#grant ward x oc

[uncertified-boykisser]

TY FOR THE ASK, I FOLLOWED U AND UR MAIN !!! also you posted if ppl would be interested in seeing your oc/canon writing and I’d personally love to read whatever you have !!!! BET ITS SO RAD !!!!! 💗💗💗

- @glitterjesse

AHH TYYY !! i hope you dont mind me answering this w one of my self-indulgent drabbles :3

from grants pov !

Midnight was so quiet except for the sound of light snoring.

I didn’t think my life would ever be this peaceful outside of my wistful imagination, but thank god I was wrong.

My best friend, the love of my life, nuzzled into my chest with no hint of stress. In the morning he would wake up with ten hours of sleep and not an eye-bag in sight, unlike when we worked for SHIELD.

Don’t get me wrong— I miss my old friends and coworkers, but having to run from several government agencies every few months gets exhausting, especially to ‘save the world!’. I hate having to worry everyday about losing the only person keeping me grounded.

I love having a normal job. I love being able to go to my normal, permanent home after a long day. I love wedging myself into bed with my amazing fucking boyfriend— who, admittedly, isn’t normal but he’s the only reason why I have all this in the first place.

I guess after living like this for a few years it’s only dawning on me now, and I’m so fucking grateful.

[jackiequick]

In fifty years, will all this be declassified? | Agents Of SHIELD Fanfic

Pairing: Amelia M. Parker & Grant Ward (WardParker)

Summary: In other words, suffering is worse than falling down low..

Characters feature/mentioned: Kara Palamas, Melissa Wallace, Marlene Kassdy, The Young Avengers

Timeline: Set a year after Captain America: The Winter Soldier (2014), Agents Of Shield Season 2 (2014-2015)

Warning: Mentions of torture, blood, needles, heartbreak and fighting

Fic Type: Angst

——

A/N: Goodness, someone help them all. Also sorry if it's a long fic! I hope you enjoy it ;) And yes I reference a Taylor Swift song as the title hehe

Inspired by: Agents Of Shield 2x21/22

—

Dry pastel lit color faded between the clouds, as the soft yet grime shades filled the room. 

The air thick with dust and the distant sound of wind howling against the cracked windows. A mild, yet faint screeching pierced the silence, mingling with the rhythmic dripping of water somewhere in the shadows.

The autumn chill that sinked though the cracks of the door made its way towards her body, responding her eyes to slowly flutter open. She squinted her eyes turning her around to see the area she was set in.

Confusion wrapped around her like a mask; the last thing she remembered was sifting through the scattered remnants of an old agent’s life in a deserted apartment, searching for files that could’ve been used for other purposes.

It was darkly and dimly lit when she made herself present in that apartment reaching for the last lines of the forgotten report, hearing a soft thud, a shadow looming behind her—then nothing.

Amelia blinked, forcing her mind to piece together the fragments, but all she grasp was the nagging dull pain against her neck. Her fingers twitching waking themselves up only to hit a wooden board. She glanced down to noticed her wrists were against a table, yet her ankles were tied backwards to the chair.

She tugged against the restraints, but they held firm, the rough fibers biting into her skin. Panic clawed at her throat as she took in her surroundings: the rusted beams overhead, the scattered debris underfoot, and the faint light filtering through the grime-coated windows.

With every strained breath, the cold air seeped deeper into her bones, heightening her senses. The screeching outside grew louder, mingling with the pounding of her heart.

Just then, a door creaked open somewhere in the warehouse, and her breath caught in her throat. Amelia huffed and winced catching sight of who it was.

Grant Ward.

Following behind him was Agent 33, Kara Palamas, an a former SHIELD agent. Her was brain given some deep suffering, due to memory loss from Daniel Whitehall and of course she was helped afterward, tested by Fitzsimmons, then she left again. More or less…

Grant smiled sitting across the table from her. One of fingers lightly pushes a strand of hair away from Amelia’s face to see her clearly. Grant will never admit it but he didn’t like having her kidnapped, but he needed SHIELD to reveal any information that had on the Projects and Daniel Whitehall.

Amelia was one of SHIELD most well known and possibly active agents they had. According to the rumor mill she was loved and appreciated, having help put The Young Avengers together, being his co-captain in the very beginning of Coulson’s team back in 2013 and the list went on.

But he knew that Amelia Parker only scratched the surface, of the people she was surrounded by. He knew that none of the recruits and so-called friends truly cared for her, watched her six. If they did care, they would’ve found her by now. Hell, Agent Hill was the one who pushed her senseless into being the agent she was today. 

The poor workaholic agent who was pushed to the brink of it all, making the choices to see the good in others and step in to put herself in danger for the sake of the people around her. 

For the sake of the mission. 

Pushing down all the hurt and blame for her own sake. Taking the hits, making the kills and watching the ones she cared for suffer. 

All Grant wanted to do was keep her safe, have her join him in the mist of SHIELD’s fall back in 2014 and live on the run. But she refused to stay with him.

Because her loyalty was too high and her trust in others were on the balancing act of being destroy right before her eyes.

And yet, here she sat in front of him, her own green eyes staring right into his brown ones.  

“Hi baby.” He said in a calm low tone. 

She held a tight calm smile as she responded, “Hi.

“I’mma cut to the chase. You do know why you’re here, right?”

“Cause you miss me, hon?”

Kara, who was standing a few steps behind Grant, crossed her arms and held back a scoff at her remark. She knew the two had history, which annoyed her completely.

“Miss you? That’s a bold assumption,” Kara shot back, forcing the humor even as her pulse raced slightly.

Grant leaned forward, the smile fading as he studied her. “You’re in a warehouse, tied to a chair. I don’t want to play games, Ames.”

Kara shifted, her posture rigid as she eyed Amelia. “You don’t have to protect her anymore, Grant. She’s not one of us…”

“Not one of us?” Amelia echoed, the bite in her voice sharper than she intended. “You think that just because you’re playing for a different side now, it makes you less of a traitor?”

Kara bristled, but Grant raised a hand, silencing the tension in the room.  “This isn’t about sides,” he said, his tone even but strained. “It’s about information. SHIELD’s been sitting on something big, and I need you to help me find it.”

Amelia’s mind raced at the thought. The thought of betraying her former team sent a chill through her. “And what if I refuse? What makes you think I will help you?”

He leaned closer, intensity radiating from him. “Then you’ll stay here. And trust me, we both know I always find another way to get what I need. But it won’t be pretty for you.”

“Is that a threat, baby?”

“Call it a promise. I said don’t ever want to hurt you, Ames, not again, but if it comes to it, I will.”

Amelia’s eyes fell of Kara and exhaled, “And her?”

Grant noticed her gaze and leaned backwards. His expression turned serious as he said, “Kara, is none of your concern.”

“Liar. What is it that I did that so wrong to her?”

Kara shifted and met her gaze, leaning forward with a slight glare. “You know what you did, you're responsible for my kidnapping, you and Wallace had my location rigid and led me to Whitehall. When I did escape, Marlene and the others were late to get me back to base. I was tortured and enslaved for what felt like ages!”

Amelia’s eyes darted as she shifted, trying to stand up from her chair. She snarled, “The location was rigid to begin with! It wasn’t mine or Melissa’s fault. It was none of our faults!”

“Then apologize!”

“For a miscommunication? I did weeks ago!”

“It wasn’t enough.”

“..why have it be just me? Not strap Melissa or anyone else to a chair?”

That’s when Kara allowed a small smirk to appear on her face.

“Because. Melissa will just give me a snarky remark and scream, she’s not trained for the physical and mental discomfort across the body. But you are.” Kara explained to Amelia.

Amelia’s eyes darted back to Ward with a warning tone. “Grant.” She muttered. 

Grant stood from his seat and grabbed a device from the wall as he contained the explanation to a minimum, “We’re using you as an advantage here, Ames. If we want SHIELD to give us what they want as well and see a piece of them crumble, why not have one of their finest agents be the representation of it all?”

“Which means?” Amelia asked.

“We will keep you here.” Kara said, “In result, disorient the other agents such as Melissa, Marlene and your precious boyfriend, who I bet has no idea that your gone, into running around in rampage looking for you. The more pain you inflect, will give the others no choice but to give us the information needed.”

Amelia’s heart raced with a mix of fear and defiance as the words hung in the air. 

She scoffed as a small smile broke across her face. A shake chuckle escaped her hips for whatever reason. “You’re both just petty and delusional.” Amelia remarked. “Even if it I am not found by them, and I’m tortured. You realize that The Young Avengers will get concerned and try to find me, right?”

Grant crossed his arms and shook her head, as he strapped a wires and tightened the chair a bit more. Beforehand, he used anesthetic to remove any sensation of pain from Morse-Parker, however the sensation of the shockwaves and needles will be an unbearable pain, hitting her body all at once. 

Kara claimed to many beforehand, that was the pain she felt when she was harmed by Whitehall and when she regained control of her mind once again. 

When no one answered her remarked about The Young Avengers—Liane, Rick, Rochelle, Cole and the others—would grow panicked and try to find her, it was a clear as day response. They were too busy and selfish to care for others’s turmoil to save them. Kara and Grant convey that answer by just exchanging a glance at Amelia.

 Amelia's heart raced, a mixture of defiance and dread coursing through her veins. “You really think that will work? You’re underestimating them.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm, masking the worry gnawing at her.

Grant tightened the straps, his brow furrowed with frustration. “It’s not about underestimating them. It’s about making them desperate.”

Kara’s smirk faded as she stepped closer. “You think they care enough to risk everything for you? They’ve got their own battles to fight. You’re just a pawn in this game, Amelia.”

The weight of her words hit harder than any blow. Memories of laughter and camaraderie flashed through Amelia’s mind, but the shadows of doubt loomed larger. She shook her head, unwilling to let them see her falter. “You’re wrong. They won’t stop searching for me.”

Grant leaned back, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. “And if they do find you, what then? You think they’ll storm in here and rescue you? They don’t even know where you are.”

Kara stepped closer, her voice low and chilling. “They’ll waste time chasing ghosts, and by the time they figure it out, it’ll be too late.”

-----

A silence fell, heavy with unspoken truths. Amelia felt the chill in the air deepen, a reminder of her vulnerability as the hours went by. She felt herself growing hungry and weak by the second, as her eyes tried their hardest to not give into the weight and close themselves.

Deep into the night, the weight of Grant and Kara’s words hit pierced harder than any words. Every moment spent in the room, tied to the chair, her wrists trying to wiggle out of the restrains and the needles digging into her fingers send an engulfing pain across her body. The wires sending shockwaves through her body, were just as bad, she could practically taste the metal in the air, under her skin. 

Amelia was on the brink of giving into the pain and torment, that she was lost caused. She wasn’t going to be saved. That Kara and Grant were right. She was fool to think SHIELD and The Young Avengers—her friends—would care to save her. To release any evidence in hopes of having her come back to them.

That loyalty and trust that tied her to her team was slipping between her fingers.

She could’ve sworn she heard typing of a laptop and invoices being messaged between the two in another room, whenever Kara or Grant weren’t inside with her. She could hear Grant’s low murmur, the occasional sharp retort from Kara. The sound of certain agents from the messages, such as Marlene, her voice was faintly heard, so was Melissa. A flicker of Jeremy’s tone of voice and a few others that she didn’t quite recognize.

She wondered if Jeremy was negotiating a deal to the data on Whitehall or some kind of information in general. She wondered if Melissa trying to relocate the trace of the phone's pattern to her location, or maybe Marlene had just threaten to murder Ward.

Gods know what the others on the line must've been discussing.

However nothing from The Young Avengers.

As for their mouths moving? Conversation between the three echo though the warehouse, a mixture of screams, snarky remarks, and words that were sharper than a knife. Grant was one of the few people, who knew her better than anyone, he had a hand in training her and sense her downfall from a mile away. 

He knew that she knows that there was no one coming from her. And if they did. They would be too late, suffering the lost of someone who they assumed, they care for deeply. It was a twisted symphony of betrayal and desperation that echoed around her, each note driving the point home: she was alone.

Speaking of echos being said, at one point, when Amelia refused to once again to apologize to Kara, the closure to heal according to Grant, the brunette slapped Amelia across the face before she walked around the chair with a wicked smirk.

“If you want a nice view of my ass, sweetheart, that will be...” Amelia said in a slight witty tone, however her voice trailed off, hearing the sound of fabric and a wince of a blade, “..what is she doing?”

Grant didn’t let her swift her neck around to see the damage about to inflect upon her, instead snatching her chin under his fingers, forcing her to face him. For a fleeting moment, his gaze softened, a hint of regret flickering in his brown eyes.

“You don’t have to do this, Ames. We can work this out—” He said in a soft tone. 

“No.“ Amelia cut him off, her tone resolute, almost shaking in a hush tone, “Not like this..”

Before she can even repeat her words, a sharp passing of a knife slide across the back of her knees, her inner knees, as she let out a deep whine. She squeezed her eyes and gasped breathing heavily, her chest rising and fall, due to the action taking place. Her eyes water as she gulped, catching Grant’s gaze as she tried to wipe her face towards Kara.

Amelia’s breath came in ragged gasps, the pain radiating through her legs, refusing to show weakness, however it was clear. Grant’s grip on her chin tightened, his gaze searching hers for a flicker of compliance.

Kara stepped closer, a glint of amusement in her eyes. “You really think you’re in control here? You’re tied up, and your friends are miles away. This is your reality now.”

Amelia felt the weight of her words sink in, but she wouldn’t give in just yet. “And if I break? If I give they what you want? What happens then?”

She shrugged, a cruel smile curling her lips. “Maybe we’ll let you go. Maybe I won’t. It all depends on how entertaining you are.”

Before Amelia could respond, Grant’s expression shifted, a flicker of anger crossing his face. “Enough, Kara. This isn’t a game.”

Kara rolled her eyes, dismissing his concern. “Oh please, Grant. You’re not her keeper. She made her choices.”

Amelia’s eyes flickered between the pair. Despite Grant’s protectiveness over her, he was true as day that he cared for Kara just the same. He may claim to still love her, but his heart had made space for Kara. She scoffed, honestly, with how delusional they both were, they desires each other. 

“Choices?” Amelia scoffed, her voice steady despite the pain. “Um, I didn’t choose to be here, and you know it.”

Grant’s jaw tightened, a mix of frustration and a hint of guilt flashing across his face. “I didn’t want this for you, Amelia. I wanted to protect you.”

“By letting Kara and yourself torture me?” she shot back, her gaze unwavering. “You’re not protecting me, Grant. You lied to me once, you’ll do it again.”

He always said that one thing, she will understand everything he ever done, but she won’t. One look from Kara and Grant, and she realized she was more than a pawn, in this sick game. She’s the queen. The moment she decide to cooperate or her teammates come and find her, give them any information about Whitehall, the game changes. 

If she might even survive this.

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

The hours went by, no help, no hope of salvation—none. 

It was hopeless.

She whimpered and winced, gasping for air as her fingers were being pierced by needles and her body was attached to the wires from earlier. She has been yelled at, bleeding and bruised.

She was purely shaking at this point. At least she was able to convince Ward to release her ankles for some breathing room. However, she was cold. From her feet to her toes, despite the clothing she was wearing, she was feeling the air bouncing against her skin.

As she wiggled her wrists against the restraints, searching for any weakness, the faint sound of footsteps approached. She held her breath, heart pounding, readying herself for whatever was to come.

The door creaked open, and Grant stepped inside. He paused, meeting her gaze with a mixture of concern and resolve. 

“You okay?” he asked, a hint of sincerity breaking through his hardened facade.

Her voice was slightly shaky under her breath, “Is that even a question?”

“Ames.”

“Not even close, and you know it.” 

“It’s gonna be a long night, I knew you’ll be tough. Coulson’s got an eye for talent.”

“So did you..”

He sighed, his harden facade slowly returned, as a tone that was undoubtedly unreadable appeared. He sat down across from her. Her breathing was deep and hitched, her glares softened ever so slightly, before slowly hardening once again.

“You and I are a lot alike, Ames.” He began, his voice simple yet smooth. “Emotions buried deep inside where nowhere will ever find it.”

She shook her head lightly, “Why’s that? Because you know me very well?” “Because the reason why you kill and fight and recruit others..it’s not because you feel it’s a duty.”

“It is..you caught onto that lesson very early on. Being pushed to the prime level, because it hides whatever uncertainty you have..”

“That’s what you think? Are you referring to me or yourself?”

Amelia paused remembering a conversation she had with Skye involving the context of Ward. He kills because of his emotional attachment and his desire to help, not just for his own desire but for a gain. 

But there was something more to that.

After a moment Amelia said under her breath as she admitted, “..it’s not because of nothing, or that it’s a duty to serve..it’s because you feel too much..i feel too much..”

Grant watched her eyes gearing up, the shift in her eyes, at the realization. The pain, the despair, the suffering, the repeated questions and conversation. It was like memories flashed—every laugh, every time she was snapped at, every snarl or glare, every moment of believing in trust and faith—it all came crashing down upon her.

The right push and she can be forced to see the truth, even if she denied it. Hell, the words that Amelia said hit Grant as hard a brick. It wasn’t false, he did care, sometimes way too much. But like he said, he buried it deep, to save himself the heartbreak and torment.

However he did say if Amelia didn’t corporate, or if SHIELD didn’t release information on Whitehall, he will do a certain job. One that she has seen done before..

“Baby, listen to me.” Grant said, bringing her back to the moment holding up needle in-between his fingers. “Kara needs closure. Your teammates are already suffering with no idea where you are, thanks to Kara. But you, just admit you betrayed her and we can end this.”

She scoffed, “You’re such a hypocrite, you know that? Betray her? Honey, may I remind you that you betrayed your whole entire team! You betrayed me.”

“For the—! For the hundredth time, I was loyal to Garrett, not HYDRA!”

“For the hundredth time, I don’t care!”

“Amelia!”

“What?! You always have that excuse or decide to blame Garrett for your choices!”

“We both know, if it was the other way another and you were in my shoes, you would understand! We talked about this!”

“I know! And for the that, I say, screw you!”

That’s when Grant leaned forward against the table, his body dangling among the chair he sat in. Their face were mere inches apart, they can feel the other’s hot breath against one another’s face. Every scare, bump and bruise, laced across their face.

The tension was heating off their bodies, their breathing was thick and hitched. 

“You don’t know me as well, as you think you do.” He growled under his breath, his back arched and his palms pressed against the table.

“Sure I do, baby.” She responded, growling in the same exact intensity.

However she held a light smirk, ripping off her restraints that she spent the last hours  loosing up, grunted as she both hands grabbed the back of his neck and slammed his face into the table.

She held out a breath, snatching the needle from his grasp and stabbing him with it. Grant broke free from her grasp just as quickly, as Amelia stumbled backwards. He launched at her as she jumped over the table and kicked him the chest. 

Before they two knew it, they were dancing around, blocking and trying to punch one another into corners. Spinning, turning and trying to slam the other into a wall. Grunts, pounding from footsteps against the ground, shouts and screaming were heard from within the warehouse, as they broke though the walls and into the hallways.

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

At one point, Amelia raised her height was going to cause her a real disadvantage, Grant was taller than her by a lot. So just as he was about to launch at her once again, she reached up to a poll, grasping a tight grip before swinging her legs forwards launching Grant to break though the window of the door. 

“I taught you well..” He muttered, a hint of pride in his voice, before grabbing her and swinging the brunette around as they head butted one another hitting against the tight narrow hallway.

Amelia head was slammed backwards, pounding firm near a wall, before her body slid downwards onto the floor as she grunted and let out a groaned. Grant towered over her just as Kara hurried in, holding her gun towards Amelia.

She was ready to shoot her, but didn’t, yet. She wanted to hear the apology, understand her pain. She exchanged a look with Ward.

“Anything you want to say to Kara?” Grant asked, letting out a deep breath.

Amelia’s eyes darted between the door of them, her vision was blurry as she said, “..yeah.”

“She’s waiting.”

“I’m not sorry anymore..” Amelia muttered under her breath. 

Kara exhaled, lowering the gun, “This isn’t right..I’m not feeling, she’s not sorry..”

Grant took the gun from her stuffing it into his back pocket and placed a hand on her shoulder, “It’s alright, baby, I know what to do..”

Her gaze flickered between the pair, one look from Grant and Amelia knew what was coming for her, he going to pull the trigger. The hours were running up. 

He’ll do the one thing she seen him do, only once, years ago. 

It will not just make her suffer but the ones who claimed to love her...

~~~~~~

~~~~~~~

AHH! It was a lot I know but let me know what you think! Thoughts, comments and what you love about it all. Pls like, comment and share for more.

Tags: @gaminggirlsstuff @gcthvile @missstrawbs2001 @djs8891 @starkleila @aidanxsophxoxo @mandylove1000 @yetanotherwells @rickb-chaos @topgun-imagines s @hardballoonlove @buckysteveloki-me @sherloquestea @ximehs @savemewattpad @theonlyblackcanary y @terry-perry @triptuckers @daughter-of-melpomene @superspookyjanelle @infinetlyforgotten and etc

[ask-missparker]

The reckless denial | Agents Of SHIELD Fic

Setting: Takes place during season 2

Characters mentioned: Skye, Fitzsimmons, Mack, Coulson, Rick Banner, Luna Marsh, Cole Lehnsherr and Liane Felton

Established Pairing: Rick & Luna

Fic type: Blurb

———

—Last said in the last post…

And most importantly, Amelia undergoes an even more shocking turn of events due to shield discovery of alien, inhuman and mutant activity across the country. During an trip to Puerto Rico, one of islands underneath the caves held the rumbling ability to unlock unhinged truths.

While Skye and Tripp were down there, in the mist of the explosive wave that resulted in Skye’s odd transformation, Amelia was effected in the blast getting hurt as she watched Tripp die.

But that wasn’t the only thing that happened…

Amelia woke up on the thick warmly crumbling ground with a splitting headache cause she was throw against a deep wall in the cave. She bleed a bit from the blast, seem to have taken a strong impressionable hit.

She rolled onto her chest, pushing herself to stand up as she winced racing around to the edge to only looked over to notice Tripp’s in crumbling ashes. Dead, as if he was turned to stone then been destroyed within a matter of seconds.

She noticed Skye on standing there, surrounded by dust and rock, as the whole place was rumbling and pillars were falling apart within the cave. She looked at her with fear, confusion, and surreal shock as her fists were uncurling themselves.

Amelia didn’t hesitate to hover a hand over Skye’s back ushering her out of the cave, as she helped lead everyone out of there as safety as possible. The rumbling continued frequently as they all moved along the path then stopped by the women they reached most of the other half of the team.

~~~~

Some time later, everyone returned back to the SHIELD facility, being looked over and being patched up for any damage. Skye was quickly moved into a separate clear room, being watched up machines, scientist and medical staff until further noticed.

She was basically in quarantine for a while, meanwhile everyone else was doing their best to figure out happens next. Everyone was quarantined for a bit to heal and release whatever might’ve been in their system from the swimming blast.

Fitzsimmons were suspicious as they ran tests on her state. They all were suspicious at how Skye was still standing but seemingly hurt.

Her vitals were interesting to say the least, Amelia was more than curious about it as she took recommended Advil for her headaches during the whole situation. Hell, they were grieving Tripp’s death in their own way! She noticed everyone’s cyclone ways of dealing with the aftermath of the storm they were all hit with.

A storm of emotions filled with sadness, anger, anxiety, depression and straight up denial of it all. Trying to forget everything happened but they couldn’t. Hell they were ready to fight one another and throw a few chairs. Skye was shaking and crying at the mere thought because she was the one to see the process of his death, everyone just saw the aftermath. Blaming herself as Amelia and Coulson comforted her, knowing it wasn’t her fault even though it felt like it was to her.

~~~

To keep herself from getting too overwhelmed and wanting to smack someone like Mack or race off to use Hunter as a mini punching bag, she decided to escape to Avengers Tower for a bit due to not being there in a while.

The consuming energy that floated around Amelia as she watched and hung out with friends such Rick, Liane and Luna calmed her down. They asked her what happened but she was under strict orders to not say much of the circumstances to her visit, despite the fact that she wanted to let them know. Assuming it was on the news right now of the rumbling from Puerto Rico and tunnels being collapsed.

Rick being the more cautious person there, sensed something was off about her energy. He sniffed an underwhelming amount of concern and denial from her but he sensed something more, after hearing about the strong headaches. And the fact that seemed to have not slept in a long period of time. Luna was more than curious about it all and wondered what happened, promising to not tell the others as Amelia pointed to the TV screen and slowly explained how there was a swimming blast that knocked her out cold. She tried to connect the dots.

Liane’s firey personality was suspicious and skeptical of Amelia Parker, wanting to figure out what exactly happened to her physically after hearing the story beats of her tale. She watched her fingers tinker, her eyes narrow as of she was having another headache, almost nervous like Luna. Imitating her impressions and anxiety from curiosity that surged into her veins, as Liane grinned as her and Rick went to talk.

It confused and concerned Amelia as she stayed talking with Luna at how much they felt about the situation. One moment she’s fine and another she’s feeling ticked off due to Rick and Liane’s dispute as Luna kept wanting to ease her mind.

~~~~

It felt like her head was hurting, spinning as she sense the uprising engulfed energetic personalities bounce off from one another. Like she can sense their feelings battling to stay a bay. Amelia thought back to the argument at the SHIELD between Mack, Bobbi, Coulson, May, Hunter and herself as she sensed Skye’s discomfort for a split second, yelling over everyone to cool down separately.

This anxiety written feeling crept up her back, feeling hot and heavy blinking between Luna and the table in the living room. As if her vision went blurry for a moment, like she might pass out. Luna held her up and asked if she was alright, with her own powers she could sense she was freaking out as she called for Rick and Liane for help.

Luna gasped greatly noticing a flicker in Amelia’s eyes then disappeared just as quickly. She barely saw any color in her eyes.

~~~~

Rick raced in surprise to see Amelia having a anxiety attack, it was rarely a thing to see with her always being just fine, but it concerned him watching her as he tried to help calm her down. It reminded him of himself but less strong but still there something that didn’t match up, sensing a slight denial difference taking in her whole appearance as it clicked. She was effected, traumatized by it all.

Luna moved over to let Amelia have some space to breathe, as she never good at calming others down without getting scared or anxious herself. Especially after seeing what she saw and whispered it into Liane’s ear.

Liane gasped and almost screamed hearing her, noticing some things as Luna did more promptly. The subtle shifts and movements that Amelia made, as she glanced at the girls and back at Rick with almost a glare, sensing the same as him, something was going on.

She quickly calmed down, as her glares soften thinking about Skye for a slip second and the whole fact that Fitzsimmons was suspicious of everything, running test on a couple of people like Mack while she was gone. Her focused returned to the trio because as she zoned out, they were talking among themselves.

~~~

Then she heard it.

Liane out of curiosity and excitement yelled, “OH MY GOD SHE IS ONE OF US! Another mutant of some kind?!” Luna gasped looking back at her friend questioning how is it possible but she was interested. Rick was the most confused being a man of espionage and science fiction, he wondered the extent of this difference, if it was something semi-permanent or long lasting. But a part of him was intrigued.

But Amelia was recklessly in denial about all of it. The shock, sorrow and questions didn’t wrap around her head, yet. She was a normal human being, an agent of SHIELD and got examined earlier by Fitzsimmons, her vitals were fine.

Suddenly Cole busted through the door and shouted, “Ah ha! I knew something was suspicious was going on the second she wanted into the room!”

Rick rolled his eyes and snorted as Luna chuckled. Liane smirked. Meanwhile Amelia raised an eyebrow at her best friend, “Your unbelievable sometimes, you know that?”

Cole just grinned.

~~

—> Thanks for reading. ✨That’s what I got! Comment down below with ideas and reblog your thoughts

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[woeswrites]

Fidus Achates

Capulus

To his team, Spencer has only ever been treated as an encyclopedia. Only when they're at a loss do they search through his pages. He is used and used, but is never once appreciated. Maybe that is what motivated him to seek a confidant. Someone who can sympathize with him and see him for what he truly is; a person and not just a machine spitting out facts (though he can do that too).

Or... Spencer Reid seeks out a therapist and realizes he has some boundary issues, to say the least

Pairing: yan!Spencer Reid x male!OC

Word count: 1,031

Notes: Don't expect quick updates to this. I'm a very inconsistent writer. Editing constantly

"Hello, this is the office of Dr. Ward, correct?"

A well-kept and most likely middle aged receptionist took a break from her string of typing to look up. The nameplate displayed front and center on her marbled counter read “Karla Thompson, Front Desk Representative”.

"You’re in the right place, name please."

She held a tight (yet appropriately polite) smile on her face. She didn’t appear displeased but it was evident she had a lot on her hands.

"Spencer."

The woman held eye contact expectantly.

"Oh right- uh, Spencer Reid". She punched in something before responding.

"It seems your new here. You'll need to fill out these-" Just before Karla could finish grabbing a stack of forms to drop on him, Spencer reached into his leather satchel.

“-Actually…” Reid slipped a standard folder labeled ‘WARD’ out of his bag and onto the countertop. "I filled them all out already.” The woman was a bit surprised but reached over nonetheless. “I can get pretty busy so I figured I would do all this desk work prior to coming in. It has been shown to save up to…" His words began to fade as he realized he was going off again. "Sorry." Karla nodded and opened up the manila casing. She seemingly glanced through the materials.

"You're lucky, our doctors have been running ahead of schedule today. Doesn't happen very often." She shook her head at her comment. "Listen, you'll need to head down to the last door on your left." The long acrylic pasted to her index finger directed Spencer toward the nearest hallway. "The doctor should be waiting for you in there." Spencer gave a curt nod as a formality.

Before he had even left the desk Karla was typing away again. The clacking was audible all the way from the nearly empty waiting room to the mahogany door inscribed with the name 'Malakai Ward'. Spencer lifted his hand up in a loose fist before rapping his knuckles against the wood. A muffled voice granted him entrance.

Spencer hadn't planned for the sudden wave of dark roast that hit his nostrils. It wasn't particularly on brand for a doctor's office, which he usually associated with more of a soap-like aroma, but he'd be lying if he said it didn't help soothe his nerves a little. Spencer was latching on to any bit of familiarity her could around here.

"Oh hello! Dr. Reid is it?"

"Huh?" Too entranced in his senses Spencer completely missed the figure standing in front of him. A tall caucasian male, approximately 27 years in age and 6 feet 3 inches in height.

‘Definitely young for someone in his profession, so there’s a high probability for an above average IQ.’

"Oh yes. Though, I would prefer if you just called me Spencer." Being addressed by that title in this situation felt a little odd.

"Alright, Spencer it is. It is very nice to meet you."

"Uh, yes, it is nice to meet you too Doctor." He was not the type to physically greet people like this, but he was unsure of exactly how he should be approaching this situation.

As a profiler, it’s not uncommon for Spencer to take in the appearance of those around him. In fact, it would be far more strange if he ignored the attributes of someone before him.

As such, all of the man's features were quickly being jotted down and stored in his mental files. Dr. Ward wore a brown curled haircut, a pair of metal-framed reading glasses, and some light stubble. His general attributes were pretty common, but a closer look reveals an amalgamation of attractive features.

Dr. Ward smiled and reciprocated the gesture. He definitely seemed more comfortable than Spencer during the interaction. The later retracted his hand in a calculated way (trying not to focus too much on the skin to skin contact) and stood awkwardly. "I believe I mentioned on the phone the reason for my reaching out to you."

"Yes, I believe you did. It's not every day that an FBI member contacts me after all." A polite laugh was exchanged as Dr. Ward motioned for the two of them to take a seat on his office chairs. "I remember finding it strange that you sought an outside professional instead of contacting a therapist whom you work alongside." Spencer took a seat on the surprisingly comfortable chair across from the doctor.

"Well, that was my intention really. I wanted to be able to speak to someone who wasn't affiliated with my... work situation."

"So, to my understanding, you have come to me in order to find someone who will listen-" Dr. Ward glanced down briefly to his notes before continuing “As you believe many of the people in your life are not willing to. Did I get that right?" Hearing those words out loud stung a little.

"It appears so..." Spencer adjusted his sweater vest at the collar.

"Don't worry, it is a relatively common occurrence in this field." The doctor offered a smile. "And I am more than happy to help you with that Spencer. You will always have my undivided attention while you are here."

Spencer's eyes widened slightly from the sincerity of the response but he quickly returned to his normal composure. This whole situation was more than embarrassing for the young wiz kid so it was comforting to know that someone wasn’t judging him for making this move. The opposite actually.

“Before we begin, have you ever had a therapist before me?” Spencer shook his head no. “That’s alright. I’m just going to briefly ask you some standard questions to help me further understand how I can best assist you throughout this process. Is that okay with you?” Spencer looked around the room for a second, gathering small bits and pieces as he did.

'Dog person'

'Hockey fan'

'Big on literature'

All of this information helped Spencer gather a better sense of who this person was behind his doctorate. It helped soothe his nerves a little knowing that, he too, was a normal person with hobbies, likes, and dislikes.

Spencer nodded, allowing the doctor to proceed.

"Alright, well lets get started then, shall we?"

[sunnyrealist]

Chapter 41: Follow Me Into the Next Life

The Sun, the Moon, and All Our Stars

Summary and Details…

Previous Chapter Recap/Context: Sebastian and Kate are on an adventurous camping trip in the Scottish Highlands. Their goal is to explore the mysterious Blackfold Castle. Protective wards, set by a queen who took her own life, have kept curious treasure-hunters away for centuries. When the couple first arrives, Sebastian attempts to break the wards with no success. However, Kate is able to stroll past the barrier with no issue and somehow is able to bring Sebastian with her. As they approach, Kate's emotions suddenly transform to ones of fear, grief, and deep sorrow. Soon, it seems that the castle itself is pulling them inside.

Pairing: 25-year-old, post-Azkaban Sebastian Sallow x Kate Mayflower (my OC)

Content warnings: In general, this is rated 18+ - minors should not read or interact with this story. This chapter really doesn't have content warnings, but there are some sad moments related to heartbreak.

Artwork: The illustrated pictures of Kate and Sebastian were commissioned from @giselsann-opencommissions.

The full chapter is available below the cut; it can also be found on AO3 (link is posted below). Please leave some feedback if possible, especially if you like what you read! 🥰

Chapter 41: Follow Me Into the Next Life

When the doors shut behind them, candles suddenly flicker to life, bringing the interior out of the darkness for the first time in over 500 years. Sebastian is surprised to find the air inside the castle fresh, as though someone had been here recently, though in his heart he knows that couldn’t be true. The castle has deemed them special enough to grant access, though he is not sure why.

“Are you alright?” Sebastian asks gently.

Kate’s inner turmoil has disappeared - no longer terrified and overwhelmed with melancholia, she feels a sense of relief. Nodding, she replies in amazement, “I’m… completely fine now.”

Sebastian leads the way, moving cautiously inside the huge hall. It’s oddly empty, with plenty of open space. Plaid tapestries line the walls. Stained glass windows allow colored light into the hall. A wooden table lies in the center of the room and, behind it, a huge pensieve. On the table are a piece of parchment, a quill, and a pot of ink. Ornate candlesticks burn brightly on each side of the set of writing tools.

The eerie silence is only broken by their footsteps as they make their way to the table, which is clean, though it would stand to reason it should be quite dusty and dirty after many centuries.

Sebastian and Kate lean over, examining the only words written on the parchment: Ma tha an dithis agaibh an seo, bha sinn soirbheachail.

Kate glances at her boyfriend, furrowing her brow. She shakes her head. “I don’t know what that means…”

Sebastian appears bewildered. “It’s Scottish Gaelic.” He reads the words aloud fluently, then murmurs its translation. “If you are both here… we were successful.”

“You know the language?” Kate asks, surprised.

“Yes,” he replies, still looking unsettled by the message. “My father taught me Latin, Greek, and Scottish Gaelic. And then I studied some more languages on my own - I can understand Ancient Runes, Phoenician, Cyrillic, and Aramaic.”

Kate looks at him in wonder. “That’s incredible. I had no idea.” 

“‘If you are both here, we were successful,’” Sebastian repeats, his eyebrows knitting together. “I don’t understand.”

She examines the parchment once more, then the items on the table. “Why leave writing utensils and only that one sentence?”

He takes the quill, dipping it into the pot of ink. “That’s exactly the question. I have a hunch. I’m going to try something.” He scribbles two words on the paper and says them aloud in English. Feasgar math. “Good afternoon.” 

Kate gasps as their first exchanged messages disappear, replaced by another. Sebastian narrates and translates. “Tha mi air feitheamh cho fada gus an ruig thu. I have waited so long for you to arrive.”

Who are you? Sebastian queries in Scottish Gaelic.

I am you, the parchment answers cryptically.

Kate and Sebastian glance confusedly at each other.

What is your name?

Eilionoir. And yours?

“Queen Eilionoir of Blackfold Castle,” Kate murmurs. “How…? How is she doing this? It’s impossible. She’s dead…”

“Should we give our names?” Sebastian asks.

“I don’t know,” she replies. “It could be the work of Dark magic… What do you think?”

Sebastian begins scribbling again. What shall you do with our names?

I shall do nothing. I am merely curious to know our names.

Our names?

Yes. Our names. Please. And pray tell, what is the year?

1899. Sebastian glances at Kate, who nods in approval. We are Sebastian Renatus Sallow and Kate Camellia Mayflower.

I see. Much time has passed. I wonder why it took so many centuries. I have never heard such names.

What do you mean by “it?”

You shall understand soon.

Sebastian grows bolder, tired of playing games. Why did you draw Kate into this place? Do you seek to harm us?

It has been so long. I did not wish to risk losing you both. I waited for you specifically. I promise that neither of you shall not be harmed. I want you to understand. Please take note. Should you heed my instructions, you shall be greatly rewarded. You shall leave this place with more knowledge and wealth than you can imagine.

Kate and Sebastian exchange glances, eyebrows raised.

We do not understand, but we await your directions.

If you are Neacal, you surely must know how to use a Pensieve, yes?

Sebastian shakes his head. Perhaps this charmed paper is not as effective or intelligent as he was beginning to believe. My name is Sebastian. I know how to use a Pensieve.

Marvelous. Sebastian, I have left memories for you and Kate to view. You likely enjoy exploring, yes?

Yes.

You shall explore this castle, where I once dwelled. In each room of the southern wing, I left bottled memories. Collect them. If you use them in order, you shall see the story of my life chronologically. Do not disturb any of the items in the rooms - only procure the memories. When your task is complete, I shall reveal more - and provide a reward.

Sebastian is not quite sure what to say, so he ends with: Thank you.

“I’ve never used a Pensieve…” Kate tells him hesitantly.

“It isn’t difficult,” Sebastian assures her.

Kate grasps his hand tightly. “Sebastian, how is any of this possible?”

Sebastian shakes his head. “I’m not entirely certain. It would take powerful magic to link one’s conscious memory to an object, like a piece of parchment. Queen Eilionoir must have had a very important reason to do it - that would take serious determination and skill. I just… I don’t understand why she writes that she has waited for us, specifically. How could she know us?”

“I don’t know, either. But… I do not think we are in danger. Do you?” Kate asks.

“No, I don’t,” he replies. “We should see this through. I’m intrigued by the promise of this reward.”

They set off into the south wing, ready to explore.

An hour later, Kate finishes arranging the memory vials in the order in which they discovered them. 

“I wonder how long each of the memories will last,” Kate muses. “There are so many of them… We will likely be here until the evening.”

Sebastian leans over the Pensieve and gazes into the wispy, swirling basin. “Let’s not wait any longer, then. I am ready when you are.”

Kate nods. “So, what do I do?”

“Stand next to the Pensieve. I will retrieve a memory, open the bottle, and empty its contents. Then, both of us shall place our faces into the Pensieve,” he explains, walking to the table and selecting the first memory. “It will feel strange at first. You will feel like you are truly there, and you’ll see what this person experienced. You will not be able to interact with anything in the memory, but you will be able to move about and see a little beyond what the queen could see herself.” He uncaps the glass top of the memory bottle. “Does that make sense? Are you ready?”

“I’m ready,” she affirms.

Sebastian lets the silvery memory trickle out of the bottle and into the Pensieve. He and Kate stare at each other, resolved. They place their faces into the basin, and their world fades away, replaced by Queen Eilionoir’s. 

At first, Kate feels as though she is falling, but she doesn’t even notice that she lands. 

They’re in a large, green field, bordered by a forest. In the distance is a tiny cottage with a pen for livestock.

A little girl runs by, chasing after a lamb. She has long, blonde, very curly hair, green eyes, and freckles - Kate notes that she almost looks like a cherub, despite her clothing - a dark brown dress with a tattered smock, along with a dark cloth wrapped around the top of her head. Her cheeks are tinted pink, and she’s panting, trying to keep up with the runaway animal. She cries out in a language Kate doesn’t understand. 

Sebastian, standing next to Kate, murmurs, “She’s telling the lamb to stop and wait. But it doesn’t look like it will. We’ll have to follow her.”

 He takes Kate’s hand, and they begin jogging towards the lamb and child. 

Up ahead, underneath a tree, there sits a small boy, about the same age, paging through a book. He has dark - almost black - hair and brown eyes, trained on a book. He appears to be talking to himself. His clothes are in much better shape. As the little girl approaches, the boy finally looks up. 

She continues shouting at the lamb as it furthers its lead. Finally, she trips somehow, falling down hard with an “Oomph!”

The young lad closes his book, stands, and pulls a wand out of his pocket, pointing it at the lamb. He murmurs something, moving the wand, and, as a result, the creature freezes in place. Then, he dashes over to the little girl, checking to see if she is alright. He helps her stand. 

“Merlin,” Sebastian marvels. “He couldn’t be much older than five. How could he do that at that age?”

The children converse with each other.

“She thanked him. Then, they exchanged names. Eilionoir Aitken and Neacal Brody. He has offered to help her to bring the lamb back to its pen,” Sebastian explains to Kate.

Little Neacal picks up the lamb with great effort, and the two begin walking back in the direction from which Eilionoir came.

The memory fades, and Kate and Sebastian find themselves back in their world as they remove their faces from the Pensieve.

Kate touches her face, surprised it isn’t wet. “Neacal… Isn’t that the name the parchment mentioned earlier?”

“Yes,” replies Sebastian. “Let’s view the next memory, if you’re ready.”

Eilionoir cannot be much more than a year older than in the previous memory. The scenery is a one-room home, a very rustic one. Eilionoir’s face is dirty; she is sitting up on a bed stuffed with three younger siblings, fast asleep. Her mother pulls a wooden chair close to the bed. Eilionoir clutches her stomach and appears to complain.

“She’s hungry,” Sebastian translates.

Eilionoir’s mother responds to her, taking a strand of blond curls in her hair.

Sebastian listens to the conversation, then tells Kate what transpired. He’s frowning. “Her mother told her that she should just go to sleep if she’s hungry, for there is no more food. She then taught Eilionoir that someday, she will save the family from poverty by marrying someone wealthy. She told her that it is a woman’s duty to marry and have children for her husband. It is the only thing women are made for, and she tells Eilionoir that she must be so pretty for a reason - that she is sure to attract someone of a higher status.”

Eilionoir smiles innocently, then asks another question. Then, the memory fades.

When Kate and Sebastian return to their world, he translates again. “Eilionoir asked if her husband will have food.”

Kate looks down, troubled by what they saw and heard. “Such poverty… and yet she ended up here, in Blackfold Castle.”

Many years pass throughout the memories inside the third bottle.

Most of the scenes take place after sunset, as it grows dark outside. Kate eventually deduces that they must only be able to meet at night, after the day’s work is complete.

Eilionoir meets Neacal at the same tree from the first memory. He holds his wand out, clearly utilizing Lumos. They laugh, running through a dark forest, side by side. They eventually come to a river, and Neacal finds a fallen tree that might lead them across, but it’s clearly not all that stable or safe. Eilionoir tries to hold him back, but Neacal climbs onto it without any hesitation. Stepping carefully and testing his weight, he makes it across the river. Then, he beckons for her to follow, and she does. The moment she is across, they run further and further into the woods.

The next memory finds Neacal seated at the tree, waiting for Eilionoir again. He reads a book using his illuminated wand. Eilionoir arrives and sits beside him. He recites the words to her. 

“A fairy tale?” Kate guesses.

Sebastian laughs, shaking his head. “Far from it.” He steps closer to the two of them, hovering close behind and examining the words on the page. “It’s a book that teaches about magical theory.” 

Kate furrows her brow. “They can’t be more than nine years old… Are you sure?”

He chuckles. “Yes, I’m certain. And look, they are both so interested…”

“At nine, I would have been reading tales of princesses and heroes,” Kate muses. “How strange.”

Sebastian smiles. “I would have, too, but I certainly would have read things like this, as well. My parents always encouraged studying serious texts along with enjoying fun stories.”

Kate gazes at Sebastian in amazement and admiration. 

The scene changes. Neacal leads Eilionoir to his home, where his parents provide her with a hot meal. Then, Neacal asks his father for something. He returns with three long boxes.

“Wands,” Kate guesses. “Perhaps his parents were wandmakers.”

Eilionoir tries out two of the wands with disastrous results, but the third produces a bright light the moment she touches it. She asks Neacal’s father if it costs money, and he shakes his head, gesturing that it belongs to her now. She beams.

Not much time passes, and Kate and Sebastian again see the two of them by “their” tree. 

Neacal takes Eilionoir’s left hand, and wraps a flower around her ring finger, whispering something in her ear. Eilionoir blushes intensely. He chastely kisses her cheek.

“He said he would marry her someday,” Sebastian murmurs with a smile, nudging Kate. “That he would take care of her.”

“All of this is so sweet.” Kate smiles.

More years go by. Most of the scenes are about Neacal reading to or teaching spells to Eilionoir, helping her to practice and hone her magic. They are thrilled with every success, hugging each other and dancing around.

Kate and Sebastian are sent back to their reality. 

“This is fascinating,” Kate says, “And I want to keep going, but perhaps we should take a break for luncheon.”

Sebastian chuckles. Without Kate, that never would have crossed his mind - he would normally have been too obsessed and enthralled to stop for even a moment, but now that she’s said it, his stomach growls. He agrees, and Kate quickly prepares a cheese and meat plate with fresh bread and grapes. It’s not much, but it will sustain them for a few more hours. 

When Sebastian tips the next silvery memory into the Pensieve, he and Kate dive right in, reinvigorated by their light lunch.

This memory isn’t happy at all.

Eilionoir’s mother lies dead in her bed, a midwife packing up tools. Her father is screaming at the midwife, as if she could have done something more. 

Eilionoir (likely twelve years old now) and her five younger siblings cower in bed, sobbing.

That night, Eilionoir sneaks out as soon as everyone is asleep. She dashes to Neacal’s house and taps at the small window she knows to be right above his bed. A few minutes later, he slips outside. The moment Eilionoir lays eyes on him, she bursts into tears. Neacal leads her to their tree, where she can actually let it all out. She sobs loudly, practically unable to breathe. Neacal holds her in an embrace, rubbing her back. 

This scene fades, and then one begins, with Eilionoir and her father. He is having a serious discussion with her. 

“He says that the family depends on Eilionoir more than ever, with her mother gone. She needs to look after her siblings and mind the house. He actually said to her, ‘Childhood is over,’” Sebastian explains. He listens to more of their conversation, then continues, “Her father is telling her that she is practically a woman now and that he will look for a match for her as soon as possible. Through marriage, Eilionoir could lift the family out of poverty.”

Kate scoffs. “A woman? She doesn’t even look like a teenager.”

Perhaps a year later, Eilionoir’s body has shifted closer to that of a young lady. At night, she and Neacal, who also looks older and more filled out, walk in the woods hand in hand, under the light of the moon. They reach the river where they once used to play as children. Neacal gestures for Eilinoir to sit on a fallen tree, and he settles in next to her, quite close. The stars are reflected in the water, and lacewing flies light up all around them. 

Neacal takes her face in his hands, leans in, and kisses Eilionoir softly. When they break apart, he begins to speak and continues for a long while. She smiles at him, and when he finishes, she presses her lips to his once more. Just like when they were children, Neacal wraps a flower around her left ring finger, whispering in her ear.

Sebastian clears his throat. “Neacal says he will marry her. He will provide for her and her family. He will properly speak to her father about a wedding as soon as he finishes his apprenticeship. He says they will always be happy, and he will always cherish her. They’ll be together every day and not have to sneak around at night anymore. He promises he will procure a real ring for her.”

Kate smiles, then frowns, realizing that she eventually becomes a queen - not Neacal’s wife. 

A couple more years pass. Eilionoir listens in as Neacal speaks to her father about a marriage. To her surprise, her father agrees but says that Neacal must prove that he can actually provide for Eilionoir and her family. Neacal shakes his hand, promising to do so. 

When Kate and Sebastian emerge from the Pensieve, Kate gestures for him to hurry up and pour in the contents of the next bottle.

A year has passed. Eilionoir is smiling, and her siblings are quite excited. There is to be a royal procession through the village. They beg Eilionoir to let them leave their chores for just an hour so that they may see it, and, after some hesitation, she agrees. 

They all stroll towards town, joining a large crowd lining the main road. They soon hear horns, signaling the arrival of the procession. 

There are musicians on horseback at the front of the procession. Then, there are knights and royal officials, riding on unicorns, no less. Eilionoir’s youngest sibling, no more than seven years old, jumps up and down excitedly, pointing at the rare creatures. Eilionoir grins at the joy this has brought them. Eventually, a carriage pulled by thestrals rolls past, slowly. There is a man, wearing a crown, inside, who waves at all of the villagers. His eyes meet Eilionoir’s and do not leave until the carriage has long passed. The procession continues on, and at the end, there is a performer who uses fire magic to entertain.

When it is over, Eilionoir pushes her siblings to return home. The younger ones skip and sing all the way back. 

When Eilionoir opens the door, there is an older man - someone who appears noble - speaking to her father. Eilionoir is taken aback and quickly pulls her siblings back around the house to their livestock pen to get back to their work.

Tiptoeing back around the house, she tries to not arouse suspicion, as she clearly plans to listen in to the conversation, but the nobleman exits, sees her, and slightly bows. Eilionoir appears confused but curtsies. She enters the house to find her father smiling and laughing. He asks her to sit down, unable to speak at first because he is practically cackling with happiness. Then, he begins sharing some news with her. Eilionoir, at first, grins but then turns pale.

Sebastian’s face falls as he listens in. “Her father says that their life of poverty is over. Eilionoir is to be married to the prince of Blackfold Castle, Luthais. He saw her, thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and immediately requested for someone to speak to her father to arrange a marriage agreement. He does not care that her family is poor.”

Eilinoir begins to tear up. She calmly asks a question.

“Eilionoir asks how her father could do this, when she has already been promised to Neacal.”

Her father shakes his head and answers her as though she is being ridiculous.

“He says that their engagement was never official and that Neacal could never offer her what the prince could. Neacal could not lift her family from poverty. Neacal could not give Eilionoir’s father a hefty annual allowance and a title,” Sebastian explains somberly.

Eilinoir argues with him, then begins screaming and crying, to no avail.

In the next scene, Eilionoir tells Neacal the news. They both cry and hold each other, realizing there may be no way out of this situation as they go through potential options. Neacal promises that, despite their dour circumstances, he will still try to find a solution.

Then, the season changes from spring to summer. Eilionoir sneaks out of the house in the middle of the night, meeting with Neacal at their tree. They immediately begin kissing desperately. Tears spill from Eilionoir’s eyes. She whispers to him.

“I do not wish to leave you. I cannot live without you, Neacal,” Sebastian translates. 

Neacal presses his lips to her forehead, tearing up. “I love you, Eilionoir. I love you. I have always loved you, and I always will.”

“Please tell me you have found a way for us to be together,” Eilionoir begs. 

Neacal looks down, his forehead touching hers. “I did everything I could. There is no solution. Not in this life.”

She is wracked with sobs. They hold each other close, moving to finally sit down. 

“Eilionoir, though I cannot make you my wife, I may have devised a way for us to be together. Not in this life, but the next. Do you trust me?” Neacal asks.

She nods, brushing away tears. “With all my heart. I trust you with my life.”

Neacal reaches into a pocket in his cloak. He gets on one knee and holds out a golden ring with a moonstone. “Will you follow me into the next life?”

Eilionoir appears confused. 

“I want you to have this ring to remember me by. However, it’s also an assurance we shall find each other someday. I have never studied so much or gone to such lengths in my life. I traveled to meet with an elder to ensure my work was not in vain. I have finally done it, Eilionoir. I have actually created a spell.” From his cloak pocket, he retrieves and unfolds a piece of parchment. “It’s… it’s a spell for reincarnation.” He gives her a serious, earnest look, searching her face for approval.

“Reincarnation? I never believed it possible,” Eilionoir replies, mystified, gazing at him. “But if you say it is possible, then I know it is possible.” 

“It will work. I know it will work.” His tone is determined, sure. 

Eilionoir kisses his hand, and then he slides the ring onto her finger - a perfect fit. 

“We’ll have another chance,” he murmurs, placing a green ring with a moonstone onto his left ring finger. Then, he shows her the parchment. “We must cast this together under the full moon while wearing the rings. Our souls will unite in the next life.”

Eilionoir scans the parchment, then gazes upon Neacal with genuine hope in her eyes.

The two, in unison, look up at the night sky, where a full moon watches over them. Neacal takes his lover’s hand and helps her to stand.

“We must use both of our wands at once, with both of our hands, and create a circle around us to bind us,” Neacal instructs. “Then, we shall recite the enchantment.”

Both of them take out their wands. Neacal places his in Eilionoir’s hand and then his hand joins hers. They turn in a circle, which somehow materializes around them in a wispy white. The moonstones on their rings light up. 

“I want to see this spell,” Sebastian insists, strolling right behind them and peeking over their shoulders. As it is a Pensieve memory, Eilionoir and Neacal have no reaction to his close hovering. He reads, “‘Geas a cheangal anaman gu bràth’ - ‘A spell to join souls forever.’” 

Eilionoir and Neacal begin to recite the spell - it sounds more like a prayer than anything, Kate thinks. “Gràdh mo bheatha, bheir sinn aghaidh air bàs gun eagal. Tha sinn gu bhith a’ coinneachadh a-rithist fon ghealach làn san ath bheatha. Chan urrainn ar n-anaman a bhith air an dealachadh gu bràth. Tha sinn gu h-iriosal a' guidhe air na diathan sinn a bhi air ar ceangal aon uair eile.”

Sebastian translates as quickly as he can, while they speak. “Love of my life, we shall face death without fear. We are destined to meet again under the full moon in the next life. Our souls can never be parted. We beg the gods humbly for us to be joined once more.”

The circle drawn with their wands lights up brightly, sparkling. It constricts around them until it disappears in a burst. Little stars, like glitter, fall all around them. 

“It worked,” Neacal whispers. He turns to face Eilionoir. “It truly did work…”

“I love you,” Eilionoir murmurs, pressing her lips to his. Their kiss quickly becomes desperate, passionate, hungry. 

The two fall to their knees, clinging to each other, their hands everywhere, as they kiss.

“Neacal,” Eilionoir pants out. “I will only ever love you. We are truly married now in my heart. Please…” She trails off, unable to finish the words.

“Eilionoir,” Neacal chokes out, his hands in her hair.

“I will not save my innocence for a man I do not love,” she finally breathes out, looking deeply into his eyes. “Please, Neacal… Make love to me… You are my true husband…”

Neacal gazes upon her for a long moment, and then they begin kissing again. Neacal gently lays Eilionoir down, maneuvering himself over her. 

The memory fades.

When Sebastian and Kate find themselves back in their reality, they are completely silent for a full minute, both of their minds spinning.

[pxnsneverland]

Autumn Roses | Young Ian x OC (part 1)

plot summary: As a half black half white slave in colonial North Carolina, Rose has struggled with her place in the world. After her mother's death in childbirth and finding out that the recently deceased River Run plantation master was her father, the mistress of River Run, Jocasta Cameron, took her in treating her as more of a daughter than a slave. Jocasta educated and raised Rose with no one outside the house ever being the wiser. But the arrival of Jocasta's nephew Jamie Fraser and his wife Clare threaten to turn Rose's world upside down especially when they bring along their bright haired, blue eyed nephew Ian Murray.

pairings: Young Ian x OC

fandom: Outlander

word count: 2286

warnings/notes: Hey guys! I've had this Outlander fan fiction idea for awhile and I finally put pen to paper so to speak. I hope you all enjoy it! And those of you that know me from my Elvis fan fiction, no worries. I'm still writing it and will be updating soon :) 

Chapter 1: The Fateful Meeting

               River Run was not a locale where one could expect to encounter a plethora of thrilling events. Each day followed a set routine, a carefully crafted plan. Each individual was aware of their designated position. All but myself, I presume. There wasn't much of a place for negros in North Carolina society. They were considered slaves or possessions by the affluent white individuals who possessed the financial means to acquire them. I, too, followed in the footsteps of my mother, as countless others have done before me. From the moment of my birth, I was thrust into the cruel and inhumane world of slavery. Yet, despite my lowly status, I was afforded a modicum of respect and deference that set me apart from my fellow slaves. The circumstances surrounding my birth were shrouded in mystery, as my mother had passed away during delivery. It was not until years later that I was able to uncover the identity of my father, and the reasons behind my unique position as a lighter-skinned slave who resided within the household rather than toiling in the fields alongside my peers. Upon the passing of Master Cameron, I was summoned by his wife, Jocasta Cameron, at the tender age of eight. It was then that she imparted upon me the knowledge of my origins - a child born of a man who wielded his power over his possessions. Devoid of any offspring to call her own, she developed a fondness for my company. From that moment forward, my status shifted from that of a mere slave to that of a ward, receiving a different kind of treatment. Under the veil of secrecy, within the confines of River Run's protective isolation, Mistress Cameron imparted upon me a wealth of knowledge and skills. She taught me the art of reading and writing, the importance of proper speech, the intricacies of chess, the melodies of the piano, and any other subject that she would have typically taught her own flesh and blood. Tears streamed down my face as I contemplated the plight of my brethren who toiled ceaselessly in the fields and within the confines of the main house. For I, too, was akin to them - a mere possession adorned with precious jewels. In due course, I succumbed to the monotony of everyday life, much like the masses. However, my place left much to be desired, and the apprehension of never discovering my rightful place consumed me, as if such a haven was merely a figment of my imagination.   

On a stunning autumn day, I made the decision to settle beneath the grand oak tree in my front yard. With a book in hand, I whiled away the hours in peaceful solitude. Mistress Cameron sat on the porch, accompanied by her attendant Ulysses. He was a slave who assisted her in all her endeavors, given her blindness. Despite residing in the house slave quarters, he was treated almost as well as I. However, I had been granted my own room years ago, located in a separate wing of the house, far from any visitors who might chance upon it. I sensed the unwavering gaze of Mistress Cameron upon me, despite her lack of visual confirmation. Her admiration for me was so profound that I made every effort to avoid disappointing her. With my head bowed and my lips sealed, I remained hidden as instructed. The stakes were high, for if anyone were to discover that Mistress Cameron was imparting her knowledge upon me and treating me with her customary kindness, both she and I would face certain death.

            The day was a delight, with the gentle autumn breeze causing small ripples to form along the river nearby. The season of autumn had always held a special place in my heart. The leaves underwent a stunning transformation, displaying a vibrant array of colors. The fruits of one's labor were bountifully harvested. Perhaps I could have continued to relish the moment, were it not for the gradual approach of a boat traversing the river, its sound growing ever louder. With haste, I rose from my spot and sought refuge behind the towering tree, ensuring that I remained concealed from the body of water. The boat glided past me before coming to a halt just a stone's throw away from the walkway leading up to the house. I cautiously poked my head out, curious to catch a glimpse of the unexpected visitor. Anticipating the arrival of esteemed guests at River Run, I envisioned the likes of the governor, a soldier, or a lord, among the customary high-ranking individuals who graced us with their presence. In lieu of that, my gaze fell upon a towering, robust Scottish gentleman in the prime of his life, boasting locks of hair so fiery that they appeared to ignite in the sun's rays. He gallantly assisted a slender woman, who appeared to be slightly senior to him, in disembarking from the vessel. Her hair, pinned to the back of her head, was almost as curly as mine. Her skin was as pure as freshly fallen snow, unmarred by any imperfections, unlike that of so many other women. As she emerged from the boat, her gracefulness was striking.

Mistress Jocasta had risen from her seat, bringing Ulysses along with her. She now stood before them, a smile adorning her countenance. “Jamie. Welcome to River Run.”

            Jamie respectfully nodded his head. “Auntie Jocasta.” With a gallant gesture, he removed his hat and bestowed upon her a graceful bow.

            With open arms, Mistress Jocasta welcomed him into her embrace. Accepting her invitation, he embraced her tightly, conveying through the hug the length of time that had passed since their last meeting. “Blessed be,” she whispered softly, “You’ve grown to be a giant. That’ll be the Mackenzie blood flowing through ye.”

            A soft smile graced Jamie's lips. “I was no more than a bairn when you last saw me. Had nowhere to go but up.”

            So, the individual in question was Jamie. Mistress Cameron had devoted considerable time to recounting to me the tales of her family's history in Scotland and her formative years. Jamie, the youngest son of her sister Ellen, had been a name that had reached my ears. Mistress Cameron spoke of him in a manner akin to how she conversed with Ulysses about me, as if he were her very own offspring. Finally, I had the pleasure of putting a face to the name.

             “I recall ye had a most gorgeous heid of red hair,” she remarked, “Oh, how yer mother adored you.”

            “She adored you as well. Always spoke of you wi’ love.”

            “I miss her still.”

            “As do I,” he replied. Jamie hesitated for a moment before proceeding, “Ah, Auntie, may I present my wife Claire?”

            With a confident stride, Claire advanced towards Mistress Cameron, who lowered her head in deference. A smile appeared on Claire's lips. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mistress Cameron.” Her English heritage piqued my interest slightly. The union of a Scotsman and an English woman was a rare sight indeed.

            “Oh, I hope you’ll call me Auntie, dear. We are kin after all.”

            “Of course,” Claire replied with a soft chuckle, “Auntie it is then.”

            “It’s lovely to meet you, Claire.” Mistress Cameron enveloped her upper arms with a warm embrace.

All of a sudden, a boy emerged and began to make his way up the path, catching my attention as I had not previously noticed his presence on the boat. He appeared to be no older than myself, perhaps even the same age of 16. With his lengthy blonde locks neatly tied back, his complexion, which was of a light hue, glistened with perspiration from diligently transferring their possessions from the vessel. With a wide and sincere grin, he drew near. The sight of that smile was enough to elicit a reciprocal grin from anyone who caught a glimpse of it. His striking good looks caused my heart to flutter uncontrollably, and I desperately willed it to cease its erratic beating.

            Ian. His name perfectly complemented his countenance - unassuming and charming.

            Ian clutched a bushel of wildflowers in his hands. “I’m very pleased to meet ye, Great-Aunt Jocasta.” He extended the bouquet of flowers towards her.

            “Ye’re welcome, lad.” You are most welcome, young man. I realized when she didn't take the flowers that Ian probably didn't realize she was blind. After all, he had never laid eyes on her.

            Ulysses came to the rescue, his voice a soft whisper in Mistress Cameron's ear as he spoke of the flowers that Ian had presented to her. As the realization dawned on her, her eyes widened with a sudden spark of understanding. Without hesitation, she reached out and took hold of the bushel, her fingers curling around it with a sense of purpose. “Thank you kindly, Ian. Forgive me. It is a long time since my sight had left me, though I still see shapes and shadows.”

            “I’m sorry to hear, Great-Auntie.” His countenance reflected the genuine distress he felt upon receiving the news. His kindness was palpable.

            “Oh, fear not, lad. It has been a blessing. I am now gifted with hearing that would be the envy of many a gossip, and the ability to sent truth from lies, if ye catch my meanin’.” His face lit up with a smile. Mistress Cameron spoke the truth. Throughout the duration of our acquaintance, she had consistently refused to regard her lack of sight as a hindrance. She navigated her surroundings with remarkable ease, almost as if she possessed perfect vision. Ulysses, her trusted companion, provided only sporadic assistance. I held great admiration for her actions. In that moment, a canine hastily approached Ian, positioning itself by his side with an uncontainable wag of its tail. With a joyful bark, he bid farewell to Mistress Jocasta and sprang off into the distance. “Oh goodness. Who have we there? Another acquaintance to be made.”

            With a quick movement of the eyes, Jamie stole a glance at Ian. “Young Ian’s…mongrel, Rollo. Take hold of your beast, lad.”

            With a nod, Ian chased after Rollo. No matter how hard he attempted to seize him, the dog darted beyond his grasp. A chuckle escaped my lips as I observed the comical sight of their cat-and-mouse game. Lost in my own amusement, I remained oblivious to Rollo's presence until he gently nudged the hem of my skirt from behind the tree. With a grin adorning his face, he patiently awaited my reaction. However, I found myself unable to respond. As Ian drew near, my heart nearly ceased beating, until he finally caught up to Rollo. “Rollo, you mangy beast, you can’t just go running off on Great-Auntie’s land.” He lifted his head to meet my gaze, his blue eyes widening as if he had just seen a ghost. Despite his pleasant demeanor towards Mistress Jocasta, I couldn't help but feel apprehensive about the potential harm he could inflict upon me. With a swift kick, I sent the book I had been engrossed in hurtling behind me, out of sight.

A lump had formed in my throat, impeding my breathing. Nonetheless, I persevered and managed to bow to him, my gaze fixed on the ground. “I’m sorry, Master Murray. I dinna mean to have any association with yer pet. Please forgive me.” At no other moment had I been as cognizant of the Scottish lilt that had been adopted from Mistress Cameron as I was presently.

Ian remained silent, leaving me on edge. I braced myself for any possible outcome, whether it be a physical altercation or an attack from his canine companion. My jaw tightened in anticipation. With a look of astonishment in his gaze, he uttered, “Ye’re the bonniest lass I’ve ever seen.”

My gaze was irresistibly drawn upwards, away from the ground. “What?”

Ian shook his head, as if to snap out of the current stream of consciousness that had been occupying his mind. “I’m sorry. I shouldna have been so forward. I’m Ian, Ian Murray.” In a swift motion, he grasped my hand and pressed his lips upon it with the grace of a chivalrous protagonist from a timeless tale. He bestowed upon me one of those smiles that had the power to make my heart flutter even from a distance. But now, as he stood before me, my heart was pounding so hard that it felt like it might burst out of my chest.

            As I was preparing to respond to him, my attention was diverted by the sound of my name being called out, “Rose!”

            With haste, I withdrew my hand from Ian's grip as Mistress Jocasta, accompanied by Jamie, Claire, and Ulysses, approached our vicinity. Mistress Jocasta's countenance betrayed a hint of displeasure, yet it was overshadowed by an air of apprehension. “I thought I told you to stay out of sight when we have company.”

            With a subtle movement, I placed my hands behind my back. “I was, Mistress Cameron, but Rollo…he found me…”

            “It was my fault, Great-Anutie,” Ian interjected, “I should have caught up wit’ Rollo before he went sniffin’ around.”

            Her fingers tightened around his shoulder. “It’s alright, lad.” A deep sigh escaped her lips. “We should all go inside. If you all are going to stay here awhile and since ye’re family, there are some things ye must know. I hope ye’ll keep an open mind.” Thus, we trailed after her as she led the way towards the main house. Ian strode alongside me, even though his legs surpassed mine in length. Every now and then, he cast a fleeting glance my way, but I refrained from reciprocating.

Stay tuned for part 2!! Click HERE to view!

[lorna-d-m]

Chapter Three: Emails

Pairing: Laszlo Kreizler x fem!OC (Alice Greene)

Summary: Professor Laszlo Kreizler is a workaholic. Between teaching university courses, running the Kreizler Institute, and minding Stevie -his ward-, he does not have time for relationships. That is until he meets Ms. Greene, Stevie's English teacher, at open house. Can he open his heart to the possibility of love?

Word Count: 2,831

W: Drinking, language.

A/N: Heyyyyyyyyyyy y'all. Good news, my semester is over! So hopefully I can make steady progress on this fic over the summer.

previous chapter

Alice sat at her desk scrolling through her emails. There were still a few minutes before students would stream through the halls, so she thought she would take advantage of the time while half-heartedly eating a granola bar. Alice skimmed through typical messages pertaining to district news, reminders about school policy, and pleas for club chaperone volunteers or coverage for another class. 

Her heart skipped a beat when she saw an email from Dr. Kreizler though she could not explain why. She ignored the subject line and clicked on the email. His tone was professional and polite, even wishing her a pleasant morning. She could hear his voice through the text, even imagining the soft accented lilt. He requested updates on unit tests and paper due dates so he would be aware of when Stevie should be studying or working. Dr. Kreizler mentioned, as he did at the open house, that Stevie was not a traditional student. This was his first time attending public school in two years, and prior to that, he was not known for his perfect attendance or grades. Stevie has potential, Dr. Kreizler urged her to remember, but he requires structure and support to succeed.

Alice took a sip of her coffee. She was almost out of creamer and rationed, so it did not taste as good. He must have sent a similar email to all of Stevie’s teachers, she thought, until she caught a note at the end clearly meant for her. 

I checked the reading list for this semester, and I am thrilled you chose Lord of the Flies. It was one of my favorites as a student. I remember writing a paper analyzing the novel from a psychological perspective; even then my interest in psychology was strong. Admittedly, I am tempted to re-read it alongside the class’s reading to see what piques my interest now.

A smile flickered across her face, quick and furtive. Alice did not know what to say, and thankfully she did not need to respond immediately. She wanted to talk with him about the book and pick his brain, but a little voice in her head told her not to. Instead, she should grant his request to know summative assignments and leave it at that. But then again, there was nothing wrong with discussing a book. 

Ugh, perhaps she should talk to Bitsy before emailing him back. But then she would ask questions and poke into why Alice felt so uncertain, and she did not want to open that can of worms.

The bell trilled, and Alice snapped out of it. She switched tabs, hit the button for the projector, and pushed the dreamy Dr. Kreizler from her mind. Alice enjoyed this part of the morning before classes began when people could chat and plan, and there was still hope for the day.

***

“Did you see admin’s email about coverage?” Bitsy popped her leftover pasta in the microwave. “I signed up for Smith’s class during my planning.” She leaned against the counter with her arms crossed while she waited.

“I did,” Alice sighed, “and I didn’t sign up for either of them. It’s not worth twenty bucks to me.” She took another bite of her sandwich and wiped the corner of her mouth with a napkin.

Bitsy stirred her pasta, still cold in the center, and stuck it back in the microwave. “Fair, not when you need to lesson plan and prep,” she chided.

“Ain’t that the truth.” Alice punctuated her point with a long sip of her water. She was still sorting out her plans for the end of the week, and Bitsy knew it. 

“Anything else going on?” Bitsy finally sat down across from Alice with her Pasta. 

Well, to be fair, Stevie was also in Bitsy’s class, so she probably received an email as well. It could be a casual conversation regarding an email they both received. There was no reason for it to venture into the uncharted territory of how his comment made her smile and how he held her eyes when they spoke at open house and the soft lilt in his voice. 

“I got an email from Dr. Kreizler, and since you seem to know a bit more about him, I thought I would ask what you thought of it.” Bitsy nodded knowingly. “I can pull it up now-”

“-no bother, I know what you’re talking about. I got the same this morning.”

“Afternoon, ladies,” Coach Connor entered the break room with a small nod, wave, and his lunchbox. They acknowledged him with a polite response and returned to their conversation.

“Honestly, he can sound like a bit of dick over email,” Bitsy shrugged, “but remember that he has good intentions.” Alice was taken aback while Bitsy continued. “He spends all day helping other people, so he doesn’t have time to be polite in his emails.”

Coach Connor hovered on the edge of their conversation, and he took their pause to butt in. “Are you talking about that whack job Doctor Kreizler? Because I got his email this morning, and I don’t like his attitude.” 

“Well, I-”

“-I don’t believe in mollycoddling these students, and he has no right to go sticking his nose into the way I teach. He can have all these fancy ideas about how to teach, but I’ve been in that gym for over twenty years.”

Alice and Bitsy sat in uncomfortable silence while Coach Connor ranted. They didn’t want to interrupt him or defend Dr. Kreizler for fear of receiving Connor’s red faced yelling.  

“-And I talked to my buddy Byrnes the other night, retired from the police station you know, and he sure had a lot to say about that crackpot Kreizler and his delinquent.”

She wanted to tune him out, but she was curious about what he had to say. Clearly, she knew to take what Coach Connor said with a grain of salt — or a handful —, and she did not want to give him the satisfaction of her attention. Alice did her best to seem uninterested though her heart raced. 

“He told me all about “Steve-pipe”, and if it was up to me he wouldn’t be here,“ he gave them a knowing, condescending look. “Theft and assault, of an officer no less, I don’t know how that man weasled him into this school. It’s a disgrace,” he huffed. “I won’t let any of that fly, not in my gym. He’ll learn in my class,” Connor chuckled darkly. 

Alice’s stomach flipped, and she cleared her throat to speak. “From what I’ve seen in my class, he seems to be turning over a new leaf.” Bitsy smiled and nodded in support while Connor crossed his arms in disbelief. “I think we should respect that, and approach him with an open mind. Is that so much to ask for?”

“Well,” Connor scoffed, “if he ever tries to pull anything in your class, give me a call.” He wrote his number on a scrap piece of paper. “You know I’ll handle him,” Connor winked. He left soon after. 

“Ew,” Bitsy laughed, “Did he just hit on you?”

Too stunned to speak, Alice blinked slowly. “Yes, I believe he did. Now excuse me while I throw this away.” She crumpled the scrap paper.

Stretching his back and rolling his neck, Laszlo settled into the plush leather armchair. He thought he would have time to cook dinner for once, but a mild emergency at the Institute prevented him from leaving on time. Stevie said he understood on the phone and didn’t mind, but his tone dropped when Laszlo said he would have to pick something up. Guilt weighed in his chest for canceling, as Stevie would often assist him in the kitchen cutting and dicing whatever he needed, but he knew if he left he would have felt worse. 

And, if Stevie’s disappointment wasn’t enough, the responses from his teachers were less than positive. Some provided vague answers, while others outright dismissed and disrespected him. He scrolled through his inbox, deleting unimportant emails on instinct when he spotted something significant.

Ms. Greene responded to his email in the afternoon. He double-clicked on the email and leaned forward. Her answer was polite, helpful, and genuinely kind. Of course, that was his impression of her at the open house. She seemed the most receptive to him and Stevie as if she was genuinely excited to have him in her class. Laszlo remembered her enthusiasm. 

She said she would be “happy to help” since the parents and the teachers form a team to help the student succeed. Laszlo smiled at that. He remembered saying the same thing to parents at the Institute. It was nice to see someone agree with him. She went on to say she overheard unkind comments regarding Stevie’s background in the teacher’s lounge, and she is sorry if his teachers are holding his past against him. Ms. Greene wanted him to know she understands Stevie is in the process of turning over a new leaf, and he needs all the positive encouragement and support he can get. Laszlo felt relieved that at least one of Stevie’s teachers understood. He spent many late nights worrying about Stevie’s well-being and adapting to high school, and one sympathetic teacher could make all the difference. 

At the end, she left a note for him. 

If you find yourself so tempted to read alongside us, please let me know what you think. I would love to know your insights.

His heart skipped a beat, and if he thought about it for a moment he could rationalize why. But Laszlo did not want to think of that. He did not have time for feelings or doubt. Instead, he started drafting a response so he could call it a night. Laszlo was willing to bet who spoke in the teacher’s lounge, but he was not the gambling type. That was for John, or even Stevie when he didn’t think he would be caught. 

I am disheartened someone would speak of a child that way, but I confess I suspected something like this may occur. I hoped it would be later in the year when his teachers formed impressions and ideas of him without this knowledge, but it seems that is not to be. I can imagine the thoughts that may have run through your head, and I appreciate you for maintaining an open mind. Thank you for letting me know. I truly appreciate it. 

Laszlo stared at the email. Something did not feel right to him, but he did not have the energy to fix it either. Instead, he saved the message as a draft and told himself he would return to it in the morning. Laszlo shut down his laptop and turned out his desk light, leaving his office until tomorrow evening. 

He changed out of his slacks and button-up shirt, telling himself he would do laundry soon. Stevie offered to wash their clothes at the same time, but he did not pay enough attention to the water temperature and settings as Laszlo liked. It was well-intentioned but unpreferred. Perhaps he could make up for the dinner incident with Stevie on the weekend. He could pick something that would take time to cook, such as soup or braised meat, and Stevie could assist him with the prep work.

A cheesy cooking competition show played on the television, but neither woman sitting on the couch paid any attention to it. They scrolled on their phones, sending each other posts, and sipped their wine glasses.

“I’m thinking of doing a face mask,” Alice decided.

Bitsy didn’t bother to look up from her phone. The two friends were comfortable and familiar enough with each other that half their conversations passed without ever making eye contact. “Which one?”

“Maybe the lavender? It’s supposed to reduce stress, and we know I need that,” she laughed. “Plus I love the smell.”

“True true. If you’re getting one out, can you grab me one?” 

“Of course.”

While up, Alicce also refilled their wine glasses and the snack bowl of chips. She knew Bitsy’s apartment like the back of her hand. Alfred, Bitsy’s adorable gray cat, made his presence known, and Bitsy called to him. He was shyer than Georgie but warmed up to Alice after several years of friendship. 

She sat back down on the couch, and her fingers hesitated over her phone. One of the contestants was from Germany, and his accent reminded her of Dr. Kreizler. Alice glanced at Bitsy, and she was distracted by her own phone. Still feeling suspicious, she typed his name into the university staff directory search bar. 

There was a small, professional photo next to his name. Light blue to gray background, and he wore a black suit jacket. He did not smile, and his piercing eyes gave him a hawkish appearance. Alice did not realize how much a smile changed his mien until she noted its absence.

He completed a doctoral degree in psychology at Harvard. Laszlo published numerous academic papers regarding criminal psychology before shifting his focus to child psychology. He taught introductory psychology to undergraduates, and criminal psychology courses to graduate students. 

Bitsy glanced up from her phone to ask about changing the channel and found Alice engrossed in her phone. She was practically hunched over, not quite scrolling, with her thumb hovering over the bottom of her screen. 

“Whatcha doin?” 

Alice was so startled she dropped her phone in her lap. Her phone lay screen up showing Dr. Kreizler’s university picture. Bitsy looked from the phone, to Alice, and back to the phone. 

“Listen, I-” Alice blushed. 

“-I’m not here to judge,” Bitsy assured her. “I’m here to guide you, my padawan.” 

Alice giggled, embarrassed and relieved. She could always count on Bitsy.

Bitsy took another sip of her wine and petted Alfred as he sashayed by the couch. “If you’re going to internet stalk him, you need to do it right. First, if you’re looking at his university bio, then you should also check his Rate My Professor. Get the balance of his professional work and what his students think of him.”

“You’re a genius.” Alice picked up her phone and started typing in the website. “I never would’ve thought of that.”

“Read my ass off, came to all office hours, still barely got a D in his 100 level”

“Horrible with freshmen, amazing with grad students. If you can’t survive his intro, drop the course.”

“He psychoanalyzed me in front of the entire class on the first day. I dropped the course.”

“Helped me with my thesis, but horribly blunt and rude the entire time.”

“Fuck this guy.”

“Great depth of knowledge that he may use against you.”

“Oh.” Alice kept scrolling, but Bitsy held out her hand. Alice surrendered the phone and stretched against the armrest. 

“Ouch,” Bitsy grimaced. “A few positive, some neutral, and a whole lot of negative.”

“But I feel like most people who leave a review are people who had a bad experience.” Bitsy looked at her skeptically, one eyebrow raised in judgment. “Like if you have an okay or even a great time, you don’t think to say anything. At least I never did. But if you hate it, you’re going to shout it from the rooftops.”

Bitsy couldn’t resist teasing her. “Sounds like you’re defending your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” she protested with a playful kick. “He probably doesn’t like me like that, and if he did, it’s got to be some kind of breach of ethics. I’m teaching his kid.”

“That could be a conflict of interest,” Bitsy admitted, “or it could be a happy coincidence to bring you together.” Alice snorted and rolled her eyes. “Didn’t he bring you coffee this week? What was it, Wednesday afternoon?”

“No, it was Tuesday. He came to pick up Stevie, and he wanted to have a quick conversation with each of Stevie’s teachers regarding his recent emails.”

“Uh huh, I remember. He spoke briefly with me, too, and I certainly didn’t receive coffe.”

“He’s just polite like that, I suppose.” Alice knew it was a feeble defense as soon as she said it. 

“Does this,” Bitsy pointed to his Rate My Professor score, “seem like the kind of guy who commits random acts of kindness?” She waited for Alice’s response with eyebrows raised in certainty. 

“Maybe?”Alice’s voice inflection revealed the truth.

“Yeah, he’s into you, babe. I think you should go for it, and get some of that German sausage while you’re at it.” 

Alice giggle snorted again, shocked but not surprised at Bitsy’s humor. As much as Bitsy insisted, Alice did not believe Dr. Kreizler was interested in her. There could be a dozen reasons for the coffee and smile, reserved for her. A dozen reasons not to get her hopes up. To wear her heart close to her chest. To keep her head screwed on her shoulders. A dozen reasons…

Next chapter

taglist: @scuttle-buttle @fictionlandslanddreams @livvyshmiv @somethingthatsaysbubbles @hardlyinteresting @sapphiredreamer26 @aedeluca @alycu1 @linkpk88 @rachreads @fandom-princess-forevermore @groovyponypatrollamp @to-fat-to-give-a-crap @kateris-world @eli-the-thinker

[nino-rox]

SHADOWS OF BETRAYAL

PART 1

Grant Ward x Male Reader

Show SPOILER ALERT ! Do not read further if you wish to watch the show

Content Warnings : Angst, Agents of Shield AU, Male OC, Betrayal. {Context: After the Shield collapse (Team Coulson including Y/N ( Your/Name) is at secret base Providence), when Skye finds out about Ward)}

Disclaimer : This is a Fan-fiction story written for entertainment purposes only, no part of the story implies or affirms anything regarding real world events or individuals. Please be of the appropriate age ( i.e, Adult as per your country’s stipulations and regulations) before interacting with this post.

Author’s Note: Please keep in mind that watching “Marvel’s Agents of Shield” is important to understand the plot of this story - Contains Spoilers.

In the dimly lit and eerily quiet Providence base, suspicion saturated the air, casting a shadow over every corner. Grant Ward, once a trusted agent, now sat on the edge of a worn-out couch, his rugged features marred by a mix of angst and determination. Y/N, a formidable agent in his own right, observed Grant with a keen eye, his mind racing with doubts and unspoken truths. The weight of his relationship pressed against Y/N's every thought, the delicate balance between love and betrayal hanging in the balance.

Providence, a top-secret base that had become a refuge for Coulson's team after the collapse of S.H.I.E.L.D., was eerily empty. It was just Y/N, Grant, and Daisy, who had stumbled upon the evidence that shattered Y/N's trust in Grant. In the bathroom, Y/N had discovered Daisy's damning message scrawled on the wall, revealing Grant's allegiance to Hydra and his role in the murder of agent Koenig.

The Day turned into a sleepless night as Y/N meticulously gathered evidence, piecing together the fragments of Grant's secret life. His conversations grew strained, laced with unspoken accusations. Grant, sensing the weight of his knowledge, made no attempt to deny his actions. Instead, a storm brewed within him, a potent mix of fear and determination. One pivotal moment, amidst the hallowed silence of the empty Providence base, Y/N intercepted Grant's path. His eyes locked, and the charged atmosphere crackled with unspoken words. Y/N's voice quivered, his resolve mingling with a tinge of vulnerability.

"Grant," Y/N's voice held a mix of strength and uncertainty. "I can't let you go."

Grant's features contorted with a mixture of resignation and trepidation. He knew the consequences of his actions and the revelation that awaited him. With a deep breath, he met Y/N's gaze, acknowledging the intelligence and perceptiveness that lay behind his eyes.

Their confrontation escalated swiftly, the years of shared intimacy and trust now fueling the violence that erupted between them. Grant, aware of Y/N's lethal skills, recognized that he was as competent and cunning as the renowned “Cavalry” (Melinda May) herself. Every move was calculated, each strike intended to incapacitate without causing lethal harm.

But in the midst of the fight, as Y/N's love for Grant battled with his duty, a fatal misstep occurred. A swift motion, a flicker of hesitation, and Y/N found himself on the receiving end of Grant's blade. Pain seared through his body, shock registering in his eyes.

The realization of what had transpired washed over Grant, his panicked gaze locking with Y/N's. Fear mingled with regret, as he never intended for things to reach such a devastating climax. But his desperation to pursue Daisy and secure the hard drive had clouded his judgment, leading to irreversible consequences.

As the agony coursed through his veins, his love for Grant remained steadfast. It was the love that had held them together, and it was the love that pushed him to fight for the truth. With his remaining strength, he locked eyes with Grant, the unspoken words of forgiveness and understanding passing between them, eyes laced with a glint of hatred for their predicament. Their world, once filled with promises and shared dreams, crumbled in that moment. Grant's conflicted emotions mirrored his own as he cradled him in his arms, their intertwined destinies entangled in a web of pain and remorse.

As the darkness closed in, Y/N's consciousness faded, slipping away, leaving behind a shattered bond and the weight of a choice that Grant would carry for the rest of his days.

[ao3feed-staticquake]

Wildest Dreams Daisy Johnson

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/azlINbw

by sapphicsokas (saturnsokas)

❝ even if it’s just pretend ❞

IN WHICH . . . the looking glass is shattered under the power of Daisy Johnson’s love for her best friend.

 iron man — agents of shield — secret invasion skye/daisy johnson x female agent oc coming soon

Words: 1503, Chapters: 2/?, Language: English

Series: Part 1 of Age of Heroes

Fandoms: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Secret Invasion (TV 2023)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Major Character Death

Categories: F/F, Gen

Characters: Original Female Character(s), Skye | Daisy Johnson, Tony Stark, Phil Coulson, Melinda May, Leo Fitz, Jemma Simmons, Alphonso "Mack" Mackenzie, Elena "Yo-Yo" Rodriguez, Grant Ward, Nick Fury

Relationships: Skye | Daisy Johnson/Original Female Character(s), Skye | Daisy Johnson & Original Female Character(s), Tony Stark & Original Female Character(s), Phil Coulson & Skye | Daisy Johnson, Leo Fitz/Jemma Simmons, Phil Coulson/Melinda May, Lincoln Campbell/Skye | Daisy Johnson, Tony Stark/Pepper Potts

Additional Tags: Friends to Lovers, Bisexual Skye | Daisy Johnson, which is canon to me anyway, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Character Death, plot starts in season 4 but there's lots of background before that, Slow Burn, i really don't know how to tag this fic, Resurrection, Found Family, Mutual Pining, Did I say slow burn?, they're both oblivious until death comes knocking at the door, Love Confessions, updates will come when i inevitable rewatch aos after secret invasion, Superpowers, Daisy Johnson Will Be In Secret Invasion, long fic, Star Wars References, Taylor Swift References, Title from a Taylor Swift Song, Mostly Canon Compliant, nothing too big is changed, tony stark meets lance hunter and i think it's really funny, the framework arc is expanded on, More tags to be added

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/azlINbw

[write-and-wander]

Yawning Grave | One: Decay

Astarion x Ayzora (F!OC)

Description: It's the day that everything changed for our beloved heroes- the nautiloid. However, for Ayzora, it's a pit she thoughtlessly walked right into. She needs to consider all of her options to escape ceremorphosis- but it's a lot more complicated when the heart and its undying hope are on the line. If it were only her in this mess, everything would be so much more straightforward. Maybe people really do change things...

Warnings: N/A | Word count: 6.8k

| One | Two | ...

Read on Ao3

The cool late evening has shifted firmly into a dark early morning when Ayzora takes her place at the top floor of her tower.  The full moon’s light trickles in through blue stained glass, casting her own likeness onto the white carpet.  Neverwinter is at its quietest at this time; optimal for the concentration her nightly ritual requires.

She rests her cloak on the back of her plush throne-like chair and sinks into it.  With a careful incantation and a well-rehearsed dance of the hand, the silver beacon of her tower thrums to life with the magic of a complex scrying spell.  Ayzora centers the spell at the Baldurian temple of the Raven Queen- a habit she has come into recently to make up for the prayers that have gone unheard since the goddesses’ demise at her hands and her friends’ blades.

The prayers of those who come to the house of the goddess of life and death no longer surprise Ayzora.  They’re most often requests for healing; for warding off death for themselves or a loved one for just a while longer.  Sometimes there is an odd request for a magical boon, or for death to visit a particularly formidable enemy; and while these are not requests she can always grant (moderation is key), she will still answer on occasion.

As she lets out a quiet sigh, the scrying eye’s view comes into focus before her.  Hushed prayers begin to fill the cool air of her otherwise empty room.

Tonight, a tired elderly man asks for healing for his spouse- Ayzora ensures they are well by the next morning.  A blonde dwarf begs for protection against her long-time enemy- Ayzora places a temporary protection spell on her home.  A navy-skinned Tiefling asks for the restoration of her paralyzed arm- Ayzora conjures a cure for her ailment that will take effect by the end of the next tenday.  An elf asks for freedom-

She sits up, suddenly made attentive by the unique request.  Why come to the Raven Queen with such an ask?  Ilmater, god of sufferers, or even Tyr, god of justice, were clearly better suited for granting freedom- and their temples weren’t far. 

The pale figure stands in a dark corner of the cathedral, whispering his prayer:  freedom, at any cost.

The necromancer immediately recognizes the familiar glow of undeath- one she, too, bears- in its own hue.  Her confusion only grows.  Surely he knows the Raven Queen despises undeath?  She listens, searching for answers.

His prayer is whispered so softly it’s nearly incoherent, even with magical amplification.  His words are disjointed bits of pleas, self-curses, and scoffs over his situation.  Nonetheless, his request eventually comes across:  freedom from his master, whether by divine intervention or blessing.  Anything to escape.

In response to his desperation, something from deep within her begins to bubble to the surface- hope.  For years, Ayzora has sat in her lonely tower, answering the same sort of prayer time and time again.  It started as a sort of responsibility she felt she carried, but shifted into the inches she sought to traverse as she climbed her way towards redemption.  Though committed to her own sort of recompense, there remains a hopeful heart within- no matter how still in its undeath- that believes she could yet be the savior she once imagined herself to become.  She just needs a chance.

This vampire spawn could be that chance, Ayzora wonders, but who is his master?

The scrying spell shimmers and fixates on the elf.  

He spends a moment in silence, as if waiting for an audible response from the queen of death.  He doesn’t recognize that there is no longer a raven queen.

No one does.  At least, not yet, it seems.  Ayzora is the self-made queen over the domain of the self-made goddess; a slayer turned saint, justifying her history of slaughter with countless acts of selflessness in the name of a murdered deity.  

The silence lingers a while longer.  The elf’s gaze turns downward with a huff, and he leaves, making his way to a nearby tavern.

She rolls her eyes at the outing, but maintains the invisible scrying eye, determined to find his master.  She makes herself a cup of tea and retrieves a well-loved book- The Adventures of Half-Orc Guy- before sitting back in her chair, mindlessly summoning the blue skeletal specter of a mage hand.  The translucent bones open a cage and pick up a small black rat, carrying it to the center of the carpet.  The hand returns to the cage to close the gate and vanishes.

A half-rotted cat emerges.  Only its face and paws are covered by fur and flesh while the rest of its skeletal body is spotted with patches of decayed fur, frozen in time by undeath.  A faint blue glow emanates from the cat’s chest, matching the dark blue of his clouded eyes- Ayzora’s magical signature.

“Eat up, Droop,” she coos.

The cat lowers to the carpet, eyes trained on the rat.  With a wiggle, he pounces on his prey, sinking his yellow-grey teeth into the animal.  A ghastly exhale resonates in the room as the life is drained from the rat and consumed by Droop.  When he lifts his head with a chirp, only a pile of ash remains in front of his paws.  He walks around his owner’s chair, brushing himself from head to tail against her legs, before curling up on the carpet.

Ayzora clears away the ash with a quick prestidigitation and a soft, “good kitty,” before turning her eyes back to the silvery scrying screen shimmering against the dark stone wall.

Silently sipping her tea, Ayzora watches the vampire spawn tempt a young half-orc into going home with him.  She hardly pays attention, her eyes only glancing up from her book on occasion to see if the spawn’s master has come into play.

“Astarion,” the spawn says.

Ayzora’s head snaps up.  A name. 

“Astarion,” the half-orc repeats, the slurred speech indicating slight inebriation.

She can’t help but parrot the two, the pale elf’s name softly falling from her lips.  For a moment, her gold-green eyes are glued to his ruby red ones.  Astarion, she repeats to herself.  As if entranced, she begins to study him.  Starting at the silvery white curls framing his angular face, her eyes move to trace the sharp angles of his jaw, then drift up to the soft creases cascading from the sides of his nose to the ends of his pale lips-

Lips that now gently trail along the jaw of the half-orc.

Ayzora abruptly stands and moves to an adjacent room, her book in hand.

She cannot fully drown out the sounds of pleasure that soon follow- she needs to know when it ends if she is to find this spawn’s- Astarion’s- vampire master.  However, she can ignore it for a while, and lose herself in a story she knows by heart.

Eventually- sooner than she had expected- the noise dies down in return for quiet conversation.  She closes her book, setting it on a table, and returns to her seat, watching with a yawn. 

Astarion and the half-orc leave the bedchamber to be met by a raven-haired elf, clothed in a regal black and red ensemble.  Cazador Szarr, his self-introduction names him.  He invites them to dine, and Ayzora’s eyes widen as the suddenly dazed half-orc is separated from Astarion by the red-eyed Cazador.  

That must be his master… and this was all a ruse.

A squealing rat lands at Astarion’s feet.

“Eat.”

Azyora’s eyes dart to the once-ashen now-empty spot on her carpet.  Droop sleeps contentedly beside it.

She looks back up.  

Astarion’s empty eyes meet the twin-crimson glow of Cazador’s.  The order is given.  Astarion is sent back out into the streets to find another, with the promise of another feeding in return.

The spawn exits the grand palace and begins to make his way through the city via back-alleys and shortcuts, carefully searching for his next victim.

But the sky is no longer the velvet navy blue of the night.

The sun is rising.

With hardly a thought- other than a silent curse to the Dawnfather- Ayzora dons her cloak and rushes to her towers’ teleportation circle.  In the connected room, she haphazardly gathers some of her travel gear- just the essentials- and returns to the main area.  She throws open a drawer in the adjacent desk and pulls out a fresh piece of chalk.  Carefully, she dips it in the shimmering green inkpot atop the desk and inscribes new runes around the perimeter of the circle.  Stepping inside, she instantly sends herself to Baldur’s Gate.

She appears in a brief glimmer of magic atop a corresponding circle in the temple of the Raven Queen- the only one she knows by heart- and runs outside.  

The violet and amber sky paints Baldur’s Gate in a wash of gold while shadows slowly stretch like creeping limbs from the sides of buildings onto rough stone pathways.  

She weaves through the morning crowds and dashes through thin alleyways, making her way as fast as she can towards the last place she had seen the pale elf.  Rounding a tight corner, she whips past houses coming to life with the dawn of the morning, eyes scanning wildly for a mess of white curls.

The bell tower of the city rings, echoing against the walls that feel like they’re closing in on the panicked wizard.

After crossing another busy street- nearly bowling over a merchant carting his goods to the town square- she sees him.

Astarion is pressed against a stone wall, carefully tucked into the shadow offered by the tall building.  He leans around the corner, mentally plotting his next move.

Lively chatter turns to desperate screams echoing across the city; but Ayzora can’t tear her eyes from the figure at the opposite end of the alley, no longer separated by the miles between Baldur’s Gate and Neverwinter.

He looks back in a quick sweep of his surroundings when his eyes suddenly lock on hers.

She freezes.  The weight of all the possible consequences of this mad chase suddenly come crashing down on her consciousness with a force that rivals the bell tower collapsing in the center of town.

Clouds of dust fill the streets of Baldur’s Gate, masking the source of the audible panic.

Astarion pauses for a moment, considering saying something to the frozen, cloaked moon elf; but quickly decides against it and peels around the corner.  He heads straight towards the commotion, aiming for an easy grab by playing the ever-convenient “helping hand.”

Screams ring out over the rushing thunder of a crowd-turned-stampede forcing its way through the labyrinthine city, falling on Ayzora’s deaf ears.  

She cannot command her feet to move, despite the panic rising in her chest.  She cannot command her mouth to scream, despite the desperation to reach Astarion.  She cannot think, despite the racing thoughts storming her mind.  However, she cannot stay.  She must move. 

Move.

With strained effort, Ayzora forces her body to lurch towards the opposite end of the alley as she begins to speak the vocal component to a locate creature spell under her ragged breath.

Looking down the street Astarion had disappeared in, a cloud of dust billows through the open morning air as a great unnatural shadow crawls along the cobblestone.

Ayzora’s words catch in her throat when she looks up a moment too late and the realization hits:  a nautiloid.

A slimy reddish-purple appendage wreathes through the air, reaching towards Ayzora.  She flinches, falling backward as fear's icy claws grip her wholly; and everything fades to black.

Time passes Ayzora by in barely-coherent flashes.

Everything feels like it’s spinning; like she can’t quite steady herself.

Her body is pressed against something distinctly flesh-like.  It’s warm.  Humid.  The air is musty and thick.

Screams still reverberate from farther away, sounding more like whispers that crawl along pulsating walls.

Light.  A rush of fresh air is accompanied by a narrow purple face with soulless glowing eyes.  A mind flayer inches closer to her, tadpole in hand.  She writhes to no avail.  Black.

Uncomfortable warmth rises to intense heat.

A silver-armored figure passes by.

There’s a flash of something bright and a loud sound.

Wind rushes past.

A click and a hiss.

Ayzora’s eyes wearily open.  She takes an unsteady step out of the pod that nearly became her coffin.  Her shaking legs fail, and as her feet hit the ground she collapses to her knees.  She looks up to at last takes in her surroundings: the inside of a nautiloid, clearly in bad shape, hurtling through the hells.

Adrenaline kicks in and forces her up.

Her hands jolt up to her shoulders.  She breathes a sigh of relief.  Messorem, her cloak, is still there.  Her hands trail to her chest and rest on her amulet; still here.  She takes stock of what she has on her.  Not much… shouldn’t have left in such a rush.  Her spell book is still tethered to the bag of holding’s straps which cross over her torso as a belted harness.  The spell book and bag rest against her back, hidden beneath her cloak.  Though a little worn, her gear and clothes generally seem to be intact; and outside of the ocular-cranial intruder, she seems to be free of injury.

Straightening herself out, she breathes deep and utters the incantation for a gate spell with the intent to return home.

Her shaking hands begin to trace invisible runes and-

Nothing.  No light, no shiver of magic along her fingertips, no interdimensional gate opening to her tower.

Her brows furrow.  Maybe I just need to relax.  She physically resets, giving her posture a moment to settle, and tries again.

Nothing.

She unbuckles her spellbook from her back and throws it open.

Nothing.  The pages, save for the first two, are completely blank.  Towards the spine of the book are perforated remnants of paper. 

Fuck.

Of the hundreds of consequences Ayzora was concerned would arise as a result of chasing after the pale elf, turning into a mind flayer while stranded in the hells without her full spellbook was certainly not one of them.

Survival mode fully sets in as the weight of the situation settles in a pit at the bottom of her stomach.  She takes a deep breath, physically shakes off some of her nerves, and encourages herself out loud with a, “time to move, Ace.”

A dragon’s roar kickstarts her dash forward.  Leaving the other pods behind, she makes her way to a higher level of the ship when a whispery cry echoes in her mind.  Following the voice’s direction, she finds a body butchered beyond recovery.  Its skull and scalp have been carefully cut, exposing the sentient brain which now calls to her.  It, too, asks to be free.

For a moment, she’s reminded of the first time she met Droop- the tortured and terrified goblin she saved and adopted all those years ago in Phandalin.  The one she named her cat after; her only company in that lonely tower.  

I could use a companion, she reasons, even if… unconventional.  

Holding her breath, she carefully sinks her slender fingers in the wet, gory space between the open skull and pulsating brain.  As gingerly as she can, she removes the creature from the bloody skull and sets it on the ground.

Us, they call themselves.  To the helm, they beckon.

“Then to the helm we go.”

The bloodied duo staggers through the destruction and decay quickly overtaking the nautiloid, Ayzora following the scuttling intellect devourer to what is supposed to be the helm.  They manage to return to what must be the main level and trek through an open passageway showing off the full view of Avernus, the first layer of the hells. 

Waves of heat threaten to choke Ayzora as the air singes her throat with each inhale.  She pauses, holding her breath.  

Imps, cambions, and devils fly through the air in a cacophonous swarm while a battle between planes ensues before Ayzora’s eyes. 

The ship rumbles. 

Ayzora dives for an enclosed part of the ship, terrified of being thrown off the side and left to be consumed by the hells.

She makes it into a large room, Us following at her heel, to see unconscious bodies lying on slabs arranged in a circle.  Another pod sits empty on the left.  Straight ahead is a center console with three nodes, a plaque above each.  

She approaches and examines them, trying to decipher the plaques.  Her hand hovers over one, power emanating from the button into her palm.

A muffled yell pierces through the walls, echoing into the room.  

Her head snaps to the right, hand retreating to her side in an instant.

She cautiously follows the noise, approaching the door to her right.

The ship lists hard.

Her feet slip on the suddenly steep ground, forcing her body downward with a thud as the ship enters a free fall.

The heat dissipates, replaced by a rush of cool nighttime air.

With a panicked cry and flailing arms, Ayzora tumbles through the nautiloid until her back slams into a hard surface.

Everything is spinning, faster than ever.  She can hardly think. Think!

The door that holds her in squelches open as everything retreats in the living ship’s desperate attempt to preserve itself.

Cool air hits her still-sweaty back.  A night sky overtakes her view, the burning nautiloid rapidly growing smaller.

She’s falling.  Fast.

Brace yourself, Ace, she thinks.  You’ll wake up soon.

Once again, Ayzora feels her consciousness slip away, and she is swallowed into black nothingness.

Warm.

Everything is warm.  Radiating on her face.  Bright.  Cradling her back.  Soft.  A breeze passes by, sweeping cool kisses on her cheeks and carrying salty air into her nostrils.

Her eyes flutter open.

She stands on unsteady feet as she carefully checks herself over for injuries.  Aside from a few burns sustained in the ship’s fall from hell, she’s… just fine?  Odd.  

Ayzora pulls a small healing potion out of her bag and removes the cork in a pop.  She pours a few viscous drops on her burns, soothing the pain, before drinking the rest with a grimace and replacing the cork.  Never really get used to the taste.

She looks around, trying to get an idea of where in Toril she could be.  She’s lucky to have made it to the shore- she’s nearly completely surrounded by a bright blue ocean that stretches past the horizon.  Hopefully this is at least the Sword Coast…  Just past the looming ship- on which some fires still burn- is a forest.  Directly ahead of her, a few intellect devourers scuttle about the wreckage.

Us!  She runs forward, calling out for her new companion.

The brains-on-legs turn to face the necromancer, silent.  There is no whispery voice calling her “friend.”  They all begin to run at her.

Oh, shit.

A creature arrives on the left and swipes at Ayzora.  She manages to twist out of the way just in time, but it only gives the one that snuck in front of her the chance to draw four streaks of blood from her shin.

Ayzora’s hands lift instinctively to her shoulders, unclasping her cloak.  She extends her right hand out in line with her shoulder and brings her left hand around the back of her head, both hands shifting in perfect unison while the cloak disappears in a blue shimmer.  Her hands align, and the obsidian handle of Messorem materializes.  With the momentum strengthening her swing, she sweeps her scythe across her front, slicing through the two enemy creatures in front of her.  The silver blade reaches her left side and she opens her hands for a moment to twist the handle, reversing the blade’s direction for another swing.

“Ignis!” A stranger’s voice echoes in the hollowed space.

Ayzora looks up.

A white dragonborn runs to an intellect devourer that had not yet reached Ayzora.  A raven-haired half-elf follows at his tail, stopping just behind him.

With the vocal command, a mote of fire flies from the half-elf’s hand to the creature on Ayzora’s left, killing it instantly.  

The dragonborn brings his quarterstaff down on the brain before him, forcing out squeals of pain.  

It swipes at the hulking white figure, but slips on the puddle of blood beneath it, only catching air in its claws.

“We’re here to help!”  The cleric calls.

Ayzora nods.  She opens her mouth to thank the stranger, but is cut short by the sting of claws digging into her thigh.

The intellect devourer in front of the dragonborn falls dead under the sorcerer’s quarterstaff while Ayzora cuts the last one in twain with Messorem’s bloodied silver blade.

“Thank you,” she finally manages.  She holds Messorem in front of her and pulls her hands back towards her in a perfect reverse, turning her scythe back into a dark blue cloak and clipping it onto her shoulders.

“Would you happen to be a survivor of the crash as well?”  The dragonborn asks, approaching Ayzora.  He speaks with his whole chest, his resonant voice filling the space.

“Yeah, do you know how we’re still alive?”

“I was hoping you might have an idea,” the cleric replies, stepping forward.  “Shadowheart,” she introduces herself, extending a hand towards the elf.

“Ayzora.”  She shakes Shadowheart’s hand and turns to the sorcerer.

He looks down at her pale hand for a moment, processing a wave of thoughts in silence.  He tenses, eyes widening, like he's fearfully forcing his own body to still.  Hesitantly, he raises his hand, scaly palm pressing against hers.  With a firm shake and a quick retreat, he finally responds: “Dark Urge.”  Hand safe at his side, he broadens the distance between himself and his new companion with another precautionary step.

Ayzora nods, taking a mental note of his unique name and odd behavior, but chooses not to comment.  “Do you have any idea where we are?”

The three of them return to the point of her awakening.  The sand is still indented where her body once lay.

“Not in the slightest,” Dark Urge answers.

“Doesn’t matter,” Shadowheart interjects, “As long as we find a healer to take care of our worm problem.”

“Right,” Ayzora answers.  Nearly forgot about the tadpole.

Just as soon as she is made aware of it, it writhes in her brain as if it just woke up, and a sudden throbbing pain pulsates in her head.  She grabs her forehead with both hands, eyebrows knitting together.

As if recalling memories, she sees flashes of lives that are not her own through the eyes of another.

First, nothing.  Like an expansive void threatening to swallow everything whole.

Then, two perspectives intertwined.

Waking up on the nautiloid.  Meeting a githyanki.  Burning imps with acid.

Trapped in a pod.  Begging Dark Urge for help.  Continuing onward, artifact in hand.

Fighting a cambion.  A Mindflayer.  More demonic creatures.  Reaching the transponder.  Falling.  Darkness.  Sunlight.

Suddenly, Ayzora’s mind is her own again.  She stumbles backward.  “What… in the hells?”

“The illithid tadpoles,” Dark Urge explains, his calm tone settling Ayzora’s panic, “they seem to connect us to one another, somehow.”

“We don’t quite understand ourselves,” Shadowheart adds.

Ayzora nods, lifting her palms from her forehead and brushing her hair back with her fingers before her hands rest at her sides.

The cleric dives into a little more of an explanation, along with a proposal: to travel together.  It would increase everyone’s odds of survival through the protection that comes with a group, while solving their shared illithid problem.  Ayzora nods along and looks around while Shadowheart verbalizes a to-do list: gather some supplies, find a place to set up a camp, get directions…

Ayzora’s mind wanders.  Gods, what a mess…  I don’t know if I want to risk waiting for a healer.  Might just be better to sneak off tonight, and-

“Hey, you there,” a voice calls, cutting her train of thought short.

Ayzora looks up toward its source.

Everything goes numb.

A pale elf with white curls is looking right at her.  “Come here!  I need help!”

Without another word, she walks towards him.

“Though I think we should- wait, where are you going?”  Shadowheart shifts abruptly and follows Ayzora up the hillside, Dark Urge close behind.

“Hurry,” the rogue urges as the necromancer approaches, “I’ve got one of those brain things cornered.”  He steps back and points.  “There, do you see it?”

Ayzora follows his line of sight, her eyes landing on a rustling bush.  Shadowheart and Dark Urge reach the two and watch a few paces behind.

“You can kill it, can’t you?”  He keeps his eyes trained on Ayzora, ignoring the others for the time being.  “Like you killed the others?”

She looks at him, thoughts trapped in the gelatinous mess of a suddenly silent mind.  Her panic is hidden- as always- behind a stoic expression.

There’s a moment of silence.

His expression shifts in confusion.

She clears her throat.  Pull it together, godsdamnit.  “Of course.”  Slowly, she takes a step towards the bushes and finally tears her eyes away from him.

He nods, taking a cautious step to the side to stand behind her.

One moment, she’s watching a boar make a mad dash away from the group.

The next, she’s on her back, a cool body pressed against hers while a dagger hovers over her neck.

“Shhh, not a sound,” he coos.  His voice, just above a whisper, tickles his captive’s neck with hot breath, “not if you want to keep that darling neck of yours.”

Ayzora’s chest stills as she holds her breath, frozen.  What-

“And you two- keep your distance,” he threatens in a sudden yell that makes Ayzora jump.  “No need for this to get messy.”

“I need her alive,” Shadowheart bites back.  “Stow that blade, or-”

Dark Urge raises his clawed hand in front of her, silencing her.  He takes a fighting stance: a silent, ‘no need to talk, just be ready to act.’

Shadowheart nods and follows suit, assuming her own prepared stance.

“I have other business, I’m afraid,” he tells the cleric in a condescending tone.  “Now,” he begins, his voice dropping once again as he turns his focus back to Ayzora, “I saw you on the ship, didn’t I?  Nod.”

Ayzora nods, swallowing.

“Splendid.  And now you’re going to tell me exactly what you and those tentacled freaks,” he spits, “did to me.”

“Same thing they did to me,” she answers, matching his low tone.  She keeps her head still, but looks sideways at him.  “I was taken.  Just like you.”

“Don’t lie to me!  I- AGH!”

Ayzora cries out at the same time, her tadpole writhing yet again as it connects to the one lodged in her attacker’s brain.  Her vision is once again flooded with someone else’s memories- with his memories.

The streets of Baldur’s Gate, dressed in the rich darkness of the evening.  Orange light spilling out of taverns brimming with life.  Stalking in the shadows.  Seducing.  Capturing.  Following yet another order.  Foul blood filling hungry maw.  Something sharp digging into bare flesh.  Carving.  Searing pain-

Pain that, at last, subsides.  Her mind clears.

The elf presses his dagger to Ayzora’s throat, blood threatening to trickle down her cold neck.  “What was that?” he demands, his voice dripping with fear.  “What’s going on?!”

Shit.  What did he see?  “It’s the tadpoles.  I can explain,” she pleads quickly, raising her open hands in surrender, “just let me up.”

He watches her for a moment, weighing his options, before slowly lifting his dagger and opening his arms.  The blade still points at her like a viper waiting to strike.

She slowly shifts away from him, out of his arms, and stands to her feet.

He pushes himself off the ground and stands, watching her with an expression noticeably softer than before.  “You… really aren’t one of them…”  

“No,” she concurs, shaking her head.  Her hands remain up, palms facing him.  She’s only just returned to her feet, and yet her posture is once again poised, as if slipping back into a comfortable mold.

“And to think, I was ready to decorate the ground with your innards,” he relaxes with a laugh.  

Ayzora’s eyes flicker to his lips, catching a flash of his fangs nearly hidden in his wide smile. 

“Apologies.”

“Accepted.”

Shadowheart and Dark Urge take a few steps closer as the rogue’s daggers are finally sheathed.

“My name’s Astarion.  I was in Baldur’s Gate when those beasts snatched me.”

Relief washes over Ayzora, settling the rolling waves in her stomach.  He must not remember.  Or, at the very least, he doesn’t recognize me.  Good.  “Ayzora,” she introduces.  “I was there, too.  Visiting.”

Dark Urge and Shadowheart follow suit, making their introductions.

Astarion nods.  “So, do you know anything about these worms?”

“I know they’ll turn us into mind flayers if we don’t get moving and find a healer,” Shadowheart answers.

Astarion looks between the three in front of him.

Dark Urge gives him a solemn nod.

Ayzora stares at him- at her chance to finally do something that feels like it matters.  Her chance to actually save someone.  I… can’t just leave.  What would be the point of any of this if he became that.

“They’ll turn us into…”  His words are lost in a fit near-hysterical laughter.  “Of course it’ll turn me into a monster.  What else did I expect?”

“We’ll find a healer,” Ayzora tries to reassure him, her resolve unexpectedly strengthened.  Okay.  Save Astarion:  Find us a healer; Get to Baldur’s Gate; Kill Cazador.  I’ve managed worse.

“Or an expert.  Someone that would know how to control these things.  There might still be time,” he reasons, looking at each of them.

Control…  and with control, power.  Whispers creep along the shadowed corners of Ayzora’s decayed mind.  Her eyebrows threaten to pull together as bottled rage chips away at her perfect shell.  You were robbed of your godhood last time…  It may at last be in your grasp…  

She thinks of everything she went through “last time.”  My friends, Remus and Ryon.  My family.  My parents, who got away with it all.  Reidoth, left behind.  Zedd and Laz, slaughtered.  I gained more power than most people could even fathom, and what fucking difference did it make?  It still came with a price.  I still lost everyone.

She balls her fists in the fabric of her dress, forcing the rest of her body to slip back into elegant grace with an ever-grounding deep breath.  When there was nothing else, there was her breath.  Always.  No, Ace, we’re not doing that again.  No.  We can be different.  This has to be different.

“Come with us,” Ayzora blurts.

Astarion’s eyes settle on her.  There’s a sort of glimmer in his gaze, the sides of his mouth pulling an almost-smirk that sinks into something of nonchalant smile. An easy grab, he thinks.

“We’ll better our chances as a group,” she adds, as if clarifying her intent.

His expression doesn’t change, locked on her.  “You know, I was ready to go this alone… but maybe sticking with the herd isn’t such a bad idea.”  He shifts towards her, tilting his chin slightly downward with a confident air, as if she was the audience to his soliloquy. 

As if she was the only one who needed to hear him- the only one he wanted to hear him.

“And you,” he continues, giving her a less-than-subtle look over, “seem like a useful person to know.”

She wonders if she can still blush.  The lack of warmth on her cheeks is, for the first time, reassuring. Deep breath.  She turns to Dark Urge, silently offering to give him the lead with a soft nod.

With hardly a moments’ hesitation, he accepts her offer with grace.  “I believe it is best for us to continue onward,” he begins, shifting the conversation back towards something more productive.  "If there are any other survivors, they can meet us at camp; but night will fall soon.”

Shadowheart nods, “We should probably split up, then; it’ll save us time.”

“I will make camp,” Dark Urge says, “Give me your supplies.  Everything will be prepared when you meet us.”

Astarion turns to Dark Urge.  “I think I’ll accompany you,” he announces.  “I prefer smaller groups, anyway.”

Shadowheart removes her bag and hands it to Dark Urge with a quiet, “thank you.  We’ll see you there.”

Astarion turns to Ayzora, hand held out towards her in patient offering.  She hesitates for a moment, unsure of her level of trust with him.

“I’ll be careful,” he reassures.

She wants to believe this is what he sounds like when he’s genuine.

She slips her hands under her cloak and unbuckles her bag of holding before placing it in his open palm.

He takes the bag and slings it over his shoulder before nodding to Dark Urge.

With that, the two walk off to scout for a place to camp, leaving Ayzora and Shadowheart behind.

Ayzora watches them leave, staring at the mess of white curls she so desperately sought out before, and now seemed to seek after her.  It was a strange feeling.  Like something had taken root in her chest…

Ah, right.  Hope.

“Let’s be on our way,” Shadowheart declares, heading back into the wreckage.  

Ayzora nods and jogs a few paces to catch up to Shadowheart, walking beside her.

Their mouths remain still for almost the entirety of their search, digging for supplies and items to sell while occasionally calling out for survivors.

All the while, Ayzora thinks of Astarion.  She mulls over moments in her mind on repeat, her thoughts falling prey to an endless loop in chasing its own tail.  He stopped in that alleyway.  Yet, he left me there.  He held his dagger to my neck.  He took my things to camp.  He stopped.  He left.  He held.  He took.  He stopped.  He stopped.  He stopped.

“I think I hear someone,” Shadowheart says low, eyes fixed on a rocky area just outside the still-burning nautiloid.

Ayzora’s eyes snap to the cleric’s.

Shadowheart doesn’t meet her gaze, instead walking forward.

The necromancer finally turns her head to look and sees the thing that captured Shadowheart’s attention: a portal grounded in a giant rune, clearly unstable.

When the two arrive, Ayzora attempts to close it in fear of what might come through, but her hand is wrenched back to her side in searing pain as the magic bites back.

A human hand flies out, and a voice echoes from the flickering purple opening: “A hand?  Anyone?”  

Shadowheart grabs the hand while Ayzora attunes to the raging magic of the portal, calming it like an arcane grease that allows the trapped man to slip out.

With a tug, he comes tumbling out, sending Shadowheart to the ground with him.  When they make it to their feet, they’re greeted by a cheery wizard.

“I’m Gale, of Waterdeep,” he introduces with a firm shake to his rescuers.  “Apologies, I’m usually better at this.”

“At teleportation circles?” Ayzora asks, giving the wizard a look-over.  She’s heard of the magical prodigy before- but she had never had the pleasure of putting a face to the infamous name.

“And, well, at magic.”

I wonder if his spellbook was ruined too…  Ayzora opens her mouth to ask, but Gale speaks first.

“Say, but I know you two, don’t I?  In a manner of speaking.  You were on the nautiloid as well.”

“We were,” Shadowheart says with a questioning tone.

“Then I can only assume you two were also on the receiving end of a rather unwelcome insertion in the ocular region?”

“Unfortunately,” Ayzora confirms.  “There are others, too.  We’re traveling together until we find a healer.  You’re welcome to join.”

“Most excellent!”

Ayzora starts to turn on her heel, but feels a gentle hand on her arm that stops her.

“Oh,” Gale interjects, releasing Ayzora’s arm and looking between her and Shadowheart.  “Before you think you’re about to embark on a journey with most ill-mannered a man: thank you,” he says with a slight bow, “for pulling me out of that stone.  It was an act of foresighted kindness I assure you, for I have a feeling ample opportunities will present themselves for me to return the favor.”

“Of course,” Ayzora responds, her tone gentle.  While she would normally find herself rolling her eyes at the verbose elegance most classically-trained mages display, she finds it oddly comforting for the time being.  The company of another wizard- especially a non-Baldurian- was a welcome solidarity.

“I suppose you haven’t seen any other survivors, then?”  Shadowheart asks, giving the area one last general look-over.

“Unfortunately, I can’t say I have,” Gale answers.

“We’ve searched everything twice over.  I think we can safely assume any others would have made themselves known by now,” Ayzora assures.  “Besides, we still need to figure out where the others made camp.”

“You’re right,” Shadowheart concedes.  “Shall we?”

Ayzora and Gale give a nod before he gestures to Shadowheart, inviting her to lead the way.

The three find a nearby trail and walk down it slowly, searching for their other companions and calling out their names on occasion.  After a while, with no sign of them or their camp, they return to the wreckage to orient themselves and take an alternative path following the coastline.  As the amber skies warn of the impending night, they at last see the smoke of a campfire.

Arriving to camp, a large fire pit sits in the center of a clearing, roughly surrounded by tents.  Dark Urge’s tent sits between Shadowheart’s and that of a githyanki he and Astarion found earlier named Lae’zel (who makes a blunt introduction).  Gale begins putting up his tent, and Ayzora finds hers between him and Astarion’s tent.

After the sun sets, Gale manages to put together a halfway decent meal while Dark Urge shares some encouraging news: there’s a druid grove nearby.  While sitting around the fire and eating, the group- save for Astarion, who was in his tent- agrees to head there first thing in the morning.  But for now: they need rest.

Ayzora sits by the fire for a long while, staring at the dancing flames.  Her hair is neatly braided and resting on her shoulder, trailing down to the hem of the blouse of her at-ease clothes.  With a straight back, her legs are crossed and her hands are folded in her lap; perfectly postured, even when alone.  

Someone is softly snoring, nearby.  Crickets chirp in a consistent drone, rising and falling like a heartbeat.  An owl hoots.  The fire crackles.  A tent door flaps closed.

Ayzora turns around with a start.

Astarion stands in front of his tent in a loose white blouse and fine trousers, watching her.

She stands, taking a few paces towards him.

“Well, hello,” he greets as she approaches.  “You’re up rather late.”

“I wasn’t sure if I’d see you tonight.  I just wanted to thank you for setting up my tent.”

“Consider it repayment for the… incident.”

Ayzora nods with a smile, “then we’re even.”

Astarion sighs.  “So, we’re resting here?  Turning in for the night?”

“I suppose…  Have you slept in the woods before?”

“It’s all a little new to me, I admit.  The night normally means bustling streets, bursting taverns…” he trails off with a smirk.

Ayzora cocks an eyebrow at him.

He takes the hint, returning to the topic at hand.  “Curling up in the dirt and resting is, um… a little novel,” he says with a more optimistic tone.

“Once you get used to the quiet, it can be nice.  Besides, we don't know how long it’ll be until we settle again.  I fear tomorrow might be a long day…”

“You’ve done this before?”

“Well, yes, but it’s been quite a while.”  Ayzora looks around, scanning for wildlife.  She’d forgotten how comforting the walls of her tower are- now, even with her tent, she feels exposed.  Vulnerable.  It’s unsettling.  She takes a deep breath.  “Anyway… we should get some rest.”

Astarion scoffs.  “I’m in no place to rest yet.  Today has been a lot.  I need some time to think things through.  To process this.”  He lets out a sigh.  “You sleep,” he offers with a small smile, “I’ll keep watch.”

Ayzora studies him, trying to get a read.  As far as she can tell, he seems genuine.  Genuine enough, I suppose, given… well, everything.  With another deep sigh, she nods.  “Thank you… I think I might actually sleep, then.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Ayzora,” he purrs with a smile.  “Sweet dreams.”

“Goodnight, Astarion.”

Ayzora settles in her tent.

While she’s thankful she brought her own things, giving her some sense of the comfort of home, she struggles to settle without the weight that normally sits on her right side: Droop.  She’s exposed in these woods, yes; and yet, she feels isolated.  Lonely.

But Astarion is keeping watch.  She can still save him.  Starting with the druid grove.

Find a healer.  Get to Baldur’s Gate.  Kill Cazador.

And maybe save herself in the process.

She drifts into trance.

In the quiet of the night, Astarion stalks into the woods.

Author's Note: I'm really excited to write this fic, even though I have no idea how many people are actually going to read it. Ayzora is one of my beloved D&D characters from a campaign I played in once a week for 3-years, and after playing Baldur's Gate 3, not only was it incredibly reminiscent of the campaign we played (the parallels were so wild, it was a blast), but Astarion also reminded me a lot of Ayzora. I love both of them dearly; and while I can always give Astarion a happy ending full of love, joy, growth, and hope, Ayzora unfortunately did not find the same end for herself. This story takes place after the campaign I played (altered quite a bit to remain consistent with BG3 canon) as a means of giving Ayzora the chance to be Radiant Hopeful herself, one day. I think love changes people.

Other notes:

- The Dark Urge *is* essentially Tav, in this case. The Tav playthrough is the D'Urge playthrough in this story. This allows the Dark Urge to exist as a fleshed out character, but it also gives me the freedom to write Ayzora as a fully Original Character, more akin to one of the Origin characters.

- Dungeons & Dragons lore/canon is incorporated into this story, as it was integral to Ayzora's story. Think of this more like a BG3 AU where it leans just a *little* closer to D&D. Regardless, one of my beta readers isn't familiar with D&D or BG3, so while my target audience is BG3 players and those familiar with D&D, I'm writing it to ensure you don't need any of that knowledge to read. Surface-level should be just fine!

- Ayzora is a High Moon Elf Necromancy Wizard, for those of you that may have been wondering. We'll get into the rest of her character as we go.

This is cross-posted to my Ao3, @ write-and-wander, so be sure to subscribe to the fic there if you want to see it first and be notified when it updates!

Chapter Two: Decline

[jackiequick]

Reverse Betrayal - Agent of SHIELD….HYDRA? | [ Flipped AU]

AU —— Amelia has been apart of the Inhuman/Brotherhood Of Mutants and Hydra all along, and is working against SHIELD (Why? We will never know..). After she had to reveal her powers to control a handful of soldiers after them while keeping a few in the process, to try Ward, to save the team and complete the mission. 

He decided to protect her and hide her secret, not knowing she was a spy. She doesn’t want to be saved or protected, in fear of letting her guard down, choosing to run away but Ward always finds her. The young heroes will always find her.

“I was trying to protect you..”

“So was I.” 

“So what are you doing?”

“I took your advice..I stopped running.”

“Look at me, baby, look at me! I won’t hurt you, I promise that.”

“Even after the hell I put you though?”

~~~~

Name: Amelia Rachel Mary Morse

Codename: Tempest 

Date of Birth: July 14, 1995

Nationality: Italian-American

Place of Origin: Queens, New York

Age: Varies depending on the timeline

Height: 5’2

Sexuality: Straight (though her loyalty often comes before any personal relationships)

Species: Inhuman/Mutant with the power to control and manipulate emotions

Affiliation: Hydra, Brotherhood of Mutants

Rank: High-ranking operative within Hydra's ranks, trusted member of the Brotherhood

Appearance: Amelia has a striking presence, with expressive eyes that seem to hold a secret. She often wears a confident smirk, giving off an air of mystery and danger. Her attire is sleek and practical, fitting for someone who operates in the shadows.

Abilities:

Emotion Manipulation: Amelia possesses the ability to sense, alter, and control the emotions of others. She can incite fear, anger, or calmness at will, using her powers to manipulate situations to Hydra's advantage.

Mental Resistance: Years of training and exposure to Hydra's methods have given Amelia a strong mental fortitude, making her resistant to telepathic intrusion and manipulation.

Combat Training: Trained in various forms of hand-to-hand combat and armed combat, Amelia is a formidable opponent in combat situations.

Background: Unlike the original timeline where Amelia dreamed of becoming a SHIELD agent to protect and serve, in this AU, she was recruited into Hydra at a young age. Growing up in Queens, she always felt like an outsider, hiding her true nature as an Inhuman/Mutant. When Hydra discovered her abilities in the later years, they saw her potential as a valuable asset. However she made it clear to have her abilities used on her own terms and conditions, she wasn't going to be their little toy.

Under the guise of a loyal agent, Amelia rose through the ranks of Hydra, honing her skills and serving their sinister agenda. She became known as Tempest, a name that struck fear or uncertainty into the hearts of her enemies. "Tempest" symbolize her ability to stir up and control emotions, much like a storm can whip up turbulent winds and chaos. It also represent her inner turmoil and the internal struggles she faces as she grapples with her loyalties and the choices she must make.

Alongside her allegiance to Hydra, she also aligned herself with the Brotherhood of Mutants, drawn to their vision of mutant supremacy.

Motivation: Amelia's loyalty to Hydra stems from a desire for power and control. Having felt marginalized and overlooked for much of her life, she sees Hydra as a means to exert her influence and shape the world according to her will. She believes in the supremacy of mutants and is willing to do whatever it takes to ensure their dominance.

Relationships: While Amelia may form alliances and partnerships within Hydra and the Brotherhood, her true loyalty lies with her own ambitions. She is skilled at manipulation and may feign friendships or romantic entanglements to further her own agenda. However, deep down, she harbors a sense of loneliness and isolation, knowing that her true nature must remain hidden from those around her.

———

Additional Information:

Deep down, Amelia harbors a sense of loneliness and isolation, knowing that her true nature must remain hidden from those around her. Despite this, she found solace in a relationship with her boyfriend Nikolai, where they shared a sense of comfort, understanding, and love.

When Amelia was assigned by her boss John Garrett, an undercover Hydra agent within SHIELD, to work alongside Phil Coulson and his team, she was hesitant at first. However, she discovered a warmth, confidence, and strong sense of compassion when working with Coulson and meeting the Young Avengers. 

Over time, she found herself drawn to them, allowing her walls to slowly fall as she began to desire something more for herself.

During the fall of SHIELD and the revelation of Hydra's infiltration, Amelia's cover was blown along with many other agents.

In a pivotal moment, she betrayed Ward and the team, saving them and herself. Following Hydra's downfall, Amelia went into hiding, forging her own path and rebuilding her guard. 

However, she remained on the radar of both the Young Avengers and SHIELD...

~~~~

This was my excuse to make an baddie Mia haha. Now it’s your turn to flip an characters around ;)

Anyways tell me what you guys think!

Tags: @gaminggirlsstuff @gcthvile @missstrawbs2001 @cherrysft @rickb-chaos @starkleila @infinetlyforgotten @meiramel @parisparker269 @buckysteveloki-me @yetanotherwells @nakiaswg @carellmcu @ximehs @xgoddessoffandomsx

[ask-missparker]

The shift in character change ~ Agents Of SHIELD Headcanons ⚔️

The surfing change in Amelia Parker, also known as Amy Morse is a subtle but gentle change that pushes her over the edge.

-> This was originally gonna go on the main blog but because this is about a agent of shield turned turned into something else, it only made sense to me to put it on here!!

— Small warning spoilers for Phase 1 & Phase 2 projects

- She joined SHIELD with the intent to help people the best as can, explore the possibilities that the world has to offer, use her natural skill set and grow as a person, making friendship along the way.

- In Iron Man 2, she cameos as a couple voice messages to Coulson and on vacation to Stark Expo with her family. Which is when The Drones attack happened, being physically hurt by one of them in fear as she rushed to help civilians to safety. She was fine don’t worry! A little traumatized but doing alright.

- She cameos in a few short moments in Thor as well. As she deals with Uncle Ben’s death too but she’s fine even if it bothers her, remembering he would want her to keep going.

- But The Avengers, is when the shift starts to happen more promptly, apart from the chaos of the film. Being one of the agents of the carrier, during Loki’s attack she has to try to rewire plans the entire time by sending out agents to take care of things.

- As she is running down the hallway, it’s when she hears on the radio and notices Coulson’s death by the hands of Loki!

- The god disappears and shakes everyone up, Amelia is just badly hurt as she watches Fury speak his last words to Coulson. It leaves a scar in her heart, having her friend and mentor fall during the attack. She acts like she’s fine but cries a little, trying straighten herself out.

- After The Avengers she is a little over the edge due to Coulson’s death, scaring nightmares of The Drone attack and SHIELD throwing work at her. So it keeps her busy with things to do.

- In 2013, is when things changed. Coulson comes back surprisingly and forms a team to discover the world post-Avengers 2012! And Amelia is signed to be there, reunites with her mentor/father figure, doing better. With that, the team grows with Fitzsimmons, Skye, May and her very good Grant Ward.

- Of course, Amelia has her ups and downs during season 1 of Agents Of SHIELD, pushbacks on missions, questionable moments with the team and exploring the unknown.

- But what completely pushes her over the edge is in 2014, second half of Agents Of SHIELD season 1, when everyone finds out Hydra was under their noses and tired of hiding in the shadows.

- Amelia is shocked, stressed out and questioning her every move. Not knowing who is on her side or not. She didn’t even pull her punches to protect herself and her teammates! A part of her regret not being more careful however it was understandable.

- Hell, Coulson brought them all to a bunker for their protection and to find a way to figure things out where at some point were put under lie detectors to make sure everyone was telling the truth about themselves. Everyone passed but there was still this lingering feeling something was off a couple of days later due to the situation.

- And when she thought she could take a huge break, she got the reveal that Ward is HYDRA! That’s what broke Amelia and pulled the plugs that pushed her over the edge, if she wasn’t already.

- She was extremely upset, conflicted and overwhelmed with emotions. Amelia was in denial and didn’t even have the heart to attack him, because as much as he lied to her. And gave his reasons to why he kept that secret. A part of her still loved him.

- Ward was passing out drama and trauma like it was hot cakes! Leaving a scar on everyone, including her. What’s even crazier than that, is that they didn’t kill him afterwards but kept him locked away in the SHIELD facility basement in New York City.

- Season 2, she deals with the aftermath of plenty Shield agents being Hydra ones, along with the new discovery that involves technology and human beings with possible abilities coming out of hiding.

- So she over the edge at this point, wearing a little more grays and blacks. Changing her hair to not be recognized in public. Amelia is helping to rebuild SHIELD headquarters with her team into what it once was, keeping secrets from The Avengers and boarding herself with work. Frequent missions and visits to Ward’s cell for answers to questions he might know, until they decide to have him moved somewhere else instead.

- And most importantly, Amelia undergoes an even more shocking turn of events due to shield discovery of alien, inhuman and mutant activity across the country. During an trip to Puerto Rico, one of islands underneath the caves held the rumbling ability to unlock unhinged truths. While Skye and Tripp were down there, in the mist of the explosive wave that resulted in Skye’s odd transformation, Amelia was effected in the blast getting hurt as she watched Tripp die. But that wasn’t the only thing that happened…

—

I could add more stuff but we would be here for a while, I’m more than happy to answer questions for Amelia’s journey 📝

Let me know what you think 💭 btw don’t worry old OG Ames is coming back lol

Tags 🏷 : @gaminggirlsstuff @gcthvile @missstrawbs2001 @purpleprincessonfyre @mallowbee4 @luna-d-marsh @rickb-chaos @rooster-84 @sherloquestea @halesfavoriteharlot @thecavalrywife @thisgirlisonfayeeer and etc

[ishomieokay]

Idolatry (Chapter 3)

18+ 5.3k homelander x hispanic oc, age difference, manipulation, breaking and entering, stalking, obsessive behaviour. part 3/?. AO3 link. part 1, part 2, parte 4.

Homelander's fooling around with a perky Latina almost twenty years his junior. She's looking for a daddy. He just wants a good fuck, and maybe to mess with Maeve's head. It's not going to end well.

The day after, it was as if nothing had happened. They were cordial but not overly friendly, maintaining a professional distance while shooting, careful in case they were overheard. From time to time, Aura María caught a glimpse of Homelander staring in her direction, but she couldn’t be sure if it was real or just a trick of her mind. She returned home late with a pounding headache, the lack of sleep and the long hours on set taking their toll.

It was Friday night, and she had no plans, which wasn’t unusual. Her party girl days were firmly behind her. Aura María felt a mixture of thankfulness and regret that things had never spiraled out of control even back then. Now, her routine was only occasionally interrupted by meetings with friends at overpriced coffee shops or the occasional night gala. Despite being relatively young, she sometimes felt inexplicably old.

She retrieved a pair of pajamas from her closet, laying them neatly on the bed next to her folded underwear, then made her way to the bathroom. She contemplated sending a text to Homelander as she sat in the tub, softly lip-syncing to a Ricardo Montaner song. Surely, permission had been granted when he provided her with his number. While his infatuation lingered, she reasoned, she could have some fun, even if that was all he wanted from her. She had no other prospects, after all.

Three years after arriving in the United States to work for Vought, Aura María still lacked a social life outside of her workplace. This was partly due to her commitment to warding off her many admirers. Cultural differences made it much more challenging to establish friendships, something she’d never excelled at even back home. She had been alone for a while and wasn’t particularly interested in changing that, especially when it came to romantic relationships.

Aura María had begun to question her sexual orientation when her 21st birthday came and went without a lover or even a fleeting interest in physical intimacy. It had occurred to her that she might be a lesbian or asexual. Homelander had proved her wrong in that regard. She did have needs, and now that they'd been satisfied, however briefly, she was aware of them in a way she'd never been before.

She took hold of her breast, retracing the path Homelander had drawn with his tongue the night before. It felt like a dream now. She decided that the barely concealed erotism of the lyrics was probably just getting to her and turned the music off. When she went back to her room, everything seemed the same at first glance. It was unusually cold, though. She turned around and realized that the window was open, but she couldn't remember whether she had closed it or not. The clothes she had neatly folded before getting into the tub were now in disarray.

She had trouble falling asleep and felt uneasy throughout the rest of the night. The cold seemed to seep into her bones. She tossed and turned, her mind replaying the events of the previous night and the strange occurrences in her room. The sense of someone having been there, the disordered clothes, and the open window gnawed at her. As she finally drifted into a restless sleep, Aura María couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

She dreamed of Homelander's intense gaze, the sensation of his touch lingering on her skin. The night seemed to stretch on endlessly, filled with half-formed images and unsettling whispers that left her feeling more exhausted when she finally awoke.

Aura María texted Homelander in the end. They had agreed to meet at one o'clock for lunch, but it was well past two when he finally arrived. He descended from the sky like a rocket, landing thunderously on the pavement. The impact shook the ground, sending a ripple of excitement through the crowd that quickly gathered around him. He handled the attention as gracefully as always, giving fist bumps, patting shoulders, and signing autographs. Over twenty minutes passed before he made his way to the restaurant door. The crowd didn't follow, thanks to the timely security’s timely intervention.

When he reached her table, he was smiling broadly and unapologetic. Although she couldn’t bring herself to be mad, Aura María put on a show of irritation anyway.

"So, you're the fashionably late type, huh?" she said, crossing her arms.

"Ah, not all the time. Only when the world needs saving," Homelander replied nonchalantly, taking a seat beside her.

"How convenient for you."

Aura María had more than a few sassy remarks at the tip of her tongue, but something at the corner of her eye caught her attention. The crowd had not dispersed yet. They were standing on the other side of the window facing their table, and there were news reporters and paparazzi among them. Word always traveled fast when it concerned Homelander.

Aura María felt her lips turn downward. This would probably reach Stan Edgar and the other executives at Vought. She wasn't sure how to feel about that. She had always valued her privacy and hadn't had much of an issue protecting it even after becoming a renowned filmmaker. No matter how good her work was, almost no one seemed to be interested in the personal life of a documentalist.

"Just so you know, if you were planning to keep this, whatever it is, a secret—that's not gonna work out. Not anymore."

"Who said I wanted to keep it a secret?" Homelander replied, smiling slyly at her. He took her hand then, rubbing the back of it with his thumb. Aura María felt a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth but was quick to suppress it.

"Explain it to me, won't you? Why in the world wouldn't I want everyone to know I'm dating such a dang brilliant, talented, and beautiful woman?"

'Dating,' Aura María thought, a bit bewildered. 'Am I dating Homelander?'

Assuming one was generous enough to consider meeting for drinks after work a date, this hardly counted as their third time going out. However, Aura María guessed that was the right word to describe their situation—dating. Even in the privacy of her thoughts, it sounded wrong. Never in her wildest dreams would she have dared call it anything other than a hookup or situationship at best.

"I mean, you do have a mirror at home, right? This is the kind of thing most guys would be shouting from the rooftops."

"Mmm, you're coming off strong today, aren't you?" Aura María replied, pleased but unwilling to let him have it so easy. "Sorry to say, but I think bootlicking looks awful on a man, especially if he's just doing it to get laid."

Homelander blinked at her, then laughed, seeming oddly delighted by her rudeness. He had one thing in common with all the men who've tried to woo her in the past. The banter was half the fun for him.

"O-okay, the lady's not into sweet-talking, then," Homelander leaned forward to whisper in her ear. "That's fine. I think I could change your mind about the bootlicking part, though. Maybe, mmn, broaden your horizons?"

Aura María blinked, then arched an eyebrow in disbelief. "You're not serious."

Homelander looked her up and down, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. "If I was, would that freak you out?"

Aura was already aware of the fact that Homelander was not exactly the pedantic goody-two-shoes he pretended to be for the sake of his image. Apparently, he was into having sex while having verses of the Book of Revelation read to him. As if that weren't blasphemous enough, Aura María also had the feeling that she'd awoken in him a virginity kink. Still, this thinly veiled insinuation came as a surprise. Not for the first time, she felt oddly flattered that he would share this part of himself with her—one that he usually kept hidden under wraps.

Smiling and unwilling to back down, Aura María met him with the same energy. "I'd say I'm open to new experiences."

Homelander whistled. Then he lifted the tablecloth and made a show of leaning down to take a look at her shoes.

"Oh, shucks," he said in a disappointed, cartoonish voice. "Nah, it wouldn't work. You're wearing high heels."

"What a pity," Aura María deadpanned.

"I wear boots all the time, though. Leather," Homelander replied, dragging the 'L' obnoxiously and then winking at her. "I'd let you borrow 'em, just this once."

"I feel tricked. You're not the serious man I was led to believe."

"Chica, I walk around all day long wearing a skin-tight spandex suit and a cape. I am the very definition of an unserious man."

"Well, I can't argue with that," Aura María said, then gestured at the window with her head. The crowd was still there, although there were fewer of them now. "I think you should be more careful with what you say when out in public, though. You know what would happen if any of those news reporters found out that the Homelander is into dominatrixes? The internet would explode."

"I think you're exaggerating."

"Maybe. Parents wouldn't buy their kids those cute Homelander dolls Vought just released, though. That's for sure."

Homelander tilted his head to the side, then said very slowly, "action figures."

"What?"

"They're not dolls," Homelander corrected her with a serious face. His every word was emphasized by the tapping of his index finger against the table. "They're action figures."

After a beat, Aura María burst out laughing.

"Coño, este pana es un caso," she said, covering her face with one hand.

Homelander blinked at her, then parroted back her words but in an awful American accent, mispronouncing every syllable and clearly unaware of what he was saying. Rather than offend her, the sound of the leader of the Seven mercilessly butchering her mother language only made her laugh harder.

Once they left the restaurant, Homelander gently scooped Aura María into his arms. He sensed her hesitation, her body tensing slightly as they rose. To keep her at ease, he flew slowly and close to the ground, weaving through the cityscape with the grace of a shadow. Aura María clung to him, her arms around his shoulders, holding tight enough to dislocate a lesser man's neck. Homelander, with his superhuman strength, barely seemed to notice.

The cacophony of the city was soon replaced by the serene whisper of leaves as they reached a secluded clearing in Central Park. The moonlight cast a silver sheen over the grass, the stars twinkling faintly above. The distant hum of traffic was a mere murmur here, overshadowed by the rustling trees and the occasional chirp of crickets. They decided to take a stroll, savoring the rare peace away from prying eyes and the relentless noise of the city.

"It's unfair, to be honest," Homelander began, breaking the comfortable silence.

"Sorry?” Aura María replied.

"You know almost everything there is to know about me. I mean, it'd be strange if you didn't, I guess, after directing a 40-minute-long documentary on me. I don't know the first thing about you, though. It's unfair, it's all I'm saying."

"What do you wanna know?"

"Where are you from? Originally, I mean."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Aura María's tone sharpened, her hackles rising defensively. Homelander, rather than offended, seemed amused by her reaction.

"Don't get me wrong, missy, you speak English better than many people who were actually born here. The accent gives it away, though. So, Venezuela, am I right? What city, though? What's it like there?"

"Oh." Aura María relaxed, her tension dissipating.

She had thought he was questioning her heritage, a common and hurtful experience. "I'm from Caracas, born and raised. It's loud and dirty and full of weirdos, like any capital. It's in the middle of a valley, though, so there's also nature and trees, lots of macaws. I grew up in the East, which most would say is the fancy part of town. Like, uh, American suburbs, I guess."

"I don't find that surprising at all."

"Please, like you don't have Old Money written all over your face."

"I should hope so. You've no idea how much Vought spend just to make it this pretty," Homelander replied, smiling teasingly down at her. His smile faltered slightly, as if he just realized he'd said something he shouldn't have. Aura María laughed it off, unsure what he meant. Had Homelander just confessed to her he'd had plastic surgery?

"My dad's a native, from a small town called Alto Orinoco. That's in the Amazonas. We look nothing alike. His maternal grandparents were from a tribe called Wayú, and apparently their Spanish was very bad," Aura María said. Although she most definitely took after her mother, someone educated in the matter could glimpse a few ethnic features in her. She had eyes dark as night, larger than average and almond-shaped, a round face with plump lips and thick hair of an intense black shade.

"My mom's from a town not far from the capital called Valencia. Her parents were Italian immigrants and racist as fuck. They disowned her when they found out she wanted to marry a Wayú. When I was little, they often came by the house, though. Once I was old enough to understand that they wanted me around because I only looked 'a little Indian,' I told them not to come back," she said, wrinkling her nose.

"Uh," Homelander said, ever so eloquent. He was staring at her strangely. "That's a... very colorful background."

"You think? Not very different from my friends' back home, though. We are all a weird mixture of something over there."

“So, interracial marriage is normal in your country?”

“I guess? I mean, we don’t really have a concept of it. To us, it’s just marriage. Obviously, there are racists, like, well…”

“Like your grandparents?”

“Yeah, like them. People from different races marrying each other is usually not a big deal for us, though. Not nowadays. I was surprised to see how much of a taboo it still is here, to be honest. You would think citizens of the so-called first world would be more open-minded.”

Homelander actually sniggered. “There’s people in this country who think the Earth is flat, María. Give us a break.”

“I guess you would know a lot about that,” Aura María replied, a glint in her eyes. “I’m pretty sure flat-earthers make up most of your fanbase.”

Homelander stared at her gravely. “There are flat-earthers among my fans. They are not the majority of them.”

“Oh. So, you would say it’s an insignificant amount, then?”

“Definitely.”

“So, if tomorrow you were at a rally and openly said that the Earth is in fact round, everything would be fine? Is that what you’re saying?”

“…no,” Homelander said, reluctantly. “It would affect my ratings. Like, a lot. Stan would have my head on a plate.”

“I thought so.”

“If I tell you something, you promise not to laugh?”

“What?”

“For the longest time, I thought Venezuela was a country in Europe.”

Aura María halted to a stop. “Please, tell me you’re joking.”

Homelander shook his head, pursing his lower lip.

“I mean, I can’t say I’ve met a lot of Venezuelans. The ones I have only dressed in designer clothes and threw 100$ bills around like they were pennies. That did not scream Third World country to me.”

Aura María frowned. “When was this?”

“Uh, 2008, I think? I was hosting a beauty pageant with Melanie Brown. You know, one of the Spice Girls? Your candidate won; I forgot her name.”

“Ah, Dayana Mendoza. Yeah, people who work at those pageants have lots of money. I should have known you only ever heard of my homeland because of Miss Universe.”

“Well, look at the bright side, chica. I may think Venezuela is a Third World communist hellhole, but at least I know that you’ve got A-tier women and not everyone’s brown. Better than a flat-earther by a long shot.”

“You’re such a fucking asshole.”

Aura María’s voice carried a mix of frustration and amusement. Homelander chuckled, a low, amused sound that rumbled in his chest. “Anyway, I guess that means we’re even,” he said, his tone casual but his expression unreadable.

“Mmn, I don’t think we are,” Aura María replied, her brows knitting together as she looked away, gathering her thoughts.

“What’s that?” Homelander asked.

“You said you wanted to know more about me because I already knew everything about you. That’s not true, though. I think most of what we filmed for that documentary was bullshit.”

Homelander’s expression shifted abruptly. The playful glint in his eyes vanished, replaced by a serious, almost steely gaze. His jaw tightened, and Aura María could feel the tension radiating from him. She realized, belatedly, that this might be one in the long list of questions she wasn’t supposed to ask.

“What makes you say that?” Homelander asked, his voice low and measured.

Aura María hesitated, feeling the weight of his stare. She forced herself to keep going, her heart pounding. “I could see it that day when we were filming the childhood segment. You know, back at Maryland?”

“Okay?” he responded, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to read her.

Aura María smiled awkwardly, her cheeks flushing. She could feel the heat rising to her face. “You’re gonna think it’s weird that I noticed. But, uh, during a recess, I heard you asking Madelyn where the restroom was. You also got lost a couple of times when we were filming the house tour.”

“Oh,” Homelander said, his face going blank for a moment. He looked away, his gaze focusing on the horizon as if searching for an escape from the conversation.

The trees rustled softly in the breeze. The sky was painted with hues of blue and black as the moon rose higher, casting long shadows across the grass. Aura María felt a knot in her stomach, regretting her boldness. She had hoped to pierce through his facade, to understand the man behind the mask, but now she feared she had pushed too far. The vulnerability she had glimpsed in him earlier seemed to retreat, replaced by a cold, impenetrable wall.

Homelander’s face softened slightly, though, as he met her eyes again. There was a flicker of something—maybe understanding, maybe resignation. “Aren’t you a clever one?” he said quietly. “Not many people notice those things.”

Aura María relaxed a little, relieved that he hadn’t shut her out completely. She offered a small, tentative smile. “I guess it’s my job to notice things.”

“Yeah, I suppose it is.” He nodded, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’re right, of course. A lot of what’s out there about me is…curated. For the public.”

Aura María nodded slowly, feeling a pang of empathy despite her wariness. “I understand. Image is everything, especially for someone like you.”

“It’s more than that,” Homelander replied, his voice unreadable. “It’s about control. About making sure people see what Vought wants them to see.”

“And what about what you want?” Aura María asked, genuinely curious.

Homelander looked at her, his eyes searching her face as if weighing how much to reveal. “What I want doesn’t matter as much as what they need me to be.”

They continued walking in silence for a few moments, the sounds of the park around them feeling comforting despite the tension. Aura María could see revelation before her eyes, a glimpse of truth in a world of illusions. Although all of her instincts were telling her to change the subject, she would herself digging for more. “You know,” she said softly, “I was thinking about what happened that day. With the blanket.”

Homelander's face tightened, a shadow passing over his usually composed features. "Right. You were there."

"When you got Randy fired? Yeah, I was there." Aura María's tone was gentle, trying to tread carefully on what was clearly a sensitive subject.

Homelander didn’t look sheepish at all. He raised one eyebrow, his gaze unwavering and intense, as if waiting for a reaction.

"Relax," Aura María was quick to say, sensing his defensive stance. "He was a shitty producer. I was glad to see him gone."

"Ah, see? I was looking out for you, even then," Homelander said with a smile, pointing at the tip of her nose with his index finger in a playful gesture.

"Sure you were," Aura María replied, flashing him a teasing smile. She knew what he was doing—trying to steer the conversation elsewhere. She decided to press on, determined to get to the truth. "What was it?"

"Uh?" Homelander feigned ignorance, though his eyes betrayed a hint of unease.

"What got you so upset that day? I mean, if it was just about Randy getting his crusty ass hands on your blanky, I understand. I don't like it when people touch my stuff either. But I got the feeling that there was something else going on."

Homelander stayed quiet, his jaw clenched.

"It's okay if you don't want to talk about it," Aura María said softly, trying to give him an out.

"It was nothing, really. It just... brought back bad memories," he finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I'm gonna ask you a question. Can you promise to answer it truthfully?" Aura María's voice was steady, but her heart pounded in her chest.

"It depends on the question," Homelander replied, his tone guarded.

"Did you really grow up in that house?"

"No," he said simply, the word hanging heavily in the air.

Aura María remembered Homelander talking about his mother's perfect cake, eyes full of love and reverence, only for him to go completely blank-faced the minute the cameras stopped rolling. A void formed in the pit of her stomach, though she wasn't sure why. "Was anything of what we filmed that day real? Anything at all?"

Homelander just shook his head, his lips pulling downward. He looked like a child being scolded, vulnerable and exposed.

"And the blanket?" she asked gently.

Homelander hesitated, then. Aura María put her hand over his, waiting patiently. He stared at their joined hands for a strangely long time.

"Only real thing on that set," he said finally. "It pissed me off that they would put it there without even asking."

Aura María understood then. It had angered him to see something real among all the fakery. She tilted her head to the side, considering him. There were only a few reasons she could think of to completely fabricate the background of a world-renowned celebrity, and none of them were very nice. What was Vought trying to hide?

"You come from a bad place, don't you, John?" she asked softly, using his real name for the first time.

He raised sharp eyes to look at her, the vulnerability in his gaze taking her by surprise. She had never seen him like this—so hesitant and out of his depth. "I don't want to talk about it."

"That's okay. You don't have to," she replied, her voice soothing.

Homelander stayed quiet, something about his expression making her heart ache. The tough facade he usually wore seemed to crack, revealing a glimpse of the man beneath the superhero persona.

"Aw, I'm sorry, papi," she murmured, kissing his cheek gently and laying her head on his shoulder. "I wasn't trying to make you sad."

"It's fine," Homelander said, though his voice lacked its usual confidence.

The embrace was tentative at first. Aura María could feel the tension in his muscles, the residual wariness that made him hold back. But as the seconds ticked by, he seemed to relax into her, his grip tightening. She pressed her cheek against his chest, the warmth of his body radiating through the thin fabric of his suit. She could hear the steady, powerful beat of his heart.

The sun had dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the park and turning the sky into a canvas of deep blues and purples. Homelander and Aura María walked side by side, the cool evening air brushing gently against their skin. The city’s distant hum was a comforting background noise, reminding them that despite the surreal peace of the park, the world outside continued to churn.

"You followed me that day," Homelander said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence.

"Uh?" Aura María glanced at him.

"When I walked out, you went looking for me. No one else did. I mean, there was Madelyn, but she... she only wanted me to keep filming, yaknow? She didn't really care about me."

Aura María had heard the rumors about Madelyn Stillwell's involvement with Homelander. Although it didn't seem like the right time to ask, she couldn't help but wonder. It had always seemed odd to her that America's most-sought-after-bachelor would set his eyes on a woman known around the whole metropolitan area to be a moody two-faced narcissist. Aura María was certainly not glad to learn about her sudden passing, but in all honesty, she much preferred to deal with Ashley Barrett. Despite her often-neurotic behavior, at least there was something human about her.

"You, though? You walked up to me when I was going back to the set, and you said... you said that you were sorry if your crew did something to upset me. That I didn't have to keep going if I didn't want to."

"Oh, yeah. I remember." Aura Maria’s expression softened, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

"It's not common, you know? For people in this industry to be kind. Genuinely kind, no ulterior motives."

"No, I guess it's not," she replied, her tone thoughtful.

Aura María understood what he meant at once. Entertainment was not for everybody. She'd learned that the hard way and she'd already been a full-grown adult when she started working for Vought. Homelander had made his debut when he was only eighteen years old. She couldn't even imagine what growing up in that environment would do to a teen. Aura María wondered if that was the reason he asked her out—a small act of kindness she barely even remembered.

She could still recall that day vividly. They had been filming at a grand estate in Maryland, a faux representation of Homelander's childhood home. The house was opulent, with perfectly manicured lawns and an aura of artificial nostalgia. The set was bustling with activity, lights and cameras everywhere, creating an atmosphere that was both chaotic and meticulously controlled.

He had felt overwhelmed at some point, though at the time she had not been ablet o certain why. After what had been labeled by the crew as The Blanket Incident, he’d walked out into the expansive backyard, seeking a moment of solitude. Aura María remembered the feeling of the cool grass beneath her feet as she followed after him, the way the breeze had whispered through the trees, offering a fleeting sense of peace.

Then, out of nowhere, she spotted Homelander coming back from the barn. His presence, normally so commanding, had been almost sullen that day. A look she hadn’t expected from someone so larger-than-life. She had approached him with a concerned look in his eyes, and although her words had been simple, apparently, they had stayed with him. She had offered him an out, a rare moment of empathy in an industry that often lacked it.

Aura María had wondered awhile back if it was a good idea to go out with such a high-profile celebrity, even if only for one night. With a man so different from her, both in social and economic standing. It had been so very intimidating and still was. She was happy she said yes, though.

It felt strange to let him into her bedroom. She'd had people over before, but it was not quite the same. As Homelander stepped inside, Aura María suddenly became acutely aware of every little detail she'd never given a second thought to before. The stuffed animals she brought from Caracas because she couldn't bear parting with them, the Studio Ghibli posters that lined the walls, the TikTok LED lights she bought during an online shopping frenzy and never took down.

She cringed inwardly, realizing for the first time that her room could easily belong to a middle schooler. Homelander didn’t comment on it, though. He just stared down at her, eyes intent and gleaming in the low light of the room.

"I think we are overdressed, aren't we?" he said with a half-smile, a playful glint in his eye. "Take it off, come on."

Aura María bit into her lower lip, then proceeded to remove her dress. She crumpled it into a ball and threw it on the bed. Homelander was having none of that, though. He tsked at her, shaking his head slightly.

"Ah-ah, pick it up," he said, wiggling his finger. Aura María frowned, feeling a mixture of annoyance and curiosity, but still did as she was told. "Fold it, then put it in the drawer."

"You're into very weird stuff, you know?" she muttered, her voice tinged with a mix of amusement and nervousness.

"'Course not. I just don't like making a mess."

"Sure, that's all this is," she said, rolling her eyes as she took off her underwear and folded it along with the dress, placing them neatly on the bed.

"That's better."

Homelander approached her slowly, his gaze roaming over her body, making her skin prickle with anticipation. He put both hands over her breasts and squeezed them lightly. Aura María took a deep breath, already feeling the first stirrings of pleasure run through her. His touch was firm yet gentle, sending waves of warmth through her body.

His hands traveled down, caressing her sides, then her hips, and finally stopping at her ass. He squeezed her buttocks, then pulled her closer so that they were chest to chest. Aura María put her arms around him and leaned forward to kiss him. The apartment was deadly quiet, only the soft noises of their kissing and the erratic beating of her heart could be heard. It was embarrassing, really, how worked up she'd gotten after he'd barely touched her.

It made sense in a way, though. He was, after all, her sexual awakening. Aura María found it weird and sort of embarrassing that it would finally happen in her mid-twenties. Talk about a late bloomer, she thought wryly. But there was no denying the chemistry between them, the way his mere presence seemed to ignite something deep within her.

As their kiss deepened, Homelander's hands continued their exploration, making her skin tingle with every touch. The LED lights cast a soft, colorful glow around them. Homelander pulled back slightly, his breath warm against her lips. "You’re beautiful," he whispered, his voice husky with desire.

A shiver ran down Aura María's spine. She felt exposed, vulnerable, but also incredibly alive. She looked into his eyes, seeing a mixture of lust and something deeper, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

"Thank you," she whispered back, her voice barely audible.

They moved to the bed, Homelander guiding her gently. As they lay down, he continued to explore her body with his hands and mouth, each touch sending sparks of pleasure through her. Aura María's mind was spinning. She felt a connection with him that went beyond the physical, a sense of understanding and mutual need. In the quiet of her bedroom, surrounded by the remnants of her past and the promise of something new, Aura María let herself be swept away by the moment. She surrendered to the sensations, the intimacy, and the overwhelming feeling of being seen and desired.

[ao3feed-fitzsimmons]

Wildest Dreams ☾ Daisy Johnson

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/19Sj0Ls

by sapphicsokas (saturnsokas)

❝ even if it’s just pretend ❞

IN WHICH . . . the looking glass is shattered under the power of Daisy Johnson’s love for her best friend.

 iron man — agents of shield — secret invasion skye/daisy johnson x female agent oc coming soon

Words: 1503, Chapters: 2/?, Language: English

Series: Part 1 of Age of Heroes

Fandoms: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Secret Invasion (TV 2023)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Major Character Death

Categories: F/F, Gen

Characters: Original Female Character(s), Skye | Daisy Johnson, Tony Stark, Phil Coulson, Melinda May, Leo Fitz, Jemma Simmons, Alphonso "Mack" Mackenzie, Elena "Yo-Yo" Rodriguez, Grant Ward, Nick Fury

Relationships: Skye | Daisy Johnson/Original Female Character(s), Skye | Daisy Johnson & Original Female Character(s), Tony Stark & Original Female Character(s), Phil Coulson & Skye | Daisy Johnson, Leo Fitz/Jemma Simmons, Phil Coulson/Melinda May, Lincoln Campbell/Skye | Daisy Johnson, Tony Stark/Pepper Potts

Additional Tags: Friends to Lovers, Bisexual Skye | Daisy Johnson, which is canon to me anyway, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Character Death, plot starts in season 4 but there's lots of background before that, Slow Burn, i really don't know how to tag this fic, Resurrection, Found Family, Mutual Pining, Did I say slow burn?, they're both oblivious until death comes knocking at the door, Love Confessions, updates will come when i inevitable rewatch aos after secret invasion, Superpowers, Daisy Johnson Will Be In Secret Invasion, long fic, Star Wars References, Taylor Swift References, Title from a Taylor Swift Song, Mostly Canon Compliant, nothing too big is changed, tony stark meets lance hunter and i think it's really funny, the framework arc is expanded on, More tags to be added

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/19Sj0Ls

[allthingsroleplay]

Various Characters wanted on AU post Civil War Marvel site dealing with the Superhuman Registration Act

  OPEN FACE wanted as BOBBY “ICEMAN” DRAKE’s older brother

He’s newly elected to Congress and one of the loudest voices calling for tightening the Superhuman Registration Act laws and a known anti-mutant believer - the twist? His kid brother is an X-Man.

(Oliver Jackson-Cohen pictured)

Open Canons or OCs wanted for DODC black ops + secret police team to join JOHN WALKER, GRANT WARD, BROCK RUMLOW, & SHARON CARTER

Someone’s got to the the dirty work no one can acknowledge, especially as more metahumans and mutants begin to flout the registration laws…. smells liks facism!

PHIL COULSON wanted for AGENTS OF SHIELD TEAM

Jemma, Fitz, Grant, and Daisy are all around and looking for their team dad, especially now that with S.H.I.E.L.D fallen, they’ve split up. With the world going to pieces as the Registration Act looms, everyone could certainly use a bit of that Agent Coulson special.

X-MEN WANTED FOR RESISTENCE TEAM LED BY SCOTT SUMMERS

As things heat up, the X-men have split - some of the team left following Scott Summer to form a new team on Genosha, focused on rescuing and protecting mutant kids from the registration laws. 

[highfantasy-soul]

Rambling - ignore me

hmmmm debating about my writing right now. I'm currently publishing a fic over on my second blog [Matt Murdock x reader!OC x Namor], and I'm very close to the home stretch on it...but I feel like I've put so much pressure on myself to have consistent uploads that making sure the story is coming out the way I want and edited as much as I want is getting really stressful. Because, you know, I also have a full time job....

I have like, 7 chapters drafted and a whole story outlined for an Agents of Shield Academy fic [fem!OC x Grant Ward] and I just outlined a Jedi: Fallen Order fic [masc!OC x Cal Kestis] because my brain does that. It gets an idea and I need to get it written down - if not fleshed out - or it'll eat me alive.

I don't want to just abandon my first fic, I'll definitely finish it at some point because I'm a completionist in like everything I do, but taking a break from publishing to just write something new I'm not putting out there yet might do me some good? But I really want to get this story out of my system as it's been something I've been thinking about/working on since December of last year... Like, I know all the beats and how it'll end, I just have to write it. I'm on freaking chapter 46 for goodness sakes!

The story had been coming out of me like a fire hose, writing over 50k words in like, ten days, and now I'm lucky if I get 5K words a week. Passages that I really like, it's just... a lot of pressure that I'm putting on myself.

So idk what I'm gonna do. I could start uploading sporadically, but I'd prefer to have several chapters ready to go to put out consistently. Who knows, man. Who knows.

-end ramble-