#all while her own trauma is still gathering dust in the corner

[genericpuff]

i have nothing to say about the newest episodes of LO

so I'll let past me from the year 2022 say it instead

because everything they said a year and a half ago ironically still applies today and i don't even know how that's possible but it's where we are 💀😭

[lovestruckay]

Request: "Please make a fic where the reader (female or gn) is new to the Fire Force as an unpowered person and they become attached to Viktor"

Pairing: Viktor x Unpowered Fem!Reader

A/N: Thank you sm for the request, @thesolarflame​! I really flip-flopped on what position to give the reader considering she is unpowered. I thought about making her a member of the science team, a fighter like Obi, and even making her a sister. I think everyone will enjoy what I landed on though!

When Vulcan first joined Company 8, he had done an inspection of their matchbox and all of their fire fighting equipment. Once he had finished going through their arsenal, he had explained to Obi that there was just far too much for him to maintain on his own while simultaneously developing new technology to assist them in battle.

Just maintaining the matchbox was a task in and of itself, let alone the fleet of weapons and armor that Obi donned every time they were called to the scene of a fire. He was a talented engineer, surely, but there was only so much one man could do.

Vulcan’s solution: he knew a girl.

He had wasted no time in gathering up Lisa and Yu and going on a little “family outing” before returning with the mysterious mechanic in tow, the woman receiving a warm - if chaotic, as per Company 8’s usual demeanor - welcome.

She was an engineer just like Vulcan, a talented technician who was nearly as famous as he was in their close knit junk-rat community. While Vulcan was renowned for his skill at creating unique and nearly indestructible machines, she was famous for her ability to keep machines going far passed the point they should have fallen to pieces.

Vulcan frequently tried to pick her brain on her uncanny ability but her answers were something that befuddled him more than anything else.

“It’s love. You can spend years building the most flawless, indestructible machine the world has ever seen but, without love, she’ll break down as surely as the sun rises. Love keeps things going when they should fall apart.”

Vulcan scoffed at her sentimentality and she laughed at his stubbornness, the two always returning to their friendly rivalry despite their differences in opinions. They would rag on each other and goad each other on but, through it all, he respected her skill and she respected his ingenuity.

As for the rest of the company, she got along well with the crew of fire soldiers. Despite her easy comradery with the others, however, she always felt out of place. After all, she wasn’t a fire soldier or even a pyrokinetic so suddenly getting wrapped up in all this business with infernals and the White Clad was disarming.

She had gone from her humble machine shop to a Fire Force cathedral, surrounded by people who could control bullets, who could make swords out of plasma, and who could even fly. She was just an engineer - and unpowered at that - and, despite how fulfilling her work was, she felt like she had lost her anchor joining Company 8.

Initially, she had latched onto Vulcan and Lisa for some sense of normality but the feeling of being a third wheel quickly overcame any comfort that came from their companionship. After all, the two mostly stuck to themselves, the two very much in love. More than that, with Lisa still dealing with her trauma from her experiences with the White Clad, Vulcan was even more unavailable than ever.

Feeling lost and out of place, she was surprised to find an easy companionship with Company 8’s one and only science officer.

Viktor had been the one to initiate their first real conversation, the man as curious as he was out of the ordinary. He had approached her while she had been having a conversation with the matchbox, praising her girl for doing such a great job during their last mission.

“Do you think the matchbox understands you?” Viktor asked, peeking down into the inspection pit beneath the vehicle where she spent a fair amount of her time. Despite how bluntly he phrased his question, there was no judgement in his tone. Just simple curiosity.

“I’m not sure if she understands my words but I think she understands what I’m saying, if that makes sense,” she answered with a friendly smile, already used to conversations like this with Vulcan.

“So, it’s more of you trying to get across your message and your intentions rather than believing you are having an actual conversation with a machine?”

“You could say that, although it still is a conversation. I listen and she tells me what’s wrong, so I fix her. Then she listens to me when I praise her and ask her to keep going. We talk, just not like you and I talk,” she explained, pleasantly surprised when he simply nodded in understanding.

Their conversation continued well into the afternoon, to the point where - after she had finished her tune up - the two had perched themselves on the bumper of the matchbox to continue their chat. It wasn’t until Vulcan had come out to collect them for dinner that they realized how long they had been talking and laughing, a situation that they would find themselves repeating every day for weeks.

Sometimes their conversations took place with her down in the inspection pit under the matchbox or her in the equipment room maintaining all of Company 8’s gear.

Sometimes they talked for hours in Viktor’s admittedly messy room (he tried to clean up just for her) or even on the roof of the cathedral.

Sometimes they chatted for hours at the dining room table, the entire company coming and going for lunch and then dinner and leaving them to their conversation with knowing smiles and teasing giggles.

She found herself relieved to have someone who understood her, both as an engineer and as an unpowered person, and Viktor found himself curious about the kind-hearted mechanic who defied the laws of physics with love. The two talked not just about engineering and science but about music, anime, their hobbies, and even their dreams. 

As their conversations continued, they found themselves growing even closer than friends - casual flirts slipped into their conversations as readily as they talked about anything else. Teasing and blushing became as commonplace in their time together as mentions of physics and mechanics.

Despite how their relationship was slowly changing, she was always comfortable in Viktor’s company. He made her feel understood, safe, and anchored. He had become her port in the storm. She felt like she was at home when she was with him and, with the way he finally seemed to take a full breath when she was around, he felt the same.

One day, after being called to the scene of an infernalization, she had a close call with a first-generation pyrokinetic, the woman mad with pain and lashing out at anything that moved. It had been Viktor who had tackled her to the ground, covering her smaller body with his own and protecting her as the fireball rocketed through the space she had once occupied.

The rest of the crew had made short work of putting the woman to rest but Iris’ prayers had fallen on ringing ears as their engineer realized how close she had come to an agonizing death. It had put into perspective how truly dangerous these situations were for unpowered people like her and Viktor. They didn’t have the same fire resistance or combat training that the other members of Company 8 did and the very real peril left her shaken, even after they had returned to the cathedral.

It had been Viktor who had pulled her away from the rest of their company, guiding her into his quiet room so he could wrap his arms around her and pull her into his warm embrace. Her arms looped around his waist, the engineer settling against his solid chest and pressing her ear against his heartbeat.

It was a few minutes before they spoke but she felt no pressure from him to do so. Instead of pushing her, he quietly held her and stroked her back, her anxiety slowly settling as she was calmed by the warm embrace of the man she had fallen in love with.

“How do you do it? Go running into that every day? You’re unpowered too, doesn’t it scare you?” she finally asked, breaking the silence between them.

“Of course it does,” Viktor chuckled, his laughter vibrating in his chest as he rested his cheek against her hair, “I never know if today is going to be the last day I spend on this earth. But it’s worth it knowing that I’m actually learning something real about the world; that I’m where I should be.”

His next words were a bit quieter but no less passionate as he hummed them against her hair. “It’s worth it knowing you’re at my side.”

Pulling back, she looked up at him in surprise, and he gazed down at her with that same crooked smile. She was struck by the tenderness in his eyes and by the warmth in his expression - an affection that he only ever showed her. In that moment, she knew that she was also where she should be. That it was all worth it to her too, knowing that he was by her side.

Meeting Viktor's smile with one of her own, she stood on the tips of her toes, pressing a brief but sweet kiss to his cheek.

When she returned to her heels, gazing up at him with a gentle smile spread across her face, he stared back down at her in stunned wonder. A blush dusted his cheeks, his lips parted and his eyes rounded in surprise.

“Thank you for always being there with me, Viktor,” she thanked, feeling more at ease in his arms than she had ever felt anywhere else.

At her words, his smile returned, the corners of his lips quirking up although his blush remained. Reaching up, he cupped her cheeks in his broad hands before leaning down to press his lips to hers. Gently moving his lips against hers, they shared a tender, lingering kiss.

Just when she thought she might forget how to breathe, her heart swelling in her chest and stealing the air from her lungs, he pulled away.

“Always,” Viktor promised as he pressed his forehead to hers, gazing into her eyes with a loving expression.

[extremelyblackandwhite]

heiress

pairing: bucky barnes x oc!reader 

a/n: this is part one of a four part series based on a song lyrics sent to me by an amazing anon with a reader based on my favourite oc. 

“letters strewn across your bedroom floor. such beautiful words but you can’t remember who they’re for“

Y/N collapsed against the thin black matt again, her head thumping against the worn out floors off the compound and her hair covering the view of the younger recruits dancing in black ballerina costumes to the sound of ominous piano. She pushed her hands against the black mattress to look at her professor who was staring her down, yet he always did. He was taller than her, taller than any recruit around so if the metal arm wasn’t intimidating enough, his looking down into those storm filled eyes did the trick.

    - That was a cheap shot. 

    - There are no cheap shots in the battlefield. - he extended his hand to her but she denied him, instead using her hands against the matt to pull herself up. - You cannot expect ...

    - Fairness in battle. - she completed his sentence, arranging her ponytail while pulling the strap of her black top up. - I know, you’ve told me many times.

   - Then you should already know it. You keep this up and you’ll return to ballet.

   - You’re just a terrible professor. - she smirked, taking a few steps away to consider her next move. - You can’t expect me to expect someone to hit me in the chest.

    - I expect to see you in the Red Room. - he said, shrugging it out but she knew exactly what that entailed. The red room, the other black widows, she wanted none of that, none of that lifestyle. - You’re a good marksman. Just need hand to hand combat.

   - Best out of five?

   - We are not gonna stop until you bring me down.

   - Will you tell me your name if I bring you down?

   - You know my name. - he spoke like an authoritarian professor, perfect posture and senses as if he expected an attack from every corner. Maybe he was right in fearing an attack yet his position was almost frozen, tense even ... as if someone held strings over him and controlled him like a puppet. - C’mon, Daisy. You can graduate and become as good as any girl here.

  - I’ll tell you my name if you tell me yours.

  - I know your name. 

  - I meant my real name, not my code name.

  - Stop joking around and bring me down. 

Y/N pushed her jacket up as she stepped in the middle of the street with Monica and Wanda by her side. It had only been 2 months out of Westview, 2 short months compiled of hiding from whatever was left of SHIELD, SWORD and from the identity who had created Wanda’s fake haven. The plan was simple, elemental even, yet it proved much harder to gather evidence on SHIELD and SWORD’s plan when both she, Monica, Wanda, Jimmy and Darcy had both been considered highly dangerous fugitives so whatever they did had to be undercover. The walls have ears and eyes so all care was necessary, which meant no display of supernatural abilities or anything that could connect them to themselves. HYDRA had gone underground and still seemed to be pulling at the strings of SHIELD and SWORD, as Ross was working on a new generation of super soldiers with the excuse the world needed security after the Avengers dissolved and Captain America, Steve Rogers, dropped his shield. She should’ve known, after SWORD and SHIELD started experimenting with Vision’s body. She should’ve known but with the threat of Westview, they kept both her and Monica in the dark, instead redirecting their attentions to framing Wanda as a fugitive.

     - If that SHIELD hideaway is still around, it won’t be short of traps. - Monica commented, eyes surrounding the sea of people around. - What’s the plan?

    - Yelena and Jimmy are going around and Vision and Darcy are in the helicopter surrounding the top. 

     - You do know Vision can fly, right? - Wanda smirked, yet the unbelievable thing was she had not referred to him as her husband despite the wedding band around her finger.

     - Regular people can’t fly. - Monica said, rather amused at the thought of Vision trying to go by undercover in the sky.

     - We found it. - Yelena’s voice came through the intercom on her ear. - There better be some fighting for it to be worth while.

     - Wait up, we’ll let you know when we enter. No fighting.

     - You’re no fun.

They did not know exactly what they were looking for, they were just looking for evidence. her father was always keen on scattering things around. If there was something her father was right about was not keeping everything in one place, people would find it easily. She was sure, she was sure she would find something in that place which was connected to HYDRA, even if it was a map of other locations. If she were ever to clean their names, she needed evidence and then she needed to stop them. Super soldiers should have stayed in the past yet despite HYDRAs and her father’s mistakes the very organisations who swore to protect Earth, were making the same mistakes. 

The mundane looking home appeared in the horizon. It looked less scary now, less official than when her father dropped her there to be collected by Madam B. Even now, so many years past it she could fell the snow falling on her arms as the stern woman dragged her away from everything she knew. It haunted her, it still did and flashbacks went through her mind as she yelled for her father not to let that woman take her. She begged and sobbed but he turned his back on her as if her discomfort did not matter. Almost as cold as the snow that fell from the ground.

    - Hey ... - Monica put her hand on her shoulder, soft, reassuring smile. - He’s locked up. Can’t send you away anymore.

    - Even if he tried ... - Wanda’s eyes glowed red. - He wouldn’t win.

    - Let’s get this over and done with. - Y/N sighed, looking at the door as if it was a bitter lover. - Yelena, we’re coming in.

    - Copy.

Wanda rose her hand, twisting as the intricate set of locks and codes was over ridden by the red glow of her powers. Yes, it was no ordinary way of opening a door but it was the best shoot. The once scary room was dark, filled with dust and reminders of a great time for SHIELD. Walking in, she could smell the rotting wood, gun powder, and mold. It was funny how the house which still haunted her dreams was collapsing onto itself, a simple symbol of times which were coming to an end. Yet, like her trauma, it still remained tall, in the heart of Washington. They walked in slowly, nothing but the sound of their breathing until a floor board creaked. Immediately Monica pulled out her gun while Wanda’s eyes lit red and Y/N grabbed the gun tucked in her trousers. She moved her hand slowly, the old candles in the tables lightening up. As the light engulfed the room, she found the intruders had also guns pointed at them.

   - Drop your weapons. - she knew them. Sharon Carter, Sam Wilson, and ... Bucky Barnes. Shit.

   - I’m afraid not. - Monica replied, never wavering stance which could make even the strongest of man cower. - State your business.

   - I thought you said no fight. - Yelena came up from behind with Jimmy, both holding their guns up. 

   - You’re surrounded. Drop. Your. Weapons. - Monica repeated.

   - Wait, I know him. - Yelena pointed her gun at Bucky. - You were in the Red Room.

   - Maybe you should drop your weapons. You’re the one with a terrorist who harboured a whole town of innocents.

   - Sharon, I didn’t peg you for a gullible one. - Y/N’s eyes shone dim white, before she dropped her weapon. - We’re not your enemy and we are not looking for a fight.

   - I am. - Yelena rolled her eyes.

   - Lieutenant Ross wants to build a super soldier army and he’s looking for whatever information there is on the Winter Soldier program and Captain America. They were experimenting on Vision before Wanda broke him out and then both were held hostage in a simulation. We are not criminals.

   - You’re your father’s daughter why should I believe in you?

   - Because if not it’s 3 against 7 and it’s not a very fair fight. - Wanda snarked back before moving her hand, making the three point at each other. - Or you can shoot each other. 

   - That’s just mean, Wanda. Don’t you have a little pity for your friend? - Sam looked her way. - Look, we’re on the run. We’re not looking to turn you in.

   - Then drop it. - Monica shrugged. - You’re not gonna win.

   - I only count 5, I like my odds. 

   - Vision and Darcy are outside. 

   - I thought Vision was super dead. - Sam whispered over to Bucky who shrugged at his words, them registering void as his mind rushed over the strings of his memory to try and find why the woman who had just lowered her weapon was so familiar yet his memory seemed surrounded by red tint, nothing coming. - Wanda, you know me. We’re not here with malice, there’s no need for a fight.

   - This is waste of time. - Yelena rolled her eyes, lowering her own weapon. - Can’t you make magical handcuffs, Wanda?

  - That’s a gross understatement of what I can do ... - her eyes glowed red as they usually did whenever she used her powers to a particular extreme. 

  - We’re not starting a fight. - Wanda looked Y/N’s way as those particular words left her mouth. She could feel her energy trying to slip into her mind and successfully do so. Whatever made her mind safe from her tended to waver in delicate situations and Wanda loved whenever she got to peak inside her mind. This time she merely gave her a teasing look, eyes returning to their natural light green hue. Her eyes did not lie and she guessed neither did whatever piece of her mind Wanda got hold of. - We’re under Nick Fury. The last thing we are is your foe. 

   - Hey... is this what we looking for? - Jimmy held up a file with LE-0623. The number itself made her sick to her stomach. Every memory she had somehow had that number from the black shirt he wore to train to the files on her father’s desk. There was no question they had the right file, or at least one of the files on the Winter Soldier. She remembered laughing to herself at how long it had taken for someone to find one of the soldier’s red notebooks. To her knowledge there were at least five: one with HYDRA, one at the Red Room, one with a holder and the other two at different safe houses. She remembered Madam B. telling her the soldier was more machine than man and as such, like every machine, required an instruction book. It was sick, she thought the analogy was sick and now looking at him, years after she had known him, it felt sicker. There had always been a human inside the soldier but HYDRA was not interested in humanity unless it was submissive to them.

   - You can come. - Monica suggested. - You’re not exactly America’s sweethearts at the moment.

   - Why should we trust you? - Sharon cocked her head to the side. Why should she trust a team with the daughter of a man who had taken down her aunt’s life project? Y/N wouldn’t have trust her if she were in her place. - Or is that a kinder way of saying we’re captive?

 - You really think we’d need a kind way to hold you captive? - Wanda turned around, exiting the building. She probably knew the outcome of their decision before they told anyone. 

The two man shared a knowing look between them, following Wanda out with Yelena fast on their step but Y/N stood behind. The whole room looked so much smaller yet it vibrated with memories she had buried deep into her subconsciousness. It was still there, everything as it was growing old with dust just like her childhood.  It was lost. Monica looked at her with kind eyes, drapping her arm over her shoulder like she did whenever they were both recruits at SWORD. Everything seemed so far away now, even Westview seemed far. Time seemed to pass by the two like an enemy yet it lingered in the memories which haunted at night.

   - You three should go with Yelena. - Monica suggested. - You can come with us, Jimmy.

  - I’ll go with Yelena. - Wanda walked over to the former Red Room graduate, eyes still gazing over Y/N, looking for any gaps in her mind shield which was slowly crumbling the more she looked at him. - See you at the base.

Y/N looked over her shoulder for a second to look at him. He looked different, at least as different as one who does not age can look, short hair, relaxed posture sometimes even. Her eyes met up with his, familiar looks which lingered like a long kiss, yet she couldn’t bare look him in the eye and instead entered Monica’s old jeep. Monica took the driver’s seat while she took shotgun and Jimmy sat on the back, reporting what had happened through him com to a very curious Darcy who was probably bored off her mind being stuck in an helicopter with Vision.

   - Jim, can I see that? - Y/N turned around in her seat to look at the FBI agent who shrugged and handed her the file. She let it fall on her lap, fingers tracing the name she wanted to know so much when her whole world were the walls of the Red Room. She would’ve never guessed his name, even if she tried. 

Her hands traced the edges of the file, almost afraid to find out what was inside; yet when she opened them, a few letters slide out. Daisy. She recognised the fast written name on top in messy black runny ink. 

  - Anything interesting? 

  - No. - she blinked, closing the file. - Uhm ... not that I know. Maybe Alexei might know, he was a guardian when Sergeant Barnes was a fight intructor there.

  - Think the twins will freak out when they see Sam Wilson? - Monica smiled. The twins had a huge fascination with the Avengers despite both their parents being part off the initial team. Nevertheless, Billy and Tommy did not really care and instead got wide eyed watching old footage of the Avengers. - Last time they saw Hawkeye they were hyper for a month. 

  - Not sure Fury’s gonna be happy about having three new people in.

  - The more, the merrier. 

The ride to the base was excruciating as she replayed the scene in her head although there was really nothing to replay. She knew someday at some point she would see him, she just never expected it to be that soon. The last time she had seen him was the mirage of him in Westview, one of Agnes failed tricks, and even then she got tongue tied. Seeing him now even felt more unrealistic, he felt like such a figure of her past, like an unresolved badly healed wound. She really thought that by now she would be better at controlling it, you’d think 6 years would’ve taught her best how to deal with him even after all the past events where his face was plastered all over the television. Nevertheless, despite how slow time ran for her, they reached the small seemingly deserted area which started to glow red as Wanda broke through the hex she had created to protect their designated base. It was nothing special, Wanda had told her when she brought the team to see what she had been working on. Yet, it was something special and over time their team grew to give harbour anyone who looked for shelter from SWORD, SHIELD, or HYDRA and the initial team could not be any prouder of it.

The two jeeps parked in front of the entrance and immediately Y/N spotted Tommy rush outside, holding his twin by the arm. Both clearly already knowing they had visitors, Avengers visitors. 

    - Jeez Louise, you two. What did I say about using your powers? - Wanda stepped out of the jeep, hands on her waist. 

    - Not unless it’s necessary or under supervision. - Tommy shrugged as Alexei came running behind them. - Alexei supervised us, mum.

    - Just wait ‘til your father hears about this.

    - You got kids? - Sam asked, visibly worried at the fact his old friend seemed to have two ten year olds.

    - Long story. - Monica added. - You two inside. No place for you here today.

    - But you said we could meet the Avengers, mum. - Billy complained to Wanda.

     - You can always meet me, kids. - Vision joked making Darcy roll her eyes. Poor Darcy, she was probably already done with dad jokes. 

The briefing was long and drawn up with Fury mostly filling Sharon, Bucky and Sam into what they did and listening to Jimmy about the contents of the file. There was never too much in those files and it was mostly about ensuring they had all the files so Lieutenant Ross wouldn’t get his hands on them. Besides, it was up to Sharon, Bucky and Sam’s interest to join him as soon enough Zemo would be contacted by Lieutenant Ross and until he had one of the Winter Soldier files in his possession, Zemo was also one of their enemies. She tried looking at him a few times, memories of the time they had spent together clouding her mind and better judgement yet she couldn’t forget how Bucky had pushed Sharon behind him the moment Monica and her had pointed guns at them, protecting her the same way he used to protect her. Yet, she had no business thinking about him, not after what she had done, not after she became the sole reason why he ...

    - Y/N. - Fury’s voice took her from her own mind. Looking around, the room was vacant except for her, Fury, Wanda and Monica. She was so focused on her memories, she hadn’t even noticed the remains of them leave the room. - I told you not to go on that mission.

    - I don’t work for you, Fury. Besides, I’ve been there before, I was an asset to the meeting. 

    - You’re the sole benefactor of whatever powers your father had at SHIELD, if you die then Ross inherits it. If you ever disobey direct orders, I’ll ...

    - You’ll what? - Y/N interrupted him. - Tell my father?

    - You might not want to accept he’s your father, but he is and you have to deal with the responsibilities that come with being his daughter. 

    - Fine. -  Y/N stretched a fake smile on her face as Fury left her, Wanda and Monica alone in the briefing room. 

    - Alright  ... give them to me. - Monica extended her hands towards Y/N. - The letters that were in the file and you clearly took.

    - It’s his letters. I don’t think anyone has any business reading them. 

    - I’ll give them to him then. Hand them over, Y/N. - Y/N begrudgingly handed the letters over to Monica who got up. - You let yourself be easily haunted by the past. If I let you keep these, you will never give them to him. You can’t even look at him.

    - Yes, I can. 

    - Oh really? - Monica crossed her arms. - Then come with me and hand them to him. 

    - That’s just mean, Monica.

    - We’ll talk about this later, Y/N. - she pointed at him before exiting the room. Y/N slouched against her chair, looking at the ceiling above her. 

    -  Don’t worry. - Wanda reassured, hand on her shoulder. - I did what you made me promise I’d do back in Westview.

    - Thanks, Wan. 

    - You’ll be fine ... We always have to be fine isn’t it? - she looked straight ahead with a sadness which showed all she herself had lost despite having recovered the twins and Vision. So much for a nice suburban life.

    - So ... he won’t remember?

    - He won’t remember a thing.

[heckpup]

Hmmmmmm Time for the Part 2 of the Immortal Tommy AU I cooked up with my raw materials in the middle of the night

:DDDDDDDDD What fun. I have also now decided that Tommy's new wings are now phoenix style (cause he's immortal now, innit?), in flames, but only at the tips (so far, this will change the older he gets) and only if he wants them to be. Had he still been mortal, they probably would've been just a regular red, and so that is what they look like when they're not on fire.

Also, I'd like to imagine that the old worlds from when we were kids (with borders and that didn't go on forever and just stopped and dropped off into the void, right? I know me and my friends loved to find the corners and try to go through. Good times.) are what the god's personal realms are like. Not enough room for rebellion, since there's not enough room to run from an angry god/goddess. If you go to the edge, you can look at/travel to other worlds as well. Most gods don't bring other people into their worlds anyway, but *shrugs*

Edit: (I can't believe I forgot this I'm so sorry ;-;) TW:Mentions of bl00d, Mention of de@th, mentions of m@n!pulat!0n and g@sl!ght!ng, mentions of t0rture.

Just thought I should mention + explain.

~

"Hey Clara?" Tommy asks from a small tree, letting his feathers move gently in the wind.

"Yes, Tommy?" Clara calls from below, looking up at the young immortal. Tommy glides down to meet her on the ground, and he looks up at her a little sheepishly.

"Do you think that since, well, you know, I'm recovered and shit, I could visit those bitches from the SMP? I kinda just want to, uh, blow up at them, sorta. I just- its a lot of untapped rage and I really just wanna scream at 'em, you know? It's totally ok if you think I shouldn't I mean, you are the biggest man- er, woman- here, just wanted to ask, but uh-"

"Tommy." Clara cuts him off with a small smile, and a bit of mischief and malice (And anger, as well) twinkling in her dark eyes. "I think that's a wonderful idea. Besides," She begins to walk over to the edge of their small world, "they need to understand what they did, and its never good for us immortals to hold grudges over mortals. Could cause some unplanned problems in the far future."

Tommy beams, and Clara begins mentally preparing for the showdown with glee. "Tommy, how do you want to do it?" She asks, inner drama queen squealing.

"Well-" Tommy tells her- "-I really want it to be big and dramtic, you know? Like lightning and thunder, and like things bursting into flame and shit. I could probably do the flames myself, but do you think-" He looks up at her expectantly.

"Of course!" She says, patting his shoulder. "A storm fit for a god. It would be only fitting, of course. I am going to come along, of course. Just in case there are any unexpected developments, like more dramatic effect."

Tommy nods. "Yeah! Those bitches aren't gonna know what hit them! But, do you think you could stay invisible 'n shit for it? I still wanna do this by myself. I don't-" He cuts himself off, feathers ruffling. "I wanna yell and bitch about it, and I want to do this on my own. Like an important milestone on my recovery." Clara nods in agreement.

"Right, right. For the lightning though, is there any houses you want to keep out of harms way? I plan on hitting a lot of houses, just to get people up and moving."

Tommy thinks for a minute. "Uh, maybe hit close to Ranboo's house- he's the black and white hybrid, he's always been pretty nice to me- and Sam and Puffy and BadBoyHalo. Sam put Dream in prison a while ago, and Puffy and BBH gave me some gifts the night before you picked me up. So, they're clear from property damage, but I still want to see them. Defintely break Dream out, I want to yell at him though. Wait, maybe I can break him out, like teleport him away from the prison and show off my new powers and shit- anyway, maybe save Niki as well, she was always nice."

Clara nods and begins to locate the small world that she pulled Tommy from so many years ago. "Goodness!" She laughs. "It's been a while since you looked down at this one, isn't it?"

"Yeah, haven't had much time to think shit about those old bitches." Tommy begins to search with her, quickly locating the small SMP, being recently cleared of the red bloodvines that had plagued it for a while.

While they plan, they laugh, and Clara is reminded of how far the young godling had been when she whisked him away. His old SMP hadn't deserved him, not even for a second.

~

Tommy and Clara were watching from the clouds as the little people in the SMP ran around panicked about the storm that was destroying a lot of their houses. Tommy watched with glee and satisfaction as the majority of the SMP (save for Dream, of course) gathered in the newly rebuilt community house to discuss the looming problem.

"Dream has to be behind this, Sam!" Fundy growled out. "He's the only one that has this kind of power!"

"You ready?" Clara asked Tommy, after waiting for him to be perfectly positioned under one of the next lightning bolts, aimed at one of the doorways to the community house. Tommy nodded and lit the tips of his wings, prepared for the force of the bolt to push him back down to the earth.

The lightning hit, and Tommy found himself being thrown down and pushed to the ground.

The first thing he noticed was that the bolt left little sparks over his body and his wings were a little more lit up than usual.

The second thing he noticed was that everyone in the community house was looking at him.

He stood up and, with a great amount of false confidence, strode into the room. Tubbo was staring slack-jawed, as were most people in the building. Phil's face was incredibly pale, to the point that Tommy actually began to worry about the man's health. Ranboo looked at him wide-eyed, but then Tommy saw recognition flash and a smile began to creep onto his face.

But the person that Tommy had his eyes on the most was the no-longer transparent form of his elder brother, well and alive again.

"What's up, bitches?" Tommy grinned, and suddenly the room was alive with shouts and yelling and holy Prime, Tommy probably should have prepared more for this reaction but he hadn't even known Wilbur was alive but oh, Phil's yelling about how Tommy left him and-

"Tommy, how could you? You've been off to who knows where? Where the fuck have you been? How could you leave us?" Phil's void-black wings ruffled, and Tommy didn't even think before responding,

"I've been off healing, bitch! You know, from all the trauma you adults forced on me? And the gaslighting from Dream? The manipulation? It took me years to get over that shit, and the god's world-time runs slow! I spent a whole fucking year trying to understand that what you bitches put me through was fucking wrong, and I was not alright! I left you all here because you left me when I was at my fucking WORST! YOU LET A SIXTEEN YEAR-OLD FIGHT IN FUCKING WARS AND GET EXILED! YOU EXPECTED ME TO TAKE THAT SHIT LIKE A FUCKING ADULT? FUCK NO!" Tommy's wings flared out and he could feel the heat radiating off of it, his flames responding to his anger.

"Thomas Minecraft-Innit, I am your father, how dare you-"

"Oh, you're my father now? Now, after you abandoned me, neglected me, left me in the dust? You cared more about your fucking war buddy than your own two sons! Wilbur was more of a father than you were, and then you fucking killed him!"

"Tommy-" Tubbo tried to interject.

"AND DON'T GET ME STARTED ON YOU TUBBO! DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID? YOU LEFT ME AS WELL, YOU LEFT ME WITH FUCKING DREAM! YOU EXILED ME, AND FOR FUCKING WHAT? A SAD POSITION IN A COUNTRY THAT YOU LET DREAM PUPPETEER ANYWAY! WE FOUGHT THAT WAR TO GET AWAY FROM DREAM, AND THEN YOU FUCKING LET HIM RIGHT BACK IN!" Tommy raged, turing on his ex-best friend. "Oh, speaking of-" He snapped his fingers and then Dream was in the room with them, wearing an orange jumpsuit and looking around wildly.

The room let out a great outburst, which, to be fair, was expected.

But then Dream took one look at Tommy and decided that it was a-fucking-okay to try and re-manipulate Tommy again. As if he didn't notice that Tommy was much older, much more healed and much more powerful than before. (Or that could just be him. Clara did tell him that gods- and even godlings- could change their age and appearance, and sometimes it was involuntary and depended on emotions and metal stability. Tommy did actually feel much younger. Maybe it was from being in this place, this world, and being in front of the person that hurt him most. That would make sense.)

"Tommy!" Dream cried with unusual glee. "You're here to help me, aren't you? You finally came to your senses about your best friend, right?" Tommy only raised an eyebrow in response, not giving him an answer. "What, not going to give an answer to your only friend? Tommy, I stayed with you, I kept you company when no one else did, remember?" Prime, how long did Dream think he had been in that prison for?

Tommy only shrugged and then pulled out a sword and dashed up to Dream, keeping the blade on Dream's throat. "You mother fucker. You are the biggest bitch boy I've ever, and I mean ever, had the pleasure of knowing, bitch boy. You are the absolute worst thing to ever happen to me, you know that? You killed me twice, and for what? Gratification of knowing you killed a teenager? And then you tried to gaslight me, manipulate me into doing your sick shit for you? That's the most fucked up thing I've ever known, Dream. I'm going to enjoy taking this life from you." And then he swung, embedding the blade into the wall behind where Dream's body had once been.

TommyInnit killed Dream with [A Final Blow]

Dream made the achievement [Banned?]

"Tommy what-" Tommy turned to look at Technoblade, who was looking blankly at his chatlog.

"Oh, don't worry too much about him. He'll just be stuck for a few days in the ban-void, and then he'll come back on his own." A great number of people paled, knowing the ban void, when you were still on a world, meant that you were subjected to great amounts of agony as your body tore itself apart and tried to pull its code back together. And Tommy had just taken one of Dream's lives, too!

"Tommy, what happened to you?" Phil asked, horrified.

"I grew up," Tommy said with a smile. "And now I have the rest of time to spend continuing to grow and live. Becuase now, Tommy Innit never dies."

Techno rushed at him suddenly, axe swinging. It caught the edge of Tomm'y neck, and Tommy took the chance to grab Techno by the scruff on his, and lift him up, also while feeling his body grow older. Several gasps were heard around the room at the sudden change. "What were you trying to do there, Technoblade? You can't kill a god." And then he let Techno drop to the ground, before touching the part of his neck Techno had sliced.

His hand drew away with golden ichor.

[m0srael]

Writerly Ephemera

This is such a lovely idea @the-starryknight (original post here), I'm so pleased I was tagged by @cluelesspigeons in her version. I've been doing a lot of thinking about why/how/what I like to write. I think it's very grounding to take a moment to reflect on how much of myself is actually embedded in my writing. I'm still very new to the game, but here are some examples:

Open Mic

The last performer, a comic who’d just finished what Harry was sure was the world’s worst three-minute set in the history of comedy, turned to slap Draco Malfoy rather hard on the shoulder as he mounted the stage, acoustic guitar in hand.

My second date with my partner was an open-mic comedy show. To call it "cringey" would be generous. One performer's whole spiel was yelling at audience members about whether or not they did drugs, very confusing. We laughed about it for so long afterward, though, and it's such a fond memory now!

Whatever Walked There, Did Not Walk Alone

Walking through Draco--his Draco--would be like stepping out of a warm hearth and into someone’s first real home away from home--compact and unassuming on the outside, maybe, but packed to the brim with stuff and things that had been meticulously collected and strategically placed to immediately show visitors who the owner is. He pictured low ceilings and a small series of purpose-built rooms, every surface coated with the thin veneer of dust that tends to gather around homes that are actually lived in and not just kept.

Draco's interior architecture is modeled after my grandmother's home, a place I spent a lot of time as a child. The kitchen had this horrible brown linoleum tile, the living room had a forest-green carpet and there was a glass-front cabinet full of porcelain dolls in one corner, and one of her big decorative elements was a collection of buttons and pins she'd amassed over her life. Somehow, there was always a Pavorotti performance on the tv. It was so cozy and weird and perfect.

Be Better Than You Were

It isn’t that Draco no longer commands a room with their quick wit and clever sense of humor, or that they take up less space, less air. It isn’t that they’ve grown quiet or complacent or something. Merlin, Harry couldn’t imagine a quiet Draco Malfoy. There’s just a bit more give in the parts of them that used to be unyielding. Draco still teases anyone and everyone, but now it feels more like an invitation than a warning, and is always accompanied by the soft press of long fingers to a temple or a second cup of tea. Draco had made Harry feel a lot of things over the course of their acquaintance--disdain, anger, suspicion, fear, jealousy, confusion, desire, longing, remorse--now, Draco just makes Harry feel at ease. Draco makes Harry feel like maybe he can give a little, too, and not break like he’s always worried he might.

Somewhere in the folds of grief and trauma, Draco has managed to find a little space in which to learn something important about the way they move about the world. Harry would like very much to sit in that space with them, just for a while.

This whole fic was very personal for me. This particular passage was inspired by my own experiences of loss. Writing this allowed me to think through how intimately entangled things like grief, trauma, optimism, identity, gender, self-image, and our capacity to be in relationships with others really are. It's hard to remember to be soft when what we're used to is bracing for impact.

The Fourth Rule (and pt. 2, The Fourth King)

Potter and Malfoy’s first few tricks were received with a barrage of insults and empty bottles. The pub’s patrons had no interest in simple card tricks or disappearing handkerchiefs. No, tonight Potter and Malfoy would have to pull out all the stops if they hoped to get paid.

Malfoy, whose back had been to the audience for some time, whirled around quickly. “IS THIS WHAT YOU CAME FOR?” He shouted over the cacophony of boos, waving a revolver in the faces in the front row. His brows were pinched in anger, eyes glinting dangerously in the low lamplight. Potter reached slowly into his jacket for his own firearm and watched as the crowd shrank back. A gasp, then a hush fell over the room.

I think this series will be my favorite piece of writing (if not the most universally appealing). I have a strong fascination with closeup/stage magic, I force my partner to watch magicians' specials on Netflix with me all the time. They even got me tickets to see David Blaine live as an anniversary gift (he held his breath on stage for over 20 minutes !!!). Sure, a lot of it is hokey and unconvincing, but sometimes a performer pulls off an illusion that is absolutely mind-blowing and just totally cool. I think this kind of magic can be a metaphor for so much in our lives (especially in our writing).

Live to Remember, Remember to Live

The doorknob had rattled before the door swung slowly open. Lucius had shuffled haltingly into the room in nothing but socks and a pair of briefs. Draco’s mother must have given up on combing his hair as it was a mess of tangles down his back. Frozen in place, Draco had just watched his father’s slow progress across his bedroom floor, a hot knife of sadness and fear lodged in his stomach.

This one is the most personal, and the most challenging. Without going into detail, a lot of Draco's experience with Lucius in this fic is directly inspired by my own experiences with my father. I'm learning that writing about all of it, either as fiction or more memoir-y, can put things in perspective and even be a bit healing. Draco's impulse to go get a Ph.D. to process his intense emotions is also...not unfamiliar to me.

Keeping it going: @cibeewastaken, @phoebedelia, @curlyy-hair-dont-care, @frenchmarshmalloww who may all have been tagged already !!!

[lov3nerdstuff]

Voluptas Noctis Aeternae {Part 7.17}

*Severus Snape x OC*

Summary: It is the year 1983 when the ordinary life of Robin Mitchell takes a drastic turn: she is accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Despite the struggles of being a muggle-born in Slytherin, she soon discovers her passion for Potions, and even manages the impossible: gaining the favor of Severus Snape. Throughout the years, Robin finds that the not quite so ordinary Potions Professor goes from being a brooding stranger to being more than she had ever deemed possible. An ally, a mentor, a friend... and eventually, the person she loves the most. Through adventure, prophecies and the little struggles of daily life in a castle full of mysteries, Robin chooses a path for herself, an unlikely friendship blossoms into something more, and two people abandoned by the world can finally find a home.

General warnings: professor x student, blood, violence, trauma, neglectful families, bullying, cursing

Words: 5k

Read Part 1.1 here! All Parts can be found on the Masterlist!

______________________________

For a Saturday afternoon in late October, in Scotland especially, it was unreasonably sunny and therefore warmer than anyone should allow. Dreadful, really, and Robin was only glad that she had her beloved round sunglasses to keep the brightness out of her eyes at least as she followed the beaten path. Snape however wasn't as lucky, and all he could do was to scowl at both the warmth and the sunlight as he and Robin made their way towards Hogsmeade like they had decided to the day prior.

It was already quite late, almost the time where most students would be returning to the castle, but Robin had intentionally chosen to head down to the small village only now. If things went according to plan, they wouldn't have to come across any students at all, despite it being the most crowded Hogsmeade Saturday she had ever experienced. Bloody 'nice' weather… good thing they would be staying off the main street the entire time.

They had decided on what to sell the night prior, picking some of the less expensive objects and ingredients to test the waters for now. Still, once they reached the narrow alleyways and passages that were as void of people as they had been when Robin had been here for the first and only time, in her third year, she still couldn't help feeling a little nervous. She had managed to deal with the sleazy shop owner when she had been younger, and less knowledgeable… she certainly would be perfectly fine now too, right? All she had to do was to act on the now genuine boldness and knowledge she had only been able to feign the last time; if anything, it should be way easier now than it had been back then. Yes, she would definitely be fine; and she would win this bet she had going on with Snape.

"What should I demand for the few things I'm selling? Legal or not, I still gotta stay within the normal range of what this stuff is selling for. And since we said it's your choice what I'll be asking for, you better give me a number before we go in." Robin finally said, when they arrived in front of the ominous black shop. It was way less intimidating than it had been back then… or perhaps she had just grown used to thriving in the shadows.

"How about we stay somewhat realistic with this and set the price below value nonetheless. 200 galleons, perhaps?" Snape replied with a subtle not-smirk, giving Robin a look that conveyed both sincerity and amusement.

"That's BELOW value?!" Her jaw dropped, eyes wide with surprise and incredulity. "How much is this stuff worth for real then?"

"Anything between 250 and 300 galleons would be reasonable. In theory, of course."

"That's above a thousand pounds! That's ridiculous! Why would anyone pay that much for these ingredients when they could just gather them for free?"

"These objects are rare for a reason, namely that it is nigh impossible to simply gather them. Not nearly everyone is as… capable as you are, Robin. And for the few people in the field who require rare ingredients for their work in the first place, even 500 galleons would be no sum at all."

"As I said: ridiculous!" She scoffed, rolling her eyes exaggeratedly before she couldn't help smirking up at him when a new thought entered her mind. "Good thing I happened to you, or you'd still be buying your ingredients like a fool."

"I appreciate the way you say that; you really did happen to me. Like a natural disaster or the end of the world." He teased right back, putting on a neutral facade while quirking an eyebrow. "But I would have to agree. It was a very good thing indeed."

Robin's smirk turned into a genuine smile, and she took a deep breath. "So is 200 galleons the price you set?" She was absolutely ready for this now, all nervousness gone. "The bet is still on, isn't it?"

"If you are still looking forward to losing, then yes." He quipped, but even his tone let on now that he didn't much believe in his own victory in this scenario at all. It was a tease, and an encouragement for her to do her best. She definitely would do just that, if not for the ridiculous amount of money she could make then at least to humour him.

"Oh, we'll see who's losing here soon enough." Robin replied with one last smirk while dropping her sunglasses into her pockets, then she set her stony facade of perfect neutrality in place and focused on the task at hand. Bold, and stoic, and serious. Just like last time.

The bells above the door chimed when she stepped through first, letting her eyes flicker over the dusty shop that had very much stayed the same since her last visit. As had its owner, whose eyes widened noticeably as they landed on Robin first. She didn't miss the brief shadow of concern that flickered through his face upon the obvious recognition, but after two seconds of staring, he caught himself and flashed her a wolfish grin.

"Spare me the sweet-talk, I'm not here to buy from you." Robin was quick to speak first, giving him one of those piercing icy glares that could kill if they were to become any more tangible. The man's smirk dropped from his face immediately in return, and his frown deepened with every step that Robin came sauntering closer. So close, in fact, that he backed up seemingly subconsciously until his back hit the closest shelf behind him, making the jars and bottles rattle in protest. Obviously her sinister reputation had either spread even to this godforsaken place, or the impression she had left here four years ago had persisted throughout the time in between. Good.

"What can I do for you then?" He finally asked in a strained voice, while his eyes sought for a way to escape her presence. Honestly, Robin didn't know why people were this uneasy around her, considering how tiny she was in comparison to mostly everyone else, but then again, so were scorpions. Small in size, but often lethal. The thought made her smirk ever so slightly, which only served to upset the man in front of her even more. If everyone already thought she was insane, she might as well act on it. Showtime.

"The better question is what I can do for you." She started in an almost eerily sweet tone now, giving him a haunting smile. One of those that always made her shudder when Morgan sent them her way, and that had absolutely nothing happy or polite about them. "The dust on your shelves is piling up by the years, it seems, and yet here you are, still in business. Which can only mean that what you usually sell isn't put on display, is it? You certainly aren't that foolish."

"How do you-..."

"Knowing things is my trade, you see, and as you certainly have noticed, I have used my talents to become someone who indeed doesn't require affiliations, but who people wish to be affiliated with in return." She let her eyes trail over the many objects in the storage shelves for a few seconds, then they snapped back to his. Obviously she had no idea of whatever shady business this man was involved in, but the pieces of the puzzle she could see told her by far enough. So she would play on that now. "I have no use for this shop any longer. In fact, I could easily replace you in this line of business entirely. Or I could end your dealings with a single word in the right place at the right time. However, I have no intention to do either."

"Under which conditions?" He grumbled, frowning down at Robin wearily while the general tension and unease stayed present on his features nonetheless.

"None." She gave him that bone-chilling smile again. "I have no need to threaten you, there is nothing you have to give that would be of interest to me."

"What game are you playing at?" His question came out more shallowly than he probably would've liked, which only served to humour her in return.

"None you would understand." The corner of her lips quirked up into a sincere smirk for a moment, then she turned on her heels and sauntered through the shelves and displays. "Not when you are asking all the wrong questions."

The man seemed to be entirely confused now, deprived of his usual position of having the upper hand, of being the one who led the conversation and controlled the outcome of it. Indeed, he looked rather relieved to be free of Robin's piercing gaze now, but stayed standing in his spot with his back to the shelf nonetheless. She had him right where she wanted, and he obviously didn't have the slightest idea. Perfect.

"What are you here about?"

"Hmm." She hummed in feigned indifference, not even giving him a single glance now as she studied the dusty jars and bottles in distaste.

"What the bloody hell do you want?!" He asked again, not in anger as it might have sounded to anyone who didn't know better, but in unease and desperation.

"I want you to start asking the right questions! I don't have all day." She snapped back at him, approaching him in certain steps once more that had him trying to back up on instinct, only to hit the shelf again. For a moment he actually seemed to think then, which usually was a great improvement to any situation already, while Robin glared at him impatiently nonetheless. The moment he would realize that she was no threat to him was the moment she would lose, and thus she did her best to keep up the impression of danger as long as possible.

"What is it that… you can do… for me?" He finally dared asking, holding her gaze even though the twitching muscles in his face were a clear indicator of his real sentiments. Really, he needed to work on his facades.

"Finally a question worth answering." Robin sighed in feigned annoyance, then went back to the safe neutrality of talking business. "I have a few objects to sell which certainly will be of interest to you."

"What kind of objects?" His tone was weary, but there was no denying that he was interested in the offer. Wordlessly Robin placed the ingredients on the counter behind her, well out of his reach of course, but close enough to see. His eyes widened in an instant as he stared at them first, then at Robin. "Where on earth did you get those?"

She ignored his question, merely giving him an indifferent look for a second, then continued on her own terms. "You certainly know the value of what I have to offer, and be assured, so do I. But seeing as you obviously will be able to sell them for a much higher price than what I expect you to pay, please be so kind and spare us both the time and effort of trying to bargain with me."

"How much?"

"300 galleons."

"Are you bloody joking?!" He scoffed, while squirming under Robin's glare nonetheless.

"Do I seem like the type to joke?" She raised an eyebrow at him with an otherwise grave expression, and finally he just had to look away, anywhere but at her.

"Fine…" He grumbled in disdain, and when Robin graciously made way for him, he moved over to an inconspicuous trunk in the far corner. "But you'll have to take it in cash."

"Fine."

Without another word, he opened the trunk and climbed in, descending a staircase Robin could only guess was hidden inside it. A minute later he returned with a large wooden box, which he placed on the counter next to Robin's cardboard box of ingredients. While he then moved to inspect the ingredients more thoroughly, Robin for her part counted through the thirty stacks of ten golden coins each, in carefully hidden amazement. Honestly, if her facades weren't routine by now, her jaw might just have dropped from the amount of money under her very fingertips. A thousand and five hundred pounds… three hundred galleons. Bloody hell.

"These ingredients are first class… better than most I have seen." The man's scratchy voice finally drew her attention back to him. "I should be able to sell them for a high price indeed."

"Obviously." Robin replied with a sigh in feigned annoyance yet again, and when the man began sorting the few ingredients into the shelves far behind the counter, she carefully stored away the many golden coins in the depths of her backpack. Good gods, she still couldn't believe it. This was bloody insane.

"You know, it's been four years and I still have absolutely no idea who you are." He finally said as he came back, quite obviously more at ease now that the reason for her presence had been revealed. The wolfish grin returned to his lips a second later, but he did well to stay at a distance to Robin. "But I must say, you are still creeping me out more than anyone I know. There just is something about you, all that danger and all the smarts… If I wasn't so terrified of you every time you show up, I might just have to ask you out, now that you've turned into such a delicious piece of eye candy as well."

"The 'eye candy' will likely cut your tongue off if you do not keep your lewd comments to yourself." Snape's sharp voice cut in before Robin herself could reply, and the man behind the counter jumped visibly as his eyes frantically scanned the room for the words' origin. He obviously hadn't taken notice of Snape's presence before just now, but Robin couldn't really blame him. Snape was truly remarkable at staying unseen by anyone whose eye he wanted to avoid, and Robin could only hope that he would show her how he did it one day. For now, she just was more than happy when she felt his presence coming up right behind her, and she directed her attention back to the man behind the counter, who looked even more nervous now that they both stood before him.

"You should keep in mind who you are speaking to." Robin said to him in a neutral calm, seeing no reason to intimidate him any more now. "I came here to trade, not to socialize. Have a nice day."

Turning on her heels, she gave Snape a small smirk, then made for the door. The bells chimed once more as it fell shut behind both of them, and finally they were out in the street again, turning right and walking a few steps before Robin couldn't help grinning at last. It had gotten considerably darker now, the sun gone and the warmth quickly fading, but it didn't matter. This entire ordeal had been a big success, and gods, it had been way too amusing for anyone's good. They still walked on in silence for a little while, until Robin just couldn't help nudging Snape in the side ever so slightly in her giddy excitement.

"I did it." She grinned up at him, not even bothering to take the necessary step away again, which left her arm brushing against his as they walked. "Can you please tell me that this actually just happened? Because I honestly don't know if I dreamed it or not."

"Didn't we say 200 galleons?" Snape asked in return, a tease more than an actual question, as was visible in both his tone and the not-smirk. "Because I cannot remember saying that you should go for 300."

"I wasn't seriously going to sell under value. You know me, I like to push the limits."

"I know." His smirk turned into a real one, and his eyes finally met Robin's while the two of them sauntered along the alley. "That was one of the most impressive displays of power I have come to witness to this day."

"Really?" Her eyes lit up at the compliment, her heart skipping a beat, and when he just gave her a look in return, she went on with a smirk. "Well, find me someone else to snap at –someone who deserves it– and I will repeat the 'display of power', if it entertains you so."

"I certainly will, at a later point in time. For now I have lost a bet, and I would like to pay the price for this… unfortunate misjudgment of your talent for trade as soon as possible."

"I won't complain, I've been looking forward to this part of the trip all day."

"I had feared you would say that." He sighed, but the smirk stayed on his lips nonetheless, and Robin knew that he shared her sentiment after all.

"May I choose my drink?" She asked then, with mischief written all over her face as a mirror of the plan she had made this morning.

"You traded for more than I suggested; I would say you deserve the freedom of choice."

"Great. I want firewhisky."

Snape stopped in his spot in an instant and turned to look at Robin with an equally shocked and amused face that had her grinning even more. "Are you certain about that?"

"Yeah. I've always wanted to try it, but there's never been an opportunity to." She shrugged easily, her gleaming eyes fixed on his. "And seeing as I've never had any kind of alcoholic beverage before, we might as well start there."

A small snort escaped him as his lips curled up into a sincere smile. "You want to start drinking, and choose firewhisky as your first?"

"Whyever not? I do things entirely or not at all, remember?" She smiled in return. "But funny how that is what's bothering you, and not the fact that I am choosing something alcoholic in the first place."

"As if I would care… On the contrary, I appreciate it even! It opens up the possibility of us drinking something other than coffee in the evenings together, once in a while. However that is only if your first glimpse into the wide field of alcohol isn't ruined by something as crude as firewhisky."

"I am open for suggestions, should I end up not liking it, but I want to try it first nonetheless."

"Fine. Your choice." He mused, and as he turned to walk on, a hint of a smirk played on his lips once again, with just enough mischief in it to have Robin feeling excited. Whatever he was plotting in that big brain of his, she was definitely going to enjoy the outcome of it.

For a few minutes Robin followed him through the maze of alleyways, curious where he was leading her, until at last he stopped at the back of a wooden house that probably had its main entrance on one of the busier streets. With a not-smirk, he opened a small door that was so inconspicuous that Robin had missed it entirely on first glance.

"After you." He said as he held it open for her to pass through, and without a second thought Robin stepped into the complete darkness that lay behind it. She took three steps, but when she couldn't see where she was going nor knew where she was supposed to go, she waited until Snape had closed the door behind himself, which should leave him in close enough proximity. The suspicion was confirmed when she felt his arm moving around her shoulders to guide her along through whatever path they were following in this darkness, and for once she enjoyed the frantic drumming of her heart that came along with the situation. He obviously knew perfectly well where he was going, and as long as he kept his arm around her so securely, she actually saw no reason to be nervous for once. Only excited, by the touch and the darkness and the mystery. But before she had the time to really enjoy the feeling of being curled into his side, they took a turn and then stopped for a second as he opened a door.

The brightness of too many lamps and candles stung in Robin's eyes immediately, and she blinked it away while she let Snape pull her into the room ahead. It undoubtedly was some kind of bar or tavern, depending on what one wanted to call this less-than-average establishment. But there wasn't a single person she knew in this room, and she got the vague idea that that's just why he had chosen this place to come to. On the wall opposite of where they'd come in, the actual entrance door opened a moment later to welcome in a small group of customers, who drew Robin's attention to them with the irritating amount of noise they brought into the place. The remainder of the room wasn't any more spectacular than any other bar she'd seen before; booths and tables occupied by witches and wizards who obviously dreaded the minimal attention Robin was giving them already.

"Aren't we going to sit down?" She asked when Snape made no attempt to find an empty table and instead led her straight to the bar.

"No. We are only here for an experiment." He replied, and the calm and quiet tone of his voice contradicted the sinister facade that was back on his face now that they were among people again. Robin watched quietly as he ordered a single glass of firewhisky, and then pushed it towards her after the man behind the bar had set it down on the counter between them with an odd glance between the two. "Try it."

"You obviously haven't understood the concept of buying someone a drink… You are supposed to drink with me!"

"As I said, this is merely an experiment. I still intend to pay my debts to your very contentment afterwards."

"You do?" She quirked an eyebrow at him with a smirk, and any doubt was washed away by a new rush of excitement. If he wanted to make this a more complex thing than it had to be, she wouldn't complain. Especially since this 'experiment' obviously was just part one of a more elaborate plan he had come up with just now. With an almost teasing smile, she finally lifted the glass to her lips and took a large sip while keeping her eyes fixed on his, which were observing her intently in return. The very moment the amber liquid touched her tongue and ran down her throat however, it left a burning trace behind that really did the drink's name all honour, and she couldn't help coughing desperately. She still tried to breathe through the oddly pleasant pain of the intense burn, squeezing her eyes shut against the tears that were mainly a result of the coughing, and while she definitely had learned her lesson to take smaller sips in the future, she also found that she did enjoy the taste after all. When her eyes finally stopped watering and she could open them again and blink away the blur, she found that Snape was still observing her. And he was having a very hard time not to laugh. His facades had stayed in place of course, but beneath all that she saw raw and honest amusement. A frown settled on her face in return, but she also couldn't help her own amusement at his expression.

"I know you're laughing beneath all that neutrality, and it's not fair!" She whispered to him with a scratchy voice, in a scolding manner, but her smirk betrayed her efforts, which actually sufficed to finally break him enough for the corners of his lips to curl up into a smirk as well. He was fighting it, that much was visible, but Robin knew that he was losing.

"How was the first sip?" He inquired in barely contained humour now, his own tease threatening to finally make him laugh, and that precisely was what made Robin laugh indeed.

"Good, actually." She replied softly, once she had regained some control over her body. "Tastes good, I just have to work on the dosage."

"Measurements have never been your thing, have they?" He quipped, and Robin sent him a very unconvincing glare and stuck out her tongue just for good measure indeed. Then she made a point out of taking another sip, a smaller one this time, and seeing as she knew what to expect, the burning came as a welcome sensation now rather than a pain. The smooth liquid warmed her insides all the way to the pit of her stomach, leaving her with the pleasant impression that she was burning from the inside out. Glowing, lighting up the room.

Without a word of warning, he suddenly snatched the half empty glass out of her hand and downed the remaining liquid himself before setting it back down on the counter in one move.

"Hey! That was mine!" Robin protested in a laugh, but the mere fact that he didn't mind drinking from the same glass as her left her feeling short of breath, and even warmer on the inside than what could be blamed on the whisky. For a moment she felt overwhelmingly tempted to try catching a taste of it on his lips, to seek out something far more intoxicating, but she quickly forced the thought away. Definitely not a good thought to entertain in his company… especially not in a public place. Damnit. She couldn't even blame it on the alcohol, she had only had two sips just now, and that hadn't even sufficed to leave any noticeable difference with her other than the warmth in her chest and stomach.

"We wouldn't want to get you drunk in public, now, would we?" He raised an eyebrow at her with a not-smirk, and it sent another surge of electricity right from Robin's mind to her very core. Of course he was joking, nobody would be getting drunk tonight, but still… what exactly was he playing at?

The question only grew in extent and relevance when he leaned over the counter –unbothered and unhindered by the bar man– and fished for an unopened bottle of the same drink with an unsurprising elegance before dropping three galleons on the counter and motioning Robin to the door without another word. She frowned at him for a second, but then turned on her heels and made for the exit indeed. He went to place the bottle in her backpack even while she moved, closing it up again just before they stepped outside; a gesture that had become so familiar over the summer that it didn't surprise her anymore, nor require much thought or effort on either end.

"So, are you going to share your plan with me or do you want me to make wild assumptions to humour you?" She finally inquired as they walked along the by now entirely lamplit street. It really had gotten cold without the sun, and she regretted not wearing something warmer, but she also couldn't be bothered to fish a jacket out of her bag now to wear under her robes. She didn't even know for how long she would be outside after all, nor what to expect now.

"It will be dinner time shortly, we should return to the castle." He replied innocently, while pointedly ignoring everything that Robin had obviously meant to ask about. Insufferable idiot…

"And your debt?" She refused to let him off the hook quite so easily, and therefore started with the obvious. "Didn't you say you intended to pay up as soon as possible?"

"I did, and I will. But seeing as you have made a point out of the fact that 'buying you a drink' in this case means spending the evening drinking together with you, at my expense obviously, I would prefer to go about it correctly."

"Correctly as in…?"

"Entirely, or not at all." He said, giving her a teasing smirk that had her biting her bottom lip to keep from grinning like an idiot. He really was getting way too good at playing by her rules, but she couldn't bring herself to do anything other than loving it.

"Perhaps having a bite of dinner would be a good idea though… Isn't that one of those pieces of common wisdom, to have a proper meal before drinking alcohol?" She finally asked, while they made their way through the darkness back towards the castle. "Because I honestly have no intention to get drunk tonight. I have tutoring to do in the morning!"

He let out an amused huff in return, and even through the darkness Robin could see the lingering smirk. "Neither of us is foolish enough to get drunk quite so easily, you do know that. But we certainly should attend dinner indeed. For the meal, and to avoid drawing unnecessary attention to our whereabouts of the day."

"And after dinner?"

"That you will see then." He smirked again, and Robin rolled her eyes in return. Honestly, he was enjoying the secrecy way too much. But she had to admit, the suspense was beyond exciting, and it left her with a giddy feeling and a resurfacing smile she just couldn't get rid of. If he wanted to play games with her, she would play along; she knew that he would only ever play to her advantage after all. Who knew what the evening was yet to bring?

______________________________

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[psalloacappella]

tempo rubato

Day 7 Prompt: free prompt // “From now on . . .”

@sasusakublankperiodweek

Ao3 | FFN | ↓

It is a divine and breathtaking thing, to be untethered from their earthly expectations.

The rhythm of the world is a universal hum, an unbroken orbit consisting only of two.

(we write a story)

Hewn halves of the same whole, shadow and light.

They tell themselves to keep it simple, take it slow. This, whatever this is.

The dynamic shift between them is not sudden nor gradual, but something permanent, piquant, and passionate.

Arcs of exploration, personal and entwined: They roam the edges of the world they know and the enclaves they don’t, hoping that their bonding will reveal the hidden map — time reigning at the helm, the pilgrim cartographer. 

But they’ve never been blithe or unfocused, not in their goals or in the shaping of their destinies. Certainly, nothing between them has ever been anything other than a dramatic affair, enduring, and a love that every other eye can see.

“How many days has it been?” she asks him across an inn table, watching him in the dim light. 

Sasuke knows damn well she’s aware of the hours and seconds that have elapsed together; she’s far too precise for sly questions of time. Does it matter?

He pauses before answering, already so taken with the way she levels her gaze at him, unadorned, and knows bringing her along will be the ultimate undoing of his penance journey, the taking apart of his hard heart. Sunrise cleaving through his endless dusk.

“Months, now.” Gathering up the last shreds of meat from his bowl, he places it in hers and meets her eyes in the manner of setting dry kindling alight. 

And so it works, this restrained and sentimental pace, for a while.

.

(we speed up)

Whispers in firelight will be their foundation, the tales that will shape their future. They speak of mundanities (flowers), practicalities (weather) and dreams, some past, lost, and others transforming into hesitant, potential plans. They speak of scars, this one that one, from the one they called Sasori she breathes, his fingertips tracing a swift cleaving crescent, from him, he mutters, and he knows she’ll know which man simply by the smolder in his sloe and violet eyes.

Some damage gossamer, passing marks on the skin, and others rugged as mountain ranges, raised in affront. Shapes distorting and flickering in the flames. A reminder of the world they hold up, the home they must decide to recommit to, if they can.

They travel and retrace their own history, craving and dreading the point at which they meet the end if only to know the epilogue. 

But this love is unbridled, moves at breakneck speeds — years piled up with unsaid things, so it’s easy to melt, crumble, learn and map every single vulnerable inch of one another. Hearts, minds, skin. Whispering one another’s names in constant refrain.

It is a divine and breathtaking thing, to be untethered from their earthly expectations.

The rhythm of the world is a universal hum, an unbroken orbit consisting only of two.

.

(we slow down)

Swimming in a lazy river, circling as fish in palty ponds consisting only of their dual halves, they speak of coulds:  Could we settle somewhere new? Is the place that birthed us a sort of destiny? Is that home, or is this, you and I, enough of an identity? 

Could our future thrive in the same place of our trauma?

Could this system, somehow, become better? 

Balancing a brush between idle fingers, Sakura drips dry in the parched heat and nibbles the end of it in thought.

“Anything to add?” she asks. 

Sasuke swats at an insect, squinting in the high noon.

“For Kakashi?” Thinks a moment, then glances sidelong at her; at the way she holds things aloft so delicate in hands that break the earth. Heal men, and kill them on occasion. At the way she imbues such seriousness into her letters to their ex-sensei, frown rivets dashing across her forehead. At the fading water evaporating from her skin. “Ah, just to share it with the idiot.”

Lips drawn in moue, Sakura struggles not to laugh. “I can write separate letters; Kaka-sensei is busy now. Hokage things, you know?”

She watches him throw his arm against his eyes to shield them from a dazzling sun, and his quiet snicker contains multitudes, echos in a song. The expression just in that reminds her how little friction remains between them, that they’ve caught fire. 

“He can dictate to Naruto — you’ll burn out here if I let you write two,” he chides, noting the red dusting on her cheeks, suffused with glow. “I’m not quite sure how well he reads on his own anyway.”

Erupting into giggles, she shades her own eyes to stare at him with bewitching and stripped abandon. “Be nice. You know he’s next in line to lead, and no matter what he says, he’ll need you.”

Duty. It sits between them occasionally, considered and sometimes unwanted. 

“You as well.”

Before she’s laughed it off, brushed it away to avoid its grip, but he’s correct. They are fever-bound in fire to the village that will shape the future. A daunting prospect. 

“And I’ll need you too.”

Sakura’s so sure she’s misheard, but he’s closer now than a moment ago, sweeping into her orbit with his infuriating and silent speed, thumb resting gently on her blazing bottom lip.

Bringing the question into being, a fruitless thing he’d never deliberate but she never has qualms about speaking into being. 

“Do we have to go back?”

In answer he kisses her on a simmering, sunny riverbank in a way that would make their mothers blush, an apology, a wish, and this day becomes an axis even if they won’t know it for many cycles of the moon.

A pin is pressed into a shared soul map, becomes a burgeoning accompaniment, another rising phrase in their endless song.

From now on, they are in harmony, particularly with something much larger than themselves. 

.

.

Somehow it seems the village feels them coming, whispers paving the way.

Beginning with the far-flung ranging scouts and flying fast to the spry perimeter lookouts, on to the first inner circle defensive squads and, once the shinobi are identified, the hostile caution drops from their voices in a game of telephone to be replaced with a slightly manic curiosity. 

“Two,” one of them says, yanking a sweaty flak collar from his neck. 

“No,” the other says in a strident tone, waving his answer away. “There’s another with them. Three.”

Details drip in Ino’s ears, and she leaves her post in a whirlwind, a tornado of emotion whose  witnessed story springboards from house to training ground to alcove to inn. 

It’s fitting that the first encounter, or reunion, occurs in the middle of a main road beginning as ringing, if loving insults but dwindling to potshots from gritted teeth and smoothing into cooing whispers as the two women, these best friends, encircle one another with shaking arms and a bundle pressed between them; the accompanying men linger at awkward edges, Sasuke betraying so little with his usual impassive expression and Shikamaru, who was tripped up in Ino’s anger along the way, keeping his hands in his pockets. 

“Oh, how could you?” Ino sniffles, wiping away tears with the heel of her hand. “Can’t do anything by half-measures, no subtlety, you never could! No letter, no warning.” Here she glares at Sasuke for a moment, enough for him to cast his eyes away in at least a modest show of humility. 

The moments pile upon, become stranger and more surprising, as Ino presses her lips to the bundle in Sakura’s arms and Shikamaru sighs in not-unhappy resignation, ah, so it is, and extends his hand to an unusually startled Sasuke and for a fleeting sliver-second, the corners of his mouth aren’t quite so dour.

“Who’s next?” Ino asks, tenderly flicking away a lock of Sakura’s hair. “Though by now, the whole damn town knows.”

The men shake clumsily, wary, bereft of custom.

“I’m sure you had nothing to do with that. The honorary uncle, it's only fair.”

“We have to report regardless,” Sasuke supplies quietly. Bending over the bundle and his new wife (which, Ino will rant in retrospect, seems obvious now — his unusual tenderness, his glow, men don’t glow like that for just anyone, any reason!), he whispers, begins to lead her away. They walk with high heads and radiant faces.

Her jade eyes behold their new bundle, but his eyes stay, mostly, on her. 

.

By now the gossip’s reached his stuffy office, and though he’s never been one to put on airs or prepare for visitors, he does try to clear a free spot to be able to see over the mess of his desk, before an aide takes pity on him and handles the rest.

He will have to get a full, unadorned look at this.

She leads, of course she does — this is the love at twelve she forcibly took into her own hands, even when it pricked and bruised. Wrestled it until she won. The newlywed glow is obvious. As a shadow Sasuke sweeps in behind, but the tiny uplift of his lips is still evident.

True, then. Differences all around.

“The kids do things differently these days,” Kakashi jokes. “Have you at least considered getting married?”

“Have you?” Sasuke snarks.

Sakura shushes him gently, thumbing away some errant speck from their bundle’s chubby face. Eyes bright, they seem to dim the rest of the room as she raises them to Kakashi and asks, breathless, “Do you want to—?”

And despite his aide’s effort to clear his desk he gets up and comes around it, to them, closing the loop around a future he hopes is halcyon and new, shepherds of peacetime. 

He wonders if they’ve had their real homecoming yet, the true test — but no, he’d be able to tell. Not that the joy in Sakura’s face could possibly be more evident, and by the careful way Sasuke presses his mouth to her temple, nudges her with his nose (and there’s the glow, the one that paints great men often only because of exceptional women they love). Naruto, busy and climbing for his Hokage position but with his own recent arrival, his own legacy coming in the form of something tiny, blond, and confusing. 

The third point of their legendary triumvirate, no doubt unaware of what’s coming to his doorstep and in tow, the new member of his full life he’ll meet anew. 

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Sakura whispers, eyes shining.

A gloved hand on each head, as if they’re genin again:  He’s gentle with Sakura, ruffles Sasuke’s hair with a roguish twinkle if only to provoke his trademark scowl. 

Subdued, but their sensei’s happiness sings through in the crinkles in the corners of his eyes. 

.

Perhaps they don’t expect Naruto to be the one they see as the door swings open; after all the last letter he sent in his untidy scrawl is still in Sasuke’s cloak pocket, unread in the wake of their universe shifting to this perennial birth that’s brought them across the world and then to their best friend’s doorstep, clutching this thing that did not exist and now does, borne of them and their love; he stands there, blond hair in chaos and a strange smattering of dirt on his cheek and a rag over his shoulder covered in fluids that his friends now know will be constant, streaming, the aftermath of infants; Hinata behind him, carrying her own bundle, with the same look of frenzied-excited exhaustion but now her mouth falls into a small, round ‘o’ as she sizes up the scene faster than her darling, ditzy husband, who’s bereft of speech and straightens up from his sagging position against the door frame, stunned.

“S-Sakura-chan!” Bright ocean eyes ping from her face — beaming, because she’s already understood this wonderful coincidence and can deduce now what his message contained, she begins to weep a little, overwhelmed — to Sasuke’s, hesitant but with its own subtle change, a fleeting expression of love and pride. 

Hinata makes a comforting noise behind them, a reassuring response to Sakura’s tears, the language of women a bit quieter, something less decipherable.

“‘Ay, Sasuke you total bastard, showing up like this! Didn’t respond to my letter—”

“You ass,” Sasuke hisses, tugging fabric over one tiny ear belonging to his daughter. “She can hear that.”

“She’s in trouble anyway, with my mouth,” Sakura sighs, brushing away a tear.

Naruto’s eyes grow so wide they push the earthly bounds of his sockets. His head whips ‘round to look at his wife, their son, and snaps back just as fast to stare at his best friends.

“She?” The word comes out croaky, and Naruto’s already sniffling.

Sasuke and Sakura exchange a glance, the ghost of a knowing smile:  His sentiment has always been equal parts maddening and endearing, his adoration broadcast to the entire world.

Sasuke assents with a nod, but his own voiced response emerges with surprising vibrato emotion. Perhaps to hide it, he drops his chin onto Sakura’s head, resting it there. “Yeah. A little girl.”

They should expect it, but it’s still a scuffle like old times, Naruto tackling them both, gathering them close in his way, welcoming them home from the outside world and back into his magnetism, his heart. 

“Can’t believe you — didn’t even — you just come home like this—”

Their greetings and scoldings and expressions of love mesh together, can’t believe Sasuke managed it, Don’t squish her, Naruto! You idiot, It's you who’s managed it, how old, how long, where did you travel, what have you seen, how old is your son?

“How did you know?” Naruto asks, finally allowing them to breathe. He stares at Sakura, quizzical. “Betcha missed my letter. So how’d you know it’s a boy?”

“I’m a medic, remember?” Readjusting her daughter, she extends her other hand to Hinata, gesturing so she comes closer, anticipating a deeper appreciation of a friendship they’ve already begun, a new language they’ll learn together. “Had a feeling. I just know.”

But Naruto’s tugging on them again, drawing them close and tight, rooting them to the earth and the place they sprung from, flourished and fought in, and now, where they’ve returned. 

Time slackening and quickening though never lost or stolen, occasionally rhythm-robbed but always arriving expectantly, weaving their life legends into knots.

The codetta they’ve always managed to sing together in the end. 

[fascination-street-writing]

To Discard and Discover | Trish Una x F!Reader

She smells of roses and lemongrass - of a home you have not yet found. The scent of her perfume penetrates your mind; at once, you have been found in a flower field during the Giugno blooms.

100 Follower Giveaway 1st Place Piece

Content Warnings: P-TSD & Math Class

“Have you ever thought about going back? You know, to finish your degree?”

Fugo lifts the saucer of tea to his lips, careful to blow on the scalding steam before taking a sip.  He raises an eyebrow as he looks to Trish, who sits across from him at the dining table, awaiting his response. Sighing, he speaks: “Maybe. Maybe not. I doubt any reputable university would take me in after what I did.”

Trish murmurs to herself. She chases a sliced cherry tomato with her fork. Il Pranzo has become a shared pastime between her and the strawberry-blonde boy. “I’m sure Giorno could pull some strings,” she insists. “You could probably go anywhere you wanted.”

“It’s not honest that way. Besides, I don’t have a reason to go back. There’s no degree requirement to work for the Don of Passione . . . But, what about you?”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

He sets his tea down. “The new schoolyear starts in a month. Haven’t you thought about returning?”

Trish stiffens. “Do you think I should?” she asks.

“That’s not for me to say,” Fugo tells her. “Bruno will encourage you to, and the schools near where you live are good. Well, as good as any school in Napoli can be. Above all else, it might be a decent distraction – a chance to gain back a little normalcy in your life.”

It is a difficult subject, and one that weighs on her like a vice. She has struggled to acclimate to the new normal after everything that transpired in the early spring of this year. Returning to school had simply not been a possibility for her, though not for a lack of trying.

She has found trauma to be a tantalizing friend indeed – and one that never quite seems to leave her side.

The sound of your laced shoes slapping against the waxed floors is lost to the rush of bodies that swarm the corridor. The faces of your peers are unnamed to you, because in your sixteen years of life, you never cared to commit them to memory.  Your first session of the day is classe di matematica. It is a grueling subject to most, but you find it easy enough.

An unfamiliar pink-haired girl stands before your teacher at his desk. You cannot help but to notice her rigid posture; she stands as though she has been frozen in place by the scrutiny of his eyes as he takes in her appearance. It is obvious that she is a transfer student, and a nervous one at that. To you, she is nothing more than another face with a name, and you will not care to remember it.

Filing past clusters of your fellow classmates, you make your way to the back of the room and secure your territory. While the table creaks under the weight of your bookbag and leud pencil carvings mar its surface, you find solace in its position beneath the window overlooking the courtyard.

Students continue to file through the door. You look to the clock: class will not begin for another five minutes. Impatient, you sigh and turn your attention to a flock of pigeons gathering on the cobblestone pathway of the courtyard. Watching the scuffle of five birds, all for a discarded heel of bread, is far more enticing than pretending not to eavesdrop on any of the conversations filling the space of the room.

The clocktower chimes and the pigeons scatter, no doubt startled by the deep vibrato of the prerecorded bell-sound echoing throughout campus. You open your notebook and click your used pen. Your classmates take their seats, all the while avoiding the second chair at your table. You do not mind it, for you know it is not repulsion that keeps your peers at bay. The truth is much simpler: every student has at least one friend within the class whom they would much rather sit with than yourself.

Head hung low, you wait for the selection process to end whilst avoiding wandering gazes. When you hear the tapping of a pencil against the table, you are shocked to see the pink-haired girl standing before you.

“Can I sit here?”

Your mouth turns dry, as if you have swallowed the very same stale bread the pigeons quarreled for. You do not mean to, but your eyes trace the delicate lines of her face, from her piercing green eyes framed by thick lashes to the soft pout of her pink, glossy lips. You wring your hands together. She’s pretty, you think to yourself. She’s unfairly pretty.

“Hello?”

You clear your throat. “O-Oh, uh . . .” You stumble over your words, suddenly conscious of the light red hue dusting across her cheekbones. “Yeah, go ahead.”

You wait for her to laugh, to wallow in your self-inflicted humiliation. Instead, she smiles, revealing two rows of straight, white teeth, and sits beside you. She smells of roses and lemongrass – of a home you have not yet found. The scent of her perfume penetrates your mind; at once, you have been found in a flower field during the Giugno blooms.

“I like your hair, by the way.” Unconsciously, you bring a finger to your hair and touch it, as if in disbelief that she would compliment your appearance, let alone your hair. “Sorry, that probably came across as creepy, didn’t it?”

“N-No, it’s okay,” you insist. Heat rushes to your face. Her flattery burns you, and yet, you gladly kneel before its flames. “Uh . . . Thank you.”

She hums and turns to face your chattering teacher. You clutch your pen. It hovers over the blank page of your notebook. The hour flies by; class draws to an end, and you have retained nothing. How could you, when the smell of her perfume alone has bequeathed to you the insatiable desire to be wherever it is that roses and lemongrass might coexist – perhaps in the garden of a cottage overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea.

You notice how she has begun backing her bag. It is your cue to gather your own belongings. The bell rings. You hurry to stand, eager to be away from the girl who garners your attention.

“I’m Trish, by the way,” she tells you. You are still. “Thanks for letting me sit here. It was nice meeting you.”

Trish. Just like the model from America; it suits her, plenty. The corners of your mouth turn upwards into a grin. Her kindness is infectious, and it leaves you longing, gasping for more. As you watch her leave, her form engulfed by the sea of taller students, you are left with nothing more than a contemplation: perhaps there is one name you will remember.

“I don’t understand – what does any of this have to do with math?” Trish sighs, dropping her pencil in frustration. A manicured finger hooks into a pink curl and twirls it with such vigor; you fear she will tear out her own hair. “None of this makes sense.”

“Well, it has more to do with logic than math,” you try to explain. You offer your workbook to her. “It’s actually quite fun, once you get the hang of it.”

She rolls her brilliant green eyes. “Maybe for someone like you. Not everyone can be as smart as you, you know.”

“I-I’m really not that smart,” you deflect. You tap the unfished equation scribbled in her notes. “Let’s just go back to the beginning . . . Un cavaliere always tells the truth, so they can never lie. But un fante always lies, so they can never tell the truth. You meet Persona A and Persona B . . .”

You guide her through the problem. The sound of shuffling papers signifies that everyone else in the class has finished their work; your teacher waits for Trish, and Trish alone, who grips her pencil tightly. You know she feels it – the unspoken ridicule from your peers. To them, she is the incompetent new student from Calabria who cannot comprehend un cavalieri e furfanti puzzle.

“Dannazione, sono un idiota,” she hisses. “Nothing makes sense.”

You frown. “You’re not an idiot just because a silly math problem stumped you.” The insistence falls from your lips. Her silence sends a frigid chill down your spine. “Please, don’t say that about yourself. Let me help you work through it. We assume Persona A is un fante.”

Your teacher clears his throat. He peers over the rim of his half-moon glasses, observing the way you coax Trish to complete the problem. He sets aside the book that had been clasped in his hand, and he stands to approach her, to offer his aid at the behest of a struggling student with such unique circumstances. At the sight of the pencil falling from her fingers and the smile upon her face, he stops.

“I’ve got it. Persona B is un cavaliere, which means both Persona A and Persona B are.” She pauses for a moment to contemplate her words. “That’s a contradiction! Our assumption was wrong, so if Persona A is un cavaliere, he’s telling the truth, so Persona B must be un fante.”

Your confirmation is something sacred to her, not unlike the Rosary given to her on the day of her mother’s funeral. Even when shakily spoken Hail Marys fall from her lips and her fingers tremble over the amber counting beads, there is little room in Trish’s mind for meditation when her thoughts, as of late, are always of you.

She blushes as you meet her gaze. “I meant what I said,” she begins. “You are smart.”

You bite your lip and look away, though her eyes follow. “That’s not true,” you say. “You don’t have to butter me up so much.”

She clasps your hand gently beneath the table. Her palm is soft, and you want to turn your wrist to enlace your fingers with hers. You stop yourself. “If I’m not allowed to call myself an idiot, then you’re not allowed to say you’re not intelligent.” You open your mouth to rebuke her words, but she cuts you off. “Despite what I said, I know I’m smart; just not at all things, like math.”

Her thumb brushes against the back of your knuckles as she pulls away. An incidental touch, you ponder. She turns her attention to your teacher, who stands before the chalkboard writing out the correct steps of the puzzle. You feel hot – unbearably so. A sudden bulge in your throat makes it hard to breathe. You ask to be excused to the bathroom. You did not need to hear the rest of the lesson, anyways.

It has been nearly two months since that day in classe di matematica. Indeed, the air outside has turned crisp and rain showers frequent the weather patterns: the season nears wintertime. Trish’s acclimation to life in Napoli has been far easier than her guardian Bruno had anticipated – dinnertime conversations about daydreams and schooldays have made him grateful for your involvement in the pink-haired girl’s life. Weekends spent with you, consisting of coffees, shopping trips, and stops at gelato parlors, remind her that she is safe.

Because of you, she can be a teenager again.

As you enter the classroom, you find her seat empty. Class carries on, but you cannot focus, for you are reminded of the loneliness that came before meeting Trish. You decide a sip of cool water might help to clear the haze unsettling you so.

You bring the uncapped water bottle to your lips, only to cry out in shock as the metal flask contorts in your grip like puddy. Its contents billow over the mouth of the bottle and saturate your skirt. The bottle does not make a sound as it fumbles to the vinyl floor; you are too bothered by the sloshing of your clothes to notice the way in which the metal frame slowly bends back into its shape – or the laughter of your fellow classmates.

Your teacher ushers you to the bathroom. Your wet loafers squeal as you hurry down the hallway. Prayer cards and posters promoting abstinence adorn the walls. The door latches behind you. Hiccups and choked sobs echo throughout the tight chamber of the communal space. It smells of roses and lemongrass – it smells of her.

You reach for the paper towel dispenser and blot at your skirt. It does little good to salvage the pleated fabric and it leaves an incriminating stain. Though you hesitate, you rapt your hand against the closed stall door and call out to her: “Trish? Are you okay?”

Her wails diminish. Her shadow peaks out from the crack between the floor and the bottom edge of the door. She sniffles before revealing herself. The hue upon her cheeks is unlike the bashful blush of infatuation that frequents her skin. Her distress pains you.

"I missed you in class,” you say, unsure of what to do for the girl you have come to endear. You chide yourself immediately, wanting nothing more than to cast yourself out of her presence for your insensitive comment. Spoken words are never quite simple.

Her bottom lip quivers and her eyes well with tears again. You fear you have upset her. And yet, her arms extend towards your body. Suddenly, you are embracing; she holds you in a grip akin to a vice. Your fingers trace shapes against her clothed back. It is something you might have done to soothe a weeping infant. In the privacy of the bathroom, you pretend she is your lover – that every sojourn for velveteen dresses and freshly churned gelato on Sabato pomeriggio meant something more to her.

But she is not your lover – and you are not hers.

Reluctantly, you pull away. Her breath fans your face, and it is only now that you notice the dainty freckles of her cheeks for the first time. You step backwards until your thighs hit the sink. For a moment, you think she had frowned upon your separation. It is another of many illusions that your mind has weaved as of late, no doubt.

“Thank you,” Trish says, rubbing the back of her hand against her eyes. Smudges of black mascara coat her skin.

You fiddle with the hem of your damp skirt. You realize, as you glance over the girl’s uniform, that her skirt is wet as well – from her own tears or the second-hand spillage from your water bottle, you know not. “I didn’t really do anything,” you insist.

"You’re here. That means everything to me.”

Paying no heed to the nagging sensation within you that wants to pry into the cause of her anguish, you offer her a clean paper towel. She accepts it with a faint smile. You settle for ignorance, because you know she will confess to you someday – beyond her passing comments of a deceased mother and a toxic, absent father.

Prepared to return to class, she laces her arm with yours and takes a deep breath. You decide that you will wait as long as she needs.

The brown paper-bag filled with paint bottles feels heavy in your grasp. It weighs on your shoulder, slipping down with every step taken towards the direction of your home. The figurines of your mother’s nativity set have begun to peel and crack, and you have promised to aid her in restoring the heirlooms. It is only right; religious preferences aside, the ivory statuettes will one day be your inheritance. And it will make a fond memory for you of your mother.

Shielded by the umbrella of a patio table, Trish sits before that which you recognize as a café you have frequented several times together: Caffè Anami. You long to be one of the glossed pages of the magazine she thumbs through – to feel her touch and to be adored the same way you adore her. Outside of her usual school uniform, she wears a floral-patterned dress. You do not question its monetary value; she comes from strange wealth, and her choice in civilian attire is only one of many indicators.

You begin to approach her, a practiced greeting wrought of cordiality ready on your tongue. But kindness turns to bitterness as the front door to the café opens and a boy with messily-styled black hair and wild violet eyes pushes past new customers and struggles to balance two to-go cups of coffee and a bag of pastries.

"They didn’t even offer me a cupholder,” you hear him grumble aloud. You stop. “How am I supposed to carry all this? Does it look like a have a third arm?”

Trish rises and reaches for the bag of pastries. “There,” she tells the boy. “Crisis averted.”

Free of burden, they both take their seats at the table. As Trish divides the baked goods amongst two napkins, the boy watches her careful movements with what you describe as pure reverence, for she is the personification of grace and beauty, and he knows this. They converse with each other, and you cannot help but to observe how Trish has made a habit of touching the boy’s arm nearly every time she speaks to him.

Your stomach churns at the unpleasantry before you. In all your time pining after the pink-haired girl, you had never considered that she may have had a partner of her own. But you see it now: how could you have been so blind? She had not mentioned the scraggily haired boy before. Talks of saccharine kisses, gentle touches, and of course a boyfriend never came from her rosy-colored lips. She hid this from you. Perhaps, this whole time, she truly knew of your affections. At the risk of losing a friend (for you assume you were nothing more to her), she forbade herself to speak of the boy, lest she drive you away – there could be no other explanation.

It hurts, so much in fact that a knife to your heart would be preferable to the pain swallowing you whole. Gauging his appearance, you decide he does not deserve someone as elegant as she . . . Though, considering your tattered jeans and hand-me-down blouse, neither do you. You swipe at the tears threatening to spill and you choke down the lump in your throat. Readjusting the shopping bag over the perch of your shoulder, you leave, broken and unwell.

Behind you, Trish’s melodious laughter – a wicked song indeed – resonates. You could not block out her sweet chorus even if, deep down, you truly wanted to.

Your knees sink into the plush mass of the faux-fur rug beneath you. Your saucer of hot tea rests atop the coffee table, untouched; the steam rises and coils into the air. Trish’s guardian – Bruno, she called him – sets a tray filled with biscotti before you. You might have found him intimidating if not for the warmth laced within his sapphire-blue eyes. He closes the double-doors to the study, leaving you and the pink-haired girl alone.

The silence in the room is cut by the scratching of pencils to paper and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, tucked between a lounger and a houseplant. You scan over your completed portion of the study guide. Earlier that day, your insegnante di matematica had formally announced an exam slotted to be proctored at the end of the week. After he distributed the studyguides, Trish turned to you with an unassuming smile and asked if you would like to come to her house and study together. If not for the existence of her boyfriend, you would have looked for a deeper implication. Instead, you agreed with a curt nod, and accompanied her home at the end of the day.

“[Y/N]?” You look up from your work to meet Trish’s gaze. “Are you upset at me about something? You’ve been acting like you want nothing to do with me lately.”

You hesitate to respond. It would be better to lie, to hide your feelings and come up with an excuse: it’s not you, I’m just stressed about school, that’s all. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a boyfriend?” you ask instead, blunter than you probably should have been. Her brows furrow, as if she misunderstood you. “We’re friends, aren’t we? Doesn’t that mean we should be honest with each other?”

“Boyfriend? Who told you I had a boyfriend?”

“No one. I saw you two together. I-I wasn’t stalking you, honest – I was walking home from the store the other day and I saw you at Caffè Anami with him . . . I can’t understand why you’d hide something like that from me. You know you can trust me, don’t you?”

The corners of her lips turn into a grin and she shakes her head. “His name’s Narancia,” she tells you. “And he’s not my boyfriend. He’s practically a brother to me.”

You are not sure whether to feel relief or mortification – relief, for your chances with the girl have not been thwarted; mortification, for your accusation has backfired, leaving you utterly and completely embarrassed. “I-I’m sorry,” you spit out. “I just – I didn’t think – I –”

She places her hand over yours, just like the day when you had helped her through the cavalieri e furfanti puzzle. “It’s all good. Besides, he’s not exactly my type.”

She takes her hand away and scribbles something down in her study guide. Her top row of teeth juts out to graze her bottom lip, and it is only then you notice something different about her appearance: she is wearing a darker shade of lipstick. Trish catches you staring.

“What’re you looking at?” She is luring you, and you have already fallen into her snare.

“Uh, I like your lipstick,” you confess. “That’s all.”

“Oh, thank you.”

You set your pencil aside. You feel as though you might burst, that it might kill you if you do not tell her how you feel. But words do not come to mind – nothing more than silly quips or dull compliments; and so, you settle for the former.

“Can I try it?”

Trish pauses. You fear you have overstepped unspoken boundaries. After all, only moments ago, you had accused her of keeping secrets. Yet, you too have kept one secret to yourself: that you love her, as much as one sixteen-year-old girl might love another. To your delight, she nods and smiles, casting her schoolwork aside to meet you halfway over the coffee table separating your bodies.

She tastes of the biscotti – almond, you think – and earl grey tea. She blossoms at your touch, as if you are the sun and she a posy in a garden somewhere. You forget the ticking of the grandfather clock, for the shared beating of your hearts is deafening. You think to pull away, but she chases your lips and captures them again. She cups your face, caging you in place – not that you mind.  

You separate only when you have both grown desperate for air. The sight of her flushed face leaves you in awe. Your belly flutters. She raises a finger to her smudged lips and beams. You long to ask her if she too dreams of roses and lemongrass, of a cottage overlooking the sea in the countryside far away from the bustle of Napoli. But you know better than to overwhelm yourselves with adolescent thoughts of the future – her, especially.

As for Trish, she reminds herself to thank Fugo for convincing her to return to school. Though her past haunts her still, she is indebted to her new life. For, without suffering first, she never would have the girl from classe di matematica who stole her heart on the very first day.

She turns to her schoolwork. “We should get back to it,” she insists. You cock your eyebrow and giggle, bashful and appeased.

“You’re right: we should.”

| 3964 Words |

* Please note that the woman in the photograph is meant to resemble Trish - this is not an assumption of the reader’s appearance.

[keelywolfe]

FIC: All A Bad Dream Spinning In Your Head

Summary: Edge wakes up

Notes: In this chapter there is some violence. Angst! Drama! We got it all!

Tags: Spicyhoney, Brotherly Relationships, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Pregnancy, More Angst, Violence

Warnings:  Implied underage pregnancy. Implied miscarriages. Past Trauma.

~~*~~

Chapter List

What Will Be, Will Be

Something To Say, But Nothing Comes

Can’t Go On, Thinking Nothing’s Wrong

Seldom All They Seem

Voices Are Heard But Nothing Is Seen

Winter Makes You Laugh a Little Slower

That Place Where You Can’t Remember and You Can’t Forget

Casting Its Shroud Over All We Have Known

There’s a Place I Like To Hide

~~*~~

Read it on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

Something was wrong.

Edge could sense it, feel it in the marrow of his bones through the heaviness of sleep.

Wakefulness was slow in coming and Edge struggled to shake the darkness away. Even tangled in mental cobwebs and shadows, he knew this was not a natural sleep. Years of living on the streets trained him very well to quickly snap awake at the first twitch of anything suspicious and at this moment, his instincts were wailing, shrieking that something was very, very wrong.

His sockets were barely slit open enough to see as Edge fought off that unnatural pull of drowsiness. Around him everything was too soft, offering no traction and he struggled through cloyingly padded surroundings to where light came in through the door, belatedly remembering the pillow nest.

He came tumbling out of the closet, fighting to get his footing. His limbs felt stupidly clumsy, as if they weren’t his own, and when he tried to stand, he nearly collapsed back to the ground, staggering on unwieldy legs, looking around wildly for the attacker.

It could be nothing else, he never fell asleep like this even when he was ill. This was deliberate, one of his enemies seeking to make him vulnerable. With enormous effort he managed to summon his own magic, a wavering shield of bones hovering before him. First hold back any incoming attacks, next form his own, if outnumbered, look for an escape, never let ‘em corner you, and don’t ya ever panic under fire, never, we call monsters who panic dust, never--

His brother’s voice in the back of his mind faded. There was nothing, no one else was in the room. Only furniture, the bed, the dresser, the tidy line of possessions along the wall from when Rus emptied out the—

There was no one else in the room.

Rus.

Edge bit off a snarled curse and headed for the door. He still felt drugged, clinging to the banister as he made his clumsy way downstairs, trying to shake off the sedation that still clung like a tarry shadow.

Then it felt as if something around him gave with a soggy pop. One minute he was struggling to stay upright, then he was snapping alert; whoever was casting either let the spell go or had their concentration broken, and there was only one way to find out which. Edge jumped the railing, landing lightly on the ground floor and ran outside.

One of the first things he’d learned when training for the guard was to assess a situation before engaging. Running in blindly was a good way to very quickly dust.

But no amount of training could have prepared him for seeing Rus lying crumpled in the snow, looking too-small and vulnerable with the snarling clash of fighting far too close by from two people he would never have thought to see in Underswap.

Undyne. His Undyne, the air around her bristling with summoned spears, launching in a pattern only she knew at her opponent and suddenly the reason for all his earlier muddled confusion came clear. An Underfell Knight Knight, their twisting, smoking armor already telling a tale of blaster damage as they struggled to hold off Undyne’s ferocity. Knight Knights were formidable foes and could force another Monster to sleep, dusting them in the midst of their unnatural slumber.

Whatever happened, Edge was coming into the middle of it all and Rus was too close to the brawl by far, the pallor of his bones stark against the bright orange of sweatshirt, nearly blending into the snow.

Undyne didn’t even look at him, caught up in the dance of battle. She barked out with savage glee, “Hey, nerd! ‘bout time you showed up! Keep back, take care of your boy!” Her needle-sharp grin was as vicious as her words. “I can handle this fucker.”

Of that he had no doubt. Even as he watched, the Knight Knight fell to one knee, her great shoulders heaving as she barely held off the last round of spears that poured down on her.

There was no time for strategizing, one wrong step would send the combatants trampling over Rus’s crumpled form. Edge flung a hand towards Rus, calling up blue magic and taking a firm hold of his soul to pull him closer. The limp way he hung in Edge’s gravitational grip was distantly horrifying, his panic buried beneath practiced control; he couldn’t allow himself to be distracted from the battle. Edge pulled Rus in until he could gather him into his arms. Even as pregnant as he was, his weight was inconsequential, nearly as light as the pillows he’d carried not long ago.

“Rus?” Edge said, jostling him lightly, then harder when he didn’t respond, “Rus!”

His sockets fluttered briefly, and he let out a breathy snort but didn’t wake. His face twisted into a grimace as the swell under his sweatshirt stirred, the baby moving restlessly. A quick Check confirmed both their stats were full and holding steady, and Edge didn’t have time to consider their text, Rus’s an unconscious blank and Lucy’s, *almost*. They were alive and unhurt, that was all that mattered.

Most of his attention was necessarily on Undyne still hammering attacks down on the Knight Knight. A sweep of her arm sent another wave of spears denting into already battered armor and a couple embedding into the siding of the Swap brother’s house with a quivering thud.

There was no way for him to assist her, even if she’d allow it; he’d have to put Rus down, and that would be a desperate move reserved for the moment it became apparent she was losing.

Behind him, Edge could hear others running, the residents of this Snowdin drawn by the sound of battle into a loose crowd; the Swap brother’s house was in the middle of town, and the innocent inhabitants of this world were milling foolishly close, adults and children who should be safely in their homes were instead watching with fearful curiosity, frozen in the ankle-deep snow as they stared.

“Keep back!” Edge barked. He cast a wall of bones around them, concentrating to keep the intent low, the goal was to keep the fools away, not to injure them. In his arms, Rus moaned, low and dazed, and Edge shifted his ungainly, limp form to hold him closer, murmuring, “I have you, you’re safe, Rus, you’re safe.”

There was no telling if he understood and no time for anything else. More shouts and Edge glanced to the side to see Underswap’s Alphys and Blue running from the direction of Waterfall. They were going to be too late, the Knight Knight was no longer attacking, only struggling to hold Undyne’s back.

Until a sudden shield of bones that weren’t his own rose up between them, too far away yet to be Blue’s and the magic signature was one Edge knew intimately, far stronger and more immovable than nearly anyone would guess.

“stop!” Red barked. He was crouched on the roof like the gargoyle Rus so often called him, one eye light strobing with nauseating intensity as he held back Undyne’s attacks. “knock it off, fish lips!”

“What the fu—get out of my way, you rotten little cunt!” Undyne howled, pounding against the shield. Abruptly, Edge understood; Undyne wouldn’t hesitate to strike a killing blow and while a portion of denying that was not wanting the children of Underswap to see such a thing, there was another, more pertinent reason to keep this Knight Knight alive.

“Don’t kill her!” Edge snapped. He read her furious look clearly, grudgingly mollified only when he added, “She can’t give us answers if she’s dust!”

"You look after your baby mama," Undyne shot back. She shook back the fronds of her fins from her damp face, sweat dripping from the ends despite the chilly air. “He went down like a stone when chuckles here grabbed at him.” Her sudden grin was appreciative. “Your little honey got off a hell of a shot before he dropped, though.”

Red stepped out of a shortcut at ground level at the same moment Blue dashed up with Alphys at his heels. With a flick of his wrist, Red sent another wave of bones out to surround the Knight Knight, pinning her down. His brother barely gave their prisoner another glance as he came towards Edge, his fierce gaze on Rus.

“how is he?” Red asked curtly, even as he cast his own Check. Rus flinched from it, turning to press his face into the front of Edge’s shirt.

Blue was pale with worry and Edge dropped into a crouch, enough to allow him to see his brother, watched as Blue ripped off his gloves and tossed them into the snow, his slim hands fluttering over his brother, from his face down to the rounded bulge of his belly. “Papy?” Blue implored, “Brother?”

“He’s all right and so is the baby,” Edge told him. Automatically, he tightened his grip when Blue made to take his brother away. Not that he couldn’t carry him, Edge was well familiar with Blue’s strength, but the even with the Knight Knight contained, his instincts were still inflamed, demanding he keep Rus close to him, shrieking out a pulse of protect, protect, protect.

Blue started to protest, swallowing it back when Red touched his shoulder and shook his head. He was obviously displeased, but didn’t argue when Edge stood again, settling Rus more comfortably into his arms. The solid weight of him was reassuring as was the occasional thump of the baby kicking, anchoring Edge when his strongest impulse was to keep them safe.

Much as he wanted to take Rus into the house, away from all of this, they needed answers. He was unconscious but his stats were fine and so were the baby’s, and Edge was unwilling to leave him alone in the house and equally unwilling to allow the Knight Knight out of his sight.

Undyne and Alphys were currently eyeing each other suspiciously, literally in their cases as they only had one apiece. To Undyne, Edge asked, “How did you get here?”

She shrugged, “Beats the fuck out of me. Tagged along with your shitty brother. What in the name of Asgore’s balls do you have in your basement, looked like a fucking black hole.”

“You went through a black hole to help out your pal here?” Alphys looked mildly impressed. Nearby, the other locals were still milling around curiously and Alphys turned towards them, shaking a scarred fist as she barked at the lingering lookie loos. “Go on, show’s over!”

Reluctantly, they drifted off and it was a stroke of luck that they were out of sight when the Knight Knight suddenly collapsed into dust, even her armor crumbling away.

“Whoa, fuck!” Undyne yelped, leaping back. “There was no fucking way I did enough damage to dust her!”

“you didn’t,” Red said, disgusted, waving a hand to dispersing the jagged bones caught in the dust. “that’s one of asgore’s little toys, suicide tag in case one of his private guard gets caught. like we said, can’t ask dust any questions.”

“Asgore? Your Asgore?” Blue rounded on Red accusingly, "Where were you? Where were both of you, how could you let this happen?"

Edge met his reproachful gaze as it swung to him, ready to accept his fault. Blue was right, they were to blame, and he’d sworn that Underfell would never touch Rus and their child and yet here it was dusting at their feet. Guilt was thick in his throat, there was no apology he could make, no excuse for not protecting his…his…Rus, and the baby.

Assistance came from an unexpected source as Alphys spoke up.

"Not his fault," Alphys said, nudging at the dust with her boot, "Knight Knights got some specialized skills, they—whoa!!" She recoiled as the dust began to bubble, dissolving away the snow beneath it into foul sludge.

"might want to keep away from that, who the fuck knows what it can do. knight knights can put you under is what she's saying," Red said tersely. "makes ‘em good for some espionage with a side order of kidnappin’. someone's been watchin', boss." He gave Undyne a pointed look.

She snorted loudly and shook her head, unoffended. “Not me, nerd, and you already know Alphys keeps an eye out. She called me. Told me one of Asgore’s skeeves was hanging around your place. Figured I’d better check it out.”

“And you didn’t contact me?” Edge snapped.

Another unapologetic shrug. “Woulda, if I’d had time. I showed up and saw that one going into your basement…” She trailed off uncertainly. “I think it was your basement, I don’t—” she shook her head as if trying to rattle the memory loose. “It was like there was no door and then there was and then there wasn’t.”

“that’s when she came lookin’ for me,” Red threw out. “didn’t have time to argue so i brought her along. lucky i was headed home.”

Lucky. Edge didn’t normally prescribe to luck but lately, there seemed to be a slim thread of it for him, as though someone on high were watching. Instead of relief, it made him shiver unpleasantly. The margin of failure was painfully high; if Undyne hadn’t found Red, he would been confronting the Knight Knight still under her influence, trying to protect Rus from whatever her intentions were. She’d tried to grab him, Undyne said, and killing him for his meager LV was likely the kindest possible ending to that. His and Lucy’s, for what little quantity an unborn child might have.

Nausea churned in his soul, thick and sour. Edge only realized how tightly he was holding Rus when he let out a whimper of complaint and stirred. Everyone stood stilled, waiting, but his sockets stayed closed even as he curled in closer to Edge, nuzzling at the front of his shirt with a soundless sigh. Closer to sleep than true unconsciousness and some of the tension wound tight around Edge’s soul loosened.

When Rus didn’t bother to fully wake, Red spoke up again, “when we got to the basement, the door lock was busted. i took a sec to set up a little welcome for anyone else who might try it and scrambled the coordinates, but—” Red shook his head. “when we got here, the honey bun was about shoving a blaster up her ass ‘fore he dropped, but it didn’t take her down. undyne stepped up to the plate, think you know what happened from there.”

“How did she see the door?” Edge demanded, “No one else ever has.”

“dunno,” Red shrugged, scratching at the back of his skull. “i’ve never known how that fucking things works. barely even know how we ended up with it, it just was.”

“Yeah, exactly none of that made any fucking sense, Papyrus,” Undyne snorted. She cast another glance at Alphys who met it evenly, “I don't got a clue what's going on here.” She looked around, visibly disconcerted, at the clean, tidy houses in Underswap, the Gyftmas lights draped over eves and trees, and when she shuddered, it was not from the cold. “Where the fuck are we even?”

“Papyrus?” Alphys frowned, her scaly brow drawing down, “Your name is Papyrus, too? Sans, what the fuck--?”

“Why don’t we go inside and have some tea?” Blue interrupted, brightly determined. There was a certain panic layered beneath it, understandably, this was not an eventuality any of them had prepared for. “Papy shouldn’t be out in the cold anyway.”

“yeah,” Red agreed. Already there was a certain calculated gleam in his eye lights that was a relief to see. Surely if Blue didn’t have a plan for dealing with Alphys and Undyne then Red did, he always had plans, contingencies for his contingencies, always, “he don’t need to be out here, bro, get him inside and we-all can chat.”

Before Edge could take a single step, Rus gave a snorting sort of inhale, his sockets fluttering. He looked up with hazy eye lights, staring at Edge with pained befuddlement. “edge? wha…ohhhh,” Rus moaned, curling around his belly at the same moment a sudden burst of wet warmth soaked through his sweatshirt, rivulets running over Edge’s hands, dripping brilliant orange patters into the snow.

“What happened?” Edge said, dumbly, the sickening blood-warmth on his hands making his gorge rise. In his arms, Rus was whimpering, his fingers twisting in his soaked sweatshirt as he clutched at his swollen middle. Sweat trickled down Rus’s skull as he tensed, his pretty face twisted into a grimace.

“fuck! what happened is you need to get him inside now,” Red snapped back, “fucking go!”

Edge turned on his heel and nearly ran into the house. Slipping through slush and snow with the others right behind him, and all he could hear was Rus whining in pain again, feel the squelching wetness on his hands as he carried the ones dearest to his soul inside. Even as he ran, he called up a Check, and their stats were holding steady, but it was the text showing in his child’s that tipped him into panic.

*Now.*

tbc

[alias-b]

Nothing Lasts Forever.

Summary. The town of Derry changes people. Sends them running away. What it draws in is arguably worse. Humans create the hate and evil monsters come to feed off of. Eleanor Baker knew that well at a young age when she stumbled upon a painted figure in the distance. Pennywise never forgot the girl without fear. It’s possible that they haunted each other.

AN: I take no responsibility for this. Me flexing some horror and hopelessness bc I have nothing left to lose here. Wrote this to work through some things and sorta in love with it. TW: Should be obvious. Trauma. CSA mention. Abuse. S*xual references. G*re. S*icidal thoughts.  Death. Pennywise F*cks and it’s canon. Sorry, Mr. King.

Pennywise x OC Eleanor Baker ~ Also on my ao3

   They say she saw It first.

   They say she smelled the circus. Sugary sweet and the rusting of metal.

   They say she heard the bells toll soft. Once. Twice for her.

   They say she felt no fear.

   A branch cracked under pristine shoes, distracting a clown in the midst of hunt. The prey; small and blue eyed, barely five years old, ran into safe arms where their family set up camp for a weekend by the lake. 

   Body twisting around, It saw her last. Six years old. Curious green eyes shimmered even under grey skies. Pigtails. Feet behind her, father was hunched over to change a tire with mother beckoning from the window. Pulled over to the side of the road near a Derry forest. The Baker family. Well known and beloved because they had money.

   “Eleanor. You’ll ruin your new shoes. We can’t be late for your recital. It’s going to rain!” Mother’s voice went under heard. Leaves rustled while the clown made a path to slink toward her. Her lips parted, eyes fixated and unblinking. Yellow eyes faded to baby blue like the pretty jewels her mother wore. Safe.

   They were face to face. Drool dripped to hit her once untouched shoes. Those bejeweled eyes surged from that delicate blue back to a hungry orange, glowing brighter and yet he smelled nothing. 

   She had no scent. No fear. A deep, wide nothing. Vast as the ocean could reach. There was no advancing, no will to bring forth the deadlights. She’d probably think they were pretty stars watching over her. Cinderella wishing for a fairy godmother and a prince to whisk her away. He could only watch her make an utter fool of him. Somehow that charmed.

   “Eleanor, now!” Came the shout from her father. A drop of red emerged from the trees. Shiny and terrible. “Where did you get that?”

   A red balloon skimmed against the breeze.

   “From the clown.” She said, getting into the car. “He gave it to me.”

   “Enough playing around, Nell.” Father pressed her inside. The grip was lost along the tangled string. That spot of blood floated up toward the endless sky. Became a floating star too. She wished to float with it. 

   Eleanor danced her little heart out. Prima Ballerina in the making. Perfection was not everything, it was the only thing. She gazed into the audience beyond the balmy stage lights. Rows and rows of orange eyes. Glowing into her. No fear to be cast. Not for any of them. This world didn’t deserve it.

   She saw It again that same week. When they attended a big family reunion. Picnic and all. And her uncle pulled her into the closet full of coats and old board games that were gathering dust. He called this a game too. A secret game. 

   After he’d decided the game was over, a pang snatched his heart to squeeze. Gushing. Eleanor saw those glowing eyes from the shadows. Thought for a moment it was the old cat who roamed the grounds.

   Her uncle asked for help with no breaths left. Tore her frilly dress clutching at her. Hit the hardwood with a finishing crack. Blood pooled.

   Nell didn’t want it to stain her shoes or Mother would be upset.

   That white face bent down toward her. Spine curving to push out against skin. Utterly inhuman.

   “Can you smell the circus, Nelly?” Painted lips full of clustering teeth rumbled. She blinked. White cheeks threatened to tear open with the grin curling.

   “Yes.”

   Little, pretty bells chimed in the ruffles of his garment as he laughed. Soft and sweeter than any sound in this world.

   "Who are you?"

   "Pennywise. The dancing clown." He caught her looking at the body behind his feet.

   Big eyes full and empty.

   “Oh, don’t worry about him, he won’t float.” The clown paused. “You’re a little wonder, aren’t you?”

   She said nothing to that.

   “Go on, grow and see if the world devours you. Tumble back to the weeds where I'll find you again.” His own curiosity was a growing sickness. This fragile human. Unbreakable. 

   The thing about Pennywise was he never considered himself the villain. He only came to feed when that evil and hatred humans brought this world was potent. Natural order. Clockwork. Wolves feed on sheep. The worlds spun on.

   Predators tore into prey, he wouldn’t apologize for that. He didn’t create the hatred, just fed from it. Didn't stop it either. Little dash of fear did a body good. Gave it a sweeter taste.

   Fear was painfully human. A trait that tore us open to display the soft underbelly because it betrayed us down to the core. Granted us something to overcome. A test of endurance. Truly let our true colors pour fresh and obscene. Beautiful. Even when it overcame.

   Pennywise gave her head a pat, leaned down to whisper into her ear.

   “I see into your blackest heart of hearts, Nelly, deep down you’ll know. You'll always know.”

   The door opened. Tiny footsteps away from the dark and the figure there always watching her. Like the stars above in a black sky.

   “You’ll know.”

   Eleanor walked downstairs. Out into the sunny day full of festivities and family. Asked her aunt for another piece of cake. Frosted with yellow buttercream flowers. They discovered her uncle in that closet at the same time the flies found him too.

   They found the cloth clutched into his meaty, stiff hand and began to ask questions. She didn’t want to talk about the secret games he played when she was in that house. They sent a bolt of thunder rattling into her brain. Unraveled the synapses.

   Her mother burned the cloth. Vowed to never speak of it in hopes she would forget. Children forgot things all the time.

   Nell never forgot. Not for a moment. Not her uncle or her festering relatives who seemed to easily put her in the back of their memories.

   She wanted them to always remember too. If anything, they owed her that much.

   The pictures her mind fleshed out with crayons were not what children should be drawing. Twisted bodies sometimes. Other days, it was those eyes. Molten lava. Mother and father decided this wasn’t something they could deal with. Seeing her looking so still and motionless around the house like a ghost was too much. Knowing they failed their daughter was just too much. A lock clicked.

   They put her in a place that watched over mistakes of all ages from rich families. Paid it well. They told Eleanor it wasn’t her fault and yet, she was the one locked away in a tower for it. She was the one ignored and doped up.

   Ten years and she gave them nothing. Years of homeschooling. Counseling. Medications. Years of sticking her tongue out to swear she’d swallowed her pills. Years of giving them nothing. No laughter or tears. She never hurt a fly and she was the monster.

   Sometimes, it was easier to become the monster they wanted, she supposed.

   Eleanor got out and married the first man who smiled at her. Called her pretty. Just to be away from mother and father. They’d rot in the weeds soon enough. The rest of her family dwindled. Terrible accidents. She vowed to never reproduce to spite them.

   Husband played games too when dinner wasn’t just right or when she dressed just a little against his wishes. Seven miscarriages. Too many broken promises. A car accident pulled his body apart. Left her with some money to return home. 

   Mother and father needed her now, sick and dying in their lavish beds. Life always went on in Derry. Father went still snug in his tomb a month later. Few more weeks and mother’s harsh insults became apologies.

   This girl she ignored was all she had left.

   “Nell, I hope you can forgive us.” Her mother croaked one day.

   “You’re free to do that, mama.” She’d turned and came to sit on the bed.

   “Do what, my dear?”

   “Hope.” Eleanor tucked some brittle hair from mother’s face. Made room for the pillow she pushed into place. Eight minutes and it was over. Twenty seven years and members of her family dropped like flies. She told herself it was a curse. Or fate.

   Bloodlines dying had never been so beautiful. Not built to last forever. Not at all. There was justice in that much.

   Both Eleanor’s parents became ashes in two ornate urns. She drove them out to the Barrens and poured them into the festering waters. Stinking of Derry’s rotten bowels. Wind swept. Picking up green and brown leaves. Wading the waters to give them some appearance of peace.

   Nell didn’t smell the stink of death. She smelt the circus. Hot buttery popcorn and cotton candy. Twang of metal from the old, rusted rides whirling all directions. A child’s laughter echoed out from the giant pipe ahead. Covered in sludge and moss. 

   She followed the lively sounds. Enticed. No long holding to this world. Another one awaited. It always had. Marked with two glowing orange eyes.

   Reminded her of the lights twinkling every Halloween. Jack-o-lanterns you couldn’t blow out before midnight because it was against the rules and would bring you bad luck.

   Through watery rot and dead leaves, Nell went into the pipes. Caught glimmers of light between cracks. Felt her way. Heard the uttering of the seven children she lost beckoning her home.

   Down.

   Down.

   Down.

   Ruined her clothes in the trance. Clawing for more because the world couldn’t hope to deliver. Into a massive nest with a skylight. Candlelight danced. She heard the trill of a music box until the room came alive. Whirled from rust and rot to marble and gold.

   Prettier than her wedding day. A church with decorated pews of red taffeta. White roses hanging from every corner. Petals crying into the cherry wood floors.

   A man smiled at her who wasn’t Husband. Sharp, brooding face. Swept brown locks slicked like Clark Gable. Pink lips curled and crystalline eyes gave a twinkle. A white suit and one red rose at his breast.

   She came to him when he reached. Body heavier because a dress dragged behind her. Full skirt of those same delicate white roses. Tight bodice that twinkled under candlelight. Nell smiled too. Utterly lost and found all at once in this room that smelled like decadent caramel apples. 

   A gloved hand curled into hers.

   “Am I dead?” She asked.

   “Oh, yes. For twenty seven years now. You wandered the Earth. But, you're home now.” That voice. All shivers. Chilling until the candles started to snuff out. “That was not life, Nelly. You existed by a thread.”

   “Nelly.” She mused in her deepest dream of dreams. The hate and the neglect and the sheer evil brought by humans who were supposed love and protect instead tore her soul far asunder.

   The man leaned in near her hair. Inhaled.

   “Nothing. Even still.” He recounted the memories. All those times he tried and failed to devour her. “Little wonder.”

   "Pennywise." She puffed, barely audible.

   “I watched you dance. All those years. You can dance down here too in the dark."

   Nell realized as he brought her out for a romantic spin. She’d been seeking him out all her life. All the decay and twisting vines in her soul. Begging to just cross over and stop this pain. But, he wouldn’t finish it because she had no fear. So she danced until the room began to peel. He wiped his cheek on one sleeve. Peachy makeup smeared the fabric to display that red smile upon white skin. 

   She pushed off him. Watched blood rain and melt the rest of it away. This place. A nest. A stomach. A pile of trash and metal twisted up toward the sky. Gouging. Figures floating around it. Waiting. Sleeping soundly because evil couldn’t touch them anymore. At the very least. They fueled something brand new.

   No cry. No scream. Nell succumbed. Stumbling back into a worn mattress as the clown crawled up toward her at some inhuman speed. Slapped his hands on either side of her head. They just breathed.

   Existed together in one space.

   Sometimes good and bravery didn’t blossom from overcoming fear. Sometimes you still wanted to die because enduring a lifelong ache was not growth. It just hurt. There was power in it, but it fucking ached.

   It burned. Plenty of things in her life burned. The scorn of her parents. Her uncle's games. The rotten nurses tossing her around. Husband's hands indenting skin.

   But, Pennywise didn’t. He just showed up to watch the fires grow hot and breathless into a black sky. The terrible view was still a breathtaking thing. Something shattering to become a supernova. Rebirth.

   Enduring pain was worth it. That sick curiosity that there was something more to life. It was worth it. So, fight. Endure. Ache. Be human while you have the chance in an inhuman world because it needs you.

   Gloves opened her dress. Tore layers of tulle and chiffon. Slashed silk. Hands pressed against his chest. Not pushing or pulling. Just holding. Shifting over thick, stitched cotton. Ruffles swayed. She felt a heart beat so hard there under her palm.

   He was alive. Something brand new. Not of this world.

   “Am I like you?” She begged finally. Years of searching and asking why. He stopped to see her green eyes. Glowered. One blue, one orange.

   “Not yet.” Was the truest answer he could form. Fingers gripped his fabric sleeves. Twisted just to hold onto something tangible for the first time in all her existence. Alive at last in this place. Water droplets echoed distantly. “You cannot last forever. Nothing lasts forever.”

   Except love, she thought. Except desire.

   Pennywise seemed to hear it even still. Felt the truth of it carve out his heart that was still beating powerfully. Profoundly.

   Something flayed her open. Pushed inside. Made her moan deliciously until two gloved fingers touched her mouth. Bodies connecting. Moving together.

   There were hands everywhere. Stroking soft caresses up and down her naked flesh. It felt like a million little pieces of candlelight were swirling up her body. Those same orbs that had been following her around for too many years shined behind his eyes. Resonated. Beautiful.

   She made out parts of him between thumps. Orange hair. Pristine paint. His mouth on her skin. A heart that was pumping vigorously. Low rumbling growls. Nell felt she’d been starved all her life and was finally feeding. Finally letting the ache flood out that she’d held onto for too long. Finally alive. Feeling. Deep down and drawing in it.

   Her voice came to beg for more of him. Hands grasping to touch him back. To delve into this earth and just feel. He touched her everywhere. Lips and neck. Down her breasts. Between spread legs.

   The combined sensations made her cry out for him to never stop. A gloved hand on her jaw brought their eyes together. Hot, wet touch. Boiling. The peak shattered them both. Nell fell to shuddering pieces. Curved up. Moaning and shameless. Weight fell into her body so lips could touch her own. Once. Just once while they were warm.

   Pennywise lifted off fully to see her eyes. Inhaled again and got what he’d sought too. Years and it was finally there.

   Those green eyes glimmered at him. A waft of sweet candied apples bubbled with heat. Fear. Clear as a crystal, dewy morning. It was the most beautiful thing in the world.

   There was finally something found that could be lost. Something she sought out and held and hoped for.

   And the fear of losing it was almost too much to bear.

   One gloved finger caught a tear that trickled out from the corner of her eyes.

   “Please.” She said, unable to find much else. Like she wanted him and nothing else for the rest of these long days. Do it. Just do it. Nell’s hand lifted. Gentle fingers drew lines along his face. "Pennywise. Please."

   It was a soft prayer.

   He lunged down. Sunk teeth into her tender neck. Tore the scream out before she could hope to give it. Nell choked there. Made an odd sound like she was laughing. It bubbled. Claws grew out from those gloves. Shoved forth into her raging heart. 

   A squelch.

   Her lips were still upturned when it was done. Green eyes pointed on him. Peaceful and bloodied. Naked under the moonlight. Dripping rubies.

   He tossed his head back and wailed. Teeth sharp and bared. Bloodied. Lost. A shattering sound that bent time and space apart. Pennywise plucked her up. Climbed high and vast to the very top of the twisting pile. Watched the dead children float like little falling stars. Something to make wishes upon. Peaceful for only a second in this life.

   He placed her there in a sheer drape. Closed her eyes. Let the deadlights swelter above them. Spinning all directions. 

   A scar thickened.

   Three days passed. The deadlights danced high and wide. Fluttering like a swarm of butterflies. The world spun on a new axis. Pennywise sat below upon his stage. Curved over in wait. Marble statue. 

   A low rumble like a purr erupted. Dainty feet came to him with a newfound grace. Little dancer. Deadly ballerina all porcelain and blushed. Blood red shoes made soft taps across the stage.

   A white hand touched his shoulder. His little wonder. Bells tolled distantly three times.

   “Can you smell the circus?” Her voice poured white hot. Purring louder so he'd feel it vibrate his own chest.

   Lips curled wide. Split. Pennywise rose to see her in the light. Perfection. Those green eyes shimmering like emeralds. Haunted. Totally alive and willing.

   “Yes.” He hissed. Cupping her face to see the angles. Not ruining the permanent brushstrokes that came with her rebirth. “Yes, I do.” A bond struck.

   I do. I promise. We'll float. Always.

   Nell smiled to match him. Totally and irrevocably his equal. A pulse of light drew them together. She granted him a single kiss, tasting candied. A new horror in this world hungry for the evil it would always bring.

   “We were built to last forever.”

[auredosa]

i NEED a one shot of malistaire having a ptsd nightmare about their escape from dragonspyre then sylvia is there to comfort him when he wakes up

thank you for the prompt again, anon! i hope this meets your expectations! enjoy!

wet hands

tw; destruction, war collateral, trauma

Malistaire was tailing his father home from the Command Academy the hour it began.

Whispers of a riot, a coup, an attack had been floating around the mage division as of late. No, not floating, more like crawling up the grape vine and becoming the subject of many late night meetings between the senior members of their branch.

High General Vladan Drake, naturally, was required to be in attendance. At first, Malistaire was worried that the other correspondents wouldn't let him attend-he had a fraction of his father's experience in service, but to his surprise, he was given a seat at the table and even asked for his opinion on occasion.

"Just in case one of us drops dead before this all blows over. You have a youth to tell our story," one of them, a blunt Diviner, had stated.

"We have the crystals for that, Agatha," his father snapped back. "Why shouldn't we use them to keep record of our rendezvous?"

"You saw what happened when those little gems get into the wrong hands." She took a long whiff of her cigar and leaned back into her chair. The smoke smelled to Malistaire of burnt parchment and sandalwood; not something that he'd remotely want wafting in his lungs. "Can't trust anybody these days. One leaked jewel and the upper echelons of society go to-"

"Enough," commanded a third voice. He was seated at the head of the round table, rings of every cut and metal adorning each of his thumbs. "We will not be holding any proof of our meetings on this topic. My superiors are suspicious of us as it is-"

He was about to elaborate further when the crystal goblet before him began to tremble. The drink within started to ripple, then splash onto the table. Malistaire gripped the edge of his chair and looked towards his father.

"What is this, now?" Vladan hissed, looking to the door of the room. "Another experiment of the lower division?"

Suddenly, a frantic knocking sounded at the double doors to the conference room, accompanied by a voice too young to be a late attendee, too old to be one of the servants.

A white haired woman who had yet to speak raised her hand to the deadlock, and the chains fell apart at her will. The doors flew open to reveal a gentleman in harlequin robes, red as a child in the snow. His breaths came out in wild pants, and his fingers gripped his wand as if he were still in battle.

"Mikaeil," the woman greeted stoically. "What is going on?"

"The Titan!” he gasped, struggling to stand up straight. "The Titan is-is here."

"I beg your pardon?" Vladan probed, brows knitting in disbelief. "Tell the full truth, boy!"

"It is the truth!" insisted Mikaeil, rising to full height in the presence of the General. "And you must evacuate at once! The insurgency-"

Another tremor rocked the underground chamber. This time, dust cascaded above their heads. A hairline crack appeared in the stone, before splintering across the ceiling.

“The insurgency has begun,” the woman finished. She finally opened her eyes, revealing glowing ivory pupils which had scried their doom.

"But-" Vladan began, just as a stone column shattered the stone ceiling and appeared like a giant rusty nail in the center of the room.

"I said we leave! Now!" The mage repeated.

They were running. It was difficult to keep pace when the ground wasn't meeting his feet. The thunder and rumble were deafening to his young ears. When they were outside, the sky was blanketed in thick fog. Not fog, Malistaire realized. Smoke and debris from the destruction that had only begun.

"To our airships, general?" The cigar-wielding woman shouted.

"If we can!" Vladan called back. "There's a cargo ship near the commerce district. Meet there!"

As was taught in all schools of battle, it was too dangerous to travel together. While they couldn't quite see their enemy, it was better to assume they had the entire command academy surrounded.

"If this is an attack, then where is-"

A hellish roar tore through the quarter. They all gazed up to the sky, where the crimson, leathery wings beat mercilessly through the smog.

"The Titan . . ." Malistaire muttered in awe. The stench of burnt flesh and ash wafted from above. From the cloud cover, he felt a drop of rain hit his cheek. Placing a finger to his face, he found that it was warm. Blood.

"General!"

Behind them, an ornate pillar gave way. But not just the shattered stone beam. Shards of crumbling white stone, all fashioned into jagged points, were hovering in the air, like knives pointed at a target. Pointed at them.

An unseen puppeteer gave the command, and the pillar came down in unforgiving gravity.

“Father!”

“Malistaire?” came a soft voice beside him.

He gripped the cotton bedsheets in clenched fists. There remained an unyielding tightness in his chest, and sweat gathered on his brow. But the air was different: tinged with morning dew and waxy smoke wafting from the nightside table. The warm glow of an oil lamp filled the room, illuminating their shared bedroom.

No fire. No chaos. No blood raining from the carnage-stained clouds.

Just his wife, staring at him with a familiar concern.

Ah.

It happened again, hadn’t it?

Another nightmare to inconvenience those around him. Some sorry part of him wished he could carve his memories out of his head. The aftermath of this was never pretty. He didn’t need comforting. He didn’t need to recount the days of horror and warfare. It wasn’t as if that would change anything. Those events were singed into his brain like a brand on skin. No theurgist could fix that.

“Apologies,” he muttered, clearing his throat. “I . . . I’m sorry for waking you.”

“No need to say sorry, silly,” assured Sylvia. “It’s really nobody’s fault, you know. The mind can be a horrible foe sometimes.” As if she hadn’t parroted that to his brother too.

She slid off her side of the bed and stretched her arms. Her hair was twisted into unruly tangles, brushed aside to show tired green eyes. Despite her best intentions, he could tell she was tired, too. Now she wouldn’t be able to fall asleep until she had to get up for the day’s work.

“I’m going to make tea,” she yawned. “Raspberry leaf or the stuff from Marleybone?”

“Your call,” Malistaire replied. He was still unnerved by what he’d seen in his subconscious, and anxious about the trouble he was causing her. His throat was too dry to let him offer another apology.

There was nothing to do but stare blankly at the other end of the wall with his racing thoughts. Before he knew it, Sylvia had returned with two teacups of floral refreshment. He made a mental note to thank Arthur for introducing them to this custom.

“Here. Be careful.”

He took his own cup and wrapped his palms around the base, smiling at its fleeting but welcome warmth. Sylvia took her place next to him and they both said nothing for but a moment, quietly partaking in their drinks.

“Same sequence?” She asked once they’d both had a sip.

“Not quite. It . . . this took place earlier, minutes before we arrived in Wizard City.” It was easier to talk about if he treated it like a historical text from a book, not the horrors of his own mind. “It’s as if I’m going through all the motions in reverse, back to the start of it all. The problem is that I don’t think there’s any further to go back to.”

“Well,” Sylvia began, “that’s a good thing, isn’t it? You’ve completely exhausted the entire story, so it can’t get any worse from here.”

“Not necessarily . . .” Malistaire grumbled.

“I know.” She sighed and took another sip of her tea. The conversation always progressed this way. There was little she could do to quell his self-destructive subconscious. As far as either of them knew, there were no spells that took away bad dreams, at least not ones that didn’t require the favor of a fairy or a monetary fee of some sort. Those were simply fiction[SH1] .

“. . . I’m sorry there isn’t more I can do, my heart,” she said sadly, setting her cup on the nightstand. “And I understand that I don’t really understand the things you see in your dreams.”

“Sylvia, don’t bother.” Malistaire grumbled, putting his down as well. “It doesn’t change anything.”

“Exactly,” his wife affirmed. “I’m not going to stop searching for something to make this easier. Dahlia might know something, or maybe a seraph on the Way could-“

“That isn’t what I meant.” He interrupted, more roughly than intended. “We would both know about that, wouldn’t we?”

He scowled at the floor, finally feeling better now that his anxiety was turning into frustration.

“My father and mother have been lost. My brother and I can’t return home because there isn’t one to return to, not even if we wanted. And for all we can do, between the both of us, we can’t bring them back.”

Cracks, shouts, fire, stone, shards.

"General!"

“Ever since then, every night, I am reminded of that, and I despise it.”

“Ah.”

Sylvia’s face was unreadable. It took her a moment to rationalize the horribly charged vent that’d spilled from his mouth. before her face gave way to kind understanding. The corners of her mouth turned up in a wistful smile, and he could only wish he could have her saintly patience.

“You are correct, love. Nothing you said was wrong,” she soothed. “However-“

She scooted closer to him and laid her head on his shoulder. Her graceful hand clasped over his. The messy locks of her hair brushed against his face, daisies and rain under his nose.

“Your wounds are fresh, and they can still heal. Your parents may have passed, but their legacy is not entirely forgotten-thanks to you and your brother,” she added, smiling. “I promised you that I would save as many people as I could, and I know there are so many more, and that there is still so much work to do. So, so much work.”

Three tiny squeezes in the heart of his palm.

“I know it hurts, love. I know you’re tired. But I’m almost certain that one way or another . . .”

A tender kissed pressed to the stubble on his cheek.

“You can always find your way back home.”

[sherala007]

Creative non-fiction done for school

The Crucible of Youth

I felt the pile of carpet beneath my tummy, poking like pinpricks through my shirt as I lay across the living room floor, reading my book.  Mom sat nearby in her chair next to the window, the dull grey of the winter/spring changeover still in the sky.  She was working on her crocheting while watching the news on TV. I usually ignored the news.  It was always bad.  Tonight’s news was no different.  Tonight I couldn’t ignore it.  The words gang rape grabbed my attention quick making me forget my book. Mom even set down her work.

           It was March of 1983 and the reporter spoke about a woman who was raped by four men in Big Dan’s Tavern in New Bedford, MA, all for going in to buy a pack of cigarettes (Chapie). I watched the story, at first not fully understanding what was going on.  Then it started to click what rape meant.  I was heartbroken.  How could someone do that to another person? I didn't understand to the fullest extent what rape was yet but from the look on mom's face, I knew it was serious. I remember mom saying "She had to have done something to deserve it.  Nothing like that happens without a cause."

I looked up at mom as she dismissed the woman's pain and went back to her crocheting. The lack of concern or care on mom's face frightened me.  She'd always been so compassionate to those in need, kind and caring, but not demonstrative in showing physical affection.  This lack of concern wasn't like her at all.  It looked as if she was dismissing the rape as the woman's fault, absolving herself of the need to think on it anymore.  Her words chilled me and would come echoing back in my mind soon.

           July 4th! What a time to be a kid.  It was summer.  It was hot out.  It was time for swimming in the pool and running carefree.  We were at my sister Patty’s for a picnic.  There weren't a lot of kids, just me; my niece Sandy, who was the youngest; Kurt who was eleven, and his fifteen-year-old brother Dale. I'd just turned twelve a few months before and was already developing into a young woman.  Kurt had noticed.  All-day long he was my shadow.  He was big for his age, already almost a foot taller than me and I was only about four foot six.  His father owned his own construction company and Kurt and Dale worked with him on the weekends so both boys were very strong.

We'd been swimming most of the day, only getting out to eat.  We waited the required 30 minutes, then back into the pool. We'd exhausted all the games we could think of to play in the water.  We tested our breath holding limits; scrounged for items on the bottom as they were thrown in; and did as many laps as we could.  It was a round pool so laps were short and annoying.  I was pruney and bored.  I remembered I had a great book with me that I’d gotten into only yesterday and sitting out for a while sounded nice and relaxing.  I ducked underwater to swim to the ladder and felt something poke me in the bum.  Popping up quickly I saw Kurt pop up right next to me.

           “You two, knock that crap off!”  I heard my sister Patty yell from the top deck of the house.  She turned and carried another tray of food down to the picnic table at the bottom.  

           I got out of the pool, wrapped up in my towel, and headed to the table.  “I didn’t do anything, Patty.  I was only swimming.”

"You let a boy touch your butt.  Good girls don't do that."  She looked me in the eye, anger, and disgust on her face then turned and stormed off to join the other adults.  

           I’d felt like I was punched in the stomach.  I sat down on the bench, picked up a hotdog and started to nibble.  I was about to take another bite when Kurt walked up to me, grabbed it and scarfed it down.

           “Don’t worry about her. Let’s go for a walk.”  He threw his towel down on the bench and slid his flip flops on waiting for me.  Dale and Sandy liked the idea of a walk and wanted to join us.  Dale went over, asked permission, and was given instructions to take care of us girls and off we went.  We were only permitted to go up the road to the trail we used to ride our horses on.  We were still in our swimsuits, Sandy and me with towels wrapped around us, the boys in their shorts.

The trail wasn't a trail per se but a dirt road, rocky, twisty, and bumpy, but it was a change for us.  Being on the plump side, I wasn't as fast as the others.  I fell behind as we went up a hill and around a bend in the road, thick trees lining either side, houses scattered farther and farther apart. Kurt stayed with me and spotted an abandoned barn off the side of the road in someone’s back yard.  We stopped and looked to see if anyone was around. Sandy and Dale were out of sight as Kurt grabbed my hand, pulling me up the sloping gravel driveway, the small white rocks making for rough going, and around the corner of the barn to the door on the other side.

It was cooler inside.  I could smell the dampness of the mold and mildew all around me, mixed with the smell of roses and wildflowers from outside.  Some of the shabby barn boards looked worm-eaten, barely hanging on by the few remaining nails holding them in place.  There was dirt and dust everywhere, blown in through the cracks and crevices, or washed in through the large opening in the corner of the roof where part of it had fallen in.  In the far right corner, I could see a large spider web, its maker fat and creepy, perched on one of the outer edges.  I could see rusted out tools tossed about like unwanted toys, no longer needed or desired, littering the floor along one wall.

           I heard Kurt walking near the middle of the floor, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, as I entered watching for any critter that may try and come near me. Looking around at everything I'd lost track of where Kurt was for a moment.  He'd gotten quiet.  One second I was standing a few paces inside the doorway looking at how creepy everything was, the next I was on my back in the dirt on the floor, Kurt's left hand around my neck.

"Don't move," he said.  His hand was so large it wrapped halfway around my neck.  The look in his eyes was cold, freezing me in place as he held me down with that one hand, not tight enough to bruise, but enough so I couldn't risk moving.  I couldn't think, couldn't figure a way out of his grip.  Why was he doing this?  What did he want from me?  He used his right hand to free himself from his shorts and then to slide the panty half of my suit aside, digging himself inside me hard like a blunt shovel.  All I felt was pain, burning, and tearing.  I was trembling.  I wanted to scream but couldn't with his hand still on my throat.  His pig-like grunting and the slap of skin on skin echoed in my head.  I thought it was loud enough others would hear and come to help me.  No one came.

I was numb. I don't remember him finishing.  I don't remember how I got home.  I remember going right into the shower, cleaning up, and throwing my towel and bathing suit into the washer.  I don't even remember how I got the bleeding to stop. I just know it did.  Hours later I still couldn't remember any of the details of how I got home.  Any time I tried I would get sick to my stomach.  I do remember the thoughts that echoed in my head for the next twenty-five years.  Dirty.  Bad girl. I deserved it.  I’m worthless.  Those thoughts stay with me today, though they're not as loud as they used to be. They were the only thoughts I could hear for a long time, and they always echo in my mom’s voice.  This was just the first time I was raped.  It happened again four years later when I was sixteen and at another 4th of July gathering with my then-boyfriend. That time I was raped on top of a pile of refuse and debris in an old, dilapidated camper.

           What did I do to cause this to happen to me?  Why me?  Why did I deserve this?  It took a long time in therapy to discover a few things.  I didn’t do a DAMN THING to deserve this or cause it to happen to me. Why me?  I’m small.  I’m female. I’m seen as prey.  Men that rape are in search of a power rush.  They’re not in it for the sexual gratification.  They’re in it to hurt, humiliate, and degrade.  It's not about sex only power.  I just reach five foot two now.  Back then I was shorter and thinner than I am now.  Because of all this trauma, I gained a great deal of weight.

Imagine what this trauma does to a teen?  Adults usually think teens are dramatic.  I remember all the times my mom would tell me to stop being so dramatic when I was jumpy or had to have my back to a wall.  Most adults don't listen to teens or notice the signs of PTSD.  Teens are still developing their identities and personalities. Rape puts a deep and heavy scar on their psyche that they have to grow into and carry for the rest of their life. Teens may be young and still growing emotionally but they have the same feelings adults do and respond in similar ways. All the same side effects we suffer from rape, teens do, also.

Sixty-six percent of all victims of rape under the age of eighteen are between the ages of twelve and seventeen (Rainn).  Well, that statistic fits me both times.  I never used to be a jumpy person.  After the rape, I would jump at the drop of a hat.  I also dealt with bouts of depression.  There are days even now where I struggle to get out of bed to live a normal life doing normal things.  Those days are fewer and farther between.  The biggest issue I deal with now is when I’m working on a task and someone strolls up to me to ask a question and startles me.  They’re not even trying to be stealthy but I’m instantly in a fight or flight panic.  My heart races like I’ve run a marathon.  I hold my breath for a few seconds then I pant like I’m being choked again.  Now and again I’ll even start to tremble.  I can hide that sometimes but my close friends know when it’s happening.  I discovered that this is all part of PTSD (Rainn).

I discovered something terrifying while dealing with treatment as well as doing research; per the Center for Family Justice (CFJ) one in four women and one in six men are sexually abused (CFJ).  In eight out of ten cases the victim knows the attacker (CFJ).  There are three main after-effects of rape; depression, flashbacks, and PTSD (Rainn).  I've had to live most of my life with two out of the three' until now.  In rewriting this paper the third has started, but only a few times.  The smell of roses and mold triggered flashbacks as I was rewriting the barn scene. That lasted for about three weeks and has now stopped.  The saddest thing for me is it's been thirty-three years and these effects still happen.

           Did I ever tell my mother?  No.  The woman who raised me was actually my grandmother.  She adopted me from her oldest daughter when I was ten but had raised me since I was four months old.  She was born in 1933.  Things were so much different for her growing up so she still had the antiquated mindset for her generation.  By the time I was able to talk about it nothing could be done anyway so why stir things up?  I know it would have made her feel horrible and wouldn’t have solved anything.  

I will tell you, surviving rape has made me a very strong woman.  I didn't realize this until about five years ago:  I've lived through the worst that man can do to woman, short of murder.  I've not only survived but in the last few years, I've thrived.  I'm able to live on my own.  I make new friends all the time.  I can hold down a good job.  Do I still have some issues now and then?  Yes, but they’re infrequent now.  I’m too strong to let it keep me down anymore.  I’ve realized that, yes I have suffered horrible violence, but unlike others, I don’t have to let it define who I am.  I refuse to let it do so.  I choose to act and be seen as a woman who can stand on her own and who doesn’t need to hide behind anyone else.  I do understand when I’m out on my own I have to pay attention to my surroundings and be vigilant but I don’t have to be afraid of every shadow.  Yes, I used to hide behind the victim label I let others put on me, but not anymore.  I am alive and I will continue to embrace every day because I am worth it, not because someone else says so but simply because I’m here; alive, walking, talking, and breathing.

While I was working on one of the drafts of this article, a friend at work offered to read it and help me edit it.  I gave it to her on a Friday.  Monday morning she came up to me crying.  She couldn't read it.  She told me about how she was raped twenty years ago and still can't talk about it with anyone; not even her husband.  She can't have a deep, healthy relationship with him because of it.  She asked me how I can be so relaxed and open after all that. What was my secret?  Truth is, I don't have a secret.  I freely admit what happened to me when anyone asks why I get startled as I do.  I know now that I didn't do anything to ask for what happened to me.  It was not my fault.  It took a while for that to sink in but now that it has it's one of my mantras when those horrid thoughts get loud on me again; because they do sometimes. I remind myself that I am alive. I have hope.  I get up for work every morning.  I answer calls from customers needing help every day.  Some of them are not so nice about asking for it either. I work for a security company and every so often I get that call from that woman who went through that same experience.  I stop and listen.  I do what only a fellow survivor can do.  I give her hope too.

 Works Cited:

No Author, Sexual Assault Stats, Center for Family Justice.org, web, 6-27-16

Capie, Lindsay.  Big Dan’s Tavern Gang-Rape, New Bedford 1983, LindsayChapie.wordpress.com, web, 7-9-16

No Author, No Article, Statistics, Rainn.org, web, 6-27-16

[katehuntington]

Title: Ride With Me (part eight) Fandom: Supernatural AU Characters series: Reader, Dean Winchester, Bobby Singer, Ellen Singer-Harvelle, Jo Singer (Harvelle), Benny Lafitte, Ash Miles, Garth Fitzgerald IV, Castiel Novek, and many more. Timeline: 2008 Pairing: Dean x Reader (eventually) Word count: 5550 words Summary series: Y/N is a talented horse rider who is on her way to become a professional. In order to convince her father that she deserves the loan needed to start her own farm, she goes to Arizona for six months, to intern at a ranch owned by Bobby and Ellen Singer. Her future is set out, but then she meets a handsome horseman, who goes by the name of Dean Winchester. A heartwarming series about a cowboy who falls for the girl, letting go of the past and the importance of family.  Summary part eight: It’s one of those days for Dean where everything that can go wrong, goes wrong. After one hell of a day, Bobby has to break the news to Ash, who doesn’t take the lay off well. Warnings series: NSFW, 18+ only! Fluff, angst, eventually smut. Swearing, smoking, alcohol intoxication, alcohol abuse. Mutual pining, heartbreak. Crying, nightmares, childhood trauma. Description of animal abuse, domestic violence, mentions of addiction. Financial problems, stress, mental breakdown. Description of blood and injury, hospital scenes, character death, grief. Music: About Today - The National (final scene). Check out ‘Kate Huntington’s Ride With Me playlist’ on Spotify! Author’s note: Thank you @kittenofdoomage and @girl-with-a-fandom-fettishfor helping me. You girls are awesome betas. Thank you for your endless patience!

Ride With Me Masterlist

     7.30 AM, Monday morning. Several hundred hooves tremble the ground. Earthy colored dust has turned into dark mud overnight as the heavens unleashed a rainstorm that still hasn't stopped from raging down. The cattle moos anxiously, trying to stick together as a herd. Bobby’s dog, Rumsfeld, barks over the sound of it all, his enthusiastic calls trumped by the shouts and whistles of the wranglers.       "Yah!” Dean shouts, cutting off young stock that threatens to fan out.

     Droplets as big as marbles fall from the grey sky, the water caught in the brim of his hat pouring from it whenever he tips it down. It’s unusually cold this morning without sunshine to burn the night away. The long, leather coat he’s wearing protects him from that, but the rain started coming through the seams on his shoulders and elbows two hours ago and a steady drip down his neck has drenched his shirt already. Dean has been in the saddle since four o'clock, ever since the thunder woke him up and an eerie gut feeling began to unsettle him. Something was wrong, he felt it in his bones. As he stepped out onto the porch, he immediately noticed the distressed young stock on the wrong side of the fence. Apparently, the cattle panicked in the thunderstorm, took down a gate, and escaped the pen, splitting the herd in two. They were absolutely all over the place, roaming over more than forty acres. With a buyer coming in at 9 AM, he had to gather the two hundred cows and bulls fast, if he wanted to avoid a financial disaster.      So here they are; wet through, tired and miserable, trying to maneuver their horses on the slick surface. A perfect start for this dreadful Monday.

     A sharp whistle reverberates through the valley, requiring his attention. It's Bobby, looking over the mayhem from a small hill, calling his horse to a stand. “Dean, stragglers!”      His head wrangler notices three steers swaying away from the herd. Dean turns from the tail of the group and pushes his horse forward, but immediately senses the loss of grip in the slippery mud. Led’s hind legs skid from under his body, forcing the buckskin to the ground. As the horse's knees buckle, the experienced rider decides in a split second not to leave the sinking ship. Instead, he skillfully sticks to the saddle like he’s glued to the leather, and moves his weight to level out the balance. At the same time, he pulls Led’s nose from the ground and gives enough free rein right after, simultaneously pushing his heels into the horse’s flanks, encourages him to give it his everything to get back on his feet. His quick thinking enables the stallion to break the fall and thankfully; Led steadies himself. Dean breathes out; that was way too close.      “Well done, bud,” the rider soothes, ruffling the Quarter’s mane, glad that he was able to prevent a possibly painful crash.      “Hell of a save,” Benny comments from several yards away. “You alright?”      “I'm good,” Dean assures his best friend. “We need to round them up fast before this whole pasture turns into a mudslide.”      He pushes Led forward, who picks up speed carefully, smart enough to not make the same mistake twice. It takes a while to make up for the lost time, but then he wings the three bulls, guiding them back to the group. Slowly but surely, the wranglers manage to maneuver the large number of animals back into another secured pen. It’s past eight o’clock when Jo closes the last gate and they can all take a breather. Too bad they cannot head back to bed just yet, the day has only just begun.      “Next time you wake me up in the middle of the night, make sure it’s because there’s some hot gal waiting for me on my doorstep,” Ash mocks as he slows his horse down.      Dean looks aside, grinning at the guy that’s in charge of the cattle. “You have enough problems controlling your cows, let alone women, Ash.”      Benny laughs at that, so does Jo. He’s sure Bobby would have laughed at it too, if it wasn't for the troubling decision that has been made. The ranch owner rests his hand on the horn, taking in his dream team as the rain finally stops falling. Today is the day that he will sell over three-fourths of his cattle. Decades of blood, sweat and tears, sold for a dime. Damage control, they call that. It ain't pretty, but it’s necessary to prevent this place from drowning. What else is necessary is cutting down on personnel. Collateral damage is the term, Bobby believes. There’s that word again: damage.      “Is Rufus still dropping by at nine?” Dean, who held up his horse to ride next to his uncle, checks with him.      “Yeah, but you know Rufus. Could be eleven just as well,” Bobby mutters, aware of his old friend’s carelessness.      “Better ask Ellen to break out the Johnny Walker Blue if you're aiming for a good price,” his right hand suggests, before he halts at the tack up area.      The sound of horseshoes splashing on the wet surface draws Y/N’s attention. She parks her broom against the stable wall and peeks around the corner, spotting the wranglers under the Yucca tree, which seems to cry silently as tears of rain drip down from its branches.      “Garth! They're here!” she shouts at the stable boy on the other side of the barn.      The slender guy pops his head out of a stall, then walks out and closes the door behind him. Like the wranglers, he and the intern got up at four in the morning as well. During the weekend the stables aren't mucked out, which adds to the work on Monday, and with Bobby, Jo and Dean handling the breakout, the two of them had to feed and turn out the animals as well. Getting up early was the only way to get all the work done without falling behind.       As the dark rain clouds pass, everyone on the square gets off their horses. Y/N walks up to Bobby, sensing the low morale. No wonder, because all five wranglers are soaked, probably sore and tired too.      “I got him.” She takes over his chestnut named Seger. “Ellen has breakfast ready for you.”     “Thank you, Darlin’,” the old man mumbles, stiffly making his way to the cafeteria.      While tying up Seger, Y/N watches the ranch owner hobble off, wondering why he seems so burdened. When she glances back to loosen the horse’s cinch, a handsome cowboy catches her eye on the other side of the chestnut. Dean takes off Led’s bridle, the last waterdrops rolling from the dip of his hat. Mud splatters have sprayed across his leather overcoat, his boots covered in dirt. There are smudges on his face, along with a weekend stubble still on his strong jaw. The knuckles of his firm hands have a blue shade, so do his lips; he must be so cold after four hours in the pouring rain. With sympathy, she looks at him.        “Hell of a morning, huh?” she comments, trying to make small talk.      Dean looks up and pauses his action. He seems a little surprised by her voice, as if only just now he realized she was behind the horse next to him. The line parting his lips breaks in a small smile. It’s the first time he hears her use a word as such. His language is terrible, he throws in a variation of the words ‘fuck’ and ‘shit’ wherever it fits. But Y/N on the other hand, coming from upstate, says ‘gosh’ at most, and uses terms such as ‘for heaven’s sake’, which he finds quite cute. Apparently she’s adapting to her company.       The wrangler scoffs. “You can say that again.”      He unbuckles the cinch and removes the saddle from Led’s back. The mud sticking to the saddle pad is hard to miss and it catches the intern’s eye. Led must have hit the ground at some point, how else would the animal have dirt caked thick in his coat on his entire side?      “Did you fall?” she asks.      Dean chuckles, slightly amused, while he puts the heavy saddle on the bar his horse is tied to as well. He heard that, the worry in her voice.      “Led slipped, but he was able to steady himself,” he reassures.      The cowboy returns his focus to the buckskin next to him as he turns the faucet of the water source. Led might be wet through just like his rider, but he’s covered in filth as well, and that's no way to bring a horse back to his stable. He quickly hoses down his Quarter, while Y/N washes Seger’s feet. When she’s done, she follows Benny and Jo as they return their horses to the stable. Coming back to pick up the saddle, Y/N finds her supervisor crouched down next to Led’s left front leg.      “Shit…” he curses, feeling the cannon bone.      The saddle is left on the bar. Instead, Y/N comes to see what Dean is annoyed with. With just one glance she can determine the swelling on the back of the leg, a little above the fetlock joint.      “Tendon?” she assumes, petting the horse on the shoulder.      Dean carefully feels the tissue, causing Led to flinch. It’s painful, but with all the fluid that is building up around the injury, it’s hard to tell what exactly is causing the reaction.       “Could be. He seemed sound after he tripped,” the wrangler contemplates. “Can you jog him?”      “Sure,” she replies, after which she unties the horse.      Y/N leads the beautiful Quarter in a straight line and starts to run after a few yards. With the first stride it’s already clear that Led is anything but even. Only the  click-clack  sound of Led’s shoes on the surface is enough to state the obvious.       “Well, that ain't good,” Dean sighs as Y/N walks the palomino back.      “You didn't feel him at all?” she checks with the wrangler.      “The poor bastard must have worked through the pain. He’s a tough horse,” Dean ponders, running his hand down Led’s face with sympathy. “I'll cool his leg for a while. Can you get a rug for him?”      “What about you?”       He shrugs selflessly. “I’ll skip breakfast.”      “You’re not skipping breakfast. You've been working nonstop since four AM, you deserve a break,” Y/N decides, strong-minded. “I have cooling leg boots which Led can wear while he's stabled. It works better than cooling with water.”      “Alright then.” He smiles, appreciating her firm response.      He takes over his horse and leads Led back to the barn without hasting him. Silently, Dean turns the Quarter in as his intern walks to the tack room to get the leg wrap and a rug, followed by a stop at the cafeteria to pick up two cool packs from the freezer. On her way over, she notices the handsome wrangler staring at nothing in particular, lost in thoughts. His fingers absently rub Led’s withers, who on his turn bends his neck and seeks the cowboy’s free hand, nuzzling his nose against his skin, as if he is trying to comfort his rider in return. Although it’s a heartwarming sight to see the man having a moment with the beautiful animal, Y/N can sense something is off about him. Not that she knows him all that well, but she can tell that he’s carrying a crippling weight. He’s quiet, for one. No smart answers or perky remarks that could easily be mistaken for flirting. There is also something about his eyes, something weary.       “Here you go,” she says, handing over the boot.      Dean takes it and straps around the injured leg, while Y/N lays a fleece rug on Led’s back to prevent the horse from cooling down too fast. When the wrangler rises to his feet and lets his fingers glide through Led’s golden coat while waiting for her to secure the rug, the silence is awfully evident.        “Are you okay?” she asks carefully.      Dean glances up, caught off guard by the question. For a moment he reckons she’s asking because of the almost crash and now Led’s injury, but when his eyes meet hers, he sees that the question is more layered than that. His first instinct is to throw her a cocky comment, that a little mud isn't ever going to bring him down, but he decides against it. He’s not sure if his hesitation is caused by her ability to read between the lines, but the young man suddenly feels vulnerable, intimidated even.      “Yeah, I'm fine,” he says. “Let’s eat. Don't know about you, but I'm starving.”     She fakes a smile. Of course, she could eat after a morning like today, but she was hoping Dean would take the opportunity to get it off his chest.       A pleasant heat and the smell of bacon and toast welcome them like it does every working day, when Y/N pushes open the door to the cozy personnel hangout. Ellen’s breakfast is always something to look forward to, but today it’s a true gift from heaven. The rest of the crew sits down after having changed into dry clothes and wait impatiently for their bacon and eggs, as Bobby finishes his plate first. When the door creaks, Ellen looks up from behind the stove.      “Oh honey, look at you,” she says when Dean follows you inside. “Did you drown out there? You're soaked through.”      Her nephew hangs his dripping coat and Sheplers on the hat rack above the heater and is welcomed by his aunt with a clean towel, a warm flannel and a pair of jeans      “Why don't you freshen up first and put on some dry clothes. Wouldn't want you to catch a cold,” she insists.      “Thanks, Ellen.” Dean takes the neatly folded pile from her arms after which he places a short, genuine kiss on her hair and moves to the backroom to change.      Y/N can't help but smile when she sits down, delighted to witness the wrangler’s soft side for the second time today. The warmth spreads through her like the hot coffee that she swallows down and settles in the pit of her stomach. She folds her fingers around the mug as she takes another sip, peering over the edge at the man she is losing her heart to as he closes the door behind him. A kick against the shin awakens her from a trance, the action causing her to almost choke on her coffee. Jo sits across the table, her deadly glare demanding to get it together. Flustered and caught, Y/N averts her gaze at the plate that Ellen just set down under her nose.       “Dig in while it’s still warm, sweety,” she insists, oblivious of how the intern feels about her nephew.      Y/N does so, partly as an excuse to not look Jo in the eye and be confronted with her judgment. But when Dean enters the room again, cleaned up and wearing a comfortable red plaid flannel, she just has to take him in for a second. Before Jo can kick her leg again, someone knocks on the glass window from outside the cafeteria. Everyone looks up at the doorway when an old friend of Bobby’s appears.      “Well, I'll be damned,” Ellen says, delighted. “If it ain't Rufus Turner.”      The African American with a pearl white smile and a rascal look in his eyes enters the cafeteria.      “Ellen Singer, you haven't changed a bit.” Rufus takes his hat off for her, but then he turns to face her husband at the head of the table. “But you on the other hand,” he pats Bobby on the back, “- you got old.”      The joke attracts a laugh from the others.      “Good to see you too, Rufus,” the ranch owner responds.      “Grab a plate and dig in. There’s plenty,” Ellen offers.      “I’d love to, but if you don't mind, I wanna get down to business. I've got places to be later.” He puts his hat back on and turns to the rest of the company. “Mind if I steal him for a bit?”      “By all means, steal away.” Ellen smiles politely.      Bobby gets up and excuses himself. When he has left the room, the workers finish their breakfast. Nobody says anything, and although Y/N doesn't understand what has caused the grim mood, she keeps her mouth shut. Instead, she takes in the people surrounding her. Jo, Ellen, and Dean seem to ignore the elephant in the room, while Garth, Benny and Ash exchange puzzled looks. Rufus’s visit to the ranch has stirred things up. Who is he? A business partner? A trader, maybe?           When the break is over and the crew gets back to work, the air is more suffocating than it is on a hot day. It has nothing to do with the weather, though.      “Why is Bobby selling stock?”      It’s Ash who asks as the gang walks down to the paddocks between the stables. The question breaks the silence, but it also adds to the tension. Jo and Dean exchange a look, but both keep quiet, which isn’t sufficient for the worker with the odd haircut.      “That’s why Rufus is here, ain’t it?” Ash pushes, a worry in his tone that seems foreign for the carefree guy.       The head wrangler sighs and turns to his friend.       “Look, business has been slow, y’all know that. Rufus is here to discuss the value of the cattle, to explore our options,” Dean tries to reassure not just him, but the rest of his staff.      When he can read from Ash’s face that his reassurance doesn’t have much effect, he adds a few words he might regret later.  “No need to worry just yet. We’ll figure it out. Now let’s get to work.”      And so everyone does, some left with a few questions, but the leader of the team has managed to take away most of the concern. All this time, the intern hasn’t said a word. The young woman with a master’s degree in business and a nose for bullcrap only observes. She observes Dean, when he glances at his cousin, troubled, right after Ash walks off to fill the hay barn in the main pastures. She observes Jo, who looks at the ground and keeps quiet, as the two of them walk over to the paddocks to turn the horses in. She observes Bobby Singer and Rufus Turner, who are seated on the back porch of the house, accompanied by a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue, tied up in a dialogue that seems to be a negotiation more than it is a casual chat. She observes the handshake, the ‘glad to do business with you’ grin on Rufus’s face opposite of the defeat in the ranch owner’s eyes. So much for not needing to worry just yet.

     The early morning rain has cooled down the dusty lands and doesn’t allow the temperature to rise like it did the previous days. Clouds keep rolling in from the east, cutting off the sun. This weather suits Y/N better and she works extra hard now that her body doesn’t seem like it’s overheating. It gives her a good feeling that she is able to take some of the load from the other workers. Dean even allowed her to train two of the horses, since he had a meeting with Bobby. He didn’t return until an hour before supper. After dinner, Benny and Garth head to the shed to fix the tractor, that on top of everything else, started spilling oil. The rest of the crew is about to retreat back to the bunkhouse, when Bobby calls back one of the workers.      “Ash?” he says, his voice matching his serious expression. “Can you come into my office?”      “Sure thing, boss,” he responds, joining the ranch owner.      Dean can read from Ash’s facial expression that he’s uneasy, but doesn’t have a clue what is coming for him. The ranch hand who is in charge of the cattle probably assumes that Bobby is going to update him on the reason why Rufus was here. Shit, he wishes it was just a simple briefing. Poor bastard…      The head wrangler exhales as he walks on, shaking off the cold that hasn’t seemed to leave his body after the rainy morning. Jo follows him silently, kicking the clotty earth with her dragging feet, hands shoved down in the pockets of her denim jacket. Y/N is on his other side, wonderingly looking over at them every now and then. She has kept quiet long enough. So when they step up the stairs to the porch first, she drops the bomb.      “So, Ash is getting sacked, huh?”      Dean has stopped in his tracks and instantly shoots an angry glare at Jo. “You told her?!”      “I didn’t tell her jack shit!” she counters, insulted.       “She didn’t need to, Dean,” Y/N backs her up, having turned around before opening the front door. “Livestock sales have plummeted nationwide, yet Bobby is selling now, so times must be desperate. With no cattle to handle it’s only logical that Ash will be let go in order to cut down on costs. I have a business degree, remember? I can do the math. Here, you guys look like you can use these.”      During her flood of words, she had strolled to the fridge, taken out three beers, and popped the caps off with an opener. Not sure if he should be impressed or feel threatened by the intern’s knowledge, Dean takes the drink and has a swig of the brew. She’s right about more than a few things; he needed a beer.      “Is Bobby breaking it to him now?” she wonders.      Dean glances over at Jo, who leans back against the kitchen sink, nursing her bottle. It’s not something they would usually discuss with interns, but since she already seems to be fully aware of the situation and he trusts that she will keep this between them, he confirms with a nod.      “Damn…” Y/N ponders, biting her lip as her eyes drift away to nothing in particular. “How long has he been here?”      “For about five years now,” Jo thinks back, clearly sad about having to say goodbye to a good friend. “I can remember the day he arrived. He caught Dad’s eye at the Holbrook Rodeo, where he worked in the arena. He couldn’t keep a job long enough to rent himself a roof over his head, mostly because of his looks and his ‘fuck you’ attitude, but he was good with the bulls. That’s when Dad asked him to come work for him and for the first time, Ash found a place where he belonged. He’s been here ever since. Never stayed in one spot this long. Mom and Dad have a habit of taking the misfits under their wings.”      It’s quiet for a few long seconds, as Dean recalls Ash’s early days on the property. Then he goes back further, to the day he himself set foot on these lands, with nowhere else to go. They did exactly the same for him as they did for Ash; offered him a comfortable bed, warm food, a rewarding job. A safe haven where they didn’t have to worry about how to get through tomorrow, where they didn’t have to be scared. One would perhaps expect Bobby and Ellen to take Dean in, him being their nephew. But it didn’t matter that the funny looking bullfighter called Ash wasn’t related. He became family, too.      “How do you think he’s going to take it?”      It’s Y/N who breaks Dean’s train of thought.      He ponders for a moment before he answers. “I dunno. He’s a pretty chill guy these days, but this is so much more than just a job.”      Dean pauses, putting himself in Ash’s shoes for a moment. Who is he fooling? His friend is going to lose it.      “Guess we’re gonna find out in a moment,” Jo says, nodding at the portrait outside.      Y/N glances through the dirty window while Dean holds the bamboo fly curtain aside to step onto the porch. It’s Ash who approaches the bunkhouse, but he doesn’t have the swagger he usually has in his stride. The ranch hand is looking down at the ground, the soil he used to call home. Every muscle in his face tensed, balled fists move alongside him with each step. Dean watches the guy for a brief moment, then descends the stairs to meet with him, but Ash does not want any of it. Instead, his friend walks past him, dismissing the head wrangler.      “Ash. I--”      The words trigger something in the lean guy, because after taking two strides up the steps, he turns around, a pair of piercing eyes startling Dean.      “You knew, didn’t ya?” he questions, his voice heavy with frustration.      Dean needs a moment to recover, staring up at the cattle worker, but Ash doesn’t grant him that time.      “That whole ‘no need to worry, we’ll figure it out.’ It was bullshit and you know it. Hell, I ain’t surprised if you’re the one who decided that it was my ass to fire.”      There isn’t much Dean can say to that, because it’s true. He did know, he knew for a long time, and yes, it was him who told Bobby it had to be the man who’s standing before him right now.       “We…” Dean pauses to correct himself, because Ash is right; this is on him. “I didn’t have a choice.”       “Oh, but you did. Instead of telling me that things were gonna be A-okay, you could’ve told me what was gonna happen. But no, you were too fucking scared to look me in the eye and tell me the Goddamn truth,” the worker says accusingly.      Dean stares back at him, his jaw flexing, but then he looks away as he swallows down the guilt. He knew those words were going to bite him in the ass. When he straightens himself again, Jo has appeared in the doorway, with Y/N right behind her.      “Ash, we’re all sorry it went down as it did, and we wish it didn’t have to be like this--”      “Then why the fuck do I have to leave?!” he shouts at the daughter of the ranch owner, his eyes noticeably shimmering in the lights above the porch.      Jo isn’t impressed with his anger, on the contrary; she replies professionally calmly.       “I hate to see you go. Shit, we all do. But the ranch isn’t going to survive if Dad doesn’t cut costs,” she reminds him. “There’s barely any cattle left to maintain, and you were hired last.”      “Right. The ‘last in, first out’ rule. Then tell me, what the hell is  she  still doing here?”      Suddenly, the newest crewmember is dragged into the argument as Ash nods at Y/N. Her heart skips a beat when it dawns on her what he holds her accountable for; he thinks she stole his job. Shocked, Y/N looks at the man who directed the focus on her. It’s a side of him she didn’t know he had and is overwhelmed by the accusation, causing her mind to fail miserably when trying to form any kind of response. Feeling helpless and exposed, she glances at the other two, desperate for back up. Thankfully, the head wrangler got the message, because seeing Y/N’s expression change from compassionate to fearful, triggers something inside him.       “Y/N’s an intern,” Dean returns, the tone of his voice colder than a moment ago. “Y/N is still here because she doesn’t cost Bobby anything.”      But Ash disagrees. “She’s another mouth to fill, just like every single one of us. She has a horse here who needs a shit ton of feed--”      “- and she works hard for that,” Dean overrules him, staring him down. “Look, man. I know you’re pissed, I get it. But don’t you put this on her, it ain’t her fault.”       “Are you saying I don’t work hard for my pay?!” Ash snaps back angrily.      “I didn’t say that,” Dean rights, gesturing with a lowering hand to calm down. “I’m saying that down the line, Y/N is a free hand.”

     Ash scoffs at that, biting his lips as he looks away and clenches his fists, his knuckles pressed together in order to manage the exasperation. He’s so hurt and upset that he doesn’t even think about the consequences of the words that follow.       “Oh, she’s a free hand, alright,” he states, shooting the guy opposite of him a penetrating glare.       Jo gapes at Ash, mouth falling open, then turns her head to witness Y/N having the exact same reaction. Dean stares at Ash too, first in astonishment, wondering where he got the nerve to insinuate something like that. Within a second, that emotion is pushed aside by brewing anger. The need to defend her honor causes him to step towards Ash intimidatingly, but Jo gets in between before things escalate.      “Whoa, now! Can we just keep it cool and not get nasty?” she demands, having both Dean and Ash at arm’s length.       But Ash, apparently, isn’t done. “You’ve always been a screw around, man, but shit, I did not expect you to stab me in the back just to get in a girl’s pants,” he sneers, pushing Dean’s buttons and seriously applying for a punch in the face.      “This is fucking bullshit, Ash, and you know it!” Dean counters, so worked up over the allegation that his heart is beating out of his chest.       “Okay, that’s it! If you don’t shut your mouth right now I’m gonna pull out that mullet of yours!” Jo warns Ash before she turns to Dean. “And you need to walk it off, right now!”      The ranch owner’s daughter pushes him back gently in order to raise her finger at him sternly. He steps away, offering a little air to the suffocating clash, and so does Ash.      “Don’t bother, I’ll leave.” He scoffs. “That’s whatcha want, ain’t it?”       The cattle worker turns around, the rage slowly seeping from him, leaving the space for sadness and disappointment to fill. Y/N watches the guy, still mind-blown by all the words that were said, but now that a fight is avoided, she can only feel pity. The blame that he put on her and on Dean is only a response to his world crashing down on him. She cannot really condemn him for lashing out. After ten or more steps, the guy in a dirty shirt and a plaid jacket with the sleeves ripped off turns around. Normally everything about the guy is either hazardous or comical, depending on how well you know him, but not now. Not now that his eyes are glistening in pained emotion.     “This wasn’t just work, y’know. This is my life. This is home,” he says, his arms spread in desperation. “I thought that all of us here - that we were in this together. That we don’t turn our back on family.” He pauses, eyes fixed on Jo, then on Dean. He continues with a broken voice. “Y’all did exactly that.”      With those words, he turns away and heads off to his cattle, like he always does after dinner. Silenced, the three watch him leave, until Dean sighs and looks around lost, as if he hopes to find answers in the earth-colored gravel. He doesn’t look at Y/N, he’s doing everything to avoid her questioning, sympathetic gaze. When the air gets too thin to breathe, he walks away in the direction of the barn, off to his horses. The intern allows her eyes to linger on the defeated figure that becomes smaller as he drags his feet down the worn path to the stables, the grey sky above him that darkens by the minute only adding to the grim atmosphere. Instinctively, Y/N reaches for the handrail of the steps down the porch, intending to follow him, but Jo stops her.      “Let him be for a bit.”      Y/N halts and listens to her friend, then lets a breath slip from her dry lips. “So no one wins today, huh?”     “Nope. Not today,” Jo responds, moving through the doorway after throwing a glance at Ash’s silhouette in the far pasture. “Comin’? I have a bottle of something a-hell-of-a-lot-stronger-than-beer stashed somewhere.”       Y/N huffs and turns to join her. Jo pours her some rum in a jar, which she sips on silently as she looks out the window, watching the day end. But the alcohol cannot wash away her thoughts that are with the two ranch workers: the one who lost his friend, and the one who lost everything else as well.

Told you guys there was gonna be angst? Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to like or reblog my work, shoot me a message or buy me coffee (Link to Kofi in bio at the top of the page).

Read part nine here

[roseskiesandbutterflies]

Le Démon Déchu - Chapter 1: Nouveau Départ

Summary: The summary is kind of long so please check a previous part or my masterlist if you want to read it.

Warning(s): implied/referenced trauma, swearing (this goes for probably every chapter, but I’ll keep putting it here)

Word Count: 2.8k+

Inspiration: Do You Know What Eternity Is? by Elderly_Worm on AO3, Great Omens (The Big One) by falsepremise on AO3, Pray For Us, Icarus series by Atalan on AO3, Demonology and the Tri-Phasic Model of Trauma: An Integrative Approach by Nnm on AO3, Doctor Who (don’t ask) and, of course, Good Omens itself

A/N: This was probably a bad idea, considering I have three other series on the go right now as well as a one-shot that isn’t done yet, but life’s too short so here it is. Updates on all of my works are going to be a bit slower from now on now I’m back at school (I’m in Year 11 too so I have even less time to write these days), so just bear with me. I promise I have a plan for the next twenty chapters at least, I am planning for this to be longer, but I haven’t decided where I’m going to take the rest of the story yet.

By the way, you can imagine Eloise to look like whoever you want because I’ve been a bit vague with her descriptions, but I imagine her to look something like @angelknives13 on TikTok.

As I do for most of my stories, I’ve made a Spotify playlist for this fic! Just copy and paste the link below to listen and remember that I’ll probably keep adding to it. Please listen at your own discretion because some of the songs contain spoilers. Just be wary of that. Also, some of the songs’ lyrics don’t actually make sense/relate to the story, but they’re on there because they fit the general vibe of the story. Hopefully, that makes sense.

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6BaXMlb26dBYyhRCqXrEeP?si=6rY8lOkeSSmE8LRDC_Cb5w

Taglist: @bhmay​ @briarrose26​

Ask or comment to be on my taglist! Let me know if it’s for a specific fandom(s) or series. Full list is in my bio.

Fool (upright) + Six Of Swords (upright)

New beginnings. Transition. Shaking things up a bit.

 She called herself ‘Eloise’. That wasn’t her real name. She hadn’t been referred to by her real name for an awfully long time. No, Eloise is what she called herself so Eloise she was. Somewhere along the line, humans had decided that one’s name should have a meaning, and in some cultures that that name should tell of your past and also of your future. Eloise had been all for this notion, thinking it a marvellous idea. She’d then found out that the meaning bestowed upon her chosen name was ‘famous warrior’, which she thought was rather accurate. For before all else, Eloise was a fighter. She had fought tooth and nail to carve out the identity she had cultivated for herself and by God was she willing to fight again to keep it that way. It was an identity that she kept in her metaphorical left breast pocket, right next to her metaphorical beating heart; right where she could have it close to her, always and forever, but also where she could take it out, hold it in the palm of her hand and just admire it from time to time before popping it back in the metaphorical pocket, safe and sound. Art for art’s sake. It was an identity that she had chiselled out of the finest marble, chipped at to perfection or the closest thing to it, so that now it was the image of a Roman bust, of an ancient and long-forgotten deity. It was taller than giants and softer than the clouds above her head, richer than the finest food that the humans could create and more complex than the human mind. It burned with the heat of a thousand fires, never to be doused nor tamed. It flowed freer than the flow of a thousand rivers, winding and twisting through the corners and crevices of her mind–

She looked at it for a second longer before placing it back ever so carefully in the metaphorical pocket. It’s healthy to admire one’s soul every now and again but look into its depths for too long and you will get sucked into your own vanity. So, she returned it home to the pocket, where it belonged.

After all, there were things to be getting on with.

 *************

 I would like to see that light once more. […] The light of the hour before the sun goes down. When every object begins to glow with its own light and gives off its own particular colour.

– Christa Wolf (Cassandra: A Novel and Four Essays)

 *************

 There was something about evening sunshine. The sun beats down on every little thing without mercy during the day, but five o’clock rolls around before long and everything turns sweeter. The usually red bricks of identical townhouses glow orange as they cast shadows down on passers-by, the leaves of oak trees turn golden-green as they sunbathe, not all that different to the humans that seek them for shelter. The breeze blows a little cooler, the sun shines a little softer, the sky rejoices in the oil painting below it. Sunbeams caress your face, holding you in an embrace that’s warm and comforting and oh-so-familiar. It feels like returning home, and in some ways it is.

Aziraphale loves to read at this time. Though nothing should be inferred from this, as Aziraphale loves to read at any and all hours of the day and night. Aziraphale would read all day, every day for the rest of time if he could. Unfortunately for him, he can’t do such a thing, but he does read an awful lot, and he likes to make a point of always reading in the evenings. He would swap his east-facing desk for the comfort of his lapis-coloured armchair, where the window that peers over his left shoulder tries to read with him in comfortable silence. The sunlight spills into the room, casting the soft pages beneath his fingertips in a homely, golden glow, illuminating and enhancing the words printed on them. Dust particle dance like fairies in this natural spotlight, but Aziraphale is, more often than not, too engrossed in his reading to pay attention to things like these.

He is not, however, too oblivious to notice sudden noises. Unfortunately for him, Aziraphale tended to find them too loud to ignore most of the time.

His head popped up like a meerkat when he heard the bell hanging above the bookshop door ring, its tune singing out and filling the quiet of the room. The noise of outside chatter and traffic disappeared as quickly as it came as the door swiftly opened and closed. His brows furrowed in confusion, for he was sure that that door had been locked ever since that phone call he’d had with Crowley which had eventually resulted in the latter coming to stay with him, and as far as he knew, Crowley was upstairs somewhere, probably watching yet more reruns of Golden Girls. He rose cautiously and ventured into the main shop, worst case scenarios flooding his mind with every step he took.

“Hello? I’m sorry but we are most definitely closed, as you would know if you read the sign on the door…”

He faltered when he finally came face to face with the intruder. She looked at him with dark eyes wide with curiosity, her gaze intense but at the same time comforting, as if you could get lost swimming, drowning in them if you searched for too long. She then softened with the realisation and nostalgia of reuniting with an old and long-forgotten friend, her smile small but full of unbridled joy. Her voice was no louder than a whisper but held a power that compelled you to pay attention as she murmured, “Oh, there you are.”

Aziraphale’s throat ran dry with an emotion he couldn’t quite pin down, couldn’t quite name, an emotion that was on the tip of his tongue yet so out of reach. He scrambled to gather his senses because for goodness sake, this is a complete stranger whom you have never met until now, pull yourself together. “I-I’m not quite sure how you got in, but the shop is very much closed so I-I must ask you to leave,” he managed to stammer out, much less confident than the Aziraphale from a minute or two ago.

“Oh no,” she said reassuringly, her joyous expression never waning for a second, “I’m not here for a book.”

“Angel!” Crowley suddenly called out from upstairs, melting some of the awkwardness that was hanging around the room like a rather awful smell. Aziraphale noticed how the stranger’s eyes lit up even further, smile grew even wider, and more and more questions swirled around his head. He forced himself to look away from her as he heard Crowley saunter into the room from behind him. “Angel, I’m just about to put the kettle on, did you want a cup of tea or–,” he stopped when he finally noticed the other presence in the room, “I thought the shop was still supposed to be closed?” he asked warily, something in the back of his mind telling him not to trust the stranger.

“It is,” Aziraphale replied uncertainly while she waved awkwardly at them, “I don’t know how she got in, but she said she isn’t here for a book.”

Her face twitched slightly as if she wanted to comment on being spoken about like she wasn’t even in the room, but quickly decided against it for the sake of politeness.

Crowley’s face morphed into the epitome of confusion as he asked, “Well, if you’re not here for a book then why are you in a bloody bookshop?”

She looked at him as though the answer was blatantly obvious, “The bookshop has an owner, does it not? Or two unless I’m very much mistaken. It’s you. I’m here for you two.”

Crowley was quick to defend his image, “’S not my bookshop. I’m just, you know, here,” he gestured vaguely at his surroundings.

She nodded with understanding, then seemed to shake awake, “Sorry, I’m forgetting myself. Do you mind if I sat down? It’s just I’ve been travelling for an awfully long time; it’s been a while since I’ve been able to rest.”

Aziraphale nodded almost immediately, “Yes, yes, of course. Be my guest.” He didn’t think he’d be physically able to refuse her if he tried, there was something, something about her, “Could I get you a drink, or something to eat, perhaps?”

She smiled gratefully as she took a seat on the ancient looking yet somehow almost pristine armchair in the corner of the shop, “A glass of water would be lovely if that’s okay with you.” Aziraphale was gone in an instant, bustling around the make-shift kitchen in his backroom, quite glad to have something to do with himself if he was honest.

Crowley, on the other hand, narrowed his eyes at the stranger ever so slightly. Her story so far wasn’t adding up in his mind; if she’s been travelling for as long as she says she has, then why was her only luggage a handbag that she’d discarded on the floor when she’d sat down? And then there was the nagging in the back of his head that he was trying to stifle as best as he could. He stopped his train of thought dead in its track when he noticed that she’d been staring at him the entire time, still grinning like the Cheshire cat. There was something in her eyes, those damn eyes, that momentarily made him worry if his whole thought process was being projected above his head. She was observing him with a scrutiny that made him positively squirm. Finally, he said something, managing to stutter, “I’m gonna, erm, go, yeah,” he awkwardly pointed his fingers in the direction of where Aziraphale had left before sighing and making his much-needed exit.

She just nodded even though he could no longer see her, then suddenly sat up straight and let out a shaky breath. “Here goes nothing,” she whispered to herself. This was about to be the biggest risk she’d taken in years.

She took a deep breath and let go.

 *************

 “Do we know her?” Crowley asked from his seat on the kitchen counter, swinging his legs like a child and cradling a cup of coffee in his hands, “Or is she just some random stranger who couldn’t read the ‘closed’ sign?”

Aziraphale looked at him as though he wanted to comment on his bluntness but had decided against it for the sake of not wanting to pick a fight, “I don’t recall meeting her at all. Surely, she would have mentioned where we know her from…”

Crowley looked at him knowingly, “But yet she seems oddly familiar and you can’t for the life of you figure out why?” His face softened when Aziraphale’s eyes widened in shock, “I know what you mean. It’s off-putting. Her, I mean, not you, angel.”

Aziraphale smiled softly at him before looking away and asking, “What do we do? Do we ask her to leave?”

“Okay, you know as well as I do that you’re too curious for your own good,” Crowley smirked, “You want to find out everything you can about her, and that’s exactly what you’re gonna try and do.”

“I, well, um,” Aziraphale stammered out, face flushed bright red much to Crowley’s amusement, “Well, when you put it like that, I sound awfully nosy.”

Crowley snorted, “Well, you are a bit but where’s the fun in minding your own business?”

“Oh, hush, you wily old serpent,” he said, pursing his lips in mock discontent.

“Ah,” Crowley grinned, “Haven’t heard that one in a while. ‘Wily old serpent’. What ever will you think of next?”

“Stop it,” Aziraphale smiled with no real malice behind his words, playfully swatting Crowley with a tea towel that he’d miracled into his hands for that precise purpose, “Now get down from the counter, we can’t put this off forever.”

“Why not?” he asked as he jumped down with a swing of his legs. That earned him another swat from Aziraphale and his evil tea towel.

They continued to bicker as they reluctantly made their way back to the front of the shop, the unease in the atmosphere palpable to point where you could cut it with a knife. Neither one was quite sure why they were so nervous to talk to the stranger.

Crowley noticed it before Aziraphale did, stopping dead in his tracks and holding a hand out for Aziraphale to stop and just notice.

For standing in the middle of the bookshop with her back to the pair of them was the stranger and it was now painfully clear that she was in no way human.

A giant pair of wings sprouting from her back, spread out with pride, not unlike their own except they were the most beautiful shade of grey. The grey of an elephant in the sunlight, of the cobblestones shining in the rain, of shields from empires of long ago. They were the mist that lay on the sea in the moments before dawn and the oh-so-cold breath on a frosty morning. They were the fog that lay on a path yet to be crossed, the ashes of people long gone. They were almost hypnotising with not only their beauty, but also with the colour itself, and a hundred questions were swirling around their heads.

Who was she? Where had she come from? And, how on Earth did she come to have grey wings?

It was only when Aziraphale’s cup smashed to the floor when the stranger whirled around to finally meet their eyes, her expression unreadable. Her eyes flicked down the mess on the floor, and she smiled warmly at one very shocked angel before forcing the mug to reassemble itself in Aziraphale’s hand with a flick of her wrist, “There, no harm done.” Her smile faltered when she noticed their blank expressions and she sighed, “I think we best sit down, don’t you?”

The pair of them exchanged a nervous glance, speaking a language with just their eyes, before wordlessly following her suggestion and taking a seat on the sofa next to Aziraphale’s desk, while she perched on the chair opposite. “So, I’m guessing you have a lot of questions–”

“That’s putting it lightly,” Crowley scoffed, earning him a small glare and pursed lips from Aziraphale who just wanted to know what was going on, thank you very much.

“No, Aziraphale, it’s okay, he’s right,” she said, holding a hand out to stop him. The silence that followed was thick with unease and uncertainty, but she didn’t notice until it was too late, “Oh, shit,” she said simply, bracing herself for their reactions.

“How do you know my name? I didn’t tell you my name, how do you know it?” Aziraphale asked, the words tumbling out of him before he could even think about what he was saying.

Her eyes widened in alarm as she rushed to settle him, “Aziraphale–”

“Who put you up to this? Who sent you here?” He was standing now, blind with panic because what if they’ve found us, what if this is it, what if these past few months were all we were going to have before they came for us-

“Aziraphale, please,” she cried before looking at Crowley for help, not quite sure what she was dealing with here.

“Angel,” he said, voice as gentle as he could make it, smiling slightly when Aziraphale finally looked at him, “Just hear her out, okay?”

The angel stayed standing for a moment, collecting his thoughts because the worry in her eyes, no one from Heaven or Hell could even pretend to care for him so much. Finally, he nodded and sat down again, a trifle warily, a blush dusting his cheeks with a sad kind of shame.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you like that,” she murmured, voice a lot quieter, a lot less confident, but tenfold more sincere. She let the moment hang and dissolve, and then she perked up a bit, getting back to the manner at hand, “And no, no one sent me here. I came of my own accord, alone, just like I always do,” her eyes trailed away for a split second. They can’t see the memories if they can’t see your eyes. They can’t see the pain if they can’t see your face.

She felt Crowley’s eyes linger on her face with curiosity, grateful that he let the flicker of hurt wash over her face. After a second, he asked, “Who are you?”

Silence followed, for a moment. She sat there, thinking to herself, because who are you is a tricky question to answer when you have things that need to stay hidden. “My name is Eloise–”

She was cut off by a loud noise that must have come from upstairs, sounding not altogether dissimilar to someone crashing through the roof, followed by an overwhelming sense of divinity.

Eloise could only find it in herself to sigh and mumble, “Fuck.”

[incorrect-spiderson]

The Shoes We Fill

Chapter 1: Drifting

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you had asked Peter a year ago where he would be today, he might’ve said something along the lines of dead in an alley. Or maybe, on a lighter note, hanging out with the AcaDeca team and MJ. Or leading the Avengers! He certainly would not have said floating aimlessly in space.

They’ve been on the Milano for a little over six days... probably. Time is a weird concept. Especially when you have nothing but the never-ending black abyss out the window and an angry blue woman to keep you company. Though, when it comes to sleep, Peter knows the exact amount he’s gotten.

None.

He's tried, honestly! But his brain seems to have decided that sleep is no longer an option. Trauma can do that to someone. Peter thinks he should be used to it by now. What with losing his parents, Uncle Ben, and now… he should be used to it.

But he isn’t. He isn’t used to the nights that end with him screaming himself awake in a fit of tears. He isn’t used to Nebula shaking him from his daze. He isn’t used to the half an hour of shaking and sobbing with nobody to familiar to cling to. He isn’t used to the agonizing pain that takes over his body when his senses overload after crying.

He isn’t used to anything anymore.

The nightmares never change. They always begin on Titan. Always.

Tony always appears in front of him, then crumbles to dust as Peter clings to him. Because he can’t lose him too. He won’t. But then Tony is gone, and Peter has to scramble to keep his ment- his father’s ashes from blowing away. Just as Peter gathers them all to mourn, he’s gone.

Then somehow he’s back on Earth, outside of his and May’s apartment. As soon as he opens the door he kicks over a pile of dust. He kicks over his aunt. His Aunt May, the strong and beautiful woman that raised him when the world seemed determined to end them, reduced to a pile of ash on the carpet.

And, of course, just before he startles awake, Ben shows up. Never in his life had Peter ever seen Ben scream at someone. Now he sees it every night. He reminds Peter of what a disappointment he is. How Tony should be alive. How Peter should be dead. How it was Peter’s fault for not getting the gauntlet from Thanos.

Then, without fail, he wakes up and cries with the blue space assassin woman until he falls back into unconsciousness. Then it starts all over again.

Nebua, for being a space assassin, isn't nearly as scary as she says she is. She's helped him through his nightmares, cleaned up his wounds, and has always given him the better rations. Alternatively, he's tried helping her feel… alive. Less machine, more… being? It was obviously hard at first. She would instantly close herself off and move away from him. Telling him to “mind your own business, unless you like being headless”.

So, you might ask, how has a sixteen-year-old mutant earthling managed to humanize one of the most dangerous women in the entire galaxy? The answer is simple: Paper Football.

"Wraa!!" Nebula growls, her metal hand curling into a fist. Her other hand grips her water glass until it groans under the pressure.

Peter, who’s spider sense had spiked, smiles lightly and picks up the small paper triangle. "It's cool Ms. Nebula! This game is kind of hard. My friend Ned and I play this aaaall the time when we get bored. So I'm basically, like, an expert." He hands her the paper football again and positions his fingers in the shape of a field goal.

Nebula flicks the paper, but it veers to the right. She shows nearly no weakness, but folds and nervously bites her lip. Peter can see she’s expecting… something. Punishment? Probably. Honestly he isn’t too surprised, unfortunately, considering who her dad is. "I would like to try again." She mumbles.

Peter smiles a little wider and picks up the paper triangle. He quickly fixes one of the corners then hands it back to her. "Yeah go ahead!"

Nebula takes it, she nervously eyes Peter but quickly buries her nervousness. A new determination grows and she flicks it. It sails through the finger goal, and Peter could swear that her eyes grew 3x bigger. He lets out a surprised laugh and leans back with his arms up. "Oh my Thor! Ms. Nebula you won!"

It takes a second for her to process it, but once Nebula realizes what he’s said her mouth twitches up into a near smile. Though she never does smile, Peter can tell how happy she is when she finally lets out a breath. "This was… fun."

Peter rests his elbows on the table and moves his hands around excitedly as he speaks. "Yeah, it's really good to help pass the time! I’ve never played with someone as good as you! And I’ve played this, like, a whole bunch. Mr. Stark and I…” Peter pauses. The black pit in his chest suddenly grows larger, “We uhm.. used to play it. A lot."

Both of their smiles fade as the weight of Peter’s words set in. They sit in an awkward silence, each finding something else to look at, before Peter speaks up again. "Ms. Nebula… how long do you think we'll be here?"

Nebula shuts her eyes, refusing to look at him, and breathes sharply out her nose. "Do not call me Ms. Nebula. Also…” She sighs “ I am not sure. The fuel is running out, fast. One of the processors is acting up and… food is getting low."

Peter nods solemnly and turns to the window. Basically, they have two options. Either shoot straight to earth in a shitty ship and hope they don't die. Or go to the nearest planet and hope the aliens there aren't hostile. So, in all reality, they’re doomed. He runs his fingers through his curls and sighs. ‘Oh Thor, I so need a shower.’

He looks down at his web-shooters. He presses a small button and a little web-cartridge pops out. Peter puts a hand over his mouth and tries to hold back his tears. The ashes in the cartridge spin as he turns it in his fingers.'What would Mr. Stark do?'

——————————————————————————

If you had asked Peter three days ago where he would be today he probably would have said dying. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t have been wrong.

Peter winces as he shifts against the wall. He takes a deep, bone rattling breath, and shuts his eyes. Never in a million years had he thought this is how he would go. He knew being Spiderman would most likely catch up to him someday. He’d bleed out in an alley or be kidnapped by some psycho. Which, now that he thinks about it, is pretty gruesome. Though, slowly fading out billions of miles from home in a spaceship with a blue robot woman isn’t much better. It sounds like something straight out of Star Wars. Ned would be so jealous.

Well, not of Peter dying. That’s kind of an issue. A big issue.

Though, he can’t say it was unexpected. Both he and Nebula knew he might not make it to Earth. When Nebula finally announced that the fuel had run out, as well as the food, he knew he was screwed. But now, as they float aimlessly through space, all he can think about is May.

He never did give her a proper goodbye all those days (weeks?) ago. If only he could hug her again, and smell her sweet honey scent, and tell her he loves her over and over until he passes out from lack of oxygen. And he will, as soon as they get home. If she’s even still around. If Peter even makes it that long. Suddenly, he gets an idea.

Peter drags his tongue across his cracked lips and gives a small sigh, then activates his nanite mask. He hasn’t activated it since… well, it’s been a while. So, as he focuses on the nanites forming over his face, it’s slightly startling when Karen speaks. “Hello Peter. Your vitals seem extremely low. Shall I engage in Tattletale Protocol?”

Peter bites his upper lip. There’s no tears to hold back anymore, so he can’t cry no matter how much he wants to. He’s been in so much agony that he doesn’t even remember when the tears just stopped flowing.

Ever since the shut down, every fiber in his bones had throbbed from malnutrition and hunger. Now his skin hangs limp where once youthful and strong muscles had been. Peter knows his healing can do nothing to help either. If anything, it’s making it worse. Though, with every stabbing pain, he’s reminded that the hole in his heart where he’d held Mr. Stark aches even more.

“No Karen,” he rattles out another shaky breath then continues, “I- I don’t think Mr. Stark will be able to ah… to answer right now. You know what would be really… really awesome though?”

The A.I. is silent for a moment then, in a somehow more solemn tone, “I can do anything you wish Peter. Please proceed.”

“Could you.. Could you please start a voice recording?”

“Of course Peter.” I takes a second, then a small flashing light appears in the array of holograms in front of his eyes. Peter licks his lips again and rests his head back against the wall.

“You may begin Peter.”

“Oh uhm.. okay... Hey May. I know you ah- you’re most likely searching the world for me right now. Making sure I’m not… you know.. gone. Well, I mean, that’s as long as you’re still around I guess. If you find this then, um, just know that I love you. So much. And uhm.. Please tell Ned that I love him too… he- he’s my best friend and I wouldn’t be here without him. I love you both so.. So much. More than anything. Oh! And MJ too. I never got to tell her to her face but… I love her too. Anyways… I guess this is goodbye.” Peter pauses and takes another rattled breath. “When I drift off, I’ll think of you guys. It’s always you guys.”

Peter sniffles. As he moves to sit up a cough racks his small frame. His back slams against the wall as he tries to sit up. “Karen uh… can you- can you end it? The um… the recording.”

The blinking light suddenly disappears and the mask retracts. Peter’s vision grows spotty while his eyes readjust to the dim emergency lights. His starts swimming as the world tips sideways, and then, he’s floating. Like a puppet having its strings cut, he lists sideways limplessly. Before he can hit the ground, metallic hands gently catch him by the shoulders. He’s propped back upright and a cold finger brushes a curl away from his eyes. His vision clears slightly and Nebula’s worried face softens as she realizes he recognizes her..

She gives him a small squeeze on the shoulder, and smiles. “It is okay Peter. I know you’re tired.”

Peter gives her the best smile he can muster. She runs a hand through his hair and then puts her arms under him. She easily lifts him into the air and carries him across the ship. Nebula gently places him in Quill’s Captain Chair and makes sure he’s comfortable. As soon as she is satisfied, she goes back to the main area. Nebula begins working on… who knows what. Though, honestly, Peter really couldn’t care less.

Everything just feels… floaty. Is that a word? FlOatyyy. It’s a funny word.

His eyes are floaty now too. So, so floaty…

They’re floating away! Up and up… and up. They’re going somewhere dark.

Peter really doesn’t like the dark.

Maybe the bright lady in the window can save his eyes before they float away. He really needs his eyes back…

Maybe they’ll come back…

When he wakes up…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20403511/chapters/52643932#workskin

[violet-knox]

The Triwizard Victor

Year 6 - Chapter 46

Summary: The final task of the Triwizard Tournament rolls around and you make plans with Severus to view it together as you’d already missed the previous two tasks. But when you don’t show up to your meeting spot, Severus begins to worry, which quickly turns into complete horror as the task comes to an end.

Word count: 4029

Warnings: Physical pain

Previous Chapter - Chapter 1 

~

Severus peered over towards the entrance of the castle, beginning to worry something dreadfully concerning was keeping you from meeting him. There were only a few straggling students left making their way to the newly built stadium, adjacent from where he stood outside the Quidditch pitch and with each step he took as he paced across the entrance, his concern grew eminently larger. It wasn’t like you to be this late and it was your idea to watch the Triwizard Finale in the first place, so why were you lagging behind today, neglecting to meet him where you’d planned?

Thinking you may have misunderstood your meeting spot, he made his way to the stadium that had been set up at the edge of the forbidden forest for the night’s event. He was supposed to meet you first and then join the crowd with you, but when you didn’t show up, he thought maybe you couldn’t find him and made your way to the event alone. At least, he hoped that was the case.

As he entered the fully packed stadium, he began to look around, searching for you. He found an empty seat on the top row and peered down, hoping it would give him a better vantage point as he continued to gaze at the crowd below him. Disappointment seeped in as Dumbledore stood from his seat and began introducing the three Champions as well as the task at hand. Severus barely paid attention as he scanned the crowd carefully a third time in an attempt to catch even a small indication of your presence within the arena to no avail. 

Dumbledore signaled Filch and a loud bang was heard. Andrei entered the forbidden forest first as he was in the lead, allowing him a ten-minute head start before the next champion joined him on his quest. 

Two more loud bangs were heard five mins apart and the rest of the Champions entered the forest one by one. Severus listened to the people around him chat about how Andrei was sure to come out victorious and what possible challenges could await them in the forest. He began to uncomfortably shift in his spot, unsure of what to do. Surely you hadn’t stood him up. Not after everything had gone so well over the last few months. You’d grown so close, he was sure you wouldn’t do something so hurtful as to purposely abandon him if there wasn’t something holding you back. 

The longer he sat there, the more positive he was that something horrific had happened to you. Eventually, his anxiety overtook him, and he got up from his spot, leaving the stadium to look outside. He walked at an increasing rate around the circular arena, frantically looking every which way, hoping that perhaps he’d missed you somehow and you were still waiting for him outside.

“Lumos,” he whispered as he got closer and closer to the edge of the forest. There was no sight of you anywhere. The castle was empty as everyone had already gathered to watch the tournament, so the chance of you roaming around in there was slim, not to mention the fact that the size of the school made it practically impossible to search its grounds efficiently. 

Giving up, and hoping to find you afterwards, Severus made his way back to the top row of the stadium. He waited in anticipation for the Champions to return and end this ruddy event for what felt like never ending days. About an hour later (or fifty-three days by Severus’ count), a loud crack was heard at the edge of the forest, centered in the stadium. 

The crowd cheered as Andrei held up the Triwizard Cup high in the air for everyone to see. Severus scoffed down at him, but his expression soon changed to curiosity as he noticed that a smaller figure had appeared beside him, immediately collapsing to the ground, her knees unable to keep her standing. Severus stood and immediately noticed her clothing matched his own; a Hogwarts student, only her uniform was in a much worse condition than expected from school policy as her shirt popped out from her skirt while her tie hung crooked around her neck. The white shirt she wore had mud-coloured smugs all over it and had been very evidently torn in multiple places. As she fell backwards, one hand over her rib cage, the other pressed firmly on the ground for balance, the moonlight shined over her at just the right angle and gave him a small glimpse of her face, along with her red and golden tie.  

“(Y/N)?” he whispered to himself as he watched tears stream down your face, your body shacking in shock. His eyes widened in horror as he had finally registered that it is you down there, kneeling beside the Triwizard Champion. You’d been in the forbidden forest this entire time, no doubt fending for your life. His instincts had been right and yet, it didn’t make it any easier to see you in such distress. 

He quickly began pushing his way down, struggling to get through the crowd that only thickened as each observer rose from their seats in glee, watching as Andrei was announced the Triwizard Victor. Lights seemed to flash from every angle, photographers and journalists, racing Severus to be the at the front of the crowd. The need to reach you heightened each time he got pushed backwards trying to squeeze past the intolerable audience. His height was now the only reason he could still catch a glimpse of you as Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall had begun escorting you towards the castle. Relieved to see you’d been separated from the hoard of students, he shifted his route and began pushing his way back to the exit. 

By the time he had caught up with you, you were already at the Entrance Hall, making your way to the infirmary, your head of house in a heated discussion with the school matron, clearly enraged with the situation.

“(Y/N)!” He shouted as he slowed down to a walk. You turned your head just enough to see Severus with worry written across his face. 

“Severus,” said McGonagall. “Dear boy-” She gestured for him to approach you before Madam Pomfrey stopped her. 

“No visitors! We haven’t even reached the hospital wing yet!”

“It’s alright Poppy. Severus can help escort her,” McGonagall reassured her as Severus took her place beside you, wrapping your arm around his neck. “I must head back to attend to any more injured Hogwarts students. You might want to prepare for the worst,” she warned Madam Pomfrey, before stepping back from you, making her way back towards the stadium. 

You’d already listened to her rant about how horrible an idea this entire tournament was as she helped you make your way back to the castle, so it was no surprise to see her huffing down the corridor in a fuming rage as she left you. 

“Crusade Tournament. What are they thinking sending students in that forest alone!” Madam Pomfrey cursed to herself as she walked in front of you and Severus, heading to the infirmary as fast as she could. She instructed Severus to carefully follow as she informed you both that she hadn’t expected the injuries to come from tonight’s events to be so brutal and therefore had not primed the infirmary with the necessary equipment. She had excused herself as she ran ahead to better prepare, leaving Severus with the soul task of looking after you. 

Your knees trembled as you tried to follow her as quickly as you could, hoping to match her speed. But you felt so defeated as soon as you saw her jogging, disappearing around the corner, leaving you in her dust. Severus did his best as he tightened his arm around your waist, trying to take some of the weight of your feet, but it wasn’t enough as he felt you slipping, your legs unable to support you any longer, causing you to stumble forward. Severus quickly pulled you up, holding you tightly by your waist, pressing your body to his.  

“(Y/N),” he whispered in despair. He was about to ask if you were alright, but stopped himself, knowing how redundant such a question would be as he could very clearly see, you were not alright. 

You buried your face into his shoulder as you tightened your arms around his neck, letting your weight fall on him. It was all so much. The physical pain, the mental trauma. Your body shook as you sobbed, your voice muffled by his clothing. 

Never in his life had he wished to be strong enough to carry another person, but having you crumbling in his arms had him feeling so incredibly helpless, knowing he wouldn’t be able to carry you all the way to the hospital wing. He didn’t know what to do, what to say to make you feel better. He considered levitating you, but that just didn’t seem right, and neither was sitting you down to try and heal you himself. What if he just made it worse? No, he knew that the best thing to do was to get you to the infirmary as soon as possible.

“(Y/N)? Can you walk?” He spoke softly as not to startle you and watched as you slowly lifted your head, your messy hair falling over your face, a few strands sticking where your tears had smeared on your face. You ever so slightly nodded your head as you kept your gaze low, wiping your face on your sleeve, not daring to let go of Severus. He felt like a lifeline to you, holding you so close, keeping you from falling to the ground. You’d never been so grateful to have him in your life, currently being the only thing keeping you from breaking to pieces on the stone floor beneath you.

He waited for you to go at your own pace as you slowly let your own hand drop, the other hanging over his shoulder as you limped your way down the hall. You were walking slower than ever, but Severus kept an even pace, letting you take your time, simply providing you with balance and stability as you made your way down the halls.

After what felt like decades, you finally made it to the hospital wing and noticed that Madam Pomfrey had made herself quite busy whilst waiting for you to make your way there. Every single bed was accompanied by emergency equipment and potions. All the essentials were placed atop a tray that rested on the bedside tables while the rest of the supplies had been carefully removed from their cupboards and displayed nicely at the back of the room, ready for use. 

“Thank you,” you whispered as he set you down on the bed Madam Pomfrey had gestured to. You held your breath as you settled into the bed, doing your best to keep from grunting in pain, knowing it would only worry Severus further. There was no doubt in your mind that he had been on edge the entire night, and seeing you so battered up probably had him clenching his heart because you knew that if you were in his place, you wouldn’t be able to keep yourself together.   

As soon as you rested your head back on the pillow, Severus went and stood by your side, instinctively beginning to weave his fingers through your hair in comfort, removed any leaves or twigs in his way. 

“Out.” Severus turned, peering over his shoulder to see Madam Pomfrey rushing towards you both, a few vials in hand. “Now!” she shouted as she set everything she was carrying on the table beside him. 

“But Professor McGonagall said I could stay with her!” responded Severus in furry. He didn’t want to leave your side, not when he’d spent so long worrying over you only to find you completely shattered. He wanted to help, to comfort you. He wanted answers. 

“I don’t care what she said, I need to get to work! You can come back and visit once she’s recovered during visiting hours.”

Severus squinted, peering into the eyes of a very headstrong woman. He knew there wouldn’t be much point in arguing as she was always known for her stern qualities. He looked over to the bedside table, hoping to at least figure out how exactly Madam Pomfrey planned on healing you, only to be disappointed by the lack of recovery Potions, and those that were present, he deemed to be weak judging by their opacity. 

Glancing back at you, he gave as big of a smile as he could muster before leaning in, gently pressing his lips to your temple. “I’ll be back soon,” he whispered out of earshot of the matron who seemed to have made herself busy, preparing to assess your injuries. 

As he stepped back, you did your best to convoy to him you’d be alright, but your smile came off even weaker than his. Though neither of you said it out loud, you both knew just how upsetting and worrisome it was to be separated a time like this. You watched as he left through the large doors and wished he could have stayed beside you. All you could think about during your time in the forest was how badly you wanted to see Severus, have him comfort you. You felt at a complete loss as his figure disappeared around the corner of the entrance, as if he’d just slipped through your fingers. 

Turning your attention back to Madam Pomfrey, you watched as she waved her wand over you, the expression on her face revealing what you had feared the instant you’d woken up in the forest; you were injured beyond belief, from the inside and out. Waiting for her to finish, you closed your eyes as your head sank into the cushion of the pillow beneath you. You wanted so badly to ask for something to relieve you of the pain, but you trusted she’d give you what you needed in due time. She’d patched you up so often over the last few years after a Quidditch practice or game, that you’d grown to trust her and her healing abilities completely. 

It wasn’t long after taking a sleeping draught that you passed out, only to wake up a few hours later to some rather loud chatter by the door. An argument had clearly broken out between Madam Pomfrey and whoever was standing in the corridor, out of your line of sight. The matron had her hands firmly around the doors as she half whispered, half shouted, trying to tell whoever was there to leave. But when she slowly pushed the doors forward clearly trying to shut them, her converser suddenly slammed a hand over the edges of the doors, pushing them towards her as his voice rose. You jolted from your bed, recognizing that musky sound echoing through the infirmary. 

“Sev!” you tried shouting for him, but your voice came out small, shattered from the night’s events. “Severus!” you spoke louder this time, loud enough to bring Madam Pomfrey’s attention back to you. She slowly let go of the doors and came rushing towards you, Severus not too far behind. 

“Please let him stay,” you whispered as you stretched an arm out towards him, a small tear forming at the corner of your eyes. He quickly took your hand in both of his, squeezing tightly as his eyes desperately went to examine every cut and bruise over your face. You gave him a weak smile, a tear slipping from your eye as soon as you blinked. It had been too long of a night to be apart from him and you couldn’t stand it any longer. You needed him by your side, telling you it would be alright. 

“You need rest, not company,” Madam Pomfrey tried to argue, “He shouldn’t even be out of bed, I have half a mind to call your head of house young man-”

“Please,” you turned your attention to her, as your eyes watered, “please let him stay.” Severus sat on the edge of the bed and reached over to wipe away your tears as he listened to your desperate pleas for him. You closed your eyes and lend into his touch, thankful you finally had him by your side. 

“I’m not leaving,” he whispered, more so to you than Madam Pomfrey as he wanted to assure you he’d do everything in his power to help you.

It took a bit more convincing as well as a valiant show of the strong connection between you both to finally ease Madam Pomfrey’s mind as she agreed to let him stay so long as he’d let you rest. 

As the matron left your side, Severus let go of your hand, hearing a small whine of complaint coming from you as he reached into his robes, retrieving small vial. 

“It’ll help heal you,” he whispered to you as he handed you the potion. “I just brewed it, so it’ll be pretty strong. Take a small sip each day until you feel better.”

You were always so amazed by his skills in Potion Making and though you felt guilt at the thought of him sneaking into the Potion’s classroom, risking his standing as a student, it also warmed your heart to know he would put himself on the line for you like that. 

You gladly accepted the potion, giving him a small smile of gratitude, knowing you could trust him and took a small sip as instructed. You closed your eyes as you felt the thick liquid burn down your throat, turning your head away from him as the sharp pain in your gut returned. Taking a deep breath in through your nose, before slowly exhaling, you did your best to gather yourself before turning your attention back to the boy on the edge of your bed, knowing his concern would only grow if he knew just how much pain you were in. Severus took the bottle from you and placed it back on the table before reaching to rub small circles on the back of your hand in comfort.  

He looked back into your eyes, trying to determine whether you were well enough to answer the question that had been burning in his brain all night. “What happened?” Severus spoke so softly, and though you could still hear the worry in his voice, his eyes gave away the vigorous overprotective tendency he’d clearly been trying to repress. But your concern lay with all the possible reactions he would have once you’d answered his question. Despite your beating heart telling you to tread carefully, you jumped into telling him exactly what you’d been burning to speak about all night.  

“The Centaurs were holding me captive. I think they had some sort of agreement with Dumbeldore to participate in this task. The Champions were supposed to rescue us and then we were supposed to tell them where the location of the Cup was. It was placed in such a dangerous spot Severus, I wish they hadn’t dragged us along with them,”

“Did they hurt you? The Centaurs?” Severus couldn’t believe you had been dragged into these ridiculous tasks and couldn’t fathom why they had picked you. Out of all the students at Hogwarts, why you? But as you continued your story, the questions he had only built up as his rage billowed. He couldn’t stand the thought of you being put in so much danger, all for what? Entertainment?

“No. They were instructed not to harm us. Only to try to stop the Champions from rescuing us. Anyways, the cup was a portkey. Whoever got there first would be transported back to the stadium so the judges and the audience would all see who won. The rest would have to make their way back on foot.” You finished your story and leaned back, resting your head on the pillow as you closed your eyes. “Guess I should be happy Andrei won and I didn’t have to walk through the forest any longer than I had to,” you mumbled. 

“But why you? Why were you picked? Shouldn’t it have been someone from Durmstrang?”

You blinked rapidly, looking at Severus as you paused a moment before responding. Searching his eyes, you reached for his hand before you answered his question in a low whisper. “Dumbledore said it had to be someone the Champions care about.” Keeping your eyes locked on his, you waited for his reaction as you’d feared he’d overreact when you told him why you were chosen to be the one Andrei had to rescue.

“What? What do you mean care about?”

You looked at him in silence, unsure of how to explain this further without having him jump to a conclusion you didn’t want him making. 

“Shouldn’t-Shouldn’t they have taken Lily then? It was her he took to the Ball,” you could hear the anger in his voice as he didn’t want to admit that he knew exactly why they had chosen you. Lily wasn’t his first choice to the Ball, he knew that all too well as it had almost prevented Severus from asking you himself. No, he knew all too well how the Durmstrang Champion, now Triwizard Victor, harbored feelings for you. He just didn’t want to face the paranoia that told him there was a possibility that you could return those feelings. 

“Sev,” you began before he turned his head and slipped his hand away from you. “Hey,” you said softly as you reached for his chin, moving his head slowly to turn back towards you. 

Your eyes locked as you mustered up all the strength you had to sit up and slowly lean forward, tilting your head to connect your lips with his. You gave him a soft kiss full of passion to show him he was the only one you cared about. You knew words wouldn’t convince him the thought you knew was lingering in his mind was false and you just didn’t have the energy to try, so you hoped the simple gesture of a kiss would be enough to ease his mind. 

“I love you,” you whispered as soon as you parted. He kept his eyes closed as he smiled. You felt him lift his hand and bury it into your hair before bringing you in for another gentle kiss. He leaned forward and gently placed your head back on the pillow as he kissed you.

“You need to get some rest,” he said as his lips hovered over yours before placing one last kiss over your forehead. He gently detached himself from you, standing beside you at the head of the bed.

“Stay with me,” you said as you quickly captured his hand. Severus looked back, pausing before looking over to the side to find a chair to bring over. “No,” you whispered as soon as you saw where his eyes were trailing. Letting go of his hand, you pulled the sheet up from his side, hoping that would be enough for him to get the hint. Severus looked at you wide eyed as he stared at the empty spot beside you. He couldn’t believe you wanted him so close to you. 

As his heart filled with lust, he carefully slipped into the bed beside you, pulling the covers back over you as you nuzzled into his chest, making yourself comfortable. Severus looked down at you as he wrapped his arms around you, slowly weaving his fingers through your hair as you closed your eyes, feeling sleep overtake you.

It wasn’t long after that Severus saw Madam Pomfrey peering around the curtain encircling you both. He smirked as he tightened his hold on you, raising a brow at her before looking back down at you, indicating that you were fast asleep and if she were to tell him to leave, you would surely wake up. Frowning at him, the matron silently closed the curtain letting you peacefully rest in your boyfriend’s arms the rest of the night.

~

Next Chapter

A/N: This chapter was very heavily inspired by the last task in the Goblet of Fire, with some obvious alterations. Hope you enjoyed :)

~

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