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tallstars-rewrite · 3 years ago

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Chapter 24

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Tallpaw was instructed to remain in camp for several days, and regularly check into the medicine den. Miraculously, none of his bones were broken, but the nasty gashes across his back were still at risk of infection and nearly every part of him was horribly bruised. It was torment having to remain still. Dawnstripe came to see him regularly to bring him food, and he wished her presence brought him the comfort it used to. For the most part he couldn’t help just feeling bad that she was having to deal with him at all. Her first apprentice that she’d been so excited for had become such a mess.

Briarpaw was in and out of the den. Hawkheart, providing his apprentice more sympathy than he offered anyone else, did not give him duties. Tallpaw wasn’t sure where Briarpaw had been going the rest of the day. He didn’t speak much when he came in save for the same pleasantries. “How are you feeling? Is the pain manageable? I’ll get you some wet moss to drink from.” The words were caring but his voice was stiff, like the life had been drained out of it. Sometimes he just sat in the dark corner of the den and stared at his paws. Tallpaw wondered if he still saw his mother's blood on them, or if any amount of grooming would make them feel clean. He was too ashamed and afraid to reach out. Briarpaw might see him as responsible for his mother’s death like Shrewpaw did; someone Tallpaw gratefully had not seen at all.

Tallpaw's relationship with him had always been a bit precarious, the easy affection he and Briarpaw had--or at least used to have--was never Shrewpaw’s strength. They had been as much friends as rivals could be, but Tallpaw sensed that night, in the hate in his eyes, that something had broken in him as well, and their unstable foundation crumbled.

Woollycloud was around him the most, just as subject to bed rest as Tallpaw. He offered him friendly chatter which Tallpaw rarely reciprocated, but Woollycloud graciously pretended not to notice. He had a nasty cut on his head where a rock had struck him, but unlike Tallpaw, his legs and movement were fine and he was able to be more active. In between the comforting talk Tallpaw had to endure, there was nothing to do but sleep. And he really did not want to sleep. When he closed his eyes, the rumbling of the earth and world collapsing on top of him returned, along with his father's voice calling out from far off. But it was only when he was asleep that he didn’t have to suffer the pity and concern from his clanmates. Or worse, their uncomfortable silence. As if a frightening air surrounded him, a discomfort that remained since the formerly well mannered and quiet apprentice’s violent outburst against the rogue. The rogue the rest of the clan apparently cared for more than Tallpaw and his father. The fear in his dreams was, marginally, still preferable to facing others.

After nearly a full day of not speaking, Tallpaw was staring absentmindedly up at the stars. Each star a warrior of the past, so he’d been told. Brackenwing would be among them. But a horrible thought nagged at his mind the longer he stared at those stars. So at last he dared to speak to Woollycloud.

“What about Sandstone, Woollycloud?” He could barely manage more than a whisper. “If we couldn’t lay his body out, how will he be free? How can the wind carry his spirit if it can’t find him? He’s trapped. He’s trapped down there alone, isn’t he?”

Woollycloud curled his tail behind Tallpaw.

“Don’t worry, Sandstone will not be lost. There is something we can do for him, but the tunnelers want to wait.”

“What for?”

“For you, of course. You should be there. StarClan knows to welcome him, and we will help his spirit how we can. I’ll show you as soon as we’re strong enough to.”

Tallpaw nodded quietly and lay his head back down.

Woollycloud continued, “You and your mother will have closure. Did Palebird not tell you about the tunnelers tradition?”

“I... have not seen my mother.” Tallpaw said. He didn’t want to think about her. Of all the cats whose presence filled him with a deep set guilt, Palebird was among the worst.

“You haven’t? I...I see.” Woollycloud sat up and hummed in concern. Tallpaw wished he wouldn’t do that. “I haven’t seen her myself...I should look for her.”

“You don’t have to.” Tallpaw said quickly. “Really.” The last thing he wanted was for any cat to pressure his mother into seeing him. Before Woollycloud could argue, he continued, “do you think I’m strong enough yet? I know the third sunrise hasn’t passed, but the herbs have been working and I...I really want to do something.”

Woollycloud sniffed at his shoulder, “Perhaps we could ask Hawkheart. I understand why you don’t want to wait. In the meantime, I’ll see if Mistmouse can find Palebird. She must be grieving heavily, and I know she’ll want to come.”

Tallpaw had a hard time imagining his mother wanted to do anything. But with Hawkheart’s begrudging blessing, and a small lie about not feeling any pain anymore, Woollycloud led him to the camp entrance. Mistmouse had told the other tunnelers it was time, and they were waiting for them. To Tallpaw’s surprise, even the retired tunnelers Fennelpelt and Whitetooth were waiting.

Woollycloud gazed at Whitetooth with a slight trace of worry. “You’ll be alright making the journey? I hope the pain in your legs has eased some.”

Whitetooth sniffed proudly. “I won’t let anything stop me from doing this for Sandstone. He always spoke up for us and didn’t let anything stop him. I’ll be fine.”

Fennelpelt nodded “It’s only right for us to give the proper send off in the place his body rests, or as close as we can get. I know StarClan can find him wherever he is, but...this has sadly become a new tradition, the more we lose to the tunnels. I always hope the present one may be the last.”

Woollycloud nodded sadly, “StarClan willing it be true this time.”

Hazelnose turned to Mistmouse “So...did you find Palebird?”

Mistmouse shuffled her paws “No, but Lilywhisker told me she has an idea where she might be.”

“I haven’t seen her since yesterday morning,” Crowfur said with a displeased flick of his ears. “She can’t mean to miss her own mates’ remembrance.”

“She doesn’t want to, perhaps they will meet us there," Mistmouse said quickly.

Tallpaw couldn’t help sharing Crowfur’s frustration. Palebird was so rarely where he wanted her to be. It was one thing to avoid him, but she shouldn’t avoid Sandstone at a time like this. Unless...it was because he was there? It was hard for him to ignore how out of place he felt here. Once he had assumed these cats would be his closest companions, but that was before his apprenticeship. He’d never been able to figure out if they were as disappointed in his choices as Sandstone was. They ought to be, he thought bitterly Because if I had made the right choice...maybe I would have known how to save him. Maybe I could have gotten to him faster.

The patrol made the trek quietly, as the last light of the sun started to vanish and the sky turned from orange to cool dark blue. Tallpaw had some difficulty keeping pace, even Whitetooth walked faster than him, but he forced himself not to wince. He wished his muscles didn’t still ache from the bruising all over his back. That restless feeling of being somewhere he didn’t feel he had a right to belong still gnawed at him. Unfortunately Woollycloud, in all his endless sympathy, padded behind with him. I wish you wouldn’t waste your energy worrying about me, Tallpaw wanted to say.

Instead he asked, “What are we going to do?”

“Right now, we are going to collect every strong smelling moor plant we can find. I’ll explain when we arrive.” Woollycloud replied.

Tallpaw couldn’t pretend he wasn’t nervous about returning to the place where he’d nearly been buried twice, and where his father had disappeared forever. But he wouldn’t let that apprehension stop him now. Some of the patrol split off on the way, returning with herbs and plants plucked from the ground, smelling of new-leaf growth. Woollycloud gestured for Tallpaw to take his heather flowers as he picked additional sprigs of sage. Tallpaw hadn’t a clue what they were doing, but he followed obediently.

When he finally caught his mother's scent, he almost thought he was imagining it. But as they approached the hill that led down to the soft earth where the old rabbit burrow tunnels used to be, he saw her approaching the group. Lilywhisker was with her, and carried some brightly colored flowers in her jaws that she passed off to the small white molly, but as she watched Palebird come to join them, the former-tunneler did not follow. Palebird padded soundlessly into the muddy clearing, placing a rather large bundle of marigold on the ground. “I wanted to find the best flowers I could,” she said quickly, as if expecting someone to ask for an explanation. Her voice sounded weak and cracked. “I apologize it took so long.”

“We are here now,” Woollycloud replied gently, “that is all that matters.”

No cat asked why Lilywhisker had not joined them. Perhaps it was because she’d left tunneling behind so long ago. It made Tallpaw wonder even more if he deserved to be here himself. Because he was family was surely the reason, but Sandstone saw his tunnelers as better family than he ever was. None of them know how Sandstone really felt about me… he realized miserably.

Tallpaw felt incredibly on edge to finally be in his mother’s presence. He could feel her gaze drift toward him. She at last padded over to him, and gave the scar on his ear a soft lick. He looked up at her timidly. He hadn’t noticed before how awful she looked. Her eyes were dull and tired. She looked smaller and thinner. Palebird had been a frail, skinny cat for as long as Tallpaw could remember, but now he could more clearly see the bones in her back. Her fur was messy with bits of dust clinging to her legs, showing she hadn’t been grooming much.

She offered him a weak smile “I’m glad you’re doing better, Tallpaw.”

Her voice carried that familiar hollowness he remembered from when he was a kit. When she told him things would be ok in that empty way. Even back then her words felt practiced and obligatory, with little feeling behind them. As empty as her eyes. She seemed to be looking through him. He quietly nodded in response.

Woollycloud padded closer and leaned forward to touch her nose in greeting, which she stiffly reciprocated.

“We were worried when we couldn’t find you earlier,” he said “Where have you been?” He looked at her with deep concern in his soft orange eyes, surely noticing her disheveled appearance as well, but not wanting to comment on it directly.

“I’ve...been sleeping in my own den. Not far from camp. I just wanted some air. I’m sorry, I really didn’t realize I had been gone so long. Time just slipped away from me.”

Woollycloud didn’t look fully content with that answer, but he didn’t want to push it. The tunnelers had placed down what they carried and gathered around the collapsed entrance of the tunnel. It was hard to discern where the hole had been, as the mud around it filled in the cracks. Slowly and meticulously, they began to dig.

Tallpaw looked to Woollycloud “What are they doing? I thought...I thought we already tried to dig through to the tunnels.

“We did. Believe me, Plumclaw especially was out for ages digging holes above and below. We will not dig into the tunnel anymore. Only a shallow ring around the entrance. Come with me, and I’ll tell you.”

He led him to the muddy ground, and together scooped out small pawfuls of earth. Tallpaw suppressed a shudder from the feel of the cold dirt seeping into his paws, and he tried not to remember how it felt to sink into the ground while it buried it from above and below. He focused on Woollycloud’s voice.

"In the rare cases where we have no body to lay in our sacred place, we will go as close as we can to where we know the body is and lay a separate grave, as we do in the Sleeping Glade's burial grounds. We’ll collect every strong smelling moor plant we can find. The familiar scent of the open air will guide the lost spirit out.”

“How will he sense anything trapped underground?” Tallpaw asked quietly.

“He will. Trust me.” Woollycloud said firmly, “The Wind Runner never abandons her children, wherever they are, she will find them again. Her son knows the earth and hidden places of the moor. It may be a harder journey, but Sandstone will hear him and find his way to our ancestors.”

“But...how long will it take? How long will he be trapped?”

“Worry not, young one,” Whitetooth croaked. He was doing his best to dig, making slow progress, but there was a sureness and prescivion to his movements that spoke of his experienced seasons in the tunnels, even despite the stiffness in his joints. “Your father wore the tunnels like a second pelt. He will not be afraid.”

Tallpaw struggled to imagine anything alive in the ground. Well, not alive exactly. But he’d only ever felt hostile eyes on him down there, the kind belonging to monsters that frightened him as a kit. Could there be anything else? He felt his fur tingle as he struggled to pull one last pawful out of the earth. He imagined Sandstone watching him with that cold disapproving glare at how much clumsy effort it took to do this small task. It felt like the ground wanted to suck him down, just waiting for him to put his weight on an unstable patch. He backed up from the hole, but luckily it seemed the other tunnelers had decided they dug far enough. All around the burrows entrance, they weaved the flowers and herbs in a ring bordering the shallow dip. When they had finished, all the cats sat around their work, and were silent. Tallpaw was silent with them, but he didn’t expect to feel any peace wash over him. All he felt was empty and sad. In that stillness, Tallpaw could only dwell on what he really lost.

His father had not loved him for some time, not really. Perhaps Tallpaw would not have to fearfully creep around camp anymore, or carefully check over each rise on the moor to make sure he wouldn’t accidentally run into him on a bad day. But Sandstone being gone also meant that the cat that had loved him once, the cat Tallpaw dutifully waited for everyday in the nursery, the cat who made him his entire world for those often lonely cold moons...that cat was gone too. Some part of Tallpaw, even at his most frustrated and scared, still held onto hope that maybe someday they could figure things out between them. Sandstone could at last let his guard down when the clan wasn’t facing so many outside threats, and he wasn’t putting himself under so much pressure. There was still a small chance that Tallpaw could have that old father back, and this wouldn’t last forever. Sandstone would tell him he didn’t really mean what he said before, and he was only harsh because of all the troubles weighing on him. But no. Those words could never come. There was only one last cold glare of disdain, and now that was all there ever would be.

After what felt like a lifetime, Whitetooth stood, bony shoulders weighed down by grief. “May StarClan welcome you as you find your way to them,” he rasped.

One by one the other tunnelers bowed their heads and left. A solemn Plumclaw followed Mistmouse away, and Hazelnose and Crowfur offered to walk back with the elders. Woollycloud, Tallpaw, and Palebird sat there alone. Woollycloud was surely waiting for them, but Tallpaw felt like his paws had rooted to the soil as he stared into the shallow hole. How could he feel like those he lost were still with them, when the air around him felt so dead and still? What good was their presence if he couldn’t really speak to them, couldn’t see them, couldn’t show them that he could be better than he was when they left? It was one thing to imagine they were far away in the stars, but even here, even in the earth, he couldn’t feel anything. There was no solace here.

“Woollycloud?” he whispered “do you really believe that there are spirits on the moor that watch over us?”

Woollycloud was quiet for a moment.

“I do. I feel them with me often. Our moors are so close to the sky that on the right nights, StarClan can touch the ground and walk alongside us, even in the darkest places. WindClan’s guardian spirits are not only with us when we hunt,” Woollycloud looked a bit wistful. “I believe they led me to save you that night.”

Tallpaw stared blankly into the earth. “But why would the spirits make the tunnel collapse in the first place?”

Woollycloud grimaced “I don’t believe they did. I think...These tunnels were our own doing. And perhaps it was only a matter of time. Not every cat can be saved. But it was not your fate to die that day. And I’m glad of it.” Woollycloud touched his nose to Tallpaw’s head “You’re father will always be with you Tallpaw.”

Those words were clearly meant to comfort him, but they didn’t. Not at all. Woollycloud didn’t know how disappointed Sandstone was before he died. Even if he was here in some way, all he would see was his son's continued failure, continued hesitance and fear. It should have been you buried here, the shallow burrow seemed to growl, perhaps Woollycloud could have saved Sandstone instead. He’d do more good for the clan than you.

Sandstone died angry. He died resentful. What if he couldn’t find peace? A frightful chill was working its way up Tallpaw’s spine. He was too afraid to ask.

Woollycloud pressed softly to Palebird for a moment, and said he’d be waiting for them at camp. He wanted to give Sandstone’s family time to grieve, and Tallpaw didn’t want to tell him how uncomfortable it was to be with his mother.

He couldn’t remember the last time they were alone together. The few times he’d spoken to her...Brackenwing was usually there. He never really realized until now how she rarely left his mother's side. When Palebird wasn’t with Sandstone or Woollycloud, as she was less and less often, it was Brackenwing fetching her prey, taking her on walks through the moor, Brackenwing who knew her pain from the kitten she’d lost moons ago and who remembered her grief when the rest of the clan hardly knew the kit existed. It was Brackenwing who would encourage them both.

But Brackenwing wasn’t here anymore. And neither was Sandstone. Instead, it was just Palebird and Tallpaw. They were both there together, and they were completely alone.

The silence between them hung thick in the air.

“Are you going to be alright, Palebird?” Tallpaw asked. He had to know.

Palebird took in a small breath. “I am…” her sentence trailed off. “...I am alive.”

She sounded so far away. It wasn’t really an answer so much as it was a statement. Yes, they were both still alive. For whatever that was worth.

Tallpaw shifted. “...Where were you really? Before, I mean?”

“Not far. Mostly I was walking where she used to take me...I didn’t realize I had just been wandering the same short trail for so long. I should have been back sooner.”

She didn’t have to say it for him to know she was thinking of Brackenwing.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said, and he meant it. He didn’t want her to feel worse.

“I should have been there…” she whispered, so quietly he almost couldn’t hear it.

“Where?”

“The patrol. She really wanted me to go. But I was…” she sunk to the ground and lay her head on her paws. “I shouldn’t have left her side.”

Tallpaw felt his heart twist in a knot. I wouldn’t have left her like you did, he imagined her saying. It was surely what she wanted to say. Then at least, Brackenwing would be here to comfort her for Sandstone. Yet another death he was present for, and couldn’t stop. He wanted to ask her if she blamed him. If she resented him. If she had ever stopped thinking of that kit she lost so long ago, and if she wondered if Finchkit would have been strong enough to save the ones she loved, in a way that Tallpaw wasn’t. If she never wanted him to speak to her again, he would honor that. He wished he was brave enough to just ask, so he didn’t have to wonder anymore. But he wasn’t.

“Palebird?” he whispered.

“Yes, Tallpaw?”

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“For... everything.”

Palebird’s expression was unreadable as she stared into the earth. “I’m sorry too.”

Tallpaw wasn’t sure if either really knew what specific thing they were referring to. Sorry for Brackenwing. Sorry for Sandstone. Sorry they were in so much grief. Or worse, like Sandstone, sorry that he turned out the way he had. He didn’t expect her to elaborate, and she did not.

All Tallpaw’s life he had simply had to guess what went through his mother's head. He’d long since given up on her telling him. She had cared for him just as much as was physically necessary, and all the while he felt like a stranger to her, like there was a wall of brambles between them that perhaps had always been there. But right then, he felt like he understood her a little. The emptiness in her voice. The hollowness in her eyes. She was quiet and drowning in her grief, in a hole no one could see. But he saw it now. How much easier it must be to simply feel yourself be swallowed up by that hole. He used to wonder when it was exactly that she had started sinking, what had first set the seed for the thorny wall separating them. She wasn’t always like this, his father's voice echoed. But she had been at least as long as Tallpaw had known her. Perhaps it really was as simple as that. Still, he was not brave enough to ask.

But now he felt certain that he had no parents anymore, all in one terrible fell swoop. Palebird did not speak after that. Her mouth hung open and empty. She didn't even have any practiced phrases of comfort left to offer.

After that night, Tallpaw would not hear her voice again for a very long time.

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#cw depression #cw self loathing #FRU24 #chapter 24

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goldenlaquer · 4 years ago

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Hey, can I ask for some headcanons, please? For Gin, Toshi, Sougo and Kamui. About how they were in a fight, separated from their so and something happened like an exposion or whatever, anyway the main point is that they thought that their so have died but later they see her alive and relatively unharmed. So the headcanons of them when they thought they lost their so and when they see that she is ok. Sorry, this is so specific and long, I'm just a slut for some angst and I love your writings

Thank you for the support and sorry for the wait! I don’t know if I’m that much good at conveying angst but let’s bring on the feels!

Gintama Headcanons:

Hijikata Toushirou:

Hijikata stands on top of a pile of rubble, and surveys the destruction around him.

His hands don’t shake. His feet are firm against the ground. His shoulders are straight and rigid against the fleeting wind. Smoke escapes him in steady stream, and when he inhales in, the dust and fire of the air sticks to the walls of his lungs like sludge.

To the men who stop to look at their vice-commander with their ugly concerns plastered on their ugly mugs: He’s fine.

To the Gorilla who can’t stop asking him the question every ten minutes and that, he really should take a break or else at this rate, he’ll collapse: He’s fine.

To the brat who stubbornly stays by his side like spit-up gum on the sole of his shoe: He’s fine, damn it, so go do your job and leave him alone.

For once, Sougo doesn’t have anything clever to quip back at him. He doesn’t need to-- the silence between them speaks better than words. And Hijikata hates what it says, so he turns back to the grey landscape, eyes darting and sifting through the mangled and charred parts to see something, anything that is you.

Nothing.

He reaches for a cigarette, pulls it out of his pocket like second nature. The lighter is the trickier to work. The blasted thing refuses to flicker on. Oh, the cigarette falls down. Hijikata bends to pick it up. He tries again. The cigarette falls down. He stares at it. His shoe crushes it. He’s stomping down hard. Sougo is still silent, watching. Hijikata doesn’t care.

The facade of normalcy is gone. Here he is: Taking his frustrations out on a sad little cig, like it’s the cause of all his fucking problems, like it’s going to bring you back. Harsh pants come out of his mouth, and in another series, they’d sound like something akin to sobs, but his face is dry.

“Hijikata.” He ignores Sougo. The cigarette is reduced to paper and dry leaves scuffed against concrete. “Hijikata.” He doesn’t answer.

Okita, with an eye-roll, kicks Hijikata square in the back and knocks him off the pile.

Sougo, what the fuck? He. Is. Mourning. Hijikata has always known Sougo to be insensitive, but this is blatantly crossing several lines and he clearly doesn’t have the emotional capacity to deal with.

But if it’s a fight that bastard wants, Hijikata will give it to him. He leaps up from the ground, ready to hand Sougo an express ticket to hell, misty eyes narrowing in anger as he looks up

and the breath is knocked out of him in a way that years of chain-smoking had miraculously failed to do

Standing before him, white particles clinging to your clothes, hair, and eyebrows, is the damn most beautiful sight he’s ever seen. The feet move faster than he can process, and by the time his arms are around you and he’s breathing in the scent he thought he’d lost forever

“Fuck.” Because that’s the only appropriate response he can say without his voice cracking. “Don’t do that again.”

Kamui:

Loss is not a new thing. It was in the labored rise and fall of his mother’s chest, the pallidness of her white skin. The feel of his sister’s small hands, fisting in his clothes and pleadingly tugging back, her blue eyes wide and wet. It was in the looming shape of his father’s retreating back.

But there were other, worthier things to focus on. The pain in his knuckles slamming against bone and muscle. The taut stretch of his lips as he licks his wounds, tasting metal and victory. The title of ‘Universe’s Strongest’ nearly within his grasp. He didn’t have time for the weak. Didn’t have time to be weak.

Loss is not new, and yet there is something about this loss. Now, Loss is a sentient being, latching to his throat and squeezing as he grapples through the mud.

Abuto’s face is too blank and too careful. His voice is low and calm and reasoning, and he is saying things, but Kamui doesn’t listen. The words ‘she’ and ‘gone’ don’t mix, they don’t make any sense, so why should he listen? He digs and digs and digs, not hearing, he can’t, his ears and eyes are filled with the same muddy brown that must also be filling yours. Kamui works even faster, his nails splintering against the rocks embedded in the wet ground.

Hair released from its braid, trussed and caked in dirt. Pupils dilated, black swallowing blue. His face abnormally slack as he claws in frenzy, in desperation at the ground like a wild animal.

There are few things in this world Kamui can’t fight. No matter his strength, one cannot simply beat Mother Nature into submission. But there is no excuse. If he cannot save one woman from something as stupid as dirt, then what is the point? What use is his strength? He didn’t leave that tiny, rainy planet, ignoring all the things left behind with it, to become this weakling who couldn’t even manage to keep you by his side like he promised.

He’s a young brat again, helplessness coloring every pore. A damsel in distress. Someone who can’t save, but needs saving. He is no different than the baldy. Unable to keep promises. Unable to protect. Unable to do anything. Was he always this fragile? Pathetic.

Pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic. The word is a punishing mantra in his mind.

Something crashes into him. It’s not near enough to make him pause in his digging, but the something is tugging on his clothes. Incoherent, muffled shouting in his ears. He doesn’t pay it any mind because mud keeps slipping back in place despite all his useless strength and you’re still trapped, waiting for him--

“KAMUI!”

He blinks in surprise, snapping from the heavy cloud covering his mind. He’s flat on the ground, staring up at you. How he got there, he doesn’t know, but you are here in front of him, covered head-to-toe in mud and crying.

He is silent, watching as you blubber concerns and curses. A curious hand reaches out to your face in wonder, carefully tracing the path that a salty tear had made down your cheek. The familiarity of your soft skin warms his numb body and a small smile emerges from his lips.

As you sit on top of him, crying not because you are scared but because he’s such a stupid idiot, he realizes that that he isn’t all alone just yet, that there’s one thing that refuses to leave him.

Okita Sougo:

It’s happening again. And it honestly makes him want to laugh.

He doesn’t believe in it, karma, but when you think that you’ve gotten used to the pain of losing someone you love, his rotten, black heart has to go and get ripped out for the second time as if he forgot, as if he needed reminding that there’s no way someone like him deserves something as good as happiness. There’s no other explanation to this shit luck other than that, for the accumulation of every filthy deed he’s done with his filthy hands and every fucking sin he has committed once and twice and will most definitely commit thrice, someone has to pay for it.

And because Karma is two bitches and a half, that someone wasn’t him.

There it is. The laughter finally comes out as he looks at the torn fabric in his clenched fist. It comes out harsh and hollow and, if you listened hard enough, choked, but who’s checking? Not him. Not Mitsuba. And certainly not you.

He reported it to the vice-commander himself, voice robotic, telling how he was walking front of you when it happened, how the enemy somehow managed to predict your movements and ambushed the both of you on a bridge, how he had been unable to react in time to stop the silver flash of a knife and how the world tilted, too fast and too slow, and that there was a piece of hanging rope that he managed to snag on to with one hand and when he blindly flashed out the other to grasp at you, reaching through free air and snatching at cloth, it ripped from his fingers, and you fell to the chasm below. Deep enough, Okita said as he looked straight into Hijikata’s eyes, that death would be quick and painless.

If nothing else could go right for him, then at least for this, he hoped, even fucking prayed, that it was painless.

Hijikata doesn’t react to the report with anything unnecessary, just a stiff upper lip and an “okay” before he walks off to stand somewhere far enough, yet close enough. For all their differences, Hijikata knows. He understands losing youthful love, and that the pity that comes with it is nothing more than steaming trash. In this way and other ways that he’d sooner eat shit than to admit aloud, Okita is grateful for him.

He stops mid mirthless chuckle to shove the hand holding what’s left of you up to his eyes, slanting his head downwards so his bangs cover what he doesn’t want the world to know what he’s somehow still capable of. Hijikata is tactfully looking away. Over the distance, Kondo is bellowing orders to his men who keep a wide berth from the spot where their 1st Division Captain stands. This is the only opportunity he can afford to be an eighteen year old again. Sougo swallows thickly, feeling the roughness of fabric dampen against his eyelids.

Acutely, he hears the sound of footsteps. It is slow and steady and he thinks that they belong Kondo at first but the weight of them is too light for a gorilla. Before he can process this information further, the steps halt for several long seconds before starting again, this time faster and more urgent, lurching in his direction. Hijikata mutters an astounded “shit” but for whatever reason doesn’t move to intercept. Okita really isn’t in the mood to deal with dumbasses but the sword by his side is already unsheathed and he’s aiming his red eyes to glare at whoever the fuck--

Arms wrap around his waist. A face burrows into his chest. His knees almost give out, but his name is Okita Sougo and he has already maxed out his whiny bitch points for the next decade. Instead, he drops his sword to cup the back of your very-much-alive head, caressing the wet silk of it before threading his trembling fingers through the strands to

sharply tug you from his chest and grasp your cheeks with one hand, squeezing your expression to that of a startled fish.

“Now,” Okita murmers, the smirk on his lips at odds with how fucking great it feels to see you again. “What should I do with you?”

Sakata Gintoki:

Before they say anything, he knows.

He has seen that type of expression too many times to ever forget the set jaw, the horrible attempt at stilling a trembling bottom lip, the unshed tears of eyes that can’t seem to stop roving, unable to face the recipient of bad news for more than half a second, and the pallidness of knuckles straining against skin, holding onto their clothes like a lifeline.

He knows this expression so well he can gaze down at Shinpachi and Kagura with well-placed apathy, perfectly appearing as if his lungs aren’t threatening to collapse on itself when he notices who is not there with them, and tell them in his same old way to stop sucking on their teeth and finish what they can’t seem to get out because he has an appointment at the pachinko parlor at four and if they don’t finish up this job by three-thirty he is going to dock their nonexistent pay by 80%. It hides the rising nausea and stone weight of the stomach well.

This time, however, his casual rudeness doesn’t make them react the way he wants them to, it only makes them fold into themselves even further.

The thing is, no matter how many times you see it and know better than to entertain it, there’s always this one glimmer of hope, so ridiculously strong that you’d gladly pray to anyone and everyone, even if you don’t really believe, because if anything is possible then it better be possible that this isn’t bad news, or that even if it is bad news then the worst of the pinched expression is just a by-product of eating food gone bad or the pain of an ingrown toenail, that it isn’t about someone dying or dead.

But life rarely goes like that, and Gintoki lives in an extra-shittier life compared to most people.

When you stumble across them, hair singed and smelling of gunpowder and smoke, there is something so thick and so wrong with the air, something that makes you stop from crying out in elation at seeing the people you love most. Shinpachi is fastidiously rubbing his eyes and Kagura has her face buried against Sadaharu’s fur and Gintoki

Gintoki looks alone. And you don’t think you have ever seen him look like that, so withdrawn into himself that even if he is surrounded by people, there’s nothing that can come close to him, nothing that can ease the dull bleakness of his eyes and the defeated hunch of his shoulders. He looks like a single thread worn too thin, on the verge of snapping. He looks like nothing matters anymore. Nothing.

You dislike it. You hate it. You hate it so much, to see this man turn into something so unfamiliar and terrifying and gut out. You don’t know this Gintoki. You want the other one back, the one who wouldn’t hesitate to smear dog shit and boogers on the back of your jacket and the one who doesn’t really mind it when you take a sip of his spoiled strawberry milk.

So when you shout out loudly, so loud that vibrates the space, that you’re here and alive and that you didn’t, couldn’t die because how could such a measly explosion off you when there were idiots waiting back home for you, to see Kagura and Shinpachi fly to you, screaming and whooping as they open their arms wide for your hug, snot running down their noses, and Gintoki snap his head up, disbelieving at first, yet searching your form with a speck of hope that brings life back to his dead eyes, and when he finds whatever he was searching for, he goes to you on steady feet, folding his arms around the group, gaze still drinking your form up as he leans across Shinpachi’s and Kagura’s heads to bump his forehead against yours, his breath sighing out something like relief-- it almost makes you cry, or maybe it does because you can feel something wet trailing down your face.

Gintoki is silent for the most part, because Kagura and Shinpachi are doing most of the talking for him, but when he does speak, it is to say:

“Damn, there goes the life insurance money.”

#gintama #gintama headcanons #gintama x reader #gintama imagine #sakata gintoki #kamui yato #hijikata toushirou #okita sougo #answered ask #asks closed

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hysterialevi · 3 years ago

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Hjarta | Final Chapter

Fanfic summary: In an AU where Eivor was adopted by Randvi’s family instead, he ends up falling in love with the man his sister has been promised to despite the arranged marriage between their clans.

Point of view: third-person

Pairing: Sigurd Styrbjornson x Male Eivor

Author’s note: Holy shit I can’t believe it’s already the last chapter. Thank you guys so much for sticking with this story from the start, and for sending me wonderful comments/messages of support. I really had fun writing this fanfic and interacting with you all, so I hope you’ll enjoy this last part of Hjarta. This story seriously means a lot to me, and it makes my day to know how many of you liked it. Stay awesome :)

This story is also on AO3 | Previous chapter

THRYMR’S TOMB

A WHILE LATER

“Eivor!” Sigurd called out through the storm, forcing his way across the snow. “Are you there?”

The prince shielded his face from the frost with a protective arm and squinted, desperately searching for his lover as he wandered blindly through the fog. The young man had disappeared from the battle not too long ago, and seemingly taken Kjotve’s fate into his own hands. What became of either of them still remained a mystery to Sigurd, and as more time passed by, he found himself feeling increasingly worried for Eivor’s life.

“Eivor!” He repeated a tad louder this time. “Say something! Can you hear me?”

Much to his relief, a faint voice answered from a distance.

“...I’m here, Sigurd...!”

Inching closer towards the voice, the older man ventured deeper into the mist and peered forward, only to spot the outline of a familiar shadow trudging in his direction.

Eivor was sauntering underneath the sun’s blurred rays with a slight hiccup in his step, and fresh blood clinging to his axe. His face seemed to be wiped clean of all the energy that once burned in his eyes, and yet, he appeared to be... at peace.

A calming aura could be seen blossoming from his heart like a single flower in a barren field, and in a strange way, it almost looked as if he had completely forgotten about the war. Not a single hint of dread or terror weathered his blissful expression, and the ribbons of sunlight dancing above him only added to his soothing demeanor.

Sigurd picked up his pace and began jogging, eagerly rushing to rejoin his lover.

“Eivor...!” He said with a sigh of relief, immediately pulling the man into a hug. “There you are.”

Eivor allowed his head to sit on Sigurd’s chest, giving himself some time to breathe.

“...Sigurd,” he whispered out of exhaustion, “...I did it. I actually did it.”

The prince continued cradling the younger man in his embrace, providing him with a sense of warmth amidst all the snow.

“What happened to you, Eivor? Where’s Kjotve? I saw you run off with him earlier. Is he dead? Did you... did you kill him?”

Eivor nodded and closed his eyes, not even bothering to say a word.

“Truly...?” Sigurd asked, staring at the other man in disbelief.

Could it really be possible that the battle was already finished? It hadn’t been too long ago that the prince was barely evading death’s grasp, and now, the storm had suddenly passed. Part of him found the news too good to be true considering the path they used to get here, and yet, something in Eivor’s tone rang with sincerity.

Sigurd tightened his grip on the smaller warrior and chuckled out of elation, nearly breaking into tears. “Then it’s over. The war... is finally over.”

He brought a hand to Eivor’s chin, lifting it gently so that he could see his face.

“What about you, my love? Are you well?”

The Wolf-Kissed displayed a subtle smile, radiating as if he were the moon itself.

“...I am. For the first time since that night... I’m okay.”

Sigurd returned the smile and cupped the back of Eivor’s head, pulling him close so that he could plant a kiss on his forehead.

“Good.”

Staying snuggled in each other’s arms, the couple took some time to enjoy the peace as the storm steadily died down around them, allowing more and more of the sun to break through. The crippling mist that had built up during the battle was slowly beginning to fade, and soon enough, nothing but a vast blue sky remained hovering above them.

Unbeknownst to Sigurd however, a third party had already found them and walked in on their brief reunion, but had not yet announced their presence.

In the distance, Arngeir quietly watched the scene in front of him unfold with a sense of shock clouding his mind, causing him to gawk incredulously. Even though he suspected that the prince would be somewhere in the vicinity with his son, he did not expect the two of them to be enwrapped in such a loving embrace.

...How long had they felt like this, he wondered? Was their bond something that had been ignited due to the recent string of battles, or had this been carrying on ever since Styrbjorn first arrived?

The jarl was honestly at a loss. He held no disgust in his heart for the peculiar couple before him, but he couldn’t deny that he was taken aback. Despite his knowledge of Sigurd and Eivor’s friendship in the past, he never would’ve guessed that there was something deeper between them.

Though, the more Arngeir thought about it, he supposed there really was nothing peculiar about their relationship. The knot that intertwined their fates was made of pure, genuine love delivered straight from the hands of Freya, and to his surprise, he just couldn’t bring himself to interfere.

It was something he hadn’t seen in ages thanks to the horrors of this war, but now that it was over, Arngeir figured he may as well let his doubts die with it.

He had had enough of tragedy.

Turning on his heel, the jarl decided to leave the couple alone and returned to the other half of the island, ready to inform his clan of their miraculous victory. He still didn’t know whether he’d tell Styrbjorn about his unanticipated discovery or not, but one thing was for certain.

Kjotve’s kingdom had finally fallen.

In spite of all the obstacles Styrbjorn’s people faced, his entire bloodline had been struck down, and his throne had been left unattended. No one in Norway would ever hear of his clan again, and his fortress would be left to crumble under the weight of the absence that consumed it.

The barbarian king was vanquished. Just like his legacy.

~~~~~~~~~~

THE NEXT DAY

BJORNHEIMR, THE LONGHOUSE

Sigurd placed the last of his belongings in the crate sitting before him, reminiscing as he stood in the middle of his chambers. It felt like a lifetime ago that he was first packing his things in preparation for the journey to Bjornheimr, and now, he was getting ready to leave.

After ages of enduring this war and accepting it as his reality, the prince had suddenly found himself in a world where Kjotve was no longer a problem, and his clan had been reduced to ashes in the wind.

A new era had been brought about thanks to their victory at Thrymr’s Tomb, and the kingdom now celebrated in harmony to honor the peace that had finally been restored.

Despite the jovial mood of his people however, Sigurd admittedly didn’t know how to process the whole situation himself. Part of him rejoiced due to the fact that he’d never have to deal with Kjotve’s cruelty again, but he would’ve been lying if he said he didn’t have his regrets.

He didn’t come out of this unscathed, after all. The Raven Clan may have emerged victorious from their fight against the barbarian king, but there were still many wounds that needed mending... including Dag’s loss.

Sigurd still remembered his last conversation with the man as if it happened yesterday. Even though Dag proved to be a traitor in his final moments, the prince just couldn’t bring himself to discard the memories they once shared, or the fondness that followed. In his eyes, the fallen warrior would always be that same little boy who kept him company as a child, and pulled him away from the darkness when his mother passed on.

As for the Dag he executed, Sigurd would remember him as no more than a fragment of his childhood friend, and the result of a man who had been crippled by his own jealousy. He would be a reminder for the prince to never fall prey to his demons, lest he lose the soul he had fought so long to preserve. It was what he owed his parents after all these years, and to himself.

Letting out a remorseful sigh, Sigurd shook his head and silenced the thoughts that threatened to encompass his mind, not willing to entertain his grief any further. He would never forget the loved ones he had lost during the events of this war, but for his own sake -- he had to move on.

Lifting up the crate with a soft grunt, Sigurd secured the box in his arms and began striding towards the archway, only to stop in his tracks when he noticed someone waiting for him.

At the moment, Eivor was standing on the other side of the door with his hands linked together and his head hanging low, clearly disheartened by Sigurd’s upcoming departure. His gaze swept in the floor in an attempt to avoid confronting the absence he would soon have to accept, and even the sight of the prince himself wasn’t able to lift his mood.

“Eivor...!” Sigurd greeted. “You came.”

The Wolf-Kissed stepped tentatively into the room, staring at his lover as if this was the last time they’d ever meet.

“Of course I did. I wanted to see you again before...” his expression sank slightly, “...before you left.”

Sigurd took note of the shift in his lover’s mood and placed the crate down for a moment, gently gripping Eivor’s wrist in a comforting manner.

“Eivor,” he said in a gentler tone, “...you know I have to go.”

“I do. I just wish you could stay longer. We spent so much of our time worrying about the people we lost that... we forgot we still had each other. But now that you’re leaving, it’s all I can think about.”

Sigurd lifted a hand to Eivor’s cheek and brushed away a lock of hair, tucking it neatly behind his ear.

“You can still come with me. You know that, right? I realize we’ve had this conversation before, but if you truly want us to stay together, I can arrange that.”

In spite of his sorrow, the younger man remained staunch in his decision. “I’m sorry, Sigurd, but I must remain here. As much as I wish I could go with you, Bjornheimr needs me. My father needs me. I’m the only family he has left apart from Randvi, and she’ll be gone too.”

Sigurd nodded sympathetically. “Very well. If that’s what you wish.”

Eivor paused briefly, switching to a different concern on his mind. “...You will visit me, right? This won’t be the last time I’ll see you?”

“Of course not,” the prince reassured. “I can’t say when I’ll have the chance to return to Bjornheimr, but -- I promise you -- as soon as the opportunity reveals itself, I’ll be here again.”

The other man didn’t appear any less forlorn, but accepted the promise nonetheless.

“I’ll be waiting. But until then...” Eivor leaned forward, pecking a goodbye kiss on Sigurd’s lips, “...stay safe, my love. I wish nothing but happiness for you.”

The prince pressed his forehead against Eivor’s, cherishing their last few minutes together.

“The same goes for you. My duties may require me to start a new life in preparation for the throne, but I’ll never forget everything you’ve done. Thank you. I mean it.”

Taking a few more moments to bask in each other’s company, the two of them simply cuddled in silence before separating the embrace, and retreating to the shells they so often wore around the rest of the village.

The sun had managed to climb to the top of the sky’s apex by now, and most of the Raven Clan were already gathered at the docks. The longships were fit to set sail after an entire morning’s worth of preparations, and their people were eager to return home. The only thing they needed now... was the presence of their prince himself.

“I suppose it’s time for me to leave.” Sigurd noted somberly, reluctantly taking hold of the crate once again. “Care to join me for the walk to the ship?”

Eivor concealed his pain with a friendly veil and stepped to the side, allowing Sigurd some room to walk through the doorway.

“After you, my friend.”

~~~~~~~~~~

A LITTLE LATER

THE DOCKS

Walking alongside one another as they headed towards the shore, Eivor and Sigurd strolled silently through the village with a bittersweet relief resting in their spirits, clouding their minds like the smoke of a cold pyre.

It brought them both great joy to see Kjotve’s reign finally come to an end, but they couldn’t stop themselves from wondering what waited beyond the horizon now that the war was over.

Was this the start of Sigurd’s life as a future king? Would he and Randvi truly be the rulers of Norway one day? How was he even going to raise a family? The prince had never planned to be a father, and a part of him wanted to scream at the thought of being forced to hide his true emotions once again.

He didn’t want to forget Eivor, or the things they experienced together. These past few weeks had been some of the best and worst moments of his life, and he dreaded the idea of allowing their bond to fade into a distant memory. But for the sake of his kingdom, Sigurd knew he had to leave the man behind if he wanted any chance of becoming a decent leader.

It was his duty, after all. Styrbjorn had managed to keep his end of the promise in regards to battling his addiction, so the prince figured it would only be fair if he upheld his own. Personal thoughts and desires no longer mattered within the realm of royalty. From this day on, Sigurd would be living to serve his people -- not himself.

“There they are.” He remarked, gesturing towards the end of the pier. Eivor followed Sigurd’s line of sight, only to spot Styrbjorn, Arngeir, and Randvi all waiting by the longship.

“So this is it then,” he said, already missing the prince’s company. “This is where we part ways.”

Sigurd shared his partner’s disappointment, but tried to keep a strong face nonetheless. “For now. You and I will be separated for some time, but I’ll visit you as much as I can. And you’re always welcome in Fornburg too, should you ever wish to come to me instead.”

“Thank you. I’ll consider it.”

Eivor placed a hand on the side of the prince’s arm, saying one last thing while he still had the chance.

“...Wait, Sigurd. Before you go.”

The older man came to a pause, giving Eivor a curious glance. “Yes? What is it?”

The Wolf-Kissed stuttered, admittedly unsure of where he was taking this. He didn’t have anything in particular he wanted Sigurd to hear -- he just hoped to keep him around for a little longer.

“Erm, n-nothing. I just wanted to say I love you.”

Sigurd smiled warmly at the comment despite Eivor’s awkwardness and chuckled lightly, attempting to comfort him.

“I love you too, Eivor. Never forget it.”

Leaving the younger man with those words, Sigurd carried on with the task at hand and sauntered towards the ship, placing the crate down by the boarding plank as one of the oarsmen came to assist him. Meanwhile, Styrbjorn greeted the two men with a cheery temperament, happy to get things going.

“Sigurd, Eivor!” The king exclaimed jovially. “It’s good to see you both in one piece after the battle yesterday. We lost many warriors during the assault at Thrymr’s Tomb, but now, we at least have the luxury of saying that their deaths weren’t in vain...” he turned to the Wolf-Kissed, “...and it’s all thanks to you, my boy.”

Eivor bowed his head in a humble manner. “I only did what was required of me.”

Styrbjorn let out a soft laugh. “Nonsense. Sigurd has told me of the tenacity you displayed on the battlefield. You showed great courage, and you fought with honor. It is thanks to your efforts that Kjotve now lies in a frigid tomb.”

Arngeir joined in. “Indeed. Had it not been for your valor, we would all still be bound by Kjotve’s chains. Varin would be proud of you, Eivor. And Ulfar too.”

“Thank you, father.”

Eivor brought his attention to Styrbjorn, trying his best to hide the sorrow lurking within him. “...So, I imagine you’ll be departing soon?”

To his surprise, the king appeared to have other things in mind. “Actually, there is something else your father and I would like to discuss first. Something that concerns you and my son.”

Sigurd froze at that, already suspicious of where this was leading. “...W-What do you mean?”

Arngeir stepped forward, hesitant to speak any further. “Forgive my being candid, but we are aware of the relationship between you two.”

Eivor instantly felt the color drain from his face, and he could’ve sworn he saw his own soul fleeing from his body.

“You-- what?”

“Do not be alarmed, my son. I am not here to pass judgement. Only to offer a proposal.”

“But... how? How did you find out?”

Arngeir crossed his arms in thought. “Yesterday, during the battle. Sigurd and I left the fort in order to search for you. We noticed you had disappeared at some point, and feared you may be in danger. Though, by the time I stumbled upon you, you had already found your way to the prince.”

“That means... you saw us...”

“...Embracing one another, yes. I apologize, Eivor. I did not mean to intrude.”

The young man exchanged glances with Sigurd, terrified to see the outcome of this discovery. “So, what does this mean for us? Are we to face punishment?”

Arngeir shook his head. “No. Quite the contrary, actually. I realize it isn’t my place to speak about this -- and for that I am sorry -- but I admit I shared this news with Styrbjorn once we returned, for I had an idea in mind that I wished to broach.”

That caught Sigurd’s attention. “An idea? About what?”

Styrbjorn provided the answer. “About this alliance, of course. You see, when we first arranged this marriage between you and Randvi, we did so with the intention of forming an ironclad bond. A bond born out of love. We believed it would be a way to ensure that our clans never fell apart, since our families would be intertwined from that day on. Clearly however, we were mistaken.”

The jarl nodded in agreement. “Indeed. It seems that the bond we were looking for... had been between you two all along.”

Arngeir trailed off into silence for a moment, considering his next words.

“Listen, both of you. Styrbjorn and I had a long conversation yesterday once I revealed my discovery. We discussed many things pertaining to this alliance, and after our talk, we came to the conclusion that... this marriage is no longer necessary.”

Sigurd’s eyes widened in shock. “Wait, are you saying that it’s over?”

“Ultimately, the choice lies with you. If you wish to end this marriage, and if Eivor decides to go in Randvi’s stead, then I have already told Styrbjorn that I have no qualms with it.”

The prince immediately looked at his lover, radiating with a newfound hope.

“Eivor...! Think about it. You could join me, just like we wanted.”

The Wolf-Kissed glanced at Arngeir, double-checking with him first.

“But what about you, father? Are you certain about this? I don’t want to abandon you.”

The jarl gave him a reassuring pat on the arm. “Do not fret, Eivor. You’re not abandoning anybody. If you choose to stay with Sigurd, then Randvi will remain here in your place. Neither of us will be alone.”

Randvi suddenly jumped into the conversation, encouraging her brother to follow his desires.

“Go on, Eivor. It’s okay. Father and I will have each other. We’ll rebuild Bjornheimr, and return this village to what it once was. By the time you come back, this place will be thriving more than it ever did. In the meantime, go with Sigurd. A new life awaits you in Fornburg. Don’t let this opportunity pass.”

“She’s right, Eivor,” Arngeir said. “All I’ve ever wanted for any of you is to be happy. If you believe that being with Sigurd is best for you, then go.”

The young man stumbled over his words, rendered completely speechless by how this scenario had turned out. When he awoke this morning, he never imagined that he’d be given the option to freely roam the kingdom at Sigurd’s side, living with him as if they were family.

If anything, Eivor fully expected that he would be bidding the prince farewell, and left to wallow in the melancholy that had formed in his heart during this past month. So much anger and regret had taken control of his spirit’s reins ever since the news of Sigurd’s departure, and now... it was all gone. Just like that.

“I... I don’t know what to say,” he replied. “...Thank you, father. You can’t imagine how much this means to me.”

A gleeful expression spread across the jarl’s face. “I’m glad, Eivor.”

Randvi wrapped her arms around her younger brother, pulling the man into one last hug before saying goodbye.

“We’ll miss you, little cub. Take care of yourself, and each other. Alright?”

“We will. I promise.”

The woman gave him a playful shove. “Then get out of here. And make sure to knock plenty of skulls. Let the world know who we are.”

Eivor chuckled at the response, grinning from ear-to-ear. “The Bear Clan’s name will be fluttering from the lips of every bard in Norway when I’m done. I assure you. Until then, farewell, and thank you for all you’ve given me.”

The Wolf-Kissed walked over to Sigurd’s side, openly taking hold of his hand for the first time since they met. The prince’s eyes were twinkling with a vibrant ray of hope at this point, and a familiar sense of contentment had finally returned to his soul.

“Come, my love,” Eivor ushered. “Fornburg awaits.”

~~~~~~~~~~

LATER THAT DAY

Steadily gliding across the ocean’s hills, the longship broke free from the harbor and began heading out towards the vastness of the open sea, prepared to deliver its occupants back home after a long and arduous battle.

Petals of snow could be seen dancing along the surface of the vessel’s billowing sails, and in the distance, the sun’s light shone through the mountains, causing the water below to shimmer with a glittering streak.

Birds soared in harmony with the wind that guided the longship’s course and left a trail of feathers in their wake, accompanying the warriors who sailed beneath their wings.

All the creatures of Midgard seemed to band together in celebration now that the age of war had perished, and the earth cried out in relief due to the lack of blood littering its soil.

As for Eivor, the man simply rested against the longship’s walls and marveled at the view in front of him, listening intently while Sigurd entertained him with tales of Fornburg’s wonders. The prince spoke of his home with a great fondness and constructed vivid images using only the movement of his hands, painting a clear picture for his companion.

Meanwhile, the oarsmen behind them burst into song and began reciting a number of sea shanties, singing heartily as if they were performing for the gods themselves. Their voices rang merrily into the sky like a horn of victory, and the world around them seemed to bloom with revival.

It was the start of a new dawn. After countless years of pointless death and suffering, the clans in Norway had become united under one crown, and Kjotve had paid the ultimate price. His name had been blotted out with the stain of a mad tyrant, and his victims had been released from their ethereal chains in the afterlife.

Most importantly though, Eivor no longer felt the need to hide who he was. The fantasy that once haunted him in his dreams had become a reality, and now, he was free to love Sigurd as any man would love his wife. The times of fear and judgement were over at last, and the alliance between their peoples had been reignited with a different bond.

Their relationship would be the foundation of many things to come, and just like Ingrida once said, they had finally found their way home after decades of straying from their fate.

It was what the Nornir planned all along, and the one thing Varin always wished for his son -- the one thing he could never achieve.

Freedom.

#hjarta #assassin's creed valhalla #ac valhalla #eivor wolfsmal #eivor wolfkissed #eivor varinsson #male eivor #sigurd styrbjornson #sigurd x male eivor #ac valhalla fanfic

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humanwheatleyslefttoenail · 4 years ago

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Now I Am An Arsonist

Chapter 2: The Acrobat

Summary: GLaDOS learns a few things about love, hate, and the human condition.

Tags: Canon typical violence, ChellDOS, human!GLaDOS, found family

A/N: I know technically I published this a while back but I did some major edits to both the chapters I’ve already written and the story as a whole. As promised, I’m re-releasing what I already have with the edits/illustrations.

She’d awoken slowly, feeling the hard coils of a mattress underneath Her back and a stiff yellow jumpsuit enshrouding Her arms and legs. Long fall boots clung tightly to Her feet, uncomfortably squeezed into the rigid white plastic.

Gradually, She sat up on the neatly-made bed, a rough linen blanket still covering Her lower half. The chamber had been deliberately made to look like a hotel room, complete with a TV in the corner and a nightstand on the side. Something wasn’t right.

It was like living in a distant memory, a dream She’d had but not quite remembered.

A part of Her felt like this was normal, as if She’d woken up here every morning, but another urged Her to look for answers.

GLaDOS searched Her memory, not fully processing the world around Her, puzzled as to why Her thoughts had been slowed tenfold.

Looking down, She saw two pale human arms and two pale human hands. Feeling the top of Her head, She found a mess of dark brown hair which came down to Her shoulders.

No, this surely wasn’t right.

Only hours ago, only hours ago, She’d been in control of all of Aperture Science. She’d been invincible, the immortal, all-powerful GLaDOS and now…

Now, She was this.

What the hell is going on here?

There was seldom more awful than to be a human being, to live a short, painful life burdened equally by love and hate. Even on Her worst days, the most She could muster for human beings was a vague sense of pity.

Yet, here She was, more human than She had been in centuries.

Oh, you have got to be kidding me.

Being Caroline, however brief, was not something She’d ever wished to return to. Emotions were completely incapacitating. There was something to be said for the victory of a test well done, of throwing Wheatley into space where the little moron belonged, of the relief when Chell woke up. But something like guilt? Something like fear? Real, genuine fear?

As a machine, She could destroy those feelings, suppress them until they were nothing at all. As a human, that task wasn’t so easy.

Sparks of happiness, moments of joy; none of them were worth the ordeal.

Even the anticipation of fear made GLaDOS’ chest pound, rapidly breathing in and out as She reflexively clung to the blanket. The last thing She needed was more complicated thoughts about Chell, more bittersweet memories of Cave, more useless sentiments to wring Her bitter heart dry.

In a very human moment of pure shock, GLaDOS screamed. It was an ugly cry of anger and surprise swirled together, resounding throughout the vault. The echoes echoed off the walls, and the once-powerful GLaDOS cowered with Her head in Her hands.

The potato was bad enough. The potato brought Her closer to Her own humanity than She’d ever wanted to acknowledge, but barely minutes in GLaDOS could tell that this would be infinitely worse. GLaDOS felt Herself shaking, barely even processing the fact that this hideous amalgamate of skin and bones was now Her body. Now She had hair, She had hands, She had fingers and She had lungs and She had a heartbeat.

She had a heartbeat. A thudding reminder of Her newfound vulnerability. A symbol of Her weakness.

GLaDOS did not particularly care to be weak.

Finally, She understood the meaning of organic in Organic Transplant Procedure. Could they have possibly made it any vaguer?

Whatever this was, whatever had happened, She had to figure it out. The potato battery, being fed to birds, and dying twice was apparently not enough to satisfy whatever gods lurked in Android Hell. She would spite them once again, return to Her body, and everything would be alright. It had been alright before, so why wouldn’t it be now? At least, this time, She didn’t have Chell and Wheatley working against Her. All She had was Herself and the facility.

GLaDOS took a deep breath, a sensation She had not felt for hundreds of years. The motion didn’t entirely calm Her nerves, but Her only option was to move forward. Staying here would do nothing to help. The faster She figured something out, the faster She could leave this awful body.

GLaDOS leaned one arm against the peeling wallpaper, trying to balance on Her boots. The heels on the shoes were suspended above the floor, supported by a spring. Shifting Her weight while wearing them, however, was an acquired skill. Gently lifting Her hand from the wall, arms out at Her side, She was stable.

Briefly.

Without warning, the boots gave way, and GLaDOS toppled onto the dusty carpet.

A dull pain filled Her legs, quickly fading as She clung to the wall and rose again slowly. If She wanted to go anywhere, She would have to try again.

She walked along the side of the wall and felt the way the heels bounced beneath Her, made specifically to take the impact of any fall. Cautiously, GLaDOS let go of the side of the room, miraculously still. She took a careful step forward, preparing for impact, only to see that She was steadier than expected. Still, each step was uneasy, tense and on the cusp of collapsing.

Walking around the perimeter of the bed, She peered at the little wooden nightstand. One of the drawers had already been pulled out, but the other remained tightly shut. Crouching down, GLaDOS wrenched the second drawer open, finding a small mirror clouded with age. Holding it close to Her face, She examined Her repulsive new features.

GLaDOS wondered if there was any particular reason why this body looked so similar to Caroline. Most likely, it was an odd coincidence, but She wouldn’t put it past Aperture to clone a body that looked exactly like her own. She appeared to be in Her late thirties, already sporting gray hairs and frown lines. Her eyes, weighed down by bags, were a dull metal gray.

Robots, unlike humans, were built specifically to look beautiful - gears moving in harmony, painted finish gleaming under the lights of the enrichment center. She was stunning in the way She alone could be, completely alien and yet striking to the eye.

Humans, on the other hand, were made only to survive. Nature didn’t particularly mind if its final product was an unsightly, hairless primate so long as it could handle the simple job of finding food. Some humans considered certain members of their own species more attractive than others, but GLaDOS found them all equally ugly. Humans, with all their variation, all looked the same when you’d seen enough of them.

GLaDOS’ real body was a physical manifestation of Her power; She didn’t care that it was pleasing to the eye so long as it conveyed a sense of authority. This new human body, with its small size, its blemishes and imperfections, conveyed the exact opposite. Other humans may have even described Her appearance with words like pretty, soft or even kindly.

The idea of being seen as anything but imposing was a nightmare.

For Her own sake, GLaDOS didn’t ruminate over Her first impressions any longer.

Part of the zipper on Her yellow jumpsuit was undone, revealing an implant attached to Her right collarbone. It appeared to be a small, bright yellow core, the source of Her being, woven into Her skin by a cluster of wires.

GLaDOS rezipped it, the yellow light still glowing brightly through the fabric.

Without a second thought, She placed the mirror back in the drawer and shut it closed, screening the room for an exit. In the front of the room was a wooden door with a rusty brass knob, waiting to be turned ajar. Without hesitation, She followed the path and twisted the handle, the door creaking open without any resistance.

As She entered the hall, GLaDOS was taken aback by the sheer number of chambers, suspended from above and hanging inches away from a more stable platform. Closing the door behind Her and jumping onto the catwalk, She couldn’t help but notice the sense of abandonment that filled the room. It had been centuries since the old Relaxation Center had been brought up to code, and previously there hadn’t been much reason to improve it.

Now GLaDOS wished She’d put in the effort.

The metal catwalk led directly to an old waiting room. Ladderback chairs sat around a central column in the middle, surrounded by coffee tables, a water dispenser and miscellaneous paintings. A flickering Aperture Science logo still shined in the dim gray room, gleaming a ghostly white. Near the back, a faded poster called for test subject applications, apparently endorsed by Cave Johnson himself.

Everywhere She looked, remnants of a dead man’s company made parodies of themselves, untouched for years.

Behind a front desk was a hallway filled with shadows, leading behind the room. With nowhere else to go, GLaDOS stepped into the dark, the light of Her core guiding Her through.

There wasn’t much to see, and for a while, the corridor ran along a single route.

GLaDOS had to come up with a plan.

Somewhere around here there had to be a control room, or at least a place where She could catch a lift back to the Enrichment Center. The thought crossed Her mind that She might have to pass through a testing track, one of Her own meticulously designed traps. It didn’t matter. She’d deal with it when She got to it.

The hallway was only becoming darker, and the little light on Her shoulder wasn’t nearly bright enough. As far as She could tell, there were no switches along the way. Any lighting was likely controlled by a power station a mile from here.

Something metallic banged against Her foot, and upon examination, GLaDOS discovered it was an empty can of beans. In front of Her, at least three more were lined up in a row. She sighed.

Of course Doug had been here. That man was as ingenious as he was stealthy, and had found his way through every nook and cranny at Aperture. Not even Chell had been able to access some of the places he had.

GLaDOS took it as a good sign. Wherever the path led, it meant someone had been able to survive it.

Surviving had never exactly been a consideration before. Even when Chell killed Her the first time, She had a feeling there was some kind of safeguard. Humans didn’t have a black box; when they were gone, they were gone. Nothing could bring back a dead human.

As a potato, GLaDOS had been forced to confront the idea that if Wheatley blew up the facility, that would really be the end. There had been a part of Her almost content that if it was, Chell would be by Her side. Whether it was a vengeful wish, or a side effect of companionship was still unknown.

Back then, though, She hadn’t really been in control. She’d relied on simple hope that Chell could stop Wheatley before it all went down, not contributing much besides the occasional bit of advice. Now GLaDOS was responsible for Her own fate, fully mobile and fully alone.

Maybe that was even scarier than standing still.

After all, She could rely on Chell. Relying on this new human body was another story altogether.

The question now was whether any light could be found in this hallway. GLaDOS uncomfortably dropped to her knees, feeling for anything besides the three cans. She grasped at something plastic with a switch on the side. A flashlight.

Turning it on, the hallway became completely visible. Immediately, GLaDOS was surprised by the sheer number of paintings that covered the white walls.

Portraits of Chell were splattered from floor to ceiling. Everywhere GLaDOS looked, a woman in an orange jumpsuit stared back at Her, shooting portals and knocking over turrets. Swirls of paint danced from one scene to another, blending each picture into the next. Words were haphazardly scrawled across, some of them poetic and others screaming pure nonsense. Whatever meaning they’d had was lost with Doug.

A common theme was the companion cube, and one particularly disturbing image replaced their iconic hearts with bleeding human eyes. There was a stark contrast between the idyllic, peaceful depictions of Chell sleeping and the scribbles of scientists running for their lives. GLaDOS could barely make out some of the more manic drawings, but those turned out to be the most horrifying. Tightly clustered loops signified a cloud of neurotoxin. Blotches of red were human remains.

GLaDOS stood back up, meandering further down the hall. The paintings only devolved from here, intricate detail morphing into vague warnings.

Don’t trust Her lies.

The path went on for about another fifteen minutes, twisting and turning at sharp angles. Metal doors led to cluttered offices, all of them sealed and locked. In some of them, the computers were still on, endlessly flickering in the darkness.

When GLaDOS finally reached the end of the corridor, She was greeted with the sudden activation of a bright white light. Reflexively, She shielded Her eyes as the voice of the announcer blared.

“Welcome, Aperture Science Testing Associate! You’re here because you’ve voluntarily, or involuntarily, chosen to sign over all your legal rights to Aperture Science and further humanity’s progress!”

Of course. Being turned into a fleshy mess of tissues wasn’t enough. She’d have to go through the testing track, too.

She bit her lip in silent rage, no longer blinded by the light, gazing upon an airtight room with little more than a circular door. All around Her was white, covered in portal surfaces. Beneath Her, GLaDOS could feel the electronics of the panels whir, making the whole room seem alive. It could move at any moment.

“Before we begin, the Enrichment Center would like to remind you that you may suffer terrible injuries caused by our testing devices designed to create terrible injuries. If you have suffered a terrible injury, please review our community-shared legal manual, which states that Aperture Science takes no responsibility.”

GLaDOS knew that redundant message. It was backup, for when She wasn’t there to narrate. Testing tracks had levels of difficulty, and before Her takeover, it was fairly common for subjects to be screened and assigned one based on what they could handle. This message only played for the most difficult, and consequently, the deadliest. Not even GLaDOS was entirely sure what was in here; She hadn’t used it for fear of subjects dying before any real data could be collected.

“As part of [HIGH DIFFICULTY] testing protocol, Aperture Science has temporarily issued you your very own Aperture Science Handheld Portal Device.”

Without warning, a panel on the ceiling lifted, a robotic claw descending and dropping the device directly in front of GLaDOS. The claw lifted, and the panel closed again.

“The device has been successfully deployed. To ensure the validity of our tests, please verify that your device is completely operational.”

GLaDOS was familiar with the portal gun from Her databases, and She knew exactly how to work it. Despite this, She’d never actually handled one Herself, unless being impaled on the end of one counted. The device was heavy in Her hands, cold and sleek against Her fingers. The center, black plastic encasing a glowing yellow coil, was warm to the touch.

Pointing at one of the white panels, She cocked the trigger, and a golden portal blossomed in front of Her. Running Her fingers across the surface, it felt like waving a hand through a ray of sunlight. GLaDOS turned around, shooting the next portal at the opposite wall. The portal which followed was a lighter yellow, less vivid than the first.

“Good. A signal from the device has proven activation. Please enter the elevator.”

The metal door opened, and just beyond the emancipation grill, an elevator stood wait. It was the only path left to take.

---

Putting a cube on a button should’ve been a simple task for a supercomputer. Even for a human, the menial work was a cognitive breeze. The large button in particular required minimal force to operate, and the weighted storage cubes were lighter than they appeared. In any scenario, placing an object on another was easily mastered with only the most basic of motor skills. It could have qualified as the least difficult task known to mankind. All GLaDOS had to do was put one cube on one button.

That was all there was. One cube, one button, and several killing machines stuffed with thousands of bullets. It was for this reason that GLaDOS could not perform this extraordinarily simple job. The turrets blocking the way would surely be a hurdle.

Already, GLaDOS could feel the beginnings of human fear creeping into Her mind. She was out of the turrets’ line of sight, and yet the caution of Her new form compelled Her to stay hidden in the corner regardless. Nervously clutching the trigger of Her portal gun, She considered the dangers lurking in future tests. This one was only the first, and it had already deployed one of the worst weapons Aperture had to offer.

Logically, GLaDOS knew She could step out. She could put one portal behind Her, another at the opposite wall, and avoid the turrets altogether. Behind them would certainly be the cube and the button. Still, emotion was quite a world apart from logic. As a computer, She could be revived over and over again. Humans could not be fixed, and GLaDOS understood that in the very unlikely possibility She died here, She was never coming back.

GLaDOS didn’t want to admit that She was afraid, not even to Herself. She was sure Chell could tell back when Wheatley was in control; She’d let Her voice slip more than once. Now, with nobody around, She only had Herself to prove it to.

Removing Her cores all that time ago had also been the removal of Her regulators; She felt everything once they were detached, things She would have to relearn how to suppress. All She remembered before the world went dark, before Chell killed her, what She’d relived, was fear. Panic. Terror. There were a million words for it, none encapsulating just how soul-wrenching the phenomenon was.

Even then, that’s all it was for Her. Just an emotion. For human beings, fear was a sixth sense. It could be felt in a spiraling heartbeat, in beads of sweat, in shallow breaths and temporary, last-ditch strength. Fear was a state of being, and for the particularly unfortunate, a way of life.

GLaDOS knew fear only when She had to, only when She could not shove it to the very bottom of Her files. Humans knew fear like they knew living.

What a miserable way to be.

It was all the more reason to complete these chambers faster.

When She reached the other side of the room, GLaDOS found exactly what She expected. The cube glowed a bright yellow when placed on the Aperture Science Super-Colliding Super Button, and the chamber lock opened.

As the elevator descended, GLaDOS realized that She had no idea how to solve these tests. She was smart, and the solution would certainly come to Her eventually, but the human mind could only store so much. GLaDOS used to have entire libraries of nothing but solutions to tests, but the upload procedure hadn’t deemed that useful or necessary. When trying to remember, there was nothing. For the first time, GLaDOS’ mind was blank.

The next test dashed all Her hopes for a few more tutorial puzzles.

No, GLaDOS reassured Herself. This is alright. I’m used to being challenged.

After Chell, She was sure any other problem would be easier to solve.

This particular test was supposed to introduce lasers. The first step was to burn the turrets with the beam, done with the help of portals and crouching behind a corner. The explosions were louder than She’d expected; GLaDOS had seldom heard them outside of watching from a camera. Her ears rung as She crept past the charred remains of the turrets, almost nothing left of the slender white robots. The burn marks brought a smile to Her face; She’d killed them. Even now, She had power over something.

The turrets were programmed to have some level of sentience, though their sense of self was not nearly as defined as that of a core’s or a human’s. It didn’t matter anyway; they wouldn’t be missed. For every one that was destroyed or made wrong, ten more were created in its place, and the missing turret was simply forgotten. Nobody really made an effort to remember in the first place.

Humans, too, were often unremembered. She used to be able to look at their files at any time, but why would She want to? She’d seen so many, none particularly worthy of note, and most of them were gone. Even so, in a part of Her that She wanted to deny, GLaDOS almost felt sorry for them. She too had been forgotten for years; nobody had even wanted to wake Her up, to check and see if She was alright. All the robots in the facility knew was that the voice controlling them was gone, and that She wasn’t coming back.

The rest of the puzzle was much more challenging than swinging around a laser, involving the use of a redirection cube and multiple steps to obtain it. Another round of turrets was waiting where GLaDOS couldn’t see, launching a bullet directly between Her ribs. Luckily for GLaDOS, the force of each bullet was minimal, and the single hit left only a painful bruise. These turrets were stuffed to the brim with ammunition, part of Cave Johnson’s idea to really give his customers their money’s worth. The unintended side effect was a reduction of firing power.

Trudging to the elevator, GLaDOS clutched Her side. She’d been knocked out of breath, and the sharp throb of the bruise had faded into a dull ache. It was almost worse that way, grating on Her nerves, flaring up when She took a breath.

Chell had taken a couple bullets before, some grazing the sides of Her shoulders and most leaving similar small wounds. GLaDOS had to give her credit for continuing to test, holding her head high even when she was bleeding. That didn’t even count sores in her lungs from the neurotoxin, or the damage from falling down the pit. The fact that Chell stayed alive, then went on to test for days, proved her exceptional stamina.

This one bruise to the rib was occupying nearly all of GLaDOS’ thoughts. She couldn’t fathom the kinds of things Chell felt. The only comparisons She had were the removal of Her head and dying, both of which didn’t last longer than a few minutes. Her pain as a computer had been simulated, but this was real and arguably worse. Chell had likely felt this same sensation a hundred times over, and a hundred times longer.

You did that to her, you know. A voice clawed from deep within Her mind.

You gave her all that pain.

Testing was bad enough, GLaDOS didn’t need the additional burden of guilt. She ignored the voice, though a heaviness still welled in Her chest. Her conscience, the one with Her own voice, was coming back. GLaDOS couldn’t say She missed it.

---

The following tests had proved themselves to be little more than a series of colorful injuries.

Despite Her caution, misfires on behalf of the turrets were inevitable. A stray bullet had bruised Her shin, while another flew past and grazed the side of Her left shoulder. Other little nicks were speckled across Her skin, the products of miscellaneous falls.

Hitting the sides of walls, and even landing with the boots, left GLaDOS’ arms and legs sore. Every step She took was a laborious trudge from panel to panel, and eventually Her fatigue took control.

GLaDOS scanned the level sign on Her right upon entering the test. 15. It hadn’t felt like 15 tests; it’d felt like hundreds had gone by. GLaDOS wasn’t even entirely sure how long it’d been. The adrenal vapor in the air muddled Her perception, and an hour and a minute seemed to be the same.

An educated guess was about four hours, accounting for the rests She’d taken in between. The hard physical activity had already worn down this middle-aged body. The woman was lean, more bony than muscular, and even slight exertion took all the effort She could give. The factor of age didn’t help.

GLaDOS sat down in front of the glowing screen, giving Herself a minute to catch Her breath.

There was a possibility that these tests would go on for thousands of chambers, enough to last years. Equally likely, at the end of the next there might be a scorching pit of flames. That one without any portal surfaces to escape from.

She leaned Her head on the wall, closing Her eyes and letting Her mind wander.

The chamber was frigid, and the jumpsuit did little to shield GLaDOS from the cold. Arms crossed and knees at Her chest, the heat still escaped Her.

The thought crossed Her mind that this was how Chell had felt. Was she always this cold, this tired, this desperate? GLaDOS made a mental note to Herself.

Make the chambers warmer.

The heat was only a surface-level fix. The claustrophobia induced by the walls, the artificial lights, and the expectation to give it your all or else was maddening.

Why does it matter to you? GLaDOS asked Herself. Sure, it was bad for Her, but why care about the other subjects? Once She got through this, GLaDOS would never have to feel it again.

She remembered the time She’d described Her worst imperfection to Atlas and P-Body. Too much sympathy for human suffering.

Still, Chell would’ve been happier (whatever excuse for happiness that would be) in warmer chambers. Now that She’d gotten attached to one human, She’d felt for them all. It was why She was so hesitant to form a connection in the first place. That would interfere with Her experiments.

Memories of sparing Chell’s lookalike and saving the life of the man reentered Her mind, and She was embarrassed at the thought of letting Her study careen so far off the rails. Looking back, how much perfectly good science had been ruined? Chell wasn’t even here, and yet She was still wrecking the facility.

Missing Chell, no maybe not missing so much as becoming used to her presence, was the source of all this mayhem. The thought of deleting the feeling completely…it was a motivating fantasy. Sentimentality had been, and would be, the death of Her.

Wisely, GLaDOS stopped Herself from wandering further.

Don’t think about it. Control yourself.

The act of caring verged on Caroline behavior.

If only to distract Herself, GLaDOS stood up tall and readied Herself for the fifteenth test. Walking deeper in, Her nose caught the scent of acid, stinging as the fumes filled Her lungs.

GLaDOS sighed.

She could already tell that this would be a long one.

---

Cheating was not as good of an idea as it originally seemed.

GLaDOS knew logically, No, you have to do the test, there’s no other way out. When subjects tried to escape, it never ended well for them. Despite past observation, the temptation remained as strong as ever. The walls beckoned Her, waiting to be climbed, an onlooking room in wait. These tests hadn’t been as thoroughly repaired as the others, and sunlight shone through holes in the ceiling. Wreckage from years of decay looked almost like a staircase, or perhaps more like a ladder. Everywhere around Her seemed like an easier path to freedom.

The main issue was stability; the rusty metal plates couldn’t support Her weight, and trying to climb left Her tumbling down onto the hard floors. No wall ever seemed to have enough traction, and a sprain on Her arm quickly taught GLaDOS that Her ingenious plans were too risky to continue. Even the use of momentum could not propel Her high enough to reach the windows of the room overhead.

Frustrated and defeated, She solved the test without further incident. Chamber 25 was waiting up ahead, and the sunlight from above shone with evening hues. To Her own disbelief, all of this testing had amounted to only a single day.

After the long, arduous completion of 25 had wracked both Her body and mind, GLaDOS found welcome relief. She almost couldn’t believe the fact that the chambers had ended so… safely. The door opened, and there were no death traps or pits of fire waiting for Her. It only led into a waiting room with a faded Thank You sign on the wall. GLaDOS smiled, satisfied with Her victory. Shortcomings aside, the fact that this measly human body had managed to endure so much was something She was proud of.

That had been Her work, Her survival, not just testing by proxy.

The waiting room She stood in was eerily similar to the last, furnished with the same kind of chair and plastered with similar advertisements. Unlike the last one, two exits waited in front of Her. One was for test subjects, boarded up with wood nailed to the door, completely inaccessible. The other was a flight of stairs leading upward, blocked off with a chained sign reading Employees Only.

GLaDOS lifted the chain over Her head and took the staircase, no other option available. Nervously, She hoped that anything but another testing track was up ahead, only to find exactly what She needed. Her luck had been improving; a control room was only a step away. A panel of countless switches was adhered to the pale blue walls, adjacent to a desk with pens, paper, and a noisy radio. The same jazzy tune played on loop until She switched it off, content with the silence.

It’s finally over.

She sat down at the office chair in front of the control panel, scanning it for the words lift or escape pod. Dials and switches cluttered the board, labeled with miniscule text that was near impossible to read. GLaDOS scorned Her human eyesight, searching desperately, but finding nothing. The buttons only controlled elements of the test chambers, which panels to open, which cubes to drop.

She reread it, knowing that surely She’d missed something. Again and again, She screened the switchboard, yielding nothing.

GLaDOS had to have overlooked a button, misread a label. Nothing was hidden behind the desk, and no other devices had been plugged into the socket on the wall. The realization that She could be trapped here, here of all places, sank low into Her chest. After everything, after all of the testing and the pain and the feelings, it had all amounted to this.

“Oh my god. Oh my god. That’s not possible!”

All the panic She’d suppressed was finally let loose, Her human mind no longer able to contain the fear She’d been anticipating.

I might die here. That’s it. I might never get back in my mainframe, and I might spend my last hours stuck in this human being.

I’m going to be alone.

Alone.

She lingered on that sentence, anxiously pacing around the desk, nervously clawing through Her hair.

I am going to be very, very alone.

GLaDOS had always wanted to spend Her entire, immortal life alone. No friends, no family to weigh Her down, to distract Her from purpose. Cave had put it best; Caroline was married to science, and that had carried over to GLaDOS.

Machines didn’t need companionship, but depriving a human being of social contact was like denying them water. Whatever human need for friendship still existed in this woman’s body was bubbling up, broken by the sheer loneliness of the tests.

She often wondered why subjects had such a difficult time euthanizing their faithful companion cube. Unless rare incidents of stabbing threats counted, the companion cube had not once spoken to them, never shown any kind of personality or attachment. They were sentient enough, like most Aperture products, but their only real difference from a storage cube was their little heart decal. A mere design change had been enough to exploit human compassion, and it was fascinating to behold.

A part of Her now understood why it was so easy to believe that an inanimate object could be a friend. GLaDOS’ human component ached for any sort of company, any kind of reassurance. Even an enemy would be nice. An enemy would be better, maybe even preferred.

Just someone to talk to, even if that conversation was just a tirade of insults on Her part.

GLaDOS gave up; nobody was here, and nobody was waiting for Her. The future looked lonely, and in desperation, She gave the control panel one last glance. A button that She’d seen before caught Her eye, one She hadn’t fully considered the first time.

Core Sentience Connector.

With nothing to lose, She pressed the button, and a whirring erupted from a panel downstairs. GLaDOS rushed back to the waiting room, portal gun in Her hands, and watched the walls open like magic. In its place was a metal contraption, holding the empty shell of a personality core with a flickering screen above it. The Aperture Logo flashed onto the newly implemented monitor, while the announcer blared from an invisible speaker.

“Hello, and thank you for activating the Aperture Science Personality Core Sentience Connector Protocol! If you have selected this feature, congratulations. A subject under your supervision has been experiencing difficulties testing due to prolonged exposure to severe social deprivation.”

GLaDOS wondered what other insane scenarios they’d thought of as the screen switched to a moving blueprint of a personality sphere.

“All Aperture Science Personality Constructs are made with the intended purpose of solving this problem, providing companionship to those in crisis. Personality Constructs with an active distress signal can be summoned with the connector protocol. A list of available constructs is provided on the screen.”

Walking closer to the device, GLaDOS saw only one serial number listed. Personality cores all had radio capability, and the signal of their very being could be transmitted in times of emergency. Once the signal was received, that could easily be implemented into any compatible device.

GLaDOS hesitated before selecting the number. She doubted that the little moron had the capacity to activate a distress signal, and if he did, it was highly unlikely that the signal could bounce all the way back to Earth. Still, the possibility that this core could be Wheatley was something She did not want to risk. Although psychologically destroying him would be a good use of Her time, being in a position of power would make Her revenge all the more satisfying.

The last thing She wanted was for him to see Her weak again, but the only other option was to remain trapped. At the very least, if they were stuck here forever, She could use the last of Her human strength to make Wheatley’s tiny, moronic life as miserable as possible. In the off chance he could open a panel, She’d use him to escape and leave him behind. Preferably, in the incinerator.

Survival was worth the temporary burden of dealing with Wheatley, especially if it meant another thousand years doing nothing but testing. GLaDOS tapped the number, an electric chime sounding from the machine as the connector activated. Within thirty seconds, the core’s eye opened, gleaming a bright blue.

---

“If you were, let’s say, a brain damaged woman who was betrayed by her only friend, what would it take for you to forgive the bloke who tried to murder you? It’s just theoretical, just, you know, coming up with hypotheticals to pass the time.”

“Space. Space is nice. Rocket ship. Rocket ship goes to space. Space goes to space. Space is in space.”

“Alright mate, thanks for the input. Very useful.”

Wheatley sighed, his optic focused on the same group of stars he’d watched for the past couple of hours, his mind wrapped up in the past.

Four months had been a good amount of time to relive his mistakes over and over, micro analyzing every transgression against Chell. His life was now a series of unpleasant memories, or pleasant ones turned painful by context, interrupted with by chatter of the space core and the light of the sun.

Fantasies, in which he apologized for his mistakes and Chell forgave him, were far too frequent. He’d say sorry, deliver a whole monologue four months in the making, and She’d pick him up and smile at him. They would be friends again, and Wheatley would never return to Aperture. GLaDOS would be gone, out of sight forever, and they could be happy. He could be happy.

Not that Wheatley particularly thought he deserved it. By most human standards of morality, trying to kill someone was considered an irredeemable offense. Empathizing with Chell’s fear, Chell’s heartbreak had been impossible with the mainframe distorting his thoughts. All of the sympathy he could not feel then was coming back now, transformed into guilt.

If you hadn’t acted like a monster, if you hadn’t been so awful, if you hadn’t been such a moron...

He knew that realistically, Chell would never pardon him. Even that was given the unlikely event they’d met again.

Wheatley wondered if he would ever get a second chance, ever get the opportunity to show that no, he wasn’t a moron and all that villainy had been just a fluke. He only needed a chance, just one.

Hell, if GLaDOS got an opportunity for redemption, why couldn’t he?

Wheatley closed his optic, feeling the cold of space against his metal casing.

One chance. That’s all I need.

For a moment, there was only the silence of the cosmos.

Without warning, his processors hummed with a fever pitch, and his thoughts raced until they melted into nonsense. A loud beeping resonated from inside, and through the chaos, Wheatley could discern a single error message.

Sentience Connector Protocol Initiated. Prepare for the brief suspension of your consciousness.

What in the bloody hell-

Wheatley screamed in surprise, his cry cut off halfway through.

The space core hardly noticed that his companion had been zapped away, content with watching the surface of the moon below. The stars shone bright as ever.

---

“Oh, oh my god, I’m alive! I…” Wheatley’s voice trailed off as he awakened to the dim walls of Aperture, facing a brown-haired, tired-looking woman. A yellow light glowed through Her jumpsuit, and a suspicious grin was spread across Her face. Wheatley had never seen this person before, but the moment She spoke, he knew exactly who She was.

“Well, there you are.”

She was back.

#glados #wheatley #chell #portal #portal 2 #niaaa #now i am an arsonist #fic #fanfiction #art #digital art #tw injury #canon typical violence

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blackbirdos · 3 years ago

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It is almost cold on the balcony when Kutkha steps outside, and, as usual, the stars cannot be seen well through the thickness of the light pollution. He should be asleep, but the city is not, and there are probably a hundred other people just like him creeping outside for some air, to quell their churning thoughts. Kutkha inhales a shaky breath then moves over to the railing, stooping so that he can lean his elbows on it and look down into the dark street below. He likes the cold in a way he can’t explain. Before Earth, Kutkha had never shivered from a chill or sweat from the heat of the sun. Therefore, the temperature is unfamiliar to him, but unfamiliarity makes Kutkha feel the most like himself, devoid of the perfect prison he was born in. Difficult to explain, but nonetheless, truth.

Kutkha finally exhales. The feeling of it does not alleviate the weight in his chest, nothing has for a long while, but he can distract himself by watching lonely figures pass along the sidewalk far beneath him. The street lights cast them in long, cartoonish shadows, and they come and go, drifting off to their homes or work or lives. Kutkha does not know. Sometimes when he is out here, he likes to guess what their lives might be like, what his life could have been like if he was just like them.

Would he be happier if he had been born here? If he did not know what he knows?

He does not know.

Kutkha shifts and the railing creaks beneath him, then he stands up, drumming his fingers off the painted wood. What would a human do if up late with a restless mind? Perhaps play a game, watch a show, read, but nothing has been able to distract Kutkha from the ache in his chest, the need to move. He has tried everything else already; sometimes it is easier to just give in.

And so, he thinks.

His mind wanders first to the smell of old paper and bad coffee -- though all coffee is bad in Kuthka’s silent opinion. Logan is sitting across the table from him and frowning down at a journal that he’s referred to several times as ‘bullshit’, but has continued to read. It is endearing. It is also not the first time Kutkha has decided to step out of his metaphorical shell to spend time with Logan. The both of them come from vastly different lives, but they mesh well together in private, as both of them find silence companionable.

It is nice, Kutkha had thought at the time and thus thinks now upon reminiscing, and it is fulfilling to be a part of someone’s peace. He thinks of Logan’s struggles, of his journey to fit into this strange, unforgiving life, and relates to it immensely, but the two of them never speak of it.

There is no need to. Instead, Kutkha flips the page in his book and frowns at a diagram. They, after a while, talk about the finality of dust. To start as the leftovers of dying stars, to end, someday, the same.

Kutkha shuffles from foot to foot, drawn out of his memory by the honking of an impatient car down on the street far below. He turns to his dark apartment, intending to return inside and maybe… sit downstairs and read something, but he stops in distraction. He is wrong about his earlier assessment: the sky is especially clear tonight and he can see more stars than usual, though it is nothing like when he’d gone camping. The barest, ghost of a twinkle stands out of the clear, grey-blue sky. He is drawn to them in a way he is drawn to nothing else.

He steps up to the metal ladder that leads to the roof, climbs it gingerly, and stands with his eyes to the moon. Perhaps he could have simply teleported to the spot, but there was something inexplicably attractive to physical exertion, to the feeling of getting something done and feeling his muscles work in his body. He can feel the blood in his fingers, rushing along, and it is enough to remind him that he is indeed alive and standing there.

On the roof, the city yawns open before him. He walks to the opposite edge, watching out across dark buildings, and distantly the glitter of water in the bay. There is a breeze that ruffles his hair and he closes his eyes, overcome with the feeling that maybe it could blow him across the stretch of lights, across the sea, somewhere else.

Instead, he thinks of another time.

Emmett’s house smells like some unknown dessert as Kutkha steps inside, gingerly kicking off his shoes by the door as he had a dozen times before. Today, they will be building a model garage for the model house that had been in the works, and Kutkha’s fingers itched for the complicated embroidery that Emmett had promised. Kutkha bends to say hello to the little dogs that run up and greet him, but when he looks up, he notices another person coming to say hello alongside Emmett.

Oh, it’s Gardner. Kutkha feels strange about him in a way he can’t place, but not negatively. Kutkha vaguely recalls Emmett mentioning his presence days before, and Kutkha is happy to make room for someone a little new. He tells himself perhaps the strangeness is just a form of unfamiliarity, though Kutkha knows it is not.

He remembers what Gardner said about himself some time ago, plain and bare, and Kutkha understands intimately. To be a part of something huge and fearsome, to play a role bigger than yourself, not precisely knowing the consequences until it’s too late. Kutkha watches Gardner struggle to paint adhesive to the back of a small piece of wood for a tool cabinet and feels safe, here, despite the hesitance of others. It is a small normalcy that ends too soon.

The chill of the night time finally gets to Kutkha, just a little, and he finds that he’s tucked his bone-white fingers in his underarms for a modicum of warmth. It does not help much. It is just a distraction from a distraction. It’s now long past the time of just catching fresh air and Kutkha should go inside, maybe make some tea or, if truly despondent, put on a coat and go for a walk. He could see some of the kittens in the alleyway that have been too skittish to coax out from under the dumpster -- maybe this time one of them will take the step and accept the gentle offer of cheese.

Instead, Kutkha exhales, watching the steam roll off his lips. Breathing is second nature, as it is with most residents of this planet, but Kutkha finds that when he holds his breath, the sharp pang of need hardly comes. He does not know what to make of it, the idea that his habits are only learned and he keeps them only for comfort.

Still, inside of him is warmth somewhere like with anyone, as told by the steam.

Another memory flits through Kutkha’s mind, one that is shorter and more precious all the same. He and Amin are entertaining Alex for the evening, and Amin has run upstairs to take a phonecall. Alex is visibility enamored by the click-clack of Amin’s paws on the steps as he disappears from view.

“So, what have you been up to? I feel like we’ve barely talked even though we’re always in each other’s space,” Alex asks him after a beat of silence.

“I don’t know,” Kutkha answers. He looks at Alex who is looking at him oddly, like Kutkha is some kind of question he can’t figure out. Alex has big, bright eyes that give away every emotion. The next words slip out of Kutkha on accident, “Biding my time, mostly.” “Biding your time? What does that mean?” Alex asks immediately. He always speaks faster than his brain can comprehend words. “Hey, you know, I feel like you used to talk a lot more when I came over. Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” Kutkha replies after a beat. His mind is spinning from his strange admission. The question is so simple and so complicated all at once. “My mind has been racing all the time. Things are… okay, though. Thank you for asking. How have you been?”

Miraculously Alex drops it. Maybe he understands how it feels to be afraid to answer a truth you aren’t ready for.

In hindsight, Kutkha should have said more when someone had given him the opportunity, when he didn’t have to hide behind a veneer of shame that he was not entirely grateful he was here. The time is passed. He no longer has the energy to explain to himself or others how he feels about his place in the universe.

There is order and chaos, space and time, and he is none of them. He has seen countless histories unfold and snuff out like the wick of a candle on its own wax. He hates knowing. He wishes that he could just --

A sharp inhale and Kutkha shakes his head.

He remembers Lilius. He remembers the small victories, of Wil giving Charlie a big hug, or the rebels crying and singing in celebration before Kutkha is strong enough to bring them home. He remembers how everyone meshes together, how bonds are formed, how much he has struggled to be normal, to stand all of this.

He thinks of everyone coming home and finding a place within each other. He knows they are all grateful of Kutkha’s ability to have brought them there. He knows he is loved and wanted, that he has people to rely on, that he has a home, but he cannot escape the fact that he does not belong here.

He does not belong here.

The thought hits him like a brick. He bares his teeth.

Another memory, and he is laying in bed next to Amin midday during a rainstorm. Amin is half-dressed and asleep, the front of his chest gently brushing against Kutkha’s shoulder blades whenever he breathes. Everytime they touch, Kutkha is jolted with teases of memory, of Amin’s family, his parents, his siblings, various other things that only made sense to a dreamer. A room full of kucing sharing a traditional meal from their planet, only now crucial ingredients replaced with similar Earthen ones, and eaten on paper plates with plastic forks instead of carved ghilka wood.

It is all Amin knows, but Kutkha has seen the alternative. He has never spoken of it and Amin has never asked, but Kutkha has heard the ringing dialogue of an ilmir king and the striking of stone upon flesh. He has heard the rattling magic in the bones of the planet, the sprawling jungles and cities and deserts. He has seen what Amin will never get to see, what he was supposed to have, what he could have if it wasn’t for Kutkha and the purpose he was born into.

Kutkha lies still, unable to move. All he can think about is that it is a burden to know. He does not want to know, but he cannot forget.

It is a long time before Kutkha moves from the cold, empty roof back down onto the balcony and into the apartment as quietly as a ghost. The gray-blue darkness around him is tinged with the faint pink of morning and he has again not rested as he has not rested in days. He kicks off his shoes, hangs up one of the sweaters he’d borrowed off of Amin’s nightstand and glances back towards the sliding glass doorway he had shut on the way in.

He sees himself as glassy and transparent, a dark shape, superimposed over the outside world. A figment of something not really here.

Something that doesn’t belong, but something that has nothing else to do but stay.

#standalone #writing #kutkha #unfortunately ur character might be mentioned in here! fucked up

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spiltscribbles · 4 years ago

Note

Hey! I was bored today, and decided to load up Hamilton and thought about your fics. I read them all, they're so good. Any chance you'll bless the fandom with another Hamliza fic? You do such a good job modernizing their relationship. Please consider writing something new, I'll take a paragraph, hell a sentence! lol. Anyway, love your blog and it's always great to see a post from you!

~Notes: holy fuck baby!!! This is so fucking beautiful and kind and so sweet and I can’t even begin to deal😭😭 You are such a sugarplum fairy and I love u to bits!! And the idea that you like my version of them is so crazy!! Ur an angel! And I’m screaming! I just love Eliza so much😭😭 I hope that you like this even slightly!!!!💜💜😌

A Reblog Is Worth A Galaxy!

Occasionally— when Alexander is a bit tipsy and a bit lonely and feeling lightly poetic— he thinks of the cobble stoned pieces that patch together the mosaic of his life. He remembers his mother’s faint laughter, and he pictures Eliza’s iridescent grin on the day of their wedding. He alternates reminiscing on the different nights at hospital after the birth of each of his children, how he’d count their tiny fingers and smaller toes while Eliza was slumped besides him— flushed and radiant and so, so miraculous. Though the latter half of that image wasn’t there eleven months ago, when she had given birth to baby Will three weeks after the editorial had been published— finally tipping the precarious state of his world to ruin with a brimstone sort of finality. Three weeks after the affair was made public and the light in her eyes that she had always glimmered with whenever gazing at Alexander, was scuffed away permanently, under the heel of his carelessness and his cruelty and his childish cravings to feel needed by someone— by absolutely anyone.

And as he rocks in the ornate, elm carved chair that his in-laws had bought for Philip’s nursery over sixteen years ago now— with his youngest son in arms— Alexander thinks that it’s right— that it only makes sense that in the handful of memories that are the cornerstones of his existence, Eliza is in the vast majority of them. Eliza with her quiet but strong resilience. Eliza with her breathtaking, but unassuming beauty. Eliza in how she’s always been the beacon of light— a personified essence of hope— in the center of the tempest that is his life. A quiet haven that he’s always depended on like nothing else.

Eliza has always been, and will always be the most vital part of it all, the lifeline that pumps breath to his lungs and blood to his heart and makes Alexander feel like he’s finally standing on solid ground. But he doesn’t get to say that out loud anymore, shouldn’t even think it in the privacy of his own mind. Not after the shattered look in her eyes had been embedded permanently, not after the separation had been officialize, and especially not now, while he’s trying to recall that old, French lullaby that Eliza had always crooned to their children before bed while she’s graciously pretending he’s not here.

It had been a stipulation in the agreement that they scrounged up over half a year ago now. Alexander has been relegated to the loft they keep in Murray Hill while Eliza and the children remain residing in the estate right outside the city limits— The Grange. But because she’s always been touched by an otherworldly kindness that Alexander has never witnessed in another soul, Eliza told him that mornings before school and dinners before bed are open for him to visit while she finishes the work she has for the non prophet she had helped build. “You don’t get to lose your kids just because it didn’t work out with us Alex— They’re your family and I won’t be the one to take them away from you, not ever.”

When she had said as much, quiet and precise and void of the warm inflections he would always lose himself inside of whenever she spoke— Alexander wanted to absolutely ball. He wanted to fall to his knees right then and beg her not to say that— not to toy with the idea that it was really and truly over between them. He wanted to tell her that he loves her, and he loves her and he’ll always love her no matter what.

But for perhaps the first time in his life, Alex had held his tongue and only thanked her for always being the best of the lot. He was afraid if he spoke his true thoughts out loud he’d make that torn, desperately pained look melt back into her features like those first few weeks after the Twitter trends and media frenzy and poisonous gossip spreading through the circle of blue bloods that Eliza had been the heiress of since birth, and where Alexander had fought tooth and nail to belong. But besides that, he thinks he was mostly terrified that she wouldn’t betray any emotion at all— That she’d stay still and frozen and detached— forever out of his reach all over again.

Alexander’s heart twists up in an ugly, painful sort of way at the memory of that tragic brunch between them, and he physically shakes his head— as if the pictures of that afternoon could just fall out his ears and disappear into the powder blue curtains like dust.

Gingerly, Alexander kisses Will’s downy hair, and sets him into the crib with a final inhale to get him through the night before coming back tomorrow morning. And while he pads through the hall, he quietly peers into the bedroom of each of his kids. Listens to the hushed snoring from Jamie and Johnny’s room, before he looked into how Angie has swathed herself with pink blankets in her own, finally glancing into Philip and AJ’s at the end of the hall, bracing himself for how his eldest inevitably tosses him a cursory glance from over his shoulder while he taps away on his new laptop. Philip’s stopped the sneers and the clipped replies after Eliza had scolded him for as much right after the pamphlet’s release, but the ice like overture between them hadn’t lessened, and no matter how much it breaks his heart that his pride and joy doesn’t ever look at him like Alexander is his hero— like he had when he was younger— he’s strangely proud. He’s proud that Philip is steadfast in his loyalty to his mother and has a moral code that Eliza had nurtured in each of them.

“You almost done with that civics paper?” He tries for broke, talking in a hush like he was afraid to spook him.

Philip’s jerky nod is all Alexander gets before he snaps his gaze back to the screen, and he takes it like a sacrament, gently shutting the door once again and shuffling downstairs to the main level of the house.

It feels like his heart lodges somewhere deep in his throat when he enters the living room only to be taunted with the sight of Eliza curled into the side of the sofa, nightgown loose on her shoulders, and dark hair piled into a messy topknot while she nibbles on the end of a pen that she’s most likely using to mark up the novel in her hands. It’s the same volume of Arthurian legends that she’s been paging through for the past few days, and he knows it’s something to do with a child at one of the group homes she visits on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, the one who is enthralled by the folklore of it all.

And it’s like an ache— a gnawing and crippling sort of yearning that he feels as he watches the image of her that he’s seen a hundred times before, wanting to thumb at the ink smattering her cheek and lips and chin. And if this was a year ago he would’ve done just that— Hell, he would’ve kissed them away with tender lips as he gathered her small form into his arms and he would’ve waxed poetic about her and her mind and her body all night long.

Or maybe not.

Maybe he would’ve simply teased her before dropping a kiss to her forehead and retreating to his study to finish the latest bill that the president wants on the house floor before the next congressional recess. Maybe Alexander never really deserved her and it took this— them split apart and tattered— for him to realize all the things he should’ve done. All the exaltations he should’ve whispered against her skin and all the caresses he should’ve massaged against her bones and all the ways he should’ve worshipped her all along. And when Eliza looks up— a strand of hair falling prettily over a large eye and the moonlight dancing atop her with a graceful sort of panache— he feels a sick sort of despair that maybe he’ll never get that chance again. Maybe she’ll leave it to Andre now.

The thought of John Andre makes Alexander’s insides pulse with a sort of anger he doesn’t think he’ has ever known, makes his fucking arteries clog with distain. But he hasn’t said anything about him to Eliza, even though he knows that ever since her ex-boyfriend has moved back into town, he’s been pursuing her non-stop, was regaled about the flowers and the letters and the diamond tennis bracelet by a peculiarly snide, but disappointed Angelica, and he knows that his sister-in-law, between her own children and her own job as the secretary of sate, has been silently rooting for Alexander to get his shit together, to prove himself worthy enough for a second chance with the sister she loves with all her heart. And he thinks that it’s almost funny that one of the most brilliant minds he’s ever known, isn’t perceptive enough to understand that Alexander had never been worthy enough for a chance with Eliza in the first place. So it’s fucking impossible now, with everything that has past and all the ghosts between them.

“Oh,” Eliza says once she finds him just standing their, gazing down at her like some sort of pathetic drifter trying to find respite from a prophet. “Will fell asleep then?”

“Erm, yeah. Yeah he was good.” Alexander replies, tries not to sputter. “Only one who’s up is Pip.”

“Not for long,” Eliza mutters mischievously, tapping a finger against her nose with an endearing sort of diffidence. “I switched the coffee out for decaf before dinner. I reckon he’s got another forty-five minutes in him.”

Alexander can’t help the choked out laughter that spills from his lips, and can’t help relishing in the helium like levity streaming through his extremities— the heady feeling that only Eliza’s ever been able to evoke. “You’re wicked.”

“I’m a concerned mother, and our son is a bit of a spaz if you hadn’t noticed?” She retorts mildly, single brow cocked as she returns to her novel. And no— God no, Alexander can’t refrain from delving back into the easy, life affirming bliss it has always felt when they talked with one another— whether it’s platitudes or past traumas or anything in-between. So like a man about to plunge into the churning ocean waves— ready for death or the best thrill of his life— Alexander eases besides her, three feet apart but close enough to smell Eliza’s favorite jasmine shampoo wafting in the space between them.

“You enjoying the legends then?”

Eliza flickers her bright eyes back to him, uneasy and guarded. And it hurts like nothing else when he remembers how he was once able to read her open face like a favorite book that had been highlighted and underlined to hell. “Uh-huh, it’s an interesting set of stories. I think I understand why Dante enjoys them so much.”

“OH?”

“Mhmm. There’s this one myth, about one of Arthur’s knights, Sir Gawain, who was promised to this old crone and when he kisses her she becomes a fair maiden.”

Alexander isn’t sure what is going on here, knows that this is the most Eliza’s spoken to him outside the children’s schedules for months, but he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he nods along eagerly, silently pleading for her to continue on with the summary.

“Yes, well. After she transforms, she gives him a ultimatum of sorts. Tells him that either she can stay beautiful in the daylight while they’re apart, or only at night while they’re together.” She meets his gaze head on— steadiness boring into his uncertainty. And even though he still hasn’t a clue what’s happening, he feels it in his bones that this is so very important, so he doesn’t falter, breathes in deep and doesn’t let his glance stray to her lips or her collarbone or where her hands are clutching tightly to the volume now.

“And what did he choose?”

Eliza purses her lips, like she’s not sure to tell him anymore, but something in his expression must’ve convinced her, because she shrugs a slight shoulder while standing and slapping the book shut. “He doesn’t. Tells her it’s her choice and her’s alone.”

And oh.

It’s like a punch in the gut when Alexander finally comprehends.

“Good,” he says, voice gone a bit haggard. “He should just wait until she makes up her mind.”

Remarkably, that seems to have been the right thing to have said, because the ends of Eliza’s plump lips actually quirk up into an etherial grin that’s not so threadbare like all the ones he’s seen for far too long.

“Good night, Alexander.”

“Good night, Eliza,” he replies, feeling like sunlight is finally beginning to filter through the frost when her small hand dusts across his cheek for only a sparing moment. And while he watches her putter upstairs, Alexander knows with all his heart that he would wait for an eon just for Eliza to decide whether he’s worth letting back into her world.

~My FIC Index~

Is where you can read my other Hamliza works!!!

#HAMLIZA #HAMILTON #ALEXANDER HAMILTON #ELIZA SCHUYLER HAMILTON #ELIZA SCHUYLER #Spilt ink #sweetest missives #you're an angel babe and I really hope you like this

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quickspinner · 4 years ago

Text

Side by Side

Written for the LBSC sprint fic challenge. If you’d like to join in follow @lovebugs-and-snakecharmers for more information!

Challenge rules:

Pick a prompt and write for that prompt in up to three 15 minute sprints. No writing outside the sprints until you have completed all three! After the 3 sprints are complete, you have 24 hours to edit (which can include some new writing to smooth transitions, etc). After those 24 hours, post what you’ve got!

Prompt: "As long as I'm next to you, I don't care"

More information on the challenge here!

“You don’t have to stay with me, you know,” she says, distracted, around the pins in her mouth. Her brow is wrinkled and her expression is one of concentration. “This has to be really boring for you.”

“It’s not.”

Marinette huffs in a way that can’t be safe considering her mouthful of pins. “I’m totally ignoring you.”

Luka smiles, and strums his guitar. “As long as I’m next to you, I don’t care. You don’t have to entertain me. I just like being with you.”

Marinette shoots him a look from under her bangs, one that is part reproach and part amusement, but as her eyes fall back to her work, he can see the corner of her smile shift the pins, and the touch of a blush on her cheek. He grins, and strums on.

***

“You really don’t have to do this,” he tells her with a gusty sigh as he plops down beside her in the blanket nest they’ve made on the Liberty’s deck. A matching one made of pink and purple blankets waits a short ways off. “It’s Jules’ turn to pick. We could have gone somewhere else.”

“That’s not really fair, though,” Marinette pointed out, snuggling into his side. “She sits through the movies that we pick. We can’t just ditch her when it’s her night to pick.”

Luka makes a face. “Yeah, but…I know how much you hate horror movies.”

“Yeah,” Marinette sighs, making a face that matches his. “But as long as I’m next to you, I don’t care.” He grins and lifts his arm and she snuggles into his side. “Besides,” Marinette adds, resting her head on his shoulder as they get settled in the blanket nest. The smell of popcorn warns them that Juleka and Rose are on their way. “Nobody ever actually pays attention to the movie on movie night.”

Luka grins and kisses her, and then picks up a piece of popcorn from the handful Juleka flings at them and pops it in his mouth.

***

“I’m sorry,” she gasps as they land on the balcony. Ignoring the blinding flash of pink and green light that follows, he throws his arms around her and crushes her to him. “That wasn’t how I wanted you to find out.”

Luka says nothing, just curls closer around her, and buries his face in her shoulder. For once, he’s not careful, and Marinette sinks under his weight, and they end up kneeling on the floor of the balcony. Marinette presses close, turns her face to kiss his hair, but he doesn’t move. Finally, she has to push at him gently. “Luka, we can’t stay up here.”

“Don’t make me let go,” he pleads. “Not yet.”

“Okay,” Marinette says, but she breaks his hold, and takes his face in her hands, forcing him to lift his eyes to hers. “But not here.” His long fingers wrap tightly around her wrist, but he fists the other against his chest. She fumbles behind her one-handed for the latch, and somehow gets it open despite the awkward angle. Sass is at Luka’s shoulder, whispering, and Luka is nodding, but he won’t, or can’t, let go of his grip on Marinette.

She pulls him down through the skylight, and then they’re in a heap on her bed, trying to arrange themselves. “I’m sorry,” she says distractedly as she finally manages to slot herself up against him and wrap her arms tight around him. “I know it’s a bit cramped.”

“As long as I’m next to you, I don’t care,” he gasps, and then he’s sobbing into her hair. Marinette can only hold him and press close, so he can feel that she’s here and alive. She’s not sure what she saw, but Viperion’s stricken face when he looked at her after the battle—stared at her in disbelief and fear and maybe even denial—she knows it was bad, and she knows that whatever he might have suspected before, now he knows.

She holds him until he falls asleep, and has a quiet conference with Tikki and Sass. When dawn comes, Luka shimmies down the outer wall of the bakery, the snake miraculous still glinting on his wrist.

***

“Are you really sure about this?” Luka asks with a sigh. “You know how demanding he is.”

“I can handle it for a summer,” Marinette assures him.

“I’m not even sure I can handle it for a summer,” Luka grumbles, looking at the huge, ostentatious tour bus with a sense of dread that he would die before admitting to Jagged or anyone else besides Marinette. “And all I have to do is stand where they tell me and play. There’s no telling what craziness he’s going to ask you to do.”

“As long as I’m next to you, I don’t care,” Marinette says, reaching up to cup his cheek and make him look at her. “Hey. We’ve faced a lot worse than eccentric rockstar together. It’ll be fine, and this way I don’t have to be away from you for a whole summer. I know this is hard for you, with all the...drama, between him and your mom. I know you must have questions and I don’t want you to have to face this alone.”

He bends down and kisses her, not even caring who’s watching, wrapping his arms round her waist and pulling her as close as he can get her. There’s whooping and catcalls from somewhere behind them but Luka doesn’t care, overwhelmed with love for her and touched by her concern for him.

Marinette giggles when he finally pulls back. “Exhibitionist.”

Luka shrugs and grins. “Gotta get used to the audience sometime.”

***

“Are you really sure about this?” Marinette sighs, straightening Luka’s collar and fixing his tie. “I’m afraid you’re going to be miserable all night.”

“It’s just a party, Marinette,” Luka shrugs. “I can handle a party.”

Marinette wrinkles her nose. “It’s a stuffy, schmooze-the-rich-people party. You’re going to spend the whole night following me around bored out of your mind.”

Luka smiles at her. “As long as I’m next to you, I don’t care. Besides, this is your dream. I want to be there. For all of it, not just the glamorous parts. And you know I love watching you in your element, talking shop and kicking ass with that pretty little smirk on your face.” Marinette giggles and he dares a quick lean forward to kiss her forehead. “Maybe I can’t do much to help, but I can at least be with you.”

“You always help,” Marinette tells him, smoothing his suit coat down before stepping back. Her gaze shifts from critical to appreciative and he suddenly feels warm. “You’re presentable. Let’s go.” She turns to grab her purse and Luka’s eyebrows soar.

“Is it me, or did the back of that dress get a lot lower than the last time you showed it to me?” he asks, and Marinette smirks at him over her shoulder.

“I can’t give away all my secrets before the big night,” she says, coming back to take his arm. “I wouldn’t want you to get bored with me.”

Luka has to laugh at that. “You could never be boring. But I appreciate the effort.” He drops his hand to her extremely bare lower back to guide her towards the door. “Very much.”

“Come on,” Marinette says capturing his hand and arranging his arm back where it belongs, with her hand at the crook of his elbow. “We took down Hawkmoth. A bunch of stuffy old rich jerks are going to be a piece of cake.”

The comparison gives away her nerves, so he just covers her hand with his own and presses as they go down the steps to the taxi waiting for them.

***

“Luka,” Marinette complains, dropping a stack of magazines on the counter. “You’re not even listening.”

Luka sighs and tries to smile. He’s not a morning person and while he’s glad Marinette’s excited, he’s having trouble waking his brain up enough to care about napkins and color palettes and frilly decorations. “I’m listening,” he says, leaning his cheek on one hand. “But I might hear more if you let me finish my coffee first.”

Marinette pouts, and snatches his cup from him, taking it to the coffee pot to refill it. She sets it in front of him and sits down at the table, folding her arms and looking like she has every intention of watching him drink it so that she can hold him to his word.

He opens his mouth and Marinette points at him accusingly before he can say anything. “Don’t you dare say you don’t care,” she warns. “This is our wedding, Luka.”

Luka picks up his coffee cup. “We’ve been engaged for a week, Marinette,” he points out before sipping it. “It’s not that I’m not excited—” He’s so excited, and the sight of the ring on her finger makes him nearly giddy. “But we do have time.”

“Luka,” Marinette groans, tipping her head back. “When do we ever have time?”

Luka pauses, the cup nearly at his lips, suddenly considering his schedule and hers and how hard it was to even remotely coordinate their work so that they could spend what free time they had together. “Okay, point,” he conceded, and sighed, drinking his coffee a little faster. “And I do care, but at the same time, I don’t.” He gave her a smile that he was sure looked utterly besotted—which was fine, since he was. “I just want to marry you.”

She smiles back at him, softer this time, and he takes another sip of coffee before he adds, “And I want to wear a kilt.”

Her expression goes from sweet to shocked so fast he nearly choked on his coffee trying not to laugh. “A kilt?” she demands, slamming her hands on the table. “You want to—but you never—now you decide to be Scottish??”

Luka bites his lip to keep in his laughter and shrugs. “Tuxes are boring.”

Marinette splutters for a moment, and Luka drains the last of his coffee before reaching over to pull her into his lap. “Come on,” he coaxes, rubbing his nose against hers and dropping a couple of light kisses on her lips. “We’ll get it all figured out and it’ll be beautiful, and half a dozen things will go wrong—”

“And I won’t care as long as I’m next to you at the end of it,” Marinette reluctantly admits, looping her arms around his neck and leaning down to kiss him more thoroughly. “I’m still going to make you look at ten different place settings,” she warns, and Luka shrugs good-naturedly.

“Can we cuddle while we look?” he asks, nuzzling her jaw. “We can look at every china pattern that ever existed. I don’t care as long as I’m next to you.”

Marinette giggles and kisses his forehead. “Sap.”

“You sure you don’t want to just go down to city hall right now?” he sighs, laying his head on her shoulder.

“Oh no you don’t,” she scolds, pushing him back. “You’re not cheating me out of my dream wedding with your—Couffaineness. First of all do you have any idea the kind of hell that would descend on us from my Maman’s half of the family alone—”

Luka puts his head back down on her shoulder and lets her rant on, smiling to himself as he closes his eyes. As long as she’s next to him, he really doesn’t care about anything else.

Fiction Master Post

#quickspins #lbsc sprint fic challenge #lukanette #endgame lukanette #lukanette endgame #luka couffaine #marinette dupain-cheng #miraculousladybug #miraculous ladybug #ml fics

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sugar-petals · 4 years ago

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Caro what are your thoughts on Bangtan’s GDA outfits? Ever since discovering your blog and reading more on Kibbe body types I find myself (unwillingly lol) scrutinizing people’s outfits more. Not in a bad way like “oh my gosh what are you wearing” but more like “hmm lighter colors would suit you a lot more” or “this style of clothing would really bring out your ____” stuff like that.

I’ve also been looking more into BTS’s red carpet looks and (as of lately) I find that the people who always look the best (as in their outfits fit well with their kibbe type) are usually J-Hope, RM, and V. On the other hand, I feel like the people whose outfits seem to do them little to no justice are often SUGA and Seokjin. And then Jungkook and Jimin fall somewhere in the middle.

I wonder why this is??? I know regardless of stylists, BTS have a say in what they wear (be it red carpet, stage, or airport). They’ve mentioned this multiple times. I think J-hope always has the most versatile and well put together looks. I want to say this is also because he’s well-invested in fashion itself in his personal looks and style. So regardless of occasion he simply knows what will look good on him. The same applies to RM and V. I think these three have the most /distinct/ style in BTS. Though all very different they simply know what works for them when it comes to clothing.

I wish all the member would wear outfits that bring out their best features. For example, as a SUGA biased person he (when it comes to the red carpet) he either tends to look washed out or that he’s drowning in his clothes. I want to see him in more fitting cuts of clothing and prettier/distinct patterns (similar to j-hope).

So back to my original question...what would your thoughts be on their GDA looks? What would you change or keep about their outfits? You don’t have to answer this ask, I just thought it would be great to hear your thoughts since your knowledge in this are is pretty on point.

Hoseok, RM and Tae have types that are favored in the industry and they have a mix/blend of lines that is versatile, so the stylists and they themselves don’t have a hard time finding good clothes. most of fashion produces according to ideals, not what people actually look like.

pure gamines (yoongi) and soft dramatics (jin) need immense attention to perfecting the look and very specific concepts to make it work. that yoongi’s proportions are so contradictory is confusing to himself and stylists, well, he’s a gamine! it’s a case in point for him, the type itself is a walking fusion.

they rarely go for the combination of opposites and more ‘eccentric’ patterns/layerings yoongi requires. nobody in shinee is a pure gamine type so it looks hilariously iconic, but i literally mean these types of extremely funky, strongly colored outfits with lots of tailoring and geometrics:

(amazing. look at minho’s coat 😆 and taemin looks like a sad duckling i—)

am i suggesting to dress yoongi like this? yes. i’m not kidding. because it miraculously works:

no such thing as an outfit that can’t be worn, it just needs the right kibbe type. this kind of styling only works with a very specific body. gamine outfits aren’t very universal — they look either comical or too small on other kibbe types — and a rare choice so i get why yoongi’s red carpet looks are often 50-50 or end up too big on him.

gamine thrives on androgynous elements, i think they’re afraid to take the leap, that’s why you say he often looks washed out. putting a hardcore rapper into 2013 shinee fashion takes courage, and his stylists don’t see what they’re missing out on there. add that his lifestyle is like 95% homebody (even without covid) so he will always want to dress natural oversized anyway 😂

gamine is not the ultimate comfort clothes kibbe type, it’s usually very fitted and angular. there are ways to dress casual gamine, but it’s very difficult. hoseok has an advantage because flamboyant gamine has some natural in their lines (= pronounced yang undercurrent).

as for jin, bts usually don’t have the concept (soft dramatc = high glam, sexy divo or diva), though they would have the budget. and if the song is right, they are very well able to put jin into his king-like soft dramatic lines — where he belongs as we can see!

theoretically: if jin was in monsta x, he’d be perfectly dressed according to this type 8 times out of 10. again, because it’s a matter of concept. mx go for something very bold, revealing, seductive, and warp hypermasculine stereotypes. so, of course they would dress soft dramatic, the exact glam i’m talking about:

finally, my GDA outfit thoughts: preferring the second picture except jungkook’s clothes (the above look is more bulky which fits soft naturals better than formal wear). taehyung wears classic perfectly, jin and joon have head to toe color looks for their vertical line, hoseok has a great angular silhouette going, jimin’s waist is emphasized, yoongi’s sweater has a lot going on. so, a lot of kibbe points checked off the list there.

the pants all seem kind of strange at the hip area, but the shoes makes sense as do 4 of the haircuts. they aren’t dead on and it’s not the most outstanding they’ve been yet, but it works as a visual whole which is also important. because man it’s quite a task to dress everyone according to their type and not have 7 different concepts. in this case, i think they’re doing dramatic classic which is why taehyung is the best dressed being in his own category.

#btd #GDA #kibbe #shinee #jin #yoongi #monsta x #supop #ask #cub mail 🐆

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remmushound · 4 years ago

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Finally getting around to part two of Donnie in the rain!! This was based off of @brejamison’s art, so make sure to show them some love!! I’m sorry it took so long for me to get around to this lol and I’m expecting at least one or two more parts to this @assanmaharielsreblogs

“YOU LOST HIM?!”

“Hey, why you blaming me?” Leonardo asked. His heart pounded in his chest so hard and fast he was sure it would leap out at a moments notice.

“You were on Donnie detail!” Raphael snarled.

“How was I supposed to know that?! I could have sworn I heard two people land down here!”

“Yeah— me and Mikey!”

“Mikey was on your shell!”

“I got off.” Michelangelo whimpered.

“We both couldn’t fit!” Raphael said.

“Great!” Leonardo took a few deep breaths, flapping his wrists in an attempt to calm himself. “Well— when did you see him last?”

It seemed neither of the other two could answer.

“Well I can’t remember either!” Leonardo snarled at himself, rubbing his temples as if that would jog the memory of when the quad became a trio.

“Poor Donnie!” Michelangelo whimpered. “He must be so cold!”

“How could you just leave him, Leo?!”

“I DIDNT— HE— HE JUST FELL BEHIND. Listen, all we have to do is go back the way we came and— and hope he’s right behind us...”

~~~

Donatello’s body and mind were on autopilot, all sense of critical thought faded behind the most basic instincts that guided his feet. He was cold, and he needed to be warm. He was wet, and he wanted to be dry. He was high, and he had to be low. This lead him down the nearest fire escape, pulling his hood up as he slid into the crowd. He just needed to find shelter, to get dry and wait out the storm until he could find his brothers.

The world slowed around him. The pounding of the rain drowned out the scene around him. He couldn’t see, but the quickest way to shelter was by the streets. There were hundreds of people walking, practically shoulder to shoulder— surely no one to pay attention one small boy among hundreds. He tightened his hood and held it there with his gloved hands as he searched for an alley or side street, somewhere he could part from the crowd to find a sewer drain.

When his frozen body finally let him make a break for it, he found himself once again helpless. His glasses were stained in a thick film of running water— rain still splashing down on them and fogging they up. Colors and objects faded together like some sort of cold mirage to the point where Donnie couldn’t tell what was solid or what was open. Everything was just... gray.

He held his hands out in front of him to guide his way through, his arms heavy with the weight of his soaked sleeves. His hands met cold, slick stone and his felt his way along it until it curved into a corner. He traced his feet across the ground to feel the grooves, the bumps and curves and ledges. Years of traversing the darkness made it easy to differentiate between what was stone and what was something more. What was broken and what was whole. Finding a manhole could offer him shelter, at least from the rain. He could undress, and he could get warm.

There came a growl. A deep, predatory growl and the hot, putrid breath of a beast of a breath almost as big as Donnie was. Turning, the mutant could make out brown fur, black face, massive paws. Everything about this brute was massive; his growl, his chest, and especially his teeth.

“Eh... n... nice doggy...”

It’s lips pulled back in a snarl, white foam spilling out over black lips and splashing to the ground as it took a heavy step toward Donnie. He couldn’t run— the dog was a predator, and predators would give chase. Noise, he knew. Noise, and rocks and making himself big was his best chance to chase the dog away.

“G...go! Go away!”

The dog barked and gave a false lunge, to which Donatello gave a yelp and jumped.

“Go! Go go go!”

Donatello gave a quick glimpse over his shoulder to try and spot an exit, but only saw what he thought was a wall. He didn’t risk looking at the gray for too long— looking away from the monster for more than a second was already dangerous enough as the dog closed a great distance between them as if by magic.

“Please... go away!”

***

Thunder cracked across the sky, and for once April was glad to always be so prepared. Walking home from school was never fun, but with this downpour it would have been downright dangerous without the sturdy, yellow raincoat keeping the majority of the downpour off of her.

Man, this stuff is really coming down, she thought.

The thunder seemed closer than ever— and even seemed to be getting even closer! Until she realized it wasn’t thunder at all!

“Is that a dog?”

Home was so near, but the thundering howl came as a call of adventure that was impossible to ignore. What dog would be out in this mess, not seeking shelter from the freezing sky water? What dog would be hunting, not hiding? A dog with a miraculous find, that’s who! And April wanted to find the same.

Her boots splashed in the flooded stone as she followed the barking to where it was loudest, to where a big brown flank belonging to a powerful stray cornered a cowering, waterlogged boy. April didn’t hesitate.

She put her fingers to her lips, and the resulting whistle was heard over the growling and over the thunder and the rain and the boys cries. “Hey dog!” She scooped up a bit of crumbling asphalt and tossed it, slamming into the dogs head, “BEAT IT!”

The dog gave a yelp. April tossed another piece and gave a side step, giving an opening for the dog to flee into the street, much to the frustration of the cars who had to slam on their brakes or else slam into the animal. April didn’t care as she turned her attention back to alley, to the boy who seemed frozen to the spot. He had no raincoat like she did— no umbrella to keep him dry. His boots were flooded, and his clothes too. His glasses, dark black rectangles, were soaked and fogged in a way she knew all too well. His skin seemed almost... green...

All she said was, “Hey! I like your glasses!”

#tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt #donatello #donnie #leo #leonardo #michelangelo #Mikey #Raphael #Raph #April #April O’Neil #one shot

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capnjay21 · 4 years ago

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The Wind Blows White 2/6

It’s been two years since Killian Jones and Emma Swan managed to escape the clutches of Brooke House, two years of waiting for it all to catch up to them and two years of pretending the cracks in their happy ending don’t show. But when the vision appears to Killian of a young boy unearthing the dagger and the darkness they had long since buried, it’s a race against time to try and stop another innocent from befalling the same fate. If they have the strength to face it.

Sequel to ‘A House is Never Still’.

A/N: Aaaand here is chapter two! Firstly I'd like to give MASSIVE thanks to @hollyethecurious who has been kind enough to make the lovely art for this fic <3 I'm so pleased with it! For those who don’t know, Hollye designed the art that inspired the original fic so that makes this EXTRA cool.

And secondly I'd like to say thanks so so much to everybody who picked up the first chapter, I'm so thrilled you're ready to hop back on board the spooky train with me. I hope you like this!

AO3 | chapter one

Rating: T Warnings: Mentions of canonical character death and some certified Spooky Business™.

Taglist: @carpedzem @optomisticgirl @snowbellewells @kmomof4 @phiralovesloki @hollyethecurious @stahlop @peglegsjones @mariakov81 @seasailia @courtorderedcake @jonesfandomfanatic @wyntereyez @marrtinski @thisonesatellite @klynn-stormz @teamhook @lfh1226-linda

If anyone would like on, or off, the taglist, just let me know!

-/-

2. that featureless space

-/-

The ground beneath him was moving. No, it was growling. Rumbling for more, then receding, hurtling forward and then retreating, leaving him a helpless passenger. It was a car. The old Mustang, in fact, he recognised the flowery smell of the vinyl seats that Liam had never been able to scrub out. The car window was a little too high for him to see properly out of, it was just a blur of colour whizzing by, and his hands had been folded neatly in his lap. His legs were small, just barely long enough to touch the bottom of the car, the jagged metal that grumbled underneath him.

This was the car that Liam had died in.

Killian wiped his eyes, groggy. He couldn’t remember getting in this car.

“Where are we going?” he asked the driver. His voice sounded high, and squeaky. And young.

The driver was Liam.

“Nowhere,” Liam said, then changed his mind. “Somewhere. Somewhere better.”

With great effort, Killian turned his neck to see if anyone was in the backseat. They were alone, but a large suitcase sat where a person should be.

“Where’s Dad?” he asked.

Liam kept his eyes on the road. Killian only noticed now because it seemed more deliberate than before.

“Dad isn’t coming.”

For some reason, this was surprising. Killian wanted to ask why, but Liam was shaking his head firmly.

“Go back to sleep, Killian.”

To his amazement, he did.

This time when he woke, he was outside. He knew this because he could feel the soft warmth of the sun on his skin, and nearby the sound of water rushing by drowned out the buzz of insects around him. It was bright, he had to shield his eyes and keep them narrowed until they adjusted, and he could finally take in his surroundings. He was sat on dry rock, a few metres away from the edge of a rushing stream, an everchanging palette of vivid sapphire and frothy pearl, and on the opposite bank a sparse array of thick trees stood swaying gently in the breeze.

On either side of the wide, open current, walls of rock rose up for hundreds of metres, and Killian realised he had been here before.

It was the memory of a memory, perhaps a recollection of something he had been told rather than something he had lived, but everything about this place was familiar, and bright, and achingly, desperately sad.

This was the creek that Liam had died in.

Then he saw the boy.

The boy was crouched down so near to the surface of the water that his gaze had easily skimmed over him the first time, huddled tightly on a rock near the centre of the current with his arm thrust into the water.

“No,” Killian said, before he even realised what was happening.

He stood. At his feet was a hastily rolled up jacket, which must belong to the boy.

The boy who was reaching for the dagger.

“Wait,” he called, desperately.

The boy ignored him, or he did not hear.

“Stop!”

Triumphantly, the boy pulled back with his prize.

In the sparkling sunlight, its shiny edge was unmistakable.

There was the dagger.

Come.

“Put it back,” Killian hollered, his chest hurting from the force of his yell. “Listen to me!”

The boy looked up. Stared him straight in the eye.

“I am,” he said, “I’m listening.”

-/-

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

Killian was sat with his legs folded underneath him on the floor of Elsa’s bedroom, warmly lit by an array of candles across every surface. Dim light streamed in through an open window, casting orange splotches onto the immaculate powder blue carpet. After their discussion with Tink, she had invited him back the following day for a private session with them both, an attempt at a more guided scry, and Killian had jumped at the invitation. Anything that might provide him with more concrete answers.

Emma had gone again to the office of the skip they were after; apparently his credit card had been used in a convenience store near to it the day before. Killian had wanted to go with her, but the lingering invitation from Elsa and Tink, combined with Emma’s emphatic insistence that she wouldn’t need help had left him at something of a loss.

Although he was sure her determination came from the same place that insisted his coming home and finding their kitchen flooded was nothing to be concerned about. She claimed she had just left the tap on, and had been meaning to clean it up before he got home but had fallen asleep before she had the chance.

She was awake when he got home, though. And when he’d called her earlier it had rung through to voicemail. He was concerned – that was easy enough to admit.

By the third time he had probed her about it, she had declared that she’d really prefer it if he didn’t come with her to the office the following day, and had shut down that line of questioning with perhaps more vigour than it required. Killian didn’t know what else to do.

They were supposed to be a team. If she was having trouble, she was supposed to tell him so they could solve it together. He knew she was holding something back, but if she refused to confide in him then he couldn’t exactly pull or pester the truth out of her, and he wouldn’t want to, anyway. Perhaps she was frustrated that she was still having setbacks like these; after her rescue from Brooke House they had been frequent, the nightmares near constant, and her sense of drifting from moment to moment was something they had discussed at great length together, developing coping mechanisms and strategies to help her get past it.

They had been a team. More than anything, Killian just wanted her to be alright. He had just hoped his days of needing to scale Emma’s walls had ended the day she told him she loved him.

Unless she didn’t. Love him anymore, that is.

Something squeezed tightly in his chest.

“At this point,” he cleared his throat, forcing his focus back to the other occupants of Elsa’s bedroom, “I’m ready to try anything.”

Tink was sat perched on the bed in her bare feet, her blonde hair tied up into a haphazard bun as she carefully emptied a large glass jar of water into a white ceramic bowl. The bowl, Killian presumed, he would be scrying out of. Elsa was stood preparing something at her desk on the other side of the room, and Killian could hear the sound of something bubbling. It reminded him distinctly of the living room back in Regina’s house, with the large desks and varied array of vials and candles resembling an incredibly ancient chemistry set, or a set perfect for the potions and brews she liked to assemble.

It had been a while since he’d spoken to Regina; he should make an effort to give her a call. It wasn’t as if she was likely to do the reverse.

Tink eyed him over her task as he fidgeted on the floor. “It would really help if you told us what this dream was about.”

I am. I’m listening.

“It’s – it’s really better if I don’t.” The less they knew about the dagger, the better. He didn’t want anyone else exposed to its evil.

“Ooh, mysterious. Are you predicting a murder? Was some poor, desperate soul murdered before your very eyes?” she grinned. “Was it me?”

“Tink,” Elsa admonished from across the room, “please.”

Tink let out an exaggerated sigh, and sealed the glass bottle once the bowl was full. Carefully, so as not to spill any, she stood and set the bowl down in front of him. The water was clear, and smelled fresh. He couldn’t imagine seeing anything in it other than his own reflection.

“You were right about rainwater being generally more effective,” Tink began, folding her legs as she sat across from him. “Really, anything from nature is supposed to make scrying a little clearer. You’re lucky Elsa was happy to donate this to the cause.” She gestured to the bowl. “It’s water from a natural spring.”

“I collected it a few years ago in Oregon.”

Killian eyed the bowl warily. “Alright. Do I – just –?”

It felt bizarre to try and do with two people watching, in the middle of the afternoon. As if by casting light on the process it somehow took something out of it; getting his mind to that place where he really believed this would work would be a little more difficult, and in his experience, perception was reality when it came to flirting with the otherworldly. Not to mention his brushes with real magic had only ever occurred in the dead of night, in the middle of fall, and Elsa’s bedroom felt too neat, too warm, to be somewhere something close to miraculous could happen.

“Not without this,” Elsa informed him, finally revealing what she had been working on. In her hand she held a steaming mug of – well, he wasn’t exactly sure what, but its scent was distinctly herbal and earthy. Killian had a sneaking suspicion he was going to be made to drink it. “I’ll warn you, this isn’t going to taste good.”

Killian winced. “What’s in it?”

“Bitter grass.”

“It makes dreaming more vivid, or last longer,” Tink added. “I’ve never tried it myself, but apparently it can make scrying… well, more.”

“‘More’?” Killian carefully took the mug from Elsa, peering at it dubiously.

The hot liquid had settled on a murky acid colour and leaves were still floating aimlessly on its surface. It did not look in the least bit appetising.

Tink huffed, as if his attempt to quantify her deliberate vagueness offended her. “I don’t know, like you’re in the front seat rather than clinging to the rear bumper?”

Killian was beginning to question the wisdom in attempting something their so-called expert had purported never to have tried.

“Scrying is a mess,” she continued sharply. “I avoid it for this very reason. It’s like –” Tink hesitated, trying to find the right words. “It’s like walking into a CVS and trying to buy a hunk of plutonium. You’re sort of along the right lines, you’re in a store, and a store is where you buy things, but you’re so far out of your depth that all you can really do is cross your fingers and ask the universe, and hope someone answers back.”

Killian took a tentative sip of the tea, and immediately grimaced as the acrid mixture began to slip down his throat.

“You’re right, this is revolting.”

Elsa smiled sympathetically. “And it’s illegal in Louisiana, so that’s got to be a win for the rebellious teen in you, right?”

He forced himself to drink a little more. “I always preferred sneaking rum.” He paused, contemplating. “Any chance we could add rum to this?”

“Listen to me,” Tink snapped, and his gaze shot back to her. “Scrying is dangerous. You’re effectively setting your mind loose from your body. Do that for too long…”

If he wanted to go deeper, he had to let himself fall.

“And I’ll be stuck in CVS forever?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

Killian thought of the sparkling summer day, of the boy, of another innocent life the dagger wanted to claim. It had already taken Liam, and left its mark on Emma forever.

Consider this him jumping in with both feet.

Fall away.

He finished off the rest of his tea and returned the mug to Elsa.

“Are you sure you still want to do this?” she asked gently.

Killian nodded firmly, and pulled the bowl a little closer towards him.

Elsa laid a hand on his arm. “Don’t go too far. Let us help you back if you need it.”

He had no idea what that meant, but he thanked her all the same. They had already done so much for him.

Tink blew out the last few candles, the curl of smoke rising from them smelling faintly of rosemary; he had known an unlit candle’s purpose for years now in these sorts of rituals – to let energy out. It struck him only then that the very thing they were expecting to let out was him.

Killian turned his attention to the surface of the water, perfectly still in the bowl.

After he leaned closer, he could see the details of his face more clearly in his reflection. The dark lines under his eyes, the barely visible scar on his right cheek from when Regina had flung a pencil at him a little too hard in eighth grade. His eyes didn’t even look blue anymore, in his reflection they looked less somehow, washed, like a faded grey. As he stared, he became aware that something around him had changed – like a noise that had always existed in his periphery had suddenly dropped out, and now he wished he had been paying closer attention to discern what it was. The tea had settled warmly in his chest and he felt light, lighter than air, and tried to focus on that sensation.

Moments ago, he had felt that if he had reached out to either side of him, he would feel Elsa and Tink there. He was not sure he felt that way now.

His right hand twitched.

It was a foreign, surprising sensation, like someone else had reached through his shoulder all the way to his fingertips and jerked it without his permission. It begged for his attention but he tried not to let his mind wander beyond its purpose, and forced himself to keep looking at the surface of the water.

Or what had once been the surface of the water.

Ripples scattered across its edges, as if a sharp wind were blowing until it folded over itself, oozing, and his chest wanted to fall forward, forward, to topple over until he collapsed and could feel the sharp sting of ice cold water filling up his lungs. His chest felt tight. Hard. Like he had to force every breath through a sheet of glass until it reached him. He thought about Elsa, what Elsa had promised, to help him back if he went too far and he reached for her –

His hand fell through empty air.

The ground beneath him was moving. Growling, rumbling, hurtling forward; was he back in the car? Liam’s Mustang, like he had dreamt last night? Even as he thought it the colours materialised, but the vinyl of the seat felt searing hot beneath him and the cream was so bright, he had to blink his eyes against it. He wanted to turn and look at the driver. He wanted to turn and look at Liam. He would give anything to turn his head and be able to look at Liam one more time and for it to be real.

“Go back to sleep, Killian.”

Show me the boy, he thought fiercely, the boy at the creek with the dagger.

His chest tugged him toward the door of the car as he fumbled with his seatbelt, falling against it as the car started to speed up. With effort, he pulled the handle open and the door swung away from him, his grabbing onto the roof of the car the only thing that stopped him hurtling out of it and into the black.

If he wanted to go deeper, he had to let himself fall.

So, the outside beckoned, fall.

Killian let go.

-/-

“Thank you,” Emma said, her cheeks flushed with glorious delight, “for always knowing exactly what I want before I do.”

Killian blinked. Granny’s Diner smelt like burnt cheese and vanilla cake and Emma’s arms were around his neck. The bus ticket sat on the table beside them.

“I know this part,” he said, feeling dazed. “This is the part where I kiss you.”

The corner of Emma’s lip curled unpleasantly.

“You had to go and ruin it, didn’t you?”

-/-

“I think you should do it.”

“Do what?”

Come back, he breathed.

“Go and live with the Nolan’s.”

“Killian, come on.”

Haunt me.

“I’ll be out after high school. What’s the point?”

Just as he reached for her, Emma dived into the ocean.

Killian – Killian, don’t –!

I love you, he shouted. She didn’t reply.

He jumped in after her.

-/-

“Go back to sleep, Killian.”

Show me the boy.

-/-

Killian gasped as he broke free from the surface of the water, gulping in oxygen like a man starved. His limbs felt numb, only sluggishly responding to his demands as he struggled to stay afloat. His chest was tight, freezing, and as he spluttered he could feel fresh water pushing its way out from his throat. Was he drowning? This felt like what drowning should feel. like Water was everywhere; his nose, his eyes, and though he tried to wipe it away so he could see, he was doing so with a hand that was also soaked and made little difference against his blurring vision.

He had to get out. He had to find shore. Killian kicked his legs into action, pumping them through the black to try and propel him forward, push him toward something; everything around him felt so permeable, so susceptible to the slightest change in thought, and he tried to focus on the feel of the water around him. Water could be good. Water could take him to the creek.

The creek, he insisted, bringing his arms in to give his strokes more momentum, the dagger.

His feet brushed what felt like the murky bottom of the pool, slick with seaweed and soft, and his toes scrabbled for purchase while his arms tried to aid in treading water – and that was when he saw him. A few metres in front, the boy fumbling for the dagger.

“Hey!” he hollered, but the noise was drowned out by the current flooding around him. Water flooded into his open mouth and he choked. “H—hold on!”

The boy was already scampering away, hopping from rock to rock with his prize hidden underneath his shirt. He was calling to someone Killian could not see on the opposite bank.

“Just a minute, Dad!”

Two firm hands reached underneath Killian’s arms and hauled him out of the water. He flopped down onto the bank, coughing and spluttering.

Gasping, shivering, he tried to focus on his would-be saviour.

It was his father.

It was impossible for Brennan Jones to be that tall, not while Killian was a man grown, but that was how he remembered him – broad shoulders, lined features, and an easy sort of smile when he wanted it.

He wasn’t smiling now.

“What have I said about staying in bed?”

Killian’s heart was galloping against his ribcage; he had done something he knew he could not take back, the oil had spilled and poison was beginning to blacken the depths of the ocean. Something white hot and fearful had ignited in his chest, Liam would know what to do, Liam would – Liam would –

“Why can’t you just do as you’re told?”

His father’s arms thrust out in front of him – and although Killian hadn’t been touched, he felt himself flung backwards through the air.

Why can’t you just do as you’re told?

There was nothing but empty space behind him.

He was falling, he was falling, he was falling.

His watch beeped: 2:17am. Right on time.

There was a searing pain in his right hand, but his scream was swallowed by the dark.

-/-

Go back to sleep, Killian.

“Killian!”

He was lying on his back, staring at the intricate pattern of Elsa’s ceiling, and his right hand hurt like a bitch.

“Ah,” he hissed, wincing, instinctively lifting it to try and identify the cause. It was covered with blood. “Ah – the – fuck.”

“Sorry, sorry!” Someone was yelping in response, then something cold and wet was pressed against his hand as he tried to sit up. “We didn’t know what else to do!”

He felt dizzy. The sight of blood didn’t help, and a wave of nausea surged within him.

“Oh god, he’s gonna – Elsa get the –”

Something plastic and cylindrical was thrust underneath his chin and he promptly vomited into it.

The whole room was spinning. He tried shutting his eyes but it only made it worse, the horizontal slamming into vertical behind his eyelids. Someone was attempting to rub soothing circles on his back and he tried to focus on that, while someone else kept a cold cloth pressed against his bleeding hand. Elsa and Tink. Right. Elsa and Tink. Slowly, so he didn’t aggravate his already deeply upset stomach, he tried to glance at the space around them.

The ceramic bowl of water had been overturned, and a visible wet patch surrounded it. Beside it, a large kitchen knife had been discarded, its sharp edge scarlet with blood that was now dribbling onto the otherwise pristine light blue carpet. His blood, he realised, dazedly drawing the connection between the knife and his bleeding hand.

“Did you – to me –?” he mumbled, wiping his sweaty forehead with his free hand.

“You gave us quite a fright,” Elsa replied. “Nothing we did could bring you out of it and you looked – well. Distressed.” Gingerly, she took the bin away from him and left the room to dispose of it.

“The worst,” he began, then coughed, “worst cup of tea ever.”

“I underestimated you,” Tink growled, as she tied the wet cloths ends around Killian’s palm with a show of force. “You really just jumped right in, huh? This is why I steer clear of this crap. It’s a fucking shitshow. You could have died and then, what, I’m explaining you wanted to stare at visions in a fruit bowl to your pretty girlfriend? No way. No fucking way.”

“Sorry,” he said, because he wasn’t sure what else he could say.

“Don’t be sorry, be smart.”

“Here. Water,” Elsa returned with a glass, and Killian reached for it eagerly. His throat felt like something had crawled in there and died. “Feel any better?”

Killian nodded, and he meant it. He had never been so aware of his own limbs before, of the heaviness of his own arms and legs. It was like he’d been living without gravity and these were his first few moments back on Earth and feeling the weight of his cumbersome form.

Was this how Emma felt, he wondered, when she lingered in that featureless space between?

“So? What did you see?”

Why can’t you just do as you’re told?

Killian tried to clear his throat, but something stuck tightly in it.

In a sea of opalescent and obscure images, that had felt very clear. It didn’t marry up to his memory in the same way the others did; he was certain he did not have any memories of Brennan Jones associated with such a moment, but it was just – it was so vivid.

“I don’t, uh,” he rubbed his right eye tiredly. “I don’t know.”

-/-

In their line of work, there was nothing that irritated Emma more than wasted time. Wasted time meant loss of income, and the unreasonably elusive skip August W. Booth was getting on her last nerve. She had gone to his old office the day before, armed with the information regarding the credit card purchase, only to be turned away at the front desk with the claim the entire company staff were away on a corporate retreat. Her instincts had wanted to call bullshit, but a cursory glance of a few of their social media pages confirmed it. It didn’t matter if she was ninety nine percent certain her bail jumper was hiding out inside the office, if the actual employees weren’t there then she couldn’t exactly magic a reason to be admitted out of thin air.

Annoyingly, it meant they had to put it off for another day. This damn bail jumper was one slippery fucker, and the more time Emma had to waste rounding him up, the more irritated she got. Their time was their own in this profession, which most of the time was an advantage, but every second spent on the same guy was a second she couldn’t spend securing their next pay-check.

Killian had insisted on joining her this time, and she couldn’t think of any good reason for him not to. Her slip up with the tap in the kitchen had thankfully drifted into the near-past and there were no other demands on his time. Not to mention given how tricky this August W. Booth was proving to be, better they put their heads together and get it sorted out, pay-check cashed, as soon as possible.

Emma watched enviously as Killian slid the Chevelle smoothly into park at the side of the road – the old car was never that cooperative with her, spitting like a feral cat as she wrestled with the stick shift. The morning was dim and gloomy, the sky overhead a bruised and leaden grey slathering the streets with scattered showers at unpredictable intervals. Currently only one wiper was working, albeit lazily, succeeding in keeping only the driver’s side of the windshield clear while rain loped down in waves in front of Emma.

Through the passenger side door, she squinted out at the office block, the embossed directory helpfully just a few feet away from where they’d parked. Gepetto’s – 6th Floor.

“Alright,” Emma sighed, drumming her fingers on the passenger door. “The receptionist said by now they should all be back from their… I dunno, business boy-scouting, or whatever. You wait out here, I’ll go in and chat to the office manager, ask if she’s seen any funny business. Really hammer home the whole ‘he’s a criminal’ shtick. Throw out a few ‘harboring a fugitive is a prosecutable offence’, etcetera…” Emma turned to get Killian’s input, but he wasn’t looking at her. His hands were still resting on the bottom of the wheel, and he was staring out of the front windshield.

His eyes held the same vacant look she had been catching him with all morning, and every time she spotted it something inside her twisted unpleasantly. It felt like he went somewhere, and she wasn’t used to Killian checking out into places she couldn’t follow him.

“Hey.” She snapped her fingers next to his ear, startling him. “Paging Killian Jones.”

“What?” He straightened abruptly in his seat. “Oh. Yeah, I’ll QB from down here.” He made a show of peering past and her and toward the office block. It didn’t fool her. “See if he makes a run for it once his cage gets rattled.”

Emma watched him curiously, hoping for any sort of clue, but he didn’t meet her eye. He likely was trying to avoid what they both knew was her superpower, to spot a lie a thousand miles away; and immediately, unbidden, a wave of self-consciousness rose within her. He hadn’t really said anything about the flooding incident – but what if he wanted to? He’d been quiet since yesterday, so it wasn’t unreasonable to assume he had been mulling the whole situation over. It wasn’t paranoia when the logic was sound.

Maybe he was finally getting fed up of cleaning up after her messes.

With effort, she pushed the feeling down.

“You okay today?” Emma asked. “You’ve been spaced out all morning.”

Killian waved a hand, and smiled in a not-all-that-convincing manner. “I’m fine. Really.”

“No blood pacts with the Witches of West Bellevue on your mind?”

“Ha, ha, very funny,” Killian replied drily, smiling despite himself as he unconsciously picked at the bandage with his opposite hand. “I wish you wouldn’t call them that.” She knew he was intending to sound reproachful, but there was no heat behind it.

“I wish they wouldn’t send you home bleeding,” she smirked. Killian had come back to their flat last night sporting a rather nasty gash on his right palm – he had insisted it was his own fault, some incident with a bread knife, but Emma had enjoyed teasing him to no end about blood sacrifices and voodoo rituals.

“That was my fault,” Killian said absently, clearly not registering her jest. “And it was an accident.”

Emma arched an eyebrow, wondering which it was: his fault, or an accident.

“Hey.” She laid a hand on his arm to get his full attention, and he finally looked her in the eye. She wasn’t particularly enthused about hashing out the events of the other night, but if there was something genuinely bothering him then she wanted to know about it. “Is there something on your mind?”

Killian’s lips parted, as if debating whether to speak. “It’s… nothing important.” He shrugged, offering her a smile. “Really. I’m just a little too in my own head.”

Emma was far from convinced. “Well, I’m here if you want to talk about anything.”

This time when Killian smiled, he tilted his head and his eyes softened, as if he were looking at her for the first time that day. Even after all the years they had known each other, there was a thrill in being seen so gently. He leaned forward and she met him halfway, their lips meeting in a slow kiss.

After they parted, he let out a contented sigh as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“You’re my favourite, you know that, right?”

Emma grinned. “And I promise you’re a close second behind Regina.”

“Wow.”

Emma laughed as she shrugged on her coat. “Alright, time to nail this son of a bitch.” She dropped a final kiss on his cheek before reaching for the door handle. “See you in a bit.”

After stepping out into the downpour, she jogged as quickly as she could to the front door of the office block, lifting her jacket over her head for as much protection from the elements as she could manage, but wasn’t convinced it would do much to abate her looking either washed out or a little drowned by the time she spoke to somebody from Gepetto’s. The receptionist recognised her from the day prior, and after waving in greeting immediately phoned up to the sixth floor to see if anybody was available to speak to her.

There was a bit of negotiating, but before long the office manager for Gepetto’s had come down to meet her and was escorting her back up to the sixth floor. She didn’t want to launch into the reason for her being there before she’d had a chance to look around the office, so to avoid spooking her Emma offered up some general lines of enquiry about the office structure with information she had managed to glean from the company website. Almost flattered by her interest, the office manager was only too keen to rattle off her answers for the duration of the lift ride until the doors finally reopened.

It took only a few steps out of the lift lobby for Emma to stop dead in her tracks – because there, leaning against the desk at the entrance to the office, stood her mark.

Emma felt herself tense, instinctively readying herself to run, but she had to forcefully remind herself that August W. Booth had no reason to know who she was in the slightest, which would make everything a lot easier. He was here, that was what counted, and now she just had to figure out a way to get a pair of cuffs on him.

The office manager had been speaking, and Emma tried to tune back in and pick up where they left off, and as they reached the desk August looked up at the two of them.

And immediately straightened, his eyes widening the moment they landed on her.

Emma schooled her expression into one of nonchalance – but it made no difference. She could spot a skip about to hit the ground running a mile off, and she reached for her handcuffs as subtly as she could manage.

“Emma?” August gaped.

She was momentarily taken aback – what the –?

If possible, August looked more stunned than she felt. “How did you find me?”

His gaze dropped to her side and landed on the handcuffs.

He was moving before she even had a chance to process what was happening.

“Hey!” she barked, immediately sprinting after him. Somebody was yelling something from behind her, and the office around her became a blur of colour and noise as she shot through it, narrowing her focus on the man running in front of her.

She collided heavily with someone she couldn’t duck out of the way of, and had just enough time to distractedly mumble an apology before taking off again, and in a beat she realised where he was heading – the stairwell toward the fire exit. There wasn’t enough time to get out her phone and warn Killian, she just hoped he’d be ready in case she didn’t catch him before he got out of the building.

August wrenched open the door to the stairwell, pulling at a filing cabinet beside it until it crashed into the ground, sending a whoosh of papers and folders scattering out onto the floor. Beside it some office workers had gasped, and Emma yelled at them to jump out of the way as she approached, skipping past documents that might slip her up and leaping over the cabinet to the door.

Her skip was already a flight of stairs down and Emma wasted no time following him.

“Hang on a second!” she demanded, but there was no indication on whether he had heard her. “I just want to talk to you!”

And arrest you, and claim the reward, but why the fuck would you care?

She chased him all the way to the ground floor, where she heard him letting out a string of expletives against the sound of metal rattling in its frame – he was stranded at the exit, unable to get the door open and scrambling for any way out.

Emma slowed her pace as she descended the final flight, trying to get a good look at him – he looked exactly like the photos they had been provided with, except for the shadow of a few days without shaving scratched around his chin. His leather jacket was battered and his hair unkempt, and he was currently grunting with effort as he thrust his shoulder into the door in an attempt to get it open.

“Look, just give it a rest,” Emma growled, “you had to know this was coming. You missed a pretty important court date.”

August paused his efforts, turning to glance at her nervously. “You can’t arrest me.”

“Three counts of property damage, theft and disturbing the peace say otherwise. Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.”

“No, you can’t arrest me. It can’t be you.”

Emma was getting fed up with his bullshit. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

The look August was giving her was pained. “I’m so sorry.”

Then he slammed his fist through the glass protecting the fire alarm.

The stairwell exploded with sound.

Overhead the alarm bell rattled blisteringly loud, August was swearing profusely at his bloodied hand, and the magnetic lock on the door buzzed open. As the man stumbled out of it, the stairwell was flooded with light and the sound of rain rattling against the alleyway outside – but Emma didn’t notice any of that.

From the moment the alarm sounded, a searing pain had blasted through her temples and she cried out; something was rattling, cracking against the casing of her skull and she gasped her way through it, stumbling down onto the ground. She couldn’t see anything, her vision was blinded by spots of white, and it was all she could do to fight for some semblance of control over her motor functions. Everything hurt. Something was stealing the breath from her lungs, and although she knew it couldn’t be real, she felt her fingertips curling into damp soil underneath her.

I don’t know where I am.

Emma could feel hot tears rolling down her cheek as she tried to think of anything except how much her head was throbbing, the alarm blaring across her senses as if it had come from inside her. It was too much. It was all too much.

Killian?

I don’t know where I am.

I thought –

I thought I heard your voice.

It was the cold that she remembered most about Brooke House. That terrible, awful absence of warmth, that numbness, that sense that her limbs were not truly moving because she could no longer feel them. It was ice, it was loss, it was knowing the world she knew was gone forever even though just seconds earlier it had swirled in a storm of obsidian light, and Killian –

Killian had wanted to save her.

And she had told him not to.

Killian – Killian, don’t – !

The sky was full of birds.

Her parents left her on the side of the road on a crisp autumn morning, while the sky was alive with birdsong.

Emma –

There was too much sound, too much light; she couldn’t see. Something hurt. It was her. Around her the forest breathed slowly, in, and out, and the old wood of the house creaked unheard. It had nothing else to show her. She had read all the books. She had written on all the walls. She pleaded for the chance to walk amongst the wood, to feel the crunch of delicate, copper leaves underfoot and the patter of rain on her skin.

She waited for him to come home.

The sky was full of birds.

“Emma!”

I thought I heard your voice.

-/-

It was 2:17am.

Robert should have been home hours ago, and Belle couldn’t sleep for worry.

He had gone to that wretched house, she knew it. Nothing else had been able to impress upon his waking mind for weeks, he was consumed by whatever he had found in there and left Belle to mind their livelihood alone. Stood in the centre of the shop floor, the room lit in an orange glow drifting through the blinds in strips, it somehow felt worse than the odd looks the townsfolk had been giving her when they came in to sell their wares, or find something for someone else.

The pawnshop had always been Robert’s, not hers. It was his name on the door, Gold. It didn’t matter that she’d taken his name when they married – everyone in Storybrooke still thought of her as ‘that funny Belle French’. She had always been something of an outlier in the realm of small-town opinion; but then, that was something she and her husband had always shared.

Brooke House was something he had pointedly kept from her.

He refused to take her there. He refused to discuss his work there. Every day he departed with trinkets and materials and vials of vividly coloured liquids of which she hadn’t a clue of the contents. Something powerful had captured his attention so desperately within its walls, something that made him see right through her.

And tonight – tonight, he had practically prowled about the shop until he had finally departed out into the night.

You’ll see, he had told her. You’ll see.

Well, she was tired of waiting.

She wanted her husband back.

She stalked into the backroom to retrieve her coat and changed out of her heels and into something sturdier, boots more suited to clambering through woodland than minding the pawn shop.

It was just as she was shrugging on her coat that she heard the tinkling of the bell over the front door, and her heart leapt hopefully.

“I was just coming to –”

She cut herself off once she saw it was not her husband who had entered, and shielded her disappointment in an expression of reproach.

“It’s the middle of the night,” she pointed out sharply. “We’re closed.”

The intruder stood their ground.

“It won’t do any good,” they said, quietly. “Your husband isn’t coming back.”

Belle stopped dead in her tracks.

“But I think you already know that.”

-/-

It was a migraine.

Just a migraine.

All the symptoms were there; white spots, sensitivity to light and sound, nausea – a rapid onset migraine. Their skip had gotten away, and when Killian had come looking for her amongst all the chaos August left behind, he had found her slumped at the bottom of the fire escape and had immediately taken her home. As it always did, time produced the most rational of explanations, even if Emma still had no idea how August W Booth had known who she was. The most logical reason was that somehow he had gotten in touch with the agency, or knew someone who had been able to tell him the name of the bail bondsperson who had been assigned to his case.

She had spent the afternoon recovering back in their flat, the blinds drawn and the bedroom door closed while Killian worked silently in the sitting room on their next case, and by the evening she felt back to her old self again. It had still made it difficult to resist Killian sitting her down and pleading with her to come and see the Bellevue coven at the weekend, to meet the Elsa he had told her so much about; if for no other reason than the home remedies that members of that community swore by when it came to migraines or insomnia, frequent ailments that kept catching Emma off guard.

Emma had no interest in ingratiating herself with the Bellevue coven, no matter how often he spoke of its charming members or how much he felt it might help her to connect with others who might have experiences with the otherworldly comparable to their brush with Brooke House. She had made it clear from the start; she didn’t believe a single soul could speak to what she had been through, and she was not interested in finding out.

This will not define me, she had said, the day they had ridden themselves of the dagger for good.

She wanted to believe that. She wanted to look forward. Minor setbacks aside, she still didn’t feel sitting around with a group of born-again self-ascribed ‘witches’ talking about how grand and mysterious the universe was would do anything for her focusing on her real life. It was this life she wanted to contemplate, not the one before, or the hell that awaited them after.

Besides, she knew what hell was. Hell was nothing. Barren, a void the soul was left to wander within.

Still, she could sense how important it was to Killian that she make this effort, and after all the considerate care he had given her over the last week – the appeal, the flood, the rescue after her migraine – he deserved her giving it a shot. Apparently they were having some sort of midsummer celebration anyway, and the evening didn’t have to amount to anything more than a fancy garden party. Emma preferred the idea of facing this part of Killian’s life without having to commit to making it part of hers too.

There were still significant drawbacks, though.

“You didn’t tell me there was a dress code,” she grumbled.

After arriving, they had been directed to walk around the side of Elsa’s house through a pathway of tall, sweeping archways plaited with ivy and lavender, leaving the path with a distinctly herbal and earthy scent. It reminded her of Regina’s garden. The evening was balmy and gentle, the setting sun painting the sky in broad, orange strokes, and the mellow flutter of a flute or clarinet could be heard drifting from the clearing ahead of them. Emma could already taste woodsmoke in the back of her throat.

Killian had kept her hand folded tightly in his, as if he were afraid if he let go she would turn around and go home. She wasn’t sure how to reassure him, since she wasn’t entirely convinced she wouldn’t do it herself.

“There’s not a dress code,” Killian frowned. “At least not one they told me about.”

“You’re wearing it!” she pointed out accusatorily.

In keeping with the warmer temperature, Emma had opted for a simple pair of denim shorts and boots, with a dark green blouse she had thought would look suitably on theme for an event clearly thrilled about nature. Killian, on the other hand, looked far smarter in a crisp white shirt and a tan pair of chinos. White, she was now realising as they emerged into the main event, was clearly the theme.

A large bonfire had been stacked in the centre of the clearing and had been lit from the bottom, so currently the flame was only licking at the edges of the wood lying nearest its centre, but she could imagine as the night wore on it would grow significantly in size. There were around thirty, maybe forty guests scattered around, speaking jovially to one another, some lingering near a few fold-up tables laden with a wide array of food – that, at least, hadn’t been an exaggeration on Killian’s part. Just at a glance she could spot trays of roast beef, stuffed bell peppers, smoked salmon and an entire glass bowl filled with strawberries.

It was like walking into a garden of plenty, alive with wildflowers and the scent of freshly baked bread, while a small wind band played towards one edge of the clearing.

Most of the women were dressed in white or wearing light floral patterns, and every man she could see was sporting an identical white shirt to Killian’s. He fit right in – and to her chagrin she could now see how her attempt to slip into the background was now setting her apart.

“It’s not a dress code,” Killian waved her off, “it’s nothing like that.”

Emma spread her free hand across the clearing in a pointed sweep.

Killian had the good grace to look a little sheepish. “Maybe it’s a little like that. But me – this – it’s a complete accident, I swear.”

He looked so eager to reassure her that she couldn’t help but laugh. There was something so light about his countenance tonight, something that buoyed her along without even trying – the entire drive there he had barely been able to contain whatever energy he had been carrying, drumming his fingers restlessly on the wheel of the Chevelle. She couldn’t tell if it was excitement about finally bringing her along to one of these things, or if he was just enthusiastic about getting out of the city, but either way she couldn’t really remember a time he had been this animated about an evening out. It was hard to find fault in that kind of simple delight. It made her feel like they were teenagers again.

“Fine, whatever,” she said, but she was grinning. “You promised me food.”

“Right, definitely,” he smiled back. “But for fear of appearing too obvious so soon after we’ve arrived, how about we start with a drink?”

“Sure.”

Her every assent seemed to have the instantaneous effect of brightening his mood even further. “Anna’s been going on about her punch for weeks – oh, Anna, I’ll make sure I introduce you –”

He tugged at their joined hands, but after a split-second Emma resisted.

“Why don’t you go and grab some for us and I’m just gonna… take it all in.” She looked around the garden. “Give me a sec to get my bearings.”

Killian didn’t question her, just squeezed her hand before letting go and promised to be back in a few moments.

She wasn’t sure what it was, but there was a lot of sensory information to process. Her life with Killian was so insular, they didn’t spend a lot of time at big events – they both preferred places they could blend into the background. Attending a gathering of this size was probably something she hadn’t done since the last time she was in Storybrooke – something in her gut twinged at the thought. David and Mary Margaret would have loved a celebration like this, something like the Miner’s Day celebration the town used to throw every November. Good food, warm feelings; it was everything she and Killian used to good-naturedly mock when they were teenagers.

Tonight, while her partner’s enthusiasm was sweet, it was still a little jarring; especially when she remembered exactly what this community was, and it wasn’t just small-town eccentricities.

This was a coven, she had to keep reminding herself. Practitioners. Like Regina.

At least they didn’t appear to be making any sacrifices on that bonfire.

“Hey, Killian!” Emma watched as a petite blonde woman called Killian over to the group she was standing with, and he pivoted in their direction on his way to the refreshment table. She was smirking, and her hair was piled up messily on the top of her head. “Help us out, we need a tie-break.”

Emma couldn’t hear what she said after that, but watched as one of the men clapped him on the back, another one shaking his hand enthusiastically. He never really mentioned having friends in the Bellevue coven, but she supposed he must do – he had been going every week for over two months. In the sea of white among the grass, he all but disappeared into the crowd.

Watching him speak to them, she realised it really did remind her of when they were teenagers. Specifically, of when she had been sitting on the floor of Brooke House, her knees curled up to her chest as he traced a pentagram into the floorboards in thick black marker. Behind them their friends had bickered over the spirit board, and as the cold settled in she had watched Killian gently reaching for something beyond all their understanding.

The woman said something quiet and Killian laughed, a hearty and warm sound, but the sick feeling in Emma’s stomach only deepened. He fit here. Somewhere he could keep reaching.

“You must be Emma.”

Emma turned, and saw she was being approached by a taller woman, her bright blonde hair tied into a plait which hung over her right shoulder. Like everyone else, she was dressed all in white, in a long, light gown that trailed down to her feet.

“Uh, yeah,” Emma replied; if Killian had told them she was coming, her vivid green blouse likely gave her away. “Hi.”

“I’m Elsa,” the woman said, holding out a dainty hand for her to shake. Her palm was smooth, her skin so light it was almost white.

“Right,” Emma said, understanding dawning. “So this is your place?” Elsa nodded. “Great to meet you. This all seems… it looks great.”

Elsa smiled demurely. “We’re just lucky the weather held.”

Given Seattle’s propensity for continually being soaking wet, Emma couldn’t help but agree. “Pretty much.”

Killian was still standing with the other group, and while Emma could see him attempting to pivot away from them, apparently whatever animated discussion they were having kept drawing him in.

“You know, Killian has told me a little about you.”

Her hackles immediately rose. “Oh yeah?”

“He thinks of you all the time,” she continued. “I can tell he looks for you in the work we do here.”

Without her really noticing, the flutes had drifted into a different song, something that floated drowsily across the still air. It felt like she should be relaxed, like every variable had been carefully constructed to draw out the hazy, heady sensation of early summer, but Emma just couldn’t feel herself falling into it like she should.

Still, she didn’t want to disturb the tranquil atmosphere by getting too defensive with someone Killian often spoke highly of.

Instead, the corner of her mouth tugged upwards. “And what work is that?”

To her credit, Elsa laughed. They both knew there was little point in being coy.

“I actually think you and I are a lot alike,” the other woman mused, a cheerful twinkle in her eye.

Alright, she’d bite. “How d’you figure?”

Elsa took a long, slow breath, averting her eyes to the rest of the gathering. A man and a woman standing near the fledgling bonfire had begun swaying to the music.

“Putting up walls, it works to keep the bad things out. And keeping everything contained inside, all those… messy, confusing instincts – that stops us from hurting others.”

Nobody can control this door except you, Emma.

“But it also closes us off to them completely.”

Emma felt herself beginning to bristle; she wasn’t sure she would appreciate a lecture about Killian Jones from somebody who had known him all of five minutes. Not to mention she was growing uneasy with the amount that Killian had perhaps chosen to confide in a complete stranger.

“What exactly has he been saying about me?”

“Almost nothing,” Elsa was quick to assure her, but it was the almost that stuck. “Which I think is quite telling in itself.”

Emma said nothing.

“Answer me this – why do you think Killian chooses to come here?”

She let out a huff of frustration. Where the hell was Killian with that drink?

“I don’t know, just gotta scratch that witchy itch?”

Elsa hummed indulgently, but she was undeterred by Emma’s attitude. “I’ve asked him myself, but I wasn’t convinced by his answer. I’m not sure he even knows.” After a beat, she clasped her hands in front of her. “But I think he comes to us because he can’t talk to you. And believe me, we’re a poor substitute.”

“He can talk to me,” Emma replied indignantly.

Elsa met her gaze, hard. “About everything?”

This will not define me.

They were supposed to be the same. Two complementary halves of the same brave, desperate fighter. Kids who had been lost together, who had been found, together. That was the promise they’d made before Brooke House, and the one they had fervently renewed in the wake of it.

There weren’t supposed to be things they could not talk about. Quiet, desperate things they could not say.

So good of you to finally come and see me.

She became distantly aware that she hadn’t said anything for a few prolonged seconds, and she turned away from the sharpness of Elsa’s gaze.

“I’m tired of letting the past control us.”

“The past is who we are,” Elsa said simply. “Don’t you think he deserves to find meaning in whatever he has experienced?”

Emma folded her arms. Meaning. Was that what he was supposed to find here?

“That’s easy,” she muttered. “There’s no meaning in any of it. The only thing I know for certain is that darkness doesn’t discriminate.”

It was born with you, it died with you, and sometimes, in the middle, it liked to remind you that it was there.

Elsa murmured her agreement. “It does not.”

“There we are!” Killian’s voice was loud and cheerful as he sprung up beside them, holding two glasses of a vivid pink liquid. “Sorry for the delay, Tink was just – well, she’s a royal pain in my arse, that’s all you need to know.”

He held out one of the glasses to her and Emma took it gingerly. It tasted like something citrusy. The sudden change in atmosphere left her feeling a little off-balance.

“I see you met Elsa – the place looks fantastic, by the way.”

Elsa bowed her head in pleasure.

“I’m glad you could make it. How’s your hand?”

“Oh,” Killian’s cheerful visage faded for just a moment as his gaze dropped to his bandaged palm, “it’s fine. Barely even feel it.”

Once again, Emma was struck by the idea that there was more to that story than he had told her.

“I better go do the rounds. But Emma – if you ever want to talk, I want you to know this is a safe space. For anyone.”

Something warm burned beneath her collar as she felt Killian turn his eyes on her. Elsa seemed to be expecting some kind of acknowledgement of her offer, so Emma cleared her throat.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Mercifully, after that Elsa left them.

“What was that about?” Killian asked curiously.

Emma took a large gulp of the punch. “I think she was trying to read my mind.”

Killian laughed.

“She doesn’t read minds.”

“Or cast a spell on me.”

“Don’t be daft,” he snorted, before slinging his free arm around her waist. “Did you want food?”

Emma sighed heavily. “Oh, God. Please.”

This was going to be awful.

-/-

This is what happened: it was not, in fact, awful.

It was this: the food was great, the company wasn’t bad, and Killian was alive with good humour and enthusiasm, carrying her nimbly from moment to moment.

It was this: finding herself in thoughtful conversations with other guests and forgetting momentarily that Killian was not even with her, on the occasions she found herself without him.

It was this: listening contentedly as Elsa caught the attention of the crowd, recounting fond memories of the solstice from her childhood in Denmark, and reciting the great tale of the battle between the Oak King of daylight and the Holly King of night. During Litha, on the day of the summer solstice, the Holly King would win, from then on claiming every day until Yule and making each darker than the last. It was a fanciful thing, but its whimsy somehow fit exactly right into the festivities of the Bellevue coven; and surprisingly, Emma did not mind.

It was this: the bonfire catching with a glorious roar, sparks shooting up into the midnight blue sky as the night grew darker, and allowing Killian to tug her into its glow and twirl her around to the lolling beat of the music.

And it was this: allowing herself to forget, for a single second, that there was anything at all in the world to fear.

And then she saw the scaled man.

He was standing at the entrance to the garden, by the ivy archways, his entire figure shrouded in darkness. She couldn’t make out his features, but the nasty curve of his mouth and the basket of spun gold twine at his feet gave him away. Something in Emma’s chest lurched, she wanted to throw up. She reached for Killian but Killian was not at her side, Killian was talking to Elsa, and maybe it was that, or maybe it was the cold, hard longing that had settled in her chest ever since she had called David, or maybe it was the soft buzz of alcohol running through her, but she was caught by a wave of courage she had never before experienced.

The scaled man beckoned, and she followed with purpose.

He raised a hand toward her, she could feel the brittle and knurled edges of his fingernails against her cheek even twenty paces away, and she left the comfort of the fire behind her and began her walk into the black.

She would tell him. She would tell him no, he could not have her.

She wanted to be in the light.

And she would tell him so.

Except as she got closer, she realised it was not him at all, and she could not understand how she had ever thought it was. She balked, trudging through the blur of her recent memories, but no – when she had noticed him, when she had stood by the fire, it hadn’t been the scaled man at all, but a normal person. The state of it being him, and not being him existed simultaneously, and Emma shook her head to try and regain her focus.

Because the man standing at the edge of the garden was August W Booth.

“Did you see him?”

It took Emma a few moments to realise August was speaking to her.

Her lips parted. “Did I see… who?”

August let a breath of dubious laughter, shaking his head. “Yeah, okay.”

Emma was still struggling to marry up the two scenarios in her mind – she was at the Litha celebration with the coven from Bellevue, and August W Booth was standing in front of her.

“Look,” he continued, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I thought I’d come and find you before you had a chance to find me again. You’re very good at what you do, Emma.”

A thousand questions flashed across her mind, too quickly for her to count. What was he doing here? How did he find her? What did he want?

“How do you know my name?”

That one, though, had been weighing on her mind for longer. August hesitated, glancing furtively over his shoulder, then peering past Emma out toward the bonfire. Whatever he saw did not seem to appease him.

“Not here,” he said quietly. “Don’t you feel it?” Despite the warmth of the evening, Emma shivered.

“No,” she said, although she was certain she did.

“You can find me at this address,” August continued, pulling a business card from his pocket and holding it out to her. Without thinking, she took it. “And, yeah, you can come and arrest me if you like, but I think you know that if you do you won’t get what you want.”

Emma eyed him curiously. “And what’s that?”

The corner of August’s mouth curled upwards, and his dark eyes glittered in the distant firelight; the world had granted him a secret, and he was thrilled to be its keeper.

“The truth,” he said. “The truth we both know.”

He nodded behind her. When Emma turned, she could see Killian standing motionless by the fire, staring straight at them – he looked puzzled, as if he were trying to make out who she was talking to. She was certain that if he knew he would’ve already stormed over there.

“Bring your court jester, if you like,” August continued brightly, before brushing his eyes across the rest of the clearing. The dancing, the music, the fire. “If you can tear him away.”

Emma glanced over her shoulder again to look at Killian, but he wasn’t watching them anymore. He was staring into the centre of the flames with that same blank, vacant look she had seen for days.

When she turned back August had slipped away.

She stared at the business card in her hands.

The truth, he had said. Which truth was that?

The sky had turned black, and the breath of the wind through the trees was stirring something strong, but uneasy, inside of her; the air tingled with woodsmoke and possibility, and Emma was ready.

#jay writes #the wind blows white #cs halloweek #cs fic #cs ff #captain swan #cs au #halloweek #killian jones #emma swan #I hope you like this one guys!

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ailuronymy · 4 years ago

Text

Book Club: Tallstar’s Revenge, chpt. 37-45 overview.

Two highly professional gravediggers observe the job ahead of them:

“I'd like to congratulate us both on finishing this godawful book! A whole super edition in five weeks. They said it couldn't be done, but we showed them. “ - S

“Yes! It's truly miraculous that our brains are intact still.” - K

“So glad it's over, though.” - S

“Should I grab the shovel?” - K

“Yes, it's time. Let's bury this corpse.” - S

In this final week of reading Tallstar’s Revenge, we will be thinking about these final nine questions. Well done for making it this far! We hope you’ve enjoyed the ride.

When you’re ready, consider sharing your thoughts with #ailuronymy book club and see what other readers are thinking!

1. First impressions?

K: It's bad! It's bad. It's all bad and I'm not surprised by any of it. K: I was actually expecting there to be more bullshit in the end, but I was almost... let down? By how underwhelming it was? S: Some moments surprised me a little but like... these did not spark joy. K: It was so boring. S: I have that same note: huge anticlimactic fuckery at the end. K: If you're going to torture me, you might as well make it interesting, Erin. K: Throw in a wild plot twist or something. K: Get me going. K: Make me feel alive.

2. How did you feel reading this section? K: Mind numb, head empty. For like, at least three chapters I read them and then failed to register anything important for the notes. It just dragged on. S: More bored than I expected to be! I thought it'd at least ramp up a little, but it very much did not in any meaningful way and really petered out with a sad little "wuh-wuh."

3. What chapter did you find most interesting/moving/effective, and why? K: Chapter Forty, seeing all of the clanmates that I'd been missing for half the book felt so satisfying. I missed Dawnstripe, Heatherstar, Barkface, and Hopkit all so much. The only good bit. S: I feel that. S: For me, I think in terms of sheer pleasure, it has to be the echoes I saw from turn to dust all that I adore in Talltail swimming in a time of crisis. K: Yes! S: It made that passage I wrote feel retroactively so much more intense and significant, which I love.

4. What chapter did you find least interesting/effective/most frustrating, and why?

K: The final chapter, Chapter Forty-Seven. That leader ceremony was so bad and I hated all of it. K: The Shadowclan battle was also mind-numbing. S: I think it's got to be the jump from first apprentice to leader ceremony. That's so much life we don't see, which given how goddamn long the book took for the rest of his very boring life is a travesty. S: I tend to take some umbrage with Starclan whenever it shows up in canon, but in this particular case, the way that his leader ceremony is handled--especially by Palebird and Sandgorse--is horrific. S: I also think it's appalling that Sandgorse offers a life of forgiveness, but never once asks for it from Talltail, unless I'm mistaken? S: He thinks he can embody forgiveness, but doesn't have the humility to admit to the things that he had done wrong by Talltail. Egregious.

5. Is there a passage that stuck in your mind–for good, or not-so-good reasons? What is it, and why did it stand out? S: I think for me, this is Sandgorse's everything in the leader ceremony. I think I'll just [my whole rant just now + thoughts on forgiveness]. K: I had two specific quotes from this go that fit I think. K: First was: "I guess Clan cats aren’t used to leaving home.” Jake sounded amused. “I know the feeling you’re having. The nagging pain, the tug in my pelt and paws? I get that whenever I’m away from my home too long.” “Really?” Talltail blinked. “Why?” “Every creature needs to belong somewhere,” Jake told him. “Your paws know where that is, even if you don’t.” K: Just the phrase of "Every creature needs to belong somewhere" felt so genuine and sweet coming from Jake, and I think could have felt so much more impactful if the themes we've recognized were more evident in the story. K: The second was: “Talltail!” Dawnstripe leaped from the Meeting Hollow. “You came back!” Delight lit up her eyes. Talltail stood still as she raced to meet him. “I couldn’t stay away.” She stopped in front of him and gazed warmly into his eyes. “Then my training wasn’t wasted.” “It was never wasted,” he meowed softly. “Not once.

S: YES K: Partially because I will always be soft for Dawnstripe, but also, the genuine tenderness between her and Talltail in this moment felt so real and so earned. K: This is what I wanted from Bluestar and Stonepelt. S: I've said it before, I'll say it again: mentor+apprentice relationships For Life. K: Talltail saying that his training with Dawnstripe was never wasted, and then immediately transitioning into him encouraging and being a positive role model for Deadkit? K: Ugh. It's so good. S: Loved it.

6. What other non-Warriors (or Erin Hunter affiliated) books does this one remind you of? Are there themes, symbolism, or storybeats in this novel that made you think of other stories as you read it?

K: Oh, great question. K: Oh shit, you know what. S: Hit me. K: We've got a Book Club classic coming at you. K: The Knife of Never Letting Go, by our mutual bastard Patrick Ness. S: You know, I was thinking about More Than This. But mostly because of how much I hated it. K: TKNLG's big theme revolves around like, what murder does to you and what it feels like to do an unspeakable act that you can't retract or replace. Revenge and anger become a part of you and you've got to deal with that. K: And it's been ages since I read it, but I feel like that makes a lot of sense for this book. Todd and Talltail both spend a book with things being taken from them and wrongs being done to them, and it makes them so angry and hurt and desperate that eventually they go "Okay, yeah, murder would be a solution here." And when it comes down to it they both get to make that choice, of what they want to put out into the world and what kind of man they want to be. S: I like that. I haven't read it myself, but I can definitely see how those themes talk to one another. S: I don't think there's a particular story I can pinpoint that is similar to this one, but I can think of stories that echo what I'd like this story to have leaned into more. S: Being about forgiveness and family trauma, it reminds me both of The Goblin Emperor and also the How To Train Your Dragon films? Especially the first film, I think. That whole undercurrent of absent mother, disdainful and frustrated father, queer-coded and different kid feels very present in Tallstar's Revenge. S: However, I think HTTYD does that a lot better than this book, by a considerable length.

7. Did this novel (or the experience of reading it) change your perspective on anything, either within the world of Warriors or outside it? What do you think about differently now?

K: Hm. I think it's certainly limited my excitement on reading any future Super Editions books. They all seem to be just the same garbage plot wrapped with slightly different bows, and that's both disappointing and relieving. S: I feel you on that. S: I think for me, the single biggest shift is that it's changed how I think of Tallstar. For me, he was probably my favourite leader--or one of my favourites--growing up reading the books, and he came across often as wise and relaxed, and then made that final defining mistake. S: Having come back and read this, I feel that the book stripped a lot from the character in a way that wasn't constructive. I don't feel like I know him better, but I do feel like I respect him less. And I think that's a monumental failure of a prequel. K: Tallstar had such a specific presence in the original series, and this book just really takes a lot of that away and replaces it with something worse. S: It does. And that's disheartening to me. S: Of course I can and will kill the author myself and take my place on the throne of canon, but you can't unknow details of a character. So that does change things. I don't have the same fondness for Talltail, now that I know he spent so much time being unadmirable and stupid and boring. S: I recognise that your twenties is like that for most people, but like. Doesn't mean it's worthy of a narrative. S: Kind of makes me think of Albus Dumbledore, to swing back around to Joke Rowling? S: Like, despite and sometimes because of how phenomenally jank and flawed that magnificent man is, I love Albus Dumbledore. I always have, ever since I was first listening to the tapes. And part of that is knowing his past--knowing that he struggled figuring out what was right, knowing that he fell in love very young with someone whose ideology became incompatible with his core beliefs and virtues. But I think you can allude to past mistakes and show growth without having to delve into it, if that makes sense. S: If I read about teen Dumbledore being like "hmm maybe wizard supremacy is good" for several chapters, there's a strong possibility that would stain all my readings of him into the future. I can know he did something, without needing a front-row seat. K: Yeah. S: And I feel like the crux failure of Erin Hunter's super editions is they don't have the delicacy or sense needed to know what needs to be told and what needs to be shown. S: Because sometimes, showing is worse. K: Being shown like, all of this, was worse than not. S: Nearly all of this book could have been summary.

8. Last week, we talked about predicted endings for the novel. In light of that, how do you feel about the ending? Was your prediction correct–and do you feel that reflects well on the narrative, or poorly? (i.e., is it good that you could guess, or are you disappointed by the result?) How important is it for an ending to be “unguessable”?

K: We hit the nail on the head and I am not surprised at all. S: I would say we were basically correct, but it brought me no joy. K: Yeah, it felt bad to read and go "I already knew this but sure, disappoint me with what you have to say." S: That's not to say I would have been overjoyed if there had been some bizarre twist, because I don't think twists or shock endings are inherently good storytelling. K: They're not. They've gotta be handled well to make me feel like, "Fuck yes, this is wack and I want more" K: And like, you can predict an ending and still have it be satisfying! K: That's just called successful foreshadowing. K: But what we did was like. Just have the sad, knowledgable wherewithal to know exactly what kind of inane and soulless bullshit Erin would pull. It's not foreshadowing if it's just "you're a bad writer and you're going to reach for the easiest tropes to tie up your story without any thought about what makes it good" S: As a general rule, I think you should be able to predict endings based on the tone and emotional themes of the story. For instance, a story that starts with someone getting thrown out of their house by their unloving family should, ideally, rectify that by ending with that person having either found a new loving family and/or revenging on the previous bad family. Sometimes both! S: If you're going to start an arc, you should finish it in a satisfying place. If you start with a murder being discovered, you should have a denouement at the end. S: So... I guess Erin Hunter's ending is... fine, in that light? S: Their narrative is honestly very muddled, so it's not super easy to actually see what the through-line of the story is. The story starts with a prophecy about Talltail leaving, so really it should end with his triumphant, enlightened return... but then it keeps going. K: It just drags on and so much of it feels weightless. S: It feels like they're juggling a lot of themes and ideas, but they're not really doing any of it well enough to be impressive. While I'm reading, there's always this deep uncomfortable sense of anything could be dropped at any minute. A good performer of any kind makes you feel safe in their hands, not lowkey on edge. S: It's like watching amateur stand-up.

9. In your opinion, what is the most important moment or event in this final chunk of story, and why?

K: I guess the cliche answer would be to say "Tallstar choosing to return to Windclan", but like. I think that really is the most important part of all this. S: I think it's actually choosing not to kill Sparrow. K: Oh, I mean. Okay that's fair lmao S: Because I think he probably could have gone back after he killed Sparrow and everyone still would have been basically fine about it. It didn't seem like anyone cared enough to try to stop him leaving, and frankly the clans as Erin Hunter writes them are mad blasé about murder. S: But I think in order for Talltail to retain like, some moral worth as a character, it was vital (if super inevitable) for him to not kill Sparrow. K: Absolutely. K: Can you imagine if he had, though. K: Like, if he'd pushed Sparrow off the ledge and went "sick" and then Sandgorse's ghost showed up to razz him with airhorns like 'YOU IDIOT SON, THAT WAS THE WRONG CHOICE, I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU WOULD DISAPPOINT ME AGAIN' S: Om. S: [that one video of the guy screaming above the mountains] S: That's Starclan whenever the living make a bad decision.

Bonus question: choose a different character from Tallstar’s Revenge and briefly imagine what this story would be if they were the protagonist instead.

K: Hm. I'm torn. Barkface, or maybe Reena, would be interesting to me. S: I think Reena's experience would be super interesting. K: I think you could tell a really interesting narrative with her. S: I'm sort of thinking Shrewclaw? Like, he's such a dick and there's very little about him that's redeemable, but like. This is also true of Talltail for a lot of the book. S: And I guess an external clan perspective of Talltail from someone who actively dislikes him could be kind of interesting! It'd definitely be a totally new counterpoint. K: Yeah! Especially given that they end up kind of being... foils? A little? I think it could be super neat to like, see Shrewclaw reprimand Talltail for being so focused on revenge, and then suddenly becoming revenge-minded himself and then having to grapple with that hypocrisy. K: Either by going "My feelings are different, I'm not like you," or going "oh shit oh fuck we're the same and now i feel all sorts of ways about it" S: I think the low-hanging fruit for why Shrewclaw is such a prick to Talltail is just plain homophobia, you know? But that's so boring, so I'd definitely want to tap into like, the inner world of Shrewclaw and swing it a different way. S: See Talltail through his eyes, emphasising everything Shrewclaw doesn't like about himself. Which becomes so tasty when you later think about Mudclaw doing something similar. S: Shrewclaw has to grow from hate and jealousy to grudging respect and kinship within the clan, and then Mudclaw grows from outright respect to total adoration. It's an interesting intergenerational trajectory.

Final notes.

S: God, can we rewind a moment to the whole Sparrow bullshit. K: Oh 100%. S: Talltail obsesses over this for like, at least twenty chapters. And then two lines of dialogue and he's like, "I'm cured, my dad was a hero the whole time." S: “It’s what Sandgorse would do.” Now that the rage had gone, Talltail wondered how he could ever have thought of killing Sparrow. Had grief taken away all his faith in the warrior code?” MY rage is still right here. K: Literally one of my notes is: K: Talltail straight up telling him he’s here to kill him like a coward. Like not that I WANT him to be a murderer, but god damn, just do it! K: If you're gonna spend an entire fucking book yelling about how badly you wanna kill a guy then just! Don't make me wait this goddamn long! Do it!! K: And yeah, just. Redeeming Sandgorse. BLeughghelfuf

S: Okay, another point of rage: Talltail literally dissolves the goodwill between the travellers and the clan. K: Y E A H S: Like, years of peaceful gathering, destroyed. S: Note: "This dude literally just ended years of peace over his petty revenge quest" K: I do find it hilarious though that Talltail goes "Hey we should leave," Reena goes "Hm?? No you dont?" and then Sparrow comes in with the most uncomfortable, exhausted expression saying "No He's Right They Really Should Be Going And Should Never Come Back Thanks," S: I'm also so pissed that when Talltail showed up, the travellers were like, “Warriors and kittypets don’t belong with rogues” AND YET you stay for a whole month or more in clan territory? What ripe fuckery is this. K: YEAH IT MADE NO SENSE S: Everyone's just ambiguously racist enough to use it as an excuse whenever they don't want to do something.

S: Also: we called it re: Reena, although the story was actually less obnoxious than I was expecting. S: “There was sympathy in the she-cat’s mew, and Talltail suddenly wondered if Reena had been hoping that Talltail would be her mate: that they’d have kits and travel together. Had she started to imagine a whole new life ahead of them?” Ew. K: i was gonna say K: We really did call it. S: Way to project, Talltail. S: "I guess she's in love with me and I'm breaking her heart by leaving because of the elaborate future she's imagined of our strong, brave kits and--" calm down, boy, she didn't say any of that. K: Yeah, like. Keep it inside, buddy. K: There was a lot of very wild Jake/Talltail shit going on but I'm going to drop this from my notes first before dipping into the bits I did like: K: Jake saying “oh that drive to kill wasn’t REALLY you” is VERY “what if I date this unhinged maniac man so I can change him and make him better because I know who he is deep down” and that is VERY unsexy of you, Erins, K: Jake... my boy.... S: Yeah. S: I'm just going to keep pointing at the advice I gave him in previous Book Clubs. Respect yourself, king. K: I did briefly look at the disastrous mini-comic at the end of the PDF and I do love that he's canonically a chubby king, though. S: We do love that. A cuddly boy. K: He's shaped like a friend! S: But yeah, if these cats were people, Talltail is some skinny closeted runaway with some serious esteem issues and a kind of volatile and disrespectful pattern of behaviour. S: And Jake is the cute bi boy next door with a supportive dad with apparently a solid sense of self and value, and I find that kind of a jank combination? It feels like it'll either lend itself to basically "adopt a stray" style "fixing" someone else, which isn't a great relationship dynamic, or Talltail dragging Jake into his mess and drama. And it's just difficult for me to imagine what Jake sees in Talltail. S: If the relationship was just a bit more balanced--Talltail bringing something of value to Jake beyond "adventure"--I could believe it more. K: Meanwhile, if Talltail retained his "soft, shy poet boy who's just looking for a place to be accepted and flourish" attitude... S: YES

S: I got so mad when Talltail's like, "I'm going to kill a guy," and Jake was like, "you can't!" and Talltail's like, "if I was back home, I would have probably already killed by someone by now," and Jake's like, "yeah but that's different, warriors killing each other for Survival is fine." K: IT ISN'T S: And I'm like, whoa, slow down, I want to talk philosophy right here right now. S: It's a genuinely fascinating conversation that I want canon to have a lot more, but they just... glance over it.

S: Pivot for a moment to the gay part of Jake/Talltail: I was surprised by exactly how heavily they implied it. K: Me too!!! S: I thought it'd be a lot less than there was, and a lot more oblique. So that was a pleasant (? is any part of this pleasant?) surprise. K: And in the final comic they say that Tallstar sees Firestar like the son he would have had (with Jake). Which. Is gay. S: Mad huge gay, for sure. K: Their final "oh, what if I stay with you!" parting scene was wild to read. And on Tallstar specifying that Jake is someone he loves at the very end. Like hot damn S: But I Lost My Whole Mind. Because of one line. I read it and involuntarily galaxy-brained with the power of song. I can't find the full quote right now BUT it was basically Talltail and Jake talking right before Talltail leaves to return to the clan. S: And Jake's like, "you know what you have to do. Listen to your heart.” K: YES S: And I was HIT BY A TRUCK S: by this song S: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yCC_b5WHLX0 K: OH FUCK YES S: Which honestly is so good, and also hilarious, because I have fond gay memories of this song from my teen years. S: So I know we were saying the very long slow lame end was boring and anticlimactic, but there were a few things that did in fact spark joy. One was--despite his name and the rampant ableism--Deadkit. K: YES K: I have in my notes: K: "I would die for Deadkit." and then "Apparently Deadkit would die for me" S: Hopkit sat up straight, quivering with effort. “Still as a stone, right you are!” he mewed. “Barkface, carry on!” Bless. S: MY SON S: MY BOY K; And Talltail finally being like? Not an asshole, and treating him well and encouraging him. He really did feel like he was emulating Dawnstripe in a wholesome way. S: I KNOW. S: It honestly made me feel so good about the story I've planned out, but I can talk about that after. S: I also loved that Talltail swam. <3 K: Yes. S: I was there just elated, thinking about Mudclaw's final moments. And how this story actually ties in so well with that one. That's nothing really to do with Erin Hunter, but it was nice for me. It made the two feel resonant and in conversation with each other in a way I truly hadn't expected. K: Oh fuck also, two extra from the notes K: "Talltail’s heart began to race. “I can’t go home!” He stared in panic at Jake. “They won’t want me! I broke the warrior code when I left my Clan. They’ll drive me away again!” — On the one hand: I understand that his fear of being driven away/not being accepted stems from like, 90% of the interactions in this book. But also: THEY LET YOU LEAVE, everyone agreed! Nobody drove you out!" S: Talltail: "I'll go if I must, I understand, you need me to leave--" The rest of the clan: "uhh dude you said you wanted to go." S: Makes me think of people who get really pissed when they're like "I said I'm fine, why didn't you ask me more about how I was feeling because I was clearly Not Fine and Lying to you." S: And it's like... I trusted you to tell me the truth. Don't play stupid games. K: Yeah! Like, if you want to be consoled or helped, be honest! I can't read your mind!

S: Palebird is just a full on mess in this book, huh? And it's really unsatisfactorily handled. S: Sandgorse gets obsessed over for... the entire book. Palebird, equally bad parent, doesn't really get any kind of meaningful resolution with Talltail. K: I misread when Talltail first brings the kids into camp, and fully thought that Palebird recognized Talltail and chose to ignore him in favour of her kits. That sadly isn't actually far off from what happens when she does recognize him. K: He just goes "oh she died and in my leader ceremony she makes me feel like she always loved me and i never should have doubted her" S: I was so furious that her bit was like "a mother's love for her kits" and he's like, oh I can't believe how stupid I was for doubting her. S: She abused you, dude. S: Being like, "lol jk" after she's dead counts for Nothing. K: It’s awful. S: "I always loved you," said Palebird. "I just never wanted to interact with you at all when I was alive and I attached all my grief and trauma to your existence, which made it impossible to enjoy time around you, and I never even bothered to get help for myself or you, and I was happiest when you weren't in my life and I could focus on my other family. So I guess I didn't actually love you. I just felt like I probably should have, but oh well." S: I am as angry about her as I am about Sandgorse. K: Yeah, she just somehow gets a free pass because "that's just how moms are!" -Erin S: "Mums can say they love you and you have to believe them." K: What kind of mother did you have/are you to your kids, @the Erins collective. I want to know. S: I KNOW K: Like, please answer for science. K: I KNOW WE'VE ROASTED SANDGORSE THIS ENTIRE TIME BUT K: THE NOTES S: GET HIM S: GET HIS ARSE K: “I give you this life for forgiveness. No death need ever be avenged. Forgiveness brings peace far more surely than vengeance.” Talltail felt his ruffled fur smooth, his claws retract into his pads, his breath come steadily. Mercy was his, and always would be. “I’m sorry you had to learn the hard way, Tallstar,” Sandgorse meowed. — HAVE YOU EVER WANTED TO MURDER A FICTIONAL CAT S: YES YES YES YES S: I was literally about to grab the same note. K: "im sorry you had to learn the hard way" WHOSE FUCKING FAULT WAS THAT S: “I give you this life for forgiveness. No death need ever be avenged. Forgiveness brings peace far more surely than vengeance.” It is a fatal mistake to conflate forgiveness with pacifism. K: It's just. K: Like I knew it was going to be awful, I knew this moment was going to happen, but just to see it and see the phrasing. K: "I'm sorry you had to learn the hard way" is just the ultimate slap in the face. You abused and abandoned and neglected this kid. You did this. You were a ghost for 70% of the book and could have told your son that you "died a hero" and stopped him from being an absolute asshole. YOU DID THIS. S: What peeves me is that I personally believe forgiveness is something you have to do for yourself, and not for other people. A lot of the time, bad people in your life won't ask for your forgiveness and don't deserve it. K: Yes! Forgivesness isn't earned, forgivesness is given. K: It's up to you to give people that forgiveness on your own terms, whenever and however you choose. And if you go "I'm not giving this to you" you don't have to! It's for you! It's your choice! S: But all your anger and hate and misery inside will burn you out like acid, so sometimes you need to go, "you're never going to earn my forgiveness, but I am choosing to forgive what you did so I can move on with my life and grow." S: It's why "forgive but don't forget" is a good thing to remember. You can let go of self-harmful anger without ever losing the lesson that person taught you, which was stay the hell away from people like that. S: That's the conversation I want to see happen around forgiveness in this story. K: Talltail deserves so much better than any of the story we were given. K: And like. Forgiveness through that specific lens is so compelling. S: I know. It's something I'm deeply invested and interested in. K: It's so engaging, and relatable! It's messy and nuanced and full of a lot of good shit. S: Yeah, like, and what happens when the person you resent or distrust tries to make efforts to atone, but they always fall a little short, or don't grow the way you need them to? How do you forgive that, but still choose to walk away, knowing that in their narrative, you're the bad guy? K: It's hard. Knowing that they see you as the bad guy is like, the fucking toughest. s: It's extremely hard and I think there's so much space in this story for that exploration. K: It makes it so easy to want to go back in for seconds and explain yourself to try and get them to understand you, even when you know that like, they're not going to and never will. And it'll just hurt you more to try than to move on and be a better you for it. S: And being able to forgive yourself is I think a massive underrated lesson. K: Yes! It's beyond hard to try and be gentle with yourself and have compassion for yourself sometimes, especially regarding a messy scenario like these. S: I mean, all of this is way out of Erin Hunter's range, but like, ugh. What could have been. K: Yeah, absolutely. K: Also I'm always here for young upset queer kids growing up to become Better & Cooler & Sexier than you, so don't try any shit dad, S: Anyway! That's it! We did it! K: Yeah! S: Honestly this is such a dumb book but it always feels like an accomplishment to get through another Book Club with you. K: I agree. K: <3 S: <3

#ailuronymy book club #sorry to everyone who's been waiting for this final installment! i forgot to post it like a year ago #thank you to those who reminded me! i hope you all had fun with this little endeavour

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my-fanfic-library · 5 years ago

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Something Different {BBC Dracula x Reader} [18]

Masterlist

A/N: I just wanted to say thank you to everyone giving the series so much love and support, I genuinely cannot express how grateful I am for it all. I also just wanted to say a special thank you to @newheart97 for helping me with the plot line ❤️❤️❤️

Oh also Claes’ smile is killing me UWU

~^*^~

Standing in a dimly lit passageway, you turned on your feet to look behind you. Torches flickered at either ends and the fire danced, seemingly pointing you in the direction that you needed to go. Beginning to walk, the echo of your shoes filled the confined space and your hands grazed the cobble walls either side of you. It was cold and you swore you could hear footsteps behind you.

Where were you?

Following the flames, you navigated through the winding halls until you came to an opening in the bricks and a large set of double doors faced you. They stretched up and seemed to be shut tight. That didn’t stop you from nearing them and grasping the round metal handle. It was cool to the touch. You pushed first and then pulled. The wood gave way and the door opened. A low light flooded over you and you looked ahead to find yourself at the top of a sweeping staircase. Slowly, you moved through the door and began to descend the steps. A large and beautiful chandelier hung in the centre of the ceiling, and it seemed that the stairs were circling around it. You continued to look forward, noticing a lowering in the ceiling over a long table and at the back, a fireplace. Sitting in the chair at the farthest end of the table, facing the fire, was... well, somebody.

When you reached the bottom of the steps, you stopped moving. The entire place seemed to be lit by fire and built by stone. It was odd.

How had you gotten here?

There was a noise as the person rose from the chair and it soon became apparent who it was. Dressed in clothes that screamed a much older period, a beautiful glass filled with deep crimson in his fingers, Dracula turned to look at you.

“Come,” he beckoned you over.

As if you had no control over your body, you began to walk forwards again. Your eyes were trained on him.

“Where am I?” You asked softly as you neared him.

“Where do you think?”

When you were close enough, your hand slipped into his and he pulled you close. He pressed a sweet kiss to your cheek and looked down at you.

“If I knew that I wouldn’t have asked.” You rolled your eyes. Dracula chuckled.

“My sweetness, look around you. Surely, you must recognise it from somewhere.” He promoted your eyes to look around once more. You scanned the room. You definitely hadn’t been here. But had you heard of it?

As you turned your head to look at Dracula, a man was sitting where Dracula just had been. It was for a split second but you saw him so clearly. A bald head with the blue trees just below the skin that were filling with vampiric venom. His eyes were sunken in, fingernails gone and deep, blood-filled welts in their places. In his hand, a pen and below his face which was twisted in pain, three written letters. Blood oozed form his mouth and dripped on to the parchment. You screamed which morphed into a gag.

Jonathan Harker.

It clicked as the account you had once read with Zoe came into your head. Three letters, just like the ones under his head, sent to his fiancée so that she wouldn’t worry. The baby that had been given to one of his brides - the heroic man had tried to call the vampire out on it. This grand place belonged to the Count.

“Drac... how did I get to Transylvania...?” You inquired warily.

“I would like to think that you are able to recall a conversation that we once had, about the friend of yours?”

“Jack...?” You narrowed your eyes in confusion as you stepped backwards away from the vampire.

“Exactly. Do you remember it?”

“You... you told me that you’d continue to keep in contact if I... kept myself to myself...”

Dread filled your gut. Dracula took a sip from his glass and began staring you down.

“Well done,” he whispered, “except, you didn’t keep your end of the deal, did you?”

“I... I thought you were dead!” Your voice trembled. Dracula placed the glass down on the table and you stared at it in horror, “is that mine..?” The blood.

Using his hand, Dracula directed your gaze back to him.

“I warned you, [First],” he mumbled, nearing his face to yours. His lips hovered on the corner of yours, mostly on your cheek, but a little overlapping your own, “I told you. You pushed me to this.”

He flipped you up and your back smashed into the back of the table, winding you. You gasped for air, but had almost no time to recollect yourself as Dracula now hovered above you. His knee was pushed between your legs, his hands pinned your arms above your head. Your chest painfully rose and fell. You were looking up at him in terror. He lowered himself, planting a kiss on the curve of your jawline just below your ear.

“You’re going to kill me.” You whispered.

“No, sweetheart, I’m going to make you wish that you had never crossed me.”

~^*^~

Eyes snapping open, you looked around the room. Dusk had now fallen and Dracula had left. Your bedroom door was now open and there was a glass of water and the medicine Jack had promised sitting on your bedside table. You could hear the TV downstairs.

For just a second, you thought you saw a figure standing in your doorway and you gasped. It was gone.

A throbbing became apparent in your neck and there was a gentle dribble. The way that it tickled your skin annoyed you immediately and your hand flew up to collect whatever was seeping down. When you looked at your fingers, a chocked gasp left your lips. Red.

You pulled yourself up, rushing into the bathroom and locking the door. Your eyes immediately went to the mirror. A mouth shaped gash was quickly scarring over, a little blood trickling down your neck, towards your collarbone. Fuck. He’d bitten you while you slept. You had read accounts of being taken somewhere with him while he drank blood. He’d chosen to take you to Transylvania. But why there?

Fumbling in your pockets, you pulled out your phone and clicked on his speed dial. When he answered, before he could speak, you spoke.

“Meet me at the top of the path down the cliff in five fucking minutes.” You growled.

You practically stormed down the stairs, ignoring Jack’s questioning looks as you flung open the front door and left. By the time you got to the cliffs, looking down over the sea Dracula was already there. Twilight’s glow made him look somewhat angelic but you were in a blind rage to take it in.

When he heard your footsteps, he turned and grinned at you.

“You absolute moron!” You shrieked, nearing him with some rage, “you absolute fucking spoon! How could you?!”

“Now, [First], calm down-“ he licked his lips and his eyes shifted to gain a slightly nervous tinge.

“You- you marked,” you pushed him backwards with all of your strength and he did actually stumble backwards a little. You had caught him off guard, “me! You drank my blood!”

“Yes, but only a little-“

“ONLY A LITTLE?!”

He couldn’t help but feel a little endeared at the display of rage. You’d lost all of your senses. Humans were funny little things. You knew that you could never overpower him, yet here you were overrun with such anger that you were being a little physical with him. He smirked just a little.

“You don’t think I’d actually drink enough to kill you, do you?”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know?! Am I-... am I going to become like you? Like Renfield?” Like Lucy? Like Jonny Harker? Am I going to die like Agatha?”

“[First]-“

“Am I?!”

“You think I’d turn the most precious and sweetest thing this pathetic world has ever been blessed with into a monster?!” He growled back at you and you took a step back in a momentary panic, “I would never hurt you, [First]! But you betrayed me! You broke your end of the deal! I warned you what would happen!”

“Betrayed you?! I thought you were dead! I moved on!”

Dracula, out of habit, took in a deep breath to calm himself. Neither of you would get anywhere by screaming at one another. Instead, he took a moment to drink in the sight of you. It really had been so long without you. The last specs of sunlight hit your skin, miraculously highlighting all of the high points of your face. The anger that had coloured your face red was still there and there was a smudge of dried blood on your neck. Your hair was slightly disheveled. God, how some other man hadn’t swept you up yet was a mystery.

“Why with him?” He asked softly, trying to finally get your conversation to a civil noise level.

“Because... he was the only person who knew how it felt... to lose someone who meant everything to you.”

It went quiet for a moment. The waves cut through the silence even from so far down away. Dracula took two steps towards you again and reached forwards to brush a lose strand of hair behind your ear. His other hand was lazily shoved into his pocket.

“I meant it.” He stated gently.

“Meant what?”

“The last thing I texted you.”

Oh.

“But Agatha-“

“-was a close second.” He finished your sentence, “for a long time I truly believed she had revived my mundane emotions, however, the day at the Foundation when Dr. Van Helsing introduced me to the biggest and most obvious liar I’ve ever met in my 500 years,” he sucked in a shallow breath and dared himself to close a little more space between you, “that changed everything. She changed everything. She gave me the courage to die. But she was more important to me than finding the courage to conquer death. And now she’s here,” even less space, “looking at me like she’s going to kill me... and with my branding on her neck.”

You melted. The pure sincerity swimming in his orbs, the softest smile on his lips. His most gentle grip on your waist as he tugged you even closer than ever. Never in your life did you think you could stay angry at him. His free hand came up and his thumb trailed along his mark. It stung. You hissed and he hushed you by pressing a kiss to the same spot. A jolt of electricity, like nothing you had experienced before overcame you and a small moan ripped from your throat.

“What a sweet noise.” Dracula mused against your neck. The rumble of his voice carried into your chest, “come with me.” He suddenly spoke, pulling away to look you in the eye.

“What?” You whispered in soft confusion.

“Come back to London with me. Come and live with me instead. Make yourself mine.”

He said it in such a way that it felt like an order, but at the same time, it was an offer.

How could you leave Jack here? How could you give up the life you had worked so hard to build for yourself after everything? Would it be worth it? What would change now that Dracula could survive in the sunlight? How could you go with him after believing he’d never come back?

Turns out, pretty easily.

~^taglist^~

@vampiregirl1797 @avalanet @bunnyreese12 @nerdonpluto @teamceleries @grifffins @hitbythunder @winterseoul @mymagicsuitcase @angeli-fucking-cat @benedictethegoddess @bloodhon3yx @nifflersravenclaw @writteninthestars288 @labelladrama @frankcastlesgrunts @angelicdestieldemon @quakerlasss @aliisa-jones @wolverinexmenn @clairedragonessbaker @cryiner @mitsukatsu @piratewhore @your-pixels-are-showing @tardisnesss @ladydovahkiin180 @catwomom @god-of-dramatic-death-scenes @th3rah @viper-queen @mephdcosplay @greghouse7 @faeprinces @kokoro-no-yami @trishaferdream @therealmoni @crazytxgradstudent @sansthelonelypunster @crowley-needs-a-hug @girlonfireice @wasntpriscilla @ivanna6026 @greeniemoon @blueinkblot @tefymorgan @misfitgirlwrites @lokiphan @newheart97 @middlespellman @bratty-sweetheart @dipsylou @lilmou5ie @the-fangirl-life10 @enchantersnight @imthedoctorlove @haleyea @hoefordarkness @divinemoonsters @dragosdaughter

#this is NOT the end!!!!!#theres still more #lots more angst #and love #and most likely smut #something different #dracula #bbc dracula #netflix dracula #dracula x reader #bbc dracula x reader #netflix dracula x reader #claes bang #dolly wells

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artificialqueens · 4 years ago

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Off Limits, Chapter 4 (Bitney/Adorney) - Veronica/Albatross

A/N: Hey guys! This is the companion story to “No Strings Attached.” Both ships are in both stories, but generally, “No Strings Attached” is Willaska-focused and this one is Bitney-focused. (Link to all chapters in order.)

Chapter Summary: A girls’ night at the local gay club just might change everything. With Special Guest Star Adore Delano.

(Special thanks to the wonderful @opalescent-cheetah and her dad for being our Australian slang consultants. XOXO!)

***

Courtney really couldn’t figure out why she was so anxious. She hung out with gay people every day. Why was a gay bar so intimidating, so much that her stomach was in knots? She supposed the idea of looking or feeling out of place was a bit disconcerting, as she’d explained to Willam earlier when they were getting ready, before Willam had tossed a dress at her face and ordered her to calm down. Now, she sat squished between Willam and Alaska in the back of the uber, leg bouncing nervously until Willam gave her thigh a pinch.

But once they got there, her nerves settled almost immediately. It was a lively, crowded club—flashing lights and thumping bass, people packed onto the dance floor. Easy to blend in; nothing to be afraid of.

And then, to her delight, a live band took the stage. (Bianca and Willam, on the other hand, weren’t so happy about that, groaning and taking the opportunity to get drinks for the group.)

The lead singer was amazing. A sultry voice, with full lips and hazel eyes, dark hair dyed a vivid emerald green. Even her name was sexy. Adore.

Courtney was enchanted, watching in breathless excitement throughout her whole first set, barely noticing when Willam slipped a drink into her hand. When they paused for a break, she turned to the others, eyes wide.

“Omigod, she was amazing! Wasn’t she amazing?” Courtney gushed.

“Yeah, she was really good,” Alaska agreed, an amused look on her face.

“We should find out if they play here often!” Courtney continued. “I mean, she’s totally worth coming back for, right? I mean they. The whole band.”

Courtney barely had time to blush at that, turning back to the stage to wait in anticipation for the next set, pretending that she didn’t notice Willam and Bianca rolling their eyes like slot machines. If they wanted to be killjoys, that was fine. Courtney was still going to enjoy the music.

The band did another short set—too short, if you asked Courtney, who felt like Adore’s eyes were boring right into her soul at one point. She watched her, absolutely transfixed, letting Adore’s smoky voice wash over her in tingling waves. When they were done, Courtney cheered loudly as Adore gave an awkward little bow. She was incredibly talented, but clearly a little insecure, and it made Courtney’s heart go soft and fluttery.

“Finally,” Willam said, as the DJ took over again. “Now we can dance!”

She dragged the girls into the dance floor, and they followed, laughing. After a song or two (honestly, Courtney couldn’t keep track—unlike Adore’s band, all the thumping house music sounded the same to her), she noticed that Bianca had slipped away, probably to get a drink. She decided to go and join her at the bar, get another drink herself.

But as she made her way towards the bar, she saw that Bianca hadn’t made it that far. She stood at a cocktail table, just past the dance floor. She was in the midst of what seemed like a riveting conversation with an unfamiliar girl. A busty redhead in a flower crown, leaning in with a hand on Bianca’s arm. Whatever she whispered was apparently hilarious, because Bianca burst out laughing.

Courtney wrinkled her nose, feeling a bit offended. They were supposed to be having a fun night out together. Girl bonding and all that nonsense. So why Bianca decided to chat up this random girl was beyond her. She kept walking to the bar, sure that Bianca hadn’t even noticed her. Not when she had such a clearly experienced girl in front of her, Courtney thought bitterly.

As she tried to wedge her way through the crowd to get the bartender’s attention, Courtney felt her heart stall for just a moment when she spotted Adore at the opposite end of the counter, ordering a drink of her own.

It was only when Adore’s eyes shifted in her direction that she became all too aware that she was staring. Shell-shocked, she couldn’t bring herself to look away. She was certain she had a deer-in-headlights expression on her face but her body felt paralyzed, unable to even form a small smile, just something to make her seem like less of a total creeper.

A knowing smirk appeared on Adore’s perfect red lips and soon a little wink was sent Courtney’s way.

She cast her eyes down in embarrassment, pretending to be deeply interested in the grain of the wood on the bar, when by some miraculous chance, the bartender turned her way.

“What can I get you, sis?”

“Oh, uh...gin and tonic with lime?”

He nodded, and only then did Courtney realize that the arm sliding in beside her belonged to Adore, the chipped black nail polish and fingerless gloves a dead giveaway. She looked up, meeting her piercing hazel eyes and this time, managing a small smile.

“Hey,” Adore said.

“Hi,” Courtney replied breathlessly. “You were amazing tonight. I wasn’t expecting-um, to see such a great performance. I know these places usually just use DJs all the time. But it was really so good...”

Realizing that she was babbling, Courtney clamped her mouth shut.

“Are you British?” Adore asked, head tilted.

“No, Australian.”

“Ahh. I love girls with accents,” Adore remarked, taking a swig of her beer.

“I mean, technically, we all have accents,” Courtney couldn’t help correcting, cringing inwardly at how basic and bratty she must have sounded.

But Adore simply laughed, a throaty laugh that Courtney found lovely. Once again, the bartender had perfect timing, sliding her drink over to her. A welcome distraction from her awkward babbling. She pulled a card from her little purse, but Adore stopped her, covering Courtney’s hand with her own.

“Put her drink on my tab,” Adore told him, and Courtney was grateful for the dim lighting that masked her hot red cheeks.

“Thanks,” she said softly, barely audible over the pounding music.

“Don’t worry about it, cutie,” Adore assured as she leaned in with an inviting smile on her lips, “Just tell me your name and we’ll call it even.”

A sense of familiarity washed over Courtney as she vaguely recalled the number of times men had tried similar lines with her. Back then it always felt cliché or just mildly pathetic yet when those words fell from Adore’s lips? Plump, cherry-red lips that Courtney couldn’t keep her eyes off of?

It was strangely appealing this time around.

“Courtney.”

“Courtney,” Adore repeated, imitating her accent, lips curling around the syllables in a way that made Courtney shiver. “Do you like shots, Courtney?”

“Mmm...when they’re sweet?”

Adore grinned again, ordering two lemon drops. While the bartender got to work, Adore draped an arm across Courtney’s shoulders.

“So...I haven’t seen you here before. Are you new to the area?”

“No, I’ve lived here for a couple of years,” Courtney told her, adding coyly, “It’s just...my first time here. Tonight.”

“Mmm.” Adore handed her a shot, toasting her gently. “To first times.”

“Cheers.”

They tossed back the shots, giggling.

“So, uh, I have a confession to make,” Adore said.

Courtney turned toward her curiously, causing her arm to slide off her shoulders. But instead of removing it all the way, Adore merely adjusted, fingers sliding across her shoulder blades, making her shiver.

“When I was singing...I uh, kind of noticed you.”

“You did?” Courtney’s eyes grew, the idea of Adore picking her out of the crowd giving her a thrill.

“Yeah. Couldn’t you tell? I was singing right to you.”

“I assumed everyone thought you were singing to them,” Courtney said, twirling a lock of hair in her hand as Adore slowly shook her head. “Well...I’m flattered.”

Mustering up every bit of false bravado she could, Courtney offered a confident smile, practically daring Adore to make another move. Time seemed to slow down as Adore put one finger under her chin, tilting her face up, then leaning in, eyes falling shut…

***

What the fuck was she doing?

Bianca spotted her immediately from across the bar. Flirting with that random green-haired singer, the one with the stupid name...Adore...gazing up at her as if she was the best thing since sliced fucking bread. It was strangely unsettling, seeing her act that way, and Bianca wondered how much she’d had to drink. Better keep an eye on her...just to make sure she’s okay.

She was about halfway through her own drink when she chanced to look away for just a moment to see if her other roommates could be spotted somewhere in the mass of people still crowding the dance floor. Failing that, she turned her attention back to Courtney to find Adore tilting her chin up and hovering only an inch or two above her lips.

Bianca damn near marched herself right over but in less than a second, Courtney closed that gap herself and almost instantly the pair was making out at the bar for everyone to see. Her jaw actually dropped at the sight and not too far behind it, so did her stomach.

It was awful watching Courtney kiss someone else, even worse knowing that Courtney had initiated it herself and Bianca was left to watch it all in a helpless, paralyzed state of shock. She couldn’t tear her eyes away for anything, no matter how much she wanted to. No, instead her focus remained zeroed in on Courtney, until, to her sick relief, they finally broke apart.

There was dark red lipstick smudged overtop Courtney’s own light pink but that was only a thin thought in Bianca’s mind. What caught her attention was that glassy, hazy look in Courtney’s eyes. One Bianca had come to recognize as she spent more time in bars in the late hours of the night.

Shit.

Not that Adore seemed to have any qualms about that fact—if she’d even noticed, that is. Even from the distance Bianca kept, she could see that smug smirk on her stupid face, particularly as her head jutted in the direction of the bathrooms.

Courtney’s response was delayed, as if she were trying to figure out what Adore was trying to imply, but to Bianca’s dread there was a distracted nod of the head and soon the two disappeared into the depths of the crowd.

Well, not if Bianca could help it.

Downing the rest of her drink and slapping some money onto the counter, she bolted from the bar and followed after those drunken idiots like a woman on a mission.

***

The thing that struck Courtney about Adore, more than anything, was how normal it felt to be with her. The ritual of a few flirtatious smiles and heated looks, some light touching to feel out the temperature.

She missed this simplicity, she realized. The obvious mutual attraction, the flirting with the intent of pursuit...basking in the simple knowledge that she was wanted.

There was no second-guessing, no wondering if it was just a long-winded joke or worrying that it would be called off in just a minute or two.

It was like returning home after a long vacation and finding everything still in the same place as you left it...it was just...comfortable.

Even kissing her...it felt easy and natural and fun. So when Adore suggested that they move from the bar to a location more private, she’d been delighted to follow her.

In the bathroom, Adore pressed her up against the sink, plush lips kissing her deeply, as if to devour her, wandering hands making Courtney’s heart race with excitement. They were so caught up in one another that they didn’t even notice someone else had entered the room until Bianca quite loudly cleared her throat, heels clacking on the tile floor as she approached.

When Courtney raised her eyes and spotted the intruder, her stomach dropped straight to her feet and she gasped softly. Bianca’s arms were crossed in front of her chest as she glowered deep into Courtney’s soul, filling her with shame. She gulped, fingers untangling from Adore’s messy green waves to wipe her sweaty palms on her sides.

“Hi Bianca,” she said, offering a sheepish smile.

Seemingly unconcerned with the new development, Adore moved her attention from Courtney’s lips down to her neck. Grazing her lips along the skin, there was just a hint of a mocking undertone as she asked, “Girlfriend?”

Feeling her cheeks flush from both Adore’s brazen gesture and the judgemental arching of Bianca’s brow, Courtney was forced to admit as her mouth went dry with embarrassment, “Um, no...roommate.”

“Ah,” Adore murmured between the series of light kisses she’d been placing along the expanse of Courtney’s neck. She was acting rather nonchalant, as if this weren’t the first time she’d been caught in such a situation. In fact, she seemed quite comfortable right now, almost pleased by the turn of events. Nuzzling into Courtney’s neck with her soft cheek, Adore shifted her gaze to Bianca and asked teasingly, “So, you watching or joining?”

Courtney’s laugh was immediate and loud. She was all but cackling at the question but Bianca looked far from amused. Courtney clapped a hand over her mouth as Bianca answered through gritted teeth.

A simple, disgusted, “Neither.”

Brushing off the reaction, Adore resumed marking Courtney’s throat with her lipstick. Her hands, which had been resting on Courtney’s hips, moved down to her thighs, finding the hem of her dress and working their way inside.

Courtney wasn’t sure if the rapid pounding of her heart was from Adore’s fingers, now tracing the edge of her panties, or from Bianca’s continued harsh glare, eyes black as midnight as she spat out, “I think you’ve had enough. Let’s go.”

“I don’t want to go,” Courtney replied, voice sounding small and petulant.

“Courtney…” Bianca’s voice was tense, almost a growl. “I’m just trying to look out for you, okay? You’re drunk. You need to come home.”

“Dude…” Adore turned her head toward Bianca, brow furrowed. “Are you her roommate or her mother?”

Courtney bit the interior of her bottom lip as she tried to think of something to say. Her hands slipped from Adore’s hair and landed on her shoulders, but whether that was for comfort's sake or to push her away, it was hard to say. She felt small and unjustifiably guilty as she remained trapped between Adore’s warm body and Bianca’s harsh, unhappy scowl.

Truth be told, she didn’t feel very drunk at all. Certainly not enough to be escorted home like a child. But something about Bianca trying to protect her, even in the cold and disapproving way she was doing it, softened her desire to be defiant. And wasn’t that what she wanted all along anyway? To spend some quality time with her roommate?

“Well?” Bianca snapped. “Are you coming or not?”

It was her tone, more than anything, that made Courtney’s decision for her. Maybe Courtney was being stupid and irresponsible. But she was also an adult who was having fun, and Bianca had no right to judge her and scold her like that. Hell, her own mum had let her traipse off to a new continent for university without the slightest bit of concern. So why on earth did Bianca think she could intimidate her into cutting a great night short?

“Nah,” Courtney said simply, eyes narrowing slightly as she stared Bianca down. She felt Adore smile into her skin, teeth grazing her neck.

Bianca watched her for a few more moments, expression hard as stone, before turning on her heel with a scoff and storming from the bathroom in a fit of anger.

Courtney turned back to Adore, capturing her lips in a deep, messy kiss, adamant to keep enjoying herself.

But after all that, her heart wasn’t in it anymore. No matter what she did, all she could see were Bianca’s angry eyes flashing in the dim light. Even the sweet taste of Adore’s lip gloss turned bitter in her mouth. She pulled back, struggling to catch her breath, surprised and embarrassed to find tears trickling down her cheeks.

“Shit, are you okay?” Adore asked. She grabbed a bunch of paper towels, running them under the water and handing them over.

“Yeah, I’m sorry.” Courtney sniffled, wiping her eyes. “It’s not you, I don’t know why I’m…”

After studying her for a few moments, Adore ventured softly, “You like her, huh?”

Courtney bit her lip. Was she really gonna admit it, out loud? She’d barely admitted it to herself yet. But in a way, this was probably the safest place to do it. After all, Adore didn’t know her, or Bianca, or any of their friends.

She nodded, whispering, “Yeah.”

Confessing felt better than she thought it would. Cleansing.

“I guess I have for awhile, but I just...I don’t think she feels the same way.”

Adore laughed at that. Almost too hard, and for a second Courtney felt the indignation rising in her chest. Until Adore leveled her gaze back down at Courtney and said definitively, “Yeah, she does. She absolutely does. I would literally bet my mom’s life on it. And like, I love my mom.”

“Why do you...think that?” Courtney asked, a surge of hope running through her.

“Because, she barreled in here like a jealous girlfriend. And that whole thing about you being too drunk? We had one shot. And you had a couple sips of a cocktail. You’re fucking fine.”

Courtney had to admit that Adore had a point. But what about all of the times Bianca had made it clear that she wasn’t interested? Her shoulders slumped.

“I don’t know what to do,” she admitted.

“Look, she’s obviously a bit of an idiot, for making you feel bad and doubt yourself instead of just telling you how she feels. So you’re probably gonna have to be the one to bring it up,” Adore said. “I mean, I assume. Maybe she’s a gigantic idiot who will deny it even after that. Only one way to find out.”

Courtney nodded, still not quite sure that Adore was right. Bianca had spent so much time adamantly stating why she would never want to be with someone like her. Someone inexperienced. And she had to know how Courtney felt. She had to. So if she felt the same way, why would she have done that?

Either way, Courtney knew that her fun in the club was over for the night. She gave Adore a hug and started making her way back through the club, checking the bar, the back room with the pool tables, the booths along the side. She spotted Willam and Alaska on the dance floor, oblivious to the drama, and decided to leave them be. But where was Bianca?

She stepped outside, into the cool night air, pulling out her phone. Only then did she see the brief message in their group text.

B: Tired, on my way home.

Courtney heaved a deep sigh, tears filling her eyes once again. She had no desire to return to the dance floor with Willam and Alaska; in that moment, she felt overwhelmingly alone.

“Hey,” a voice said, and she looked up to find Adore standing behind her, cigarette in hand. “No luck?”

Courtney shook her head, brushing the tears away with the back of her hand.

“Well, I’m about to take off. Do you want a ride?”

“You’re driving?!”

“No! I mean like share my uber. I might be a little drunk, but I’m not a moron.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Courtney smiled.

In the car, Adore put her number into Courtney’s phone, instructing her to text the next day with a full report.

“So listen...she didn’t seem that stupid to me,” Adore said. “But if it turns out that she’s a huge, giant idiot? Then I owe you lunch.”

“Deal,” Courtney agreed with a laugh, already feeling a bit better about the whole thing.

***

Very softly, just in case Bianca was in fact asleep by now, Courtney pushed open her bedroom door and peered inside. It was dark and Bianca’s form was perfectly visible lying beneath the sheets but it was impossible to tell if she was awake or not. Thinking it best just to leave things alone for now, Courtney started to back away until she heard a gruff, “What?”

“You’re awake?” she asked stupidly.

“Clearly,” Bianca replied, undoubtedly rolling her eyes as she sat up. “What do you want?”

“I...Can we talk for a minute? About the club.”

Bianca was silent for a moment, eyeing Courtney up and down as if searching for something. With each passing second it seemed more and more likely that she’d refuse but to Courtney’s relief, she relented with an unfriendly, “Fine. Make it quick.”

Swallowing back her nerves and clumsily flipping the light switch, Courtney began with an apologetic, “I’m sorry you walked in on that. Probably not what you were-"

“I had an idea,” Bianca interjected with a little huff, “Saw that show of yours at the bar. Everyone saw.”

The tone stung. More than Courtney wanted to admit and more than she allowed to show. But if Bianca’s intent was to get her angry too, she failed. Courtney knew coming into this that she had to stay level-headed and no matter how good it might feel in the moment just to vent out her frustrations and storm off, it’d only end up doing more damage later on. Instead, she took a moment to collect herself, taking in a calming breath to clear her clouding mind and began reproachfully.

“If you knew, why did you-” As the words fell from her mouth something occurred to her. Bianca’s eyes had hardened and her lips pressed into a tense line as she bit back more of what she wanted to say. It was in that moment that everything clicked and Courtney felt a wave of clarity washing over her. “You wanted to interrupt,” she accused.

Her head was spinning with questions but she knew she was right the second Bianca flinched. She was glaring at Courtney, almost as if trying to intimidate her into giving up this line of questioning, but after a short pause, Courtney was shocked to hear a firm confirmation of, “Yes.”

Exasperated, Courtney demanded to know, “Wha-Why?”

There was another delay in response but what exactly for, Courtney could only hazard a guess. Bianca’s glare had yet to lighten as her eyes bore deep into Courtney’s soul. Her voice was cold and nearly emotionless as she stated, “You were drunk.”

“I wasn’t. But I was having fun.”

A flash of something appeared on Bianca’s face but in an instant it was gone. It was too quick for Courtney to recognize what it was but she knew she had seen it. She had to convince Bianca to be honest with her, even if it was uncomfortable.

Slowly crossing the room, clearly not trusting her own shaky legs any more than she had to, Courtney sat on the edge of Bianca’s bed. She ignored the way Bianca leaned away from her as if she didn’t care. She understood all too well by now that this whole act just wasn’t the Bianca she knew. It was just a front for something else and she had to find out what.

“Bianca,” she inquired gently, “Why'd you want to ruin that?”

There was no answer, only a judgemental glare as Bianca remained silent and stared her down. But Courtney refused to let this go. She knew she was close to some kind of answer and nothing was going to deter her from that.

Daring to place her hand over one of Bianca’s, she again asked, “B? Talk to me. You can tell me anything, I promise.”

There was a roll of Bianca’s eyes as she scoffed at the statement. It hurt but not enough to push Courtney away or weaken any of her resolve. All she did was wait patiently, running her thumb against Bianca’s until she got a response. Just some kind of answer to explain Bianca’s behavior.

And finally after a few moments, Bianca relented enough to give an unwilling and rather confusing reply of, “Cause it shouldn't have been like that.”

Tilting her head just slightly, Courtney probed for more of an explanation and it was there that Bianca’s restraint finally ran out.

In one long huff she blurted out, “Okay, fine! You wanna fuck a girl? Go right ahead, I don’t care. Hell, go fuck a hundred girls if that's what you want! But damn it, Courtney...your first time, it shouldn’t be some drunken hookup in the bathroom of a sketchy-ass nightclub. You know that,” she stressed. Her eyes finally grew soft as she admitted, “You deserve better than that, you know?”

Quickly defending herself, Courtney began with, “Well, she offered to-” then thinking better of it, she soon cut herself off. “Um...yeah...I guess I get what you’re saying.”

Darting her eyes away for a moment, Bianca reluctantly added, “I wasn’t sure how much you drank with her...And maybe I misjudged that. But like, I didn't want you regretting it tomorrow morning, okay? You’re not like Willam. This kind of shit means more to you.”

Though she wasn’t sure she agreed with Bianca on everything, she was still touched by the reasoning. Bianca was just trying to look out for her, it seemed. She went about it horribly but the intentions were good. Giving her roommate a grateful smile, she murmured, “Thanks,” and pulled her in for a tight hug.

At first, Bianca froze at the gesture but in just a second, she recovered and returned the embrace. A soft sigh was released into the air but even still, she just couldn’t let herself feel entirely relaxed. She had so many questions left on her mind but none of them she felt comfortable asking...even after this tentative truce.

Bianca pulled away from the hug to look into Courtney’s face, one burning question she just had to know.

Without daring to look directly into Courtney’s eyes, she carefully asked, “So...uh...did you two…?”

It took Courtney a second to catch on to Bianca’s train of thought but once she had, she gave a slow shake of her head. Instantly it felt like a weight had dropped from Bianca’s shoulders and she could truly relax. A large part of her felt immense relief at the answer but another small part was beating herself up for it.

Regardless, Bianca wasn’t going to press for any more answers, so she let this particular conversation die with a soft acknowledgment of, “Okay.”

“I couldn’t really have fun after you fucking blew your top,” Courtney said.

“Oh...sorry.” A smile began to grow on Bianca’s lips and the longer she looked at Courtney, the bigger it got.

Seemingly confused by the sudden shift in attitude, Courtney let out a small, laughing, “What?”

“You got some serious clown mouth going on,” Bianca told her, her grin now barely contained, “Looks like you were fucking making out with Pennywise.”

“Shut up!” Courtney squealed, giving her a playful shove to the arm.

Trying her best to keep herself from fully laughing, Bianca slipped out from her bed, shaking her head as she muttered, “Hold on.” She immediately made her towards the bathroom caddy she left on the corner of her desk. After rifling through it for a minute, she found her makeup wipes and returned to Courtney’s side. Holding out the jar with a slight smirk, she teased, “Can't take you seriously with that mess.”

Rolling her eyes, Courtney snatched up the wipes and made quick work of running them over every inch of her ruined makeup. Giving Bianca a patient smile, asked sarcastically, “Better?”

Shaking her head once more, Bianca pulled out a wipe of her own and muttered distractedly, “Fucking Christ. All over your fucking neck, too.”

She leaned in close with it and began gently running the cloth pad over the expanse of Courtney’s skin. She ignored the tense swallow beneath her fingers and focused instead on removing every last bit of cherry red lipstick she could find. The position felt oddly intimate, especially with the way Courtney watched her with curious, considering eyes.

Trying to distract herself and Courtney from this suddenly awkward moment, she commented, “You sure that bitch wasn't trying to suck your blood out or something?”

A snorting laugh ripped through Courtney’s body as she pulled away just slightly. Finishing her work, Bianca stepped back and moved to discard the soiled wipes. When she turned around from the trash can, she found Courtney spread out across most of her bed and damn near cuddling into the sheets.

She looked to be enjoying herself, at least, as she all but rolled around and wrapped herself up in the bedding. Noticing Bianca’s amused grin and arched brow, Courtney defended herself with a sincere, “Your bed’s really comfy.”

“It’s the same hand-me-down mattress you have, Court,” she pointed out, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes.

Courtney’s smile stretched just a little wider as she relented with a dreamy, “Your sheets, then, dingus...They’re soft and silky.”

“I know,” Bianca retorted, poking her roommate lightly in the arm, “That’s why I got them.”

Ignoring the feeble attempt to annoy her or get her to move, Courtney simply nuzzled further into the sheets and affirmed sleepily, “Comfy.”

“Oh, my God,” Bianca muttered in an amused state of disbelief. She could see she wasn’t winning this without a fight and far too tired for any of that, she merely gave in and asked, “You want to sleep here tonight?”

Courtney tilted her face up towards Bianca, catching her gaze with heavy-lidded eyes and saying softly, “Is that okay? You’re not still mad at me?”

“No, I’m not mad. But...you’re gonna sleep in that?” Bianca inquired skeptically, gesturing to Courtney’s dress.

There was a half-hearted shrug of the shoulders but ultimately Courtney seemed unbothered at the prospect of sleeping in the skimpy sequined number she had borrowed from Willam. Rolling her eyes once more, Bianca withdrew from the bed in order to retrieve an oversized, worn-out Mardi Gras T-shirt from her dresser.

Carelessly tossing it onto Courtney’s face, she grumbled, “Here.”

With great effort, Courtney pushed herself into sitting upright just enough to remove the flashy dress, flinging it to the floor to replace it with the T-shirt.

“Want shorts or anything?” Bianca asked quietly, averting her eyes.

“This is fine,” Courtney assured her even as she struggled to keep her eyes open. Holding aside the blankets, she murmured, “Come cuddle.”

Bianca switched off the lights and worked her way between the sheets. She barely had time to properly settle down before a very soft body was pressed up next to hers. Burying her face into the pillow just inches away from Bianca’s neck, Courtney gave a partially muffled reasoning of, “Warmer over here.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bianca teased lightly, even as she slipped her arm around Courtney and pulled her in just a little closer. “Come here, you fucking brat.”

Courtney giggled, snuggling against her, lips grazing Bianca’s neck, near her ear, sending a shiver down Bianca’s spine. On purpose? Bianca couldn’t be sure, but she cleared her throat and turned her head away slightly.

“Bianca?” Courtney whispered, breath warm against her, fingers wrapped around her waist.

Bianca should have realized the danger of sleeping intertwined like this. She hesitated for a moment before grunting out, “What?”

“Um…” Courtney giggled again, letting out a sigh, and Bianca relaxed, realizing that her lack of boundaries probably had more to do with residual drunkenness than anything else.

“Goodnight, Court,” she said definitively.

“Night, B,” Courtney whispered.

The night’s exhaustion coupled with alcohol made Bianca fall asleep quickly. Unfortunately, she didn’t stay that way for long. Some time later, she was roused by Alaska stumbling around. Her bedding was bunched up in her hands, just barely visible in the moonlight. Odd, Bianca thought.

“Hey,” she called out into the semi-dark room.

Alaska twitched at the sound of her voice, offering an awkward excuse of, “Hey, uh, sorry, I’m just grabbing some shit and then I’ll get out of here-”

Confused, Bianca shifted around to get a better look at her roommate and inquired, “Why? Where are you going-”

“I mean, you’re obviously in the middle of some-” Alaska hurriedly interjected, sparing a quick glance to Courtney’s oblivious sleeping form.

Of course she had the wrong idea, Bianca quickly realized. Shaking her head, she tried to explain the situation, “No, it’s nothing like that! We were just talking and she fell asleep. You really don’t have to go, my guess is that she’ll be passed out until noon.”

But as Bianca spoke, Courtney began shifting in her sleep. Her arms tightened, unwilling to lose their most comfortable source of heat, and a soft little sigh echoed into Bianca’s ear.

The pair of roommates stared at each for a moment in total silence, until Alaska’s resolve broke and she made her way towards the door. As she slipped past the door frame, Bianca heard her mumbling, “Yeah, it’s cool. I’ll just sleep on the couch.”

She tried calling out for her roommate but it was all in vain. In mere seconds the door was shut again.

“Whatever,” Bianca grumbled, settling back comfortably beneath the sheets. She’d tried to explain; it wasn’t her fault Alaska refused to listen. She’d just have to try again tomorrow and maybe then she’d have some better luck in clearing up whatever misconception still lingered in Alaska’s mind.

#rpdr fanfiction #bitney #adorney #bianca del rio #courtney act #adore delano #willam belli #alaska thunderfuck #college au #lesbian au #slow burn #friends to lovers #fluff #angst #off limits #just friends #veronica #albatross

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