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sabraeal · 3 years

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Provocateur, Prologue

[Read on AO3]

Written for @krispy-kream in honor of her birthday. Many years ago, back when I first joined fandom, I came up with the idea for an Obi Works For Izana AU, and both Sharon and I ended up writing small pieces of a much larger whole. And now FINALLY...I’m actually writing the very beginning 🤣

When it comes down to it, in terms of area and amenities, the royal dungeons has some of his last few flats beats.

There’s light, for one. He’s never liked basement apartments-- he’d take a stifling attic room over a place with only one exit any day-- but the windows here are high up on the wall, enough that he can watch the sun paint his cell floor as the hours pass. They’re ground level, at least by the foot traffic outside of ‘em, and with how loud these guards gossip, he’ll know whose girlfriends are pregnant and who’s nursing a nasty boil by shift change. Just like sitting in a tavern for a few hours, only with less ale.

There’s a cot too, straw-stuffed and a little too soft, with a blanket that doesn’t even itch. Seems like it might be warm too, for when the nights get cold. Not that he has an intention of testing out that particular hunch.

The guard down the hall is decent in the way authority figures never are; when he calls out to ask where his piss bucket is, the man-- boy? It’s hard to tell beneath those helmets-- ushers him down a hall to a water closet, and when he pops out, reminds him to take care to wash his hands. He’s prompt about mealtime too; when supper comes, the man says to expect three square and leaves him with with a dinner that would put most publicans to shame.

All in all, this isn’t the worst trouble he’s gotten himself into. Worlds better than that stint he’d had in Eurikenna’s gaol. Or that night in Port City.

Still, he’s got no plans to linger. No point in sticking around for a punishment when he's got no interest in redemption. But he’s got a prince to wait for.

Oh, His Highness might say he’s above getting his hands dirty, might look down that noble nose at a man like him who makes his living in trade, but he’d seen his look. Not the first, when his little mistress was watching, all puffed cheeks and disapproving brow, but the second, that glance over his shoulder as the Big Man frogmarched a dirty rat down into the dungeons.

That one was a man who had found the right tool for the job. Hands don’t stay clean without gloves to cover them, especially if they mean to hold a mistress who collects trouble like some ladies collect hairpins. If he wants to keep his side piece quiet, it’s only a matter of time before he’ll have to make a statement. And nothing says don’t touch what’s mine like a few accidents. All he has to do is wait out a royal conscience.

The light fades as he waits, just the last stretch of dusky light yawning on the sill. It’s almost time for all good little princes to be in bed, but this one-- this one will be working instead. The hand that grabbed him had been stained with ink and calluses both; the kind of man who longed for action but was stuck behind a desk. He’ll be up late, managing men and supplies miles away on paper, but in his head--

Oh, in his head, he’ll be thinking about the man he’s left to rot in the dungeons. The one that might be just the right fit for what he needs, for the jobs he can’t give that giant or the pretty girl at his side. It’s the sort of idea that’ll eat at him when the lamps are low and the night is quiet, and oh, how a conscience can gnaw when there’s no more work to feed it. There’s a reason he’s never idle. Not usually, at least.

He casts a long glance down the silent hall; the guard sits at his table, log book spread in front of him, another smaller one laid atop. A novel, by the slack-jawed look that’s slapped across his face. In Eurikenna, his reputation had preceded him, and they’d bound him hand and foot, bolting his wrists to the wall and his feet to the bench. Viande had put him in a cell with a single window and stone on all sides, his only escape leading into a moat rumored to be prowled by sharks.

Here he has a single guard and bars he could probably squeeze through if he skipped a meal or two. It’s insulting to be so underestimated-- or it would be, if he wasn’t already planning to stay. He’s paid out his room at the inn for a week; a few days to enjoy the impeccable food and passable mattress he’s got here won’t hurt-- just as long as he makes it back before the innkeep tosses all his worldly goods in the gutter. And if he does need to make a quick escape--

Well, it’s hardly the first time he’s slipped the noose. But it won’t come to that. Younger Highness is on the hook.

The door to the dungeon clanks open; it’s a softer sound, barely loud enough for him to hear, but he hasn’t made a name for himself by being the sort of person who only hears what he ought. The guard’s gone-- book too-- and his hand itches to have something that ends with a point in it. He should have known, this was all too easy.

A shrouded figure sweeps through the threshold, prowling with the easy confidence only men born to power possessed-- or a professional. His hands flexed, too empty. He’s a loose end, an embarrassing stain on a proud man’s reputation, and there’s only one thing to do with that-- rub it out.

“You’re not the prince,” he says, keeping his voice even, maybe a bit petulant. Boldness wins a bluff; all he needs is time. Just a second, a hesitation--

Which he gets; the figure’s boots scuffing to a stop. Its head cocks, curious. “Is that so?”

It’s a man’s voice, higher than he expects, but resonant. The sort that people listen to when they’re not looking for a way out. The sort that won’t care for a man turning his back on it.

“You’re too tall.” He saunters to his cot, the mattress sinking under his weight. Not quite the attitude he’d been hoping for, but close enough. Gives him enough time to realize his cloaked friend isn’t talking-- no, instead he catches the barest tremble of cloth before a gloved hand tugs it smooth.

“How...astute,” the man hums, a strange lift kicking that first vowel before he smooths that out too. Everything about this man is slick, from the shine of his boots to the way he says, “That must be the observational skills that tempted even the marquis to hire you.”

His grin flicks into a grimace, but habit wipes that all clean before he says, “I wasn’t hired by anyone. Just wanted to...advertise my skills. In case anyone with a fat wallet found themselves needing a problem taken care of.”

Another pause, this one heavier. “And this girl seemed like a likely target?”

“A commoner nosing around a prince?” A laugh huffs out of him. “What about that isn’t a problem? At least when it’s a lady, she doesn’t have pockets that need filling, but some little herbalist girl? There’s a long way between lady slippers and slippers for a lady. And not everyone wants to kiss hems to get a mistress in their pocket.”

Not when it’s just as like to be covered in mud. If there’s one thing he’s learned about these bluebloods, it’s that they only suck up, not down.

The shroud shifts, arms folding across a chest too slender to be called broad, and shoulders too wide to be scrawny. Lithe, perhaps, the perfect size to slip through a man’s guard.

“The job is over, you know.” Boot heels clack as the man draws closer, just enough to see a defined chin beneath the shadows of his hood. “There’s no need for all this cloak and dagger. Haruka has already confessed to the crown that he was the one to hire you.”

His fingers flex behind his head, longing for something besides bristle to cross his palms. “Don’t know why he’s going through all the trouble. I don’t know him.”

This isn’t his first interrogation, but it’s certainly the slowest. The man stands silently outside the bars, a single finger lying along his diamond-cut jawline. No questions, no speculation, just a shadow staring out of a hood, observing. This must be what it’s like to be boiled alive; put in the pot when it’s barely a simmer, the heat raising so gradually that it’s not until his chest is near bursting to speak, to fill the silence, that he knows he’s been cooked.

“What would you have done?” the man says, finally. “If you had your way with the girl.”

The girl who, in the face of danger, tore an arrow from the wall rather than run. “Nothing permanent.”

What little he can see of the shroud’s mouth curves. “How very vague. So many unpleasant things only take a moment.”

“The job was to scare her off,” he admits, wondering why his belly quivered in his gut. There’s bars between them, and his hands are faster than any nob’s, no matter how good the costume. But still, his muscles lay coiled against his bones, ready to strike. “Seduce her, if she seemed...amenable. Bribe her if she didn’t.”

“And what then?” It’s a quicker response than he expects, but the man isn’t agitated-- far from it, he’s never seemed calmer. “If the girl proved impervious to your more...gentle measures.”

There’s a question in that, one the shroud won’t voice. But he hears it, loud in his ears as a bell’s gong.

“I’ve killed before,” he says, each word on thin ice. “And I still sleep at night.” Barely. “I could have done it again.”

“But would you?”

For once, he hesitates. Imagines looking into those bright eyes, the ones that flamed so fiercely in defiance, and with the flick of a wrist, snuffing them out.

“It’d be a waste.” His hands tremble where they cradle his head, a command he hasn’t given them. This is the last thing he needs right now, losing control. “That girl’s got a lot of pluck. And if rumors around the pharmacy are right, a lot of brains too. Besides, bodies make more talk than bribes.”

“That they do.” There’s a lilt to those words, almost amused. “You know, you called it a job. Implying that you received compensation for your services.”

It’s a sting to realize he’s slipped. “Doesn’t mean it was the marquis.”

“It certainly doesn’t,” the man agrees, and if this room weren’t so dark, if this conversation wasn’t so serious-- well, he’d be tempted to say this guy is laughing at him. “Do you have a name?”

He turns to him real slow-like, one utterly dubious brow arched toward the guard’s register. “You want me to believe you can’t read?”

That shadow of a mouth lifts again. “Am I to believe a man of your skill gave your birth name to the royal guard?”

His mouth cocks into a grin. “You must if you think I’m gonna give it to you.”

The man comes closer still, one gloved hand wrapping around his bars. He’s visible to the tip of his nose; a long, patrician one.

“Of course. But you must have something you would like to be called.” His lips-- bowed, the most fashionable in Clarines’ court-- twitch toward a smile, but fall perilously short. “An alias, if you will.”

“Obi.” It’s too short, too quick, but already he likes it. It’s a more playful name than he’s had in a long while. Easy to lose, too, if he needs it.

“Well then, Obi.” His arm rests over one of the cross bars of his cell. “I believe I have a proposition for you.”

“Haah.” He hops to his feet, hoping to seize the high ground. “I appreciate the interest, but I’m already waiting on an offer.”

To say the hood recoiled would be an overstatement, it merely pulls back, barely more than an inch. “An offer?”

“Well, maybe more like...I have prospects.” Obi restrains his grin to little more than a twitch. “I just gotta see if they’ll pan out.”

The hood stills, thoughtful. “What if I could guarantee you a better offer?”

“You couldn’t.”

The man hums, amusement changing his pitch. “I quite sure I could.”

“Nah.” Obi shakes his head, almost wishing it weren’t so. This guy seems like he could be real fun, if he got his hands on his reins. “I don’t think so.”

“Please.” He opens a hand; an invitation. “Try me.”

“Fine.” There’s nothing to lose by telling, besides some face, if he’s wrong. Which Obi knows he’s not. “I got a feeling the next guy through that door’ll be His Highness.”

The man rocks back, like he’s been hit. “Zen? You think...?”

Obi expects some bargaining, some disbelief, maybe even some haggling, but--

He does not expect the laugh.

“Oh,” the man coughs, lifting a hand as if he might wipe tears from his eyes. “I promise you, I can give you a...far more attractive offer.”

Now that’s a rich one. “What could be better than a second prince?”

The man’s hand raises past his eyes, right to the edge of his hood. With the barest flick of his fingers, the cloth falls back, baring bright gold and Wisteria blue.

“Why,” drawls His Highness Izana Wisteria, crown prince, soon to be first of his name, “the first.”

#obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #obi works for izana au #my fic #ans #listen it's obiyuki as a WHOLE but in this chapter there's just little hints #but truly this is just our excuse to have:#1) obi work with the smartest man in the manga and have his whole skill set utilized #2) enemies to friends to lovers #also torturing zen and obi with the friendship that could have been #that too #you know how it is

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naerysthelonesome · 3 years

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The Sanctuary Scene

From Alastair’s POV

(I tried, okay?)

Start of fic:

Upon being securely locked into the Sanctuary, Alastair had swiftly moved to one of the bedrolls provided, and pulled out a book (Machiavelli’s The Prince- one he’d read many times before), trying as best he could to take his mind off of Thomas’ inescapable presence. He’d settled himself among the provided blankets and pillows, moving only to take off his jacket and flip pages.

Thomas apparently determined to make himself near impossible to ignore, walked about, observing anything and everything, and generally making himself a distracting nuisance. He’d even knocked over a candelabra at some point. It had taken every ounce of Alastair’s self-control not to look.

He continued to stare at his book with unseeing eyes, trying as hard as he could to concentrate on the story. There was, however, none of the curiosity that might have motivated him. He could just have picked up one of the books provided by Eugenia, who admittedly had quite good taste, but that would have required him to move from his inconspicuous perch. And drawing Thomas’ attention to himself just would not do.

He knew he’d made the right decision to follow Thomas all those evenings, and he would do it again in a heartbeat. But now they were locked together for Angels knew how long, their only key to getting out, far away in Paris. Paris. That city brought back memories he would rather not think of right then. Memories of ink against warm skin, sparkling eyes, and a boy that was nothing less than a painting in motion.

He shook his head and focused his eyes on the pages in front of him. He had successfully kept to himself for hours now; what were a few more? But the silence was starting to get oppressing, as were the eyes that seemed to periodically settle on him. He could not imagine what Thomas thought of their situation.

As if in response to that thought, the boy in question darter to the door and shook it. A valiant but damned effort.

“A little menacing that the Sanctuary bolts shut from the outside, isn’t it? I never thought about it much before”, He said, making Thomas jump slightly. He allowed himself to look as the boy turned toward him.

Thomas looked surprised at Alastair having spoken to him at all, but attempted conversation, nonetheless.

“I, er, suppose one might have to keep an unexpectedly dangerous Downworlder out or something”, he said, making sound but obvious sense, as was his way.

“Maybe”, Alastair replied with what he hoped was an amicable shrug, “On the other hand, it does give the institute a makeshift prison”. Idle conversation, but surely something to think about. He looked back down at his book and kept them firmly there as Thomas came closer.

He felt the other boy stare at him, unmoving. He could be thinking of any number of things. Maybe he was thinking of a response to what Alastair had said, or maybe about how ardently he hated him.

Thomas’ tone, when he finally spoke was demanding, almost angry. It shifted completely the comfortable energy that had started to establish between them.

“Why have you been following me around?”

Alastair’s breath hitched in his throat. Here was the question he’d been dreading all this time.

“Someone had to”, he said, for lack of a better answer. How was he supposed to tell Thomas that he had done it because he had wanted him to be safe? That he hadn’t wanted any harm to come to the person he should be feeling only apathy- or maybe shame- towards? How was he supposed to explain himself?

“What on Earth does that mean?”

Alastair nearly flinched, but kept his face impassive and eyes trained on his book. It was as easy to act unbothered, as it had been to act cruel. Alastair was no stranger to wearing masks.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to, Lightwood”, he said with all the condescension he could muster.

Then Thomas did the first truly surprising thing he’d done all night. He sat down beside him, and the movement startled Alastair enough that he couldn’t stop himself looking up at the boy.

“I do want the answer”, Thomas said decidedly, “and I will not get up until you tell it to me”.

Well, damn him. Alastair could hardly blame him for wanting to know. He was owed an explanation, but that didn’t make the decision to give it to him any easier. He slowly closed and placed his book aside, steeling himself for the surely nerve-wracking talk that was headed his way.

He looked at Thomas, who was once again staring. Alastair had to admire the determinacy with which he was approaching a conversation with him.

“I knew you were taking extra patrols”, Alastair said truthfully, “And more than that- going out by yourself with a murderer on the loose. You were going to get yourself killed. You’re meant to take someone with you”. He only narrowly avoided sounding cross or accusatory.

“No thank you. All these people going out in pairs, announcing themselves every time they speak, unable to make a move without consulting each other- they might as well ring a bell to let the killer know they’re coming”, Thomas said scornfully, “And meanwhile, if you’re not on the schedule, you’re supposed to just sit around on your arse doing nothing. We’ll never catch the murderer if we avoid being out on the streets. That’s where the murderer is.”

The indignant expression Thomas was wearing, and the little speech he’d just made, amused him. He and his friends were all so alike. Alastair knew Thomas well enough to know that while those words may not have been entirely honest, the sentiment behind them was sincere. He had just so badly wanted the killer gone.

“Never before have I heard such a concise statement of the ludicrous philosophy with which you and your school friends go through the world, running toward danger.” His arms were starting to hurt, so he stretched them out over his head, and went on, “But that’s not why you were doing what you were doing. There’s a little truth to what you just said, but not the heart of it”.

“What do you mean?”

“You couldn’t save your sister, so you want to save other people.” he said, hoping he wasn’t going too far, “You want revenge, even if this isn’t the same evil that took Barbara- it’s still evil, isn’t it?” The look in Thomas’ eyes confirmed that his assessment was true, so he continued, “You want to behave recklessly, and you don’t want your reckless behavior to compromise a patrol partner’s safety. So you went alone.”

Alastair had understood his motivations easily enough. Thomas was complicated, but he had never been hard for Alastair to read. At the heart of him, he was simply good, and kind, and fiercely loyal. It was a miracle his friends hadn’t seen through him.

“Well, I don’t believe that you really think we’re stupid,” Thomas said, “Or that we willingly court danger for danger’s sake. If you believed that, you would do more to stop Cordelia spending time with us.”

Outwardly, Alastair scoffed. But it seemed Thomas was not the only person easily read.

“My point,” Thomas went on firmly, “is that I don’t think you believe the rude things you say. And I don’t understand why you say them. It doesn’t make any sense. It’s as if you want to drive everyone away.”

The audacity of Thomas to believe that Alastair was any sort of good; the nerve he had to believe he was rude for anything but selfish, cruel reasons- Alastair had never wanted to embrace another person so badly for being wrong.

“Why were you so awful to us in school? We never did anything to you”. The words were not spoken with any venom, and yet, they stung. Alastair winced.

For the first time, he really considered letting someone in. He needed someone to know the truth of his actions. Cordelia was the only one who even remotely understood why he had done the things he had done, and although he still felt his behavior inexcusable, telling her had been a small comfort.

But the words would not come easy.

“I was awful to you… because I could be.”

“Anyone can be a bastard if they want to be,” replied Thomas, verbally batting away his answer, “You had no reason to do it. Your family are friends with the Herondales. You could have at least been kinder to James.”

He could have been. But he had had a reason.

“When I got to school,” Alastair said, forcing himself to breathe; he had never spoken about this before. It had never been easy, and it wasn’t now- “loose talk about my father preceded me. Everyone knew he was a failure, and some of the older students decided I was an easy target. They… let’s just say that by the end of the first week, I had been made to understand my place in the hierarchy, and I had the bruises to remind me should I ever forget.”

Thomas seemed to be having a hard time wrapping his head around what he had just said. And understandably so. Alastair wondered if he’d always appear the bully in Thomas and his friends’ eyes.

Thomas didn’t inclined to talk just then, so Alastair went on before he lost the nerve, “After about a year of being knocked around, I realized I could either become one of the bullies, or suffer the rest of my school days. I felt no loyalty to my father, no need to defend him, so that was never a problem. I wasn’t very big- well, you know what that’s like.”

He looked at Thomas then, noting the broad, strong width of him, and the way his shirt sleeves hugged his arms. He didn’t miss the way he seemed to shrink back into himself at the gaze. Alastair looked away.

“What I did have,” he said, “was a savage tongue and a quick wit. Augustus Pounceby and the others would collapse laughing when I cut some poor younger student down to size. I never got my hands bloody, never hit anyone, but it didn’t matter, did it? Soon enough the bullyboys forgot they’d ever hated me. I was one of them.”

None of what he had said earlier had been an excuse. In a game of hurt or be hurt, he had chosen to hurt. It had been self-preservation, but it had still been selfish.

“And how did that turn out for you?” Thomas said, with distaste.

Alastair had no misconceptions regarding the consequences of his decisions, so he met Thomas’ glare and replied, “Well, one of us has a close knit group of friends, and the other has no friends at all. So you tell me.”

“You have friends”, Thomas said, but a hint of doubt crossed his face even as he spoke the words. It was unsurprising to Alastair that Thomas had not paid him enough mind to have ever realized otherwise. Why would he have?

“Then you lot arrived, a bunch of boys from famous families, too well brought up to understand at first what went on far from home. Expecting the world would embrace you. That you would be treated well. As I had never been”. He was unable to restrain the jealous tinge in his voice. “I suppose I hated you because you were happy. Because you had each other- friends you could like and admire- and I had nothing like that. You had parents who loved each other. But none of that excuses that way I behaved. And I do not expect to be forgiven.”

Alastair felt close to tears as he came to the end of his story- physically exhausted- and his hands were shaking. But he did not regret it. He hoped Thomas would not cause him to regret it either.

“I’ve been trying to hate you-” Thomas said in a quiet voice. The response did not faze Alastair. It was what he deserved. “-for what you did to Matthew. You richly deserve to be hated for what you have done.”

It was true that Alastair had hurt Matthew in terrible ways, but he had hurt Thomas as well. He was tired of Thomas’ refusal to acknowledge it. What he had said about his family more that warranted Thomas’ own hatred of him.

“It wasn’t just his mother I slandered. It was your parents, too. You know it. So you don’t have to- to act all high-minded about this. Stop pretending you are only upset on behalf of Matthew. Hate me on your own behalf, Thomas.”

“No”, Thomas said, then paused.

The word brought only a fleeting comfort with it, and Alastair waited for the other shoe to drop, for the blows he deserved to rain down upon him, this time deserved. But they did not come.

“The reason I cannot hate you is because- because of those days we spent in Paris together,” Thomas said, and the words damn near stopped Alastair’s heart in his chest, “You were kind to me when I was very alone, and I am grateful. It was the first time I realized you could be kind.”

The tears that had threatened to come up earlier, nearly made their presence known again. H stared at Thomas with lucid eyes as he tried to process those words. Memories came back to him unbidden, and he heard himself say, “It is my favorite memory of Paris as well.”

“You don’t have to say that. I know you were there with Charles”. That was all it took to wrench him out of his mind and back to the present. He felt his defenses go up again at the mere mention of his former lover.

“Charles Fairchild? What about him?”

“Wouldn’t that be your best memory of Paris?” Thomas replied, undeterred.

Consciously, he knew there was no danger here. Thomas would never use this information against him, and besides… he had his own secrets. This did not keep him from responding defensively, as he was wont to do, when it came to Charles. “Exactly what are you suggesting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. I’ve seen the way you look at Charles, the way he looks at you. I’m not an idiot, Alastair, and I’m asking…”

Time seemed to stop as Thomas shook his head and sighed, coming to some kind of abrupt decision. A decision that began with words that as good as ripped apart Alastair’s defenses yet again.

“I suppose I’m asking if you’re like me.”

End of fic.

This turned out so much longer than expected- If you read it all the way through, you likely have a slight obsession.

#thomastair #the sanctuary scene #chain of iron #chain of iron spolers #alastair's pov #alastair carstairs #thomas lightwood #this was NOT as easy to write as i thought it'd be #I think i've maintained canon-compliance but idk #it's 5am here guys. please be nice #idk if i should do the second part?#i don't know if my writing is worth the effort D:#i have never written anything this long im-

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kikilefangirl · 4 years

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The Witch Who Won’t Part 4

Klaus Mikaelson x Reader

(Word Count: 2064)

You woke up to a flood of texts, calls, and voicemails. Most were from your cousin, but a few came from Marcel. Tossing your phone on the other side of the couch, you rubbed your temple. You hadn’t even made it to your bed last night. Your puff was matted and misshapen.

You rubbed your eyes and stood up. A pounding headache and nausea made you keel over and do a mad dash to your trash can. You yakked up your dinner. After you brushed your teeth, you seized up.

The presence of an Original. Bounding from your bathroom to your front door, you flung it open. You don’t know why you expected Klaus. You had burned that bridge, indefinitely.

Elijah stood at your door offering a handkerchief. You cocked your head to the side and clicked your tongue.

“Whatever you want, I’m not interested.” You spat out.

Thinking back to the night before, you crossed your arms. The reality that Klaus had kissed you, and that he did it to handicap you was too much. Now his brother was at your door too.

“Y/N, would you please invite me in?” Elijah asked. His critical gaze had something else behind it, true concern.

You knew it wasn’t for you. Originals were only truly worried about other Originals. Klaus.

“I imagine Niklaus has upset you. I do apologize on his behalf, he has a, uh, talent for such things.” He said.

Elijah still had his hand out, still offering the handkerchief. You stepped closer, and took it. You wiped your mouth with it and set it on the counter.

“Come in.”

You surprised yourself. The thought of an Original having permanent access to your home made your stomach turn, but this time it was unavoidable. Elijah stepped through the threshold and unfastened his suit jacket as he sat down at the table.

You watched him, cautiously. Elijah wasn’t Klaus. You knew better than to make assumptions about him, certain concessions simply would not be granted.

“I beg you to consider forgiveness. I fear Niklaus requires it.” He replied. Elijah ran a hand across his bottom lip.

“He did what he wanted and now he’s dealing with the consequences.” You were firm.

Elijah scoffed and leaned back in the chair. You didn’t back down. You couldn’t. You sucked in a breath.

“Esther has him,” He ran a finger along the table, his daylight ring more prominent than before, “Aided by our brothers Kol and Finn, my mother has stood against Niklaus.”

Elijah began tapping his fingers. He pulled the corners of his mouth back with thinly veiled contempt. Esther was the original witch. You had learned your history and now it was sitting in your living room.

Esther was the woman who hid Klaus’s true identity, and when it was revealed, bound it from him for a thousand years. The man he had become––the creature that could kiss you one second and shackle you the next was partly her doing.

“She will ruin him. Again. She’ll ruin him again.” Elijah hissed.

On the surface, he appeared perfectly composed. Elijah was the pristine elder brother—the eldest due to Finn’s absence—constantly working for his siblings’ happiness. Klaus too, had his own persona to hold onto as well.

But the truth underneath remained: Where Elijah was cool determination, Klaus was wilder, freer.

“Pass me that grimoire. I’ll see what I can do.”

After a millennia of separation, you knew Elijah was right. Klaus was not going to recover the little bits of him he had left. He had a daughter out in the world who needed him.

“Call Rebekah. She should be here, too. And Vincent.” You said.

Turning on your heel you head down the hall toward the bathroom. Just because you were going to spend your whole day dealing with Originals, your basics weren’t going by the wayside.

…

Nothing in Gammy’s grimoire could have prepared you for the Original Witch or what she had reduced Klaus to, either.

Esther was in the body of a witch you knew. You flared your nostrils. Dead witches taking the bodies of living ones always made you upset.

“We came here for Klaus.” You announced.

She stepped away from her herbs, though you couldn’t see which ones. Even in another body, Esther was full of the kind of grace and danger you had previously seen with Klaus.

“I am afraid my son is unavailable.” She replied. Her eyes darted between you and Elijah, and even he was stifled by her presence.

“Mother, release Niklaus to us. Immediately.” He said.

“In your custody you and your siblings, especially Niklaus, have been a blight on this earth. You leave nothing but blood and death behind you. I will not be idle anymore.” She let out.

You could feel her anger, and oddly enough her love for her children. Esther was probably a good mother once, but her protectiveness ruined them and her.

You concentrated on Klaus’s familiar aura, drawing it closer and closer to you. Esther must have noticed because her eyes were trained on you.

“My, my, you are powerful indeed. And in love. Nevertheless, the strength in you does not wish to oppose me, nor I you.” She offered. While she spoke you curled your hand and twisted.

The stone wall behind her slid open, revealing a chained Klaus. The bitter part of you that enjoyed seeing him chained after what he did to you was quickly overpowered by a wave of worry. His golden irises burned with rage and hatred even as subdued as he was.

“If you truly loved my son, you would want him to be free of his curse. A pretty young witch like you would want children of your own and a husband capable of loving you without the threat of violence all around you!” Esther continued.

For a split second you hesitated. You did want that and maybe with him. But Esther knew him as a child, and longed for that child. You met the monster first, and loved him anyway. Whatever that made you definitely wasn’t normal.

“You let a man believe the one child he saw true potential in, the one child knew he could mold in his image, was his. And Mikael hated him for it.” You admitted.

Saying the words out loud made Esther pause in shock. Mikael’s name and his function in her life had the same effect on her as it did Klaus. Taking advantage of her vulnerability, you unleashed the brunt of your magic.

Elijah’s expression was cold and unflinching. He knew it was true just the same as you did. Esther may have the title of the Original Witch, but she thrived off the shared power of all witches. Dead and alive. You could draw on them, too. You thought of Vincent, of Gammy and beyond.

Esther flew through the air and slammed against the wall. Elijah immediately went to Klaus, breaking the chains that held him.

Before he was completely free, Esther countered. Her strength coupled with your overexertion made you fall to your knees in pain. You could feel her magic weighing you down. Something wet dripped from your nose. Blood.

You weren’t backing down from her. You felt a tugging in your gut and threw your head back. Esther wasn’t going to stop you from taking Klaus. You called on your ancestors and their power just as she did, with renewed focus. Wind whipped around you, dust swirled at your feet. The jars of herbs and dark objects shook and some shattered to the ground. Letting out a guttural cry, raw power radiated from you and it pulsed through the room and and the entire French Quarter.

You collapsed with exhaustion, your body landing on the hard floor. You were fading fast, you could barely keep your eyes open. As your vision blurred you could see Klaus speeding toward Esther. The chains were still on him, but the ends had been broken off.

Holding a thousand lifetimes of pain and betrayal, Klaus snapped his mother’s neck and she went limp in his arms.

You smiled, as you had done your part. Cold hands were the last thing you remembered before everything went black.

…

You woke up in a large bed in the Mikaelson compound, completely alone.

You were wearing your pajamas from home. You stepped on the floor barefoot, flinching at the cold.

“Good evening, Y/N. I must say we were beginning to worry.”

Elijah. He offered you his arm and you took it. Your legs still felt like jelly. He led you to another empty room, stopping at the threshold.

“Niklaus, do not be rude to our guest. She did save our lives.” Elijah called out. So this was Klaus’s room.

He did not immediately appear. Preparing yourself, you let go of Elijah and stumbled into the room. You made it to a stool. Nearby were beautiful paintings and three full blood bags. As you admired the artwork, Elijah took his leave. As soon as he did, Klaus finally appeared.

“Careful, love. I did that one in 1823, it’s fragile.” His tone was his usual charming self, but his sunken in eyes, and restricted movements told the story.

“Here.” You slid a blood bag over to Klaus.

He poured it into a glass, but he made no moves to drink it. He swirled the liquid, squeezing so hard on the glass it broke in his hand.

You jumped, but Klaus wasn’t fazed. Instead he was staring at a spot on the floor, expressionless. He sat slack jawed and deflated. He was none of the wild hybrid—whether he was angry or vindictive or proud or jealous.

The man across from you was nothing at all.

“Klaus. You need to drink.” You whispered.

There was something fragile about him you had only seen glimpses of. Klaus always fell back on his default, but this was different.

“Klaus!” You boomed, bolting upright so fast your chair fell to the ground.

You stalked up to Klaus with fear as an afterthought. He was beginning to have that effect on you, which was probably for the worst. You wrapped your hands around his neck and jaw. He wouldn’t meet your gaze.

“Esther was right to call you a monster. She was wrong to say that was all you were. Look at me, Klaus.” You pleaded.

You were nose to nose now, and once you had his eyes on yours you wasted no time.

“Klaus! She was wrong! Esther was wrong. You have a daughter who will always love her daddy. Your siblings won’t turn away from you. I won’t, either.” You said desperately.

Esther was a woman whose back was against the wall and Klaus was her secret keeper, her ultimate secret keeper. And he, unlike Mikael’s children, was hers to isolate, a punishment Klaus could never bear from his mother.

You sucked in a breath, and bore your neck out for him.

“Drink.”

The quick pain as the hybrid’s fangs pierced your neck was followed by pure euphoria. You could feel him take every drop of blood that oozed out. Klaus’ arms wrapped around you, pulling you onto his lap. It was as if you two were the only two in the world, and you reveled in it.

Once you began to get light headed, Klaus retracted his fangs and licked the wound. His amber eyes burned with an intensity that made you squirm at how close you were to each other. You were hyper aware of his body and your own.

Klaus smirked at your newfound discomfort and kissed you full on. You could taste traces of an iron tang on his tongue, but that didn’t stop you. You kissed him back and your heart was heavy with all the emotion and stress from the day before. He leaned into you, taking care to hold you tighter. It was the reassurance you needed. You broke away from the kiss to breathe, and you drank each other in.

Klaus wasn’t one to say thank you, and you didn’t need it. You flashed him a show stopping smile. You didn’t know what would come from your actions.

All you knew was that you had fallen for this man; you truly and wholeheartedly loved Klaus Mikaelson, and he, in his own way, loved you, too.

END

#klaus x reader #klaus mikaelson x reader #klaus mikaelson x black!reader #klaus mikaelson x poc!reader #klaus mikaelson #TVD #tvd fanfiction #the originals

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sadoeuphemist · 4 years

Text

Stories I thought about writing, but didn’t:

my voice is poisonous, a gift from a strange god my parents once befriended. I’m careful not to speak, but I know they’re afraid.

A poison-voiced girl is born to deaf parents, but falls in love with a hearing boy. Their courtship is marked on her end by a thrilling restraint, biting her lip, knowing she could kill him with an indiscretion; he, on the other hand, longs to see her act without inhibition. He manages to make her laugh, sigh, gasp out in wonder - each time he falls ill from the poison of her voice, but is undeterred even in his convalescence, returning renewed in his goal to tease another sound out of her.

Her parents tell her to break it off; she’ll kill him. She reluctantly agrees. He refuses, pleads with her, grasps her hands so she can’t sign. In anguish she cries out his name — but lo! he does not sicken, does not die. It turns out his repeated exposures to her voice have mithridatized him against it. She can speak around him freely! They both agree that this development has taken a lot of the excitement out of the relationship, but it has been replaced with a greater casualness and intimacy that balances it out.

I can see the angels in their true form, a thousand splendid eyes and all. They think it’s funny, and have taken to hanging around my apartment

The angels start making excuses to keep showing up at my apartment, in the manner of the annunciation, but for increasingly trivial reasons. They come bearing tidings about how I should definitely get the turkey wrap for lunch, which brand of fabric softener I should buy, how that quarter I’ll find on the sidewalk is a sign that I am favored by God. They come bearing bad tidings too: The Lord has heard of all the evil in your printer, and has sent us here to jam it. Their presence becomes completely overbearing, but they are insistent. There’s a reason you see us in our true forms, they say, all their splendid eyes shining. Is it so hard to believe that the God that formed every atom of you in the womb should watch over you always, that every mundane moment of your existence in this world is shot through with the divine?

There was a body in the river, ice cold and snow white. Sometimes it was all the way dead. Sometimes it sat up and talked to me.

A king has declared that whoever can complete the following tasks shall marry his daughter: 1) to recover a lost treasure stolen from his family hundreds of years ago; 2) to name the start of the pact between men and horses; and 3) to find a cure to the plague ravaging the land.

Our plucky folk hero helps an old lady who sits by the river; she tells him of the snow white body within, who has sat up and spoken to her at odd times throughout her life. It is the spirit of the glacier: the glacier melts, and forms the river; layer by layer the past frozen in it is uncovered, parts of it living and parts of it dead. Our hero builds many bonfires and melts the glacier faster; the body lives and dies and lives many times over and tells him the three answers. 1) The thief fell into a crevasse and was frozen over; the ice is melted now, and the treasure can be recovered. 2) Iron horseshoes frozen in the glacier reveal the pact is many thousands of years old. 3) The plague is an old one, frozen and released anew with the glacier’s melting; it is carried in the livestock, and they must be slaughtered.

The hero solves the king’s tasks and marries his daughter. Presumably the new king is then faced with the challenge of the rising sea levels; no idea how that plays out.

“We’re all nice to each other here,” they told us, “we’ve got angels in the hills. They like it when we’re nice. And they see everything.”

This one’s tough to summarize adequately. Two men are going door to door, seemingly taking a survey of the religious beliefs in a small town. They finish, sit together in their car. People have been very cooperative. One of the men remarks that the local religious beliefs are disappointingly unremarkable: yes, they believe in angels watching from the hills, but most people believe in an omniscient God watching over them, and whether it is God or his intercessors, does it make a significant difference?

They sit in the car. Perhaps they smoke in the lazy sunlight. They have finished their survey ahead of time. One of them proposes: Suppose we have a picnic lunch up in the hills?

They park at the base of the hill and walk up. Lovely day. They spread out a blanket from the car, stretch their legs out on the grass, take off their coats, loosen their ties. They’ve brought their packed lunch, sandwiches, a thermos of lemonade. They talk about how pleasant all the people were. Their kind of religion seems so ... brittle, one of the men remarks. If I thought there was someone waiting to punish me the moment I stepped out of line, I’d want to do something horrible just to get it over with.

You think so? says his partner. I think just the opposite. The grand problem with religion is that there aren’t enough consequences for wickedness. I know if I saw the wicked being smote down on a regular basis, I would very satisfied in my religion indeed.

Well, of course you would; you’re a sadist.

Me? A sadist? Hardly.

You’re a sadist, his partner says teasingly. A sadist and brute.

They smile at each other. Idle conversation. There is a suggestion that they have visited many such towns and cities, asking the same question, but have yet to receive a satisfactory answer. At one point one of them notes that there’s something in the trees, but this remark is ignored and nothing is ever made of it. The conversation turns back to whether the angels in the hills are real or not. The ‘sadist’ stands up, declares his intent to do something wicked to test them. He marches around, swinging his arms, then looks around at the trees and puts his hands on his hips and laughs.

You know, up here away from society, he declares, I can’t think of a single wicked thing to do!

(Maybe a conversation here about how he could tear branches from trees, despoil the scenery, find an animal to kill; but then again animals in nature strip bark from trees, kill each other bloodily all the time, tear each other to bits, so how wicked could that be, really?)

He looks down at his partner still lying back on the blanket. Unless, of course, I were to do something wicked to you.

Whatever happens next, it is very leisurely. The scene is easy, very relaxed. Lovely day. Calm. Bright blue sky. Clouds float across it, white like feathered wings, and then pass, leaving not a trace behind.

None of us can imagine what life was like before the Clocks came, before clockwork cities, and all their technology. They rebuilt our crumbling society, in perfect, mechanical order.

Brief musings on a hypothetical pre-Clock society. A society built around the sun, all buildings roofless, everyone’s necks craned upward. Cities built running north to south so as not to block anyone’s view of the rise and set. A society built around hourglasses, everyone judging the passage of time by the sand puddling around their feet, knees, waists, clambering up onto growing dunes, waiting for the flip, for the sand to slowly drain away and the furnishings of their homes to be uncovered. Perhaps this was our unimaginable life before the Clocks came: sands stretching far away and bare, the hypothetical counterpart bulb of an hourglass reflected invisible above us, empty and vast with unrealized possibility, waiting to be reset.

When I was very young, I met a bear at the edge of the woods. Before I could play dead, it bowed to me.

Jokey little fic where a child is instructed on the etiquette of bears: when to bow, when to curtsy, when to raise your hands and make yourself as large as possible, when to climb a tree, when to play dead. (Note that grizzlies are territorial, so if they attack you and play dead they’ll leave you alone because the threat is neutralized; whereas black bears are not territorial, so playing dead will do no good because a black bear will only attack if it deliberately wants to fuck you up.)

I was given very specific instructions. Go to the rosebush on a clear night. As the moonlight turns the roses silver, feed them three drops of blood.

After years of trying for a child, a couple turns to an old witch to help. The woman is instructed to eat a rose from a magical rosebush. If she first pricks her finger and stains the rose red with her blood, then she will have a son, ruddy and robust and bold in battle; if she visits the bush on a clear night and eats a rose painted silver by moonlight, then she will have a daughter, as pale and graceful and elegant as the moon.

The woman is uneasy with the implications of this binary, and says so. The witch smiles and gives her a new set of instructions. So she pricks her finger at night, her blood painted black by the moonlight, and nine months later gives birth to a child as black as a rose, who is neither boy nor girl.

Never manged to come up with a plot for this one. The kid grows up to have a career fulfilling all those “Neither man nor woman” prophecies? Eh. Kinda corny. There’s something about gender roles in fairy tales here, but I couldn’t put it together.

Not for the first time, the company time loop drill had gone very, very wrong.

I did actually write a response for this one, but it got too long and I gave up on it. Summary of the rest of the idea I had:

Time resets. Nagle confirms that it is both an actual time loop and a drill; the company is doing a controlled time loop to prepare them for the real thing. People complain. What’s the point of a drill when an actual time loop would let you keep doing things over and over until you get it right? Nagle points out that could take years, subjectively, and that this is a controlled experience where he has a code to abort the exercise if anything seriously goes wrong. He insists they try to make it work.

They go through a bunch of loops. Don’t succeed. It’s highly technical stuff that none of them are trained for. Morale drops. People start complaining, they’ve spent hours at this, they should be off duty by now. Nagle points out there’s a ruling, established with VR training, that companies don’t need to pay their employees according to their subjective experience of time, and officially they’ve only spent 34 minutes at this.

More loops. Morale drops further. People start demanding Nagle use the abort code, threatening to quit. Nagle points out that while they’re in this time loop, their actions are consequence-free, but once he ends the loop they’ll have to live with their decisions for the rest of their lives. Are they sure they really want to quit?

At that point someone loses it and kills Nagle. Shock. Panic. Some satisfaction. He’s reborn the next loop, starts screaming about it - someone kills him again. Complete social breakdown. Eventually some people decide, fuck it, let’s just live in this loop forever. Killing Nagle becomes a standard thing they do at the start of every loop, so that he can’t input the abort code. They go through various reconfigurations of their social group - orgies, riots, open paranoia where everyone colonizes a different part of the building, regressing to primitivism, open warfare between various sects, rebuilding of society along different axes of thought. Everyone starts thinking of themselves as immortal, they start calling themselves things like ‘Chronobog of the Infinite Plane of Despair’ or whatever; the narration gets increasingly surreal.

After god knows how many cycles of this, everyone finally achieves an equilibrium of perfect enlightenment. They know what must be done. They leave Nagle alive, he watches as they move in perfect unison to unlock the server room and overcome all the obstacles and repair the tachyon servers, loop is finally terminated, normal flow of time resumes.

Nagle stands up, gives a speech, starts congratulating them on completing the drill. As he talks, everyone can feel the rapport they’ve built start to slip away - they no longer understand each other perfectly outside of the context of those 34 minutes. Time is moving forward again, and with it introducing unfamiliarity, uncertainty, an impossible onslaught of variables that they cannot predict or prepare for, and they are all moving inescapably further from each other even as they glance around and try to catch each other’s eyes and keep holding on to that feeling of perfect unity - but it’s too late now, they are strangers behind familiar faces, all of them heading in their own directions, going to be returning to their own separate lives; that moment of solidarity they had is past.

And then Nagle claps his hands at them and says, “OK, drill’s over, everyone back to work!”

#fiction #dumping grounds

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thanatosangels · 4 years

Text

the Life of Lucie

Lucie Herondale au request by @daisyherxndale - thank you so much!! this was so fun to write!! <3

tagging: @churchthecatismyspiritanimal @fairchild-squad @truth-lies-hidden @princesslucretia @abigneignenn <333

Lucie was never quite sure why she didn’t age and die.

James did. She supposed he was always more like Papa though, in looks and personality.

She’d never forget him dying. She’d already lost Cordelia the year before, and the emptiness in her soul was still a ragged, open wound. And then James had taken ill. He lay in the infirmary of the Institute, and Uncle Jem did everything he could to save him but they could only numb the pain. She had sat with her still youthful hand holding his wrinkled one, their mother holding his other on the opposite side of the bed. He had been so frail then, but still blazing with his playful exuberance until the very end. He died, surrounded by love. As Will had done.

And Jesse… Jesse’s death was still too much for her too think about

She’d watched the love of her life, the one she’d brought back to this life, grow old and fragile until he died peacefully in her arms. She’d watched as time took over his features in a way that it never did to hers, as he’d retired from battle due to the aching of bones that she never experienced, as he started to forget where he’d left his glasses, or that their children had left home years before, when she remembered everything so clearly. She never loved him any less. One cold, wintery morning, when frost dusted the grass and the robins wittered just outside the window, she awoke nestled into him, just as cold as the air outside, in their bed.

It was like someone cutting canvas with a knife, clean and vicious: there was life before Jesse, and there was life after.

It was all something of a blur, the week following his death. The funeral, the kind but distant words, the looks on their children’s faces. She understood, only then, why her mother had left for Paris after her father’s death. There was something so inherently wrong about being somewhere your love had once been, once sat, once ate, once laughed. She couldn’t even look at the face of her grandson, the one who had his eyes and his hair. She just had to leave.

So she did. She went, and she found her mother, and they lived together in New York.

She’d never aged a day past twenty, but that didn’t mean she would never die. She half-expected - half-hoped - to go to bed one day and never wake up. But everyday she saw the sun rise and heard the chirping of the pigeons and smelt that early morning New York river-water smell and watched the mundanes hurry down the streets on their way to work. She envied them. They were so secure in their knowledge of the word, wrapped up in their own little lives. She was so lost, an anchor cut free of its ship, sinking rapidly to the bottom of the pitch black ocean.

The rest of the 60’s passed like water through Lucie’s fingers. Tessa helped her through her grief, made sure she ate enough and drank enough and made her laugh even when she felt like her heart was being crushed into oblivion by grief’s unyielding fist. Her mother showed her New York, told her stories of the city she once knew and loved, and of how it had changed. Her mam had seen a great deal since Will’s death, Lucie realised, and a small fire of hope ignited itself in her chest. I will rebuild myself.

One day, a few years after Jesse, they sat in the booth of a small, dingy diner. They made idle conversation, people watching and giggling as they often did, until Tessa sat back against the red leather seat and stared thoughtfully into her coffee. Lucie recognised the twitch at the corner of her mouth, the one that meant she was trying to decide whether to say something or not.

“Mam, what are you thinking?” Lucie narrowed her eyes.

Tessa looked at her, her big blue eyes soft with love, and smiled a sad little smile. “I think you need to write again.”

Lucie was taken aback. Whatever she’d been expecting, it wasn’t that.

She thought of the only time she’d tried to write since Jesse. It was a dark night, not long after she arrived in America, and she was sitting at the small, ink-stained desk in their two bedroom apartment, fingers hovering over the keys of the familiar typewriter she’d brought with her from England. Writing had always been her reprieve, fiction her escape from the crushing reality of the real world, and she wanted nothing more than to escape then. But no words came to her. No stories weaved themselves together in her head. No heroine painting herself to life in metaphors and similes. There was simply…. nothing.

Lucie tried to think of typing out a story, or writing another book, without having Jesse to read it over and give her critique or chastise her for saying ‘very’ one too many times. She tried to imagine writing for hours on end without having him bring her cups of tea just the way she liked or staying up, reading in the armchair next to her desk until well past midnight, just so they could go to bed together. She remembered the air leaving her lungs as a scream of anger - at the world, at Jesse for leaving her, at herself for still being alive - built within her, her mother running to restrain her as she viciously punching the keys of the typewriter over and over again, her hands balled into fists and her nails piercing the skin of her palms. She had collapsed against Tessa, the livid energy suddenly leaving her, and they sank to the floor together. She cried into her mothers arms until she had no tears left, until the hazy relief of sleep took her in its grasp and showed her dreams far better than this life.

“No.” Her mouth was in a hard line. “No, I can’t.”

Tessa took Lucie’s hand across the table. Lucie met her eyes. There was such hope, such faith, such belief, in her gaze that Lucie’s mouth quirked up at the corner ever so slightly.

“Yes you can.”

And she did.

Lucie left New York - left her mother - as the new decade rolled in. She didn’t stay in one place: she followed her Daisy’s footsteps and went to all the places she’d once lived: Paris, Bombay, Morocco, Cape Town, Canada. All the while, she wrote. She wrote of the girl with fire for hair and more strength than anyone she’d ever known. She wrote of the boy with the sun in his eyes and the night sky on his head. She wrote of the boy who lived twice but loved once. She wrote of the boy with burnt clothes and lilac eyes. She wrote of the truest love she’d ever known, between a boy with a compass tattoo and a boy with spears in his pockets. She wrote of a blonde boy, the bloodied and battered angel. She wrote every story that lined her heart and her soul, and as the 70’s faded into the 80’s, she was thankful she had. Her mother had told her memories start to fade to black and white, like a forgotten photograph, when you live forever, but her words captured her memories forever in their original, colourful glory.

She spoke to her mother as often as she could, and she always sent her postcards from her latest destination. Her mother would travel too, and she would keep Lucie up to date on the Downworld wherever she went. Lucie kept away from the Downworld, mostly. She had no interest in fighting any more, and the Clave seemed to have forgotten her existence, but she did carry a small axe in her bag at all times. Old habits die hard.

At the start of the 90’s, she got word from Tessa about unrest surrounding the Accords.

I feel as though we are about to witness something terrible. She had written. Lucie, please stay as far away from Idris as you can.

And she did.

It was a long few months before she heard from her mother again. She told her of the war, and the bloodshed, and the death. She told her of Stephen Herondale, their own flesh and blood, killing innocent Downworlders as if there were no demon blood in his lineage. Lucie had cried.

But life goes on, and it did. Lucie went back to London, for the first time. She walked passed the Institute that had once been her home, and the grand houses that had once belonged to her friends and family - now hotels or flats or just gone completely, as if they’d never stood at all. She took a trip to Devon to walk past Cirenworth Hall. She felt closer to Cordelia, in that moment, than she had in years, and the faded parabatai rune on her chest seemed to throb like the beating of a second heart.

In 1999, she went back to New York. She walked passed the Institute there too - although by chance this time - and caught sight of three people walking towards the entrance. There was an elegant woman with black hair down to her waist, just as her Aunt Cecily’s had been; a tall, burly man who’s stature painfully reminded her of Thomas; and a small baby, wriggling in his mother’s arms. He seemed to sense Lucie’s presence and twisted around to look at her. His eyes, his hair, his nose, even his tiny mouth…. he looked exactly like Alexander had, when he was a baby and she was just a girl. She tore her eyes away, the world a smudge of watercolour through her tears, and hurried on down the street.

More time passed. Lucie wrote another book, this one about a girl with long brown hair and sparkling grey eyes who would never die. She would live to see every sunrise, every sunset, every star in the night sky twinkle and die, everyone she ever loved go where she could not join them. But she could also read every book, and see every country, and learn every language she ever wanted to, and see every new wonder of the world. She could keep her loved ones with her and carry them wherever she went, both in her mind and captured in the battered old photographs that were her most prized possession.

2008. Lucie’s phone buzzed on the coffee table next to her. She was in Glasgow. The setting sun was casting long shadows across her little one bedroom flat as she had her head in a book, her newly cropped hair brushing against her chin. She’d spent quite a bit of time here: it felt like London, but not so much that it hurt her, just enough to feel like home. The historical buildings that were scattered around the city centre reminded her of herself, in a way. Their well-kept exteriors remained the same as they had been the hundred or so years ago when they were built, but their interiors were updated and changed over time, revealing new secrets or harbouring new treasures.

She picked up her pink mobile and looked at the text that flashed across the screen. Then, with the swiftness that a Shadowhunter can never quite lose, she jumped over the back of her sofa and darted into her bedroom. Hastily, she shoved some clothes into a backpack, grabbed her wallet and keys and ran out the door. She hurried through the streets, not paying attention to who or what she was bumping into, only focused on getting to the train station. She arrived, panting, paid for a ticket to London, and hopped on a train.

She kept reading the text over and over again.

COME TO LONDON ASAP. MEET YOU AT EUSTON. MAM.

When the train finally arrived in London Euston station, Lucie was the first person off the train. She stood on her tiptoes and looked around the crowded platform wildly, her short hair flying every which way. Finally, she spotted her. Her mother. She was standing near a wall at the edge of the platform, wearing a dark blue cardigan that was almost the colour of Will’s eyes, and scanning the crowd. She began shoving people aside, using knees and elbows as weapons, until she broke free of the tangle and ran towards her mother.

When Tessa saw her daughter, an immense smile broke across her face, like the sun parting the clouds. Lucie flung herself into Tessa’s open arms, and they stood a second or two, just embracing.

Lucie stepped back first, her concern painted plainly across her face. “What’s wrong, mam? Why did I need to hurry?”

Tessa was still beaming. “Actually… nothings wrong, bach.” She turned to face the man standing a little way from them, one Lucie hadn’t noticed before. “Somethings actually very right.”

Lucie narrowed her eyes and looked at the man. He was tall and thin, and his hair was straight and dark brown, almost black, with a single streak of silver at the front. Something about his kindly face, his dancing eyes, the small smile on his lips looked so… familiar. He almost looked like….

She took a step forward, her eyes widened in astonishment. “Uncle Jem?” She questioned softly.

Tessa was bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, radiating with excitement. Lucie had never seen her mother like this, so full of life, not in the 71 years since Will’s death. She was gazing at Jem with complete adoration, and he was smiling at her with such gentleness that Lucie’s heart ached, with happiness for her mother but sorrow for herself. She missed love.

Jem looked at her, his brown eyes soft and happy. “Hello, Lucie.” He gave a small wave and put his hand out towards her, clearly inviting a handshake.

But Lucie Blackthorn didn’t do handshakes. She covered the distance between them in two strides of her short legs and flung her arms around him: her head only reached his chin. He seemed taken aback, but hugged her tightly anyway.

“Oh, Uncle Jem!” She squeezed him. “It’s been so long!”

He chuckled and stroked her hair. “I know. And yet, we three have barely aged a day.”

She stepped back, and took Tessa’s hand. “I don’t quite understand what’s going on, and I have so many questions. How did this happen? Once a Silent Brother, always a Silent Brother I thought, but is that not the case?” She looked at Jem. “When did you come back? Oh! I do hope you told me immediately, mam. This is a miracle after all, and you know how I hate to miss miracles.” She was talking so rapidly that her words seemed to be falling over one another. Jem was just nodding slightly, looking bemused, and Tessa was trying not to laugh.

“Come on,” Tessa gave Lucie’s hand a quick squeeze and took Jem’s with her other. “Let’s go get a coffee and I’ll explain properly.”

As the trio began to make their way through the station, Tessa began to speak. “It is yet another story of Lightwoods and Herondales and Fairchilds…”

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the-goth-catte · 3 years

Text

A Shifting of the Sands: I

The sun might have set over the barren, rocky desert of Thanalan, but the heat had yet to fully abate. Perhaps a bell, maybe two, had passed since the radiant disc that burned so bright, and hot, over the arid landscape had set, and blessed darkness had descended to give its slowly-cooling relief to the denizens of the scorched desert. As the sun had sank beneath the glittering domes and spires of Ul’dah, the sky had come to life with a myriad of blazing, brilliant colors - painting both the sky, and the imagination, in rich hues of orange and red, fading up to purples and deep blues, eventually merging all together into the blackness of the abyss at the crown of the world. As the moments ticked past the colors played out their panoramic show for all the world to see, living art dancing gleefully in the skies above them; at dusk slowly ilmed its way toward full night a sprinkling of stars began to twinkle into existence in the darkness that replaced the vivid sunset; only the brightest appeared at first, their brilliant radiance defiant against the dying of the day’s light. But as the world descended further into darkness, their brethren began to shine fully into view until the sky was once again alight with color. This time, instead of broad swaths across the entirety of the horizon it was a dazzling show of faintly shimmering lights across the heavens, like little camp fires on some far and distant shore.

Y'naalie Vhenna had sat on a moss covered rock, the gentle mist from the slow running stream-turned-waterfall wafting over her sweat-coated, exhaustion-laced limbs. Beneath that slowly fading sky, magenta eyes watching the colors bleed from the day as the twinkling lights of the stars slowly showed their radiant faces. The day had been long for her - most days, truth be told, were - and these quiet moments in which the world transitioned slowly from the glaring, bright heat of desert day to the calm, strangely serene night were some of the scant few in which she could find a measure of peace. From well before the rising of the sun at dawn Naalie was hard at work within the halls of the gladiator's guild, honing her craft to be the fiercest underdog that stepped foot onto the blood sands. Being as short as she was, as slender as she was, Naalie was no stranger to not being taken seriously in the world of combat; larger foes oft looked down their noses at the diminutive gladiatrix, scoffing away the woman against whom they had been pitted due to her stature. These disdainful, dismissive looks from gladiators and fans alike only drove her to train harder, fight harder... so that she could show them just how ferocious she can be. And that is why Naalie rose several bells before the dawn began to lighten the horizon, shuffling her way to the hall so that she could be the first in to practice her maneuvers... and why she was oft the last one to leave, leaden limbs carrying her out into Ul'dah by instinct alone. Not wishing to return to the cramped, crowded apartment that she shared with the remnants of her tribe, Naalie often found herself wandering beyond the city walls and into the desert proper; if she got here at just the right time of night, like tonight, it was a sight to behold and worked some sort of magical wonder at easing some of the tension that perpetually plagued her body. As the world fully gave way to night, the little nocturnal creatures began to stir themselves to life; night time insects began to chirp their songs to one another, creating an almost organic melody that carried across the barren wastes while keen-eyed birds made their shrill calls and gentle coos in search of dinner and companionship. And all the while, the splashing of the small waterfall behind her added a soothing soundtrack that Naalie could sit and enjoy for bells on end. A gentle breeze picked up the mist from the falling water, carrying it across the rock upon which Naalie sat and out toward the arid landscape beyond; what little moisture in it wouldn't last long, this verdant oasis seeming to cling jealously to the precious water and plant life it had carved out for itself. A backward glance from Naalie was all that it took for the idea of slipping into the water to form in her mind; despite the retreat of the sun, it was still quite hot in the desert... and coupled with the weary exhaustion, the thin film of dried sweat, and the need to do anything relaxing, well... it was too much for the blonde Miqo'te to resist. Never shy about nudity, even when around others, Naalie surmised that she was alone enough to justify shedding her training clothes without undue attention; making short work of the wardrobe, and glad to be out of the clothes that clung limply to her skin, she was soon slipping into the knee-deep water with a newfound energy. Slender legs splashed through the dirty, sand-laced water without a care, seeming to take a certain glee in making noise and kicking up the water; by the time she'd shuffled underneath the crisp, falling water there resided a small, content smile on her thin lips. With her head back, Naalie allowed the cool water to soak her hair and flow over her face; rivers of the sweet, refreshing liquid ran down her body to join once again at the pool in which she stood. She was the proverbial stone in their path, the obstacle around which they must flow to continue their journey eternal. But what a delightful stone to be, if for that moment alone. Clap. Clap. Clap. Three staccato bursts of sound, so innocuous and innocent, snapped Naalie out of the quiet reverie of her moment of oneness with nature. The Miqo'te turned, hand reaching quickly for the blade that always rested at her hip. The blade that was, specifically, not at her hip at she stood beneath the cold, flowing water. Fingers clenching futilely at empty air, the gladiatrix grimaced as she realized her potentially dangerous predicament. Standing just shy of the lapping edge of the sandy pool were three figures, two tall and imposing uniformed men flanking a short, swarthy, gaudily dressed Lalafell man. His hands held still before him, motionless after the dramatic announcement of the trio's arrival; gloves of black silk padded the percussion of his palms, muffling the sound somewhat against the song of the desert night. The gloves, like the rest of the flowing and colorful silks he wore and seemingly limitless number of gemstone encrusted jewelry bedazzling his figure, spoke of an ostentatious amount of wealth. The smirk on his lips, the gleam in his eye, all suggested this was a man who seldom, if ever, didn't get what he wanted. Money. Power. Influence. Danger. All writ large on the smug expression of that little Dunesfolk. "Who-" Naalie began, only to be cut off by the little man. His arms retracted, folding lackadaisically over his partially bared chest; Naalie could see the glistening of oiled and perfumed chest hairs peaking out from the edges of his robe, catching the reflection of the wan moonlight. For some reason, that was what caught her eye beyond all else. "Who I am isn't necessarily what you should be concerned about," His voice, gods, his voice. Grating and nasal, it was every bit unpleasant as one would assume from looking at him. "It's who you are that is why we're here." He went on, leaving no room for interruption, "The Crimson Jaguar, Ul'dah's scappiest little gladiator! Not undefeated, but quite impressive in the arena. A darling favorite of the Jewel and her people, not to mention the bookies who rake in the gil hand over fist with every hard-fought victory you claw for yourself. I'm a fan, I'm quite impressed. Smitten, even. To think, I'm in the presence of the Crimson Jaguar. Boys, can you believe it?" The little Lalafell asked, glancing up to the two men on either side of him; a dull chorus of laughter echoed following his prompting, though from the sound of it neither men truly understood what they were laughing at. "Can't believe it, boss." "Nope, I don't believe it." With the snap of his fingers the two goons fell into immediate, practiced silence so that the only sounds were, once again, the singing of the crickets and the splashing of falling water. There was something uncomfortable in that man's stare, something intense and foreboding. The slowly spreading, more-than-slightly sinister smile did nothing to allay that notion. "Now, if I remember correctly..." the nameless man went on, "... you have an important fight coming up, don't you? Against, oh... what was his name...? Boys, do you remember?" "Sure don't, boss." "Nope, boss, can't remember." Snap. "Bjornulf. Bjornulf the Hellsbeast." "Oh, boss, it was Bjornulf." "Bjornulf, boss, I think is the guy's name." The chorus chimed in. "Bjornulf the Hellsbeast," the man echoed once again, clucking his tongue as if, for some reason, this provoked some sort of thought in the devious little cogs of his mind. "You know, my sweet Crimson Jaguar, the odds they have in the betting houses? You to defeat that monster of a Hrothgar by over 50:1! Ul'dah's rising star." He paused his speech, only to begin a slow, idle pace around the water's edge without ever coming so close as to sully the shoes he wore. "A lot of people stand to make a lot of gil when you win that fight. They'd be crazy to bet against somebody who has shown as much skill and determination and drive as you have. I mean, could you even imagine the payout if somebody were to go all in on Bjornulf and he won?" The Lalafell asked; at first, the question seemed innocuous enough, but the tone with which it was delivered... the narrowing of the eyes, the arching of the brow, the curling of the lips. It wasn't a question, it was a suggestion. An offer? A threat. As the realization dawned on Naalie, the Lalafell's smile grew all the broader... and feigned innocence. Little shoulders lifted in a shrug, prompting the jingle-jangle of excessive jewelry to call out in the still night. "I'm not going to thro-" Naalie began, before once again being cut off. "Nobody is asking you to throw anything," The Lalafell cut in once again, his tone harsh. "But, if it happened... the payout." His demeanor shifted, his smile returned, and his shoulders shrugged their nonchalant little shrug. "And I'm certain your patrons would reward you for your valiant effort, win or lose. There's no shame in it, after all... right, boys?" "No shame, right boys?" Left goon echoed. "Left boys, no shame." Right goon said. The Lalafell paused at that, merely shaking his head a few seconds later. "You don't know who I am, Crimson Jaguar, but I know who you are. And I know who pulls your strings. Work with me and we can go far. Don't, and..." his golden eyes shifted to the side, brow arching with an unspoken implication. "... well, you're a smart girl." An awkward moment of silence followed before the man turned, giving a wave by the wiggling of his fingers, and walked away into the desert with his cohorts.

#ffxiv #ff14 #ffxiv rp #ffxiv oc #balmung #ffxiv-crystal-rp #crystal-rp-ffxiv #crystalroleplaying

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ready-to-rally · 4 years

Text

Overwatch Possible New Hero Teaser: Toshiro Yagami

Letter translation below

Haikei, Toshiro, beloved husband:

The cherry blossoms are in glorious bloom after a gentle winter, soft clouds of pink against the green trees on the hillside. The season returns me to the winter day when the Hashimoto took you away from us, when snowflakes fell as the petals do now.

Strange that we are so close, yet we can visit you only when our current “masters” wish it. I hope they value your work enough to bring us together soon. Our daughter appreciated your recent gift, though I pray the blades you forge for the Hashimoto aren’t nearly so sharp, that what you craft for them is only equal to their sordid selves.

The forge of Yamagami Blades remains locked up tight, and since we last saw you in the autumn, we have moved into the upper level. It helps us feel close to you in many ways. In other ways, I feel your absence even more keenly. The musical hammering of the hot tamahagane, the song of the steel, is missing from this place. So is your own voice, your singing to the sword as you brushed it with yakibatsuchi, and the crackle of the fire when the blade hit the forge and the hiss as it cooled in the water. Sometimes I think I hear you there, yet it is always only the wind.

But I will not linger here. For as winter leads to spring, let me write a letter of lightness—a warm breeze bearing drifting blossoms. Perhaps it will grant us both a little peace, even as I turn my blade to keep the peace here from shattering altogether.

Many things remain unchanged, of course, in these eight years since your last trip home. You will doubtless be pleased to hear that Ichiko refuses to change the family recipe at Gozan Ramen, and the black garlic oil is as delicious as ever. It was crowded today, as many have come to celebrate the cherry blossoms. Yui’s dog, Mochi, is getting on in years, but his likeness still spins on the sign of the pottery school. Most of our favorite places are kept alive thanks to the tourists who delight in visiting quaint old towns such as ours. They eat ice cream from the cat café and burn their yen at the arcade or the new shopping mall you have yet to behold. Then, happy with their souvenirs, these day visitors skitter back onto the train before nightfall, when the lanterns flicker to life and the Hashimoto pound on closed shop doors, taking their “share” of what is earned by the labor of others and funneling it up to their betters through the aptly named Tora no Sumika.

Shimada Castle still sits high in its place of glory, overlooking our city like a stalwart stone temple awaiting a benevolent deity. You and I know well enough, we two who make and wield the sword, that while their castle was indeed strong stone, the Shimada were no gods, but people—and criminals at that. But the Shimada understood that honor and loyalty forge the strongest bond between ruler and ruled.

Lately, the Shimada have consumed my idle thoughts. They asked much of those who followed them, but they inspired us to give it. And in return, the Shimada clan led with integrity and treated us with respect. As you know, my mother and hers before her were honored to tend the fox shrine far from the clamor of town. But when it was clear my soul longed for the sword and I excelled at kenjutsu, the Shimada chose me over all others as their swordmaster. They knew that Kanezaka was not just the seat of their power, it was their home . . . and ours, too.

But where the Shimada gave, the Hashimoto take. After all, when one has many homes, one has none—and the Hashimoto clan claws at nearly every city in this nation. We are nothing special to them; one day they will drink us dry and move on, leaving us empty and broken. Even now, some twelve years on, I see the mark they have left on our city.

I regret that, even though the old part of Kanezaka appears outwardly unchanged, it has suffered under the cruel hand of the Hashimoto. Our view of the motherly mountain now encompasses the jut and arrogance of skyscrapers and neon, not the warm comfort of wood and wind and stone as it once did.

I stand, as Kanezaka itself does, between the old ways of the mountain and the Shimada and the new, sharp, hard ways of the city and the Hashimoto. We both know that the Hashimoto have you in their “care” not only for your skills, but also to keep me in my place—to ensure that I do not falter in their charge to keep peace in this city, among these people whom I respect so much. I will obey our current masters, for to do anything else will put both you and our friends here at risk.

I had hoped that over time the Hashimoto would grow lazy. That they would see we are an honest people whom they need not oppress.

Not even the most faithful dog could take such a beating without biting back—and the people of Kanezaka are great of heart. We are being worn down. The demands upon the populace are increasing, and tempers are rising. Missed payments are met with more vicious abuses. And now someone has given the Hashimoto further reason for anger.

Over the last few months, shipments of Hashimoto contraband have gone missing. Their men have been badly beaten or robbed when returning from their rounds. Perhaps most boldly of all, messages painted in bright, conspicuous colors have started to appear, though they are quickly painted over.

These fools are not so subtly throwing in-nen at the Hashimoto, and their acts are received as well as you would expect. These vigilantes think to rise strong against a tide of violence. Instead they strike fast—and hide faster—while the good people of Kanezaka take their penance. And so my job—to keep our own people, our friends, in submission—has become both more delicate and more vital with each passing day. There are moments when I can scarce believe the world in which I walk now: You, making beautiful work for undeserving pigs. I, who trained the scions of Sojiro Shimada, forced to turn my swordmaster’s blade against my own. The children of this town, growing to adulthood with only the brutal, thoughtless Hashimoto to determine what is good or bad . . . our daughter among them. It is dangerous in this city now.

I will walk through Kanezaka today not simply to imagine you walking beside me or to greet our neighbors. I have made an offering to take to the Tetsuzan Shrine of my ancestors: A bowl coated with brilliant blue-green yuyaku from the pottery school, into which Ichiko has ladled a splash of dashi. A rice ball from our neighbor. From Kenta, a piece of red bean mochi—our daughter’s favorite. To all this I have added a generous pour of sake. I may have poured a small cup for myself as well.

I will ask the fox spirit for strength to continue this fight and for wisdom for myself and for all of us. Then, after sunset, I will take the sword that you gave me so long ago at our yuino and patrol the streets of this place that both fills my heart and breaks it. I will find these self-appointed “guardians,” who, if not deterred from this path, may be the spark of a misguided and deadly fire that will consume us all.

May you and I both be as your blades are: strong and sharp. Obey the Hashimoto, as I must, and give them the outward show of respect, even if you cannot give true respect a home in your heart.

I will close on the lighter note that I promised and say that I know if you were here you would remind me, “The kitsune can change your luck with a flick of even one of her tails.” May she flick all nine of them and send some much-needed good fortune our way.

Kashiko—

#overwatch #new hero #shimada clan #genji shimada #hanzo shimada #toshiro yagami

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rwbyremnants · 4 years

Link

CHAPTER WARNINGS: Hard convos and fluff (and awkward almost-incesty feelings)

Getting pretty close to the end! Also I started writing a new project - I know I know, I'm not even done posting this and Princess And The Dragons! Believe me there's just a ton of fics I could keep posting for all eternity, but they're all a complete mess (except the 2 I'm working on posting now). I might hit the fuck it point and post a few of them without doing any editing or rereading to make sure they make any sense. Yay for all that information nobody asked for!

=Chapter 10

A few months passed. Ruby had no further contact with Winter after she drove away from her, apart from one message she asked Penny to send, establishing that she no longer wanted to continue their arrangement. No more sessions, no more visits to the club, nothing. Even the casual texts had stopped, or the occasional silly snaps back and forth of each other's day; it was like they had never met. Strangers.

Then came an occasion she was dreading. There were other family gatherings she had managed to bow out of – anything to avoid awkward contact again out of fear of embarrassing herself; but this wasn't one she could squirm her way out of so easily. Weiss's birthday. She would never want to avoid her idol's celebration, especially not when she was specially invited! Dodging that one would also raise suspicion, and make it far more obvious that she was avoiding something to the other guests.

Plus, she didn't want to hurt her any more than she already had. Her guilt was too heavy. Time to bite the bullet and say hello.

All she could do was mentally prepare while she was out shopping with Yang, looking for an ideal present with her wife. She had promised that she would look after whatever she bought so Weiss didn't find it; at least that was a promise she could keep without anyone getting hurt.

"Hey, how about a cute little pony?"

When Ruby looked over, she saw Yang was holding up some kind of rainbow-painted porcelain horse tchotchke. She practically welcomed the distraction, no matter how mundane. Raising an eyebrow, she laughed, "Oh God, are you gonna turn her into one of those kooky nerds who has a billion of those?"

"Well… no…" Putting it back, Yang sighed and looked around. "But I'm totally drawing a blank this year. You know she's the one who's good at picking out gifts, and I just… suck ass."

Still trying to distract herself, Ruby smirked back toward her, walking a couple of steps backward to keep their pace in the store. "She told me enough times she liked what you got her last year. You know… the 'banana'?" If she wasn't going to be able to distract herself with small goods, she could by embarrassing her favourite sister. "She tells me everything when she gets drunk, unfortunately."

Ducking her blonde head, her big sister groaned and muttered, "God, Weiss… why can't you handle your booze?" She cleared her throat and spoke up to say, "But I don't wanna get her another 'toy' this time. I want it to be something sweet. Y'know, romantic and shit."

"Oooh…" That didn't give Ruby all too much to work with. While Yang and Weiss were definitely happy together, even she knew romance wasn't Yang's strong point. Aside from throwing herself in the path of an explosion that time a few years ago, the closest she had gotten was buying flowers on one occasion; only to get rid of them when they discovered Weiss was allergic. That was a story she wouldn't let her live down.

"Well, what kinds of things has she been into lately? Anything she mentions in passing or something?"

"Um… music? Frilly dresses and expensive perfume? Marrying the worst girlfriend in the world?" Sighing, she leaned back against a shelving unit full of lawn gnomes and hung her head. "I'll just get her another Victoria's Secret gift card."

"Doesn't that kinda count as a present for yourself? Just saying…" But Yang's phrasing didn't sit well in Ruby's own mind. Sure, she didn't know what sorts of presents were romantic and usually ended up with a cop-out gift, but at least she wasn't hurting anyone in the process of that. The worst girlfriend award for sure went to Ruby Rose. "And we both know she has the better of the Xiao Long-Rose sisters, so don't say you're the worst, dork."

"Does not! You're the real prize, and Penny is so lucky! Geeze, if you weren't with her, I'd be beating guys and girls off you with a stick!"

Even if it was meant positively, Ruby wasn't particularly in the mood to play along. Instead, she shrugged her shoulders reluctantly as she wandered out of the store, walking aimlessly in the direction of a jeweller’s. "Nah, I'm lucky to even have Penny. Don't even know how she puts up with me sometimes."

After a moment, Yang followed. She took so long to respond that by then, Ruby assumed she had forgotten the topic. Then…

"Okay, spill. What's been up with you the past couple months?"

"H-huh?" Even if it was a question she should have expected, she was taken aback, instantly finding herself on the defensive. "N-nothing! I was just saying that Penny's good for putting up with me, that's all!"

"Yeah, but you and Penny never fight. She hasn't seemed unhappy being with you or anything like that, at all." Folding her arms over her ample chest, she demanded, "So what's up, Rubes? Spill – unless you want me to tickle it out of you."

No getting out of that not-so-idle threat, no matter how much she tried. And even if Yang didn’t tickle her, she would be like a dog with a bone. Sighing, she looked downward sadly, still idly pacing around in the hope either of them would see something of interest for Weiss.

"It's not Penny and me that have had issues. We're fine. Our relationship's been pretty solid for a while…" When she stopped in front of the bracelets, she debated where to begin, whether or not to tell the story. In the end… "But… I’m, uh…"

Sensing this was big, Yang slid an arm around Ruby's shoulders. "You can tell me anything. If you could handle me coming out and transitioning, I can handle whatever's bugging you."

In the end, that tilted the scales. Yang deserved to know, since she had always been so open with her. At the same time, she didn't need to know who it was. The thought of that conversation coming to light certainly wasn't a good one given Yang's past with Winter.

"You know Penny and I don't… y'know, that often. So, um, Penny let me go out and see someone else, purely for sex. It worked out so great at first, me and this other girl had an amazing connection… but I had to go and ruin it."

For a moment, all Yang could do was blink in surprise. "Whoa, really? Never thought of you as a 'side chick' kinda girl." She hastily added, "But that's cool! I mean, if you have needs and Penny's okay with it, why the hell not?"

"Yeah, heh… I guess." Scratching the back of her head nervously, she couldn't look Yang in the eye anymore. The situation was too sensitive. "But it got deeper than that. Penny and I talked about it as well, and… and we realised that I was falling for this other girl the same way as Penny. Which she felt, too. But then… then I said some really stupid stuff and made a huge mess."

"Falling for both of them?" But of course, Yang had mostly been saying that to confirm it to herself. Blinking a few more times, she then asked, "What kinda stuff? Like, maybe it wasn't as bad as you thought."

"L-like…" There was the awkward part; she didn't know how to word what was happening without possibly outing either Winter or Qrow. Sighing in frustration, she looked back up. "Okay imagine if, I mean just imagine here – you're about to confess your feelings to Weiss for the first time, but then when you're just about to, you find out she's been sleeping with… with Dad or someone as close as that. Y-you'd be shocked, right? Shocked enough to really hurt her feelings on accident?"

For a long moment, Yang just tried to process the very idea being put across to her. Then she burst out, "Dad's been banging your side-chick?!"

"No!!!" Quickly slapping a hand to her forehead, she groaned out in frustration; one that had a couple of people turning to look at them. "I said 'someone as close as', not Dad himself! But that's not the point, anyway!" Looking around some more of the various watches and charm bracelets, Ruby sighed again. "I was yelling at her how if she cared she would have told me, because that was happening before I started hooking up with her, and during. And like, she knew this person was close to me! And I ended up… ended up learning I'd hurt her on other occasions without meaning to. Bad."

This time, Yang took even longer to respond. They both went back to looking over the things in the displays, picking them up and putting them down. Neither really paying much attention to what they were seeing.

"This, um…" Yang held up a tennis bracelet with a musical note dangling from it. "Is this dumb? I… think she could like it, but I, um…"

Again, Ruby welcomed the distraction. As much as she needed advice for what to do next, she much preferred to ignore the subject and keep burying her head in the sand. "That is super cute, actually. Maybe you can get another little snowflake charm for it too?"

"Ooh, that's a good idea… let me know if you find anything like that. Or maybe a star, because…" Her voice got quieter as she added, "She's my star."

Despite Yang having meant it genuinely, Ruby only saw her usual attitude of pun making and groaned again. "That was sooooo bad, international superstar. But stars and snowflakes, got it."

"Y-yeah," Yang replied with a feigned laugh. Clearly she had thought that was really romantic and it fell flat.

They both dug through the display for a little while longer, and Yang did eventually find a snowflake. Ruby was still hunting for a star when she walked back over. Clearly her mind was preoccupied.

"Um… hey Ruby?"

"Hmm?" Noticing that Yang had found what she wanted, she turned back to the display a moment to look longer. "Still can't find a star… Do you mind if it's a typical one? Or do you want a more… what? Something wrong?"

"The typical one is fine, we dug through most of 'em." Then she cleared her throat and tried to sound unconcerned as she asked, "So, were you, uh, maybe, kinda… sleeping with Blake?"

That'd made Ruby drop the small charm she had picked up, which bounced and rolled under one of the displays before she could catch it. At least it was one of the cheapest ones. "Oh, shoot! Noooo!"

“Those things are dime a dozen. C’mon, I asked you a serious question.”

She looked back around to her sister reluctantly. "No, not Blake. I mean, she said she thinks I'm cute before, but also said she would never want to because of your past. Kinda... crossing the streams, or whatever."

"Okay," she sighed in relief. "Whew! Just… you know, I noticed you guys were kinda hanging out sometimes, and… like, I never for sure thought you were, but that’s the only obvious guess I have."

Breathing with relief, Ruby laughed nervously with her. "T-that's fine! Nah, she and Sun seem to be exclusive to each other, from what I know, at least."

Under her breath, Yang muttered, "She's said that one before…" Then she cleared her throat and said, "Okay, Ruby. Whatever went on between you and whoever… it sounds like you were going past just bumping uglies and into really caring about each other. Weren't you?"

"H-hey, it wasn't like-!" But as much as she wanted to deny it, Yang was right; that was the simplest way to put it. Looking downward, she mumbled, "Yeah… we were."

"But… she's also doing stuff with someone really close to you, and it kinda gives you the 'this room is too crowded' vibe?" When Ruby didn't answer, she sighed and ran a hand through her bangs. "Whoo. That's rough."

"She’s also roommates with this person," Ruby added. It seemed like a major detail to leave in given the situation. Pacing to the other displays, she explained in more detail. "I'm not really mad about that anymore, I guess… I'm more mad that I hurt her. Not just by yelling at her about that, but that I left before talking it though. And that I hurt her before all this ugliness and didn't even know I did."

"God… and you were just gonna walk around with all this weighing you down?" Reaching over, she tousled Ruby's hair until it was a messy brown-and-red mop. It was one of the few things she had done when she was Ying that still lingered, even with how much she had changed before Ruby's eyes as they both grew up.

"Sis, I can only work with the facts I got. From where I'm standing… it sounds like this, um, person is worth it to you to go out on a limb for. I’ve been watching you moping around the past few months, and it's like… like something's missing inside you. And maybe your hookup isn't what you need, or maybe she- they are, and… I think you owe it to both of you to try. Just… I don't know, talk to ‘em again. Be chill and see where it goes."

"How?" she asked desperately with a little shrug. "How can I be 'chill' about it when I more or less said 'fuck you and what you've been through' to her face? Like… okay, it wasn't those exact words, sure; but the message was the same."

Though Yang did wince at the implication of saying something like that to someone, she gripped Ruby's shoulder. Unfortunately, due to her ignorance of the topic, her phrasing was less than ideal. "Hey, so you messed up in a… not small way. Sometimes to get what you want, you gotta eat a little crow."

Which was rather noticeable, given that she immediately shut her eyes tightly at the remark. "GOD I'd rather not hear 'Crow' and 'Eat' in the same sentence, you have no idea…"

But whether Ruby liked it or not, her sister was completely right. The problem wasn't going to be solved by hiding from each other; they needed to talk. To apologise, say their piece, and learn. Even if they ended up still avoiding each other after, the least they could do was try.

Apparently, Yang had been trying to talk to her all along, because she finally said, "Yooo, you in there, little Ruby? Big sis calling!" Then a fist was knocking on the top of her head, albeit lightly.

"GAH!" Flinching as soon as her head was touched, she nearly managed to knock the bracelet from Yang's hand! But right away she composed herself again, scratching her head. "S-sorry… I spaced. What were you saying?"

"I was saying that we should probably check out," Yang laughed easily, beaming her usual confident smile down at Ruby. "This bracelet's kinda lame, but it's literally the only idea I've had all day that doesn't make me wanna hurl myself into a volcano."

Ruby could only smile back, handing over the small star charm she had unearthed. "I actually think it's really cute, she'll love it."

But just after they'd finished checking out and re-entered the mall complex, Ruby was attempting to get some information of her own. She had been wanting to for a while, but didn't know how without raising suspicion. As naturally she could, she asked, "So… who's coming to the party? Me, Penny… who else?"

"Oh, well you know. Family people. Plus FNKI is supposed to be there, and Blake and Sun." Pointing, she asked, "Smoothies? My treat, for helping me out with this."

"Yeah, I guess smoothies wouldn’t break the bank," Ruby laughed, following her big sis. "Family people… so Dad, Jacques… Winter…?"

With a slow drawl, Yang answered, "Riiiight. That's who family is. Oh, I don't know if Uncle Qrow RSVP'd yet or not; he was invited. But Dad's gonna be there for sure." Then she looked suspiciously at Ruby. "Unless there's a problem with Dad being there…?"

"Why would I have a problem with Da-" But given the rather serious look, Ruby rolled her eyes. "Look, Dad was an example. This friend isn't actually sleeping with Dad. If she was, he would be living in the house with them, cause they are roommates with the person, remember? And no, it’s not Penny, and it’s really not me."

"Well yeah, I guess. Just double-checking, okay?" When Ruby still seemed irritated, she sighed and said, "Okay, I won't ask who's who again. I get it, this is sensitive. But… I do hope you get whatever's going on squared away. And promise me you won't sit on it until too much time went by, and now you feel like you can't speak up. Please?"

Eyebrows furrowing, Ruby looked up to her sister anxiously. She was genuinely worried about her… and had good reason to be, given what she had to deal with a few years ago; of course now that a somewhat similar situation presented itself, even if only affecting her sister, she would be on edge. But not wanting to let on how truly she was bothered by this, Ruby instead looked at the smoothie menu.

"Get me a banana and blueberry smoothie and it's a deal."

But all Yang groaned in response was, "Do you have to pick 'banana'? I'm already embarrassed enough about that as it is!"

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

"…but she’s been saying she wants to eat more organic, so I figured, buying some vegetable plant seeds could be an idea; something to do with little Fèn once she gets older, also. Not such a boring present, is it?"

Winter’s father had offered to drive her to her sister’s birthday party to both spare her sobriety and cab fare. He insisted strongly, despite her reluctance to be in his company. In recent days, that seemed to be worryingly common; for her to be alone or seem a little more uptight and serious than usual. Even if he had never mentioned it, her father certainly noticed.

And when noticing she still wasn't particularly listening on this occasion, he cleared his throat. "S-so… Amber couldn't come. She had something with her own family she couldn't miss, so you and Weiss will have to meet her properly another time."

"Hmm? Oh, yes… that's wonderful, Father." It was a stock answer. Winter would normally have offered up something a lot more in-depth and pointed, but it seemed she still wasn't up to the task.

In fact, she had spent most of the past months avoiding any time alone with her father. Not that he would know why. Not that they never talked, but their discussions had been fewer and further between ever since he told her about Amber. Poor Jacques. The only cause he could think of was the possibility that Winter didn't like his flowering relationship. And no wonder; no one would like to hear their parent had moved on, much less such details.

While they were at a red light, he looked around to her, asking, "You… aren't mad at me for dating again, are you?"

"What?" she asked, roused from her reverie. "No, not at all… oh, Father, I'm sorry. My mind is just elsewhere." Frowning over at him, she told him as earnestly as she could, "I didn't mean to make you think I disapprove of Amber."

There was a wave of relief, and right away he swept the sweat from his brow. "Phew! You had me worried there! Last thing I wanted to do was make you or Weiss feel uncomfortable." As the light turned green, his attention returned to the road, but he didn't drop the subject. "Then what is wrong, dear? You've seemed off for a long time now."

"Have I?" she asked, trying to sound as convincing as she could. She shifted in her seat, trying to find a more comfortable position. "Sorry about that. I didn't mean to worry you."

"Well, you have been a little," he admitted. "So, if it's not Amber… what is it? Is there something I should be concerned about? Have I done anything to upset you?"

"No, nothing," she answered immediately. There was no way she could ever tell him why she was so uncomfortable in his presence now - especially since it was getting easier to manage a little at a time. So she had to distract him, and she could only find one topic that would adequately excuse her standoffishness without making her poor father feel worse. "Just… I was beginning to think I might have found an 'Amber' of my own. But the relationship fell through before I could figure that part out."

"Oooohh… so, it's relationship trouble." While it was a better assumption than the whole truth, it was still awkward for old Jacques Schnee. He wasn't used to talking to his daughters in such circumstances until a couple of years ago, so the advice was always rusty. Still, he tried. "There's always more fish in the sea, even if you have to swim a little further out, I suppose. I know you get out more than I do, I'm sure you'll find a nice… girl, to settle down with someday."

Laughing weakly, Winter crossed her legs in the opposite direction, hoping against hope that it would abate her discomfort. No such luck. "Doubtful. I just don't feel that kind of connection with people. Not until…" Did she dare confirm? "Until she came along."

"I see… the one that got away, hmm?" Given the silence, that was also confirmed. While it wasn't as easy for him as it would be talking to a son about this sort of thing, he tried his best to treat her in the same way he would a son, and cleared his throat. "Girls are very mysterious. One minute you think you have them figured out, the next, you're back to square one. Or in your case, square zero. Of course, you know that, being a woman yourself." Scratching his head nervously, he tried to continue, "But what I'm saying is, don't bet all your money on one horse. If it's not meant to be, it won't happen. If it is, things will… well, they'll find a way to work."

"But I wasn't putting money on any horse," she sighed. "My feelings came as a complete surprise to me; I wasn't even looking! And then…" There had to be a way to discuss this without going into specifics. "We had an argument. About our relationship, and how we hadn't been entirely honest about our situations. It should have been something we could work through, but…"

"Ah, of course. Nobody likes complications." They weren't too far from the house, but rather than pull right up to the drive, he pulled the car over onto the shoulder a moment. "Listen, I'm not very good at this, you can tell; but it sounds like you both left everything up in the air rather than talking through the issue properly."

Winter could feel her anxiety rising. They were so close! She hadn't been mentally prepared to be alone with him for any longer than the drive there. But she also didn't want to squander this chance to have a non-superficial conversation with her father; they were so rare, and if she avoided this one she might not get another for a while. Or might even lead him to believe she hated him. That wouldn’t do.

"I wanted to try again. But she let me know we were done. That… she didn't want to see me anymore. She was so upset, I… how can I approach her if she hates me?"

Leaning back in his seat, Jacques sighed deeply, drumming his fingers against the top of the steering wheel as some form of distraction. "How indeed. Then again, your mother and I used to have our fair share of arguments before we got serious; sometimes, shit happens." It was unusual for her father to swear, even more so when he was calm. Still, it meant they were possibly getting somewhere. "Perhaps arrange to meet under more neutral circumstances?"

"Perhaps so." Her eyes flicked toward her sister’s house and the promise of safety, and she sighed. "We'll see. It feels so hopeless, but… I should at least apologise for my part of our misunderstanding. Then it would be up to her, right?"

"Exactly." He smiled toward her. "The ball will be in her court, as it were. If she wants to play, she will. If not… well, you can say you did everything you possibly could. It's disappointing if it does come to that, but in the end, it's far more satisfying to say you tried than to give up without trying."

Nodding glumly, she tried to let herself believe him. It was so hard! But she knew it was the truth; yes, Ruby was well within her right to end their arrangement, even without what went on with Qrow. Even so, that didn't mean she and her sister-in-law couldn't patch up their friendship, and discuss what went wrong like mature adults.

"You're right, of course. It's… I'll think about it. Thank you."

Nodding happily, he put his hands back on the wheel again to drive the last few seconds of the journey. Already, there were a few cars and bikes on the drive from the various guests. One of which included the small red car that Winter recognised so much: Ruby's.

Oblivious to that, Jacques was already taking off his seatbelt and opening the door. "In the meantime, just enjoy the party today. I'm sure Weiss will let you hold Fèn for longer than a couple of minutes this time!"

"Don't count on it," she laughed as they exited the car and began walking up towards the lakehouse. Despite their difficulties and Winter's private discomfort, she really did appreciate the talk more than she could say.

Once they got inside, they could see most of the guests had arrived. Yang and a few members of FNKI were loitering in the spacious entryway. One or two other children from Fenléng's daycare were toddling back and forth in the living room, their mothers likely nearby. Winter thought it was nice that she had a few little friends to play with.

"I'll be back in a bit, guys," Yang reassured both Flynt and Inu upon noticing the new guests. Suspecting they hadn't seen Weiss yet, she thought it best to greet the newcomers herself, managing to scoot past them to welcome her inlaws with open arms. "There you two are! Figured you got lost, again."

Jacques chuckled to himself, accepting a quick hug from her with a pat on the back. "That was just one time. Where is my other pride and joy, anyway?"

"Out in the garden with Ruby! I think they wanted to catch up a little bit before we gave Weiss her presents and stuff. You can head through, if you want?"

Raising a small bag and the box from Jacques, Winter said, "Where shall I put these?"

"Oh, I'll take 'em while we go through, it's on the way. Weiss's been waiting for you guys to turn up!"

With a brief wave goodbye to the two guests, Yang journeyed through the living room with both of Weiss’s relations following behind. She detoured to the kitchen with the two gifts, adding them to the pile, then leading Winter and Jacques to the rear conservatory doors. And there in plain sight were Ruby and Weiss, sat together on the bench.

The circumstances couldn't be any worse. Both Jacques and Weiss were completely unaware of the tension between Winter and Ruby. It gave no time for either of them to prepare mentally, especially not when Jacques was already walking outside toward them both, calling out to get their attention. "There she is! Twenty-two years young."

Turning, Weiss smirked at him as she said, "You got it right this year, Father. I'm impressed." Then her smile widened and she said, "Hey, sister of mine!"

"Happy birthday," Winter said, smiling gently. For the moment, she could forget about the girl sitting next to her sister. Ruby was definitely very important to her, but this wasn't her day, and it wasn't Winter's. "How does it feel to be another year wiser?"

"About the same," she laughed back with a little shrug. "Yang and I were just talking about that this morning; every year is just an encore, isn't it?"

"Once you're past twenty-one, it is pretty much the same,” Jacques chuckled. “Still, gives us an excuse to have a drink or two."

While he was making small talk with his daughter, Ruby continued to sit still with a drink in hand, staring toward the ground nervously. She knew Winter was there, but was far too scared to even make eye contact with her. Clearly, she had been just as cut up as Winter was in the first place. At least that was one small good sign; the pseudo-breakup wasn’t already an irrelevant event for the girl.

"So, how many others are on their way?" Winter asked, hands in the small of her back.

"Well, there's Blake and Sun," Weiss began to list off as she embraced sister. "Taiyang is on his way with Qrow. That might be everyone, right, honey?"

"Blake just messaged and said she's on the way," spoke up Yang from behind them, who had just finished putting the gifts away and was now coming to a stop by her wife’s side. "Aaaand Dad's on the way but a little held up because he went to get Penny from the airport. That’ll be a while, so… should we do presents?"

"You guys go ahead," Ruby said from her seat. At least now she raised her head a little, and looked outward to the large lake rather than at the floor like she was before. "I'm just gonna… chill here for a minute. Crazy week."

"Sorry to hear that," Winter said almost automatically. Then she cleared her throat and hastily turned to Weiss. "Are you ready for presents, or would you rather wait for Blake and Sun?"

"We can wait. In fact, now that I've stopped breastfeeding, I'm ready to have a drink. Can I get you something?"

Smiling demurely, she responded, "Oh, come on; this is your day. I can make drinks for both of us. What will everyone have?"

"Maybe Weiss already has the drinks I…" Though before she could finish that quip, Yang realised just who was in their company. They might well be on good terms, but an adult breastfeeding joke might be a bit too much for the subject’s father and sister to take. Winding back, she cleared her throat again. "Yeah, but I'll get them though, seriously. I know Weiss wants a strawberry daiquiri, and I’m still on the dry list. You two…?"

"I'm driving, so just sparkling water for me. What about you, Winter?" Jacques asked, although he was about ready to head inside.

Her eyes flicked to Yang, but then she said, "Martini, dry, single olive. That is, if it's no trouble."

"Nope, not at all!."

Weiss and Jacques headed inside first, with him asking about how she was and how Fènleng had been. It was always the subject whenever he came over now. But before Winter could step inside, Yang's hand landed on her shoulder, pulling her slightly around.

"Hey… you got a minute?"

That was quite startling for the elder of the Schnee sisters. Glancing both between the door inside and Ruby on the bench, she asked, "Of course, what's up?"

Glancing back at her little sister for a quick moment herself, she leant in closer toward Winter, talking in a hushed tone. "Okay, this is gonna be a weird request, but could you talk to her? This past few months she's had a bad case of the blues about, um, this situation she’s in. I know it's weird asking since she barely knows you, but… I'm kinda at a roadblock."

"Me?" Gulping, she glanced back at Ruby, then again at Yang. The woman she had treated so badly once upon a time. "I… don't have the greatest track record with helping people. Mentally. I'm honestly very surprised you'd ask me."

"Well, I'm stuck… Weiss is stuck, Penny's stuck… we're out of options. Not that you're a bad option, that's not what I'm saying at all! I mean, I know it's not gonna be the same as when you talked me into leaving and-" Sensing she was rambling, however, she looked down when the quizzical gaze of Winter met her own. "Bad start… bad start. But, yeah… if it's okay with you, could you? She may open up more if it's with somebody who doesn’t know her as well as us."

"Yang… you have me all wrong. I'm honoured you trust me to help her, and I'll definitely do my very best. Just… surprised." Swallowing hard, she whispered, "I've been hoping to… make things up to you; I know I can't, but anything I can do to try…"

"Oh pssshhh, I wasn't even thinking about that!" Yang quickly assured her, even laughing a little just to prove it. But in a short moment she squeezed her shoulder, just enough to convey she was serious. "I'm asking as a sister-in-law. Not as a 'you owe me'. Please?"

That prompted Winter to sigh in mild relief as she patted the hand on her shoulder. "That means the world to me. And yes, of course; I just apologise in advance if the talk doesn't do as much good as we both hope."

"Least we can say we tried. I'll have your drink ready in a second."

Finally releasing the shoulder, she headed back in the house behind Weiss and Jacques, leaving the two girls outside alone. Ruby, who was still trying to look to one side with her beverage to do anything to avoid looking her way; and Winter, who was awkward enough thinking about what needed to be done. It was pretty obvious Ruby wouldn't be the one starting.

There was so much she wanted to say, but in the end all she did was pace up behind the bench, come to a stop, and ask, "So… how have you been?"

Nervously shrugging her shoulders, Ruby kept watching the lake while she took a sip of her drink. Damn Yang… she didn't know anything about the situation, yet had somehow managed to convince Winter to do the very thing they needed to - despite her wanting to run a mile from it!

"G-good," she murmured after the sip, resting the hand back on her knee again. "J-just, um, doing so-so. And you?"

"I've been better… but I've been worse. So… I guess the same as you." She looked down towards her hands, white-knuckling on the back of the bench, and tried to relax. It wasn't working. "How are… you and Penny?"

Yet again, she shrugged her shoulders. However this time she at least made some form of effort to acknowledge her needs, by scooting to one side of the bench. "Not too bad, I guess. She has a new job, but she's been kinda stressed because I've been super tired a lot of the time."

Realising it would look strange if she kept standing there when there was an empty seat, she rounded it, sitting down as far away as she could from Ruby. Hopefully, she wouldn't feel crowded. "Why so tired? If it's not too much to ask about. Feel free to tell me it's none of my business, I…" But she didn't finish her thought.

"O-oh, it's nothing. J-just… uh…" Seemed it was more than nothing, especially when it came to the person she was admitting this to. But trying her best, she eventually shrugged her shoulders after another drink. "Just… felt a little off, that's all. I-it's like that sometimes."

"You should talk to your sister about that. She would know more about that, since she's… already on medication. No thanks to me," she added in a bitter undertone.

Closing her eyes, Ruby sighed deeply as she placed her glass on the ground and out the way. "That wasn't your fault entirely, you know. There were a lot of issues at the time with her, hiding under the surface. And besides, I'm pretty sure it’s not genetic; my parents weren’t diagnosed with stuff like that. So if it’s anybody, it’s Yang’s mom, I guess."

"Still, you… should work on what's troubling you." This was getting harder to dance around, and when she thought about doing so, she found she was unable to. "Because despite… how things played out, I still want what's best for you, Ruby. There's just no sense in you suffering if you can talk to someone, sort things out. Medication or no medication."

"I'm not depressed," she corrected. Although from the way she kept staring toward the ground, she wasn't exactly doing anything to prove that comment wrong. In the end, she placed her hands on the bottom of her small skirt, grasping the hem anxiously. But in the end, she thought to herself; what good would it do to keep distracting and leaving things unsaid? "I've just… been upset. Not Depression, not anything else; I'm just sad, okay? It… it was my own stupid fault in the first place."

"What was?" When Ruby didn't answer immediately, she followed up with, "I don't want to assume anything. That isn't my right. But maybe whatever has upset you wasn't your fault alone, and… and then you wouldn't have to punish yourself so harshly. Right?"

For a long while, there was silence between them. Ruby continued to look downward, still unable to yet look up at someone she once couldn't get enough of. It was almost tragic how far they had drifted thanks to a single argument. But the silence was lifted by a small, but rather desperate whisper.

"I miss you."

Winter's head raised, eyes wide. Her mouth worked as if she would respond right away, but she forced herself to stop, to consider her words more carefully. Then she stated, "And I have missed you. So much."

Tucking a stray strand of hair out of her own face, she eventually settled to holding her hands together on her lap, idly crossing her legs to appear casual. Just on the off-chance anyone inside was looking. But already, she could feel everything she had bottled up coming loose, feel her heart thudding with fear, eyes welling up.

"I just got so mad," she began to confess. “S-so mad and so jealous… and I had n-no right to be. That wasn't fair. Not when I-I'd done things just as bad to you."

"You didn't realize what you had done was so…" Winter paused, having to breathe deeply. This wasn't something she made a habit of discussing, so even now, months later, it was difficult. "We both crossed a line that we didn't think as important to the other person as it turned out to be. Is… that fair to say?"

It was accurate. All Ruby had wanted to do was show Winter that she was brave enough to do more daring things, while Winter simply wanted to keep the two most important people in her life happy without awkward encounters. It was certainly a fair assessment. Nodding in agreement, she stared out toward the lake again in a somewhat more contented silence.

"…How's Qrow?"

"Oh, he's been alright. They promoted him to assistant manager of the bar; said he was doing a great job with the work but was a little rude to the customers, so he was better placed being rude to the bartenders."

"So he gets to sit at a desk behind the bar and drink? Sounds like an ideal job for him."

Winter smiled down at the hands in her lap. "You… probably don't want to know any more details than that, do you?"

Though that last comment didn't make Ruby laugh. Unfortunately, she was still rather awkward about that situation. "N-no… not really. I wanna hear if he's okay but not like, those details."

"Of course, of course," she replied hastily. "I have no problem with that. As long as you agree not to tease me about… about the other thing. We can bring it up from time to time, but don't tease. It just…" She looked away, biting her lip to keep from showing a reaction too severe.

"I know… I stepped over the line." Nervously she shuffled in her seat again, looking downward toward the floor. A look of pure shame. "The truth is… I just thought that maybe… if I used my intuition and showed that I could be daring enough to try something big like that, you'd be pleased with my progress. But now I know, t-that was completely wrong. That you can't ‘guess’ with this stuff."

The corner of her mouth ticked up as she conceded, "Well, to be fair, you were right with everything except the third person who happened to be in the room. But your performance was… I still have to fan myself thinking about how good you were."

"It… was pretty hot." Unsure if that was crossing the line or not, she shrugged her shoulders nervously. "That doesn't count as teasing, right? To admit that it was really… really thrilling?"

"No, not at all. I… could tell you how I really felt about it, if you promise not to pass judgment. A-and if you promise not to think it means I dislike you; just because I was angry and upset didn't mean I wanted you out of my life! I regret so much that I made it seem that way…"

"I wouldn't blame you if you did… I crossed the line," she admitted again. She knew she deserved more than that. She expected fury, rage even, but Winter had something else to say. "…g-go on?"

"What I said during play… that it really turned me on… I wasn't lying. It did. But admitting that means admitting that…" Winter's cheeks were pink already due to how long they had been talking about their last session, but she bravely forged ahead.

"On the car ride up here, I spent the entire time trying to ignore how wet I was getting. Because I was in the same car as my father. You were so good, and gave me such a powerful climax, that now… now I associate that with speaking to him, being in the same place as him. Which I'm so ashamed of; it's… not as if he had anything to do with it directly, or as if I want to sleep with him! GOD, no! But the two things are connected in my brain pretty strongly now." Now that the older woman had said her peace, she closed her eyes and waited for the reaction. However bad it might turn out to be.

"Ohhh…" Surprisingly, it was far easier for Ruby to take in than expected. While it was good to learn that she had given Winter an extremely powerful orgasm, and Winter was proud of her as a sub… learning that Winter now associated her own father with their escapades wasn't so good. In fact, when she thought about it…

It was the same association she now had with Qrow once learning who he was. Finding out that Qrow was another of Winter’s partners made such thoughts hard to totally block out. A sexual context for her own uncle. They were both dealing with those awful tricks of their minds. Only difference was, Ruby knew she would never accidentally be picturing her uncle during the act the same way Winter might with her father.

"Shit… I really screwed up…"

"Not so badly. I mean, it's almost fun, when I'm not disgusted with myself." A few seconds later, she added in a weak murmur, "That was supposed to be humourous, but after saying it, I realized it didn't come out that way…"

Still blinking, she finally looked more in Winter's direction than the floor at last. Not eye contact yet, but it was better than what it was. "Geeze, I just wanted to do something… adventurous. To be bold or whatever. I didn't want to ruin an entire person for you, let alone your own father!"

With another gentle, nervous smile, she turned back to face forward. "You don't have that much power, Ruby. He's not ruined, exactly… just… this is something I'll have to work through. But it does help to have a specific cause; you fucking me under the desk, instead of just 'Surprise, you're turned on in your father's presence'. Keeps me from thinking I'm even more of a deviant than I already am."

There was a small chuckle coming from her. "That would be the worst version of the Daddy kink."

"Ugh," Winter groaned, ducking her head. "Do you know how long I mentally dissected me moaning 'Daddy' when I’m being fucked?! I haven't called him that in over a decade, and I still had to worry about it!"

"Oh my god, I was kidding - I didn't know you had one!" The laugh was beginning to increase in volume. In fact, it would be the loudest anyone would have heard her laugh in weeks, even if it was a slight form of teasing. Their talk was working.

So Winter kept it going. Yes, she was uncomfortable with the subject matter, but it was also a relief to be able to get it out and discuss it instead of bottling everything up. "Well, I do, but it never had anything to do with my actual daddy until that night. Not as far as I knew, anyway." Shifting in her seat, she muttered, "You know what they say about all little girls wanting to marry their fathers…"

"Not me; never ever been interested in men. Even me being kinda weird about sex aside…" Finally, she felt her muscles relaxing as she grew more at ease; even began to smile. Maybe things were going to work out for them still being friends, after all. In the end, that's what they wanted, to be in one another's lives, regardless of feelings.

But Ruby didn't want to leave it there. Talking about where things went wrong with their arrangement was one thing, but with their feelings was another. They had come too far, said too much to leave it there without talking it through fully. If only she could take that first step.

Though Winter beat her to it. "If you're sure you want to keep these secrets, and aren't already disgusted by me…" Her eyes flicked up to Ruby's face, then away again, waiting. Bursting to speak, but afraid that she had already gone too far.

"I could never be disgusted with you." At long last, she looked up, and right at Winter's face. It was like she was seeing her for the first time all over again. She could already feel the bottled up feelings reemerging, the compulsive need to grab Winter and kiss her as hard as she could. But they had to talk it out first. "Even after all my thinking, all this time with these dumb thoughts… I can't be disgusted with you. I can't even dislike you. And I don't want to. Because all this time has passed and I… I-I… still…"

Almost as if to head her off, Winter went on, "G-good. Because it's been getting worse, even if I've been getting better at processing it; understanding it's a kink, and it doesn't make me bad for having a kink if I don't indulge it. That's not as bad, right?" Her eyes held Ruby's for just a moment, hopeful, drinking in the desire she saw reflected there, before she turned away.

"As you heard, my father has begun dating this Amber woman. I've seen her, and she really is attractive." More fidgeting from the elder Schnee sister. "S-so… I may have had a stray fantasy about walking in on them…"

"Well… I-I guess… um…" Truly speechless after that confession of hers, Ruby looked to one side wide eyed, scratching the back of her head nervously. Managing to force a chuckle of her own, she admitted, "I guess these things don't hurt. Fantasies and all that, different strokes for different folks."

"You know, I could tell he was flustered by that sketch of yours - which I framed, by the way, I hope I can show you how it looks framed. That… is part of what made it harder to forget this whole thing. He didn't know it, but he was finding me attractive." Then she cleared her throat, waving that away as best she could. "Which only makes sense; he's always told me I'm a lot like Mother was. Weiss is the one who looks so distinctly different, even though there's a family resemblance, of course."

"Weirdly? She looks like your dad, if he was a girl… if that makes sense?" She could only hope that would be enough to make her chuckle along with her. The strange thing was, at the start of this arrangement, she was so obsessed with Winter's likeness to Weiss. Now, she could completely separate them. When with Winter, it was like Weiss was never even a factor.

"She does!" Winter admitted with a giggle of her own, raising a hand to her mouth to hide it. Then she sighed and said, "Anyway, enough about my budding Electra complex before I develop a thing for Weiss, too." Turning more fully, she looked straight at Ruby with a sober gaze. "I'm so happy that we can talk again. It might not be easy, but I can't tell you how much I've missed this!"

Laughing right back with her, Ruby picked her drink back up from the ground. The smile on her face evolved into a grin. "Me too! This was one of the things I missed. I mean, Weiss and Blake are great to talk to, but you sorta get fed up with them bringing up their other halves like, all the time."

Nodding, Winter crossed her legs in a lot less discomfited gesture - though she still shivered slightly at the action. "Indeed, they do go on about each other. But it's a positive thing, that they're in such stable relationships." Glancing over at Ruby, she asked in a careful tone, "You and Blake didn't ever…?"

Drinking the final swig of her drink, Ruby shook her head lightly, drawing the glass away. "Nah. We agreed that'd be too weird with how she was with Yang and all. Plus, as much as she knows she's bisexual…" Shuffling up closer to Winter a moment, she quickly checked the area to make sure no one was in sight. Thankfully, they were all too distracted by the presents to even notice those two outside. Finally, she leaned into her ear, whispering, "She is definitely all about dicks."

Giggling, Winter whispered back, "I know. I offered to Dom her a few times, or to let her Dom me, and she said she 'wouldn't mind' but didn't seem all that excited about getting around to it. I saw that as the gentle kiss-off that it was, and never pushed for an answer."

"Yeah… She won't admit it, but she is a cockslut," Ruby whispered back. And yet even when she was done whispering, she didn't move away. Not yet. She had become content with sitting right at Winter's side, even leaning in slightly toward her. So close… even after months, it was becoming like those few romantic sessions all over again. Except there were no characters, no practice. This was Winter Schnee and Ruby Rose.

"Do you still…" But as soon as the words began to form, she held a hand up, shaking her head. "Nah, forget it, I'm being dumb."

"I still miss more than just our sessions," Winter told her firmly, offering it when Ruby hadn't finished her question. "I miss YOU, all of you."

Ruby found no more words to say. Usually a chatterbox who let her mouth run, and she was completely speechless. All she could do was keep their close proximity, feel her cheeks beginning to heat up once more as Winter stared back at her. She always managed to make her blush… and this was no exception. After a brief check to make sure no one was around, she found her eyes wandering elsewhere. To Winter's eyes, her lips…

"Kiss me."

"Are you sure?" she breathed gently, allowing her index finger to brush down along Ruby's arm. "Someone might see. Or do you want them to see?" Quirking her lips, she whispered as she drifted closer, "Not that I would fault you if that was secretly what you wanted."

"I-I want…" She wanted everything to go the way it was meant to go when she first confessed her feelings for Winter. She wanted for them to be more, so much more. "I want you… I want to feel how you feel about me. Even after this long. I-if you still do."

At the more insistent wording, the lessening of ambiguity, Winter's eyes began to shimmer. Her throat tightened, and she leaned in yet closer. With only another second of hesitation, her lips took the younger woman's, hungrily and with great relish.

And she poured every last ounce of desire into her mouth as she kissed her back, as her hand slid up to rest upon her neck. For the first time, one of their kisses wasn't merely full of confidence, sensuality, desire. This time, there was so much affection - on a level closer to Penny's, though different in its own right. Open and earnest.

In the same way, Ruby felt her eyes closing in bliss. Her hand crept up and into Winter's hair, bringing her in closer. Her other hand was holding her glass as best she could, but even that was a struggle. In the movement and effort Winter displayed when she opened her lips slightly further, when she eased her tongue forward to brush against her own, she could feel it. This kiss was so completely different to what she had felt from her before, yet entirely familiar. Winter Schnee loved her, and she could tell from that single, honest kiss between them. And already she could feel tears welling up in her eyes all over again.

Though Winter continued to pour more and more of her affection into the contact, eventually it grew to be too powerful. She had to break away to whisper, "I thought I lost you forever!" before she threw her arms around Ruby, pushing her face into her neck and trembling all over as she tried not to break down entirely.

Although hesitant at first, Ruby eventually found the strength to hug right back, pulling her in tightly as she grasped the cardigan she was wearing. Everything was back, her scent, her touch; her. And she wouldn't have it any other way. What a fool she was to let it all go, to let such a thing slip away because of a pathetic argume-

"Guys, we're starting to open the presents!"

Yang happened to call as she stood by the conservatory door. Why did that have to happen now?! Thankfully, there was no awkwardness about the embrace; it simply looked like what Yang had intended for them, for Winter to have helped Ruby with her sadness. And that brought a smile to her face. "Awww, come on you nerds, get in here!"

Pulling back with a sniffle, she was sure not to do what she would have done - kiss Ruby again - and instead turned immediately to call, "Coming!" When addressing Ruby again, she whispered, "Are you going to be alright? I mean, I think I can dry it up, but we can linger a moment if you need to."

Moving the hand from the back of her head to her shoulder instead, she nodded. She desperately wanted to do the same, quickly lunge forward and kiss Winter. But that would have to wait until another time. "Y-yeah, we'd better. Yang's been worried about me."

"Yeah, she said. Your sister really cares for you; I'm glad you're so close." Biting her lip as she stroked Ruby's arm, down out of sight due to the bench, she whispered, "Maybe… she can be one of the first ones we tell, when we're ready. She and Weiss. I think they're the ones who might feel the most strange about us being anything other than sisters-in-law."

"Yeah… Yeah that's true. It would be a good idea." But it seemed at first, Ruby hadn't quite realised what that implied. Until she started to really think about it. And her eyes widened once she began to think on it more and more, before finally gasping, "You… want that with me? Like, to be completely out in the open? Really?"

"Possibly," she answered with a shy smile as she finally began to stand up, pulling Ruby to her feet alongside. "Depending on other factors. Mainly, you and Penny; if we did that, she would be part of a polyamorous relationship, even if she has no feelings for me. I don't want to put her in that position if she's not comfortable with it. And then we'll have to decide how we feel about each of the other people in our lives knowing about it in turn."

"Yeah, of course. If we don't handle this right, people would accuse me of being a cheater. And I don't want that – she doesn’t deserve to have people thinking that, either. Don't worry, I'll be talking to her about it soon."

Winter nodded, then couldn’t help grinning down at the little puppy. Now all hers – or at least, more hers than she had been expecting. "I can’t wait."

#Lady Stardust #rwby fanfiction #ruby x winter #rwbyremnants #INCEST TW #(even tho it's not really)

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sabraeal · 3 years

Text

We Seek That Which We Shall Not Find, Ch 8

[Read on AO3]

Written for @eveluboi for winning the Obiyuki Trope Madness 2021 betting kitty! I meant for this to be out way back in June, but it quickly slipped from a 4-5K projected fic to 7K 😂

Cold porcelain presses up against her palms, slick from where her fingers wrap around the sink’s edge. Shirayuki bows her head down, watching the water spiral down the drain, and breathes. In and out; in and out. If she hadn’t left her phone out on the table, she could look at one of those gifs she bookmarked; the one where the triangle becomes a decagon maybe, or where the star burst becomes a mandala. But she did, so instead she has to visualize it, counting out the shapes behind her eyelids.

It doesn’t work, but at least it’s something.

There’s something distinctly high school dance about hiding the the bathroom-- though in here, it’s impossible to just sit on the toilet and brace her legs against the door. Not that she needs to; unlike a bathroom stall, this door actually locks. A feature she’s sure has nothing to do with whatever the Wisterias plan to get up to in that Jacuzzi tub.

Shirayuki frankly refuses to speculate on what that might be. She still has to look Izana in the eye tonight, and the last thing she needs is to be thinking about him doing-- things in here, with people. Maybe he just has a compressed spine at the ripe old age of twenty-five, the kind that can’t be alleviated by anything less than eight massage jets.

In any case, this whole strategy of retreat isn’t really her style. Or at least, it hadn’t been, until...before. Which was a blip on an otherwise spotless record of confronting her problems head-on, with the sort of determined attitude Jaja fondly refers to as foolhardy, and Busha calls bull-headedness.

Her fingers grip the bowl firmly, levering herself up to stare into the mirror. She can do this. She can go right out there, sit down, and have Lynet reject this proposal. Because a normal person wouldn’t hide in the bathroom to avoid a fictional conflict.

Right. Shiaryuki drops her hands, giving her reflection a steely nod. It’s not like this is her first time turning down a boy; even if Shuuka throws her in a dungeon, he’ll still have taken her rejection better than the last one did, and that was a real live person. Not that Raj is much of a measuring stick for any kind of model behavior, but-- still. The point stands.

The door gives beneath the pressure of her hand, opening with a silence that’s confusing rather than comforting. Zen’s house might not be as old as hers, but it’s still not new; the apartment went up in the last five years, and its doors still hang crooked, screaming every time they move more than an inch. She can’t imagine Izana going around oiling hinges.

“Hey.” A hand catches her, strong fingers banding around her wrist. Pale ones, slender and well-trimmed; she traces them right up a crisp flannel to find Kiki frowning down at her. “I would give it a minute.”

Shirayuki blinks, and suddenly the world refocuses. It’s oddly silent in the basement, only the thin tumble of dice from the floor above. Obi’s either up to something or Beaumains is in trouble; she can’t even beging to guess which one would be worse.

And Kiki’s leaning here, right against the neutral paint, waiting for her. She shifts, casting a worried look toward the game room. “Is something--?”

Mitsuhide clears his throat; it echoes down the empty hall, a sound that fills the space like thunder overhead. Shirayuki bites back the impulse to count until next lightning strike; even though she knows it should be the other way around, that light travels faster than sound, but this--

“Is something wrong?” Zen drawls, sounding nothing like the boy who sits next to her in homeroom. No, sounding like this, he’s every inch Izana’s brother.

-- this is different. Bedwyr uses his words before he dares draw his blade, and it comes too naturally to be anything besides pure Mitsuhide, just like Beaumains’ quick tongue is the same one that wags in Obi’s mouth. He rumbles before the strike, and this one is destined to hit too close to home.

“Zen.” There’s something about how Mitsuhide wields a name; Shirayuki hardly knows him-- not as much as Zen and Kiki, anyway-- but when he says hers, it’s like having those giant arms cradling her tight against his chest, in a way that is less romantic and more like a tiny kitten living in a jacket pocket. When he says Obi’s, it’s a buzz, a burr, the sound before a siren wails, a warning that will never become a threat.

And when he says Zen’s right now, it’s a weight, a boulder to bear like Atlas shoulders the earth. It’s the moment before the punishment comes in the last act; the last temptation to turn the antagonist back onto the path of the righteous. “You should rethink your behavior tonight.”

“My behavior?” Zen squawks, chair clattering beneath him. “I haven’t even done anything.”

Mitsuhide’s silence speaks volumes.

“I haven’t,” Zen insists, though it’s weaker this time. “You’re the ones who are just letting Obi act like the rules don’t apply to him.”

“We are?”

“Well...” The pout sits sullenly on this tongue. “Izana is. And you guys aren’t doing anything about it either!”

Mitsuhide heaves a sigh that would make trees sway. Kiki’s fingers flex in sympathy against her shoulder. “I think you’re being a little unfair.”

“Unfair?” The word squeaks at the end of Zen’s range. “What’s unfair is that Izana invited that guy for the specific purpose of scaring Shirayuki off, and no one seems to care.”

Shirayuki only realizes she’s moved when Kiki’s grip holds her back, one foot still hovering over the floor, poised to make a very determined stomp. Words are welling up in her like ground water during a storm; a whole monologue that threatens to flood the basement of her common sense. The whole night comes back to her in inches; every slight, every complaint is magnified tenfold now that she knows it comes to this, and she--

“Give them a minute,” Kiki murmurs. “Sometimes Zen just needs a swift application of a boot to his ass.”

She blinks up at her, body vibrating with a need to do something. “And Mitsuhide will do that?”

A picture might be a thousand words, but somehow Kiki’s eyebrows could compose a novel. She lifts them a bare, dubious inch, and Shirayuki knows that chapter one starts with, and you think you’d do any better? “You’ll see. He’ll come around. Have a little faith.”

Bitter words lick up her throat, a carefully composed diatribe furiously scribed by her irritation. A list of all Zen’s petty squabbles, of all the times he’d tried to sideline her or sequester Obi ready to spill out, but--

But she swallows it down. Tonight’s tried her patience for sure, but it’d been Zen who leaned across the aisle in homeroom her first day. The one who’d stuck out a hand and said, you must be new. The one who had made sure she’d had somewhere to sit at lunch-- sure, Kihal had found her by then, adopting her like a baby bird fallen from a nest, but he’d swung by even though his wasn’t until next period.

That’s what’s so frustrating, to be honest-- she knows how good he can be. So the fact he’s choosing to act this way instead...

Her shoulders sag under the weight of Kiki’s hand. “I’m trying to.”

When Mitsuhide speaks again, it’s even, patient; she’d be tempted to say it was like a parent to a child, but there’s no condescension, no sense of speaking down but rather across. “That’s possible. But you’re still the only one acting hostile at this table.”

Zen’s huffs, indignant. “So you want me to just sit here and let them ruin Shirayuki’s experience?”

Kiki pushes past her with a parting pat, sauntering into the room. “How could they when you’re doing such a good job of it yourself?”

Shirayuki can’t see either of the boys, but she can see Kiki when she spins a chair around, dropping down to straddle it. “You may not have noticed, but it doesn’t look like Shirayuki minds Obi being here. At least, not as much as you do.”

“Kiki,” Mitsuhide sighs, a warning. “That’s enough.”

Kiki must not agree, since she leans in, smile sharp enough to cut glass. “Maybe you need to lighten up, brother dearest.”

Zen sucks in a hard breath, like he’s been hit. “Don’t--”

The door rattles at the top of the stairs, a muffled voice turning to a dry laugh as it opens. Her stomach lurches like that moment at the top of a coaster, looking down at the track below. It’s Obi.

Kiki is a flurry of motion; her chair flips beneath her, and she sits back down hard, feet kicking up onto the table. When Izana and Obi emerge from the stairway, it looks like she‘s been idling at a casual tilt for hours, not seconds, but still, still--

Izana lifts one elegantly arched eyebrow. No matter how cleverly they all compose themselves, he almost certainly knows every word that’s been said.

“You’re back?” Zen coughs, his words hobbling awkwardly, dragged down by guilt. Izana’s other eyebrow joins the first. “What happened?”

Obi drops into his seat, cradling chin in hand. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I would,” Zen snaps, irritation already rising. “That’s why I asked.”

“Oh, don’t worry--” Obi tosses him a wink designed to send him through the roof-- “you’ll find out.”

“I--”

“If there’s any other business, tell me now,” Izana says, taking his place at the head of the table. “Otherwise, you’ve slept through the night.”

Obi flutters his eyes, grin taking on a feral edge. “Well, you know I’m all taken care of, Majesty.”

“Anyone else?” Izana sighs, long suffering. His eyes flick out over the table, settling into a frown. “Does anyone know where Shirayuki is?”

“Bathroom,” Kiki offers too quick, gaze cutting over to where she hides in the hall, before darting back. The corner of Izana’s mouth pulls deeper, and his eyes lift--

“Ah, I’m here!” Shirayuki hurries out, slipping into her seat. When she looks up Zen’s watching her with wide eyes, gears clunking along behind them as he looks from her to the hall and back, doing the exact equations she was hoping he couldn’t. “Sorry.”

“It’s not a problem,” Izana assures her, keeping his eyes fixed to the screen in front of him. “Did you have anything you needed to do before the night is over?”

“Ah, um.” Her fingers stretch wide over Lynet’s sheet, tips gripping at the table. “Yes. One last thing.”

The stars are bright tonight, shining in the firmament like jewels in velvet. Ancient poets would invoke Diana at the sight, at the thousand heroes and maidens consigned to shine above for defying their fates. Older ones still would call upon Arianrhod, the silver wheel, mother of wind and skies alone, praising the complexity of her beauty.

But when you raise your eyes to heaven’s glorious vault, you see only kingly gift laid at your feet, unasked. And when you lower them, another waits for you in Shuuka’s smile, devastating and earnest.

“A fine night, is it not?” His breath mists in the air between you; a lucky thing, since it obscures your grimace. “In all Our Lord’s creation, a man could not find one finer than this.”

“It is a wonder,” you murmur, stirring the fur at your cloak’s collar. “But I have seen so little of this world that I hesitate to say that in a thousands nights there would not be one that could surpass it.”

His mouth spreads wider still, the pearl of his teeth glimmering in the moon’s light. You’ve pleased him, somehow. “You can only say that, my lady, since you are graced with your own presence every moment, and I have only these. For now.”

Your feet stutter beneath you; the leaves crunching makes him turn, brow raised in concern. “Shuuka...”

“Ah, yes. You wished to speak with me, did you not?” His boot heels clack against the cobbles, coming to perch on the raised bed beside you. He is not close, even still, but having his eyes level with yours makes this moment too intimate for you to keep him fixed in your vision. Instead you turn, leaving him looming at the corner of your eye. “I am your servant in all things, my lady. Speak.”

“My lord,” you begin, for politeness seems the only kindness you can extend to him, “I believe there has been some misunderstanding.”

His head tilts. “A misunderstanding?”

His voice is lower, a manly rumble instead of its usual reedy melody; a child playing at a man. A man he only wishes to become because it might make you happy.

You sigh, your gut tangling as easy as your fingers do above it. Were you any other woman but yourself, you would be pleased to have made a match as fine as this. Perhaps even mere months ago, you would have been comforted by the thought of marrying a man you had met before, even if he had been a silly, sobbing boy at the time. But now, as you are, you cannot care for this-- this life your father wished for you, with no thought to your own.

“About the state of the agreement between our fathers.” Your breath catches in your chest before you manage, “They are both gone.”

Shuuka peers at you with shining eyes, and oh, if only you could choose your words as gently as he deserved. But you know better; a man who wears a hard helm often keeps a harder head beneath it, and women’s words only penetrate such a barrier if they are drawn to a point.

“That I know,” he says, so soft. “And I am sorry for it. But we may yet do what they willed for our future.”

“That is not all,” you continue, each word stinging with guilt. “This understanding was dissolved long before either of them was brought back into the great shepherd’s fold. When my family fell upon misfortune...”

You had hoped it would be easier to speak of it, but the words stick to your teeth, refusing to leave the safety of your mouth. Shuuka reaches out, clasping his hand in yours with far too much understanding for what you wish to say.

“I am not proud of what my father did,” he tells you, sincerity ringing from his words, clear as a church bell. “Though I am certain he thought it would be for the best, at the time. He never pledged my troth to any other, and above any other woman he had entertained to be the Lady of Laxdo, it was of you he spoke most highly.”

“That is--” hard to believe. Not when you spent most of your betrothal dance trodding on his son’s toes-- “Kind of you to say. I know that you value the words of your father above all others--”

“My father’s esteem is exceeded only by that of the Lord in Heaven, may he ever sit at his right hand.” Pain hollows his eyes, so raw that even in health he gleams gaunt beneath the moon’s light. You have both lost your fathers, but this wound is fresh, bleeding still, and yours--

Well, yours sewed up just fine with a little needle and thread. How quickly a wound heals when you must see to it yourself.

“Would that I could talk to him,” Shuuka rasps, fingers clenching around stone. “But I trust that if he could see you now, he would see a daughter still.”

His grief burns brightly, a halo that surrounds him-- no, a shroud, the sort that might bury him beside his fathers bones if he did not take care. It is that which makes all this worse, which turns what you must do from a discomfort to a cruelty. But it is better yet than what it could be if you indulged him, if you let pity and kindness stand where only love should.

“Yes, I understand,” you murmur, gathering every last draught of courage. “But I must admit, my lord, that I do not hold my own father in such esteem. You are a kind man, Lord Shuuka, the sort any woman would count her blessings should she find you as her husband, but I...”

You flounder, the night pressing in thickly around you. What you wouldn’t give for crickets, if only to break the silence.

“Ah.” There is a wealth of hurt hidden in that breath. “But you mean to say that it shall not be you, Lady Lynet.”

“What?” Zen’s eyes blink wide, so bright, so blue across from her. “You’re turning him down?”

Shirayuki stares. “What do you mean?”

“He’s a lord, isn’t he?” It’s a strange thing to ask, especially when they just spent the last week and change-- well, four hours really-- at his castle, but here was Zen, looking toward Izana like he needed clarification. “Wouldn’t Lynet, you know...?”

“Um.” Even with a sweep of Zen’s wrist and the emphatic lift of his eyebrows, Shirayuki still can’t see how that sentence might finish itself. “No, I don’t.”

It’s quiet enough to hear a pin drop, so when Obi lets out a hiccup, isn’t not exactly inconspicuous. She glances over at him, and from the way his mouth twitches at the corners, she’s hardly the first. “Is something...?”

Wrong, she means to say, but Obi gives a single solid shiver and collapses onto the table, head buried in his arms.

There’s a breath where her fingers go numb on the table, where her heart beat practically deafens her as it pound in her ears. She’s not here in the room, she’s out in the yard, a wrinkled arm reaching out to her, and all she can think about is where her phone is, whether she can reach it from here--

“My, my.” Izana’s drawl rattles her back to the table, gaze skittering over Zen’s forbidding glare, the clasped hand over Kiki’s mouth, Mitsuhide’s wide-eyes-- “Isn’t that an interesting question. Now just what does make Lord Shuuka such an attractive partner?”

Obi lifts his head, still trembling, but it’s not some medical event. Oh no, he’s just-- just laughing. Shirayuki catches her breath, holds it, and thinks of a triangle becoming a decagon.

Nothing is wrong. Everyone is safe. Healthy.

“W-well.” Zen’s voice creaks from the reach she suspects he’s about to make. “He has ah, hmm...”

“Large tracts of land?” Obi offers, so helpful.

Zen hands stiffen where he holds them out in front of him. “I wasn’t going to say that.”

His brows give a wiggle. “Looks like it.”

“I--”

“Castle Perilous already has land,” Shirayuki interjects, hoping the tremble hasn’t reached her voice. “Plenty of it.”

Obi leans back in his chair with a grin. “Castle Perilous has everything! Large tracts of lands, at least two level or dungeons, an ominous name...”

She flicks him a flat look. “My point is, Lynet doesn’t need a manor to maintain-- she already left that to save her sister. She has a quest, she doesn’t need--” she waves her hands, steady now-- “romance.”

Obi’s brow ticks up, just the tiniest bit.

“I mean, not with a man she’s only known a week,” she blurts out, feeling heat simmering beneath her collar, licking at her ears. “Why would I be playing D&D if I just wanted to-- to marry Lynet off to the first guy she saw?”

Zen’s mouth fall slack, eyes glued to his character sheet. “Huh.”

“Gee,” Kiki drawls, “all that production for nothing.”

“Shut--”

“If we’re all quite done?” Izana suggests pointedly. “I believe Lady Lynet is not quite done breaking her beau’s heart. Also--” those pale eyes cut toward her, eyebrow quirked pedantically-- “it’s Pathfinder, by the way.”

Kiki lets out a huff. “It’s the same thing.”

With exaggerated care, Izana nudges her character on the map. “It’s really not.”

You take Shuuka’s hands in your own; they’re soft, callused on the mounts like Arturius’. A swordsman’s hands, though not a warrior’s. He flushes beneath your touch, and you wonder if he is bothered by the rough touch of your own, marred by scrapes and scars, so unlike a lady’s that you might as well be a different country. That is what your father had called you once: a different country, the fondness thick in his voice.

That had been before. He had been a different man. You had been a different Lynet. A time you would long for, if you thought it might make any difference at all.

“I have my own path I must tread, my lord,” you murmur, “one that cannot be turned aside for my own comfort.”

He nods, head heavy. “I see. You too have your own quest of honor, like His Grace. A glory that only you can seek.”

“If only it were for glory--” your fingers stiffen in his hold, teeth gritting down on the troubles that long to pass through them-- “instead of to right the wrongs that have been done.”

His brows lift, and you do not imagine the offer in his eyes, the one that says you would only need to breathe the word, and he would raise his own blade in your honor. “To you?”

Your tongue would tie itself in knots if it could. “Among many.”

“I understand.” His hand squeezes yours so gently, as if you were a thing that could break, a glass woman cradled in his palms. That is a thing these lords do not understand; glass may be delicate once blown thread-thin, but it is first forged in fire, born at a temperature that would char flesh. “Perhaps, though, when you are done...”

It feels cruel to reject him, a man that loves the lady you could have been, but it is crueler still to give him hope where there is little to spare.

“Perhaps,” you say, stilted. It is too mild an answer for the passion in his eyes, but you learned long ago that fate’s whims could not be foreseen by any mortal heart. “But please, my lord. Do not wait for me.”

“It will be hard not to, my lady, for a woman like you is not easily found. However--” he lets out a raw chuckle-- “I do know what love sounds like when I hear it, and it...does not warm your voice when we speak.”

“I...”

Shuuka holds up one hand, chagrined, the other still wrapped in yours. “You owe me no explanation. I only mean to wish you well.”

He lifts your hand to his lips, laying a soft kiss to its back. “May God go with you, my lady. I pray you will not forget your loyal servant in your trials.”

“I...will not,” you breathe, wishing you might be the girl that could love this man. You cannot, you cannot, but oh, how much easier your road would be if you did. “Thank you.”

“Well,” Mitsuhide hums, smile hung awkwardly. “He seems nice!”

Zen nods, pink looming just under the apples of his cheeks. “A good, ah, potential ally.”

Shirayuki stares.

“You two,” Kiki starts, every syllable so overflowing with derision they practically leak, “are ridiculous.”

Obi looks fit to bursting as well-- at least, if the state of his twitching mouth is anything to go by-- but before he can get one word in edgewise, Izana clears his throat.

“Now that this little interlude is complete,” he drawls, casting a wary glance over the table. “I expect that we can move on?”

“No, wait, I’m sorry!” Shirayuki bursts out breathlessly. “Just--” she glances at Obi, squirming under the question in his eyes-- “just one more thing. I promise.”

Izana settles back in his chair, brows raised. “Oh no, by all means. Color me...” His mouth curves into a smirk that would cause a cleverer woman to reconsider. “...Intrigued.”

Your neck aches; beneath your veil, your hair lies heavy on your scalp, pinned and tied to within an inch of its life. There is no more of it than usual, you are sure, but it weighs on you now, a fetter meant to hobble your steps. A shackle meant to drag you down, to halt your progress forward. Perhaps that is always what it was meant to be.

A proper lady would not remove her covering until she was safely ensconced in her chambers; such manners had been pressed upon you since your first courses, first by your nurse and then again by your father. Modesty was a woman’s shield, and you clung to it then as if it could protect you, afraid of what might happen to you without it. No, afraid of who you might be.

But you are no fine lady, not by anything but birth. Such trappings were ripped from your hands, and now--

Now you are Lynet, alchemist and arcanist, and you keep nothing that will not serve you. Your fingers wedge beneath the fine linen, pins falling to your feet as you work them free. Everything about Laxdo may squeeze you, trying to fit you back in the mold your father made, but you will not, not ever again.

It may have been years since you last stepped in Laxdo’s halls, but this past week has made it something like a home, your feet carrying you with ease through the twisting corridors. A different answer but a moment ago and these would have been yours, your home in truth, but to stay here, to forget the power that you tamed with your own two hands and become nothing more than Shuuka’s wife--

It’s unthinkable. A life not meant for you. Though your sister would like it fine enough.

Your feet stutter beneath you, breath caught tight in your chest. Who are you to say what she would want, when you--

You shake yourself. This guilt won’t serve either, not if you let it hold you in place. Your gaze lifts, and finally you see where your industrious feet have brought you: Beaumains’ door.

It was inevitable that they would; your own chamber is on the same hall, mere steps away. But you had not meant to come here, to linger, save that-- that you had, for he has been on your mind since he delivered you to the dais, since Arturius had him sent from it to the revelry below. His voice has thrummed beneath your veins since you looked across the hall and saw him missing from the tables below, your mind turning over every word he spoke this night to see if his disappearance is merely a missing piece to a puzzle you have already solved. But no solutions have appeared before you, and now--

Now you stand here, head bare at his threshold, wondering whether you will be welcome.

You hand raises, hesitating above the grain. You could leave now, and no one would ever know. But if you did, if you simply left with no word, and found him gone on the morrow...

You knock twice. Then thrice. There is not a whisper from the other side of the door. You know better than to assume that means there is no man, not such a one as Beaumains.

“Beaumains,” you murmur, palm pressed flat against the wood. “Beaumains, if you are there...”

Your lips press to a thin line. You had not planned this, planned any of it, and your words will not come. You do not even know which ones you speak if they would.

Your forehead rests against the door, the ridges of its grain digging into your skin. “If you are there, I am here.”

There is no answer but silence.

“Goodnight,” you say finally. “I will...” You hesitate, breath catching in your chest. “I will see you on the morrow.”

Izana, at least, is happy to move on.

“If you have spells to prepare,” he offers graciously, “you may do so now, before we start the morning.”

Kiki raises an imperious brow. “I take it we’ll be doing combat, then?”

With a beatific smile, Izana informs her, “You may prepare for any eventuality you see fit.”

“Yeah.” Zen sighs, flipping to his spell list. “Combat.”

Shirayuki shuffles through her index cards, chewing on her cheek. Next to her Obi has affected a casual slouch, arm thrown haphazardly over his chair back and legs stretching well onto Zen’s side of the table. He doesn’t seem stressed, not like how she feels sitting in the splash zone of of their high stakes game of I’m Not Touching You during this fantasy field trip.

Her phone slides into her hand easier than it ever has, thumb sliding surreptitiously across the keyboard. Are you okay?

Her teeth grit down as soon as it’s sent, regret bitter on her tongue. It’s a stupid thing to ask; a feeling that grows when she watches him work his phone out of his pocket, eyebrows lifting as he reads.

His mouth curls into a satisfied smirk. peachy keen

Are you sure? Shirayuki peeks up from her cards, casting a subtle glance toward the end of the table. Izana’s bowed behind the screen, pen gracefully curving over page-- notes. He’s taking notes. I wanted to make sure Zen isn’t scaring you off.

lol impossible

A breath hisses out her nose, fingers tightening around the case. Leave it to Obi to make this into a joke. He’s really not a bad guy, I promise. I don’t know why he’s choosing to act like one.

A smothered noise hiccups out beside her, too loud in the room’s silence. Four heads bob up, three blond and one brown, and Obi smooths the noise out into a cough, a gentle clearing of his throat.

“Dorito,” he says with a tight wheeze, mouth twitching. “Musta gone down the wrong pipe.”

“Ah,” Izana hums, his eyes narrowing. “Of course.”

Zen, however, frowns. “We have Doritos?”

Obi’s mouth stretches into a smile. “You did.”

“How--?”

“Are we done with preparations, then?” Izana asks smoothly, settling back in his chair. “Should we continue...?”

“Ah, no!” Zen grimaces, ducking his head. “Just-- another minute.”

i got a good idea, Obi texts once. heads are down. but don worry im not going newere His teeth flash as he sends, jus had 2 take care f s/t

She glances up, and his grin is there to greet her, only growing wider when he reads the question in her eyes.

“Don’t worry, my lady,” he murmurs, shifting close enough for the words to ghost over her cheek. “Trust me.”

You wake to hue and cry, to chaos in the halls. A lord’s daughter might lay abed still, waiting for her maids to fetch her, but you were the Lady of Castle Perilous; when Morgaine comes to fetch you, you are already dressed, tucking the last tresses of red beneath your coif. She blinks, those midnight-dark eyes going wide before her expression settles into something far more grim, something more resigned than surprise.

“Beaumains isn’t in his chamber,” she tells you, no cushion in her words, only the bruising impact of the truth. “We suspect he never made it back to it.”

Your breath catches in your chest, struggling against its cage. “That can’t be true. Last night I...”

Spoke to his door, with not a single sign of him within.

“When the maid came to tend his hearth this morning, his cot was undisturbed and the fire burnt down to embers.” Morgaine fixes you with a steady gaze, braced as a man about to take a blow. “We mean to look for him.”

You snatch your cloak from where it hangs, winding it about your shoulders. “Then let us go. If he has been taken, then--”

“I suspect he has been taken by naught by stupidity, the same as any man,” the princess grouses, falling into step beside you as you hurry down the steps to the yard. “My brother wounded his pride, and he sought to restore it. Or at least commit some feat to let it scab cleanly.”

It rankles how much each word rings true. You had no brothers at Castle Perilous, but men you had in spades, and every one fool enough to put himself in mortal peril to salve his pride. “Let us hope you are wrong?”

Morgaine lets out a rasping laugh. “You prefer him to be in the hands of the enemy, then?”

“Rather than his own stupidity?” you ask, breathless, waiting for the yard’s door to open. “Always.”

When they do, your heart stops, stuttering right up into your throat.

“Alas.” The word hisses through Morgaine’s smile. “You are destined to be disappointed.”

Beaumains sits in the yard, perched merrily atop a cart drawn into the middle of it. You cannot, from this angle, divine what it is filled with, only that it is solid enough to hold him and his ego. Temper climbs up your neck, as choking as any ivy; to think, you worried about his heart enough to trouble your own, and now he sits here as if naught but a moment has passed from the night into the evening, as if this were but yet another day he spent in your company.

Oh, how you could climb that cart yourself to give him a piece of your mind. You do not-- would not, before all these men of Laxdo-- but the temptation lashes yours soles as thoroughly as any devil.

“Beaumains.” Arturius marches forth from the crowd, wrath crackling in the air as he walks. “What is the meaning of this? We awake to you missing, and now--?”

“So I heard.” His smile shines in the morning sun, just as brightly as his horns. “I was here, of course. Waiting.”

The Prince of the Angles flushes crimson, the whole of his frame shaking. “Then why would you not--?”

“For a lark.” His teeth flash; fitting since he wields his words like a blade. “Though I did leave last night. You see, something bothered me, and not just your manners.”

“Demon--”

“Devil,” Beaumains corrects, as fastidious as any tutor. “And you see, all this celebrating, it didn’t make sense. Not when we hadn’t solved who cursed our friend here.”

He holds one dark, clawed hand out to where Shuuka stands, gaping. “Me? But I thought--?”

“You know as well as any that we have been searching tirelessly,” Arturius snaps, temper well and truly frayed. “And now you come to mock us for it? Is it a fight you ask for? Is that what you desire? For I am happy to give it to you, if you do not--”

“I want no fight,” Beaumains scoffs. “I want results. And so...”

With a desultory kick, the back of the cart falls open, and out of it--

Ah, and out of it pours forth a mound of bodies.

“And so,” he continues with relish, “I got some.”

“You can’t do that,” Zen murmurs, but it’s not in anger. No, that’s shock that slackens his jaw, and with the number of tokens Obi just dropped on the map, it’s working on Shirayuki too. “That’s not-- he can’t do that, can he?”

“He just did,” Izana replies, somehow both weary and amused at the same time.

“But...” Zen stares at them, more than a dozen tokens sprawled over the grid. “How.”

Obi grins. “Skill.”

Izana casts him a dark, yet exhausted, glance. “He rolled very, very well.”

Shuuka skirts nearer, his face pale with shock. “Those are the men who sold us firewood. The very same you pulled from our hearths.”

“That they are.” Beaumains sits back on the cart; now that you can see inside it you see his seat is not a crate, as you had assumed, but two bodies stacked atop each other, the blood drying around their mouths and necks. “Or at least that’s what I was hoping, Master, since otherwise I’d have made a mortifying mistake indeed.”

Arturius has not moved, instead staring down at the hand that laid at his feet, at the twisted grimace the deceased’s face has twisted into. “You did this alone? With no other man to help you?”

“I surely did,” the devil sing-songs, his grin honing to a point. “Could you find me such a one, daring enough to help on a night so dark as the last?”

The prince’s jaw sets hard as granite, but his eyes belie his sternness, shining with heady mix of admiration and something that savors strongly of jealousy. “Well,” he grits out, shoulders jerking towards his ears. “I cannot fault you your skill, devil, but now there is no chance of us learning how or why this deed came to be done.”

Beaumains scoffs, enjoying every moment he sits above the Prince of all the Angles. “Have a little faith, O Master Mine. Before they met the fates they bought with their cursed coin, I asked them what man or beast compelled them to act. And they told me--” his eyes flash with triumph-- “a man in red.”

There is no chance for you to stifle your gasp, not when you see that armor shining before you, crimson in candlelight. Not when even now, that spiked gauntlet reaches toward you--

“Lynet?” Morgaine’s grasp brings you back to yourself, to the moment you inhabit. “Are you well?”

“Fine, fine,” you assure her. “It is only--”

That you may know who this enemy of Laxdo is. That you yourself have come to see him vanquished, but yet--

You cannot speak of it. Not even if you wished.

“You may thank me at your leisure, sirrah,” Beaumain crows, getting to his feet. Even now your stomach roils as you look, the blood nothing more than a black sheen on his boots. “I am ever at your--” he leaps, landing on the ground before Arturius’s gaze. “At your service.”

And with a singular, extravagant bow, Beaumains tips face first into the cobbles.

“Wait.” Shirayuki blinks down at the toppled figure, resting on a spray of tokens, right next to a white-painted 1. “What just happened?”

“Beaumains--” Izana’s mouth twitches at a corner-- “had but a single hit point left.”

Long fingers pluck the die from its resting place among the bodies, as if quick reflexes could keep them all from seeing the rock Obi just dropped. He glowers down at it-- all black and golden and glimmering, just like him-- and shoves it back into his bag. “And glass ankles, apparently.”

A low, heady laugh rolls across the table, Kiki kicking up her feet with a smirk. “This is why we invest in CON.”

Obi scoffs. “Please, I made it out with HP to spare.”

“Yeah,” she says, “one.”

“Well,” he grumbles, “it was enough, wasn’t it?”

You stoop to where Beaumains sits, propped up by the stable’s post and Bedwyr’s shoulder, hand raised to heal--

“Please.” Bedwyr’s impressive hand gently guides yours away, his smile tight and concerned. “You must save your strength, my lady.”

“I just awoke, sir,” you remind him, mouth pulled into an irritated line. “I am as fresh as I shall ever be.”

The knight cants his head, though you know him too well to believe he might fully acquiesce to you. “I know that well enough. But it is your talent we will need, should any challenges arise before day’s end. And this is entirely within my--”

“No, no.” Beaumains stirs at his side, eyes sliding open to relieve the unrelenting shadow of his face. “Let the pretty lady lay her hands on me, paladin. Her touch is far softer than yours.”

Ah, it would have been best for him not to say such things before the whole of Castle Laxdo. Or at least, not in front of its lord. The weight of his gaze already presses heavy on your back, growing only more weighty as Beaumains sears a bleary line up you with his gaze.

He’s far to gone to keep it steady; already it wanders, tracing Bedwyr’s lines as well, and--

“Wait, no, never mind,” he slurs, squinting up at that giant of a man. “You’ll do too, sir, if you’re so eager to put your hand--”

Bedwyr presses a palm to the center of Beaumain’s forehead, and with an authority you know can only come from the Lord in Heaven, he intones, “SLEEP.”

“You know, big guy,” Obi drawls, grin already stretching from ear to ear. “I’m pretty sure paladins don’t get those spells. And fighters definitely don’t.”

Mitsuhide glances up from his sheet, straight at Izana.

He smirks. “I’ll allow it.”

Beaumains sleeps the slumber of the ensorcelled. That is, complete and utterly quiet.

Bedwyr peered down, and with a nod of his head, declares, “That’s much better.”

#obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #dungeons & dragons au #my fic #ans #listen i know i said ONE chapter until the end of this arc #but like #TECHNCIALLY next chapter is gonna be the OOC wrap up for this arc #the session is complete though!#fans of this fic may REJOICE #you have two updated planned over the next two months too #Ch 9 is already in progress #and provided it does not grow out of proportion...should be complete by mid-september #and there's another update planned for late october that should hopefully kick off next arc #and perhaps...a POV CHANGE >:3c

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jeserai · 5 years

Text

blooming day (1/2)

for @perfumermista , happy valentines day!

If someone were to ask, Adora would say that her favorite thing about Catra is her laugh, or perhaps the light in her eyes when she gets excited about something. Or, no—it’s the sleepy rasp her voice gets each morning, and the way little curls always manage to escape her top knots no matter how carefully she ties them. It’s all the little things, she’d say, the little things that make Catra who she is.

She’s not in love with Catra though, she’s sure of it. Catra is her friend, her best friend, her roommate. Sure, Catra’s probably the person that knows her the best, and yes, they have done romantic things before, but—

They’re just friends. Best friends, but still, just friends.

The flower petals that are now staining her bed sheets only confirm that.

Before she can even begin to think about what this means, Adora hears the familiar sound of Catra’s footsteps stopping in front of her door, and she just barely manages to shove the flower petals beneath her pillow before Catra opens the door with a sleepily murmured greeting.

“Could you knock?” Adora complains, but she obediently moves over for Catra, who wordlessly shuffles closer and lets herself collapse onto the bed, her eyes closing as she curls up into a tiny ball with a huge yawn. Adora doesn’t hide her endeared grin as Catra blindly fumbles for the heavy comforter to tuck herself in; she’s long since used to what Catra calls her ‘morning nap’, and if she has to stifle a cough when Catra snuggles into her blankets, well. No one needs to know.

After a moment, Catra turns her head just enough to squint up at Adora through one eye, scowling as she catches Adora watching her. “Stop staring at me and come lay down,” she grumbles, and Adora snorts out a laugh before obediently melting into Catra’s space, lying facing her. Catra tangles their legs and fingers together like it’s nothing and sighs out a gentle breath that sends Adora’s heart racing as she counts each freckle that is scattered across the bridge of her nose and cheeks like stars.

“Adora,” Catra murmurs, this time without opening her eyes, “stop staring at me.”

Like always, Adora is helpless to obey Catra’s every wish, so she hums out a quiet noise of acceptance and closes her eyes, though she does not intend in the slightest to sleep. And how could she, with Catra so close? Her every breath stirs Adora’s bangs and sets her heart to racing, and as the gentle rise and fall of her chest evens out as Catra slips back to sleep, Adora blinks her eyes open, mapping out every soft curve and line of her face. The constellations her freckles make across her skin, the tiny divot just next to her left temple from an old childhood wound, the beauty mark that rests distractingly close to the corner of her mouth. Her lips, soft and plush, the wisps of curls that halo her face in sleep. Adora studies Catra like she is a painting, like she is something to be loved and revered and worshipped, and, well. Perhaps she is.

The tickle in the back of her throat comes back then, as Adora imagines reaching out to tuck Catra’s hair behind her ear, and before she can cough again—cough and wake Catra, cough and be forced to admit the truth that is beating inside her heart and blossoming inside her lungs—Adora carefully steals out of bed, making her way into the kitchen. As far as she knows, they’ve both got the day off, so Adora decides to make a late breakfast for Catra to wake up to. Pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon and on a whim, smoothies, made from the fruit they picked up at the open-air market over the weekend.

Just as Adora finishes pouring the smoothies into glasses, her bedroom door squeaks open and Catra pads out, and the confusion on her face quickly fades into joy when she sees what Adora’s done. “I didn’t know you were going to make breakfast, I would’ve helped,” she mumbles, and she suppresses a yawn as she passes on the way to help set the table.

“Did I wake you?” is all Adora asks in response. Smoothies done, she puts the blender in the sink and then grabs the butter from the fridge and the syrup from the cabinet next to it. Catra makes a quiet noise to show that she’s heard but doesn’t respond, instead sliding into her seat and waiting for Adora to do the same before she begins to pick out her pancakes from the giant stack Adora’s made.

“I still can’t believe that you actually like burnt pancakes, dork.”

“They’re not burnt, they’re just—a little crispy! It’s best that way, seriously.”

Catra wrinkles her nose and shakes her head, and Adora watches as she carefully spreads first a layer of butter and then a layer of syrup across her first pancake. It’s such a small thing, but it’s always so endearing, how daintily she eats, and Adora raises her glass to her lips to hide her grin as Catra now starts slicing her pancake into tiny pieces. By now, she knows what Catra will say if she asks why she does it—it’s quicker to eat it like this, you absolute heathen—just like Catra knows what Adora’s argument will be whenever she gripes about her just slightly burnt pancakes. Their friendship is built on playfully rehashed arguments and cups of too-sweet hot chocolate, skinned knees and paint on skin, meals spent together and endless days at the beach, and Adora wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Okay, I’m gonna ignore the dopey grin on your face, you weirdo.” Catra’s voice jars Adora from her idle thoughts, and as she snaps to attention, Catra tucks her right leg under her left, sitting in that odd way that she always claims is comfortable despite Adora’s disbelief. “Do you have work today?”

“No one’s called, so I have a free day so far. Why?”

“I’m just stuck on this piece...if you had time, could you…?”

“Of course. What’s up?”

Catra takes a few more bites of her pancake before answering, “I took on this client because I thought it’d be interesting...you know, change of pace and all that. But I’m stuck, I’ve never been this stuck before. They want something on that old proverb, you know, see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. It’s interesting, and I want to do it, and it’ll pay well, but I just don’t know what to do.”

“Well, what have you thought of?”

Catra scowls, wrapping a curl around her finger and winding it round and round as she thinks. “I mean, monkeys is an obvious thing, but I don’t want to do obvious. People too, it’s just so...safe.”

Adora nods, casting her gaze around their tiny beach house as she thinks. “Something abstract…something...oh, what if instead of hands covering, you use something else?” And then, as she spots the bouquet of sunflowers that Perfuma had given her in thanks of a job well done. And— “What about flowers?”

Catra frowns, but it’s considering, intrigued. “Flowers, huh? That’s...actually not that bad of an idea.”

“Aw, thanks, I do get them sometimes. Do you want me to pick some up from Perfuma’s later?”

“I’ll come with you, if that’s fine…?”

“Of course, we can leave whenever you’re ready.”

Catra nods and gives Adora a tiny, pleased grin before turning back to her breakfast with a pleased little hum. “Then we can leave as soon as we get dressed.”

Adora nods and, just because she knows it’ll gross Catra out, she piles the rest of her eggs and bacon in her pancake to make a sandwich. It actually does taste good, and the added disgust on her housemate’s face just makes it all the more worth it.

But all too soon enough, their breakfasts are finished, and they quickly load up the dishwasher before heading back to their rooms to get dressed. It’s to be another hot, sticky day, apparently, and before she can open up her messaging app, Catra texts her first.

Catra: you wanna go to the beach after?

Adora: u read my mind

That decided, Adora tugs on an old red one-piece and throws a loose tank top and swim shorts over it. Her crocs are out in the hall, and Catra is waiting there as well, dressed similarly in a huge T-shirt with the sleeves cut off (that Adora is pretty sure is one of hers, the more she looks at it) and slides. Her hair is done up in two buns just like usual, and loose curls frame her face, and—

“Took you long enough, princess,” Catra grumbles. Adora snorts—because Catra’s always the one that takes longer to get ready when it really counts—and brushes passed her, trusting her to lock up behind them as she takes the stairs down, Catra close behind.

Adora’s yellow bike is still locked up on the rack outside their building, and Adora quickly unlocks it before patting the seat fondly and hopping on. Catra easily hops on right behind her, pressing close despite the heat already seeping through their thin clothes, and if Adora breathes in deep, she can smell the faint lavender notes of Catra’s perfume, and even more faintly, sea salt on the warm ocean breeze.

“You ready?”

“Always, princess,” Catra says. Adora feels her voice just as much as she hears it, and she pushes off with a grunt. It’s always hard at first, biking for two, but Adora loves the burn and ache in her muscles, and besides, all of the shops are at the bottom of the hill, so she doesn’t have to work for long. But she does anyway, pedalling fast as they approach the crest of the hill just to hear Catra shriek with laughter as they fly down it. It’s the squeaky laugh that Adora loves best, the one that she sometimes finds herself wanting to kiss straight from Catra’s mouth.

When they reach Perfuma’s shop, Adora waits for Catra to hop off before leaning her bike against the storefront. Then she turns to her still smiling roommate, carefully fixing her flyaway hair before following her inside.

Inside is cool and Perfuma is talking to the roses, though she looks up and smiles wide when she sees Adora and Catra standing in the entryway. “Oh, hi! I don’t have any deliveries for you Adora, but it’s so lovely to see you both!”

“I know, we’re just here to pick some flowers up for one of Catra’s projects.”

“Is that so? What kind?”

“I’m not really sure, honestly. I know about flower language, and I want to incorporate that if I can. Something having to do with sight, hearing and speaking.”

Perfuma nods, considering, then snaps her fingers and nods in excitement. “Okay, so I can think of a few right off the bat! For sight, lavender roses for love at first sight, and red daisies for beauty unknown to the possessor. Hearing...irises for good news, and pansy for thoughts. And speaking, almond flowers for promise, and ambrosia for reciprocated love. Does that sound good?”

Catra shrugs and Adora’s eyes fall to the thin straps she can see peeking out from beneath her shirt. She quickly looks away, back to Perfuma, who is flitting around the room, gathering up flowers with a happy smile on her lips. Her gaze lands on Catra again as if tugged there, and as Adora stares at the delicate curls kissing the back of Catra’s neck, she feels another tickle in the back of her throat. She coughs thickly, and when Catra twists around to make a face at her, all Adora does is stick her tongue out.

“How about this?” Perfuma asks then. She’s got a whole bunch of flowers, enough to make a pretty, variegated bouquet, but she separates them into three piles at the front desk. “These are for sight, these for hearing, and these for speaking.”

The first pile has deep red and pale lavender flowers, the second vivid purple and yellow, and the third the faintest pink and bright orange. Catra’s squinting at them as if trying to picture them on her canvas, and Adora may not have her eye for art, but she’s absolutely sure the end result—with these gorgeous colors and Catra’s skill—will be absolutely striking.

Finally, Catra nods. “Yeah, these are good.”

“That’s wonderful! I’ll wrap them up and—”

“Oh, Perfuma, can we leave them here actually? We were planning on going to the beach, we can just pick them up on the way home.”

“Of course, Adora! They’ll be right here, on the house!”

“Perfuma, we couldn’t—”

“Nonsense, you’ve done so many favors for me, especially in this heat wave. Plus, they’ll be used for art—that’s the best thing. They’re on the house, okay?”

Catra elbows Adora before she can respond and quickly says, “Thanks, Perfuma, we’ll be back in a few hours,” before all but dragging Adora from the shop and back out into the heat. Luckily, the bike is still in the shade, so the seat doesn’t burn when Adora gets on again, and she patiently waits for Catra to wrap her arms around her waist to begin to pedal to the beach. The breeze now does nothing to stop her from sweating, and by the time they make their way to the ocean shore, even Catra—who claims to never sweat—has a light sheen of sweat on her forehead.

They hadn’t brought towels, or sunblock, Adora realizes then, and if Catra notices or cares, she doesn’t say anything, just pulls her shirt over her head, kicks off her shoes and stares impatiently at Adora as she waits for her to do the same. Once she has, Catra reaches out to lace their fingers together as she leads them towards the water, which is somehow still cold and sends them both running back to the sand.

And she knows her arms will protest later, but that is a problem for future Adora, she decides, and so she easily scoops Catra into her arms and ignores the cold of the water, carrying them deeper and deeper, until she’s soaked up to her chest and Catra starts to get wet too. She’s got both arms wrapped tight around Adora’s neck, and though she doesn’t complain, her whole body is stiff. When Adora glances down at her, more than ready to tease her, she freezes, because. Catra is staring up at her, and her grip has loosened, and she does not seem bothered by the water anymore. All she is preoccupied with is just...looking at Adora. She is studying Adora like she is a painting, like she is something to be puzzled out and captured and admired. It makes the breath catch in Adora’s throat, and her heart skip a beat, and flower petals begin to bloom again in her lungs, so she does the only thing she can think to do, and dunks them both, hoping to god that the shock of cold water will cool her burning cheeks and calm her racing heart.

When she resurfaces, Adora is now holding a scowling, shivering Catra, and for a moment, she feels guilty. She’d forgotten how bad Catra is with the cold, and she’s more than half expecting her to yell, or throw a punch or try to get away, but all Catra does is lean the side of her head against Adora’s chest, sighing in something that Adora almost thinks is contentment.

Now would be a good time to tell Catra about the cough, about the flower petals, about the feelings she has been trying to deny for so long. Catra would laugh and roll her eyes, thinking it a joke, and then bluntly turn her down upon realizing that it wasn’t. And then it’d be awkward, and their friendship would be ruined, and then Catra would move out, and—no. It’ll be better to keep it hidden than risk losing Catra entirely, and these little moments are more than enough.

“Do you want to get out?”

It takes a long few minutes for Catra to respond, but she shakes her head, both eyes closed. “This is good.”

And she’s right. This is good.

In the end, they don’t get out of the water until Adora’s arms begin to ache and she reluctantly reminds Catra that she’ll have to bike them both home. Catra sighs, but agrees readily enough, and Adora waits as long as she can to put her back down on her own two feet. Once on the shore, Catra reaches for Adora’s hand again, tugging her to the wet sand on the very edge of the beach to try and find smooth stones and pretty shells to paint later. Once she finds some that she’s satisfied with, she gives them to Adora to hold, and they scour the beach until Adora’s arms are full and they are both fully dry and hot again in the hazy summer heat.

“Do we have ice cream at home?”

Adora thinks for a moment, then shakes her head. “I think we used the last of it for sundaes the other day. Do you wanna stop at Brightmoon?”

Catra wrinkles her nose. “I don’t want to, but…”

“What? You and Bow get along fine, don’t you?”

“He’s fine,” Catra agrees sullenly, “but I don’t like her. I don’t even want ice cream anymore.”

Adora snorts and shakes her head, biting the inside of her lip to keep from grinning. “How about we pick up the flowers, and I’ll drop you home. Then I can shower and go to Bright Moon. Sound good?”

“Only if you get me cookie dough.”

Anything you want, Adora wants to say, I’d get you anything you wanted. What comes out instead is, “Of course, dork. You ready to go, then?”

Catra considers for a moment, then nods. As they walk back to their clothes and then to Adora’s bike, they remain silent, but it is the comfortable kind, and Catra’s brows are furrowed as she trudges through the sand and Adora knows she’s thinking about her newest project; Catra’s always been a bit of a perfectionist, especially about work, but Adora loves that about her. Catra’s passionate, and it shines through in everything she sketches, paints, photographs. Even her attempts at sculpting are wrought through with love and resolve. Maybe that’s what she ended up falling for first, Adora muses, the way Catra shows her love, with her hands and her eyes and her mind.

That has to be it.

Catra’s arms slide around her waist again as she hops on the bike, and Adora pedals them lazy and slow just to feel the breeze warm against their faces and the sunlight, warmer still, on their backs. It’s a short trip, barely five minutes, and this time when they reach Perfuma, they find her outside, watering the flowers on display in front of the shop. She looks up when she sees them approach, placing her watering can down before calling out, “I was just about to call you!”

“What’s up?”

“Well, Mermista, or, you know, Salineas, not Mermista, really, but—anyway. Salineas needs some flowers for an event they’re having tonight. I’ve already packed them all up, they’re ready in the back room.”

“Oh.” Adora glances at Catra, already feeling guilty. Biking from Perfuma’s to Salineas, taking Catra and her flowers home, and biking to Bright Moon and back home...

As if reading her mind, Catra shakes her head and reaches out to tuck a lock of hair behind Adora’s ear. Her smile is drenched in fondness and tinged with a bit of regret, and her hand is soft and warm against Adora’s cheek. “It’s okay, princess. I can walk, you know.”

“But that doesn’t mean you should have to,” Adora murmurs, leaning into Catra’s hand for just a moment, “I don’t want you to have to.”

“Just come home quickly and I might have it in me to forgive you. Okay?”

And it’s not, but—“Okay, I will.”

Before either of them can say any more, Perfuma clears her throat and Catra steps back as if burned, looking anywhere but at either of them as she grabs her bouquet of flowers and hurries out of the shop. From the brief glance she’d gotten as Catra passed, Adora saw that her cheeks were just about as red as her own felt, and upon looking over at Perfuma, Adora finds her grinning, far too innocent to be genuine.

“So...you two are pretty close. Something you’d like to tell me?”

“We’re just friends,” Adora mumbles, and she knows it sounds like flimsy denial, but. That’s all they’ll ever be.

“You never know,” Perfuma shrugs, but—she does.

“I guess. Where’d you say you put the flowers?”

“The back room, I’ll bring them out for you. It’s not too many, they just ran out towards the end.”

Adora nods, waiting for Perfuma to disappear into the back room before heading out to her bike. At this point, Catra is just about halfway up the hill, and Adora reluctantly turns away from her when Perfuma comes out, carefully balancing three boxes stacked on top of each other. She puts them in the basket at the back of Adora’s bike, then stands to the side, waving goodbye as Adora pedals off back down the hill.

Salineas, situated down by the boardwalk, is only about a ten minute ride, and Adora is careful to coast as long as she can, acutely aware of her delicate package. When she reaches the front of the hotel, Sea Hawk greets her with a cheerful wave and a bow. “Adora!” he calls out, “Are those the rest of our flowers?”

“It is! I’ve—I’m gonna come in too, if that’s okay, I just want to say hi to Mermista.”

“Of course!” Sea Hawk takes two of the boxes and waits as Adora leans her bike against the side of the hotel and takes out the last one, and together they step through the revolving doors, Sea Hawk telling her about his latest misadventure. This one involves a boat, a family of turtles, and a box of matches, and Adora has to bite the inside of her lip hard to keep from bursting out laughing.

“And here she is, our radiant Mermista!” Sea Hawk calls. A few of the guests that are in the lobby turn to look at them, and Mermista drops her head into her hands with a loud groan.

“Sea Hawk, you have got to stop coming here! You don’t even work here!” she hisses, and then, more calmly, “hi, Adora.”

“Hey, just dropping these off for Perfuma.”

“Oh, right, thanks. Is she coming tonight?”

“Not that I know of, sorry. Why didn’t you ask her while you had her on the phone?”

Mermista very pointedly makes a face and plays with the ends of her braid, and Adora really can’t help the way her brow raises as a knowing grin spreads across her lips. “Shut up, maybe I didn’t think about that.”

“Oh, I’m sure you didn’t. And I’m not staying either, thanks for asking.”

Mermista gives her a look and swats Sea Hawk’s hand from her desk with practiced ease. “Okay, have a good night then, or whatever.”

“I’ll be going to the event, dearest Mermista—”

“No, you are not. Here, go borrow one of the boats for the night. And don’t set it on fire again. And before you ask, I am not joining you, I have work.”

Before their arguing can start up again, Adora begins to carefully edge towards the door, trying to keep out of Mermista’s line of vision before she volunteers Sea Hawk to walk her home like she did last time. She loves Sea Hawk, they all do, but…

Mermista looks over just as Adora reaches the revolving doors, and as panic sets in on her face, Adora mouths an apology and makes a break for it.

adora: im about to leave salineas, mermista was looking for you :)

perfuma: why? did she need more flowers?

adora: ...she wants you to be her date to the event tonight

perfuma: if she wanted me to go, she would’ve asked me :(

adora: just go!! I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you

adora: and if not, you can always come over, catra’s cooking tonight

perfuma: maybe, i’ll let you know

perfuma: and thank you, adora

adora: thank me by asking her out

perfuma: :)

Her first errand done, Adora pockets her phone and gets ready to head to Bright Moon. The local ice cream shop is just off the boardwalk, and it takes just a few minutes to bike down the familiar path. Before she knows it, Adora pulls up in front of the shop, a grin already on her lips as she enters the all too familiar shop. Inside, Glimmer and Bow are arguing behind the counter, though they quickly shut up and paste on friendly, polite smiles at the jingle of the bell above the door.

Once they see that it's just Adora, Glimmer quickly scowls and points accusingly at Bow. "Adora, tell him that crop tops are not appropriate to wear to work—"

"It's summertime!" Bow interrupts, "It's perfect! Adora, tell her it's perfect!"

As both of her friends turn to stare at her, insistent, Adora steps back, holding both hands up in surrender. “I mean—we are on the beach…and I honestly can’t imagine Bow not in a crop top.”

“See! At least Adora knows what’s up.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. What brings you here, Adora?”

“Just the usual—”

“A quart of coffee ice cream for you, and a quart of cookie dough for Catra? And uh...where is she, by the way? It’s pretty rare to see you two apart.”

Adora ignores the looks her friends are giving her despite the burning of her cheeks as she fishes out a couple of bucks to hand to Glimmer as Bow works on filling two contianers with ice cream. “We went to the beach earlier and she went home while I made a quick delivery for Mermista. Anyway, they’re having some dinner thing tonight at Salineas, you guys going?”

Bow and Glimmer look at each other, then quickly look away, both spluttering out excuses about the shop, and how they don’t have anything to wear, and—

“You and Catra should go, though,” Bow finally blurts out, “you guys could go together, if you know what I mean.”

“I do know what you mean, and I choose to ignore it. We’re not together. I...I like what we have.”

“But…?”

And. These are her best friends. Bow was the one that introduced Catra and Adora, and Glimmer was the first person to welcome Adora to Etheria. However much they tease, they really do love her and care for her, and—

“I’ve liked Catra for...a while. I really do like what we have, and I don’t want to...push her or anything. But when I woke up this morning, I coughed up flower petals. And...you know. What that means.”

“Oh, Adora…what are you going to do?”

“Nothing. Hope it goes away, I guess?” Adora shrugs and pulls out her phone as it buzzes in her pocket, her heart skipping a beat when she sees Catra’s name and one unread message.

catra: wya??

adora: about to leave bright moon :) be home soon

catra: okay princess, door’s unlocked

“I really don’t think—”

“Catra’s waiting, I’m gonna head out.”

At that, Bow and Glimmer share another look, but they do nothing to stop her from taking her ice cream and leaving. The bike ride home is quick and going uphill burns Adora’s legs and steals the air from her lungs as she pedals as fast as she can, as if somehow she will be able to outrun all of the feeling tumbling around inside of her chest and the tears she can fill springing up at the corners of her eyes.

It doesn’t work, and by the time Adora gets to their house, she’s breathing hard and still tearing up. She takes a few deep breaths to try and calm herself, then heads inside and upstairs, already feeling just a little bit better as she hears Catra singing to herself.

When Catra turns around and spots Adora at the top of the stairs, the singing abruptly stops as a fierce blush stains her cheeks. “Would you stop looking at me like that?”

With great difficulty, Adora wipes the grin from her lips in a show of acquiescence. “Am I not allowed to listen to you sing? Especially since I did bring you ice cream…”

Catra huffs and snatches the bag from Adora as she passes, and Adora watches in fond amusement as her housemate flounces over to the couch and flops down on it. “Well? Get spoons!”

“Of course, princess,” Adora teases, then goes to grab them both spoons, and Catra a glass of water because she always complains about the aftertaste of ice cream, and then whines until Adora gets her water to wash it away.

When she gets back to the living room, Catra is still frowning, but this time it is more contemplative, and when Adora nudges her in a silent bid to ask what’s wrong, Catra just sighs.

“I need a model for the paintings,” she grumbles, “I’d forgotten.”

“I could model for you?” The words force their way out all on their own, and Adora wants to take them back immediately—she’s never modelled, not even for Catra—but already her friend has turned on her with wide eyes and a bright smile.

“Oh, would you?”

And. Yeah, she would. She’d do just about anything for Catra, Adora realizes for perhaps the thousandth time. She’d do just about anything to see Catra smile like that.

(chapter 1 | chapter 2)

#she ra #shera #catradora #my writing #hope u like it :000

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mchalowitz · 5 years

Text

the process by which time passes

REPOST. you guys. @lilydalexf is the true mvp of this saga. she happened to have the story still open and was kind enough to send it to me. i owe her so much gratitude (as well as the other amazing xf bloggers that reached out to me). although i don’t interact much socially around here, it is amazing to be a part of a fandom that is so kind and supportive! writing xf fic is a creative outlet i enjoy so much and i love sharing it. now back to our regularly scheduled reading. (also if you guys wouldn’t mind boosting this new version so i can see the feedback, i would be so grateful.)

this is something i’ve been writing (at this point) for probably almost a year, which is one reason i’ve been pretty quiet on the fic-posting front. i’m so excited for everyone to finally see it but terrified at the idea that it’s not just an idea that only i know about anymore. it was originally the back half of a wip i abandoned but i couldn’t let this part go. enjoy!!

Mulder gives her a tight hug on the side of a desert highway. Scully presses her forehead to his chest, hoping her thoughts might leave her mind, reach his heart, and convince him to stay. He still gets in the SUV and she never sees him again.

In true Fox Mulder fashion, his physical presence isn’t needed to be a constant reminder. Government officials that she once exchanged pleasantries with at the coffee machine bang down her door and rip apart the life he abandoned.

“Have you heard anything?”

Skinner rifles through papers until the door clicks shut. Her badge feels heavy on her lapel. It feels wrong to be here.

“Only the official warrant,” Skinner answers. That was weeks ago. She has to frequently remind herself that he is doing the best he can. He can’t make it too obvious he’s interested in the hunt. She certainly can’t go digging herself.

“They’re closing the X-files,” he informs her. “There is an appeal process…”

“That’s not necessary,” Scully interrupts. “My assignment was to assess the validity of Mulder’s investigations. There is nothing to assess.”

“You believe in the work.”

“I’m a scientist,” she reminds him, offering nothing else.

Her final report is a jumble of words that states, no matter what she believed, the X-Files should never be reopened.

–

Scully spends idle days breathing in wet air on her mother’s porch. She hopes the sea might soothe her.

A week later, as she plans her return to Washington, she decides emphatically that it did not.

She discovers heart medication in her mother’s bathroom cabinet. Maggie attempts to downplay the circumstances, “It was a blip on a screen, Dana. The doctor said it was just precautionary,” but to Scully, it’s a call to action.

It isn’t difficult to resign. It seemed like it should, after giving the FBI almost a decade of herself, and much, much more than that.

She cries silently in her car after handing over the keys to her dream apartment and saying goodbye to her meticulously curated life.

She reminds herself starting over is the only way to move on. But she isn’t sure she believes it.

–

Scully is a seasoned Special Agent of the FBI, an instructor of pathology, but she struggles to call herself a doctor. After an onslaught of rejected resumes, she begins to believe the medical community of Maryland agrees.

A small hospital outside Baltimore is wowed by her determination alone. At the bottom of the ladder, no one knows the reputation of Agent Scully. She showed promise and expertise in her role, even if her partner was a kook. Dr. Scully has never formally practiced medicine and her bedside manner leaves something to be desired.

Scully hopes for an opening in pathology, where she might be more understood. John From Human Resources hums along with her plight. “I’ll keep an eye out,” he promises.

She begins noticing him behind her in the cafeteria line. On a fall day, she is trying to decide on the best fruit cup when he sides up to her. He is whisper-quiet, conspiratorial in tone when he says, “I wanted to give you a heads up that Dr. Harris may be retiring at the end of the year.”

The may sounds more like an is. A weight inside her lifts.

John assures her she is the first choice when the position officially becomes available. When he leads her to her new office in January, he asks her out to drinks to celebrate, and Scully is surprised, because she forgot people could see her that way.

John is completely unlike anyone else she’s been with. He is endlessly dependable. She never has to worry about where he is because he calls when he’ll be late. He thrives on a fastidious routine and makes safe, informed decisions.

Scully finally moves out of her mother’s house and into a modern three-bedroom she purchases with John. She leads an entirely new life. She climbs the ranks in pathology and is still able to go on real dates, and eat home cooked meals while they’re still hot, and sit in the pew every Sunday. She goes on weekend hikes and uninterrupted trips to the coast and has fine, but not life changing, sex. She accepts John’s proposal on the beach with a beautiful ring.

They have a small wedding. She doesn’t take his last name.

John tries so hard, never asks about her time in the FBI, even tries to adopt a child with her. When it falls through at the last minute, they decide on a dog instead. They get divorced after two years.

In her office one late morning, the phone on her desk lights up. “Dr. Scully, there’s a man on line one asking for you.”

“Thank you,” she says into the speaker. She picks up the receiver with the assumption of a request for a consult. “This is Dr. Scully.”

“Hey, Scully, it’s me.”

She drops the phone.

–

Scully’s stomach is in knots. She is too nervous to order any food. Mulder sits across from her at a diner, looking older and scruffier, and she wonders if this is all a cruel hallucination.

“Where have you been?”

His fingers tap nervously on the table. “Farrs Corner.”

After exploring little towns in the far reaches of nowhere, she remembers that’s Virginia. When she presses for how long, she discovers he’s been within driving distance almost this entire time. Her fingers clench. She wants to strangle him.

“It’s been six years, Mulder. Why now?”

“The FBI dropped the charges against me. I helped them with a case, they wiped the slate clean. I can start my life again, Scully, come back.”

Forget strangle, Scully wants to kill him. He thinks he can just come back? His ignorance to the domino effect of his actions has to be purposeful.

There was a life they wanted to live together that never had the chance to become a reality. She has spent six years trying to fill her life with meaning. Her marriage failed, her career path faltered. They have a child that is no longer theirs.

Scully stands from the booth. She stares down at him, asserts her power.

“I thought you were dead.”

He just nods. He suggests she give him a call, now that she has his number.

She doesn’t.

–

Scully always forgave Mulder too quickly; it was their fatal flaw. She frequently ignored this piece of common knowledge by justifying his more unsavory behavior as residual childhood trauma, or a severe lack of social skills, or plainly being obtuse.

She never found a way to justify him leaving her when she needed him without looking like an emotionally manipulated moron. How could she possibly forgive the embarrassment and isolation she felt after giving up her own child for ostensibly no reason?

Scully bared her soul to him, her body, and gave him everything she had, and she still took a backseat to his quest. There was a brief time where she thought something finally switched in him and the quest would take a backseat to her. In the earliest days of the millenium, working their way up from something undefined to something real.

A month passes. She speaks to no one about her meeting with Mulder, but when she has idle moments, it fills her mind. She tries to remain hot when she begins wondering what Mulder’s life is like now. She attempts to imagine how he filled six years worth of time, because he was never a picture of duality, never able to separate his life from his work, and what can he do after leaving it behind?

It’s a slow burning curiosity. Weeks long. She begins to think he didn’t push during their last meeting because he knew it would happen like this.

She scrolls through recent calls to find the number he left on her office phone. Scully hears the hello in that familiar voice and doesn’t hesitate to respond, “Mulder, it’s me.”

–

Scully sees a dream realized when she pulls up to a little house with a spacious porch on sprawling land. Mulder never liked the city.

He is clearly thrilled to finally present his vegetable garden and his paintings while giving her the grand tour. He recounts putting in the new water heater himself and his plans to replace the roof next spring.

Mulder makes her pasta and gives her the “good chair.” When her stomach is full, they talk about old times. She hasn’t talked about these things in years because she knew there was no one else that can laugh about what she saw instead of instantly recoiling except for the man sitting across from her.

“I have to get back,” she realizes when she sees the sun beginning to set out the window. They spent almost the whole day together. He nods in understanding.

“You see I’m not living in squalor,” he jokes as he walks her to her car.

“It certainly wasn’t the dilapidated hut I was expecting,” she teases. Her tone shifts from silly to serious. “You know, Mulder, after our last meeting, I really didn’t want to come here. I thought…I think you know what I thought. But I’m glad I came.”

“I appreciate any chance you’ll give me, Scully,” he replies.

–

Farrs Corner becomes a regular destination.

Mulder easily becomes the companion she was lacking, the return of the best friend she lost. Even with the passage of time, he still knows her better than anyone else.

She stops offering up her free Friday nights for on-call autopsies and tox screens to watch movies with take-out picked up just before civilization ends.

Without a Saturday shift to spoil their fun, they indulge in the full six pack of their favorite beer. His feet are propped on the coffee table next to their abandoned pizza box, as she folds her legs underneath her on the cushion beside him. She is full-bellied and warm.

“I can’t believe you were married,” he says in disbelief, taking a swig from his bottle. “Considering how many of my proposals you turned down.”

“Maybe I would’ve accepted if any of them had been serious.”

“So you’re saying there was a chance?”

She laughs and nudges his shoulder with the side of her bottle.

When she catches his eye, she sees a person that, yes, she thought she might marry someday. When she was younger, less hard, and had never seen the face of a child that was half him, half her.

She leans forward and presses her lips to his, jerking back as soon as he begins to respond. She tries to find something to say, a reasoning, but she finds his curious gaze, and can’t think of anything to say.

He closes the distance between them and starts where she left off. His kiss is wonderful. It’s hopeful and sexy as all hell.

He nudges her jaw aside with his chin, his mouth seeking out her neck. Her fingers tangle in his hair. “Let’s go upstairs,” he suggests.

–

Standing at the foot of his bed, Scully realizes she’s never been in Mulder’s bedroom before. He has simple furnishings; dark wood and soft blues. His belt clunks when it hits the floor. His bare chest warms her back.

She remembers his warmth, his proclivity to be so tender and gentle, and to let her lead the way. She turns and guides him onto the bed.

Modest kisses quickly turn unrestrained. He breaths in long pants as he shoves her panties down her thighs, letting her kick them over her ankle before hooking them over his hips.

He slips in so easily. Scully explores his changed body; the shifting muscles in his back, his thinner, sweat dampened hair against her hands, his ass clenching as he rocks into her.

Electricity runs through her when his fingers drift to her clit, taking her right to the edge. “Fuck,” he groans, his lips at her ear. “I can’t believe it’s really you.”

She moans in utter bliss, deliriously overtaken. When she comes, she shatters. Mulder thrusts two, three times more, before following behind. He spurts hotly into her with growls of satisfaction.

Breathing heavily, they lay bonelessly on their backs. She feels the sweat cooling at her hairline. Her lips break into a big smile and a laugh leaves her lips. His follows and he raises her hand to his lips, feeling his joyous puffs of air against her skin.

“We are still very good at that,” she decides, turning her head toward him.

“You did always bring out the best in me,” he agrees.

Scully finds his boyish nerves when he mentions spending the night charmingly endearing. She wordlessly moves to press herself into his side, clinging to him in answer.

–

Mulder calls their connection cosmic, though Scully doesn’t believe in cosmicity. An otherworldly connect would trivialize their effort so far in their new era.

She worried how they would assimilate into each other’s worlds without the commonality of what easily linked them before. While their forced separation may never be seen as a positive in her eyes, it did allow for the growth to be content in domesticity.

Scully adores the version of Mulder she met over two decades ago. With his unwavering desire for truth and his absolutely brilliant mind. The hours they can spend talking remind her of that man often. They spar as they always did, laugh like no time has passed.

She delights in the side of him that is at peace with the mundane. He likes filling her drawers with clean scrubs, and working in the yard until he returns smelling like freshly cut grass, and giving her drafts of his paranormal mystery novel.

Uncensored honesty is their biggest challenge. It would be so easy to never discuss what plagued them in the past. They finally get to air their fear, their guilt, and their grief. Scully thinks she and Mulder come out better on the other side.

Mulder leads her to the quiet corners of the world, using his freedom to finally venture off his little property. They luxuriate in the Bahamas shortly after their first night together and they start stopping at all the roadside attractions they used to skip. He plans to finally take her to England and show her all the off beaten paths from his youth. She would go anywhere with him.

A beach house in Maine is this weekend’s activity. Scully accidentally leaves her stack of reading on the desk in her office. “I’ll grab them quick and we’ll go,” she promises him, hanging onto the open passenger side window.

“Don’t leave the coast waiting too long,” he teases. “I’m starting to lose my island glow.” She rolls her eyes at him and pushes up on her toes to kiss him briefly.

Though she promises to be quick, Scully still signs into her computer. She printed out the newest articles hastily before an autopsy and notices now that the first ten pages of the article on top are missing. She finds herself drawn to begin reading when she goes to reprint. She pulls out her chair with blind arms, sitting down absently.

She doesn’t realize how long she’s been gone until she sees Mulder enter. “I was starting to think you’d fallen in,” he jokes.

“Sorry,” she mumbles. He brushes off her apology with a wave of his hand, rounding the desk to brace his hand on the back of her chair.

“What are you reading?” he asks.

Case 43-2009. 8-year-old with Brain Scan Abnormalities Presents Potentially Unseen Neurological Disorder.

She breaks her gaze at the screen to bring her eyes up to Mulder.

“We need to find our son.”

#x files #xf fic #fox mulder #dana scully #msr

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cycat4077 · 5 years

Text

Changes: Chapter 9 (the finale)

It’s finished. Finally! Hopefully it’s a satisfying enough ending :) I’m going to make one last post with all the chapter links together and then you’ll finally be done seeing posts on this fic lol

Title: Changes Ship: Sonny x Reader (OC female character)

Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch.6 | Ch. 7 | Ch. 8 | AO3 | Chapter List |

Chapter 9: Changes - A life without Sonny feels incomplete. But he can’t possibly feel the same way about you…can he?

Time passes you by slowly. The leaves change colour, the days get shorter and the air gradually turns colder. The tears you cry eventually subside, but sadness still lies just beneath the surface. Your daily back-and-forth to college seems so monotonous. There’s no doubt that you love your job and you are able to slip into your teacher-persona for classes twice a week, yet outside of those hours, you can’t quite seem to shake the feeling that you’re incomplete.

Occasionally, while walking campus or the New York City streets, you may cross paths with some tall man clad in a well tailored suit. Your stomach flips and, for the briefest moment, hope swells inside of you. But each time, you realise that it’s just another stranger.

Oftentimes you find yourself staring at his number on your phone. Though you promised each other that you’d keep in touch, you have never been brave enough to press “send”. Every overthought draft of Hey, how are you? or Hi, how have you been? has been deleted; your mind fabricating some excuse as to why your communication would be unwarranted.

Your self doubt is only compounded by the silence on his end as well. Sonny Carisi is a busy man. His life is consumed by his work; a detective by day and law student by night. Even so, you’ve imagined all the different ways in which you could be there for him: from being an ear when things get rough, to leaping into his arms for a warm embrace whenever he finds success. Fantasies aside, you have convinced yourself that he would have no place in his life for you.

Therefore, time after time, you click off the screen and blink away the tears that threaten to fall over what will never be.

Life continues to drag by and your heart remains heavy. You go to bed at night feeling low, only to wake up the next morning and start all over again. No amount of journal entries can siphon the heartache out of you. It’s hard to continue living this way. So, one evening you do the only thing you can do. With shaky fingers, you grab your phone and dial. You inhale sharply. It rings once, twice and then the line picks up. “Mom?” you whimper.

You pour your heart out over the phone, confessing to her everything about the summer you spent with the Italian detective. You reveal how you’ve fallen for his personality, his compassion, his drive and even the way he saunters around a room. The emotion spills out of you as you confide in your mother. She’s always been your voice of reason and she still is now. The advice she gives you is what you already know deep down inside, but is nevertheless exactly what you need to hear: Tell him how you feel. You have nothing to lose.

You hunch over in bed after hanging up, and stare at Sonny’s number on your screen. You resolve to take a leap of faith. You need to tell him what’s in your heart. You settle it in your mind once and for all before you have the chance to talk yourself out of it. Yet, you’re nervous as hell. How do I do this? you wonder. You can’t hide your fear or emotions behind a text or a call. You need to see him. That way, there will be no ambiguity. You will be able to know whether he feels the same or not. You’ll be able to read it in his gorgeous blue eyes or by the subtle changes in his expression. If he doesn’t feel anything for you, you can at least move on. Regardless of the outcome, the uncertainty needs to end; it needs to stop tearing you up inside.

The next morning you dress carefully, fretting and spending too much time deciding what to wear. You have a class in the afternoon so you need to come across as a professional, but at the same time, you don’t want to approach Sonny looking like you’re about to make a business deal. You want to look good for him – pretty, even. It’s a foolish notion. You’re not a superficial person and you believe that Sonny isn’t either. Besides, he’s already seen you with your hair sticking out in all directions. Still, you choose yourself a nice blouse that matches your eyes and dress pants that hug your curves in just the right way.

The journey back to the 16th precinct is automatic. Your feet remember where to go even though your mind is somewhere else. You step into the elevator and select the button for SVU. Your pulse rises with each floor the elevator climbs. The air feels thick, like you can’t quite breathe. Finally, the lift dings and the doors slide open. It’s hard to take that first step forward. This is it, you think. You’re going to profess your love in front of the entire unit. Should I be doing this? Is this ridiculous? Your heart pounds in your ears as you slowly round the corner into the squad room. It’s now or never.

You’re met with the familiar sounds of ringing phones and idle chatter. Nervously, you scan for Sonny. Your eyes dart frantically around the room. Instead, all they land on is Sgt. Benson; Sonny nowhere in sight. You can feel your face begin to flush as you approach her. Benson says your name affectionately, surprise painted across her features.

“Hi, Sergeant,” you say uneasily, “Have you, uh…Is Son– Detective Carisi here?” You stammer and clasp your hands together in front of you to stop them from shaking.

“Oh,” she responds, “he said he needed the afternoon off today. He already left.” Your heart falls. Benson then takes another long look over you, “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” you choke out. “I, uh – it’s nothing. I gotta go,” you manage, turning to leave. “Nice seeing you again, Sergeant,” you add quickly, then scurry for the safety of the elevator.

To say you are disappointed is an incredible understatement. You desperately push the “close door” button after the elevator lets you in. You feel ashamed. Foolish. You talked yourself into this for nothing. Was it infatuation? The thrill of someone paying attention to you for once? Did you allow yourself to fall in love with someone who didn’t love you back? Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be. If it was, he would have been there. Maybe this was fate’s cruel way of telling you to move on.

As you stand outside the police department, a shaky breath escapes your lungs. The cold assaults your hands and you shove them deep inside the pockets of your woolen peacoat. You try to keep the tears at bay as you start down the tall steps. You have to keep going. Afterall, there’s a class to teach and no time for feeling sorry for yourself.

The college lecture hall holds about 100 students, your class filling just over half. There’s a gentle slope to the room that leads from the door to the podium with tabled seats spreading out perpendicular from the aisles. You have the lights dimmed as you give a lecture on the circulatory system within the heart. Every now and again, you pause to write keywords on the blackboard, allowing students to focus on their importance. It is one of those very moments when your back is turned, that you hear the click of the door at the back of the room. Immediately, it ticks you off. There’s only a half-hour left to the session and some kid decides to come in late? Talk about irresponsible!

You’re about to deliver a covert passive aggressive remark, but as you turn around, you’re instead rendered speechless. Your tongue sticks in your mouth and your heart seems to stop beating. There is no mistaking who has joined your lecture. He quietly takes a seat in the very last row, distinctly at least a head taller than the other students around him. Those expressive eyebrows you had missed so much, raise when his eye catches yours. You look down briefly, smiling to yourself before continuing the lecture.

He observes you intently as you walk your students through the lecture material. All summer you had watched him excel in his domain. Now, he could finally see you shine in yours.

The next half hour flies by and you conclude, dismissing the class. Students pack up and shuffle out. One pupil however, remains seated until the very last student leaves. He then gets up and makes his way to the front of the room. You can now fully discern his attire as he comes closer into view: A camel coat with a crisp white shirt underneath. No vest. No tie. Just a few buttons left undone near the collar. It’s a different look than you were used to but one that’s positively handsome.

“Yourra really great teacher,” he calls to you, long strides drawing him nearer.

“Thanks,” you say, beaming. “But…what are you doing here?”

“Well,” he begins, now standing in front of you. A sideways smile is etched across his lips. “I took the afternoon off wantin’ to sit in on a lecture. I had heard about this really great course ‘n wanted to see if it would be the one for me.”

Your knees become weak. “And?” you question, raising an eyebrow.

“I really enjoyed it and never wanna miss out on it again,” he smiles, eyes crinkling with affection. Your heart flutters in your chest, beating a mile a minute. “Oh, and I don’t like admitting that I was textin’ in class, but a message from Sarge came through sayin’ you were down at the precinct lookin’ for me?”

You swallow hard. “Yeah,” you say vulnerably, “I was looking for you, too.” You pause, gathering your courage. “I really miss you, Sonny.”

His smile grows. “I really miss you too,” he reveals without hesitation.

Despite his statement, you feel compelled to explain yourself. “I know we didn’t start out on the best terms at the beginning of the summer, but I…really grew to like you.” The feelings you harbour finally come tumbling out. “I enjoy being in your company so, so much and I don’t…I don’t want to lose out on that.”

You stare up into Sonny’s swirling blue eyes. They’re so kind and gentle. Those eyebrows you once found to be so disgruntled, are softened just for you. The voice you had thought boisterous, is low and calm. Even the swagger you initially considered pompous is simply confident and charming. But one of the best surprises has come from just getting to know him. Sonny is one of the most sincere and considerate people you have ever met. The way he looks at you with genuine affection and respect causes your stomach to feel like it’s filled with a thousand butterflies.

How do you tell him all this, though? How do you say I love you? But as you stand there in front of him and his smiling eyes, you understand that he already knows.

“I don’t wanna lose you either,” he speaks softly. There are tears forming in your eyes because you finally know that he feels the same way. Sonny’s gaze begins to flicker down towards your lips. “May I?” he whispers, but you’re already responding with a gentle nod.

Sonny carefully cups your face in his hands and brings his head down to place a tender kiss upon your lips. You close your eyes and lift your hands, finding purchase on his chest.

You are completely transfixed by his soft lips on yours. A warm tingle spreads from your toes to your heart, seemingly lifting you up with it. You lean further into Sonny’s kiss before you eventually part. His fingers run tenderly along your arms, taking your hands in his.

“You don’t know how long I’ve been wantin’ to do that, doll,” he smiles, accent deepening.

“Same here,” you grin. Your eyes linger on one another for a moment longer, before you turn to gather your belongings.

Sonny collects your coat and helps you into it. “Wanna grab some dinner?” he suggests.

“I’d love that,” you answer, smiling again.

Then Sonny offers you an outstretched hand. You happily accept, his fingers interlacing with yours as you make your way out of the lecture hall.

No, you didn’t expect that this is where you’d end up in your life – that a little summer job could open your eyes to so much and to so many wonderful people. You never knew that you would end up going through so many changes. Most importantly however, you never could have foreseen that your little summer job would lead you to fall in love with someone who had fallen in love with you too.

(Apr. 22: Now continued as part of a series. Part 2 here)

Notes: This is the first multi-chapter fic that I’ve sought through to completion. And while I have put off other, probably more important tasks to do so, it still feels like a significant accomplishment. It’s not an elaborate or polished fic by any means, but that’s the beauty of fanfiction: readers are generally already aware of the world and characters, allowing authors to focus more on feelings rather than needing to fully describe every little detail.

I sincerely hope you enjoyed reading this and I’m extremely thankful if you made it to the end. You don’t know how much I appreciate seeing the notes on here. It makes me smile knowing you took time out of your day to read my stuff. Thank you! <3

#Changes #Sonny Carisi #Sonnyshine of my life #My fanfic #law and order svu #svu fanfic #this last chapter is brought to you in part by Air Supply and REO Speedwagon THE masters of romantic 80s ballads #ch-ch-ch-changes #sonny carisi x reader

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