, scratching his head. "You know, you never told me who it was you wanted to see. The person we spent all this time and effort for. I oughta know what my talent has gone to."

You stepped up to the portal gate, ready for him to turn it on. "Spider-Man."

"Spider-Man? Like, yourself or something? What, you want to go for a swing with a friend?" He waved his hand. "Whatever. Better be worth it, kid."

"It will be."

You touched your chest, taking deep breaths. If this worked, you'd see him again. Would he be happy to see you again? No, don’t get all negative Nancy, now. He responded to your message. He left a sticky note in your bottle, detailing something only this Peter would know about you, and a picture of himself. This was him, and he was as excited as you were.

Hank pulled a switch and the floor lights of the portal gate flicked on. It hummed to life, a flicker of a portal beginning to take place. You bit your lip. Nerves wracked you, rooting you to your spot.

Hank called your name and you looked at him. "Kid, a bit of advice. Be yourself. But, my god, don't talk his ear off."

You smiled and laughed. Hank really appreciated your side conversations as he worked, huh? And to think, you thought the two of you could call yourselves drinking buddies by now. At least, that got rid of your nerves.

The portal fully formed and you could make out the skyscrapers of New York.

Hank sighed dramatically. "Don't stay out too late."

Putting your mask on, you looked at him with a playful shrug. "Whatever you say, pops."

Hank gave you a two-finger salute and you reciprocated before you stepped through the portal. You’d see him again soon.

It hadn't been a perfectly coordinated positioning. Falling from heights beyond the skyscrapers, you turned around and watched the portal shrink away. This was it. No turning back. Time to find your Spider-Man

Facing the city once more, you pressed your arms to your sides and dove headfirst. The second the spire of the first skyscraper could be seen clearly, you shot out webs from your web-shooters. It caught on the building and you swung around it, launching yourself at a lower height. The wind whistled around you, your body cutting through the air.

As you shot off from another building, a red and blue suit appeared from under you, flipping around to look at you. Spider-Man shot a web to another building, his laughter bouncing off the buildings.

"Oh god, you did it. You're here!"

You smiled brightly behind your mask, yelling over the wind. "I told you we'd meet again."

His voice couldn't have been any more overjoyed. "No shit."

He led the way beyond a set of buildings. You followed diligently. It was like you were back at the statue of liberty, only this time there was no immediate threat. The whole way, you both playfully flipped around each other and danced in the air, too ecstatic that you were together again.

Near the end of your fun, Peter flew a little too close to you. He soared over you, his mask almost right against yours. His pointer fingers darted out and poked your sides and you flinched. He laughed and zipped past you while you picked yourself back up.

As soon as Peter landed on a rooftop where nobody could spy on him, he ripped his mask off and watched you land across from him with a giddy look. You hardly had time to peel off your mask before he grabbed your shoulders and shook you.

"You're here! You actually did it."

You laughed and pulled him into a hug. "What did I tell you?"

He squeezed you tightly. "But how? Interdimensional travel has to be-? Do you have wizards too?"

"I wish." You held him at shoulder length, looking him dead in the eye. "I had a world-renowned scientist help me build a portal."

"Oh, of course." Peter sarcastically smacked his forehead. "How did I not think of that?"

You nudged him. "Maybe because my earth has all the cool people."

"I'll say, miss six lizards."

"And that's how I knew you were the Peter I was looking for."

"Huh?"

"It's nothing." You waved your hand. "What matters is that I'm here."

Peter's eyes fell to your watch. "What's that?"

You held it up for him. Your face hurt from how hard you smiled, just glad to be back in his presence again. It's been too long. You missed Peter.

"This is my ticket back to my earth."

Ever the nerd, his face lit up. You knew he’d be ecstatic at the cool technology you’ve brought to your impromptu show-and-tell. No Peter Parker could go without being impressed by the evolution of science.

"What? No way." Peter closed in on you, taking hold of your wrist. He admired the watch up close. "Can we try it?"

You laughed in confusion. "I just got here."

"Oh, right." Peter let you go and stepped back.

His hands balled into fists, then opened, then closed. He was too giddy, he didn't know how to control himself. His feet bounced lightly on the ground and he spun, holding his head. When he stopped himself, he threw his hands out in front of him, gesturing to you.

"Okay. You're actually here. There's so much I have to show you." He began to ramble. “So, I don’t know about your earth, but the one we met on had a shield on the statue of liberty? Mine doesn’t. We could see that from the building over, honestly. Oh! Or-”

You snorted and held up a hand, effectively pausing Peter’s jumbled thoughts. "How about we catch up first?"

"Right." He stopped and stared at you. There was that look again. The same look he had back at the statue of liberty. Full of emotion you couldn’t pinpoint. He sighed. "I haven't stopped thinking about you."

The two of you froze, eyes wide. That came out much more intimate than you thought he intended. Peter grabbed the back of his neck, averting his eyes. Like a puzzle, the pieces started to click together. You had an idea what that look meant, now. And you couldn’t deny that he was on your mind this whole time, either.

You smiled once again, a smaller, calmer one. "Me too."

He snapped his gaze to you in disbelief. "You did?"

"Why else would I have spent months around a grumpy scientist building a portal to see you?"

Peter shrugged. "I thought you wanted to get the gang back together."

"If I had, they'd be here too." You laughed.

He placed his hands on his hips. "I hadn't thought of that."

"What have you thought about?"

Peter glanced between you and the mask in his hand. He smiled, walking up to you. His hands cupped your face and your heart hammered in your chest. Peter took a deep breath.

"This."

He dipped his head down slowly, his lips just hovering over your own. You closed your eyes and pressed your lips against his. Sparks flew. Your world lit up. And your spidey sense went off a mile a minute.

You pulled away from Peter to look at him. "Is your spidey sense going haywire too?"

"Yeah." He nodded, leaning in to kiss you again. "I like it."

For the first time in a long while, you felt whole again. He wasn't the Peter from your earth, but he was his own person. And you came all this way to see him. You had someone you cared about in your life again.

Peter broke the kiss, pressing his forehead to yours. The two of you caught your breaths, giggly and smiley. Peter shook his head against yours, thinking out loud.

"I can't believe I have a girlfriend from a different dimension. Try telling that to someone without sounding crazy."

You pulled back to look him in the eye. "Girlfriend?"

"Yeah. Well, we just kissed and I figured-" Peter's eyes slowly filled with panic. "Unless you're not ready for that, yet. We can take it slow. Maybe a date. Fight some bad guys together."

You stopped his rambling with a kiss. "Peter, I'm teasing. Of course, I want to be your girlfriend."

"Oh, good." He shrugged, attempting to play off his awkwardness. "I knew that."

You shook your head at him, face lit with infatuation. "Oh, you bug brain."

But, he was your bug brain.

[jangofctts]

As You Are (Bucky Barnes x fem!reader)

Rated: Mature, Explicit 18+

Word Count: 6.4k

Warnings: smut, explicit language, mentions of alcohol, mentions of violence and injuries, light choking, brief thigh riding/grinding, vaginal fingering with them metal fingies, oral female receiving, unprotected vaginal sex (dont be a dick, wrap that stick), fucking on sam’s couch

a/n: ok hi this fic is very self indulgent bUT YKNOW WHAT WHO CARES EKJHEJHKEJH this is my first fic for marvel and AH I hope I did Bucky justice. ENJOY YALL

This had been a terrible idea. 

Right from the minute you tailed after he and Sam to the Baron’s extensive vintage car storage. Bucky had explicitly withheld any and all information regarding this little excursion to protect you but of course you’d shown up—none too jazzed about the little stunt Bucky pulled regarding the Baron. Fair. 

You were right—Bucky should have called but that overwhelming guilt of dragging you into another one of his problems stopped him from pressing that little call button. He never wanted to be the reason you ended up back on the run again. Though judging by the way things were going, it was more than likely you’d be in prison by the end of the week. 

Luck had your back in that sort of regard—too bad it could never rescue you from your own stubbornness and grief regarding that damn shield. 

You’d taken a devastatingly hard hit from Walker—a fractured orbital, a split lip and a dislocated shoulder. All preventable—if only Bucky kept better track of you before you showed up in that warehouse alone. Left to fight the shadow of what was once a symbol of hope for some—another man playing dress-up in something that will never belong to him. 

It was just their luck Bucky and Sam arrived in time—preventing you from becoming another red stain of violence splattered over that shield. 

James Buchanan Barnes is not afraid of much—but fuck. Seeing you crumpled over the concrete floor, all bloodied and struggling to raise a hand to protect your face… It was the same feeling as injecting his veins with a pure shot of adrenaline and anger shrouded in fear. He promised Steve he’d look after you… 

And as Sam carried you out of that warehouse you had the gall to tenderly tell them that you were just fine—as if your mouth weren’t full of blood and a face blooming with patchy bruises. The jealousy that sparked through Bucky’s chest when you clung to Sam’s chest did nothing to help that dark festering pit inside his ribcage he’s attempting to suture back together.

Bucky clenches his jaw. At least you’re asleep now. Curled up against the window, holding your injured arm in a way that limited the turbulence from jostling it. It’s the first time Bucky would describe you as fragile. He know’s you’re anything but that—stubborn mostly—yet most of all brave. It’s what Steve admired most about you—what Bucky loves most about you too. That vibrant spark flowing through your blood and how you’re not afraid to shout along to your favorite songs despite the odd looks you get. Bucky envies how self-assured you are, how you’ll never lose yourself because you know just where you’re headed. He wishes he still had that sort of drive instead of all this uncertainty and guilt clouding each muscle and fibre in his body.      

Bucky doesn’t realize the jet has landed until Sam stands and and places a large hand over your shoulder. Your face scrunches as you whine and curl further into your seat. “C’mon, kiddo.” You grumble something inaudible. “You want me to carry you?”

The delicate plates of vibranium clink together as Bucky’s hand tightens into a fist, jealousy flaring hot and bright. He quickly stands, too fast to be considering anything less than awkward. Sam’s brow quirks. “I can do it.”   

“It’s cool, man,” Sam says as he scoops one arm under your legs and the other around your back. “I got her.”

Bucky bristles. Whatever. 

It’s not like you and him have anything together. A one sided plague of affection that you’ll never know about—he wants to tell you. Fuck, the words burn through his tongue and collect like ashes between his teeth and yet they are never voiced from self sabotage. There’s no possible way to voice how you’ve haunted his thoughts and his dream since the moment his eyes met yours. How he’s memorized the lines of your smile and the sweet sound of your laugh, the sweep of your lashes and the rhythm of your steps. Bucky would know you deaf, blind, numb, in this world or any other twisted reality. 

He had said that he wasn’t afraid of much, but that’s not entirely true. Eternity, oblivion, crowded rooms, being alone too long. And you. You terrify him. You have the power to pluck at the very strings of his soul and unravel him completely until he’s no more—and you don’t even know it. Bucky Barnes is less afraid of dying than he is of loosing you but that fear never once provides him the courage to tell you. You may not be a scribbled name in his book, but he still hopes that one day he’ll earn the chance to strike his cowardice and put to rest the wretched ache in his heart that he feels for you. 

He wishes he told you in Wakanda, after the Blip, Riga, and right this instant. He watches Sam carry you out of the jet—what’s a little more time?

                          -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

The sun is beginning to melt into the horizon, turning the expanse of water into molten gold and shimmering blues. The hazy humidity from the late afternoon heat collects at the back of Bucky’s neck and the light breeze does nothing to cool. Bucky sighs and swipes at the bead of sweat creeping down his forehead with the back of his hand—he glances up. 

A ghost of a smile creeps across his lips. You’re exactly where he and Sam left you three hours ago. Surprising to be quite honest—you never did like to stay in one place for longer than ten minutes. You’re a pain in his ass, simply said.  

But now—now you’re haphazardly splayed out on the lawn chair you were forced into, a juice box loosely held in your good hand while the other still remains in the sling. He can’t tell if you’re asleep—Steve’s sunglasses do an excellent job of hiding your eyes. Yet as Bucky wanders closer, your head rolls to your right in greeting. 

“It’s rude to stare, y’know,” you grumble, lifting the juice box to your mouth. Your lips purse around the plastic straw. “And before you ask—yes, I have a very important job I’m currently overseeing.”

Bucky quirks a brow. “What—hogging the lawn chair?”

“No—“ You huff. You gesture with your juice box at the large cooler your sandaled feet are propped up on. “I’m the booze master. God of the ale, destroyer of sobriety—“

“Alright, Booze Master,” Bucky interrupts with a snort. “Why don’t you bestow upon me a beer, your majesty.”

You tap your index finger over your chin as a lazy smile fixes itself over your lips. “Granted.”

You slide your legs off the cooler and with a pained grunt you shift forward. Bucky shoots his arm out and steadies you back against the chair by your shoulder before you get any further. Your face pulls into a grimace.

“I got it, kid. Relax.”

Bucky pops open the cooler and fishes out a beer and pops the cap off between his left index finger and thumb. You watch with a frown, “I could’ve done that for you.” 

Bucky resists the urge to roll his eyes and takes a seat on the cooler. The bitter fizz floods his tastebuds as he takes a sip of his drink, a tangible silence blanketing the space between you. He gets it—people like he and you can never settle for complacency. As if the rest isn’t deserved despite the bloody knuckles and the shattered glass that slices through skin—the bruises and the broken bones. None of it is enough—not worthwhile to preserve yourself when other’s so desperately need your help. 

Or maybe it’s penance. 

Bucky sure as shit finds himself swallowed by the black maw of guilt each and every day. Battling the never ending shadow of doubt that clings to his soul like glitter to a an old carpet. Bucky believes it’s safe to say that you’re the same—every good deed you do added to the imaginary scale weighing against the bad despite it feeling hollow and insurmountable. Paying in blood to equate the amount you’ve spilled. A hopeless battle you both insist on fighting. 

Bucky sighs through his nose, bends at the waist and collects both your ankles in his left hand. You let him lift them both and settle your legs over his knees. You shiver, an eruption of goosebumps rushing up your skin at the cold metallic shock of Bucky’s vibranium thumb scrapinh over your bare flesh.

Bucky’s lips tilt down ever so slightly. “Did I hurt you?”

“Never,” you rush to say before he has the chance to flee. “S’just cold.” 

His hum reverberates low in his chest as those cerulean blue eyes fall to his hands. You clench your jaw until your teeth ache as his left thumb continues to stroke over the delicate skin covering the joint of your ankle. This is…new…

You’d been close with Steve and Sam, and by proxy Bucky—in some weird adjunct way. Compared to Sam’s teasing bumps of the shoulder and that infectious laugh far more addicting than the golden liquor of the sun, Bucky is frigid. Still attempting to shake off the whole Winter Soldier thing that’s molded onto his bones like stubborn permafrost. Touch had always been tricky with him—even a friendly pat over the back or a simple tap to the harm had him tensing under the touch—muscle and steel bunching to prepare for a harsh blow that would never arrive. Never from you.         

Bucky rarely sought out your physical comfort—you were always the one to initiate those friendly touches even if he was the type to just sit and ignore you like a grouchy old cat barely clinging onto that ninth life. The first time he breached that fragile barrier was in Wakanda—something in Bucky cracked and split into a cavernous ravine of nebulosity. Stitches shred apart then stapled back together as he grabbed your arm and wrestled you into a bone-crushing hug. You didn’t need to ask to realize he cried the entire time, gripping your shirt like a lifeline while he shuddered and sobbed into the crook of your neck. To him everything from the rain to silk sheets felt like shrapnel and the stars tasted like old blood and the past of things long gone—yet you were familiar. 

A comfort for the much needed healing of the scattered pieces of a man. You don’t mind helping him pick up the tidbits and reattach them with veins of silver. It’s the least you can do. 

The second time occurred after the loss of Steve. Some part of you had been wrenched out with his departure and he never bothered to return it. It doesn’t matter anymore—the hollow ache had been soothed with the Winter Soldier clutching you to his chest until you drifted off into a fitful sleep. A tether to a new reality you both partake in. 

Which brings you to now. There’s no cathartic reasoning behind his touch…it’s simple…a risky leap of faith into unknown territory. Bucky’s eyes lift to meet yours—curiosity swimming in those icy irises. You don’t mind—in fact you quite like the calloused warmth of his hand and the opposing chilly metal one tentatively exploring your exposed skin. 

“You have a scar here,” Bucky murmurs, skimming the thumb made up of flesh and sinew over the mottled skin occupying the crease of where the top of your foot meets your ankle. 

You bite the inside of your cheek. “I fell on barbed wire.”

“Clumsy,” he chides, quirking a dark brow. 

Your shoulders bounce with a huff. “I was like—twelve when it happened, James.”

His mouth quirks in a half smile, quite liking the validation of his name in the way your mouth speaks it. He wonders if you know the weight of granting you that leeway of calling him that. Shit—he doesn’t care what you call him, everything sounds lovely when you say it. 

There’s another silence—holding your breath until something splits and shatters into a million pieces. You’d be a liar if you said you didn’t want anything more than just friendship with Bucky but fear of rejection is a tricky thing. You take the easy way out and offer him the chance of something more on a silver platter. 

“Bucky?”

His fingers whisper up your shin as he inclines his head.              

“I’m tired. Drive me back to Sam’s?”

“Sure thing, doll.” 

                            -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Bucky holds the door open for you as you stumble in, escaping the hazy southern heat. He disappears into the kitchen as you make a beeline straight for the couch, sighing loudly once the plush cushions meet your back. You lazily lift your head once you hear his familiar footfalls nearing. 

With him he brings two Otterpops, one blue raspberry and the other cherry. Once he hands it to you he takes a seat on your left, close enough that his thigh and shoulder bumps against yours. “Don’t tell Sarah’s kids that these were the last ones.”

You roll your eyes and promptly stick the Otterpop into you mouth. “‘M ain’t no snitch.”

His low chuckle reverberates through his chest. The silence that follows isn’t an awkward one as you enjoy the cold treat—it’s filled with the humming cicada bugs outside and the breeze through the wind chimes. Comfortable with the normalcy—just a couple of regular old people enjoying life for a suspended amount of seconds.  

Once you finish the Otter Pop, you crumple the plastic up and rest it on the coffee table. He does the same—hints of the blue syrup sticking to the cracks of his plush lips. You force yourself to avert your eyes. You cheeks heat with a flush as you rush to occupy your mind with anything but wild fantasies of Bucky’s mouth. You lean forward again, pointedly ignoring the way Bucky’s eyes track your movements as you shuck off your sling, the prickle of unused muscles and bruised ligaments rushing through the limb. You wince as you slowly roll your shoulder. 

The muscles in Bucky’s jaw clenches. You sigh—he’s still blaming himself for your injuries. “Does it still hurt?”

“Not everyone has freaky healing powers, Buck,” you snort. You rush to appease him when he frowns. “It’s getting better though. Still can’t sleep on it—but eh.” 

“I’m sorry.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. No matter how many times you tell him he’ll never believe you. That’s something only he can fix. Doesn’t stop you from telling him anyway. “Stop blaming yourself for my idiocy. I made my choice and paid the price for it.”

Bucky’s eyes drop to his hands. “Can’t help it, sweetheart. Steve told me to look after you.”

Your heart constricts within your chest like a fist. You inhale and reach out to rest your hand over his wrist. “Funny—he told me the same thing about you.”

It surprises him—his dark brows furrow as his mouth parts, but nothing comes forth. Grappling with the right words that fit with what he feels. He’s still learning how to give his soul a name that fits. Learning how to take the dark, twisted bramble of his heart and make it into something that doesn’t ache each time it beats. He’s still learning how to look himself in the eyes, point to himself and say that there’s nothing frightening in there. Not anymore. No more. 

You suck in a breath and muster up the embers of courage. Here goes nothing— 

You cup Bucky’s cheek, the scrape of stubble welcome against your warm palm as you gently turn his face to look at you. His eyes drift to yours when the mumbled syllables of his name tumble from your lips. His eyes are framed with dark circles of wildflower bruises, his small smile a moonbeam stark against battered skin. You’ve dreamt so many times of swallowing it whole and pressing him close enough that your heartstrings become entangled with no hope of separation. But that’s something for him to decide. 

You drop your hand cradling Bucky’s jaw, but before your hand completely falls Bucky surges forward. His large hands rush to cup your face, swallowing your noise of surprise as his plush lips fall onto yours. The syrupy flavor of a Blue Raspberry Otter Pop he stole from Sarah’s freezer lingers on Bucky’s mouth, mixed in with the smell of old leather and cracked cardamom. Bucky nips at your bottom lip, tugging once and then rolling it between the blunt enamel of his teeth. Despite all the bad jokes regarding his age and senior citizen status—fuck he’s a damn good kisser. Compared to him you feel clumsy, sloppy, but no matter how hard you search for his distaste he doesn't seem to care in the slightest—if anything he’s pulling you closer. 

Bucky’s kisses may taste like the middle of June and a first love, but desperation lines every action like a wound with jagged edges. It’s a slow process learning to be free, but one day he’ll transform into starlight—and instead of a kiss like fire, it’ll be like touching your lips to a constellation’s aureate mouth.   

When Bucky pulls away, sucking in air and resting his forehead on yours, you catch a whiff of his hair. Freshly washed and smelling a bit like Sam’s shampoo. Your lips quirk. You’ll make sure to keep that a secret from Sam.

You pull back just enough to meet his eye, resting your palm over his vibranium hand that still cups your cheek. “Am I the first person you’ve kissed since the stone ages?”

His lips pull into a cheeky smile. “Maybe.”

You laugh and roll your eyes, skating your palm down the front of his shirt, the heat of his skin near searing through the fabric. “I guess we have a lot of catching up to do, huh?”

Bucky’s lips smother your small moan as he drags you into another kiss. You can feel his smile as he murmurs his agreement between desperate kisses and the enticing warmth of his tongue skimming along yours. The next time you part for air, Bucky drops his strong hands from your face to instead wrap them around the curve of your hips. He tugs you over his right thigh with ease and breathes a gentle sigh of your name, beginning to pepper kisses over you cheek and down the slope of your jaw.

Bucky reaches your ear and carefully nibbles the cartilage, his voice a warm scrape in your ear. “I want you.”

It’s such a simple phrase…and yet…it tears through you and pools like a heavy weight right to your center. “Then take me.”

Quick as a strike of a match, you’re tipped backwards, cradled right between the arm of the couch and the back of it. Heat rushes through each limb and gathers in your cheeks as Bucky’s vibranium fingers skate up your chest and curl around the column of your throat—that hardened soldier he’s tried to bury bleeding through the cracks of his resolve. You don’t care. You gasp into his mouth as he squeezes ever so slightly while he pushes a firm thigh between your legs. Shit—this is how you’re gonna die—grinding on Bucky’s muscled leg while he’s got a hand around your throat. 

What a way to go.    

With his other hand he grips the meat of your thigh and pulls you higher, grinding the rough material of his jeans covering his crotch into yours. You whine and arch into him. You need more. 

You both stay here for a good while up until it feels like you’re ready to burst at the seems if you don’t have him now. Bucky is no better—cheeks flushed as he fumbles with the zipper to relieve the noticeable bulge straining against it. Impatient and needy, you shoo away his hands and do it yourself, easily sliding your warm hand down his navel and over his boxers to palm at his cock. Bucky’s hand twitches around your neck, a sweet groan filling the air when you softly squeeze him through the elastic.

“Fuck, you’re gonna…” Bucky trails off and buries his nose into the crook of your neck. “Gonna make me cum in my pants if you don’t—don’t stop.”

While the thought is tempting, you want this to last just a little bit longer. Rush after the glorious high of just being near him, his kisses, everything about him. Bucky grunts at the loss of your hand and mouths a wet trail of sloppy kisses up your neck and returns to your lips. When you part he sweeps a stray strand of hair and tucks it behind your ear. He smiles softly.

“Can I try something?” He breaths. Before he can even tell you what his idea is, you’re happily nodding along. “Wanna taste you. Been thinking about it ever since Wakanda.”

Oof. His words shoot straight your center. “Bucky—why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

His mouth quirks. “You make me nervous.”

Rolling your eyes you plant a kiss on his forehead and grant him his simple desire. Bucky sits and slides to the floor, close enough that he’s still able to hover over you. You lift your hips as Bucky tugs your shorts and underwear down and off your legs. Besides the general anxieties of being half naked in front of an incredibly attractive man and performing something so sinful on a friend’s couch—there’s a strange stroke of pride that alights through each of your vertebrae. A powerful man willingly dropping to his knees to please you. 

Bucky shoots you a smile and slides his hands around your ribcage, bends forward slightly and captures you mouth in a deep kiss. He parts and nips down your jaw and over your throat, sliding his tongue over the marks he leaves with his teeth as if to soothe the slight sting. You whine and arch into him as he slides lower, leaving an obvious trail of bruises and teeth marks in his wake until he reaches the collar of your shirt. Bucky moves his palms under the fabric to grab at your breasts, the flats of his fingertips rolling over your nipples that peak through your bra. You suck in a shaky breath when Bucky catches the pebbled bud between his forefinger and thumb, the hard vibranium of his fingers scraping over it. A low hum rumbles through his chest as he leans forward to playfully nip at your collarbone.

“I wanna see you naked.” Bucky admits as he slips his hands out of your shirt. You shiver as those chilly metal fingers gently come to rest on the outside of your bare thighs. 

“Not here, Buck,” you sigh. “T-they—fuck—they can come back any minute.”

Bucky quirks a brow, eyes dropping between your legs, then back up with a smirk. His plush lips part, yet before he can disprove your silly point—that your bare ass is already out and taking off the shirt would barely make a difference—you interject. 

“Shut up.”

His shoulders bounce with a chuckle. “You have such a way with words, y’know that?”

You make a noise low in your throat and reach out to sharply tug his ear. He easily bats your hand aside, hooks his hands under your ass and hauls until you’re all but hanging over the edge of the cushions. You squirm, unable close your legs or to relieve some of that burning tension collecting in your core as Bucky lowers himself and wedges his shoulder between your thighs. He slides his hand over your calfs and wrestles them over his broad shoulders—earning a perfect view of your pussy. You’re already wet—worked up and running on borrowed time. You roll your head back onto the back of the couch and clench your jaw. You don’t want to rush him but Christ—you really don’t want Sam or Sarah to find you like this.   

It feels like ages before Bucky’s lips touch your belly and then your navel with his warm tongue. With a grunt he shoves your shirt up to your breasts and circles your bellybutton with the tip of his tongue—his enhanced strength easily pinning you down as you jerk and giggle.

Bucky picks up his head and grins. “Try and hold still, doll.”

No sharp retort comes to mind. Fuck—he’s already got you so expertly wrapped around his finger. 

Bucky hums, satisfied with your weak nod and continues on.  

Bucky’s bare fingers trace minuscule patterns into the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, coaxing out a shiver that rushes through your body. They tickle towards the apex of your thighs and settle close enough to reach your aching center. He pauses for a moment and while you know he’s there, you curse when you feel his thumbs softly part the lips of your soaking cunt. They gently work up and down, smearing your wetness around but never enough to give you any friction as your body adjusts to the feel of flash and vibranium. You bite back a groan as your hips unconsciously twitch. 

Unsatisfied with simply touching you, Bucky shifts his weight to better reach your core. “Fuck—you’re so pretty.”   

There's a moment just before Bucky swoops down, face hovering close enough that you can feel his sticky, warm breath fan across you inner thighs. Anticipation grips your heart with an iron hold, and then— Bucky licks a broad stripe from the base of your cunt all the way up to your swollen clit. His mouth is molten, tongue like liquid velvet as you shudder and grab at his hair. Bucky grunts against you as you drag him closer by the short strands—greedy for any and all touch he gifts you. Bucky’s mouth slips around your clit, sucking and tracing circles over the bundle of nerves with the tip of his tongue. Your eyes flutter shut as a quiet moan wrenches free from your vocal cords.  

He trails lower, sucks on your labia, and makes his way down to your soaking entrance. The wet heat of his tongue circles your cunt, skips over it completely to catch the wetness before it leaks over the couch. Bucky opens his mouth wide and groans in appreciation, devouring your pussy like he’s been denied this his entire life. Desperation lingers on his tongue and all you are is the honey sweet taste of salvation. 

“Shit—Bucky,” you cry, throwing your hips forward in search of more friction.

It's perfect. So fucking delicious. 

You tense as the vibranium tips of his fingers, two of them, press at your entrance, teasing the clenching ring of soft muscle before sinking in. The chilly digits slip in with ease—all the way up to the second knuckle and when he draws them back, they're slick with your wetness. With a self-satisfied grin, Bucky thrusts them back in, then out—setting a steady pace that makes everything ache with desire. It leaves you just hovering over the sharp edge of ecstasy, the catch of his knuckles and imperceptible metal plating dragging along your walls pure torture. Fuck—he’s going to be the death of you—

Bucky’s mouth dips down a second time and sucks on your clit and with a few more curls and thrusts of his fingers inside of your clenching walls, your body seizes up tight. You're flying off that edge, faster than a fucking freight train. You cum onto his tongue and fingers with a strangled cry of his name, sparks of blurry white lining the edges of your vision as your back arches. Bucky continues to lick you through your orgasm, even as you buck and squirm in his iron hold. Supernovas implode behind your eyelids as heat, hotter than wildfire and jet fuel spreads from your center all the way up your stomach and down to your toes. You're shaking, lucid enough to hear Bucky murmur his praise—feeling the vibration of his groan, as he licks up the flood of your wetness over his tongue. 

Your brain swims in hazy bliss as you float back to reality. He's still curling his fingers into your pussy and it damn near hurts. You're too sensitive. Nerves rubbed raw and still throbbing—but you're too fucked out and still riding the waves of your orgasm to push him away. Bucky is all too happy to remain between your legs—takes this opportunity to tilt his fingers into your cunt faster, suckle and lave his hot tongue over your clit that burns from overstimulation—somehow you're back at the very edge again.

It's sharper than a vibranium razor against bare flesh. Your thighs shake around him as he twists his fingers inside you and bumps agains that tiny, little patch of nerves. You cry out as an orgasm floods through you veins, rupturing each cell in your being with molten pleasure. Your core pulses around Bucky’s fingers, fucking you through it until those burning waves of release eventually cease to a fading throb. You whine and push at his forehead because he's still going. You panic a bit—fucking hell, he’s gonna make you cry—but he pulls away, his mouth and chin wet with your slick. 

“Feel good?” Bucky purrs, resting his cheek on your thigh. 

If judging by the way you thighs still quiver and your chest heaves—then yeah—it felt good. 

Cheeky bastard.  

“Get up here—“

You grapple with his shirt, fisting the thin fabric, but he’s heavy and your entire body feels like jello. Your grip strength is all but laughable at the moment as Bucky clambers back onto the couch and grabs both of your legs, slotting his narrow hips between them. One leg is stuck against the back of the couch while the other hangs off the edge, foot skimming the hardwood floor to accommodate Bucky. Not the most comfortable but fuck it—who cares.    

Bucky grunts when you lift your hands and hook your fingers into the waistband of his jeans, tugging them halfway down his legs with a sharp yank. Already a dark patch of wetness stains the fabric of his boxers, the impressive bulge straining against the elastic and begging to be released. Your eyes meet his icy blue ones as you slowly pull his boxers over his cock. It bounces up towards his navel, thick and beautiful just like the rest of him. 

Impatient, Bucky’s fingers curl around your wrist and presses your open palm against his cock. He’s thick and heavy in your hand—perfect. The bead of precum that pools at his flushed tip smears against the inside of your palm as you experimentally roll your wrist, fascinated with the feel of his foreskin rolling over the steel heard flesh with each stroke.You give his a cock a rougher squeeze, a bolt of liquid heat settling in the pit of your stomach as a stifled moan reaches your ears. 

A sharp hiss of hair passes through his clenched teeth as you lightly tug on his cock. From the base up you pull, fixed upon the throbbing flesh, flushed and pulsing and all for you. His cock bobs when you let go—he huffs out a disappointed noise. “I need you, Buck—please.” 

Your previous two orgasms did seemingly nothing to soothe the growing ache for him. It prickles up your spine and singes through every nerve and bone—you whine and arch your hips, trying to touch your slick cunt to his cock. Bucky growls your name and pins your hips to the couch with ease. 

With his left hand, Bucky firmly grips your jaw, his stare folding into something serious. “You sure?”

Your tongue runs over your bottom lip. You grin. “Do your worst.”

Bucky curses and readjusts your calf slung over his hip and grips the base of his cock. You shudder as he runs the blunt head through your folds, slicking himself up with your arousal. You mewl and dig your nails into the flesh of his forearm as the wide tip of him pushes into your entrance—he shudders as you clench and arch. It doesn’t hurt, but he’s certainly not small in any way shape or form. You’ll feel him for days afterwards as your cunt swallows inch after inch. 

You both groan as he finally bottoms out. His jaw clenched tight as sweat beads at his hairline. Shit—he’s gorgeous—struggling not to loose control the moment he’s buried inside of you. You allow yourself to adjust for a moment but your own impatience rakes down your spine with claws of scorching arousal. You rock your hips in curiosity and squeeze around him. 

“Fuck—“ A ragged moans severs his words as your gentle rocking tilts into abrasive jolts. At this angle it’s difficult to fuck yourself onto his cock, but the measly thrusts are meant to tempt him. His left hand shoots to your throat, the chilly metal a stark contrast to your flushed skin. You dip your head back, exposing more of your supple skin—all his for the taking. 

You dig the heel of your foot into the small of his back and grab at his shoulders—tempting him into fucking you already. You’ve waited long enough. Bucky snarls your name, hooks one hand under your ass and pulls his cock nearly all the way, out only to slam back in with devastating force. There’s no time to adjust or gather your obliterated thoughts before Bucky sets a pace, desperate and feral. Each roll of his hips borders erratic, taking his pleasure without thought—intent on reaching his own end after being denied for what seems like a millennia—and maybe it has been. Bucky shifts, widening his knees as much as he can to sink lower onto your body—his soft hair tickles your cheek as his choppy exhales burn hot over your skin. 

Bucky turns his head to steal a kiss, open mouthed and catastrophic. No words are exchanged as he fucks into you with brutal strength aided by that damn super-soldier serum—there’s no need for them, not now anyway. You complete each other without the spoken utterances—still both a work in progress. Though most things are you suppose—constantly remaking yourselves, but instead of smashing the haphazard pieces back together alone—you have one another. You bury your hand in his hair and cry his name.  

You choke out another groan and feel your arousal begin to drip down your thighs—hear the thrusts of his cock into your cunt become shamefully wetter and damn—you really hope nothing gets on this stupid couch. You don’t want to explain that Sam. 

Electric heat sears down each vertebrae in your spine, blazing through each and every vein with the brilliance of a wildfire escaping the edges of the forest. This is gonna ruin you. Bucky’s hand reaches between your bodies and rubs tight, controlled circles over you swollen clit. There’s no build up to your orgasm—just a calamitous surge of warmth that sweeps your very soul off its feet. Your nails dig into Bucky's back as you shake and fumble for a foothold in your own consciousness—the steady warmth of his body a much needed anchor. 

You have no time to recover because he’s still going. Thrusting into your pussy with violent slaps that echo through the room and will more than likely leave bruises against your ass. Through the pressure of his hand over your windpipe—threatening to cut your air off completely—you garble out his name. Bucky drops his head to his chin, the weight of his gaze landing between your legs, watching the way his entire length disappears inside of you. When he raises his head he molds his mouth to yours. The soft, wet kisses rapidly morph into pricks of his teeth, his gravelly moans so pleasing to hear. 

You arch and tilt your head back as he presses you harder into the couch. The vibranium hand latched onto your jaw, works it open and slides a thumb past your plush lips. You lave your tongue over the digit—the metallic tang flooding your tastebuds. “Good girl—m’close. A little longer.”

Bucky’s panting breaths mingle with yours as his pace turns vicious. Chasing his high that he so desperately needs. Overstimulation bites at your nerves, but with a gentle tug to the soft strands of hair on the back of his neck and a sweet whisper of his name, Bucky bursts. His moan jumps up an octave, eyes slamming shut as he buries his face into the juncture of your neck and shoulder as he cums. He’s shuddering in your arms as his hips erratically jerk, hot spurts of his release coating your insides. You whine and tilt your hips up to prevent it from spilling onto the couch. 

Finally he slows to a stop, ragged breathing filling the air as the heat and weight of his body becomes a welcome comfort. Eventually that warmth grows stifling. He lazily pulls away, observing gaze drinking in each inch of bare skin exposed—the marks and the light sheen of sweat. You hiss as he curiously drags his thumb over the bite mark lingering just above your collarbone.

He parts his plush lips but before he can apologize, you interject. “Don’t—I like the reminder.”

Bucky shakes his head and drops down to tempt your lips into a lazy dance. “You’re a weirdo.”

You smile and cup his cheek. “I’m not the one with a staring problem. You know that you can’t kill people by glaring, right?”

Bucky kisses your cheek, your jaw, and then the dip of your throat. “You don’t ever shut up, do you?” 

You shudder as his softening cock twitches inside of you, another coal of desire flaring in the pit of your stomach. You flash him a coquettish grin. “Maybe if you give my mouth something to do, you’ll finally get some peace and quiet.” 

Something dark and dangerous flickers within those eyes. You shiver as one hand returns to your throat while the other draws teasing patterns over the outside of your thigh. He draws in close, nips at the shell of your ear and chuckles darkly. “You’re on.”

[aidanchaser]

Waterloo Station

Several folks said, “I would love to see more of Regulus and Sirius shenanigans!” after Chapter 18. Well, lo and behold, I actually have a deleted bit of Chapter 18 showcasing just that. The second draft was from Sirius’ perspective, but since Sirius lent his voice to In Memoriam, and we’re about to hit a short run of non-Harry chapters, I brought the chapter back to Harry in the third draft. (the first draft was an entirely different Harry chapter about breaking James out of prison, but that got pushed back in favor of some character development; we’ll get back to it, I promise.)

So here’s a short bit, taken out of my scraps. It’s headed with “MY DARLING” because it is one of several darlings I have killed while writing Deathly Hallows, but it’s the only one to earn the all-caps title. Thanks to the magic of fanfic, I can still share this darling with you. (the alternate title for this chapter should be: Sirius Accidentally Outs Himself as a Furry)

Padfoot hated the city. It was loud and there were so many people, each with their own scents and emotions. He supposed he should count himself lucky Harry had bled so much, or the trail would have been harder to follow.

He recognized the wizards on the platform easily. Their attire of slacks combined with hoodies or rain slickers paired with thick rubber work boots marked them easily as incompetently dressed Ministry employees. Sirius supposed they were keeping an eye open for someone stupid enough to come to the platform in search of Harry, someone just like him.

The platform had been scrubbed clean, but Padfoot could still detect Harry’s scent through the bleach. He didn’t board the train that pulled into the station, not yet. He waited, sniffing the entrance of the car carefully. He didn’t smell Harry or bleach. So he sat back and waited. A few Muggles scratched his ears as they passed or before boarding the train. Sirius let them without protest. 

He had learned that Muggles, by and large, enjoyed dogs as long as those dogs were gentle, still, and quiet. And if he was anything else — too loud, too quick, or too threatening — they were eager to chase him out or worse, catch him. It was a lesson he had learned early in his life, long before he had become Padfoot; it was just an easier lesson to follow when he was Padfoot. Something about a thick coat of fur, the eyes and ears of a predator, and four paws to run with made him far more comfortable and settled in his own skin than being a young boy in the middle of a war ever had. 

Another train pulled in, and this one, too, didn’t smell of Harry, but the third one did. He followed the Muggles into the carriage, and noticed a small black shadow slip in after him. It hid under the seat, and Sirius pointedly ignored it. He took a post at the door and waited, ready to check each stop this train made until he found Harry.

Regulus had tried desperately to talk him out of this, but Sirius had ignored him. Between him, Lily, and Remus, Sirius was the only one who could track down Harry, and if he didn’t, Lily and Remus would. Lily was far more likely to be recognized on the platform than Padfoot was, making Sirius not only the safest choice, but the most efficient choice, given Padfoot’s hunting instincts.

The first stop didn’t have even a whiff of Harry, but the second one did, though it was no longer paired with bleach. Sirius could only surmise that Harry had healed any open wounds before exiting the train and he felt both relieved and proud. 

That relief vanished almost as soon as he stepped off of the train. This station was enormous. It wasn’t just another Underground station; it was the biggest train station in London. Crowds hurried past, chasing after trains. Others clustered around kiosks and maps. Sirius’ heart sank. Harry could have boarded a train to practically anywhere from here, even Paris. 

The small black shadow slunk out of the carriage behind him and slipped into a tiny space beneath a nearby bin. Padfoot put his wet nose to the ground and followed Harry’s faint scent to a ticket station. From there it was difficult to determine where to go next. He thought he had a faint trail of Harry’s blood but it was unusual, mixed with something else.

“Pardon me, sir,” a nearby Muggle said, “but you need to have your dog on a lead at all times —”

“Oh,” a man looked down at Padfoot. “He’s not my dog.”

Sirius decided to follow the scent of Harry’s blood. It led him out of the station and away from the Underground service workers. The last thing he needed was for a well-meaning Muggle to try to help him find his owner. The few times it had happened in the past, he had always had James to bail it out.

Sirius shook off the stab of grief that came with the thought. It was always easier to shake off grief as Padfoot, as if the same abilities that heightened his physical senses dulled the sharper edges of his hurt. Besides, he reminded himself, there was nothing he could do for James right now, not until they were able to find whatever Death Eater prison he was being held in — and they had to believe he was being held. What Sirius could do was find Harry.

Though it had been less than twenty-four hours since Harry had passed through here, London had a way of making people invisible, of burying passersby in the scent of automobile smog and endless eateries. Sirius had to work hard to discern the scent of Harry’s blood through it all, but he managed to follow the trail south for less than a mile until it disappeared into a tall, brown-brick residential building.

Padfoot sat down on the pavement and evaluated his options. It would not be hard to sniff out Harry, if he truly was in this building, but a large dog was likely to be chased out of a private building. As Sirius, it wouldn’t be hard to charm his way into the building, but it might be harder to find Harry.

Padfoot barked softly at the bushes. The black cat that had been tailing him crawled out. He knew Regulus had no interest in helping him, and had only come along as emergency backup in case of a duel, but Padfoot gestured his head towards the building anyway.

The small, black cat stared at Padfoot, then back up at the building. Reluctantly, he slipped up the stairs and into the building on the heels of an unsuspecting resident.

Padfoot sniffed the stone retaining wall. Plenty of people had passed through here, but he didn’t smell Harry, not exactly. He definitely smelled the blood trail he had been following, but that wasn’t the same thing as Harry’s scent. He wondered if it was Greyback who had come through here, but Sirius was fairly certain that he would recognize Greyback’s scent if he came across it.

He wondered, briefly, if Regulus had been right when he had said that Sirius was better off staying with Remus and Lily, rather than hunting down Harry. The full moon was just two days away, and he knew Remus was nervous. Brewing the Wolfsbane Potion had been impossible this week. They had been moving too frequently to get together the ingredients, and they still hadn’t figured out where Remus was going to transform. Lily would need to be somewhere safe but on hand in case of emergency, and they couldn’t be anywhere too open that might put others at risk. Tonks had, kindly, suggested hers and her mother’s home, but that had only sent Remus into another downward spiral. Remus was wary enough of transforming around people he loved when he had the Wolfsbane Potion to keep his mind. He was never going to allow himself to lose control with Tonks so close at hand.

Sirius tried to shake his worries off. Remus was tomorrow’s problem. Harry was today’s.

Regulus returned from his investigation surprisingly quickly. He hurried across the street and over a low wall, into some plants. When he stepped out as himself, Sirius reluctantly followed and also used the wall as cover to return to his human form.

“What did you find?” Sirius asked.

Regulus smoothed the front of his cloak. “Harry isn’t there.”

“I know.”

“Then why did we come here?”

Sirius swung his legs over the wall. “Because someone here has information about Harry. Did you follow the blood trail?”

“It’s going to be a dead end.”

“I’d prefer you didn’t use that word.”

“The trail is cold, Sirius. We have no way to know where Harry has gone.”

“Give me a flat number and I’ll go myself.”

Regulus hesitated, but Sirius knew he would give in. They were stubborn, the both of them, but Regulus had never built up the tolerance for conflict that Sirius had. Sirius could thrive in the center of chaos; he’d had to in order to survive. Regulus, however, invested too much effort in fighting chaos. It was always going to be a losing battle.

Regulus crossed the street, back to the building. He pointed his wand at the lock, but it didn’t budge.

Sirius looked over Regulus’ shoulder. “Oh, it’s one of those keypads? <i>Alohomora</i> is no good.” He dug his own wand out and aimed a hot white spark. It fizzed and sputtered and then the lock clicked.

Regulus pulled the door open. “Did you break it?”

Sirius shrugged. “They malfunction all the time. Keeps the Muggle maintenance men employed.”

Regulus led Sirius upstairs to the top floor and gestured at a door near the stairwell. “The trail leads here. But I didn’t see, hear, or smell anything to indicate that Harry might be here. I can’t imagine Harry would have stayed in London.”

“No, but if whoever lives here had Harry’s blood on them, they might be able to tell us something.”

“And if that person is a Death Eater?”

“Then I guess we’ll duel them.” Sirius knocked on the door.

“We aren’t even going to try to disguise ourselves?” Regulus hissed at him, but Sirius couldn’t answer, because the door opened.

The gentleman in the doorway wore a fine Muggle suit. His skin was dark and he had a neatly trimmed beard and shaved head. He looked about Sirius’ age, and was about as tall, though definitely rounder in both face and build.

He looked over the two of them and raised a thick eyebrow. “Can I help you?”

Sirius held out his hand. “I hope so. My name’s Sirius.”

“Nigel Brooks,” he said, and shook Sirius’ hand warily. His eyes drifted over Sirius’ shoulder to Regulus, but Sirius had a feeling Regulus would not be keen on an introduction.

Sirius reached into his pocket and pulled out a photograph. “We’re trying to find someone, and we think you might have run into him.” The picture of Harry was from Remus’ wedding. He had folded it over so that Ron and Hermione were hidden, along with most of the movement in the picture. Harry still blinked and his smile moved slightly, but Sirius hoped the Muggle would just think it a trick of the light.

Brooks took the photo to examine it more closely, then shrugged. “Might’ve seen him around.” He looked Sirius and Regulus over again. “You don’t look like police.”

Sirius glanced down at his worn jeans and leather jacket. “Hardly,” he said. “I’m his godfather. His mother’s awfully worried. We’re just trying to get some information.”

Brooks returned the photograph. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. Best of luck, though.”

He started to close the door, but Sirius wedged his foot in the door. “We know you saw him, and at the very least, got his blood on you. We’re just trying to find out where he might have gone. There are dangerous people after him.”

Nigel straightened, and Sirius recognized a familiar determination in his dark eyes. “If what you say is true, and if I really did run into a young man, injured and running for his life, then what makes you think I would tell the first strangers who knocked on my door anything about him?”

“We’re his family.”

“Family can’t be dangerous?” Brook’s voice was cold, and Sirius, while he appreciated the man’s desire to protect Harry, felt outmatched. He didn’t feel outmatched very often.

“His name is Harry,” Regulus said, “and all we want is to know that he’s alive. You don’t have to tell us where he went, just tell us that he’s safe.”

Brooks stared at Regulus for a moment, then opened the door so it was no longer pressing on Sirius’ foot. “He’s alive, as far as I know. There was a lot of blood, but his injuries weren’t as bad as they looked. I thought whoever was chasing him had torn his wrist open, but when he showed it to me, there wasn’t even a scratch. He refused to go to hospital, just said he wanted out of the city, so I put him on a train. That’s the last I saw of him.”

“Has anyone else come asking for him?”

“No. You’re the first.”

“Thank you for your help.” Regulus inclined his head. “Sirius, we’re done here.”

Sirius did not think they were done. He wanted to know exactly which train Harry had gotten on. But Regulus was already leaving.

“Reg — wait —” But Regulus did not wait. Sirius eyed Brooks, but he supposed Regulus was right. They weren’t going to get anything more out of this man.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

“Sirius —” Brooks hesitated, and Sirius waited, hopeful.

But Brooks gave them neither a train nor destination. Instead, he handed Sirius a small business card. “If you find him, I’d like to know he’s alright.”

Sirius looked down at the plain white card. It had the man’s name printed on it and the contact information for an art gallery. 

“I’d find him faster if you’d tell me more.”

“He told me he was going to find his aunt and uncle,” Brooks said. “If you’re really his family, it shouldn’t be hard for you to track them down.” And he closed the door.

Sirius walked away, more confused than when they had arrived. He met Regulus at the bottom of the stairs.

“Did he tell you anything?” Regulus asked.

Sirius handed Regulus the business card. “He said Harry went to stay with an aunt and uncle. Do you think he meant Tonks and Remus?”

“I suppose that would be a simple way to explain their relationship to a stranger. Why would Harry go to Remus?”

“Maybe a fight with Greyback scared some sense in him.” Sirius found himself hoping it was true rather than believing it was true. Harry had been pushing them away all summer, and Sirius thought one duel unlikely to have changed Harry’s mind. Harry had his mother’s stubbornness, after all. 

Regulus handed the card back to Sirius. “I suppose there’s nothing else to do. We’ll just have to trust this man Brooks’ word that Harry is safe.”

“We’re hardly done.” Sirius was already walking back to the station at a brisk pace. “Now we show Harry’s photograph on the platforms. We start with the line headed for Tonks, and pray he didn't actually board a train to Paris.”

An unusual anger sparked in Regulus’ cold gaze as he hurried after Sirius. Not that Regulus never got angry, but he usually tempered it so well. “Harry is wanted by some of the most dangerous people in the world and you think it's a good idea to flash his picture around to every blasted Muggle in London — you’re also wanted by those same people! You can't just spend a day on a platform where they're surely to be looking for Harry — it’s absurd!”

Regulus' general frown of displeasure twitched with his outburst. His nose scrunched the tiniest bit and his already thin lips seemed to disappear. He looked so much like Narcissa. Sirius looked away, wishing his brother could wear someone else’s face. He wished, more often than not, that he could wear someone else’s face, too. Perhaps that was just another reason it was so much easier to be Padfoot.

“We’ll wear disguises.” Sirius surprised himself with the “we.” He had never wanted Regulus to come along on this hunt in the first place, but suddenly he was not keen on Regulus leaving him to it alone. “Hell we could even pretend to be Hit Wizards, deputised with hunting Harry down, if any wizards question us.”

“But the Muggles, Sirius! You’ll have to Obliviate every single one of them that you talk to, or else the Death Eaters or Hit Wizards or Muggle-born Registration Commision or Snatchers or any other group of wizards that want you and I dead could interrogate them and track it back to us — or worse back to Harry.”

“That will take us forever —”

“Why can't you just let Harry go? You know he got away from Greyback. Brooks put him on a train, helped him, made sure he wasn’t injured, so he must be safe somewhere. Isn’t that enough?”

“No. Not for me, and not for Lily nor Remus.” It wouldn’t be enough for James, either.

“You can't protect him from everything, Sirius. He’s seventeen now, and whatever Dumbledore’s asked of him —”

Anger flared hot and bright in Sirius' chest as he whirled on Regulus, and there was no Padfoot to soften the edges as he snarled Regulus words back at him. “‘Whatever Dumbledore’s asked of him’? Harry’s told us you're in on it so don't give me that hippogriff shit acting like you don't know. Like you're not keeping all the same secrets from us as Harry is. Like this is somehow less your fault, just because you slink away from arguments whenever you damn well please.”

Regulus’ temper faded from his face, replaced with an unusual, stricken expression that Sirius was not sure he had ever seen on his brother. Blacks felt many things, and usually felt them strongly, but fear? That wasn't something Sirius had seen in any of his cousins before, nor his brother.

But to Regulus’ credit, he did not transform into a cat and run away. He carefully schooled his expression back into its traditional calm and proud with a dash of disdainful form.

“I’ll help you find Harry,” he finally said in a quiet, almost apologetic voice. “But we Transfigure our disguises, no Polyjuice. It's too unreliable. And we Obliviate every Muggle we meet — don’t argue with me on this, Sirius! Yes, it will take longer, but it will keep Harry safer, and I trust that wherever he has run off to, he is indeed safe. We would have heard otherwise if he wasn't.”

Sirius took in several deep breaths to make sure his anger was cooled, at least enough that it would not attract the attention of those passing by them on the pavement, before speaking again. “Fine. Let’s do what we can today. And I want to put a word in the paper to Tonks, just in case he really did mean that he was on his way to her and Remus.”

“The paper? Sirius —”

“Not the <i>Prophet</i>. I’m not an idiot. Tonks, Remus, and I have a code we use for personals in the <i>Times</i>. Her idea. Said her dad used to use it in the first war to communicate with some of his Muggle-born friends, at first just after he and Andromeda eloped and had gone to ground to avoid her family, then as part of the war effort.”

Regulus shook his head. “It’s still risky —”

“It’s a war. There’s risk. Accept it and move on. The longer you whine about it, the longer nothing gets done.”

Regulus studied Sirius, and Sirius did not care for the intent look on Regulus’ face, almost like Regulus was trying to peer directly into his thoughts. It reminded him too much of their mother, trying to parse just how much trouble Sirius was in, just how much damage he had done.

But Regulus did not scold Sirius, nor criticise him. “I’m sorry,” he said instead. “You're right.”

Had Sirius been in a slightly better mood, he might have had a joke ready, made Regulus repeat his apology. As it stood, Sirius had trouble accepting it at all. Perhaps it was no real wonder he and Regulus had grown so far apart. Even when one reached out, the other couldn't bother to reach back.

He zipped up his jacket, suddenly cold, though it was only the middle of the afternoon, and kicked his boots against a nearby wall. It didn't lessen his frustration. 

And after a full day walking up and down train platforms, talking to and Obliviating every Muggle they met, Sirius was no less frustrated. The task ahead of them was enormous, and with each passing day that left them with no leads, it seemed more and more futile.

But there was nothing else to do. Lily and Remus did their part connecting with the Order, hunting down rumors of sightings of Harry, while Regulus and Sirius plodded on through Muggle after Muggle and Memory Charm after Memory Charm.

It was two full moons more before, finally, a Muggle woman frowned as she looked at the photo.

“I think… Goodness it’s been a while, but I think I did see him. Or I saw a boy who looked like him. Had red hair. I thought it odd with his complexion, but it was a dark sort of red, I suppose. The glasses… I can’t remember if he was wearing them or not. He was a twitchy lad, though, rather unhappy face. Is he in some sort of trouble?”

“No,” Sirius said, though it was not exactly true. He spoke quickly, anxious to get every detail out of this woman. “I’m his godfather, just trying to track him down. Can you tell me where he went?”

She pursed her lips. “I think… it must have been the rail line that goes out to Portsmouth — yes, I was visiting my sister that day, and I remember he had a large pack. I thought he must be on his way home from a walking tour.”

Sirius could not fathom what might have attracted Harry to Portsmouth. He wondered if it had something to do with Dumbledore. Maybe Regulus would know, but Regulus said nothing, mere stood at Sirius’ side, waiting to Obliviate this poor woman as soon as she was done talking.

“Do you know where he got off the train?” Sirius asked.

She frowned and handed the photograph back to Sirius. “I don’t know… he tripped over my bag on his way out. I felt awful. It… oh! It was Guildford. Yes, I remember, because —”

“Thank you so much for your time,” Regulus interrupted. Then, her eyes glassed over. She blinked at Sirius and Regulus, slowly, uncertain.

“Er — can I help you?” she asked.

“No, thanks,” Sirius grunted, and as soon as she was gone, he whirled on Regulus. “She might have had more information!”

“We needed to know where Harry had gone. Now we know. What else could she have told us? It’s not as if she followed him off the train. Besides, Sirius, she saw Harry over a month ago. There’s no way Harry’s still in Guildford, no reason he would stay in one place for so long.”

“Are you sure?” Sirius lowered his voice and tried to keep the threatening tone out of it, but he found it difficult. “You don’t know of anything in Guildford that might keep him there? Nothing to do with Dumbledore or You-Know-Who?”

Regulus’ stare was even, but that didn’t tell Sirius much. “Nothing. And if you can’t think of anything that would keep him there, then all we can do is go down there and see if some other Muggle happens to remember him passing through months ago — there’s just no sense in it. We know he got away safely. Let that be enough.”

Sirius was no longer listening to Regulus. He had plucked a map from a kiosk and was staring at Guildford on the network of spider web lines spiraling out from Waterloo Station, trying to make sense of why it had appealed to Harry.

“I’m an idiot,” he finally said.

“That’s nothing new,” Regulus said.

“Brooks told us where he was going from the beginning and I was too stupid to understand.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He was going to see his aunt and uncle, is what Brooks said. Not Tonks and Remus — his mum’s sister. Her Muggle family.”

“Does Harry even know them?”

“He knows they’re in hiding, and he knows their house will be empty — bloody hell I can’t believe I’m that thick.” Sirius balled the map up in his fist.

“Should we tell Lily and Remus —”

“Let’s make sure he’s there before we get their hopes up.” Sirius fought down another grunt of frustration. He had not felt this stupid in a long time, but how was he supposed to connect Harry to Petunia and Vernon, whom Harry had met perhaps twice in his life? He did not even wait to slip away to a hidden corner of the platform to Disapparate. He turned on the spot, in the midst of a crowd of Muggles, ignoring all of Regulus’ protests, and disappeared with a crack.

[bungamawar001]

Murder Mystery

this is supposed to be for Cubetober day one, but my mind blanked out in the middle of it, so i finished it late. also i wrote this in three different times of day with three different states of mind, so if it's inconsistant that's why.

anyway, this is set in my au that i made when i was 13, so i apologize to anyone reading this if it's scuffed, but it still holds a very special place in my heart, so here it is.

~~~~~~~

Sparklez was talking. Jesse wasn’t really paying attention to what he was saying, but it probably wasn’t anything he didn’t already know. What he was more interested in were the rest of the people seated in front of him. Their bubbles (or auras as was the proper term, apparently) to be exact.

Because the ones surrounding these people were strange. They were denser than the average person’s back in his home dimension, which usually meant they were physically stronger, but none of them looked like they could lift more than any other average person. A likely explanation was just that was how people were in this world, and that was all fine and dandy, but the one that concerned him the most was, ironically, the most normal of their group.

Alright, not normal, but her gold blinking aura was familiar, and to top it off, it was dense and had range. The only times he’d ever felt a bubble like this was with the members of the Order of the Stone. And even if they couldn’t lift more than their own body weight in the best of days, they still had their abilities. Which Jesse found out was the reason for the density and range.

This girl, however, (Cassie Rose, his mind supplied for him) was supposedly from this world. And yet, she had the aura of a person with the same sort of abilities as the old Order of the Stone and himself. Which, if that wasn’t suspicious-

He snapped his attention to where Dan’s fizzling started leaning more towards curiosity than anxiety. It could be something Sparklez had said, but no one else’s mood had shifted quite like his… also, he was looking under the table. Interesting.

“-whoever invited us-”

“Whatcha got there, Dan?”

Sparklez started as Jesse abruptly cut him off, and the entire table turned their attention towards him. Jesse nearly staggered at the weight of the scrutiny, but he managed to keep his gaze on the dual-colored aura.

“O-oh, um, it’s just this button, see?” Dan pushed his chair back and stood up to reveal that there was indeed a button under the table. “I was just thinking that it was an odd place to put one…”

“Dan!” Lizzie looked at her friend incredulously, her swirls now had a hint of exasperation, but the anxiety seemed to multiply tenfold, “Don’t tell us you were about to press it!”

“What?” He was quick to defend himself as his fizzling shifted to fear and embarrassment. It was mostly the fear, though. “No! No, of course not-”

A quick glance around the table to the rest of his friends seemed to drain his resolve, “W-well, I-I mean - “

He stumbled around his words for another second before he threw his hands up and covered his face, “You guys know how I am with buttons! Give me a break!”

Surprisingly, despite how wound up they looked, they did stop glaring at him. And yet…

‘They’re all suspicious of him now’, Jesse thinks to himself as he glances around at the rest of the auras around him. ‘Well, all of them. Except for one.’

Cassie’s gold blinked in anticipation, satisfaction, and a hint of regret that kept coming and going. Which, combined with her odd aura was a dead giveaway that she was the culprit, one hundred percent. At least, that’s what Jesse thought, in any case-

“Oh, hey. I have one too.” Everyone turned their heads towards StampyCat just in time to see him press the button on his side of the table.

“Stampy, DON’T-!”

Jesse wasn’t sure who yelled, but it didn’t matter. Because one second, Sparklez was standing right beside him, and then the next his chair tipped backwards towards a gaping hole that had opened up in the floor.

His reflexes had gotten better ever since a year ago, when they were still in that treehouse, but even then, he could do nothing but watch as his fingers brushed against Sparklez’s sleeve before he dropped into the abyss down below. He thought he felt someone whizz by him as he watched Sparklez fall, but there wasn’t any time to think about it before sand fell from the ceiling and filled up the hole.

At this point, everybody’s auras were swirling, fizzing, popping with fear, anxiety, grief. It was getting harder and harder to keep the forigen emotions at bay along with his own. It didn’t help that Cassie Rose (because she was a damn good actor, but she sure as hell can’t mask her inner self), aka White Pumpkin, aka the current literal bane of his existence, decided to put on a show right after the goddamn murder.

So when the lights turned on again, Jesse found himself kneeling on the floor and clutching his head. It took all of his power to not hurl his guts right then and there. Petra and Lukas, the godsends, seemed to be hoarding everyone out of the room, while Ivor had somehow ended up beside him with his hand on his head. He hadn’t been able to sense Gabriel anywhere since the sand fell, and he would’ve been more concerned over it if he were in any better shape.

As it was, he felt his nausea gradually receding as he felt the effects of Regeneration wash over him. Or maybe it was Health. He vaguely remembered Ivor trying to teach him something about that, although he can’t quite remember at the moment.

“Jesse? How do you feel?” Ivor’s voice cut through the fog in his brain, and he mentally thanked the man for keeping his volume down.

“I’m- I think I’m okay now.” He stayed on the floor for a second. Just to try and fill in the gaps in his memory after Sparklez…

He was instantly overcome with guilt at that thought. So much so that Ivor’s hand left his head as he recoiled from the intensity of it. It came back a second later, and Jesse could feel the other’s concern from where Ivor was sitting next to him.

“Jesse?”

“It- the- the sand- Sparklez…”

Ivor’s royal blue aura shimmered with relief, and Jesse looked at him in confusion as the older man lightly shook his head.

“Sparklez is fine, Jesse. I activated Speed and caught him before he fell.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. It’ll be a pain to try and explain that to the newcomers, however.”

Well. That’s a relief. Not the explaining part. But at least no one died this time. He’ll probably still have nightmares about this incident though. Bummer.

~~~~~~~~~

When Jesse and Ivor finally stepped out into the main hall, they took a double take at the scene in front of them.

Stampy was hiding behind Gabriel and Petra; Dan and Lizzie were in an argument against Stacy and Cassie; and Sparklez and Lukas seemed to be stuck in the middle failing to act as mediator between the groups.

“This is Stampy we’re talking about, guys! He didn’t do it on purpose!” Lizzie’s pink was swirling with anxiety and it seemed like her resolve was faltering.

“He still pressed the button! After all the grief we gave Dan for thinking about it, he still pressed it!” Stacy’s navy was the opposite. There was fear there, sure. But her anger and betrayal was burning much stronger and more decisively than Lizzie’s.

It would probably be a smart idea to diffuse this situation sooner rather than later.

“Hey! Hey, guys?” Jesse tried. They seemed to be too caught up in yelling at each other to have noticed the new arrivals.

“I would’ve pressed it! If Jesse hadn’t stopped me I would’ve! I was curious about it, and Stampy was too!” Dan’s blue and white aura was a sight to behold. Not because of the dual colors, Jesse's gotten over that while he’d been questioning him. His anger was making his bubble fizzle and spark, and his desperation was thick in the air.

“What Dan said!” Stampy’s aura was chilly with fear and betrayal. Which was valid, since two of his friends were vehemently against him..

“So you admit to being the White Pumpkin?” Cassie Rose. Her gold aura was bleeding with victory and even more regret. There was also a sort of desperate relief much closer to her core that almost had Jesse wondering why she was doing this..

Almost.

“Guys, I have-”

“Allll right! Let’s not start accusing people with doubtful evidence-”

Stacy whipped around to face her friend, “You were the one who fell because of him, Sparklez!”

“Yes, I know that, just- just hear me out, okay?” CaptainSparklez’ bright red aura had been calm, for the entire time that Jesse had been around him. Even now, after his brush of death, and the layers of anxiousness and fear within him, his aura didn’t send wave after wave of emotions like Jesse expected.

He didn’t know if that was the reason everybody settled, or because Sparklez was the one who nearly died this time, but finally, Stacy’s angry burning mellowed down to a smaller flame, and Dan’s sparks grew less intense, although his anger was still fizzling quickly and quietly in his own bubble.

“I- I know this has been a very stressful evening for all of us, but Stampy’s our friend. I know we haven’t known him as long as Lizzie and Dan have, Stacy, Cassie, but I know him well enough to be positive that he wouldn’t do something like this on purpose.”

“...fine,” With that, Stacy’s anger disappeared, and in its place was a mix of doubt and regret. Maybe she wasn’t really angry at Stampy in the end? There were only so many people to blame, after all. “But if you’re so sure he didn’t do it, then who did?”

Cassie’s bubble started to blink rapidly in desperation, and Jesse rushed to interject before she could say anything, “I know who it is.”

Before anyone could react and without missing a beat, Cassie responded, “Is it you?”

“Wha- No! I’m not going to say names without any further proof, but it’s not me!”

“That sounds like something a suspicious person would say.”

Jesse’s had just about enough of this ginger, honestly, “And how would you know what a suspicious person sounds like?”

“Like you, clearly.”

“I am not-!”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Gabriel grabbed Jesse’s arm and pulled him away. “We have more important things to worry about.”

Right. Finding proof.

~~~~~~~

It was a hassle, trying to get everyone to agree to stay in the same room while Jesse, Ivor, and Petra took a look around. Eventually, they reached a compromise when it was brought up that Ivor was the one who saved Sparklez. Unfortunately, part of that compromise was they had to bring Cassie with them.

He risked a glance at the golden bubble blinking rapidly with determination and sighed. This was going to be a long night.

[love-we-write]

Eccedentesiast

Character: RichyxMC (ambiguous platonic or romantic)  Genre: Hurt/Comfort? Friendship/Romance? Unbeta-ed mess is for certain Words: 4,188  Summary: Richy is used to being known to be able to bring a little bit of comical sunshine to everybody’s gloom. He’s just not used to letting anyone know that he’s burning behind that light. But then, you appeared in his life.  Potential T/W: mentions of panic attacks   A/N: Done in conjunction with the Duskwood Secret Santa event~! Dear @anatomical-myocardium, Merry Christmas to you~! Sorry this took so long to post, I swear my laptop crashes on me at the most inconvenient time sometimes. I hope I did this justice as a gift to you, and I hope you like it, just as I absolutely love your gift to me~! Have a safe and happy Christmas~!  ❤️ ❤️

And with a renewed vow to write anything and everything that I want to write without minding if it’s a game, or an anime, or an anime game, or Kpop, here we go~!  ❤️ ❤️

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

Richy is most known by his friends and all the Duskwood residents for his carefree nature, and he is very much aware of this. 

With his small group of friends, he has been the joker of the group longer than memory can serve, always light-hearted with that small touch of dry humor to help liven up the mood. From their weekly battle of Doodle Friends to their catch up session at Aurora’s, all seven of them look to Richy to brighten their days with his quick-witted comebacks and his lame jokes that gets even Lily - ever the serious one - to chuckle.

At his job, his bright personality makes him one of the select few who could talk to Alfie without unnerving the boy, and from greeting old ladies who pass by his shop to chatting away with his customers while he repairs their cars, everyone does not have qualms to admit that Richy’s easy-going nature is his most admirable trait, a warm relaxing ray of sunshine that comes out and give others a bit of cheer on their gloomy days.

Richy knows that his ability to not take things too seriously gives comfort to his friends. 

Richy knows this, knows it in the way Jessy thanks him for being there for her when she is frustrated with how Dan is treating her affections, knows it in the way Thomas looks at him silently yet gratefully when he brought them to Aurora’s and filled them with a copious amount of beers and stupid jokes for a self-proclaimed “pity party” after Thomas’ fight with Hannah. 

He knows it during the wake of Hannah’s absence when Thomas is on the verge of breaking down, and when Jessy fought with Cleo over how to handle the investigation, Lilly had reached out to him in the middle of the night,  quiet words of “I feel like you’re the only one keeping this group together,” mumbled into the phone in between sniffles.

Richy knows he is most known for his easy-going personality, and he is used to it. 

He is also used to that horrible feeling of uselessness constantly haunting him in the deep dark solace of his mind. That sinking in his stomach, the heaviness settling in his core as he contemplates whether he has anything worthwhile at all anything good to offer to this world, the constant feeling that he doesn’t have anything at all. It is a dark void spanning the crevasse of his mind that comes up in his solitude, whispering that he is not good enough, that he does not deserve grief and his fear is only going to burden his loved ones.

Because who is he to voice out his sadness and anguish when everybody else has so much on their plate already? Who is he to want to cry at Jessy to look at him, just LOOK AT HIM WHO HAS BEEN THERE FOR YOU when she is heartbroken herself. What right does he have to voice out his grief, his guilt at being the first one to come to Hannah’s house but still unable to save her anyway? What right does he have to say these things, when he only had lost a friend while Thomas lost a girlfriend and Lilly a sister? 

What right does he have?

So, Richy does what he does best. He smiles. He jokes. And he hides. He stopped trying to figure out the line inside him where his smile ends and his fear starts. To him, they all bleed together.

Richy is used to being known to be able to bring a little bit of comical sunshine to everybody’s gloom. He’s just not used to letting anyone know that he’s burning behind the light.   

------------------------------------ 

 But then, you appeared in his life. You with your contagious kindness, you who are the one person who does not have any personal stakes with Hannah in this investigation but still decided to help out of the sheer good in your heart. 

Richy sometimes thought that you were highly naive when you said that them getting your number and bringing you in this group must have meant that there is something that you could do instead of just seeing it as it is; an ominous invitation from an unknown hacker. However, that thought of your naivete is blown out of the water when he witnessed your bright-eyed curiosity and your sharp perception. 

‘You like Jessy, don’t you?’ you had texted him out of the blue during one of your conversations when during the first few days after you appeared in their lives.

Richy swore he almost dropped his phone in his coffee when he read your text. No one has ever picked up on his one-sided affections towards Jessy, not even their group, not even Jessy herself who has been his close friend. 

He has always been wary of you when Thomas first invited you in. A stranger whose number was given to them by another stranger seemed to Richy like a well-timed disaster waiting to explode in their faces. Richy liked to think of himself as neutral when it comes to matters of your involvement; skeptical enough to not be desperate as Thomas but to the point of hostility that Lilly has shown. 

But with your eagle-eyed intuition, Richy realized he had to be extra careful with himself around you.

‘Uh, gotta go. Coffee’s about ready and I need that caffeine injection for my sanity, in case some more shit happens around here, haha,’ he had typed quickly, adding in several emojis in succession for some good measure. He puts the phone face down almost immediately, as if that would help distract him from your reply, and busies himself with work.

‘That’s okay. Coffee sounds like a great idea. The next time you want to subtly avoid having uncomfortable conversations about yourself, I have a list of ideas :D,’ was your reply to him when he checked his phone during his break. 

Mirth bubbles up in Richy, a feeling of familiarity and comfort fizzing up in him like downing cold soda on a hot summer day. Richy chuckles towards his phone, seeing as you really did provide him with a list of excuses to make to get out of conversation, each item sillier than the previous one.

Your entrance into his and the way Richy felt you seeing through to him feels like a breath of fresh air.

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

‘Richy, hi.’ 

 Richy smiles, looking at his phone vibrated on the countertop as he is pouring his third cup of coffee for the day. Seems like the weekend is as good as any for him to gather his thoughts to himself, to compartmentalize his feelings away from the crowd, but the texts from you over the days is a welcome distraction. 

From asking him about Jennifer Manson, to asking him about the phone call he made on the day of Hannah’s disappearance, to random conversation about your favorite movies or music, messages from you have become something he looks forward to daily. He found himself slowly thinking more and more of you; whether you are okay, what you have been doing among other things

‘Now, what more information does my lady seek from me?’ he types quickly, anticipating as the three dots beside your name blinks back at him. 

‘Good sir, is it such a crime if I just want to inquire about your day? :(’

Richy would be lying if he said that his heart did not skip a few beats over those words.

‘Our previous conversations would indicate that you always would have things to ask me after you know about how my day went, so out you go. :D’

It feels nice to see you playing along with his jokes.

‘Cleo told me you fought with your dad?’

Ah.

Not information about Hannah’s disappearance then. Which, to him, is much much easier to divulge.

‘That girl is going to get into trouble one day over how much she’s eavesdropping.’

‘I know. But more importantly, are you okay?’

Are you okay? Wow, Richy thinks as he stares at his idle phone. A simple question, but look at how he is struggling to answer. So he quickly typed in.

‘I’m okay, don’t worry, haha. Listen, the cat outside my apartment is literally meowing my window panes down, I better go check up on it before it eats itself,’ Richy began typing his response, as if him staring down the digitized letters will give him some form of epiphany over what the best course of action is. 

Excuse #12 from that ridiculous list that you gave him from weeks ago. From feeding non-existent stray cats outside his house to a car needing their tires changed, it quickly became an inside understanding between the two of you that this is a signal that he does not want to talk about it. 

But, inside, he wants to talk about it. Wants to talk to you about how this fight is a series of continuous disagreements between him and his father over how to run the family’s garage. Wants to talk about how this garage is not what he envisioned doing in his adult year, that he has no interest whatsoever in running the family’s business. How he had wanted to be a photographer, but was forced to run the garage by his dad to continue the family business. 

And how each time his father berates him over the losses their garage suffered due to the new competing garage in town, he feels a slight vendetta to bring up that he is never interested in what happens in this garage but is only doing it for his father.

He has long perfected the art of hiding anything of him that isn’t polished and brightened, so when you picked it up immediately, he felt flustered. Flustered because he doesn’t know what to do when faced with the idea of someone perceptive as you catching his vulnerabilities that he is ashamed of. But, also flustered with the fact that he feels a small sense of comfort that someone took time to notice the small things about him, and that deep inside, he feels some small part of him wanting to reach back out.

For now, he just added a bunch of cheerful emojis for good measure and hits send.

He wants to talk about it. He wants to.

‘You know, I don’t expect you to exhaust that list so quickly. I would have thought it’d be good for at least 2-3 months.’ came your reply.

‘I worry about you, Richy.’

------------------------------------ 

And it is true, you are worried for him. It has been close to three weeks since you first got added into this strange group, and if truth be told, you would never have thought that you’d be as invested as you are now. You could not deny that Jessy and Richy were two of the friends you never thought that you would care for as much as you did. You know that Jake had warned you over the group, and you ARE a bit more wary of some more than others, but you did not expect your trust to go wholeheartedly to this small trio that you have formed with Jessy and Richy. 

Jessy is the sweetest girl you have ever met in the world, always kind. She has this effect around people that made them feel cared for, and you are thankful how she had welcomed you and helped you out when everyone else seems to think you are the kidnapper.She wears her heart on a sleeve, and she trusts easily, but she means well. And Richy…

Richy is an enigma. On surface level, it seems that he is a bright ray of sunshine, all lighthearted jokes and wit, a perfect comedic complement to Jessy’s more emotional tendencies, but you notice the things that made Richy much more complex than he lets on.

You see his calm and composed nature when he is the one to suggest the group to think more critically in the case of your appearance and Hannah’s disappearance, how he calmed everyone down and brought their spirits up. But you also see his aversion to talking about how he himself feels.

Even though he does not show it, you know the incident with Hannah affected him just as much as it had affected everybody else. You see the sprinkle of emotions he has shown, from Jessy who told you how quiet he had been on the day his garage was spray painted with the sign of the raven, to his deprecating jokes about himself when you asked about the phone call he had made to Hannah on the day of her disappearance. 

You see that sliver of fear, that glimpse of guilt over those short moments, but come any closer and you could miss it with how subtly and skillfully he averts to more cheerful topics.

But that’s the thing. You worry for him. Jessy goes to the both of you for comfort while Dan goes to Jessy. Lilly has her family, Cleo goes to Thomas and Thomas’s grief is acknowledged and heard by all of them.

But who listens to Richy? Who gives Richy their shoulder for him to grief? Who lift up his spirits the way he does to you? For now, all you can do is put your phone close to your ear, Richy’s number dialing in the background. 

‘I worry about you, Richy.’

‘It gets better, I promise you. You don’t have to be alone. I’m here for you,’ you added under your previous text. It goes unanswered and your calls only gets redirected to voicemail. So all you can do is hold your phone close to you, placing your lips on its receiver, only able to hope that it goes to him, that his cheeks or his forehead feels the warmth as a sign that you are here for him.

Miles away, in Duskwood, Richy only stares in his phone longingly, wanting to call you. 

‘I’m here for you.’ your text that had him feeling hopeful, comforted and flustered him all the same.

It has been a long time since someone sees through him so transparently, heck, the void in him has bled together with his façade so much that even he himself cannot see through the layers of sunshine to where his dark insecurities start. He has crafted so many walls, perfected so many smiles that it even fooled Jessy, the person most close to him here in Duskwood. Perhaps at some point, maybe he even fooled himself.

And yet, here you are. Effortlessly breaking through those walls like it’s paper, unblinded by the fake shine he puts on, and sees the darkness in him for what it is. He has to laugh at that as he leaned his forehead on his phone, somehow feeling a sense of comfort just in doing that. What have you done to him? 

Perhaps one day he can begin to talk about it.

------------------------------------ 

 That day came sooner that he thought it would be. That night in December, it snowed heavily in Duskwood. Angry snow fell down in a furious blizzard, gusts of wind wailing outside in anguish, doors and window panes shaking almost in fear. Sometimes, the wailing picks up speed and bangs on the window with a scream.

Inside, Richy is just as furious, just as anguished as the blizzard outside. The man without a face seems hell-bent in getting them to stop finding Hannah and to obtain your location. Richy would bend over backwards and go to hell twice before letting your location fall in its hands. And with the search not showing any signs of stopping, so did the threats to them.

Today, it took the threat to another level when it involved their families as well. Richy had woken up with a call from his father. He had expected the call to be his father picking up another fight with him, but the urgency in his father’s voice and the manic sobbing of his mother in the background struck a cold chord in him.

It turned out that his family house has been vandalized with the signs of the raven, only this time it is worse than the one did in the garage. The windows were splashed with red paint, with papers jammed in their mailbox full of threatening letters of ‘give me her’ and ‘Richy, you’re next’. It took him a good two hours to scrub the windows clean, and then another hour to comfort his mother that this is just a prank pulled by some reckless vandals, to clean up the papers from the mailbox and throw them in the trash.

But, deep inside he knows it. This is not a prank. This is a threat to him. To them.

Duskwood is a small town. People will talk and come tomorrow, his friends will find out. He needs time. He needs time to sort out his thoughts. Time to properly compartmentalize.

He needs time to sort out through his guilt of not being able to protect his family from being terrorized from the man without a face. There is the fury with the fact that it has been established that the man without a face is someone within their circle, given how much they know about your presence.

He needs time.

There is the fear that you, being the lynch pin to all that the man without a face wanted from them, will be burdened more. He needs time to sort through the fear that he could not protect you, and even though it is for the best interest of your safety that none of them knows where you are, you are still all alone having to pick up after these seven dysfunctional people and no one to protect you.

Then, there is the confusion, the stress, the angry sadness that this is a game that he has to continue to play with his friends. The betrayal that one of them, one of his close friends is responsible for this, that they could have the balls to laugh with him, smile with him and turn around and do this to him. 

He needs time to sort through this anger and he doesn’t have the courage to face them and continue playing this game tomorrow, not when all he wanted to do is lash out at each one of them and threaten them and ohgodheneedstimeheneedstime-- 

In the solace of his room in his family home, Richy feels his thoughts become as white as the blizzard of snow outside. He hears his breath quickens, a voiceless wail stuck in his throat and he feels the shivers in his spine like the doors trembling in front of the wind.

Heneedstimeohgodpleasegivehimabitoftime----

And like a lifeline, his phone besides him rang and vibrated and he clutched it to him like a lifeline. Like a miracle in December, he sees that it’s your name. Somewhere in his blank white thoughts, he hears a small chuckle and how impeccable your timing is.

He answers and your voice in his ears sounded like a buoy thrown to him that is flailing about.

“Richy, I had a bad feeling about something. Is everyone okay?” and Richy hears himself laugh at that, a horrible mixture of a broken laugh and a hiccup and a helpless wail, all mixed up to become a horrible wounded noise.

Over on your side of the phone, your heart picked up pace when you heard that choked laughter from Richy. It is horrible and it is scary and you would never want to hear it from anyone again, least of all not Richy. He is having a panic attack.

“Richy, are you okay?! Richy, listen to me. Breathe with me, sweetheart. Breathe in, breathe out,” deep inside you tried to stay calm because that is what he needs, but even you feel like being on the verge of tears listening to this man - who has cheered you up so much - break down in front of you.

After he seemed to have calmed down, you tried again.

“Richy, what’s wrong? Please talk to me. You deserve to not be alone in this Richy. I see you. I see you smiling to get everyone to smile. You listened to me and you lifted up my mood when Jessy was attacked, and when I received threats over Lilly’s video. Let me do the same to you, yeah? Tell me what’s wrong?”

And to Richy, who has clutched onto your voice like a lifeline, who wants to share everything with you, just burst like a dam. Everything that he has kept secret from his friends, the sadness behind his smile, everything that he has even kept from himself and just swept under the rug and pushed into a closet at the back of his mind. Everything burst right there in front of you, from his guilt to not being able to stop Hannah’s kidnapping and Jessy’s attack, to him feeling unworthy of being sad compared to others, to his fear when he saw the sign of the raven in his garage and now on his home, his fury at knowing one of his friends are doing this, to his fear for Jessy, his fear for you. 

He hated everything. He hated himself.

You told him that he is strong, that you admired him so much, but he needs to see that he deserves to be comforted just as much as he has comforted everyone else. 

In that snowstorm-clad night, the winds wept and wept, but beneath its howl, you can hear the intermittent wail of a broken man as Richy cried, and cried, and cried. 

As he lets out everything, the blank white fog of his mind begins to clear and gain color. It started from the reds of fury, to the blacks of fear and the blues of guilt, but then your voice came in, and slowly the pinks of comfort, the yellows of hope and the purples of peace began melting through. 

------------------------------------ 

[EPILOGUE]

Both you and Richy sat over the phone for over 3 hours just talking about nothing and everything after his outburst. 

He seems to have gained his color back, his cheerful self almost back as he cracked his lame stories about gangster seagulls eating his sandwich once in his travels. Richy feels like this time, his color - albeit still a little faded - is much more genuine than the blacks filtered from a rose-colored glass that he has shown before. Your laughter as you listen to his story and object to its credibility, slowly made those faded colors in his mind more vibrant.

“Thank you for listening to me, for um… taking care of me,” he begins a bit meekly after he finishes his story. He’s not so used to being listened to, not at this vulnerable a level and definitely he is not used to being taken care of.

“You did the same to me when Jessy was attacked. And you would have done the same for me again, I’m sure of it,” your voice sounded like a smile would, and God, would he give up everything to see that smile in person. He laughs to himself internally. How has this person made him so whipped for her in such a manner?

“I’m planning on going to Duskwood soon,” you had said out of the blue, bringing him back from his reverie.

“Absolutely not. In case you forgot my magnificent show of tears just now, the man without a face is threatening us to get to you. You coming here is the absolute worst thing to do,” Richy snorted, a mock indignant and wounded tone from him that made you chuckle.

“Well, how bad can it be? If we keep my arrival a secret from the rest of them, and spend the days, just you, me and Jessy, it wouldn’t hurt, would it? Someone needs to go there and give you a hug and take care of you,” you had replied back shortly, almost giving no thought to what you had said.

“Oh my, my lady, are you flirting with me?” Richy’s exaggerated gasp brought you back to reality, and his implication had your heart skipping beats.

“Well I mean… um…” you stuttered, and Richy swore your hesitance and stuttering made his heart soar just a little bit more in hope. But pursuing it is for another time.

“W-Well, someone needs to stop you from being such an eccedentesiast!” you had blurted out, extremely grateful that the distance makes it unable for him to see your bright red hot face.

His laughter after that sounds like the most genuine you have heard from him so far, and he might have said something along the lines of “nooo use small words, your idiot here doesn’t understand what that means,” but you couldn’t remember clearly. All you remembered was you thinking that you would give almost anything to protect that genuine tinkling laughter of his.

[hellswolfie]

Thank you for tagging me, @flying-elliska 😻!!!!

1- how many books are too many books in a serie

Well I read Warrior Cats for a long time so I’d say that im pretty tolerant in that front 😂 but tbh, I think I could get colds feet if I learned a serie i want to begin have at least 10 books… all in all, though, I really love being able to explore more the world and the characters, I just have to be sure I will like it!

2- what do you think about cliffhangers?

I love a good cliffhanger when it jut keeps me at the edge of my feet and makes me say « omg that was brillant! » but I prefer books that end by taking their time detailing the fall out of the action and the end of characters arcs.

3- hardback or paperback?

Paperback all the way! Hardback are generally more esthetically pleasing but it just get worn out so easily and I’m not the best book keeper :(

4- least favorite book?

I’m not gonna be very original here and say Harry Potter and the Curse Child but I really can’t think of a book I disliked more than that. Everything has already been said about it, so I won’t extend too much, but yeah I was so excited to read it only for it to end up being some poor attempt at a badly written OOC fanfic. Even without the HP context, there are still so many pacing issues and characters inconsistencies. Scorpius and Albus are cute tho.

5- Love Triangle, yes or no?

I’m not that against it as most people seem to be, as I do think it can be done well. There are just certain thing that should be absent from it, like when 2 people who were super close completely turn against eachother for someone they just met because this person is just SO SPECIAL, when it’s only there to stall a relationship from happening even if it does not make sense and that we all already know who will be endgame, or when it completely takes over the otherwise very interesting characters/plot. I also hate when after having it been drained out for so long, person A does not even have to make a choice in the end because one of the two who fight for them dies/leaves. It really feels like the author simply didn’t have the guts to actually follow through besides stirring things up. It could be cool if : the two opposites actually end up together (hi lok), if it ends with all three together, or person A single. Or if it simply has more purpose than just DRAMA!

6- the most recent book you just couldn’t finish

« L’homme qui rit » de Victor Hugo. Look, it’s a fucking VICTOR HUGO book, no one can judge me! This dude could spend pages after pages detailing a facet of a snowflake! But I am determined and I WILL finish this damn book. Eventually.

7- book you are currently reading

I just finished « and they both die in the end » and I think I will start « My Dark Vanessa » by Kate Elizabeth Russel.

8- last book you recommended to someone

Percy Jackson and the lighting thief by Rick Riordan, to my little brother. I’m hoping he will have finished it before the serie (FINALLY) comes out so we can watch it together but he’s definitely not a big reader so :(

9- oldest book you read

The Odysee I guess? Does that count?

10- the most recent book you read ?

I think « and they both does in the end »is pretty new right?

11- favorite author?

I can’t really answer that it’s way too hard but I really like the style of Maxime Chattam and Pierre Botterro…

12- buying books or borrowing books?

I love the idea of buying all of your own books but unfortunately it comes with having money to spare so I’ll say borrowing ^^

12- a book you dislike that everyone else seems to love

« A quoi rêvent les étoiles » by Manon Fargetton. I’ve only seen positive reviews about it but I didn’t really like this book, altho there were some good parts. Initially I really thought it would be my cup of tea, as it is about 5 very different people having their own problems and finding eachother through pure coïncidence and helping eachother. But for one, the style was way to pretentious at times. It was like the author was trying to make a big philosophical point but it just fell flat for me. And the characters, aside from one, were all poorly handled. Either they were extremely unlikeable, completely unrelevant, or their arcs was very unsatisfying.

!!!! Spoiler alert and trigger warning for suicide !!!

the one characters story that I hated the most was the one of Luce, an old woman who is in deep grief over her husband Lucien’s death. At the beginning she tries to kill herself to join him, but is stopped by one character, and over the course of story she learns to live without her husband, to rekindle with who she is and what she loves, and to form bonds with other people. Only to still kill herself in the end. While it could have been a tragic way of showing that one does not get out of depression that easily, we’re actually supposed to think it’s a good ending for her because she died in a «cooler » and more symbolical way and cleared up some unfinished business. Personally I hated that…

14 - bookmarks or dogears?

Bookmarks can be so fucking cool (even though I lose them so easlily)!! Definitely them ;)

15- The book you can always reread?

The trilogy of Ellana Le pacte des marchombres by Pierre Botterro. Normally I don’t reread books but I reread them 4 times I think! I just love this world and characters so much 😭

16- can you read while listening to music?

Definitely not it’s too hard to focus :/

17- one POV or multi POV?

I’m a real sucker for multi POV! I just think it’s so interesting to have different’s character perspective about the same story and it can give them more depth. I finished « Six of Crows » duology not long ago and the multi POV was very well done!!!

18- do you read book in one sitting or in multiple days?

I like to savour them so I try to not read them too quickly ^^

19- who do to tag :

Ok let’s see, if they want to of course -

@awake-dreamer18 , @and-they-all-fell-down , @ghostlyruinstrash , @lamonnaie , @enola-holmess , @becks-fizz

[riversofmars]

Ohhhh prompt. How about...13 meeting Mel's !

Here you goo! Gonna carry this one on with a couple more prompts later, so this is sort of part 1. Hope you like it! <3

Rating: G

Genre: Humour/Fluff

Chance Encounter 

“Ahh shoot…“ The Doctor exclaimed as she stepped outside the TARDIS. They had landed in a park and not at all where intended.

“Wrong again?“ Graham asked as the Fam followed her outside. 

“10-ish years early…“ The Doctor huffed sniffing the air. She picked a leaf off a nearby bush and stuffed it into her mouth to be sure. “You’re doing this on purpose!“ She huffed at the TARDIS.

“Not Sheffield either…“ Ryan observed looking around. This place didn’t look familiar at all. 

“Leadworth.“ The Doctor nodded, still chewing the leaf. “Why are you taking me here? This could get so complicated…“ She mumbled to herself.

“What’s the deal with Leadworth?“ Yaz asked slightly confused. It wasn’t exactly a place of great significance in her book. 

“Long story…“ The Doctor sighed scratching the back of her head. 

“Finally!“ A voice exclaimed making them jump. “Where is he?“ They looked around to see a teenager in school uniform heading straight towards them.

“Ohh… here we go.“ The Doctor mumbled to herself as she recognised Mels coming up the path. It was all the more disconcerting when she pulled a gun on them. 

“She’s got a gun…“ Graham was the first to raise his hands. 

“She usually does.“ The Doctor chuckled nervously and raised her hands as well. “Can we help?“

“Where is he?“ Mels demanded to know as she came to a halt in front of them. 

“Stepped out for a moment, went that way…“ The Doctor gestured to the left.

“Do all of you travel with him?“ Mels frowned looking them all up and down. The Fam were too confused to answer but the Doctor carried on:

“Sort of.“ 

“Well, then you should know where he is…“ Mels pressed on. 

“Are you looking for the Doctor?“ Yaz asked confused, trying to put the pieces together. The girl kept saying “he“ so maybe she didn’t know the Doctor was a woman now. 

“Yes.“ Mels nodded enthusiastically feeling validated. 

“Well, she’s…“ Ryan started but the Doctor interrupted: 

“He’s not here.“ She interjected quickly. “Won’t be back for a while.“ 

“Mels?!“ Another voice exclaimed at the bottom of the path. A ginger teenager who seemed furious with her friend stormed after her. Mels looked around and the Doctor used the opportunity to turn the TARDIS invisible with her sonic screwdriver before Amy could get close enough to see it behind the bushes.

“Where did it go?“ Mels turned back, shocked that the TARDIS had disappeared. 

“What are you doing? Where did you get that?!“ Amy hurried up to her and pointed at the gun in her hand. 

“What? A girl’s got to protect herself.“ Mels huffed but she wasn’t really paying attention, she was more concerned with the TARDIS disappearing. 

“From what?“ Amy exclaimed. “So sorry about this…“ Amy pushed the gun down and the Fam relaxed visibly, looking at the Doctor for guidance who remained surprisingly quiet. 

“Amy, they travel with the Doctor.“ Mels exclaimed as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“You need to drop this already.“ Amy snapped, clearly annoyed. “He’s not even real.“ The Doctor watched Amy. Beautiful, bright, young Amy. Amy before they started travelling together. And Mels before they went to World War II Berlin. God they were both so young, so alive. It made the Doctor’s hearts ache more than she cared to admit. 

“It was here a minute ago, the blue box.“ Mels insisted. 

“Do you know what she’s talking about.“ Amy addressed the group feeling utterly ridiculous.

“Not me.“ Yaz shook her head after the Doctor shot them a look. 

“No idea.“ Ryan shrugged. 

“Sometimes we see what we want to see.“ The Doctor offered. 

“Amy, I swear to God, it was the blue box, he must be here somewhere.“ Mels glared at the group in front of her, as if they had betrayed her. 

“For God’s sake Mels, it’s just a story. He’s not real, I just had an over active imagination as a child. Come on now.“ Amy grabbed hold of her friend’s arm. 

“It’s never just a story.“ Mels snapped. 

“We’re all just stories in the end.“ The Doctor gave her a soft smile, thinking about the woman she would become one day. River Song was far in Mels future but her fire and determination shone through already. 

“Sorry to bother you. Come along Mels. And put that away before anyone sees it, oh my god, is that actually real??“ Amy pulled her along as Mels eyes lingered on the Doctor for a moment, before giving in and following her best friend. 

“Neat trick with the TARDIS…“ Graham observed as the two teenagers were out of earshot. 

“Lucky she was looking for a boy version of you…“ Yaz added crossing her arms in front of her chest waiting for an explanation. 

“Yeah, they haven’t seen this model…“ The Doctor replied absentmindedly as she watched them walk away. 

“Who are they?“ Ryan asked as the Doctor turned away at last and made the TARDIS visible again when she was sure they were gone. 

“They will be…“ She corrected him as they went back into the TARDIS to make another attempt at getting to Sheffield. “They will be my wife and my mother in law.“ 

“Sorry what?“ Yaz wasn’t sure she’d heard her right as they joined her at the control panel. 

“Where are they now?“ Ryan asked confused. None of them realised the Doctor had a family. 

“Dead… both dead… or rather somewhere where I can’t see them again.“ The Doctor answered softly as she set coordinates on the console. 

“I’m so sorry, Doc…“ Graham offered, the silence was heavy around them. 

“Are you okay?“ Yaz asked softly as the Doctor avoided looking at them and pretended to be busy with the controls. 

“It’s funny you know… I never expected to see either of them again…“ The Doctor mumbled absentmindedly as she though of the women they would become one day. “And here they were, they might not know it but for me… it’s a funny old universe isn’t it…“ She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, to be grateful for the fleeting encounter or feel fresh grief at their loss. 

“The universe might surprise you.“ Ryan offered with a half smile and Yaz added with a grin: 

“Constantly.“ 

The Doctor chuckled, accepting their words of encouragement. Yes, it was nice to see them again, even if their time had come to an end.

“Alright then Fam, let’s try again with Sheffield 2020…“ But before she could engage the controls an electrical surge stopped the TARDIS in its tracks. “What the…“

“Now, there’s only very few people who can fly her, ways and frays should keep their fingers off it, even the pretty ones.“ The Doctor and the Fam whipped around to see a woman dressed in a long evening gown standing in the middle of the TARDIS control room. Her messy curls fizzed with Artron energy as she placed her hands on her hips. “So then, where is he?“

“Okay, this is about to get a whole lot more complicated…“ The Doctor stared at her wife in shock.  

[98prilla]

Hidden Shapes

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...

He runs.

 He runs past Patton, he shoves open his door, locks it behind him, then lunges through the portal hidden under his bed that Remus had installed years ago, when he’d first moved to the light side, a shortcut to his imagination, to the dark side. He pulls the trapdoor shut behind him, landing on the forest floor with barely a sound.

 Colors are brighter, stranger, he’s pretty sure in this form he can actually see colors others can’t, see at a spectrum impossible for humans, since he isn’t, not really. That thought chokes a sob out of him, though it comes out as more of a growling hiss, and he throws himself back into movement, speeding across the ground, jumping up, into the trees, when they become too dense, seeing the cliff approaching, but not slowing, he braces himself, springs, his stomach flip flopping as he drops-

 Then he shoots his web and latches onto the trees on the other side, swinging across the canyon. If he were in a better mood, he’d be laughing right now, at the feel of the wind, at moving so fast, at letting himself go, more than he has in years, letting himself go feral, but he isn’t, his heart is pounding and his breath is speeding and he’s moving, faster and faster, and faster-

 Then, suddenly, there’s no more trees.

 He doesn’t have time to stop his momentum. He manages to web the ground, before he crashes onto it, letting his shoulder impact first, easily slipping into a barrel roll, before losing control and tumbling across the earth, head spinning as he finally comes to a stop, hissing through clenched teeth as he sits up, taking in the damage.

His shoulder is bruised to hell, and scraped raw and bloody, and so are his legs, his hands, though his appendages are intact. There’s a gash on his forehead, and he curses, pulling his sleeve over his hand, pressing it against the wound to try and staunch the bleeding, letting out another hissing breath at the ache in his chest, a bruised or cracked rib.

 He’s crying. He doesn’t know when it started, he feels too numb to cry, but he is, a steady, endless flow of tears that wash down his face, and he squeezes his eyes closed, doubling over, legs closing in around him, hiding him from view.

 “Hello, little one.” He nearly jumps, at the sudden low and sonorous voice, but he doesn’t care, he simply curls tighter, trying to suppress the pathetic whimper trying to escape his lips. “You aren’t one of the usual resident monstrosities of Remus’s design. Are you new?” He flinches hard, this time, realizing what he’s being mistaken for, because he must truly look horrendous, and Patton, god, Patton, not to mention Roman, once he hears, and Logan will just want to study him, dissect him, like some specimen, he doesn’t want to be the monster, he isn’t, he isn’t, he isn’theisn’theisn’t- “Let me take a look at you, darling. I can help make it better.” He pulls his legs in tighter, shaking, forcing words to his lips.

 “N-no. G-g-go away.” He hisses, and he hears a sharp inhale.

 “Anxiety. You… aren’t supposed to be here.” He laughs, at that, a cold, hard, bitter laugh.

 “look at me. Where else could I go?” He bares his fangs, eyes flashing and shadows growing as he feels hands pushing aside his legs, gently tipping his chin up, meeting the orange cat’s eyes of the dragon witch.

 “I remember a time when you wore this form more often than not. You and Remus were feral little things, more beast than man, some days, all shadowy blobs of too many teeth and limbs and claws, with your venomous bites and poison laced scratches, I remember when you’d spend hours, weaving the most wonderous tapestries, that sparkled so brilliantly, in the morning dew. Or ones near invisible, that would trip up Remus, as he tried to invade your lair. Once you wouldn’t have consolidated monstrous, with evil, they are different. Plenty of monstrous things are still beautiful, after all. Plenty of monstrous things are still smart, and kind, and sweet, little one. I would have hoped that to be a lesson you remembered, still.” Her words are soft and gentle as she caresses his cheek, a tender smile on her lips. “I haven’t forgotten, my tiny terror.” He folds, falling into her open arms and sobbing, letting it all go, as her near black wings enfold them both, her tail gently coiling around his feet. She doesn’t say anything, simply holds him, rocks him as he cries, promising safety with her steady presence, her slightly hotter than normal warmth. “I gather from your state you don’t want to go back to the world?” He shakes his head frantically, not moving from his place in her arms. “alright, darling. Hold on tight, for a moment.” He feels a slight vertigo, the world running like a watercolor painting, before resettling to a homey looking cottage, a fire lit and providing gentle warmth, the floors covered in soft rugs, the smell of cinnamon and something else, something warm and fizzing and popping in the air. Magic.

 “If you want tea, you’ll have to let go.” He does with a slightly rueful smile, one she adores, and she brushes back his hair, before moving to put the kettle on, getting her favorite teacup from the cupboard, along with a black and white chipped jack Skellington mug.

 “you still have that?” He says, voice coming out hoarse, as he pulls himself into one of the surprisingly comfy wooden chairs surrounding the small table in the kitchen, watching as she bustles about.

 “Of course. I hoped I’d have occasion to use it again. Though I admit I hoped it would be under better circumstances.” He winces, looking away.

 “sorry. For not visiting. I… I should have. Me and Ree hadn’t been on the best terms, for… well, for a while. I didn’t want to chance being caught here by myself.”

 “Yes. I heard all about it, believe me. He fluctuated between grief, despair, and unmitigated rage, before settling on a scarily distant disdain. Any mention of you and he just… shut down.”

 “sorry.” He whispers again, to her soft huff.

 “Stop apologizing, darling. I’m not placing blame or accusing. I know you had your reasons. Now, let me have a look at you, we can’t have those getting infected, and you know they will.” He groans, wincing as he pulls his sleeve away from his forehead.

 “But it stings!” He whines, making her laugh, as she gathers the warm water and soft hand towel.

 “You’ve had worse, Anxiety. And unless you want me to summon Remus to instant heal you, we’ll have to do it the old fashioned way.” Her voice is slightly stern now, the same tone Patton always takes, when scolding them or breaking up a fight, and he smiles slightly, glancing up at her.

 “alright. It’s, um, Virgil, now, by the way.” She smiles, coming around the table and gently dabbing away the dried blood from the gash, wincing in sympathy as he grits his teeth, before patting it dry and securing gauze. “Ah. It suits you, I think." He pulls up his pants to reveal his skinned knees, his shins peppered with scrapes, though nothing there is hurt too badly, though it still stings like a son of a gun. They’re just finishing looking at his shoulder, her turning away to get an icepack for it, when he hears the tell tale swing of the doggy door, small scratching against the mat in the entryway.

 “Oh, god-“ He manages to just barely brace himself, as a ball of icy silvery blue barrels into his chest, knocking his chair over backwards, sending his arms pinwheeling before he collides with the floor, his fall slowed slightly by a quick spell, that lowers him gently the last inch to avoid concussing him. He doesn’t have time to thank her, however, as his face is getting destroyed by licks, and he can’t get a word out edgewise, between his pleas to stop, and his gasping laughter.

 “Nilas, stop, down girl, NiNi!” He laughs, finally managing to get the large cat sized dragon under control, though her tail still whipped wildly, and when he rolled out of the chair to sit up on the floor, she instantly climbed his shirt, draping herself around his shoulders, tail hanging off one, curling around his upper bicep to keep herself steady, her head resting on her paws on his other. He laughs again at her low, contented chuffing, the equivalent of a dragon purr, as he scratches her head. “Happy to see me, huh?” She buts her head against his cheek in response, before giving it one more lick, before laying back down on her paws, though her head stays tucked up against his face.

 “Yeah. I missed you too, Nilas.” He mumbles, pain forgotten in the face of a happy dragon snuggling against him, a soothing, perfect weight that grounds him, helps him breathe a little easier against the stress slowly fading away. He rights the chair and slips back into it, taking the mug that she sets in front of him.

 “Roman still giving you trouble?” He asks, after a few moments in comfortable silence, taking a sip of the tea, which is deep and herbal, just a hint of sweetness from the honey. She scowls, and he can hear her tail sweeping across the floor.

 “Don’t get me started. I enjoy playing his games, but that boy has not given me a moments peace. Do you know how hard it is, to swap into evil enchantress mode, when your nemesis has showed up in the middle of you baking? I had a pie in the oven and I couldn’t stop worrying it was going to burn.”

 “did it?” he asks, grinning.

 “No. I told him he’d better stop wasting his time with me, and worry about my agents infiltrating the castle, and he took off. There weren’t any, of course, from what I understand he had a lovely game of whodunnit about the royal crown, though it turned out he’d simply misplaced it.” Virgil laughed, imagining Roman frantically running around, accusing random townspeople, making one of those red string conspiracy cork boards, only to find it under his bed.

 “Oh, that’s amazing.” He finally wheezes through his giggling, taking another long sip of his tea, before yawning hugely.

 “alright, enough catching up. To bed with you.”

 “but-"

 “uh, uh, uh, you know the drill. You’ll be falling out of the chair soon, anyway.” She teases gently, helping support him as he stands, a bit wobbly on his feet, another yawn impossible to stifle sneaking through.

 “Curse my traitorous body.” He mutters, making her laugh, as he lays down on the cot in the dark corner of the living room, pulling all the fluffy blankets up so high they nearly cover his head, Nilas circling a few times, before curling up snuggled against his chest, kneading her paws contentedly.

 “sweet dreams, tiny terror.” She murmurs, kissing his forehead fondly, as his eyes flutter shut. “sleep well. You could use it.”

 “mhm. Thanks, Tabitha. Love you.” He mumbles, drifting off, a small smile on his lips as he rests his head against Nilas.

 She smiles, stroking his hair a few more times before pulling away, a low sigh slipping from her lips.

 Well. No doubt Remus would appear soon, and he could explain what had sent Virgil into such a tizzy, though no doubt it was something to do with the others. He wouldn’t have been so scared of himself, otherwise. He was never scared of himself, until he started hanging around them. He used to revel in causing mayhem, tearing through the imagination, scrapping with Remus, winning, more often than not, on his own merit. He was such a small little shadow, but so fierce, with those eyes of his, peeking guardedly through his mop of hair, an almost perpetual frown on his face, always braced for the worst.

 But he was kind, too. The first day she'd come across him alone, he’d glared at her, hissed, baring his fangs and scuttling backwards, ready to bite.

 She’d knelt down, almost as surprised to see him as he clearly was to see her.

 “hello, little one. What are you doing, out here alone?” He hadn’t answered, merely continued to glare, tensed to spring or run. She’d hummed, looking around, the field was full of knee high grass, his head barely poking above the stalks, wildflowers filling the space, butterflies (both literal and figurative) drifting through the air. A distant shout rang through the imagination, an echo of whatever turmoil was occurring up in the rest of the mind, and he flinched, curling in on himself, breath catching.

 “ah. Trying to find some quiet, until the storm blows over.” The little shadow nodded, watching a bee struggle to stay atop a flower blowing in the breeze, before reaching out and holding it steady, a small smile crossing his face as he leaned in, watching the bee burry its head in the pollen. “Well, don’t mind me, then. Is it alright, if I stay here to read? I won’t bother you.” A moment passed, but he nodded solemnly, watching the bee flit away, before fixing his gaze on her, which she studiously ignored, studying her book while watching out of the corner of her eye.

 Another echoing shout, almost like a thunder crash, and he let out a little shriek. Before she could ask if he was okay, the little shadow had scuttled closer, throwing himself onto her lap and curled in a shivering ball, hiding himself under her cloak.

 “Oh, darling, it’s alright. They won’t hurt you here, I promise.” He hadn’t uncurled, and she’d hesitantly wrapped an arm around him, brushing through his hair with her other hand, humming softly, until she felt him slowly start to uncurl, realizing finally he’d fallen asleep, tiny hands clutching at her shirt, impossible to pry off even if she’d wanted to.

 When Creativity and Deceit panicked later, realizing Anxiety had been missing all day, they were surprised to find him happily coloring on the floor of the witch’s cottage, dark aura dispersed enough they could actually see his body, a dragon curled around him protectively.

 The next day he’d shown back up on her doorstep, a bit shyer, but no less brave, holding out a flower crown, painstakingly woven with colorful flowers, and it may have been the sweetest thing anyone had ever done for her. From then on, Anxiety, or Virgil, now, was as good as hers, under her protection, always welcome, always at home in her home. Her baby, her shadow, her tiny terror.

[itscyanne]

A man who is a formidable fighter, his humor destroys him.',

'everything-is-fine-until-he-poo-in-his-leather-shorts', '

“It’s that all what you’ve got, half-brother?”, Breandan Forsythe, bragged. Man armored all in black, on his head was an antler helm. He wielded his hakdomiutrium steel sword’s edge, glimmered as it moved up and swept down clanging through Rhaegor Snow’s sword, with his mail shirts over brown leather and steel caps with stag crests. Rhaegor didn’t mind his brother’s braggadocios, he continues to fought him. Another went wallop through his chest. “No more, don’t hit me, I yield! “, he shrilled. “On your feet, brother.”, Breandan called with a smirking smile. “I hope tomorrow you’ll do better”. He was the best swordsman in their country, heir to the throne, a formidable fighter in duels and he fought wars to protect their country from foreign invaders.

He went to Rachdale, a rich city and once they invaded but they didn’t succeed, it was dark country town with numerous small houses and structures spread around a valley floor. He looks his appearance on the water. “You’re the best swordsman who ever lived”, he mumbled. The water smiles back. He flexes his arms and wield his sword and dances, swift and sudden. Upon hearing something moving under the bushes he halts. “Come out whoever you are, This instance!“, he demands. A man appeared with his mail shirts over boiled leather and steel caps with stag crests, It’s Rhaegor. “Bloody hell, you scared the hell out of me!”, Breandan sighed. “Inya kukwaem dita, kasla kala tanga-tanga itta?”, said Rhaegor. “I’m just sword dancing, bastard!”, he replied. “Come, we’ll have a drink, bastard”.

They went to a tavern, from the outside it looks depressing, broken and unfriendly. Hard wooden planks and hard wooden beams make up most of the building’s outer structure. It’s tough to see through the high windows, but the lifelessness from within can be felt outside. “One barrel of beer, for me and two mugs for my half brother!”, Breandan shouted. “Make it fast!”. The steward gets his order as fast as he can. “Here’s your order, sire!”, steward stuttered. He guzzled the strong black beer till he’s satisfied. “Who’s here’s going to challenge me on a combat, eh?”, he bragged. He pointed his sword to everyone. “You!?”, he shouted. “I challenge you two in a combat”. He pointed his sword to Ser Mo Lang and Ser Ko Lang, who are drunk. “I don’t fight a combat with a foolish arrogant man like you!”, Ser Ko Lang replied. “I want war!”. People inside the tavern were chattering can’t believe what they’ve encountered. “No! What are you doing? Father will be mad”, Rhaegor urged. “Bastard, this is the time to take another step on conquering this country!”, Breandan whispered. “We’ve lost two thousand men, when we invaded this country”, Rhaegor replied. Breandan didn’t mind his half brother, he knew that they have powerful allies to conquer the country. “In the morning, then!”, Breandan declared. “Let’s go, bastard”.

“This is what I am waiting for, son”, the king exclaimed. “Send a raven to all our vassals”. They were all preparing for the strategy for the siege, they have seven hundred archers, one thousand and one cavalry and two thousand warriors. The bells seem loud, clanging from the tower. People yammering, moving through inside their houses. The sky was filled with darkness, horses snorting and men were chattering. “Prepare to charge!”, the warden yelled. “Cavalry charged!”. Swords clanging, blood spurted through the ground. Men were snarling and squealing as the ground became greasy with gore. Breandan shows his ability, decapitate his enemy who’s near him. “Archers, knock your arrows!”, Rhaegor called. “Wait, I don’t tend to kill our army! Now, loose!”. A storm of arrows whizzed and fizzed through the battleground. Men were screaming and screeching as the ground became slippery with sludge. Blood and internal organs spread around the battlefield. Rachdale’s army were retreating. “We surrender!”, Ser Ko Lang screamed. “Retreat! Retreat!”. They ran fast as their blood spurts. “We were defeated, Why we didn’t talked about truce!, Pakalaing ka met gamin”, Ser Mo Lang argued.

Everyone was happy of their victory. The sound of music spilled through their room. Men were chattering and mimicking about how their enemies being killed. “Everyone, Thank you for helping us taking the Rachdale, I owe you all and for that let’s have a toast”, Breandan smirked. “Enjoy all the foods we’ve prepared!”. They enjoyed the roasted chicken with savory gravy, delicious pumpkin soup and sparkling malt wine. Breadan seems hungry, and for the mean time he ate two of the roasted chicken. “Kayat ko pay, nagimas kaimimas jay balasang ijay Rachdale!”, he laughed and get another chicken. The woman he’s referring was there crying in her robe. Laughter continues all around the room. Breadan eyes were widen with fear. Rhaegor fingers curl around his neck, pressing, closing. His face begins to turn into a sickening color as his sight start to close in on him. He clawed his fingers at his hands uselessly and used his last breath to scream for help. His mouth bloated with strips of roasted chicken. “He’s chocking, help!”, Rhaegor cried. All the soldiers were panicked. The king were frightened and leads to death. Rhaegor cried and strangled himself to death because he knew that he’ll be the king and he doesn’t want the throne. The room is filled with grief and sorrow.

Their bodies were burned inside their own old wooden casket.

[catracorner962]

Cherished After All

Cleaning up Shadow Weaver's belongings, Adora and Catra make a shocking discovery about Catra's past. A past she never knew.

Or: My take on how Catra ended up in the Horde.

It was bitter, exhausting work. Cleaning out Shadow Weaver’s belongings from the palace. Glimmer had repeatedly offered to have someone do it for them but Adora and Catra were determined to sort through the stuff themselves. It would be fine. There weren’t many items anyway and according to Perfuma it might help bring some catharsis and closure. Catra wasn’t too sure about that, but Adora agreed it would be better for them to do it and so, she conceited.

“She really didn’t have much stuff,” Adora mused, crouched in Shadow Weaver’s old room, over a single chest. Most of the items were innocuous. Several changes of robes, a handful of coins.

“Psh yeah,” Catra scoffed from where she stood, looking out the window at the gardens. “The only thing that old hag ever cared about was the Black Garnet and the last piece of that was in her mask. Which got blown up with the rest of her.” The magicat’s tail twitched at the thought, her lips curling into a resentful smile. Still….a bit of sadness lingered. A sadness Catra knew Adora harborded too. She hated it. Hated herself for feeling anything other than satisfaction at the demise of the only mother figure either of them had ever known.

She hurt you….hurt Adora. Why do you cry for her?

Even Perfuma couldn’t answer that.

Back by the trunk, Adora rummaged through belongings, throwing the robes around without much care. A book, bound in leather with First One’s writing on it.

“It’s a spell book,’ she murmured aloud. Fingers gracing the pages. “Who knows what’s in here?!”

“Adora…” Catra warned, dragging herself back to the task at hand.

“Alright, alright, I’ll give it to Glimmer,” Adora set the book down. “Maybe she and Micah can use it.” She turned back to the trunk, hand fumbling against the flat bottom of the wood.

“What’s this?” Adora curled her fingers around a small metal item.

“It looks like one of Entrapta’s recorders,” Catra peered over her shoulder. “But slightly bigger. There’s a button on it,” she pointed. The two of them exchanged the all too familiar “let’s-do-it,” look. Adora pressed her thumb into the single red button on top. A faded red light blinked, projecting a fuzzy hologram before them. Adora squinted, trying to make out the images. Only static sounded through the small speakers.

Two people...a tail? No...two tails...and? Are those…?

Adora’s eyes flitted from the static images of the hologram to Catra. Her own tail was swiping back and forth intrigued. Her ears perked forward.

No...it couldn’t be... No one knew anything about Catra’s species. She herself never expressed any curiosity in knowing...only bitter resentment at her more feline characteristics, thanks to Shadow Weaver.

“H..hello?”

Adora’s attention drew back to the two figures, one of whom spoke in a male voice.

“Is...is it working?”

The second figure, also male, asked.

The image fuzzed and spluttered, in and out.

“If...if you’re seeing this...it...it means you’ve found her.”

Adora leaned closer, the hologram slowly becoming more clear. Two male figures...two male figures with ears and tails like Catra. The one speaking...he was crying. His clothes in tatters. The second one looked no better, but he held something to his chest. A bundle.

“There’s no chance for her here,” the first one spoke in breathy gasps. “If..If she stays with us...she’ll…” The second magicat, the one holding the bundle reached out and gripped the other’s arm tightly. He too, was in tears. 

“Please…,” he begged. “We can’t feed her...we can’t take care of her.. Horde Prime..he...he destroyed everything.” The magicat held whatever it was to his chest with a desperation that made Adora’s heart ache. Realization slowly dawning on her. Catra betrayed no such epiphany. Her face...showed nothing. Stone cold.

“We haven’t even named her,” the first one glanced down at the bundle, smiling through her hurried breaths. He reached out, placing one clawed hand atop of it and stroked it gently.

“Kitten,” he whispered. The second man held the baby close to him, looking directly at Adora.

“Please, have mercy on her. Give her food and a bed...that’s more than we have. And when...when she’s old enough please show her this...so...so..” he heaved for air. “So she knows we loved her.”

Adora’s own eyes sparked with tears, looking helplessly at the two desperate magicats and the thing in their arms.

“Kitten, if you ever see this,” the first one began, nearly choking on his words. 

“Know that we love you. We love you so much; with all our hearts… that is why we can’t keep you. With the Horde...you...you have a chance….for some sort of life. That’s all we have to give you.”

The second magicat, the one holding the kitten, buried his face into the bundle for a moment, lifting his head eventually. Adora nearly gasped, his eyes...blotchy with tears..they were two different colors. One gold, one blue.

“We love you. We are so proud of you….we…”

The recording fizzed and went blurry. Shorting out.

“No!” Adora panicked, pressing the button fervently. “No, no, no! There’s gotta be more! There has to be…”

The hologram re-appeared. Only this time the two magicats had set the bundle down inside a small box. They each kissed it lovingly. Checking and rechecking the blanket it was swaddled in. The hologram broke out again, then came back. Only this time a baby’s face, thin with signs of unger but serene in blissful sleep, sucked at the end of her stubby tail.

A runt, Adora recalled Shadow Weaver’s exact words.

The image of Catra as an infant lingered for a moment, then the hologram cut out for good.

Adora braced herself, turning to Catra slowly. Eyes wide in shock, she starred forward as though the hologram was still playing.

“Catra….?”

“I…” she whispered. “I...ha...had parents,” she stated monotone. “They didn’t abandon me….th..they loved me.”

“Oh Catra, of course they loved you.” Adora wiped her eyes with the back for her sleeve. One hand reaching out to take her girlfriend’s.

“Shadow Weaver,” Catra’s tone shifted instantly to hatred. “She knew...she knew all this time.” She began to tremble, fists curled.

“Come here,” Adora offered, standing and wrapping her arms around Catra. She remained stiff but didn’t push away. Adora held her tightly, one hand rubbing her back carefully, the other stroking through her short hair. She could feel Catra’s heart racing and her body shaking.

“She knew…” Catra whispered, broken. Tears coming to those heterochromatic eyes...just like her father. “That bitch!” Adora patted her back more incessantly as Catra tightened her grip on Adora’s shoulders, her claws retracted thankfully...but her grip was tight, clinging.

“She knew this whole time and she never told me! She said she found me in a box, abandoned and left half-dead at the edge of the Fright Zone.” Catra was fully crying now, burying her face into Adora’s neck.

“Shhh….they loved you Catra...they loved you so much and so do I.”

Catra sniffed, sinking into Adora’s chest.

“The day Shadow Weaver found you in that box,” Adora sniffled through her own crying, “was the happiest day of my life.”

She rubbed small circles around Catra’s shoulder blades, holding her as they sunk to the floor together. “I didn’t know it at the time but it was.”  She could feel Catra nod against her but didn’t say anything more.

“I should’ve known…” Catra whispered, “should’ve trusted that hag….I could’ve found them Adora! I could’ve saved them!” She adjusted her hold on Adora, slumping from a hug farther into Adora until she curled all the way in her lap. Adora held her, tenderly cradling her there the way she should’ve always been comforted. The way both of them should’ve always been comforted as children.

“You already did save them Catra. Look at you! You grew up, you became the Leader of the Horde! You saved all of Etheria! Think of how many parents get to live with their kids now because of what you did!”

Catra withdrew from her chest, face gaunt with grief but somehow still resembled that little peaceful face sleeping in her swaddling.

Adora reached a hand up to Catra’s cheek, caressing her there.

“They would be so proud of you.”

Catra smirked,

“What?”

“Those were Shadow Weaver’s last words to me,” she whispered, the hatred gone from her tone. Her voice now breathy and exhausted. “I’m so proud of you Catra. It was probably a lie.”  Adora looked down at the magicat, her fingers gingerly stroking her velvet ears. She bent down, leaning over her until her lips graced against Catra’s ear.

“ I’m proud of you Catra. Your parents...wherever they are. They would be proud of you too, and they loved you.”

She didn’t know what else to say truly. What could she say? It was true. Catra had not been abandoned. Catra only curled around Adora more, burying her face into her stomach. She took the hologram device with twitching hands, holding it against her chest.

“Adora? Catra? George and Lance are here! Come say hello!”

Adora instantly tightened her grip on Catra, pulling her closer instinctively to protect her in this vulnerable moment.

“W...we’ll be right there!”

Too late, shimmer pink sparkles appeared before them. Catra shot up, hissing. Pocketing the hologram device. Glimmer materialized instantly.

“George and Lance! They’ve come to help us clean things up and…” the words died on her face as her eyes shifted between the two.

“Did...did I...interrupt something?” Glimmer asked hesitantly. She gave Adora a silent look, trying to ask what was going on without Catra noticing.

“Yes, Sparkles,” Catra grumbled, composing herself with practiced skill Adora had watched her perfect in the Horde.

“S...sorry I d..didn’t,”

“It’s fine,” Catra pushed past the princess towards the main corridor of the castle. Adora offered Glimmer an apologetic smile, fighting the urge to explain what had happened.

It’s not your place to say. It’s Catra’s.

“Catra! Hello!”

Adora watched as Catra managed a wave. Bow’s fathers threw their arms around her, hugging her tight. The magicat stiffened at first, waiting for them to withdraw their hold. They did, after a moment. Lance looked at her, brows furrowing with concern.

“Catra, honey? What’s wrong?”

Adora and Glimmer approached as Catra tried to fumble for an explanation. The two men enveloping her in a hug once more. Between the men’s loving embraces Adora watched Catra close her eyes, sniffing to suppress her tears. Her own heart inflated with bittersweet emotion watching Catra slowly return their gesture, her arms going around them.

“It’s just...good to see you,” Catra remarked, straightening herself. She offered a small smile.

---

Entrapta fixed the hologram device some days later. Adora brought it to her asking her to transfer the files from the old device to a new one. Despite Entrapta’s eager questioning, Adora did not tell her what the hologram actually contained. She eventually relented, transferring the data in a blink of an eye.

“Here you go. Just let me know how it turned out so I can jot it down for my notes!”

Adora agreed, thanking her and going off to find Catra.

Catra accepted it with a sad smile, playing the first few moments before switching it off.

“If you’re seeing this...it’s because you found her,”

Adora blinked awake, feeling around for where Catra should’ve been. She shot up, looking around in a hurry.

“Catra?!”

“We love you...we love you so much.”

Adora sighed, the glow of the hologram reflecting off the walls. Catra sat perched on their window seat. Watching unblinking at the hologram of her fathers. Adora tip-toed up behind her, winding her arms around the magicat lovingly and resting her chin on her shoulder. She placed a tender kiss on her temple.

The recording played on. Catra watched it once, then again, and again. She rarely cried when she did so. But when she did, allow the tears to fall, allow herself to be held and comforted, Adora was there for her, clutching her tight.

“If they never brought me to the Horde,” Catra whispered one night as they sat in bed, watching the image of her parents, “I...I never would’ve met you.” She pressed the hologram off. Surrounding the two of them in darkness. Catra’s eyes found Adora’s in the dark. Adora leaned down, winding her arm around Catra’s waist and pulling her close. She kissed her sweetly on the lips.

“That is true,” Adora murmured, not knowing what else to say. Catra smiled returning her kiss.

“I guess I’m glad they brought me to the Horde then. Even if it was horrible. Can you imagine if they brought me to Bright Moon?”

“You might’ve been raised a princess,” Adora giggled at the thought.

“Gross don’t make me puke.”

Catra let out a sigh, sad but content, pressing herself closer to Adora.

“I love you,” Adora murmmed. Catra answered, tucking her head under the other girl’s chin. Her tail wrapping around Adora’s leg.

“Maybe they aren’t dead. Maybe they made it,” Catra whispered after a time. “...I could find them and then...then we could find your parent’s too.”

Adora had never entertained the thought. She always assumed them dead or lost in some galaxy far far away outside Despondos.

“I’d like that,” Adora answered. “Can you imagine introducing your parent’s to She-Ra?” Adora laughed. Catra giggled too, and Adora’s heart exploded with fireworks. Making Catra laugh was something she never got tired of. They laughed the night away, imagining the thought of their parent’s meeting. Introducing each other. Giggling through their shared sorrow. Through the uncertainty. After all that was their specialty.

“Your old family, your parents.” Adora whispered, watching Catra’s tail twitch in her sleep. Trying to come up with the right words. Transforming such thoughts into speech was not her strong suit. She knew it. But here sleeping beside Catra as she slept Adora needed to say it.

“They...they brought you to the Horde, which brought us together and now...despite everything else you...you have a family again.”

Catra only continued to slumber, snoring lightly.

“Me, and Bow, George, Lance, Scorpia, Micah, Entrapta, Glimmer, we’re your family Catra and we love you. Just like your parents did.”

Adora startled, as one golden eye opened, looking at her. Catra shifted curling even smaller into her embrace.

“I love you too…..I love all of you.”

THE END

[typicalmidnightsoul]

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓒𝓻𝓸𝔀𝓷 𝓟𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓬𝓮𝓼𝓼- Chapter 7

𝔸 𝕘𝕒𝕞𝕖 𝕠𝕦𝕥 𝕠𝕗 𝕝𝕠𝕧𝕖

love is not cruel, we are cruel, love is not a game we have made a game out of love.- Rupi Kaur

Chapter  1, 2, 3, 4 5, 6 <- here 

In this chapter we have:The party, an introduction to Rask, an introduction to  the first love in Nesta's life and a distraught Nesta seeking Azriel's help.

(Nesta’s dress down below)

The entire inner circle was waiting in the foyer. Caroline had sent Feyre a message saying the Queen of Rask had wanted them at the anniversary ceremony a few days earlier to give them a tour of Rask. Feyre had agreed. Now they were waiting for Audrey, Luna and Nesta to arrive. A crackling wind blew outside and Elain rushed to the window.

“They’re here!” She fizzed.

Before they could arrive at the door, Elain threw it open and trapped Nesta in an embrace. Luna and Audrey chuckled and Elain pulled them all inside.

Feyre greeted them with a warm smile.

“Hello.” They all nodded.

Luna waved a hand, and a group of same size boxes appeared on a nearby table. Rhys crossed the room and picked one up.

“What’s this?”

Audrey smiled, “In Rask it’s tradition to give a gift to the members of our alliance.”

“What are they?” Cassian asked snatching one of Rhys.

Luna smiled at Nesta.

“It’s a newer invention we have been working on,” She said, “We were inspired by the grief of many people from the war who have little to no proof their loved ones existed. Except of course memories.”

Elain opened one. It was a mirror. A small, rectangular one with an ornate frame and single jewel crested on top.

“This… captures memories. How… how is it even possible?”

Nesta jerked her chin to Luna.

“Luna’s power is vitrikinesis, also known as-”

“Mirror manipulation.” Amren finished.

Rhys gaped at them, “That sort of power is only known to belong to-”

“Celestial fae.” Nesta finished the three of them mock bowing.

Audrey chuckled at their faces, “I think you’ll find that there are many celestial fae in habiting Rask.”

“So the Cauldron made you a…celestial fae?” Elain asked.

“Well, technically I stole way too much power from it which landed me in a different breed of fae.”

Feyre managed to suppress her gasp. The cauldron had a wicked sense of humour. Placing Nesta in a place where there were many more people just like her.

“So how do the work?” she instead asked.

“This will be fun.” She dragged Feyre to a nearby mirror in the hallway. Feyre locked her gaze with Nesta in the mirror.

“In this mirror you see yourself, obviously, but it’s your mind’s eyes that form the opinion of whether you look beautiful, or tired, or- you get what I mean. So technically you are seeing yourself from your mind’s eyes.” She held up the rectangular mirror in Feyre’s hand. “Now this mirror is basically useless, it’s a… dummy if you will. But this”- she picked up the small gem crested on top-“Is where the magic happens. This gem contains a droplet of Luna’s power, which has been multiplied. You can throw this in any mirror and it would work as a communication device or as a mean to keepsake your memories.” She threw the sky blue gem in the mirror but instead of it breaking the mirror just… engulfed it. Ripples forming on the surface of the mirror.

“Put your hand in, let the mirror psychically connect to you.” Nesta ordered.

“Do I have to?”

“Yes, because until then it won’t work. The gem psychically connects to you so you can command it to do anything. Not anyone else.”

Feyre nodded and put her hand in the never ending ripples. There was a short sting then she pulled her hand out the gem now in her hand glowing.  

“Now put it back in the mirror and think of a memory for the mirror to keep safe.”

Feyre closed her eyes and thought of the time when she first saw Nesta, striding down the stairs in that golden gown.

“My skin looks horrific.”

“No it does not,” Luna protested.

“It looks cakey.”

“That’s the lighting.” Feyre opened her eyes and saw the memory now playing on the mirror.

“You can also use it to communicate.”

Audrey pulled out her own rectangular mirror and brushed a hand over the gem. The mirror in front of Feyre went blurry. She could feel a whisper in her head. ‘Audrey Astor wishes to talk’

Feyre inwardly nodded, too shocked to say anything.

And Audrey’s face lit up the mirror.

Feyre gaped.

They all did.

“What are they called?” Azriel asked.

“Keepsakes.” Luna replied, giving Az a seductive smile.

Nesta shook her head muttering, “This girl,” under her breath.

They all did as instructed linking to their stones.

“Now, we take you to the most heavily warded city in our Kingdom, Marcia.”

“The capital?”

“Yes, but we will have to leave you there, I’m afraid. We have a close friend giving you the tour, taking care of your needs and showing you to your residence. Once we winnow you there you’ll have to knock for him.” Nesta glanced at the clock, “He is probably helping his mother in the kitchen now.”

They all nodded and with no warning Nesta winnowed them all to Rask. As the haze of gold mist cleared, Feyre with squinted eyes looked at the house in front of them. It was a small corner house with steps and greenery around it. It was labelled ’12.’ Feyre shrugged and climbed the steps to knock on the door.

“Mami! They’re here I need to go!”

“Wait you imbecile let me open the door, you find your shoes!”

The door opened to reveal a female wearing a thin dress and a bandanna. Feyre smiled.

“Hello my dear, welcome to Marcia.” She gave Feyre a hug then Elain. “You two do look so like the prince and princess. Please don’t let my son ruin my reputation, he does act really stupid sometimes.” The male in question pushed past his mother. He had dark brown hair and honey skin. He wore a fitted beige tunic and matching trousers.

“Welcome your majesties. I’m Warren. Your tour guide for the day.”

He shook all their hands. “Good to see you’re wearing practical clothing. We’ll be moving a lot.”

“Keep your pathetic charm to yourself and represent your city well.”

His mother shouted from the window.

“Yes Mami.” He rolled hi eyes and led them out of the alleyway.

They walked through the street.

Elain walked to Warren’s side, “Um, this is not the city we dined in.”

“Ah yes. Caro’s restaurant is in her territory this is the capital.”

Elain nodded.

“Lady Elain, where would you like to go first? The bazaar or the floating market?” Warren asked.

“Oh please it’s just Elain and um… the bazaar first please.”

“Of course,” He outstretched an arm towards a different alleyway.

Behind them Feyre was walking with Cassian.

“How do you feel about all this? You have been unusually quiet on this matter.”

Cassian dropped his head, “She’s happy. I want to see her happy but I...I’m delaying a conversation with her. I’m staying quiet because I’m afraid my presence will disrupt her happiness.”

Feyre shook her head, “I may not know Nesta as well as I thought I did but I do know that that is not the case.”

He smiled at her.

“Welcome to the Marcia Bazaar.”

The bazaar was thrumming with life, everyone wearing light, airy clothes due to the heat. There were so many colours. People were shouting, promoting their goods.

Feyre went past a shop with Elain where a male sat arranging his goods. There were wooden bowls strewn all over with different things. Rock salt, lapis lazuli, spices, cloves, cinnamon sticks, coal, small bowls.

He nodded at them, “Well, it seems the Night have come to stay.”

“How did you recognize us?” Elain asked.

“The similarities between you and the princess and prince are uncanny.” He smiled and handed them a bowl of white sweetmeat, “A gift.” Elain thanked him and they moved to the next shop.

This shop was being inspected by Rhys and Cassian.

It was a shop stacked with clothes of different materials, textures and colours. Each embroidery different.  

The next shop was a confectioner’s shop. She also recognized them and handed them bowls and packages of different confectionery.

Other than that word had quickly spread that the Night Court were in town and now they were getting hoards of stuff for free.

As they left the bazaar, Warren laughed at the stuff they carried. With a flick of his wrist he made them all vanish.

“They’ll be at the villa.” He looked at his watch and tutted.

“What’s wrong?” Amren asked.

“Nesta asked for you to be at the villa before dawn and since I am in no mood to piss her off… fancy a jog?”

“A jog?” Elain asked, “Surely Nesta wouldn’t mind if we came tomorrow-”

He grabbed her hand and started jogging with her, “Nonsense, never leave a good thing unfinished that’s what my Mami says.”

Everyone started jogging to catch up with Elain.

“This is ridiculous!” Cassian said to Rhys, “We have wings.”

“If you flew, everyone would stare.” Warren shouted out.

He stopped and let go of Elain’s hand. Elain’s cheeks were tinged with pink, a grin on her face which turned to a gasp as she beheld what was in front of her.

There was a swarm of boats, some had goods some were buying goods of said boats and piling it onto their own. Warren hired two boats from a nearby male.

“Ladies on the front boat and males on the back one”

Warren climbed into the front boat.

Cassian raised a brow, “You class as a male.”

“True but my Mami raised a gentlemale and a gentlemale would not let ladies row a boat.”

Feyre snorted climbing in.

“Would any of you like to buy anything?” He asked.

“No, I would rather observe,” Elain said.

“Well that’s good because I am rowing us to our next destination.”

“Where’s that?” Amren asked.

“The Twilight streets. These are where all the making of things happens like, the bangles, jewellery, the dresses, the prayers are held there, the colours are made there, the flowers are gathered and nurtured there.”

He caught the glimmer in Elain’s eyes and said, “The Thousand Gardens are there and the keepers work all throughout the year. This is different from the bazaar as you can see the work being done in front of you, you could sit there for days and no one would say a thing.”

He reeled the boats in to the dock and helped the females off. He checked his watch again and bursts into a run.

“Keep up!”

They rolled their eyes and followed.

He led them through to a secluded road, to the villa. He stretched an arm.

“Welcome now hurry to the roof. Quick.” They did as they were told. And on the roof the most beautiful sight of the Marcia city greeted them, there were rugs and blanket spread out with food and drinks.

And then…

Hot air balloons started lifting into the air. Different coloured ones that were just beautiful next to the setting sun.

They all stared.

“Nesta wanted you to see this, this villa is hers and she thought you’d get the best view form here.”

Feyre turned, “Thank you Warren.”

He waved her off, “Don’t sweat, I’ll see you at the anniversary.”

He left whistling all the way home.

------

The engagement party.

 The inner circle had worn traditional Rask clothes sent by Leona. They stepped through the crowd of brightly clothed males and females. Caroline had walked over to them, Jonah behind her.

“I am so glad you could make it.” The tinkling sound of anklets snapped away her attention. Feyer saw Cassian’s awed expression before she saw her exquisite older sister. Nesta was dressed in a red matching bodice and embroidered skirt. She had an oversized nose ring that had dropping gold pieces. Her whole midriff was showing the bodice. They all started praising her and the chatter did seem to be taking place, mostly between Az, Feyre and Elain. Cassian turned to Nesta. Jonah stiffened.

“You look stunning Nesta,” The words were quiet and full of sincerity.

“Thank you,” She said not meeting his eyes. She turned back to Caroline, Cassian staring at her for a second more before turning to Azriel.

Warren had come over and had asked Elain to pass on a tray of scented rose petals to Nesta. Nesta was flitting about the hall fixing decorations checking the food, and attending to guests.

The dais where Jonah and Caro would sit was hidden from sights with a curtain, Nesta and the others going in and out fixing things.

She had come to Elain in search for the petals, as she thanked Elain for holding onto them. Caro dropped her wine glass.

Her eyes fixed on a sight in the distance.

Nesta didn’t seem to notice.

“Clumsy,” She smiled at her and went to take the platter off Elain. She turned back.

And dropped the platter.

The rose petals scattered across the floor. The followed her line of sight. A male stood there his breathing ragged, his clothes torn as if he’d crawled his way out of hell.

His eyes were locked onto Nesta’s.

“Tyrus?” Nesta whispered softly.

Nesta picked her skirt up and ran. Everyone parting like the red sea for her. She stopped in front of him, tears slipping out of her eyes.

She let out a sob and wrapped her arms around him.

He did the same. Audrey broke into a run, Leona pushing past everyone, Luna outright winnowing to them, they all seemed scared. Caroline reached their first and flung her arms out stopping them 3 meters away.

Jonah growled at his mate. She gave him a stern look.

“You recognized me.” Tyrus said.

Nesta pushed him examining his face, “Of course Ty I’d recognize your shadow if it crossed me.”

“Enough, Nesta.” She looked up, “I need you to hide me.”

“Hide you? From who?”

“Nesta please-”

“I had a feeling you’d come here brother,” A voice said.

Nesta turned, guarding Tyrus with her body. Then softened.

“Oh God, Torin! You’re here too!”

Torin with short golden hair and sleek silver armour looked at Nesta.

He looked so different to Tyrus, who had black short hair, and dark gold armour tinted with emerald.

“Nesta get away from him.”

“Why? You…He’s hiding from you?” Nesta was baffled.

“Tyrus you bastard, you’re going to play with her emotions and not even tell her why.”

She turned to him.

“What is he talking about?”

Tyrus stayed silent.

“TELL HER!” Torin shouted.

A muscle flickered in his jaw, “I did what was right.”

“YOU BETRAYED YOUR PEOPLE.” Torin roared.

“What?” Nesta’s voice was broken.

“I did what was best.”

“By betraying your people and trying to remove father and kill me?” Torin laughed cruelly.

“Did you do that Ty?” Nesta asked her face turning cold “Did you?”

He nodded, “But there are so many other factors that play into this.”

“Any factors that explain why you would kill the male who raised you?”

He stayed silent.

“Torin, take him. I have nothing to say to him.” Torin did so and said to Nesta, “I’ll be in touch.”

She didn’t answer.

They left Nesta went to the kitchen, Feyre, Audrey, Luna, Elain, Cassian and Az followed.

“Who was that Nesta?” Elain asked.

Nesta didn’t answer. Silent tears falling down her face.

“Who was it?” Feyre asked.

“Nesta.” Azriel took a step towards her.

“That was my first love. That was my childhood love. The male that left me crying on the steps of my father’s mansion. The male who left because I was human. He promised me he wouldn’t leave and he did. And I just sold him out.”

She winnowed away.

--------

A week later, Illyria.

 Azriel had just finished up a meeting his hand was throbbing from pointing out the rebel camps to Cassian’s camp leaders. They all filed out of the tent, Azriel following. They all stopped. He pushed past them and saw Nesta Archeron standing in front of the tent. Her eyes seemed to be red from crying. He glared at them all and they left.

“I needed someone to talk to. And I didn’t know where else to go.”

He stilled, considering. Then nodded.

 They looked out onto the mountains in a cabin. Azriel finally turned to her, “What’s on your mind?”

“How do you think he feels?” She asked almost immediately, “Do you think he feels betrayed or sad or upset he probably didn’t want me to sell him out, he trusted me and I betrayed it what-what will I do-”

He put his hands on her shoulders, “Calm. Down. Take a deep breath. This is not for you to feel. He is not the man you once loved.”

“That’s the thing though; I don’t know what I’m feeling. I don’t know if I still love him or not.”

“Tell me what you think you’re feeling.”

“Well,” she started, “I hate that I fell in love with my best friend. That maybe my idea of love is fake. Because he was my best friends and he didn’t want me and left and then I couldn’t even talk to him. I miss our bond. I miss talking to him.”

“It seems to me like you miss your best friend.”

“I don’t know.” She whispered.

“What do you miss about him?”

“We were young when he gave me flowers as bookmarks,” she chuckled, “He read me passages from books. He would dance with me. We would pick berries in the garden together, he would make me flower crowns and unlike other men he didn’t demean me for being a woman.”

“And then what happened?”

The smile died, “We grew up. Well he did. He knew he was other. And I was a weak human. He said loving me would be destruction and he couldn’t allow that.”

Az waited a few minutes before saying, “You love him. But not like you used too. You were young, you fell in love. But now you need the boy you talked to, your friend. Not your first love.”

She considered, and then nodded.

“Cassian’s coming” Az announced, “You should talk to him.”

“There a lot of males I need to talk too. One step at a time.”

She winnowed away.

-------

The kingdom of Natava Prison.

 Tyrus bounced a ball against the wall, standing in his finery.

“Ty.”

He turned, “Hey Nes.”

She smiled. “How’d you get in?”

“Your mother gave me full permission to come and go as I please.”

He chuckled, “She always loved you.”

“Are you upset?”

He looked at her, “The guilt is eating at you isn’t it? Well I’ll consider that a sufficient punishment. Don’t sweat, I understand, and to be honest, I don’t really care.”

She eyed him, “Drop the act.”

The glamour faded bit by bit, leaving a ragged Tyrus against the wall.

“You always found out.”

“Tyrus I am so sorry.”

“No need. It is not your fault, Torin found me if you did protect me you would die. I am much better now you are here.”

She took a shuddering breath, “I want you back. I want my best friend.”

He gazed distantly, “Your best friend was also your first love.”

“I think I can l live with was.”

He laughed, “Me too.”

“I need to go, but I promise I will get you out of here.”

“Don’t. Just tell me one thing. You love him don’t you? The winged male with long hair. Don’t you?”

She turned, “Read me.”

Because that’s what they did since they were kids. They read each other.

He examined her, “I might’ve been your first love but he will be your last.” He closed his eyes.

She winnowed away.

Tags:@mis-lil-red @wannawriteyouabook​ @my-fan-side​

[winchesterbrotherstan]

SPN- Everybody Loves a Clown (2.02)

are there actually people who unironically enjoy clowns?

Pairing: Olive Winchester (OC), a little Dean x Jo

Summary: After being hit with tragedy, the Winchester siblings make another move. Dean hides his emotions, Sam is on edge, and when the regular ups and downs of sibling love become extreme, Olive struggles with her brothers.

Warnings: blood, death, knife, injury, cursing, the usual

Word Count: 7951

I was cuddled into Sam’s side. Dean had been cold and distant, and as much as it hurt, I couldn’t blame him. Dad had made a deal. He did what I was going to do. Sam and Dean could never know. It would break them.

The smoke from the funeral pyre burned my eyes. Sam was fidgeting, close to tears. Dean was silent, staring into the fire with the look of death in his eyes. I sniffled as I ducked my face into Sam. He tightened his arms around me.

“Before he… before, did he say anything to you? About anything?” Sam whispered.

Dean didn’t look away from the fire. “No. Nothing.”

I bit my tongue.

Liar.

                                                              ***

I rubbed my eyes as I stepped out onto the porch. It had been a week, and we were staying at Bobby’s. I missed Dad a lot, I did. But I threw myself head on into taking care of everybody else instead of grieving. It was easier to be detached and pretend nothing had happened.

Dean was working on Baby, and I wasn’t sure what Sam was doing. I shuffled out into the junkyard with a mug and bottle in hand. The dirt crunched under my bare feet, and chances were I’d step on broken glass, but it was the least of my worries.

“De?”

“Here!” He called back.

I followed the sound of his voice and found him working on Baby. He was under, with only his legs sticking out. She was still just a rusted frame, but she looked a lot better than she had when I had found them.

Jinx was lying in the shade next to him. She hadn’t left his side ever since he got out of the hospital. It was like she knew what was happening.

“How’s she coming?”

“Slow.” Dean grunted back.

“Brought you a beer. Fresh out the fridge.” I smiled softly.

“Thanks, baby.”

I sighed and placed the bottle on the table, wrapping an arm around myself. He was still distant, and it was starting to hurt more and more.

“Hey.”

I turned to see Sam approaching. “How’s it going?”

I shrugged and Dean said nothing.

“Need any help?” Sam offered.

Dean pulled something off and dropped it. I jumped. He scoffed.

“What, you under a hood? I’ll pass.”

Dean pushed himself out from under the car and got to his feet. He dropped a tool on the table and wiped his hands before cracking open the bottle of beer.

“Stop it, Sam.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop asking if I need anything, stop asking if I’m okay.” Dean forced a chuckle. “I’m okay. Really. I promise.”

“Alright, Dean, it’s just…” Sam sighed. “We’ve been at Bobby’s for over a week now and you haven’t brought up Dad once.”

Dean sighed and turned to Sam. “You know what, you’re right. Come here. I’m gonna lay my head gently on your shoulder.”

I giggled.

“Maybe we can cry and hug, and maybe even slow dance.”

“Olive, shut up.” Sam snapped.

I cut the giggle short and sat down on the ground, next to Jinx.

Sam had been pissy too.

Yes, they had lost Dad, but I had lost him too. The last thing I said to him was something mean, although now I couldn’t remember what. I needed my brothers now more than ever, but they were each too caught up in their own grief to see that.

“Don’t patronize me, Dean. Dad is dead. The Colt is gone, and it seems pretty damn likely that the demon is behind all of this, and you’re acting like nothing happened.”

“What do you want me to say, Sam?”

“Say something, alright? Hell, say anything! Aren’t you angry? Don’t you want revenge? But all you do is sit out here all day long buried underneath this damn car!”

“Sam-”

“And you, Olive! All you’ve been doing is sleeping in and then sitting out here with him. Why aren’t you guys upset?”

“Revenge, huh?” Dean spoke up, seeing that I was, once more, close to tears.

“Yeah.” Sam scoffed.

“Sounds good.” Dean scowled. “You got any leads on where the demon is? Making heads or tails of any of Dad’s research? Because we sure ain’t. But you know, if we do finally find it-oh, wait, no. Like you said, the Colt’s gone. But I’m sure you’ve figured out another way to kill it.”

I sighed as I stood. “Look, Sam. We’ve got nothing.”

“Exactly. Nothing. So you know the only thing I can do is I can work on the car.” Dean spat, crouching down and getting back to work.

I ran my hands over my face with a heavy sigh.

“Well, we’ve got something. Alright?” Sam pulled out a cell phone. “It’s what I came by here to tell you guys. This is one of Dad’s old phones. Took me a while, but I finally cracked his voicemail code. Listen to this.” He held the phone out.

I took it and put it on speaker, holding it by Dean.

“John, it’s Ellen. Again. Look, don’t be stubborn, you know I can help you. Call me.”

“That message is four months old.” Sam sighed.

Dean and I looked at each other, unimpressed. I handed the phone back.

“Dad saved that chick’s message for four months?”

“Yeah.” Sam nodded.

“Well, who the fuck is Ellen? There’s no mention of her in Dad’s journal, is there?”

Sam shook his head. “No. But I ran a trace on the phone number and I got an address.”

I sighed as I looked between the two. Sam was right, Dean hadn’t done anything except for work on Baby. I wasn’t in any summer school program, but at this rate I was beginning to wish I was. The three of us needed a distraction to get us out of this funk.

But going after the demon was a bad idea. I knew that much.

Dean sighed. “Olive, go ask Bobby if we can use one of his cars.”

I sighed again and dumped my coffee on the ground.

“Come on, Jinx. You’re staying with Bobby.”

                                                             ***

“This is humiliating. I feel like a fucking soccer mom.” Dean grumbled.

“It’s the only car Bobby had running.” Sam put the mini van in park and stepped out onto the dirt parking lot.

“Hello? Anybody here?”

I looked up at the sign.

Roadhouse.

“Hey. You bring the, uh-”

“Of course.” Sam fished the fake IDs out of his jacket pocket and tossed one at Dean.

He caught it and pushed the door open. Sam and I followed. The place was quiet, with the exception of a single fly buzzing around. It landed on a light, which proceeded to fizz out.

I noticed a man passed out on the pool table in the back room. I nudged Dean and pointed.

“Hey buddy?”

“I’m guessing that isn’t Ellen.” Sam sighed.

“Yeah.”

The three of us split up. I went back around to the first room, ducking behind the bar to check out what was left. Sam had gone down to the back room, and Dean moved toward the steps. He coughed.

“Oh god, please let that be a rifle.”

I heard the sound of a rifle cocking and I froze.

Shit!

I pulled my gun from my waistband and made sure I was ready..

“No. I’m just real happy to see you. Don’t move.”

“Not moving, copy that.” I heard Dean sass back. “You know, you should know something, miss. When you put a rifle on someone, you don’t want to put it right against their back, because it makes it real easy to do… that.”

I stayed under the counter, jaw clenched.

There was a grunt and skin against skin.

“Olive! Need some help in here!” He called, cupping his nose. “Can’t even see. I can’t even see.”

“Hey!” I barked as I stood, gun up. “Dean, you okay?”

He nodded in response. The girl was blonde, and probably about Dean’s age. She looked between Dean and I, unsure where to aim the gun. Sam was ushered in by an older woman. Both hands were on his head. I squared my shoulders as I lined up the shot for the older woman.

“Sam?” I kept my eyes on the women. “You okay?”

He nodded. “A bit tied up is all.”

“Wait. Sam? Dean? Olive? Winchester?”

“Yeah.” The three of us spat.

“Son of a bitch.”

“Mom, you know these people?”

“Yeah.” The lady laughed as she lowered her gun. “I think these are John Winchester’s kids.”

“Put the rifle down.” I ordered, nodding at the younger one.

She did just that, and her mom smiled. “Hey, I’m Ellen. This is my daughter, Jo.”

Dean smiled at her.

“Hey.” Jo mumbled.

I put the safety back on my gun and tucked it back into my jeans.

“You’re not gonna hit me again, are ya?” Dean asked, hand on his nose.

                                                             ***

Ellen handed Dean a bag of ice. “Here ya go.”

“Thanks.” Dean fumbled with it.

I took it from his hand and made him look my way as I pressed it to his nose.

“You called our dad and said you could help. With what?”

“Well, the demon, of course.”

I dropped the ice and looked at Dean with wide eyes. He squinted and turned to face Sam, who looked just as confused.

“Heard he was closing in on it.”

“What, was there an article in Demon Hunters Quarterly that I missed? I mean, wh-who are you? How do you know about all this?”

“Hey, I just run a saloon.” Ellen put her hands up. “But hunters have been known to pass through now and again.” She looked at Jo.

I put the ice back up to Dean’s nose with a sigh.

“Including your dad a long time ago. John was like family once.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean countered. “How come he’s never mentioned you before?”

“You’d have to ask him that.”

“So why exactly do we need your help?” Dean’s top lip furled into a frown.

I pressed the ice into his face, and he winced.

“Hey, don’t do me any favors.” Ellen started.

“Ellen, look…” I cut her off, feeling tears well in my eyes.

She sighed as she realized.

“It was the demon, we think. It, uh… it got him before he got it.” Sam spoke calmly.

I looked back down, and Dean continued to ice his nose.

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Dean looked up with a strong face and a soft smile.

My heart clenched, and I leaned into his chest, tears streaming down my cheeks. He wrapped an arm around me and kept his head high.

“We’re alright.”

“Really? I know how close you and your dad-”

“Really, lady, I’m fine.” Dean cut her off.

This is not up for debate.

“So look, if you can help…” Sam sighed. “We could use all the help we can get.”

“Well, we can’t.” Ellen spoke.

I sighed as I pulled away from Dean and sat up straight.

“But Ash will.”

The three of us looked at each other.

“Who’s Ash?”

“Ash!”

The man on the pool table jerked awake and sat up, squirming around.

“What? Closing time?”

“That’s Ash?” Sam pointed.

“Mm-hmm.” Jo nodded. “He’s a genius.”

                                                             ***

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Dean scowled. “This guy’s no genius. He’s a Lynyrd Skynyrd roadie.”

“I like you.” Ash grinned as I handed him the brown folder we had brought.

Dean gave a small grin. “Thanks.”

“Just give him a chance.” Jo handed each of the boys a drink and turned to me. “What do you want, baby?”

I smiled. “Do you have orange juice?”

She grinned. “Coming right up.”

I decided I liked her. She was Everett, but way nicer.

“Alright.” Dean sighed and sat down next to me, leaving me stuck between him and Sam. “This stuff’s about a year’s worth of our dad’s work, so uh, let’s see what you make of it.”

Ash shuffled through the papers and shook his head. “Come on. This crap ain’t real. There ain’t nobody can track a demon like this.”

Dean turned and locked eyes with Sam. They both looked annoyed.

“Our dad could.” I piped up.

“These are non-parametrics, statistical overviews, cross-spectrum correlations, I mean… damn! Uh, they’re signs. Omens. If you can track em, you can track this demon. Ya know, like crop failures, electrical storms. You ever been struck by lightning? It ain't fun.” Ash huffed.

“Can you track it or not?” Sam asked.

“Yeah, with this, I think so. But it’s gonna take time. Uh, give me… fifty one hours.”

He got up and began to walk off. Dean looked at me, and I giggled, teeth stuck between my lips.

“Hey, man?” Dean scratched his eyebrow.

“Yeah.” 

“I uh, I dig the haircut.”

“All business up front, party in the back.” Ash winked before leaving.

Jo walked by, swinging her hips and eyes on Dean. He checked her out, eyes tired. I leaned against him with a groan.

Don’t go. I need you, don’t go.

“Hey, Ellen? What is that?” Sam pointed to something behind the bar.

“It’s a police scanner. We keep tabs on things, we-”

“No. No, um, the folder.” Sam pointed.

Dean pushed me into Sam’s side and walked off, following Jo.

“Oh, uh. I was gonna give this to a friend of mine.” Ellen took the folder and placed it in front of Sam. “But take a look if you want.”

COUPLE MURDERED

CHILD LEFT ALIVE

MEDFORD, WISCONSIN

Sam flipped through the newspaper clippings and sighed.

“Dean, come here. Check this out.”

“Yeah?” Dean stood and stretched.

“A few murders, not far from here, that Ellen caught wind of. Looks to me like there might be a hunt.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So, we should check it out.” Sam gave him a bitchface.

                                                             ***

“You’ve gotta be kidding me. A killer clown?” Dean looked at Sam, then glanced at me in the rearview.

“Yeah. He left the daughter unharmed and killed the parents. Ripped them to pieces, actually.”

“And the family was at some carnival that night?”

“Yeah, uh, the Cooper Carnivals.”

“So how do you know we’re not dealing with some psycho in a clown suit?” Dean asked.

“Cops have no leads. All the employees were tearing down shop, alibis all around. Plus this girl said she saw a clown vanish into thin air. Cops are saying trauma, of course.”

“Well, I know what you’re thinking, Sam. Why clowns?”

“Oh, give me a break.” Sam groaned.

Dean laughed. “You didn’t think we’d remember, did you? I mean, come on, you still bust out crying whenever you see Ronald McDonald on the television!”

“Well, at least I’m not afraid of flying!”

“Planes crash!”

“And apparently clowns kill!”

“Hey!” I shouted. “Both of you quit it. It’s enough that I’m stuck in the backseat of a mini van like some sort of damn kid, talking about killer fucking clowns. Stop fighting.”

They sighed.

“So. These types of murders, they ever happen before?”

“According to the file, 1981, the Bunker Brothers Circus. Same MO. Happened three times, three different places.”

“That’s weird. I mean if it’s a spirit, it’s usually bound to a specific locale. You know, a house, or a town.”

“So how’s this one moving from city to city, carnival to carnival?”

“Cursed object, maybe? Spirit attaches itself to something and the carnival carries it around with them.”

“Great.” I rolled my eyes. “It’s a fucking paranormal scavenger hunt.”

“Well, this case was Sam’s idea, complain to him.”

Nobody said anything.

“Come on, Sam. You were awfully quick to jump on this job.”

“So?”

“It’s just… not like you, that’s all. I thought you were all hell-bent for leather on the demon hunt.”

“I don’t know, I just… I think this job, it’s what Dad would’ve wanted us to do.”

“What Dad would’ve wanted?” Dean repeated.

“Yeah.” Sam nodded. “So?”

“Nothing.”

I sighed as we pulled up to the carnival. There were detectives talking to a few of the carnies. We climbed out of the van in silence.

“Check it out.” Dean nudged me. “Five-oh. Stay with Sam.”

                                                             ***

Sam stood by my side with his hands in his pockets as a three-foot-tall woman in a clown outfit passed by us. He stared at her nervously and she stared back.

“Did you get her number?” Dean grinned as he came back.

Sam scowled. “More murders?”

“Two more last night. Apparently, they were ripped to shreds. And they had a little boy with them.”

“Who fingered a clown.”

Dean gave Sam a weird look, and Sam sighed.

“What?”

“Yeah, a clown, who apparently vanished into thin air.”

“Boys.” I sighed. “Looking for a cursed object in a whole ass carnival is like trying to find a needle in a stack of needles. It could be anything.”

“Well it’s bound to give off EMF. We’ll just have to scan everything.” 

“Oh. Good.” Sam sighed. “That’s nice and inconspicuous.”

I tilted my head as I noticed a “Help Wanted” sign. I nudged Dean’s side and nodded toward it.

“I guess we’ll just have to blend in.”

                                                             ***

“Excuse me, we’re looking for a Mr. Cooper.” Dean called out.

The man was throwing knives at a target. They all landed near the bulls-eye.

“Have you seen him around?”

“What is that, some kind of joke?” The man turned around with a snarl.

He pulled his sunglasses off. He was blind.

“Oh. God, I’m so sorry.” Dean’s eyes went wide as he realized.

I scratched the back of my neck and shuffled into Sam’s side. This place was giving me all the bad vibes, and as much as I wanted to fist fight my brothers, staying close was my best bet for now.

“You think I wouldn’t give my eyeteeth to see Mr. Cooper? Or a sunset, or anything at all?” The man shot.

Dean eyed me. I ducked into Sam’s chest, and he huffed. “Wanna give me a little help here?”

“Not really.”

Someone else walked in. “Hey man, is there a problem?”

“Yeah, this guy hates blind people.” The old man spat.

I peeked out to see a very short man in a red cape. I glanced at Dean.

“No, I don’t, I-”

“Hey, buddy, what’s your problem?”

“Nothing, it’s just a little misunderstanding.” Dean tried to defend himself.

“Little? You son of a bitch!”

“No, no, no, no!”

“Could somebody just tell us where Mr. Cooper is? Please?” I spoke up, arms wrapped around Sam’s waist.

                                                             ***

“You kids picked up a hell of a time to join up. Take a seat.”

There were only two chairs. One was normal, and the other was pink with a huge clown’s face on it. Dean grinned and I rolled my eyes as I beat him to the normal chair. Sam sighed. Dean glared at me and I smiled softly before turning to Sam.

“Wanna sit?”

He took the normal chair with a smile. “Thanks, Ol.”

Dean dropped into the clown chair with a scowl my way. I sat on the arm of his chair and he continued to scowl as his hand came to my back to keep me steady.

“We’ve got all kinds of local trouble.” Mr. Cooper sighed.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Oh, a couple of folks got themselves murdered. Cops always seem to start here first. So, you three ever worked the circuit before?”

“Yes sir, last year through Texas and Arkansas.”

“Yeah.” Dean mumbled in agreement.

“Doing what? Ride jockeys? Butcher? A and S Men?”

Dean fumbled, and Sam shrugged.

“Yeah, uh, a little bit of everything, I guess.”

Mr. Cooper eyed us and sighed. “You three have never worked a show in your lives before, have you?”

Sam and I looked at each other, and Dean smiled.

“Nope. But we really need the work. Oh, and uh, Sam here’s got a thing for the bearded lady.” Dean teased.

I elbowed him and he cleared his throat. Sam scowled.

“You see that picture?” Mr. Cooper pointed to a picture hung above him. “That was my daddy.”

“You look just like him.” Sam smiled.

“He was in the business. Ran a freakshow. Til they outlawed them, most places. Apparently displaying the deformed isn’t dignified. So most of the performers went from honest work to rotting in hospitals and asylums.” He shrugged. “That’s progress. I guess.”

Dean winced and Sam gave a sympathetic smile. I leaned an arm on Dean’s shoulder and looked at the ground.

“You see, this place, it’s a refuge for outcasts. Always has been. For folks that don’t fit in nowhere else. But you three? You should go to school. Find a couple of girls and a guy. Have two point five kids. Live regular.”

I glanced at Sam. That was exactly what he had always wanted. Dean opened his mouth, but Sam leaned forward, eyes serious. I inched closer to Dean.

“Sir. We don’t want to go to school. And we don’t want regular. We want this.”

Dean and I shared a glance before turning to look at Sam.

                                                             ***

Dean hummed to get Sam’s attention, but it didn’t work. I sighed and grabbed his sleeve. He stopped walking and turned to face me.

“What?”

“Sams, that whole uh… don’t wanna go to school thing. Were you just… saying that or… were you… ya know, saying it?”

Sam remained silent.

“Sammy?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

He started walking again, and Dean and I huffed as we followed.

“You don’t know?” Dean repeated. “I thought that once the demon was dead and the fat lady sings that you were gonna take off, head back to Wussy State.” 

“I’m having second thoughts.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah. I think… I think Dad would’ve wanted me to stick with the job.”

“Since when do you give a damn what Dad wanted, Sam?” Dean snorted. “You spent half your life doing exactly what he didn’t want.”

“Since he died, okay?” Sam stopped walking again. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“Nah.” Dean shook his head. “I don’t have a problem at all.”

I rolled my eyes and Dean turned to me. “Ollie? Problem?”

I shook my head. “No, this is fucking stupendous.”

“Watch your mouth.”

“Bite me.” I snarled back.

“What is your issue lately? You’ve been snappy for no reason.”

“Dad is dead. That’s my reason, okay?”

“Olive-”

“Look, we don’t have time for this. Let’s just go.”

                                                             ***

“Sammy?”

“Hey, Bug.”

“What’s up?” I held the phone between my ear and my shoulder as I changed a trash bag.

“Uh, so I saw a skeleton and it got me thinking.”

“Like… a real… live human skeleton?”

“Yeah, in the funhouse.”

“What the fuck?”

“Yeah, listen, I was thinking. What if the spirit isn’t attached to a cursed object? What if it’s attached to its own remains?”

“Well did the bones give off EMF?”

“No, but I think we should check it out anyways.”

“Okay. Do you wanna call Dean or should I?”

“You call him. I’m heading to you.”

“Okay. Love you, Sams.”

“I love you too, jelly bean.”

I hung up before he could. I moved to the next batch of trash cans and dialed Dean’s number.

“Baby?”

“Hi, freckles.”

“What’s up, kid?”

“Sams found a skeleton. He thinks we should check it out.”

“EMF?”

“No, but we should still check it out. He’s heading our way.”

“Alright. Thanks for the heads up. Love you.”

I smiled. “I love you too, Deano.”

                                                             ***

“Dean!” I jumped up from the ground. “What took you so long?”

“It’s a long story.” Dean groaned.

“Mommy, look at the clown!” A little girl shouted.

The three of us turned. There was a clown waving at her. I shivered, stumbling back into my brothers. Sam and Dean caught me as my footing slipped and I went down.

“What clown?” The mom asked.

“What’s she talking about?” Dean asked.

“You don’t see that?” I glanced up at Dean, and then back.

The clown was gone.

“Olive?”

“Holy fuck. Come on, we’ve gotta follow them. This thing’s gonna come after them next.”

                                                             ***

“Dude, I cannot believe you told freaking Papazian about the homicidal phantom clown.” Sam scoffed.

Dean shrugged. “I told him an urban legend about a homicidal phantom clown. Never said it was real.”

I giggled, and Sam rolled his eyes with a smile. Dean whipped out a gun and cocked it. Sam rushed to dive over my lap and push Dean’s hand down.

“Keep that down!”

“Oh, and get this! I mentioned the Bunker Brothers’ Circus in ‘81, and their, uh, evil clown apocalypse. Guess what?”

“What?”

“Before Cooper owned Cooper Carnivals, he worked for Bunker Brothers. He was their lot manager.”

I sighed. “Think Cooper brought whatever the spirit is attached to?”

He shrugged again. “Maybe, something like that.” He shook his head with a heavy sigh. “I can’t believe we’re talking about fucking clowns.”

                                                             ***

“Bug. Bug, wake up.” Sam whispered.

I squirmed in his lap. “What?”

“I think the clown’s here. The little girl’s at the door, but…”

I turned to see the clown standing at the front door. I rolled off of Sam’s lap and knocked my head into Dean’s arm.

“What?” He groaned.

“Get up, bubba. Fucking clown’s here.”

Dean sat up straight and groaned. “Shit. Fuck, come on.”

                                                             ***

Dean made a motion at me and I nodded. The little girl was leading the clown down the hall. Sam and Dean both had their shotguns ready. I ran my tongue over my fangs and kept my mouth shut as I bounced up and down. They couldn’t see the clown, and it was riding on me.

“Wanna see Mommy and Daddy? They’re upstairs!”

The girl walked right through the dark. I took a breath before reaching out and snatching her off her feet. She began to scream bloody murder, and I flinched, feeling blood begin to trickle from my ears. 

“De, in front of you!” I pointed. 

She kicked and cried as Dean shot the clown in the chest. I ducked as the clown lept past us and out the window. It was out of sight as the parents came running out.

“What’s going on here!”

“Oh my god, what are you doing to my daughter!”

“Who the hell are you! Get out! Get out of my house!”

I dropped the girl onto her feet and made a run for it. Sam and Dean followed, scrambling across the hardwood floor.

                                                             ***

“Do you really think they saw our plates?” Sam sighed.

I shrugged as Dean huffed.

“I don’t wanna take the chance. Besides, I hate this stupid van anyways.”

I zipped up the bag as Dean shoved the plates in it. I slung it over my shoulder with a heavy sigh. Dean wrapped an arm around my shoulders and sighed as we began to walk down the road.

“Well, one thing’s for sure.”

“What?” I looked up.

“We’re not dealing with a spirit. I mean, that rock salt hit something solid.”

“Yeah, a person? Or maybe a creature that can make itself invisible?” Sam offered, rubbing the back of his neck.

I snorted. “And dresses up like a clown just for shits and giggles?”

“I dunno, jelly bean.” He sighed.

“Did it say anything in Dad’s journal?” Dean looked up at Sam.

“Nope.” Sam cleared his throat before pulling out his phone.

“Who’re you calling, bubs?”

“Maybe Ellen or that guy Ash’ll know something. Hey, you think, uh… you guys think Dad and Ellen ever had a thing?”

“No way.” Dean shook his head.

I sighed. “Then why didn’t he tell us about her?”

“I dunno, guys. Maybe they had some sort of falling out?”

Sam chuckled. “Yeah. You ever notice Dad had a falling out with just about everybody?”

Dean nodded without a word, and Sam lowered his phone with a sigh.

“Well, don’t get all maudlin on me, dude.”

Dean’s eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“He just means that strong and silent isn’t your type, freckles.”

“Oh, god.” Dean groaned, rolling his eyes.

“I’m over it, man. This isn’t just anyone we’re talking about, this is Dad. We both know how you felt about the man.”

Dean stopped walking and I immediately withdrew, shrinking into myself.

“You know what? Back off, alright? Just because I’m not caring and sharing like you frigging want me to.”

“No, no, no. That’s not what this is about, Dean. I don’t care how you deal with this. Olive might, but I don’t. But you do have to deal with it. Listen, I’m your brother, alright? I just wanna make sure you’re okay.”

“Dude, I’m okay!” Dean shouted. “I’m okay, okay? I swear, the next person who asks if I’m okay, I’m gonna start throwing punches! These are your issues, quit dumping them on me!”

“What the hell are you talking about, Dean?”

“I just think it’s real interesting, this sudden obedience you have to Dad! It’s like, oh, what would Dad want me to do?” Dean scowled. “Sam, you spent your entire life slugging it out with that man! I mean, hell, you, you picked a fight with him the last time you ever fucking saw him! And now he’s dead, you wanna make it right?” He shook his head. “Well, I’m sorry, Sam. But ya can’t. It’s too little, too late.”

Sam’s eyes filled with tears and I looked away, feeling my nose burn and breath falter.

“Why are you saying this to me?”

“Because I want you to be honest with yourself about this, Sam. I’m dealing with Dad’s death! Are you?”

Sam swallowed and shook his head. “I’m going to call Ellen.”

He walked off and I stumbled away from Dean with a sob.

“Ollie?” He reached for me.

I yanked myself away and let out another cry.  The duffel bag fell at my feet, and Dean picked it up, keeping his eyes on me.

“Olive, talk to me.”

“Honey? Hey, jelly bean, what’s wrong?” Sam instantly turned back around.

I shook my head and wiped at my cheeks. “Y-you guys have been so caught up in dealing with Dad’s death, a-a-an-and with fighting with each other! I get you guys are hurting. I get it, I do. You guys lost Dad.” I sighed, wiping my nose with my sleeve.

“Ol-”

“I’m not done, Dean.” I hissed. “You’re both hurting. And that’s okay. But I lost him too. I lost him, and I almost lost both of you. You guys have been so focused on your own grief that you haven’t noticed that I need you!”

“Olive…”

I shook my head. “Never mind. This was stupid. I’m sorry.”

“Olive-”

“Just go call Ellen, Sam.”

He tucked his phone back into his pocket and grabbed me by the wrists. “Hey.”

I looked the other way, tears running down my face.

“Hey.” He pulled gently on my wrists, forcing me to stumble into him.

“Olive. My sweet girl.” Dean brushed my hair behind my ear.

“Leave me alone.” I whined.

“No.” Sam grabbed me by the waist and hauled me into his grip.

I squirmed. “Leave me alone!”

“Bug.”

I let out a strangled cry and hit Sam’s chest. “Let me go!”

“Pumpkin.”

I sobbed again, dropping my head into Sam’s neck. He rubbed circles into my back and leaned his head against mine.

“It’s okay. Let it out, cookie. It’s alright.”

“Olive. You should’ve said something.” Dean’s voice was gentle.

I felt myself physically deflate, further falling into Sam’s hold.

“I just miss him.” I whispered. “I miss when it was the four of us.”

“We know, bug. It’s okay.” Sam pressed a kiss to the side of my head.

“Okay. Come here. I’ll take Ol, Sam, you can call Ellen.”

I whimpered as Dean pulled me from Sam. I snuggled into Dean easier than I had Sam, finding the groove of his shoulder where my head fit perfectly.

“I’m sorry, princess.” He pressed a kiss to my head. “You should’ve said something. You’re right, we haven’t been the best of brothers.”

I nodded as I relaxed into him. “You’re right. I should’ve. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. We’re here now. Whatever you need. I promise.” He started walking, following Sam down the road.

“I love you.” I whispered, letting my eyes fall shut.

“Hey. Ellen thinks she knows what this thing is.”

I opened my eyes again. Sam winked at me and ran a hand up and down my back. I sniffled.

“What is it?”

“Rakshasa.”

Dean’s face scrunched up.

“What’s that?”

“Race of ancient Hindu creatures. They appear in human form, they feed on human flesh, and they cannot enter a home without first being invited. Oh, and get this. They can make themselves invisible, and they can make it so only kids can see them.”

I snorted. “Well that explains why you guys couldn’t.”

“So they dress up like clowns, and the kids invite them in.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah.”

Dean’s arms tightened around me. “Why don’t they just munch on the kids?”

Sam shrugged. “No idea. Not enough meat on the bones, maybe?” He offered, and I squirmed, grossed out.

“What else’d you find out?” I squirmed again, this time until Dean put me down.

“Apparently, Rakshasas live in squalor.”

“Ew.” I made a subtle beeline for Sam’s side as we walked, bumping into him full force.

He caught me and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “Yeah. They sleep on a bed of dead insects.”

“Ew!” I shuddered, huddling into Sam’s side.

Dean giggled. “Remember that case with the bugs?”

“Oh god.” Sam groaned. “Don’t ever remind me again. I still find dead beetles in my clothes sometimes.”

“Alright, what else?”

“They have to feed a few times every twenty or thirty years. Slow metabolism, I guess.”

I hummed. “Makes sense. Carnival today, Bunker Brothers in ‘81.”

“Right. Probably more before that.” Sam nodded, playing with my hair.

“Hey, kids.” Dean mused.

I looked up and smiled, teary eyed. It had been a while since he called us that.

“Who do we know that worked both shows?”

I tilted my head, stumped. I looked up at Sam, and he had an identical expression on his face.

“Cooper.” Dean gave us the answer.

“Oh my god, Cooper.” It clicked.

“You know, that picture of his dad, it looked just like him.” Sam shrugged.

“Maybe it was him.”

“Well, who knows how old the fucker is?”

“Alright.” Dean clapped his hands. “Ellen say how to kill him?”

“Legend goes, dagger made of pure brass.”

A grin grew on Dean’s face, and I smiled.

“I think I know where to get one of those.”

“I mean… we should probably make sure…”

“Yeah, Olive’s right. Before we go stabbing things into him, we’re gonna wanna make damn sure it’s him.”

“Oh, you’re such a stickler for details, Sammy.”

Sam chuckled as Dean grinned. I looked between the two and let out a breath. This was closer to normal. It felt nice.

“Alright. I’ll round up the blade, you go check if Cooper’s got bedbugs.” Dean stuck a finger in my ribs and I squealed, jumping away.

Sam stumbled to stop so he wouldn’t run me over. Dean tried to chase after me, but Sam picked me up in a single swoop. I squealed again as I was placed on his hip. He gave us both his classic bitchface and rolled his eyes, but I could see the hints of a smile.

“You’re both such children.”

I poked his cheek with a huge smile. “But you love us!”

He only rolled his eyes again, this time smiling.

                                                             ***

“Still wish you would’ve let me go with Sam.” I whispered to Dean.

He nudged me and made a face.

Shut up, he can hear you.

I sighed as the blind man led us through his tent. I was with Dean, because if Cooper happened to be the clown-fuck, and he caught Sam, I was safer with Dean.

“Well, I’ve got all kinds of knives. I don’t know if I’ve got a brass one, though.” He tapped a trunk with his cane. “Check in there.”

I knelt by Dean’s side as he popped open the trunk.

“Shit.”

A red clown wig. The red clown wig.

“Dean.” My hand went to his arm and squeezed.

He stood up, pushing me behind him. “You?”

“Me.”

The blind man dropped his cane and yanked his glasses off. His eyes looked normal. He gave a grin as his eyes began to get cloudy, and his face began to melt.

“Dean!”

“Stay behind me.” He ordered as we moved toward the door.

He pulled a gun out of his waistband as I struggled with the door. It wouldn’t budge. A knife flew past us, burying itself in the door, right by my head. Dean cursed, standing with his legs apart and his shoulders wide. Another knife came, this time closer. I growled as my teeth broke loose, and I forced the door open. 

We booked it, tumbling down the stairs. I rolled over and pushed myself back onto my feet. I looked over my shoulder to make sure Dean was following as we ran.

“Hey!”

I whipped around to see Sam. I skidded to a stop and changed directions. I barreled straight into him, hiding my face in his shirt. He caught me, stumbling backwards.

“Hey. Hey, baby girl, what happened?”

I shook my head, trying to calm back down.

“Hey, so Cooper thinks I’m a Peeping Tom, but it’s not him.” Sam kept his arms around me as Dean ran toward us.

“Yeah, so I gathered.” Dean huffed.

“It’s the blind guy.” I looked up at Sam, mouth bloody.

“Oh fuck.”

“He’s here somewhere.” Dean looked around, panting.

“Well, did you guys get the-”

“The brass blades?” Dean scowled. “No. No, it’s just been one of those days.”

“Alright.” Sam sighed. “I’ve got an idea. Come on.” He started running. “Is he invisible invisible or like Olive-can-see-him-invisible?”

“Invisible invisible!”

Sam sighed. “Alright. Ollie, you’re with me.” He stopped running as we reached the funhouse. “Come on.” He held a hand out for me.

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” I squeezed his hand. “Come on.”

Sam led the way, Dean on our heels. I shuddered as we entered the mirror maze. A door slammed shut behind us.

“Dean!”

“Sam! Olive!”

“Sammy, what do we do?” I looked up.

He slammed at the door, and we could hear Dean doing the same.

“Hold on, Ol.” Sam hit it again.

I sighed and looked around. “Sams, we don’t have time for this.” I pushed him aside and put my mouth up to the door. “Dean! Dean, bubba! Find the mirror maze, okay?”

“Got it!”

There was a low growl, and I took a deep breath. It growled again. I growled back. Sam elbowed me and motioned for me to follow.

“What’s the plan?” I asked as he began to walk.

“This.” He stopped at an organ.

The pipes were giving off steam. Sam reached out, but yanked his hand back with a groan. They were too hot. He looked around, trying to think. I gritted my teeth and wrapped my fingers around the pipe, pulling it out. My skin was sizzling, and I felt tears streaming down my cheeks.

“Hey!” Dean’s voice reached my ears.

“Jesus, give!” Sam ordered, snatching the pipe from my hands with the protection of his jacket.

“Hey, lemme see.” Dean grabbed my hands and looked at my palms.

They were blistered and burnt. He blew on them softly and I flinched as they began to heal, leaving my skin pink. 

“Where is it?”

I shook my head, and Sam answered. “We don’t know.”

“Shouldn’t we be able to see its clothes walking around or something?”

I felt a wet thud in my chest and flinched. Dean’s eyes grew wide as he stared at me. I looked down to see a knife embedded by my heart. My knees got wobbly, and I went down. Dean caught me in his arms.

“Olive?” He begged.

“De…” I whimpered.

“Olive!”

Another knife came, snagging Dean’s shoulder. He groaned and Sam’s head whipped around as he searched. I looked up at the ceiling, spotting a lever for the steam.

“De…”

“What is it, baby girl?”

I nodded up toward the ceiling. “It’ll help.”

It took him a second before he realized what I meant. He gently put me on the floor and pushed himself to his feet with a groan. He stretched and pulled the lever down. I let my head roll back. I watched as the steam got stronger, giving the Rakshasa a vague shape.

“Sammy…” I muttered. “Sammy, behind you.”

“Behind you!”

Sam stabbed the pipe behind him without a second glance. I sighed as I saw blood trickling onto the ground. Dean turned the steam back off, and we saw a pile of empty clothes and a bloody pipe.

“I fuckin hate funhouses.” Dean hissed.

“De.” I called, sniffling.

“I’m right here.” He crouched by my side and held me up. “Hey, look. You’re gonna be okay.” He whispered, then looked up at Sam. “Sammy’s gonna hold you while I get this knife out. Okay?”

I let out a whimper as he sat me up. Sam grabbed me and glared at Dean.

“Dean. We don’t know if she’ll heal that fast.”

“She will.”

“De-”

“Just trust me. She will.” Dean ran his thumb across my cheek before putting a hand on my shoulder, ready to grab the knife.

“Dean?” I whimpered. “What if I don’t heal?”

“Baby girl. Remember that time in Minnesota, where you cut real bad into your wrists?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“You healed then, right?”

I nodded again, leaning back into Sam.

“You’ll heal now.”

I closed my eyes.

“I promise.”

He yanked the knife out and I jerked forward with a growl, teeth bared. Sam kept me in place and Dean stumbled backward, dropping the knife with a gasp. I felt the gap in my chest begin to close up and sighed, immediately drained.

“We’ve got you, bug. Go to sleep.” Sam whispered into my hair.

I let my eyes roll into the back of my head and dropped back against him.

                                                             ***

“You kids did a hell of a job. Your dad’d be proud.” Ellen placed two beers and a glass of orange juice down in front of us.

“Thanks.” Sam smiled softly, arm wrapped around me.

Jo swung over and sat by Dean’s other side. She gave Sam a look, and Sam smiled back. I nudged his side.

“Lesgo, Sammy.” I whispered.

“Oh yeah, um, I’ve gotta… uh, uh… I’ve gotta go. Over there. Right now.” He stumbled over his words and plucked me up by the hand.

“Let’s go, baby.”

“I’m sleepy, Sams.” I mumbled as he led me to the pool table.

“I know, I know. Come here, bug.” He picked me up and placed me on the pool table, standing by my side.

I leaned against him with a groan. My chest was healed, but it still ached to breathe, and I was gonna have a two inch scar for the rest of my life.

“Where ya guys been? Been waiting for ya.” Ash came through the back door.

“We were working a job, Ash. Clowns?” Sam grinned.

“Clowns? What the fuck?”

“Got something for us, Ash?” Dean spun around in his stool.

“Gather round, children.” Ash set what was presumably a laptop down on one of the tables.

I groaned again, and Sam laughed.

“Could you maybe bring it over here? Olive took a hit today.”

Ash nodded. “You okay, kid?”

I nodded, still leaning against Sam. “I’ll be alright. Did you find the demon?”

Ash sighed. “It’s nowhere around. At least, nowhere I can find. But if this fugly bastard raises his head, I’ll know. I mean, I’m on it like Divine on dog dookie.”

Sam and I looked at each other.

What?

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, any of those signs or omens appear, anywhere in the world, my rig’ll go off. Like a fire alarm.”

Dean reached for the laptop, which had exposed wiring. “Do you mind?”

Ash gave him a face, and Dean pulled back.

“What’s up, man?”

“Ash, where did you learn to do all this?” I eyed the laptop.

“M.I.T. before I got bounced for fighting…”

“M.I.T.?” Sam’s eyes went wide.

“It’s a school in Boston.”

Sam smiled and I giggled.

“Okay. Give us a call as soon as you know something?”

“Si, si, compadre.” Ash grinned at Dean.

Dean smiled back before taking a long swig of his beer and placing it back down. Ash eyed it and then took it for himself. Sam helped me shimmy off the table and onto my feet. I sniffed as I moved over to Dean and leaned into his side. He wrapped an arm around me as we headed for the door.

“Hey, listen… if you kids need a place to stay, I’ve got a couple beds out back.”

Dean smiled at Ellen’s offer. “Thanks… but no. There’s something I’ve gotta finish.”

She nodded. “Okay. Be safe.”

“Thanks, Ellen. See ya.” I waved as my brothers pulled me out the door.

                                                             ***

Dean is working on his car, and Sam is pacing back and forth near him. Olive is in the house, sitting in an open window on the first floor. She can see and hear her brothers, but they haven’t noticed her yet.

“You were right.” Sam states.

Dean gets up and huffs. “About what?”

“About me and Dad.” Sam fiddles with his hands. “I’m sorry that the last time I was with him I tried to pick a fight.” He scratches his ear. “I’m sorry that I spent most of my life angry at him. I mean, for all I know, he died thinking that I hate him.”

Dean’s jaw clenches, and Olive sighs silently from her spot.

“So you’re right. What I’m doing right now, it’s too little. Too late.”

His lip trembles, and the world is silent. Olive’s heart breaks, Sam’s guilt grows, and Dean’s silent demeanor becomes more and more solid.

“I miss him, man. And I feel guilty as hell. And I’m not alright. Not at all.” He sniffs, tears forming in his eyes. “But neither are you. That much I know.”

There’s a long pause, and Olive watches through tears. Dean says nothing, and Sam nods.

“I’ll let you get back to work.”

Sam walks off, and Dean stands, still. His face is set in anger. He slowly makes his way to a car next to Baby and picks up a crowbar. Olive tenses.

He smashes the car’s window out, and Olive sighs. But then he sets his eyes on Baby.

It wasn’t enough.

He slams the crowbar into the trunk of their car, over, and over, and over. He grunts each time, getting angrier and angrier, and angrier.

He stops once there’s a hole in the metal. The crowbar slips from his hands and clatters to the ground. Tears fill his eyes as he looks after where Sam has gone. His lip trembles as he swallows, hard. Jinx lets out a howl from her spot in the shade.

Olive can’t take it. She slides out of the windowsill and lands on the ground. She runs across the dirt and gravel, tears flowing down her cheeks. Dean sees her coming and instantly turns her way, arms open. He catches her as she flings herself into his arms, sobbing.

She wants her family back.

Dean slowly takes them to the ground, cradling her as he leans back against the car.

“Dean…”

He sighs. “I know, baby. I know.”

Previous Ep: In My Time of Dying (2.01)

Next Ep: Bloodlust (2.03)

[queenofeden]

my contributions to @lovelikeyoursfest for the first prompt, “the start of something new”. these are technically both excerpts from longer in-progress fics featuring my apprentice, laurel, but they happened to fit the theme so well i thought at least part of them deserved to see the light of day. consider this a teaser for my future works if u find urself interested~

chronologically, nadia comes first, julian can be found under the cut

Nadia & Laurel

January, 5 years ago

The whole of Vesuvia thrums with the energy of the masquerade, like one large body set to motion at last after a long winter. The lights, the reeling crowds, they pulse and pump as they make their way along the arterial canals, upwards, always upwards, to the highest reach of the city -- to the beating heart of it all -- the palace. Laurel catches Asra’s hand in her own, dragging him along, or he her, or perhaps they simply get swept away together by the throng, laughter bubbling on her lips for what feels like the first time in months.

Try as one might, it is easy to get separated once the party truly takes hold of the palace. The hoi polloi of Vesuvia clamor towards the offered food and drink, while the elite swan about and entertain themselves with chatter and gossip. It is not with intent that she loses track of Asra somewhere past the room full of enchanted, talking statuary. One moment he is there, and the next he is not, the space he once occupied at her side now taken up by three bustling women in matching silver gowns and masks done up like swans, all vying for entry into the room. It matters little to Laurel. Asra will find her eventually, when he cares to be found himself. He always does, somehow, whether she cares for him to or not.

There is little intent to where she wanders, keen to let herself be drawn wherever the whims of the party may take her. She knows there is something surrounding her -- a pall of grief, though it seems too melodramatic a sentiment. It is a palpable, invisible thing about her nonetheless. People walk around her, unsure of why, rowdy drunkards don't dare to jostle or bump her. Her own personal never-mind-me spell, cast without intent simply by virtue of existing. Their disinterest rankles, but she shoves the ill-feeling down deep. It's not them she's here for, anyway. A tall glass of fizzing wine makes its way into her hand, plucked deftly from a passing servant’s platter, and she carries it along in her gloved hand, sipping occasionally, leaving a smear of bright red along the rim of the glass from her painted lips.

The heavy press of the party lessens as she finds herself on the veranda, the roar in her ears fading, carried away on the cool evening breeze. It chills her overheated skin, bare beneath only a few thin layers of chiffon and satin, and she relishes the prickle of gooseflesh it leaves in its wake like a kiss. She takes her glass and drains the last of the golden wine too quickly, and trades it for another -- something pink and dangerously sugared this time. This too she finishes in a few deep gulps, setting the empty glass back onto the bemused servant's tray and taking another before they have time to even move away. Alone, save for the alcohol that burns in her too empty stomach, she wanders the less crowded gardens, full of others who have little interest in being found. She hums along to a familiar tune as she passes through a faint cloud of sound, drifting over the tops of the immaculately trimmed hedge walls.

She feels sweet with wine and song, the lightest she has felt all year. Here, the sounds and smells, the anonymous, whirling multitude of bodies-- they keep out what Laurel would rather forget. Here there is no responsibility, no pitying glances from familiar patrons, none of Asra's well-intentioned saccharine condolences. No one knows her here, not behind the gilt painted mask. She is hardly herself, if she wants not to be, and oh how desperately she craves the chance to not be herself, if only for just a little while. That is the true magic of the Count’s masquerade, something far more powerful than what she could throw together in a mortar at home and call such. She is only the swell of the music. It lifts her slippered feet, carrying her in some semblance of dance as she walks the cobbled path, eyes closed in what would feel almost like joy, if she could remember the feeling.

There is no one on the path with her, no one to see her dizzy, stumbling attempt at a coranto, so when her body meets something else -- someone else, the slide of a silk gown against her bare arms -- her eyes snap open, and she stumbles backward with an embarrassed curse.

"Shit! Sorry, so sorry."

Laurel lifts her gaze, expecting to see the heated glare of whomever she'd been unlucky enough to plow into. What she does not expect is the countess -- The Countess -- blinking back at her with equal amounts of surprise. 

With a choked sort of squeak, Laurel drops immediately into her best, lowest curtsy, knees creaking and head bowed so low her mask threatens to slip straight off her nose.

"O-oh, My Lady Countess, forgive me! Please forgive me!"

Her heart hammers in her chest. The Countess! Of all people to drunkenly stumble into! The count would likely have her head for daring lay a hand, however accidental, on his beloved wife. Or perhaps the countess herself would ask him to cut off her wicked, clumsy feet instead as a mercy. 

Less likely was the countess's voice -- rich and deep and rolling over her like sweet molasses -- saying softly, "It’s quite alright. Please stand."

Laurel blinks, straightening her spine in fractions, giving ample time should the countess deign to change her mind and command her to sprawl, prostrate in the dirt, at her feet instead. She doesn't. Eventually, Laurel is able to lift her chin and look the -- only slightly -- taller woman in the eye for the first time.

She had known the countess was beautiful, much in the way that people knew the sky was blue, the grass grew green, and the south was a frigid waste, an immutable fact. People spoke often of her features in the market, lauding the beauty of her violet hair, her striking, crimson eyes, her high, royal brow. More so, she knew it to be true by the simple truth that vain Count Lucio would never settle for less. What few memories she has -- a parade, swirling streamers in the air; the profile of a distant woman, nestled like an idol on a float of white roses and purple hyacinth -- are clouded by time and distance. She had pieced her together that first year, vague impressions and gossip and distant glances in the town square where she deigned to appear. Vesuvia's very own princess had crossed her mind very little after that.

This close, close enough to smell her sweet jasmine of her perfume, to count the faint few freckles on her bare shoulders, Countess Nadia is more lovely than Laurel could have ever imagined.

Laurel's gaping leaves her uncharacteristically silent, but the countess seems to recover first. Likely she's used to filling stunned silence.

"How is that you found me here?" she asks, a faint tinge of pink across her nose, though whether it is from embarrassment or anger Laurel cannot gauge.

Laurel glances around, taking in the tall topiaries that surround them. “I-- where is here, exactly?”

Julian & Laurel

Late September, 5 years ago

1.

The first time she arrives at his clinic, Julian doesn’t yet know that he should turn the woman he would come to know as Laurel Lobban away. She comes to his clinic like most regular patients, in a hurried flurry of skirts, eyes bright — not red, thankfully, the sclera a clear, healthy white with irises of sky blue — sharp with an edge of desperation. Perhaps a family member was sick, a spouse, or sister. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had dragged him from his clinic in the misty, early hours of pre-dawn with their pleas.

He lets the woman in — his first mistake — and leads her to the small table in the corner where he offers her a perfunctory cup of poorly brewed coffee or tea, though she doesn’t look to be in any particular need of it. There is a tension to her body, ratcheted tight as a halyard line. If plucked she might sing, high and sweet like the E string of his vielle, but that could also be his third cup of coffee before sunrise talking. From over her nose and mouth, she pulls down her paisley patterned scarf to reveal full but drawn lips, chewed raw and near bleeding. She stretches and bunches the fabric in her hands, twisting it into knots.

“You’re the doctor, then, yes?” she asks, squinting up at him. “Doctor Devorak? The one everyone talks about?”

A grin, black and bitter as the lingering taste of coffee in his throat, spreads his lips thin at that. “Well, now, that depends. What do the people say?”

The woman watches him, eyes canny as a hawk, flitting between his features, sizing him up. “They say you help people, that you don’t overcharge like the hacks in the heart district do.” She sniffs with derision then, nose crinkling up, though whether at the thought of his colleagues uptown or the smell of something in the room, he cannot tell. Astringent probably, he had just cleaned his tools for the day. Often he forgets how strong the smell can be to those far less nose blind than he. She coughs delicately, like she’s trying to suppress a gag. “They say you’re a good man.”

Ah, well, hm. Julian can’t say he’s heard that one before. ‘Foul, beaked harbinger of misery’ yes, ‘heartless bastard’ sure, ‘utter fool’ sometimes, but good man? Compliments were not something many of his patients or their families had on their minds once he was around. Her words settle like a heavy stone in his near empty stomach. This close, with her looking at him just so, her eyes are less so the color of summer. Darker, near navy, paling into a grey to match his own with a flash of almost-barely-there yellow at the center, like a brewing sky at sea -- one set to storm and tear him to pieces any moment, the look of them setting his sailor’s intuition on edge. He ignores them, words and eyes both. 

“And are you in need of my help then?” he asks, stepping away to rifle through his curio cabinet, stuffed to bursting with jars of tinctures and salves. “You don’t look beplagued, perhaps some other malady? Allergies? A fungus?”

A loud, nearly surprised, scoff. “I don’t have a fungus,” she asserts with umbrage.

He feels his cheeks heat, grateful that his head is buried in the cabinet and not on view of her no doubt scrutinizing gaze. “Of course not, of course not, so sorry. I didn’t intend any offense miss-- ah, I don’t believe I got your name?”

“Laurel, Laurel Lobban.”

She’s right behind him again. He jumps, knocking the shelves with a wayward elbow as he turns. Her hand is held out to shake, and he takes it with mild surprise. Her grip is firm, no nonsense, but she squeezes a little too hard just before she lets go in a way that lets him know how intentional, how controlled those reads he took of her were. He would see nothing of her that she didn’t want him to, that much he could tell. 

“Laurel Lobban,” he repeats, rolling the matching consonants on his tongue. “Laurel, laurus nobilis, lauraceae, like the plant,” he rambles, finishing rather dumbly. She snorts.

“Yes... like the plant. Are you all right, doctor?”

Was he all right? Maybe that third coffee had been a bad idea. “Fine, fine. Though I would be more fine if I knew what I could help you with, Miss Lobban. Hard to diagnose if I don’t know what ails you.”

“I don’t — ” she sighs, frustration warring across her features. “I’m not sick. I’m not here for some tincture. I — I want to work with you.”

He laughs. It was the wrong thing to do, by the telling darkening of her expression, the subtle shift in her jaw as she clearly clenches her teeth. He can’t help it though. It trails off, nervously, his stance shifting from one leg to the other. Whatever you do next, proceed with caution, Ilya.

“Work? Work here?” Nailed it.

“Do you work elsewhere?”

“I — no. This is it,” he replies, gesturing weakly at the single, cramped room, with it’s tiny storage closet and its rickety loft where he keeps his private office which is little more than a second closet. Why would anyone want to work here? With him?

“Then yes, here. With you.”

That he didn’t like.

“And do you ah — do you have any medical expertise then?”

She frowns. There’s a knot of lines between her brows that would be cute, almost endearing, in any other situation than this. Her cheeks flush pink. “Well, no. I mean I’ve read a few books, but… I had hoped you would take me on as an apprentice.”

His mouth falls open, spluttering. He weaves around her so that he’s no longer pinned, like a bug to a board, between her expectant gaze and the cabinet. “Unfortunately Miss Lobban, I’m not equipped to take on apprentices at this time. You see, I’m — well, the fact of the matter is — ”

Stop it. Stop talking.

“There are plenty of other doctors who would take you on, I’m certain.” Who? It doesn’t matter. Doctors who aren’t me. Why would anyone want to learn from a failure who couldn’t even cure his patients, anyway? What could he possibly have to offer an apprentice?

“I don’t want those doctors. They say you’re the best in the city, I want to work with the best.”

The best. Julian bites back another fit of laughter. Grinning — baring his teeth really — instead. “Now now, flattery won’t change my mind.”

She’s followed him again, standing as close behind him as she dares while he flits about the room, restless with nervous energy.

“If I was flattering you, doctor, you would know.”

Had he been this insistent when he’d come to Nazali the first time? Almost certainly, if the stories he’d heard oft repeated are true. How had they put up with him, and not thrown him out on his ear? The simple answer is that they are a much better doctor, a better person, than he. Nazali had discovered the plague, had made the greatest strides in its classification, its treatment, yet. And what had he done with their teachings? Squandered it all. Sat by and watched as patient after patient came to him for help, had plied them with false comforts, and in the end had done nothing, save for ease them into their inevitable deaths. He should tell her that. Should count out his many failures for her like he does for himself every night in place of sheep. Certainly that would frighten her away.

What he says instead is this: “Have you ever watched someone die?”

Her mouth goes slack, obviously taken aback by his question. For a moment he sees the fear flash across her eyes, but quick as it came it's replaced by something else. Something harder. She licks her lips and smiles, lips wobbling at the edges. "Do you ask all the girls that, or am I just special?"

He keeps his gaze hard, until the slight upturn of her lips collapses into a frown.

“Surely that can’t be a prerequisite for the job.”

“On the contrary,” Julian replies, nerves solidifying. “Humor me.”

Laurel’s eyes slide sideways. “No,” she says carefully, chewing over her words. “Though death and I are no strangers.”

Julian takes a deep breath, a brief flare of pain in his chest for having been the cause of the dark shadows that crossed over her features at that admission. He rakes a hand through his curls, shoving them away from his face, where they stay for a moment, before flopping back into his eyes. 

“So you have lost someone?” he asks, though it is less question and more statement of fact.

Her gaze flicks back to him, sharp and pointed as the tip of a blade. “Hasn’t everyone in Vesuvia by now?” she asks him cooly. 

Julian at least has the grace to look chagrined, feeling the heat of one of his telltale flushes burning under his collar. “I suppose you have a point there.”

“I don’t relish the thought of death, Doctor Devorak, if that’s your concern.” Laurel grips the strap of her bag tightly, staring up at him, imploring. “And I’ve no agenda, I assure you. I simply want to find some way to help.”

It is that moment that the door of the clinic swings open, the sharp RANG-CLANG-CLANG of the bell startling the both of them. A barrel-chested man heaves in the doorway, face shining, slick with sweat as he gasps, hands on his knees.

“Doctor! Doctor please, my husband he — “

Immediately, something shifts in Julian. One moment he is himself, good old Ilya Devorak. The next he is simply Doctor, parts within himself shuttering closed as others open, the whole of him changing as instinct takes over, just as it had every instant before a battle when the quiet set in and he and Nazali knew the first wave of bodies would soon hit; the calm before the storm, captured entirely within himself like a model ship trapped in a bottle.

“On it!” he barks, grabbing his overcoat and mask from their hooks with practiced ease, already making long strides towards the door before Laurel’s voice cuts through the quiet roar of his thoughts.

“Doctor please!” she all but hisses, chasing after him with stubborn steps. “I need — let me do something, anything!”

With a sigh, Julian reaches out and fixes the scarf about her neck back over her nose and mouth before placing his own mask over his face. Safe behind red glass, he cannot see the piercing blue of her eyes anymore, no longer at risk of being swept away by the violent current of her.

He takes her by the arm, and gently but firmly leads her to the door, past the panicked man who dumbly, silently, follows them out onto the street at Julian’s other hand. The rosy tendrils of pre-dawn light are barely making their way across the sky, the cobbles beneath their feet still heavy with morning fog yet to be burned away by the heat of the day. With a deft flick of his wrist, Julian switches the crude sign on the door front from ‘IN’ to ‘OUT’. When he turns back, Laurel still lingers under the halo of lantern light, hem of her skirts dancing around her ankles as she shifts anxiously from foot to foot. 

“I — ” 

“Go home, Miss Lobban,” he says, voice half muffled, mouth filling with the cloying scents of camphor and dried roses. “Truly, the best you can do for anyone is to not find yourself here again.”

With that Julian turns and follows the snuffling man where he leads, leaving Laurel behind him, disappearing into the pre-dawn gloom.