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macfrog · 9 months ago

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birds of a feather | joel & ellie

y'all listen to the new billie eilish album? there's a song that reminded me of a couple of someones.

pairing: joel miller & ellie williams summary: joel surprises ellie on her sixteenth birthday. warnings: nada. just me loving hard on this pair. word count: 1.5k

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Oh, my god, it is a dinosaur.

She didn’t actually believe it would be. I mean, it was her first guess – but where the fuck is he going to find a dinosaur way the hell out here? She was kidding.

Wasn’t a convertible, wasn’t a puppy, wasn’t even a lotta kittens. A litter. Whatever. It wasn’t a new pair of sneakers, nor a comic book collection. She’d almost run out of ideas, when she spotted the tail through the bushes.

Is that–? Is he seeing this, too?

It’s, like, three times the size of her. No, wait – five times the size of her. Ten? She’s gotta ask Joel.

Two thick, stocky legs planted firm into the earth. Draped in ivy and spattered with moss – the thing actually looks prehistoric. Head lifted to the canopy; teeth bared in a silent roar. His little arms – alright, they’re actually kinda fuckin’ cute – frozen, reaching for something.

It’s right fucking there. Right in front of her. A motherfucking dinosaur.

Her hands fly to her head.

“Joel!” Ellie cries, and she can hardly feel her legs with giddiness.

Joel lingers a few steps behind her. He kicks a heel through the mucky grass, just watching. Smiling like an idiot, letting the ripples from the kid’s glee wash over him. It’s like the zoo all over again, or that time he found a Savage Starlight poster while out on patrol.

Ellie’s laughter is ticklish, vibrating through his veins. She pumps her fists and sizes up the monster. She says holy shit, Joel three times before she takes a step closer.

The sun trickles through the leaves, haloing over the Rex. It’s warm, but not too warm – and the swim on the way helped cool them down. It’s a bit of a hike to get here. He’s just glad it’s a nice day.

He was, truthfully, a little nervous about it. About bringing her here. He’s never had a sixteen-year-old to plan shit for. What if she didn’t like it? Hell, what if she thought it was fucking lame?

But Ellie wades waist-deep into the moat instantly. She pulls herself through the murky water straight to the plaque, and whips out her journal.

And Joel knows he’s fucking nailed it.

“King of the tyrant lizards,” she announces, making sure she gets the spelling right. Her tongue pokes from the corner of her mouth as she sketches.

Joel wanders over to her side, hand combing through the tangles of leaves drooping from the dinosaur’s belly. He swats fluttering flies away from his face.

The water sloshes around her feet as she rounds the tail. It’s slippery with slime. She crawls over threads and vines, soles scuffing up the spine.

“What are you doin’?” he asks, a chuckle patching over cracks of sudden fear.

“I’m climbing a dinosaur!” Ellie yells. She hesitates on the snout – though only for half a second, because fuck it, how many times am I going to jump off a motherfuckin’ dinosaur? – and then she’s plummeting.

Joel’s stomach flips. He staggers into the water, breath clamped in his throat until she resurfaces again.

She’s still wearing that dumb as shit smirk. It probably didn’t flinch, the entire fall. “Did you see that?” she gasps.

Jesus. Yeah, he saw it. He pulls a hand down his face.

It’s been a year, little less than. They’re used to it by now – the slow turn of life in Jackson. Breaking bread in the dinner hall, calling the woodland creatures by whichever ridiculous names Ellie christens them with.

It took a few weeks, but eventually, their heartrates settled. Their fists loosened. They relaxed into the quiet, found respite in the negative space.

Tommy joked for the first little while that Joel had a shadow he couldn’t shake. She’s five-three, red hair, and she carries a switchblade everywhere she goes. Following him close enough that she felt more like a phantom at his heels.

Joel never minded, and he still doesn’t. He’s long forgotten the feeling of being alone – as quickly as he acquired it, it seems. These days, he waits at his kitchen table for the kick of the backdoor, the slump of a still half-asleep teenager opposite him.

He wonders how he ever got by so long without it.

He leads Ellie into the museum.

Everything looks exactly how he left it. A jungle of a building; shattered glass and overgrown grass, a muggy smell lingering in every dim corner. The stuff he deliberately left for her to stumble upon when she got here: a Giants of the Past brochure, the stupid hat he knew she’d force him to wear.

A marshland wasteland, and she still sees the magic in every square inch.

She throws fact after fact at him. Fruit flies and moon landings, gunpowder and Yuri Gagarin. She knows a shit ton, if the stacks of books on her desk are anything to go by. And when Joel tells her how smart she is, Ellie smiles smugly to herself and thinks up ten more facts, just for him.

He thinks of her books and their awkwardly long titles, the faded pictures on all the covers. Astronauts and nebulas and faraway suns. He offers the one thing he remembers from school back at her: My very educated mother just served us nice pizzas.

She’s never even heard of it.

But she’s impressed, and she repeats it to herself as she explores some more. Turning back at every new artifact she finds, beckoning Joel over with a flapping hand.

He wanders after her, thinking up questions he’s sure he already knows the answers to – just so she can tell him again. Just to see her face light, to hear her ramble as she explains.

And nine times out of ten, she corrects him, anyway.

The space shuttle is spotlit under a dome roof, more ivy spilling over the top. A little heap of machinery, succumbed to the nature around it. They crank the door open together, and a springtime heat floods from the cockpit.

Joel stops Ellie from climbing in. “You’re goin’ into space,” he says, leaning on the warm metal. “You’re gonna need a helmet.”

Her eyebrows lift. “Oh, right. What was I thinking?”

They’re too big for her – all three helmets. They’re clunky and clumsy, the visors a little grubby and distorted. But she pulls one over her head and jogs back to Joel, hoisting herself into the shuttle.

It’s cramped inside; stifling even with the door wide open. Joel feels his back twinge as he settles into the seats. But he doesn’t mind, and neither does Ellie.

She flicks button after button, her elbow knocking against his. Explosion sounds rumbling from her lips. Her breath clouds the inside of her helmet.

He could lie here all day beside her. In this quiet corner of the world, where time stands still. Guarded by the Tyrannosaurus Rex out front. Just him and his kid, listening to her mimic engine noises and pretend to lift them both into space.

But he’s hellbent on timing it perfectly. So just as she sounds the roar of a seamless takeoff, he slips the tape from his chest pocket.

“Happy birthday, kiddo.”

Ellie blinks at the cassette. “What is this?”

“This…” Joel says, pinching it in two fingers, “…is a thing that took a mighty effort to find.”

His handwriting is carved into the label. It’s the first gift – real gift, birthday gift – she’s ever been given. Thought out and made up, addressed to her and placed in her hands for keeps. All hers.

She clicks it into her player and hooks her headphones in, thumping her helmet back over her head. She jams a thumb into the play button, and –

He did remember to rewind the tape, right? It’ll play from the start, won’t it?

Joel’s heart begins to thud. He shifts uncomfortably.

Shit, what if it spoils the surprise? What if she hits play, and the first thing she hears is –

Ellie’s head lifts. Her eyes are wide. She grins, and so does he.

He fucking nailed it.

She closes her eyes, the staticky babble of mission control in her ear. His voice tickles, pulling a wide grin across her face. 10, 9, 8, 7…

The shuttle shudders as it shoots into space. She’s holding her breath, holding until he announces liftoff on Apollo 11. The naked sun stretches over her visor, red under her closed eyelids. It disappears somewhere in the distance.

Ellie lands slowly, carefully, back in Wyoming. She blinks her eyes open.

Joel’s still right beside her, hands clasped on his chest. He waits for her to turn, waits to check her expression. He asks it softly, earnestly.

“I do okay?”

Her cheeks ache with smiling. She clutches the tape player tighter, replies through a giggle.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

There might be nothing outside of this shuttle. Perhaps there was nothing to begin with. They might’ve shot straight past the earth’s atmosphere, might actually be among the stars. And it might not even matter, if they are.

Everything is right here. The sun and the moon – the entire universe between them.

Joel breathes a relieved laugh. His chest loosens, his heart settles back into place behind his ribcage.

“You’re welcome, kiddo.”

#in my genfic era #bye again #the last of us #the last of us fic #joel miller #ellie williams #joel x ellie #the last of us part 2 #tlou 2 #joel miller fic #ellie williams fic

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coriphallus · 3 months ago

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DA: The Veilguard Spoiler review pt1 - Blood Magic

alright let's do this. let's write an in-depth review of veilguard. this will be long and this will be negative and i might eventually say some good things but everything i say will be undermined with a 'BUT'.

its now been around a week since i finished the game and had some time to parse my thoughts and this is why i didnt enjoy the game; NOT why you shouldnt.

so dragon age has a very special place in my heart and i am %100 the kind that has DAO as their favourite game. i have played these games religiously, and let me prefix this by saying i was not hyped for this game, i wont lie and say i wanted bw to succeed or i hoped the game would be good etc etc. if i liked the game, it would be a surprise. alas.

so theres multiple reasons for that, but the canary in the mine for me had been the announcement on blood magic, and yeah i was not shocked after DAI but i was still disappointed. so lets start with blood magic:

Blood Magic

DA lore has changed alot over time, and just like the media it took inspiration from (ASOIAF) i was under the impression that it used unreliable narrators deliberately, just as theyve poked fun at the concept with bethanys tits. it made sense then that the people telling these stories didnt know much about blood magic therefore they couldnt explain it fully but we've known some things for certain, from the text. blood magic uses blood as its source of power instead of lyrium (blood=life force), what constitutes as blood magic is open to interpretation (i.e phylacteries), multiple groups outside of the 'civilised society' such as chasind are not so staunchly against it, knowledge on it can be passed down from a mentor and that mentor usually happens to be a spirit. it can be used to enact control over people in a literal sense and thats considered by the narrative of all DA games to be more reprehensible than burning someone alive.

now i will derail this but i swear im going somewhere with it. i grew up in a country with majority white people, some blond, most with exposed hair who lived in big cities with cobblestone roads and snowy winters and starbuckses, and who would consider themselves westerners. some religious practices i know less about than most christians know about their holidays.

where my grandma lived was at the bottom of a high slope, and once a year when we went to visit her id see a thick trail of blood trickle down from the waterway to pool on her street, and at that dinner the family (and neighbours, sometimes) would bring a myriad of dishes and we'd feast. i would see butchers shops clean their curbs with buckets of water, mopping red tinted liquid down a drain. when i grew older and we were visiting my mothers village i watched the men subdue and kill a cow that we were going to eat that night. i watched them skin it and separate the meat from its bones, explaining what parts of an animal is used for which dishes because it was their craft and a young girl showed interest. as people we always live with the knowledge that our lives depend on death, whether it be a plant or an animal. existence is not moral and clean, and death is messy. getting blood stains out of a fabric once a month is the lived reality of more than half the human population.

i was not raised religious, nobody in my close family were, i didn't feel any sort of way when those men started to pray around the cow but i knew why they did it, even if it was performative for some, for the rest they had to show respect. the cow was meant to represent somebody you cared about, offering it in their stead symbolically. it needed to be respected, it needed to be butchered without pain. save from one serving of meat, as was tradition, were donated to the food banks.

now im sure some of you are thinking 'no matter how you slice it, its still a brutal act. made more brutal by the audience deriving some form of moral superiority' and yes, i used to think that too, because what is a religious practice for them is a show to me. but it is the norm where i grew up, and in the end a cow is dead regardless because we need to eat. and some people who needed to eat more than us got to eat too.

somewhere in germany news break out that some immigrants were practicing unethical and unsanitary butcherings, you see the footage of men in kufi and puffy pants and women covered completely in black sheets get ushered out by police. they shout some things in a foreign language, speaking the name of their foreign god. they show a censored room covered in blood and gore.

so i have to ask now, when you play veilguard and see venatori torturing and exploding a halla into a puff of red smoke which image does it bring to mind, what do you think of when you hear 'ritual sacrifice'? you may not have noticed this parallel but your brain sure did, as it has been noticing for your entire life and counting, the same reason you cringe at the barbarity of people consuming raw flesh, painting their foreheads with blood, killing animals you would pet. its alien, its gross, its wrong.

i cant play this game and take it seriously with its mask yanked off, gloating about its lack of nuance every step of the way. when you hit people red stuff comes out, red stuff bad. killing bad. murder bad. that it extends more sympathy to a fantasy deer than it ever allows for living breathing people of its universe, faceless and primitive.

in other DA games there were people over there somewhere who enslaved others, built their entire civilization on the ruins of gods they cannot comprehend, practiced bloody sacrifices and rituals that doomed the world for their own power, and even in their homeland they are nothing but canon fodder to be murdered and gawked at. their traditions, religion, entire culture is less than a set dressing, because whatever grosses you out are the bad apples, because the good ones cant be anything else and still derive sympathy from the audience.

and its true, you need to be an exceptional writer to make that work, especially if you dont have any real life experience to pull from. you need to stain your hands a little, and be prepared to be called dirty.

but i see it, i see those news reports everywhere i look in the game, i see the streets being cleaned and scrubbed so the tourists wouldnt call them backwards people, unclean, less than.

ive never played a game so repulsed by and is uninterested in its own universe than DAV, in every line of dialogue i can feel it trembling in fear. my companions tell me i dont need to watch a deer getting butchered, i can look away and proceed to electrocute hundreds of masked men some of whom are talking about comically evil things like patricide.

this has always been a point of contention in the medium of video games as the most prominent way to engage with the world has been through violence, and for me the DA franchise has always managed to tackle this by allowing its main character to be messy. yes, hawke cleaves thru countless faceless raiders but theyre also an illegal immigrant trying to get by with nothing to offer to the world than their violence. warden is deliberately recruited for that same violence, the only purpose of their existence is to fight as theyre made to shed everything else from their old life. and still, still you play these characters as they are allowed to grow, heal, carve out a little space for themselves where they can laugh and joke with their peers. it is juxtaposed to that darkness in their lives that makes those moments precious.

'what is good?' the games asked, and they answered 'doesn't matter, the world can be a better place with them in it'

veilguard asks 'what is good?' and answers 'you are.'

it doesnt matter whether blood magic is bad lore-wise (and that discussion is irrelevant to this decision made by the devs), because it needs to be narratively. like tabloid news the entire premise of the story is built on it. it needs to be inaccessible to and shunned by your party and rook because they need to be 'good' and in contrast, your enemies need to be 'bad'

and like dominoes it retroactively reframes the moral stance of every game in the franchise.

so, yes, i just laughed when i saw that announcement. i didnt know what else to do. but hang on to your knickers because it gets so much worse...

#tw: animal death #tw: animal cruelty #da:tv spoilers #personal #bioware critical #veilguard critical

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crazybiscuit · 4 months ago

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Spellbind

Pairing: Mercenary!Jason Todd x Witch!Reader Summary: One second Jason's ready to leave town, the next he's married to a witch. How did he end up here? Warnings: Historical AU but it will have inaccuracies, mentions of executions and hangings (no deaths), injuries and blood Word Count: 2,335 Credits: @sweetmelodygraphics thank you for the divider! A/N: Why do I do these things to myself. I hate deadlines… Anyways, I will most likely turn this into a series in the future. Enjoy!

Shouts filled the market square, people bustling about their day carrying baskets of food and other goods. Jason weaved his way through the crowd, his dark red cloak hiding his face as he quietly stepped out of the dark alley. Despite his build, he was able to make his way without garnering much attention. He had just wrapped up the job assigned to him a few days ago and the assassination had surprisingly gone smoothly, which made him even more eager to get out of town before it all went to shit.

However, much to his dismay, it seemed the crowd grew denser as he approached the main road where his inn was. He bumped into the man in front of him and apologized, “What’s going on over there?”

The middle aged man glanced at the cloaked figure next to him and let out a small chuckle, “Execution. Our town hasn’t witnessed one in half a year now!”

Jason frowned slightly, lowering his hood to get a better view, and finally noticed the gallows standing in front of the sea of people, “What d’he do?”

“Not he,” the man responded with a smirk, “The royal guard caught a witch during their nightly patrol.”

The comment made Jason’s expression harden as he pushed past the man to get closer to the stand. A few seconds later, two graying knights dragged you, a young injured woman, onto the wooden stage. Your hands and feet were bound with iron cuffs and you had an old blindfold wrapped around your head. Blood had stained the thick white fabric due to the cuts on your face.

“Damn idiots,” the tall man mumbled to himself as he watched the cheering crowd in front of him. Jason had never believed in the stupid stories about witches. Sure, he had been brought back to life thanks to a puddle of water with supernatural abilities but he’d never met a magic user in his years as an assassin and even in his life as a knight and lord prior to his death. He personally believed the “potions” were likely just the result of knowledge on plants and other ingredients. As for things like foretelling and visions, he brushed it off as fraudsters or simply a case of hysteria.

The knights had given you to the executioner, who didn’t hesitate to wrap your neck with the noose, which caused the crowd to cheer. You stumbled as the executioner pushed you on top of the trapdoor and you cursed under your breath, frustrated with your lack of vision. The local priest hesitantly stepped up on the gallows to give you your last rites and attempt to cleanse your soul of the Devil.

This was enough, he needed to do something before these people did something stupid. Jason noticed the executioner walk towards the lever, his mind ran to find a way to help the innocent woman and he ended up shouting out, catching everyone's attention, “WAIT!”

There’s a moment of silence as the crowd quiets down, trying to figure out who shouted and why. Jason felt a little embarrassed, sensing the eyes of strangers falling on his figure, but he ignored the feeling and repeated himself with a firm tone, “Wait. I’ll marry her.”

The captain of the royal guard took a step forward on the wooden stand, his cold eyes glaring down at the man standing in the front of the crowd, “Excuse me?”

The people in front of Jason moved aside slightly, giving the knight a better view of Jason’s face. Jason straightened his posture, regretting the choice he made to not simply fight. He obviously knew it wouldn’t have actually worked but it would at least be less awkward, “I’ll marry her.”

The captain glances back at his subordinate, laughing at the statement, “You hear that Sir Harry, he wants to marry her!”

The crowd watched the knights laugh and slowly began to join in, which caused Jason to close his eyes and take a sharp breath, feeling frustrated with the situation. You had perked up at the words, recognizing them from your dream and you called out to the crowd, still blindfolded, “I accept-”

You made the mistake of taking a small step forward despite your shackles and the knights drew their swords. The captain pressed the blade against your chest, causing you to hold your breath, “Don’t move.”

“And you,” he lowered his sword and glared at Jason, “You aren’t marrying her. She’s a witch sentenced to be execut-”

Jason cut him off, not caring if he would be called insolent and rude for talking to a noble as such, “I’m asking for a foot of the gallows marriage. This will guarantee the woman a pardon.”

“A foot of the- What are you even talking about?” the captain exclaimed in frustration and Jason grew amused at the noble’s (even if he was likely only a lowly lord) lack of knowledge on the obscure laws of the kingdom, “There’s no such-”

“The 1542 pardon of Sire Fabian was the first case of a Gallows Marriage and it was enacted into law shortly after. It was never repealed, which means it’s still applicable today, even if the law is over 100 years old.”

“You impudent, lying scoundrel!” the older gentlemen shouted, “How dare you take me for a foul? Making up ridiculous claims-”

The priest put his hand on the captain's armor, trying to calm him, “Actually, the young man is correct. I’ve seen the law when transcribing the law books for the monastery.”

You let out a shaky breath as the knights seemed stunned with the words of the priest and you thank the gods beneath your breath. The priest motioned the executioner to remove the noose and approached you, seemingly no longer worried about your wickedness, “God has intervened today, my child. Don’t forget this.”

You let out a hiss, squinting as the light hits your eyes. You stared down at the whispering crowd, who looked stuck between fear and shock. The priest motioned someone from the crowd forward as the knights reluctantly began to disrupt the gathering of people, which resulted in many objections and complaints. The executioner carefully unlocked the cuffs on your ankles and wrists before helping you down the stairs with the help of the priest.

You were still recovering from the sudden turn of events as you stumbled down the stairs and you were slightly stunned to see the familiar figure of a tall, bulky man with black hair and a distinct white streak. You did your best to hide your expression as the priest asked for the man to introduce himself.

The makeshift wedding was held on the church’s steps and there were too many guests present to observe the bizarre turn of events for both Jason’s liking and your own. The vows were swiftly exchanged and there was no celebration that followed as we left the building. You stayed quiet, following him down the street, ignoring the stares of the townspeople as he led you to the inn he was staying at.

You suddenly stopped, hissing as you cut your foot on the stone and the man finally glanced back at you. You lifted your foot slightly to see the damage and he sighed, shoulders relaxing a bit. He looked around, thinking for a moment and hesitated before giving you a small blade, “Put this in your pocket and stay there. I’ll be right back.”

You don’t get a chance to object before he walks off, leaving you alone surrounded by people you personally believed would love to drag you back on the gallows. After a few seconds, you decided to sit down on the small stone wall next to the bakery. You did your best to avoid the attention and, eventually, the people went about their day, mostly losing interest in you.

The crows on the ground became the best source of entertainment for you as you waited. The blood on your foot had coagulated by now but the injury still hurt when you applied pressure to it. You could feel yourself growing tired with each minute, causing you to close your eyes for a second but it’s quickly interrupted by the sound of hooves stopping in front of you, “Sorry that took so long.”

“It’s fine…,” you quickly sat up, glancing up at the beautiful black Arabian horse as he dropped down to the ground, carrying a few bags with him. He walked over to you and lifted your foot to see the damage.

“Why didn’t you just tell me you didn’t have shoes?” he grumbled as he poured water over the wound, cleaning it out. You felt a little embarrassed as he scolded you and you tried ignoring the sharp pain, “Luckily it doesn’t look too deep…”

You let him wrap up your injury securely and he did the same with the other cuts on your body. Jason then dug through the bags and pulled out a pair of shoes he just bought and put them on you. You remarked that you could do it yourself but he ignored you. He also pulled out a dark cloak and wrapped it around your frame before grabbing your hands to help you up, “Does it still hurt?”

You shifted your weight slightly. The boots were a little too big but you could walk. They did help with the pain a bit but you still winced, “A little…”

He nodded and turned to the horse, tying the bags back up on the animal before motioning you closer. You limped over and you let out a surprised yelp as he put you on the horse. There was little conversation as he held the reins, walking the horse out of town. All he could think about is how lucky it was that despite the scene, he wasn’t recognized as Red Hood or else you both wouldn’t have made it out.

“Thank you,” you called out, clinging onto the black stallion as the forest grew denser around you.

“Don’t,” his tone was dry and you had the impression that he wasn’t much of a people’s person, “For all you know, I could kill you.”

“You won’t.”

“And what makes you so confident, huh?” he asked, mildly annoyed, glancing back at you.

“You went out of your way to save me and bought me new clothes.”

The man seemed annoyed but he didn’t respond.

You hesitated slightly, “And… I’ve had a vision of you…”

Jason paused in his steps for a second but brushed it off, “You shouldn’t make comments like that. That’s how morons of the Royal Guard think there’s women out there with actual magic.”

This was your first time confronted with a skeptic and it amused you, “You don’t believe in witches?”

“No,” his response was stern and you wondered if you should simply let it be.

“Hmm… Well, I usually don’t tell people about my abilities,” this caused him to roll his eyes as you looked around, “Where are we going?”

The sun was beginning to set, meaning the forest would quickly become dangerous, “The capital city. I have connections there that will be able to help you start a new life.”

“What about you?” you asked, sensing that he wasn’t planning on staying in the picture despite your newly wed status.

“You don’t want to be intertwined with me.”

“Why do you speak for me? We might be married but I’m fully capable of deciding the level of danger I will expose myself to.”

He gritted his teeth, sensing that he would have a hard time getting used to your presence, “Fine. Then I don’t want you to be intertwined with me and drag me down.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you are kind of an ass?”

“Everyday.”

You stayed quiet for a moment, “If you’re worried I’ll hold you back from your mercenary work, it won't be a problem.”

This time, when he stopped, he turned to face you with a harsh glare.

“What did you say?”

“I told you,” you repeated calmly, “I saw you in a vision.”

“Like Hell you did!”

You cut him off before he could draw a weapon, sensing this was escalating quickly, “The curtains were down, making it easier for you to walk past undetected in the dark room. You met with the Archbishop of Canterbury, who was passing through town, under the pretense of a business meeting but you were actually assigned on a mission to kill the corrupt Cardinal.”

His eyes widened and his hand fell from his sword’s handle.

“The Cardinal didn’t fulfill his end of a deal with the Archduke of Luthor, who hired you. You killed him and his attendants without catching the attention of anyone, without getting blood on yourself or leaving any traces behind.”

“How do you know that..?” he whispered, not liking how knowledgeable you were on his kill from earlier today.

“I already told you. I have a talent for clairvoyance.”

He didn’t seem impressed but he also couldn’t come up with a rational explanation, “Are you a part of an outlaw group? Because if you are, you better let your partners know I don’t take too kindly to threats.”

“You aren’t very trusting,” you sighed, “I’m not and, honestly, I can’t really prove that to you. You’ll just have to learn to trust me.”

The man was irritated but he decided to not leave you stranded in the woods. You didn’t seem like you were involved in the crime underworld and honestly, he didn’t think you would’ve had time to be recruited by an enemy during the time he left you alone, “I’m taking you to the capital but we are parting ways afterwards.”

With that, he began to lead the black horse again through the woods. It was getting late and you could tell the ride was going to be long but you were also looking forward to learning more about your new "husband".

#jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #jason todd x you #dcu #x reader #halloween fic #october #october fic

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eclectic-sassycoweyes · 2 months ago

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❄️Catch Me Before I Let Go❄️

A teaser of my coming 🎁 for the wonderful @ironheartwriter for the Tarlos Secret Santa gift exchange!

Dearest Lana - it’s me I’m your Santa in Secret (no more)!! I don’t regret to inform you of that, because it has been an absolute delight so far to think up something wintery and fun for you from the prompts you gave me! I do regret to inform you however, that I am running a bit behind😔

The Christmas Chaos simply caught up with me with unexpected intensity and I’ve had to ask the wonderful mods for an extension. I am doing my very best to be able to give you the fic in it’s finished form before New Year’s Eve!! To make up for it, and to hold you over until then, I have prepared this teaser for you including the above collage/mood board, and below a summary and a lil’ snippet to gift you on my posting day<3 I hope brings you both intrigue and enjoyment!

Best wishes for a happy holiday,

Your very own Secret (no more) Santa,

Mar💚🥰🤶

Summary:

As a former member of the school swim team and someone who generally likes to be in charge of whether his feet are moving or not, Carlos Reyes prefers water in its liquid form. As such, a ski resort should not be on his top ten spots to visit. He’s insistent to make an exception though, in order to treat his adventurous, snow-loving husband to some fun downtime before they embark together on the next big step for them, of parenting TK’s little brother, Jonah. He’s booked a cozy wooden lodge in the closest ski resort to Austin, and he’s going to be his most fun and adventurous self while also making sure that his husband is absolutely spoiled. There’s just a few things he hasn’t taken into account: 1) Carlos has never skied before in his life. 2) Carlos really hates doing things he isn’t already good at, especially if they include the risk of falling on your face and 3) One very annoying, and very hot, ski-instructor named Josh who is outrageously obvious in his flirting up a storm with TK.

-In which TK and Carlos go skiing for the holidays, Carlos grapples with the old notion of letting go of control, and has also convinced himself that he has something to make up for.

*****

On the third day Carlos is officially deemed ready to take on the real pistes. At least according to TK. And to.. Josh. Carlos knows it’s probably immature but he still has trouble accepting compliments from the ski-instructor without somehow taking it as the opposite.

Something about the chipper look on his face when he tells Carlos that he’s ‘doing super good’ or he’s a ‘really quick learner’ makes him feel five years old. Carlos might not know the first thing about skiing and yeah, they might have literally paid Josh for his advice and encouragement, but where does he get off telling Carlos what he is and isn’t ready for or that he just needs to try and ‘let go a little’? Ugh. It’s condescending.

Yesterday Carlos finally managed to slide down the training hill without face planting or tackling any small children along the way, only to be met at the bottom with Josh giving him a way too enthusiastic thumbs up and saying ‘good job!’ Carlos’ own brain had unhelpfully applied the ‘buddy’ to the end of the sentence, making Carlos feel like he was a little kid who had just managed to actually kick the ball at soccer practice for the first time. Carlos had to muster up all his willpower to smile politely and grit out a genuine-sounding ‘thank you’.

Josh seemed oblivious to the effect he was having on Carlos, and luckily so did TK - his happy smile and rosy cheeks and the hands that Carlos could just barely feel the pressure of as they gripped at his waist over thick layers while he kissed him with lips that felt cool and moist from the snow had quickly improved his mood and made him feel genuinely proud of his accomplishment.

Despite this, Carlos feels a little less sure about whether he’s really ready for the real thing, especially now as they’re on top of the hill and looking down, the daunting stretch of it is looking longer and more steep than it had seemed from the foot of it. He’ll be fine, he tries to reassure himself. If nothing else, he believes in TK and TK believes in him. According to TK (and Josh but Carlos is trying to reach a state of cool indifference when it comes to him mainly by trying not to think about him too much) it’s good to try the real piste sooner rather than later, to experience the thrill of actually skiing so as to not risk growing tired and frustrated before you’ve even experienced the real fun of it.

Better to fall on your face a few times than to stay on the training piste the whole trip and go thinking you’ve had enough of skiing for good. Carlos is trying to be on board with that sentiment even though he really isn’t the type to normally throw himself into things without feeling like he’s at least prepared enough that the chances of success are somewhat high.

‘Learning by doing’ and ‘crack a few eggs along the way’ are not normally sentiments that resonate with him. He will be the type for those though, for TK. For his wonderful and adventurous boyfriend who has put up with Carlos being a sobbing mess half the time during the past few weeks, carrying the weight for both of them as they’ve embarked on the process of adopting his little brother, and with Carlos’ absent mindedness and late nights even longer. So at least for this week, he’ll be adventurous for TK while he does his best to treat him to everything he desires.

Besides, it’s not like they’re doing the biggest pistes just yet - the plateau they’re on constitutes the starting point to the smaller slopes and they’re doing the smallest one to start with. TK will be with him the whole way, probably bored as they slide slowly down the hill with Carlos pushing the front of the skis inwards to break the whole way.

He’s already survived the trip up, gripping TK’s hand tight the whole way and trying his best to appreciate the view, mostly managing to appreciate the view of TK appreciating the view, as he found that looking down made him a little lightheaded and made his heart speed up in his chest uncomfortably.

As Carlos refastens the buckles of his ski-boots (he’s already done it twice, once when they arrived at the pistes and put on their skis, and once right before getting on the ski-lift, images of his skis falling off on the way up and landing right on somebody’s head making him guilty of negligent manslaughter on account of not tightening his boots enough), Carlos ends his little pep talk by sternly telling himself to pull it together. He can do this. This is their second to last day on the trip, and TK deserves to have some fun too, instead of having to spend his whole trip in the training area with Carlos and all the children.

Speaking of TK, Carlos rights himself and looks around for him. He didn’t want Josh to witness him neurotically double and triple check the buckles of his boots, not feeling sure that he would react nicely to Josh butting in to offer unsolicited advice or, God forbid, crouching down to help him tighten them. So he’d mustered up a confident smile and told himself and TK to go ahead and Carlos would find them.

Now he’s kind of regretting that. Carlos might allegedly be ready to slide down the smallest of the ‘adult’ hills, but the thing is, he still hasn't completely mastered the whole ‘moving on purpose in a normal walking pace’-thing. He still feels like it’s the skis, not him, deciding when he’s standing still and when he’s moving (and if he’s honest, which direction he moves in).

Spotting his husband and the ski instructor that Carlos is not currently sparing thoughts for, by the starting point of the slope they’re supposed to try first, Carlos starts slowly making his way there. Luckily they seem to be caught in conversation and Carlos hopes that it stays that way so he doesn’t have to be observed inelegantly and very slowly approaching them. Nothing more awkward than waving and then being stared down for five minutes while you’re sweating and fighting to get within talking distance.

Once Carlos is within hearing range, he picks up bits of their conversation. “Oh,” he hears Josh’s voice say, and Carlos swears he can hear, even from just that one word, that the ski instructor is flirting with his husband. “I don’t suppose they make calendars for those too..?” And at that Carlos has to stop walking to roll his eyes (he can’t do both at the same time).

Not this again, he thinks angrily. He can’t believe he’s had to witness TK being the victim of this god-awful pickup line twice in the span of their less than five years long relationship and had to fend the guy off (leading to some spectacular sex the first time, but still). Can’t these idiots come up with something better?

Carlos picks up his pace, he needs to stop this conversation before it goes any further and show this Josh-guy, Mr. ‘I’m a hot and blonde ski instructor who probably never gets caught in my head and is a lot of fun’, who TK belongs to. Even if somewhere deep within himself Carlos is finding it hard to measure up at the moment.

Carlos is sweating and panting, his brows furrowed in concentration trying to make his legs move faster, his thighs protesting as he slides one in front of the other in quick succession, using his poles to try and make sure he’s actually causing a forward movement instead of just looking like he’s using the skiing machine at the gym. At one point he gives up and turns so his side is to Josh and TK, awkwardly lifting his skis to take broad steps sideways.

He’s already preparing what to say in his head. Maybe if he interrupts the exact same thing as last time, TK will find it funny and get that wonderful crinkly and shiny eyed laugh he reserves for Carlos’ jokes that always makes his chest feel two sizes bigger, and they can laugh about it later tonight and hopefully have a repeat of the spectacular sex it resulted in last time.

Deciding he’s as close as he’s gonna get if he’s gonna make it in time before the conversation moves on, he turns towards them again. Trying to make it look deceivingly effortless as he closes the rest of the gap between them, he paints on his cockiest smile and shouts, loud enough to make sure they can hear him even though he’s barely within hearing range, “And his husband is a Texas R-“

Unfortunately he doesn’t get further than that because the thing that could absolutely not happen, happens.

In his eagerness to interrupt the blatant flirting aimed at his husband, Carlos had accidentally turned his skis in the direction of the light downwards slope toward one of the bigger pistes, and, quickly losing forward momentum as soon as he didn’t give it his full attention, has now started to slide backwards. And this time he isn’t in the training area anymore and he won’t be caught by a fence.

He sees TK’s eyes widen as his form gets smaller and smaller, and Carlos tries desperately to break, but he can barely break while going forwards, let alone when he’s going backwards, and he isn’t succeeding. In fact, he’s picking up speed, and a glance over his shoulder tells him he’s fast approaching the edge where the plateau changes to one of the steeper slopes.

In a last resort to prevent disaster Carlos lets himself fall ungracefully into the snow, but unfortunately, it’s too late. The concerned faces of people clad in ski suits of all colors swim in and out of his vision as he tumbles down the hill. The world spins dizzyingly around him like he’s the immobile center of a spinning snow globe depicting a ski-resort themed winter wonderland.

Through his dizziness, Carlos manages to send a prayer to the universe that he won’t bump into someone and cause some sort of mass casualty event, as he keeps tumbling for what feels like ages. At some point the tip of his left ski seems to catch on something causing a sharp pain to shoot through his ankle, making him cry out in pain.

The world spins a few more times and then he's landing on his back at what he assumes is the bottom of the slope. Squinting dazedly up at the clear blue sky he tries to catch his breath. Trying to move his leg which is bent at an odd ankle so he can sit up, he grimaces and lets out another cry as he’s reminded of twisting his ankle on the way down, the sharp pang settling to dull throb as he stops trying to move.

Turning only his head he sees the bright orange shape of TK in his ski suit zig-zagging down the hill at impressive speed. His hero, his wild heart, come to save him.

#tarlossanta24 #tarlos #tarlos fic #911 Lone Star #911 Lone Star fanfiction #Tarlos fanfiction #my wip’s #Carlos Reyes #tk strand

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m0chisenpai · 2 years ago

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Goldilocks

Pre!Avatar Way of Water

platonic!jake sully x human!!reader x platonic!neytiri

A child’s imagination knows no bounds. And it especially sees past tall gray walls lined with barbed wire. You were here on this new planet full of life unlike the dead, gray streets of your home planet. Unknown to your young mind that it was dying. Mommy and daddy just told you that you all would be here for a little while while daddy did research.

You were like the puppy that grew too large and out its tea cup phase. Mommy and Daddy didn’t hug you as much as they used to, had no problem sending their baby so many times into hyperspace you should have been 20 by now. But with each passage they promised their own return with you on the next. Little did they know the effects of traveling so long on a child.

When you were on the foreign planet you were placed under supervision of the scientists given one task: “if the kid goes missing or mixed up with the locals we’ll feed you to them.”

It was one of the many days when your eyes watched as a scientist carried some plant past you. You loved the plants, they danced and moved around you, like they knew you had no children here to play with. As though someone knew of your lonesome. The scientists would tell you their names that you couldn’t say without getting a tongue twist. But all you knew was they were unlike the roses your father brought your mother.

You were outside toying with an old ball near the facility that housed the avatars assisting the scientists in carrying large cases and samples. You didn’t like them. They looked more human than na’vi. They didn’t wear the clothes or beads the scientists would pull up to show.

Your ball landed farther than expected bouncing off the rim, over the fence and into a bush. And as you stumbled as carefully as possible through the gaping hole to your toy a floating seed landed atop the toy and your eyes widened as you leaned forward to eye it. It was beautiful and wispy. It glimmered in the flight and you reached a slow hand to hold it only for it to flutter away.

The floating seed seems to drift and dance along branches and atop plants, and you follow in a daze, your eyes never lingering or moving from it. And when you stopped for a moment to hop a large branch it waited patiently before continuing to lead you on this journey.

And with a childish giggle you lept and attempted to catch the glowing plant but it would float just before your hands could brush it.

You were ignorant to the animals as they watched you with lazy eyes as you stumbled through the forest. One of them even helped you to climb the large tree it landed on. It was giant, sleek and black. Like a giant puppy. Its tongue lapped at your cheek and you squealed, rewarding it with the most gentle scratches behind the ears which made it huff and bark.

It lowered itself onto the ground and you climbed atop its back and with its help stopped onto the first nook that led you up many of the steps which you climbed after thanking the puppy which barked back and trotted into the bushes.

The tree was large. Unlike any you’d climbed back home. Its roots were large and many, and it was filled with more avatars. But these ones looked nicer, more friendly. Less human. These were the na’vi. You understood bits and pieces, but you were old enough to know a human child was the one thing that stuck out like a sore thumb.

But you were small and nimble enough to stick to the more shadowy thick parts that hid your figure till you found yourself hidden in a large tent. Everything was slightly larger in proportion to your body but it didn’t matter. Your young mind told you to just touch and explore everything and anything. And from the looks of it you were in the tent of someone special by how much stuff was in it and the shiny pretty things as well.

So you toyed with the bow and arrows and when your eye caught the glint of beautiful beds you dropped the weapon in favor of rummaging through the box holding up a bracelet cooing at how it glinted in the light. You piled them on your arms and continued your venture deeper until a large rumble ended your fun.

It was lunch time.

But home was so far, and from the smell of what was sitting by the fire you knew in an instant you’d like that much more than the icky food they served for the soldiers. And so you carefully reached into the wooden bowl for the chunk of bright fruit which made your lips purse as you threw it into the fire, “too bitter!”

The one next to it had what looked like meat and you took a small piece and chewed slowly before once again spitting it into the fire, “spicy!”

You huffed and puffed, shoving the fruit in the next bowl in your mouth letting a hum as you sank into the ground eating another piece. It was just right. Tangy like a mango but savory as well. You ate one after another until none remained and your eyes felt heavy.

And so your tired eyes for anything to turn into your nap pile. Your fingers caressed coarse blankets which you threw down, a blanket woven with a fabric that was just too heavy and then you found it!

It was woven with such love and it was not too soft or too stiff, it was perfect! And it was double your size just enough for you to bunch it up and still have some to cover your body in the little area where you slumbered peacefully.

Unknown to the sleeping child the inhabitants of said tent had just returned. Ole’ , Jake Sully, ran a tired hand down his face as he sat his bow among his other weapons while his mate entered from behind hissing and spitting about the human raid they quickly silenced.

He soothed his mate as best as he could, gathering her in his arms and pressing his forehead to her own as he placed his hands to her swollen stomach. And as she stared over his shoulder taking in his comfort her sharp eyes noticed the open box containing her beads.

“My Jake…” he hummed as she whispered into his ear, “someone is here.” And immediately his arms tensed as his eyes flitted about the tent, his ears moving in every direction, listening. He could hear someone breathing and that’s when he saw the blankets shift.

“My left, your right. No sudden movement, act normal.” She breathed sharply through her nose and moved away and made her way to the box, carefully picking up the missing pieces of jewelry.

And Jake slowly moved to the bundle of blankets, hand on his knife’s hilt slowly crouching behind and catching his mates eye as she raised her own weapon, waiting for his word. And switfly he yanked the blanket to reveal,

“ A child?” Neytiri quickly lowered the bow now kneeling in front of the sleeping girl who rolled over, a pout upon her face as her hands fisted the blanket.

“How did she make it in here?” Jake tilted his head, shaking it in thought. You were so small. You couldn’t have possibly been brought on that raid. And there was no way a human child could have gotten in without some help.

“How she entered is not the problem. Who’s looking for her will be the problem.” Neytiri hissed softly. A search party would surely be sent soon as word of your disappearance was made known. But that can wait, because now you are waking up.

Your eyes slowly blunk open up at the disappearance of your comfort to be met with two large blue figures crouched in front of you, speaking amongst themselves. Now any normal child would have yelled and screamed in terror, had they not been exposed to the local life on the planet. You however, are far from normal and softly cleared your throat to speak up.

“Ex…excuse me” your broken na’vi interrupted the pair who looked at you in wonder. “Blanket..please” you held your hands out.

Silence fell and Jake looked to the piece he held in his hands and handed it for you to cover yourself back up, the beads clanking on your arms Neytiri eyed and you bashfully rolled them off of your wrists holding them out to her.

“Sorry….pretty.” Neytiri rarely flustered easily but as she took the jewelry back she couldn’t hold but hold your smaller hands for a moment. Her fingers caressing your small palm which slipped from her grasp as you rearranged the blankets to cocoon you.

“You speak pretty well kid” Jake huffed and you gaped up at the older man pouting at him.

“Why didn’t you tell me you could speak english” and Jake let out another huff of laughter gently pinching one of your puffy cheeks between his fingers smiling fondly at your pouting face.

“Cause you didn’t ask kid. But I have a question for you. How’d you get here? You’ve gotta be much taller to climb the steps and you're a long way from home.”

You hummed softly looking up in thought then looked back into his eyes “mom and dad bring me here for business. Because the earth is sick. But daddy doesn’t really have time for me and momma is back on earth with him because they’re gonna come back together next time!”

“And how many times have you been here, little one?” Neytiri spoke up.

“I think this will be my fourth time! Momma and daddy will be coming next time though” you nodded to yourself. And Jake couldn’t help the way his gaze softened and his ears drooped slightly. You could have been an adult by now. And Neytiri noticed this shift in her mate's behavior because she reached forward and tucked the blankets around your body, cupping your face with his larger palm.

“Rest now child. You had a long journey today and must be very tired.” You nodded and let your eyes close as she slowly removed her hand from your face. Her thumb brushed over your cheeks and gently pushed the coils that tickled your cheeks.

“How could they do this to her?” Had you been any other child she would have had you dropped back off where you were found. But Neytiri wasn't surprised. If humans could destroy their own planet whose to say their interactions with one another weren’t just as destructive? But you were so pure. How can anyone possibly do this to an innocent child?

“I don’t think they’ll be looking for her.” Jake shook his head. Who knows what affects your constant travels to the moon could have on you. You were so young and if his assumptions were correct, they were abandoning you here.

“She sent her here.” Neytiri perked up watching as the seedling fluttered to lay on your hand. And Jake watched too as it fluttered away. Who was he to deny the deity that spared his life and gifted him another? She was doing the same for you.

#jake sully x reader #avatar x reader #neytiri x reader #platonic!jake x reader #platonic jake sully x reader #platonic neytiri x reader

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blurredcolour · 1 year ago

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You Arms Pull Me In Like The Tide Pulls Me Under | Part Three

Your Arms Pull Me In Like The Tide Pulls Me Under Masterlist

Dick Winters x Female SOE Agent!Reader

For the first time since you met, fate seems to be conspiring to keep you and Dick apart, forcing you to find new ways to remain connected to one another.

Warnings: Military Violence, Discussion of Injuries and Death, Separation, Fear, Discussion of Nazi Atrocities, PTSD, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Language, Mature/Explicit Themes - 18+ ONLY.

Note: This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal of Dick Winters by Damian Lewis. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within. Non-English is denoted in italics.

Word Count: 4568

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

Bastogne – December 21, 1944

Grasping the handle of your F-S knife, Dick chopped at the thick layer of ice in the ammunition box braced between his knees, revealing the frigid water beneath. He planted the blade into the dirt at the edge of his foxhole, starting to spread shaving cream onto his cheeks as his friend Nixon threw back the tarp covering the next hole over.

He emerged into the milky light, the fog still thickly besetting the Bois Jacques, as he stumbled over holding out your scarf. Dick motioned with his head for him to set it on the ground beside him and Nixon simply sat down there himself. “Thanks for lending it to me.”

“You were shivering so much after your recon I could hear your bones rattling.” He muttered as he dragged his razor over his stubble, flinching at the chill of the blade each time it met his skin.

Nixon gave him a lopsided smirk. “Sure your girl won’t mind me borrowing it? It still smells real nice.”

Dick glared at him out of the corner of his eye. “I have half a mind to stab you with her knife.”

Nixon’s grin only widened. “The poetry of it would not be lost on me, I assure you.”

With an affectionate roll of his eyes, Dick quickly finished shaving before retrieving the scarf from his friend’s hand and wrapping it tightly around his neck, tucking it beneath the collar of his ODs. Nixon was right, there was still a hint of your scent woven into the fibres and he could only hope to hold onto it. Merely nine days ago he had left you on the platform in Paris, and not three days ago he had stood at the crossroads outside Bastogne, staring back to where he knew you slept safely in your bed, making a vow to keep it that way. Your body bore enough scars from this war, he would not permit the accumulation of any more.

His hands found their way into his pockets, lips twitching as his fingers brushed against the edge of your cap badge stowed inside the right one. Pressing it between his thumb and forefinger, his heart warmed somewhat against the chill of the morning. The eerie silence was broken by Lipton’s shouted warning of ‘incoming!’ and he and Nixon quickly threw themselves into the bottom of the foxhole to take cover as yet another barrage of artillery rained down on their position. Working the pad of his thumb along the grooves of the maple leaves, he took slow, steady breaths, focusing on each ridge, on the raised lettering, using it as a tool to ground him amidst the maelstrom that filled the woods.

As the chaos eased off, the men slowly began to emerge from their cover, and Dick took stock of the dead and wounded. It was a tedious and heart-rending routine they had fallen into since taking up this position. Reports given and calm restored for the time-being, Dick took advantage of the rare moment with no demands on him to delve his hand into the breast pocket of his jacket and retrieve your letter. The creases were becoming well worn, the words nearly memorized, but the solace it brought him was no less profound.

When, at last, supplies reached them after Patton broke through the German lines, Dick was both taken aback and yet somehow unsurprised when his correspondence from regiment included a bound packet of letters bearing your handwriting. You were a determined woman, and true to your word it seemed you had been writing almost daily. With your posting in Paris, and connections at Allied HQ, your letters had been delivered through military channels rather than civilian ones.

Ordering the runner to wait, he quickly dashed off a reply to you. He kept the message free of sentiment, knowing that it would be read by numerous people along the way, but was desperate to send something to you all the same. Folding it carefully, he addressed it to you care of Major Wilkes at Allied HQ, aware that he might receive a reprimand, but after everything he’d just endured the idea of that really held no fear for him.

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

Paris – January 7, 1945

It had been an agonizing three-and-a-half weeks. More accurately, the last two-and-a-half had been pure torture while the first had simply been filled with longing. As promised, you had written letters almost every day and sent them through the Allied post office. Letters about the weather, the book you were reading, the cat that lived in the courtyard of your building. Mundane topics that would pass by the censors and were in no way what you had actually wished to talk about, but you had done your best to keep the contents light as all the magazine articles recommended a lady ought to do.

And sometimes it felt like you needed advice on the subject. On how to field strip a Sten gun? Absolutely not – you could and had done that in the dark with your eyes closed. But supporting a man in the fight while you remained in the relative comfort and safety of Paris had been an entirely new experience for you.

The news of the German assault through the Ardennes, however, had put an abrupt halt on the festive feeling that had been unfurling across a city ready to celebrate its first liberated Christmas. It had not been necessary for Major Wilkes to ask you to stay late that first night, rifling through any and all decoded intelligence awaiting your translation from German into English, desperate to find out just how they had blindsided everyone. Late nights had run into early mornings, with copious amounts of artificially sweetened coffee consumed to keep you alert, thinking back wistfully to the Benzedrine tablets you would have carried if you were still a fully functional SOE operative.

The news had been dire – 2nd Battalion of the 101st surrounded in the Bois Jacques above Foy in the brutal cold, woefully undersupplied, under near-constant artillery fire. It had been all you could do to keep Dick’s face out of your mind as your eyes had raked over page after page of German, writing your preliminary translations in pencil before sending them to be typed up in order of importance. There had not been enough of importance in front of you to make a difference, it seemed.

A knock on the door to your small, windowless office had sent you scrambling to cover up the avalanche of paper covering your desk, but Major Wilkes had stepped into the room with a reassuring smile.

“At ease, Sergeant, it’s only me.” He had set a new cup of coffee on your desk, making you blink up at him owlishly before you had murmured your thanks. “I wanted to bring you word that the 101st continues to hold the line. Your Captain and his men are doing an excellent job.”

You had pressed your lips together shyly to hear the Major refer to Dick as ‘your Captain’ but had managed a nod of thanks. Your commanding officer had been slipping you bits and pieces of information as they came in, continuing to impress you with the fact that he never seemed to miss a thing. He had barely run into you and Dick at that restaurant over a week ago and yet he had retained that information and since taken the time to keep you updated on Dick’s situation.

“I understand you visit the post office almost daily on your lunch?” He asked.

Looking to him sharply, it had become even clearer to you just how astute Major Wilkes truly was. You had known him to be an acquaintance of Colonel Buckmaster, head of SOE’s F Section, for that was the reason why you had been placed under his command when you insisted on continuing to make yourself useful following the explosives incident in Normandy. But it had become increasingly apparent that Buckmaster and Wilkes may have spent a great deal of time together in similar fields to your own.

“I do sir, yes.” You had replied, taking a sip of the fresh coffee he had delivered even though your stomach had rolled in protest; you had needed the caffeine to keep working.

“Might I suggest you bring the letters to me, and I will send them internally. God knows when the actual post will reach them.”

“Sir I…” You had stuttered, taken aback by the generosity of his offer.

“I see you in here sixteen hours a day, Sergeant. Don’t you think your letters will help him just as much?” He had raised an eyebrow and you had nodded slowly.

“Good, I expect to see the first one on my desk tomorrow at 0900 for mail call. And don’t stay past midnight tonight, you’ve done that for the last three days.” He had looked to you firmly and you had nodded rapidly.

“Yes, sir.”

The news of Patton’s break through had brought with it some sense of relief but it paled in comparison to that brought by the tattered scrap of paper which found its way onto your desk that day in early January.

Two sentences scrawled in pencil upon paper bearing all manner of stains and splotches that reduced you to tears of the sweetest relief. Dick was alive. Yes, the reports all said so but to see something addressed to you in his handwriting made it real.

The pace of the war seemed to change after that – time and troop movements speeding up immeasurably. The promised arrival of six fresh-faced CWACs taking up residence in your apartment, needing constant supervision on the worldly Parisian streets only served to blur your perception of time even further. Certainly, they had arrived with a captain and sergeant of their own, but not one of them had set foot outside Canada before, save a brief stint in England, and relied heavily on you to ensure they were able to make their way to and from their posting – mercifully in the same building as yours.

Feeling not unlike a mother goose with a trail of goslings behind her, you did your best to keep them out of trouble with locals, and soldiers alike, leaving you little time to enjoy your now regular correspondence with Dick. Nor the privacy, for their Sergeant shared your bed with another girl on a single cot crammed in the corner of the room, the other four girls sharing the second bedroom. Their feminine influence did prove useful in finally eradicating your habit of cursing, however, which you had been trying to accomplish for Dick’s sake anyway.

One evening in late February, the sound of Glenn Miller and his orchestra echoed from the kitchen, accompanied by their bright laughter as they cleaned up from dinner. The girls were more than a little distracted by practicing their dance steps with each other to prepare for a dance hall outing the following night. Shaking your head fondly you signed off on your latest letter to Dick, sealing the envelope with a few dabs of glue before walking to the front hall to slip it into your shoulder bag to post tomorrow. The sound of heavy boots on the stairs set the hairs on the back of your neck on end, even in liberated Paris, while the subsequent knock on the apartment door had your heart skittering against your ribs.

Several of the girls appeared in the doorway to the kitchen but you stopped them with the firm gesture of your palm, raising up on your toes to take near-silent steps before glancing through the peep hole of the door. The sight of the Officer’s Airborne patch on the garrison cap of the man outside had you clutching at the letter still in your hand tightly, but as he swivelled his head you were startled to see dark brown hair rather than the ruddy red you had been hoping for.

Pulling at the chain before unlocking the deadbolt, you tried to deny the feeling of your heart sinking through the floor. If something had happened, the reports would have told you. Major Wilkes would have told you. You exhaled shakily as you opened the door to see Lieutenant – No, Captain Nixon – standing on your doorstep with the distinct shape of a paper wrapped bouquet tucked into the crook of his arm and an envelope pinched between his fingers.

“Good evening, Captain Nixon.” You assembled what you hoped was a calm smile on your face.

“Ma’am.” He smiled in return, and you couldn’t help but note that the youthful softness he’d had about him in Normandy seemed to have been etched from his features. “With Major Richard Davis Winter’s compliments and regrets.”

At the sound of his voice, the girls flooded into the foyer behind you with all the subtlety of a herd of cattle, making you bite the inside of your cheek as you accepted the offered flowers and envelope.

“Thank you very much, Captain. Please convey my gratitude and understanding.” You swallowed, realizing now that though his battalion had been pulled back to Mourmelon-le-Grand for well-earned rest, it seemed you were not going to have the chance to lay eyes on Dick for quite some time.

“Of course.” He grinned, eyes dropping to the letter still clutched in your other hand. “Is there anything I might deliver to him in return?” He prompted with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh…oh!” You swallowed and quickly held it out to him. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

“My pleasure.” He nodded. “Have a good night. Ladies.” He nodded to the cluster of women behind you, earning a chorus of giggles and farewells before disappearing down the stairs.

Tucking the letter into the pocket of your skirt, away from prying eyes, you lay the bouquet on the dining table to gingerly unwrap the paper, revealing a dozen red roses. A collective gasp sounded from all seven of your mouths at the surely astronomical cost. The amount of personal funds that Captain Nixon added to the sum Dick had sent with him on his leave to Paris would be a secret he kept well beyond the end of war. The worn enamel pitcher from the kitchen suddenly appeared on the table in front of you along with a paring knife, the girls settling into the chairs and begging for you to tell them all about your Major and the handsome Captain he had sent with flowers in his stead.

Carefully trimming the end of each rose stem before placing it into the makeshift vase, you spun a tale of an accidental collision with then-Captain Winters at the train station. His friend Captain Nixon had been there too, and you had shown them around Paris to make up for causing such a ruckus on their arrival. Partially based in truth, by the time you got to the dinner and dancing, dreamy sighs reached your ears. Nestling the last rose in amongst the rest of the bouquet you smiled softly at how lovely the dining room suddenly looked, but the letter was fairly burning a hole in your pocket.

You were unspeakably grateful when their sergeant interrupted their barrage of questions with a firm reminder that the kitchen was still in a state of disarray, and though they let out a collective moan, they trudged back in to finish cleaning up. Mouthing a silent ‘thank you’ in her direction, you quickly slipped off to your room, shutting the door and tearing into the envelope somewhat savagely.

The personal tone of his letter, a clear indication of the level of trust he held in Captain Nixon to carry around such honest words, made your heart ache fondly. You wished that the letter you had placed in his friend’s hand was comparatively tender, but you had written it, as always, with the expectation that several others would be privy to its contents before it reached him. Re-reading it several times before tucking it away safely in the false bottom of your suitcase, you knew it was a piece of him you would hold onto for the rest of your life.

More surprises lay in store for you that month when the girls took it upon themselves to write to their superiors in London, recommending you for a promotion. A King’s crown was soon in place of your sergeant’s stripes to denote your position of Company 47’s Sergeant Major. It was a promotion which amused Major Wilkes greatly, seeing as you’d gained it through honest means, while your place as a CWAC most certainly was not.

As the Allies advanced into Germany in the early spring, however, it proved to be one of the few sources of amusement in your office. Certainly, the promise of an ever-closer victory in Europe was a spot of radiance on the horizon, but the flood of paper being returned for translation was unveiling a darker and darker truth of just what had happened under Nazi rule. You had heard the rumors, and seen their violence firsthand, but the liberations of the camps, the cold and calculated way in which these things were discussed in the documents before you – it was taking a toll.

The news of the German surrender had brought with it riotous celebration throughout the streets of Paris, but you had only felt a moment a quiet relief that Dick would no longer be subjected to enemy fire – for now. The battle of the Pacific still raged for the American army, and you could not help but dread the possibility of his redeployment there. Major Wilkes startled you on your way back into the office with just two days later with some news.

“I’m sorry to say, Sergeant Major, you won’t be remaining with your company much longer.” His eyes held their usual spark of mischief as they did whenever he spoke of your ‘company’ but you tilted your head curiously at his words.

“Sir?”

“Plans have been in place for the eventuality to see justice done in the face of the heinous acts I know you have been busy translating.”

You swallowed dryly and nodded in reply.

“We are to move into Germany as soon as possible, please return to your lodgings and pack your things and report back to me immediately.”

“Yes sir.”

It was easier said than done, navigating the streets still in the throes of celebration, but you managed nonetheless to gather your belongings and leave a note of farewell to the girls. By the time you returned to the office with your suitcase, the clerks had nearly finished packing everything into boxes and the twenty of you working directly under Major Wilkes made your way down to a transport truck to begin the long drive. Settling in for an uncomfortable ride, you did not concern yourself with the precise destination like many of the other staff who were whispering amongst themselves. ‘Germany’ would suffice for now.

It wasn’t until mid afternoon the next day when you arrived in Nuremberg, with pockets of the city relatively untouched by the air raids and invasion, that your curiosity was piqued.

“Nuremberg, sir?” You asked him as you worked together to unpack into a new set of offices.

“A hunch.” He said with a knowing grin, and you had a feeling there was an awful lot more to it than that.

Spring wore on into summer, the documents you worked on grew more disturbing, and the London Conference convened proposing an International Military Tribunal to take place in Nuremberg, confirming your suspicions about Major Wilke’s ‘hunch.’ Dick, it seemed, was enjoying his time as an occupation commander in the Alps – not four hours away and yet duty still managed to keep you apart. The office was growing busier, more cramped as men no longer required for the fight were able to return behind desks and take up the work of translation alongside you and your colleagues.

Despite the increasing volume of personnel under his command, Major Wilkes still managed to keep an eye on you, not missing the way you had developed a tendency to stare vacantly off into the corner of the room from time to time. Physically present yet taken back to some moment in time you’d been forced to bury for the sake of carrying on with the tasks before you – the face of the German soldier as he drove his bayonet into your side, the ten second plunge into the inky blackness from the belly of a silent plane, the wailing of that boy’s mother when you’d returned with her dead son draped across your shoulders.

“Sergeant Major?” He interrupted one such moment in mid-July, making you sit up straighter as you were caught red-handed.

“Yes sir?”

“My office.”

You stood quickly, feet briefly snagging on the legs of your chair making you struggle awkwardly before you were able to follow him into his office.

“Close the door.” He said firmly and you were quick to do so. “This is long overdue.” He muttered and held out a piece of a paper. “Seventy-two-hour pass to Austria. My apologies for the length of time it took to arrange it, as well as the short notice.”

You stared at it openly before he thrust it a little closer in your direction and you stepped forward to take it from him. “Th…thank you very much Major Wilkes.” You gulped roughly, holding it between both hands as though to protect it.

“Now I have it on good authority there is a supply truck departing for Zell Am See at 1030 whose driver would not be opposed to a passenger. You’ll find the address tucked inside of your pass. It will most likely not be so easy to make your way back, which is why you have seventy-two hours. You’d best be on your way, Sergeant Major.” He smirked, leaning back against the edge of his desk.

You could not help the smile that stretched from ear to ear, nodding rapidly. “Sir, yes sir, absolutely I will be back on time I swear it. Thank you very much, sir.” Turning quickly, you nearly raced out of the door before reminding yourself to walk at a calm pace in front of your colleagues. You grabbed your shoulder bag from the bottom drawer of your desk, locking up the documents you had been working on, and snagged your uniform jacket from the back of your chair before making out way out through the main door of the office.

It was only once you were out in the hall that you began a mad dash for the entrance, not even having the time to return to your billet for a bag. You checked the address on the slip of paper inside your pass before running almost all the way there, drawing far too much attention to yourself – and not caring in the least. You arrived with ten minutes to spare, a sticky mess beneath your woollen uniform, finding the driver who helped you into the cab of the supply truck. He was a gruff, middle-aged man, but after you caught your breath, a few well placed questions easily drew him into telling his life story, filling the time as you wound your way higher into the mountains that Dick had described in his letters.

It was mid-afternoon by the time you arrived at the supply depot in Zell Am See, but you still had yet to reach Dick’s lodgings. Truth be told, you hadn’t even told him you were coming; there was a chance he might not even be there. Walking down the side of the road toward the hotel you knew they had requisitioned, you swallowed as you heard a jeep pull up beside you, rather missing the reassuring weight of your knife at your hip.

“If that man doesn’t sing you ‘Kiss Me Goodnight, Sergeant Major’, he’s just not living his life to the fullest.” Your eyes widened as Captain Nixon grinned up at you from the driver’s seat.

You let out a bark of laughter, though the accompanying smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I’m impressed you recognize my rank badge…” You couldn’t help but admit.

“Used to be my job to know things.” He muttered, a touch of sadness in his voice.

“Not all it’s cracked up to be, knowing things.” You trailed off in a similar tone.

“I apologize I don’t have any flowers on me this time.” He tilted his head with a smirk, breaking through your melancholy silence. “But climb in, I’ll drive you the rest of the way.”

You quickly slid into the front seat beside him, thanking him profusely as he took you up the winding road to the hotel and through the checkpoint with ease. You followed him inside the building, removing your cap with its replacement badge, and up the stairs before he gestured at the door to room 308. Feeling suddenly nervous, you glanced over to Captain Nixon only to see him walking away down the hall.

“Captain Nixon where are you going?” You whispered after him anxiously.

“Trust me, he’s seen enough of my face.” He winked and disappeared into another room a few doors down.

Taking a fortifying breath, you raised your hand to knock.

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

Read Part Four

Your Arms Pull Me In Like The Tide Pulls Me Under Masterlist

Tag list: @allthingsimagines, @bcon24

#dick winters x reader #dick winters #band of brothers x reader #band of brothers fanfic #band of brothers imagines #band of brothers imagine #band of brothers

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alovelyburn · 1 year ago

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WIP! WIP! WIP!

Usually when these festivals come around I try to get something together and contribute to the cause. This time I was unable to finish... because I found out about it rather late, and also had a lot going on in my real life.

But I did start something. So I'm dropping the first part of the WIP on you guys; no idea if it really qualifies for inclusion in @griffgutsweekend but I'm cool either way.

All the thanks to @zombiesgohome for basically being my cowriter on the beginning of this - she's my Guts expert. Also bear in mind this is a first draft, ok, be kind.

Quick Background: many many years ago, by which I mean in like 2014, someone told me they'd like to see me try to tackle a romance between current canon Guts and Griffith. It took a while but here we are.

It's called Thirst Drove Me to the Water.

The room has already been thoroughly trashed by the time Griffith opens the door. Before him like broken furniture and upturned chairs. All the vases have been emptied of their white flowers – their water soaked through the plush rug and dripping down white marble walls. An overturned table has been split in two, and gashes mar the walls where that oversized sword bit through the marble.

It’s unsurprising and yet somehow disappointing. Still, Griffith’s expression remains, as always, stubbornly impartial. Around him, the room ripples and shifts – an invisible wave that runs over the room and leaves all as it was, before. Immaculate. Untouched.

His guest seems less than impressed by this.

Guts stares at Griffith from his place on the floor, his one eye smoldering with black fire, his famous sword resting across his knees.

“You sure took your sweet time showing your face,” he says. There’s a sharp edge to his tone, and a growl deep in his throat. “Finally remembered I was here?” He looks like a caged animal. It’s appropriate.

Griffith tips his head just slightly. “I didn’t forget,” he says, “You’ve been pounding against my barriers all day. I thought I would give you a moment to collect yourself.” Griffith glances over the room to where a small table stands, off to the side, away from the center of the now corrected chaos. He’d had a basket of fruit and bread brought to Guts’ rooms as soon as Guts himself was sent there, unconscious, and still bleeding. Griffith hadn’t tended the wounds himself. He wouldn’t have trusted himself to. He looks at Guts. “Have you eaten?” It’s a question of propriety. From here, he can see the half-eaten bread and apple cores.

“What the hell do you care?” Guts snaps. Despite his words, Griffith catches sight of Guts’ gaze as it moves to the table.

Griffith untips his head. “Hm.” He moves to the table quietly, his fingers dragging over the polished wood, the white lace cloth that protects it.

Typically, when one stays silent during an exchange long enough, the other person eventually feels the need to fill that gap. Guts is a man of few words, yes, but unless he’s changed considerably more than he seems to have done, he is also a man without much impulse control. Griffith, being far more curious about what Guts might say than interested in talking, himself, remains silent.

A moment later, Guts pulls himself to his feet. His sword plants itself in the carpeting and the floor beneath it as easily as it would plant itself into soft ground and grass. The sound of steel splitting marble rumbles, swallowed by the thickness of the carpet. “So, what is this?” he asks. His expression hardened as his gaze. “Some kind of game? Is being King too boring for you? If you’re gonna kill me just do it.”

“Impatient as always,” Griffith says. It occurs to him that Guts is still in his armor. “And always so demanding for a mad dog.”

“You got some nerve calling me mad.” Guts’ muscles clench. Griffith can see every emotion running over his face, settling in his neck – the tension in his shoulders, the clenching of his jaw. “I ain’t the one who—”

“You can list my sins until morning and I won’t be any more enlightened than I am now.” Griffith’s voice cuts the air – sharp and soft as it is. “You invaded my home and tried to kill me, yet I have been nothing but cordial.” With some minor exceptions. Even now, he can remember the rush of battle, Guts’ steel against his. He had played along, but in the end only one outcome could have come about... and it did.

“Now that we’re here,” Griffith says softly. “Feel free to swing your sword as much as you like. It will do you no more good than it did the last time... or the time before that.”

The weight of that massive sword hits the ground with a crash that jolts the floor... and just that quickly, Guts is rushing at Griffith, his armored fist swinging. Griffith stands motionless for a moment, watching the light catch on the edges of that so-sharp black armor. Watching the barely burning fire in Guts’ eye turn to an inferno. And then, just when Guts is there – only a few short feet away, Griffith reaches up and grabs that fist in the bare palm of his hand... and holds it.

They are close – close enough for Griffith to feel the feather-light stirring of Guts’ breath. That one eye widens in—fear? Panic? It isn’t rage, not this time. There’s something savage inside Griffith that smiles at that reaction. His fingers curl down, and he feels the metal creak, just at the edge of bending, or snapping. One never knows with cursed items.

It's enough to make his point, at least, in that second before he lets go.

“You really never change,” Griffith says, voice quiet but not quite soft. “I would have thought you’d learn to control yourself between the Hill and today.” He flexes his fingers. “You should have tried a slap.”

Guts snaps his armored fist back, pressed to his chest. “What the hell is this? If you ain’t gonna kill me, if you won’t fight... what is this, just some kind of cage? I’m just your prisoner, now?”

“If I release, you’ll just keep coming after me.” Griffith runs his tongue along the inside of his lips. He can almost taste the bitterness on his tongue. “So, yes, I suppose you are.” He looks away from Guts, toward the floor length windows. From here, inside an obscure corner of one of the palace’s towers, Outside, he can see Falconia spread out before them like a painting – the view from the sky. “Well,” he says, “If you say you will leave here and move on with your life – give up your vendetta and leave me be – then perhaps I will let you go.”

“Like hell I will.” The answer comes too quickly. Griffith almost laughs; Guts says, “You know damn well I won’t.”

He does know. Or, rather, he suspected.

“That being the case,” Griffith says. “Here we are.”

“Yeah, here we are.” Guts raises his head, his back straightening to his full height. It must be terribly intimidating to anyone who isn’t Griffith. “So now what? You can’t just shove me in a box and come by when you wanna be smug for a while.”

“That’s a presumptuous accusation. I don’t recall saying I would be coming back.”

Griffith hears his own voice – hard as marble and just as cold. Guts hasn’t moved. His hand remains pressed to his chest, and outside, the sun is growing crimson with the coming night. Griffith watches the red light dye the white buildings; somehow his gaze refuses to land on the man in front of him, no matter how close he stands. And he’s never had a difficult time finding things to say – it was only ever a matter of whether he had anything that needed saying. Now, nothing that comes to mind will make its way past his lips.

Best to leave. Griffith sighs. “I don't suppose there's much purpose to my staying here any longer. I thought I should explain the situation. But I'll have servants set aside to attend to your needs. There's no need to disturb your... equilibrium any farther.”

“You send your servants in here, you ain’t getting them back.”

Griffith glances at Guts. Lines of tension run up his neck.

“Would you kill them for bringing you breakfast? Not all of them are demons.”

“Fine by me. I don't just kill demons.” Guts shrugs his heavy shoulders... but the casualty of it is affected.

Guts’ face is just as tense, just as angry. ...it’s frightened, too... though it isn’t immediately clear what it is he’s frightened of. Griffith himself, perhaps? That would make sense... though it seems somewhat incongruent with Guts’ personality to show it in this kind of situation.

No. It’s something else.

Griffith is quiet for a time, assessing Guts’ body language, the way his eye burns. Anger, frustration and fear. If he thinks about it, it shouldn’t be surprising. After all, who knows abandonment and imprisonment better than Griffith?

“I see,” He says. “I wouldn’t have thought you would want me to come back.”

Something flashes in Guts’ eye – surprise, yes, and then a wall of stone to block out Griffith’s sight... or maybe Guts’ perception of himself. For a moment, Guts is just. Silent. Motionless. He opens his mouth... even so, it takes a moment for him to find his voice.

“I didn’t say—” Three words, and then his voice fails quiet again.

Griffith looks to the table not so far away – the apple core and half-eaten bread.

“Very well,” he says, quietly. “I'll bring you your meals personally. At least for now.” He takes a deep breath and turns toward the door. It’s only a few steps off; he takes hold of the latch – silver and engraved with feathery markings, like most things in Falconia.

“Heh.” It isn’t an actual laugh. Feet away, Guts’ weight shifts. Griffith can hear the clanging metal; it shifts, but doesn’t approach. “Never thought this was gonna end with a damn God Hand offering to bring me dinner.”

“We are not one body, Guts.” Griffith looks at his hand – long fingers wrapped around the silver latch while the metal warms. “Each of us has our own goals, our own priorities, and our own experiences. I am what I am... but I am still Griffith.”

The armor shifts behind him again, and it’s so quiet. Griffith doesn’t look back. “Whatever has become of what we were... you were once the most important thing in this world, to me.” It’s surprisingly easy to say. Perhaps because it’s no longer true. “I will honor that.”

And then, without waiting for a response, he opens the door and steps into the hallway beyond.

* * *

Guts stares at the door long past its closing, his heart pounding violently in his chest. In that moment, hot rage and cold sorrow rushing through him, he doesn’t know whether to scream or cry.

#ariel writes about berserk #griffgutsweekend2023 #maybe? I don't know #it's a WIP #Let me live!

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theblackestnight-ffxiv · 5 months ago

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[ffxivwrite2024] prompt 3: tempest

The sea’s water had been stolen away for malms, so powerful was the breath of the greater fae Bismarck. Not entirely–in cracks and pools and canyons the water remained. Those places provided a haven to the sea creatures that could not venture into the strange dry world where once had been their home.

“Dry” was quite relative, in D’zinhla’s estimation. Each breath was so thick with humidity that it felt like she was inhaling fog. Still, it was dry enough that no Kojin-blessing was needed, and scant remained of the marine life she was certain should be found here.

Storm-tossed waters were among the most bountiful, she knew. She was a child of La Noscea, how could she not? She learned young that Llymlaen’s breath upon the waves tossed them into roaring heights that churned the sea below, in a way that could be demonstrated by vigorously stirring one’s mug of tea and seeing the liquid slosh over the rim. Perhaps she’d been reprimanded a time or two for enthusiastic demonstrations to her younger siblings; the lesson still clung to her. Thus, as frightening and even tragic as the stormy seas could be, they were needed to stir the waters, because as the waters mixed and mingled, they distributed riches that otherwise settled to the bottom. Not just the pirate riches she imagined as a wide-eyed child, but the riches that were, she was told, even more more valuable, in the form of food for the wavekin. Without the waves and currents, little bits of food like tiny water plants and fish eggs would all drift to the abyssal depths, and a strong storm churned them back up better than anything. La Noscea had these storms to thank for the richness of the waters that surrounded the isle.

So here, then, were seas so known for their storms that the storms were their name: the Tempest. Yet the breath of Bismarck had so becalmed them that there was no water at all.

D’zinhla frowned as she turned the problem over in her mind, just as she was turning the reel of her rod. She had found a pocket of deep water left behind when Bismarck’s breath forced away the seas, and much as she’d expected, it was thick with fish. She felt it likely that most of them were only here on account of having nowhere else to go, and would rather be swimming much closer to the surface. It almost felt unkind to fish here, and take advantage of what felt rather like a stocked pond.

But the Ondo had spoken of a fish they had seen here, one with a sudden swiftness, like the lightning that danced the surface in storms, and flashing teeth that cut and ripped flesh. A voracious predator they found little use in hunting for food, for its flesh, while sweet-tasting, was a meager prize for the effort required. Besides, it was the embodiment of the currents themselves, and taking too much of them would stall the currents and seize up the seas.

Overhunting a specific fish had nothing to do with the breath of Bismarck, D’zinhla knew, but she felt she owed it to the Ondo to prove that they had not abandoned the Tempest. Maybe they could be a sign to the Ondo that the storms, and the waters, would return, if the currents-fish was still to be found below.

That would first require catching one, and so far, D’zinhla had spent far more time fishing fruitlessly than she cared to admit. But she’d just caught a second of the large blue momora mora of the First, and she had a feeling, an inkling, that if she just kept at it, she might see a much less rounded fish on the end of her line. These feelings didn’t always pan out, of course, but sometimes…sometimes they did.

Besides, to catch a fish one must actually do the fishing.

#ffxivwrite2024 #wol: d'zinhla rhee #timeline: shb patches #can you name the fish she's trying to catch?

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llamagoddessofficial · 2 years ago

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Thank you @cams4 for an adorable Sans x OC commission 🥺 I love plant mages, if I could pick any magic power it would probably be something plant related <3

---

Calypso came in from the rain, closing the backdoor behind her, cutting off the sound of the downpour that had quickly descended over the skeleton household. She pulled off her coat and hung it up beside the door, moving into the kitchen with a collection of cut plant stalks in one hand. The stems were long but not that thick, the ends dotted with what looked like hundreds of clusters of tiny balls.

When she arrived in the kitchen, Sans was already there. He was leaning on the countertop, casually, a cup of coffee in hand and an easy smile on his face.

(She hadn’t seen the way he jumped at the sound of her coming in. Though it wasn't unusual for her to come over, he hadn't been expecting to see her. She hadn’t seen how he pulled at his dirty shirt, counting the stains and wishing he’d worn something less gross. She hadn’t seen how he scrabbled at some dirty plates he’d bought down from his room and teleported them into the sink- and she hadn’t seen the three poses he’d attempted, before settling on the most casual-seeming one.)

“hey caly.” He said, smooth and warm.

... Calypso’s fern-green eyes only needed to land on him for a few moments, before he already felt himself slightly losing his cool, cheekbones prickling and threatening to flush blue. He swallowed, shifting his weight a little more onto one foot.

She visibly brightened. Raindrops hung suspended in her golden hair, like dozens of little pearls. “Sans! You’re up early!”

Sans was up early. 11am- early for him. He winked. “yup, i can’t be-leaf it either. whatcha doin’ out in the rain?”

His joke earned a modest snort, despite the innumerable amount of times he’d said that same joke to her. “Just some gardening for Papyrus. Is he home yet?”

“not yet. still working out, probably.”

He didn’t really understand why Calypso bothered with gardening. She was a mage- capable of making plant life grow on command. And yet she often still insisted on taking the long route.

“... I just think it’s much more rewarding to let the plants grow themselves, and help them along a bit. Listen to them, rather than forcing them to make the journey faster. They’re just as pretty when they’re growing as they are when they’re grown.”

... He didn’t get it. The only plant he’d managed to keep alive was a little potted cactus she’d given him a few months ago, a creature who sat happily on his windowsill and seemed to thrive on his neglect. If he had plant powers he’d use them all the time.

... But maybe there was an element of comfort, to him, about the fact that the girl he was so hopelessly head-over-heels for preferred a fixer-upper to something already perfect.

“what’s pap growin’ now, then?” He asked.

“He likes dahlias, so I’ve just planted some. He described them as ‘POSITIVELY MATHEMATICAL’.” She drew a vase out of the cupboard, filling it with water and dropping the large trimmings in. “They might take a while to grow, but that’s alright.”

Sans couldn’t help but chuckle. Of course his brother was obsessed with such a symmetrical flower.

“gotta admit, i’m comin’ up short on dahlia puns.” He supported his chin on his elbow, swirling the remaining dredges of coffee in his cup. Talking to her... it just made him feel so... relaxed. So okay. “what’re the ones in the vase, then?”

“Just some of the hydrangea. It’s getting huge, now. It’s good to garden them when it’s raining.” She gently rearranged them. “I thought they’d look nice inside, when they bloomed.”

He grinned. “bet they’ll be bloomin’ unbelievable.”

...

Calypso suddenly shifted. She looked... nervous? She bit her lip.

... Sans immediately felt himself shift too, instinctively, smile losing a few millimetres. He lowered his mug.

“... something... wrong?” He asked, carefully, after a few moments of silence.

She had no idea how much that single sentence meant, coming from him. Sans, famously terrified of any emotional subject, had a tendency to evacuate the room even when his closest friends got too upset. But with her, he felt a degree of comfort he’d only felt before around family.

... He wanted to make sure she was okay.

“N-no, not at all.” She needlessly adjusted the flower in the vase again. “I’m fine. Uhm... It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

The thought of her not being able to tell him something made him feel itchy.

“... you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. but, uh... you can tell me anything, heh.” He was wearing his most disarming smile. “‘sides, if it’s botherin’ you, it’s usually better to get it out.”

If Papyrus had been in the room he would’ve fainted at the sight of Sans not only avoiding the easy way out of the conversation (just accepting her 'I'm fine'), but actively pushing for greater emotional honesty.

As a monster, he had exceptional hearing. He didn’t want to tell her that he could hear her heartbeat getting faster.

“I’m...” Her eyes darted around, focusing on anything that wasn’t him. Were her cheeks getting red? Shit, had one of his jokes landed badly? He racked his mind for anything he could've said to make her upset. “Y-you’re right. It’s... it’ll be better to get it out.”

He was getting nervous now. Was it bad? Should he be concerned? “mhm.”

She stared at the hydrangea. She fidgeted with the side of the countertop, took a breath in...

“I... I really like you.”

...

“.......... huh?”

“... Like... erm...” She tucked some hair behind her ear, still not looking at him. “... Romantically.”

...

Not what he was expecting to hear.

...

The sound of the rain outside filled the room. Sans stood there, staring at her blankly, waiting for the punchline. Waiting for her to start laughing, grin and say it was a prank. Waiting for the gotcha!

There was no way she liked him. It was too good to be true.

... Not when he liked her so much, too.

Calypso glanced at him- his expression must’ve been something else, because she immediately looked away again. He could smell regret starting to seep out of her.

“I-I mean... it doesn’t matter. You don’t have to do anything. It’s no big deal.” She laced her fingers together, then unlaced them, tapping them on the countertop, as unsure of how to stand as he had been minutes earlier. “I just, uhm... figured you should know... nothing has to change though. A-and it’s fine, I’ll probably-”

Her cheeks were getting progressively redder and redder, and her voice progressively smaller and smaller. She was being honest.

“i-i like you too,” he blurted.

...

She finally looked at him. She stared at him as blankly as he’d stared at her.

... He had to let go of his mug, for fear of cracking the handle.

“... romantically.”

Calypso's face flushed. As it did, her eyes glimmered green for a split second- and every bud on hydrangeas in the vase instantly opened, a vivid bunch of bubblegum pink.

It kinda matched the shade on her cheeks.

...

“Y-you... do?” Her voice cracked.

His Soul was in his mouth. If it turned out she was pranking him, he’d never forgive her. don’t laugh at me.

“... you sound like you don’t believe me.” He said, as playfully as he could, in the state he was in. He could feel his eyelights all but twinkling in his sockets, they were probably embarrassingly big and fuzzy.

“I... w-well. You’re just... you’re so cool, and I...”

... Sans laughed. He couldn’t help it. It was a short sound, he covered his mouth- she quickly gave him a quizzical look. Though she seemed comforted by the sound.

i feel like my bones are gonna fall apart.

“i-i’m sorry. i just...” He dragged his hand down his face, his grin was so big it was starting to ache. “i can’t believe you said that. that’s exactly how i feel about you.”

The hydrangeas went from pink to red. Again, just like her face. “... You think I’m... cool?”

He had word vomit. “who wouldn’t?”

He was so... excited? Happy? He couldn’t put his finger on it. He wasn’t used to not knowing exactly how he felt.

...

“... I didn’t know you could go that colour.” Calypso giggled, gently.

Sans quickly became self-conscious of the amount of magic he could feel prickling in his cheekbones. His face must’ve been absolutely cerulean; he itched his cheekbone, letting out a weak chuckle of his own and glancing away.

“guess, uh... my crush confessing to me blue me away, heheh...”

...

She reached across, and took one of his skeletal hands in hers.

He stared at the two limbs, entwined. Warmth spread through his chest. Whatever he was feeling, he really liked it.

...

“pap is gonna lose his shit when he finds out.”

“I know, right?”

#commissions #sometimes. u just want it soft and sweet #and sometimes u vehemently wish you were the character you were writing [many many eyes emojis]

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clickerflight · 2 years ago

Text

Burned at the stake - Part 1

Well. I have done it. 14K ish words. I'll put this out in about 5 bits me thinks. Anyways, enjoy!

Content: Vampire whumpee, out of body experience (?), mention of vampire trafficking, burning flesh

Let me know if you want to be on a tag list

.....................................

Fanatic was a word often tied to cults, to religious nuts, to conspiracy theorists, which really is quite narrow minded. The word fanatic more often applies to a wider range of people, more specifically known as anthropology students. After all, who else would spend outrageous amounts of money and time to go to some remote jungle that could most certainly kill them in a thousand different ways for the remote chance that they might find some ancient temple that some random drunk dude swore till he was blue was there, and also very haunted.

So, yes, Joanna was having just about as much fun as a human being could experience as she hacked her way through the brush ahead of her slightly less enthusiastic colleague, Kyle. Because he had more of his wits about her (more but not much more as he was a student of ancient languages and only here in case they found the temple and something needed to be translated) he was slowed by making sure they marked the path back clearly.

“Joanna, when was the last time you looked at the map?”

“Kyle, you know as well as I that time does not exist out here,” she replied, pausing to get a sip of water before pushing forward again. “But we do not need a map! All we need is our hearts and our minds!”

Kyle laughed as she flashed him a grin while reaching to pull out the map and check the compass. “Yeah, we’re on track.”

“Good,” Kyle replied. “Do you know how much farther we need to go?”

“Well, probably another 2 or 3 miles but…..”

Kyle paused, looking at Joanna who’s movements became more purposeful and smooth, like she was completing a ritual. Kyle felt it as well. There was a tension in the air. Something that said they would discover something interesting soon, like the forest was holding its breath while it waited for their reaction.

And now that he thought about it, the birds had all gone silent.

Joanna had noticed as well, and she slowed down so he could catch up with her. His shoulder brushed hers as she paused, leaning to see past the foliage ahead. It almost seemed as though there was a man-made clearing, and the tension in the air went from intriguing to nerve wracking. Kyle glanced past Joanna who tightened her grip on her machete and pushed forward. The foliage around the clearing was dense, and the effort to get through it left Joanna and Kyle exhausted as they took turns cutting the vines. Kyle was so exhausted, in fact, that when he broke through the foliage with one last swing his tired arms and legs didn’t expect the lack of resistance and he fell through into the clearing.

A cloud of fine particles filled the air around him, coating his mouth as Kyle took a surprised breath. Kyle coughed hard, stirring up the ash around him as he forced himself up and out of the cloud he had stirred into the air, trying to find fresh air as Joanna came out behind him.

Kyle continued coughing out a lung or two as she stood there silently, and as his voice came back to him, he choked out, “I’m fine, by the way.” He coughed, listening for Joanna’s apology or joke or-

He blinked hard, eyes watering as he turned to look at her. “Joanna? I-”

Joanna was pale and staring at something behind him. He turned quickly, ash swirling up around his feet. The ash was everywhere in the clearing. The clearing was huge, as well, as though it had been burned and razed. Or maybe the thick layers of ash were killing off life and keeping the plants from coming back in the clearing.

The immense expanse of ash, so strange and wrong compared to the jungle that refused to touch the clearing, was nothing compared to what was in the middle.

A pole jutted from the ground, silver chains nearly hidden in the ashes underneath the charred and blackened mass skewered on the pole. There was the faint shape of ribs in the mass, the whole thing smoking faintly in the sun.

“Uhhhhhhhh, what’s that?” Kyle asked softly, but his voice seemed to ring in his ears without the dense foliage to muffle it.

“I dunno, but I’m gonna touch it,” Joanna said, kicking her way through the ashes with a scared, though determined step.

“Joanna!? What do you mean you’re gonna touch it!?” he cried, reaching forward to stop her.

She dodged past him, turning grey as the ash melted into the sweat of her body. She reached the charred mass on the pole and reached out a hand, brushing over it. She screamed and jumped back as more ash and char crumbled through her fingers. Kyle reached her, nearly knee deep in ashes.

More of the black char crumbled away, and something pale peaked through what remained of the ribs. Something that pulsed and flinched.

Holding his breath, Kyle leaned forward as Joanna vigorously wiped her hand off on her pants.

“Er….. I think this was.. Is it a vampire?”

“What?”

“There’s a heart under here. Still beating,” Kyle replied, not removing his eyes from the heart which seemed to be fused to the pole which skewered up, just barely missing it. He was trying not to be sick, but his stomach churned right along with the pulsing of the vampire heart.

Joanna shoved him out of the way so she could look, and Kyle was glad for it as he hadn’t been sure he would be able to look away. He grabbed his water out and sipped on it, shivering slightly as he dealt with what he’d just seen.

“What do we…. What do we do with it?” Joanna asked, reaching in and touching the heart very gently, almost stroking it like one would do to the chest of a friendly bird. She watched as the heart fluttered and she touched it again gently. This time the heart pulsed in response and she found herself whispering, “It’s alright. We’re not leaving you here.”

“We’re not taking that thing, are we?” Kyle asked. “What if it was left here because it was, I dunno, a monster or something?”

“So we should just leave it here?”

“We… well, we shouldn’t leave it to suffer, obviously, but we could, er…. I’m sure we could find a stick…”

“We’re not killing it. That’s murder,” Joanna replied, still stroking the pale heart.

“We should call the government, then. This isn’t our problem!”

Joanna gave him a withering look, cupping the heart and shielding it from the sun as more of the chest cavity collapsed. “And they’ll kill it for sure. You know that this country doesn’t ‘waste’ resources on vampire recoveries.”

“Alright, alright, fine,” Kyle said. He took another sip from his water and sighed. “Alright. Are we going to smuggle it back with us?”

“We have to.”

Kyle sighed. “Alright. We’d better take it back to the hotel and figure out how we’re going to get it back home. You’re carrying it.”

“Chicken,” Joanna said with a sharp grin. “Could you pass me your handkerchief?”

Kyle nodded and handed her a couple clean ones from his bag, most of them out of ziplocks and already damp to help with staying cool while they hiked, as he usually used them for.

Joanna gently wrapped them around the heart and cooed at it. “I’m sorry, love, this is gonna hurt.”

She gently pried the heart from the pole, which revealed itself to be made of silver and had burned the heart to the metal. The heart thumped irregularly as she pulled it away from the pole, leaving charred flesh behind. It nearly squirmed right out of her hands and she shushed it, pulling it more gently until she had the swathed heart shivering in her hands.

She stood up and turned, still cooing at the heart and stroking it gently, making sure the sun wouldn’t get to it by wrapping it in another piece of cloth.

“Let’s get out of here,” Kyle said with a heavy sigh. They turned back and made their way out of the jungle slowly and surely. With the heart tucked into her bag, they got a taxi in the rundown town to get back to their hotel room.

As soon as they had the door locked behind them and were all settled, she pulled the heart out. The wrappings were dried out now, though the heart looked a bit better for being damp. She went and made the handkerchiefs wet again, wrapping them around the heart, which still flinched when she touched it, but seemed to be beating at a steadier rate.

“We need a plan,” Joanna said.

Kyle sighed, sinking into the bed. “We can’t keep it here. There are only so many times we can extend the trip, and if it’s discovered it’ll be confiscated and destroyed…. Or worse.”

Joanna nodded faintly. The two of them were well acquainted with the fact that there were dark markets trading in pieces of vampire hearts, claiming them to be ancient creatures with fantastic knowledge of the past. Most of the time, the poor things weren’t allowed to grow and were just kept in a silver lined box and treated like an interesting old trinket. Or they were grown out, forced to tell all they knew, and then they had their hearts removed again so they could be easily stored or sold on. You didn’t get into anthropology without first dividing which side of that moral quandary you stood. Many of their peers were actually lobbying for even more rights for vampires so this sort of thing would be cracked down on a bit harder, though she knew that the laws they volleyed for were specifically ones that would put vampire hearts in the hands of people like them. Of course it would be in the name of helping ancient vampires transition with people who understand a bit of the world they used to live in before they were stripped of their bodies, but the motivations were the dreams of getting useful information first, and straight from the source.

Joanna would be lying if she didn’t have the same thoughts when they were riding back from the jungle.

“I guess that just leaves the matter of how we’re going to get it back,” Joanna said. “I used to know some guys we could have shipped it with, but they got arrested a couple of months ago….”

“It probably wouldn’t be safe to ship it. It might get eaten by rats on the way, or someone might hear it thumping,” Kyle replied, standing up to have a look at the heart. “I think you might have to hide it under your shirt or something.”

“Under my shirt?” She asked, annoyed. “Why my shirt?”

“Because you can use your bra to keep it from falling out,” Kyle said, sounding ashamed with having to even voice the idea out loud.

“Bold of you to assume I wear one,” Joanna said to get back at him. He spluttered in a very amusing fashion and she laughed, the heart in her hands picking up the pace for a moment.

“Alright,” she said when Kyle looked close to fainting with embarrassment. “I guess that’s fair. But someone at the gate will absolutely notice that my shirt is moving every time it does.”

Kyle sighed. “We have a few more days. Maybe we can find some way of making it be still for long enough to get through the gate. There has to be something.”

Joanna gave him a long-suffering look. “Fine. Hold this,” she said, passing the heart to him before pulling out her phone and typing ‘How to get a vampire heart to stop moving.’

………………………..

There had been pain for a very long time. How long? How does one count heartbeats when one does not have fingers to aid them? Does time even matter in the face of all of that pain? Reasoning certainly doesn’t. One learns to stop questioning the why of the pain, and try to adapt ways of ignoring it. Or using it in intervals to stay sane.

What was worse than the pain was when there was no more body to feel. Just a heartbeat to keep the time. The nothingness lasted…. Less than the pain? It was hard to tell. It was almost worse. There was no way to grow anymore, to try and escape from this place, so finding ways to stay sane became almost nonexistent. There was an occasional burning that would bring sanity back, but never for long, like the brush of a finger over a hot stone to remember what heat was like before it was doused out in a river.

Being a heart, you couldn’t properly muse. You couldn’t have proper thoughts. Just memories that played in an order of thinking. A mockery of it, like drawings of a sunrise to try and describe a sunset.

Still, it was all one had left when put in such a position. Playing memories over and over in a semblance of thoughts, hoping that the use of them in this way would not damage or destroy them.

The heart had given up on stringing memories into thoughts. It was tiresome and sad. Instead playing out favorites. The heart had grown quite good at this over time and had begun to use its infinite time to uncover new ones. Like digging. Brushing aside the sand of time like the sands in the -

“Maman! Can I dig in the garden?”

“Yes, Esial. Listen for me when I call for you!”

“Yes, Maman!”

Sand on the edge of the herb garden. Maman was a healer. Esial, the young boy with bright eyes and sticky fingers got to digging, using a nice stick he found. Usually, he would dig out lines and pull leaves off of plants and trees, shoving them in the dirt so he could have his own garden and he’d show his Maman, and she would always aww and coo at him and scoop him up. They would show father when he got home.

But just as he started this wonderful pastime, his stick scraped past a rock. He stopped and used his fingers to scoop away the dirt. The stone was small and rather round. The black color took hold of his imagination. It could be an amulet! It had to be! Why else would this small stone be so black and shiny? He giggled as he ran around, pretending to vanquish evil with every wave of the stone until his father came home and saw him.

His father had been very keen to listen to Esial describe the magic powers the stone had.

“I don’t know about putting flight and fire blasts into the same stone, but we can see what we can do.”

The workshop smelled like mint and sage and his father started painstakingly carving runes into the stone, whispering about what they meant and how they would protect his little Esial.

The Heart wished it could remember all the details.

“There,” his father said, putting a leather cord through the hole he’d drilled out with some sort of magic. “Try this on.”

Esial did, and was delighted. He loved his amulet more than anything! Except perhaps the blanket Nanan had made for him when he was born. He decided he would always keep it on him so he would-

“THERE! GET IT!!!”

Esial ran through the trees, heart thumping stolen blood through his body. He’d been so hungry. He’d needed something and it was better that it was an animal than a person, right?

“THIS WAY!”

Esial came sliding to a stop and ran in another direction, not wanting to be cut off by the hunters. He reached up to his chest to grab his amulet, but his pale fingers closed on empty air. His amulet? His AMULET! Where did he-

The Heart stopped that memory in its tracks. The Heart had control over the memories, and it didn’t want to watch that one again. Not again.

Instead, the heart reached for a memory of teenage years, pondering over them all to-

East blood.

There was a hand, pounding with east blood cradling the Heart. Why were there hands? Pain, burning, screams, flinching, fear-

The fingers smoothed over the Heart. Memories of Maman smoothing down hair lovingly surfaced and the Heart slowed, now more curious than scared. Something cool, moist, damp, was wrapped around it. The Heart relished in the feeling before the hands tugged. Sharp pain tore alongside the Heart as it was ripped from something and the fear came back as more cool, moist, damp was wrapped around it.

Time passed and the Heart got the sense of… movement. They were going somewhere. The Heart couldn’t sense the hands anymore, though. But it was moving

Eventually, the damp, cool, moist was pulled away and the East Hands stroked the heart directly. The Heart did not think, but it did hope.

The East hands placed the Heart in new ones. Rougher, bigger, Northwest blood. The Northwest hands held the Heart, though did not stroke it. The Heart grew nervous as it sensed the anxiety in the blood flow beneath it. Soon enough, though, the East hands were back and were stroking it again. The Heart relaxed just enough that, when the cold, dry, freezing touched its flesh, it was merely confused rather than afraid. That changed very soon as the East hands left and disappeared entirely. The fear became vivid and sharp as the cold enveloped The quickly beating Heart. But as the heart got cold, it grew tired. And even more so. The fear dropped to mild anxiety, then to malcontent tiredness. Then…. Nothing.

Part 2

@whumpsday

#vampire whumpee #rescue #carewhumper #having a hard time with tags right now #ancient vampire #What a good time this has been

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dashboardjuliet · 2 years ago

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flesh and bone | chp 4: August 23

previous chapter: here

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader oc

After a messy divorce, you move into a rural house determined to continue on with your life. Until you discover your new home is less empty than you believed it to be

Warnings: nothing specific this chapter, no under 18 readers

He’s standing behind you like a shadow, and it’s a gentle surprise to yourself that you really don’t seem to mind it. After your somewhat awkward, high addled, declaration of friendship, your living situation had changed drastically for the better. You feel more comfortable moving around him, he’s less stiff and on edge. It’s been nothing short of… nice. It’s been nice.

You tilt your head back slightly, sunglasses protecting you from the heavy glare of the sun, to look at him standing in the doorway. You’re planted on your small little porch patio, an umbrella blocking most of the sun, and laptop sat in your lap as you look at decorations for your classroom.

“What’s up? Did the TV go to sleep?” Not that he actually watches it, but you’ve started leaving it on because he’s stopped lurking in his corner, and you can only imagine how boring watching corn has been. You think you caught him watching it once, at night when you had stumbled into the kitchen for water, mouth dry and tacky. He’d been on the couch, but had startled as soon as you had come crashing through the dark, swearing as you had stubbed a toe on the corner of the wall.

“You’re just wasting electricity leaving that thing on,” You purse your lips as he speaks, but you don’t interrupt him. “Was just wondering what you’re doing.”

“Oh!” For some reason you hadn’t been expecting this, his interest in your going ons. You pop up from your reclined position in your lawn chair and swivel around, legs over the side of it so you can face him better.

He’s standing in his spot, hip cocked against the doorway and thick arms crossed over his chest. You wish you could see his face, catalogue his expressions to try and make sense of him. But you’re left staring at the skull, tracing the now familiar curves of it with your eyes.

“Shopping!” You announce brightly, pushing up and moving back into the house so that he can look over your shoulder onto your laptop. He moves with you, turning as you walk past him and following right behind as you place your laptop down on the kitchen counter, leaning your arms on the cool linoleum. “For school, which starts way too soon. I want my classroom to have a theme this year so I need new decorations.”

You smile up at him expectantly, but you get nothing, which isn’t surprising but it still hurts in your gut, just a bit. You go back to looking at your laptop, but freeze as his arms come into view, resting on the counter in a mirror position to yours, but giant.

“What’s the theme?”

“Camping! Well, more outdoorsy than anything, but camping is a good catch-all for what I’m going for.”

“D’you like camping?” You blink up at him, turning your head to face his skull. He’s looking down at you, you think. A small smile crawls across your face.

“I do like camping. I don’t get to do it enough, but I’ve always had a good time when I do. Do you like camping?”

“Prefer it to everything else. I’d rather be out there than the city.” You can almost see him out in the woods, towering trees surrounding him as he sits in solitude, maybe a gas stove at his feet. No one surrounding him for miles. You’ve never camped like that, stuck close to camp grounds where the chatter of campsites and families mingle with birdsong and squirrel chatter, laughter heavy when night falls and campfires roar. It’s a very communal activity for you, but you have a feeling for him it’s an entirely different experience. One, you’re surprised to think, you wouldn’t mind experiencing.

“Where’s your favorite place you’ve camped?” You ask, turning your head back to your computer, eyes scanning the paper crafts and wall hangings that you’ve been looking at. For some reason, watching him while he talks feels too… personal. Like you’re waiting for something, although you’re not sure what.

“Anywhere in Scotland. I’ve got a… mate that I’d go with. But it’s been a while… obviously.”

“A mate?”

“...friend.” His voice is heavy, hesitant, leading toward something more but unwilling to share and you’re unwilling to dig deeper. He’d share if he wanted to. You want him too but you swallow the want.

“No, I know what it means, you’ve just never mentioned friends before. Didn’t think you had any, save for me.” You tease, moving the conversation back to lighthearted. Or as lighthearted as you can manage. You click on a paper tree hanging for a wall, debate for a moment, and then move it into your cart. Maybe for a wishing tree. Or to track your students' birthdays.

“Right then, consider us no longer friends just because of that. Brat.” He moves as he speaks, turning so that his back is resting against the counter, or seemingly resting. You can see the edge of it move into him, the boundaries of his corporeal form giving. His arms are crossed over his chest again. You know he’s teasing you, but still, you pout and turn your head to look at him.

“Nooooo Ghost, whatever am I going to do without your riveting conversations and hulking form scaring the crap out of me?”

“Once we figure out how to get me solid again, it’s over for you. I’m takin’ you down.”

“I’d like to see you try, old man. I’ve got youth on my side.”

“M’ not that old, you shit.”

“Only old people say they’re not old.”

“Alright, that’s it.” He huffs, and then he’s gone. You’re not watching, but you catch the disappearance of his form from the corner of your eye, the air shuddering and heaving around him, and then empty. It makes your whole head turn, and your body follows as you swivel to look around your living area, eyes searching for his form that you can’t find.

He’s played this prank on you before, disappearing and then reappearing behind you, almost giddy with the hilarity of your reaction. If you could see his face in those moments, you imagine his eyes would be glowing with unbridled glee. He’s probably not big on expressions, you think. And it’s only a feeling, but you’re sure his eyes can’t hide much. Only if you could see them.

But this isn’t like before. He’s not right behind you, encroached on your space.

“Ghost?” You call out, your voice small as you move from the kitchen to the living room, glancing down the hallway to your bedroom.

He’s nowhere. For the briefest of moments, you think maybe this is it. Maybe he’s… moved on, left you alone in this tiny house to finally start moving too. But that thought comes with a sadness you don’t know how to address. So you keep moving, hand tracing the wall as you walk down the hallway.

Your bedroom door is open so you step inside, eyes scouring it for him. You walk slowly around the room, peeking behind furniture and under your bed like he’d even be able to fit behind things or under it. Huffing, you pop up from the floor and rest your hands on your bed to look into your bathroom.

Only one more place to look.

Standing, you move slowly over your bed, crawling on top of it, disrupting your comforter in favor of the quickest route to the room. Your steps are light, or as light as you can make them, as you push off the bed and onto the thankfully silent wood floor.

It’s only two steps, and then you’re in the small tiled room, hand reaching for your almost see through shower curtain. He’s not there, you can see, but still you feel the need to check.

“You really think I’d be that easy to find?” His voice rings out from behind you the moment your hand comes in contact with the vinyl.

The yelp that escapes from your throat as you surge forward a step is nothing short of pathetic. A silly, shrill, desperate noise that you didn’t mean to make. It makes you bring your hands up to cover your mouth, trying to hide the fact that you actually made it.

You turn, eyes wide, to face him. He’s bending down, mask the closest it’s ever been to you. You think that if he was physical, your noses would be brushing, the width of a hair separating you two.

Suddenly there’s only one thing you can see, hands drifting down from your mouth as you hyper focus on him.

His eyes.

Brown.

But more than just that. Dark and wonderful and triggering something so deep in you that it makes you weak. Rich, like the chocolates your mother would slip you as a child before and after doing something scary. But that’s not exactly right, because there’s an amber tint to them that also makes you think of your favorite spiced red ale, dark until it’s held up to the light and suddenly it’s ruddy and red, complex and delicious. Yes, that’s closer to him.

You know your eyes must be wide, but whatever expression currently happening on your face makes him back up, his own eyes widening, those blond lashes brushing against his eyelids. You want them to flutter against your skin.

“Don’t tell me I actually scared ya.” His voice rumbles out from behind the mask, a string tied around your midsection, drawing you back from the depths of him. You swallow.

“No,” You squeak, your voice stuck in the high octave from your yelp. You turn your head away from him, clearing your throat and your vision of him, and your voice returns to its normal tone. “No, you totally didn’t scare me. I just make noises like that for fun when I’m checking my bathroom out. So normal.”

When you look back he’s stood up, full height, two heads taller than you. You turn your gaze up to him and notice how his eyes are hooded but warm. Gentle. You knew you’d be able to see all of him through them. His broad body takes up most of the space in the small room, barely able to see past him.

“You sure? ‘Cause that noise you made begs to differ.” He’s teasing and the tone of his voice makes you blush, turning your face away from him again.

“Nope. I never get scared. Actually, I can't.” You motion for him to move with your foot, almost tapping at his ankle. He catches the movement and moves to the side, allowing you just enough room to scoot by him. You could’ve just walked through, like he tends to do with you sometimes, but you can’t find yourself to invade him like that, even if he can’t feel it. You inch by his big body and move into the open empty space of your bedroom, turning back to face him.

It’s easier to think when he’s not crowding in on you. You can hardly sort your thoughts when he’s looming, edges of your vision obscured by how big he is. It’s not like you’re exactly small in size, but he’s just… so much. Of everything.

“Can’t get scared? Gotta say, that’s the first time I’ve ever heard that. Am I gonna have to test you?”

“Would rather you didn’t! Just believe me, I’m unscareable.” Waving your hand as you speak, you start to move from your bedroom back to the kitchen, and he follows behind you. You can’t hear his footsteps, never have, but from the corner of your eye you can see the hulking black form follow after. You walk back to your laptop, which has fallen asleep, and you trace your hand on the trackpad to get it to wake up again.

“You’re gonna hafta leave that bedroom door open one night and put this theory of yours to the test.”

“I will absolutely not be doing that, thank you very much.”

“What, scared of what I would do?”

“No, of course not. I just don’t like sleeping with my door open. It’s a fire hazard.” It’s technically not wrong, but you’d rather have him believe you care about fire safety than risk waking up with his scary ass staring at you from the dark.

“Fire hazard. Sure. Just admit you’re scared.”

“Not scared! Overly cautious.”

“Mmmm sure you are. You have many problems with fires before?”

“No. But it only takes one time! And I’m not risking it!”

“Whatever you say Sweetheart, whatever you say.”

TAGLIST @irnbru32 @maxi-ride @weeeeeeeeeeeeezy @the-quiet-whispers-hunter

#my writing #ghost is a ghost au #simon ghost riley #cod simon riley #simon riley x oc #simon Riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost x oc #cod #call of duty mw2

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kingofsummer93 · 2 years ago

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Ex Luna Scientia

Summary:

Lucien Vanserra, seventh son of the Minister for Magic, is as loved by his peers as he is hated by his family. But behind the charm and irreverence hides a secret, as dark and menacing as the scar on his face.

Elain Archeron, middle sister in a trio of muggle-born witches, has only one wish: for someone to truly see her. Because when she sleeps at night, she can see it all.

Or- an Elucien at Hogwarts AU.

Chapter 16: The Second Trial

Ao3 Masterlist

** a/n- I'm setting up a tag list, please let me know if you'd like to be added/ removed for this fic, Elucien fics specifically or all fics!

Lucien hovered outside the portrait of the Fat Lady, straining his ears to hear the commotion inside the Gryffindor common room. The dungbombs planted by his friends seemed to be doing the trick, judging from the sound of students scrambling towards the staircases on either side of the circular room, cursing loudly.

The Fat Lady gave him a stern look, unimpressed. “What have you done this time?” she asked drily, rearranging the folds of her frilly pink gown.

Lucien gave her a mock-hurt look. “You wound me. Why would you assume I have anything to do with whatever is happening in there?”

The Fat Lady’s friend Violet giggled into her glass of sherry. Lucien sent her a wink as the Fat Lady continued to stare at him sternly. “Well? Are you going to stand out here all night, then? Some of us have better things to do, you know.”

“But I thought it was your duty to guard us valiant Gryffindors, my lady?”

She scoffed at him, though he could have sworn her plump cheeks deepened to match the color of her dress. “Password?”

Lucien pressed his ear close to the edge of the painting, listening for noise on the other side. Violet giggled again, covering her mouth with a lacy fan. The common room was silent.

“Giggling Gum Drops,” he declared, bowing at the waist.

The Fat Lady rolled her eyes but waved a hand. “Very well,” she drawled, and with that the portrait swung open, revealing the entrance to the Gryffindor common room.

The room was indeed deserted, though a thick, foul mist still hung in the air. Lucien coughed, his eyes immediately watering from the toxic vapors. A clock on the wall struck midnight, and he hurried to the fireplace in the corner of the room, dropping to his knees to stare into the flames. They had burned down to embers, and after a few minutes Lucien began to worry. It wasn’t like Eris to suggest such a clandestine meeting- normally he would have sent an owl or asked to meet him in Hogsmeade. Whatever it was that his brother wanted to talk to him about, he didn’t want the conversation overheard.

The dying embers suddenly came to life, burning red and orange for a moment before turning a bright emerald green. A split-second later Eris’ face appeared in the flames, looking more stressed than Lucien had ever seen him.

“Have you lost your mind?” his brother declared by way of greeting.

“Hello to you too, brother.”

“Please tell me I misunderstood and that you did not send me an owl requesting that I sneak you into the Department of Mysteries?”

His brother’s tone was devoid of its usual lazy humor, and Lucien felt a twinge of guilt. “I didn’t send you an owl asking you to sneak me into the Department of Mysteries?”

Eris sighed, making the emerald flames flicker. “Lucien, I’m serious. You can’t write things like that down, much less send them out by owl. Andras is super recognizable, if anyone intercepted him…”

“Why would someone intercept my owl?” Lucien asked sharply.

Eris winced, as if he had let something slip. “Weird shit is happening at the Ministry, Lucien. People are on their guard. Tense.”

“What do you mean, weird shit is happening?” He remembered what Eris had told him about Mr Koschei going missing. “Has Koschei still not been found?”

Eris shook his head. His mouth was set in a thin line. “He hasn’t. It’s the weirdest thing. I know he’s a mean motherfucker, but you don’t become the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement by twirling your thumbs. Koschei is an incredibly powerful wizard. People like that don’t just vanish. Magic leaves a trace, especially strong magic.”

Lucien’s stomach twisted. “What’s the ministry doing about it?” The ministry being code for our loving father.

“Father’s put out a statement claiming that Koschei took a leave of absence. Bullshit, of course. Even our top Aurors haven’t heard from him.”

“And people believe it?” Lucien asked, incredulous.

“I sure as shit don’t. Most of the ministry seems content to go along with it but a lot of people are starting to get suspicious.”

“But Koschei’s always been such a huge supporter of dad.” The word tasted like bile on his tongue. “Hasn’t he? If something actually happened to him you’d think the whole ministry would be in a frenzy to try to find him.”

“Precisely,” Eris simply. “Except…”

“Except what?”

Eris sighed, running a hand through his short hair, the motion making it stand on end. “I really shouldn’t be telling you this.”

“Eris!”

“There’s been rumors, all right? That maybe Koschei and dad haven’t been seeing eye-to-eye lately.”

“About what?” Lucien demanded.

“I have no idea. I only know because my friend from the Department of Mysteries heard them arguing a few times, and she- get that look off your face, Lucien!”

“But-“

“Lucien,” Eris snapped. “Listen to me. Those giants you saw? There is no record of their movements around Britain. None. Nothing.”

Lucien was so stunned that for a moment he couldn’t speak. “What does that mean?”

“It means that the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures has no idea that they’re there.”

A chill went down Lucien’s spine. “But- we saw them. The others saw them too, they can tell you-“

Eris raised a hand to shush him. “I believe you, Lucien. Merlin, I don’t know why you’d make something like that up.”

“It doesn’t make sense. There’s no way that many giants would go unnoticed.”

“And there’s no way our esteemed father wouldn’t keep track of them,” Eris continued, voicing exactly what Lucien had been thinking.

Their father, who forced every werewolf, vampire, harpy, house elf, goblin, and anyone else who wasn’t completely human to register with the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, would very much care about a whole village of giants setting up camp near Hogwarts.

“But…Elain said Professor Spell-Cleaver didn’t seem that concerned. How could the ministry not know if he does?” It didn’t make sense. None of this made any sense.

Eris shook his head again. “Your guess is as good as mine. Although…”

“What?”

“Well, you know how Hogwarts is spelled to be unplottable?”

Lucien recoiled from the fire. “You can’t actually think-“

“It would explain why nobody has heard or seen them, even though they’re…well, you know. Not quite inconspicuous.”

“But why?”

“That I can’t answer. And before you ask, no, they’re not part of the other Trials.”

“Well, thank fuck for that, at least.”

“And speaking of the Trial,” Eris continued. Lucien braced himself for more bad news. “Since Koschei’s gone MIA a lot of people have been suggesting we postpone it.”

“Really?”

“People are saying it’s not right to keep going, seeing as how his department organized so much of it. But you’ll never guess who shut down that talk as soon as it began.”

“I’m guessing it wasn’t you?”

Eris smiled grimly, though it looked more like a grimace. “Our father insisted that the Tournament keep going. He was quite livid that people were even thinking of shutting it down.”

Lucien blinked in surprise. “What? What does he care? He didn’t even come to watch the first Trial.”

“Exactly. I don’t think he actually cares at all.”

“Then why-”

“I don’t know. But if you ask me, all this weird shit is not a coincidence. And it’s not a coincidence that a lot of people and resources are currently focused on Hogwarts and the tournament.”

“Meaning…meaning that people are distracted.” Eris’ meaning dawned on him with horrible clarity. “You think dad is up to something.”

Eris glanced over his shoulder quickly, as if making sure that nobody was standing behind him. “Shh! You need to be more careful about saying things like that, Lucien. You need to be careful, period. Stay close to the school, don’t leave the grounds. Whatever those giants are doing there, it’s not just an innocent vacation.”

“Got it,” Lucien said drily. “Sit on my ass and don’t get in trouble while the adults sort it out.”

“Don’t be a git. You know what I mean. Which reminds me- what possible reason could you have for wanting to break into the Department of Mysteries? Nobody even knows what the hell is down there.”

This time it was Lucien who looked over his shoulder to make sure the common room was still empty. “I hope you’re not in a rush.”

Eris stayed uncharacteristically quiet, though his frown deepened the further Lucien got into his explanation. By the time he got to the missing prophecy his brother was rubbing his forehead as though to ease a growing headache.

“So let me get this straight,” he started. “You’re telling me that not only is there a top-secret room beneath the Ministry filled with thousands of prophecies, but Elain would like my help to somehow break into this top-secret place?”

“That’s about it, yes,” Lucien replied with more confidence than he actually felt.

Eris pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You said it yourself,” Lucien soldiered on. “All this weird stuff happening all of a sudden? What are the chances this is completely unrelated?” Even though he desperately wished that it was, and that Elain had no involvement in whatever was brewing. “Elain was attacked during the first Trial, Eris! What if whoever stole that prophecy tries again during the second Trial?”

“They won’t,” Eris said darkly. “Not while I’m watching. I’ll see what I can do about bringing in some extra security. There will be eyes on her- on all of you, at all times.”

“Thanks, Eris,” Lucien said gratefully. “I’m starting to question this whole Tournament, to be honest. It was all fun and games, but…”

“But now not so much. I’ll be at Hogwarts in a few weeks for the second Trial, all right? We’ll talk more then. In the meantime I can ask my friend what she knows about the prophecies. But don’t get your hopes up, I doubt she’ll tell me anything.”

“Anything she knows would be helpful. Elain’s really freaked out by the whole thing. With good reason, obviously.” Lucien swallowed thickly. “I just wish there was more I could do to help her.”

“We will help her,” Eris declared in that tone that left no room for argument. “I can’t believe she’s a seer.”

“Just don’t bring her name up when you start asking questions, alright? She doesn’t want people to know.”

Eris gave him a pointed look. “You think I suddenly forgot how to keep a secret?”

Lucien huffed a laugh. “Touché.”

“Speaking of gossips.” Eris grimaced. “You’re not going to like Koschei’s replacement for the panel of judges.”

“What do you mean?” He’d assumed it would be someone from Koschei’s department at the ministry, or another department head.

Eris winced again, but before he could answer there was a scuffling noise behind Lucien. He tensed, whirling towards the doors leading to the dormitories. “Someone’s coming down the stairs,” he whispered.

When he turned back to the fire Eris had already disappeared, the flames back to a merry red.

Lucien barely had time to scramble to his feet before the door to the girls’ dormitory creaked open. Feyre stepped into the glow of the fireplace, her eyes narrowed at him suspiciously.

“What are you doing down here?”

“Prefect rounds,” he lied smoothly, walking to the stairs on the other side of the room.

“I heard voices,” she pressed, looking around the deserted room.

Shit. If she had heard even a fraction of that conversation… “This castle is haunted, you know.”

She rolled her eyes, reminding him so strongly of Elain that he grinned.

“You’ve become even more smug since you started dating my sister, you know that?” She walked to a table near the window and rifled through a pile of discarded homework.

“Just as you like me, right?”

Feyre huffed a laugh and disappeared back up the stairs. “Good night!”

Lucien’s nerves did not settle long after he had made it upstairs to his four-poster bed. His dreams that night were full of giants, and secret underground vaults, and Elain’s eyes, milky-white and all-seeing.

---

Lucien wiped the rain from his eyes, glancing once again at the giant red countdown floating in the grey sky above him. His stomach lurched with a jolt of panic-induced adrenaline. Thirty-five minutes left- almost half his time was already gone.

There was a sudden flurry of noise and movement from the crowd as the assembled students erupted in cheers and applause. Shit. Had another champion already finished the task? It seemed almost impossible, but with the high hedges blocking everything but the path in front of him, it was impossible to know.

Lucien had almost had a heart attack when Professor Amren had escorted him to the Quidditch pitch for the second Trial. His beloved field was unrecognizable, turned into some sort of giant maze, with hedges so tall they almost reached the bottom of the Quidditch stands.

“What have they done?!” he had demanded, gaping at the field in horror. “We have a match in two weeks!”

“Well then I guess it’s a good thing Quidditch is played on brooms,” Nesta had piped up drily behind him.

Any thoughts of Quidditch, however, had quickly vanished upon entering the maze. The second Trial was simple- each champion entered from a different corner, staggered according to their current rankings. They had an hour to reach the center of the maze, or risk getting disqualified from the Trial.

It seemed deceptively simple, and might even have sounded fun, were it not for Eris’ warning still marinating at the forefront of his mind. That, and the icy, unrelenting rain currently chilling him to the bone. As if on cue the sky opened up with a flash of lightning, illuminating the path in front of him. He had reached a fork in the maze, both paths stretching out into pure darkness in front of him.

Lucien squinted into the dark, trying to make out anything except the dense hedges. The rain combined with the shadows cast by the maze made it impossible to see anything. It was eerily similar to walking into the Forbidden Forest to retrieve that unicorn hair.

Something moved in the path to his left, nothing more than a shifting of shadows. Lucien took an involuntary step back as the hair rose on the back of his neck at whatever dwelled in those shadows.

After a beat of hesitation he laid his wand flat on his palm and muttered a four-point spell. The wand spun in his hand and then froze, pointing to the path heading right. North. To reach the center of the maze he would have to take the path to the left.

The shadows shifted again, followed by a slithering, hissing sound. Lucien turned on his heel and hurried towards the path on the right. He’d just have to double back at the next fork.

Another glance at the flashing numbers in the sky told him he had just passed the halfway mark. He quickened his step, holding his wand’s thin beam of light higher above his head. He was just considering calling his patronus to light his way when a scream, high pitched and petrified, ripped through the dark. Lucien froze, heart pounding, straining his ears to find the direction of the scream.

This was not the Forbidden Forest, he reminded himself. The champions were in plain view of the packed stands filled with students and teachers. And besides, Eris had promised to keep an eye on Elain.

Still, he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe as that scream echoed around in his mind. And then echoed through the maze again, somewhere to his left.

Lucien didn’t hesitate before lifting his wand and pointing it to the hedge blocking his path. “INCENDIO!”

Fire erupted from his wand, burning a hole clean through the dense mass of branches. He didn’t stop to consider whether this would be considered cheating before leaping through the singed hole in the hedge and tumbling into the path. There were more shouts coming from the stands now, but whether they were in dismay or excitement, Lucien couldn’t tell.

He took off at a run, his senses focused only on that echoing scream. His surroundings melted away, so much so that when something wrapped tightly around his middle it took him a few beats to realize he was no longer moving.

Whatever was wrapped around his middle spread to his legs, stilling him mid-step. Lucien thrashed, fighting against the tightening hold around him. Something was wrapping itself around him- something slick and damp, thick and powerful. For a wild moment he thought it was snakes, but then he registered the bark under his fingers, the wet, earthy smell wrapping around him. He was being crushed by vines.

His already racing heart doubled in intensity as he bucked and pushed against the vines, but the more he fought, the tighter they wrapped around him. A thick branch slithered around his arms, pinning them to his sides.

He had dropped his wand in surprise, and it lay at his feet, useless. In his panic he forgot about the teachers and ministry members surely watching him get attacked- he forgot about the tournament, and the students groaning in sympathy at his plight. He could think only of Elain, screaming in fright in the distance as he failed to reach her. A million scenarios flashed through his mind, each one more outlandish and unlikely than the last.

Death by botany, he thought with a jolt of panicked-induced hilarity. Elain would have known how to get out of this trap, she would haven’t gotten trapped in the first place, she would have, she would have…

“Relax!” A voice cut through the blood pounding in his ears. A voice he would have recognized through any darkness. Lucien thrashed again, only for a vine to wrap itself around his face, smothering him.

“Relax, Lucien!” Elain cried again. “You have to calm down. If you fight back you’ll only make it angrier.”

Easy for you to say, he thought grimly, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he struggled to breathe. A bright light cut through the mess of vines surrounding him like a cocoon, and Lucien squinted against the sudden brightness. Through his cage of vines he spotted a familiar four-legged form, prowling the path in front of him.

Moony. The patronus’ light seemed to pierce through the vines, straight to his heart. He forced himself to go still, to stop fighting against the vice around him. Immediately the vines froze, receding enough for him to gulp down a ragged breath.

“That’s it!” Elain urged. “Just relax. Think of something happy. Pretend you’re conjuring up a patronus.”

Lucien relaxed further, his muscles going limp until the vines were the only thing holding him upright. It felt unnatural, but with a lurch he realized the hold on him was receding. He closed his eyes, filling his mind with images of Elain’s twinkling brown eyes and rosy cheeks.

The vines receded at all once and Lucien fell to the ground in a heap. Elain and her patronus were on him in an instant, the wolf nuzzling at his legs while Elain cradled his face.

“Are you alright?!” she gasped, eyes wide with worry. “I thought that thing was going to squeeze you to death!”

“I’m alright,” Lucien said, his breathing still ragged. “Are you alright? You screamed, I couldn’t find you…”

Elain’s eyes glittered with amusement. “Oh, that wasn’t me, it was Nesta. I saw her in a bit of a tussle with some Blast-Ended Skrewts. She’s alright, through.”

Lucien sagged with relief. “Thank Merlin. I thought- I was so worried…”

I love you and I need you safe in my arms at all times.

The words were on the tip of his tongue, but the background noise of the chattering crowd brought him back to earth. Right. Not the time or place.

Elain squeezed his arm. “You’re cute. Although if I didn’t know better I might suspect you don’t think I can handle myself.”

Lucien huffed a rueful laugh as she helped him to his feet. “I thought every girl wanted a knight in shining armour?”

“A knight in shining armour, yes.” She looked him up and down, from his sodden hair flattened to his head, to his squelching shoes, and flashed a grin. “I’m not sure that you qualify right now, though.”

Lucien looked her over, his metal eye clicking as he checked for any sign of injury. To his relief she looked unharmed- and also, inexplicably, dry. He shivered violently as a gust of wind ripped through the maze.

“How…”

Elain held up a hand and waved her wand in an arc around him. Immediately he was wrapped in a bubble of blissfully warm air, the icy rain held at bay by invisible walls.

Lucien whistled in admiration. “Neat trick.”

“Who’s the damsel in distress now?” she asked with a smirk.

“Me,” he agreed. “Definitely me.”

“Come on,” she urged, grabbing his hand. “We don’t have much time left.”

Lucien glanced at the floating numbers in the sky. Twenty minutes. He retrieved his wand and hurried after her down the path, Moony trotting along on Elain’s other side.

“Do you think they’ll give me extra points for saving you?” she mused.

Lucien laughed, pulling her to a stop when they reached another fork in the road. “Maybe, but I’ll definitely get points for most entertaining.”

“What do you-“

She gasped as he wrapped an arm around her waist, tangling the other in her hair, and dipped her at the waist. Even in the gloom of the maze he could see her cheeks turning violently pink.

“Lucien!”

He cut her off with a kiss. The crowd erupted in violent cheers above them, and Elain’s lips curved into a smile. Lucien set her upright again, and didn’t give her a chance to say anything before turning towards the path on the left.

“See you on the other side, Archie!” he called over his shoulder. Her laughter echoed around the path long after he was enveloped in darkness once more.

The clock continued ticking down as he walked along the path, his way suspiciously clear of any obstacles. When he had fifteen minutes left he did another four-point spell and saw he was heading straight for the center of the maze. He broke into a jog, grinning as he spotted a shimmering light from around a bend in the path a few yards ahead. As he whirled around the corner he came to a sudden halt.

His path was blocked by a wall of fire. The flames stretched as high as the hedges, completely baring the path. They burned so hot that Lucien felt sweat prickle on his brow.

He pointed his wand to the flames, conjuring a stream of clear, cool water. “Aguamenti!”

The water hissed and turned to steam before it even touched the flames. He tried again, and again, and every time the water disappeared inches from the fire.

“Shit,” he swore.

He glanced at the sky and swore again. They barely had ten minutes left. It wasn’t enough time to turn back the way he came- it would take too long to double back and find another way. Besides, Lucien had a nagging feeling that the flames somehow formed a barrier around the center of the maze. He’d have to find another way through.

He moved to the hedges, wondering if he could somehow scale them and jump over the flames, when something caught his gaze. Pots and vials and bottles, sheltered from the rain in a little alcove in the hedge. Lucien crouched down and looked at the labels more closely. Potion-making ingredients. He glanced back at the flames.

“Shit,” he swore again. Another glance at the sky. “Merlin’s saggy tits!” He had exactly eight minutes to correctly mix a fire protection potion, or else find another way through the flames.

He dropped to his knees, wracking his brain for anything about potions related to fire, shielding, or any sort of protection. Suddenly he regretted all those naps he had taken at the back of Professor Hybern’s dungeon classroom. If he made it through this without getting disqualified he vowed to actually start paying attention.

The crowd roared, followed by the unmistakable sound of enchanted fireworks exploding in the sky above him. His stomach sank, until he glanced up and saw a yellow and black badger, made up of a thousand pinpricks of light. He grinned, momentarily distracted from his task. Elain had made it to the center of the maze, and from the sounds of it, she might have been the first one.

He turned back to the bottles and vials, scanning the labels hurriedly. Armadillo bile, sage, peacock feathers, salamander blood, crushed octopus, all useless. Mushrooms, leech juice- Lucien dropped the bottle of vile liquid. Hopeless. This was hopeless, maybe he’d have a better chance if he simply jumped through the flames and hoped someone would extinguish him on the other side…

Just as he was rolling up his sleeves something snagged in his memory. Potions lesson, he and his friends levitating bursting mushrooms under Professor Hybern’s desk and watching him rage as he looked around for the source of the stink. He turned back to the ingredients, scrambling through them, until- there. Tiny, thumbnail-sized mushrooms the color of dirt.

He dumped them out and crushed them into an empty vial with one hand, gagging at the immediate reek as he riffled through the other ingredients. The jar of salamander blood was warm under his fingers, and it hissed as he poured some out into the jar with his crushed mushrooms. Yes, that was it- bursting mushrooms, salamander blood, and…and…

Lucien raked a hand through his damp hair in frustration. There was something else, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember what it was.

With a jolt he remembered the unicorn hair in his pocket. Professor Hybern was always harping on about how dangerous substitutions were, and how disastrous the consequences could be if a recipe was tampered with. The only exceptions were a select few, incredibly powerful magical substances that could be used to override the lack of a certain ingredient.

Another glance at the countdown shimmering in the sky next to the Hufflepuff badger showed he had only four minutes left. It was now or never. And besides, there was no rule about correctly making his way through the flames.

Before he could think too much about it he dumped the shimmering silver hair into the bottle, muttered a quick freezing spell, and shook it, sending up a quick prayer to anyone who would listen. The bottle became cold in his hand, the liquid inside turning the bright blue of a winter sky.

Lucien uncorked it and went to stand in front of the flames. He lifted it in mock salute to the stands around him, and the crowd erupted. The liquid was so cold that it burned on the way down- like drinking liquid ice. A shiver went through him as the potion took effect. It was extremely discomforting, as though there was ice flowing through his veins.

He took a deep breath and held it as he stepped into the flames. The fire wrapped around him, blurring his vision of the maze. But where it should have burned, the fire merely ruffled his hair like a warm summer breeze. Another step and he was on the other side, the ruckus from the Gryffindor stands growing even louder.

He squinted into the darkness, suddenly blinded after the brightness of the flames.

And came face-to-face with Briallyn Skeeter, poisonous smile on her face, acid-green quill poised over her parchment.

---

Lucien jumped to his feet the moment Eris stepped into the champions’ tent. His brother was smiling, though it looked slightly forced.

“What is she doing here?” Elain growled next to him by way of greeting. Eris winced and led them out of the tent, away from the other champions.

Nesta, it turned out, had not won her battle with the Blast-Ended Skrewts, but had still been awarded a few points for her resourcefulness with the other obstacles she faced. Rhysand had managed to get through the fire barrier with seconds to spare, though had somehow managed to light himself on fire in the process. His usually sleek midnight-black hair was still smoking slightly at the edges. Elain had gotten almost top marks, with Lucien close behind, which left the current standings as Elain in first, Lucien second, and Rhys and Nesta tied for third.

Behind a closed curtain Nesta was being attended to by Madam Majda, who had been complaining in an endless stream about the danger of the competition. And in the other corner, sitting in front of a smug-looking Rhys, sat Brially Skeeter, special correspondent for the daily Prophet, and, it would appear, pinch-hitter judge.

“Hello to you too,” Eris drawled once they were back in the icy rain. From the other side of the tent they would hear the ruckus of hundreds of excited students walking back towards the castle. “And congratulations on your victory.”

“Eris,” Lucien urged. “What is that salamander doing here?”

“It was father’s idea,” Eris admitted through gritted teeth. “Press combined with a stand-in judge, wrapped in one.”

“And Professor Spell-Cleaver was ok with this?” Elain asked, voicing what Lucien had just been thinking. He didn’t know why that fact was even more upsetting than her being here, but for some reason it felt like a betrayal.

“From the look on his face when he saw her, I’d be willing to bet he had no idea.”

Elain glared at the tent with such venom that Lucien was surprised it didn’t immediately burst into flames. “I hope she burns in hell.”

“I couldn't agree more,” Eris said with a vicious grin. “But just ignore her, you don’t have to answer her questions. Hopefully Rhys gives her enough bullshit for her article to focus on him.”

Somehow Lucien seriously doubted that would be the case.

“Look,” Eris continued, glancing around to make sure they were alone. “The thing you asked me about-“

Elain visibly brightened. “The Hall of Prophecies?”

“Shh!” His brother looked around them again, uncharacteristically nervous. “Yes. That.”

“Have you found anything useful?” Lucien asked, not daring to hope.

“Well, I’ve managed to, how should I say, get closer to my friend who works in the Department of Mysteries.” Lucien choked on a laugh as Elain clapped a hand to her mouth. “She had some interesting information about the…large friends you asked about.”

“What did she say?” Lucien blurted. Elain’s fingers were a vice around his.

“Well,” Eris glanced around again and leaned in closer. “It turns out there have been sightings of them, but the reports have all been swept under the rug before they could reach certain ears.”

“Which ears?” Lucien asked, though he had a feeling he already knew the answer.

“Our dear father’s, of course.”

“You’re saying…”

“You’re saying there’s people within the ministry withholding information from the Minister?” Elain asked, stunned.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Eris answered grimly.

“And you had no idea about this?” Lucien pressed.

“Well, you can imagine why people might be a bit reluctant to rope me into a scheme to hide information from the Minister,” Eris replied drily.

Elain winced. “Fair enough. But what does this mean? Why are they there?”

“I have no idea,” Eris admitted, brow furrowed. “But I might have found a solution to our other problem. My friend agreed to help us.”

Lucien raised an eyebrow. His brother shrugged casually. “I have my ways. It’s going to take some time though. I’ll send you a signal when it’s all prepared.”

“Our problem?” Elain asked in a small voice.

Eris’ eyebrows rose in surprise. “Pardon?”

“You said our problem.”

Eris’ frown lifted into a savage smile. “You didn’t think I was going to let you have all the fun, did you? But in the meantime, for Merlin’s sake, try to lie low, will you?”

“Yea, mother,” Lucien quipped with a grin.

Eris shook his head darkly. “I mean it, Lucien. Something’s brewing, and I don’t like it. And for fuck’s sake, do not leave the grounds under any circumstances. All Hogwarts students are safe within the grounds, but outside…”

Lucien glanced at the Forbidden Forest in the distance, and the mountains beyond. As if he could get a glimpse of the beings that dwelled there, hidden from view. Someone had brought them there for a reason. They were waiting for something, he realized. He just didn’t know what that could be.

And he had a bad feeling he didn’t really want to know, either.

Taglist (taking a guess here, let me know if you'd like to be added/removed!): @labellefleur-sauvage @headcanonheadcase @separatist-apologist @velidewrites @c-e-d-dreamer @queercontrarian

#elucien #elucien fanfic #elucien fanfiction #elain archeron #lucien vanserra

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nothinggathers · 2 years ago

Text

Square: C3 - The Little Mermaid

Title: Ensoulment

Rating: G

Word Count: 1756

Ship(s): Hank/Connor

Warnings: None

Additional Tags: Light existential angst, fluff, fairy tales

Summary: Connor reads old fairy tales, and finds he has more in common with a fictional mermaid than he might think.

Link, if full work is posted elsewhere: See above

@hankcon-bingo

“He is certainly sailing above, he on whom my wishes depend, and in whose hands I should like to place the happiness of my life.”

“Jesus, where did you dig that old thing out from?” Hank's voice cut across Connor's train of thought. Connor blinked and looked up as Hank settled himself onto the sofa beside him, a bottle of beer in hand. Sumo shuffled over with a low murr of complaint, his weight shifting on the tops of Connor's feet. Their thighs pressed together as Hank relaxed.

“You have several boxes of old books in the garage,” Connor answered, drawing his finger down the page. He could access any text in the world in his head, but Hank was right that there was a unique pleasure in being able to see the yellowing of the page, and feel the paper beneath his fingers. Hank loved real books, and Connor was learning to appreciate all the things that Hank loved. “Which is a terrible way to store them,” he added. “They'll get damp.”

Hank only grunted and lifted his beer to his lips. He drank less these days, but he still drank. Connor knew better than to try and hound him about the health implications. Less was a triumph. Hank had almost entirely cut out the whiskey. A couple of bottles of beer was nothing in comparison. “Never got round to bringing them in, I guess,” he admitted.

A number of them had been children's books. Their titles had varied from The Very Hungry Caterpillar to We Don't Eat Our Classmates. Some of them had thick cardboard pages, which showed signs of water damage and maceration from tiny budding human teeth at the corners. They'd been well read, and well loved over six years, before ending up in the box in the garage.

It wasn't hard to guess why Hank had never brought them inside. Some memories remained too painful.

Connor had pulled out a compilation of fairy tales, that had, thus far, contained sufficient the grim and gory content to entertain and frighten young boys and girls. The stories all ended with bad people getting their comeuppance, which was how you knew they were fairy tales. They were stories of magic, set in worlds where good people won, and the evil witch got thrown into her own oven, or the ugly stepsisters mutilated their own feet, or the evil Queen was forced to dance at the princess's wedding wearing hot iron shoes.

Cruelty to human feet were a theme in the old fairy tales. The Little Mermaid was no different; every step she took made her bleed and feel as if she walked on knives.

“Maybe we should put up some more shelves?” Connor offered, making sure to leave Hank room to reject the idea. Slowly, over the last few months, Connor's moving in had changed the place. There were more plants, a fish tank that filled the room with the soft trickling of water and UV free light, a toy box brimming with chew toys and balls for Sumo. The fridge was stocked with more greenery. The wardrobe was fuller than it had ever been.

Hank grunted non-committally. Connor hadn't expected any different. Hank would let Connor make whatever changes he wanted. “So which story you on?” he asked, instead.

“The Little Mermaid,” Connor answered.

Hank gave a short, sharp laugh. “Another old ass Anderson you're spending time with,” he pointed out, but the grin on his face suggested he found it funny, rather than something to denigrate himself with.

Connor looked back down at the page. The print was large, designed to be read and followed along with a finger, presumably at a greater distance than normal for a book. Connor imagined Hank sitting with Cole in his lap doing just that.

“I suppose,” Connor replied. “Most of the other tales are about brave young children defeating evil, but not this one,” he said. “She doesn't have a soul.” The amused grin melted from Hank's face. “And she's doomed to live much longer than humans. She can never belong to the human world, for all she might pretend.”

“Okay,” Hank said, grabbing the book in one hand and dragging it from Connor's lap, “that's enough of that.”

The pages slid from Connor's fingers. Connor looked at Hank, his head tilted in incomprehension. Hank closed the book and dropped it on the coffee table with a thud. “You don't like the story?”

“It's just a fairy tale, Connor. Mermaids aren't real.”

Connor blinked. Hank took another mouthful from his bottle, his eyes fixed pointedly towards the television that he had yet to turn on. Connor could see their reflections in the black screen. “But androids are,” he pointed out.

Hank grunted. Connor wasn't sure if he was annoyed or disturbed by the turn in the conversation. His heart rate had jumped by two beats per minute, and Connor could detect discomfort in the clench of his jaw. “Androids are people,” Hank answered, gruffly. “I know there are some differences between us,” he said, his blue eye moving to regard Connor out of the corner, “but you belong here.”

Connor felt something squeeze in his chest. Emotions had physiological responses, although they didn't always make sense. Hank saying that Connor belonged here made him feel as if someone had screwed some of his biocomponents in too tight. “With you, perhaps,” Connor agreed, quietly.

Hank's hand settled on his thigh, tugging Connor's knee more firmly against Hank's own. The corner of Connor's mouth tugged upwards at the gesture. “And everywhere else once the rest of humanity gets its head out of its ass,” Hank replied, with feeling.

Connor gave a small sigh. The tentative position of androids in society hadn't been fully worked out. It had been months, but the wheels of legislature turned slowly, and even more slowly when the President was being impeached. “I still don't have a soul, Hank,” he pointed out. Souls were a human thing. Androids were creations of plastic and metal, of electricity and algorithms. They didn't grow and change like humans; they emerged exactly as they were, and would always be until the day their battery stopped holding a charge.

“Yeah you fuckin' do,” Hank answered, dismissively.

“Hank--”

“Connor.” Hank cut across him, his voice firm and stopping Connor's response in its tracks. He turned to look at Connor, his eyebrows raised, and his fingers tightened on Connor's thigh. “Do you remember what you said to me when I asked you about Cole?”

Connor opened his mouth to reply. Hank's blue eyes were fixed on him, sharp and penetrating. He remembered that awful moment in Cyberlife Tower, he remembered the other Connor with his gun levelled at Hank, and he remembered Hank's gun levelled at him. It wasn't your fault, lieutenant. “I remember.”

“Do you remember how you said it?” Hank pressed. His hand continued to rest on Connor's knee.

Connor frowned and looked away. Hank's gaze felt as if it was piercing, looking right through to the back of his head. It was uncomfortable to try and meet. “I just said what I felt,” Connor admitted, quietly.

Hank's hand drifted up Connor's leg, stroking his thigh through the soft material of the old sweatpants. “You spoke from the heart,” Hank said, more gently. “You can't do that without a soul.”

Connor looked sidelong at Hank. “But you have to be human to have a soul.” I doubt there's a heaven for androids.

Hank's hand left his knee. His huge arm wrapped around Connor's shoulder instead, dragging him in against a broad, warm chest and pinning him there. “No, Connor,” Hank corrected, “you just have to be alive, and capable of empathy.”

Connor allowed himself to settle against Hank's chest by degrees. Hank was solid, and comforting. His nose nestled into the hair at the top of Connor's head. “Like the mermaid,” Connor said, quietly. “A human can share their soul with her if she loves them, and they fall in love with her.”

Hank grumbled, lowly. “Then you've definitely got one,” he replied. Connor felt the soft pressure of Hank's mouth at his scalp, and the flutter of his breath in his hair before Hank pulled away again. He brought the bottle back up to his mouth to take another long drink from his bottle of beer.

Connor bit his lip, watching Hank swallow out of the corner of his vision before he spoke again. “Of course marriage is a requirement for that exchange of souls, in the story.”

Hank ripped the bottle from his mouth and spluttered, coughing as his body did its best to expel the beer he'd accidentally inhaled. He leaned forward, dislodging Connor from his comfortable perch. His chest heaved and he coughed with great, hacking sounds.

“You did that deliberately,” Hank accused, his voice strained and creaking. He wiped the spilled beer from his beard, and then ran his hand down his shirt.

Connor treated Hank to a deliberate, lopsided smile. “I may have,” he confessed.

“Prick.” Hank coughed one more time and settled back on the sofa again. His arm settled back over Connor's shoulders, tugging him down towards Hank's chest. “That was a shitty way to propose,” he groused. “You almost killed me.”

Connor smiled as he laid his head against Hank's shoulder and settled his weight against him once more. “That wasn't the proposal,” he replied. “That was just testing the water.” Hank's head turned again, looking directly at Connor, his eyebrows lifted so that his forehead wrinkled.

Connor twisted in his seat. He draped his arm across Hank's stomach and sat up a little straighter. Hank's throat moved as he swallowed, and Connor looked at the line of his nose, and the way his brows drooped as if studying him for the first time. Hank's age showed in the lines of his face, and the sage of his skin, and it was beautiful. He was a living, breathing human being, ever changing and growing.

“Would you be prepared to share your soul with me?” Connor asked, in a whisper.

Hank's mouth dissolved into a soft smile. His fingers came up to Connor's chin, tilting it up by a fraction. “I already have.”

Connor closed his eyes and moved in, meeting Hank's lips in a soft kiss. Hank's beard scratched against Connor's cheeks. Connor opened up to let Hank in, his tongue slipping gently forwards into Connor's mouth.

Connor sighed with contentment, and slowly pressed Hank back onto the sofa.

#hankcon bingo #dbh #dbh fic #hankcon #my fic #my writing

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corner-stories · 1 year ago

Text

sketches and snow

Mikasa Ackerman. Jean Kirschtein. Snowfall. Teapots. Quebecois Swearing. Grad School AU. 5236 words. (ao3.)

Mikasa Ackerman’s first two months in grad school were going well. On top of her advisor being one of the country’s experts on molecular plant pathology, the undergrads she was assigned to babysit had yet to get on her nerves. In fact, she started to look forward to running online “office hours,” since people rarely came by it gave her time to catch up on some reading or emails. Ideas regarding her thesis were also flowing a lot better than she expected — despite all the time she had to decide she was already keen on exploring a specific parasite that only affected flowers that thrived in cold environments.

Montreal also proved to be as lovely as she imagined it. On top of the colourful architecture and supreme walkability, Mikasa was able to get around despite her less-than-stellar grasp on French. Being capable of interacting outside of the anglophone bubble proved to be helpful, even if all she could do was order food or say, “No, I don’t watch hockey.”

That being said, Mikasa Ackerman’s third month at grad school was going considerably less well. From the moment she applied to McGill she had been warned of the hell that was winters in Quebec. Those who grew up around the area had been acclimatized to the cold the second they were born, but a born-and-bred Vancouverite like herself stood no chance. Having lived on the west coast for most of her life, Mikasa’s could only handle mild winters at best and freezing rain at worst.

When she got accepted to the program she was ecstatic, feeling satisfied in knowing that all the work she put into her undergrad had amounted to something. On top of earning a Master’s in Plant Science, it would be an opportunity to move to a new city and explore a different side of life. She hadn’t visited Quebec before and was pleased to have a reason to.

But once the weather began taking a turn, a part of Mikasa wondered if she should’ve explored a different side of life somewhere else — preferably a place with temperatures above fifteen degrees.

Suffice to say, the multiple chunky sweaters her Auntie insisted she pack were barely enough to fend off the chill.

Today proved to be a bundle of surprises. The sky was overcast when she left her apartment and commuted to the university, nothing she couldn’t handle. The weather was the last thing on her mind as she entered the biology department and rushed to Professor Dietrich’s office. Even when she received a teasing text from her roommate to prepare for the snow, Mikasa didn’t anticipate more than a few inches of powder.

However, what she did not anticipate was shockingly thick layers of white piling up on every corner of the city. Upon exiting the biology department she was greeted by much more chill than she had dressed for. Combined with the snow currently gathering on the ground, she was already anticipating just how difficult it would be getting home.

Making her way to the metro was the first step — a step characterized by the heavy snow coming up to her knees. Hopefully the students leaving the building got a good laugh from the poor grad student currently trying out for the Ministry of Silly Walks.

The train was the normal amount of hectic when Mikasa got on. As various Montrealers and nervous anglophone McGill students bumped against her, she fished her headphones from her bag and put them on. Hopefully a song or two could alleviate the stress already building inside of her.

Unsurprisingly, Mikasa was greeted by more snow upon arriving at her station and stepping outside.

With a sigh, she tightened her overcoat around herself as began to walk underneath the white flakes. Just like before the layers of white were higher than she anticipated, making her realize that wearing knee-high wellingtons were only a good idea if bits of water weren't able to slowly trickle inside the boot.

The wind made everything in the air blow sideways, causing snowflakes to hit at every angle. Pulling her scarf over her nose seemed to only do so much. And as to be expected for Novembre, the days were shorter and thus the sky was already dark.

Mikasa didn’t believe in a higher power, but it was moments like these that made her wonder if the gods of winter were hunting her for sport.

After a few minutes of trudging through the very snowy streets of Plateau Mont Royal, Mikasa finally arrived at her block. She could already imagine the ways she could warm herself once she got inside her apartment. She could change into some dry socks, brew herself some tea, or even treat herself to a nice bath. The mere thought of such things already felt like heaven.

Then in her pocket she felt her phone vibrating, with her numb, ungloved hands she fished it out of her overcoat. Upon looking at the screen Mikasa read a message from her Aunt Kiyomi, who seemed curious to know how her favourite niece was doing on the colder side of the country, and whether she was going to watch the game that night.

Roughly five seconds after Mikasa typed a response about how everything was fine, her foot either lost traction on the ground or hit a curb she couldn’t see.

Mikasa’s heart skipped a beat as she fell onto the snow, managing to be thrown forward to land on her knees. On the bright side, the impact was very much cushioned by the powder and didn’t hurt as much as she expected. On the not so bright side, she had dropped her phone and somehow it had disappeared underneath the white.

And she really thought that learning French would be the most difficult part of moving to Montreal.

On instinct, she allowed herself scream “FUCK!” just to let it all out. The second she let herself yell so loud that her throat began to strain, she immediately felt a lot better. Shortly after, she took in several slow breaths to actually calm herself down.

Barely a few seconds passed before Mikasa heard a voice amongst the wind and the snow.

“Tabernak!!! You alright!?!?”

Mikasa looked forward and saw Jean Kirschtein standing on the sidewalk. Without much regard to his own safety, he dashed towards her with surprising ease, showing off the uncanny ability to not bite it on the snow.

Jean knelt down to her almost effortlessly as she began dusting powder off her jeans.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Mikasa insisted, though she was lying through her teeth. She was cold, wet, and very likely black and blue in places that she had no desire to be. Now more than ever did she desire the warm bath waiting for her just inside the building.

“Did you see where my phone fell?” she asked, trying not to think of the gnarly bruises that were definitely forming on her knees.

“Ah, let’s see…” Jean said, briefly inspecting the snow for any clues. Soon enough he spotted the red plastic of her phone case sticking out of the powder and reached for it. “Here it is!”

When he handed it over she took it just as fast, quickly slipping it into her jacket’s inner pocket.

“Thank you.”

Jean smiled. “Bienvenue.”

He then stood up and offered a hand down to her, and for reasons she didn’t quite know Mikasa reached back. He held her with a firm grip as he got her back onto her feet.

“Marde, this snow, right?” he remarked, looking at the white powder accumulating on every building on the street. “Came out of absolutely nowhere, didn’t it?” He shook some snowflakes off his cap. “Ah, calice…”

Internally, Mikasa recognized a handful of the French that Jean so casually dropped. Her short time in the city had already familiarized her ears to the very peculiar — and often religiously themed — profanity only used in this part of the country.

“Do you always swear… like that?” asked Mikasa as she brushed snow off her overcoat.

Despite the weather, the darkness, and the chill of the situation, Jean’s friendly grin twisted into a smirk. “C’est correct.”

Truth be told, Mikasa didn’t know Jean that well. She knew that he was one of Sasha’s closest guy friends buddies, a fellow grad student at McGill, and as Quebecois as they came. As much as he cursed, she did envy his ability to effortlessly slip between French and English — it only served to remind herself that her own grasp on the province’s official language was not as“bien” as she wanted it to be.

She recalled Sasha mentioning that Jean was an aspiring architect, though Mikasa couldn’t envision him doing it. Perhaps the image of architects in her mind were restricted to clean-cut, bespectacled nerds who wore all black and slaved over drafting tables all day — not tall and bearded Quebecers who went around muttering “tabernacle” at every inconvenience.

Speaking of which, Mikasa couldn’t help but notice the snowflakes accumulating in Jean’s facial hair. At the moment it was looking less like fashionable stubble and more like unkempt scruff, most of the length being on his chin and above his lips. She could remember him being mostly clean-shaven when they met months ago, perhaps the colder the weather got the thicker his beard would be.

As she tilted her head up slightly to meet his gaze, Mikasa noticed something that she hadn’t seen due to her little tumble on the snow.

“Why do you have a guitar case?”

Jean raised an eyebrow. “Huh? Oh, just delivering this to Sasha,” he explained, reaching back to touch the instrument currently hanging from his back. “She wants to borrow it, there’s this whole open mic night thing she wants to do. You should come, it’s uh… popping, as the kids say.”

As he spoke, Mikasa could hear the traces of his Quebecois accent on his voice. She was getting used to hearing it the longer she lived in the city, but Jean’s in particular was becoming distinct to her.

“Sounds fun,” Mikasa replied in a voice that sounded anything but.

With her place only a few steps away, she said nothing else before continuing her trudge through the snow. Jean followed her, his longer legs making it easier for him to stomp through the constant piles of powder covering the sidewalks.

“It’s a good thing I ran into you,” he remarked, putting his hands inside his coat pockets.

“Why? So you could play the hero?” she retorted, her voice sounding a little more acrimonious than she intended.

“Uh… no,” Jean stammered out. The grin of confidence on his face seemed to falter. “I'm just relieved that I don’t need to text Sasha to let me in. Last time I did that she left me on read for ten minutes.”

“That’s odd,” Mikasa hummed. “She always answers when it’s me.”

Jean raised one of his eyebrows. “Really?! Tabarnak! I’ve known her longer!”

Now it was Mikasa’s turn to smirk, though perhaps that wasn’t the right word for it. She wasn’t a smiler in general, so whenever she was amused she would simply blow air out of her nose as the corners of her lips ever so slightly turned up.

“Guess she just likes me more,” Mikasa replied, knowing full well that she had only known the brunette for three months.

Jean managed to remain lighthearted as he chuckled. “Well, there is a lot to like.”

For a brief second Mikasa eyed him oddly. “Huh?”

“Huh?” Jean repeated, meeting her eyes for a second.

But before either one of them could say anything else, they finally arrived at Mikasa's apartment complex, a place that could exist on many aesthetically-pleasing “Visit Montreal” brochures when it wasn’t currently being tormented by the gods of winter. Jean was quick to scale the snow-covered steps, swiftly arriving at the top before turning around and offering his hand again.

“Aweille!” he exclaimed, then smiled again — this time it was softer. His voice then took a playful tone. “Come on, the West Coaster has to master our winters somehow.”

Mikasa rolled her eyes and scoffed. “For your information I’m from Vancouver, not Los Angeles.”

Despite her willingness to sass the tall Quebecer aiding her in the cold, she took his hand anyway. Besides, without her gloves touching him was much preferable to touching the frigid side railings.

Jean chuckled again as he slowly helped her up the steps, barrages of powder collecting on their ankles as they went.

“Oh yeah? And how often does Vancouver get snow like this?” he asked. “Once every decade, là?”

Mikasa was not going to dignify his question with a response, but a part of her wondered how Jean would fare on her side of the country. While it was true that her hometown didn’t often make the residents fear the wrath of frostbite, Vancouver did grace its people with excessive amounts of rain. It would certainly amuse her to see Jean running around as droplets and wind hit him from every direction.

Nonetheless, Mikasa still held Jean’s hand as she ascended the steps. She had only touched him for a few seconds, expecting him to be as cold as ice yet somehow he was warm. He wasn’t even wearing gloves. One could wonder how he did it.

Once the two were at the top, Mikasa opened the door and let him follow behind her. It took a short walk in the hallway for the pair to reach the apartment, yet she couldn’t stop herself from shivering with every step.

Fortunately, the Ackerman-Braus residence was warm — opening the door and entering the living room was like being accepted into the arms of the gods.

Mikasa wasted no time in removing her wet coat, letting the garment hang and dry as she took off her boots. When she glanced at the living room she spotted Sasha sitting on the couch like the productive vet student she was. She brunette was lounging in her bunny slippers and already holding a guitar, currently strumming a jaunty tune that made Mikasa remember that she originally hailed from some small town in Alberta.

Beside her Mikasa watched Jean removing his own boots before walking into the living room.

When Sasha laid eyes on her two friends, she broke out into a smile so cheery that one could forget the snowstorm outside.

“Hey, Roomie!” she greeted. “Hey, Jeanbo!”

Mikasa gave a shy wave as Jean approached his friend on the couch.

“Jeanbo?” he scoffed, one eyebrow raised. “What are you? My mother?”

There was a beat of silence while Mikasa wondered when Jean would notice the elephant in the room. Sure enough, just as she took off her socks she saw Jean’s normally confident smirk shift into a face of utter confusion.

“Sasha… you have a guitar already?!?!!!”

“Hm?” Sasha blinked, having not noticed the case on her friend’s back. “Oh, yeah! Niccolo had one and he just brought it over for me! Am I dating the biggest fucking sweetie or what?”

“Mais pourquoi diable me fait ça?!?” Jean exclaimed. Somehow, he managed to communicate his ire without raising his voice to a shout. “Sasha, I came all the way from Griffintown to bring this to you!”

Sasha furrowed her brow and touched her finger to her chin. “Hmmm… now that you mention it, I knew I was forgetting something…”

The groan that Jean let out was over dramatic and comical. Even Mikasa couldn’t deny the amusement in his antics, smiling very minutely as she walked barefoot across the living room.

As Jean broke out into French to better express his frustration to his friend, Mikasa approached her bedroom. The last thing she heard before slipping inside was Sasha sassing Jean back in his first language.

Though closing her door muffled the conversation between the friends, Mikasa could already envision the colourful argument the two were having. She was aware that Jean and Sasha knew each other for years — that the true testament to their being the many dramatic squabbles they could have while still remaining close. Usually, they quarreled over hockey games and whether IPAs were just beers that tasted even worse, but today they seemed very keen on debating the ethics of making a friend trudge through heavy snowfall for nothing.

Moments passed as Mikasa changed out of her clothes and into something more dry. Once she tossed her water-logged leggings and cardigan into her hamper, she pulled on her bathrobe before grabbing a spare towel from her closet. She dried off her long dark hair just as she sat at her desk.

Like most overworked grad students, she spent a moment answering the emails in the inbox, replying to the few that she had the emotional energy to handle before leaving the rest for later. While Professor Dietrich was as much as a strict hard-ass as his reputation foretold, he was a lot nicer to the grad students he advised, especially when emailing them after-hours. He even ended his message by asking her how she was adjusting to the weather, which made Mikasa nearly recount her struggle to climb her own goddamn staircase.

In the end, she ended up saying that everything was okay, even if it was a dirty lie. Professor Dietrich really didn’t need to know how his Grad Advisee absolutely ate shit less than ten minutes ago.

Mikasa then left her bedroom with one thing on her mind only. When she entered the living room she expected to see Sasha on the couch again, strumming her guitar to her heart’s content, but instead she was greeted to the sight of Jean.

He had removed his coat and hat to sit at the island near the kitchen. His demeanor was relaxed as held a pencil over a pocket-sized sketchbook. In the short time she had known him she knew that he seemed to travel with at least one, whether to keep his hands busy or pass the time when he was bored. It certainly wasn’t the worst habit in the world, as the little sketch of Sasha pinned to the fridge could attest.

Though Mikasa couldn’t imagine what in the kitchen was worth drawing. In fact, there was still some pesto on the ceiling from the time she and Sasha got polished off a box of wine and tried to make themselves dinner.

There was a beat, then Jean looked up from his paper and met her gaze with his.

“Hey.”

She only had the energy to give him a single nod, “Hey.”

Being used to Jean’s presence in the place, she stepped towards the door to the bathroom, only to discover that said door was locked.

Grumbling, Mikasa frowned as she restlessly fidgeted with the material of her bathrobe. “God, how much can one woman shit?”

Jean chuckled as Mikasa went to the kitchen. She began filling the kettle with water before turning to the guest currently sitting at the island.

“I’m making tea, would you like some?”

He nodded. “Sure.”

As Mikasa turned on the electric kettle, she noticed that the oven seemed to be preheating, then glanced at Jean with a curious eye.

“Are you cooking something?”

He shook his head. “No, Sasha is — to repay me for coming all this way she’s making me dinner.” He let out a lighthearted chuckle, then went back to whatever he was sketching in his book. “And no worries, I’ll be out of your hair soon after.”

Mikasa shrugged as she reached for the cupboard near the fridge. “Doesn’t bother me.”

As Mikasa browsed her and Sasha’s exceedingly well-stocked tea cupboard, Jean continued to speak behind her, his smalltalk turning into a soothing background noise as she selected her leaves. Right now she was in a blueberry mood.

Jean continued to doodle, but occasionally glanced up to watch her dropping spoonfuls of leaves into a cast iron teapot. “So… what do you have planned tonight? More depressing grad school struggles?”

“I was going to draw myself a bath, but I suppose I’m doing that later,” Mikasa mumbled, then sighed. “And I was hoping to watch a baseball game…”

“You a Blue Jays fan?” he asked, sounding both curious and surprised.

“Dodgers,” she clarified, shaking her head. “Ever since they signed Shohei Ohtani.”

Jean hummed. “Interesting.”

She only looked mildly puzzled at his response. “What is?”

He was quick to notice the peculiar way she was eyeing him, then let out another chuckle, this one being laced with just a bit more fretfulness. “You just…” he started, then ran a hand through his ashy hair. “...didn’t strike me as a sports fan.”

Mikasa scoffed. “I’m into sports that interest me.”

“I guess hockey isn’t one of them?”

Once more she shook her head. “Not my thing.”

She didn’t have to explain it to him. She was okay with the sport, but it just didn’t intrigue and allure her the way baseball did. Truth be told, she just couldn’t see the appeal in a bunch of men chasing a puck across a sheet of ice. Perhaps if her Aunt Kiyomi had invited her to the living room to watch more hockey with her as a child, as opposed to making sure Mikasa knew the names of every Japanese expatriate currently playing for the MLB, then maybe things would be different. It did feel isolating to discover that most people in Montreal only cared for sports involving ice.

After a few moments the kettle finally brought the water to a boil and Mikasa poured it into her pot. As the tea began to brew she procured two mugs from the cupboard and set them down, then behind her she heard Jean letting out a hum.

“It’s a shame,” he started, his pencil scratching against the paper of his sketchbook once more. “And here Sasha was hoping you’d come to the next Canadiens game.”

To that Mikasa looked at Jean with a surprised look on her pretty face.

“I mean… I wouldn’t be entirely opposed to it…” she admitted. Especially if there were people she knew there like Sasha, of course, but perhaps Jean as well.

It would be amusing to witness Sasha drunkenly heckling a referee at an actual game. Seeing her scream at the TV with a beer in hand was fun, but lacked a certain kick.

Mikasa set a timer as the tea brewed. During the time she glanced at the window near the kitchen and noted that even more snow seemed to have fallen in the span of a few minutes. She let out a sound that was somewhere between a grumble and a sigh before affixing her vision elsewhere.

She looked to Jean, taking in the focus in his eyes as he continued to sketch. She noted that without his coat he was currently sporting some kind of waistcoat over a slightly ill-fitting shirt, both garments hanging loosely over his slender frame. The top buttons on his oxford had been left undone, exposing the top of his chest very slightly.

A part of her wondered why she hadn’t expected him to don such a look, while another part of her wondered why she was paying so much attention to it.

Before she could dwell on things for too long the timer on her phone rang and Mikasa went to fetch the tea. She was quick to pour some out for Jean and herself. When she brought his mug over to the island she took note of the smile on his face, their fingers grazing ever so slightly as she handed it over.

Like before he was warm, but perhaps the tea had something to do with it.

“Merci.”

For a moment, Mikasa tried to recall the exact way the Quebecois said “You’re Welcome” before finally saying —

“Bien.”

The visible confusion on Jean’s face made Mikasa internally cringe and seriously contemplate taking a vow of silence for the foreseeable future.

Fortunately, before Mikasa could get too wrapped up in her embarrassment, she looked to the counter and caught a glimpse of Jean’s sketchbook. The subject currently scribbled on the page made her do a double take.

“Is that…”

Jean looked at the little drawing of Mikasa he had made in the short span of time. For a brief moment he looked sheepish, possibly embarrassed to have been caught in such an act. But soon he swallowed whatever fear was inside of him to hold up his sketchbook.

“Oh, yeah…” he started, taking a deep breath to recollect himself. He handed her his sketchbook, their fingers grazing again. “It’s basically finished so uh… thoughts?”

Mikasa took in Jean’s drawing, noticing the delicate way he had depicted her glassy eyes, pointed chin, and daintier features. He even managed to include the scar just under her right eye, a remnant of the time she tried to ride a Great Dane as a child and the dog reacted accordingly. He had depicted her during a moment of thought, where her usually dull eyes looked more pensive than usual.

She knew that Jean was good, but seeing him create an image of her so quickly with a shitty pencil felt like something else entirely. No one had ever sketched her before.

“It’s very nice,” she told him, her usual monotone sounding a lot softer than usual. When she met his eyes she could see the slightest gleam in them, then felt her heart skip a beat as Jean managed another smile.

“I’m glad you think so.” Once more he ran a hand through his hair. “I’m always glad to hear that my art minor wasn’t a waste of time.”

Jean let out a chuckle, then stood up from the counter. He walked to the other side to take his sketchbook again. Mikasa watched as he gently tore his drawing from the book.

“It seemed only fitting,” he said as he used a magnet to pin the new sketch next to the one of Sasha.

There was something amusing about a drawing of Sasha beaming like an idiot hanging next to a drawing of Mikasa looking thoughtful and introspective. In a way it summed up both their personalities and perfectly encapsulated how they held themselves throughout the day.

“You’re really talented,” Mikasa decided to say. As she stood next to Jean now she noticed their height difference a lot more.

Jean seemed to be blushing and avoided her gaze, preferring to look at the floor. “You’re just saying that.”

She shook her head. “I mean it.”

A brief moment of silence followed, a tense wordlessness existing between the pair. When Jean managed to glance at her again, only a few more seconds passed before they were interrupted.

The sound of the bathroom door opening was heard, garnering the attention of the two grad students.

Sasha entered the living area with ease, grinning at both her roommate and her friend without a care in the world.

“Now what are you two crazy kids up to?” Sasha asked with her usual goofy grin and distinct lack of tact.

Mikasa swore that she heard Jean grumble as she reached for her mug of tea and walked away from the fridge. Just like before he ran a hand through his hair, effectively messing it and making him look even more scruffy.

“Just talking,” she answered quickly. Her mind refocused on her initial priority now that there was nothing stopping her from running a bath now.

Without another word she moved past Sasha and made her way to the bathroom. Parts of it felt rude, but she wasn’t going to deny herself the warmth she had been craving for the last hour.

But before she could close the door she caught a glimpse of her roommate and her roommate’s friend, both currently standing in the kitchen of her apartment. Somehow she noticed the slightly saddened look on Jean’s face just before she shut the door behind her.

…

Once Mikasa was gone Jean let out a sigh, rubbing his face as he walked back to the counter and sat. He could feel just the slightest bits of sweat forming on his forehead, something he hoped hadn’t been obvious during the last few moments.

As he grabbed his mug of tea he glanced over to Sasha, who was fortunately none the wiser to what had just transpired. As to be expected she went straight to the fridge, grabbing a hefty cluster of grapes to munch on as she cooked her buddy dinner.

But just as she shut the door she noticed the extra drawing pinned onto the fridge, the one that hadn’t been there before and depicted her Mikasa looking calm, quiet, and in the midst of an existential crisis with various strokes of graphite. She had known Jean enough to recognize the way he could sketch, as well as the way he viewed the budding botanist who paid half the rent.

Letting out a sharp scoff, Sasha turned to Jean with the smarmy smile on her dumb face.

Smartly — or at least, as smartly as Sasha could get — she slipped into French to avoid the risk of certain things being heard through the walls.

“So… are you going to ask her out soon or what?” Sasha asked. “I mean, you’ve only been eyeing her from the second you met.”

Jean grabbed the bottle of honey that was always on the counter and tried to act like her words held no weight.

“No comment.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time a friend of mine dates my roommate,” Sasha pointed out. Without missing a beat she popped a grape into her mouth and continued to speak. “Remember Historia? I swear, Ymir was on that from minute one.”

“I wouldn’t want to bother her,” Jean reasoned. In his mind and heart he knew that a pestering suitor would be the last thing Mikasa wanted. She seemed so focused on other things — mainly her research and just surviving — that putting anything else on to that platter just seemed unwise.

And he didn’t want to ruin whatever rapport they had. As gut-wrenchingly beautiful as she was, he still enjoyed the simple pleasure of being her friend. Even if his heart would beat just a bit faster when he stopped by or saw her at the university, he was content to keep things the way they were. In a way maybe that was all she needed — for all he knew Montreal was still new to her, so perhaps having a tall and dashingly handsome Quebecer around was just what she needed to make the city feel more manageable.

“She’s…” Jean tried to say, his mind thinking of the right thought to vocalize. “She’s lovely though.”

And to that Sasha chuckled. “Oh, I know.” She stuffed another grape into her mouth. “I see the way you… erm… look at her.”

Jean avoided her gaze as he squeezed a healthy serving of honey into his tea. As much as he liked Sasha, he had learned the hard way that giving her ammunition of any kind would explode in his face. He really didn’t need his closest female friend meddling with his love life for a third time.

So to that he replied, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Sasha could only roll her eyes. “If you say, Jeanbo. If you say so.”

#jeankasa #jeanmika #jean kirstein #jean kirschtein #mikasa ackerman #mikasa ackermann #sasha braus #sasha blouse #grad school au #snk #damn i can't write jean without excessively describing his beard

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