#bloody hell snail | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

millenianthemums · 2 months ago

Text

chapter 3 of my fic is up! i actually posted it a week ago, but was too tired to finish the art until now… i might not actually be able to draw for every single chapter, but i still wanna try. we’ll see.

Previous chapter

Next chapter

First chapter

Mabel had become best friends with Tate McGucket’s new dog in under a week. She knew she would eventually, but still, that was record time. And with all the old friends she’d been tirelessly catching up with in her first few days back in Gravity Falls, she was both proud and preemptively exhausted to have added a new friend to the list already.

It helped that Scout Cottonball McGucket was the absolute sweetest puppy she’d ever met (a puppy that was taller than her on two legs was a puppy nonetheless). She was one of those huge fluffy white dogs– a Great Pyranese, Dipper had said– and her heart was just as soft and sweet and cuddly as the rest of her. Hence “Cottonball”, the unauthorized middle name Mabel had secretly given her. The plan was to get it to stick so well that by the time Tate found out about it, it would be impossible to get rid of it.

So when she cycled by the lake and saw Tate out in the rain that afternoon, and managed to wrangle out of him that Scout was missing , of course she was going to help look. Total no-brainer. Her search-and-rescue strategy of biking along the treeline at a snail pace while whistling and calling Scout’s name wasn’t exactly sophisticated, but before long she caught a lucky break. She started hearing a weird noise through the rain, a distant but piercing screech. At first she assumed it was a red fox or maybe a mountain lion screaming its head off somewhere in the woods, and tried to steer clear of it. But then a series of powerful barks joined it– Scout’s beautiful voice!-- and Mabel’s self-preservation fled. No way was some wailing overgrown house cat gonna hurt her new friend on her watch!

She swerved toward the noise, yelling for Scout, and soon a shape barrelled toward her out of the darkness. She was only terrified for a split second, but then she saw its wagging tail and leapt off her bike to give the dog a massive hug. Scout jumped and wagged and danced around joyfully as Mabel scrubbed her hands all through her thick coat. “You’re okay!” she cheered as Scout nuzzled her face. “We were all so worried, young lady… aww, I can’t stay mad at you! Maybe just– oof–” she shoved Scout’s massive paws off her shoulders and tried to wipe the muddy pawprints off her sweater before they soaked into the wool. “Maybe just settle down a little– whoa! Hey! Oh, you’re such a silly–”

“YOU.”

She recognized the voice right away. Part of her brain had never stopped hearing it. Her head turned toward it against her will, and standing there in the woods, staring her down, was exactly what she was most afraid to see.

Bill Cipher. The triangle guy who almost killed the entire world last time she’d been here. The monster who tricked her into helping him almost tear her family apart. The thing that had almost scared her into not coming back this year, into abandoning this place and the people she loved so much, out of fear that she’d somehow mess it all up again. The single worst thing that had ever happened to her. He was standing right in front of her. The streaks of mud and bruising, bloody gashes all over his face (body? surface?) made him look like he’d just clawed his way straight out of Hell, and the look in his eye seemed to say that he’d done it just to tear her apart with his bare hands.

She was dreaming. She had to be dreaming. Please, please let her be dreaming. Let her wake up…

Then he started talking, and she realized something was off.

“YYYOUUU DIDTHIISSSS,” was all she could really make out. He was saying lots more stuff, but the words were blurring together, so clumsy and slurred that it didn’t even sound like language. He started trying to walk toward her– walk , like on the ground , which she’d never seen him do in his triangle form. And he was barely managing it. Every raindrop that hit him seemed to be weighing him down as he approached, oozing blood— weird silver blood with an eye-melting rainbow sheen— from countless gashes on his arms and legs, and even between the brick things on his body/face. The finger gun he was holding out seemed like it was supposed to be aiming at her, but his whole arm was shaking more than the leaves in the summer storm. He trailed off speaking— the only other thing she’d caught was “I WON’T”— and his eye locked on her face. His eye was bloodshot, pink, shiny and sticky, like a wad of chewed gum. It looked horribly painful. Everything about him looked painful.

As she stared, his pupil shrank to a tiny point. His eye turned bright red, and the redness spread out into his bricks— scales?— like a fire burning behind drywall. For a second she thought he was about to turn into that giant crimson nightmare pyramid he’d shapeshifted into last year, and she almost turned and ran as he let out a scream and started to run at her…

…and fell on his face.

Mabel and Scout stood there, staring in silence, as Bill Cipher laid face-down and motionless in the mud. The woods were still filled with the low roar of rain, but somehow Mabel felt a heavy silence crushing her lungs.

Once her heart had stopped beating so fast, she risked a step toward him. Scout made a soft rumble of warning, but let her approach. Bill gave absolutely no sign that he knew she was there as she drew closer, until she was standing right beside him, close enough to see the gold scales on his back heaving rhythmically up and down. Slow, labored breathing. Had she ever seen him breathe before? She didn’t think he even did that. At least not normally. But from the looks of it, this was hardly a normal day for him. He really did look awful. One of his arms was a bloody mess, leather skin all ragged and torn. He probably had Scout to thank for that. She gave the dog an affectionate scratch behind her ear.

But the torn-up arm was far from his only injury. And she didn’t know how to tell health from illness in… whatever he was… but she was pretty sure he was usually a much brighter shade of yellow than this. He looked drained of color.

After several seconds of nothing happening, she noticed a big, durable-looking stick lying at the base of a nearby tree. She retrieved it, and after a few deep breaths and a bit of hyping herself up– “if he was gonna jump up and grab you he could have done it by now” -- she held out the stick and gave him a slight but purposeful nudge.

Nothing. He just barely twitched enough to show he was still alive. He was totally out cold.

She was getting concerned. That was a new experience, feeling concern for Bill. He’d done so much terrible stuff, but still… was she watching a man die? Or a triangle, rather? Was she about to see a triangle die?

A voice in the distance cut through the rain. Mabel jumped back and held the stick like a baseball bat on reflex. Then she recognized it, just as Scout’s tail started wagging. It was Tate McGucket’s voice. “Mabel? Scout? Is that you out there?”

“It’s us! Hi!” Mabel chirped, then realized her mistake. Leading Tate toward Bill would almost definitely end with somebody dying. And whoever it ended up being, she just really didn’t want to see that. With a few more quick, anxious nudges, she managed to shove Bill most of the way under a nearby bush just as Tate’s flashlight beam swept through the trees to find them. Scout took off running toward it and Mabel quickly followed, snagging the handlebars of her bike along the way. She arrived in time to see Tate grinning and ruffling Scout’s furry face as she stood with her paws on his chest. He looked up to see Mabel and quickly shoved the dog off him. “I keep tellin’ you not to jump like that, girl!” he said sternly.

“She must’ve run off chasing something,” Mabel offered as casually as possible. “But she ran up as soon as she heard me! She’s a good puppy!”

“Wish she minded me half that well,” he grumbled, patting Scout on the head. “Good on you for findin’ her, Mabel. I really can’t thank you enough–”

“You don’t have to thank me!” Mabel said, shooing the thought away with her hands. “I’m always happy to help out a friend!” Scout gave a quiet, appreciative “boof” as she scratched her ear.

“Let me drive you back home, then,” Tate said. “You shouldn’t be biking in this rain anyway. ‘Specially once it gets dark.”

Mabel shot an involuntary glance at the bushes behind her. If she left now, she might not find this same spot again. And if she lost track of Bill, if she went home not knowing if he was still out there somewhere, or if he might follow her…

“...Well, the others aren’t expecting me back ‘til eight,” she said slowly. That was true; she’d been out cycling well past sunset most nights since she and Dipper arrived. Ever since she’d gotten really into biking in the fall, she’d been eager to try out the trails in Gravity Falls, and now she was getting as much use out of them as she could. The Grunkles were cool with it. They both figured a girl who’d helped fight off a paranormal apocalypse could handle herself in the dark woods for an hour or two. And they were right, she thought proudly. She’d gotten really fast on her bike in the past few months. She could probably outspeed a grizzly bear with ease. Those guys were way too big and bulky to pedal well.

“Plus, I think the rain’s supposed to let up soon,” she continued. “Would it be okay if I just hung around the bait shop for a little bit, and then biked home after?”

“Sure thing,” Tate said, looking grateful for something to offer. “I’ll tell the missus to put some tea on. Scout, heel.” He clicked his fingers, and Scout followed close beside him as he headed back to the house.

Mabel waited until his back was turned. Then she picked up the stick again and drove it hard into the ground, at the base of the bush that hid Bill. Backing up a bit, making sure it would stay upright, she nodded to herself. It would work well enough as a landmark.

“I’ll come back later,” she whispered under her breath as she trailed behind Tate and Scout. “If he’s gone, I’ll run home and tell Dipper and the Grunkles. And if he’s dead, then… problem solved. I think.”

And if this is all a trick? Some cynical part of her brain piped up. If he’s luring you back into some kind of trap, then what? You gonna fall for it like last time?

“No,” she whispered back through gritted teeth. “Not again.”

One hand wandered to the cupholder on her bike that held her grappling hook. Fingers resting on its handle, she followed the others out of the woods.

The sun had fully hidden behind the horizon by the time Mabel left. The rain had lightened to a gentle mist, barely noticeable really, and she hadn’t wanted to stay out too late. So once she’d finished her tea (augmented with all the spare sugar packets Mrs. McGucket had claimed to own), she’d said goodbye to Scout and her humans and set out for home. She sent a quick text to Dipper on the way out, letting him know she’d be a little bit late getting back. Just got sidetracked, sorry, nothing to worry about.

But there was something to worry about. She saw the stick loom out of the darkness as she cycled up. The rain had almost washed it out of the ground, leaving it standing crooked. The sharp, jutting angle reminded her of that picture Dipper showed her once of a nuclear waste dump or something, where they’d put some scary black spikes in a desert to try and scare people away. “This place is best shunned and left uninhabited”.

She shouldn’t be doing this. This was so stupid. It didn’t make any sense to get closer.

But she was already standing over the bush. She wrenched the stick out of the ground and gripped it like a sword. She held it at arm’s length and pushed aside the foliage, reaching back for the grappling hook in her pocket with her other hand.

The dim light glinted off something shiny and yellow. She drew back a step, instinctive, but the shape didn’t jump at her. It didn’t move at all. Bill Cipher was still exactly where she’d left him.

Did he actually die? She felt her chest tighten, which was stupid. It was good if he was dead. He was already supposed to be dead. She should be thrilled to think he might have died under that bush, all his threats left unfulfilled.

Did I just walk away while he was dying?

Her hand was shaking. She tried to draw the stick back, but it bumped against one of his arms as it went.

It twitched. The fist clenched and drew back in toward the body. Mabel almost bit through her tongue from flinching too hard, but there was no further movement.

He was alive. Barely.

Mabel’s chest was so tight, it felt like she couldn’t breathe. This was the worst case scenario. He wasn’t gone somewhere. He didn’t jump up and scare her and at least provide some clue about what was going on. And he wasn’t dead. But he probably would be in a few hours. And there was nobody in the world who would ever possibly help. Nobody who even could, except her.

This was so STUPID. You already helped him once, Mabel. Remember? You helped him almost kill your whole family. You really wanna go another round?

But thinking about just walking away made her feel sick. She’d never just walked away from something that was dying before. How many wasps had she fished out of pools in her life? How many times had her parents scolded her for bringing wounded squirrels and raccoons inside? Those were bad ideas too. “Trash the house and get stung” ideas. But the wasps and squirrels and raccoons all lived. If she hadn’t done that stupid thing, they would have died. Not helping had never even felt like an option.

“He already died once before,” she whispered to the angry voice in her head. “He might come back again, someplace else, and cause a bunch more problems we don’t even know about until it’s too late.” She popped open the little wicker trunk on the back of her bike and pulled out her emergency picnic blanket. “Maybe if I, like, put him somewhere secure. And keep a good close eye on him. And then when he wakes up, I can get some answers here.”

The angry voice wasn’t convinced by her rationalizations. It kept yelling about how stupid she was as she draped the blanket over Bill, then gingerly lifted him, using the blanket like gloves, too scared to touch him directly. He weighed practically nothing; about the same as a large picture frame. The voice kept berating her as she shoved him into the bike’s front basket– no way was she putting him in the trunk and pedaling all the way home with her back to him. The front basket was just big enough that, with the blanket over him, he looked like a misshapen, mostly unsuspicious lump. She biked along the side of the road, eyes flickering back and forth between the basket and the pavement ahead, for the whole ride home. The voice was still at it by the time she leaned her bike against the wall of the Mystery Shack, but the louder and meaner it got, the less inclined she felt to listen to its advice. She knew this was a dumb idea. But she’d come this far, and there were no other good options.

They’d discovered, like, six new secret rooms since Grunkle Ford first made it back home. Some of them even he had forgotten about. There was one in the basement that she and Dipper had taken to calling “Gay Baby Jail”, because they’d started a habit of banishing defeated board game opponents down there. Also because it was small, cramped, almost empty, and only had one tiny, high window into the backyard, which for some reason had bars on it.

For all these reasons, it was the perfect habitat for Bill. There was a bathroom in the back, and they’d spruced the room up with a beanbag chair and one of those empty wooden chests from the gift shop, just to tie the room together. He’d be fine in there. Probably.

It was easy to sneak in the back door and down to the basement. Dipper, Stan and Ford were all chatting in the kitchen, working on dinner. It smelled like something was on fire, but she still really wished she was in there with them. This was to keep them safe, she reminded herself as she eased open the door to Gay Baby Jail.

She turned the blanket bundle upside down and dumped Bill out onto the beanbag chair. He was still out cold, lying there in a pile of noodly limbs, but at least he was still breathing. She dropped the blanket on top of him and backed away.

Looking him over, she frowned. A small bite wound on his arm was still oozing silver blood. It would ruin the beanbag chair pretty soon. She sighed and started digging through her pockets.

Gingerly, with as few fingers as possible, she pressed a sky blue band-aid over the wound. “You didn’t earn that,” she whispered. “That’s for practical reasons only.”

With one last look around the room, she jabbed a finger at him. “I’ll be back,” she said, practicing her Interrogation Voice. “And when you wake up, I want answers, Geometry Boy.”

Bill stayed asleep. Mabel shut the door, locked it, tested the lock. It held strong.

She took a deep breath and straightened up, switching from Serious Mode back to Mabel Mode. Then she snuck back outside, knocked on the front door, and joined her family for dinner.

#gravity falls #mabel pines #bill cipher #mabel’s guide to the power of friendship #bill & mabel friendship au #milleniart #robin writes stuff

186 notes · View notes

sunnami · 4 months ago

Text

deleted draft/scene - watch me, don’t touch me, love me, don’t hurt me.

legitimately cannot write anything at the moment, so please have this for a bit T-T

“LILY, DARLING! That dress looks utterly divine! Is that Charmeuse silk? The purple simply brings out the color in your eyes! And your skin, my love! Just glowing! Tell me—have you been trying those snail facials? I hear they’re all the rage nowadays.”

Amidst the Yule Ball festivities, a crowd gathers in the corner of the icy ballroom; far beyond the ages of awkward teenage hand-holding, and an acquired taste for Firewhiskey rather than fruit punch. In the middle of it all—is you. Obnoxiously catching everyone’s attention, whether they like it or not. But even the Dementors in Azkaban would find themselves drawn to your shrilling voice and careless display of wealth; like a bee to a field of flowers. Your gown is dripping in black, hand-woven gothic lace, and drapes of ruffled, yellow satin skirts. It is a testament to your House—the cete of badgers. A pear cut, Canary Diamond necklace sits atop your neck. The capelet around your shoulders is of black velvet and gold trimmings.

(Always the belle of the ball, but Sirius Black wonders if there’s anything in your head at all.)

(“Bloody hell.” Marlene grabs the flask of whiskey from Sirius’s hands and pours the burning liquid down her throat. “I’m going to need more of this if I plan on surviving the night. Surely there are more important matters to discuss than French designers and our frilly dresses. It’s like I’m back in sixth-year all over again.”

Sirius shakes the now-empty container in amusement. “And you thought stealing my stash was the best idea? Do you know how hard it was to sneak this in with Minnie glaring down my shoulders? I swear that woman treats me like I’m still fourteen.”)

“We work in the same castle, Lily flower, but it’s a pity we don’t run into each other much,” You say liltingly, lipstick staining the rim of your champagne glass. “Why, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were deliberately avoiding me!”

Lily flashes you a constrained smile. “On the contrary, I’ve been rather busy these days helping Madam Pomfrey in the infirmary. My responsibility, after all, is first and foremost—the children.” She raises a brow at you contemptuously. “Not all of us have the luxury of skipping work for tea and gossip.”

You hum, lips quirked in amusement. “Oh? That’s a shame. Narcissa and I would love for you to join us one day.”

“Perhaps when I’ve no longer important things to do,” says Lily in a saccharine-sweet tone.

You grow bored of toying with Lily—to her relief—and decide to throw a bone at Rita Skeeter. The bloodthirsty journalist preys hungrily at your every word—and you’re more than willing to satiate the irritable, little pest. You have nobles from pure-blooded families kissing at your feet for a moment of your time; entertaining a crowd like this takes no effort. (Except for the Marauders, you find. They’re the section that plays out of tune in the orchestra you’re conducting.)

“You wouldn’t believe it, Rita darling, of all the people I come upon in Rome—it’s Vittoria Zabini!” You throw your head back in laughter as Rita’s eyes grow wide as a bug’s. “On a honeymoon, no less!” You wink at Rita. “This makes her fourth one now, I believe.”

As predicted, Rita greedily whips out her Quick-Quotes Quill. “Riveting.” She pushes her glasses upwards with a quirk of her lips. “We may have tomorrow’s front page at our hands.”

Lily hides a scoff by taking a sip of her sparkling beverage. “Surely we have more important news for the wizarding world than an innocent woman’s marriage.”

You gasp melodramatically. “But this is Vittoria Zabini! Haven’t you ever wondered why her husbands mysteriously disappear after months of marriage?”

“Not even once!” Lily slams her glass down onto the round, draped table; nostrils flaring and chest heaving. “Sorry.” She dabs a napkin at her lips with a heavy exhale. “Please excuse me. I’ve just lost my appetite.”

“Poor dear,” You mutter as the red-headed beauty makes for the group of Gryffindors a few feet away. She instantly collapses into James’s arms, no doubt complaining about your charming personality. There’s an odd ache in your heart as you watch the McKinnon girl pat her back comfortingly; Remus Lupin taking Lily’s hands and easing her anger. You’ve never felt a camaraderie such as theirs. Always the Gryffindors, and their flagrant displays of loyalty and whatnot.

How repulsive.

this was one of the first ever drafts for the fic! and no, the yule ball scene won’t be like this, it’ll be quite better, i hope. ;0

#sunny's hp fics #sunny's wips

172 notes · View notes

ehlnofay · 1 month ago

Text

One day – as far-off as a century, as near as tomorrow – it will all be a grand old story.

The stories will speak of a handful of champions, rushing headlong against time and logic to save the world; the last Blades, the last Septim, and his hanger-on Hero, carving a bloody path to the Temple doors. The stories will tell of skies like burned blood, of fire and ash and uncountable legions of monsters – hundreds, thousands, millions, the quantity rising with each telling – the city streets cracked and quaking, every civilian locked up in their homes and businesses and praying for deliverance. The stories will tell of the appearance of Dagon, red-hot and roiling, a gory perversion of the sun; they’ll tell that when all seemed lost, Martin Septim sacrificed himself in a blaze of glory, calling down the avatar of Akatosh and casting Dagon and his ilk back whence he came. They’ll tell that the golden dragon threw back its head and roared, and the sky cleared and brightened at its word; they’ll tell how it petrified in place, a magnificent pillar of stone, a sacrosanct statue. A site of pilgrimage. A shrine, to the grace and glory of the gods, and the bravery and benevolence of the last Emperor, the best of men.

It will be a good story. All splendour and triumph, a bittersweet victory right out of the epics; the pages closed, the crisis done, the world saved in as golden a resolution as could be asked for. It doesn’t get better than this, a perfect saviour, a hallowed end.

What the stories won’t tell is how, under clear skies and sunlight, the Hero of Kvatch falls at the statue’s marbled feet and howls like the world is still ending.

“You fucking coward,” Pax is screaming, as best as she can. Her mouth tastes like smoke. Her voice is hoarse. “Stupid worm, fucking – selfish bastard – what’s wrong with you?”

His head is swimming, a bit; he shouldn’t have tried to stand, but he – but – he’s dragged himself up to the dais, just about, and managed to sprawl himself over the edge, a snail’s trail of blood smeared along the floor behind him. The copper tang of it is strong in his nostrils. The statue stands, proud and silent, one marble claw dug into the cracked stone of the rostrum. His whole body is beginning to ache – just because of a stupid stab wound in his side, he’d swear he’s had worse, it’s not that bad, it’s not that bad. His throat burns. He isn’t crying. He isn’t.

The sky is so fucking blue.

“What’s wrong with you?” he demands, again, and brings the heel of his hand thudding against the clawed foot hard enough that he feels the impact down his arm, through his blurry head. “Why would you – piece of shit – sorry spit-gill – I thought –”

None of their thoughts will go through to the end. “I thought,” Pax says again, and she’s not crying, and it hurts so much it’s looped back around to not hurting, and it’s all getting fuzzy at the edges, all the world narrowed down to this and this and this and all fucking hell she’d rather be anywhere, anything else. The statue is cold. Her throat is scraped raw. “Come back,” she’s begging without quite meaning to, “come back,” and she drives her palm into the stone again, and the pain sets her reeling.

And all hell, the sky is so blue; the statue enormous; and here they are, at its feet, vision blurring, staring up at its cold marble face. It’s so fucking tall, so proud, face tipped up towards the new-appeared sun, away from them.

“How could you?” Pax says, and then they can’t even see it anymore, blood unspooling from them like skeins of madder-dyed thread. Red has never been their favourite colour. The shape of the dragon, glowing like the sun, is fixed forever on the backs of their eyelids; gold, they think, is worse. The world is detached and floating about them. They taste smoke and then bile. Stone digs fierce into their spine.

It burned like the sun, the dragon; like all the divine light of Aetherius come to earth just to sear the moisture from her eyes. Where it clawed Mehrunes Dagon, his blood boiled; when it screamed, the world moulded itself to its call. Pax hadn’t known what was happening, while it happened; sure as shit doesn’t know now. What they do know is that he’s gone. What they do know is that the dragon didn’t look at them once. They don’t taste ash on their breath, now; just fear, stagnant, sour, blood jangling bitter in their veins and seeping out to soak their gambeson.

It doesn’t hurt, anymore, there’s just this spreading, vague numbness. It doesn’t feel like their body. It’s just a thing they’re putting on. Their ears are still ringing from the crashing-in of the Temple, but there’s a faint buzzing of noise outside. They might be dying. They can’t be assed to get up.

Skeeving asshole. They’re getting blood on the dragon’s immaculate feet. The hollow sounds of voices feels distant. Could well be worse.

Then, “… a healer, here!” they hear, much closer than anything else had been before, paired with the faraway thudding of the door, and “Pax. Pax! It’s – where’s –” and there’s hands on him, a cautious manipulation of his neck, a shifting of his legs. Pressure on his sternum, and then his stomach, and a pained grunt slips out of his mouth, bound up with a slurred curse.

“Stay calm,” says an unfamiliar voice, soft and steady. “I’m just accessing the wound.”

“Go away,” Pax says, or tries to say, but his voice is whispering-hoarse and the dragon looms in the dark even still. He could open his eyes, but what would be the point?

The hands stay on him even when he bucks, holding him steady; they whisper over the stab in her gut, pulling at the drying blood, mumbling words that she can’t be fucking bothered to listen to, one voice known to her already, one voice not; pressure again on the injury, and they try, half-heartedly, to breathe out a swear – and then light, copper-bright, behind their eyelids, and burning heat, and pain pain pain eclipsing all else as something inside them wrenches back into working order, and then their eyes are open and the sky is blue and they are very fucking aware, thank you.

Pax sits up, fast enough to send the world dizzily whirling, and shoves the mage-medic away from them.

“Piss off,” he says – and it’s still hoarse, smoke-throated and scraped raw, but there’s more bite to it this time, more sound. The strange hands fall away from his side, and he looks down. His gambeson is hanging open, cords untied, the emblem of the wolf split clean down the middle. His undershirt is rucked up around his chest, too, so much of his skin is bared to the clear, bright air; all to get to the wound tucked just under their ribs. It’s an underwhelming thing – smaller than they would’ve thought, a thin short slash like a very red mouth has opened itself up in their gut. It’s stopped dribbling quite so much blood, gone scabby with rough healing, though the stuff is still smeared all over their skin, damn near enough to bathe in. It’s barely anything, really. They’re barely even hurt.

“I’m not done,” says the mage-medic, all stern. The wound itches, the taste of hasty magic gone sour in the back of their throat with all the rest of it. “I might have to find my suturing needle. It isn’t too bad, but it can’t be healed all at once.”

“Piss off,” Pax repeats – and all fucking hell it hurts, and he’s sitting up against the statue, legs lolling. He’s dizzy. He ignores it.

Ocato – his fine clothes sooty, face tight as a wound-up spring – says, “Calm down, please – he’s a skilled healer, he knows what he’s doing.” His eyes keep skipping around the room like he’s searching for another enemy lurking hidden in the shadows. “What happened? Where’s the Emperor?”

Ah – not an enemy, then.

Pax tastes bile.

“Not very quick on the uptake, are you?” she says, elbow braced against the statue’s massive marble claws (she hates touching it, she hates it, she hates it, she wants to set it crumbling apart, she doesn’t want to let anyone else touch it ever again). She can’t stop leaning because then she might topple back down again. Fuck, she needs to keep her head on straight – or lose it altogether, whichever happens faster. Her fingers feel cold. “How’re you going to run an Empire when you’re this fucking clueless?”

Ocato looks them in the face; his brow, high and slanted in that way elves have, furrows. “You’re hurt,” he says, in a tone like he expects Pax to argue with him. “Martin Septim–”

“Can’t you see him?” Pax demands, tone torn in half and uglier than they’ve ever heard it before, and they slam the back of their hand against the stone for echoing emphasis. (They want to shatter all the bones in their knuckles, break every piece in their hand one by one, like wishbones. They want it bloody and bruising. They want to scratch its polished-smooth surface until their fingernails tear. They want – they want – they want –)

Ocato, the Empire’s de facto leader, says, “Ah.”

In his plummy robes, all fruit-rich and stained with ash, he looks very stark against the Temple’s cracked marble floors.

“The Avatar,” he says. “If – the Amulet – joined blood of kings and gods –”

“Ocato,” says Pax, leaning heavy against the statue’s hateful foot, “shut up.” Their voice is bowstring-taut; he looks at them, his eyes too golden to meet. His mouth twists. They tip their head back against the stone, glaring up at the chips of blue sky shown in the crater where the roof once was, and try hard to ignore the tugging ache hooked behind their ribs.

It really fucking hurts. Worse than it did before, maybe, like some gauzy veil has been ripped from it. A veil has been ripped from the world. All the colours are too-bright, hideous. Pax breathes, because there’s no alternative, and waits for the pain to ebb.

(It doesn’t, really.)

“The Gates are sealed,” Ocato says, slowly, and he’s looking at her again, she can see out of the edge of her eye. “We will speak later. I’ll have you put up in the Palace until you’re healed. Ah – Quintus, does –”

“As long as she doesn’t go back into shock,” says the mage-medic, busily flipping through some kind of supply bag at his belt, “her odds are good. Lost blood, but I don’t think anything important was too damaged – get a proper examination, all I did was give her a second wind. Stitches, rest, fluids should do it, with luck.”

“Can she stand?”

“Can or should are –”

“Shut the fuck up,” Pax snaps, “I’m right here.” Her back pressed against the cold marble of the statue, her plait half-loose and knotted, filled with ash. The sky is so fucking blue. It hurts like hell – if the healer took her out of shock, then shit, she wishes he’d put her back in. She can see in too much detail. She can feel the skin, damp and ragged and angry. She presses the heel of her hand to the injury; her palm is crusted with dust, tacky with the same half-dried blood streaked over the floors.

Ocato, in the edges of her vision, shifts, all a blur of rich clothes and sympathetic eyes and solemn voice turned soft like he’s talking to an easily spooked horse. “I know.”

The mage-medic clucks his tongue. “Let me take another look first,” he says, and takes a step forward –

Pax kicks out at him before he even gets close. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

“Pax,” says Ocato – and why, why the fuck is the Empire’s de facto leader here, now, babying them like a whimpering little puppy instead of anywhere fucking else, why is he bothering to talk to them all patronising soft, why does he care? They’ve barely fucking met – talked twice, if you can call either of those times talking. Is it because they’re the Hero of Kvatch? Is this what they’ve earned – a bit of leeway as they throw a tantrum, bleeding out at the marble feet of that stupid bloody statue? Ocato looks so fucking tired; Pax wants to hit him in the nose. “You need care.”

“I need –” and Pax chokes it off in a puff of air. The statue looms behind them. There’s blood on the floors. (Traitor liar coward come back come back I hate you come down I’ll knock your fucking teeth in stupid selfish fraud come BACK. LOOK AT ME.)

Pax closes his eyes.

“My gratitude,” Ocato says, “ – our gratitude for what you’ve done cannot be overstated. The Crisis if over. The gates are sealed. Mehrunes Dagon and his ilk can never threaten Tamriel again.”

The knobs of Pax’s braid are pressing uncomfortably against their scalp. They can hear footsteps, coming closer. They don’t respond.

“It’s a great shame we had to pay such a price,” Ocato says, and Pax would fucking love to know who’s we here, “but it’s done. Dagon is defeated. We’ve won.” He’s much too close, now; his voice pitches softer. “Martin – is dead. But he died an Emperor – and a hero to rival Tiber Septim.”

Pax shoves him.

It’s a good fucking shove – knocks him right to the ground, his elbow hitting the marble with a painfully audible crack, Pax standing over him, shirt rucked up, their handprint on his shoulder marked in blood. “You useless, prattling jackass!” they spit, hoarse, and deal a swift, savage kick to his side. “How dare you act like this is a victory! It should have been me!”

Then their head swims, and they’re sitting again on the edge of the dais, palm pressed to their side, the sweaty cloth of their gambeson pushed half off their shoulder and its cord biting into their hand. The mage-medic is kneeling over Ocato, who still lies, stunned; Pax can’t see his eyes, now, but they remember them, brassy with shocked fear. Their bow is off by the wall where they left it. Pax’s palms are sticky with blood. The sky is so fucking blue. No matter how hard she rages the dragon won’t look down at them.

By the time the mage-medic has helped Ocato up, they’re gone. The Kvatch guard gambeson remains, smoke-smelling and crusted with blood, left like an offering at the statue’s feet. The Hero of Kvatch is never seen again.

#posting these two one after another is. fun :)#I lovee characters that just slightly misunderstand each other. causing pain and suffering for ever and ever #martin goes this will be sad for them... but at least I can apologise before I go. and at least there will be people to care for them #and I will at last atone for my many horrid sins (mostly existing and bearing witness to the terrors)#meanwhile to pax. the only person that cares about them + figurehead for their entire sense of purpose and confidence has abandoned them.#the Big Dragon Statue is apt because when martin died he made himself a monster #both the only good thing in the world and the thing that took it away #pax hates him. hates herself for hating him. loves him. hates herself for loving him. cannot fathom anything she knows to be true #about their relationship #If He Cared About Me He Couldn't Have Done This. so he never cared #so the dragon with its head arched to the sky is insult to extremely literal injury #so I will NOT be comforted or looked after thanks. I will die at your feet cursing your name and failing that I will lash out as hard #as I can and then disappear from historical record #(to go break into a physician's office and stitch himself up. pax says to himself that he's had worse but Worse was also major abdominal #trauma that caused hypovolemic shock. the perspective is skewed)#and everything is so so sad forever THE END thanks for reading :D #oc tag #pax #martin septim #the elder scrolls #tesblr #tes #oblivion #fay writes #my writing #hero of kvatch

35 notes · View notes

halcyone-of-the-sea · 2 years ago

Text

SNAIL & THRUSH (II)

|| COV MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER III ||

PAIRING: Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick x F!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 8.4k

WARNINGS: Angst, self destructive tendencies, insinuations of PTSD, talks of death, thoughts of violence, banter but it’s more just straight up attacks

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

“Can you—” An aggressive sigh sounds out over the air as your fast-walking form continues on; the earth molding to your shoes. “The area isn’t locked down this far out, Ma’am. Can you just get in the bloody car, please?”

Your eyes stare straight ahead, half-lidded, and could probably melt a sheet of metal if they had to.

Not answering, you continue to walk back into town, ignoring Gaz entirely as he attempts to coax you into the large car he’s driving. The window is down, his accented voice hitting your ears and bouncing off the invisible barrier you had put there to block out his prattle about a mile back.

You utterly refuse to enter the vehicle, even if you were already as tired as a marathon runner. The person driving followed you at a snail’s pace at his wit's end.

Stepping on gravel that crunches under your weight, your fists swing clenched beside you in small clipped arches. If volatile had a picture attached to the definition page, it would be you.

Not only had you figured out Samson Row was dead before you could kill him yourself, but now you had to deal with weapon and drug lords who had it out for you and your mother.

Under your breath, quick worded mumbles are missed over the car’s engine, the slow forward motion of tires that stir the dust and leaves you blinking quickly.

You’d both been at this ever since you’d forced your way out of the garage back on Base and had restrained yourself from making a scene because they had refused to give you your laptop back.

“Protection detail,” your lips curl, thinking over Laswell’s clipped sentences. “Like I want your help after all of this. Just open your home, why don’t you?” Sarcastic flails of your hands leave Gaz groaning and rolling his eyes at the childish scene, a hand going to rub over his neck soothingly. The attempt to bring clarity back to himself only barely works. “Just accept that we can’t keep our own operatives on a leash—but here! Just take the one that forced you into the back of a van and put a revolver to your forehead—God!”

“Are you done out there yet?” Kyle calls, single grip over his hat as he glares out the windshield, no longer wanting to look at you as your teeth bare else he’d get to the end of his rope before he even started climbing. “Bit of a walk back to town, y’know. Not exactly how I’d want to spend my morning, copy?” He mutters the last sentence under his breath.

Don’t want to spend any bloody mornings like this.

“If you tell me one more time to get into the car,” you level as you crush a weed in your way, “I’m sprinting off into the field and making you run after me.”

A long scoff and an exasperated shake of his head later, Gaz is growling an acknowledgment; tapping his fingers over the wheel. Did you not understand the severity of the situation? Hell, it was like you didn’t even care! This was his job, and he took it very seriously. There was no room for fuck-ups.

The car continues to waste gas and slug along, even if the Brit wanted to hop out and drag you into it like the stubborn brat you were acting like.

“How many years overseas?” He asks himself as your form stomps farther away before he presses his foot to the gas lightly and hears the gears squeak. He pulls up beside you moments later, lips tight. “Fuckin’ hell mate. Have a go at this.”

“I can hear you, idiot.” Your voice sounds off, face turning slightly his way. The mid-morning sun was warm, but the breeze from the not-so-far-off Lake Michigan was a welcome feeling as it went over heated skin. “Talk quieter so I don't have to.”

Kyle didn’t understand how you could wear that thick jacket, though. It was slightly chilly, sure, but not that bad out. But he certainly wasn’t going to ask. Not when you were acting like you were going to shank him in the kneecap for breathing in your direction.

“Brilliant.” He spreads his digits from where they curl over the steering wheel, shrugging his shoulders to himself mockingly. “Anything else I should know, Ma’am?”

Drive into a tree, you want to snap, but refrain. Even if seeing the Brit’s eyes go small and jaw go tight was a smirk-inducing sight, what you wanted was silence. A silence that you would probably never get now that your house was being invaded without your say.

At least it’s only him, trying to find light in the situation was your father’s specialty–not yours. Your body forces out a tight breath to calm down. Could you imagine what would have happened if Laswell had forced the one with the dead eyes to watch me? Ghost?

Your body shivers tightly. If Price was at the top of your list of people you feared, Ghost was second. You couldn’t stand to feel those blue orbs lock on you in the rear-view mirror when they’d brought you in. You already had enough ghosts living at the mansion, you didn't need another.

A few seconds later, the car beside you comes to a fast halt with a ruckus of crunching gravel. You hope for a moment the car will turn around and disappear into the background.

“...Y’know what, yeah? I’m solid walking.” The clashing of keys being ripped from an ignition makes you blink in horror, head whipping to the side to watch as the car door is shoved open.

Sergeant Kyle’s tall form greets you as your legs stall, shock coating your lungs.

“The hel–” you stop your sharp tongue. Gritted words fall instead. “And what are you doing?”

Gaz’s body goes to the back of the car, popping open the trunk and throwing out bag after bag as your jaw drops. He grasps one of the largest—a duffel bag—and slings it over his back. Two more are taken in one hand as his muscles writhe, though it looked like the apparent weight doesn't bother him much.

The Brit ignores you, striding past as his long fingers go to his right ear.

“Actual this is Bravo 2-6, I’ll be needing a pickup for a vehicle about a mile down-road. Parked near the edge. You copy?” A pause as you watch him continue on, looking back and forth from the still metal to his clenched fist over the straps of his belongings. A small sound escapes your throat. “No,” Gaz huffs a stiff laugh in response to the conversation you can’t hear. Your ear tips burn. “No, there’s not a damn thing wrong with the bastard, believe it or not.”

“Hey!” Calling loudly, you stare at the figure as it gradually gets farther away, feet spread apart and the air smelling of corroding anger saturated in lake water.

“Affirm, Actual. Will do.” Kyle smoothly utters, taking his hand off his earpiece and fixing the black cord that descends from it so it won’t get in the way of his shirt collar.

Not thinking much of your absent footsteps, the Brit’s head tilts. His ball cap blocks out the sun from his eyes yet they still squint at your practically vibrating silhouette.

“You coming then, Love? Long walk.” Your hands snap to your pockets, the one finding the small coin immediately and bringing it into a tight grip. Suddenly, Gaz’s dark Adam’s Apple was the most offensive sight you’ve ever laid eyes on. “Best get to it, then.”

You can no more say you were fighting off a string of curses more than you were struggling against the rampage of your heart. Kyle just turns back around with a small smirk growing at the apparent slackness of your jaw; brown eyes crinkling. His internal scoreboard marks a point under his name.

Staying stationary for a good minute, stance tight and mind running, Laswell's words come back to encompass your consciousness in between the seething hatred you hold as the two of you become more separated. The price on your head—the threats to your mother’s safety as well as yours.

Your thighs tighten.

For better or for worse, you had to stick close to Kyle for the simple fact that he knew more about this than you did. Trained to be a killer and not hesitant to pull the trigger of a gun for the sake of his precious orders. Even now your eyes snap to the open expanse of the military base’s outer fields; the long grass and the dark ruts in the dirt. Blinking, your tense feet slam the ground as you start forward begrudgingly.

Fine. I’m an adult. I can handle it. But…maybe getting in the car would have been better than walking beside him. Your jaw clenches, not willing to admit that small fact to the man ahead of you.

“Do you get tired of being a piece of work?” You call loudly, catching up quickly at your pace as though the man was hanging back purposely, also knowledgeable of the situation.

He couldn’t just abandon his charge.

Kyle glances at your side profile, quirking a dark brow and sloping his chin. Being this close to him made your nose scrunch at the smell of his cologne, the scent not unpleasant but ultimately still attached to him.

“Actually, Ma’am, I take it as a compliment. Means I’m doing my job.” A pause as he fixes the hold on his gear, grunting. Not able to help himself now that the opportunity presents itself. “Do you?”

Keeping a wide berth between you too, your face tilts to the sky, finding the whizzing forms of water birds and growling like a dog choking on a bullet. The hatred in the air was palpable; none too eager for the job ahead.

My protection detail, you send long glances at Kyle thinking over the title again, studying his strong back and the sharp stab of his nose as it twitches to the scent of native switchgrass seeds. Keeping your studious attention far away from his brown orbs, you peel at the sides of your nails inside your pockets. The person I need protection from is already right beside me. How ironic can my life get?

But you can’t really be surprised, after all, you had expected to see him and the others again someday. Just…not like this. In the ground would have been preferable.

As you both walk in a strangling silence, your thoughts go back to your mother; wondering if she would be okay. The woman was far more stubborn than even you—there were few things that pulled her away from her work in helping others.

Taking one hand to itch at the skin under your left eye, you stifle a yawn.

At most, you’d text each other perhaps once a month. Quick updates and brief conversations about the weather like strangers. You couldn't talk about your nightmares or your father even though she’d been informed about the accusations on her deceased husband.

You didn’t know if the CIA agents had told her the specifics about how he died when they delivered a detailed condolence letter and forced signatures of silence. It would destroy her if they did.

Maybe I’ll call her when I get my phone from my nightstand back home.

You narrow your vision. An urge to hear your mom’s soothing voice hit you like an anvil. She couldn’t make this better, but she’d certainly be able to help.

Gaz’s eyes rove and observe the land, his combat boots leaving prints behind him. But his inspections always lead him back to you. His charge. The phantom from his past that had never really been forgotten just pushed to the side in between missions. The girl who seemed to not give a damn that he was the only person able to keep her alive at this point.

The line on Kyle’s forehead deepens.

Part of him was completely fine with keeping his voice in his throat; listening to the chatter of birds and the clink of his bags’ zippers as he carried the great weight of them with no complaint. Another piece, the loose, reliable, part of him that followed procedure was hesitant to try and articulate how dire this was out loud to you because that wasn’t how this usually went.

The target on your back was no joke, even Laswell knew it. But the soldier carries the burden of detail.

Would she take me seriously if I don’t try to tell her, is the question. The Sergeant makes a noise in the back of his throat.

First impressions are a lock and seal as he was sure you were well aware.

His lips part, half a word formed before the skin gradually falls shut again. Kyle takes a glance at you once more, looking at your wound-tight form and the utter mental exhaustion on your face. Despite his reservations about you, a sliver of regret finds his heart.

You hadn’t asked for any of this, and while you weren’t giving him much slack, his dry sarcastic nature hadn’t helped either. The two of you were just good at making the other go insane, no matter how much time you did or didn’t spend together.

Kyle would never admit it, but it slightly impressed him.

“Should be back in town near o-twelve-hundred.” He clears his throat, trying to lose the bleeding of his stoic words. Make them lighter; airier. Attempt to be cordial. “If we keep this pace, of course. Then I can set up and be out of your hair for a bit.”

Your feet had come to a slow drag-legged stop. Gaz blinks, noticing from the corner of his vision, and does the same—his tightness immediately going to confusion. He looks around the area, though spots nothing out of the ordinary.

Hell, what did I say now?

But he sees your distant gaze with a stilling of his facial features, gaze falling to what you were staring quite hard at.

You blink down at the corpse near the side of the road.

Its small body was covered in dirtied feathers; colors of orange, gray, black, and white speaking through despite the obvious decay. A beak so long it took up larger space than the skull.

Belted Kingfisher.

When an animal dies the eyes are always the first to go—maggots and flies, whatnot. Soft and squishy. You don’t know why, but looking down at that small, dead, bird you longed to know what its eyes had looked like. The color, the intelligent sheen of them. Now only a black eye socket gives its voided opinions like a mute judge.

You’d spotted it quite by accident, just looking over the landscape as the Brit tried to speak to you. A breeze ruffles the feathers that are left over the frail being and you find for the first time in a long while your head is completely silent.

Your muscles loosen.

“...Ma’am?”

Violently flinching, the brief contact to your shoulder is snapped back in an instant, Kyle going to splay the offending hand in a sign of no harm. Dark eyebrows tight. Taking down a full breath, you miss the concern in the Sergeant’s expression, the steady look. There’s a moment when the world holds its air; the animals nearby fall wholly still as the wind carries every unsaid word better than you can annunciate it.

Your stomach rolls at the reminder of his touch, even through layers of clothes. Gaz murmurs a question of which you ignore.

Shoving past him, on your way past his tilted face you growl upwards, “Keep your hands off of me, Garrick.”

You increase your walking speed, trying with all of your might to fight the impending explosion of anger and anxiety. It was like your hands wanted to grip him by his neck, shove him down to the floor and let him know what it felt like to hurt the way you do. For a moment glimpse the life draining from his amber optics.

But any sort of physical pain, or even death, could never amount to knowing what you’d gone through. Not to mention you’d probably get your ass handed to you in mere seconds.

Staring after with wide, creased, eyes, the Brit waits for a moment before he looks down at the small bird carcass you were entranced by moments prior.

His head tilts, lungs filling.

“...Poor bugger.” He frowns and observes the way you quickly walk on with emotion on his lips. Gaz sighs and shakes his head, raising a brow back down at the now-soulless body as the telltale signs of a migraine start to pulse. “Recon I’ll be ending up like you in a bit, Mate.”

He catches up easily, even with the weight of his bags and you have to wonder how anyone thought that this was a good idea.

The devil beside you walks so far removed from normal life that it astounds you, and the rest of the trip is stuck in an uncomfortable silence reserved for those who dislike one another.

Town can’t come soon enough, and you’re stopping at Hector’s Café along the way to your Estate.

“It’s best to go straight back,” you thin your lips and slip into the building, the door creaking behind you as Gaz waits at the entrance. “I need to secure the property ASAP.”

“You’ll get to wreck my home all you want in an hour.” Your backpack was on the main counter, and you walked to it slowly; drawing out the Sergeant's annoyance as much as you could. If you can’t hurt him physically at the moment, mentally was just as good a substitute. “I need my backpack.”

“Oh, you mean the one that left a dent in my skull.”

“Yes. I think I’ll end up keeping it as a family heirloom. Frame it maybe.”

“Ah, Lovely. Glad I can be a part of such a defining moment.” Strap in hand and a sarcastic retort on your breath, a great ruckus sound off from the backroom.

Before you can react your jacket sleeve is being pulled sideways, a form shoving itself in between you and the kitchen door. Your eyes widen, feet stumbling to a stop before adrenaline stabs itself into your heart.

“Son of a bitch!” Rushing out, Hector wields a skillet in one hand—raised halfway above his head with a rabid snarl. “You!” He points it at Kyle, who has a small pistol gripped in his hands; bags haphazardly dropped back near the entrance. Your lips pull to a smirk when the Brit’s ready stance lessens. His wide shoulders lower like a dog’s neck fur. “You think I don’t know a government conspiracy when I see it! I lived in Jersey, motherfucker! What have you done with ‘er?”

“Hector,” you peek over Garrick’s shoulder as the Sergeant spares you a look. “Easy with that, man….Aim for the throat, though, would you?”

The skillet lowers, bright eyes landing on you while yours stick to his growing smile and twitching mustache.

“Kid!” Loud laughs echo. “Holy hell, you scared the shit out ‘o me this morning. What was that all about?”

“Misunderstanding, Sir.” Gaz tries to explain, placing the pistol back into the belt of his pants as you clock it before stepping out from his shadow. It looked like an X12 to you.

When did he get that, your eyebrows tighten and store that thought for later. There might be a chance to use that against him if you could get your hands on it.

The Café owner glares at the Sergeant as you fix the backpack strap over your shoulder. “Did I ask you, Son? I’m speakin’ to the lady.”

“An Ex.” You lie smoothly, feeling Kyle’s shocked eyes on you instantly. Itching at the back of your neck, you feign embarrassment. “Cheated on me in high school. When he showed up, well…I did what I’d wanted to do for a while.”

Letting the sentence trail, you were excited for what came next. Genuine giddiness builds in your lungs; fighting a smile as the Brit stutters beside you. Gaz’s eyebrows pull up even higher.

“Cheated…” Hector’s accent becomes more prominent as you twist on a heel and begin heading to the door—only then do you anchor a hand to your mouth to stop the belly-deep laughter. “Oh, you’ve some nerve, showin’ back up, Son. How dare you make her see your face—!”

“Sir, I, bloody hell, I’m not—” Gaz grumbles, shooting heated glances at your disappearing form. “This isn’t….” Stuttering like a rookie. Everything in VIP Protection Training and his copious years in the army was pulling null.

But no one was ever pulling his strings like you and it’s only been a few hours.

“See you, Hec!”

“Hey! Come get this piece of trash out of my building.” Your face turns sideways, and Kyle notices the smirk immediately. His chest goes heavy with a wave of seething anger.

“C’mon then, Kyle. You heard the man, didn’t you?”

If looks could melt people like gold, you would be a puddle of great Midas's curse before your skin hit the air outside, kicking the Sergeant’s bags away with a foot.

Oh…she’s wicked, she is. The steps he takes are firm, a great cloud over his head as he re-situated his cap with taut fingers and grunts aggressively under his breath. Insulting him directly was one thing, but the chips at his character were cruel. Can I even do this? Hmm, Laswell might still be able to pull me out, let me join back up with the boys.

But everyone was counting on him for this and his stubborn side knew that he’d gone through far worse than a few verbal attacks. Physical strength was needed for this job, but many overlook the larger aspect. And if there was a single thing that Kyle Garrick was prideful about, it was his mental fortitude. Rare were the times that rigorous interrogation even put a dent into his psyche.

“Just hold out,” he grumbles, ignoring the Cafe owner’s now-known disgust and picking up his bags. Gaz almost felt regretful for being so swift to place his body in front of a possible threat but scolded himself for thinking that immediately. This was his job. “She’s just scared, yeah? Doesn’t want to be around the bloke who,” he slightly cringes and lets the building’s front door close behind him, seeing your jacket ahead and rubbing at the back of his neck. “Who shoved her in a fucking van and put a gun to her head…Christ, Kate, what were you thinking assigning me to this?”

For the remainder of the small journey, Gaz stayed behind you, calming down as your enjoyment of his torment swiftly ended. Small victories weren't worth it, especially when the Brit says nothing in retaliation. Did your little dig at his character really insult him that much? It wasn’t the worst thing you had thought you could say. Not by a long shot.

Sure it seemed that you could piss him off, even if he never snapped and exploded with anger—he didn’t seem the type beyond back-handed comments—but if he didn’t respond it made no difference.

You…you wanted to hurt him. Make Garrick suffer. You just didn’t know how to do it effectively, or if you could. Now you knew, though, that attacks on his person and morals were the way to go for quick results of muteness.

The iron gate of your home was up ahead, and with a delving of fingers, you produced a key from your back pocket, moving your wallet out of the way to grasp it firmly.

I want them all to suffer. Your mind wanders as you twist the lock, hearing the metal shriek at you in figurative suffering. Blinking, the shadow behind you causes your body to be hyper-aware. A plan forms grimly, and you have to think if you even have the courage to try it.

“Hm,” you huff, shoving open the gate and calling over your shoulder. “Close it behind you!” Tossing back the key.

Kyle catches it, you know, because of the small thump of material meeting a ready palm. A moment later you’re walking through a path of weeds and overgrown bushes, eyes scanning the hedges blandly. You hear the gate close and a moment later, footsteps.

Gaz twirls the key in between his fingers, trying not to say something about the state of the place. But his brown vision roves from one area to another with muted shock.

Didn’t expect this.

Everything was falling into disrepair, even the gargantuan mansion of white and black coloring which normally would have been a grand sight to anyone with sense. Windows were all shut, the lawn looking more like a forest; the concrete underfoot was layered with dirt and insects—grass bleeding into the cracks.

What should have been a multiple-million-dollar home was looking more like an abandoned lot.

Kyle turns his confused stare to the back of your head, looking down at the key in hand.

“Past its prime, I’ll say that.” He speaks to himself, keeping his manners despite the discourse between the two of you.

It was one thing to bark back and forth like animals, but another to involve the place where one lives. But, your family was well off. There was no reason for it to look like this.

“Any staff I should be aware of, then?” he needs to ask as you ascend the front steps to the double doors. “Gardeners,” Garrick glances quickly at the greenery and coughs, “or, butlers, maids…anything like that”

“Everyone quit because of the publicity.” Your voice is unusually distant, and you push aside a raggedy welcome mat to produce another key. This one is smaller and rustier, belonging to the main entrance. “Shocker, people didn’t like being harassed on their way to work by camera crews and news anchors. Didn’t hire after that.”

Kyle’s feet shift, a strange feeling entering his skin as he blinks at you.

You slip through the doorway first and immediately dart to the side table to the direct right—dropping your backpack dismissively with a quick, yet silent, slam. Heart jumping, your adrenaline spikes.

Normally the small table would be reserved for purses and other small belongings, but before Gaz can come into the mansion you grab the slick body of a penknife and shove it into your sleeve with twitching fingers. Eyes snapping to the corners of the large foyer and looking over the gray walls and navy curtains. Creaking hardwood.

“Nice place you got ‘ere,” Kyle tries to lighten the mood, if not for your stubborn sake than for his. Easier to get the job done if at least one person was willing to engage, and he’s willing to attempt it again. The bags in his hand are carefully placed down.

A hand snaps to your father’s gag and you yell when he rages, body shifting forward feebly before a shadow descends upon you. A swift force keeps you back, and your head snaps upwards.

“Been in the family forever.” You slowly slip the blade out, trading weight from one hip to another and keeping it hidden. “Not really mine, at the end of the day.”

The hand digs into your shoulder, forcing you to stay in your seat as your lips quiver. It’s not delicate, the hold, and when your eyes scrunch in pain, he somewhat lessons it though not enough to stop the sting.

A slight relief at the non-confrontational action lets Gaz force out a chuckle.

“Lots of places like that over in England—you have to wonder how they’re still standing, eh? Solid foundations.” A pause. “Proper interesting pieces of history.”

Never would the image of sepia-colored eyes like those leave you again. Inlaid in brown skin and below dark eyebrows.

You stop fidgeting, all thoughts for a moment stilling. What had he said?

“You—” Stopping yourself, you turn and tilt your head in his direction, watching the rise and fall of his chest as he looks around the stairs to the second level and the small seating areas. Your voice echoes like it usually does; like a ghost unwilling to go to rest. Kyle closes the door behind him with one hand, only looking at you directly when it’s fully shut.

“What’s that, Love?”

Your feet rearrange over the rug.

“You’re…interested in that kind of stuff?” Kyle sees your hands clench but thinks nothing of it. His curiosity fills his lungs when he becomes familiar with the deadly expression on your face.

The material of his clothes moves as he shrugs, turning his gaze away when he knows it makes you uncomfortable. Gaz wasn’t ignorant—he knew you didn’t like looking people in the eye. As his orbs find the dusty and dim chandelier hanging dangerously above them, he notices your eyes now settle back on him.

“Not overly, but I can say History was one of my best subjects back in Secondary Education—erm,” his lips pull tight, a tiny pinch of a smirk on his face, “high school as you call it.”

You fiddle with the weapon secretly, unblinking vision stuck to Kyle’s feet. His comment made you think about the assignments you still had to complete for college; the papers to write. After all, if you flunked out of all the courses, you’d never be able to take your father's place at the museum. It was your ultimate goal, at the end of the day. Become like him.

The inability to move made your teeth bite down, but common sense won over. You place your hand into your pocket and slip the penknife inside, your other holds itself out loosely.

I have to be smarter than that. Discreet.

But you really wished you could have slid the blade home.

“Key.” Gaz nods, moving over and dropping it into your awaiting clutch before you rip it away and toss it to the side table.

“Ma’am,” the Sergeant’s face twists, but you’re already stalking past him, going off deeper into the house. Brown eyes follow. “I know you don’t want me here,” his voice bounces at the stark emptiness of the mansion, “but the only reason I’m staying is to keep you safe. I’m not expecting you to—”

“East wing is all yours.” You’re halfway up the stairs and still going, feet silently stomping over the various moth-eaten rugs. But the man cannot see your face as he’s left with a line on his forehead and a blunt frown on his lips. So much for your few seconds of compliance. He’d thought he was getting somewhere.

“I’d rather be closer. Encase there’s—” Again, he’s cut off. There’s going to be a lot of that.

“Keep to it after your little exploration. And don’t try anything, my father installed security cameras.” You didn’t give away that you didn’t know how to operate them, but that was beside the point.

Reaching the top, you head to the west and disappear down a hallway. Kyle hears one last comment bounce.

“I leave at eight every morning!” He’s left alone with only faint light and silent walls.

But, with a shake of his head and the grabbing of bags at his feet, he can’t say he’s surprised.

Looking about, Kyle takes in the lack of personality and blandness all around, forgetting for a moment that this home once belonged to a late museum director. He had expected more character—more expression. Certainly more light.

This place was at a stand-still, like time didn’t begin or end in this house and it simply was.

He sighs, nodding. He’d just have to work with it. “East wing. Brilliant.”

His mind still held doubts about this—had ever since Price had given him the order straight from Kate. How can you protect someone that rightly hates your guts? You had more of a chance of tearing him a new one than he did of getting you to cooperate. And that was saying something, considering he was professionally trained in hand-to-hand.

Again, Gaz had to ask himself if he was capable of doing this job. He thinks back to that mission three years ago, expression pulling tight as he jogged up the stairs and took a swift right.

He regretted what had happened, yes, but at the end of the day, it was just another target who had gotten what he deserved. It was what the Sergeant did—got his hands dirty to clean up messes and keep everyone else safe.

Your father couldn’t have been any more of a good influence than a bad one. Gaz had seen the file on him. The countless dead.

He wasn’t a good man, how couldn’t you see that?

“Mate, that was her fuckin’ father.” Growling, that sliver of civilian common sense slithers back in like a rope around his neck when he goes deeper into the house, past various open doors that show meeting rooms, libraries, offices, and art rooms. No bedrooms yet. “Christ, you’re losing it. Man got his bloody head blown off right in front of ‘er.”

When had he become so desensitized to this?

His brown eyes glared at the floor when he realized he couldn’t remember being horrified by anything he had seen in the last few years.

Death was death—didn’t matter how bloody it was, or how drawn out. At the end, all of it was just red.

But he’d never taken a moment to think about how that would be for someone like you. Unused to violence. There was a grand question that Garrick still didn’t know the answer to. Were you a hostage in that little stunt, or were you just leverage?

The Captain knew the answer—leverage. There was never any intention to actually pull the trigger on you. Kyle would have flatly refused if there had been, as would Soap. Ghost was still an enigma, but part of the Sergeant wanted to believe that he didn’t want that either.

Samson Row.

An overwhelming hatred struck the back of his skull as he entered the first room he saw with a bed in it, setting his bags on the covers and pushing his fingers to his nose bride. Eyebrows pull in.

No use getting like this over a dead man. Stay focused.

His fingers had only just begun to toss off the duffel bag from over his back when he first saw it.

His hands paused, body going as still as a stick when he breathed in tightly.

It was a portrait of your family. Picturesque. Mother on the left father on the right, and you—younger, of course—in the middle. Gaz blinks away to study the rest of the room.

It was incredibly large, with chairs and a couch covered by white cloth to imitate oddly-shaped ghosts and the same navy curtains over a wall of nearly all window panes. And yet no personal belongings other than the picture.

Brown eyes filter back, staring long at the small girl with a wide smile; the mother with a hand on her shoulder, and the father looking down at his daughter with a nearly missed look of adoration. Garrick half expected the image to bed down and kiss you on the forehead.

Looking away with a clenched jaw, he huffs.

Wordlessly, the Sergeant once more grabs his belongings and walks out the door.

—

You shook above the bathroom toilet, your breaths a heaving mess of warring instincts. Take down air or let the swirling of your gut cease—the offers were tempting. You’d been in here for most of the day, knees grinding into the tile with the efficiency of a blunt chisel; clothes ruffled as your jacket lay tossed on the floor back in your dark room.

Throwing your empty stomach up.

Struggling to think over the day, you force yourself back from the white porcelain, shuffling on jerking legs to rest your back on the opposite wall.

“He’s in my house. Oh, Dad, one of them is in your house.” Fingers weave through locks and clench tight, hitched words loud in the silence you’d grown to comply with like an old God. Cryptid horrors that stalk the hallways that you see from the corners of your eyes, ghosts that won't leave. “I couldn't do it, why couldn’t I just try?”

The penknife. It would have been instantaneous.

But you knew deep down you’d never even be able to get close.

Sweating and panting, you can almost hear him walking the halls, studying the layout with invasive digits. A parasite. And you’d just let him in.

The price on your head was scary, sure, but there was already a threat in your very home; learning the rooms like he had any right to be here—like he knew the memories that lived in the walls. Holidays were spent in the main living room, meals made as a family in the kitchen as the butlers watched with happy eyes. The man-made pond in the back behind a wall of green trees because your mother loved to watch the birds.

This house was generations of your very bloodline. Stories along every surface. History.

“He can’t be here.” You gasp, curling inward as you try and suck down larger breaths. Trying to calm yourself down with reassurance. “He’ll leave soon. He has too. He will.”

Just wait until Mom gets back, she’ll make them go away. The thought makes air return to your lungs; shaking come to a drawn-out ceasing point. Blinking, you let your hands fall to your lap, body slouching forward. She’ll make it all go away.

When you find the strength to rise, your feet only stumble slightly, propelling you out of the bathroom towards your bare-bones room. A bed, nightstand, dresser, and couch are the only articles of furniture seen outwardly; a fireplace set into the wall with a rug by it. Curtains drawn closed and smelling of charcoal and old linens.

Peeling back paint, you stare heavily at the nightstand’s drawer, seeing the copper handle and thinking. But you shake your head and dispel the thoughts.

The acidic taste in your mouth made you smack your lips, almost enough to make you want to gag again. But as easily as the high of injected panic came, it went with a low of immeasurable depths. Still, though, your fingers twitched with unruly nerves; anxious at every creak in the wood outside the door.

It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair.

Exiting your room, your socked feet know where to step so the wood doesn’t talk back at you, one hand rubbing up and down your face to bring the aliveness back. You needed coffee. Something with caffeine or an immensely high sugar content to keep the rest of this at bay.

As you turn a corner, your stomach grumbles, sweatpants bunched at your ankles. Food too, you decided.

Walking through the large, arched, entry to the kitchen, you make your way through in complete blackness. You frown, though aren’t surprised you’d spent most of the day inside your room—past the fabric barrier, the hidden French doors to the patio let in the faint light of a dying sun.

Around seven, if you had to guess. The loss of time to you should have been concerning, but you had in fact grown used to it.

Year number one after your father’s death was…really nothing more than a blank slate. But you didn’t want to remember any of that, truth be told.

Stumbling to the fridge, you grip the handle and pull.

“Bit late for supper.” Yelling, you jerk your hand back and whip to the shadow in the entrance.

The light snaps on with a flick of a finger, and the sheepish smile on Gaz’s face leaves vexation perforating the large room.

“Shit, sorry.”

“Do you mind, Garrick?” Your eyes go to his chest, looking away just as quickly when you spot he’d taken off his outer later and was only in the white t-shirt that hugs his physique. The army pants still remained. “What are you even doing down here? I told you to stay on your side.”

“Not really able to do my job from the corner, yeah?” He walks closer, noticing the layer of dust over the gas stove, and raises a brow; wisely knowing not to comment. “Heard you comin’ down, thought I’d make sure everything was solid.”

“I’m fine.” You take out an old carton of milk, nose wrinkling at the smell emanating from the interior. Kyle’s eyes narrow, crossing his arms over his chest. “Now leave.”

You were too tired for this.

Slamming the milk back into the fridge and closing the door, you plan to make the trip back to your room on an empty stomach. Kyle clears his throat, seeing an opportunity presenting itself.

I have to get her to at least tolerate me.

He’d take every occasion he could get.

“How about I have a go at it?” He speaks quickly as you freeze in the entryway, light from the kitchen spilling out into the hall. “Sandwiches?”

Your gaze stays dead ahead, numbly stuck to the paint of the wall as if it was going to move and entrap you. Lips pulling back you feel your heart skip a beat.

Kyle continues, hopeful.

“Can’t say I'm an expert at it, but I spent a good few weeknights fixin’ my own meals on Base.” You can hear him moving behind you, opening the fridge back up, and grabbing the few items you had that weren't expired. Opening cupboards that your father opened. Grabbing pans that your mother made eggs in. “...Ma’am? That alright?”

Your eye flinches minutely, cheek pulling upward in response. Yet the churning in your stomach was volatile, and if you went another hour without food you’d probably be passing out every time you stood up. What harm was there in taking advantage of the man? A meal was a meal, and you’d only had coffee today anyways.

Saying nothing, you take one step backward and pivot.

Gaz watches in shock, not expecting you to take him up on his offer. By the heat in your eyes, he supposed you wished you didn’t.

I didn’t see her at all after she disappeared into her room—not even when I was doing a sweep. The Sergeant had memorized the entire mansion layout in only two hours, going into every room except the one that had been closed tight. Yours.

It wasn’t hard for him, though it was tedious the fourth run of the place. He’d counted every window and every entrance or exit door and had locked every one that led outside.

But he kept re-walking past that closed door; his feet taking him back even as his mind stayed focused.

Gaz’s hand had been poised to knock at one point during that time period but had only stayed stationary before it fell back down to his side. It was best not to push too hard. Inch before the mile.

In the kitchen, he sees you slip onto the island bar stool, always keeping a side-eye on his hands as they dig through sparse ingredients.

Egg sandwich it is, then.

Your voice rasps out, “I don’t remember ‘cook’ being in the detail description.”

“Well, I sure hope it wasn’t.” Kyle chortles. His brown optics spare you a quick dart, seeing your form tense over the marble countertop as he swishes away dirt from the stove; placing a pan on top. You seem subdued…fingers twitch over the handle before his eagerness to earn your favor slowed. Sickly.

Your skin is sunken, eyes blinking fast and snapping back and forth at every sound his body makes as if he’d pounce on you. Keeping an ever-heavy glare to where his pistol was sitting in the clutch of his belt—visible from over his shirt.

The Brit swallows and looks back.

“My job’s just to make sure you live another day, yeah?” The man’s voice lowers and you look to the coffee bar near the abandoned family table. “I’ll be in the background the entire time.” Leaving the chair, you go to it and speak as the sound of cracking eggshells hits your ear like a caving skull.

“I have rules.”

Garrick nods firmly, but you don’t see it as you open a bag of fresh grounds and grab a mug.

“Copy, Ma’am. It’s your house—I’ll follow what I’m told.” He shifts his arms into a crossed position and leans back against the island as the eggs sizzle. You know he wants to say more, and too tired to care to give a retort or interrupt him, you let Gaz continue. “But I’m not willing to let that interfere with my mission. Any order I’m given’ll override what you tell me if it has to, even if it’s dodgy.”

You watch dark liquid fill the coffee pot in a deluge of blackness like a wave of ink, and with that inkiness, the pit in your stomach gets larger.

You could always poison him. Your eyes blink, hearing the slight beep of the machine in front of you as you grip your mug.

Nightshade.

“Well, then,” Kyle looks for plates and finds a stack in a cupboard near the entrance. “What do I need to know, Ma’am?”

Hemlock.

“I don’t like people messing with my things,” you level, filling your cup to the brim as Gaz takes the pan off the heat; putting out the flame. “Stay out of my room and the room next to it if you insist on walking around.”

Choosing the opposite end of the wide island, you put your cup down and sit. A plate with a piece of bread with the yellow and white sight of scrambled eggs is slid into view. Kyle does what’s best and goes as far away from you as possible to eat his fill as well.

The built man stands.

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” he admits, “I’ll be taking a look around every day, but I doubt anyone would try and break in.”

The fingers which had picked up a small piece of egg paused with it halfway to your mouth.

Castor Bean.

“Why do you say that?”

“The curtains.” You spare a glance at his nose, watching him take a bite out of the bread and act like the answer was obvious. He swallows and you follow the action with a tight throat. “Erm, no offense, Ma’am,” you raise a brow slowly, “but am I safe to assume you never open them? Least, not all the way?”

“What do you think?” You eat your food and take a long sip of your drink, downing half the mug in one go. You really just wanted him to disappear like a bad dream.

Large quantities of Daffodil.

“Less of a chance of anyone else knowing where your room is—would take too long to figure out. Wasting time like that isn’t how foreign cells operate…quick and easy, y’know?... Any others?” Kyle finishes his plate quickly, moving to place it in the sink; not wanting to dwell on the comment.

You take a few bites of your own, wondering silently how he can eat so quickly, and nod.

“If you hear me screaming in the middle of the night, leave me alone.”

The air thickens.

Kyle blanks as you continue eating slowly, taking brief intermissions between bits to sip down more coffee. The tired moments of your sluggish eyes and twitching fingers. You don’t think to explain further, content to hear in those few moments absolutely nothing besides the beating of your own heart.

Rosary Pea. Induces tremors, high heart rate, and burning in the back of the throat. Fatal.

Your mother also liked her plants, though you doubted the fauna in the back garden was still alive. You hadn’t bothered to keep it up after the gardener quit.

“I’m…not following.” Gaz scratches at his chin, face pulled back in confusion, lightly shaking his head. “Screaming?”

“Screaming.” Taking the empty plate, you wipe at your mouth with the back of your hand. “In the night. I was quite clear.” A devious smirk whittles itself over your flesh like wood. “You’ve heard my scream before, you’ll recognize it. Sound carries.” Dismissively you toss your free hand. “As I said, it’s an old property.”

Gaz tries his best to not engage, but the words he’d been wanting to tell you slither off his tongue after a moment's thought. He had to make you understand. Strain forms again.

His head shakes with a slight parting to his lips. No matter what, every conversation always led back to an argument. “Do you think this is a joke?”

You’re walking back to your seat with the coffee pot in hand, scooping up your mug with the intention of bringing both back to your room.

You don’t answer right away, causing the man to call your name sternly; seriously.

“I hate you. That’s not a joke.” Your words bounce, not at all hollow like the wound in your heart. Violent and utterly true.

You didn’t want this man around—you didn’t want him in your house, you didn’t want him in your city, you didn’t want him living.

Walking off, the suffocating air trails after you as you disappear into the darkness, avoiding the truth.

But this situation is not a joke. Not at all, but you can never say that out loud. Where would your thin bit of control go? The brief moments of pleasure when you make Kyle’s patience and lax nature devolve into annoyance—even anger.

The words follow after you in a deep, aggravated, sigh.

“Yeah, trust me, Love, I’m well aware.”

Cold was a day in hell before you admitted to this boy you were terrified.

But how many more days could you keep that act up? Three? Five? Ten? How long was this even going to go on?

Your mind was scattered, torn between duty and self-preservation. Killing the Sergeant would lead you down a dark path, one you weren't sure you could take by yourself. But was that justice?

Is that what Dad would want? You have to ask yourself as you make your way back to your room in pitch blackness, guided only by the old walls of a home even more dented and destroyed than you were.

But the worst part was that you didn’t even know the answer anymore. And everybody who could help was limited to a stray cat that didn’t like you and a mother who left you here alone during your darkest moments.

The house was filled with ghosts, but you’d never felt more alone.

TAGS:

@fatunn, @mh073099, @littlegaypng, @untitled69555, @babybooday, @caffeine-anxiety-and-randomfacts, @underrated-youngster, @jupiterredolent, @idocarealot, @karnellius, @latteisaqueen, @petrat97, @jade-jax, @roosterr, @escapefromrealitysm, @renaich, @kysa32, @human-turtle, @aurora-basin, @terumisworld, @violet-phantoms, @xxfeelmylovexx, @neelehksttr, @nezukos-number1fan, @20forty9, @mdjenjen, @marrianena, @angeldaisyy, @alhaizen, @homicidal-slvt, @emerald-valkyrie, @raissadoesthingslmao, @misfne, @hollyhopesworld, @wasteland-babe, @330bpm-whiplash, @anna-banana27, @justherebecausesafarisucks, @sunnynomoar, @doggydale, @thecrispypotatochip, @74478328, @blueoorchid, @das-conk-creet-baybee, @dragonfruit1985, @chestnutsandcurls, @vamqyr3, @lavalleon, @nebula67, @urfavsunkissedleo

427 notes · View notes

eggymf-archived · 2 years ago

Text

of paper planes and wildflowers; 08

ft. ominis gaunt with f!reader (series)

chapter warnings: injured beasts, not proofread, unedited

chapter summary: when the opportunities that present themselves lead to a path of possible happiness, it’s up to him to decide whether he’ll finally seize it for himself or let his inner turmoil and insecurities consume him once again

word count: 5.7k

a/n: this chapter nearly made me punch the wall for all the good reasons :D

main masterlist || series masterlist || AO3

“...Can you even believe that?! I– Hey!”

You felt your arm get grabbed by a certain red-haired Weasley, pulling you out of harm’s way from colliding towards another student who was walking at a snail’s pace in the crowded hallways. Taken by surprise, your dazed eyes widened in temporary alertness before morphing back into its droopy state. You sighed, shaking your head rather aggressively to keep yourself awake. You had been barely sleeping for the past few days and it was clearly evident on your appearance: dark undereye circles, and skin devoid of its usual healthy flush and glow.

“Are you sure you’d rather not be in the hospital wing right now? Bloody hell, even an Inferius looks livelier than you!” Garreth commented, his eyebrows furrowing in concern as soon as he pulled you to the side of the corridor. You looked back at him with hesitant eyes, remembering the workloads that had been assigned recently for the weekend. In silent defiance towards the current state of your body, you uncorked a vial containing some Wide-Eye Potion, chugging it down in huge gulps.

“You can’t keep drinking vials of those!” Garreth chastised while you looked at him in feigned innocence.

“...Whoops?” you giggled sheepishly. The red-haired Gryffindor crossed his arms while half-heartedly glaring at you.

“Oh fine!” you grumbled, giving into his concerned glare. “I’ll rest up this weekend. I promise. No more late night explorations until I've rested enough!”

You glanced up at his pair of emerald eyes, who were gazing upon you in obvious skepticism.

“I sure hope you do. I won’t give that potion you keep on requesting if you don’t,” he sighed. Garreth reached for his bag, grabbing a flask containing his own improved antiseptic potion and a vial of dittany essence.

“I hope this’ll help the two unicorns you found,” Garreth said while handing over the potions to you. “That way, you wouldn’t have to sacrifice your health too much.”

“Not to worry, Garreth! They’re in good hands!” you grinned. The emerald-eyed male’s expression turned apologetic.

“I’m sorry. I normally accompany you on these travels, but Aunt Matilda has been watching me like an Augurey for the past few weeks,” he grumbled guiltily, recalling the stern expression on Professor Weasley’s face upon finding out the number of house points he had lost no thanks to his shenanigans. Poor Garreth now has extra assignments to do as punishment and was expected to inform his aunt consistently regarding his whereabouts.

“Well, if that’s the case, I could always count on you to help me brew some potions for my noble cause?” you piped, patting his arm while looking at him expectantly with hopeful eyes.

“Oh stop it you! That's not gonna work the second time!” he scoffed jokingly, earning a lighthearted yet tired chortle from you. The both of you walked to your next class, chattering rather animatedly despite your lack of sleep. A certain freckled brunette eyed both you and Garreth’s retreating figure while his opal-eyed companion had his arms crossed as he stood beside his best friend with an evident yet subtle scowl on his face — not directed towards you and the young Weasley, but towards the brunette himself who has been the bane of his existence for several days and counting.

“They seem pretty close. Way too close for comfort, don’t you think?” Sebastian queried with a seemingly oblivious yet underlying teasing tone, eyeing the blonde-haired male for any of his signature violent reactions whenever he was teased.

“Oh for Merlin’s sake, they’re best friends!” Ominis exasperatedly exclaimed. “Why is that suddenly an issue?!”

“Alright, alright! Calm down, will you?”

“Calm down? You’ve been pulling my leg for days! Do you honestly expect me to be in a good mood?!”

“In my defense, this is for your own good, my poor lovesick friend. Denial is a painful struggle, don't you think?”

“The only painful struggle here is your incessantly insufferable assumptions, Sebastian!”

The onslaught of their rather pointless bickering continued with Ominis’ face turning into a ripe tomato out of sheer annoyance while Sebastian snickered at the poor Gaunt’s plight. Much to Ominis' chagrin, Sebastian was well capable of piecing the puzzle pieces together even without informing him of the entirety of the situation. The brunette was aware that there was something going on between you and Ominis. In fact, there were several tell-tale signs of the young Gaunt's hidden affections towards you that Ominis himself doesn't even notice.

The most recent incident, however, was the most ridiculously obvious one to date. And no, it wasn't the silly little moment that Sebastian had walked into in the Alchemy Classroom — this scenario was much more unexpected and out-of-character to the point it rendered Sebastian absolutely gobsmacked. It happened when Ominis had absentmindedly voiced his thoughts upon hearing your boisterous laughter during practical lessons in Defense Against the Dark Arts Class when Leander Prewett ended up flying back after a failed attempt in casting Bombarda Maxima.

"She laughs like a bloody seagull, but oddly enough, it's rather adorable."

Needless to say, Ominis was absolutely mortified upon realizing that he had said his thoughts out loud by accident. To make matters worse, Sebastian, who remained vigilant the entire time, had heard it loud and clear.

As the blonde-haired male oldest friend, Sebastian had seen the many sides of Ominis throughout the years. However, this was an entirely different version of Ominis that even the brunette wasn't accustomed to. Watching him cluelessly pine for one of their fellow classmates who seems just as whipped as he is was agonizing to watch. Hell, even Sebastian landed himself a date with Skylar Evans thanks to Ominis’ emotionally mature advice, yet the poor man was unable to apply his own words of wisdom onto himself. Much to Sebastian's humorous pleasure, the whole scenario itself resembles a comedically-written romantic novel that were commonly read by young ladies, and he was not about to discard that thought anytime soon.

Sebastian glanced at the sulky opal-eyed male beside him, stifling his laughter as he remembered Ominis’ predicament during that one class in Defense Against the Dark Arts. However, his thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a rather sharp blow to his poor unsuspecting rib — Ominis’ infamous elbow jab of death: perfect for silencing insolent little lads who dare to incur his wrath.

“OW! BLOODY HELL, OMINIS!”

…..Scurvy grass, lovage, sneezewort, and…. Frog brains. Eugh.

Ominis grimaced as he read through his potions textbook, mulling over the ingredients needed for a Befuddlement Draught: the potion he was supposed to procure today as his additional assignment output. Meanwhile, you occupied the other burner on the same table. Potions Class had ended a while ago, and you immediately seized the opportunity in brewing the potion you had been intensively researching on while you were tutoring Ominis. You brought out your own set of jars containing the necessary ingredients alongside a leather-bound notebook that contained your own written notes. Before you could get started on your own potion, you headed over to Ominis.

“Got all your ingredients ready, I hope?” you asked. He hummed in response, taking out several jars from his own potions kit.

“I’m not sure if I have enough frog brains though. I’d rather not stick my finger inside the jar to check. Do I have enough?” Ominis queried, showing you a jar containing an ample amount of the said ingredient. A snort escaped from your nostrils.

“What? You’re afraid of touching frog brains?”

“They’re disgusting and have a pungent fishy smell. I’d rather not,” the misty-eyed male cringed. “So, do I have enough or not?”

“Relax. You do,” you chucked, checking his other ingredient jars. “Let me just set the flame for you. Will you be alright brewing the potion this time mostly on your own? I have to brew… Something.”

“The same potion you’ve been trying to brew for the past few days?”

“Unfortunately, yes. It’s trickier than I thought,” you sighed, scratching the back of your head sheepishly.

“Who would’ve thought that blood-restorative potions for beasts would be so difficult to procure…” you bemoaned to yourself.

“...I’ll just inform you if I need some help then,” Ominis replied, choosing not to pry despite his piqued curiosity.

“Alright then. I'll be here if you need me.”

You flipped your notebook to the necessary page, finding a recipe that had multiple cross-outs and note scribbles at the side of each error to the recipe that you had found in the beast section of the library. The list itself was rather intimidating, taking up almost an entire roll of parchment even with your tiny handwriting. The Blood-Restorative Potion for Unicorns — that was what you were attempting to brew for Merlin knows how many times for the last few days and it was the primary cause of your sleepless nights.

You would've spoken to Professor Howin instead regarding the matter, but the situation was far too dire for the two poor beasts. The last thing you would want is a poor unicorn mare and its foal dying of a deadly infection or blood loss by merely waiting for authorities to take action. You'd rather just nurse the poor beasts back to health on your own. After all, you are a well-researched Ravenclaw who is more than capable of taking such matters into your hands.

So how did you actually manage to ensnare yourself within this particularly complicated predicament?

It all began during the first night of your long-awaited freedom. After many troubling events that had recently occurred, you were in dire need of being out and about in the wilderness armed with just your wand, a satchel containing your essentials, and your trusty broom. Who would've thought you'd find yourself rescuing a locked up unicorn mare and its foal in one of the abandoned poacher camps within the Forbidden Forest?

By Merlin's name, the two poor beasts were in a dreadful state when you had found them: while the foal suffered minor injuries and was severely malnourished, the mare suffered greater injuries that involved several deep punctures and gashes on its flesh, while its mane, tail and horn had been cut off. While unicorn hair and horns were common potion ingredients, unicorn blood wasn't — the mere fact that you had found signs that depict the extraction of its life essence was horrifying.

Thankfully, despite the darkness that had enshrouded the place, you successfully found a temporary haven for the unicorns: a nearby cave that was well concealed behind thickets of trees and tall bushes. The thought of two defenseless creatures being exploited in such a cruel way set the blood within your veins aflame with both anger towards their perpetrators, and fiery determination to nurse both of them back to health to the best of your abilities.

Furrowing your brows in concentration, you followed the improved recipe that you had written down, ticking each step that you had done with your self-inking quill to ensure that no step had been missed. You carefully dropped ingredient upon ingredient right into your cauldron, stirring it every now and then according to the instructions. Finally, you turned the flame off, allowing the concoction to cool: if the liquid turns into a fine silvery liquid with glittery gold specks when it reaches room temperature, then the potion has been brewed correctly.

You were about to check on Ominis' cauldron, only to find that he is currently decanting a promising dark green concoction into an empty vial.

"You actually managed to brew it without my help this time!" you genuinely exclaimed out of happiness. A faint blush rose to his cheeks as he placed the cork onto the vial before heading to the Potions Master's table. Handing over his vial, Ominis patiently awaited Professor Sharp’s verdict. The said professor nodded in approval, scribbling an “O” beside Ominis’ name in his records.

“Well done.”

A wide-eyed Ominis walked back to the table while you, his tutor, cracked a proud grin at the sight of him who was still rather awestruck from one of Sharp's rare words of encouragement.

“I say, keep this up and you probably won't need my assistance the next time you brew a potion!” you chirped.

“I suppose my tutor's an excellent guide herself,” Ominis commented, a gentle smile gracing his lips. You felt heat rush to your face, wordlessly falling into a daze as you stared at his expression. An awkward silence fell between the both of you, and the present smile upon his lips morphed into a smirk.

"You do know that I can feel you staring, right?"

You cleared your throat immediately, masking your embarrassment with your usual display of bashfulness.

“No, I'm not!” you half-heartedly denied while he chuckled. You peered down at your cauldron, spotting several gold flakes swirling around a shimmery silver liquid. Clapping in excitement, you took out various empty flasks from your potions kit to properly store the entire batch of potion you had just brewed.

At long last, it was finally a success.

The faint sound of footsteps pacing onto stone floors echoed throughout the walls of the Undercroft. Ominis had been loitering within the room for quite some time, deep in thought for the good majority of the entire duration. He had managed to sneak out of the Slytherin Common Room and right into his sanctuary, skillfully avoiding the prefects that were on patrol. Holding a piece of parchment with one hand and his wand with the other, he finally seized the opportunity to read Anne's reply in peace.

Ominis, I must say, I hadn’t expected you out of all people to be facing love-related problems. But I suppose there’s a first time for everything. Albeit the surprise, it truly warms my heart to know that you’ve managed to find someone that you genuinely fancy. She seems like a fine young lady, if you ask me! As for my advice, please do take it with a grain of salt. Preferences do vary from person to person, after all. If I were in your shoes, I think it’d be wise to advance forward with your so-called “relationship”, especially if you are now well aware of her true identity. It need not be a blatant introduction right in her face, of course. Perhaps you could slowly try to integrate yourself within her day-to-day life first by advancing your status from a mere pen-pal to let’s say a secret admirer? Something of the sort. That’d give you an opportunity to think things through if you’re still hesitant. It may not be easy for you to push through with such matters, but I believe in your astute judgment. Also, I hope you aren’t berating yourself throughout this entire situation. Knowing you, you’re probably doing something of the sort. This is a reminder that you still deserve love regardless of your past. That aside, I wish you the best of luck! May this string of fateful encounters lead you to a path of genuine happiness. Sincerely, Anne P.S. If you do push through with your plan of possible courtship, do drop by in Feldcroft with her, won't you? I’d love to meet her!

The poor Gaunt’s heart hammered at Anne’s post script, blushing miserably at the possible scenario. Bashfulness aside, the thought of revealing his identity to you made his stomach churn: he hadn't the slightest idea as to how you'd react to the cold hard truth. Although the rift between the both of you were starting to lessen surprisingly thanks to Sharp assigning you to tutor him for potions, he was still not fully convinced on whether he should proceed with his pursuits or not.

If only there was a window of opportunity where the both of you could actually know each other on a slightly deeper and meaningful level.

Ominis sighed in defeat, heading out of the Undercroft to sneak back into the common room. Perhaps if he rested for the night, there'd be a better idea that would grace his head the next time he ponders about a solution to this predicament. The sound of the clock mechanism echoed throughout the stone stairwell of the Undercroft as the door opened. Ominis exited, stepping onto the marble floors of the Defense Against the Dark Arts Tower. He casted a Disillusionment Charm for good measure, deftly roaming through the dimly lit corridors once more.

Unbeknownst to him, aside from the several prefects roaming about, there was another charm-concealed student who was, like Ominis, sneaking around past curfew. His sharp sense of smell caught a whiff of a familiar floral perfume, and he noticed that the person was heading straight towards the staircase leading towards the exit of the tower. Ominis followed the scent, casually stopping right beside the person, who was mumbling to themselves.

“.... Two prefects. Now how do I—”

“Sneaking out of the castle, are you?”

“Mother of—!” you squeaked, revealing both of yourselves to one another. You glared at the misty-eyed male. Before you could utter anything, you were suddenly interrupted.

“Hello? Is anyone up there?” one of the prefects called, heading up to the second floor. Panickedly, the both of you casted the Disillusionment Charm on yourselves once again, creeping alongside the marble balustrade in hopes of not getting noticed.

While the prefect headed towards the corridor far from the stairs, the both of you immediately headed down to the first floor. You fired a spell towards a wall right at the far opposite of the exit, effectively distracting the other prefect that was patrolling around. You deftly pushed the large door open, exiting the tower successfully and headed towards several bushes while the young Gaunt followed suit. Both regaining visibility once again, you turned to Ominis, placing your hands onto the sides of your waist.

“To answer your question just now before you nearly broke my 2-year streak of not being caught, yes I am sneaking out,” you huffed, furrowing your eyebrows. “Didn't expect you to be out and about past curfew, Gaunt. Why are you sneaking around, anyways?”

“Well, I couldn't sleep,” Ominis nonchalantly reasoned.

“That's it?” you deadpanned.

“What? Were you expecting something more?”

“Seems too simple of a reason to risk yourself getting caught by prefects, don't you think?”

“Believe it or not, I am, in fact, a rather simple young man,” the alabaster-skinned male quipped while you scoffed in amusement.

“Really now? That's a surprise,” you mumbled.

“And I'm assuming that your present late-night activities have something to do with the potion that you brewed earlier?”

“....As a matter of fact, yes.”

“Pray, do tell. What exactly did you brew back in the classroom?”

You paused, contemplating on whether or not you should reveal your agenda for the night. The opal-eyed male raised an eyebrow, expectantly waiting for your answer. You grinned as an idea dawned upon you. You summoned your broom and mounted onto the seat.

“Fancy yourself a trip to the Forbidden Forest tonight?” you offered. “That's where I'm headed, actually.”

“...The what?!”

“Oh, come on! Don't tell me you're scared now? After all that sneaking around and you want to retire back into the dungeons?”

“I'm not scared!” Ominis grumbled, crossing his arms.

“Then don't just stand there, silly! Hop on!”

Hesitance grabbed a hold of Ominis, temporarily rooting him onto the ground.

“May this string of fateful encounters lead you to a path of genuine happiness.”

Recalling Anne’s recent message, Ominis sighed defeatedly.

“...I can't believe I'm doing this,” he mumbled, mounting onto your broom. He shyly snaked his arms around your waist, securing himself in place. Taking your wand out of your inner pocket, you muttered a spell, turning the both of you invisible for a certain period of time.

“Ready?” you asked, pushing your bashfulness aside as you felt the warmth from his body seep onto your back.

“Ready.”

A loud thump on the ground was soon heard, followed by a whoosh as the both of you soared into the night sky. Ominis let out an uncharacteristic yelp as you leaned forward, prompting him to tighten his hold as he felt a stronger gust of wind hit his face. He felt his heart pound against his chest out of sheer anxiety.

“You’re going way too fast!” he cried out while you laughed out heartily at his plight, maintaining the breakneck speed. The both of you headed up north, passing over most of the thick fog blanketing the Forbidden Forest. Ominis felt himself calm down as he started getting used to the speed of your broom.

You then spotted the small clearing where you often landed, and without warning, you maneuvered your broom to swoop down. The terrified screams of the poor Gaunt behind you caused you to guffaw boisterously at his priceless reaction. Soon, the whooshing of the air slowly died down as you leaned back to make the speed dwindle down significantly. The moment Ominis felt the ground beneath his feet, he quickly dismounted, patting himself and fixing his hair while you pointed your wand at your broom, vanishing it out of sight.

“That wasn’t so bad now, was it?” you giggled.

“Wasn’t?! We could’ve died!” Ominis hissed. “I could've been killed!”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, pull yourself together! Now, the cave’s not far from here. Best be on our way, hmm?” you said, patting his shoulder and heading towards the supposed designation.

“This better be worth my time,” the misty-eyed male muttered grumpily, tailing after you while he held his blinking wand up.

A deathly silence loomed over the dreary-looking place aside from the audible crunching of leaves and stray twigs beneath your feet as you and Ominis traversed through the cold, dark forest. The crunching of leaves soon turned into faint footsteps against a solid surface, much to your relief.

“We’re here. It's just right ahead,” you informed Ominis, walking into the cave. The sound of dripping water echoed throughout the natural tunnel-like structure. Soft whinnies were soon heard alongside the sound of hooves trotting on grass from the end of the tunnel, much to Ominis’ surprise.

Upon reaching the end of the tunnel, you were met with a large open space with a large snakewood tree rooted in the middle. The moonlight peered through the small opening from the top of the cave, shining its strong rays of light directly onto the lone tree. Beside the tree lies a small spring, where the unicorn mare and its foal were currently drinking water from. Upon seeing your arrival, the unicorn foal cantered towards you in excitement while you quickly conjured up some food for it, stroking its mane affectionately as it began to feast on its treats that were laced with the potion you had brewed earlier. Much to your relief, the foal hadn't noticed any unusual taste from the pellets. Ominis quietly approached you, still unsure of what was happening. You grabbed his wrist, guiding his hand towards the foal until the skin of his palm came into contact with its short mane and small horn.

“... Unicorns!” Ominis breathed out while you smiled at his excited reaction. Ominis gingerly glided his hand across the fur of the young beast, only to realize that it had several line-like scabs littering its skin. His brow furrowed both in confusion and concern.

“Its skin… What happened?” Ominis asked while you sighed.

“Poachers. I found both of them in one of the abandoned camps nearby in a cage,” you explained grimly, attempting not to divulge into the explicit details of the beasts' prior suffering. Ominis pondered, putting two and two together.

It all made sense now.

“So they were injured when you found them and you've been treating their wounds for the past few days,” Ominis concluded.

“Yes, that's right,” you said, rather impressed with how perceptive the pale-skinned male was was. “And the potion I was brewing is a Blood-Restorative Potion for Unicorns.”

“That bad, huh,” the young Gaunt sighed sorrowfully. “How horrible.”

The unicorn mare approached you, laying onto its side for you to inspect its large wound. You gently removed the protective linen that rested atop the wound, revealing a stitched gash that was looking far less grim the last time you had seen it. You opened your satchel, grabbing a flask of the antiseptic potion Garreth had concocted and poured it gently onto the wound, watching it fizz up slightly. You then opened up the vial containing dittany essence, applying it in sufficient amounts to prevent a nasty scar from forming.

Meanwhile, Ominis knelt over near the unicorn's head, giving it an experimental pat on its neck before stroking it affectionately. He immediately took note of the mare's extremely short mane and the absence of its horn, merely feeling a stump on its head. His heart broke at the realization of the harrowing incident this unicorn must’ve gone through.

“Even your horn and hair wasn't spared…” he spoke softly towards the beast, who neighed in response.

“She'll be fine now. Her wounds are healing nicely,” you informed, much to Ominis' relief. “I'll have to check on them both every now and then, though. Until I make sure they'll be fine on their own.”

Ominis got up on his feet, conjuring a self-refilling feeder for each of the unicorns. You smiled in appreciation at his initiative, further improving the contraption in making sure that the feeds for the mare contained a stronger dosage of the potion you had brewed. You sighed both in exhaustion and in relief as the two unicorns had their fill of grub, heading over to the dry spot within the cave to take a rest. Ominis followed you, promptly finding a spot to sit on as soon as he heard the slight clinking of glass jars while you gently put your bag down.

With a wave of your wand, small pieces of rocks and several dry pieces of wood materialized out of thin air, forming a small circular fire pit. Small balls of fire shot out of your wand, igniting the wood. Ominis sat on the ground and leaned back against the cave wall, relaxing at the sound of the fire crackling. You plopped right beside him, gazing at the flickering flames.

“This was… A rather fun trip, I must say,” Ominis mumbled, breaking the silence.

“Glad to know it was worth your while. You're not a bad traveling companion surprisingly,” you chuckled. “...Aside from the screaming on the broom just now.”

“Did you really have to bring that up?” he winced in embarrassment.

“Lighten up, will you? It's not that bad!” you laughed. “It was rather funny.”

Ominis groaned in response, pinching the bridge of his nose at the flashback. The sound of neighs echoed throughout the cave as the unicorn foal trotted around the mare, bursting into a run while the latter followed its mischievous little offspring. You giggled at the sight.

“Honestly I'm relieved that they're doing so much better now. For the past few days this cave has been quiet aside from the occasional pained neighs from the both of them. It was horribly depressing,” you recalled.

“Well, I'm sure they're thankful for your help. Unicorns aren't usually the most social of beasts, yet they're here they are,” the misty-eyed male said in a rather comforting manner.

“Do you think they want to stay here? The forest has been quite dangerous lately with poachers lurking about,” you pondered out loud.

“I wouldn't be surprised if they do. We can just provide what they need here. Probably enchant the place with protective spells too.”

“We?” you repeated in a surprised tone. The misty-eyed male cleared his throat instinctively, feeling an all-familiar warmth spread throughout his face.

“It was a mere suggestion. It’s still your decision to make.”

“...I think it’s wise if we follow your suggestions, actually. I quite like the idea of these poor beasts having a chance to live in a safer place for once,” you admitted. “A chance for a new start is probably what they deserve. Poor things must’ve been traumatized after going through such terrifying ordeals.”

Ominis' mind wandered at the thought, strangely empathizing with the unicorns you had rescued. They reminded him of himself — just like them, he had gone through harrowing events that left traces of emotional scars deep within his heart and mind, along with permanently sullied hands. However, unlike these ethereal, harmless beings, he had voluntarily participated in an act of cruelty to save himself: he had to inflict the worst pain imaginable unto another innocent person. At the end of the day, unlike the unicorns, he still had a choice.

Did he truly even deserve that same chance of starting anew despite what he had done?

“A Knut for your thoughts?” you asked, jolting the blonde-haired male out of his musings.

“A chance for a new start… Do you think everyone deserves such a thing? Even those who have done atrocious things?” Ominis asked softly. You were rather taken aback by the sudden heavy question from the normally emotionally-secretive male. Nevertheless, you decided to share your opinion.

“Everyone deserves a chance at some point, Gaunt. Especially those who are determined enough to change for the better and genuinely make amends for their wrongdoings,” you answered with conviction as if it was the most logical answer to his question. You glanced at Ominis, who had an astonished expression on his face.

“... I know my answer might sound rather simple, but I do hope it suffices,” you chuckled as your eyelids began to slowly droop, fatigue slowly overtaking your body. The opal-eyed male did just as you said, mulling over the answer you had strung together. He was about to ask another question when he felt a sudden weight drop on his shoulder.

Oh.

Ominis' breath hitched at his throat. A reluctant hand reached out to cup your cheek, his thumb ghosting over your eyelashes. Finally after all that had occurred within this particular day, you had fallen fast asleep. He felt the flyaways of your hair tickle his jawline as you shifted your head around slightly before settling down as soon as you were comfortable enough. The silence this time was a cozy one — the soft crackling of fire along with your steady breaths made Ominis exhale in relaxation as he rested his head against yours.

He felt the beating of his heart drum steadily within his chest as he pondered about the many things he had discovered about you in this little impromptu trip. Unsurprisingly, his initial first impressions of you had been completely shattered at this point. In fact, he felt downright silly for even underestimating you when you were far more than just a typical book-smart Ravenclaw.

You were rather insane when it came to your adrenaline-seeking tendencies, unlady-like at certain times, surprisingly had a penchant for breaking rules every now and then, yet at the same time you were undoubtedly one of the kindest, wisest and most understanding persons he had ever come across. There were so many sides to you that have yet to be discovered, and he wanted to uncover all of what is concealed. The mere thought of being with you made his chest ache with painful longing and repressed desires.

Ominis bitterly chuckled at yet another mind-blowing realization, leaning his head against the cave wall with a burning urge to kick himself over and over for his incapability of fully grasping the extent of his budding feelings sooner. For the umpteenth time today, he finds himself at a loss for words regarding the huge risk he was about to take.

“I can't fucking believe this,” he whispered, conjuring a roll of his scented parchment, an envelope, a wooden board, and his self-inking quill. It was now or never: he had to write this before his self-depreciative thoughts held himself back once again. He couldn’t risk losing this opportunity — not when the answers to his doubts were crystal clear to him right now.

He wanted to try regardless of what the outcome may be.

Dearest Lucie, You might be surprised that you’ve received my reply in this manner, and I hope you do not mind my rather bold approach this time around. Truth be told, the main reason as to why my reply took so long was due to the mishap of me discovering your identity by mere coincidence. I shan’t divulge into the details as to how I’ve uncovered this crucial information, but I have been thinking about this for quite a while now. I suppose I let my cowardice get the best of me at some point hence my silence, but I couldn’t keep this secret from you after all. I wouldn’t blame you if you’re upset with my actions, and I deeply apologize for that. As for my intentions now that I know who you are, I believe that the decision whether to continue this correspondence or not ultimately rests with how comfortable you are with communicating with me. To be completely honest, I’m quite fearful of your possible negative reaction once you find out who I am. I know I’m being rather unfair with this, but if knowing my identity is important to you, is it possible if I could just leave clues for you to figure out? I promise I won’t make them too difficult. It’s just that I don’t think I can handle approaching you right away in person. Whatever your decision may be, I’m glad that I got to know you — even if it’s just through letters. With love and adoration, Ves

As soon as the ink had dried up, he folded the parchment neatly and slipped it into the envelope before stuffing it into his inner coat pocket. He vanished the objects he had conjured, resting his head on top of yours once more. He shut his eyes, relishing in the tender moment with you as he slowly drifted off to his own slumber with a faint smile across his lips.

The blonde-haired male has finally made his decision: this time, he would give this letter to you on his own without any assistance from your owl.

< chapter 7: denial and desires 🔞

chapter 9: uncontrollably fond >

taglist (just let me know if you wish to be added. also please check if you have done the necessary settings for me to tag you)

@xadriianaaa @roohuh @pugsnotdrugs92 @wolfiehardz @auxiliare @ohantonia @superblyspeedydragon

#ominis gaunt x reader #ominis gaunt #ominis gaunt x f!reader #ominis x reader #ominis x f!reader #ominis x y/n #ominis gaunt x you #ominis gaunt x y/n #ominis gaunt fluff #ominis fluff #hogwarts legacy ominis

102 notes · View notes

mydisenchantedeulogy · 6 months ago

Text

The Highest Cost [Chapter Five] Glutton [David]

Warning(s): hunger, blood, desire, attraction, knives, realization, dread, mild comfort, OC.

No Minors Allowed!!

The more David thought about it, the more he realized that it could not have been the sun he saw that night on the beach. For obvious reasons, he would have immediately burned to death - the high cost of being a bloodsucker, as the ‘Vampires Everywhere’ comic book at Atlantis Fantasyworld foolishly called his kind.

The wisps of yellow light twisting like thick smoke around Maria were not thin rays of sunlight, but some sort of aura. He could not make heads or tails of it, but in his defense, a night or two ago, he did not know legit psychics were even real. This phenomenon was new to him, as new as letting a human get close enough to him and walk away with her life.

David had his reasons, or so he told himself. Maria was…alluring. Her blood tasted like mango, the sweetest fruit he could think of, and her visions were accurate, dangerously so. If she knew about him or learned about the one who sired him, then their existence would be in jeopardy. He should have killed her, and left her body to the crabs the moment Paul brought her to his attention. But then there was that damn aura; bright and radiant. Why did he see it and no one else?

I tasted her blood.

The wicker wheelchair David declared his own gave a low squeak as he shifted, placing his leg over the armrest. Years of rust had claimed the wheels, they sometimes locked up, but he liked it a hell of a lot better than sitting on the mildew-scented floor. Raising his hand, which at the moment was gloveless - the one Maria held, the one he scratched her with - David picked beneath his nails like a starved dog searching for a scrap of food. One taste. But there was none left. He licked his fingers clean the moment her blood touched his tongue. He always had a voracious appetite, but this was too much.

David tightened his jaw. He slid back on his glove to prevent himself from picking his nails bloody. What was the deal with Maria? If the other sired drank from her, would they–

No.

The moment he imagined them - Marko, Paul, and Dewayne - sinking their fangs into her soft fair flesh, bleeding her dry like a stuck pig, something in him protested. It was not like him to be possessive. David often shared his toys, but Maria was not like those dull flat surfaced marbles he did not mind his ‘brothers’ borrowing and using. No. She shined. Maria was like a galaxy marble with a vortex in her center akin to the sun; he yearned to stare into it, even if it burned him to ashes.

So he made a choice. As soon as the moon was at its highest, David left the sunken hotel and zoomed off on his chopped XT500 toward the boardwalk. If he could not find Maria there, he knew the name of the motel where she and Candice or Candy were staying - he did not bother to remember her sister’s name. It was a cheap establishment, not like the Atlantis Hotel in its glory days. A haven for zombies and broke tourists. When he took her back to the boardwalk after the incident, she let slip where she was staying and then deflected as though it were meant to be a secret. From whom he was not sure.

In the end, it didn't matter, he was not going to follow her there. An invitation wasn't needed, but even so, David had no reason to go in. If he wanted to kill her, he would do it outside. Motels were much too public, some even used cameras now. Times were not like they used to be.

The lights from the boardwalk soon came into view. David put aside his thoughts and parked his bike on the sand in the shadow of a wooden support post, then hiked up the stairs. It occurred to him late that he was flying solo tonight. His ‘brothers’ were out doing their own things as they sometimes did. He never pried and in return, neither did they. But as it always did, it felt strange to be alone. He felt like he did before he was sired, moving through life at a snail's pace. A sad man's parade.

Even the universe gave him a wide berth as he wandered through, searching. Hunting. And then he found her. At first, David thought he saw it again, the aura twisting like thick smoke around Maria, but it was merely a trick of the light; a teasing fantasy that for a moment had him chasing ghosts.

She stood in front of a flashing bulb, at the base of the coaster, staring up as though she was frantically searching the night sky for something. It took David a moment to realize that Maria was watching the car as it traveled around the track. Each time the bulb flashed, a halo of light surrounded her, teasing him over and over as if to say ‘A crumb, not the whole meal’. He scoffed and approached her.

“If you want it so bad, why not ride it?”

Mia jerked in fright and diverted her eyes to David. She was not expecting to see him. His sudden appearance made her heart race and her face flush.

“W-what?” She stuttered.

David pointed up with a gloved finger.

“The coaster. Do you want to ride it?”

It took her a moment to calm herself down, but once she did, Mia shook her head in protest.

“Hard no.”

Amused by her answer, David snorted. So then, why did she look so desperate as she watched the car tear down the track?

“You sure about that?”

“I'm terrified of heights,” Mia admitted. “But my sister, she loves thrill rides; coasters, Farris wheels, the ones that send you plummeting to the ground. No thanks.”

It made sense to David why she was so hesitant to get on his bike, why she held him so tightly. Humans were, all the same, consumed by fear. His curiosity was piqued at least. She was waiting for her sister.

“Carousels more your style, Maria?” He asked.

She frowned. The dream was still fresh in her mind; the body and the grumble of maggots. Mia curled her toes.

Not anymore.

“Where are your friends?” She deflected.

David grinned. She was an open book, and yet he was still intrigued. The most secret aspect of her life was her visions and she seemed intent on keeping them hidden. Others, sure, but his…there was something she did not want him to know.

Her curiosity was ignored as Cadence walked from the exit gate with a wide grin.

“That was bitchin’. You should have rode with me.”

“I was content watching,” Mia retorted.

Cadence side-eyed David, then raised a curious brow. The look on her face read: ‘Are you gonna introduce me to your friend’?

“This is uh…David,” Mia spilled. Her face heated up in embarrassment.

She had no intention of Cadence ever meeting him, or seeing him again herself for that matter.

“So, you're David,” Cadence stated teasingly. She ignored the glare that Mia shot.

David merely grinned. It was entertaining that she spoke of him to her sister like a high school teenager.

“I did not interrupt anything, did I?” Cadence asked.

David considered telling her yes, but honestly, she didn't. Aside from Mia's fear of heights.

“The carousel. I asked Maria if she wanted to ride it.”

Did he? Regardless, the answer was–

“That sounds like fun,” Cadence interjected. “You two should.”

Mia shot her a look that read, ‘Are you serious’? Did she not remember the dream? The rotting, maggot-infested body? If she did, she did not seem to care.

“Yeah. I think that would be good for you. After all, you've just let me drag you around all night. It's been your dream to ride the world-famous Santa Carla carousel.”

It hit Mia like a bucket of ice water. She knew what Cadence was trying to say. But why? Perhaps she wanted to test a theory.

“Sure…I'll go,” Mia faltered.

“I'll be in Atlantis Fantasyworld when you two are done,” Cadence mentioned.

With a reassuring smile, she turned and walked into the crowd before Mia could interject. David found it odd, but it was not his business, whatever inner conflict the two were having. To all he knew, Mia was just a bit shy.

Guiding her to the carousel, David did not wait for the rotation to stop. He leaped on, then turned and drew his heels together like a soldier standing in attention.

“Are you comin’?”

Mia paled, feeling like she was about to leap into the maw of a hungry lion. It was not the action that frightened her, but the dream she had regarding the carousel. What if she got on and saw it again, slumped against the bench, amongst the riders?

As David disappeared within, Mia had a choice to make; on or off. Into the maw of the mechanical giant, or not. She took an uneasy breath and with a short burst of courage, she leaped on. Her hip smacked the wooden tail of a black horse with a white mane, which would later no doubt leave a bruise, but she was otherwise unharmed.

There were no visions or no bodies. She was fine.

With a sigh of relief, Mia walked through the rows, searching for David. It should not have been hard to find him; he was of average size, nearly a head taller than her, with platinum hair. He stood out like a sore thumb. Yet, she couldn't see him.

A hand suddenly reached out of seemingly nowhere and grabbed her by the arm. Its icy grip like the hands of death bit into her skin, then yanked her back until her calves pressed against the wooden frame of a decorative bench. Force took care of the rest. Mia toppled back and fell onto the seat with a low thud. The shock lasted but a second, and then she realized what had happened.

He has got to stop doing that.

David, resting with one leg crossed over the other, watched a slew of emotions cross her face. Shock, pain, realization, then fear. The latter baffled him.

“You look like you've seen a ghost, Maria.”

He had no idea. At that moment, she saw a faceless corpse. Even the bench had the same damn black and white painted wood as in her dream. Mia felt faint.

“I'm sorry. I want off.”

David went against his nature and uncrossed his legs, leading her head to his thigh so she could rest. She was silent as the grave, but her body was tense.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

After a long spiraling moment, Mia felt a little better. She did not want to, but she figured that she had better explain herself.

“Have you ever…dreamed about places you've never been before.”

David shifted and leaned forward.

“I can't say I have.”

“It's terrifying…like being connected to a place and yet you can't figure out why.”

She opted not to mention the recent dream.

“I've seen this town before, but until I got here I didn't know it.”

David understood a little more why Mia was so hesitant to ride the carousel. She must have dreamed about it, and whatever she saw terrified her.

“Are they about you?” He asked. Taking a strand of her blonde hair, he rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. “Your dreams.”

No. How could they be? She was not in a single one of them until recently. Mia turned a bit and peered up at David.

“What would make you think that?”

“Because when I first met you, to see a vision, you asked me to take off my gloves. Isn't that how it works?” David explained.

Mia hummed. As far as she knew.

“You can't see into someone's life without a direct touch,” he furthered.

It was as if in that moment her mind became clear, as though she had come off a lifetime bender, but with it came an intense feeling of dread. Mia sat up in disbelief.

“I'm seeing my future.”

And in it there was death.

The carousel jerked roughly, then came to a complete stop. David stood and waited for Mia to join him, but she was in a daze. Then like a light, the moment passed and she stood up.

“I should find Cadence.”

She was shaken up by the realization. David wondered why. He considered walking away, returning to the cave before her human drama lured him in, but as much as he did not want to admit it, he was hooked. He felt like a stray that had found its meal ticket, a stray that followed when its human leaped from the carousel and sprinted toward the only comic book shop on the boardwalk.

A familiar scent wafting in the breeze caught his attention; the scent of cheap booze and body odor mixed with the salt of the ocean. David curled his nose in disgust. He was the first to see them, a pair of wannabe beach boys wearing grungy denim at the entrance to the shop. The brunt of their teasing was directed to none other than the eldest Ross sister.

“What are you gonna do, Maria?”

It took her a moment to realize what David meant, and then she saw them herself. By the time she reacted, one of them had Cadence pinned against the window of the shop.

“Hey! Assholes!” Exploded Mia.

She took off with the speed of a record-breaking sprinter and recklessly, in David's opinion, tackled the beach bum who had a hold of her sister into a rack of 10-cent comic books. Detective Comics #31 went flying and landed on the boardwalk with a sad plop.

The second wannabe, who until now, was caught off guard by Mia’s sudden attack, pulled a stiletto switch knife with a black handle from his boot. He pressed the slide trigger forward and a 9-inch blade sprang free. The kid was wet behind the ears, most likely stole the knife from his daddy, because the moment he took it out, he was pissing himself in fear. David did not need enhanced senses to smell the pungent odor of ammonia wafting in the air.

But worse than an experienced Surf Nazi with a knife was one that did not know his ass from a hole in the ground. The kid stepped forward and let out a great roar as he swung the blade through the air like a knight swinging a greatsword. But he missed. Mia turned her eyes to him in shock and before David could grab him, the kid swung again. The second time, Mia lifted her arm and the blade slashed deep into her forearm. Rivulets of blood splattered across the protective sleeve of Superman #146.

With strength he did not mean to display, David yanked the kid's arm back so hard, that his shoulder dislocated with a loud pop. He wailed in pain like an old street cat, then released the switch knife. David caught it before it hit the ground; the edge of the blade was stained red.

These are illegal.

Had been since 1958.

Based on the crowd of people gathering, David retracted the blade into the handle and shoved it into his coat pocket. If Big Ed, the security guard caught him with it, he'd call the police. He had no love for David, or his ‘brothers’; not after all the trouble they caused him over the years. Hell, if he caught David at all on the boardwalk, he'd smack him with that wooden nightstick he wore attached to his side. He already warned him once that he was banned.

The beach boys had the right idea. They tucked tail and ran like dogs the moment Edgar Frog, one of two eccentric brothers who ran the Atlantis Fantasyworld comic book shop came out to assess the damage done. It was odd not to see his lanky brother, Alan trailing behind him, most likely dragging Big Ed from his booth.

David tightened his jaw and squatted beside Mia. Her sister gave him a brief look of relief, then stood to explain the situation to Edgar. She oddly kept a wide berth from her sister, which intrigued him.

“That's gonna need stitches.”

“Hurts like hell,” Mia disclosed.

Blood oozed from the cut and down her arm as if it were teasing him. ‘Look, but don't you dare touch’. His stomach twisted in pain. He needed to feed.

“I need to split,” David mentioned. “The security guard and I have a past.”

“Take me with you,” Mia pouted.

She disliked hospitals. Not to mention, David was right, she needed stitches.

“You can't go where I'm going,” he drawled.

Mia snorted. “Maybe next time.”

Next time. Did she want to see him again? There was no denying the magnetism. She sort of liked talking with David. He cleared her head, though perhaps it was the blood loss.

David grinned. He did not want to humor her, but even he was sure there would be a next time. Standing, he disappeared into the crowd just as Big Ed's fetid smell flooded his nostrils.

At a distance from the attention-seeking onlookers, he grabbed onto the steel post of a street lamp and leaped onto the boardwalk railing that overlooked the ocean. David fished out the switch knife and pressed the slide trigger to release the stained blade. Her blood was dry, but regardless, he ran his tongue over the cold steel to taste it.

An intense euphoric sensation overcame him and his eyes fluttered closed. What made her blood so unique? He almost wanted to starve himself until he was able to take his fill; a glutton for punishment.

When at last he looked, searching with predatory eyes, David was pleased to see the aura of his meal ticket within the crowd. He was content with being a poor lost stray, just for a chance to gorge himself. What he didn't know though, was the next time he tasted her blood, it would be because she offered herself to him.

#lost boys fanfiction #david x oc #lost boys fandom #david lost boys #oc

10 notes · View notes

fanaticsnail · 2 months ago

Note

have a small drabble as a gift for your hard work

Darlin'

TW: NSFW, MDNI, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, body worship if you squint

"C'mon darlin', I know you can do it, you can cum again on my tongue."

It was all he said as he ruthlessly ate you out in hopes of making you cum for the who-knows-how-many time, a choked moan falling out of your lips when his lips latched to your oversensitive clit and sucked in a way that made you see stars. Your hips bucked by themselves, sore back supported by his strong hand as he held you still in his grasp. The juices from your previous climaxes still coated the lower part of his face as he reverently worshipped you by showering the source of said juices in long licks and experienced open-mouthed kisses. One of your thighs spasmed around his head as the other quivered in his hold to spread you open, signalling him of your impending orgasm. His ministrations stepped up a level, starting to lick and hit that sweet spot in you faster and harder. Cries and moans mingling together in their ever-rising pitch, all it took was a small nip to your bud to make you cum harshly on his face, legs weakly jerking and body lifted off the bed. He didn't stop his licks, instead opting to drink in your release like a man stranded on a desert for weeks without food and water. The break only came when it became too much and you tugged at his hair, a silent plea to pause his actions. He merely gazed up at you with such an innocent and reverent gaze that made you feel both like a god sitting on the highest throne in the entire universe and like he hadn't unravelled you so many times it's uncountable by now in the few hours he was allowed to show his undying, neverending love for you. As you slowly came down from your high, white noise still ringing in your ears, he had already climbed up to nuzzle his nose against your cheek to whisper quietly with barely covered lust,

"So nice and pretty. Can you do it again for me, darlin'?"

Benn Beckman, Hawk-Eyes Mihawk, Shanks, Smoker, Zoro, Killer

I don't even know where to begin or what to say.

Thank you so much for this. Right into the October, I needed something to spur me on. Bloody hell.

I'm gonna be thinking about this for a while. I need to lie down. Thank you for this beautiful gift. I am screaming.

#one piece #x reader #ask snail #snail answers #not my writing #wish that it was #bloody hell #mihawk #beckman #smoker #shanks #killer #zoro #one piece smut #one piece x reader #x afab!reader #i am just #AAAAAAAAAAAA

128 notes · View notes

nat-20s · 2 years ago

Text

A Queer Fellow Indeed

rejoice! tma victorian au mini fic be upon ye!

~*~

There was good reason that Jonah and all his various proteges were fled from the newly established institute by 6pm on the dot. All, that is, excepting Jonah’s second in command and personal assistant, one Mr. Jonathan Sims.

Mr. Sims was a man who firmly believed that if the price of progress that went along more hurriedly than snail’s pace was a lack of sleep and, on occasion, sanity, then so be it. Perhaps his colleagues took more joy in social callings than himself, or perhaps they simply put more stock in the rumors of what happens in the basement once the sun set, but no matter. Him and Mr. Magnus were building something great together, and those rumors were merely a fabrication of those either too superstitious or too dull to be central to something so triumphant.

Well.

Mostly fabrication.

Yes, indeed, Jonathan had had some... encounters in the past. The worst of which, however, had occurred long outside of the confines of his employment. Honestly, though, everyone employed at the institute is well aware that they’re recording, collecting, and cataloging the esoteric and paranatural occurrences/items. If these things were to be attracted to a place, The Magnus Intitute has purposefully made itself a focal point, so a few odd happenstances here and there were to be expected.

And odd really was as far as it went. Other than the worm woman. But, as both him and Mr. Magnus have stated repeatedly, that was an extreme and isolated incident.

No, most of what Jonathan has encountered during his frequent late night forays amount to little more than a combination of a completely natural stillness, a lackluster amount of sleep, and the devilish tendency of candles to cast shadows that trick the eyes.

Thus, in his mind, it was more than reasonable to simply ignore the hooded figure standing in the corner of recent literature acquisition. If he went around startling at every thing that might have resembled a threat, his heart would surely be worn before his thirty-fifth year. So, yes, there was a suspicious figure in his beloved* bottom floor, and yes, he was going to stroll on by to gather a particular volume about this history of sacred clowns without giving a second thought.

This, in hindsight, rather idealistic approach lasted all of three seconds before the figure stepped closer to the light, revealing a horrifically solid person.

Not to use too harsh of language, but dammit all.

Four things stood out immediately to Jonathan: the person had taken down their hood, the person underneath that hood was not someone Jonathan recognized, the person was wearing the most peculiar garb he had ever witnessed**, and the person was currently questioning him. In basic, bordering on vulgar, language, the stranger asked, “Wait, who the hell are you?!”

Jonathan considered himself a rational man. His former betrothed had laughed for a frankly excessive time when he had told her as such, but he hardly considered her an expert on his demeanor.

That being said, immediate antagonism was probably the incorrect choice for the situation at hand. “I am the co-founder*** of this institution that you are currently trespassing on.”

“Trespassing?? I bloody work here, if anybody is-”

The person (?) cuts itself off, lets out a little ‘mm’ noise and continues, “Co-founder? You look pretty good for someone nearly two-hundred years old. That does explain the fancy dress though.”

Oh, good, this person is clearly insane. “If you would so kindly make your exit-”

“-did Elias put you up to this? Or, I dunno, Tim? I mean, sure, haven’t seen you in three weeks, Timothy, but glad you could find time out of your busy schedule to stick a cravat on some dude-”

“-will you Stop! Talking!”

The person froze for a moment, and Jonathan almost had an opportunity to think. However, in the blink of an eye, the person had taken steps closer to him, and it was now very apparent that they..it...they? Had a good 3 stone and 6 inches, minimum, of physical advantage over him. If they decided to become violent, Jonathan didn’t even have a letter opener on him. On the plus side, he would no longer have to worry about stressing his heart to the point of failure.

Seconds, or minutes, or perhaps hours passed where mere centimeters separated them, and Jonathan should’ve been frightened. Or, no, he was frightened, but he didn’t feel..threatened, per se. Enough things try to kill you and you start to get a sense for whether or not you’re being stared at with murderous intent or just..stared at.

His hunch that it was the latter turned out to be correct, as the figure backed up to give them both their own air, and asked, “Seriously, are you fucking with me?”

Jonathan did not sputter, but it did require a few false starts before he spat out, “I most assuredly am not!”

The person sighed and placed their hands over their face. “Oh fuck me.”

“I most assuredly will not!”

Removing their hands and looking back at Jonathan for the sole purpose of rolling their eyes, they respond,” Ohhhh my god, it’s an expression. Christ, is this really gonna be a thing? Never mind, whatever, don’t worry about it. Just, uh, Mr. Co-founder, quick question, and if it’s the answer that I’m really fucking hoping it is, I’ll be on my merry way, but. What, uh, what year is it? Currently?”

Certainly a lunatic. “It is 1821, as you should already know.”

The person becomes weighed down with an instant exhaustion that Jonathan has seen reflected in the mirror many a time. “Shit. Right. Okay then. Nice to meet you, I’m Martin, and I’m..decently sure I’m from the future.”

*or beloathed, depending on the hour

**and he had spent more than his fair share of time at fishmarkets and theaters

***not technically true, but close enough

#tma #jon sims #martin blackwood #jonah magnus #victorian au #my fic #lmao have fun!!#i might add more but I make LITERALLY zero promises #also no i didn't edit editing is for CHUMPS #(aka people who do not need to go put a fitted sheet on their bed at 1:30 am)

118 notes · View notes

jaxxsoxxn · 8 months ago

Note

Funny scene imagine it

Boomerang and Bart talking about anything and having fun

Hal huh? Who knew that kangaroo actually is good with kids can you believe that Barry

Barry looking at boomerang like he’s the only person in this room hal knowing that look too well

Screams out Flash no are goddamn serious. Barry caught off guard. Wait what

hal of all of the men in this world and the women him why him Barry looks at the hand that he pointing at to boomerang wait no no no no no no no that’s no oh don’t lie to me I know that look Barry I don’t like him like that I promise hal you sure cause your face is turning red OK fine so it’s not a big deal a big deal. He’s a criminal well your girlfriend was once a criminal your ex-girlfriend you did not pull that card Barry I did. Hal

Come back to boomerang then Bart what the bloody hell are they screaming about I don’t know should we go stop them boomerang no kid let’s see this play out.

—🐌

Henlo Snail Anon! :D why won't I write the scene out a little ;>

Also, poor Wally, he didn't connect the dots yet :')

~~~

Bart and Digger share few things with each other - their hatred to boredom, their inability to think some things trough and stop moving being one of those, so when Barry sees them meet, he honestly expected them to at least understand each other.

The Suicide Squad (or something something force X) is helping Justice League with some type of mission, which is centered around the Bat, so unsurprisingly not many of them know exactly what is the mission about or what is the danger they are helping with, but it leads to the squad meeting up with a lot of sidekicks.

Of course all the Robins know Harley and Deadshot, Aquaboy or however he's called at the moment also know King Shark.

(said Villain waves at the kid almost shyly and Barry can see Hal roll his eyes in fondness - man was always weak for animals and after sitting trough Guy's drunk rants about sharks and how they're misjudged, he might've grew a soft spot for them which he's not proud of)

Surprisingly for him, Wally barely even knows Boomer. He blinks few times after somebody mentioned that Captain Boomerang was a Flash Rouge and looks closer, which causes few of the more vigilant sideckis to stop in their tracks and look from Kid Flash to the villain.

Digger, being one of the first to notice Wallies confusion, scowls visibly and just averts his eyes. Flash couldn't stop the slight grimace at the scene, feeling bad for the man. That is, until Bart, always his actions faster than his thoughts (though he's learning to do better) gets inside their meeting place and starts running circles around Boomer.

"Cap! Cap! Cap!" a show of affection in his way, chanting his nickname and running circles, while every person that can see above Bart could notice Digger bite back a fond smile.

His Speedforce gauntlet shines lightly while he grabs the kid behind his neck and pulls him up with an amused huff.

"Me, me, me." he repeated after the boy, slowly letting him down.

Somehow, ignoring the shock of few people around them, the two jump into conversation like it's their second nature. Bart still moves around like normally, but Digger does the same, if slightly slower.

When they finally stop for a second, all people can decipher is "Barry talks about ya do much." and then they brush it off, continuing.

Hal, gods bless Hal, doesn't notice it. He's smirking slightly, pointing at their general direction with his hand, while with the other he practically hangs himself on Barry.

"Who could've guessed that the kangaroo is good with kids! Especially since he put bombs in two of 'em..." he wants to carry on, but he can't help but catch the way his friend stares at his Rouge.

Barry has a light smile on his face, soft and so admiring that it's almost loving. His eyes are squinted and shining with delight at every silly joke Boomer and Bart make to each other. Green Lantern's jaw is on the floor so quickly, that he could be mistaken for a speedster himself.

"No, Barry, no." he shakes his friend lightly, to not cause a scene, but his eyes are wide enough for Flash to know he's serious. "Bar, there's no way--"

"What? What's wrong now?" his head moves in his way, he's eyes confused, even if they jump back to Boomer and Impulse whenever a loud cackle or a snort is heard. "What's with you?"

"With me?!" Hal slightly loses the control he had on his tone of voice. "I'm not the one thirsting for a goddamn Villain-!"

Flash stops him with his hand against the other's lips, his eyes darting around the room making sure that no-one heard the man. Somehow in the back of his head he can hear Wally also joining Bart's and Digger's conversation, though he's way more subtle than Impulse.

"Shush! It's not like that, I have no idea-"

A hand grabs his writs and Hal pulls his mouth free.

"Like hell you have no idea! If I'd look at anyone the same way you look at him, you'd probably play wedding bells!"

Barry can feel his face starting to match his suit and he grimaces at the sight of a prideful smirk on GLs face.

"Okay, maybe, but it's not a big deal!" he hissed back at the man, who looks at him like he's the biggest idiot here.

"Not a big deal-?! He's a rouge, your very own one! He tied you to a giant Boomerang once!"

"Okay, first of all, it was the funniest shit ever and it wasn't even that serious, second of all, the name Carol Ferris rings any bells?"

"Oh you did not-!"

"... Does anyone know why Bar and Hal are arguing over there?" Wally asks, staring at the pissy fight his two elders have, somehow in disbelief when Flash grabs the other by the hair and pulls almost lightly.

Bart and Digger don't stop talking about their favourite Just Dance dances for longer than a second, just to shrug at him.

With a heavy sigh, Kid Flash is still trying to put together how does Captain Boomerang know Impulse, since the only person Barry actually talks about is this silly Harkness guy or George, whoever he might be.

#idk #probably bad english #bsing trough life #ssktjl #<3 #boomerflash #flasharang #flasherang #flash x captain boomerang #Hal is a good friend #But also a goddamn parasite #When you've talked to your rouge about one of ur totally not sons enough that he knows him on sight #Barry who got a card for father's day from both Wally and Bart “those ain't my actual kids”#Yeah tell yourself that #Good father boomerang my beloved #I just want to say it isn't max erasure bc he also got a father's day card from impulse #A kid sometimes has 4 to 5 dads and that's ok

19 notes · View notes

little-red-toyota · 29 days ago

Text

The engines I've worked with this summer...

This summer has been especially busy for me, I have been working at UHB as usual, but also at the Setesdal Line. And then the Norwegian Railway Museum hired me to drive Setskogen and Tinfos (which normally runs at UHB, but was on loan to the museum as Urskog is being repaired) for the summer. So I thought I would sum up the summer by showing the engines I have worked with... Starting at UHB, with my usual crew:

UHB No.14 Bingsfos:

Of course... the engine I drive most frequently. Bingsfos is used for maintenance and everyday work where we just need an engine on the go. Just a turn of the key and he is ready to work!

Bingsfos and I have become a little better friends this year, and after his brakes were fixed, he is almost a joy to drive. Almost. He is still quite the fuel to noise machine, so you need ear plugs when driving this guy. This year UHB has put more of an effort in giving me driving lessons as they need more diesel drivers, so I have been driving him around the yard as well as on the line with both passengers and goods.

UHB No.6 Høland:

No summer is complete without firing and driving Høland. The engine that started it all, my patient mentor who has suffered through my fireman training (and now driving lessons) and all my newbie fuck-ups. We have grown together and has become quite a team. He is still the machine I love the most of all.

This locomotive literally pulled me out of my depression and made my life so much better. His firebox has swallowed and burnt up so much sorrow and frustration, I can't describe how grateful I am to be allowed to work with this wonderful machine.

This year, he has been a bit overshadowed by Setskogen, but I will never completely forget about him. He even tolerates us putting a face on him at some occasions. Last time was when my newest book was published.

UHB No.4 Setskogen:

I never expected to grow fond of this grumpy old lady, but here I am. Setskogen has really captured my heart this summer. We got to work together at the Norwegian Railway Museum a lot. And up there we run the engines with only one person in the cab, so it was just me and her. Having lots of time to bond.

Although I could tell she was a bit bored at the museum, running on a line that is only 600 meters long, she still behaved well. Most of the time at least. XD She did test me sometimes, but I have a lot more experience now, so I managed.

It was fun at the museum, but I am glad she is back home again now, where she can run on coal and actually pick up some speed and pull longer trains. I ended the driving season this summer as her fireman as we pulled the longest mixed train ever at UHB during the museum era (they pulled longer trains back in the old days). A train that was far too long for the platform, so we needed to do a bit of back and forth action to make it work. XD

UHB No.12 Tinfos:

This little... monster... was the biggest challenge this summer!

She looks small and innocent, but don't be fooled. That cute appearance hides one hell of a stubborn machine! She has absolutely NO interest in obeying you, so you need to use a lot of force. Only starting her takes bloody ages... and she runs at a snail's pace.

I had to work with her at the Norwegian Railway Museum too, as both her and Setskogen were sent there for the summer. Tinfos' job was to push Setskogen out of the shed in the morning as we couldn't fire her up inside. I even almost managed to derail her as one of the shed doors got caught on her shield while we were backing inside. Luckily I managed to stop in time and free her, so we didn't end up in the grease pit...

Now she is back home again with Setskogen, safely back in her own shed at Bingsfoss Station.

UHB No.13 "Kvabben":

For some reason I haven't taken a photo of this guy... but he can be seen here. The orange boxy thing behind Høland.

This is a railcar used to transport crew out on the line. He has room for 8 people including the driver. This is by far the weirdest vehicle I have ever driven... It feels like driving a car without a steering wheel! Which is a strange feeling. XD

He is also insanely fast, so you need to be careful here or you will derail before you know it! He is currently in for repairs, so I will have my hands full for a few weeks.

KB No. 225:

I only had one day onboard this girl, but I am sure we'll get to know each other better in the future.

This was a bit of a surprise for me though. We were going to the Krøder Line for a membership outing, where we would ride the train to a destination for a guided tour. We were also going to fetch some buffers for one of our goods wagons.

I was told to dress in overalls for the day, which puzzled me a bit as we were just going on a guided tour... but I did as told and figured it would be because of loading the buffers afterwards. When I arrived I noticed I was the only one dressed in overalls, and got a bit pissed as I thought they had pranked me. But then the locomotive crew grabbed me and pulled me inside the cab to work... and suddenly the overalls made more sense. XD

It was a lovely trip!

SB No.6 "Lukas":

During my first week at the Setesdal Line I got to know this beauty. The engines there doesn't have names, so I had to name them for the sake of my book series. And as an internal joke, we gave them all biblical names.

Lukas was a fun experience and the line was scenic and beautiful, though I didn't have much time to enjoy the view due to the steep climbs. I had to shovel coal like I have never done before! XD

Lukas is a bit cheeky, so he likes to soak your pants in water and mess with you if he sees a chance. I really like him, but it will be a long time until I get to work with him again as he has now been dismantled and his boiler has been sent to England for revision. He is estimated to be back in service in 2026 or 2027.

SB No.2 "Magdalena":

My second week at the Setedal Line I got to work with a different engine as No.6 was due to be dismantled and sent to England.

So I was introduced to No.2. A grand old, Scottish lady who was surprisingly easy to handle, both to fire and to drive.

She is also the oldest engine I have driven; built in 1894! But she is as powerful and lively as her younger friends. We also ended up in the newspaper as her driver retired after 60 years on the footplate (50 of them as a driver)! I had the honor of being his fireman on his last trip ever.

Bonus mentions:

Di.3 602 "Norah":

Didn't drive her myself, but I got to ride in her cab. Nohab Di.3 is one of my favorite locomotive types, so that was a huge treat! I think I was about 5 years old at that moment. XD

Etna:

A beautiful miniature steam engine that often runs on UHB's garden railway. She is very fun to drive, but I still prefer the big engines. ;-)

Speedy:

Even smaller than Etna, he is also a miniature steam engine. I have to admit I don't like driving him much as he tends to spit embers from his funnel. Getting then in your face is very unpleasant.

Sulitelma:

One of the Setesdal Line's railcars. She has her name from her previous line. I didn't drive her, but again got to tag along when another volunteer got his drivers lessons late one night. And I finally got to see the line as a passenger.

Other engines I've met (some of them, I can list all as this would be an endless post. XD), but not driven:

Di.3 642 "Tora":

El.13:

Whatever this thing is:

Rjukanbanens No.1 (Rj.B 1):

NSB Skd. 217-117:

NSB Di.2 833:

NSB type 63 "Big German":

El.1 2001:

Borregaard's No.1 "Porter":

NSB Skd.220 144 "Reidar":

Di.3 628 "Håkon":

#my life #real life #steam locomotive #diesel locomotive

5 notes · View notes

pengychan · 10 months ago

Text

[Baldur's Gate III] Hell to Pay, Ch. 3

Illustration by @raphaels-little-beast

Title: Hell to Pay Summary: Assassinating an archdevil is a daunting task, even for the heroes of Baldur’s Gate. Some inside help from ‘the devil they know’ would be good, if not for the detail their last meeting ended with said devil dead in his own home. Or did it? Characters: Raphael, the Dark Urge, Astarion, Haarlep, Halsin, Karlach, Wyll. Rating: M Status: In progress

All chapters will be tagged as ‘hell to pay’ on my blog. Also on Ao3.

*** Raphael is having a bad time. Raphael will keep having a bad time for the foreseeable future. ***

For three days and as many nights, Raphael remained, to put it kindly, asleep. To put it more bluntly, he was unconscious as a rock.

He didn’t stir when Isobel cast healing spell after healing spell, shattered bones slowly mending, gaping wounds closing at a snail's pace, nor did he stir when his bandages were changed daily. He didn’t stir with healing potions were poured down his throat, along with honey, water and some broth to make sure he wouldn’t starve before waking up.

He didn’t even stir when an especially kind-hearted maid took it upon herself to bring warm water, scissors and a comb into the room to do something about the mess of blood and matted hair on the cambion’s head.

“I’d have taken care of it quicker, if you let me slice his entire head off,” Dame Aylin said, watching the maid leave with the small basin now full of bloody water. She was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes narrowed as she stared at Raphael. As always, he remained unconscious, but he no longer looked like he had some sort of butchered mammal on top of his head. An improvement, that. “Or crush it as I crushed Ketheric Thorm’s.”

“Now that’s something I’d love to watch,” Astarion replied, and Durge was suddenly rather glad they had decided to stay in the room, before those two got carried away and did something that they would… well, no, they probably wouldn’t regret it. It wasn’t like Durge would cry a river over it, either.

But in the back of their mind there was the unyielding grasp of Bhaal over his soul as he tried to extinguish their life, and Raphael’s broken body as Mephistopheles prepared to devour him. One had been a sensation, the other an image, and now they were mingling in their mind and their dreams until they couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

“If he tries anything,” they had finally said, “you’re very welcome to have his head.”

“And mount it on the wall,” Astarion suggested, just as Aylin scoffed.

“Of course he’ll try something. He’s a devil.”

“Not anymore, if my theory is correct.”

“That’s a big if, my love.”

“Well, there is a precedent,” Durge replied, and felt just a touch smug when neither Astarion nor Aylin had anything to retort to that.

It had taken them some time to recall any details - so many of their memories from before remained vague - but they did recall learning of something similar having occurred once… and to another son of Mephistopheles no less. It had been Art Cullagh, still fading away in his bed but more peaceful than ever, to provide the missing pieces once Durge had visited him and told him about the situation.

“Ah,” he had said, smiling faintly. “It seems I can help you, after all. I fear I may have been trapped in shadows at the time, but a bard who came a couple of months ago wrote half a ballad about it. The cambion you’re thinking of was called Magadon Kest.”

As it often happened, the one bit of information was all that was needed to unlock more from the back of their still damaged mind. Yes, Durge had indeed read that name before, as they learned all they could about Mephistopheles and Cania, preparing to steal the Crown of Karsus from the archdevil’s vault.

Magadon, himself a son of Mephistopheles, had his soul torn in half by his own father. Mephistopheles had only released his son’s devilish side, keeping his human side hostage until a friend of Magadon fulfilled a bargain at the cost of his own life. It seemed a fate similar, if opposite, had befallen Raphael. His soul was ripped in half, much like Magadon’s, but it had been the human half that got away. Still…

“What would Mephistopheles do with half of Raphael’s soul?” they’d asked aloud.

Art had laughed. “Ah, my friend,” he’d said. “You’re asking too much of a humble soldier.”

Durge had left the room with at least one answer, but even more questions. Whether or not Raphael would be willing or able to answer them remained to be seen, but until he woke up--

“I hope you appreciate,” Aylin spoke up, snapping Durge from their thoughts, “that I am probably the first aasimar to ever stand in the same room as a cambion and not run a blade through his rotten heart. And I’m holding back for your sake.”

“I truly do appreciate--”

“I am barely holding back for your sake.”

“... Perhaps it would be best for you to leave the room? Isobel has been working really hard to heal him. It would be a shame to undo all her work,” Durge added, and Aylin snorted a laugh.

“Hah! Using the love of my life against me, I see. That is a low blow.”

“Well, I’m no Paladin,” Durge grinned, all fangs, and Aylin raised an eyebrow. Durge shrugged. “Well, if nothing else, he was the reason why nearly all of Shar’s worshippers in the Gauntlet were butchered. He didn’t necessarily work against us.”

“He certainly didn’t have them butchered for my sake. But yes, point taken. Loath as I am to say so, he unintentionally did me a favor. My imprisonment was a dark enough time without Sharrans coming to plunge their spear into my heart time and time again.”

“... I can’t imagine what that was like.”

“I think I can,” Astarion muttered, his voice a bit too light not to guess there was something else beneath - more understanding than he’d have liked, probably. Aylin nodded.

“... Yes, I know you can. Horrible of me to say, but it helps to know someone who understands,” Aylin was saying, her voice low. Her expression had turned dark, a distant cast to her eyes, then she seemed to shake something off and stepped towards the door, the ever-present armor clinking. “... I believe I’ll stand in the sun for a while. I did not miss sunlight as much as I missed the caress of moonlight, but I did yearn for it all the same.”

“Yes, I think I can imagine that too,” Astarion quipped, and Aylin froze in her tracks.

“By the Moonmaiden, I did not mean to-- I did not think before speaking, Astarion. I do apologize.”

A smile could hide a great many things, especially on Astarion’s face, but Durge had grown to know him too well not to see it - the painful resentment over the fact Aylin got, at last, to stand in the sun. His own taste of sunlight after two centuries had been brief, and despite their travels since he and Durge had yet to find a solution that would let him walk freely in the sun once more. They had been happy travels - they were happy - but no happiness is without some clouds, and this was theirs.

And it was enough for Durge to speak to Gale, quickly and in private, before leaving their small gathering. If anyone could find a solution, they’d reasoned, it was Gale of Waterdeep - but at the same time, they were not quite confident enough to get Astarion’s hopes up. Gale had seemed plenty confident for both of them that he could work something out, but-- well, it was Gale being Gale. Earnest, kind, but more than a little overconfident.

Yet he had good reason to be confident, most times, so Durge remained somewhat hopeful.

Unaware of their thoughts, Astarion shook his head. “Don’t apologize for enjoying all you can. Never. I know I am giving no apologies whatsoever.”

“... Very well. I am sure your quest will bear fruit, and I look forward to the day we both can stand in the sun. Until then, may the Moonmaiden always watch over you.”

“I, ah, I really rather hope she doesn’t. Not all the time. Some nighttime activities can be quite a private thing, you understand,” he replied, and Aylin laughed.

“The Moonmaiden is maiden in title only, rest assured. She will not blush,” she added, and gave Astarion’s shoulder a friendly nudge before leaving the room. Astarion made a face, rubbing said shoulder.

“If that’s what her friendly nudges are like, I’m happy we were never enemies. I’m also happy for her timing in leaving, really,” he added, tilting his head towards the bed. The groan reached Durge’s ears the next instant.

“Uhnnn…”

Ah, there he was. Durge turned to see Raphael stir under the blankets, and his features twist in discomfort before he finally blinked his eyes open. They were vaguely aware of Astarion slipping a hand closer to the hilt of his dagger, and they did prepare to cast if need be… but most of their attention remained focused on Raphael’s face as he blinked his surroundings into focus, frowned, and tried to sit up.

With somewhat predictable results, given that something like half his bones had not yet finished healing.

“AGH!”

Raphael let out a cry and fell back against the pillow, teeth clenched, eyes squeezed shut. The hand Durge had been holding up to cast a spell if needed went to grab a potion on the nightstand.

“Drink this. It serves to dull the pain, or so I’m told.”

Raphael’s eyes snapped open, and turned to them for the first time. His features twisted, and his breath seemed to catch before he spoke, slowly, voice hoarse. He didn’t even look at the potion Durge was handing to him.

“... Haarlep?”

Ah. “Er…”

“Oh dear, I really hope not,” Astarion commented, nudging Durge’s arm with an elbow. “Or I’ll have to ask for last night back. And then kill you.”

It was Astarion’s presence, more than Durge’s hesitation, that made Raphael realize it was definitely not his incubus sitting by the side of his bed. He bared his teeth in a growl and tried to stand again, but this time Durge was ready. A scroll of Hold Person and Raphael was pinned back, immobile and none too pleased about it… but at least spared the indignity of falling onto the floor in a heap of bandaged limbs. For now. He was not very grateful about it.

“You-- release me right this instant!”

“Would I get something in return?”

“The overly generous chance to run ,” Raphael seethed, either entirely unaware of his current predicament or very, very deep in denial. Durge raised an eyebrow and tapped their chin with a finger, pretending to consider. Astarion grinned.

“I for one would love to watch him try to crawl after us,” he said, and Durge entertained the mental image for just a moment or two more than necessary before they spoke.

“A tempting deal,” they said instead. “I’m almost sorry to turn it down.”

A scoff, full of contempt. “Of course, that’s what you do, isn’t it?” Raphael snapped. “Turn down perfectly good deals, proposed in perfectly good faith, to sneak behind my back and steal from me like the rat you are.”

Durge decided to choose another moment to breach the subject of their very different ideas of perfectly good faith. “I thought I was a mouse.”

“What you are is a wretched creature I’ll very much enjoy crushing under my heel.”

“Didn’t work too well last time, did it now?” Astarion asked, tilting his head. “And you still had powers then. I don’t fancy your chances now, as much as I’d love to see you try.”

“What…?” That gave Raphael pause, for a moment, and his eyes darted away from the two of them, across the room, to pause on the collection of emptied bottles that had once contained healing potions, on the rolls of clean bandages waiting to be used. He stared for several moments, as though not comprehending, and Durge turned to Astarion.

“Might be the right moment to let Halsin know he’s awake. No need for him to come in, just make him and Isobel aware. Discreetly.”

“Oh, please. Discreet is my middle name,” Astarion said. “And if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re trying to get me out of this room.”

“I am trying to get you out of this room.”

Astarion squinted. “... You’re not actually his incubus, are you?”

“Not last I checked,” Durge replied, and Astarion chuckled before standing with a dramatic sigh.

“Very well. I will go, like an exile, to bear your message while you’re up here having all the fun. ”

Durge suspected they were not going to have any fun in that room - the part of them that enjoyed others’ plight had been mostly snuffed out when Bhaal had tried to kill them, it seemed - but they just snorted. “How dramatic.”

“Dramatic, me? Perish the thought,” Astarion sighed, but did squeeze their shoulder in a silent reminder - if anything happens, shout - before he left the room and headed downstairs, looking for Halsin.

***

“Look, soldier, I think this is a bad idea.”

“A courtly dance is never a bad idea.”

“I stepped on your foot something like seven times, and I’m no lightweight.”

“It was only five.”

“No, it was not.”

“Five and a half,” Wyll retorted, and Karlach snorted out a laugh.

“How the fuck does one step on a foot half a time?”

Wyll smiled, and twirled under her arm before pulling away, still holding onto her hand. “By getting better.”

“I dance like a bear.” Still, Karlach pulled him back and followed his lead again, trying to match his steps. It wasn’t often that they got some time to breathe in Avernus, with both demons and devils sent by Zariel to deal with, one wave after the other - but sometimes they could take a break and gods, it was nice. It was great. It made her stupid giddy and she got to really pause and see Wyll smile, which was a relief. She worried many times that he’d come to regret this, coming to Avernus with her, and she was ready to let him go if he decided he wanted to return to the material plane instead.

But he never did. And he never seemed to regret being there, which blew Karlach’s mind and probably would have done something to her heart, too, if she still had her own beating in her chest.

“No, you do not,” Wyll was saying, pressing a palm against hers and guiding her into a slow, circular motion. “I’ve seen a bear dance, and you’re far more graceful.”

“Yeah, I don’t think Halsin drunk on fermented fruit counts as seeing a bear dance. He just stumbled around and flattened Jaheira’s tent.”

“... I have seen another bear dance,” Wyll muttered, and Karlach laughed again. It still seemed so odd to hear her own laughter echoing in the hot, sulfurous air of Avernus. In the ten years she had been there before, she hardly had any chances to laugh. Now there were so many more, and she treasured each of them.

“Well, I’m your only available dance partner, so I’ll try to get better,” she promised.

Least I could do. You came to live in Hell for me.

Unaware of her thoughts, Wyll smiled. “You’re already getting much bett--” he began, only to trail off when something reached them both - a smell of sulfur stronger than what usually surrounded them, the very air around them seeming to grow thicker.

A devil was coming.

They broke apart without the need to exchange more than a glance; their weapons were never far from their reach, and within seconds Karlach was holding up her greataxe, Wyll had unsheathed his rapier.

But they wouldn’t use their weapons now, however much Karlach would have liked to.

“Oh dear, pet. It seems I’ll need to start sending a message before I show up, before you greet me with a blade through the chest,” an all too familiar voice rang out, as the figure before them stretched her wings. “It would be most inconvenient.”

Ugh. Mizora.

Karlach bit back a comment or two about where she wanted to shove her axe - her chest not being her first choice - and let Wyll speak. He was not pleased to see her, he never would be, but in his own words she had given him with a loose leash, and he was keen on keeping things that way. Angering her needlessly would work against them.

“Mizora. I assume you have a new mission for me?”

A smile, insufferable as always. “That I do! A big one. You see, my pet, you’ve been giving me a bit of a headache. I feel it’s time to solve the problem at the root before you become a liability, don’t you think?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Karlach snapped, hands itching to wrap around MIzora’s neck. Fingers around the neck, thumbs on her throat. Shake and squeeze. Oh, wouldn’t that feel good. “Wyll has done everything you’ve asked of him!”

A dismissive wave of a hand. “Yes, and he has been so very effective. I have no complaints. And he’s been also busy helping you keep Zariel’s forces at bay, so that you’re not, um, recruited again. I am sure you know that, with the Netherbrain taken care of, Zariel is more keen than ever to have you back in her ranks. Or, if you won’t go back, to have your head on a pike. It discourages deserters, you see.”

Wyll stepped forward. “I will not return her to Zariel,” he spoke. “I’ll let you destroy my soul before--”

“Wyll, no. I can’t let you--”

“Oh, please, spare me the moving and noble self-sacrifice, both of you,” Mizora cut them off. “That is not my mission. Although, you see, Wyll’s continued aid of you has not gone unnoticed. And this puts me, as his patron, on a tight spot.”

Wyll blinked, staring at her, and hesitated for a moment before he spoke. “... Does Zariel know…?”

“That you’re a warlock? Yes. Does she know whose warlock?” Mizora smiled. “She does not. She knows I am patron to warlocks, as many devils are, but most of their identities are unknown to her. She was never curious enough to check. But now oh, she is very interested in finding out who your patron is. And she will, eventually, if given enough time. Once she does… I’m sure you can imagine, she will not be very happy with me. Allowing you to run amok in Avernus, turning a blind eye to your continued assistance of a fugitive. Even if I had you turn her in now-- ”

“I would never--”

“Forget your noble soul for a moment and pretend you would. Zariel still would not be pleased that, for all this time, I let my own warlock stand between her and her prey. See, this is where our interests align quite conveniently. So, your mission.” Mizora waved her hand, and wisps of smoke gathered to show a face Karlach knew and despised - archdevil Zariel’s.

“I know of your little plan to break in her foundry and find a way to fix the tin can in your chest, Karlach, so that it may allow you to live in the material plane. It is not a bad plan. I think it has fairly good chances to work. However, Zariel will keep chasing you even there. You know she will. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a permanent solution? For all of us?"

Karlach laughed. “Yeah, right. The only permanent solution would be to take Zariel herself out, and that is… that would be…” A pause. Mizora smiled. Karlach gaped. “... Wait. What , are you seriously…?”

As she stammered, Mizora’s smile widened. A swipe of her hand, and the smokey likeness of Zariel was gone. “Ah,” she muttered. “I always thought you were smarter than you look.”

***

For what felt like a long time, but was probably about a minute, Raphael could only stare at his surroundings. He looked at the bandages and healing potions no devil would ever need in such amounts to recover; he took note of his every broken bone, of the empty chasm aching cold within him, and let the implications sink in.

It was no graceful sinking, no gentle descent under the waves in cold and silence: it felt more like the crashing of the floating cities of the Netheril Empire, stone hitting stone, bodies and buildings alike shattering into a fine mist. The people in those cities had seen the ground rushing up to meet them, and screamed and prayed and hoped, somehow, for a miracle to save them at the last moment. Closing their eyes, praying they’d open them to find it had all been a dream.

He’d thought it pathetic then, and he thought it pathetic now. The line between hope and denial, Raphael had always found, was extremely thin. He’d always despised both; he wouldn’t lower himself to resort to either now.

So he set his jaw, breathed out, and spoke with his gaze fixed on the ceiling.

“I suppose,” he snapped, “that you have come to gloat.”

“... No, I have not. I did not come here expecting to find you.

“Where am I?”

“The Last Light Inn. Someone who looked like me took you here. I can only assume it was Haarlep.”

“Ah, yes. Haarlep.” Raphael sneered. “You came into my home, stole from me, bedded my personal incubus--”

“That wasn’t planned, I just needed the information--”

“-- killed me in my own home--”

“Didn’t kill you very dead, by the looks of it.” The rat leaned in to look at him more closely, and Raphael wished more than anything that he could move, that he had any power to burn that inquisitive look off their scaly face. “And believe me, I usually know how to kill someone very dead. But you know that. You knew from the start what I was, didn’t you?”

A scoff. “Who do you take me for? However poor Bhaal’s choice was, of course I’d know the face of the Chosen Bhaalspawn.”

“Former. My father himself killed off that part of me, though I cannot say that was his plan. What yours did, on the other hand, seems far more deliberate.”

The sneer on Raphael’s lips froze, and even the idea of burning off that creature’s odious face lost its appeal. He set his jaw, and swallowed before he spoke again. It felt like trying to force words out through a mouthful of ashes.

“What do you know of what Mephistopheles did?”

A shrug. “I don’t know for a fact what he did to you. But I know he had you in his grasp after we supposedly killed you - saw it in an orb of Infernal Envisioning first, and then in your mind. I know there is every indication your devilish powers are no more. And I know what he did to one of your half-brothers, once. How he tore his soul in two and only let him retain the devilish part of it.”

So, they knew of Magadon. Of course they did. For someone who had their cranium cracked open and brain skewered with a knife, the-- little mouse -- accursed rat knew an annoying array of things.

“And I can guess,” they were adding, still looking him in the eye, “that the half I am speaking to right now is the human one. Isn’t it?”

The empty nothing at his core ached, but Raphael refused to acknowledge it and forced the sneer back on his face. “What a display of obvious conclusions drawn from well known facts. Utterly mediocre, yet impressive coming from you.”

“That’s a long-winded way to admit you’re mortal, then?”

“Listen here, pipsque--” Raphael snapped, and instinctively tried to sit up just as the spell that kept him still waned. It took less than half a second for white-hot pain to shoot up his spine, sink its claws in his side, and replace what remained of the bones in his legs with shards of glass. He let out a strangled, utterly undignified cry, and fell back on the mattress in a shuddering, sweaty mass of agony, everything around him growing distant and dark. He dimly felt a hand cradling the back of his head, felt something being pressed against his lips, then there was liquid in his mouth and he realized he was thirsty, too, mouth parched dry as the Calim Desert.

He drank, and the pain subsided almost immediately, turning into a more distant and bearable ache; the darkness retreated, his vision cleared, and his head was leaned back on the pillow.

“Don’t move. The healing process is slow. You’re still severely injured.”

There was a harsh sound that could have been a laugh; Raphael realized only after a few moments that it had come from him. “What-- do you think you’re doing, little mouse?” he managed, turning to look at them. They still had the empty bottle in their hand. “You think it best to get me back on my feet before you try again to kill me very dead, don’t you? Makes it feel more fair, doesn't it? Like you’re giving me a fair chance.”

A scoff. “I have no intention to kill you, unless you give me reason.”

“Since when,” he sneered, “does the Chosen Bhaalspawn need reason to kill?”

“Since they defied Bhaal and lived to tell the tale,” they replied, unblinking and, most annoyingly, seemingly unimpressed.

“You tried to murder me before.”

“You left me no choice. You made sure our only way out would be through you. I did what I had to do.”

“You could have taken the deal, and received the hammer from my own hands!”

“On conditions I could not accept.”

“I’d have dealt with you fairly. I held my half of the bargain with the vampire spawn, didn’t I?”

“You’ll admit that taking down an orthon is several steps removed from handing you a crown with the power to conquer all nine Hells.”

Raphael didn’t tell them he’d walk back into Mephistopheles’ maw before he lowered himself to admitting a thing to them, but he rather hoped his glare was enough to convey the message. The rat just shrugged.

“We had no reason to believe you’d have stopped at ruling the nine Hells.”

“It was in the contract, you imbecile! Infernal contracts are binding, even the lowest lemure would know--”

“Ah, yes,” was the deadpan reply. “The contract written in a language I don’t understand, which I got to see for all of thirty seconds. The devil’s in the details, as you said yourself, and one should always check the fine print. Yet you were careful to ensure we could not check that fine print. Or any print at all. It was nowhere as subtle as you thought it was.”

Raphael ground his teeth. Everything about the being before him infuriated him, and at the moment the most aggravating part was that they were correct. Of course they were correct. I will remain within the borders of my kingdom means nothing when no clearer definition of the kingdom’s borders is set and you see any Plane within reach as rightfully yours.

“Either way,” the rat went on, “I’d have gladly resolved it with no violence. You acted much too rashly.”

It wasn’t often that Raphael was left speechless - it was, truth be told, an extremely rare occurrence - but this was one such time. The sheer scale of the idiocy on display left him struggling for words. “Rashly!” he finally barked out, and tried again to sit up. Pain flared, and he fell back with a groan. “That’s-- rashly! The rat who tried to steal in the house of a devil thinks I was rash!” A laugh, even as his ribs ached. What kind of nonsense was this? Was he still in Cania, perhaps, unconscious, hallucinating? He had to be. This made no sense.

A huff. “No more rash than signing a contract I couldn’t read,” the rat muttered. “And besides, our interests aligned. Killing us there would have meant letting the Netherbrain win, which would have meant no more souls for you in turn. I have it on good authority that Mindflayers make terrible clients. What was your plan to deal with that once you’d destroyed us?”

There had been no plan, of course. Only the fury of knowing the perplexing, aggravating, and aggravatingly perplexing mortals he’d thought he had finally reeled into his net were robbing him. That if word got out that he had thieves in his own house he’d be the joke of Avernus and perhaps of Cania, where few at his father’s court would pass up a chance to have a laugh of his expenses.

Devils of Cania were always delighted to see a whelp of Mephistopheles fail.

Raphael’s features twisted, and he turned away, to the window. He could see the sky, hear the sound of leaves rustling in the wind and… chattering children. Wonderful, simply wonderful. One of the things he hated most. All that was missing now was a litter of kittens under the bed, and his torment would be complete.

“I assume,” he finally ground out, “that you put the hammer to use.”

“... That we did. It gave us the means to free Orpheus and take on the Netherbrain.”

“I’m amazed you found it in you to defy the Emperor. I’m sure it didn’t take it well.”

A sigh. “Sure didn’t. The Emperor was no more willing than you were to compromise. Just as unnecessarily, I might add. We needed not stop being allies, but his mind was set. He made his call, and we made ours.”

“Ah, I see. So you killed it, too?”

“We lost sight of the Emperor when we went to strike down the Brain. I don’t know what became of him afterwards.” A pause, then, “I was always told that killing a devil in their home - in the Hells - means killing them for good. How did you survive?”

Still looking at the annoyingly bright sky, Raphael snorted. “I have a couple of guesses, neither of which I am interested in sharing with you.”

“Fair enough. I suppose I’ll get the same answer if I ask how you fled Mephistopheles’ wrath?”

That was a more difficult question, and frustrating in the sense that Raphael knew and did not know the answer. He knew how he got out of Cania; he knew who took him there. What he did not know was why. Someone who was not Haarlep and certainly not the debtor who’d given him the ring must have orchestrated his escape, and no one in Hell ever did anything out of the kindness of their heart. But what could anyone want from him now that he was less than half of what he once was - weak, near powerless, mortal ?

I am reduced to nothing, Raphael thought, the empty space somewhere at his core colder than his father’s frozen throne. Half of nothing.

What value did he have to anyone, what reason would there be to risk Mephistopheles’ wrath to keep him alive? He had no answer to any of those questions, and it ate at him. But surely, his mysterious savior would appear, eventually, explain, and maybe work out an agreement that may satisfy them both. Maybe the half of his soul Mephistopheles had ripped away was not lost; if Magadon could recover his lost half, then by the nine Hells so could he.

Unless, of course, no one came. No savior, no answer, no deals. Only unanswered questions and a lifetime, a mortal lifetime, of powerlessness. A blink of an eye, and it would be all over. Ashes and dust, a name for Jergal’s archives and nothing more. He’d die. He’d grow old and even frailer, and then die. He was slowly dying right now.

“... Raphael?” the rat spoke, and he ground his teeth against his own growing dread.

“Yes,” he finally snapped, without turning. He squeezes his eyes shut against the light coming from the window. “You’ll get the same answer. Spare yourself the effort to ask, and me the aggravation of listening to your voice.”

A pause, and finally he heard them stand, making floorboards creak. “Very well. I’ll let you rest. Isobel will be here to check on you, and I suggest you don’t anger her. Or the aasimar bound to her. Especially do not anger Dame Aylin, come to think of it.”

Ah, yes, the aasimar. Brilliant. This just kept getting better.

For just a moment, the thought - it may be more dignified to let the aasimar end me now - crossed his mind, but he forced himself to push it down. No - no. This was not him. He did not fail. He did not fall. This was a setback, that was all. There had to be a way to reclaim the other half of his soul, and by all the reeking Hells he’d find it. He’d take it back, take it all back, and he’d visit revenge upon his enemies such as the material plane had never seen.

But until then… until then, he had to bid his time. Survive. Recover. Plan. Even mortals were not entirely powerless, as the infuriating being by his bedside and their companions proved. He would pull together every scrap of strength and power he could still wield, until he could use it. And if that meant having to go along with whatever game the rat was playing, very well. He could do that, and wait for the right moment to sink a blade in their back.

Two of them could play that game.

“I can bring you something to read, if you want,” the rat was saying, and Raphael almost scowled before he got a grip on himself. If he was to play a part, he may as well start now. So he turned, looked at them, and forced himself to keep his voice even. No need to sound overly grateful, it wouldn’t be believable, but begrudging acceptance could be a start.

“... I would appreciate that.”

A nod, and they turned to leave. Raphael stared at their retreating back, trying to imagine what breaking their spine would feel like, then called out. “I know what your name is. The real one. If you’d like to know.”

A pause in their stride, a hand already on the door handle. “And I suppose you want something in return.”

He could reply he wanted nothing, but again, it wouldn’t be believable. “If this place has any decent red wine,” he said, “I’ll take a goblet of that in exchange, as soon as I can sit up to drink it properly.”

A chuckle and then, without turning, they shook their head. “I’ll get you the wine if the healer approves, but I need nothing Bhaal gave me. My true family calls me Durge. It will suffice.”

Well. That was a bit too much for Raphael not to comment on. “That’s the most idiotic name I ever heard,” he muttered, and got a laugh in return.

“Oh, it is a rather stupid name. Gale meant it as a joke, I believe. But it is mine,” Durge replied, and left the room without another word.

***

“I think,” Wyll said, after a very long silence, still staring at the spot where Mizora had been standing until mere minutes earlier, “that we’re going to need some help.”

“No shit,” Karlach muttered, and lit herself another cigar.

***

[Back to Chapter 2]

[On to Chapter 4]

[Back to Start]

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #raphael bg3 #the dark urge #astarion ancunin #halsin bg3 #wyll ravengard #karlach bg3 #dame aylin #mizora bg3 #haarlep #hell to pay

13 notes · View notes

badassxbirdy · 2 months ago

Text

October Activity Update (Pinned Post)

Happy spooky season, folks! It’s time once again for an activity update. If you’re new here: these posts help me to keep track of what the frick I’ve been doing, particularly when tumblr breaks or the brain fog strikes. This update includes replies and interactions posted from the 1st of August to the 1st of October, as well as things in drafts at the time of posting. Everything else can be found in previous updates under this tag. There’s also the full thread tracker here, which I'll be updating this week.

If you want to see all IC interactions without the other stuff, click here. If you’d like to start something new, there are opens and memes, or you can just hit up the DM’s. You can also add Tyler on Discord for IC texting. Username is the same as her url, just let me know who you are if you add her.

The full activity update (along with OOC housekeeping) is below the cut. Bold text = links.

Now onto the update!

OOC Housekeeping

Some of these are still in drafts from the last update. Apologies if you were tagged last time, I want to make sure I'm not missing anyone!

the rpthreadtracker page is slightly out of date atm, but will be updated this week.

Currently dealing with the after effects of my first ‘Rona experience, so please forgive any posts that are worse quality than usual. My sense of smell is back, but bloody hell has it kicked my arse and angered my chronic illness. 0/10 experience, do not recommend.

Threads, replies, and other IC interactions:

(in alphabetical order by username)

@astormymind

On the train with Maze - drafted

@demonstigma

Nosy Ty is Nosy - drafted

@demcnsinmymind - link to tracker page here

Ty gives Lance a haircut - link

Adorable sleepover vibes - drafted

Marbas is screwed, and so is Ty 😂 - drafted, and I'm still screaming over your reply skdhjkhfkjsdfhksdjfhs

Taking Lance on a hunt - link

Azzy proves a point - still drafted. ngl, I wrote an entire reply, then decided I hated it and started over. 😅

Car trouble - drafted

@derschwarzeengel - link to tracker page here

Damon opens up - link

Cosmic food delivery - link

Fanboying Damon is adorable - link

Charmed AU - link

@drkroots

A failed joke attempt - drafted

@florafound - link to tracker page here

“Hold still, I’m trying to help!” - link

@handtame

Thank you the meme, it's drafted!

@innerwar

“You probably shouldn’t drink the tap water.” with Bailey - drafted

@itsonlyfinn

Library ghost - drafted

@loyaltyguided

Ocean hedgehogs and blaming Michael - link

@magaprima

Demon problems part 2: electric boogaloo - drafted

@milleroptimism

Premeditated pizza crimes - link

@multi-royalty

An aiming oops - link

@nightiingaled - link to tracker page here

Mel is in trouble, and I am SCREM - link

Loud complaints - link

@ofteaandmagic

Awkward Tyler is awkward - link

@timelxrd-victorious

Meeting the doctor - link

@vreeshim

Apologies that my reply is still drafted, I am moving at snail speed at the moment. 😅

Headcanon, dash games, and assorted silliness:

Thread and dash commentary, featuring me losing my mind over the Azzy situation. - link and link

Cracktastic crack! - link

Mel, The Place Between & The Horrors (aka a drabble/fic by Rook that I will still be screaming over for the next 7–10 business months because MEL BBY NOOOOO.) - link

I think that’s everything, but as always, please let me know if I’ve missed something. I never intentionally drop threads without notifying, rest assured that if it’s not here I am either having a brain fart or I simply have not seen it. Remember to be kind to yourselves, and drink some water. ❤️ — Em

#activity update #Pinned post

2 notes · View notes

celestiall0tus · 2 months ago

Text

Tales of Bloody Bug and Chat Noir - Chapter 64 - Starting Over

Beginning || Previous || Next

Adrien sat on the couch in the sitting room. He tapped his foot against the floor and fidgeted with his hands as his eyes darted from the clock on the wall and back to the floor. He watched the seconds tick by at an agonizing snail’s pace. Each one longer than the last that made the wait torturous. He checked his phone for any messages from Amelie or Alim, but there was nothing aside from their last message that they had Gabriel.

Adrien took a shaky breath to calm himself, but the nerves remained. Today was finally the day that he would see Gabriel again. Today was the chance to learn everything. Today he would finally have the answers to everything he wanted to know. There was a sense of joy, but also fear. This was the same man that neglected him for a year. The same man that was Hawkmoth. The same man that allowed two monsters to abuse his own son. He would face that monster soon, and the wait was killing him.

The doorknob turned and the door opened. Adrien shot to his feet in anxious anticipation, but slight relief soothed him as he heard Alix’s uproarious laughter. He watched her barrel into the sitting room with Felix hot on her heels.

“Adrien! Adrien! You should have been there. Mister I-think-I’m-so-smooth-watch-me just-!”

Felix jumped Alix as they fell to the floor in a tumble. Adrien watched the pair fight until Felix had Alix in a hold. Adrien was sure Felix had won when Alix wildly kicked and hit Felix in the groin. Adrien recoiled as Felix let out a high-pitched groan and Alix escaped him.

“Bloody hell, you manky twat! You bloody cheated!”

Alix burst out laughing. “Is all it takes is a kick to the balls to sound like a whining, pompous Brit? Shall I do it again?”

Felix hissed as he got in Alix’s face. “Don’t even think out it, nutter.”

“Let’s see you try and stop me. You’ll be as successful as you are with your ice-hearted wretch.”

“You manky cunt.”

“The fuck did you just call me you whiny, self-absorbed, blue-blooded Yankee rank roast beef?”

“Yankee roast-! Fuck you, you manky, daft, ankle-biter frog!”

“Felix!” Amelie yelled.

Felix flinched as he, Alix, and Adrien turned to see Alim, Amelie, and Gabriel standing together. Amelie crossed her arms as she glowered at Felix.

“I’m ashamed of you. I asked you to be nice to Alix because she will be your sister one day,” Amelie scolded.

“Baby steps, Amelie,” Alim reminded.

“Huh? Oh, yes, baby steps. Anyway, I don’t want to hear you call Alix anything like that again. Do you hear me?”

“Fine,” Felix grumbled.

“That goes double for you too, Alix. We’re all living under the same roof, and I would appreciate if you could get along even if just a little,” Alim added.

“No promises,” Alix remarked.

Alim sighed. “Just like your mother, bless both your hearts.”

“This is touching and all, but I would like to speak with my son,” Gabriel said.

“You may, but you will be doing it with everyone present, like we discussed,” Amelie remarked.

“Amelie, with all due respect, I-.”

“I don’t care. You have proven to me you are a sorry excuse for a father and have done everything that’s upset our Emilie. Adrien was her pride and joy, her little miracle, just as Felix is mine. And you put him through hell and high water, and I’m sure we all would like to know.”

Gabriel glared at Amelie, then sighed. “Fine, but no remarks from the peanut gallery. This is between Adrien and myself. Understood?”

“I think that’s fair. What about the rest of you?” Amelie asked.

Felix shrugged and Alim nodded while Alix shook her head.

“Alix, is there something wrong with that?” Amelie asked.

“Yes. I want answers just as much as Adrien. You put him through hell, you terrorized the city, and I want answers just as much as Adrien,” Alix pointed out.

Gabriel sneered. “I owe you nothing, girl.”

“You’re wrong, Gabriel,” Adrien butted in.

Gabriel’s eyes widened as he looked at Adrien. “What did-?”

“Alix has stood by me ever since you shut me out at the start of the year. It has been her and Alim that welcomed me into their family. It’s because of her I’m even who I am now. We’ve been through so much. More than you could ever imagine, so whatever she wants to know, she’s more than obligated to an answer.”

Gabriel sighed. “Fine, if it means we get this started already. Shall we sit?”

Everyone exchanged glances before they moved. Alix sat next to Adrien on the couch while Alim and Amelie sat together in a living chair adjacent to them. Gabriel took the other living chair across from Alix and Adrien while Felix stood between Amelie and Adrien.

“Where do you want me to being, Adrien?” Gabriel asked.

“The very beginning. With you searching for the peacock brooch,” Adrien answered.

“How did you know about that?”

“That’s not important right now, is it?”

“Fine. Emilie and I were ready to start a family, but try as we might, Emilie couldn’t conceive. We tried everything along with Amelie and Colt, but nothing worked for us,” Gabriel started.

“If you’re as bad at aiming as Colt was, I’m not surprised. Surprised he even managed to get it right once for me to have Felix,” Amelie muttered while she looked at her nails.

Felix recoiled at the statement, Adrien pursed his lips, and Alix snorted in laughter.

Gabriel glared at Amelie. “Then you’ll love this part, dearest Amelie. Emilie and I looked into other methods outside of the conventional, even modern. We discovered a budding archeologist by the name of Nathalie Sancoeur who was pursuing artifacts known as the Miraculous. We looked over her research that she had released to the public. As bare bones as it was, it gave us hope that she could help us find an answer to our problem.”

“Why resort to using a Miraculous if you had no idea what it was or if it could even help you?” Alix asked.

“Because we had tried everything, and Emilie… Emilie was falling into a terrible depression. She blamed herself for not being able to conceive. She regularly called herself a failure of a woman and daughter, commented that I should have married anyone but her, and I just… I wanted to do right by her. So, we funded Nathalie’s research. I had begun to lose hope until we found the peacock brooch. Nathalie explained that with it, we could create creatures out of pure emotion. She had also warned that it was damaged, but I did not listen. I took it, and presented it to Emilie. In her delight, she used it to impregnate herself with a baby made of pure love.”

“She what?!” Amelie squawked.

“Oh, you think that was bad? Colt soon learned of Emilie being pregnant and came at me. He demanded to know how I managed to continue my legacy with the misguided heir while the two of you couldn’t conceive. I offered him the brooch in exchange for his strongest warrior to protect Adrien. So, Colt used the peacock and mirrored Emilie’s actions.”

Amelie’s jaw dropped. “What? You… you’re lying!”

“What would I have to gain from lying right now?” Gabriel countered.

Amelie’s face fell as she looked at Felix. Felix flinched and looked away.

“No. No, no, no! I had Felix. Felix is my flesh and blood. He’s not some creature made of whatever Colt felt at the time. He’s my amazing, beautiful son!”

“He’s right, Mum. I was a monster,” Felix muttered.

“No, you’re-! Wait, you were?”

“Thanks to the hero, Chat Noir, I was made fully human to escape the possibility of being used by the villain, Mayura.”

“Wait! Adrien, what about you?” Gabriel butted in.

“I’m not a sentimonster anymore. Bloody Bug saved me after Mayura… after Mayura ordered me to stay in the mansion as she had it collapsed on top of me,” Adrien admitted.

“What?” Amelie and Gabriel yelled.

“You told me you weren’t over there! What were you doing there?” Amelie shrieked.

“I-,” Adrien started.

“Does that even matter? Why would you put yourself in such danger?” Gabriel demanded.

Adrien grimaced as he looked to Alix. She sighed and looked between Amelie and Gabriel.

“Now is not the time for this. We’re here to discuss Gabriel being Hawkmoth. I, for one, am upset Adrien was in danger, but I’m not about to let myself get distracted. Gabriel, when you took the brooch, what became of Nathalie?” Alix asked.

“We’re not changing the subject. Adrien, why-?” Gabriel started.

“Just answer the question, Gabriel,” Adrien hissed.

Gabriel recoiled and sighed. “I cut Nathalie off after that. She pushed for a time, and I, in a moment of clouded judgement, delegitimized her research, destroyed her reputation and image, and completely cut off cut with her. I had what I wanted and had no need of her ruining my happiness.”

“Until you ruined yourself by letting your wife use a damaged miraculous,” Alix remarked.

“Yes. When her health declined, I sought to find a fix but couldn’t find one. I watched over the years as she withered away to nothing. It was then that I found Nathalie again to find a solution.”

“And how did Nooroo enter the equation? Before or after Nathalie’s return?”

“Long before. I found him using the scraps of Nathalie’s research I still had. However, his power could not help me. I held onto him as Nathalie returned, but as my PA. She worked on solutions until the moment Emilie passed. It was only months after that did Nathalie present the solution to use a wish from the black cat and the ladybug miraculous to bring back Emilie.”

“Where was the brooch at that time?” Adrien butted in.

“Kept in a secure location. At least until Emilie passed. I… I tossed the brooch that took her away from me,” Gabriel answered.

Adrien and Alix shared a knowing look.

“So, you became Hawkmoth to, what, bring Mom back?” Adrien asked.

“Yes. I know I’ve always been a lousy father. I could never be what she was to you. Those following months, seeing you without her, it broke me. You deserved so much better. You deserved Emilie, not me. I wanted to bring her back for you. I didn’t deserve you like she did. So much so that I… I was… I threw you to the wolves.”

Adrien frowned. “Why’d you do it? Why’d you allow them to do those things to me?”

Gabriel hesitated. “I… I don’t know. I… I really don’t. I don’t have an answer or reason to it. None that would make it right.”

“I don’t care about making it right. I want to know what you thinking to allow those monsters to assault your only son that you were doing all this for.”

Gabriel looked at Adrien with eyes dark with remorse. “I thought I could fix it all. I thought with this wish, I could erase all that pain like it never happened. I thought so long as Emilie were here, you wouldn’t have to worry about that. I… I allowed it to justify hurting you. Her pride and joy. Her little miracle. But I was wrong.”

“And when did you finally realize that? It certainly wasn’t at that moment. It certainly wasn’t when you blamed me for it. It certainly wasn’t at any point after. So, when did you realize you were wrong?”

“When Mayura took you. When Mayura aimed to use you to get to me. The fear I felt in that moment… I had never felt anything like it. I… I couldn’t justify what I was doing anymore after that. I tried. I tried to be a father to you, but I wasn’t sure what to do. I never had to be a parent, not like Emilie. It’s why, on a very small level, I was grateful for Amelie being there and helping me to learn to be there for you. To be a parent like Emilie.”

“Does that mean you… you weren’t going to be Hawkmoth after that moment?”

“Yes. I had a moment with myself as everything sank in. I realized just everything I had done. How much I hurt you. How much I disgraced Emilie. All for the hopes of a fool’s dream. I thought I could start over without you knowing the truth. I thought so long as you didn’t know, it would be easy to try again. To be a father. To be a family. I just… I wanted to do right by both of you. I just-.”

Gabriel broke down in tears. Adrien’s eyes widened as Gabriel lamented his failings. Alix stared at the ground, then looked at Alim. Alim nodded, moved Amelie off him, and sat on the arm of the couch next to Gabriel.

“Mr. Agreste, if I may, I wish to speak with you as an equal. Not in status, but as widowers. I understand, to a degree, where you are coming from. I may have never felt the need to seek out magical artifacts, but I understand not feeling able to fill another’s shoes. One that was so much more for your child than you’d ever be,” Alim started.

“And just how do you know?” Gabriel demanded.

Alim held out his hand for Alix, who took it, and guided her beside him. “This one right here. My darling little girl. A spitfire, just like her mother. Her shadow in every right. I always remember it was Mom she wanted, where was Mom, I don’t want you, I want Mom. I was always a little jealous Josi got all the attention from my little girl. That was until Josi got sick. We watched her wither away until her very last breath. And I-.”

Alim paused and took a deep breath. He wiped the corner of his eyes as they misted over.

“I’ll never forget that hollow feeling. That moment when I realized not what I lost, but what our little ember lost. And what I could never be. I was not bold, ferocious, loud, or anything Josi was. I was not anything Alix had learned to be from Josi. I couldn’t be what Josi was. I couldn’t be that same guiding light that Josi was, and still is. But that didn’t stop me from being there for her. Even if I couldn’t be Josi, I could be me, I could still be her father.”

“And you were that and more, Dad. I don’t know where I’d be without you. Even if you couldn’t be Mom, I still needed you, and you were there. You always knew just what to say, how to say it, when to be stern, when to be gentle. You just… you knew exactly what I needed, not what I wanted.”

Alim chuckled softly as he hugged Alix. “Because you are the ember of your mother’s fire. Wild and yet tame all at once. Though I think you have me to blame. I know if Josi were still here, she’d have just kept adding fuel to that fire until it was just like hers.”

Alix giggled. “Maybe, but I’m still glad because without you, I wouldn’t be how I am now. You never gave up on me, taught me how to be. I’ll never forget what Mom was for me. I’ll never forget her memory, and how she taught me to be fierce in such a world like this. But it was you that taught me more from there.”

“Because you are our ember, and I know she’d be proud of you, Alix,” Alim said as he kissed Alix’s forehead.

Amelie sniffled that stole Alim and Alix’s attention. They looked back at her to see her a red, puffy, teary mess.

“Amelie, are you ok, dear?”

“That was absolutely beautiful! Felix! Come to Mum,” Amelie wailed.

Felix grimaced as he tried to scramble away, but Amelie caught him. She death hugged him as he resigned himself to the affection.

Adrien looked at Alim and Alix, then Amelie and Felix, before he turned to Gabriel. “Look, Gabriel, I had asked that you were released because I wanted to try again. I’m not saying I forgive you. Not by a long shot just yet, but I want to be a family. You are still my father to some degree. You were trying, and I liked having you in my life. I want you to be in it again, but you need to understand somethings if we are to be that.”

Gabriel remained silent but stared at Adrien with a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

“First, Alim and Alix are just as much family, if not more. No, wait, definitely more. Alix is my sister and Alim, I’m sorry, has been more of a father to me than you ever could. I won’t be cutting them out, or referring to them in any other way just because you’re back.”

Gabriel shot Alim the side eye. Alim frowned and flipped off Gabriel. Alix grinned and flipped off Gabriel too.

“Second, Amelie and Alim are dating, which means Aunt Amelie will be part of this family now. This also includes Felix,” Adrien added.

Gabriel grimaced as he glanced back at Amelie, who smothered Felix.

“Finally, it’s going to take a lot of time for me to trust you again. As I said, I haven’t forgiven you for what you did to me. Good intentions or not, it hurt a lot to know you were the one that allowed those monsters to hurt me. It still does, and I-.”

Adrien was cut off as Plagg, as a black housecat, jumped onto Adrien. Plagg purred loudly as he cozied up to Adrien, who panicked and picked up Plagg. Alix moved and took Plagg from Adrien.

“You don’t learn your lesson do you, mangy beast?” Alix hissed.

Plagg growled and hissed back at Alix.

“R-right, anyway, you get it, right, Gabriel?”

Gabriel considered, then sighed. “You’ve not left me with much of a choice, Adrien.”

“Not when you lost custody of him the moment you were taken into custody yourself,” Alim pointed out.

“Wait, what?” Adrien asked.

“Sorry, Adrien. We didn’t tell you because of the circumstances of everything, but once Gabriel was taken into custody, custody of you went to Amelie exclusively. Gabriel has no legal authority over you anymore,” Alim explained.

“That’s right! That means Adrien is as much your son as I am now, Mum. Don’t you think Adrien wants to be loved? He doesn’t have his own mum after all,” Felix pointed out.

Amelie gasped. “Oh. Oh goodness. You’re right. Come here, darling Adrien.”

Felix escaped as Amelie smothered Adrien next with affection. Adrien yelped as he reached out for help.

Alim sighed and separated Amelie from Adrien. “Amelie, take it easy. They’re teen boys, not little kids. They don’t like to be smothered like that from a parent.”

“But, what can I do to show my love to them?” Amelie asked.

“I know!” Alix yelled out.

“Alix,” Alim said sternly.

“Relax, Dad. Nothing bad, I promise. I just remember that Felix is trying to win Kagami’s heart again, but he’s having trouble. And, he’d never admit it, but he needs help. Perhaps you could give him some tips on how to impress the ladies?”

Amelie gasped and grinned. “Wonderful idea! That’s exactly what teen boys want, right? Oh, where is he?”

“Likely in my room.”

Amelie gave Alix a quick hug before she ran upstairs.

Alix smirked and looked at Alim. “I get that from you.”

“Regrettably.”

Adrien smiled as he looked at Alim and Alix, but it faded as he looked back at Gabriel. “I’ve said my piece, Gabriel. I want you in my life. I want to try one more time, but only if you’re willing to meet me halfway too. Otherwise, I don’t know where there would be room for you in it.”

“Very well. We’ll see how things go. I’ll try to… well, I’ll try in general.”

“Thank you. Uh, I guess, yeah, we’ll see how things go. I, uh, I think I’m going to, uh, head out. So, see you later?”

Gabriel opened his mouth, but Alim cut him off.

“Go on, Adrien. Go have some fun. Gabriel, I’ll see you to your room and give you a run down of everything. Come along,” Alim said.

Gabriel shot Alim another side eye before he sighed and followed. Adrien watched them disappear upstairs before he let out a breath of relief. Alix tossed Plagg aside and sat beside Adrien.

“Hey, you ok?”

“Yeah. Well, I will be. That… that wasn’t easy.”

“No, no it wouldn’t, but it’s done, right?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Hey, why don’t we go see a movie or something, yeah?”

“Could we invite Nino and some other friends?”

“Always. C’mon! Let’s see what’s available and get the crew together. Maybe we can go skating, or swimming, or whatever you want.”

“Yeah. Yeah! Let’s go see what trouble we can get it, right?”

“Always.”

Patreon || Discord || Ko-Fi

#miraculous ladybug #miraculous #miraculoustalesofladybugandcatnoir #miraculous au #alternate universe #au #fanfiction writer #fanfiction #fanfic #bloody bug au #gabriel agreste #adrien agreste #alim kubdel #alix kubdel #amelie graham de vanily #felix graham de vanily

6 notes · View notes