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writershapeholeonthedoor · 3 years ago

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You Marked More Than Just My Skin - Supercorp

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Kara’s first instinct was to blame Alex because, if she was going to be honest, Alex was the one to blame for many of her stupid decisions. Sisters' competitive nature or something like that. That's what their mother would say when they were teenagers and they randomly started a fight. A just adopted Kara who had just lost her parents was not letting an overly cocky Alex win without fighting back.

So, naturally, she was going to blame Alex for this. However, Alex had nothing to do with Kara walking down the street from her job one day and entering the tattoo shop she walked past by every day on her way home. No, it had started with Winn, her best friend, saying that Kara wasn’t the type of person to do things out of impulse. Which he wasn’t exactly wrong, although he hit a sore spot because "I can be very spontaneous!" had been Kara’s answer and everyone around them gave her that look that made it pretty clear no one believed her.

Then, just about a week after that, Nia was walking home with her after a stop at Noonan's for their killer milkshake and saw the tattoo shop still open even if it was past 10 pm. There was no one inside that they could see, but the sign read "open" in neon letters and Nia did a double-take when she saw the walls covered in drawings.

"Oh, my God! Look at that thing!" she had screamed. And that thing was a fairly beautiful drawing of a girl lying in bed with a cloud above her head as though she was dreaming about a myriad of things.

Nia grabbed her arm, dragged her inside and, ten minutes later, she was sitting on a chair while a young man that couldn't be older than Kara permanently marked the skin on her forearm with the same drawing.

"Did you draw it?" Nia asked and Kara could tell she was just a little bit in pain because she was clutching the arm of the chair and hadn’t stopped babbling for two seconds. Not that Nia ever stopped talking, actually.

"No," the man replied in an excited voice. Like he was happy to be doing a tattoo on a girl that had just ten minutes prior decided she wanted one. But Kara held back her tongue, took some pictures while Nia made her goofy faces and sat on a stool at the corner like the good friend she was. "My boss did. She does most of the drawings we have available."

"Well, she has a hell of a talent!" Nia exclaimed, bit her lip when the needle hit a soft spot and flashed another smile once it was gone. "You should tell her she's amazing!"

Jack, that was his name, Kara reminded herself, laughed like that was a big joke that only he was aware of, but nodded all the same. "She's in the office right now, maybe she will stop by to hear you say that. She loves when people pick her drawings, but she will never say it out loud."

The woman, whoever she was, didn’t leave her office, not even when they left, way past midnight, listening to Jack's careful instructions on how to take care of Nia's arm for the next week. In the end, Kara had to admit Jack was a nice guy. And he did an excellent job. Nia's tattoo was perfect. Perfect for her and perfectly done, and her friend had no problem showing it off the next day.

"Holy crap!" Winn screamed when he saw it on game night on Friday. "I didn't know you were into tattoos. It looks awesome!"

"Thank you! And I just decided to do it," Nia shrugged, as though deciding to do a tattoo on a Wednesday night at 10 pm after getting a milkshake was a normal thing. "Thank Goddess Kara was with me so she could keep me company."

"Wait," Winn eyed Kara with the same incredulous expression from a week before and she immediately felt defensive. "Kara was there and didn't try to stop you?"

"She did say I might regret it," Nia conceded with a smile. "About ten times, but she stayed with me."

Kara rolled her eyes, picked up the pizza box and sulked on the couch while her friends made fun of her lack of spontaneous nature. Kara was a planner. And she had learned her lesson when she decided to walk to the park instead of going home one day after school and returned to the Danvers' household to find out three police cars parked at the street and a frantic Eliza giving them a photo of her and saying she had disappeared. So, yes, Kara wasn't one to do things out of the blue anymore, but that was hardly a bad thing.

She tried to tell that to herself for the next week while everyone still awed and cooed at Nia's tattoo. She tried to remind herself of Eliza's panicked face while James, with his impressive looking dragon tattoo on his back, said Kara would never be one to make a tattoo because she would keep changing her mind. She tried to picture Alex's disapproving stare while Nia's boyfriend, Querl, made comments on how he loved Nia's carefree and spontaneous nature.

In the end, what pushed her to do it was her boss and Kara couldn’t even blame her, or Alex, or any of her friends. But she would, anyway.

"Kiera, the reason why people hardly remember your name-" she wanted to point out that Cat was the only one who had a hard time remembering her name but bit her tongue instead "-is because you are so... blank."

"Blank?" Kara had asked, trying and failing not to look so offended.

And Cat nodded because she knew how to get to her. "Nothing remarkable. You use terrible sweaters and write articles that everyone could write. Did you ever do something, I don’t know, remotely spontaneous in your life?"

Kara was sure - or almost sure because you can never know with Cat Grant - that her boss was trying to push her to fly to Midvale to write about the scandal surrounding some tech company there even though Snapper had decided William would cover that for CatCo. It was either that or to make her wear something that wasn’t in pastel color.

Well, all it did was send Kara straight to a tattoo shop where she hoped to find Jack and demand he did something as spectacular as Nia's tattoo. And she went on a mission, marching down the ten blocks from CatCo to the tattoo shop - that only that day she stopped to read the name of and what weird name they chose, Le Vintage Ink - her feet hitting the ground with a purpose, her hand pushing the door open with a vengeance, her eyes narrowed behind her glasses with one goal in mind.

It wasn't Jack she saw, however. She didn't see anyone at first, actually. The shop was empty like it was a week before and very silent, with the air conditioner doing a soft hum and nothing else.

The anti climax moment was enough to make all her determination wave off. Her shoulders dropped, her eyes rounded, her feet started to stamp and her determination, well, she didn’t quite remember it anymore. Nobody needed to know, Kara told to herself. Nobody knew she was going to do it, so she could just turn around, leave, go back to her apartment and try to do some online shopping. Maybe buy a red dress for once. None of her friends would ever believe she went back to the tattoo shop, so there would be no problem...

No. That was exactly the problem. They wouldn’t even believe her if she told them. They would laugh, call it a bluff, and keep teasing Kara for not being adventurous like they were. Alex does this long motorbike drives all over the state sometimes, and James goes hiking and jumps from planes from time to time. Winn would point out that the last thing Kara did without meticulous planning was to change pizza night for potstickers and that was only because the pizza place she always orders from was out of pineapples.

However, Kara reasoned with herself, instead of doing a tattoo, she could just go with Alex on her next trip. Maybe she could ask James to teach her how to hike. Querl adopted a cat he found behind his building, so maybe that could be Kara’s unplanned moment too. And what did Winn do so adventurous or spontaneous that he had the right to make fun of Kara? She couldn’t remember.

Yes, any of those things would be more reasonable. She could even do an impromptu visit to her mother. It would count for something. She knew Eliza would be happy and she loved making her mom happy. She could even pick Alex's old helmet so her sister could use it to ride with her girlfriend, Kelly, and Eliza makes a killer chocolate pecan pie too.

Already dreaming with the taste of the pie crust in her mouth Kara turned around. She must have been inside the tattoo shop for less than ten seconds and Jack hadn’t shown up yet, so that was a plus and a sign, even if she wanted to greet him and tell how nice Nia's tattoo looked after a week.

The second her back was turned to the counter, though, she heard a door opening and then a voice filled the silence. "Can I help you?"

That wasn’t Jack's voice. That much she knew. What she didn’t know was that someone could sound so... husky and still be so clear on the words. What she also didn’t know was why her body froze like she had been hit with lightning. Or why she ever decided to leave when a voice like that was inside the shop.

It would be rude to just keep walking, Kara told herself and even she knew it was a lame excuse for wanting to see the owner of that voice. But she still turned around, eyes blinking fast as she tried not to miss a second of what she was about to see, and then immediately felt her soul leave her body. That was the only explanation on why her mouth fell open and why her brain's function slowed down at least 30%.

Because the voice's owner was... for the lack of a better word, striking. It was a woman, looking a few years younger than Kara, with dark as coal wavy hair falling down her shoulders, green piercing eyes framed by some heavy eyeliner and plump lips painted with red lipstick. The woman was wearing a black t-shirt from a band Kara had never heard of, the v-cut being deep enough that she could see a black bra under it. The shirt looked like she had been cut at home - maybe she wasn't designed to have such a deep v-neck, maybe she had sleeves at some point and maybe the deep cuts by each side also weren't a part of the initial product. But, damn, it looked great on her. Since she had no sleeves and the shirt moved as she walked and showed a great expanse of her sides, Kara could see that the woman’s body was covered in tattoos.

Her arms, from shoulder to wrist, were almost totally covered. Her left arm almost looked like a flower shop, with dozens of flowers in different colors drawn all over it. Her right arm had tattoos from her shoulder to her elbow, and they were a mix of chemical elements and computer parts that, somehow, worked together in all black and white. Kara got just a few glimpses of the tattoos on her side - something that looked like a cartoon character, another one that assembled a lake, a few words that Kara couldn’t read from that far - but that was enough to make her lick her lips and try to picture what else was there. There were no tattoos on her chest area, that Kara could see, but there was a small musical chord on the left side of her neck, and Kara wondered if she had any tattoos on her legs. She couldn't see them from where the woman was standing behind the counter, and something dragged her feet forward before she could stop herself.

"H-hi," she choked out and her face immediately heated up with embarrassment. Her sister would call it 'gay panic' and make fun of her for three days, and Kara was suddenly very thankful for being alone. "I, uh..." The woman blinked, Kara mimicked her, and lost every coherent thought inside her head. "Jack."

The woman arched one perfect eyebrow, resting her hands flat against the counter, and Kara’s blue eyes were suddenly very interested in the long fingers spread over some papers. The papers, she noticed as a second thought, were unfinished drawings, but she could hardly tell what they were. Feeling her face get even hotter, Kara demanded that her eyes moved up and she was almost proud of herself when they paused for only a second at the woman’s cleavage. Of course, as soon as her eyes met the woman’s face again, she had a tiny smirk like she knew Kara was having a hard time being in the same space as her.

"I'm sorry, love," she said and Kara noticed an accent behind the last word, like she had spent years trying to get rid of it but still couldn't brush it off some words. "Jack doesn't work here on Tuesdays."

Oh. Well, that's a bit of a relief, Kara wasn't going to lie. No Jack, no tattoo, and she still could say she tried. She still wanted to say ‘hi’ but...

"Can I help you instead?"

Oh, boy. Kara almost turned around and ran away right then and there because the things she was thinking this stranger could help her with were kind of mortifying. Instead, Kara bit her bottom lip so hard that it went numb instantly, and leaned forward until she was resting her hands in front of the woman's fingers. She dared to glance down really quick, just to find out the woman was wearing black jeans and boots, before she looked up again - with a quick stop at the cleavage because good lord.

"I don't know, I..." Kara couldn’t even say her own name if the woman asked at that moment, let alone remember what she was doing there and where there even was.

The woman chuckled then. A deep, husky sound from the back of her throat that brought a small smile to her lips, and then she ducked her head - as though she had no idea that was the most blinding smile Kara had ever seen in her twenty-six years of living. Neither the chuckle nor the smile was mockingly, and her green eyes were just a little bit amused when she looked back at Kara.

"Don't get me wrong but... you don't look like the type of person that would get a tattoo."

Okay, what is it with people just assuming Kara is too boring to do something? Kara took a look at her own clothes. She wasn't even wearing a sweater that day! Sure, beige trousers and a blue button up hardly screamed "living on the edge" but come on! Was it the glasses? Alex always said she should use contact lenses, but she liked the glassed!

Feeling a new wave of determination, Kara set up her jaw and crossed her arms. "Well, that's exactly what I came here to do."

The woman raised both eyebrows now, clearly amused. "To get a tattoo?" She asked like there was any other reason for Kara to be inside a tattoo shop on a Tuesday night.

So Kara nodded, her blonde hair wiggling from side to side on her ponytail, and straightened up her back like she was about to enter a fight. Not that she ever fought before, not even when the cruel kids at her new school would call her weird and push her inside her locker. Alex would beat them up for her, so she didn’t have to, it was fine.

"Yes," she said and her voice only trembled for a second. "To get a tattoo," she confirmed like there was any other reason for her to be inside a tattoo shop on a Tuesday night.

"Okay," the woman said, clicking her tongue once before she picked up a pen from the desk, a smirk permanently spread on her lips. "Do you have any idea of what you want?"

Shit. Kara hadn’t gone that far. Maybe not even her own brain thought she would do it because she had neglected the most important part of the entire process. She had no idea what she wanted permanently marked on her skin.

(Permanently marked also sent a thousand of red lights inside her head because, you know, it was permanent)

It must have shown on her face because the woman’s smirk became more of a smile, not exactly gentle but not mockery either. "What's your name?"

"Kara." She was so glad her brain hadn’t come up with something ridiculous to say. She could remember when she met her cousin's sister-in-law and answered the same question with "mashed potatoes" for some reason she would never be able to grasp. Lucy never let her forget that embarassing moment.

"Well, Kara," and Holy Goddess of all the universe and beyond, how could her name roll out of her lips like that? "why don’t you take a look at the drawings we have here, see if you like one. If you don't, we can always come up with something for you."

She then pushed some heavy black portfolio across the counter towards Kara and opened the leather front cover to show her the first drawing. They were all separated by plastic, and she started the task of turning the pages while trying very hard to look at the drawings and not at the woman in front of her. She wasn't sure because she wouldn’t dare to look up, but she could feel green eyes staring at her and her blush returned full force.

"So..." she heard after a couple of minutes in silence. "What kind of dare you lost?"

Kara took full offense on that, glaring at her for a moment before going back to the portfolio. She had gotten on the dragon section and decided to skip it all together. "There was no dare."

The woman hummed, watched her for another minute, and then leaned over with her forearms touching the counter. She reached out, taking the plastic from Kara's fingers, and started skipping the pages until they reached the flowers. Kara looked up, catching a glimpse of the woman's arm, before meeting green eyes with a light glare.

The woman shrugged. "You look like a flower kind of girl."

"What else do I look like to you?" Kara mumbled back and stubbornly went back to the drawing she was seeing before - the ships and anchors section - even though she left a finger marking the flowers page.

The brunette seemed even more amused now, barely able to hide her smile, and she chuckled once when Kara turned the page to see another ship. "Like you randomly decided to get a tattoo because someone pissed you off."

Kara tried not to give her the satisfaction of being right, deciding to focus on studying every ship and every anchor. She heard another chuckle, but the woman wisely didn’t push the subject.

"You could save us a lot of time by just going to the flowers."

Fine, maybe she was right about that too. Kara would never pick a ship, or a dragon, or a coffee cup, or any other drawing she saw before. Although Kara never thought what type of drawing she would get tattooed. With a sigh, she went back to the flowers, throwing the woman a dirty look when she huffed a laugh.

"Hey," she said, raising her hands in playful defense, "if I'm going to do something that you will regret tomorrow, at least let me help."

"Aren't you going to try to talk me out of this?" Kara asked, remembering when Jack asked Nia five times if she was sure before touching her skin with the needle.

"No," another shrug. "I will get my money and you will get the regret. Works fine by me."

Kara scoffed and shook her head, but finally spotted something she liked. It was a rose, not larger than a paper ball, black and white with a few leafs to the side. She was almost pointing that one out when she heard a deep sigh and looked up. The brunette was staring down at the drawing with enough judgment that Kara changed her mind in a blink.

"What?" She still asked because it was a beautiful flower.

"Nothing, it's just... does that even mean something to you?"

Kara looked back at the rose and frowned. "I like roses," she defended herself.

"I like kale, but I won’t tattoo that."

"You like kale?" Kara didn’t mean to sound so disgusted by it but it was stronger than her. Her face twisted in a grimace, shocked more than anything.

The other woman laughed a real laugh this time, and Kara felt the sound into her xcvery core. "Please, don't ask me to tattoo a burger on you. You're too pretty for that."

It was like she knew exactly what those words would do to Kara because she winked right after, making her blush ten times more. "What do you suggest, then?"

The tattooed brunette smiled and tapped her finger on top of the rose. "If you liked this one, it's fine, but I would go with..." She let her voice die as she started turning the pages until she found what she was looking for. "This one."

Kara looked at the drawing and was immediately sold to the idea. It wasn't just any flower. It was a plumeria. Well, two plumerias side by side, with a few leafs to the sides and a mandala carefully placed behind them like it was the third flower. She knew she wanted that one the second her eyes landed on it.

"It would look good on you," she kept talking. "I wouldn’t add any color, though." Kara kept nodding although she was only half paying attention now that she had found the right one. Her silence must have sent twisted signals because the woman’s voice became softer. "I know I said I wouldn’t try to talk you out of this but... are you sure?"

Kara’s eyes moved up then, metting slightly concerned green eyes, and she smiled. "Yes. I'm sure."

The woman studied her face for a few seconds before she nodded once. "Okay, then. Where do you want it?"

Shit.

The panic on her face told her out again and the woman’s laugh filled the space around them like a melody. "Come on, we can figure it out inside."

‘Inside’ being a closed room very similar to the one Nia had gotten her tattoo, albeit it was clear that that one wasn't Jack's. First, it lacked the smell of cigars and heavy cologne that Kara smelled last time and made her nose itch. But it also held a more personal touch like more drawings and a few words scribbled on the black walls. Kara didn’t feel nervous while the woman turned the sign from open to close, explaining that she was the only one who worked on Tuesdays' nights. She also didn’t feel nervous when she entered the room and spotted the comfortable chair she would be sitting on. What made her nervous again was taking her shirt off so she could decide where she wanted the plumerias to be.

She placed the printed drawing on several parts of both of her arms, her shoulders and asked the brunette to hold it at some spots on her back as well. But Kara was only satisfied when she put the paper against the right side of her ribs, a few centimeters below her bra. The woman gave her a knowing look and arched one eyebrow when she said that was the place she wanted her tattoo.

"Are you sure? It can be quite a painful area to get a tattoo, especially if it's your first one."

Again, she wasn't making fun of Kara and she appreciated it, but she also wasn't going to change her mind. "I'm sure."

"Okay. I will put the outlines, then."

It was only when the brunette had her hands against her side and her face a few inches from her chest that Kara realized she didn’t even know who she was. "Hey, I, uh, I didn't catch your name before."

Green eyes glanced up, bright and slightly amused, before they returned to the task of perfectly positioning the flowers on her ribs. "Lena."

"Lena," Kara found herself echoing the name in a whisper before she could stop herself. Lena looked up again, even more amused than before, and Kara felt herself blushing. "It... it suits you."

She had no idea what that was supposed to mean, but Lena smiled and tilted her head to the side. "Thanks." She pushed back the stool she was sitting on. "Take a look at the mirror and see if that's what you want."

Kara took a step closer to see her reflection and tried very hard to ignore the fact that she was standing in front of a stranger in her bra. The plumerias were exactly what she wanted and exactly where she wanted them, and she said that to Lena, who told her to lay down after turning the chair into an improvised bed. While Kara tried to find a comfortable place to lay, she heard Lena slipping on rubber gloves and moving a few things around before approaching her again. She was half expecting her to ask one more time if she was sure, but Lena said nothing when she touched her skin with the black gloves, and raised the needle to her eyes level to make sure it was ready to go.

Kara wasn’t sure if the shivers were from nervousness, the chill air of the room, or the fact that this very attractive woman was touching her just below her breast, but she did her best to ignore it. Lena had pulled her hair into a messy ponytail, Kara realized, and she could see her sharp jawline more easily now. She also spotted five different piercings on the woman’s right ear. For a second, she wondered if Lena could feel her heart beating under her skin or if she could maybe even hear it.

"Be ready for some pain, but try not to move," Lena said while she lowered the needle to her skin. "It will take longer if you keep moving. You also don't want me to fuck this up," she offered Kara a smile to let her know she was joking - at least that's what the blonde hoped for. "Tell me if you need a break."

So, Lena wasn't lying when she said it would hurt. Nia neglected to tell her about the painful part and Kara would make her pay for it by typing down her next article, but, holy crap, it hurt. The first touch of the needle made her jump and hiss, and Lena pulled it away like she knew it was going to happen, giving her a few seconds to recover.

"Sorry," Kara whispered once her body relaxed again.

"It's fine," the brunette mumbled back, totally concentrated on her job now.

It went like that for a few minutes - Kara squeezing her eyes shut, biting her lips, clutching the sides of the chair slash bed, and hissing under her breath whenever she couldn’t hold it back anymore. Until she started to get used to the pain and allowed herself to focus on other things. Her eyes trailed to the few drawings hanging on the walls, taking in the delicate traces and the lack of colors from all of them. She decided that talking would help her with the pain.

"Jack said his boss makes those drawings," she commented lightly.

There was a brief pause before Lena answered her. "That would be me."

"Oh," the blonde breathed out in shock. "So, you..."

"I'm the owner, yes." There was another pause while Lena cleaned her skin with a soft paper. "I used to work for a tattoo artist back in Metropolis before I decided to open my own business. Jack followed me."

"Well, you certainly have talent. Your drawings are beautiful."

"On paper," Lena teased and Kara didn’t need to look at her to know she was smirking. "Let's see how it translate to your skin."

Kara wanted to play along and tell her to ‘please, don't make something awful that would be permanently marked on my skin’, but she found herself saying something entirely different. "Plumerias were my mom's favorite flowers. My dad would bring them to her every Saturday after work because those were the first flowers he ever gave her." She could still remember her father getting back home on Saturdays right before lunch with a bouquet in his hand to her mom and a box of chocolate for her, all smiles and offering hugs. If she tried hard enough, Kara could still remember the smell of her mom's stew mixed with the flowers' smell, could still taste the chocolate. "They died almost fifteen years ago."

Kara had no idea why she was sharing those things with this stranger wearing black rubber gloves and breathing too close to her ribs, but she also couldn't stop. Maybe it was a tattoo thing, like sharing too much about your relationships while cutting your hair.

Lena didn’t shy away, though. She made sure their eyes were locked before saying, "Let's make sure those are perfect, then," and went back to work.

Kara felt herself relaxing more after that, although she didn’t say anything else for a few minutes. "I work as a reporter to a magazine," she found herself saying. "My boss is... both of them are impossible to deal with. I dream about throwing them into space sometimes, but... I love my job. One of them is the reason I'm here today."

"Who should I be thanking?"

Kara blushed one more time, even if she wasn't sure it was said to be flirtatious or if she was just imagining it. "Cat means well, she just... push some buttons sometimes."

"Well," Lena stopped her movements to look at Kara again, this time with a soft smile. "I will be sending this Cat some flowers anyway."

The blonde chuckled at that. "Go back to work. I don't want to end up with a dragon on my ribs."

Lena hummed, eyes dropping back to the outlines of the flowers and needle touching skin again. "I wouldn’t draw a dragon on you," she contemplated. "You're more of an iguana kind of girl."

Kara gasped in faked offense and turned her head to fully stare at Lena with narrowed eyes. "How dare you? You know nothing about me!"

The tattoo artist shrugged, not bothered by her explosion. "Maybe a kitty." Kara huffed and puffed, letting her body fall back on the chair, and did her best to keep frowning. "Definitely a kitty," she heard Lena whispering under her breath, playfully and amused, and Kara was soon smiling. "So... will your boyfriend approve this?"

"Are you fishing for information about me?" Kara teased.

"Huh," Lena sighed. "You didn’t sound this confident when you were stumbling over your words when you first saw me."

She was sure her entire body turned pink with that and she mumbled weakly that: "I was nervous about getting a tattoo."

"Yes, of course," Lena replied and Kara blushed again.

"No boyfriend," she ended up replying because the other alternative was to dig a bigger hole to herself. "Or a girlfriend."

She was ready for another teasing from the other woman, but Lena pulled back instead and eyed her tattoo with her head tilted to the side. "I need you to hold your breath for a few seconds, okay? I'm getting to a delicate part and it would be better if you hold it for, like, ten seconds."

Kara nodded and got ready to pull in a breath to hold it while Lena got her needle ready to go again. When the other woman said so, Kara took in a large intake of breath but, as soon as the needle touched her again, she exhaled in surprise when the pain shot to every nerve in her body.

"I know," Lena said. "It's the hardest part. I promise to be done with it as fast as possible. Can we try again?"

There weren't many options since Kara was already in the middle of getting her tattoo done, so she nodded and waited for the new signal. Kara grabbed the chair with both of her hands, pressed her eyes tightly shut, bit her bottom lip and held her breath for the longest ten seconds of her life before Lena tapped her skin and pulled away with a smile.

"There," she declared in her husky tone. "Good girl."

It was embarrassing how those two words made Kara react. She gasped, the breath still stuck in her lungs almost causing her to choke, and her entire body went stiff when a shiver left goosebumps all over her skin on its way down her spine. She couldn't see Lena and that was a blessing because she could feel the pause that her reaction gave the brunette. So, maybe that was a weird way to find out a praise kink, Kara decided while praying that Lena would brush it as a perfectly normal reaction to have.

"That was interesting," Lena whispered and, this time, the blonde knew she wasn't supposed to have heard that.

The blonde bit her bottom lip so hard that she could feel the taste of blood and she was totally sure that Lena could hear how fast her heart was beating. She could probably feel it, and, God, that was so embarrassing. Kara had half a piece of mind to just pull back her shirt, leave and never go back there, but the other woman didn’t give her time to react before she was once more piercing her skin with the needle. It was still painful, although the mortification she felt numbed it a little bit.

Lena didn’t sound so cocky when she spoke again and she even had to clear her throat so the words would come out less hoarse and more audible. “Just a while longer and we will be done. Can you handle it or should we finish it another day?”

Kara didn’t trust herself to ever come back �� and not just because of what had just happened but also because she didn’t think she would be brave enough to get any tattoo needle to ever touch her again. So, she exhaled slowly and nodded. Lena went back to the draw immediately after that and they fell in a half comfortable silence until the trickiest part was over. Or, at least, that’s what Kara thought the trickiest part was because it hurt like hell and Lena had this crinkle between her brows when she glanced back that made her look... cute. Even with the tattoos and the five different piercing sets on her ears, the black clothes, the black room and her undeniable confidence.

It wasn’t until Lena leaned away to get more ink that she spoke again. “Plumerias were very common where I lived.”

Kara thought back on their conversation and wondered aloud, “Metropolis?”

“Ireland,” she corrected gently.

“Oh,” Kara breathed out and then hissed when the needle was back to her ribs.

“Not many people know I’m Irish, so I’m trusting you with this secret, Kara.”

She could hear the joke in the woman’s voice and Lena even poked her side playfully, and Kara heard herself giggling like a schoolgirl. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“That’s not how it works,” Lena declared with a huff. “Now you need to tell me a secret of yours.”

“What?”

“Yes, so we’re even and I can make sure you will never tell anyone what I just told you.”

“It’s not like you just confessed a murder,” Kara argued with an eye roll that was quite too fond to be directed to someone who she had met only two or three hours before.

Lena looked up for a second and their eyes met, making Kara’s face flush red. She was pulling a very uncomfortable position to keep her head raised and turned to the side so she could watch the other woman, and she had just been caught doing that one more time. “No? Well, you shouldn’t go to my office then.”

Kara hummed, trying to sound unimpressed by the joke while fighting back a laugh, and shrugged. “I knew it was weird I didn’t see Jack.”

The brunette let out a breathy chuckle, her hot breath hitting Kara’s side and making her shiver again, before she pursed her lips. “I see you’re too fond of Jack already.”

“Jealous?”

Lena quirked one dark eyebrow and gave her a look – the type of look that Kara tried to pull out her entire life while trying to look all sexy and misterious and was never able to do it – that made the blonde’s entire body warm up. “I’m the one poking your skin with a needle right now, so I think he should be the jealous one.”

Yes, Kara couldn’t keep up with that. She was weird, she rambled, she stuttered more times than not, and just, overall, was terrible at the whole flirting thing. Lena, on the other hand, seemed to be a master on it. Kara didn’t really stand a chance against it, not even for a second. She could try, pull out a word or a phrase here and there, but, in the end, Lena would find a way to leave her blushing and flustered so easily that made her head spin.

(She couldn’t be sure if Lena was just that good or if Kara was just super gay, but, whatever it was, it was working wonderfully)

“Now, come on, spill a secret,” Lena said after a long silence that stretched between them while they just stared at each other’s eyes.

Kara felt hypnotized by the green eyes and that was so unfair. So, damn, unfair. “I get my boss’ coffee order wrong every day.”

Lena stopped with the tattoo again to blink at her a couple of times in what seemed to be confusion. Then, she tilted her head to the side, glanced to the ceiling and opened her mouth as if she was going to say something. No sound came out, she closed her mouth again, and she looked so adorable that Kara felt her rambling coming to the surface again.

“Cat has this really complicated order at Starbucks that makes my head hurt just to think about. 3% fat, quarter milk, a spoon and a half of organic sugar, or whatever that is. It’s my job to get her coffee every morning and there’s no Starbucks close to my apartment, so I stop at another place called Noonan’s and get an order from there.” Lena still hadn’t said anything and Kara couldn’t bring herself to stop talking. “I used to work there, so I have a discount. I can buy a coffee for myself too with the same amount of money I would spend at Starbucks. And she never noticed it!”

There was a pause where Kara tried to come up with more things to say before a loud laugh cut the space around her. She looked at Lena with wide eyes and only slightly offended by her reaction, but the other woman was too busy laughing at her expense to notice it. The brunette used the back of her hand to cover her mouth while she shook her head and kept laughing freely.

“I’m sorry,” Lena said, waving her hand, before being interrupted by her own laugh. “It’s just... Fuck! That’s the worse thing you ever did in your life?” The tattoo artist looked at her again with her eyes crinkling at the sides and Kara felt her anger melting away.

“What? Did you expect a murder?”

“I was hoping that you would say you spit on her coffee, at least.”

Kara gasped. “I would never do that!”

Lena narrowed her eyes at her, a tiny smirk adorning her lips. “But you think about it, don’t you?”

“Every day,” she admitted with a groan, letting her head fall back against the chair.

The brunette laughed again and a cold hand came to rest against her thigh, making Kara’s body vibrate from head to toe. “I won’t tell your secret if you don’t tell mine.” Lena winked – winked – at her and Kara felt her throat too dry all of sudden. The woman chuckled again when the blonde gulped before she gently tapped the hard muscle of Kara’s thigh. “We’re done here.”

“Oh.” Kara blinked in surprise and her eyes immediately fell to her ribs. The skin was red and swollen, but she could see the delicate lines of the flowers and the leaves, and she was hit by the urge to cry all at once. She felt like a little girl again, being six or seven, and running to the door to meet her father, seeing the plumerias in his left hand and the chocolate on his right.

“Hey,” Lena called her gently, ducking her head to be able to catch the blue eyes again. “You're fine over there? I had people regretting tattoos before, but not so fast.”

Kara laughed and shook her head, trying to discreetly brush a tear from the corner of her eyes. “Everything is fine. It’s really beautiful.”

“Well, don’t say that before you take a better look,” Lena pushed her stool away and got up with a refreshed excitement. “Come on, stand up so you can look at it in the mirror.”

That’s what Kara did, sliding off the chair and walking with slightly trembling legs to the full body mirror that she had seen before. The fact that she still didn’t have her shirt on was in the back of her mind while her eyes traced the ink. It looked even better on her ribs than it looked on the paper and she made sure to tell the other woman that, earning a smile that she doubted she would ever be able to forget.

"Here." She turned around to see Lena's hand reaching out a piece of white chalk between her long fingers and sporting a kind of smile that Kara hadn’t seen on her yet - satisfied, the type of smile you give after accomplishing a task that meant something to you. "All of my clients have to write something on the walls. It's tradition," Lena shrugged in the end.

Kara’s eyes swept through the room again, taking in the black walls and words written in almost every inch available under a new light. There were small praises, thanks, some jokes and even a few doodles, and Kara wondered what she could write that could sum up her entire experience inside Lena's tattoo shop. She took the chalk more out of instinct, her brain still working on finding the right words, and Kara took a few steps around the room until she found the right place to write.

It was just below one of Lena's drawings that were hanging from a string, between a Scooby-Doo doodle and the message of someone saying they loved their new rose tattoo. Kara’s handwriting wasn't the best one - sloppy and crooked - and it looked even worse when she was trying to write on a wall, but she managed to write her first and last name to make it look readable. Then, she added her phone number under it and put the chalk inside the small box she found just beside her. Kara turned around making sure her body would cover what she had just written, suddenly feeling too nervous about it, and accepted the plastic foil paper Lena handed her.

"Remember to put on the ointment I told you about and keep it covered so it heals. It should be all healed in a week, tops. You're free to call if you have any doubts."

Lena led the way out of the room and they found themselves once again at the reception desk. Lena picked up the pen she had played with before and scribbled something on a piece of paper beside the computer while Kara reached out for her wallet in the pocket of her trousers. Their fingers brushed when she handed Lena the money and her face flushed red for the millionth time that night. Lena gave her a knowing smile before putting the money away and just like that they realized that they would part ways soon. A small part of Kara, primal and shameless, tried to come up with any reason that would make her stay for a while longer. Anything would do, really.

Even so, there was no reason for her to stay and Kara tried to mask her unjustified sadness by joining her hands in front of her body and forcing a smile to look real. “Thank you again.”

Lena waved a hand dismissively, the pen still hanging between two fingers, before her hand came to rest on top of the other one on the desk. “It was my pleasure.”

“If I regret it in the morning, I will come back with a vengeance,” Kara joked, swaying on her heels, and the laugh that came from the other woman was worth any type of regret she might end up having in the near future.

“As much as I would like to see you again, I would hate for that to be the reason you came back.”

Lena winked at her and Kara’s mouth hang open before she could stop herself. That made the brunette laugh in delight, made a deep blush rise from her neck to her cheeks, and Kara started taking steps back before she could embarrass herself anymore. Alex, Nia and all of their friends were right: she’s a gay disaster. None of them would be able to judge her if they just saw Lena though, of that she was sure.

Stumbling over one of the chairs, Kara let out a nervous laugh and, to her utter terror, she pointed finger guns at Lena. “Have, ah, have a good night, ma’am.”

She missed the door handle twice before she was able to open the door and, by the time she looked at Lena again, the other woman was smiling broadly at her. Ducking her head, Kara walked out the door and let it close behind her. Once the slightly chill air of the night hit her face, she closed her eyes and resisted the urge to hit herself for some very stupid decisions made inside that shop. She wondered if she would ever be able to live it down if any of her friends ever found out she just did finger guns at a beautiful woman as a way to say goodbye.

Well, to be fair, she wasn’t sure any of her friends would let her live it down when they found out about her very spontaneous tattoo.

God, Alex was going to kill her. Not for getting a tattoo, but for doing so without giving it enough thought. And, for Christ’s sake, Alex could be a real pain in the ass when she decided to lecture her for whatever reason it was. She was so not ready to deal with that.

It was only when she opened her eyes again that she realized she was still standing outside the tattoo shop – and that Lena could still very easily see her from her place behind the counter – and, with another blush, Kara pushed herself to start walking. Her apartment was only five more blocks down the street and she took that time to clear her mind from anything negative she was thinking about.

If her crazy and very unusual night taught her anything was that she had the thing inside her that could make her do some very adventurous things. She was capable of doing those things. Maybe randomly getting a tattoo wasn’t the ideal way to prove that to herself, but, damn, she had just renewed faith in herself.

Her poor attempts at flirting were the last thing on her mind when she pushed the door to her studio apartment open and stepped inside, making a beeline to where she had left her laptop earlier that day on the small kitchen table. She pulled a chair after turning the computer on and, reaching out for an apple inside the fruit bowl, she waited for the laptop to come to life so she could open a new file to start typing. She had an article to write, and a trip to plan.

XxxxxxxX

It was two days later – after Alex had scolded her for making decisions in a rush, after Nia took pictures of their tattoos side by side to post on her Instagram, after Querl had awkwardly given her a thumbs up, after James raised his eyebrows, after Winn yelped in shock – that something changed.

Kara was lazily reading something Nia had written so she could suggest some corrections before the girl submitted it to Snapper’s approval, when her phone buzzed from its place beside her mousepad – her rainbow mousepad, thanks to Winn. She picked it up, thinking it was Alex inviting her for lunch so she could yell at her a few more times, but the number who had texted her was an unsaved one. She frowned, but didn’t give it much thought before unlocking her screen to read it.

“Since you didn’t barge inside my shop to kill me, I take it that you didn’t regret it?”

The smile that curled her lips up came from within her and it was apparently too obvious because Nia, who was sitting across from her, gave her a weird look and arched one eyebrow in question. Kara shook her head, biting her bottom lip, and turned her chair around so the girl couldn’t see her anymore before typing a reply.

“I never said I was going to kill you.”

“The threat was clear to me,” came the next text just a few seconds later and Kara chuckled to herself.

“Please, don’t tell me you were scared.”

“Why do you think it took me two days to reach out?”

Kara paused at that. She had spent the last two days being sure that, despite their easy flirt with each other, Lena didn’t actually want to talk or see her again. So, to have her texting her now was really... reawakening something inside her.

“Who are you texting?”

Kara jumped on her chair, startled by Nia’s voice so close to her ear all of sudden, her phone almost slipping from her fingers and crashing on the floor. Thankfully, her reflexes were still working and she was able to grab it, but not without throwing a glare at Nia for scaring her like that. The girl gave her a sheepish smile, although she shrugged and didn’t back away from where she had perched on the corner of Kara’s desk to look over her shoulder.

“No one,” came the childish, and not at all convincing, reply and Kara didn’t need to look at her friend again to know she was busted. Now Nia was not going to let it down.

“Really? Because you have been smiling to your phone for five minutes and you just smile like that when Alex says she’s bringing extra potstickers for game night.” Nia smirked and leaned over, trying to read the texts again, but Kara quickly pressed the phone against her chest to block her view.

“Alex just invited me for lunch,” Kara attempted to throw her off.

However, Nia arched her eyebrows. “Really? Because I just texted Kelly asking her to go to that vegan place with me and she said she already has plans.” A pause. “With Alex.” Another pause. “For lunch.”

Kara groaned and turned her chair so she was facing her computer again, slipping her phone screen down on the table. “Fine, it wasn’t Alex, but I’m not going to say anything.”

“Okay.” Her friend gave up way too faster than usual and Kara watched her with narrowed eyes as the girl jumped from her desk to turn the corner back to her own cubicle. Nia was about to sit down when she tried to snatch Kara’s phone away with one surprisingly fast move, but the blonde was even faster, taking it out of her reach in the last second. “Damn.”

Kara rolled her eyes and pushed her chair back. She grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair, throwing it over her shoulders and slipping her phone inside one of the pockets, and threw an overly sweet, clearly fake, smile at Nia. “Now you will have to eat alone because I won’t have lunch with you either.”

Nia stuck her tongue out at her. “I will call Querl!”

Kara waited until she was safely inside the elevator before opening her texts again. There were three more texts since the last time she looked and a smile immediately spread over her face when she read them.

“Okay, I confess, I was a little nervous.”

“You still there? You didn’t change your mind, did you?”

“About the tattoo, not the... leaving your name and number on my wall thing.”

She barely noticed when someone entered the elevator a few floors below, too focused on replying to the texts.

“You? Nervous? You don’t look like the type of girl that gets nervous. And no, I didn’t change my mind about any of those things, actually.”

A new text only came after she was already walking down the street to Noonan’s, but she wrote a quick text to invite Winn for lunch before opening Lena’s text.

“I’m also not the type to text any of the numbers left on my walls. And good.”

“Do you get a lot of numbers on your walls?” Kara asked and she had to make a conscious effort to cross the street to Noonan’s instead of walking straight for a few more blocks to the tattoo shop. She could picture Lena leaning against the counter with her gorgeous smirk and her impressive tattoos – and even more impressive cleavage.

“Jack enjoys them more than I do.”

Kara was about to make a comment about Jack but another text came in before she could and she stopped in her tracks so suddenly that the man walking behind her shoved against her shoulder. She tripped over a few steps, but quickly held herself again to read the words over and over in disbelief. She hoped, of course, but that was... wow.

“I don’t want to be too straightforward here, or overly confident or something, but I have a client coming in five minutes, so I don’t have much time. This won’t sound romantic at all, but would you like to have dinner with me? Tomorrow?”

Kara didn’t have to think too much about her answer, of course. Alex would give her a piece of her mind for agreeing to go out with someone she barely knew – and ‘that’s the whole point of going out to meet people’ was not a good argument on her sister’s book – but Kara would deal with it later. Right now, she had a very gorgeous woman asking her out and she already knew what her answer would be.

“I would love to.”

“What? Really?” Kara chuckled at the rushed text she received back, but another one came just a second later. “Pretend you didn’t read that. I meant ‘okay, great!’.”

Chuckling again, Kara typed a new message. “I know you were the one who asked me out, but may I suggest a place? I don’t have a car and it’s close to both of our workplaces.”

“Whatever you want, just text me address. Let’s say, tomorrow at 7 pm?”

“Can’t wait.”

XxxxxxxX

“Hey, Kara?”

“Yes?” She asked, not taking her eyes away from her computer screen and typing away as fast as she could to be able to put all the ideas in her new article. She had never written like that before, but she wasn’t about to complain about small inspirations spikes.

“The front desk called and said there’s a pack for Cat downstairs. Can you pick it up?”

With a small sigh, not because she was mad at Winn for interrupting her but because she would have to go all out of the way to pick a pack she didn’t even know was going to come in, Kara saved her file and pushed her chair back. Nia glanced up and was about to remove her earphones, ready to follow Kara to whatever she was going to learn more about the journalism world, but the blonde made some gestures with her hand that she hoped meant ‘boring things, stay here’ before she started making her way to the elevator.

Jenny, the woman that stayed at the front desk, was kind, around Eliza’s age, and very chatty, which worked fine with Kara when she wanted to waste a few minutes talking along. “Good morning, Kara! How are you?”

“I’m great, Jenny. And you?”

“I’m fine. What happened? I recognize that smile.”

Kara tilted her head to the side, although she couldn’t stop smiling, doesn’t matter how hard she was trying. “What smile?”

Jenny narrowed her eyes and waved a finger at her playfully. “That’s the smile of someone who had a very good night.”

The blonde could feel her face heating up and a nervous chuckle escaped her lips before she could stop herself. She had been leaning against the counter, but she leaned her torso back and tapped her fingers against the hard surface nervously. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Right,” Jenny scoffed, rolled her eyes and started pulling out the packages that she would need to take upstairs with her. There was a yellow thing that was sent by one of the photographers of the last shooting they made, some letters and a few small boxes, which made Kara believe Jenny had been holding those things with her for at least a few days. Cat hadn’t asked for any of that, so it wasn’t a problem. “Don’t tell me then. You don’t have to. Is all over your face.”

Blushing even harder, Kara huffed an anxious laugh and looked down at the counter. She put one hand on her hip as the other one raised to push her glasses up her nose, but she kept her eyes down to avoid seeing the smirk on Jenny’s face. She would have to agree with her, if she did. Because she knew it was, in fact, written all over her face. She hadn’t been able to stop smiling since she woke up that morning – who was she kidding? It had been like that since dinner last night.

It had a reason – and the reason had a name – but she was not going to share any personal details about her life with Jenny. The old woman had the tendency to share everyone’s secrets – which was another reason Kara liked to talk with her so much, but she would never admit to being a gossip girl. She did tell Nia, mostly because her friend wouldn’t stop asking why Kara was fifteen minutes late that morning, though she had made the girl promise not to tell anyone.

It was still pretty new, she had argued.

“If you two slept together, it’s not that new,” Nia had teased back, making her face turn red so fast that James, that had been coming back from the bathroom, asked if she was feeling well.

Even if the whole ‘sleeping together on the first date’ thing was new to her, Kara hadn’t regretted it in the morning. Much like the tattoo. Although, it would be remarkably harder to regret sleeping with Lena when the said woman was spooning her from behind than it was to regret a tattoo that recquired a lot of afterward care. Either way, Kara was living the best morning in her life and it clearly showed on her face.

“Looks like you’re not the only one who’s having a great time.” Jenny’s voice pulled her out of her thoughts and Kara looked up in time to see the woman pulling a big bouquet from under the counter.

The flowers looked cheap and scruffy, which made it seem like someone had just thrown them together without much care. They were yellow and pink daisies, the colors clashed and didn’t work well together, but the card hidden between the flowers was black and easy to see. She knew she shouldn’t because it had her boss’ name outside the card and it was clearly not for her to see, but curiosity took the best of her – that and the fact that the card had been clearly already open, and by Jenny’s face she knew who had done it.

“Thank you – L”

Well, that wasn’t helpful at all.

Sighing and feeling silly for stealing a look, she put the card back and started to try to find a way to pick everything she needed to take back with her. She knew there was a small cart some other companies in the building used to transport stocks and other products, but she was sure she could use her hands if she just pilled everything right. Kara had just come up with a plan when Jenny spoke again.

“There’s also this one. It doesn’t have a card, but it came with the bouquet. Same delivery. The guy couldn’t say anything about it, but I’m sure we can find something if we call the shop and...”

“I think there’s no need,” Kara interrupted gently, without looking up from the growing pile in one of her hands, but she raised her head eventually.

Only to lose track of every thought she was having.

Jenny had put a single plumeria on top of the counter. As the woman had said, there was no card or any type of identification – who it came from or who was supposed to receive it – but Kara connected the dots quite easily. Smiling, she reached over to grab the simple flower and brought it closer to her face to smell it.

“Oh, I see.”

“I have to go!” Kara said suddenly, knowing everyone in the building would know she had just randomly smelled a flower at the front desk that morning. “See you, Jen!”

The look on Cat’s face when Kara gave her the bouquet, not offering any other explanation othan than that there was a card attached to it, was worth every step on the stairs she had to walk up, holding the woman’s coffee every morning. As soon as she was back to her desk, Kara pulled her phone from her pocket and sent a text before Nia could start asking any questions.

“Thought you said that you’re not good with romance.”

The reply didn’t come right away, Kara ended up putting her phone to the side and went back to work. However, as soon as it rang beside her, she grabbed it.

“Guess we’re both learning new things about ourselves. Want to have lunch together?”

And, yes, she totally did.

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bqstqnbruin · 4 years ago

Text

I hate it when you stare

Wow here I am with another part, another fic. Ignooooree my typooos. Is this more soft smut? No one told me last time if what I wrote counts so uhhhhhhh

Read the whole series: I hate the way you talk to me and the way you cut your hair // I hate the way you drive my car // I hate it when you stare // I hate your big dumb combat boots and the way you read my mind // I hate you so much it makes me sick, it even makes me rhyme // I hate the way you’re always right // I hate it when you lie // I hate it when you make me laugh, even worse when you make me cry // I hate it when you’re not around, and the fact that you didn’t call // But mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you, not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all

I really do have work to do for my class at 2:30 tomorrow but instead I finished this, so I hope you like this!

_______________________

“How is it bullshit? Everyone can tell that we’re in love with each other.”

“So, what, because other people believe it, that automatically means it’s true?”

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

Evelina was visiting home for the weekend for her mom’s birthday, which meant that you had the apartment to yourself. From Friday after work until Sunday night, you were free to do whatever you wanted by yourself. Or, you thought you were going to be doing whatever you wanted until your boss texted you saying that he wanted your project finished by Monday so you could present it that afternoon. That meant you were posted up on the couch, your hair tied in a bun on top of your head, a mug full of coffee, another of tea, and a cup with water all in front of you, the blanket normally on the back of your couch now draped over your shoulders. It was a full call to the hungover days you had back in undergrad when you woke up late and were struggling to finish the work you had due the next morning.

“It’s me!” you hear a familiar voice call from the door, snapping you out of what might have been the first and only roll you had been on working on the project.

You look up to see Matthew coming over the couch, plastic bags in hand to plop down on the table. “Remind me to change the locks.”

“That would mean you have to get up to let me in, though,” he sends a wink in your direction.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at him, even though you felt butterflies throughout your entire body at the sight of him looking so comfortable next to you. It was just because he’s a guy, not because it’s Matthew. You let out a quiet sigh as he fiddles with the remote to your TV. “Who says I wouldn’t leave you in the hallway? Plus, I thought you were supposed to have practice today?” you ask, trying to focus more on your project than on him.

“We’re done, and we don’t have a game for three days for once, so we’re resting up. I figured, why not come see my favorite girl?” he says, resting his hand on your shin once your drape your legs over his lap.

“Because Taryn is in St. Louis so you settled for me instead?”

He scoffs, slowly running his hand up and down your bare leg while his eyes fixate on the television screen. He had to be able to feel the goosebumps that he was causing with his touch. “Fine, my favorite girl in Calgary unless Taryn is visiting, are you happy?”

“Am I ever happy when I’m around you?” you tease, lifting only your eyes from your screen to look at him. Still staring at the TV, you can see the smile on his face, but it almost looks like his jaw is clenching, like he’s fighting saying something back.

“And how could I not be happy around you when you treat me like that?” Your eyes linger for a second on his smile before scanning the rest of his body. Even under the long-sleeved dry fit shirt he was wearing, you could see the outline of the muscles that graced his abdomen. His arms looked like they were begging to rip the seam of the shirt, and you wanted nothing more than to take it off of him and just let them free. “Do you like what you see, babe?” you hear him say, snapping you out of the thoughts you were convincing yourself meant nothing as he was looking at you out of the corner of his eye.

“I’m trying to picture you as a more attractive guy,” you lie, “It would be so nice if Elias were here, wouldn’t it?”

“If you’re implying that you want a threesome, then I don’t think I could do it with a teammate,” he laughs, his fingers tightening around your shin. Would Elias be better than Matthew? Any guy would be better than Matthew, you tell yourself. He’s your best friend, and nothing more.

“What have I said about being crude?” you ask him, fixating your eyes on the way he’s biting his bottom lip. “I think I’m gonna go get my headphones so I can do this project.” You bolt from the living room to your bedroom, leaving Matthew there by himself while you search for your phone in a panic.

“Hey, is everything ok?” Evelina says on the other end of the phone call as you try to search for your AirPods in the mess that was your room.

“No, Matthew is here.”

“And that’s bad because?” she asks, drawing out her last word.

Groaning, you drop your phone on your desk, prompting Matthew to call to you asking if you were ok. “I’m fine, don’t worry.” Turning back to Evelina, clearly in a panic that she could hear in your voice, “Matthew is here and I think I’m horny.”

“You’re always horny for him because you’re in love with him.”

“I’m not in love with him and I’m honry because I haven’t been touched by a man in like, three months. It’s starvation.”

You hear her groan on the other end, her parents voices in the background. “Hold on, I need to go into another room,” she says. “Ok, so you really told me two days when you got home that you and Matthew nearly fucked in public in the liquor store. You have been touched by a man. He was also practically feeling you up at the bar a week ago, might I remind you.”

“I don’t love him,” you say, unprompted, “And he never even kissed me.”

“Says that hickey that you somehow didn’t notice he gave you?” she says, you turning to your mirror to touch the mark she was talking about. You honestly didn’t know it was there until she said something to you when you walked in the door. “If you don’t love him, why don’t you just tell him to leave?”

“I want company and he’s the only thing I have when you aren’t here. Really, this is all your fault.”

“That was so sweet until you blamed me. If you don’t want him to leave then what’s the problem?”

“Horny,” you say at the same time. “Either do something about it or control yourself, babe, but I’ve gotta go. Miss you, love you,” she says, hanging up when you finally find your AirPods.

Pulling up your playlist so it’s already playing when you get to Matthew, you don’t even look at him as you take your computer back in your lap and throw your legs in his. You can feel his eyes tracing the outline of your body even under the baggy sweatshirt you had on from a college you never went to.

You had worked for what was probably a solid half hour, Matthew mindlessly rubbing his hand on your leg like he did before, you needing to do everything in your power to stop from thinking about and wanting more. You were interrupted by Matthew reaching over and tugging on the hem of your shorts. “Are you really listening to Christmas music right now?”

“Is it that loud?” you ask, turning the volume down immediately.

“No, I can read your lips. You were mouthing ‘Feliz Navidad,’ and ‘Sleigh Ride.’”

“Oh, then, yes,” your cheeks flushed with embarrassment that you didn’t even realize you were doing that.

“It’s March, babe.”

“Ok, but Christmas music is fine year round.”

“No?” he questions.

“So I’m going to tell you why you’re wrong,” you start, moving your computer to the table so you don’t drop it, provoking a laugh to escape from his lips, “While I don’t agree with all things in Catholic and the broader Christian doctrine, there are things I can agree with basically because they are up for interpretation, so I interpret them in the way I like. Take, for example, the ninth commandment: love thy neighbor. Some people take it as a literal ‘love thy neighbor’ as in ‘be a good neighbor,’ to the ones who live next door, but I think it’s a matter of caring for those around you, neighbor not being the person immediately next to you wherever you live, but just other people in general.”

“What is your point?” he asks, a devilish grin spread across his face.

“My point is that the Bible, which is the end all be all of Catholic doctrine according to some people, is up for interpretation and people use it the way that benefits them, no matter how wrong they normally are. In Hebrews 13:15, it says, “Through him let us continually offer up a sacrifice of praise to God, that is, the fruit of lips that acknowledge his name,” thereby, justifying and promoting listening to Christmas music year round. It praises Jesus, who is one of the persons that make up God, and doing year round is continuous.”

“I don’t think that’s how that works.”

“Hey, if people can be assholes and use a 2,000 year old book to try to wrongly justify their bigotry and homophobia, why can’t I use it to rightly justify my listening to christmas music all year?”

“Are you Catholic?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean I can’t learn about it and keep the things that I like with me. I’m not Jesuit but I follow their ideals like ‘care for the whole person’ and ‘be a man or woman with and for other.’ And Evelina’s parents are very religious, so we kind of put up a front whenever they visit to please them. They still think we go to Mass every Sunday.”

“Is that why there’s sometimes a crucifix by the door?” he asks, you nodding along. “And that weird Jesus magnet where he has a chefs hat and it says ‘fish and bread are served’ underneath him?”

“Yeah, I think her dad superglued that to the fridge because no matter how many times we’ve tried to get it off it won’t budge. Plus it’s a reference to another Bible passage.”

“I went to a Catholic high school, remember? I already knew that.” You can’t help but return the smile he was sending your way, this time your eyes flicking down to his lips, you unsure if his were doing the same. You snap out of it, biting your lip and making eye contact with Matthew, both of you breathing slightly unevenly at just thinking about what you could do with each other. Was Evelina right that you two loved each other?

No, she couldn’t be right, because you didn’t love him. You pick your computer back up to get back to work, not saying another word as Matthew turned back to the TV. You hit a deadend, finding yourself back to staring at Matthew’s perfect face while his eyes narrowed and a small smirk formed on his lips at something funny on whatever movie or show he was watching.

“Ugh, fuck,” you groan, Matthew’s head snapping to your direction as you cover your face with your hands. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

He reaches over and pulls your hands from your face, intertwining his fingers in yours. “Take a break, I brought food for us.”

“You didn’t cook it yourself, did you?” you ask. The last time he had made food for you, you were sick for a week from what you’re sure was food poisoning from something being undercooked.

He laughs, the pad of his thumb rubbing your palms. You could feel your breathing get shallow by this, trying to ignore it while he’s talking to you. “No, I got it from the store down the road, already made. Mac and Cheese!” he says, pulling it out of the bag.

You roll your eyes at his stupidity. “Matthew, we’ve been sitting here for over two hours, why would you leave that on the table instead of in the fridge?”

“It’s still warm!” he argues, opening it, “Oh and it smells so bad.” You burst out laughing as he cringes, closing it immediately. “I’ll order something else.”

You get up to go throw out the now rancid mac and cheese in the kitchen. “Hey, where do you want to order from?” you hear Matthew call, walking into the kitchen behind you.

The list.

It’s on the fridge.

Practically throwing yourself at it to try to tear it down in time, you rip it off the fridge and fold it up in your hand just in time for Matthew to come in. “Are you ok?” he asks you, noticing your slightly faster breathing and your hands behind your back.

“Yeah, the smell was just bad,” you lie to him, shoving the list in the band of your shorts. “And I was looking at the Jesus magnet.”

“That thing is so creepy,” he says, both of you looking at it. Knowing Matthew, you try as discreetly as possible to move the paper to your front so he can’t feel it as he inevitably presses his front to your back, his arms draping over your shoulders. Without thinking, you reach up to touch his hands as he rests his head on yours. “It’s way too white to be Jesus.”

His arms move their way down your body, settling around your waist as he starts to nibble at your ear. “God, you are so sexy,” you hear him let out.

“You’re awfully handsy lately, aren’t you Matty?”

“Oh come on,” he says, turning you around to face him, practically pinning you against the fridge, “You know we’re always like this with each other.”

You smile at him, cupping his face in your hands as you run the pads of your thumbs along his cheeks. “We have a weird...” you start, trying to figure out the right word to describe whatever it was you had with him, “friendship,” you settle on, not exactly liking the word yourself as your tried to hide the cringe you were sure was appearing on your face.

He swallows hard at that word. Even relationship would have been better, even if it were more broad than ‘friendship.’ At least it wasn’t such a narrow word. It felt like even if you didn’t finish the list you didn’t know he knew about, you would never see him as more than a friend. “Well, that’s what makes it my favorite friendship.”

The two of you stand there for a minute, holding each other and gazing into the others eyes. You could feel your breathing slow down studying Matthew’s facial features again, thinking only of how perfect they looked to you in that moment. “We should figure out where we’re getting food from,” you say, dragging your hands down his chest before dropping him all together.

He could have stared at you like that forever. He really couldn’t think of anyone more perfect than you, anyone he would want to look at besides you. “What are you in the mood for?” he asks, moving over to the counter. Opening your fridge, you remember you still have the list folded in the band of your shorts, throwing it in before grabbing some water out. “What did you just throw in there?” Matthew asked you, having watched your every move.

“Uh, Evelina and I have this weird list that we’re putting together, it didn’t feel right to have Jesus looking over it all of a sudden,” you tell him, “But now that you had mac and cheese on my mind, I kind of want that.”

“Oh, no, you’re not changing the subject that easily,” he says, trying to reach around you to open the fridge.

“No, come on, it’s mostly Evelina’s and I don’t know if she would want you seeing it,” you lie, batting your eyes at him and trying to contort your face to make it look like you would cry if he tried anything else. He couldn’t see the list of things you hate about it. He couldn’t find out about it.

He sighs, knowing he wasn’t going to win this one. “I ordered you mac and cheese but I’ll pay for it if you tell me the subject of the list?” he tries to bargain.

“Uh, it’s a list of kinks,” you lie, not knowing what else to say, and usure why that was the first thing that came to mind.

His eyes go wide, pretending to be shocked. It was the list of ten things you hate about him. It had to be. He grins anyway, trying to hide the pain he felt knowing that the list was already started, and probably nearly finished at this point, “Are any of them your kinks?”

“Yeah,” you start to lie to him again, a grin on your face, “One of them says, ‘When Matthew leaves me alone.’”

He scrunches up his face, pretending to be hurt by your comment as he walks back to your living room. “Oh you know just how to break my heart, pretty girl.” You follow him, plopping down next to him on your couch.

You pick up your computer, snuggling into his shoulder as he wraps his arm around you. “I have no desire to do this project.”

“Why don’t we watch something on TV then and you can work again after we eat?” he suggests. You nod, putting the computer back down, surrendering to his pout. You feel him kiss the top of your head, scrolling through the channels. “What about Lilo and Stitch?” he asks when he finds it on one of the channels.

“Ugh, I love this movie, but the American treatment of Hawaiians is awful, and I just can’t help but think about it every time I watch,” you say, thinking you were being annoying. “Sorry,” you apologize. Evelina was used to your rants, even if you were sure she normally tuned them out. You didn’t think Matthew wanted to listen to another rant from you.

“Don’t get me started?” he asks, referring to the game you and the guys played at the bar.

“Don’t get me started on the American colonization of Hawaii. The Cookes’ went to Hawaii and pretty much obliterated the royal bloodline. The king of Hawaii had the Cookes build boarding schools for the royal children, with good intentions that they would be able to educate his children on royal customs to effectively rule their land. Instead, the Cookes took the Hawaiian customs and told them they were wrong, imparting their own customs on them, instead. They wanted he land for America, they wanted to eliminate the Hawaiian culture and make them as American as possible,” you say. “The Hawaiian people were a very sex positive people, but oh no, American Catholic education and their ‘no sex is the safest sex’ ideal stopped the children from living the lives they grew up expected to live. If a boy was found in a girls room doing anything in these boarding schools, they would beat the children as punishment, and probably other things that weren't even recorded. There are actually a decent number of Wikipedia pages that have had this information erased, like when you go back into the edit history. The sources, as they claimed, weren’t valid, but in reality they weren’t the Cookes’ American-centric description of these schools. They even went so far as introducing sports into the schools as ‘an antidote to the worst evil of all: sexual promiscuity,’” you comment, drawing a laugh from Matthew. “Because we all know how much athletes hate sex, right?”

You look up at Matthew, him beaming down at you as Hawaiian Roller Coaster Ride starts ironically playing in the background, “Yeah, we hate that,” he whispers. You swallow hard, trying to ignore any feelings that might be coming up at the sight of Matthew biting his bottom lip.

“American’s always just insert themselves where they don’t belong,” you finish, settling your head back onto his shoulder as he pulls you closer to him.

“Why do you know all of this?” he asks.

You shrug, not really sure how to answer, “I don’t know. When I’m doing work I see one word and it sends my mind into this never ending tangent and I end up looking up stuff online and reading for hours.”

“You really are the smartest person I know,” he says with a sigh, “Why hasn’t Ev told her parents about hiding the Catholic stuff until they come?”

You shrug, “I don’t know. I never asked, she just told me it was something she needed to do, so I did it with her. That’s her own cross to bear,” you say, taking a minute to realize the really bad pun you just made. “Ah! See what I did there!” you practically yell, Matthew groaning.

“On that note, I think I need to leave,” he jokes, getting up off the couch.

“Oh, come on, no!” you beg, taking him by the hand and trying to drag him back down to the couch. “I don’t want you to leave,” you let out as he pulls you off the couch.

“Really?” he asks you, sitting back down on the couch, your hands still connected.

Standing over him you nod as he pulls you into his lap, straddling him. He pulls you as close to him as you can, your hands wrapped around the back of his neck. Your mind flashes back to the liquor store, the feeling that came over you as he worked his way along your body like you had a feeling he was about to do again.

“Come on Matthew, you know this isn’t something we do,” you tease, even though you can’t help but look at his lips, the urge to kiss him creeping up on you as you tried desperately to suppress it. If any guy had taken you into his lap like Matthew just did, you would want to do the same thing. You were just desperate for a man, not desperate for Matthew.

“We can’t do anything?” he teases, going for your neck again. You let out a moan, praying that he doesn’t leave any more marks that you’ll have to cover up later.

“Wait,” you say to him, pulling him off of you. He looks slightly upset, not sure what to do next. ‘Ah, fuck it,’ you think to yourself, pulling his shirt off over his head, tossing it to the side and returning the favor of the hickey he gave you. You suck on his skin, listening to the moans that escaped from his lips this time, feeling him grow hard the longer you were at it. He clenches his hands on your butt, pulling you even closer to him. You work your way up his neck and to his jaw, his grip getting tighter the closer you were to his lips. You had no idea what was coming over you and causing you to want to do this, but nothing in that moment felt better. Nothing in your life had ever felt better as you kissed his face the way he did to you the other day, hearing him moan more and more with every connection you made.

Your lips are millimeters from his, both of you practically begging the other for connection when you’re startled by the sound of Matthew’s phone ringing. You both laugh, foreheads pressed together. One more second and it would have happened. “I think that means our food is here.”

“Perfect fucking timing,” he mutters, not loud enough for you to hear as you get up to go grab the food. He couldn’t believe you just did that. He checks his neck in his phone camera, seeing it littered with the red marks you had left for him. He reaches up to touch them, smiling for some reason. There’s no way this list would work against him, would it?

You come back, him practically throwing his phone so you don’t see what he’s doing, settling down on the couch with each other eating the food. Your mind starts racing with thoughts about what just happened. There was no way you really wanted that, did you? Well, you wanted a man’s touch, but it didn’t necessarily have to be Matthew. It could be any guy.

‘I have another thing for the list,’ you text Evelina, your eyes moving between your phone screen and his hands holding his food, careful not to look up at his face.

‘Good, god, what?’

‘I hate the way he stares,’ you send her, finally looking up, not taking your eyes off Matthew as the two of you can’t help but stare at each other.

#matthew tkachuk #matthew tkachuk imagines #calgary flames #calgary flames imagines #flames #flames imagines #nhl #nhl imagines #hockey #hockey imagines

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ahh-fxck · 4 years ago

Text

Here is my gift for @mossymel for @thewitchersecretsanta 2020 gift exchange! I hope you like it!!

Title: Heat and a Healer

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Geralt x Female!Reader

Cross-posted to Ao3

Geralt is injured in a hunt to save your village. You find him in the snow and bring him inside to keep him from dying.

The courtyard is muddy and cold, the air in front of your face misting with every breath. It is crisp with a light dusting of snow that crunches under your feet. Pale fingers of dawn light are creeping over the rooftops as you go about your morning chores. As you round the corner of your barn to break the water on the livestock trough you let out a startled gasp.

The water on one end is already broken and there is a strange brown mare contentedly drinking from it. It takes you a moment to realize that her rider is there as well; He is barely visible at first, huddled in a snow-encrusted cloak at the base of the trough. When he hears your gasp he jerks, as if he hadn’t meant to fall asleep and is slightly startled to find that he had.

The movement draws a thin, reedy noise of pain from him. Milky white hair spills from the cloak, and you see a flash of silver around his neck. With a start, you realize that you’ve seen this horse before. The road to the south has been terrorized by a griffin and no trade has gotten through in months; Everyone’s larders are bare and tempers in town have been growing short. The Witcher riding into town a week before had been a welcome sight.

It’s a relief to see him back again, but your heart plunges as you take in the state of him. You kneel to inspect him, frowning at what you see. His lips are blue with cold and his face is streaked with dried gore of some sort. When he opens his eyes you can see they are a startling shade of gold, like a cat’s. They are hazy with pain and exhaustion.

“Witcher?” You say, beginning to brush the snow off of him. “Oh Melitele, look at the state of you! Can you walk? Quick, let’s get you inside.” You bend to help him as he struggles painfully to his feet. The clothing all down one side of him is stiff under your hand and his armor is ominously tattered.

“My horse,” he croaks through dry lips.

“I’ll see to her once I have you settled,” you promise. “You need heat and a healer first, Witcher. She’ll keep.” He is too weak to do more than nod, allowing you to guide his stumbling steps across the courtyard. You hurry him into the kitchen and ease him down on the floor in front of the roaring fire.

He goes down with a grateful groan, settling in a sodden heap on the well-swept floor. As quickly as you can, you pull the sleeping mat you use for guests out of the crowded storage room. Next, you bring a pile of blankets and set them aside. Then you hurriedly help him remove his wet clothes before the chill can set any worse. As the full extent of his injuries is revealed, you can feel your blood running cold. He is gouged and bruised all over one side, still slowly leaking blood from ugly wounds in his flank. Every movement, every breath, pulls at them and causes his face to flicker with pain.

As soon as he is tucked under the blankets near the fire you race out of the house, battering at the healer’s door until she shuffles out to greet you. Her eyes widen as you breathlessly tell her what happened. In short order, she is dressed and hurrying after you. The crunching of your footsteps on the empty streets is loud in the hush of dawn.

You spend the rest of the morning running at the healer’s beck and call, boiling water and making simple herbal preparations at her instruction. During a lull, you slip out to tend the animals and stable the Witcher’s horse. The mare is stroppy and irritable, but you’ve known your share of horses and you aren’t impressed. Far more impressive is the griffin’s head dangling from the far side of her saddle, where you hadn’t been able to see it before. A rush of relief goes through you; the alderman will be pleased to see that, by the gods.

Before long, the horse is clean and dry, munching on her feed. The same cannot be said for her rider. The sun is well in the sky by the time the healer straightens from her work, and even then he looks gaunt and pale. He lies on the floor sleeping soundly as she cleans up and prepares a basket of supplies for you. She explains each item as she puts it in the basket, then instructs you to let him rest. As she leaves, she squeezes your shoulder silently. You and she both know without speaking that keeping the Witcher alive is the right thing to do.

Not long after that, the alderman comes to call, no doubt notified by the healer. Bodily blocking him from entering your home and seeing the state the Witcher is in, you insist on walking the alderman over to the griffin’s head yourself. He eyes it skeptically, hemming and hawing about whether or not the Witcher has earned the full price.

Your eyes flash with fire. Your alderman is a fool and a scoundrel, else you’d expect him to have some compassion for the man who nearly died to save his bloody town. You tell him that and a fair few other things besides, letting him have the sharp side of your tongue. There are few women he’ll take this treatment from, but as the best baker in town, you happen to be one of them. By the time you threaten to refuse baking his daughter’s wedding cake, the alderman buckles, handing over a far fatter sack of coin than he’d intended to.

Pleased, you hand him the griffin’s head to dispose of and march him off of your property. Then you return to the kitchen with the Witcher’s coin. He wakes when you come through the door, eyes bright with fever and exhaustion. When you toss him the bag of coins he catches it though, and his crooked smile lights his face handsomely.

Over the following days, he slumbers in front of your hearth as he heals. At first, he is too exhausted to do much but wake occasionally to eat and use the privy. Though your larder is as bare as anyone else’s in town, you feed him as if he were your own. With gentle hands you tend to his wounds, cleaning them, spreading salve on them, and finally wrapping them with clean bandages. You can see sometimes in unguarded moments how much he likes your touch. His face relaxes and sometimes you can even see the brief flicker of a smile. He is handsome when he smiles.

You find yourself enjoying the time you spend at his bedside, treasuring the little flashes more than you'd expected to. It turns out under the grime he's gorgeous. Wide golden eyes, a square jaw, a cupid's bow lip, and that's only his face. Each of his long limbs is cabled with heavy muscle, and his skin is almost as milky as his hair. It gives him a very striking appearance, and you frequently find yourself struggling not to stare as you change his bandages.

He becomes more alert as he heals. At first, all he does is silently watch you from the floor, golden eyes following you about the room. You don’t mind, filling the air with friendly talk as your hands work. You tell him stories about your childhood, your family, sharing the little memories held in chipped teacups and lovingly crafted decorations.

In his turn, he tells you little things as well. You learn that his name is Geralt and that he’s trying to get north before the snows close the mountain roads entirely. You also learn that he loves baked apples and that he adores his horse. They’re small things, but they put you at your ease, making him seem less remote and strange.

Though he heals quicker than any man has a right to, it is still days before he can limp around your house on his own power. He moves first from the sleeping mat to the chair near the fire, where he listens to you talk while you work. Although supplies are scarce you ply him with tea and treats from your bakery as you work. It gives you joy to feed him nice things after everything he's been through. The kindness and the treats both seem to confuse him, but he devours the pastries without complaint as he listens to you talk. Before long he is alert enough to mend his tattered clothing and armor as he sits there in the corner, his big hands working skillfully.

On the day that the caravans finally arrive in town, he has made it as far as the yard. He is slowly moving through forms with his massive steel sword, limbering his healing body. A clamor arises all through the town as a horn sounds. By the time the first wagon is through the outer gate, half of the town has surged out to greet them.

At the sound of the ruckus, the Witcher’s head comes up. Yours does as well, and you race to the gate. When you realize that the caravans have arrived at last, you let out a joyous whoop, dancing around your courtyard. You catch Geralt up before you can even think about it, so overcome with excitement that you plant a huge kiss right on his lips.

“The caravans! We’re saved! Oh, we’re going to have such a feast tonight, just you wait!”

It’s only then that you see how wide-eyed he is, looking between your hands fisted in his shirt and your lips. You drop his shirt with a start, worried that you’ve caused him offense, but as you back away he breaks into a slow smile. The corners of his golden eyes crinkle handsomely, and you feel your heart trip over itself.

Cheeks heating, you look over your shoulder and then back at him. He’s still smiling. You smile back, giving him a thoughtful look, then tap him gently on his chest. “You just wait here. I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail! Then you’ll see why they call me the best baker in town!” Without waiting for him to reply, you race off to get ready for the impromptu market already forming in the town square.

You walk back to your house sometime later with your cart and donkey in tow. The cart is practically overflowing with supplies, and your heart is glowing as you pull it up in the courtyard and begin to unload it. All your worries about the winter’s food have been wiped away, and you are in a very merry mood indeed.

The kitchen is rich with the smells of good food and mead that evening, and it’s already groaning under the weight of all the treats you’ve baked for the next day. Geralt sits on a stool at your kitchen table. He munches pastries and chops herbs for you while you cook and sing. You catch him smiling to himself as you overflow with happiness. It’s the nicest meal you’ve been able to make in months, and it’s a joy to share the bounty with the man who’d made it possible.

When dinner is cooked and dessert is cooling, you sit down to dine with him. For once he’s able to eat his fill. Even though he puts away a truly surprising amount of food, there is still enough for leftovers. It’s satisfying to see him warm and contented at last, his belly full and his pale complexion flushed with drink. He’d come into your home so gaunt and pale, but now��

You realize you’re staring a little when he smiles at you over his cup of mead. You break away, flustered. When you look back at him, though, there is a little gleam in your eye. You rise from the table and go to where the honey cakes are cooling on the counter. You retrieve some sugared rose petals from a jar, which you arrange on two of the cakes. Then you dress them with cream and a little rose syrup. It runs and gathers prettily at the bottom of each bowl.

You make eye contact with him as you offer him his little bowl, a smile playing about your lips. He looks at the bowl, then at you, his pupils dilating subtly with interest. A slow smile breaks out across his face and he carefully takes the bowl from you, letting his fingers linger against yours as he does. A little shock of delight goes up your arm, and your eyes twinkle. You sit across from him to savor the sweetness of your dessert. As sweet as the honey cakes and cream are, still sweeter is the way he can’t seem to stop watching you, his gaze lingering on you as he licks delicious crumbs off of his spoon.

When he sets his empty bowl aside and rises from the table to go to bed, it feels as natural as breathing to stand with him. Your own bowl is left empty and forgotten on the table. You step closer to him and he brightens with interest, head cocking to the side. Emboldened by the mead and the desire waking in those lovely amber eyes, you lean up and capture his lips in a kiss. He sighs hungrily as you do, drawing you wordlessly closer.

His broad chest is warm and firm under your hands, and his lips taste of roses and honey. You hum happily as he brings his hands to your hips, drawing you firmly against him. Parting your lips, you wind your arms around his neck as he slips his tongue into your mouth. His breath hitches as you lean up to meet him, your clever tongue twining with his.

The kiss is heady and hot, leaving you wanting more when he draws back for air. He swirls his fingers up the back of your clothing, a playfully sensual gesture, and you smile. Your hands trace down his flanks, feeling the firm muscles flex beneath. His beautiful eyes are alight with desire, watching your every movement, wanting more but not daring to take it.

Then you lean up, inviting him in for another kiss. He gives a little shiver, rumbling a low noise of approval. The kiss is deeper this time, slower and more sensual. You take your time with each other, fingers gently tracing the edges of clothing, plucking at laces without pulling. The only sound is the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Heat pools between your thighs and you sigh, rocking idly against him. You can feel him stir in his trousers where his hips are pressed against you and you rock more firmly, finding yourself suddenly dizzy with desire. He hitches in another breath, then growls oh so softly against your lips. He rolls against you and you can feel his cock hardening, pressing against you. You let out a little moan, fingers pulling at his laces in earnest now.

A flurry of clothing is left in a trail leading to your bedroom door. Geralt walks you back until your bare thighs are pressing against your bed, kissing you hungrily. You wiggle your way up onto the bed, giggling as he snuffles at your neck between kisses to take in your scent. He helps to lift you onto the bed, big hands squeezing your thighs as he settles between them. Making low noises of pleasure he mouthes his way to your breasts. His tongue is velvety-hot, and you give a low little cry as it flicks across your nipple.

He savors your belly and your thighs in the same way, hungry and eager, like he hasn't been with a woman in far too long. When his lips finally brush the soft thatch of hair between your thighs you can’t help but groan, watching him from beneath lowered lashes. He teases at you gently, eyes alight as he takes in every little reaction. When he finally bends to trace the tip of his tongue up your inner lips they are sensitive and slick, causing you to whimper and shiver. You wind your fingers in his hair as he sets to work, savoring the warmth of his tongue.

A look of bliss suffuses his golden eyes as he laps at your dewy cunt, his pale lashes fluttering against his cheeks. You tremble with delight, your soft cries filling the room. When he slips gentle fingers inside of you and flutters them just so, a swell of pleasure breaks over you. You cry out as you buck against him. A low rumble emerges from somewhere deep in his chest, an intent look coming into his eye as he redoubles his efforts. His clever tongue circles and dances, bringing the pleasure to a fever pitch, working you until you are coming harder than you thought possible. He withdraws only when you have fallen back to the bed panting, your thighs trembling with the aftershocks.

You run your fingers through his hair as you quiver, savoring the glow that suffuses you. He hums and smiles, nuzzling you. His eyes flutter half-shut as he lets you stroke his hair and face, enjoying the affection. After a lazy moment, you draw him up onto the bed with you. He goes willingly, pulling you down on top of him with a wolfish smile. From the way he moves you can tell he is still stiff and sore, but the bandages are gone. Though you worry about hurting him, he doesn’t seem to care. His smile broadens as you lower yourself to rest across his hips, your lower lips kissing the base of his cock with wet heat.

That grin wipes all your worries out of your mind, replacing it with a sudden rush of desire. His hands guide your hips to start moving, encouraging you to take your pleasure. You smile wickedly, placing your hands on his broad chest as you start to rub your clit against his throbbing cock. He moans softly, his hands sliding up your flanks as his amber eyes trace the beautiful curves of your body. He begins to tease at your nipples, his eyes sparkling with enjoyment at the sounds he draws from you. His touch on them is surprisingly delicate, sending exquisite little shocks of pleasure down to your cunt.

Before long you are rocking hungrily against him, your composure unraveling by the second. He moans and shivers beneath you, arching. The feeling of his thighs tensing sends a shock of heat through you, hunger for more. With a twist of your hips you rise, using a quick hand to position his cock at your entrance. His eyes fly open as you groan happily, circling your hips on the blunt head just barely pressing into your wet heat. He looks at you with wide eyes, breath hitching as you twist your hips again. You lock eyes with him as you sink slowly down, savoring his guttural moan when he bottoms out inside you.

His gold eyes are hazy with need as you begin to rock on top of him. He matches your tempo carefully, watching you with a now-familiar intent expression coming across his face. Without a word he presses a hand against your abdomen, pushing you until you are leaning back with your hands on his thighs. He shifts his angle and you let out a sharp gasp of pleasure, the change allowing him to hit your spot with every thrust.

You cry out as he grins breathlessly and begins to fuck you in earnest. He is surprisingly vocal as he does so, making up for days of silence with murmurs and growls of pleasure. When he brings his thumb to your clit you can’t help but join him, your shaking cries punctuated by every thrust.

He fucks you with care and precision, one hand on your hip, the other working your clit until you come with a ragged yowl. Your muscles clench tight around him and a sharp groan punches out of him as his hips stutter, losing rhythm. Grabbing your hips, he only lasts for a few more short, sharp thrusts before he is spilling inside of you and crying out, his body arching beneath you. His head tosses, white hair scattering across the pillow as he holds you close against him.

In the thundering silence that follows you collapse against him, laying your head on his shoulder. Both of you go limp, too exhausted at first to crawl under the blankets. You lay there listening to the crackle of the fire in the kitchen, the occasional creaking of your old home, and a soft hissing noise that you can’t place at first. He looks to the window and your eyes follow. You see thick white flurries of snow, and once you see them you realize that the hissing is the sound of them being blown against the windowpane.

The first blizzard of winter has come.

You turn back and eye each other thoughtfully, then smile and settle into the blankets. Until the snows clear, what else is there to do but enjoy one another?

And you do, all winter long.

#the witcher fanfiction #the witcher fanfic #geralt x reader #the witcher fic #thewitchersecretsanta

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dadsbongos · 4 years ago

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Insert Coin - Chapter 3 / Series Masterlist

Sunlight streamed down through puckered clouds, sky bathing in golden backdrop and splattering against the rocky hilltop below. Peko stared straight ahead as the marching came closer and closer until she was surrounded by the source. Robots upon robots upon robots aligned in layers of circles around her, the Ultimate Swordswoman.

Without her permission, an arm raised - her gut twisting at the knowledge that yes, now she was a tool, but it wasn’t for him. Young Master.

Rushing forward, Peko cut through one of the robots with what she’d sworn was a bamboo sword.

Robot after robot fell by her hand.

Countless had crumbled and yet there were still so many left.

Creaking rumbled behind her. Before she could register the blond hair and midnight dark suit, she’d already swung. Cutting through her foe… and Young Master.

Holding his fragile self to her body, Peko cooed and murmured sweet nothings to her Young Master. The robots stumbled forward closer and closer and closer. There was a split pain darting through her back and stomach, blood guzzling as more and more bots enclosed her and Young Master.

Opening her eyes once again, Peko looked into the blinking, blaring red eyes of one of the robots. Its sword rose high, high, higher above its metallic head before coming back down on hers in one clean strike.

“Agh!”

(Y/n) shot up from her bed, gripping the fabric of her sleepshirt in terror, cold sweat drooling over her slick skin. Eyes wide in fear and heart racing.

Nightmare.

It was only a nightmare.

Closing her eyes, (Y/n) was struck with the illusion of Mahiru, slumped against the teal door with the back of her head smashed in. Vibrant pink staining her clothes and clumping in her hair.

Her ears rung and in the background, she could hear the wails and broken sobs of Hiyoko. She could feel the snag of hands pulling desperately at her skin, drawing marks over her body with no care.

She slammed her eyes open, hands coming up over her ears to hide the sound of broken cries.

Until there was a knock at the door, her eyes fell from the door to its lock - finding momentary comfort in that it was, in fact, locked. Her legs shook as she stood, debating on whether or not to answer. It was a few moments later, and after a few more rounds of knocking that she decided yes, she’d open it. Her talent was useless anyway, if she got killed nobody would suffer.

On the other side was Nagito, and peeking past his shoulder, (Y/n) saw that the sun was just kissing the horizon with its fiery, blaring passion. His smile was faint, “I know scum like me shouldn’t pop up out of nowhere, especially so early, but you seemed pretty wrecked after that trial.”

“Don’t call yourself scum,” (Y/n) tiredly protested before pulling Nagito inside by his jacket collar, “But yes, I could use the company.”

“Did I interrupt you?” the boy asked, clearly uneasy about walking into his classmate’s cottage, “I really am complete, irredeemable trash, aren’t I?”

“Nagito,” (Y/n) huffed, forcing the sickly skinny teenager to sit on her bed, taking his head between her hands affectionately, “you’re not trash. You’re my friend. You came to check on me, it was a nice gesture. The morning announcement will probably be going off sometime soon anyway.”

“Are you sure?” he almost seemed like a puppy at that moment. So desperate to be told he’d done well - for a person so bent on being nothing, he definitely desired to hear otherwise. Eyes shining up at the girl holding him so tenderly.

“I’m absolutely sure,” she confirmed, brows furrowing in confusion shortly thereafter, hands rising from his cheeks to his forehead, “You feel a little warm, are you okay?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” he waved off, “Though my throat’s been a little drier than I’d care for. And it’s been harder to breathe.”

“Since when?!” (Y/n) immediately pulled back to grab one of the water bottles Hajime had randomly given her, “Here, you should be staying hydrated.”

“Just upon waking up,” Nagito avoided the girl’s eyes as he uncapped the water, “I’d had some trouble sleeping… coughing kept me up,” he chuckled lightly at the girl’s evident concern, “Ah, to think, such a beautiful ray of hope - all worried over garbage. It’s almost sweet, if only it weren’t me you were worried about.”

“Of course, I’m worried, we’re friends, remember?”

“Oh,” he muttered, sipping at the water before recapping it, “you meant that.”

“Obviously!” she exclaimed, exasperated with the sick student, “Why would I lie about that?”

“To be nice, that was my guess, you are the Ultimate Peacekeeper. Saying things to make people happy is your talent,” Nagito shrugged off, as if having no friends was normal for him.

And at that thought, (Y/n)’s heart sunk a little further for Nagito Komaeda.

“It is, but I’m not just saying that,” she sat beside him, grabbing his hand when he moved to pull away - not thinking himself worthy to be close to an Ultimate, “Nagito Komaeda, we’re friends, and I mean that. If you really don't want to be, then fine, but don't run out of fear that I secretly don't care - because I always will.”

“I couldn’t run from you, and it’s not just my new sickness,” he sighed wistfully, “How unlucky, I get to be on a beautiful island surrounded by Ultimates but then I get sick.”

His luck cycles. Right. She’d nearly forgotten of those. Nearly.

“Good morning, everyone! Looks like today is gonna be another perfect, tropical day!”

“Not-so-perfect with you out of commission,” (Y/n) brushed back some of Nagito’s hair as he drank more water, feeling how much warmer he’d already gotten since she last checked, “Poor thing.”

Shaking his head, Nagito gave her a gentle smile, “It really isn’t much. Please, don’t waste precious space in your brain on me.”

“I’ll waste as much space as I want, now c’mon,” (Y/n) stood, dragging Nagito up with the hand locked in hers, “I bet the pharmacy has something for you.”

“There’s really no need- "

“Hey now, we’re going to the pharmacy,” at the harshness of her own tone, (Y/n) sighed before tacking on a quick, “Is that okay? Can you agree to at least go to the pharmacy with me?”

“I…” Nagito paused, eyes shifting to his feet before closing completely, “Yeah, I can agree to that. It’s the least I could do for an Ultimate.”

“Thank you,” she nodded, shaking their hands together slightly before heading out of her cottage and into the tropical sunlight so typical of Jabberwock island.

Walking past the dining hall the group typically met in, the pair crossed over the large wooden bridge to the pharmacy, catching Mikan gingerly flipping over bottles of antiseptic in her hands. Hands that weren’t shaking. She appeared so… at ease. At home. Calm with the medical supplies stacked in shelves around her - though that was to be expected, it was her talent after all. It was only when people, two people at this exact moment, came in that her fidgeting and flutters returned.

“No need to panic,” (Y/n) reassured, waving off the nurse’s squeals of anxiousness, “We’re just here for medicine, Nagito seems to have caught something.”

Tears buzzed at Mikan’s eyes, hands coming up to block her face as if Nagito and (Y/n) were about to begin beating her for merely existing, “H-how ter-terrible…”

“Please, please,” Nagito sighed lightly, waving a hand dismissively at the nurse’s tears, “Don’t mind trash like me. It won’t make a difference if I drop dead.”

“It will make a difference,” the peacekeeper insisted, grabbing at daytime and nighttime cough syrup before turning to Mikan, “Do we use our Monocoins to pay for these or no?”

“Our- our w-what?”

“Nevermind, it was silly,” (Y/n) giggled, waving at the nurse as she left with Nagito and handing the bottles to the boy, “Here; I’ll go out on a limb and say you know how to take medicine?”

“Luckily for us, I do… well, luckily for you anyway,” he pocketed the bottles, “Thankfully I don’t have to burden an Ultimate with my problems.”

“You wouldn’t be a burden by asking me to help you take medicine, I’d be happy to help.”

Walking into the dining hall, the pair were struck with the odd sight. Posterboard akin to something at a science fair covered in photos of and taken by Mahiru with candles surrounding the shrine, goat skulls lining over the top.

“Hiyoko built it,” Hajime murmured, glaring at Nagito as he approached the girl, “I wouldn’t bring it up, she’s still reeling.”

“Avoiding and chastising her for it will make things worse,” (Y/n) shook her head before siding herself with Hiyoko, “It’s lovely. Mahiru would’ve loved it.”

Shaking off his earlier nerves about it, Hajime went to the blond’s other side before, rather awkwardly, trying his hand at comforting the dancer, “Yeah, what better way to remember her than photos?”

There was no reaction, simply blank staring - shock, despair, neither were sure - from Hiyoko at her two classmates. Her brows furrowed and as she opened her mouth, another voice cut in,

“Guys… I’m sorry…”

Fuyuhiko stood there. Eyepatch over his right eye, but other than that, thankfully, he appeared fine.

(Y/n) shook her head, “It’s okay, Fuyuhiko. We’re just glad you’re up and awake now.”

“Who agreed to that?!” Hiyoko burst out, tears already streaming down her reddened face as she pointed to the other short blond, “If it wasn’t for you, she’d still be here!”

“Hiyoko,” (Y/n) placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder, “I know you’re upset, and for good reason, but we can’t turn on each other. Mahiru wouldn’t want us to split apart because of this - we should be living in harmony to honor her, not fighting,” the dancer relented, eyes clenching shut and still letting out tears. (Y/n) brought the girl into her side, holding Hiyoko tightly in what she hoped was a comforting embrace before turning to Fuyuhiko, “And you.”

Hajime flinched slightly at the stony tone suddenly donned by the peacekeeper when she referred to the gangster.

“Don’t go doing something like that again, you hear me?” (Y/n) huffed, “I get what you were trying to do but we almost lost three people in one day. Mahiru and Peko were painful enough, we can’t lose anyone else.”

Fuyuhiko’s brows furrowed, cheeks filling rouge, “Whatever, you all were doing fine without me anyway,” his shoulders drooped as he turned, voice quieting, “You don’t need me.”

“Good riddance,” Hiyoko stubbornly muttered into (Y/n)’s shirt.

Eyes dancing across the worried faces of her remaining friends, Ibuki suddenly piped up, startling everyone in the dining hall, “Ibuki can fix this!”

Unamused by the girl’s rambunctious yelling so early, Hajime merely tilted his head, “How so?”

“Just be on the lookout for something from me later!” the rocker called out as she ran out of the dining hall.

“I’m sure she’ll figure something out,” (Y/n) mumbled, still holding Hiyoko as the girl clung to her, “It’s Ibuki’s thing to be cheerful, right? She can help.”

She can help...

#insert coin #sdr2 reader insert #danganronpa x reader #sdr2 x reader #nagito komaeda x reader #komaeda x reader

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kettlequills · 3 years ago

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that world will cease to be: here in my shrine

For anon, who wanted a fic of Laat and Miraak exploring each other's bodies, and everyone who wanted a sequel to the soulmate au. Here you go: I tried. At the bottom there's a gloss of all the Dovahzul used, though pretty much all of it is contextually explained or translated.

This fic contains explicit n.s.f.w, sexual content, and is 1.8. +. Also: suicidal ideation, oral , b.d. sm, species dysphoria, light blood drinking, praise, overstimulation, abusive relationships, including featuring jealousy and possessiveness, and implied/referenced mind control and manipulation. Read at your own risk. Available on A03 here (and recommended, because this is Long).

There is an island where time does not exist. Or rather, where time has stopped, warped, turned half-counter-clockwise and decided that it would like to go four to the left actually.

Dead men stride ashfields that burgeon with last season's and four years of yesterday's summer crops. Their haunting cries part darkened smoke-clouds from a mountain that can't decide whether it has erupted and their dragon-claw boots leave no footsteps. No trace at all of them on silvery sand that thinks itself still a cliff, but a trail of dead netch and liquid-eyed nixhounds. Long-gone elves peer confusedly through gaps in ice-tunnels to a broken sky and thick air long distant from what their lips once tasted, trading the ancient pelts of great cats and wood-carved weapons made of some icy material that radiates magic with the commoners of Raven Rock. Sometimes, old Nords chase them through the snowfields up on the Moesring mountains, but that happens only in Sun’s Dawn, and everyone sensible knows to simply stay inside then. They will disappear on Tirdas, but it is Middas, all the time, until it is Fredas instead, shortly after Morndas afternoon (never morning). And that is not even starting with the month of Hearthfire, which as everyone in Raven Rock knows, is simply that time between ten and five o’clock where the sun shakes in what they have been generously describing as the sky.

The town itself is largely unchanged, for what could have been centuries now. Fethis Alor still tends his stand, the Retching Netch waits in a perpetual state of nearly closing down. Glover Mallory has yet to add a single wrinkle to his collection. Every so often, oldfolk come wandering out the barrows, shrivelled bodies that pay in ancient coins with flickers of life in death-blue eyes, but coin is coin, and if old Crescius has been working a thriving trade with the dead priest Zahkriisos in oil and coal, plenty of others in Raven Rock see no need to be stingy.

Occasionally, there are newfolk, outsiders. Furious bureaucrats from Morrowind, perhaps, come to see why their island flies colours that have not been seen since mighty dragons swept their hungry wings over every inch of Tamriel. Beggars, refugees, curious wizards, come to see the Temple. It is not often they last long before they are unmade from the fabric of expectation that links the threads of reality together, or they quite simply go mad. For the most part, though, even gods avoid Solstheim.

The Dragonborns are not known to be fond of gods.

It is best not to pay too much attention to the Temple or the dragons that live within it. Focus instead on the routine, the script, and know in your heart that time is broken and fate is a lie. Choose ignorance. The summer storms shake the ground from the Temple, Shouts of laughter and rage, growing pains, and dragons scatter from its roof like doves. It is a magical untime on Solstheim, and there are worse things than the total freedom of a world shaped by the expectant whim of two godsouled-mortals that keep for the most part to their temple and themselves.

Frea does not choose ignorance. She has been shaman of the Skaal for, at least, twelve generations, or maybe even three days, and the sight of the Tree Stone still turns her stomach. Sometimes long-dead friends are standing round it, smiling at Frea like nothing has changed at all (and it hasn’t, surely? The sun still rises on the day where Gjalund Salt-Sage brought the dragon-break into Raven Rock port), but Frea is tired now. Still young, still strong, she goes to make the same plea she always makes to the Last Dragonborn.

“When are you going to let us go?” Frea asks, over ale. This year’s season has been terrible for crops, but no one quite ever expects to run out, so the barrels remain full of thick Skaal ale that always tastes just like the last time Frea could remember having it.

She is growing to hate that taste.

Laataazin, the Last Dragonborn, is shorter than Frea, being one of those warm-blooded humans from across the sea. Their feet just lightly brush the ground from where they sit next to Frea on the fallen tree stump not far from the Stone. They wear the same armour they always have, as bright and well-used as it has been since the day they walked out of Apocrypha hand in hand with the murderer of Frea’s friends and broke the world. The only difference is their mask hangs from their belt instead of concealing their scarred spider-web of a face, its blank owl-eyes staring accusingly up at Frea.

They grimace at the ale Frea hands them, pulling the cork out with their teeth. Laat says nothing, but looks at Frea, the wisps of blonde hair that escape her hood, the air of terrible exhaustion that slumps her shoulders. They like the Skaal shaman; Frea is the sort of companion that Laat may have considered taking adventuring once, strong enough to keep up, quick enough to get out of the way, and wild enough to relish the months of uninterrupted travelling through the depths of Skyrim’s countryside.

But it has been a long time since Laataazin has gone adventuring, longer still since they have stepped foot in Skyrim. They miss it; the vastness of the wilds, the clear air, the promise of a fight and treasure to be won. Surely it must be time for a visit, soon? Laat cannot remember the last time they went. Beyond their beloved wife, there is little to draw them back there.

And I am here, Miraak presence brushes against their mind, like a touch on their arm. It is tinged with smugness.

Yes, Laat thinks, hiding their smile from Frea, you are. Did you not want privacy?

That is, after all, the reason they decided to hold their regular meeting with Frea today – it is not like Frea, not being dragon-souled, is aware enough of the passing untime to know if Laat reschedules. But Miraak has ushered them from the temple, claiming to want of all things solitude. This is impossible with their souls interlinked, but physical distance and polite-pretence is easy to arrange. It is unusual enough for Miraak to request it instead of Laat seeking the embrace of nature that it makes them immensely curious.

Miraak radiates discontent for a moment (you miss me, Laat’s chest warms), but withdraws. He is fussing with something involving water, trying not to get the sleeves of his robe wet. They do their best to leave him to it and focus on Frea.

“How long do you plan to keep us imprisoned here?” Frea is asking dolefully, as if rephrasing the question will compel Laataazin to give her an answer she wants to hear. “Trapped in this unliving existence, where no thing changes or grows as the All-Maker bade it?”

Unimpressed, Laat scowls at Frea. They kick the ash with their boots, digging with their heel a scar into the earth that exposes a scurrying beetle. That is change, right there. Not the same as the orderly march Akatosh imposes upon the land, but then, it is his rules that argue that two Dragonborn may not walk Nirn at once.

Laat is no longer inclined to listen to such rules.

Frea looks at the beetle. Something in her eyes flickers. Her loose hand drops the ale, which floods from the bottle, soaking the little scar where the beetle rapidly crawls to escape death by drowning. Curiously, Laat watches, but when the golden liquid gets too close they nudge a line of sand to dam it. The beetle, saved, disappears into the ash.

“I wish to return to the All-Maker,” Frea says, quietly.

A sudden surge of annoyance from Miraak catches Laat’s attention. Unthinkingly, they press into his mind. Through his eyes they glimpse Miraak’s bare hand – ink-veined and thin – clutching at a bar of soap, the dim outline of his body beneath the surface of the bathwater, even one knobbly knee, a hint of-

Laataazin, he chides, vexed. Laat blinks and with effort wrenches themselves away. Anchoring themselves to the feel of the wooden stump underneath them, they inhale the salty scent of seaspray and ashfall. Their boots scuffing the ash, Frea’s solid warmth against their side, the weight of their armour on their shoulders.

Are you all right? Laat asks. They are really trying not to think too much about the fact that Miraak is bathing, and that means Miraak is naked. He has never been fully undressed with Laat. They have seen only glimpses of his body beneath the robes when they have sex, his hands, and rarely, his face. Usually, Laat occupies themselves with something like hunting or sleep that distracts their mind when Miraak bathes, because Miraak is very sensitive to his privacy where his body is concerned.

Miraak is naked. And wet. Wet and naked.

Geh, he replies. I dropped the soap.

His indignation at their amusement tempts them to laugh out loud. They do not, because Frea with her gentle mortal-soul and fragile eardrums sits next to them, long legs not struggling to reach the ground at all. Cursed Nords.

Stop thinking about my naked body, he adds, and do not try to look.

Don’t be shy, Miraak, Laat teases slyly, doing their best to ground themselves in the moment, on the tree with Frea not in the bath in the temple, even as they poke fun at him. You’ve been inside me from the moment I awoke in Helgen, and I know you were still watching even when a gentleman might … look away.

They both know it is true, and though Laat is already well aware that Miraak watches them when they bathe, undress, or fuck, Miraak’s embarrassed defensiveness immediately confirms it. They have never minded - Laat has a soldier’s easy practicality about their body.

I was keeping an eye on you to make sure you were not taken advantage of in your many distractions, Laat Dovahkiin, he retorts. Laat has a vague sense of him splashing water over his face.

They roll their eyes and pull away.

“Dragonborn, do you hear me? I wish to die,” says Frea, intensely. “This is no way to live. You must know this, somewhere. Are you not tired of this unending nightmare?”

It is difficult to remain focused on Frea, because Miraak’s thoughts keep drifting to Laat like a ping on the edges of their awareness. They are soft thoughts, warm ones, shy-feeling, tinged with a little note of – is that arousal? Laat’s barely-restrained curiosity piques.

Is he trying to masturbate? It is rare for Miraak to do so. Admittedly, Laat doesn’t remember the last time he has tried without Laat sensing it and volunteering a… helping hand. No, the last time they have felt something like this from him, they followed him to the icy cell he prefers to sleep in when alone. In the memory, Miraak’s hand is hidden in the folds of his robes, but his masked face jerks towards Laat when they open the door, biting off a sound Laat is suddenly very eager to hear. Laat comes to sit beside him – ignoring his fluster, his demands – and murmurs to him about certain options they have. The night ends with Miraak writhing underneath them as they push into him, rocking him slowly against the bed while he gasps and begs, the echoes of his Voice he is desperately trying to muffle in the pillows sending shivers into the walls. There is no exact translation for ‘please, fuck me, please’ in Miraak’s preferred tongue of Dovahzul, but Laat learns that night several new ways to say it anyway.

Miraak sighs wearily, and Laat feels him cast an ice-spell in his bathwater.

Sorry, thinks Laat, sheepish.

“Please,” says Frea, somewhere distant. “Please hear me, Dragonborn. You are the only one who can wake us from this spell.”

Ni faas, replies Miraak, It is a memory I also … fondly recall.

Apologetically, they take a sip of their ale. They wince. Vile. The wines of Cyrodiil, where Laat likely hails from, are infinitely better. But Miraak enjoys the taste on their tongue, and they feel him hum where he lays in the bath.

Gripping Laat’s arm, Frea shakes them roughly. Snapped into their body, Laat blinks and glares at Frea. The Skaal is wise enough to back off, hands upraised, but her blue eyes are full of terrible sorrow when they look at Laat, no fear at all of Laat lashing out with a gauntleted fist.

“The Traitor has changed you,” Frea says to them. “He has changed us all. But you… I do not think any of the people you left behind would recognise you, Dragonborn.”

“You do not know me,” Laat signs, the shapes sharp and clipped. They are in Nirn now, after all, and their Voice would hurt Frea if not kill her if they spoke aloud. Dragons alone are strong enough to bear it. “You know nothing of the world beyond this island, girl.”

“I have heard tale of you, and when first we met… You slew Alduin World-Eater,” Frea shakes her head, slowly. “You would have helped us. You would know that what is happening is wrong.”

Laat rises to their feet, nettled by the reminder of their bitter fate, but Frea only stares at them, as if hoping something will happen. When nothing does beyond Laat’s glare, dimming into confusion at the odd look on her face, the light gutters out in Frea’s heart. Her shoulders bow, as if slumped by immense weights.

“I suggest,” Frea says heavily, “that you reflect on what it is that has changed in this time of unreality. And what has not. Tell me, what do you truly know of the lands beyond these shores that you have seen with your own eyes? Please, remember my words, Dragonborn.”

With that, she turns and crunches away over the snow.

Laat takes a step after Frea, rage bubbling in their gut like a noxious poison – Miraak, touching in concern the edges of their mind – but gritting their teeth hard enough to feel the bones creak, they drag themselves back. No. Laat likes Frea, they do not want to kill her.

They do, however, want to hunt.

Enjoy yourself, Laat thinks to Miraak, taking a moment to send him a soothing pulse. I’m going to go and catch dinner.

Don’t get something large, I have already prepared food for us, Miraak requests.

Full of surprises, today, aren’t you? He grumbles something about being much maligned that Laat ignores, already setting off at a light jog into the wilderness surrounding the temple.

It is a bitter day on Solstheim, with high winds and a brittle, icy chill. The animals are wary, and it takes Laat a few hours to find anything worth catching. Eventually, they manage to corner a small arctic hare. It is dead with a Shout, and Laat skins it with their boot-knife. The hunter in them unwinds at the kill, the blood on their hands.

Frea’s words echo through their mind. “Tell me what you know of the lands beyond these shores that you have seen with your own eyes.”

Laat considers. It has been a while since they have spoken to one of their dragon acquaintances. Odahviing and Venfokest avoid Miraak, but Odahviing at least is bound to come if Laat calls. Perhaps they will ask how Skyrim is doing.

Something about the prospect makes Laat feel a little uneasy, as if there is something they are forgetting.

When are you back? Miraak’s question is more a vague feeling of longing for their presence and a desire to know where they are than it is words, but Laat answers it anyway.

I am coming to you now.

They feel from him a definite tinge of bubbling excitement, and then again that strange anxious spark. Pruzah.

He is definitely planning something. Seething curiosity carries Laat home, to the great Temple of Miraak sprawling between towering fences of heaped dragon-skeletons, fused and warped together by thousands of years of moving ice and snow. Laat ducks under the tongueless jaws and over the fleshless claws, poised in permanent screams of rending agony. As always, they grimace. It is not their favourite of Miraak’s choice in décor.

The interior of the temple is much better, these days, its hard edges softened by the multitude of pelts that ripple along the walls like the sides of some great breathing beast. Laat has hunted all of these themselves, and it still plucks their pride to see the fruits of their work displayed so prominently in Miraak’s temple. The rabbit they pack in ice and leave in an empty brazier. It will not go anywhere.

You are skilled, he interjects into their thoughts. And also prone to cold.

Laat closes their eyes and goes to him, not needing to ask, not needing to see – Laataazin could find Miraak blind and deaf, robbed of all sense, even dead, even dying. The ties that bind them are beyond such petty things as flesh, as mortality.

Soul-of-my-soul, they think, trailing their fingertips over the thickly covered walls, the soft furs, the unyielding stone beneath. Breathing in the smoky scent of incense, the long-distant iron tang of blood and daedra. Always I come to you. Through Apocrypha, through storm, through time and fate itself, no creature could bar me from you that I would not tear asunder.

Do not keep me waiting any longer, Miraak answers, softly. Laat can feel his hunger.

He is outside in the room they usually use when sleeping together. It is fairly large, walled-off, but open to the great sky and set with wards to deter prying eyes and inclement weather. There is no furniture at all, save for a cooking pot in the corner by a fire, a small chest that holds additional blankets and other supplies, and a huge bed, made completely of stone in the Dwemer fashion. It is piled high with furs to make it soft.

The reason, of course, is Laataazin.

“Miraak,” they whisper, as soft as they possibly can, and their Voice shudders the air with a low sonic reverberation. Anything more fragile than stone would be destroyed in an exhale.

“Laat Dovahkiin.”

He is perched on the bed, masked face tilted towards them measuringly. Over his lap luxuriates a thick snow-bear pelt, his long fingers fiddling with something under it almost absently. They can just see a small glimpse of his foot peeking out of the shaggy fur, wider than Laat has expected, the curve of his arch flattening towards his clawed toes. He is wearing a robe of deep purple, belted tightly around his waist so that no skin shows in the fall of its folds around the tucked hood of his mask. But simply by virtue of how uncomfortably stiff he looks, Laat wagers his robe is only a layer thick, his gloves are nowhere to be seen, and he is not even wearing socks.

Laat starts to strip off their armour, hoping to join him in the plush furs. He shifts; his presence strengthens in their mind shivery and avid, like ghostly lips are under their skin caressing the tight strings of nerves as Laat’s fingers fumble over the buckles. An urgency makes itself known, whether it is his or theirs they cannot tell, only that it seems incredibly important that the bulky plate is gone, leaving Laat in their breeches and tunic.

“Are you hungry?” Miraak says in his rich, deep voice. “I made soup.”

“You made soup?” Laat signs, honestly taken aback. They scrub their hair with one hand, dissatisfied with the length of the limp strands. Time to cut it soon.

“I told you I did.” Miraak’s rejoinder is curt, but Laat can feel a storm of emotions inside of him, more nervousness, quiet sparks of hurt. Puzzlingly, underneath it all is vast breathlessness.

“I am sorry,” Laat signs, “I thought you meant you got someone else to cook.”

Like normal, they don’t add, but clearly Miraak senses their confusion.

“It is pea soup,” he adds, with all the snappishness of an insult, and then looks down at his hands like he is hoping they will wring his own neck for him.

Pea soup is Laataazin’s favourite. They like the warmth, the simplicity, even the odd green of it. It is the first meal they recall eating, served by Sigrid after their escape from Helgen. It is decidedly not Miraak’s.

Miraak acting strange, trying to make one of Laat’s favoured foods, wearing slightly fewer than his usual full robes, having just bathed –

“Miraak,” Laat signs, slowly. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

Miraak says nothing, but Laat can feel his frustration. Not for the first time, Laat wonders how they would have ever come to know him without a window into his soul, for his mask is expressionless, his body language has not changed at all, and his manner is anything but welcoming. Still, their heart squeezes at the thought of him taking the time to do something as simple and sweet as make their favourite soup.

“I am not hungry,” they sign, “but I would love to try it with you later.”

Laat takes a seat on the bed next to him. This close, they can see what he is fussing with in his hands. It is a coil of soft cotton rope, dyed black, and he is threading it through his hands again and again, rhythmic, hypnotic. His shoulders are tense. Understanding dawns as Laat gains a sense of what he wants.

“Want some help?” Laat signs.

The anxious movement of his hands pauses. His chin tucks close to his chest. The dim firelight plays over the gold surface of his mask, making the shadows jump and dance like the carved tentacles are twitching.

“Geh,” says Miraak. “I would relieve your curious mind.”

He trails off, but his mind does not, conveying a soft fear of exposure – unwanted, terrible, frightening, but at the hands of Laat, intriguing, even exciting. Another dragon-soul, who… knows, who has the most immediate window into how it feels.

No wonder he is being shy, Laat thinks, Miraak has never in all the time they have known each other reacted to having to remove his clothing with anything other than discomfort. To some extent, Laat even understands. They have times when their body feels wrong, too little, too soft, no teeth or claws or worst of all no wings, but for Miraak, that sense of not fitting his body never fades at all, and the marks of daedric corruption from years in Apocrypha has only worsened it.

Laat inhales. “You want me to take your robe off and touch you under it?”

They both feel the tug of arousal in his belly as Laat’s hands finish the signs. Laat’s approval at it makes the hair on the back of his neck prickle. The air electrifies, Laat’s blood warms. Already, Laat’s mind feels closer, overlapping with his, drifting in and out of seeing with their eyes or his. The rope seems to grow heavier in their - his - hands.

“Geh.”

Laat shifts to sit by his hip, trying to catch his eyes in the dark slits of his mask. Either he is avoiding their stare or the mask is at the wrong angle to penetrate the shadows.

“Tell me your watchword, Miraak.” Laat’s signs are firm but clear. They can’t hide their excitement from him, don’t bother trying, and his chest rises and falls a little quicker. Laat’s stomach quivers with butterflies.

He dithers, thinking through his choice, but when he speaks his voice is strong, steady, and confident. “Sikgolt.”

“Good,” Laat signs. They take the rope from him.

Miraak lifts his hands, and the voluminous sleeves fall to gather in indigo ripples around his elbows, baring his arms. Laataazin curls the first length of rope around his forearms and then just looks for a moment, memorising it. The contrast between the dyed rope and his sunless skin, stained murky ink-green-yellow like a slow-ripening bruise that makes Laat ache to dig their thumb in and push until it blooms purple. The green veins that fork through the softer skin of his wrists, the pulse-point that will hammer there if Laat tickles it with their tongue (and the groans that will fall from him, twisted, broken things, the bitten curses, the hungry ache).

There are scars there, just visible as thinned lines underneath the dark stipple of soap-softened hair, relics from a fraught past. His hands, thin and uncallused, a scholar’s hands still, offer up to the rope like the worshipful priest he still is (if to his own altar – Niid, zu’u losiil, he murmurs back), tipped by curving black claws that catch the light with a dim ebony sheen. He has filed them down, Laat can see the smoothed edges, the hint of dust caught under a nail that has escaped his washing.

Miraak has filed his claws so that he would not hurt Laataazin if he touches his fingertips to their bare skin, not even by accident.

The rush of admiration they feel for him is sudden, intense, and warm, warm, like the blush that climbs steadily into their cheeks. The arousal that sparks in one sparks the other, and Miraak is not as unaffected by Laat’s extended perusal as he is trying to pretend. Goosebumps raise where Laat’s eyes drag, and he grumbles and shifts on the bed.

It is false annoyance; Laat feels instead his anxiety, insecurity at having the marks of daedric corruption on display, his fear of exposure and powerlessness, the private worrying of his vanity.

Beautiful, Laat thinks, and politely ignores the confused feelings that flood through him as he catches their thought, all ending in an ember of lust. Miraak, despite his many conflicted feelings on his body, likes to be appreciated, but he finds Laat’s private, fond awareness of that fact intensely embarrassing.

“Laataazin.”

Laat’s shoulders shake in a silent chuckle.

They take his hand in theirs, smiling up at him. “Squeeze,” they sign with the other, and he obliges, gripping Laat’s hand until it feels like the bones creak. Laat makes a note of the pressure, then releases him with a gentle pat.

Loop by loop, they wrap the soft rope around Miraak’s arms six times, spreading the pressure out to protect his circulation. Checking the looseness with two fingers against his wrist, Laat tucks the tails around the loops, makes a knot, cinches it evenly, then knots it again for security. It takes a while, for Laataazin’s hands shake and tremble, and Miraak’s skin is sensitive to chafing. But as they work, Laataazin feels the rope’s increasing pressure acting upon him, the quiet, observant mood he settles into, dripped through with steady peace. His lassitude sinks soporific into the tired ache behind Laat’s eyes, and their head droops to rest on his chest.

“Not too tight,” he tells them, testing the rope. Laat skims kisses over his knuckles.

They allow him time to acclimatise to the ropes, feeling the minute tense of his muscles testing for give in the knots. They can hear the creaks of the flexing rope, his deep breathing metallic under the mask, even the distant wind blowing over the ashlands. Somewhere, a dragon roars.

Kruziikrel, Miraak identifies absently.

The fabric of his robe is silky and cool against Laat’s forehead. Beneath it, they can smell Miraak, old books, mouldy paper, spilt ink and the bitter reek of ash. From anyone else, it would be unpleasant – from Miraak, it is familiar, and thus, beloved.

Laat can feel the warm weight of their head on Miraak’s chest, the soothing hold of the rope, the robe shifting on his skin. He feels too warm, already, his breath fogging against his mask to blow soft as butterfly kisses against his dry lips. A little sleepy, too, wrung out by all the excitement and anxiousness of preparing himself for them.

“Ni faas. It was nothing,” Miraak rumbles. They can feel the vibrations through his chest when he speaks, the breath ringing in his lungs.

Their dragon soul.

It is tempting to indulge in the moment, lay their body across his legs like a pinning weight and allow them both to simply drift, hearts harmonising, breath mixing, until Laat has to untie Miraak’s hands and chase the blood to flushing. But they turn their cheek to the side, instead, so their breath skates into the opening of Miraak’s robe. He shivers.

It would be a shame to not take advantage of Miraak’s uncharacteristic willingness to be vulnerable.

Their fingers twist into signs. It takes Miraak a moment, either to parse it in his warm fog or to realise that Laat has signed, but when he does Laat relishes in the surge of indignation.

“I am not having a nap, and I am not that old,” Miraak huffs, and Laataazin laughs against his chest. It is nearly noiseless, but not quite. The furs tremble beneath them.

Wuth, they think to him. Old man.

“You’re the one whose – stopped,” Miraak snaps, and his voice loses its steadiness.

Must I do everything for you, Diist-Dovahkiin? Laat sighs gustily, teasingly, but they sit up and plant their weight square over his hips.

For a moment, they are both breathing through the sensations, Miraak’s heart thudding in his chest at the agonising burn of warm thighs squeezing his hipbones, the bend of Laat’s knees straining tight muscles from the hike to meet with Frea, the weight pressing his spine into the bed like a stone, even the arterial pulse he swears he can feel drumming his skin through the robe and their clothes pounding from the secret warmth of Laat’s inner thigh. The thought of all that blood, all that glorious heat, in their veins makes him dizzy.

Laat looks down at him and sees themselves mirrored in shadows over his mask and in his hidden gaze. The rolling slopes of their body encircle him, contain him, like a stopper in the narrow neck of a bottle. Their eyes smoke with intensity, flickers of amber red visible in the deep brown. In his eyes, they are handsome and powerful, beautiful as the killing edge of a new blade.

“You are so warm,” he tells them inanely.

“Let me see you,” Laat signs, bringing their hands deliberately wide in the movements so that their knuckles brush the blank gold face of Miraak’s mask. They want to show him his own face, his true face, the loveliness they find there among the ink-scars and exhaustion-wrung shadows.

Miraak hesitates. Old shames glare gluttonous at his vulnerability, and Miraak feels like shrinking into the safety of the mask. Is it not enough to let them do this? Must he lose every wall, every shelter, every defence he has against the rawness of this new Solstheim where bareness is unremarkable, and no one sings as dragons do? His face of flesh and skin does not even have majestic horns or tough scales - no, it is softened, wearied, by time and torture. The wrinkles he admires as they form on Laat and the steely greys of their hair remind Miraak only of the time he has lost to unwilling bondage on himself. They, after all, do not have the face of a prisoner of Apocrypha.

He is only a man. Despite the strength of Laat’s opinion of him, their dragon-soul, Miraak is only a man, and one beset by foolish vanity at that.

Laat says nothing, of course they don’t, but the swell of tender feeling is almost worse. This close, this hungry, the line between them is blurrier than it ever is. Without the mask, Miraak may as well … submit. Laat pursues the feeling, pressing into his mind, his body, until their touches feel mirrored and they are the hand that brushes and the skin that aches in response both.

Laat leans forward (catches Miraak’s irreverent thought about how so very warm they are, are they running a fever, against his bound wrists, his chest) and lifts the edge of the mask’s hood, revealing his neck. Old inkstains stripe his throat in greenish trails, splatters where he has coughed and choked on the fluid bubbling in his lungs, out his mouth. Laat can’t resist swiping their tongue over the arch of tendons, as if the coolness of their spit can smear such deeply-sunken marks. Tender kisses dot his shoulders, gentle lips mumble and mouth over the exposed ridge of his collarbones, blunt teeth threatening the bobbing gulp of the apple of his throat, sensations that spark fireworks behind his eyes. Laat’s lips tingle where they kiss him, his fragile skin papery and dry like the crumbling pages of ancient books.

They together feel his breathing fanning over his eyelids, penned in by the mask, as he tilts his head back. Exposes his neck to Laataazin, like a dog showing his belly to his master.

Beautiful, thinks Laat again, and Miraak swallows a groan.

Desire breathes like something living in the coil of his gut, drawing like a wave into his cock. The liquid movements of the robes over the sensitive flesh as Laat rocks back and forth over his hips while they kiss, sensuous, deliberate, rhythmic, just too far forward to grind against him, are exquisite torture.

Torture? Laat’s laugh is a sigh that ripples up to prickle the tainted skin under his ear. Miraak exhales roughly, flexing his wrists against the ropes to ground himself. They are edging ever closer to the lip of the mask, trying to steal it off without his notice. It is one of their more obvious designs. Not even close, soul-of-my-soul.

“What are you planning?” Miraak asks, more to reply than because he cares to know. Past experience has taught him that Laat is more than capable of using his anticipation as a weapon, stringing him on a teetering edge until he shatters like poorly blown glass in their hands.

You like it, Laat thinks, amused, indulgent as a cat in a sunbeam. Miraak, haughty, does not respond. He does not need to. The evidence that tells Laat they are right is beginning to rather eagerly tent his robe, after all.

This close he can smell the oil they use to clean their armour and weapons, and sweat, pure human sweat. Laataazin’s deals with daedra have been so much lesser than Miraak’s, and they barely have any marks, save for a wickedness in their grin as their hips roll against him that Miraak thinks must have come from straight from the Lord of Debauchery himself.

You know it didn’t, Laataazin contradicts. Their scarred nose bumps the underside of his mask as they lean forwards, palms pressing down heavy and soothing onto his chest. Hinting.

“Niid,” Miraak murmurs.

A flicker of disappointment, but Laat moves on from the mask without comment. They resettle their weight further over his hips, trapping his cock between their body and his. Miraak chokes, his arms twitching in abortive movement, like he could pull their body, their hands away. But Laat lingers, tracing the shape of his cock through his robe with heavy, palming strokes. It is so powerful a sensation that it hurts, hurts, like crackling lightning in his veins.

Miraak writhes, trying to unseat them, but Laat only rides him out like he is a bucking horse. His body undulates between their thighs and they grind down, eyes fluttering shut and mouth parting, a glimpse of their crooked teeth as they bite their lip.

Laat’s shameless pleasure in his struggle undoes him.

“Laat,” Miraak moans. They ground him with a hand to his chest, and his breath heaves like bellows against its firm weight.

Your arms are tied, Laat’s thought is involuntary, almost indistinguishable in heady lust, you just have to lie here and … take it.

They feel Miraak want to protest that he is not entirely helpless – there’s the Voice, there’s magic, they may be stronger physically but he could even flip them – yet his whole body is boneless, the ropes hemming him in sweetly, and they know if Laat just asks, he would take any amount of anything. To please them.

“Zu’u losiil, Laat Dovahkiin.” Miraak is shaky and breathless. I am yours. It is true. Without them, he would be a prisoner, lonely, bitter, still at the whim of the fates, bound to serve all his life in the hope for a taste of freedom. This service, he chooses. As they chose him, over the world.

“Good,” Laataazin whispers aloud, and the stone bed shakes. Somewhere distant, something smashes as it falls, shaken by the earthquake of their Voice.

Miraak’s eyes fly open to meet theirs through the slits of his mask, halfway through a ragged gasp. They see themselves as he sees them, scarred face is watchful, intent, their dark eyes alight with a rich glow.

“Laataazin.”

It is too much for him. Laat rubs his chest soothingly as Miraak’s head thumps back against the furs and his arms lift, futile, trying to cover his masked face, trying to hide. His knuckles meet only the coolness of his mask, smooth and hard, the antithesis of Laat’s body on his. He knows he is blushing, blotches of deep blue and yellow ink bursting like rotted flowers under the surface of his skin, knows that Laat could see it, if they open his robe.

The soul-of-his-soul thinks Miraak is good.

As if summoned, Laat deftly parts the folds of his robe and bares his chest. The bear pelt he lies on is so thick that the soft fur rises around the edges of his body like a wreath, his robe spread out beneath them like royal purple butterfly wings. The paleness of the fur and the richness of the silk all seem to exaggerate the archival yellow of his skin, warming to chlorophyll and indigo, like he is an unfinished painting given colour, depth, reality, by the paintbrush of his blush.

He is beautiful, and mine, they think, ghosting over pebbled flesh with indulgent, explorative touches. Miraak is thinner under his robes than he first appears, with jutting ribs from one-too-many forgotten meals to sustain a body that has not quite managed to process anything beyond ink with any reliability. His mottled skin is oddly smooth, hairless, and after a moment, Laat realises why.

“You shaved,” Laat signs, tapping his chest to get his attention. He lowers his arms cautiously, eyeing them through the slits of the mask. “Your beard, too?”

“Geh,” says Miraak.

Laat feels his embarrassed flush of self-consciousness. He shaved because he hopes Laat would put their mouth on him as they are so fond of doing, and does not want them to have to pick hair from their teeth. His hair grows very thick and all of it ink-soaked to dripping, leaving green stains on fabrics when he brushes against them. He worries; hardly thinks it’s beneficial for Laat to swallow any of Mora’s corruption that can possibly be avoided. Just as quickly, there is a fluster as Miraak tries to hide his thoughts from them.

Prickly and proud as ever, their dragon-soul.

“I wouldn’t have minded,” Laat assures him, their signs quick and fond at his worry. “And I certainly don’t mind you thinking of what I’m going to do to you.”

Their signs leave them free to smile, slow, wide, and Miraak shivers at the promise in it. Lightly they push on his elbows, encouraging him to lift his arms over his head so that his shoulders strain and his torso is exposed, like a sacrifice. Then, as Miraak has dared to hope, they lower their head and kiss his chest.

Laat explores, taking their time, feeling the raised lips of scars catch under their nails. He does not have many, all things considered, not half as much as they do, but there is enough to provide texture. Testament, they suppose, to his expertise with healing magic. Miraak runs cooler than they do, and as their searching hands find the secret, soft places that make him twitch and gasp (his sides are sensitive to broad strokes, but he jerks and hisses at gentle, featherlight circles over his hipbones, and the sound he makes when Laat licks a long stripe over his pectoral muscle and catches the edge of his nipple is so hungry it does not bear repeating), they feel him warm under them.

Sweat wells, bitter and acrid ink, in the dips of his collarbones, the dark hair of his armpits, his navel. Laat brushes the worst of it away and keeps going, ignoring the apocryphal reek and distracting Miraak from it before he can protest. They are determined to map his entire torso under their lips and tongue, the drugging strokes of their palms pressing against the heave of his lungs. His skin is soft and dry, curiously textured, delicate as vellum. When he blushes, sometimes the ink forms linear lines, swirls of no mortal language, as if it is trying to imitate the written pages of Apocrypha, like there are books not blood trapped underneath his skin. Laat knuckles his flesh until it fades into blotchy colours and pays it no attention at all.

They have no need for flesh-sunk knowledge and the words of magic lost to time. This is its own kind of lesson, and Laat will always rather be skilled in love than in secrets.

They hear the crackle of the fire, the wet noises of their mouth, Miraak’s moans and stifled cries. He whimpers when they give into the desire to suck on his skin until it bruises brilliant purples and blues, bright as an illustration commissioned by a master, so they do it again, again, until his nipples pinking with blood distract them. Laat torments the hard buds with quick, fluttering flicks of their tongue that make Miraak choke on a growl, and smile when they feel the tugging chains of arousal searing straight to his cock.

Miraak pants, half-wishing he let Laat take the damn mask off, because there doesn’t seem to be enough air and he feels like he is melting. It’s too much, he thinks, and Laat’s dark eyes flick up to his, measuring, probing for how he is doing, it hurts.

“Faaz,” Miraak gets out. You are hurting me. They must be.

Sensation so bright it might as well be pain has him arrested, senseless, sharp like needles in his lungs, and he is not sure where he is, only that the world is bound by the rope around his wrists, squeezing his thunderous crash of a heart into a mortal body that twists and rocks under Laataazin like it is possessed. He is aware that he is making noises, hisses and gasps and bitten off words that would embarrass him if he were more present, but Miraak is not – is gone.

He is, dimly, afraid of what is happening to his body, for he is fairly certain that sex has never been like this. With his nerves under-stimulated from years in bitter Apocrypha, Laat’s focused attention is utterly overwhelming. There are many reasons he prefers to remain clothed; safe concealment from the immensity of the world scraping at him like raw wool is one.

It always is like this, with Laat.

“You are fine, Miraak,” Laat tells him, knows he understands even if they are not certain he sees their signs, “This is not pain.”

He eases a little at their reassurance, but just to prove it, they bite him hard enough that their teeth carve welts into his flesh. Hard enough that the confused morass of sensation – pleasure, it is his and theirs, at the same moment – narrows into the piercing beam of pain, true pain. Miraak keens, and against him, Laat moans richly, reverberating.

If only – if only, but no, this truly is a rare opportunity. Laat needs to be gentle and relish the rare freedom of touching Miraak’s bare skin, not overwhelm him quickly.

Miraak bares his teeth. “I am not fragile,” he says, his pride bidding him ignore the quiver in his deep voice lodged somewhere in his stomach, and the nagging fear that he absolutely is, actually, and if Laat isn’t careful, his bones will shatter to dust like the ruined books that populate old tombs like monuments to impermanence.

“You blush so prettily when I treat you like you are,” Laat signs, cheeky. “Can you blame me?”

When they are done, though, their hands find his ribs again and push down, hard. Miraak wheezes a breath, but Laat only smiles at him, as if to say, See? We’re fine.

Miraak slams his head back into the pillows, hissing. Again with the praise. I am going to pulverise you in training later, Laat feels him think, and allows the ghostly curl of their amusement to thread like gold in his sternum.

Laat withdraws, gives him a moment to catch his breath. They check his bound hands briefly, then hum, satisfied by the strength of his grip. The break is barely a second, not long enough, just enough to admire his flustered state.

One hand tweaks his nipple, twisting it hard enough that the dull pressure will ache, the other smooths underneath the fallen robe around his hips and ghosts around the base of his cock. He reacts like their skin burns him.

“Niid,” says Miraak at once, “niid – Dovahkiin, saraan-“

The hand at his chest taps him. Laat does not move their other hand, not at all, allows Miraak to feel like he is dying, knowing that he will not.

“Your watchword, Miraak?” Laat signs. Their expression is serious, but their mouth is smiling, like they know a secret.

It takes him a moment, not to remember, for they feel the word come at once to the forefront of his mind, but to make his breathing cooperate so the word comes out steady and even. Always so proud.

“Sikgolt,” he says, at last.

“You know what to say, if you want this to stop,” signs Laat, “If not, behave.”

“I am not a pet,” Miraak tries to snarl, but his words are lost in an explosive cry when Laat spits into their hand and grasps his cock firmly with quick, rough strokes. Dry, it is just too much to be bearable, but Laat’s grip is workmanlike, brusque, and utterly unrelenting. Even when Laat smears his own ink-laced precome down his cock, it is not enough to prevent the agony of the friction.

Good, they think. Laat does not want him to be comfortable.

Miraak responds to that with a shattered sound.

Laat focuses on remaining in their own body, on the sweat-sticky shirt on their back, the slight grind and click of their wrist as they jerk him off, tries to distance themselves from the cacophony of Miraak’s thoughts. They want him to be overwhelmed, but not drag them with him to the point where they cannot be certain they will be able to watch him.

It is nice, they think meditatively, to be able to do this with him. They are surprised, but pleased, at how this night has gone, have not ever quite believed that Miraak would be capable of or willing to experience such a large amount of touch and vulnerability. After all, it took a long time of very patient compromises to reach the point of physical intimacy. Sex is studded with pitfalls, as having thick ink for blood means that Miraak’s arousal is not always reliable, and he regularly cannot bear touch, which his pride detests. Once they discovered they have a love of ropes in common and that Miraak can bring himself to ask for it, things became easier, and the rest Laat simply consigns to cultural differences he cannot explain in any way they understand, or the effects of his time in Apocrypha.

Still, Laat knows him well enough at this point to not need to think too hard about the movement of their hand on his cock. Dragging touches that form a circle for his jerking hips to thrust into, long strokes up the left side, switching to caress over the crease of his thigh and fondle his balls, rubbing that spot underneath that presses on the base and makes his eyes roll into the back of his head.

He is fracturing under their attention, their dragon-soul, twisting and shuddering on the bed like he can through movement plea for the violent pleasure to ebb enough for him to catch a breath. The mask shakes and casts golden reflections hurtling over the walls as he alternately thrusts his head back, then at once bows his body towards Laat, runnels of inky sweat pooling in the divots of his hips, staining the furs. He cries out, convinced they are hurting him, unable to register the intensity of the sensations he feels as anything other than pain.

Watching his anguish, Laat feels an erotic thrill. How glorious, to have a creature so ancient and strong under their power. They close their hand around his cock, caressing the sensitive underside of the swollen glans with their thumb. Miraak, sensing, perhaps recognising Laat’s warm appreciation, panics and jerks, his bound hands trying to interfere. Feeling indulgent, Laat lets him tug against their strength.

Laat squeezes his cockhead until he flushes turgid purple, then rubs their thumb against the dripping slit. They fuck him like this slowly, watching his balls flush and tighten up against the base of his shaft. It won’t take long. Cruel perhaps, for his mind is a mess and his body is not much better, but it always makes his cock throb.

Miraak howls like he is being murdered. His breathing is shuddering gasps and hitched sobs. He is being good, though, holding himself as still as he can through what Laat can tell is sheer stubborn will alone. His body tries to jerk away from their rough touch, and the sounds that fall so sweetly on Laat’s ears are utterly broken, but he does not wrench himself away. Miraak bears it.

He behaves.

A reward is due. Laat releases him to reposition themselves so their scarred cheek rasps against his cock and their arms are wrapped around his thighs and hips, holding him still. Miraak breathes heavily, they feel the muscles flex in his stomach and thighs as he strains to sit up without dislodging them.

“What -” His words crack off. He clears his throat and tries again. “What are you doing?”

“You’ll like it,” Laat promises. They dig circles into the bony jut of his hips, watching for his reaction. The hood of his mask hides his throat bobbing in a swallow, but Laat can see his shaky exhale. They can sense Miraak’s confusion, lust-fogged mind struggling to grasp what is happening, not even truly certain where he is, not particularly caring about anything beyond Laat, Laat, Laataazin. His thoughts are run-on strings of harsh dragon-words, difficult to parse, overshadowed by flashes of feeling and thought, lightning-bright among the seething sea of sensory overload.

Maintaining eye contact with the dark holes in the mask, Laat gives the bobbing cock in front of their face an exploratory lick.

Miraak jumps.

They do it again.

This time, he groans. Laat lowers their mouth to his cock and starts by licking him, flicking their tongue over the sensitive underside. When his hips start twitching and lifting towards them, they slip his cock into their mouth and go down, down, as if they mean to swallow him whole.

His bound hands fly to their hair, unable to get a grip on it, but Laat looks up. His mind is beset by visions of his cock hurting them, bruising their throat so they can barely speak, but Laat only shakes off his hands kindly, a strange feeling of warmth in their breast at his worry.

“I will not hurt myself,” they sign, “I have taken bigger than you before.”

So saying, their mouth envelops his cock. Their nose bumps against his hips, and they control themselves, drawing back just a little to gain a new breath, then back down. They swallow when they feel the head bump against the back of their throat, let it slide into the tight space there.

They catch an image flashing through his mind - young man, pale cheeks freckle-blazed, mask pushed up over frizzing carroty hair; “Quiet, quiet, do you want the whipping - you have to be quiet, Miraak!” Burst of coals against Miraak’s pinwheeling arm - incense and dragon rumbles overhead - “Vahlok- !?” - and Miraak rams his bound hands against his mask to cover where his mouth hides beneath it so hard Laat hears the metal ring.

Laat pushes in on his hips hard enough to bruise. They hum, quietly, but the shaking sound still catches Miraak’s attention, especially as the vibrations judder through his cock in their mouth. Name me, they think to him fiercely. Name who has you.

“Laat-aaz-in,” Miraak cries. The mask’s shadowed tentacles seem to curl and writhe like worms in the rain. His knuckles are reddening against the implacable metal, soft flesh, breakable, not enough to pierce it. They find themselves glad for once that it is there - they would not have liked to see him try to shove his hands into his mouth.

Make noise for me, my strong dragon, Laat thinks, bobbing their head even as their narrowed eyes watch him carefully, you can take this. It is for his benefit - he is still responding to their praise, to their encouragement, the iron core of his will soaking it in. It grounds him, earths him enough to birth a shattering wail rippling with the strength of the Voice.

“Niid!” Miraak tries to argue, “Laat – I cannot – I cannot-“

His mind is a mess, but they are confident he is present, that he knows where they are and what is happening. They can sense his watchword close to his mind, even lift their mouth for a moment to give him a breath to say it in.

Frustrated, Miraak jerks, and what comes out instead is “Aaz! Mercy - aaz, aaz!”

It is not the signal, so pleased, Laat continues. They are savouring the warmth of him, the throb and pulse of his veins through the soft, sensitive skin, his salty bitterness on their tongue, the reek of his sweat. A shame it would be to stop soon, for something as irrelevant as Miraak’s comfort.

“Zu’u losiil,” Miraak moans in a trembling voice at that thought.

They are reasonably certain that in the dark holes of his mask he is looking at them, so they sign to him, resting as much of their weight through their forearms to keep his hips still as they can. Still, he thrusts abortively when they try to take him down into their throat again, and Laat has to withdraw quickly to prevent choking.

“My strong dragon, I am here,” Laat asserts. “I will give you what you need. Shout if you need to, I have you.”

The wall stripes with the reflections of the mask in the firelight. He is breathing rapidly, his arms trembling lightly. His mottled skin gleams with the richness of his sweat. Miraak is trying, they can tell, but when they dip the tip of their tongue into the slit of his cock, curious to see his reaction, he breaks.

“MUL QAH!”

The thunder of his Shout rocks the room. Miraak’s Dragon Aspect roars into life, and Laat hurriedly yanks their hands back before they are pierced through by the sudden emergence of spines marching down his belly and chest, protecting his vulnerable innards. Frankly, given their choice of words, Laat is not entirely surprised. Still, the moment of distraction is all they need, and as Miraak stretches his resplendent wings, his iridescent tail, Laat swallows him down again. They hold their breath for as long as they can, encouraging him to rock into their throat.

“L- aaat,” Miraak manages. It is pleading. It has to hurt him, with how sensitive he is, how much this all is - the warmth, the wetness, the wet laps of their tongue, their breath, their humming, the flex of their muscles, the hungry pleasure of Laat watching him. If they allow him in their mind, they can feel it - the sharpness like the agonising piercing joy of being fucked with a needle, back and forth dipping in and out of flesh, pricks of red red blood lubricating the steely slide, back and forth, back and forth.

Swirling their tongue around him, Laat smirks. They grab onto the thick spines that jut razor-sharp from his hips and hold him still as they draw back up, hollowing their cheeks around him. Then down, to the accompaniment of his broken gasps and snarls. The spines make it much easier to keep him in his place. Despite his increased strength, Laat is always the stronger of the two of them. They control him like a wild animal breaking to the lash, Miraak’s power, his strength, his Dragon Aspect - they are nothing here unless Laat wills it.

You are going to take this until I make you come, they inform him. Miraak sobs.

His eyes are burning coals behind the mask, enough to shadow it. He is wreathed in horns, in fire, in the brilliance of his soul, the amber-blue scales that blaze over his chest, his arms, clinging the thickest to his scars in belts so bright it almost hurts to look at him. His bound hands are taloned and sharp, trimmed claws turned deadly knives, and Laat keeps a careful eye on them in case he tries to grab their head again.

They know he won’t. Miraak will behave for as long as they ask him to.

He slams his head back against the furs, in what Laat thinks is agreement.

It is thrilling. Triumphant desire burns in Laat, a thunderous need to break the shining, vicious, powerful creature before them, in their mouth, in their soul. His growls shudder their bones when they tease him, and his wings close around them like pressing hands on their shoulders, trying to urge them deeper even as he thrusts up. Laat resists the pressure, lets his cock scrape against their teeth as they rise up, a warning and promise both.

Miraak shudders a breath, his hands flexing into fists. His tail underneath Laat curls sinuously around their leg, angling for the fork of their legs. Laat moans as they suck him and grinds down against the muscular coil. They can feel the intoxicating ridged texture of his scales against them through their breeches, igniting sparks in the seething pressure in their belly.

They release his cock with a pop and sit up to rut harder against him, using the spikes thrusting from the bones of his hips to dictate his movement. They stare down at the slits of his mask with intense, dark eyes.

“Good,” Laat whispers, needing to vocalise their approval, and Miraak’s body locks up as he is ripped into orgasm.

All the grounding in the world cannot prevent the backlash of searing white that flashes across Laat’s eyes, the sympathetic clench in their belly and the heated lance of pure want that stabs into the base of their spine. Their hand fumbles at him, pinning his spurting cock to his belly with clumsy strokes, the other bracing themselves against the bed as it feels like shuddering waves rock the island.

Laat is even fairly certain that one of them briefly blacks out.

In the aftermath, Miraak shakes. His auroral wings curve around them both, like he is protecting them from the world. Shredded fur dusts his shoulders like snow from his gnashing horns. His come is sticky and warm on his chest, chased through with shimmering greens and blues. Laat, cheeks flushed and breathing hard, runs a finger through it, gathering some of the pearly fluid.

They lift their hand to his mask, intentions clear. Miraak’s bound hands scrabble at the edge of the mask, the deadly-sharp dragon-talons a hindrance, trying to lift it enough for them to reach him under the hood. In frustration, he tears it off. Laat hears it clatter to the floor beside the bed.

Exposed, Miraak pants. He is luminous with the Dragon Aspect, his eyes, the thinness of his veins limned as if he is lit from within, haloed by horns. Laat presses the finger to his lips and he lets it slide into his mouth obediently. He glows there, too, his teeth sharpened to lambent daggers of gold and blue. The gaunt arches of his cheekbones blaze with a green blush. His long, dark, wet hair is plastered to his forehead, dripping ink as it continues in a thick mane down his shoulders and back, speared by the flaming spires and spikes of his dragon-soul.

His curious eyes, double-irised, one malachite and ice, the other goat-pupilled and bronze, are dark with lust. Laat can barely make out his second irises behind the brightness of the Dragon Aspect. Fresh tears trace the paths of the stains on his face. When he blinks at them with his wet eyes, more follow. His thin lips hollow around Laat’s finger, and they can feel his tongue, forked in this aspect, soft, wet, warm, licking even as he draws back and releases them.

Laat cannot help the quiet, fractious sound they make at the sight of his tears, the dizzying pulse of lust. It rumbles between them like a stormcloud. His tail tightens around their leg, intangible muscles of light rippling around them like the coils of a vast snake.

“Beautiful,” they sign, “you are beautiful.”

The growl that rumbles out of Miraak is half-feral. His slitted eyes watch them, the tips of his wings brushing their back with ghostly caresses. Pulling off their shirt, Laat wipes him clean as gently as they can. They toss the soiled shirt over their shoulder, not particularly interested where it lands. Unbinding Miraak’s hands with just the slightest tinge of regret, Laat chafes them quickly to make sure the blood is flowing. If only they could keep him like this forever.

They try to avoid scratching themselves on the curving talons burning with the strength of Miraak’s Shout, but it is either that or the sharp scales that armour him like gauntlets. Pursing their lips, Laat stares at the small line of welling red across their palm.

“Hi los ahraan,” Miraak says, you are wounded, and then all at once his wings flare and his tail twists and his body surges, and Laat is slamming down onto their back. His sinuous length curls above them, flaming eyes narrowed at the cut like it is a personal offense. He leans down, great horns digging into Laat’s cheek, obscuring their vision.

Laat holds their breath, anticipation hot in their belly. His forked tongue flickers out and laves the cut. He is gentle, but it stings. When he pulls back up to regard them they fancy they can smell the tang of their blood on his breath. He rumbles at their approval, and they can feel the vibration all the way down into their breastbone. The heaviness of his perpetually wet hair falls about them like a curtain.

Laat tries to unwedge their hands, gives up and thinks instead, as strongly as they can, Remember, no magic, Miraak. It is only a little cut, not worth risking a seizure over.

“Geh,” he says. His voice is even deeper in Dragon Aspect, rough as untumbled stones creaking in ancient cliffs. His vast wings completely block out the surrounding world, until it feels as if the sky has fallen and they have been swallowed up into the gullet of Aetherius, as if Aetherius could ever be half as beautiful as the soul-of-their-soul. The wings of Miraak’s Dragon Aspect remind them of the skies of Sovngarde, flaring with impossible, vivid colours, martial flickers and deep, internal glow that cannot be tarnished by any amount of daedra.

Not for the first time, Laat feels a pang of jealousy. How come you get wings and a tail with this Shout, and I don’t? And with only two words?

“Zu tiid.” I have had time. “This Shout was my mind in my prison. Morah, Laat Dovahkiin.”

Meditate, Laat thinks sourly. You sound like the Greybeards. Can’t you just show me?

“Geh.”

But you won’t.

Miraak’s tail rubs along their leg, then twines round it like a thick vine. Trapped between their chests, Laat can feel the steady beat of his heart against their hands, the roughness of the patches of scales that fringe over his skin. They push lightly, and his wings spread as he lifts himself enough to free their hands. When he breathes, ghostly flames flicker and curl in his nose and mouth.

“Zu laan aam hi,” he says in his voice of a mountain, and Laat understands the sense of what he means from the press of feeling in their mind. He wants to repay the favour, to give Laat the pleasure they have given him.

They wriggle against him, considering, but their muscles cramp in fatigue. “That very much did for me too,” they sign, with a rueful smile, “I can’t believe you didn’t feel it.”

Miraak snorts, and pale flames shoot out to lick against Laat’s cheeks. They do not hurt, only tickle softly, like the soapy caress of water on dry skin. Well, he was rather preoccupied, they suppose, their smirk widening.

“You can give me a massage later, if you want, though,” they add, as his dissatisfaction with that answer is blatantly clear, “My back’s been giving me grief.”

“Geh,” he says immediately, with true enthusiasm, and they feel him twitch as if struggling not to flip them and begin at once.

Laat exhales in amusement. “What a dedicated servant you are,” they tease him. “If only I had a team of people half as devoted as you, I’d be living like an emperor.”

“Will this please you?” Miraak says, and before Laat can even sign his mind turns to practicalities.

His cult is the best place to start, though he is reluctant to lose many of them, but fewer than six servants is an insult of the highest degree to Laataazin’s status. Four, at least, Soskro and Mirdein were loyal blades - supplemented with Sulis and Ulf, all well-trained by Miraak himself and comely to the eye, which is important, should Laat wish a break from Miraak’s own charms. Then for variety, he could turn to Raven Rock, there is surely some soft-handed noble there craving the honour of serving Laat Dovahkiin (that Severin girl?), and perhaps that dashing sellsword that Laat enjoys, with the chitin armour and the handsome jaw-

No, no, Laat is laughing in breaths that shake the bed, No, I don’t need servants, Miraak, - sensing his mutinous feelings, they add swiftly - I don’t want them. And his name is Teldryn! He is attractive though, isn’t he?

“Geh, zu mindok,” says Miraak, unsure why they need to confirm the obvious.

“Perhaps,” Laat signs, “I’ll ask him to come join us one day, will you like that?”

Miraak’s wings tilt backwards like the ears of a startled Khajiit, and his cheekbones blaze emerald. “Rul laan,” he says, if you want, in a voice that strains to be noncommittal. But underneath that very interesting reaction there is a very real thread of baffling fear, and Laat reaches for him.

“I chose you,” they tell him, “I will keep choosing you.”

Miraak tilts his head, wary of his horns, so that their foreheads press together and their breath mingles. In that resonating voice, he murmurs, “This I know. We are the only ones who are real, Laat Dovahkiin. The others – their lives, their deaths, their pains or desires for freedom, it is less than nothing. I am here, you feel me in your soul, as I feel you in mine.”

Staring into those dual eyes, Laat cannot suppress a frisson of unease. They do not agree - how could they? It is as if he has reached down and found the darkest, guiltiest thoughts Laat regrets having, internal measures of their power against those around them, knowing, knowing, that all those who attempt to constrain them live in ignorance at Laat’s pleasure - but they feel him frown.

“Was it not I who sheltered you from the daedra in Whiterun, I who tended you when the Greybeards trained you in languages you did not know, I who comforted you in your solitude? As it was you who touched me in my cell in Apocrypha, brought me to Nirn and set me free. You alone, my equal. You would not have come to me in Apocrypha if you did not wish to stay with me, Laataazin.” Miraak pronounces each syllable separately, drawing it out as a dragon does. “You broke my chains, and now we are together, and so we will always be. It was not I who offered this choice, if you recall.”

“I do.” He is right in that. “Other people matter, Miraak. We all have lives, no one... is more real than the other. But you don’t have to worry. I still choose you, I am not letting go.”

Miraak’s nostrils smoke. “You will never have to, Laat Dovahkiin. My Voice sings your name. There is nowhere you can go that I cannot find you.”

Laat breathes out slowly and chooses to hear the devotion in his words rather than the threat to their freedom. If he does not fear their interest waning as he claims, they do not know what it is that he fears. They offer him a thread of their own affection, warm regard softened by their intimacy, and his slitted pupils dilate. His shimmering wings soothe against his back, and the Dragon Aspect flickers away.

With that, he rolls off them, casting an ice spell in one hand to cool himself. Frost sheens over his skin, crackling over the soaked robe. It melts in rivulets, taking his inked sweat with it, running down to freshly stain the furs, until he looks streaked with stripes of his natural paperiness like a painted statue in the rain. The sopping darkness of his green hair clings to his shoulders and neck, curls in long strands dragged straight by the weight down to his hips.

As Laat’s eye lingers on the exposed line of his thigh, loops of graceful text begin to appear out of the ink below. They tear their eyes away before their mind can convince them they understand it, and stare at his face until the itch of temptation subsides.

Laat is not certain what he is thinking of - they feel strange, deep musings turning over in his mind, in languages they do not know - but he seems content enough, if quiet.

They tap him to get his attention. “I wasn’t done touching you. Do you need to get dressed now?”

Miraak looks down at the robe clinging wetly to him like he has forgotten it is there. One hand rubs at the bridge of his nose, irritatedly brushing away a lock of hair that drips tears down the angle of his jaw. After a moment, his gaze rises to meet theirs, bolder than they would have thought without the mask.

“Niid,” he says simply. “How do you want me?”

Laat smiles and moves over the bed towards him, feeling his eyes trace over their bare chest, the softness of their belly, their strong shoulders, the slight sway of the relaxed muscle and fat of their arms. An ember of his appreciation warms the blood in their cheeks as they reach his legs.

Lifting his left foot into their lap, Laat kisses his knee. The shape of his bones are fine against their lips. He looks back at them, brows raised, but wedges some of the furs behind his back to support himself, and does not pull away. His foot flexes. The hard claws catch in the fabric of Laat’s breeches, pulling free a loose thread, and they pause to gently untangle him.

He has strong legs, muscled by years of dragon-riding. Laat runs their fingertips over the hard bumps and dips of the thick, crisscrossing calluses and scars that abrade the insides of his legs, imprints of dragonscales made permanent in his flesh. They rub the muscles they can feel underneath it, unsurprised to find them loose and limber. They kiss the soft crinkle of the side of his calf, just under his knee, smelling the warmth of his skin, his musty scent of books and scale.

Their tenderness affects him. Miraak leans towards them, wanting to touch, Laat watching the folds of his loose skin dimple at his waist. Obligingly, they shift closer, hip angled between his thighs, and draw his right leg into their lap instead, palm warm on his knee. He is cold from the ice spell, enough that their skin numbs.

His large hands reach for their face, drawing it to face him. His hands cup their cheeks – they feel him become aware, suddenly, of how small Laat is in comparison to him, how his palms almost eclipse their cheeks, his claws tangling into their short hair. Laat closes their eyes, sighing at the gentle scratch of his blunted claws over their scalp. It is unutterably soothing.

His thumbs brush over the thick spiderweb of scars patterning their face, depressing the cartilage of their nose. Their lashes brush their cheek, his exploring fingers over the thinness of their eyelids, careful of his claws. Lifting to encircle his wrist, not trapping, but touching, just touching, Laat squeezes him and they both sigh at the spreading warmth of lassitude.

“Can I kiss you?” Laat signs one-handed, their movements small and restricted by the circle of his arms. They know he can feel their subtle sort of longing, quite apart from sexual lust that burns like coals in their belly, and even a little nervousness. Nowhere to hide from the soul-of-their-soul.

Miraak hesitates. Laat winces at the confused storm of feelings washing over him, his desire to please and curiosity warring with old fear and instinct. Like any dragon, he does not, as a rule, like having his voice obstructed.

It is not the first time they have asked him, not the first time he has acquiesced. Nor even the first time that his face has been fully bare, not just Laat’s head under the warm darkness of the hood, the metal face angled up to let them just reach his lips. Quick brushes, sometimes longer, where Laat curls their hands into his robes and pushes against him, some bright sparking feeling in them, the forbidden soft warm wetness of their tongue ghosting along his lip, the brilliant spark of their blunt teeth scraping his lower lip until pain waxes, hot and hungry. But it never quite grows easier for him, even with the increase of pleasant memories.

His eyes soften. One hand drops, rubbing over their shoulder, admiring the round cup of muscle filling his palm, the indent of their tan flesh marking under his thumb’s claw. This is Laat Dovahkiin, who brought him from Mora’s cursed Apocrypha, who anchors him to Nirn, who keeps him company on his lonely island and wraps him in soft ropes like he is precious.

Laat is patient and radiates calm. They interpret for him the confusing signals of their bodies, the tightness in his gut that makes him feel like he can’t quite breathe (arousal, affection) the oversensitive pain of his hips and thighs (just a little muscle tiredness), and the throb of his airy mind (the pleasure of submission, soul-of-my-soul).

They know that he does not understand why they desire to put their mouths together so (to restrict his Voice? To gag him, to bite out his tongue? And thus disarmed, choke the air from his lungs? No, no, soul-of-my-soul, Laat whispers in his mind, for pleasure, only that…), but it is… important to them, and it is enough that they want it. For Laat Dovahkiin, he will do this thing.

Something in Laat melts when he thinks that.

“Geh,” says Miraak, unable to quite hide his trepidation.

He tugs them a little closer, his free hand trailing over the meat of their shoulder, stretching over the sharp forks of lightning scars on the back of their neck. Strokes over their muscled back, admiring the folds of their flesh. Laat is fat and warm where he is thin, ghostly, their solidity and weight as unquestionable as the earth. He moves the hand on their cheek to their chest, splayed wide over the ridges of their collarbones, the swell of their small breasts, feels the gentle movement of their breathing. It is only natural to crook his other leg around their body, holding them within the circle of himself, like they are a ship in his whirlpool. How odd, then, that Miraak feels as if he is being pulled into their orbit, not the other way around.

Affection brims in Laat at this thought. They reach into his mind, seeking to feel how he feels, measuring his reactions.

It is Laat that bridges the distance between them when Miraak is unable to, slow and patient with the unconscious reflex that has him jerking back before their lips meet. They simply wait for a beat, then close in regardless, hands squeezing his thigh meditatively. It is grounding.

They feel him think their lips are full, very soft and warm, uncharacteristically undemanding, treating Miraak as if he is a tender thing that must be lulled into peace. Soft, heady brushes of their lips over his closed mouth, sometimes diverting to dust along his cheeks, his jaw – once even, the tip of his nose, making him snort reflexively. Laat laughs at that in their silent way, the puffs of their exhales warm as their kisses on his lips.

Their eyes close when they kiss him again, and they feel him watch their face, close enough to see the near-invisible span of freckles buried under the scars, the faint gleam of sweat on their forehead, the rich curl of their eyelashes. The scraggy tufts of their hair dusting over their cheekbones, the warm shadows clinging beneath their eyebrows.

This is the good thing when they want to kiss him, Miraak thinks, for they come so close he can see every crinkle and crease of their skin, and he can fill his hands with their body.

He runs his hands up and down their spine, and their body yearns towards him like a plant in the sun. Laat sighs when he finds a tense muscle and undoes the knot with his thumb, and smiles when he lingers over their ribs, fascinated with the slow movement of their breath, the rolls and curves of their strength.

Close your eyes, Laat thinks, softly, softly, close your eyes, and open your mouth.

He obeys with a ripple of nervousness, but nothing happens for a long moment. Laat just keeps kissing him, close-mouthed, gentle, until Miraak eases. Their tongue, when it comes to flick lightly at the crease of his bottom lip, surprises him, but even more so is the hazy release of their exhale from their mouth and nose. Their breath is close enough that Miraak could breathe it himself. They feel his flare of excitement at taking and tasting the air that carries their Voice inside himself, and he clumsily nudges closer.

Laat obliges him with a speed that betrays their true eagerness, feels his head swims under the sudden influx of warm, warm approval, pride and pleasure, and their breath, tinted, he thinks, a little, with the power of their Thu’um. They stay like that a moment, Laat’s hands bracing on his stomach, breathing into each other. Miraak’s mind is clouded and warm where it tangles with theirs, as if it’s full of cotton.

Laat wants to kiss him so badly it feels like they want to devour him, greedy with their indulgence, wants his lips, his tongue, the warm wetness of his mouth. The urge to just take it, to fuck his throat with their tongue, is so strong, and they cannot help the way their hands dig into his sides, tense with their restraint. But this is good, they think, a little reluctantly, and there is no need to push on this. With this, Laat has patience on their side.

They pull back to let Miraak breathe properly, but do not go far. Their foreheads press against each other. Laat swears they can feel the hollow thudding of his heartbeat in their chest at the place where their souls meet like tributaries.

“I only moved slightly, there is no need for all this… excitement,” Miraak mutters, but his voice sounds a little destroyed, and Laat grins.

They move to pull away, but Miraak catches their face in his hands again, preventing them from going too far. Laat blinks at him, warm and steady like a cat, and sees their own face reflected in his eyes, his soul, their blown pupil, the way their mouth parts, almost automatically, at the proximity.

“You enjoy it so,” Miraak says, a little bemused.

It is not often that they manage to surprise one another, being as interlinked as they are, but Laat is truly shocked when Miraak furrows up his brow and boldly presses his cold lips to theirs. He has never initiated a kiss, not once, Laat has never thought he would. They feel his determination, shot through with threads of insecurity – am I doing it right? They are not responding – and, classically Miraak, his hands tighten on their cheeks, holding them in place, redoubling his assault instead of pulling back. It is a clumsy mishmash, and they bump noses and once clash teeth, but it is the best kiss Laat has ever had.

Afterwards, they lay down next to each other. Chilled, Laat wraps themselves in the furs they pull over from the drier side of the bed, sighing at the feeling of the cosy softness. Miraak presses up close behind them before they can roll back to face him, their bodies separated by the furs. Laat’s heart warms.

“Want me to fetch your robes and mask?” they sign, knowing he can see over their shoulder.

His nose against their hair shakes. “Niid. Like this I am fine.”

Miraak, insistent and affectionate as a cat, rubs and nuzzles his face against the back of their head and shoulders. His arm curves around their waist, pulling him flush against them. Laat can feel his warm breath against the shell of their ear. Involuntarily, Laat thinks of the warmth of his dragon-wings, how large they are. Larger than his arm, for certain.

Pulling back, Miraak’s lungs billow with air. He Shouts, and the shimmering wings Laat has just been thinking wistfully of drape over them like a blanket. His tail curves around them, hemming in their body against his. They can feel the bladed tip against their stomach, the point made dull by their thick swaddling of furs. It is immediately warmer in the safe cocoon of his wings.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Laat can’t help laughing as they sign, ignoring the stony bed vibrating underneath them, “It was only a thought!”

“Fah hi.” For you. The resonance of his voice echoed with the tenderness of the feeling they can sense in him seems to make his every word louder.

Laat is still for a moment. “I do love you,” they sign, eventually, the burning of their eyes making them glad that they are facing away. They clear their throat.

Miraak’s grip tightens. “Zu’u losiil, Laataazin.”

I am yours. Laat sighs, and wonders if he will ever learn that love and possession are not the same. Though they are not sure that Dovahzul has a word for love, not in the way that Laat means it. Is it even possible for him to return the sentiment in the language he prefers?

For some reason, this line of thought summons Frea’s face before their mind, her sanctimonious words, and Laat’s mood sours.

Sensing their disquiet, Miraak hums against them soothingly. “You are troubled.”

“Frea wants to die,” Laat signs. “I don’t know what to do about her.”

“Do you not like Frea?” Miraak asks, and they feel him turning faces and names over in his mind, struggling to recall which of the many people of Solstheim Laat means. The Skaal woman? He does not associate with the Skaal much - they are not overfond of him, and Miraak is likewise not fond of being called a monstrous traitor by people he must refrain from killing.

“I do.” Laat touches the twitching tip of his tail, as if to soothe his momentary annoyance.

“Then keep her,” Miraak says, as if the answer is obvious. “You will miss her if she dies.”

“But she is unhappy!”

They feel Miraak’s shoulders move in a shrug. “You know my Shout,” he says calmly.

At that, Laat jerks their elbow into his ribs and wriggles. Miraak’s enfolding wing lifts hesitantly, enough for Laat, sweating, to work their way down to lying on their back. Thus freed, they jab a finger in his face as they sign.

“That’s wrong, Miraak! It is immoral to compel someone to go along with you just because it’s easier!” Miraak’s fire-bright eyes blinks at the finger in his face, all four pupils narrowing to focus on it. Laat deflates. “It doesn’t last that long anyway,” their motions are jerky and frustrated, “it would wear off then Frea would cleave me in two with her axe, and I would certainly deserve it.”

“Only because you use it like a hatchet, Laat Dovahkiin,” says Miraak, gaze returning to Laat’s eyes, “blindly superimposing your mind over another. Bend Will works best as a suggestion enforcing a desire or pattern that is already there. Simply find what makes them happy, find what is a barrier to your will, and remove it. The Skaal girl wishes to live as she once did, yes, free to worship her god? Then with your words allow her to do that, and her mind will do the rest.”

Laat’s hands lowered. “I didn’t know it could do that,” they sign, meek, unsure whether the feeling in them is horror or awe.

“With time and patience, the limit to my Shout is your will and the breadth of your imagination,” Miraak explains. He lowers his wing again, slowly, as if fearing that Laat will push it away. “With skill, you could encourage a resentful Greybeard to become a career warmonger, or a compassionate enemy your staunchest defender to the grave, all of their own volition.”

Some strange tinge of unease roils in the back of their mind. Laat touches the wing, feeling the bony spur of the joint, the leathery membrane, unsure how to respond.

Miraak’s voice is quiet and persuasive. It rumbles like the song of earth into Laat, through each bone, each thought in their mind.

“What is worse,” Miraak murmurs, so soft, so low, so deep, “allowing a good woman that you care for to die, or bringing her many more years of happiness and joy through the use of one Shout? A lifetime of bliss with one you love, all for speaking three words? How could you deny her that?”

“I suppose,” Laat signs, but they cannot meet his eye for guilt.

They feel him observing them quietly, some strange dissatisfaction in him that they cannot identify.

“I will do it,” he volunteers suddenly.

“What?” Surprised, Laat glares at him. “No! It’s unethical! You cannot force someone to be happy, or to stay with you simply because you want them to! It would be nothing but a lie.”

For a brief moment, Miraak scowls, the jagged crown of horns and his glowing teeth making him look truly fearsome. But then his expression smooths. “Dismiss it from your mind, Laat Dovahkiin,” he says, gently. “It is simply handled, and already agreed.”

“Don’t hurt her,” Laat signs anxiously, searching his face, “You’re just going to talk to her? Don’t-”

Raising a taloned hand, Miraak clasps theirs to stop their words. He gives Laat a soft, odd smile. “She will not even remember we have spoken,” he promises. “Only where there was frustration and pain, there will now be joy and peace.”

He strokes their hands with the backs of his talons with immense tenderness, nuzzling in close to with his breath and careful rubbing of his sharp cheekbones caress the warm hollow of Laat’s neck. With his touch and his mind he lulls them, sending soothing waves of affection and warmth, feelings of safety, recalling to them the ache in their muscles from sex, the tender sweetness of their kisses. His nose fits under their jaw as if it has been made for him, and despite themselves, Laat sighs. It has never been wise, loving him. But how can they help it? He is the soul-of-their-soul.

“Zu’u aam hi unslaad,” he whispers, with the air of a promise, “rii se dii zii.” I serve you forever, essence of my soul.

They reach for his hair, combing the thick wet locks over his shoulder, avoiding the spines on his back. Droplets of ink run down their arms as they begin to braid, loose and messy.

“You worry too much about people that are not worth your time,” Miraak says, and by his smile Laat supposes he means it lightheartedly.

With a heavy heart, they allow themselves to be cheered, and offer him a small smile in return. “Who should I worry about? You?” they tease, not entirely how much they are joking.

He smirks. “You could.”

Despite themselves, Laat chuckles, hearing the distant crack of stone in their Voice. They tug on the messy braid of wet hair they’ve made, and Miraak goes, a tingle of arousal running through him at the sensation. Laat kisses his cheeks and nose, making his dual eyes flutter shut as he sighs.

“Why,” they sign one-handed when he opens his eyes at their lack of movement, fingers so close they brush his cheek, “you attempting to take over the world again?”

“Niid,” says Miraak, his taloned hand coming to cup their face with the tenderness of a man who knows he is touching something immensely precious, “I have the best of it here, and that is everything I desire.”

With thanks to thuum.org:

Geh: Yes.

Laat Dovahkiin: Last Dragonborn.

Ni faas: lit. no fear. No worries/it’s fine.

Pruzah: Good.

Sikgolt: lit. rune place. Library.

Niid: No.

Zu’u losiil: I am (emphatic) yours.

Wuth: Old.

Diist Dovahkiin: First Dragonborn.

Faaz: lit. (you cause) pain. You’re hurting me.

Saraan: Wait.

Aaz: Mercy.

Los ahraan: (You) are wound(ed).

Mul Qah: Strength Armour (Dragon Aspect Shout)

Zu tiid: I (have had) time.

Morah: Meditate/think deeply (upon it).

Zu laan aam hi: lit. I want to serve you.

Zu mindok: I know.

Rul laan: When (you) want.

Fah hi: For you.

Zu’u aam hi unslaad, rii se dii zii: I serve you forever/ceaselessly, essence/soul of my spirit/soul.

@argisthebulwark as promised.

#inkwrites #minors dni #my fic that world will cease to be #not safe for minors #tw possessiveness #tw jealousy #tw blood #laataazin #mind control #skyrim #tes #miraak #fic

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the-dream-team · 4 years ago

Note

From National Treasure: ʺ In another life… I arranged a number of operations of… questionable legality. ʺ

Thank you for this incredible prompt!! This is the silliest thing I’ve ever written, so I hope you enjoy :)

Read on Ao3

In another life… I arranged a number of operations of… questionable legality

James Potter had always been a menace.

The vendors who set up their stands in Godric Hollow’s town square knew to be wary of the young boy, whose messy black mop of hair was just visible over their countertops as he skipped from booth to booth. No one was certain where he came from or where his parents might be (though Marcus, the apple harvester, swore he once saw the kid just over the hill with an unexpectedly kind older couple), but everyone knew trouble followed the boy like an obedient puppy.

It started with the usual childhood mischief. He would show up at the farmer’s market, seemingly out of nowhere, wielding twigs from a nearby tree or sometimes a cardboard sword. Always battling an imaginary enemy. Large bursts of energy mixed with childish incoordination would result in smashed crates of potatoes or torn awnings. Farmers turned red with frustration, but their wives brushed them off, absolutely charmed by those big hazel eyes behind even bigger wire-rimmed glasses. The boy would wreak havoc and get off without so much as a loving pinch on the cheek.

But then one summer, once his glasses started fitting his face and those wide eyes became more calculating, the real hijinks began. Peculiar things seemed to happen whenever the young boy made his way to the square. Marty’s carrots would suddenly appear on Andrew’s cabbage display, as if out of thin air. Abigail's piglet disappeared, then reappeared again, squealing up a storm, in Michael’s barrel of beans. Oddities popped up left and right around the child, still too small to reach the booth’s counters without having to balance on his tiptoes. The vendors groveled and knit their brows into headaches, but the boy would flash his little grin and the wives would fawn, offering up samples of their best honey or slices of freshly baked bread.

Eventually, the farmers settled into their new routine of expecting the unexpected. Until one day, when the unexpected turned into the unbelievable.

The boy was making his rounds one sunny morning, peering over the fruits and vegetables, when Helga offered him a strawberry. He beamed, reached out for the piece of fruit, and then yelped when the berry burst from his hand, transforming into a flittering hummingbird.

Those wide eyes turned to saucers as he watched the bird fly off, leaving its strawberry brothers behind in their basket. The look he flashed at the berry farmer was one of deep disturbance and the boy disappeared on the spot, leaving the rest of the vendors to grapple with what should have been impossible.

They didn’t see the boy for days, and the farmers would have reveled in the much-desired calm, but the mystery behind the hummingbird still sat fresh in their memories. But then one morning, the vendors all held a collective breath as the little boy marched down the street, directly to the town square, with a little jingling satchel in hand.

He went straight to the strawberry stand, meeting Helga with a determined stare and a gold coin in his outstretched hand. She tentatively accepted the strange looking currency and nervously handed over a basket of berries, flinching as he reached out to collect his purchase.

The boy looked at his basket, then back to Helga, and grabbed a handful of strawberries. Just like before, the berries erupted into delicate little hummingbirds and flew off through the village. The boy puffed his chest out at his accomplishment and his eyes surveyed the other booths, looking for his next victim.

The farmers were in a state of shock. Possibly a shared psychosis that could only be explained by spending a little too much time under the summer sun. They waited patiently as the boy decided who would receive his next gold coin.

It ended up being Daniel, the cabbage farmer, who watched in awe as his heads of lettuce transformed into a swarm of skittish squirrels with just a light touch of the young boy’s hand.

One by one, the strange little boy purchased, transformed, and set free an entire zoo’s worth of animals. More than one weary eye drifted to the town’s church lingering above them, wondering what kind of miracle or devil’s work they might be witnessing.

And then, he left, a litter of kittens and rabbits following in his wake.

Four years later, the boy with messy hair and glasses (that definitely now fit his face) sat in the Hogwarts dungeons with three other boys, cleaning out cauldrons.

“Bloody infuriating that they took our wands, don’t you think, James?” said the boy with longer hair and sharp features. He lazily scrubbed the same spot on his cauldron over and over, even though it had become clean ages ago.

“Don’t be daft, Sirius,” said James, pushing his glasses up his nose with the back of his hand. “We aren’t allowed our wands in detention, otherwise we’d have this washing done in a minute.”

“My mum says doing things the Muggle way builds character,” added the third boy, tucking his sandy bangs behind his ears.

“Well Remus,” responded the fourth boy with watery eyes, “the rest of us grew up not ever having to do it the Muggle way. Maybe since you’re most used to it, you can take care of the rest of these cauldrons for us.”

“Bugger off, Peter,” said Remus, throwing a very dirty washcloth and hitting Peter square in the face.

The four boys laughed together before getting back to their scrubbing.

“Oh, look who it is,” came a sneering voice from the doorway of the Potions classroom. “Potter and his gang of cowardly lions. What is this, the third detention you lot have had this week?”

“Shove off, Snivellus,” spat Sirius, throwing up a few choice fingers at the greasy-haired boy.

“Come on, Sev, don’t bother with them,” came a softer voice from behind the boy.

“Is that Evans?” called James, his interest piquing. He ran his hand through his hair, forgetting how much grime had coated his fingers during the course of the detention. When the red head girl peaked out behind her friend to see James picking out dirt from his fringe, she giggled.

“Potter, it looks like you’ve been rolling around in the mud with Hagrid’s pigs,” she said with a teasing grin. Severus shifted next to her, his eyes flashing at her playful tone.

“That might be so,” laughed James with his signature lopsided smile, “but at least I’m still not half as greasy as Snivellus, here.”

Severus turned bright red and reached into his robe pocket to draw his wand. “Lutum!” he shouted, and a thick layer of dirt coated the piles of freshly cleaned cauldrons.

The boys jumped up in outrage, but Severus had a wand and they were defenseless.

“This is bollocks!” barked Sirius, a dangerous shadow crossing his face.

“Tough luck,” smirked Severus, turning back to Evans with a smug look across his face. “Come on, Lily, let’s go practice our Pepper Up potions.” And with one last smarmy look, he led her into another classroom across the hallway.

“That’s not fair,” whined Peter, looking at his now-dirty cauldron.

James still stared at the doorway where Severus and Evans stood just a moment before. “Well, we’re not going to let him get away with that.”

“But we don’t have our wands,” pointed out Remus, who had gone back to patiently scrubbing his own cauldron.

“I have a plan,” said James simply.

“Mate, I think Remus has a point,” Sirius said with a huff. “What could you possibly do to Snape? We’re just a bunch of wandless first years.”

“Look boys,” said James confidently, “In another life… I arranged a number of operations of… questionable legality. I learned some skills back then that may prove useful in our current hour of need.”

Sirius, Remus, and Peter stared at him, matching dumbfounded expressions on their faces.

James stood and surveyed the dirty cauldrons around him and looked at his hands. He took a deep breath.

In theory, he knew what he had to do. It was just a matter of concentrating. Focusing on a goal and letting the magic burst through his fingers. There weren’t any fruits or vegetables in the dungeons, but that shouldn’t matter. Maybe when James was younger, when his imagination ran a little wilder and his grasp on transfiguration wasn’t quite as strong, he believed that animals were stuck inside strawberries and ears of corn. But James was a wizard in training now. With a few months of transfiguration under his belt, he knew that any object could become anything new.

So he paced back and forth, letting himself fall back into the mindset of being a little boy sneaking out of his family’s cottage while his parents were busy reading that morning’s copy of the Daily Prophet. He remembered the thrill of running off to the village, just as independent as any other adult visiting the market, and marching up to the stalls of fruits and vegetables and honey. He could almost smell the freshly baked bread, see the kind smiles of the farmers’ wives as they ruffled his hair and sent him off with fresh apples and oatmeal cookies.

He let himself live in those not-so-distant memories and channeled all their warmth to his fingertips as he reached out and touched the nearest cauldron.

With a flash, it became a potbelly pig.

“Bloody hell!” shouted Peter.

“Merlin’s beard!” laughed Sirius.

“Holy shit,” gasped Remus.

James sent them a crooked smile, cracked his knuckles, and swiftly got to work touching every dirty cauldron in the dungeon.

The piglets squeaked with wild energy, dripping in mud and looking for somewhere to run. And James had just the place.

He led his parade of piglets through the classroom, out the hallway, and opened up the door across the way where Severus and Evans had gone to practice their potion-making. The pigs stormed into the room with excited squeals which only intensified by Lily’s and Severus’ screaming as the pigs swarmed them.

“Sorry Evans,” shouted James over the sea of oinking, “you’re collateral damage here! My apologies for the smell, but I assume you’re used to a bit of stench hanging out with Snivellus all day!”

Once all the pigs had crammed into the classroom, trapping Lily and Severus in the far corner surrounded by muddy hogs, James quickly closed the door and the rest of the boys helped drag over a heavy bookshelf to barricade the entryway.

They grinned at each other, quite pleased by their success, and made their way back to the scrubbing brushes and washcloths.

“Well boys,” said James, his hand finding his way back to his hair, “I don’t see any more dirty cauldrons, do you?”

The others shook their heads in glee.

“Then I guess it’s back to Gryffindor Tower for us!”

And with that, they raced out of the dungeons, snickering at the shouts of their classmates, overpowered by the squealing of dozens of potbelly pigs.

#ask #national treasure prompt #this is insane #the marauders #pranks #james potter #godrics hollow #this is the goofiest thing i've ever written #it was fun #i have so many more prompts i promise i will get to them all!!

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mommymooze · 4 years ago

Text

I thought something was cute. A story.

So the post after this was about romantic one liners. They looked cute. How many could I put in a single story. ELEVEN out of 15

Just as you are coming out of your room early on Sunday morning you run into Hilda. She looks bright and radiant of course. “Have I already told you how cute you look?” You smile.

Hilda grins back at you. “You are so adorbs!” she giggles.

You march on down to the dining hall to see what is going on. Claude doesn’t look quite awake as he manages to get one foot in front of the other as he moves towards the smell of delicious breakfast. He has the cutest sleepy grin on his face. “Being half-asleep is a very good look on you. That and your bedhead is always so cute. Mine looks like I’ve been scared half to death with it standing straight up on end.”

You encourage the leader of the Deer by rubbing his shoulders a bit as you push him into the dining hall. Once inside you spot Ferdinand waving at you, he’s saved a seat next to him. He even has your breakfast waiting.

“Good to see you. I picked up your breakfast so we wouldn’t be late for choir practice today.” The redhead smiles and the room seems to light up with the brightest shine.

“Not to sound cheesy, but your smile really lights up the room, Ferdinand!” You grin, looking down at the plate, you laugh. “You remembered my favorite food! How sweet!”

Ferdinand places his hand on his heart, “It would be ignoble of me to not pay attention to the favorites of my friends.” The ray of sunshine himself blesses us with another beaming smile.

You finish breakfast, taking back the dishes and head to the Cathedral. The choir director calls on Ferdinand to perform his solo for this week’s celebration.

He look a little nervous as he finishes and returns to his place beside you. While the director is distracted he asks, “Do you think it sounded okay?”

You beam a smile back at him. “Okay? It was amazing. I could listen to you all day. I love your voice. If you don’t have plans after the war, you should go into the opera or performing some musicals!”

Ferdinand blushes profusely, then the choir director calls attention to the next song to begin. Practice goes on for another half hour. Your breakfast has settled and now you need to get dressed for some training. You get to your room and swap for your workout clothes. Grabbing your bow you head to Bernadetta’s room. Knocking at the door you announce yourself. “Hey Bernie! It’s me! Ready to go?”

A frightened shaky voice answers. “I’m not feeling up to it. Just go without me.”

You frown for a second. “Bernie. Can we talk? May I come in?” You’ve been working with her for a few months, knocking down a few of her barriers. She has come to trust you a little.

“Oh. Okay I guess.” Bernie unlocks the door.

You stand at the door, counting slowly to three. You don’t want to burst in on her, you don’t want to scare her so you give her an extra second to gather her wits. You open the door as little as possible and slide inside, keeping your back to the wall there. “Hi.” You say quietly, smiling softly.

“Oh no! I’ve ruined your day and it’s all terrible. Bernie is so stupid!” She shakes and quivers on her hands and knees ten feet in front of you.

“Bernie, you know I did not say that. I am honest with you and I say what I mean. I only asked to talk. Do I look miserable? Of course not. I haven’t seen you in a few days. I’ve missed you so much and I was hoping to go practice some archery, just you and me. Is that okay?”

“Oh, is that all? I thought I did something wrong.” Bernie at least sits up, getting off of her hands, still on her knees.

You sit cross legged in front of the door so you are eye level with her. “I need to practice, and you have such an eagle eye. I want to learn from you because you are so good. Don’t you deny it either. You get perfect bullseyes so many more times than me and I would really appreciate it if you help me, okay?”

“I think you are pretty good with a bow.” Bernadetta is relaxing a little bit, sitting cross legged too.

“I have really improved since we started working together. You are a good teacher and patient with me. I want to return the favor. I know sometimes you are overly concerned, well, you can always talk to me, I will always be here for you. Okay?”

“S-sure.” Bernadetta agrees.

“Still not in the mood to practice today then?” You ask.

“No. I’ve had too much going on today. I think the rest of today will be an inside day.” Bernie mumbles drawing circles on her knee.

“Want me to stay and talk to you or would you just like to have quiet time? I’ll do whatever you like.” You are honest and want her to choose what she wants.

“I don’t feel like talking right now.” Bernie admits.

You nod. “I will watch at dinner, if there’s a good dessert you like, I will nab one for you. I can’t have my sweet friend and archery instructor feeling sad all day. Okay?”

Bernie’s face brightens a bit. “Deal. Maybe next time we can do some practice.”

You stand and open the door, briefly waving and smiling at your reclusive friend as you head back outside. Bow in hand you head to the Archery practice range. As you walk past the fishing pond you run into Sylvain.

“Hey gorgeous, how is your day going?” Sylvain winks as he approaches.

“It would be better if I had an instructor for some archery today.” You shrug.

“I was going to say something witty about lances, because that’s my specialty, but then I didn’t want you to feel creepy.” He grins and rubs the back of his neck.

“I can’t say you normally make me feel creepy, but that probably would. Hmmm. I cannot find the words to describe how I feel about you. Anyway, if you see anyone wanting to practice bow work, send them my way. And no, I’m not going to find anyone interested in your…” you wind up giggling at him and he just rolls his eyes.

After dinner and taking Bernadetta some cake, you make it to the Archery range. Nobody seems to be around here today. You grab a few quivers, hanging one from your back the other two off your legs. You do a few stretches and string your bow. You are hitting the targets, but nothing is close to the bullseye. You run out to retrieve your arrows to start another round.

Taking your stance, you nock an arrow. You’ve pulled back the string and are taking aim when you hear a noise behind you.

“Don’t let go. Stop a sec.” Claude says as he steps up behind you. He puts one finger at the end of each of your shoulders. “Your stance should be as wide as your shoulders at a minimum.” He checks your grip, your stance, your breathing. He explains a few other adjustments to you then tells you to take 5 shots, and don’t rush.

You shoot the five arrows as requested. Claude steps behind you and you can feel his fingers on each side of your neck. It almost feels like he is trying to lift you up by your head.

“You need to have a really good straight posture. Think of Ferdinand’s posture. His back is always straight. He sits as tall as he can in a chair. Sometimes I can see you are hunched over just a little bit. Back straight! Chin up!”

He comes around to stand in front of you, his finger curls under your chin to move it up just a hair. “Another thing I’ve noticed, you’re not taking enough time to aim. You can’t pull back, say that is it and let go. Give yourself a few seconds to really make sure you have your target identified, your stance perfect, back straight, you’re breathing properly.”

Claude stands behind you as you aim. He corrects things as he sees them. He nudges your feet wider apart. Just before you pull back the bow string he reaches around your neck and tilts your head back to level. You almost jumped out of your skin one time because his voice was right in your ear saying, “Breathe.”

After quite a while of working with Claude you actually feel much improved, almost like you kind of know what you are doing. You gather the arrows and bring them back one final time. You unstring your bow and place it against the wall.

Claude takes your bow hand in his, holding your hand and wrist, talking about proper wrist placement. He takes your other hand, pulling it back pretending to pull the bowstring back to release the arrow. He’s saying something about wrist placement, but his eyes are looking straight into yours. His face is so close you can count the eyelashes around his gorgeous green eyes.

“Claude,” you smile, “I have the feeling that you’re trying not to kiss me…I give you permission to just do it.” Your hands slide down his forearms to his elbows and wind around his waist.

His finger is at your chin again, tilting it up way too high to aim for a target, but at a perfect angle to target with his lips as he kisses you softly. You sigh at the touch as you slowly open your eyes to gaze into his.

“One kiss is never enough.” You whisper as you chase after his lips for more.

All too soon the bells sound at the monastery and it is time to head back to their rooms. Grabbing your bow you turn to Claude.

“Thank you so much for all of the lessons. I feel much improved, amongst other things.” You grin.

“Happy to help.” Claude bows slightly. “Tonight was just perfect.” He says as he gently touches at the small of your back, leading you back towards the dorms.

#fe3h x reader #fe3h #fe16 #feth #fire emblem three houses #claude von reigen #claude von riegan

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flamehairedwritings · 4 years ago

Text

The Fire In Your Eyes: Chapter Thirty

Characters: Arthur Morgan x Original Female Character

Rating: The whole series will be E, 18+ ONLY for violence, gore, character deaths, animal deaths, parent deaths, swearing, grief, sexual themes and unprotected sex, mentions of miscarriage, hanging.

Summary: Saved by Arthur Morgan when her town is attacked, a young woman’s past comes back to haunt her when she has no choice but to join the Van der Linde Gang.

Some scenes and dialogue have been taken from the game!

Read on AO3

The Fire In Your Eyes Masterlist

Please don’t copy, steal or re-post my work; credit does not count.

Epilogue

The sky was beautiful, a light blue and a dusky pink in some areas, orange in others.

Ada gazed at the colours, watching the sun slowly set behind the hills far away. All around her, crickets trilled gently and birds whistled softly. It was so still, so peaceful.

Folding her arms, she rubbed at one of them lightly, looking towards the faint outline of the mountains beyond the hills, Mount Hagen somewhere amongst them.

She hadn’t wanted to die. The moment the bullet had passed through Dutch to her, the numbness had fallen away, crumbled, and she knew she wanted to live. So fiercely she wanted to live, and it was all that had gone round and round in her mind as Arthur had taken her down to Valentine. Coming in and out of consciousness, she’d felt terrifying waves of fear, anger, grief, denial, and, in one moment, she truly thought she had died as finally peace had suddenly washed over her.

A corner of her mouth lifted a little. Morphine would do that.

Somehow, deep in her mind, she’d always known that the final moments on the mountain was what it would come down to; her or Dutch, one way or another. And, once upon a time, she wouldn’t have known what decision he’d have made.

They hadn’t spoken about what had happened since the night before they’d returned home. There seemed to be an unspoken agreement that they wouldn’t, not yet... though she’d had to with Thom, barely an hour after they’d arrived, in fact.

That had been a week ago, and he and Charlotte had left the next day, the former still cold towards her, the latter reluctant and apologetic.

“He just needs time,” her sister-in-law had murmured to her as they’d embraced, her lovely features full of concern for both of the O’Driscoll siblings.

“I know.”

Ada wasn’t angry at him, though, and she certainly didn’t blame him for being so, either.

Mercifully, they’d managed to prevent Millie from catching on to anything that had happened, despite the heated argument. She just thought her mother had caught a cold and bruised her stomach so “gentle hugs for a little while, angel.”

While she couldn’t help but dwell on her brother and his hissed words to her, full of a venom of a former self, there had been some bright moments since then, and not just from Millie making her laugh every day. John had written, telling them he’d wasted no time in asking Abigail to marry him... and she’d said yes. Ada had cried into her morning cup of tea while Arthur had grinned and grinned, reading the words over and over.

The wedding was due to be in a week’s time, and, as a result of her now strained relationship with her brother, Millie would be going with them, something the little girl was very excited about. Ada and Arthur didn’t think they could ever be separated from her again, anyway. Sadie and Charles would be there, too, naturally, and it was nice, having something to look forward to.

She should feel well enough to ride by herself, then, too, even though they’d take the wagon for Millie’s comfort. Her wound was healing, slowly, but healing. The first few days after they’d returned she’d just slept and eaten and drunk and slept, more exhausted than she had known, the argument with Thom having not exactly helped.

And, through it all, Arthur had been... well, Arthur. She’d never loved him more than she did right now. He’d tended to her, looked after Millie and kept her entertained, looked after the animals and had even started drawing up plans for the new stable. She’d catch the way he’d looked at her sometimes, though; sometimes grateful, other times like he was afraid, like he was reliving the days in Valentine, like he’d been reminded once again of how very much human they were.

They would just be brief moments, though, and then he would smile, fear turning to love. She knew he was waiting for a sign of melancholia, too, but none came. She’d learned to not just wait around for the spells or dwell on the possibility of them, knowing that, though they would come, they would also go, as surely as night turned to day, and life would continue on as it always did.

“Well, if that ain’t the prettiest sight in all the land. Sun ain’t bad either.”

Her lips twitched as Arthur pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his arms sliding around her. She leaned back against his chest with a quiet sigh, her hands settling over his.

“How long did it take you to think of that one?”

“‘bout thirty minutes. I’ve been stood by the window just starin’ at you.”

She laughed, the fingers on one hand lacing with his. “Wow, quicker than last time.”

“Yeah, I’m gettin’ there.”

Ada laughed again, and he smiled, pressing another kiss to the top of her head.

“You okay?” he murmured into her hair, and she nodded, tilting her head to lean it back against his shoulder.

“Yeah.” She traced light, absent-minded patterns on the back of his hand with a finger tip, the sky now turning from dusky pink to fiery red. “There’s gonna be good weather tomorrow.”

“Looks so. I was thinkin’ of goin’ out tomorrow, doin’ some huntin’ while Millie is havin’ her lessons with Martha.” His chin rested on her shoulder as he rocked her slightly. “Thought maybe you’d like to join me, if you feel up to it.”

He had to lift his head a little as she turned hers, smiling softly at him. “I’d love to.”

“All righ’. You can hold my coat while I shoot down that Grizzly that’s been spotted, I think I can get ‘im...”

Ada shook her head as she turned in his arms to face him, her lips twitching. “You’re a very funny man.”

His smile was wide, very much pleased with himself. “I know that by how much you laugh.”

“I should stop encouraging you.”

“Oh, you can try, sweetheart, but I see miserable failure...” he murmured, lowering his head towards hers.

And he was right. She couldn’t stop her smile as he captured her lips in a tender kiss, his fingers splaying across her back. Barely moments later, her arms slid up and draped around his neck, her lips moving slowly against his. He teased her for a few moments, his tongue gliding against her mouth, and just as a soft sound came from the back of her throat, he pulled away, one corner of his mouth higher than the other.

“C’mon, there’s still a God damn load of cake left that I am not lettin’ go to waste.”

“You and your insatiable appetite, Mr Morgan.”

He grinned at her as he took her hand, their fingers lacing together. “Oh, I’m insatiable all righ’, Mrs Morgan.”

And she failed again.

Her laugh was carried across their land by the gentle breeze, lifting it through the trees and into the air as she followed her husband into their home.

And life continued on.

The End

———————————————————————————————————

I just wanted to take a few moments to thank each and every one of you for reading this story. I spent about a year planning it and writing the first half, then as lockdown here came in March, I thought why the heck don’t I just start posting it? And here we are, thirty chapters later!! I can’t quite believe I’ve done it, this is the first series I ever started writing and my longest to date.

I want to say a special, huge and just brimming with love thank you to those who have commented. You genuinely kept me going at times and I really can’t thank you enough, you all hold such a special place in my heart.

I’m sorry for making you all wait so long for the final two chapters! I wanted to make sure I was happy with them and that they were the best they could be. I’ve loved living in this world and thinking about Ada and Arthur and I really don’t want it to end... and I’m not quite done yet! I have a short story planned for Thom and Charlotte that will involve Ada and Arthur, their wedding and Millie, and so much more, and maybe some other stories in the future, too...

Thank you so, so much, everyone, I hope you’re all doing okay in these trying times, that you have a lovely day and end of the year, and 2021 brings you all that you hope for.

All the best x

Ghosts of Ourselves — 2021

———————————————————————————————————

Comments and reblogs make my day in a way I can’t describe.

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged or untagged in this series!

Questions?

Tagged: @belfry-bat, @sistasarah-sallysaidso, @ntlmundy, @monster363, @cowboisadness

#arthur morgan x original female character #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x original character #arthur morgan x oc #arthur morgan x ofc #rdr2 fic #my writing #flamehairedwritings

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aarcanechaoss · 4 years ago

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☆ Nanami Kiyohime ☆

M A I N

First Name: Nanami

*Middle Name:

Last name: Kiyohime

Nickname: Nana, Nami, Mimi, Nan, Na, Princess

Pronouncing: Nah-Nar-Me | Key-Oh-Hee-Meh

*Name Meaning: Seven Seas | Serpent Dragon

Gender: Female

Sex: F

Species: Ningyo / Mer

Birthday: March 17

Age: 26

Zodiac: Pisces

Blood type: A+

Nationality: Isles

Sexuality: Bisexual

Attracted by people with/which are: Strong and determined, cares for themselves selflessly

A P P E A R A N C E

Basic

Height: 183cm (6’0”)

Weight: 65kg

Body Shape: Hourglass, slim, lean (muscular)

*Cup Size: 14 C

*Scars: Three large slash marks across back, slices on inner and back thighs, scar beneath jaw

*Injuries: nerve damage back and inside of left thigh

Face

Skin Tone: Very pale almost sickly // when in Ningyo form she has a blue tinge

Face Shape: soft and slightly round, notable jaw and cheekbones

Hair Length: Prefers to have it long back home and helps at the exam and after cuts it to chin length

Hair Style: loose and flowing

Hair Colour: Dark Chestnut Brown

*Eyes Shape: Round Almond shape

Eye Colour: warm-honey to brown

*Lips Shape: Bow shaped

Lips Colour: Light dusk pink

Eyebrows Shape: Soft angle, medium arch

Eyebrows Colour: Dark brown

Nose Shape: straight bridge and soft pointed tip, small-med nasal area

*Teeth: straight, tinged off-white with sharp canines

*Ears: Small but pointed almost elf like, gills behind ears

*Birthmarks: base of her skull, large pink mark

*Facial Piercings: N/A

*Ear Piercings: Simple lobe piercings along with single Helix and Daith on left ear

(Do they sound raspy, breathy, bubbly. Or link an actors voice?):

*Voice: Fuity, deep feminine sound, attractive

*Accent: Australian

*Pitch: Low, has slight vocal fry

O U T F I T

Daily: In Siren form none but- dressed in a green-blue bodice and combat pants.

Usually barefoot

Formal: Green-blue low cut dress, silky, thigh split, heels or sandals if she has too

*Special: Navy ball gown- formal princess wear and crown

H E A L T H

Physical Problems (e.g. sight problems): Nerve damage in left thigh

Psychical Problems (e.g. anxiety): Sensory Processing Disorder

Allergies: UNKNOWN

P E R S O N A

Write in Full Sentences

Personality: Could care less for most people, sarcastic and a smart-ass. Worries over the kids and is hard-headed and determined, won’t back down from a fight but will do her job.

Best Skills: Extremely good at reading people

Worst Weaknesses: Too headstrong for her own good sometimes.

Likes to: Put people in their place

Hates to: Hurt creatures and children

Fears: Those who are stronger, those who willingly harm those who have done no ill will

Attitude: Smart-ass, sarcastic, blunt and strong

N E N

Do you use it: Yes

Type: Manipulation

Describe it: Very slight hydrokinesis and hemokinesis

Skill: High

Weakness: Overuse results in bleeding nose and fatigue

How often or when do you use it: Only when necessary outside of training

Who taught your character Nen: Her people

Rate your characters Nen Strength: Strong

Who knows about their Nen: Her people, Hisoka, Illumi, Gon and Killua

S K I L L S — Max. 135 Points

Nanami: 123/ 180

Fighting 9/10

Speed 7/10

Physical Strength 9/10

Psychical Strength 7/10

Defence 8/10

Stamina 8/10

Lying 4/10 (Too blunt for her own good)

Manipulation 6/10

Trickery 5/10

Leadership 8/10

Loyalty 7/10

Knowledge 7/10

Assessing Situations 9/10

Wisdom 8/10

Courage 9/10

Intelligence 8/10

Compassion 4/10

F A M I L Y

Mother: Mizuko (Alive) | Father: Enkai (Deceased)

Siblings: Kaito and Shimizu (Twins- elder brothers)

Grandparents: Hamako (Grandmother- Alive)

*Own Children: N/A (future

C U R R E N T

What are they up to right now: Examiner for the 287th Hunter Exam > Princess > Heavens Arena > Princess duties > Courted by Hisoka > Might help later with the games

Health: Well

Etc.: Bored out of her wits

B A C K G R O U N D S T O R Y

Childhood (Birth- 12): Nothing much, a princess if most prevalent, training and learning how to use Nen, trade, duties etc.

*Teenaged (13-19): At 16 competed in the 277th Hunter exam and passed, becoming a Hunter at 16 years old. Became an Unidentified Beast Hunter

*Adulthood (20-59): Worked as an UBH and at 26 was asked to be a secret examiner for the 287th Hunter exam, showed everyone who she really was and went on with life.

*Retirement (60-Death): N/A

W O R K

*Job/s: Hunter, Princess and Tradeswoman

*Hunter: Yes

*Type of Hunter: Unidentified Beast Hunter

Experience (With what/who, why, how, etc.): 10 years, saving and healing injured or unknown beasts. Only killing if necessary.

F E E L I N G S

Sexuality: Bisexual (Male leaning)

How fast do they fall in love: Slowly, aren’t really interested in people, trust issues and such

How do they act around their beloved person: More open and trusting along with a little weird

Relationship Status: Single until courted

Name 3-5 characters they are/would be interested in

1. Hisoka

2. Illumi

3. Menchi

4. Cocco

*Lover: in debate

*Crushing: N/A

*Sex life: Active once its going

S O C I A L I Z I N G

Who they like/ *why: He was bold and managed to charm her mother and ended up being genuine to her for some reason. Hisoka

Who they love/ *why: Same as above

Who they respect /*why: Kurapika, his resilience and want to protect and revenge his lineage

Who they hate /*why: Killua’s mum, she’s nasty plain and simple

Who they despise /*why: Same as above

*Best Friend/s: N/A

*Allies: Killua, Gon, Hisoka, Illumi, Leorio, Kurapika etc

H A B I T S / H O B B I E S

Hobbies: Reading, drawing and singing

Good habits: Must pet every animal- no matter what must be friends

Bad habits: Talking with mouth full when annoyed, swearing a lot

Neutral habits: Commenting on anything semi-interesting, talking to self

What about smoking: NO | What about drugs: NO

What about alcohol: Yes…

T H I S O R T H A T

Couldn’t care less will do what she needs to do

Realist

Careless but worrisome

Messy

Indifferent

Uncaring

Does what she has to

Active

E X T R A

Theme Song (you can pick a song and put it here): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t99KH0TR-J4 | https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QzeRIQS3YgQ

Quote: “Sometimes you just got to let life screw you over before you screw it over too.”

Appearance (pictures, edits, etc.): (IMAGE AT TOP)

Ship/s: Hinami, Nalumi, Cocami, Nanenchi

#Hunter x Hunter #hxh #nanami kiyohime #hxh oc #Hunter x Hunter oc

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aislingeu · 4 years ago

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hello!! i’m kq ( aka kelsey quinn! ) i’m twenty five, livin in the est, usin she / her pronouns!! much like the good buddy who turned me on to this rp, i don’t know a ton about percy jackson!! but mythology was one of the few subjects that held my attention in school, so i hoe i have a good handle on it! :D for now, i manage a comic book store from thursdays - sundays, so i’m scarce those times but i’m usually on discord!!

⟨ ABIGAIL COWEN. CIS FEMALE. SHE / HER ⟩ though the mist might prevent some from seeing it, AISLING DUNN is actually a descendant of H Y P N O S. it’s still a question of whether or not the TWENTY-THREE year old PAINTING MAJOR from DUBLIN, IRELAND has taken after their godly parent completely, but the demigod is still known to be quite CLEVER & COARSE.

this got way longer than i intended im so sorry...

𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃

she was born on march 12th, 1997 to a pair of irish musicians ( conor and dierdre dunn ) and, unwittingly, one greek god ( hypnos ) in dublin, ireland. her parents met and married shortly after her conception and neither of them suspected that conor wasn’t aisling’s father, until she was claimed.

as an only child, her parents didn’t have much to compare her too in terms of overall strangeness. for years, they wrote off her abilities as kids just sayin’ the darndest things. they remained blissfully unaware of the impact of their daughter’s words, rolling their eyes fondly, when she told them about the man in the cave, who came to her in dreams. they smiled and laughed, when she strangers at the supermarket that she thought erwin was a fine name to give a teddy bear, no matter what anyone else said. how were they to know that she was unearthing the fond childhood memories that passersby had almost forgotten?

when she enrolled in primary school, they realized that she was... strange, if not special. she was recognized as a bit of a space case, often staring at nothing in particular, while her teacher droned on. her worksheets were seldom turned in complete. instead, aisling began gifting poorly drawn family portraits on the blank sides of her papers, likenesses plucked from the memories she explored when her mind wandered, in class.

eventually, after her skill had developed and people stopped writing off the stick figures as ‘coincidentally accurate’, people began to truly take notice. they speculated that she was a medium, silently communing with the dead and painting their pictures as she did. how else could she know what her art teacher’s late father looked like? and what color tie he always liked to wear? she had to be a psychic. recipients of her art were always so focused on their perception of the little girl with the gift of sight that they hardly even realized what she had tweaked, brightening up their darkest memories, just so they wouldn’t have to hurt anymore. she hardly even realized, herself.

without a reason to believe otherwise, she told the man in her dreams that she was a psychic, but he knew differently. he told her that that wasn’t so. she was special, yes, but not in the ways that the world thought her to be. hypnos let her in on the secret he’d been keeping for the past twelve years and, just like that, aisling could make sense of herself. once she knew the truth, she chased sleep. she spent as much time as she could, communicating with the one person who understood who she was. he saw her hunger for belonging and pointed her in the direction of the camp nearest to her hometown.

after a summer away, she came home faced with a challenge in morality that she’d never considered, as a child. she came home to a world where she could no longer fit. her party tricks had lost their luster the moment she realized that true value of a memory, however sad, was worth far more than the cheap smiles that her alterations had afforded. with that realization, her art took a darker turn. unable to shift the memories she saw into the light, they haunted her. she now saw their fears and heartbreaks for what they were: unchangeable. and, now, they lived within her, too. putting them to paper was the only way to get them out. but, pieces like those weren’t the kind that could be sent home to mom and dad. pieces like those were the kind that got her meetings with guidance counselors and haunted, fleeting looks from those whose memories she’d never meant to disturb. after a year of that, aisling went back to camp, full time.

once she was a year round resident of the camp, she found herself more comfortable around people who understood; there was nothing she had to hide, among those who were like her. each one of them was fighting an uphill battle of their own. they didn’t have to hide it. even if she never allowed herself to get too close, aisling never felt all that far away, at camp.

at eonia, aisling spends most of her days painting, sleeping, or working. raised by a pair of mortal musicians, finding a job at fireside records felt like a natural progression. where her godly parent thrives in silence, she finds her comfort in noise. it’s easier to block out the things she doesn’t need to see when there’s something immediate for her to focus on. at the other end of that spectrum, aisling finds her mind most open in visual arts club, trying to keep her other creative skills sharp, while she keeps her primary focus on painting. in search of inspiration, her mind reaches out in tendrils, dipping into another’s until she finds something she can work with. she only needs to leave the room before they’ve realized what she’s borrowed.

𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘

aisling is a naturally empathetic person, always wishing she could do more to help those around her. unfortunately, she knows that she can’t always honor that instinct. her abilities and self-imposed limitations have left her with a hardened exterior that isn’t easy to break through. those who pass through her walls see a softer side: a steadfast friend, always there to put a peaceful end to their sleepless nights or calm their worst nightmares, with a gentle run of her fingers through their hair. but sometimes, she’ll wall herself away from even those she’s closest to after she finds herself in the middle of a particularly harrowing memory. because of this, maintaining close bonds for long is a difficult thing. given her propensity for accidentally rifling through the fondest and most fearsome parts of peoples’ pasts, she’s been known cut them out of her life when she sees something that she has the urge to alter.

𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐒

MEMORY RETRIEVAL — for as long as she could remember, aisling knew things that she shouldn’t. at first, her parents just dismissed her gift as imagination and observation combining in a perfect, creepy storm. it wasn’t until she started attending school, picked up her finger paints, and started to draw out moments from the pasts of strangers that people started to truly take notice. sloppy scenes from the librarian’s wedding day graduated into well sketched portraits of her bus driver’s dalmatians. she liked to take those happy moments, immortalize them in art, and hand them off to the owners of the memories. she liked to make people smile. sometimes, she took that a step further. too young to see the value in sadness, aisling would tweak the memories that were harder to bear; even if she couldn’t bring someone happiness in the present, she hoped she could bring them comfort in the future. it wasn’t until she was claimed that aisling saw the flaws in her intervention. it wasn’t until she was taught the consequences that she knew she had to stop. although the memories came to her unbidden, they didn’t belong to her and she had no right to change them. instead of focusing on the alteration of memories, aisling opted to try to learn how to shut them out. like her other powers, though, there’s a direct correlation between her emotional state and her ability to keep a wall up. when she’s feeling something strongly or hasn’t gotten enough sleep, she sees things that she doesn’t mean to.

HYPNOKINESIS — you are getting very sleepy… what proved to be a fun tool at sleepovers had more practical applications than aisling knew possible. the skill of inducing sleep was easy enough to come by and influencing dreams was as simple as altering memories. and while ( without intending to ) she’d been known to cause visions when tensions ran high, refining those visions into ones that took the shapes she wanted them to took practice. even more difficult than that was learning to astral project, but that became a necessity, coming hand-in-hand with building her mental walls. when the uninvited memories start to weigh on her, she’s learned that it’s best to remove herself from the immediate vicinity. even if she’s only technically leaving in her head.

OTHER ABILITIES — ( levitation ) a skill she only possesses in sleep, predominantly when her dreams are eliciting strong emotions. ( seeing the gods in dreams ) this is how she formed and maintained a relationship with her father, despite her parents being unaware of their daughter’s godly lineage. on occasion, she’ll encounter gods that she’s less familiar with and, in most of those cases, she’s been known to force herself awake.

𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒

there are so many cool, fun things runnin through my brain right now!! i think it would be lovely for her to have forged a friendship with an insomniac or maybe someone prone to nightmares that she could help! and those fun customer service relationships with record store regulars!! or maybe a former friend or significant other, who aisling left behind? maybe even altering their memory slightly, if the parting of ways was ugly! who knows! the possibilities are endless!! and i’m always up to hearing other peoples’ ideas because the Sweet Lord knows i am not the most imaginative person in any given room!!!

thank u for reading ilu!!!

#euintro #death cw //#i think i covered everything!! if u have any questions lemme know!! i can clarify probably!!

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capricornus-rex · 5 years ago

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What about...Cal x reader fic, getting stuck on Jakku because the Mantis needs repairs?

Gotcha covered, hun! 😉 took me long enough to finish the bulk of the story because I ended up developing the story into a multi-part series rather than a oneshot. Sorry I’ve kept you waiting though ;-; Hope you like it! ❤

“A Test of Wills”

Cal Kestis x Reader

Part 2 | Masterlist

1 of ?

Something disturbs the peace within the Mantis as it cruised through the black blanket of space.

The alarm blared across the ship, the sound rattled through the ventilation shafts, and the ship itself quaked with great turbulence. Cal darted out of the cockpit and into the engine room, there was a plume of smoke coming out of the gap just beside the bed.

“What’s going on?” Greez asked from the pilot’s seat.

From the cockpit, a screen on the dashboard projected a blueprint drawing of the hyperdrive power cell, a red meter filled a part of the drawing, and your eyes pulled together with great caution. Your eyes flitted from one screen to another as you were confronted with a collage of red screens. Greez slapped your hand when you were reaching for one of the switches.

“The compressor’s heating up!” Cal answered from the engine room.

“That’s because we made a second hyperspace jump with just 48 percent of charge,” you deduced. “No wonder the covered distance was so short!”

“Should we turn off the auxiliary power?” Cere suggested.

“That would make the ship live bait. This calls for an emergency landing, Captain,”

Greez swiveled his chair facing you, he put his lower pair of arms on his waist and sternly looked at you in the eye.

“An emergency landing? Could it be that bad?”

“To be honest, Greez, I wouldn’t wait for it to come to that,”

These are one of the moments where Greez’s logic and unconditional love for the Mantis are at play in a mental battlefield. In his mind, his last-minute solution was to indeed cut off the auxiliary power so the blazing engine would stop—but it’s tricky to fix a ship off-planet, with bounty hunters on your tail and in droves, no less. You were right, it would make the Mantis easy prey.

Greez may be overly proud of his ship, but he knows when he is right and when he’s wrong. He swiveled his chair back to facing the steering wheel, his two pairs of arms throwing themselves around the dashboard computers and clutched onto the steering wheel in the end.

“Alright everyone, brace yourselves!” Greez announced and cranked the wheel as you entered the atmosphere of the nearest planet within the ship’s reach.

Everybody held tight on their seats—Cere on her seat in the cockpit, Merrin in the holotable couch, Cal and BD-1 have retreated out to the galley and braced themselves on the barstool, and finally you and the captain in your respective seats.

The ship blazed through the thin sheet of the planet’s atmosphere, the heat was slowly seeping through the interior as the Mantis descended, and Greez—with all the might of his four arms combined—fought with the steering wheel as he cranked it up.

When the surface seems to appear closer and closer, you felt your stomach go flat; in your periphery, you saw Greez flail his arms over the dashboard again, you know that he was preparing for the landing cycle, and prepare yourself for another “happy landing.”

The Mantis’s feet flung out of their hatches and the sand cushioned the landing. Every single person inside the ship caught their breath after holding it for too long once the ship touched the surface. You melted into your seat, raked the hairs that had fallen out of place, and allow the fact that you’re still alive sink in.

“What’s the…” Cere gasped. “Current diagnostics?”

The lights in your eyes were dancing, you had to lean forward to get a good look at the screens. You blinked countless times before you could read aloud the diagnostics.

“Power cells have drained…” you heaved. “There’s not enough fuel to travel at least nine parsecs.”

Cal peered through the windshield and saw a small settlement that seems to have taken attention to the ship.

“What planet are we in?” Cal asked.

You squinted your eyes looking at the screen where the planet’s name and coordinates are shown.

“Jakku,” you replied in a nearly surprised tone.

Not a single soul in the crew has ever heard of the planet. This was one of those collective first time situations. Everyone took a breather before marching out of the ship and blindly into another unheard of planet.

You left your seat in the cockpit and transferred to the holotable couch. Throwing yourself flat on the sofa, your limbs were numb and felt like jelly. Cal sat next to you, scooched in closer so that your head rests on his lap. His fingers softly scratched your hairline—the sleight of that sensation was enough to send goosebumps all over your skin—they glided across the length of your hair, he saw the soothed expression on your face, and so he did this a number of times.

“Your heartbeat’s really fast,”

“My body should be getting used to the happy landings by now,” you clapped back.

The feeling was enough to lull you to sleep, you’re half-awake as you fiddled the straps and buckles on his armor, Cal leans closer to you and plants a kiss on your forehead and the anxiety that racked up inside you simply melted away.

While you lay there, questions and scenarios start rushing into your mind about this new planet. The questions start from worst to least bad. All the while, ideas branch out of your mind after each scenario you could think of.

“[y/n],”

“Hmm…?”

“Slow down with the thoughts,” he whispered.

The calm façade didn’t work through Cal, he can still feel the anxiety trembling within your nerves, he can feel the ideas dart through your brain, and the images were vivid enough for him to see what imaginary plan you ought to be conceiving in your mind.

“Sorry. I guess I’m taking precautions,”

“Hey, we’ll be okay,”

You looked at him in the eye when he let go of those words. Cal was someone you could trust—if any, he is a man of his word. His words have put you at ease, but not for long. A few hours after landing, everybody had regained their composure and then all gathered round in the galley to brainstorm.

All heads turned to the door as Greez enters the ship after taking a look at the damage.

“Well, she’s still beautiful on the outside, but on the inside?” Greez clenches his teeth and makes a subtle negative gesture with his lower pair of arms.

“I checked the engine room out in the back, overheated power cells” you added. “The hyperspace compressor is cooked, too. We need a replacement—and a good one.”

“Look there, in the distance. That looks like a settlement,” Merrin gestures with her head turning to the general direction of the said outpost. “Do you suppose they have the things we need?”

“If it’s an outpost, it’s bound to have anything. I don’t see any other buying options around here,” you answered.

“And what about the fuel? One of you mentioned something about fuel,”

Cal took a big sigh before answering to Cere, “We don’t have enough fuel to make a single hyperjump. It can bring us some distance, but I wager not less than nine parsecs.”

There was a silence amongst the crew, BD-1’s sad trilling concluded the exchange between the four of you. It’s about time the captain had his say about anything—considering that this is technically his ship.

“So we need some fuel, a few emergency power cells, and a replacement compressor?”

“Seems about right. And our only hope is that outpost right out there,”

Just when Cere sensed that you and Cal have a plan in mind—which is obviously blindly setting foot into that outpost—she stopped you dead on your tracks, asked you to wait for her as she digs out a small satchel that contained a pouch of credits.

“Now, I don’t know how life works out there but even in a desolate place such as this, sometimes money talks.”

She takes your hand, places the pouch on your palm, and clasps your fingers around it. She gave another one to Cal. She confessed that it was the credits that she had saved when she was trying to survive, after breaking out of the fortress many years ago.

“Cere, are you sure to give this to us?”

“I made my choice,” she firmly said.

There was no room for argument there. You exchanged nods and you retreated to your shared quarters with Cal.

“Which one would you wanna wear this time?” he asked while digging through his stash of collected ponchos.

“Something that matches my eyes,” you reply, a playful tone hanging in your words.

“Right, the pink one it is then,”

You nudged him with your knee while being cramped in that little space you two were sitting in.

“What? The pink definitely brings out your eyes!”

Cal’s comment was received with a dead, passive stare from you. The only active reaction he got from you is a single raised eyebrow. He chuckled and temporarily ceased the horsing around for now. He repeated his question for seriousness’s sake this time.

“The Fjord one,”

He hands you the dark blue poncho and he suits up with the Free Kashyyyk poncho. As you dress yourself up and realign the collar of your poncho, you chuckle to yourself when you suddenly had a though. Even in the midst of a predicament such as this, you’re impressed with the fact that either of you still have the gall to crack some jokes and horse around.

Perhaps it might be the only thing that kept both of you going. It was a constant reminder that even in the bad times, you still have to look at the bright side—no matter how small the good thing may be. Cal taught you that—he just didn’t know it.

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mattzerella-sticks · 5 years ago

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Half-Priced Chocolate

The day after Valentine's Day is great for many things. Basking in the glow of a night well spent, sharing the joy of love with your family, and eating chocolate priced considerably lower than it was the day before.

Except Sam can't enjoy any of that, because Dean won't let him. Because Dean woke up in a sour mood and has picked up the banners of war against romantic love.

Albeit, the three aforementioned things might make his conflict the shortest in history.

Sam sits with his granola and his pressed juice for exactly seven seconds when Dean walks in. Storms in, trailed by a dark cloud that thunders and readies to soak through anyone unlucky enough to cross its path. Grey dead man’s robe already looking dark and wet, clinging to his body. He passes Sam and the healthy breakfast he prepared as they marched towards the fridge with murder and hunger burdened on his tense shoulders.

Mornings like these warn Sam of a day spent tiptoeing around his brother lest he accidentally set off a bomb. Ignore muttered grumblings if he wanted to be spared listening to Dean spend hours talking about everything annoying him except the real problem. Bury his head in a book or website so Dean would find his own outlet and wear himself into an approachable mood.

Only he’s riding a strong high, drunk on Eileen and careless enough to stomp around with his happiness.

“Morning Dean,” Sam says, chewing around the spoonful of granola, “How’d you sleep?” Dean grunts, backtracked by sizzling bacon being slapped onto the pan. Undeterred, Sam continues cheerily. “Me? I had an okay sleep, I mean when I actually went to sleep… I had a pretty late night.” Sam sips at his juice, letting Dean’s silence balloon for a moment until he pops it again. “Eileen and I stayed up chatting for a long time… didn’t really want it to end.” He then describes the date he planned, setting up the tablet in the library. Watching his reflection while the screen loaded, fixing his tie and mussing his hair until Eileen’s face popped up over his. Her hair perfectly cascading over one shoulder, hiding one of the straps of the purple dress she wore. In front of her was a mirror to Sam’s set up, a plate of food, a candle, and a little rose. Eileen waved at him in greeting, and in return Sam signed his. “I mean, it was kind of difficult,” Sam confessed, “I promised Eileen that I would only sign the entire night – even though she told me it would be okay. But, oh man… you should have seen her eyes light up when I recited The White Rose by John Boyle O’Reilly. Was scared I got something wrong but she said my fingers were fine… those hours spent hunched over the laptop watching YouTube were really worth it to see her smile…”

“Big deal,” Dean scoffs, back still turned, “you got your fingers to make some neat shapes. I can do that, too…” Then, he extends his arm to show his middle finger to Sam. Even if he wouldn’t face him, Sam knows his pursed lips and heavy stare burn holes in Dean’s head.

“Wow, Dean,” Sam says, “I take it there were no presents under the tree with your name on it for Unattached Drifter Christmas?”

“Bite me Sammy.”

“I already have someone I can bite, thank you very much –“

“Not like she’s here, though, is she?” Dean asks, finally turning. He crosses his leg at the knee, mockingly rubbing his chin. “Wouldn’t an in-person date be more romantic than sitting alone with your computer all night? That’s just an average day for you.”

His balloon springs a small leak, and he floats towards the ground. “Okay, you’re seriously bringing down my mood,” Sam glowers, pushing his bowl away. “Can you take whatever bullshit you brought in and wade through it somewhere else?”

Dean scoffs, “What mood? Pent up sexual frustration? Or did you take care of that, too, with your magic fingers.” He mimes around his crotch, sticking his tongue out with a disgusting wink. Snickers when Sam’s lips curl.

His grip on his juice tightens, and he drowns the furious remark burning his tongue with the drink. Instead of playing into Dean’s game, Sam stirs his granola with an almost forgotten spoon. Ignores another jab meant to shake up his Jenga tower of patience. Dean lucky that each piece he pulls doesn’t damage the structural integrity.

Except the tower wobbles. “Probably gonna have to get used to it, though,” he continues, leaning against the counter, “with how long the sabbatical Eileen’s taking, you’re gonna need it.”

He jumps onto the line like a fish to bait. “What is your problem –“

“Dean? Sam? What’s going on?”

Across the room, Dean stiffens and whirls to the entrance. Face pale, Sam watches his brother hands tremble before hiding behind his open robe. “Cas,” he says, “what’re you doing back?”

Castiel’s hands are also out of sight. He glances between the two men with trademark confusion. “I only stepped out for a moment –“

“A moment?” Dean hisses. He peeks at Sam from the corner of his eye – red and puffy, now that he pays closer attention to those kinds of details. “A moment,” he says again, stepping closer, “Cas you’ve been gone for –“

“Almost an hour, I’ll admit,” Castiel sighs, meeting Dean halfway, “I didn’t intend to be away that long, but the line at the store was tremendous… and the register system was glitching –“

“The store? What were you doing at a store though?”

A smile blossoms from his pursed lips, Castiel finally revealing his hands and the heart-shaped box in them. “I got this… for you.”

Dean falters, stunned. Stares at the present with trepidation and awe. He reaches for it, caressing the edges and following the trail until his fingers skim Castiel’s hands. Flinching away like he touched the forgotten pan of overly crispy bacon. “For me? Why?”

“Well,” Castiel starts, “I was lying up thinking about how we sort of celebrated the holiday backwards yesterday and… I wanted to make up for it.” Sam sees the flower of Castiel’s lips wilt. “Do you… not like it? I’ll admit, it was marked considerably low…”

He can’t see from how Dean angled himself. But the shaky shoulders and how a palm drifts up to rub his face, Sam feels glad for his obstructed seating. “That’s because it’s the day after, you idiot…”

“Dean?”

“Shit, Cas,” he huffs, “no note, couldn’t have texted me or something –“

“I… I wanted this to be a surprise,” Castiel tells him, “besides, after last night I figured you would need the rest. Three times at your age is exhausting –“

Dean cuts him off, Sam blushing fiercely while his mind shades in the crude drawing the angel began. Aided by his brother’s finishing remark. “Well maybe if you didn’t renovate my insides my spleen wouldn’t have been squeezing my bladder.”

“Guys,” Sam chokes, the granola catching in his throat, “guys what are you –“

“Dean,” Castiel speaks over him, “what is this about?”

“What is this about?” Dean mocks, chuckling darkly. He inches closer, eclipsing the heart from Sam’s view. “I thought you… I thought you left…”

A serene wave of understanding washes over Castiel’s features, smoothing the lines marring his face. Sam wishes for a similar stroke of clarity. “Next time,” Castiel says, “I will leave a note. And text. And wake you… although you can’t be mad if I do, okay?”

The next laugh is much lighter, Dean sniffling between rounds. “Yeah… I promise.” He turns again, Sam tactlessly falling into his seat from the whiplash of his brother’s emotional rollercoaster. Gapes as Dean flicks the stove off and leaves the ruined bacon in the pan. “Come on,” he says, rattling the box of chocolates Sam failed to notice where in his possession, “let’s see what fifty percent off tastes like.��

They’re so close to escaping, except Sam finds his words. Buried deep under shock and confusion, they’re there for him to dust off and shout. “What the hell was that?”

Dean stops, a hand over Castiel’s on his waist to slow the other. He finally remembers Sam’s presence, a light shade of pink dusting his cheeks. “Hey,” his face twitches, “you see all that?”

“…Yes!”

“Well,” he drawls, leaning into Castiel while he thinks, “it was a… a fight.”

Sam feels his eyebrows recede into his hairline. “A fight?”

“Yeah, look,” he huffs, pointing at Sam with the heart box, “I know you and Eileen are still new but sometimes couples who’ve been together for a long time get into them every now and then. But then you make up and move past them.”

“Oh,” Sam scoffs, “so you two are a couple now?”

“Of course.”

“A couple for a long time…?”

“We only made it official last night,” Castiel says, tone easy despite the pitched voices of the Winchester brothers, “while you and Eileen were on your date, Dean and I sat and drank and shared a few words… among other things.”

“But,” Dean carries on, “we’ve practically been together for over a decade. This is just an – an upgrade from our previous situation.”

“An upgrade?” Sam asks.

“Yeah,” he nods, “now I can do stuff like this.” Quickly, in a blink, Dean presses his lips to Castiel’s cheek. Rocking on his heels from the momentum of pulling back, face aflame like a bad sunburn. Almost laughable if Castiel didn’t gaze at Dean with heavenly wonder. “Whenever I want…” Dean adds, trailing off.

The desire to tease Dean bubbles forth, but whether exhausted or blinded by the natural glow on Castiel’s face, it pops and dies in his chest. He grabs his spoon and stirs his granola. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Sam smirks, “that’s it. Happy Valentine’s or whatever…”

“Happy Valentine’s Day to you, too, Sammy,” Dean says, being led out of the room by Castiel, “later, you’ve got to tell me how your date went. I’m sure it was great – Eileen’s a really lucky girl!”

“Bye!” he waves, waiting until the two men fully disappear behind the corner. Leaving him in relative peace for a moment. But then Jack walks in, focused on the hallway. Sam thinks he can accurately guess what captured the younger boy’s attention, only hopes that his brother has enough wits about him to maintain restraint. “Hey,” he says, startling Jack, “you want breakfast?”

Jack strides forward, sliding in across from Sam. “Why was Castiel holding Dean’s hand?”

Sam rolls his eyes, “Because they’re dating.”

“They are?”

“Apparently,” he chuckles, “it’s their day-iversary.”

Jack cranes his neck and glances behind him once more before leaning forward, near conspiratorially. “Is this a good thing?”

“Uh… yeah?” Sam tells him, chewing around the granola and words carefully, “Dean’s happy, and Cas is happy, too… don’t you want them happy?”

“I do, I do, I just…” Jack frowns, staring at his fists, “I wasn’t sure the Empty would agree to nullifying Cas’s deal. But since they’re together and he’s still here...”

Sam chokes again, spoon clattering against the bowl when he drops it. “Excuse me?” he asks, coughing fitfully, “Cas made a deal with the what?”

#supernatural #spn #spn15 #supernatural fanfiction #spn fanfic #dean winchester #sam winchester #castiel #saileen #destiel #deancas #destiel fanfic

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inmyownlittlecorner5 · 5 years ago

Text

Severus Snape and the Midnight Tea

A One-Shot by la-topolina

Rated for Teen Audiences

Warnings: Death of a parent

Written for the Severus Snape Bigbang 2019+

Summary: Luna Lovegood is a most curious child.

Author’s Note: For the Snape Bigbang 2019, we were asked to write a story starring our favorite potions master to be illustrated by an fan artist. I was very fortunate to be paired with @owlswithfins; and you can see their absolutely perfect artwork for this tale here: Poppies+

(picspam by the author)

The first time Severus Snape met Luna Lovegood was at her mother’s funeral. He’d been unsurprised by the news that Pandora Lovegood, née Nott, had managed to kill herself during a disastrous spell experiment; but he had been sorry all the same. Pandora had possessed a rare quality of unfailing good will and, wild as her imagination would sometimes run, her presence in the Slytherin common room had been a welcome breath of fresh air.

And so it was, on a atrociously lovely day in May, Severus found himself counted among the flock of Pandora’s mourners, balancing a teacup and saucer and a plate of cold meat and cake in the furthest recesses of the Lovegoods’ garden that he could respectably maintain. The gloriously blue sky was a heartless backdrop to the red-eyed and frequently sniveling guests, as was the riot of greens, blues, pinks, and purples that had burst forth in the freshness of spring around them. Only the crumbling stone wall enclosing the lawn had the decency to display a touch of melancholy decay, and Severus tenaciously clung to his haven in the corner; trusting that his dour expression and ability to avoid eye contact would protect him from the unpleasant task of making conversation.

“You’ve a Wrackspurt in your ear,” piped a small voice near his elbow.

He tensed at the disturbance, and looked down his nose to behold the now motherless Lovegood girl, decked in a white chiffon dress and a crown of violently red poppy flowers.

“I beg your pardon?” he replied stiffly, returning the child’s vague smile with a frown.

“A Wrackspurt. I can tell because you were staring off and not talking to anybody. But don’t worry, it’s to be expected. They’re everywhere today.”

“Are they? I don’t believe I am familiar with that particular creature.”

“Oh, they’re pesky little brutes. They float in people’s ears and make their thoughts get all fuzzy. And they like funerals. Everyone is so sad and distracted you know, so it’s easy for them to get in. They’re sure to have gotten me by now too, since Daddy made me leave off my spectrespecs.”

Severus was beginning to feel mildly dizzy from the speed of the girl’s prattle.

“Spectrespecs?”

“They help you see the Wrackspurts coming. But Daddy said that there would be too many today to bother with the spectrespecs, especially since they would upset Grandmama Nott. And he can always take care of them during the nightly de-Wrackspurting before bedtime stories.”

“I see.” He did not see.

“Now I know who you are! You’re Professor Severus Snape. I’m Luna Lovegood and you’ll be my teacher in two years.”

She held out her hand to him with a poise that belied her age, her weedy frame, and her odd lexicon. Her manner was so airy that he wondered if she were perhaps as moonstruck as her name implied; but he took her hand and bent over it as though she were a pureblood matron to command such courtesies.

“Miss Lovegood, I am sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, Professor Snape. That’s nice of you to say, and Daddy says you’re usually not nice to anyone.”

He smirked in spite of himself. “That is true. I am not nice to anyone.”

“Did you know that being mean to people attracts Wrackspurts?”

“I was not aware of that.”

“They like to latch onto the purpleness of it all.”

“Ah.” He was not sure whether he was amused or insulted—but he was in no way bored, which was a novel feeling. He eyed her closely, noting the jagged cut of her hair and asked pointedly, “Was it a Wrackspurt that got hold of your hair today?”

She shook her locks carelessly. “No. A Dirigible Leafhopper. It found the scissors, and when Dirigible Leafhoppers get scissors, they will cut hair.”

“Naturally.” Severus wondered if all children this age were so easy to talk to.

She climbed up to perch on the edge of the garden wall and helped herself to the uneaten slice of lemon cake from his plate.

“I saw Mummy die, you know.”

“I did not know. How terrible for you.”

“It was, and it wasn’t.” She cocked her head to one side and her eyes slid slightly out of focus. “I don’t really remember it now. Six o’clock is the hour for remembering. At six I’ll be sad, but at seven I’ll be glad. Your Daddy died too.”

He grit his teeth to keep his jaw from falling open.

“Don’t worry,” she continued, crumbs from the cake clinging to the corners of her mouth, “the Mealytoes were telling me this morning. They went down the whole list of party guests and told me which ones had lost someone.”

“So you would know who to pester?” The child no longer seemed entertaining.

“So I would know who to give a poppy to.”

She finished his cake and plucked a poppy from her crown. Before he could retreat, she had tucked it behind his ear, and his hands were so encumbered by refreshments that he could only muster a glare to protect himself. Admittedly, it was a superior glare. One might say it was a glare sufficient to strike a grown man dead in his tracks.

It was a glare that did not affect this little wisp of a girl in the least.

“Poppies are very useful,” she explained, wiping her hands on her dress. “They suck up all the bile that gets stuck in your veins when someone dies, and they hold it for you so that you can still remember—but not so brightly that it hurts. Good day professor! Thank you for coming to Mummy’s party. I can’t wait to be in your class at school.”

Hopping down from the wall, Luna twirled about three times and skipped away in a flurry of floating skirts, her effervescent voice trailing after her.

“One for sorrow, two for joy

Three for a girl, four for a boy, boy, boy.

Five is for silver, six is for gold,

Seven for a secret that’s ne’er to be told, told told!”

Severus immediately deposited his plate and teacup on the toadstool table nearby and snatched the poppy from behind his ear. He felt vaguely nauseous, like he’d been sitting too long on a merry-go-round. The urge to crush the life from the hapless flower coursed through him, and only Xenophilius’s untimely interruption prevented it.

“Oh, my Luna has given you a poppy!” Xenophilius blubbered, clapping Severus on the shoulder. “She is such a good girl. I am so fortunate that she is safe. I do not know what I would do if I had lost both her and my Pandora.”

Here the man burst into fresh tears, and it was some time before Severus managed to extract himself from the embarrassing and unnatural position of sympathetic listener. By the time he effected his escape, the poppy was no longer as offensive, and he tucked it into a pocket as he slipped away from the Lovegood house into the freedom of the afternoon.

That evening, for some damned fool reason he could never later explain, he placed the poppy in a vase on the shelf over the desk in his sitting room at Hogwarts.

And it never wilted.

*****

The next time that Severus Snape met Luna Lovegood was on September first of 1992, long after the newly-minted Ravenclaw should have been in bed. He was walking his rounds, stalking through the darkened corridors and soaking in the somnolent atmosphere. He would never admit it, but Hogwarts without its students in residence was a dismal place. A week—or two at most—was as long as his spirits could stand the lack of human contact; especially after an entire summer spent alone in the despondent home of his childhood.

He had reached the entry hall, and was intending to retire to his rooms for reading and bed, when he saw her. The girl had not grown much since that unfortunate day two years prior. Her hair was scragglier, and her fingernails were ragged and dirty. She was wearing pink and green unicorn pajamas, and there were red trainers on her feet. Drifting through the hallway like a specter, she paid him no attention. Her small, white hands floated out in front of her, and when she reached the oaken door she started pushing at it, scrunching up her face with the effort.

“Ten points from Ravenclaw, Miss Lovegood. Go back to your tower immediately,” he said, stifling a yawn.

She didn’t answer—she merely kept wrestling with the locked door.

“And detention tomorrow evening. Miss Lovegood, classes have not even begun. This may be a new record.”

The silly child was beating on the unforgiving wood, completely ignoring him. He snarled and grabbed her by her thin shoulder; whipping her around to face him. Her eyes were rolling beneath her half-closed eyelids. The sight was so strange that he drew back at first, before realizing that she was asleep and dreaming. Disgruntled, he took her by the shoulders again and shook her once.

Her eyes snapped open instantly, and she started to shriek.

“Mummy! No Mummy, no!”

Severus clamped his hand over her mouth and she bit him, drawing blood. As he withdrew his hand, she started raining weak blows on him, like a kitten wrestling a tiger. He held her firmly by the shoulders until she ceased to fight; dissolving into tears and wetting the front of his robes. When the child’s fury had spent itself, he took her firmly under the arm and marched her down the stairs to the potions room.

Luna’s teeth started chattering as they descended, and her breathing was still punctuated by periodic sniffles. The dank chill of the lower part of the castle was uncomfortable at night, but he did not bother to light any of the fires, even when they came at last to his meticulously ordered classroom.

“Is it time for lessons now?” she asked, perking up despite the tears still seeping out of the corners of her doleful eyes. “I thought it was still night. Do we have classes under the moon?”

“Silence Miss Lovegood,” he ordered, “And sit down.”

As docile now as she had been disobedient earlier, she did as he asked, taking a seat at one of the empty work benches and running her hands over the smooth wood. He risked leaving her there long enough to retrieve a Calming Draught from the store closet, breathing a sigh of relief when he returned to find her where he had left her.

“Drink this,” he said, handing her the vial.

“A Calming Draught!” she said, beaming. She drank it without complaint, and then began hopping the empty vial over the top of the work bench, singing, “A Calming Draught, a Calming Draught, five knuts for a Calming Draught! A Calming Draught for me!”

“Cease that nonsense immediately, Miss Lovegood!” he snapped. “It is well past midnight, and, in case you have forgotten, classes begin in the morning.”

She stopped singing, but continued hopping the vial. “Yes, sir. But I think you’d best come with me up to the tower so that a Thistle-toed Night Creeper doesn’t catch me. I saw some of them skittering through the hallways.”

“To my understanding you were asleep whilst you were traipsing through the hallways. It must have been a dream,” he countered; but he was already leading her out of the dungeons on the long journey home.

“I was,” she agreed, tossing the empty vial up and down as they walked. “But you can see some things better when you are sleeping. I thought you knew. Don’t you see things more clearly in your dreams?”

He snatched the vial out of the air and shoved it irritably in his pocket. “One more word out of you, and I will deduct enough points from Ravenclaw to make Professor Flitwick sorry he ever saw you.”

She shrugged, but contented herself with whistling merrily as thy climbed. As stairwell after stairwell passed under their feet and failed to wind her, Severus mused that Luna was a truly strange child. He wondered how much of her mother’s daring curiosity she had inherited, and he began to tremble inwardly for the safety of his potions class.

By the time they reached the top of Ravenclaw tower, Severus’s calves were screaming. The eyes on the carved eagle head guarding the door flamed to life, and it posed its evening riddle.

“Nails and straw, cabbage and thee; all are longing—at last—for me,” it said.

“A bed,” Luna replied almost before the knocker had finished speaking.

“A paltry riddle,” Severus remarked.

“It’s only the first day. Good night, professor. Watch out for the Creepers!”

“Miss Lovegood.”

When the door was safely closed after the little Ravenclaw, Severus began the long trek back to his quarters. The castle whispered around him, but the night-time noises were old friends to him, settling his nerves rather than setting them on edge.

He did notice the flicker of something out of the corner of his eye as he unlocked his door. It was a winged shadow of sorts; and the edges of its form could be called thistle-like in structure. He turned his head to catch sight of the creature, but it vanished into the shadows like a puff of itinerant smoke.

Humbug and nonsense, he thought; and let himself in to bed.

*****

By the next afternoon, he was ready to kill her.

He’d begun the class with his usual lecture meant to impress upon the students the gravitas of the subject they were about to undertake—not that any of the dunderheads were capable of grasping the concepts he was placing before them. Once again the first year class was predictably dull, staring at him with stunned expressions due no doubt both to their confusion, and to their awe of him. All were staring, save one.

Luna had claimed a seat on the front bench, in the exact spot she’d taken during the small hours of the morning, dancing her empty vial over the wooden table before her. Now she was tapping her fingers on the wood in what Severus assumed was a disrespectful show of boredom. With a dark expression fixed on his face, he stalked through the aisles towards her as the students around him ducked their heads in expectation of the rebuke. But as he approached, he began counting the erratic movements without realizing what he was doing; and before long a familiar pattern emerged.

1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21…

Perhaps the girl was not as lost as she appeared. Nevertheless, he hovered over her, scowling, until she deigned to turn her attention from Fibonacci to her disgruntled teacher.

“I love spirals, sir, don’t you? They’re so very spiral-y,” she said, blinking up at him nonplused.

“Miss Lovegood,” he replied, allowing a trace of snarl to color his tone. “I expect strictest attention to the task at hand at all times in this class. Even a concoction so simple as a Fog Potion can cause considerable damage when mishandled.”

“Yes, sir. Is it not the time for spirals?”

He let the question pass unanswered. “I also expect silence.”

She gave him an airy smile, and he glared back at her for an embarrassingly long time before he realized that she was not going to respond.

“Five points from Ravenclaw, Miss Lovegood,” he growled as he turned back to the rest of the class. “There are thirty minutes left. You will use them to prepare the ingredients for the Fog Potion that you will brew on Wednesday. Precision is more important than speed at this point in your education, but you will not use that as an opportunity for laziness. The instructions are on the board. Begin.”

He flicked his wand and a list of ingredients and their preparations appeared on the black wall behind him. As the students began to nervously chop and crush their hollyhock and toadstools, he took a final circuit of the room, before retiring to his desk to review his notes for the next period’s lecture. He fully expected someone to make an idiotic mistake within ten minutes, but he felt it best to give them some time to fail on their own. Holding their metaphorical hands while they worked would only create dependency. Better to allow them to experience the humiliation of failure in the hopes that the lesson would stick.

“Oh dear…”

Miss Lovegood’s mild voice was the only warning he had; even as he glanced up from his parchment the explosion was erupting. He slashed his wand through the air, containing much of the damage within a hastily cast Shield Charm, but the students directly beside and behind Luna were already mewling like wounded kittens. Luna herself seemed unconcerned, staring at the ugly red welts on her arms as though they were a new problem to solve.

“What in Merlin’s name were you doing, Miss Lovegood?” he demanded, as he began slapping dittany, none too gently, on the injured parties. “You were told to prepare ingredients only. Did you misunderstand me?”

“No sir,” she replied. “But I’d finished, and I had some extra bilious solution, and I wanted to test what would happen if I added some asphodel to it.”

“Ten more points from Ravenclaw, and a foot of parchment on the importance of following instructions due next class.”

“Yes sir.”

He had no idea how she managed to maintain such an innocent and blameless expression under the black look he knew he was giving her, but he did not trust her penitence in the least.

It was a most inauspicious beginning to Miss Lovegood’s Hogwarts career.

*****

Severus was well and truly at the end of his rope come the beginning of October. He muttered darkly to himself as he strode through the halls one Sunday evening, irritated beyond measure by the sweet autumnal breeze and the glorious sunset streaming in the windows, lighting up the inner beauty of the castle just so. Students scattered as he cut through the groups of them where they gathered, frolicking and playing Exploding Snap. He had no time to bother with disciplining any of them, however, and he kept to his course until it led him to Filius Flitwick’s office high in Ravenclaw Tower.

A sharp rap on the door brought the diminutive professor immediately, and Severus glared down at the man until the older professor raised his bushy eyebrows in question.

“Good evening, Severus,” Filius said, puffing on his pipe. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company tonight?”

“That Lovegood girl is a menace,” Severus pronounced, eschewing all pleasantries with the intention of coming to the purpose at once.

“Is she? I find her charming. But do come in, and we’ll see what’s to be done about the matter.”

Severus swept into the office behind Filius, but refused to sit when the other man indicated the eagle-headed arm chair before the fire. Unperturbed, the charms professor shrugged and climbed into his own little rocking chair, still smoking his pipe.

“Now what seems to be the trouble?” Filius asked, watching Severus as the younger man paced through the chamber, dodging floating books and models of various magical destinations to which the Ravenclaw head had had the pleasure of visiting.

“Since the beginning of term, Miss Lovegood has caused no less than a dozen explosions in my class due to her refusal to follow direct orders. Her insubordination is endangering the lives of everyone in the room—nay every one in the castle itself!”

Severus emphasized the severity of his accusations with a sharp gesture that sent a miniature Sphinx toppling through the air and bouncing off the opposite wall.

“That is serious,” Filius agreed mildly.

“I’ve deducted house points,” Severus went on.

“Ah, I had wondered about that,” Filius murmured.

“I’ve given her extra essays. I’ve given her detention. I’ve set her to remedial tasks. Nothing deters her from her willful misbehavior. She will go her own way and damn the consequences. Most of the time she appears to be in another world altogether!”

Severus’s heart rate rose, along with his temper, as he enumerated the girl’s crimes.

“Perhaps she is. Have you asked her?”

“Of course not!” Severus spat. “Why would I do such a foolish thing?”

“You might learn something,” Filius replied, his eyes twinkling with something suspiciously like merriment.

“I beg your pardon!” This was not a laughing matter.

“Severus, when was the last time you ate?”

At the mention of food, Severus’s stomach started to rumble, and he growled, “I don’t see how that has any bearing on the subject at hand.”

“Humor me.”

“I…seem to recall eating breakfast…”

“Better than I’d guessed.”

“Yesterday morning.”

“Ah. In that case,” Filius hopped down from his chair and scurried over to a rope-and-pulley system lined with tiny bells near the fire. The top of the contraption stretched up to the domed ceiling, and the bottom extended through a small hole in the floor and out of sight. The charms professor quickly tapped out a ringing tune, and a moment later the rope started moving, sending the bells into an obnoxious bout of tinkling. “Tell me, is there anything else our Miss Lovegood is doing to trouble you besides her classroom difficulties?”

“She is your Miss Lovegood and I will thank you for keeping her.”

“I shall, happily. And here we are.”

A tray of mackerel pâté with pickles on rye, and a steaming cup of earl grey with milk came up through the floor, attached to the rope by an oversized clothespin, and Filius pressed the sustenance into Severus’s unwilling hands.

“I didn’t ask you for tea, Filius,” Severus grumbled, even as he settled himself into the armchair and fell on the sandwiches like a ravenous beast.

“I know, but I find that one tends to think more clearly when one’s energy is not diverted to the task of keeping one upright in the face of starvation,” Filius replied jovially. He sat back down in his rocking chair, and went about the task of refilling his pipe while Severus demolished his food.

“Why is it, do you think, that Miss Lovegood is so troublesome to manage?” asked Filius, tapping his pipe against his chin.

“Because she’s a defiant brat,” was Severus’s quick reply as he took a bracing sip of the perfectly brewed and balanced mixture in his teacup.

Filius shrugged. “I have not found this to be so.”

“Why would you? She’s in your house.”

“Severus, be fair.” Filius’s tone took on a hint of warning. “I think you are aware that I am perfectly willing to discipline when required, and I am always open to constructive criticism from my colleagues. You do remember Mr Whitehouse and the lacewing fly theft?”

“I suppose you did deal with that,” Severus admitted. The food and the tea were slowly robbing him of some of his foul temper.

“Thank you.” Filius puffed in silence and then remarked, “I have found Miss Lovegood to be a delight in class. She is light-years ahead of her fellows in terms of grasping the potential of charmwork.”

“In potions I am afraid she is a disaster.”

“Why is that, do you think?”

Severus’s temper started to flare again. “Filius, I hope you are not insinuating that I am the problem.”

“No. But perhaps your methodology might be examined. You mentioned that you’ve tried all the usual things; detentions, deducting points, extra homework, et cetera?”

“Yes, weren’t you listening?”

“I was. It is difficult not to listen when you are in a snit. What was the purpose of the punishments you’ve meted out thus far?”

“To inspire remorse and respect in the student, of course.”

“I would have said shame and fear.”

“One and the same.”

“Not so,” Filius countered, blowing a trail of smoke rings that danced in and out of each other through the room. “But for the sake of the experiment, let us assume that they are. I would venture to guess that the reason these tactics did not work in this case is because Miss Lovegood cannot be motivated by either shame or fear.”

“I see. She is an ungovernable dunderhead, isn’t she?”

“This brings me to my next point. The remedial work you are torturing her with may be making her behavior even more trying than it needs to be.”

Severus’s eyes narrowed at the other professor. If anything, Filius’s mild expression aggravated him more than if the man had been raging in defense of his silly student.

“Filius, I will give you half a minute to explain what you mean before I take serious exception with you.”

“I thank you, even for that.” A set of rotating orbs descended from on high, and Filius examined their glowing depths as he expounded his theory. “Some students become bored easily, and when they become bored they make all sorts of trouble, because their minds cannot cease being busy. If these minds are not properly directed, they will take their own, sometimes destructive, paths.”

“Are you saying that Lovegood is being impossible simply because she is bored?”

“I am.”

Severus stalked over to return his tray to the kitchens via the pulley system, and tugged at his sleeve irritably as he resumed his pacing.

“Even supposing you were correct, what am I expected to do about her problem?”

“It seems to me that it is your problem as much as hers. Challenge her. Give her more interesting work rather than less.”

“And I am to have yet more work thrust upon me? Is she to be rewarded for misbehavior in such a way?”

“It need not be overly complicated. Something as simple as variations on the potion at hand should suffice.”

“I don’t like it, Filius. It goes against the grain.”

Filius tucked a vibrant magenta ball into his breast pocket, and sent the rest of the mobile floating back up towards heaven.

“Sometimes the most challenging students are the most rewarding, when we reach them.”

“I would dispute that conclusion in general, and in this case in particular.”

The Ravenclaw looked up at the Slytherin with a pointed gaze, and observed, “It would seem to me that you have nothing to lose by trying. How much time are you already wasting with Shield Charms, disasters, and injuries?”

A hot retort beat its way to Severus’s tongue, but he knew Filius well enough to glean when he was within an inch of pushing the man too far. It was rarely worth pushing the charms professor too far.

“Very well. I will put your plan to the test for the next week. But if I do not see immediate improvement, your Miss Lovegood will spend the rest of term cleaning bedpans in the hospital wing.”

The merry gleam returned to Filius’s eyes, and Severus felt his shoulders relax a tick.

“You must do as you see fit, Severus. But I would wager that you will not be disappointed. Now, is there anything further?”

Severus frowned, debating whether he should mention the child’s other problem.

“I see that there is. Come now, what else is the lass doing?” Filius prompted.

“She sleepwalks. At least once a week I see her out of the Tower during my rounds,” Severus said, leaning on the back of the armchair.

“My goodness,” Filius replied, his merry look replaced with one of concern. “I was not aware of that. Are you certain?”

“Of course I’m certain! And it’s a damned nuisance to wake her, calm her infernal screaming, and escort her back to her dormitory.”

“All that and you not being as young as you used to be.” Severus opened his mouth to take the bait, but Filius continued without allowing him the time. “Waking her is what is causing the trouble.”

“I should think that her sleepwalking is what is causing the trouble.”

Filius shook his head firmly. “Not so. She is attempting to accomplish something; something her subconscious mind finds of highest import. The next time someone finds her in this situation, he would do better to help her accomplish whatever her task may be, and lead her back to bed without waking her.”

“This child becomes more bothersome by the second!” Severus exclaimed. “First I must make new lesson plans, and now I am expected to aid her on some sleep-addled, featherbrained quest?”

“If I am the one to catch her in the act, I will do the same.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I didn’t expect you to. The subconscious mind is sometimes more insightful than the conscious one. Why don’t you give it a try. If it doesn’t work, we’ll talk to Madam Pomfrey about other options, but I would rather avoid giving the child more potions than absolutely necessary. I don’t need to tell you how habit forming they can become.”

“No. You don’t.” Severus flicked an invisible piece of lint from his sleeve and started for the door. “Good night, Filius. I shall take my leave of you before you add any other tasks to my already considerable workload.”

“Good night, Severus. I look forward to hearing the results of our experiments.”

Severus gave the Ravenclaw a short bow and started the journey back towards the dungeons; unsure as to whether he wished for Filius to be right, and thus save him further troubles—or wrong, and thus give him the pleasure of telling the man so.

Either way, it appeared he had little to lose.

*****

A week into the experiment produced such improvement in Miss Lovegood’s behavior, that Severus had merely smirked at Filius when the head of Ravenclaw had asked him about it. The potions master had taken the trouble of reseating the Lovegood girl as far away from the potentially explosive supply cabinet as possible, and he had partnered her with Margaret Baskerville at Filius’s suggestion. Miss Baskerville had demonstrated a remarkable affinity to the Shield Charm, as the Ravenclaws had discovered one evening during an overexcited match of Exploding Snap. Severus had even begun to hope that the moon child’s sleepwalking days had ended when he passed several nights of patrol without encountering her. Perhaps she had merely required a period of time to acclimate to her new surroundings.

One mild night in mid-October, Severus’s hopes were dashed—yet again—when he discovered Miss Lovegood, willowy arms heavy laden with a checked picnic blanket wrapped around some unwieldy burden, attempting to escape from the castle by the locked front door. He silently approached her, his hand ready to shake her awake even as he braced himself for her inevitable screaming.

Just before his hand reached her shoulder, he recalled Filius’s advice to help the sleeping child rather than hinder her. Cursing himself for a fool, he murmured the incantation to unlock the latch, and pushed the door open to the night air. She shuffled through it without waking, her red trainers crunching fallen leaves beneath them, and her fluffy yellow bathrobe flapping in the light breeze. The full moon bathed the grounds in silver-blue light as he followed the girl all the way to the shadowy edge of the Forbidden Forest. Doxies and nightwings flocked to them, and far off an owl hooted a warning. Severus drew his wand and swatted at the pests until they flurried away; and Miss Lovegood continued on the forest path, still firmly asleep.

As they progressed deeper into the forest, the darkness pressed in on them; the half-dressed arms of the trees blocking out the moonlight overhead. The lumos from Severus’s wand gave him enough light to see the girl’s eyelids flickering, and he wondered briefly how exactly she was able to walk over the uneven ground without stumbling in this state. Once or twice he thought he caught a glimpse of red eyes peering at them from behind some gnarled shape; and more often than that, he contemplated waking the child and dragging her screaming back to the castle. He fully intended to give Filius a set down after the antics tonight.

At the moment he had firmly decided to abort this fool’s mission, they came to a large clearing, guarded by towering evergreens. The moon was hanging overhead, smiling down at them like some idiot dreamer, and Severus crossed his arms, watching the girl pad her way to the middle of the brown grass and drop her heavy load. She started struggling to untie the many knots holding the bundle together, until Severus scoffed impatiently, and flicked his wand at the mess. Instantly, the blanket unfolded itself to reveal a lovely spread of strawberry sandwiches, lemon cakes, and steaming tea; along with a mishmash of tea cups, bowls, plates, and brightly colored napkins. Luna settled herself, tailor style, in the midst of this unorthodox tea party, a most serene expression on her now obviously awake face.

“Oh, Professor!” she said, yawning up at him. “Was I sleepwalking again?”

“You were,” he replied irritably.

“Won’t you sit down? Have I been very much trouble?”

“You have.”

“I’m so sorry. But it was time for tea, and I didn’t want my friends to think I’d forgotten them.”

“Your what?”

“Look.”

She made a fanciful gesture with her hands in a northerly direction, and as Severus turned his aggravated glare towards the exterior darkness, he beheld half a dozen thestrals gliding into the clearing. Their serpentine tails curved and swished, leaving a trail of silvery ash behind them, and their skeletal, equine bodies moved in an undulating fashion that was disorienting to witness. As they slid up to the blanket, they dropped to their boney knees and wrapped their inky tails around them, their eyes of chartreuse flame sparking as Luna babbled happily; pouring tea into bowls and arranging morsels on plates for her cadaverous guests.

“Hello there!” she bubbled. “I’m so happy to finally see you when we can talk, aren’t you? Things have been monstrous busy since I came to school, and it’s been awful trying to find the way out to the clearing. But here I am at last!”

Severus stared at the morbid production with the horrid fascination of one watching a Quidditch accident. The beasts stank of talcum powder and formaldehyde; and he shut his eyes against their reptilian forms. There, in the darkness of his mind, he was assaulted by death; as memories of Lily’s body, lifeless and beautiful, mingled with those of his father’s corpse; poisoned by drink and by every venomous word that had tripped like water off the bastard’s vile tongue.

His eyes snapped open and he sneered at the mad princess and her deathly court. “Miss Lovegood, as you have regained whatever senses you possess, I insist that you return to the castle immediately.”

One of the younger thestrals reared up and bounded to him. Before Severus could react, it had its head in the small of his back, and was pushing him onto the blanket with enough force that he stumbled and fell to his knees.

“I think they’ll be angry if we leave just now, professor,” Luna whispered loudly, passing a teacup to him.

He snatched it and flung it across the clearing, where it shattered against a tree trunk. Another thestral snorted at him and pawed the ground with a dusty hoof.

“It’s no matter, I’ve another,” Luna said, unfazed.

“I don’t want any tea!” Severus spat.

“But you shall have some all the same.”

She set another cup before him—a black one, painted with a whimsical bat curving in flight over the porcelain interior—and filled it to the brim with steaming tea from her poppy covered teapot.

“I’m having a lovely time at school,” she chattered to the thestrals while the beasts snorted and lapped at the tea and the victuals. “Charms is my favorite so far, but after that is potions. Professor Snape has been setting me all sorts of tests and dreams to try, and I like it ever so much better than Professor McGonagall who makes me do everything one slow step at a time.”

His anger was choking him, and he knew that Miss Lovegood’s words were worthless, but he scooped up the cup and drank some of the scalding liquid, desperate to cover the bilious taste in his mouth. The concoction was not proper tea; but rather a tincture of lavender and chamomile, steeped exactly so. The talcum powder and formaldehyde receded into the background, as did the sound of Miss Lovegood’s chattering. He must have been more tired than he’d realized, for the next thing he remembered, he was jerking awake, and the last of the thestrals was disappearing into the forest. The dishes were all packed away, and Luna was watching him with a patient and pleased smile on her face.

“I’m ready to go back to the castle now, sir,” she said cheerfully.

“If you’re ready then, please, by all means,” he sarcastically replied.

She hummed to herself all the way up to Ravenclaw tower and, while he wanted to fume at her, he found that he was too uncomfortably relaxed to do so. When they gained the top of the tower stairs, she turned to him, her eyes shining in the moonlight that ghosted in through the windows.

“Thank you for helping me tonight, sir. I think I’ll be able to get there on my own from now on,” she said.

“Need I remind you, Miss Lovegood, that the Forbidden Forest is off limits to students?” he chastised.

“I know it is. But don’t worry, that doesn’t bother me.”

“Obviously.”

“And it’s important I go,” she said earnestly.

“Why ever would you think that?”

“So the thestrals will help me with my mother.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “If her spirit is troubling you, there are better ways to deal with it than breaking curfew and risking life and limb in the Forest.”

“No, not her spirit, she’s gone on. It’s the memories. The poppies can’t hold enough; but if I go to the thestrals, they’ll help me hold enough. I’ll still remember, but I won’t get lost.” She broke the seriousness of the subject by twirling like a top and adding, “You can join me anytime you like.”

“I shall not take you up on that offer, and if I catch you out of bed, you may be sure that I will punish you for it. Good night, Miss Lovegood,” he snapped.

He whirled away and descended the stairs in a swirl of his black robes. Merlin, this moon child was turning out to be as much trouble as the Potter brat.

“Midnight teas And thank you please, Moonlight, wand light, All sleep tight!”

Luna’s ethereal voice and her nonsense song haunted him all the way down to the dungeons.

But he slept better that night than he had in ages. And in the morning, the memories of his dead did not wake with him. He was halfway through his morning class before he first recalled the sprawled form and the spray of auburn hair. Even when it came upon him, the memory did not cause his blood to run cold or his heart to pound.

Luna looked up from her work and smiled at him, as though she sensed the moment that the unwanted recollection sprang up in his mind. He restrained himself from giving her the satisfaction of a response, and turned his attention to his marking.

And the next time he caught her on her way to tea, he docked Ravenclaw ten points—and carried the blanket bundle to the clearing for her.

*****

End Notes:

Luna is tapping out the Fibonacci sequence; in which each number is the sum of the two numbers prior, and relates to spirals.

I head-canon that thestrals smell different to each person, depending on that person's experiences aand beliefs about death.

43 notes · View notes

justgeorgeharrisonfic · 4 years ago

Text

An Adventure In Ireland

AN ADVENTURE IN IRELAND

Thursday 26th March 1964

“Hello?”

“Pattie.”

“George!” Her voice was a squeak. She knew this once she’d spoken but there was nothing she could do about it. “Hello!”

“Pattie, we’re going away.”

Pattie’s heart sank. “Oh,” she said, forlorn. “When are you going?”

“What? No, I mean we’re going away. Us.”

“Wha…? Who? What? When…?” What on earth…?

“Pattie!” George’s voice was firm, as though he wanted to take control over all the spluttering. “We, you and me, are going away, to Ireland, for an Easter break.”

“Oh, are we? That’s nice. When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” It was another squeak, but this time she felt it was justified. “What…? But…”

“Pattie!!” This time it was almost a shout. “Brian has booked us into a castle, in Ireland, for Easter.”

“But tomorrow? That’s… tomorrow.” God but that was a stupid thing to say. But he seemed to know what she was getting at, thank goodness.

“Yeah, but that’s when Easter is. We can’t move it. Not even Brian can do that.”

“No I know, but…”

“But what? Don’t you want to go?”

“Of course I do! It’s just… soon.”

“Yeah. Like, tomorrow.”

George surprised her sometimes. Like when a dry sarcasm broke through the sweet young persona. Like, just then. “Well yes! I do want to go. We’re going to… a castle?” Images of cold stone steps and dungeons; Pattie frowned. But of course he couldn’t see that.

“It’s called that. It’s a posh hotel really. President Kennedy stayed there.”

“Oh.” The cold stone and dungeons disappeared. “It sounds lovely. And he’s booked a holiday, just for us!”

“Well…” Had a note of diffidence crept into his voice?

“What?” She paused, and then remembered, their first date. “Oh don’t tell me he’s coming too!”

“No!” George broke in quickly. ”No. He isn’t.”

Pattie didn’t like the emphasis on the work ‘he’. “So, is there someone else coming too?”

The briefest of pauses; but not so brief that Pattie didn’t have time to start to feel anxious. “Ah, yeah,” said George. “We’re going with John and Cynthia.”

There fell a silence.

“Pattie? Is that…? Ah… that’ll be alright, won’t it? I mean…”

“Yes.” This wasn’t a squeak, more like a husk, but at least she had found her voice. “Of course, that’s fine…”

“But?”

Another pause. “John’s…”

“I know what he is,” George broke in. “But he likes you.”

“How do you know?”

“He said so.”

“Oh? When?”

“Lots of times.” Pattie didn’t want to think too closely about that last bit. “So that’s fine, isn’t it.” But Pattie’s mind was still snagged up on doubts, which she found it hard to articulate. “Pattie! What is it? Don’t you want to go?”

“Yes! I do!” And she did; then the doubts crystallised and she blurted out before she could change her mind, “Will Cynthia like me?”

“Cynthia?” George sounded completely astonished. “Why the hell shouldn’t she?”

“I don’t know. I just… she’s just…”

“Pattie, she’s really nice, it’s be fine! They both like you. I like you. And I love you. Will you come?”

Somehow the airing of her nebulous fears made her feel better. She laughed, a genuine laugh. “Yes. Of course I will. Ah, George?”

“What?” There was no doubt; the words ‘what now?’ hovered unspoken over the phone line. Pattie hastened to reassure him.

“I just wondered – why have you only just told me?”

“He’s only just told us.” Obviously, rang another unspoken word. Pattie reflected, not for the first time, that there was a lot to get used to in going out with a Beatle.

“Oh, right. Well… what do I do? When are we going?” And then, “What do I pack??”

“I don’t know.” George was dismissive that that last question. “He’s got a car coming for you tomorrow at 10.00”

“And will it take me to you?” Pattie asked hopefully.

“No.”

“No? So where…?”

“I’ll be in the car!”

“Oh George!” She wished he didn’t do things like that. “When…?

“Pattie, I’ve got to go, we’re on again. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Love you!”

He was gone. Pattie stared uselessly at the phone receiver in her hand, and then replaced it carefully. Her mind was already buzzing; packing, clothes, Cynthia, clothes, John, aaarrrgh! She turned and headed into her bedroom and pulled the suitcase down from the wardrobe. This was crazy. But, she was reflecting yet again in the space of a few minutes, there was a lot to get used to in being with a Beatle.

The weekend would only start to show her just how much.

Friday 27th March 1964, morning.

Pattie scampered after George as he picked up her case and walked with it to the rear of the car. “God, what’ve you got in here?” he muttered as he opened the boot and hefted her case in next to his. Pattie watched; couldn’t help noticing his much smaller case next to hers.

“You haven’t brought much, have you,” she said, a little anxiously. George straightened and turned to her with a grin.

“I don’t need much, do I, for three nights.”

“Well…”

“I decided to leave my make-up at home, and five pairs of shoes. I’ve only brought…”

Pattie hit him playfully on the arm to bring a halt to the derisory comments. “Well, I don’t know, do I. I don’t know what you’re supposed to bring, or what the others are bringing…”

George guided her round to the car door and opened it for her and gestured for her to get in. “I don’t think there’s anything you’re ‘supposed’ to bring,” he said, climbing in after her.

“You know what I mean,” she said, and then looked into his face. “Actually, you probably don’t,” she concluded, and he shook his head in agreement.

“Nope,” he answered cheerfully, and then reached out to circle her shoulders with his arm and draw her close to him. She snuggled against him as the car set off and joined the traffic. She was becoming aware of a low level of anxiety starting to tighten in her stomach, and it was increasing as the car gathered speed and headed towards their next stop. She said nothing, but something of her worry must have communicated itself to George, who twisted his head to look down at her. “You okay?” he said.

“I’m fine.”

That certainly didn’t work, as her voice sounded unconvincing even to her own ears. George straightened up so that he could move away from her slightly and look at her more directly.

“You’re fine.”

She looked up at him, and blinked.

“You do want to go?”

“Oh yes!” That was a bit better, having the advantage of being true. However, even though the two had only been together for about two weeks he knew her well enough to pick up when something was amiss. George thought some more, and then recalled their phone conversation the evening before. He tightened his arm around her again.

“Which one are you more worried about?” He tilted his head slightly as he looked carefully into her eyes. “John or Cyn?”

Pattie looked down at her lap. “I know I’m being silly…” she began, but George stopped her with a shake of his head.

“It’ll be fine,” he said, and gave her a light kiss on the mouth. “They’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.”

“Oh, you mean it’ll be fine!” Pattie smiled, and he hugged her again.

“You’ll see. Oh, we’re there.” And her anxiety roared back into place. She concentrated on quelling her nerves as the driver got out and went over to the door to ring up to the flat. He waited at the door; George lit a cigarette after offering one to Pattie, and she took it thankfully. Her hands weren’t shaking at all…

“Cyn, you get in the back. Bloody hell, how much have you got in here?”

“Well, you never know what you’ll need,” said Cynthia Lennon as she opened the other door and slid into the seat next to Pattie. Pattie turned to George with a smirk of triumph. His only answer was to take another drag of his cigarette and roll his eyes.

“It’s Brigitte Bardot!” John shouted as he got into the front seat.

“Shut up John.” George sounded weary; Pattie deduced, correctly, that this was a favourite joke of John’s, one George hadn’t got round to telling her about. “Cyn,” he said over Pattie’s head, “This is Pattie.”

“I guessed.” The smile she gave Pattie was so warm and friendly that the new girl instantly began to feel better. George’ arm was still around her, safely, reassuringly. John was still nattering nonsense from the front seat, and reached back over his head to offer a cigarette to his patient wife.

The car moved off, and headed west towards Heathrow airport.

…

“Where are we going?” Pattie was puzzled. They weren’t, as she’d expected, dropped off at the front at the main entrance. Instead the smart black car glided along small side roads within the huge Heathrow complex, past storage containers and parked cars and things you didn’t usually see at the airport. “What’s…?”

“We’re going to our plane,” George explained briefly.

“You’ve got a plane??”

“No!” He turned to her with a smile. “We’ve booked one.”

“There it is,” said Cynthia, and Pattie looked out and saw what looked like a toy plane, standing on its own with a man standing next to it.

“That??”

“That,” said John.

The car drove nearer and then pulled up alongside. The man, whoever he was, raised an arm in some sort of greeting as their driver flipped the boot lid and got out of the car to get the luggage. Pattie, seated in the middle of the back seat, had to wait until someone else moved, and she was surprised that it was Cynthia who slithered out first. George sat, motionless, apparently staring at the plane where the door had now opened and steps had rolled down. “George?”

George turned to her and nodded acknowledgement, and then, very slowly, opened his door and stepped out of and away from the car. Pattie followed him out and stood where she was. She saw him lick his lips.

“He’s the worst,” said a voice at her ear, and she turned to see Cynthia standing next to her. “But John’s not far behind.”

Pattie frowned at her, as she raised her hand to hold back her hair which was being tossed and blown by the wind. “What do you mean?” She hoped she didn’t sound too stupid, but she really had no idea what Cynthia was referring to.

“They’re terrified of flying,” said Cynthia simply. “And, in that thing…” She gestured towards the toy plane before she too had to smooth her own hair back from her face. She smiled at Pattie. “Oh dear!”

Pattie looked over at George, who chose that moment to look back at her, and Pattie couldn’t help but notice that his face was pale. It was almost grey. She looked across at John, who looked more subdued than she’d ever seen him. Then she turned back to Cynthia. She found herself grinning broadly. “Oh dear!” she agreed.

“Shall we get in?” Cynthia hoisted her bag over her shoulder and started to walk towards the toy plane. Pattie began to follow, but then thought better of it and decided to go and collect George first, who was still rooted to the spot. She turned back to Cynthia and hissed, “Does it go?”

“Course it does,” Cynthia declared. “They’re Beatles. They’re important.” With this, Pattie reflected, utterly extraordinary remark, she strolled across the blustery tarmac towards the waiting plane. Pattie crossed to George and looped her arm through his.

“Come on then. Let’s get in.”

He took a deep breath and swallowed hard.

“It’ll be alright, really.”

George clearly felt too nervous to even try to reply, and he simply let himself be led by the arm towards the toy plane. Even Pattie allowed herself a moment’s apprehension, as she took in the cramped interior and six not very comfortable seats, but the pilot looked and sounded much more grown up and reassuring than she’d have expected for a toy plane and she decided that she would look on it as an adventure. “Where do you want to sit?” she asked George brightly. He looked at her mournfully. “Window?”

He shuddered and shook his head and so Pattie took the window seat nearest her and George slid in next to her. She looked around at the others and was amused to see that Cynthia had similarly taken charge and deposited John in one of the other seats.

Pattie thought it was hilarious.

She didn’t think that it was all quite so funny once the plane was airborne. She’d been fine whilst they taxied to take off. And she had tried to ignore George’s hands gripping the arm rests so tightly that his knuckles were white, as though he thought that this would help get the plane safely into the air. But, once up and flying, the pressure in her ears built and built and became so painful that she was seriously worried she was going to go deaf for the rest of her life. It was a miserable flight and when the plane touched down at Shannon Airport she sank forward with her head in her hands almost gasping with relief.

“That was good, wasn’t it.”

She looked up at George. His colour had returned. His eyes had softened from the flinty terror of take-off and there was a slight smile hovering on his lips. She burst out laughing, in emotional and physical relief, and leaned over to plant a kiss on his mouth. “Wonderful,” she said, and squeezed his hand.

Friday 27th March 1964, early afternoon.

The car swept through the gates and along the curving immaculately maintained drive towards the castle. It was a castle, it really was, although it managed not to look forbidding or scary. The car moved gracefully towards the main door and came to a halt, and a besuited man and several uniformed flunkies rushed down the steps and approached the car.

“Doesn’t look like I’ll have to carry your case again,” remarked John. “Thank Christ for that.”

“Wimp,” Cynthia retorted as she slid sideways along the rear seat and climbed out of the car.

Within moments all the cases were out of the car, and two Beatles and their women stood looking up at the imposing frontage of Dromoland Castle.

“Welcome to Dromoland,” oozed the man in the posh suit. “Please come in – a few formalities to check in and I’ll have the pleasure of showing you to your suite.”

George and John cut glances; Pattie noticed, and wondered what was going on there. It often seemed to happen, that there would be glances or words between Beatles and she realised that she hadn’t a clue what they were saying or thinking. Something she’d have to get to understand…

They were moving in. George and John walked in step, together, George clutching Pattie’s hand and Cynthia walking behind them. They passed through the doors and into an echoing and deliberately impressive entrance hall and across to the reception desk. Forms were completed, staff grovelled and the group were finally guided across the unnecessary acres of space in the reception hall to the lifts and then up to their suite.

“Gosh”

“Oooh”

“Yeah.”

“This is us.” John speedily identified the double room and headed straight in, followed by Cynthia. Pattie peered into one of the single rooms and George did the same with the other.

“Which one?”

“I don’t care. You pick.”

So Pattie made the choice between two very similar rooms and George followed her in. “It’s lovely!” she said, and meant it. After only two weeks in Beatle circles she was still wide-eyed, unused to extreme luxury. “But why did Brian book two…”

“He said he had to. You know.”

She shrugged at him. “I suppose so.”

“Sir?” came a deferentially couched question. The porter wanted to know which case belonged in which room. George pointed to Pattie’s and gestured with his head towards the room they, or rather she, had selected.

“Ta,” he said as the case was placed in the middle of the room. He’d already grabbed his own and put it down next to hers. He nodded at the porter to indicate that his use there was concluded, and the immaculately uniformed flunky backed out of the bedroom.

“D’ya know when lunch is?” John called from the other room, and the flunky was able to oblige.

“Lunch will be served in the blue dining room at one o’clock, sir,” he uttered.

“Good thing it’s the blue one, eh?”

The flunky looked puzzled, and George rolled his eyes. “Thanks! Bye!” George smiled and nodded at the confused porter and managed without being too rude to gesture towards the main doors of the suite. The man left, probably in some relief. George looked at his watch. “See you in half an hour then,” he called out to his fellow guests.

“Okay.” It was Cynthia who confirmed, and George retreated into his own room and shut the door. He quickly crossed the room to Pattie, who had opened the wardrobe door. He moved close behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist and squeezed.

“George!!”

His only answer was to plant a kiss on the back of her neck.

“George, I need to unpack!” She turned around to face him, smiling, and kissed him quickly on the mouth before wriggling away. “My stuff will be creased to smithereens.”

He pecked her quickly on the lips and moved away. “Okay.” He picked up his own bag and hoisted it onto the bed and unzipped it, and began to hunt among the clothes. He paused. He hunted again. He stood. “Shit,” he said, quietly. Pattie turned around with a hanger in her hand.

“What’s wrong?”

George was frowning .He looked up at her and shook his head. “I’ve forgotten my washbag.”

Pattie too frowned, and came over to where he was standing looking rather uselessly into his own case. “You couldn’t have done.”

“I have. Fuck.”

Pattie found a smile creeping across her face. “No toothbrush?”

“No anything.” He looked up at her. “And it’s not funny!”

The smile had become a fairly broad grin. “Well,” she ventured, “maybe that’s why you could bring such a small case? Maybe it’s not just all my make-up and five pairs of shoes…”

“Ha ha,” he interrupted the gloating and she managed to subdue the grin somewhat. “I’ll need to ask at the desk.”

“For a toothbrush? George!!” He was exacting his revenge for her justifiable triumph with a sudden attack of tickling, and the two struggled and yelped and fell on to the bed.

Pattie’s clothes did not get unpacked before lunch.

Friday 27th March 1964, late afternoon.

Lunch was an extended, relaxed and happy affair. Wine flowed, and the injection into the previously close knit and familiar group of a new face was effected smoothly and seamlessly. Pattie’s nerves gradually evaporated with each course and with each generously poured glass, and the stress of the unpleasant journey lifted. And, John was funny. Pattie had not anticipated this. Not caustic funny, not risqué funny, not scary funny, but just funny. The Lennon persona seemed to soften with each imperiously summoned bottle; Pattie observed this with relief and the other two with astonishment. As Pattie leaned back in her chair howling with laughter at John’s account a recent escape from a theatre George cut glances with Cynthia at the same time as reaching for Pattie’s hand under the table and squeezing.

John didn’t even call her Brigitte Bardot. Not during this lunch anyway.

After lunch they wandered in a mildly intoxicated haze through the Blue Room’s broad French windows and down towards the lake. They explored, played, hunted, sat and chatted. Cynthia bemoaned the fact that she’d left her black comfy shoes behind, Pattie poked George meaningfully, George affected indifference. John asked Pattie whether this place was like her family home where she grew up, Pattie told him not to be an idiot, but then walked with him along the lakeside for a while and told him something of her home in Kenya and he listened with genuine interest and asked if she’d been sad to leave it and she said yes. The evening was approaching, the temperature was dropping and they decided it was time to turn around and go back to the castle. The four strolled back across the neatly kept lawns and, rather than cut back into the blue Blue Room, they skirted around the huge building and went back in through the main reception doors. There they were met by chief flunky, who approached them with the unmistakable air of someone who was going to issue bad news.

“They’re chucking us out,” muttered John.

“I didn’t tell them about you,” said George, equally sotto voce.

“No, it was me. I couldn’t help meself.” John then smiled his beaming most deliberately artificial smile and closed the gap between himself and the hotel manager. Pattie was so fascinated to witness the mercurial speed of the change that she didn’t focus on what was said; but a minute later found herself jolted out of her happy post lunch haze by the strength of the two Beatles’ reactions to the manager’s news.

“Oh fuck no!”

“Fuckin’ ‘ell!”

“John,” Cynthia remonstrated mildly at her husband’s public obscenities. She left George’s unchecked. It was none of her business what George said…

“What’s happened?” Pattie queried in alarm. George turned to her, his face a picture of combined disappointment and anger.

“They’ve found us!”

“Who have??”

“Press!” He spat the word as though it was another obscenity, which at that moment, only hours into their rare and precious private time, it was. “They’re here.”

Pattie looked around as though expecting to see a ring of men with cameras surrounding them. “Where?”

“Some Daily Mirror fuckers have booked in,” said John. “That’s it. It’s blown.”

“Not necessarily,” Cynthia ventured but John was having none of her attempt to lighten the blow.

“They’ll be all around us at dinner…”

“Well, we don’t have to go to dinner.” Cynthia forestalled his interruption and continued with her idea. “We can have it in our suite. Plenty of room. We can have a picnic! They can’t get in there.”

There then fell a pause as the two men digested this idea. It was crystal clear to Pattie that theirs were the opinions which would count; she didn’t consciously formulate the thought, she simply knew. Pattie, Cynthia and the vastly intrigued hotel manager waited to hear the verdict.

Again, George and John glanced at each other. Clearly, that glance had signified assent, though Pattie had no idea how. John turned to the manager. “Will you fix that?”

The manager almost bowed, such was the level of his spirit of cooperation. “Certainly sir. Ah… would you like to take this evening’s menu with you, and you can phone down your orders.”

George and John beamed. Cynthia looked relieved. George reached out and took Pattie’s hand and, when the menu and wine list had been duly presented, the four surged up to their suite, as excited at the idea of a huge picnic as any children on their holidays.

Which in a way they were.

Friday 27th March 1964, evening.

A blanket was spread on the carpet. A double size blanket from John and Cynthia’s room. In the centre of the blanket was an ice bucket in which chilled a bottle of white wine, and two bottles of red stood nearby. Two more bottles of white stood in the bath in cold water. All around the bottles were dishes of food, all the courses together, as the group had decided that they didn’t want people knocking at the doors all the time to take courses away and bring new ones. The order to bring the entire three courses all at once apparently required repeating to the chief flunky on the phone, who seemed to be a little slow in understanding, but the message was got across in the end and the meal was served as required. It was quite exciting really; the dish of beef bourguignon was next to the sticky toffee pudding and the vegetables were right across the blanket next to the cheese board. You never knew what you were going to come across. The temptation to mix was irresistible. With enough wine it worked very well.

The four were having a delightful time.

Pattie sat cross legged, her plate held underneath her chin so as to avoid custard spills, and George crouched next to her working his way through some tender meat and gravy. The difficulties involved in eating such a meal neatly only added to the hilarity from the word games they were all playing together; they had just finished one where you had to think of a word within a category within ten seconds or you were out, and they were just beginning the one where you had to think of a word that had nothing to do with the word someone had just said. Cynthia proved extremely quick at challenging and finding associations between words, and John managed to make everything obscene but in the context of a private and drunken picnic it didn’t matter to anyone. Pattie was wiping a dribble of custard from her chin as she waited her turn to come round again, John was leaning forward on hands and knees to grab the dish of peas, George was arguing that fireplace had nothing to do with cylinder and…

CRASH.

Something, something that sounded very large, had crashed against one of the windows of their suite, just across the room from where they sprawled with their picnic.

Pattie shrieked in terror; Cynthia’s hands were clamped over her mouth. Both John and George were on their feet, reflexively ready, fists clenched, John already halfway towards the window. George raced ahead of him and wrenched the floor-length curtain aside. There, on the ledge outside, was a man, who looked very cold and very frightened and very alarmed. He stared in, wide eyed.

“Who the fuck…?” was all George could manage.

John continued the question, at closer quarters. He had run to the window and now flung it open. “Who the fuck are you?” he yelled.

If the man had looked frightened before, faced now with a furious and alarmed Lennon in full spate he progressed into full rabbit-in-headlights freeze. “I… I… I…”

“Come on!!”

The frozen invader rallied somewhat, enough to be able to utter more than one word. “I’m sorry… I didn’t…” He paused, and swallowed. “I nearly fell off.”

“I don’t give a fuck what you nearly did – who are you?”

“And could we close the window? It’s getting really cold.” This calm request was from Cynthia; John turned back to her, looked again at the man and made a decision.

“Who are you? And come in so we can close the window.”

The man nodded, and carefully clambered over the window ledge and dropped down onto the floor. “I’m so sorry…”

“Listen mate,” George’s calm voice joined in as John closed the window behind the intruder. “If you don’t just tell us who you are, and right now, I’ll kill you.”

The intruder’s head whirled round to face George, who, its owner felt, looked every bit as intimidating as John. He swallowed again. “I’m Nigel Bradbury. I’m with the Daily Mirror.”

“A fucking journalist.” John’s voice dripped disgust.

“But what are you doing at the window?” asked Cynthia.

“We’re two floors up,” Pattie pointed out, probably unnecessarily as the unhappy journalist was still shaking with fright. Eight eyes fixed upon the man, and a full explanation was clearly called for.

“I’m sorry…” George took a menacing step towards the man, who hastily continued. “I’d heard that George had a new girlfriend. I wanted to be the first one to see her.”

He paused, and swallowed with nerves. John gestured with mock gallantry with one arm towards Pattie, who had by this time put down her custard and stood up. “And here she is!” Pattie raised one hand and wiggled her fingers in greeting. “Do go on,” said John to the journalist, in a tone which managed to sound both faux polite and very threatening at the same time.

“So I went around every window to see if I could see her. And you.”

“From the outside?” George’s aggression had morphed into incredulity. Bradbury turned to him.

“Yes. I started at the ground floor and worked up. All the floors have ledges.” There fell a silence, which Bradbury filled with further explanation. “When I got to yours I missed my footing. I nearly fell off but I grabbed the handle and saved myself but crashed into your window. But luckily, it was yours.”

Another silence. And then, “Luckily,” George commented dryly.

John was staring at the man. An unmistakable gleam was replacing the flint of anger; he was beginning to grin. “You’re fucking crazy.”

Bradbury looked at him. “I know,” he replied, ruefully.

“Are you alright?” Cynthia enquired, and he nodded his head.

“Just scared out of my life. I thought I was a goner.”

John was still thinking; cogs were turning, and then he spoke. “Well, yer’d better have a drink then, hadn’t yer.”

It would have taken a full column’s length in Bradbury’s newspaper to properly describe and sum up the changing emotions that crossed the journalist’s face at that moment. Incomprehension at first, relief, joy, suspicion (was it a trap?); and at the end, something bordering on elation. He nodded. “Oh, yes please,” he said, fervently.

“Would you like to sit down?” Pattie indicated a space on the carpet. He sat himself down, wordlessly.

“What would you like?” asked George. “We’ve got scotch, or scotch.”

“Scotch would be lovely, thank you.” Overwhelming astonishment had not made him forget his manners. George poured him a drink and brought it over.

“I figured since you nearly fell to your death you’d want it neat.”

Bradbury nodded and smiled, absurdly grateful. They all noticed that when he reached out for the glass his hand was shaking slightly. “Thank you. Very much.” He glanced around at the group, who watched him with interest, and then raised his glass to his lips.

The drink went down in one. George wordlessly held out his hand for the glass and refilled it. This one disappeared more slowly. Nigel Bradbury sat on the carpet, with the Beatles, and their women, and looked around the group and smiled. “I really am sorry,” he said, and this time George allowed the apology.

“What were you going to do? Before you nearly fell off?”

“When I found you?” John nodded. “I was just going to try and take photos.”

There fell another pause. “That isn’t very nice though, is it.”

Bradbury drained his glass, and met John’s gaze head on. “No,” he said. “I know. It’s horrible. And intrusive.” He looked down into the empty glass and then back at John. “I’m surprised you didn’t just push me back out of the window.”

“Thought about it.”

“Yes.”

“Still could.”

“But not quite so easily?”

“There’s two of us.”

“Four,” Pattie joined in, and George looked at her in surprise.

“I don’t know how you all stand it,” said Bradbury.

“We don’t have much choice.” George’s voice was acid.

“But this was a choice. And you’re being so kind.” Bradbury raised the empty glass in salute. “Thank you. Very much.”

George refilled the glass again. Pattie smiled at the visitor. “Would you like something to eat?”

“All that scotch,” put in Cynthia, wisely.

Bradbury, sitting cross legged on the floor next to two of the most famous men in the world, covered his face with his hand for a moment in a moment of overwhelming gratitude to whatever gods were looking over him at that moment. It could have all gone so horribly wrong…

“We’ve got sticky toffee pudding,” Pattie continued placidly, and Bradbury reflected from the depths of his slightly drunken stupefaction that she just might be the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. No wonder George Harrison…

“Or just cheese and biscuits.”

He laughed weakly. “Cheese and biscuits would be really good.”

“And then you’d better toddle off to your other snoopy friends,” said John. Bradbury nodded as he cut a piece of cheese from the board that had been passed to him by Cynthia Lennon –was this really happening to him?? – “But,” John was continuing, “if you say anything about where we are…”

“I won’t!” Bradbury replied fervently, his mouth full of cheese and cracker. “I promise.” He nodded, emphatically. He looked across at George, who regarded him from below thick dark eyebrows. George, surprisingly, smiled warmly and the smile lit his face.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” he remarked, kindly.

As Bradbury, a little later, shook hands with each one of the party and left the room via the more orthodox route of the door, he decided that never had a truer word been spoken.

Saturday 27th March 1964, morning.

Pattie woke, disorientated for a while, gradually absorbing the facts of her presence in an Irish castle, remembering bit by bit the events of the day before. She saw that the sun was trying to shine in through the thick floor length curtains, so she wondered what time it was. Her watch was on the night table, but the night table was on the other side of the bed and George was in the way, still fast asleep with his left arm slung across her waist and his hair across his face.

She turned towards him and looked at him for a while; this for her was always a pleasurable way to spend her time, but she did want to know the time and she did really want to start her day on her holiday. She twisted around a little more towards him and reached over him to grab her watch.

“Hmmmph. Wha…”

The watch said 10.15; an intelligible message compared to George’s utterance. Pattie was very aware that, for Beatles, activity before noon was unheard of, but now that she was properly awake she wanted to get going and do something, anything, to take advantage of the lovely place they were staying in. She wriggled away and nearer to the edge of the bed, and George’s arm slid off her. She swung her legs off the bed and sat.

“Whatchadoin?” The voice managed to sound peevish as well as tired. She ignored the peevishness.

“I just want to see out, see what the weather’s doing, have a look at the view. You can stay there.”

“I’m going to.” Still peevish but more awake now, George ran his fingers back through his hair and then rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. He looked almost conscious. Pattie got to her feet and padded across the carpet to the window. She reached up to grasp the edge of the curtain. At the last minute, a pretty alarming scenario flashed through the still sleep-deadened mind of the Beatle and he called out his warning. “Pattie, put something on…!!”

Too slow. Too late. Pattie had whisked the tall curtains aside. She stood in the window, naked as the day she was born, to be greeted by a roar of questions and shouts and directives from what seemed like every journalist in the whole world and the accumulated sound of what seemed like a thousand cameras clicking at once.

Sometimes ones reaction to shock is to freeze. It is fortunate that this was not Pattie’s reaction at that moment. Within a nanosecond of the start of the noise she had whirled around and crouched herself into a ball below the level of the window, hunched, trembling, blue eyes larger than ever before as she looked back at George in complete horror.

He knew that it wasn’t kind. He actually did sympathise. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help it – the expression on her face was truly the funniest thing he could remember seeing and he laughed so much that his stomach hurt.

…

Pattie was sitting curled up on the sofa in the main suite with a cup of coffee clasped between her hands. Cynthia was sitting next to her, attempting, quite successfully, to project sympathy to the traumatised girl. George and John were pacing around the room, George at a safe distance from Pattie. John was making a commendable effort to keep the twitches of amusement from his face. When George and Pattie had first told their friends what had happened John had let out a raucous hoot of laughter, and Cynthia had hit him. Cynthia had then given Pattie a hug and Pattie had wept for a moment or two. George phoned down for tea and coffee and “breakfast stuff” as he put it. The hotel must have been accustomed to unspecific food orders, as a delicious spread soon appeared. They ate, they drank, and now George and John paced, as they considered their current dilemma. Now and then George looked across the large room at Pattie, but thus far she was still maintaining a frosty carapace. It wasn’t that she was staying chilly in order to punish him, she was in fact still very upset and knew that it would take a while to get over it. Meanwhile, she and Cynthia were doing what Pattie realised was what Beatle women do; they were leaving it to their menfolk to decide what to do.

“It’s over anyway,” said John. George nodded. “No point trying to have a holiday now.” George shook his head. “But how do we get out of this?”

George sighed heavily. “We’re going to have to phone Brian.”

“Oh God.”

“I know, but he’ll have to get the office to book the plane back and all that.”

“How the fuck did it get out?”

“Same as it always does.”

“And how’s that?” Pattie spoke up for the first time; George tried to quell a leap of optimism in his heart.

“Fairies,” said John.

“What?”

“We don’t know,” translated Cynthia. “We never know. It just does.”

“You’d better call Brian,” said George.

“Why me? You do it.”

“He’s scared of you. We’ll get it done quicker with you.”

John sadly acknowledged the truth of this, and picked up the phone and spoke to the receptionist. “We need an outside line.”

John hunched himself down on the small padded chair next to the phone table. George, deprived of his pacing partner, turned reluctantly towards the sofa on which sat the two women. Dark eyes were large and pleading. “Pattie,” he said in a small voice, “I’m really sorry. I really am.”

“I know you are,” she said, voice just as small. Cynthia found it politic to get up and pour herself another cup of tea, and George came and took her place on the sofa. “It was horrible,” she said, unnecessarily.

“The people or me?”

“Both.”

George chewed at his lower lip, and then turned to her and held out his arms. Pattie slid sideways across the sofa and wriggled into his embrace, and George enfolded her tightly. Cynthia found another chair and sat down with her tea.

John replaced the phone. “He can’t send the car until late, around five. The plane will be at Shannon for us.”

“What can we do until then?” asked Pattie from deep within George’s arms.

“Bugger all,” was John’s terse reply.

“Now they’re here we won’t really be able to go out.” Cynthia once again translated her husband’s laconic reply. “They’d follow us everywhere.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. He looked over at George and Pattie. “She’s forgiven you then.”

“Fuck off,” replied George mildly.

“So what do we do?” Pattie was aware that all her questions sounded grossly naïve and possibly irritating, but she found it almost impossible to comprehend that they were at the mercy of a huge crowd of uninvited journalists. It just wasn’t fair!

John planted himself in the centre of the room and addressed the others. “Brian said we have to give them something.”

“Blood?” came George’s sardonic enquiry as he nuzzled at Pattie’s hair.

“Some kind of photo shoot.”

“Oh shit!”

John nodded lugubriously.

“A fucking press conference.” But George saw that John was clearly mulling over an idea. ”What?”

“There were some suits of armour down in the reception.”

“Oh yeah,” said George. “Let’s all dress up in suits of armour and go and stand outside in front of them and clank.”

“No!” John was grinning. “There were swords! We can have a sword fight!”

There was a pause as the other three took in this suggestion. And then -

“Yeah, that’s fab!”

“Are they real?”

“Will you kill each other?” The latter two questions were from Pattie and Cynthia respectively; as they expected, they were completely ignored.

“Let’s go and get the swords!” George jumped to his feet.

“Brian will want you in suits.”

“Eh?” John paused in his rush to the door and turned back to his wife.

“You know he will. You always have to be in suits for anything public. And this is.” She paused. “Even if you do end up killing each other.” Cynthia did not sound amused.

George and John looked at each other briefly, and then disappeared back into their rooms to get changed, before running down the stairs excitedly to tell the chief flunky that they wanted his swords.

Saturday 27th March 1964, late morning.

Pattie and Cynthia were stretched out on respective sofas in their suite. A television was on but they weren’t watching it. They were spending the time chatting, an ostensibly casual natter which for Pattie was invaluable as it added more and more detail about the life of a Beatle girl, “If that’s what you want,” Cynthia had added. It sounded ominous.

“Yes, I do.” Pattie had felt alarmed and defensive in equal measure.

Cynthia was reassuring. She wasn’t challenging the other girl, or trying to test her out. “But this will be a lot of it.”

“What will?”

“This,” explained Cynthia, waving an arm in the general direction of the room. “Sitting around in posh places waiting.”

“Pattie nodded. She was beginning to see. “So, this is usual?”

“Oh yes. Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, the press or the fans, or both, will find out and you’ll be surrounded.” She paused to take another drag at her cigarette. “You just have to accept that it’s going to happen.”

“But you were surprised they found us here.”

“Yes. But I shouldn’t have been!”

Pattie lit a cigarette of her own, and the two lapsed into a comfortable silence. As boring as it might have been for Cynthia, for Pattie this was a heaven-sent opportunity to find out more about the life she was joining and about the people in it. She’d forgotten, for example, that she’d been nervous of meeting Cyn, who couldn’t have been nicer, especially after the trauma of literally exposing herself to the world’s press and George’s ensuing hysterics. She was realising more and more that there was a great deal to learn about being George Harrison’s girlfriend, little of which had anything to do with George himself and even less of which George could help her with or even tell her about. He was in the middle of it, he was living it, and as such he couldn’t possibly know what it was like for a newcomer to join in on the periphery of the whirlwind.

When Pattie had wandered too near the window, Cynthia called to her to step back. “They’ll see you.” Cynthia had described her trip to America when the Beatles had performed on the Ed Sullivan show; if it hadn’t been for this morning’s mishap, Pattie might have thought that she was exaggerating. The truth was beginning to dawn.

“It’s a different world,” she said.

Cynthia nodded.

John and George had been emphatic that neither girl would accompany their menfolk to see the swordfight. George in particular had been positively fierce in his insistence that Pattie remain hidden away. “They’ll get you,” he’d said. “You don’t want it.” So they had clattered off excitedly with their weapons and Pattie and Cynthia had hunkered down in their comfortable prison and waited.

The door to the suite burst open. John and George burst in, grinning, excited; very messy. Clearly swordfighting was a highly physical business. They were, surprisingly, followed by the head flunky himself, who walked in with his usual restrained and dignified demeanour, and both girls found themselves automatically taking their feet off the furniture and sitting more upright. Cynthia confessed later that her first thought was, “Oh no, what’s he done now?” However, flunky was not there to return two miscreants to their minders. “He’s had an idea!” proclaimed John, plonking himself on the sofa next to his wife. Cynthia blinked, puzzled.

“What about?”

“How to get you out!”

Pattie frowned. “What do you mean? We can…”

“No,” broke in George, also sitting down. “They’ll go mad when they see you.” He was looking directly at Pattie, who was even more puzzled and looked across at Cyn. George hastened to explain. “They know about Cyn. They’ve seen her. You’re the new story, they want to get at you.”

“Listen!” John demanded. “This is good. He’s the manager, by the way.”

“Oh,” said Pattie, and smiled politely. “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name…”

“Er… Nolan, Miss… ah… Boyd.” Pattie inclined her head graciously. John was visibly impatient with the pleasantries.

“Tell them your idea,” he said. “No, don’t worry, I will.” Mr Nolan, who had opened his mouth to speak, obediently closed it again. “Me and George will walk out the front. You two,” he paused, and looked around at his audience with a grin, “will dress up as hotel maids and get into some laundry baskets and they’ll put the baskets in a van and drive it away!”

There fell a heavy silence. Cynthia broke the silence.

“That’s a joke.”

Mr Nolan uttered a polite cough, and all eyes turned to him. “If I may,” he ventured. He correctly took the ensuing silence as assent. “There will be so much attention on the two gentlemen leaving the hotel,” George chuckled at he and John being referred to as gentlemen, “that even if they see two chambermaids with laundry no-one will pay any attention. The ladies will get out of the grounds, and the van can stop somewhere and let them out of the baskets.”

Another deep silence fell. All eyes were on Cynthia and Pattie, the former suspicious and the latter astounded.

“This really isn’t a joke?” insisted Cynthia.

“Will we fit, in the baskets?” Pattie’s query was practical.

“It isn’t, and you will.” Mr Nolan, the erstwhile head flunky, seemed pleased with himself. The girls looked at each other.

“Well, ok,” Cynthia caved in, and Pattie nodded. There really wasn’t anything else she could do.

“Have you got the uniforms?” she said. Mr Nolan almost smiled.

“I took the liberty…” he said, and stepped outside the room and retrieved two folded chambermaid uniforms and brought them in. “You can try them for size…?”

Pattie burst out laughing. And reflected to herself that, when George had asked her out on the film set and she had said yes, this was not exactly what she had envisaged.

Mr Nolan carefully placed the uniforms on a side table and moved towards the door. “I’ll go and make the arrangements.” George smiled and nodded. The manager paused just as he got back to the door. “Er…”All four guests looked at him questioningly. “I… er.. wonder if I might have your autographs? For my daughter, you understand…” He produced from the depths of his suit a hotel brochure and a pen.

George and John cut glances with each other again, and both stepped forward to oblige.

Saturday 27th March 1964, early afternoon.

Pattie and Cynthia were by now laughing so hard that they could hardly stand up. On Cynthia the starched dress stood up on her as if it had a will of its own. On Pattie the little apron had to be wound four times around her waist before it could be tied. Cynthia wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes. “Whacha doin’ in there?” bellowed John from the outer room. The two girls looked at each other, stood straighter, and opened the door and marched out of the bed room into which they’d retreated to change into the uniforms.

They were met by a stunned silence.

“Don’t you think I look wonderful?” asked Cynthia, striking a pose. Pattie tried to stifle a snort of laughter. George’s eyes grew wide.

“That’s not bad,” he said. His customary drawled tone was distinctly lascivious. Pattie glared at him. “Can you keep the clothes?”

“Don’t be silly, George,” snapped Pattie. “And anyway,” she went on in a calmer tone, “we’ll have to keep them. We can’t bring them back.”

John’s grin was evil. “John!” Cynthia’s warning tone was identical to Pattie’s.

There came a knock at the door. Even when banging his knuckles against wood the chief flunky, Mr Nolan himself, managed to sound deferential. “Yeah?” called George.

Mr Nolan entered. “Ah… are the ladies ready?”

“I think so.” Pattie realised she was starting to feel very nervous about this plan, which had for a short while sounded fun. She looked across the room at George, who came over and put his arm around her waist.

“Is everyone packed?” The guests all nodded, and Mr Nolan, who seemed to have come into his own in his role as the chief organiser of a giant prank, took control with vigorous efficiency. “Right,” he barked.

“Were you in the army, mister?” enquired John. Cynthia jabbed him with her elbow. Mr Nolan ignored him.

“We will have your car brought round to the front,” he directed. “As soon as it arrives we will have all the cases loaded in. All the journalists will by then be surrounding the car. Once we are sure that their attention is on the car, the ladies will be conducted by our chief housekeeper to the laundry room and will be given the baskets they are to carry to the laundry van. The gentlemen” George giggled again “will leave the hotel via the front entrance. As you, sirs, speak to the journalists to explain that the ladies will be leaving a little later, the ladies themselves will be entering the laundry van and hiding in the basket. The van will set off, leaving the castle grounds through the tradesmen’s entrance. The gentlemen will be driven out through the main gate.” Mr Nolan paused and looked around the group. “Are there any questions?”

Pattie wondered, after that dazzling display of strategic efficiency, whether they would dare voice any questions even if they had any. But Cynthia voiced the query that she herself had thought of. “Where will we meet the car and get out of the van?” she asked, and Pattie nodded.

“And when do they get out of the basket?” Pattie inwardly blessed George for asking the next one of her list of worries.

“Once the van doors are closed the driver will open the basket and let them out,” assured Mr Nolan. “The laundry van will rendezvous with the car at Shannon Airport.”

“At seventeen hundred hours,” John supplied in his best sergeant major accent, and Cynthia jabbed him again.

“Are there any further questions?”

The four looked at each other, and the four all shook their heads. Mr Nolan looked at his watch. “Synchronise…” John began and this time Cynthia slapped him on the head. The hotel manager looked at his watch again, and his expression dared the guests to make fun of him.

“I’ll give the instruction for the car to be brought round,” he said and, with a sharp nod, he turned smartly and left the room.

Pattie wound both arms around George’s waist and leaned her head against his shoulder. She suddenly felt very very anxious.

Saturday 27th March 1964, late afternoon.

Shannon Airport was very small, but the staff there still kindly managed to locate a small though unglamorous private room for the four to sit in until their toy plane was ready for take-off. Privacy was essential. Not merely because they were two Beatles and women and therefore phenomenally famous, but also because the women in question could not have contemplated any degree of public viewing from others. Not yet.

John still, now and then, allowed a giggle to erupt, though each one was swiftly stifled. He and Cynthia had been together a long time. And were married. George and Pattie were newly in love and George, despite his youth and despite his inexperience of serious relationships, had become quickly and urgently aware that laughing was not politic and now clamped down ruthlessly on any mirth which struggled to escape. Pattie was hunched in a not very comfortable chair and was dabbing at tear drops which still trickled prettily from her eyes despite her efforts to stop crying. She didn’t even know why she was crying, as she kept saying. It was maybe just the shock. Cynthia was dragging a brush through her long thick hair, every brush stoke leaving the menfolk in no doubt of her anger at her husband’s response. She glared at her husband. “It is not funny,” she said, implacably.

She was met with a silence; there was little more that could be said. The problem had been a simple one. The van driver had forgotten, in his enthusiasm to effect his dare-devil get away, to let the girls out of the laundry basket. Carried away by the drama of the situation, which was without doubt the highlight of his employment at the hotel, he had put his foot down and hurled the van around sharp bends, up and down hills, slamming to a halt at traffic lights and shooting off again when the lights changed, driving like the getaway driver he fancied himself to be, all the way from the castle to the airport. Only when he drove into the airport and saw the limo waiting for him and his cargo did he remember just what he had been supposed to do.

After slithering out of his driver’s seat into the back of the van and undoing the lids of the baskets, he made sure to make himself very, very scarce.

And, in the meantime, during that journey from the hotel to the airport, all eight and a half miles of it, the basket in which Pattie Boyd and Cynthia Lennon had been hidden had thudded from one side of the van to the other, smashing into the sides of the van and ricocheting back to the other side again. In vain had the girls shrieked and yelled to be let out of the basket, as had been the plan. Locked in the van and buried in laundry they went unheard and eventually they gave up shouting. All they could do was try to brace themselves so as not to smash into each other and, occasionally, they succeeded. Most of the time they didn’t. During times when the van was following a straight road they straightened themselves out, moved as far from each other as they could, gripped with their feet at the base of the basket. But, unlike when you’re in the passenger seat and can see what’s happening, they had no warning of the next hairpin bend in this remote and rural area, and they were yet again tossed here, there and all over each other. They were in pain from where there collided with each other; Pattie’s forehead had smashed against Cynthia’s and the sharp pain made her feel sick. As did the rocking to and fro. As did the fear.

The girls were both terrified. There was certainly no opportunity to speak coherently to each other during that nightmare ride, but afterwards they found that both had feared the baskets tipping over altogether and bodies being flung and necks being snapped…

Cynthia’s hairbrush drew crackling static as she brushed and brushed and glared. Pattie’s paper handkerchief was scrunched smaller and smaller in her hand and she sniffed at intervals. George made a judgement call, and pulled up a chair to sit next to her and drew her close into his arms. It turned out to be the correct call; she pressed close to him and buried her face in his shoulder. She didn’t want to cry any more. She’d had enough of that. It was just the shock, she said again…

“Ah, ladies and gentlemen?” came a hesitant voice from the door. “Your flight is ready for boarding.”

Pattie pushed herself upright and looked at George. She remembered that hideous pressure in her ears. He remembered his complete lack of faith that the toy plane was capable of flight. His dark eyes met her tearful blue ones.

“Oh fuck,” he remarked sadly.

Sunday 28th March 1964, mid morning

George reached out towards the cup of tea, but Pattie shook her head and put it down on the night table beside the bed. “It’s hot,” she said, and scampered round to her side of the bed with her own cup in her hand, which she carefully put down before clambering into bed herself. Once comfortably in, she retrieved the cup and took a sip. “Mmmm.”

“Ta,” said George.

“S’alright.”

George pushed himself back in the bed so that he was supported by the headboard and pillows and then he too picked up his tea. The couple sat in comfortable silence for a while, drinking, waking up.

After a while, Pattie became aware that the silence was becoming less comfortable. She sipped her tea and tried to work out whether or not it was her imagination, but concluded that it was not. She then, once she’d definitely concluded that there was something not quite right, began to feel worried. She knew she had to ask him about it, to ask if there was anything wrong; but she also wondered whether she actually wanted to know.

If there had been a test which had to be passed during those extraordinary couple of days – had she passed it? Had she failed it? Had she fitted into that uniquely close-knit group, or was she outside? Not right. Not wanted.

Was he…?

“Pattie.” George’s tone was abrupt, almost harsh.

That’s it then. This was it. They’d tried it out, he’d invited her along, but it hadn’t worked out, and John and Cyn had spoken to him and…

“Pattie!”

She turned to him. Feeling slightly sick with anxiety but knowing she had to be adult about it, brave…

“Pattie!! Why aren’t you talking to me?”

She went to take a deep breath to speak, but found that she was already holding her breath and would have been asphyxiated. “I…” she began. She swallowed. “I am talking to you.” She dared look up into his eyes, and was astonished at the expression she found there. Anxious, longing – every bit as worried as she herself felt. “George, what is it?”

He was chewing his lip.

“George!” It was her turn to sound abrupt, and almost harsh.

George looked down at the bedclothes over his lap, and then straight back at her and visibly gathered himself to speak. Pattie braced herself for the blackness, the grief…

“Did it put you off?” he barked at her.

Pattie’s eyes widened in surprise, and she frowned, unable to process what he’d asked. “Did it…?” She trailed off.

“Did all that,” George almost spat out the last word, “put you off? Put you off being with me. Going out with me.” By now he had turned to her, his brown eyes searching hers. Pleading. And, as she gradually began to absorb what was going on here, a massive weight of fear rolled off her and evaporated away. She felt the corner of her mouth begin to twitch into a smile, and the smile broadened into a beam of relief.

“No!” she exclaimed. She twisted around to face him and found that her hands had made their way to cup his face, gently, tenderly. “No! Of course it didn’t!”

“It’s not of course,” he countered gruffly but quite reasonably. “You nearly got killed cos of it.”

Pattie found herself laughing; the memory was still awful but the relief that she wasn’t being unceremoniously dumped overruled it. “No I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“Well, okay, never mind, I don’t care, it hasn’t put me off, nothing would. Please don’t…” She stopped, not even sure what she was going to say. But George picked it up.

“Don’t what?”

Another deep breath, this time it was possible, and she knew she had to be honest. “I was worried you wouldn’t think it worked out. The weekend. All of you.”

“Eh?” It was George’s turn to frown in confusion. “What…? What didn’t work?”

“I thought maybe you and the others wouldn’t think I fitted in. To the group.” She paused, and searched his face again for response. She didn’t have to wait very long. At last, that wonderful toothy grin made its appearance.

“It was great!” he proclaimed, and he reached out and pulled her into his arms. Pattie lay squashed against him as he squeezed her tightly and she felt his chuckle against her cheek. “You were great. You were perfect. And John and Cyn loved you!”

“Did they?” came her muffled plea for extra reassurance.

“Yeah, they did! And Brian said we could have another holiday in May cos we’ve got time off and they want you to come too. But I didn’t know if you’d want to, I didn’t know if you were put off with all the press, and the hiding - and the fucking laundry baskets.”

Pattie wriggled out of his almost frantic clasp and pushed herself upright so that she could properly face him. “George,” she declared. “I don’t care how many laundry baskets I have to travel in, I want to be with you.” She leaned forward and kissed him on the nose. “Always,” she concluded.

George reached for her again, and kissed her lovingly and deeply and endlessly. And at the end they snuggled down together into the bed clothes and wrapped their arms and legs around each other. “Where are we going on holiday?” she asked, dreamily.

“China.”

“China?? Are you sure that’s safe?”

George nuzzled his face against her hair. “They’ve got some good laundries there,” he said.

“You bastard…!!” But he silenced her with another kiss, and not much more was said between them for some time.

END

#George Harrison #Pattie Boyd #John Lennon #Cynthia Lennon #the beatles #beatlesonholiday #fanfiction #1964 #romance #dromolandcastle

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