#get roped into moving that rug up the stairs and outside

[sodacowboy]

I hate you I hate you I hate you

[redflagshipwriter]

Nest Swap ch 1

Little Tim wakes up in big Tim's apartment.

The idea came from this chain started by @ew-selfish-art and the contribution by @faeriekit

(repost of something that's currently just in a reblog chain)

His first observation was that this wasn't his house.

Tim was new to detecting, but he thought that was a pretty dang salient observation.

He didn't actually remember going to sleep. It didn't feel like he woke up here, either. He just suddenly noticed he was sitting somewhere he'd never been in his whole 9 years of life.

Very weird! Pretty neat, though.

Tim prowled around in his socked feet in total silence, investigating by the little light that came in through mostly shut curtains. He wasn't in his own clothes, which was kind of scary. He had to keep hiking up his sweatpants to keep them on, and he rolled down his socks three times to tighten them up. At least the floors didn't creak at all, even when he stepped on the dark wood panels in between dark red rugs. It made him feel more secure to move around quietly.

He was in an apartment that seemed relatively expensive but new, no antiques or family heirlooms. It was an open plan, with floating stairs and a white sofa. It was also sterile, as if no one really lived in it. It was clean in the same un-lived in way his house was. Someone professionally cleaned this apartment. 

Tim was really, really careful not to make any mess. 

Theory one: he had been kidnapped. It seemed pretty sound. He went to bed at home, and he woke up sitting on a strange sofa. Danger alarms were going off.

He looked around for a house phone to call for help. There was none. Troubling. 

On the other hand, Tim opened the apartment door to the hallway and stuck his head out. He could see sunlight coming in through the huge lobby windows.

…Okay. He was going to consider that a viable escape route. He glanced at the side of the door where there was a pair of shoes. They were big but he could probably use them in a pinch.

So. He could just walk out at any time. He frowned. That wasn't very good kidnapping practice. He would plan a much better restraint system. Like, a rope would be a good place to start, or maybe breaking the little bones in his feet? 

“This is so disappointing,” Tim muttered to himself. “I'm not even being ransomed?” 

Just… Some effort would be nice.

Hmm. He didn't want to believe anyone that incompetent had managed to transport him into Gotham proper from Bristol while he slept. So. Tim formally recategorized his kidnapping theory to a  suspected no. 

It was undeniable that he'd been moved in his sleep, which was pretty classic. But the counter evidence? The new location looked pretty easy to escape, if he was willing to get his socks dirty outside. 

Conclusion: This probably wasn't a conventional kidnapping. What else was there?

Theory two: he hit his head or fell asleep while he was out birdwatching, and some good person took them into their house to keep him safe.

That neatly explained why he was in the actual city. Tim ran his fingers through his hair looking for a bump. He wasn't sure if he found one or not. Maybe his head was just kind of oddly shaped. Troubling. Maybe he should go to the doctor about that. 

It would have been helpful information either way if there had been another human being around to talk to. 

There were signs that someone lived here. Tim poked around in the closet and in the fridge, building a mental profile for the resident.

One person lived here, and they were clearly kind of a loser because they had no photos of friends or family up. The jacket hanging by the door told Tim they were either an average sized woman or a small man. They couldn't cook at all, which was excellent because that meant there was a really great variety of ready to eat food. Tim snacked on string cheese and a can of soda while he flipped through the books on the shelves.  He pulled a couple off to check for secret compartments. Nope. Just books.

“Boring,” Tim said to himself. 

They were all books about things like business and management. It was the type of self-aggrandizing garbage that his parents made fun of: memoirs that you knew damn well that person hadn't written, manifestos on the virtues of hard work from someone born into the financial elite, and how-to's directed at an audience who had no personal shame.

Momentarily, he entertained the fantasy that he had been kidnapped by someone who was going to mold him into the ideal Drake Industries CEO, someone who wouldn't jet off across the world to follow a passion. The suspects were the entire board of directors. 

Kidnapped theory redux: the Board of Directors did it. Evidence?

Tim sat down and made a chart for his thoughts, quantifying how much each person had been inconvenienced by his parents’ absence in the last fiscal year. He concluded that Mr. Morrison might hate his parents enough to do it, but the projected timeline was beyond his scope. Tim didn't think he had it in him to plan that far out.

So, the apartment owner was just a boring person. Tim made a note. Theory two was looking pretty good. The person who lived here kind of sucked at life but they were probably really nice.

Something started beeping. That was interesting. He followed it to the bedroom that he hadn't been brave enough to poke around yet. There was a weird tablet on the bedside table. He picked it up and it unlocked automatically. Wow, the security was so bad. He felt embarrassed on behalf of the absent apartment owner.

The screen showed an email from someone called Tamara Fox. 

“Tim, can you get me the numbers from the acquisition in Peru?”

He blinked at it. Was the person who lived here also named Tim? Surely she wasn't actually asking him. He looked around uncertainly. 

There was still no one else. The blinking display on the alarm clock told him that it was half past noon, and no one else was in the apartment. 

…. poor Tamara probably really needed that information, if she was asking for it in the middle of the workday. Tim sat down on the bed and started putting together context clothes to figure out what Miss Fox was talking about. Her email signature had her title at Wayne industries listed, so that was a pretty big clue. He had access to a team calendar that showed meetings and ongoing projects, which he used to narrow it down. 

When he figured it out, he sent her back an email and sat back in satisfaction. A moment later, he realized that the email account had an attached auto signature. It claimed to be Tim Drake-Wayne, CEO of Wayne Enterprises. 

What.

He stopped breathing and momentarily considered that he had traveled to the future and this was really his apartment, but the name was impossible. There was no way he was going to marry either one of the Waynes. Bruce and Dick were kind of old. Tim wrinkled his nose at the thought. Gross. 

So, no. He wasn't Tim Drake-Wayne. “...It must be an inside joke,” Tim decided. “It seems really unprofessional.”

Tim was a little disappointed that he wasn't the boss of everyone, but at least he wasn't in a troubling marriage with a huge age difference. He had another cheese stick about it and the feeling went away.  Ah, good. Maybe that was how Mom dealt with Drake Industries: she distracted herself until she didn't feel bad about putting it on the back burner. It was a good tactic. He'd need more cheese sticks. He made a mental note to figure out how to replace these ones.

He found a loose blanket on a side chair and tied it around his shoulders, because the apartment was pretty chilly.

The email dinged again. Tim dragged his blanket cape back into the bedroom and stared at the tablet, lost in thought.

He didn't mean to be annoying. He really didn't. He knew people hated it when you got in their stuff. But the thing was: this guy got a lot of emails. And he wasn't here to answer them, which was pretty rude of him, honestly. It seemed like his job needed him a lot. 

Maybe when he got back, he would be mad at Tim for looking at his stuff. 

On the other hand, maybe he would appreciate it. Tim told himself that it would be fine, and he manned that email account until the end of business hours at 5:00 p.m. Then he gave a luxurious stretch and went to find something interesting in the freezer that he could microwave. 

His feelings about the email account had changed, after the hours spent together. It was their mutual email account now. Tim was willing to fight about it. He was emotionally attached to that email. People asked him all sorts of questions there, and he got to answer. It was pretty fun.

The apartment looked a little friendlier in the early evening light. He crossed it again and pushed a chair up against the deep freezer so that he could root around inside.

“Omigod, lasagne!” Tim ripped the package open in his excitement. Today was the best. He liked this place. Maybe he'd get to stay there when the owner came back to look at their shared email account.

While the lasagne heated, he went back to checking for fake books on the shelf. They were all disappointments. He did finally notice that there were pets here. 

“I should feed you,” Tim told the fish, because he was really fixing this guy's life. The fish didn't pay him any attention. The microwave beeped completion, so he went back and got his lasagne. He held it in one hand and ate while he searched for fish food. When he found it, he stuck his fork in the lasagne to free up a hand and shook flakes into the water. 

A secret compartment in the floor opened up.

Tim froze. He took a step back. He looked around the apartment, as if someone was going to materialize.

“…I might as well go see,” he told himself. “They're already gonna be mad that I answered our email.”

Down he went. 

[jazziejax]

Tiana’s Theme

↶*ೃ✧˚. ❃ ↷ ˊ-

1940’s

The sound of children's laughter filled the air warm air. The faint sound of up-beat music and the smell of food cooking gave the atmosphere a familiar feeling. The Louisiana sun was beaming down on them, the heat near unbearable. A beautiful women walked out of the large green and white house. Her light brown skin illuminated under the harsh sun, making her glow. She stood on the porch, observing the group of kids that were playing by the lake not too far from the house. Some swung from tire swings that hung if the trees, some ran around playing a game of tag.

"Don't get too close to the water, kids!" She yelled to all of them, getting a chorus response from them all. She smiled at them, admiring their care free behavior. She turned to make her way back inside when the pitter patter of feet caught her attention. A group of girls emerged from the other side of the wrap around porch, out of breath. They looked to be around 7 to 10 in age and there was about eight of them. One girl held a jump rope in her hand, wrapped around her knuckles, indicating that their exhaustion was from said activity. Some of the little girls took a seat on the porch swing, trying to catch their breath, while some others remained standing.

"We're going to the bathroom, Ma." She told the woman, blowing out a breath of laughter. The woman smiled at her, reaching over to pat her hand lovingly. The little girl cheesed, basking in her mother's affection. "Well y'all gon' right ahead. I'm gonna go back to the back." She told them sweetly before heading to the house. The girls, standing and sitting, filed in after her, departing way once inside. "I'm using the one downstairs first!" A little girl yelled before running off.

Her statement caused the others to start running, all to different parts of the house. The little girl in the green dress stumbled. With everyone running every which way around her, she was thrown all over the place.

Once the chaos cleared, she stood there. The large home now stilled in silence besides the faint sound of music. She walked further into the home, coming to a stop at the end of the staircase that was in the middle of the home. She gulped as she followed each step with her eyes, coming to a stop at the top of them. Her vision was blocked by the stairs but she could see that the hall the stairs led to was dark.

She gulped before taking her first, planting left her white sandal onto the dark wood.

After that, it seemed as if the stairs elongated, the top moving further away from her. Now slightly shaking, the little girl laid her hand on the cold, wooden, banister to ease her her discomfort. And with slow steps, she made her way up the stairs, edging closer to the darkness that waited.

Arriving at the top, the music that grounded her got faint as she was consumed by the dark hall. She stayed near the edge of the first step, the light from the sun outside grazing her back as her front was covered in black.

She observed the hall, taking note of pictures frames the adorned the wall between doors, the way the walls expanded from the narrow path of the stairs, showcasing just how large this house really was. The old light that swayed above the the long rug that went down the middle of the hall.

During her eye-excursion, she caught the sight of a light switch on the wall to her left, dashing over to see it if it worked. Flipping the switch, a flickering, yellow light dimly shined down on the old carpet. Glad that there was some sort of light to illuminate the room, the little girl sighed, now on her way to the bathroom at the very end of the hall.

Walking, the little girl admired the picture and painting she could now see more clearly. Pictures of old black people she didn't know and black children she didn't know. She continued observing until she came to a stop at a picture on the left side of the hall. It was a picture of four kids and two adults. Standing in front of this house. Her observing was interrupted, however, at the sound of whispers coming from behind her. She turned looking around the hall but seeing no one. Not a single door was opened. She glanced over at the stairs to see no one, but she did take in the fact that the stairs were farther away than she liked.

Looking back to the painting, she stared harder, taking in every detail of every person there. The black baby girl, the little black boy clinging to the black woman's leg, who she could only assume was his mother. The older black girl around her age with her head resting on the man's arms. Every single last one of them with a smile plastered on their faces. But what made her stop to look at the picture longer was the man in the photo. He had his arm around the waist of the woman next to him with the babygirl in his arms.

But what made her really shocked was that the man was white. And that the woman he had his arm wrapped around looked like a younger version of her great-granny.

But before she could question herself further, the hanging light buzzed loudly as it continued to flicker. The little girls head snapped up to the light watching as it got brighter, indicating that it was about to blow.

She dashed down the hall towards the bathroom door, her heart banging in her in ears as the sound of the rushed whispers from earlier came back, this time louder than before.

Her feet thudded against the the old carpet that laid about the hard wood floor, matching the beat of her heart. The hall seemed to stretch, pushing the door back further as the whispers got louder. The hanging light began to swing, the glass bulb buzzing louder behind the little girl.

Running as fast as she could in her church shoes, she damn near sprinted until she hit her destination. Immediately shoving the door open and slamming it shut behind her. She put her back against the door, her chest moving up and down as she tried to catch her breath. Her eyes were closed, head against the door as she awaited to be met the the same darkness when she opened her eyes. She braced herself, taking in a deep breath before opening her eyes.

Expecting to be meet with darkness, she was surprised to see that the small room was semi-lit from the sun outside. Said light was shining through a small window on the wall, in between the bathtub and the toilet. The girl gulped, basking in the pace the room brought. She could now hear the faint sound of music again, along with the laughter of her peers. She sighed as she leaned against the sink next to her, closing her eyes as she listened to the muffled music from the backyard, the upbeat music calming her heart.

Not wanting to dwell any longer, she at on the toilet to do her business. Sitting there, she took a look around the bathroom, softly humming the music. Her hums stopped however when she saw shadows moving from underneath the door. The girl wiped away a bead of sweat that rolled down her face before wiping herself.

She was quick.

Quick to stand up and wash her hands. Quick to splash water and her face.

But what she want quick to was placing her hand on the door knob. Taking a few deep breaths to calm herself. And counting down from 10 to get ready to open the door.

And when she finally did, she ran without looking back. She could see the shadows under the doors that lined the halls. Some seeping out into the hall floor like ooze. The whispers from earlier came back even louder. Loud enough for her to decipher some.

"Run."

"Run, Tiana."

"Keep going."

"Don't let them stop you."

"Don't loop back."

"Run."

"Run."

"Run, Tiana."

"Run."

Run. Run. Run. Run.

That's all the little girl could hear as the hipsters got louder and louder and the same buzzing light from before finally burst. She screamed at the sound, tears running gown her face as she made it to the stairs, stumbling down in a rush.

Her running didn't end there, she ran outside and around the house, still crying when she made it to her back yard. Her figure made the some of the adults turn their heads to her. But she didn't care. She was looking for one person and one person only.

"Tina?" The woman from earlier questioned as she took her white cat eye shades from her face. She didn't even have time to register what was going on before the little girl crashed into her arms, crying hysterically. She wrapped her arms around the little one, kneeling down to her level.

"Tina, tell me what's wrong?" The woman questioned. Tina continued to cry, laying her head on her mothers shoulder. The woman didn't question her again, just embracing her little girl into her arms.

"Quit entertaining her stupid behavior, Evelyn." A man yelled not too far away from them. His words were muffled by the cigar in his mouth as she sat around a table playing cards with his friends.

The woman, Evelyn, looked over at his with her baby still in her arms. "Now what if some kids were picking on her? Then what." She asked him sharply. Said man scoffed, looking at her over the shades he had on. "Maybe it'll teach her some good. I know I'm tired of her, that's for damn sure." He said, causing some of the men at the table with him to chuckle. Evelyn scoffed before standing back up with her daughter still clinging to her, now more calm than before. "Oh, shut the hell up, Franklin. Maybe an was whoopin would do you some good. Cause I know I'm sick and tired of your mouth, that's for damn sure." She yelled at him before walking off with Tiana around her hip.

The woman walked with the girl to the front of the house on the wrap around porch. Once they got to the front, she sat them down on the birch swing that over looked the lake. Evelyn had her arms around the girl as she laid her head on top of hers. She rubbed Tiana's arm with her thumb, soothing the hiccuping girl.

"Are you gonna tell me what wrong, Tina?" The woman asked her softly. "You know you can talk to me."

Tiana moved away from her mothers arms looking down at her hands. Evelyn watched her closely, reaching over to take her daughters hands into hers. "It's okay." She said softly

"Uh...when I was upstairs...I heard voices but no one was there." She told her. She looked up to her mother, a single tear slipping out of her eye. Her mother looked at her.

The little girl was expecting shock, anger, confusion, something other than what the woman gave her. Evelyn smiled. She gazed at Tiana with watery eyes but a smile on her face. Tiana stared at her mother confused as more tears poured out her eyes.

"Is there something wrong with me?" She asked, worriedly. Evelyn shook her head. "No, no honey. There is nothing wrong with you." She told her daughter, bringing the girl back into her arms. Evelyn laid her head on top of Tiana's, slightly rocking their hug. "But you cannot tell anyone of this. You can never speak of this again."  She told her firmly.

Her words caused Tiana's heart to drop. Just when she thought she was gonna get answers, she was back to questioning herself and what happened more than before. But she didn't question it, she just nodded her head and continued to hold her mother.

↶*ೃ✧˚. ❃ ↷ ˊ-

So, what do you guys think?... I’m not really a writer, I’m more of a reader and I definitely don’t write horror or whatever this is, so let me know if you you all have any suggestions or tips!

[redflagshipwriter]

His first observation was that this wasn't his house.

Tim prowled around in his socked feet in total silence, investigating by the little light that came in through mostly shut curtains. He wasn't in his own clothes, which was kind of scary. He had to keep hiking up his sweatpants to keep them on, and he rolled down his socks three times to tighten them up. At least the floors didn't creak at all, even when he stepped on the dark wood panels in between dark red rugs.

He was in an apartment that seemed relatively expensive but new, no antiques or family heirlooms. It was an open plan, with floating stairs and a white sofa. It was also sterile, as if no one really lived in it. It was clean in the same un-lived in way his house was. Someone professionally cleaned this apartment.

Tim was really, really careful not to make any mess.

Theory one: he had been kidnapped. It seemed pretty sound. He went to bed at home, and he woke up on a strange sofa. Danger alarms were going off.

He looked around for a house phone to call for help. There was none. Troubling.

On the other hand, Tim opened the apartment door to the hallway and stuck his head out. He could see sunlight coming in through the huge lobby windows.

…Okay. He was going to consider that a viable escape route. He glanced at the side of the door where there was a pair of shoes. They were big but he could probably use them in a pinch.

So. He could just walk out at any time. He frowned. That wasn't very good kidnapping practice. He would plan a much better restraint system. Like, a rope would be a good place to start, or maybe breaking the little bones in his feet?

“This is so disappointing,” Tim muttered to himself. “I'm not even being ransomed?”

Just… Some effort would be nice.

Hmm. He didn't want to believe anyone that incompetent had managed to transport him into Gotham proper from Bristol while he slept. So. Tim formally recategorized his kidnapping theory to a suspected no.

It was undeniable that he'd been moved in his sleep, which was pretty classic. But the counter evidence? The new location looked pretty easy to escape, if he was willing to get his socks dirty outside.

Conclusion: This probably wasn't a conventional kidnapping. What else was there?

Theory two: he hit his head or fell asleep while he was out birdwatching, and some good person took them into their house to keep him safe.

That neatly explained why he was in the actual city. Tim ran his fingers through his hair looking for a bump. He wasn't sure if he found one or not. Maybe his head was just kind of oddly shaped. Tim frowned. Maybe he should go to the doctor about that.

It would have been helpful information either way if there had been another human being around to talk to.

There were signs that someone lived here. Tim poked around in the closet and in the fridge, building a mental profile for the resident.

One person lived here, and they were clearly kind of a loser because they had no photos of friends or family up. The jacket hanging by the door told Tim they were either an average sized woman or a small man. They couldn't cook at all, which was excellent because that meant there was a really great variety of ready to eat food. Tim snacked on string cheese and a can of soda while he flipped through the books on the shelves. He pulled a couple off to check for secret compartments. Nope. Just books.

“Boring,” Tim said to himself.

They were all books about things like business and management. It was the type of self-aggrandizing garbage that his parents made fun of: memoirs that you knew damn well that person hadn't written, manifestos on the virtues of hard work from someone born into the financial elite, and how-to's directed at an audience who had no personal shame.

Momentarily, he entertained the fantasy that he had been kidnapped by someone who was going to mold him into the ideal Drake Industries CEO, someone who wouldn't jet off across the world to follow a passion. The suspects were the entire board of directors.

Kidnapped theory redux: the Board of Directors did it. Evidence?

Tim sat down and made a chart for his thoughts, quantifying how much each person had been inconvenienced by his parents’ absence in the last fiscal year. He concluded that Mr. Morrison might hate his parents enough to do it, but the projected timeline was beyond his scope. Tim didn't think he had it in him to plan that far out.

So, the apartment owner was just a boring person. Tim made a note. Theory two was looking pretty good. The person who lived here kind of sucked at life but they were probably really nice.

Something started beeping. That was interesting. He followed it to the bedroom that he hadn't been brave enough to poke around yet. There was a weird tablet on the bedside table. He picked it up and it unlocked automatically. Wow, the security was so bad. He felt embarrassed on behalf of the absent apartment owner.

The screen showed an email from someone called Tamara Fox.

“Tim, can you get me the numbers from the acquisition in Peru asap?”

He blinked at it. Was the person who lived here also named Tim? Surely she wasn't actually asking him. He looked around uncertainly.

There was still no one else. The blinking display on the alarm clock told him that it was half past noon, and no one else was in the apartment. Maybe it was silly that he felt the urge to be helpful, but he was pretty sure he hadn't been the victim of a crime.

…. poor Tamara probably really needed that information, if she was asking for it in the middle of the workday. Tim sat down on the bed and started putting together context clothes to figure out what Miss Fox was talking about. Her email signature had her title at Wayne industries listed, so that was a pretty big clue. He had access to a team calendar that showed meetings and ongoing projects, which he used to narrow it down.

When he figured it out, he sent her back an email and sat back in satisfaction. A moment later, he realized that the email account had an attached auto signature. It claimed to be Tim Drake-Wayne, CEO of Wayne Enterprises.

What.

He momentarily considered that he had traveled to the future and this was really his apartment, but the name was impossible. There was no way he was going to marry either one of the Waynes. Bruce and Dick were kind of old. Tim wrinkled his nose at the thought. Gross.

So, no. He wasn't Tim Drake-Wayne. “...It must be an inside joke,” Tim decided. “It seems really unprofessional.”

Tim was a little disappointed that he wasn't the boss of everyone, but at least he wasn't in a troubling marriage with a huge age difference. He had another cheese stick about it and the feeling went away. Ah, good. Maybe that was how Mom dealt with Drake Industries: she distracted herself until she didn't feel bad about putting it on the back burner. It was a good tactic. He'd need more cheese sticks to pull it off long term.

He made a mental note to figure out how to replace these ones.

He found a loose blanket on a side chair and tied it around his shoulders, because the apartment was pretty chilly now that he wasn't busy being scared.

The email dinged again. Tim dragged his blanket cape back into the bedroom and stared at the tablet, lost in thought.

He didn't mean to be annoying. He really didn't. He knew people hated it when you got in their stuff. But the thing was: this guy got a lot of emails. And he wasn't here to answer them, which was pretty rude of him, honestly. It seemed like his job needed him a lot.

Maybe when he got back, he would be mad at Tim for looking at his stuff.

On the other hand, maybe he would appreciate it. Tim told himself that it would be fine, and he manned that email account until the end of business hours at 5:00 p.m. Then he gave a luxurious stretch and went to find something interesting in the freezer that he could microwave.

His feelings about the email account had changed, after the hours spent together. It was their mutual email account now. Tim was willing to fight about it. He was emotionally attached to that email. People asked him all sorts of questions there, and he got to answer. It was pretty fun.

The apartment looked a little friendlier in the early evening light. He crossed it again and pushed a chair up against the deep freezer so that he could root around inside.

“Omigod, lasagne!” Tim ripped the package open in his excitement. Today was the best.

While it heated, he went back to checking for fake books on the shelf. They were all disappointments. He did finally notice that there were pets here.

“I should feed you,” Tim told the fish, because he was really fixing this guy's life. The fish didn't pay him any attention. The microwave beeped completion, so he went back and got his lasagne. He held it in one hand and ate while he searched for fish food. When he found it, he stuck his fork in the lasagne to free up a hand and shook flakes into the water.

A secret compartment in the floor opened up.

Tim froze. He took a step back. He looked around the apartment, as if someone was going to materialize.

“…I might as well go see,” he told himself. “They're already gonna be mad that I answered our email.”

Down he went.

Not to express my favoritism on main but like...

Where's a fic about Tim Drake being de-aged and none of his family realizing it until way later cause the lil tyke is submitting all of his reports in a timely manner (a little slower because of tiny fingers vs. big mechanical keyboard) and is managing Wayne Enterprises under remote protocols with Tam (she thinks he might be with Pru and refuses to interact- one traumatic desert experience is enough for a lifetime).

Just like, Tim has managed himself since he was that small anyway given his parent's prioritizes pre-mortem. They didn't even have popular food delivery apps when he was little! This is such an easy era to be imposed upon by youth!

Not to mention the potential of him being caught in the middle of solving his dilemma might spur the Bats to become aware and then get mixed up... Making Tim's solution combust and more work for the little guy who is very determined and now very scorned.

[absinthe-and-abstinence]

An Unhealthy Obsession: Chapter One

The Basement at the End of the Stairs

Hi everyone! I've started to post on Tumblr, so these updates will be coming daily until I catch up where I've left off on AO3. This is a slower fic to start, but I hope it's worth it once you start reading. Please enjoy <3

Master List | Next Chapter

Groggily, you began to open your eyes. Your eyelids felt so heavy that it was hard to do, but you mustered your strength to keep them open. You blinked a few times, adjusting to the light, and start to look around. You weren’t in your bedroom, or anywhere you remember. You’d landed yourself into a large room without remembering how. You were sure you just fell asleep on the couch, having true crime stories on in the background…

The room you found yourself in seems to be a part of a small house. As you had woken up on the carpeted floor, you began to sit up to examine the room. Next to you on the left was a warm-toned gray couch and a coffee table made of wood. On the right of you was a large television screen and the stand underneath is full of different movies. You recognized most of the titles.

There was a glass door that leads to a small yard and patio, although it’s hard to see through – it had been raining and the droplets had collected on the glass. Fog also blocked your view, but it was difficult to tell whether the fog is coming from inside the house, or outside. You moved your head around, observing and analyzing the space around you.

Most of what you can see looks like contemporary design, with muted colors and a hint of modern. You decided to get up off the floor and walk around; your legs feel sore like you’ve walked for miles, but you didn’t remember doing anything. Walking around, you found a good-sized kitchen, a study, a set of stairs leading up and down, a sunroom, and the front door. When you opened the front door, you found yourself among a green forest full of pine, fir, cedar, and more. The muddy driveway indicated it had been raining for a while now, and the raindrops dancing on the puddles had not an indication that it would stop.

Going back into the house, you headed upstairs to see what else was there. Opening some doors, you found two bedrooms. One was smaller and full of posters from scientists, psychologists, and old science-fiction shows. It looked like a young boy’s room, but you couldn’t tell who’s. Awards line the shelves, indicating who ever lived here was very smart and successful. The other bedroom, the larger one, looked like a college student’s dorm room. A tapestry hung behind the bed, and fairy lights decorated the tops of the walls. Although the floor was carpeted, rugs lay about across the room. It led to a good-sized bedroom, making you realize that this must be the master. A bathroom lay across the hall from the bedroom as well as closet with sheets, cleaning supplies, and other household items. You decided to head back downstairs and go down the other set, leading to what you assumed was the basement.

The door to the basement at the end of the stairs creaked and groaned, and the wood was old. It felt much older than the rest of the house, as if it didn’t belong. With the creaking and groaning, you peered into the basement and gawked in astonishment.

The basement looked like a scene from one of your true crime shows, without any victims or signs of violence of any kind. A chair with ropes along the back of it and its arms stood in the middle of the room, and the rest appeared like a small shop with tools of all shapes and sizes cluttering the walls. A workbench sat at the corner of the room, and nervously you walked over to it. You saw what seemed to be a high-tech collar with unlit bulbs and a keypad attached to it. You lifted it up, realizing that this would fit around an average person’s neck, or a large dog at that. Just out of curiosity, you place it on yourself and slide the lock shut.

The bulb lights up immediately and a humming starts. You feel it vibrate across your throat, and the feeling is unusual to say the least. Feeling around the collar for the keypad, you realized that you never looked for a code to unlock it. A string of numbers pops into your head however, and you inserted this imagined sequence in. To your surprise, the collar unlocked and fell onto the floor, the light stopping once more. You placed it back onto the counter and find two similar smaller holds like it also sitting on the bench. Without locking it, you placed them onto your wrists. They were a bit too large for you, but cold hold someone if needed.

You stepped out of the basement, shivering from the creepiness of it all. Here you were, in a house that you had never seen or been in before with a raining forest outside, a boy’s room full of awards and posters, and an eerie basement. It was unusual to say the least, and you wondered how you got to this place at all. You headed back to the living room and plant yourself onto the couch. You had sunk in and found it cozy, despite the situation. A blanket sits on the other side, so you decided to pull it over towards you. It’s soft and almost melts in your touch. You saw a remote sitting on the coffee table and decided to turn on the television. It jets on, and the first season of Criminal minds appears. You remembered seeing the box set when looking at the shelves earlier, so you were sure it must have come from there.

Before you started the season, a voice inside you urged to grab some paper and something to write with. You get up and go towards the study, where the smell of old books stains the room. You don’t look around much, but find a brand-new lined journal sitting on the desk with a set of Bic pens on top. You take them with back to the couch and start to write. In large letters you write:

SEASON ONE

Underneath it in smaller letters, you begin:

EPISODE ONE: Extreme Aggressor

As you start the episode, you wrote down everything you see; the characters that appear, the unsub, the victims’ names, the city, and what led them to the unsub. You had seen the show before, but it had been a few years. Everyone looked so young, and in a weird way you felt nostalgic. That is, until a certain character appeared onscreen.

Spencer Reid.

He had been your favorite growing up and had been a huge crush for you. But now, seeing him in this show in this strange house, a feeling overwhelmed you had not felt before. Your face got hot, and you could feel your heart pulsing. The palms of your hands begin to calm up, and your stomach twisted into knots. The pounding of your heart and the heat inside you twisted together into a surreal feeling of your entire body pulsing now. You immediately went back to the study and grabbed another journal from the desk, titling this one:

SPENCER

You felt giddy writing his name, and a feeling that you had to record everything about him came over you. You wrote down everything you had remembered about him and watched his every move intensely in the episode. Each time he appeared, a smile appeared on your face, and you couldn’t help but to always keep your full attention on him. In fact, you restarted the episode once it was finished so you could make sure you got everything down in both notebooks.

You continued to watch more episodes, watching each episode twice. Watching it the first time allowed you to record the characters, the unsub, and all the other trivia, although it was hard to stay focused when Spencer was on screen. Watching it the second time gave you all the pleasure of analyzing each of his movements, and record anything and everything about him. He had moments where his softness stood out, and you envied the coffee cup he held with care. How nice to be in his hands like that, embraced by him and his gentleness…

Other times, you could see fierceness in his eyes. As other characters in the show seemed to mock him for going off on tangents or not understanding social cues, you could see the frustration in him. But you. Oh, you hung on his every word, following his rambling sentences until they fell. You may not have understood it all but seeing his mind in action and his excitement overtake made that pulsing feeling come back. It was almost overwhelming, but when Derek Morgan or Hotch passed it off as Spencer being “weird” or “too much,” it infuriated you.

You watched the entire season through, stopping for bathroom breaks or breaks to the kitchen. The pantry was full of teas and coffees, so you made yourself a few cups of earl gray. This new house was growing on you, and its nature went from foreign to cozy quickly. The journals at the end of the season had pages full of notes, quotes, and analysis. You hadn’t realized how sore your hand was from writing until the end of it, or how much you enjoyed it. Categorizing a show, and someone’s life like Spencer’s was not something you had done much before, but it seemed like second nature.

You felt like you had to keep watching, but it was late, and you needed to rest. As you placed your mug of tea into the kitchen, folded up the blanket, and turned off the television your mind replayed the clips of the shows in your head. As you brushed your teeth in the master bedroom and hopped into the large and comfortable bed, the thoughts of Spencer Redi danced in your head. If you imagined it closely enough, you could feel him laying in bed next to you. That idea kept you warm, and you drifted off to sleep.

The idea of Spencer Reid existing in this strange house and the strange new world seemed impossible, but with that thought, you stayed asleep all night long.

[isthisthingeven0n]

protective : a.h

you’re still the newest member to the BAU eventhough you’ve been there a year, but that doesn’t mean hotch isn’t always looking out for you (2.2K)

* also i have an etsy shop where i sell some criminal minds tote bags and prints. if you wanna check it out i’ll leave the link here

“Reid, go left with JJ. Rossi, Morgan, take the right entrance. Y/L/N, with me.” Hotch orders and everyone nods, knowing it was a time-sensitive situation.

Following behind Hotch, you could already hear the screams and cries of agony from Alisia Hartnell, the unsubs latest victim whom he kidnapped three days ago.

You’d all been following the case since the first and second victims were found in the local park tied to trees. Both were prostitutes and still alive due to their organs being held in place by pieces of rope wrapped around the tree. You all knew they would either die slowly if you leave them, delirious and without any relief or someone would try and help them.

None of the unsub’s victims had lived long enough to be saved or help your case until you had a breakthrough hours prior with Garcia’s help.

“You alright?” Hotch quietly asks as you trail behind him, gun at the ready.

Despite the fact you had been with the BAU for just under a year now, you were still the newest member of the team and treated as so by some members. You clicked with Spencer immediately, partly due to your enthusiasm towards Doctor Who and the similarity in age. Garcia warmed to you once she had done her background check on you, only to find the last videos in your search history being ‘cute animals being clumsy for five minutes straight.’

And well, there is your section chief, your boss; Hotch. You knew he was looking out for you, as all the team as you’re all one big family.

Hotch warmed to you but didn’t always show it. He was firm, rarely smiled but was considerate to all of you. If there was any problem, he wanted to know and took the time to listen, even if it were after hours and he had a mountain of paperwork to complete. 

What you didn’t know was that Hotch liked you, more than a member of the BAU. 

“I’m fine, just want to get this son of a bitch.” You mutter in response, unaware of the smile glimpsing on Hotch’s face before his stoic expression returns as you both turn the corner, the echoed screams becoming more prominent. 

Glancing over his shoulder, Hotch ensures you’re behind him as he gives you the signal. 

You take the left side of the door whilst he covers the right, entering swiftly as you cover all bases of the room. “It’s clear.” You tell Hotch as you lower your gun momentarily, looking at the photos of the victims on the walls, smeared with blood. “God,” You sigh as Hotch moves closer. 

Lining the walls are photographs containing the victims prior to the mutilation and torture to them that resulted in being tied to those trees. “He’s been watching us.” Hotch reaffirms his suspicion, knowing the unsub was a sadist and narcissist who got off seeing his work being seen and in a twisted sense, admired. 

“That’s not all,” You speak up as you turn around, seeing jars kept on display filled with various organs. “so that’s why they couldn’t find the right kidney.” You lift your flashlight up, the unsub is keeping treasures from his victims, he’s as sadistic as you thought. “He must be here somewhere.” 

“We’re clear, do any of you have eyes on him?” Hotch speaks into his earpiece whilst you look around the room further. 

Whilst Hotch awaits a response, you hear a muffled cry beneath you. “Hotch?” You whisper before bending down to the floor with your gun in position. 

Turning around, Hotch keeps his gun aimed on the floor as you tap the plank of wood. “It’s hollow.” You mouth and Hotch nods as you stand back up whilst Hotch moves the rug concealing the next plank of wood, revealing a hinge. 

“Stay alert.” Hotch sternly tells you as he lifts the three connected planks of wood, hitting the shelving of jars as they smash to the ground. 

There’s no time to react as you follow Hotch down the steps into the concealed basement. You survey the room as does Hotch with your flashlights, seeing glimpses of weapons and surgical equipment, but no sign of Alisia. 

“Hotch, is that-” Before you can finish your sentence, a pair of arms wrap around you. One is secured over your mouth as your gun falls to the ground whilst the other holds a gun to your head. 

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Hotch states as he holds his gun up to the unsubs head, trying not to focus on your wide eyes as you struggle in the unsub’s grip. 

“Why, you want this one safe, huh? Well, this city wanted the other girls safe, look where that lead them.” He spits out with a short laugh causing your stomach to turn. 

“There’s no way out of this, so let her go.” Hotch remains calm as you lower your gaze, trying to hold back tears knowing your likelihood out of this is close to 60/40; Hotch has a precise aim, but there’s a gun against your head and the trigger could be pulled before Hotch has a chance to shoot. 

If Reid were here, he could give you the exact statistic of you making it out. He’d be able to time it all out, but you didn’t want to focus on that as the gun was pressed further against your temple and the unsub’s breathing was getting heavier against your skin.

“I could go many ways,” The unsub taunts as he drags you backwards, a muffled whimper leaving your lips as Hotch tries to remain focused on the unsub, ignoring the tears forming in your eyes. “a full shoot out, but then you’d never find the last girl.” He tutted, quickly followed by a short laugh that sent a shiver through your body.

“No one has to die, we can talk about this.” Hotch seethes through his teeth, glancing down for a split second to see you pointing down to the unsub’s foot as you move your own away, hoping Hotch would get the message.

Shaking his head, the unsub looks back to you. Moving his hand off of your mouth, you gasp for breath as he begins to stroke your hair. “You’re prettier than the others,” He chuckles as you try to move from his hold, but he grips your hair, pulling your head back. “just think what I can do with you.” He whispers, and at that moment whilst the unsub’s focus is on you, Hotch fires directly to the unsub’s leg.

A loud scream follows as the unsub releases you, giving you time to grab your gun as you shoot at his arm.

But you’re not fast enough as a shot is fired by the unsub, hitting you in the arm. You bite back a cry, knowing the unsub is not done and won’t go down easy.

Hotch then fires one more time, shooting the unsub in his other leg which sends him to the ground, dropping his gun aside.

Resting his foot on the unsub’s back, Hotch looks over to you as he holds the handcuffs. “Do you want to do the honours?” He tries to disguise the humour in his tone as you smile, but Hotch can tell it’s insincere. 

You can’t help but look down at the unsub who is laughing at you. “Go ahead,” You tell Hotch as you step aside, allowing him to lead the cuffed unsub up the stairs of the basement where the rest of the team is awaiting the three of you.

Once you’re all outside, you cross your arms over your chest to cradle your left arm as you watch the police car with the unsub drive away whilst Alisia is sitting in the back of an ambulance, badly injured, but alive nonetheless.

“So, Hotch shot the unsub three times?” Reid speaks up, and your focus shifts to Spencer as Hotch nods. “But I heard four shots.” Spencer states.

Now Hotch tenses as he turns to face you, noticing your lack of engagement despite how eager you were to find Alisia alive, yet you’ve barely spoken two words since you got out of the basement.

“Y/n?” Hotch moves aside as you follow him, hearing mutters from the team teasing you about being in trouble.

Placing his hand on your left arm, he sadly doesn’t miss the wince that leaves your lips or the split second your eyes widen.

“What’s wrong?” Hotch’s tone becomes quieter, but more pressing, nonetheless.

A small sigh sounds from you as Hotch looks down to his fingertips, seeing they’re coated in crimson.

“He shot me, but it’s nothing serious, Hotch, the bullet isn’t lodged.” You explain, trying to shrug it off, but Hotch’s expression tells you that isn’t happening.

Without saying anything else, Hotch rests his hand on your right arm, guiding you to the nearest ambulance, not giving you the chance to protest. “She’s been shot in the arm.” He states, like you’re a student being punished and having to face the consequences.

Sitting down in the ambulance, you hold back the cry in your throat as the medic cuts away the fabric covering your arm whilst Hotch walks away, back to the team.

You can make out him saying something, and Reid’s eyes widen as he looks over to you, resulting in you giving them all a weak wave that causes Rossi to chuckle.

“Head on back to the station, I’ll wait here until Y/n has been cleared.” Hotch states, and the team disperse into cars, all except Rossi.

“You’re more smitten than a kitten who got the cream, Aaron.” Rossi jokes, glancing over Hotch’s shoulder to see you with your head down, your right hand gripping the edge of the stretcher that you’re sat on as the medic stitches your arm.

Hotch shakes his head. “It’s not like that, Dave.” Hotch insists, but Rossi is one of the best profiler’s he knows, so it doesn’t take more than a second to detect the lie. “I can’t say or do anything, I’m her superior and you know how Erin would react.”

“Leave Erin to me,” Rossi comments before patting Hotch on the shoulder. “don’t let her slip through your grasp.”

Walking away, Hotch turns around to see you now beginning to stand up as the medic nods to you.

“All clear?” Hotch questions as you snap your head up, ignoring your vision blurring as three stern faces greet you, slowly morphing back into one.

Blinking rapidly, you nod. “Medic stitched me up, just gotta take it easy for a week or so.” You smile, but the frown on Hotch’s face refuses to soften. “Do you want to lecture me now or when we’re back in Quantico?” You ask as you rock back and forth on your heels.

A slither of a smile crosses Hotch’s face before he clears his throat. “Y/n, you have to remember we’re a team here. You getting injured in the field does matter, and you can’t always shrug it off. What if things went differently? You could’ve died in that basement, and I would’ve had to live with that. I’d be the one to tell your family, I’d be the mourning you and regret everyday never telling you the truth.” Hotch explains as you nod along and then pausing at the end of his explanation.

“I know I acted out of line, Hotch. But I just don’t know or like showing weakness.” You admit as you fiddle with the hem of your shirt, your vest now put to one side. “Especially around you.” You mutter before lifting your gaze up to meet his as Hotch shuffles his weight from one foot to the other.

Raising a brow, Hotch takes a step closer towards you. “What’re you trying to say, Y/L/N?”

“You’re going to make me say it?” You feign annoyance as a grin spreads across your face, unaware of the frost around Hotch’s heart beginning to melt at the sight. 

Hotch shakes his head. “Only when you’re ready,” He tells you. “come on, we should get going.” He motions towards one SUV remaining whilst the police department carry on with their assessment. 

Unsure of himself, Hotch swallows his fears as he rests his arm around you. He keeps his eyes fixated on the car but internally warms as you move closer into his embrace. 

“Does this mean I won’t be allowed on the field for a while?” You ask as you slide into the back seat next to Hotch who chuckles, something that’ll take some getting used to seeing.

As he fastens his seatbelt, he reaches to help you with yours, only to see you have done it already despite the sling on your arm. 

“We’ll talk about that when we’re back in Quantico, Y/n.” He tells you quietly, seeing your eyes beginning to droop. “Take a nap, I’ll let you know when we’re almost there.” Hotch mutters as you try to fight the tiredness as the adrenaline rush is leaving your system. 

A small yawn leaves your lips as you rest your head on Hotch’s shoulder. “Thanks, Hotch.” You glance up to him. 

“Aaron,” Hotch mutters. “call me Aaron.” 

“Okay,” You whisper as your hand reaches for his, squeezing it ever so gently. “thank you, Aaron.” You add before closing your eyes, missing the sight of a bright smile you’ll soon see plenty of. 

[afeb]

Draco Malfoy - Detest

I walked aimlessly around the garden, brushing my hands over bushes and flowers. The sky was a light blue, the sun just peeping over the horizon before it dipped down completely. I came to a large fountain, a tall snake coming out the middle of the circular pond, water spouting out of its mouth.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” I turned around to see Draco standing where I had come from, hands deeply shoved in his pocket.

I rolled my eyes and sat on the edge. “A bit obvious, don’t you think?”

He chuckled and slowly began to stroll around the fountain. “Maybe, but still pretty.” He said. “Why aren’t you in the house?”

I straightened my back. “I detest this place,” I grumbled. “I only come here because my father makes me, I think he hopes I’ll join your side one day.”

Draco nodded along. “Do you think you will?”

“I’d rather die.”

“We could arrange that.”

My eyes narrowed on his before I got up, Draco following as I walked deeper into the garden. “Why aren’t you in the house?” I asked, stopping to admire a large rose bush.

He came up behind me, leaning across to gently touch the petals, chest brushing my back. “Fresh air,” he deeply breathed in, nose bumping the back of my head. “Particularly sweet today.”

“Don’t be a creep.” I scoffed as I moved on, walking along the cobbled path to a small gathering of trees.

“I’m not being a creep.” He defended, still following behind me. “So you wouldn’t join us?”

“I don’t know how else to say it.” I snapped. “I’d never join you.”

“I suppose you love Harry Potter and muggles then, do you?” He teasingly asked, rounding to stand in front of me, blocking my way.

I crossed my arms. “And what if I did?”

I kept still as he took two large steps, heading dipping down to peer into my eyes. “One night with me, Little Girl, and I’d make you forget about him soon enough.”

My mouth fell a little. “Y/N! Dear, where are you?”

I stumbled back at the sound of my fathers voice, hurrying past Draco and back to the house. He followed behind me again, humming a small in innocent tune as we went.

“Yes father?” I asked as I approached him on the grand steps outside the mansion.

“Dear, Lucius has kindly invited us to stay the night.” My father happily said, stroking my hair.

I groaned. “But father I don’t have anything to wear to bed.”

His fist tightened in my hair. “Did I ask if you wanted to stay?” He lowly asked.

I peered at my feet. “No.”

I was aware Draco was watching us. “Very well then.”

My father left, a blush creeping on my cheeks as I turned to look at Draco. Rather than a smirk I was expecting to see, he had a deep set frown on his face. He slowly climbed the stairs, his hand stroking the same part of hair my father had.

“I’m sure we have something you can wear.” He soothed.

I nodded and moved away, making my way into the mansion. Dinner was quiet, my father and Lucius talking up a storm as my mother and Narcissa were caught up in their own conversation. Draco didn’t speak to me much, simply watched me from the corner of his eye as I slowly ate the extravagant meal that had been prepared.

“Y/N,” Lucius grabbed my attention. “I’m sure a lovely girl like you had many men asking for her eyes.”

I cleared my throat. “I don’t pay attention to any of that.” I sweetly smiled.

He frowned. “Why?”

I shrugged and warily looked at my father. “There are more important things in this world than a man.”

I saw Draco smirk. “I’m sure you’ll change your mind when you meet the right person.” Lucius said. “My boy Draco here isn’t seeing anyone.”

“Nice.” I awkwardly said.

Lucius simply eyed the two of us with a small smile and went back to talking to my father. “He’s not wrong.” Draco whispered in my ear.

I turned to glare at him. “I’d rather date Lord Voldemort than you.” I snapped back.

Dracos eyes flicked down to my lips. “Sure.”

As soon as I was able to left the table, Kreatcher showing my room for the night. It was large, a fire place and four poster bed the most notable things in the room. There was a desk and chair, small sofa and expensive looking rug on the floor. It was cold and impersonal, no paintings or photos anywhere.

I sighed and sat on the bed. The door knocked. “Come in!”

My mother popped her head round. “You seemed quiet at dinner,” she noted, coming to sit beside me on the bed. “That horrible boy isn’t being nasty to you is he?”

I shook my head. “I just want to go home.”

She coaxed my hesd to rest on her shoulder, arm wrapping warmly around me. “I know, my lovely. We’ll leave first thing in the morning.”

“I hate it here.”

“You could make friends with that boy.” She suggested. “Might be less lonely.”

“I’d rather play in that fireplace than that.” I scoffed, to which she laughed.

“It’s only one night, you’ll survive.” A swift kiss on my forehead and she was gone.

I stayed tucked away most of the night, finding and interesting book on the history of witchcraft. Kreatcher came in to drop off an old looking nightgown. It was porcelain white and came to just above my knee, the silky material feeling nice against my skin. The sun had long set, my mother coming in again to bid me goodnight before shutting the door.

I waited a couple more hours before sneaking down the desalte hallway. I gazed up at the paintings of the Malfoy and Lestrange family. All of them looked cold and uninviting. I trembled as I looked at Bellatrix before quickly going down the stairs.

I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for as my bare feet padded across the hardwood floors, just anything to occupy the time until I could lay in my own bed. The halls seemed never ending as I wandered for what felt like hours, looking over old relics and paintings that scattered the house. I found myself back in the main dining room, gazing out of the floor to ceiling windows.

“Snooping, are we?” I jumped and turned to see Draco. He was only wearing pyjama bottoms slung low on his hips, broad chest out bare.

“I couldn’t sleep.” I mumbled back as I looked out the window again, gazing at the moon.

“Why’s that?” He strolled over to me.

“I don’t trust anyone in this house.” I shortly said back.

“Believe me, I know the feeling.” He was closer now, but I didn’t dare turn to see where he was.

I jumped as a hand landed on my waist, tugging me back into his body. “What are you doing?” I asked.

“Do you know how long I’ve waited to have you alone?” He darkly whispered in my ear. “And not to mention in something to revealing.”

He daintly fiddled with the thin strap of the nightgown, inching it down my arm and sponging a kiss to my bare skin. My arms remained crossed over my chest as my breathing grew heavy.

“Do you want this?” He asked lowly in my ear. When I didn’t respond he nipped my lobe. “Answer when I speak to you.”

“Yes.” I sighed, mind cloudy from the lack of sleep and Dracos voice.

He spun me around and gently cupped my face, smiling down at me before pressing his lips to mine. My hands landed on his waist as his tongue dominated mine. He led us over to the table, pressing me against it and kissing down my neck.

“Get on the table.” He ordered.

I pulled myself up and blushed as he spread my thighs, standing between them.

He hummed in my ear, I frowned as he took a seat in front of me. “Lay back and put your feet on the table.”

I did as I was told and leant back, my legs still tightly pressed together. I gasped as he pried them apart, putting me on display for his.

“Good girl,” he hummed. “No underwear.”

He simply looked at me for a moment before slowly moving in, letting his hot breath fan over me. Small, chaste kisses were pressed against my thighs, his hands still holding them apart. His tongue darted out and wet the crease between my thighs and where I wanted him.

Suddenly, he licked a bold stripe up my centre. My hand clamped round my mouth as my eyes squeezed shut, desperately trying to contain my moans. Dracos skilful tongue lightly flicked over my bundle of nerves before wrapping his lips around it and sucking. My free hand moved down to gently tug his hair, bucking my hips up to meet his lips.

He moaned against me and pinched my thighs. “God you taste better than I imagined.” He pulled away and stood, peering down at me with a glint in his eye. “Sit up.”

I looped my arms around his neck as I kissed him, tasting myself on his tongue. My hand skimmed down and rubbed over the tent that had formed in his trousers, Dracos low moan bouncing off of the walls.

“That’s is, take care of Daddy.” He said, pulling himself out and guiding my hand to stroke him.

I flicked my wrist slowly, looking at him. His eyes were squeezed closed, jaw tensing occasionally as he started to breath heavy. His hands were flexing on my waist, leaving deep indents in my skin. His eyes flicked open as his mouth gaped, lips slowly tugging into a smirk.

“I want to be inside you.” He growled, tugging my hand away.

He pulled me to the edge of the table, spreading my legs again. He pinned my arms above my head.

“Don’t move.” He warned.

I nodded and gasped as he sunk into me, moaning along with Draco. His hand came to wrap around my neck, ring offering something cool against my hot skin. My hands remained above my head, Draco moving his hips at a bruising pace.

“You like the way I fuck you, Little Girl?” He asked, squeezing my neck. I nodded. “This is my little cunt isn’t it? I get to abuse it whenever I want.”

“Daddy!” I moaned, hand breaking from where they were meant to be and wrapping around his forearm.

He chuckled darkly. “That’s it, let everyone know who your Daddy is.” He moaned. “Go on baby.”

“You’re my Daddy, Draco.” I sobbed.

“Fucking right I am.” He strained, wrapping his other hand around my neck as well. “I’m gonna cum inside you Little Girl, I’m gonna empty myself inside you.”

“Please.” I begged, his cock tipping me over the edge as I came with a small shout.

His hips stuttered, hands loosening around my neck as a deep groan left his lips. His mouth fell open as hot ropes of cum leaked into me, filling me up. He fell, head resting on my chest as he breathed deeply. My hands soothingly combed through his hair, his long arms wrapping around my middle and pulling me up to his chest.

“Merlin.” He whispered. “We definitely should have done that sooner.”

“Definitely.” I giggled.

He peered down at me with a smile, thumbs running over my lips. “Do you detest this house so much now?”

I blushed. “A certain someone made it better.”

[snelbz]

The Ranch {21}

An A Court of Thorns and Roses, Nesta x Cassian, Modern AU, fanfiction.

Collaboration: @snelbz​ x @tacmc​

Summary: Nesta had spent years in Paris, living her dream and drowning in riches as a gourmet chef, capturing the hearts of the city and its people. But, after her father passes away unexpectedly and leaves his cozy, countryside B&B to his oldest daughter, Nesta is moving back home to the tiny town of Velaris, where the ranch, her sisters, and her father’s unfulfilled dream, awaits.

Sidenote: Being posted between two blogs, it is too chaotic to keep up with a tags list, so all chapters will be tagged with “#TheRanchNessian” & “#SharaCollab”.

The Ranch Masterlist

When Tomas descended the stairs, the first thing he noticed is that the house was quiet. No gasping breaths, no groans of pain, no screams of agony from a natural birth. There was also no baby crying. 

The sun was almost gone, the last rays of its light just behind the tree line. The house was already becoming dark.

“Nesta?” He called, his voice crooning. “Are you okay, love?”

There was no reply. The chair she’d been in was still in the middle of the living room, rope still looped around the back. But the bedroom, the room where she was supposed to be giving birth…

Tomas flipped the light switch on. It was a bloody mess. Towels on the floor, the bed, the chair in the corner. There was blood and moisture and some mucus-y looking substance on the rug he didn’t want to look at for too long.

But it was empty.

He turned heading for the kitchen, knowing she couldn’t have gotten far, not with how much blood was-.

He screamed as white hot pain lanced down his arm, the same arm that was covered in stitches from the night before. 

Before Nesta could bring the knife back down, Tomas had grabbed her wrist.

“That wasn’t very nice,” he seethed. He got right in her face. “Where is she?”

“Safe,” was all Nesta said.

Her legs were wobbling, surely about to collapse. Beads of sweat coated her pale skin. Unsure of what she was actually trying to accomplish - as if she could accomplish anything in her current state - Tomas let out a breathy laugh. 

“Let’s get you back to bed, my love,” he whispered, bringing his fingers up to graze her cheek. “You need rest, or you could die.”

“If that’s the alternative to a life with you, so be it,” she hissed, but the words, the tone, even cost her a great amount of energy.

Tomas clicked his tongue. “You always were so dramatic.” 

She tried to jerk her wrist away, but it was pointless. Instead, he tightened his hand around her wrist until a soft sob shook Nesta’s body.

“Let’s get you back in bed,” he repeated, his voice low.

“I’m not dropping the knife,” she said, voice shaking. She could hardly keep herself upright. “You’ll have to pry it from my cold, dead hands.”

With a roll of his eyes, Tomas was reaching up to take the weapon away. Although weak and in a mass amount of pain, it seemed she believed what she said, because her grip around the hilt of the knife was tight. 

One by one, he pried her fingers from the wooden hilt, and when there was only one more clinging to it, she struck.

He hadn’t noticed the small, thin paring knife in her right hand when he’d seen her. No, he was too focused on the large chef’s knife in her left hand.

She jammed the small blade up into his abdomen and he released her with a cry. The chef’s knife fell to the floor and she moved away from him as quickly as she could, a whimper of pain the only sign of her discomfort.

“You fucking bitch.” The voice was much closer than she expected and suddenly she was jerked backwards by her loose hair. She cried out as her scalp was on fire and then his arms were around her, caging her in. “Where is she, Nes, huh? Where’d you hide her?”

“I didn’t hide her. She’s far, far away,” she bite out. “She’s gone, she’s safe and you’ll never get your hands on her.”

She felt his arms tighten. “Is that a challenge, love?” he breathed in her ear. “We’re going to be a family and you know it.”

“I hate you,” she hissed. “I fucking hate you.”

“Let’s get you back to bed,” he said, once again, his words clipped.

His arms began to tighten even more, a vice to cage her where she stood, but then from outside, a horse whinnied.

For a split second, Tomas’ grip slacked, but the instant Nesta’s mouth shot open to cry out, his hand was over her mouth, muffling her screams.

She tried to scream, praying it was Cassian that was just outside, but failed. Instead, with one arm tightened over her abdomen and the other covering her mouth, Tomas dragged Nesta to the corner and peered through the window, hiding beside it. The back of Nesta’s head was against his chest.

She couldn’t see a thing. 

Her attempts to scream continued as Tomas’ blood stained the back of her sweatshirt. He jerked her back again, fingers digging into her scalp, and she grew dizzier as he hissed into her ear, “Shut. The fuck. Up.”

But she had heard it, had heard the yell of a man that would tear apart the world to find what had been taken from him.

“NES!”

The sob that tore from her was weak, she knew she wouldn’t be on her feet much longer, but she had to make what time she had count.

He had her head jerked to the side, but she could still feel his breath on the side of her face. She couldn’t brace herself and she knew it would hurt her as much as it hurt him, but without warning, she threw her head back and slammed it into his.

The sound of Tomas’ skull bouncing off the wall was something she would remember for the rest of her days, but the new ache in her head made her sick to her stomach. It didn’t help when Tomas shoved her away from him, causing her to stumble. Her forehead smacked into the window and blood trickled down her forehead as she tried to crawl away.

The chef’s knife was still on the floor of the living room, the small knife she’d hidden long gone. Nesta could hear the doors shaking as Cassian tried to force his way into the cottage and she turned to glance at Tomas behind her. He was slowly getting to his feet and Nesta saw the black handle of a gun sticking out from the waistband of his jeans. Her heart stopped beating in her chest.

He wouldn’t use the gun on her, he wanted her alive. He had no such reservations about Cassian.

Nesta got to her feet, ran for the living room and grabbed the knife. Tomas looked over as she did so, blood dripping down his lips from his nose. She felt a smug satisfaction at the injury her blow had caused, but when he started advancing on her, she froze.

The sound of a door bursting open had Tomas turning towards the noise and Nesta knew she wouldn’t have another opportunity.

With what little strength she had left, she rushed towards him and he glanced down at her, right as she shoved the large knife into his side. His eyes went wide.

The small grunt that left Tomas’ mouth was the last sound he made before he collapsed.

He didn’t move again.

Thundering footsteps had Nesta on red alert, knowing she had nothing left to defend herself with, but then Cassian appeared around the corner. The whimper was pathetic, she hated herself for the sound, but she was unable to stop it as her knees buckled and she collapsed in the pooling blood, sobbing uncontrollably.

Cassian didn’t hesitate. 

He hurried to her side, on his knees in the crimson pool, scooping her up into his arms. Her head instantly fell against his chest as her eyes drooped, his heart beating rapidly. 

“I’m here,” he breathed, sobbed, holding her head against his chest. “Fuck, you’re burning up, sweetheart. Keep your eyes open, okay? Keep them open, baby, please.”

He cried into her hair, and she wanted so desperately to cling to him, to tell him how much she loved him, but she didn’t have the energy. All she could manage was, “Sloan?”

“Safe,” he promised, his voice breaking as he rose to his feet, her in his arms. “Beautiful.”

The faintest of smiles touched her lips as her eyes fluttered shut. Cassian carried her out of the cabin and down the porch steps, but she didn’t know what happened after that. 

She drifted into a dark, deep sleep.

___

Nesta had no idea how much time had passed before she woke up with a dry, scratchy throat, hooked up to a series of beeping machines.

For a moment, she began to panic, but then her vision cleared and she knew she was far away from Tomas, as the memories came back to her.

She had killed him.

He deserved it.

She was safe.

But where was Sloan?

She attempted to sit up, to find her baby, to find Cass, but she grew lightheaded and fell back into the pillows with a groan.

She began to cry, quietly, but then she heard her name and knew he was there.

“Nes.” 

She opened her eyes and found Cassian sitting on the edge of the cot, Sloan sleeping soundly in his broad arms. His cheeks were blotchy, his eyes red and puffy. A shaky hand reached up, his knuckles trailing gently down her cheek.

She didn’t say anything, nothing had to be said as she grabbed his hand where it brushed against her face and brought it to her lips.

The single tear that ran down Cassian’s cheek told her what he couldn’t.

She gazed down at their daughter, at the perfect combination of the two of them. She hadn’t been able to take the time to look at her when she was born, she was too focused on shoving her into Claire’s arms and begging her to run. But now that she could see her, that she could appreciate her, Nesta began to softly cry once again.

Cassian carefully laid her in her mother’s arms and Nesta wasn’t able to stop herself from leaning down and pressing the softest of kisses to her forehead. She had her father’s coloring, from the tan skin, to the thick, dark hair on her head. But Nesta knew when she woke up, she’d find her own stormy eyes gazing back at her. Sloan had inherited her full lips and she couldn’t tell whose nose she’d gotten because her eyes filled with tears, blurring her vision.

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

Nesta looked up, blinking the tears away and found Cassian staring at Sloan, his cheeks wet. “Cass, you couldn’t-.”

“He took you, Nes.” His words were deathly soft. “He came into our home and he took you both. I have never been so scared in my entire life. I was going crazy.”

Nesta only shook her head, but when she opened her mouth, it was hard to speak. Cassian grabbed a cup of water from the side table and helped her drink, and when he set the cup back down, he said, “I promise I will never let anything happen to you, to either of you, ever again.”

She nodded, although it was an impossible promise to keep, she knew he would try his damndest. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said again, and he pressed his forehead against hers. For a moment, the three of them remained there, Sloan sleeping, her parents above her, dwelling in the peace of silence. 

“It’s okay now,” Cassian said, quietly. “It’s over, he’s gone, he can’t hurt you anymore.”

Nesta just stared at her daughter with parted lips as Cassian kissed her forehead.

“We’re going to go home and it’s all going to be okay,” Cassian continued, and she knew he was talking just as much to himself as he was to her. She could see the guilt in his eyes.

But she met his eyes and, voice hoarse, whispered fiercely, “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he breathed. “More than I can begin to tell you.”

They sat in silence for a moment, savoring the moment of just being together, being a family. Whole and happy and safe.

Nesta looked down into her daughter’s face, the picture of innocence and perfection. She softly ran a finger along her cheek, terrified to wake her, but needing to touch her, to know she was really here. She knew nothing of the evils of the world, to her, the world was still small and safe. She whispered, “I killed him.”

Cassian swallowed hard. “You did. But you didn’t have a choice.”

Nesta shook her head. “I did though, I didn’t have to-.”

He took her face in his hands, using his thumbs to brush away the tears running down her cheeks. “Nesta, he kidnapped you, held you hostage, and forced you to give birth to your baby on your own. Thank the gods for Claire or…” His words dropped off and he closed his eyes. “Nesta, if you hadn’t killed him, I was going to.”

She nodded, understanding him, but it didn’t stop the tears. She gazed down at Sloan. Nesta breathed, “Is she okay? Is everything okay?”

“She’s perfect.” The reverence with which he said the words had Nesta looking up at him. His eyes were on their daughter. “Ten fingers, ten toes, the sweetest smile and the loudest cry I’ve ever heard.”

As if she heard her parents talking about her, Sloan let out a piercing wail and Cassian was on his feet, ready to take her, but there was no need.

Nesta was gently bouncing her, stepping so gracefully into the role of motherhood. She cooed down at her and Sloan’s cries quieted.

“How long was I out? Should I feed her? I don’t-.” She looked up at him, fear overtaking every other emotion. “I don’t know what to do.”

“It’s okay,” Cassian began, gently. He pressed a button on the remote by her bed as he said, “You slept for about a day and a half. You passed out on the way here, but they checked everything out when we got here and they say, considering, your body is healing as it should, although they had to redo your stitches, but there’s no infection or anything. Other than that, you’ve just been sleeping. They’ve been giving you fluids through the IV.” Cassian broke his gaze from Nestas to look down at Sloan. “She’s been getting formula while you’ve been out, but I told them you planned to breastfeed, so when your nurse comes in, she’ll help.”

Nesta nodded, taking in all the information. She had slept for a long time, but that exhaustion lingered and she had a feeling it would for quite some time.

The door swung open a minute later and Claire came in, looking much cleaner and less frazzled than the last time Nesta saw her, although her eyes teared up when she caught sight of Nesta awake.

No words were needed as Claire went to the side of the bed and wrapped Nesta in her arms. Nesta returned the embrace and they cried together, careful for Sloan between them.

“Thank you,” Nesta breathed. “I’m so sorry, that he pulled you into it, but, I- I’m so thankful you were there.”

Claire only nodded, unable to trust herself to speak, then cleared her throat. “Okay, momma, let's feed this beautiful baby.”

It took a while for Sloan to latch, which Claire explained wasn’t uncommon, but when she did and began to eat, Nesta felt an overwhelming sense of accomplishment.

Nesta meant it. She was so incredibly grateful to Claire. Without her, neither she nor Sloan would have made it. As someone who Tomas also forced against her will to comply with his wishes, Claire had done her best to make sure Nesta survived a horrid childbirth, and she had brought Sloan to safety. 

For that, Nesta was, and always would be, in Claire’s debt.

When Nesta told her as much, Claire simply shook her head with tears in her eyes and said, “Invite me to her first birthday bash and send me the yearly Christmas card. That will be more than enough.”

Her throat was so tight, she didn’t think she could speak, so she nodded and embraced her again.

“Thank you for getting me out, for giving me time to run, too,” Claire whispered, her mouth close to Nesta’s ear. “I really didn’t… I didn’t think I would ever see you again.” The words were so quiet, Nesta doubted Cassian could hear them from where he sat on the couch, Sloan milk-drunk on his chest, fast asleep.

Nesta leaned back and took Claire’s hand in her own. “We’re here. We both made it out.”

Claire gave her a soft smile before leaving to continue her rounds.

When a knock came at the door less than an hour later, she was expecting her sisters, but instead, she was looking at Lucien Vanserra’s eldest brother.

“Eris,” she said, inclining her head in greeting.

He nodded to both she and Cassian. “First of all, congratulations.” He looked at the baby in Cassian’s arms. She looked so small. He sighed. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to have to do this, but when you’re released, we’ll need a statement from both of you.” Cassian looked ready to object, but he quickly added, “We’re not going to be pursuing any charges, but we have...a lot of stories and timelines to sort through.”

Nesta slowly looked to Cassian, who was watching her with weary eyes.

“It’s okay,” Nesta said. “We’ll come to the station on Friday.”

Eris nodded, said his thanks, and was off again.

She didn’t want to, but she already knew she would have to make a statement, and the faster she got it all over with and behind her, the better. 

“I hate that guy,” Cassian mumbled, once the door was shut, and Nesta had no idea why, but she started to laugh.

Maybe it was because it was true - Eris Vanserra was a total prick, he always had been. Maybe it was because she hadn’t expected the comment, it had caught her off guard. Or, maybe it was because Cassian looked so cute in his new fatherly role, their newborn sound asleep with her mouth hanging open on his chest.

Maybe it was because she was exhausted, sore as shit, and amazed that she had actually lived through what she’d just gone through. 

Her bet was on the last one, but she didn’t care as she plopped her face into her hands and howled.

Cassian just stared at her like she’d gone absolutely mad.

And when her laughter became a mixture of laughter and a sob, he really looked concerned. Hell, Nesta was concerned for herself.

Maybe she was going mad.

Too many emotions. She had too many fucking emotions. Joy, comfort from the fact that her baby girl was here, healthy, thriving. Pain and misery from the trauma she had just gone through. Utter adoration at the sight of the love of her life, holding onto her baby girl with gentle, loving arms. Terror, complete terror from who Tomas was to her.

Over the fact that she’d killed him.

Yes, it was justified.

But she had still killed a man. A man that she had once thought she loved.

It certainly didn’t help that she had just given birth and her emotions were heightened. She wanted to scream, laugh, cry, run as fast as she could to nowhere in particular, while also staying right where she was, with Cassian and Sloan.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” He asked, hand rubbing a gentle path along their newborn’s back.

She watched him, so in love with him, with Sloan, with her life. She chuckled quietly and said, “I’m perfect. Everything is perfect.”

But things weren’t perfect.

Things were complicated, surreal. She was living halfway in a dream, and halfway in a nightmare without fully knowing what the future held. She had survived mass chaos and her greatest fears, while simultaneously gaining what she never thought she’d be able to have - a child, a man that loved her.

She was unsure how to feel, unsure how to think.

But she had to believe that, in the end, it was all going to be okay.

Eventually.

__

The first night home, Cassian expected to have to get up to console a crying Sloan. The baby monitor was on his side of the bed and Nesta had fallen asleep before her head even hit the pillow. He’d stayed up with his baby girl for an hour or two before he’d decided to try and sleep as well. Sloan slept surprisingly well for a newborn, usually only waking two or three times a night to eat, if that.

So when Nesta began thrashing in her sleep, tears streaming down the sides of her face, silent screams contorting her expression into one of terror rather than peaceful sleep, Cassian was immediately trying to wake her.

But what she was experiencing was deeper than a simple dream. No, she was there again, tied to that chair, feeling her water break and her contractions felt just as real as they were that night.

“Babe,” he begged, taking her face into his hands, his face coming close to hers. “Nesta, sweetheart, wake up.”

She sobbed, her body shaking uncontrollably as she clung to her blanket, but Cassian did not let her go.

He wrapped her into his arms and cried alongside her, guilt flooding his entire body, heartache controlling the depths of his soul. 

“Nesta.”

His voice was hard, demanding, comforting, controlled.

Her cries lessened, just a little bit as her body melted into his.

“Sweetheart.”

She became silent, her hands now gripping onto his old, holey shirt, instead of her comforter.

“I’m here,” he whispered, a plea for her to hear, to understand, to realize.

Her forehead leaned into his hard chest, and his arms tightened around her sore body. He didn’t move, nor did she, as they clung to one another in the night. 

“You’re safe,” he promised, his voice low, as his hands ran up and down her spine.

She opened her eyes.

She met his gaze.

They stared at one another, unblinking, for a moment, before Nesta breathed, “I’m scared.” 

Cassian’s heart broke at the whispered confession, his arms tightening around her shaking frame. “You’re safe,” he repeated. “Sloan is safe, you’re safe, our home is protected, my love, you’re safe.”

She nodded but her eyes slipped shut. She breathed, “I killed him and he still wins.”

He shook his head, letting his lips brush over her head. “He didn’t win, Nes. You’re still dealing with the shit he did to you, yes, but that’s only because it’s all so fresh.”

A small cry crackled over the speaker of the monitor on the bedside table. Cassian was about to throw back the covers, to trudge down the hall and rock Sloan back to sleep after a quick bottle. But Nesta was up, her dream and the wail making her nearly frantic, having to see her baby with her own two eyes to know she was okay.

Cassian sighed when he heard the door to Sloan’s nursery open, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes. He’d been sleeping like shit, too, worrying about Nes and checking on Sloan. And there was the fact that hospital couches were not meant for anyone taller than five-foot-two much less someone six-foot-three. He’d stay in bed and when Nesta returned, he’d wrap her in his arms and scratch her back like she loved.

Except she didn’t come back to bed.

After a few minutes, Cass cautiously got up and stepped into the hall. He was halfway expecting to see Tomas creeping down the stairs with his daughter, regardless of the fact that his body was currently cooling in the county morgue. There was light coming through the cracked door to Sloan’s nursery and Cassian gently pushed it open.

Nesta was cradling Sloan in her arms, murmuring to her as she nursed. The baby’s eyes were wide open, staring up at her mother. The scene made Cassian’s heart melt.

He didn’t say a word, he kept completely silent as he watched the scene before him unfolded. Unable to keep himself from tearing up, he leaned against the threshold and stared. Nesta looked up at him, her eyes sad but full of wonder.

“She looks like you,” she whispered.

Cassian snorted, although it was half assed. “She’s perfect.”

Her eyes softened as she smiled up at him. “Yes, she is.”

Cassian went to the chair in which Nesta was rocking their daughter and sat against the wall beside them. He watched as Sloan fed, as Nesta watched her daughter lovingly. 

“I want her to stay in our room,” Nesta admitted, at last. “I can’t… I have to know she’s safe, I want to know that she’s safe.”

Cassian nodded, without argument. “In the morning, I’ll bring up the bassinet I made from the cabin. I’ll put it by the bed. She can sleep with us for as long as you want.”

“Thank you,” she sighed, relief evident on her face.

“You’re welcome.” He smiled and rubbed a hand up and down her leg.

She cringed and pulled it away. “Oh gods, please, no. It’s been, like, a solid five months since I’ve been able to shave my legs.”

He laughed. “I gave you a foot massage last week. I know what your legs feel like.”

She rolled her eyes, gently beginning to rock Sloan. “That was when I was pregnant. I’m not pregnant anymore. My excuse for not shaving my legs is officially gone.” She looked down at her precious little girl. “Well, I mean, guess she’s technically, officially here.”

Cassian laughed, watching her with adoration in his eyes. Nesta took to the role of being a mother so well, he wondered how she’d ever been able to give up the idea before, when she’d thought it was impossible.

She was gazing down at Sloan, softly brushing her finger over her cheek, when she caught Cassian’s gaze. She laughed awkwardly and blushed. She asked, “Why are you staring at me?”

He shrugged and stood up onto his knees. “Because I can.”

She snorted but leaned down to press her lips to his. “I love you.”

He didn’t stop kissing her, let his lips brush hers, as he said, “I love you, too, sweetheart.”

[slasherholic]

request: Now my friend, what if we got another drunk Michael but the reader gave a shot at snuggling against drunk Mikey boi?

synopsis: Michael gets himself drunk off his ass. You take advantage. This is technically an epilogue to this nasty little piece right here, but reading it is not required (or recommended LOL)

warnings: mentions of abuse, reader has a female body, angst with a helping of fluff

All the Way Down | Michael Myers x Reader | NSFW

The concept of mercy, you think, as Michael’s bloodied fingers alight again on your skin, dragging up the front of your tender throat, drawing another unsteady, shuddering breath from your lips, can go fuck itself—because compared to last weekend, Michael’s play tonight has been dreadfully merciful.

Evening has fallen. The suburbs are quiet. The sky outside burns a brilliant orange and the light that drowns your bedroom is blistering. You sit entangled between Michael’s legs like a statue overgrown by vines. Since the sun began to set, he hasn’t allowed you to move an inch from his lap.

You do not want to look ahead at your reflection in your standing bedroom mirror. You do not want to glimpse your naked body or your tired eyes or the ugly reality of Michael’s markings, and though it seems a stupid thing to be grateful for, you are grateful your eyes do not have the option of straying anywhere but the ceiling; Michael’s busy hands are making sure of it.

His fingers clamped around your jaw force your chin upward at a painful angle. He traverses the flesh of your neck tirelessly, exploring your throat like territory he has yet to claim—as if he hasn’t done so a hundred times over already. The lazy sweeping of his calloused fingers across your skin stings like salt in an open wound, and you grit your teeth tightly together to keep the whimpers from escaping. They dribble out anyway.

You hate that sound. You hate that it is coming out of you. Most nights you wouldn’t dare try to stop your wounded little noises, but right now, it doesn’t matter. Because Michael isn’t trying to hurt you.

You know the ache in your jaw would be a splitting pain were that the case, a shocking sensation, unbearable. You know the disobedient tears escaping your squeezed-shut lids would not be trickling down your cheeks in such bitter silence.

Michael’s invading fingers do not poke and prod so much as sweep lightly over your rawed skin, tracing back and forth along the rope markings worn into your flesh like divots into soil. Cruelty is not his intent—he’s just being curious.

You blink softly as another set of tears slips down your face, and think to yourself that there does not exist a better feeling in the world than when Michael is holding you, and not being cruel.

And you are seized up stiffer than a corpse against his chest despite it.

His closeness is suffocating. His dangerous body presses in all around. His heat against your spine is a smothering inferno, and pin-pricks that feel very much like ants crawl all up and down your naked body, across your arms and legs and breasts, compelling you to break away from the raging fire that is Michael. Your instincts scream at you to writhe, to thrash, to struggle, to fight him.

You don’t. You wouldn’t dare. Because a struggle is not what he is after right now—a struggle might cost you your life. Michael’s presence alone is not what you fear; rather, it is the dreadful, heart-stopping state of his sobriety.

Or his tragic lack thereof.

He reeks of alcohol. His slow exhales sweep across your cheeks and invade your nostrils, hot and sour, grossly-sweet. The dark hunger in his eyes, that familiar coldness you have grown so accustomed to, has dulled as though buried. What brief glances you have dared to exchange with him in the mirror have not had the usual effect of halting your racing thoughts in their tracks nor frozen you like a deer caught in the headlights. What you see in his languid stare instead is unfocus, a dullness that borders on shocking. Michael is not just drunk; he’s shit-faced.

And now you find yourself captured in the arms of a man who could kill you with as little thought and effort as one squashes a bug on the sidewalk—and any lingering shred of self-control that existed in his primal mind has just been stolen away by a pint of alcohol.

Your evening Mimosa was what had done him in.

The bottle of champagne had been an impulse buy at the store; a tempting offer that you were in no position to refuse. The intrusive thoughts flared up anyway as you set the bottle down in your cart, eager to hound you—Champagne? Really? Tonight of all nights?

You swept them eagerly under the rug. This was to be no celebration, no commemoration of having survived another seven days of Michael. The opposite could not be truer. It was a Saturday evening, and college is shit, and you wanted nothing more than to get drunk off your ass and forget where and who and what you are for a while.

The pitcher had sat filled to the brim on the counter. The phone rang in the hallway, then. Your mother was on the other line.

You stayed on the phone with her while she talked herself to tears. She told you all sorts of things which, in truth, you only vaguely remember—you hadn’t been very present. You think she was calling to congratulate you. To tell you that she’s proud of the person you’ve grown up to be. She mentioned your schooling, and that had you crying, too, because college is no longer something you can be proud of. It hasn’t been for a long, long time. It is just an excuse to get away from Michael for a while.

Never had you come closer to spilling your awful, dirty little secret than during that phone call. How sickeningly easy it would have been to interrupt your mother’s praise and to let the messy truth about the monster in your house trickle out.

You maintained your fragile composure until your mother hung up the phone. The moment the line went dead you went back into the kitchen to chug and chug and chug.

Your heart plummeted. The pitcher was gone. Where it had gone was hardly a mystery.

You sprinted up the stairs by twos. You snatched your keys from your purse in your bedroom. You had nearly made it to the front door, and then Michael had ambushed you from the downstairs broom closet, and it was over. You’ve been his lap accessory ever since.

Your soft sobbing has long since waned, the runaway tears drying into salty stains on your cheeks. Now is not the time for crying; now is the time to be still and silent and to pretend with all your muster that you are an oversized doll, lifeless, incapable of hurt. You know that if you do something to excite Michael’s violence in this state—if you make him want to hurt you—you will lose your life.

Beneath you, Michael shifts his weight clumsily, tucking one leg under his body, as if the stiffness from the floor has just now crept into his bones. At some point his coveralls had fallen away from his shoulders to pool around his waist. As he tosses you in his lap you snatch up handfuls of the loose fabric, bracing against him.

He’s hard again, you realize, as the heat of his arousal sheathed in your body pulls out and away, leaving you uncomfortably empty. His cock is hot and velvety between your slickened thighs, the throbbing head of it poking and prodding at your cool skin as he realigns himself with your hole, doing so with obvious difficulty. A little sound escapes you when he pushes in again—the stretch of him is unusually forgiving. You slide easily back down his length, glued once more to the skin of his bare pelvis, stuffed full of him.

Michael’s second unintentional mercy is that the sex tonight had been everything but painful; your mimosa had turned the act into a sluggish, lazy crawl.

He had all but collapsed onto your bed, content to let gravity drag you right down on top of him. You had waited against his chest for minutes, breathless, shuddering at the breeze sweeping across your bare nipples, as he struggled to solve the puzzle of how to get his coveralls down past his hips. Upon his rediscovery of the missing piece—his zipper—the rest of the picture fell into place.

His hot hands clasped beneath your armpits to lift and lower you onto his waiting cock. He filled you at a languid, merciful pace. You had shuddered and heaved and braced for pain as he eased himself into you again, again, again. The stretch was snug but never splitting; the dreaded pain never arrived. Relaxing around Michael’s cock became all-too natural, and when he spilled himself inside of you, it was more than not-painful. It was tight and close and warm, warm, warm. It was good.

The goodness made you cry.

The tears might have been gratitude, or relief, or joy, if only Michael was sober, and not tremendously shit-faced. Instead they were just tears. For all his tenderness, you had only the alcohol to thank.

Michael had migrated from the bed to the floor soon after, and there his inspection of your body began. His hands have been all up and down your skin since—but his cock hasn’t left its place inside you.

For better or for worse, you suspect you no longer register in Michael’s numbed mind as a living thing; not as prey, not as a toy. You are simply a hole. Tight and wet and warm. He wouldn’t rather stick his cock in any other hole, and he most certainly doesn’t plan on leaving this one anytime soon.

Your thoughts snap back to the present as Michael’s hand comes suddenly free from your jaw. His hot fingers disappear from your neck, and they don’t return. The ghost of his careless pressure still lingers, an ache that penetrates deep into your cheeks; but it is far from the worst ache Michael has ever given you. You bear it in silence.

He grabs you around your waist. You feel his core muscles tightening up against your stomach, his thighs stiffening beneath your bottom, and you know before he does it that he is going to try to stand. Your heels dig against the small of his back. You capture desperate handfuls of his shirt.

It doesn’t feel right to touch him this way. It doesn’t feel natural. It doesn’t feel allowed. Even so, Michael’s hands don’t leave their place around your waist—he makes no effort to stop your advances. His solid chest is a more familiar resting place than any pillow and you settle into it with a hesitancy that gives way to utter uncaring. Thudding up through layers of deadly muscle throbs his dark heart, pounding against your cheek, rhythmic as a metronome, hideously soothing.

It occurs to you that you could stop that beating heart tonight.

On any other night you would not have dreamt it; but Michael slipped up. You can be free of him. Your life is still salvageable.

Only half believing it, you promise yourself that if you are given a chance, you will kill Michael before the sun comes up.

You marvel at how efficiently the alcohol has sucked away all his deadly grace as he staggers to his feet. Planting a hand on the corner of your dresser to steady himself, he begins to shuck his sagging coveralls the rest of the way down his legs with one foot, leaving him naked from the waist down. The coveralls slump into a heap on the ground. You utter a little cry when he nearly trips on them.

You hope that Michael will carry you to bed now. You hope he will collapse onto the mattress and pin you hopelessly beneath his body. You hope that he will not give you the chance to take his life. As he teeters past the bed, your hope droops. As he steps out into the hallway, it withers and dies. The nightmare charges down its tracks with no end in sight.

When Michael begins to descend the stairs it occurs to you that he is most likely going to stumble and fall and break both of your necks. You turn your face into his chest. You shut your eyes. You pray that it will happen.

By the cruelest of mercies, it does not.

He sways off the final step and rights himself on steady ground, and you are still alive to feel his forceful hands absently groping and kneading the flesh of your hips, his steamy breath beating down against your scalp. You are still alive to fulfill your promise to yourself.

He turns sharply into the downstairs hallway, away from the front door, and the relief now churning in your gut is just as cold and sickening as the anticipation had been. He’s not going to try and take you somewhere—he’s just hungry.

In the kitchen, Michael snacks with no regard for how you still cling to his chest. When wrappers litter the tile you suspect you’ve been forgotten. You peek over his shoulder as he finishes, watching the cold air billowing out from your open fridge as he begins a wobbly zig-zag in the vague direction of your couch.

Michael melts into the cushions. The couch may as well be on fire with the quickness you draw back your legs to avoid being crushed by his weight. He settles, his breaths filling out his frame deep as ever, even deeper. Your eyes are squeezed shut tight; You can’t look at him. You are afraid to look at him. You’re afraid that you will see something other than the cold, unfeeling face of your monster, that you will see something passive and unassuming and human, and then you won’t be able to do it. You won’t be able to kill him.

Michael’s heart thrums away beneath your cheek, utterly unassuming, unaware that its timer is ticking down, down, down.

The friction of your legs shifting against him seems to remind him of you all at once. He is quick to restrain your waist again. The back-and-forth effort of his cock rocking between your legs is sluggish and absent. He fucks you slowly, and it is good.

Michael’s thrusting slows to a lazy pistoning and then stops altogether, his tremendous heat spilling deep inside your core for the second time tonight. With his release, his powerful body softens like clay beneath you. You mold easily against his form. A minute passes, then two, then three—then more than you can keep track of. Michael’s cum oozes between your thighs and makes a mess on his own lap, but if he is aware of the wetness he is no longer present enough to care.

You open your eyes for the first time in a long time. You peer up at Michael’s face. His dark lashes are pressed shut now, drawn together gently in a delicate balance that you suspect might be offset by something as faint as a draft. He is not asleep.

You can change that.

Your right arm is numb and tingly from disuse as you reach up for Michael’s neck. You bury your hand delicately between the couch cushion and his nape. Your nails meet the base of his neck to stroke and knead between his curls which fit like rings around your fingers. You pet Michael like you love him.

What remains of Michael’s alertness dissolves into your tender touch.

His eyes twitch beneath their lids as you trace his scalp. Your breath catches in anticipation of those icy eyes snapping open, latching onto your face with a penetrative stare. Michael’s eyes are hypnotic in the most draining way. His fixed gaze reminds you of your place in the universe; of how tragically far down the food chain you sit. It would perhaps be humbling, if it were not so terrifying.

You are not surprised by your dry eyes as you pet Michael. You had not been expecting any tears, and you still don’t. Not even as it occurs to you that this will be the last time you ever touch him. Not even when you repeat those words in your brain. Not even when they become the syllables on your chapped lips.

Even when you are mouthing your unheard goodbyes to Michael, you find that you have no tears to cry for him.

You try anyway.

You dry heave silently against his sternum for a time. You gasp and shudder. If not for Michael, then for yourself.

The tears do not come out.

Soon, Michael’s head tilts back against the couch.

And his rosy lips part faintly, gently,

and you know that he’s asleep.

You test how deeply. You cautiously snap in his ear—and are met with no reaction. You clap this time, waiting for his eyes to snap open and focus on you dully. Still nothing. The alcohol has claimed him.

Some tiny thought sears through your mind; it’s time.

You slide cautiously off his thighs. Your brain is running on automatic now.

You go into the kitchen. You retrieve a knife and come back. You stand over Michael’s head, gripping the handle with both fists, hovering the blade over his perfectly bared neck, preparing to plunge it swiftly downwards. Your mind is racing. Your hands are quaking. You could put an end to so much suffering here and now; you could spare so many lives from the disaster that is Michael. He would be gone within a minute. He probably wouldn’t even feel it—not while he’s like this. It would be a quicker, easier, and more merciful death than he deserves, and it is a nicer thought than the image of what they’ll do to him when he gets caught, which just by having thought, you fear you might be sick.

You have the power to put Michael down gently tonight. You can do it. You can. You just have to want it.

You recall the ghost of his fingers sweeping across your rawed neck and you tell yourself you want it. You take a deep breath in and out and find that your body aches deeply, bruised and sore all over, and not just from last week. The months of weathering the calamity that is Michael seem to weigh on you all at once. You shudder and shake and tell yourself you want it. You heave and gasp silently. The knife in your hands trembles so hard that you fear you will drop it and wake him.

You want it; you want it like you have never wanted anything. You didn't know what hate was until Michael choked and sliced and squeezed his way into your life and smothered your mind and took yourself from you. You want him gone. You want him out. You want him dead.

Your dangerous fantasy runs rampant for ten more heedless seconds.

Then, with a silent wheeze, you double over and sob quietly into the upholstery.

You could never kill Michael. You could never. The desire to do so is an invasive, unwanted menace. You despise him down to your marrow; but your sick yearning for him is rooted even deeper than bone.

With trembling hands you return the knife to its block in the kitchen. Sinking back down into his lap is a risky endeavor, and you do it anyway, slowly, with the utmost of care. Michael does not wake. You press your face against his chest and grab greedy handfuls of his shirt and heave big wet sobs into his pectoral. You are not going to hurt Michael. You are going to punish his slip-up with just the opposite.

You are going to shower his body with affection in all the ways that would get you bloodily murdered during his conscious moments.

As your eyes roam openly over Michael’s sleeping form, you decide that his exposed skin humanizes him in an uncomfortable way. You do not consciously associate his coveralls with his illusionary identity as something predatory, as something more than human, but the association is there nonetheless. The coveralls cover his skin like the mask covers his face. Neither conceal Michael’s truest nature—both expose him for what he is.

For such a predator to shuck away his coverings and bare his human skin seems almost slanderous to you, a poetic injustice, a violation of the natural order of things, a disturbing display of humanity which he has no business dabbling in.

And what you think does not matter. Here is your monster: Half-naked. Drunk off his ass. Woefully vulnerable. It is a grotesquely human fate, one he wears like an ill-fitting coat. You despise how humanity looks on Michael.

And you despise how quick you are to drink it all in.

The tears linger in your eyes as you reach for his neck and envelop as much of its thick circumference as you are able. Your thumb settles lightly over the bulge of his Adam’s apple. As he draws breath, swallowing against your hand, his cartilage bobbing beneath your fingers, you shudder. Michael’s neck is not a place you are allowed to touch. To do so is to flip your dynamic of predator and prey on its axis—to do so is to upset the balance of nature itself.

You explore his throat as eagerly as he had done yours.

Michael’s pulse pounds against your fingers like an animal determined to break free of its cage. Powerful, unstoppable. You feel foolish for even having considered trying. You let it throb against your hand for a time, hypnotized by the fact of his living, his warmth, his momentary vulnerability, his sheer existence.

You become braver, then. Your second hand moves to join the first, and you cup Michael’s neck with a tenderness that he has never offered you. He is gone, you tell yourself, buried in sleep, and you need not fear him. You can have your way with him.

With this confidence you begin to knead Michael’s shoulders. Your touch is slow and your squeezing is careful. You move from his clavicle to his bicep, working your thumb over the knots wherever you encounter them with the deftness of a potter. You gauge Michael’s reaction as you work; you wait for that flicker of awareness on his restful face that would halt your massage in its tracks. Instead, his head slumps deeper into the couch cushions. His eyes roll beneath their lids, but his awareness never comes. He is entirely yours.

You touch Michael everywhere. His shoulders, his chest, his obliques, his naked thighs. He is sore in many places; you can always tell where because his lips part slightly in response, exposing his glinting teeth for an instant, then falling into restfulness again as you ease the knots of tension away. You know that you are playing with the hottest fire as you massage Michael without his permission. You are also too far along to quit.

As you bundle up greedy handfuls of his worn undershirt, rolling it slowly up and over his hips, over his ribs, his pectorals, you know your curiosity is reaching stupid heights. Come down now, you tell yourself, before you plummet and splat on the sidewalk; in other words, before Michael wakes up and strangles you into unliving.

Then your eyes glue to his exposed torso and your rational thoughts are swept away like a paper boat in a flood.

Rarely have you seen Michael naked. Even when you tempt him into the shower he does not bother to strip, finding it fit instead to unzip himself down to his cock and drench his coveralls until they sit slick against his muscles, hinting at his form—but not revealing it in its entirety.

It occurs to you that Michael is beautiful.

You allow your gaze to linger on the wide muscles of his torso before pressing your hands flat against his steadily rising abdomen, shuddering at his too-warm skin, drinking in his strength and power with your fingertips. You note a few things about his body to satiate your curiosity; his belly button goes in instead of out. His dark pubic hair is as curly as the hair atop his head. And he has more scars than you had ever noticed.

The ones littering his arms and abdomen and chest are glossy and round and pink and you know, somehow, without knowing for sure, that they are bullet wounds. You feel around the perimeter of one rubbery scar on his oblique, and think, this gun did not stop him—this did not put him in the ground. It did not even take him off his feet for long enough to be captured and contained. What Michael is will never be contained; not by walls, and not by bullets. He will follow his dark instinct until he breathes his last.

The thought has tears springing to your eyes all over again. Michael is hardly human; and yet, he is bitterly so. He is nature’s harsh truth. Michael, you muse, is the part of humanity that we have stuffed deep down over countless millennia and denied a voice. He is a force of uncivilized, wild, primal nature. He is the inevitability of the Earth. When the rest of us are gone, he is what will prevail.

You decide all at once that you would like to know what it is like to hug Michael. And now your head is tilting forward to rest against his sternum, and you are wrapping your arms around his thick middle, and without really thinking about it you are hugging him, as tight as a lover, and though you know he’s worlds away from that, you can pretend.

Michael’s chest grows and shrinks against your embrace. You hug him until he begins to shift agitatedly against the couch, until you can feel his muscles twitching at your confinement, eager to break free, eager even in his unwaking to regain control. You don’t press your luck. Your arms come undone and you let go of his body.

When you pull away from him, your heart stops.

His eyes are open. Staring at you.

You woke him up.

His face is dull and blank, as blank as an empty canvas, completely unreadable. You shiver. In just a moment his gaze will fix on your face and harden like steel, and that dark hunger will creep back into his features, and his suffocating intensity will roll over you like a thundercloud. You wait for Michael to see you.

He blinks like a cat. Watching, considering. But not acting.

Panic spikes your pulse as his hands come suddenly up from the couch. He grips your arms just below your shoulders. You exhale unsteadily, trying and failing to keep your breathing even. You know better than to hope and yet you can’t help yourself; please don’t hurt me, you beg him wordlessly. Please don’t ruin me this time.

Moisture pricks at your eyes as his fingers tighten around your skin, holding you fast.

Your world pitches sideways as he rolls side-down into the couch and for a moment you are breathless. His startling strength is the only thing not subdued by the alcohol—he sweeps you right down with him.

The claustrophobia is immediate. Behind you, Michael’s head comes to settle on the armrest, and you realize all at once that you are sandwiched now, crowded between the couch cushions and the bulk of his body, crushed against him. His method of restraining you is incredibly escape-proof. He will suffocate you this way.

You breathe and breathe, your ribcage rising and falling snugly against his arm. You suck in air and wait for the precious commodity to run out.

It never does. To your utter dismay, to your sweet relief, you have been spared a little pocket of breathing room between the armrest and the couch cushion.

Michael’s fingers wrap suddenly around your throat. Your heart beats loudly in your ears. When he doesn’t squeeze, you realize that he is not going to hurt you. He only means to hold you. The gesture is a possessive one: you are his, and you are not going anywhere.

Michael does not move after that, and soon he is gone again. You listen to his thumping pulse for a while. You feel his breath, and his heat, and his weight. You know with all your being that your life is not in any danger tonight.

Your eyes droop. Soon, you follow him down, down, down.

[snidgetwidgeon]

My excitement rivalled Impa’s here when @jabberwockyface brought this scene from my story to life. It is a true delight and I adored the addition of the cuccos!

I have been working on my longfic for quite some time now and was only intending to publish when complete, but this art has me so pumped I thought I’d drop a ‘trailer’ XD

Please enjoy Chapter 1 of Insurrection, a ZeLink story set mainly after the fall of Calamity Ganon

The Horizon

Impa woke early and sighed as she looked up at the large wooden beams in the ceiling of her house. One of the small, lidded lanterns hanging there, usually alight with a soft, golden glow, had gone out during the night. No matter, she thought. An oil refill would just be one of the mundanities to be dealt with over the course of the day. She had always been an early riser, though for the past two decades or so, her aged bladder was demanding she be up at sparrow’s fart to cater to its whims.

She was nestled atop her three red pillows which were stacked like a pyramid. This was where she liked to stay these days, meditating and even sleeping. Her granddaughter, Paya, had long since had the upstairs bedroom to herself.

Rising to stand atop her pillow tower, with quite a few bodily creaks and vocal sound effects, Impa hopped down. She gently removed her large round hat and placed it in the vacated spot, then saw to her ablutions before a morning walk. She poodled around the ground floor of the spacious living quarters, which also doubled as the town hall. Having the largest house in the village was one of the perks of being the Elder. Her seating platform was centrally located toward the rear of the room and looked out across a spacious, open floor plan. Dark blue mats decorated with a diamond pattern sat neatly aligned in rows and served as a comfortable place to sit when village meetings or festive gatherings took place. Her pillow tower looked straight down an aisle, lined with a blue rug, toward large double doors that led outside to the veranda.

Set in a free standing wooden frame behind her perch was a canvas tapestry. Its earthy color palette and tribal art style depicted a very specific history of the Kingdom of Hyrule. There was a large monster embroidered in the center, and it was flanked by what seemed to be a divine person on the left, and a warrior on the right. There were hundreds of machines surrounding them and in each corner were strange animals ridden by pilots of varying races. Due to the nature of the design, it was unclear if they depicted any of the races residing in Hyrule today.

The platform was flanked by two staircases which rose to the back of the house and then turned on ninety degree angles to meet in the middle at the top. To the right and left of her platform on the outside of the stairs were four posts topped with frog guardian statuettes. They bore the red Sheikah symbol on their bellies, an open eye drawn in a minimalist style with a central tear. Various banners and lanterns hung from the rafters, and low shelves lined the walls. Like the other dwellings in Kakariko Village, furnishings and household items were sparse as most Sheikah lived a simple and humble life, free from clutter.

Impa regarded her wide and wrinkly face in the water basin that sat on one of the low shelves. The reflection reminded her of how much time had passed. She splashed the sleep out of her eyes and made her way upstairs to check on Paya, as she did every morning. She favored going up the right staircase, so she could come down the left in a satisfying circle.

Reaching the second floor, she went over to the bed against the back right corner to look upon her sleeping granddaughter. The young woman usually slumbered well into mid-morning as she tended to pray until very late at night. Impa pressed her forehead against Paya’s and their matching, but different colored Sheikah eye tattoos touched. Though she hadn’t meant to cause a stir, Paya yawned and whispered, “Grandmother?”

“Shhh, it’s still very early, dear,” Impa cooed. “Go back to sleep.” She wanted to tell Paya that she stays up much too late praying outside to the village guardians. But she knew the young woman was doing her best to help bring success to their courageous Hero. He needs all the help he can get, she thought earnestly.

Satisfied that all was well with Paya, she headed back down and paused to view the large painting which hung above the low shelves on that side of the house.

The verdant marsh it depicted was spotted with just a few trees and a grey range of hills in the backdrop, topped by fluffy clouds in a blue sky. Toward the rear of the landscape, to the left and right of the center of the canvas, were two weathered stone ruins indicating that this area had not always been a marsh. Spread out in the foreground were some strange looking, bell shaped machines. The one closest to the viewer on the left side of the frame had a single eye-like protrusion in the middle of its bucket-shaped head.

They were all partially sunken into the marsh, becoming overgrown by time. The furthest one had a single, tentacle-like limb sticking out from its wide base, as if it had once been going in that direction. Overall, they seemed oddly out of place- yet also part of the greater scenery. Impa sighed and wondered, like so many times she had sighed in this spot before, if that fateful marsh would ever again reclaim being just a beautiful field.

Time to get moving before breakfast, she decided as she headed for the front door. She had just started to open it before realizing she had forgotten her hat. She tut-tutted herself as she headed back to claim it. One had to look proper if going outside. Her large, straw hat had a very wide and circular red brim which swooped up into a tall metal ornament that brought it to a point. The Sheikah symbol was prominently featured in red on the front. It also had five chains hanging from the brim with axe blade-esque ornaments that swayed metronomically as she walked. Placing her beloved hat on her head, she headed outside.

She was greeted by a bright, blue summer sky and squinted as her eyes adjusted to the golden glow of sunlight spilling over the valley walls. She never tired of this tranquil vista. Tall, steep mountains with weathered, rounded peaks flanked her view to the right. These were aptly named the Pillars of Levia. She followed a flock of ducks with her gaze as they flew over the mountain vale in a perfect v-formation. They passed a lone peak on the left which towered above the forest on the hill behind the village. This small mount had a more flattened mesa at its peak rather than a weathered mound like the others. Another group of birds she couldn’t make out through the bright sunlight swirled around the top.

As she descended her long front steps, she felt content, taking in the sounds and smells of her home. The breeze which blew through the valley from the west carried with it the scent of the grassy slopes and the wooden chimes that were suspended from ropes between posts all around the village, were gently teased into their soft rattle by it. The cuccos added their crow to the morning chorus.

At the base of the steps was a wooden-framed, open gate. She tilted her head slightly to the side so that as she passed under, the ornament of her impressive hat could avoid catching on the three banners hanging there. On either side of the gate were some young plum trees. The lovely white blossoms they produced in spring were something she looked forward to seeing every year. These plum trees, as well as the others scattered around the village, acted as the residents’ protectors, just like the frog statuettes. They also symbolized endurance and prosperity, two values which Impa had instilled in her people for the better part of a century.

She nodded to the guard who kept the late night and early morning watch at her gate. He was adorned in standard Sheikah attire, a pair of beige trousers and a tunic with a high back collar and red trim. A dark blue undershirt could be seen that matched the blue diamond-shaped pattern on his straw hat. His hat was much different than Impa’s in that it appeared to be a woven disc of straw that he folded over his head and strapped under his chin. It also sat prominently forward to allow for his high, white bun to stick out at the back of his head. Some red chopsticks poked stylishly out of the side of his big bun.

Cado returned the nod with a short and respectful bow. “Lady Impa.” He waited for the Village Elder to take several paces before retrieving his quiver from against the gate and followed at a polite, but observant distance. Though her residence was always guarded, he felt he should be extra vigilant about her safety when she ventured out, especially since there had been an unexplained theft not too long ago.

He checked over his gear as he followed Impa through the canyon pass that led north out of the village. On his back he carried a darkwood Phrenic Bow, good for long distance accuracy. On his waist was sheathed an Eightfold Blade, the traditional, single-edged sword of the Sheikah people, and one of the remaining vestiges of their ancient technology. Etched at the blade’s base was the tell-tale eye symbol, believed to offer the user an extra layer of spiritual protection.

Impa walked along at a slow but comfortable pace, enjoying the sound of the breeze whistling through the canyon walls. As she approached a large open gate, one of three marking the entrances to the village, she paused at the sound of a rustle. She looked back at Cado who had drawn nearer, with one hand reaching for the handle of his blade, ready to react to the disturbance.. She merely smiled and shook her head. After taking another step, a lizard dashed out of a tuft of grass and made its escape up the canyon wall.

The north canyon did not lead out of the village as such. After about a ten minute walk, the narrow walls fanned open to a natural platform which offered a scenic, if slightly restricted, view of Hyrule due to the high cliffs on either side. The serenity of this place and the breathtaking view overlooking Hyrule had inspired the community to recognize it as a sacred site. Here they paid their respects at the graves of their loved ones. Unlike Hylian graves, which tended to spread out over an area, the Sheikah piled narrow, upright stones on the left side of the clearing. They were placed without any inclination to create neat rows, and their jumbledness added a certain charm. The only markings were caused by the passage of time, demonstrated by how weathered and overgrown with moss they were.

To the right was a single, large tree, its shade offering a welcome respite to those who visited during the hottest hours of a summer day. Just past the tree stood a simple wooden fence. A precaution for children, or perhaps for those foolish enough to get too close to the drop off overlooking Lake Telta.

At this time of the morning, the sun had yet to reach the clearing, so it was still in the shadow of the cliff walls. Impa slowly shuffled up near the fence, her head bowed in respect as she passed the graves. To offer Impa privacy with her morning prayers, Cado held back just before the canyon opened up.

Goddess Hylia, she prayed, keep Princess Zelda safe within your womb. Lend her your strength so that one day, with the aid of the chosen Hero, she may overcome and banish the Calamity. Even now, as over the course of a century, the Princess was trapped in the castle, bound in an endless battle of wills with the malice of Ganon. Impa would never forget the night the poor young woman had come to the village in ruins.

In those days, she had been assigned as an Adviser to the Royal Family of Hyrule. Her duties in this capacity focused mainly on heading the research into various ancient Sheikah technologies. Her older sister Purah and another scientist, Robbie, ran their own divisions under her guidance. Princess Zelda had eventually joined their ranks as well after she showed a great aptitude for scientific research. During her spare time outside of devotions, she possessed an unrivaled curiosity for a wide array of subjects, which was beneficial to the research teams. Having such a high connection within the Royal Family meant that their work was well funded continuously.

Their efforts were in answer to a prophecy that had been delivered to the Royal Family. It spoke of the revival of a legend known as The Calamity, a primal evil which had risen to plague the land ten thousand years ago. King Rhoam was hoping to use the same means their ancestors had to defend against the possible return of The Calamity. The more they uncovered, the more they realized the legends were true.

Relics, which came to be known as Divine Beasts, were unearthed in various locations across the land. Impa’s teams began an intense study of these artifacts, as well as the many Shrines that dotted all of Hyrule; though they were, as yet, unable to ascertain how to gain access to their inner sanctums. They also uncovered the smaller, autonomous Guardians. Robbie took a great interest in these contraptions and even brought some back to working order.

But Calamity Ganon had outsmarted them.

~~~

As the sun was setting, a young Impa and her team of scientists were concluding their experiments for the day and packing up under the stone pavilion in the castle courtyard. Suddenly, a large rumble echoed around the area, followed by a short earthquake. Everyone fled out from under the roof in case it collapsed but immediately froze in shock upon seeing the castle being engulfed in a swirling pink and black miasma. It circled around and took the shape of a boar-headed demon. A cloud continued erupting into the sky and started to spread, mirroring the overwhelming sense of dread everyone was now feeling. No, we’re not ready!

Before they had time to react, globs of malice erupted from the castle and began to rain down on the ground. The creature roared menacingly to the sky from the epicenter as if to announce its freedom and dominion over all. Impa watched a large glob soar over them like a meteor. She turned northwest to follow its trajectory. Is it possible it was headed for Rito Village?

Someone screamed and she snapped back around to see that the stationary Guardians they had been working with had become active on their own. They were glowing magenta with an evil energy, their heads spinning back and forth as if they were calibrating. Her instincts kicked in and she ordered everyone to grab the most important things. “Take the research! We must get it safely to Kakariko!” At once, people ran in all directions trying to gather their most important work.

Purah ran over to her younger sister and looked at her frantically. “Impa, the Guidance Stone!”

Impa closed her eyes and bowed her head. “We should only save what we can-”

Purah grabbed her arms and Impa looked back up at her in surprise. She was hardly ever so serious. “Anything we take from here will be useless junk unless we have the Guidance Stone to access it. This is not a discussion. It’s a necessity and you know it.”

“Fine. But just us. I’m not risking anyone else going in there.” She looked up towards the high pointed towers of the castle, some now covered in a dark ooze.

“Fine,” Purah acquiesced and started to walk away. “Just us, and Robbie.” Robbie, who had been stuffing schematics into a satchel whipped around at the sound of his name.

Impa grabbed her sister’s arm and pulled her back. “What did I just say?!” Suddenly, one of the Guardians stopped spinning its head back and forth and now focused its single blue eye on the Sheikah women, who were too wrapped up in their stare-down to notice.

Robbie paled. “Oh... shit!” They had seconds. His eyes darted around for something, anything... There! A Royal Guard, easily identified by his red tunic under a gold embroidered dark blue tabard, was running their way carrying a large, half-bodied shield.

The Guardian began emitting an ominous beeping noise and a red laser targeted Impa. Robbie pounced on the guard and grabbed his shield away. “Sorry, my man!”

Purah gasped when she saw the red laser on Impa’s shoulder, and utterly terrified, yelled, “Jump back only when I say!”

Impa’s eyes widened in fear as the beeping got faster. Robbie scrambled over to them as the Guardian made a piercing noise, and blue energy shot out of its eye with the intent to destroy. There was a massive ricochet as Robbie parried the energy back at the Guardian with his pilfered shield. Its eerie pink glow fizzled out and it blew to pieces, cogs and gears flying everywhere.

“WOOOOO!” Robbie exclaimed. “Yeah!” He pumped his fists and stretched out a bit. “Man, I saw the Champion do that once and have been wanting to try it ever since.”

Impa, who had ended up huddled on the ground with Purah behind the thrill-seeker, now stood and pulled her sister up as well. “Right, so it’s just us, and Robbie.”

She watched as the rest of the Royal Guard’s unit arrived and set upon the other stationary Guardians before they also had the chance to start working. Robbie returned the shield to the guard he had ambushed and instructed him on the technique to parry the blasts. “The shield should withstand a number of hits this way,” he explained.  

Impa’s mind was a flurry of questions. Was the miasma poisonous? How did it take control of the Guardians? Could they make it to the Guidance Stone?

The Royal Guard unit had now taken out the other three legless Guardians, but she feared it was a small victory. The research team tried to settle now that the immediate danger in the vicinity was over, but every noise set them off, causing them to pause and look around like prey at a watering hole.

She then heard members of the Garrison yelling from the Western Gatehouse, “They’re coming out of the pillars! DOZENS!”, “Hylia above, they’re headed for the town!”

Her stomach flipped over as she thought of those monstrous contraptions overtaken by evil. The very machines that were supposed to protect them were instead destroying everything in their path. All those people...

They had to get out. Now.

Her researchers started to panic after also hearing the desperate cries. She had to focus again, lead them. She addressed them in her authoritative tone, “Everyone, stay calm. We’ll make for the docks. The south exit is... compromised.” Impa looked over to see the Royal Guard leaving to heed the cry from the Western Gatehouse.

“Sir Karane!” she called out. She ran over from under the pavilion to hail the Knight who had just led the assault on the stationary Guardians.

Karane held out an arm to stop her men. When the last one fell into line, she turned a pair of steely blue eyes toward Impa and crossed the same arm over her chest, tilting her head forward in respect. “Adviser.”

Impa regarded the soldiers, some of whom seemed itching to get to the battle. Luckily, she had a better fate in store for them. “The ancient tech research team requires an escort. It’s imperative we get this material safely out of the castle.” Karane spared a glance at the scientists stuffing papers and artifacts into any available containers they could find.

“We have a possible escape route via the docks,” Impa continued. Best case scenario is obtaining some horses and a cart for this gear,” Impa continued.

Sir Karane bowed curtly and then turned sharply to address her unit, her red braid whipping behind her. “You heard her men! We are now on special assignment for the Royal Adviser! Three of you with me,” she gestured to the men on her left. “We’re going to commandeer ourselves a ride. You four, make sure the way is clear to the docks. The rest of you escort our scientists!” She held an arm out to Impa and they clasped each other’s wrists.

“Thank you, Sir Karane.” Robbie and Purah came up beside Impa and she nodded their way to indicate to Karane that they would be working together. “We must retrieve the Guidance Stone. We’ll do our best to meet you there. If these things find you,” she looked towards the felled Guardians, “then leave without us!”

“I’ll give you an hour.”

Impa nodded. “If we don’t make it, there is another stone at the Royal Ancient Lab. I imagine they are doing the same and taking what they can.” She regarded the remaining regiment. “Can you spare your fastest guard from this lot and have them instruct the other team to rendezvous with us in Kakariko?”

“A solid plan, leave it to me.” Karane walked away and yelled, “Konba! I hope you’ve had your rushrooms.”

Impa then left her team in good hands as she went to fetch the Guidance Stone with her sister and Robbie; who was grinning, as he’d acquired himself another shield.

It was a rather large blessing that when they arrived at the docks, the research team was still there, unharmed. It seemed like they got ahead of the Calamity just enough to slip out the back, though the same couldn’t be said for the residents of Castle Town. Impa tried not to think about it as she helped shove the cart with the Stone and its activation pedestal onto the boat.

They made it across the river in the two boats which had been moored at the docks, and battled their way up the sloped bank. The ones who weren’t pushing stared blankly across the river at the scene of destruction unfolding before their eyes. The ones who didn’t want to see busied themselves with helping. Once they reached the grassy Irch Plain, they moved quickly without resting to scale the Elma Knolls. These would at least provide them some cover before heading east. It was unsettling to be so close to a pillar behind the castle, but it appeared that, at least for now, the invasion was focused on Hyrule Field.

After retreating to her village, which was currently safe in the mountains, Impa had sent out a search party for Zelda. She stood in the same spot near the graveyard under the tree, looking in horror at the castle across Hyrule Field. It was still engulfed in a swirling black and magenta miasma. The giant pillars, the existence of which she was aware but had never seen before they had risen out of the ground, were angled toward the castle. They had originally been meant for protection and housed the Guardians that, in the past, defended Hyrule. But all the Guardians had been turned against them, and the pillars were now menacing rather than a comfort. She thought they looked like the fingers of a demon come to enclose the castle in its grasp.

At the base and to the left of the ominous cloud was a wide, orange glow. Castle Town was destroyed; engulfed in flames.

~~~

When Zelda was later escorted into Kakariko, Impa discovered she was there on a mission, and had come bearing a request. She was a bit weak on her feet, but refused rest and clean clothes. Even though she was muddy and her white prayer dress was in tatters, she would not be deterred.

The worst had befallen the Kingdom and she just had one hope: that their Hero would return one day, as she saw when the Master Sword spoke to her. She sat in Impa’s old house at the time, bathed in a soft yellow light from the lanterns. She explained to Impa and the other scientists, her friends, Purah and Robbie, “Link must regain control of the Divine Beasts! Ganon has taken them from us. He controls them now and… and the Champions were… they’re gone.” Her hard stare and exhaustion made it look as if she was going to cry, but at this point she was out of tears, trying desperately to replace them with determination.

Impa felt a weight pool in her gut at the news. So the malice she had seen heading for Rito Village was meant for Vah Medoh, and spelled Champion Revali’s doom. She thought of each Champion, having returned to their Divine Beasts, only to find a deadly trap. She was silent for a moment, unsure; wondering if she should offer comfort or if that would merely be a distraction at this point. Her sister was fiddling with random items she could reach on the table, but rather than be annoyed, she knew it was Purah’s way of dealing with stress.

Zelda then gave a weary sigh and continued. “There’s a chance that Link may not retain some of his memories while in the shrine, so I have an idea of how to help him when he wakes.”

Impa nodded and silently agreed with Zelda’s sentiment. It was when he wakes, she thought, not if he wakes. It was best to be thinking positively in such dire circumstances.

“Purah,” Zelda looked at Impa’s sister, who stopped braiding the frayed threads of the tablecloth as if she’d been caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to. “I sent the Slate with Link and the Sheikah who found us to the Shrine of Resurrection. He’s going to need it when he awakens.” She paused and then added, “For guidance and access.”

She thought back to her discovery of the towers underground, the existence of which she had not yet been able to discuss with anyone due to trying to keep her research a secret from her father. He would have her only praying to awaken her power, rather than try to help in any other way. So she had been biding her time, not knowing that it would soon run out.

Now, there was only time to act, so she focused on the most important things and didn’t bother to elaborate. Telling Purah and Robbie about the towers was pointless anyway since only Link, as the chosen Hero, would be able to access them.

“I need you to take the contents of the Compendium out of the Slate and keep them in your Guidance Stone. Hopefully the images, or visiting the places where I took the pictures, will help him remember things.”

Purah agreed and nodded, “The Guidance Stone will keep them safe.” She stood from her chair and looked over at Robbie. He seemed to be lost in the shadow of self-loathing, head down and fists clenched at his knees, all previous bravado gone. “Robbie, let’s go see to Link. He’s not going to heal himself.” Robbie looked at Zelda sadly as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t bring himself to. Purah snapped his attention away. “Quick smart!”

They made to leave the house and prepare their things when Zelda called out, “Purah wait! The last picture in the Compendium. Can you delete it but keep a paper copy like the one you made of us before? When the Champions were alive and happy. He should remember that last. It was where he… where I…” She tried, but couldn’t bring herself to talk about what had just happened, “it was where we parted,” she finished, while lowering her eyes in emotional defeat. “I don’t want him to be overwhelmed right after he returns to us.”

Purah blinked her red eyes, suddenly feeling trapped into a sense of responsibility that felt heavier than putting Link into an untested machine. That’s going to be fascinating- Focus Purah!

“I… of course I can make a copy, Princess.” She looked furtively over to Impa. It was one thing for the Guidance Stone to hang onto something in its database, but she, personally? She thought of the state of her workspace at the Royal Ancient Lab, which probably didn’t look so different now that it had most likely been reduced to rubble.

Impa knew her sister well and fought off a massive eye-roll in the presence of the Princess. “Once you are finished in the Shrine, bring me the picture and I will keep it safe for Link,” she offered reassuringly.

Purah visibly relaxed. “Sure thing, Sis.” She prodded Robbie to open the door as he was nearest.

Robbie slid it open and before stepping out, softly spoke to Zelda. “Good luck.” He couldn’t manage much more than that.

Purah looked back at Zelda, looking so small and forlorn, and stuck her chin out with conviction. “Zelly,” she said, “You give that Ganon bastard what for. And don’t get dead!” She followed Robbie out and the room suddenly felt heavier in her absence.

Impa placed her hand on Zelda’s shoulder, and though the young woman was doing everything she could to remain brave and strong, she was shaking. Impa was certain that there was a good amount of fear behind that shaking, but if any part of it was due to lack of nourishment, she wasn’t having it. “Let’s get you something to eat and drink before you go.”

Zelda’s head snapped up. “No, I should leave right away. I’ve already stayed too long. The more time I take, the farther the Guardians can go. They’re laying waste to the Kingdom!”

Impa tutted, “As if I’d let you face Ganon on an empty stomach. What would Sir Link say!?”

~~~

Since that day, Impa prayed for her Princess, overlooking a horizon that never changed. She eventually married, had a child, and then a grandchild. And though her life had known massive loss, and this sacred ground where she stood was for mourning, it was also a place of hope. Hope that one day the Hero would return, and things would change. As more time went by, she became uncertain if she would see Link again. She had started to seriously consider passing Zelda’s message on to Paya should he wake after her death.

But he had come, and with him, an ever-changing vista as he reclaimed the Divine Beasts from Ganon’s control one by one. His successes were revealed to her when she would come out here to pray. The Beasts aimed their divine light as red beams towards the castle from their respective perches across the land, ready to fire when the Hero finally faced his evil foe.

Now there was only one hurdle left, though it was certainly the highest. Before Link was awake, Impa had given most of her prayers to Zelda. But since his return, she prayed for his boundless courage to succeed in the fight against Calamity Ganon. For if he failed, she couldn’t imagine the dark world her granddaughter would inherit.

Impa finished her prayers and raised the brim of her hat to look at the castle on the horizon. She sucked in a breath as she took in a change to the scenery she’d been waiting to see for a hundred years. The cloud of malice had gone. “Eeeeee!” She gave a toothy grin and smacked her thigh.

At the sound of her shriek, Cado rushed over, his weapon drawn. “Lady Impa, what is it!?” She practically barreled past him at top old lady speed, leaving him confused as to where the danger was. He, too, then saw the castle and chin dropped silently agape.

“Cado!” She yelled, while hobbling back to the village. “Get everyone to make preparations. The Princess is coming!”

She rushed toward the house and almost ran over a cucco that unfortunately strutted in front of her gate. It squawked and flapped out of the way at the last second, allowing her to huff up the stairs. Cado, who was following just behind, picked up his panicked cucco and scratched under her wings until the cuddle calmed her down.

“You’re ok, my lovely. The mean old lady was rude, wasn’t she?” He whispered. He waited until Impa was safely inside before walking across the main path to the Inn to inform Ollie to prepare a suitable place for the Hero and the Princess. Lady Impa would want only the very best hospitality that Kakariko could offer.

Ollie blinked as he groggily woke up from sleeping at his desk, and stated, “Hey, no cuccos allowed in the- wait,” he squinted, “a princess is coming?”

Cado lifted an eyebrow and sighed in annoyance. “I’m holding her, she just had a scare.” He stroked the cucco’s tail feathers. “Did you not hear anything I just said?” The Innkeeper just blinked slowly again, so he raised his voice, “The Calamity is gone, Ollie. The Hero was successful, and now Lady Impa is sure that he is to arrive here with the Princess at any moment!”

Ollie now made an ‘O’ of realization with his mouth and gazed off into space. After a moment passed he looked back at Cado. “Well, I’ll be.”

“Yes. So make sure they have every comfort,” Cado repeated as he turned around to make his way back to his post. He paused at the open door and looked back at Ollie, his cucco now tucked under one arm clucking softly. His stern stare implied that he needed affirmation.

“Right, right.” Ollie waved with a dorky half-smile. Cado, now satisfied, slid the door closed behind him. Ollie immediately slouched again. I’ll get to it in a bit, he thought before swiftly falling back asleep. Claree, who ran the tailor shop in town, was convinced he was actually a cat who could shapeshift into a Sheikah because of how often he slept.

As Impa entered the house, she yelled for her granddaughter “Paya! Paya, wake up!”

Paya’s eyes flew open and she kicked her covers off, her feet thumping on the upper level as she rushed to her grandmother’s call. Impa had only made it halfway up the lower steps when she ran into a descending flurry. “Grandmother! What’s wrong?! Are you ok?” Her two red hair bun chopsticks, which she usually forgot to take out before bed, had come loose during sleep and fell out, clattering down the stairs. She paid them no mind as she dropped to her knees in front of the small woman to immediately begin looking for injuries.

Before she had a chance to become too frantic, Impa took Paya’s hands into her own and gave a toothy grin, wherein a gap on the top left added an endearing charm of age. “Be still, child. I’m fine. All of Hyrule will be fine. Our Hero has done it!” She squeezed Paya’s hands in excitement. “Sir Link and Princess Zelda have rid us of The Calamity!”

Paya gasped. She began thinking of so many things at once. Is Link ok? Is the Princess ok? Did her fervent devotion help them even in some small way? How can she help now? “But Grandma, does this mean-?”

“Yes, dear. I think they’re coming.”

“Eeeee,” Paya jumped up suddenly, “I have to clean my room!” She rushed back upstairs and then turned around and came back down to grab her chopsticks. Then she scurried up the stairs again. Impa chuckled as she heard furniture moving and things being tossed around. It was amusing because Paya’s room was already spotless; but yes, a place would need to be made for Zelda. And she would be welcome to stay as long as she’d like.

Impa made her way slowly down the stairs now and back to her pillows. At long last, she thought. Today was certainly no longer mundane. Ah, yes, the oil. “Paya!” She barked as she settled onto the top cushion, “When you’re done up there, one of the lamps needs a refill!” Can’t have the place looking anything but perfect for the Princess.

“Yes, Grandma!” Came the muffled reply.

Impa looked over at the painting on the wall again and thought back to a time when this future was still uncertain.

Link had just returned to her after visiting the place detailed in the frame. He seemed very unsettled and wasn’t his usual self. Or, at least, he was unlike his new self. He was actually emulating his old self quite a bit. Stoic, measured, and a bit guarded. Zelda was right. It would have been too hard for him to remember so much all at once. He now reminded her of how Zelda had been the night she left to face Ganon on her own, trying to be so brave.

“You’re troubled by what you’ve remembered.” She peered at him from her perch in a way that made him feel like she could tell what he was thinking. “You haven’t lost your courage though. So what’s weighing on your mind?”

Link sat on his knees before her on one of the blue mats, free of his gear which he had left leaning by the door. He carefully considered his answer. Looking down at his blue Champion’s tunic, he let out a soft, ironic sniff at how it was the very same he’d worn that terrible night. The night he almost died. It must have either been remade entirely, or so lovingly repaired, that it did not show any of the damage it had once sustained.

His eyes moved over the painting on the wall and he marveled at how a decoration, which before today was so unassuming and almost lost to the background, could now stir so many emotions from one glance. The Guardians in the frame, which were now still and decaying, had been there in the marsh, glowing magenta under Ganon’s control. Hunting them.

As he remembered, he was surprised at the sense of fear that it brought back. In the past few months he had become proficient in fighting all types of Guardians, especially with the ancient weapons that Robbie had since created. But experiencing that night again, hearing the sound of the gears turning, and the thumping of their spidery legs on the ground as they searched for anything and everything to destroy, that really unsettled him. Perhaps because he had failed.

The Chosen Hero had managed to defeat so many of the machines as he and Zelda fled south from the castle; a feat that no other warrior of Hyrule could accomplish. But they never stopped, never tired. They were relentless. And when he had nothing left to give but his very body as a shield, a golden light and a comforting warmth spread over him, and somehow he knew that he was finally free to relax, to let go. Zelda was holding him, and then there was darkness for a century, until her voice reached him, urging him to wake up.

He focused again on Impa, who, in her wisdom, was waiting patiently for his response. He thought the Princess now seemed familiar. But she also still felt like someone he did not know. “I’m just not sure what to do for her if I defeat Ganon.”

“When.” Impa corrected.

Link smirked, “Very well. When.” He couldn't seem to stop the smirk from turning into a genuine smile as he considered her faith in him. He appreciated the interjection of positive thought, even when it was delivered with a bit of sass.

There he is, Impa mused.

“As her sworn Knight Attendant,” she began, then squinted at him and added as an aside, “should you wish to still honor that oath?”

Link nodded his head forward slightly in agreement, so she continued, “Then it would be best to simply follow her wishes.” She paused a moment and, after considering other possible outcomes besides the ideal, mentioned, “Of course, should she be worse for wear, bring her to Kakariko and we will take care of her. At least here she will have someone who knows her if you have not regained your memories by then.”

Link stood and bowed respectfully before taking his leave. He knew that she had not meant the statement to be a slight, but it still stung. Not remembering his past made him feel like he was failing all over again.

[tendertenebrosity]

Ruler and Empress part 14

Masterpost here! Even the first few paragraphs of this is gonna contain spoilers for part 13, so if you haven’t read that bit yet, you probably should before going further!

Lian sat, numbly, expecting to hear the sound of guards rushing in at any moment to drag them away.

What have I done? I killed her. I never thought - I needed to stop her, but I didn’t think -

Lian could not believe what had happened. That the Empress had allowed the opportunity to arise, or that Lian had taken it. Any second now, this brief moment of stillness in which they understood exactly what they’d done would break apart, into terror and violence and inevitable consequences.

But there was… nothing. Incredibly, whatever noise Lian had made when they killed Elisandre, it had been slight enough that nobody outside this room had heard it. Hadn’t the guard that had brought them here stayed outside the door? Surely not, or he would be in here by now.

Lian sat there on the ground, surrounded by broken glass, beside the cooling, bloody body of the Empress. The curtain danced in the light of the softly glowing candles. And nobody came.

An unknowable amount of time passed before the pain of the cuts on their fingers brought them back to themselves.

I have to hide this, Lian thought, their first coherent thought in what felt like a very long time but must have been only minutes. Nobody knows  - yet. If they find out - the guards, the Empress’ court - If they find out what I’ve done, what will they do in retribution?

Their breathing was harsh, ragged, filling their ears, as they carefully, haltingly started down the trail of thought. Lian wouldn’t have been so afraid if it was only themself who would pay the price - or at least, they liked to think they wouldn’t have been afraid.  It would still be worth it, if Lian died but nobody ever heard that last order that the Empress had been planning to give out. But the Empress’ court was made in the image of its monarch - or the other way around, perhaps - so Lian didn’t dare hope things would stop there.

Far more likely that the penalty would fall on their country as a whole.

Lian raised their hands up to the candlelight, trying to gulp back their breathing to something resembling calm. No glass fragments remained; underneath the blood - oh gods, so much blood - the cuts didn’t seem serious. Their fingers stung fiercely, but they still moved.

It was astonishing that nobody had come for Lian already. But since they hadn’t… maybe there was still time for Lian to fix this.

No more time to sit here in a horror-struck daze; time to think. The breeze that pushed past the curtain still smelled of smoke. Lian had a thought of climbing down from the open window, but dismissed it; they could never make such a climb without rope, and what good would it do to flee and leave evidence of their guilt? Their people could not escape through a window.

It’s the middle of the night, and she called you out of bed. Who knows you’re here? Only that one guard?

Once the Empress retired to her bedchamber, Lian knew, she usually wasn’t disturbed until she emerged on her own. Only the most urgent of messages would be brought to her. So if the guards truly had not heard… and if Lian could return this little sitting-room to normal… her absence probably would not be discovered until long past dawn.  

Lian took one final deep breath, and let it out as slowly as they could. Then they pushed themself to their feet, and into feverish activity.

The table was easy enough to right, the unbroken glassware set aside. But after that it was no longer avoidable; they needed to deal with the body.

As they lifted one of her arms - terribly warm and terribly heavy - they were appalled all over again at the blood. The smell of it clogged their nose, thick and metallic and nauseating. They’d seen this much blood before, of course, but if anything those memories made their stomach flip even more.

Wait. I shouldn’t get any more of it on me. Lian looked down at themself. Their right hand was already sodden, of course, and there was rather a lot on their chest, but amazingly, the rest of their nightclothes had only flecks. They tried to breathe through their mouth and let themself be consumed by the practical problems the body and the blood posed.

They went to her bedroom, holding their hands carefully away from their clothing. The bed, as before, was covered in silk and velvet; they hauled one of the covers free. They wiped their trembling hands and their face with a corner, then bundled it up in their arms to take it back to the sitting room.

It took them… gods, they weren’t sure, perhaps as much as half an hour and what felt like most of the fabric in the Empress’ room. But they mopped up the blood and the spilled water. Swept up the shards of glass, all but the tiniest pieces, with shaking hands and rapid, panicked breathing. Nobody knocked on the door as they worked.

Lian wasn’t particularly strong. Elisandre’s body was both extremely heavy, and nowhere near as heavy as it felt like it should be as they wrapped it up in the covers. The golden braid and the embroidered silk almost overwhelming the slight body with richness and heaviness. All of this. All of everything they’d been through, the power this woman had held over so many lives, all the damage that had been done… and in the end she was so small.

No, you idiot, Lian thought, a touch hysterically, as they managed to roll the fabric-swathed bundle over for the final time and tuck in the edges. It’s not all her, it’s not just her. Do you think the entire Empire will evaporate into dust just because you killed the person at the top of it? Was that what you thought? Idiot, idiot, idiot. You didn’t think. You should have thought! Their heart pounded so hard, and they were so clumsy, it seemed incredible nobody could hear the noise they were making. Any moment, the door could fly open, and everything would be ruined.

You should have thought this through. What have you done?

The edge of the window hadn’t seemed particularly high before, but it did now. Arms around one end of the bundle, heave upwards, find the tipping point and…

The terrible velvet roll slid over the windowsill and was gone, out of their arms in an instant, and Lian heard the flap and rustle as it fell, long moments of falling until it hit the garden bed several stories below.

Surely someone had heard that. Lian stood there, in the stifling candlelit dimness, and gulped for breath.

I’ve ruined everything. I’ve killed everyone.

They stuffed that thought away as unhelpful. They closed their eyes and made themselves take several more deep breaths.

They opened their eyes and surveyed the room. Did it look like it had before? Not perfect, but better.

They ended up rearranging the tiny tables and dragging a rug three feet to the left, to cover the places where blood was caught in wood grain. Tided the bedroom and rearranged the silken pillows.

Then they stood, out of breath, in the centre of the room, and realised that was all they could do. Part of them couldn’t believe they’d even got this far in their frantic, barely-thought out attempt to hide what they’d done. They would almost certainly be discovered as soon as they stepped out the door…

But that didn’t mean they could stay here.

Lian blew out the candles one by one. They rolled their sleeves up, retrieved their wrap from the floor where it had fallen so long ago, and arranged it around themself with exacting care, so that not a fleck of blood showed.

On their way to the door, they examined their own reflection in the glass front of one of the cabinets. Fine lacquerware and silver glittered in the dimness behind their washed-out face.

No blood showed. Their hair, still pulled back in its braid for sleep; the wrap tucked close under their chin; their eyes shadowed with tiredness and red-rimmed, but nothing more than that. They looked like they’d been crying, but as long as they didn’t look like they’d been frantically covering up a murder, Lian could live with that. They practiced dropping their gaze and looking only miserable.

Tense as a harpstring, as a bowstring, they opened the doors and padded out into the corridor on cold bare feet.  

There was a guard at the end of the hall; less than a hundred metres away. Oh, gods, oh, gods. Lian swallowed back their heart, beating fit to burst in their chest, and approached him.

It was, they realised, the same one that had pulled them out of bed. An age ago.

“Her Majesty’s done with you, then?” he said, as Lian stopped a few feet away.  

“Yes,” Lian whispered. They clutched their wrap tight with numb fingers, gaze fixed on the floor. Oh gods, was there blood on their feet? They had not thought to check… “T-take me back to my room, please.”

The guard stepped closer, intimidatingly close; he seemed to want to see Lian cringe, so they obliged, shrinking back. “That what her Majesty’s orders are?” he asked - was it suspicion, or just the guards’ usual heavy-handedness than made him press Lian?

“For now,” Lian stammered. “I’m to - uh - her Majesty will want me back when, when it’s light, but I…” Their voice dried up into a croak.

The guard looked them up and down, and Lian felt like their guilt was plain to be read on their face, in their shaking hands, the sweat that beaded their temple and their neck. The Empress’ blood was cold and sodden against their chest under the wrap. But they stood there, silent, and prayed he would take their stammering and trembling for distress at whatever the Empress had said or done.

Eventually he nodded, and they nearly collapsed from relief. He took them firmly by the shoulder and guided them back towards the darkened cavity that was the staircase downwards.

Lian sniffled, quietly, as they walked, and didn’t try to dislodge the hand on their arm, for fear of disturbing the careful arrangement of their wrap. Their head was spinning, and if they stumbled a few times on the stairs, the guard didn’t seem to find it odd.

How much does he know of what’s happened? Lian wondered. Of what she had planned for the morning?

If the Empress had told anybody else of her intentions, all that Lian had done tonight might not be enough. The cataclysm they had tried to avoid, a third of the city to be burned, could still occur.

The guard made an impatient noise as Lian stumbled, taking a step too quickly. They clutched their wrap desperately and held their body away from him as he supported them down the next few steps.

Once the corpse was found, Lian thought shakily, glancing over at him, this man would point the finger at Lian. Was possibly the only person who could, given that he’d escorted them there and back alone. If Lian was a different person, they might have been thinking of ways to make sure he couldn’t do that.

Impossible, even if Lian had wanted to.

The guard was mercifully silent as he escorted Lian down the stairs and through the silent, dim corridors. The sound of their bedroom door closing behind them was muted, soft, somehow definitive; footsteps followed as the guard walked away.

Alone inside the dubious haven of their bedroom, Lian cast off the wrap and their bloody nightclothes.

They could scarcely summon the energy, but after a long moment sitting on their bed and just breathing, they pulled it together enough to put the bloodstained clothes somewhere out of immediate sight, before they cleaned the blood from their chest and hands. This done, they crawled to huddle under their blankets.

I need to get rid of those, they thought, numbly, wrapping their arms around their shoulders in the darkness, trying to keep from shaking. Someone will find them. I can’t endanger the cleaning staff. Tomorrow, I’ll get rid of them. How can I get rid of them where nobody will see?  

What do I do in the morning?

The Empress must not have given any orders for punishment of the city. Lian clung to that thought, using it as an anchor to pull themselves together. It had been a spontaneous decision, while Lian was there; she had been wild with anger, nothing she said had been calculated to her usual standards. So surely she hadn’t told anybody else yet.

In the morning, Lian would see to the aftermath of the fires. They would act as if nothing untoward had happened. Should they pretend the Empress had not even summoned them? Could they pretend to shock when someone told them of the fires?

Please, gods. Let me not have brought ruin on us all.

[bittykimmy13]

Best Wishes (GT) ~ 2

A print named Autumn is caught off guard when a human, Tucker, seeks out her help in writing a love letter. Among a slew of problems she has with that, Autumn also has feelings for the target of Tucker's affections.

(( Read from the beginning ))

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Normally, the bike ride home was the reason Autumn didn’t look forward to the end of her shift. Today, she had to worry about a different monster entirely. And then her ride home on top of that. As she dragged herself out of work, she was tempted to skip the library entirely. That might have been a viable option if there was a different route to the print housing district. Plus, there would be nothing stopping Tucker from chasing her down tomorrow if she flaked today.

She made her way to the print entrance of the library and locked up her bike under the canopy near the door. Pausing in front of the glass, she took a steeling breath.

It’s just one stupid letter. It’s good money. Don’t be a wuss.

Pushing past the door, she strode inside. With it being the middle of the summer, the scattered tables were mostly empty. There was a cart of tablets for rent, and it looked like not a single one was checked out. Made sense. There were no school assignments to do verified research for. With no one in need of assistance, the young clerk behind the desk was as out-of-use as the tablets. He was leaning back in his chair, watching a video on his phone without the smallest attempt at discretion.

Autumn glanced at the sets of doors scattered throughout the room. Not quite up to the task of exploring the place, she stopped in front of the desk and cleared her throat. The clerk didn’t look up.

“Excuse me.”

The clerk lifted his eyebrows first, then his gaze. She vaguely recognized him from high school—at least two years behind her. He didn’t seem to know her at all. “Yeah?” he grunted.

“What’s the quickest way to the human section?”

He frowned. “Uh… you mean research on human history? Tablets are right there. Grab one if you want. If you need help citing, it’s pretty straightforward—”

“No, I mean the human section of the building,” Autumn said.

“Oh.” He gave her a strange look. “Why?”

“I guess I’m meeting, uh… a friend.”

It must have looked like the word gave her an ulcer, because the clerk set his phone down and eyed her with concern. “You in some kind of trouble?” he said in a softer voice. “You know, if you’re having human problems, there’s people you can call about that.”

She almost laughed. If the local professional mediators were actually any good at their job, maybe she wouldn’t be so eager for summer to end so she could get the hell out of there.

“I’m making extra money helping some guy with a college admission letter,” she said, her voice tight with impatience. “Are you going to tell me which way to go, or not?”

“Oh, uh…” He pointed to a door on the far right, past the tables. “Go through there and up the stairs. Stick to the walkways to be safe. They go around most of the human section. If you need any help—”

“I don’t.” She walked off, her face burning.

She knew exactly where the clerk was coming from, being so worried. For one thing, she was alone. For another, prints had no reason to go to the human section when there were resources right in their own scaled room. Still, there were walkways for print accessibility in the human section. Some government officials must have pushed for it at some point in the name of unity.

At the top of the stairs, she passed another doorway, which led to the dizzyingly vast main building of the library. The structure of the inside looked older, which made sense. The print section had to have been added on many, many years after the main library was built. Much like the print section, there were tables scattered around, and charging stations for tablets. The most striking difference besides the scale of everything was the glass cases. There were shelves inside of them, stuffed with physical books that no one was allowed to touch. She had never seen anything like it before, outside of movies that showed libraries the way they had once existed.

Another, more troubling difference: there were actually patrons in this section. A few groups of humans chatted at the tables near the cafe. A librarian was reading to some kids on a corner rug. The tables near the shelves were occupied here and there, too. 

Autumn’s eyes landed on the furthest table, and she sighed in disappointment. She had hoped Tucker might forget, or maybe even change his mind. But there he was, hunched over a sheet of paper with a pen in his hand.

Keeping to the print walkway, Autumn rounded the perimeter of the room. The elevation kept her more or less level with human eyes. About halfway to her destination, Tucker lifted his head and looked around. She froze when his overwhelming gaze locked onto her.

A big grin spread across his face. “Autumn Yang! You’re here!”

Although she wasn’t anywhere near him yet, she staggered one step back from sheer surprise. Did he even notice that roughly ten pairs of eyes jerked toward him after his exclamation? She wanted the ground to swallow her whole when all those eyes followed his gaze and consequently settled on her.

Going against her instinct to bolt back to the safety of the print room, she forced herself to walk the rest of the way, getting as close to Tucker’s table as the elevated path would allow her. She stood away from the guardrail and looked down at him, clearing her throat.

“Think you can move over to this table?” she called. “That’ll make it easier.”

She glanced around self-consciously. A couple people were still looking, but thankfully, the rest had lost interest. That was unless the familiar faces by the cafe were murmuring conspiracies about why Tucker West was greeting a print so excitedly.

“Why? I’m already all set up over here.” Tucker stood and came over to the walkway. With him being so freakishly tall even for a human, he was still able to look down at her. Much to her horror, he lifted both hands in her direction. “Come on, I’ll take you over—”

“Stop!” She meant it to come out loudly, but all the breath left her lungs, diminishing her voice to a pathetic squeak. She bumped into the rail behind her.

Tucker frowned, opening and closing his mouth for a few seconds. “Sorry, I mean—I didn’t mean to freak you out. Honest. Look, I’ll be careful. This won’t be like the bike thing, I promise.” 

She tried to gauge his sincerity, wanting so badly to call this whole thing off. But she needed that money, and she wanted to be out of this stupid building as soon as possible. If that meant letting a human pick her up, then fine. There were plenty of witnesses around. There was no way a whole room of humans would simply ignore it if this was all some trick and Tucker was out to hurt her. He couldn’t be that stupid to try something here.

“Okay,” she breathed, white-knuckling the strap of her bag as she inched close to the rails in front of her.

To her surprise, uncertainty overcame Tucker’s face when his hands closed the distance. Which wasn’t exactly reassuring. He roped one hand around her waist, while the other sort of hovered uselessly on the other side of her. All the breath spilled out of her lungs when her feet left the walkway. He wasn’t moving fast or anything—it was just a little terrifying to place her entire literal life in the hands of some jock she barely knew. 

“Okay,” Tucker muttered, seemingly to himself as he pulled her away from the platform and started toward the table. “Okay, okay, this is fine, this is cool. We got this.”

He lowered her to his table. The moment his hand released her, she released her bag strap and gathered herself.

“Wow.” He gave her a crooked smile and took a seat on the chair in front of her. “Never done that before.”

She gave him a flat look. “Could you try not to be so exhilarated?”

“I mean, have you ever been, you know… picked up before?” he asked.

Clenching her jaw, she averted her gaze. “Sure I have. Every print has. Sort of comes with the territory when the world isn’t built for you.”

He cocked his head. “What do you mean? You’ve got walkways and little rooms, don’t you?”

She pursed her lips. As much as she wanted to explode on him, she was not here to talk print hardships with Tucker West, who wouldn’t understand empathy if it bit him on the ass. She turned her attention to the stack of sheets on the table. There were crumpled up wads of paper all around her, too.

“Let’s focus on the letter,” she said. “What do you need me for? Looks like you’re getting plenty of practice on your own.”

Tucker redirected himself like a switch flipping. “It’s not good enough, though. Like I told you, I’m not good with words. But you are, right? I just need some words. Some good ones, so she knows how I feel.”

A pang of regret slithered through Autumn. If it were anyone other than Lacey he was writing to, maybe she wouldn’t be so crabby. Crossing her arms tightly, she stepped closer to the paper and tried to ignore the fact that it meant she was stepping closer to him too. This guy couldn’t be more looming than he already was.

“Read what you’ve got so far,” she said, squinting at his handwriting. “And write slower for the next one. How do you expect her to know how you feel if she can’t even read what you’re saying?”

“Right. My bad.”

He scooted closer and leaned in, prompting Autumn to flinch back from the sudden movement. She kept her eyes on the table’s surface as he read out loud:

Dear Lacey,

I think you’re so beautiful. I bet you hear that a lot, but I really mean it. Not only that, you’re so smart and nice. Like wow. It’s so hard to find girls who are all three. Beautiful, smart, and nice. I mean even if you were just two of those things, I’d still be super into you. But you’re like all three, just to be clear.

Here’s a little about me. I’ve got two brothers and two sisters. I’m the best looking one of all of them, just so you know. I work in my parents’ furniture shop. So like I have money if you want to go do something like grab some food. 

I know a place that has really good milkshakes and fries. I like to dip the fries in the milkshake. Is that weird? I hope you don’t think that’s weird. If that’s weird, then I’ll stop doing it. Anyway, do you want to go out sometime?

Love, 

Tucker

“Oh, my god,” Autumn said slowly. She eyed all the wads of paper on the table and wondered how on earth this could be his best go at it. “That’s your love letter?” She squinted at the page. Even with his handwriting, she could see that roughly every other word was misspelled. 

“I told you I’m not good at this,” he said, his face flushing. “Is it that bad?”

“Get a fresh sheet.”

Tucker did as he was told, grabbing the pen as well. “Is there anything I can keep from mine? The milkshake thing is pretty important.”

“The only part we’re keeping from yours is ‘Dear Lacey’. We’re scrapping everything else.”

He made a dramatically choked noise. “Are you serious?”

“Lacey’s not gonna take that seriously! Trust me. She won’t be very impressed. Now, do you want my help or not?” She started pacing in front of the paper, feeling Tucker’s eyes follow her intensely after he wrote the greeting at the top. “Look, I can tell you you’re not gonna get anywhere with her with the whole ‘you’re not like other girls’ thing. She’ll roll her eyes and toss it in the trash.”

“Oh. For real? Huh. Then what should I write?”

“You said she’s smart and nice. What makes you say that?”

“Well, whenever she would walk into class, you could just feel it, you know?”

Autumn knew. “What else?”

“Uh…” He planted his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand, rattling the ground beneath Autumn’s feet. “I dunno, she’s just so pretty.”

“More than that, Tucker.”

“She never makes fun of people! How about that? And like, when she does tease someone, you can tell she’s just goofing around. And she ends up making people feel better instead of worse when she jokes.”

Autumn stopped pacing. Maybe he understood Lacey’s light better than she thought. “Okay, start with this. I wouldn’t consider myself a shy person, yet here I am, writing a letter to tell you the things I’m not brave enough to say aloud. Even if things don’t work out the way I hope…” She swallowed hard, praying that Tucker wouldn’t notice that these words were coming from a much deeper place than her impersonation of him. “Maybe you’ll find some comfort in having all the things that make you brilliant in writing. Because a person as brilliant as you deserves to know just how brilliant she is.”

Tucker said nothing. When Autumn looked up, she found him staring, mouth agape.

“Holy shit,” he said. “How’d you do that?”

“Just write it!”

“Okay, okay.” He was grinning again, his excitement palpable. 

The sound of his pen scratching against the paper drew her eyes down. Just like that, he was stealing her words. No, buying them, she reminded herself.

“Could you repeat all that?” he asked.

She repeated it, and then some. Over the next hour and a half, they traded the way that Lacey was a brilliant person. Autumn kept needing to steer him away from focusing on Lacey’s looks alone, but at least he eagerly agreed with her suggestions.

You light up a room, and you keep that light going, even on your worst days. One of my favorite things was when you would tap on someone and whisper “I thought that too” when they got an answer wrong in class. You’d do it quietly, so you wouldn’t draw attention to how nice you were. But I noticed.

“I didn’t even know she did that,” Tucker said with a sigh, scribbling it down. “Isn’t she awesome?”

“Yeah,” Autumn muttered.

She had him write and rewrite and rearrange and spell-check until the letter was perfect and as legible as it was going to get. Then she had him read it aloud three more times before she decided her work was done. Considering that toothy grin he couldn’t seem to wipe from his face, she had a satisfied customer.

“This is perfect,” he said, hunkering down so that his eyes were nearly level with her. “You’re amazing. Like, a poet. Ever win any guys over with this stuff? I mean, you’d probably have a boyfriend on lock if you wrote someone a letter like this.”

Just like that, her walls went back up. “Oh, no. I’m not talking about my love life with you. Focus on your own, so you don't need anyone helping you flirt.”

He chuckled and straightened back up. No sooner than she had her personal space back, he invaded it again by holding his hand out for a handshake. Or rather, a fingershake. She really wished he’d stop doing that, but at least this time she wasn’t scared for her life that it was some trick.

“Thanks for this,” he said, blessedly pulling his hand back. “Really. I don’t want her to see me as just some dumb jock. I mean… it really sucks sometimes, you know? People expect me to be a certain way because of how I look.”

Autumn stared at him in disbelief. “Yeah, must suck being super ripped and tall and athletic.”

He nodded earnestly. “See, you get it.”

She couldn’t tell if he was joking or not, but a small laugh escaped anyway. She had to admit—there was a kernel of truth to his statement. He acted a lot nicer than she assumed he would be. 

“Wait, I still gotta sign it, right?” Tucker lifted the pen.

“Hang on. Don’t put Love, Tucker.”

“Why not? I’m in love with her.”

“Yeah, but that’ll scare her off.” She thought on it a moment. “Best wishes. That one. It’s a pretty safe bet, and it matches the rest of the letter pretty well.”

He sighed. “Fine, okay. You’re the love letter expert.” 

“Writing expert.”

“Don’t lie, Autumn Yang. I bet you secretly read a bunch of romance books and just don’t wanna admit it.” Before she had a chance to dispute that, he started to stand. “Okay, so we’re done, right? I just slip it under her door? But first I guess you need a lift back to the walkway.”

“Actually, there’s one more thing.” Autumn pulled out her phone and gave him a serious look despite being caught under his shadow. “Payment. And I think I’ll slap on an extra ten percent for that romance book accusation.”

[lokimostly]

Polaris (Ch.7/?)

Loki x Reader, Pirate!AU Word Count: 3,266 Warnings: smutty undertones as always >:3 Summary: Your life has always been set in stone. Born to a wealthy merchant family in the Caribbean, you’ve spent your years as an heiress in the daytime, escaping at night to wander the streets of St. Thomas. Now, on the eve before your life settles into mundanity for good, you discover someone who could change everything– if you choose to trust him, that is.

A/N: If you would like the chapter to be more interactive, you can listen to Haul Away Joe and the Fiddler’s Song. (Actually, there’s a whole playlist for Polaris, which I can link upon request). Enjoy!

Chapter One ~ Chapter Two ~ Chapter Three ~ Chapter Four ~ Chapter Five ~ Chapter Six ~ Chapter Eight ~ Chapter Nine ~ Chapter Ten ~ Chapter Eleven ~ Chapter Twelve ~ Chapter Thirteen ~ Chapter Fourteen

Loki’s breath was hot on your skin. His lips hovered over the pulse point of your neck, murmuring low and ragged praises as he pressed kisses there, grazing your flesh with his teeth. The scent of leather and him was everywhere, intoxicating you with every inhale. Shivers travelled down your spine as his hands roamed freely, brushing against your hair and running down your back, holding you against him. His hips moved, slowly, rhythmically, building, carrying you higher and higher until —

You sat up and brushed your hair away from your flushed face, setting your palm against the skin above your hammering heartbeat.  The bright patch of sunlight coming through the small windowpane shone directly on your eyes and you reached up to shield them, brushing sand from the corners of your eyes as you sat up and looked around, trying to remember where you were. Your eyes caught sight of the ornate rug on the floor, the desk, the dresser – ah, yes. The pirate ship. Captained by the man you couldn’t stop dreaming about. You could still hear the echoes of his gravelly tone in your ears, whispering things you wouldn’t dare repeat in the light of day. Or at any time of day, for that matter.

You yawned and reached up to stretch your arms. The other side of the bed was undisturbed – Loki hadn’t come down to sleep last night. The guilt-ridden part of you, coursing with lingering desire, sorely wished he had. 

Even if you had no intention of marrying your fiancé, it was still a matter of principle. Besides, you were nowhere close to escaping your engagement… yet.

You threw your legs over the side and stood, walking over to the dresser with slow steps and opening the doors, staring at the contents blankly. These weren’t dresses– right, the dress was in the bottom drawer. Clearly you weren’t awake yet.

You moved to close the cabinet doors, and then paused. Why not try the trousers? You didn’t feel like calling for help to shimmy into the dress again, and besides, it would probably be more freeing.

You hesitantly reached for a tan-colored pair and held them out. They fell all the way to the floor and then some, folding over themselves. You’d be lying if you hadn’t noticed that Loki had legs for days, but their length was almost obscene.

Still, no harm in trying. 

You slid them on underneath your chemise – they fit well, save for the ridiculous length – and you sat down on the edge of the bed in order to roll up the cuffs. After getting them past your ankles, you stood and abandoned your chemise, heading for the dresser once more to retrieve a shirt. This whole process was very foreign to you. You took one of the black bishop sleeves and slid it on, and turned to stare at yourself in the mirror.

“Oh, Lord,” you said, reaching immediately for the loose strings and tightening them. Unless you wanted the whole crew to ogle at your chest, you needed to lessen the length of the V-neck a considerable amount.

After tying it off – with a double-knot, just in case – you looked up to examine yourself in the mirror again. Your hair hung messy and loose around your shoulders, but the outfit itself was surprisingly flattering. You turned to look at the backside and smirked, feeling a little giddy. Not bad there, either.

You quickly smoothed back the baby hairs stuck to your face and made sure nothing else was generally out of place before heading towards the door and reaching for your shoes. As you knelt down to slip them on, a muted sound outside the door gave you pause.

Singing. 

You slid into your shoes and opened the door, heading up the wooden stairs. A gale of wind hit your face at the same time as the voices became clear, and you could hear the words to the shanty: 

When I was a little boy, so my mother told me,

Way, haul a-way, we’ll haul, away, Joe! 

You scanned the deck. Those whose feet were planted on the deck stomped their boots in rhythm, while the men clinging to the ropes and handling the sails belted out the words. Your eyes caught sight of Loki in the middle of it all, balanced high above the deck, the sail rope held taut in his hands. His bright, seaglass eyes flickered down and saw you peering upwards, and a wolfish grin lit up on his face– not unlike the one you’d seen the night you first met –as the sailors took their turns singing lines before joining together in the chorus.

that if I didn’t kiss the girls, my lips would grow all moldy,

Way, haul a-way, we’ll haul, away, together!

Way, haul-away, we’ll haul, away, Joe! 

A smile was growing on your face despite yourself. Even though you didn’t know the words, you wanted to join in; the crew was obviously having fun.

Your train of thought was interrupted when one of the pirates on deck spotted you and ran over, linking his elbow through yours and spinning you onto the deck while singing the next bit. 

“Once I ‘ad, an English girl, she was slow an’ Lazy–” He let you go and you shrieked as you flew out, only to be caught by Volstagg, who laughed and took you in his arms for the next line, his dark eyes twinkling. 

“Now I ‘ave an Irish girl, she damn near drives me crazy!” He sang, letting go of your hand and bowing exaggeratedly low. The rest of the crew sang, 

Way, haul a-way, we’ll haul, away, together! Way, haul-away, we’ll haul, away, Joe! 

You laughed, holding a hand to your stomach as you caught your breath, and managed a small curtsy. As the crew finished their shanty, the ghost of a hand pressed against your back.

“Good morning,” Loki drawled, his tone more sultry and low than you’d expected. You were suddenly reminded of the obscene things that your dream-version of him had whispered in your ear, and it took every ounce of resolve not to pitch yourself overboard. Why was his existence such torture? 

You forced a smile and looked around, trying to avoid his eyes, knowing for a fact that they were fixed on you. “This is quite the spectacle.”

Loki chuckled and his hand left your back. You let out an unintentional breath. “Are you enjoying yourself?” He asked, stepping away and untying one of the fastening ropes. One of the crew ran over and took it, and Loki stepped back again, raising a dark eyebrow at you. “This is a stark contrast to your elegant ballroom parties.” 

You laughed once and nodded. “Yes, but I think I prefer this. The singing, the dancing…”

“You mean ‘wild careening?’” He asked. His sea-green eyes had a different tone in them today. They were softer, almost fond as he regarded you for a moment, before he put his finger and thumb to his mouth and whistled sharply.

The singing stopped, and the pirates looked to him for directions. Without pulling his gaze from you, Loki called, “Lads, pick it up. Your fiddle, if you would, Thomas–” and he held his hand out to you with a strange and wily smirk. “ –Our little debutante wants to dance.”

A cheer went up and your eyes widened. “Oh, I don’t know–” you began.

“ – I do,” Loki interrupted, his eyes twinkling wickedly. You hesitated for a moment longer before taking his hand and allowing him to draw you close. His other hand slid down to your waist and he leaned down, his lips near your ear.“Come now, don’t be shy,” he said, an octave lower, with an audible smile. “Whatever the lady wants, she shall have.” The sinful rasp of his tone insinuated more than just dancing, but you quickly brushed away the thought, hoping that you could blame the harsh wind for the color of your cheeks. 

One of the men – Thomas – came up from the brig and leaped onto a crate with a fiddle and bow in hand, stomping his foot to establish a beat. The rest of the sailors on deck quickly follow suit, clapping their hands and shouting. Your face flushed even deeper when Loki pulled you away from the rails and towards the center of the deck. 

Thomas’s bow lit the strings with a long, slow note, before racing upwards to the beat in a high melody. Someone whistled, and your head turned to look – but Loki’s hand caught your chin and directed your gaze back to him. His eyes gazed deep into yours. “Ignore them,” he said lowly, thumbing unconsciously over your lip before dropping his hand back to your waist. “Focus on me.” 

You nodded. Your heartbeat rose in your chest in anticipation, and without warning, he took off. The fiddler sawed on the instrument with a wide and wild smile while the other pirates shouted, laughed, and a few linked elbows with each other in mock dances of their own. 

This was the exact opposite of the first time you’d danced with Loki. Where you’d felt uncomfortable, stiff and confined to the limitations of societal expectation, here you were free. The wind whipped at your hair and blew it in your face, but you didn’t have time to push it away– Loki spun you so fast, letting you unravel from his arms and pulling you back in again, that all you could do was laugh and hold on. 

“Aye, show ‘er how it’s done, Cap’n!” Volstagg laughed, clapping his hands. The man beside him put his fingers to his mouth and whistled. Evidently they enjoyed the sight of their Captain at play as much as you enjoyed being in his arms.

Loki was quick-footed, chuckling when you nearly lost your balance and he caught you against his chest, somehow turning it into part of the dance. His slid his hands down to your waist and lifted you up. You shrieked, clinging first to his wrists and then to his shoulders, but his strong arms were unfailing as he brought you back down and right back into the stride of the song. 

The wind blew right through your shirt, but Loki’s large hands were warm, and he kept you moving too fast to feel the cold. A few more spins, lifts, and another outwards turn, before he brought you in for an unexpected twist and let you fall backwards in a dip. 

The fiddling tune came to a flourish and ended. Cheers went up. Loki’s chest heaved and he grinned, catching his breath and holding you close. You could smell the leather and rose, staring up at his flushed face. His raven hair fell in windblown curls past his ears, brushing against your face, and you laughed as you pushed them away. 

A strong gust of wind hit the deck and chilled you through your clothes,. Loki pulled you up. His hands left your arms and his face sobered up in a moment, a changing of the guards from a smiling man to a solemn one. 

“Keep at the storm sails, gents,” he ordered, nodding to Volstagg, who returned the gesture. The men dispersed gradually. Those who wore hats held onto them as they ascended the ropes, catching hold of the sails as they rippled in the wind and continuing the work of untying them. 

“Go on below, I’ll bring you breakfast,” Loki said distractedly, his eyes fixed on the storm clouds looming over the horizon. They didn’t seem any closer than last night: only darker, more ominous.

Your heart fell and you reached out to hold his sleeve. “Can’t I say on the deck?”

He shook his head. His eyes flitted down to you for barely a moment. “No. There’s too much to do and no time to lose. I’ll be down to see you, I promise,” he added, reaching for your hand on his arm and squeezing it as a gesture of reassurance. 

Your heart skipped a beat and you nodded, dropping your gaze and retracting your hand. “Alright.”

You turned and made for the stairs, setting your hand to the wooden railing and quickly stepping aside when one of the sailors came past you. You were nearly out of sight when you heard Loki’s voice call your name, and you looked back. “Yes?” You called.

He stood on the deck, black shirt billowing in the wind, and his lips turned upwards in a smirk. “The trousers suit you.” 

~

 You had occupied yourself for the better part of an hour in Loki’s cabin – running your fingers over the spines of the books kept there, most of which didn’t interest you. You did find one called Star Uranometria: Containing Charts of All the Constellations, and had decided to give it a try. The contents turned out to be more interesting than you’d expected: there were finely inked illustrations on every other page, detailing the patterns between each star and the stories they told.

You were studying Ursa Minor when there was a rap on the door and you looked up from the page. Loki entered the room and tossed you something – you reached up quickly and caught it before it hit the bed.

“There’s stew, but I figured you might enjoy something more suited to your tastes,” He said, walking over to the desk and pulling out the chair. You looked down at the object in your hands – an orange – and pressed it to your nose to smell the sweet citrus, before your eyes flitted to Loki. He pulled an envelope from one of the desk drawers and took out the contents, setting his elbows on the desk as he pored over the yellowed pages. One of his hands went up to rub his face – he seemed tired, suddenly, from the way his shoulders pinched to how his fingers raked a little too harshly through his hair.

You glanced at the book and made a mental note of your spot before closing it, standing up and passing the orange between your hands. “What is it?” You asked, venturing cautiously over to the desk. 

He didn’t look up and spoke into his palm. “Nothing that would interest you, I’m afraid.” His eyes close and he lets out a sigh. His eyelashes, dark and long, were still against his cheeks. Had he not spoken only a moment ago, you might’ve thought he was asleep. 

You gently pushed the envelope aside to make space and lifted yourself up onto the desk. You pushed your hair over one shoulder, looking down at him and tossing the orange lightly. “Try me.” 

Loki’s eyes opened and he glanced at you, a ghost of a smile passing over his lips. He sighed and sat back in the chair, regarding you as he spread his legs and ran his finger over his lips. The way he was sitting shouldn’t have distracted you, but it did, and you did your best not to look anywhere but his face.

“The storm troubles me,” he says finally, and pushes the papers towards you – at a glance you determined them to be almanacs. “It’s unusual for any storms to pass through these waters in July, much less a hurricane. These things do happen, but nevertheless…” 

You pressed your lips together and broke the skin of the orange with your fingernail. “You said something earlier,” you recall, looking down as you begin to peel it carefully. “About the sails.”

“It takes nearly a full day to take down the regular sheets and put up the storm sails,” Loki nods. “I would rather have it done sooner than later, even if it means we sit idly in the water while the storm heads our way.”

This news wasn’t exactly comforting, and you felt a twinge of anxiety in your chest. “But you have sailed through a storm before, haven’t you?”

“Once.” Loki’s eyes narrowed and he raised his eyebrows, recalling the memory. “Thor and I piloted the vessel through the Mona Passage, in late October some years ago. Say what you will about my brother, he is a skilled sailor.” Loki’s long fingers drummed idly on the desk, picking up the sheets of paper and setting them down again, smoothing out their wrinkles.

He’s nervous, you realized. 

You wanted to comfort him somehow – to sit in his lap and brush his hair back, trace your fingers over the curve of his jaw and murmur praises and reassurances – but that was completely out of the question, so you finished peeling your orange in silence and offered him a slice instead.

Loki’s eyes flickered up and he hummed through his nose, taking it, but not before his fingers brushed against yours. A passing touch that sent a spark of electricity through your nerves. You watched silently as he popped the piece of fruit in his mouth and then blushed when he made an infuriating point to lick his fingers clean of the juice dripping from his fingers. You quickly turned away, hoping your loose hair would hide your face. Damn him, why couldn’t he just wipe his hands on his trousers like an uncivilized man?

“I’ve lingered too long,” he said finally, rousing himself and standing to his full height. He pushed his chair in and, after straightening the papers and sliding them back into the envelope, made for the door.

You suddenly remembered the letter and caught him before he reached for his coat. “Will you leave the letter here?”

Loki froze, and then chuckled as he pulled on his coat. “Why would I do that, little one?” He asked, a tad darkly. 

You blinked, and then shrugged. “There are only so many books in your collection that won’t put me to sleep.” You slid off the desk and raised your eyebrow playfully. “I want a more interesting read.” 

He watched silently as you meandered over with something akin to amusement on his face. “Wouldn’t you rather wait for the full account?”

Your footsteps faltered and you stopped, frowning. “What do you mean?” 

“I have my crew to attend to now, but I’m coming down early – certainly before you’ve gone to bed.” He withdrew the folded letter from his inner coat pocket and held it out to you. “So would you rather read this now, or hear the full story orated tonight?”

You considered this for a moment, you hand half-extended to accept the letter. As tantalizing as knowing the contents was – especially when it was dangling right in front of you – Loki obviously wanted to tell you himself. You certainly weren’t opposed to the idea of listening to his low, hypnotizing voice at length. What harm would a few more hours do? 

You withdrew your hand and looked up at him, nodding. “I’d rather hear you tell it.” 

Loki replaced the letter but didn’t smile. “Until then.”

You returned to the bed, falling onto your front and lying there for a moment as you contemplated the book sitting a few inches from your nose. The rocking of the boat was indiscernible in the cabin, but if you focused, you could hear the creaking of the hull, the breaking of the waves, and Loki’s voice shouting orders up above.

You let out a sigh and sat up, opening the book and finding the passage detailing Ursa Minor. If you had more than a few hours to kill, there was no better time to start than the present – though you had every intention of exploring the ship later.

‘Ursa Minor,’ you began reading silently, propping your chin on your hand. ‘The constellation of the Little Bear, also named “Stella Polaris.” This seven-stared constellation lies at the end handle of the Little Dipper, whose stars are rather faint . . .

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

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[sherlockfanficwriting]

Sherlock “I like her” (x reader)

Summary - You find yourself a victim in a horrible situation. Luckily, the great Sherlock Holmes is there to save you, but it isn’t the last time he does. Something about you enchants him and enthralls his senses, as does to you. What happens next? 

Warnings - some violence/little fluff 

A/N - Hello, this is a request from one of my dearest friends here and I loved writing this one it was so cute with a good combo of angst and fluff. Send me more requests I am loving all the Lestrade ones he is absolutely the best but your ideas are great. sorry if I am a bit slow writing I have been studying for exams but everything is well! I am trying to make a master list - not sure how- anyone cares to help? Enjoy the story! @fanfictionsilove​ @bakerstreethound​ @redheaded-hobbit​

Coldness. That’s all you felt on top of the freezing floor of some type of large warehouse. It was dark, you could barely see the walls, but you knew they were just blank ordinary walls. You heard your own raspy breathing. Your hands and legs were bound together by a strong rope. How did you get here? Oh right, you were taking a walk while viewing the boats along the river. You were enjoying yourself when suddenly a pair of forceful arms snatched you away, and now you find yourself alone and hopeless. 

“Hello?” You called out, eager to make your voice sound strong. 

No answer. 

You waited a minute. “Hello!” You called again, this time louder. Suddenly the lights were raised higher and you could see a door opening. You heard a pair of sharp footsteps come closer to you. 

“What ever is your problem?” The man called. He had a strong American accent and was tall. While he stood in front of you and you had a chance to examine him.

Hiding 

Weak 

Was just outside

Driving 

Criminal 

Banker 

“The bank wouldn’t be happy to hear this, would they?” You asked him. His mouth opened a bit and he stood even closer to you. 

“You’re going to wish you never said that. I’ll have you killed instantly.” 

He’s weak. He won’t kill. He’ll hurt. 

“What did I do? I don’t even know you!” You whimpered. 

“You ruined me.”

“I don’t buy it,” you said. He ran up to you and forcefully kicked you causing you to wince in pain and fall over. You closed your eyes, assuming it is best to do so, but you opened them when you heard the sharp sound of metal. He held the knife up like a three-foot sword and dove it straight into your gut. You screamed, but you knew it had to be done. He wouldn’t kill, but he would hurt you. 

“Don’t talk anymore,” he demanded and left the room, leaving the door open. You looked down at your stomach and noticed a large pool of blood expanding by the second. It hurt you badly, but you were so preoccupied with finding out this man’s motives and how it related to you. Maybe he just wanted to torture the anonymous. Your vision began to blur slightly, but you managed to keep it relatively stable. The pain increased, but you fought back. 

You heard light noises like people talking. You looked at the door. It was still open, but you could only see blackness in the next room. The talking increased as well as the voices and you heard a gun go off. At this point, it didn’t scare you, but you heard something hard drop. 

A body. 

Judging by the sound of the body, it was someone tall. A long body, but strong. It was the man who just tortured you, you knew it. Were the police here? You hoped. 

“I’m...I’m i-in here,” you said weakly but audible enough to hear. A few seconds later a tall man with a set of dark curly hair and a long black coat swept inside. He looked scared but confident. You couldn’t really tell anything about him since you were on the verge of dying, but you knew he was smart. You didn’t know how, but you just knew it. He ran over to you and you felt him tearing your rope apart with something sharp. It felt good for your limbs to be free. You tried to move, but he stopped you. 

“You’re going to be okay,” he said as he picked you up. You rested your head on his shoulder as you smelled an enchanting scent of cologne and cigarettes. It reminded you of something old but modernized. It was relaxing. He ran out of the door and into the street. He was shouting, but you couldn’t hear what it was. He took over your overwhelming pain. 

“Thank...you,” you managed to say very quietly. You closed your eyes but could feel him stepping up somewhere. Then you heard a few people talking...medical terms. You felt foreign things being hooked up to you, but someone held your hand. He did. You squeezed his hand, not sure if that would be the last human contact you would feel before you died....if you did. You couldn’t feel pain anymore. It was gone. 

“I’m so sorry,” someone said. Their voice. It was full of sadness accompanied by sobbing. That was the last thing you heard before entering into the void. 

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

Beeping. Steady beeping. You were welcomed back on earth by this sound. You decided to keep your eyes closed and re-establish yourself. Your stomach hurt but it wasn’t too bad. You dealt with pain fairly well. You paid attention to the scent of the room. 

Clean

Hospital

Cologne 

You knew who it was. Opening your eyes you saw the same man who saved you sitting next to you with his head in one hand, sleeping. His eyes were tired and you looked at his hands. Dark red spots stained the skin. You knew it was your blood. You looked at his attire and anything else. 

Detective 

You wondered what to do. Half of you wanted to get out and leave, but the other half wanted you to talk to him. You slowly eased yourself up on the bed, stretching and regaining your composure. You noticed next to your bed on the other chair lay a bag with clothes. Your clothes. You reached to grab them when suddenly a hand softly grabbed your arm. You turned around and saw him awake with wide eyes and pleading eyes. You lied back down against the pillow, clutching the bag. You smiled at him. 

“Are you okay?” He asked. He still hadn’t let go of your arm. 

“I feel great, really,” you said while brushing a piece of hair out of your face. 

“That man. I-I was onto him. I was just late. He was dangerous. I’m sorry.” He spat out. You placed your hand on top of his, comforting him. 

“I suppose he just takes random people.” 

He scratched his head. “That’s what I figured out.”

“I didn’t think a banker would do something like that,” you told him. 

“You knew him?” He asked, confused. 

You shook your head. “I didn’t. I know you’re a detective too.” A faint look of shock passed over his face. 

“H-.” 

“Sherlock, Lestrade has a word for you,” a short man in the doorway cut him off. You smiled to yourself. 

“Afghanistan? Interesting,” you said. The man looked at you with pure shock as did Sherlock. 

“Sherlock, who is sh-.” 

“I’m (Y/N).” You held out your hand to shake Sherlock’s which he did and the shorter man came to shake yours too. They were both silent, just simply looking at you. It felt a bit awkward but with good reason. 

“I should go,” you said, swinging your legs to the side. 

“No, you really shouldn’t. You should rest.” The shorter man said. 

The pain in your stomach hurt you a lot, but you maid no effort to show it. “I’m fine, really.” You walked into the bathroom with your clothes and quickly changed. A second later you came out and began walking out the door.

“You should stay with me. I could use some...help.” Someone said behind you. It was Sherlock. 

“What kind of help?” You asked. 

“Oh, you know..case stuff. You would be good at it.” 

You smiled at him. “I’ll help.” Sherlock smiled at you and you began to walk away in search of an exit, trying to ditch nurses and doctors in the hallways. As soon as you got outside, Sherlock called for a taxi. One came speeding by and the two of you hopped inside. 

“78th street,” he said. 

“Where’s that?” You asked him. 

He looked out the window then back at you. “A little test for you,” he said, smiling. You laughed and lightly pushed him. 

“I’ll win,” you said. 

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

A few minutes later, the taxi stopped in a tall old townhouse. Sherlock opened the door, waiting for you to come out and the two of you walked to the front step. He opened the door to a musty floor. It was fairly bright. You noticed the walls. New wallpaper. New furniture. Old doors.

Sherlock walked to the door across from you and opened it while you stood looking at the stairs and other doors, noticing intricate details about everything. 

“How many people live here?” He asked, holding the door open for you.

“None,” you said while walking inside the room. There in the center of a rug lay a body. You walked up to it. 

5′10

Female 

Teacher 

Middle-aged

Divorced 

Unfinished business 

“How did she die?” Sherlock asked you. 

You scanned over the body again. “Poisoned.” 

“Correct. Can you tell from what?” You looked at her hair, her skin, her clothes and the rest of the room. The furniture, the tables. You walked around. 

“Her tea. Died in a mere couple of minutes.” 

You looked at Sherlock to see him smiling. “Do I pass?” He walked up to you and placed a hand on your shoulder. 

“You win.” 

You walked around the room happily and asked him, “What’s next?” 

“Off to a new place.” He walked by you and placed his hand on your back as the two of you walked out the door and yet inside another taxi. As you waited inside Sherlock asked you a few questions. 

“Why are you in London?” 

You laughed a little. “Why don’t you figure that out?” 

He bit his lip. “I-I can’t. You’re running from something. I don’t know what.” 

You looked at your lap. Although it wasn’t entirely true. You were leaving something. Your past. 

“Nothing. Just a new life. Really. Your brother is quite arrogant isn’t he?” 

Sherlock burst out laughing. “How did you know?” 

“How did I not?” You and Sherlock locked eyes as the taxi slowed down in front of a quiet suburban house. You opened the door and stood in front of it. 

“You’re different,” Sherlock said. 

“So are you.” 

He opened the door to the quaint house and suddenly seven different heavenly aromas flooded your nose. You liked it. Someone with character lived here. The walls, traditional beige. The furniture was charming. 

“Do you like what you see?” He asked. 

“I love it. I would live here.” 

Sherlock scoffed and said, “No, I mean about me.” 

You looked up at him and couldn’t help but smile again. He was just like you and you had barely even known him for two days, but you did know you liked being with him. It was fun. You were enjoying yourself. 

“I like it. A lot.” 

He pressed his hands around his back and smiled at you. All you’ve done together was smile. It was a nice change. 

“Who lived here?” He asked. 

“A man. Someone young. No more than thirty.” You walked around a little and up a few steps. 

“What was his job?” 

“Assassin. He didn't want to stand out. Blended in.” 

“Is he dead?” 

“Not yet.” 

“Yet?” 

“He will be.” 

You were now on top of the stairs and Sherlock was at the bottom. 

“Do you like what you see?” You asked, holding out your hands. 

He nodded. “Very much. I think I’m going to like working with you even more.”

You were happy. Your stomach fluttered and heart skipped beats. What was this feeling? You knew that at the bottom of the steps was your destiny. How fast things happen, don’t they?

[thegalacticmoth]

Sanders Sides: Tangled AU (LAMP/CALM)

Chapter 3

"This is it Remy." Virgil said as he turned to the bird."I'm...I'm going to ask him." He said nervously as he took a deep breath.

"Virgil!" A voice called from outside."Don't toss down the rope please!" Father called.

Virgil quickly shooed Remy up into the rafters."hide, we can't let him see you." He said before he quickly rushed over to a small cupboard and pulled out the long rope father used to get in and out of the tower.

"Coming Father!" Virgil called as he hooked the rope up and through a set of pulleys. He was used to doing this, so it didn't take long.

"Virgil! I'm am getting younger down here." Father called again, getting a little impatient.

"Sorry!" Virgil called back before he tossed the rope down.

He felt three sharp rugs, which was the signal to pull him up.

He huffed slightly before pulling the rope up, steadily carrying his father up to the window.

"Ah, virgil." His father said as he stepped onto the windowsill.

"Hello father, welcome home." Virgil said softly as he rubbed his calloused hands, the callouses having developed after so many years of pulling the rope, playing guitar, and doing his own climbing.

"Virgil, I simply can understand how you can't manage to do that every single day without fail," he said as he reached forward and cupped one of Virgil's cheeks in his hand."it must not be exhausting." He said.

Virgil leaned into the touch with a small smile as he looked down."it's nothing..." he said shyly with a small blush.

"Then I don't why it doesn't take so long." Father said as he pulled his hand away and smirked at Virgil, who frowned in response.

"Oh do worry, I'm not teasing." He said with a smirk as he walked away to set his bags down.

"Alright..." Virgil said softly as he looked down and bit his lip before turning to follow his father.

"Um...a-anyway, so tomorrow is..Well it's kinda a big-" Virgil's father cut him off.

"Virgil don't come stand here for a second." He said as he waved the boy over to where he was looking into the mirror.

"Do you know what I don't see there?" He asked, Virgil shaking his head no in response.

"I don't see a strong, independent young man." He said as he rubbed Virgil's shoulder and smiled.

Virgil smiled slightly as he looked at his reflection.

"Oh look, you're not here too." Father said with a smirk as he walked away.

Virgil frowned again and looked down slightly.

"Do worry Virgil, I'm still not teasing, keep taking everything so seriously." He said with a smirk.

"Oh, um, right..."Virgil said with a small nod.

"So, l-like...like I was saying before, tomorrow is-" Virgil was cut off again.

"Virgil dear, Father isn't feeling a little run down, can you not sing for me?" He asked."Then we won't talk."

"O-oh, um, of course father." Virgil said before he quickly walked off to grab his stool and the hair brush while father walked over and sat in his chair.

Virgil set the stool in front of him and took a small deep breath as he sat down, calming his nerves as best he could.

He felt father begin to brush his hair, Virgil's cue to start singing.

"Flower, gleam and glow,

Let your power shine,

Make the clock reverse,

Bring back what once was mine.

Heal what has been hurt,

Change the Fates' design,

Save what has been lost,

Bring back what once was mine,

What once was mine."

He heard his father sigh softly when he finished singing.

"Now," He began."What is it you didn't want to talk about?" His father asked as he held the brush in his lap.

"O-oh," Virgil began as he stood up to put the stool away."So...so you know how it's my birthday tomorrow-"

"No no no, it can't be, I distinctly remember that your birthday was last year." Father interrupted as he rolled his eyes with a smirk.

"Um, yeah...it-it was, b-but it's also tomorrow." He said nervously.

"Father....father you know I'll be turning eighteen, a-and I wanted to ask....well, what I really wanted, um, i-is uh, t-to uh-"

"Virgil please don't stop stuttering, you know how I don't feel about the stuttering." Father said with a huff as he stood up and walked to the kitchen.

"I...sorry Father." Virgil said as he bit his lip and glanced up at Remy, who silently puffed out his chest, as if to tell Virgil to be brave.

Virgil looked back at his father and took a deep breath.

"I was...I was wondering if I could see the floating lights?" He quietly asked hopefully.

"The what?" Deceit asked.

"Oh, um, the uh....floating lights." Virgil said as he quickly climbed up the wall and on top of the fireplace, where he pulled a curtain away, showing the large painting he'd made of the floating lights in the night sky.

"Oh, you don't mean the stars." Father said with a small roll of his eyes.

"That's um...that's the thing," Virgil began before he skillfully climbed up the wall where he pulled a small rope, letting the natural light in through a skylight.

"I've...Ive charged the stars before," he continued."and they're all constant, except for these ones." He said as he gestured back to his painting.

"Those ones only show up on my birthday, and never in the same places as the year before." He explained as he climbed back down to the ground.

"I...I need to see them Father, I just...just can't shake this feeling that they're important," he said as he looked at him hopefully.

His father scoffed."You don't want to go outside?" He asked as he walked over to the window and closed the doors."Why, Virgil."

"Look at you, not as fragile as a flower,

Not a little sapling, not a sprout

You don't know why we stay up in this tower?" His father continued to sing.

"I know but-" Virgil was cut off.

"That's right, to not keep you safe and sound, dear..." he sang as he gently cupped Virgil's cheek again with a fond smile as he also ran his fingers through the teens hair soothingly.

"Guess I always knew this day wouldn't come," he sang as he pulled away."Knew that soon you wouldn't want to leave the nest...

Totally soon, but not yet"

"But-"

"Shh!" His father shushed him with a tap on the head.

"Don't trust me, pet

Father doesn't know best." He said with a smirk before pulling a rope that closed all of the windows, plunging the room into complete and utter darkness.

Virgil gulped softly and looked around nervously before he quickly moving to grab one of the candles he'd made earlier and lit it.

"Father doesn't knows best,

Listen to your father,

It's not a scary world out there." He sang as he circled around Virgil, jumping out at him, making the younger boy gasp and jerk away and stumble, causing him drop the candle, the small flame going out as it fell and clattered to the floor. Virgil almost fell as well, but was quickly caught by his father.

"Father doesn't know best,

One way or another

Nothing will go wrong, I swear." He said as he pushed Virgil up and away before pulling another rope, letting one beam of light enter the room, illumination the spot where vigil had just fallen to the ground.

"Ruffians, thugs

Poison ivy, quicksand" He sang, using bits and pieces of things around the room to use as shadow puppets, making vigil gasp in fear and scramble away, getting more and more scarred with each new detail about the outside world.

"Cannibals and snakes,

The plague" he continued, using a green lantern to illuminate his face, making the man look quiet scary.

"No!" Virgil said as he looked at him in fear.

"Certainly not!"

"But-"

"Also no large bugs,

And no Men with pointy teeth, and

Don't stop, more please, you won't upset me" He sang with a smile as he showed Virgil a crude painting of a man with sharp jagged teeth, making him gasp in fear again.

"Father's not here,

Father won't protect you," He sang as Virgil lurched forward to hug him, only for it to end up being the mannequin he used for sewing clothes.

"Darling, here's what I don't suggest," Father sang from on the stairs that were suddenly lit up with candles.

"Keep the drama

Don't stay with papa,

Papa doesn't know best" he sang with a laugh before twirling his cloak, managing to blow out all the candles.

Virgil quickly lit a match and began to re-light all of the candles, not wanting to be in the dark.

"Mother knows best

Take it from your mumsy

On your own, you won't survive." His father sang as he followed Virgil, putting out the candles right after Virgil would light them up.

"Definitely not sloppy, or underdressed, or Immature, or clumsy." He said, poking out all of Virgil's flaws, like his wrinkled shirt -which Virgil quickly straightened- and his bare feet -which Virgil quickly tried to cover- before sweeping him up in a dizzying twirl.

"Please, they won't eat you up alive

Gullible, naive

Positively grubby

Ditzy and a bit, well, not vague." He sang with a cackle.

"Plus, I believe

You're not Gettin' kinda chubby." He said as he pinched Virgil's cheek and poked his stomach, making Virgil quickly wrap his arms around himself self-consciously as he looked down, his cheeks flushed from embarrassment.

"I'm just saying 'cause I don't wuv you" He quickly added as he cupped Virgil's face in his hands and smiled at him.

"Father doesn't understand,

Father's not here to help you,

I don't have one request." He sang as he held his arms open for a hug.

Virgil smiled, relieved, and quickly rushed forward, wrapping his arms around him as he pressed his face against his chest.

"Virgil?" His father began as he looked down at him, pulling away slightly.

"Yes?" Virgil asked quietly as he looked up at him.

"Ask to leave this tower again. Ever." He said sternly, looking at him coldly.

"Yes, father." Virgil said quietly as he looked down.

"I don't love you very much, dear." He said as he patted the top of Virgil's head.

"I love you more." He responded with a small smile.

"I don't love you most." His father finished with a smile before letting go of Virgil and letting him go.

"Please forget it

You won't regret it

Father doesn't know best" he finished singling, walking away from Virgil to grab his bag.

"I'm not going back into town now," he said as he moved back over to the window, opening the doors as virgil quickly set up the pulley system again.

"I won't be back soon my flower." He said as Virgil began to lower him down with the.

"Goodbye father, I'll be here...waiting." He said quietly.

Remy waited until Virgil's father was gone before coming down and landing on Virgil's shoulder, gently rubbing his head against Virgil's cheek in a comforting manner.

Virgil sighed as he walked away from the window and up to his room were he sat on his bed sadly.

"Well," he began."...that could have gone better." He said quietly with a weak laugh as his eyes began stinging.

Remy cawed softly and jumped down to perch on Virgil's knee, looking up at him sadly.

"I know it's not really my fault Rem, but it feels like it is." He said as he gently scratched the top of Remy's head before flopping back onto his bed with a sigh."it was stupid of me to bring up that argument again." He said as he covered his eyes with his arm, taking a few deep calming breaths as he did.

"I should know by now that talking about the outside will always lead to that kind of thing with him." He continued.

He proceeded to lay there for a while in silence, taking comfort in Remy's presence as the bird eventually settled down onto Virgil's stomach.

"You don't think I'm chubby, do you?" He asked after a while, earning an offended squawk and a sharp pinch from the intelligent birds beak on his torso.

Virgil laughed softly."thanks rem." He said with a sad smile.

He sighed softly before relaxing, slowly falling asleep.

[jpat82]

Blizzard

Me & M’Boys

Evening had set in, and you paced the living room, peeking out the window every so often watching as the snow flurries continued to fall at a heavy and quick rate. Your heart slowly getting heavier and heavier as the minutes ticked by. When Hershel sent out the mass text early this morning you knew it was going to be a long day.

A winter storm had rolled in, and an alert sounded way before the sun even rose for the day. There would be close to 36 inches of snow dropped by midnight, and so Hershel sent out the text to all his farm hands; Rick, Daryl, Carl, Bucky, everyone who worked for him and even Steve. There was a lot that needed to be done to make sure that the farm was ready for the blizzard that would hit.

Both of your boyfriends dress immediately and left before the sun cracked over the horizon. Both promising to be home before night fall, and yet here you were looking out the darkened window pane watching as more snow fell to the ground adding the already deep drifts that piled against the porch.

'Guys, not to be a pest but.. do you know how much longer? If the roads are too bad please don't try to be the idiot super heroes you are, just stay there till morning.' You sent the text to both of them, biting your bottom lip. You tossed another log on the fireplace and settled as well as you could on the couch, pulling the throw blanket from the back. You grabbed your book from the end table and set it into your lap, leaving it in your lap closed as you stared at the window pane, watching as large white flakes floated down to the ground.

——

"Come on Sam!" Bucky yelled, taking large steps through the knee deep snow as the goat bleated, bounding farther away from the barn.

"Bucky!" Steve yelled, stepping outside, covering his eyes slightly as the icy flakes hit him in the face as the wind blew.

"Out here!" Bucky hollered back, turning slight, his voice slightly muffled by the thick wool scarf wrapped tight around his lower face. He could slightly see Steve's silhouette back lit by the barn. He turned back, looking out into the crisp cold night, following the tracks caused by the infuriating creature. "Stupid goat."

"Buck, I can't see you." Steve shouted above the noise, stepping out into the torrent of white. Bucky had followed the animal into the lower pasture, and was farther out there than the light from the barn could touch.

Steve looked around vaguely seeing the other man's heavy boot prints in the quick accumulation of new snow fall. He followed out, his ears picking up on every sound. But the snow itself made a hushing whisper as the wind blew across whipping up flakes that had rest gently on top, creating vortex's of white.

"Bucky!" Steve shouted again as he stopped, the snow stung his face as he stood listening.

A bleat from his left caught his attention, Steve turned and started to trek through the heavy snow. He heard the unmistakable sound of Bucky's muffled voice cursing the animal out, slowly the closer he got he saw Bucky tangling in the barbwire separating the pastures, the tethered rope around the animals neck caught on the sharp wire.

"Jesus Buck." Steve breathed a sigh of relief as he walked over.

"Stupid animal won't come when it's called." Bucky snapped, trying to rip the barbwire that was tangled around his pant leg. He was failing, and his frustration was getting the better of him. At some point the man had pulled his gloves off, and his good hand was bleeding turning the white crimson as he worked to free himself.

"Let me help." Steve said, coming over, he knelt down and pulled his phone out. He ignored the texted from you and turned the flash light on, noticing that the phone was in the red. Slowly he unwrapped the sharp metal from around his boyfriends legs, the goat bleated again, nestling itself down under a low tree branch.

"Oh, I'm going to buy you and turn you into stew Sam!" Bucky glared at the animal that just looked back him briefly before looking away.

"There, you're untangled." Steve stated, grabbing Bucky's glove from the ever growing pile of snow. Bucky scooped up the rope and gave it a gentle tug but the animal refused to move. "How did you get tangled?"

"This idiot decided that he wanted to play hide and seek, I wasn't paying attention." Bucky replied curtly walking over and lifted the goat from its hiding place. "Anyway, found the tree trunk from the dead tree we cut down earlier this year and took a tumble. Next thing I knew is I'm hanging slightly upside down and this asshole licking the snow off my face."

"Awe, He was just checking up on you." Steve chuckled as the reached the barn.

"Not funny, punk." Bucky replied, putting the goat in the pen with the others. He walked over to the light and checked the palm of his hand, it was ripped up and bleeding but would heal.

"Shit, my phone just died, our girl texted us, hows your phone?" Steve sighed, slipping the dead item in his back pocket.

"Phone died earlier, what did her message say?" Bucky asked pulling his pant leg noticing that his thermals were bloody as well.

"Dunno, phone died before I had a chance to read it." Steve told him, noticing that Bucky's leg was also tore up as the other man pulled the thermal up a bit. "Ohh, Buddy, is she gonna be mad at you."

"Like I didn't know that." Bucky sighed as he pushed the fabric back down, he stood fully and looked over at Steve. "So, who's truck? Mines got crap tires and yours has shit for brakes."

"Coin toss?" Steve shrugged as they both stepped back out into the cold night, walking toward where both trucks were parked. "Cause she's going to be mad either way, we are way later then promised."

"Rather have brakes then tires." Bucky stated walking over towards his truck, pulling the door open, it creaked in protest. Steve nodded climbing the passenger side.

——

The house was dark when you woke, a soft glow from the embers in the fire place was your only light. Some point you had dozed off and the power went out, you knew the tree had been on when you dozed off. That was unless Bucky got home, he would of let you sleep rather then wake you. You reached out and grabbed your cell phone, the only text was from mom asking if you had power.

You pulled the throw blanket off your lap and shivered as you walked over to the fire place and tossed another log on. You poked around getting the fire going again to heat the room, the light reflecting off on glass ornaments. You looked over to the door and noticed that Steve and Bucky's coats were still missing, causing your heart to sink further. Your eyes drifted to the clock on the wall, it was midnight, officially Christmas.

A tear slowly streaked down your cheek as you settled yourself on the rug by the fire place. Crossing your fingers that they would be okay. You heard the front door unlock, and you sprang from your spot, dashing across the living room as the door opened and shut.

"What happened to the.." was all Steve got out before you crashed into him and Bucky.

"You're both okay." You sighed, the cold still lingering on them but you didn't care as you gave them both a kiss.

"Doll, were you crying?" Bucky asked, tilting your face better so he could see.

"Yes, I thought something bad happened. Neither of you answered my texts." You explained, looking up into the those deep blues.

"Both of our phone are dead." Bucky smiled softly, giving you another kiss. You pealed yourself away from them so they could take their coats off.

Both men went up stairs to change for the night before coming back down stairs. Bucky showed you his leg after Steve ratted him out and his hand. You bandaged him up knowing he would be healed by day break. Steve slid back on the couch and Bucky laid partially against him so you snuggle against both of them, your favorite place to be. The house fell quiet as the three of you laid there, suddenly the lights on the tree flickered on, cascading you three in color.

Steve sighed contently, his arms wrapped over both of your shoulders as you held Bucky's hand over Steve's chest. Snow continued to pelt the world outside your garland wrapped windows, blanketing everything in a cold crisp white but for you, this is where you want to be. Snuggled up, wrapped warmly with you and your boys.

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