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funknrolll · 5 years ago

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Celebrating Prince: discovering a timeless artist and his meaningful and impactful art. Part 1. From the 1970s to early 1990s

Hi music lovers, it has been a while since my last post. Today is an important day and as a fan of Prince and as I’m extremely passionate about his art, my tribute could surely not miss. Since this article is extremely long I decided to divide it into more than 1 big post and do a whole week celebrating this immense artist, his life and his meaningful and astonishing art. Additionally let me say that I began this article in summer 2019 and I managed to finish it just now and to be honest, it is a 20 thousand words article. With this said, I hope you enjoy this new format, I hope you guys enjoy this article and I hope it will make you reflect on how impactful and important was and still is Prince’s art.

First, let me say that I have heard so many things about Prince’s artistry. Some comments came from uneducated people who did not even take a second of their lives to understand, and do research on his art. Hence, I think the time to shed some light on Prince’s art, has come (finally). I hope to help some of those people understand this artist better and to finally appreciate him the way he deserves. We owe Prince big time. Today’s music and musicians owe Prince everything. Without him, many of the artists we listen to today, WOULD NOT BE EXISTING. As we all know, Prince loved to experiment with music, trying out new music genres, new styles, new harmonies, melodies, rhythms and so on. This is one of the factors that led this legend to create a unique, wide and broad vault. There are so many songs of his that I love so much and that I find relevant for this article. The ones I chose, are going to prove that Prince and his music did not just revolve around sex and sexuality, (even if the artist through his music took the topic to another whole level). Through the article, we will see that Prince was more than all that I mentioned above. He was an extraordinary human being, blessed with so many enormous talents, with a beautiful mind, a uniquely pure soul. A true gift of God. With this in mind, let us start this article.

Starting with For You and the self-titled album “Prince” lyrically speaking they both are centered on the bittersweet feeling of love. However, what strikes me every time I listen to these masterpieces is that Prince was only 19 when he produced them. Moreover, the artist was skilled enough to produce, write all the lyrics, play all the harmonies and melodies and therefore compose all the arrangements for the songs and eventually record everything in the studio. He was only 19 with already an enormous talent.

The next album I will tell you about is Controversy. Specifically, I will analyze two songs contained in the album, which are exactly the homonymous song Controversy and Ronnie Talk to Russia. Controversy was released in 1981 right after For you, Prince and Dirty Mind. This album is totally different from the previous three. Indeed, if we listen closely and attentively, we will discover that the dissimilarities lay in the sounds, melodies, lyrics, and intention with which this masterpiece was crafted. Speaking about the song Controversy, I find it extremely relevant and unique. Melodically and rhythmically, we can listen to a Prince who was enormously far from the Prince who produced and crafted I wanna be your lover and For you. Besides what I just mentioned, what I find hugely relevant about this masterpiece are the contents. Indeed, in this song, we can investigate how open-minded Prince was. The song was the product of the artist’s intelligence who took all the rumors and the fake news made against him and turned them into this song which not only was a smart clap back but it also hid an extremely deep meaning which lays in its bridge and is characterized by a spoken almost rapped part:

“ People call me rude, I wish we all were nude

I wish there was no black and white, I wish there were no rules

People call me rude, I wish we all were nude

I wish there was no black and white, I wish there were no rules

People call me rude, I wish we all were nude

I wish there was no black and white, I wish there were no rules

People call me rude, I wish we all were nude

I wish there was no black and white, I wish there were no rules “

The message Prince was delivering with this was evident: it does not matter whether we’re straight or gay, black or white, female or male, we all should be one and we are all the same. In fact quoting the artist: “So life is just a game, we’re all just the same”. In my opinion, this song is such an anthem and a hymn of freedom, and through this masterpiece, Prince encourages each of us to be ourselves no matter what. Moreover, this masterpiece, I would say, was a predictor of Prince’s whole career, as from that moment on, through his music he had always delivered the message of freedom of mind, freedom of expression, freedom to be ourselves, and a message of love and unity. Another song that I find extremely relevant for this article is Ronnie Talk to Russia. As we can infer from the title, this track had social and political purposes. Indeed, the title refers to the 40th American President Ronald Regan. Through this song, we can see another side of the artist who was very much conscious and interested in social issues. Moreover, this song was written and composed in the 1980s which means it was in the middle of the Cold War between the United States and Russia and therefore the lyrics make even more sense. Prince with the extremely earnest masterpiece was encouraging the then-President of the United States of America, to open the dialogues with Russia before it had been too late. Indeed, as the artist sang:

“ Ronnie if you're dead before I get to meet ya

Before I get to meet ya

Ronnie if you're dead before I get to meet ya

Don't say I didn't warn ya

Ronnie talk to Russia before it's too late

Before it's too late

Ronnie talk to Russia before it's too late

Before they blow up the world”

After Controversy, 1999 was released. One of my favorite songs on this album is Free, which is probably one of the most underrated in Prince’s vault. A true hymn of freedom. In my opinion, the lyrics of this masterpiece are quite self-explanatory. Basically, in this song Prince is encouraging each of us to be glad about our freedom. The kind of freedom, Prince is talking about, is the freedom of the mind which is something extremely important and that should never be taken for granted. Besides that, another of the topics contained in this masterpiece is the fugacity of life, or else that life is so short and we should never take it for granted nor should we waste it as it is something extremely precious that needs to be cherished. Moreover, this song is introduced by the beat of a heart and some steps. Perhaps the artist had a specific motivation to use these two characteristics to the point that he even used them in the song. In my opinion, Prince might have used the heartbeat to symbolize life and therefore our freedom and the fact that we should be happy for what we have which is our freedom and our life; because as Prince said, it is something some people do not have. This peculiarity is well connected to the lyrics, indeed as Prince sings:

“I know your heart is beating, my drummer tells me so

If U take your life 4 granted, your beating heart will go”

Additionally, as regards the steps used to introduce the song, this is the second detail that is exceedingly well related to the lyrics as Prince sang to be glad that we are free to go anywhere we want. Musically speaking, there is another peculiarity that makes this song even more relevant. Prince’s voice and performance are two of the major key points of this masterpiece. Indeed, in my opinion, without the proper execution of a talented artist, this song would have lost its impact and hence would have been less meaningful. The heartfelt, emotional and genuine performance the artist delivered is what makes the song even more credible, and therefore impactful. Additionally, what I find mesmerizing about Prince, is how he had always been able to create a connection with the listener through his music.

Jumping forward in time, in 1987 Prince released Sign ‘o’ the Times such a meaningful album. The album was released after Purple Rain (1984), Around the World in A Day (1985) and Parade (1986). In this masterpiece, Prince is delving into a wide range of different topics that shift from love, social issues, climate change, sex, death, new diseases, poverty, religion and so forth. Not only can we see Prince’s musical evolution in this masterpiece, but also how he was unraveling his true beautiful self as an artist and human being. There are three songs that I find extremely relevant for this article and these are the homonymous Sign ‘o the Times, Starfish and Coffee and The Cross.

Starting with Sign O the Times, this song begins with an extremely strong bassline which is entirely played by Prince like all the other instruments in this song are. Indeed, this is the first album that is not played by the Revolution. Hence Prince with this masterpiece is showing one more time his immense musical skills. Also, the instrumental part of this masterpiece is, I would say, extremely simple and neat. Indeed, a few instruments were used to craft the song. However, the arrangement is quite complex. In my opinion, Prince might have kept the instrumental part simple and neat to confer more importance to the lyrics. This was an extremely well thought and ingenious choice as thanks to it the artist is having his listener to put all their attention to the monumental lyrics of the song. As I mentioned, the lyric is the fulcrum of this song. In fact, through the eloquent, self-explanatory and skillfully written lyric, Prince is delivering such an important message. Through this work the artist is externalizing all his concerns about climate changes and social issues such as the appearance of aids, drug addiction, and poverty. The relevance of this song is still extremely actual, now more than ever. The second song I mentioned, Starfish and Coffee, is probably my favorite in this album. Perhaps because it deals with a topic that is close to my heart. According to the internet, this song was inspired by a real person. Indeed, according to Prince’s then-girlfriend, Susannah Melvoin, the song is about one of her classmates who was extremely peculiar and ignored by all her classmates except Susannah. Needless to say, that when Prince heard the story and asked for more details and eventually Starfish and Coffee was born. In addition to that, Prince then confirmed on the old website love4oneanother that this song is specifically about a little girl with special needs. Lyrically speaking also this song, is extremely eloquent. The artist’s sensitivity and gentle personal touch in telling this moving story and depicting the main character is what makes the song unique. Besides the touching story behind the song, the extremely peculiar arrangements and melodies would suggest a happy song dealing with a happy story, rather than a sad story. However, Prince might have opted for this specific arrangement either to allure the listener to pay attention to the song, or to ease a song that would have been too painful if it had had an arrangement coherent with the lyrics. The third song I mentioned is The Cross. This masterpiece probably holds the most hermetic meaning among all the songs on this album. Although the title would suggest the Cross symbolizing Jesus Christ, his name is never mentioned. Moreover, the heartwarming and reassuring lyrics and the monumental, almost Beatles-like arrangement, are two of the major points of the song. Indeed, the song opens with a few instruments and then their number increase as the melodies build up and expand like a beautiful flower opening and showing its beautiful colors. The cherry on the top of the pie is the artist’s emotional and impressive performance that never ceases to give me chills. Last but not least, I don’t know if it is just me, but this song and the intention of the performance and the arrangements are giving me Beatles vibes.

Among all the albums produced, Music from Graffiti Bridge is perhaps one of my favorite by Prince. After Lovesexy (1988) and Batman Soundtrack (1989), the artist released the soundtrack of his third movie: Graffiti Bridge. (I really recommend this movie in case you have not seen it yet). This movie despite all the comments and criticisms it received, is, in my opinion, a masterpiece that delivers such a hugely important message. It is a pity that some people are not able to look beyond appearances to search for something deeper. The album boasts the presence of a special guest and music legend or else Dr. Funk, Uncle Funk aka George Clinton. Among the songs on this masterpiece, the most meaningful and relevant are New Power Generation, Elephants and Flowers, and Still Would Stand All Time.

The first song I mentioned is New Power Generation. The message it delivers applies extremely well to music today. Indeed, the message Prince has always strived to send out through his music and life was that music’s most important and highest purpose is to change the world and people for the better. Therefore, artists should make efforts to create music with that specific aim. This lesson should be applied to music today as most of the artists today do not create music to inspire people but rather for their own advantage. Besides, the artistic and personal evolution of the singer is quite undeniable. The arrangement of the song vaunts the presence of some of Prince’s talented fellow artists such as Morris Day who skillfully executed the drumline and the beautiful singer Rosie Gaines who with her signature voice is performing the powerful background vocals. Additionally, with the soulful and expressive vocals, Prince gave proof of his skills using a good portion of his vocal extension and lastly giving proof of an extremely broad range of vocal techniques.

Another relevant song worth listening to is Elephants and Flowers. The song is perhaps one of the most spiritual on the album. The crystal-clear lyrics hide a deep meaning, lesson, and message of hope and love. In fact, through the metaphor of the Elephant and the flowers Prince is basically teaching that God created everything from something big as an Elephant to something as small as a flower. Hence, the lesson behind the metaphor is that God made us all and the prayers of those who believe in Him are not wasted in vain and He listens to them. Moreover, as in many of the artist’s songs, it could not be missed the implicit allusion to the afterworld which is being depicted as a beautiful place without sorrows, confusion, nor tears. Indeed as Prince sang:

Think I'm gonna fall in love tonight.

When I do, there won't be no more (confusion)

There won't be no more (no tears)

There won't be no more enemies, so that eliminates all the fear

And there won't be no sorrow, (sorrow)

There won't be no pain, (no pain)

There won't be no ball and no chain

Strip down, strip down, elephants and flowers.

Moreover, it is also important to pinpoint the instrumental part which is quite different from the artist’s previous works. The song is crafted with drums as the prevailing instrument followed by a skillfully played signature guitar solo. Although the relatively small number of instruments played, Prince has been able to craft an instrumental that sounds like a whole full orchestra. In my opinion, one of the reasons why the artist sometimes used a small number of instruments could be perhaps because he wanted to give importance to his vocals and the beautiful voices of the background singers. Another reason why might be that he wanted the audience to listen attentively to the lyrics. Moreover, another thing that I believe is of extreme importance, is that Prince played all the instruments in this masterpiece. Mind-blowing, isn’t it?

Another song that I find relevant is Still would Stand all Time. This was the last song played in the movie. Unlike all the other songs on the album, this one is different: firstly, because after 13 funk, rock, and pop songs, the artist decided to experiment with another music genre which is soul. Through some crystal-clear lyrics, the artist delivered a precise and straightforward message. There were no implicit messages, no inferring. Hence, the meaning is as simple as it gets: universal love, love for one another and the hope in a better world full of love, where people could finally join together, love each other, without dishonesty, anger, fear, jealousy, and greed. A world where people leave their pasts behind and join together against injustices. A world where no man will rule another man. This is basically the message Prince has lived up to his whole life. This message can be applied to today’s world and society, as we live in a world ruled by greed and anger and sorrow when instead we should be loving each other like brothers and sisters without hate, racism, greed. Unfortunately, we live in a world where we lost most of our humanity and kindness. Back to the song. Yet the peculiarity that makes the song monumental, besides the beautifully written lyrics is the instrumental. First of all, to make you understand better how brilliant Prince was, I need to say that in his song, the artist used a three-tone sampled flute from Prélude À L'Après-Midi D'Un Faune by Claude Debussy, from the cd Images For Orchestra. Besides the sampled flute, the vocal part is another relevant peculiarity. Indeed, Prince is giving one of the most touching, expressive and heartfelt performances that gets straight to the heart and soul of the listener. Additionally, not only are these vocals a joy for our ears but the choir and Prince are using an extremely wide range of vocals techniques that show how musically educated the artist was. Indeed, at the very beginning of the song we can listen to Prince singing the first line of the song and the choir using the echo technique repeats Prince’s line. The echo technique is used almost throughout the entire song, except for two lines where the vocal technique used is the call& response. Indeed, the first line where the vocal technique I mentioned, is used is:

Oh, love, love, oh love if you would just please give us a sign

Still would stand all time

In these two lines, Prince is singing the first one and the choir responds with the chorus. Moreover, the other part where this technique is used is:

Love, love, it’s not that far away if we all say yes and give it a try

(Got to give it, a try, yes!) still would stand all time (I say still)

(so many times) so many times, I thought I could not make it

(still would stand all time)

The first line is performed by the choir to which Prince responds with “Got to give it a try, yes”. The chorus is performed by the choir and Prince responds with “I say still”. In the third line, Prince and the choir switch their parts and Prince sings the mainline and the choir responds. Despite the vocal parts are dominant in this song, the instrumental is also deserving recognition. First of all, it is important to notice Prince’s ability to craft an extremely complex arrangement. Moreover, what I find mesmerizing is how this brilliant artist could use a broad spectrum of harmonies and melodies and still make them work perfectly. Indeed, if you listen attentively, you would hear Debussy flutes from the Prelude in perfect harmony with the melodies played on the piano and the beats of the drums. As regards to the piano, we can listen to several different and difficult techniques used to craft this beautiful melody. Also, it is relevant to mention the fact that Prince played each instrument you hear in this masterpiece. Moreover, I do not know if it is just me but this kind of song makes me miss Prince more and more. He had this beautiful ability to connect with people through his music and therefore touch our heart in a way only a few artists have been capable of. This song is one of them. A total monumental masterpiece.

This was the first part of a series of articles dedicated to Prince to celebrate his life and most importantly his art. Stay tuned for more. In the meantime stay home, stay safe and healthy. Peace and Love 4 one another. G💜

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mcfanely · 4 years ago

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The Ice Emperor and the Earth Dragon

Burdened with the knowledge that a rescue was most likely not on its way, both Zane and Cole change tact. Moving from thinking their stay in the new realm would be temporary, to being fully aware that their stay could last a lot, lot longer.

Chapter 05 - Dear Diary, 2043 words

That realisation had struck hard. Very hard.

Cole hadn't realised how much he'd been relying on their friends coming to rescue them. How the thought of a portal opening up in the sky at any moment, the same one that had spat him and Zane out was actually pushing him on.

That their brothers would come through and they'd have a ticket home.

But they'd realised that wouldn't be happening, that no rescue party was going to be coming for them any time soon, since why would they think that they'd survived a direct hit from Aspheera's staff?

Kai, Jay, Lloyd, Nya, Pixal, Wu.

What reason would they have to think that he and Zane were alive?

Cole couldn't imagine what they were going through at that very moment. They'd won the battle, the war. They'd vanquished evil, but they'd be entirely sure that it was at the cost of two friends, two brothers. A chunk of their makeshift family gone in one fell swoop. Or maybe he could in a way, with losing Zane during the battle with the Overlord. But again, and two of them?

Unfortunately, they couldn't ponder on what they might or might not be going through.

Still, they couldn't just sit around and do nothing.

Their circumstances had changed in an instant and they both knew it. They'd gone from the mindset of they had to wait, endure an unknown period of time between them arriving in the realm and them being saved by their brothers.

To being aware that they might not be coming at all. Endurance became surviving. It became the task of getting the mech working if only for the heat it could provide, the shelter or the aid it could give with going outside the cave and braving the elements. It became knowing that when exhaustion finally overtook them both at night, they'd wake up the next day, in the same cave, and repeat the process.

Routine maintained focus.

Routine was finding a source of food, or any food at all. It became firewood and a way to make a fire. They were ninja, they were trained survivalists. They had to be with the amount of times they'd been stranded. Yet, it didn't make the situation feel any less bleak.

They weren't giving up, though. Neither of them would curl up in a ball and let the world take them.

They had to believe that help would come. Be it their brothers, or from a different source.

Both Zane and Cole worked through impossible odds by keeping busy. Productive distractions, as Cole has once dubbed the process. Which was why, after what had felt like a few days, they had a good routine going.

They may have gone to sleep hungry and exhausted that first night, but by the end of the second day and after being blessed with a clear sky, Cole had found a partially frozen-over lake. Both fresh water, and food in the form of fish.

After the fourth day, they were rising with the sun in the morning, both Zane and Cole sparred together before either of them were really fully awake. They'd found wood for a fire, only it was too damp to work with and take a spark, not that they’d been able to suitably produce one.

The cave and it's shelter was probably the only reason Cole hadn't frozen to death, but they needed to amend the warmth problem quickly.

On the sixth day-- or the eighth-- Zane removed the screen from the control centre of the mech, and one of the many batteries the machine had in order to get at least something working.

He passed it down to a waiting Cole, who then situated it on the flattest surface they had in their shelter. A large and almost level rock they'd been using as a table. It was now home to an assortment of wires, jumper cables, and now a screen currently without power.

"You want to do what with this thing?" Cole questioned.

"Record a message." came the reply as Zane hopped down the mech, "I thought that we should document our findings, should anyone happen--"

"-- To come across this place and we're not here. That's smart." Cole smiled softly.

He'd been trying to keep himself upbeat over the past few days. One thing that helped was that Zane was in the same mindset. Power forwards, just keep on moving and doing and something good should come out of it.

Only, it felt like the good was still yet to come.

Or maybe the good was that Zane had stopped sparking since they'd spent a bit of time fixing his wiring. Cole wasn't the greatest with electronics, nothing compared to Nya, but he made do. Then the lump on his head had come and gone without much fanfare, so he hadn't been concussed.

They still both wore the stresses of the past couple weeks like a second skin. Their gis were ruined, oil stained and dirt tracked, ripped and frayed in parts. A part of Cole's trousers had electrical burns from stripped wiring, even. They were dishevelled, tired, but alive and keeping it that way.

And the discovery of the damaged processing unit in the mech had been a cause for celebration. They had something to look at, an actual possible reason behind the inhibited function and the fact that it just wasn't working no matter how much tinkering they both did.

It was what he and Zane were going to look at today.

That was the plan, but then they'd gotten sidetracked with removing the screen to document their progress.

Though Cole had to admit, it was a good idea.

He hooked the jumper cables up to the battery, then nearly jumped for joy when the screen flickered to life in front of them. Finally, something was going their way.

"Wow, didn't think I'd be missing technology already." Cole said, a slight smile on his face as he looked at the flickering screen. It was just a mirror image of himself, courtesy of the camera at the top of the console.

Then, Cole just stared. Stared into his own eyes on the screen. How tired he actually looked. The fact that he was in dire need of a shower that wasn't cold lake water, or new clothes that weren't representative of being pulled through a hedge backwards several hundred times over. He tugged lightly at the hem of his gi with a small frown, picking off a loose piece of dirt and flicking it away. As if that made all the difference.

"We both aren't exactly the most well kept individuals." Zane said at his left shoulder, which dragged Cole out of his stupor with a quiet chuckle.

"What gave that away? Was it the fact that I'm using my belt to keep my hair out of my face whilst I work, or the oil you didn't tell me was on my forehead?" He questioned.

"I was more focused on the twig you've had stuck in your hair since we were sparring this morning."

The noise Cole made at that reveal was a mix of an indignant huff and a sound of surprise, which really made for an unusual mix. Then he brought a hand back and started feeling through his hair. After a few seconds of fruitless searching, and the fact that Zane didn't change his expression during that time keyed Cole in on the situation.

"There's no stick, is there?" Cole raised both his eyebrows at his friend in question, and Zane's almost perfect facade broke into a smile. "You absolute-- wow, Zane, and I thought I trusted you." He laughed and lightly punched the nindroid in the shoulder, only to get the action returned to him when he turned his attention back to the screen.

Naturally, the only reaction was to grip his shoulder and give the most affronted ow he could muster.

Zane smiled, rolled his eyes, and looked at the screen too.

"I believe this would help keep up a routine." He said, shifting the subject so he wasn't risking Cole turning and returning the jovial punch a second time. Smart. "At the end of the day, we document what we did."

"Like a diary."

"Of sorts." Zane cleared his throat. "It also helps to keep track of the days here. Especially the ones where it feels like the sky does not open."

Cole just nodded slowly. The days that sometimes were hard to distinguish from the nights. When the snowstorms got so bad that they blocked out the sky, all light and severely inhibited vision. When it was hard to figure out if the day had begun, or if it was still the dead of twilight.

Keeping track of days helped to keep thoughts focused, heads on straight. There was nothing worse than losing track of time. Counting days, it was something to measure.

"I know we're both confused as to how long we've been here. And with my internal clock broken, I'm not able to keep track exactly."

Cole just shook his head and draped an arm over Zane's shoulders, giving him a sideways hug. "We can't do anything about it now. But we can document today, make our first message to an empty realm."

Zane sighed, and leant slightly into the hug, "The point of making a message is the knowledge that someone could see it."

They both looked at the screen.

It was unspoken, but if anyone actually ended up seeing these messages, they knew who they'd want it to be.

Cole blew out a heavy breath and tapped the button in the centre before Zane could tell him not to. The screen flickered once, before a small recording symbol appeared in the top left corner.

"Cole, we haven't even spoken about what we will say." Zane observed, and Cole just nodded.

Though he sort of knew, if he hadn't pressed the record button, they would have been dancing around the idea of recording a message for a while before either one of them plucked up the courage to actually go ahead and do it.

It made everything feel final, like they were accepting their situation for the long run.

Maybe that was what they needed to do?

"I know." He smiled, before turning to the screen and glancing into the camera.

"Hey," Cole said, then just closed his eyes for a moment at how stupid that had sounded.

He should have thought of what he was going to say.

"Uh-- we don't really know if there's anyone else out there. You know, anywhere. But this is a message to document the fact that we're here. Or at least, at the time of this recording, we're here." He paused, then reached over and tugged Zane fully into sight of the camera.

"My name is Cole, and this is Zane." Cole continued, then paused. It was hard to think of what should be said. What could he say? Anything that his mind was providing just felt too morbid, too much like giving up.

If you find this message, we're not here anymore.

We don't know if, by the time you're seeing this, this cave has been empty for a while.

We were counting on a rescue, but we figured out pretty early on that it might not be coming.

"We're strangers in this land." Zane took over when he noticed that Cole was floundering. "And we're trying to find our way home."

Cole just watched, still on the screen, as Zane managed to capture the situation in the best way possible. In the lightest way. Like his words were there to provide hope for whoever might end up viewing this recording, as if their personal efforts to get back home meant that in the future they could be successful.

Even when the odds were stacked against them.

"We've found it hard to keep track of days in this place, it feels like it's been a long time." They shared a glance for a second.

Cole, he was convinced they were on day eight. Zane, his guess was a little more, ten to fifteen days. It didn't narrow anything down.

"-- But we're not giving up hope."

From the beginning

Ch 04 > Ch 05 > Ch 06

AO3

#The Ice Emperor and the Earth Dragon AU #The Ice Emperor and The Earth Dragon #cole #zane #cole brookstone #zane julien #cole ninjago #zane ninjago #ninjago #lego ninjago #lego #The Ice Emperor #mcfanely writes #mcfanely aus #mcfanely

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crimsonscorpii · 4 years ago

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@goodsouldier

prompt ! The small talk is stifling, and Steve finds himself outwardly sighing in disappointment as he scans the gallery for signs of Bucky. He’d disappeared earlier under the guise of fetching them more drinks, but Steve suspects that he too just wanted a break from drawling conversation. Still . . . he should’ve returned by now . . .

Steve’s gaze floats around until finally he finds the back of a very familiar head. He doesn’t bother with excuses, he owes nothing to his present company and the mutually beneficial deal they have is strong and well weathered enough that Steve doesn’t need to appease anyone. As he makes his way over, he notices that Bucky is speaking with someone, another man, blonde, just a little taller than Bucky, conventionally attractive. He laughs at something Bucky says, placing a hand on Bucky’s elbow affectionately, and oh . . . he must not know just who Bucky is, and who he belongs to. Maybe he does, and he wants to die.

Steve has never felt this way about someone before. Bucky had gotten to him the moment Steve had laid eyes on him. A sweet, kind face despite the world they lived in, a smart mouth that could keep toe to toe with Steve’s, their bodies like two pieces of a puzzle made to fit together. Bucky had consumed him quickly, creeping his way through the cracks of Steve’s steel heart, making a home out of the roughest parts of him and making him soft. Steve’s always been a man of purpose, and while he’d been driven to dismantling the pieces of society he hated and rebuilding it under his own guiding hand . . . he’s never had a purpose before that has made him feel quite so human. Steve doesn’t do anything by the halves so everything that he feels . . . it burns in him like an inferno and his love for Bucky is no different.

It’s unfortunate that Steve is within a crowd that he can’t make too big of a scene in front of. The art world isn’t as used to Steve’s violent proclivities as his usual circle, and there are certain appearances he has to maintain in a place this public. There are journalists and photographers crawling the walls of the gallery and Steve has to weigh up how much trouble it’s going to cost him to keep any outburst that happens here tonight under wraps. What he can’t do now, he will ensure happens later. What he can do, however, is lay his claim on Bucky, a reminder to everyone present that even entertaining the idea of Bucky, even passing a glance over him in appreciation or intent, even breathing in the scent of him, let alone touching him so flirtatiously was an exercise in futility . . . because Bucky was well and truly spoken for. And Bucky would do well to remember that, too.

Steve’s fingers wrap firmly around Bucky’s throat, Steve’s hand almost large enough to enclose him completely. The web of his palm fits snug into his airway, fingertips digging harshly into the muscles at the base of Bucky’s neck --- he can feel Bucky trying to swallow, and failing, but the choked off sound he makes is satisfying. Steve turns him towards him, dragged by the throat, and kisses him on the mouth, equal parts tender as it is domineering, and he eases his grip enough for Bucky to breathe, though he’ll have to struggle around Steve’s tongue pressed into his mouth for air. He pulls away just as Bucky melts into him, lightheaded and made vulnerable by the suddenness and heat of the kiss, and Steve shrouds him with an arm around his shoulders. ‘ You’re mine, ’ Steve murmurs by Bucky’s ear, for only him to hear, and feel the low vibrations of Steve’s voice.

There’s spilt champagne and a broken glass on the floor by Steve’s feet, Bucky’s earlier acquaintance staring shocked and hand empty. ‘ Clean that up, ’ Steve tells him, as he begins to lead Bucky away, the man’s face and name tag engrained in his memory for future reference

It’s a different world here, one Bucky is acutely aware that he doesn’t really belong in. Everything with Steve has been a whirlwind of change, or finding out things about himself he never would have discovered otherwise and while he is an exceptionally talented man, the high world of art and the seedy dealings that occur underneath all the finery was beyond him. Still, here’s here because Steve wants him to be -- and the idea of being away from that man is not something Bucky ever wants to entertain. The overwhelming attachment he has to the most dangerous man in the US is close to obsession.

A feeling matched by his partner ten times over.

His journey to get drinks hadn’t been an intentional long one. The talk wasn’t holding his interest and while Steve gave Bucky a lot of freedom, he still wanted to be good for him here. This world was different, the people were different and Bucky didn’t want to say or do the wrong thing that could fuck all that up. He was still learning, and since his gaze rarely left Steve Rogers, he had been taking his cues from how different Steve had been acting. He was more in control, more... refined than usual.

Still, Bucky had bored easily and left in search of alcohol only to bump into someone who seemed rather pleasant. His flirting was mediocre at best -- though anything compared to Steve was now mediocre -- and not knowing the world here, Bucky hadn’t wanted to be too rude. He’d gotten two more glasses of Champaign for himself and Steve, but the charming stranger hadn’t quite given him a chance to dip out of the conversation.

Bucky hadn’t know what to do, in truth had it been anywhere else he would have told the man to fuck off or even name dropped Steve. Here though, unsure of the territory, Bucky has to weigh up what he wants to do, and what’s best for Steve from what he knows. The man then compliments Bucky’s attire; a black dress shirt with a few top buttons open for a relaxed look, black pants and a white belt, then comments on how well built Bucky looks. Sure, the material of his shirt is straining because of his arm, but Bucky instead makes a joke about how he’d need to wank with the other arm to balance out his muscles.

The man laughs, touches his arm, and Bucky’s skin floods hot with dislike. He doesn’t want to be touched by strangers but the way this man touches, he’s clearly seeing Bucky as nothing more than how the assassin feels -- out of his depth in a world he doesn’t understand. Still, his temper flares a little and he opens his mouth to respond----

The words don’t come. Breath doesn’t come as a strong, familiar warm weight settles tight around his throat and Bucky’s whole world tips. That large, all encompassing hand cuts off his air way, cuts off his circulation in a flood of possessiveness that makes Bucky;s blood run so hot so fast that his world tips into darkness. He’s moved then, trying to swallow the words he had but he can barely get his muscles to flex. He can feel the bruising points of fingers pressing into his neck and then a hard, deep press of lips against his own. His own lips part immediately for Steve’s invading tongue and as the grip eases to allow breath, Bucky sucks in air straight from Steve and a soft, dizzying moan escapes him. The hand on his throat, the tongue pressing so deep into his mouth Steve can surely taste the words Bucky had lost, the press of that solid body against his own; the sound of shattering glass is so distant as Bucky’s world is washed in warmth by those striking words.

He slumps a little, lost in the sensation of Steve’s powerful arrival and Bucky’s thoughts are as jumbled as his body when the kiss breaks and he hears Steve speak. Never had Bucky felt so desired, so loved and wanted and hell, even needed as he did in Steve’s arms. That mission from HYDRA had been the best fucking thing he ever did. As the shock softens and blood flow resumes to Bucky;s brain, he realises Steve is pulling him away and he swallows a couple of times to enjoy the lingering restrictive sensation around his throat, and smiles quite blissfully.

His entire movement is turned towards Steve and his hand comes to settle on Steve’s chest, fingers tightening in the lapel of his jacket as he’s led wherever Steve deems fit. While he’s trying to work out how angry Steve is, there’s no fear in his blood. Only excitement as his mind races to explain, apologise, make it up to him. Unfortunately all his muddled mind can think of to say as he moulds himself to Steve’s side is:

“I left the drinks at the bar...”

#goodsouldier #( muse || bucky )#( goodsouldier || mafia au )#cw: possessive behaviour

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agnesacacia · 5 years ago

Text

Hansy Holidays

Pansy Parkinson hated these things. These insufferable fundraiser galas her mother insisted on throwing every few months, where they would honor some wizarding organization or another and all prominent members of wizarding society were invited to donate toward the cause. Because Pansy's mother, like all good pure blood witches, was a philanthropist. Honest to Merlin, that's what the woman called herself, like it was her career. A position that had been drilled into Pansy so hard that even at Hogwarts when she'd had to discuss her future career plans, she'd insisted on 'philanthropist' like it was a job title. She'd never forget the way Professor Snape had rolled his eyes at her and dismissed her as a silly, idiot girl with no real ambition. Which, to be fair, back then that's exactly what she was.

Sure she did well in school. Well enough to be at the top of her house. Not as smart as Hermione Granger (the twat) but she did alright. But a career just wasn't what someone like her did. She was a Parkinson and Parkinsons lived off of their investments and old family money. They contributed to the wizarding world through fancy parties and donations to politicians. And they married other pure blood members and continued to make pure blood children who would carry on that legacy.

But now.

Now Pansy was twenty two, still living with her parents, and woefully and completely single without any sort of career option to speak of. Her days were spent planning these horrible gala events with her mother and becoming increasingly aware that she would rather be doing anything else in the world.

Especially when these galas involved them. The Golden Trio. Harry bloody Potter and his two little minions were always at the top of the guest list and any event that was hosted had to have at least one of the three to be considered a success.

So here she was, glowering across the room as she watched Hermione Granger, looking absolutely fab in a chic new designer robe, her bushy hair tamed into an elegant bun. Weasley stood at her side, looking just as fab in a dark purple robe that made him look distinguished and important, which she guessed he was now. Both of them. Weasley was an auror for Merlin's sake. And Granger was already a top ranking official at the ministry of magic, working in magical creatures rights or some such shit. It only made Pansy feel even more inadequate. Why yes, I'm a philanthropist. The phrase made her stomach turn.

Potter was no where to be found, but that was nothing new. He had probably been roped into some horrid discussion about goblin rights or some such rubbish by all the diplomats here tonight. Sometimes Pansy actually felt sorry for him.

Across the room Pansy's eye caught that unmistakable white blond hair. Draco bobbed into view, looking miserable as always. He caught her eye and nodded in her direction. She forced a smile back, but made no move toward him. There was nothing left to be said between them.

Draco's parents sent him to these things in their steed because they were both too traumatized to leave their manor. They'd been mysteriously and inexplicably pardoned for their war crimes at the insistence of Harry Potter himself, and for that the Malfoys donated to every cause Potter endorsed. It made very little sense, especially to Pansy, but it was why it was so important that Potter be seen at these events. Potter meant money. Money meant success and success meant that the Parkinson family upheld their status as wizarding royalty.

Pansy rolled her eyes and gulped down the last of her elf-made sparkling wine. It was sweet and gritty on her tongue and her stomach rolled for a moment. She hadn't eaten much that day and her head suddenly swam. She needed some fresh air. It's not as if she'd be missed. No one was talking to her anyway. People rarely did.

She exited the party off the main floor out into a secluded courtyard garden. It was a cool November night and the air felt good on her skin. The smell of jasmine surrounded her and she relished the quiet, the calm.

A small sound made her turn around. It was then that she realized she wasn't alone. A figure stood hunched against the garden wall. Pansy lit her wand and drew closer. As her eyes adjusted to the night, she found herself face to face with none other than Harry Potter.

He still looked the same as he did when they were in school even though someone had clearly tried to tame him. He still had that same messy black hair, same glasses that sat a little too crooked on his face (why didn't he get a new pair for Merlin's sake?) and upon closer inspection, Pansy soon realized he was wearing the same bottle green dress robes he'd worn to the Yule Ball in their fourth year. Her eyes swept the hem at his feet and wrists and she was little surprised to find it had been altered rather poorly with a growth charm to adjust to his height.

She resisted the urge to scoff. The man was the savior of the entire wizarding world, had endless funds from his own family name, as well as that of the Blacks which was no small fortune, not to mention the fact that any robe maker would happily have him wear any of their designs free of charge (simply for the publicity...it's how Granger remained so well dressed) and yet here he was, at one of the most posh galas of the year, still wearing the same dress robes from Hogwarts.

How did he even exist?

"Pansy Parkinson," he said her name as a statement and a rather slurred one.

"You're smashed, Potter," she answered and sure enough he brought a flask of fire whiskey to his lips and took a swig. He cheers to her, then took another longer drag.

"You best be careful," Pansy said, wrinkling her nose. The man reeked of the stuff. She was surprised she didn't smell him the moment she went outside. "About a dozen reporters are here, and whatever truce you have with Rita Skeeter will doubtfully apply to the rest of them. No one would ignore the Chosen One being completely pissed at the gala for the benefit of war orphans."

"S'pose not," he said. He pocketed the flask and pushed away from the wall. He took a tottering step and promptly stumbled into a bush. He landed hard on his knees, then rolled to the ground before settling on his back giggling.

Merlin.

Pansy pursed her lips. She should just leave him here. It's not like she and Potter were friendly after all. In fact, other than a few cordial greetings over the years, she hadn't actually spoken to him since Hogwarts. And of course back then, could that really be considered speaking? It was more like jeering. She was such a shit back then.

She did sort of owe him. There was that whole thing where she tried to turn him into You-Know-Who.

Pansy sighed and pocketed her wand. "Oh go on," she grumbled as she pulled Potter's arm over her shoulder so she could haul him to his feet.

He leaned on her heavily, and Pansy steered him toward the staircase that led up to her personal terrace. She cast a concealment charm as they climbed the steps. Best not to be spotted leading a drunken Potter up to her bedroom. Imagine the scandal.

She led him through her ornate French doors and into her suite to the adjoining bathroom. Waving her wand, she lit the room and deposited the now hiccuping Potter onto the toilet and began rummaging through her medicine cupboard.

"I was saving this for a special occasion," she said as she thrust a vial of pearly pink potion in Harry's direction. "But I guess your needs are greater than mine, so bottoms up."

Potter studied the concoction with eyes that were very nearly crossed. "Wha izzit?" he slurred.

Pansy raised her eyebrows. "You don't get sloshed often enough, do you Potter? It's a sobering potion."

"Who sayz I wanna be sober?" Potter asked her.

Pansy shrugged as she settled herself on the vanity, her legs crossed under her black silk robe. "Fine," she said, "piss your pants in front of half of the Daily Prophet. Be my guest, but don't say I never tried to help. Besides, as smashed as you are, it probably won't make you completely sober. You'll still be a bumbling idiot...don't worry."

Harry glared at her a brief moment before uncorking the vial and tossing the potion back. It took about ten seconds before Pansy could see the effects. His eyes cleared and his pink face faded back to its normal swarthy tan. It was another thirty before he was vomiting.

Pansy couldn't help but smirk. "Forgot to mention that part," she said as Harry glared up at her from the toilet.

When he'd finished he sat back down heavily, took off his glasses and rubbed at his face vigorously. Pansy watch him impassively with her arms and her legs crossed. She summoned a glass and filled it with water. She handed it to him and he muttered a thanks before gulping it down.

Pansy watched as Potter buried his head in his hands, and for the first time since she saw his drunken arse in the courtyard, she wondered just what had driven the Boy Who Lived to get uncontrollably smashed. She thought about just asking him. It's what she would have done if it were anyone else sitting before her. But this was Harry Potter. And she was… well. She was Pansy Parkinson and while she and her family hadn't technically been death eaters, they weren't not death eaters. No matter what her mother pretended to be these days, she and Pansy's father, her aunts and uncles and cousins, they were all happy to sit the sidelines during the war and favor whoever won. To be fair, that's what most pureblood families did. They weren't really all that different than the Prewetts and the Greengrasses and even the Fawleys who never officially declared sides and didn't have any prominent family members representing them as death eaters. But they didn't fight either.

Pansy didn't fight. She didn't fight. That horrid seventh year at Hogwarts...the things those Carrows wanted them to do. What Amycus made her do...the things he did to her. And she'd survived it all by hiding behind her pretty face and her blood status and her last name. No one cared. Not even Snape and McGonnagal, not even the Weasley girl and Longbottom and all those pitiful DA members who fancied themselves saviors. They had new injuries every other day and Pansy thought they were insane, the lot of them. To resist was the die, didn't they see that? And many of them did die. They did.

Even Harry had died.

The Boy Who Lived had died, then lived again. A miracle many still didn't understand, Pansy included. But here he was. The boy wonder. Vomiting in her toilet.

He finally looked up at her and Pansy had a momentary shock that Harry Potter wasn't actually bad looking. Without his glasses, Pansy could clearly see those green eyes everyone always talked about. She realized with a jolt that she'd never actually been close enough to him to actually see. See the way they sort of glowed. Like emeralds, like actual jewels.

Her heart fluttered. And it made her angry. It made her feel vulnerable. And she was so done feeling vulnerable.

"So, Chosen One," Pansy said snidely as she studied her fingernails. "What's with the fire whiskey anyway? Felt like livening up the party out there? I admit it is rather dull."

Harry shook his head. "I've just been going through some things."

Pansy scoffed. "Going through some things? I suppose having thousands of admirers falling at your feet isn't enough for you? Now you've got things?"

Harry glared at her. "You haven't changed a bit, have you, Pansy Parkinson?"

Pansy laughed meanly. "No more than you. Still feeling sorry for yourself, are you? Still fancying yourself the poor little orphan? That's why you're here tonight, right? To help war orphans like yourself? Some job you're doing of it, getting pissed and hiding in a courtyard."

Harry stood up. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?"

"You don't. All you know is parties and jewels and money and Merlin why am I even talking to you?" He turned to leave. "Thanks for the potion. I'll be going now."

Pansy stood up now. "You think you're the only one who's suffered? You think you're the only one who's got things? We've all got things, Potter. You're the just the only one who's allowed to wallow in them, is that it?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Harry snarled. "I put on a happy face and smile for the bloody cameras and I come to these parties with people who would have stabbed me in the back five years ago, and I do it all because I was there, Pansy. I am the one who saw the dead bodies and the kids crying and I have a godson who will never know his parents, and yes, I was bloody one of them. And where were you that night? Fleeing. Just like the coward you always were. Now if you'll excuse me." He turned to leave again and in a rage Pansy waved her wand with such viciousness that the bathroom door slammed shut.

"Coward, you think I am?" Pansy said softly and her voice was low, dangerous. "Do you have any idea what it was like at Hogwarts that year? Do you have any idea what we all went through, what I went through. Of course not. All you've heard is what your precious girlfriend told you. The blood traitor that the Carrows all but ignored unless she was making trouble. But me? Did they ignore me? Did they let me just be? Do you have any idea what it was like for me, Potter? To be Amycus's little plaything? Because he liked me Potter! He liked me, and it didn't matter that I was a student, that I was a young girl, or that I said no. All that mattered was that he liked me, and he wanted me, and I was pure blood and the Dark Lord promised him pure blood. And no one could protect me. All I could do was endure it all. You think me a coward, do you? For fleeing? You don't know anything, Potter!"

She was crying now and her hands trembled on her wand. She didn't know why she was telling him this. She'd never told anyone, not really. Draco knew, but only because Amycus used to brag to him about it. How he'd stolen his girlfriend. Another way to rub it in Draco's face that he and his father had fallen out of favor with the Dark Lord. Amycus used to whisper things in Draco's ear. Filthy things. The filthy things he'd done to Pansy, and he'd laugh and lick his lips and Draco could do nothing. Nothing except look at her guiltily, pityingly.

Sort of the way Potter was looking at her right now.

She didn't want his pity. She didn't want his guilt. She just wanted him to understand. To understand why she did what she did that night. Why she wanted it all to just...end.

"You're right," Harry said, and he looked like he might vomit again. "I don't know anything. I didn't know. And...I'm sorry. That's...horrible."

Pansy seemed to deflate. She collapsed on the toilet seat, and buried her face in her hands. Potter handed her a wad of toilet paper and she took it, carefully dabbing at her kohl lined eyes.

"I shouldn't have told you that," she muttered. "It's not something I want people...knowing."

Potter sighed and sat down opposite her on the edge of her immaculate bathtub. He sat there quietly for a moment.

"Ginny's chucked me," he said finally.

"What?" Pansy was still drying her eyes, still trying to calm her racing heart.

"It's the things I've been dealing with. Ginny. She's chucked me for some Bulgarian beater, Boris Vulchanov."

"You're kidding," Pansy said.

"I know. I'm being an idiot...I know it doesn't compare to what-"

"That twat!"

"What?"

"That unbelievable twat. I never did like her, no matter what Blaise always said. What a bloody idiot. Chucking the Boy Who Lived for some daft quidditch player. And a foreign one at that."

Potter raised his eyebrows. "What do you c-?"

"I suppose she thinks she's all high and mighty now that she plays for the Harpies."

"I really didn't think you'd-"

"I mean, honestly. Boris Vulchanov? He's not even good looking. And he talks like he's taken one too many bludgers to the head. The bloody idiot."

Potter cocked his head to side. "I don't know what's more strange. Your outrage or the fact that you know who Boris Vulchanov is."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous. Everyone knows who Boris Vulchanov is. And if you ask me, he'll never live up to his father's stats. He's too thick."

Potter's mouth was hanging open.

"Ginny bloody Weasley chucks Harry bloody Potter…" Pansy shook her head in disbelief.

Harry frowned. "Well I'd rather her chuck me than stay with me just because I am...who I am."

Pansy leveled him with a glare. "That's not what I meant," she said. "It's just that the two of you… well Merlin if Harry Potter and Ginny bloody Weasley can't make it work, then what's that say for the rest of us?"

"That we're just as fucked as everyone else?"

Pansy surprised herself by laughing.

And Harry cracked a smile.

And Pansy's heart fluttered again.

She heaved a sigh. "Well I take back what I said before. You totally deserve to get smashed." Taking out her wand again, she summoned in a bottle of Scotch, the good kind, the kind she saved for special occasions.

"Whatever they say about muggles," Pansy said as she poured out two glasses. "They know how to make their liquor. Here." She handed him a glass and raised her own. "To Ginny bloody Weasley and Boris Vulchanov. May they both fall off their brooms."

Their glasses clinked and they both took a healthy sip. "Good, eh?"

Potter smacked his lips and nodded. "You know, my uncle used to drink this stuff like it was liquid gold. I always thought he was exaggerating."

"Was it awful? Being raised by muggles?"

Harry snorted. "It was awful being raised by the Dursleys, yes. Because they were muggles? Nah."

They sat in silence a bit longer, each sipping their Scotch, each lost in their own haunted memories.

"I'm sorry," Pansy said. "About what I said earlier. And about...well. You know. When I wanted to hand you over. I thank god every day that no one listened to me."

Harry drained his glass and poured them both another.

And they sat there. Together in Pansy's oversized bathroom, sipping muggle Scotch and silently forgiving each other.

Harry saw Pansy again about a month and a half later. She was standing in line at a shop in Diagon Alley, her arms filled with brightly wrapped parcels. She wore gray robes, stylishly cinched at the waist with a long matching cloak that was buttoned to her throat. A light pink scarf circled her neck and her black hair was windswept, her fringe a bit mussed and her cheeks a bit pink.

Harry caught himself staring before he realized it.

If he was completely honest with himself, he'd thought of Pansy Parkinson more than he'd have liked in the past weeks. It was a bit...annoying really. He often wondered what she was doing, who she was with, what she was wearing that day. It was absurd.

And then there was that trip to Azkaban.

After arresting Corban Yaxley, having taken years to track him down, Harry had wanted to personally escort him to Azkaban, as the man had managed to escape ministry clutches three times already. After depositing him in a high security cell, Harry had found himself standing in front of Amycus Carrow.

The man was lying on a low, hard bed. His legs were crossed as he thumbed through a copy of Witch Weekly. He looked so...at ease. Comfortable. And the rage that hit Harry was so hard that it was alarming. All he could think about was what Pansy had said. What this...scum...had done to her. He nearly reached through the bars and cursed the man right then. He'd settled for incinerating the Witch Weekly.

He watched Pansy pay for her items and exit the crowded shop. It was nearing Christmas and Diagon Alley was a bustle with witches and wizards scrambling to find gifts. Harry followed her outside into the snowy street. She had taken out her wand and was levitating several parcels and shopping bags, making her way toward Weasley's Wizard Wheezes.

Harry entered the shop behind her and wasn't surprised to find that the store was more crowded than ever. Fred and George had just launched a new product that was selling like wildfire. Harry had actually had a hand in its development and was quite pleased to see its success.

"Messenger Diaries for sale over here," called out a familiar voice. "Step right up, there's enough for everyone. The perfect holiday gift." George was manning the Diaries sections and though his face was a bit red, he seemed to be enjoying himself.

The diaries really were a brilliant new invention and Harry and Ginny had actually gotten the idea from that old diary of Tom Riddle's (though they'd never admit it to anyone but each other). When Ginny joined the Harpies, she'd had to move to Holyhead, of course, which meant she and Harry rarely found time to see each other. And then there was the match schedule which took her around the world and with Harry busy with auror training and his work with the ministry, it was becoming harder and harder for she and Harry to keep in touch. Owls were much too slow, and flooing required a fireplace, and was always a bit uncomfortable. If only there was a way to write messages to one another that they would receive instantly.

"I hate to say it," Ginny had said, "but I sort of wish we had something like Riddle's old diary. It was bloody convenient being able to chat with him all day."

"Well if Riddle could do it, why can't we?" Harry had said. And so he had enlisted Fred and George's creative minds to help. It was quite simple once they got the logistics down. As long as two people had diaries, they could write to each other.

"Like walkie-talkies," Harry had mused, though the twins had no idea what he was talking about. But Fred took it a step further and enhanced the product so that one could chat with anyone else in the world who also had a diary.

"All you have to do," he'd explained, "is write their name at the top of the page, like this." He demonstrated by writing "Ron Weasley" at the top of a random page. "And now you just..." He took out a quill and wrote Hey git, don't think I didn't see you pocket those dung bombs. You owe four sickles or I'm docking it from your pay.

From across the room Harry and Fred had watched Ron's diary chirp. He opened it, read the message and frowned. He turned and made a rude hand gesture at Fred who merely waved.

"Neat, eh?" Fred asked.

"Brilliant," said Harry.

"We're going to make a killing of it. All thanks to you and Ginny. Don't worry, you two will get your share."

"Don't be daft," Harry protested. But Fred and George were very careful accountants. They were always sure Harry got his share in his investment and despite all Harry could do to discourage this, he continued to find fat amounts of gold in his Gringotts vault, deposits marked Weasley Bros Inc.

Harry watched Pansy head straight for the Messenger Diaries. She inspected several different styles, for the twins had different cover designs for sale. There was the standard brown leather, but also an assortment of designs ranging from deep purple with silver stars to vibrant orange and red stripes.

Pansy selected a shimmering pink that came with a matching quill and Harry smirked. He remembered how Ginny had detested the pink one. She then selected an emerald green one before making her way to stand in the curling line to get to the cash register. Harry saw that the twins had hired several new faces to help in the Christmas time rush, among which he spotted Colin and Dennis Creevy. They stood at adjacent registers, each wearing a matching smile and magenta robes.

Harry followed Pansy as she exited the shop and snaked her way through the crowded street, her parcels floating along behind her. She held her head high, her narrow hips sashaying as she strode along, quite oblivious to Harry following her.

She paused outside Madam Malkin's and surveyed a robe in the window display. When she went inside, Harry took out his own messenger diary. He turned to a new page and wrote her name at the top. Pansy Parkinson.

Fancy a cup of tea?

Her response came quicker than he would've thought.

Bout time you've asked. Seeing as you've been following me all afternoon.

Harry laughed out loud.

Meet me at Rosa Lee's in ten minutes?

More like twenty. I've just found a set of robes to die for. Must try on first.

And so Harry found himself, twenty minutes later, sitting in a crowded tea shop, across from Pansy Parkinson as she sipped her tea and nibbled on a biscuit shaped like a snowman.

Her cheeks were still pink from the cold, and her lipstick left red stains on the teacup. Her fingernails were perfectly manicured, painted a bright, festive gold that matched the studs in her ears. And she looked...beautiful.

Harry couldn't help it. She did.

"So," he said. "Er, Christmas shopping?" He nodded at her parcels and bags which now floated above their table, bumping gently into neighboring parcels as other patrons levitated their purchases as well.

"Ah yes," Pansy said. "All the obligatory gifts. New quills for Mum, shiny new cauldron for Dad—one he will never use, mind you. Let's see, a new hat for Grandmum, which she will surely detest but then...she detests everything. Some sweets for the house elves...let's see, what else..."

"Who's the second diary for?"

"Oh, I'm sending that to Daphne. She and her family moved to America, didn't you know? Just before all hell broke out here. I expect they'll move back after Astoria graduates Ilvermorny, but who knows. Daphne seems quite at home there. Met an American bloke she seems quite enamored with. It's a shame really. She's the only real friend I have left." Pansy smiled wistfully and took a sip of tea to hide her sadness. But it was there. Just under all the makeup and beauty potions, Harry could see it.

Harry didn't really know Daphne Greengrass. She was in his year, but being a Slytherin and one of Pansy and Draco's lackies, he never gave her the time of day. Of what he remembered of her, she was quiet, pretty, and was often found sniggering at something mean Pansy or Draco had said about him.

"And what brings you to Diagon Alley? Christmas shopping too?" Pansy asked him politely.

Harry frowned. "Er, yes. Kind of. I—well, Christmas this year might be a bit...awkward for me, considering…."

"Ah," Pansy nodded. "Considering the She-Weasle chucked you and you spend Christmas with her family every year."

Harry nodded. "Yes, she er—owled me that she was bringing Boris home to meet the family. Puts me in a bit of a strange position."

Pansy rolled her eyes. "The twat," she muttered under her breath. And despite the fact that Harry's impulse was to defend Ginny, he couldn't help feeling a perverse thrill at hearing Pansy's disdain. Part of him agreed. Yes, Ginny was a twat. He was angry with her. And everyone else in his life seemed very eager to stay on neutral territory when it came to Harry and Ginny's breakup. And he couldn't blame them, not really. Half of his friends were related to her, for Merlin's sake. And the other half –well….they adored her. Most people did.

But not Pansy. And that was...refreshing.

He raised his teacup and cheersed her. "So I fear my Christmas this year will very much consist of me popping into the Burrow for half an hour, just enough to drop off gifts and ensure Mrs. Weasley's feelings aren't hurt, then spending the rest of the day at home with my very old, surly house-elf and a portrait of a woman who hates my very existence."

Pansy wrinkled her nose. "I doubt that a dozen or more wizarding families wouldn't very much welcome the Boy Who Lived at their Christmas table."

"Yes, that's just what I want," said Harry sarcastically. "To spend Christmas dinner being toasted and saluted and asked to recount how I'd died and come back to life. That's in the real spirit of the holiday."

"Perhaps not," said Pansy. "Though might be better than spending Christmas alone."

"I suppose you have some lavish pureblood party to attend?"

Pansy sighed. "Well, yes. The Parkinsons are rather connected. Every Christmas Eve the Notts throw this large, ridiculous dinner party where we purebloods stand around together and congratulate ourselves on our numerous achievements and blessings...and until recently discuss how the muggles and muggleborns were destroying our society. But oh no, not anymore. Now it's all about integration and tolerance and creating a new world where wizards and muggles coexist peacefully. All thanks to you and Granger, really."

"Is that so?" Harry said.

"It's all very hypocritical. But at least the wine is good."

"I suppose you have some pureblooded suitor lined up to be your date to this party?"

Pansy snorted into her tea. "Are you serious, Potter? You think I have suitors? First of all, what bloody year do you think this is? And secondly… I don't suppose you read the papers do you?"

Harry gave Pansy a blank stare.

Pansy sighed. "You know Rita Skeeter might be on a tight leash when it comes to you and your posse, but unfortunately for the rest of us...we are free game. And her favorite topics are those of us who were so bold as to oppose you during the war. There's an article in the Daily Prophet every other week about me."

"About what?" Harry said, confused.

"Oh, usually some snapshot of me with an unflattering look on my face with some appalling caption like, 'Pansy Parkinson, Underground Death Eater Cult?' or 'Pansy Parkinson's Secret Pregnancy- how she sacrificed her baby to the Dark Lord!' She almost always begins the article by reminding everyone that I was the one who of course suggested we all turn on you at the battle of Hogwarts. No one wants anything to do with me, least of all romantically. Anyone seen with me in public runs the risk of being my alleged baby daddy to the child I used for some spell to bring back You-Know-Who, or some such rubbish."

"I see," Harry said slowly. He glanced around.

"Oh, don't worry," Pansy said. "There aren't any reporters here. And no one has been following me today...well except for you."

"How did you know I was following you?" Harry asked. "I thought I was being very discreet."

"Oh, you were," Pansy assured him. "You were the proper creep, don't worry. You'd make a fine serial killer. But lucky for me, I've had ample experience with predators and I've become quite adept at the tracking charm. It alerts me to anyone following me, or anyone getting too close. It only took once of being attacked by one of your many fanatics for me to realize I need to protect myself a bit better."

"The tracker charm?" Harry asked. "I've never heard of it."

"Ah, well you wouldn't would you? Learned it seventh year. Flitwick sort of took it upon himself, as did most of the other teachers, to take on teaching some more defensive spells. You know, since Defense Against the Dark Arts had ceased to exist."

"Ah," said Harry.

"It's bloody useful," Pansy went on. "Perhaps you should learn it yourself. Might save you the trouble of being harassed for autographs every few minutes."

"Perhaps you might teach it to me," Harry said before he could stop himself.

Pansy started to say something, but stopped as a blush crept over her cheeks. She buried her face in her teacup in an attempt to hide it, but Harry saw. And his heart lurched.

"So this party," Harry hedged. "At the Nott's… will there be press there?"

"Of course," said Pansy. "They never miss it. The Notts actually invite them. Pay them off to write something positive."

"And will the press be writing about you then?"

"It's likely, yes." Pansy said wearily.

"Well," said Harry, and here he started to smile. "What would they write about if you showed up with a pure blooded suitor on your arm? A certain, war hero of a certain...notoriety?"

Pansy frowned. "Potter, are you actually saying…?"

"Well, why not?" Harry asked. "You said it yourself, anything is better than being alone on Christmas. And this gives me a good excuse to duck out of the Weasleys. And of course, I still owe you for saving me from embarrassment at the last gala. Least I can do is return the favor. Imagine what the papers will say if they see we are friendly. All is forgiven, you're not a death eater, and so on."

Pansy looked down at her plate a moment. "Is it all forgiven then?" she asked quietly without looking at him.

Harry reached out and impulsively took her hand. It was warmer than he thought it would be, her fingers small and delicate. She looked up at him, her expression both surprised and hopeful. "There's nothing to forgive," Harry said softly. "The war was...hard. On everyone. I understand more now...what you were going through."

Pansy visibly swallowed and nodded, giving his hand a gentle squeeze back.

"So it's settled then?" Harry said lightly. "You'll take me with you to Nott's Christmas party?"

"On one condition," Pansy said, tossing her hair back.

Harry raised an eyebrow.

"You wear proper dress robes. Not that ghastly one from the Yule Ball. Something new. Something posh."

Harry laughed. "It's a deal."

Pansy stood in front of her full length mirror and studied her reflection. It'd been a long time since she'd dressed with such care.

Her hair was sleek and straight, and it framed her face perfectly. She wore it just as she always did, a black bob with a thick straight fringe that hovered just over her blue eyes which she had lined with kohl, a thick coat of mascara and shimmering eyeshadow. Her complexion was perfect thanks to a beauty potion she'd splurged on and her lips were berry red and matched her robes –the latest fashion – floor length with a plunging neckline that went down past her sternum. The sleeves were tight to the wrist where they flared out slightly and it was made out of a slinky new material that clung to her every curve. She'd paired it with a short gold necklace and matching gold chandelier earrings and when she moved, every bit of her seemed to sparkle. On her feet she wore a pair of simple black stilettos, her creamy white legs peaking out from a slit in the robe.

Pansy checked the clock. Potter would be arriving in just a few minutes time by floo and then from Pansy's suite they would floo to the Nott party together. She tried (and failed) to calm her fluttering heart, reminding herself repeatedly that Potter was just doing them both a favor by accompanying her to the party… but the truth was, her mind seemed determined to think of this as a proper date. She'd be lying if she said she didn't feel a hint of attraction to him. Okay, more than a hint. And it made no sense because he was Harry bloody Potter, and she was Pansy bloody Parkinson and she'd spent most of her life despising him. But for what? Simply because Draco hated him, and she always did what Draco said?

Well Pansy decided to put that all behind her. All was forgiven. Isn't that what Harry had said?

Pansy checked the clock again.

She had no idea what Potter would be wearing. She'd received a number of messages in her diary a few days ago that had given her cause for concern.

H: Pansy, what's the difference between white and ivory? Is ivory just a dirtier white? Why does it cost more?

H: Should I get cufflinks?

H: What are cufflinks?

H: Do they honestly expect me not to wear trousers under the robe? Is that really the latest trend?

Pansy had finally taken pity on him and responded. P: Don't let them talk you into white. Ask for a forest green blended robe, calf length with matching trousers. And yes, get cufflinks, preferably gold.

And when Potter walked through Pansy's ornate fireplace a few seconds later, Pansy was almost rendered speechless by how closely he had followed her directions.

His robe was perfectly tailored, dark green with golden embroidery. It hit him at mid-calf, just as she'd instructed, and he wore matching green trousers underneath. The robe was cut close to his shoulders and waist, accenting both his broad back and trim waistline. He looked...good. Someone had actually succeeded in taming his wild hair (Pansy suspected Sleekeasy's potion) and he wore new glasses –black rectangular frames that complimented the sharp angles of his face and jawline.

"Well don't you look dashing," she said, recovering from her momentary shock.

He smiled at her. "Likewise," he said, his eyes sweeping her from head to toe, lingering just a moment too long at her plunging neckline.

Pansy flushed and swallowed. "Well, shall we go then?"

"Just a moment," Harry said. "I um...well. Considering it is Christmas and all. I...got you a present."

"A present?" Pansy said.

"Yes, you know. Gift giving is sort of a Christmas tradition, isn't it? Here." He took a small poorly wrapped parcel from his pocket and handed it to her.

She held it in her hand and frowned. "I didn't get you anything," she said bluntly.

Harry laughed. "Don't feel bad just yet. You haven't even opened it."

Pansy tore at the shiny red and white paper, revealing a small black box. She opened it and nestled inside in a pillow of velvet was a small gold bracelet with a tiny emerald in the center.

"It's got a cheering charm. Just something to spread the Christmas cheer is all. No need to get weepy about it," Harry said, sounding a bit panicked.

Pansy hadn't realize that her eyes had misted over. She blinked rapidly and looked up. "Thank you," she said. She slipped the bracelet onto her wrist and she immediately felt the charm's effects. Happiness bubbled in her chest and suddenly she was smiling.

"Strong," she said a little breathlessly.

Harry nodded and held up his wrist which bore a matching gold cuff. His smile was as wide as hers. "I thought we could both use a little fun tonight."

Pansy sighed happily. "You thought right."

"Well," Harry said, offering her his arm. Pansy took it and together they made their way back over to the fireplace.

"Oh wait," Pansy said. "I almost forgot." She went to her desk and picked up the invitation. It was spelled so that it allowed access to the party, which was strictly invitation only, very exclusive. Once Harry had basically invited himself, Pansy had owled the Notts to change her RSVP from one seat to two. She received a new invitation back almost immediately, that showed two guests were now allowed access to the party.

They flooed into the Nott's main foyer. It was a magnificent room. At least a dozen Christmas trees lined the walls, each decorated with silver and gold baubles, tinsel and sparkling lights. The ceiling hung with garlands and enchanted snow fell around them. They were greeted by a sweet little house elf wearing a red and green pointed hat with a matching dress and curling shoes. She looked straight out of the North Pole and every time she moved jingle bells sung from her hat and shoes.

"Right this way," she squeaked, and she led them out of the foyer, down a hallway and into the main ballroom. The Nott's manor was very large, but Pansy knew the ballroom had been magically enhanced to accommodate so many guests. It was quite crowded already. Witches and wizards mingled in a sea of colors, chatting and hugging and laughing. No one had noticed them yet, which Pansy was secretly grateful for, but she knew it was only a matter of time.

"Shall we get a drink?" Harry asked.

She nodded gratefully and pointed toward the bar positioned just to their left. Pansy ordered a glass of red wine, and Potter ordered a scotch. They were just turning away when Pansy heard her name.

"Hello cousin," It was Theodore. He leaned in and kissed Pansy on the cheek.

"Theo," Pansy nodded. "How are you?"

"Oh, you know, the same. The mastery at the department of mysteries is keeping me quite busy. My final project is due at the end of the- Potter?"

"Hello Theodore," Harry said, lightly raising his glass in greeting.

"I didn't know you'd- with Pansy?" Theo looked back and forth between the two of them as if waiting for some kind of explanation.

"Good of Pansy to invite me," Harry said. "I've been wanting to meet her family in full for ages. This seemed an opportune moment, seeing as it's Christmas and all."

"Er, yes," Theo said, eying Pansy, who merely smiled. Her cheering charm was in full effect and she was finding this entire exchange quite hilarious.

"Well… er, welcome?" Theo tried again. "This is my grandmother's house. She'll be….er….delighted that you're here."

Harry nodded gratefully and started to lead Pansy away. They left Theo standing there with his mouth agape and Pansy covered her mouth to stifle the burst of giggles that just exploded.

"This is going to be fun," Harry said softly in her ear, and Pansy's neck broke out in goosebumps. They meandered around the room, Harry's hand settled lightly on Pansy's lower back. Pansy watched people glance at her and then away, so used to avoiding her as they were. It was most comical once they realized who she was with. Their heads nearly rocketed off their necks as they did a double take.

"I didn't know Theodore Nott was your cousin," Harry said, taking a sip of scotch as they walked.

"Oh yes," Pansy nodded. "Our mothers were sisters. Both Warringtons."

"Is that so?"

"Of course. Though, poor Theo's mother died when we were very young. He was raised by his father, didn't you know? The death eater. I don't think anyone else in the world was happier than Theo was when the wanker was sent to Azkaban. I think he's secretly grateful to you for that. Ah, and Cassius is just over there. You remember Cassius?" She pointed at her other cousin who was standing just ahead of them. He wore green robes, similar to the ones Harry wore, and his golden blond hair was so carefully disheveled it was almost comical. He stood next to his date, a pretty brunette Pansy recognized as Eleanor Branstone, a muggle-born Hufflepuff several years their junior. Pansy studied Cassius. He looked as pompous and bored as ever, and she wondered if he were really interested in Eleanor, or was simply courting her to improve his family's image after the war.

"Ah, yes," Harry said. "Played Chaser for Slytherin?"

"Harry! Harry, good to see you!" Horace Slughorn seemed to materialize out of nowhere. Pansy watched as her old professor's reddened face smiled fondly and greeted Harry profusely. Slughorn was closely followed by Mr. Olivander, the wandmaker and another distant relative of Pansy's. And so for the next twenty minutes until dinner was served Harry was greeted and received and smiled and cajoled into hugs and handshakes, so much so that Pansy finally took pity on him and directed him straight to their table.

The ballroom was set up with two dozen massive round tables that seated twelve. Pansy and Harry were seated with an assortment of Pansy's cousins. Cassius and Eleanor, Theo and Tracey Davis, her two elder Parkinson cousins from her father's side of the family. Both heirs to massive fortune and had pureblood wives with 2.5 children, lived in wizarding villages and had upstanding careers at the ministry. They pointedly ignored Pansy on most occasions, but tonight they were all smiles, and "Happy Christmas" and "lovely weather we've been having" and "Oh, Harry Potter, what a pleasure!"

Dinner was delicious, of course. A six course masterpiece that left Pansy feeling comfortably full and warm. Her wine glass was never empty and she was feeling quite good by the time their plates had been cleared and the music started.

"Is that Celestina Warbeck?" Harry's voice came from her shoulder, his lips hovering just over her ear.

"Of course," Pansy said, turning toward the stage. "She sings every year."

Harry's eyes widened. "I've tried three times to get tickets to her show as a gift to Mrs. Weasley. They're always sold out instantly."

Pansy watched the aging witch in her glittering robe and her elaborately styled hair as she crooned out her classic hit, A Cauldron Full of Hot Strong Love. She shrugged. "I suppose I could introduce you. I'm sure if she would have known the famous Harry Potter wanted to get tickets to her show, she wouldn't refuse you a box seat."

Harry gave her a lopsided grin. "I don't suppose you'd care to dance, would you?"

Slowly couples were taking the dance floor, swaying together as Celestina switched tunes and started in on a Christmas song about the three Magi and their travels to Bethlehem.

So Pansy followed Harry out to the dance floor. The cheering charm and the wine and her full stomach were filling her with a sense of elation that she couldn't describe. It felt like a dream, swaying there in Harry's arms, his warm breath on her neck, her chest pressed lightly against his. This close, he smelled oddly like wood. Like he'd just gotten off of a broomstick.

She didn't even notice the cameras.

They danced for several more songs, and when Celestina took a break Pansy introduced her to Harry, and they chatted like old pals. Then there was more wine, and more people to meet, and house elves walking around with trays full of chocolate cauldrons spiked with fire whiskey, and Kingsley Shacklebolt, the bloody minister of magic, was hugging her, for Merlin's sake and before she knew it she and Harry were standing in the doorway under a patch of mistletoe, and Harry was saying something about Nargles, and then he was kissing her.

And for a bit, she couldn't breathe. Like the oxygen had been sucked from her lungs, and lights were flashing, and people were laughing, and his lips felt like soft cushions of heat, and he tasted like whiskey and chocolate, and something else that reminded her of quidditch games at Hogwarts and she still couldn't believe that Harry Potter was kissing her, and then they were dancing again. And the cheering charm and the wine and Harry, it was all happening so fast and so strange, and so amazing and she loved it, every minute of it…

"Harry, are you mad?" Hermione slammed a copy of the Daily Prophet down on the bar table, her face a violent shade of pink, and her hair looking particularly bushy. "Pansy Parkinson?"

Harry looked down at the moving photograph of he and Pansy kissing the other night at the Christmas party. He hadn't realized that he'd sort of pinned her against the door jam, one hand braced against the wall, the other wrapped tightly around her waist. Her hand cupped the back of his neck, and their lips moved passionately.

The memory of her lips and her body and the warmth he felt… it set his veins on fire. He couldn't keep the smile off his face.

"You think this is funny, do you?" Hermione's voice had taken on that shrill tone she used to use in school when she was telling him off for copying.

"Oh come on, Hermione," Ron said from Harry's right. "He's entitled to a rebound shag. I mean, Parkinson is an interesting choice, but-"

"Harry," Hermione said, cutting off Ron. She took a deep, steadying breath. "I know you and Ginny's breakup could hardly have been easy...but...but… Pansy Parkinson? Is this really the way to get back at Ginny?"

Harry frowned. "It's not about that," he said. "Hermione look. I know you don't like her. Hell none of us did. But she's changed. She's different now. I… fancy her."

"You fancy her?" Hermione shrieked. "Need I remind you that she it was she who suggested we turn you over to Voldemort that night at Hogwarts?"

"No, you don't need to remind me," Harry said crossly.

"Need I also remind you that she tortured us for six years of school? She made up that wretched song about Ron in fifth year and during the Triwizard Tournament she made up all those lies about you to Rita Skeeter? And what about Draco? How could you like someone who was so into him, like she was?"

"Hermione, come on. None of that was that bad."

"Not that bad?" Hermione's face turned even pinker. "Don't you remember fourth year when she sneaked into my dormitory and stole all of my underwear. Yes, all of it! And I had to write home to mum and dad to send me more. And then she just handed my knickers out to all the Slytherin boys who made up disgusting stories about how they'd gotten them. And then there was that whole period during third year when she charmed a tampon to fall out of my pocket every time I raised my hand in class."

Ron snorted and Hermione rounded on him with a glare so fierce Ron nearly backed away. "Sorry!" he said. "But...period." He raised his arms in surrender.

"Yes. Period. I'd just gotten my period that year and it was mortifying! Don't you remember any of this?"

Harry looked at Ron and raised his eyebrows. Ron shrugged. The truth was, Harry didn't recall either of those things. But then, he was a bit oblivious back then. "Hermione, come on," he begged. "I said she's different now. All those things happened in school. People change."

"Oh well, in that case, I'm sure you wouldn't mind a bit if I went off and snogged Goyle. I'm sure he's changed."

Harry sighed.

Hermione was studying the Daily Prophet again. "It says here that you went to the Nott's annual Christmas Eve party with her. Harry Potter was spotted sharing a mistletoe kiss with none other than pure blood bad girl, Pansy Parkinson."

"Bad girl," Ron chuckled.

"Could this mean the two have set aside their differences in the name of a budding romance, or was this merely revenge against Potter's newly split ex-lover Ginny Weasley, chaser for the Holyhead Harpies? See page eight for more details. Oh, honestly Harry. The press is having a field day."

"Oy!" Harry said, his voice rising a bit. "I don't complain when the two of you snog each other in public and your bloody faces are all over the cover pages. Just let this be… Meet her. Get to know her better. I promise things are different now."

"Do you mean to say...you're actually going to… date her?" Hermione said.

Harry shrugged. "I've invited her to Neville's New Years Party. She's said she'll go. I expect you can speak to her then."

"Harry, you didn't," Hermione said. "Don't you think you ought to… ask Neville if it's okay if you bring her?"

"Why would he care?" Harry asked.

"Well...because!"

"Hermione just because you hated her guts in school doesn't mean everyone did."

"Don't you remember how she cast that leg lock curse at him when he was trying to ask out Susan Bones? And how she actually pushed him down the stairs in fourth year? Or how she would call him Neville the Nutless? Or… or what was the other one? Oh yes, Limpdick Longbottom. She was just awful to him."

"But how did she know he was limpdicked?" Ron asked seriously.

"Well," Hermione said smugly. "That is the question, isn't it?"

Harry frowned. He didn't really remember Pansy being that terrible. But then… Neville was always being teased, especially by the Slytherins.

"Alright," Harry conceded. "I will ask Neville. But if he says it's fine, she's coming. And you best be nice to her. There's more to her than you know, Hermione. Trust me."

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest and looked doubtful. "Well there's Neville now. Go on and ask him."

Harry peered across the bar and sure enough, Neville had just arrived. He donned an apron and began his work behind the bar.

Ever since Neville quit the aurors to begin his mastery in herbology, he'd been working at the Leaky Cauldron alongside his girlfriend Hannah Abbott. Hannah's uncle Tom, the Inn's notoriously peculiar innkeeper had recently retired and left the entire establishment to her. And honestly it was probably the best business decision the man ever made because under Hannah's management, the Leaky Cauldron had become a completely different place. It was warm, and comfortable and served delicious food and drinks. It's rooms were no longer drab and dark, but decorated tastefully. It's service was impeccable and it was quickly becoming a favorite destination for witches and wizards all over the country, rather than just the entrance to Diagon Alley.

And for Harry, Ron and Hermione...it was basically a home away from home. They met up there nearly daily. They all lived in London now and with all three of them working at the ministry, it was a great place to meet up. And then of course, the pub always had friendly faces.

"Hi Harry," Neville greeted as Harry settled on a bar stool.

"Hey Neville," Harry began. "I was wondering...do you have a minute to chat?"

Neville shouldered a tea towel and turned to Harry, giving him his full attention? "'Course, mate," he said. "What's up?"

"So about yours and Hannah's New Year party… I was sort of wondering if it'd be okay if I… well, if I invited Pansy Parkinson?"

Neville grinned. "Well, of course. You can invite whoever you want."

"It doesn't bother you that...well that it's Pansy? You know, since she was sort of awful to you in school?"

Neville waved his hand dismissively. "Aw, Pansy's alright. She's changed a lot since then."

Harry nodded enthusiastically. "Right?" he asked. "That's what I've been saying." Neville followed Harry's gaze as he glanced toward Hermione and Ron.

Neville frowned. "Seventh year was harder on her than most people think. You three weren't there… you don't know how it was. Not really."

Harry paused and studied Neville. "What do you mean?" he asked quietly.

Neville lowered his voice and got a bit closer. "Well, it was the Carrows of course. They liked her. I knew what Amycus was doing to her. We all sort of knew. It was...kind of obvious."

"It was?"

"Well sure. Everyone always thought she had it easy...you know because they wouldn't punish her like they did the rest of us. She was always showing up late for class and not doing her work and smarting off to the teachers...but they'd just let it all slide, right? But then Amycus would make her stay after class with him most days and... she'd get all pale and shaky. I saw her afterward a few times and well...it wasn't pretty. I tried to help her. I really did. But you know Pansy… she snarled at me, told me to leave her alone." Neville shook his head as if to rid it of the painful memories. "Like I said, people thought she had it easy, but I'd rather take the cruciatus curse any day than what Amycus had in store for her."

Harry looked down at his hands. Had he really been so blind, all this time? Was it true that everyone knew? And that no one did anything? Harry looked up at Neville. There was still a scar on his cheek, a souvenir from the seventh year Harry missed out on. No. Neville had done something. Harry thought of the DA and the room of requirement and the stories he'd heard of the students rebelling…. They'd all done something, hadn't they? And they'd won in the end. He had to remind himself of that.

"And that night..." Neville went on. "The night of the battle when she… well when she wanted to turn you over?" Neville shrugged. "I sort of felt sorry for her, you know? She was so broken by then, like a horse. But honestly, ever since the war she's been right decent. You've heard about all the philanthropies she heads, right?"

When Harry gave Neville a blank look, Neville grinned. "Oh yeah, she's the head of loads of them." He started ticking them off on his fingers. "There's the War Orphan Welfare fund...you've heard of that one I'm sure."

"Of course," said Harry. "I donate every year. Teddy gets a good amount of benefits from it."

Neville nodded. "Hannah too. Even though she's of age and all, they give her a fair amount of money… you know, because her mother was killed by those death eaters sixth year? It helped rahab this place," he gestured to the Leaky Cauldron. "But at first Hannah didn't think she should get the money, you know? She thought the money should be used on kids and stuff. She tried to send it back, but then Pansy showed up one day with a bag of galleons and right near forced Hannah to take it. And the funny part was...even though she was being typical Pansy, yelling and insulting and being a right hag...she ended up hugging Hannah. Saying she was sorry for her loss and then they were both crying. It was mad."

Harry glanced back at Hermione. She was watching them carefully.

"And then there's the St. Mungo's Fund," Neville went on. "She raises a lot of amount of money for that one too. And you can tell things have gotten better there since she started heading the foundation. The hospital's expanded a lot. And now my mum and dad get their own rooms. It's more like a flat than a hospital room. They get their own kitchen and bathroom and sitting room… Me and Gran brought in a bunch of photographs to put up and old furniture from their house that my Gran kept all these years… and while they're still… you know... They seem happier. Mum makes her own tea now and my dad's even started doing a little magic again. Nothing crazy, just sort of turning the lights on and off and summoning his shoes, that sort of thing. Kid stuff you don't need a wand for...but it's done wonders. And I think it's because he feels more at home, like his old self. And I'm truly thankful for that."

"Blimey, Neville," Harry said. "That's great."

Neville nodded. "And that's not the half of it. She's on the board for the Welfare for Magical Creatures, the Muggle-born rights committee, the Severus Snape foundation, Pureblood allies…. Probably a few more. The papers don't report about any of that though," Neville said disdainfully. "They'd rather talk about her clothes or her hair or who they think she's shagging."

"Neville," Hermione interjected. Harry hadn't noticed that she'd joined them. "I've looked into those charities and while yes, they raise a lot of money, the Parkinsons and other pureblood families keep a substantial part of the money for themselves. So while sure, they might be raising money, they work it like a business and it's really not all that philanthropic."

Neville shrugged. "I don't know anything about that. I just see what I see, that's all. But anyway, I'd be happy if Pansy came to the New Years party. Hannah will be delighted too."

"Thanks Neville," Harry said, relieved.

Pansy peered over the edge of coffee mug and watched Draco pace the room furiously.

"I saw the Prophet this morning and I just couldn't believe it," he was saying, his hand running rampant through his blond hair. "I had to come over. I just don't understand. How could you do this?"

Draco had woken Pansy up this morning by pounding frantically at her front door, frightening the hell out of one of her house elves, demanding to see Pansy at once. She'd allowed him into her suite with a roll of her eyes. She knew this was coming.

Now she sat sipping her coffee and eating her breakfast, quietly watching him rant.

"It's Potter, of all people, Pansy. Potter! What are you trying to prove?" he glared at the wall, and wouldn't directly meet her eyes. "What's he trying to prove?" Draco muttered more to himself. "It's got to be an angle. Another swipe at me. Hasn't he gotten enough? How much more can I bend and scrape to him?"

"Draco," Pansy said firmly. "I know it's hard to imagine that absolutely everything in the world doesn't revolve around you, but honestly...this has nothing to do with you at all."

"Nothing to do with me? Pansy. You're my girlfriend and Potter just up and snogs you in public!"

"Ex-girlfriend," Pansy corrected.

Draco met her eyes then. "Pansy, I- I know things haven't exactly been...warm between us lately, but I just always thought..." he shook his head and looked away, his face growing red.

"You always thought I'd be here waiting for you," she finished for him.

He glanced at her guiltily before looking away again.

Pansy sighed. To be true, she couldn't exactly blame him. She always thought they would end up together too. After everything died down, with the war and the pure blood mania and his death eater ties. Once they'd both redeemed themselves enough to be accepted by society again… they would inevitably get married. Not because they loved each other, but because they both thought no one else would have them. It was unspoken between them. He was an ex-death eater, known adversary of Harry Potter, and she was the one who sold out the Chosen One. They belonged together. And then of course, there was their history.

She'd been in love with Draco Malfoy since she was eleven years old for Merlin's sake. It wasn't something she could just forget about. He'd been her first kiss, her first...everything. They used to meet in the Slytherin common room at midnight, used to find places to steel away together. And then sixth year happened… and Draco started drawing away from her. Hiding from her. Disappearing for hours at a time, coming back sick and shaky and afraid and it was obvious what was happening, but Pansy didn't know what to do so she just ignored it all… and then came seventh year and everything changed.

Draco wouldn't touch her after that. And he hadn't since.

Sure, he'd tried. He really did. There were late night floos and trips to muggle London for dinner dates, and small, chaste goodnight kisses and weekly owls that felt more and more like correspondences between colleagues, than romantic partners.

"Draco," Pansy said softly, setting down her coffee cup. "Come here."

He seemed eager to comply, sitting directly in front of her, finally meeting her eyes. She reached across the little sitting room table and took his hands in hers. She tried not to notice that he flinched at her touch.

"Listen to me," she said. "I love you." She held tight to him as he tried to pull away. "Wait, listen," she said. "I love you. I always have and I think I always will. But… it's been over between us for years. You and I both know this. And we both deserve better. I see that now. Maybe one day you will too."

His blue eyes met hers and she saw the hurt there, the pain. Not that they were over. But that she thought him worthy of...something more. She could tell that he didn't believe her.

"But why Potter, though?" he asked. "Why him, of all people?"

Pansy smiled softly. She looked down at her wrist, at the gold bracelet she hadn't removed since the Christmas party, though the cheering charm had long since faded. "I honestly don't know," she said.

Draco studied her a moment longer. "I don't like it," he said. "If he's using you, if he hurts you, I'll-"

"Oh Draco," Pansy shook her head softly. "I can take care of myself. You know that."

Draco looked at her a bit longer his expression changing from anger to guilt, to grief. Suddenly his eyes filled. He blinked a few times and bit his lip. "Pansy," he choked out. "I should have – I should have stopped him. Carrow. All those years ago in school. I just...I just..." he bit back a sob.

"Shhhh," Pansy said, soothingly. "There was nothing you could have done. We were just children. Both of us."

Draco let out a muffled sob. He brought Pansy's hand to his lips and held it there with his eyes closed. "I wanted so long to tell you...tell you that I was sorry...that I wanted to do more, but I was afraid. I spent so much time being afraid..."

Pansy waited, watching him silently as her own tears spilled over. They'd never talked about seventh year. Not really. They'd both suffered so much and yet they were both so proud, so stubborn. They should have found comfort in one another, but instead they had pushed each other away. Maybe now they could find healing.

"Come now," she said finally, brushing away her tears and sniffing. "Have breakfast with me. We've much bigger issues to discuss."

Draco sniffed and looked up. "Is that so?" he asked, wiping roughly at his blotched face.

"Yes," Pansy said with feigned seriousness. "What in the world am I going to wear to Longbottom's New Year party?"

"Master Potter, your guest has arrived."

"Thanks Kreacher," Harry said, feeling his heart rate increase. "Er, how do I look?"

The old house elf was momentarily surprised at being asked such a question, but his face quickly turned calculating as he inspected Harry's attire. "Very...fetching, sir. Kreacher thinks young Sirius would be most pleased to see you wearing his old jacket. He was quite fond of it, if Kreacher remembers correctly. It drove my poor mistress mad."

Harry turned back to his reflection and studied himself again. He'd found the old leather motorcycle jacket in Sirius's closet (now his closet since he'd moved into Grimmauld Place and taken over Sirius's old bedroom) and immediately fell in love with it. It was well worn black leather with a broken zipper and when Harry put it on he felt almost as if Sirius were hugging him, it fit so well. He smiled at his reflection. He looked...cool.

The leather was so supple and worn it was as if he were wearing cotton. He could just picture a teenage Sirius running around London in the seventies, hopping on the back of muggle motorbikes and sneaking into pubs to listen to muggle bands. Yes, poor Walburga Black must have been beside herself.

Taking the stairs two at a time, Harry made it to his front drawing room where Pansy waited near the fireplace. She looked….well. To be honest, she looked like a glass of sparkling pink champagne.

She wore a shimmering pink dress that fit so close to her body it was as if it were a second skin. It was of modest length, down to her knees almost, and had long sleeves, but the back was completely open revealing smooth, white skin all the way down to her tailbone. On her feet she wore matching high heels, the kind that said all kinds of interesting things, and Harry sort of lost his breath at the sight of her.

She smiled at him. Her eyes were lined with kohl and shimmering pink eyeshadow to match her dress. Her ears dangled with overlarge chandelier earrings and she carried a small black clutch. She looked beautiful and elegant and sexy all at the same time.

"Hi," Harry said, dumbly.

"Hi," she answered. "Lovely home," she said gesturing to the drawing room.

Harry looked around. Grimmauld Place surely had come a long way since he'd moved in several years ago. After months of Kreacher hounding him, Harry had finally relented to the renovations the house elf had in mind. And now the house was almost unrecognizable to those who had known it when it was headquarters for the Order. It was bright and airy and decorated in the most modern and comfortable furniture. It turned out that Kreacher was quite capable of removing all the portraits and tapestries that had been permanently charmed to the walls and he proved quite adept at exterminating all the pests that had been living in the old house. He'd even moved the old portrait of Walburga into a less central location where she wouldn't be disturbed as easily. (Removing it altogether was out of the question of course, and Harry didn't even suggest it.)

Within several months, with the help of a few house elves from Hogwarts whom Kreacher had befriended in his time there, the house became nicer than anything Harry had ever dreamed of living in. The hardwood floors had been refurbished and now shined bright mahogany. The carpets had been replaced, along with the curtains and the bed linens and the ghastly old curio cabinets with all their old, scary relics. The house was massive with eight bedrooms, six bathrooms, two formal dining rooms, two parlors, and one large seating area. The kitchen, located in the basement was now warm and inviting, and was where Harry spent most of his time entertaining guests, despite the ample space upstairs.

The house was of course much too large for Harry to be living in all by himself, and for a bit Ron and Hermione had been his housemates with Ginny a nearly constant presence. But it was decided (mostly by Hermione) that she and Ron needed their own flat to "grow as a couple" as she put it, and of course with Ginny's move to Holyhead and the ultimate demise of their relationship, Harry was quite alone as of late. That didn't stop Kreacher from making sure the place was spotless with fresh flowers and abundant holiday decorations dripping from every spare corner.

Harry watched as Pansy's eyes swept the room. "Thanks," Harry managed.

"You know, I saw the expose' in Witch Weekly last year, but it honestly didn't do the house justice," Pansy said, inspecting a fuzzy white throw pillow Harry didn't even know existed. Harry winced. He'd agreed to let Witch Weekly do that wretched article because he knew it would make Kreacher happy, but the publicity it sparked was a bit overwhelming. Grimmauld Place, a street in London which had once been quite abundant with witches and wizards, had fallen out of favor in the past century with the wizarding community. The surrounding houses had been sold off to muggles who had turned them into apartment flats that were rented out cheaply to mostly unsavory people. Crime had been quite rampant in the neighborhood when Harry moved in and even he had to be careful walking home alone at night. Muggles with guns were not afraid of the Boy Who Lived.

But then the article came out and suddenly those old townhouses were being sold and its muggle inhabitants evicted as prominent witches and wizards moved in. In a matter of months, Grimmauld Place had been transformed into a popular wizarding street. Everyone wanted to be Harry Potter's neighbor. Harry had lifted most of the enchantments that kept the house hidden...the Fidelius charm, for instance, and the unplottability charm, but many protective enchantments were still in effect. Otherwise his house would be swarmed by his many...fans. He'd learned that the hard way.

"Love the jacket," Pansy was saying, gesturing to his attire.

"Love the...er," Harry said, gesturing to all of her.

Pansy laughed, a soft tinkling sound.

"I figured we could apparate to the pub, if that's alright?" Harry asked.

"Of course," said Pansy. She withdrew her wand from the tiny clutch and Harry suspected she'd enhanced its interior with the extension charm. He took her hand in his and together they apparated.

They appeared together in an alleyway just outside the Leaky Cauldron. Loud music and shouts of laughter could be heard from the pub out on the snowy street. It seemed the party was already in full swing.

Harry led Pansy inside where they were greeted by a warm rush of bodies and noise. Harry spotted familiar faces everywhere, mostly friends he'd gone to Hogwarts with. Neville and Hannah were standing together near the door, each bedecked in paper hats and plastic beads.

"Harry and Pansy!" Neville shouted when he saw them. "Welcome, welcome." He draped his long arms over both their shoulders and it was plain to see he was already quite smashed. Hannah smiled widely, her own face flushed with drink. Harry thanked them both as they fetched him and Pansy glasses of sparkling champagne.

Harry kept an eye on Pansy as they were greeted by an array of guests. He'd been quite prepared to defend her presence, but it seemed no one really cared too much that she was there. No one greeted her quite as warmly as they greeted him, of course, but no one was outright rude.

They met Dean Thomas and Susan Bones, who were currently dating... along with Seamus Finnigan and a girl Harry recognized as being in Gryffindor but a few years their junior. Then there were Parvati and Padma Patil, each wearing identical golden dresses that were so short they might as well have been knickers. Lavender Brown actually kissed Pansy on the cheek as she greeted them, her blond hair piled in an array of curls so abundant she looked a bit like a lion. Ernie McMillan was there with his muggle girlfriend and of course the Weasley twins were there, dressed alike in their dragon hide jackets, Angelina Johnson and Verity Hopkirk on each of their arms both dressed prettily in sparkling dresses enhanced with some kind of spell that kept them changing colors. The effect was quite pleasant.

Then there was Luna Lovegood, wearing a white floor length dress that somewhat resembled a wedding gown. "Daddy says it's auspicious to wear white at the new year," she explained. "It marks the purity of new beginnings." Her date was a tall American bloke whom she introduced as simply Rolf. "We met in India," Luna said. "We were both studying the mating habits of the Dukuwaqa. They are really quite fascinating creatures."

They finally met Ron and Hermione, both of whom looked well into their cups as Ron had already spilled something on his shirt and Hermione hadn't bothered to spell it away yet. Hermione looked lovely in a black velvet cold shoulder dress that fit snugly up to her throat and Ron, despite the stain, looked rather good too in a matching black velvet waistcoat and dark washed jeans.

"Harry," Hermione said brightly as they approached. "I'd been wondering when you'd get here… Oh. Hello Pansy."

Pansy smiled tightly. "Good evening Hermione. Happy New Year."

"Yes, and you," Hermione said politely, glancing at Harry. "Er… Harry, what kept you? It's nearly ten o'clock. Hagrid has already come and gone. Said he had another party to get to."

"Ah, that's a shame," said Harry, genuinely disappointed. "I'd been hoping to hear about his holiday with Madame Maxine."

Ron chuckled. "Well, mate. I 'spect you'll hear all about it soon enough. Bloody lovesick puppy, he is."

"So what kept you?" Hermione hedged again. "I thought you'd be here ages ago."

"Er, got hung up at work," Harry lied. "Paperwork, you know."

"Ah," said Hermione. "That I do. I was just telling Ronald about a new piece of legislature I'm bringing to the wizengamot. It's advocating for the equal rights of non wizard magical creatures so that they can rightfully own property. Isn't it just appalling that house elves don't have any personal possessions? Goblins and centaurs too. Not legally."

"Quite," said Harry, glancing around the room. He had already heard about this new bill Hermione had been working on nearly a dozen times and was quite keen to change the topic.

"Yes, working in the department for regulation and control of magical creatures has come with many challenges," Hermione went on pompously, "But I feel I'm really making a difference, you know? And Pansy, how is the ah...philanthropy going?"

Harry felt Pansy stiffen beside him. He prepared himself to interject but Pansy spoke before he could.

"Quite well actually," Pansy said. "It's been an exciting time of year, what with Christmas and all. We've managed to almost triple the donations made for St. Mungos and the War Orphan fund is always growing. I expect we'll raise even more in years to come. It's quite rewarding to see the funds going to good use."

"I'm sure its quite rewarding for your pocket books, as well," Hermione said with a sardonic smile.

Pansy gave a quizzical look. "My pocket books?"

"Well, yes," Hermione said with a false conspiratorial wink. "I've seen the numbers. These philanthropies you head retain nearly seventy percent of their earnings. Quite a bit considering the national number is twenty five percent on overhead."

Harry bristled and opened his mouth to intervene but again Pansy beat him to it.

"Ah, while you may have noticed we retain seventy percent, it hardly goes into the pocketbooks of the heads. If you reviewed the numbers again, and paid attention to the donors themselves, you'd see that the heads of the charities, the Parkinsons in particular, donate much more to the cause than we retain. And I think you are referring to muggle organizations when you say the national percentage, yes? The national number for muggle philanthropies is around twenty five percent spent on overhead, as you noted, but what you're forgetting Hermione, is that muggle organizations get tax breaks and incentives which unfortunately the wizarding world lacks. Therefore our organizations are forced to retain a higher sum in order to pay for staff, food, event spaces etc. Perhaps you should take that to the wizengamot for a change in legislature. It would certainly make things much easier for me."

Harry smiled at the dumbfounded look on Hermione's face as Pansy politely sipped her champagne.

"Er, Neville's been raving about the changes at St. Mungo's," Ron said quickly, glancing nervously between Pansy and Hermione. "Says his mum and dad have been doing really well in their new apartments."

"I'm delighted to hear it," Pansy said. "As chair of the financial committee I've made it a special project to ensure long time patients, especially those suffering from ailments caused by dark magic at the hands of death eaters, are given the utmost care. They are the true heroes, after all."

"And you have that much power?" Ron asked. "You can actually tell them how to spend the money."

Pansy frowned. "Well of course. Haven't you learned this by now, Weasley? The people with the money have all the power."

Ron laughed.

Hermione scowled.

And Harry took a long drink of his champagne.

Pansy had never been to a party like this. It was lively and...fun. Everyone was quite smashed, dancing and laughing and cheering at unnecessary things. People she hadn't spoken to in years were offering her shots of fire whiskey and fetching her glasses of champagne and asking her about her life.

She was one of only three former Slytherins present. There was Bridget Farley, a girl a year or so younger than Pansy in school whom Pansy had rarely spoken, and then there was her own cousin Cassius Warrington who had accompanied his girlfriend and former Hufflepuff, Eleanor Branstone.

"Happy New Year cousin!" Cassius exclaimed when he saw her. "Fancy seeing you here."

Pansy stared. He was wearing one of those horrible black top hats with Happy New Year flashing across the brim and a hot pink lei. His shirt was unbuttoned at the neck and he was quite sweaty. Perhaps most surprising was that he was smiling for Merlin's sake. She'd never seen him looking anything but crisp and calm and surly.

"Happy New Year Cassius," Pansy responded. "And to you too Eleanor." The girl seemed surprised that Pansy knew her name. She wore a bright pink dress that was quite tight and quite short and Cassius looked at her with such adoration that Pansy felt foolish that she'd ever thought his feelings for her were feigned.

As midnight approached, Harry pulled Pansy close to him. His hands circled her waist and he eyed her in a way that made her feel hungry and soft and warm and feminine and just...deserving of...whatever this was. And as the Weasley twins cast large golden numbers in the air counting down the seconds until midnight, Pansy couldn't even watch the firework display raining above them, her eyes didn't leave Harry's and three, two, one...midnight arrived and so did Harry's lips on hers and she just sort of melted against him just like she'd done under the mistletoe just a week ago.

Shouts and cheers surrounded them, champagne bottles popped and fireworks exploded. Confetti rained down upon them, getting stuck in Pansy's eyelashes and Harry's hair, and Merlin she didn't want the moment to end. And then the music was thumping and she and Harry were dancing and he twirled her around until she was dizzy and then she was posing for a photo with Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones and Eloise Midgen, smiling like they were all best mates as Colin Creevey's camera flashed. And then she and Oliver Wood were having a lively discussion about Quidditch and Terry Boot was laughing at one of her jokes, and then she and Sue Li were comparing the best charms for levitation.

Around two in the morning the party started to die down. Harry found her near the bar, wrapped an arm around her and drew her close. He kissed her again, open and unembarrassed and she kissed him back, aware that they were surrounded by people but not caring one bit. He broke away a moment later and whispered close to her ear so that his breath sent shivers down her back.

"Come back to my place?"

They apparated together again, just outside the pub. It had begun to snow and the night felt mysterious and alive. When they arrived back at Grimmauld Place Pansy knew she ought to be cold, but Harry's presence warmed her.

"Do you-ah...want a drink?" Harry asked her when they got inside and were seated on the leather sofa in the drawing room. He seemed suddenly shy, unsure.

"Okay," she said.

Harry disappeared for a bit and returned a few moments later with a bottle of brandy and two glasses. He sat down next to her and poured her a healthy dose. "Hope this is alright," Harry said. "I couldn't find the Scotch and my house elf is...erm… a bit useless at the moment." He chuckled at Pansy's confused frown. "It seems Kreacher had a little New Year party of his own. Kitchen has about five or six Hogwarts elves, passed out on butterbeer."

Pansy laughed and raised her glass to her lips. The brandy was sweet and warm. She eyed him sitting next to her, nervously fidgeting. She knew he wanted her. She'd known he wanted her the night after the Christmas party too. She remembered how he'd flooed back to her suite with her, how he'd given her a chaste kiss goodnight, wanting more, but expecting nothing. She hadn't quite been ready then. She wasn't quite sure about him, about what it meant. But now. Now, she knew.

Setting her brandy glass down on the end table, she edged toward him. His lips parted as she drew near, and he leaned into her, their lips meeting in a heated tangle of limbs and tongues and hands touching everywhere. She gasped as his lips left hers and found her neck. His mouth made a trail of kisses down her throat, to her collar bone and she hitched up her skirt so she could straddle his hips. She felt his cock pressing hard against his jeans, and she sort of ground herself against him, just once and he let out a weak whimper. His hand snaked out from behind her back and slowly crept up the hem of her skirt, tracing the line where her knickers should be. Only she wasn't wearing any knickers.

He let out a deep groan as he realized this and his grip on her tightened.

"Hold on tight," he whispered and then she was being jerked upward as he apparted them to his bedroom.

They landed lightly at the foot of his bed and Pansy's hands got busy tugging at his clothes. His leather jacket fell to the floor, followed by his shirt, then his belt. He was more muscular than she'd thought he'd be, all sinewy and lithe biceps and abdominals and back muscles that rippled and moved under her roving hands.

She grabbed the hem of her dress and pulled it up, and up and up until it disappeared over her head, and she stood in front of him quite naked. He stepped back for just a moment and surveyed her body drinking it in with his eyes. The room was dimly lit, just a candle or two flickered on the dresser and she felt her skin singing under his gaze.

Then he was on her, his hands gentle yet urgent as they started at her hips then slid up until they cupped her breasts, his thumb flicking once, twice, three times over her nipple. Then he went south, his right hand sliding between her legs, lightly and gently and delicately touching her clit, just enough to make her gasp out his name and lean into him.

He pushed her gently down onto the bed, lifting her until her head rested on the pillows. He trailed his lips down her mouth to her throat, between her breasts, past her stomach until he fit his mouth directly on her cunt, taking her clit between his teeth he flicked at it expertly with his tongue. He pushed her knees apart and slipped a finger into her cunt where he curled and pulsed in an antagonizing rhythm, one that made her hands go numb and her mind go blank until all she knew was his mouth and her body and she was getting so, so close.

And then his mouth made its way back up her stomach, kissing along her rib cage as his hand cupped her breast. He took a nipple in his mouth and sucked lightly as her hands fumbled for his jeans. She tugged and pulled and was panting that she needed him inside her now and then he was, so full and so firm and he let out a deep groan that was almost a growl. He began moving back and forth, slowly at first, then faster and faster and Pansy gripped the back of his neck and guided his movements with her hips.

But she wasn't getting the friction she needed so she pushed him in the chest, rolling him over so she straddled his hips. She sat above him, his cock fully sheathed inside her as she rolled her hips, balancing on her knees. Reaching for his hand, she pressed his thumb against her clit, and taking her cue he began to circle it frantically. His other hand found her breast and he rolled a nipple in between his two fingers, tugging with just enough force to finally take her over the edge. She came with a barely contained scream and she rode him hard and fast until she felt him grip her tightly, groaning as he came with her.

She sort of collapsed on top of him, her breathing ragged and fierce and somehow still wanting more. They lay side by side for a few moments, catching their breath and relishing the satiation.

"You're amazing," Harry finally said, rolling onto his side and pulling her closer to him. His fingers trailed over her lightly, making circles on her arms and chest and breasts, her skin humming under his touch. And even though it was late, and they had both just come mere moments before, they found each other joined again.

This time it was slower, less urgent. She rolled onto her stomach and went up on all fours, guiding him into her so he could take her from behind. His hands kneaded at her and his thumb pressed and massaged into her. She rocked her hips into his, feeling his cock hitting her just right. He reached around at the last moment, his fingers finding her clit just in time for her to come all over again.

...

She woke up warm, comfortably hidden under a large white duvet, her face buried in a mound of pillows. Morning light streamed into the bedroom from the window's slightly parted curtains. She rolled over and stretched. Harry slept soundly next to her, his breathing long and deep and low.

She watched him for a few minutes still in awe of what her world had become. It was just a couple of months ago that she'd found him drunk in her courtyard moaning over wretched Ginny Weasley and accusing her of being a coward.

Now she was in his bed.

She glanced at the bedside clock. Ten-thirty. She yawned and stretched again, her limbs feeling liquid and soft and good. Rolling over she stood up and walked naked to the adjoining bathroom. Like the rest of the house, it was rehabbed with new tile and a large vanity and a steam shower, for Merlin's sake.

After taking care of her business, Pansy studied herself in the overlarge mirror. She cringed away at the way her makeup was smeared and the way her hair was sticking up in the back. Her eyes felt crusty with sleep and she could smell herself—old sweat and liquor and smoke from the night before. She left the bathroom and tip toed back out to the bedroom. Her dress had somehow been folded neatly and placed on the dresser, along with her shoes and her clutch.

Harry's house elf must have recovered, she mused as she grabbed up her things and brought them with her back to the bathroom.

The steam shower did not disappoint and Pansy emerged feeling quite refreshed. She used her wand to dry her hair and applied some light makeup so she felt more human. Then she reached into her clutch and extracted a pair of knickers, a soft bralette, a pair of black stretch pants and a long, soft jumper.

The breakfast table near the window had been filled in her absence. That house elf of Harry's really knew his stuff, Pansy thought. Harry still slept soundly, his soft snores rumbling from the bed. Pansy helped herself to a cup of hot coffee, a buttery scone and a plate of eggs. She sat there, enjoying breakfast and watching the London street below. The window had frosted over and snow was still flurrying down.

Pansy felt warm and safe tucked away at Grimmauld Place and for the first time in a very long time, she thought that maybe everything would be okay after all.

Harry roused a bit later and joined her at the breakfast table. They chatted and talked and perused the Daily Prophet and as morning turned to afternoon they fell back to sleep, a lazy new year's nap. And when the time came for Pansy to go home, Harry kissed her before she flooed away.

She hadn't been home two seconds before she heard her messenger diary chirp.

Harry Potter: What are your plans for dinner?

Epilogue

The Daily Prophet, December 25th, 2007

Harry Potter Marries Long Time Girlfriend Pansy Parkinson in Christmas Eve Wedding of the Century.

By Rita Skeeter

Notorious auror and hero of the wizarding world, Harry Potter, married long time girlfriend Pansy Parkinson last night during a beautiful Christmas Eve ceremony that had everyone raving. The bride looked stunning in an antique, goblin made wedding gown, a family inheritance from the 14th century. It had been refined to match the bride's particular sense of style with a six foot train and a floor length veil. The dress itself contained over nine million fairy pearls, each individually and voluntarily offered to the original Euphadora Parkinson in the 14th century after she single handedly saved an entire species of fairy from muggle fairy enthusiasts.

Pansy Parkinson, successful philanthropist known for her devotion to the War Orphan Fund and St Mungo's Home for Dark Arts Ailments along with the Foundation for Lycanthropy, which she co-founded with now husband Harry Potter, commented that this was "the happiest day of her life." She certainly looked happy as she walked down the aisle of St. Uther's Cathedral with a large bouquet of winter roses and a swarm of fairies following in her steed. She was preceded by chosen bridesmaids Daphne Greengrass and Hermione Granger, the bride's two most devoted friends, each looking radiant in floor length gowns of frosted blue.

Potter wore customary black dress robes, and was accompanied by his best man Ronald Weasley and godchild Teddy Lupin, a child of eight who shocked the crowd with his red and gold hair.

The reception was privately held in the bride's family home where dinner and dancing followed.

The couple now resides in their private residence, the former Black homestead on Grimmauld Place. They kindly request that in lieu of gifts to please donate to one of their many organizations listed below.

War Orphans Fund, St. Mungo's Home for Dark Arts Ailments, Welfare for Magical Creatures, the Muggle-born Rights Committee, The Severus Snape Foundation, Pureblood Allies, The Albus Dumbledore Foundation, The Granger Home for Newly Clothed House Elves, The Remus Lupin Foundation for Lycanthropy

#harry potter #pansy parkinson #harry x pansy #hansy #christmas #holiday #new years eve #kreecher #ron weasley #hermione granger #draco mafloy #neville longbottom

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kariachi · 4 years ago

Text

@kuphulwho A long bit of fic (like, nearly 2000 words) that isn’t quite for that au we were talking about earlier. More like, vaguely adjacent to it.

Kevin has a suitor. Looma sets Tasks. It’s a whole thing.

Coming to the palace at all should’ve been considered an act of courage. Or foolishness, as his friends swore up and down. Kreth was an adequate enough fighter, but the prince- The prince, who came into his shop three times a week to buy parts, could more than easily beat him. May the Goddess help him, he was a more powerful fighter than his sister, who’d proven herself unweddable already. There was no way he could win an engagement challenge, but he had to try. He couldn’t imagine another way to get a prince- adopted yes, off-worlder yes, but still a prince- to notice him.

Maybe he’d get lucky and be challenged in turn to better results.

So of course, when he’d declared his intent to the royal family, it had been the princess to step forward. Immediately Kreth began fighting off panic. This was off script, it should’ve been Overlord Zaell stepping forward to accept his challenge in her son’s stead. Maybe this was part of preparing for her eventual takeover? She’d looked back at her mother, then turned to him with a grin.

“My brother’s aren’t Khoron,” she started, and Kreth could’ve died right out of pure nerves (this is why he’d never become a warrior, he didn’t have the constitution for doing more than defending his store), “and I’ve questioned whether it’s appropriate to marry them off the Khoron way.” Somehow her grin got wider and more frightening. “Especially since they’ll most likely be supplying my heirs, surely the challenge would have to make up for both of us.”

He was going to die, a sentiment only heightened when he glanced towards the princes and saw ‘his’ with his face in his hand. The elder of them looked horribly amused.

“We’ve spoken before about the differences in these things between our cultures,” she continued, “and from Earth there’s a challenge I think is very appropriate for the situation.” She managed to stand straighter and taller and Kresh tried to do the same. He was well taller than her, but she still seemed to loom over him. Named appropriately, apparently.

“If you want to marry my brother, Prince Kevin of the Red Wind Kingdom, you will bring me three things- the sweetest sound, a star from the sky, and the fresh head of a forgehunter.”

Yep, definitely going to die. How? He ran a shop too small to have employees, how was he supposed to get a fucking star? And a forgehunter head?!

And then there was Kevin, out the corner of his eyes. A smile, small and apologetic and sending his heart straight into his throat like it always did…

“As you ask, Your Highness.”

~~~

Of course saying it was easier than doing it, and three days later found the door to his shop closed and Kresh sprawled behind the counter, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t know where to start.

“Are you alive in here?”

“Well since none of you will let me die in peace I suppose so.” The door to the backroom slammed loudly shut and his sister Prehra knelt by his side. She too looked horribly amused.

“Still trying to figure out how you’re going to win your little prince?” He didn’t even turn his head.

“I’m a failure. I can’t do this.” Tutting, she shook her head and stood up. The till chimed, but Kresh ignored it. He owed her money anyway.

“You know how his brother sometimes shops at Luxxi’s?” Her sister-in-law’s shop, little everyday things- hairclips, pens, that sort. The elder prince was an uncommon customer, but Kevin’d once said he enjoyed the quality of buttons they sold there.

“Yes?”

“Well, according to her, Zin asked him to confirm the gossip about this whole weird situation and he said that the key to the whole thing was to the smart about it.” The entire royal family hated him, he was sure of it.

“Because that answers any question ever asked.”

“I think,” she said as she knelt by his head, counting out money, “it means your expected to be creative with it.”

“There’s only so many ways to get creative with bringing in a fresh forgehunter head.” Prehra tutted again.

“You’re a smart man, I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

~~~

‘The sweetest sound’ was the least straightforward of the ‘items’ required of him, so Kresh decided to start there. It was practically a riddle. What was the sweetest sound? It had to be subjective, right? So was he looking for what she considered the sweetest sound? What Kevin did? That of the greatest segment of the population? (If the right answer turned out to be the sound of sugar boiling or something, he was going to throw something and someone, possibly Princess Looma herself.) In the end, he decided to hedge his bets on his own preference and gossip that the princess was just as bad as he was.

The next time Kevin walked into his shop, flashing him one of those heartsnatching smiles, he started recording.

~~~

‘A star from the sky’ was somehow easier and harder at the same time. At least there was a riddle and hope involved in this one, it was a straightforward request, but oh was it a request. There were plenty of creative ways to interpret it, and things he could do for it, but he didn’t want to risk not meeting standards…

He wasn’t a wealthy man, but he also wasn’t new to risky investments. There’d been no time limit, so he took a few months to track down and purchase a boxful of iron meteorites that he immediately upon delivery took to one of the smaller local forges to be worked. On his way back, he’d stopped into another local store to commission a simple box in the dimensions he needed.

A week later he had had a star-shaped box in his livingroom, along with a cut sheet of meteorite iron to match and the equipment to attach it to the lid.

He was careful to fill the box with the sort’ve parts Kevin was always looking for.

~~~

The forgehunter head that really had him worried. He wasn’t a warrior, not anywhere close, and it often took several of them at once to kill one of the great, spider-like beasts. It was a certainty that bringing back the head of a baby one wouldn’t be near enough, not for a prince, not for Kevin, not when he was already being smart enough with the other items that he kept thinking this must be some sort’ve trap. No, he couldn’t go easy, he couldn’t go smart, he was going to have to get an actual head, actually fresh, from an actual adult forgehunter.

As soon as he figured out how to do it without dying.

He’d been in the process of fretting over this, compulsively cleaning the shop into the night as he considered if he could maybe scrape together the money to get somebody to kill one for him when a loud thud had sounded in the backroom. Rarely a good thing, especially since he knew none of his kin would be visiting. It was a tense Kresh we made his way to the door, grabbing his battle axe along the way and slowly, cautiously, opening it to find a forgehunter head.

A forgehunter head, as fresh as could be expected, its wounds cauterized to prevent mess, and a stripped tail passing out of sight outside, familiar to anyone in the capital by now.

Kresh’s heart lodged in his throat.

The next morning, as the papers talked about the fresh meat gifted in the night to the orphanages, schools, and hospital, he packed up the head and his other gifts and made his way back to the palace.

~~~

His gifts- a star box with a meteor lid, a forgehunter head, and a recording of his prince’s laughter gathered over several visits that was playing on repeat- sat on display in front of him as Princess Looma and Prince Argit looked them over with critical eyes and Kresh tried not to fidget.

It was very difficult.

They kept muttering between themselves as their family watched on, in tones too low to be understood even if Kresh had known the languages they were speaking. There was gesturing, eye rolling, snapping of teeth, checking inside the box and then more muttering over the contents.

“So,” Overlord Zaell asked when, he assumed, she got bored of the show, “has he met our exacting standards?”

“Well,” the prince said, still eyeing the items, “the head’s pretty small.” Kresh glanced up to see Kevin, stood at Warlord Gar’s side, silently glaring murder.

“We already knew he wasn’t a warrior,” the Warlord pointed out, and his children hummed a reluctant agreement. Crossing his arms, Argit looked Kresh over.

“Don’t make us regret this,” he said, “or you’ll regret it.”

All the tension of the past months sloughed away like sand from a glass as the princess lifted him off the ground in a hug and the warlord and overlord stood to clap hands on his shoulders. Everyone was talking, congratulations he thought, but there was nothing in his world but Kevin, still stood by the thrones, with such a smile on his face.

Like a hidehund who’d managed to snatch a whole beast from the dining table.

~~~

“So, were you hoping to move into the palace or…?”

“I assumed I had three years to judge the extra space versus your sister’s… enthusiastic reputation.” Leaning on the counter, Kevin snorted, still with that smile on his face after two days.

“Yeah, she’s a bit of a spitfire-” Kresh would’ve have been surprised if she could, if some of those rumors were true “-but she’s a nice sort. And she likes you, she and Argit both, no matter that little show they put on to rattle you.” Pausing in the sorting of his latest purchase (Prehra had pulled him aside when he’d told his family to remind him that fiancés got a discount, no more) Kresh levelled him with a concerned look. This wasn’t the first time they’d spoken since his won his prince, but they hadn’t really talked about… things.

“Even if I’ve put their brother’s honor in danger?” He’d been thinking about that since the head had been dropped off, a stone of guilt sitting in his stomach even as he couldn’t bring himself to reject it and get one himself. It was cheating, he hadn’t earned this, and though the damage going along with it would do to his reputation if anyone realized was great, the damage to Kevin’s was…

Kevin looked at him in confusion, then realization, then simply waved the matter off.

“When a man’s set Tasks,” he said, the capitalization audible, “there’s no rule saying his potential spouse can’t help if they want. In fact, there’s some very famous stories where they do pretty much half the work.” Kresh resisted the urge to chew his cheek.

“Really?”

“Yep.” A wicked edge came to his smile. “Besides, like I said, they like you. Why do you think you got set Tasks in the first place?”

“I assumed to ensure an early grave.” Kevin chuckled.

“I’d have never forgiven them.” Flashing teeth, he used the counter to lever himself high enough to kiss him, a welcome surprise that killed all of Kresh’s higher brain functions. “Looma knew damn well you couldn’t win me in an actual fight.”

“I, suppose I should thank her then.” He could never remember sounding quite that faint.

“Yeah, we probably should.”

#fanfic

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xwaywardhuntress · 5 years ago

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You’re Not From This World (Part Six)

Summary: Imagine the boys get sent to an alternate reality again without you, which leaves you stuck with the Winchester look-alikes, Jensen Ackles, and Jared Padalecki.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x reader, Jensen Ackles x alternate world!reader

Warnings: Both worlds POV

Words: 2500+

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. This is fanfiction only. Please do not redistribute my writings on other sites, horrible or not. Thanks!

Part One, Two, Three, Four, Five

“So your first name on your birth certificate is…?” Dean questioned, more for verbal confirmation.

“It’s Y/N…”

“Wow, I was not – I was not expecting that.” Dean chuckled.

“To be honest, the character’s name is what caught my attention in the first place. I haven’t really told anyone, except for Jensen, but I think he forgot…” Cat took another bite. “You’ve probably noticed that I act awkwardly around you. And yes, it is because you look exactly like him.”

Dean played it off poorly, “No, not at all. We’re technically strangers to each other anyways.”

She smiled, aware that the older Winchester was trying to be nice about it. “I feel like we could be more acquaintances than strangers.” She commented with a smirk. “I’d say I know enough about you from the show that we wouldn’t be entire strangers.”

“Fair point.” Dean agreed. “Not sure if I know enough about you to say the same. The only thing I know now is that you have the same first name as Y/N.”

“Touche.” Cat chuckled. “What do you want to know?”

“Alright, why do you feel awkward around this Jensen guy?” He asked, a bit hesitant at first.

Cat sighed, “I had a feeling that question would be asked eventually. To keep the story short. I fell for him and I don’t know how to act around him anymore. When I first started on Supernatural, you could say we were two peas in a pod, but then I realized how I felt and it just..”

“…it made you overthink about everything?” Dean assumed the end of her sentence.

She looked up, a bit surprised. “Yeah, that’s right.”

Dean smiled at her, “As quoted by someone pretty smart…” He looked over at his sleeping brother. “Just tell him how you feel. Now I can’t confirm he’ll return the same feelings. He’d be stupid not too, in my opinion. But if he does, at least you didn’t waste years of pining over him or sleeping with other people when you could’ve been with him.”

“Someone got wiser.” Cat commented, finishing her Nutella sandwich.

“I also had a nagging brother but it was her that really made me realize how stupid I was all those years. Now, I can’t imagine my life without her.” He smiled at the thought of Y/N.

“You two are goals.” Cat yawned. “I think it’s time to go to bed for me. Tomorrow…err in a few hours now, we’ll figure out a way to get you and Sam back to your world. Everything will be okay.” She smiled at him as she got up and then headed to the other queen bed that was empty.

Dean nodded his head and then went back to his sofa bed. Cat definitely shared the positivity that his Y/N had. He could only wonder how similar Jensen was to him as he drifted off to sleep.

- - -

Waking up to noises coming from the bunker entrance area, you stretched out in your shared bed with Dean. You weren’t used to how roomy the bed was with only a single person. Reaching out to check your phone for the time, it read almost 7am. Normally, you would’ve slept in longer but right now, you were technically working a case. You got up and changed into a t-shirt with flannel and some ripped jeans, as you shoved your phone into your butt pocket. Heading out into the war table room, you spotted Jared already up and researching.

Before you could ask where Jensen was, he appeared beside you, holding out a cup of coffee. “Coffee with sugar?” He asked.

You rose an eyebrow, taking the mug. “How did you know that?”

“Lucky guess.” Jensen smiled as he returned back to his seat across from Jared in front of a pile of books.

You followed him to the table where the boys sat at.

“Cat takes her coffee the same way. I took my chances and based it off of that.” The older actor admitted.

“Oh. I was about to say you two have grown quite accustomed here in the bunker. It’s almost like your actually Dean and Sam. It’s kind of creepy.” You shared, taking a sip of your coffee.

“We’re just doing what we would be acting out, except we’re actually doing it.” Jared stated.

Jensen looked at his friend with a did-you-hear-yourself look.

The tall actor shrugged in his chair. “What? It makes sense to me and she understood. Right Y/N?” He asked rhetorically as he continued. “Oh! I talked to Cas earlier. He said Remph might take a while longer to recover. Apparently, he didn’t just send Dean and Sam to another world, he also sent back the witch’s victims back to the worlds they came from too. Apparently, that’s what drained Remph’s energy yesterday. Also, there might’ve been something else, but I think that was the gist of it.”

You sighed, “Great. So Cas – ”

“Yes, Y/N?” The angel appeared beside you.

You almost spilled your coffee from his sudden appearance. “Cas, what have Dean and I said about popping up out of nowhere?! And you couldn’t just walk through the bunker to come here instead?”

“Sorry, I heard my name spoken twice and thought it was urgent.” Cas responded. The angel wouldn’t admit it, but watching over Remph wasn’t the greatest.

“Well since you’re here. What’s the ETA for the angel’s recovery to be able to get Dean and Sam back and these two back to their home?”

Cas’s eyebrows creased together. “I’m not sure. Traveling through different universes takes a huge amount of energy without using spells or other means.”

“It’s never easy for us, is it?” You muttered, more to yourself.

“What about Rowena?” Jared asked casually.

Jensen had an idea of where his friend was going with his question as he spoke hesitantly, “I don’t know man. Usually, in the show, she only helps if she gets something in return.”

“I have also been unable to locate her lately. I believe she must be using some kind of spell from the grimoire to hide.” The angel chimed in.

The boys continued chatting, debating if they should reach out to Rowena and if they did, how would they contact her.

You knew from the moment Jared brought up Rowena that Dean would’ve said no right away. However, desperate times called for desperate measures. To make the choice easier for everyone, you actually had a way to contact Rowena. You set your cup of coffee on the table and pulled out your phone from your back pocket. “Guys…” You spoke aloud, but the boys were too busy in the discussion. This time you cleared your throat. “Boys! I have a way to contact Rowena.”

All the boys looked over at you as you held your phone up.

“I have a number I can try calling. She gave it to me a while back and told me not to tell Dean and Sam. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to keep it, just in case.” You confessed.

“If you think it’s the right move, I trust you Y/N.” Jensen shared. Jared agreed.

It surprised you a bit to have both boys have that much confidence in you. If it were the Winchesters, Sam was usually the one to back you up most of the time. Dean’s need to keep you safe played a huge role in decisions from time to time, which would lead to you two arguing. However, 70% of the time the team still ended up going with your idea.

Castiel looked skeptical. “Y/N…Dean wouldn’t – “

“I know, Cas. But he’s not here right now.” You stated as you searched through your contacts and pressed the call button.

The phone rang a couple of times before a Scottish accent answered. “Hello, dearie. And what do I owe for this pleasantly nice unexpected call?”

You sighed. “I need your help.” You admitted. Just get straight to the point and get it over with. You thought to yourself.

“Oh my. The Y/N in need of my help? How could I say no?” Rowena teased.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. “Rowena.” You answered sternly.

“Alright dear, enough of the games. Is it just you or the poor boys too?” The redhead asked nonchalantly.

You looked over at Jensen and Jared. “Me…” Turning to face away from staring eyes, you walked over to Castiel. “…but it concerns Dean and Sam too.”

“What sort of trouble have you and the boys brewed up this time?”

Y/n went on to explain the situation of the Winchesters being switched with alternate versions of themselves, keeping out certain details such as the angel that was currently resting in one of the bunker rooms. When asked what happened to the witch that Rowena acted ignorantly but was curious about, you shared you killed her. Rowena never mentioned the angel, to which you were glad you didn’t mention him either.

“I may be able to help. I may recall a particular spell that could create portals to other realities. However, the ingredients are…” Rowena paused for a moment on the phone. “…interesting.”

“What ingredients do we need exactly?” Y/N asked.

“Oh, a fruit from the tree of life, the seal of Solomon, the blood of a most holy man, and an arch angel’s grace.” The witch listed.

“That’s great, I have no idea where to get any of those items without researching.” You shared, knowing that those items all sounded like they would be difficult to find, especially an arch angel’s grace.

There was silence on the phone for a moment before Rowena let out a breath of air. “Bullocks!” Rowena expressed aloud.

You stayed silent on the phone, waiting to see what the witch’s outburst was about.

“You’re lucky I like you more than the Winchesters, dear. I know of someone who was collecting those items. I don’t know why, but I suppose if you take care of her, then that is one less wee witch in the world to worry about.” The redhead shared.

“One witch, to take care of? That doesn’t sound too hard. How does this benefit you?” You asked cautiously.

“Just make sure to tell your loverboy that I helped you get him back. This should make up for my part in the witch’s actions.” Rowena finally admitted. She continued to give an address, which you wrote down next to Cas.

Before hanging up, Rowena shared she would head to the bunker while you went to gather the ingredients. She also warned you, “Be careful not to mention that you just killed her daughter. A mother’s wrath is something you want to avoid, dear.” And then she hung up.

Of course, it would be Remi’s mother that you had to get the ingredients from.

The boys were looking at you as they didn’t quite understand what happened in the conversation. Before they could ask, you spoke up first. “I’m going out for a while. There’s another witch that I need to go collect ingredients from. Rowena should be here in a couple of hours.”

“We can go with you.” Jared offered.

“No, you two are staying here with Cas.” You looked from the actors to the angel.

Immediately, Jensen and Jared were opposed to staying. They both wanted to help as they felt slightly responsible for bringing up Rowena in the first place.

“Whatever favor she asked of you, we should help. We brought her up.” Jensen tried arguing.

“This time she didn’t ask for anything. And I think it’s because she knows we know she helped Remi. I also think she might be a bit worried that Dean will want to go after her when he gets back. So, her doing this as a favor to us is basically for her own survival purposes. Look, witches aren’t the biggest fans of the Winchesters. Once they spot you two, you guys will be targets. I can’t watch out for myself and you two.” You explained.

Castiel was about to suggest that he should come instead, when you continued speaking, “Cas, you need to keep an eye on Remph. You may need to hide his presence once Rowena shows up as well.”

“I don’t like this.” Jensen stated, which reminded you a lot of Dean.

You smiled at him, “It’ll be a piece of cake. I’ll be back before you guys know it.” With that said, you left to go pack your things. Then you took your car and drove off by yourself.

The boys knew how capable you were to take care of yourself, but they were still worried. It seemed too easy of an errand to collect ingredients for a spell. Not to mention with Rowena involved, who knew what kind of witch she had sent you off too.

As if thinking the same thing, Castiel appeared before the boys dangling the keys to the Impala. “Just watch from a distance. I agree with Y/N that you two shouldn’t be front lined against another witch. However, I’m aware Dean will be upset that we let her go alone. Call me if anything happens.” The angel handed them a piece of paper with an address, “This was the address I saw Y/N write down earlier.”

The boys thanked Cas as they left to pack a few of the Winchester’s belongings in a duffel. They had some sort of idea of what to bring based on what they did when they were acting.

Reaching Baby, Jensen and Jared couldn’t help but admire her. Despite riding in the car before with Y/N driving, being able to drive it now was awesome.

Jensen drove out of habit in the show. The two did get a lost, which added unnecessary road trip time, but eventually, they reached their destination, or so they assumed. Pulling up near the address, they parked a fair distance under a tree.

“Is that the house?” Jared asked.

“I think so. Did you look it up on google maps street view?” Jensen replied.

“Uhh, I did not. Was I suppose too?”

“How else are we going to know if we’re at the right address?” Jensen questioned looking over at his friend.

“I mean the dot on the navigation aligns with the spot of that house?”

Jensen sighed, “We’re pretty bad at this in real life.”

Jared countered his friend’s statement. “Hey! In the show, we don’t act out google mapping the location using street view! How were we suppose to know?”

A laugh appeared beside Jared’s open window. Both of the boys looked in the direction of where the laugh came from.

It was you.

You had just finished your reconnaissance task of walking around the neighborhood during the day and scouting. As you were leaving to head back to your motel that was walking distance from the neighborhood, that’s when you spotted Baby. The very recognizable 1967 Chevy Impala.

Bending over by the open window, you greeted the boys. “If it isn’t Scooby and Shaggy…” You teased.

Both of the boys looked embarrassed that they were caught.

“Hey Y/N…what are you doing here? We were just going on a drive, getting some well needed fresh air and...” Jared started lying, very poorly.

“Cas sent you, didn’t he?” You interrupted, getting straight to the point.

“Yes and no.” Jensen was quick to answer. “Look, we were all worried about you going alone, so we thought we’d just check up on you and Cas may have let us.” He shrugged as if he didn’t just throw Castiel under the bus.

You sighed as you straightened your back and then made your way to the back seat. “I had a feeling this would happen. Alright, let’s head to my motel and talk about this there.”

Part Seven

YNFTW Tag:

@chloe-skywalker @darkswanordie @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @aomi-nabi @damn-sassalecki @right-til-the-end @wingedcatninja @the-real-witch @toews-a-peek @lokilove3112 @tftumblin @calaofnoldor @monkeymcpoopoo @cassiopeia-barrow @nickyrose3123 @icequeen206 @winchester-marvel-girl @liviaolivia @rathersuspiciousbumblebee @rainflowermoon @rainflowermoonlibrary

#You're Not From This World #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #supernatural #spn fanfic #Dean Winchester #french mistake imagine #jensen ackles #jared padalecki

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buckthegrump · 6 years ago

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Hands of Fate - 5

Summary: You have a secret. It’s a secret that you’ve been able to keep hidden from the world for years (with the help of one other person). But after a run-in with a group of HYDRA agents, you find yourself at the Avengers compound. And it’s proving harder and harder to keep your secret especially with one particularly observant supersoldier who doesn’t seem to trust you.

Word Count: 1832

Warnings: Some violence, angst (kind of), swearing

Pairing: Bucky x Fem!Reader (Eventually)

A/n: if you want to be added to the tag list send me an ask, please. Previous parts on my masterlist

The day that the team was supposed to come back came and went. You kept bothering Bucky to see if you should be worried but he didn’t seem to be so you shrugged it off, for maybe a few hours before you would find him again.

“What is your problem?” Bucky asked annoyed.

Because despite the fact that you’d been hanging around him more recently it was more in a creepy sense than anything else. You hadn’t really spoken to him since you healed him.

“Nothing,” you lied.

Bucky crossed his arms and waited for you to try again.

“I’m just worried about the team is all,” you answered and his previously hard face softened.

“They’ll be fine, and if they need help they’ll let me know,” Bucky got in your face and started studying you, “But if they do call me that means you’re not allowed to leave. You have to stay here until someone comes back.”

“I can protect myself,” you grumbled.

“Oh yes, the bullet wound I got shows me just how capable you are of taking care of yourself,” he rolled his eyes.

You flipped him the bird which made him laugh. It was a sound you couldn’t recall hearing before. You would never say it out loud but you liked it. It made you smile.

A few hours after that interaction the different groups of the team returned in 10 minute-increments.

They all looked like they’d gotten the shit beat out of them.

“What happened to you?” You asked Steve who stopped in front of you while everyone else slowly wandered down the hall to their rooms.

“HYDRA is a bit bigger than we thought,” Steve said as he rubbed his forehead.

“So I’m still stuck here.”

Steve gave you a sympathetic look, “Sorry, Y/n.”

You shrugged and he placed his hand on your shoulder.

“Cap,” Sam called and both you and Steve turned to him, “We have a debrief that we have to do.”

“I’ll see ya later then,” Steve said to you.

“Actually,” Sam said, “Fury wants her there too.”

“Why?” You asked.

“He didn’t say,” Sam said before disappearing.

Steve gave you a look and led you to the conference room. The entire team including Bucky was there. Nick was standing at the head of the table with his typical I’m-disappointed-in-all-of-you-for-various-reasons look. A look that you knew all too well but that never stopped you from not caring.

You and Steve sat in the two empty chairs placing you next to Natasha and directly across from Bucky who was staring at you. It wasn’t the usual glare he always gave you. No, this time it looked like he was studying you.

His gaze was unwavering and you squirmed uncomfortably.

“So,” Fury called all the attention in the room to him, but you could still feel Bucky’s eyes on you, “this week not only did we learn that HYDRA is stronger and bigger than we thought. But we also learned that Y/n has a death wish.”

Everyone’s attention turned to you and you glared at Bucky.

“What happened?” Tony asked.

“Someone went back to her old apartment because she ‘needed something’,” Bucky said.

“That was kind of a reckless move, Y/n,” Natasha said.

“I never claimed to be smart,” you told them, “I’m a certified dumbass that you left unattended.”

“We left you with Bucky,” Steve said.

“Which is the only reason she’s alive,” Bucky rolled his eyes.

“Well, at least I’m not the organization that let a terrorist group grow right under my nose,” you mutter under your breath.

“I heard that,” Fury accused.

You looked at him and shrugged.

“They are the ones that attacked me,” you pointed out.

“They attacked me,” Bucky corrected.

“No, they shot you, but they were after me,” you said.

“Well, if we’re blaming who let them get as big as they got maybe we should go all the way back to Cap,” Tony speculated.

“I thought I had when I put that plane in the water,” Steve quipped, “But I guess all my efforts were thrown out when someone found the tesseract but not me.”

“Oh so now we’re going to blame dead people?” Natasha asked sounding more offended than she should, considering she had no stakes in this.

After that everyone started arguing over who’s fault it was that HYDRA was still around. Wanda had tried to point out that this fight was useless, but then someone insulted her in some way or another and then she was all in shouting things in both English and Russain.

Nick was silently standing at the front of the room and when you turned to him with a smug expression on his face he only shook his head.

The fighting continued until F.R.I.D.A.Y. interrupted letting everyone know that Secretary of State Ross was on his way up.

“Why is he coming?” Tony asked.

“Did you fuck something else up?” Sam accused.

“Such hostility,” you commented with a smirk and Fury glared at you. You looked back to the group and then back to Fury only to find that he’d slipped out of the room.

A moment later an old white man in a suit strutted in.

“Secretary Ross, to what do we owe the pleasure?” Tony asked.

Ross looked at you then to Tony, “Who’s this?”

“Noneya,” you said and Tony coughed.

“Is that a first or last name?” Ross asked.

“Don’t worry about it,” you told him and he gave you a look.

“What are you doing here?” Steve asked.

“This,” Ross slammed a giant stack of papers onto the table and everyone looked at it.

“What’s ‘this’?” Steve slid the document over to him and opened it.

“The Sokovia accords,” Ross said, “When you sign it you are agreeing to have your missions dictated by the UN. So if there’s a situation in any country the UN ambassadors will vote on whether or not to send you in.”

“What happens if we don’t sign?” Tony asked.

“If you refuse to sign, you will be forced into retirement or you will be labeled as a fugitive,” Ross said, “I’ll give you time to think it over.”

Steve was still reading the document when Ross walked out the door. The rest of the team was already talking about what they should do and what the ramifications would be.

“Can I see?” You whispered to Steve and he positioned himself that you could also read the document.

You fiddled with the compass pendant while you read the document. You barely registered the babble going on around you. You were more worried about what this would mean for the powered people that weren’t part of any superhero group.

“Rogers,” Tony said and both you and Steve looked up at him, “What’s your take?”

Steve shook his head, “It just seems odd. Why now?”

You pulled the document so it was right in front of you and read a subsection at the bottom of the page you were on.

“Well, I think we should think about it and regroup later and talk about it,” Tony said and everyone agreed and walked out of the room.

You stayed behind and continued to read. Most of the legal garden you didn’t understand but there were a few key elements that you did. It made your stomach twist and you really didn’t want to be around for when this was put into effect.

“Why are you still in here?” You turned to see Bucky leaning against the doorjamb.

“I was just reading this,” you told him turning back to the paperwork.

He surprised you by sitting in the chair next to you.

“Why are you so worried about it?” He asked.

“Because this is the US government we’re talking about, sooner or later every law they make comes around to bite the little people in the ass,” you lie seamlessly.

“And what did you find?” He asked pulling the document to him.

“A bunch of legal shit that I didn’t understand,” you said, “Also it said that any and all powered people will register on a database that would include name, date of birth, power, and their current residence.”

“Why did that catch your eye?” He asked making eye contact with you.

Although, this time his gaze was soft and curious instead of hard and judgemental. It was throwing you off and you reminded of just how attractive the man sitting next to you was.

“Making people register? Didn’t the Nazi’s do that?”

“And this would come back around to bite the little people in the ass?” Bucky asked genuinely curious.

“With the US government? Yes, because if they can get the powered people to do it what’s to stop them from making the Muslims do it? Or any other minority that they might marginalize in the future?”

Bucky turned the chair so his whole body was facing you. He was studying your face. You could feel your heartbeat accelerate under his gaze and hoped that he couldn’t hear it with his superhuman hearing.

“That’s a good point,” he said.

“Thank you?” You said unsure of why he was suddenly being nice.

“Do you know?” He asked in a hushed tone.

“Know what?” You mimicked his tone.

He stared you down again and you just looked at him confused.

“Never mind it’s nothing I just-,” he paused and walked towards the door, “I thought my gunshot wound healed faster than normal, but I could’ve not been paying attention.”

“Oh ok,” you said and that seemed to be all he needed because he left the room after that.

Once the door closed behind him you let out a sigh.

“‘I’m not that stupid’ you said,” Fury’s voice came out of nowhere and scared the living shit out of you, “‘they won’t find out’ you said. And yet somehow here we are and Bucky knows.”

You turned to see Fury who was, ironically, furious. His eye was popping out of his head.

“Careful Fury or you’ll lose your remaining eye,” you said and he looked about ready to explode.

“Y/n,” he warned.

“Calm down, if anything he suspects and even then he thinks that I don’t know and it's only the healing power so it’s fine. Besides if these fools choose to sign the accords then I’m out of here.”

Fury put his head in his hand and waved you off.

“You give me anxiety,” he muttered.

“Where the fuck were you hiding?” You asked suddenly aware that he popped out of nowhere.

He looked at you mischievously, “Don’t worry about it.”

That night you couldn’t get yourself to sleep. Steve’s question rattled around in your mind. ‘Why now?’ It was a good question and you felt like the answer was so close but you couldn’t find it.

Until it was 2am and you sat up in your bed.

“Ross is with HYDRA,” you whispered into the night.

#Bucky Barnes x Reader #Bucky Barnes Fic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky imagine #bucky barnes imagine

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margauxolivier · 5 years ago

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&&. word has it ( margaux olivier ) was just spotted around the city. ( she ) is a ( 25 ) year old affiliated with ( the corsican mafia ). it’s been said that ( she ) resembles ( emily ratajkowski ). ( she ) has been said to be ( artful & captivating ) but also quite ( cruel & domineering ). ( she ) is currently serving as ( both an heiress and socialite).

( Hi guys! I’m Jay and this is Margaux my sour cherry, my vicious little Veruca Salt. I’m super excited for you all to get to know her and plot with you all! Below the cut you’ll find her bio. Please mind the trigger warnings! )

♟une.

( margaux ) would describe ( herself ) as a ( summer ) person and would identify as a ( entj/lawful neutral ). ( her ) birthday is ( february 6th ), making ( his/her/their ) star sign ( aquarius ) and ( her ) animal sign the ( cat ). ( her ) biggest pet peeve is ( incompetence ), and ( her ) theme song is ( fuck with myself by banks ). finally, ( her ) primary goal is to ( promote the interests of the corsican mafia ).

♟deux.

She was born a girl of secrets and half truths; of sickeningly cruel games and gruesome punishments. It is in adulthood that men become monsters, but Margaux has always been a beast of prey patiently waiting to devour supple flesh. She was born cold, calculating, patient. Like a snake’s threatening rattle, a bell’s final warning, she was nothing if not a bad omen. Perhaps it all began years ago in private school when Claudette Dubois mysteriously fell from the tower of the jungle gym during recess and sprained her ankle after being chosen for class leader. When questioned about the incident, Margaux only smiled and a flutter of sable lashes erased any and all suspicion that may have surrounded the young Olivier girl. Even then, She’d never been the type to make her desires known. No, the enemy must first suffer before ever hoping to peer into her desires. Of course, this ideology isn’t exactly self taught. Such putrid ideals had been whispered into the docile ears of this young girl since birth by both her mother and father. How could she not believe in them? She’s a fucking prodigy, her father would endlessly sing her praises at the dinner table as he crudely scraped her mother��s fine china with the blades of his silver fork. Aren’t all masters proud of their creations no matter how devious they turn out to be? Every victory claimed by her hand earned her a sleek and pretty smile from mother and an approving glance from father. Throughout her childhood, Margaux fashioned herself into the perfect mirror image of her mother’s sharp, regal beauty and her father’s quick wit and brutality. But what happens when a child claims the best pieces of their parents for themselves? They begin to look past them for power and they grow to resent them for all that they are not.

She’s known fabulous wealth and privilege her entire life; a small yet prominent debt owed to her mother’s everlasting trust fund and her loan shark father who had quite the penchant for frauds and finagling. Margaux has never been blind to the swindling and jugular slicing of her father’s career. His familial connection with the Olivier run mob was well known in her sixteen room chateau but was never spoken of outside of it. By the time Margaux’s designer heels stepped foot off the marble floors of the all-girls private boarding school in Switzerland that she quite literally dominated, she was prepared to sink both teeth and talons into the gritty world of the Corsican mafia that had bitten so many people back. Of course, her mother and father had other plans for their daughter’s future and none of them included her being apart of the blood soaked and diamond hungry mafia. No, their princesse was meant to be just that: a princesse. Smart, beautiful, and cunning does not a mafia member make. No, in their eyes Margaux was destined for the ivy league where she would likely fall into the arms of some wealthy aristocrat that she could forever control. This is where she made her first mistake. Sometimes mommy and daddy do know best but how can a child who’s been raised like a young god be certain of what others think is right or wrong? So she charged in head first, a woman grown who’d honed her feminine wiles into a shiny blade of terror. High on the power, frightening in her intellect, and drunk on the international influence, Margaux forgot that even gods bleed from failure.

Her second mistake happened very early on in her brief trial period as a soldier. It was all so thrilling to her. She’d been an untouchable princesse both at home and with her brothers in the mafia. A girl of diamond wit and burning cruelty, she easily gained respect and earned her place among the ranks of the Corsican monsters (and of course, her last name and status didn’t hurt her chances for success). After being given nothing but small errands and minor debt collections, Margaux was finally tasked with a real job. Margaux was to meet Henri Baptiste, a man that the mafia had been keeping an eye on due to his outstanding debt. Ever the capable little harpy, Margaux accepted the challenge and met with the man on the balcony of his luxury suite in the 6th arrondissement. What should of been a game of wits where Margaux would have easily had Baptiste by the balls turned bloody when he revealed that he had no intention of repaying his debt to the mafia. Thinking that she knew best, Margaux quickly withdrew her gun and with frighteningly accurate precision, a golden bullet hit him square between the eyes (a skill that had taken her months to learn and perfect). With a swipe of the linen napkin against the apples of her cheeks, Margaux wiped the blood splatter from her face without even flinching, and exited Baptiste’s suite unseen. Her father never revealed how he handled those who couldn’t pay their debts, but she had an idea. If they couldn’t be loyal in life, then they would be loyal in death. Well, that was the end of that. Or so she thought. Afterwards, Margaux had never felt more alive. Unfortunately, her arrogance blinded her to the mafia's the golden rule: your failure is your mess to clean up. The mission was never meant to end in death, but since it did and because it cost the mafia a great deal, Margaux’s punishment would be to discard the body.

She began with dismemberment, severing as many pieces of baptistes body as her stomach and senses would allow before sending the pounds of flesh through a wood chipper. After five hours and several pools of vomit, all that was left of the man was an empty suite and two garbage bags full of his remains ready for the incinerator. The image and the smell of his mutilated body was seared into the back of her mind; a reminder of the hefty price she paid to be where she was. Princesse, you knew this could happen. I warned you against joining them. Her mother sang the words sweetly, softly into her ears on the night of the bloody deed. It wasn’t the gore that disgusted her, but instead the failure. If she’d been smarter, quicker, or less arrogant, Baptiste would be alive, and she wouldn’t feel like such a fool. Her cousin’s mafia cleaned up the rest, and Margaux was sent back to her father’s chateau in shame like the spoiled little child she was. Going away to college never sounded better.

Shortly after her discharge from the mob, Margaux applied for universities in the states and was unsurprisingly accepted to Yale University on a full scholarship due to her impeccable grades (as if she even needed it). With the corsican mafia now spreading its influence in the upper east side of New York, Margaux was able to cement her new life in the states while residing in a luxury penthouse owned by her cousin Damien no less. After 4 short years, Margaux graduated Summa Cum Laude from Yale University with a degree in Political Science and had seemingly overcome the horrors of her failures back in France. The last four years of her university experience were spent perfecting herself once more, stealing every opportunity she could in order to win. But of course, she wasn’t done paying for the mistakes of her past quite yet. In an effort to build a bridge between the Corsican Mafia and the Russian Bratva, Margaux was to marry the second son of the Russian Mafia that had already been established in New York long before her kind ever stepped foot on American soil. The sting of being sold off like a prized cow to the spare son of the Russian Bratva felt like a knife in the back, but she accepted the proposal to show that she is still fiercely loyal to the mob that has always protected her and showed her what it means to fail. The Valentina spare, the little princeling is but an obstacle that can either be dealt with or overlooked. Surely, a woman of her status and intellect would be better suited to wed the Pakhan instead, but perhaps with a bit of work, the serpent can fashion a leader out of her fiancé. For now, she’s content with playing the role of the park avenue princesse and the pink-lipped heiress that floats across the floors at high profile galas and enchants the Americans with her French accent. She’ll be content… until she grows bored again. Because New York is boring. Because Dimitri is boring. Because without a secured place in the Corsican Mafia she is nothing but a bitter bitch with a taste for blood. Because the last time she ever truly felt alive was on that balcony in France.

#tdrintro #the girl has always been half goddess half hell ( about. )#murder tw #mutilation tw #gore tw #dismemberment tw #( just in case! )

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she-witch-inanna · 6 years ago

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Leadership || Drabble

Continuation of this right here.

Special shout out to @rexidot and @ryujithisisbullshitsakamoto for encouraging my bad behavior

The silence was deafening. He had to make a decision he knew, but...

Ryuji wasn’t good at strategy beyond ‘headlong attacks and brute force’. Futaba could guide them but wasn’t good when it came to combat situations. Morgana was impulsive and rude, and he’d wind up getting ignored. That left Ren with Makoto or Akechi.

Makoto was the safe bet. Everyone respected her, and she knew what she was doing when it came to combat, but she seemed more focused on her own capabilities than everyone else's. It was up in the air whether or not she knew enough about the team to use everyone effectively. But Akechi...

Akechi was the outside bet. Most of the team didn’t like him, and they’d be upset if Ren told them to listen to him. But he was cunning and he learned quick. Plus he seemed to already understand a great deal about the team; their strengths and weaknesses. On more than one occasion he had given Ren sound advice on their potential next move. Plus...

If he got the team to trust him, got Akechi to feel accepted...maybe this wouldn’t all end in tears.

“Ren?” Grey eyes focused on Haru, who had tipped her head to one side. “Who are you leaving in charge?”

Breathe, Ren. One. Two. Answer the question. “Akechi.”

The reaction was immediate. Ryuji damn near fell out of his chair with a loud yell of his usual “FOR REAL?!”, Ann raised her eyebrows but didn’t look displeased, Yusuke simply nodded, his face almost as impassive as Ren’s own, Makoto was doing her best not to look disappointed, Futaba had an incredulous expression as she looked between Ren and Akechi, Haru smiled into her cup and nodded as Yusuke had done, and Akechi...

Akechi’s eyes had positively lit up. He seemed so thrilled to be trusted with this. “I won’t let you down, Joker.”

“Are you serious, Ren?!” Ryuji was incensed.

Ren could see the way Akechi’s shoulders stiffened slightly as he turned to address the blond. “Now now, our Dear Leader has spoken.” He was smiling that same Detective Prince Smile that hid his eyes and his emotions from the world. Suddenly Ren was worried that this was a bad call.

Ryuji wasn’t listening to him, focused as he was on Ren. “Why him?”

Well, here goes everything. “Because he’s smart, crafty, learns quickly, and has quite a few good ideas. I need you all to trust me on this. More importantly, I need you to trust him.”

Ryuji sat back in his chair with a huff as Akechi beamed down at Ren. “That is high praise indeed. I will endeavor to live up to your expectations.”

Ren shot him a small smile of his own. “Just be yourself out there and you’ll do fine. You’re good at what you do. Just make sure that you’re all listening to each other.” He shot a pointed look at Ryuji.

Hopefully, this wouldn’t all end in tears.

“Skull, hang on!” Akechi’s voice rang out as a pale gloved hand pulled at his mask in a flash of blue fire and blinding white light. He dashed over, pulling the gun that Ren had gifted to him only days earlier and firing three succinct shots to drop the final Shadow. He reached out a hand, pulling Ryuji to his feet. “Are you alright?”

“Y-yeah.” The blond rubbed the back of his head for a moment before stretching his arms out. “I owe ya one, Crow.” He grinned at him, that bright Sunshine grin as Ren had often called it.

Akechi wore a rather cocky smirk up until Ryuji smiled at him. It made him soften, offering a small smile in return. “I’m just glad you’re alright.”

In his ear, Akechi heard Futaba’s high-pitched tones. “Those were some slick moves, Crow. Glad to know at least one of you can keep on your feet.” There was a playful sneer in her voice that made Ryuji scoff.

He saw Ryuji scowl, but he couldn’t help the lighthearted chuckle that rumbles in his chest for a moment. "Thank you, Oracle, but I'm glad to have Skull. He's the heart of the team, and I would hate for something to happen to him. So be more careful, perhaps?"

Ryuji looked back at him with something akin to shock before an easy smile returned to him. Was that simply his default expression? How did he manage to smile all the time as he did? Was it normal to be so inhumanly positive?

There was more to that line of thought, but he was drawn out of his reverie by a voice behind him. “So, Crow. What’s our next move?”

He turned to smile at Ann, who had stepped up to get the team back on track, before his hand went to his chin; a habit he always had when deep in thought. “Well, we don’t seem to be making much in the way of progress here. Perhaps we should search for a workaround. Oracle?”

“Ask and ye shall receive,” chirped Futaba in his ear again. “Just hang on one second.” Akechi spent the entire thirty seconds of silence checking the rest of the team and the hallways around them. They looked tired, but they couldn’t afford to leave yet. They had barely made any progress. Honestly, what was with the security today? Had they truly been so careless when Ren got injured?

Futaba pointed them to an alternate route and Akechi wasted no time in leading the way. “Let’s move. Quick and quiet. The less they notice us, the better.” They couldn’t risk raising the alarm today. They had almost reached their destination when Akechi noticed a familiar door. “A safe room...! Inside, everyone.”

He held the door open, waiting until everyone had gotten inside before ducking in after them. Looking around at the team as they all collapsed into chairs, onto sofas, or in Ryuji’s case the floor, Akechi frowned. “Let’s take a break and recover.” He himself took a seat on the edge of the table in the center of the room, pushing his mask up onto his head as he ran his fingers through his hair. Honestly, how did Ren manage to make this look so easy?

“Mona, did Joker ever manage to restock on that medicine he always has?” Something of a foolish question, Akechi figured. He cast a rather worried glance to Ryuji, who was still on the floor, and another one to Makoto, who had been barely keeping her feet during that last battle. “I think we have a few teammates who need it.”

Morgana nodded, reaching for his fanny pack and pulling out the bottle of pills and tossing it to him. There was a small part of Akechi that was wondering why he was going so far out of his way like this, why he was caring so much, but he pushed it aside. He had a job to do. He had to make this look good. He had to convince them that he cared.

He didn’t. He couldn’t. He had a job to do. There was no time for emotions now. He was too close to his goal for that. Just stay focused, Goro. Keep up the lie.

The lie...

Even he wasn’t sure who he was lying to anymore.

#Persona 5 #Goro Akechi #Witch Rants #Rami Writes

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capnjay21 · 6 years ago

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doubt truth to be a liar (never doubt I love) 1/1

I have missed writing for CS, so this is me throwing something back out into the ether and seeing who yells back. In the weeks that follow their return from the Underworld, Killian begins to question the new revelations that have changed everything. CS, with effusively referenced Milah/Killian.

Rating: T Words: 2,992 AO3

Even now, weeks on, Hell still clutches at his back.

It murmurs in his ear, brushes white hot caresses down his spine until he spasms, and conjures the scent of smoke and rotting flesh no matter how long he spends scrubbing his clothes to get it out. His neck occasionally smarts with phantom pain, and in hostile, fleeting flashes, the streets of his home burn in a mirage of orange and he panics, clutching at whomever is near to him to pull him back to the world above. In his quieter moments, he can hear the ground whispering, beckoning him back into the darkness underneath.

Zeus had put him back where he belonged, he daren’t doubt that; the souls of the departed do not always agree.

No matter how many times his friends suggest it might help, he does not return to the park. Not when a drop of his blood into the lake, the blood of a man restored, might lure the unworldly mist and summon the only beings with the power to drag him back to the Underworld. When he considers it, he cannot stop his breath from catching.

These are some of the new truths for Killian Jones. Not all, but some.

Others are far more pleasant.

Like the way he can wake up beside Emma in a house they call their own, and have her only tuck herself deeper into his side. The way he can join the Charmings for dinner at Granny’s without remark, how he can take Henry sailing when the weather is fair, how willing Regina is to trade barbs over a game of darts instead of a clash of wills; after their ordeals over the past year, he is finally a proud, welcome member of their family. It wasn’t just Emma’s quest to rescue him, it was all of theirs. He is happy. And when his soul burns red Killian can make love to Emma and she will be right there with him, loving him, begging for the sun to rise.

He loves Emma more than anything in any realm. This is not a new truth for Killian Jones.

What is, however, is the strength of that love. True Love, capital T, capital L. Emma lying atop him as an ancient door creaks open, you chose me. The most powerful magic of all, and he and Emma share it. That knowledge bolsters their interactions, pulls smiles from a light inside of him whenever it is mentioned, becomes the foundation for many a teasing jest mumbled into the juncture of her neck while she giggles into his shoulder.

Other than that, nothing feels different.

And it’s been gnawing away at him.

Emma Swan is his True Love. True Love like the kind that meant Snow White and Prince Charming could share a heart, the kind that could revive Henry from a sleeping curse, that could rescue entire worlds from darkness. With as much as he loves Emma, this does not feel entirely beyond the realm of reason. When they are together he feels like he can make entire kingdoms collide. That said, there wasn’t some shining moment he decided what he felt for her was pure — it built, it pounded against him gently first until it cascaded to a roar that nearly overwhelmed his senses. He didn’t know he felt it until he realised the ringing in his ears had already been there for what felt like centuries.

The only trouble is, this isn’t the only time he’s felt this way.

“What is it that makes love True?” he queries one afternoon, when he can suppress the question no longer. Beside him Snow starts, and he realises that although his thoughts have been full of their usual tumult, they had been working quite pleasantly in silence.

After lunch, David and Emma had been called away on some minor emergency on the other side of Storybrooke, and after they had insisted they would not need any assistance he had volunteered to stay with Snow and finish clearing up. They settled easily into a routine, her washing and him drying, and as he watched her he couldn’t help but imagine she was some sort of authority on the subject of True Love; she and David were the staple pair, surely. The story of Snow White and Prince Charming was practically synonymous with the concept. So, without thinking, he blurts the question forward.

When Snow turns to look at him curiously he feels a warm flush creep up from his collar, so he busies himself with putting a plate away, balancing the cloth on his hook.

“What do you mean?” she asks, not unkindly.

Killian offers an abashed shrug. “Just — this whole True Love palaver. I’m not entirely certain I understand it.”

Snow laughs. “I don’t know if there’s anything to understand,” she smiles as if he’s a child making a funny remark about something straightforward, and it irks him slightly. “You just feel it. You must know what I mean, you and Emma have it.”

“No, I do, I do feel it,” he says, drawing out the word, “I would do anything for Emma and she for me. What I mean is… who decides? Who decides when the love a heart feels is True or — or just regular love?”

(Is it wonderful, she had breathed, to travel so much?

He had told her of the air filled with spices, of distant queens in fleeting kingdoms —

— Sometimes he thinks he may have loved her even then.)

“Is there such a thing as regular love?”

“Well,” Killian scratches behind his ear, “not every impassioned couple has the ability to break a curse.”

“It’s not about that,” she turns fully to face him, drying her hands on a dishcloth. “It’s about building something together over time, it’s about sacrifice.” She lets out a long sigh. “I’ve never loved anybody like I love David. It’s just more. And those are all the answers I have, I’m afraid.”

She nudges his shoulder playfully with hers, and he knows she means to lighten the mood, but all she has said only vexes him further.

“I’m not a young man. I’ve loved before Emma,” it’s not quite a confession when the entirety of Storybrooke knew about his feud with the Crocodile, “fiercely. I would’ve easily given my life for her — I tried to, she didn’t let me.” He leans heavily against the counter, and although he can see Snow’s expression shifting into one of sympathy, he presses on. “But with all this talk of True Love, of its rarity, that you should consider yourself lucky to have felt it once…” Killian shrugs helplessly. “What does that mean for Milah?”

He feels a squeeze on his upper arm, sees Snow’s hand resting there. “Oh, Killian.”

“Did I not love her, then?” Three hundred years of all-encompassing grief and a vehement desire for revenge would, to him, suggest the contrary. Which left another possibility clutching suddenly at his insides with anguish. “Or did she not love me?”

The mere idea of it makes him seize up. She had risked Hades’ wrath to help Emma and the others get to him in the Underworld, and had lost her soul to eternal torment in the process. Even the satisfaction of knowing that Hades had been destroyed isn’t quite enough to soothe that particular ache. What if she had never truly loved him?

“Have you spoken to Emma about this?” Snow asks gently. Killian frowns, shakes his head. He doesn’t exactly think bringing up his past love is the most romantic of conversations. “I think you should.”

She’s probably right.

“But I will say this,” she continues, “what you and Emma have… it’s special. But it doesn’t make what came before any less so. We are all who we are because of our experiences.” She rises on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. “You’ve fought hard for your happiness — please remember to enjoy it.”

She leaves him in the kitchen then, her words having done little to soothe his troubled mind.

-/-

Killian takes a moment to observe the house they have built together as Emma rises from her position nestled into his side on the sofa. She reaches for their discarded plates, and heads out into the kitchen.

The room had felt enormous when she had first welcomed him inside it, all bare walls and scarcely populated floor space — it had been a reflection, really, on the darkened state of her mind that found itself projected onto the even colder space around them. Even when she had led him to the telescope and the stunning view of the sea he found it hard to imagine making a home out of it. Yet, on their return from the Underworld, they had done exactly that.

A fire burns in the hearth, bright and warm, golden light flickering from memory to memory across the room. The once exposed walls are now lined with Henry’s schoolwork, with photos of the Charmings, of Regina, of Robin. Robin. The man whose soul had been lost because of Emma’s quest to save him. They both owe him so much, it had felt important to honour him some way as they moved forward; he would never be forgotten.

Killian had never even considered finding a home apart from the sea — he had been abandoned first on the ocean, lost his brother to its lure, it was hard to even fathom another person becoming a reason to maroon himself away from its natural pull. Yet when he sees pieces of the life he and Emma are just beginning to stitch together from their rags of broken things, it is impossible to ignore the reality. Anchored, but exquisitely happy.

Lost in thought, Killian only just realises Emma has been speaking, her voice floating above the running of the tap in the next room.

“I told him if he wanted that kind of ‘favour’ he’d need to ask Regina — and whaddya know, he asks to stay at hers an extra night. He’s as transparent as they come. Still,” she continues, and he can hear the padding of her socks on the floor bringing her nearer, “we don’t mind the extra night on our own, do we?”

Mary Margaret’s advice rings quietly in his ear, like a murmur. When Killian lifts his head to see her standing in the doorway, he is as always stunned by her beauty. Even dressed down for an evening spent in their house, she could not appear lovelier.

“Emma,” he says softly, and maybe it’s his tone or his mood all evening, but the utterance gives her pause, “may I talk to you about something?”

“Of course,” she responds automatically, and as she crosses the room and drops down next to him he can see the light furrow in her brow. He wants nothing more than to smooth it over with his thumb, kiss the uncertainty from the line of her mouth. Trepidation stays his hand.

When he doesn’t immediately respond, Emma turns to face him on the sofa and reaches a hand across to squeeze his arm. “You were thrashing about in your sleep again last night.”

Hades had him dangled above the river of lost souls, only that time Emma had not made it before he found oblivion.

“Is it —?”

“Aye,” he says, partly to stop her dwelling on the subject. They had spoken enough of his ordeal to last a lifetime. “But I find my mind is frayed with thoughts of a different kind.” She waits, her expression open and kind. It is so far from the walls she threw up the moment they met that his heart squeezes with gratitude — it becomes stifling to even consider revealing that which he had quietly admitted to her mother that morning. “I don’t want to hurt you, Swan.”

(And perhaps maybe a year ago, that comment may have spooked her.)

Emma lifts his hand and squeezes it. Quietly determined. “Go ahead.”

“Recently,” he starts, and it is difficult to find the words, “recently I can’t help feeling… I love you,” he hastens to assure her, “and I know you love me. That this love is true. We have proof of that.”

“No broken curses in sight but we did open a creepy old door.”

Killian breathes out a laugh to match the glimmer of amusement in her expression, the way her mouth is tugged gently into a smirk. He feels some of the tension in his shoulders ease away even as he is drawn back into solemnity.

“I just — recently, I can’t help but feel this… veneration of what lies between us makes me a traitor to an old love.”

Emma’s eyes dawn with understanding. She nods slowly once.

“Milah.”

“It sounds ridiculous.”

“Hey, I met her, remember?” Emma sidesteps his attempt at a dismissal with ease. “She was kind, and brave, and nothing about you wanting to honour her memory is ridiculous.”

Killian slips his hand out of Emma’s, runs it through his hair.

“I find myself doubting even that which I’ve always taken for truth. Did she and I not love each other as much as you and I do? Why is one hailed as True where the other just… was?” He sighs. “I even pestered your mother today, such is the extent of my anxiety.”

Was he merely a fool?

Emma had turned her face slightly away from him, staring into the hearth with a soft frown, thoughtful in its most open corners. It makes Killian squirm to see it, and he instantly wishes he hadn’t been so thoughtless as to follow Snow White’s advice.

(Of course she would advocate for total honesty, spilling secrets was practically her modus operandi).

“I’m sorry.” He means it with a depth and severity he cannot measure, and reaches for her hand again. “I want to just enjoy what we have. I wish I weren’t thinking this way.”

“I love that you are.”

A damn lucky fool.

Killian’s bemusement must have shown on his face, because Emma smiles kindly as if he were Henry asking for help with a particularly challenging mathematical problem.

“You think I haven’t had similar thoughts?” she muses. “I loved before you too, you know.”

A vision of Baelfire stuns him then, the familiar rush of guilt and anguish and sorrow coming to the fore before he attempts to soothe them with thoughts of the peace of their last encounter. With Emma’s love, quietly earned and steadfastly valued. He knows the young man would approve — he can feel it in the deepest chambers of his heart.

“Neal might not have always been brave, but he was when it counted. He died for me and Henry. You and me, we’re…” Emma hesitates, and he can see her searching for the right words to pluck from the space between them. “We’re different to Mom and Dad. They fought hard for their love, sure, but they’ve never lost. Not really. Not the way you and I have.”

(I love you, she had whispered, before crumpling into his arms —

— the beast had laughed, cackled, taunted the extent of his despair —

Is it wonderful, she had breathed, to travel so much?)

“I never thought I would love again after Neal. I imagine things were the same for you.”

He had spent 300 years convinced he never would, he never could. Had foregone all else in his pursuit of revenge.

Until he met her.

“Aye,” he agrees, needlessly. She knows the answer already.

“Then maybe —” Emma begins with a renewed sense of purpose, adjusts her position next to him, demands his full focus as she tosses some of her hair over her shoulder impatiently. “Maybe it’s not some secret power or magical authority that decides what’s different this time. Maybe it’s just us.”

He frowns, waits for her to continue.

“We chose each other, Killian. After everything that’s happened to us.”

He thinks back to the test that had engulfed him in flame, how Emma had launched herself at him instead of her own heart.

“You chose me,” he echoes that moment with wonder, his mouth beginning to lift into a smile.

She mirrors it. “And you chose me.” As she leans forward he meets her halfway, allows the gentlest press of her lips to his before she pulls back. “I wanted to believe in us, so I did. And here we are.”

And it’s a damn near perfect place to be.

“Here we are.”

“It doesn’t mean we loved them less. It just means we loved again.”

He has no idea if they have reached a real conclusion – whether the breadth of True Love can really be measured in such a way — but he figures if mystical scales buried under miles of rock beneath the mortal realm are authorised to make that judgement, then so are they. It mutes the stir of his mind, in any case. The Milah of his soul can continue to smile, unimpeded by the cloud of his own uncertainty. They had loved. Bloody hell, they had loved. And they had lost.

Zeus had made it clear enough; he was where he belonged now.

“I like that,” he decides, kissing her again because he can’t not do it.

“Me too.”

“I like you.”

Emma laughs, and it’s an open and honest sound. “Yeah, the feeling’s mutual.”

As the embers die he finds comfort with her long into the night. When they make love he watches stars burst around them, feels her warmth carry him into a dreamless sleep. With her, he need not worry where his home might be anymore. The earth does not beckon him beneath its shell, and as the dark stretches until morning he does not again doubt that the sun will rise.

He knows it with a certainty, a surety, one only born of the privilege to deeply love, and be loved deeply in return.

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blackrose-ffxiv · 6 years ago

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Collections Call 10/12

Normally Lebeaux Desrosiers would at least be polite enough to knock before trying the door to someone’s private residence. Yet this wasn’t a normal situation. This was a collections call. He checked the handle quietly, and finding it unlocked he turned it and swung the door open wide. THEN he knocked. “Good afternoon Marvik.” He called out cheerfully as he invited himself into the apartment.

Marvik Hawkewind had more or less retreated himself a bit more from the world with certain expectations or just not being home at all. Just of course the time he was, a special someone had to catch him. The hyur not looking particulary pleased that another headache was coming in. Really all that was needed was the sound of thunder in the background to truly underline this situation. Marvik walked to Lebeaux, but not close enough for the others freakishly long arms. ( What do you want. )

Lebeaux flashed that ever saintly smile at Marvik, despite the other hesitating a ways away to stare at him with a less than pleasant sulk. After a moment he wrote out a single demand. “How rude. I know you’re not able to speak like a proper spoken yet the least you could do his mind your manners like one.” He mused as he stepped closer, inviting himself into the apartment. “I’ve come to collect. You’re late on your payments for my reconstruction projects.”

Marvik was not happy at all over Lebeauxs presence, he had thought the elezen to be smart enough to far far away from the hearer. Atleast Marvik was not keen to let Lebeaux in any further. ( I think I'm well within my rights to not be pleasant with you. ) Sure emotions were hard to convey via text, but the venom was still thick enough in it. ( Fine, I was about to hand the damn bag of your money to the Moogle that was eager to get to Kugane. Then leave, I have no interest in suffering your presence overlong. ) Especially not when his head was killing him and he figured the elezen would just make it worse somehow.

Lebeaux smiled sweetly as he took another step forwards to draw closer to the sullen hyur. “I should really be charging you damages to my book as well. You destroyed it with your little tempter tantrum. It held significant personal meaning.” He mused as he slunk closer still. “It was the last remaining memento I had of my former mentor.”

Marvik tried to make a stance, before eventually taking steps backwards. While still looking torn between wincing and snarling. ( Your former mentor would have killed all four of us. I did what was necessary, its better that way. )

Lebeaux tutted quietly under his breath as he stalked further into the room. “You panicked.” He corrected sharply as he reached out to smudge away the last part of what Marvik wrote. Swiping away ‘its better that way’ with a gloved hand. “You didn’t know how to respond to the situation so you attacked like a feral, stupid beast.” He explained calmly.

Marvik took a step back for each step Lebeaux came closer, the hyur was clearly still on an subconscious level scared of the Ishgardian. Clutching to the board however in fear Lebeaux would break it again, then again it was nonsensical for now. Assumedly unless Lebeaux wanted Marvik to not be able to respond. ( I didn't panic! I did what I had to do, what felt right to do. ) Or at least what the tunnel vision and the thrumming emotions told him to do.

Lebeaux shook his head slowly as he continued to approach. “You panicked.” He stated corrected. “You were mad with fear. Not only did you destroy the book but you nearly destroyed Rinha’li and Geofferaut as well.” He reminded the other.

Marvik's back hit his bookshelf, having not paid attention just where to he had retreated and now couldn't step back further. ( No. No I didn't I-) he had almost written that he was in the right. He had felt in the right in that moment to get rid of all three of them and then the book. Marvik was positively cornered and the air in the room began to shift with his heightened emotional state.

Lebeaux reached out to push Marvik back against the bookshelf he had just cornered himself against. A hand settling on the boy’s shoulder to keep him pinned in place while he was busy struggling with recalling the events in the White City. “You cannot be trusted. A half-feral heathen who endangers the entire mission because he can’t control his own fear and resorts to baring his teeth and snapping at whatever he can. You should be caged. I’ll not make the same mistake twice.”

Marvik's aether passively flared in defense as Lebeaux cornered him, the wind shifting to knock into the elezens side to get him off. Marvik himself meanwhile paled considerably not only because he attacked Lebeaux but because it felt like he had just made himself aethersick, clutching the rim of the shelf and holding a hand before his mouth. This has been ever since Amdapor and Lebeaux of course in his antagonizing just had to make it worse.

The wind kicked up without warning, yet Lebeaux had been expecting a counter attack. He knew that panicking the boy would earn him a smack of conjury and his own fingers flicked, conjuring up a flash of light that reduced the burst of wind just enough that he wouldn’t be knocked off of his feet bit only aside a step or so. He responded quickly by raising his hand and bringing it down to strike Marv sharply on the cheek while the boy was holding his mouth. “Behave yourself or I shall do so now.”

Marvik flinched as Lebeauxs hand found true, he was pretty sure that the strength behind the slap had caused nothing short but an echo. Though Marvik remained passive over it, his head hurt way to fierce and he was busy not hurling all over Lebeauxs clothes. The hyur looking at his working table, right. Painkillers. ( Take your money. Go away. I can't deal with you right now. ) Literally couldn't whatever push Lebeauxs had given it had sent the hearer physically reeling.

Lebeaux lowered his hand after the strike. It had been intended to bring Marvik’s attention back to him but still the boy was too busy gripping his head and mouth, looking ready to be sick at any moment. Lebeaux grabbed Marv’s shoulders and turned him away, pushing him towards the desk. “Are you so adverse to the truth or have you simply caught the foul rot that eats away at Gridanians’ lungs.”

Marvik didn't need the push to the desk, but maybe it wasn't so bad. Lebeaux was less likely to have the hyur be sick on him. There were several empty bottles already strewn over the hearers workspace, evidence that this had been going on for a longer time. ( Does it matter? If I croak I'll just be less of a hassle for you. ) meanwhile passivly shoving the coin back towards the desks edge. Clearly expecting Lebby to just take it and leave.

Lebeaux shook his head and tutted under his breath as Marvik moved to write a bit of sass back. “That won’t be permitted until you’re finished paying me back.” He explained calmly. “You still owe a considerable sum.” He picked up the bag of gil and weighed it in his hand, then tucked it away into his overcoat. He picked up one of the empty bottles and brought it close to his face to sniff at the rim, checking its contents.

Marvik went to ignore Lebeaux at that, taking one of the painkillers and uncorking it and simply downing it. As for the empty bottle Lebeaux took hold of and sniffed for checking on it, its smell was definitely artificial a pure alchemical concoction. Depending on Lebeaux’s study of it, he might be able to tell that there were certain compounds in it that were also used to dampen aether. Whatever this specific potion was, it was to sedate pain and also to lessen aetherical strains. Considering that Marvik was definitly breaking out into sweats it was obvious to a medical practitioner like the Ishgardian that alot of pain was currently had by the hearer and maybe even a case of Aethersickness.

Lebeaux set the bottle down after he sniffed it. A pain relieving potion compounded with a diluted silencing tonic. “The best thing for it is a good bleeding.” He explained calmly, watching the Hearer with some amused interest but not a drop of sympathy. “Shed some of the excess aether so the body is no longer filled to the point of toxicity.”

Marvik eyed Lebeaux both warily and wearily. He had his money why wasn't he leaving? Marvik managed to do his version of a laughing, though it was more of a rasp. ( Believe me, I tried everything. Only to come back fiercer the next day. )

“A good bleeding.” Lebeaux emphasized, reaching over to give the hyur a little push to see just how steady on his feet he was after drinking down all of that painkiller. "But of course, you are the medical expert what would I know of such things after years of study and practice."

( I didn't say that you weren't a go-) Marvik was in the middle of begrudgingly admit that Lebeaux was after all a practicing and experienced Medic. Unfortunately, the elezen had ruined that for himself at giving Marvik a little push that was enough to stop him mid-sentence so he could steady himself and not tumble over. Glowering at Lebeaux, while trying to breath steady. Great the push had him right back to nauseous. ( Keep this up and I'll see to hurling on you. )

Lebeaux snickered in amusement as the hyur tilted and staggered, then glared daggers at him. “Right. Then I shall leave you to your misery.” He declared as he patted the pocket where he had tucked the coins safely away. “Good day Marvik.”

Marvik seemingly grumbled, albeit wheezingly. ( Wait. ) Twelve, this was going to end in a regrettable road. ( Fine. Do you want me to grovel now to ask for your help. )

Lebeaux was preparing to leave, yet he paused at the small wheezing sound. He turned to find the hyur had written more while he was turned away. “Groveling is rather nice. I do enjoy the sight of a good grovel now and then. But when you can’t plead it takes something away from it.” He offered cheerfully. “Shall I see if I can’t relieve your symptoms for a bit?” He smirked smugly.

@theforestsquiet

#lebeaux #marvik #always fun picking on marv

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wackygoofball · 7 years ago

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Moodboard: Jaime x Brienne - The Trial of Tyrion Lannister

It’s all over the news ever since it happened: Joffrey Baratheon, murdered at his own party, poisoned with his wine. Certainly, Joffrey, a rich brat who took sadistic glee in humiliating and physically injuring people he saw beneath him, was not liked by many. And yet, everyone is an uproar about who may be the culprit of murdering the famously cruel teenager.

News reports come up with crazy theories, party guests accuse one another, having seen this, having seen that, but eventually an arrest is made – and the person taken into custody is Joffrey’s uncle, Tyrion Lannister. What follows is a medial and personal witch hunt, which leaves the star attorney who may be short in height but of a great mind struggling a lot.

However, what puts the nail in the coffin for Tyrion is the moment he realizes that his sister Cersei and his father Tywin are the ones who raised the charges against him, or rather, it was Cersei who made him the culprit whereas Tywin lets it happen because he wants to know his bothersome son out of the way.

Opportunist through and through, is all Tyrion can think while sitting in the prison cell, trying to come to grips with the idea that his own family wants him imprisoned for the rest of his life – if not dead, because death penalty may well be his sentence likewise.

Jaime Lannister, a highly decorated military general who dropped out of service after having killed his commander, Aerys Targaryen, on a secret mission, is worried for his little brother, trying desperately to find a solution. Yet, trying to reason with his grieving sister remains fruitless, and berating his father, who had no trouble breaking his oldest son out of prison when he was charged for Aerys’ murder, leads to the same sickening realization: All mediation is lost on those two.

And things are not looking much brighter for Jaime once he comes to realize that his little brother has apparently no intention of taking this case seriously.

“I crunched the numbers, dear brother. I am a lawyer, I should know. Things are not looking good for me, considering whom I am up against. Father got you out for murder of Aerys Targaryen, after he hired the best lawyers to make it happen. You’d be a fool to think that he would hesitate to do that magic trick again, to rid himself of that bothersome dwarf of a son he can’t help but hate.”

Jaime remains steadfast in wanting to get Tyrion out, though, believing that his little brother is being too smart and self-confident for his own good, thinking that if he can’t make it happen, no one else can.

Things take a sudden turn when Tyrion, at last, agrees to take an attorney. Though to Jaime’s surprise, he is very specific about his choice.

“Brienne of Tarth. It’s her or no one else.”

And so, Jaime tracks down the ominous lawyer Brienne of Tarth, who, to his even greater irritation, has by no means the same reputation or even anything close to it that his brother has around court. While her records show that she wins almost all of her cases, Ms. Tart is mostly considered a good-for-nothing-lawyer by most of her colleagues, taking on the small cases, those without prestige or media attention, and that even though she would have any chance to go for the big fishes, considering that her father Selwyn Tarth owns one of the biggest law firms in the Stormlands. When he approaches her about those matters, the explanations are as simple as their spoken with a sharp tongue:

“I don’t care for what my colleagues may think about me. I don’t need to use my father’s name in order to show my worth. I take the cases I want, contrary to the belief that I take those easy to win or because I can’t get any better than that. It is my choice, people just have to come around accepting it, Mr. Lannister. So once we are done exchanging insults, how about you tell me what your brother would want with me of all people as his lawyer? Last time I met him, he was having quite a laugh at my expenses, so it does strike me as odd that star attorney Tyrion Lannister suddenly sees me worthy of being to his services.”

“He said it’s you or no one else, that’s all I can say.”

“Desperate times call for desperation measurements, it seems.”

“I honestly don’t care for that, so long you get my brother out, Ms. Tarth.”

“Then I suppose the game has already begun – and we should get working.”

And so, Brienne agrees to meet her client, an exchange which leaves her wondering what all that is about, because Brienne has the feeling that something is very, very wrong, and that goes beyond the fact that an uncle is charged for his nephew’s murder by his own sister, based on almost no evidence, backed up by a father who cares about his son so little to follow through with this charade.

And Brienne stands correct as she soon gets behind Tyrion’s schemes as he keeps withholding evidence, makes false claims, and generally does anything within his powers to torpedo his own lawsuit: Tyrion has no confidence in winning, so instead he now goes for the symbolic win of finally getting a chance to publicly accuse his family of all the wrongdoings of the past, all the abuse, all the neglect, and the fact that they are willing to use this case to see him off to prison or the Seven Heavens.

“I want the world to finally have to bear witness. So that they can no longer look away, turn their heads and pretend that it doesn’t happen, that this isn’t real. And if that means I have to go to prison for the rest of my days or even die… then that is so. Because I rather bring to light what monsters they are than let them continue with their secretive ways just because they can’t admit that they want me to be Joffrey’s murderer because I am so awfully inconvenient a son and brother to have.”

However, Brienne isn’t having any of it, flat-out telling her colleague that he must have been fooling himself to believe that his great scheme of hiring the most plain attorney for him to shine for his grand reveal was at her expenses – Brienne took the case because she takes on the hopeless cases.

“And I have any intention to win, so stop crying and do something. Do not yield to circumstance but fight. Your brother is fighting for you, I am fighting for you, so how comes that you sit back and let us play like puppets in your little play? You may make yourself believe that this makes you smart, but it just makes you a fool, Mr. Lannister. Because you have a chance of winning – and you are not taking it.”

And so it seems that Brienne achieved one miracle already: For one, she leaves Tyrion Lannister speechless for one of the first times in his entire life, and secondly, Tyrion starts to care for his survival again, which is why he now starts to work with her rather than against her.

“What do I have to lose, right? I have everything to gain at this point. And just imagine my sister’s face when she sees me walk free!”

While Jaime is relieved to find his brother’s spirit finally renewed, he has no illusions about it that the court case may still turn in Cersei’s and Tywin’s favor. He knows that Cersei won’t back down. She believes Tyrion her beloved son’s murderer and there is nothing to stop her from annihilating the person she deems responsible. Similarly, Jaime is aware that their father simply uses the heat of the moment to see the son he despises removed from the face of the earth, now dead or locked away at the Wall, which is the reason why Jaime has his very own backup plan in case they do not succeed: If need be, he will break his little brother out by force.

Jaime used his contacts and skillsets from his times in the special forces to find a way out of Tyrion’s prison cell in case the judge finds him guilty as charged. With the aid of Varys, Jaime is set on bringing his brother to Essos if need be, even if that means that he will have to turn his back on Westeros forever, too. It isn’t until long that Brienne realizes what Jaime is up to, which poses a conflict for both as Brienne is now confronted with working alongside a man who is willing to commit a crime to see his brother walk free, whereas Jaime soon comes to the realization that there is something unexpectedly tying him to Westeros – his brother’s lawyer, apparently.

However, Jaime feels that he owes his brother that much, feeling massive guilt for not having prevented all of that from the very beginning. Jaime once made the choice to stay as a security advisor around his sister after her husband Robert died under queer circumstances and she became involved in politics on her own, rather than being First Lady to her husband. And that paved the way for Tyrion to be stuck with their father, which did not turn out well at all. Soon, Tyrion was up to becoming an attorney to cross his family and actively uncover anything that may have been on the wrong side of the law, wherein Jaime found himself beckoning his brother to keep it low so not to cause any more upset, fearing that such a feud in the public may result in attempts on his family members’ lives, having seen the same happen to the likes of Renly Baratheon and the Stark clan, only to have just that situation now for real.

“I just want to protect my family. That’s what I always tried to do, but no matter what I do, I end up failing over and over again. I failed my troop by not having Aerys charged earlier, I failed sister by not protecting her son, I failed Joffrey by not protecting him from this, and now I am failing my brother a second time if we lose this case. I am losing everything and I am sick of it,” he says to Brienne one evening while going over the reports and statements to find evidence pointing to his brother’s innocence.

“There is nothing more hateful than failing to protect the ones you love, I know,” she agrees solemnly.

“You know?” he asks, frowning. “How?”

“I know because that is how I ended up in the law.”

“I thought that was because of your father.”

“I went to law school to please him, but after that I actually wanted to do something else with my life… but then… everything changed.”

“How?”

“Renly was killed – and I know that his own brother is behind the murder. But I never got the evidence to prove it as a mere witness. They said to me that I was just seeing shadows where there were none. And so… I decided to pick up law again, but to my own conditions…”

“But Stannis wasn’t charged for his murder.”

“Not yet, no… but for now, I have other things to focus on as well. I realized that there are not just people to avenge and bring to justice. There are also those who need protection. I take on the hopeless cases, the ones no one else wants. Because I see myself in them a lot of times, standing no chance to prove one’s innocence… or the guilt of one particular person… One of these days, I will find the evidence to prove it, but until then… I think I can try my best to protect as many people as I can… including your brother… and you.”

The lawsuit soon grows into a bloody fight. False testimony, intrigue, loopholes, everything goes up and down every day in court, though Jaime and Tyrion find themselves impressed with how Brienne of Tarth, for all the accusations about her plainness and dullness held against her by most other colleagues, manages to overturn even the smartest schemes with her admittedly unconventional way of handling the procedures, but nonetheless always coming up with that one turn in the law book that others don’t see coming.

Things start to look brighter when they get some solid ground of evidence to prove that Tyrion did not carry the poison, finding secret messages passed between Olenna Tyrell and Petyr Baelish, but his sister still has some things up her sleeve, including dragging Tyrion’s former lover Shae into this mess to testify against him.

To make matters impossibly worse, Jaime and Brienne also find themselves struggling emotionally as their feelings for one another grow stronger and stronger, something that goes very much against Brienne’s principles, and all that in the face of the court case as well as the threat that Jaime may have to commit a crime to break his brother free and flee the country, so that they will never see each other again.

And so, by the end of the day, it seems that all of their fates will be decided by the judge about to pass his sentence…

Additional Image Sources: Prison Break, (x), (x), (x), (x), (x).

#jaime x brienne #jaime lannister #brienne of tarth #game of thrones #got moodboard #got aesthetic #moodboard #aesthetic #wacky tries gimp #fanfic #ficlet #in smol

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centaurrential · 4 years ago

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1-2-3-Yes!

My, I’ve been very productive over the last few days. I’ve experienced an upwelling of inspiration, and I find it in the oddest of places. In my last post I went on a mini rant about cleanliness, and how the people we rely on to bring us to that state have had the tables turned on them. Make no mistake though, I do like to tidy the bedroom before I sit down to write. We’re always trying to create order in our lives because we’re just reflecting the need for security, and clarity. I give credit to my own happiness for my ability to write again, and in a more focused way than ever before. I’m a natural thinker, a conceptual problem solver, and I do get this ‘high’ from being able to sort out my thoughts, and to put them in a form where they can find themselves in the world.

I consider myself a late bloomer in the sense that during the years I spent in university, when you’re supposed to be reaching your peak, my point of view on my own thinking was cracked. I felt like my thoughts were muddled, there was no clear direction, and that led me to doubt my capabilities. I can’t even count the number of times I’d decided I’d be switching majors. I’m sure my parents were anxious about that. I’d be told I was smart, and my private response would be “what the fuck?”. I felt inauthentic, like a bloody fraud. That I got there by pure luck. There was a thick fog in my mind. But over the last little while I feel the cohesion of my thinking, and the way I see myself, cementing incredibly rapidly. Again, I owe this to My Own Happiness, generously holding a mirror up to me wherever I go, so that I may see myself more accurately.

In a way, language--its mechanics, its malleability, the mind-blowing and surprising connections contained within it--has followed me through life. For many years it wasn’t a thing I thought the core of me--it was more like people telling me I had a talent for it. But where to apply such an idiosyncrasy? Reflecting on my years in university, I think that the trouble I had settling on one major was just an indication that this essential thing in me refused to be bound by the constraints of a certain ‘discipline’. And ‘discipline’ is the right word for it. I tried organic chemistry, for instance, and while I found it fascinating I felt like being in a lab was suffocating too, because it didn’t answer the questions I had in me that were begging to be answered. Screaming, really. I am expansive and I wanted to find what responded in kind, with encouragement. The closest companion I found was the body of Philosophy, but ‘thinking critically’ had its limits too.

I never got my degree. The courses I took never amounted to anything considered ‘viable’, but I was hopelessly obsessed with ‘the big picture’. And in my mind, I could never achieve that understanding by specializing.

No matter how other people viewed me, there was a wall between me as an agent, and me as people perceive me. I felt like this lost soul wandering the earth, not grounded in anything, no roots, no ability to explain what and who I am. Now seeing how vital Language is to my entire being, I finally have found my identity. It moves me; it is meaningful to me.

Anyway...

I suppose the theme of this post is ‘measurement’, but the two major things I want to comment about greatly diverge in terms of the meaning they give to that word. This post consists of a bit of cultural commentary, but there is also a deeply metaphysical component to it. I feel that, only for now, I might exhaust those ideas that are clamouring to be let out and to dance in the air. Like I said though, more will come.

So lately I’ve been addicted to watching “The Crown” on Netflix. I never really cared about the Royal Family--the gravity of their divinity never struck a chord with me. To me, they were always just these stuffy, uber aristocrats with a solid, unmistakeable and long and celebrated genealogy. Their “direct” connection to God, above any other humans, seemed rather arbitrary. Lucky, maybe. There wasn’t anything in me that the publicity surrounding them yanked at. Until “The Crown”.

It’s obvious there is no way the depiction is totally accurate--there are a lot of secrets. But the show as a whole really gets you thinking about the way they view themselves. It’s clear that while they live a privileged life in terms of their financial reserves, their status in the eyes of the public, and a thick protective entity swaddling them, there is also this agony they feel, bearing the prison-like responsibilities that come with being who they are. Of course, the agony is underplayed because they are British and they are the Royal Family. Poise, measured expression, is king. One particular conversation the Queen Mother had with Queen Elizabeth II made me think, damn, these people are like the X-Men!! Along with this divine power they have, they think of themselves as endangered, as super-humans, precious and vulnerable. During the period depicted--from roughly the late forties to the late sixties--they seemed to spend more time making sure this mysticism surrounding them was intact, rather than doing anything else.

It’s pretty astonishing, the internal conflicts depicted, the contradictory nature of their roles. Every single damn move they make, which might penetrate the barrier between them and the British public, requires careful thought and a weighing of all the options. Elizabeth and her sister Margaret are often played up as foils of one another, and in one episode Prince Phillip remarks that this has always been the case throughout the family’s lineage. One is reserved, the other is a free spirit. I know absolutely nothing about the real Princess Margaret but the way she is depicted in the show is never something I would have expected from a royal other than Prince Harry. She drinks like a fish, smokes in every scene, is vulgar and impulsive. So the royal family isn’t a mere pillar of tradition, stuffiness, tight rules and manners. That’s not what sets them apart from everyone else. It’s the feeling of their own institutional, legitimized divineness, the sacredness they carry deep inside of them, that makes them different.

In the first season, John Lithgow’s Winston Churchill gets a lot of screen time. Again, I don’t know much about Churchill but I vaguely recall learning that he had quite the way with words. It’s really impressive, the art he could create, speaking, ad-libbing, on the spot, using such obscure vocabulary. It’s like he’s creating the verbal equivalent of an Impressionistic painting. And he does it with such defiance, such exasperation, that it’s quite a thing to see.

But, we enter an entirely different linguistic world when we watch films like Save the Last Dance. I re-watched it recently, because I love dancing, I love hip-hop, and every now and then I feel like immersing myself in a deep well of nostalgia. I particularly appreciate Kerry Washington’s character--Chenille, a high school-aged black, inner-city single mother--because of her ability to communicate an incredible intelligence and character where everything she says is sharp, austere, emotionally meaningful, and deeply insightful. The use of metaphor abounds here too. Able to sympathize with an antagonist, she knows the political is personal.

A while ago I started reading “The Language Instinct” by Steven Pinker. I never finished the book, because the honest truth is that I rarely ever finish books. It’s a dense volume, but I did glean some important things from the limited amount that I did read. The crucial thing is, if you can derive meaning from something spoken, then the grammar is right. Churchill’s use of language is long, flowery and drawn out, and by contrast Chenille’s is short and economical, but they impact with equivalence. Both characters use language artfully, but the colour, the diction, the wit, the grammatical structures, the cadence, it’s all evolved according to their respective cultures, which are vastly different. Both styles are things of beauty to me.

I so appreciate hip-hop as an art form. Not just beats, melodies, though those are important too... But imagine Winston Churchill trying to stuff everything evocative, in a song, with as much efficiency and skilled wordplay as the great hip-hop artists. I’m not sure people would be rushing to award him a Grammy...

Now on to the more common type of measurement: the mathematical kind.

In a metaphysics class I came across the question, “are numbers real?�� Well, yeah! Of course they are, if you think of the sense in which we use them. But outside of their practical utility, are they pure in the sense that they tell you something on their own? If you think of the sequence of Arabic numerals from 1 to 9, you think of the corresponding numbers as ordinal. 1 is first, 2 is second, 3 is third, etc. In terms of quantity, however, it might be more transparent to think of seven apples as a group of apples where the number 7 is transformed from having an ordinal quality into quantitative one. Don’t let multiplication fool you; what we are doing essentially is adding 1, the simplest integer, to every group of apples we have. One apple added to one apple is two; one apple added to two apples is three, one apple added to three apples is four, and so on. In this context the multiplication sign is mere notation; it doesn’t capture the reality of the counting process. And ordinally speaking, numbers are like stairs. Every 1 added to the previous ordinal digit gets us from one ordinal spot to the next, in a linear fashion. And there aren’t really any ‘decimals’ because it is helpful to think in these terms via ‘wholeness’. After all, our psychological tendencies are to organize and make sense of things using the innate concept of wholeness.

I can think of a way in which the numbers 1 to 9 and beyond might be real, but you’d have to think of them as ‘geometrically stable’, or in terms of the relationships between each “one”, rather than as “groups of things that don’t know each other and don’t interact”. For example, three would be thought of as an equilateral triangle, four would be thought of as a perfect square, five a pentagon, six a hexagon, and so forth. If the angles are all equal, I wouldn’t be surprised if this geometry was sacred in its own right. (Astrologers use geometry a lot, to determine whether what is called an “aspect” is beneficial or not. Example: trines (triangles) are much easier to deal with than squares, which signal tension.)

You could continue increasing the number of apexes as long as you like, but as the number of apexes you add to your geometric shape (which MUST contain equal angles) approaches infinity, you approach a perfect circle. It just occurred to me that the numeral for zero also looks like a perfect circle. Not really sure what that means, but it is interesting because zero is thought to be very different from infinity, indeed.

I should mention here that it’s entirely possible someone’s already figured this out, but I want to take it one step further and remind you of the implications this has for what we think of as the stuff of reality.

I think of the above process as a calculus of sorts. But the hard thing to wrap one’s mind around is the notion of infinity. Essentially what I am doing is a thought experiment, extrapolating from the series of geometric shapes that are related to one another because of the ordinal addition of 1 to each sequential quantity of apexes (corners, angles). You could think of ordinal numbers as “slots”, with quantities being the total summation of the things that occupy those slots. In fact that might actually have been the third component to my first-year calculus class, which I was totally unable to comprehend.

What I was describing above was 3 and up. But what about 1 and 2? Well, one is just a point; we’ll get to that in a second. 2 would be a line segment: a line drawn from point A to point B. I should note here that 0 and 1 have special status as binary numbers (like the kind that are used in computer science, but that also have other meanings... which is where we get into the REALLY New Age stuff! not yet though). But two is special on its own because there is a relationship between points, but no angles, and therefore no apexes. The utility we get from its own analysis shows us how to reach infinity in the so-called “opposite” direction (maybe ‘complementary’ is a better word) from the one I talked about above.

If the number 1 represents a point, how small can we get that point? Any point you can form, either on paper or in your mind, will take up some sort of space in terms of the Cartesian plane. If it takes up space, its size can be reduced. Usually people think of halving things, so we’ll go with that. Off you go, dividing your point into smaller and smaller constituents. We’re approaching infinity again, because theoretically there is an infinite number of times you can divide this point. But wait, don’t points make up line segments, which are finite? That must mean your line segment is made up of infinity points. That must mean there is infinity in the finite! What a concept.

Over the years I’ve thought about changes, and what it takes to make a significant change in something. (In mathematical notation, change is represented by a triangle, known as the Greek letter ‘delta’.) An interesting study was once done to examine how newborns count. They don’t do it ordinally like 1, 2, 3, 4... They do it in non-linear ways. Some tribes in the Amazon count that way too: there is no need to have a concept for large quantities of things, probably because there is no utility if you’re not measuring something like the distance from the Earth to the Sun, or even building cathedrals for that matter. Anyway, babies “count” by noting differences in quantities of things, not absolute values.

Here are some examples: there is a huge difference between one apple and two apples. Visually, you can tell. You don’t need to go, “okay! one, two...” You just know. As the number of apples in the original set increases, the quantity of apples added to generate the new set must increase too, in order for there to be a sensible difference between the two sets. The production of difference is dependent on what your origin (set A) is, and how the value of the addition relates to your origin, not just the mere fact that there is an addition.

I’m trying to break down the process of change-making. So the other day I was at the train station getting some tea. I like having my tea with my cigarette. I was pouring sugar into my tea when I thought, would a single grain of sugar make a difference in the taste of my tea? What about 2? 3? 100? At what point will I be able to tell the difference between the plain tea and the sweetened tea? Depending on how fine your units are (in the tea example, it was a grain of sugar), the leap from one ordinal step to the next ordinal step may bring about no change at all. It’s like observing 167 black apples, not arranged in any strict fashion, and then having one more black apple added to that group. Unless you’re a savant, you probably wouldn’t be able to tell.

Let’s think ordinally for a moment. It’s theoretically feasible to add granules of sugar, one by one, to your tea. Let’s forget for a second that concentration is an issue; after every granule added we taste the tea, or find some other way to measure its sweetness. We know there is a threshold between non-sweet and sweet, we can taste it! But what is the point at which we cross that threshold? We’ve already established that one granule of sugar plus another singular granule of sugar (so two granules of sugar in the entire cup of tea) doesn’t make a difference in the taste; the quantities are too minuscule to produce anything. After all, all the sugar anyone has ever added to their tea has ALWAYS been significantly more than just two granules. Somewhere along the way, a shift happens. But how can this be the case if sugar granules come in discrete “quanta”? So even though the difference in sweetness is undetectable between granule number 1 and granule number 2, the change can be detected further along the temporal axis of my pour...? The only explanation is that the power of the single granule of sugar beyond that threshold is dependent on what’s already in the cup. That’s not a linear progression. You know what that sounds like to me? Fractals.

Another example I can think of is the increase in sonic volume. Depending, again, on the unit of volume change decided by the manufacturer of a stereo system, if your volume is at a certain level, one step up may not be significant in terms of the volume of music you sense with your ear.

I mentioned Wittgenstein in my last posting. Along with language games, another thing that stuck with me was the conceptual problem with standard units of measurement. The problem was that we don’t really have an absolute, hierarchical source that gives us the absolute dimensions of a standard unit. The closest thing we have to that is the new definition of a ‘meter’, which is the distance light travels in one second. But how long is a second? Anyway, when we try to grasp what a “pound” is, we may use other units of measurement like grams and ounces, and then we attach a numerical figure to that. An interesting thing to note is that often these conversions aren’t tidy numbers made of integers. They often contain a number of decimal places, things that are not pleasing to the human eye. Why wouldn’t someone just arbitrarily set the value of a pound at 250 grams? That would make things easy for us.

So, not knowing too much about the background of this area of study, I wonder if the real definition of measurement, with numbers not being easy, nor arbitrary at all, is “the quantity of something that is required to induce a significant change in something.” But now we must think of the subjectivity of a thing like sweetness level, because biologies can differ widely from person to person. Some people are sensitive to sugar, others less so.

Measurement as we currently think of it is supposed to be objective, but it may be the case that for many areas of life, it is not objective at all. Also, things are easier to digest, to handle, when everything is rounded nicely. You see that in itineraries: there aren’t too many times you’ll see a lecture scheduled on paper to start at 3:27. In our grocery store, 6 boxes of granola bars for ten dollars, flat! You get my meaning.

I thought a while ago about what gives words, seemingly random compilations of letters, meaning. One thing I came up with was that meaning emanates from boundedness. Take homonyms, for example. If we are aware of only one meaning for a word, then that’s that. That’s boundedness. But if we are aware of two or more, we need at least a clause, a sentence, effectively surrounding that word, cushioning and giving it its actual meaning. That’s another type of boundedness. Numbers may be elemental, but when we use them in daily life, in politics and whatnot, we’re always using them in context, to deliver something, to get from point A to point B. Take 38591. We can see the structure of the number, but what is it telling us? 38591 dollars? Miles? Kilograms? Years? 38591 isn’t part of the set of numbers that I would say is sacred. It doesn’t tower on its own. It is in need of something. Most things are in need of something to give them the quality of meaning, of truth. That something is “relationships”, interactions with things thought to be on the outside. Once you initiate analysis into this chain of relationships, you start to see that there are very few things that can exist, in a stable state, on their own.

I finish by saying it’s these little peculiarities, the mysteries, the counterintuitive (the world is chock-full) that I love to think about. The world is so much more, so different from what the Enlightenment told us it is. There is still room for wonder and awe. Once you stop experiencing awe, the world is a little less bright.

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writesandramblings · 7 years ago

Text

The Captain’s Secret - p.80

"People They Fall Apart”

A/N: I now take the stage with my baton, the orchestra fully assembled, every instrument in position, and the music begins to play.

Begins the events of episode 12, "Vaulting Ambition." (Small nitpick note, I did skip/fast forward some of the whole figuring out the Tyler/Voq thing for brevity's sake; this is not the Ash Tyler fanfic you're looking for. I have no time to dwell on that plot. And while I dearly love Stamets and Culber, we're also not here to dwell in the mushroom forest.)

In other news, I'm going to print a copy of this story in bound book format for my own personal amusement. If anyone wants to offer a "book review blurb"-style quote, please do a comment or message! I'd love some quotes to put on the back cover. My goal is to send to print on April 9.

To be clear, I'm not selling this fanfic or anything in any way, shape, or form. It's just, I've written a novel-length work (two novels, really) and I want to hold it in my hands as a real book.

Full Chapter List Part 1 - Objects in Motion << 79 - People They Come Together 81 - Pineapple Surprise >>

The ISS Charon, flagship of the Terran Empire and nomadic palace of the emperor, did not linger to admire its handiwork above the planet Harlak. It was a warp-capable fortress of unparalleled firepower and destruction entirely equal the Klingon Sarcophagus of the other universe. Like that ship, which Lorca had enjoyed demolishing, it was an incredibly attractive target to the rebels lingering in the area. While the evacuation of Harlak had not been entirely completed, enough rebels had escaped to pose a credible threat to the flagship if it lingered.

Georgiou left Burnham and the Shenzhou with the strictest orders to finish mopping up any straggling refugees from the planet as the Charon withdrew to more defensible coordinates. Burnham and Lorca were to follow once the Shenzhou's cleanup efforts were complete.

Burnham could ill afford any more indulgences with Lorca when the emperor's summons was hanging over their heads. "See to it that he's ready for transport immediately," she ordered.

As the guards dragged him towards whatever they thought this order meant (probably the waiting agony booth), Lorca shouted at Burnham and the rest of the bridge, "You're all a bunch of lab rats in the emperor's maze. Lab rats!"

Burnham did not know what it meant, only that Lorca was trying to tell her to relay some message. She undertook the task of performing a cursory sweep of the planet for rebels, doing her best to avoid actually finding any, but three small craft were not sufficiently quick or smart to evade detection and Burnham was forced to watch as Detmer fired on them with disinterested efficiency.

While she sat through this display, a transmission arrived from Discovery. Burnham took it in the ready room. It was the Defiant files. Discovery had gotten past the firewall and decrypted the data. Minus the Terran computer security measures, the files turned out to be very small indeed and almost entirely redacted, but that did not make them useless. There was data enough to start theorizing.

There was also just enough time before they boarded the shuttle for her to send a transmission back to Discovery. It was a small, terse, seemingly innocuous message. "Discovery. Thank you for your assistance in bringing the traitor to heel. The emperor has summoned us to an audience. I will be sure to tell the emperor personally of your role in my success when we speak. Whether as a prisoner or a lab rat, Lorca will pay for his crimes." She hoped that was sufficient to convey whatever message Lorca intended by the words.

The lab rat received the message. She sat in her room monitoring the bridge and communications, eyes glinting in the dim warmth, fur wriggling in excitement. Even if the words were spoken by Burnham, she knew they came from Lorca. She pressed the button for the comms. "Einar," she said, "it is time."

Groves and Mischkelovitz were in the lab proper. In a sense, they were beset on two sides. As Lalana emerged from the back of the lab with her silvery color-changing thermal suit in hand, Larsson came in the front. "What are you doing in here?" Groves demanded of Larsson, to which Lalana said:

"Einar and I have very much enjoyed our time with you both, but we are now required elsewhere." She elected to speak for Larsson, but if she were being honest about it, Larsson had not enjoyed his time with Groves and Mischkelovitz particularly. He found them only marginally tolerable.

Groves had been relaxing with his feet up and brought them down at once. "Say what now?" He should have been in Lorca's study attending to the Allan issue of how to trap and kill a probable time traveler who might or might not still be on the ship, but he had opted to work on decrypting the Defiant files in a more familiar setting because Lorca's collection of armaments creeped him out and now he was just avoiding the murder-themed mancave until such a time as Saru called him back. Besides, he and Airiam had been remotely working on decrypting the files together and had gotten a rather good game of chess going in the aftermath.

(Owing to her inhuman appearance, Lieutenant Commander Airiam had been banned from her post on the bridge and Groves was entirely sympathetic to her ensuing boredom. There was no room for either of them in this universe. What passed for law here was barely recognizable to Groves and if ever there was a place that rendered bioethics obsolete, it was a universe where humans were as almost cruel to each other as they were to the aliens they viewed as inferior life forms.)

Mischkelovitz did not look up from the mess of circuitry she was working on. She asked, "Where are you going?" Her flat tone suggested she was only mildly interested in the answer. Whatever research use she had for Lalana was over with and done with. The only reason Lalana was still in the lab was the mistaken idea that Mischkelovitz's current active projects included the lului box in some capacity. That was the secret she and Lalana shared. There had never been a need for the lului box. Or rather, there had been a need, and the need had been getting Lorca to go to Memory Alpha.

"We are going to join the captain," said Lalana, stretching up and gripping the edge of the worktable.

Mischkelovitz went from minimal to excessive interest in the space of a nanosecond. She put down the microwelder in her hands and turned to face them with eyes bright and eager. "Can I come?"

"Apologies, Emellia, but that is not possible."

"Well," said Groves, putting his feet back up and returning to the chess game on his padd, "have fun. It's your funeral."

"What do you mean, funeral?" asked Mischkelovitz.

"Your brother is being dramatic," intoned Larsson humorlessly.

"Am I, though? This whole universe is goddamn deathtrap. Dr. Culber already paid that price."

"Dr. Culber was killed by Ash Tyler," said Larsson, leaning against the worktable and crossing his arms. Maybe he did not have Groves' intelligence, but he was far too big to be intimidated by anything about Groves. He also looked even bigger than usual in his Terran armor. "Or whatever he is. And he came from our world. Honestly, I don't think the universes are as different as everyone seems to think. There are murderers in both."

"This universe is ruled by a fascist tyrant and you don't see the difference?"

"Fascism and tyranny have existed in our world as well. That is why we have words for them. Humans are humans, and they are always capable of bad as much as they are good."

Lalana tapped her top fingers on the worktable in a manner that seemed thoughtful. "I thought you were a moral relativist, John?" she pointed out.

There was a blank look on Groves' face. He had considered himself exactly that until arriving in a universe where the moral relativity broke his concept of the scale. Reading through the files on the data core recovered from the debris field revealed atrocities beyond comprehension. Now he did not know what he was, only that the darkness permeating this universe was something he outright rejected.

"In any event, if we are to die, it was a pleasure to know you both," offered Lalana. "Please also give my regards to Macarius. Einar, if you will assist me?"

While Larsson gave Lalana a hand with her garment and Mischkelovitz whimpered about not wanting Lalana to die, Groves picked up his padd and tried to focus on the chess game. He could not. He stared at the pieces on the black and green board and finally dumped the padd onto the table. "Groves to O'Malley. You up, moron?"

"Good afternoon to you, too," came the acid response. The eye roll felt almost audible.

"You might want to come down here. You're about to lose the rest of your staff."

A minute later O'Malley was on site with a cup of coffee and, of all the incongruities, a powdered donut in his other hand. Mischkelovitz took one look, snatched the donut from him, and broke it in half.

"What the hell do you think you're doing!" O'Malley went, entirely not caring about the donut. (Mischkelovitz put half the donut back in O'Malley's hand, broke off a piece of her half and gave it to Lalana, and began to eat the portion she had claimed for herself. Powder coated her fingers. It did not show against the medical white of her uniform.)

"Got a mission," said Larsson.

"Like hell you do!"

"Captain's orders."

"Oh, Saru ordered you on a mission without asking or telling me?"

"Lorca." Actually, Lorca had not ordered Larsson to do anything, but it was believable enough that he might have and not said a single word to O'Malley.

"You don't answer to Lorca! You answer to me!"

"I resign," said Larsson, carrying through on his perennial threat yet again. "Now I don't listen to anyone."

O'Malley stared indignantly. "I don't accept your resignation."

Lalana hopped between Larsson and O'Malley. She still had her filaments tucked inside her jumpsuit so she looked like a silvery bullet with a blue-grey head sticking out. "If I may point out, now that I am leaving, there is no need for your extra security measures, so Einar is free to resign."

"Wait, you're going, too?" O'Malley suddenly noticed Lalana was wearing clothing.

"Captain Lorca requires my presence," was her only explanation.

O'Malley shook his head. Children, all of them. "You understand you're not the sole reason for the security here, right? There's valuable research in this lab." Mischkelovitz's eyes went wide at O'Malley's words. Her brother didn't know the half of it. She shrank back towards her desk and debated going into the crawlspace.

"There is valuable research everywhere on Discovery," said Lalana. "I was the only thing that was secret about this room. Now this room is like all the others and may be guarded exactly the same way. But since you are here, allow me to say this in person. In the event we do not survive our journey, it has been a pleasure knowing you, Mac." She even did him the kindness of not calling him his full first name.

There was a horrible silence as that sank in. "Why... where..."

"Do not worry," Lalana said. "I have lived a very long time compared to you and Einar and I are not afraid of this eventuality. We will of course endeavor to avoid it, but there is no need for concern if this should come to pass. We are glad for the time we have known you. That we met at all in the vast cosmos was such an unlikelihood it is what you would describe as a miracle. A thousand million tiny things had to go exactly right for us to meet all of you and they did. Please do not cry, Emellia. Think of us in this moment always, as your friends. Now come, Einar, our shuttle awaits."

They made as if to leave. "Hold on!" said Groves suddenly, his feet coming down off the table again. "You're flying a shuttle in?" That was, he knew, an absolutely, completely terrible idea because even if the shuttles were mocked up to look Terran, they did not have valid Terran transponders and security ident codes and if the Defiant files were any indication as to the sorts of security measures Terrans employed, that shuttle was going get blown out of space the moment it got near the Charon. It would not hold up to any sort of scrutiny. "Let me give you a pineapple."

"Thank you, but I just ate," said Lalana, referring to the piece of donut. "Perhaps Einar is hungry?"

The word seemed to mean something different to Groves and O'Malley than it did Lalana and Larsson. O'Malley's eyebrows shot up. "Is a pineapple an option?"

"Of course," said Groves. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"Well, I don't know, we're in a different universe, aren't there different rules of physics or something?" The light here really did seem strange.

"No, you moron, the quantum variance here doesn't invalidate pineapples." The point at which changes in physics would break a pineapple was also potentially a point at which reality was collapsing and there were bigger problems to worry over.

"Well, then, by all means," said O'Malley, and smiled at Groves. "I do so love pineapples, they're my favorite fruit."

Groves grinned back a grin stretched so wide it threatened to turn into a laugh. "One pineapple, coming right up!"

"I don't understand. How is fruit going to help?" asked Larsson.

"Oh, you'll see," promised O'Malley as Groves and Mischkelovitz began to gather materials from around the lab.

Lalana hopped onto an unused table on the far wall. She loved watching things happening and it was a very nice vantage point.

The sweep of the rebels was done. Burnham sat at the shuttle controls as it left the Shenzhou's shuttlebay and tried not to focus on the fact they were about to fly towards the worst possible reality she could have imagined.

Luckily, she had a small but encouraging distraction on hand. She joined Lorca in the rear of the shuttle as the autopilot took over and showed him the Defiant's data. "The file has been redacted, but there is some data on how the Defiant crossed into this universe. A phenomenon called interphasic space, but where that space is, the exact coordinates? Struck from the record."

She had to put the padd in his hands for him; he was almost entirely restrained for this little transport exercise and his fingers and head were about the only parts of him that could move. "All right, well, we'll just have to hunt down the original report. If the complete archive's anywhere it'll be in the Imperial Palace which is..." Lorca inhaled. "Fortunately where we've been summoned. Some people would see that glass as half full." He smiled at Burnham. Right now it felt a little like his cup was running over.

Burnham did not smile back. She was having trouble understanding how anyone could still find anything to smile about at this point. Between Tyler and Georgiou, she had lost what limited capacity she had for that expression of human joy.

She had, at least, brought him a nerve dampener to counteract the worst effects of the agonizers. She injected it and he reached out and put a hand on her arm, the only part of her he could reasonably reach in the restraints.

"Listen to me. You'll get the data we need on the Defiant and you'll get us out of there. I know you will." His face was so earnest, so sincere, so hopeful. He had confidence in her.

She couldn't look at him. Whatever Lorca thought he saw in her, she no longer saw in herself. She darted away towards the front of the shuttle.

"Burnham!" he called after her. Guilty, she looked back. "I need you. You need you. What are you afraid of?" There was a comfort in his tone, an easiness that went against everything Burnham was feeling.

The insignia badge of her beloved captain found its way into Burnham's hands. Its surface was crisscrossed with ugly scratches. It was the only connection she still had to the person she had been before the Binary Stars.

Those scratches were her fault. Everything, it seemed, was her fault. Yet for some reason Lorca had the gall to still look at her and see some sort of potential.

"Georgiou," she admitted. "Logic tells me she's not the woman that I betrayed. But this feels like a reckoning."

"Your Georgiou is dead," Lorca reminded her, voice taut.

"Haven't you ever been afraid of a ghost?"

He did not fear his ghost, he lived for her. She was less a ghost and more an impossible dream to live up to. A miraculous dream at that.

As the warp drive disengaged, the light of the Charon's massive energy core made Lorca wince and turn away from Burnham. She, of course, turned right towards the light. It did not hurt her eyes to see it. She slipped Georgiou's badge back into her pocket.

They would be docked in a moment and she had one lingering question.

"What did you mean on the bridge when you referred to lab rats?"

For a moment, Lorca worried Burnham had not understood his intent. "Did you pass the message on?"

"I did."

He sat in somber silence a moment. "Just letting someone on Discovery know not to worry, I'll be home soon enough."

"Dr. Mischkelovitz?" The code had been obvious when she thought about it. Lorca was known to frequent Mischkelovitz's lab, a lab Mischkelovitz rarely left, and miš was the root sound for the word "mouse" in most Slavic languages.

"Very perceptive," said Lorca, choosing not to correct Burnham. So many times now she had tried and failed to guess at his motives and feelings. He could not recall a single time Burnham had guessed right. From accusing him of biological weapons manufacture to the Ripper situation to this very moment. All these months and she still didn't know him. Let her think she did, though. Let her think whatever it took to get them both through this.

As the shuttle came to a rest in the bay, Burnham thought it unfortunate that Lorca might have a connection of a romantic nature with Mischkelovitz. Not only did she know from Tilly that Mischkelovitz had severe social issues and was probably easily taken advantage of by someone with Lorca's charisma, Mischkelovitz was only three years older than Burnham. Lorca was old enough to have fathered either of them. Throw in the imbalance of power between captain and junior crew and it was exactly the sort of thing Captain Georgiou had warned Burnham about.

The shuttle doors opened. Burnham shoved aside her grief and strode out with a veneer of savage confidence, barking orders at the shuttlebay crew to attend to her prisoner and not keep the emperor waiting. Lorca stumbled out behind her, the emperor's guards pushing and shoving him every chance they got.

Neither of them noticed a tiny piece of debris left in the shuttle. It had fallen out of Burnham's pocket when she pulled out Georgiou's rank insignia during the trip. A tiny slip of paper with the words "You will be called to fill a position of honor and responsibility" printed on it.

Saru found himself running into more problems than he could ever have anticipated.

Lieutenant Stamets was slowly improving, but he wasn't out of the woods yet. The unfortunate truth was that he was still in a coma. Tilly remained tirelessly optimistic, insisting something positive was happening in Stamets' head, but whatever it was, it was not happening fast enough to get them out of this terrible situation.

The monster that was both Ash Tyler and Voq was having a medical emergency. Now that both sides of his consciousness were awake—the native Klingon personality and the human one that had been forced on top of it—his brainwaves were in a state of chaos. One moment he was Voq, the next Tyler. At this rate, there would be no tribunal, there would be no anything, because whatever was laying in sickbay was going to die.

Even if that person in sickbay was entirely not Ash Tyler, Saru had no intention of seeing anyone else die on his watch.

Then, because all of that was not enough, a message from Owosekun on the bridge: "Captain, did you authorize a shuttle launch?"

"I most certainly did not!"

Operating as captain without being on the bridge was proving to be a disaster. Saru turned to the nearest wall console in the corridor outside the medical bay. "Who is aboard? Open a channel!" The channel opened, audio only. "Shuttlecraft, identify yourself!"

"Sorry, captain, tried to give you a heads up, but your hands were full in sickbay."

Saru recognized the voice. "Lieutenant Larsson, return to the shuttlebay immediately."

"No can do. We're already running late. That fruit delivery cost us precious time."

What that meant, Saru was not sure. Then he realized it was human humor. The sort of humor Lorca often employed to diffuse high-stress situations. Saru would never understand that instinct. "What do you think you are doing?"

"Secret mission. You-know-who's orders."

"Lieutenant, if you do not return that shuttlecraft immediately, we will be forced to open fire." At the tactical console, Rhys armed the phasers in preparation. The action was pointless. Saru could not bring himself to command the phasers used against a fellow Starfleet officer, not in light of his determination to get everyone from their universe home alive.

"Ah, right, you haven't heard! I resigned from Starfleet. Again."

Or, for that matter, against a self-declared civilian, even one in the process of a stealing a ship.

"Beam him off," said Saru sharply.

"I can't get a lock," said Owosekun over the comm. "It's like his life sign is only partly there."

Saru realized what was happening. Larsson's usage of the plural "we." A single, unlockable life sign. Lalana was on that shuttle. It even explained that strange mention of "lab rat" in Burnham's last message.

"Love to stay and chat," said Larsson, "but my friend and I have an appointment to keep. Wish us luck!"

The channel closed. Saru stared at the emptiness on the monitor. The bridge was still waiting for orders. "Captain, do you want us to pursue?"

Saru wavered a moment. What was the right course of action here?

"Captain?"

The answer came. "No. Maintain our present position and resume standing orders."

"Aye, sir."

The next command was to open a comm to O'Malley, whose explanation was as unhelpful as it was clarifying. "They have left on the command of Captain Lorca?" Saru echoed.

"That's what they both said. Obviously, I had no idea you were as clueless as me."

"You might have told me Larsson had resigned his commission," Saru noted.

"Honestly, Saru, he says that twice a week. It's always been an empty threat."

"I am presently your captain," Saru corrected O'Malley.

"Yes, captain," said O'Malley without hesitation or resentment. "I'm afraid that's all the information I have."

Saru let O'Malley go and stood in the corridor deep in thought. He was not certain whether he had just made a mistake or not. That shuttlecraft was a risk they could ill-afford, but Burnham had not been in contact since that last cryptic message, so perhaps this was some sort of special contingency Lorca had devised in case of trouble. Were there other sleeper agents in among the crew, waiting for cryptic turns of phrase to rush out and execute other secret orders? Most likely not, but given Lorca had not informed Saru as to Lalana and Larsson's operation, there was a nonzero chance of something like this happening again.

In Lab 26, O'Malley and Groves exchanged a look. "Do not tell him about the pineapple," O'Malley said, white as a sheet.

Groves held his hands up and shook his head repeatedly. He had no words. Either they had just assisted in the execution of some sort of top secret orders or they had unknowingly aided and abetted a pair of transdimensional fugitives. Possibly somehow both.

Eventually, Groves did find words again. True to form, they were an indictment of O'Malley. "I'd just like to point out, where your staff is concerned, you are oh-for-two, Mac."

"Shut up, John," said O'Malley, but he was thinking the same. He felt like a failure. He had not technically chosen Larsson or Allan, but he was responsible for them and both had disappeared under questionable circumstances on his watch and now he was left holding the bill for their actions. In every conceivable way possible he had proven inadequate as a leader.

Then again, he had always known he was a follower in every aspect of his life. If only he had possessed the guts to stand up to Cornwell when she offered him this assignment. He always did what everybody else wanted. No wonder everyone thought him such a fool.

As he stood there thinking this, he heard the most familiar words he knew manifest in the room: "I love you, Mally." It was, as always, an attempt to cheer him from a morose moment.

"Just as much," he answered, voice hollow and automatic.

Burnham was left reeling in the aftermath of her audience with the emperor. The way Georgiou had beaten Lorca when he refused to bow to her, the promise of enduring torture for the stubbornly defiant captain, both of these things had been expected but still shocked her.

What she had not anticipated was the pure, unbridled confusion that followed when the emperor stepped forward and expressed her happiness at Burnham's return, eliciting applause from the assembly of Terran officers and bureaucrats around them. Georgiou had touched her hand to Burnham's cheek and spoken words that still echoed in Burnham's mind:

"Everything will be the way it was, dear daughter."

Part 81

#Star Trek Discovery #Star Trek #Discovery #fanfic #fanfiction #Captain Lorca #Mirror Lorca #Gabriel Lorca #Mirror Gabriel Lorca #Michael Burnham #Commander Saru #Vaulting Ambition #Captain Gabriel Lorca

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