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salmonballsss · 2 months ago

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The Violet Hour

(Chapter 14)

You are a young, awkward historian obsessed with the Salem witch trials. One name repeats through obscure documents: Agatha Harkness. She's not supposed to exist anymore. But when you find a book authored in her name and follow the trail to a remote New England town, you're met with a woman who looks nothing like she belongs in your century—and who wants absolutely nothing to do with you…

Word Count: 10k

Warnings: Blood, Thigh Riding.

You look into Agatha’s blue eyes—usually sharp, cutting—but now? They’re soft. Unarmored. Staring straight into yours like you're the only thing anchoring her.

You breathe in. Then out. Your chest rises slow now. No panic. Just… her.

Your hands finally drop from her cheeks, trembling just slightly as they fall to your lap. You both stay close, breathing each other in. Foreheads nearly touching. Not speaking. Just being. But then her hand shifts at your ribs, brushing lightly against the source of it all. You glance down.

The black veins are worse. Winding out from the wound like rot, reaching farther than they had any right to. All from the beast calling to it.

Panic surges back into your throat like bile, sharp and hot. But before it can take hold—Agatha finds your eyes again. Her gaze steadies you. Anchors you. She searches your face like she's willing your body to listen to her instead of whatever darkness is nesting under your skin.

Slowly, she pulls her face back—just enough to really look at you. Her voice calm, but tinged with something else. Something bitter. Or maybe grieving. "We need to do the treatment again…"

A pause. She pulls her hands away from you entirely. Her eyes drop. Her breath shakes. "I—we can't let them stray."

She blinks, as if catching herself, and runs a hand through her hair. It's mussed from everything—the sprint through the woods, dragging you back from whatever vision tried to swallow you whole, the way she’d picked you up like it was second nature. And maybe it was.

A part of you aches with guilt. She shouldn’t be the one doing this. She shouldn’t have to clean up your blood and hold your shaking body and fight off monsters from between trees. She shouldn’t be the only thing standing between you and whatever’s changing inside you.

And yet— She stays. Still here. Still helping. Not pushing you away. Not leaving you to rot or fall off a cliff or vanish into the storm. She’s holding on. And not just because of obligation. Not just because of a grudge or a promise. But something quieter. Something messier. Something she won’t name, but you’re starting to feel curl around your ribs like a lifeline.

Maybe it’s not softness. Maybe it’s attachment. And maybe—just maybe—she doesn't want to let go. Not yet.

Your voice is slightly shaky as you watch Agatha—every twitch in her face, every subtle shift of her eyes. "And… what happens if they—" You pause, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat. “If they stray… Agatha?”

She blinks a few times, slowly. Then stands. Her movements are careful, like every muscle in her body is choosing restraint over reaction. You watch the mask start to slide back into place—the usual coolness returning—but it’s not all there.

Not this time. Because you see it now. Clear as day. Fear.

Not for what’s outside the house. You’re safe now. Tucked into her space, lying on her green couch. And yet the fear still lingers in her eyes.

Not of the beast.

Of you. Of the rot curling beneath your skin.

It’s like she’s seen it before. Like she’s lived it before. For lifetimes. And maybe more to come. "I’m going to get the herbs," she says. Her voice is quiet, distracted. "And the incense. The leaves." She turns toward the kitchen.

No answer to your question. As always. You watch her go, lips parting like you might call her back. But the words catch.

Usually, the lack of answers drives you mad. Your historian brain hardwired to dig, pry, unravel. But tonight? You let it pass. You let it go. Because if you hold on too tight, the panic might slip its leash. And you’re not sure you can afford to spiral again. Not tonight.

You glance toward the hall where she disappeared. You weren’t awake for the last treatment. Not really.

It was a blur—wine and whispers, her eyes glowing violet, her voice in your ear. And then you were out. Gone. Waking up with a slimy plantain leaf stuck to your side and a tight ache you didn’t understand.

But now you’re awake. Now you’ll see everything. You shift against the couch and sit up slowly, the ache in your ribs something else entirely compared to the past few days. Before, it was just a sore ache—the aftermath of claws tearing flesh.

But this? This feels like you’re being eaten from the inside. Like tiny maggots made of tar and evil are gnawing their way through your organs. An ache that makes your stomach churn. Makes your skin feel cold and tight and wrong. It’s not just pain. It’s death.

You glance down at your torso. The veins are worse. They’ve begun to crawl lower, branching like spider legs toward your stomach. Slow. Invasive.

You gulp. Eyes wide.

If you’d known Hollow Wood would bring this —the rot, the hallucinations, the beast—you’re not sure you’d have come. If only you’d listened to Billy. Called Agatha a ghost woman and written the whole thing off as a fever dream. Maybe taken a few extra naps.

You could’ve been studying in the library. Bugging Mrs. Calderu for access to the old manuscripts and getting scolded with her usual threat to chop your hands off if anything happened to them.

You could’ve been safe. But the pull—that thread that began the moment you read Agatha’s name—never let you go. It led you here.

And so far, it’s the only thing that’s kept you here. Maybe curiosity brought you to Hollow Wood. But something else entirely is making you stay.

You debate calling out to Agatha—to tell her it’s spreading, to beg her to come back faster.

But all you can do is sit there, frozen, watching the black crawl further. From your left side, branching over to your right. Down the slope of your stomach. Curling, sickly, beneath the undercurve of your breast like ink bleeding through fabric.

You grit your teeth. This was your first real encounter since you summoned the beast. And if Agatha hadn’t been there tonight? It would’ve been your last.

A part of you wants to feel numb. To shut down completely. Curl up. Call your mom, cry like a child and say I don’t know what to do. Tell her you made a mistake. That you want to come home. And maybe you could. Your flight’s still booked. Agatha said she’d help you leave—if that’s what you still wanted.

But do you? Would it even matter? Would this thing just follow you there?

Would it fester beneath your skin until one night you collapsed in some airport terminal or at your dad’s house or in the shower and no one knew what the fuck had happened?

Who’d help you then? Who would know ? The answer presses like iron against your ribs.

Agatha.

You’d usually spiral about that—about how convenient it is that she knows everything. About how little she tells you. About how maybe she knows too much. But not tonight.

Tonight, you chalk it up to Harry. To the notebooks he kept. To the quiet horror Agatha carries. To the look on her face when the veins first started to bloom under your skin.

To the fact that the beast that killed him is still out there. Still watching. And now? It’s watching you. And it won’t stop. Not unless Agatha can stop it first.

The floor creaks.

You barely lift your head as Agatha steps back into the room, arms full—mortar, small vials, dried herbs in a bundle. A carved wooden box you hadn’t seen before, tucked under one arm. She sets them down with careful precision on the coffee table, but her eyes are already on you.

And then they drop. To your stomach. To the ink black veins, now crawling across your torso like vines choking out the last bit of light.

She freezes. Not dramatically. No gasp. No curse. Just a pause. A single moment of stillness that says everything. Her face doesn’t change—not really—but the shift is there. You see it now. That faint widening of her eyes. The way her fingers twitch just slightly at her sides.

It’s worse than she expected. Her eyes trail the new spread of it, and she slowly walks toward you, the room suddenly too quiet. “I didn’t touch it,” you murmur, your voice thin, guilty. “I just… it kept going.”

Agatha doesn’t say anything at first. She kneels again beside the couch, reaching out—not to touch it, not yet—but to hover her hand above the worst of it.

You feel the faintest warmth from her palm. A small pull. A whisper. Her jaw clenches. “It’s feeding off what happened outside,” she says finally, low and sharp. “The fear. The beast’s call. It accelerates it.”

She meets your eyes again. And this time, she doesn’t bother hiding the look on her face.

She’s scared. And that makes your heart twist. “We’re doing the treatment now,” she says, almost too calmly. “Lie back.” You do. Slowly. Your breathing shallow. And Agatha moves—gathering the herbs, crushing them with more force than necessary, the scent of sage and something richer—almost metallic—rising in the air.

She’s focused. Efficient. But her hands shake. Just once. And you catch it.

You lie back slowly, the cushions no longer soft but suffocating. Your breath comes shallow and uneven, each inhale scraping your throat like smoke.

Agatha doesn’t speak. She works in silence, crushing herbs in the stone mortar with controlled, brutal pressure. Her movements are precise, but her face is pale—focused, yes, but there's something breaking underneath it.

You watch her through your lashes. The way her shoulders stiffen. The way her jaw tenses every time the veins on your stomach twitch.

Because they are twitching. They’re moving. Not like a rash or a wound or even something biological. They're curling. Adjusting. Crawling like something thinking. Your throat tightens. “It hurts,” you whisper.

Agatha looks up sharply. The pestle stops moving. Your voice is barely there. “It didn’t before. Not like this. It burns now. And it’s deeper.”

Agatha swallows hard. “I know.” Her eyes move to the vines—those branching black streaks now spidering over the curve of your ribs, sneaking up toward your sternum.

Her breath stutters. “They’re spreading too fast,” she says. “It shouldn’t be this fast.”

“Then what does that mean?” you ask. And she looks at you. Really looks at you.

“It means we might be too late.”

Your breath catches.

Agatha’s face pinches immediately, like she regrets saying it out loud. “No. No. I didn’t mean—” She shakes her head, voice low, fierce now. “We’re not too late. Not while you’re still you. Not while I can still—”

Her voice breaks. She turns away suddenly, back to the herbs, grounding herself in motion. In tasks. In control.

But you’re not looking at her hands anymore. You’re watching the veins ripple, pulse , just beneath your skin. “I feel it inside me,” you say, tears stinging your eyes. “Like it’s… crawling. Like it wants something. Like it’s waiting. ”

Agatha turns back, the crushed herbs in one hand, incense in the other. And for the first time, she doesn’t hide her fear. Or her grief. Or the way her voice shakes when she kneels beside you again. “I’m going to draw it out,” she says softly. “I don’t care how deep it’s gone. I’ll rip the fucking thing out with my bare hands if I have to.”

You blink up at her. “Can you?”

A beat.

Then Agatha leans in.

Her forehead presses to yours.

And she whispers, “ I have to. ”

Agatha’s veiny hand trails up from your side, slow and steady, her touch ghosting over the pulsing black marks. Her fingers are cooler than you expect. Not cold—but steady. Intent.

“You’re going to see something,” she murmurs, her voice low, distant. “Something you shouldn’t know.”

It’s not just a warning.

It’s a promise.

Like the one she whispered on the cliff. The one that didn’t feel like it belonged to this life. You swallow thickly. “Agatha.” She doesn’t look at you, but you say her name again, softer this time.

“Agatha.”

That makes her pause.

Her shoulders dip, just slightly, like the sound of her name on your lips does something to her she doesn’t know how to carry.

Then she pulls away.

She adds something from a dark flask to the crushed herbs in the bowl, and the instant it touches, the mixture sizzles. A sharp sound. Bitter smoke curling up into the air like a serpent.

Your body twitches. You blink up at her. “Lift your shirt all the way up,” she says, her voice clipped, but gentle. It’s the kind of voice that only pretends to be firm when she’s actually worried.

You hesitate—but only for a second. Then you reach down and pull the fabric up over your ribs, up past your stomach, all the way to your chin.

Your chest rises and falls fast—still shaky—as you lie there in nothing but your bra from the waist up, exposed to her, to the room, to whatever magic she’s about to unleash. Agatha’s eyes flick down for a half second—just a flash, a blink—but they land on the marks first.

Then your bra. Then the wall.

She doesn’t comment. Just turns, grabs the steaming mixture with her bare hands, and kneels beside you again.

She holds your gaze now. Her voice is quiet. “It might burn,” she mutters. “Last time you were asleep.”

She swallows hard.

“I’ll fix this. Okay?” You nod. Because you believe her. Even if you don’t know why. Even if part of you is terrified she can’t.

Then Agatha presses her palms to your skin. The burn spreads fast. Not just across your skin—but inward .

You bite back a cry as the heat sinks into your ribs like liquid flame, like something alive is being driven out, clawing its way toward the surface with every heartbeat. “Fuck—” you gasp, voice hoarse.

Agatha doesn’t flinch. Her hands move with purpose—pressing, spreading the thick, pungent paste in steady, practiced motions. Her face is calm, but her eyes are focused— burning.

Then she moves.

She stands and reaches for the small brass burner she brought in—a circular dish with strange symbols carved into its side. She packs it carefully with dried herbs from one of her bundles—mugwort, sage, something darker you don’t recognize—and lights it with a match that flares too bright for a moment.

The smoke rises in thin curls, heavy and perfumed. It smells like earth. Like something pulled from under a stone. Like something older.

Agatha holds her hand above it and mutters something under her breath. Not English. You can’t place it. The syllables twist strangely on her tongue—sharp and soft all at once, like wind whispering through trees and nails scraping wood.

You blink up at her, chest still heaving. “Agatha…?”

She doesn’t answer. Just lifts the burner, lets the smoke drift across your body, the scent clinging to your skin, mixing with the herbs, with the pain.

It’s ritualistic. Every movement she makes is exact. Deliberate.

The burn intensifies again as the smoke settles over your stomach, your chest, the space where the black veins crawl like vines trying to choke out your heart.

Your eyes roll back slightly. The couch vanishes. The ceiling twists. And the visions start. The second the incense smoke touches your chest, the world fractures. It doesn’t fade or blur—it shatters , violently, like glass imploding in every direction at once.

You scream. Not from the pain. From the sheer disorientation . Because suddenly you’re not in the living room.

You’re—

Sinking.

Water closes over your head. It’s black. Endless. You’re drowning. Something grabs your ankle and pulls, pulls , and you see fire flickering in the depths of the sea. A woman’s voice screaming your name—but it’s not your name.

Then—

You’re in a cell. Stone walls. Chains around your wrists. You’re barefoot, bloodied, you’re sobbing . The door creaks open. Agatha stands there, in a different body, different clothes. But it’s her. Always her.

She mouths forgive me.

You scream for her not to leave.

FLASH

Flames.

So many flames.

You’re being dragged to a pyre, wrists tied behind your back, people chanting. Spitting. You see Agatha in the crowd—hood pulled low, face pale with fury. She’s holding something. A pendant. Her hands are shaking.

You mouth I love you.

The fire rises.

FLASH

Snow.

You’re running barefoot in the snow, teeth chattering, lungs aching. You look down and realize you’re a child. Small. Barely ten. A crow flies beside you. You turn around and see a beast behind you—eyes glowing, howling—

FLASH

You’re older now. A battlefield. A man in armor raises a sword. You raise your hand—Agatha behind you, chanting in a language that tastes like iron. The man bursts into flame.

FLASH

You blink And everything stops. The noise. The heat. The fire. The water. You’re standing knee deep in a river. The sun is low, gold pouring across the horizon, casting ripples of light against Agatha’s face.

She’s in front of you. In the water. Soaked. Breathing hard.

Alive.

Beautiful.

Her hands are on your face, and you’re crying—but not from fear. From recognition . “We can change it,” she says, her voice thick, raw. “Change fate, my love. Please—”

Her forehead presses to yours. You nod, even though you don’t know what she’s asking. And then her lips are on yours. Desperate. Familiar. Like coming home.

The water’s warm. Her fingers dig into your back. She whispers something between kisses, but it’s too soft to catch. You don’t need the words. You feel them in your bones.

You were hers.

She was yours.

Over and over and over again.

And this time?

Maybe this time, you survive.

You jolt upright with a scream. Your throat tears with the sound—raw, ragged, inhuman —as pain rips through your skull like a white hot spear.

You can’t see. You can’t breathe. Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. Blood pours from your nose, hot and metallic, dripping over your lips, your chin. Something wet tickles your ear—another trail, sticky, slow.

Your vision swims. You blink—and you can’t stop seeing her. You and her in the river. The pyre. The battlefield. The drowning. The fire. The kiss.

It’s still happening . You clutch your head and scream again, curling forward on the couch, chest heaving, the veins on your side flaring like they’re on fire—like something inside is trying to break out.

And then— You feel it.

Her.

Agatha.

The air is thick now. Not with incense. With magic. It hums through the floorboards. It shakes in your bones.

You blink up—vision fractured, tears stinging. Agatha stands at the center of the room, candles flickering wildly around her. Dozens. Some you didn’t even know she had. Their flames curve toward her as if worshipping.

The bowl from earlier is smoking—now glowing faint violet. And Agatha? Agatha is chanting. Low. Rhythmic. The language from before, but stronger now—echoing in your ears, through your ears, rattling your ribs like thunder.

Her eyes are open— glowing. Bright, violet, unearthly. Her hands hover in front of her, veins visible, pulsing, feeding the spell.

Her hair lifts slightly as if there's wind blowing only around her. Her coat’s fallen to the ground. She’s barefoot. Her mouth moves in constant invocation, and the smoke rises with her voice .

You try to speak. Try to call her name. But you can’t. The air presses down on you, a weight that turns your lungs to stone. And Agatha— She doesn’t look human anymore.

She looks eternal.

Terrifying.

Beautiful.

She turns her gaze toward you, and her voice changes— louder, darker. The candles flare. The pain explodes in your side—sharp and wrong, like something inside your flesh is trying to claw its way out.

You arch off the couch with a strangled cry, back bowed, limbs thrashing. Agatha steps forward—eyes still burning , hands glowing with that same violet light—and begins moving them in a precise, fluid pattern above your stomach. She doesn’t touch you. She doesn’t have to.

Whatever she’s doing—whatever she's becoming —it’s working.

The veins pulse. You sob, gasping. “Agatha— I— I can’t—” She doesn’t stop. Her chanting grows louder, faster, the language slipping into something so old it doesn’t belong to any timeline you’ve ever studied.

The candles flicker wildly. The smoke changes color.

You feel it then. Something shift. Like fingers detaching from your spine. Like something snarling from the inside.

You scream.

And this time, Agatha does touch you—slamming her palm flat over the wound on your side, muttering one final, savage word that shakes the walls.

The veins explode outward in a black shimmer—up your neck, down your hip—and then…

Rip backward.

Like they’re being dragged from inside your body by some invisible force. You feel every inch of it. Like barbed wire pulled from a wound. Like a scream trapped in your blood.

Your back hits the couch hard. You go still. Your eyes roll back. Agatha stays frozen for one long moment, hand still on your side, breath shallow.

Then—

The glow fades from her fingers. The smoke begins to settle.

The room is dead silent. You lie there, slack jawed, chest rising and falling, streaks of blood still drying down your neck and face.

The veins are retreating. Faint. Recoiling into nothingness like a dying fire. Agatha’s hand drops.

She’s pale. Shaking. Exhausted.

But she says, quietly— “I got it.” And then your vision dims. And the world goes black.

Warmth. That’s the first thing you feel. Not the sharp, aching kind of warmth from fever or pain. No.

This is soft. Like sunlight through gauze. Like bathwater that never cools. Like the inside of someone’s memory.

You float. Not quite conscious. Not quite dreaming. But everything feels… real.

More real than it should.

You blink.

The sky is pale pink, stretching endlessly above you, and you’re lying in a field of soft grass that smells like lavender and rain. The air glows, somehow—not bright, not blinding. Just glowing. Like magic lives here, in every blade of grass, in every breeze that brushes your cheeks.

You sit up slowly.

No pain.

Your hands look the same, but lighter. You lift one to your chest, expecting to feel the burn, the rot, the scar—but there’s nothing.

Just warmth.

You rise to your feet, bare toes sinking into the damp earth, and begin to walk. Somehow you know where to go. A tree appears in the distance. Then a path. Then a river— that river. You’ve seen it before. Felt it. Lived it. The same one from the last vision.

And standing there on the riverbank?

Is Agatha.

She’s barefoot too, wearing something light, loose—nothing like her usual armor of coats and sharp collars. Her hair’s down. Wind tossed. She’s staring into the water, but her head turns when she hears you.

And she smiles.

God.

It hits you like a punch. Because it’s the softest smile you’ve ever seen on her. Not sarcastic. Not guarded. Just quiet. Just hers. She doesn’t say anything. She holds out her hand.

You take it. You step into the water with her. And again, it’s warm. So warm.

You don’t know what this place is. If it’s a memory, or a dream, or some kind of in between space stitched together by her magic and your broken mind.

But it feels safe. It feels like the truth. Even if it shouldn’t. The water ripples around your calves as you step beside her, still holding her hand. She doesn’t let go. Neither do you.

Agatha turns to face you fully, the sunset painting her in gold and pink and soft lavender shadows. Her eyes aren't glowing now—but they shimmer. Brighter than you’ve ever seen them.

And she's smiling . Not in that cocky way. Not in the sharp smirk she uses when she teases you or cuts you down just to see how fast you bite back.

This smile is different. It’s slow. It’s safe. It’s the kind of smile you’d beg to wake up to every morning if you were allowed to be selfish. “You’re okay,” she says softly, fingers still laced in yours. “I knew you would be.”

You nod, even though you don't know how you're here or why your body doesn’t hurt or what this place even is. “I saw things,” you murmur. “Memories. Visions.”

Agatha’s gaze drops for a moment, lashes low. She brushes her thumb across your knuckles. “I know.”

You pause.

“Were they real?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Just lets her free hand drift up—lightly, reverently—until her fingertips brush a strand of hair from your face. “They were ours,” she says finally. “And that’s enough.”

Your chest tightens. It shouldn’t make sense.

But it does.

The pull. The ache. The recognition you felt the moment you laid eyes on her back in Hollow Wood. The way her voice sounds like it’s echoing from a place older than you. The way her touch feels like returning.

And here—now— Everything slows. Agatha takes a step closer. You follow instinctively. Her hands slide to your waist, yours to her shoulders. No hesitation. No confusion.

Just the two of you. Just this moment. Her eyes search your face like she’s cataloging it. Like she’s afraid you’ll vanish again if she doesn’t memorize every inch.

“You always find me,” she murmurs.

Your throat catches. “So do you.”

She leans in. You meet her halfway. The kiss is soft—almost tentative—but the second your lips touch, it deepens. Grows. Her hand cups the back of your neck. Yours press into her shoulder blades. The water laps gently around your thighs. The sky glows brighter.

And for the first time in what feels like lifetimes— You’re not scared. Not of her. Not of the beast. Not of whatever’s waiting for you when you wake up.

You’re just here. You don’t know how long you stay like that. In the river. In her arms. Your forehead pressed to hers, the kiss barely broken, breath mingling between you like mist.

She holds you gently, like she’s afraid to squeeze too hard—as if you’ll disappear if she forgets to be careful. You lean into her. Let your hands curl in the fabric at her back.

Her nose brushes yours, her thumb stroking small circles over your waist. The kind of touch you never thought she had in her. The kind of touch that makes your chest ache with something that isn’t pain.

A silence settles over the water.

Not awkward.

Not heavy.

Just whole.

You rest your head on her shoulder. She lets out the faintest sigh—like maybe, just maybe, she’s letting herself believe this moment is real too. “Will I remember this?” you whisper.

Agatha’s arms tighten slightly around you. “I hope so,” she murmurs. “But even if you don’t… you’ll feel it.”

She pulls back just enough to look at you. Her expression is unreadable. Soft. Still laced with grief. With awe. “You always do.”

The wind picks up.

The sun dips lower.

The river ripples beneath your feet. And then— Everything begins to glow. The trees. The sky. Even Agatha. Like the dream is starting to… break.

You try to hold on. You reach for her face again—but—

Gasp.

You jolt upright with a sharp inhale , heart pounding.

Your chest heaves. Sweat clings to your skin.

You blink rapidly, disoriented, your body still in a half dreamed state of warmth and water and lips and riverbank—

And then—

“Jesus Christ—!”

You nearly fall off the couch. Because Agatha is standing right there. Leaning over you.

Watching.

Still.

Silent.

Expression unreadable.

Too close.

Too quiet.

Too calm.

Your pulse slams in your throat. “What the fuck , Agatha?!” She doesn’t flinch.

Just cocks her head a little, like she’s studying you. “You stopped breathing,” she says simply.

Your chest rises and falls, your heart refusing to slow. “You couldn’t have maybe said my name instead of looming over me like a demon?!”

Her lips twitch. Almost a smile. “Seemed effective.”

You flop back against the couch with a loud, dramatic groan, throwing your arm over your eyes like the world has personally wronged you .

Agatha doesn’t move at first. She just watches you with that damn unreadable expression. Then, slowly, she lowers herself back down onto the floor beside you, her movements fluid and composed, like she hadn’t just summoned the dead or ripped shadow beasts from your organs fifteen minutes ago.

Her fingers drift toward your ribs again—ghosting over the skin, checking. Evaluating. You swat at her weakly. “Jesus, warn a girl next time.”

She hums under her breath. A soft, analytical sound. Like she’s reading a map only she can see. “Your breathing’s even. The veins have receded. You’re not convulsing anymore.”

You lift your head, scowling. “Wow. Five stars on the bedside manner. Really feeling the love.”

That earns you a look, but she doesn’t bite. Her fingers stay pressed to your ribs, the touch surprisingly gentle. Your eyes trace over her face—pale in the low light, sweat still clinging to her hairline, lips parted like she’s halfway through a thought she hasn’t said yet. She’s focused. Quiet.

And touching you. A shudder goes through your body—not fear, not quite pain. Something colder. Realer. Everything starts clicking together.

Your body still aches, still feels like you’ve been rung out and stitched back up—but now there’s space to think . Which, of course, is the worst possible idea.

Agatha was chanting. Her eyes were glowing. The bowl was glowing. Violet light. Symbols you didn’t understand. Candles. Smoke. A goddamn language that made your teeth feel wrong.

And the visions— The river. The fire. The battlefield. The drowning. The kiss. You swallow hard. You saw her. You saw both of you. And her hand is still on your ribs .

“Uh!” you blurt, voice cracking. “I think that maybe we should, uh—eat! Yeah. Dinner. Food. Nourishment. That whole thing.”

Agatha pauses. Then hums again, amused this time. She wipes under your nose with her thumb, surprisingly soft. “You’re covered in blood and ash.”

You grimace. “Well. Dinner and a show.”

She exhales, then stands. “I’m going to get you a wet rag before you bleed all over my couch.”

“Noted. Very gracious of you.” She walks off toward the bathroom, bare feet soundless on the floor, coat forgotten somewhere in the corner.

And you? You lie back. Alone. Your eyes trace over the coffee table—empty now, except for the scorched edge of the bowl and the faintest lingering smoke.

You look down at yourself. Dried blood from your nose to your lips. Goop—black, burnt looking—still smudged along your skin where her hands tried to wipe it away.

Your ribs are wrapped now. Gauze tied tight, and beneath it? A single plantain leaf. You let your head fall back against the cushion and rub your eyes.

Your brain hurts. Your soul hurts. But your body? Feels lighter. The veins are still there. Pale shadows, now—not the snarling black they’d been.

They’re retreating. But not gone. You exhale. If you want to get rid of them— really get rid of them…

You’re going to have to kill the beast.

Agatha returns quietly, a damp cloth folded neatly in one hand. She doesn’t speak as she sits—perches herself lightly on the edge of the coffee table, knees close enough to brush yours.

You start to sit up more, reaching for the rag—ready to take it, to spare yourself the weird intimacy of her wiping your face like a child or an invalid or something in between.

But her hand catches yours before you can. She’s already begun. Her fingers tilt your chin slightly, and the cloth—warm, clean, smelling faintly of lavender—presses to your cheek.

Your breath stutters. You don’t expect the softness. Not after everything. Not after screaming and convulsing and bleeding from your ears. Not after her chanting over your body like some ancient priestess resurrecting something dead.

But it’s soft. Her touch is careful. She wipes down your jaw, across your nose, over the dried blood at the corner of your mouth. Focused. Gentle.

You stare at her—open, quiet. Your chest still tight. But something in you... leans. Leans forward. Leans into her hand. Into her. “Thank you,” you whisper, the words catching slightly in your throat. Your eyes meet hers for a moment, tired and raw. “I’d be dead a thousand times over if it weren’t for you.”

Agatha pauses—just briefly. Her eyes flicker. Something passes through them that you can’t name, but you feel it.

She dips the cloth again and wipes carefully near your neck. You shudder. Her voice, when it comes, is barely above a breath. “You have no idea, hon.” There’s no teasing in it. No sarcasm. Just a sigh.

Heavy.

Worn.

Old.

You watch her face. The lines near her eyes. The tight set of her jaw. She’s tired. Probably more than you’ll ever know. And yet—she’s here. Still wiping you down like it’s second nature. Like you’ve done this a hundred times before, in a hundred different lifetimes.

You Lean in even more before you even realize it. Agatha’s brow lifts, just slightly—ever the smug woman she is—but there’s no heat behind it. Just a flicker of something fond beneath the exhaustion. A shadow of her usual smirk plays at the corner of her mouth, worn thin by the night.

Still, she doesn’t pull back. And you don’t stop. Your hand lifts, brushing against her wrist—the one holding the cloth. You guide it gently away, the rag now cool and damp and forgotten. She lets you, watching with unreadable eyes.

Then your fingers shift. Curl. You cup her cheek. Her skin is warm.

Soft. A little damp from the effort of whatever the hell just happened to you both. And then—you lean in fully.

Your lips press to hers in a soft, tentative kiss. There’s no rush to it. Just the quiet ache left behind by the visions—the river, the sun, her voice whispering please, her hands around your waist like they belonged there.

It twists in your chest. That ache. That want. And for a heartbeat, she doesn’t move. She stiffens, breath hitching ever so slightly.

But then her hand drops to the table, rag forgotten, and she leans in. Her lips move slowly against yours, matching the rhythm you set—careful, steady. Her fingers find your waist, her palm resting gently against your side, warm through the bandages.

It’s not a kiss about need. It’s about recognition. It’s about time. It’s about every version of the two of you who ever stood knee deep in a river and said, we can change it.

Her mouth parts against yours just slightly. You exhale into her.

And for a moment, there’s nothing but her.

No visions.

No beast.

Just you. Just Agatha.

You barely have a second to breathe before Agatha’s arms slip around your waist and pull. And then—her mouth opens against yours.

Tongue licking in, hot and purposeful, and suddenly you’re not tired anymore. Your whole body ignites, every nerve pulled awake by the drag of her mouth, the press of her chest, the sharp way she exhales when your hips shift closer.

You don’t think you’ll ever get used to her kissing you. Not like this. But clearly, Agatha has different plans. Because this kiss? This isn’t soft. This isn’t cautious. This is need.

She pushes into you harder, hand fisting slightly in the fabric at your side like she’s anchoring herself there. Like letting go isn’t an option.

Your lips smack together messily, and the sound punches right through your chest, deep and shamefully hot. You let out a quiet moan—and she swallows it.

Her tongue moves against yours, confident and controlled, like she’s memorizing you again. Like she’s claiming the way you taste now that you’re not drunk. Not hallucinating. Just here.

Then—her teeth graze your bottom lip. She sucks gently, then tugs. You gasp, your hands clutching her shirt now, breath stuttering. Agatha groans low in her throat, like your reaction hits somewhere deep.

Her mouth crashes into yours again, and suddenly everything feels too much and not enough —the smell of herbs still clinging to her skin, the faint sting of your bandages pulling as you lean in, the sheer heat of her body pressed to yours.

And still— You want more. Agatha’s hands tighten at your waist, pulling you closer— flush, no space left between you.

Your legs shift instinctively, knees brushing hers, and you find yourself half in her lap before you even realize it. She doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t even flinch. Just opens her mouth wider against yours and lets you fall into her.

Her tongue licks into your mouth again, hungrier now, and your hips roll forward on instinct. A sound escapes her—low, from deep in her chest—and it reverberates through you. You moan softly in return, fingers curling into her shirt. You want her closer. Closer than physics should allow. Your heart is racing. Your ribs still sting under the bandages, but it doesn’t matter.

Because her mouth is on yours and her hands are moving—one sliding up your back, the other slipping under the hem of your shirt, warm fingers brushing bare skin.

You gasp again, louder this time, and Agatha drinks it down like a woman starved. She tilts her head and kisses you deeper, more urgent, more messy. Teeth, tongue, lips—nothing delicate anymore. It’s greedy. It’s real.

You cling to her.

Your hands trail up her sides, finding skin under her Shirt, and she shudders. “Fuck,” you breathe against her mouth. Her lips trail down to your jaw. Then your neck. Kissing, sucking, biting.

You throw your head back with a whimper, hands now tangled in her hair as she latches onto the same side she already marked. “Agatha—”

“Still sore?” she murmurs against your throat, voice raspy, wrecked.

You can’t even answer. Not with her mouth hot and wet on your neck, not with her hand now splayed wide across your lower back, keeping you pressed right against her thigh.

You rut against her, just once —friction barely there, but it sends your whole body humming. Her hands grab your hips in response, gripping you. And then she’s pulling you in again—another kiss, hot and unrelenting, like she wants to crawl inside you and stay there.

You pant into her mouth, lips barely pulling back as you catch your breath—just enough to feel the heat of her exhale crash into yours.

Your hips rock forward, slow and unsteady, grinding soft against the firm line of her thigh.

You gasp. The friction’s not much—but it’s everything. Her thigh tenses beneath you. You whimper into her mouth, hips rolling again, more instinct than thought.

Agatha growls low in her throat—wrecked and wrecking you —and rasps, “That’s it.” The words hit your core like lightning.

Your hips stutter, legs trembling slightly from the intensity that’s starting to build with nowhere to go, no release in sight—just her, just the way she’s watching you like she could devour you right here on the couch.

She chuckles —breathless, hot—and the sound sinks into your skin like oil on flame. “Oh,” she murmurs, voice low and wicked, “You like being told what to do, don’t you?”

You try to answer—but it comes out as another moan, softer this time, head falling to her shoulder as your hips grind forward again, chasing pressure. Her hands grip your hips harder, anchoring you, helping you move.

“You’re so needy, baby,” she mutters, kissing the edge of your jaw. You groan—half embarrassed, half ruined—and she laughs , open mouthed against your neck, biting lightly before soothing the sting with her tongue.

Your hands claw at her shirt, fingers curling around warm skin and soft fabric, hips moving in desperation now, not rhythm. And Agatha just holds you there.

You can feel it— feel it—how soaked you already are, underwear clinging, heat pulsing through your entire body like your veins remembered something before your brain could.

You’re wrecked.

Utterly gone for her.

Every tilt of her mouth, every rasp of her voice, every goddamn command—your body responds like it’s been waiting a lifetime to obey.

Agatha shifts beneath you, and her thigh presses up —harder.

You keen, sharp and breathy, as your hips jerk forward, desperate for more. For friction. For her.

You find her neck with your mouth, lips dragging open kisses down the curve of her throat, not even thinking about it—just claiming. Marking. Letting her feel how far she’s dragged you under.

Your teeth catch the soft spot just above her collarbone and suck, slow and deep, and the noise she makes— A low, half swallowed groan, like it surprised her, like she hadn’t meant to let it slip—

It sends your hips jolting, grinding harder against her. You swear under your breath, gasping, clinging to her like you’ll fall through the earth without her. “Please,” you whisper—nearly whine.

Not even sure what you're begging for.

Just her.

More of her.

Any part of her she’s willing to give.

Her hands tighten at your waist again, fingers twitching against the hem of your shirt like she’s two seconds away from losing control entirely.

She tilts her head just slightly, mouth grazing your temple, her breath hot and shaky. “You’re so sensitive like this,” she murmurs. “So fucking easy for me.” You moan, soft and wrecked, hips stuttering again.

And she feels it—smiles against your skin, teeth barely brushing your jaw.

“Say it again.”

Your breath catches. You know what she means.

“Please,” you whisper again—shameless now, melting into her.

You don’t even care what you’re asking for. You just need her to keep going.

You feel her grip shift—hands tightening at your hips, fingers pressing firm, intentional, as she drags you along her thigh. The inseam of your jeans catches just right , and it rips a gasp out of you, sharp and high. “Oh my god,” you whimper, the sound barely human.

Agatha hums , low and dark, and it vibrates against your throat where her mouth lingers.

“You’re already this desperate for me?” she murmurs, voice thick with something unreadable—half mock, half reverent.

You moan out again, hips moving with growing urgency. Her leg is solid beneath you, unforgiving, and your body chases it like it holds all the answers to every question you never dared to ask.

She guides you, her palms a hot weight on your waist. Your breath stutters each time she pulls you down harder, the seam of your jeans grinding against your clit with bruising precision.

Your nails dig into her shoulders. Your thighs tremble.

“Agatha—”

“I know,” she murmurs, almost indulgent.

Her hand slides up, tracing the line of your spine under your shirt. It makes you arch, your chest brushing hers—and the friction doubles. Your lips crash into hers again, messy and half breathless, all teeth and tongue and heat.

Agatha’s mouth devours you.

Her tongue strokes against yours with a kind of calculated rhythm, like she knows exactly what you need, exactly how far to push before you fall apart.

She pulls back just long enough to look at you—and your breath catches.

Her pupils are blown wide. Her lips are kiss bitten and red. And fuck, the way she’s looking at you. Like you’re hers.

Like you’ve always been hers. “Look at you,” she murmurs, voice low and frayed. One hand snakes up into your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your head back. “Messy little thing. You’re soaked, aren’t you?”

You whimper, nodding before you can stop yourself.

“Pathetic,” she adds—quiet, amused.

But then she kisses you again—deep, slow, nearly tender —and the contrast shatters something inside you.

“More,” you gasp against her lips, grinding down harder now. “Please, please—”

And then—

She moves.

Her left hand slips between your bodies, sliding down, down—and she presses her fingers to the apex of your jeans, right over where you’re throbbing directly. The pressure is perfect.

You cry out —high, frantic—and rock forward so hard your whole body shudders.

“There we go,” she breathes. “That’s it. Let me help.”

She doesn’t slip under the fabric—just holds you through it, pressing and rubbing in slow, controlled circles right over your clothed clit. Her fingers guide your movement, sync with it, amplify it.

And you’re unraveling.

The coil in your stomach is wound so tight you feel like you might shatter.

You bury your face in her neck, panting against her skin. You can smell her—cedar, lavender, smoke. You want to drown in it. Your hands clutch her shirt like it’s the only thing tethering you to the earth. “Please,” you whisper again. “I need—fuck—I need to—”

Her teeth scrape your earlobe.

Her fingers press harder. Her thigh flexes beneath you as she shifts, and the friction hits you just right. Your body locks. You gasp, a broken, shattered thing, and grind —sloppy, erratic, desperate—as the wave starts to crest, blinding and sharp.

And through it all— Agatha just watches you. Hand steady. Breathing low.

Like she’s memorizing every twitch, every moan, every fucking way you fall apart for her.

“Come on,” she murmurs. “Let go.” You sob into her shoulder as it hits you, pleasure crashing through your limbs so hard you nearly collapse. Your hips jerk once, twice—and then still.

Agatha’s hands soften. You slump against her, trembling, your breath caught somewhere in your throat.

Her fingers move to your hair again, stroking through it slowly. You hear her whisper something—words you don’t quite catch. Maybe they’re in English. Maybe they’re not.

All you know is that you’ve never felt more real. More ruined. More held.

After a long moment, you lift your head—barely—and meet her gaze before leaning in to leave sloppy kisses down her neck. Each one draws a sound from Agatha, low and breathy, and if anything, it just makes the fire in your core simmer all over again.

“I want to make you feel good,” you whisper, lips still tingling, heart thudding like it’s trying to escape your ribs.

Agatha raises an eyebrow—but the edge in her eyes is softer now. Her thumb brushes gently across your temple.

“No, sweetheart,” she says quietly. “You need to rest.”

She pulls you back from her neck, and you whine, shameless and half delirious. You blink up at her, dazed.

“But—”

“Later,” she says, firm and final. It’s not a dismissal—it’s a promise.

She shifts you gently, fingers ghosting down your spine in a soothing stroke. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

You just hum, nuzzling into her collarbone, limp and flushed. “Clean what up, Mrs. Harkness…” you try to purr, but your voice is wrecked and your body’s giving out.

Agatha chuckles.

“You’re undoubtedly soaking your underwear after you just humped my thigh like a—”

“Okay! Okay!” you cut her off, face flaming as you squirm in her lap, suddenly desperate to escape your own embarrassment.

She just laughs—and kisses you again.

Firm. Smiling against your mouth.

And then her hands slide to your hips and drag you once more across her thigh—slow and deliberate.

This time, it’s overstimulating.

You squeak, jerking back with a breathless, “Agatha!” and swat her arm. Finally, finally, she lets you go, still grinning like the smug menace she is. You try to stand, legs wobbling like you’ve never walked before.

Agatha watches you, smug and amused, like this is the highlight of her entire week. And honestly? Maybe it is.

You take a step forward, legs still shaky, cheeks burning.

Agatha stands, stretching languidly—like she didn’t just let you grind out an orgasm in her lap—and reaches over to gently shove your shoulder.

“Move it, Romeo,” she mutters. “Before you fall asleep on my floor and I have to carry your pathetic ass upstairs.”

You grunt something that might be a protest, but the way she’s smiling at you—soft and knowing, like you’re her favorite secret—it makes it hard to come up with a good comeback.

You head toward the stairs.

She follows close behind, her hand brushing your back every few steps like she’s making sure you don’t faceplant. As you reach the top stair, you hear her murmur behind you “You’ve never been so quiet. The thigh must’ve shut you up.”

You whip around, huffing. “Well, if you would’ve let me please you back— ”

She cuts you off with a kiss—quick and firm, her palm catching your jaw as she presses into you just long enough to silence the thought.

You blink up at her, stunned.

“Mm-mm,” she hums against your lips. “Later.”

You grumble, half swooning, half annoyed, and shuffle toward the guest room, grabbing the doorknob with a sigh.

“Where are you going?” she asks behind you, a touch of suspicion in her voice.

You glance over your shoulder. “To clean up?? I need new clothes. I’m literally covered in dirt and—” you gesture vaguely to your body, “—your weird ritual goo or whatever the hell that was.”

Agatha squints at you. Like she’s trying to decide if you’re mocking her. You lift your eyebrows. She lifts hers right back. The silence stretches until you smirk. “You gonna interrogate me or let me grab a new shirt?”

Agatha steps closer.

“You’re not going back to sleep in there,” she says.

“Oh?”

She leans in. “You thrashed so hard during the ritual I had to pin you down. There’s a full body imprint in my couch. You think I’m letting you out of my sight now?”

Your heart stutters.

“Oh,” you say, voice softening.

“Clothes first,” she adds, reaching past you to open the guest room door. “Then my room.”

You nod dumbly and turn to go in. And behind you, Agatha mutters—just low enough that maybe you weren’t supposed to hear it

“Not risking losing you again.”

You shut the door behind you and catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror on the dresser.

You blink.

Hard.

Your eyes are bloodshot—still red from crying, from the visions, from the fucking ritual. Your cheeks are flushed, lips kiss swollen, and your hair looks like it’s been electrocuted and left to dry in the wind. There’s dirt smudged along your jaw. Ash on your collarbone. And new marks—red and tender—peppering your neck, stacked just beneath the older, already fading ones.

You sigh. A full bodied, exhausted, what the fuck just happened to me kind of sigh.

Then you strip.

Peeling off your jeans with a grimace because—yeah—your underwear is soaked. Cold and clingy in a way that makes you blush alone in the room.

You yank them off, toss them somewhere near the duffel bag, and grab the first things you can find some sleep shorts and an old oversized t-shirt. Something soft. Something that doesn’t make you feel like your body’s still buzzing.

You tug the shirt over your head and run a hand through your hair, trying to smooth it down. It doesn’t help. You look like someone who just survived something.

Because you did.

You pad barefoot to the door, yawning, bones aching in the good kind of way—like everything’s been spent. Your hand touches the knob. You pull it open.

And you step into the hallway.

Agatha’s door is just down the hall. Closed. Your feet drag a little as you walk toward it.

You yawn again, jaw cracking. Why did she want you to sleep in her room? You’re not complaining, exactly—it’s just… this whole night was a whirlwind of “what the fuck.”

Thigh humping. Rituals. Blood. Visions. Kissing her like you’ve done it a hundred times before. Saying please like it meant something more than just want.

You reach her door. You hesitate. Only for a second. Then you knock softly and push it open.

Whatever this is, you’ll figure it out tomorrow. If she still likes you. If she doesn’t vanish like a dream. If her eyes still look at you the same way in the morning light. And if she does? You’ll pry for answers. Like no one ever has.

The door creaks open quietly as you step into Agatha’s room. It’s dim inside—just a lamp glowing low on her nightstand, casting soft amber light across the room. Her bed is already turned down, sheets crisp and black, rumpled just slightly like she’d been sitting on them.

She’s across the room, back half turned to you. Pulling a shirt over her head.

Your breath stutters.

It’s a plain sleep shirt—slightly loose, just long enough to skim the top of her thighs—but it’s Agatha. Her dark hair spills messily around her shoulders, and the exposed slice of bare skin above her waistband makes something low in your stomach flip.

She turns just as the fabric settles over her body, tugging the hem down with an effortless stretch.

Your heart flutters . And then—like clockwork—she looks at you and smirks. “What?” you ask, blinking slowly, blinking tiredly, trying not to look too long at her legs. Or the way her collarbones catch the light.

Agatha raises an eyebrow. “You look like someone who got hit by a truck made of bad decisions,” she says, voice low and amused.

You grunt and give her a half hearted middle finger, shuffling toward the bed on wobbly legs.

She catches your wrist before you get too far.

“Ah, ah, ah,” she chides, steering you gently toward the opposite corner of the room, where a door sits slightly ajar. “Bathroom. Face. Teeth. You’re not getting witch goo on my sheets.”

You blink. “Witch—goo?”

“Don’t ask questions if you’re not ready for the answers,” she says, turning away with a yawn that definitely isn’t real.

Your eyes narrow, brain foggy. Before heading to the bathroom.

The memory floods back. You, sinking under lavender water, sore and feverish and needy—your hand drifting under the water, thoughts full of her—the towel still warm from her hands .

Your face burns. You freeze in the doorway of the bathroom. Agatha throws herself onto the bed behind you, sighing like she hasn’t just upended your entire nervous system.

“Oh, and don’t take too long,” she calls lazily, flipping onto her side and propping herself on one elbow.

You don’t answer. You’re already closing the door behind you, hands shaking just slightly as you reach for the sink. You splash cold water on your face with shaking hands.

It helps. A little. The blood and ash smear down the drain in thin ribbons, and the coldness on your skin cuts through some of the fog in your head. You breathe slowly. Steady. Like Agatha taught you.

You brush your teeth next, mouth still tasting faintly like desperation and her. When you glance up at the mirror, your reflection looks human again. Tired. Kiss swollen. Still in shock.

But… alive. You towel off and flick the light off with your elbow, then step back into the bedroom.

The lamp’s dimmer now. Agatha is already curled up in bed—on the left side, you notice. Hair down, blanket pulled up just to her hips. She’s on her back, arms crossed behind her head, one leg bent under the other.

Her eyes are closed. But when the floor creaks beneath your feet, she speaks. “Took you long enough,” she murmurs.

You huff. “Had to scrub your weird ritual off my face.” That earns the faintest curve of her lips. Then— A pause. She lifts the blanket without looking at you. Wordless. An invitation. Your heart thuds. You cross the room slowly. Quietly. Like if you move too fast, you’ll wake up.

You slip under the covers.

Her body’s warm next to yours. Not too close. Not touching. Not yet. But her presence is unmistakable. Like gravity. Like comfort. Like something old that finally settled where it belongs.

You settle onto your side, facing the wall, shoulders stiff with uncertainty.

The mattress shifts behind you. Then—Agatha’s voice, low and full of mocked innocence “What are you, a virgin? Can’t even cuddle with me?”

You freeze.

“Excuse me?” you sputter, whipping your head around, jaw dropping.

Agatha doesn’t even open her eyes. “I mean, I did just give you a great orgasm…” she drawls, stretching like a satisfied cat. “Seems like we’re a little past the no touching phase.”

You gape at her.

“Shut up! And—how could I be a virgin if you just had me—”

You clamp your mouth shut as Agatha cracks an eye open, grinning. Her laugh bubbles out warm and smug, and before you can escape, she reaches out and yanks you into her side.

You squeak, legs tangling, face pressed into her shoulder as her arms wrap tight around you. “Well,” she purrs, voice lazy and low, “if you were, I wouldn’t mind being your first.”

Your face ignites .

“You are so annoying,” you mutter into her shirt.

“And you’re clingy when you’re flustered.”

You elbow her in the stomach. Harder than necessary. She grunts, but still laughs—her breath rumbling against your forehead as she nuzzles in closer. You lie there in her arms, warm and pressed together, legs tangled like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It’s ridiculous. And perfect. And you don’t want to move.

Not tonight. Maybe not ever. You stay curled against her, one arm draped lazily across her stomach, the other wedged awkwardly beneath your own head.

Agatha’s heartbeat is a steady thrum under your cheek—quiet, but there. Like a drumbeat of something ancient and constant.

You look up at her from where you’re tucked against her shoulder. Her eyes are half lidded now, lashes long against her cheekbone, her expression unreadable in the low lamplight. She’s watching you without really watching. Just aware of you.

You don’t even realize how hard you're staring until her hand moves—reaches over you and flicks the lamp off with a soft click. Darkness settles around you like a blanket.

Then—her voice.

“Sleep, pet.”

It’s quiet. Gentle. Final. You exhale softly, eyes still lingering on the shape of her face in the dark. But it’s getting harder to keep them open.

The day—all of it, everything—starts to bleed out of you slowly. The panic. The visions. The blood and the pain and the fucking beast. You can feel it all melt away, carried off like fog on a quiet tide.

Agatha’s body is warm beside you. Not just warm— safe. Your shoulders begin to loosen. Your legs untangle a little, then shift again until you’re tucked even closer, like some sleepy little creature burrowing into its den.

You nuzzle your face deeper into the crook of her neck, your nose brushing the collar of her shirt, her scent—lavender, cedarwood, something sharp and hers —filling your lungs.

You hear her breathing. Slow. Calm. Like she knows you’re okay now. And slowly, so slowly, your mind stills. For once, it doesn’t race.

It doesn’t spiral. It just… rests.

Your eyes flutter shut. Your hand curling softly in the fabric near her ribs.

The dark is kind here. And her arms never move. Not once. You fall asleep like that.

Held.

Safe.

Home.

Next Chapter

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gloomwitchwrites · 1 year ago

Text

Ink & Needle // Chapter Nineteen

Tattoo Artist Simon “Ghost” Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (MDNI): tattoo shop au, swearing, angst, family drama, suggestive themes, rough kissing, mild intimacy

Word Count: 4k

Archie’s parents come knocking. You seek out Simon for comfort.

Chapter Eighteen // Chapter Twenty

ao3 // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

The words lingered. Nearly burst.

You almost said them—almost confessed it all to Simon at the cliff’s edge.

I love you, Simon.

But you didn’t. You clung to them, sucked them down and pretended they didn’t exist. When you looked at Simon, and saw the possession in his gaze, you faltered. Those dark eyes of his transported you back to Riot Room, to the way he looked at you in the mirror when he had you in his lap.

You couldn’t speak them. Couldn’t make them real and whole and tangible.

As you chew on your nail in Amelia’s kitchen, you regret not saying something to Simon. The truth sits heavy in your chest. It is a rock in your stomach. Things might be different if you had said those words to him. Maybe you’d be with him now and not anxiously tapping your foot against the floor.

Amelia comes around the corner, her gaze falling to your bare feet. “Where are your socks, dear? You’ll catch cold.”

The weather is finally starting to change, becoming chillier by the day. It’s currently raining outside. The sky is gray and dreary.

“I’ll grab some,” you reply, reaching for your coffee mug. “Just started the kettle for you.”

“Thank you. That’s sweet,” smiles Amelia. “Did you eat yet?”

“Just toast with a bit of butter and jam,” you answer, yawning.

Amelia tuts. “Always start the day with a proper breakfast.” She begins opening cupboards. “I’ll take care of it.”

You’re about to ask Amelia if she’d like some help, but Lillian’s soft wail from upstairs silences your question.

Lillian is a month old now. It feels like only yesterday when you were at Evie’s bedside at the hospital. According to the pediatrician, Lillian is developing well. Healthy. That at least is a comfort. Everything else is tangled up, like bugs twisted in a sticky web.

Amelia glances over her shoulder, setting a pan on the stovetop. “How about you check on, Evie? I can handle breakfast.”

“Sure,” you nod, yawning yet again, taking your coffee cup with you.

“And put on some socks!” she calls out after you.

You lift your mug in answer, ascending the stairs quickly and entering the bedroom you’ve been sharing with Evie. She reclines in an arm chair with Lillian held to her chest. The baby suckles at her breast, all wailing gone.

Evie glances up and you instantly see the exhaustion. Having a newborn isn’t easy, but it’s so much worse without a partner. Evie might have you and Amelia to help, but who she really needs is Archie. She deserves to have her husband here with her.

When you returned from your trip with Simon, you tried not to hound Evie about what happened while you away. Spending time in Scotland helped you forget everything—to take the burden off your shoulders for a while. It was nice. Lovely. Simon helped you slip into comfort. You were safe and loved while you were with him.

Evie insisted that everything was calm while you were gone. Nothing but rest, but you know it’s a lie. She’s been pensive—a bit withdrawn since your return.

It’s troubling, and you’ve been keeping an extra eye on her. The only time you see Evie smile is when she’s looking at Lillian.

You take a sip of your coffee. “After you’re done feeding, I can watch her for a bit. Take a shower?”

Evie softly shakes her head. “I’ll be fine.”

You pop a hip. “When’s the last time you showered, Evelyn Green?”

This time she smiles, and it reminds you just how infrequently you’ve seen that side of her. She sighs with exaggeration, and that is all the answer you need. Evie’s lips part, and you hold up your hand, silencing whatever rebuttal she’s forming.

“No arguments,” you insist. “Shower. Breakfast. And I’ll take Lillian.”

Evie’s gaze softens. “Thank you,” she murmurs, her focus returning to the little bundle in her arms.

When Lillian is done feeding, you take her from Evie’s arms and head downstairs. You want Evie to take her time and enjoy the shower. Sometimes she tries to handle things alone, and she simply can’t. It’s why you’re here and not back in America.

Amelia putters about in the kitchen preparing breakfast. You sink down onto the sofa, placing your mug on the coffee table before situating Lillian into her bouncer. It’s not automated, but you’ve found using the toe of your foot to keeps it in motion while keeping your arms free.

Lillian’s eyes are open. Those beautiful blues shift around, exploring her surroundings. It takes a bit, but she eventually falls back into slumber. Leaning forward, you examine her little fists. Her fingers are curled tight and it takes forever to wiggle a single finger free.

“Need to clip your nails, little lady,” you muse.

Lillian’s response is a slow blink and a yawn before falling back asleep. You laugh softly and lightly tap the tip of her nose. She wiggles a bit, face scrunching, but she doesn’t wake.

“Now. Where are your clippers,” you ponder, glancing up.

As you search your brain for where they might be, a harsh knock comes from the front door. You turn in the direction of the sound, staring through the doorway of the living room, unsure of who might be here at such an early hour.

It’s not even ten in the morning.

“Can you get the door, dear,” calls Amelia from the kitchen.

“I have Lillian,” you reply back, still staring at the front door.

“Blast,” swears Amelia.

You hear shuffling, and then the clanking of pans just before Amelia comes around the corner. Another knock follows, this one more insistent than the last. Amelia huffs, strands of grey hair slipping from her bun as she rushes toward the door.

Returning your attention to Lillian, you move the toes of your feet against the bouncer, giving the contraption some movement to keep the infant asleep.

“What are you doing here?”

Amelia’s question comes out like a bullet. An accusation laced in metal. You’re immediately on alert.

Leaning away from Lillian, you attempt to see around the old woman. Your view is partially obstructed, and you can’t entirely make out who is on the other side of the door.

Their answer is muffled, and while you don’t catch any words, their tone of voice sounds familiar. What’s irritating though is that you can’t seem to place it.

Frowning, you stand, staying close to Lillian. There isn’t one but two people at the front door. You take a step forward and to the right in order to see over Amelia’s shoulder.

Your blood solidifies in your veins. Becomes ice. That coldness creeps outward, snagging bone and muscle until you’re rigid and unbelieving. Evie is upstairs right now and has no idea that her in-laws are at the door.

Archie’s father, Charles, wears a perfectly tailored tweed coat and black slacks. His wrinkled face is formed into a severe frown, as if seeing Amelia and being here at all is entirely distasteful. Archie’s mother, Miriam, stands next to him. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a severe bun, skin so tight from the hairstyle her expression remains neutral.

Fuck.

“The two of you should leave,” says Amelia, tone flat.

“We came to see our granddaughter, Amelia,” replies Charles just as flatly. “And it’s not your decision.”

Amelia scoffs. “It’s my bloody house. And neither of you are welcome.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “You know this.”

This has nowhere to go but south.

Miriam’s eyes widen slightly but the rest of her face remains the same. The woman is so vain she’s likely had recent work done. “You would deny us, Amelia? After everything?”

After everything? As if they deserve to take one step into this house or interact with Lillian at all. You don’t want to be part of this conversation, and Lillian is right here, next to you. Oblivious and asleep. There is no way you can slip past the bickering trio to hide her upstairs.

“Fuck,” you mutter, as you attempt to sort out your next steps.

You can’t see Amelia’s face but you hear the anger in her tone. “Leave.”

Charles and Miriam stay where they are. Of course they do. They’re wealthy. They own an obscene amount of land. And they know a slew of influential people. They won’t budge. Not for anyone. They stick their noses up at everyone that don’t deem worthy of their attention.

“We drove—”

“Your driver drove,” corrects Amelia, and Charles rolls his eyes.

“Semantics,” he sighs, removing his scarf. “We came to see our granddaughter. Let us in.”

You don’t like his abrasive, pushy tone. This is the exact shit that pisses you off.

Amelia stands her ground. “You’re not allowed in this house. You know that, Charles.”

Why he isn’t allowed inside the house is beyond you, but you suspect it has to do with Evie and Lillian’s presence. If they weren’t here, Amelia might allow them entry.

Charles’ frown deepens somehow, his cheeks going bright red. “Where is Evelyn? I’d like to speak with my daughter-in-law.”

They haven’t spoken to Evie once since Archie’s death. The only contact she’s had at all from them is through their solicitor.

“She’s not here,” says Amelia.

“Absurd. Of course she is.”

You glance down at Lillian and sigh.

“It’s the friend.”

Friend drips off Miriam’s tongue like a viper. It stings your skin, and you hate that it does. This is the same woman who called Evie a leech on her wedding day. Her slimy demeanor never got under your skin but it does now.

You turn, ready to strike out, but a soft voice cuts through the tension.

“It’s okay, Amelia. Let them in.”

Evie stands on the bottom step of the stairs. Her brown hair is still damp from the shower. She wears a dark green fluffy robe. Evie appears less tired than before. Maybe the shower refreshed her.

Amelia glances between Evie and Archie’s parents before stepping aside, allowing them entrance. The movement is sluggish—almost reluctant.

Charles extends a hand and Miriam enters first. Her gaze knocks Evie, and then Amelia before turning inward, noticing you, and then—

Before the words even leave her mouth, you block Miriam’s view of Lillian. Her lips become a thin line and she clutches her purse like you’re about to snag it from her at any moment.

Charles enters in behind her, frown unchanging. He studies you a moment, and then the blocked bouncer.

“Is Lillian there?” he asks, taking a step forward.

You match his movement. “She’s sleeping.”

Amelia follows behind like a brewing storm. She gestures at the two lounge chairs across from the sofa. “The two of you sit there.”

Charles and Miriam glance around as if afraid to touch anything. You feel their distaste for the space ooze from them in a wave. They eventually sit, though they do so reluctantly. Miriam’s completely rigid.

You wait until Evie takes a seat. She selects the middle of the sofa, directly in front of Lillian. Amelia settles to Evie’s left and you end up on the right. Evie reaches out and lightly presses on the bouncer until it begins to softly rock.

“Thank you for inviting us in, Evelyn,” says Charles. He hasn’t removed his coat and neither has Miriam.

Strange. Perhaps they don’t plan on staying.

“Of course,” she replies. “I just want peace between everyone.”

Evie is always the optimist. She cares about everyone else before herself. In this, you wish she’d be a little selfish. Archie’s parents have always been awful, and being kind to them doesn’t seem worth the effort.

Removing your phone from your pocket, you send out a quick text to Archie’s solicitor. He told you no interactions, but Evie let them in, and he needs to be here or at least be aware of the situation.

Mister Grant responds almost immediately.

I’m on my way.

For a second, your fingers hesitate. Simon told you to text or call if something came up. That he would act as a buffer if necessary. But Mister Grant is already on the way, and it’s early. Simon is probably in his shop getting ready for a day full of clients. You don’t want to bother him with this. It’s not his battle.

You place the phone screen-side down on top of your thigh.

“I agree,” says Charles. He clears his throat. “It’s why we’ve come.”

Amelia snorts and Charles shoots her a look. Amelia stares right back, unafraid. “And what is your version of peace, Charles? Hm?” She looks ready to brawl.

Thank fuck for her. You’ve faced these two plenty of times but it’s better with backup.

Amelia isn’t Charles’ biological mother. His mother died suddenly, but his father, James Williams eventually remarried before divorcing that woman and marrying Amelia. Amelia and James were together for almost eight years before they separated. The fourth wife was James’ last. While Archie never cared about his grandfather’s many wives, Charles has always been vocal about his faithfulness to one woman.

Evie isn’t making eye contact with anyone except her daughter. There is a small, sad smile on your friend’s face that clenches your heart.

“A peace that has everyone’s best interest. I think we can all agree that Lillian’s health and future come first,” answers Charles.

“Indeed,” muses Amelia. “And what does this look like to the two of you?” She glances between them. “You didn’t drive all the way to my home just for a quick visit.”

Charles and Miriam share a look.

Your heart drops into your stomach. The tips of your fingers grow numb. Evie’s gaze is still on Lillian but her fingers no longer press against the bouncer. They’ve gone still.

Charles clears his throat before reaching into an inside pocket hidden within his tweed coat. Withdrawing some folded papers, he begins to smooth them out.

“What is this, Charles?” asks Amelia, worry in her voice.

“Our lawyers drafted this. All Evelyn needs to do is sign.”

Evie finally glances up. “Sign what?” Her voice sounds a little distant and shaky.

“You’re not signing anything,” you say to Evie, placing your hand on her knee.

Charles keeps his gaze on Evie. Even Miriam is looking at her intently. They both sit up straight, clearly uncomfortable.

“Wait until Mister Grant gets here,” you murmur. “He can take a look at it.”

“That won’t be necessary,” interrupts Charles. He retrieves a pen from his pocket, clicking the end. “Just sign at the bottom, and you’ll never see us again.”

“Sounds like a bloody dream,” mutters Amelia.

“So you didn’t come to see Lillian?” asks Evie.

“We did,” affirms Miriam.

Even as she says this, something doesn’t sit right with you. Ever since Archie’s death, his parents have done nothing but make Evie’s life hell. Why would they come for a ‘final visit’ before breaking off ties entirely?

“There’s a catch,” you say. “What is it?”

Charles’ gaze moves to you and his frown deepens. “All Evelyn needs to do—”

“What do you want, Charles?” snaps Amelia. “Speak plainly.”

“You’re not the child’s grandmother nor are you her mother, Amelia,” growls Charles. “Stay out of this.”

“And yet I have been more of a parent to Archie than either of you,” she retorts.

Charles’ lip curls, the papers shaking in his fist. “You were a lounge singer my father had a fancy for. And when he tired of you, he left.” He takes a deep breath. “Thankfully.”

“James would be ashamed of your behavior,” hisses Amelia.

“My father is dead and I am the head of the Williams estate,” snarls Charles. He drops the stack of papers into his lap. “And this matter only concerns us and Evelyn.”

Miriam leans forward, her gaze on the bouncer. “Lillian will be happy. All her needs will be provided for.”

Evie’s head tilts slightly. “Lillian already has what she needs.”

This conversation is spiraling. Your head is spinning. Maybe you should have contacted Simon. He’s much closer to you than Mister Grant.

Miriam sighs and you immediately want to throw them out the door. This is going nowhere except downhill. They have a fucking agenda. You know this deep in your bones.

“Lillian is our granddaughter. We want what’s best.”

“And I’m her mother,” breathes Evie. “I know what’s best for her.”

“Do you, Evelyn?” replies Charles. He smooths the papers again and holds them out. “It would be best for everyone if Lillian leaves with us.”

It would be best for everyone if Lillian leaves with us.

No. Fucking no.

You should have texted Simon. They’d cower in his presence. He’s the intimidation you need in a situation like this. But Simon is not here.

It is just you, Evie, and Amelia against two entitled assholes who can’t leave things alone.

“Lillian is not leaving with you,” you say coolly, fingers curling around your phone.

“That is for Evie to decide,” replies Charles, matching your tone.

Evie shakes her head. “Lillian is mine.”

Amelia stands, her anger on full display. “You will leave this house immediately.” Her voice is so cold. All bottled fury.

“Amelia—”

“Leave, Charles. Take your wife and piss off.”

“Amelia!” cries Miriam, also standing.

Charles pops up from his seat, his free hand out to stop his wife from moving forward. He tosses the papers onto the coffee table and then steps back to place his hand on his wife’s arm.

“I see we aren’t wanted.” Charles grabs his scarf as tears begin to form in Evie’s eyes. “Think about it, Evelyn. You know we can provide a better life for her.”

Amelia crosses her arms as Charles and Miriam see themselves out. When the door is shut, Amelia storms over, engaging the lock.

“The fucking nerve,” she says.

Evie grabs Lillian and abruptly stands, clutching the infant to her chest. “I need to lay down.” She pauses. “And pump.” Her voice cracks on the end before she takes off up the stairs.

You watch her go, your heart heavy. Amelia sighs and walks past you, entering the kitchen.

Amelia sighs and walks past you, entering the kitchen. Breakfast is likely ruined but you’re no longer hungry.

When Mister Grant arrives, he retrieves the papers Charles left and promises that he’ll look into it. He remains calm during the exchange, but even you can tell this situation rattles him. It’s not uplifting, and it only turns your stomach.

The rest of the day is a blur. You hardly feel anything. Most of your time is spent checking emails and catching up on work. Even then, it’s fuzzy. Completely separate as if you’re looking through a foggy window. The words on your computer screen mean nothing and your head hurts something fierce.

You’re aching inside. Wanting—needing comfort. You crave strong arms around you, and a comforting warmth only a specific person can provide.

But you don’t seek Simon out, though you want to. Instead, you sulk on the sofa, leaving the bedroom to Evie. She needs her space and time alone. You don’t want to shake things up after all that’s happened.

It’s not until the next day that you realize how much you miss Simon. Over a week has passed, and yesterday was hell. You need to feel his hands on your body. To hear his gruff voice in your ear. To feel that perfect stretch of him inside you.

Anything.

You’ll take anything Simon is willing to give. You just need him right now.

The hour is late, but you’re desperate. The walk to his place is short. Brief. You didn’t call ahead, but you weren’t thinking of that when you walked out the door. The only thing on your mind is getting to him.

Simon gave you a key to the exterior door that leads into the cramped hallway up to his apartment. It’s dark when you enter, and you shut it behind you softly, lingering just inside the doorway for a moment as you catch your breath.

You ascend the staircase, pausing at Simon’s apartment door. As your fist rises to knock, you hesitate, the stress of yesterday catching up to you. It hits like a wave and you feel the tears welling up unbidden.

Knocking sharply, you step back from the door.

Bravo doesn’t bark. It’s all quiet on the other end. That would be just your luck for Simon not to be home.

But then you hear heavy footfalls, and the door swings open.

Simon is maskless and his eyes widen slightly at your appearance.

“Simon,” you murmur, not recognizing your own voice. It’s cracking. Shattering.

“What’s wrong?” he asks quickly, reaching out to take you into his arms.

As his arms go out to pull you close, you drape your own around his neck. Pulling him close, you bring him in for a fierce kiss. You are demanding. Needy. Simon senses this immediately. He melts against you, the two of you tangling until one of you has to come up for air.

“I need you, Simon,” you murmur against his mouth. “I don’t want to feel anything. Just you. Only you.”

The middle of Simon’s brow furrows, his gaze traveling all over your face like he’s trying to map your pain. He sees a problem, and he wants to solve it. You’ve seen this assessing gaze before. But you don’t need Simon to solve anything. You just need him to fuck you.

The two of you can talk afterward.

“Please,” you whimper and Simon relents.

He drags you inside, slamming the door shut with one hand. He shoves you up against the wall, trapping you there, his pelvis pressing against your stomach. You cling to him, fingers digging into the back of his neck.

Simon steals your breath, devours you with kisses that bring a slickness to your core. This is how you needed to be kissed. It is melting away the ice. Warming you everywhere. You seize more of them, hungry to consume as many as you can. You are a greedy thing, and Simon willingly submits, indulging you completely.

Your fingers claw at his clothes. You want them off. You want them gone. There is nothing you long for more than to feel Simon against you, to know only his flesh and touch. Everything buzzes. Everything aches.

Simon heeds your desire. He pulls on your clothes just as you tug at his. Pieces start to fall away. Drifting to the floor. Skin is revealed, and Simon is warm beneath your hands. He is all hardness. Pure strength.

You explore his angles and ridges, fingers trailing over tattoos and scars. Simon groans with every touch, pressing harder against you, grasping your hips and waist and thighs as if the two of you have been separated for an eternity.

Your hands descend, and Simon groans loudly when you wrap your hand around him.

“This is what I want,” you murmur. You release him, grab his hand, guide it between your legs. “And I want it here.”

“Fuck, love,” growls Simon. Bending at the knees and sliding his arms under your thighs, he lifts you off the ground and presses you against the wall again. You wrap your legs around him, hooking your ankle behind his back.

Simon slides home, filling you completely with one quick thrust.

Your fingers dig into his skin, leaving half-moons behind.

Simon isn’t slow. He is just as desperate, using your body in the exact way you need him too. This is what you needed—what you desired.

Skin against skin. Exchanged kisses and breath. Dark eyes with pale eyelashes staring into your soul. The man you love claiming you.

Your lungs are full of him.

Vanilla. Black tea. A hint of smoke.

All you feel is Simon.

It is intoxicating, and you are drowning.

278 notes · View notes

stxrvel · 1 year ago

Text

the court (3)

hi guys! part 3 is finally here and i apologize for the delay and also that it is so short :(. i've had some problems these days, but today i could finally finish this part and finally bring it to you guys! i hope you like it and see you next time! <3

summary: you and Azriel had to start making peace with the reality you were to live from now on... pairing: azriel x f!reader words: +2k warnings: bad words and mentions of captivity

part 1: the cliff

part 2: the house

part 4: the routine

You felt strange. The last few days had passed too quickly since you had been dragged out of the tiny cell where you lived, if you could call it living. You hadn't thought you would be unlucky enough to see the high lord of the Night Court again, but that last day on the mountain, his face was almost the last one you saw.

The memory made you shudder, an uneasiness coursing through your body that tried to counteract the calm coming from the other side of the bond. Azriel was silent, which you had noticed was quite common for him. Mor was at his side, sending you a reassuring smile that did little to calm your nerves. You didn't know how Azriel was coping with it all so well when you felt like you were going to explode.

The scene could almost be funny.

Tarquin, your High Lord, was at a safe distance, sharing a lethal gaze with Azriel through the masses of air. Mor was a few steps ahead, holding her hard stare for everyone else.

Only one was missing… the High Lord of the Night Court.

Your parents were not there, because they were over the border with the Day Court, which is why there were also envoys and representatives from Helion. You would only have to run a couple of meters to reach your Court, to return home.

Azriel at your side sighed and you couldn't help but send him a sidelong glance. It was impossible for you to decipher his expression, so you couldn't tell if the separation hurt him as much as it did you. It was never your intention to separate from him as soon as you met, in fact, you spent many nights imagining and dreaming that your mate would appear and take you far away from that mountain. But Azriel was basically the right hand of the reason you had ended up captured, you didn't know how things worked like that and you didn't want to make any more trouble. Going home was what you wanted and maybe what would work for everyone.

Barely a little over a minute would've passed when Tarquin spoke.

“Y/N,” he addressed you and you turned your gaze from your mate to your high lord. “You are home. Please come.”

You looked at his outstretched hand feeling a hand wrap around your throat and the warmth of Azriel's wings cover you from the not at all cold winds of Court Day. You passed saliva carefully, sending a glance to your partner, who kept his jaw tense and his gaze fixed on your High Lord.

You took a step forward and felt those shadows, which you knew were part of Azriel, swirl about your feet as you walked.

The Court Day was not cold, but the moment you separated from Azriel you began to feel chilled.

Clasping your hands in front of you, you walked towards your High Lord, quickening your pace each time you felt further away from the members of the Night Court who now kept their gaze fixed on your neck. As you reached Tarquin's side, you caught sight of Azriel again and for a second he couldn't hide the pitiful expression on his face. He watched you for just the tiniest of seconds, which felt eternal, when he hardened his gaze again to look at Tarquin.

“Where is he?” your High Lord spoke again, when he was sure you were behind him and in the custody of his warriors.

“He's coming,” Mor spoke, shifting her pace on her feet to the side of a stiff Azriel.

“Good,” Tarquin nodded. “I suppose we can wait a while.”

He turned and you had to look away from Azriel as he raised one of his hands in the direction of the border.

“You're free to go home. Your parents are waiting.”

Out of the corner of your eye you barely noticed Azriel move, but you might as well have imagined it because Tarquin was obstructing most of your view. You could barely give your mate a glance, savoring the feeling of the bond once more, trying to send something that wasn't fear or panic or sadness before you left, which you knew was what you had felt these past few days because you had no strength to control the flow of emotions that traveled through that; no strength to put up a wall around you. It was a habit, during your days of captivity you always hoped that someday the High Lord of the Night Court could easily see through you.

You noticed a slight nod of his head and that was enough. You turned on your feet to walk ahead of the soldiers, though your body begged you to turn back and take refuge in your mate, though his shadows still swirled at your feet no matter the distance, leaving him alone. You didn't want him to be alone, but you didn't know how to ask them not to follow you.

But when you were close to the border and spotted the silhouettes of your parents, any thought vanished from your head. Anything other than that you were home, that you were able to return, that you could see your parents again. There was no better feeling than that at that moment.

“What?”

Your mother stood in front of you, a cup of her amazing hot chocolate in her hands and her eyes red from spending so many hours crying over your return. They were in the living room, the cozy, homey atmosphere beginning to finally mend the cracks you didn't even know existed in unreachable parts of your soul and head. It was an indescribable peace, but not complete and of course you knew why.

“You can't go back there, Y/N,” your father mimicked your mother's gesture, leaning forward slightly as if they wanted to come closer and wrap their arms around you and never let you leave the house again. You understood their fear, but now you were living a new reality.

“I'm not saying I'm going to leave now or tomorrow. But I will, someday, eventually,” you calmly explained to them. “He's my mate.”

“I don't want that,” your father shook his head and a small amount of pain flooded your chest. During that time you tried hard to keep your emotions from running through the bond for Azriel's sake. Now that surely he and the others must be at the High Lord's house, the last thing you wanted was to worry him.

“Dad, Azriel had nothing to do with what happened.”

He said nothing in response, sinking into the armchair next to your mother who maintained a slightly more neutral expression.

“You speak well of someone who is a mortal enemy of our Court,” her icy voice cut through the silence. The air felt heavier.

You looked at her again, her stone-like expression waiting for you on the other side. “I thought you having worked for the High Lord would understand that you would do anything for his protection.”

Your mother twisted her mouth, crossing her arms over her chest. When she turned her head, your father sent you a reproachful look.

“You know that's a touchy subject for your mother.”

“So is your treating my partner like a criminal,” you frowned at them.

“But he's not innocent,” your mother sentenced, even without turning to look at you.

“Azriel did everything in his power with the knowledge he had- now he's supposed to be omniscient?”

“Whatever conclusion we come to, I don't want you to go back to that court.”

“Dad!”

“The High Lord of the Night Court held you captive for almost fifty years! Are we supposed to be happy that you want to go back?”

“But I found him. My mate… Azriel.”

“Y/N, I hope you understand that this is a very serious situation. And the best decision you can make is not over there,” your mother stood up, seeking to end the conversation at that moment. The euphoria of the welcome had worn off.

“Are you asking me to leave my mate?”

The silence was deafening. Your parents barely glanced sideways at you, still with their expressions twitching.

“What the fuck? What's next, are you going to ask me to reject the bond?” you exclaimed through the pain in your chest. The shadow of helplessness running across your eyes.

“Of course not, sweetheart. Just… do you understand what these years were like for us?”

“Do you understand what they were for me? I was the one who went through it and I'm willing to go back for him,” you looked at your father, exasperated. The last thing you expected from that meeting was for them to end up having a discussion like that. Whatever the High Lord of the Night Court decided to do would never have anything to do with what Azriel could never do. You knew down to your bones that if he had known earlier things would be very different.

“I don't know, Y/N…”

“I'm not going to ask for your permission for this,” you stood up, preparing to go back to your room. Your mother still looked angry and your father frustrated. “I'll stay for a while, but I'm not abandoning Azriel.”

“How long did it take and did he have to find you until you were about to die?”

“That has nothing to do with him and you know it,” you slurred the words, angry. With that feeling throbbing in your chest, you left the living room on your way to your room. At some point you felt a breeze rush through your chest, reminding you of your mate's feeling of bodily warmth.

Tarquin's office had never felt so stifling. Azriel had become so used to feeling all your emotions through the bond that now that he felt nothing from the other side he felt too anxious. He knew that whatever Rhysand and Tarquin were talking about was important, too much, and that he should be as vigilant as Mor was, but his head kept coming back to you. He was too worried that he couldn't know how you were doing. He didn't know how he would survive the next few days.

Somehow they had managed to have a diplomatic conversation. Azriel heard a few things at the beginning about the derogatory and venomous remarks of the high lords until they came in to touch on the subject of prisoners and the fight over fifty years ago. Mor was doing her mediating role excellently and knew that they had come to an agreement at some point. That was all he knew.

“However, regardless of what we agree,” Azriel observed Tarquin after feeling his gaze, “whether or not to go back will be up to her.”

“I know,” he averted his gaze, feeling Rhysand turn to watch him. Tarquin stood behind his desk, serious and unyielding as always, but patient… for some reason, understanding.

Azriel felt his chest compress, the all-too-familiar emptiness welcoming his grief, even though it had barely been a couple of days since he had met his mate. It seemed like he had barely begun to live since the day he saw you. So many new emotions and so many inexplicable voids. He couldn't even feel her anymore and that… it could drive him crazy. How would they live from end to end as if nothing? As if it all meant nothing? As if being away from her wouldn't rob him of air?

“You'll see each other again. That's for sure-”

“Don't fucking talk to me,” the Shadowsinger shot up from the chair, Mor barely wincing at the sound.

Tarquin watched curiously between faces and Azriel cursed not being able to hold his tongue every time Rhysand addressed him. He didn't regret it, because he wanted Rhysand to be able to feel a quarter of what you came to feel under his captivity for so many years, though sometimes his head wandered to find excuses for his actions or lack thereof, because this was his friend for centuries, his brother for as long as he could remember, but he also knew he should be mindful of who he was speaking in front of. They weren't supposed to give way to the other high lords of Prythian suspecting in the slightest what the new events had generated in their Inner Circle, that it was something that could shake the foundations of the Court, but Azriel couldn't contain that rage that moved unbridled in his chest and he wasn't about to downplay it when it came to his mate; it was not a trivial matter.

“Az,” Cassian had approached him that morning before leaving, when the Shadowsinger had been standing in front of the entrance to the Town House waiting for the others to arrive to leave for Summer Court; waiting for you, specifically. Azriel had barely glanced sideways at him, easily noticing his slumped shoulders and the low note in his voice. “I know you don't want to talk about it, but you should try to work things out with Rhys. Or at least try to-”

“Should I?” Azriel turned his head, his eyes piercing the barrier of vulnerability in Cassian's gaze. The Shadowsinger was trying, but every time someone mentioned his mate hostility was born within him. He didn't want anyone to go near her or talk about her, or even breathe around her. They didn't deserve it. They couldn't, after everything that had happened. “I wonder what you'd like to hear from me if it was about Nesta.”

Whatever gibberish was going to come out of his friend's mouth died the moment he heard his mate's name. Azriel barely noticed how his body tensed, considering himself satisfied, as some of his shadows stirred around him and then parted from him.

“I will handle this situation as I see fit, Cassian. I don't need your advice or opinions. None of you have the right to come and tell me what I should do,” Azriel spoke between his teeth, trying to maintain his composure, even though anger burned his throat. He was rejoicing in the fact that his shadows had warned him that you were on your way and some of them had stayed with you to accompany you.

“I didn't mean to sound that way, Az, I didn't-”

“This is a situation that concerns only Rhysand, myself and my mate,” Azriel cut him off, turning his body to look at his brother. “If you want to keep things peaceful between us, I beg you to stay out of it.”

Azriel could barely notice the change in Cassian's face, from shock and stupefaction to a kind of nostalgic understanding. Reality weighed heavy on his shoulders, but there was some sort of understanding behind the regret reflected in his expression. Cassian knew that he would've acted the same way Azriel did if Nesta had been in her place and that as much as he wanted to try to keep things stable in his home, the decision was not his to make alone. The situation depended on Rhysand's repentance, Azriel's capacity for acceptance and your willingness to forgive.

“Should I be worried?” Tarquin spoke, snapping Azriel out of the incessant whispering in his head. He turned to look at him, frowning, flicking his gaze between him and Rhysand.

“No,” he replied before Mor could, earning a glare from his friends.

Tarquin didn't look convinced, Azriel couldn't convince anyone by speaking with so much pent-up anger, but the subject wasn't broached again. And, a couple of hours later, they were back at the Town House.

tag: @isa1b2h3 @naturakaashi @anuttellaa

#azriel x reader #azriel #acotar #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #azriel angst #azriel x you #azriel fanfic #acotar series

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bekaterrier · 2 months ago

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Happy Audio Drama Sunday! Living is messy and we all make mistakes. Try to find the things worth saving in all the mess. Now let's go make some more mistakes!

@saffronandperi - Season 2: This season we got to hear our favourite fairy godmother and djinnia (and friends) play around in Wonderland! Poor Tristan does seem to attract trouble like crazy, and then everyone being affected by goblin shenanigans? So much going on! And to end on such a cliff hanger! Saffron and those innocent dragon eggs better get back safe. 🧚‍♂️

@monkeymanproductions MTO Phases Story 5 - Nima: This month's story is one that gave me goosebumps and brought tears to my eyes the first time I read it. Hearing it brought to life by Serena Rahhal, the original voice of Nima, made it that much more impactful. Returning to Palestine, to Jerusalem, to where Nima used to live... In particular, the mention of Rafah in the 20s, which is happening right now. MTO has always been about hope and resistance, and that comes through loud and clear. 🌘

@morrowforge Mage With a Mic Ep1 - The Warehouse and Ep2 - Creaks & Crones: A new AD where Mage Doughball, who's been sentenced to be the head of tourism for Thither, reports on different locations, events and people around the realm. I enjoyed the first two episodes so far, especially Doughball's snark – you can definitely tell he did not choose to be there. The world-building and the small bits we've heard of how the magic systems work sound really interesting and I'm looking forward to hearing more! 🎤

@vestaclinicpod Episode 24 - Chromatophore: Another Xael episode! And this time with the company of our special boy Sec! I did not realize that Xaelest harboured resentment towards Sec but I completely understand where she's coming from. Especially with what we learned this episode about why she stopped performing surgery... And then to hear that the scenario the examiners gave her was the same? How awful. And now she'll have to go back to the form she had when it happened in order to help NOSL11. Someone (Faye) needs to give Xael a hug, though I doubt she'd readily accept it.

As an aside, I absolutely love how descriptions are done in this show, how the expressions used feel so real. This particular line stood out to me this episode: "they tugged their forearm against the sky of their stomach". Isn't that such a gorgeous expression, knowing that ceresaurs' skin runs from milky blue to the rich indigo of twilight, and that star maps of their flights show up on their skin? Just beautiful. ⚕️

@forgedbondspod - Chapter 18: I've said it before and I've said it again, I want to punch Zeus in the face so bad... He was being his usual, awful, manipulative self this episode, and I hate how he, as king of the gods, keeps getting away with it. I don't trust him for one second. Poor Hera, dragged back into his terrible influence. No one even knows she went with him – Hera, tell someone, please! 💍

@monkeymanproductions Waiting For October S1 Episode 8 - Back Together: Season finale! Karo and Vonnie are back together for a much needed conversation after their solo adventures. I love how many different characters popped in as they were trying to find someplace to talk, and then October springing Halloween on them! The conversation was tough, but their love and trust was evident through the whole thing. Especially in the story that Karo told of how they make things work. It definitely had me tearing up. And then the ending!!! Let's go back to the mooooon!! 🎃

@re-dracula Week 2: Jonathan discovers lizard fashion and explores the castle. We all knew there was some creepy shit going on at the castle, and Jonathan was a little weirded out by some things, but now he knows about the creepy shit for sure. Seems like the new goal will just to be stay alive... 🦇

#audio drama sunday #saffron and peri #moonbase theta out #mage with a mic #the vesta clinic #waiting for october

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haute-pockette · 2 years ago

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The Doctor's incarnations have fears associated to what caused their regenerations Two acting childlike and whimsical because he's afraid of growing old again. He's scared of becoming a crotchety old man that will die alone. He surrounds himself with friends just as he much with surrogates, to help him feel like he isn't too old to be running about having adventures. Three having a lot of complex and mixed feelings about the Time Lords. He resents them for what they did to him and his companions, but also very scared of facing that fate again should cross their path once more. Four can't stand spiders. They didn't directly kill him, but damn did they play a big part leading up to his regeneration. They give him the willies and Sarah Jane and Romana always have to take care of invading arachnids while he is perched safely on the center console. Five hating heights might actually be canon, he's shown freaking out on a cliff in Castrovalva and hating every minute of a plane ride in Time Flight. Boy likes to keep his feet firmly where he doesn't risk falling. He'll get vertigo if too close to a ledge. Six being scared of getting sick. While this one is more vague, it was the fever of Spectrox Toxemia that kills, so I could see him being panicky and over compensating when it comes to illnesses. Pulls manflu pity every time: bed rest, tea, soup, hot waterbottle on the forehead, reciting rhetoric about his woes. Poor Peri and Mel has to tend to his drama. I can also see him hating bats but in a "why can't you fuckers make more than a tiny vial of milk, asshole???" kind of way. I think Seven's might also be canon (in the books at least) with the way he mentally locked away his Sixth self in fear of the Valeyard. Though he wasn't really a cause for regeneration, he certainly set the Doctor on the path to it. Eight terrified of medicine and hospitals. Aspirin is already deadly to Time Lords, anesthesia fucked up his regeneration. This boy won't go to a medical professional unless he's dragged in unconscious. He will look at broken leg twisted out of shape and claim he can walk it off. The Warrior/War Doctor scared of failing people the way he did Cass. His spirit for hope and brighter ending to the war broken when he regenerated. He became the one that got his hands dirty because he was too scared to let anyone else die under his care.

Nine scared of war. War Doctor held off his regeneration for years to keep fighting, and Nine clearly does his best to step away from the incarnation he hated being more than anything. Like he said, "Coward, any day." Ten is a bit tricky. He's scared of Daleks, losing companions. He's scared that people around him will be willing to sacrifice themselves for him. Scared of the heart of the Tardis, the very soul of time itself ripping away what/who he loves. After Rose is safe from it he was very careful to never let anyone open it again. Eleven scared to see another Time Lord again. He's heartbroken about being the last of his kind. Romana, Brax, Damon all gone. The Master's plans had gotten so much more violent and destructive and insane than they used to be. The other Time Lords so desperate to escape the Time Locked war that they'd destroy time to do it. He's scared of everything ending if the Time Lords return. I haven't really seen enough of Twelve or past that to give proper interpretations on them, but I'm pretty sure Twelve is determined not to be seen as an old man. It's like he sees this new cycle as starting over so he's trying to act like he's the young, rebellious first incarnation? idk

#Doctor Who #Headcanons #Classic Who #new who #Second Doctor #Third Doctor #Fourth Doctor #Fifth Doctor #Sixth Doctor #Seventh Doctor #Eighth Doctor #War Doctor #Ninth Doctor #Tenth Doctor #Eleventh Doctor #Twelfth Doctor

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fanfic-recs-01 · 5 months ago

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Hannigram Fics

This is just a list of Hannibal Lecter/Will Graham Fics I like on AO3, if you have any recs for me feel free to send me some!

Updated 2/2/25

Philia by Gweezle

~Getting into Jack Crawford's Forensic Psychology class was a dream come true for Will Graham, until he learns that his final assignment is to attend twelve interviews with the notorious serial killer, Hannibal the Cannibal, in order to unravel his mysterious past.~

Night Shift by PossessiveNoun

~There are certain rules to follow when working for Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Under no circumstances are you to engage any of the inmates in personal conversation, put yourself in a position where they can cause you serious injury, or let them get inside your head..~

Devils in the Dark by DarkmoonSigel

~After having encephalitis and brutally murdering a serial killer who tried to kill his dogs, Will Graham finds himself in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Life is dull until the Chesapeake Ripper is brought down to the lower levels to live in a cell beside Will.~

The Other Side of the Mirror by nbcravenstag

~On his way home from their last supper, Will Graham suddenly changes his mind.~

The Ripper and the Wendigo by nbcravenstag

~The Chesapeake Ripper and the Wendigo, two notorious serial killers and prisoners of the BSHCI are being transported across town in the same van. They’ve never met, but their instant connection is beautiful, powerful, and deadly to everyone involved.~

Ten Little Numbers by sourweather

~Will and Bev have a game they like to play. They go to bars and see who can get the most phone numbers from strangers. One night, he meets a very interesting stranger. Is he safe falling hard and fast for Hannibal Lecter, or is the mysterious man making his way into Will's heart hiding something much more sinister beneath the surface?~

let not man tear asunder by cannibalspectacle

~The FBI wants the disgraced Dr. Lecter's help catching a killer called Buffalo Bill. Dr. Lecter wants something in exchange.~

White Shark Café by justheretoreadhannibalfics

~Will owns a café, and killers love it.~

I Am Here to Serve My Muse by PassingShadow

~In which Artist!Will is inspired by the Chesapeake Ripper, and Hannibal is intrigued in turn.~

Anchor in a Lockdown by Anna_Jay

~In which Will is an unfortunate prison guard who is sent to work the red zone, the current home of Dr. Hannibal Lecter.~

Pattern Break by ThisBeautifulDrowning

~After his release from the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, Will doesn't return to work for the FBI.~

We Can Chase the Dark Together by K_R_Closson

~Will tips him and Hannibal off the cliff. Instead of hitting the water, he wakes up in his bed, several years in the past. His first, and only, priority is to find Hannibal again.~

La Maison Rouge by Randstad

~Hannibal starts to show up at Will's house at the crack of dawn to make him breakfast, killing two birds with one stone: cooking is one of his many passions, and, honestly, Will Graham is climbing up the list.~

Never Conquered, Rarely Came by thisisthefamilybusiness

~Normally, this is the part where Will would pick up his cell phone and leave an anonymous tip on the police crime hotline, tell them there was a cannibalistic serial murderer lurking around the area code of the phone number given in the ad. But not today. Not when his very bones ache and all the raw and bruised places on his skin throb in time with his pulse. Not when exhaustion is slowly eating away at him in a way that has nothing to do with how little he slept last night.~

The Borderland State by nekosmuse

~Three years after Hannibal's arrest, Will Graham stands on the front porch of his Georgian seaside home and watches twin headlights navigate the winding stretch of his lane. There is only one reason Jack Crawford would travel all this way, in the rain: Hannibal Lecter has escaped from prison, and no one knows where he is.~

Kindling by gleamingandwholeanddeadly (something_safe)

~When Franklyn's advances of friendship become too much for even Hannibal to politely ignore, he enlists Will's help.~

My Husband by VictoriaAGrey

~“My husband this, my husband that. It’s a wonder Jack hasn’t followed your trail of “my husband”s to our front door.”

“He doesn’t know we’re married.”

“He’s the only one!”~

We Killed a Dragon Last Night by inameitlater

~Will remembers falling.

He wakes up months before Jack got him to work for him. Months before he met Hannibal for the first time.

Free from his past he decides to change events and meet Hannibal again.~

Falls the Shadow by littlesystems

~AKA an AU where Bedelia is Will’s psychiatrist instead of Hannibal, Will makes a series of increasingly questionable life choices, and no one should ever take Bedelia’s advice. Ever.~

haarlem by spqr

~“Hannibal,” he thinks he says. He gets told later that he doesn’t really say it at all, but that the entire police station—most of which is waiting outside in the rainy parking lot—hears his voice clattering around inside their skulls like someone standing on a roof banging pots and pans and screaming at the top of his lungs: HANNIBAL, HANNIBAL, HANNIBAL.~

#fic recs #hannigram #hannibal lecter #will graham

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mybutcheredtongue · 1 year ago

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I'll Love You 'til the Grass Around My Gravestone is Deceased

post azkaban sirius x fem!reader

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (see full series list here)

1993

Giving an elf clothes is basically the same as throwing them off a cliff. Life-ruining. You think about this as you leave Winky sobbing at Crouch's feet, turning to return to your tent. Poor Winky. First she had to deal with that awful man as a master, and now she's being set free by said man. It's a tough life for house elves, you'll give them that. This all just reminds you of Bitsy — you'll have to go visit her first thing when school starts.

You glance to your left, spotting Mr Weasley escorting the kids back to their tent, and feel guilt gnawing at your gut.

"Give me a sec, will you?" you say to Minerva, jogging over to their group. "Mr Weasley?"

He looks up, raising his eyebrows when he sees you.

"I'm sorry for all that...I'm sure it was a shock to the system..." you say warily. "But please, don't think of me any differently. My — my past has no effect whatsoever on my work, and I can assure you that I will always do what is best for my students and — "

Mr Weasley brings up a hand, waving you down with a shake of his head. "Don't worry, professor. The boys — they speak very well of you. And Ginny too — I'm not worried."

You're surprised at that. You half expected him to look at you in disgust and steer his children away from you. It warms your heart to know he doesn't think you're bad.

"Thank you, Mr Weasley," you say genuinely. He gives you a small smile. "And I'd really appreciate it if maybe you...kept this to yourself? It's just — my job is everything to me, and if others found out..."

He nods understandingly. "You have my word."

You smile at him, nodding nervously. You glance at the three kids behind him, hoping your concern for them is communicated well enough. You head for Mr Diggory, giving him the same story, and he just nods like he wants to get as far from you as possible. That hurts, but you'll take what you can get. You scamper back to Minerva, and the two of you head back to your tent.

⁠✧⁠*��。✧⁠*⁠。

The rest of your summer break is...boring. Believe it or not, it can get very lonely in your house with just Dubh as company. You consider going to visit your parents again, but part of you feels guilty when you think about leaving. What if Sirius tries to contact you but can't reach you at your parents'? It's too much of a risk.

You and Remus spend your time together, like you've always done, but it's still not the same. It's not like you spend every waking moment together — and you miss him when he's not there. You miss the company of your best friend. The silence of your little home is deafening when you wake to do the exact same things you did the day before.

One evening, your mind wanders to Harry. You wonder how he's getting on. You hope he's safe and not still shaken after the events of the Quidditch World Cup — that night definitely set you on edge and worried for your godson. Perhaps it's time you should actually make an effort to contact him — now that he knows well who you are, he doesn't deserve to just have that be it. Right now, your relationship is still very professor-studenty...and you don't want that. You're his godmother and you want him to see you exactly as that — someone he can trust, someone he can confide in and talk to without worrying about school or work.

So, with all this in mind, you grab a quill and some ink, fishing out a piece of parchment and setting it all down on the table.

Dear Harry,

Too formal, you think. You scratch it out messily, starting again.

Dearest Harry,

No, that's not right. You scratch that out.

Hey, Harry!

What are you so excited about? This is just setting him up for something interesting, and you really have nothing interesting to tell. Scratch that.

What's up, Hazza?

Scratch.

My beloved godson,

Scratch scratch.

To: Harry

Scratch scratch scratch.

You look down at the parchment, realising you've just about scratched out the top half of the parchment. Nice one. You crumple it up, throwing it towards the rubbish bin in the corner of the room and missing it by half a mile. You groan, getting up and begrudgingly tossing it in the bin properly and getting another piece of parchment. You take a deep breath before starting this one.

Harry,

I hope you're well, and that you're enjoying your stay with the Weasleys. Do tell Ron and Hermione I said hello and I'm really looking forward to seeing you all in September! Hopefully there's a year ahead where the three of you aren't getting up to too much mischief...though perhaps that's an impossible thing to ask for.

I hope you're doing okay after the World Cup. I won't mollycoddle you and say you have nothing to worry about because you're old enough to know better, but you can always talk to me, Harry. I mean it. I'm your godmother and it's high time I start acting like it.

I'm afraid I don't really have anything interesting to share. The summer can be quite boring for me — it's just myself and Dubh. Remus comes 'round a lot, but I think that's because he gets a free meal out of it.

There's a room here for you, y'know. When we were made godparents, Sirius demanded that you have your own room here because it was a 'necessity'. Personally I think it was just so he could get the chance to put the idea in your head that tying your dad's shoelaces together would be a good thing. It's lucky one-year-old Harry had little-to-no dexterity.

Write back soon with all the news! I could do with a little excitement.

All my love and best wishes,

You sign your name, tapping your quill against your chin thoughtfully as you read back over the letter.

P.S. If you hear anything from that daft dog will you please let me know? I've gotten no word and can't help but worry. Enjoy the photo!

You spend five minutes rummaging around for a photo, eventually landing on one of a young Lily smiling sheepishly, her cheeks rosy, clutching a copy of her potions textbook in her arms.

⁠✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

Children run and crowd the platform at King's Cross, hugging parents and grimacing as their mothers press sloppy kisses to their cheeks. You push your own trunk and Dubh's crate through the crowd, finally managing to get onto the train and into your usual compartment in the Prefects' carriage.

You sit down with a sigh, taking out your books and doing what you usually do: touch up lesson plans. Then you pull out a fictional book, written in French, hoping to brush up on your skills in the language before the arrival of the Beauxbatons students.

This year, something big is happening at Hogwarts: the Triwizard Tournament. One of-age student from Hogwarts, Durmstrang, and Beauxbatons is selected and the three participants compete in three tasks to win a grand prize of a thousand galleons. You're quite excited for it — especially to meet the new teachers from the other schools. It's something to look forward to!

After a while, you decide to get up and stretch your legs. You'll go for a walk down the train, maybe have a quick word with your seventh years and see how they're doing. Off you go, and luckily you do spot a gaggle of your seventh years in a compartment with the door open. Inside, you find Cedric Diggory, Molly Milvy, Elisa Catchweld and James Smith. All Hufflepuffs. They tell you about their summers, the holidays they went on, their hopes for this coming year, their worries about exams. Molly Milvy seems especially worried about her Astronomy exam, pulling out a thick textbook from her bag and flipping it open.

"I've just — Professor, how in Merlin's name do you analyse spectra? I just — I cannot wrap my head around it — "

You chuckle light-heartedly. "Oh, Ms Milvy, we'll cover it, don't you worry. I'll explain it all when we come to it."

"When will we come to it? I'm seriously just beginning to worry — "

You gently take the book from the blonde girl, closing it shut. "I'll make a note to get an early start on spectra with your class this year, and I'm happy to spend time going over it outside of class with you if needs be."

She smiles, some of the stress leaving her face. "Okay, okay. Thank you, Professor."

You glance at Cedric Diggory. Did his father tell him about you? If he did, he's not showing it. He's looking as friendly as he's always been. You nod and smile at the students, bidding them goodbye before continuing on your way down the train. You pass students, giving them all greeting smiles, before eventually you near a compartment, peering in the window and spotting Harry, Ron and Hermione sitting inside, chatting away amicably. You knock on the door, smiling when Hermione stands to open it.

"Professor!" She immediately starts to smooth her hair down in an effort to look more presentable and you chuckle at her antics.

"I hope you don't mind my interrupting," you say, and they all shake their heads. You slide the door closed behind you, wondering if you should sit down or not. No, maybe not. Surely they don't want their professor butting in like this. "Anyways, I'm just popping in to say hello...Harry, did you get my letter?"

Harry nods. "Oh, yeah, I did, thanks. I meant to send one back but it only arrived a few days ago, thought it best to just leave it 'til now..."

"Oh, that's fine. Nothing to worry about," you reply with a smile.

"Professor, I wanted to ask you something," Harry questions and you nod. "At the Cup, when the Dark Mark was conjured...do you think that means Voldemort is back?"

You bite your lip, shrugging. "Honestly? I don't know, Harry. But I do know that with Wormtail free to do whatever the hell he wants, it's best to keep your wits about you."

"Do you know who conjured it?"

You scoff. "Sure if I knew, don't you think I'd have said something that night? I haven't got a clue, I'm afraid."

There's a brief silence, and you nearly consider leaving them because you think you're boring them, but Ron asks you a question.

"How come you're not an animagus?"

You blink in surprise at him.

"Y'know, 'cause all the rest of them were."

Your legs are tired from standing and you decide to forego all previous worries and just sit yourself down next to your godson, smiling across at Ron.

"Oh, Ron, you think the boys would have let a girl in on their little tricks?" You chuckle. "They had their own little club of...animals, and none of the rest of us were supposed to know. Though I will say that they did choose a terrible spot to perform their little ritual."

"Ritual?" Harry asks curiously. You can spot the glow in his eyes at the prospect of hearing about his parents and godfather and it warms your heart to see.

"The animagus one," you answer. You look over at Hermione. "Hermione, I'm sure you know of this already — " the girl swells with pride, " — but the spell for becoming an animagus is incredibly complicated. First, you have to keep a mandrake leaf under your tongue for an entire month — Sirius found that one especially difficult — "

"Why?"

You laugh. "Well, one, because it's awful to eat and drink with that in...and two, because Sirius had a fondness for snogging every girl in the castle."

Hermione's eyes widen and her face flushes. Ron and Harry share a look as both jaws drop.

"What?"

You grin at their shocked faces. "Yes, Sirius was quite the ladies man back in his day. Couldn't keep him away from a pretty girl! Anyway, then the boys had to say this chant every day...oh, what was it? I can't remember — "

"Amato, animo, animato, animagus," Hermione says and you nod.

"Yes, that was it. Every sunrise and sundown, those boys were chanting that incantation. They had to make up this potion and drink it during a lightning storm. Which, took quite a while...but the night there finally was one, they went up to the Astronomy Tower, for ease of access or something, I guess. And well, I spent practically every night up there in the Tower and may have walked in during their transformation."

"Really?" Hermione says, engrossed in your story.

"Oh, yes. It was weird, honestly, going up there and seeing Remus standing around these three familiar-looking animals..." you smile, remembering the memory. "But that's it, really. I mean, I already knew Remus was a werewolf before that, and now I knew the rest of 'em were transforming into animals whenever they pleased! But to answer your question, Ron, I had missed the chance to become one, and I wasn't as committed as they were. Though I would love to see what animal I'd be...James used to joke that I'd be a sea urchin, but I reckon I'd be something cooler like...like, I don't know, a dragon."

The three laugh and you smile.

"So, Harry, have you heard anything from Sirius?" you say, worry knotting your gut.

Harry nods and you feel a wave of relief washing over you. "Yeah, I have. He sent me a letter a while ago, kind of at the beginning of summer? He — uh — he said he's fine. And well, I sent him one a few weeks ago, before the Cup — but I haven't gotten a reply yet."

You nod thoughtfully. "Alright, thank goodness. He — he can't send me letters, you see. The Ministry are monitoring our house."

"Wait, really?" Hermione says in surprise. "That's awful."

You shrug. "It's nothing I haven't had to deal with before. They just — they're desperate. Desperate to get something on me."

"But you've been proven innocent!" Hermione exclaims. "And Dumbledore trusts you. Surely that's enough for them?"

You shake your head grimly. "I'm afraid not. The public hates that Sirius managed to escape, and the Ministry are just hoping they'll catch me out on something and make everyone think they've done something worthwhile. It'd also be a good jab at Dumbledore because he trusts me — Fudge worries he wants to become the Minister of Magic. Not that I think Dumbledore has even the tiniest shred of interest in that position anyway."

"Why wouldn't he want to be the Minister of Magic?" Ron asks incredulously, scoffing.

"He says it's because he has everything here, at Hogwarts," you say with a shrug, before adding with a small smile, "but if you ask me, I think it's because when you have control over everything like that, you don't have to fight for anything. Dumbledore likes that fight."

You roll your jumper's sleeves up, sighing. You should probably get going. Someone might accuse you of favouritism, sitting here with these three. Which...wouldn't be wrong, of course, but still not a great look for you. Hermione lets out a small gasp, looking at your forearm. You follow her gaze, landing on a tattoo.

"What's that for, Professor?" She asks curiously. Ron and Harry both lean forward to get a better look. It's that same painting of the pottery that Remus did for you, now permanently etched onto your skin. It's a jug, a plate and two cups. Upon the jug, is a pair of antlers, and on the plate, a lily flower.

You smile fondly, brushing over the art with your fingers. "It's pottery. Y'know, for the Potters..." you smile over at Harry. "There's Lily and there's James." You point to their symbols respectively. "S'pose I'll have to get another for you, eh, Harry? Wonder what it'd be."

He beams back at you, like it's the greatest honour in the world. The corners of his eyes crease behind his glasses.

You stand with a sigh, brushing over your jumper and pulling the sleeves back down over your tattoo. Not your only tattoo, by the way. There's another much bigger one on your back, but that's a story for another day.

"Well, I best be off," you say. "I'll see you all at dinner."

With that, you leave the compartment, slipping down the corridor again. You glance over your shoulders to see Draco Malfoy, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle standing at their compartment doorway, a jeering sneer on Draco's face.

Ah, teenage drama. Happens to us all.

⁠✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

The Great Hall is alive with great chatter and excitement. Inside, students buzz with anticipation, yapping away to each other as they reunite. You sit yourself down at the staff table, greeting everyone after the holidays. There's an empty seat beside you, Minerva's usual spot. On your left, sits the tiny Professor Flitwick, who greets you cheerfully.

"Hello!"

"Hello, Filius!" you chirp back, smiling at him.

Hagrid is of course, busy with the first years, battling their way across the Black Lake. Minerva, is busy supervising the drying of the Entrance Hall floor — which has been assaulted by Peeves' water balloons.

You glance down the table, wondering who the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher is. You scan and scan for a new face, but are stuck with Severus Snape's ugly scowl as your eyes meet. You wave condescendingly at him, bending your fingers like you're waving goodbye to a little toddler. His nostrils flare and he looks away from you. Poor baby. Holding onto that grudge against Sirius all these years, he must have an awful dull life.

Professor Dumbledore sits in the middle, smiling contentedly out at the students as you all wait for the first-years to arrive. Professor Sprout sits on the other side of Flitwick. You like Pomona Sprout — she's that kind of funny and friendly woman who won't take any bullshit. It's great.

"Pomona, long time no see!" You say, leaning to talk to her while Flitwick charms his spectacles to dance on the table for his enjoyment. He claps his hands excitedly, ignoring the two of you.

"Aye, that'd be right!" She exclaims heartily. "By Godric, you wouldn't see such rain if you prayed for it! I was absolutely drowneded outside!"

You chuckle, choosing not to correct her use of 'drowneded'. "Honestly! I had to use about three drying spells before coming in here. Madness."

No sooner have the words left your mouth than the doors of the Great Hall swing open and Minerva strides through, leading a trail of young first-years behind her. They're positively drenched, shivering from head to toe with the cold. There must have been no time to dry them off, you suppose. One young lad is covered in a large mass of fabric, one you recognise as Hagrid's moleskin overcoat. He's practically swimming in the massive piece of clothing, his head just barely poking out from the top of it.

The first-years look around in wonderment, gazing up at the sky, looking nervously out at all the older students, looking back at the teachers. You smile and wave at the ones who look at you, hoping to ease their nerves a little bit.

Minerva places the Sorting Hat on a three legged stool before the first-years and you suppress a groan.

A thousand years or more ago,

When I was newly sewn,

There lived four wizards of renown,

Whose names are still well known:

Bold Gryffindor, from wild moor,

Fair Ravenclaw, from glen,

Sweet Hufflepuff, from valley broad,

Shrewd Slytherin, from fen,

They shared a wish, a hope, a dream,

They hatched a daring plan

To educate young sorcerers

Thus Hogwarts school began.

Now each of these four founders

Formed their own house, for each

Did value different virtues

In the ones they had to teach.

By Gryffindor, the bravest were

Prized far beyond the rest;

For Ravenclaw the cleverest

Would always be the best;

For Hufflepuff, hard workers were

Most worthy of admission;

And power-hungry Slytherin

Loved those of great ambition.

While still they did divide

Their favourites from the throng,

Yet how to pick the worthy ones

When they were dead and gone?

'Twas Gryffindor who found the way,

He whipped me off his head

The founders put some brains in me

So I could choose instead!

Now slip me snug about your ears,

I've never yet been wrong,

I'll have a look inside your mind

And tell where you belong!

The Great Hall erupts into applause and you applaud too, thankful that it's over. Truth be told, you think the sorting is a whole load of hogwash. No one person is just cunning, no one person is just intelligent...it makes no sense. You like to think that though you were placed in Gryffindor, you were a sort of Jack-of-all-trades. Kind, clever, cunning and brave. Of course, you know that perhaps you're setting yourself too high...but who doesn't have a fantasy?

The Sorting begins, and you drum your fingers on the table in front of you. Thirty-three years old and you feel just as impatient as the other students do, desperately hoping for Minerva to hurry it up a little. You can feel your stomach gargling loudly, glancing around to see if anyone noticed. Sprout did, and she's nodding bleakly at you as though she feels your pain.

This is the one thing you don't like about the feast — the lack of one while you wait for the Sorting to finish. Sometimes, you try and use your intuition to guess what house they're going to get. A young girl hops up onto the stool, and Minerva places the hat on her head.

Ravenclaw, for sure.

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

Yeah, well, I was going to say that.

Time drags on and on, and you're seriously starting to consider taking a chomp out of the wooden table in front of you. If you squint just right...it looks like a bar of Honeyduke's chocolate.

But thankfully, it seems you won't have to go that far, because Minerva finally plucks the hat from the stool once the last student has been sorted and carries both the stool and the hat out.

Dumbledore stands, arms opened wide in welcome. "I have only two words to say to you," he tells you, his deep voice booming around the hall, "Tuck in."

And tuck in you do. You eat to your heart's content, glad to finally be rid of the rumbling in your tummy. You clink your goblets against Sprout and Flitwick's cheerfully, beaming when Minerva finally joins you at the table, huffing something about Peeves and his antics.

Finally, when the last of the desserts have been cleared and plates have been licked clean, Dumbledore gets to his feet again. Wondrously, the buzz of chatter ceases almost at once, everyone turning to listen to what he's going to say. You wish you had that kind of power over a room.

"So!" he says, smiling around at everyone. "Now that we are all fed and watered, I must once more ask for your attention while I give out a few notices."

"Mr Filch, the caretaker, has asked me to tell you that the list of objects forbidden in the castle has this year been extended to include Screaming Yo-yos, Fanged Frisbees, and Ever-Bashing Boomerangs. The full list comprises some four-hundred and thirty-seven items, I believe, and can be viewed in Mr Filch's office, if anyone would like to check it."

Filch is standing down the bottom of the hall, eyes flitting about the hall suspiciously. He lands on the Weasley twins and gives them a dark look — you expect he hopes to really catch them out this year. Not a chance.

"As ever, I would like to remind you all that the forest on the grounds is strictly out-of-bounds to all students, as is the village of Hogsmeade to all those below third year. It is also my painful duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not take place this year."

Now this sets the students off. There is loud whispering and muttering, a few outbursts of 'What?'

"This is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers' time and energy — but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts — "

At that moment, there's a deafening roll of thunder and the doors to the Great Hall bang open.

→ all kinds of interaction are appreciated ♡

⁠✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

→→ read chapter seventeen here!

a massive thank you to all my taglist loves for all their kindness and support:

@wholelottalove05 @izuoyarmin @hyperspeedo @carpe000diem @jennifer0305

#sirius black x you #harry potter #the marauders #angst with a happy ending #angst #fanfiction #sirius black #hp #sirius black x reader #fanfic #marauders

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annaraebananawriter · 1 year ago

Text

(Request) I Bet You Were the Best Brother

It's been a while since I posted a oneshot, so I hope this 5k one manages to make up for that.

As I've mentioned before, been going through a bit of a writer's block that is finally going away. Some it still lingers, but it is infinitely better. Feels like I can breathe again. So, everyone reading this that struggles with writer's block at the moment--know that it will go away. You will be able to write again. It's not a matter of if, only when. You will be able to write again.

Anyway, I don't have any other major life updates for you, so I guess I'll let you start reading now. Happy reading! Let me know what you thought!!

Fandom: Undertale/UTMV

Characters: Dream and Nightmare (Who belong to Joku)

Warnings: A character losing their memory and swearing and I think that’s it. Let me know!

Summary: Ilike_cringe (Fri 14 Oct 2022): "here is a request :>. Could you make it that nightmare might have hit dream tooo hard in a fight that (bear with me ) Dream lost his memory ( if you could could you add more spice \^o^/)"

Word Count: 5395

~oOo~

Nightmare wanted there to be a note that the fight started off normal.

His gang showed up, causing some ruckus. He hung out in the background observing, soaking in the new misery like a sponge, keeping an eye out for the tell-tale sign that the Star Sanses had shown up. In today’s case, that ended up being an arrow flying at one of his boys, which barely got dodged, the blue glow disappearing as it left eyesight. Grinning, he had taken it as his cue to join in, grabbing Dream by the ankles as he notched another one, and throwing him across the space.

Not too hard, of course. He didn’t want his brother out of commission quite yet. That was always the fun part about the fight, seeing him defeated. It needs to be drawn out a bit, though, for it to be really satisfying.

Dream recovered from the toss quickly, though he was soaked head to toe—he had unintentionally tossed him into the river. Whoops. The annoyed look on his brother’s face made his grin widen even more. They quickly fell into their routine after that, trading blows and insults, slowly moving away from the others. Another toss had them entering the woods, which resulted in a lot of fallen trees, a clear indicator of where they’d gone.

A cliff came into view, with Dream’s back to it. Nightmare didn’t take much note of it at the time, too preoccupied—his brother had just gotten a pretty bad hit to the back of his skull, making him stumble. Pausing for a minute, he gave him some time to get his bearings back before attacking again, pushing him closer to the cliff edge.

So…technically, this whole thing could be considered his fault, but how was he supposed to know what would happen?

The cliff seemed perfectly safe in the normal dangerous way!

This means the fight was going great until the cliff crumbled under Dream’s feet, making him shriek, eyes widening, his bow dispersing as he pinwheeled backward. Nightmare froze, staring at the now absent spot with eyes equally as wide, tentacles raised to strike.

Then it went silent.

“…shit,” he hissed, automatically turning around in case his brother teleported at the last second to safety. It wouldn’t be the first time, so it shouldn’t be the last time.

No one was there.

He waited.

Still no one.

Maybe Dream was just in shock, still picking himself up. Turning back, Nightmare stepped closer to the cliff, small rocks tumbling after the larger ones from his movements. If he leaned over, he could probably tell…ah, no. Nope, that was just a bunch of trees. His brother was probably under those trees. Probably just picking himself up.

He’ll return in no time.

Nightmare just had to wait.

So, he did.

For one minute. Then two. Then…honestly, he lost track of the minutes after that, glancing back and forth around the clearing, looking over his shoulder at the cliff like Dream would just suddenly appear, having climbed up for some stupid reason. Any minute now, the fight will be back on, continuing as usual…any minute now…

…any minute…

…any—

Okay, so.

Something was wrong.

Turning back to the cliff, he glared at the edge. It was its fault this was happening. Why did it decide to crumble now? Particularly when Dream was on it? Why?

Now his brother was somewhere below, dazed as hell, without the clear thinking necessary to teleport, or injured badly enough to be unconscious—and as soon as that thought popped into existence, he shoved it away, then took time to quell the rising panic in his soul.

No, no, that’s not possible. Dream’s far more durable than that. Sure, it’s a cliff, and cliff’s cause damage, even to immortal beings, but still. His brother could heal, so shouldn’t that work on himself, make him more…invulnerable, or something? Unless…he couldn’t actually heal himself and he’s just been assuming that he could this entire time…no, that couldn’t be possible. Nightmare’s pretty sure he’d remember that if it were the case.

So…what happened?

Maybe…maybe Dream was just staying down there for a while.

He’ll probably join again in a bit.

Yeah, that’s probably it. So, he should really go back and help his boys. Hey, maybe Dream’s already there! Maybe he went to his friends instead. Makes sense, makes sense…

He should go help his boys now, he’s been standing here too long.

And…he wasn’t moving.

Why wasn’t he moving?

Dream’s fine. He’s back at the main fight. It’s something that’s happened before. It should be something that happened here. It’s fine. He can go back. So…what kept him here, staring around like his brother would magically appear, a tight feeling in his chest that threatened to steal the air away from his non-existent lungs?

Maybe…maybe he should just go down there, check on Dream—

That was another thought pushed away. No, hell no. If he gave in to that though, if he went down there to check, now, after too much time has already passed for that to be considered just moving the fight along, that’d be…that’s cause his brother to hope. Hope that things could go back to the way things were before the apples. He can’t go through the painstaking steps needed to crush that hope, put off the last stubborn spark that remained until he was sure it wouldn’t create another flame. Not again.

Besides, he didn’t even care. Not that much. Sure, yeah, he cared somewhat, always would—that’s just naturally part of being a brother. But the majority of how much he cared was in the past, before everything was plucked off a tree in the form of a black apple and devoured. That care no longer exists, taken over by the need to win all these fights, making the scales tip in his direction.

It just…didn’t exist. He didn’t care.

(Some days, it was harder to convince himself of this fact than others.

This was one of them.)

He didn’t care, so he should so rejoin his boys, and get out of this AU.

This time, he teleported.

It was an easy win. Dream never came back.

When it came time to go home, Nightmare couldn’t stop his gaze from wandering away from his boys, who were celebrating as usual, over to the trees. In the direction of the cliff, even if he couldn’t see it from here.

The tight feeling in his chest squeezed and squeezed. His tentacles flicked nervously behind him. For some reason, he kept thinking that now was the moment his brother would appear, now was the moment he could stop all this silly, stupid worry, go back to being angry. And the longer he looked, the more that thought wavered and shook, gathering speed as it transformed into a tornado that threatened to consume all of his other priorities until he made sure Dream was okay. But the only way to do that was to go and check, and leaving now would just make the boys confused and worried, which he could not handle right now.

Besides, he was sure it was fine.

He got them all home before he could convince himself otherwise, before the urge to make sure was too overpowering. To make sure he was really distracted, he holed himself up in his office, pulling out some paperwork—which wasn’t even real paperwork, just a bunch of sudoku and word searches and other puzzles printed out to make it look like he was working on important stuff.

For the most part, it worked. Kept his mind too busy to think about what happened.

Then he got to one particular word search that—and he is not joking or exaggerating this part—had three words at the bottom for him to find, all in a row, that read: ‘Dream’, ‘injury’, and ‘concussion’. Isn’t that just the strangest collection of words you’ve ever seen? The surreal coincidence of the words made Nightmare stare down at the page for a minute, completely gobsmacked. Who the hell was writing these word searches, and why the fuck did they include these three specific words on the same one?

It was like a sign or something…

Sneering, Nightmare tore the word search up into tiny pieces, sitting back in his chair, spinning around and around. Trying very hard not to think about the three words. And how his brother never came back. And how the yelp he let out when he fell just fell silent and how he never bothered to check and—

And now he was thinking about it.

“Fuck.”

Growling to himself, he stopped spinning in his chair. Then, he promptly stood and teleported back to the AU.

Leaning over the cliff again, he teleported down. His brother wasn’t anywhere in the immediate proximity—though, why would he be? This was all just a waste of time—so he started walking around, ducking under some tree branches. When he fell, Dream would’ve had to have landed somewhere around here…though he still wasn’t sure why he was searching.

His brother was probably gone by now. His friends probably came to collect him.

Why did he think he’d find him here, lying on the ground as if nothing happened? As if he just decided to take an impromptu nap, in the snow and in wet clothes and…

Oh. Oh, shit.

That was actually Dream lying there in front of him.

Fuck.

Almost tripping over himself, Nightmare hurried over, falling to his knees beside his brother. His hands hovered in the air around him, unsure what to do. “Dream?” he called, hoping to wake him up. Nothing happened.

Dream didn’t move.

For a soul-stopping moment, Nightmare actually thought he might be dead. Panic swirled in his chest, choking him, until he remembered that if they were dead, their body would turn to dust. Presumably, anyway, since they had no real way of knowing that until they…y’know…actually died, but still. The thought allowed him to gather himself enough to Check his brother, make sure of it. It said he was fine, if missing a chunk of health.

Nightmare breathed out, hating how shaky it was. “Idiot, making me worry for nothing…” he muttered to himself, looking down at his brother, frowning. Shaking his shoulder, he raised his voice a bit, eager to wake him up, make sure he left to wherever, hopefully back to his friends, and get home himself before his boys wondered where he went off to. “Dream. Wake up.”

No response. Dream was still. Breathing—he double-checked, just to be sure—but still.

Frowning, he shook him again, rougher. Still nothing.

Even unconscious, his brother insisted on being annoying. Scowling, he sat back on his heels. “If you don’t wake up, I’m going to kick you.”

Nothing.

Welp. His hand was forced.

Standing, Nightmare kicked Dream in the side—not too hard, of course, he’s not a complete monster. Just enough that he woke up.

Which he did.

Finally.

Nightmare rolled his eye to himself, crossing his arms as he watched his brother groan, coming to. A hand half-raised to his head before stopping, eyes blinking open and squinting against the light. His eyelights were paler than normal, just a hair bigger, too. He could see the exact moment they focused in, his brother clocking that there’s someone standing above him, but Dream didn’t panic, didn’t seem to be anything more than confused.

Dream blinked again. “Hi.”

Nightmare raised a brow bone. Seriously? That’s it? He fought the urge to roll his eye again. “What are you still doing here?”

His brother seemed to get more confused. “What?”

Wondering if the fall knocked loose some brain cells, Nightmare scowled. “What do you mean, ‘what’? You know what. What are you still doing here? This is, like, the most uncomfortable spot to have a nap.” Without waiting for him to answer, he continued, waving a hand around. He couldn’t let the opportunity to mock him go by. “And why didn’t you rejoin the fight? I thought you had a duty to protect the positivity in the multiverse.”

“Um…” Dream blinked for a third time, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. He laughed, nervously, like a reflex, and when he opened his eyes again, they were fuzzy again. “Sorry, you went a bit fast for me there. Could you repeat that?”

Ugh. Now he was just being difficult.

“You’re so annoying.” Nightmare said, stepping away. “Just get up and get out of here.”

Looking up at him, the words seemed to take a few minutes to sink in. Then, nodding, Dream tried to stand, movements jerky, as if he was figuring out how to move them for the first time again. When he stood, he wobbled, tilting over a bit before righting himself.

Nightmare realized he had stepped forward, ready to catch him should he fall, and retreated, tucking his hands back into his arms.

Damnit. He was slipping. He had to get out here, fast.

“I’m alright.” Dream said, clearly noticing his misstep. He was smiling. Nightmare had to look away before the sight made him feel warm inside. “Just a bit dizzy.”

“Whatever,” Nightmare said in return, leaving it at that.

Still smiling, his brother shifted on his feet, looking down at his hands and clenching them into fists a couple of times. His gaze wandered back up to him, and then away, looking around them with a curious, still confused, look. It was almost like he was trying to figure out where he was, as if he wasn’t just in a fight here earlier.

He couldn’t have forgotten that fast, could he? And what was he still doing here?

Shouldn’t he be opening a portal by now?

“What are you waiting for?”

Snapping back to look at him, Dream didn’t seem to understand the question. “Huh?”

Waving a hand again, tentacles flicking behind him, Nightmare’s scowl deepened. Why the fuck was he acting so weird? “Open a portal already and go home. Your friends are probably worried sick by now.”

(He ignored the voice in his head that said he was starting to get worried, too.)

“Right, right.” Dream nodded, trying and failing to look like he knew what he was talking about. “A portal…see, um, I would do that…but, uh…” Looking around again, shifting some more, his smile turned sheepish. “Well, I don’t remember, exactly, how to do that.”

Nightmare did not return the smile, unamused. He just stared.

What the fuck? What was he playing at? What was the point in drawing all this out? Nostalgia? What did he get out of acting so weird? What was going on here?

“Do you think this is a fucking game?” Nightmare asked, voice slipping off into a growl. His tentacles moved restlessly. He was getting agitated now. He just wanted to go home, get back to his puzzles, and maybe sleep for a week. But no, he was here, playing along with this stupidness, unable to get a grasp on what was happening.

Dream looked alarmed, holding his hands up and shaking them furiously. “No! No—”

“Then why the fuck are you wasting my time? I come out here, in the middle of the evening, to make sure you’re good, and you decide to, what, pull a joke on me?” Unable to curb his irritation, he shook his head, rubbing a hand down his face. “Stars, I hate you. I’m reminded now why I don’t bother doing this for you. You never take it seriously.” Turning he started to walk away, hearing Dream stutter excuses behind him.

He didn’t want to hear any excuses. He was done. He was going home.

“It’s not—I’m not joking,” Dream called after him, footsteps crunching on the snow as he chased after him.

“Of course, you are!” Nightmare sighed, in annoyance or anger or both of them combined. He didn’t care anymore. “You always are!” He didn’t bother stopping or turning around. Just continued on. And then he remembered he didn’t have to walk away at all, could just make a portal out. Turning his annoyance to himself, he raised a hand to do so—

“I don’t remember that.”

—and stopped.

The statement struck the right chord, making something inside him fall to the pit of his stomach, pricking him uncomfortably. Slowly, he turned to face Dream again, paying more attention. “…what?”

“I—I don’t remember that,” Dream said, tone so genuine, eyes so wide and confused and even scared that it seemed to create a physical attack on his soul. Raising a hand, his brother held it to his head. “I thought if I waited a bit, I might remember something, but I don’t. It’s all just…blank. I don’t know anything you’re talking about, like the fight or my friends. I place any faces to them or names or anything.” He let his hand fall, shaking his head as he turned his gaze down to his feet, speaking softly. “I just don’t remember.”

The words pushed Nightmare out of the present, sending him spiraling into the black hole opening in his ribs, right where his soul is. They pressed in on him, reverberating, turning into a high pitch that buzzed inside him, threatening to cut off his breath.

He didn’t want to believe the words. In fact, he was trying his absolute best not to. Excuses flew through, nitpicking through the explanation and finding words that betrayed the real truth. He told himself over and over that no matter what, no matter how injured he got, Dream would never allow this to happen. His brother would hold onto himself with an iron grip, too desperate to let go, and the Multiverse would allow him to hold on because it was just another being that favored him. They would not let their favorite Guardian lose his precious memories, not for all the stories it brought them.

No, it just wasn’t possible. He was lying—though the reason why was unclear, and nothing could really justify it, he had to be lying. It was a trick, a ploy, maybe even a trap. Yes, that’s it. Any minute now, the other Star Sanses would jump out, pull their weapons, and Dream would drop this façade and go back to pleading with him and when it didn’t work, when Nightmare lashed out in anger, he would pull out his bow and—and—

It just---it had to be a trick.

It had to.

It…

His eyes didn’t look like he was lying, though.

No matter how long he searched, how close he looked, it was a blank sheet of gold. He found confusion, yes, he found anxiety—nothing new there—but he did not find any recognition. Hope and helplessness, but no relief in having someone he knew find him. Even now, as his brother looked around the clearing, he only saw curiosity, as if he hadn’t seen this place before, as if he had just arrived, as if he had just woken up and was in an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar faces. The eyes came back to his, smiled at him, and—

And they were still blank.

A ghost.

The black hole in his ribs widened, pulling him in faster. Digging his heels in, he resisted with everything he had, swimming back out. He had to confirm this, he told himself, had to make sure this was the truth. If there was any chance he did remember, whether that be his friends or his title or Night—

Well, Nightmare just had to find it. He had to.

He heard himself speak before he was fully back in his body. “Did you hit your skull?”

“Ah, maybe?” Dream tilted his head, reaching around to the base of it before retracting quickly, wincing. “Yes. Yeah, I did.”

“Turn around.”

Obedient, Dream did, and Nightmare stepped closer, observing the crack. It wasn’t as bad as he was expecting—certainly not as big—but it was still enough to make bile climb up the back of his throat. Swallowing it down, he darted his gaze around it, taking in the gaping black hole, about the size of a cherry, thinner cracks webbing out from around it. It had blood crusted on the edges, and he was sure that if he took the time to look around the cliff, he’d find matching spots.

Absently reaching out, he traced along the wound with his fingers. Stars, how he wished he knew how to heal. This would be so much easier.

Dream pulled away after his fingers made contact, and he let his hand fall as he turned back, already apologizing. “Sorry! Sorry, that just…really hurt.” He laughed again, but it petered out as he caught sight of Nightmare’s face. “Oh…that bad of a sight, huh?”

“You said…” Nightmare swallowed again, ignoring those words. “You said you don’t remember anything?” The feeling in the pit of his stomach clenched.

“No.” Oblivious, Dream shook his head. “The latest memory I have is of you standing over me. Before that…” Tilting his head again, his brother thought about it, ultimately coming up with nothing. No spark in his eyes. “Nothing.” He looked regretful, like he wished he could be of more help. “Sorry.”

There he went again, apologizing.

Nightmare was going to have to have a talk with him about that. He can’t keep saying sorry for things that he didn’t need to say sorry for in the first place.

First, however, was dealing with—this.

“So…” He didn’t want to ask the next question. It burned in his throat, made his tongue curl in preparation, the words too ugly to even think about. Why did it need to be said? He already knew the answer to it. Why did he insist on asking it when he knew what was going to be said? He would rather them stand like this forever than ask it.

That was a risk, though. And he would really like to get some sleep tonight—even if that might be impossible the longer this sank in. They should really wrap this up soon.

That meant asking uncomfortable questions.

Swallowing himself down, Nightmare let the question go. It couldn’t hurt to ask, anyway. “You don’t remember me?” The words lingered in the air, an odd hint of emotion to them, something fragile and vulnerable.

(He knew the answer to why he wanted to ask this.

Somehow, somewhere inside him, there was still a need that maybe something would be remembered. If the longer they talked, the greater the chance the memories would just snap back into place. That the hollow feeling of having someone you grew up with look at you like one would a stranger would disappear, replaced by joy or anger or tears, anything else.

Inside, if nothing else, he needed there to be a chance he’d be remembered.)

It felt like hope.

“No.” Dream answered, the shaking of his head feeling like salt poured into open wounds. He seemed disappointed in himself, upset he couldn’t help. For him, this was failing at giving someone what they wanted.

For Nightmare, this was confirmation.

(It felt like denial.)

(There was a stinging in his chest. Where did it come from?)

“Where you someone important?”

Nightmare automatically bristled. “I—” He stopped himself, glaring down at the ground while clenching his jaw.

His instinct was to say that, of course he was. He was Dream’s brother. They grew up together. They were, still are, two halves of the same coin, two halves to the same balance. Despite everything, that had to mean something.

But that wasn’t the truth, was it?

Not anymore.

Maybe one time, before The Incident, before the villagers came to them. It was just the two of them, after all. And Mother, but she couldn’t really say much, or do anything beyond existing. Maybe then they were each other’s most important person. And maybe it would’ve stayed that way had everything not gone to shit.

But the point was, that was in the past.

Whatever they had, it was gone. In more ways than one now…

Inhaling, Nightmare looked away, shoving his hands into his pockets. “That…depends on your definition of important.”

They had other people in their lives now. He had his gang, his boys. Though he often complained about their foolishness and called them idiots, not once had he ever wished he hadn’t met them. Dream, he knew, felt much the same about Ink and Blue. Neither of them would trade their friends for the world.

Even for each other.

“I was—” Nightmare sighed, rolling back his shoulders. “I’m your brother. Nightmare.” He forced himself to look back at Dream, even if the eye contact burned his soul with something uncomfortable. “Your name is Dream, by the way. In case you forgot that, too.”

“Cool!” Dream paused and gasped, beaming as he made the connection. “Our names match!”

“Yeah.” Nightmare said, forcing himself to smile back. “Yeah, they do.” Of course they did, he thought to himself. That’s the reason why they chose the names.

Brow furrowing, Dream tilted his head. “Wait, if we’re brothers, wouldn’t I just live with you, then?”

“What?” Nightmare felt himself frown in return. “Why do you think we’d live together?”

Strange, considering Dream didn’t even remember him.

(There was that stinging again.)

“I-I don’t know, I just…I have this feeling that brothers should be living together. That they need to live together. I don’t know why, but it’s a very strong feeling.” Dream raised a hand to his chest, hovering over where his soul would be. “When I think about you, um, that feeling gets all…strange.”

This caught his attention. “Strange?”

“Yeah.” Nodding slowly, Dream worked through it, finding what to call it. “I think it…I think it turns jealous, somehow.”

Nightmare stared.

Jealous…?

That couldn’t be right. Dream had to be reading it wrong.

There was nothing to be jealous about. His brother always had the perfect life. What more could he want?

If anything, he should be the one jealous. He’s the only one who deserves to be jealous. Jealous of the way people were always drawn to his brother over himself, the way people thought everything of the sun and nothing of the moon, even though they both shared the same light. It was his right to be envious, his right to look upon the past and view it with bitterness. It was his right to look at the present, now, when Dream still has his friends and his standing and still has everyone revolving around him.

At least he can find relief, find arrogance, in the fact that he found his own friends, his own group of people who looked up to him. It took years, it took work, but he found them.

He didn’t need Dream anymore.

(So, what if sometimes he looked at his brother and his friends and felt a longing to join them?

So, what if he found the way they laughed, the way they treated each other, a reminder that he’s done too many things to be treated like that again?

So, what if he’s tired of fighting all the time and wants to go back to how things were, while knowing that could never happen, while looking across the battlefield into golden eyes that reflected the same kind of feelings and—and…oh.

Oh.

Oh, they would never escape being peas in a pod, would they?)

“Hey, you mentioned my friends, though.” Dream said, brightening up again, looking around like they might just pop up. Not that he would recognize them. “Maybe we could find them and they could help me get home. What do you think of that?”

Maybe, Nightmare thought, looking away as well. He couldn’t lie, it would be nice to leave this place, and dump the responsibility of an amnesiac onto someone else. Especially the Guardians of the Multiverse, the coveted Star Sanses.

But something twisting in his stomach stopped him from agreeing.

He thought, all too suddenly, about how he came back hours later to his brother still lying in relatively the same spot he fell. Meaning Ink and Blue never came back to look for him after they retreated. You’d think, for monsters that claimed to be his best friends, they’d be out here the minute the battle was over, bringing Dream back home to be checked on.

Why should he trust his brother with those two, when they didn’t even search for him? They probably don’t even know he’s missing. They certainly don’t know he’s injured. He can’t help but wonder what their reactions would’ve been to this memory loss.

Too bad he won’t find out.

“I think they’re busy, actually.” Nightmare decided, making a split decision that he hoped wasn’t wrong. “And going to be busy for the week yet.”

“Oh…”

Dream looked disappointed. Hurt.

The look on his face only solidified Nightmare’s decision. His tentacles curled in satisfaction. “You can come home with me, though. Stay for a bit.”

“Really?” Starting to brighten yet again, Dream seemed to hesitate, searching to make sure he was telling the truth.

“Yeah.”

“Awesome.” Dream’s smile lit up the forest, and Nightmare turned himself away before he found himself getting soft because of it. Raising a hand to open the portal, he heard Dream chuckle behind him. “I gotta say, even though I don’t remember it, I bet you were the best brother ever.”

The words were said so confidently, so…normally…it made Nightmare freeze. The portal wobbled in front of him, but stayed open, and he blinked at it a couple of times before he turned back to his brother.

His mouth was dry, for a reason he couldn’t yet understand.

“What?”

“Well, I mean…it’s like you said. You came all this way, in the middle of the night, to check on me. You were worried. And then, when you found me, you stayed to wake me up, even though you technically already completed your goal. You didn’t just leave. And you checked my injury without me asking you to, and told me my name, and now you’re offering to let me stay at your place.”

Dream’s smile turned smaller, more vulnerable. “It just seems like a very nice thing to do.”

Nightmare’s gaze was frozen, locked onto that genuine, soft smile. The last sentence played on a loop, ringing inside his skull.

A very nice thing to do.

In any other situation, the suggestion would be laughable.

But like this…

(There was that stinging. Again. Why won’t it just go away?)

He thought back to the fight that happened earlier. How he reveled in the pain he caused, how much fun he had taunting his brother. How often he attacked him, without worry or caution. How eager he was to throw him around into trees, back him up into a cliff. He hadn’t even thought about what might happen, too giddy, too smug. All he wanted to do was put him in his place…he hadn’t even cared that he was bleeding…hadn’t even reached out to try and save him when the cliff crumbled…

How long had Dream laid there, in the snow, still in wet clothes?

What did he think as he watched Nightmare watch him fall?

How can that be called nice?

How can what happened during The Incident be called nice? What kind of brother turned his twin into stone, and left him in a dead AU all alone, knowing full well that he would one day return? What kind of brother picked an apple he was supposed to protect in the first place? What kind of brother was he?

Certainly not the kind this Dream was talking about…

“Right.” Nightmare said, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. He understood why this time. He wanted to throw up. “Thanks.”

Dream didn’t notice anything wrong. Still smiling away. As always. Always. “No problem!” Rocking back on his heels, he started to look around as his attention span waned with no portal to go through.

Still, Nightmare did not move to open it.

Instead, he found himself changing tracks. Jumping train from thinking about how bad of a brother he was, to how good of a brother Dream was.

Is.

Was.

Stars, this was so confusing…

“You weren’t that bad of a brother yourself.” Nightmare said, and this time the words were better tasting. At least this way, something true would be said here.

Dream looked back at him, surprised, with a spark of confusion. Then, even if he didn’t know everything Nightmare was talking about, he smiled, taking it as the compliment it was. “Aw, thanks.”

Nodding, Nightmare finally managed to open the portal, letting Dream go through first. He hesitated to follow, looking around the AU again. For some reason, he felt like he would still find his brother, memories and all, waiting for him if he looked hard enough. But he wouldn’t. He knew that.

At least, he had to accept that.

That stinging again…

Showing it down once again, Nightmare turned and went home.

(It’s only after Dream is settled into one of the guest bedrooms—stocked with fresh bedsheets and a fresh pair of clothes for the next day borrowed from Nightmare’s own closet—and he’s back in the safety of his office that he lets his composure finally break. Choking, he slides down his door, hand clasped over his mouth to keep as quiet as possible.

It’s only then that he lets himself cry.

Cry about how he never reached out to catch his brother when he first fell.

Cry about what his brother thought before splitting his skull on a rock.

Cry about the stranger left in his brother’s body.

Cry about everything.)

#my writing #my fanfiction #fanfiction #oneshot #request #undertale #utmv #dreamtale #dream sans #nightmare sans #tw swearing #tw amnesia

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the-voice-beckons-below · 3 months ago

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i won’t let time pass

small steve rogers fic of his pov in endgame with having to return the stones + grief with nat and tony + different ending. warnings for death ofc, grief, sacrifice, angst, hopeful ending?

enjoy the drabble!

steve who shakily with others, removes the infinity stones from tony’s corpse. lingering a bit too long on his friend’s skin, because he knows that it may be the last time he’ll ever touch or see it, see the man who he wished he never grew apart from in the first place.

tony’s death is a punch to the chest, it’s a reminder of all the years steve kept away. he wasn’t really welcome, wanted by the government and having to choose between tony or bucky, when more than anything he wanted both to be an option.

witnessing stark holding that gauntlet and pulling the plug, yeah, it’ll stick with him for a while.

that being the rest of his life. so in his mind, it’s the least he can do, to return all the stones, keep things in order, help make peace again, contribute to what tony and nat sacrificed so the rest of the world would be okay.

he isn’t quite sure he will be.

when steve glances at the soul stone, he sees the fractured pieces of natasha. clint refuses to talk about it, gets too choked up each time, he gets it, but his mind wonders, seeking for visuals of nat’s last moments. was she afraid?

of course she was, it’s a stupid question, she was hellbent on keeping her family together, he’s sure that she wasn’t entirely fond of leaving them all behind. he hopes there wasn’t too much pain, with whatever happened.

the settings are all dialled, bruce double and then triple checks them. sam and bucky stand idly waiting, wishing him a safe journey, and bucky looks at him like he may not come back. “i’m going to miss you buddy.”

“it’ll be alright buck.” he responds with a fond smile, the view of bucky being alive never ceases to amaze him. after decades of torture, cryo, you name it, bucky barnes is surviving; steve has never been more grateful.

steve who goes on his journey, who takes his time, methodically and efficiently putting the stones back, but dilly-dallying a bit. each time he thinks he’s ready to leave one past time line, he encounters something that makes him stay a little longer.

like the attack in new york, with tony surviving the wormhole, exhausted on the ground, looking up at steve with a wobbly, slightly shell-shocked grin. did tony know then? that his fate was sealed?

in asgard, he spends a small amount of time there, accidentally bumping into thor’s mother who greets him kindly, a knowing twinkle in her eye as she addresses him as one of thor’s cherished friends. of course, he nods and smiles back politely, knowing insider information from the god of thunder that his mother had died on this particular day, steve swallows, returns the ‘stone’ and heads on to the next.

lastly, he spends a great deal of time on vormir, this is a place that he struggles to leave. when scaling the mountains, straining against the harsh winds, well, he sees red skull and abruptly tenses.

but it soon becomes clear that this red skull isn’t one that can harm him. he calls out the name of steve’s mother, shrouded in his dark cloak, his eyes are rather empty, or maybe just resigned. it still takes steve a while to adjust.

when they both reach the top, the wind stops, it is too quiet. dread swells within his stomach, he follows the feeling, walking towards the sharp edge of the cliff, and when he peers down, sees what’s been haunting him.

nat is down there.

body splayed, head cracked open, blood splotted around generously. it would’ve been an abrupt fall, maybe she would’ve died instantly on impact, god he hopes so. he lurches at the sight, stepping back and heaving, it is now engrained in memory, it is horrific.

one of his dearest friends, alone at the bottom of a cliff. he never got to say goodbye.

so, he doesn’t give the soul stone to red skull just yet, steve rogers just sits on the cold stone, rubbing at his temples and not bothering to will away the tears. he cries rather silently for a while, mourning nat, and tony, he sobs. at some point he throws caution to the wind and lets himself wail unapologetically, time goes by undoubtedly, it may be hours or perhaps days until he moves.

his eyes are sore, still wet and damp, cheeks stained with the imprints of tears. steve approaches the edge again, he soaks in nat’s features, her red and white hair, the braid that is now untangled, he imagines she’d be really cold.

he doesn’t want her to be cold, steve bites his lip and turns away, whispering a silent goodbye.

he resets the time watch, back to the exact moment the stone would’ve been taken, and then once he’s back there, he coldly hands the soul stone to red skull, walking away with devoid blue eyes.

it crosses his mind, for just one singular second…

doctor strange saw over fourteen million possibilities and outcomes, he didn’t see past that.

one in fourteen million.

so, two in twenty eight right? and so on?

he takes a deep breath, trying to fill the hollowness in his chest, but it does not work. there is too much grief there. he knows with this thought, he will not be able to rest, not until time and history is rewritten.

and he’ll redo it until he gets it right, even if that means that he makes that sacrifice play. he cannot, will not, live in a world where tony stark is not being a husband and father, he will not live in a world where natasha doesn’t have a body in her grave, where her figure is at the bottom of a chasm.

he steels himself, decision already made. when he returns, bucky seems almost surprised to see him. “hey buck.”

“steve?” bucky furrows his brow, a little confused, steve had had the perfect opportunity to go out and live a life that he had missed, that had been forcibly ripped for him, and he didn’t take it.

“i think,” he starts thoughtfully, tasting the words on his tongue before they even come out, “i think i’d like another time heist, a redo.”

“well.” bucky whistles, facing him and biting at the inside of his cheek, before sending a ‘fuck it’ grin to steve, “i’m with you to the end of the line, whenever that is.”

——

a/n: hi!! this was quite rushed, so not super detailed but i wanted to get it out there, i’ve seen multiple people suggest that steve would’ve been the one to take the stones from the gauntlet after tony was dead, and that he would’ve seen nat’s body at vormir. wanted to mess around with that idea a little bit, and strange’s thing with the possibilities. there are infinite possibilities out there, and i believe that steve would definitely try to get that ‘perfect’ ending if he could, if he knew it wouldn’t fuck things up exponentially.

he definitely think tony deserves to grow old with pepper and be a present father unlike howard. and he definitely wish that nat didn’t have to die. so that begs the question of what would happen in a ‘perfect’ timeline? well, for the final snap, someone pretty superhuman would have to do it, so maybe thor, captain marvel and or even wanda?

and well vormir, it could be a steve and nat situation where steve is the one that falls (still devastating), i like to think that if they’re able to fuck with time, they could time it so the second someone dies their watch resets them back to the top of the cliff, so cheating death, but maybe that’s a shitty answer. could also be, you know when bruce used the gauntlet, he admitted that he tried to wish nat back? well could be that, if steve sacrificed himself, maybe bruce tried to bring him back and it worked.

it’s not too insane to think that five other infinity stones could over power one of them right? but yeah i feel i’ll never be the same after endgame tbh

#marvel #angst #bucky barnes #drabble #small fic #marvel fanfiction #steve rogers #bruce banner #sam wilson #time heist #avengers endgame #marvel headcanons #mcu fandom #mcu imagine #mcu #mcu fanfiction #steve rogers fic #steve rogers fanfiction #natasha romanoff

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madrone33 · 1 year ago

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So, I've been re-reading the Deltora Quest books for the first time in years because my obsession with them has recently been revived (just finished Valley of the Lost), and man, I don't think I realised before just how, like, absolutely devoted Lief is to getting rid of the Shadow Lord and freeing Deltora. It's especially apparent in the first few books.

The Belt is basically all that matters to him. Not even finding the Heir is more important, honestly the heir is very much secondary to the Belt. They're just the person who will put on and activate the Belt's magic; they are a means to an end. His own life is secondary to the Belt - which isn't to say he's not afraid of dying, he really really is, but when shit gets real and it looks like this is the end, his thoughts almost always go to the Belt. Just like the heir, Lief thinks of himself as a means to an end. (Which is ironic, seeing as how he is the heir.) Lief will make the Belt, and the heir will wear the Belt, but it's the Belt itself that matters most to him. Because it's the Belt that will save them.

'Do not worry about me,' Lief whispered, trying to keep his voice steady and calm. 'Nothing matters but that we seize the gem. If I die in the attempt, it will not be your fault. You must take the Belt from my body and go on alone, as you have wished.'

I must prepare myself for death, Lief thought. But he could only think of the Belt around his waist. If he was killed here, the Belt would lie forgotten with his bones. The gems would never be restored to it. The heir to the throne of Deltora would never be found. The land would remain under the Shadow forever.

'No!' Lief cried. 'Wait!' At this moment of terror, his one thought was for the Belt of Deltora and the topaz fixed to it. If he did nothing to prevent it, this golden eyed giant would surely find the Belt after he was dead, take it from his body- and perhaps give it to Thaegan. Then Deltora would be lost to the Shadow Lord forever. I must throw the Belt over the cliff, he thought desperately. I must make sure that Barda and Jasmine see me do it. Then they will have some chance of finding it again. If only I can delay him until I can do it...

[Literally just died] Lief felt himself pulled to his feet and slung over Barda's shoulder. His head was spinning. He wanted to cry out, 'What of the crown? The opal?' But then he was that the crown was in Barda's hand.

Lief's fingers felt for the clasp of the Belt he wore under his shirt. If necessary, he would unloose it and let it fall into the mud at the bottom of the stream. It would be better for it to lie there than for it to fall into the hands of the Shadow Lord again.

And maybe it didn't really hit me when I first read them 'cause I was approximately A Child, but it's really sinking in now just how bad things have been in Deltora for the last 16 years. When they talk about slavery and fighting arenas and brandings and starvation and executions in the streets. For some reason all these human atrocities are hitting home a lot more than before. It used to be the monsters that seemed the scariest, but now I can see that yes, the monsters are horrifying and traumatising and terrifying, but Lief and Barda and Jasmine continuously choose to keep going, they willingly put themselves through hell, because the Shadow Lord is worse.

Anyway, all this to say, Deltora really couldn't ask for a more selfless and loyal King that Lief. This kid is willing to die so many times over if it means his people are safe.

(The only thing he tends to go off mission for are his friends and family, but even then, I'm thinking of that part in Isle of the Dead where Laughing Jack holds Jasmine hostage and demand the Belt in return. And Lief refuses. Because his people must come first. And he knows Jasmine would never want him to betray their land for her. Like??? So many feels.)

#deltora quest #essay #lief of del #emily rodda #my posts

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smallestapplin · 1 month ago

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To dance among the clouds

A commission from sweetest @peachypede ! For her oc IV (who I’m totally not obsessed with.)

IV x Thundercracker

Word count : 1,138

IV stares at the servo in front of her with some hesitation. She trusted the blue seeker, Thundercracker was a mech she knew she could place her spark into and have it be protected and loved, but she’s no flight bot, she’s a grounder she can’t catch herself if she’s in the air. The setting sun gleams off her face screen, the colors creating a beautiful background for Thundercracker’s optics to stare at, almost forgetting why the two stood by the cliff edge.

“You don’t gotta, ya know?” His voice finally broke the silence. Her white optics moving from his servo to his face, “I know being in the sky probably sounds unnerving to you, but I’d got you..I-I mean, uh…well I’d be holding you, you wouldn’t have to worry.” The seeker trips over his words, red optics nervously glancing away from her for a moment before returning to her. His wings twitching, trying to shakily raise higher to keep her focus on him.

IV’s antenna twitch, wiggling in mute excitment as his words send her spark thrumming.

“I want to fly around with you, I guess I’m just a little nervous leaving the ground.” The medbot fidgets with her digits, looking just behind him at the colorful sky.

It is such a lovely evening too.

IV slowly puts her softer servo in his, intertwining their digits together as she steps closer to the larger mech. Her thumb brushing across the back of his warm metal servo, trying to soothe the both of them.

“Promise to hold me?” IV glances up at him, her voice soft almost a whisper being carried in the gentle breeze.

Thundercracker in-vents sharply, his spark thrumming loudly in his chassis and he hasn’t even carried her yet. The seeker places his free servo on her waist, pulling her close to his chassis and keeping her frame safely against his.

“I promise, you have my word that I won’t let you go.” The seeker’s cheeks flush blue with the energon flowing through him.

IV’s optics pinch up in a smile following in his steps as he carefully leads them closer to the edge. Letting go of her servo he tightly wraps his arms around her waist, keeping her caged to his frame as the two begin to tip back falling over the cliff edge. The medbot clings to him, burying her face screen into his chassis with her optics squeezed shut. Soon the weightless feeling stops with the sound of his turbo thrusters firing from his pedes, pushing them up high into the open sky with the wind rushing past them.

“It’s okay, you can look now.”

Hearing his assured whispers she slowly moves her helm from his chassis, opening her optics before they go wide, sparkling at the ever changing sky around them. The lowering sun casts them in a cooling warm orange glow as the stars begin to shine brighter. Thundercracker stares, unable to find the strength to look away from her, his engines powering them spinning them around the sky at a leisurely pace, but he still can’t look away from her.

Her face screen shines under all the lights and colors, it’s like the galaxy is in front of him showing him a beauty he never thought possible. His life has been nothing but war for so long he thought he’d never see an adoring sight again, being the last mech to be worthy of such warmth, but here she is in his arms, her servos out stretched to touch passing clouds with her gleeful giggles sounding like a chorus in his audials.

“This….this is so beautiful!” IV cheers, softly squealing with laughter as he twirls them around, barrel rolling around the clouds.

Looking up at him, the now night sky gleaming off his face plate showing how carefree he is, how much fun he is having, her spark yearns to be his.

“Thank you for showing me this, I knew Earth’s skies were lovely, but I can see why you enjoy flying so much.” The vast openness she thought would unsettle her is now a welcoming embrace, never has she felt so free!

Thundercracker gently squeezes her thick waist keeping her close with a shaky smile, his cheeks burning with a light blush.

“Oh, ya know I’m more than happy to share this with you.” He trails off, wanting to say more but his glossa feeling heavy at the sight of her face screen lighting up with a blush of her own.

She can feel his EM field and spark thrumming from her servo on his chassis leaving nothing to be questioned how he feels for her.

“Vee?”

Her antenna twitched, wiggling excitedly at his low voice.

“Yeah?”

Nervousness and excitement tug at her spark, her servos fidgeting across his chassis playing along some of the grooves and dents. Thundercracker takes a sharp in-vent, trying to calm himself down.

“Can I kiss you, please?”

Primus, he sounds pathetic but he doesn’t care, he can’t when she’s looking at him like he’s worth something, meaning something to her. IV’s optics go wide with her once pitch black face screen lighting up to a bright blue, just to squeeze her optics shut and grip onto him, nodding her helm quickly.

Thundercracker moves a servo from her waist to the side of her helm, cupping her cheek as he leans closer to her.

“I need to hear you say it.” To know she wants him as much as he wants her.

“Yes! Kiss me, please?” She squeaks out, not able to meet his gaze not able to even look at him lest her spark burst. Her frame is already heating up, internal fans kicking on to cool her off.

The seeker can’t stop his wings from wiggling, fluttering happily as he closes the distance between them. His derma slowly presses against where her’s would be, in her dermas place he gets a gentle warm zap of electricity sparks against his lips, making his frame tremble at the sensation flooding his body, though it’s almost intoxicating!

Almost begrudgingly Thundercracker leans his helm back, breaking their kiss. The two mechs stare at one another, the world disappearing around them as if just the two of them in this side of the galaxy. Just him and IV…he’d want nothing more.

IV breaks their silence with a shaky voice as if her voice box was to go out at any moment, “M-maybe we should land? I’m sure your team and mine are worried, but…I’d love to do this again. Can we do this again?”

The little medic looks up at him, hopeful and pleading just to be in his arms again dancing among the clouds.

“Yeah…yeah I’d love that.”

He’s never going to hear the end of this, but she makes it worth it.

#oc x canon #transformers oc #transformers Thundercracker #transformers oc x canon #Oc Iv #transformers fluff #transformers Thundercracker x IV

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mysticwolfshadows · 8 months ago

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Taken - Zutara - Part 49

First / Previous / Next / Masterpost

They make it to the Fire Nation with very little fanfare. It was shockingly easy, given how difficult it had been to get past the barricade when they went to Roku's temple. But there they were, landing harmlessly in a cave on one of the outer islands.

While Sokka lamented about how this was their life now, hopping from cave to cave, until the invasion began.

Zuko rolled his eyes, and shared a look with Katara and Suki. One of them had to talk sense into Sokka.

"We could try finding some new clothes?" Suki suggested, glancing at Katara.

"Zuko and I know how to blend in with the Fire Nation."

Aang was quick to jump in. "Yeah! Blending in is better than hiding out. Wouldn't having Fire Nation disguises be just as safe as hiding in a cave?"

"Plus, we can get real food out there." Toph punches a wall, making cave hoppers jump out, Momo diving after them. "Unless you'd rather eat cave hoppers in the dirt."

Sokka purses his lips, looking at Zuko as his last hope.

Zuko rose a brow, arms crossed. "We need to conserve as much of our supplies as we can. If we keep using our reserves when we don't have to, we'll run out before we reach the Black Cliffs."

Finally, Sokka caved. "Fiiiine."

They start by finding the nearest farm. There was a series of clothes lines, which they studied carefully for a moment. Aang wondered about the ethics of stealing for a moment, before Katara rushed forwards to snag a silk robe. Suki and Toph weren't far behind, and the boys soon followed.

They returned to the cave to get changed, Toph putting up walls to give them some semblance of privacy, while Sokka and Zuko scrounged together a wig for Aang to wear to hide his tattoos.

"What about your scar?" Aang whinged, as they tied the headband(?) around the wig to help keep it in place. "It's distinctive!"

"Burn scars are common in the Fire Nation," Katara said, as she stepped out. "While they aren't usually on the face, you'll probably see a lot of them, especially in outer islands with fewer resources and physicians like this one."

Zuko turned to say... He couldn't remember. As soon as his eyes landed on Katara, his mouth went dry and his head empty. She looked...

"You look great!" Aang said, beaming.

"Thanks, Aang," she said, moving to get a look at their handy work. "It looks good. Should hold for a day." She glanced at Zuko, and her own smile tugged at her lips. "You look nice."

He swallowed. "You... You too."

Over Katara's shoulder, Zuko could see Sokka making a gagging motion, as Aang watched on in confusion.

"So!" Toph called, as she stepped out of the barrier with Suki. "Where are we going for lunch?"

Heading into town, Katara and Zuko took lead, pointing out different kinds of shops. Katara hadn't had much time to explore the city when she'd been in the city before, but the signage was enough for her to give recommendations. Zuko was more straight forward with his answers, and helping steer them away from the more niche establishments.

Katara was so excited to be eating fresh and authentic Fire Nation cuisine again, she barely noticed Aang wondering off. She made sure to order something more mild for the others, giving a smile to the frowning waiteress.

"We just moved from the colonies," Katara explained, before gesturing to Zuko and herself. "We spent a good amount of our childhood her on the islands, though. We've missed it. If you could hold the spice on theirs, but maybe add a little to ours...?"

The waitress hummed, but made a note on her pad. Then she was off, and Katara felt herself begining to relax. The smells of the Fire Nation filled her. The warm ocean spray and the spices of cooking food. The feel of Agni on her skin, filling her with a pleasant warmth she hadn't felt in so long...

They ate in comfort, giving simple conversation and enjoying the food. She listened to other patrons, hearing about how lucky they were that the draft hadn't reached their island yet. Apparently, in the wake of Prince Zuko's 'death', the draft had been instated but not entirely enforced on outer islands. More prominent families, like Mai's, were voluntarily enlisting their sons as 'officers'. There was speculation, with only Azula as heir and there having never been a female Fire Lord, that the Fire Princess would need to marry, and her spouse become Fire Lord in her stead. Others thought that Azula would be skipped over, with Ozai being fairly young for a Fire Lord, and that her first son would become the true heir instead. Of course, Katara knew that Ozai would never pass on his throne willingly, much as Sozin and Azulon had before him, and that Azula would never let herself be forced to marry, much less be skipped over in succession.

As they were wrapping up their lunch that they heard about the local academy. A pair of mothers, talking about how the headmaster was cracking down on students behavior, as they passed by to their table. One was worried, as the school was so strict already, and her daughter On Ji was such a sweet and gentle girl, who had such a creative mind, and was worried that innovative thinking might get her in trouble. The other woman wondered if perhaps it was a good thing for her own son, Hide. He was becoming rather unruly and disrespectful at home, with his father gone on the warfront. Perhaps the headmaster's stricter rules would bring Hide into line.

A faint memory, of a young Zuko in a boys uniform, more militaristic than academic, tickled the back of her mind. But the FIre Nation was know for their similarities in uniforms. In the military, the main difference between a foot soldier and a captain was the more angled and spiked shoulders, with more gold accents. And Aang...

"Zuko," Katara whispered, as they were walking back to the cave. He blinked at her, inclining his head to show she had his full attention. "Do you remember what Fire Nation school uniforms look like? I only saw the Royal Fire Academy uniforms, but..."

For a moment, Zuko blinked. Then, his brow scrunched, and he cursed so venomously under his breath that a lick of flame was spat from his lips. Reaching out, he grasped her elbow, squeezing it.

"Make sure the others know we might have to run," he said, turning to look back down the road towards town. "I'll find him and bring him back. If his cover is blown, we'll need to leave immediately."

"Be careful," she said, as he let go. They shared a look, the air tense around them, before turning away from each other and rushing off.

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#fanfic idea #fanfic #atla #avatar the last airbender #zutara #katara #zuko #wip #Taken AU

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mrsvante · 3 months ago

Text

Waiting in the Water - Eleven

pairing: jimin x oc

genre: mermaid au, strangers to lovers, angst

summary: when alma finds an injured man on the shore, she has no idea he belongs to a world beyond her own. jimin is unlike anyone she's ever met—mischievous yet gentle, with an undeniable pull that draws her in. as he helps her find joy again, she opens his eyes to the beauty of life on land, and their connection deepens into something neither of them can ignore.

but jimin's presence hasn't gone unnoticed, and forces from the sea threaten to tear them apart. with the weight of two worlds pressing down on them, alma and jimin must decide if love is enough to bridge the divide—or if some destinies can never be rewritten.

warnings: grief, hints of depression, mention of minor character death, subconscious self harm, hysteria, i’m reposting this story but i rewrote this chapter to add more depth and ugh 😩 my goodness revisiting the pain of loss for my writing always stings, angst angst ANGST

word count: 2,388

Salt in the Wound

He promised he would return.

He always had. Every time he left for the sea, he’d kiss your forehead and whisper that he would come back. And every time, he did.

Until the day he didn’t.

Yunho had been taken from you—ripped from your life by the same ocean he adored. The unforgiving swells of the Pacific swallowed his ship like a cruel joke, never returning a single fragment to the shore.

No wreckage.

No remains.

No goodbye.

At first, you didn’t believe it. Couldn’t.

You waited. At the edge of the dock, at the lighthouse, in the window overlooking the sea. You waited until the days melted into weeks, the weeks into months.

And eventually, silence was all you had left.

So you let it in.

The grief. The solitude.

The painful acknowledgment that he would never walk through your door again.

That you were alone.

You accepted that too.

Accepted being the outlier—a ghost in the periphery of May’s warmth and family. You watched from across the dinner table, or sometimes from the other end of the phone, as she and Taehyung built a life filled with laughter and late night lullabies.

A life you’d once dreamed of.

May tried. Of course she did. She reached for you constantly, in text messages, dinner invites, voice memos full of updates and “I miss you”s. Taehyung, too, always made you feel like you belonged.

But their world felt like a snow globe you couldn’t crack open. Beautiful, intimate, and sealed off.

You’d had a glimpse once. Had felt joy, and love, and reckless, sun drenched happiness; and then you’d lost it. That kind of loss brands you. Carves itself into the hollows of your bones. So you did what you had to do.

You hid.

You stopped answering the phone.

Stopped visiting.

Your life became a quiet rotation of days spent inside the house and nights walking the shoreline. The farmer’s market was the only place you allowed yourself to be seen. That and the lighthouse.

The only place that still smelled like him. Still remembered him.

It wasn’t living—not really.

But it was safe. Predictable.

It was nothing like life with Yunho, and that was the point.

Because love like that only ends in devastation. And you couldn’t survive another shipwreck.

But then…He appeared.

Came crashing into your world like a wave, like fate twisting the tide in your favor for the first time in years.

Jimin.

He didn’t just fill the void—he rewrote it.

He made you laugh again, made you feel again. Where Yunho had been your anchor, Jimin was the storm, and the sky, and the sea itself. The ache that had once sat heavy in your chest turned warm in his presence, a thrum of electricity beneath your skin.

You’d felt it that first day on the cliff. How your soul reached for him before your mind could catch up. The way the ocean seemed to still around him, as if the world itself knew he was yours.

Your soulmate.

He was wild, ethereal, radiant. And you—shut in, weary, grieving—should’ve felt unworthy. But Jimin never let you. When he looked at you, it was as if the sea had returned something precious it had once taken.

So you let yourself believe.

Let yourself hope. Let yourself love.

And now you wait.

Not for Yunho.

Not for a dream long lost.

But for the other half of your soul to come back from the deep.

Despite the sharpness of loneliness pressing into your ribs again, despite the dread curling low in your belly—you wait.

Maybe this time will be different.

Maybe this time… he’ll come back.

———

His arms are wrapped tightly around you, as if he’s trying to memorize your shape before he’s torn away by the tide. The sky blooms behind him—lavender, blush, the soft gold of morning dawn spilling its colors across the sea.

“I love you,” he breathes into your hair, his lips warm against your temple. He inhales you—sunshine and sea spray, rosemary from the garden, the softness of your shampoo—and you feel him press it into memory.

Your eyes are fixed on the horizon, where the waves cradle the sun. You wish you could dissolve into them. That you could transform into mist and follow him below, wrapped in pearls and seawater, never needing to surface again.

You wish it wasn’t goodbye.

You wish you could laugh at the absurdity of it all.

A widow.

And now, mated to a mermaid.

Your ribcage tightens. A pressure that starts behind your sternum and spreads outward, curling into your lungs, your throat. You can’t look at him—not when he steps away to face you, golden in the rising light.

If you look, you’ll shatter.

If you see the love in his eyes, you’ll drown.

His hands rise to cradle your face, fingertips featherlight, brushing against your wet cheeks. You didn’t realize you’d been crying again. You didn’t even feel it start.

“Alma,” his voice trembles, pleading. “Sweet love, please. Look at me.”

You shake your head, eyes squeezed shut, as if the darkness behind your lids can shield you from the truth. If you don’t look, maybe none of it is real.

Maybe he’ll stay.

Maybe you won’t have to let go.

“No.”

Your hands are trembling as you press them to his chest, pushing, but it’s a futile, pitiful motion. “Don’t make me. Don’t you dare—”

Your voice breaks, frays at the edges. It’s a raw, desperate sound, something primal clawing its way out of your chest.

He whispers your name again, barely louder than the waves.

Soft. Unwavering. And that’s what undoes you.

You look up.

And that’s all it takes.

One look at him, at the devastation etched across his face, the way his lips tremble with unshed apologies, and your knees nearly give out.

A sob erupts from deep within you, violent and guttural, cracking your ribs open from the inside. You lunge forward without thinking, fists balling against his chest, striking him once, twice; weak and frenzied.

“Why are you doing this?” you choke out, voice shrill with grief. “Why are you making me choose this pain again? Why would you find me just to leave me?!”

He says nothing, only holds you tighter, as if his arms alone can keep you from crumbling completely.

“I can’t—” you gasp, throat seizing, hands now gripping his shirt like you want to tear it from his body, from the world, from time itself—anything to stop him from slipping through your fingers. “You can’t do this to me. Not again.”

“I know,” he murmurs, broken. “I know, my love.”

“You don’t know!” you scream, shoving him back with all the strength you have left—which isn’t much. “You weren’t here! You didn’t have to wake up every morning pretending you weren’t drowning! You didn’t feel what it’s like to lose everything—twice!”

Your tears burn, slicing tracks down your cheeks. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for you!”

But it’s a lie, and it shatters in your mouth.

You collapse into him, defeated, your body wracked with sobs.

“I didn’t ask,” you whimper into his chest, “but I wanted you. I wanted you so badly, Jimin. And now you’re leaving.”

His arms wrap around you, trembling just as hard as yours.

“I do not wish to go,” he breathes, his voice wet with emotion. “But if I do not now… I may never be able to return.”

You clutch him tighter, nails digging into his skin, desperate to memorize the heat of him. The shape of him. You’re a storm of fury and longing and helpless, bone deep ache.

His thumb rises to trace along your jaw, slow and reverent, trailing down to the hollow of your neck.

“I will return to you,” he swears, voice thick with conviction. “I will. I swear it on my life, on my soul. If I break this oath, may Marmoris cast me out forever. I will come back to you.”

“I don’t want an oath,” you cry, twisting your hands into his hair like you can anchor him to the earth. “I want you. Right now. Forever. No riddles, no promises, no waiting. Just—stay. Please.”

His eyes glisten. You can see it, he wants to. You know it. Every part of him is screaming to stay.

But the ocean is already calling.

And this time, it’s not something either of you can ignore.

“I will always love you,” he says, pressing his forehead to yours. “Like the ocean loves the shoreline.”

The world falls quiet.

Even the sea seems to pause, holding its breath. As if his words were being woven into an incantation to keep you tethered together despite the distance that lie before you.

“In gentle wakes and violent waves,” he murmurs. “In rising tides and sinking moons.”

His kiss lands on your cheek, on the tip of your nose, on your mouth. Solemn. Desperate.

“And though I may recede… I will always come back to you.”

He repeats it like a vow. Like a prayer. Over and over, between kisses and tears.

I will always come back to you.

You don’t say the words he longs to hear. You can’t. Your throat closes around them, choked by disbelief, by fear that if you give them breath, they’ll vanish.

He holds you until the sun climbs fully into the sky.

Then…he’s gone.

———

The basket is heavier than usual. Or maybe you are.

The sun paints the sky in bleeding streaks of amber and violet as you trudge down the shoreline, birdseed and Cheerios rattling with each step. You don’t pause to admire the view. You barely register it at all.

You move through your routine like a ghost, scattering feed for the gulls. They swarm above you, shrieking, careless. You cry harder.

It’s been weeks, but it still feels like your ribs are stitched together with grief. Like you can’t inhale without unraveling.

The basket falls from your hands. Birdseed spills across the sand. The gulls dive, ravenous and loud, fighting over crumbs.

You see him.

Not in the water. Not in the dark.

But behind your eyes.

And the memory is so vivid it steals the breath right from your lungs.

Jimin chasing you barefoot along the shoreline, laughter pouring from his mouth like music, gulls scattering as the two of you darted through the surf. His grin when he caught you, wide and boyish and impossibly radiant. The sun reflecting in his eyes.

The way he’d held you after, arms around your waist, lips murmuring nonsense against your shoulder just to make you laugh.

It crashes into you with the weight of a tidal wave.

You stumble back, heart stuttering.

Gone.

You scream.

You scream so loud the stars should fall from the sky.

So loud the ocean should spit him back out.

You scream until your voice tears, until pain coils in every limb like fire beneath your skin. You fling yourself at the sea like it’s a person, like it can be fought. You kick at the waves, punch the water, throw shells and rocks and fistfuls of sand. Anything you can get your hands on.

You rage.

Against the sea.

Against Yunho.

Against Jimin.

Against every god, every spirit, every whispering tide that ever dared to take from you.

Then, you beg.

Hopelessly.

Desperately.

You drop to your knees, bones crunching against broken shells, salt stinging your wounds. Water sloshes around your hips, pulling at your clothes like cold hands, but you don’t move.

You can’t.

“Please,” you sob, voice so raw it barely forms words. “Please, I’ll do anything. Just give him back. Just—just one more second. Just one.”

Your fingers scrape the seafloor as you slump forward, the sharp edges slicing into your skin unnoticed.

“I’ll stay here. I’ll wait forever. Just bring him back to me.”

You scream again, but this time, it’s quieter—ragged and aching. Like your soul is leaking out of you with every breath. Your body shakes, not from cold but from sheer heartbreak, your hands curled into fists so tight your nails cut half moons into your palms.

And that’s how May finds you.

She’s been calling for hours. Texting. Voicemails. Begging you to respond. When none came, she drove down to the beach in a panic, praying you were just sitting in the sand, mourning quietly.

But the moment she spots your silhouette half submerged in the water, her stomach drops.

“Alma!”

Her voice rings out through the dark, high and shrill with fear.

You don’t answer. You don’t even flinch. You’re beyond hearing. Beyond anything.

She splashes into the waves fully clothed, stumbling over rocks and debris to get to you.

“What are you doing out here in the dark?! Alma—look at me!” She grabs your arm. “Why are you—oh my god, oh my god, you’re bleeding!”

Her phone slips from her hand, landing in the sea with a soft, muted plunk. She doesn’t even notice.

She grabs both of your hands and gasps, the damage is worse than she expected. Deep cuts from sharp rocks and shattered shells. The water around you is tinged red, and it’s still spreading.

“Jesus, Alma—what did you do?”

But you don’t answer. You just look at her, eyes rimmed red, lips parted around words that barely make it out.

“Give him back,” you rasp, like the wind’s carrying your voice away. “Please.”

Your body sways when she tries to help you stand, but you jerk away with a force that startles her. You’re trembling all over, soaked and bleeding, a shaking specter of yourself.

“Please,” you whisper again, breath hitching. “Give him back.”

You’re no longer really looking at her. Not really seeing her.

You’re somewhere else—heart a thousand miles from your chest, hundreds of feet beneath the waves. You’re a lifeless shell kneeling in the water, holding onto nothing.

“Give him back,” you repeat, as your body curls in on itself.

“Oh, Al. It’s happening again.”

May kneels with you, arms wrapped around your shoulders, tears slipping down her face. She doesn’t understand. Not really. But she holds you anyway. Holds you even as your pleas fade into broken silence.

You remain there, unmoving.

“Give him back.”

Your voice is hollow. Your hands are trembling.

Your heart is a thousand miles from shore.

“Please.”

Waiting in the water.

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