#he resents it as much as Miles does. but he believes he needs to bear it because look what happened when u wanted better you hurt people | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nat-20s · 3 years ago

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#10?

prompt 10- recognizing the other's voice in a crowded room

so uhh u didn't specify this being a pairing, and it ended up jonmartin lol

this is like? an au where one of the domains of the lonely (and also maybe stranger) plays off the specific loneliness that comes with parties. u kno the one, where you have fun for about an hour and then realize that you're fundamentally isolated and you need a breather?

anyway

~*~

Upon opening his eyes, he is not where he last remembers being. He is not sure how long his disorientation will last, but considering he's standing up right, at the edge of a crowded ballroom, he suspects it may be the entire time that he's here.

He had fallen asleep on the couch, the TV blaring away on a program he didn't know any of the details of. It hadn't mattered what was playing, as long as it had some of the natural rise and fall of other people speaking. He had been severely mising that lately, those gentle rhythms of conversation, and trying to listen to an audiobook while staring at his bedroom's popcorn ceiling just wasn't cutting it. So, TV dreaming it was.

Oh, that could be what was going on. An elaborate dream, constructed from the sound of a scenario he hadn't paid any attention to. He didn't think he'd fallen asleep watching anything to spark this kind of dreamscape, but that didn't mean much. It'd be oddly lucid, for a dream. And oddly sharp. His dreams, much like his memories, were always somewhat clouded over, and never as colorful as reality. Even his grayest waking days, of which there were many, had colors more distinct than what appeared in his mind's eye.

Simple test: he could never read or write in dreams. The words always swirled and distorted, and he somehow lost all manual dexterity. He needed a book, or a pencil, or both. He began to wander the ballroom, and abruptly realized that this was a masquerade, everyone wearing elaborate costumes with animal shaped masks. Did he fit in? Did he belong? He hoped he wasn't in what he fell asleep in, the worn hoodie and sweatpants barely worth making a grocery run in. The outside world wasn't supposed to see him looking comfortable, but presentable. He liked to think that if he left the apartment appearing at least somewhat put together, maybe people would believe that extended to other areas of his life. That it would be easier to ignore the increasingly dark circles under his eyes, that his nice sweater had been getting gradually looser as the tool of everything literally wore him down.

Small mercy, he wasn't like that now. A glance down showed that he was, like the rest of the guests? Captors? dressed to the nines. He has a suspicion that his own elaborate outfit, dark blues with gold and pearl embroidery, was a part of it. It was not a mercy to blend in here, it was a design element. Standing out would result in being noticed, being noticed meant being seen as an individual, and they can't have that.

It is with that line of thinking that he suddenly becomes aware of the weight of the mask on his face, the restriction of his sight through eyeholes. Looking into a teapot that's been polished to a mirrored shine, he see that he bears the incredibly crafted face of a field mouse. It would almost be plain, if it didn't have matching embroidery to his coat.

Fitting, he thought. It made him look smaller than he was, and he had so often wished to go unnoticed. A fly would've also worked, but he imagines it would be rather hard to make that into a suitably beautiful mask. Either way, he was level with the rest of the crowd. Even believing it to be part of the trick, even knowing that the masquerade was meant to make you false, there was some level of comfort to it. He was not going to be seen here. Instead someone more handsome, more charming, more even with his peers was allowed to take his place, as false as they were. Best of all, that's what all of them would be doing here, the whole appeal of a masquerade in leaving behind the person you loathe most and can never be free from.

Seems lonesome, for a party. So structured around the theater of it all. You can connect with countless people, and you don't get to actually connect with any of them at all.

Oh.

Oh, now this made all made sense. Crave interaction, and get a warped version of it.

He could see the napkins, emblazoned with a name that he didn't recognize, presumably the host, and, in much smaller font, the company name. Every one of them was consistent.

Easy enough to receive the message. This wasn't a dream. This was a punishment.

Hmm. Well, no, punishment might be the wrong term. Punishment implied that it was a consequence, a direct cause and effect of doing something wrong, by someone's definitions of "wrong". No this was. Torture is too strong of a word, and again, has the problem of making this seem willful. Deliberate. And maybe it was, but more likely, whatever this was had just sort of happened. A cruelty that comes with being in the universe they all happen to occupy.

This wasn't a dream. This was a consequence.

He doesn't know how to get out of here. He can't see any doors, and exits. The only approximation of one is some giant frosted glass that seem like they might lead to a balcony. They're only on the other end of the ballroom, but that lengths feels impenetrable, like it spans for miles and miles of harsh terrain.

There's a few options available to him.

One: Try to fall asleep, and see if he can get back to where he started. Lowest effort option, but he's pretty sure he hasn't been this fully awake in months. Maybe years. Something about the environment makes it feel as though electricity sparks throughout his entire body. It's an interesting sensation, certainly, akin to anxiety taken to an extreme degree, yet it's not particularly conducive to sleeping.

Two: Make a break for it. He doesn't know if there's anywhere to make a break for, but he also isn't sure how high up this place is. Maybe the balcony is a viable option for escape. Or maybe he'll find a door that had previously been hidden from him. Hell, maybe he won't fully escape, but he'll find somewhere quieter at the very least. Somewhere that he doesn't leave him so thoroughly dazed. This is probably the best option, even account for the wall of people surrounding him. But.

Option Three: Join the Dance.

Inadvisable. Foolish, really. The best outcome is..what? Is there a best outcome? Worst outcome is he's dancing forever, until his feet wear down to stubs of bone, until he dies, until he cant remember anything but the dance. Never a connection with any dancer, all of them, eventually, a blur of activity and nothing more.

Yet, it's what he's going to do. He's not the most curious person he knows, that honor goes to a man that he's been in love with for years, but can't grasp any of the details of while he's here. That can't be good. What was his name?

Anyway. He's not the most curious, but he's hardly immune to a detrimental sense of interest. He wants to know what the dance is like. He wants to see the intricate costumes of the others stuck here, and see if there's anything behind the masks. He knows it will, inevitably, leave him lonelier. He knows, inevitably, that he does not care. At least this version of loneliness is more interesting than sitting in his flat, wondering whether having thin enough walls to hear the echo of his neighbors' voices would make things better or worse. So, when someone approaches, adorned in a shrew mask, hand outstretched to pull him into the fervor, he accepts.

The dancer is competent. Neither of them steps on the others foot, and he lets himself be led. Even better, the dancer is willing to talk. A man named Tom, his voice cheerful even as he confirms that he doesn't know how he came here either. Tom shrugs when he asks if this bothers him, saying if you're going to end up somewhere mysteriously, gliding across a ballroom with a handsome stranger is hardly the worst place to be.

It takes a second for him to register the fact that Tom's flirting. It makes him laugh, and it feels wrong in his throat. The sound is unfamiliar, almost belonging to someone else, but it's brief enough not to hurt. He'll grieve all the time he's lost later, for now, he says, "How would you know if I'm handsome with this mask? Or are you just making a flattering guess?"

Tom opens his mouth to answer, a grin on his features that suggest something playful and wry is about to come out, but then the song ends. They both know, somehow, that the brief rapport they've gotten to enjoy has come to an end. They swap partners, and as much has he would like a second dance, when Tom gets swept into the throng, he knows he won't be seeing him again.

The next dancer is at a higher skill level at him, which results in nerves encroaching on what limited ability he has. Perhaps the peacock mask should've been a tip off. He doesn't speak to them, more focused on trying to keep up. He doesn't regret that they'll only have one dance, but he is slightly remiss that his own costume doesn't have feathers after watching the way they move.

The dancer after that catches him for a slow dance. Her name is Shelia, and he's never seen such a dazzling smile. He tells her as such, and she tells him that she would tell him the same, but she hasn't actually seen his own, yet. He makes an attempt, and she tells him, "Oh honey, you're waiting for someone here, aren't you?"

When he states his confusion, that nobody comes to mind, or at least, that nobody is going to come, she shakes her head. Apparently, she can always tell when her dance partners have somewhere else to be, and she doesn't resent it, but it does mean she's not going to give him her number for after the night ends. He's amazed she believes this night will end, but it's a sentiment that seems far too rude to voice out loud.

He also knows that he doesn't have somewhere else to be. If he did, he would've never joined in.

The music continues, and so does he. He tries to get names, tries to get connections. He flirts with Mark, and Nadia, and Jamie. Those people are his favorite during the dances, but losing the also feels the most acute. Robert is his least favorite, even more so than the peacock, for how incredibly small the fox makes him feel. Nothing is even said, it's just the entirety of body language screams that Robert doesn't think he belongs here, that he's not worthy of the clothes he's wearing or the hall he's haunting. Ironically, he's right. He doesn't belong here. These clothes, these people, are not his. Only Robert is quite so skilled at making that seem like a bad thing.

About ten dances in, long past the point he should be winded, he realizes two things. One, there's no pain in his feet, no heaviness to his breathing, confirming once again that no aspect of this environment is natural. Two, is that he's actually had a path. Sometime in the spins and leads and follows, he had been making his way towards the center of the floor. He denies the next partner, likely the worst of a faux paus in this environment, but he needs a moment to stop. Taking in the scene, he has yet to find the source of the music, but he has found the host of this party.

There's nothing to physically show that he's the host. His costume isn't particularly ostentatious, at least not compared to the rest of them. He's not surrounded by a horde of people clamoring for his attention. He doesn't glow or sparkle or have a spotlight on him. The only reveal of his status is the fact that the second he looks at the man in the owl mask, fear floods through him.

Now he needs to run. He needs to leave, he needs to get out, he can't let the man in the owl mask see him, let alone approach him. Pushing his way through the crowd is a bad idea, will bring too much attention to himself. However, he's not in a state to think about that sort of thing, panic gripping his actions. As he shoves his way past one person, he swears ten more people tke their place, and he, oh so close to despair, is unable to tell if there's any actual distance being put between him and the owl masked man.

As he's about to start biting, clawing, screaming his way out any way he can, he hears something that makes him stop.

"Let him go, or I will make you let him go."

The statement is cold, filled with vitrol and determination. It should only make him more afraid. But as he turns around, he sees someone he never expected to be here, someone who has come here anyway. In an all black outfit, the man's face is covered with that of a cat's, but he has not a single ounce of doubt as to who it is. And he's facing off against the owl man, the absolute fool. He's facing off against the owl man, and Martin knows that it's on his own account. What the hell? He can't...he doesn't know what's going to happen to him, what exactly the owl man is going to do, but he can't let Jon get hurt. Begging his voice to pierce through the pandemonium of people and noise, he calls out, "JON!"

Jon finds him in an instant, eyes locking. They only have a second before the crowd pushes in, before the owl man reaches out, wing-like cape ready to wrap Jon up and snatch him away. Jon simply calls out, "Balcony!" before he's once again out of sight. Martin wants to go towards him, wants to follow the instinct to try and protect the one he loves, but going forward is impossible.

The tempo and volume of the music has swollen, and he's surrounded by hands reaching out, trying to pull him in. One of those hands, much to his surprise, belongs to Tom. He stares, uncomprehendingly, and Tom shoves his hand out even further in an act of urgency. He has to participate to make progress.

He holds on tight, all the basic skill of their first dance lost. It doesn't matter, as long as Martin participates, he is rewarded. When the next song begins to play, Tom strengthens his grip, and they manage to prevent the switch. In a manner of minutes, or perhaps hours, they make their way to the edge of the crowd. Martin can see those beautiful frosted doors only about 10 meters away, mostly unobstructed, and releases Tom from their dance. "Thank you. I seriously didn't think..just, thank you."

Tom gives him a nod, his expression much more solemn than it had been during their initial meeting. "After our first dance, I remembered my kids. A daughter and son. If they're out there, wherever out there is, I need to get back to them. If you can get yourself out, maybe there's hope for the rest of us, yeah? I think you might be a tipping point."

Martin had no idea if that was true. Sounded a bit too..center of the story for him. The hero, the chosen one, he was never going to fufill those roles. But. But he doesn't know what a denial would serve, and if he can go through those doors, who knows? "Yeah...yeah, maybe. I'll certainly try."

Tom clasps one of Martin's hands between both of his own, and with a quick shake, tells him, "That's all I ask."

In a blink, Tom has once again been swallowed by the fray, and Martin strides to his goal. He catches glimpses of the owl man out of the corner of his eye. Despite the sight making his heart race, the owl man never makes it to him, almost as if the dancers had forcibly blocked his path. Fascinating, isn't it, how a crowd can turn against someone in a matter of moments. Fascinating, isn't it, how a crowd can decide to help someone in the same span of time.

As Martin stands in front of the exit to the balcony, he has to take a breath. This could be a trick. A trap. A cruelty. If it is, he'll deal with it. If not, well.

Well.

The doors are heavy, but he's still able to push them aside. The sight outside is incredible. The stars are dazzling, brilliant, and numerous, resembling themilky way that Martin has only ever seen in pictures.

It's wrong. It's obviously wrong. Martin's never been anywhere remote enough to escape the effects of light pollution, and he's pretty sure a brightly lit manor isn't the exception to that rule. Yet, that's not what's bothering him about it. He can't quite articulate why, but the sky in general should be..different. Worse, maybe. Greener?

Jon is staring up into the night sky with a fascination that confirms Martin's suspicion. After he takes a step towards him, Jon turns towards him, and a smile appears that knocks the breath right out of Martin. When has Jon ever smiled at him like that? It doesn't make sense, feels like another trick of the party, but Martin decides he doesn't care, he'll enjoy it while it lasts. "I have to say, this is definitely one of the nicer looking domains we've wandered through. Always a plus when we end up somewhere without any bloodstains."

That's not... "Huh?"

With an aftertaste of a laugh and a shrug of his shoulders, Jon tells him, "Just that, for as much as I despise the loneliness, it does at least have cleanliness going for it."

He knows of the fears, at least, but the way that Jon is talking about them doesn't make sense. He's going to ask about it, try to get some clarification, but then Jon takes off his mask. There's more grey at the temples than he remembers, more eyes than the average person, and he's stunningly beautiful. Martin's always found Jon rather good looking, even when he didn't particularly like Jon himself (god, what a fool he was. Maybe what a fool they both were). Combined with the softness in the line of his mouth, the adoration in his eyes, it leaves Martin breathless, speechless, thoughtless. Feet moving of their own accord, he drifts closer to Jon. Once he's standing in front of him, Jon reaches up, then pauses, as if asking for permission. Half in a daze, Martin nods, then leans down. Ever so gently, Jon lifts Martin's mask off. The pinpoints of contact between his face and Jon's fingers almost burn, and he realizes that despite the electrified sensation under his skin, he's been cold this entire time. Mask fully off, Jon beams at him, and lets out a quiet, "There you are."

It's too much. It's the tipping point for him to go from enamoured back to properly baffled. "Jon, I don't..what are you doing here?"

Jon smile drops, and Martin almost wants to take it back. Almost, because he needs answers, because if this is a dream, if this is a nightmare, it's more wicked than he could've ever expected. Being stuck forever in a dance with only partners whose greatest talents were being alone in a crowd is one thing, but having a..a false Jon, one that regarded him with...that acted like...that felt anything close to the same as Martin was so..exacting. When it got taken away, when the illusion shattered, it would hurt. It's already hurting, anticipation of the wound causing a phantom pain. Jon's brows are furrowed, and at least that is familiar, expected. "I..thought you would want to leave. I came to get you out."

"I do," did he?, "but that still..that's not the why? Why would you come for me?"

"Because I love you? I know I'm not much for the swashbuckling hero role, bit I figured that would make me rather uniquely qualified."

Martin sucks in a breath through his nose and his eyes go wide. Ability to read be damned, this is a dream, and mean one at that. He's going to wake up, and he's going to remember, and he's going to be as alone as he's always been. "Since when? You're not..I think we've just started being friends, and it's not even, fuck, we're not even that close! And even if..if things were in development, which they aren't, you're supposed to be in America right now. Or, no, wait you're in a coma, or maybe..no, that's not-"

Martin's spiralling is abruptly cut off by Jon taking his hands. Looking at his face, he finds Jon staring back, his eyes, his two eyes, are searching him, and Martin realizes he might not be the only one that's lost right now. "Martin...what's the last thing you remember?"

A mostly empty flat, the delightful mix of insomnia and exhaustion, and the TV with the volume turned down low enough to not bother anyone but himself. The context around that scene is a bit fuzzier. "I..was at my place. It was..I dunno, it was boring."

"Anything else. Do you remember Jane Prentiss?"

"Of course I remember Jane Prentiss. Not likely to ever forget the worst two weeks of my life."

"What about Scotland?"

Scotland? "I'm mean, I've never been, but I, uh, am aware of the concept."

Except that wasn't quite true, was it? He had been to Scotland, and Jon had been there, but when? Why? What had they..

Jon's frown deepens. "Martin, do you trust me?"

He did. Despite everything, or maybe because of an everything he couldn't quite access, he really, really did. His response of "Yes" is more of a breath than a word, but Jon understands nonetheless. Jon reaches up, places his hands on the sides of Martin's face, and tells him, "Close your eyes."

Martin does as told, and Jon brings their foreheads together, an approximation of a kiss. There's a buzzing at the base of his skull, not painful, but not particularly pleasant, either. As Jon leans back and he opens his eyes, the sky is wrong, but it is the wrong that he has become increasingly accustomed to.

He remembers.

Jon hasn't fully released him yet, asking still ever so gently, "Back with me?"

Martin nods, and Jon drops his hands. Immediately, Martin grabs one of them with his own, because while it may be the apocalypse, at least he can do that as freely as he likes. "Yeah, yeah, I'm good, " he looks down, and sighs, "Eugh. Do miss the clean clothes though."

Jon gives a hint of a smile, and as he begins to move forward. "Now you understand my point about the lonely having a tidiness to it."

"If it's all the same to you, I think I'll take grime over memory loss any day."

"Next domain is a corruption one, so we'll see how much that holds true."

"Of course it is."

They walk in silence for a few moments until Martin gives Jon's hand a quick squeeze. "Hey Jon?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you for getting me out."

Jon replies, "Of course," as an easy statement of fact, and Martin believes it. He has to add, "And I love you too."

The responding smile he gets from Jon makes him think he might be one of the few people in existence to feel lucky after the end of the world.

#replies #fluff prompts #tma #jonmartin #martin blackwood #jon sims #anon

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galaxyofmyown · 4 years ago

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Okay so I just tripped and fell and ate sidewalk so! Maybe reader is helping hotch train for another marathon and they eat shit on the pavement??

oh my god. oh my GOD. this request was so so so fun to write. it’s just so fresh and fluffy and yayyy. and i’m actually very proud of myself for this one. if i’m honest YES i did write me and my friend in as a cameo because we were in dc yesterday morning making fun of all the runners, so i felt it needed to be done. i hope you love it and i’m sorry that i know nothing about running.

warnings: language, cheesy-ass confession

aaron hotchner x reader - marathoners

“I have a theory.” You pant, huffing and puffing as you struggle to keep up with Aaron Hotchner, your boss and King of Quarter-Zips.

“Oh yeah? What’s that?” He replies over his shoulder, and you resent how even his voice sounds after 6 miles. Six. Fucking. Miles.

“I think you’re evil. I think you’re an evil little man with evil little powers who magically coerced me into training for this stupid marathon with you.”

Hotch laughs, and your resentment grows. If you laughed right now you would probably pass out.

“And why, do you theorize, would I use my assuredly limited powers to make myself listen to you complain all morning, every morning?”

“Because you’re obsessed with me. You can’t get enough of me. You would hear me give a four hour lecture on my favorite sedimentary rock if it meant you could hear my sweet, sweet voice.” You tease, and Hotch looks at you, two-thirds amused, one-third… something else.

Your profiling game was off this morning.

“Whatever you say, (Y/L/N).” He retorts, and you groan.

“Can you please, please, please stop calling me by my last name? It makes me feel like a high school football player.”

“Fine, (Y/N).” He says cheekily, dragging your name out in a way that makes your stomach twirl.

“Okay, well, since you’re in such a compliant mood do you think we could stop running? And then also never run ever again?” Hotch laughs again, and his good mood lifts your spirits. It always does. He checks his watch graciously.

“Five minute break.” He says, and you immediately fall onto a nearby bench. Hotch joins you but doesn’t sit, taking this time to stretch a bit.

“(Y/N), you should also use this time to-”

“No.” You say with a smile, letting the light breeze cool your overheated face.

“But-”

“Hotch?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut. Up.”

He hits his foot against yours, more of a playful nudge than a kick, and you bask in the short moment of contact.

You secretly love running with Hotch. The actual running part is… eh. But the Hotch part is great. You can rarely convince him to spend time with the team outside of work, so you jumped at the opportunity when he offered to train with you for the next marathon. But it also made you wonder.

“Hotch?” You ask again, cracking your eyes open. His body is blocking most of the annoying morning sun shining onto you, and you fleetingly wonder if he was doing that on purpose.

Hotch nods to show he’s listening even as his fiddles with his fancy running watch.

“You know Morgan runs, right?” You ask casually, fiddling with the hem of the oversized t-shirt you wore with your favorite leggings. Hotch looks up.

“Uh, yeah. I think I remember him mentioning it. Why?” He says, uber casual. You shrug.

“I’m just wondering why you chose to train with me when I obviously slow you down.”

“You don’t slow me down-”

“Oh, please. Remember the day I had a cold and couldn’t get up that morning? I heard you telling JJ how much you ran. I can’t get close to that on my best day.”

“Well, that’s why. Challenging you challenges me.”

“That makes literally no sense, but alright big guy. I’m ready to keep going.” You say, standing up despite the pain in your legs.

“We don’t have to if you’re too tired.” Hotch’s voice sounds distant all of a sudden.

“No, I really don’t mind. As long as you buy me breakfast after. Let’s go. We’ll run to the Capitol building and then back around to the smoothie place you like.”

You start off without him, focusing on the sound of your feet hitting the pavement. You hear him trailing after you, and you run the crosswalk to the National Mall, the sand and small rocks crunching under your feet as you brave the rectangle of pain.

Hotch, of course, passes you easily, and after a bit you’re back to lagging 20 feet behind him. It rained fairly hard last night, and the ground is slushy like half melted snow. As Hotch turns in front of the Capitol Building, you opt for the marble-esque surface that separates the grass from the sand in an attempt to cut a bit of the corner.

You regret your decision immediately. The damp toe of your running shoe catches on the white material and you slip, your body slamming into the ground not two seconds later. You break your fall with your forearms, but the sting of gravel digging into your skin makes you wince.

“(Y/N)!” You hear a voice call, and now you officially want to die. You had briefly forgotten about your boss, your crush, the witness to your awkward fall. But now he was right in front of you, squatting down to make sure you’re okay. So you do what you always do when you find yourself in a painfully awkward situation.

You laugh.

It’s loud, and some of the other 6 am joggers shoot you odd looks. But it seems to make some of Hotch’s worry dissolve.

“You okay?” He asks with a small smile. Grabbing your hand to help you up. You nod, still giggling, and ignore the way your hand feels like it’s been set ablaze.

“Yeah, I’m fi-”

Except you don’t get to finish your sentence. Hotch takes a step back as he pulls you up and his foot makes contact with the same demon marble from which you met your demise. He slips backwards, yanking you with him.

You fall back together, fortunately hitting the grass. Hotch is under you to break your fall, which is a good thing until you realize you’re on top of him, one leg slotted between his.

Hotch clearly had the breath knocked out of him, and he groans, which, okay. It is clearly not the time for a noise like that.

“Oops.” You say, moving to get off of him. As you adjust yourself, you find your face is positioned directly over his, just inches apart.

How cliche.

Hotch, regaining his bearings, looks right into your eyes. You stop breathing for a moment. It isn’t often you get a free opportunity to just look at Hotch, but both of you have stopped moving. You admire his dark eyes, his slightly flushed cheeks, his strong nose. You wonder if he’s admiring anything about you.

(He is.)

You snap out of your reverie and realize how uncomfortable you must be making your superior feel.

“Sorry, sorry,” You say, embarrassed, and roll over to the side as gracefully as you can manage. You’re off of him but your thigh is still pressed against his hip, so you go to scooch away. He gently grabs your wrist before you can, however. Your breath catches as he runs his thumb over the irritated skin where you arm hit the ground.

“You know why I really invited you to train with me?” He asks, seemingly resigned to just… being on the ground now. You twist towards him and adjust so you’re sitting cross-legged, curiosity piqued.

“Why?”

Hotch sighs and makes a face. It’s the same face he makes when he’s about to say something he really doesn’t want to say.

“I wanted to see you. Outside of work. I just… I never had an excuse.”

You frown, confused, “We always invite you out with us. You never come.” You say, not in a mean way, because it’s just the truth.

Hotch falters and props himself up on his elbows. He isn’t looking at you anymore, his eyes steadily trained on the building before us.

“I don’t want to see you in a crowded bar surrounded by our coworkers. I wanted- I wanted to be alone with you.” He confesses, and you freeze.

“What do you mean?” You say quietly. Because you think you know what he means. But you need him to tell you what he means because if he doesn’t mean what you think he means you’ll fling yourself into the Tidal Basin.

“(Y/N), I know you aren’t oblivious, and I know I’m not subtle. I’ve liked you since you first walked in the door to the BAU.” He says, finally, and you want to cry and dance and-

and kiss him.

Which you should probably do, since Hotch has obviously taken your silence as rejection and looks like a kicked puppy.

So you pull him in by the collar of his quarter-zip, kissing him enthusiastically on the mouth. He responds after a moment of brain failure, placing one hand on your thigh and the other on your waist. You know it must look ridiculous for two fully grown FBI agents to be making out like teenagers on the lawn of the National Mall before 7 a.m., but you couldn’t care less. Because it was you and Hotch, a glowing light after all these years of pain and loss and longing. You pull away after a long while, both of you giddy and smiley and bright-eyed.

“You too?” He asks like he can hardly believe it.

“Of course me too, always me too,” you respond, “even when you make me run.”

He laughs, kissing you again, to which you respond enthusiastically. Hotch pulls away and moves his mouth close to your ear.

“We have some onlookers at three o’clock.” He murmurs, and you slowly turn your head to see two girls, not older than 20, trying to enjoy their picnic barely 15 feet away. One of the girls scoffs.

“And people think we’re weird.” She says. The other girl nods, and they go back to eating their breakfast. You laugh.

“Okay, yeah, maybe they have a point.” You say, getting up and brushing the grass off the back of your t-shirt. Hotch does the same.

“Okay, so what do you say, two more miles before the smoothie place?” He asks, and you laugh in disbelief.

“You never learn, do you? No. We’re walking, let’s go.” You say, grabbing his hand because you can now. He surrenders, entwining your fingers and swing you arm slightly as you stroll.

“Aaron?” You ask, trying on the unfamiliar name for size.

“Yes, (Y/N?)”

“Now that you don’t need an excuse to see me, do we still have to do the marathon?” You ask, tone casual. Hotch laughs and bumps his shoulder against yours.

“(Y/N), (Y/N). Have you no shame? Actually, don’t answer that.” He says.

“I”m not hearing a no.” You say.

“We’ll talk about it. Later.” But he kisses you on the forehead, so you take it as a win either way.

(You end up agreeing to run the marathon. It’s awful and hot and long but when it’s over Hotch is still there with you, kissing you and smiling and promising that you never have to run again in your life. So you think it’s worth it.)

#criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner imagine #ssa hotchner #hotch #aaron hotchner x reader #hotch x reader #hotch imagine

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sondepoch · 4 years ago

Text

130 Days Before Rebellion

All Hail (Diavolo x Reader)

The current ruling class is brutal. Draconian. Tyrannical. Every demon who has sat the throne for the past ninety thousand years has brought nothing but hardship to the Devildom—something Diavolo and his father intend to remedy by seizing power as leaders of the Resistance. When Diavolo happens to come across the princess of the Devildom, he’s overjoyed. He sees you as an opportunity, a sign from a higher power that his cause is just; and he plans to use you as a pawn in his Rebellion. But life rarely goes as planned, especially in Hell. And when Diavolo realizes that he’s falling in love with you, things suddenly feel a lot more complicated than they used to be.

01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | ✔

MASTERLIST

The healing process is slow, to say the least.

You study the man's leg, squinting at the scabs that have begun to form around the edges of his wounds, but the flesh has only just started to return around the bone. Even with the superior healing of demons, this man will need nearly a full month before he's back to normal—a testament to how severely he was injured.

You sigh, walking around the makeshift bed to study the demon's arm.

His wounds are a little better here, given that you spent the first few days practically slathering the area in medicinal salve straight from the palace, but now that you've had to ration your treatment, the herbs you've collected are only doing so much to keep the man's pain away.

A huff of exasperation leaves your lips.

This would be so much easier if the demon would simply fall into unconsciousness once more.

The first time you'd brought him here, he had been dead to the world. He hadn't woken up even when you let an undead chipmunk run across his face. It had been simple to cast your spells then, while there was no threat of him waking up to see you in the middle of an enchantment.

But now?

Even when the demon sleeps, he seems to be on edge—as if he's somehow scared of you without even knowing your identity.

A light frown forms on your lips as you push your mask up, a habit you've developed over these past few weeks. You know, rationally, that the clay covering bears no chance of slipping or falling off, but you still need the reminder that the mask is there. That your identity is protected. That despite you helping him, this man does not know who you are and has no reason to suspect you.

"Sir?" You question softly, approaching him on the other side.

His eyes are closed—you can see that much through the thin slits on his mask—but you can never be sure.

You wrap your fingers deftly around his bicep (the only place on his body where he isn't injured) testing to see whether the man is truly asleep. Whether you might be able to speed his recovery along with a little magic.

His eyes dart open instantly.

You flinch at the amber scorn he instinctively regards you with, almost feeling scared of his glare, but it hardly lasts a second before the demon has hidden the expression away, masking it with a more neutral tone.

But even as he continues to regard you with an apathetic curiosity, the look in his eyes remains in your mind.

You know that look.

That's the look you get from the public when you tail behind your family, when the royal escorts bring you to lower districts and you try to smile at the commoners, only to be met with expressions of scorn and distrust.

An all too familiar look.

You have to reassure yourself that you must have misread the demon's eyes.

You know for a fact that he does not know your identity. He cannot know your identity. The green cloak you wear was purchased from a flea market, hardly constructed of royal silk to indicate anything of your high birth. And your mask does an equally brilliant job of hiding your face, your whole outfit so plain that even the guards pay you no attention when you pass by. The only people who pose a true threat to learning your secret are your parents, and they're rarely caught outside the palace.

The only possible way this demon might have an inkling of who you are is if he happens to be of a pure bloodline, one of the demons descended from the first rulers, able to sense and practice magic like you. But, again, most of the remaining descendants in Hell don't even know that they're descendants, and they've had little opportunity to learn magic the way you have, much less grow familiar with it to the point where they might sense that it's been used on them.

Right, you reason with yourself, taking a steadying breath. There's no way this demon knows who I am.

You shake your fears to the back of your mind.

"How are you feeling?" You ask tentatively, beginning to unwrap some of the herbs lain along the demon's cuts. "Sir?"

"Fine," He grunts. "When you were gone yesterday, I was able to sit up."

"Oh?" You replace the herbs with fresh ones, bundles of green and orange and yellow that you freshly picked on your way here. "That's certainly an improvement. Have you tried to move your legs yet, or is the muscle still too weak?"

"The muscle is..." The demon trails off, and you're certain that if you could see underneath his mask, he would be scowling right now. "Weak," He mutters, as if he hates the word.

"Hey," You draw his attention, squeezing lightly on a patch of uninjured skin. You wait until the demon makes eye contact with you. "The Victor did a lot of damage to you. There's nothing wrong with needing time to heal."

The demon makes a dismissive grunt.

You sigh.

That whole exchange is a pretty accurate depiction of what your relationship is like with this demon. You push a lot, he gives a little, you push some more, and then he ends the conversation. And while this progress (if you can even call it that) is incredibly slow going, so tortuously lagging that you don't even know the demon's name yet, it's something.

And that's all you need.

"Do you know what they say?" You continue, rambling on despite knowing that the demon doesn't particularly care. "Sometimes, when you get injured, your body is even stronger when it heals back!"

"I'm sure," The man says drily, sarcasm laced so thickly into his voice that there's no doubt he doesn't believe your words.

"It's true!" You protest, pausing in wrapping his forearm in gauze to show him your wrist. "Look, can't you see the scar? I injured my wrist there a few centuries ago. And I thought it would trouble me for the rest of my life, but it healed wonderfully under the same herbs and treatments I'm giving you. And now, my right wrist is miles stronger than my left, even though my left is the one that's never been injured."

"Right," The demon mutters, his tone utterly disbelieving even as you huff and go back to wrapping his arm.

So much for that, you think, internally sighing at another failed attempt to make conversation, redirecting your attention back to the demon's arm.

Even without any more magic, it should be completely healed within twenty days, you muse, cutting off the gauze and tucking it in, stepping back and smiling briefly at your work.

Perfect.

You move up to the demon's chest, quietly slipping open his robe and swiping a damp handkerchief along the patches of skin where blood has collected, deciding to let the herbs from yesterday sit for another day before you replace them. It takes hardly any time for you to exchange the soft bandages on the man's neck with new ones, and then you've finished work on his upper body completely, and you're ready to redirect your attention back to his legs.

Except...

You glance upward at the demon's mask, your eyes narrowing when you see the crusted blood underneath the wooden frame. It's painfully unhygienic. You've entirely avoided the demon's face and head ever since you brought him here, mostly out of fear for what his sharp tongue might say should you try, but he seems to be in a better mood today.

Surely it can't hurt to voice your concerns, right?

"Sir?" You murmur, withdrawing your hand.

"What?" The demon snaps, evidently not used to you trying to start a conversation up again so soon after him ending one.

"Would you mind if..." You trail off, voice hesitant.

No, you decide, flattening your palms. Yes, it is your responsibility to care for this demon, after he was injured so heavily as a direct cause of your actions. But as his caretaker, it is not your obligation to tiptoe around what you need to do.

And each day you put this off, the worse things get.

"I need to take your mask off," You declare, voice authoritative. "The Victor injured your head as well during the fight, and I need to know how bad the damage is. And I'm sure you can feel the sheer amount of blood that is stuck to your face right now."

The demon quiets, his eyes narrowing at you. And normally, you would look away out of respect for the fact that he has every right to resent you for getting him into this situation in the first place—but this time, you level your gaze and return his stare with equal force.

You're not going to budge on this, and he needs to know it.

"Fine," He mutters after what feels like a full minute of just staring at each other. "Do what you need to do. And do it quickly."

A light grin forms on your lips at that, and you quickly move your hands to both sides of his wooden mask, tugging on it.

But the mask doesn't budge.

"Oh," You mutter softly, feeling a twinge of sympathy. "The mask appears to be stuck to your face, Sir."

"Then work on my legs."

"No, that's not what I meant." You sit down on the edge of the stone table the demon is lying down on, gripping his mask more tightly. "I can still take it off. But it is going to reopen your wounds. And it will hurt, Sir. A lot."

"Then make it quick," He hisses, his tone so vicious that you almost feel the beginnings of irritation prick at your side, a quiet frustration rising at this demon's blatant ungratefulness. But you push the feeling aside, opting instead to focus on sympathy for this man because you already know how much this is going to hurt.

"Feel free to scream," You whisper.

And you begin to pull.

To his merit, not a sound leaves Diavolo's lips when you pry the mask off of his face, an explosion of blood bursting forth as the wounds that had crusted over and hardened into the mask are ripped from his face.

Unfortunately, the demon blacks out barely seconds afterward, so his efforts to appear strong and collected mostly go to waste.

When Diavolo comes to, the pain on his face is less acute. It's a dull ache, and the demon can feel the blood as it continues to seep out of the open injuries on his face, but the discomfort is almost entirely replaced with an odd, tingling sensation, one that is all too familiar.

Magic.

Forbidden to all but the royal family, entirely unfamiliar to commoners, and only a vague word to those like Diavolo, who have it in their blood to master the craft but have never had the opportunity.

The demon might chuckle if he weren't scared to move his face.

It's almost like you're trying to reveal your true identity.

"Can you see properly?" He hears you ask as you continue to dab at the unending flow of blood trickling off his face. "Did the Victor do any damage to your eyes?"

"I'm fine," Diavolo mumbles, holding his face as still as possible. And the words are true. After nearly three weeks of lying down on this bed while waiting for his injuries to heal, this is the first time he has been able to look up without his vision impaired by the sight of his mask obstructing it. The world feels brighter this way. Shrouded in darkness as the Devildom eternally is, but brighter all the same.

"Does this hurt?"

You apply pressure on a certain point.

Surprisingly, it doesn't bring Diavolo any pain.

"No."

You lean back, dipping your white handkerchief (turned red with Diavolo's blood) into a makeshift bowl, squeezing it in the water until it returns a paler shade.

"I can't tell where the bleeding is coming from, Sir," You say, almost apologetic. "I'll need to press different points on your face and you'll simply have to tell me when it hurts. Is that alright?"

Diavolo grunts in response.

"Actually...it must hurt for you to speak, no?"

The demon feels your eyes turn sympathetic as you gaze down at him, a gaze so soft and pitiful that it irks him.

"I'm fine," He insists, raising his voice the slightest to emphasize his point.

But the jolt of pain that runs down his back the moment opens his mouth a little too wide, the already-injured skin stretching beyond what is comfortable, isn't missed by your observant eyes.

You nod your head quietly, mumbling a brief "Of course," before you move your hand into Diavolo's own, calmly pressing his fingers around your wrist. "But I realized that if you move your face, it'll make things difficult for me, even if it doesn't hurt. So squeeze my wrist whenever you feel me touch a spot that doesn't feel like normal, healed skin, alright?"

And as much as Diavolo wants to fight you, as much as he wants to hold his ground and resist, as much as he wants to live up to the expectations of a proper Resistance member and insist that he's fine and you don't need to pity him like this, a meek squeeze of your wrist is all he does in quiet acquiescence.

His father would not be proud.

But for a short moment, Diavolo listens to your urges to close his eyes as you begin dabbing your handkerchief along his face again, squeezing your wrist compliantly every time you brush against skin that is too sensitive to be unharmed.

It's almost peaceful—he thinks—letting you take care of him like this.

Almost.

"I'm waiting for an opportunity to kidnap her," Diavolo explains, crossing his arms. "Give me some time, Father. It shouldn't be long. She's just begun to let her guard down around me," He lies, pretending as if you haven't treated him with your defenses lowered from the very day you met. "I will bring her to you soon."

Good, son.

Diavolo flinches, as usual, the moment his father's voice rings out in his ears. The man mastered the magic of minds long before Diavolo was born, supposedly learning the craft before the current rulers came into power and banned its usage—but Diavolo has never had the same opportunity, and the sensation of another's voice ringing out in his mind is wholly uncomfortable.

Your wounds. How are they?

"I've healed," Diavolo answers, experimentally flexing his fingers. "My face may require some more time, but the princess has been using magic to advance the process."

She uses her magic on you? Is she a fool?

"It would appear so. She has no suspicions of my true identity, nor the fact that I know hers."

Good. And Diavolo?

"Yes, Father?"

Barbatos told me of your pitiful performance at the cage fighting rink. If you bring me the princess, I will not punish you for disobeying my orders to stay back, nor will I punish you for your disgraceful defeat. However, should you fail me again, do not expect me to be merciful.

"...I won't, Father," The demon mumbles, the beginnings of shame pricking at his heart. "I promise, I'll bring her to you as soon as I am at full strength."

Don't.

"What?" Diavolo's voice is sharp, almost seeming the puncture the nighttime silence as he looks up. When he speaks again, he sounds like a boy once more, indignant in his demand for knowledge. Like a petulant child, offended and hurt. "Have you already given my task to someone else? Father, I may have lost a single cage fight, but I assure you that I am beyond capable of—"

Calm yourself, my son. I have not given your task to any other. All I need is for you to wait until the time is right to bring the princess back to the Resistance.

"You are...asking me to wait?" Diavolo questions. "How long, Father?"

I do not know. I will tell you when the time is right. But be ready, my son. Rebellion draws near.

Diavolo is about to respond, about to ask another question about how long he is expected to stay by your side, to pretend to be some poor, ignorant fool who needs aid, before hears your footsteps approach.

His father must sense his instinctive panic, because the soft hum of sorcery which they had been using to contact each other disappears instantly.

Diavolo curses inwardly. He'll have to wait again until his father contacts him.

Of course, he's not upset that the man left. Diavolo knows that it's too risky to leave the connection open, to risk you detecting the hum of magic radiating off his body. It's borrowed magic, sent down from his father, but it's magic all the same—and Diavolo knows by now that you're too skilled in witchcraft to miss it.

The demon steps back, trying to act as inconspicuous as possible while you shuffle your way into the temple, looking around curiously.

"Sir?" You call, blinking in surprise. Instinctively, your eyes go to the stone table in the center of the room where he usually lays, sleeping his days away while waiting for his body to heal, but he's not there.

You glance around the room in confusion, eyes flitting from the ornate benches to the intricate stone tablets littered around the room, searching in every corner for the familiar man who seems to be in an unfamiliar place.

"Here," Diavolo calls down, deciding to humor you.

You jump at the sound.

"Sir!" You yelp, but your tone is strict, admonishing as you cross your arms and look up. "I know I told you that your wounds have healed enough for you to begin moving around, but I know for a fact that I never implied you should be climbing."

Diavolo keeps his face straight at that, hiding his internal amusement as he glances around at the indoor balcony he's standing on. It's high up, overseeing the entire room—but it's clear that the only way to get up here is to either enter via the door behind him, which is locked like the rest of the rooms in this temple, or to literally climb up.

It's clear that you know which option Diavolo chose.

"Relax," He sighs. "I am better healed than you think."

To emphasize his statement, he jumps off the balcony entirely, landing swiftly on his knees. He suppresses the urge to wince as his legs bend as they hit the unyielding ground, instead standing up to his full height, staring you down with confidence.

"Your wounds are going to..." You begin, but the protest dies on your lips the moment you look into Diavolo's eyes. The fiery ambers are lit bright with confidence, no signs of weakness present anywhere on his face.

"Fine," You mutter, glancing away. "But if you insist on walking about, I'd rather you do it outside."

Diavolo is slightly taken aback at that. His lips part briefly, and though he holds it back, he's certain that there's a flash of confusion on his face because seconds later, you're holding your hands up, sheepishly explaining.

"O-oh! It's just that, on my way here, I couldn't help but notice that there seems to be a beautiful cliffside where there are no guards standing post. And you know what they say, right? That fresh air is, um, the best medicine?"

Diavolo blinks.

You're an awful liar. Awful is a compliment, really—there's not a single doubt in the demon's mind that you either bribed some guards to get them to leave this supposed 'beautiful cliffside' or you personally changed their posts, but the demon doesn't comment on it as you continue to dig yourself into a hole with words, now mumbling something about nighttime being safer than daytime, and eventually, Diavolo decides to put you out of your misery.

"Enough," He says, holding up a hand. "I'll come with you."

"Ah, really?" You exclaim, and though Diavolo can only see your eyes through the clay mask you wear, he can tell that your entire face is lit up with happiness. "That's wonderful, Sir!"

You grab his hand instantly, tugging him out of the temple where he's remained hidden inside for so long, pulling him into the fresh outside air. And, although Diavolo knows that you wholly butchered the adage when you claimed that fresh air is the best medicine, it really does feel like the cool wind against his skin has a healing quality as it rushes through his silk robe, embracing his body whole in a crisp hug.

The demon is so preoccupied with enjoying his first moments outside the temple in so long that he doesn't even comment on the way you're still tugging him along, your fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist.

And really, why would Diavolo say anything?

These past few weeks, you've made yourself almost unbearably comfortable around him. You've gone from asking and touching to simply touching in your efforts to wrap and heal his injuries, going as far as to slap his hand away every time he tries to stop you. A grip on his wrist is nothing compared to the places you've touched him, especially given that your fingers often delved beneath skin when you first treated his wounds.

"Isn't it lovely?" You call, leading Diavolo through a field. But lovely is hardly the word the demon would use to describe this region—the grass so overgrown that it goes up above his waist, practically enveloping your figure whole, as the two of you walk through it.

He opts not to answer your question, deciding not to shoot your joy down with an arrow of sarcasm as he usually does, simply following.

But when you bring him to the edge of the field, now trying to pull him through a swamplike area, he pauses.

"Sir, what's wrong?" You call, tugging his wrist. "The ground is more stable than it looks, I assure you. If you'd like, I can carry you through it, though—"

"Enough."

Diavolo crosses his arms, glancing away.

"Excuse me?" You ask, but your tone isn't indignant. Instead, the words are soft as the breeze carries them to Diavolo's ears, unbearably kind as your grip on his wrist weakens. "I'm sorry, Sir, I can—"

"No. Enough Sir this, Sir that. Call me by my name."

"I don't know your—"

"Diavolo."

And Diavolo will never truly understand what possessed him in that moment, where he gave you his name.

But, oddly enough, he doesn't regret it when he sees the way your eyes light up.

The rational part of his brain will claim that it was a necessity. That, since his father has effectively ordered him to gain your trust and remain at your side indefinitely, giving him your name was bound to happen, and he may as well have done it sooner rather than later because he was growing so sick of the word "Sir."

But the irrational part? The section of Diavolo's brain that is in tune with his emotions? In tune with his feelings?

That part knows he gave you his name because he wanted to, and for no other reason.

"Diavolo, huh?" You whisper. "Named for the Devil himself. An honorable name."

A common name, Diavolo wants to respond, as if he's justifying the statement to himself, as an excuse to why it was okay to give you his real name when he knows his father would mock him for such a thing.

But before the man can say a word, you've stepped closer to him, resting your hands on his shoulders in a motion that is far too close for Diavolo's liking.

"Thank you for trusting me," You whisper.

And then Diavolo truly doesn't know what's more astounding: the fact that you have the boldness to hug him or the fact that you whisper your real name into his ear as you do so, absentmindedly overloading the demon's mind with such shock that he only stands there dumbly as you hug him, neither reciprocating nor pulling away.

You're hardly fazed by it, though, and you're pulling him forward once more without a care in the world, but Diavolo's mind is racing a mile a minute.

He can hardly process the fact that you gave him your real name.

The name everyone in the Devildom knows to be the name of their princess.

The name that no one else shares.

Does she trust me that blindly or is she truly such a fool? Diavolo wonders as he follows you, entirely unsure of what to make of this development. You seem entirely nonchalant about it, though, nearly skipping as you tug the man closer to your destination.

"You are..." The man trails off, eyes softening as he watches your hair bounce with each step you take.

"Wonderful?" You ask, and Diavolo knows that there must be a cheeky grin on your face under that mask. "Brilliant? Lovely?"

"Special." The man finishes, deciding on a word that can be used as an insult just as surely as it may appear to be a compliment.

"Are you trying to imply that I..." You begin, pausing to throw a disbelieving look Diavolo's way—but before you can finish your sentence, the two of you hear the familiar hoot of a Purgatorian Owl.

You glance back down the path you were traveling.

"We're here," You declare proudly, placing your hands on your hips in confidence.

"We...are?" Diavolo looks around in confusion.

Sure enough, there seems to be nothing but swamp: dreary vines, suspicious sounds, and the muddy ground that sinks every time Diavolo stands in one place for too long. It hardly sounds like the beautiful cliffside you promised.

"I don't think—"

"Come on!"

You begin sprinting ahead before Diavolo can even finish his sentence, lifting your green robe as you begin to escape the demon's line of sight, your laughter ringing out in the swamp as animals cry out when you pass them.

"Wait—" He tries to call after you, but you're already so far ahead of him that he has no choice but to grit his teeth and follow, internally cursing himself for ever going along with the whims of a princess.

Diavolo keeps his pace steady as he follows you from afar, somehow moving not half as gracefully as you appeared to as he darts through the swamp, and the man has to keep an arm in front of him to slash away any vines which only seem to trouble him as he sprints along.

But, sure enough, after what feels like a solid four minutes of running, the vines begin to grow thinner. And the darkness begins to grow lighter. And then it's barely thirty seconds before Diaovlo hears your overjoyed laughter from just a hundred feet away, and the moment he bursts through the treeline which contains the swamp, he, too, begins to understand the reason for your joy.

A sound of disbelief escapes his lips.

You've brought him to another field. But this is entirely unlike the first one: here, the grass is wild but tamed, barely up to Diavolo's ankles as he wanders through it. Undead squirrels and zombie raccoons scurry by at a distance, looking at the demon's tall figure with curious eyes as he passes them. The sky is entirely unobstructed, clear clouds of black rolling against the indigo sky, and not a single building is to be seen no matter how Diavolo squints and looks around.

Stunning, he thinks, trying to remember the last time he found a patch of land so untouched by civilization.

Never, he realizes. Never have I seen something peaceful.

Diavolo halts only when he finally catches up to you, pausing as the two of you stand right in front of the cliffside you were talking about: a sharp ledge that hovers over a steep drop, reaching so low that Diavolo can only make out the vague shape of darkness at the bottom.

Indeed, even that seems more magnificent than anything he has ever seen.

"I have never..." Diavolo begins, stopping when he realizes how soft his voice sounds. "I have never seen anything like this," He confesses.

"Truly?" You ask, glancing up at him with wide eyes. "Never?"

He shakes his head.

"I..." The demon trails off, wondering if he should say this next thing. But then he realizes that he's already so deep in a lie that another one can't hurt—and so he quietly decides to deceive you once more.

Only this time, he lies for your sake, not his.

"I come from the poorer districts. We don't have anything like this there."

"Oh," You mumble. "That's...tragic. It's a shame that anyone might have to live their whole life without seeing something like this."

"Isn't it?" Diavolo laughs lightly. "Why, in the tavern I used to live in, we couldn't even afford a picture of the imperial family."

"Huh?" You ask, sounding somewhat dumb. "Isn't it against the law to have a home without a picture of the rulers?"

Diavolo's eyes narrow at that—quietly wondering if he misjudged your character, if you are as evil and atrocious as he initially thought you were—but the look in your eyes is one of genuine curiosity, not accusation.

"Rules from a distant government are nothing in the face of extreme poverty."

True words. Though they hardly apply to Diavolo the way he's claiming.

"So, you've...never seen the royal family?"

"Never."

"Not even in passing? In paintings from other shops or such?"

"Not even once."

Diavolo sees the way you quiet at that, the way you begin contemplating the seed he placed in your mind with his lie. And while he won't complain if you choose to ignore it, opting to play it safe, there's hardly a single doubt that you'll do what he expects you to.

After all, now that he's directly stated that he has no idea what your face looks like, why would you need to hide it anymore?

Diavolo turns his attention away from you, redirecting it down at the great chasm that opens up in front of him. It's glorious but empty—much like the mask you wear. Both are undeniable works of art, but Diavolo has stared at emotionless clay for far too long.

"Sir?" You call.

Diavolo gives you a look.

"I mean," You laugh sheepishly. "Diavolo?"

"What is it?"

"Why were you at the cage fight?"

"I could ask you the exact same question," He answers, glancing away. The demon folds his arms. "I know why you helped me, but such an uncouth fighting ground is hardly a place for someone like you."

"Someone like me?"

"You seem..."

Diavolo pauses, abruptly realizing that he's speaking without a filter. A thousand curses, he thinks, realizing that he's dug himself into a hole.

But your piercing gaze, so bright with curiosity, urges him to give you the truth even though his mind is racing to come up with a lie.

"Kind," He finally admits, forcing the word past his lips with great reluctance. "And usually, savages are the only ones who enjoy watching cage fights."

"I..." You stop yourself, hesitant. Diavolo arches an unimpressed eyebrow.

A small part of him, a part that he would claim to be big but is in reality unbearably small, still hopes that your words will be cruel. That you'll confess that you are a savage, and that it gives you a sick satisfaction to watch opponents beat each other bloody over and over again. He wants you to prove that you are just as awful as the king and queen who raised you, that he should have every right to loathe your existence the way he did so passionately before he met you.

But Diavolo already knows that your answer will be different.

"My parents..." You trail off, hesitating. You sigh, gesturing for Diavolo to sit down as you swing your legs over the cliffside, letting them dangle freely as you stare at your palms. After a moment of watching you, Diavolo does the same.

"My family would rather that I not see the world. They prefer to have me inside at all times. That is the reason why I can only stay with you for a few hours each day." You lean back, releasing a sigh that sounds far too boorish for what one would expect of a princess.

"The poverty districts are so far off that I could never visit them and make it back home in time. And the cage fights are the closest I can get to seeing the dark side of the Devildom, so I try my best to visit as much as possible. Even if it's difficult for me to see so much bloodshed."

"And why do you want to see this 'dark side of the Devildom' so badly?" Diavolo asks.

"Because..." Diavolo can hear you swallow. "My parents never saw it. And a lot of people hate them because of it. So I...I want to be better than them."

Diavolo stops.

His grip tightens around the grass where he has lain his hands, fingernails digging into the dirt.

Lies, he thinks.

You must be lying to him. You have to. This must be nothing more than a sick manipulation tactic to get him to feel bad for you, to get him to regret his affiliation with the Resistance, to make him doubt the validity of Rebellion as it draws near.

It has to be a lie.

But Diavolo makes the mistake of glancing into your eyes—nothing more than a brief glance, one that hardly lasts a second—and even he can't deny the overwhelming sincerity that you reflect so openly.

"And you?" He hears you ask, voice soft, gentle as you regard him. As if your question is something he doesn't need to answer, as if he needs you to treat him so delicately. "I told you why I was at the cage fight, but what was your purpose in fighting there?"

"Because..."

Because if I had won and become the new Victor, all the most powerful demons in the world would willingly bow to me, and I could bring them to the Resistance and Rebellion could begin. Because then, together, we could overthrow your family and put all your heads on stakes.

For the first time, Diavolo feels something unpleasant in the depths of his stomach as he thinks about that—and for a brief second, he almost feels ashamed of his association with the Resistance.

"I needed the money," He blurts. "I wanted...a better life."

Yes, a better life. At least that much is true.

"A better life, hm?" You mumble, fidgeting with the edge of your robe. "I don't know much about you, but you seem to be a very noble person, Diavolo. I...I admire that. A lot."

Your fingers reach upward, and for a moment, Diavolo thinks you're just fiddling with your robe before he realizes that your hands are ghosting over your mask, fingers gripping the pointed bottom and the bindings at the back which keep it pressed against your face.

"Would you...be okay with it if I showed you my face as well?"

Of course I wouldn't mind, Diavolo thinks, momentarily dumbfounded by your request. But when he sees the way you actually pause, as if you're genuinely waiting for his response, he forces himself to say something.

"Yes," He whispers, trying to act nonchalant even as he sees you prepare to take down the final defense you had raised against him, naively opening yourself up completely to this man who, by all rights, will one day end up being your greatest enemy.

But the moment your fingers pull on the bindings, the moment Diavolo sees the beginnings of your forehead peak through, and then your eyebrows, then your eyes, fully unobstructed by the mask, and then the rest of your face, all thoughts of his supposed hatred for you fly out the window.

Diavolo has to remind himself to breathe, he's so enraptured by your face as you pull your mask off completely, shaking your hair loose.

He's seen you in pictures before. Hell, he's drawn your picture before. He's thrown darts at your image and burned newspaper clippings of your face and studied every inch of skin in the royal textbooks, searching for things to make fun of and things to hate.

But he's never truly seen you, not in person. Not your real face.

Diavolo's eyes refuse to blink, he's so utterly entranced by staring at you. He can't pull his gaze away even though he sees the way it makes you bashful as you avert your eyes, shyly raising them up again to peek at his face, his expression.

And all of a sudden, even the Resistance and Rebellion seem like far away topics as the man simply stops and takes in the picture before him: the stunning scenery, the gorgeous chasm, and your seemingly perfect face which brings the whole view together.

Diavolo swallows, his mind only able to echo a single thought as he continues to stare at you.

You're beautiful.

The most beautiful person Diavolo has ever seen.

MASTERLIST

01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | ✔

Word count: 6.3k

Notes: hc that a name like "prince diavolo" in the devildom is like "prince/king henry" in the british empire. overused as hell, but it happens anyway :D also i still have no clue how long chapters are going to be in this series so keep checking the tags for the word count before you read ^^

Comment & Like

Next Update: 8/22/20

I do not own the rights to Obey Me! or any of the characters within it.

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obaby-me · 5 years ago

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Ok how about this, all of the brothers (or Belphie if you can't) reacting to an m/c who died and became a very angry ghost

This was so hard. You gave me an out, and I instead took that as a challenge. And a helluva fuckin’ challenge it was.

I thought it’d be pretty repetitive if the MC died the same way each time, or haunted each person in the same way. So I tried to give a variety of scenarios for what an “angry ghost” might do. Haunt a specific person, haunt a place, and different ways to haunt someone. Hopefully you at least find it interesting.

Lucifer

You’re screaming. You’re sobbing. It’s an echo down the halls, a reminder of his guilt: Why?

Why wasn’t he there? Why did he let this happen? Why did it have to be you?

Why, why, why?

Lucifer knows why.

Because he’d scoffed at your warnings.

Because he wouldn’t even consider that anything could happen.

Because you were his.

And he was Lucifer, the Avatar of Pride. The first of the seven lords. None would oppose him. None would dare. He so adamantly believed so.

He should have been more careful. He should have listened. He should have been there.

He’ll shoulder the burden, just as he has with Lilith. But there was a small saving grace for his sister.

There was none for you. And you were resentful, and unforgiving. And you had every right to be.

So, he’ll bear this punishment; he’ll listen to every scream, and he’ll take every hit—because he knows this is what he deserves. He failed you, and he’s willing to pay for it.

If there’s even a modicum of hope to give you a chance at peace in the afterlife, he’ll do all he can to give it to you. It’s the least he can do.

Mammon

It hadn’t been anything to do with you. It shouldn’t have involved you in any way shape or form. You were an innocent bystander in a dispute between himself and a loan shark.

He was scum, everyone said so. You’d never thought so. You defended him when no one else would.

But in your death, he’d proved himself scum. Proved to you they were right.

It was his fault. All his fault. If he could be anything else other than greed incarnate, this wouldn’t have happened. If he’d never gambled himself away. If he hadn’t taken that loan. If he hadn’t then ignored that loan.

If he hadn’t, if he hadn’t, if he hadn’t. If, if, if.

You’re watching him constantly. Empty eyes boring holes in him, following him, judging him. You say nothing, but you communicate to him just fine just how much you hate him. Just how much you loathe him. Just as he deserves to be.

Despite the guilt he feels with your presence, despite the way his skin crawls when he sees you hovering around him, he doesn’t want you to leave. It’s sick, in a way. But it’s still you after all. And seeing you is a reminder of what was, what could have been. And he holds on to that, clings to it.

He hasn’t got anything else.

Leviathan

Levi’s use to being alone. But somehow, it’s lonelier now than it’s ever been before.

There’s a void in him he can’t fill. No game, no concert, no show, no manga ebbs the pain—the clench in his chest.

For once the excitable avatar is quiet, every so often, quiet sobs choking him until his ducts can’t produce much else. While he’s always been terrible eating, now it’s nearly non-existent. It’s only when his brothers demand and watch him eat that he manages to get anything down.

He spends most of him time lying in bed, sleeping because at least then he doesn’t have to feel it anymore.

Yet, there’s no real safety in sleep. You torment him. You’re shouting most of the time, though he never understands what you say. But he doesn’t need to. He knows what he is. He knows what he’s failed to do. He knows you know it too.

Sometimes you only sob, frustration welling up in your eyes, brows knit. You don’t bother to look at him. And he thinks that that’s worse than when you’re screaming.

If he could save you, spare you from this, stop your tears, make it so you stopped harboring so much hate, he’d do it in a flash.

He just hasn’t the first clue as to how.

Satan

His brothers are terribly concerned. There’s been an unusual increase of outbursts, violent and unreasonable. They’ve no idea what has come over him.

None know but him.

You’re uncontrollable, you’re inconsolable, you’re furious—and there’s no one who understands that feeling better than Satan himself.

What they’d done to you was unforgivable. The way he’d found you, unrecognizable as the bright beacon he’d known you to be, lifeless there on the floor—the rage he felt, indescribable.

You’d always been his much-needed balm. The one to soothe him, calm his temper, end his tantrums. All that yet remains of you is your fury, too stubborn to let go.

And now? Now you were fuel to his fire. Now you encouraged him to lose himself into his anger. You whisper into his ears—dark encouragements to indulge in.

He can resist you only for so long before you become demanding. He’ll appease you with whatever you suggest, letting go and wreaking havoc. But never enough to satisfy you. He makes sure to reign it just enough.

You can’t leave him alone again. He misses you. He misses you terribly. But you haven’t left him yet—you’re still here, so long as he holds on, so long as he rages, you’ll be here.

Asmodeus

Asmo visits the same alley every day. He brings a flower or two, sometimes a whole bouquet. It really depends on what the florist has—and he’s sure to bring the best.

It’s dark and it’s damp, and it’s cold and it smells. It sinks the reality of the horror you must have experienced here deep into his skin; crying out for help, left for dead on the pavement.

Just around the corner used to be a nightclub, one of the liveliest around. Demons would line up, right down into this very alley for a chance to get in there.

But the club’s since closed down. Occupied by just one.

Occasionally he’ll see a curious demon or two camped out inside the building, wondering if the rumors are true that a human haunt its walls.

You tend to verify it quickly. Violently. Sometimes they make it out without injury to more than their pride. Other times they’re lucky to be alive.

While Asmo doesn’t camp in, he does come to greet you at least once a day.

Sometimes you recognize him. You’re even happy to see him on some days. Asmo loves those days. He comes just for those chances, those moments. He holds on to those and stays for as long as you can hold your sense of self.

But it’s never for very long.

He has to leave quickly. Abandoned remnants of the club become weapons—chairs, tables, shards of broken bottles and windows.

You screech obscenities, you threaten death. Your form contorts warped by your hatred. Crawling, oozing, reliving that night where you cried for help, dragging yourself out of the club in attempt to find safety.

You suffer terribly and Asmo wishes desperately to relieve you of it. But you remember so little, and he has so few leads.

An entire club full of people and not a one remembers a thing—or doesn’t wish to say if they do. But one day he will. One day you’ll be freed of this. This he swears.

Beelzebub

Every week, on routine, Beel goes for a run. He runs mile after mile until he reaches the fields on the outskirts of the devildom where you were last seen alive.

At 6:57PM exactly, you flicker into existence and he watches as you float on a pre-determined path. You look as if you’re being carried by your arms, and you head moves wildly from side to side, eyes staring into air, but seeing something that causes you fear. He can see your mouth moving, he knows you’re screaming. You’re begging. You’re pleading.

You’re thrown to the ground and you flicker out. It’s a scene you play out, every week, on time, without fail. You’re carried away, and thrown to the ground. These are the final moments of your death. They’re the only hint he has to know what has happened to you.

You’ll be back again soon; he only has to wait. You’re being dragged this time, but to where he has yet to determine. He has to be quick. He has to be quiet. You can’t be alerted or you’ll break from the scene.

But he’s never been able to follow you yet. There’s always something that interferes. A branch out of place, an animal that rushes past, another demon camping out nearby.

And then his only lead he has disappears, only to be replaced by a nightmare instead.

The image of your battered, decomposing body rising to confront the distraction, as you screech and wail. You’re terrifying to see, to hear, but the worst is the way you latch on and thrash about, with a strength that tosses even the heaviest set demons to the ground.

It’s a heart wrenching experience every time to see you this way. It breaks him down, piece by piece; emotionally, physically. His meals have halved, and his workouts decreased. He cries more than he sleeps, and he does so little of both these days.

But he comes back every week. He comes back to try again. He has to. Your body is out there, somewhere, waiting to be found.

He couldn’t save you then.

But maybe he could save you now.

Belphegor

The avatar of sleep ironically gets very little these days. He struggles to stay awake, knowing that the second he falls asleep, he’ll be reliving the nightmare. Your pleas, your scream, your gasps for air, and that gargle of blood that choked you.

He’s terrified to sleep. And even more terrified of waking up.

When he wakes, he knows you’ll be there. Hovering just above him, pinning him down with a strength born of your malice. The lethargic demon who never would want to move now praying he could, but the paralysis you impose would never let him.

You wanted him to see. To remember.

You’ll replay your grief for him, re-enacting your death for him, wailing and begging the way you had in your final moments before quickly fading. The sleep he used to love you’ve warped into his greatest fear.

Nodding off feels dangerous. Like you’re waiting at the edge of his consciousness for him to drop.

The guilt of what happened was overwhelming, but the exhaustion even more so.

He’ll do anything to make it stop. If only he had any strength to do so.

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5lazarus · 4 years ago

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"Did you just throw a sock ball at me?" for Solavellan, please!

posted on AO3 here! Solas navigates Sera & Dagna’s wedding, with an infant and toddler in tow.

“Mythal’enast, Solas,” Lavellan mutters, exasperated. “I asked you to get her dressed an hour ago.” Solas wordlessly tosses a baby’s sock at her. She catches it one-handed, grimacing. Telana coos happily to herself. She hasn’t quite figured out crawling forward, preferring to propel herself backwards, but still resents any attempt to restrict her movements--and apparently, according to Cole, that includes socks. Around them clothing is scattered--two out of the three formal robes Solas owns, which he has apparently considered at length and discarded multiple times, and of course several of the little ones’ outfits. Imladris bends down to pick up the matching pair. “She doesn’t like yellow anymore,” Solas informs her. He looks at their littlest daughter askance. “I thought Sera would like it if Telana wore the socks she knitted her. But Telana has other plans. No socks.” He scoops her up, smiling. Telana whines, unhappy at the sudden perspectival change, and Solas rubs her back gently. She stops fussing and starts gumming at the leather band of Solas’ necklace. Solas grimaces: that necklace sat covering dust in a temple in the Wastes for a good two millennia, it is not meant to be a teething ring.

Imladris, ever the practical one, says, “She’ll get cold. I’ll bring a pair or two with us. Blue this time. Did you get Lahtaras dressed? Where is she?” Solas turns away, ostensibly to soothe the baby but really to hide his face. He does not know where Lahtaras is. At two years old, she is much more mobile than her sister. She is, however, dressed, or at least she was the last time he saw her, before Telana decided the color yellow was revolting and began to scream. “I believe Mirwen is watching her,” he says vaguely. Mirwen would. Last he checked, she was sitting by the hearth with a book of chess puzzles and a furrowed brow--so perhaps she would not be watching Lahtaras, but maybe Lahtaras is in her vicinity. He hopes. He says lightly, “Are the girls ready?” Imladris picks up the baby bag and says over her shoulder, “Let’s find out.” Out by the hearth, Mirwen is sprawled on the floor, despite wearing her good dress, playing a chess puzzle. Solas shifts the baby to his other arm and peers at the board. Mate in three, if she doesn’t move that king’s pawn--and she will, so what is she hoping to do? Telana begins to whine, so he rubs her back soothingly. She’s teething. Hopefully they can get through the ceremony without her throwing a tantrum. Imladris used what she called gripe water to calm her older girls when they were little, but Solas does not think rubbing whiskey into a child’s gums will promise healthy development. He eyes her bag. Maybe they should bring whiskey for them. Mathalin has her half-sister in her lap and is reading her a picture-book in Orlesian Dalish. Lahtaras traces out the shape of the words with her whole hand. Mathalin looks up and smile at them, and Solas’ heart breaks a little, because they’ve grown so quickly, he’ll never get used to how fast time moves now, and if he is lucky he will live long enough to see them sit there with a child of their own, and perhaps by then Lahtaras will be better about speaking Elvhen, and there will be more than three people alive who can remember the lullabies of Arlathan. Imladris says, “Ready?” No, Solas thinks, he’s not. “Mirwen, you can’t take the book with you. And did you even comb your hair?” Mirwen looks up from the board, annoyed. “Mamae, I’m almost done.” “You can finish when we get home,” she scolds. “Come on, let’s go.” Mirwen takes her time getting up and Imladris rolls her eyes at Solas. Together they wrangle the children out the door, Imladris fussing with Mirwen’s hair, and head down to Skyhold’s cloister. Telana demands a diaper change by the time they get to the great hall, and Solas waves them on as he hurries back upstairs to clean her up. “You have inherited my sense of timing,” he tells her as she cries, “haven’t you?” He wonders if he should drink a bit too much and finally tell Sera the story of how he got into a literal magical pissing contest with Andruil and Imshael. Every time they have seen each other since Lavellan dissolved the Inquisition, she has tried to wrangle the story out of him. It will be his wedding gift to her, and doubtless she will get Maryden to put it to music and he’ll come to the next Arlathvhen to half the elves singing about that time Andruil hunted the Dread Wolf for marking her woods as his. He mulls over what details to tell her as Telana, happy now that she is dry and comfortable, settles into his shoulder. She drifts off as he heads to the garden. He spots his old companions milling about the crowd and cannot help but smile. Cassandra sees him and waves him over. “Seeker,” he greets her, fond of the habit. She is bright-eyed. Weddings always make Cassandra weepy. She cried harder than he did at his. Cassandra peeks at the baby, who snuffles in his neck. “How are you, Solas?” she asks. “She’s gotten so big!” Solas smiles, pleased with himself. He remembers being bored by his friends’ fussing over their children, two millennia and a decade ago. Of course Marella’s son was bigger than he saw him last, it had been two years: but now he understands the fuss, and why she considered every square inch of growth a personal triumph. Telana and Lahtaras both, and Imladris’ girls who keep ever sharpening, are miraculous, and he is glad to have a hand in shaping their wisdom. “She’s teething now,” he informs her. “And she chatters constantly, but we are beginning to learn what she is trying to tell us.” He reminds himself that he was bored by people boasting about their infants at dinner parties, and Cassandra will likely be too. Reluctantly he stops himself. “But she is resting now, for once. How was the journey from Kirkwall?” They catch up as the crowd swells and other late arrivals find their spots. Solas half-expects that Sera and Dagna will not show up, and will faff off to Seheron or Minrathous, anywhere where Josephine’s fury cannot reach them. He shares this theory with Cassandra, as Rainier warily approaches. Cassandra eyes him coldly and blocks him out of the conversation slightly, but does not hiss him away. Solas catches his eye: small progress. Thom steps to his side and starts making faces at the baby, who has evidently woken up. “Josephine will have her head,” Thom says. “And she’d’ve told me and maybe the Inquisitor if she’d do it.” Telana reaches out to bat his beard, and Thom chuckles. “May I?” Solas carefully transfers her to his arms, and smiles at the shocked face Telana makes. She is utterly absorbed by the beard. He sees her hand reach out, grasping, and he warns, “Watch--” but she yanks and Thom curses and suddenly the garden is full of chirping birds, a cheap Tevinter trick if he ever saw one. Telana bursts into tears. Solas says drolly, “I take it Master Pavus has appeared.” Thom hurriedly hands the baby back. “How’s Sera gonna beat that?” Thom wonders. Telana continues to scream. Luckily, so are the wedding guests. “Bees,” Cassandra says despairingly. “I bet you she’s bringing bees.” Solas carefully wraps Telana in his wolfskin and hums to her, trying to quiet her down as Rainier attempts to distract her by crossing his eyes, and he is both relieved and a little annoyed that it works. She is giggling now, safe from harm, and even Cassandra is smiling at Thom Rainier’s valiant efforts at saving the day. Dorian swans over, Lahtaras trailing adoringly in his wake, talking a mile a minute. He looks for Imladris, but she is with Josephine and Leliana, laughing. They catch each other’s eye and for a moment there is only the love he has for her, the love she bears for him--how lucky he is, to turn the punishment of survival into this blessing. He was born to give wisdom: how odd a hand fate plays, for his destiny to be fulfilled in this way. Imladris looks back at Leliana and he rejoins the conversation. “You’ve upstaged the bride,” Rainier is saying. “How is she going to top that?” “I certainly did not,” Dorian says. “But thank you for the compliment.” He peers down at Lahtaras, who is clinging to his robes and pouting. “What did you think?” “It needed more flash!” she says. She waves her hands. “Fire!” “No,” Solas says, “perhaps something more understated, da’len?” Lahtaras looks at him doubtfully. “You’re not inflicting your horrid fashion onto the next generation,” Dorian says. “The wolfskin, really. How long have you been wearing that? A hundred years?” Three millennia, but Solas is not going to tell him that. “Would you repeat that?” Solas says. “I believe the blast from your arrival damaged my hearing.” Then a gong rumbles. Cobalt-blue energy begins swirling in the garden’s gazebo, and the air fills with the scent of--beer, Solas sneezes, the whole cloister stinks of stale ale and fried fish. The magic peals off like lotus-petals and in the center, in a glorious choppy gown of plaideweave, is Sera, brandishing a bouquet. On her back is Dagna, looking slightly rumpled. “It worked!” Dagna cheers. Josephine’s sigh cuts across the silence. Laughter breaks out, Mother Giselle sets up, and the wedding properly begins.

#ask #prompt #solavellan #solas #lavellan #domesticities #dragon age fanfic #fanfic #dai #cassandra #blackwall #dorian #noire-pandora

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polandspringz · 3 years ago

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Can you tell us something about the villain turned side character and your protagonist:0

First, thank you for sending an ask! I've been wanting to share stuff from my original work for so long, but there's a lot of context since the story is so big so for context to these characters I'll give a very brief overview. (If someone wants a more detailed version I'll give it!)

It's a fantasy story set mainly in the kingdom/country of Ruyzex that was founded only within the last thirty years or so, and the stories those who witnessed it's liberation say that it was led by one man who lead the "war campaign" but negotiated without anyone having to fight a single battle. This man was supposedly blessed with magical abilities and many of the people who knew he view him as God, but one day he became a nomad and abandoned everyone, including his son, who always resented him. As such, people believe a fight between the son is to blame for their "God's" departure.

The story ACTUALLY follows three women who are "amnesiac heroes", who wake up with no memory beyond the horrible conditions they are found in as victims of trafficking, before they are rescued. Each of these women have magical powers like the God who left, and while they do not know how to use them, many people believe that they are their God returned or at least can be turned into him or replace him... or be brainwashed into replacing someone else who was lost.

My protagonist is a young woman named Dreil Ruyzex, who not knowing her own name took the name of her "home" (the town and country she was rescued in). She wakes up with her first memory being bloodshed, finding her kidnappers murdered beyond recognition around her and is terrified. She is rescued by a mysterious man who brings her to someone named Seio, who is the son of the governor of the southern most city, and lives in a house for people who were rescued and displaced and brought to Ruyzex through trafficking. While gaining her bearings there and becoming close with the other victims, Dreil awakens her powers due to several stressful events, and she is terrified, because she realizes that she had been the one to transform into a blind rage and eviscerate her captors, but she also has the power to heal people. Dreil doesn't particularly want to use her powers because she's scared of losing it and hurting everyone she loves, and Seio tells her to keep it a secret anyway, lest the people who come and visit the town discover her powers and suspect she is "like Ruy". However, Dreil ends up having to use them and learn how to use them when the city gets raided by people who kill two of the children she was living with and kidnap one of her new friends, Mierre. Seio and the other characters want to get Mierre back, and while they've traced the possible route she was taken, they also decide it's time to confront the Queen on this matter to crackdown on the traffickers who should have been outlawed back when the kingdom was established. Dreil forces them to bring her along, insisting she would be useful as a healer, and as they journey from the south to the northern point of the country, she has to battle bandits, cults, actual demons, and eventually soldiers from the castle as she learns the history of the land she has found herself in and joins resistance efforts to uncover the corruption within the mysterious capital.

Again, I'm being VERY VERY brief and vague because there's so much so apologies if it sounds cliche/not super interesting right now. Dreil as a protagonist starts off as an amnesiac but very quickly she does remember things, like her homeland, but the place she is from is actually such a mysterious region itself. Because of her appearance, she has similar features to the God who left, Ruy, which adds to the fanatic people in the city wanting to try and "shape" her into a new Ruy, or viewing her as a gift sent by him to them. One of the original ideas that shaped this story was when I was in middle school I was reading a lot of dystopian fiction (although this isn't a dystopian society really, although we are fighting the government at one point it's not how you think, they're not the "evil" in the story), and I thought about what if there was a story where the main girl didn't really want to go on the journey that she was being called to, since normally in dystopian works something big happens or is lost and the protagonist is all "I must instantly seek my revenge." This idea has been changed quite a bit in my work, but when Dreil lives peacefully in the city for a complete year before the raid happens, and during that time she helps rescue two children from traffickers in a neighboring town- waking up one day and sensing the gaze of someone staring at her from miles away. Although they're not much younger than her (Dreil is around 19-20, the "children" are actually teenagers) they help each other heal and develop a life together.

This goes into how characters changed and have been shaped across many years of working on this story actually. Many of my characters started off as villains or had more secretive goals and beyond Dreil originally were more gray than pure good. Seio is the deuteragonist and his goal is to rescue Mierre, but Dreil doesn't have a goal. The people she would rescue are dead, so what should she do? And now everyone she knows in the house she has lived in are leaving on a journey, and leaving her behind. In early versions of the story, the children did live and were captured, and Seio wanted Dreil to come along on the journey by telling her things like "maybe we can find them!" and not really tricking her but he was sort of working with the main enemy in needing her to come with him to the capital, therefore he tried to use the children as persuasion. In the more recent drafts of the story, Seio leaves Dreil behind, and due to him being distracted and angry at what has happened to his home he does not help much when Dreil is grieving. However, a conversation with someone else convinces Dreil to run after them and force them to take her along on the journey, citing she wants not necessarily revenge on those who took from her, but wants to help end the pain the traffickers have caused once and for all (and she doesn't want to be alone).

Now if I'm going to talk about my "villain turned side character" I have to get into the whole angels and demons thing I brushed over earlier, HAHA.

It does seem very "edgy middle school OC" to have angels and demons in a story, but I grew up reading a lot of Christian fantasy stories so this is where my writing stems from. Although I don't view my story as falling into this category, I've taken a lot of influence from them and the things I wish they did in those stories. For example, one of the things that always annoyed me was the Jesus-figure in those stories was always the obvious "King" who was a mysterious man who appeared like right before the big battle where you knew he was gonna die in the fight and then come back to life because he's the Jesus metaphor and that's it. He's never a main character or one with any real depth or character, so I wanted to change that. Hence, there's a WHOLE CAN OF WORMS surrounding what I can get into about my decisions when creating Ruy, but we're not here to talk about him right now, were here to talk about one of his friends, an angel named Orielle.

In original versions of the story, Dreil and Seio and her friends had to journey to the capital of the country and rescue their friend who had been taken and battle their way through several people at the ruins of the castle. Orielle was this figure who appeared every time there was a turn in their journey, taunting them, leaving them clues to get to the castle. He appeared in the fires of the raid, he appeared in the woods and challenged Dreil to a fight where she would have to use her murderous, uncontrollable power, he stood at the top of the castle before the final battle and revealed three "weapons" he had been making, several characters who were like Dreil in that they were blessed with powers but had been kidnapped and shaped into fighting for the wrong side. Orielle existed because I needed a villain and was still working things out. He was older originally, more middle aged and spoke in a booming deep voice and always looked down with his eyes narrowed as if passing judgement. But then as time went on I created more characters and the plot points filled themselves out (there was more than just the ending battle thought up) Orielle wasn't really needed anymore because a new villain had replaced him, but to be honest I still liked his name, so I just changed who he was.

Besides Ruy, who is the "God" figure in the story and his powers are for certain established to be from some higher power that he might well be (he's also an amnesiac hero as well, when you learn about him), and Dreil and the other two protagonists, whose powers are also from the same "good" source as Ruy (but for all intents and purposes we won't say it's "heavenly" or "celestial" in it's source), there are angels and demons. Angels are different than Ruy and Dreil, and Ruy and Dreil were people who when they were created their bodies always had power within them. They have one soul, and it is the one that is able to wield their power. Angels however are created more like vessels. There were certain people in the world who were made so their bodies could withstand the use of power beyond human means, so when on one fateful chaotic day (around 14 years before the start of the story, called "the Fall of Smokeflake") the souls or spirits of the angels descended and joined with the souls of their vessels, thus now these people had angelic power they could wield, and knowledge of the mission they must do, and knowledge of the past, present, and future. They do not have access to ALL of this information, as the souls are not fully one but they act as one when talking, although sometimes in the story there are points where a character must note that the "human" or the "angel" is speaking to them more and that might be unreliable. The angels know that if their vessels knew too much it would break them, especially if the future involves a massive battle where everyone is slaughtered at the end of the journey.

So, BACK TO ORIELLE. He has become an angel, really an archangel, and appears in the story mainly through the journals left behind by Ruy, which contain the history of Ruyzex and Dreil reads along her journey to understand her own power and the mysterious man that is like her. Orielle is Ruy's guidance, as he descends early in his true spiritual form to save his God from a landslide, but Ruy rejects him and sends him away because he doesn't understand what is going on. Orielle later becomes Ruy's only ally when Ruy is locked underground for three years and Orielle stays there, still not connected with his human vessel (because his vessel was not born yet), keeping Ruy alive and sane by putting him in a stasis-like sleep and giving him dreams and memories of the war that angels and demons fought, helping to clear up his confusion and his purpose in the human world, and who Ruy is going to meet. Years later, during the main story, Orielle is in the body of his vessel, a prince born to the kingdom to the north, Meltiux, who is campaigning for his right to the throne as it is a country of matriarchs, and for some reason the two princesses of Meltiux have been missing/no one remembers them...? Orielle is met at various points throughout the main story as he is visiting in Ruyzex and the Empire of Ker, Ruyzex's neighbor to the west, not only trying to build up his diplomatic relations and make himself "worthy" of the throne but also trying to meet up with the heroes and help them along the way. Of the seven angels, he is one of three who have actually met Ruy personally, which makes him very high ranking amongst the other angels hidden throughout the world, and because he was beside Ruy for every step of the journey and the war campaign, he is the leader in the absence of their real leader.

So, that's all I'll say for now! I apologize for the length, it was kind of impossible to explain my protagonist without going into the story somewhat. And I didn't want to just be like "she's nice, she's courageous" because I don't really view my characters in traits like that? I've just been so focused on their place in the plot that their characterization is so synonymous with the story for me that I can't really separate them, lol. Thank you for the ask! I'm willing to go into more detail in follow up posts about anything since there are WAY WAY more characters than even mentioned here.

#my ocs #bgwr #ask poland #writing #my writing

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undertonesofwind · 4 years ago

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The Hopeful Beginnings of Self-Discovery

Perhaps this platform will not provide me with what it is I desperately need, that of which is an outlet to express the darkest and most secret components of my truest being. Nonetheless, I am here in pure earnest hoping that my conscious is wrong in its doubt. I enjoy the animosity, as it has been a great struggle for such a long time to even gather enough courage to think, much less, write out my deepest thoughts and feelings for my fearful eyes to bear witness.

I write in fear. In terror of admitting that of which I find to be most dreadful: my truest self, the part of my being I purposefully suppress when it dares threaten to intrude my reality. I won’t let it! I have for years refused, to a varying degree of success.

In my earlier years of adulthood, I was more carefree as to let this entity explore the realms of my reality, taking joy in all the liberties of honest self-expression. But as time grew on, I permitted the world to cast shadows of doubt upon my true being of existence, and, thus, banished it to the outer-most boundaries of my soul, where no one could touch it, not even I. I barred this version of myself, ugly in its unashamed sincerity and destructive nature of my perfectly peaceful, heteronormative life. I allowed this part of myself to be consumed by the dark void of shame, the shame of which tells myself, “These feelings are utterly and disgracefully unnatural! You must dispose of them to cleanse your soul so it remains pure!” And as a result of carrying this darkness inside of me, I do feel impure. Utterly filthy. I will never be normal, so my soul will never be polished and spotless. I will always be contaminated, because I will always love women.

I am not a heterosexual. To be quite honest, I don’t think I ever was. Perhaps in my youth, before I was exposed to elements of queerness or properly recognized them, I enjoyed the life of a heterosexual girl, feeling flutters of excitement within the adventurous company of the boy next door, imagining fascinating fantasies of being saved by a knight in shining armor atop a shimmering steed, and, of course, dreaming of my wedding day in which I say, “I do,” to a perfect, well-groomed and even-tempered gentleman that would love me for all eternity. Such thoughts of youth are beautiful in their innocence, even if they are short-lived and regrettably native in nature. However, they are treasured memories, even now, and those that I enjoy reminiscing about every now and again, for it’s relieving to relive the sentiments of such simpler times when now I struggle so deeply with my own self-identity.

I am currently in a heterosexual relationship with a cis-gendered man. We have been together for quite a long time. In fact, our five-year anniversary is just next month. I do love and adore him deeply. And my passions towards him are just as strong. Not many are so lucky to have someone by their side for so long. Thus, despite our ups and downs, I am eternally grateful for his loyalty, companionship, and love. However, with that said, I can’t help but admit that not all is right in our relationship, as there will always be a missing component that his heart cannot fill. It is with great remorse that I express it, as it feels like an unforgivable act of betrayal on my part to not only acknowledge but to openly reveal it: He will never be a woman. He can never love me in the ways that I sometimes so desperately crave. That is not to say that I do not yearn for his affections. I certainly do. But there are times, infrequent, yet frequent enough, when I long so much for a female lover. And that is something for which, regrettably, he will never be able to provide.

As I mentioned previously, for quite some time I did believe myself to be heterosexual. Even within a part of that time when I did hesitantly question my sexuality, I was very well-versed in the ability to suppress the unwanted and dangerous thoughts containing non-heteronormative ideas and eroticism. But such days have longed passed. As an adult, I have become well-aware of my sexual passions in its entirety. I have fully come to accept my feeling for men and women, although my doubt and insecurity regarding my desire towards the latter party is still something I must learn to overcome. And for this very reason I have chosen to write this extensive personal dialogue. I am utterly tired of having to hide my true self. I despise myself for concealing this wonderful part of me that does justice in representing who I really am: a confident, unabashed creative woman who dares to adventure in both love and life. And as it stands right now, I am miles away from becoming that woman in any respect. But if I am able to reach out to my truth within, perhaps it will illuminate my soul, and I can finally live my life in full sincerity. Perhaps releasing my sexuality from the binds of shame, resentment, and guilt will let me free and give me unrestricted access to joys that were previously confined and untouched. I don’t know how I will fare on this journey of self-discovery, but I hope there will be a light at the end of the tunnel, a light whose rays will shine pure truth and happiness upon my life.

#queer #gay #lesbian #bi #bisexual #creative writing #literature #female power #hope #lgbtq #lgbtqia #writing #queer writing #story #stories #queer story #queer stories #queer literature #self-discovery

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chicagocityofclans · 4 years ago

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Clarisse “Clara” Fields → Margot Robbie → Black Bear Shifter

→ Basic Information

Age: 229

Gender: Female

Sexuality: Straight

Born or Made: Born

Birthday: September 3rd

Zodiac Sign: Virgo

Religion: Christian

→ Her Personality Clara has for a long time played things close to her chest. She has built walls between her true feelings and those that she portrays in an effort to control her reaction and the reactions of others. Clara finds safety and comfort in control, and is deeply disturbed when it’s taken away from her. The rigidity in the way she communicates has contributed to the somewhat ice queen facade she portrays. She has strict rules for herself and the pack and expects them to be followed. She is difficult to persuade and may hold out just to prove a point.

Clara, in addition to controlling her reactions, also enjoys controlling the way her environment looks. She is always put together, and her homes and the hotel are always immaculate. Her cleaning helps control the anxiety she feels and having beautiful environments put her at ease. Clara is very protective of her pack and has dedicated herself and her life to helping it and its members be as successful and comfortable as possible. Clara often provides support for new members when they come to the city, even helping them find jobs at the hotel or in one of the real estate companies owned by the clan. She is generous and is comfortable in sharing her wealth. She is gracious and always willing to listen, and has a long standing passion for humanitarianism. Clara often goes on environmental charity trips and has dedicated a branch of the pack towards funding them.

→ Her Personal Facts

Occupation: CEO/Owner of Fields Hotels, Head of Clan Heavy, and Council Member

Scars: None

Tattoos: None

Two Likes: Matchmaking and Humanitarianism

Two Dislikes: Her personal space being intruded and People who shirk responsibility

Two Fears: Germs and Losing/Ruining her family’s legacy

Two Hobbies: Equestrianism and Hunting

Three Positive Traits: Neat, Protective, and Dignified

Three Negative Traits: Unbending, Controlling, Anxious

→ Her Connections Parent Names:

Garland Fields (Father): Clara loved her father more than anyone. She idolized him and was constantly at his side. She had her sights on leadership from a young age, and tried to soak up everything she could from her father. Clara took on more and more responsibility as she grew up, taking over the Fields Hotel and running it successfully at the turn of the century. It was at this point that Clara began to see some concerning signs in her father: aggression, random sporadic shifts, waking up covered in blood. Clara paid the human shifters $1,000 over that year to keep her father’s antics quiet. She could see he had hypershift and couldn’t bear to let his reputation be blemished. They went out hunting and Clara killed her father, using the excuse of dementia to cover his and her tracks. She still feels guilty over this at times and will direct her guilt into anger towards Asa.

Annabelle Fields (Mother): Annabelle died before Asa and Clara turned 50. They found part of her body in the woods about 5 miles from their house. It was obvious that hunters of some kind got to her. It deeply affected each member of the Field’s family.

Sibling Names:

Asa Fields (Twin Brother): Clara and Asa have always tended to butt heads, and it's only gotten worse since he has returned from being gone. Clara feels like he’s intruding on the system she’s built and dedicated her whole life towards. She also has a lot of resentment of him not returning home when Garland died. She was entirely alone grieving her father and has felt on her own since then. A part of her is happy he is back and wants to readily trust them like she did when they were kids. Both are damaged, and at the moment Clara is treating Asa as if he were a problem member in her pack.

Children Names:

None

Romantic Connections:

None

Platonic Connections:

Taye Black (Pack Member): Taye is one of the people Clara trusts most. He’s able to handle whatever needs handling and she has come to trust his calls in situations that she isn’t there for.

Bryce Holt (Best Friend): Bryce and Clara did not start out friends. She heavily blamed Clara for the exchange that Bryce’s father requested, and loudly shouted that whenever she could. Clara finally sat down and they began talking things out. Clara offered a fraction of her own experiences, and Bryce was willing to finally open up. Their bond grew after that, and Clara considers Bryce her best friend.

Patrick Perry (Pack Member): Patrick is one of Clara’s pack that she finds particularly exhausting. She has frequently seen him talking with the Mist family and believes that he is the one who has given them so much information on the supernatural.

Anna Johansen (Pack Member): Clara has only met a dozen or so panda shifters in her time. Typically they came to be matched and then returned to their homes, so Clara is delighted to have Anna with them. She is hoping to have her take interest in the real estate side of the business, and is glad that Riley is assisting with that.

Michael Johansen (New Pack Member/Interest): Clara has found herself enjoying Michael’s company. She’d met him briefly a few times before he asked to move his pack to the city. She was happy to have a whole new crop of heavies in, but was surprised when she found herself becoming close to the former alpha.

Ezra Schultz (Good Friend): Ezra is the longest remaining pack member in Chicago, having been with the Fields since they were originally founded in New Orleans. She has seen some of the signs for dementia in Ezra and is dreading the day she will have to take care of him. She has always found him to have a “true north” conscience and never knows where he will side in board meetings.

Hollis Sony (Good Friend): Hollis and Clara are close. She has repeatedly backed Clara when tough decisions had to be made and has always been a good sounding board for issues when Clara wasn’t sure what the best path was.

Nathan Cleirigh (Psychiatrist): They rarely get to the root of any of her issues, sticking generally to her compulsions and depression and grief over her father. They have never gone deeper, despite the fact that Clara knows that they should. It embarasses her too much to talk about her other relationships and opinion of herself.

Chris Bialar (Fellow Alpha): Chris and Clara have gotten closer over the recent years when they realized how much they have in common in regards to their packs. They are both facing dwindling numbers with an inability to replace them.

Nick Hamelin (Fellow Alpha): Clara used to think Nick hated her, as she was the constant center of his jabs, but when she confronted him he set her straight. They stay out of each other’s way, generally, and both care greatly about their packs. Clara does actively avoid getting on his bad side, as she knows what the repercussions may be.

Ellis Watts (Fellow Alpha): Clara and Ellis get along fine. They aren’t particularly close, but she respects how he runs his pack and the leadership that he and his higher ups show.

Percy McCormick III (Fellow Alpha): Clara has known Percy since they were children. He has always been a show man and is great at being a person that people think they should follow, but he isn’t a leader. However, no one has pushed against him in the pack, and she would never undermine another leader.

Isaac Baker (Fellow Alpha): Isaac and Clara have very different styles in meetings and they tend to clash. Isaac is short, arupt, and disregards the traditions put in place that have kept everything running smoothly in the first place. That being said she respects his willingness to stand up for his principles even if he is standing alone.

Scorpius Getta (Business Associate): Scorpius bailed the Heavies out, for a steep price that Clara and her pack are still paying off today. However, he has always treated her and the deal with the utmost professionalism and respect, which Clara returns.

Dan Prior (Old Acquaintance): Clara knew Dan from when he was human. His parents were often in talks with her own, and she thinks they even considered the change before he “disappeared”. They still talk when she goes down.

Maxine Vanes (Liaison): Max is on Clara’s speed dial for whenever the rats cross the line with her hotel. She is often able to deal with it well enough where Clara doesn’t have to talk to Nick.

Talia Cleirigh (Former Business Associate): Talia used to put her and Asa to bed and stop the nightmares that they frequently had over their mother. She used her on and off until she made her deal with Getta. That was too private of information to allow someone to see. She still has temporary insomnia, but uses that time to check on the hotel and get other work done.

Hostile Connections:

Sam Thompson (Board Member): Clara has known Sam her whole life. They grew up together, almost like siblings. However, he has always been a challenging force throughout her leadership and recently she’s lost much of her trust in him. He holds the same resentment towards Clara that his father held for Garland. That they were cheated out of a position. It at one point caused Clara great anxiety and sleepless nights, wondering when he was going to challenge her. She finally decided to stop waiting around and began training to fight in her human physical form. She has continued to wait for an attack, especially after she had to kill Sam’s wife four years ago. For all that Clara dislikes Sam, she is incredibly impressed that he held on for his kids, and believes he is genuinely a good father, and even leader at times.

Eliza Meyers (Board Member): Eliza gets the short end of the stick, mostly due to her age. She is young and parrots whatever Sam says, which has led to Clara ignoring her opinion for almost the entirety of her being on the council. She has decided to let her take the lead in this new project of creating the indoor hunting ground.

Pets:

None - Clara has difficulty with animals being indoors, though this is an issue she is working on.

→ History

→ The Present

#Margot Robbie #Clara Fields #Clarisse Fields #Female #Clan Heavy #Taken

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hereliesbitches--me · 4 years ago

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@draconicmatriarch asked: "Rosie." She stalled, letting Suzaku sleep on her folded legs. "Am I a bad person for loving someone despite knowing that they still do terrible things?" She didn't have the strength to say his name, but everyone knew. "I could spare so many people suffering if I could kill but one man. That's what a queen should do, right? Destroy one for the sake of many. B-But I can't," she sobbed. "I can't kill him. As soon as I raise my fist, I see a scared child that was once him."

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

What is it that makes a person fall in love? Who ever had the answer to why the heart one day begins to thump a little faster when you see a particular person? Why one day a simple friendship is suddenly forever altered by a change of feelings from the blue? Who is to blame for the strands a desperate soul throws to the winds in hopes it catches its match?

Can you change what fate decides? or does it all dwindle down to the simplistic needs of basic animal biology to have companionship?

Rosie has been in love before. She tasted its bliss and basked in the euphoric highs that would have been the closest to heaven a person like her could have ever been. Rosie knew love so intimately, held onto it with such desperation, she believed not a damn thing in the world could ever hurt her again. But that was one of life’s greatest lessons; For to love was to fall into its deceptive arms of comfort, knowing well there lay a sword to fall on should you lay down your heart in callus hands. Love held the power to heal you, to build you, and break you down all in the same breath. And now she stood the result of its breaks, a shambled, pessimistic deity trapped within a human skin. A broken doll. Giving advice to a mother with a heart that still dares to love. A bastard chicken , of all things to have tied herself to. Its been a long but pleasant day for them, spent catching up and tiring out the little halfling tyke on their little adventure through Kia’s lands. Rosie appreciates her company, she loved Suzaku, but good things had a tendency to vanish quickly in the Moon’s life -- this moment was no different. She knew that question was coming from a mile away, a thought that ate at Kia throughout the day as they walked and talked, nagging at the back of her mind. Her shifting, her wandering eyes, the way her fine lips opened and closed with practiced words never spoken, did not go unnoticed. Now at last they spill out with all its hesitance, with the practiced pacing of a politician, carefully asked in the sanctuary of two friends that shared almost everything. For some odd reason, Rosie finds herself winded by the question.

She must bite her tongue before her cynicism comes pouring out. In fact, it takes everything in her power not to twist her face and scowl in disgust at the outrageous question that should have had an obvious answer for anyone listening ; The reality of this was far more complex than a simple yes or no answer, so she settles for balling her fist til her knuckles turn white and holds in those words with her stolen hair she managed to retain in. Kia is delicate, she knows, as any woman would be when the heart full of misplaced love is raw from its emotional misuse. If it had been anyone else, Rosie would have bitten down with cruelty of the harshest truths, to call her a fool and roll her eyes at the notion of sympathy for a bastard king of pea brained birds just because he was left twisted by childhood. But this Rosie knows love, and how blinding and controlling love can be when it has latched its silken strand and binds itself to another. Now there came a child born from it, and the dragon is the bird in the cage, pinning after a man who will never appreciate her the way she deserved to be. All these words jumbled in her mind makes it difficult for the cat to filter through and pick just the right ones that can be strong together well enough to cushion the crushing blow Kia needs to hear. She’s torn with the bias of bitter resentment, and the instinct to be a comforting friend. For a while, Rosie can’t bring herself to look at the Queen. Because if she looks, everything she thinks may be conveyed too well through her eyes that Kia will shatter. She fixes her gaze instead to the colorful sky, a mural of pinks and oranges as the sun begins settling along the horizon, shades that could smooth her temper and malice. Softening her worn edges well enough, the angel sucks in a breath into her desperate lungs, flaring her nostrils in subtle irritation, before letting it slip away with the breeze and her negativity.

A Moon’s purpose is to bring and keep balance. Balance it.

“ It isnt exactly so clean cut as a yes or no answer, despite what the people around here whisper to each other…” She starts. Yes, the sonar ears on her head can hear a whole lot when people have no idea just what cat ears can pick up. The mentioned featured twitched and folded back slightly , her tail swaying with emotion she would not convey in words. She sniffs and turns slightly, enough to reach her hand out and stroke through Suzaku’s blonde tufts, stare shifting to study the sleeping boy intently, “ As Queen, you’re tied to your duty to your people . But being a Queen doesn't mean you’re not a living being with feelings. Its the human part-” She stumbles slightly, “ Eh, its the person you are that helps you empathize with your subjects and the people around you. It shouldn’t come as a shock that the empathy can be spread further to the companions you work with, especially when politics are thrown into the mix.” Adding politics and love certainly made for a slippery slope that don't make the conversation any easier. In the midst of her reply, Kia’s crackling voice as she heaved a sob tore Rosie’s focus upward to her dear friend just as the tears pooled and spilled over her round cheeks. An unsightly appearance, red faced and blubbering, for a queen.. A sight that seers through Rosie’s skin and makes her wince, in both a flush of bubbling wrath and the cold chill of empathy that washes over those flames. How could anyone ever expect a woman to kill the father of her child? No matter the nature of it, no matter how the celestial herself felt, Rosie cant blame Kia for her nature of seeing the good in people. There had been something between her and Shahin that passes as a secret only lovers will ever know and understand, no matter how much the bastard pretends that there is nothing. Fighting her trembling anger, Rosie transforms and redirects it to shuffle herself higher on the grassy hillside to pull Kia within her arms. Careful not to disturb the sleeping youth, Rosie’s brows knit together and crease her forehead in rippling waves of worry as she cradled the Queen. Stroking through the silken raven hair, she pressed her cheek upon the crown and purred soothingly,

“ Kia, I understand you. Trust me, I do. I know what love can do, what it makes you think and feel.. But it can’t be used as an excuse for him.” She whispers, gentle yet stern, her eyes falling closed, “ Even still, I nor anybody can force you to act against your heart… So, if you really believe there is something in him that can be saved or reasoned with,” Her scarred palm bearing the cross rose to wipe the tears away from Kia’s cheeks, relinquishing her venom to a kinder alternative for the Queen’s sake, “ Then I’ll help you. I can try to change his ways with some convincing, a little at a time. But , if all else fails..”

Rosie sits up straighter, wills herself to meet the crimson gaze of the Dragon with solemnity as she held her by the shoulder,

“ I won’t ask you to kill him.

But I will do what I must,

if I feel its for the safety of you and Suzaku. And Your kingdom.”

#draconicmatriarch #:V: Chronostory:#ayyy another one a year later ive been sitting on

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alwaysmychoices · 5 years ago

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“Unspoken”

Synopsis: After a magical day on the river, Ethan and Charlie are faced with the weight of all their unspoken feelings...

Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x MC (Charlotte “Charlie” Greene)

Choices Story: Open Heart

Rating: NSFW (there is a divider before the smut)

Words: 7487 (oops)

Part 3 of “A Weekend with Dr. Ramsey”

part 1: drunk texts - part 2: a day with dr. ramsey - part 3: unspoken - part 4: in the morning light - part 5: brunch - part 6: the library - part 7: the cure - part 8: the celebration - part 9: coming soon

Commenting, liking, and reblogging mean the world to writers, so thank you so much for engaging with my content!

The drive to Boston was quiet.

Jenner had fallen asleep in Charlie’s lap early into the drive, snoozing contently after a long day at the river. Charlie’s directions were no longer needed as Ethan was fully capable of navigating them back to the city without them, and for that, she was grateful. Her mind already felt as if it were bursting at the seams with too many thoughts, and she stared into the passing scenery as if the dark night could provide elusive clarity.

The problem with a magical day is that the sun always sets, and when it does, you’re left in the dark.

When Charlie looked at Dr. Ethan Ramsey, she saw a kaleidoscope of a man. Every angle was a new side of him that she’d never seen before. Sometimes, she felt like she could reach out and connect with the shimmering smile in front of her, but there was always a wall separating her from the illusion. He was so close, but he was still so far away…

Tonight, under the soft moonlight glow, Ethan didn’t look like the confident doctor she’d met in Edenbrook. Concern etched itself into his handsome features, and a lingering air of defeat and disappointment followed him like a cruel haunting. From the passenger side, she could see the knot between his eyebrows, an expression she remembered as his sign of deep concentration. He was thinking hard about something, but Charlie had no idea what.

As much as she admired and adored the man beside her, she couldn’t pretend to fully understand him. She knew him more than most, but there were so many undiscovered layers, so many secrets he kept from her. She wondered if she would ever know all of Ethan. Would he ever let her that close?

“You’re staring,” Ethan cut his eyes to Charlie, unable to contain the urge to take his eyes off the road to look at her. The doctor inside of him chastised such behavior. He’d seen many patients come through his hospital from lovesick injuries, each easily preventable but prompted by reckless actions by someone in love.

But he was retired now, wasn’t he? The doctor inside of him lacked credence over his human desires. And his chief desire was to be close to Dr. Greene, even if she seemed a million miles away tonight.

He imagined Rafael Aveiro looking at her. Rafael’s eyes would never be guarded. They’d unabashedly admire the beautiful intern, no inhibitions to guard like Ramsey. Ethan wondered if Rafael’s gaze had the same intensity of his own. Did Rafael love her?

Of course, he does, Ethan didn’t have to hypothesize. Everyone loved Charlie. They’d be a fool not to. If she could make a man as cold as Ethan form an attachment, what could she do with a man like Rafael?

Something was stirring inside of Ethan’s chest. Jealousy burned at his skin, every nerve ending overcome with the emotion. His mind was consumed with unwelcome images of the two of them together, of a part of Charlie’s life that he knew nothing about. There was so much more to this enigmatic woman than what he knew. He’d caught glimpses of her fiery determination and self-destructive sense of duty to her patients as well as her lack of self-protective instincts, all of which challenged her career in the upcoming ethics hearing.

A smile perked at his lips as he remembered his own first year of residency. Back then, he was overcome with his own ego, but even in his ambitious drive, did he have the balls to take on Big Pharma like she did? Even today, did he have the reckless bravery of the woman next to him?

There was a swell of pride as he thought about all she’d done. As her mentor, he was severely disappointed in her irresponsible behavior, but as Ethan, he was proud as hell.

“Sorry,” Charlie mumbled, “Just thinking… I guess I focused on you or something.” Charlie’s voice trailed off as if she was pulled back by the tide of her own thoughts.

Ethan glanced at her again, so deeply concentrated. Desperately, he wanted to know what was happening in that mind of hers. More than ever, he wanted to be the man that knew her, the one that cared for her.

But he couldn��t ask for that.

Because if he did, he would be forced to answer the unasked question lingering in every interaction – Did Ethan Ramsey love Charlie Greene?

Theoretically, such a realization should have been the culmination of his linear progression of acceptance. Their relationship began with disdain and disinterest. Though he was impressed by her gumption and assistance during their first meeting, she was flawed. She had yet to perfect her technique and lacked the experience to trust her intuition. She had potential, of course, but she was merely an unformed piece of clay.

He remembered telling Naveen about their first encounter. He’d given Charlie a scathing review littered with uncharacteristic compliments, and Ethan remembered the look in Naveen’s eyes when he first spoke of her – it was the same look Naveen gave them tonight.

Naveen was a shrewd diagnostician, and he clearly could diagnose Ethan long before Ethan could recognize the change in himself.

Over time, Ethan accepted that he admired Charlie. There was no harm in acknowledging her potential, and he gradually became accustomed to the idea of mentoring the young student. He watched her thrive through the competition, working hard to reach the top spot, and Ethan was free to admit his admiration for her work.

So, when had it become personal? When did the professional relationship seep into his personal life? Had the lines always been blurry, and had his heart been involved the entire time?

Undoubtedly, Ramsey exhibited favoritism, and to Harper’s appreciation, he acknowledged it.

Over time, he accepted different aspects of their unorthodox professional partnership. Charlotte Greene was more than an intern. She was his favorite intern. She was his favorite coworker. She was more than a coworker. She was a friend. She was more than a friend. She was…

It was this final diagnosis that Ethan couldn’t make. What was Charlotte? And could he bear to admit the truth?

“What are you thinking about?” Ethan didn’t anticipate saying those words, and once he did, even he was stunned d by them.

Charlie stared now, disbelief evident in her expression.

“A lot of things,” Charlie was intentionally vague. Since when did Ethan ask her personal questions?

Ethan nodded, honestly disappointed by her evasion.

Silence consumed the car again, but they were too deep in thought to notice.

“Why didn’t you tell me about Dr. Olsen?”

Charlie gasped. Landry. Right.

Somehow, Charlie hadn’t thought of his betrayal once during their adventure with Naveen. Last night, Charlotte Greene tried to drink away her mistakes, one of which was trusting Landry. His deception burned inside of her, irrevocably reframing their friendship. Could she even call it a friendship? Had she always been unwittingly engaged in a silent war with him? If she didn’t have Ethan, would she still have her friend?

Bitter resentment and anger settled into a cold, aching disappointment in the pit of her stomach. She blamed herself for ignoring the obvious signs and for trusting him without any proof of his merit. She questioned others around her, wondering if they held the same disgusting motives as her former friend. She examined her own ambition and its limits. Could she ever do such a thing to someone she loved? And if she could, was she just as bad as him?

“I did,” Charlie laughed weakly.

“When you were drunk,” Ethan corrected her, surprised by his own disappointment and rejection that she hadn’t come to him, “Why didn’t you tell me when you were sober? Why didn’t you tell me about the sabotage when it began?”

Charlie chewed her lower lip, shrugging as she explained, “I don’t know. I didn’t want to give excuses for my problems. Even if you believed me, I would have just been projecting blame. I’m a better doctor than that.”

“If I believed you? Charlie, do you think I wouldn’t have believed you?” Hurt was evident in his voice.

Charlie squirmed, surprised by his accusation and the pain in words. Did it hurt him for her to not trust him?

“I… I don’t know,” Charlie admitted solemnly, “I didn’t want you to be disappointed in me.”

“Charlie, I could never be disappointed in you,” Ethan’s conviction was apparent, and it startled Charlie, “You could have told me.”

Something was swelling in Charlie’s chest, but she was terrified to put a label on such an unfamiliar feeling.

“You could have told me you were leaving,” Charlie was emboldened by the intimate space between them. In this car, under the starlight, they were in a world far from that of Edenbrook. They’d never been closer, yet they’d never been farther away.

Silence. Again.

Ethan’s breath hitched, horrified by her words. Guilt wracked his body, a familiar feeling but an unexpected context. Charlie had never seemed so raw, so vulnerable. The truth in her eyes overwhelmed him. After being so guarded for so long, how did one voice all of the words they’d left unspoken?

“I did,” Ethan’s evasiveness now mirrored Charlie’s.

“No,” Charlie had never put so much emphasis on that one word. She’d never felt so strongly that he hadn’t told her. It was as if his narrative challenged everything she knew, everything she experienced, and she didn’t hesitate to remind him of that day, “You kissed me outside the hospital, took off your badge, announced your resignation, and ignored me as I begged you to stay.”

The bitterness in her voice was palpable, and it was strong enough to expose the darkest part of who they were to one another.

It was now clear that their relationship was merely a patchwork of resentment and adoration, each battling it out beneath the cover of obvious affection for one another. In their quest to do the right thing, they’d levied attacks against one other – each unintended but devasting all the same. They were held together by strings of love that were fraying at the edges, threatening to fracture them if they didn’t do something.

But what were they supposed to do? How did they say something they’d never said before? How could they voice feelings they didn’t even admit to themselves? How could they open themselves up when the threat of being pushed away was so high?

Ethan froze, his grip tightening on the steering wheel as his memory returned to his last day at Edenbrook. He moved through each event, remembering where Charlie stood in each of them. She’d stood next to him through his failure, still looking up at him like an untarnished hero. How could he stay and face that? Who would he be if he pretended to be the man she thought he was, and who would he be if he destroyed her idyllic hope in him?

“I shouldn’t have done that…” Ethan whispered, mostly to himself.

“Which part?” Charlie challenged him, tears threatening to spill as she waited for his confession. She didn’t need him to tell her the answer. She already knew what he regretted, but she dared him to confirm that he regretted her, not leaving. Ethan Ramsey’s misplaced remorse lied in allowing her so close that his departure pained her. When the chips fell, Ethan resorted to his withdrawal instincts, and Charlie knew it.

Anger sprouted through her soul, reigniting months of rejection and waiting. Charlotte Greene was always waiting for Ethan Ramsey and always hoping that he wouldn’t push her away this time. She maintained a naïve assumption that, eventually, he would pull her close instead of casting her out. At what point did she accept defeat?

Now, she felt foolish as she stared down the barrel of last hope. Her day with Ethan Ramsey was beautiful and fostered desire she’d long abandoned that this man could allow himself to love her, but as the sun set on the river, the darkness highlighted the toxic traits that separated them. How stupid had she been to expect him to change all his rules for her? How many interns before her had deluded themselves into thinking they were special?

Ethan’s deep sigh was deafening in their newfound silence. He felt like he was driving straight into a hurricane but couldn’t stop his disastrous trajectory. His instincts urged him to do what he should have done months ago and sever their attachment before it came too dangerous. It was one thing for Ethan to suffer at the hands of Cupid, but to watch Charlotte battle a similar affliction was cruel. He could stop it now…

But as Ethan looked at Charlotte, he hesitated. He couldn’t let her go. He couldn’t break it off. It was a delusion to think that this relationship was anything but dangerous. The risk had already been taken. An intense desire to hold on took control of his body. It was as if, in the moment of crisis, his mind finally found what he valued most – and it was Charlie.

He should have said that, but he didn’t.

Instead, he asked, “Do you want to come up for a drink?”

Charlie’s gaze never wavered. Rationally, she knew to tell him, No. She knew to get out of his car and walk out of his life because, if he couldn’t love her now, he never would. She knew that she deserved better, but she couldn’t do it. A flicker of hope burned bright in her chest at his invitation. She knew what he was asking but needed him to say it.

“To your apartment?” she prompted.

“Yes.”

“To talk?” Charlie demanded, desperate for him to be explicit for fuck’s sake.

She needed him to say that he was inviting her to come back and talk, to work through their bullshit. She needed him to say that this was worth fighting for. She needed him to acknowledge their precarious state. She needed him to say that he was trying. Because, if he couldn’t, how could they ever find their way?

“Yes.”

“About what we’re fighting about?” Charlie crossed her arms.

“We’re fighting?” Ethan’s eyes flashed with panic.

“Yes,” Charlie asserted, and dread gripped his heart as he nodded in understanding.

Charlie faltered, trying to think of a million reasons to turn him down, but not one stuck. Because, as she saw a hint of fear in his eyes, all she wanted to do was reach out and take his hand.

“One drink,” Charlie finally consented, and for a moment, Ethan’s tight chest felt relief.

But the fear never subsided. They both sensed the finality that approached, and the weight of their unspoken fights and emotions grew increasingly unbearable. Both knew that, at the end of tonight, their unrecognized, longing existence would cease to exist, but neither could anticipate what would follow. When the world stopped spinning, would time still move?

When Ethan arrived home, he hesitated to take the key out of the ignition, and he considered driving far, far away to stay in this little bubble. He wanted to resurrect the day and live it once more, and he wanted to stay with Charlie for as long as he could. But before he could run away, he removed the key from the ignition and stepped out of the car.

Charlie followed, tenderly rousing Jenner, and the three of them made their way through the underground parking garage toward the waiting elevator. Ethan pressed his floor’s number and leaned back into the elevator walls as if it would slow time. He watched her beside him and witnessed concern etch its lines into her forehead, and without thinking, he reached for her hand.

As his fingers laced through hers, Charlie nearly jumped, and she looked back to Ethan with evident shock. He almost pulled away when he saw her expression, but he stopped when she squeezed his hand in return.

And it was enough.

It was enough to try.

When they entered his apartment, Charlie released Jenner from his leash and watched as he jumped on the couch, eagerly waiting for her to join him for another snuggle session. She smiled softly at him, scratching under his chin and placing a kiss on his forehead, before leaving their potential snuggles to talk to Ethan. And for the first time, Ethan was sincerely jealous of his dog.

Ethan was already reaching for the decanter when Charlie joined him, silently watching as he poured out a glass of scotch.

“Scotch or something else?” Ethan was prepared to list every single drink he had in his arsenal, full of nervous energy, but she stopped him with a nod towards the decanter.

“I need something strong, and that looks delicious.”

As Ethan poured her a glass, he felt an odd sting of pride. His girl knew a good drink. His girl… Ethan chastised himself for using that word. He didn’t get to call her “his.”

They both took a sip and allowed the warmth to linger in their chest before speaking again, waiting for the liquid courage to set in.

Unsurprisingly, it was Charlie who made the first move towards the awkward discussion.

“I said one drink,” Charlie eyed her drink, “By the way that tastes, I’d assume we don’t have much time before that glass empty, so we better start talking.”

Ethan paused, considering all of the strategies he could take. His fear of losing her paralyzed him, but his fear of hurting her spurred him to scrutinize everything. He’d never been in this place before, and his frame of reference was limited. How did one act in such a situation?

“You didn’t tell me about the ethics investigation,” Ethan blurted out, amazed by how much it hurt him that she’d kept that from him.

“I tried, but you closed the door in my face,” Charlie asserted.

Fuck… Ethan grimaced as he remembered the day. Was that what she was trying to tell him when he’d been such a dick?

“Did you go to someone else?” Ethan didn’t recognize the jealousy in his tone.

“Excuse me?” Charlie flushed, “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Did you go to Rafael when I didn’t talk to you?” Ethan persisted, horrified by her potential answer.

“You don’t get to ask a question like that, Ethan,” Charlie shook her head, obviously frustrated, “Don’t act like I haven’t given you far more opportunities than I’ve given Raf.”

“Oh, so you’re giving him opportunities?” Ethan couldn’t understand why he was so upset. He knew that she was right. If he hadn’t been bound by his morality, he could have had Charlie a long time ago, and she had no responsibility to stay loyal to a nonexistent relationship. She was free to do whatever – and whomever – she wanted, but the idea of it killed Ethan.

“Do not pull that bullshit,” Charlie took a large gulp of her scotch, begging it to fuel her, “When we almost had sex in Miami, who is the one who stopped it? It sure as hell wasn’t me.”

“I’m your boss! It’s not ethical!” Ethan retorted.

Charlie rolled her eyes, “Well, I’m already facing an ethics hearing, so clearly, I’m ethically substandard.”

Fuck. That’s not what he meant.

“You know I didn’t mean it like that,” Ethan couldn’t fathom not making that point explicit.

Charlie diverted her gaze, biting on her lower lip as she raked her fingers through her falling ponytail. As her blonde hair fell around her shoulders, Ethan was caught off guard by how vulnerable she seemed. She was just as impassioned and upset as he was, if not more so. She walked away from him, pacing his living room floor and occasionally glancing over at him as if planning her defense.

“I know you didn’t mean that,” Charlie admitted with a deep sigh, “But I don’t know what I know about you. Today, I felt like I really knew you. Today was great,” Charlie closed her eyes as if trying to relive their carefree afternoon, “But then you try to pull away. You don’t let me in. You wouldn’t have brought me in on Naveen’s case if you didn’t trust me, but you never show it. How the fuck am I supposed to be your friend if you can’t tell me anything?”

“I brought you in on a case I failed at, Charlotte,” Ethan gulped at his drink as if the smooth scotch could dull the nagging failure that he carried every day. It was the first time he’d ever said her full first name, and Charlie’s eyes shot to his, amazed by how cold she felt at the title. She just wanted to be his Rookie again, “I told you why I left Edenbrook. I’m not the doctor we both thought I was,” Ethan’s voice cracked, and just like that, the anger dissipated from Charlie’s body as she was overwhelmed with a desire to fix this wonderful, broken man.

“Don’t say that,” Charlie stepped towards him instinctively.

“It’s true,” Ethan drained his scotch, returning the glass to the table as he fell into a nearby armchair, “I failed Naveen. I failed my patients. I’ll fail you soon, too.”

“It’s not true,” Charlie was by his side now, surprised by her own proximity to him, “That’s bullshit. You’re the doctor I thought you were and more. You saved thousands of patients, Ethan. They’re still living their lives because of you.”

“I couldn’t save Delores. I couldn’t save Naveen. I-I…” Ethan’s hand was reaching for the scotch bottle, but Charlie grabbed it before he could, taking his hand in hers.

“You didn’t save them, but you loved them,” Charlie stared deep into his eyes as if begging him to believe her, “You stayed up all night with baby Ethan, and he has a full life because someone loved him. You gave Delores and Naveen a choice, and when they picked their diagnosis over treatment, you respected it. That’s why you’re the best doctor I know. You never stop caring about your patients.”

Charlie paused, tears welling in her eyes as she added, “If I’d been more like you, I wouldn’t be in this mess… If I’d taken no for an answer, I wouldn’t have endangered Mrs. Martinez. She’d be alive, and I wouldn’t be facing a revoked medical license.”

Ethan’s heart broke at the pain in her speech, and before he could stop himself, he told her, “That was the stupidest, most unethical, kind thing you ever did, Rookie.”

Charlie looked up at him, something inside warm at the sound of her nickname.

“You’re a good doctor, Charlotte, and I’m not sure if I’m brave enough to help Mrs. Martinez in the way you did.”

Charlie nodded slowly, mulling over her words before saying, “You told me to examine my mistakes, learn from them, and let go. Instead, I lost one of my best friends and risked my entire career to make a point.” Charlie was laughing at herself, but her chuckle was laced in bitterness.

“You do enjoy the dramatics,” Ethan conceded, earning a playful glare from the woman next to him.

A peaceful lull formed in the storm of their fight, momentarily reminding them of what they were even fighting for in the first place. How did they make everything seem okay again, even when it clearly wasn’t?

“I didn’t know if I would ever be able to move on when you left,” Charlie admitted carefully, “For a cold son of a bitch, you sure as hell make people care about you.”

Ethan laughed his first genuine laugh of the whole night, and a smile perked at her lips despite everything.

“I tried very hard to make you stop caring about me, but you were always stubborn,” Ethan was still smiling to his own disbelief.

“You’re right,” Charlie nodded thoughtfully, “Inviting me to Miami, including me on a secret case, taking me for coffee, going to the opera… All of that definitely pushed me away.” She looked back at him, eyes glaring with amusement and something he could finally put a name to – affection.

Ethan laughed, amazed by how much he enjoyed when she made fun of him, “You forgot introducing you to my dog.”

“Please, Jenner is basically my dog now,” Charlie looked over at the puppy now watching them intently.

A comfortable lull formed in their conversation. It was amazing how easy it seemed to slip away. They both knew they hadn’t resolved everything, and more fights were waiting. But they couldn’t manage to break the comfort they felt in each other, not yet.

Finally, after a long time, Charlie spoke. She hesitated with her words, unsure that she even wanted to ask the question, but after a beat, she forced herself to ask, “Will you testify for me?”

Ethan looked surprised, and before he could answer, Charlie nervously jumped in, “You’re the one doctor I respect most in the world, and if you don’t want to testify for me because I failed you, I understand-“

“Charlie,” Ethan stopped her mid-sentence, and she gazed up at him with those big green eyes that momentarily distracted him, “I tried. Emery won’t let me because I’m too biased, and we both know she’s right.”

Charlie let out a defeated grimace, standing slowly and moving towards the window as she processed the rejection. Beneath her, Boston hummed with electricity and excitement. There was an entire world down there, oblivious to what was happening in Ethan’s apartment. They had no idea that Charlotte Greene’s life was falling apart…

Ethan retrieved both of their glasses, returning to the decanter to refill them, and he tentatively met her at the window, holding out the glass as a peace offering.

“To early retirement,” she smiled sadly, holding the glass in a toast, “Likely for both of us.”

Ethan clinked the glass with a sad nod, and the scotch settled into a familiar burn in their chest.

“You tried without me asking…” Charlie’s whisper surprised Ethan, and he couldn’t miss the small smile dancing on her lips.

“You’re just the latest person I tried to save and failed,” Ethan swallowed, his failure threatening to consume him.

Charlie shook her head, placing a hand on his cheek as she moved his face to look at her, “You never failed me, Ethan.”

She was so, so… close.

He could smell lingering notes of his body wash on her skin, an intoxicating combination of fresh air and freedom. He was close enough that he could watch her chest rise and fall with her breath. Her lips parted as she gazed up at him, her lips still shiny with scotch, and Ethan’s breath hitched as he realized she was… so beautiful… and so close…

Ethan was leaning closer, so close that Charlie felt the heat of his breath on her skin. Her senses were overwhelmed with him… Her grip on her glass loosened, sliding out her hand and splintering into tiny pieces on the hardwood floor, but the sensation was distant.

And then he was against her, their proximity so close that she only had to lean the tiniest bit to brush her lips across his. They were soft and warm and…

And they collided. Months of longing were poured into his touch as his tender, bruising kiss consumed her. He tasted like scotch and coffee and Ethan, and her fingers tangled in his hair as she pulled him closer. He could feel her hammering heart against his chest. His hands were on her, his fingertips digging into her hips as he tugged her as close as he could possibly have her. Any space was too much. He’d never needed anyone like he needed Charlotte Greene at this moment.

Ethan effortlessly lifted Charlie, guiding her to wrap her legs around his waist as he pressed her against the window. The cool glass contrasted the heat between the two of them, and her lips left his to giggle at his eagerness before she was lost in him once more.

His hands were everywhere, her waist, her hips, her ass, her thighs, her chest… It was as if he felt the need to explore and claim every inch of her body, to treasure it with his appreciative touch.

“Ethan,” Charlie moaned softly, her hands leaving his hair to pull at his sweater. Ethan pulled away just long enough for her to take it off, not caring where the garment fell when she threw it over his shoulder, “Mmm, that’s better.”

Ethan’s hands were already on her waist, the fabric of her t-shirt wrinkling beneath his touch. His shirt. Ethan felt a swell of pride as he remembered how sexy it was when she confidently walked out in his t-shirt this morning, and he remained convinced that it was the hottest thing she’d ever worn. The grey cotton began to ride up her body as he moved his hands up her torso, and he victoriously pulled it over her head and threw it on the ground beneath him. Her exposed skin was so warm against his hands, and the lace of her black bra tickled his skin as she pressed herself even closer to him.

Ethan moved back from the window, still holding onto her tight as he led her back to his living room, and he softly placed her on his couch. Slowly untangling her legs from his waist, her fingers fumbled for his belt, and he laughed softly at her attempts to quickly remove it.

Biting on her lower lip, Ethan pulled away from her kiss, enjoying the sweet sound of her moan, and as he gazed down at her, it was undoubtedly the best sight he’d ever seen. His Rookie was desperate for his touch, desperate for him.

His Rookie…

Ethan’s breath stopped as he suddenly remembered why he hadn’t seen this sight since Miami, why he’d left her then… and why he had to leave her now.

Charlotte saw the change in his eyes, and her stomach lurked as panic settled in.

“Ethan…” she whispered, her hands on his cheek as she started to sit up to look at him better. No, no, he couldn’t… Not again, she thought to herself.

“Charlie,” Ethan’s voice was ragged and full of disappointment, and it was a sucker punch to Charlotte, “I can’t…”

Charlie’s eyes closed in a grimace as she fell back to the couch, covering her head with her arm as the sting of rejection replaced the carefree joy she’d felt only moments again. Even now, miles from Edenbrook, he still didn’t want her… Tears prickled at her eyes, but Charlotte willed them away.

Ethan’s hand hovered over her hair, desperately wanting to comfort her, but instead, he removed his touch and stepped away, knowing it would only do more harm than good. He left the couch, returning to his glass of scotch and downing it as he waited with bated breath for her reaction. She was still quiet, collecting all of her thoughts as her emotion wreaked havoc.

What’s wrong with me? Charlie’s thoughts were unstoppable, cutting through every attempt to silence them as they taunted her with rejection and humiliation. Hadn’t she learned to stop hoping for Dr. Ramsey?

Before she knew what she was doing, Charlie grabbed the pillow from behind her head and hurled it at Ethan. The pillow stunned him but bounced off easily, leaving him stunned and confused.

“Fuck you, Ethan Ramsey!” Charlie was up now, looking for her shirt so that she could stop feeling so exposed and vulnerable, but when she saw it on the floor, she was reminded that it was his shirt, not hers. Fuck.

“Excuse me?” Ethan asked incredulously.

“You heard me. Fuck you,” Charlie repeated, the words flowing off her tongue with such ease that Ethan almost forgot that he was the one being cursed.

“Charlie, we can’t,” Ethan began, but Charlie stopped him before he could deliver the same speech.

“Don’t you dare,” Charlie shook her head, the tears trying to return, and she had lost her strength to will them away, “Don’t you dare tell me that you can’t betray your moral code and have sex with your intern. You can’t do this, Ethan. You can’t pull me close just so you can push me away.”

“That’s not what I’m doing!” Ethan was offended at the accusation, “I’m putting you first. I’m putting your career first, Charlotte.”

“No, you’re not! That’s what you’re telling yourself, but that’s not what’s happening!” Charlie jabbed a finger at his still bare chest, “You’re afraid of intimacy, so you’re searching for every possible excuse to keep me at arm’s length. You can’t have it both ways, Ethan,” Charlie paused when she heard her voice crack, trying desperately to sum up the strength to continue her speech, and the sight made Ethan shrink. He’d never seen her so hurt, and he knew he was the cause. “Did you just try to get me naked because you heard I had sex with Bryce? Is it some stupid test to prove your masculinity?”

“No, of course not,” Ethan breathed, desperate to make her believe him, and he instinctively placed his hands on her waist as she wiped at her tears, “You’re more than some toy, Charlie.”

“I know,” Charlie pulled out of his grasp, “You can’t just play with me when you’re bored and drop me when you want to. That’s not fair.”

“I’ve never meant to do that,” Ethan had never been so intent on making someone believe him. She had to know the truth. She had to know that she was more than that, that she was more than everything to him.

“Don’t do this, Ethan. Don’t make it too hard to be around you. Don’t you dare push me away,” Charlie wiped at the tear sliding down her cheek, betrayed by her own emotional response, “You’re not my boss any more. The only thing keeping you away from me is you right now. At least be honest with that.”

I’m not her boss anymore…. The words played over and over again in Ethan’s head, forming a soundtrack to his epiphany. She was right. She was always right.

“Rookie…” Ethan’s whisper was soft and intimate, and even when she was so angry with him, it made her heart skip a beat. He stepped forward, his hands cupping her cheek as he leaned his forehead to hers, meeting her eyes as she felt the comforting warmth of his breath on her skin, “You’re… you’re everything to me.”

Charlie’s lips parted in a surprised gasp, staring up at him as if trying to prove to herself that she’d actually heard him correctly.

And he almost said it… three little words he’d never said before. But instead, he kissed her.

Their tender, bruising kiss held the emotions of months and months of waiting and pain and rejection, and they lost themselves in each other’s touch.

Ethan was the one to slide her out of her skinny jeans, slowly but surely stripping her down as his hands explored her skin. Once she was down to her underwear and bra, Ethan pulled her back to him, their bodies so close that they practically breathed as one. Her legs wrapped around his waist, tugging on his hair as he carried her back to her bedroom. Close wasn’t close enough for either of them, and Ethan laughed softly into her lips as Charlotte practically squirmed to get as close as possible.

Charlie pulled on his lower lip, whispering, “Let me down…”

Ethan begrudgingly unwrapped her legs from his body, gently putting her down on the floor without daring to break their kiss.

He felt her smirk against his lips as she unzipped his pants, pushing them off and toying with the waistband of his boxers. Ethan’s muscles froze as he felt her hand so, so close… She loved watching the effect she had on him as she tantalizingly slowly took off his boxers, brushing her fingertips along his hardening member before wrapping her hand around him and gently stroking.

“Charlie…” Ethan’s voice was breathless, making Charlie smile in pride.

“Yes?” Charlie raised an eyebrow, licking her lips as if offering an invitation.

Ethan’s hands tangled in her hair, moving her to look directly at him as he earnestly asked, “Are you sure?”

Charlie’s smile warmed his skin as she nodded, “Yes. 100% sure.”

Their lips collided again as Ethan pulled her back to his bed. Once the back of her knees met his mattress, he pushed her softly, and Charlie fell back on the bed, eyes heavy with lust as she looked back up at him, waiting to have him close again.

To her surprise, Ethan didn’t climb on the bed with her, and she pouted as he leaned close, whispering, “Not yet…”

“I’ve been trying to have sex with you for months. Why not yet?” Charlie’s whine was sincere and made Ethan chuckle.

“Patience is a virtue, Dr. Greene, and I want to remember every single moment of this…” Ethan’s lips grazed her collarbone, his hands lifting her just enough to unclasp her black bra. Charlie shrugged out of it, goosebumps forming on her skin as the cold air washed over her. Ethan’s tender, wet kiss moved across her collarbones, pausing on her neck to find just the spot that made Charlie squirm before moving down her chest.

His appraising eye marveled at her body as his hands, which began at her hips, roamed her curves until they reached her breasts. Cupping her breast in one hand, he tenderly massaged her as his tongue caressed the other, teasing until his mouth captured her nipple. Her body bucked in response, and he could feel his own body respond to that perfect, perfect moan…

“Ethan…” Charlie was growing impatient as her desperation to feel him heightened.

But once more, he whispered, “Patience…”

His mouth began to move lower, appreciating each inch of skin as he navigated her torso. She giggled at the tickle of his stubble, her hands tangling in her hand as she told him, “Your stubble tickles.”

With a rueful smile, Ethan brushed along his chin and responded, “I should shave.”

Charlie’s eyes playfully narrowed as she insisted, “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Ethan didn’t bother to contain his laughter before returning to her body, spreading her thighs as he approached the apex. He lavished his attention on her inner thighs, kissing and nibbling as the woman beneath him writhed in delight.

“Please…” her whisper was hoarse with desire, and finally, Ethan relented.

With his thumbs hooked on either side of her panties, Ethan’s kiss diverted from her thigh, just gently meeting the lace of her underwear. His kiss was long and wet and lazy, and Charlie melted into his mouth. Taking his sweet time, Ethan stripped her off her underwear and placed a long, purposeful lick along her folds. His tongue circled her nub as he appreciated her sweet taste. Charlie’s hips moved with his mouth, her fingers tugging on his hair as she wordlessly begged for friction and pressure. Ethan delivered, his adept finger sliding inside of her, and he watched as she fell apart when his finger curled.

Charlotte moaned her delight, her eyes fluttering closed as she rose to her peak. He could feel it in her body before she said a word – the pink flush to her skin, the friction of her body writhing beneath his tongue, the desperation in her bated breath, the way her muscles tensed around him… Her breath hitched as she approached her climax, and Ethan watches her, catching her gaze as she lost control.

“E-Ethan,” she pleads as she feels it coming, her breath hitching right before…. “Fuck!”

Charlotte shuttered as her orgasm lit her body on fire, each nerve ending consumed in the blissful heat. She hummed as her pleasure settled in her, a lazy smile spreading as she whispered, “Ethan. Fucking. Ramsey…” she bit on her lower lip, his name now forever a chant of indulgence.

“Jonah, actually,” Ethan smirked, moving up to look at her, and she raised her eyebrows in confusion, “My name is Ethan Jonah Ramsey, though I suppose ‘Fucking’ works as well.”

And right then, Charlotte’s laughter is music to his ears, and as she looks up at him, she almost said it… Three words she’s never meant like she meant them now.

But instead, his lips were on hers, full of heat and promise, and she was lost in it – in him.

Their fingers intertwined as Ethan moved over her, effortlessly moving her farther onto the bed as he knelt between her legs.

The sight beneath him took Ethan’s breath away. His beautiful, wonderful Charlotte looked up at him like no one else ever had. She waited with obvious desperation for him for him. She was here for him. She wanted him.

His length ran along her wet slit, probing as he looked at her with a silent question, and she nodded her agreement without an ounce of hesitation. His smile was broad and beautiful as he kissed along her skin, teasing her relentlessly and bringing her so, so close before finally…

“Fuck!” Charlie gasps as, after months of pining and waiting, they finally connected. Ethan sank deeper into her, overwhelmed by how intimately close they felt. Her fingertips brushed along his cheek, smiling softly as she met his lips in a deep, bruising kiss.

Ethan’s pace was slow and careful, each thrust timed to make Charlie think she couldn’t wait any longer and then fall apart the second he delivered her cravings. Her nails dug into his broad shoulders, not caring about any potential marks as her nails dragged along his skin while his pace quickened with desperation.

The pleasure mounted in Charlie’s hips as he delivered each deep, toe-curling thrust. His mouth claimed hers, his tongue fighting for dominance over hers as her body flushed with delight.

“Ethan, I’m so cl…” Charlie didn’t need to articulate further as she lost her breath, overwhelmed with his touch. He carefully adjusted his grip on her thighs, his thumbs leaving bruises along her skin, and he used the new leverage to drive deeper and deeper into him. His lips were selfish as he every inch of her body, needing to taste her, to feel her and know that she was his.

Charlie’s skin burned with desire, unable to hold on as she dissolved into her climax. She’s so, so close – she’s – she’s – fuck. Charlie fell apart beneath Ethan, her orgasm taking over her body.

Ethan watched through hooded eyes, feeling her tighten around him, and it was too much. “Charlie,” he moaned her name as if it were sacred praise, each thrust harder and more desperate than before. At the summit, he lost control, his body sated in the warm ecstasy of his orgasm. His forehead fell to her shoulder as he tried to catch his breath.

For a moment, they just stayed like that, enjoying their bliss, enjoying each other…

Finally, Ethan moved out of Charlotte, pulling him beside her, and without a word, Charlotte tangled herself around him, tucking her head in his chest as she listened to the thump of his heartbeat.

“We just had sex…” Charlie murmured, sounding astounded.

“We did,” Ethan confirmed, twirling her hair around his finger as he appraised the beautiful woman in his arms. How the hell did this happen?

“Oh my God,” Charlotte let out a single chuckle, looking as if she couldn’t believe it either, and he found himself smiling.

Tilting her head up to look at him, Ethan said, “Stay the night.”

Charlotte wasn’t sure if his invitation was a command or a question, but she couldn’t dream of leaving his bed either way.

“Only if you finally give me an embarrassing tee shirt to wear tomorrow,” Charlotte’s eyes were full of amusement as she teased him, and he couldn't resist the urge to kiss the tip of her nose.

“I may have a secret Turkey Trot t-shirt in the back of my closet,” Ethan finally confessed, but his embarrassment was soon forgotten as he watched Charlie’s face light up with excitement.

“I fucking knew it,” Charlie kissed him in victory, her arms looped around his neck. The kiss was long and lazy, and when they pulled away, Ethan could see the sleep in Charlie’s eyes. Safely tucking her in his arms, he kissed the top of her head.

He was just about to fall asleep when a small whisper lured him away from slumber.

“Please don’t leave me…” there was fear in Charlie’s voice as if she was waiting for him to run away at any moment, and the sound broke Ethan’s heart.

“I won’t,” he whispered, “I promise.”

This was so long, and I’m so sorry. I really wanted to tackle that Charlie is scared of Ethan’s instinct to run away, and that isn’t going away any time soon. I hope you’ll tune in for part four! If you would like to be tagged (or stop being tagged), just let me know!

Tag list: @honeyandsunfl0wers @wangdeasang @hopelessromantic1352 @jens-diamondchoices @sheismental @ughhhxjazzy @desmaranj @claudevonstruke @octobereighth @timmagicktoad @flyawayboo @elixabexh @togetherwearerapture @perriewinklenerdie @nobounderiesplease @simsvetements @too-spooky-bunny @caroldxnvxrs @itsfabrayic @drethanramsey @drrameyfanpage @paisleylovergirl @msjpuddleduck @padfoot0415 @barricades-of-freedom

#Dr ramsey #dr. ramsey #dr. ramsey x mc #ethan ramsey x mc #ethan ramsey #ethan x mc #open heart #open heart choices #choices #choices fanfiction #dr ramsey x mc #open heart fanfiction #angst

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fangirlshrewt97 · 4 years ago

Text

The Witcher Fic - Give Me One More Chance (Part 4)

Author: Fangirlshrewt97

Fandom: The Witcher (TV Series)

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier|Dandelion, Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer of Vengerburg, Geralt of Rivia & Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Jaskier|Dandelion & Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon

Characters: Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier|Dandelion, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Yennefer of Vengerburg, Roach

Rating: Teen Audiences and Up (Swearing, Mild Gore)

Warnings: None Apply

Additional Tags: Post Episode S01E06: Rare Species, Emotionally Constipated Geralt of Rivia, Pining, Touch-Starved Geralt of Rivia, Whump, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt & Comfort, First Kiss, Getting Together, Canon-Typical Levels of Violence, Monsters, I really put Geralt through the wringer here, but I am ok with that because poor Jaskier did not deserve it, I do acknowledge though that Geralt is multiple levels of screwed up and maybe thought he was helping them both when he was actually hurting them

Summary: After the dragon hunt, Geralt tries to cope with his actions. And misses Jaskier a lot. But refuses to deal with his feeling even when it almost kills him.

Alternate title: 5 things Geralt misses about Jaskier + 1 he didn’t need to

Link to A03: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24389734

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

*****

To Jaskier’s credit, the bard did not let their incredibly unexpected interruption break his stride, especially when Yennefer came to his side. No, the bard’s eyes turned stony and he turned his gaze away from him. Geralt bore every second of pain. But then,

“Dandelion!”

Ciri raced forward, dodging and zigzaging through the crowd before throwing herself at the bard, arms snapping tightly around his waist. Jaskier staggered, but stayed standing. He placed his lute on an empty space in the table in front of him before returning the hug.

“My darling.” Jaskier says, voice and eyes so full of fondness Geralt wanted to break a table.

“Bard, another song!” A villager demanded. Jaskier’s eyes dim just a bit, even if his fake smile didn’t.

“I’m so sorry my good fellow, but I’m afraid I have sung myself near hoarse this evening. I thank you all for your most generous coin, and ask you to bear with me. I will be here tomorrow as well and promise to take all requests!” Jaskier says, accompanying his declaration with an overly exaggerated bow. Ciri covered her mouth and giggled, laughing when Jaskier tilts his head and winks at her.

The villagers grumbled but accepted Jaskier’s offer. Many started to take their leave since the show was over. Jaskier spotted an empty booth in the corner, and picked up his lute before herding Ciri towards the booth. He passed by the barkeep and orders two cups of ale. He was not doing this sober.

Geralt stayed frozen until Yennefer gently bumped him. She leaned into his ear and whispered “I’m going to find me and Ciri a room at the inn. You go talk to your bard. And fix things.” She said before disappearing behind him.

Steeling himself, Geralt made his way over to the stall. Ciri was sitting besides Jaskier and talking a mile a minute. And she was calling him Dandelion. What?

Geralt squeezed himself into the opposing bench. Jaskier barely spared him a glance before taking a swing of his cup of ale. He did not pass the other cup to him.

Before he can think of what to say, Ciri finished her story to Jaskier before plastering herself to him and turned to Geralt, eyes twinkling brighter than Geralt had ever seen them. He felt his heart wrench in his chest. It was a hard battle to convince himself that his heart ached due to those twinkles and not the fond smile Jaskier was giving her.

“Geralt! This is Dandelion!” Ciri said as if that explained anything. Jaskier chuckled lowly, and dammit if Geralt did not get goosebumps over the sound.

“Oh darling one, I already know this Witcher.”

Ciri turned back to him confused. “You do?”

“Mmhmm. He knows me too, except he knows me by another name.”

“What?”

“Jaskier.” Geralt interrupts. Jaskier met him head on. His smile was flat, and his face was blank. His heartbeat gave nothing away. Geralt hated it all.

Ciri’s face twisted into a frown before her eyes widened and she whispered to Geralt “Songbird? Your songbird was Dandelion?" before turning to Jaskier and asking him "You are Jaskier?”

It was difficult to say at whom she was more betrayed by.

An emotion flashes so briefly through Jaskier’s face that if Geralt had not been focusing on it so much, he would have missed it altogether. “Songbird huh? Has the White Wolf been talking about me little one?”

Ciri hesitated, glancing at Geralt, before slowly shaking her head.

The hurt was easier to spot, the scent of it enough to nearly have Geralt throwing himself at Jaskier’s feet. The narrowness of the booth and Ciri being the only things stopping him.

“Fiona.” Geralt addressed the girl, Jaskier was still not willing to talk to him. “How do you know Jaskier?”

“I…I didn’t know him as Jaskier. He is…was? I knew him as Dandelion. And he has been coming to Cintra every year on my birthday to sing at the celebration feast. Grandmother wasn’t too fond of him, but grandfather always convinced her to allow Dandelion to be the bard of honour in the end.” she explained succinctly.

Geralt didn’t know what to do with that information. Jaskier had been keeping track of his Child Surprise? And not told him even when they were travelling together? Why did he go as Dandelion?

Jaskier stepped into the conversation. “My dearest. It is getting late, and this one does not go easy on his fellow travelers, so I am sure you must be exhausted. Do you have a room? Or-”

“Yennefer got them a room at the town inn.” Geralt stated.

Jaskier flinched at the sorceress’s name. Geralt wanted to apologize.

“But-” Ciri started to protest only to quell at both their stares. She shrunk back into her seat. Jaskier softened first. He gently reached out to pet Ciri’s hair, tucking a loose strand behind her hair. “I will be here tomorrow to dearest. Go rest.”

“Promise?” Ciri asked, voice barely audible.

Jaskier smiled fondly at her and nods. He moved his hand to the back of her neck and brought her close to press a lingering kiss to her forehead.

He then leaned his own forehead against hers. “I promise.”

Ciri made a whining noise and threw her arms around his neck for a hug before moving back, standing and smoothening out the creases in her blue cloak. The coat had long since lost the shine after weeks of travelling through forests and backwater hamlets.

“You will stay here until I come back from the inn?” Geralt asked as he rose to accompany Ciri.

He knew Jaskier would not lie to Ciri if he were to truly disappear in the night, but that was no guarantee the bard would be willing to talk to him alone.

Jaskier gave him an appraising look before giving one curt nod.

“Thank you.” Geralt said, trying to infuse as much gratitude as he could into the words. Because Jaskier saying he would be here meant Jaskier was giving him a chance to explain him. A chance to fix the mess he made.

Not wanting to keep the bard waiting too long, Geralt quickly herded Ciri to the inn with Yennefer, telling the pair not to stay awake for him. Ciri agreed easily for once, and went to get ready for bed. Yennefer caught his arm as he turned to return to the tavern. “Geralt.”

“I need to go Yen.”

“Of course you do. What I am saying is that you should be careful. Do not break that man’s heart twice.”

Geralt glances sharply at her, but Yennefer meets his gaze head on. Her violet eyes were blank, just like that day on the mountain.

Gritting his teeth he pulled away from her and went back to the tavern. Jaskier was still at the booth like he said he would be, and despite knowing the bard wouldn’t go back on his word, seeing the familiar silhouette quelled a small part of Geralt’s brain. As he walked towards the booth and sat down, his heart pounded.

The two men just stared at each other for a long time without saying anything. Geralt focused on Jaskier’s doublet, a signature vivid colour that made him stand out in a crowd without hurting the onlooker’s eyes. Geralt felt his lips quirk in a smile as his eyes feasted on the rich dye.

The world had become so dull and colourless in this last year, and only now sitting in front of the bard himself did Geralt realize how much of his world’s colours had been given to him by Jaskier. He could not even blame him for stealing away the colors of Geralt's world. The Witcher had been the one who pushed him away. His colorful songbird, and oh how that hurt. His bard of a thousand hues, impractical outfits of every color of the rainbow, who peacocked his way into the best courts of the land, and wrong beds too. With plumage that adorned him perfectly, from the golden doublet that made his skin glow to the blue one that made his eyes stand unnaturally apart. To that damned royal red doublet that haunted Geralt’s nightmares, causing him to whip his head in its direction if he ever caught that shade from the corner of his eye in every town they passed.

“It is good to see you Jaskier.” Geralt finally said.

The bard’s face flashed through a myriad of emotions before resetting to blank, but his eyes burned with anger hot enough Geralt felt as though he should be ash.

“That’s all you have to say?” Jaskier spit out. “’It’s good to see you Jaskier?”

Geralt grit his own teeth, trying not to let the bard provoke him into a fight.

“I am sorry. What I said that day in the mountains. I didn’t mean it.”

Jaskier laughed an ugly laugh that Geralt immediately hated. That was not how Jaskier sounded. That should never be how he sounded. Hollow and resentful.

“Oh you idiotic Witcher. You did mean every word though. That is the problem. You meant exactly what you said. You believed then that I was the reason for all the misfortune that you went through, that it was because of me that you had a hard life.” Jaskier finished his cup of ale and then took the other cup and gulped it down too. He looked half-feral by the end of it. “I always only ever wanted to help you Geralt. I wanted to ensure that your life was not as difficult. Every song, every bar fight with bigoted villagers, every doublespeak with nobility to pay you the actual cost of the kill and not shortchange you. Everything I did was for you. And you repaid me grandly. Truly.”

Geralt flinched. He curled his hands into fists. Jaskier was right. The human had only ever done what he thought was best for the Witcher. Never once worked against him, or used him solely for his benefit.

“I shouldn’t have said what I did that day in the mountains. You were not the cause of my problems. I have Ciri in my life because of you. Even if you don’t particularly like her, I have Yennefer because of you.”

Jaskier did not look less angry.

“Jaskier.” Geralt sighed. He was not one for words, that had always been Jaskier. But if he wanted to keep the bard in his life, he knew he would have to talk his way into regaining his companion. He decided to be honest. “I miss you.”

“I don’t.” Jaskier said. This time, Geralt couldn’t stop the filch. “I don’t miss your patronizing tone, I don’t miss you leaving me behind while on the road in the mornings and having to catch up with you, I don’t miss your taciturn silence as though you talking to me is beneath you, and I definitely don’t miss your glares and ‘fuck off’ attitude you have had with me for so very long. I never asked for more than you could give Geralt. You think the mountain is the first time you hurt me?” At Geralt’s horrified face, Jaskier laughed cruelly again. “You have hurt me with your actions for far longer than with your words Witcher. And whatever I might actually miss about travelling with you, the reasons not to currently far outweigh whatever reasons you will undoubtedly propose to me to convince me to travel with you.”

Seeing Geralt with no retort, Jaskier nodded sharply. “Yes, that’s what I guessed. It is late. I promised my young friend I would see her in the morning.”

Jaskier moved to leave, but Geralt shot out his hand to grip his wrist. Jaskier looked back at him before shaking himself loose. “Good night Geralt.”

It sounded too much like goodbye.

///

That night, once he put away the swords and made one last round around the inn to make sure everything was quiet, he lay on his bed with the handkerchief from so long ago. After so long between his armor and the fight at Kaer Morhen, the cloth was a dull white, yet to Geralt, all he saw was the snow white tint from when he first received it. And even as he brought it to his nose to scent it, knowing full well the scent was gone, he yearned for the spark of comfort it always gave.

He wondered if he could steal something from Jaskier before the bard left his life forever. And oh how much did that thought hurt him. The rainbow kaleidoscope the bard brought into his life, Geralt had not even noticed until faced with the bard. The hamlet seemed far more colorful now compared to when they walked into it, despite nothing having changed. Growling and prowling to his window, Geralt opened it and allowed the cold breeze to fill the room, biting into his face. Feeling real.

He had never thought to pay attention to the colours of the world, to see the beauty. He was a Witcher. His job revolved around the chaos and darkness of the world, around eliminating it. He had always been told he belonged in the same dangerous darkness he sought to make safe, too terrifying for humans to look at.

But Jaskier had never cared had he? He had seen him after a hunt, white as a ghost, black veins running across his body, eyes pitch black and other. And he had embraced him, metaphorically and literally.

He stood at the window until the silver moon was more than half done with its journey across the sky before he closed the window and tried to get some sleep.

He dreams of vivid songbirds dancing and singing from treetops bathed in sunlight.

///

Geralt spent the day studiously avoiding the tavern above which he could scent Jaskier laying around. The closest he allowed himself to get was strolling casually beneath its windows and hearing the strumming of a familiar lute drifting across the hardwood walls.

Yennefer must have said something to Ciri, because the little girl thankfully did not bring up Jaskier at all. Yennefer rolled her eyes when Geralt sent her a grateful nod.

The sun had barely set when Ciri finally could not contain her excitement at seeing Jaskier and tore across the hamlet into the tavern. Much like last night, Jaskier was at the center of the still empty tavern, though it was starting to fill up. Today, he was in a shiny blue-silver doublet and trousers, a dark grey chemise peeking out from under the open doublet.

Jaskier glanced up when their group entered the tavern, and learning from last night, braced himself against the table so he didn’t fall to the floor when Ciri crashed into him.

“Darling, oh how you are a sight for truly sore eyes.” Jaskier whispered into Ciri’s hair, still loud enough for Geralt to hear with his enhanced senses. Geralt knew he should probably at least give them the illusion of privacy, but the sight of Jaskier with his Child Surprise, with his daughter was giving him heart palpitations. Jaskier’s smile was so full of warmth and love, Geralt equally envied Ciri for being the recipient and yearned to have such a look directed at him. Especially once Jaskier caught his eyes and gave him a cold and impassive stare.

“Jask-” Geralt started only for the bard to interrupt him.

“I have a performance to start. I asked the barkeep to keep the table we sat at yesterday vacant for you three.” Jaskier stated. "Yennefer."

“It is good to see you Jaskier.” Yennefer said, for once not adding on any snide remarks. Geralt saw the clench of Jaskier’s jaw as he nodded.

By that time, the tavern had become as crowded as yesterday, and no sooner had they taken their seats that different voices started to shout out names of ballads. Jaskier laughed agreeably and quietened them with a performer’s charm.

“My dear friends, fear not, I will be here tonight for as long as you demand, I shall get to all your requests. But I had a request from a darling friend of mine, and I haven’t seen her in so very long, so if you don’t mind, I will fulfill her request first?” Jaskier said.

The crowd grumbled but grew silent when Jaskier began to strum. He launched into “The Bear and the Maidan Fair”, sending raucous cheers through the crowd as they began to keep beat with claps and boot stomping. Ciri was fully invested too, the song had always been so funny and the chorus was so catchy. Yennefer watched her fondly, smiling at the reminder than between the enormous untapped magical power and the price on her head that had her fleeing from hamlet to village to town, she was still a scared little girl who deserved every bit of fun they could give her.

It went on like that for the rest of night, hours of the bard singing song after song, never showing his exhaustion. Geralt basked in his voice, fearing this might be the last time he got to hear it, and wasn’t that the irony? He had for so long wished for Jaskier to be quiet, and here he was hoping Jaskier never stopped singing.

Jaskier danced around the tavern, pulling people out into the crowd, young girls and old men alike, inviting them to dance the jig with him until the whole tavern was filled with joy and laughter. Ciri even pulled Yennefer onto the dance floor, swinging their arms around and just letting go of their stresses for a week.

When the crowd finally dispersed, Ciri was swaying on her feet, looking ready to fall asleep standing.

After he was finished collecting all his Jaskier wordlessly walked with them to the inn.

He even helped tuck Ciri into bed. As he went to leave, Ciri grabbed his sleeve. “Dandelion, will you please come with us?”

Jaskier felt a lump in his throat. He still had so much anger and hurt from the way he had been treated by Geralt and even if unintentionally, Yennefer. Yet the one asking was this sweet little girl he had returned to see every year, the one being forced to grow up far too soon. The one he had thought dead until she blew into the inn like a miracle. The one who he saw butchered or slain when he closed his eyes.

Fuck Geralt and Yennefer. If they didn’t like him, that was their problem.

He was not going to leave her when she was asking so sincerely. Bending down to brush a soft kiss to her forehead Jaskier caressed her cheek and replied quietly “Alright princess.”

Ciri smiled at him and closed her eyes drifting off to sleep immediately. Taking a deep breath and drinking in the peaceful sight in front of him, Jaskier stood up and faced the other two in the room.

“I don’t care if neither of you want me coming with you, I am coming because Ciri asked, and honestly I have known the girl longer and am willing to bet my very lute she trusts me far more than you two. So I am going to come with you to wherever you are taking her. Any objections?” Jaskier ended, knowing full well neither would speak up.

Yennefer looked resigned to her fate, and Geralt looked shocked, but, and Jaskier hated his heart for daring to feel a spark of anything, hopeful.

“Good. We should leave tomorrow. Resupply what you need, we can leave after lunch.”

As Jaskier swept out of the room to return to his own, Geralt would swear the fire was sparking a little brighter red than before.

#the witcher #the witcher fic #my fic #jaskier #geralt of rivia #geraskier #geraskier fic #yennefer of vengerberg #cirilla fiona elen riannon #give me one more chance #part 4 #I'm done with this fic #i'll be updating daily #let me know what you think!

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welllpthisishappening · 5 years ago

Note

Do you think that Emma and Henry made Killian watch just like all of the different Peter Pan movies just to make fun of Hook

Hello, anon! I’m sorry this has been sitting in my inbox for several millennia, but work has been nuts and this answer required some words. So here we have the following: some serious Captain Cobra, a slightly snarky adult Henry, GRANDFATHER KILLIAN, my refusal to acknowledge the timeline of season seven and fluff. Just like. Fluff. It’s only 2K! That’s like a drabble!

“Killian!”

He snaps his head up, glancing at his, now, wide-open front door and Henry is out of breath. It takes Killian, approximately, half a second for several different and increasingly horrible ideas to populate every single corner of his mind. They range from rather drastic magic to slightly violent and possibly drunk dwarves, to another realm they’d never heard of before and Henry’s knuckles have gone white where they’re wrapped around the side of the door frame.

“Henry, what—“

Killian doesn’t get the rest of the sentence out. It is, he assumes, because there’s a kid slamming into his leg and tugging on the front of his shirt and Lucy does not sound as if there is a catastrophe looming over them.

If anything, she sounds somewhere between thrilled and overexcited, a strange mix that’s also a bit like a memory because the grown man still trying to catch his breath a few feet away was always like that when he found out something new.

“Papa, papa, papa,” Lucy chants, coming dangerously close to jumping on his right foot. He’s not wearing socks.

“What? What? What?”

“We’ve found a new one.”

Killian’s brows furrow, confusion rattling down his spine until it evolves into something much closer to understanding and he really did believe this tradition was over when Henry left home. That, however, does not appear to be the case and now he’s brought in fresh recruits.

With emotion-based titles.

And it’s only a little strange — mostly because Hope hasn’t entirely gotten around to the actual challenge of talking quite yet, has seemed fairly content to gurgle and mumble and point out her wants and needs with slightly chubby fits — but the timelines don’t really matter and Lucy had decided on it and he’s nothing if entirely incapable of saying no to her.

As Emma is very quick to point out.

She usually smiles when she says it though, so. Killian assumes it’s a wash.

Lucy’s foot lands on his.

“It’s really good,” she adds, hardly able to get one word out before she’s moving on to the next one. “The best one. Dad said!”

“Did he just?”

Henry makes a noise, a wave of his hand that might be an agreement or just giving in to the exhaustion that’s obvious in every inch of him.

“If you stand up, it’s going to be easier to breathe again,” Killian mutters, a hand falling on Lucy’s shoulders and Henry’s eyes narrow.

“I’m fine.”

“Oh aye, aye, sure you are. Would you like to tell that to your lungs?”

Henry scowls. “Please, you don’t know anything about lungs.”

“Are we under attack or no?”

“Absolutely not.”

Killian hums, fingers curling around Lucy’s wrist now because she’s genuinely threatening to rip the bottom of his shirt. “You know,” he says, dropping down so he’s eye level with her and he isn’t all that surprised to find that her eyes have gone wide, “you are incredibly similar to your father.”

Lucy’s eyes threaten to fall out of her head. That’s got a bad connotation, but Killian’s mind is, admittedly, still preoccupied with threats and curses and Emma’s at the office, Hope asleep, hopefully, upstairs.

If Henry woke up Hope, Killian may be the one doing the cursing. Emma will absolutely help.

They’ve reached some kind of teething stage that’s strangely similar to torture and he’s having a hard time staying upright at this point.

“Yeah?” Lucy breathes, any bit of negative thought disappearing from Killian’s mind as soon as the question is out of her mouth. His eyes flit towards Henry, an arm wrapped around his middle and breathing starting to return to normal.

Killian nods, tapping the bridge of her nose with her finger. She scrunches it. And that is impossibly, completely, all, Emma. Maybe he doesn’t have to sleep right now. “Oh, aye,” he nods, “far too many limbs for you to control, little Miss Mills.”

She giggles, smile moving across her face so quickly Killian’s starting to wonder if that’s, simply, her general state of being. It’s a much nicer thought than the other ones. And even better when she flings her arms around her shoulders, making it a little difficult to stay balanced, but that may be the few hours of sleep he’s been averaging and Henry, finally, closes the door behind him.

“I feel like I should resent that,” he murmurs. There’s something in his hand. It is decidedly rectangle-shaped.

Killian arches an eyebrow. “I never said it was a bad thing. I am simply pointing out that the lass appears to have inherited several of your mannerisms. That’s all.”

“Yuh huh.”

“You almost sound like you don’t believe me.”

“I can’t imagine why that is,” Henry laughs, shaking his head like that will help the overall state of his lungs and Killian can hardly open his mouth before the kid who isn’t really a kid anymore swings his legs over the back of the couch, falling onto the cushions with a rather loud thump.

“If you wake up your sister, I’m going to tell your mother on you.”

Henry props himself up on his elbows, an incredulous look coloring his features. “Which one?”

“Either or.”

“That’s cheating.”

“That’s part and parcel of being a pirate.”

“Ah, you’ve circled us back around here, actually.”

Killian hums, a quick nod that’s partially agreement and partially an attempt to get Lucy to loosen her hold on his neck. “Aye, I figured.”

“Look at you, all perceptive. Kind of, I mean. Did you really think we were under some kind of attack?”

“I’m going to blame the lack of sleep. And whoever taught you that you can just open doors.”

“Probably you, honestly.”

He can feel the color rise in his cheeks, that same emotion that had rattled around his spine quickly evolving into something far more emotional and one side of Henry’s mouth tugs up. “Ah, that may be true,” Killian concedes. “How long has it been since this has happened?”

“I honestly don’t know. Like—years? The curses make it difficult to keep track of all of it. But, uh, well—“ Henry may be blushing now too, another bit of Emma in a moment that she will be loathe to have missed. “We were in the library and Luce found it.”

He brandishes the rectangle, which is, in fact, a DVD, the smile going full-blown as Lucy starts talking a mile a minute again.

“It’s another version of you, Papa,” she cries, back to the tugging and the fabric yanking and there’s a tear in the bottom of his shirt that was not there a few minutes before. “There’s no talking in this one, though!”

Killian blinks. “That’s not how those work though.”

“Oh modern man of the world, huh?” Henry chuckles, but the sound disappears as soon as Killian widens his eyes. “Ok, c’mon, don’t ground me or anything.”

He grits his teeth when the silence stretches, but Killian had also gotten very good at that face when Henry was a lad, a look practiced on crew and pirates and several hundred slightly terrified individuals, all fearful of what Captain Hook could and would do to them. It evolved over the years, not quite as hard as it had been in the Enchanted Forest with threats of villainy lapping at the corners of his consciousness, but it still brokered no argument, and Henry, even a questionable number of years after his first insistence that we have to watch Peter Pan, honestly, for like science or something, is still susceptible to it.

“Pirate,” Henry mumbles again, and that time it’s Killian’s turn to laugh.

“There’s no talking in this one?”

“Nah. I didn’t even know there were more versions of Peter Pan for us to watch. Seriously. But like I said, Luce found this one and I looked it up and it’s like—from 1924 and JM Barrie was seriously involved in it and—“

“—That doesn’t make me feel much better,” Killian cuts in, “the ponce clearly didn’t know what he was talking about.”

“So you’ve got no interest in it, whatsoever?”

Killian sighs — Lucy already muttering pleas to watch the move and please, Papa, please wraps its way around him and hangs in the air, as if it’s taunting him and maybe that was the threat after all. But he’d always given in anyway, even when Henry was young, mostly because it made him laugh and it made Emma smile, curled into his side on the couch that’s since been replaced several times.

He’s glad there’s another version.

He’s sure there are sword fighting inconsistencies he can point out.

“Put it on,” Killian says, and Henry grins, already halfway to the TV.

And he doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until his eyes snap open, a set of impossibly familiar legs standing in front of him. He doesn’t have to look up to know Emma’s smiling, the steady rise and fall of Lucy’s body against Killian’s side.

She’s got her head propped on his thigh, her legs stretched out across the entire couch, with her feet on Henry’s lap. Henry is asleep too. The TV has turned off on its own.

“Did I walk into a time warp?” Emma asks lightly, Hope in her arms and already toying with the chain around her neck.

Killian blinks away the last few vestiges of sleep, tongue darting between his lips. He’s fairly certain he doesn’t imagine the way Emma’s eyes fall towards that, which, well, they’ll have to discuss that later, maybe after she’s slept as well, but for now he’s trying to gain his bearings and he doesn’t remember seeing much of the movie.

All he knows is that Captain Hook did, in fact, have very poor form when holding a sword.

Henry is snoring.

“How long have you been home?” Killian murmurs, careful not to move too much and wake up Lucy.

“Not long. I walked in, found this little party happening and a still sleeping baby upstairs and then Hope and I finished your movie.”

“Did you?” Emma nods, dropping onto the arm of the couch so her fingers can find the hair at the back of Killian’s head. “You’re going to make me fall asleep again, love.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Not if you keep doing that.”

“Charmer.”

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, twisting his head to kiss the inside of her wrist and it’s…nice. It’s more than that, but he’s still half asleep and a giant pushover for any member of his family and that’s a fairly fantastic word.

For Captain Hook.

And any version that appears on his TV screen.

“You comfortable, babe?”

“The lass does have a tendency to dig her chin into my thigh, but other than that—“ He title his head up, Emma still smiling and Killian would not be surprised if the green in her gaze is, in fact, getting stronger. Like it’s powered on love or something. Clap if you believe in Emma Swan’s magic.

That’s the wrong version of Peter Pan.

“Good,” Emma whispers. “Although I am a little annoyed I didn’t get invited to the watch party.”

“A grave mistake, Swan.”

“Honestly. So, uh, pizza or Chinese while I make you watch the cartoon later as payback?”

“Chinese,” Henry mumbles, cracking open one eye when Emma’s gasp seems to fly out of her. His lips quirk up. That may be a Killian thing. The thought makes his heart leap into his throat. “You guys talk really loud and I learned not to interrupt the flirting when I was a kid, so…”

Emma groans, but Killian’s kind of impressed and—“Chinese does sound good, love.”

She narrows her eyes. And kisses the top of his head, moving Hope into his arms, an exchange he takes gratefully. Even when Lucy’s chin presses into his leg. Hard.

“How many egg rolls do you want?”

She orders far too many, and they don’t all fit on the couch perfectly, but there’s a comfort to it that almost makes the state of Captain Hook’s mustache in the cartoon bearable and Killian points out the inaccuracies in Neverland’s geography, a rapt audience with wide eyes and Emma curled against his side.

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan fic #cs fic #laura writes canon #slightly snarky adult henry who genuinely enjoys hanging out with killian is my jam #anonymous #laura rambles

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flowercoasts · 5 years ago

Text

since seventeen, the kids i’ll never be - a beau gen fic

The Mighty Nein pass through Kamordah and Beau wants to close old wounds.

Read on AO3, or

NOTES: implied/referenced child abuse, justice and catharsis for beau

words: 5634

~~~

“We’ll pass through Kamordah then.”

Beau freezes, the ball bearing she was playing with instead of paying attention nearly slipping through her fingers as she tenses, her mind racing a mile a minute.

Jester, standing next to her, lays a hand on her arm. “Are you okay?”

Everyone turns to look at her. Why does everyone love being nosy? Beau wishes the ground would open up or a dragon would come flying by. She swallows. Her throat is much too dry. “Yeah.” That was raspy as fuck. Beau clears her throat, plasters on her usual half-smirk. “Yeah, just was surprised, is all. This fucker -“ Beau gestures to the ball bearing in her palm. “Nearly dislocated my… knuckle.” It’s a lie. A shitty lie at that. From the looks on everyone’s faces, no one believes her either.

“Will you be okay,” Fjord starts calmly, a look of concern painted into the downturn of his lips, “with us going into your hometown?”

Jester and Nott suck in a breath at the same time and let out little “Oh”s that make Beau feel like hitting something. Not them. Well, maybe Nott, but not Jester. She just really hates being fucking pitied and looked at the way they’re looking at her now, though.

She grits her teeth. “Look. It’s not a big fucking deal. I couldn’t give two shits.” Short and sharp. Caduceus frowns at her tone and Fjord holds his hands up placatingly. Beau sighs, runs a hand through her hair, trying her damndest to ignore Jester’s puppy eyes and Nott’s more-than-slightly disapproving glare. “... Sorry.”

Caleb approaches slowly and smiles at her with so much apprehension that just seeing his awkwardness hurts her. “Beauregard, we do not have to go.”

“There are many paths that lead to the same destination, Ms. Beau.” Cadences sips calmly from his tea, his voice a distant afterthought. “This one happens to be the fastest, but sometimes the fastest things are not the best.”

“Ye-ahhh… what Caduceus said,” Fjord mutters with a side-eye and a raised eyebrow.

Jester touches Beau’s elbow fleetingly, drawing her attention away from concerned gazes to wide purple eyes. “We won’t judge you. Not for anything. You know that - right, Beau?” Beau dryly swallows, her eyelids fluttering briefly at the memory of rougher grips on her arms, the disapproving frowns, the ugly sneers of a disappointed father.

She clears her throat. “Uh, yeah. Yeah.”

“Are your parents.. awful people?” Nott questions. Her ears are more alert than Beau’s seen in a while.

It’s slightly weird that it’s Nott who knows the most about Beau and not Caleb or Jester or Fjord, but Beau’s not one to knock another for being nosey and inquisitive. From being a nosey person herself, Beau thinks it’s respectable, if nothing else.

She bites her lip and thinks back to an unhappy childhood - remembering everything from the number of places she left her name etched into old wood to the unrelenting yells of her father. He was never happy with her, no matter how hard she tried. So she stopped trying. Their relationship got worse from there, while all Beau’s mother did was watch uncaringly. She was a bad child. Beau knew that. So yeah, she might’ve given them a hard time and yeah they might’ve caused her emotional trauma to last a lifetime but seriously, it could’ve been worse. Right?

“No,” Beau says finally. Her voice wavers. “I was just a… difficult child.”

Something lightens in Nott’s eyes, like a weight lifted off of her shoulders just by that one sentence. Beau doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or sick. There’s no clear reason to feel sick, though, and it seems stupid to feel that way, so Beau forces herself to feel relieved instead. God, it’s like she’s fucking five. Kamordah sucks. This whole mission sucks.

“Why do we have to go through Kamordah?” Beau finally saunters up to the table in the middle of the war room, finding herself a spot in between Fjord and Caleb while Caduceus pours more tea for everyone on a spot on the table not taken up by the map of the Empire. She glances to the weather-worn yellow paper and finds the image of Kamordah circled in a horribly bright pink ink. It makes her shiver in disgust.

Before she can comment her dislike of the implementation of pink ink on the map, Caleb answers her question. “Well, we need to find Lonardo. He lives just near Kamordah.” He guides her gaze to a point on the map with his finger. “Here. Brightburn Hollow.”

“Oh, Bright Slag? I know that place.”

“You do?” Fjord leans forward in interest.

“Oh yeah.” Beau grins cockily. “I had so many good times there. Used to be a frequent criminal hangout but after the city tightened its leash on patrols it was mostly used for secretive meetings and the occasional fight.”

“And I’m guessing you were a part of them?”

“Of fucking course.”

“Ye-up.”

“So, Beauregard, to answer your question,” Caleb cuts in as Beau’s smirk in Fjord’s direction turns a little too mischievous for his liking, “This Lonardo lives only a 30 minute walk from your former hometown. If it is alright with you, we will be making a short pit stop in Kamordah.”

Beau remembers clenched teeth and stinging slaps and thrown away art projects. She remembers the cutting of hair, the never quite fitting in, the darkness of her room. Beau remembers it all and feels a dull ache in the center of her stomach. By Ioun, she just wants to lay down.

“What the fuck are we waiting around here for then, let’s get a move on!”

~~~

“Ugh,” Beau groans, flipping over onto her stomach and for the fifth time in the past hour: “Are we there yet?”

“Asking every ten seconds doesn’t change my answer,” Fjord calls back from the front the same time that Caleb answers, “30 minutes.”

Beau lets out a long-suffering groan and bangs her head down extra hard on the bumpy wooden floor of their magic cart. Jester nudges the monk’s limp arm with the point of her tail.

“Ow,” Beau mumbles against the wood, not seriously.

Jester nudges her again, this time harder. “Beauuu,” She sing-songs. Beau groans. Another jab, this time at Beau’s side.

“Ugh. Yes, Jester?”

“Why don’t we do something to pass the time?”

“... I don’t trust that wiggle in your eyebrows.”

“Aw, come on! It’ll be suuuper fun!”

“The last time you said that, the guards almost sent us to jail.”

“But there aren’t any guard around right now! And besides, I don’t want to do anything illegal, just something like reading a book like Tusk Love… or something.” The last ‘or something’ comes rushing out of Jesters mouth at the look of disgust that passes Beau’s face.

“Fine.” Beau turns over so she’s laying on her side facing Jester. “What do you wanna do?”

“What about dodge-the-arrow?” Nott pipes up, holding her crossbow aimed at Beau and grinning a little too manically for her liking.

“Uh, pass.” The crossbow lowers, much to Beau’s relief.

Caduceus peers down at Beau from his somehow-still-steaming tea and smiles pleasantly. She tries to mimic it, but her face feels too tight to be correct, so she drops the smile altogether. “When I was younger, my siblings and I would play this game whenever we had time to spare.”

At that mention, Jester shifts closer to Caduceus. “Ooooh! What game? I bet it was something really fun.” Beau questions that assumption but doesn’t say anything about it.

“Well,” Cad starts, eyes alight with reminiscence, “We would count the trees.”

There’s a beat of silence, and Beau half expects Caduceus to keep on talking. He doesn’t. A confused and crestfallen look slowly takes over Jester’s features, but she plasters on a supportive toothy grin to cover up most of the confusion. “That sounds fun, but maybe we could play something else? Just for now?”

That sets Nott and Jester off on a tangent about the best travel games, which then evolves into a conversation about the best shanties and songs and after that Beau stops paying attention. Cad gets lost too, somewhere between the dick jokes and the 88th bottle on the wall.

Instead, Beau looks out at the scenery to pass the time. The trees seem familiar. They’re not quite green during this time of the year, but their bark is still the same. Purple-brown. If they went deeper into the wood, Beau could probably find the tree that she fell out of after carving her name in one of the larger branches.

“15 minutes now,” Fjord calls back.

15 minutes. Just a handful of minutes until Beau is back in the town she spent her whole life resenting - still resents. Maybe even ten minutes after that and they’ll see Beau’s parents. Well. They don’t have to right? They’re just going to the inn, buying rooms, stocking up, and then booking it to their target.

Beau sighs, runs a hand through her hair, and stares out even harder into the passing trees. The cart bobs up and down with the bumps in the road; Beau remembers one time that giants tried invading Kamordah and tore the road up in the process. It took the city years to rebuild, and it seems that they did a poor job at it. One particularly large bump nearly sends Beau up in the air if not for Jester’s tail winding itself around her arm like a safety rope.

“Thanks,” Beau blinks at Jester.

“No problem!” Jester sticks her tongue out at Beau.

She can do this. She has her friends with her.

Her parents can’t do anything against the might of The Mighty Nein.

~~~

Tall stone towers loom above their heads as they pass through the gates of Kamordah. Beau stares at the two lion statues hanging halfway up the towers, their soulless gaze sending chills up her spine.

The guards gaze at carefully Fjord’s arm around Caleb’s shoulders as Fjord and Caleb smoothly explain their previously agreed-upon cover story. When Jester first suggested the ‘honeymoon plan’ with Caleb and Fjord acting as the happy couple, Beau was a little skeptical, but seeing the two now… well, they seem more comfortable than Beau could’ve ever guessed. She cuts a side glance to Jester, wondering if that was her plan all along. If Jester’s ecstatic grin is anything to go by, it definitely was.

One of the smaller guards comes closer to the back of the cart. The four hidden under the cart’s invisibility spell collectively hold their breath, eyes widening in fear. As the guard starts to examine the back more closely, the head guard nods to Fjord and Caleb.

“Let them pass!”

While the others quietly sigh in relief, a heavy knot forms in the pit of Beau’s stomach. The twin lion statues mounted on the wall stare mercilessly at her as they drive past. It makes her just as scared as it did when she was seven and running away from home. Those lions always made her turn back. All five times.

“- do we go?” Fjord’s voice slowly comes into focus, like a beacon slicing through the fog.

“Huh?” Beau wrenches her attention from the uncaring statues watchful eyes to Fjord’s warm golden gaze. He’s looking at her with such a concerned look it makes her stomach churn even more violently.

“Fjord was just asking where we should go, Miss Beau.”

The half-orc in question nods at Caduceus’ explanation and turns around so he’s facing forward again. “Yeah, I just figure that you’re more familiar with -“ He makes a gesture with his hand to indicate the general area.

Beau grunts noncommittal in reply and ignores Jester’s not-so-subtle nudge to her shoulder.

Caleb considers her for a moment. “Should we ask someone, then?”

Scrubbing a hand over her face, Beau sighs. “Nah, I can lead you around. I just -“ She looks out into the street, recognizing some familiar faces walking along the side of the road. Quickly averting her gaze, she clears her throat. “Take a left up ahead and we should come across Greasy Ace Tavern.”

Fjord nods and starts the horses moving again, and the cart slowly ambles down the street with soft clacks that break the morning quiet that’s settled over the thoroughfare. The atmosphere of town creeps upon Beau like a too-heavy blanket. It’s warm, sure, and it’s comforting to know they’re some of the only people up, sure, but Beau’s never known Kamordah to be quiet. It leaves a lead weight in her stomach.

Nott voices her unease before Beau can even think to. “It’s very quiet for a trading and tourist town.”

“Our guy may have something to do with that,” Beau speculates. The others nod.

“Let’s go find out then,” Fjord stops the horses, and all of them step off the cart and into the dimly lit Greasy Ace.

Beau can’t seem to shake the growing unease she feels with each second spent in Kamordah.

~~~

“We don’t have to do this.” A blue hand wraps around Beau’s wrist - a solid presence grounding her against the raging tempest she feels caught up in. Beau’s fist pauses, one breath away from knocking on the heavy wooden oak door that haunts her dreams. The brass lion knocker stares at her unflinchingly.

Another hand, this time landing on her shoulder. Beau looks back and finds warm yellow eyes. Fjord nods at her, the hand on her shoulder squeezing comfortingly. Curling around her other shoulder, Frumpkin butts his head against the underside of her chin and Beau blinks at him, seeing her reflection in his eyes. Flanked by steady walls of support, Beau steels herself, breathes in deep, and raps her knuckles against the door.

It takes only a minute or so for someone to answer, but time could not move any slower for Beau. With each passing moment, the urge to run or hide becomes more and more predominant. Beau feels a restless energy thrumming under her skin, like lightning crackling through her blood. She wants to move. She wants to run. She’s wants to -

“Welcome to the Lionett estate. What business may you have here?”

Beau jumps at the sudden appearance of a well-dressed maid in the open doorway. Dressed in fine yellow and purple fabrics, the maid stares at the group with as much disdain as Beau would expect from a worker dressed in the Lionett’s colors.

“Yah, hallo.” Caleb steps forward, posture unusually perfect and smile a little too sharp. “We’re here to do business with Mr. Lionett.”

If she’s intimidated by Caleb’s towering figure leaning towards her, she doesn’t say anything. The petite woman only narrows her eyes before nodding, once, and opening the door wider for them as she steps back. “You can wait in the sitting room. I will fetch Mr. Lionett.”

They are led through the foyer and down into a room that takes up the left side of the front of the house. Looking around, Beau is surprised to find everything just as she’d left it. Perfect, untouchable, and so very cold. The room is bathed in yellow and purple, a garish reminder of the Lionett’s very coveted social status. A lone lion bust sits alone atop the fireplace, frozen in time with a malicious roar that makes Beau avert her gaze.

While they wait, the Mighty Nein make themselves comfortable. Fjord and Caleb sit primly on the center couch, their postures picture perfect and their faces more determined than Beau’s ever seen them. Jester and Nott peruse the walls, touching everything they can get their hands on. If Beau sees Nott swipe a gold decor piece from the shelf, well. What her family doesn’t know won’t hurt them. On the other hand, Caduceus busies himself with his staff as he sits in the uncomfortable leather armchair that Beau’s always hated.

Jester’s halfway around the room in her tour when she pauses upon reaching the bookshelf. “Hey, Beau?”

“Yeah?”

“Is… is this your brother?” All the air in the room vanishes, leaving Beau cold and tense as Jester holds up a framed picture of a little boy with dark skin, blue eyes, and a wide, innocent smile. Beau can only stare at the picture, unseeing. From their seated positions, Fjord and Caleb share worried glances, eyes darting back and forth between Beau and the picture of the happy boy.

Beau wonders very briefly if the Lionett’s treat him like their only living child - if this kid is given everything that Beau was never allowed to have. “Uh. Not sure. Never met the kid.” Her voice comes out scratchy and distorted. Beau can barely remember the last time she spoke in this house.

“Where are your pictures?” Nott scampers up next to Jester, clinging to the edge of the shelf in order to see the frames on top.

Without even looking at the shelf, Beau frowns. “They probably burned them by now.”

“They wouldn’t… Would they?” Nott’s voice is small and sad. Beau doesn’t want to look at her and see the pity there, so she doesn’t. She scuffs the bottom of her boot against the hardwood floor and laughs joylessly.

“Have you met my parents? They hate me as much as I hate them, if not more. Doubt they kept anything of mine after kidnapping -“

“Beauregard.”

One word sends Beau’s mouth snapping shut. She doesn’t have to look up to know her dad’s in the room - she can tell by the feeling of dread all crashing down at once, like the ceiling’s caving in. One word and her posture is perfect, her arms no longer crossed but straight down her sides. Beau feels like she’s seven again and being reprimanded for snooping around in her father’s office. She hates it. She hates it more than anything. Hates that he still has this power over her just by saying -

“Beauregard.” It’s so quiet. Why is it so damn quiet? God, Beau wishes she would stop being such a pushover and just say something. But. Looking up at him. First step. Yes.

Beau looks up.

Mr. Lionett was never the most striking man, but what he lacked in good looks he made up for in extremely obvious symbols of wealth that he had on his person. A plethora of golden rings glitter on his fingers. Beau instinctively raises a hand to touch her cheek. He always wore a pressed purple suit, which he accented with golden detail. Now is no exception to that expectation. It’s so fucking gaudy. Everyone in Kamordah already knows the Lionetts, there’s no reason to flaunt your status like Mr. Lionett did. It makes Beau want to look him in the eye out of spite.

She gets up to seeing his yellow tie. For some reason, her eyes don’t let her move an inch further, instead fixated on his ugly yellow patterned tie that Beau remembers trying to ruin so many times. That tie got her in trouble. She hates that tie.

“I didn’t realize you would be back so soon.” He doesn’t even try to hide his sarcasm and disdain, that prick. “I shall have the help fetch Mrs. Lionett.” The maid from earlier, standing at attention in the corner, simply turns and leaves the room.

The silence is choking. Beau can’t look anyone in the eye - not her father and especially not her friends. She feels too weak, too vulnerable to face any of them. They’ve killed demons and devils, and her father is the thing that has her scared? Beau can just hear the taunts now. Weak. Pathetic. Embarrassing.

Not good enough, Beauregard. Never good enough.

Soon enough, or maybe not soon enough, the maid returns with a taller woman in tow. Beau averts her gaze from the yellow tie long enough to spot Mrs. Lionett in all her ugly-dress glory, frozen in the doorway of the sitting room, expression the picture of comical surprise. If Beau weren’t so damn freaked out she’d definitely be laughing.

“Beauregard! What a pleasant surprise.” Mrs. Lionett glides into the sitting room and comes to a stop next to Mr. Lionett. Beau hates her casual tone, but that was Mrs. Lionett for you. Always the one to keep up appearances, even more so than Mr. Lionett. Beau resented her for it almost as much as she resented being born into this awful family.

From somewhere near the trophy case, Nott whistles quietly. It’s more like an ‘oh wow’ whistle than anything else, and it almost makes Beau snicker. Almost. If Mr. and Mrs. Lionett notice it, they don’t comment.

Beau’s fists clench as she stares at the two of them, standing side by side like the two brick walls they always were to Beau. It feels like an open wound, with them standing emotionless and picture perfect. She’s taut like a wire, waiting for them to say something - expecting them to snap at her, maybe. The least they can do is say something. Does Beau even want them to say anything? Her eyes flicker back to Mr. Lionett’s yellow tie, gaze going no further. There’s a wrinkle in his tie. Beau doesn’t remember if he has wrinkles around his eyes, too.

“Did you need something?” Mr. Lionett’s voice is clear, mechanical. It’s his business-transaction voice, but it’s also the voice that he uses whenever he has better things to do than talk to his daughter. Maybe they’re the same voice.

Gods dammit Beau, get it together. The Mighty Nein need this to work. They need information, don’t let him get into your head. Get it together. Look him in the eye. Do it.

She stares at the yellow tie.

The silence stretches on uncomfortably as the Mighty Nein shift in their positions around the room, their gazes carefully flicking between an extremely tense Beau and the unmoving Lionetts.

Mr. Lionett sighs loudly from his mouth, sort of nasally and low. “I don’t have time for this.”

He takes one step backwards, turning halfway to face the foyer and leave.

“Wait.” Fjord’s careful accent curls around the single syllable like he’s afraid to break the silence, but knows they need something from the Lionetts so he continues on anyways.

Mr. Lionett turns around to face them with one raised eyebrow. His upper lip is curled in disdain. Still standing in front of Beau with a passive look on her face, Mrs. Lionett purses her lips at the intrusion. It seems neither of them expected Fjord to speak.

“Yes?”

Fjord gulps audibly, and Beau cringes. The Lionetts were never fond of non-human races, and it seems that fact is still true. When she was younger, Beau had a tabaxi classmate who she’d hang out with around the river. It didn’t take long for the Lionetts to take control over that situation - Beau never saw her friend again. Dammit, she should’ve told the Nein about this. She’s fucking it up before they’ve even started talking; she should’ve known this would happen. Beau feels the phantom grip of a hand on her wrist, squeezing too tight. Her arms are lead weights. Her blood is solid.

You’re a disappointment, Beauregard. Not good enough. Why do you let us down every time?

Fjord and the Lionett’s conversation is white noise, all droning on in the background. Beau’s nails dig into the meat of her palm as her breaths grow shorter and more harsh. White noise pounds in her eardrums, her vision centering all on one point - the yellow of Mr. Lionett’s tie has never looked so garish and loud before. It’s so bright. It’s mocking. Beau feels unsteady, floating. She’s 7 now, and standing in front of her father while he works. Shoulder’s straight, head lowered. No eye contact. These hands aren’t hers anymore.

Her father, her father. He would say nothing. He would do work. Then he would leave. The office would go dark. Beau would stand there, alone.

Her mother sometimes passed by the office, peering in. She would say nothing. She would close the door. Sometimes, she laughed. Mostly, she didn’t pass the office at all. Her heels would echo down the hall anyways.

A hollow feeling - starting deep in the center of her chest, expanding outwards. Beau knew it well back then, and it fueled her fear, her anger, her drive to leave her home as soon as possible. That feeling faded over time, but never went away. The Mighty Nein were great at that sort of thing; they made Beau feel less empty, and even made her forget what it felt like at times. That hollow feeling creeps back, slowly.

An open wound.

An empty room.

A hand, lightly brushing against her wrist. A light touch, nothing more than a whisper of skin but to Beau it’s the anchor she needed to back away from the storm of emotions she feels. She turns to look, and Jester is standing beside her, having made her own way around the room to offer support. Nott peeks out from behind Jester, her eyes endlessly wide and unbelieving as her ears twitch to every derogatory intonation in Mr. Lionett’s voice.

Turning from Nott’s concerned gaze lands her staring directly into Jester’s purple eyes, hardened with worry and a little bit of anger. The pure fury in the tiefling’s eyes is hard to look at, even if Beau is proud at her to displaying her anger so openly.

Beau strains to pay attention to her surroundings as she faintly registers the murmurs dying down to silence, charged with a certain quality that Beau is unable to parse out because she wasn’t paying attention. She’s not sure she wants to turn and find out, but she needs them to know. She needs to know for herself too.

Turning around, Beau finds the rest of the Mighty Nein staring daggers at her Mr. Lionett. It doesn’t take much for her to realize that Mr. Lionett probably said something extremely biting and discriminatory - Beau’s intimately familiar with that type of language from him. Fjord has his eyes narrowed dangerously and his face is tense, a big difference from his usual calm demeanor. Next to him, Caleb has his teeth bared in a predatory grin. Caduceus, who stood up sometime during Fjord’s negotiations, has his hand placed placatingly on Caleb’s shoulder in an attempt to control the situation, but upon further inspection, Beau notices that his own eyes are hardened and cold.

Seeing all of her friends, ready to strike, sets something at ease in Beau. These people have her back; whether its facing a Hydra, defeating demonic entities, or going against her family; these people, they’re with her. That’s all she needs to steel her resolve and return her attention to her father, standing with his chin raised as he looks down at them all. His hands are carefully clenched, the fingers flexing and straining as he grits his teeth in annoyance. Normally seeing all of this would set off the alarms in Beau’s head, and cause the dread to swallow her whole.

Now, she glances back briefly at Jester, sees her icy purple glare soften momentarily as their eyes meet. Nott gives her a small nod, her green hands twitching subtly towards her back, where she hid her crossbow. Beau looks forward and sees Fjord and Caleb, expressions murderous. Caduceus catches her gaze and smiles.

A moment of clarity: If these people have her back, she can take on anything.

“Fuck you,” Beau says, voice rough and cracking like she hasn’t spoken in ages. Although, she hasn’t spoken so long in this house that maybe that’s the reason why it feels like the breaking open of an empty crypt.

Mr. and Mrs. Lionett’s turn so comically and abruptly to face Beau that the monk actually smiles. She can count on one hand the amount of times she’s surprised them, and she’s glad that this will be the last.

“Excuse me?” Mrs. Lionett’s hand goes to her throat as if she was personally attacked by the foul language.

Mr. Lionett grabs his wife’s hand. “Now, Beauregard -“

She still flinches, but it’s not enough to deter her. It’s improvement. “You heard me.”

Mr. Lionett takes a menacing step forward, hand outstretched far enough that Beau’s half sure the rings on his fingers will slide right off. At least then, they wouldn’t imprint on her face. He stops, a couple of feet in front of her.

“Don’t speak your mother and I like that.” His voice is low, threatening. It used to scare Beau on the rare occasion he would be more angry than annoyed. Now it’s funny, seeing him so riled up and knowing it’s meaningless.

“Why not?” His hand twitches. “Look,” Beau says, voice steadier now. She casts a glance around the room and finds the assured gazes of her friends. “We’re only here to find information about a guy. If you don’t have that, then fine. We’ll leave.”

Mrs. Lionett comes forward to lay a placating hand on Mr. Lionett’s shoulder. “Who is this man you seek?”

Beau wants to say, ‘classic mom, always the mediator’, but she bites her cheek and replies, “Guy named Lonardo. Know him?”

“He’s a business associate. Why?” Mr. Lionett stares at her with distrust, body still tense like a coiled wire. Good, Beau thinks, he should be careful of me.

“Because he’s a bad dude who’s done shitty things.” And, just because she can: “But you’re familiar with that, aren’t you, Thoreau.”

Maybe it was hearing his first name come out of his daughters mouth so brazenly, or maybe it was the blatant disrespect and insult. Either way, Mr. Lionett snaps and steps right up to Beau’s face, his hand coming from his side to his shoulder in an instant, stopping only just barely an inch from her face.

In response, the whole room steps forward, and the Mighty Nein ready their previously sheathed weapons. Beau can only just barely hear the scrape of metal against leather as blood rushes in her ears from her father lunging at her. She feels frozen as her heart bumps erratically in her chest, despite her willing it to calm down. All her bravado gone, the crashing waves threaten to drag her under. She goes to take a step back, but a light touch on her arm drags her to the present.

Turning to look, Jester mouths the words, ‘we got you’, to Beau, while Nott’s hand squeezes Beau’s arm reassuringly. Beau smiles at the two of them before turning back towards her father, still waiting like a snake.

“This is my family now.” For once, her voice doesn’t waver around the word, and Beau’s surprised at how right it feels, saying family after all the years of resenting it. “I love them.”

“We have her back.” Fjord meets her eyes, his own filled full of unspoken hardships of his own but also with certain depth of warmth that Beau knows she feels too.

Caleb lays a steady hand on her shoulder. “We are her family, too.”

Her heart fills, and Mr. Lionett scoffs derisively. “You expect me to -“

Beau just shakes her head nonchalantly as she cuts him off. “If you do not provide us the information, I have nothing to say to you.”

Then, to the surprise of everyone in the room, Beau turns, and begins to walk out of the room. Behind her, the Mighty Nein begin reaming into Mr. and Mrs. Lionett, and she grins at the pure rage and indignation she hears.

She crosses into the foyer, and the lion statues at the base of the stairs don’t seem to stare at her, for once. The paintings on the walls don’t taunt her either. Everything in the house looks different, even though Beau knows that everything’s the same.

Beau only pauses when she spots something. Up the stairs, a small boy sits on the top stoop, carefully watching her. She takes a short, brief pause, to think about everything she hated about her childhood. In that moment, watching her brother stare at her with young, innocent eyes, she vows to never have her brother experience the same.

“I’ll be back.” Beau promises. She contemplates going up the stairs to introduce herself - it’s her brother for crying out loud. But…

She nods at the brother she has never met, and opens the door to step outside.

~~~

The road home is quiet, but not in the way that hurts Beau the way she’s used to. In this quiet, Jester interlaces her fingers with Beau’s. Caleb settles a hand over her shoulder as Frumpkin purrs genially in her lap. Fjord hums a soft shanty while he drives the cart. Caduceus makes tea in the back. Nott is fiddling with Beau’s hair as she tries to braid flowers in the monk’s hair. Beau’s sure that if Yasha were here, she’d be helping Nott braid her hair too.

Beau’s thankful, in that moment, for the kind of silence she knows that only her family could achieve. It brings out a calm and clarity within Beau that she never associated with the quiet before, after a whole childhood of her own quiet moments filled with dread and anxiety.

She thinks of how successful the meeting with her father was. She thinks of how the Mighty Nein defended her to the bone. Most importantly, she thinks of a little boy with blue eyes and brown skin that just learned he has a sister.

That promise she made to her brother was genuine. Although her hands still shake in the Lionett house, and although just hearing her father's name fills her with inescapable dread, Beau feels lighter than ever. It feels like hope. As Caduceus would say, it’s progress.

#my writing #mine #elena talks #I FINISHED IT YALL YEEHAW #beau #beauregard lionett #fanfiction #critical role #this was in my drafts for SO LONG

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gooddame · 5 years ago

Text

Snippet of Klaroline Pride & Prejudice (I'm bacckkkk :DDD )

“Mr. Mikaelson…” she stated, curtsying before him in respect.

“Ms. Caroline, I have struggled in vain and I can bear it no longer” he panted.

He had spent all of his time in that room, thinking on how he could tell her how he felt. His mother had told him, that once he finds love, in order to find peace, he’ll need to tell said woman of his affections. She said that he was like Mikael in that way. If he didn’t tell her, he’ll torture himself with it. He felt that torture in the days after his abrupt visit at the Donovan’s. That gut wrenching feeling of desire for her, he wants her with him all the time, he wants to see her smile at him, a genuine smile. He wants her love, her affection…

How can he return to the dark after being exposed to the light for so long?

When he saw her run off into the rain, the first thing that he thought of was concern. What if she caught some kind of cold or a fever from the weather? Immediately, he chased after her. While chasing her, another thought entered his mind…does she feel the same thing he did?

He had been thinking of his feelings and his desires this entire time, what if she didn’t feel the same? Did he expect her to just magically create affection for him in return? Of course not, but he would be taking a huge gamble if he confessed anything now. There is a great chance that she’ll say no.

Then a last thought had entered his mind while chasing her… what had she heard that upset her this much? He could tell from the day he met her, that she was the kind of person who cared for others…before herself. Had something happened to a friend of hers that upset her? Did harm befall one of her sisters, or her parents perhaps? Was there anything he could do to solve it?

Well that was a first…

Klaus never cared about helping others, excluding his family and closest friend. He always preferred to help himself. Did he really care for her so much that he’s ready and willing to do anything for her?

Whether he’ll confess his true feelings at this moment, if unknown, even to him…but he just couldn’t bare it anymore.

He tried to continue on, he was breathless from his chase. Caroline watches him in astonishment and he struggles on.

“These past months have been a torment. My mother asked me to visit her in Rosing’s, but I had no plans to accept. Then my sister told me that you were going to be there, visiting your newly wedded sister, so I came. My mother thinks I came to see her but I really came to see you, I had to see you”

“Me…?” she breathed out.

She looked at him, shocked at the words coming out of his mouth. Is he saying what she thinks he’s saying?

“I have fought against my better judgment, my family’s expectations, the inferiority of your birth, my rank and I’ve put aside all of those things so that I can ask you to end my agony” he breathed out.

Of all the things she heard him say, she was beginning to get confused.

“I don’t understand…” he cut her off

“I fancy you” he said with passion “I fancy you greatly Ms. Forbes” he swallowed.

This was the moment when he finally confesses to half of the truth. His entire body is shaking, whether from the coldness of the rain or the fear of her rejection…he supposes it’s both. His stomach is in knots and his heart is racing a mile a minute. He wants to crawl into a hole and stay there forever.

Caroline was in complete shock. She couldn’t believe it, this moment felt like a dream, a longing she had…a deep desire.

But he had a poor method of confessing his feelings.

He fought against his better judgment? That means his confession is but a reckless act then? That should make her feel like she’s special?

“Please do me the honor of accepting my hand” he breathed.

Her lips quivered. She has had two proposals in the time span of a month. One was from a man she couldn’t even bring herself to care for, let alone love and the other was a man she cared for despite her better judgment…she supposed they were alike in a way.

He’s rendered her speechless and at a loss for words. After that night at Lady Esther’s home, she would have been a bit hesitant, but she could have seen herself accepting his hand. After hearing what she had just heard and taking into account the suffering of her beloved sister…she won’t be able to live with herself if she accepted his proposal.

“Sir I…I appreciate the struggle you have been through and I am very sorry to have caused you pain. Believe me, it was unconsciously done” She made sure to show no emotion in her words and give him no reason to probe further, but her voice shook with the beating of her heart.

He stared at her for a moment for speaking.

“Do you not believe my words to be truthful?” he asked.

“No” was her immediately reply.

“Why…you’re beautiful, you’re strong…you’re selfless, you’re brave…” she cut him off.

“You think I’m beautiful?” she was really planning to ignore how much giddiness his words made her feel, but her tongue has had a mind of its own since she’s known herself.

“You are so beautiful, it cannot be captured on a canvas by the most talented of artists should they even try…” he replied in a breath.

Her heart was racing, but not out of excitement, but disappointment. He was saying all the things she wanted him to say, but she could never live with herself after what he had done to Katherine. If she could return to her feelings of hatred and resentment, she would in a heartbeat, a half of a heartbeat even.

An awkward cold silence came as the sound of the pouring rain made up for their silence. Finally, he straightened.

“Was that your reply” He knew he would have been rejected, but he had hoped…

“Yes it is”

“Are you…are you laughing at me?”

She scoffed “Of course not”

“Are you rejecting me?” the anger in her rejection was starting to show, he could only hope now that doesn’t say anything he knows he’ll regret.

“I’m sure the feelings in which you’ve mentioned that have hindered your regard, will aid you in overcoming it” she replied with a tiny bit of venom.

A terrible silence befalls them as her words sink in. He was taken aback by that. He would not apologize for being proud, but whenever she said it, it seemed like deadly sin, rather than a virtue.

“Why” he asks, almost in a whisper…his entire body is cold, soggy and his facial features are pale, very pale.

He had planned to ask that in a more…educated manner, but it slipped past his lips.

“Why? I might as well enquire why such a speech was so evidently designed on insulting me; you choose to tell me that you like me despite your better judgment!”

That was not Klaus’s intent “No, of course not—” she was not having it

“If I was uncivil, then that is some excuse but I have other reasons, you know I have”

“What reasons?” he asked

“You think anything would tempt me to accept the hand of the man who has ruined, perhaps forever, the happiness of a most beloved sister?” she asked in a tone almost in a whisper.

He was shocked; it was as if he was slapped by her.

“Do you deny it Mr. Mikaelson? That you separated two individuals who loved each other, exposing your beloved brother to a world of heartbreak as well as my sister”

“I do not deny it” he replied with confidence.

Amazing, he stood before her, proud of what he did.

“How could you do such a thing?”

“It was known that she was indifferent to him—”

“Indifferent” she questioned.

“I have watched them most closely and realized that his attachment was much deeper than her—”

“That’s because she’s shy!” Caroline interjected.

“My brother might look like the king of confidence, but he too is modest, however, there were doubts that she didn’t feel as strongly for him as he did for her” he tried.

“And who suggested such a thing?” she asked.

“I did it because I know what’s best for him” he stated.

“My sister hardly shows her true feelings to me…and we’re closest to each other of all my sisters” Caroline confessed “Only when provoked does she speak up”

She was silent after that and so was he. It was an awkward silence. He realized then that he didn’t like awkward silences. His proud shell had cracked.

Klaus understands that better than anyone within a 100 mile radius. He shows no emotion and only when provoked does he let some out. Emotions were a weakness to him, it made him weak and he hated feeling weak. He understood hiding one’s emotions too well to judge.

“I suppose that you also suspected that her lack of fortune had something to do with it—” he cut her off

“I would never do your sister the dishonor!” he replied sharply “But it was suggested—” she cut him off.

“What was?”

“It was made perfectly clear that a marriage between my brother and your sister would be a scandal—”

“Did your sister give that impression?” she spat

“No, but there was however the matter of your family—”

“What of my family? Mr. Elijah certainly didn’t seem to find—” he cut her off.

“It was more than that” he growled lowly, annoyed by where this conversation was going.

“How sir?” she asked sternly.

Klaus never felt uncomfortable telling the truth, in fact, he relished in it. He liked to see the reaction of others when they hear the harsh truth. However, he was most uncomfortable in this moment, for what he was about to say…he found it most difficult to say. He and Elijah do agree on the matter of her family, though they do lack a level of decorum, he was more amused by it than anything. It made him smile at how free they were…he supposed he envied them.

“It was the lack of propriety shown by your mother, your two younger sisters…even on occasions your father…” he snarled “Mrs. Donovan, Ms. Katherine and you are excluded” he added softly.

When he saw the look on her face, the one of shock and hurt…immediately he wanted to sink deeper into a deep dark hole where she’ll never look at his face ever again.

He’ll never admit to her that his sister had played a great role in the decision. Rebekah all but kicked Elijah into the carriage and whipped the horses till they returned back to Pemberly. He tried to persuade her to stay a little longer to make sure, but because of his…affections for Caroline, Rebekah was not having it.

He’d take the blame for all of it if necessary.

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Not only had he separate two couples in love because he knows nothing of what goes on in a girl’s heart, but he also did it because her family loves to laugh. How can there be a crime in the joy of laughter and fun. Her family doesn’t care for decorum in public, they believe in being themselves around everyone…not hiding who they really are to please society. He stands in a crowd like a stoned god who’s above everything and everyone. He barely cracks a smile or a laugh. His composure is that of a statue, because he wishes to please society. She won’t apologize for her family’s willingness to be themselves and she certainly won’t apologize because her sister is cautious of who she gives her heart to.

“I deeply apologize if I have upset you in any way…believe me that was never my intent”

Of course it was not his intent. Everything he says is never intended to insult, and yet it does.

There was another matter that also had a hand in her rejection to his proposal.

“What of Mr. Lockwood?”

The look of shock and dumbfound was not lost on her.

He took a couple of steps forward, wanting to get closer to her. There was this urge inside of him that he’s been trying to bury since the day he met her…it’s stronger than ever in this moment.

“Mr. Lockwood?” he questioned, anger coloring his tone.

“What excuse do you have for behavior towards him?”

“You take an eager interest in that gentleman, despite the fact that you’ve only met him once”

“I’ve never met him in person, but my sister has told me of his misfortunes…” she replied.

So he was lying. To think he actually believed him. Of course he never met Caroline.

“Oh yes, his misfortunes have been very great indeed—” she cut him off.

“You’ve ruined his chances and yet you treat him with sarcasm” she shook her head, what kind of a man does she see before her?

He took a step forward, she rose her head high “So this is your opinion of me. Thank you for explaining it so fully”

He took a step back, prepared to walk away from her…but there was that urge that was screaming at him to do it.

It was like a stick poking him at his sides.

Do it

Until finally, he couldn’t take it anymore and he turned around and kissed her.

Caroline’s eyes widened in shock and her entire body was stoic as his lips descended upon hers. Her initial response was to push him away, not to show him even an ounce of her hidden affections, but his lips were a feeling she has been curious to for longer than she would dare admit.

His hands cradled her face and he took two steps closer to her. Her eyes fluttered close as she returned the kiss. His lips were plump, soft and gentle against hers. He kissed her with so much passion that it was near impossible not to return it. His movements were careful and careless all at the same time. It was like he was starving, but he was taking his time with his meal at the same time.

She was never kissed before, this was her first kiss. She didn’t know how she was suppose to feel about it, but it made her heart thump like a hummingbird, her insides turn, and throat clogged and her mind cloudy.

When he parted from her lips, his forehead leaned against hers. She was too entrapped into the kiss to care about being angry.

“Forgive me”

She sniffled and said the first thing that came to mind…as usual.

“Never apologize for telling the truth”

#klaroline #klaroline-fantasies #this angel is back #kc fic #klaus x caroline #klaroline drabbles #klaus mikaelson #caroline forbes #the actual originals #klaroline aus #klaroline fandom #klaroline fanfiction #kc coven #kc ship #kc family #kc fandom #kcmoments #submission

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