#for years the insides of my elbows would be torn and bloodied constantly from the scratching

[pocket-size-cthulhu]

One of the greatest most wonderful most worth it things about living life and getting older is when you notice your healing. Anything from "woah, I thought that scar would never disappear, but now you wouldn't notice it unless I pointed it out" to "wow, when was the last time I grieved that relationship? It hardly even hurts anymore" to "I can't remember the last time I was lonely like I used to be when I was a teenager" etc. Handling something that a few years ago would have been so much more difficult. Being amazed by how resilient you are after all. You'll heal. You'll heal. You'll heal. You have happiness to look forward to on the other side.

[darlingsdevil]

Of What Could Have Been (John Marston x Reader, Arthur Morgan)

Warnings: gore, violence, reference to s*xual ab*se but never explicitly stated

Summary: Arthur missed his chance, and now he’s paying for his past mistakes.

Masterlist

A/N: This story is basically Satisfied from Hamilton! The song was a huge inspiration and I’ve wanted to write a fic for this song for a very long time! Hope you like it.

Words: 2k

•••

The air was sweet and mild, the sun had just dipped below the terrain, and the party was just starting. Everyone was in good spirits, especially the bride and the groom. The whiskey was strong, the songs and cheers loud and the smiles wide. The women were ecstatic, they prepared the dress and the decorations, the party was their resting moment. The rest of the men drank like no tomorrow, congratulating John on his ‘big catch’. Everyone was happy - except Arthur.

Arthur hid it well. The heartbreak, the jealousy, the lonely nights knowing you would never be his. He was happy for you, you got what you truly wanted, and John would make a fine husband. He wouldn’t ruin your special night by his stupid feelings, that would be a shameful thing to do. So he hid it, as he would for the rest of his life while John was around. Only Hosea knew of Arthur’s feelings for you, as Hosea had raised him, he could tell that Arthur was painfully in love, and since he had raised you too, Hosea knew that you didn’t love him like that, and you never would.

The reception was short and sweet, at sundown, as it was tradition in camp. Susan was proud of you, as was Dutch and Hosea.

“Dutch! We got a girl over here!” Arthur yelled, loud enough for John and Dutch to hear him. John was barely a man. Arthur was well into his twenties, and still relentlessly teased the younger boy to know end.

You watched Arthur with fearful eyes, blood splattering your dress. The coach was filled with gore, and you were at the center of it all, a knife in hand, ready to stab Arthur if he took one step too close.

Back then it was trivial, everything seemed so simple. Arthur was more carefree, wild and unpredictable, a young man who sought pleasure. John even worse, a troublesome kid with a mean temper.

“You get an inch closer and this knife is going through your chest!” You yelled, your hands shaking.

Arthur backed away slowly, and pulled his gun from the holster, setting it down on the grass.

“The other one too. And the knife.”

He put his other cattleman next to the first, it fell with a clunk. The knife on his belt dropped too. You ever so slowly put the knife down, still holding it with an iron grip.

“What’s your name, Miss?” He asked you calmly.

Your eyes welled up with tears, when was the last time someone had asked you that? You gave him your name, your voice wavering. He nodded, understanding.

“I’m Arthur Morgan. We’re bad men, but we ain’t them.” Arthur told you. You dropped the knife completely. John and Dutch joined his side, and you almost instantly picked it up again. The silver glint was menacing, but could you really win against three armed men?

Arthur mumbled something to them, they both raised their hands.

“What happened, Miss?” The dark haired man asked you, he was older than both of them.

“They.. they’re dead. I killed them.” You stuttered, with shock.

“Who are they?” The older man asked again, motioning towards the bloody corpses.

“They took me from my home, they kidnapped me. I don’t know their names.”

The older man nodded, reaching out to give you his hand, you took it, stepping out of the carriage.

You had been saved.

Arthur recalled his first encounter with you. You were a fretful thing the first few months, with good reason of course. You were particularly wary of the older men too, but you learned to trust them. The first few months you confided in both Arthur and John, and by the next year it was only John. Arthur was dealing with the aftermath of Mary, and was moody and lashed out constantly. Drink had a mean hold on him. Arthur regretted it the most, in the first year, you had started to fall for John while Arthur pushed you away.

Mary called it off with Arthur that night. He was angry, beyond angry. Seething and blind with grief. When he rode into camp, the air surrounding him was heavy and electric, it’s like if you looked at him he would kill you. But behind that rage, he was upset, like he could sob until he couldn’t see anymore.

And then there was you. When he saw you, he was suddenly helpless. You were sitting by the fire, mending a torn shirt. While he rode into camp with fury, he quickly hitched his horse, rushing to his small tent to brood, but he noticed you, a beacon of light in his darkness.

He walked up behind you, you were quiet, but set the needle on your lap.

“Arthur?” You spoke in a quiet voice, feeling his presence behind you.

Arthur was frozen behind you, taking in your beauty. He felt ashamed, Mary was suddenly pushed to the back of his mind, as if she had meant little to him.

You looked up and smiled at him. His heart damn near shattered with just one look. Your eyes glistening with happiness, the fire illuminated your eyes with a bright glow and they twinkled underneath the stars.

“Can I sit with you?” He asked, his voice strangely low, you could tell he was upset. Like he was cracking at his very core.

You nodded, watching him as he sat down on the oak log.

“What’s wrong, Arthur?”

“Arthur! Arthur!” Dutch shouted, tipsy and cheering.

Arthur looked towards the poker table.

“Say a toast for us, will yeah? John’s your brother!” The men laughed, the women smiled.

He nodded, picking up his whiskey bottle.

“To the groom!” Arthur shouted, the dark liquid sloshed in his bottle. Everyone cheered.

John lifted his glass, wearing a simple button down shirt and dress pants. Susan couldn’t force him to wear a suit. He even had his unruly hair tied back for the evening.

“To the bride!”

“Arthur? What’s wrong with you?” You asked him, those big eyes looking at him with fear. Shame coiled in his gut - he couldn’t be controlled.

“Go out and get some goddamn money for us and don’t come back till you have something.” He seethed, glaring at you angrily.

“I-” you started, but were quickly cut off by him. All you had been doing was gathering flowers and herbs in the field next to camp, to give to Pearson and press the flowers into a journal you had bought for Arthur. You were planning on giving it to him once all the flowers were dried.

“All you do is sit around. Give me those damn flowers.” He shouted at you, attempting to grab your basket of plants. You stuck it behind you, protecting your collection.

“What’s gotten into you?” You yelled, fear rising in you. The lavender in the field masked the smell of alcohol.

Arthur was unhinged, his hair messy and his clothes rumpled and loose.

“Don’t come back to camp until you have money or I’ll throw you out! I’m tired of you not pulling your weight!”

You were silent, backing away from him and his rage.

John shouted your name from across the field. You turned to him, suddenly feeling relieved. Arthur was out of control.

“Give me that damn basket!” Arthur shouted even louder, grabbing you forcefully and ripped the basket out of your hands, the flowers spilling to the floor.

John swiftly came to your aide and shoved Arthur to the ground. He landed on the flowers, now crumpled.

“What the hell are you doing?” John asked Arthur. Rage burned inside him.

“All she does it sit around! Aren’t you tired of busting your ass while she gets to relax all day while we’re risking our lives?” Arthur retaliated, quickly jumping to his feet and pushing John further, John fell back into you.

“You need to go to bed Arthur, you reek of booze. Don’t do something you’ll regret.” John told him, much calmer this time.

But I already regret it - Arthur thought.

The way you looked at him would be forever burned into his mind. You looked at him with fear and sad eyes, you were hurt by his words, shocked.

And there you were, with a wide smile, staring directly at Arthur. John held you, but you were staring at him. You were breathtaking, in a lace gown with multiple layers on your skirt, a sash tied to your waist and sleeves that fell just below your elbow.

“You’ve got yourself a fine wife, John, and Mrs. Marston, boy, have you gotten yourself into some deep shit!” Arthur chuckled, shouts of agreement were heard. You playfully nodded your head at him, looking up at your husband.

Arthur couldn’t sleep - it was usual for him after Mary broke things off. His mind clouded with what ifs, and what he would have done differently. But tonight was odd, perhaps it was the oncoming storm he could feel in the air or perhaps it was because of something more.

He heard quiet whispers from the forest next to his tent, mumbled and he couldn’t make out any words. Arthur was suddenly on high alert, grabbing his gun and sneaking out from his small tent.

There was a brush of trees that backed up right to his tent, so he could be easily hidden. All the lights were out in camp, not even Uncle was wasting away at the fire. The forest was quiet, except for the whispers. It was eerily quiet, a chill crept up the back of his neck, making his hair stand on edge.

“John..” Arthur managed to make out. But who’s voice could that be, and why was he up at god knows what hour?

“You know I like you..” He heard John say, as he snuck in closer.

“I like you too. I have for awhile.” You confessed, suddenly Arthur knew. And his heart shattered again.

He peeked out from his hiding spot, just long enough to see you kiss John with compassion and pent up feelings. Arthur wished that had been him instead. Arthur backed away slowly, holding back tears in his eyes. He wasn’t an emotional man, but that night he wept. He wept for lost opportunity, that you could have been his had he not pushed you away.

“You’ll make a mighty fine husband and wife, and even better parents. I wish the two of you the best, you deserve it.” Arthur told them, hiding his longing for you.

“To Mr. and Mrs. Marston!” Arthur raised his bottle to them, patrons of camp repeating his phrase and lifting their glasses in unison.

Arthur took a hearty swig, perhaps it was long enough to satisfy his aching heart if only for a moments notice.

You danced with John, as Dutch cranked up his phonograph, a slow melodic tune. Everyone watched with heartfelt eyes, Mary Beth - the true romantic held her hand over her heart. Tilly and Karen cooed at the sight of you swaying, and Miss O’Shea held on tightly to Dutch’s arm.

Arthur took in your beauty, imagining himself up there instead. He was jealous of John, no doubt, but you would be happy as his bride. John would be good to you.

And perhaps his feelings would fade with time, but there would be none of that now.

It would always be Mr. Marston and Mrs. Marston, never the Morgan’s.

And he would have to watch you with John everyday, oblivious to his heartbreak. You would take care of John and have his kids, watch them grow up and grow old with John.

And Arthur would have to watch, as he did now, watching you sway with John with loving eyes, realizing you had never belonged to Arthur.

He would never be satisfied.

[pikapeppa]

Hello! Happy Friday! How about the prompt "Where, Curse, Tender" for Hawke x Fenris?

Thanks for this lovely @dadrunkwriting prompt! Here we have some Fenris x Rynne Hawke arguing, some hurt/comfort, and some NSFW smut. 

Revolves around the Act 3 quest, Best Served Cold - i.e. the one where Hawke investigates the plot to overthrow Meredith, and Grace goes apeshit and kills poor Ser Thrask.

Read on AO3 instead.

************************

“You didn’t have to accompany me, you know,” Carver muttered. “I’m not injured.”

Hawke looped her hand through her brother’s elbow as they strolled through the gates of the Gallows. “You said that already,” she said cheerfully. “You said that on the Wounded Coast, and you said it when we got back to Kirkwall and I was making you that sandwich, and you said it on the boat too.” She reached up and playfully rubbed Carver’s hair. “Are you sure you’re not brain-damaged from the blood magic? You’re repeating yourself a lot.”  

“Do not say that so lightly,” Fenris said. “Blood magic can have some unpredictable effects.” Then he bit the inside of his cheek as Hawke shot him a stricken look.

Carver glared at him over her shoulder. “Thanks a lot, Fenris,” he said waspishly.

Fenris grunted, feeling slightly guilty as Hawke wrestled her smile back in place and hugged Carver’s arm. “Don’t blame me for wanting to spend some time with my baby brother,” she said. “I should have gathered a picnic for the Wounded Coast before coming to rescue you. You have to admit, it’s a nice view out there. Aside from all the dead bodies and everything.”

Varric snorted. “Don’t forget the giant spiders. They really add a certain panache to the scene, I think.”

Hawke gave a barking little laugh as they entered the courtyard. The other Templars turned to stare at their party’s entrance, and Carver hunched his shoulders defensively. “All right, all right,” he grumbled. “I have to report to the Knight-Captain now. Will you let me go?”

Hawke chuckled, then finally released Carver’s arm. “Fine. I see how I rate. Go give your report to Big Bad Cullen. I bet it’ll go something like this: ‘I fell asleep, and then I woke up when my fantastic heroic sister saved me. The end.’” She stood on her tip-toes and gave Carver a noisy kiss on the cheek.

He wrinkled his nose, then shrugged awkwardly. “Thanks for the sandwich,” he muttered, then strode away with his ears up around his shoulders.

Hawke folded her arms and sighed contentedly. “First he becomes a Templar, then he lets a rogue blood mage take him hostage. He makes the family proud, doesn’t he?”

Varric huffed and folded his arms as well. “Count your lucky stars that that’s all he does,” he drawled.

Hawke twisted her lips ruefully and patted Varric on the shoulder, then sighed. “Well, I suppose we have to go tell Orsino about his little rebels.” She grimaced as they made their way toward the inner courtyard. “Is it too much to hope that he and Meredith will just kiss and make up?” Suddenly she straightened, and a mischievous grin crept across her face.

She turned to Varric. “I have a fantastic idea for a serial. Get this: the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter. A tale of the most forbidden love ever told.”

Varric groaned as they made their way up the steps toward the Gallows’s offices. “Well, that’s an idea I can’t unsee.”

“What do you mean? It’s a great idea!” Hawke protested. She elbowed Fenris teasingly. “I wouldn’t mind hearing you read me that story in bed.”

Fenris grunted. He was not feeling particularly in the mood for jokes. He was generally displeased by Hawke’s management of this whole situation so far, and he suspected that her conversation with Orsino was only going to irritate him further.  

Varric, meanwhile, cleared his throat loudly. “Thanks, Hawke. That makes two ideas I can’t ever unsee. I’m definitely never writing it now.”

She tutted in disappointment, and they sidled into Orsino’s office to explain Thrask’s conspiracy and his grim fate at Grace’s hands. Fenris folded his arms and leaned against the wall as he listened to their conversation. He frowned as Orsino hinted none-too-subtly that he wished to overthrow Meredith, and he scowled even further when Hawke made a joke about making Meredith a farewell cake if a coup should ever occur.

He was silent as he followed her and Varric out of the hall. They made their way back to the little boat that would return them to Kirkwall, and Hawke joked constantly with Varric during the short trip. Fenris, meanwhile, sat near the bow and mulled over the evening’s events.

As usual in these situations, he was irritated at Hawke for her mage favouritism. But he was starting to wonder if his irritation was more an artifact of the past: a habitual annoyance, as opposed to true discontent with Hawke’s decisions.

From a completely objective point of view, the Knight-Commander’s behaviour was seeming less and less logical. If Templars were speaking against her, willing to actually work with mages to oust her, Fenris could no longer completely attribute the problem to the mages being entitled. Years ago, he would have blamed the mages for tonight’s debacle; he would have chalked it up to the Templars being enchanted, twisted and corrupted from their noble purpose by the mages’ manipulations. But his years in Hawke’s company had rendered him uncertain.

Hawke was proof that mages could be strong. She had never been even remotely tempted by the power that blood magic could afford. And then there was Keran to consider. Keran was so convinced of the rightness of Thrask’s cause, despite being tortured by blood mages all those years ago.

The mages want the Circle, Keran had said. They want it to work like it’s supposed to. Fenris had never heard such a thing said before. But he supposed he hadn’t had much opportunity to hear such opinions. The only mages he knew were apostates who disliked the Circle on principle, including Hawke herself.

Fenris sighed and ran a hand through his hair. As much as he hated to admit it, this whole incident was quite damning indeed for Meredith.

But then there are mages like Grace, he thought. Grace, who had professed herself to be innocent all those years ago, and who had betrayed her own ally at the first sign of trouble.

Fenris curled his lip in disgust. The memory of Grace’s vicious and power-hungry face as she drew her bloody dagger from her own belly, then exploded into an abomination…

Curse these blasted power-hungry blood mages, Fenris thought. This was why the Circle needed to control mages, not simply protect them. This was why the Rite of Tranquility existed. The familiar anger leaked back in, diluting Fenris’s uncertainty once again. By the time they reached Kirkwall, he was quite prepared to hash it out with Hawke.

Varric could clearly gauge his mood. He shot Fenris a fleeting look before shoving his hands into his pockets and smiling at Hawke. “Thanks for the adventure, Champion,” he said. “Maybe we can stick to the city next time? Keep my best boots out of the muck.”

She bumped Varric playfully with her hip. “I can’t leave the city without you! What would I ever do without your glittering accolades? I forget sometimes how fantastic I am. I need you to talk me up in case I forget.”

“Careful, Hawke,” Varric warned. “You might need a new hood if your head gets any bigger.” He winked at her, then nodded in farewell to Fenris. “Elf. See you around,” he said.

“Goodnight,” Fenris said politely, and Varric nodded once more before sauntering away.

Hawke took Fenris’s hand as they made their way back to her house. “Well, that was fun,” she said breezily. “Nothing like a good kidnapping-and-conspiracy combo to shake up the old routine. I don’t know about you, but I despise peace and quiet. Sitting at home with a good book? Boring! No no, give me cloaks and daggers every day. That’s the ticket to a good life.”

She was upset. It was obvious in the tightness of her grip on his hand. It was obvious in the constancy of her jokes. As Fenris listened silently to her cheerful prattle, he realized that he was torn; on the one hand, he was angry about the evening’s events, and the familiar impulse to fight with Hawke was as strong as ever. Their fights had become more satisfying over the years, evolving from his vicious one-sided explosions of rage into heated two-sided debates, and although her opinions often rankled, Fenris always wanted to hear them.

He liked that Hawke listened to him. He liked that she heard him, and he liked that she countered him and pushed him to think beyond the seething hate that he’d been conditioned to hide behind. If he was perfectly honest, he also really liked that their fights now ended more often than not in sex. And so it was that he was more than ready to fight with her the second they returned to her house.

But Hawke was upset. And despite his anger, the other half of him wanted simply to enfold her in his arms and to ward her distress away.

She opened the mansion door and kicked off her boots while propping her staff against the wall, then turned to him with a smile as he locked the door behind them. “Shall we have a drink?” she said brightly. “I could really use-”

“Hawke,” he said. “Speak plainly now. What do you really want to say?”

Her smile froze for a split second. Then she turned and meandered into the main room and held out her hand to Toby. “Who’s the smartest droolmaker in Kirkwall?” she crooned. “You are! Yes, you are.”

He watched with an odd mixture of sympathy and annoyance as she knelt beside the mabari and ruffled his jowls, then rubbed his ears until he was madly wagging his tail. Fenris leaned against her writing desk and folded his arms, and when she finally looked up at him, he raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“All right,” she said. She rose to her feet, and her smile was gone. “You want me to speak plainly?”

He waved one hand. “Please,” he said. “Speak your piece. I’m listening.”

“Fine. This is all Meredith’s fault,” Hawke said bluntly. “She’s so busy chasing imaginary demons that she can’t protect her own men.” She pulled off her gauntlet, then began unbuckling her chest plate. She turned toward Fenris with a crooked smile. “How in the Void do you manage to let a Templar get abducted from your own ranks? And Carver, of all people? My fool of a baby brother? It’s ridiculous.” She plonked her armour on the desk beside him. “Terrible leadership. Aveline would never let one of her men get abducted,” she continued. “Can you imagine if someone tried to take Donnic? The reckoning she’d inflict-”

“And the blood mages?” Fenris interrupted. “Grace would have had Carver killed simply to spite you. You would call her blameless in this?”

“Of course not!” Hawke snapped. “But she was just one mage. One isolated crazy person. Alain refused to listen to her, I’ll have you remember. And the others…” She trailed off, and her face creased with regret for a moment.

She swallowed hard, then glared at him. “We killed so many mages tonight. All they wanted was to be treated fairly. They didn’t want to be imprisoned and kept like-”

She broke off suddenly and dropped her gaze, and Fenris narrowed his eyes. “Say it,” he growled. “They didn’t want to be kept like slaves. That is what you were going to say, is it not?”

She pursed her lips, then turned and began walking up the stairs.

Fenris followed her. The anger was beating steadily in his ears now. “And what of Thrask?” he demanded. “Your precious Ser Thrask. He trusted that blood mage, and she turned on him in a heartbeat. She didn’t hesitate to draw the power from her veins!”

Hawke strode into her bedroom and started pulling off her clothes. Fenris folded his arms and glared at her as her shirt drifted to the ground. “These mages have no self-control,” he railed. “They’re too easily tempted by power. Controlling the elements is not enough for them. They must control everyone around them as well!”

“The Templars are no different!” Hawke snapped. She fumbled at the laces of her trousers as she continued to talk. “They don’t care about protecting the mages. They just want to control them and keep them under their thumbs!” She pulled at her laces for a second longer, then threw her hands up in frustration. “Fuck’s sake, these fucking trousers-”

Fenris tutted. She was so damned impatient. “I will do it,” he said, and he stepped close to her and began to unknot her laces.

They were silent for a moment as he picked at the stubborn knot. Fenris watched the careful rise and fall of her belly against his knuckles as she breathed. The longer he worked at the knot and watched her steady breathing, the more he began to calm down.

He finally untied the knot, then brushed fingers lightly over her bare belly. “Mages don’t need protection,” he said quietly. “They need control. You and Anders think mages are treated like slaves, but it is not the same. A slave cannot set his master aflame in a fit of fear. A slave cannot transform into a  murderous monster by slitting his wrist.”

She sighed loudly. “Fenris, you’re being so-”

He reached up and took her chin in a gentle grip. “Mages need to be more like you,” he said firmly. “You have control over your magic. You do not let it control you. You do not let it get the better of you. You do not understand how rare you are.”

“I wasn’t raised in the Circle,” she countered. Her voice was low, but her tone was fierce, as fierce as the look in her eyes. “You think I would be the same person if I’d been raised in a place like the Gallows? With Templars telling me I was a sinful piece of trash because of the way I was born?”

Fenris stared at her in silence for a long moment, unable to find a reply. The angry part of his mind rebelled, wanting to argue with her, to tell her she was wrong, but he… couldn’t.

He couldn’t tell her she was wrong, because perhaps she was right.

She gently pulled his hand away from her chin. “I’m not special, Fenris. I’m just lucky. I’m lucky that my father was a mage and a good teacher. I’m lucky that my parents hid me and Bethany away.” She pushed her trousers down and kicked them away. “I’ve always been lucky. Other people, not so much. Thrask understood that. He was one of the unlucky ones.” She shook her head. “Andraste’s tits, was he ever unlucky. His daughter and his co-conspirator both becoming abominations?” She was quiet for a moment, then she looked at Fenris with a feeble imitation of a smile. “Too bad we never played diamondback against him. Varric would have bankrupted him.”

She walked away and disappeared into the bathroom, and Fenris slowly began to strip off his armour as he listened to the sound of her brushing her teeth. He pulled on his sleeping clothes, then wandered into the bathroom to join her.

He picked up his toothbrush. “Thrask was not blameless in this,” he said. “He… he chose his companions carelessly. Grace has been angry and resentful of you for years. He should have noticed how volatile she was.”

In truth, Fenris wasn’t sure anymore whether he was trying to convince her of Thrask’s wrongdoing, or to convince himself. His anger had been whittled down to a feeble hint of irritation now, and he was starting to get the distinct feeling that he was losing this argument.

Hawke seemed to notice his indecision. She leaned over the basin and spat, then shot him a knowing look. “I don’t know, Fenris. Sometimes the angry and resentful companions are the best ones.” She winked at him, then slipped out of the bathroom and unbuckled her bustier.

Back to the jokes. Fenris knew she was upset, and he knew he should let the conversation end, but he couldn’t seem to still his tongue. For some reason he couldn’t quite understand, he wanted Hawke to argue with him. He wanted her to push back.

He placed his toothbrush back on the counter and followed her out of the bathroom. “Don’t be glib,” he said. “Thrask was incautious. He placed himself at the mercy of a blood mage. He placed Carver at that mercy. Your brother in the thrall of blood magic-”

She spun toward him, and Fenris drew back in surprise at the uncharacteristic fury in her face. “I know that,” she shouted. “I know, all right? I get it. Carver’s life was in danger, and I should have protected him better. You think I don’t know that?”

Fenris gaped at her as she threw her bustier aside. “That… Hawke, that is not what I meant,” he said.

“That’s not what you’re saying, but that’s what you’re thinking!” she retorted. “If I hadn’t let Grace go free all those years ago, she wouldn’t have gotten caught, and she wouldn’t have taken Carver hostage, and he would have been safe and happy in the Gallows with his stupid Templar friends.”

Fenris stared at her, thrown off by the sudden turn their conversation had taken. He hadn’t been thinking that, but clearly she had.  

“It was not your fault that they took Carver hostage,” he said carefully.

“Of course it was,” she snapped. “If I wasn’t so bloody famous, he wouldn’t have been a target. Rynne Hawke, the Loudmouthed Champion of Kirkwall, putting her family in harm’s way by sticking her nose in everyone’s business.” She was moving haphazardly around the room now, picking her clothes off the floor only to put them back down and fiddling idly with Fenris’s tidy pile of armour.

He frowned, then slowly approached her and took her arm. “Carver is fine. He’s back at the Gallows safe and sound. Fretting will serve no purpose now.”

She pulled her arm away from him and idly ran her fingers over his armour, and Fenris noticed with growing concern that she wouldn’t look him in the eye. “What if we hadn’t gotten there when we did?” she asked. “It was a close fucking call. That crazy bitch turning into an abomination, and Carver just lying there looking like he was dead-”

Her voice cracked, and she wrapped her arms around herself and began scratching compulsively at the left side of her ribs, the side where her tattoo curled across her skin.

And just like that, Fenris wasn’t angry anymore. He reached out and took her hand to stop her from scratching. “Come here,” he said gently.

She shook her head and pulled her hand away. “It was my fault that Carver was taken,” she said. She looked him in the eye. “That’s what you really think. Isn’t it?”

“No,” he insisted. His chest was aching now, aching with sympathy as he studied her fragile and defiant face. If he’d known this was what she was thinking, that she was blaming herself for the night’s events…

He reached for her scratching fingers again, but she took a step back. “Is it cold in here, or is it just me?” she said. “I’m absolutely freezing.” She rubbed her goosebumped arms, then turned away from him and picked her shirt off the floor.

Fenris watched with growing distress as she put on her shirt. He walked over to the fireplace and added a few logs to the glowing embers, then poked at them until they bloomed into flame. When he turned around again, it was to find Hawke tucked in bed.

He studied her for a moment, then slowly slipped into bed beside her, and he couldn’t help but notice that she was wearing soft flannel trousers as well as her shirt.

Hawke never slept in clothes, not since they’d been together. Feeling more and more uneasy, Fenris settled himself awkwardly on his pillow, then glanced at Hawke from the corner of his eye.

She was lying on her back with one arm tucked behind her head. Her face was calm and her eyes were closed, but as he studied her quietly, he noticed the way she was chewing subtly at her lower lip.

Fenris didn’t know what to do. He’d never seen Hawke acting so aloof before; it wasn’t like her to shut down like this, not even when they were arguing.

He gazed in silence at the canopy of her bed. With every second that ticked past and every anxious beat of his heart, he felt distinctly like the air was thickening between them, brewing into something increasingly dark and ugly.

He couldn’t bear it. He tentatively reached for her hand beneath the blankets. “Hawke,” he murmured, and he slid his fingers across her wrist.

A moment later, before Fenris could so much as take a breath, Hawke rolled toward him and slung her leg over his.

She pressed herself against him and slipped her fingers into his hair. “Make me forget,” she whispered, then kissed his jaw.

“What?” he said dumbly. He was thrown off once again, unbalanced by her abruptly shifting mood, but his arms wrapped instinctively around her body all the same.

She kissed his cheekbone, then his ear, then she awkwardly pulled her shirt off and tossed it aside. “Please, Fenris, make me forget all of this,” she begged. “I can’t… fuck’s sake, I hate thinking about it. I hate all of it. Just make me forget for tonight, all right?”

She pressed herself against him, and he could feel the heat of her chest through his shirt. He swallowed hard, feeling torn yet again. His undisciplined body was already responding to hers, rising with interest as she pressed her groin against his thigh, but he wasn’t sure this was the right thing to do; shouldn’t they talk about this…?

He opened his mouth to speak, and Hawke kissed him hard. She shifted her body until she was between his legs, bracing her weight on one hand and clasping the back of his neck with the other, and Fenris surrendered himself to her kiss, parting his lips and allowing the slick entry of her tongue into his mouth.

She nipped his tongue and pressed herself against his swiftly swelling crotch, and Fenris grunted and clenched his fingers against her waist. “Hawke,” he rasped. “I don’t - I didn’t mean…”

Kaffas, he couldn’t think properly, not with her pressed against him through the torturous barrier of his clothes. He scrambled for a coherent thought and tried again. “I was not trying to blame you. I meant -”

“Shhh. Don’t talk,” she whispered. She brushed her thumb across his lower lip, then followed her thumb with a careful tracing of her tongue.

He greedily flicked his tongue out to meet hers, and then she pulled away and slid her hand from his neck down to his chest. “Touch me,” she breathed.

He panted with increasing desperation as her hand slid down along his belly and beneath his shirt. Her fingers were on his bare skin, tracing up along the planes of his belly, then higher to stroke his nipple -

She rolled his nipple between her fingers, and he released a helpless groan. He smoothed his hand up her bare back and cupped the back of her head. “Where?” he rasped. “Where should I touch you?”

“Everywhere,” she said. She shifted up onto her knees, then rolled up the edge of his shirt.

Fenris complied with her wordless request, pulling off his shirt and throwing it aside. Then Hawke’s lips were on his skin, her tongue trailing from his collarbone down to his chest.

She licked his nipple, then bit his nipple lightly, and he arched into her mouth. “Rynne,” he gasped.

She pinched his other nipple, forcing another desperate breath of air from his lungs, and then her hands were pulling insistently on the waistband of his breeches, dragging them down as he obediently lifted his hips. Before he could say a word, before he could beg or protest or ask if she was sure about this, her lips were wrapped around the throbbing beacon of his cock.

“Venhedis,” he groaned. The sudden heat and pressure of her throat around his cock… He slammed his head back in the pillows and moaned her name. The pleasure she was bestowing upon him was neither gentle nor tender; it was focused and fierce, her mouth rising and falling along his length in a single-minded rhythm, and Fenris could barely keep up with how swiftly his pleasure was rising. It was like a storm low in his belly, a rushing and unstoppable roar that her voracious mouth was pulling forth, and before he was ready, before he had a chance to properly appreciate the pull, he was crying out his rapture and shuddering beneath her.

She continued to suckle him hard until he reached down and lifted her chin. She looked him in the eye and licked her lips, and Fenris stared stupidly back at her, feeling simultaneously wrung out and set on edge by feverish look in her eyes.

She sat back on her knees and began to shimmy off her flannel pants. “I want to fuck your face,” she said bluntly. “Can I-?”

He grabbed her arm. “Yes,” he said, and he pulled on her arm. “Come.”

She kicked off her pants, then crawled up his body and straddled his face, and Fenris wrapped his hands around her thighs and pulled her against his mouth.

He dragged his tongue over her swollen bud, and she gasped and braced her hands on the headboard. “Oh Maker,” she whined, and then she was rolling her hips against his face, rolling the taut little nub of her clit against the flat of his tongue, spreading the slick of her arousal across his lips and his chin, and Fenris clenched his fingers against her thighs to pull her more firmly to his face.

A few delicious minutes later, she arched her back and writhed against his tongue, then cried out sharply in her climax. Fenris slowed the swirling of his tongue, easing off to a sally of soft kisses to her slippery folds until Hawke lifted herself up on her knees.

She crawled down his body to straddle his hips, and he pushed himself upright, and then Hawke’s hands were clasping the back of his neck in a firm grip as she kissed him hard, heedless of her own arousal still coating his face as she tugged his lower lip with her teeth. Fenris panted against her mouth, then kissed her back in kind, a nearly punishing kiss with his tongue stroking hers and his teeth nipping at her lip.

She broke the kiss with a gasp. Her hips were moving again, a steady grind over his semi-hardened cock, and Fenris breathed hard as she nipped his earlobe. “Touch me,” she whispered. “Please, Fenris, touch me - I just, I need you to touch me…”

Touch me, she said. But Fenris was starting to grasp what she really wanted. She wanted a distraction. She’d used this tactic on him more than once, pulling him from his anger with the sweetness of her lips and the sweet pliancy of her body, and now she was asking for him to do the same to her.

She sank her fingers into his hair and pulled. “Please,” she mewled.

Fenris surged forward, briefly laying her on her back before rolling her roughly onto her belly. He pulled her hips up slightly, then ran his finger along the length of her cleft.

She whined pleadingly and pushed back against his fingers, then cried out as he slid two fingers inside of her. “Fuck!” she gasped.

He twisted his wrist carefully, then curled his fingers inside of her, and she pounded her fist on the mattress and let out another cry of pleasure. Fenris slid his fingers in and out of her sleek heat, curling his fingers with every entry until she was bucking back against his hand.

He leaned over her, leaning as close to her ear as possible while he continued to fuck her from behind with his fingers. “Is this what you want?” he demanded.

Hawke arched her back. “Yes!” she blurted.

“You like this, do you?” he taunted. “My fingers pushing inside of you like this? This is enough for you, is it?”

She mewled and pounded her fist on the mattress again. Her breathing was becoming more ragged, a whimper accompanying her every exhale, and Fenris fought to control his own breathing. He knew how much she enjoyed his voice when he growled in her ear, and he could only hope it would be enough push away the thoughts she was trying so hard to evade tonight.

He swirled his fingers inside of her. “Tell me, Hawke. Is this all that you want? Just my tongue and my fingers between your legs? Is that enough for you?”

“No,” she whimpered.

“No. It’s not enough, is it?” he mused. He removed his fingers and slid them teasingly along the swollen edges of her folds. “Then tell me, Rynne. Tell me what you want. Is it my cock? Is that what you want?”

She arched her back more deeply and spread her legs further apart. “Yes!” she sobbed. “Yes, that’s what I want, please!”

He dropped his lips to her back and nipped the edge of her tattoo. “Shall I fuck you until you scream my name into the Void?“ he growled. “Is that what you want?”

“Maker’s fucking balls, yes!” she cried.

Fenris plunged his fingers back inside of her, and she shoved her face against the mattress and cried out into the blankets. He curled his fingers inside of her for a moment longer, then pulled his fingers free and rolled her onto her back.

He shoved her legs apart, then dragged her closer. “Tell me,” he ordered. “Tell me what you want.”

She arched her chest and lifted her hips toward him. “Fuck me hard, right now!” she screamed.

He pumped his fist along his length once, then positioned himself at her entrance. “Consider it done,” he grunted, then he slammed himself into her slick depths.

She arched her neck and cried out, and then Fenris was fucking her furiously, exactly as she’d asked. She twined her fingers in the sheets, her face twisting with rapture and her breasts bouncing with the ferocity of his pumping hips, and Fenris stared at her, watching attentively to catch her pleasure as effectively as he could, angling himself slightly and grinding deep and hard when she gasped and clenched her fingers more tightly in the blankets.

He watched Hawke, watching her face and her body and listening to the sounds of her gasps and savouring the heated feel of her thighs under his palms, and then he was gritting his teeth, trying to hold back his own impatient climax as she lifted her hips toward him, her eyes shut tight and her lips parted as she breathed hard -

She released a wild cry and jammed her fist against her mouth, and Fenris cried out as well, shuddering fitfully as his own climax ripped through him from his groin all the way up to his throat, like the most exquisite knife rending him from the inside out.

He hunched over her, bracing his weight on one palm as he gasped for breath. Hawke was trembling still, her fist pressed against her lips and her eyes closed. As Fenris caught his breath, he gently pulled her hand away from her mouth.

There was a reddened bitemark over her thumb. Fenris gently kissed the mark, then kissed the inside of her wrist before releasing her hand. He carefully withdrew from her, then flopped onto the bed beside her and pulled her back against his chest.

He curled his arm tightly around her waist. She pressed her spine into his chest and smoothed her palm along his forearm, and Fenris allowed her a moment of peaceful silence.

He brushed his nose along the edge of her shoulder before speaking. “Don’t dwell on this night,” he murmured. “You averted a major disaster tonight, and Carver is no worse for wear. There is no point entertaining such doubts.”

She sighed, then pressed her back a bit more firmly into his chest. “Averted for now,” she drawled. “Just wait and see what happens tomorrow. How much do you want to bet that I’ll get a fresh new batch of problems to deal with in the morning mail?”

He twisted his lips, but he didn’t refute her. It was the unfortunate truth that problems seemed to fall into her lap, whether she invited them or not.

He kissed her shoulder, gently braising her skin with his lips until she released a heavy sigh. Then she rolled over to face him.

Her amber eyes were serious and sad. “Are you certain you want to stick with me and the mages when the time comes?” she whispered. “You weren’t happy about tonight, I know…”

Fenris cupped her cheek. “I am not certain about the mages,” he told her honestly. “But I am certain about you. Never be so foolish as to doubt that.”

She pressed her lips together and nodded silently. Fenris gently wiped an errant tear from the delicate ridge of her nose, then pulled her closer.

He tucked her head beneath his chin, and she wrapped her arm tightly around his chest, and Fenris simply held her shaking form. Some time later, when the tears and the tension were finally leached from her body, he listened as her breathing slowed and evened into the easy rhythm of sleep.

The fire was burning low, fading into little more than flickering embers. Darkness cast its nightly veil over Hawke’s bedroom, and Fenris finally closed his eyes.

He’d told Hawke not to dwell on her doubts, but he had his own doubts to entertain: doubts about the mages and the Templars and the Circle, uncomfortable doubts that picked at the way he’d always understood the world to be. But those doubts could wait until tomorrow.

For now, he would simply hold the one person he had no doubts about at all.  

[li-yang-fei]

Don't Make Violence and Abuse Just Another Plot Device in Your Novel

Rene Denfeld on the Way We Write About Rape and Trauma

September 6, 2017 by Rene Denfeld

The following essay contains depictions of child abuse.

They say to write what you know, and so I’ve written two novels based on my life experiences. I was the child of a violent childhood, with a registered predatory sex offender for a father figure. I survived abuse and homelessness to become an author. Like most writers I have a day job, only mine is unusual: I’m a licensed investigator, working hundreds of cases, from helping sex trafficking victims to death row. I’ve also been a foster-adoptive mother for 20 years, caring for traumatized children who arrive on my doorstep. My life has revolved around violence: how to survive it, how to understand it, how to heal from it and how to help others heal.

While that all might sound grim, it is a very happy life, filled with joy and redemption, magic and poetry. As a writer, I want to explore the reality of violence, and my adult understanding of what it takes to survive it, and even thrive. I want to push back against a culture of shame.

As the adult character in my book The Child Finder says of her own childhood abuse, she is just as innocent now as she ever was.

Growing up with pedophiles, the most terrifying part of the violence for me was not that it happened. It was knowing that it would happen again. It was the infinite helplessness of it. The way I survived was my imagination. A voracious reader, I escaped into books. But even there I was not safe, because in the books girls got raped with impunity. Even at a young age I grasped that their experience was not for my reflection. Rather than feeling seen and heard, I felt more alone than ever. What had happened to me seemed to exist outside of all representation.

Unfortunately, much writing about violence is itself a violation. Violence—especially rape—is often used as a trope. The character is only there, on the page, to be torn apart. It’s not an accident that most literary victims are women of color, prostitutes, and the poor. Such victims are splattered across the page without any regard to their suffering. The character is denied both dignity and the autonomy to interpret their experience outside an expected range of reactions that include: shattered forever, destroyed, defiled. Violations are presented in detail, and yet the point of view often reinforces the offender, so that even while being raped on the page the victim is denied voice.

Take this scene from John Grisham’s A Time to Kill:

She was ten, and small for her age. She lay on her elbows, which were stuck and bound together with yellow nylon rope. Her legs were spread grotesquely with the right foot tied tight to an oak sapling and the left to a rotting, leaning post of a long-neglected fence. The ski rope had cut into her ankles and the blood ran down her legs. Her face was bloody and swollen, with one eye bulging and closed and the other eye half open so she could see the other white man sitting on the truck. She did not look at the man on top of her. He was breathing hard and sweating and cursing. He was hurting her…

And that’s just the beginning. The scene goes on in clinical, impersonal detail.

I’m not picking on Grisham. He has a huge fan base for a reason, and I’m sure puts his heart and soul into his writing. You could pick up one of thousands of books and find similar scenes. Readers have been conditioned to feel more comfortable with graphic scenes of violence while rejecting books conveying true horror, even when they are not explicit. Books that lead to us to feeling violence have become more controversial than books exploiting it.

Contrast such writing to a real child being raped. I’ve worked with such victims. I’ve been a victim. The physical pain is catastrophic. The feelings are absolute terror, horror, sweeping shame, mind-altering, obliterating, reverberating fear. Those feelings are like a vast dark vortex pulling us under, and even long after the event that vortex and its implicit promise remains: we know what it is like to feel we might die. Such feelings cannot be described impersonally. There is absolutely nothing impersonal about being raped.

There are some writers who argue they’re merely reflecting the mind of the rapist (begging the question of just how they know). They pretend to offer an edification rather than rape by proxy. Interestingly, the common idea for being inside the mind of a rapist is to create a character outside all norms. Thus we have characters who make skin suits out of women, who are reprehensible in thought and deed, who are without any humanity: they are monsters, and most certainly not like the writer themselves. Or any of their friends, neighbors, fraternity brothers, or relatives.

Othering the rapist as a monster may feel comforting, but it’s a denial of truth: most rapists are those friends, neighbors and men we know. When such men are accused, the immediate reaction of many is that it can’t be true. They think: a rapist is supposed to be a Hannibal Lecter, not Woody Allen or Brock Turner. The woman or girl must be lying! they think. That man can’t be a rapist—he seems so nice! In this way such characters end up reinforcing disbelief of victims. We know we won’t be believed. All the offender has to do is paint on a smile.

Such tropes also avoid grappling with important questions: what makes so many men violent? Why don’t we do more about it? Over the course of my work, I’ve learned that the reason we have so many unsolved cases is not because police are constantly outsmarted by a handful of brilliant sociopaths. It’s because our society doesn’t care about crimes against women and children, especially those of color. It’s because that for families of color like mine, the police are often there to harass, arrest and assault, not to protect. It’s because violence occurs in a cultural and social context. It is because some men are allowed to hurt others.

So how can we can approach violence in a way that is authentic and real, that exists within the world of the victim? To start with, we must imagine our characters as real people. We must honor the victims by telling their truth with an effort at genuine understanding, not just of their experiences but of the world in which they live. We must focus less on the details, more on the feelings. A single humane sentence can tell a far deeper truth than any catalogue of depredation. We must give voice to the victims.

As writers, we cannot pretend that violence is a rare and solitary act committed by a singular monster. We have to grapple with it as endemic, socially created, and preventable.

Source: https://crimereads.com/dont-make-violence-and-abuse-just-another-plot-device-in-your-novel/

[foxyclocks]

Like Raindrops

Chapter 4: 6 years  AO3 | FF.net CarpeNoctem21

About a week had gone by since Nino had seen anything suspicious around the girl’s apartment. Of course in that week he had spent every sleepless night inside their apartment re-locking doors, constantly checking out the windows, he hadn’t let his guard down once and he was starting to think that he had just been seeing things.

Nino slumped down on the couch letting an arm and leg dangle off the side he was more exhausted than ever, thankfully Mr. Fu noticed and let him off easy that week only making appointments and tea- two things that Fu thought were of high importance and two things that Nino thought were the easiest jobs in the world.

The boy slid his fingers through his short brown hair and reached for the glasses resting on his nose and pushed them up onto his head. His eyes were bloodshot and begging for even a few minutes of rest. The only sound to jolt him awake was the slamming of Alya’s bedroom door as she exited the room in her sweatpants.

“Nino?” she called out seeing the boy’s pant leg hanging off the side of her couch, “You’re still here?”

The brown skinned boy sucked in a rather deep breath before hoisting himself up and leaning back against the armrest, “Yeah, Mr. Fu’s letting me start a little later today since he’s gonna be out in the square this morning.” He mumbled barley getting the words out.

Alya pursed her lips and hopped on the couch beside him placing a hand up to his forehead slowly letting it drag down and rest on his cheek, “You don’t look too good…” She said with a concerned tone.

Nino smiled leaning into her hand and nodded, “I’m fine, just having a bit of trouble sleeping is all.”

“Well, if you’ve got a late start go sleep in my room, the apartment is gonna be pretty quiet this morning since Marinette and I are heading out.” She smiled softly.

Nino’s eyebrows furrowed, from what he had know they didn’t have anything to do today, let alone this early this morning, “Where are you going?” he asked subtly trying to make it seem as if he wasn’t trying to keep close tabs on the girls when he obviously was and he was pretty sure that Alya was catching on as well.

“Oh- uhm…” Alya hesitated she nibbled on the inside of her lip and inhaled, “We’re just heading to the market for some groceries and then we’ll probably swing by the square, I mean I should probably update the Ladyblog.” She smiled standing up from the couch, “I-I’m going to go see if Marinette is ready.” She stammered. There hadn’t been a day gone by that she didn’t feel such an overwhelming guilt of constantly having to lie to him. There were a couple times when she first got her miraculous that she begged Marinette to let her tell Nino but she never said yes, and for valid reasons too.

Marinette that morning never really woke up, in fact she never really went to sleep. She hated that on a day like this the weather was beautiful. There was not a cloud in the sky, not a draft of wind, not a hint of cool air. It was a warm and pleasant day one that she wished she could enjoy.

Tikki drifted up behind the girl and smiled as she rested on her shoulder, “It’s going to be alright Marinette, we’re all here every step of the way.” She smiled nuzzling against the girl’s neck.

“It never gets easier Tikki…” she mumbled reaching for the kwami and cupping her in her hands, “It happens every year without fail, why can’t they just stop…”

“They’re just trying to honor him, I don’t think that you shouldn’t go.” Tikki mumbled. As much as she hated seeing Marinette like this she felt that it was in her best interest to keep going to this thing maybe it would help her get over it.

Alya nudged her way into Marinette’s room with a nervous smile, “You ready to go?” She asked slowly closing the door behind her.

“Yeah.. Let’s just get this over with.” Marinette mumbled in response.

It was October 27th

This marked the 6-year anniversary of Chat Noir’s disappearance or as the people of Paris like to call it, “The day Chat Noir died.”

Out of all the days in the year Marinette found herself hating this one the most. It was solely a day of pity, a day where all eyes would be on Ladybug some there for moral support and others there to be angry and criticize why she let this happen, for both people she never had an answer.

There the two heroes stood. Rossa Volpe and Ladybug. Before what looked like to be all of Paris at a memorial service held in the square hosted by Mayor Bougeois himself. As beautiful of a ceremony it was she refused to believe that her friend was truly gone.

She remembered that day like it was yesterday, a day she wish she could go back to because maybe if she could, something would change even if she didn’t know what.

Hawkmoth sat pinned to the ground, his wrists tied up by Ladybug’s yo-yo. Ladybug’s face was bruised, scratched and bloodied. Both their masks and suits were torn, still able to hide their identity.

In the distance the two could see police lights reflecting off the buildings and echoing down the streets. The cities police had been on standby all night since the first sighting of Hawkmoth was called in. The streets had been evacuated to further protect Parisian citizens.

Chat Noir ran his fingers through his matted blond hair and huffed out, propping himself up with his staff. If there was one sight of Paris he knew would never grow old it was his lady and like the flirt he was, after three long years of constant flirtatious conversation between the two during their biggest victory would not be the place- nor time to fall out of that trend.

“My lady, your clothes may lay in tatters but it does nothing to degrade your radiant beauty.” He smiled creeping up behind the spotted hero still preoccupied with greater things.

“Chat- now is not the time to flirt.” She attempted to say in her most annoyed voice but couldn’t seem to hide the fact that his constant flirtation gave her something to look forward to. Even at a time like this she couldn’t deny that she was enduring a lot of physical pain but Chat’s quirky flirting made it all the more worth it.

“Now is more a time than any, Bugaboo.” He added with his ditzy smile, “In fact, Ladybug, there’s something I-“

“Hold that thought, Kitty.” Ladybug said holding up a single finger to the masked heroes lips. Her attention was fully focused on the officer exiting the cop car in front of them.

“Hell of an evening.” he said placing his hands on his hips standing over the tied up villain on the ground.

“You men worked hard to get Hawkmoth captured, you should be proud.” Chat said in a slightly mocking tone only to have his ribs be met by the gently but stern nudge with her elbow.

The officer- as absentminded as he had always been, shrugged off the slight and hoisted the criminal up onto his feet, “We’re going to get this creep locked up for good you can trust us on that…”

The officer’s voice began to fade from Ladybug’s ears as her eyes met and locked with the crazed villain’s dilated, bloodshot, eyes. There was a strange pull to them that she didn’t quite understand why. She felt her throat go dry any ounce of moisture that she could have was gone as she watched the Hawkmoth’s thin lips part and mouth the words:

“I’m coming for you Ladybug…” the words escaped the cracked lips of the newly unmasked man sending a shiver down right to the girl’s core. Just as she had regrettably let her guard down she watched as the glowing halo of a butterfly shrouded the man’s face as he was tossed into the secure back of the police van.

She was unable to say a word. Ladybug found herself too shaken to speak up. The flashes of blue and red reflected off of her face brightly until they disappeared into the distance.

“My Lady?” Chat’s voice purred out in concern as he touched the girl’s shoulder. Never had he felt more relived to finally know Hawkmoth’s identity. There was a considerable amount of time where he had truly though that it was his father and was overjoyed knowing that it wasn’t. Though Ladybug could have seemed in that moment anything less than relieved.

There was no response.

Gently, the black cat tugged on the bug’s arm, “Ladybug, maybe we should get out of here before the reporters arrive..” He suggested taking a couple of steps with his partner following swiftly in a daze behind him. Chat debated wither he should tell her- but there would be no other time. He wrapped his arm around the girl’s waist and jetted them out of the alley and onto their familiar sanctuary of rooftops.

“Ladybug…?” He asked again snapping the girl out of disorient.

“Huh..? Oh.. I should probably get going, Chat.” She began taking a couple steps back before being stopped by her partner.

“I just.. I need to tell you something. I’ve been putting it off far too long and I- I just can’t anymore…” he began.

The bug smiled scratching just beneath his chin, “Maybe next time kitty,” She smiled gripping her yo-yo tightly.

“My lady I don’t think this can wait-“

“I’ll see you tomorrow during patrol. You can wait a little bit longer.” She smiled. She never gave him the chance and with that she was off back home without knowing that, that night on the rooftop would be the last time she would see her partner.

Nine and a half hours had never felt so long in his entire life. Black headphones tamed his wild blond hair down while blaring music. His black duffle bag tucked under his feet, it was all that was left in his apartment after he shipped all his things back home.

He’d finally completed his time in university and under one condition by his father he was allowed to come back home if he continued with his modeling career. After agreeing his father set out for a homey apartment near by to his home and close to the agency per Adrien’s request.

Leaning his forehead on the window he rubbed the empty space on his ring finger.

“Ladybug, I don’t think this can wait-“

“I’ll see you tomorrow during patrol. You can wait a little bit longer.” She smiled with a gentle wave hooking her yo-yo off in the distance and springing herself from the rooftop and within mere seconds she was gone. How was he supposed to tell her now?

Chat Noir mopped across the rooftops his tail dragging behind him the whole way home. As successful as the night had gone he couldn’t help but still feel melancholic about the whole situation.

Sneaking into a nearby alleyway he retracted his claws and tucked Plagg away into his shirt.

“What are you gonna do?” The kwami asked poking his head out.

Adrien shrugged rubbing his eyes with the palms of her hands walking up to the front door, “I don’t know… I guess I’ll just tell her tomorrow before I-“

“Adrien.” Nathalie said swinging open the large front door, ushering the blonde inside, “You’re late. Have you got everything that you need?” She asked walking with him up the stairs.

Adrien nodded with a smile and patted the woman on the shoulder, “Yes, Nathalie, I’m sure there really isn’t a need to worry. I said goodbye to everyone yesterday at the party so I’m set.” Well… Almost everyone… But he couldn’t exactly bring invite Ladybug to his party it wasn’t like his Adrien side knew her very well but at least he got to say goodbye to the four people he treasured most.

His father, having planned the party, mostly invited agents and co-workers allowing Adrien to only invite a couple of his friends and he took complete advantage of that by of course inviting Nino, Alya, Marinette and Chloé. The five of them spent the beginning of the evening plotting their escape from the party planning to sneak away to Marinette’s bakery after hours where wine and cookies were promised, which in turn became probably one of the most fun nights he had ever had.

Adrien made the excuse to his father that they would be up in his room hanging out and he totally bought it! The group slipped their jackets on and out the front door with ease.

They sprinted their way down the street in harmonious laughter. Adrenalines rushing through their blood it made him feel like the night would never end. He hoped the night would never end. They set up Marinette set up her laptop with movies on one of the tables in the bakery while Chloé and Alya gathered blankets and pillows from her room and around the house to create a small nest, Adrien and Nino were of course on snack duty. Marinette’s parents had set aside various treats for them that night after the bakery had closed. Marinette snuck back into the house grabbing a few bottles of wine and cup for them all.

It was times like these that he had truly thanked Nathalie for convincing Gabriel to send Adrien to school. It was truly a night he would never forget anytime soon.

Adrien walked into his room almost completely empty most of his belongings were already re-located other than a couple of bags lines up at his door.

He didn’t sleep well that night. Not even remotely. How could he?

Plagg inched up on the pillow beside his chosen’s head, “I’m sure it’ll all work out…”

“It’s just… I don’t want to start over… Again…” he explained, “I had friends in primary school I had so much fun in class and then my mom disappeared and my father wanted me home…” The blond rolled over, “I had to start all over in secondary school and now- not only is my father making me start over again but in a different country.” He could feel his eyes welling with tears and quickly clamped his eyes shut.

Plagg inched forward curling himself around the boy’s head and purred against him, “It’ll be okay, kid. Make it for the year and then maybe he’ll let you come back home-“

Throughout the house the echoing of glass shattering across the tile floor rebounded off the walls.

Quickly he sprung up in his head gathering his kwami on his shoulder, “You heard that?” he asked receiving a silent nod from his partner. Adrien crept through his door and into the house leaning over the railing unable to see anything, “All right Plagg claws o-“

“Chat Noir.”

Every hair on the boy’s body rose as he turned to face to tall figure pushing along with him a familiar spotted hero badly bruised and dripping with…blood..?

“It’s nice to finally meet your acquaintance.”

His jaw fell open, “H…Hawkmoth…Ladybug..” He said in a breathy tone, “You let her go.” He said shaking slightly in his voice but standing his ground.

“Not a step closer, Chat Noir.” The deep voice sprung out swinging his cane in front of the girl.

He hesitated in his step, “What do you want…”

“Well- that’s a dumb question now isn’t it, but I guess you were more of the brawns of this operation weren’t you?” he laughed gesturing between the two of them, “I want your miraculous. Simple as that.” Hawkmoth grinned crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“Yeah right, like I’d ever hand my miraculous over to you!” Adrien laughed tossing his hands on his hips with a shake of the head, “Plagg,” He grinned, “Claws o-“

W-H-A-C-K!!

An agonizing screech of pain came from his masked partner as she lurched forward toppling over onto the ground. Hawkmoth stood continuing his follow through with his cane.

“C-Chat…” Ladybug whimpered through her pained tears. Her body ached and he could feel it. It was like her pain was being emitted through him making him cringe. Quickly he lunged forward towards the girl stopped by the rise of Hawkmoth’s cane.

“Uh-uh-uhh…” He grinned pressing the end of the cane against Adrien’s shoulder giving him a small shove backwards, “Not another step, you don’t wanna see your little ‘bugaboo’ get squashed now do you?”

He was helpless. He couldn’t transform, he couldn’t get close to her or Hawkmoth, he could only-…

Hawkmoth held out his hand, outstretching his skeleton like fingers.

Adrien’s eyes firmly shut as he gripped the miraculous on his finger. Plagg drifted in front of his face shaking his head.

“Please no.. Adrien- don’t-“

“I don’t have a choice… Plagg I’m sorry…” he looked up staring into the masked villain, “Plagg…”

“Adrien you don’t have to do this…”

“I renounce you.”

He watched as the floating kwami withdrew into the ring as it turned matte silver and slowly removed it from his finger holding it in the palm of his hand.

“I’m sorry…” he whispered watching the ring get swiped away from him by Hawkmoth.

“Pleasure doing business with you.” He grinned leaving the girl one last crack on the back with his cane before he vanished from the room.

Adrien charged forward picking up Ladybug in his arms and holding her close. He brushed her hair behind her ear and wiped away the dried blood on her cheeks and lips.

The girl grinned devilishly resting in his arms, “Chat… You…. Idiot…” She spat, her eyes glowing brightly.

“L-Ladybug…? He said in a brittle voice watching the girl disappear from his arms like a shadow melting into the floor. He sprung up from the ground and out of the room in a panic, “Ladybug!” He shouted tautly throughout the house surely waking everyone.

Quickly he rushed down the stairs with a thud in every step, “WHERE ARE YOU!? SHOW YOUR SELF!!” he shouted.

Dazed, Nathalie came out of her room adjusting the glasses on her face, “Adrien what’s all the fuss?” She asked in attempt to comfort him.

“Where is Hawkmoth!?” He screamed gripping Nathalie’s shoulders tightly.

“Adrien it’s the middle of the night, what are you shouting about?” His father shouted down from the top of the stairs.

“He was here and he took m- He was here!” He yelled nervously.

Nathalie tried to comfort the blond who was clearly distressed, “Maybe… Maybe it was just a bad dream. You have been stressed lately, with moving and all. Try to get a good night’s rest.”

“You’re thinking irrationally, Hawkmoth was arrested early last night.” Gabriel chimed in before heading back into his room.

But he knew that that wasn’t true. It wasn’t a dream. His miraculous was gone and he had no way of getting it back at this point.

Unfortunately did he know that, that illusion was going to be the last time he’d see Ladybug.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we have arrived at Paris-Gare De Lyon. Please be sure to gather all of your belongings and exit the train when it comes to a complete stop. Thank you for traveling with us.” The announcement rang over the speakers.

His headphones still propped up against his ears, duffle bag slung across his chest and he exited the train car.

Finally back in Paris and he wasn’t about to leave any time soon.

He looked uncomfortably down at the empty spot on his finger and up in the streets. Oddly, not like he remembered, the streets of Paris were empty. Hands stuffed in his pocket of his black sweatshirt he mad his way down the familiar path home.

He found himself stopping and staring down towards the square slowly. He reached up removing the headphones from his ears and letting them fall around his neck.

“Today we stand as one Paris.” The completely recognizable voice of the mayor shot through the crowed catching the blonde’s attention, “We stand as one beside ladybug on this day of hardship.”

“Ladybug…” He murmured beginning to take a couple steps towards the crowed excitably gearing into a jog.

“Because today we remember Chat Noir as the true hero he was.”

His steps sped.

“And we thank Rosso Volpe for filling our black cat in his absence.”

He slowed.

“His shoes will be impossible to fill but it seems that you have done a great job of creating a pair on your own.”

She… replaced him.

“Chat Noir was one of the best heroes that Paris had the good fortune of being protected by. May he rest in peace, where ever that may be.”

He went home.

The shadows drifted across the floor of the mansion into the cracks and crevices squeezing their way into the darkened corridor.

“Could you have been any less subtle.” Gabriel asked pinching the bridge of his nose.

Hawkmoth stood fully transformed behind him with a grin leaning on his cane, “You told me to get the miraculous, you didn’t tell me how you wanted me to get the miraculous.” He grinned soon becoming shrouded by a cloud of smoke. The girl brushed her fingers through her hair with a sly grin dangling the miraculous in front of her face.

Gabriel took the miraculous in hand with a smile, “Then I assume I can give you a job well done.”

“Too bad though, the miraculous is pretty stylish and the power of destruction.. Power like that I would kill for.” Her eyes shifted eyeing the ring, “I could hold onto it for a while. Since we still don’t have the others.”

Gabriel pondered at the thought, “A miraculous possessed by an akuma. I’m not sure that it’s completely possible but whose to say that it isn’t.. He grinned gesturing as the possessed necklace hanging around the girl’s neck.

Swiftly and with pleasure she removed the necklace and handed it to her boss watching him merge the two in green sparks. The ring turned the entire necklace a deep black.

Volpina couldn’t wait to get it back around her neck where it belonged. With a Kwami trapped inside she now possessed the power of Illusion and Destruction all in one and… It felt incredible.

“Well.. Renard Noir. I look forward to our future business together.”  

[hollygopossumlovesj2]

Swept Away, Part 1

Characters: Dean Winchester (23 years old, so preseason 1), Reader. (future x reader) mentions of John, Sam and Reader’s family.

Warnings: ANGST, Dean’s self worth problems, severe injury, canon level violence. Mention of medications for pain and anxiety. Also, abuse of John Winchester’s parenting skills. This part is PG-13 but will be at least R in future parts. (Also credit to whoever made the gif, its not mine. I found it on Google.)

Summary: John sends Dean to the mountains of Agness, Oregon alone to track a possible werewolf. What he finds turns out to be a little more than he can handle. Dean is left wondering if his father set him up to fail.

A/N: So, this was written for @mamaredd123‘s Angst Appreciation Day Challenge, Shred All the Hearts. My prompt was to use the song ‘Listen to Your Heart’ by Roxette and to rip peoples hearts out. I hope I deliver on this request. I’m late as hell and I deeply apologize. This is only the first part, but there is plenty of angst here to enjoy.

I know there's something in the wake of your smile. I get a notion from the look in your eyes, yea. You've built a love but that love falls apart. Your little piece of heaven turns too dark.

 It was a sunny, warm day in Agness, Oregon, and you couldn’t get a Roxette song out of your head. You had no idea why it was stuck on replay, but it wasn’t unusual for your brain to taunt you in this way. Wisps of thin clouds that look like they've been painted on a bright blue sky float by on a cool breeze. A promise that the temperature will drop nearly thirty degrees when the sun goes down due to the proximity of the mountains. You like the feeling of freedom that the place gives you, but you could do without the dramatic drops in temperature.

 Your house sitting while your grandparents are spending the summer touring Europe. Being a junior in college, and accepting anything that would give decent pay, you are actually enjoying your alone time. Whether you are home in Seattle, Washington or at school at Washington State in Pullman, you are constantly surrounded by people.

 Out here, in your grandparent’s cabin on the bank of the Rogue River, it's peaceful. You found yourself sitting on the deck most days, typing away at the book you've been writing for a year now. But, you can't expect much else from an English major with aspirations of publishing your many adventures one day, can you?

 You don't really want for anything out here, except for maybe a Starbucks. You drive an hour out to buy a couple of weeks’ worth of groceries and that is your quota fill of socializing. If you are feeling extra adventurous, you stop at the Olive Garden on the route back home.

 Agness is a small town, filled with mostly retired couples and the occasional tourist. From your trips into the quaint downtown to get your Starbucks fix in the form of a glass bottled Frappuccino, you’d met pretty much everyone in the neighborhood.

 The residents all treat you like you are their own grandchild, dropping off meals and baked goods regularly. There is also Dr. Marjorie Foster, a divorcee who likes to pop by after crazy days at the hospital to share a bottle of wine and sarcastic banter. So, although you are technically alone, you feel rather safe and spoiled.

 Listen to your heart when he's calling for you. Listen to your heart there's nothing else you can do.

That's probably why you were drawn to the black Chevy Impala parked to the left of the small parking lot. It was parked beneath a copse of trees, like the big black beauty could ever be inconspicuous. Add that to the silver scratches all along its side and hood, plus the flat tire that was sitting on its rim, made it even harder to miss.

 Maybe it's your insatiable curiosity that makes you walk a little closer to the damaged vehicle? It does tend to get you into a lot of trouble. You'd probably never know for sure. But you won't forget your first look inside.

 The upholstery is slashed open, bits of yellow foam and tufts of heavy cotton are strewn about. But what catches your attention is the motionless heap in the back seat that you know, just by the sinking feeling in your gut, is a person who needs help.

 You won't remember how you closed the distance between you and the car so quickly. Or your train of thought when you try to open the door only to discover it locked. You wrap your over shirt over your arm and put your elbow through the window without hesitation. You'll question your strength later.

 By now Gregory, Matilda's husband (the one who makes incredible venison stew), stops pumping gas to see what all the commotion is about. You are already digging through the seat stuffing and blankets by the time he arrives behind you.

 You faintly hear him speaking to someone on the phone, reporting in a panicked yet succinct tone to emergency officials, when you finally find bloody, pale skin. Luckily, it's attached to a person who is unfortunately torn to shreds.

 “Hey!” You don't dare move him. Isn't that one of the basic rules in case of a back or neck injury? When the final blanket is pulled back you see the sharp jaw and hint of rose gold stubble. “Sir, can you hear me?” Your only response is a growled groan muffled by the seat where he has his face buried. But, at least it's something, right?

 You take a quick survey of the inside of the car, noting used bandage papers and an empty bottle of cheap whiskey. When you climb into the car and sit down, your foot kicks an old bottle of pills. Was the man suicidal? All of this blood loss, whisky and upon looking at the label you discover that it is Darvocet. That stuff had been pulled off the market for years now!

 “Hey, you with me?” He eases himself painfully slow into a sitting position, causing him to cry out hoarsely in pain. His voice already shredded like he had already done some screaming. He's panting in loud, painfully abrupt breaths through his open mouth. Everything about his boyish face is pinched with pain. Your heart squeezes with sympathy and absolute helplessness. You should've gone to med school like your dad wanted you to. Then you'd know exactly what to do.

 You note then that his front side doesn't look any better than his blood soaked back does. It also revealed how his left leg is mangled and twisted in unnatural directions. Some of the blood is dried, making his skin stick to the seat. There’s no telling how long he'd been in this car bleeding and in pain.

 “T’ll S- S’mmy, ‘m s-s’rry.” When you finally lock onto his ghost pale face, the expression there kicks you right in the stomach with a steel toed boot. His split bottom lip and chin are quivering with repressed emotion. His voice comes out shaky and raspy because he's vibrating with shivers that you know probably mean that he's in shock. He's probably been in shock for a while.

 I don't know where you're going and I don't know why, but listen to your heart before you tell him goodbye.

 This guy, because man seemed like a bit much since he couldn't be much older than you, may very well have been trying to end it all if the pain openly displayed on his face is anything to go by. Through the black, crusted blood you can tell with startling clarity the difference between the physical and emotional pain on his expressive face.

 You fight the urge to push his hair out of his eyes, which is obviously overgrown from a short haircut. It appears that way, anyway, judging by the shaggy and uneven ends. He looks like even his hair follicles hurt, caked in crusted and congealing blood, so you refrain.

 “You're gonna tell him yourself.” You answer firmly as you wrap the scratchy, stiff blanket back over his shoulders when he shivers again violently.

 Even that small movement prompts deeply hurt, wounded noises that get caught in the back of his throat, but you can tell that he's trying to hide just how much pain he’s in.

 It makes you briefly wonder how someone who should be going to college or discovering themselves learned to be that damned stoic. “Hang in there, helps on the way. Is there anyone I can call for you?” You plead, wishing that the ambulance would hurry so that there was a way to eventually rectify the abject misery on his face. He's looking at you through his pain filled gaze as he softy answers ‘no’ and it rips your heart out. You feel inept and helpless.

 Sometimes you wonder if this fight is worthwhile. The precious moments are all lost in the tide, yea. They're swept away and nothing is what it seems, the feeling of belonging to your dreams.

 “An’ m’dad, too. T-t’ll m’s-srry I c’dn’t f-finish th’ j’b.” Liquid that has been building up in his eyes soon gives way to fat tears that tracks strange patterns through the new and old blood when he can't hold them back anymore. As he confesses what he thinks are his last words through busted, numb lips, it makes an icy shiver skip down your spine. “…’ts m’ f-fault… p-people ‘r g’nna die ‘causa m-me…” Tears progress into hiccupping sobs that make him squeeze his eyes shut against what you feel he thinks of as weakness and pain.

 You look briefly for a wallet or phone, finding the latter on the floorboard. You get two seconds to feel victorious before you discover that there is a giant tooth mark in the middle, cracking the small screen into unusable pieces. “Shit.” Just what the hell had he gotten into that would cause so much damage? “What's your name?” You look for somewhere uninjured to rest a reassuring hand but can't find anywhere promising.

 “Dean W’nchester.” You'll realize later how profound it is that he gave you his real name. That it was because all of his layers and walls were stripped down to nothing.

 You know his bottomless green-hazel eyes will haunt you for the rest of your life if he doesn't make it. There was no other ending that you can bear to imagine for him. You know it sounds so naïve, but someone with this much soul can't just die such a horrific death all alone. You feel a small amount of relief when you can finally hear the sirens of the ambulance in the distance.

 “They'll be here any second.” As you say the words you're not sure who you're trying to console more.

 There's an hour drive to the nearest hospital in Gold Beach in his future. It's a small hospital that is the size of maybe two Costco warehouses shoved together. But surely, amongst their few floors of equipment and educated staff, they can fix the broken pieces?

 In the two seconds of silence you decide that you can be positive enough for the both of you.

 “Dean Winchester?” You rest your hand lightly over the one he isn't using to prop himself up. It startles you when his cold sweat covered hand grasps yours back painfully tight. The way he clings to you like you're a lifeline make tears pool in your eyes. “You're gonna make it. I promise.”

 Dean’s POV:

I wake up suddenly, claws and massive, drooling jowls snap viciously at me from behind deep, shifting shadows. It feels like the beast is sitting on my chest, making it cave in. It's putrid, hot breath on my face. My ribs barely put up a fight before they snap like twigs beneath its weight, white hot, stabbing pains through my belly.

 I try to struggle free but my arms and legs won't obey my commands for them to move. To fight back. So, all I can do is wait for him to consume me for dinner. All I hear are growls and distant shouting that are drowning out a strange, tinny beeping noise in the background. It reminds me of the sound of its claws digging into Baby’s quarter panel as it tried to peel her open and drag me back out into the dark of the mountain. Of the liquid heat of pain as it's claws raked through my skin like I was soft butter.

 But then I hear, “Dean.” It kind of sounds like Sammy before his voice changed, soft and kind, if a little static and warped. But that can't be right. I hope that it means that the past few years were a nightmare, but it's only a slight hope. Good things rarely happen to a Winchester.

 It's probably some newly created fresh hell conjured to torture and destroy me in my last seconds on earth. The thing I was hunting was a were wolf, I was sure of it. He looked normal, all wolfed out with gray, wiry hair. But when it found me… It was like his senses and strength were beyond what a normal were was capable of.

 But it's too tempting not to answer, even if it's not real, as the tinny noise gets louder and more frantic. I'd give anything to be able to talk to Sam and tell him how sorry I am. I'd kill to tell him that I would stand up to Dad more so that we don't have to move around so much. So he can go to college close by. Anything. I can be better so he wants to come back.

 The crushing weight of remembering that I'm alone nearly drowns out the relief of hearing Sam's voice. But I'm just that delirious to believe.

 “S’mmy?”

 I gag, choking on something that tastes a lot like old blood and cotton balls stuck in my throat. I finally get my arm to move so that I can remove whatever is clinging to my face. So that I can catch my breath but something heavy slams into my forehead.

 “Dean. Hey, Dean! Please stop, you're gonna hurt yourself.”

 And just like that all the fight drains out of me, envisioning a young Sammy with his stupid floppy hair and worry bright little kid eyes that are way too smart for his own good. “K, S’mmy. M’ s’rry.”

 “You're okay. Everything's gonna be okay.” I feel the softest pressure against my temple and fingers brushing through my hair before I tunnel into nothingness.

 When I wake up the second time the beeping doesn't sound so tinny. With the way my body and head aches, it actually sounds like its right in my ear. Fuck. I hope Sam got the license plate number off the damn truck that mowed me over. We were gonna sue the hell outta that bastard.

 But what if he ran over Sam or Dad?

 At that thought, my eyes shoot open and I'm moving before I even know what's weighing me down. I manage to drag my legs over the side of the bed just as a nurse comes running in.

 “Mr. Winchester, please! Stop-“

 However, I've already got the momentum going apparently and drop like a bag of damn rocks to the hard linoleum floor just as I realize my leg is encased in a large, heavy cast and incapable of holding my weight. Ugh. I didn't even want to know what kind of germs I was sitting in!

 Belatedly, like a flame starting as a tiny spark only to turn into licking blaze-like pain engulfed me for an undeterminable amount of time. Like it had fought through the pain killers just for the joy of kicking my ass. I made sure not to panic. I had been in this headspace before, and nothing could be gained by losing my shit.

 The first thing I vaguely noticed as the pained haze started to morph into a deep chasm of an entire body ache was a strange warmth crawling down my arm and thigh. Upon further investigation I discovered that I had managed to pull out both my iv catheter and my pee bag. Just fucking lovely.

 The nurse with the pretty milk chocolate skin and curves enough to make a grown man weep had a look of deep sympathy on her doe features. “Well, welcome back to the world Mr. Winchester. Let's get you cleaned up, huh?”

 I was beyond grateful that she didn't coo or fawn over me, saving what was left of my pride. However, there wasn't going to be much left for long.

 What’s more embarrassing than getting a sponge bath from a beautiful woman in a totally not sexy way? It's having those same color rich eyes look at you with pity when you tell her for the millionth time that you don't have anyone to call while reinserting a catheter. Into your dick.

 If I was hunting with Dad or Sam it would be up to me to sneak outta here and meet up at the first motel in the phone book. But that was why I was laid up in bed, wasn't it? Because Dad trusted me with a job and I'd gotten myself taken outta the game in the recon phase. Pathetic. It kinda makes a person unmotivated to move at all.

 Honestly, I can't even remember how I got my dumb ass back to the Impala. 23 years of following my Dad around and apparently I had learned nothing from him. Even my memory was shot to hell, fuzzy and useless.

 I drifted in and out as Octavia, who turned out not to be a nurse, but a third year intern, filled me in on my injuries. I lost count of how many stitches they'd done and how aggressively they'd had to treat my wounds with heavy iv antibiotics. She wasn't telling me anything I hadn't been through before, but I nodded along like I was concerned just the same.

 Which, to be honest, wasn't all that hard because the memory of how these injuries were given to me appeared in flashes of red and black.

 It wasn't too damning until she told me about my leg being broken. Which, hello! Cast! They'd been able to put a regular bone pin in my tibia, and she assured me that I'd be transitioning into a weight bearing boot in a couple of weeks.

 Then, there was my right arm. Ha! They had to reset my shoulder (but honestly the damn thing had been out of joint at least three times already. No big deal.) there was a single break in my fore arm, which alright, no big. But it was just my luck that my trigger finger and thumb had been heavily bruised and had tiny hairline fractures on both of them.

 Fuck.

 Where was I gonna go? What was I gonna do when they inevitably kicked my homeless ass out of here? I didn't have enough money for pain meds, much less heavy duty antibiotics! And I'd be damned before I called my Dad to tell him how epically I failed at the hunt. At being a human being in general.

 How was I gonna finish the hunt?

 And my trigger finger was fucked!

 Distantly I registered that stupid heart monitor beeping shrilly. God damnit, how could I have gotten myself into this mess?

 “Calm down, Mr. Winchester.” Octavia sounded infinitely patient but firm as she adjusted the drip rate on my iv bag. I instantly start to feel calmer and I couldn't drum up enough energy to be indignant, sure that I was being given a sedative. If anything, I'd embrace the big black nothing just to not have to feel.

 After a few moments I felt my heart rate slow, a cloud of comfort falling over me and making my problems a distant memory even though I knew they were right on the surface.

 “Well, sugar, you do have a visitor. Now that you're back to your handsome self, do you want me to bring her back?” Her tone of voice was warm as she regarded me with her hands on her hips. I so wanted to say something flirty, maybe flash her a grin like I'd done to win over many a witness. I just didn't have the energy.

 Sam had called it disgusting. I'd said flirting was my super power. Then Sam had said that ‘being a manwhore is not a super power.’

 Aside from that, I couldn't figure out what she meant by visitor. Was it possible that Dad or… or maybe even Sam? But he'd have to be damn psychic.

 She must've read the confusion all over my face. I could hear my father’s voice right in my ear, ‘Need to work on that poker face, son. You're gettin’ sloppy.’ Yeah, if he only knew.

 “I would make time in this busy schedule of yours. Another couple of hours in that car and you wouldn't have made it if it wasn't for Y/N.” She was somehow stern while maintaining a kind face that I was afraid to cross. At my nod of agreement, she smiled wide. “Good boy.”

 I vaguely remembered a girl climbing in Baby and helping me to sit up. Which had caused a whole hell of a lotta unnecessary pain if you asked me. But she had spoken in a soft voice and held my bloody hand. Maybe she'd even promised that I would live after I'd sat there and blubbered like an infant.

 Still, no matter how relaxed I was, I wasn't prepared for the amount of beautiful that breezed through that doorway behind Octavia. In fact, I'm pretty sure my mouth was hanging open when Octavia spoke to me again in an amused tone.

 “You just use that call button if you need anything, okay?” And then she was backing out with a smile and leaving me alone with… God, it was juvenile to think, but how could she be so striking? I was all for appreciating natural beauty, but her features stood out as exotic. Like she belonged in the wild with her long, wavy hair flowing behind her.

 “Hey, Dean Winchester. You look a little better than you did a few days ago.” Her smile was warm and a little flirty as her lips formed the words and I struggled to comprehend them for a moment.

 “A few days?” I managed to get out through my scratchy throat.

 The smile fell as she bit her bottom lip when she nodded to confirm my fear. “It's actually been a couple of weeks. They were worried you wouldn't wake up again. That maybe you'd lost too much oxygen to your brain and caused some damage.”

 Ha, now Dad could officially call me brain damaged! If he ever managed to find out about this little accident. Which he wouldn't if I had any say in the matter. It's not like he checked in very often nowadays. He was still brooding over Sam leaving and being stuck with the stupid son.

 In fact, I wouldn’t put it past him to have sent me out on my own in hopes that I would get eaten. “Sorry to disappoint, Dad.” I muttered and felt the sardonic smile curl a side of my lip upward before I realized she was still here. “Sorry.” There was nothing left for me to do but close my eyes and feel my face flush in helpless embarrassment. Because that's just what I was. Helpless and in a medicated fog. I didn't even have the energy to pretend, not enough brain power to say ‘sorry, sweetheart’ with some kind of move to make her forget she ever saw me like this.

 “Well, anyway.” I heard her steps move closer and opened my eyes to watch her swap out some dying flowers for a fresh bundle of purple like she'd been doing this all week. Maybe she had? The renewed scent of lavender filling the room and blocking out some of the hospital antiseptic was familiar. “I'm glad you're awake and getting better.”

 She then sat down on the chair that was already perched close to the side of the bed with even more familiarity than the flowers. My mind immediately jumped to the Sammy-like voice that I'd heard before. “You were in here the first time I woke up.” I didn't mean for it to sound as accusatory as it did, but I was horrified that this girl kept seeing me in a vulnerable position over and over.

 “Yes.” She didn't sound the least bit remorseful, maybe she was even a little defiant. “You were dreaming about being attacked. I felt so bad when they came in to sedate you, but you were gonna tear out your stitches.” She actually did look like she'd been worried and I couldn't figure out why she would be sitting at some strangers bedside wasting energy on worrying over them.

 “How are you allowed in here anyway? Isn't it family only or some crap like that?” I was clearly lashing out and defensive because I was uncomfortable, but that doesn't mean I could stop it.

 “Well, sorry to break it to you, but this place is smaller than Mayberry and I happen to have some connections.” She obviously meant that to be funny, but as the tone of my face didn't change, she straightened up in her seat. “I can go, if you want.” Why did she have to look so earnest and sweet, flashing puppy dog eyes so much like my little brothers? Only, they were the wrong shade of brown. “I actually used to volunteer here for a few summers. So, I kind of know everyone.” Her eyes brightened a little, “but that means I know where they stash the extra jello.”

 “Well, I guess you can stay then, sweetheart.” The meds were messing with me, but I did manage to flash her a grin. If I were a stronger person I would've turned her away, but just a little human contact couldn't hurt, right? My father already thought I was a failure, might as well go for broke.

 So, she stayed. Since I wasn't much for conversation, she mostly told me everything about herself. About college, what she was studying and summer break. (And didn't that hurt, thinking of Sam preferring to hang out with kids his own age instead of contacting me) About house sitting for her grandparents and what a ‘lovely’ little town Agness was.

 Despite being on the knifes edge of explicit pain, I found her voice calming. I dozed off a few times, much to my embarrassment, but she didn't seem to mind. She only picked up where she left off.

 When my first meal since I couldn't even remember arrived in the form of cream of wheat and beef broth, she got up to leave. She patted the top of my head softly, a move I would've found irritating if it hadn't felt so good. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

 I even let her get close enough to kiss my cheek before she left and it was a pattern she continued to follow. I let her smooth down my hopeless hospital hair because it felt so damn good to be touched. I didn’t trust that I would see her again. But, I did.

 Every few days she would replace the flowers without question and smuggle in extra Jello in her bag. I got used to her coming and was horrified that I looked forward to listening to her banter on without asking me 20 (painful) questions about my life.

 The one day she didn't show up was actually a little devastating. The only thing that rectified the whole ordeal was that she'd texted Octavia to tell me she wouldn't be in. Octavia was the one to sneak in an extra pudding that night. I appreciated it, even though she brought the sugar free kind.

 On top of being denied what I'd started to affectionately call my ‘candy striper time’, I was bombarded by financial services. They were looking for identification and insurance. Which I had neither.

 The white haired, plump representative lady had left very disappointed. And I started to feel even more antsy. They were weaning me off of the iv pain killers onto pills with less strength. I could still feel the hum of muted pain through my body, but I couldn't bring myself to say a word.

 The lady returned with another clip board later that day and I felt my face flush red as my blood pressure sky rocketed. She must've seen how irritated (anxious) I was because she explained immediately.

 “Well, I had no idea you were a cousin of Y/N’s!” She paused for a moment, watching me expectantly for a reaction. When I gave her none, which what was I supposed to say? Yeah, being cousins is great! Did I even have real cousins?

 She handed over the clipboard and pen and pointed out what I needed to fill out and where I needed to sign. Ha, like my signature actually meant anything! When I was finished with that, she flipped the page over and instructed me to fill out the form beneath it.

 “The Y/L/N’s are very influential around here in the West Oregon and Washington areas. You're very lucky to be a part of that family, young man. All of your medical services will be covered. So, you make sure you keep those recheck appointments.”

 I gave her an attempt at a smile, but I'm sure it fell flat. The best thing about it was that she didn't stick around for long.

 After she left, I passed the rest of my time going between wondering how Sammy was doin and why Y/N had really picked me as a charity case. Which, come on, it wasn't like she picked me for my swollen face and sexual prowess. There had to be a catch.

 It was somewhere around day 21 when Y/N came wheeling in with a wheel chair and an expectant look on her face. The days had been slipping by in a blur of all manner of people poking and prodding. If it weren’t for the open blinds on the window, I wouldn’t have a clue.

 “I'm springing ya, Winchester.”

 I'd spent the entire day in fear of those words. Where was I supposed to go? The impala wasn't moving without a lot of tender loving care and she was parked right in the middle of town. I couldn't just stay there and wait it out until I could move again.

 “Already?” I managed, my voice was still scratched all to hell. It made me sound like I was going through freaking puberty again. Oh well, just add that to the list of shit happens. “I haven’t even called my ride yet.”

 She smiled brightly, like seriously, how were her teeth so white? “I’m your ride.”

 And how could I argue with that? ‘No, that’s okay, my Dad’ll show up. I promise?’ Or maybe, ‘Hey, my brother isn’t too far south from here. He could totally be here in a day…’

 So, against my better judgement and all of my instincts telling me that this was ridiculous… I let her lead the way for better or for worse.

Tagging: @mamaredd123, @perpetualabsurdity, @maileann, @daydreamingintheimpala, @gecko9596, @gemini75eeyore, @jotink78, @dancingalone21, @winchesterprincessbride, @sandlee44, @exploratiionist, @arryn-nyxx , @littledarlinhavefaithinme, @tiffanycaruso, @boredoutofmymindstuff, @feelmyroarrrr, @raeganr99, @ruprecht0420, @anokhi07, @letsgetyourdeanon, @sis-tafics, @jensen-gal, @theoneandonlysaucymo, @27bmm, @callmesatansprincess, @hbenth, @atc74, @ryansgirl5509, @mysteriouslyme82, @notnaturalanahi, @keepcalmandcarryondean, @sea040561, @just-another-busy-fangirl, @spn67-sister, @tas898, @wheresthekillswitch, @glendagiggles, @mandymoiselle1970

If you would like to be on this list (or off), let me know! Also, I’d love if you took the time to let me know what you think so far. This story will have at least one more part, possibly two.

[smellofparchment-blog]

By Moonlight and Sunrises: Chapter 1 - Moonlight

Story Title - By Moonlight and Sunrises (ffn link)

Story Description - There was no awkwardness. No need to fill the empty space with words because the space wasn't empty. There was something - inaudible, invisible, of course, but there was something there anyways. "How can I possibly want to kiss a woman whose name I don't even know?" Percy finally asked, breaking the silence.

Story Rating - teen (T)

Story Characters - Percy Weasley, Audrey Shacklebolt, George Weasley, Keegan Shacklebolt (OMC), Sabina Kopitar (OFC), Oliver Wood, Kingsely Shacklebolt, Zhara Shacklebolt (OFC), Kristopher Shacklebolt (OMC), Kelsey Rowle (OFC), Thorfinn Rowle, Molly Weasley I, Arthur Weasley

Story Pairings - Percy/Audrey

Chapter - 1) Moonlight

2 May 1999

After the war, life had been constantly in flux for Percy Weasley. It still was like that, if he was being perfectly honest with himself, but perhaps he had grown accustomed to it after the tumultuous year they had all had. A year of sorrow and regret, a year of piecing his life back together - both his family and career life, that is - and a year of turning corners and not knowing what to expect. Good news? Bad news? Bodies? Prisoners? Percy had seen it all by now.

In the midst of it all, Percy's social life had been the first to suffer. His family was priority number one after the war, and he would do everything to ensure that it remained as such, then came his career, and then... the day would already be over and Percy would be exhausted out of his mind. He didn't mourn his social life much, anyways. After Fred's death, it had been difficult for Percy to reach out to other people. It was much easier to stay close with family and distract himself with work endeavours whenever that didn't work.

Now, a year had passed and Percy felt as if he should feel a bit different. He didn't, though, and wondered if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

Different or not, Percy knew better than anyone that when the Minister of Magic invited you to a gala to celebrate the war's heroes, you didn't say no and slam the door in his face. That was how Percy found himself standing in Kingsley Shacklebolt's rather impressive home, clad in dress robes, holding a flute of champagne in his hand and making cordial conversation with other Ministry workers.

Before the final battle, Percy would not have hesitated to go to any event the Minister had invited him to. It would have been a prime networking opportunity, another small thing that could prove to be a very big thing in the grand scheme of Percy's career. This time around, he felt more cautious - apprehensive, even. Part of the reason for this was fear - Percy was scared he would lapse into that same work-obsessed and uncaring personality. Mostly, though, it was because in the middle of his grief and taking care of his family, Percy had not gone to many outings, let alone fancy galas with some of the biggest names in the Ministry.

He was a rising big name, though, even if he had spent the last year working less. Well on his way to being promoted as the Head of the Floo Network Authority, Percy Weasley was indeed making an impact in the Ministry. This hadn't occurred to him until Kingsley had stepped into his office earlier that week to invite him to the memorial gala, though. He always tried his best to be a humble person, and although this had certainly not been amongst his most notable virtues in the past, it was certainly an important one in the last year.

Feeling the need to get some air and take a break from the small talk, Percy smiled kindly at his current conversation partner - the Head of the Auror Office, Gawain Robards - and said, "It's been lovely discussing with you, Auror Robards. Perhaps you can owl me some of those ideas of yours about how we can implement the Floo Network into the Auror training programme."

"Indeed I will, Weasley!" he exclaimed happily. "And please, do call me Gawain."

"Of course, then I must insist you call me Percy," the redhead replied. "Now, if you wouldn't mind, I think I'd like to go get a refill of this wonderful champagne and some fresh air."

"Of course, Percy," Gawain said with a nod, and then went on his way to strike up a conversation with Kingsley.

As Gawain Robards went over to Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister briefly locked eyes with Percy. He seemed to know, in just that split second gaze, what Percy was feeling.

Percy enjoyed socializing and networking. It was one of his strengths. But after the war, he always talked to people with an inward cringe. It was fear of having Fred brought up, fear of saying the wrong things, fear of people mentioning his past... Merlin, Percy was so bloody scared for a Gryffindor. But the war and especially duelling at the Battle of Hogwarts had been a jarring wake-up call to be more observant of the people around him. He hadn't particularly changed as a person, just the way he viewed the world... and the people inside it.

Percy knew it was silly to be so cautious and scared of unpleasant conversation, and going to this memorial gala was one way to move past that. But this wasn't some overnight development, after all.

Refilling his champagne flute, Percy headed out onto the spacious balcony through the glass double doors that were propped open to let in the spring breeze. It was a half moon that night, and Kingsley's impressive home in Northumberland had a clear sky that boasted a large collection of stars. Definitely more than Percy ever saw from his flat in London, anyways.

His gaze was torn from the night sky by a figure in his peripheral vision. Percy turned his head and realized that he was not alone on the balcony. It was a woman, dressed in a burgundy gown that left her back bare and covered her arms in lace. Her right forearm was leaning on the stone ledge of the balcony and her left arm was hanging by her side with a tumbler of whiskey as she gazed out into the gardens behind Kingsley's home. She had darker skin and nearly black hair that tumbled down her back in graceful waves.

When the woman turned her head, Percy noticed that her eyes were a soft, welcoming brown and that... she looked familiar. He couldn't place it though, and that quite bothered him.

Deciding against turning around and heading back inside - mostly because one person was much easier to deal with than fifty - Percy approached the balcony ledge and stood beside the woman. He leaned his elbows on the cold stone as he examined the intricate gardens and took a sip of his champagne. After a few seconds of this, he gave the woman a sidelong glance and startlingly realized that the woman was intently watching him. Her gaze didn't even falter when Percy looked up and blinked in surprise.

After a long moment of silence, the mysterious woman finally spoke.

"I'm not a fan of crowded rooms, either," she stated simply. "It's not claustrophobia, I just can't handle that many people all at once."

Percy took a moment to gather himself and finally reply with, "I agree. I'm not sure how some people can thrive in that kind of environment."

The woman smirked lightly. It seemed to fit her features so well. "I figured you'd be the social kind, Percy Weasley," she said, somewhat challengingly.

"With that many people, it's more like triage than socializing."

She laughed at that, and Percy couldn't help but think that her laugh sounded a lot like a beautiful song. It was echoing and graceful. It sounded controlled, too, as if the woman didn't want to give him too much credit and laugh excessively.

"You know my name," Percy started after a short moment of silence, "but I don't know yours. And I'm quite sure I've met you before."

"I don't believe in coincidences," the woman replied. "If you don't remember my name, it's for a reason."

"So we have met."

At that statement, the woman merely shrugged, that same mischievous smirk gracing her features once more.

"You're not going to make me guess, are you?" Percy asked jokingly.

"No, not at all," the woman answered. "What's in a name, anyways? Wouldn't you rather get to know me without the bias of a name? Like I said, everything happens for a reason. Maybe someone out there wants to give us a fresh start."

"Give me a fresh start," Percy corrected. "You know my name," he added as a reminder.

The woman shrugged. "Maybe you're the one that needs to work on your judgements, then."

Percy wasn't sure what it was about her, but the woman in front of him was refreshing. It wasn't anything about her beauty, although he would have to be blind to call her otherwise. It was the way she stated things. She was blunt and honest... observant and thoughtful. She seemed like a person that thought about each action she took and what benefits and detriments came along with that.

"Perhaps," Percy finally stated in agreement, a small smile returning her proud smirk.

There was another lull of silence as the woman took a sip of her whiskey, not betraying a single wince at the taste of the alcohol. He watched as she slowly sipped the alcohol, her sights set on the starry night sky even as she set the tumbler down on the stone ledge. Percy noticed how even when her lips were set taut, her eyes seemed to be smiling.

"'Do not go gentle into that good night,'" the woman finally said, not diverting her gaze from the moonlight.

Percy looked away from her suddenly, blushing at the thought of being caught staring - it was rather improper and unprofessional of him. But as he recognized the words, he slowly turned his gaze back to her regal features.

"'Old age should burn and rage at close of day,'" Percy recited with a smile on his face, feeling both amused and impressed. "'Rage, rage against the dying of the light.'"

The woman turned to meet his gaze with an equally impressed look on her face as she continued, "'Though wise men at their end know dark is right, because their words had forked no lightning - '"

"'They do not go gentle into that good night,'" the pair finished together.

The woman chuckled quietly, modestly, and Percy did the same. They both looked down at their feet for a moment before meeting eyes once more.

"Not many wizards are so well-read in muggle poetry," the woman observed. Her smirk was gone. Now, she held a small smile on her full lips.

"Neither are many witches," Percy countered, returning her smile.

"That's true," the woman agreed. "We are a rare kind, aren't we, Percy Weasley?"

He nodded and let silence fall between them again, neither of them breaking the eye contact. Like every silent moment before that one, it felt necessary, comfortable. There was no awkwardness. No need to fill the empty space with words because the space wasn't empty. There was something - inaudible, invisible, of course, but there was something there anyways.

"How can I possibly want to kiss a woman whose name I don't even know?" Percy finally asked, breaking the silence.

The woman didn't seem phased or taken aback. She merely shrugged. "What's in a name? Would you want to kiss me any less or any more if you knew my name?" she challenged.

"I don't think so," Percy answered thoughtfully.

"Then you've answered your own question."

Percy was amazed by this woman. It wasn't that she was intelligent - although he could tell she was. No, this wasn't intelligence that she was exhibiting. It was consciousness. Awareness. She thought about things and saw the world in a way that no one else saw. She was fearless in that sense. And Percy admired it.

Not saying anything else, Percy set his champagne flute on the stone ledge and gently cupped the side of the woman's face with his right hand. Her skin was soft, he noticed, and her mesmerizing brown eyes didn't move away from his blue ones for a single second. He leaned towards her just as she gently raised herself on the tips of her toes to meet their lips as their eyelids fluttered shut. It was a soft kiss, modest but lingering. Their lips joined a second time, a third time, a fourth... and then they both opened their eyes and blue met brown once more.

"You can't keep your name from me forever," Percy stated quietly.

"Forever?" the woman questioned. "Interesting choice of word."

Percy could feel his face heating up at that but tried to keep his visual reaction to a minimum. This woman was far too observant, after all. He took a step back, hand leaving her face, and nodded once.

"It was lovely meeting you," Percy said cordially. "Or meeting you a second time, I think."

"It was lovely to see you again, Percy Weasley," the woman said in return. "You are full of surprises."

With that, the woman grabbed her tumbler of whiskey from the stone ledge of the balcony and headed back to the gala. Percy watched as her hips swayed away from him and she raised her arm to down the rest of her drink. She was lost in the crowd in a matter of seconds, and Percy looked back at the moonlit sky.

Perhaps everything did happen for a reason. Only time would tell, though.