#i was not planning to actually colour this one beyond one solid colour but it just happened that way
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margin as pokemon
you know what
#sneasler but like. a short one#id never rly thought about margin As pokemon just what pokemon she would have before (and then only like one of them lol) but tbh#sneasler is a very margin pokemon i think. both the design and the typing#she got to keep her left ear in this for the squiggly thing. probably still can't hear in it tho#i don't have a good title for this one tho the file is just named The Margler#i was not planning to actually colour this one beyond one solid colour but it just happened that way#margin#splat ocs#i. i guess. shes still my margin splatoon she's just a furry now#my art
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Hey, Egg, I wanted to ask you a question related to fanfic writing if that's ok with you? I wanted to ask how do you plan your fanfics. Like, do you have a general structure you use? Or just go with the flow?
Asking bcz I saw your post on the background of the doc for ch 10 and got curious abt how you go abt planning, whether it be a oneshot or a chapter.
Sorry if its an odd question to ask 😅
Its np!!!! I love talkin bout anything fic related ngl. But to be honest i have next to No structure beksvssyd.
Im typically a oneshot type of writer where i do individual fics part of a bigger series such as the divinity au because for me i want some form of overarching topic/theme/AU without rigidly having a major story in place. Most often i have specific scenes/ideas in mind that are part of a bigger series or related to previous things. Tbh the doctor fic is an anomaly for me. I tend to abandon multi ch things out of losing interest.
I typically 'go with the flow' BUT have major scenes or plotpoints in mind. For the doctor fic i at first imagined it at 6 chapters in terms of major points in the story. Like ch 1: sampo leaving/finding gepard. Ch 2: them connecting/talking and getting closer, gepard's wound getting worse. Ch 3: the fragmentum amalgamation fight and sampo taking gep back to the city. Ch.4: gepards pov and finding sampo... etcetc. But i Obviously have a lot more chapters however the major plot points i imagined remain. There just happens to be more build up and plot in between major 'points'.
Time to get nerdy but in general this is how i think of my fics and anything i write: i block out the story in my head and what i want to convey in terms of key scenes. Kinda similar to the classic narrative structure/fraytag's pyramid but by conceptualizing the 'order' of major scenes between the First scene and the Final scene. W the doctor fic i have an idea of All major scenes ive written and will write, but also each chapter has this same format.
Usually this is All in my head tbh but for doctor fic im trying to actually do a shitty sort of outline w bullet points. Like for instance for ch 9 it went something like:
Gepard leaves to the underworld without telling anyone
He doesnt know what to do and goes to natasha's clinic first
Natasha doesn't trust him but realizes gepard actually cares/worries for sampo and shows him sampo in her office
Discussion of how he got there, nat's distrust of him/silvermanes
The badges.
Gepard falls asleep, wakes up and realizes lynx n serval were texting him
Gep goes home and serval chews him out. He tells serval about sampo
Lynx is passed out and gepard falls asleep beside her
Those are the 'big' portions i wanted to write, and then i add more points between and as im writing i go with whatever feels right to go from point A to point B. With other fics/chapters i have swapped around order of major scenes and ommitted some but i Always try to keep the beginning and the end fairly solid.
..... idk if any a this is helpful vslddgsjd. Like i really do keep most of everything in my head and rarely do i really like... outline or do a draft of these things. Altho the biggest thing i really Really am set on and would argue is most important is that. When writing a multi chapter thing or something with a bigger story to it, know your ending from the beginning. For one, having your ending essentially set in stone makes it much easier to build up to it and ensures the ending feels proper and satisfying. But also, at least for me, knowing how it ends makes it easier to stay interested/engaged with it.
W the doctor fic, how it ends is something ive known from the beginning. I technically have written beyond the ending even. Tbh if i had no end in sight i think id feel listless w it and probably drop it by now
Oh also. I like changing background colours of my pages and the fonts cuz it makes the documents look cool n i like tryna pick a bg colour that Feels like the chapter/fic :)
#is this any help idk#i have a structure in my head for how i do things but its hard to convey#theres a lot of 'fuck it we ball' vibes too#anon
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Word count: ~65,600
Cover: This seems to have gone through a few different covers, so I'll comment on the one we were sent, which appears to be the latest. It definitely gets across everything it needs to: the noir detective vibe, the fact there are humanoid aliens, and the fact at least one bloke gets abducted. It gives the impression the detective and the alien are working together, too, which tracks. And it looks good. A solid cover.
Blurb: 'Brent Bolster doesn't give a damn.
'Overlords, invaders, the Earth Upgrade Committee: they can all go to hell.
'But abduct him? He'd like to see them try.
'Like any good PI, Brent has a snub-nosed pulse pistol hidden under his pillow. But he's just met his worst nightmare, an alien with an attitude that just won’t quit, and things are about to get...complicated.
'Join Brent as he tackles Earth’s new overlords and uncovers a deadly plan.
'With the help of a mysterious dame, an assistant with serious muscle, a neurotic scientist, and a fish called Algernon, he might make it through.It's a tough job, but Brent can handle it. Just as soon as he's had his third cup of coffee……and found that damned pulse pistol.
'You’ll get a kick out of this comedy because all scifi fans love a tongue-in-cheek reference.
'Dial G for Gravity takes the world of an old-fashioned gumshoe and propels it into the future. But like all good scifi, it has something to say about where we’re headed and the way we live now.
'So grab a pot of joe, fill your favorite Star Fleet mug, and start reading.'
Whew. Bit of a long blurb. Much like the cover, it gets that detective vibe across pretty well, and it imparts a dash of the humour that will follow it the book. I might have left it a bit long between reading and writing my notes up into a review, but I can't remember it having much to say about where we're headed and the way we live now, so I feel like that bit may have been a bit redundant. In any case, it's a fun one. Let's dive in.
Vote to continue at 30%: Yes
This book was hard to review without spoilers, so please be aware that there are probably many below – mostly to do with characters rather than the plot.
Content: This was an enjoyable and easy read from the outset, with a decent dash of humour and an interesting if slightly cheesy setting including an obvious but entertaining Spock stand-in. We had a detective getting abducted even though he should have been exempt, an alien getting pranked by his co-workers, and not-android-Spock falling mortally foul of their captain's temper. A lot of these colourful characters got thrown together for much of the book, with plenty of opportunity to bounce off each other. It was a promising setup.
However, with several different plot lines moving along at once, it didn't go as far as I expected by what I thought was the 30% mark (it had a pesky sample of the sequel at the end, which skewed my perception of how long the actual book was), beyond presenting the mystery of why the detective was mistakenly abducted and revealing a ship of aliens heading for Earth. By halfway, the main characters had teamed up and started working through the problem, but I felt a general lack of 'spark' that I struggled to put my finger on. Perhaps it was just the pacing, but I think it may have been the number of PoV characters, each knowing their bit of the story and thus removing some of the suspense. The prose was entertaining enough, but the plot failed to deliver and I found the eventual resolution so sudden that it was disappointing.
While I did have a few chuckles as I read, the humour did often fall back on something that always falls flat for me: characters constantly being rude or just plain mean to each other. (Also references to some TV shows I assumed were either before my time or American, or both.) I'm never quite sure if it's meant to be funny or not, but I just find it makes me retreat from the characters. In this case I don't think Brent is meant to be particularly likeable, but his behaviour got more grating for me as the book went on. I held out some hope of him changing and becoming nicer, but he didn't, and was particularly keen on trying to get with Maisie even after she made it perfectly clear she wasn't interested.
In fact, all the men seemed to make jokes at the expense of the women. This would have been less of a problem if the women were actually strong characters. I expected Maisie to constantly cut through Brent's nonsense, but by the end she was practically simpering at the thought of a man protecting her. I thought Tsumper would be an intelligent investigator, but she didn't reappear and was written off as stupid. I thought Breamell would be sharper than Rawlgeeb gave her credit but, but she was just all over him and did nothing but get captured. Individually, perhaps nothing of note. Together, they paint a frustrating picture. Maybe I'm just being stupid here and it's deliberately embracing a trope of noir stories, but it didn't come across as a result of unreliable or rose-tinted narration, and it didn't sit right.
In the end, while I enjoyed the book's writing style and its quirky setting, the plot and characters left me feeling a bit more ambivalent. It was a quick and reasonably entertaining read, but I wasn't itching to dive into the sequel.
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Harry opens his eyes to a sea of white, foggy and empty and utterly bare, the feeling of a warm hand on his chest. He blinks - everything is too bright and too blinding, the air painful in his lungs. It’s all he can do to sit up, his back aching, his mouth tasting of blood.
“Oh God,” he hears, the voice thin and near-breaking. “Oh God. Not you. Please not you.”
“Draco?” Harry says, and the hand on his chest digs in, almost to the point of pain. “What the - “
The world slowly comes into focus; a blinding white void, a series of train tracks, Draco’s pale face. It’s all empty, all too washed out until Harry lets his gaze drift down and sees the bright streak of crimson red against the fabric of Draco’s robes.
His mind goes blank. He doesn’t even realize that he’s reaching out until Draco lets out a low sound, his hand fastened around the bones of Harry’s wrist.
“I’m fine,” he says. “It doesn’t hurt. Not unless you touch it.”
“Draco - “
“I’m fine,” he snaps. He scrubs a hand over his face - blackened, Harry notices, covered in soot. “I don’t know. I just - I got hit by - by something and then I was bleeding and then when I opened my eyes I was here.”
Harry stares at the train tracks, the slates of wood and the slender beams of iron that stretched out, fading into the distance. There’s the distant sound of something, the hum of a train whistle, and he feels Draco’s hand tighten on his own.
“Are we dead?”
“I don’t know,” Harry says. There’s still dirt in his hair, dirt and leaves, his shoes covered in mud. “Where would we be?”
Draco lets out a short laugh. He meets Harry’s eyes and for a moment everything goes silver, shades of grey and blond and the world slowly slides out of focus. “I don’t know. I always thought I’d burn.”
“You wouldn’t have - “ Harry starts, but it’s the sound of footsteps that makes him turn around.
The train had arrived, suddenly, magically, in a plume of smoke and mist. Harry couldn’t see anything besides his reflection in the windows, his and Draco’s and...
“You,” Draco says, with enough steel in his voice that Harry spins around. “What are you doing here.”
“Professor,” Harry offers, because what else could he say? He couldn’t muster up the venom colouring Draco’s voice, couldn’t conjure anything besides the bitter note of exhaustion.
Dumbledore stares down at him. He looked as he did so long ago, all twinkling eyes and midnight robes. He looked like magic, the way Harry used to think of it, when he was eleven and young and naive.
“Harry,” he says, and there’s that complicated knot of emotions that always coloured Dumbledore’s voice, biting regret and astonishing pride. “You wonderful boy. You brave, brave man.”
He suddenly can’t breathe. Everything comes crashing down at once; the whiteness and the smoke, Draco’s fingers pressed into his own. He dimly notices Draco stepping in front of him, back straight even with the wound gaping across his side.
“You’re dead,” Draco says, with enough malice that it sounds like a hiss. “You fell from the tower. I saw your body.”
Dumbledore closes his eyes. He looks old, Harry realizes, old and yet so, so alive. “So I did.”
Draco swallows, hard. Harry can see his fists clenching at his side, the dig of his fingers into his palm. “Where are we.”
“I was going to ask you that,” Dumbledore says, with the faintest hint of amusement in his voice. “Where do you think?”
Draco glares at him. Harry’s vision blurs, his two protectors standing in front of him like a shield. He manages to take a stumbling step forward, until he was leaning against Draco, against the warmth of his body. Dumbledore doesn’t seem surprised at the contact, merely humming to himself as Harry interlocked his fingers with Draco’s.
“I let him kill me,” he says, and he hates how his voice shakes. “Didn’t I?”
“You did,” Dumbledore nods.
“So that part of his soul that was in me...has it gone?”
“Oh yes!” Dumbledore says. “Yes, he destroyed it. Your soul is whole and completely your own, Harry.”
Harry doesn’t realize he’s trembling until he feels Draco’s hands on his shoulders, the warmth of his palms bleeding through Harry’s shirt. “So...so I...”
“How long,” Draco says. Harry can hear the fury underneath his voice, his ironclad control slowly unraveling. “How long have you raised him to die.”
Dumbledore slides his gaze over to Draco and Harry thinks he sees something - a flash of recognition, perhaps, a spark of pride. “Since the beginning.”
“I know how you did it,” Draco spits out, his voice near shattering. “He was desperate. You made him see magic as a gift, as something worth dying for. You manipulated him. How could you - “
Dumbledore smiles, and it’s the same smile Draco sometimes wore, ruthless selflessness and utter cunning. “For the greater good, Draco. I did the same things that you did.”
Draco flushes, and Harry doesn’t miss the way Dumbledore’s gaze drops down to the Dark Mark on Draco’s arm. Anger spikes in his stomach and it’s all Harry can do to prevent himself from stepping in front, shielding Draco with his body.
“Don’t you dare,” he says quietly.
Dumbledore inclines his head. “For the greater good,” he repeats, softly. “Draco and I are united on that.”
Harry feels Draco’s flinch, feels the tense set of his shoulders and the beat of his heart. “And the rest?” Draco demands. “Sirius and Remus? Harry’s parents? All the people who died today? Were they part of your plan?”
Something dark passes over Dumbledore’s face, half regret and half triumph. “Sacrifices. Like the people you killed, Draco, in your time at the manor.”
This time Draco actually steps back, the look on his face so shattered that Harry’s heart aches. He whirls on Dumbledore, his voice tense. “How dare you - “
“Maybe,” Draco breathes. “Maybe they were. But what about the others? What about the first years I had who sobbed because they were put in the evil house? The kids who were forced to take the Marks? The kids you abandoned because you didn’t care enough about them.”
It’s anger, Harry realizes. Years and years of anger, of being alone, of having no one to turn to, of watching others fall to bits and shatter into pieces.
His stomach twists. Dumbledore suddenly doesn’t seem solid, a shifting mirage in an empty sky. He smiles, almost sadly, and Harry sees a single tear trickling down his nose.
“You can go,” he says; the doors are open, Harry realizes, the train ready to go. “They’re waiting for you. Only for you.”
Draco stiffens. His fingers twist against Harry’s skin, harsh and painful and then he lets go. “Harry,” he breathes, voice breaking. “You can rest now. If...if that’s what you need.”
Harry closes his eyes. He tries to imagine it - the train, the spin of colours. His family - he can almost see them, beyond the pale thread of mist and smoke that always appeared whenever he thought of them. He thinks of Sirius, of Remus and his heart actually aches with longing, for a world he never had and never could have.
But he also thinks of Hermione, and of Ron, or flying around the Quidditch field, of lying on his back and staring up at the sky. Molly’s cooking and Arthur’s rambling, the Burrows and Hogwarts, the look on Dudley’s face as they parted for the last time. He thinks of Draco, all beautiful and golden and radiant, the fire of the goddamn sun, thinks of all the things slipping through his fingers and Harry shakes his head.
“No,” he says - Draco blinks at him. “I’m not leaving. I can’t leave. I won’t abandon the world.”
I won’t abandon you, he thinks, and Draco breaks out into a smile, the only warm thing he’s seen since he had first opened his eyes.
Dumbledore just nods - he’s fading away, Harry thinks, into the mist and the smog and the slowly reversing train. “I did tell you,” he murmurs, over the rushing in Harry’s head, the streaks of colour. “Love is the most powerful weapon of all.”
He feels Draco’s fingers press into his wrist and this time, Harry believes it.
#my take on that kings cross scene???#drarry#drarry angst#draco malfoy#harry potter#albus dumbledore#drarry fanfic#drarry fanfiction#harry potter fanfic#harry potter fanfiction#draco malfoy fanfic#draco malfoy fanfiction#harry potter angst#draco malfoy angst#hp#second wizarding war#sirius black#remus lupin
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It Happened One Night: Chapter 2
The country house Mycroft had introduced them to was a little smaller than the nobles’ mansions they’d been to thus far, but it was an elegant villa, one which exuded a sense of history.
Its exterior was built in the Gothic style, with stone foundations. Planted in the vast gardens was a sea of flora in exquisite colour schemes, delighting the eye of any onlooker. [1]
Of course, the interior didn’t disappoint either: it was richly decorated, with intricately crafted furniture in every room; and hanging from the walls were portraits of the mansion’s owners, as well as landscapes painted by renowned artists. As Sherlock and company were here as guests, they were restricted in the number of rooms allowed for use, but the sheer number of luxury items that greeted them was still far greater than what any ordinary person could ever hope to obtain.
Their lives had literally been turned around.
Turned around…… and yet.
“——Booored……”
In the room he had picked himself, Sherlock looked out the window, gazing at the tranquil garden flooded with gentle sunlight.
It had been three days since they’d moved in, and Sherlock had already grown weary of this lavish lifestyle.
He only took care of the plants in the garden insomuch that they wouldn’t wither, but otherwise he had no interest in the flowers themselves. Moreover, he had already tired of gazing upon the decorations and furniture and paintings in the house. The underground wine cellar aroused some interest, but as an invited guest, helping himself to the liquor as he pleased was evidently a breach of etiquette.
In the end, there wasn’t much to do in this mansion.
As John had suggested, requests from clients were reaching him by mail in the meantime, but they had all been simple cases, solvable just by reading the letters. Couldn’t one difficult case come in sometime? Sherlock sighed heavily as he wrote down the solutions in his replies.
His boredom was plain as day. John, who was seated across him, spoke up in a soft voice.
“Sherlock. We just got tangled up in a big incident a while back, so isn’t it a good thing to take a break for once?”
“Y’know, John, just one day of rest is enough for me. If I don’t get the right level of stimulation, my brain will get all mouldy.”
“What an absurd……”
Just then, the door opened.
“Sherlock, John-kun, I’ve made some tea.”
Miss Hudson walked in bearing a silver tray. On top of it were some nicely baked biscuits, and black tea in teacups with simple designs. As they’d been given permission to use the kitchens, she had been devoting her spare time to baking.
“Thank you, Miss Hudson.”
“Thanks—”
The two of them each took a biscuit from the tray on the table, and munched on it.
“How is it? I’m quite proud of them myself,” she asked.
John nodded in satisfaction.
“It’s very delicious. Right, Sherlock?”
“Oh, it’s good, yeah,” he replied, deadpan.
Miss Hudson shook her head sadly.
“……Well now. If you’re this bored, why don’t you head down to one of the nearby villages? Seeing as there’s such fine weather too.”
Sherlock sent his gaze out the window yet again.
“That’s true……. And if an interesting case pops up, it would be just my luck.”
“Don’t say something so troubling — we’ve worked hard for this peace and quiet.”
John was familiar with Sherlock’s character, but this level of addiction to his work was nothing short of astounding. Miss Hudson, clearly worried by the detective’s words, placed a hand on John’s shoulder.
“John-kun, with Sherlock in this state, I’m worried he’ll get up to no good. Just in case, could you tag along with him?”
“Certainly; leave it to me. It’ll also be a perfect opportunity to get some exercise.”
“What’re you both taking me for……?” Sherlock grumbled — he’d been half-joking, and was surprised to find his words being taken seriously.
Then, with Miss Hudson taking care of the house, the two men set off.
✦ ✦ ✦ ✦
The Cotswolds was a region 200 kilometres west of London, renowned for its rustic charm, with its rolling hills carpeted in verdant grass.
From where they were, they could see flocks of white sheep and tiny villages dotting the vast green landscape. The village buildings were constructed from limestone: in the northeast of the Cotswolds, it was the colour of honey; in the central region, it was golden-yellow; in the southwest, it turned white instead.
Walking along a path which cut through some pastures, Sherlock and John arrived at the village nearest to the mansion.
A small stream meandered through the village, and built along it was a series of stone houses. It looked right out of a picture book.
Their hearts healed by the idyllic scene before them, the two men headed to the centre of the village, in a bid to find some boredom-busting information. There, they found a two-storey inn. When he noticed that a section of the first floor had been converted into a pub, Sherlock broke into a grin.
“Oi, John. Let’s have a pint to pass the time.”
John shot him a dubious look.
“Sherlock. Drinking during the day isn’t something I approve of.”
“It’ll be fine. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a vacation anyway — why not let loose for a bit?”
“And who was it who said he’d had enough of resting just now……?”
This was a fine example of what it meant to do an about-turn.
But it wasn’t the first time Sherlock had done something on a whim. John reluctantly followed him into the inn.
As expected for a country pub in the daytime, there were only a handful of customers seated quietly inside — it was nothing like the bustle of the city. At the counter was a tall man, who looked like he was running the business alone.
The two men sat at the bar. Sherlock ordered beer, while John chose some light snacks. As their orders were served up, Sherlock took a swig, then directed a question to the owner.
“Hey. Isn’t there anything interesting going on around here?”
At this vague question, the pub owner rubbed his chin.
“Anything interesting, huh. Well there is, but it’s a family matter. Are you two tourists?”
John spoke up. “No, it’s complicated…… For various reasons, we’re staying in the residence of a nearby landowner for the time being.”
“Hmm, so you’re a close friend of this noble?”
“That’s not it either…… This man here is the detective Sherlock Holmes, and I’m his assistant.”
“Ah, I’ve heard of you. So you’re that Holmes. Must’ve been tough comin’ all the way out here.”
It seemed he had little interest in celebrities: hearing Sherlock’s name didn’t stir up much of a reaction.
Sherlock stared into his beer glass.
“By the way, you said something just now about a ‘family matter’?”
It seemed he had remembered what the owner said earlier, about there being something interesting. Then, the owner’s voice turned slightly cheery.
“Actually, my daughter’s in London now, and she’s getting married. She’s bringing her fiancé here the evening after tomorrow. I’ve met him just once before, but he’s a solid chap. I was kinda worried she’d get on with some weird fellow, so I’m relieved.”
“Congratulations — you must be proud.”
At John’s words, the owner rubbed the back of his head in embarrassment.
“Thanks. I’m also planning a wedding celebration that night, with some friends from the nearby villages.”
Sherlock hummed in reply. It wasn’t clear if he was interested or not.
“But the second floor is used as an inn, right? Wouldn’t the noise invite complaints?”
“Not to worry: there’s only one person staying upstairs now, and I’ve already gotten his agreement. Anyway, it’s pretty rare for outsiders to come to a small village like this. I still run the inn for formality’s sake, but most of my income comes from this pub.”
“But there is one person here.”
“Yeah, a guy who just arrived a while ago. It seems he’s an obscure painter; he said he wanted a quiet place to concentrate on his art and stimulate his creativity, so he’s rented a room for around ten days.”
That number startled John.
“That’s quite a long stay.”
“The rooms are all empty anyway, so I don’t mind at all. Also, instead of an atelier, well…… can you see it from here?”
The owner pointed at something beyond the window. A little ways from the inn, at the end of a patch of exposed, blackened earth, stood a small shed.
When the two men caught sight of the shed and nodded, the pub owner continued.
“It was originally a stable, but got remodelled into a storage shed. This guy said it was easy to concentrate there, so he moved lots of bulky luggage into the shed via carriage, and now he spends most of his day cooped up inside.”
“Something seems off. What happened to his original belongings?”
“There weren’t many to begin with, so now they’ve been moved to an empty room on the second floor. The others in the village don’t really like him, but he pays his bills on time, so I’ve nothing to say to that. And there weren’t many things in the shed in the first place, so he’s not causing me any trouble.”
Just as the owner finished speaking, the shed door opened, and they saw a man walk out alone.
Sherlock spoke up.
“Is, that the artist?”
“Yeah, his name is Rheos. I think he’s from around France.” [2]
Rheos was a pale, lanky young man dressed in awfully shabby clothes: he truly looked like an artist detached from reality. His shoulder-length hair hid most of his features, but his quick steps revealed the strength in his legs. He was carrying a large, dirty case under his arm.
“…………”
Sherlock stared with inscrutable eyes as he tried to figure out where Rheos was going, but quickly turned back to the barkeep.
“So, is he using this place as a base, and travelling around the area to paint landscapes?”
The owner shook his head.
“I thought so too at first, but apparently he practises by referencing works from famous artists.”
“Hmm, you said earlier that he always coops himself up in that shed. I thought he’d go out during the day if he’s painting scenery.”
“He’s an odd one, that’s for sure. But anyway, I’m the one who took him in, and he hasn’t caused any problems so far. I say it’s up to him where and how he wants to paint. ——By the way, Mr Detective—”
He leaned over to Sherlock a little.
“What is it?”
“From your detective work, I’m sure you’ve seen many strange cases, now haven’t you? If you’re willing, why not tell us about one or two at the dinner party?”
The owner broke into a wide grin, but on the contrary, Sherlock’s face twitched. To be honest, it was simply awkward to attend a complete stranger’s wedding party. Hence he decided to gently turn down the offer.
“……Umm, thank you for the invitation, but——”
“——Hmm? How about it? It’s my precious daughter’s wedding, y’know. I’ll do anything to make things even a little more exciting.”
However, contrary to his expectations, the pub owner seemed adamant that Sherlock regale the guests with stories from his detective work. The strength of his insistence had flustered Sherlock for a moment, but eventually, he clapped his partner’s shoulder beside him.
“In that case, John here can go. After all, he’s witnessed many of the strange things I’ve encountered up close.”
“Huh? What’re you saying, Sherlock!?”
Realising that he was being offered up instead, John panicked. As much as he wanted to congratulate the happy couple on their marriage, he didn’t want to be sent out to speak before a whole bunch of strangers.
“You’re always complaining about this and that — only now do you appreciate me? It’s not fair!”
“No need to be humble. I can personally guarantee your ability as a storyteller.”
“No, hold on just a——”
“——Oh, so you’ll be speaking in place of him, eh?”
Unfortunately for John, the owner had now set his sights on him.
“U-Uh, I……”
John put both hands before him in an effort to convey that he wouldn’t be joining the party, but in the face of the pub owner’s blinding smile, he realised all resistance would only be futile.
“Alright. I shall attend……”
“Thank you. As a further token of my thanks, have some slightly more expensive beer on the house.”
Now in a great mood, the owner took two bottles of beer from the shelves behind him.
Having been forced into speaking in public about their cases — a fine mess indeed — John was downright depressed. Sherlock patted him on the shoulder.
“Sorry. If I were to talk instead, it would just sound like I’m bragging. Do you want to get some practice in while you can?” suggested Sherlock, with a half-smile.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
John shot him a reproachful glare.
Footnotes:
[1] To give you a sense of how the house might look like, here are some examples of Victorian Gothic houses: The Guardian
[2] Rheos (pronounced ray-oh-s) is honestly my best guess at his name… (In the book it’s written as レオス). Rheos is also a real name!
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“Pretty Boy” Oliver Wood Smut
Requested by: savannah117230 on wattpad "Can you do an Oliver Wood smut? They could be best friends since 3rd year but she is a Slytherin so they kept their friendship a secret but in their 5th year their friendship is exposed. You can make up the rest because I'm not that creative lol."
A/N: I really like this idea! I'm going to switch it up a bit but I still really enjoy this! I did a bunch of drinking towards the end of it so if there's anything wrong just lmk lmao.
Warnings: SMUT, cursing, a brief instance of sexual assault, oral (male and female receiving)
Word count: 7,473
Guide: Y/N: Your Name Y/L/N: Your Last Name Y/H/C: Your Hair Colour
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I was the presumed heiress of Slytherin, both my parents were very prominent and well known Death Eaters. I was even sometimes called Slytherins "princess" just waiting for another noble Slytherin to come and sweep me off my feet. Marcus Flint, a boy in my year, was convinced he was my "knight in shining armour" and would try to get with me every chance he got. Typically, it always ended with me saying, "I'm sorry but who are you again?" But it never stopped, he was really persistent. It was kind of sad though, but I had to just deal with it. It was a big shock, to my fellow housemates, when I showed up at Quidditch trails. I walked out onto the pitch and just saw all these mouths agape. I looked at every single boy on that pitch with confusion. "We just weren't expecting to see you here Y/N." Our captain, Duncan Pucey said with almost as much as confusion drawn on his face like the rest of the boys standing there. "You boys seem to forget my father was a keeper his entire time here AND played for years on the Falmouth Falcons. Now, can we please stop gawking at me and start trials already?" I retaliated. It was no surprise when I made the team, but it was a surprise when I was placed as a chaser. I for sure thought I would be keeper just like my father. Duncan pulled me aside the last practice before games officially started, "I want you to know that you're brilliant in any position you play, but I need you as a chaser. There's a boy on the Gryffindor team, his name is Oliver...Wood? I think it's Oliver Wood and he knows Quidditch almost as well as you. I need you to keep the chasers on the best path to keeping us winning." He explained as he patted my back and then sent me off to the locker room. And that's exactly what I did. I was keeping the chasers in check, including Duncan. We made plays that no one dared to mess with and were almost impossible to beat. I wasn't entirely like my father, no no. My mother was the brightest witch of her time and it was clear I was following those footsteps as well. Best of both worlds one would assume. I wasn't some Slytherin who only did enough to pass class, I was going above and beyond each time and I quickly made it to top of my class.
The end of our second year wasn't super eventful, until Oliver and I were paired together for what seemed like the millionth time in Charms. Professor Flitwick rarely ever let us choose our own partners which would typically would be fine with me, but I was just continuously paired with Oliver Wood. Once I saw his usual grades, I immediately knew why. He was doing enough to pass, such a shame because he actually was brilliant. Our last class of charms before final exams came and went, but Professor Flitwick surprised me when he called Oliver and I up to his desk after class. "Is there something wrong Professor?" I questioned, shifting my bag behind my shoulders as I pulled my Y/H/C out from behind the bag. "Not per-say Miss Y/L/N. But I am concerned about Mr. Wood. He seems more concerned about Quidditch than his grades." "But I don't need good grades to get recruited for Quidditch." Oliver butt in, to which I rolled my eyes and scoffed. "But you need good grades to graduate Mr.Wood," Professor Flitwick turned to me, "Miss Y/L/N, could you be his study partner?" Professor Flitwick almost pleaded with me, but I didn't have the heart to turn down one of my favourite professors. I let out a long sigh, "I suppose." I replied as I crossed my arms across my chest and moved my weight onto my right leg and hip. Professor Flitwick beamed with delight, "Brilliant! 20 points to Slytherin. Now you two have a good rest of your day." He said as he started to clean up his classroom, Oliver and I made our way out of the classroom and toward the dining hall. Oliver opened his mouth but I responded quicker, "No, you are not getting any Quidditch secrets. Meet me in the library tonight at 7 or I will find you and drag you there myself." "Is that a threat or a promise?" He asked with a smirk. "Wipe that fucking smirk off your face before I decide to hex you instead." The smirk dropped off his face and we entered the dining hall and went our separate ways as I rolled my eyes, eager to let my friends in on the trauma of Oliver Wood I will endure for the foreseeable future.
Our third year came up a lot faster than expected, but I was still excited. I entered Platform 9 3/4 with my parents, and immediately we were met with stares and whispers. We quickly said our goodbyes, but not before my father handed me a broom. As he handed me the broom, he hugged my mother closer and smiles grew on their faces when they saw the excitement in my eyes. "A Transylvanian Barb! They're brand new! But why?" I asked, confused about the gift, but still excited nonetheless. "Our beautiful girl deserves only the best. Keep breaking records out there darling." My mother said before they pulled me in for one last hug and kiss before I boarded the train. I made my way to the back where the Slytherins were, but I couldn't help but notice all the stares and whispers now directed toward me. Directed solely toward me. I just hurried to the Slytherin car and I saw all my teammates waiting for me. We were all so excited for the new year because a new year meant new Quidditch plays. But a new term also meant that soon enough, you were Olivers study partner. It wasn't the ideal situation, but if it meant that the only person close to your skill was still on the pitch, and I was willing to make sure I had a worthy opponent. Soon enough, Oliver was asking for help in all our classes. I didn't mind, I got to keep him accountable, but it took up a lot more of my time. Eventually, it was nearing the time final game of the year. Gryffindor against Slytherin. Both of our teams were practicing as much as we could. I almost had no time to breathe, but this would all be over soon and everything would be a lot better and easier. I found myself in divination class, seated next to Marcus and Terence at our table. We were learning tessomancy, the divination form that requires you to read tea leaves. This class was meant to focus on soulmates and finding their initials in our leaves. Terence was struggling to figure his out, while Marcus just smirked at me. "It's your initial, looks like you really are my soulmate babe." Marcus said with a smirk. I shot him a disgusted look, "Mine is an 'M' BUT before you say anything it's the initial of the persons last name you git." I looked down at my cup and realised my mistake, my cup was upside down. That 'M', is actually a 'W'. I wasn't going to admit this to them though. "Fuck," I sighed, "Must be Malfoy." I played off how I really felt and what everything really meant. There were plenty of people in this school with last names beginning with 'W', but I didn't want to press it to much longer. I ended up helping the rest of the Slytherins and Trewlaney gave me 15 points for Slytherin. I immediately went to my usual spot in the library and just hoped and prayed to Merlin everything would go back to normal. Oliver arrived moments later and took his usual seat. We had two essays to write so we just created small talk every now and again to fill the air. I finished before Oliver, I did some studying before he finished. I proof read his essay, it was actually really good. "Oliver, this is great! I told you that if you a little more effort in you would be great! You might not need me much longer." I said with a playful chuckle. "I would hate to end these study sessions, working with you is actually quite fun and you help me keep on track. Who knew the princess of Slytherin had it all? Looks, smarts, and excellent quidditch skills." Oliver said with a smirk, which made me blush. "Alright pretty boy, I love my ego being stroked, but both of us have practice tonight. Mine is soon, yours is later. I'll see you tomorrow on the pitch Wood. Can't wait to kick your ass." I said as I sent a wink his way and walked away after all my stuff was packed away. I made my way down to the pitch where I got ready and headed over to Duncan to discuss what plays we need to make and so on. By the end of practice, we had a solid plan in place for the game against Gryffindor. We were all radiating positivity with how well practice went for us. We all changed but as soon as we left the locker room, Gryffindor was making their way onto the pitch. Marcus went right up to them and I followed, not wanting anything serious to happen. Marcus was about to say something but I grabbed his arm and pulled him away, "Marcus if you lay even a finger on them before the game tomorrow I will make sure you don't play and you're a sub next year. Step away from them or I will force you to back away." "Awe you're hot when you're angry. How about this, I don't do anything to these pussy's and when we win we celebrate in my dorm and you sleep with me?" Marcus asked in a condescending tone as we walked away. I stopped and immediately started to pretend to gag at the words that just came out of his mouth, "I would much rather sleep with Wood over there ten times over before I even thought about touching you." I practically yelled. All eyes were on us. "What does Wood have that I don't clearly I'm packing a lot more than him." He said as his right hand moved to touch his member through his pants and his left hand trailed around my waist and squeezed my right butt cheek. That was all I needed to immediately cock my arm back and land a hard punch directly on his nose, which was now just gushing blood down his body. Marcus stumbled back and scrambled to his feet. Terence started to bring him off the pitch. I took my wand out and pointed it at him. I started to make my way towards him when Duncan and a few other of my teammates held me back with all their strength. "I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU FLINT. I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU THE NEXT CHANCE I GET. I SWEAR TO MERLIN. YOU WILL WISH YOU NEVER EXISTED YOU FILTHY PIECE OF SHIT EXCUSE FOR A WIZARD!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, I had tears streaming down my face at this point. Both from the experience and the pain my throat was in. Miles ran to get a professor as Duncan hugged me and apologised to the Gryffindor team. Duncan held onto me as we made our way to meet with Dumbledore, Snape, and McGonagall. I made eye contact with Oliver as I passed by and he looked broken just from witnessing the exchange. Duncan and I met with the Headmaster and our head of house in his office and explained everything that happened. It wasn't a long meeting but it wasn't a short meeting either. Duncan agreed with Snape and Dumbledore that Flint was going to be out for the last game of the year and sub for most of next year. We made our way to dinner and all eyes were on me, but I just ignored it and just put on my RBF and plotted revenge (and how I could possibly tell my parents). It was the day of the biggest game of the year to us. I got to the locker room extra early to clear my mind and go through last minute plays to make sure they were as clean and thought out as possible. Duncan followed not too long after me and I informed him of some errors I found and we worked through them. Once the rest of the team was in the locker room and changed we went over the game plan. After Duncan's speech, we entered the pitch to some cheers but mostly boo's. We were all on the pitch when we got into our positions and went up into the sky. Before we took our actual positions, Oliver sent a wink my way. I just shook my head and shoo'd him away to the posts. The game was going great, we were leading but not by much. We needed that snitch to win. Terence was so close to catching it, Charles wasn't making it too easy though. I paid as little attention as possible toward the seekers fighting for the snitch. Fred and George Weasley were towards the left of me but pretty far behind. I had just caught the quaffle and was heading towards the goals when all of a sudden, I was hit hard in the side and I let go of the quaffle as I flew off my broom from the force of the hit. I hit the corner of the Slytherin stand and just free fell to the ground. I was out cold before I hit the ground. Terence caught the snitch, but people were concerned with my limp body lying on the ground. I woke up later that day in the hospital wing, my team was surrounding me. They told me everything that happened. Fred and George performed a Dopplebeater Defence and the bludger went straight for me. It hit me hard enough to throw me to the corner of the stands like I was a muggle rag doll and I immediately fell hundreds of feet to the ground. I had several broken ribs and many more fractures. But I was more concerned about my broom and if we had won. Duncan chuckled, "We did win, Terence caught the snitch right as you hit the stands. And your broom is fine. I grabbed it before it plummeted to the ground." We were all caught up in conversation when there was a throat clear from behind my team surrounding my bed. "Leave her alone Weasley's, she doesn't need to be hurt anymore." Duncan said, in a voice so firm yet so angry. "We came to apologise." The twins said in unison. I chimed in before Duncan could, "It's fine. You guys can go. I'll be fine." I smiled and hurried them along. "We're so sorry Y/N," Fred started. "We didn't think it would curve and get you." George chimed in. "We promise, once you're better we'll get you all the sweets you want," I cut them off, "Guys it's okay. It's a game of quidditch. I'd be naive if I didn't believe I would never get hurt. I forgave you a long time ago. But I still appreciate the care you two have." I replied with a smile as they handed me a bouquet of wild flowers. They made their way out, I placed the flowers on the bedside table. I looked up and saw Oliver. "How are you feeling?" He asked as he took the seat next to me. "Besides just a blanket of pain, I'm pretty good now that you're here." I said with a smile. There was a thick silence that enveloped both of us, eventually Oliver broke that silence. "Are we friends?" He asked. "What do you mean?" "Like, you've really grown on me in our study sessions and I want to be friends with you but.." "I have an image to uphold Wood. But we can, if that's what you want. Just, we must keep the study sessions professional. Secret friendship, for now," I said, I saw the sorrow in his eyes "It's a secret for now. Until I can figure all this out. I promise Ollie." I said as I stuck out my pinky finger, he chuckled and hooked his pinky finger with mine. Oliver came down every day to help me with homework and our usual study sessions. But once everyone left we just chatted like old pals. It was so much easier once I could actually go back to classes and roaming the castle. Every day meshed together; I went to my classes, bickered back and forth with Oliver, had study sessions, and then snuck away to have alone time with Oliver and acted like normal friends behind closed and hidden doors. I hated it, but being the "heiress of Slytherin" I had an image to uphold. Hopefully our 5th or 6th year I can just be open about this, but right now is not the time. Especially because I don't know what they'd do to Oliver. It was more for his protection, and he figured that out the more we hung out and talked. The deeper our friendship grew, the more we learned about each other... and the more I started to feel something more for him. The end of the year came so fast, yet went by so slow. Saying goodbye to everyone hurt when the one person I didn't want to leave I couldn't even say goodbye to. No matter how bad I felt, Oliver and I still wrote to each other practically every day. Each new letter was a countdown to the first of September, a countdown to seeing my best friend. But with each letter also came stronger and stronger feelings I had never felt before. Was this love? Was this what love felt like? What is this feeling?
The first of September has come yet again, welcoming me to my fourth year at Hogwarts, but this time my family and I were accompanied by the Malfoy's. Mum and dad have always wanted me to marry Draco, keep the pureblood line going. I didn't hate Draco, he was very annoying for an 11 year old, but I didn't hate him. Neither of our families believed in arranged marriages, but they definitely mentioned a married between Draco and I often. Draco was definitely infatuated with me. Trying his best to flirt with me and to keep my attention on him. At the train, I hugged my parents goodbye and hugged Narcissa and shook Lucius' hand. Draco and I boarded the train together, "Now, I sit with all of the older years and first years aren't allowed, but after tonight you can always find me when you need me." I said as I sent Draco a smile. Draco took my hand and kissed it and went on his merry way to find someone to befriend. My eyes drifted from Draco to Oliver, who seemingly was watching the whole time. He shot a smile my way, causing me to blush. I walked passed him to the Slytherin cart and he slipped a piece of parchment into my hand. I kept walking and as I entered I sat in my usual seat, but only Terence and Miles were in their seats. I read the note, "I really missed you, more than ever. Meet me on the pitch at 8?" I let out a smile as I slyly slid the note into my right pocket. We continued our conversations of our summer holidays as more of our peers came through and sat down. I announced that I was the quidditch captain now that Duncan has graduated. We all enjoyed our time together once again, after all, it was just another year and another House Cup we were determined to win. It came to the sorting ceremony and I only was anticipating Draco and his sorting. He was sorted into Slytherin faster than I was, but he was proud and made his way over to me and kissed my cheek before sitting right next to me. My teammates just looked over at me, and then Draco, and looked more confused than when a professor calls on them and they're not paying attention. Draco happily chimed in, "I'm going to marry her. Join the Malfoy and Y/L/N pureblood names and have the greatest bond to ever occur in the wizarding world." He had a smile beaming from ear to ear. They all shifted their gazes onto me, questioning if it was real or in his imagination. "I'll explain later, don't worry guys." I said to calm them down, which it only helped slightly. The upperclassmen made their way to their perspective common rooms. I told my teammates how it wasn't fully a thing, arranged at least. It was encouraged but not forced, and to just let Draco believe whatever he wants to believe. They all finally understood and proceeded to start a whole new conversation. It was almost 8 and I decided to sneak away from my friends and down to the pitch. If someone finds me on my way there then I can just say I need to cleat my mind or something like that. I can always get myself out of trouble. As soon as I walked by the Gryffindor locker room, I heard a faint whisper and made my way to see inside. As soon as I cracked the door, an arm reached out and grabbed my forearm and yanked me inside. I practically fell onto whomever just pulled me in. I looked up and saw Olivers infamous smile and pulled him in for a tight hug. The hug seemed to go on forever, but eventually we let go, but not fully, his arms were still wrapped around my waist and my arms were wrapped around his neck. "Oh how I've missed you." He said with a smirk, but there was definitely something hiding behind it. I was studying his face like it was a written exam. And caught on and he guided me to the benches right behind us. "Obviously I wanted to say hi, but that's not the only thing I wanted to talk to you about," Oliver started as he sat beside me, "I've been having this thought and this feeling for a while now," I was confused, and the furrowed brows and now titled head made him keep going. "I know you like sleeping around and fucking whenever you can... NOT that it's a bad thing because I like that too. But... B-but I want to know what it's like to like, sleep with one person. And I just hope you've been feeling this sexual tension too, Y/N. Would you like, to like, maybe be friends with benefits?" He asked and he started to blush as he looked away. I knew it was too good to be true, he didn't feel the same way I think I feel about him. But if this was the closest to a relationship I could have with him, I was going to seize the moment. "I'm glad you felt the tension too, I was starting to grow exhausted just hiding it," I said as I inched a little closer to him as I unbuttoned the top buttons of my white blouse, "I was getting tired of hopping from dick to dick. Although the variety was nice, getting railed by the same cock over and over sounds so much better to me." I got even closer to him, I moved his hands to my bare thighs and my hands tugged at his shirt. Oliver crashed his lips into mine, the rough intensity of the kiss threw me off guard but I enjoyed every moment of it. I quickly deepened the kiss, feeling myself grow wetter and wetter as Oliver finished unbuttoning my blouse. I unhooked my black bra and he took off his turtleneck and we threw our articles of clothes onto the ground, just letting them land wherever they pleased. I took one look at his body and my mouth dropped. Toned but not overly defined, a perfect middle ground. Oliver took full advantage of the moment and placed his hands roughly on my bare sides, sending sparks throughout my body, and he pulled my into him and crashed his lips onto my bare neck as he sucked and bit every inch of my neck and collarbone. Oliver was still in a sitting position while I was standing over him, one leg on each side of the bench. As Oliver found my sweet spot, he started to pull my skirt down to my knees and I took it off and threw it wherever it decided to land. He started to leave hickies all over my upper body he kissed his way down to my breasts. He took my left breast into his mouth and sucked and kissed every inch of it. His right and trailed from my side down to my warm and wet pussy. He didn't even hesitate to move my panties out of the way and rubbed the folds of my dripping wet pussy. That feeling all on its own made me whimper and melt into him more than I was. His mouth moved to my right breast and give it the same attention my left breast received earlier. His left hand was free and moved to unbutton his pants and pull out his pulsating cock. As soon as I felt his cock touch my thigh, I positioned myself over his member. "I've waited all summer for this." He said right before he took his cock and rubbed the tip up and down my soaking wet folds. He stopped at my entrance but before he could say anything I lowered myself onto him, feeling his cock fill up all the empty space inside of me. No one has ever filled me so perfectly. I crashed my lips onto his as I rode his cock up and down and making sure he understands what he's getting. "If I didn't want this, I wouldn't be this wet for you... pretty boy." As those words left my mouth, Oliver held me close to him, picked me up and laid me down on the bench. He would alternate his thrusts between fast and slow, seemingly trying to pace himself so he can savour this moment. I felt my core start to contract and tighten and my pussy became more and more sensitive. In between my increasingly shallow breaths, I noticed that I was edging closer and closer to my climax. "Ol-Ol-Oliver," My breaths were becoming more and more shallow, "I-I'm g-g-g-getting cl-lose." Oliver was letting out low grunts of pleasure as he gripped my hips tighter than before, but with the words that seemingly dripped out of my mouth, Oliver thrusted harder and faster than he had previously in our little rendezvous. With each new thrust, a new grunt or groan came out of Olivers mouth, I could feel his cock twitch inside me and I knew he was ready to cum. I reluctantly brought my right hand down to my clit and started to stimulate myself while he thrusted into me. I started to feel myself become undone in Olivers grasp, my head was thrown back and my back arched as I let out a final pleasure filled moan. Oliver watched in awe and pleasure as I came undone on his cock. Once my high finished, I pushed Oliver back and got onto my knees in front of him. I took his hard cock into my hand started to pump before I placed my lips onto the tip of his dick. I pumped his shaft as I played with the tip of his cock with my tongue. I felt his cock twitch in my hand one final time before he let his cum release into my mouth. He was a mess of sweat and heavy breathing, I swallowed his seed as he sat on the bench we were just having our most amazing high on. I started to gather my clothes and get dressed, as I was putting my bra on I said, "That was-" I was cut off my Oliver, "Amazing." "That was amazing," He said as he slapped my ass, "I would love to do this again." He pulled me closer as he still hungrily looked me up and down. We both finished getting dressed but then he grabbed my hand and sat me down on the bench again, "We should probably figure out a game plan for this, like rules for us being friends with benefits." I nodded my head in agreement. "Alright, chime in any time you have something to say," I nodded at his statement and he continued, "Consent is the most important thing of all, we are still friends and I trust that both of us will let the other know if sex isn't in the cards for the night. We are friends above all. Secondly, we should probably stop when one of us gets into a relationship. Lastly, no catching feelings." He finished with a chuckle, but my face sort of flushed but I tried to keep my composure. "Couldn't agree more." I said behind a fake smile as I stuck my hand out for him to shake, and he returned the favour. I snuck out of the Gryffindor locker room and went into my own, grabbing my broom and waiting to see Oliver walk up to the castle. I went onto the pitch and just flew around, trying to sort through my own thoughts. I realised it was close to curfew and so I landed, but my broom back in its spot and headed back up to the castle. My team was waiting up for me, scared that something had happened to me but I assured them I was just at the pitch starting to get a game plan going and clearing my mind. As the boys trickled out of the common room, the only ones left were Terence and I but we had sat in silence for some time and I was just staring into the fire. "Is everything okay Y/N?" He asked, which slightly startled me enough to look him in the eyes. "Of course I am T, I just...have a lot on my mind." I said with a bit of a forced smile. He wasn't quite sure if he was buying it but then he said, "Okay, but I care a lot about you and I want you to know you can always talk to me." He placed his hand on my thigh in reassurance, I placed my hand over his and shot him a smile before standing up and heading to our dorm rooms. Maybe Terence could help take my mind off of Oliver only wanting to fuck me. And that's what started to happen. Several times a week, Oliver and I would meet up and either just have a grand ol' time or just to fuck but during the day, I was growing closer and closer to Terence. But Oliver still definitely had my heart, in more ways than one. Nothing I could do would make me feel differently. Oliver and I were both captains, which made fuck sessions and wagers even better than before. Slytherin won the first game of the year, so Oliver had to eat me out, and honestly he might've loved it more than I did. When Gryffindor won their first game, I gave him a blowjob and really whatever he wanted. The Quidditch house cup was quickly approaching and both of us were starting to have stress sex several times a week. He was my release of this stress and I was his. The day before the last game against Slytherin and Gryffindor, Oliver and I had just finished working on our DADA essays and I was cleaning up when Oliver just looked at me and said "Oh, I have a girlfriend now. So, no more funny business." He said with a smirk and a chuckle as he collected his things and went on his way. My heart sank to my feet as tears welled up in my eyes, but I just wiped whatever there was away and I marched my way down to the pitch to try to take my mind off of everything going on around me. I changed into my uniform and sat down thinking and rethinking plays as my leg bobbed up and down with stress. I had notes scribbled everywhere and I was struggling to keep my head on my shoulders. Terence, Miles, and Adrien walked in expecting them to be the first but were shocked to see me but even more shocked to see the chaos surrounding me. Terence asked the other two boys to give them a moment and he sat next to me and rubbed my back, trying to soothe me. "What's going on Y/N?" "A guy I thought really liked me doesn't and he has a girlfriend. We were doing a friends with benefits thing but I hoped it would turn into more." I replied and he pulled me closer. "Well clearly he's an absolute git for leaving you for someone else, even if all you two did was fuck. You deserve so much more than whoever that asshole is." "You're right, I deserve so much better than him. I shouldn't have let it go on this long." "I know this is quick, but we have been hanging out a lot more these past few months and I was wondering if you would be my girlfriend? No pressure, but the hogsmeade dates made me feel a type of way and I hope you feel the same." I smiled and cupped his face in my hands and kissed him, "I would love to. Thank you for showing me I deserve better." We both smiled and the team joined us in the locker room as I reworked plays with my newly cleared mind, well, not fully cleared. Practice went really well and I'm very pleased with what we have prepared for tomorrow. We came down from the sky and Gryffindor was awaiting us in the pitch. "Trying to calculate how much you're going to lose Gryffin-snore?" Adrien shot at them, unprovoked but no care in the world. "Save it for the game boys. See you on the pitch tomorrow, Wood." I said in a dark tone as I shoved passed him as Terrence and I interlocked fingers as we walked into the locker room. It was officially game day and the dining hall was buzzing with wagers and thoughts for the day. Terence and I walked into the dining hall hand in hand and I looked over at Oliver who was staring straight at me. I looked away as we made our way to the table where the rest of our team was sitting. We ate a hearty breakfast and headed to the pitch. Once we were in the locker room and all changed we went over the plays we needed and I finished with a speech, "[...] I know I never say this, so believe me I need you all to listen and take this to heart, play dirty. I will be giving commands but I trust you all know how to play dirty since most of you have been playing that way all year against my wishes... Yes Pucey, I'm talking to you. But you all better hope that if you get a foul on purpose, you better hope Merlin finds you before I even start to hunt you down. Go out and kick some Gryffindor ass." We all exited the room and made our way onto the pitch. Terence and I exchanged a quick peck right in front of Oliver right before we all took position on the pitch. Madam Hooch released the balls and I immediately got the Quaffle and headed toward the goal posts. Angelina and Katie from Gryffindor got on both sides of me but before they could successfully perform a Body Blow on me, I picked up speed and drifted in front of the goals as I threw the Quaffle in and scored. "Forty-three seconds and the first goal goes to Slytherin! The goal was made by Y/N Y/L/N and made a new school record for fast goal made in a match!" Lee Jordan announced. The game went on for ages but I was on fire. I was scoring and checking like no tomorrow, to say I was determined was an understatement. I was fighting for that win, I wanted to see Olivers face lose first hand. And almost as quick as the game started, Terence caught the snitch and Slytherin won! I briefly looked over at Oliver who looked heartbroken, but in more ways than one. I was broken from my chance when Terence came up and pulled me in for a passionate kiss. "And there is it folks, Slytherin's seeker Terence Higgs caught the snitch which landed Slytherin the win of the inter-house Cup! Oh, and by the looks of it he also scored the winning kiss with Slytherin's Captain, Y/N Y/L/N! Y/N won the game with brilliant plays and won Terence's heart!" Lee Jordan said before he said his usual Quidditch game closing announcements. The night was buzzing with drinks and games and cheer in the usually gloomy Slytherin common room. A few weeks passed and Oliver and I were studying for our History of Magic exam when he suddenly stopped and looked at me. "Oliver, are you okay?" He kept staring, I snapped my fingers a few times in front of his face which seemed to take him out of his trance. "Are you serious?" He asked sternly. "About what?" "Dating Terrence." "Well, yeah. That's why we hang out all the time. He treats me like I matter. Anywho, we shouldn't be discussing this because you are also in a relationship. Now keep studying so you don't fail." I left that night feeling uneasy but acted like everything was normal. The end of the year approached fast, but Terrence and I agreed that we just weren't meant for each other romantically and so we broke it off and remained friends. Finals were coming up and so Oliver and I were cramming like we had for countless exams prior. We were in the library very late each night, and this night was no different but something about the atmosphere was very different. "How are you and Terrence?" Oliver asked. "Oh, we broke up a while ago." I replied, keeping my head on my study guide. Olivers head shot up and he looked at me, "What? Why?" "Well," I started as I looked up, "Since you want to be nosy, we just were better off as friends. Simple really, nothing too extreme or anything. How are you and your girl?" "We actually broke up yesterday." "Oh I'm so sorry to hear that. Are you okay?" He pondered that question for a bit, before finally saying something that caught me off guard, "Yeah, but I miss our old nights together." He was waiting for my reaction, hell even I was waiting for my reaction. I missed them too but I didn't want to go through all those feelings all over again. "I miss them too Ollie, but I don't want we used to have. If I'm being honest," I looked around to make sure no one was still in the library, "I caught feelings for you and being friends with benefits hurt me and really messed me up emotionally. I can't put myself through that again." Olivers reaction went from shock, to confusion, to relief. I watched the gears in his mind turn every step of the way for him to process the information I just gave him. "Well that's a relief, I caught feelings for you as well." He said with his signature smirk. My brows furrowed, "Then why did you date another girl?" "To try to get you and your body out of my mind, but the Slytherin heiress has her way with men and I never forgot our endeavors and I just kept missing them. I didn't think you felt the same, so I suppressed my own feelings. I'm sorry, I should've said something sooner." There was an awkward silence between us for a few moments, before Oliver spoke up, "Is that why you destroyed us in the inter-house Cup?" I started to blush and nodded my head yes. His eyes widened and a smile formed on his face, "I hate to admit it but it was bloody brilliant. You're bloody brilliant...on and off the pitch... Can you be my girlfriend?" I blushed and just smiled at him, "Of course. But it's still a secret." The year finished and Oliver and I had successfully kept our relationship under the radar. I hated it but I had a plan, I think.
Fifth year rolled around and started off great. Nothing too exciting happend, except whenever Oliver and I were alone it was more cute and no sex. We mutually agreed to wait. A couple days before the inter-house cup, we snuck into an empty classroom and just talked and chilled together since tomorrow we were both going to be super busy. I was sat atop a desk and Oliver was standing in front of me and holding my hands. Oliver and I leaned in for a kiss when suddenly we heard the door open and a gasp fill the empty room. Both of us spun our head in the direction of the sound, and in the doorway was Lee Jordan. Lee immediately left but that little thing just knocked the wind out of you. "Fuck." I muttered under my breath, "Alright. Hopefully he doesn't go around blabbing about what he saw." "And if he does?" My eyes darted around the room in a moment of pondering, "If he does, then we'll have to make it official in front of everyone." "Is that okay for you?" "We deserve to be open about our relationship. I just need a day or two to get all my ducks in a row. You deserve to be in a public relationship." Oliver smiled at that statement and pulled me into a kiss. We both left the room and headed to our prospective common rooms. The next day started off with an early practice. Lee hadn't spilt the beans about what he saw, yet. I was a bit more nervous than ever before but I still led the team like tomorrow was the last day of their lives. We all left practice happily but I was a bit behind, cleaning the room and pondering my thoughts. I walked into the dining hall for dinner and all eyes were on me and whispers immediately started. I just strutted to my usual seat and just dug in. My teammates opened their mouths and I immediately shot back, "If sone of you says ONE THING I will make sure you don't play tomorrow. I finished eating and went straight to my dorm and fell asleep. I wanted nothing more than for things to be normal again. I woke up bright and early and headed to the pitch. I knew Olivers plays so well, so I was busying myself with coming up with new plays and how to implement them. Eventually the rest of my team joined me and we all got ready. I gave one of the best speeches of my career, but before I could step away from being the centre of attention Marcus asked, "Are you and Woods really dating?" I took a deep breath in, "Yes, yes we are. Now go on the pitch because I never want to hear another word about this. Got it?" We all entered the pitch a few minutes before Gryffindor did, one they came out I immediately looked for Oliver. We made our way over to each other and we looked into each others eyes. "I love you, pretty boy." "I love you too, princess." Oliver threw his broom onto the ground and grabbed my waist and pulled me into a deep and passionate kiss as the crowd roared behind us.
#oliver wood#oliver wood imagine#oliver wood preference#oliver wood would include#oliver wood smut#Harry Potter#harry potter fandom#harry potter smut#smut#imagine#preference#would include#requested#requested imagine#requested smut#wattpad#show-choir-gal
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Feral jaskier and himbo geralt are always lovely!!! “So many questions and not enough brain cells” was absolutely MAGNIFICENT
Nonnie, I am so happy you liked that line. It gave me a chuckle to write it too. Feral Jaskier and himbo Geralt are such a delight, I now feel the need to write a little more for you. Movie stars, stunt doubles and idiots ahoy!
Incidentally, this also seems to fit my @sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo square ‘sharing a brain cell’.
Prompt: Sharing a brain cell Relationships (romantic/platonic/etc): Geralt/Jaskier, Lambert/Eskel/Cahir/Aiden Rating: T Content Warnings: None Summary: Geralt is the star of a TV series with Jaskier as his on screen arch nemesis. Thankfully that rivalry doesn’t carry into real life.
The set was like a second home by that point. Geralt spent a good nine months of the year there, the crew feeling like family. It was their fifth season of filming, Geralt couldn’t quite get tired of the monster of the week format though. He loved it, loved how cheesy it was and the fact that it was a production that didn’t bait or bury their characters. The natural chemistry he’d had with Jaskier made it so much easier too. They had kissed on screen enough times that he was intimately familiar with the shape of Jaskier’s lips and the taste of the lip balm he wore. That had started three seasons ago and Geralt had been quietly wishing they could kiss away from the cameras too. So he had been planning, even seeking out the advice of those he trusted - namely Eskel and Lambert.
That had been a surprise friendship that Geralt had discovered. Eskel was brought in as he stunt double for more tricky shots. Usually, Geralt liked to do his own stunts but falling off a horse at a gallop was a little beyond him. As was surviving Jaskier’s rather flamboyant fighting style. Just for a laugh Geralt had sat in on a few of Jaskier’s training session and he was so very torn between laughing his arse off and feeling sorry for Cahir who was doing his best to help them train for their fight scenes. For all his patience and expertise, Jaskier seemed determined to add his own flair. The number of times Jaskier accidentally smacked Geralt, Eskel and Cahir during training and on takes was truly staggering. It could have been a blooper reel all on its own.
Thankfully it was a short day, something about a number of the crew requesting the evening off. As it was towards the end of filming, they were within the time budget, it had been declared that they could all have the evening off.
“Just make him a home cooked meal,” Eskel advised. “Guys love that, trust me.”
“It work for you?” Geralt was a little sullen and sceptic. He didn’t think a home cooked meal was what Jaskier would want. On screen they were enemies with a terrible habit of falling into bed. The reality probably wasn’t so far off either. Though, at least, they had become friends after a rocky start.
“Would I be celebrating my fifth anniversary this evening if it didn’t?” There was no small amount of entertainment in Eskel’s face. “It’s not like my looks are what draw anyone in.”
That had been an unfortunate accident from before Geralt’s time. Some pyrotechnic stunt had gone horribly wrong and left Eskel with the scars. If it hadn’t been for those and the different coloured hair, Geralt was sure they could have been mistaken for brothers, if not twins. Still, now Eskel only worked on sets where Lambert was the one in charge of anything fire related. Which was just as well because Geralt liked Lambert, enjoyed trading barbs with him whenever their paths crossed. As Geralt’s fame climbed, he got to ask for more and more things in contracts and, as he was fond of Eskel, he asked for him as a stunt double whenever he could and then asked for Lambert if the set called for it. It was nice to have so much power and be able to work with those he liked. Interestingly, Cahir was fast becoming another person who Geralt got on with quite well. That wasn’t to say Geralt wasn’t scared shitless of him at the start. Nobody should know so much about fighting with so many weapons without having a very colourful past - one that Cahir refused to talk about. Still, the guy was good at his job and Geralt could talk to him, so his advice was sought out too.
“Just tell him. Bring him something you know he will like. Show an interest in him and his life outside of set.”
For the first time ever, Geralt felt that Cahir was in a rush. He wasn’t quite as patient and measured as usual.
“Excited for the evening off?” he asked, trying to be friendly. And maybe he was practicing Cahir’s advice on him so he could be sure it worked when he talked to Jaskier.
A soft, shy smile crossed Cahir’s face, making him look younger and much less severe. “That obvious? It’s my anniversary today. I want to make it special.”
“Maybe bring them a gift that they’ll like?” Geralt offered with an amused smile. “I have it on good authority that it works.”
Laughing, Cahir clapped Geralt on the shoulder. “Best of luck. Now go get your man.”
Finding Jaskier wasn’t an issue, Geralt just had to follow the sound of laughter and singing. Unsurprisingly, Jaskier was sat with a gigantic sparkler while Lambert was packing away. Those two were a dangerous combination at the best of times and Geralt knew Jaskier had, on more than one occasion, dropped by the writers’ room to posit new ideas that centred around more pyrotechnics. The ideas had obviously come from Lambert but they were mostly good so got used surprisingly frequently.
“Aha! My companion for the evening has arrived!” Jaskier hopped off the box he had been swinging his legs off and approached Geralt. “What say you? Dinner. You and me. We enjoy this rare evening off with some good company and good food.”
“Sounds good,” Geralt agreed readily, it saved him having to ask Jaskier.
Turning back, Jaskier waved at Lambert. “Enjoy your anniversary this evening! Make sure you can walk properly tomorrow though!”
Another anniversary. While Geralt had been feeling quite confident about asking Jaskier out, the news that it was yet another person’s anniversary somewhat ruined the idea. Geralt knew Jaskier liked to be unique, adored being different to everyone else. To ask him out now and share an anniversary with three people they knew, it felt a little less special. Mood taking a bit of a dive, Geralt slouched next to Jaskier as they walked towards the cars.
“Why the glum face?” Typically, nothing went over Jaskier’s head. “Would you prefer a night of solitude?”
Shaking his head, Geralt resigned himself to the knowledge that Jaskier would wheedle until he got the truth out of him. So he saved them both a lot of time and agony. “It’s stupid.”
“Nothing’s ever stupid, just needs to be valued correctly.”
“I wanted to ask you something. But make it special. It’s not special though, not today. Maybe I’ll try tomorrow.”
That made not a lick of sense to Jaskier and he frowned, bumping his shoulder against Geralt’s. “Just ask.”
“But it won’t be special. Three other couples we know have an anniversary today.”
A soft laugh from Jaskier pulled him from his grumblings. “So many people have their anniversaries every day. It’s not like one single day can be declared as only one couple’s.”
For someone so smart, Jaskier sure wasn’t putting the pieces together to solve just what Geralt was trying to say.
“But would you really want an anniversary when Lambert, Eskel and Cahir each have theirs too?” It was actually a little odd, now that Geralt thought of it. Three good friends all sharing an anniversary.
There was a moment of silence before Jaskier was rounding on Geralt, hands on his shoulders to stop him mid-walk.
“Dear heart, please tell me I’m hearing this wrong. Firstly, if I was so lucky as to have an anniversary, I wouldn’t care who I shared it with. I would love to simply have one, especially if you’re offering to have one with me. Secondly, please tell me you know why those three all have their anniversary date today.”
Mind whirring, Geralt tried to process everything Jaskier had just said. He picked the easier bit to reply to first. “They were on a night out together and met their partners at the same time? Bit like how people date within the same friendship groups or even date siblings?”
Face falling, Jaskier cursed under his breath. “And I thought I wasn’t being obvious enough. Oh dear. Geralt, those three, it’s their anniversary together. As in they’re all dating each other. And Aiden is at home, waiting for them. He got the day off today too.”
Geralt’s jaw fell slack. He couldn’t quite believe it. “They-they’re together?!”
“And they’ve not been subtle at all about it!” Jaskier was laughing. “I love you but you are so dumb, I swear.”
That forced Geralt back into the moment and he smiled. “I love you too.”
He didn’t expect an enthusiastic kiss out in the open but he really didn’t mind it at all. With a huff of a laugh Geralt returned it, arms wrapping around Jaskier’s waist.
“Come on then,” Jaskier finally said as he broke away. I believe we have our zero-th anniversary to have and make a solid start on new traditions. I think we should order takeaway as a treat for our anniversaries from now on.”
Laughing, Geralt linked their hands. He liked the idea of anniversary traditions. Jaskier most definitely had the best ideas.
#geraskier#eskel/lambert/cahir/aiden#geralt of rivia#jaskier#eskel#lambert#Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach#get together#movie stars au#tldr: geralt tries to ask jaskier out
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Riding On
Ch21: Her Hooves Set The Beat, My Heart Sang The Song
Summary: There’s a feel good factor at the Gallagher-Adler’s as Alex hits another milestone, but their happy little bubble his shattered with some bad news at the stables, and Fliss is forced to say a heart-breaking goodbye…
Warnings: Bad language, 18+, animal death.
Pairing: Frank Adler x OFC Fliss Gallagher
A/N: So, for those of you who don’t know, Heidi was actually real. She was my beloved horse of a lifetime who I lost in July 2018 to complications associated with old age. At 28 I she had a good life, and for the 20 years I had her she gave me everything. Writing this brought back a lot of memories and was quite therapeutic in a way, but if anyone wants to skip over it for fear of being triggered, I won’t be offended.
Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar Fliss Gallagher and the other OCs. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.
Riding On Masterlist // Main Masterlist
Chapter 20
April 2020
“Go away!” Mary laughed, pushing Fliss’ arm as she tried to peek over at what she was writing on the piece of card upon which she’d been designing the Wedding Invitations. “You can see when I’m done!”
Fliss chuckled and backed away, hands raised, palms up.
“Okay, okay.” She walked backwards a few steps before she turned and her eyes fell on Alex who was in his pack and play loudly banging some coloured blocks together. He looked up at her and gave a huge smile before he shuffled a little to the edge of his pen and reached up, curling his hands onto the sides. As Fliss watched, he tried to pull himself up into a standing position but only got so far before he landed on his butt, and waved his arms and legs shouting something in, what Frank called Bean-Babble. Fliss grinned and moved to pick him up.
“Not quite mastered that yet have you, baby?” She smiled, kissing his cheek.
Alex let out another loud squeal of contentment as he perched on her hip and she made her way over to the kitchen area. There, she settled him in his high chair and headed into the fridge to grab him an apple. Since he had started eating solids it had fast become apparent that he was particularly partial to the fruit, something Frank directly attributed to the fact that Fliss had eaten so many of them when she was pregnant thanks to her craving. Fliss carefully chopped the fruit into large pieces before she placed them down on the tray of his chair, kissing his soft hair again as Alex grabbed a slice in his hand and promptly jabbed it in his mouth, making appreciative noises.
Happy that he was content, Fliss then turned her attention to their dinner. She soon had the base of the cream and garlic sauce for the seafood linguini simmering nicely in the pan so she then turned her attention to shelling and de-veining the fresh, king prawns Frank had brought home the night before, along with chopping up the squid and cleaning the mussels before she turned her head and looked over to the table across the large family room.
“Mary, do you want mussels in yours?”
“No, they taste like snot.” Came the simple response.
“You know what snot tastes like?” Fliss pulled a face. “Gross.”
Mary didn’t reply, her hand was busy scribbling on the paper. Fliss shrugged and placed some of the sauce into a separate pan before she dropped some of the seafood through to cook, before pulling a cod and mash potato puree out for Alex for his dinner. Whilst that was in the microwave, she tossed Mary’s sauce through some of the pasta, before sprinkling over a little bit of parmesan and setting it down on the breakfast bar.
“Mary, dinner.”
Mary hopped down from the table and made her way over to the counter. With a thanks to Fliss she tucked in as Fliss smiled and sat next to her, feeding Alex.
“What time is Dad home?” Mary asked.
“I’m actually expecting him any time now.” Fliss glanced at the clock. “He has no meetings tonight so he shouldn’t be too long. Did you want him for something? I can call him.”
“No, I was just curious.” Mary swallowed her mouthful of food. “Do you mind if I don’t ride tonight?”
“No, of course not.” Fliss gave Alex another spoonful of his dinner before she turned to Mary. “Is everything ok, Stack? It’s not like you to pass up an opportunity to ride.”
“Well, I thought I could spend some time with Frank.” She shrugged. “I haven’t seen him properly this week.”
“I’m sure he’d appreciate that.” Fliss smiled, giving Alex more food.
“Just figured if you’re at the stables and Alex is in bed, it’ll just be the two of us. No offense.”
“None taken.” Fliss chuckled, as Mary grinned and continued to eat. And she meant it. Over the past two weeks or so, Frank and Alan’s son had decided to expand a little and as such had been meeting with potential new suppliers, often working until later in the night, something Fliss knew was hard on him because it meant his time with the kids had really been limited to a quick hour over breakfast, the morning school and crèche drop offs and weekends. Fliss had assured him that the kids were fine, she was fine, and reminded him that he was doing this for the family, for their future but it didn’t stop him feeling guilty.
It was kind of ironic, when she thought about it. As she’d been expecting to feel the same guilt after going back to work full time but as she was self-employed, she’d been able to work her time-table quite well around the kids. She’d taken on another stable hand to help with the day to day chores leaving her free to teach more freelance in the area and school horses when they came to her for training. Joanne was now taking the group lessons completely, having passed her final teaching exams earlier that year, and Alex had settled really well into his day care, going two days a week to the centre round the corner from Mary’s school which had come recommended by Bonnie’s sister. The other two days a week Verity (and nine times outta ten Bill) came look after him or take him out, meaning on those days Fliss worked later- scheduling in evening lessons for clients as Verity would sort the kids dinner before Frank got home, and then on Friday, Fliss did her paperwork so Alex stayed with her . It was busy, and often required military planning as to who was picking which child up and when, but they worked it well, and Fliss had been very surprised at how easily they had picked it all up.
They continued chatting, and just as Mary had polished off her desert, Thor gave a little woof and padded to the back door as it opened and they heard Frank giving his usual jokey greeting.
“The boss is home.”
“Yeah I know, she made dinner.” Mary shot back and Fliss laughed, giving her a hi-five.
Frank walked into the main room and smiled at them both, giving Fliss a quick kiss before he ruffled Mary’s hair as she shoved him away, rolling her eyes, jumping off the stool to escape him.
“Good day?” He asked, and Fliss nodded.
“Yeah, not bad. You?”
“Busy, but productive. We got the final Price Lists negotiated so…” he trailed off, nodding to Alex who was smiling at him. “Looks like he enjoyed dinner.”
“So did Mary.” Fliss mused, nodding to the empty place on the side. “She ate a full dish of linguini and a massive piece of Mum’s chocolate cake. Think she’s going through another growth spurt.”
“Great, more clothes to buy.”
Fliss chuckled as she fed Alex the last of his peach and apple puree before she reached for a baby wipe and scrubbed his face and hands clean, much to the baby’s annoyance. She stood up to clear away his dish, leaving the spoon in Alex’s hand as he was busy banging it against the tray of his chair. Frank sat down on the stool she’d vacated, kissing Alex’s head. .
“Hey, Pal. Meet any hot girls today at crèche?” He asked. Alex shrieked in response, banging the spoon harder and Frank nodded. “Oh really? Well, you play it cool and she’ll be putty in your hands.”
“Like I was in yours?” Fliss asked, turning to face him and Frank grinned as he settled on the stool.
“Think we both know it was the other way round.”
“Don’t you forget it.” She smirked a little.
“Like I’d have a chance.” Frank winked at her and Fliss smiled.
“Do you want your dinner now or-“
“Oh, can I show you the invitation first?” Mary suddenly piped up from across the room and Fliss nodded.
“Sure.”
She jumped off the table at the chair and approached them, placing the card on the breakfast bar in front of Frank. Fliss stood behind Frank, her hands sliding round his shoulders as she kissed his cheek, both of them glancing down at the design Mary had come up with.
The front was a simple square piece of card. Across the top Mary had cut letters out of a magazine to spell out the words “WE’RE GETTING MARRIED” and underneath it she’d stuck a copy of a photo of the four of them which had clearly been taken at Bill and Verity’s a few weeks ago. Mary and Alex were both looking at the camera, whereas Frank and Fliss were both laughing as they looked at each other as Frank held Alex, the baby’s back to his chest, supporting under his butt with one arm, the other held across his front.
“Where did you get that?” Frank asked, grinning as he looked at it.
“Poppa Bill.” Mary looked at him. “He said it was like the five thousandth attempt at trying to get us all to look at the camera.”
“That was Frank’s fault.” Fliss laughed, “He kept nipping my ass.”
Frank shrugged, before Fliss spotted one of his arms snaking backwards, blatantly intending on doing the same and she slapped his hand, making him give a dirty chuckle as he pulled it away.
“Turn it over!” Mary urged. Frank obliged and they both smiled instantly at the back. It was written in Mary’s untidy writing, in bright multi-coloured felt tip.
“Oh Mary, this is just what I wanted!” Fliss grinned. “For it to look bright and unique.”
“You haven’t read it yet.” She looked up at Fliss rolling her eyes, but before she could comment Frank started to laugh as he had and his chuckles continued as Fliss read the words out-loud.
“Mary and Alex Adler would like to invite you to their Mom and Dad’s wedding.” Fliss took a deep breath at the word, looking at Mary who gave her a small smile. Whilst Mary had referred to Fliss when talking to other people as her mom, she’d never actually used the word directly to Fliss yet. But, now wasn’t the time to dig into that. Fliss cleared her throat and read on “Frank and Fliss met at the stables. Frank was smitten, Fliss was too. But they were too dumb to admit it straight away. And then Frank took her sailing (not driving) on a speedboat. They kissed, made a baby and now it’s time for a party. (And a wedding too).”
Fliss burst out laughing, as Frank tried to gain enough control to read the final bit at the bottom, which was situated underneath the details of time and venues, before it went on to state their address.
“RSVP to Mary (not Alex, because he can’t read!)” He managed to wheeze out, wiping at his eyes. “Oh, Stack, you’re killing me.”
“You like it?” She grinned and Frank nodded.
“Mary.” Fliss’ laughter died down as she took a deep breath. “It’s absolutely perfect!”
Once they had finished laughing at Mary’s Invitation Prototype, Fliss and Frank ate dinner together, Mary chatting away to the pair of them as she sat at the end of the breakfast bar, sipping a milkshake, informing them both about her day, before Frank took Alex to get him bathed and changed into his pyjamas.
“This bath is supposed to be for you.” Frank grumbled as Alex enthusiastically splashed at the water with his little hands, those little babbling noises emitting from his mouth as he glanced up at Frank with his big blue eyes, making another sound that could almost have been interpreted as a question. Which, maybe it was. “You heard me.” Frank looked at him. Alex studied his dad for a second before continuing with his splashing, laughing loudly as he tossed a plastic boat to the end of the tub before he stretched towards it, then realising he couldn’t reach the toy, promptly burst into tears.
“Seriously, Pal?” Frank rolled his eyes, stretching his right hand over to retrieve the precious item. As soon as he passed it back, the over the top tears stopped and Frank raised an eyebrow. “If you wanted it so badly why did you throw it away in the first place?”
Alex responded with another noise, this one a gurgle and Frank nodded.
“Okay, understood.”
At that Alex looked at him, cocking his head to one side, making another puzzled noise and tossed the boat this time over the side of the bath, a grin spreading across his face as he studied his dad. Frank arched an eyebrow. “You know, just because I love you doesn’t mean I sign up for this whole throw and fetch shit you got going on.” He picked up the toy and tossed it back into the water. “That’s Thor’s job.”
“You know, if his first word comes out a swear, you’re in deep trouble.” Fliss arched an eyebrow as Frank turned his head over his shoulder to look at her as she stood in the bathroom doorway. At the sight of his Mumma, Alex gave a huge grin and let out another gabble of noises.
“There are worst things it could be.” Frank shrugged, looking back at him.
“Like what?”
“Trump.” Frank deadpanned and Fliss let out a chuckle as once more the plastic boat came out of the tub onto the floor.
“Right, I think play-time is done pal.” Frank looked at Alex, who glanced up at him as he made sure to keep one hand behind his son’s back whilst reaching for his little hooded towel, which was patterned with tiny little ducks. “Come on.” No sooner had he lifted Alex out of the tub, the eight month old started to protest, dramatically, screams once more hitting Frank’s ears. “Oh, hush…” Frank chuckled as he lay him down on the towel before wrapping him in it and picking him up, rising to a stand and gently jiggling the now hysterical baby up and down.
“Anyone would think we’re tryin’a kill him, not simply dry him off after he’s spent fifteen minutes in the bath.” Frank rolled his eyes, an amused expression on his face at Alex’s dramatics.
“Well, he’s a right little water baby, aint you Bean?” Fliss leaned over to kiss Alex’s head as his cries suddenly died down as he had become instantly distracted with the buttons on Frank’s shirt. He made a little “oooh” of approval, his tiny fingers reaching to the ones near the collar. “Ha, look at that, he’s easily distracted, just like his daddy.”
“Yeah, well, I won’t deny, I quite like undoing your buttons.” Frank teased, dropping a kiss to her mouth. “Shall I dress him or do you wanna do it?”
Fliss took a deep breath, of course she wanted to dress him, she wanted to do everything for her baby, but she also knew that Frank had been out of the house early every morning and this was the first evening since Monday he’d made it home before bath time. With a smile she shook her head. “It's okay, you can do it. I’ll clean up in here.”
“Leave it, I’ll do it later.”
“It won’t take me five minutes. Then once I’m done and he’s settled, I’ll head over to the yard so I can ride and finish off. I won’t be too long, just an hour or so.”
“Then we got some us time?” Frank asked, almost pleaded and she smiled.
“Then we got some us time.”
“Perfect.” Frank gave her a soft smile before he kissed her again and carried Alex into the nursery. Before long he’d managed to wrestle a very wriggly baby into a clean diaper, a fresh romper suit and headed downstairs. Mary was now sat on the couch, her eyes glued to something on the TV as Fliss was warming Alex’s bottle up.
“You going with Fliss, Stack?”
No answer. With a raised brow he turned to look at Fliss who was biting her lip, trying not to laugh as he switched his attention back to Mary.
“Earth to Mary.”
With a groan she looked at him. “What?”
“Less of the attitude.” Frank looked at her. “I asked if you were going to ride?”
“Oh, erm…” She hesitated and Fliss chuckled.
“She wants to stay here and spend some time with you.” She smiled as Frank looked at her, then to Mary.
“Wow, me over Monty, I’m flattered.” He smirked. Mary rolled her eyes.
“Don’t get used to it, it’s only because I’ve not seen you properly this week to hang out.”
Frank snorted before he sighed. “I know, I’m sorry. It won’t be forever.”
“It’s fine.” Mary shrugged, her eyes back on the TV. “Not like I’m neglected, is it?”
“Good to know you feel that way.” Frank nodded seriously, before he caught Fliss’ eye and she gave him a wink.
He placed Alex down on the play mat in front of the TV and within seconds the baby had flipped himself over and pushed up onto his hands, rocking back a little onto his knees, emitting more excited noises.
“Mary, I’m just gonna grab a drink.” Frank looked at the Alex, before he turned to Mary. “Keep your eye on your brother will you?”
“Sure.” She shrugged, her attention now completely on the baby as she dropped onto the floor and shuffled over to him, talking to him as she did so.
Frank watched for a moment, giving a silent groan as Alex flopped gently down face first onto the mat.
“Oopsie!” Mary grinned, and Frank braced himself for the dramatic screams, but they never came as this time, Alex managed to right himself and roll back over onto his back, giving Mary an excited grin and a loud shriek as Mary waggled one of the toys from the baby gym over the top of him.
Satisfied they were okay, Frank headed into the kitchen where Fliss was busy finishing off the lunches for the next morning, dropping a kiss to her cheek as he reached into the fridge, grabbing a beer.
“You wanna do bedtime as you’ve not had chance this week?” Fliss asked, nodding to Alex’s bottle where it stood in the jug of boiling water.
“He’s my son, course I wanna.” Frank frowned as he looked at her, flipping the top off his beer. “You know, it’s not like I’ve been working late on purpose, Fliss.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Fliss narrowed her eyes at him as he took a long pull of his drink. “And you know it. So less of the shitty tone, thank you!”
“Sorry, Honey.” Frank sighed, dropping a kiss to her lips. “Just, well, I didn’t think Mary would have bothered as much as she had.”
“She’s fine.” Fliss shook her head. “And she isn’t bothered as such, she just wants to get you to herself for a little while. I mean, let’s face it, how often does she get chance to do that now?”
“True.” Frank nodded. “Maybe I should take her out on Saturday somewhere, just the two of us. Would you mind?”
“No, course not.” She shook her head. “I can take Alex down to the beach with Bonnie. You can always join us later on.”
“Yeah.” Frank nodded. “Sounds good.”
“And tonight, why don’t you spend a bit of time in the pool before she showers?” Fliss suggested, as she slid her hands up round his neck. “Then maybe when I get back, me and you could-“
But whatever filthy water-based shenanigans she was about to suggest, Frank never found out, as at that moment Mary let out a yell.
“Oh my God! Alex is crawling, quick!”
In a flash the parents rushed over to where Mary was sat at one side of the play-mat, waving Alex’s huge stuffed elephant at him, as he unsteadily made his way over to her, one hand and knee moving at a time.
“Frank, quick!” Fliss nudged him as she dropped to her knees behind Alex, her hands settling either side of his little body, getting ready to catch him if she needed to.
“I got it…” Frank muttered, as he crouched next to Mary, his phone out. “Alex, buddy, you reckon you can make it all this way to Daddy, huh?”
Another few little movements later, Fliss’ sharp eyes saw the baby’s arms beginning to wobble and, just as they gave way she grabbed him and pulled him backwards, swinging him up and pressing her to his chest, smothering his face in kisses.
“My clever little man!” She beamed as Alex laughed, grabbing at her hair as she kissed him. “Oh my baby, you’re getting so big!”
Alex clearly decided that his crawling efforts were done for the day as he made no attempt try again as Fliss held him in position on the mat. With a shrug, she gently placed him on his back where he began to grab once more at the toys hanging over him.
“Obviously had enough excitement for one night.” Frank chuckled as he reached over and tickled the baby’s belly, drawing a gaggle of laughter from him.
“I’m so glad we all got to see it.” Fliss beamed round at them both and Mary nodded enthusiastically. “Right…” She rose to her feet. “I’m going to go ride and finish off. I’ll be back in an hour, hour and a half.”
Once she was gone, Frank turned to Mary. “Fancy playing in the pool for a bit before bed?”
“Errr, yeah!”
“Okay, well give me half an hour or so to get him down and then we’ll head out. I wanna see if you can master a back flip this time instead of a front one.”
***** Alex went down, as usual, with minimum fuss and once Frank was happy he was settled he changed into his swim shorts and headed downstairs. Grabbing the baby monitor screen from the side in the kitchen, he and Mary headed out to the pool, Mary wasting no time in cannon-balling straight in. Not one to shy down from a challenge, when Mary told him to beat her splash, he did just that. The two of them enjoyed a fun filled forty minutes or so, racing one another (Frank let Mary win a few, but not all) play fighting, diving and generally larking around as the sun dipped behind the eye-line of the fence and the lights in the pool kicked in, reflecting against the bright blue tiles which lined it.
Frank climbed out of the pool to check the time on his phone, and realising it was now almost eight, he told Mary it was time to get out. She protested, but he shot her a no-nonsense stare and with a loud groan about how unfair life was, she climbed out and Frank wrapped her in a towel before giving her a drink of water and then packing her off upstairs for a shower, promising her she could read in bed before lights off at nine.
He showered himself, pulling on a pair of sweats and a well-worn light blue T-Shirt, and by the time he had finished and headed across the landing to tuck Mary in, she was already out for the count. With a smile, he placed her book down on her night stand, gently kissed her head and then flicked off the lamp before he moved to the next room to check on Alex. He was also fast asleep.
He headed back downstairs, grabbed another beer and settled in front of the TV, giving a snort as he glanced at the time. It was now ten past nine. So much for Fliss being just an hour. No doubt she’d ended up chatting to one of the clients about something, as usual, which had delayed her locking up. Firing her a good humoured, sarcastic text about how he should grow a mane, tail and two extra legs so he could get a look in, he tossed the phone down onto the coffee table, frowning as it instantly began to light up. It was Fliss.
“Hey, Honey, I was only joking, take as-“
“Frank, there’s something wrong with Heidi.” She cut him off, her voice cracking. “She’s got colic and it’s bad. I called the Vet and he’s on his way but she won’t get up. I can’t get her on her feet to try and walk her round she’s just…”
Frank took a deep breath, his stomach falling as he digested her words. He wasn’t clued up on a lot of horse lingo or issues, but he knew colic was fatal to some horses, depending on the severity. And even without the fact that Fliss was clearly concerned, he knew that with Heidi being as old as she was this wasn’t good.
“How long is the Vet going to be?” he asked.
“They said about half an hour, he’s on his way but as it’s night it’s an emergency call so he’s coming from home.” She took a deep breath. “Frank, I’m gonna lose her.”
“Look, you don’t know that for sure.” He placated her gently as he stood up from the sofa. “Listen, let me grab the kids and we’ll come over.”
“Frank, they’re sleeping.” She began to protest, “And Mary will be so upset to see Heidi like this, and if the vet has to put her to sleep then…”
“Then she’ll be mad as hell she didn’t get to say goodbye.” Frank reasoned as he made his way into the hallway. “I don’t want you over there on your own, sweetheart. Not if…”
There was a pause. “I don’t want to do it on my own either.” She whispered and he took a deep breath as he headed up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time.
“And you don’t hafta.” He replied. “Give me five minutes. Do you need anything else?”
“No, I got everything here.”
“Okay.” He nodded, pausing outside Mary’s bedroom. “We’ll be with you in five.”
She sniffed. “Thank you.”
Frank stuck his phone in the pocket of his sweats before he opened Mary’s door and headed over to her bed. Standing on the bottom rung of the ladder of the cabin he gently leaned over. She was led, facing away from him, face snuggled into her pillow as Fred lay by her side. He raised his head questioningly at Frank as he softly brushed Mary’s hair off her cheek, pressing a kiss to her face.
“Stack, hey…come on, wake up.” Mary gave a groan as she pulled her covers up further, her eyes still closed. Frank spoke a little louder, his hand softly shaking her shoulder. “Mary, sweetheart, I need you to wake up, come on.”
She stirred a little, before she rolled onto her back, blinking sleepily at him before she frowned.
“Frank, it’s still dark!” She glared at him and he bit back the smirk at the fact she’d reverted to Frank, not Dad. Something she always did when she felt he was being a jerk.
“I know you haven’t been asleep long, but Fliss is at the yard and we need to go be with her. Heidi isn’t well, the vet is on his way.”
At that she sat up, all tiredness evaporating from her system. “What’s wrong with her?”
“It’s colic, Sweetie.” Frank answered gently. “But Fliss is on her own, so I need you to get dressed whilst I grab Alex, okay?”
“Okay.” She nodded, and Frank smiled softly before he turned and headed over to the nursery which was quiet bar the soft sounds of Alex’s little baby snores. In the stream of light that illuminated the room from the landing, he could see his son sleeping, halfway down the crib, head tilted to the side, the pair of them meticulous in the way they set him down at night. He crossed the room and gently picked Alex up out of the crib, the baby giving a little sigh as he did so but other-wise remaining asleep. He grabbed a little fleece blanket and as he made his way back out into the hallway, Mary appeared in her jeans and a red t-shirt.
“Why don’t you bring your laptop or something, just in case we’re there for a while and you get bored?” Frank asked. “You can sit in the office with Alex.”
“It’s downstairs.” She answered. “I’ll go grab it.”
They headed down stairs and Frank settled Alex in his stroller which was by the kitchen door as Mary grabbed her stuff. Frank slipped his feet into his sneakers as Mary stuffed on her boots and he wandered into the laundry room and found a warm top for them each.
“Frank it’s like almost summer outside.” Mary looked at him, “It’s hot!”
“I’m well aware of the climate, thanks.” He looked at her, stashing the hooded tops and cardigan on the underneath space of the stroller, before he made sure that Alex’s little blanket was set around his legs. “But it might get a little breezy if we’re there later.”
Truth be told he had no idea why he was taking them, other than the fact it felt like something he should do even though it was still in the low 70s at night. He was a little lost, this was something he’d never dealt with before, and there was a sick feeling in his stomach that it wasn’t going to end well. But, there was no point worrying about it until they knew what they were dealing with. He had to be strong, be calm. Taking a deep breath he looked at Mary and nodded. “Get the door, Stack.”
By the time they had reached the Yard, Fliss had managed to coax Heidi to her feet. As Frank and Mary walked round the side of the barn Fliss was heading to the paddock, Heidi trudging behind her.
“Hey.” Frank looked at her, and she gave him a tight smile, not stopping.
“I’m sorry, but if I stop she’ll…” She began to explain but Frank waved her away.
“Do what you gotta do.” He watched as she cast a look over her shoulder. “I’ll settle these two in the office and then I’ll be out.”
After doing just that, instructing Mary to keep an eye on Alex and promising her he would come get her once they knew what was going on, he wandered back to the paddock and without a word simply took Fliss' hand in his as she continued walking Heidi. Frank could hear the horse was making grunting noises and every so often tried to stop and kick at her stomach, but Fliss kept walking, her face set. She didn’t say much, making a little small talk, but Frank simply stayed by her side as every so often they changed direction.
“Where the hell is this vet?” Fliss gave an exasperated sigh and looked around, almost as if she expected to see him.
“It’s not been that long yet, Sweetheart.” Frank soothed her.
“Well it feels like forever.”
Frank kissed her head as they continued walking and about five minutes later a dark blue Hyundai pulled up the drive and Fliss let out a sigh of relief as she saw it was Scott, their usual vet and not some random on-call one. She led Heidi onto the main area of the yard, the horse rapidly becoming even more agitated. Fliss gently ran her hand down her neck, as she turned to Scott and gave him a quick low down and he nodded, patting Heidi.
“Okay old girl, let’s see what’s going on…” Scott hooked the stethoscope into his ears and moved to listen to her belly, taking a deep breath as he looked at Fliss. “Yeah, there’s absolutely no gut noise at all. It’s definitely colic, but you know that already…” he unhooked the ear pieces, leaving the item hanging around his neck before he moved to her head and examined her nose to get a look at the mucas membrane colour, then did a quick check on her gums which Frank noticed were pale instead of the usual pink.
“She’s in shock.” Fliss sniffed a little, noticing the change in colour and Scott wrinkled his nose.
“Not uncommon if she’s in a bit of pain.” He stood back. “Okay, I’m going to give her an anti-spasmodic and some pain relief which should help, and a mild sedative so I can do an internal examination.”
“Yeah, whatever you need to do.” Fliss nodded as Scott turned to head back to his car to prep what he needed.
“Internal examination?” Frank looked at Fliss, “Like, is he…” He mimed fisting something and despite herself, Fliss let out a snort of laughter.
“That’s exactly what he’s gonna do.” She shook her head as she gently stroked Heidi’s face, the mare giving another grunt and huff as she butted Fliss out of the way a little. “Still a sassbag, eh girl?”
“Like her mom.” Frank looked at Fliss and she shrugged, turning over her shoulder as the vet approached, two large syringes in his hand.
“Look, can you call my mum and dad?” Fliss looked at Frank. “I don’t think…well, Dad especially is going to want to be here if…”
“Sure.” Frank nodded and turned away, obligingly.
He wandered back into the office, Bill who answered the phone instantly asked him what was going on and when he explained he simply stated they would be there as soon as they could be and hung up.
“Is she going to be okay?” Mary asked, as Frank checked on Alex where he was still sleeping in his stroller.
“I honestly don’t know Stack, but as soon as I do I’ll tell you okay?”
“Okay.”
“You’re doing a good job in here, watching him.”
“Don’t patronise me, Dad.” She rolled her eyes. “He’s asleep, and I’m reading. Not like it’s hard.”
Frank blinked, before he gave a little scoff and turned to head back onto the yard.
The Vet was just finishing giving Heidi the first jab and he gently rubbed the horse’s neck and then nodded to Fliss.
“Okay so that’s the pain relief and anti-spasmodic administered. Take her back in the paddock and give her another couple of minutes’ walk round whilst it kicks in.”
Fliss nodded and led the horse away, waving off Frank’s offer to come with her, Thor trotting behind.
“What’s the chances, Scott?” Frank turned to the man and he pulled a face.
“It’s hard to say.” He sighed. “If she was younger I’d be optimistic but with horses that age, well everything like this can be a risk. If this doesn’t work then I’ll know more after I’ve done an internal.”
To their despair it didn’t work, and if anything after another minute of walking around Heidi had gotten even worse and her bright, chestnut coat was now damp with sweat, her chest area and parts of her chest covered in a thin sheen of white foam.
“Scott, she’s in agony.” Fliss sniffed as Frank curled an arm round her.
“The sedative will help more with the pain.” Scott assured Fliss, pulling out the second needle which he administered into the horses neck. “Atta girl. We’ll give that a minute to work.”
As Scott snapped on a pair of rubber gloves, Frank and Fliss both turned to look as they heard another car heading up the gravel driveway onto the yard. Verity and Bill appeared shortly after, exchanging a look before Bill headed straight to Heidi, giving her a soft stroke on the nose before Verity did the same.
“You okay, Titch?” Bill asked, dropping a kiss to her head and she swallowed.
“Not really.” Her eyes flicked to Scott as he moved behind Heidi whose head was now slumped down, resting on Fliss’ shoulder as the sedative had kicked in. No one spoke for a moment, before they all heard a heavy sigh from Scott as he pulled his arm back and shook his head.
“I’m sorry, Fliss.” He sighed, and immediately her face crumpled and she took a deep breath.
“Don’t say it, please.” She begged, her chest tightening painfully as her voice cracked.
“Her gut’s twisted. The only option is surgery, but given her age and the stress that would put on her heart…”
He trailed off as Fliss shook her head, wiping her nose on the back of her sleeve. “I’m not putting her through that.” She whispered, “It’s not fair. She’s too old.”
“In that case then, well, you know what I’m gonna say.” Scott dropped his head as Frank softly placed his hands between Fliss shoulder blades as she nodded and took a deep breath “I really am so sorry.”
“It isn’t your fault.” Fliss shook her head, sniffing loudly. “I don’t want her in pain longer than she needs to be. Can we…can we get on with it, please?”
The Vet nodded. “I won’t be able to arrange for her body to be collected until the morning.” He looked at Fliss who took a shuddering breath, more tears rolling down her face. “So errr, where do you want to….”
“Why don’t you use the barn at the back?” Bill cut in gently. “I can move the tractor out for the night. There’s enough room for her to go down peacefully and she can stay in there until someone can collect her.”
“Yeah, it’s clean in there and a soft landing for when…” Fliss took a deep breath before she began to cry as she pressed her face into her beloved horse’s neck, her shoulders shaking as Frank gently rubbed at her back.
“The kids are in the office.” He turned to Bill and Verity, “Mary’s gonna…”
“We’ll sort it.” Verity assured him. “I’ll take Alex back to the house.” She turned to Fliss and gave her arm a gently squeeze before she gently scratched at Heidi’s wither, her head bowing as she walked away.
The next five minutes passed in a blur for Fliss, and somehow she found herself in the barn at the back, as she led Heidi in, the mare following her faithfully.
“Do you want another couple of minutes?” Scott asked kindly.
“Just one, for us all to say goodbye.” Fliss nodded, as she stroked down Heidi’s nose, the tears pouring down her face. She turned to Mary who was stood with Frank, her eyes wet and Frank picked her up, carrying her over as the family crowded round.
“Goodbye, Heidi.” Mary sniffed, pressing a kiss to her nose as Frank gently gave the horse a scratch on the neck. “Frank says we all end up in the same place eventually, so we’ll see you again.”
At that Fliss let out a loud sob and clamped her hand over her face as she broke down. Bill wiped at his eyes as he dropped his arm round his daughter.
“Do you remember when we went to see her before we bought her?” He asked and Fliss let out a choked laugh. “She was in that field, and she came straight over, but so did that big black horse…”
“And she kicked it.” Fliss laughed. “Then she bit Steve. That’s why I picked her.”
At that Frank let out a soft chuckle.
“Yeah, he held a grudge about that, still does.” Bill smiled softly. “God, you had some moments with her. Falls, disagreements, battles of wills, but you got there in the end.”
“She’s been amazing.” Fliss smiled, pressing her nose to Heidi’s. “Turned herself inside out to please me. The best horse I could ever have had.”
Bill smiled, before he reached up and stroked Heidi’s face. “Night, old girl.”
At that he stepped back a little, the three of them plus the vet giving Fliss a moment alone with her old faithful.
“Dad’s right.” She smiled, her hand stoking Heidi’s nose, “You were an asshole for the first four months but, I knew you’d be special, I just had to get your trust. You gave me everything, baby girl, and I’ll never forget you. I’m gonna miss you so much. Your stupid temper tantrums if I don’t pay you enough attention, the fact you rule the pastures…” the tears poured freely down Fliss’ face as she took a shuddering breath, pressing her head to Heidi’s, taking a deep breath. “Sleep well.”
At that she turned to Scott and nodded, and he stepped forward.
“Okay, you’ve seen this before, right?”
“Yeah.” Fliss nodded, “But Mary hasn’t so…”
“Right, so, Mary, I’m gonna give her the first shot and that’s gonna knock her out pretty much, she’s likely to rock back and sit down like a dog before she flops sideways so, be prepared okay.”
“Kay…” Mary spoke in a quiet voice from where she stood in front of Frank. He gently placed his hands on her shoulders and bent down.
“You sure you wanna watch this?”
Mary nodded. “Yeah. Heidi doesn’t know what’s going on. She should have her family here.”
Frank smiled, pressed a kiss to the top of her head and stood up, his hands remaining where they were as Bill gently strode forward and grabbed Thor’s collar, removing him from the barn and out of the way.
Within seconds of Scott administering the first injection, Heidi did just as Scott said. Fliss gently pushed back with the lead rope, guiding Heidi back and the horse fell onto her haunches before flopping sideways, her head landing heavily on the straw bales that Bill had positioned to cushion her blow.
With a loud sob Fliss dropped to her knees and cradled the horse’s head in her lap as Scott then bent over to give her the last injection.
“So now she’s just basically gonna fall asleep and never wake up.” He looked at Mary who nodded, giving a loud sniff as she reached up to grab Franks hand.
“You okay?” He asked and she nodded, wiping at her face with her other hand. Bill moved, dropping a large hand to the back of the small girl’s head as Fliss gently stroked Heidi’s face as the animal’s eyes closed.
With a final, laboured breath, the animal’s chest grew still and Scott bent over.
“She’s gone.” He looked at Fliss, who gave another loud sob, bending over to press her face into the side of Heidi’s cheek.
“I’m so sorry I couldn’t fix you.” She cried, her voice broken. “I’m so sorry.”
Frank was surprised to find his own eyes misting up, and as Mary turned to him, pressing her face into his T’shirt just above the waistband of his sweats, he glanced up at Bill who had tears trickling down his cheeks. He nodded to Frank who gently looked down at Mary, who stepped back and moved towards Bill as he opened his arms, allowing Frank to move into the barn.
“Hey, Lissy…come here.” He dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms round his girl who turned and pressed into him, her body wracked as she almost screamed out her sobs.
*****
It was pushing midnight before they made their way back to the house. Fliss had broken down once more as Frank and Bill had pulled the huge barn doors shut where Heidi’s body lay, covered by a tarp, ready for collection in the morning. The Vet had been nothing short of fantastic, as sympathetic and understanding as he could and for that Frank had thanked him profoundly as he’d been packing his kit up. Without a word said between any of them, they walked down the little pathway and through the gate that connected into the gardens of the house and walked slowly across the gravel driveway. Fliss was walking a little ahead of them, every so often Frank would notice her hand falling to Thor’s head, almost as if she was checking her faithful dog was still with them as well.
She opened the back door which led into the mudroom and walked in, kicking off her boots and then headed into the family room where Verity was sat watching TV. She stood up immediately, took one look at Fliss and then she held her arms out.
“Mum…” Fliss choked and Verity swallowed, her own face creasing into sadness as Fliss stepped into the comfort of her mum’s arms, sniffing slightly.
“Oh, Sweetheart.” Verity pressed a kiss to her daughters head. “I know this is no consolation but she had the best life ever with you, she was so loved and looked after.”
Tearing his eyes away from Fliss, who continued to sniff softly as her mum held her, Frank gently turned to Mary who had tugged on his sleeve.
“You okay?” He asked, his hand gently cupping under her cheek and she shook her head.
“I’m just sad.”
“I know.” He agreed. “You will be for a while, and there’s nothing anyone can say or do that’s gonna make it better, but if you wanna talk about it…”
“No, I think I just wanna go to bed.” She shrugged slightly. “And give Fred a hug.”
“Alright.” He nodded. “You go up, I’ll come tuck you in, in a second.”
She nodded and then walked towards Fliss, hesitating a little, before she continued and gently reached up to lay her hand on Fliss’s elbow. Fliss broke away from her mum and turned to look at Mary, wiping her eyes. Mary blinked and Fliss gave her a soft smile, crouching down to give her a hug, kissing her head.
“I love you, Mom.” Mary’s voice cracked and Fliss pressed her face harder into her hair, pulling her even closer, before she pulled back a little bit and smiled.
“I love you too. And I’m proud of you. You were so brave then.”
Fliss straightened up as Mary walked from the room after bidding everyone a goodnight, before she turned to Frank who was watching her carefully, knowing from the way her face was crumpling that her emotions were about to boil over completely. “Frankie…she…” Fliss stuttered, her chest heaving as Frank stepped forward quickly. “She just…”
“I know…” He wrapped his arms round her and pulled her close as she began to sob, her face pressed into his t-shirt. He stood, his large arms holding her against him, one hand gently resting on the back of her neck, his thumb gently arching over the skin at the back of her ear as he slowly rocked her to-and-fro on the spot, pressing a kiss to her head.
“I’ll make us some tea.” Verity swallowed, and Frank looked at her gratefully as she passed, Bill following, the man gently squeezing Fliss’ shoulder. The room was silent apart from the clinking of mugs as Verity gathered the items she needed to make them all a drink, and Thor’s soft little whines of concern, the dog eventually sticking his head in between Frank and Fliss, nudging Fliss’s thigh with his nose, his noises of distress becoming more and more high pitched. Fliss looked down, Frank’s arm curling over her shoulder as she reached down and scratched behind his ear, before the dog stood on his hind legs, his large paws reaching Fliss’ shoulders as she stooped towards him as he gently licked the tears from her face, his noises dying down a little. Frank watched the animal, a warm feeling in his chest. He’d never seen him react in this way before. He knew from tales Fliss had told him that he’d often comforted her before once her shit bag ex had given her a battering, and he’d seen the dog seek her out when she was upset or worried, but never in such an overt way like this.
“I know you’re not keen on the idea.” Fliss sniffed, looking at Frank and he turned his eyes from the dog to her. “But, can he sleep on the end of the bed, just for tonight?”
Frank looked at her, then back to the dog. Having never had pets as a kid, the bond between a human and an animal was never something he’d really given a second thought to, that is until Mary had found Fred. But since meeting Fliss, seeing the way she was with Thor and her horses, seeing how Mary was with Monty, he’d started to really comprehend that the ties went beyond a simple love. They were bonds, bonds that transcended species, bonds that snaked their way around your heart and latched on with barbs and having one of those bonds wrenched away was not only excruciating but it was devastating.
In simple terms, it was like losing a member of your family, and that Frank could relate to. It was a physical pain, a searing knife which twisted in your heart every time you thought about the person you’d lost.
The lump in Frank’s throat grew even larger as he reached out and scratched Thor behind the ear, the dog turning to him and licking the underside of his forearm, his bushy tail wagging against Frank’s leg.
“I think we can make an exception for one night.” He smiled, looking at Fliss before he pressed a soft kiss to her temple.
*****
Frank was glad their bed was a kingsize. Whilst he never minded particularly that Thor would lounge on the bed with them before they were going to sleep, or in the mornings when they got up, having the big animal on there all night could have been a problem, but as it stood, the dog was perfectly happy to curl up round the peak in the covers which Fliss’ feet made, and she pointed out to Frank that he’d probably hop off and get on his basket at some point during the night.
“He used to do that, anyway.” She shrugged. “When I was in the annex that is. Asshole never let him on the bed. If he was ever away for a few days and I let him or Loki up, I used to have to change the bedding so he wouldn’t find out. One day I forgot and…well, you can figure the rest.”
“Shhhh.” Frank kissed her neck softly as he pulled her closer, her back pressing into his chest wrapping his arms around her. “Try and get some sleep, Sweetheart. It’s late.”
“Thank you.” She whispered.
“What for?”
“Just being you.” She let out a deep breath and turned her head so she could look at him.
“Well, that is one thing I’m pretty good at.” He quipped and Fliss gave a soft chuckle before she took a deep breath.
“I know you’re busy at the shop, but is there any chance you could start late tomorrow?” She asked him softly. “I don’t wanna be on my own when they come to take her.”
“I’m not going in tomorrow.” Frank shook his head. “And Mary’s not going to school. We’ve had a late and upsetting night so I think we should all take it easy, spend some family time together. I thought maybe we could go for a drive, head down to Bay Vista Park.” He suggested. “There’s plenty of shade to sit in. We can take a picnic, climb some trees, me and Mary can have a game of Ultimate Frisbee, perhaps a swim. Hey, we might even spot some manatees.”
“Sounds great.” Fliss agreed, turning her head back round and laying down on the pillow. It was silent for a while, and Frank thought she’d drifted off to sleep until he felt her take a shuddering breath and her shoulders began to shake.
“Hey, come on.” Frank pulled her closer, pressing another kiss to her neck and she turned in his arms, pressing her face into his chest.
“I can’t believe she’s gone.” Fliss sniffed, as Frank’s hand ran up and down her back.
“I’m sorry, Sweetheart. I wish there was something I could do to make this better.”
“This is helping, a little.” She spluttered and Frank gave a soft chuckle, kissing her head again.
“Then you can stay like this all night.” He replied, closing his eyes as he simply held her close.
Eventually, Frank felt Fliss’ breathing grow even, and even though he couldn’t see in the dark of their room he knew she was asleep.
“Night, Baby.” He whispered, kissing her forehead and at that he heard Thor give out a little huff as the dog hopped down off the bed, his basket creaking before there was a soft thud indicating he’d bedded down there.
And, as Frank drifted off, he couldn’t help smile at just how the faithful dog had waited until he knew his precious human was asleep before he left her side.
***** Chapter 22
Dedicated to my gorgeous, wonderful, bad tempered but oh-so-loyal and loving chestnut mare, Sandybrook Hideaway. Keep waiting on that rainbow bridge until I find you again.
#riding on#frank adler#frank adler x ofc#frank adler x original female character#frank adler x oc#gifted#gifted fan fic#chris evans#chris evans characters
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can’t stand her | ruelle x piama x mc
oh yeah. nobody asked, but i fucking DELIVERED
“You’re joking. You’ve got to be joking!” Piama cries out, pinching the bridge of her nose in exasperation.
“What part of this makes it look like I’m joking, do tell-”
“-We’re not putting dead animals everywhere! This isn’t a funeral - and if it was, mind you, it’d still be awful decoration if not slightly more appropriate-”
“You’re acting like I’m suggesting corpses - Autumn celebrates death so skeletons are perfectly appropriate for an Autumn noble, because in case you forget, I am one!”
“So you’re telling me all of Autumn is just that tasteless?”
“Would the two of you just shut up?!”
Slamming your fists against the table, you give them your best glare, hoping it was harsh enough for them to feel a chill. “Ruelle, bring the skeletons, Piama, stuff them with flowers. We’re gonna make this work out or someone help me I’ll strangle you both.”
That effectively shuts them both up as they turn to gape at you incredulously; they’d never heard you speak to them like that, which clearly caught them off guard, but by now you’re far too sick of their bickering preventing anything from getting gone. You have a party to plan, dammit, and it might’ve slipped your mind that putting the only available friend from Autumn and the best party decorator in the same room might lead to a homicide.
“Skeletons stuffed with flowers...?” Ruelle echoes, blinking slowly until a tiny smile appears on her face. “You know, that actually could turn out nice. I think Xenia would appreciate that.”
Piama huffs, crossing her arms. “I suppose we could make that work-”
“-but you better include the dark and poisonous flowers because they’re her favourite-”
“Oh you are absolutely insufferable, Ruelle!”
“For the love of all things sacred, not again!” I love my friends, I love my friends, I love my friends- “That’s it. Enough decorating, you two need to blow off steam. I’m not letting either of you leave this room till you sort stuff out, because I’m not dealing with this anymore.”
While Ruelle practically rolls her eyes into the back of her head, Piama is absolutely gobsmacked. “What’s there to work out? You brought me here to decorate, and Ruelle’s preventing me from even doing that! Might as well get her to do it, if she knows everything!”
Said woman groans so hard, she’s clearly taking all of her willpower and sense of self-preservation not to knock anyone’s lights out. “That’s it, I’m done. You can’t keep me here, see ya.”
She dissipates into thin air, but you move even faster; she may have the ability to turn invisible but you know she’s entirely solid still. You jump, arms outstretched, and tackle her to the ground, forcing her back into view. With a triumphant smirk, you pin her underneath you, a short hit of adrenalin - or maybe just Ruelle’s proximity to your face - making your heart hammer wildly in your chest. Victory.
You want to memorise every detail of this moment and frame it in the great hall of your mind.
“What were you saying about not being able to keep you here?”
Piama scurries over just to see the look on Ruelle’s face, and is positively delighted at what she finds.
“Oh, stars. She’s blushing!”
“I’m not,” Ruelle hisses, eyeballing daggers her way, but her fair complexion makes it all too easy to see the tinge of colour on her cheeks. Vividly. “Get off me.”
You stumble off her, slightly stunned that Ruelle actually is, in fact, blushing, and can’t help but giggle. “I never thought I’d see the day...”
“Shut up!” She growls, but with her flushed cheeks her intimidation is comparable to that of an angry kitten. “Like you don’t blush whenever MC does so much as breathe in your direction.”
Piama gasps, fluffing up like a bird with ruffled feathers, “I so do not! MC, tell her I don’t!”
All of a sudden their bickering was more entertaining than grating, so being the shitstirrer you are, you only enable them further. After all, if they’re going to do your head in so much, you deserve to wreak a little havoc. As a treat.
“You do sometimes...”
“MC!”
“Ha!” Ruelle grins victoriously, backing Piama into a corner. “I bet I could make you blush right now.”
You crook a brow at her, sauntering over with your hands on your hips. “Well looks like someone’s deflecting...”
Peeling off Piama just before they crossed a platonic level of personal space, Ruelle stomps up to you, slamming a hand next to you against the wall, bringing your faces so close her breath fanned over your lips.
“Oh yeah? Let’s see how you like being pinned.”
Frost.
She already knows she’s won, daring to settle her other arm on your hip but only lightly, rubbing circles against your skin with her thumb. The fabric of your clothing is the only thing stopping her from feeling the gooseflesh erupting under her touch. “Not so haughty now, are we?”
“Gosh, get a room,” Piama mutters, only barely able to tear her eyes away. Getting the real hint, you beckon her to come closer with a curled finger.
Ruelle smirks, and it shouldn’t be that hot but it is. “Oh sorry princess, jealous you’re missing out on all the action?”
“I- You-!” As if pulled by an invisible string, she shuffles closer, face flushing ever-so-slightly. “Y-You’re truly incorrigible, you know that?”
Her words fell flat, as by the time they left her lips she was face to face with Ruelle, barely a foot’s width apart. If she wasn’t before, she was definitely blushing now - and the fire in their eyes made you realise their antagonistic relationship might not be so bad after all... in the right context, anyway.
Egging them on, you hum, “Ruelle did say she could make you blush, and your cheeks are looking pretty dark now, Piama~”
“I’ll show you who’s blushing!” Piama curses, grabbing you by the shoulders and pulling you into the nearest chair and forcing you to sit - only followed by her climbing into your lap and grabbing your chin, staring at you intently for any signs of a blush while her free hand trailed down your neck.
Your breath hitched. Guess Ruelle wasn’t the only winner today, but you refused to let her just have that. No, you’re going to claim that after everything these two impossible princesses put you though - you deserve that much, at least. You lean in impossibly closer, lips ghosting over hers ever so slightly as you challenge - “Go on, then. Do it.”
Well, she obviously can’t back down now.
Her kiss is tentative, at first. Then it’s needy. Then she’s gasping against your lips for more, and you’re on cloud nine. She only pulls apart to inhale shakily, and only then do you notice Ruelle leaning over your both, her hands sliding down Piama’s hips squeezing at her thighs, and she shivers in your lap.
Ruelle’s voice is low and husky in your ear. “Can I have a taste, too, Your Majesty?”
The way she says your name is not so much mocking as it is teasing - but by now you’ve surrendered. By now, whatever little competition was going on has melted away into desire. You nod, and Piama slips out of the chair for Ruelle to take her place and pin you to it - she licks her lips, taking you in, then closes the distance.
Her kiss is fervent, her lips almost cold - it’s a direct contrast to Piama’s, but you welcome it. You welcome both of their touches, their words, their personalities, no matter how much they clash, because when they come together like this? It’s powerful enough to break open the sky.
Piama is determined to try and break Ruelle’s composure, pulling her hood down from behind her and brushing her hair over her shoulder so she could lean down and kiss her neck, slowly, tantalizingly so; and then she bites, making Ruelle jolt slightly, so you take the chance to pull her bottom lip between your teeth. She gasps and it’s beautiful, so you kiss her again, and again, and again, all the while Piama mischievously riles you both up beyond control-
Click.
The second you all hear the sound of someone touching the door handle, the chair is knocked over in your haste to look presentable - all of a sudden you’re very fascinated about the windows, while Piama and Ruelle start shoving skulls and flowers together.
Lyris strolls in, looking around at the large room, then stops. “You haven’t got much done here, have you?”
“W-We- We were-!”
“I guess that time would’ve been spent getting those two to work together, mm? Why, look at that! The bones and blooms look lovely together, what do you know.” With a flourish of his silks, he turns around to leave, clearly just checking up on the place, and you all let out synchronized sighs of relief when the door shuts behind him.
Only for it to open again, Lyris’s head peeking through with a cheeky wink as he added;
“By the way Ruelle, you have a bite mark on your neck.”
#HEHEHEHEHE#this fic probably couldve gotten longer if i didnt get distracted#reigning passions#piama of the spring#ruelle of the autumn#piama x ruelle#piama x mc#mc x ruelle#reigning passions mc#lyris of the spring#piama x ruelle x mc#can you tell i love enemies to lovers?#lovestruck voltage#lovestruck fanfic
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that world will cease to be: here in my shrine
For anon, who wanted a fic of Laat and Miraak exploring each other's bodies, and everyone who wanted a sequel to the soulmate au. Here you go: I tried. At the bottom there's a gloss of all the Dovahzul used, though pretty much all of it is contextually explained or translated.
This fic contains explicit n.s.f.w, sexual content, and is 1.8. +. Also: suicidal ideation, oral , b.d. sm, species dysphoria, light blood drinking, praise, overstimulation, abusive relationships, including featuring jealousy and possessiveness, and implied/referenced mind control and manipulation. Read at your own risk. Available on A03 here (and recommended, because this is Long).
There is an island where time does not exist. Or rather, where time has stopped, warped, turned half-counter-clockwise and decided that it would like to go four to the left actually.
Dead men stride ashfields that burgeon with last season's and four years of yesterday's summer crops. Their haunting cries part darkened smoke-clouds from a mountain that can't decide whether it has erupted and their dragon-claw boots leave no footsteps. No trace at all of them on silvery sand that thinks itself still a cliff, but a trail of dead netch and liquid-eyed nixhounds. Long-gone elves peer confusedly through gaps in ice-tunnels to a broken sky and thick air long distant from what their lips once tasted, trading the ancient pelts of great cats and wood-carved weapons made of some icy material that radiates magic with the commoners of Raven Rock. Sometimes, old Nords chase them through the snowfields up on the Moesring mountains, but that happens only in Sun’s Dawn, and everyone sensible knows to simply stay inside then. They will disappear on Tirdas, but it is Middas, all the time, until it is Fredas instead, shortly after Morndas afternoon (never morning). And that is not even starting with the month of Hearthfire, which as everyone in Raven Rock knows, is simply that time between ten and five o’clock where the sun shakes in what they have been generously describing as the sky.
The town itself is largely unchanged, for what could have been centuries now. Fethis Alor still tends his stand, the Retching Netch waits in a perpetual state of nearly closing down. Glover Mallory has yet to add a single wrinkle to his collection. Every so often, oldfolk come wandering out the barrows, shrivelled bodies that pay in ancient coins with flickers of life in death-blue eyes, but coin is coin, and if old Crescius has been working a thriving trade with the dead priest Zahkriisos in oil and coal, plenty of others in Raven Rock see no need to be stingy.
Occasionally, there are newfolk, outsiders. Furious bureaucrats from Morrowind, perhaps, come to see why their island flies colours that have not been seen since mighty dragons swept their hungry wings over every inch of Tamriel. Beggars, refugees, curious wizards, come to see the Temple. It is not often they last long before they are unmade from the fabric of expectation that links the threads of reality together, or they quite simply go mad. For the most part, though, even gods avoid Solstheim.
The Dragonborns are not known to be fond of gods.
It is best not to pay too much attention to the Temple or the dragons that live within it. Focus instead on the routine, the script, and know in your heart that time is broken and fate is a lie. Choose ignorance. The summer storms shake the ground from the Temple, Shouts of laughter and rage, growing pains, and dragons scatter from its roof like doves. It is a magical untime on Solstheim, and there are worse things than the total freedom of a world shaped by the expectant whim of two godsouled-mortals that keep for the most part to their temple and themselves.
Frea does not choose ignorance. She has been shaman of the Skaal for, at least, twelve generations, or maybe even three days, and the sight of the Tree Stone still turns her stomach. Sometimes long-dead friends are standing round it, smiling at Frea like nothing has changed at all (and it hasn’t, surely? The sun still rises on the day where Gjalund Salt-Sage brought the dragon-break into Raven Rock port), but Frea is tired now. Still young, still strong, she goes to make the same plea she always makes to the Last Dragonborn.
“When are you going to let us go?” Frea asks, over ale. This year’s season has been terrible for crops, but no one quite ever expects to run out, so the barrels remain full of thick Skaal ale that always tastes just like the last time Frea could remember having it.
She is growing to hate that taste.
Laataazin, the Last Dragonborn, is shorter than Frea, being one of those warm-blooded humans from across the sea. Their feet just lightly brush the ground from where they sit next to Frea on the fallen tree stump not far from the Stone. They wear the same armour they always have, as bright and well-used as it has been since the day they walked out of Apocrypha hand in hand with the murderer of Frea’s friends and broke the world. The only difference is their mask hangs from their belt instead of concealing their scarred spider-web of a face, its blank owl-eyes staring accusingly up at Frea.
They grimace at the ale Frea hands them, pulling the cork out with their teeth. Laat says nothing, but looks at Frea, the wisps of blonde hair that escape her hood, the air of terrible exhaustion that slumps her shoulders. They like the Skaal shaman; Frea is the sort of companion that Laat may have considered taking adventuring once, strong enough to keep up, quick enough to get out of the way, and wild enough to relish the months of uninterrupted travelling through the depths of Skyrim’s countryside.
But it has been a long time since Laataazin has gone adventuring, longer still since they have stepped foot in Skyrim. They miss it; the vastness of the wilds, the clear air, the promise of a fight and treasure to be won. Surely it must be time for a visit, soon? Laat cannot remember the last time they went. Beyond their beloved wife, there is little to draw them back there.
And I am here, Miraak presence brushes against their mind, like a touch on their arm. It is tinged with smugness.
Yes, Laat thinks, hiding their smile from Frea, you are. Did you not want privacy?
That is, after all, the reason they decided to hold their regular meeting with Frea today – it is not like Frea, not being dragon-souled, is aware enough of the passing untime to know if Laat reschedules. But Miraak has ushered them from the temple, claiming to want of all things solitude. This is impossible with their souls interlinked, but physical distance and polite-pretence is easy to arrange. It is unusual enough for Miraak to request it instead of Laat seeking the embrace of nature that it makes them immensely curious.
Miraak radiates discontent for a moment (you miss me, Laat’s chest warms), but withdraws. He is fussing with something involving water, trying not to get the sleeves of his robe wet. They do their best to leave him to it and focus on Frea.
“How long do you plan to keep us imprisoned here?” Frea is asking dolefully, as if rephrasing the question will compel Laataazin to give her an answer she wants to hear. “Trapped in this unliving existence, where no thing changes or grows as the All-Maker bade it?”
Unimpressed, Laat scowls at Frea. They kick the ash with their boots, digging with their heel a scar into the earth that exposes a scurrying beetle. That is change, right there. Not the same as the orderly march Akatosh imposes upon the land, but then, it is his rules that argue that two Dragonborn may not walk Nirn at once.
Laat is no longer inclined to listen to such rules.
Frea looks at the beetle. Something in her eyes flickers. Her loose hand drops the ale, which floods from the bottle, soaking the little scar where the beetle rapidly crawls to escape death by drowning. Curiously, Laat watches, but when the golden liquid gets too close they nudge a line of sand to dam it. The beetle, saved, disappears into the ash.
“I wish to return to the All-Maker,” Frea says, quietly.
A sudden surge of annoyance from Miraak catches Laat’s attention. Unthinkingly, they press into his mind. Through his eyes they glimpse Miraak’s bare hand – ink-veined and thin – clutching at a bar of soap, the dim outline of his body beneath the surface of the bathwater, even one knobbly knee, a hint of-
Laataazin, he chides, vexed. Laat blinks and with effort wrenches themselves away. Anchoring themselves to the feel of the wooden stump underneath them, they inhale the salty scent of seaspray and ashfall. Their boots scuffing the ash, Frea’s solid warmth against their side, the weight of their armour on their shoulders.
Are you all right? Laat asks. They are really trying not to think too much about the fact that Miraak is bathing, and that means Miraak is naked. He has never been fully undressed with Laat. They have seen only glimpses of his body beneath the robes when they have sex, his hands, and rarely, his face. Usually, Laat occupies themselves with something like hunting or sleep that distracts their mind when Miraak bathes, because Miraak is very sensitive to his privacy where his body is concerned.
Miraak is naked. And wet. Wet and naked.
Geh, he replies. I dropped the soap.
His indignation at their amusement tempts them to laugh out loud. They do not, because Frea with her gentle mortal-soul and fragile eardrums sits next to them, long legs not struggling to reach the ground at all. Cursed Nords.
Stop thinking about my naked body, he adds, and do not try to look.
Don’t be shy, Miraak, Laat teases slyly, doing their best to ground themselves in the moment, on the tree with Frea not in the bath in the temple, even as they poke fun at him. You’ve been inside me from the moment I awoke in Helgen, and I know you were still watching even when a gentleman might … look away.
They both know it is true, and though Laat is already well aware that Miraak watches them when they bathe, undress, or fuck, Miraak’s embarrassed defensiveness immediately confirms it. They have never minded - Laat has a soldier’s easy practicality about their body.
I was keeping an eye on you to make sure you were not taken advantage of in your many distractions, Laat Dovahkiin, he retorts. Laat has a vague sense of him splashing water over his face.
They roll their eyes and pull away.
“Dragonborn, do you hear me? I wish to die,” says Frea, intensely. “This is no way to live. You must know this, somewhere. Are you not tired of this unending nightmare?”
It is difficult to remain focused on Frea, because Miraak’s thoughts keep drifting to Laat like a ping on the edges of their awareness. They are soft thoughts, warm ones, shy-feeling, tinged with a little note of – is that arousal? Laat’s barely-restrained curiosity piques.
Is he trying to masturbate? It is rare for Miraak to do so. Admittedly, Laat doesn’t remember the last time he has tried without Laat sensing it and volunteering a… helping hand. No, the last time they have felt something like this from him, they followed him to the icy cell he prefers to sleep in when alone. In the memory, Miraak’s hand is hidden in the folds of his robes, but his masked face jerks towards Laat when they open the door, biting off a sound Laat is suddenly very eager to hear. Laat comes to sit beside him – ignoring his fluster, his demands – and murmurs to him about certain options they have. The night ends with Miraak writhing underneath them as they push into him, rocking him slowly against the bed while he gasps and begs, the echoes of his Voice he is desperately trying to muffle in the pillows sending shivers into the walls. There is no exact translation for ‘please, fuck me, please’ in Miraak’s preferred tongue of Dovahzul, but Laat learns that night several new ways to say it anyway.
Miraak sighs wearily, and Laat feels him cast an ice-spell in his bathwater.
Sorry, thinks Laat, sheepish.
“Please,” says Frea, somewhere distant. “Please hear me, Dragonborn. You are the only one who can wake us from this spell.”
Ni faas, replies Miraak, It is a memory I also … fondly recall.
Apologetically, they take a sip of their ale. They wince. Vile. The wines of Cyrodiil, where Laat likely hails from, are infinitely better. But Miraak enjoys the taste on their tongue, and they feel him hum where he lays in the bath.
Gripping Laat’s arm, Frea shakes them roughly. Snapped into their body, Laat blinks and glares at Frea. The Skaal is wise enough to back off, hands upraised, but her blue eyes are full of terrible sorrow when they look at Laat, no fear at all of Laat lashing out with a gauntleted fist.
“The Traitor has changed you,” Frea says to them. “He has changed us all. But you… I do not think any of the people you left behind would recognise you, Dragonborn.”
“You do not know me,” Laat signs, the shapes sharp and clipped. They are in Nirn now, after all, and their Voice would hurt Frea if not kill her if they spoke aloud. Dragons alone are strong enough to bear it. “You know nothing of the world beyond this island, girl.”
“I have heard tale of you, and when first we met… You slew Alduin World-Eater,” Frea shakes her head, slowly. “You would have helped us. You would know that what is happening is wrong.”
Laat rises to their feet, nettled by the reminder of their bitter fate, but Frea only stares at them, as if hoping something will happen. When nothing does beyond Laat’s glare, dimming into confusion at the odd look on her face, the light gutters out in Frea’s heart. Her shoulders bow, as if slumped by immense weights.
“I suggest,” Frea says heavily, “that you reflect on what it is that has changed in this time of unreality. And what has not. Tell me, what do you truly know of the lands beyond these shores that you have seen with your own eyes? Please, remember my words, Dragonborn.”
With that, she turns and crunches away over the snow.
Laat takes a step after Frea, rage bubbling in their gut like a noxious poison – Miraak, touching in concern the edges of their mind – but gritting their teeth hard enough to feel the bones creak, they drag themselves back. No. Laat likes Frea, they do not want to kill her.
They do, however, want to hunt.
Enjoy yourself, Laat thinks to Miraak, taking a moment to send him a soothing pulse. I’m going to go and catch dinner.
Don’t get something large, I have already prepared food for us, Miraak requests.
Full of surprises, today, aren’t you? He grumbles something about being much maligned that Laat ignores, already setting off at a light jog into the wilderness surrounding the temple.
It is a bitter day on Solstheim, with high winds and a brittle, icy chill. The animals are wary, and it takes Laat a few hours to find anything worth catching. Eventually, they manage to corner a small arctic hare. It is dead with a Shout, and Laat skins it with their boot-knife. The hunter in them unwinds at the kill, the blood on their hands.
Frea’s words echo through their mind. “Tell me what you know of the lands beyond these shores that you have seen with your own eyes.”
Laat considers. It has been a while since they have spoken to one of their dragon acquaintances. Odahviing and Venfokest avoid Miraak, but Odahviing at least is bound to come if Laat calls. Perhaps they will ask how Skyrim is doing.
Something about the prospect makes Laat feel a little uneasy, as if there is something they are forgetting.
When are you back? Miraak’s question is more a vague feeling of longing for their presence and a desire to know where they are than it is words, but Laat answers it anyway.
I am coming to you now.
They feel from him a definite tinge of bubbling excitement, and then again that strange anxious spark. Pruzah.
He is definitely planning something. Seething curiosity carries Laat home, to the great Temple of Miraak sprawling between towering fences of heaped dragon-skeletons, fused and warped together by thousands of years of moving ice and snow. Laat ducks under the tongueless jaws and over the fleshless claws, poised in permanent screams of rending agony. As always, they grimace. It is not their favourite of Miraak’s choice in décor.
The interior of the temple is much better, these days, its hard edges softened by the multitude of pelts that ripple along the walls like the sides of some great breathing beast. Laat has hunted all of these themselves, and it still plucks their pride to see the fruits of their work displayed so prominently in Miraak’s temple. The rabbit they pack in ice and leave in an empty brazier. It will not go anywhere.
You are skilled, he interjects into their thoughts. And also prone to cold.
Laat closes their eyes and goes to him, not needing to ask, not needing to see – Laataazin could find Miraak blind and deaf, robbed of all sense, even dead, even dying. The ties that bind them are beyond such petty things as flesh, as mortality.
Soul-of-my-soul, they think, trailing their fingertips over the thickly covered walls, the soft furs, the unyielding stone beneath. Breathing in the smoky scent of incense, the long-distant iron tang of blood and daedra. Always I come to you. Through Apocrypha, through storm, through time and fate itself, no creature could bar me from you that I would not tear asunder.
Do not keep me waiting any longer, Miraak answers, softly. Laat can feel his hunger.
He is outside in the room they usually use when sleeping together. It is fairly large, walled-off, but open to the great sky and set with wards to deter prying eyes and inclement weather. There is no furniture at all, save for a cooking pot in the corner by a fire, a small chest that holds additional blankets and other supplies, and a huge bed, made completely of stone in the Dwemer fashion. It is piled high with furs to make it soft.
The reason, of course, is Laataazin.
“Miraak,” they whisper, as soft as they possibly can, and their Voice shudders the air with a low sonic reverberation. Anything more fragile than stone would be destroyed in an exhale.
“Laat Dovahkiin.”
He is perched on the bed, masked face tilted towards them measuringly. Over his lap luxuriates a thick snow-bear pelt, his long fingers fiddling with something under it almost absently. They can just see a small glimpse of his foot peeking out of the shaggy fur, wider than Laat has expected, the curve of his arch flattening towards his clawed toes. He is wearing a robe of deep purple, belted tightly around his waist so that no skin shows in the fall of its folds around the tucked hood of his mask. But simply by virtue of how uncomfortably stiff he looks, Laat wagers his robe is only a layer thick, his gloves are nowhere to be seen, and he is not even wearing socks.
Laat starts to strip off their armour, hoping to join him in the plush furs. He shifts; his presence strengthens in their mind shivery and avid, like ghostly lips are under their skin caressing the tight strings of nerves as Laat’s fingers fumble over the buckles. An urgency makes itself known, whether it is his or theirs they cannot tell, only that it seems incredibly important that the bulky plate is gone, leaving Laat in their breeches and tunic.
“Are you hungry?” Miraak says in his rich, deep voice. “I made soup.”
“You made soup?” Laat signs, honestly taken aback. They scrub their hair with one hand, dissatisfied with the length of the limp strands. Time to cut it soon.
“I told you I did.” Miraak’s rejoinder is curt, but Laat can feel a storm of emotions inside of him, more nervousness, quiet sparks of hurt. Puzzlingly, underneath it all is vast breathlessness.
“I am sorry,” Laat signs, “I thought you meant you got someone else to cook.”
Like normal, they don’t add, but clearly Miraak senses their confusion.
“It is pea soup,” he adds, with all the snappishness of an insult, and then looks down at his hands like he is hoping they will wring his own neck for him.
Pea soup is Laataazin’s favourite. They like the warmth, the simplicity, even the odd green of it. It is the first meal they recall eating, served by Sigrid after their escape from Helgen. It is decidedly not Miraak’s.
Miraak acting strange, trying to make one of Laat’s favoured foods, wearing slightly fewer than his usual full robes, having just bathed –
“Miraak,” Laat signs, slowly. “Are you trying to seduce me?”
Miraak says nothing, but Laat can feel his frustration. Not for the first time, Laat wonders how they would have ever come to know him without a window into his soul, for his mask is expressionless, his body language has not changed at all, and his manner is anything but welcoming. Still, their heart squeezes at the thought of him taking the time to do something as simple and sweet as make their favourite soup.
“I am not hungry,” they sign, “but I would love to try it with you later.”
Laat takes a seat on the bed next to him. This close, they can see what he is fussing with in his hands. It is a coil of soft cotton rope, dyed black, and he is threading it through his hands again and again, rhythmic, hypnotic. His shoulders are tense. Understanding dawns as Laat gains a sense of what he wants.
“Want some help?” Laat signs.
The anxious movement of his hands pauses. His chin tucks close to his chest. The dim firelight plays over the gold surface of his mask, making the shadows jump and dance like the carved tentacles are twitching.
“Geh,” says Miraak. “I would relieve your curious mind.”
He trails off, but his mind does not, conveying a soft fear of exposure – unwanted, terrible, frightening, but at the hands of Laat, intriguing, even exciting. Another dragon-soul, who… knows, who has the most immediate window into how it feels.
No wonder he is being shy, Laat thinks, Miraak has never in all the time they have known each other reacted to having to remove his clothing with anything other than discomfort. To some extent, Laat even understands. They have times when their body feels wrong, too little, too soft, no teeth or claws or worst of all no wings, but for Miraak, that sense of not fitting his body never fades at all, and the marks of daedric corruption from years in Apocrypha has only worsened it.
Laat inhales. “You want me to take your robe off and touch you under it?”
They both feel the tug of arousal in his belly as Laat’s hands finish the signs. Laat’s approval at it makes the hair on the back of his neck prickle. The air electrifies, Laat’s blood warms. Already, Laat’s mind feels closer, overlapping with his, drifting in and out of seeing with their eyes or his. The rope seems to grow heavier in their - his - hands.
“Geh.”
Laat shifts to sit by his hip, trying to catch his eyes in the dark slits of his mask. Either he is avoiding their stare or the mask is at the wrong angle to penetrate the shadows.
“Tell me your watchword, Miraak.” Laat’s signs are firm but clear. They can’t hide their excitement from him, don’t bother trying, and his chest rises and falls a little quicker. Laat’s stomach quivers with butterflies.
He dithers, thinking through his choice, but when he speaks his voice is strong, steady, and confident. “Sikgolt.”
“Good,” Laat signs. They take the rope from him.
Miraak lifts his hands, and the voluminous sleeves fall to gather in indigo ripples around his elbows, baring his arms. Laataazin curls the first length of rope around his forearms and then just looks for a moment, memorising it. The contrast between the dyed rope and his sunless skin, stained murky ink-green-yellow like a slow-ripening bruise that makes Laat ache to dig their thumb in and push until it blooms purple. The green veins that fork through the softer skin of his wrists, the pulse-point that will hammer there if Laat tickles it with their tongue (and the groans that will fall from him, twisted, broken things, the bitten curses, the hungry ache).
There are scars there, just visible as thinned lines underneath the dark stipple of soap-softened hair, relics from a fraught past. His hands, thin and uncallused, a scholar’s hands still, offer up to the rope like the worshipful priest he still is (if to his own altar – Niid, zu’u losiil, he murmurs back), tipped by curving black claws that catch the light with a dim ebony sheen. He has filed them down, Laat can see the smoothed edges, the hint of dust caught under a nail that has escaped his washing.
Miraak has filed his claws so that he would not hurt Laataazin if he touches his fingertips to their bare skin, not even by accident.
The rush of admiration they feel for him is sudden, intense, and warm, warm, like the blush that climbs steadily into their cheeks. The arousal that sparks in one sparks the other, and Miraak is not as unaffected by Laat’s extended perusal as he is trying to pretend. Goosebumps raise where Laat’s eyes drag, and he grumbles and shifts on the bed.
It is false annoyance; Laat feels instead his anxiety, insecurity at having the marks of daedric corruption on display, his fear of exposure and powerlessness, the private worrying of his vanity.
Beautiful, Laat thinks, and politely ignores the confused feelings that flood through him as he catches their thought, all ending in an ember of lust. Miraak, despite his many conflicted feelings on his body, likes to be appreciated, but he finds Laat’s private, fond awareness of that fact intensely embarrassing.
“Laataazin.”
Laat’s shoulders shake in a silent chuckle.
They take his hand in theirs, smiling up at him. “Squeeze,” they sign with the other, and he obliges, gripping Laat’s hand until it feels like the bones creak. Laat makes a note of the pressure, then releases him with a gentle pat.
Loop by loop, they wrap the soft rope around Miraak’s arms six times, spreading the pressure out to protect his circulation. Checking the looseness with two fingers against his wrist, Laat tucks the tails around the loops, makes a knot, cinches it evenly, then knots it again for security. It takes a while, for Laataazin’s hands shake and tremble, and Miraak’s skin is sensitive to chafing. But as they work, Laataazin feels the rope’s increasing pressure acting upon him, the quiet, observant mood he settles into, dripped through with steady peace. His lassitude sinks soporific into the tired ache behind Laat’s eyes, and their head droops to rest on his chest.
“Not too tight,” he tells them, testing the rope. Laat skims kisses over his knuckles.
They allow him time to acclimatise to the ropes, feeling the minute tense of his muscles testing for give in the knots. They can hear the creaks of the flexing rope, his deep breathing metallic under the mask, even the distant wind blowing over the ashlands. Somewhere, a dragon roars.
Kruziikrel, Miraak identifies absently.
The fabric of his robe is silky and cool against Laat’s forehead. Beneath it, they can smell Miraak, old books, mouldy paper, spilt ink and the bitter reek of ash. From anyone else, it would be unpleasant – from Miraak, it is familiar, and thus, beloved.
Laat can feel the warm weight of their head on Miraak’s chest, the soothing hold of the rope, the robe shifting on his skin. He feels too warm, already, his breath fogging against his mask to blow soft as butterfly kisses against his dry lips. A little sleepy, too, wrung out by all the excitement and anxiousness of preparing himself for them.
“Ni faas. It was nothing,” Miraak rumbles. They can feel the vibrations through his chest when he speaks, the breath ringing in his lungs.
Their dragon soul.
It is tempting to indulge in the moment, lay their body across his legs like a pinning weight and allow them both to simply drift, hearts harmonising, breath mixing, until Laat has to untie Miraak’s hands and chase the blood to flushing. But they turn their cheek to the side, instead, so their breath skates into the opening of Miraak’s robe. He shivers.
It would be a shame to not take advantage of Miraak’s uncharacteristic willingness to be vulnerable.
Their fingers twist into signs. It takes Miraak a moment, either to parse it in his warm fog or to realise that Laat has signed, but when he does Laat relishes in the surge of indignation.
“I am not having a nap, and I am not that old,” Miraak huffs, and Laataazin laughs against his chest. It is nearly noiseless, but not quite. The furs tremble beneath them.
Wuth, they think to him. Old man.
“You’re the one whose – stopped,” Miraak snaps, and his voice loses its steadiness.
Must I do everything for you, Diist-Dovahkiin? Laat sighs gustily, teasingly, but they sit up and plant their weight square over his hips.
For a moment, they are both breathing through the sensations, Miraak’s heart thudding in his chest at the agonising burn of warm thighs squeezing his hipbones, the bend of Laat’s knees straining tight muscles from the hike to meet with Frea, the weight pressing his spine into the bed like a stone, even the arterial pulse he swears he can feel drumming his skin through the robe and their clothes pounding from the secret warmth of Laat’s inner thigh. The thought of all that blood, all that glorious heat, in their veins makes him dizzy.
Laat looks down at him and sees themselves mirrored in shadows over his mask and in his hidden gaze. The rolling slopes of their body encircle him, contain him, like a stopper in the narrow neck of a bottle. Their eyes smoke with intensity, flickers of amber red visible in the deep brown. In his eyes, they are handsome and powerful, beautiful as the killing edge of a new blade.
“You are so warm,” he tells them inanely.
“Let me see you,” Laat signs, bringing their hands deliberately wide in the movements so that their knuckles brush the blank gold face of Miraak’s mask. They want to show him his own face, his true face, the loveliness they find there among the ink-scars and exhaustion-wrung shadows.
Miraak hesitates. Old shames glare gluttonous at his vulnerability, and Miraak feels like shrinking into the safety of the mask. Is it not enough to let them do this? Must he lose every wall, every shelter, every defence he has against the rawness of this new Solstheim where bareness is unremarkable, and no one sings as dragons do? His face of flesh and skin does not even have majestic horns or tough scales - no, it is softened, wearied, by time and torture. The wrinkles he admires as they form on Laat and the steely greys of their hair remind Miraak only of the time he has lost to unwilling bondage on himself. They, after all, do not have the face of a prisoner of Apocrypha.
He is only a man. Despite the strength of Laat’s opinion of him, their dragon-soul, Miraak is only a man, and one beset by foolish vanity at that.
Laat says nothing, of course they don’t, but the swell of tender feeling is almost worse. This close, this hungry, the line between them is blurrier than it ever is. Without the mask, Miraak may as well … submit. Laat pursues the feeling, pressing into his mind, his body, until their touches feel mirrored and they are the hand that brushes and the skin that aches in response both.
Laat leans forward (catches Miraak’s irreverent thought about how so very warm they are, are they running a fever, against his bound wrists, his chest) and lifts the edge of the mask’s hood, revealing his neck. Old inkstains stripe his throat in greenish trails, splatters where he has coughed and choked on the fluid bubbling in his lungs, out his mouth. Laat can’t resist swiping their tongue over the arch of tendons, as if the coolness of their spit can smear such deeply-sunken marks. Tender kisses dot his shoulders, gentle lips mumble and mouth over the exposed ridge of his collarbones, blunt teeth threatening the bobbing gulp of the apple of his throat, sensations that spark fireworks behind his eyes. Laat’s lips tingle where they kiss him, his fragile skin papery and dry like the crumbling pages of ancient books.
They together feel his breathing fanning over his eyelids, penned in by the mask, as he tilts his head back. Exposes his neck to Laataazin, like a dog showing his belly to his master.
Beautiful, thinks Laat again, and Miraak swallows a groan.
Desire breathes like something living in the coil of his gut, drawing like a wave into his cock. The liquid movements of the robes over the sensitive flesh as Laat rocks back and forth over his hips while they kiss, sensuous, deliberate, rhythmic, just too far forward to grind against him, are exquisite torture.
Torture? Laat’s laugh is a sigh that ripples up to prickle the tainted skin under his ear. Miraak exhales roughly, flexing his wrists against the ropes to ground himself. They are edging ever closer to the lip of the mask, trying to steal it off without his notice. It is one of their more obvious designs. Not even close, soul-of-my-soul.
“What are you planning?” Miraak asks, more to reply than because he cares to know. Past experience has taught him that Laat is more than capable of using his anticipation as a weapon, stringing him on a teetering edge until he shatters like poorly blown glass in their hands.
You like it, Laat thinks, amused, indulgent as a cat in a sunbeam. Miraak, haughty, does not respond. He does not need to. The evidence that tells Laat they are right is beginning to rather eagerly tent his robe, after all.
This close he can smell the oil they use to clean their armour and weapons, and sweat, pure human sweat. Laataazin’s deals with daedra have been so much lesser than Miraak’s, and they barely have any marks, save for a wickedness in their grin as their hips roll against him that Miraak thinks must have come from straight from the Lord of Debauchery himself.
You know it didn’t, Laataazin contradicts. Their scarred nose bumps the underside of his mask as they lean forwards, palms pressing down heavy and soothing onto his chest. Hinting.
“Niid,” Miraak murmurs.
A flicker of disappointment, but Laat moves on from the mask without comment. They resettle their weight further over his hips, trapping his cock between their body and his. Miraak chokes, his arms twitching in abortive movement, like he could pull their body, their hands away. But Laat lingers, tracing the shape of his cock through his robe with heavy, palming strokes. It is so powerful a sensation that it hurts, hurts, like crackling lightning in his veins.
Miraak writhes, trying to unseat them, but Laat only rides him out like he is a bucking horse. His body undulates between their thighs and they grind down, eyes fluttering shut and mouth parting, a glimpse of their crooked teeth as they bite their lip.
Laat’s shameless pleasure in his struggle undoes him.
“Laat,” Miraak moans. They ground him with a hand to his chest, and his breath heaves like bellows against its firm weight.
Your arms are tied, Laat’s thought is involuntary, almost indistinguishable in heady lust, you just have to lie here and … take it.
They feel Miraak want to protest that he is not entirely helpless – there’s the Voice, there’s magic, they may be stronger physically but he could even flip them – yet his whole body is boneless, the ropes hemming him in sweetly, and they know if Laat just asks, he would take any amount of anything. To please them.
“Zu’u losiil, Laat Dovahkiin.” Miraak is shaky and breathless. I am yours. It is true. Without them, he would be a prisoner, lonely, bitter, still at the whim of the fates, bound to serve all his life in the hope for a taste of freedom. This service, he chooses. As they chose him, over the world.
“Good,” Laataazin whispers aloud, and the stone bed shakes. Somewhere distant, something smashes as it falls, shaken by the earthquake of their Voice.
Miraak’s eyes fly open to meet theirs through the slits of his mask, halfway through a ragged gasp. They see themselves as he sees them, scarred face is watchful, intent, their dark eyes alight with a rich glow.
“Laataazin.”
It is too much for him. Laat rubs his chest soothingly as Miraak’s head thumps back against the furs and his arms lift, futile, trying to cover his masked face, trying to hide. His knuckles meet only the coolness of his mask, smooth and hard, the antithesis of Laat’s body on his. He knows he is blushing, blotches of deep blue and yellow ink bursting like rotted flowers under the surface of his skin, knows that Laat could see it, if they open his robe.
The soul-of-his-soul thinks Miraak is good.
As if summoned, Laat deftly parts the folds of his robe and bares his chest. The bear pelt he lies on is so thick that the soft fur rises around the edges of his body like a wreath, his robe spread out beneath them like royal purple butterfly wings. The paleness of the fur and the richness of the silk all seem to exaggerate the archival yellow of his skin, warming to chlorophyll and indigo, like he is an unfinished painting given colour, depth, reality, by the paintbrush of his blush.
He is beautiful, and mine, they think, ghosting over pebbled flesh with indulgent, explorative touches. Miraak is thinner under his robes than he first appears, with jutting ribs from one-too-many forgotten meals to sustain a body that has not quite managed to process anything beyond ink with any reliability. His mottled skin is oddly smooth, hairless, and after a moment, Laat realises why.
“You shaved,” Laat signs, tapping his chest to get his attention. He lowers his arms cautiously, eyeing them through the slits of the mask. “Your beard, too?”
“Geh,” says Miraak.
Laat feels his embarrassed flush of self-consciousness. He shaved because he hopes Laat would put their mouth on him as they are so fond of doing, and does not want them to have to pick hair from their teeth. His hair grows very thick and all of it ink-soaked to dripping, leaving green stains on fabrics when he brushes against them. He worries; hardly thinks it’s beneficial for Laat to swallow any of Mora’s corruption that can possibly be avoided. Just as quickly, there is a fluster as Miraak tries to hide his thoughts from them.
Prickly and proud as ever, their dragon-soul.
“I wouldn’t have minded,” Laat assures him, their signs quick and fond at his worry. “And I certainly don’t mind you thinking of what I’m going to do to you.”
Their signs leave them free to smile, slow, wide, and Miraak shivers at the promise in it. Lightly they push on his elbows, encouraging him to lift his arms over his head so that his shoulders strain and his torso is exposed, like a sacrifice. Then, as Miraak has dared to hope, they lower their head and kiss his chest.
Laat explores, taking their time, feeling the raised lips of scars catch under their nails. He does not have many, all things considered, not half as much as they do, but there is enough to provide texture. Testament, they suppose, to his expertise with healing magic. Miraak runs cooler than they do, and as their searching hands find the secret, soft places that make him twitch and gasp (his sides are sensitive to broad strokes, but he jerks and hisses at gentle, featherlight circles over his hipbones, and the sound he makes when Laat licks a long stripe over his pectoral muscle and catches the edge of his nipple is so hungry it does not bear repeating), they feel him warm under them.
Sweat wells, bitter and acrid ink, in the dips of his collarbones, the dark hair of his armpits, his navel. Laat brushes the worst of it away and keeps going, ignoring the apocryphal reek and distracting Miraak from it before he can protest. They are determined to map his entire torso under their lips and tongue, the drugging strokes of their palms pressing against the heave of his lungs. His skin is soft and dry, curiously textured, delicate as vellum. When he blushes, sometimes the ink forms linear lines, swirls of no mortal language, as if it is trying to imitate the written pages of Apocrypha, like there are books not blood trapped underneath his skin. Laat knuckles his flesh until it fades into blotchy colours and pays it no attention at all.
They have no need for flesh-sunk knowledge and the words of magic lost to time. This is its own kind of lesson, and Laat will always rather be skilled in love than in secrets.
They hear the crackle of the fire, the wet noises of their mouth, Miraak’s moans and stifled cries. He whimpers when they give into the desire to suck on his skin until it bruises brilliant purples and blues, bright as an illustration commissioned by a master, so they do it again, again, until his nipples pinking with blood distract them. Laat torments the hard buds with quick, fluttering flicks of their tongue that make Miraak choke on a growl, and smile when they feel the tugging chains of arousal searing straight to his cock.
Miraak pants, half-wishing he let Laat take the damn mask off, because there doesn’t seem to be enough air and he feels like he is melting. It’s too much, he thinks, and Laat’s dark eyes flick up to his, measuring, probing for how he is doing, it hurts.
“Faaz,” Miraak gets out. You are hurting me. They must be.
Sensation so bright it might as well be pain has him arrested, senseless, sharp like needles in his lungs, and he is not sure where he is, only that the world is bound by the rope around his wrists, squeezing his thunderous crash of a heart into a mortal body that twists and rocks under Laataazin like it is possessed. He is aware that he is making noises, hisses and gasps and bitten off words that would embarrass him if he were more present, but Miraak is not – is gone.
He is, dimly, afraid of what is happening to his body, for he is fairly certain that sex has never been like this. With his nerves under-stimulated from years in bitter Apocrypha, Laat’s focused attention is utterly overwhelming. There are many reasons he prefers to remain clothed; safe concealment from the immensity of the world scraping at him like raw wool is one.
It always is like this, with Laat.
“You are fine, Miraak,” Laat tells him, knows he understands even if they are not certain he sees their signs, “This is not pain.”
He eases a little at their reassurance, but just to prove it, they bite him hard enough that their teeth carve welts into his flesh. Hard enough that the confused morass of sensation – pleasure, it is his and theirs, at the same moment – narrows into the piercing beam of pain, true pain. Miraak keens, and against him, Laat moans richly, reverberating.
If only – if only, but no, this truly is a rare opportunity. Laat needs to be gentle and relish the rare freedom of touching Miraak’s bare skin, not overwhelm him quickly.
Miraak bares his teeth. “I am not fragile,” he says, his pride bidding him ignore the quiver in his deep voice lodged somewhere in his stomach, and the nagging fear that he absolutely is, actually, and if Laat isn’t careful, his bones will shatter to dust like the ruined books that populate old tombs like monuments to impermanence.
“You blush so prettily when I treat you like you are,” Laat signs, cheeky. “Can you blame me?”
When they are done, though, their hands find his ribs again and push down, hard. Miraak wheezes a breath, but Laat only smiles at him, as if to say, See? We’re fine.
Miraak slams his head back into the pillows, hissing. Again with the praise. I am going to pulverise you in training later, Laat feels him think, and allows the ghostly curl of their amusement to thread like gold in his sternum.
Laat withdraws, gives him a moment to catch his breath. They check his bound hands briefly, then hum, satisfied by the strength of his grip. The break is barely a second, not long enough, just enough to admire his flustered state.
One hand tweaks his nipple, twisting it hard enough that the dull pressure will ache, the other smooths underneath the fallen robe around his hips and ghosts around the base of his cock. He reacts like their skin burns him.
“Niid,” says Miraak at once, “niid – Dovahkiin, saraan-“
The hand at his chest taps him. Laat does not move their other hand, not at all, allows Miraak to feel like he is dying, knowing that he will not.
“Your watchword, Miraak?” Laat signs. Their expression is serious, but their mouth is smiling, like they know a secret.
It takes him a moment, not to remember, for they feel the word come at once to the forefront of his mind, but to make his breathing cooperate so the word comes out steady and even. Always so proud.
“Sikgolt,” he says, at last.
“You know what to say, if you want this to stop,” signs Laat, “If not, behave.”
“I am not a pet,” Miraak tries to snarl, but his words are lost in an explosive cry when Laat spits into their hand and grasps his cock firmly with quick, rough strokes. Dry, it is just too much to be bearable, but Laat’s grip is workmanlike, brusque, and utterly unrelenting. Even when Laat smears his own ink-laced precome down his cock, it is not enough to prevent the agony of the friction.
Good, they think. Laat does not want him to be comfortable.
Miraak responds to that with a shattered sound.
Laat focuses on remaining in their own body, on the sweat-sticky shirt on their back, the slight grind and click of their wrist as they jerk him off, tries to distance themselves from the cacophony of Miraak’s thoughts. They want him to be overwhelmed, but not drag them with him to the point where they cannot be certain they will be able to watch him.
It is nice, they think meditatively, to be able to do this with him. They are surprised, but pleased, at how this night has gone, have not ever quite believed that Miraak would be capable of or willing to experience such a large amount of touch and vulnerability. After all, it took a long time of very patient compromises to reach the point of physical intimacy. Sex is studded with pitfalls, as having thick ink for blood means that Miraak’s arousal is not always reliable, and he regularly cannot bear touch, which his pride detests. Once they discovered they have a love of ropes in common and that Miraak can bring himself to ask for it, things became easier, and the rest Laat simply consigns to cultural differences he cannot explain in any way they understand, or the effects of his time in Apocrypha.
Still, Laat knows him well enough at this point to not need to think too hard about the movement of their hand on his cock. Dragging touches that form a circle for his jerking hips to thrust into, long strokes up the left side, switching to caress over the crease of his thigh and fondle his balls, rubbing that spot underneath that presses on the base and makes his eyes roll into the back of his head.
He is fracturing under their attention, their dragon-soul, twisting and shuddering on the bed like he can through movement plea for the violent pleasure to ebb enough for him to catch a breath. The mask shakes and casts golden reflections hurtling over the walls as he alternately thrusts his head back, then at once bows his body towards Laat, runnels of inky sweat pooling in the divots of his hips, staining the furs. He cries out, convinced they are hurting him, unable to register the intensity of the sensations he feels as anything other than pain.
Watching his anguish, Laat feels an erotic thrill. How glorious, to have a creature so ancient and strong under their power. They close their hand around his cock, caressing the sensitive underside of the swollen glans with their thumb. Miraak, sensing, perhaps recognising Laat’s warm appreciation, panics and jerks, his bound hands trying to interfere. Feeling indulgent, Laat lets him tug against their strength.
Laat squeezes his cockhead until he flushes turgid purple, then rubs their thumb against the dripping slit. They fuck him like this slowly, watching his balls flush and tighten up against the base of his shaft. It won’t take long. Cruel perhaps, for his mind is a mess and his body is not much better, but it always makes his cock throb.
Miraak howls like he is being murdered. His breathing is shuddering gasps and hitched sobs. He is being good, though, holding himself as still as he can through what Laat can tell is sheer stubborn will alone. His body tries to jerk away from their rough touch, and the sounds that fall so sweetly on Laat’s ears are utterly broken, but he does not wrench himself away. Miraak bears it.
He behaves.
A reward is due. Laat releases him to reposition themselves so their scarred cheek rasps against his cock and their arms are wrapped around his thighs and hips, holding him still. Miraak breathes heavily, they feel the muscles flex in his stomach and thighs as he strains to sit up without dislodging them.
“What -” His words crack off. He clears his throat and tries again. “What are you doing?”
“You’ll like it,” Laat promises. They dig circles into the bony jut of his hips, watching for his reaction. The hood of his mask hides his throat bobbing in a swallow, but Laat can see his shaky exhale. They can sense Miraak’s confusion, lust-fogged mind struggling to grasp what is happening, not even truly certain where he is, not particularly caring about anything beyond Laat, Laat, Laataazin. His thoughts are run-on strings of harsh dragon-words, difficult to parse, overshadowed by flashes of feeling and thought, lightning-bright among the seething sea of sensory overload.
Maintaining eye contact with the dark holes in the mask, Laat gives the bobbing cock in front of their face an exploratory lick.
Miraak jumps.
They do it again.
This time, he groans. Laat lowers their mouth to his cock and starts by licking him, flicking their tongue over the sensitive underside. When his hips start twitching and lifting towards them, they slip his cock into their mouth and go down, down, as if they mean to swallow him whole.
His bound hands fly to their hair, unable to get a grip on it, but Laat looks up. His mind is beset by visions of his cock hurting them, bruising their throat so they can barely speak, but Laat only shakes off his hands kindly, a strange feeling of warmth in their breast at his worry.
“I will not hurt myself,” they sign, “I have taken bigger than you before.”
So saying, their mouth envelops his cock. Their nose bumps against his hips, and they control themselves, drawing back just a little to gain a new breath, then back down. They swallow when they feel the head bump against the back of their throat, let it slide into the tight space there.
They catch an image flashing through his mind - young man, pale cheeks freckle-blazed, mask pushed up over frizzing carroty hair; “Quiet, quiet, do you want the whipping - you have to be quiet, Miraak!” Burst of coals against Miraak’s pinwheeling arm - incense and dragon rumbles overhead - “Vahlok- !?” - and Miraak rams his bound hands against his mask to cover where his mouth hides beneath it so hard Laat hears the metal ring.
Laat pushes in on his hips hard enough to bruise. They hum, quietly, but the shaking sound still catches Miraak’s attention, especially as the vibrations judder through his cock in their mouth. Name me, they think to him fiercely. Name who has you.
“Laat-aaz-in,” Miraak cries. The mask’s shadowed tentacles seem to curl and writhe like worms in the rain. His knuckles are reddening against the implacable metal, soft flesh, breakable, not enough to pierce it. They find themselves glad for once that it is there - they would not have liked to see him try to shove his hands into his mouth.
Make noise for me, my strong dragon, Laat thinks, bobbing their head even as their narrowed eyes watch him carefully, you can take this. It is for his benefit - he is still responding to their praise, to their encouragement, the iron core of his will soaking it in. It grounds him, earths him enough to birth a shattering wail rippling with the strength of the Voice.
“Niid!” Miraak tries to argue, “Laat – I cannot – I cannot-“
His mind is a mess, but they are confident he is present, that he knows where they are and what is happening. They can sense his watchword close to his mind, even lift their mouth for a moment to give him a breath to say it in.
Frustrated, Miraak jerks, and what comes out instead is “Aaz! Mercy - aaz, aaz!”
It is not the signal, so pleased, Laat continues. They are savouring the warmth of him, the throb and pulse of his veins through the soft, sensitive skin, his salty bitterness on their tongue, the reek of his sweat. A shame it would be to stop soon, for something as irrelevant as Miraak’s comfort.
“Zu’u losiil,” Miraak moans in a trembling voice at that thought.
They are reasonably certain that in the dark holes of his mask he is looking at them, so they sign to him, resting as much of their weight through their forearms to keep his hips still as they can. Still, he thrusts abortively when they try to take him down into their throat again, and Laat has to withdraw quickly to prevent choking.
“My strong dragon, I am here,” Laat asserts. “I will give you what you need. Shout if you need to, I have you.”
The wall stripes with the reflections of the mask in the firelight. He is breathing rapidly, his arms trembling lightly. His mottled skin gleams with the richness of his sweat. Miraak is trying, they can tell, but when they dip the tip of their tongue into the slit of his cock, curious to see his reaction, he breaks.
“MUL QAH!”
The thunder of his Shout rocks the room. Miraak’s Dragon Aspect roars into life, and Laat hurriedly yanks their hands back before they are pierced through by the sudden emergence of spines marching down his belly and chest, protecting his vulnerable innards. Frankly, given their choice of words, Laat is not entirely surprised. Still, the moment of distraction is all they need, and as Miraak stretches his resplendent wings, his iridescent tail, Laat swallows him down again. They hold their breath for as long as they can, encouraging him to rock into their throat.
“L- aaat,” Miraak manages. It is pleading. It has to hurt him, with how sensitive he is, how much this all is - the warmth, the wetness, the wet laps of their tongue, their breath, their humming, the flex of their muscles, the hungry pleasure of Laat watching him. If they allow him in their mind, they can feel it - the sharpness like the agonising piercing joy of being fucked with a needle, back and forth dipping in and out of flesh, pricks of red red blood lubricating the steely slide, back and forth, back and forth.
Swirling their tongue around him, Laat smirks. They grab onto the thick spines that jut razor-sharp from his hips and hold him still as they draw back up, hollowing their cheeks around him. Then down, to the accompaniment of his broken gasps and snarls. The spines make it much easier to keep him in his place. Despite his increased strength, Laat is always the stronger of the two of them. They control him like a wild animal breaking to the lash, Miraak’s power, his strength, his Dragon Aspect - they are nothing here unless Laat wills it.
You are going to take this until I make you come, they inform him. Miraak sobs.
His eyes are burning coals behind the mask, enough to shadow it. He is wreathed in horns, in fire, in the brilliance of his soul, the amber-blue scales that blaze over his chest, his arms, clinging the thickest to his scars in belts so bright it almost hurts to look at him. His bound hands are taloned and sharp, trimmed claws turned deadly knives, and Laat keeps a careful eye on them in case he tries to grab their head again.
They know he won’t. Miraak will behave for as long as they ask him to.
He slams his head back against the furs, in what Laat thinks is agreement.
It is thrilling. Triumphant desire burns in Laat, a thunderous need to break the shining, vicious, powerful creature before them, in their mouth, in their soul. His growls shudder their bones when they tease him, and his wings close around them like pressing hands on their shoulders, trying to urge them deeper even as he thrusts up. Laat resists the pressure, lets his cock scrape against their teeth as they rise up, a warning and promise both.
Miraak shudders a breath, his hands flexing into fists. His tail underneath Laat curls sinuously around their leg, angling for the fork of their legs. Laat moans as they suck him and grinds down against the muscular coil. They can feel the intoxicating ridged texture of his scales against them through their breeches, igniting sparks in the seething pressure in their belly.
They release his cock with a pop and sit up to rut harder against him, using the spikes thrusting from the bones of his hips to dictate his movement. They stare down at the slits of his mask with intense, dark eyes.
“Good,” Laat whispers, needing to vocalise their approval, and Miraak’s body locks up as he is ripped into orgasm.
All the grounding in the world cannot prevent the backlash of searing white that flashes across Laat’s eyes, the sympathetic clench in their belly and the heated lance of pure want that stabs into the base of their spine. Their hand fumbles at him, pinning his spurting cock to his belly with clumsy strokes, the other bracing themselves against the bed as it feels like shuddering waves rock the island.
Laat is even fairly certain that one of them briefly blacks out.
In the aftermath, Miraak shakes. His auroral wings curve around them both, like he is protecting them from the world. Shredded fur dusts his shoulders like snow from his gnashing horns. His come is sticky and warm on his chest, chased through with shimmering greens and blues. Laat, cheeks flushed and breathing hard, runs a finger through it, gathering some of the pearly fluid.
They lift their hand to his mask, intentions clear. Miraak’s bound hands scrabble at the edge of the mask, the deadly-sharp dragon-talons a hindrance, trying to lift it enough for them to reach him under the hood. In frustration, he tears it off. Laat hears it clatter to the floor beside the bed.
Exposed, Miraak pants. He is luminous with the Dragon Aspect, his eyes, the thinness of his veins limned as if he is lit from within, haloed by horns. Laat presses the finger to his lips and he lets it slide into his mouth obediently. He glows there, too, his teeth sharpened to lambent daggers of gold and blue. The gaunt arches of his cheekbones blaze with a green blush. His long, dark, wet hair is plastered to his forehead, dripping ink as it continues in a thick mane down his shoulders and back, speared by the flaming spires and spikes of his dragon-soul.
His curious eyes, double-irised, one malachite and ice, the other goat-pupilled and bronze, are dark with lust. Laat can barely make out his second irises behind the brightness of the Dragon Aspect. Fresh tears trace the paths of the stains on his face. When he blinks at them with his wet eyes, more follow. His thin lips hollow around Laat’s finger, and they can feel his tongue, forked in this aspect, soft, wet, warm, licking even as he draws back and releases them.
Laat cannot help the quiet, fractious sound they make at the sight of his tears, the dizzying pulse of lust. It rumbles between them like a stormcloud. His tail tightens around their leg, intangible muscles of light rippling around them like the coils of a vast snake.
“Beautiful,” they sign, “you are beautiful.”
The growl that rumbles out of Miraak is half-feral. His slitted eyes watch them, the tips of his wings brushing their back with ghostly caresses. Pulling off their shirt, Laat wipes him clean as gently as they can. They toss the soiled shirt over their shoulder, not particularly interested where it lands. Unbinding Miraak’s hands with just the slightest tinge of regret, Laat chafes them quickly to make sure the blood is flowing. If only they could keep him like this forever.
They try to avoid scratching themselves on the curving talons burning with the strength of Miraak’s Shout, but it is either that or the sharp scales that armour him like gauntlets. Pursing their lips, Laat stares at the small line of welling red across their palm.
“Hi los ahraan,” Miraak says, you are wounded, and then all at once his wings flare and his tail twists and his body surges, and Laat is slamming down onto their back. His sinuous length curls above them, flaming eyes narrowed at the cut like it is a personal offense. He leans down, great horns digging into Laat’s cheek, obscuring their vision.
Laat holds their breath, anticipation hot in their belly. His forked tongue flickers out and laves the cut. He is gentle, but it stings. When he pulls back up to regard them they fancy they can smell the tang of their blood on his breath. He rumbles at their approval, and they can feel the vibration all the way down into their breastbone. The heaviness of his perpetually wet hair falls about them like a curtain.
Laat tries to unwedge their hands, gives up and thinks instead, as strongly as they can, Remember, no magic, Miraak. It is only a little cut, not worth risking a seizure over.
“Geh,” he says. His voice is even deeper in Dragon Aspect, rough as untumbled stones creaking in ancient cliffs. His vast wings completely block out the surrounding world, until it feels as if the sky has fallen and they have been swallowed up into the gullet of Aetherius, as if Aetherius could ever be half as beautiful as the soul-of-their-soul. The wings of Miraak’s Dragon Aspect remind them of the skies of Sovngarde, flaring with impossible, vivid colours, martial flickers and deep, internal glow that cannot be tarnished by any amount of daedra.
Not for the first time, Laat feels a pang of jealousy. How come you get wings and a tail with this Shout, and I don’t? And with only two words?
“Zu tiid.” I have had time. “This Shout was my mind in my prison. Morah, Laat Dovahkiin.”
Meditate, Laat thinks sourly. You sound like the Greybeards. Can’t you just show me?
“Geh.”
But you won’t.
Miraak’s tail rubs along their leg, then twines round it like a thick vine. Trapped between their chests, Laat can feel the steady beat of his heart against their hands, the roughness of the patches of scales that fringe over his skin. They push lightly, and his wings spread as he lifts himself enough to free their hands. When he breathes, ghostly flames flicker and curl in his nose and mouth.
“Zu laan aam hi,” he says in his voice of a mountain, and Laat understands the sense of what he means from the press of feeling in their mind. He wants to repay the favour, to give Laat the pleasure they have given him.
They wriggle against him, considering, but their muscles cramp in fatigue. “That very much did for me too,” they sign, with a rueful smile, “I can’t believe you didn’t feel it.”
Miraak snorts, and pale flames shoot out to lick against Laat’s cheeks. They do not hurt, only tickle softly, like the soapy caress of water on dry skin. Well, he was rather preoccupied, they suppose, their smirk widening.
“You can give me a massage later, if you want, though,” they add, as his dissatisfaction with that answer is blatantly clear, “My back’s been giving me grief.”
“Geh,” he says immediately, with true enthusiasm, and they feel him twitch as if struggling not to flip them and begin at once.
Laat exhales in amusement. “What a dedicated servant you are,” they tease him. “If only I had a team of people half as devoted as you, I’d be living like an emperor.”
“Will this please you?” Miraak says, and before Laat can even sign his mind turns to practicalities.
His cult is the best place to start, though he is reluctant to lose many of them, but fewer than six servants is an insult of the highest degree to Laataazin’s status. Four, at least, Soskro and Mirdein were loyal blades - supplemented with Sulis and Ulf, all well-trained by Miraak himself and comely to the eye, which is important, should Laat wish a break from Miraak’s own charms. Then for variety, he could turn to Raven Rock, there is surely some soft-handed noble there craving the honour of serving Laat Dovahkiin (that Severin girl?), and perhaps that dashing sellsword that Laat enjoys, with the chitin armour and the handsome jaw-
No, no, Laat is laughing in breaths that shake the bed, No, I don’t need servants, Miraak, - sensing his mutinous feelings, they add swiftly - I don’t want them. And his name is Teldryn! He is attractive though, isn’t he?
“Geh, zu mindok,” says Miraak, unsure why they need to confirm the obvious.
“Perhaps,” Laat signs, “I’ll ask him to come join us one day, will you like that?”
Miraak’s wings tilt backwards like the ears of a startled Khajiit, and his cheekbones blaze emerald. “Rul laan,” he says, if you want, in a voice that strains to be noncommittal. But underneath that very interesting reaction there is a very real thread of baffling fear, and Laat reaches for him.
“I chose you,” they tell him, “I will keep choosing you.”
Miraak tilts his head, wary of his horns, so that their foreheads press together and their breath mingles. In that resonating voice, he murmurs, “This I know. We are the only ones who are real, Laat Dovahkiin. The others – their lives, their deaths, their pains or desires for freedom, it is less than nothing. I am here, you feel me in your soul, as I feel you in mine.”
Staring into those dual eyes, Laat cannot suppress a frisson of unease. They do not agree - how could they? It is as if he has reached down and found the darkest, guiltiest thoughts Laat regrets having, internal measures of their power against those around them, knowing, knowing, that all those who attempt to constrain them live in ignorance at Laat’s pleasure - but they feel him frown.
“Was it not I who sheltered you from the daedra in Whiterun, I who tended you when the Greybeards trained you in languages you did not know, I who comforted you in your solitude? As it was you who touched me in my cell in Apocrypha, brought me to Nirn and set me free. You alone, my equal. You would not have come to me in Apocrypha if you did not wish to stay with me, Laataazin.” Miraak pronounces each syllable separately, drawing it out as a dragon does. “You broke my chains, and now we are together, and so we will always be. It was not I who offered this choice, if you recall.”
“I do.” He is right in that. “Other people matter, Miraak. We all have lives, no one... is more real than the other. But you don’t have to worry. I still choose you, I am not letting go.”
Miraak’s nostrils smoke. “You will never have to, Laat Dovahkiin. My Voice sings your name. There is nowhere you can go that I cannot find you.”
Laat breathes out slowly and chooses to hear the devotion in his words rather than the threat to their freedom. If he does not fear their interest waning as he claims, they do not know what it is that he fears. They offer him a thread of their own affection, warm regard softened by their intimacy, and his slitted pupils dilate. His shimmering wings soothe against his back, and the Dragon Aspect flickers away.
With that, he rolls off them, casting an ice spell in one hand to cool himself. Frost sheens over his skin, crackling over the soaked robe. It melts in rivulets, taking his inked sweat with it, running down to freshly stain the furs, until he looks streaked with stripes of his natural paperiness like a painted statue in the rain. The sopping darkness of his green hair clings to his shoulders and neck, curls in long strands dragged straight by the weight down to his hips.
As Laat’s eye lingers on the exposed line of his thigh, loops of graceful text begin to appear out of the ink below. They tear their eyes away before their mind can convince them they understand it, and stare at his face until the itch of temptation subsides.
Laat is not certain what he is thinking of - they feel strange, deep musings turning over in his mind, in languages they do not know - but he seems content enough, if quiet.
They tap him to get his attention. “I wasn’t done touching you. Do you need to get dressed now?”
Miraak looks down at the robe clinging wetly to him like he has forgotten it is there. One hand rubs at the bridge of his nose, irritatedly brushing away a lock of hair that drips tears down the angle of his jaw. After a moment, his gaze rises to meet theirs, bolder than they would have thought without the mask.
“Niid,” he says simply. “How do you want me?”
Laat smiles and moves over the bed towards him, feeling his eyes trace over their bare chest, the softness of their belly, their strong shoulders, the slight sway of the relaxed muscle and fat of their arms. An ember of his appreciation warms the blood in their cheeks as they reach his legs.
Lifting his left foot into their lap, Laat kisses his knee. The shape of his bones are fine against their lips. He looks back at them, brows raised, but wedges some of the furs behind his back to support himself, and does not pull away. His foot flexes. The hard claws catch in the fabric of Laat’s breeches, pulling free a loose thread, and they pause to gently untangle him.
He has strong legs, muscled by years of dragon-riding. Laat runs their fingertips over the hard bumps and dips of the thick, crisscrossing calluses and scars that abrade the insides of his legs, imprints of dragonscales made permanent in his flesh. They rub the muscles they can feel underneath it, unsurprised to find them loose and limber. They kiss the soft crinkle of the side of his calf, just under his knee, smelling the warmth of his skin, his musty scent of books and scale.
Their tenderness affects him. Miraak leans towards them, wanting to touch, Laat watching the folds of his loose skin dimple at his waist. Obligingly, they shift closer, hip angled between his thighs, and draw his right leg into their lap instead, palm warm on his knee. He is cold from the ice spell, enough that their skin numbs.
His large hands reach for their face, drawing it to face him. His hands cup their cheeks – they feel him become aware, suddenly, of how small Laat is in comparison to him, how his palms almost eclipse their cheeks, his claws tangling into their short hair. Laat closes their eyes, sighing at the gentle scratch of his blunted claws over their scalp. It is unutterably soothing.
His thumbs brush over the thick spiderweb of scars patterning their face, depressing the cartilage of their nose. Their lashes brush their cheek, his exploring fingers over the thinness of their eyelids, careful of his claws. Lifting to encircle his wrist, not trapping, but touching, just touching, Laat squeezes him and they both sigh at the spreading warmth of lassitude.
“Can I kiss you?” Laat signs one-handed, their movements small and restricted by the circle of his arms. They know he can feel their subtle sort of longing, quite apart from sexual lust that burns like coals in their belly, and even a little nervousness. Nowhere to hide from the soul-of-their-soul.
Miraak hesitates. Laat winces at the confused storm of feelings washing over him, his desire to please and curiosity warring with old fear and instinct. Like any dragon, he does not, as a rule, like having his voice obstructed.
It is not the first time they have asked him, not the first time he has acquiesced. Nor even the first time that his face has been fully bare, not just Laat’s head under the warm darkness of the hood, the metal face angled up to let them just reach his lips. Quick brushes, sometimes longer, where Laat curls their hands into his robes and pushes against him, some bright sparking feeling in them, the forbidden soft warm wetness of their tongue ghosting along his lip, the brilliant spark of their blunt teeth scraping his lower lip until pain waxes, hot and hungry. But it never quite grows easier for him, even with the increase of pleasant memories.
His eyes soften. One hand drops, rubbing over their shoulder, admiring the round cup of muscle filling his palm, the indent of their tan flesh marking under his thumb’s claw. This is Laat Dovahkiin, who brought him from Mora’s cursed Apocrypha, who anchors him to Nirn, who keeps him company on his lonely island and wraps him in soft ropes like he is precious.
Laat is patient and radiates calm. They interpret for him the confusing signals of their bodies, the tightness in his gut that makes him feel like he can’t quite breathe (arousal, affection) the oversensitive pain of his hips and thighs (just a little muscle tiredness), and the throb of his airy mind (the pleasure of submission, soul-of-my-soul).
They know that he does not understand why they desire to put their mouths together so (to restrict his Voice? To gag him, to bite out his tongue? And thus disarmed, choke the air from his lungs? No, no, soul-of-my-soul, Laat whispers in his mind, for pleasure, only that…), but it is… important to them, and it is enough that they want it. For Laat Dovahkiin, he will do this thing.
Something in Laat melts when he thinks that.
“Geh,” says Miraak, unable to quite hide his trepidation.
He tugs them a little closer, his free hand trailing over the meat of their shoulder, stretching over the sharp forks of lightning scars on the back of their neck. Strokes over their muscled back, admiring the folds of their flesh. Laat is fat and warm where he is thin, ghostly, their solidity and weight as unquestionable as the earth. He moves the hand on their cheek to their chest, splayed wide over the ridges of their collarbones, the swell of their small breasts, feels the gentle movement of their breathing. It is only natural to crook his other leg around their body, holding them within the circle of himself, like they are a ship in his whirlpool. How odd, then, that Miraak feels as if he is being pulled into their orbit, not the other way around.
Affection brims in Laat at this thought. They reach into his mind, seeking to feel how he feels, measuring his reactions.
It is Laat that bridges the distance between them when Miraak is unable to, slow and patient with the unconscious reflex that has him jerking back before their lips meet. They simply wait for a beat, then close in regardless, hands squeezing his thigh meditatively. It is grounding.
They feel him think their lips are full, very soft and warm, uncharacteristically undemanding, treating Miraak as if he is a tender thing that must be lulled into peace. Soft, heady brushes of their lips over his closed mouth, sometimes diverting to dust along his cheeks, his jaw – once even, the tip of his nose, making him snort reflexively. Laat laughs at that in their silent way, the puffs of their exhales warm as their kisses on his lips.
Their eyes close when they kiss him again, and they feel him watch their face, close enough to see the near-invisible span of freckles buried under the scars, the faint gleam of sweat on their forehead, the rich curl of their eyelashes. The scraggy tufts of their hair dusting over their cheekbones, the warm shadows clinging beneath their eyebrows.
This is the good thing when they want to kiss him, Miraak thinks, for they come so close he can see every crinkle and crease of their skin, and he can fill his hands with their body.
He runs his hands up and down their spine, and their body yearns towards him like a plant in the sun. Laat sighs when he finds a tense muscle and undoes the knot with his thumb, and smiles when he lingers over their ribs, fascinated with the slow movement of their breath, the rolls and curves of their strength.
Close your eyes, Laat thinks, softly, softly, close your eyes, and open your mouth.
He obeys with a ripple of nervousness, but nothing happens for a long moment. Laat just keeps kissing him, close-mouthed, gentle, until Miraak eases. Their tongue, when it comes to flick lightly at the crease of his bottom lip, surprises him, but even more so is the hazy release of their exhale from their mouth and nose. Their breath is close enough that Miraak could breathe it himself. They feel his flare of excitement at taking and tasting the air that carries their Voice inside himself, and he clumsily nudges closer.
Laat obliges him with a speed that betrays their true eagerness, feels his head swims under the sudden influx of warm, warm approval, pride and pleasure, and their breath, tinted, he thinks, a little, with the power of their Thu’um. They stay like that a moment, Laat’s hands bracing on his stomach, breathing into each other. Miraak’s mind is clouded and warm where it tangles with theirs, as if it’s full of cotton.
Laat wants to kiss him so badly it feels like they want to devour him, greedy with their indulgence, wants his lips, his tongue, the warm wetness of his mouth. The urge to just take it, to fuck his throat with their tongue, is so strong, and they cannot help the way their hands dig into his sides, tense with their restraint. But this is good, they think, a little reluctantly, and there is no need to push on this. With this, Laat has patience on their side.
They pull back to let Miraak breathe properly, but do not go far. Their foreheads press against each other. Laat swears they can feel the hollow thudding of his heartbeat in their chest at the place where their souls meet like tributaries.
“I only moved slightly, there is no need for all this… excitement,” Miraak mutters, but his voice sounds a little destroyed, and Laat grins.
They move to pull away, but Miraak catches their face in his hands again, preventing them from going too far. Laat blinks at him, warm and steady like a cat, and sees their own face reflected in his eyes, his soul, their blown pupil, the way their mouth parts, almost automatically, at the proximity.
“You enjoy it so,” Miraak says, a little bemused.
It is not often that they manage to surprise one another, being as interlinked as they are, but Laat is truly shocked when Miraak furrows up his brow and boldly presses his cold lips to theirs. He has never initiated a kiss, not once, Laat has never thought he would. They feel his determination, shot through with threads of insecurity – am I doing it right? They are not responding – and, classically Miraak, his hands tighten on their cheeks, holding them in place, redoubling his assault instead of pulling back. It is a clumsy mishmash, and they bump noses and once clash teeth, but it is the best kiss Laat has ever had.
Afterwards, they lay down next to each other. Chilled, Laat wraps themselves in the furs they pull over from the drier side of the bed, sighing at the feeling of the cosy softness. Miraak presses up close behind them before they can roll back to face him, their bodies separated by the furs. Laat’s heart warms.
“Want me to fetch your robes and mask?” they sign, knowing he can see over their shoulder.
His nose against their hair shakes. “Niid. Like this I am fine.”
Miraak, insistent and affectionate as a cat, rubs and nuzzles his face against the back of their head and shoulders. His arm curves around their waist, pulling him flush against them. Laat can feel his warm breath against the shell of their ear. Involuntarily, Laat thinks of the warmth of his dragon-wings, how large they are. Larger than his arm, for certain.
Pulling back, Miraak’s lungs billow with air. He Shouts, and the shimmering wings Laat has just been thinking wistfully of drape over them like a blanket. His tail curves around them, hemming in their body against his. They can feel the bladed tip against their stomach, the point made dull by their thick swaddling of furs. It is immediately warmer in the safe cocoon of his wings.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Laat can’t help laughing as they sign, ignoring the stony bed vibrating underneath them, “It was only a thought!”
“Fah hi.” For you. The resonance of his voice echoed with the tenderness of the feeling they can sense in him seems to make his every word louder.
Laat is still for a moment. “I do love you,” they sign, eventually, the burning of their eyes making them glad that they are facing away. They clear their throat.
Miraak’s grip tightens. “Zu’u losiil, Laataazin.”
I am yours. Laat sighs, and wonders if he will ever learn that love and possession are not the same. Though they are not sure that Dovahzul has a word for love, not in the way that Laat means it. Is it even possible for him to return the sentiment in the language he prefers?
For some reason, this line of thought summons Frea’s face before their mind, her sanctimonious words, and Laat’s mood sours.
Sensing their disquiet, Miraak hums against them soothingly. “You are troubled.”
“Frea wants to die,” Laat signs. “I don’t know what to do about her.”
“Do you not like Frea?” Miraak asks, and they feel him turning faces and names over in his mind, struggling to recall which of the many people of Solstheim Laat means. The Skaal woman? He does not associate with the Skaal much - they are not overfond of him, and Miraak is likewise not fond of being called a monstrous traitor by people he must refrain from killing.
“I do.” Laat touches the twitching tip of his tail, as if to soothe his momentary annoyance.
“Then keep her,” Miraak says, as if the answer is obvious. “You will miss her if she dies.”
“But she is unhappy!”
They feel Miraak’s shoulders move in a shrug. “You know my Shout,” he says calmly.
At that, Laat jerks their elbow into his ribs and wriggles. Miraak’s enfolding wing lifts hesitantly, enough for Laat, sweating, to work their way down to lying on their back. Thus freed, they jab a finger in his face as they sign.
“That’s wrong, Miraak! It is immoral to compel someone to go along with you just because it’s easier!” Miraak’s fire-bright eyes blinks at the finger in his face, all four pupils narrowing to focus on it. Laat deflates. “It doesn’t last that long anyway,” their motions are jerky and frustrated, “it would wear off then Frea would cleave me in two with her axe, and I would certainly deserve it.”
“Only because you use it like a hatchet, Laat Dovahkiin,” says Miraak, gaze returning to Laat’s eyes, “blindly superimposing your mind over another. Bend Will works best as a suggestion enforcing a desire or pattern that is already there. Simply find what makes them happy, find what is a barrier to your will, and remove it. The Skaal girl wishes to live as she once did, yes, free to worship her god? Then with your words allow her to do that, and her mind will do the rest.”
Laat’s hands lowered. “I didn’t know it could do that,” they sign, meek, unsure whether the feeling in them is horror or awe.
“With time and patience, the limit to my Shout is your will and the breadth of your imagination,” Miraak explains. He lowers his wing again, slowly, as if fearing that Laat will push it away. “With skill, you could encourage a resentful Greybeard to become a career warmonger, or a compassionate enemy your staunchest defender to the grave, all of their own volition.”
Some strange tinge of unease roils in the back of their mind. Laat touches the wing, feeling the bony spur of the joint, the leathery membrane, unsure how to respond.
Miraak’s voice is quiet and persuasive. It rumbles like the song of earth into Laat, through each bone, each thought in their mind.
“What is worse,” Miraak murmurs, so soft, so low, so deep, “allowing a good woman that you care for to die, or bringing her many more years of happiness and joy through the use of one Shout? A lifetime of bliss with one you love, all for speaking three words? How could you deny her that?”
“I suppose,” Laat signs, but they cannot meet his eye for guilt.
They feel him observing them quietly, some strange dissatisfaction in him that they cannot identify.
“I will do it,” he volunteers suddenly.
“What?” Surprised, Laat glares at him. “No! It’s unethical! You cannot force someone to be happy, or to stay with you simply because you want them to! It would be nothing but a lie.”
For a brief moment, Miraak scowls, the jagged crown of horns and his glowing teeth making him look truly fearsome. But then his expression smooths. “Dismiss it from your mind, Laat Dovahkiin,” he says, gently. “It is simply handled, and already agreed.”
“Don’t hurt her,” Laat signs anxiously, searching his face, “You’re just going to talk to her? Don’t-”
Raising a taloned hand, Miraak clasps theirs to stop their words. He gives Laat a soft, odd smile. “She will not even remember we have spoken,” he promises. “Only where there was frustration and pain, there will now be joy and peace.”
He strokes their hands with the backs of his talons with immense tenderness, nuzzling in close to with his breath and careful rubbing of his sharp cheekbones caress the warm hollow of Laat’s neck. With his touch and his mind he lulls them, sending soothing waves of affection and warmth, feelings of safety, recalling to them the ache in their muscles from sex, the tender sweetness of their kisses. His nose fits under their jaw as if it has been made for him, and despite themselves, Laat sighs. It has never been wise, loving him. But how can they help it? He is the soul-of-their-soul.
“Zu’u aam hi unslaad,” he whispers, with the air of a promise, “rii se dii zii.” I serve you forever, essence of my soul.
They reach for his hair, combing the thick wet locks over his shoulder, avoiding the spines on his back. Droplets of ink run down their arms as they begin to braid, loose and messy.
“You worry too much about people that are not worth your time,” Miraak says, and by his smile Laat supposes he means it lightheartedly.
With a heavy heart, they allow themselves to be cheered, and offer him a small smile in return. “Who should I worry about? You?” they tease, not entirely how much they are joking.
He smirks. “You could.”
Despite themselves, Laat chuckles, hearing the distant crack of stone in their Voice. They tug on the messy braid of wet hair they’ve made, and Miraak goes, a tingle of arousal running through him at the sensation. Laat kisses his cheeks and nose, making his dual eyes flutter shut as he sighs.
“Why,” they sign one-handed when he opens his eyes at their lack of movement, fingers so close they brush his cheek, “you attempting to take over the world again?”
“Niid,” says Miraak, his taloned hand coming to cup their face with the tenderness of a man who knows he is touching something immensely precious, “I have the best of it here, and that is everything I desire.”
With thanks to thuum.org:
Geh: Yes.
Laat Dovahkiin: Last Dragonborn.
Ni faas: lit. no fear. No worries/it’s fine.
Pruzah: Good.
Sikgolt: lit. rune place. Library.
Niid: No.
Zu’u losiil: I am (emphatic) yours.
Wuth: Old.
Diist Dovahkiin: First Dragonborn.
Faaz: lit. (you cause) pain. You’re hurting me.
Saraan: Wait.
Aaz: Mercy.
Los ahraan: (You) are wound(ed).
Mul Qah: Strength Armour (Dragon Aspect Shout)
Zu tiid: I (have had) time.
Morah: Meditate/think deeply (upon it).
Zu laan aam hi: lit. I want to serve you.
Zu mindok: I know.
Rul laan: When (you) want.
Fah hi: For you.
Zu’u aam hi unslaad, rii se dii zii: I serve you forever/ceaselessly, essence/soul of my spirit/soul.
@argisthebulwark as promised.
#inkwrites#minors dni#my fic that world will cease to be#not safe for minors#tw possessiveness#tw jealousy#tw blood#laataazin#mind control#skyrim#tes#miraak#fic
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Okay so this isn’t my original idea but remember that one post where it was like one soulmate is killing their other soulmate to stay immortal but their soulmate keeps on being reborn or just doesn’t stay dead for long??
If that’s too confusing basically can you do a continuation of your own prompt there the villain is the immortal, not the hero. (Prompt 41?44? I don’t remember oops)
I don't think I know that post, but if you still want me to write it and you can find it, feel free to send another ask! For now, I'll just fill the prompt!
******
“But- but I killed you.” Hero swore he couldn’t breathe. Villain wasn’t supposed to be in front of him right now. He- he was supposed to be in the morgue or wherever they kept and processed dead bodies. He was supposed to be dead. This had to be some kind of trick. Maybe there was a part of Hero’s mind that felt guilty for killing Villain, and now he was hallucinating. “I watched you die. I- I checked your pulse. You’re dead.”
Villain huffed and rolled his eyes. “Why is this always such a surprise to everyone?” He took two steps forward, watching with boredom as Hero flinched back, shielding his eyes. “You need me to pinch you? Convince you I’m right in front of you?”
“Not real,” Hero muttered. “Not real, not real, not. real. It’s in my head. It’s just in my head.”
Tossing his head back, Villain sighed. “Most of your little crew in the past at least tried to swing at me, finish the job. Some of them actually achieved killing me for a second time. I was impressed! Much more exciting than what you’re doing right now.” Hero kept muttering. Villain asked, “You really think you’re imagining me still? What’s it gonna take? Do I need to jab you in the gut? Would that help?”
Maybe I’d deserve that, Hero thought, continuing to consider the concept of guilt. What Hero was really curious about right now was, How is this so real? He acknowledged it was all fake, but he didn’t think his brain was capable of creating such a realistic version of Villain. The look, the voice, the condescending tone, everything was drawn up to a T. It shouldn’t have been possible, especially after a whole week of Villain’s death.
“Alright, this is getting old. I want to try something new since I haven’t had this reaction before. You really shouldn’t be a hero if you go into shock this easily.”
The image in front of Hero was moving closer. Villain was pulling something out from behind him. Hero already knew what it would be; Villain always kept handheld weapons back there in case his powers- whatever those were, Hero never knew- were unsuccessful. Usually it was throwing knives. This time it- Hero swallowed.
“You remember this. Good.” Villain nodded. “I figured you would, given how you stabbed me with it- rude.”
Now Hero had the sense to stand from his seated and shaking position. As a change, he was now in a standing and shaking position. This was becoming real to him- too real.
“Okay. What I’m thinking is that I clean this blade- a very pretty one by the way; love the chromatic look…I’m going to go over to that sink, and I’m going to clean this.” Villain made his way to Hero’s kitchen, turning on the sink like he said he would. He began scrubbing with the pad of his thumb. “I have two reasons for this: one, there are other victims’ blood on it now- from the morgue; they were about to cremate me if you can believe it. Props to you; that was my first time ever being in one of those places. And, two, because I want this to play out for you as it did for me- it was clean before you stabbed me with it; it should be clean before I stab you with it.” Villain turned with the blade now clear of any blood.
Hero couldn’t move, but he didn’t need to, did he? Because this was all his imagination, all his guilty conscious. Nothing else.
“You aren’t going to do anything to protect yourself,” Villain observed aloud. “You’re just going to stand there shaking like a rotting leaf stuck in a tree during October. Fine, then. Might as well take this to my advantage.”
**
Unable to move or think for himself, Hero was easily taken by Villain. All the while, Hero continued to believe this was a hallucination. Villain absolutely could not be alive because that meant- that meant he could…No. Villain can’t- can’t come back to life.
Hero knew for a fact he killed Villain. When he bled out, Hero listened to the silence of his opponent’s chest, watched its stillness. He. Was. Dead. It was that solidity in Hero’s mind that made him deny the obvious fact in front of him. Because it was impossible to become…undead. It just wasn’t possible. And since it was impossible, the person standing in front of Hero, talking to someone or something else in the room was fake- was a ghost in Hero’s head.
“-tired of this game. It’s becoming boring, but I found some entertainment for myself, and I think it can become a lesson to you. See…”
A red light was in front of Hero’s face. He looked, blinking slowly, beyond the red light to Villain. Hero didn’t quite understand where he was, or what his mind was conjuring up at the moment. He felt so tired because of his current insanity, and so it didn’t matter much what his location was.
“I think this can serve as a lesson to you- not that I care to help you, but it gives me an excuse to torture a poor soul.”
Hero blinked again. The red light belonged to a camera, he realized. Villain- or Ghost Villain- was recording him and talking to whoever was watching on the camera. In all reality, Hero figured it was he who was recording himself. Maybe he was even talking- he didn’t know. He was likely telling his base leader about how he was losing his mind and thought he was in a cellar-like room with Villain.
“I’m going to screw this back on the tripod, and then, I’ll show you what happens when you guys keep sending your men to kill me. It doesn’t work, alright? And I’m tired of dying.”
The chromatic knife was lowered in front of Hero’s eyes. He didn’t startle at it, but, as it was lowered out of his vision and Villain’s amused grin replaced it, he felt worry. Worry turned to searing pain in Hero’s leg and he let out a blood-curdling scream, grasping at the cold ground, fingers curling into fists that grasped onto nothing. The same pain magnified again as the knife came into sight once again- this time half coloured with red.
It’s real, it dawned on Hero as he finally looked down to find a hole in his leg. “A-augh!” It was throbbing and he swore he could feel his blood pulsing out of the wound. His stomach twisted with his pain and he turned to his right as to not throw up on himself.
What made the pain in Hero’s leg worse was the fact that his muscles were clenched. He couldn’t relax them no matter how hard he tried and that only meant the throb was everlasting.
The knife made its strike again- this time down the arm opposite of Hero’s now-injured leg. He hollered again, writhing and crying in anguish. “Stop! Stop it!” Quieter, he repeated to himself, “It hurts. It hurts, it hurts.”
For once his body protested as he eyed Villain in front of him. His good leg twitched like it was ready to assist in springing on and tackling Villain to the ground. But the controlled side of Hero’s mind told him it’d only make him hurt worse. Not to mention, he might land on the blade and therefore kill himself. Wait. “You’re- you’re going t-to kill…kill me.”
Villain paused, tilting his head almost curiously at Hero. “That was the plan originally, but then you fell to cowardice, and that was boring.” As he spoke, Hero could feel his limbs jumping, spasming. “So, now we’re doing something else. Kinda like it, actually. Centuries have gone by, and I never actually took my time with any of you. For once, I am seeing the true and utter fear I felt when I died for my first time.” Villain continued, “I could have been such a great person, you know? I would have been a perfect good guy, unable to die and all. But instead of seeing that vision, I was seen as a threat to humanity. They began hunting me, trying to figure out how to put me down for good. I decided to fit their little role, though.”
What Villain did and said next shocked Hero. “Go on, try it.” Villain held the blade handle out to Hero on the ground. “Take it. I’ll let you kill me again, and then you can leave.”
“You’re lying. That’s- that’s a stupid th-thing to- to offer. Why would you l-let me kuh-kill you, then let- let me go?”
Villain shrugged. “Something new. I want to live something different this time. I told you many times that few have killed me twice- and the ones who did it were killed as soon as I could find them. I want to see how far you can go if I give you a month’s head start.”
“You- you want to hunt me.”
“I do. Seeing as you did it to me, I think it’s fair.” He jutted the handle out to Hero again as an offer. When Hero took it, Villain said, “I know I took out your dominant arm out, but- well, I have confidence you’ll do just fine if it means you get to kill me again.” Villain tapped at his chest, right where his heart was located. “Go on. I know you want to.”
Hero considered this for a moment, staring at the knife- at the knife with his blood on it now instead of Villain’s. Did he ever question why his organization was going after Villain? Not really. He just knew Villain murdered every single man Leader sent out. Maybe it was self-defence, in which case Hero shouldn’t have been going after Villain like he was, shouldn’t have killed him like he already did once and was being given the opportunity to once again.
But now was different. Now, Villain really was sadistic- assuming he wasn’t before. Villain, if he was any sort of a healthy and sane man, would have had Hero jailed for trying, and succeeding, in killing him. Or, if he was afraid of the authorities taking him in for being- ahem- unkillable, then he would have only kept Hero locked up. Villain wouldn’t have had Hero in a cellar room, stabbing and slashing at him while a camera recorded it all. If Villain ever was good, that morality was stripped from him now, and that meant Hero needed to take this chance at life. Maybe he could go back to his base and demand answers. Because based off what Villain told, they knew he was immortal, and they never told Hero- or Hero’s previous teammates, who were now ‘mysteriously’ dead.
Without another word, or even a warning glance, Hero weighed the knife in his left hand, gripped the handle, and slashed at Villain’s throat. As he laid dying, Hero searched for the key on Villain’s person, and left.
#request fill#writing request#hero x villain#immortal villain#immortal whumper#mislead hero#the ending wasn't as strong as I wanted it to be but it's fine lol#hero x villain story
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Am I allowed to place in a request for Mr svelte tracker boi Demetri? I need my greek boi fix. 😅😂 My stimming (due to my slight autism and anxiety) has been kinda bad lately and I was wondering if you could do some headcanons on how he would be with a reader who has that going on? (For example, some of my stimming signs are restless, uncontrollable finger twitches sometimes, and sudden limb movements and facial twitches I can't control 😅) Thanks! Also, sorry if this is too touchy a subject!🙈
You most certainly are allowed and I cannot express how hard I fangirled when I realised it was you in my ask box. I played it very cool but just know I was dying inside from the moment I saw your username come up XD
TW: Mentions of anxiety and sensory overload. If that’s a little personal to you please be cautious about reading this one!
I’m incapable of writing short things it seems so it’s another long one.
Self-stimulating behaviour, known more commonly as stimming, usually involves repetitive movements and/or sounds. Though it is most often associated with autism (I know when I first saw the word stimming that was where my mind immediately went to) everybody stims in some way, shape or form to relieve stress, tension, anxiety, boredom etc. Some ways are less noticeable than others such as nail biting or finger tapping, while others can be more obvious and disruptive to your social/daily life like licking certain objects or scratching at skin.
I learned all this from doing a bit of reading before taking on this request and if you want to know more then the link to the article I read is right -----> HERE <------ ! It’s informed my ideas for this headcanon request and though I’m open to discussions about the topic to help educate myself and anyone else who wishes to learn more, what I will not tolerate is any sort of hate or discrimination based on the links to developmental disorders and mental illness that stimming has. This blog has and always will be a safe space for anyone and everyone and a little respect for one another will help keep it that way. Be kind folks!
So without further ado, how would Demetri react to you stimming I wonder?
Part 1: Headcanons below the Keep Reading Line Part 2: Teeth (fic) Part 3: Control (fic)
· He honestly wouldn’t really notice for a while because, well, humans aren’t exactly designed to be as flawless as vampires
· Impromptu nosebleeds, migraines, sneezes…they’re just glitches in a faulty system so why is the way your leg just bounced up off of the floor while your sitting any different to those other equally as involuntary things
· He’s struggling right now to, after all he just met his very human mate and it’s quite overwhelming for him to have to adapt to all these new feelings and situations he finds himself in, but he deals because he can
· Some days, you just…can’t
· Getting attacked by a man with some bizarre fascination with your neck is bad enough but being whisked away by strangers is somehow even worse. At least in the first scenario once it’s over it’s over, now you’re just living an anxious person’s nightmare in a new place full of new people
· Volterra was beautiful, but it wasn’t home. No cosy apartment, no neighbours cat to feed, no monotonous shifts at work…
· Actually, most of the time you’re left utterly alone to navigate an unfamiliar castle, and the times you aren’t alone is when there’s a man claiming to be your eternal lover in front of you
· Try to convince me this man doesn’t rip the band aid off and profess his love for you with dramatic flair just TRY
· Your days are filled with endless boredom where you’re doing nothing at all until someone checks on you, and then fight or flight kicks in because oh HELLO Mr Vampire guard are you here to give me lunch or kill me?
· Demetri had thought that perhaps you were okay with that, since you hadn’t really outwardly reacted beyond the way your cheek twitched up into a smirk once or twice as he spoke. Hell, you’d even winked at him…right?
· You did that a lot so he really genuinely thought that maybe you were just trying to flirt with him, build a relationship with him. Your constant little winks and the way your fingers twitched when he was nearby, like you so desperately wanted to reach out to him…
· It took a few weeks before he realised how wrong he was
· You’d reached for a sip of water and your arm had just whipped outward from your body
+ You’d absolutely drenched him with your entire glass of water and could only stare in abject horror wondering what the supposed vampire would do next, since you’d interrupted him rather smugly detailing his plans for your first date
· Silence
· There was just silence
· It only made your anxiety worse and the muscles in your face just spasmed without your permission and - god did you just smirk at him again, oh no
+ “I’m glad one of us finds this amusing. If you did not like the idea there were other ways to tell me so.”
· You almost want to cry from sheer embarrassment at this point because the date really had sounded like it could be fun and now you’d just straight up thrown water in his face like he’d insulted you in the worst way imaginable
· So you come clean and tell him about your stimming
· He’s really worried at first because autism? Anxiety he’s heard of but autism sounds very dangerous, are you dying? You’re probably dying. He’s going to lose his mate –
· Another involuntary finger twitch from you forces him to calm down because your anxious enough without his worrying on top, so he kind of brushes it off and makes no big deal out of it
· Squeezes your hand and kisses your forehead to try and reassure you all is forgiven, even if he does have to go change a very expensive looking designer shirt and god you’re so sorry
· Of course, that kind of makes it worse for you because anxiety brain is activated and your 99.9999% sure he’s actually furious with you still and has only pretended to forget it while he’s plotting his revenge
· You see him late at night when you struggle to fall and stay asleep, reading in the low lamplight at his desk across the room, his laptop propped open and a notebook before him but you’re too scared still to ask what it is he’s reading so intently (probably good suggestions on places to bury your body welp)
· It’s a complete surprise to you therefore when he does take you out on that date he promised you not two weeks later
· He’s chosen a nice overcast day so he’s in the least conspicuous clothing he owns
�� + Demetri’s least conspicuous clothes still consist of the most chic and expensive brands you know of and he sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the quaint little market stalls he’s brought you to see
· Despite the gloomy weather the people of Volterra are out in full force though, swarming the market stalls and chattering and laughing as flashes of gold and silver from jewelry hit your eyes, bright coloured fabrics following
· It’s all just too much
· There’s people everywhere and so much noise, so many colours and lights and people brushing past you…
· Your fingers clench tight around his, his hand immersed in a glove to keep his freezing skin from chilling you too much
· He squeezes back lightly, eyes shifting to glance down at you with the kindest smile on his lips
+ “Keep squeezing my hand whilst we find somewhere quieter to stand.”
· Your fingers seemed to take turns pressing into his rock solid skin, an odd sort of comfort coming from the fact you know you can press down hard and he won’t so much as register the sensation, and Demetri squeezes back, just firm enough he knows you can feel the pressure of his palm on yours
· He takes you to a quiet little side road where the noise is much more faded and there is so much free space around you you feel like you can finally breathe again
· He still hasn’t stopped squeezing your hand, taking turns with you as you take some steady breaths and try to focus your senses a bit, one thing you can feel, two things you can see, three you can smell...
· “I hope you can forgive me, I did not expect the market to be so busy today with the weather like this.”
· His apology takes you completely by surprise because how would he even know you struggled with crowds? You barely know each other?
· Seeing your surprise Demetri rather sheepishly admits as to what exactly he’s been reading all those nights you’ve seen him at his desk, and you’re a little overwhelmed to realise he’s been reading about you
· Medical journals, mummyblogs, charity websites and more, if it had any information about autism and stimming he’s browsed through it and taken copious amounts of notes, observing you religiously to see what might be relevant to you and how he can help · + “I read somewhere you self-stimulate to calm yourself when you are anxious or your senses feel overwhelmed, is that what happened?” “Well, yes, actually, I…I…”
“And did it help? Taking you away from the source of stress and letting you squeeze my hand like that?”
· It had actually, you felt much calmer and Demetri’s obvious acceptance and willingness to help you manage your stimming and anxiety today were one of the first little moments you fell in love with him, looking back on it
· He didn’t stop there either. Together you sat down and made a list of all the things that you found most often triggered your stimming, and all of the things that brought you joy so he could figure out things to avoid and things you might like for your future dates
· Within hours of arriving home you’d gotten a whole new daily routine set up so you weren’t left to languish and wonder what was going to happen next
· Three days later an express shipment of your favourite smelling scented candles arrived alongside a Bluetooth speaker, supplies Demetri insisted were necessary for nice calming baths on the days your anxiety was playing up
· He started doing mindfulness practices with you in the evenings
· He never touched the volume controls for his laptop, speaker or TV, leaving it to you to control the volume so you could set it to a level you were comfortable with, and he religiously policed the noise on his floor to + “Where are you going? The movie just started…” “To tell Felix to turn his music down.” “You’re vampiring again Metri, I can’t even hear that.”
· When he signed you up for Yoga and meditation classes at a centre in town you drew the line and told him he was going overboard, but bless him he had tried
· Overall he’s a solid 15/10 for effort, even if some ideas are still experimental - you’re enjoying the deep pressure massages a lot though – and he sometimes goes a bit mother-hen trying to get you out of situations he thinks you’ll struggle with, when actually you’re coping just fine today
· You love him dearly for it
#twilight#twilight headcanon#demetri volturi#volturi headcanon#stimming#autism#tw anxiety#tw sensory overload#the volturi#twilight fanfiction#I tried my best so I hope this is okay#Demetri is totally the type to go overboard and try absolutely anything to make you comfortable
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Kinktober? (Semi)Public Sex [Kuroo]
Not sure I ever posted this here, sorry if I did. Brain mush right now. But I am trying to continue with the Kinktober stuff as and when I can, and hopefully I’ll get around to writing some headcanons and fun seasonal stuff soon too. Suggestions are always welcome. :)
CW: Female Reader, semi-public sex, some terrible chemistry puns, alcohol
“What is that cat doing?” Suga glanced up from his drink, following Daichi’s glare across the bar. Where you’d been dancing on your own earlier, the former Nekoma Captain was now pressed against your back, smirking. He turned back to Daichi and sighed. “I thought Kenma was supposed to be watching him!” Daichi growled. “I think Kenma is a bit busy right now.” Suga gestured to a far booth and familiar head of orange hair huddled against the gamer. “You worry too much Daichi, she can handle herself.” Daichi frowned and shook his head. “I’m not-” “I’ve been out drinking with her before, believe me, she can. If she didn’t want Kuroo there he wouldn’t be, and… I know you might disagree but he’s a decent guy really.” He leant his head against the others shoulder. “There’s always someone there to help her if she needs it. Half the guys in this room act like her older brothers, she’ll be fine . Now, as sexy as the protective big brother thing is, stop moping and enjoy your night off with me.” “I can’t believe you took her out drinking.” “She’s 23. Now shut up and kiss me you idiot.”
Across the bar, blissfully unaware of the conversation happening about you, you found yourself grinding back into a solid body. Glancing over your shoulder you raised a questioning eyebrow at the man, he merely smirked in response though he did step away a little until you grinned at him. “Aw c’mon, I haven’t even tried to scare you off yet.” You laughed. The man smiled and moved closer again, large hands coming to rest on your hips. “You’re planning to scare me off?” You shrugged. “Not yet, we’ll see.” “Can I at least get a name before you chase me away?” His deep voice was right in your ear and something about it sent a shiver up your spine, you ground your ass back against him in retaliation. You were going to tell him, really you were, but a guy sidled up to the pair of you and eyed the man you were dancing with. “Hey baby, I can show you a much better time than this-” You felt the man behind you tense, ready to interject, but you shook your head giving the stranger a smile that terrifyingly reminded Kuroo of Suga in full mom-mode back in the day. The stranger actually flinched. “I’m having a good time here thanks.” And how one person could sound so sweet and so terrifying at the same time Kuroo would never know, but the guy was gone and honestly he was beyond impressed. “That was… something.” He practically purred into your ear. You shrugged. “I had a good teacher. And I really am having a good time.” “Oho?” “Mhm. Haven’t even tried to scare you off with a terrible chat up line yet.” He chuckled behind you, “they can’t be that bad.” The song changed and you used it as an excuse to turn to face him, your arms resting around his neck as you studied his face properly. He really was handsome, the kind of good looking that even made his bedhead hairstyle look sexy. You could only blame the alcohol and his good looks for muddling your brain and making the next words to come out of your mouth seem like a great idea. “Are you Francium? Because you’re really attractive.” Ooops. Well, it was nice while it lasted. Kuroo blinked a few times, before his face split into a wide grin and a terrible hyena laugh burst from his lips. Once the laughing had subsided, and you were so thankful for the coloured lights hiding your blushing face, you realised he was still holding you. And still smiling. “That was amazing.” He chuckled. “Know any more?” Fuck. He was hot and liked awful science puns? Well that decided it. You grabbed his hand, tugging him away from the dancefloor and towards the back of the club.
You pushed him inside the bathroom stall, locking the door behind you and turning to him. “A bar toilet, really?" You shrugged. “There’s the grimy alley if you prefer? Or you can leave I guess, but well…” You gestured vaguely towards the obvious bulge in his jeans. “I got the feeling you might-” He was kissing you before you finished, strong hands lifting you almost effortlessly up onto the sink so he was pressed between your legs. “Fuck you’re hot.” You smiled. “I think that’s my line.” His lips were back on yours in an instant, one hand tangled in your hair while the other pushed your skirt up around your hips. You moaned into his mouth as his thumb rubbed across your underwear, pressing into the dampness that had already accumulated there. “Ah, fuck, we don’t have-” He groaned in response, pushing your underwear aside and pressing two fingers into your wet heat with ease. That pulled a low moan from his throat, as you gasped and bucked your hips against his hand. From the other side of the door you could hear the voices of the other people in the bar, friends and former teammates easy to pick out over the low hum of noise. You whine, fisting your hands in the front of his shirt. “You don’t have time to tease me. Please, I want you.” He huffs, but any real irritation is clouded by lust as he fishes a condom out of his pocket (you would question it, because really what? But you’re far too focused on releasing him from his jeans). You bite your lip hard to hold back the moan when you finally release his cock, long and thick and curved so perfectly you think you lose the ability to think straight just looking at it. You can practically feel his smirk, and glance up to see him biting back some sort of sarcastic remark. Just to spite him you snatch the condom wrapper from his hands, rolling it onto him yourself and slowly sliding your hand along his now covered erection. The groan that leaves him is pure sin and you can’t help but wrap your legs around his hips, urging him closer. He complies, eyes squeezed shut as he slides into you. You understand the feeling completely, biting down hard on your lip to stop you crying out from just how perfect he feels inside you, the slight burn of the stretch only adding to the sensation. “Move. God, please move.” You urge, rocking your hips against him. Move he does, your head thudding back against the mirror as he starts to thrust, breathing ragged already. He leans forward, bracing himself against the wall with his arms caging you in as he sets a punishing pace, his lips finding yours in an attempt to stifle his moans. “You feel so fucking perfect.” You whine at the praise, arching into him already embarrassingly close, but he doesn’t stop the words tumbling from his mouth. “I wish we had more time, I want to feel you come on my tongue. Want to treat you right. Fuck you feel so good.” It’s so perfect and so intense and you’re so close already. It feels like he is too, the way his body is trembling around you, brow furrowed and bottom lip caught between his teeth. Somewhere on the other side of the door you can hear someone hammering and shouting at you to hurry up and get out of there, if you weren’t so close to finishing you’d probably want to punch them. But Kuroo shifts slightly, thumb swiping over your clit in small circles and that is more than distracting enough, even as his movements become jerky and then still. He keeps going until you follow him into your own orgasm, his lips swallowing the loud moan that bubbles up in your throat. You stay like that for a few moments, lips moving against each other as you both come down from your respective highs. It’s over too soon, him pulling out of you, disposing of the used condom and gingerly tucking himself back into his pants. You sigh, leaning forwards and swiping his phone to enter your number. “In case you want to do that again as much as I do Kuroo-san.” You grin, hopping down from the sink on wobbly legs and returning to the party.
Kuroo sighs, pocketing the phone again and making his way back over to his former teammates. Yaku narrows his eyes when he approached, frowning. “Kuroo. Please tell me you didn’t have sex with Sawamura-san’s little sister.” Kuroo blinks, suddenly realising you seemed to know his name when he never gave it out, that would also explain the glare he felt burning into his back while he was dancing with you. After a few seconds he grins, glancing over to see you whirling a drunk Nishinoya around the dance floor. “That sounds like my cue to leave.”
[from: Unknown Number] Are you a carbon isotope? Because I want to date you.
[from: you] Kuroo? Marry me.
[from: Unknown Number] The one and only. I think your brother would kill me. Rude not letting me know, fyi.
[from: you] Sorry! I was trying to not scare you away. Coffee tomorrow?
[from: Kuroo] It’s a date.
#my writing#kinktober#kuroo x reader#f!reader#kuroo tetsuro#haikyuu#semi-public sex#halo.writes#halo.afterdark
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The Little Teahouse Around the Corner
[Touhou Ship Week Day 7: Free day. KomaEiki + AkyuSuzu, 2.7k, crack/fluff]
---
If described very charitably, the construction before Eiki and Komachi could have been called a teahouse, exactly as the bamboo plank above the entrance claimed it was. More accurately, it was simply a large tent lit with red lanterns, standing conspicuously close to the Human Village.
"At least it's open?" Komachi eyed the obviously wet paint on the sign, then peered within. "I figured that at this hour, we'd have a choice between grilled lamprey and nothing this close to the village."
"Indeed." Eiki followed Komachi's example. There were certainly plenty of people within, each with a beverage in front of them, but the overall mood in the tent was quietly puzzled. Besides chairs and tables, there was also what looked bafflingly like an oden cart. "Something about this seems wrong."
"No worries, Sis! It ain't anything weird! We're runnin' a perfectly nice temp teahouse!"
They straightened up in unison. The speaker was a calico cat perched on a stool just barely to the side of the tent's entrance, grinning at them. "Lookin' for a cosy place to chat? We've got ya covered!"
Komachi grinned back. "Mike Goutokuji, right? Don't tell me this is your shop."
"It ain't. I'm just workin' here for a bit." Mike's tail swayed gently from side to side as she talked, its many-coloured fur catching the light of the lanterns. "I'm a barker! Which I know sounds really weird since I'm a cat an' all, but I can do the job. For a few days, anyway. Steady work doin' the same thing over an' over again ain't really my thing."
Komachi chuckled. "I know that feel— er."
Eiki chose to ignore the aborted remark. In any case, Mike's plans made it sound as though she was doing precisely what she supposed to do. Losing interest in things and loafing around were some of the chief goals in a cat's life, after all.
"Anyway," Mike curled up her palm. She beckoned three times. "Welcome to the Juniper Teahouse."
The next moment, Eiki found herself within the tent with no memory of stepping inside.
She halted, blinking in the sudden light. There were half a dozen customers within, humans and youkai alike, nursing teacups and expressions ranging from vexed to serene. Although there were multiple chairs for each table, every single customer was solitary. What had looked like an oden cart from the outside was precisely that; no-one appeared to man it, although the occasional bang and tuneful whistle from within it told her that someone was indeed there, just beyond sight.
"Komachi," she began, more puzzled than troubled even as she clutched the Rod of Remorse closer to her chest. "We should keep our eyes—"
It was at that moment that she became aware of a distinct lack of Komachi by her side. Only Mike was there, waving her legs in the air and looking very pleased with herself.
Eiki spun around. "Komachi?"
No answer. No sight of Komachi, either.
Standing by the entrance feeling foolish wasn't going to do anyone much good. Ignoring the slow blink Mike was giving her, Eiki stepped back outside.
And collided with an invisible barrier with enough force to momentarily bounce her off her feet. She staggered back in surprise.
Mike gave her an apologetic wince. "Sorry, Sis." Her tail swished low as Eiki studied her forehead for bumps. "After I've invited ya in, ya've gotta stay a while."
"Is this your ability?" Eiki prodded at the barrier with the Rod of Remorse. It proved as solid and unyielding as a ten-foot block of ice. "What happened to Komachi?"
"She'll be fine," said a familiar voice behind Eiki. "At least, she will be according to what Mike told me. You'll be a better judge of whether it's true or not."
Eiki turned to see a slightly less familiar face smiling at her close to the back of the tent and responded in kind. "I didn't notice you before. May I join you?"
Hieda no Akyuu assented with a nod. She waited for Eiki to take the seat opposite of her before continuing. "I hope you've been well. This present situation expected, of course."
Eiki crossed her hands on the table. "I would say so. The situation in Hell remains both confusing and volatile, but that's to be expected. Has your work progressed well?"
Akyuu took a careful sip from her cup. "It has, thank you. I've kept comfortably busy. And Kosuzu..." Akyuu's smile, which bore a distinct resemblance to that of her previous incarnation, brightened and then immediately dimmed. "I hope you don't mind my saying this, but I expected her to sit where you sit now." Her smile grew more rueful still. "Especially since she's the one who wished to come here."
"Has this establishment..." Eiki gestured at their surroundings and discovered that she couldn't call them that without correcting herself. "...Tent been here for long?"
"It appeared yesterday. As for me, I have been here for ten minutes. Mike informed me that it takes at least an hour for her invitations to be considered fulfilled."
"That's longer than I had hoped." Eiki frowned at the innocuous-looking exit and Mike, who was currently occupied with a moth circling the lantern nearest to the entrance before turning her attention back to Akyuu. "Can you tell me precisely what's going on in this place?"
"I can explain that!" a muddled but cheery voice called from the bottom of the oden cart.
---
Komachi had walked merrily along for several minutes, taking in the twilight air and seeing if she could get her breath to fog up in the lingering cold from the past winter, when she realised she had at no point decided to take an evening stroll. Moreover, she was now alone, something which was the exact opposite of her plans for the night.
She halted in the middle of the path and turned to look over her shoulder. The greenness of the teahouse tent blended into the evening behind her, but she could still see it when she squinted. Distance of course meant little to her: she could be back there nearly as soon as she decided upon it.
But first, it was best to figure what had happened. It was likely nothing serious: the situation had the feel of a fairy prank to it. Still, the fact that she couldn't actually remember what had passed rubbed her the wrong way.
"Alright..." She adjusted her scythe to rest more comfortably on her shoulder. "What happened here?"
So, there was the weird teahouse, and Mike, who did strike Komachi as bit of a prankster, but who had seemed earnest enough inviting them in. Had Mike addressed her invitation to Lady Eiki alone? No, Komachi was sure it had been extended to them both.
She recalled her only previous encounter with Mike, on a lazy afternoon not that long ago when she had wandered into Gensokyo and struck up a conversation with the cat upon meeting her on the road. Mike had mentioned arriving in Gensokyo not that long ago, having only recently left behind the temple she had been born at, and that due to circumstances she had done so before she had completed her training as a maneki—
"Damn."
At the moment of realisation, Komachi became aware of of running footsteps rapidly approaching her, just in time not to be entirely surprised by someone small but fast-moving crashing into her.
"Ow!" The person who had collided with her tottered back, holding a hand to her nose. Even in the dying light and with half her face covered, she was obviously Kosuzu Motoori. "I'm sorry! I just..."
Kosuzu trailed off. Her eyes travelled first up to Komachi's face, then to the blade of her scythe. She took a startled step back.
Komachi grinned. "No need to fret. You're not dying tonight."
Kosuzu relaxed quickly in that quietly alarming way of humans who made of habit of traipsing too close to the border of the mundane and the supernatural. As her shock drained away, it was replaced by an almost mournful expression, so out of place it was almost comical.
"What's the matter?" Komachi almost began walking to see if Kosuzu would follow, but she had a funny feeling it would only result in Kosuzu crashing into her again. "It's not wise for you to run alone on a dark night like this. Did someone refuse to return your favourite book?"
Kosuzu fidgeted with her sleeves. "No, nothing like that." For a moment, she looked hesitant to speak, but once she did, the words spilled out of her in a tumble. "Actually, it's our anniversary today."
"Whose?"
Kosuzu's cheeks flushed pink. "Mine and Akyuu's."
"Really?" Komachi couldn't help but chuckle. "That's a funny coincidence."
"What is?"
"Never mind." Komachi relaxed her stance. "Let's see if I can guess what happened. Since it was your anniversary, you decided to go out to celebrate."
"That's right."
"And you happened upon a new, strange teahouse."
"Exactly!" Kosuzu halted her eager nodding to blink. "How did you know?"
"Because it sounds like we're in the same figurative boat."
"Oh." Kosuzu smiled weakly. "I suppose that's better than a literal boat. Um, I mean..."
Komachi laughed. "That'll be another day." Before Kosuzu could become too unsettled, she nudged her head towards the road behind them. "Come on. Let's go find our dates."
---
"Here you go." Suika Ibuki slammed the teacup onto the table with enough force to make half the liquid within leap into the air. Miraculously, not only were both the table and cup undamaged, but the drink returned into the cup without so much as a single drop spilling. She winked. "I'd say it's on the house, but I'm guessing you'd take that for a bribe."
Eiki took the cup gingerly. Seeing its contents in the air had already made it obvious it was filled with anything but tea, but the scent confirmed it. "Is this sake?"
"Well, yeah."
"The sign outside said you're running a teahouse."
"Yeah, yeah. Is there a law saying you can't serve sake in a teahouse?"
Eiki had to concede the point. "Not in Gensokyo, no."
"See? Try it. It's good." Suika turned towards Akyuu. "Care for a refill?"
As Akyuu murmured a demurral, Eiki took a sip from her drink. It was indeed rather good, but that was beside the real matter at hand. She looked up. "Suika—"
Suika had already left the table. Eiki watched her stalk around the tent, grinning as she went, gathering empty cups and refilling others with seemingly no input from the patrons.
"So where was I?" She returned and cheerfully pulled out the remaining seat for herself. If she was discomfited by any lingering memories of the less than auspicious circumstances during which she had last encountered Eiki, she showed no signs of it, instead beaming with the brightness shared by the very innocent and inveterate liars. "A story of some kind?"
"You were about to explain why we can't leave."
"Yeah, that's right. So this teahouse is just a bit of fun. I'll get going as soon as Reimu finds out I've set up shop this close to the village." Suika grinned. "Actually, I think I'll wait for her to show up. It's more fun that way."
Akyuu offered her a polite smile. Eiki pushed her cup aside. "And then you hired Mike?"
"That's right." Suika took Eiki's cup and downed it in a single long swig before continuing. "Of course, I don't really need her to gather customers. I can use my foregathering ability to bring people over just fine. But it feels more like a proper teahouse with an employee, doesn't it?"
"A floor might have a similar effect," commented Akyuu dryly.
"Anyway, since Mike can only invite one person in at a time, I decided to gather people into the area so that even if only half of them got in we'd still have plenty of customers. It worked really well, too. Until people tried to leave. I tried making the people disperse once they got stuck, obviously, but for some reason it only worked on those who hadn't been invited in at all. I'm guessing our abilities got entangled in some mysterious way."
Eiki nodded. "I see."
"Anyway, you don't have to worry. Everyone gets to leave eventually. Even the person stuck for the longest managed to walk out after two hours."
Akyuu set her cup down. "At least one of us may not have to wait for that long." She raised her voice. "Mike?"
Mike, who was no longer paying attention to the moth and was instead swinging her leg back and forth, jerked her head upwards. "What's up, Sis?"
"Can you step out for a moment?"
"Sure." Mike dove out. "Now what?"
Akyuu stood up and nodded at Suika. "Thank you for your hospitality." She gestured at Eiki to join her at the tent's entrance and waited until they were both there before speaking again. "Mike, can you attempt to invite us outside?"
"Oh, I see." Eiki smiled as she grasped Akyuu's intent. "Even if the invitation can only work on one of us, it still means one of us will be free to go."
"I hope you're the one invited out." Akyuu's smile was thin but sincere. "Unnerving as it is being this close to multiple youkai, I have made my peace with waiting here. After all, by remaining in one place I have better odds of re-uniting with—"
"Akyuu!"
They turned to look outside. Kosuzu hovered right behind Mike, bopping her head around in an effort to see past her. Behind her, calm but still curious, stood Komachi. Upon noticing Eiki, she gave her a cheery little wave.
Akyuu's smile immediately warmed to the point where its brightness was a match to the lanterns. "Everything is fine, Kosuzu. It's only a small supernatural obstacle."
Kosuzu gave a distracted nod, then turned towards Mike, looking almost ready to put hands on the cat. "Please invite us in!"
Mike's eyes darted from Komachi and Kosuzu to Akyuu and Eiki and then back. She frowned. "Kay, how about we try somethin' like this?"
She positioned herself in the tent's entrance, one foot in, one foot out. Before anyone could do anything to stop her, she beckoned with both hands. "Welcome!"
The next thing Eiki knew, she had collided with something unyielding but relatively soft.
"Oof." Komachi staggered back, then reached out to steady Eiki. She grinned. "At this rate I'm going to be qualified to work as a roadblock."
Back on her feet, Eiki looked around. She was outside again, with Komachi's hands on her arms and the tent securely behind. "Who knows how far I would have walked if you hadn't stopped me. Thank you for catching me."
"Did you ever doubt I wouldn't?"
Eiki smiled back at her. "No. I didn't."
They looked back. Within the tent, Kosuzu was clinging to Akyuu's arm, speaking rapidly but too quietly for any discernible words to make it outside the tent. Mike was watching them from her perch, smiling with self-satisfaction.
"Well, that worked out great." Suika came to the entrance, beaming as though Mike's success was hers as well. "Must be fate." She winked. "And don't worry about paying. The drink was on the house after all."
Given that most of the drink remained in the house, Eiki found little cause to complain. "Thank you." She frowned. "Don't invite more people in until you have understood what causes this. Consider—"
"Yeah, sure." Suika made a sweeping wave. "Have a good night!"
She retreated back into the tent. Only Mike remained near the entrance, still pleased with herself.
"That didn't exactly work out, huh?" said Komachi, smiling all the while.
"Yes, I suppose it didn't." Eiki watched Akyuu and Kosuzu retake the table Akyuu had previously occupied, smiling at each other all as though they were the only two people in the world. "But it doesn't seem to have done any harm, either. Should we consider the grilled lamprey stand?"
"Funny. I was just thinking I was in the mood for some fried fish." Komachi let go to adjust her scythe, which had nearly fallen from her shoulder in the collision, then held out her hand. "How about we go see what else fate has in store for us tonight?"
And so they did, continuing down the road together, filled with newfound appreciation for the beauty of spring nights.
#thshipweek#komaeiki#akyusuzu#mimic fics#i'm really burnt out at this point so apologies for the inevitable typos#and any other issues lol#i hope you enjoy the story all the same!
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with credit to @lineith for this stunning artwork https://lineith.tumblr.com/post/641420491909988352/smooching-the-best-friend-as-one-does-a-sketch which is what I was visualising for Marinette’s pink wrap (and how cute are those two!!)
And with thanks to the LBSC crowd.
Coryphée
A Miraculous Ladybug fanfiction
By Mintaka14
Chapter Two – Pas de Caractére
Marinette edged the door of the studio open on Monday morning for the company class, trying not to drop the bags and parcel she was juggling. She let out a startled squeak when a whirlwind of escaping curls and intense purpose enveloped her in an exuberant hug.
“Alya,” she protested. “Can you at least wait until I’ve put everything down?”
“Way to go, girl! You got the part!” Alya gave her a squeeze, and Marinette bobbled everything in her hands. One of the bags slid free and hit the floor. She handed the parcel to a dark-haired girl near the door before she could drop that too, and Mireille ripped it open with a cry of gratitude as a pair of ballet slippers spilled out.
“Marinette, you’re a lifesaver! It always comes apart when I try to sew anything”
“Well, they should hold now. I reinforced the ribbons, and your slippers will wear out before the binding does.”
“Never mind that. You got the Florine solo and Bluebird pas de deux with Adrien!” Alya continued as if she hadn’t been interrupted, following Marinette to the low benches at the side of the huge studio. “And you’re- ooh, is that a new one you made?” she asked, noticing Marinette’s soft pink wrap and the blossoms embroidered down the sleeves. “That’s pretty.”
Behind her, an unwelcome voice chimed in, “It’s such a cute colour.” Marinette turned to face Lila Rossi, and the Italian girl reached out to touch Marinette’s sleeve before she could react. “And those little flowers are just too adorable. You can hardly tell that it’s handmade from a distance. I would have loved something like that when I was ten, and it’s a shame I’m too old for it now, or I would have asked you to make me one too,” Lila said in honeyed tones, flicking her auburn hair back over her shoulder.
“Adrien!” Alya swept on, ignoring the tension. Marinette wasn’t even sure she’d noticed it. “You’re partnering with Adrien.”
“Yes, congratulations,” Lila said, the sugar in her smile cut with acid. “I do hope it’s not going to be awkward for you, working with Adrien like that. Still, maybe he’s forgotten all about it by now.”
The room was filling up with chatter and the thwack of someone beating their pointe shoes into shape.
“It must be so hard, being partnered with the guy you have a crush on who turned you down like that,” Lila sympathised, and Marinette gritted her teeth.
“I’m over it.”
“Of course you are.” Lila patted her hand. “It’s just, there’s no shame in it if you feel like it’s too much. I know we’d all understand if you decided to step aside this season.”
Marinette took a deep, calming breath, and said, “Thank you, Lila, but I’ll be fine.”
“Of course she’ll be fine,” Alya struck in. “She’ll be better than fine. This is your chance to get Adrien to notice you,” she told Marinette in an excited stage whisper.
Marinette sighed, and slipped free to take a place at the barre. Above them, the enormous ring of lights threw shadows across the massive steel ribs of the dome that curved overhead, and the mirrors reflected dancers stretching, and stripping off thick socks and warm leggings, and pinning wayward hair back into place.
“He turned me down, remember?”
“But that was three years ago. You’ve barely dated anyone since then, and I know for a fact that none of those guys lasted beyond the third date. So if you’re not still hung up on Adrien, then what is it?”
And Marinette froze. The only thing she could think of worse than Alya thinking that she was still pining after Adrien was Alya finding out about Luka and how she felt about him. The schemes. The plots. The helping.
“I knew it!” Alya said triumphantly as Marinette remained silent. “You’re still into Adrien. So now’s your chance, girl! He’s had plenty of time to work out what he’s missing out on, and all that time rehearsing together, the rush of performing together, his hands all over you…” the other girl wiggled her eyebrows lasciviously, and Marinette groaned.
“Alya, I don’t-“
“Mlle Dupain-Cheng, Mlle Cesaire,” their instructor’s voice snapped from the door of the studio. “When you are quite finished gossiping, we are waiting on you to begin.”
“Yes, Madame,” Marinette whispered, and Alya suppressed a giggle, taking her place at the barre behind Marinette.
Fortunately, with Madame’s eyes on them and class to focus on, Alya wasn’t able to say anything more. Marinette had been friends with Alya since they’d both joined the Opera Ballet School, and Alya had been there through her searing crush on Adrien, helping her to come up with ways to get his attention. The possibility of a season and her first serious role fraught with romantic plans and schemes and plots filled Marinette with a sinking sense of dread.
As class finished, there was a general scramble for water bottles, and the occasional groan of someone peeling satin and nylon off the blisters on their feet. The floor was littered with dancers sprawled in ungainly positions of collapse as they took advantage of the brief break.
“Principals, solos,” the ballet mistress said in a commanding voice that carried over the bustle of a roomful of dancers all grabbing a quick snack and chattering like a tree full of birds. “Fifteen minutes, and then I need you in the studios downstairs. Ladies and gentlemen of the corps, I expect you back here promptly at twelve to begin choreography. We have a lot of work to do.”
Marinette got slowly to her feet, and Alya caught Marinette’s hand as she passed, giving her an unsubtle wink and a tilt of the head towards where Adrien was talking to Puss in Boots and one of the princes. He lifted his head just then, and met her eyes for a discomfited moment before he looked away quickly. Marinette just sighed and scooped up her bag, heading for the door.
As the soloists made their way into the smaller studio downstairs, Madame Viret turned a stern look on them.
“We have a lot of hard work ahead of us. Make sure you check your rehearsal schedule every morning, because it will change with little notice and I will not accept that as an excuse to not be here when we need you. Aurora, Prince Florimund, you’ll be next door today with the director,” she said, turning to the principals. “If you’re one of the soloists for the christening scene, join Master Novgorodsky. Everyone else, if you’re involved in the wedding in Act Three I want you here. Now, we begin.”
Madame gestured sharply to the fairies to take their place in the centre of the floor as she began to outline the choreography of the pas de quatre to them. Adrien made his way around the edge of the studio until he was standing next to Marinette. There was something a little hesitant about the smile he gave her.
“Hey, Marinette,” he said in a hushed voice. “It’s been a while since we … talked.”
It had been three years of awkwardly avoiding each other in an environment where you really had to go to some effort to not talk to someone.
“It’s been a while,” Marinette agreed quietly. Adrien shuffled his feet.
“I wanted to… I hope… it’s not going to be a problem, dancing with me… I mean…”
Marinette turned to face him. “It’s fine, Adrien. It was a long time ago, and all forgotten now, if you can forgive me for putting you on the spot like that.” She gave an involuntary giggle. “And look! I can actually string two sentences together now. I think that’s a sign that I’ve moved on.”
Adrien chuckled, and the tension drained out of him. “Yeah, I didn’t have any clue that you even liked me until you asked me out.” He stiffened again, as if realising that he might have put his foot in it, but Marinette just gave him a tiny smile.
“I’m looking forward to partnering with you,” she said, and then Madame turned to glare at them so they subsided into silence until she called for the Bluebird and Princess Florine.
Marinette didn’t have time for any of her doubts, or for worrying about Adrien, over the next half an hour as Madame Viret walked them through an outline of the choreography that she wanted from them.
It was exhausting, but it went easier than Marinette had expected. When Madame directed her into a passé, she found Adrien exactly where she needed him to be for the pirouette en dehors that followed, anchoring her turn, and Marinette felt some of the last remaining tension fade away. Maybe this partnership could work. He certainly seemed to be good at reading what she was going to do, and his technique was solid, she knew. They could be professional.
“Let me see the bluebird lift,” Madame commanded, and Marinette waited just long enough to make sure that Adrien was ready before she threw herself fearlessly into the lift and felt him sweep her up. Her hips landed across his shoulder, exactly where they were meant to be, and her back arched as her arms fluttered upwards with elegant precision.
She was vaguely aware of Madame’s rare and sharp “Good!” and the satisfaction of a difficult move achieved, then she felt the minute shift of Adrien’s posture, and she rolled gracefully with the movement as his hands guided her down and set her on the floor again.
“Lovely, Marinette,” Madame conceded. “An excellent beginning. Adrien, make sure you rotate and lock your arm more.”
She moved on, and Marinette gave her new partner a brilliant smile. This could really work.
Adrien was staring back at her with wide green eyes and a slightly dazed look on his face, and then he beamed back with that perfect smile that had started her crush in the first place.
“Wow, Marinette,” he said. “I knew you were good, but that was amazing! I’ve never had a partner who mastered a lift like that first time before. We make a great team.”
~~~~~
“So, how did the first day go? Didn’t get dropped on your head?” Luka asked as the stage doors closed behind Marinette. He’d been leaning against the wall next to his violin case, a hoodie tied around his waist and his black painted nails drumming against his torn denim jeans in time to some tune in his head, but he looked up as she came towards him and smiled, and Marinette’s heart gave a familiar stutter. Luka scooped up his violin and they fell into step together, heading towards the metro.
Marinette shook her head, and grinned up at him. “Adrien was actually a pretty good partner. It was exhausting, but so far so good. On the other hand, I think Lila’s been trying to spread rumours that I must have slept with someone to get this part.”
“What?”
She laughed. “It’d be funny if it wasn’t so ridiculous. Have you met any of the people involved in the casting decisions?”
She looked up, and Luka was frowning a little, lost in some thought that didn’t seem to appeal to him. As soon as he noticed her watching him he gave a wry half-smile.
“She sounds like a real piece of work,” he said, and Marinette gave a snort of laughter.
“Is she any good?” Luka asked. “I’ve never seen her perform.”
“Ye-s,” she admitted slowly. “She wouldn’t be in the Opera Ballet Company if she wasn’t, but– “ Marinette scrunched up her nose, trying to work out how to put it into words. “There are things you need if you’re going to make it in ballet, especially if you want to become an étoile one day. You need the body for it, you need to have the heart to work at it and give your all to it, and you need to be tough enough to push on, no matter how many Lilas try to stop you.”
There was a soft snort of laughter from beside her.
“And Lila has all those things,” Marinette went on. “But something I read once said that a dancer’s mind is the thing that make the difference, and that’s why Lila’s never going to quite make it. She doesn’t have nice thoughts. There’s a hardness in her dancing that’s going to get in her way and stop her from reaching the top, no matter how much she schemes,” she summed up with an incisive sniff.
Luka was giving her that warm smile that she loved so much.
“Then you must have the most beautiful thoughts in the world,” he told her. “I always love watching you dance. There’s an absolute grace in you that can’t help but inspire the music in me. You make me think of warm blue skies and perfect mornings, and I can see that in everything you do, not just your dancing. I can see that creativity and passion and grace that you bring to everything you care about.”
Marinette suddenly felt as if he’d stolen the air from her lungs.
“Luka!” she protested faintly, and his smile grew wider.
She was almost relieved that they’d reached the bakery as the fire in her cheeks threatened to overwhelm her. At the door of the bakery, Marinette asked, “Are you coming in for dinner?” but Luka shook his head.
“I need to get home, but I’ll swing by to pick you up in the morning if you want the company. What time do you have to be at the Garnier?”
“I’ve got class at ten, but I thought you didn’t have to be there til after lunch?”
Luka just gave a shrug and leaned down to drop a friendly kiss on her forehead.
“I’ll be here at quarter past nine,” he told her, and lifted his hand in a wave as he strode away.
The next morning, Marinette was still up on her balcony with the remains of her breakfast on the little table behind her when she heard a musical whistle drift up from the street below. She broke off the stretch that she had started, and leaned out between the pots of geraniums along the balcony railing as Luka waved up at her. He slung his violin case over his shoulder and gave her a warm smile.
“Ready to escape from your tower, Princess Florine?”
“Should I try and fly down?” she called back to him, and his smile grew wider.
“I’ll catch you if you want to try.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so. I’ll be down in a minute.” She hurried down through her bedroom, snatching up her bag and the lunch that her mother had left for her on the way. The cafeteria food was alright in a pinch, but it couldn’t beat her mother’s cooking.
Luka was waiting for her on the street, and they fell into step on the way to the station. For once, the commute to the Palais Garnier felt too short, and Marinette let out a faint sigh as the building loomed into view. They’d just reached the stage doors, and Luka was holding one open for her when a voice hailed her from the other side of the courtyard.
“Marinette!” Adrien called, loping towards them eagerly. He was every girl’s dream, with his charming smile and dancer’s lean body, and there was a time when Marinette would have been reduced to a babbling mess by his attention. Luka shot the blond boy an enigmatic look, but didn’t say anything.
“I was hoping to catch up with you.” He finally seemed to notice Luka. “Oh, hi. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“It’s all good,” Luka said imperturbably, waiting until Adrien had joined them inside before he let the door swing closed. “It’s Adrien, isn’t it? Marinette’s talked about you. She said you were partnering her this season.”
Adrien’s smile was warm. “Yeah, I’m very lucky,” he said sincerely. “She’s an incredible dancer.”
Luka’s smile was a little harder to read. “She is. She also plays a mean game of Ultimate Mecha Strike.”
Adrien blinked at him in confusion. They reached the staircase leading up to the studios, and Luka stopped, tilting his head towards the corridor that ran underneath it.
“I’m heading this way. Nice to meet you, Adrien.” His gaze settled on Marinette for a moment. “See you later, Marinette.”
Before Marinette could protest, he’d already turned and was striding away, his head bent and lost in some thought or strain of music.
Adrien was watching Luka with a tiny frown that looked odd on his normally sunny features.
“Was that your boyfriend?”
There had never been much chance of that. Once upon a time, when she was barely fourteen and he was a romantic, sensitive sixteen year old, he’d sort-of confessed to her … you’re as clear as a music note, as sincere as a melody, you’re the song in my head… She’d been overwhelmed, and she’d panicked, but once she’d been ready to face Luka again he’d never said anything since to suggest that it had been anything more than a fleeting moment of poetry. He’d dated other people over the years, and she’d had her brief relationships, and he’d never changed the way he treated her. Marinette suspected that Luka had completely forgotten he’d ever said those beautiful things to her, although that was when he’d started calling her melody.
“No,” Marinette said, suppressing a small sigh. “Luka and I have been friends since we were little, Luka’s sister too. I was at school with Juleka before I got into the Opera Ballet School. Luka’s at the Conservatory, and he plays with the Company orchestra from time to time.”
Adrien’s eyebrow lifted at that. “Impressive. Maybe that’s where I know him from.”
They climbed another floor in silence, but Marinette was aware of Adrien shooting glances at her. He seemd to be almost jittering with a nervous energy now that was making her nervous in turn.
“A friend of mine is having a party on Saturday. You should come,” he said abruptly, and Marinette stumbled on the steps, catching herself on the stair rail. What was going on here? He gave her that charming, hopeful smile of his. “It’d be fun, and it’d be nice to get to spend a bit of time together away from the studio. Get to know each other, seeing we’re going to be working together.”
“I… have plans…” she said uncertainly.
“It’s at Le Grand Paris,” he coaxed, and that smile grew brighter. “Just come for a little while. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”
They were at the door of the studio, and suddenly it seemed like everyone was looking at her.
“Saturday,” he repeated, as she tried to find her voice under the weight of all those stares. She made a strangled noise, her shoulders curling in embarrassment. She could see Lila glaring daggers at her, and Alya’s cheshire grin.
“I can’t,” she sputtered at his back as he walked away.
She wasn’t wasting a precious Saturday night on a party full of strangers at the Grand Paris hotel, no matter how bright Adrien’s smile was, and Saturday found her curled up on Juleka’s bed while Juleka frowned and carefully painted pink spots onto Marinette’s nails and Luka ran through a quick set of scales on his violin in the background. Marinette watched as Luka shook out his hand and resettled the chin rest.
“Soooo… Adrien, huh?” Juleka drawled.
“Hmm?” Marinette said absently.
“Adrien,” Juleka repeated, shooting a look at her brother. Luka must have told her about meeting Adrien at the Garnier, and Juleka didn’t sound thrilled about it, but then she’d endured enough gushing paeans all those years ago in praise of Adrien’s smile, his hair, his kindness, his smile, his perfect arabesque, his smile… Marinette buried her face in her hands and groaned.
“Careful!” Juleka yanked her still wet hand down. “I don’t want to have to do that all over again.”
“That was years ago,” Marinette whined. “And he turned me down.”
“Are you going to try and change his mind, now that you’re partners?” Juleka pushed.
“No!” Marinette flashed a quick glance at Luka as he frowned and adjusted one of the tuning pegs, and she glared at Juleka, holding her friend’s gaze in a silent message. “And you know why.”
Juleka rolled her eyes, but mercifully didn’t say anything further.
Marinette didn’t think that Luka had been paying attention to them, but later when Juleka left the room to answer Rose’s call he paused in the middle of the adagio he’d been playing and said quietly, “You know she’d come round if you got together with Adrien, don’t you?”
“There’s nothing to come around to,” Marinette grumbled. Luka was watching her with those too knowing blue eyes, and she wondered what he was seeing in her face. When she shifted uncomfortably, he dropped his gaze to the violin in his hands.
But he didn’t say anything further about Adrien when he walked her home much later, and he was there at the bakery door on Monday morning when she left for the Garnier, with a smile for her and a proffered earbud as they walked.
Class was gruelling that day, and Marinette didn’t have much time or energy left to worry about what Luka had seen. As soon as class finished, she stretched her aching muscles out on the wooden floor with a groan, and closed her eyes. Out in the hallway, Marinette could hear the noise of approaching voices and laughter, but she didn’t open her eyes until a familiar deep voice said just above her, “Hey there, Princess Florine. They’re working you hard, I see.”
Her eyes flew open to look up into Luka’s amused gaze and warm smile, and she sat up in a hurry, scrambling to her feet. His hands steadied her as she threw her arms around him.
“Luka! What are you doing here?”
“There’s a welcome.” He wasn’t the only musician who had found their way into the studio, and a few of the ballet dancers who were dating members of the company orchestra were busy with very public displays of affection.
“I might think you’re not happy to see me,” Luka teased.
Marinette pulled back to stick her tongue out at him, and found Alya at her elbow, eyeing Luka with interest.
“I didn’t know you knew one of the musicians. Marinette, why didn’t you tell me about your gorgeous friend here?”
Marinette closed her eyes, willing herself anywhere but there. When she opened them again, Alya was watching her with raised eyebrows and a knowing smile. And that was exactly the reason that Marinette had never really talked about her friendships outside the company. On the other side of the studio, Lila’s attention was fixed on them in a way that made Marinette uneasy. Alya held out a hand to Luka.
“I’m Alya, and you’re cute. Tell me everything.”
When Marinette dared to sneak a glance at Luka, he was looking rather startled and amused.
“There’s not a lot to tell,” he said slowly. “But I’m guessing you’re Alya.”
“Interesting. Marinette’s told you about me, but I haven’t heard a thing about you.” Alya’s expression turned speculative. “Now, why would that be?”
“Because I wanted to save him from getting grilled by you,” Marinette muttered.
“Because I know all Marinette’s secrets,” Luka said, and Marinette gasped.
“Traitor! You wouldn’t!”
His amusement became a grin as he looked down at her. “For half a dozen raspberry macarons, my lips are sealed.”
“Fine,” Marinette pouted. “You do know that Maman would have given you as many as you wanted, don’t you?”
“Sure, but blackmail macarons taste so much better.”
Alya’s gaze shifted rapidly between them, taking it all in. “So I take it you’ve known each other a while?” she inquired brightly.
“It’s been a while,” Luka admitted. He deflected the questions Alya kept firing at him with calm good nature. Her interrogation was drawing attention from some of the company, and Marinette felt her stomach sink as Lila sauntered towards them. The Italian girl hooked a hand through Marinette’s arm and her eyes ran over Luka, taking in the teal blue hair, the piercings, and the ink.
“That’s a lot of tattoos,” she said with a barely suppressed sneer at odds with her honeyed tone, and Luka’s eyebrow rose, but he stayed silent. She dismissed him to focus on Marinette. “I didn’t know you were into the bad boy type, Marinette.”
Marinette prised herself free of Lila’s grip. “What’s that supposed to mean, Lila? Are you saying that Luka’s a troublemaker because he happens to have some body art?”
“And I’ve been trying so hard to be good,” Luka sighed.
“Honey, you’re better than good,” Alya teased, eyeing him up and down. “I don’t know about Marinette, but I love a guy with tatts.”
“Oh, no! Of course, I didn’t mean anything of the sort!” Lila gasped, grabbing at Marinette’s arm again. “I’m so sorry if I’ve upset you.”
“I’ve always wanted to get a tattoo. Does it hurt?” Alya asked Luka. Her attention was on Luka’s arms. “Why an anchor? It seems a bit out of character for a musician.”
Luka glanced down at the tattoo on his left forearm of an anchor surrounded by tulips and roses. “Well, Ma’s a pirate, so it seemed appropriate,” he said composedly, but Alya had already moved on.
“Nice snake,” Alya said, poking at the teal snake coiling down around his right bicep from under the sleeve of his tshirt to his forearm. It seemed to have a glint of amused sagacity in its eye rather than menace, and her own eyes lit up with a leer that made Marinette nervous. “Is it proportional?”
“Alya,” Marinette groaned in dismay, but Luka seemed entertained rather than put out by Alya’s blatant suggestiveness, and Alya’s attention shifted to the tattoo just under the snake’s nose, where it seemed to be reaching out to touch a tiny ladybug sitting on a branch of cherry blossoms that was almost hidden by the wide leather cuff that Luka wore around his right wrist.
“The ladybug’s a bit of an odd one out,” Alya commented.
He’d got that ink at the same time that Marinette had had her birthday tattoo done.
“That one’s just for a bit of luck,” he said casually, and Lila’s eyes narrowed at the quick smile he gave Marinette.
“You two make such a cute couple,” she said, hugging Marinette’s arm tighter. “Why didn’t you tell us you were seeing someone in the orchestra?”
Luka said nothing, but his gaze slid sideways to Marinette as she said stiffly, “Because we’re not a couple.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t know. I do hope I haven’t put my foot in it.” Lila pulled her hand away from Marinette’s arm in a show of hurried embarrassment, her eyes wide with distress. “You seem very close, but I’m sure he’s just a friend, if you say so.”
Luka’s eyebrows climbed at that, but Marinette didn’t grasp the significance of the vindictive little smile that Lila shot at her as she walked away until Adrien came up beside her, his brow creased as he glanced around the group and settled on Luka.
“How’s it going, Marinette?” he asked softly, and gave Luka a stiff nod. “Luka. What brings you here? Not that it’s not good to meet you again,” he trailed off awkwardly. It was not uncommon for the orchestra to socialise with the ballet, and Marinette didn’t understand why Adrien seemed to be discomfited by Luka’s appearance in the studio.
“Just checking in on my favourite dancer,” Luka said with an unreadable smile.
Alya found a new target, swivelling to fix Adrien with a stare. “You know Luka?”
“We’ve met,” Adrien said tersely. His glance fell on Lila on the other side of the studio, then it shifted from Luka to Marinette and back again, and Marinette frowned.
“Now, this is interesting,” Alya said.
“Alya,” Marinette growled, and her friend threw up her hands.
“Fine, fine, I won’t ask.”
“Director’s coming,” someone called near the door, and the musicians started to scatter. “Couffaine, you coming?”
Luka quirked a smile at Marinette.
“Looks like they’re kicking the riffraff out. See you after rehearsal?” he asked her, and Marinette nodded. He tipped his head to Alya and Adrien. “Alya, it’s been a pleasure. Adrien.”
“For a musician, he’s got some nice muscles on him,” Alya said approvingly, and Marinette cringed at Luka’s choke of laughter as he headed out of the studio. She was limply grateful that Luka was out of earshot and that Adrien had moved away before Alya added, “Girl, is that the reason you’ve been so chill around Adrien lately?”
“What? No!” Marinette stuttered, and the words I wish cut through her like a knife. She took a deep breath, and tried to smile at Alya. “We’re just friends.”
Alya’s eyebrows lifted.
“Seriously, I’m more like a younger sister to Luka,” Marinette insisted.
“If you say so,” her friend said sceptically.
When Madame Viret called her and Adrien away for their pas de deux rehearsal it didn’t go nearly as smoothly as things had gone on the first day. Adrien seemed distracted, and several times he missed Marinette’s cues until Madame called a halt.
“Adrien,” the ballet mistress snapped, “your head needs to be here with us, or one of you is going to end up injured.”
The blond muttered an apology, but he was still frowning as Marinette took his hand and rested her other hand on his shoulder for the attitude promenade.
“Is everything alright?” she whispered to him.
“You didn’t come to the party on Saturday.”
“I’d told you I wouldn’t be there,” Marinette muttered back as she executed a balance. “I had plans.”
“What about this Saturday?” Adrien asked a little too loudly, and subsided as Madame turned an icy glare on them. As soon as Madame waved a hand for a break, he dropped down beside Marinette as she collapsed and reached for her water bottle.
“Maybe we could get coffee sometime. Or dinner. I’d love to take you out to dinner, if you’re free.”
Marinette took a deep drink, playing for time, and choked a little.
“This Saturday? Or Sunday? I know a great little place not far from here that I just know you’d love.”
“Adrien, that’s sweet,” she said uneasily, “but I don’t think I can.”
His head tilted towards her as if he was trying to translate what she was saying.
“I mean, it’s probably not a good idea to date someone else from the company, is it?” she tried again. “It always just seems to cause trouble.”
“But it doesn’t have to,” Adrien said hopefully. “Just give us a try. Saturday.”
“Adrien, I can’t!”
“Is there someone else?” he asked her. “Is it that musician friend of yours, the one with the blue hair?”
Oh, how she wished she could say yes. She closed her eyes for a moment, picturing ocean deep eyes that could see right through her and a slow, sweet smile, and opened them again to hopeful green eyes and a sun-bright grin.
“No,” she said reluctantly, and repeated yet again, “we’re just friends.”
Adrien’s smile grew wider in relief. “Look, just think about it. You don’t have to give me an answer now. Just… give it a chance.”
He got to his feet as Madame called for them, and held out his hand to her. Marinette took it, and put aside overthinking her complicated emotional state to let her training and the movement take over. It was a relief to let it all go for a little while.
She was half-braced for Adrien to ask her again the next morning when she arrived at the Garnier, but there was no sign of the blond dancer. She had finished pilates and had started warm up stretches for class before Adrien finally arrived, breathing a little hard as if he’d been rushing to get there. Alya was telling her something about something she’d overheard that morning.
“Cutting it close, Agreste!” someone called out, and Adrien gave a sheepish grin.
“I got held up this morning because I came in with my father. He wanted to deliver the costume designs in person.”
Marinette’s head whipped around, cutting off what Alya had been saying to her.
“The designs are here?” she asked abruptly.
“My father’s meeting with Madame Marchand right now to hand them over,” he confirmed.
Master Novgorodsky rapped on the piano for their attention, and by sheer force of will Marinette focused on the choreography. It could not have been said that she was at her best that morning, and several times, Master Novgorodsky called her wandering thoughts back to the placement of her feet and arms. The minute that class broke, she took off for the corridors that led up to the wardrobe ateliers.
Through the long windows of the millinery department rows and rows of blank heads stared down from the shelves, and sat on the work benches surrounded by tools and tufts of hair. Next to it, the decoration atelier twinkled and sparkled like Aladdin’s cave with tubs and jars of sequins and glass jewels, and streaks of paint everywhere. Another mannequin head supported the beginnings of a glittering headpiece, and a huge rat’s head wearing a crown from a past production of The Nutcracker stared down from the top of a cabinet.
A few craftspeople glanced up from their work as Marinette hurried past their ateliers and smiled at her, and Marinette waved, but didn’t stop to chat. Costume storage was just beyond, and at the door Marinette drew a deep breath as she always did, letting it out slowly. The racks of costumes and rolls of fabric, and the tutus carefully layered in snowy drifts, never failed to calm her. The head seamstress frowning over a gown spread out on the benchtop looked up to smile at Marinette as she came in.
“Marinette! What brings you up here?” the woman asked.
“I heard that the Sleeping Beauty designs from Gabriel had arrived,” Marinette said hopefully, and the seamstress laughed.
“I should have known you’d be showing up the moment you got wind of that. No one’s supposed to see them before first fittings.” But she was already heading into the back recesses of the costume storage, and Marinette followed.
She took the book that the head seamstress handed her with great reverence, and settled herself into a chair. It wasn’t long before she’d lost herself completely in the exquisite designs and the notes that Gabriel Agreste had included for them. The seamstress laughed, and left her to it.
When her feet eventually started to prickle with pins and needles, she realised with a start that she’d been sitting there, poring over the design book for far too long and that afternoon rehearsals would be starting soon. Hastily she closed the book and handed it back to the head seamstress, babbling her thanks as she hurried out the door. She made it into the studio just ahead of Madame Viret, and Adrien gave her a curious look.
“Where were you? You disappeared before I could ask you if you wanted to have lunch with me,” he whispered.
“Oh, Adrien, your father’s work is incredible,” Marinette enthused, and Adrien’s eyebrow rose.
“So that’s where you’ve been? Up in wardrobe? I thought we weren’t allowed up there without an invitation from the costume director.”
Marinette grimaced guiltily. “They don’t mind, and I really wanted to have a look.”
“Oh, you’re so into costumes and sewing, aren’t you Marinette, with all your little projects,” Lila interrupted, and gave a tinkling little laugh. “It’s so lucky your partner is the son of Gabriel Agreste. You might get to meet him, and all his contacts in the industry.”
“What’s that supposed to mean, Lila?” Marinette asked angrily, and right on cue, there went the hand flutter and the wide eyes.
“Oh! I’m so sorry, I never meant to imply that you were only interested in Adrien because his father is Gabriel Agreste.”
“You’re a fan of my father’s?” Adrien asked with a puckered brow, and Marinette saw Lila’s flash of triumph.
“I admire his work,” she admitted evenly. Adrien’s face lit up in a beaming smile.
“Then you should come to the Gabriel gala on Saturday,” he invited her. Marinette was distracted from what he was saying by the look of livid fury that swept over Lila’s face.
“It’d be a lot more fun than going on my own,” he was saying, “and I’d love you to meet my father. I’ve told him a lot about my brilliant pas de deux partner.” He noticed her reluctant expression, and said, “Just as friends. It doesn’t have to be anything more than that.”
“I’ll… think about it. Just as friends.”
She and Luka were halfway home that night, and Luka was smiling softly at her raptures about the costume designs, before she worked up the courage to mention Adrien’s invitation.
“Adrien asked me to the Gabriel fashion gala next week,” Marinette told the footpath in front of her, and there was a long silence from Luka beside her.
Then he said nonchalantly, “Are you going to go? Adrien seems like a nice guy, and you’d probably have fun.”
It shouldn’t have hurt that he was so casual about the idea of her going out with another guy.
“You really think I should say yes?” she asked him in a small voice.
“It might be fun, seeing all Gabriel’s latest designs and getting to hang out around the fashion houses. And there was a time when you would have flipped for a chance to spend time with Adrien,” he teased gently.
Why did it feel like she was paying for that now?
“Maybe,” she said, feeling her spirits sinking even lower.
When Adrien asked her again the next day, she said yes, and had to admit afterwards that she’d enjoyed herself. The new season’s couture was dazzling, and Adrien was good company, getting her laughing over his awful puns and startlingly accurate impersonations of some of the celebrities there. And if Gabriel Agreste had been seven kinds of cold and austere when Adrien had introduced her to his father, he had defrosted enough to offer a trifling compliment on the dress she’d made herself. Marinette had found it hard to martial a coherent sentence in response, and Adrien had teased her about it afterwards.
She was still a little startled, though, in company class the next morning when Adrien presented her with a rose and a flourish. What had happened to ‘just friends’?
“Adrien…” She took the rose reluctantly, very aware of the curious eyes on them, and Lila’s dagger-sharp attention.
“I just wanted to say thank you for the best time I’ve ever had at a fashion gala, milady,” Adrien said. His smile brightened like the sun. “You made the whole evening worthwhile.”
“So you two are a couple now?” Lila asked, and Marinette could hear the ominous note in her voice. Adrien obviously didn’t. He threw his arm around Marinette.
“Not yet, but I’m wearing her down,” he said, and Lila’s eyes narrowed sharply.
“How sweet.”
Marinette slipped out from under Adrien’s arm, backing away.
“I have to- I have, a thing. I’ll see you later.” She whirled around and almost ran from the studio, the rose still in her hand. Once she’d reached the outer courtyard she let out a muffled scream that drew a few startled glances.
“Very clever,” Lila’s voice said behind her, and Marinette whipped around. “You may think you’ve won, but Adrien is so out of your league it isn’t funny, and he’s going to realise that before long.”
“I’m not interested in Adrien!” Marinette cried, frustrated, and Lila gave her a pitying stare.
“Oh, sweetie, you’re not fooling anyone. We all know just how desperate you were to get Adrien all those years ago. Throwing yourself at him didn’t work, so you’re trying playing hard to get now, and it might have got you an invitation to the gala but it’s just sad. And I’m going to make sure that Adrien sees just how sad and desperate you are.”
Lila made a move towards her, and Marinette jerked back out of reach before Lila could touch her arm. Somehow, the rose that Adrien had given her ended up on the ground, and Lila crushed it under her foot with one quick step.
“Oopsie,” the Italian girl said with false regret and bright eyes, and Marinette watched her turn and strut away.
Marinette still cringed at some of the things that she’d done to try and get Adrien’s attention when she was seventeen and deep in the throes of her infatuation. Egged on by Alya she’d even committed a few minor felonies, and now she was paying the price for it. Everyone seemed to be taking it for granted that she was in love with Adrien Agreste, and the more she protested against it, the less convincing she sounded.
“For all the stupid things I did when I had that crush,” she told the sky, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, okay?”
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Distractions
Summary: Belle French was known in Storybrooke as a respectable person who did not help her friends steal or make out with people in the middle of the street.
Until now.
Rating: PG-13
AN: Based on this prompt. Whoever prompted it thanks so much! I had a blast letting inspiration take me with this one.
“This is theft. You know this, right? You want me to help you steal.”
Ruby made a dismissive gesture, intent on lock-picking the side window of the pawnshop, located in one of Storybrooke’s only dark alleys between buildings. Belle, nervously, stood just outside it, trying to discreetly make sure no one was watching Ruby clearly attempting to break into the shop.
“No, I’m asking you to stay here and be my lookout while I go into Mr Gold’s shop and recover my property.”
“It’s not your property if you pawned it and never paid to get it back. And it’s stupid to cross Mr Gold over a key-chain, of all things.”
Ruby huffed, trying to keep her hands steady as she worked on the window. Belle was sure she was at least, and at best, tipsy. At midday.
“It’s from Tiffany’s Belle, it’s worth like three hundred bucks. That’s why Mr Gold gave me a hundred and fifty for it. And I was gonna pay it back with my monthly tips, it’s not my fault some jerk grabbed my ass and made me drop a fuckton of plates Granny made me pay for. Also he’s never gonna notice a stupid little key-chain missing, relax.”
The librarian didn’t point out the blatant contradiction in Ruby’s description of the key-chain both as valuable and stupid.
“Why does it have to be me? I’m supposed to open the library for the afternoon shift in like ten minutes. Surely Ariel-”
“Nope, you’re the only person I know who can actually distract Mr Gold in the unfortunate case he arrives early.” Belle scoffed, making Ruby roll her eyes. “The other day I watched him listen as you went on and on about medieval bookbinding techniques, and it wasn’t the first time. Might as well put that ability to good use.”
Finally she shimmied the window open, slipping inside the shop with a lot of elegance for someone that tall and not-sober. Belle pulled her cardigan closer, a cosy suede-coloured knitted one a bit too large for her, which had previously belonged to her mother. She glanced around, trying to not be too obvious as she kept watch. A breeze ruffled her maroon dress, making her glad she had opted for tights instead of stockings in the morning. Still, even with her legs covered and her sturdy cardigan she was freezing, having left her coat and scarf at the library.
“How long is Ruby gonna take?”
She glanced at her watch, fretting over the scant few minutes that she had before she was due to reopen the library, and almost startled in surprise when she heard the telltale sound of a walking stick hitting the pavement. She turned around and looked up, almost running smack into Mr Gold.
“Miss French! Are you okay?”
She let herself enjoy the warm cadence of his voice for a couple of seconds- she was a sucker for accents and his was, without a shadow of a doubt, the best she’d ever heard, especially when he lost control of it.
“Mr Gold!” Belle glanced behind him to where she could see the still open window and beyond someone moving. Ruby, still rummaging for her stupid key-chain. She tried to remember it was a gift of her mother’s, the last one before she had up and left her with Granny. It was important to her, even though she liked to pretend otherwise.
“Miss French, what an unexpected pleasure.” He seemed a bit confused. “Shouldn’t you be at the library right now, though?”
She tried not to smile too much at the notion that Mr Gold was aware of her schedule, or that he was gentlemanly enough to take off his sunglasses before talking to her. She needed to focus, to think about buying Ruby some time.
“Actually, I wanted to talk to you. Perhaps we can go to the library?”
Impulsively, afraid that he would somehow slip past her and into his shop, she grabbed him by the arm, her fingers sliding across the soft wool of his overcoat till she reached the buttons around the cuff. He seemed a bit startled by it but, surprisingly, he didn’t try to shake her off.
“I’m sorry, Miss French, but as much as I’d love to slip into the library for a moment I’m waiting for a shipment that’s supposed to arrive in a few minutes. But if it’s urgent I’ll gladly hear you out.”
He looked at her expectantly, his eyes warm and his entire demeanour friendly and open. It disarmed her, in a way.
“Well, you see, it’s… it’s about that discussion we had the other day? It left me with a few… ideas that I wanted to run by you?”
“I’m always eager to indulge my passions with those who share them with me. So, what do you wish to talk to me about?”
Belle tried not to look and act as guilty as she felt, willing her brain to find a way to get Mr Gold’s attention away from the vicinity of the pawnshop.
“Well, I was rather hoping that we could be somewhere more private for what I… wanted to convey to you.”
He frowned, either confused by her or unhappy to be unable to do as she asked.
“I’m sorry, Miss French, but that’s quite impossible. I’m sorry to disappoint.” Behind him Belle spotted a flash of red. Ruby was beginning to make her way out the tiny window she’d used to break in, having a hard time of it by the looks of it. “I’ll drop by later this afternoon, if you’re amenable. Now I’m afraid that I must-”
He was about to turn around and see Ruby, Belle knew it. Out of ideas and going solely on instinct she let go of his coat sleeve, her hands gripping the top of his shoulders. She had one second to register the look of shock in his face before she pressed her lips to his, with absolutely none of the finesse she liked to think she had acquired in her years as a kisser. He felt stiff underneath her touch, but he did not push her away, which was a relief. In a second she’d pull back and make some sort of excuse and she was sure he’d bend over backwards to reassure her, wishing to soften the blow of his rejection. It should give Ruby enough time to make an exit.
It was a good plan, a solid plan, but she did not count with him softening, head tilting to the side so that their lips locked instead of simply pressing against each other. His left arm slid around her waist, beneath her open cardigan, making her shiver as his gloved fingers curled around the fabric of her dress in order to press her closer. She made a sound between a whimper and a moan, sliding her own hands up towards his hair, a secret obsession of hers. He growled deep in his throat when she raked her fingers across his scalp but otherwise made no protest as she tugged on his hair to get his head to tilt just so.
She tried to concentrate on what she heard around her, trying to see if she could somehow guess whether Ruby had made it out or not. But it was hard to focus when Mr Gold’s tongue was slipping past her lips and curling against hers, the smell of him- sandalwood, leather and wood polish- making her dizzy. She pressed herself closer, wrapping a leg around his upper thigh in an effort to compensate for their height discrepancy and cursing herself for wearing her three-inch heel booties instead of the five-inch heel knee-high boots she had selected at first in the morning. She corrected herself a moment later, when Gold’s hand slid from around her waist, travelling towards just behind her knee to help her in her newfound determination to climb him like a tree.
“Hey, this is a public space, keep it PG!”
Leroy’s gruff voice jolted Belle out of the moment, serving as a much-needed bucket of ice water. She pulled back from Mr Gold, their mouths making a deliciously-obscene noise as they separated. She tried bravely to ignore the faint trail of saliva that still linked them both, choosing instead to focus on Ruby, who was staring open-mouthed at her from behind Mr Gold, eyes wide and looking vaguely horrified. Mr Gold himself was harder to read, eyes unfocused and breathing heavy, but she noticed that he still held her close, the hand gripping her thigh sending little shocks of sensation all over her body. She didn’t dare look around, vaguely aware that there were several people around them, all likely staring at them in roughly the same manner as Ruby. Gently, bravely ignoring the way her hand trembled, she combed back Mr Gold’s hair, which she had teased into a veritable mane, and lowered her leg to the ground, making a fuss about smoothing imaginary wrinkles out of his coat as she gathered her remaining wits about them.
“Yes, so… that’s what I wanted to discuss with you.” She sounded scandalously hoarse, and she noticed how it made him tremble beneath her touch. “Perhaps… we can resume this debate later, when you can think of a rebuttal you wish to share.” She adjusted her cardigan around her, gathering her bravery about her like a cloak and adopting what she hoped was a nonchalant attitude, mostly for the benefit of the nosy crowd they’d gathered. “If that’s agreeable with you, Mr Gold?”
The Scotsman said nothing at first, eyes still wide and unfocused. Then he blinked and seemed to jolt out of whatever stupor he was in, looking at her like she wasn’t real. Like she was some sort of apparition or a fairy.
Like a goddess.
“Yes, that-” he paused, accent so thick it was almost impossible to understand him. “Yes.”
She smiled, giving into her need to touch him one last time and adjusting his pocket square.
“Splendid. I look forward to it. Perhaps after the library closes?” He nodded, like a good boy, and she rewarded him with another brilliant smile. “It’s settled. See you later, Mr Gold.”
“Miss French.”
Her name was barely recognisable from beneath the wreckage of his brogue, and she shivered at how rough the accent made him sound. She walked past him, pointedly ignoring Ruby’s unsubtle attempts at catching her attention as she crossed the street, looking forward to a few hours of relative quiet at the library where there was little to do except for shelving books and daydreaming.
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