#and also that is past the point where Silas eventually warms up to him (because aspen is literally a delight to be around | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

forwhump · 2 months ago

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a/n; as promised, some wren <3 I said somewhere “nothing good happens now for a long time” so here’s some not good things happening >:)

I consider the second part of this whole thing (I’ll pick a title eventually) the “farmhouse arc” & the arcs are all based around the different vibes i felt like writing at the time LOL

this is when i was feeling slasher/serial killer sort of vibes & also hopelessly devastating yearning but worry not: it’s still just horrible shit happening to my (our ?? 👀) favourite little guy <3 (but seriously wren gets tortured in this one)

tw/cw: kidnapping, false imprisonment, sexual slavery, implied rape/noncon, mentions of past rape/noncon, misgendering, transphobia, psychological torture, drowning, burning but with water (boiling ???), mentions of necrophilia, mentions of a living weapon, dehumanization, body fluids

creepy whumper

Wren wakes up in the dark, naked and shivering.

It isn’t the first time, not even close, but something about this time is different. Wrong. He knows even before he’s opened his eyes.

He doesn’t recognize any of the sounds for a long time, a sort of rumble that’s so familiar but out of reach, detached. The floor beneath him moves restlessly, almost vibrating. It isn’t until somebody honks in the distance, laying on the horn, that Wren recognizes the hum of traffic and his throat constricts so tightly it makes him gag.

He’s in a trunk. He’s outside. But there’s none of the relief, there isn’t a deep breath of fresh air, because there are only two people Wren knows that would want to get him out of the district and above ground. Only one of those people, Wren thinks, would throw him in the trunk.

Now he’s alone. He’s more alone than he’s ever been. Trapped, and the farthest from Silas he’s been since he’s known him and Wren can’t save himself. How is he supposed to save himself?

That thing bursts in his throat and Wren screams bloody murder. The car swerves quickly, Wren slides, hits his head pretty hard but screams again, anyway. The car jerks and he hits his head again. He’s naked — he’s so fuckin’ tired of being naked. What’s the last thing he remembers?

What’s the last thing he remembers?

He doesn’t remember anything; nothing that ends with him in the boot of a car. How did he get here? Where’s Silas?

What the fuck happened to Silas?

He isn’t really the type to let Wren get far without him, but Silas has never been above ground, not as much as he remembers. Wren doesn’t even know how long he’s been unconscious, so he can’t even begin to guess how far they’ve gotten. Not that knowing that would even do him any good, seeing as Wren has no idea where they came from, doesn’t have the first clue where the district might be. How is Silas ever going to catch up? How is ever going to find him?

Wren’s never going to see him again.

It’s like cold water. It’s barbed. It knocks the wind out of him and he doesn’t scream again, but he makes a helpless, gasping sort of sound, the same sound he makes when he tries to scream in his nightmares.

Wren is never going to see him again. The world is too big and Silas is too unfamiliar with it; Point is never going to let Wren go. He’d kill him before he got far. He’d fuck his corpse once he’s dead.

Wren’s naked and shivering in the boot of a car and nothing is ever going to be the same again. The end of Wren’s life is unfolding formally in the trunk of Point’s car; the only way this ends now is with Wren’s death, or with Point’s. He’s never going to let him go. There’s nobody around anymore to save him. His life, in the district, had been grey and miserable, but he hadn’t been lonely. There had been warmth.

Wren’s never going to be warm again.

He tries to scream — he makes another breathy, choking noise. In the miserable grey of the district, he wouldn’t have been able to imagine being above ground and wanting to go back under it. Now, he can’t take a full breath in and his chest buckles beneath the weight and he starts to hyperventilate in the darkness of the trunk. He wants his books, and his brother. He wants Silas. He wants his looming shadow and his protective hand on Wren’s back. He wants the way he says Wren’s name, with the faintest twang of Wren’s accent because that’s how he had learned to say it. He doesn’t want to be alone.

The world is too big and Wren is completely alone. He takes another hitching breath and his chest hitches along with it. He doesn’t want to be alone. He can’t do this alone. He can’t do this by himself.

The car screams to a stop and Wren hits his shoulder so hard he feels the pain in his wrist. When the trunk flies open above him, Wren doesn’t have time to think or react — the world is so much brighter than he can remember it being. As the trunk opens, the light is let in, and it’s like being blinded, so bright he sees spots. He can’t keep his eyes open against it, and he flinches; as he’s flinching, Point is already reaching into the trunk with him, grabbing him around the throat.

He grabs him so tightly Wren can’t breathe under his hand and he makes an empty, wheezing sort of sound. Point grins widely; he’s here with him and still, Wren’s never been so alone. He grabs at Point’s wrist, tries to pry him off, claw him away, but he presses Wren a little harder into the boot of his car and says, “shucks. You’re awful pretty when you’re scared, cowgirl.” In his other hand, he has a rag he uses to cover Wren’s mouth and his nose. It smells sweet and Wren already knows what’s coming, even before the spots burst in his vision and the light starts to get wavy, blurry. “Unfortunately,” he adds, “you’re being awfully loud back here. I’m gonna need you to be a good girl and keep quiet a little longer, baby. You can scream as loud as you need to when we get where we’re going.”

He doesn’t even have time to scream.

He’s unconscious for a very long time.

Point keeps him sedated, keeps him under, and Wren only knows this because he knows to recognize the heavy, hazy feeling once he’s finally allowed to wake up again. It’s a different sort of headache than being knocked unconscious, a heavy throb of overmedication and dehydration.

He’s still naked, still on his back, but he isn’t still in the boot. He can’t open his eyes yet, his eyelids are too heavy, and his hands are tied, this time, wrists knotted behind his back. His fingers are pushed into what feels a lot like old shag carpet. “What?” Wren says, and he doesn’t mean to. But carpet?

There’s a series of sounds Wren recognizes quickly, a door being closed then locked, then locked again, then bolted. Point says, “well, good morning, cowgirl,” to the sound of him pushing something heavy in front of the door. “You’re right on time.”

Wren still can’t open his eyes. He slurs when he says, “what are you doing?”

“I got us a room,” he answers. “You need a bath.”

“What?” Wren says. He’s having a hard time thinking. Or is Point just not making any sense? They’re in a room? He chokes on a breath in, tripped up by the weight of sedation on his chest.

Conversational, Point says, “you can scream if you want to, baby. I made sure of it. I don’t know how soundproof the walls really are, but this place charges by the hour. Nobody’s gonna come running for a screaming girl.”

Wren still can’t open his eyes and it hurts when he swallows. Slowly, he says, “why are you doing this to me?”

“What?” Point replies. He snorts. “I got you out, cowgirl. You’re gonna have a warm bath.”

“I wanna go back,” Wren slurs.

“What?” He repeats.

“I don’t wanna be here with you,” Wren says. He’s being too honest and he still can’t open his eyes. He isn’t sure where the words are coming from — not his brain, that’s for sure. “I want Silas.”

“The fuckin’ dog?” Point spits, and then he’s quiet for a long time. He’s quiet for so long that Wren finally gains the strength to open his eyes again, blinking up at Point who’s leaned in close, too close, so close it makes Wren jump. He snarls in his face and takes a fistful of his hair. “That’s too fuckin’ bad,” he seethes, “you ungrateful whore.”

The room is exactly what Point said it would be, cheap and dirty, straight out of a 70’s porno or an 80’s slasher. It’s been a long time since Wren’s thought in any sort of movie references, and maybe being above ground again is bringing it out in him, maybe it’s the sedatives, but he thinks now, for some reason, about what happens to the blondes in every cheesy 70’s porno and every gory 80’s slasher, and he thinks, fuck. Panic finally starts to seep through the sedated cracks in his chest as Point hauls him across the filthy shag carpet by his hair.

Point drags him into a bathroom that wouldn’t look out of place behind a gas station and that looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in thirty years. The bathtub is coated with grime and the rusted pipes squeal as Point turns on the water, cranks it as far as he can. Somewhere deep, the heater rumbles, and the water that shoots from the faucet steams with heat. As the tub fills, the bathroom fogs, the water simmering in the filthy tub.

Panic rises up the back of Wren’s throat. He thinks he screams, but it might be the shriek of the pipes. “Darren,” he gasps, because he can’t catch his breath around the knot in his chest, he can’t breathe. Point snarls, and he tries, “don’t — don’t do this to me, don’t — don’t —,” gets stuck in a panicked sort of loop of, “don’t, don’t, don’tdon’tdon’tdon’tdon’t—” as Point pulls him up by his hair.

Wren begs, thrashes, pleads, panics, but Point lifts him with ease and a curled lip. He throws him into the tub, into the boiling water.

Wren’s skin starts to split immediately. Like boils, it starts to burst, opening through his skin and layers of tissue, worse at his palms and the bottoms of his feet, around the sensitive skin where his wrists are bound. Point reaches for the faucet, finally turns on the cold water, but with his other hand he keeps Wren in the tub as it boils, even as the skin of his own wrist peels away in the heat. He holds Wren in the water as he flails, and the nails peel from his fingertips as he claws at Point’s arm. He shrieks when he can, but he can’t very quickly; he can feel the heat in his lungs and he can feel the way the flesh starts to bubble with it, deep in his chest where it should be safe. He can’t scream because he can’t breathe and his upper lip splits open on one side.

When the water starts to cool, Wren’s skin still steams. It doesn’t feel hot, but like razor blades, hundreds of millions of razor blades, restless under his skin. He trembles so uncontrollably water sloshes from the tub at his stillest.

“The dog isn’t around to save you anymore, cowgirl,” Point says, dipping his other hand into the tub, shutting off the water once he’s deemed it’s acceptable. “I don’t want you to think about it again. Y’hear?” He adds, mocking, and pushes Wren’s head beneath the water.

Wren still trembles with heat and he never got to take a full breath in, hitching relentlessly. He doesn’t mean to gasp but he still inhales water. His hands are still tied behind his back.

He sputters, tries to hold his breath, to push himself up, but Point doesn’t let him break the surface. Point holds his head under water until Wren’s scorched lungs start screaming in protest and his vision starts to bloom dark spots. Point holds his head under water until Wren realizes he’s going to die.

It makes him think about Twilight, which is weird, but that’s what he thinks about. It might be the only thing he really knows about drowning. That and Silas, once, saying something passive about being waterboarded. But he doesn’t think about Silas, which is also weird. He thinks about Twilight, and how Bella said that drowning was peaceful.

She fuckin’ lied. It’s chaos, actually, and a screaming ache in his chest that feels like it might split him open down the middle. And he’s in a dirty fuckin’ bathtub, which sucks, and he’s still fuckin’ naked. He’s been naked for days, weeks, and now he’s gonna die naked. How fuckin’ demeaning. How humiliating. How unfair. How many years did he spend suffering underground just to die naked in a bathtub? What the fuck is that? Why is this happening to him?

Is anybody ever gonna know what really happened to him? Legally, he’s been dead for years, he knows this for certain. Point’s always been proud of himself for having made it happen. Nobody’s ever been looking for him. Nobody above ground knows what happened to him in the district and nobody in the district will know what happened to him once he left. Wren’s gonna drown in a bathtub and nobody but Point will ever know.

Closer to the end, things do get a little more peaceful. It doesn’t hurt any less, but everything starts to get sort of fuzzy and less severe. His fingers go numb. He thinks about Silas. It hurts a lot to die, and that makes him think of Silas.

He doesn’t die, not really, but that makes him think of Silas, too. He loses consciousness in the bathtub and comes to on the filthy bathroom tile, vomiting water. Point is pushing his wet hair out of his face and his touch makes Wren vomit again. “You feel better, baby?” He coos. “All clean?”

Wren throws up more water and it’s still hot on the way up. He’s trembling so uncontrollably it makes his muscles ache. It makes him think of Silas again, of the way his hands always shook. It makes him vomit again.

With another coo, Point turns him onto his back. It takes Wren a second to catch up with his body, it takes the panic a second to breach the surface of the water and he tries to gasp, chokes on it, vomits again. “Please,” he breathes, and Point laughs. The sound of his zipper is familiar. Wren chokes again as he tries to cry out, rasps, “please.” He tries to pull himself up, to so much as lean away, but his body is so heavy and shaking so uncontrollably and his trembling hands are trapped beneath his weight.

“You’re beautiful like this,” Point tells him.

“Don’t,” Wren rasps softly. “Please.”

Just as soft, Point says, “it’s just you and me now, cowgirl. You’re all mine. You might as well start getting used to it.”

His smile is unnatural. It isn’t human. Wren vomits again, still warm where it pools in the column of his throat and the dips of his clavicle.

“When I’m done with you,” Point says, curling a hand around the back of Wren’s thigh and he cries out, his skin still feels like razor blades, Point’s touch isn’t just bruising, it’s sharp, “we’ll get back on the road. I got a house waiting for us, baby. Big farmhouse in the countryside, nice and isolated. Nobody around to hear you scream.”

“Please,” Wren rasps, his breath hitching desperately.

“Nothing you can say or do will change the fact that this is gonna happen to you,” he tells him, soft and mock soothing. “You’re going to be kept chained up like an animal. You’re going to be used thoroughly and repeatedly. You’ll know your fuckin’ place, and you’ll show me the proper respect. You may not like it, cowgirl, but you’re fuckin’ sure gonna do it. You won’t like what happens to you if you don’t. It’ll be a lot worse than a warm bath.”

Wren’s heart beats in his throat and he wishes he had died in the bathtub.

Point’s kneeling between Wren’s thighs, starts rocking against him, coos softly when the warmth of his skin makes Wren vomit again. Why was he so desperate not to die? It has to be better than this. It has to be less miserable than this.

“Please,” he whispers, rough. “No more.”

“Oh, cowgirl,” Point says, and he smiles, wide and grotesque. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

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regrettablewritings · 4 years ago

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Preference: What Strange Being Are They? II

Characters: Victor Stone, Harley Quinn, Erik the Phantom, Nevada Ramirez, **Surprise Character**

Victor Stone - Simulacrum

The proper term, as he saw it, was simulacrum: An image or representation of someone or something. That was the more proper term. But in Victor’s mind, ordealed and pulled every which way but up, it meant something just as contorted as his form had become: An imitation of something else that may or may not have ever even existed. A collection of broken pieces, cobbled together to look like something familiar, all the while lacking in its qualities enough to make it abundantly clear that no, this was no longer what someone knew. Or maybe they never knew him to begin with.

In layman’s terms, Frankenstein’s monster.

Then again, he supposed the term “cyborg” was not entirely incorrect. There were, after all, traces of his organic self still present, albeit restricted to the face. But there was almost a sense of struggle in that title to him. A sense of denial. Simulacrum might have hurt, but at least, to him, it was honest.

But Silas Stone preferred to call him his son. And Victor called that ignorantly optimistic. After all: What sort of father drags his son back from the cusp of a peaceful passing, utilizing otherworldly means to reassemble him nerve by metallic nerve until he no longer resembled the boy he remembered himself being? A father too driven, Victor decided. One whose own dreams and memories had become a simulacra in and of themselves: They became so distorted, that they no longer resembled reason or reality.

And as far as Victor was concerned, he’d paid the price.

He kept to himself, reserving night time as the only time he could wander the streets of Gotham to himself — but just barely. There was only so much hiding a flimsy hoodie from his time at Gotham U could provide. But still: Technically speaking, he was safe. Monstrous, perhaps, but safe. Safe from wandering eyes, safe from judgement over what he’d lost and since become, safe from . . . Well, life. He was perfectly content living a simulation of life, in fact.

But what he wasn’t prepared or safe from was that fateful night he met you, unafraid and completely real. Well, if anything, you were real curious . . .

Harley Quinn - Succubus

Nobody talks about what happens when you starve a succubus. Mainly because the belief is that the only way to starve a succubus is to deny her, ahem, intimacy. And while this certainly wasn’t an untruth in most cases, the case that was Harley Quinn was a rather . . . unconventional one. Well, as unconventional as anything concerning a succubus could be.

For one, she had adapted her needs to better suit her environment. She had to: If she relied solely on just physical intimacy alone, she would have died long, long ago. After all, The One That Shan’t Be Named seemed to make it a point of starving her of all the resources she could possibly siphon energy from. Eventually, it came to a point where she simply had to learn how to consume energy from other means: Attention; the glances of lustful men and women; affections. Little, teeny, tiny sources that paled in comparison to the full-course meal she might’ve gotten before. But it was better than starving, and she needed to get by in this world however she could.

Not only because she quite liked some bits and pieces of this side of the veil, but also because in the end, she simply wasn’t as powerful as she once was. She still carried some of her paranormal traits with her (minor dream-walking, enhanced agility, etc), but it definitely wasn’t enough to drag her back to whence she came. Not that she wanted to.

She’d become rather fond of the den of sin that was Gotham City. And, to her own surprise, she had become rather fond of you, the poor newbie that foolishly agreed to her Craigslist ad for a new roommate. But then again, she was far more than old enough to know better; why be shocked? After all, you were so, so warm when compared to every other person she’d endured in such close proximity in the past. Much sweeter, much more . . . Deliciously innocent . . .

Erik the Phantom - Fossegrim

Fossegrims are, at least when compared to most other water spirits, rather on the benevolent side. They weren’t like sirens, using their musical gifts to lure people in to a watery grave -- at least, not normally. It was that they much preferred to enchant without malicious intent, plucking at their harp strings or sliding bows across their fiddles to produce ensorcelling sounds of the wind in the forest, the chorus of rushing water resonating in every note. It was just simply not in their nature to be especially malevolent.

At their worst, they were very particular: Even at their most agreeable, there was always a caveat of sorts.

If a fossegrim were to agree to live with a human partner, for example, he needed to have free and regular contact with a water source, lest he grow dire. And if a fossegrim were to offer his tutelage for the fiddle to someone, they would need to participate in a very particular ritual that included stolen mutton, a white he-goat, and a lot of Thursdays.

(And even if one were to succeed at this, they would be faced with a most . . . unorthodox means of being “trained”. Once again, nothing done in malice, but surely there had to be a cleaner way.)

Erik personally did not stick as strictly to these circumstances as others of his kind might -- really, he saw little point in it. After all: Who would come wandering in a watery cavern, and searching for a fossegrim’s teachings, no less! No, he had grown used to his solitude, if bitterly so. He told himself that he was more than happy to live out his naturally long life, secluded, playing beautiful pieces that would remain suffocated beneath whatever structure had gone up above his cove. He almost dared to think it a pity . . . Until one day, a visitor arrived.

And you came bearing a gift: Not a he-goat, nor stolen mutton. You hadn’t come bearing meat of any kind at all! All you carried with you as you clumsily paddled your small boat was a ring: An heirloom, old and dingy, but precious nonetheless. It was all you could offer him that equated to your desire to learn by his hand.

It perplexed the fossegrim. But it also filled him with something . . . warm. Bright, even. Pride. After all, who was he to disappoint such a humble, obedient student. . .?

Nevada Ramirez - Vampire

Vampires: Creatures of fear and woe. They lurked in the shadows, the particulars of their lore transforming about as much as they themselves could. Feeding off the fears of the common folk, draining their energy while all the while enticing their prey closer and closer still.

The transformation fit Nevada like a glove.

And, like a fashionable, leather glove befitting as his aesthetic, he wore it all with style. And perhaps a bit too much glee. Vampires, as it turned out, weren’t just day-dwelling bloodsuckers after all: The great thing about living in a city so varied as New York was that it allowed for evolution and strange mixes to occur. Nevada lucked out: He’d been vampirically sired by a strain that could eat human food, go out in daylight, weren’t effected by crucifixes, and didn’t require an invitation to enter a goddamn building.

The catches, unfortunately, were as followed: Food no longer tasted as vibrant; he could go about his day but with powers limited so drastically that he may as well have been another lowly-ass mortal; bullets were still a big no-no (unless he was the one shooting ‘em); and whether he liked it or not, he still required blood to properly get by. And as disappointed by the food situation as he was, he considered that of the blood a proportionate gain: Blood, Nevada found out, was far more varied when spiced with hormones.

His club made for a perfect den, a place where prey of all sorts could walk in, gyrate themselves into a frenzy, then come crawling over to him (the most minimum of efforts on the part of his pheromones) and offer to him their bodies without even knowing the true nature of what he wanted of them. And for a while, it worked like a charm.

Until Nevada realized he’d never quite had a taste of you, yet. You, with your wide and innocent eyes, cheeks burning whenever you saw him staring at you from the VIP section.

Sure, excitement from arousal was tasty. But the undead gang leader couldn’t help but wonder what the taste of excitement from nervousness tasted like . . .

Lucifer Morningstar - Human

They are without particularly long lives. They are born helpless and remain so much longer than most creatures on Earth do. And yet, it is amazing and strange how much humans can pack into their lives.

Take, for example, one Lucifer Morningstar: He’d changed his name from [Redacted] to better suit the image he wanted, which was that of a walking spectacle. And if his name weren’t enough, everything else he did surely was: The wealth he accrued through mysterious means; the successful nightclub on the LA strip that he owned; an immortal bed life; and a tapestry of connections he’d made by pulling favors. All topped with a devilishly handsome face to boot!

If Lucifer ever had a goal, it was to live it up and/or go to Hell in a hand basket trying.

Which was probably why he wasn’t one to shy away from hosting a little large get-together at Lux for Halloween. And by get-together, Lucifer clarified on social media: They would, in fact, be holding a seance and summoning. After all, what sexier way to embrace the taboo of darkness than to play around with the veil as though it were part of a dress-up game? It was too good an opportunity to miss out on, as any good attention-whore businessperson would tell you.

Unfortunately, for as lucky as Lucifer tended to be, he still bore upon his shoulders multiple flaws. Human flaws. Such as the flaw of not exactly doing research and providing a thorough vetting process when it came to hiring the “performer” who would be commencing the seance and summoning.

This was LA, after all: He probably could just pluck any rando off the street and get a good show out of it. He wasn’t even sure where he pulled this rando from (chances were, he was buzzed and/or high while doing so), but he couldn’t argue with the results of a crowd bewildered by the surprisingly realistic smoke effects and lights flickering. Though he had to admit: They could’ve put you in better demonic makeup for when the lights settled and you stood there, having suddenly “appeared” in the previously-drawn pentagram.

Still, you were cute enough: He supposed if he played his cards right, flirted with you in the usual Lucifer way, then perhaps his Halloween night might be filled with many tricks and treats yet! So he found himself perplexed when you continued to act confused and thrown off, even after the “performer” had finished their routine and left.

Wait, weren’t you supposed to be with them? How did you even get in here? Why do you keep asking how you got here, or if you got stuck in another person’s Hell, or -- . . . Oh. Oh, shit.

As a human, Lucifer was intent on filling his life to the brim with as much story and experiences as possible. But sometimes, there are just some things humans -- even ones like Lucifer -- shouldn’t dabble with . . .

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alexius-fr · 4 years ago

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What’s this, a lore post? Yes it is!

Chapter One - Arrival

The newest chapter of my lore is up on AO3 (just click the chapter title) or if you prefer, you can read it below the cut!

They'd been flying for hours.

They had crossed through the storms of the seemingly endless Shifting Expanse, over the Sea of a Thousand Currents, and now they were flying over the Windswept Plateau, giant kites in the sky above, rocky spires protruding from lush forests beneath. The wind here was soft, warm, whimsical.

Sanguine hated it.

But perhaps it was far enough for now. He looked behind him, to see a group of tired, struggling dragons flying in his trail. His brother Silas was closest, at his side as always, as he had been for years.

“Sange.” Silas panted, his wings barely keeping him adrift. “I swear if we don't take a break soon I'll have a fit.” he pretended to swoon in the air, making a dramatic gesture with his wing on his forehead. He lost balance as a result, flapping his wings clumsily to get back into position, Sanguine frowning with bemusement. His brother had always been a bit of a frivolous brat, but judging by the state of the others, he might have a point.

“Fine.” Sanguine nodded, putting his eyes dead ahead once more. A great spire appeared in the distance, and it looked like it was inhabited. They could rest there, and restock supplies for the rest of the journey. “Over there. Follow me.” Sanguine said, starting the descent.

The spire was like a vibrant little town, the buildings up top scattered all over the rocky ridges, lush growths preventing the making of real paths, but any real Wind dragon didn't need something as mundane as paths. As they got closer, they drew many curious stares from the dragons that probably inhabited the spire, but they were not stopped or questioned, the group flying into the main area up top, a large natural platform that lent itself perfectly for useage as a courtyard or square. It was surrounded by shops, market stands and a small temple. In the middle there was a natural spring, it's crystal clear water carving it's way out in a small stream that eventually formed the smallest waterfall Sanguine had ever seen, as it finally reached the edge of the platform and clattered off the side with a gentle continuous noise.

Tired and thirsty, the rest of his clan also touched down and immediately began drinking from the spring, himself included. He made sure he had his fill before he looked up to investigate his surroundings closer. But by then they'd attracted quite a crowd, inhabitants, shopkeepers and visitors alike having come to watch them, curiously inspecting their guests.

“You in the habit of staining someone else's water with your taint straight after you arrive?”

The deep voice that sneered at them was monotone, yet vicious. Sanguine looked around to find the owner of the voice, seeing a shadowy spectre of a dragon looking down upon them from the temple roof. Deep purple eyes peered at him from above a dark mask, curious and yet condemning.

“Oh is this your water?” Silas was, as ever, ready to sneer back. “I don't see your name written on it anywhere.” he met the Shadow dragon's relentless stare with a look of ire.

“It's not just ordinary water, you stupid plaguespreader.” the dragon on the temple roof uncoiled himself, his shape revealing that he was a spiral. One jump and he glided gracefully down to the courtyard, landing in front of Sanguine and Silas. “It's our sacred spring. It's water is only used for special ceremonies.”

“Yeah? Well there wasn't any ceremonies going on so how were we supposed to know?” Silas rebutted. He threw his head back with arrogance, Sanguine unwillingly reminded of the way their mother always did that, in almost the exact same way

Where would she be now, he wondered. Was she still alive? Was she still the furious, prideful creature he once knew? He hadn't seen her, or heard from her, in years. Shifting his weight from his left leg to his right, he was reminded once more of their duel so long ago, that had left him crippled. The injury had never healed properly, leaving him with a scar and a limp. He'd come to accept both as part of himself over the years, but on bad days just looking at the scar gave him the urge to tear his own leg off.

He was pulled from his thoughts by a loud hiss, seeing Silas and the shadow Spiral about to jump eachother. He supposed he should really intervene, they needed a place to rest their wings for a few days and he couldn't have Silas get them thrown out. But before he could step in, a voice echoed over the courtyard, light and clear as the water that ran in the spring.

“Shen! That's enough.”

Heads turning towards the entrance of the temple, the crowd bowed to the Spiral that had come out of it's main gate. They were a bright mix of mauve, jade and every colour in between, eyes of the purest green, the air seeming to dance around them. Large curious eyes looked at Sanguine, smiling mysteriously. Their horns glowed a spirited light green, their hide shimmering with markings in that same colour. This was a being of great power and wisdom, even if on the outside they looked like just another spiral dragon. Sanguine guessed they were an entity, a spirit of wind. He'd gotten a knack for recognizing power throughout the years.

“Alexius, I was just-” the shadow spiral, apparently named Shen, backed away from Silas, with a reverent bow. Who- or whatever Alexius was, it was clear that everyone here had a lot of respect for them.

“They are just weary travelers, Shen. Let them drink. What good will the water do just running off the spire like that?” Alexius approached them with a light hearted smile. Sanguine bowed lightly to them, nudging Silas to do the same. Silas did not neglect to roll his eyes before he followed suit.

“Thank you, Alexius. I apologize for the misunderstanding, we never meant to offend.” Sanguine spoke diplomatically. “My name is Sanguine, and this is my brother Silas. We lead our clan together. Sometimes.” the snarky remark at the end had Silas scoff, but Alexius seemed to enjoy it, their smile growing wider.

“Be welcome, Sanguine. I am Alexius, and this is my clan. Please forgive Shen's caution, he's very passionate about protecting this place. I'm sure you understand the importance of protecting a place that is home to you.” Alexius said, their body dreamily suspended just above the ground. They seemed to be levitating effortlessly, their wings not moving at all.

“Once we find a home, perhaps that will be a sentiment I can relate to.” Sanguine said politely.

“Ah yes, you have lived a life on the go. You are a survivor, Sanguine.” Alexius' eyes gleamed shortly with a jolt of power. Had they seen his past? How did they know? No, any idiot could see that he'd lived a life of travel, of hardship. He had the scars to show it.

“Ah, but you must be weary from your long flight. You may rest in our caverns. It should provide you with everything you need. And if not, there's not a thing we don't sell or provide up here.” Alexius smiled warmly.

“Alexius-” Shen protested. “Surely you're not thinking of letting them stay? They're plague. They'll bring trouble before long.”

“My spire is a refuge to all, Shen. What would've happened to you if I'd turned you away? What will happen to them if we refuse them a simple place to rest their wings? How will it reflect on us?” Alexius spoke calmly, patient like a teacher would speak to a pupil. “Do you understand?” “Yes, master.” Shen bowed his head, a little shamed.

“You are a bright young dragon, Shen. But you must learn that sometimes your eyes can cheat you. Appearances can be deceiving.” Alexius smiled gently. “There is far more to these dragons that meets the eye.” they glanced at Sanguine with a knowing look, Sanguine wondering what Alexius saw.

“Zephyr, will you show our guests to the caverns?” Alexius called, a young ridgeback quickly making his way up to them. Sanguine couldn't quite place the feeling, but he thought there was something familiar about him. Or it could just be because he was tired from their long journey.

“Of course, master Alexius.” Zephyr spoke with a voice like a light breeze, pleasant on the ears like a windchime. “Please, follow me.” the youngster bowed to them and then showed them the easiest way down, guiding them to a natural cavern below the spire. It was perfect for a short rest, a river running nearby and the dense bamboo forests would provide them with plenty of food.

“Here we are.” Zephyr said, proudly. His pale green eyes glinted with life in the sunlight, his striped hide perfect camouflage for hunting in the forests that were below the spire. He looked young, energetic, healthy. Sanguine hated that he couldn't think of who he reminded him of. Like the thing you know you've forgotten to do but you can't for the life of it remember what it was. How annoying. “Thank you, Zephyr. We'll manage from here.” Sanguine said.

“Are you sure? I can answer some questions, if you have them.” Zephyr said, hopeful. “We don't really get whole clans visiting often. Especially not Plague clans.” he was obviously curious but did not want to admit it outright. “My father came from Plague, but he says he'd never go back.”

“Look kid, we're tired.” Silas intervened. “And we don't want to talk about where we're from or where we're going. We'll be out of your spines before you know it, so just leave us alone.”

“Oh. I'm sorry.” Zephyr recoiled a little, his spines lowering submissively. “I'll leave you to it then.” he was quick to turn and leave, Sanguine throwing Silas an annoyed look. “What did you do that for? He was only curious.” “And annoying.” Silas argued. “This place give me the creeps. Everyone's nice. It's just not natural.” “Imagine being nice.” Sanguine frowned with irony. He watched Zephyr disappear into the cloudy top of the spire, a strange hollow feeling nagging at him. He had the feeling he knew him. But how was that possible? He'd never been to the Windswept Plateau before. And yet..

“Oh come on brother, don't be a spoilsport. He's just a kid. You used to love bullying kids.” Silas grinned widely, sticking out his tongue at Sanguine. “Or have you gone soft?” “I've gone tired. Shut up.” Sanguine grumbled, walking into the cavern.

There were plenty of little alcoves for them all to roost, and he picked the largest one, liking to have space for himself. Of course space was a relative term with Silas roosting in the alcove just below him, but at least it was better than sleeping in an open, unprotected clearing. Come morning, he would have a good think about where to go next from here. For now, all he wanted was to sleep.

“Hey Sange.” Silas' voice sounded from below, just as Sanguine was about to doze off. “What?” Sanguine growled in annoyance. “You ever think back to mom?” Silas asked, for once, not trying to annoy him. Sanguine was caught off guard by the genuine question. He was expecting something stupid to come out of Silas' mouth. But just this once, his brother sounded melancholic.

“Yes. Quite often.” Sanguine replied honestly.

“You think she's alive still?” Silas asked. “I'd be surprised if she's not. An emperor could not best her if it tried.” Sanguine said.

“Old age can catch up with anyone.” Silas argued. “But I'm inclined to agree. We're closer to Plague territory than we've been in years. Think she'll come find us?” “I certainly hope not.” Sanguine said, genuinely. “Now can I please sleep?” “Of course. Good night, brother.” Silas yawned.

“Good night, Silas.” Sanguine mumbled, laying his head down and curling his tail around his weary body.

The morning would bring clarity.

#fr #flight rising #fr lore #flight rising lore #fr lore clan #fr lore dragons

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fumusdamnatorum · 5 years ago

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Mauling (Drabble)

Self-directed sparring was one of those weird times Silas never really wrapped his head around. It’s mainly because after the last class of the day, he’d mainly see a good chunk of people either go back to the dorms or anywhere else that isn’t the gymnasium or the amphitheater. Instead of training or sparring, they just...go home. His teammates especially are not the exception to this case. However, at this point in time, he’s partially glad that he doesn’t have to see them too often.

So, he did what he knew best: train. Training for Silas usually involved changing into the prescribed Beacon Academy Physical Exercise uniform, which would be a t-shirt and shorts embossed with the school emblem. His right forearm still retains the black cloth hiding his brand. Hand wraps are already applied before he takes a step before the heavy bag area, which is surprisingly sparse. Now that he thought about it, this place seems pretty empty save for a few people. Some he’d recognize for better (like a particular blonde that he always passes by in and out of class) or for worst (Team CRDL).

It didn’t mind him all that much though. He puts on music in his earbuds and gets straight to work. Warming up and stretching takes around 10 minutes at most before he gets into shadow-boxing in front of the mirror. His biggest focus is keeping himself moving, throwing a combination of jabs, straights, and hooks to set up for takedowns. Ever so rarely does he throw uppercuts to lieu in favor of elbows, or if he needs to slip past a locked up opponent.

Eventually he works in his kicks, his knees, and his wrestling shots. There is a certain tempo and flow Silas is trying to obtain that he finds when he fights. It comes after he tests the waters of his opponent, when he starts driving the pressure up, when his strikes aim to follow through beyond his intended target of the head or body. The more he invests himself, the more his sharp exhales, his breaths, and his sweat become evident fruits of his labor.

Much so it caught the attention of a very notorious team of first year students who have so much (or so little) to do other than try to look good and torment weaker or faunus students. Silas feels a pull on his shoulder as he turns around to face Cardin Winchester, the leader of the circus troupe. He points at the center of the gym, where a makeshift fighting ring sits itself. The infamous bully stood inches over Silas, but he didn’t tower over him.

“I’m gonna put you in your place, like I should with every other animal in this school. Now get in the cage.” He shoves Silas against the heavy bag before making headway, ripping off his own shirt in a testosterone fueled quest to assert dominance among the few dozen people there. The bounty hunter, meanwhile, puts away his earbuds and reaches for his mouthpiece. After some consideration, he decides hands wraps are good enough and follows into the ring, taking off his shirt and throwing it aside; the scars that litter his body gleam from the sweat rolling down his body. His hands are folded neatly at the small of his back as he goes to the corner.

If he wants to deal with an animal, I’ll show him an animal.

Upon the start of the buzzer, Silas gets his hands up and meets Cardin at the middle. His opponent comes out swinging. While Cardin is absolutely not the brightest light-bulb in the shed, there is no denying the raw power and physicality that he puts with each of his strikes. Silas keeps himself moving around, shuffling and slipping to avoid and create distance between the two of them. The punches he caught where in his guard. To create any leverage in this fight, the next jab Cardin through, Silas takes a step to close in, throwing a right hook to the body, followed a right cross and left hook to the head before backing off to see how Cardin would react. As he backs off, his right hand drops a bit, and without hesitation, his opponent rushes him as though he saw red.

Stillness is death. Keep moving.

Silas continues to circle the ring, throwing jabs while moving and crosses in order to punctuate on his statements. However, that’s not without reply from Cardin as well, the counterargument taking the form of consecutive left hooks to Silas’ head, in which allowing time for Winchester to close in to take on a clinch and dig at the right rib. The strikes elicit groans and sharp exhales from Silas, who breaks through Cardin’s pull in order to throw knees of his own to the body. The clinch is broken as the two separate, Silas returning back in with low kicks to Cardin’s lead leg. His jabs set up each inside leg kick, cutting angles to get on the outside and throw kicks right above the knee. The buzzer rings, but not before Cardin throws a late shot towards his rib, spitting at his face to seal the letter. Walking back to his own corner, Silas reaches for some water, rinsing his mouth before swallowing it and taking in a bit more. Meanwhile, the rest of Team CRDL is helping their fearless leader like they’re his own corner. Must be nice.

At the second round, he puts his mouth guard and watches as Cardin continues to push forward. He’s durable there’s no doubt about it, but Silas notices the lead leg he’s been targeting looks much more heavier than it was when they started. Then Cardin feints a job to throw a power jab followed by a cross that tags Silas on the chin before digging on Silas’ weak right side that was targeted earlier. He throws more low kicks that continue to make Cardin’s left leg much more unbearable.

Oh, so he’s not all brawn after all...

Bringing Cardin into the clinch once more, Silas returns the favor, giving body shots and knees of his own before his victim breaks away. Cardin is able to leave one mid kick to his left side before Silas clears away, feeling Cardin going in for the kill as he moves in on him. Shuffling back, Silas continues to push out a series of jabs and crosses while on the retreat, before throwing a hook to mask his commitment to a double leg take-down. At this point, he’s at home, he’s in his territory. Cardin scrambles to stand up and get away, leaving his back open to Silas. The opportunity is seized as he traps the aforementioned left leg on the outside, locking it up and pushing his weight onto Cardin’s back as Cardin begins to scoot away.

Silas holds onto Cardin’s right arm, leaving the both of them with just one extremity to work with. And so it begins, he strikes at the known bully’s face to wear him out; as the trapped opponent tries to belly up, Silas scoots himself up slowly, striking at his liver with elbows and punches to drain Cardin. As soon as he didn’t feel resistance, he immediately shoots up and mounts onto Cardin’s side and does the only thing he knows best.

They all think you’re an animal. Every. Single. Last. One. Show those humans what they get when they want to deal with so called animals. They get bit. They get mauled.

With extreme prejudice, Silas trades power for volume with his punches and elbow strikes against Cardin’s head. His bloodlust leaves him blind to his opponent’s aura diminishing, consciousness fading equally quick. Holding Cardin by the jaw, he continues to punch and elbow, breaking his nose with his elbow and continuing to keep with his strikes. Silas didn’t want to stop, he can’t stop. That is until he felt the telekinetic pull that had him fly to the other end of the ring, the same force also preventing him from getting up.

“Tenebrae! My office, now!” There wasn’t venom in Professor Goodwitch’s voice like how she would usually lecture other students. No, this time it was wrath. As Silas felt himself being able to stand up, he reaches for his things The blood on his arms and hands seep into his personal items. He passes through the crowd of students that gathered to watch the fight around the ring, one of which was his team leader. Silas chooses to ignore with a cold stare forward and a bump of his shoulder. It’s not like she’d care what would happen to him.

Frankly no one in that room would care what happen to him.

#ooc #tw: gore #Memories (drabble)

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thejenesaisquoigirl · 5 years ago

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DnD Ask Meme- Tamzen

Link to original, blank meme: https://thejenesaisquoigirl.tumblr.com/post/186529464305/dnd-asks More about my kitsune monk (Way of the Open Hand) under the cut~!

1) What would they consider to be their biggest failure?

Dying. Not protecting her son. Before she let him go, it was failing to be someone Silas loved enough to stay with even in the face of opposition. Or not being able to be there for her son due to her inability to prevent the ugliness within her from festering. Currently Tamzen is having an internal crisis of believing she fails at everything or will never be enough for anyone.

2) What’s the story behind their name?

When it comes to naming characters, I really just start thinking of names that stick out. It started with “Tiernan”--from Pirate Queen--and I must have watched an episode of The Tudors with Tamsin Merchant to remember that name, too. “Tamsin” kept sounding best with the character concept and then the spelling changed to “-zen” as a subtle joke since she’s a monk haha

3) What’s their relationship with their family?

Positive and loving. She has always adored her parents and vice versa. As a mother, Tamzen may be firm and people may assume she would not show warmth to her son; but Tal is one of the few people with whom she always shows her depth of emotion for him. He is a perfect child and his love helped Tamzen heal.

4) What’s one song that describes them or is them?

Not many peeps know this, but she was built to be the personification of the “Morgan: Amor Tristis (or Morgan - Amor Tristis on Spotify)” instrumental from the Ah! My Goddess movie. My all-time favorite instrumental and it suits her story.

5) Who is their best friend?

In the beginning of the campaign, it was Kerrick. He was the first friend she’d ever made other than Silas. But his behaviors—especially the incident with the cleric and raising the dead—drove a wedge in their friendship; and she found her friendship with Mama/Mishann growing. Now she’s her best friend and Tamzen even gave her the ultimate gift a kitsune can give someone—a piece of their hearth—along with trusting her to be the one to take care of Tal, if Tamzen would ever not be able to come back.

6) Why are they their class?

She ran away from the city after her heartbreak and stumbled across a traveling group of mousefolk. Most of them were monks but since she stayed with the leader and his wife (the only ones with stuff able to house a larger humanoid), they were the ones who taught her as a way to find calm and take back a sense of control.

7) What do they think of their party members?

She feels they’re a motley crew with a whole lot of secrets. She’s ESPECIALLY suspicious of Burt and Connie because of what clues she has gathered of their past and because of their actions over the last couple months. The rest of the crew: TBD- enjoying their healing dynamic since Biir left, thinks he’s a cool friend; Finn- thinks of him like a second son and is protective of him; Kerrick- he used to be her best friend and she’ll always be grateful, but Tamzen can’t condone his behaviors and struggles to be with people who can’t control their impulses; Mama- owes her so much and views her as family now, wants her to have every happiness possible and will do her best to make that happen.

8) In what ways are they similar to you?

Extremely calm under pressure, thinks she’s never good enough to be significant to anyone enough to not leave her, thoughtful gift-giver, gives herself for others until there’s nothing left, can have an accidentally sharp sense of humor, deep well of feeling and protectiveness for those she considers “hers”

9) In what ways are they different from you?

She takes serenity in all things to an entirely new level with how schooled her face is; her not being verbal in her affections to people she cares about; not enjoying reading; she only really warm to those she cares about; Gryffindor

10) What do they look for in a romantic partner, if they have a romantic orientation?

Someone who doesn’t see her as second best or not enough. Someone she doesn’t need to take care of but who can take care of her. Tamzen has a competency kink a mile wide; so if they’re even-keeled, stronger, a better fighter, and extremely skilled in what they do...they’re definitely her type. She’s a pretty quiet person, so they need to be comfortable with silence and understand things unsaid, as she’s very action-oriented. You can tell a lot about how she feels about someone based on her actions, not her words. They also need to love her son and not love her despite her past but because of it.

11) If they had a patronus or animagus form, what would it be?

A fox animagus haha For a patronus, probably a fox, too... maybe eventually a hippogriff (what is with my two favorite characters having significant peeps in their lives with hippogriffs?) or a monarch.

12) What do they smell like?

Orange blossoms and vanilla, with hints of herbs that can be used medicinally (eg: lavender, tea tree, etc)

13) What is their secret skill?

The lute and painting. She’s not secretive about her flexibility or healing abilities; she’s secretive about skills that can reveal her emotions.

14) What is their relationship to spirituality?

Complicated haha. She’s a “tsuki kitsune” and I tweaked that to mean she’s a fox was blessed by the goddess of love to have the potential of becoming “human.” Her “parents” are the guardians of a special, unknown spot in a forest the goddess has declared sacred; there to take care of the clearing and of any creature blessed by it...and Tamzen was a fox spawned in there. Anyways, so even as a fox, she was entrenched with this strong belief in the goddess and awareness of her presence; but then something devastating happened with the person Tamzen thought she was fated to be with--who had been the cause of her transformation. Ever since, Tamzen has had a VERY hard time with the idea of love...much less having firm faith in her goddess because she feels betrayed. She’s slowly trying to repair her side of the relationship through making sure her friends find love; but she still thinks someone she had absolute faith in has abandoned her, so she’s weary.

15) If they were to be remembered for something, what would they want to be remembered for?

She’d really like for her son to remember her loving him with everything she had. Other than that, she wouldn’t care much other than for doing good.

16) Why did they become an adventurer?

Happenstance led to her becoming a monk...and she needed additional discipline to try to silence the rage and nastiness brewing inside of her, so she joined the army. The adventuring grew from that.

17) What’s one thing about their backstory that came to you after you already started playing the campaign?

So many things haha Why her parents are her parents, her relationship with her goddess, and so many other things.

18) Do you have any headcanons for them that haven’t come up in game? Or headcanons for other party members?

Totes! She plays the lute only for Tal or when she needs to really think through something--frequently those moments are one in the same when he’s playing outside. Her internal crisis over always being second best and slowly being resigned to it. Party members: Mama: they sometimes read together (even though Tamzen doesn’t like to read), trade skills (Mama helps her build strength and she helps Mama with flexibility), and that Mama has to spend extra time in front of a mirror before going to a fancy event to take in the fact that this is her life now and she gets to wear these pretty things and be feminine. Kerrick: that he’ll sometime have ink in his hair from running his fingers through it while copying down spells. TBD: thinks it’s hilarious how he still hasn’t had to explain his name and has a running bet with himself over it. Finn: she catches Tal speaking Squeakspeak to Finn while playing and Finn just going with it and trying to learn the game through context instead.

19) Any ships with your character? If a PC or NPC, what interaction launched it?

Ya know, never thought she would ever get to a point where she would be in a place to be with someone again. But then she asked Damien (an NPC) what it was like to lose your parents... and his utter honesty in that conversation was enough to make her cry in front of someone. It was evidence she could allow someone to see her vulnerable again. And then when he showed off his battle prowess and skill under pressure...her interest was DEFINITELY piqued. And then he went and made sure she was able to get to her son? Now Tamzen has it bad and has no idea how to handle having feelings for the newly crowned king. Especially not when she thinks she’s not good enough for anyone.

20) What would your character consider their biggest success? Or what is your favorite success your character has had so far?

Tal and facing Silas again. She’s really surprised me in how she’s been able to grow to where she is now...so that’s an awesome success because it feels like there’s still more growing for her to do emotionally. But the ultimate success EVER was the gift of the hearthstone to Mama. It was canon lore created on the fly and it was so meaningful

#dnd #ref for character #food for asks #dnd ask meme #dnd asks

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anthropologicalhands · 6 years ago

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ceg fic: a pattern cutting

title: a pattern cutting summary: new babies mean new routines, but also new beginnings notes: you knew this was going to happen post-finale. my feelings on rebecca/nathaniel having children are all over the place, but there are aspects of them choosing to become parents that I honestly really enjoy, and I think will be fun to explore in at least some future scenarios. blame the baby gator for the investment.

EDIT: Ao3 link here

Lately, Rebecca feels like she has discovered that her brain, far from being the organ that processes sensory information, is susceptible to earworms, and has helped her make sense of the world if not always in the most sensible of ways, in fact has more in common with a bowl of Jell-O. In particular, a hallucinating bowl of Jell-O that has been in a state of high alert ever since the squalling amalgamation of her and Nathaniel’s chromosomes was expelled from her birth canal to make her dramatic debut in the world.

She isn’t sure if that realization is a sign of enlightenment or merely a consequence of sleep-deprivation. Still, Rebecca thinks things are going all right. Two months in, Evie is only waking up a few times a night, and her and Nathaniel have settled into something almost like a routine—when she is roused for the third time that night by their daughter’s whimpers, she is already sitting up, when Nathaniel’s hand brushes her shoulder, with a weary but firm ‘I got it’. It’s not his turn, but Rebecca isn’t exactly going to object for a little more time in bed and collapses gratefully back into the pillows, willing herself to slumber.

However, even with her eyes shut she still lies awake, waiting for him to come back to bed. Evie (full name Evelyn and on hold until she is big enough for it) quiets eventually, but he still doesn’t return. Rebecca sits up and peers out into the dark of their apartment, eyes still scrunched half-closed for better focus. The lamp by the crib has been switched on in the far corner of the room, casting a soft yellow glow, and outlines where Nathaniel is stretched out on the couch. His posture is disarmingly casual—one leg drawn up, resting his head on the armrest, and the baby curled up on his chest. She’s grown exponentially since they first brought her home, but Rebecca can only marvel at how Evie still looks so tiny, cradled protectively under Nathaniel’s hands.

Idly, she thinks about how if someone had asked her when she first met him what kind of a father Nathaniel Plimpton III would be, it would not have been a kind answer.

(Granted, if they had asked her what kind of mother she would have been, it would not have been much of an improvement.)

Forgoing the appealing lure of sleep, Rebecca shuffles out of bed, past the stroller, picking her path through the toys and beyond the crib and adjacent changing table on her way over to rejoin the rest of their family unit.

Nathaniel’s focus on the baby doesn’t waver, but he shifts minutely as she approaches, automatically attuning himself to her presence.

“Isn’t the point of a night routine that we can get eight hours of sleep collectively, given that we can’t get it individually?” He murmurs, still not looking up even when she comes to stand in front of him.

“Hm, yes, but we were trying for a fifty-fifty ratio and you’re voluntarily shortchanging yourself. Is everything all right?”

“I’m fine,” says Nathaniel with a slight smile, flicking his eyes up to meet hers. He shifts a little further, adjusting his position. “I usually wait a few minutes before putting her back in the crib, otherwise she wakes up and the whole cycle just repeats itself. We might want to consider changing her blanket—I’m not convinced she likes it very much.”

Maybe it’s the hour, but Rebecca can’t help but giggle at his earnestness.

“Or, maybe, she just wants to spend time with her daddy a little longer,” she says softly.

Nathaniel ducks his head and were it not for the darkness of the room she would bet that she could see the flush across the back of his neck, running up the tips of his ears.

“I don’t think she even knows who I am yet,” he protests, embarrassed. She gets it—it still feels new, labelling themselves in this way. She still twitches when Paula teasingly calls her mama or mommy when addressing Evie. Somehow, those titles sound both too silly and too responsible at the same time, and still don’t quite fit. But the titles are also unmistakably theirs, now.

“Well, I don’t know what she thinks of me beyond being a mobile milk factory either, so we’re pretty much on the same page there.” Nathaniel raises her eyebrows at her in disbelief; she holds up her hands in mock defense. “Hey, it’s not a slight against Evie—why should she think that other beings exist outside of her? That’s asking a lot of someone whose brain is still developing.”

Nathaniel doesn’t laugh, but he does press his lips tightly together and avert his eyes in a way that makes her suspect it’s taking some effort to avoid disturbing the baby.

Their baby.

A year of planning and discussion, nine months of growing a person, eight hours of intense pain to push her out, not to mention the weeks of postpartum lochia—somehow, she still sometimes can’t entirely believe that this is their new reality.

She watches as Nathaniel absently strokes Evie’s back; his expression clouded. Sleep deprivation aside, it isn’t a familiar look.

“Nathaniel? Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Hm? It’s nothing too important.” He looks down at Evie, his tone soft and even. “I was just thinking about a few things. Remember how everyone said we would understand our parents once we had kids of our own?”

“See, I only remember a bunch of strangers being weirdly personal and in my face about my choices,” says Rebecca. “I mean, sure, they meant well, but also they were completely talking out of their as—esophagus,” she hastily self-corrects, even before Nathaniel shoots her a warning look to watch her language around the baby and her highly-sensitive ears. “I said esophagus.”

“Hm, nice save.”

“I still say we’re only delaying the inevitable. We might as well get her used to my extensive vocabulary so she doesn’t waste time being scandalized later. Plus, she’ll learn so much about creative language use! Imagine the day she’s on the schoolyard and knows exactly the right words to send all the mean kids crying to the teacher. Tell me you wouldn’t love to get that phone call.”

Nathaniel lets out a disbelieving snort but concedes the point with a careless flick of his free hand. He tips his chin down to check on Evie, still sleeping peacefully despite the whispered conversation. Rebecca can see him turning over whatever point he has to make in his head, and slips down to join them on the couch, angling herself so that she can curl in to his side, absently bringing her hand up to trace Evie’s clenched fist, cooing when she shifts and reaches out to wrap Rebecca’s finger in a weak grip. Nathaniel’s free hand comes to rest on Rebecca’s shoulder—when she looks up at him his eyes are soft.

For a few moments, they let themselves stay like that, the only sound a faint rustling from the trees lining the boulevard outside the apartment as the rest of the world sleeps. Then Nathaniel exhales, and draws his hand away from her shoulder to card his fingers through his hair.

“I was just thinking that I still don’t understand my father,” he says at last, his voice quiet. “I thought I would have a better idea, after we had her. That he didn’t know how to react to the idea of having a kid, and maybe he just freaked out and funneled all of those feelings into some impossible ideal of excellence. I thought that maybe…he just didn’t know the best way to show how he felt, or something. Still a bad father but, you know, in a way that actually made sense.”

“And he doesn’t?”

Nathaniel gives a short, tight shake of his head. “Not in the least. He would never have bothered with any of this.” He gestures out at their apartment, every surface covered in toys and books and babyproofed down to the square inch. “What he did was allocate a room, passed me off to someone else and waited until I old enough to be trained for the family legacy to be worth his time.”

There is no anger in his words, only a weariness that Rebecca recognizes as something separate from their late nights.

“Sounds like something you kinda already knew,” she observes.

“Maybe.” Nathaniel looks back down at Evie. “It just didn’t used to be so obvious. What’s the point of having a kid if you don’t care from the start?”

“I don’t know,” says Rebecca honestly, thinking of Silas and then firmly brushing the thought away—it has been a long time since she’s allowed him any real estate in her mind, and she is not about to start again.

“If he felt like that, he never should have had me.”

He doesn’t sound especially self-pitying, but Rebecca feels her skin prickle uncomfortably at the thought of a world where Nathaniel never came into her life. There have been many times where she’s wished that their path together had been smoother, that they had done things differently and hurt fewer people, but it’s been years since she could imagine a life without him, and she doesn’t want to start now.

She clears her throat.

“I mean, I’m going to have to disagree with that sentiment, just on sheer principle. You should too, since this little poop machine—don’t look so scandalized, I say it with love—relies on your specific genetic mixture coming in contact with mine to exist as she currently does. Not to mention that I’d miss you. Like, not personally, because you would have never existed so I wouldn’t know what I was missing, and maybe not cosmically because there is no such thing as destiny. But I would, somehow.” A pause. “I’m sorry, that metaphor went absolutely nowhere.”

He laughs softly.

“I think I get what you’re saying. Thank you,” he adds, somehow both wry and sincere and sending warm tingles through her, even despite the exhaustion and the late hour.

Rebecca bats her eyelashes in response, provoking another reluctant smile, and props her elbow against the back of the couch, resting her chin in her hand as she watches him. She likes the way Nathaniel holds Evie, she thinks idly. Always has, even those first few times when he was nearly bent double in the chair they’d pulled up by her hospital bed, cradling Evie in the crook of his arm, his hold awkward but careful.

“If it’s any consolation,” she says eventually, “Understanding doesn’t make things that much easier. I’m still confused about how I feel about my mom these days. She used to always tell me to put myself in her shoes, and now I am, like, literally wearing the same brand, and I still don’t understand her methods.”

“But you know where she’s coming from?”

“Eh, ish. I do think I recognize what she was trying to do a little better,” Rebecca admits. “Again, I agree with basically none of her methods. I just…might have a better idea about what emotional place she was coming from. I get the desire to protect someone with everything you have.”

Nathaniel nods his agreement, absently bringing up his fingers to brush Evie’s cheek, whisper-light. “At least there’s that.”

“I guess.”

“Do you think it will help when she comes out to visit next month?”

“Oh, no. I definitely wouldn’t say that,” Rebecca grumbles, rubbing hard at her eyes. “We’ve been doing okay with boundaries, but I honestly have no idea what to expect this time. She might evoke some grandmother clause or something as an excuse to say whatever the hell she wants. She used to do the exact same thing to my dolls.”

“What?”

“Yeah—she would say I was cossetting them too much and that they would die of exposure otherwise. Who knows what she’s going to say about our parenting. She’ll say that she has a ‘just a couple of points’ and then bring out the whole machete. Like, at least your dad knows he was a sucky father and keeps his mouth shut.”

He snorts, hitching Evie up a little higher up on his chest. “My dad? Keep his mouth shut? What alternate universe have you been visiting?”

“Well, okay, you’re right, he’s still kind of bitchy—yes, language, sorry, don’t give me that look—but your mom is always lovely, so I can just tune him out.”

“I see,” says Nathaniel, smirking a little, clearly pleased at the image. “That’s good to know.”

“And I know I don’t have to take it from her, but I need to like, talk to Dr Akopian for a refresher in case she gets nasty and I need to reinforce boundaries. And it makes me so mad that I need to do that, because, as parents, you and I are definitely raising the bar compared to their methods.”

“I mean, they just left the bar on the ground.”

“Exactly. And you know, Paula told me the other day that she thought we were doing just fine—and okay, you know what, maybe that’s not quite the ringing endorsement I was gunning for,” Rebecca backtracks when Nathaniel’s eyebrows shoot high up on his forehead in disbelief. “You are absolutely correct. I should have led with Darryl—Darryl also said we’re doing really well, in the same conversation. And April agreed! I think that totally counts in our favor.”

Nathaniel looks down at Evie, as if to check that she has not stirred, but not so quickly that Rebecca doesn’t catch his pleased smile.

“I think so,” he says softly. His gaze comes up to meet hers, and she’s gratified to see the cloud in his expression has cleared. “Anything else on your mind?”

“Nothing urgent. But I think we do need a bigger space—I think we were overly optimistic about how much square footage a baby needs. Can you imagine how cramped this place is going to feel once she starts crawling?”

“No, but I still can’t picture her sleeping through the night right now, either,” says Nathaniel. “Besides, if we had a spare room, we’d be obligated to offer it to your mother.”

“Good point. On the other hand, having a spare room means we would have a designated place for sex again.”

Nathaniel blanches.

“Rebecca!” he hisses under his breath, retracting his hand from her hair and cupping it protectively around Evie’s exposed ear.

“What?” Rebecca asks innocently, biting her lip to keep from grinning. “She doesn’t understand words yet. And it wasn’t an invitation, dude. More like a notion, if you will. A notion we should consider, because practically speaking, at some point we are going to want to…” she trails off, fumbling for an appropriate euphemism.

“Play Boggle?” Nathaniel suggests helpfully.

Rebecca rolls her eyes at him, fond. “I see what you did there. But yeah, we’re going to want to play Boggle regularly again, and it’ll be nice to have a separate room to set things up; I don’t want to have to send her away each time we plan a game night. And while the shower technically counts, given that we are not as young as we used to be, I don’t think it’s worth the risk.

“Oh, come on, we’re not that old,” Nathaniel objects, leaning forward, then freezes at a tiny squeak from the bundle on his chest—Rebecca would laugh at how his eyes pop in alarm if she wasn’t certain that hers were doing the exact same thing. They both hold their breath, watching, but she only whimpers a little and rubs at her face before falling silent again.

“Close one,” whispers Rebecca.

“That was on you,” he mutters. “All I’m just saying is that it shouldn’t be considered entirely off the table—”

“Oh, don’t get me started on the table. Not with the way your back is going.”

Nathaniel brings his hand up to cover his mouth but isn’t quite able to contain his snort of laughter completely. Rebecca grins, unrepentant, and he rolls his eyes at her.

“Fine, let’s look into getting a new place after your mom’s visit,” he says, letting his hand return to his side. “But I maintain that Evie doesn’t need to know anything about that aspect of our marriage, okay?”

Rebecca rolls her eyes. “I mean, point taken, I learned way too much about my mom’s love life way too early, but still—at the end of the day, intercourse is just a part of most people’s lives, dude. I don’t want her to grow up thinking it’s shameful or gross.”

“I know.”

“And besides, if we freak her out too much and she does need a therapist, we can always help her find a good one.”

Nathaniel nods. “Right.”

“And she won’t be afraid to ask us, because she’ll know it’s not shameful to need help.”

“Of course,” agrees Nathaniel, his forehead starting to crease.

“Because she’ll know she can rely on us if she ever needs help,” Rebecca continues fiercely, warming on her theme. “Because we’ll tell her that we love her no matter what, and that we’ll always be there for her no matter what. She won’t ever feel like we won’t be. She won’t ever know what that’s like.”

She stops abruptly, not because she doesn’t have more to say but because her heart has tightened her throat. She can’t quite look at Nathaniel, squeezing her eyes tightly closed to contain the surge of protectiveness that threatens to burst out of her.

“Of course,” he says, so quietly she almost can’t hear him over the throbbing of blood in her ears. “She’ll always have us.”

She feels his hand come up to cup her face, then slide down to the nape of her neck. but his thumb brushing over the muscles in firm circles, soothing the tension there, the gentle physicality of the motion grounding her in their present.

“We’ll help her get whatever she needs,” he echoes, his voice thick, but firm in his conviction.

Rebecca nods rapidly, not trusting herself to speak. She brings her hands to her eyes and takes a slow breath, expelling a shaky laugh.

“Wow, I’m sorry, I’m more tired than I thought for all of that to come, just, like, rushing out. It must be the baby brain,” she says. “Heather warned me that it could happen. Remember?”

“I remember,” says Nathaniel. Then, even more gently, “I only have a noon meeting tomorrow. Want me to pick you up from therapy? We can go to Il Cabino after; have some dinner, show off Evie and make everyone else jealous.”

She gives a tiny nod. “That would be nice.”

“It’s a date, then,” says Nathaniel, and Rebecca giggles again. She looks at the man with whom she has created this space, where they have created something that is entirely their own, where they can be vulnerable and fall to pieces and rebuild into something stronger and remembers all of the steps that led them there. It’s always been give and take between them. That was how they started, that was how they would keep going. They could do this.

“And it sounds wonderful. Thank you.” She leans over and kisses him, still mindful not to disturb the baby. “Now scoot over. I wanna put my head on your other shoulder.”

“Wouldn’t it be better just to go back to bed if you’re tired?” he asks, even as he shuffles over so that Rebecca can press even more tightly into his side, humming in contentment as his free hand curls gently into her hair.

“I’ll go when you go. It’s technically still my turn,” she murmurs. “And I don’t wanna miss anything.”

#crazy ex girlfriend #rebecca x nathaniel #ellie writes fic #naming the baby was the worst part hands down

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svrssnp · 6 years ago

Text

Tread Lightly: Severus Snape x Reader - Part Three

Words: ~4,500 // Reading Time: ~16 minutes // Summary: When you are offered an apprenticeship by Professor McGonagall two years after graduation, you move into Hogwarts once more. You enjoy the work, the students, and even your coworkers. However, it seems that your former Head of House and Potions Master, Severus Snape, is the only one not warming to you. You decide that two can play in the game of torment. // Read PART ONE. // PART TWO.

The night of patrols with Snape had left you in a pleasant mood the next morning. You had woken up to find yourself still in your old robes from the night before and, to your surprise, Professor Snape’s cloak he had lent you. You had been so tired when you made it to your quarters that you had fallen asleep the moment you laid down.

An odd thought popped into your head once you showered and began dressing for the day. Snape’s cloak was sitting folded on top of the dresser, ready for you to return to him at breakfast today. Yet once you were clad in your emerald green Slytherin robes, you wondered if he would even remember lending it to you.

You remembered how warm and comfortable it had been last night on patrols, and how you had meant to ask him where he had gotten it. Smirking to yourself, you quickly charmed the cloak to a smaller size before wrapping it around you.

Looking into the mirror, you had to admit that it did not look bad on you at all. If anything, it added a touch of dramatics with the Slytherin green robes. Content with it, you left your quarters and journeyed to the Great Hall for breakfast. You wondered if he would even recognise the cloak.

Stepping into the Great Hall, you noticed that you were later than usual due to the outfit change, as everyone was already digging into their eggs and toast. This was the reason, you assumed, that almost the entire hall grew near silent when you walked in.

You quirked an eyebrow up at the sudden silence—as the Great Hall was never silent—but kept on walking. The chatter resumed with you, and as you passed the long tables you could hear faint whispers.

“—said he caught them in the forbidden forest.”

“How can that old bat even get a girl like that?”

“She’s wearing his cloak today—“

“—maybe he’ll give less work, with her with him—“

Your eyes grew wide and you stopped dead in your tracks at hearing all of their words. You had forgotten all about Orville Silas and Joseph last night. In fact, you'd forgotten all about that little prat and his words: “Slytherin traitor of a girlfriend!”

You had known that he would spread that little rumour eventually, but it was only breakfast! How fast did rumours fly around at Hogwarts these days? Suddenly feeling like you taking the walk of shame, you quickly glanced up at the Head Table to see that all the professors were carefully watching you.

Sprout had her eyebrows raised up so far that they disappeared under her hat. Flitwick and Vector seemed to quickly look down at their food when they noticed you looking, and Sinistra was suddenly very fascinated with her goblet. Even Professor Binns attended breakfast today. The only three professors who gazed directly back at you were Dumbledore, with a very knowing glint in his eyes; McGonagall, who had her lips puckered as though she had swallowed one of Dumbledore's lemon drops; and Snape, who appeared to be smirking back at you much more passionately than ever before.

Obviously Professor Snape must be pleased, you thought to yourself. Isn't this what he had told you that he wanted last night? He had wanted the rumour to spread, just to "see the look on all of the professors' faces." Well, his wish had certainly come true, and he was enjoying himself far too much, you reckoned.

Stepping up to the Head Table, you were going to swiftly take a seat before you heard a familiar voice and felt someone grab you by the arm.

“Miss (L/N)!” She breathed out, tired from jogging to your seat. “I have heard the news! The news of you and Severus!” You quickly tried to stop her by shaking your head and was about to interrupt, but she continued. “I have seen your cards together, and they align perfectly! You see—“

“Professor Trelawney, please!” You told her as she began fanning out the tarot cards in her hands. She walked away with a huff and you took your seat right beside a very disgruntled looking Professor McGonagall.

But you didn’t pay any attention to her expression, and instead felt relief at seeing a person who could actually help you with the situation at hand. “It’s so nice to have you back, Professor McGonagall. Forgive me for not asking about your leave yesterday, but I very much need your help right now.”

She did not answer you immediately. Instead, she seemed to peer at you from over her glasses, and you felt as if you were a first year all over again, who had just failed a test. “I will give you help, Miss (L/N), but before that, I require answers!”

You almost knocked over your pumpkin juice at her raise of voice, and it seems that you were not the only one. Professor Flitwick dropped his fork in surprise also.

“Professor, if you are speaking about what I think you are, then please just allow me a moment to explain. It’s all very funny, actually.”

“Funny?” She cut you off indignantly. “Please tell me what is funny about my own apprentice becoming lovers with the Potions Master!” She lowered her voice at those words. Apparently, she wasn't too keen on saying them aloud yet, but her quieter tone held more anger. “You, of all people! You, my bright young apprentice—who could have the pick of the litter when it comes to young wizards—choose him?”

You tried to open up your mouth to speak, to tell her that she was upset for no good reason, but you kept your mouth shut. You didn’t know if you were too afraid to answer, or merely too curious about what else she would say. Never had you seen the old witch so enthusiastic.

“You are an intelligent witch, yet here you are! Acting in such a dumb way! What do you think are the benefits of being involved with Severus Snape?” She spoke his name like it was a curse. “He is a miserable man who deserves nothing of you. I don’t know what he has promised you, or how he has convinced you that he is worthy of your time, but let me say that he is certainly not! I can think of nothing that he could give you!” She sighed, as if she were truly tired, but still managed to continue.

“Perhaps you may find him attractive, but looks mean nothing! Do you seek his authority? Because if so, that reason is incredibly faulty. What good is authority if he does not use it for the better? Hmm? And with his powers of Potions Master and Head of House he uses it to experiment in his ghastly dungeons and bully children!" McGonagall was shaking her finger like a club at you at this point. "He does not have extreme wealth... He does not have a pleasant manner... What could you possibly see in him?” She finished with a breathy sigh again, as if she were either desperate for an answer, or far too worked up. You guessed it was because of both.

In any other situation, you would have laughed at seeing Professor McGonagall so passionate about a misconception. You would have patted her hand to calm her down and told her the truth; that it was just a rumour. That you and Snape were not actually a couple. That, up until now, you had never even thought of such a thing.

But hearing the way that she spoke of him had filled you with anger. You could practically feel the rage pumping through you as she sat there and insulted him. Who was she to say who deserved you? Who was she to degrade Severus Snape in such a venomous way?

Immediately, your fists clenched and you fixed her with a deep frown. "I-I don't even know what to say to you now, Professor!” You raised your voice at her, but it was not out of anger or with the same venom that she had done with you. It was out of desperation and disappointment, as if you were pleading her to see things the way you did. However, you did not realise how loudly you spoke until the Great Hall had once again grown silent.

"How could you speak of Severus and I in such low regard?” You told her, and you almost stumbled upon saying his name. You’d only called him that once. “I'm so... so disappointed to see you place me in such little regard as to not be a proper judge of character, and you insinuating that somehow Severus is not worthy of me!” You suddenly looked over at Snape, and the smirk that laid upon his lips was so deep that it almost looked like a smile. “I know my worth! And I let me say here and now that Severus Snape is a man who is worthy of any woman he wants, including me. Yes, he may be cruel at times with an awful temper and even nastier words, but have you ever asked yourself why, Professor? Have you ever took the time to converse with him?

“Because over these past few weeks, I have found him to be the most intelligent, thoughtful, quick-witted, selfless, and handsome—yes, Professor McGonagall, I said handsome! You don't need to look that stunned—man that I have had the privilege to meet!" Suddenly, you remembered that it was not only you and McGonagall in the room, and looked up to be met with the faces of shocked professors and pupils alike.

The only person who did not appear to be stunned was the man himself, who did not even bother looking at you anymore, but rather the astounded state that McGonagall and the entire faculty was in. You felt that your heart was not beating so rapidly anymore, and you began calming down. In your more calm state, then did you start to feel the embarrassment of what you had just done.

Feeling your face grow red hot in embarrassment, you quickly murmured "Oh, Merlin... Oh, Merlin, I am so sorry!" before pushing in your chair and rushing out of the Great Hall. You felt the hundreds of pairs of eyes follow you as you heaved open the door and it slammed behind you.

What had you done? Why had you done that? You were always a bit temperamental, but nothing like that! You practically ran down the hallway as you tried to reason with yourself. Everyone could have their outbursts at times, but rarely does someone have an outburst that involves their supposed relationship with a former professor in front of the entire school. Realising just how much trouble you might have just gotten yourself in, you stopped running and instead wandered out onto the castle grounds. No one would be out here.

Fighting the urge to cry suddenly, you sat down on the ground near the forbidden forest. The autumn air was just as vicious in the morning, and you absentmindedly drew Snape's cloak around you for warmth once more. You stared at the wind blowing the trees, and your thoughts lingered back to last night with Snape.

You had enjoyed it, you discerned with some self-hatred and pity. You had enjoyed the man's company far more than you should have. Not knowing what side you had seen of him last night that suddenly made you defend him fiercely to your own mentor, you sighed heavily. Those things that you told McGonagall couldn't have possibly been true... They were merely said in the heat of the moment. You couldn't have possibly meant them.

Laying down on the grass, you just stared up helplessly at the sky for almost ten minutes. In fact, you almost began to feel better before you heard the last possible voice you wanted to hear at that moment.

"I was wondering if you would be in the Transfiguration Classroom, but it seemed more probable that you would want to avoid Minerva after your little verbal fisticuff with her." You heard the voice of Snape say.

Looking up, you could see the familiar face peering down at you, but you made no move to stand, or even sit up. You simply averted your eyes away and didn't respond. Merlin only knew what you could say.

Snape seemed to see that you weren't going to answer, and so, in a gesture that you would never think of him to do, he sat down directly next to you in the dewy grass. His hands were at his side, holding him up. He sat with his long legs straight, ankles crossed. You gave a small smile at that.

You could tell that he was not enjoying sitting on the dewy grass, though, as after some time he had grown annoyed with the silence—Imagine that, you thought. The man who craves silence is the one who wants to break it—and spoke in a casual voice. "You would think for as much Dumbledore insists to pay Hagrid that he could at least trim the grass more out here."

He looked down at you, expecting an answer, but you didn't give him one.

Noticing your stubborn nature, he sighed. "I hardly think it is polite to not converse with the person whose cloak you have stolen."

Giving in to him, you finally said in a small voice. "I didn't steal it. I just borrowed it for the day. It's very warm."

He hummed in agreement. "Yes, I know it is." An awkward silence fell between the two of you once again. This time, Snape didn't try to break it immediately. He saw that you were cloud-watching, and he was fine to humour you for a few minutes.

It was your turn to speak. "I'm sorry," you whispered out so soft that he had to strain to hear. "I'm so sorry for doing that."

You had expected him to reply with "You should be." or "Yes, I already spoke with Dumbledore about it and he has sent me to fire you." You did not expect him to give you an incredulous look, only to mutter "What for?"

"For that outburst of mine in the Great Hall, of course." You told him, embarrassment taking you over as you finally sat up. "I never meant to say all of that—"

"You can relax, (Y/N). In fact, I have come to apologise to you."

You furrowed your brows at him in confusion, "Professor, I'm not following..."

"Severus, I thought it was?" He corrected you. "Or, at least, that is what you called me to the entirety of the school half an hour ago."

"Oh." You replied, laying back flat against the grass. "Alright."

He cleared his throat then as he watched you lie down and you noticed the thin line of flesh that apeared when he tugged on his cravat in a moment of discomfort. "As I was saying, I have come to apologise to you on behalf on my actions last night, and even this morning. They were... unprofessional and I regret that you had to take certain actions to follow my words.”

“What?” You asked him. “What are you talking about?”

“(Y/N), do not act dumb in order to lure an even bigger apology from me. I will say what I have to once, and that is it.”

You glanced up at him, and you could tell that he was being genuine, but regarding what, you had no idea. Hesitating, you debated on insisting that you had no idea what he was talking about, but seeing that it would annoy him, you just replied “Um, you are... forgiven?”

At hearing the obliviousness in your voice, he glanced at you suspiciously. “Do you really not understand what I am saying? Bloody hell...” He continued with an eye roll. “I am speaking of my completely inappropriate behaviour last night when I was suggesting that perhaps this rumour would be humourous for me... Of course, I was not expecting you to actually act according to my remark, and though I did temporarily enjoy your play session with Minerva, I realised soon after that it was unfair of me to compel you to pretend that we were involved in any way, and therefore have already stated my regret." He looked at you with what could almost be called guilt. "I am sorry to have caused you embarrassment in having you think that you had to continue a lie in order to appease me."

As you listened to his words, you suddenly felt multiple emotions well up in you at once. He had thought that you were pretending when you defended him to Professor McGonagall? Just to "appease" him? Surely, you thought, even he could not be that daft. You were going to correct him, and to explain that no, you had not been acting when you defended him, and you had meant every word you said, but held back. Perhaps this wasn't the place to do it, laying on the wet grass in the foggy morning grounds with him sitting beside you. Perhaps, it was best to take this rare opportunity of his misunderstanding.

"No apology is necessary," you said. "I knew what I was doing." A lie. "And although I may have gone a bit overboard, I don't regret it." A lie. "Besides," you gave him a cheeky grin, "wasn't it rather odd to see the Great Hall so silent? It was funny." A lie. It was traumatising.

He gave you a look that told you that he knew you were exaggerating your claims, but remained quiet in his observations. "I am glad that you are so lighthearted towards this, but this does not solve the problem that the entire school still believes that we are lovers."

At that, you just huffed out your breath and rolled over on your side in the grass away from him. "I don't know what you want me to do about that."

"Well, I do not believe that there is much to do about it, considering your dramatics from breakfast." He snapped at you. He probably would not have if you hadn't turned away from him, but you couldn't help sulking at least a little.

You began picking at the grass as a way to relieve the stress around you, ignoring him completely. "We could just keep it going, you know."

"Excuse me?" He laid a hand on your waist to roll you over on your other side to see you again, to make sure that what you said was indeed not a joke. With a small yelp, you rolled over in the grass only to bump into his leg.

"Hey!" You yelled back at him, pushing his hand away from you with a light laugh. "Don't do that!"

"Oh?" He answered with an innocent look upon his features. "And why not, Miss (L/N)?"

You grinned back at him, sitting up on your knees now to level your face with his. "Because you should never do things to others if you do not want them done to you in return." You told him in a voice that you saved for pratty third years.

"And what does that mea—Oh, damn!" Snape shouted as you lunged at him. You quickly wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him down to the ground with you. You were once again laying on the ground, only Snape accompanied you now. Giggling, you reveled in the look of pure surprise and annoyance he held.

"It's quite nice down here, no?" You asked him in sarcasm, and he scowled at you, but you noticed that it was considerably less frightening when his hair was in the state of disarray as it was in now from him laying down.

"Quite not," he said in a silky tone of voice and you gasped at how close the two of you were. His nose was centimeters away from your own, and instantly you became overwhelmed.

Looking back in his dark eyes, you noticed that they carried a certain warmth in them, just like his cloak that was still wrapped around you. Dark and stiff, but at the same time still managing to warm you up inside. He only looked back at you with confusion, and for a second you thought that he was about to push you away and storm off to the dungeons.

But that moment never came, and if anything the realisation of just how close the two of you were hit you with immense power. Your hands were still lazily around his neck, and laying down flat in the dewy grass only gave your position much more physical depth. Your faces were barely apart when suddenly you couldn't take the intense black eyes, or the warm cloak, or the very firm chest that was pressed up against your own. Wait, had the two of you really landed like that?

The atmosphere hit you all at once, and suddenly without thinking, you gasped out "I meant what I said to McGonagall. I wasn't acting." You didn't know if it was your imagination, or if his eyes really did grow so wide in a split second. "I really do think that you are clever and cruel and the smartest and meanest wizard that I have met, and I very much like talking with you. I find you so incredibly interesting, and you're very attractive to me. You have a great voice and you're really good at buying warm cloaks, and—"

At the sudden stiffness of him, you knew that you were rambling, and so did the only thing that you were positive would shut you up. Leaning forward a few centimeters, you pressed your lips against your former Potions Master's and hoped that it was not the wrong decision.

He did not reciprocate immediately as you kissed him, and you tried your best not to panic. But after a moment of hesitation, he seemed to relax, only somewhat, and lean more into your kiss. You closed your eyes tighter as you began to taste the faint traces of Earl Grey tea on his lips. You didn't realise how good this could feel. Slowly, you tried to deepen the kiss by sliding one hand from his neck to tangle with his hair...

"Bloody hell!" Snape suddenly yelled, pushing you away and sitting up. He almost looked to be panicking, and you felt fear bubble in your stomach.

"What?" You yelled back unintentionally as you too sat up. "Did I do something wrong?"

"Yes!" He hissed back at you, and you faltered as he stood up on his feet. "Yes, of course you have done something wrong, Miss (L/N)! You-" He broke off momentarily, as if lacking words for once in his life. "You kissed me, you troublesome little devil!"

Finally standing on your feet again, you threw your hands up in disbelief. "You kissed me back! And I thought it was going fine until you popped up out of nowhere!"

"Why on earth would you even do such a thing?"

"I told you! Because I meant what I said to McGonagall, and... I don't know! It just felt right!" Upon noticing how unconvinced he seemed, you left out a hysterical laugh and you ran your hands through your hair in frustration. "Listen, I've been making a lot of bad decisions today and—“

"Well at least you admit that it was, indeed, a bad decision."

"No, it wasn't!" You fought back. "Or maybe it was." You murmured to yourself, suddenly feeling the urge to just completely quit your job at Hogwarts. "I don't know! I thought it was a good choice until you pushed me away!"

"I did that for your own good!" He finally raised his voice for the first time at you, and it took all you had to still remain close to him. "You saw how everyone acted today. They could hardly believe that we were a couple!"

You wanted to scream at him for being such a dunce. "That's because we're not a couple!"

He snapped back. "I know that! I was merely saying that if people cannot even fathom us as a couple, then how could you possibly even think of jeopardising everything you currently have?"

"Oooh, you are so stupid!" You internally cringed at how childish that came out, but continued regardless. "And confusing! And self-centered, cruel, and reclusive! If you want to live alone forever, then... then just do it! Stop tormenting me with your dumb remarks and smirks and leave me alone.”

"I'm the one tormenting you?" He hissed and took a step forward, so that your chests were pressed up against the other's. "You are the one who waltzed into my life again! You are the one who took a job under a damn Gryffindor who is constantly parading you around! The one who I am forced to hear about night and day from all the insufferable fifth and sixth years that I have to teach! Who has been making my life absolute hell with your insistence to keep prying me open!"

"Well you don't have to worry about it anymore, because I swear I am waltzing right into McGonagall's office and handing her the longest resignation that she will ever receive!”

You had meant to continue, but suddenly his lips came crashing against yours with a passion that made you yelp back. However, you never had the opportunity to, because his arms had wrapped around your waist the moment his lips met yours. He pulled you closer, and you almost lost balance upon hearing him actually moan in pleasure once you began to kiss back.

He gripped you tighter, as if he were certain that you couldn't possibly be kissing him; that he believed that you were going to change your mind any second and actually quit your job and never speak to him again.

You had wanted to take the kiss further, but before you had the chance, Snape once again broke the kiss. You opened your eyes up at him, but you saw that his eyes were still closed, as if he were mentally berating himself for breaking off such a wonderful moment.

You felt relief all of a sudden, as if you had been a child that so desperately was trying to get a toy for weeks on end, and at finally having it in your hands felt something of an accomplishment. Is that how you viewed this—well, whatever it is—with Snape, you wondered? Was it just an accomplishment at finally having him crack after all this time, or did you truly care for him? You knew there was only one way for you to find out.

"Severus?" You asked gently, and he opened his black eyes.

"Yes, (Y/N)?" He breathed out, and you had to bite down on your lip not to take notice of how hoarse his voice sounded all of a sudden.

You spoke dumbly, still uncertain of what to say. "I don't want to resign."

You felt the low chuckle erupt from his chest and throat at your words, and ever so politely, he pressed a soft kiss to your temple before murmuring. "No. No, neither do I want you to either."

tagging those who requested a part 3 (if i forgot you i’m sorry i’m so tired): @whitewitchdown @halfbloodsherlocked @kaishamj @darb6226 @its-called-meepmorp @wicker-god @hummingbird-flying-in-the-rain @we-talked-and-itwas-epic @chaoticcultist @rustypotatospork @emeraldbriarwritings @freelyshamelessheart @illume-melamin

(p.s. if there are any kind souls out there that would like to begin to beta my imagines i would very very very much appreciate that... it’s taking too long with just me rip)

#raise your hand if you can tell i wrote this between 1 and 3 am #severus snape x reader #severus snape imagine #severus snape #harry potter imagines #val.write

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